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“Noble man,” was Maude’s exclamation, as she finished reading the letter, and if at that moment the two cousins rose up in contrast before her mind, who can blame her for awarding the preference to him who had penned those lines, and who thus kindly strove to remove from her pathway every obstacle to her happiness.

James De Vere was indeed a noble-hearted man. Generous, kind, and self-denying, he found his chief pleasure in doing others good, and he had written both to Maude and J.C. just as the great kindness of his heart had prompted him to write. He did not then know that he loved Maude Remington, for he had never fully analyzed the nature of his feelings toward her. He knew he admired her very much, and when he wrote the note J.C. withheld he said to himself, “If she answers this, I shall write again–and again, and maybe”–he did not exactly know what lay beyond the “maybe,” so he added, “we shall be very good friends.”

But the note was not answered, and when his cousin’s letter came, telling him of the engagement, a sharp, quick pang shot through his heart, eliciting from him a faint outcry, which caused his mother, who was present, to ask what was the matter.

“Only a sudden pain,” he answered, laying his hand upon his side.

“Pleurisy, perhaps,” the practical mother rejoined, and supposing she was right he placed the letter in his pocket and went out into the open air. It had grown uncomfortably warm, he thought, while the noise of the falling fountain in the garden made his head ache as it had never ached before; and returning to the house he sought his pleasant library. But not a volume in all those crowded shelves had power to interest him then, and with a strange disquiet he wandered from room to room, until at last, as the sun went down, he laid his throbbing temples upon his pillow, and in his feverish dreams saw again the dark-eyed Maude sitting on her mother’s grave, her face upturned to him, and on her lip the smile that formed her greatest beauty.

The next morning the headache was gone, and with a steady hand he wrote to his cousin and Maude congratulations which he believed sincere. That J.C. was not worthy of the maiden he greatly feared, and he resolved to have a care of the young man, and try to make him what Maude’s husband ought to be, and when he heard of her misfortune he stepped forward with his generous offer, which J.C. instantly refused.

“He never would take his wife to live upon his relatives, he had too much pride for that, and the marriage must be deferred. A few months would make no difference. Christmas was not far from June, and by that time he could do something for himself.”

Thus he wrote to James, who mused long upon the words, “A few months will make no difference,” thinking within himself, “If I were like other men, and was about to marry Maude, a few months would make a good deal of difference, but everyone to their mind.” Four weeks after this he went one day to Canandaigua on business, and having an hour’s leisure ere the arrival of the train which would take him home he sauntered into the public parlor of the hotel. Near the window, at the farther extremity of the room, a young girl was looking out upon the passers-by. Something in her form and dress attracted his attention, and he was approaching the spot where she stood when the sound of his footsteps caught her ear, and turning round she disclosed to view the features of Maude Remington.

“Maude!” he exclaimed, “this is indeed a surprise. I must even claim a cousin’s right to kiss you,” and taking both her hands in his, he kissed her blushing cheek–coyly–timidly–for James De Vere was unused to such things, and not quite certain, whether under the circumstances it were perfectly proper for him to do so or not.

Leading her to the sofa, he soon learned that she had come to the village to trade, and having finished her shopping was waiting for her stepfather, who had accompanied her.

“And what of J.C.?” he asked, after a moment’s silence. “Has he been to visit you more than once since the crisis, as he calls it?”

Maude’s eyes filled with tears, for J.C.’s conduct was not wholly satisfactory to her. She remembered his loud protestations of utter disregard for her money, and she could not help thinking how little his theory and practice accorded. He had not been to see her since his flying visit in March, and though he had written several times his letters had contained little else save complaints against their “confounded luck.” She could not tell this to James De Vere, and she replied, “He is very busy now, I believe, in trying to make some business arrangement with the lawyer in whose office he formerly studied.”

“I am glad he has roused himself at last,” answered James; “he would not accept my offer, for which I am sorry, as I was anticipating much happiness in having my Cousin Maude at Hampton during the summer. You will remain at home, I suppose.”

“No,” said Maude hesitatingly; “or, that is, I have serious thoughts of teaching school, as I do not like to be dependent on Dr. Kennedy.”

James De Vere had once taught school for a few weeks by way of experiment, and now as he recalled the heated room, the stifling atmosphere, the constant care, and more than all, the noisy shout of triumph which greeted his ear on that memorable morning when he found himself fastened out, and knew his rule was at an end, he shuddered at the thought of Maude’s being exposed to similar indignities, and used all his powers of eloquence to dissuade her from her plan. Maude was frank, open-hearted, and impulsive, and emboldened by James’ kind, brotherly manner she gave in a most childlike manner her reason for wishing to teach.

“If I am married next winter,” she said, “my wardrobe will need replenishing, for J.C. would surely be ashamed to take me as I am, and I have now no means of my own for purchasing anything.”

In an instant James De Vere’s hand was on his purse, but ere he drew it forth he reflected that to offer money then might possibly be out of place, so he said, “I have no sister, no girl-cousin, no wife, and more money than I can use, and when the right time comes nothing can please me more than to give you your bridal outfit. May I, Maude? And if you do not like to stay with Dr. Kennedy, come to Hampton this summer and live with us, will you, Maude? I want you there so much,” and in the musical tones of his voice there was a deep pathos which brought the tears in torrents from Maude’s eyes; while she declined the generous offer she could not accept.

Just then Dr. Kennedy appeared. He was ready, to go, he said, and bidding Mr. De Vere good-by, Maude was soon on her way home, her spirits lighter and her heart happier for that chance meeting at the hotel. One week later Mr. De Vere wrote to her, saying that if she still wished to teach, she could have the school at Hampton. He had seen the trustees, had agreed upon the price, and had even selected her a boarding-place near by. “I regret,” said he, “that we live so far from the schoolhouse as to render it impossible for you to board with us. You might ride, I suppose, and I would cheerfully carry you every day; but, on the whole, I think you had better stop with Mrs. Johnson.”

This letter Maude took at once to her brother, from whom she had hitherto withheld her intention to teach, as she did not wish to pain him unnecessarily with the dread of a separation, which might never be. Deeply had he sympathized with her in her misfortune, whispering to her that two–thirds of his own inheritance should be hers. “I can coax almost anything from father,” he said, “and when I am twenty-one I’ll ask him to give me my portion, and then I’ll take you to Europe. You won’t be old, Maude, only twenty-seven, and I shall be proud when the people say that beautiful woman with eyes like stars is the crippled artist’s sister!”

In all his plans he made no mention of J.C., whose conduct he despised, and whose character he began to read aright.

“Maude will never marry him, I hope,” he thought, and when she brought to him the letter from James De Vere, the noble little fellow conquered his own feelings, and with a hopeful heart as to the result of that summer’s teaching he bade her go. So it was all arranged, and the next letter which went from Maude to J.C. carried the intelligence that his betrothed was going “to turn country school-ma’am, and teach the Hampton brats their A B C’s,” so at last he said to Mrs. Kelsey and her niece, between whom and himself there was a perfectly good understanding, and to whom he talked of his future prospects without reserve. Mrs. Kelsey was secretly delighted, for matters were shaping themselves much as she would wish. Her brother evinced no particular, desire to have his daughter at home, and she determined to keep her as long as there was the slightest chance of winning J.C. De Vere. He was now a regular visitor at her house, and lest he should suspect her design, she spoke often and respectfully of Maude, whose cause she seemed to have espoused, and when he came to her with the news of her teaching she sympathized with him at once.

“It would be very mortifying,” she said, “to marry a district school-mistress, though there was some comfort in knowing that his friends were as yet ignorant of the engagement.”

“Let them remain so a while longer,” was the hasty answer of J.C., who, as time passed on, became more and more unwilling that the gay world should know of his engagement with one who was not an heiress after all.

CHAPTER XIII.

HAMPTON.

Six happy weeks Maude had been a teacher, and though she knew J.C. did not approve her plan, she was more than repaid for his displeasure by the words of encouragement which James always had in store for her. Many times had she been to the handsome home of the De Veres, and the lady-mother, whom she at first so much dreaded to meet, had more than once stroked her silken curls, calling her “my child,” as tenderly as if she did indeed bear that relation to her. James De Vere was one of the trustees, and in that capacity he visited the school so often that the wise villagers shook their heads significantly, saying, “if he were any other man they should think the rights of J.C. were in danger.”

The young school-mistress’ engagement with the fashionable Jedediah was generally known, and thus were the public blinded to the true state of affairs. Gradually James De Vere had learned how dear to him was the dark-eyed girl he called his “Cousin Maude.” There was no light like that which shone in her truthful eyes–no music so sweet as the sound of her gentle voice–no presence which brought him so much joy as hers–no being in the world he loved so well. But she belonged to another–the time had passed when she might have been won. She could never be his, he said; and with his love he waged a mighty battle–a battle which lasted days and nights, wringing from him more than one bitter moan, as with his face bowed in his hands he murmured sadly, the mournful words, “It might have been.”

Matters were in this condition when J.C. came one day to Hampton, accompanied by some city friends, among whom were a few young ladies of the Kelsey order. Maude saw them as they passed the schoolhouse in the village omnibus; saw, too, how resolutely J.C.’s head was turned away, as if afraid their eyes would meet.

“He wishes to show his resentment, but of course he’ll visit me ere he returns,” she thought. And many times that day she cast her eyes in the direction of Hampton Park, as the De Vere residence was often called.

But she looked in vain, and with a feeling of disappointment she dismissed her school, and glad to be alone, laid her head upon the desk, falling ere long asleep, for the day was warm and she was very tired. So quietly she slept that she did not hear the roll of wheels nor the sound of merry voices as the party from the city rode by on their way to the depot. Neither half an hour later did she hear the hasty footstep which crossed the threshold of they door; but when a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a well-known voice bade her awake, she started up, and saw before her James De Vere. He had been to her boarding-place, he said, and not finding her there had sought her in the schoolhouse.

“I have two letters for you,” he continued; “one from your brother, and one from J.C.”

“From J.C.!” she repeated. “Has he gone back? Why didn’t he call on me?”

“He’s a villain,” thought James De Vere, but he answered simply, “He had not time, and so wrote you instead,” and sitting down beside her he regarded her with a look in which pity, admiration, and love were all blended–the former predominating at that moment, and causing him to lay his hand caressingly on her forehead, saying as he did so, “Your head aches, don’t it, Maude?”

