The Automaton Ear, and Other Sketches
Date: 2022-02-23T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; American; American fiction -- 19th century

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Title: The Automaton Ear, and Other Sketches

Author: Florence McLandburgh

Release date: February 23, 2022 [eBook #67476]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Jansen, McClurg & Co, 1876

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AUTOMATON EAR, AND OTHER SKETCHES ***

Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE
Automaton Ear,
AND
OTHER SKETCHES.

BY

FLORENCE McLANDBURGH.

CHICAGO:

JANSEN, McCLURG & CO.

1876.

COPYRIGHT,
By FLORENCE McLANDBURGH,
A. D. 1876.

Dedicated
TO
JOHN McLANDBURGH.

Note.—Some of the sketches and tales in this volume were contributed to “Scribner’s Monthly,” “Appleton’s Journal,” and the “Lakeside Magazine,” and are used here, in a revised form, by the kind permission of the editors. Others appear now for the first time.

F. McL.

Chicago, April, 1876.

CONTENTS.

| PAGE
The Automaton Ear, | 7
The Paths of the Sea, | 44
Reinhart, the German, | 89
Silver Islet, | 103
Boydell, the Stroller, | 129
The Death-Watch, | 149
The Man at the Crib, | 161
Prof. Kellermann’s Funeral, | 183
The Feverfew, | 201
Old Simlin, the Moulder, | 213
The Anthem of Judea, | 243

THE AUTOMATON EAR.

The day was hardly different from many another day, though I will likely recall it even when the mist of years has shrouded the past in an undefined hueless cloud. The sunshine came in at my open window. Out of doors it flooded all the land in its warm summer light—the spires of the town and the bare college campus; farther, the tall bearded barley and rustling oats; farther still, the wild grass and the forest, where the river ran and the blue haze dipped from the sky.

The temptation was greater than I could stand, and taking my book I shut up the “study,” as the students called my small apartment, leaving it for one bounded by no walls or ceiling.

The woods rang with the hum and chirp of insects and birds. I threw myself down beneath a tall, broad-spreading tree. Against its moss-covered trunk I could hear the loud tap of the woodpecker secreted high up among its leaves, and off at the end of a tender young twig a robin trilled, swinging himself to and fro through the checkered sunlight. I never grew weary listening to the changeful voice of the forest and the river, and was hardly conscious of reading until I came upon this paragraph:—

“As a particle of the atmosphere is never lost, so sound is never lost. A strain of music or a simple tone will vibrate in the air forever and ever, decreasing according to a fixed ratio. The diffusion of the agitation extends in all directions, like the waves in a pool, but the ear is unable to detect it beyond a certain point. It is well known that some individuals can distinguish sounds which to others under precisely similar circumstances are wholly lost. Thus the fault is not in the sound itself, but in our organ of hearing, and a tone once in existence is always in existence.”

This was nothing new to me. I had read it before, though I had never thought of it particularly; but while I listened to the robin, it seemed singular to know that all the sounds ever uttered, ever born, were floating in the air now—all music, every tone, every bird-song—and we, alas! could not hear them.

Suddenly a strange idea shot through my brain—Why not? Ay, why not hear? Men had constructed instruments which could magnify to the eye and—was it possible?—Why not?

I looked up and down the river, but saw neither it, nor the sky, nor the moss that I touched. Did the woodpecker still tap secreted among the leaves, and the robin sing, and the hum of insects run along the bank as before? I can not recollect, I can not recollect anything, only Mother Flinse, the deaf and dumb old crone that occasionally came to beg, and sell nuts to the students, was standing in the gateway. I nodded to her as I passed, and walked up her long, slim shadow that lay on the path. It was a strange idea that had come so suddenly into my head and startled me. I hardly dared to think of it, but I could think of nothing else. It could not be possible, and yet—why not?

Over and over in the restless hours of the night I asked myself, I said aloud, Why not? Then I laughed at my folly, and wondered what I was thinking of and tried to sleep—but if it could be done?

The idea clung to me. It forced itself up in class hours and made confusion in the lessons. Some said the professor was ill those two or three days before the vacation; perhaps I was. I scarcely slept; only the one thought grew stronger—Men had done more wonderful things; it certainly was possible, and I would accomplish this grand invention. I would construct the king of all instruments—I would construct an instrument which could catch these faint tones vibrating in the air and render them audible. Yes, and I would labor quietly until it was perfected, or the world might laugh.