Maude’s heart was already full, and at this little act of sympathy she burst into tears, while James, drawing her to his side and resting her head upon his bosom, soothed her as he would have done had she been his only sister. He fancied that he knew the cause of her grief, and his heart swelled with indignation toward J.C., who had that day shown himself unworthy of a girl like Maude. He had come to Hampton without any definite idea as to whether he should see her or not ere his return, but when, as the omnibus drew near the schoolhouse and Maude was plainly visible through the open window, one of the ladies made some slighting remark concerning school-teachers generally, he determined not to hazard an interview, and quieted his conscience by thinking he would come out in a few days and make the matter right. How then was he chagrined when in the presence of his companions his cousin said: “Shall I send for Miss Remington? She can dismiss her school earlier than usual and come up to tea.”

“Dismiss her school!” cried one of the young ladies, while the other, the proud Miss Thayer, whose grandfather was a pedlar and whose great-uncle had been hanged, exclaimed, “Miss Remington! Pray who is she? That schoolmistress we saw in passing? Really, Mr. De Vere, you have been careful not to tell us of this new acquaintance. Where did you pick her up?” and the diamonds on her fingers shone brightly in the sunshine as she playfully pulled a lock of J.C.’s hair. The disconcerted J.C. was about stammering out some reply when James, astonished both at the apparent ignorance of his guests and the strangeness of his cousin’s manner, answered for him, “Miss Remington is our teacher, and a splendid girl. J.C. became acquainted with her last summer at Laurel Hill. She is a stepsister of Miss Kennedy, whom you probably know.”

“Nellie, Kennedy’s stepsister. I never knew there was such a being,” said Miss Thayer, while young Robinson, a lisping, insipid dandy, drawled out, “A sthool-marm, J. Thee? I’th really romantic! Thend for her, of courth. A little dithipline won’t hurt any of uth.”

J.C. made a faint effort to rally, but they joked him so hard that he remained silent, while James regarded him with a look of cool contempt sufficiently indicative of his opinion.

At last when Miss Thayer asked “if the bridal day were fixed,” he roused himself, and thinking if he told the truth he should effectually deceive them, he answered, “Yes, next Christmas is the time appointed. We were to have been married in June, but the lady lost her fortune and the marriage was deferred.”

“Oh, teaching to purchase her bridal trousseau. I’m dying to see it,” laughingly replied Miss Thayer, while another rejoined, “Lost her fortune. Was she then an heiress?”

“Yes, a milkman’s heiress,” said J.C., with a slightly scornful emphasis on the name which he himself had given to Maude at a time when a milkman’s money seemed as valuable to him as that of any other man.

There was a dark, stern look on the face of James De Vere, and as Miss Thayer, the ruling spirit of the party, had an eye on him and his broad lands, she deemed it wise to change the conversation from the “Milkman’s Heiress” to a topic less displeasing to their handsome host. In the course of the afternoon the cousins were alone for a few moments, when the elder demanded of the other: “Do you pretend to love Maude Remington, and still make light both of her and your engagement with her?”

“I pretend to nothing which is not real,” was J.C.’s haughty answer; “but I do dislike having my matters canvassed by every silly tongue, and have consequently kept my relation to Miss Remington a secret. I cannot see her to-day, but with your permission I will pen a few lines by way of explanation,” and, glad to escape from the rebuking glance he knew he so much deserved, he stepped into his cousin’s library, where he wrote the note James gave to Maude.

Under some circumstances it would have been a very unsatisfactory message, but with her changed feelings toward the writer and James De Vere sitting at her side, she scarcely noticed how cold it was, and throwing it down, tore open Louis’ letter which had come in the evening mail. It was very brief, and hastily perusing its contents Maude cast it from her with a cry of horror and disgust–then catching it up, she moaned, “Oh, must I go!–I can’t! I can’t!”

“What is it?” asked Mr. De Vere, and pointing to the lines Maude bade him read.

He did read, and as he read his own cheek blanched, and he wound his arm closely round the maiden’s waist as if to keep her there and thus save her from danger. Dr. Kennedy had the smallpox, so Louis wrote, and Nellie, who had been home for a few days, had fled in fear back to the city. Hannah, too, had gone, and there was no one left to care for the sick man save John and the almost helpless Louis.

“Father is so sick,” he wrote, “and he says, tell Maude, for humanity’s sake, to come.”

If there was one disease more than another of which Maude stood in mortal fear it was the smallpox, and her first impulse was, “I will not go.” But when she reflected that Louis, too, might take it, and need her care, her resolution changed, and moving away from her companion she said firmly, “I must go, for if anything befall my brother, how can I answer to our mother for having betrayed my trust? Dr. Kennedy, too, was her husband, and he must not be left to die alone.”

Mr. De Vere was about to expostulate, but she prevented him by saying, “Do not urge me to stay, but rather help me to go, for I must leave Hampton to-morrow. You will get someone to take my place, as I, of course, shall not return, and if I have it–“

Here she paused, while the trembling of her body showed how terrible to her was the dread of the disease.

“Maude Remington,” said Mr. De Vere, struck with admiration by her noble, self-sacrificing spirit, “I will not bid you stay, for I know it would be useless; but if that which you so much fear comes upon you, if the face now so fair to took upon be marred and disfigured until not a lineament is left of the once beautiful girl, come back to me. I will love you all the same.”

As he spoke he stretched his arms involuntarily toward her, and scarce knowing what she did, she went forward to the embrace. Very lovingly he folded her for a moment to his bosom, then turning her face to the fading sunlight which streamed through the dingy window, he looked at it wistfully and long, as if he would remember every feature. Pushing back the silken curls which clustered around her forehead, he kissed her twice, and then releasing her said: “Forgive me, Maude, if I have taken more than a cousin’s liberty with you, I could not help it.”

Bewildered at his words and manner, Maude raised her eyes wonderingly to his, and looking into the shining orbs, he thought how soft, how beautiful they were, but little, little did he dream their light would e’er be quenched in midnight darkness. A while longer they talked together, Mr. De Vere promising to send a servant to take her home in the morning. Then, as the sun had set and the night shadows were deepening in the room, they bade each other good- by, and ere the next day’s sun was very high in the heavens Maude was far on her way to Laurel Hill.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE DARK HOUR.

Dr. Kennedy had been to Buffalo, and taken the smallpox, so his attending physician said, and the news spread rapidly, frightening nervous people as they never were frightened before. Nellie had been home for a week or two, but at the first alarm she fled, rushing headlong through the hall and down the stairs, unmindful of the tremulous voice, which cried imploringly, “Don’t leave me, daughter, to die alone!”

Hannah followed next, holding the camphor bottle to her nose, and saying to John when he expostulated with her, “I reckon I’s not gwine to spile what little beauty I’ve got with that fetched complaint.”

“But, mother,” persisted John, “may be it’s nothin’ but vary-o-lord after all, and that don’t mark folks, you know.”

“You needn’t talk to me about your very-o-lord,” returned Hannah. “I know it’s the very-o-devil himself, and I won’t have them pock-ed marks on me for all the niggers in Virginny.”

“Then go,” said John, “hold tight to the camphire, and run for your life, or it may cotch you before you git out of the house.”

Hannah needed no second bidding to run, and half an hour later she was domesticated with a colored family who lived not far from the Hill. Thus left to themselves, Louis and John, together with the physician, did what they could for the sick man, who at last proposed sending for Maude, feeling intuitively that she would not desert him as his own child had done. Silent, desolate, and forsaken the old house looked as Maude approached it, and she involuntarily held her breath as she stepped into the hall, whose close air seemed laden with infection. She experienced no difficulty in finding the sick-room, where Louis’ cry of delight, John’s expression of joy, and the sick man’s whispered words, “God bless you, Maude,” more than recompensed her for the risk she had incurred. Gradually her fear subsided, particularly when she learned that it was in fact the varioloid. Had it been possible to remove her brother from danger she would have done so, but it was too late now, and she suffered him to share her vigils, watching carefully for the first symptoms of the disease in him.

In this manner nearly two weeks passed away, and the panic-stricken villagers were beginning to breathe more freely, when it was told them one day that Maude and Louis were both smitten with the disease. Then indeed the more humane said to themselves, “Shall they be left to suffer alone?” and still no one was found who dared to breathe the air of the sick-room. Dr. Kennedy was by this time so much better that Louis was taken to his apartment, where he ministered to him himself, while the heroic Maude was left to the care of John. Everything he could do for her he did, but his heart sunk within him when he saw how fast her fever came on, and heard her, in her sleep, mourn for her mother, to hold her aching head.

“She mustn’t die,” he said, and over his dark skin the tears rolled like rain, as raising his eyes to the ceiling he cried imploringly, “Will the good Father send someone to help?”

The prayer of the weak African was heard, and ere the sun went down a man of noble mien and noble heart stood at the maiden’s bedside, bathing her swollen face, pushing back her silken curls, counting her rapid pulses, and once, when she slept, kissing her parched lips, e’en though he knew that with that kiss he inhaled, perhaps, his death! James De Vere had never for a day lost sight of Maude. Immediately after her return he had written to the physician requesting a daily report, and when, at last he learned that she was ill, and all alone, he came unhesitatingly, presenting a striking contrast to the timid J.C., who had heard of her illness, and at first, dared not open the letter which his cousin wrote, apprising him of Maude’s affliction. But when he reflected that he could be re-vaccinated, and thus avert the dreaded evil, he broke the seal and read, commenting as follows: “Jim is a splendid fellow, though I can’t see why he takes so much interest in her. Don’t I have confounded luck, though? That will first, the five thousand dollars next, and now the smallpox, too. Of course she’ll be marked, and look like a fright. Poor girl! I’d help her if I could,” and, as the better nature of J.C. came over him, he added mournfully: “What if she should die?”

But Maude did not die; and at the expiration of ten days she was so far out of danger that James De Vere yielded to the importunity of his mother, who, in an agony of terror, besought him to return. When first he came to her bedside Maude had begged of him to leave her and not risk his life in her behalf; but he silenced her objections then, and now when he bade her adieu he would not listen to her protestations of gratitude.

“I would do even more for you if I could,” he said. “I am not afraid of the varioloid, and henceforth I shall think gratefully of it for having dealt so lightly with you.”

So saying, he turned away, feeling happier than he could well express, that Maude had not only escaped from death, but that there would be no marks left to tell how near the ravager had been. Scarcely had the door closed on him when, emboldened by his last words to ask a question she greatly wished, yet dreaded to ask, Maude turned to John and said, “Am I much pitted?”

Rolling up his eyes and wholly mistaking her meaning, John replied, “I aint no great of a physiognomer, but when a thing is as plain as day I can discern it as well as the next one, and if that ar’ chap haint pitied you, and done a heap more’n that, I’m mistaken.”

“But,” continued Maude, smiling at his simplicity, “I mean shall I probably be scarred?”

“Oh, bless you, not a scar,” answered John, “for don’t you mind how he kep’ the iled silk and wet rags on yer face, and how that night when you was sickest he held yer hands so you couldn’t tache that little feller between yer eyes. That was the spunkiest varmint of ’em all, and may leave a mark like the one under yer ear, but it won’t spile yer looks an atom.”

“And Louis?” said Maude, “is he disfigured?”

“Not a disfigurement,” returned John, “but the ole governor, he’s a right smart sprinklin’ of ’em, one squar’ on the tip of his nose, and five or six more on his face.”

Thus relieved of her immediate fears Maude asked many questions concerning Louis, who she learned had not been very sick.

“You can see him afore long, I reckon,” said John, and in a few days she was able to join him in the sitting room below.

After a while Hannah returned to her post of duty, her beauty unimpaired, and herself thoroughly ashamed of having thus heartlessly deserted her master’s family in their affliction. As if to make amends for this she exerted herself to cleanse the house from everything which could possibly inspire fear on the villagers, and by the last of August there was scarce a trace left of the recent scourge, save the deep scar on the end of the doctor’s nose, one or two marks on Louis’ face, and a weakness of Maude’s eyes, which became at last a cause of serious alarm.

It was in vain that Louis implored his father to seek medical aid in Rochester, where the physicians were supposed to have more experience in such matters. The doctor refused, saying, “’twas a maxim of his not to counsel with anyone, and he guessed he knew how to manage sore eyes.”

But Maude’s eyes were not sore–they were merely weak, while the pain in the eyeball was sometimes so intense as to wring from her a cry, of suffering. Gradually there crept into her heart a horrid fear that her sight was growing dim, and often in the darkness of the night she wept most bitterly, praying that she might not be blind.

“Oh, Louis,” she said to her brother one day, “I would so much rather die than to be blind, and never see you any more–never see the beautiful world I love so much. Oh, must it be? Is there no help? “

“James De Vere could help us if he were here,” answered Louis, his own tears mingling with his sister’s.

But James De Vere had left Hampton for New Orleans, where he would probably remain until the winter, and there could be no aid expected from him. The doctor, too, was wholly absorbed in thoughts of his approaching nuptials, for Maude Glendower, failing to secure the wealthy bachelor, and overhearing several times the remark that she was really getting old, had consented to name the 20th of October for their marriage. And so the other Maude was left to battle with the terrible fear which was strengthened every day.

At length J.C., roused not so much by the touching letter which she wrote him as by the uncertain handwriting, came himself, bringing with him a physician, who carefully examined the soft black eyes, which could not now endure the light, then shaking his head he said gravely, “There is still some hope, but she must go to the city, where I can see her every day.”

J.C. looked at Dr. Kennedy, and Dr. Kennedy, looked at J.C., and then both their hands sought their pockets, but came out again– empty! J.C. really had not the ready means with which to meet the expense, while Dr. Kennedy had not the inclination. But one there was, the faithful John, who could not stand by unmoved, and darting from the room, he mounted the woodshed stairs, and from beneath the rafters drew out an old leathern wallet, where from time to time he had deposited money for “the wet day.” That wet day had come at last; not to him, but to another–and without a moment’s hesitation he counted out the ten golden eagles which his purse contained, and, going back to Maude, placed them in her hand, saying: “Go to Rochester, Miss Maude. I saved ’em for you, for I wouldn’t have the light squenched in them shinin’ eyes for all the land in old Virginny.”

It was a noble act, and it shamed the paler faces who witnessed it, but they offered no remonstrance, though Maude did, refusing to accept it, until Louis said: “Take it, sister–take it, and when I’m twenty-one I’ll give to him ten times ten golden eagles.”

The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and ere a week was passed Maude found herself in Rochester, and an inmate of Mrs. Kelsey’s family; for, touched with pity, that lady had offered to receive her, and during her brief stay treated her with every possible attention. Nellie, too, was very kind, ministering carefully to the comfort of her stepsister, who had ceased to be a rival, for well she knew J.C. De Vere would never wed a penniless bride and blind!

CHAPTER XV.

THE NEW MISTRESS AT LAUREL HILL.

The 20th of October came, and with a firm hand Maude Glendower arrayed herself for the bridal, which was to take place at an early hour. The scar on the end of the doctor’s nose had shaken her purpose for an instant, but when she thought again of the unpaid bills lying in her private drawer, and when, more than all, the doctor said, “We greatly fear Maude Remington will be blind,” her resolution was fixed, and with a steady voice she took upon herself the marriage vows.

They were to go to Laurel Hill that day, and when the doctor saw that the handsome furniture of her rooms was still untouched, he ventured to ask “if she had left orders to have it sent.”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I, that my furniture was all mortgaged to Mrs. Raymond for board and borrowed money, too; but of course you don’t care; you did not marry my furniture,” and the little soft, white hands were laid upon those of the bridegroom, while the lustrous eyes sought his face, to witness the effect of her words.

The dent on the nose grew red a moment, and then the doctor, perfectly intoxicated with the beauty of his bride, answered, “No, Maude, I married you.”

A rap at the door, and a note from Messrs. Barnabas Muggins & Brown “hoped Miss Glendower would not forget to settle her bill.”

“It’s really quite provoking to trouble you with my debts so soon,” said the lady, “but I dare say it’s a maxim of yours that we should have no secrets from each other, and so I may as well show you these at once,” and she turned into his lap a handful of bills, amounting in all to four hundred dollars, due to the different tradesmen of Troy.

The spot on the nose was decidedly purple, and had Katy or Matty been there they would surely, have recognized the voice which began, “Really, I did not expect this, and ’tis a max–“

“Never mind the maxim,” and the mouth of the speaker was covered by a dimpled hand, as Maude Glendower continued, “It’s mean, I know, but four hundred dollars is not much, after all, and you ought to be willing to pay even more for me, don’t you think so, dearest? “

“Ye-es,” faintly answered the doctor, who, knowing there was no alternative, gave a check for the whole amount on a Rochester bank, where he had funds deposited.

Maude Glendower was a charming traveling companion, and in listening to her lively sallies, and noticing the admiration she received, the doctor forgot his lost four hundred dollars, and by the time they reached Canandaigua he believed himself supremely happy in having such a wife. John was waiting for them, just as thirteen years before he had waited for blue-eyed Matty, and the moment her eye fell upon the carriage he had borrowed from a neighbor, the new wife exclaimed, “Oh, I hope that lumbering old thing is not ours. It would give me the rickets to ride in it long.”

“It’s borrowed,” the doctor said, ‘and she continued, “I’ll pick out mine, and my horses, too. I’m quite a connoisseur in those matters.”

John rolled his eyes toward his master, whose face wore a look never seen there before.

“Henpecked!” was the negro’s mental comment, as he prepared to start.

When about three miles from the village the lady started up, saying, “she had left her shawl, and must go back immediately.”

“There is not time,” said the doctor, “for the sun is already nearly set. It will be perfectly safe.”

“But it’s my India shawl. I must have it,” and the lady’s hand was laid upon the reins to turn the horses’ heads.

Of course they went back, finding the shawl, not at the hotel, but under the carriage cushions, where the lady herself had placed it.

“It’s a maxim of mine to know what I’m about,” the doctor ventured to say, while a silvery voice returned, “So do I ordinarily, but it is not strange that I forget myself on my wedding day.” This was well timed, and wrapping the garment carefully round her to shelter her from the night air, the doctor bade the highly amused John to drive on. They were more than halfway home when some luscious oranges in a small grocery window, caught the bride’s eye, and “she must have some, she always kept them in her room,” she said, and to the grocer’s inquiry, “How many, madam?” she answered, “Two dozen, at least, and a box of figs, if you have them. I dote on figs.”

It was the doctor’s wedding day. He could not say no, and with a mental groan he parted company with another bill, while John, on the platform without, danced the “double shuffle” in token of his delight. There was a second grocery to be passed, but by taking a more circuitous route it could be avoided, and the discomfited bridegroom bade John “go through the Hollow.”

“Yes, sar,” answered the knowing negro, turning the heads of the unwilling horses in a direction which would not bring them home so soon by one whole hour.

But the grocery was shunned, and so the doctor did not care even if the clock did strike nine just as they stopped at their own gate. The night was dark and the bride could not distinguish the exterior of the house, neither was the interior plainly discernible, lighted as it was with an oil lamp, and a single tallow candle. But she scarcely thought of this, so intent was she upon the beautiful face of the crippled boy, who sat in his armchair, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

“This is Louis,” the father said: and the scornful eyes which with one rapid glance had scanned the whole apartment filled with tears as they, turned toward the boy.

Dropping on one knee before him, the lady, parted the silken hair from his forehead, saying very gently, “You must be like your mother, save that your eyes are brown, and hers were blue. May I be your mother, Louis?”

Very wonderingly the child gazed into her face. It was radiantly beautiful, while the dreamy eyes rested upon him with such a yearning look that his heart went out toward her at once, and winding his arms around her neck, he murmured, “I shall love you very much, my mother.”

For a moment Maude Glendower held him to her bosom, while her thoughts went back to the long ago when another face much like his had rested there, and another voice had whispered in her ear, “I love you, Maude Glendower.” That voice was hushed in death, but through the child it spoke to her again, and with a throbbing heart she vowed to be to the crippled boy what Matty herself would well approve, could she speak from her low bed beneath the willows.

“What of your sister?” the lady said at last, rising to her feet. “Is she recovering her sight?”

“Nellie writes there is hope,” said Louis, “though she did not receive attention soon enough, the physician says.”

There was reproach, contempt, and anger in the large black eyes which sought the doctor’s face, but the light was dim, and he did not see it.

“It will be a great misfortune to her, and very hard on me if she is blind, for of course I must take care of her,” he said at last, while his wife indignantly replied, “Take care of her! Yes, I’d sell my diamonds rather than see her suffer!”

Supper was now announced, and in examining the arrangement of the table and inspecting the furniture of the dining room, the bride forgot everything save the novelty of her situation. Mentally styling the house “an old rookery,” she forced back the bitter feelings which would rise up when she thought how unlike was all this to what she had been accustomed. It needed but one glance of her keen eyes to read the whole, and ere the close of the next day she understood her position perfectly, and summoning to her aid her iron will, she determined to make the most of everything. She knew the doctor had money, aye, and she knew, too, how to get it from him, but she was too wary to undertake it in any of the ordinary ways. She did not tell him how desolate the old house seemed, or that she was homesick because of its desolation; but after she had been there a few days she sat down by his side, and told him that with a few improvements it could be made the most delightful spot in all the country, and she was glad she had come there to help him to fix it up. She knew he had exquisite taste, and as he was now at leisure they would contrive together how their parlors could be improved. She didn’t quite like them as they were, the window lights were too small, and they must have the large panes of glass. Then satin paper on the walls would look so much better, and the carpets, though really very nice, were hardly good enough for a man of Dr. Kennedy’s standing in society.

“But,” gasped the doctor, “the one in the back parlor is brand new– has scarcely been used at all and it is a maxim of mine–“

“Your maxim is good, undoubtedly,” interrupted the lady, “but the chambers all need recarpeting, and this will exactly fit Maude’s room, which I intend fixing before she returns.”

The doctor looked aghast, and his wife continued: “The season is so far advanced that it is hardly worth while to make any changes now, but next spring I shall coax you into all manner or repairs. I do wonder what makes that spot on your nose so red at times. You are really very fine looking when it is not there. It is gone,” she continued, and smoothing away a wrinkle in his forehead, she said, “We won’t talk of the future now, but seriously, we must have some new Brussels carpets, and a furnace to warm the whole house.”

Here she shivered and coughed quite naturally after which she returned to the charge, saying, “her family were consumptive, and she could not endure the cold.”

“But, my dear,” said the doctor, “it will cost a great deal of money to carry out your plans.”

“Oh, no, not much,” she answered, “give me five hundred dollars and I will do everything necessary to make us comfortable for the winter.”

“Five hundred dollars, Mrs. Kennedy!” and the doctor’s gray eyes looked as they used to look when Katy and Matty asked him for five. “Five hundred dollars! Preposterous! Why, during the seven years I lived with your predecessor she did not cost me that!”

From old Hannah Mrs. Kennedy had, learned how her predecessor had been stinted by the doctor, and could he that moment have looked into her heart he would have seen there a fierce determination to avenge the wrongs so meekly borne. But she did not embody her thoughts in words, neither did she deem it advisable to press the subject further at that time, so she waited for nearly a week, and then resumed the attack with redoubled zeal.

“We must have another servant,” she said.

“Old Hannah is wholly inefficient, and so I have engaged a colored woman from the hotel; and did I tell you, I have spoken to a man about the furnace we are going to have, and I also told Mr. Jenks to buy me one hundred yards of Brussels carpeting in New York. He’s gone for goods, you know.”

“Really, Mrs. Kennedy, this exceeds all. My former companions saw fit to consult me always. Really, one hundred yards of carpeting and a black cook! Astonishing, Mrs. Kennedy! “

The doctor was quite too much confounded to think of a single maxim, for his wife’s effrontery took him wholly by surprise. She was a most energetic woman, and her proceedings were already the theme of many a tea-table gossip, in which the delighted villagers exulted that Dr. Kennedy had at last found his match. Yes, he had found his match, and when next day the black cook, Rose, came, and Mr. Brown asked when he would have the furnace put in his cellar, there was that in the eye of his better half which prompted a meek submission. When the bill for the new carpets was handed him he again rebelled, but all to no purpose. He paid the requisite amount, and tried to swallow his wrath with his wife’s consolatory remark, that “they were the handsomest couple in town, and ought to have the handsomest carpets!”

One day he found her giving directions to two or three men who were papering, painting, and whitewashing Maude’s room, and then, as John remarked, he seemed more like himself than he had done before since his last marriage.

“If Maude is going to be blind,” he said, “it can make no difference with her how her chamber looks, and ’tis a maxim of mine to let well enough alone.”

“I wish you would cure yourself of those disagreeable maxims,” was the lady’s cool reply, as, stepping to the head of the stairs, she bade John “bring up the carpet, if it were whipped enough.”

“Allow me to ask what you are going to do with it?” said the doctor, as from the windows he saw the back parlor carpet swinging on the line.

“Why, I told you I was going to fit up Maude’s room. She is coming home in a week, you know, and I am preparing a surprise. I have ordered a few pieces of light furniture from the cabinet-maker’s, and I think her chamber would look nicely if the walls were only a little higher. They can’t be raised, I suppose?”

She was perfectly collected, and no queen on her throne ever issued her orders with greater confidence in their being obeyed; and when that night she said to her husband, “These men must have their pay,” he had no alternative but to open his purse and give her what she asked. Thus it was with everything.

“Ki, aint him cotchin’ it good?” was John’s mental comment, as he daily watched the proceedings, and while Hannah pronounced him “the hen-peck-ed-est man she had ever seen,” the amused villagers knew that will had met will, and been conquered!

CHAPTER XVI.

THE BLIND GIRL.

Maude’s chamber was ready at last, and very inviting it looked with its coat of fresh paint, its cheerful paper, bright carpet, handsome bedstead, marble washstand, and mahogany bureau, on which were arranged various little articles for the toilet. The few pieces of furniture which Mrs. Kennedy had ordered from the cabinet-maker’s had amounted, in all, to nearly one hundred dollars, but the bill was not yet sent in; and in blissful ignorance of the surprise awaiting him the doctor rubbed his hands and tried to seem pleased when his wife, passing her arm in his, led him to the room, which she compelled him to admire.

“It was all very nice,” he said, “but wholly unnecessary for a blind girl. What was the price of this?” he asked, laying his hand upon the bedstead.

“Only twenty-five dollars. Wasn’t it cheap?” and the wicked black eyes danced with merriment at the loud groan which succeeded the answer.

“Twenty-five dollars!” he exclaimed. “Why, the bedstead Matty and I slept on for seven years only cost three, and it is now as good as new.”

“But times have changed,” said the lady. “Everybody has nicer things; besides, do you know people used to talk dreadfully about a man of your standing being so stingy? But I have done considerable toward correcting that impression. You aint stingy, and in proof of it you’ll give me fifty cents to buy cologne for this.” And she took up a beautiful bottle which stood upon the bureau.

The doctor had not fifty cents in change, but a dollar bill would suit her exactly as well, she said, and secretly exulting in her mastery over the self-willed tyrant, she suffered him to depart, saying to himself as he descended the stair, “Twenty-five dollars for one bedstead. I won’t stand it! I’ll do something!”

“What are you saying, dear?” a melodious voice called after him, and so accelerated his movements that the extremity of his coat disappeared from view, just as the lady Maude reached the head of the stairs.

“Oh!” was the involuntary exclamation of Louis, who had been a spectator of the scene, and who felt intuitively that his father had found his mistress.

During her few weeks residence at Laurel Hill Maude Glendower had bound the crippled boy to herself by many a deed of love, and whatever she did was sure of meeting his approval. With him she had consulted concerning his sister’s room, yielding often to his artist taste in the arrangement of the furniture, and now that the chamber was ready they both awaited impatiently the arrival of its occupant. Nellie’s last letter had been rather encouraging, and Maude herself had appended her name at its close. The writing was tremulous and uncertain, but it brought hope to the heart of the brother, who had never really believed it possible for his sister to be blind. Very restless he seemed on the day when she was expected; and when, just as the sun was setting, the carriage drove to the gate, a faint sickness crept over him, and wheeling his chair to the window of her room he looked anxiously at her, as with John’s assistance, she alighted from the carriage.

“If she walks alone I shall know she is not very blind,” he said, and with clasped hands he watched her intently as she came slowly toward the house with Nellie a little in advance.

Nearer and nearer she came–closer and closer the burning forehead was pressed against the window pane, and hope beat high in Louis’ heart, when suddenly she turned aside–her foot rested on the withered violets which grew outside the walk, and her hand groped in the empty air.

“She’s blind–she’s blind,” said Louis, and with a moaning cry he laid his head upon the broad arm of his chair, sobbing most bitterly.

Meantime below there was a strange interview between the new mother and her children, Maude Glendower clasping her namesake in her arms and weeping over her as she had never wept before but once, and that when the moonlight shone upon her sitting by a distant grave. Pushing back the clustering curls, she kissed the open brow and looked into the soft black eyes with a burning gaze which penetrated the shadowy darkness and brought a flush to the cheek of the young girl.

“Maude Remington! Maude Remington!” she said, dwelling long upon the latter name, “the sight of you affects me painfully; you are so like one I have lost. I shall love you, Maude Remington, for the sake of the dead, and you, too, must love me, and call me mother–will you?” and her lips again touched those of the astonished maiden.

Though fading fast, the light was not yet quenched in Maude’s eyes, and very wistfully she scanned the face of the speaker, while her hands moved caressingly over each feature, as she said, “I will love you, beautiful lady, though you can never be to me what my gentle mother was.”

At the sound of that voice Maude Glendower started suddenly, and turning aside, so her words could not be heard, she murmured sadly, “Both father and child prefer her to me.” Then, recollecting herself, she offered her hand to the wondering Nellie, saying, “Your Sister’s misfortune must be my excuse for devoting so much time to her, when you, as my eldest daughter, were entitled to my first attention.”

Her stepmother’s evident preference for Maude had greatly offended the selfish Nellie, who coldly answered, “Don’t trouble yourself, madam. It’s not of the least consequence. But where is my father? He will welcome me, I am sure.”

The feeling too often existing between stepmothers and stepdaughters had sprung into life, and henceforth the intercourse of Maude Glendower and Nellie Kennedy would be marked with studied politeness, and nothing more. But the former did not care. So long as her eye could feast itself upon the face and form of Maude Remington she was content, and as Nellie left the room she wound her arm around the comparatively helpless girl, saying, “Let me take you to your brother.”

Although unwilling, usually, to be led, Maude yielded now, and suffered herself to be conducted to the chamber where Louis watched for her coming. She could see enough to know there was a change, and clasping her companion’s hand she said, “I am surely indebted to you for this surprise.”

“Maude, Maude!” and the tones of Louis’ voice trembled with joy, as stretching his arms toward her, he cried, “You can see.”

Guided more by the sound than by actual vision, Maude flew like lightning to his side, and kneeling before him hid her face in his lap, while he bent fondly over her, beseeching her to say if she could see. It was a most touching sight, and drawing near, Maude Glendower mingled her tears with those of the unfortunate children on whom affliction had laid her heavy hand.

Maude Remington was naturally of a hopeful nature, and though she had passed through many an hour of anguish, and had rebelled against the fearful doom which seemed to be approaching, she did not yet despair. She still saw a little–could discern colors and forms, and could tell one person from another. “I shall be better by and by,” she said, when assured by the sound of retreating footsteps that they were alone. “I am following implicitly the doctor’s directions, and I hope to see by Christmas; but if I do not–“

Here she broke down entirely, and wringing her hands she cried, “Oh, brother–brother, must I be blind? I can’t–I can’t, for who will care for poor, blind, helpless Maude?”

“I, sister, I,” and hushing his own great sorrow the crippled boy comforted the weeping girl just as she had once comforted him, when in the quiet graveyard he had lain him down in the long, rank grass and wished that he might die. “Pa’s new wife will care for you, too,” he said. “She’s a beautiful woman, Maude, and a good one, I am sure, for she cried so hard over mother’s grave, and her voice was so gentle when, just as though she had known our mother, she said, `Darling Matty, I will be kind to your children.'”

“Ah, that I will–I will,” came faintly from the hall without, where Maude Glendower stood, her eyes riveted upon the upturned face of Maude, and her whole body swelling with emotion.

A sad heritage had been bequeathed to her–a crippled boy and a weak, blind girl; but in some respects she was a noble woman, and as she gazed upon the two she resolved that so long as she should live, so long should the helpless children of Matty Remington have a steadfast friend. Hearing her husband’s voice below she glided down the stairs, leaving Louis and Maude really alone.

“Sister,” said Louis, after a moment, “what of Mr. De Vere? Is he true to the last?”

“I have released him,” answered Maude. “I am nothing to him now,” and very calmly she proceeded to tell him of the night when she had said to Mr. De Vere, “My money is gone–my sight is going too, and I give you back your troth, making you free to marry another–Nellie, if you choose. She is better suited to you than I have ever been.”

Though secretly pleased at her offering to give him up, J.C. made a show of resistance, but she had prevailed at last, and with the assurance that he should always esteem her highly, he consented to the breaking of the engagement, and the very, next afternoon, rode out with Nellie Kennedy.

“He will marry her, I think,” Maude said, as she finished narrating the circumstances, and looking into her calm, unruffled face Louis felt sure that she had outlived her love for one who had proved himself as fickle as J.C. De Vere.

“And what of James?” he asked. “Is he still in New Orleans.”

“He is,” answered Maude. “He has a large wholesale establishment there, and as one of the partners is sick, he has taken his place for the winter. He wrote to his cousin often, bidding him spare no expense for me, and offering to pay the bills if J.C. was not able.”

A while longer they conversed, and then they were summoned to supper, Mrs. Kennedy coming herself for Maude, who did not refuse to be assisted by her.

“The wind hurt my eyes–they will be better to-morrow,” she said, and with her old sunny smile she greeted her stepfather, and then turned to Hannah and John, who had come in to see her.

But alas for the delusion! The morrow brought no improvement, neither the next day, nor the next, and as the world grew dim there crept into her heart a sense of utter desolation which neither the tender love of Maude Glendower nor yet the untiring devotion of Louis could in any degree dispel. All day would she sit opposite the window, her eyes fixed on the light with a longing, eager gaze, as if she feared that the next moment it might leave her forever. Whatever he could do for her Louis did, going to her room each morning and arranging her dress and hair just as he knew she used to wear it. She would not suffer anyone else to do this for her, and in performing these little offices Louis felt that he was only repaying her in part for all she had done for him.

Christmas Eve came at last, and if she thought of what was once to have been on the morrow, she gave no outward token, and with her accustomed smile bade the family good-night. The next morning Louis went often to her door, and hearing no sound within fancied she was sleeping, until at last, as the clock struck nine, he ventured to go in. Maude was awake, and advancing to her side he bade her a “Merry Christmas,” playfully chiding her the while for having slept so late. A wild, startled expression flashed over her face, as she said: “Late, Louis! Is it morning, then? I’ve watched so long to see the light?”

Louis did not understand her, and he answered, “Morning, yes. The sunshine is streaming into the room. Don’t you see it? “

“Sunshine!” and Maude’s lips quivered with fear, as springing from her pillow. she whispered faintly, “Lead me to the window.”

He complied with her request, watching her curiously, as she laid both hands in the warm sunshine, which bathed her fair, round arms and shone upon her raven hair. She felt what she could not see, and Louis Kennedy ne’er forgot the agonized expression of the white, beautiful face which turned toward him as the wretched Maude moaned piteously, “Yes, brother, ’tis morning to you, but dark, dark night to me. I’m blind! oh, I’m blind!”

She did not faint, she did not shriek, but she stood there rigid and immovable, her countenance giving fearful token of the terrible storm within. She was battling fiercely with her fate, and until twice repeated, she did not hear the childish voice which said to her pleadingly, “Don’t look so, sister. You frighten me, and there may be some hope yet.”

“Hope,” she repeated bitterly, turning her sightless eyes toward him, “there is no hope but death.”

“Maude,” and Louis’ voice was like a plaintive harp, so mournful was its tone, “Maude, once in the very spot where mother is lying now, you said because I was a cripple you would love me all the more. You have kept that promise well, my sister. You have been all the world to me, and now that you are blind I, too, will love you more. I will be your light–your eyes, and when James De Vere comes back–“

“No, no, no,” moaned Maude, sinking upon the floor. “Nobody will care for me. Nobody will love a blind girl. Oh, is it wicked to wish that I could die, lying here in the sunshine, which I shall never see again?”

There was a movement at the door, and Mrs. Kennedy appeared, starting back as her eye fell upon the face of the prostrate girl, who recognized her step, and murmured sadly, “Mother, I’m blind, wholly blind.”

Louis’ grief had been too great for tears, but Maude Glendower’s flowed at once, and bending over the white-faced girl she strove to comfort her, telling her how she would always love her, that every wish should be gratified.

“Then give me back my sight, oh, give me back my sight,” and Maude clasped her mother’s hands imploringly.

Ere long she grew more calm, and suffered herself to be dressed as usual, but she would not admit anyone to her room, neither on that day nor for many succeeding days. At length, however, this feeling wore away, and in the heartfelt sympathy of her family and friends she found a slight balm for her grief. Even the doctor was softened, and when Messrs. Beebe & Co. sent in a bill of ninety-five dollars for various articles of furniture, the frown upon his face gave way when his wife said to him, “It was for Maude, you know!”

“Poor Maude!” seemed to be the sentiment of the whole household, and Nellie herself said it many a time, as with unwonted tenderness she caressed the unfortunate girl, fearing the while lest she had done her a wrong, for she did not then understand the nature of Maude’s feelings for J.C. De Vere, to whom Nellie was now engaged.

Urged on by Mrs. Kelsey and a fast diminishing income, J.C. had written to Nellie soon after her return to Laurel Hill, asking her to be his wife. He did not disguise his former love for Maude, neither did he pretend to have outlived it, but he said he could not wed a blind girl. And Nellie, forgetting her assertion that she would never marry one who had first proposed to Maude, was only too much pleased to answer Yes. And when J.C. insisted upon an early day, she named the 5th of March, her twentieth birthday. She was to be married at home, and as the preparations for the wedding would cause a great amount of bustle and confusion in the house, it seemed necessary that Maude should know the cause, and with a beating heart Nellie went to her one day to tell the news. Very composedly Maude listened to the story, and then as composedly replied, “I am truly glad, and trust you will be happy.”

“So I should be,” answered Nellie, “if I were sure you did not care.”

“Care! for whom?” returned Maude. “For J.C. De Vere? Every particle of love for him has died out, and I am now inclined to think I never entertained for him more than a girlish fancy, while he certainly did not truly care for me.”

This answer was very quieting to Nellie’s conscience, and in unusually good spirits she abandoned herself to the excitement which usually precedes a wedding. Mrs. Kennedy, too, entered heart and soul into the matter, and arming herself with the plea, that “it was his only daughter, who would probably never be married again,” she coaxed her husband into all manner of extravagances, and by the 1st of March few would have recognized the interior of the house, so changed was it by furniture and repairs. Handsome damask curtains shaded the parlor windows, which were further improved by large heavy panes of glass. Matty’s piano had been removed to Maude’s chamber, and its place supplied by a new and costly instrument, which the crafty woman made her husband believe was intended by Mrs. Kelsey, who selected it, as a bridal present for her niece. The furnace was in splendid order, keeping the whole house, as Hannah said, “hotter than an oven,” while the disturbed doctor lamented daily over the amount of fuel it consumed, and nightly counted the contents of his purse or reckoned up how much he was probably worth. But neither his remonstrances nor yet his frequent groans had any effect upon his wife. Although she had no love for Nellie, she was determined upon a splendid wedding, one which would make folks talk for months, and when her liege lord complained of the confusion, she suggested to him a furnished room in the garret, where it would be very quiet for him to reckon up the bill, which from time to time she brought him.

“Might as well gin in at oncet,” John said to him one day, when he borrowed ten dollars for the payment of an oyster bill. “I tell you she’s got more besom in her than both them t’other ones.”

The doctor probably thought so too, for he became comparatively submissive, though he visited often the sunken graves, where he found a mournful solace in reading, “Katy, wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged twenty-nine,”–“Matty, second wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged thirty,” and once he was absolutely guilty of wondering how the words, “Maude, third wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged forty-one,” would look. But he repented him of the wicked thought, and when on his return from his “graveyard musings,” Maude, aged forty-one, asked him for the twenty dollars which she saw a man pay to him that morning, he gave it to her without a word.

Meanwhile the fickle J.C. in Rochester was one moment regretting the step he was about to take and the next wishing the day would hasten, so he could “have it over with.” Maude Remington had secured a place in his affections which Nellie could not fill, and though he had no wish to marry her now, he tried to make himself believe that but for her misfortune she should still have become his wife.

“Jim would marry her, I dare say, even if she were blind as a bat,” he said; “but then he is able to support her,” and reminded by this of an unanswered letter from his cousin, who was still in New Orleans, he sat down and wrote, telling him of Maude’s total blindness, and then, almost in the next sentence saying that his wedding was fixed for the 5th of March. “There,” he exclaimed, as he read over the letter, “I believe I must be crazy, for I never told him that the bride was Nellie; but no matter, I’d like to have him think me magnanimous for a while, and I want to hear what he says.”

Two weeks or more went by, and then there came an answer, fraught with sympathy for Maude, and full of commendation for J.C., who “had shown himself a man.”

Accompanying the letter was a box containing a most exquisite set of pearls for the bride, together with a diamond ring, on which was inscribed, “Cousin Maude.”

“Aint I in a deuced scrape,” said J.C., as he examined the beautiful ornaments; “Nellie would be delighted with them, but she shan’t have them; they are not hers. I’ll write to Jim at once, and tell him the mistake,” and seizing his pen he dashed off a few lines, little guessing how much happiness they would carry to the far-off city, where daily and nightly James De Vere fought manfully with the love that clung with a deathlike grasp to the girl J.C. had forsaken, the poor, blind, helpless Maude.

CHAPTER XVII.

NELLIE’S BRIDAL NIGHT.

The blind girl sat alone in her chamber, listening to the sound of merry voices in the hall without, or the patter of feet, as the fast arriving guests tripped up and down the stairs. She had heard the voice of J.C. De Vere as he passed her door, but it awoke within her bosom no lingering regret, and when an hour later Nellie stood before her, arrayed in her bridal robes, she passed her hand caressingly over the flowing curls, the fair, round face, the satin dress, and streaming veil, saying as she did so, “I know you are beautiful, my sister, and if a blind girl’s blessing can be of any avail, you have it most cordially.”

Both Mrs. Kennedy and Nellie had urged Maude to be present at the ceremony, but she shrank from the gaze of strangers, and preferred remaining in her room, an arrangement quite satisfactory to J.C., who did not care to meet her then. It seemed probable that some of the guests would go up to see her, and knowing this, Mrs. Kennedy had arranged her curls and dress with unusual care, saying to her as she kissed her pale cheek, “You are far more beautiful than the bride.”

And Maude was beautiful. Recent suffering and non-exposure to the open air had imparted a delicacy to her complexion which harmonized well with the mournful expression of her face and the idea of touching helplessness which her presence inspired. Her long, fringed eyelashes rested upon her cheek, and her short, glossy curls were never more becomingly arranged than now, when stepping backward a pace or two, Mrs. Kennedy stopped a moment to admire her again ere going below where her presence was already needed.

The din of voices grew louder in the hall, there was a tread of many feet upon the stairs, succeeded by a solemn hush, and Maude, listening to every sound, knew that the man to whom she had been plighted was giving to another his marriage vow. She had no love for J.C. De Vere, but as she sat there alone in her desolation, and thoughts of her sister’s happiness rose up in contrast to her own dark, hopeless lot, who shall blame her if she covered her face with her hands and wept most bitterly. Poor Maude! It was dark, dark night within, and dark, dark night without; and her dim eye could not penetrate the gloom, nor see the star which hung o’er the brow of the distant hill, where a wayworn man was toiling on. Days and nights had he traveled, unmindful of fatigue, while his throbbing heart outstripped the steam-god by many a mile. The letter had fulfilled its mission, and with one wild burst of joy when he read that she was free, he started for the North. He was not expected at the wedding, but it would be a glad surprise, he knew, and he pressed untiringly on, thinking but one thought, and that, how he would comfort the poor, blind Maude. He did not know that even then her love belonged to him, but he could win it, perhaps, and then away to sunny France, where many a wonderful cure had been wrought, and might be wrought again.

The bridal was over, and the congratulations nearly so; when a stranger was announced, an uninvited guest, and from his armchair in the corner Louis saw that it was the same kind face which had bent so fearlessly over his pillow little more than six months before. James De Vere–the name was echoed from lip to lip, but did not penetrate the silent chamber where Maude sat weeping yet.

A rapid glance through the rooms assured the young man that she was not there: and when the summons to supper was given he went to Louis and asked him for his sister.

“She is upstairs,” said Louis, adding impulsively: “she will be glad you have come, for she has talked of you so much.”

“Talked of me!” and the eyes of James De Vere looked earnestly into Louis’ face. “And does she talk of me still?”

“Yes,” said Louis, “I heard her once when she was asleep, though I ought not to have mentioned it,” he continued, suddenly recollecting himself, “for when I told her, she blushed so red, and bade me not to tell.”

“Take me to her, will you?” said Mr. De Vere, and following his guide he was soon opposite the door of Maude’s room.

“Wait a moment,” he exclaimed, passing his fingers through his hair, and trying in vain to brush from his coat the dust which had settled there.

“It don’t matter, for she can’t see,” said Louis, who comprehended at once the feelings of his companion.

By this time they stood within the chamber, but so absorbed was Maude in her own grief that she did not hear her brother until he bent over her and whispered in her ear, “Wake, sister, if you’re sleeping. He’s come. He’s here!”

She had no need to ask of him who had come. She knew intuitively, and starting up, her unclosed eyes flashed eagerly around the room, turning at last toward the door where she felt that he was standing. James De Vere remained motionless, watching intently the fair, troubled face, which had never seemed so fair to him, before.

“Brother, have you deceived me? Where is he?” she said at last, as her listening ear caught no new sound.

“Here, Maude, here,” and gliding to her side, Mr. De Vere wound his arm around her, and kissing her lips, called her by the name to which she was getting accustomed, and which never sounded so soothingly as when breathed by his melodious voice. “My poor, blind Maude,” was all he said, but by the clasp of his warm hand, by the tear she felt upon her cheek, and by his very silence, she knew how deeply he sympathized with her.

Knowing that they would rather be alone, Louis went below, where many inquiries were making for the guest who had so suddenly disappeared. The interview between the two was short, for some of Maude’s acquaintance came up to see her, but it sufficed for Mr. De Vere to learn all that he cared particularly to know then. Maude did not love J.C., whose marriage with another caused her no regret, and this knowledge made the future seem hopeful and bright. It was not the time to speak of that future to her, but he bade her take courage, hinting that his purse, should never be closed until every possible means had been used for the restoration of her sight. What wonder, then, if she dreamed that night that she could see again, and, that the good angel by whose agency this blessing had been restored to her was none other than James De Vere.

CHAPTER XVIII.

COUSIN MAUDE.

Three days had passed since the bridal, and James still lingered at Laurel Hill, while not very many miles away his mother waited and wondered why he did not come. J.C. and Nellie were gone, but ere they had left the former sought an interview with Maude, whose placid brow he kissed tenderly as he whispered in her ear: “Fate decreed that you should not be my wife, but I have made you my sister, and, if I mistake not, another wishes to make you my cousin.”

To James he had given back the ornaments intended for another bride than Nellie, saying, as he did so, “Maude De Vere may wear them yet.”

“What do you mean?” asked James, and J.C. replied: “I mean that I, and not you, will have a Cousin Maude.”

Two days had elapsed since then, and it was night again–but to the blind girl, drinking in the words of love which fell like music on her ear, it was high noon-day, and the sky undimmed by a single cloud.

“I once called you my cousin, Maude,” the deep-toned voice said, “and I thought it the sweetest name I had ever heard, but there is a nearer, dearer name which I would give to you, even my wife–Maude– shall it be?” and he looked into her sightless eyes to read her answer.

She had listened eagerly to the story of his love born so long ago– had held her breath lest she should lose a single word when he told her how he had battled with that love, and how his heart had thrilled with joy when he heard that she was free–but when he asked her to be his wife the bright vision faded, and she answered mournfully, “You know not what you say. You would not take a blind girl in her helplessness.”

“A thousandfold dearer to me for that very helplessness,” he said, and then he told her of the land beyond the sea, where the physicians were well skilled in everything pertaining to the eye. “Thither they would go,” he said, “when the April winds were blowing, and should the experiment not succeed, he would love and cherish her all the more.”

Maude knew he was in earnest, and was about to answer him, when along the hall there came the sound of little crutches, and over her face there flitted a shadow of pain. It was the sister-love warring with the love of self, but James De Vere understood it all, and he hastened to say, “Louis will go, too, my darling. I have never had a thought of separating you. In Europe he will have a rare opportunity for developing his taste. Shall it not be so?”

“Let him decide,” was Maude’s answer, as the crutches struck the soft carpet of the room.

“Louis,” said Mr. De Vere, “shall Maude go with me to Europe as my wife?”

“Yes, yes–yes, yes,” was Louis’ hasty answer, his brown eyes filling with tears of joy when he heard that he, too, was to accompany them.

Maude could no longer refuse, and she half fancied she saw the flashing of the diamonds, when James placed upon her finger the ring which bore the inscription of “Cousin Maude.” Before coming there that night, Mr. De Vere had consulted a New York paper, and found that a steamship would sail for Liverpool on the 20th of April, about six weeks from that day.

“We will go in it,” he said, “my blind bird, Louis, and I,” and he parted lovingly the silken tresses of her to whom this new appellation was given.

There was much in the future to anticipate, and much in the past which he wished to talk over; so he remained late that night, and on passing through the lower hall was greatly surprised to see Mrs. Kennedy still sitting in the parlor. She had divined the object and result of his visit, and the moment he was gone she glided up the stairs to the room where Maude was quietly weeping for very joy. The story of the engagement was soon told, and winding her arm around Maude’s neck Mrs. Kennedy said, “I rejoice with you, daughter, in your happiness, but I shall be left so desolate when you and Louis are both gone.”

Just then her eye caught the ring upon Maude’s finger, and taking it in her hand. she admired its chaste beauty, and was calculating its probable cost, when glancing at the inside she started suddenly, exclaiming, “‘Cousin Maude’–that is my name–the one by which he always called me. Has it been given to you, too?” and as the throng of memories that name awakened came rushing over her, the impulsive woman folded the blind girl to her bosom, saying to her, “My child, my, child, you should have been!”

“I do not understand you,” said Maude, and Mrs. Kennedy replied, “It is not meet that we should part ere I tell you who and what I am. Is the name of Maude Glendower strange to you? Did you never hear it in your Vernon home?”

“It seemed familiar to me when J.C. De Vere first told me of you,” answered Maude, “but I cannot recall any particular time when I heard it spoken. Did you know my mother?”

“Yes, father and mother both, and loved them too. Listen to me, Maude, while I tell you of the past. Though it seems so long ago, I was a schoolgirl once, and nightly in my arms there slept a fair- haired, blue-eyed maiden, four years my junior, over whom I exercised an elder sister’s care. She loved me, this little blue- eyed girl, and when your brother first spoke to me I seemed again to hear her voice whispering in my ear, ‘I love you, beautiful Maude.'”

“It was mother–it was mother!” and Maude Remington drew nearer to the excited woman, who answered:

“Yes, it was your mother, then little Matty Reed; we were at school together in New Haven, and she was my roommate. We were not at all alike, for I was wholly selfish, while she found her greatest pleasure in ministering to others’ happiness; but she crossed my path at last, and then I thought I hated her.”

“Not my mother, lady. You could not hate my mother!” and the blind eyes flashed as if they would tear away the veil of darkness in which they were enshrouded, and gaze upon a woman who could hate sweet Matty Remington.

“Hush, child! don’t look so fiercely at me,” said Maude Glendower. “Upon your mother’s grave I have wept that sin away, and I know I am forgiven as well as if her own soft voice had told me so. I loved your father, Maude, and this was my great error. He was a distant relative of your mother, whom he always called his cousin. He visited her often, for he was a college student, and ere I was aware of it, I loved him, oh, so madly, vainly fancying my affection was returned. He was bashful, I thought, for he was not then twenty-one, and by way of rousing him to action. I trifled with another–with Dr. Kennedy,” and she uttered the name spitefully, as if it were even now hateful to her.

“I know it–I know it,” returned Maude, “he told me that when he first talked with me of you, but I did not suppose the dark-eyed student was my father.”

“It was none other,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “and you can form some conception of my love for him, when I tell you that it has never died away, but is as fresh within my heart this night as when I walked with him upon the College Green and he Called me ‘Cousin Maude,’ for he gave me that name because of my fondness for Matty, and he sealed it with a kiss. Matty was present at that time, and had I not been blind I should have seen how his whole soul was bound up in her, even while kissing me. I regarded her as a child, and so she was; but men sometimes love children, you know. When she was fifteen, she left New Haven. I, too, had ceased to be a schoolgirl, but I still remained in the city and wrote to her regularly, until at last your father came to me, and with the light of a great joy shining all over his face, told me she was to be his bride on her sixteenth birthday. She would have written it herself, he said, only she was a bashful little creature, and would rather he should tell me. I know not what I did, for the blow was sudden, and took my senses away. He had been so kind to me of late–had visited me so often, that my heart was full of hope. But it was all gone now. Matty Reed was preferred to me, and while my Spanish blood boiled at the fancied indignity, I said many a harsh thing of her–I called her designing, deceitful, and false; and then in my frenzy quitted the room. I never saw Harry, again, for he left the city next morning; but to my dying hour I shall not forget the expression of his face when I talked to him of Matty. Turn away, Maude, turn away! for there is the same look now upon your face. But I have repented of that act, though not till years after. I tore up Mattie’s letters. I. said I would burn the soft brown tress–“

“Oh, woman, woman! you did not burn my mother’s hair!” and with a shudder Maude unwound the soft, white arm which so closely encircled her.

“No, Maude, no. I couldn’t. It would not leave my fingers, but coiled around them with a loving grasp. I have it now, and esteem it my choicest treasure. When I heard that you were born, my heart softened toward the young girl. Mother and I wrote, asking that Harry’s child might be called for me. I did not disguise my love for him, and I said it would be some consolation to know that his daughter bore my name. My letter did not reach them until you had been baptized Matilda, which was the name of your mother and grandmother, but to prove their goodness, they ever after called you Maude.”

“Then I was named for you;” and Maude Remington came back to the embrace of Maude Glendower, who, kissing, her white brow, continued: “Two years afterward I found myself in Vernon, stopping for a night at the hotel. ‘I will see them in the morning,’ I said; ‘Harry, Matty, and the little child;’ and I asked the landlord where you lived. I was standing upon the stairs, and in the partial darkness he could not see my anguish when he replied, ‘Bless you, miss. Harry Remington died a fortnight ago.'”

“How I reached my room I never knew, but reach it I did, and half an hour later I knelt by his grave, where I wept away every womanly feeling of my heart, and then went back to the giddy world, the gayest of the gay. I did not seek an interview with your mother, though I have often regretted it since. Did she never speak of me? Think. Did you never hear my name?”

“In Vernon, I am sure I did,” answered Maude, “but I was then too young to receive a very vivid impression, and after we came here mother, I fear, was too unhappy to talk much of the past.”

“I understand it,” answered Maude Glendower, and over her fine features there stole a hard, dark look, as she continued, “I can see how one of her gentle nature would wither and die in this atmosphere, and forgive me, Maude, she never loved your father as I loved him, for had he called me wife I should never have been here.”

“What made you come?” asked Maude; and the lady answered, “For Louis’ sake and yours I came. I never lost sight of your mother. I knew she married the man I rejected, and from my inmost soul I pitied her. But I am redressing her wrongs and those of that other woman who wore her life away within these gloomy walls. Money is his idol, and when you touch his purse you touch his tenderest point. But I have opened it, and, struggle as he may, it shall not be closed again.”

She spoke bitterly, and Maude knew that Dr. Kennedy had more than met his equal in that woman of iron will.

“I should have made a splendid carpenter,” the lady continued, “for nothing pleases me more than the sound of the hammer and saw, and when you are gone I shall solace myself with fixing the entire house. I must have excitement, or die as the others did.”

“Maude–Mrs. Kennedy, do you know what time it is?” came from the foot of the stairs, and Mrs. Kennedy answered, “It is one o’clock, I believe.”

“Then why are you sitting up so late, and why is that lamp left burning in the parlor, with four tubes going off at once? It’s a maxim of mine–“

“Spare your maxims, do. I’m coming directly,” and kissing the blind girl affectionately, Mrs. Kennedy went down to her liege lord, whom she found extinguishing the light, and gently shaking the lamp to see how much fluid had been uselessly wasted.

He might have made some conjugal remark, but the expression of her face forbade anything like reproof, and he soon found use for his powers of speech in the invectives he heaped upon the long rocker of the chair over which he stumbled as he groped his way back to the bedroom, where his wife rather enjoyed, than otherwise, the lamentations which he made over his “bruised shin.” The story she had been telling had awakened many bitter memories in Maude Glendower’s bosom, and for hours she turned uneasily from side to side, trying in vain to sleep. Maude Remington, too, was wakeful, thinking over the strange tale she had heard, and marveling that her life should be so closely interwoven with that of the woman whom she called her mother.

“I love her all the more,” she said; “I shall pity her so, staying here alone, when I am gone.”

Then her thoughts turned upon the future, when she would be the wife of James De Vere, and while wondering if she should really ever see again, she fell asleep just as the morning was dimly breaking in the east.

CHAPTER XIX.

A SECOND BRIDAL.

After the night of which we have written, the tie of affection between Mrs. Kennedy and the blind girl was stronger than before, and when the former said to her husband, “Maude must have an outfit worthy of a rich man’s stepdaughter,” he knew by the tone of her voice that remonstrance was useless, and answered meekly, “I will do what is right, but don’t be too extravagant, for Nellie’s clothes almost ruined me, and I had to pay for that piano yesterday. Will fifty dollars do?”

“Fifty dollars!” repeated the lady. “Are you crazy?” Then, touched perhaps by the submissive expression of his face, she added, “As Maude is blind, she will not need as much as if she were going at once into society. I’ll try and make two hundred dollars answer, though that will purchase but a meager trousseau.”

Mrs. Kennedy’s pronounciation of French was not always correct, and John, who chanced to be within hearing, caught eagerly at the last word, exclaiming, “Ki! dem trouses must cost a heap sight mor’n mine! What dis nigger spec’ ’em can be?” and he glanced ruefully at his own glazed pants of corduroy, which had done him service for two or three years.

Maude was a great favorite with John, and when he heard that she was going away forever he went up to the woodshed chamber where no one could see him, and seating himself upon a pile of old shingles, which had been put there for kindling, he cried like a child.

“It’ll be mighty lonesome, knowin’ she’s gone for good,” he said, “for, though she’ll come back agin, she’ll be married, and when a gal is married, that’s the last on ’em. I wish I could give her somethin’, to show her my feelin’s.”

He examined his hands; they were hard, rough, and black. He drew from his pocket a bit of looking-glass and examined his face–that was blacker yet; and shaking his head, he whispered: “It might do for a mulatto gal, but not for her.” Then, as a new idea crossed his mind, he brightened up, exclaiming, “My heart is white, and if I have a tip-top case, mebby she won’t ‘spise a poor old nigger’s picter!”

In short, John contemplated having his daguerreotype taken as a bridal present for Maude. Accordingly, that very afternoon he arrayed himself in his best, and, entering the yellow car of a traveling artist who had recently come to the village, he was soon in possession of a splendid case and a picture which he, pronounced “oncommon good-lookin’ for him.” This he laid carefully away until the wedding-day, which was fixed for the 15th of April. When Mr. De Vere heard of John’s generosity to Maude in giving her the golden eagles, he promptly paid them back, adding five more as interest, and at the same time asking him if he would not like to accompany them to Europe.

“You can be of great assistance to us,” he said, “and I will gladly take you.”

This was a strong temptation, and for a moment the negro hesitated, but when his eye fell upon his master, who was just then entering the gate, his decision was taken, and he answered, “No, I’m bleeged to you. I’d rather stay and see the fun.”

“What fun?” asked Mr. De Vere; and John replied, “The fun of seein’ him cotch it;” and he pointed to the doctor coming slowly up the walk, his hands behind him and his head bent forward in a musing attitude.

Dr. Kennedy was at that moment in an unenviable frame of mind, for he was trying to decide whether he could part for a year or more with his crippled boy, who grew each day more dear to him. “It will do him good, I know,” he said, “and I might, perhaps, consent, if I could spare the money; but I can’t, for I haven’t got it. That woman keeps me penniless, and will wheedle me out of two hundred dollars more. Oh, Mat–“

He did not finish the sentence, for by this time he had reached the hall, where he met Mr. De Vere, who asked if Louis was to go.

“He can’t,” answered the doctor. “I have not the means. Mrs. Kennedy says Maude’s wardrobe will cost two hundred dollars.”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Mr. De Vere. “I shall attend to Maude’s wants myself, and if you are not able to bear Louis’ expenses, I will willingly do it for the sake of having him with his sister. They ought not to be separated, and who knows but Louis’ deformity may be in a measure relieved?”

This last decided the matter. Louis should go, even though his father mortgaged his farm to pay the bill, and during the few weeks which elapsed before the 15th the house presented an air of bustle and confusion equal to that which preceded Nellie’s bridal. Mr. De Vere remained firm in his intention to defray all Maude’s expenses, and he delegated to Mrs. Kennedy the privilege of purchasing whatever she thought was needful. Her selections were usually in good taste, and in listening to her enthusiastic praises Maude enjoyed her new dresses almost as much as if she had really seen them. A handsome plain silk of blue and brown was decided upon for a traveling dress, and very sweetly the blind girl looked when, arrayed in her simple attire, she stood before the man of God whose words were to make her a happy bride. She could not see the sunlight of spring streaming into the room, neither could she see the sunlight of love shining over the face of James De Vere, nor yet the earnest gaze of those who thought her so beautiful in her helplessness, but she could feel it all, and the long eyelashes resting on her cheek were wet with tears when a warm kiss was pressed upon her lips and a voice murmured in her ear, “My wife–my darling Maude.”

There were bitter tears shed at that parting; Maude Glendower weeping passionately over the child of Harry Remington, and Dr. Kennedy hugging to his bosom the little hunchback boy, Matty’s boy and his. They might never meet again, and the father’s heart clung fondly to his only son. He could not even summon to his aid a maxim with which to season his farewell, and bidding a kind good-by to Maude, he sought the privacy of his chamber, where he could weep alone in his desolation.

Hannah and John grieved to part with the travelers, but the latter was somewhat consoled by the gracious manner with which Maude had accepted his gift.

“I cannot see it,” she said, “but when I open the casing I shall know your kind, honest face is there, and it will bring me many pleasant memories of you.”

“Heaven bless you, Miss Maude,” answered John, struggling hard to keep back the tears he deemed it unmanly to shed. “Heaven bless you, but if you keep talking so book-like and good, I’ll bust out a- cryin’, I know, for I’m nothin’ but an old fool anyhow,” and wringing her hand, he hurried off into the woodshed chamber, where he could give free vent to his grief.

Through the harbor, down the bay, and out upon the sea, a noble vessel rides; and as the evening wind comes dancing o’er the wave it sweeps across the deck, kissing the cheek of a brown-eyed boy and lifting the curls from the brow of one whose face, upturned to the tall man at her side, seems almost angelic, so calm, so peaceful, is its expression of perfect bliss. Many have gazed curiously upon that group, and the voices were very, low which said, “The little boy is deformed,” while there was a world of sadness in the whisper, which told to the wondering passengers that “the beautiful bride was blind.”

They knew it by the constant drooping of her eyelids, by the graceful motion of her hand as it groped in the air, and more than all by the untiring watchfulness of the husband and brother who constantly hovered near. It seemed terrible that so fair a creature should be blind; and like the throb of one great heart did the sympathy of that vessel’s crew go out toward the gentle Maude, who in her newborn happiness forgot almost the darkness of the world without, or if she thought of it, looked forward to a time when hope said that she should see again. So, leaving her upon the sea, speeding away to sunny France, we glance backward for a moment to the lonely house where Maude Glendower mourns for Harry’s child, and where the father thinks often of his boy, listening in vain for the sound which once was hateful to his ear, the sound of Louis’ crutches.

Neither does John forget the absent ones, but in the garden, in the barn, in the fields, and the woodshed chamber, he prays in his mongrel dialect that He who holds the wind in the hollow of His hand will give to the treacherous deep charge concerning the precious freight it bears. He does not say it in those words, but his untutored language, coming from a pure heart, is heard by the Most High. And so the breeze blows gently o’er the bark thus followed by black John’s prayers–the skies look brightly down upon it–the blue waves ripple at its side, until at last it sails into its destined port; and when the apple-blossoms are dropping from the trees, and old Hannah lays upon the grass to bleach the fanciful white bed- spread which her own hands have knit for Maude, there comes a letter to the lonely household, telling them that the feet of those they love have reached the shores of the Old World.

CHAPTER XX.

THE SEXTON.

The Methodist Society of Laurel Hill had built themselves a new church upon the corner of the common, and as a mark of respect had made black John their sexton. Perfectly delighted with the office, he discharged his duties faithfully, particularly the ringing of the bell, in which accomplishment he greatly excelled his Episcopal rival, who tried to imitate his peculiar style in vain. No one could make such music as the negro, or ring so many changes. In short, it was conceded that on great occasions he actually made the old bell talk; and one day toward the last of September, and five months after the events of the preceding chapter, an opportunity was presented for a display of his skill.

The afternoon was warm and sultry, and overcome by the heat the village loungers had disposed of themselves, some on the long piazza of the hotel, and others in front of the principal store, where, with elevated heels and busy jackknives, they whittled out shapeless things, or made remarks concerning any luckless female who chanced to pass. While thus engaged they were startled by a loud, sharp ring from the belfry of the Methodist church succeeded by a merry peal, which seemed to proclaim some joyful event. It was a musical, rollicking ring, consisting of three rapid strokes, the last prolonged a little, as if to give it emphasis.

“What’s up now?” the loungers said to each other, as the three strokes were repeated in rapid succession. “What’s got into John?” and those who were fortunate enough to own houses in the village, went into the street to assure themselves there was no fire.

“It can’t be a toll,” they said. “It’s too much like a dancing tune for that,” and as the sound continued they walked rapidly to the church, where they found the African bending himself with might and main to his task, the perspiration dripping from his sable face, which was all aglow with happiness.

It was no common occasion which had thus affected John, and to the eager questioning of his audience he replied, “Can’t you hear the ding–dong–de-el. Don’t you know what it says? Listen now,” and the bell again rang forth the three short sounds. But the crowd still professed their ignorance, and, pausing a moment, John said, with a deprecating manner: “I’ll tell the first word, and you’ll surely guess the rest: it’s ‘Maude.’ Now try ’em,” and wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned again to his labor of love, nodding his head with every stroke. “No ear at all for music,” he muttered, as he saw they were as mystified as ever, and in a loud, clear voice, he sang, “Maude can see-e! Maude can see-e!”

It was enough. Most of that group had known and respected the blind girl, and joining at once in the negro’s enthusiasm they sent up a deafening shout for “Maude De Vere, restored to sight.”

John’s face at that moment was a curiosity, so divided was it between smiles and tears, the latter of which won the mastery, as with the last hurrah the bell gave one tremendous crash, and he sank exhausted upon the floor, saying to those who gathered round, “Will ’em hear that, think, in France?”

“How do you know it is true?” asked one, and John replied, “She writ her own self to tell it, and sent her love to me; think of dat–sent her love to an old nigger!” and John glanced at the bell, as if he intended a repetition of the rejoicings.

Surely Maude De Vere, across the sea, never received a greater tribute of respect than was paid to her that day by the warm-hearted John, who, the moment he heard the glad news, sped away, to proclaim it from the church-tower. The letter had come that afternoon, and, as John said, was written by Maude herself. The experiment had been performed weeks before, but she would wait until assurance was doubly sure ere she sent home the joyful tidings. It was a wonderful cure, for the chance of success was small, but the efforts used in her behalf had succeeded, and she could see again.

“But what of Louis?” asked Dr. Kennedy, who was listening while his wife read to him the letter. “What of Louis? Have they done anything for him?”

“They had tried, but his deformity could not be helped,” and with a pang of disappointment the father was turning away when something caught his ear which caused him to listen again.

“You don’t know,” Maude wrote, “how great a lion Louis is getting to be. He painted a picture of me just as I looked that dreadful morning when I stood in the sunshine and felt that I was blind. It is a strange, wild thing, but its wildness is relieved by the angel- faced boy who looks up at me so pityingly. Louis is perfect, but Maude–oh! I can scarce believe that she ever wore that expression of fierce despair. Strange as it may seem, this picture took the fancy of the excitable French, and ere Louis was aware of it he found himself famous. They come to our rooms daily to see le petit artist, and many ask for pictures or sketches, for which they pay an exorbitant price. One wealthy American gentleman brought him. a daguerreotype of his dead child, with the request that he would paint from it a life-sized portrait, and if he succeeds in getting a natural face he is to receive five hundred dollars. Think of little Louis Kennedy earning five hundred dollars, for he will succeed. The daguerreotype is much like Nellie, which will make it easier for Louis.”

This was very gratifying to Dr. Kennedy, who that day more than once repeated to himself, “Five hundred dollars: it’s a great deal of money, for him to earn; maybe he’ll soon be able to help me, and mercy knows I shall soon need it if that woman continues her unheard-of extravagances. More city company to-morrow, and I heard her this morning tell that Jezebel in the kitchen to put the whites of sixteen eggs into one loaf of cake. What am I coming to?” and Dr. Kennedy, groaned in spirit as he walked through the handsome apartments, seeking in vain for a place where he could sit and have it seem as it used to do, when the rocking-chair which Matty had brought stood invitingly in the middle of the room where now a center-table was standing, covered with books and ornaments of the most expensive kind.

Since last we looked in upon her Maude Glendower had ruled with a high hand. She could not live without excitement, and rallying from her grief at parting with her child, she plunged at once into repairs, tearing down and building up, while her husband looked on in dismay. When they were about it, she said, they might as well have all the modern improvements, and water, both hot and cold, was accordingly carried to all the sleeping apartments, the fountain- head being a large spring distant from the house nearly half a mile. Gas she could not have, though the doctor would hardly have been surprised had she ordered the laying of pipes from Rochester to Laurel Hill, so utterly reckless did she seem. She was fond of company, and as she had visited everybody, so everybody in return must visit her, she said, and toward the last of summer she filled the house with city people, who vastly enjoyed the good cheer with which her table was always spread.

John’s desire to see the fun was more than satisfied, as was also Hannah’s, and after the receipt of Maude’s letter the latter determined to write herself, “and let Miss De Vere know just how things was managed.” In order to do this, it was necessary to employ an amanuensis, and she enlisted the services of the gardener, who wrote her exact language, a mixture of negro, Southern, and Yankee. A portion of this letter we give to the reader.

After expressing her pleasure that Maude could see, and saying that she believed the new Miss to be a good woman, but a mighty queer one, she continued:

“The doin’s here is wonderful, and you’d hardly know the old place. Thar’s a big dining room run out to the south, with an expansion table mighty nigh a rod long, and what’s more, it’t allus full too, of city stuck-ups–and the way they do eat! I haint churned nary pound of butter since you went away. Why, bless yer soul, we has to buy. Do you mind that patch of land what the doctor used to plant with corn? Well, the garden sass grows there now, and t’other garden raises nothin’ but flowers and strabries, and thar’s a man hired on purpose to tend ’em. He’s writin’ this for me. Thar’s a tower run up in the northeast eend, and when it’s complete, she’s goin’ to have a what you call ’em–somethin’ that blows up the water–oh, a fountain. Thar’s one in the yard, and, if you’ll believe it, she’s got one of Cary’s rotary pumpin’ things, that folks are runnin’ crazy about, and every hot day she keeps John a-turnin’ the injin’ to squirt the water all over the yard, and make it seem like a