The session closed and the college was deserted, save by the few musty students whom, even in imagination, one could hardly separate or distinguish from the old books on the library shelves. I could wish for no better opportunity to begin my great work. The first thing would be to prepare for it by a careful study of acoustics, and I buried myself among volumes on the philosophy of sound.

I went down to London and purchased a common ear-trumpet. My own ear was exceedingly acute, and to my great delight I found that, with the aid of the trumpet just as it was, I could distinguish sounds at a much greater distance, and those nearer were magnified in power. I had only to improve upon this instrument; careful study, careful work, careful experiment, and my hopes would undoubtedly be realized.

Back to my old room in the college I went with a complete set of tools. So days and weeks I shut myself in, and every day and every week brought nothing but disappointment. The instrument seemed only to diminish sound rather than increase it, yet still I worked on and vowed I would not grow discouraged.

Hour after hour I sat, looking out of my narrow window. The fields of barley and waving oats had been reaped, the wheat too had ripened and gone, but I did not notice. I sprang up with a joyful exclamation—Strange never to have thought of it before! Perhaps I had not spent my time in vain, after all. How could I expect to test my instrument in this close room with only that little window? It should be removed from immediate noises, high up in the open air, where there would be no obstructions. I would never succeed here—but where should I go? It must be some place in which I would never be liable to interruption, for my first object was to be shielded and work in secret.

I scoured the neighborhood for an appropriate spot without success, when it occurred to me that I had heard some one say the old gray church was shut up. This church was situated just beyond the suburbs of the town. It was built of rough stone, mottled and stained by unknown years. The high, square tower, covered by thick vines that clung and crept round its base, was the most venerable monument among all the slabs and tombs where it stood sentinel. Only graves deserted and uncared for by the living kept it company. People said the place was too damp for use, and talked of rebuilding, but it had never been done. Now if I could gain access to the tower, that was the very place for my purpose.

I found the door securely fastened, and walked round and round without discovering any way of entrance; but I made up my mind, if it were possible to get inside of that church I would do it, and without the help of keys. The high windows were not to be thought of; but in the rear of the building, lower down, where the fuel had probably been kept, there was a narrow opening which was boarded across. With very little difficulty I knocked out the planks and crept through. It was a cellar, and, as I had anticipated, the coal receptacle. After feeling about, I found a few rough steps which led to a door that was unlocked and communicated with the passage back of the vestry-room.

The tower I wished to explore was situated in the remote corner of the building. I passed on to the church. Its walls were discolored by green mould, and blackened where the water had dripped through. The sun, low down in the sky, lit the tall arched windows on the west, and made yellow strips across the long aisles, over the faded pews with their stiff, straight backs, over the chancel rail, over the altar with its somber wood-work; but there was no warmth; only the cheerless glare seemed to penetrate the cold, dead atmosphere,—only the cheerless glare without sparkle, without life, came into that voiceless sanctuary where the organ slept. At the right of the vestibule a staircase led to the tower; it ascended to a platform laid on a level with the four windows and a little above the point of the church roof. These four windows were situated one on each side of the tower, running high up, and the lower casement folding inward.

Here was my place. Above the tree-tops, in the free open air, with no obstacle to obstruct the wind, I could work unmolested by people or noise. The fresh breeze that fanned my face was cool and pleasant. An hour ago I had been tired, disappointed, and depressed; but now, buoyant with hope, I was ready to begin work again—work that I was determined to accomplish.

The sun had gone. I did not see the broken slabs and urns in the shadow down below; I did not see the sunken graves and the rank grass and the briers. I looked over them and saw the gorgeous fringes along the horizon, scarlet and gold and pearl; saw them quiver and brighten to flame, and the white wings of pigeons whirl and circle in the deepening glow.

I closed the windows, and when I had crawled out of the narrow hole, carefully reset the boards just as I had found them. In another day all the tools and books that I considered necessary were safely deposited in the tower. I only intended to make this my workshop, still, of course, occupying my old room in the college.

Here I matured plan after plan. I studied, read, worked, knowing, feeling that at last I must succeed; but failure followed failure, and I sank into despondency only to begin again with a kind of desperation. When I went down to London and wandered about, hunting up different metals and hard woods, I never entered a concert-room or an opera-house. Was there not music in store for me, such as no mortal ear had ever heard? All the music, every strain that had sounded in the past ages? Ah, I could wait; I would work patiently and wait.

I was laboring now upon a theory that I had not tried heretofore. It was my last resource; if this failed, then—but it would not fail! I resolved not to make any test, not to put it near my ear until it was completed. I discarded all woods and used only the metals which best transmitted sound. Finally it was finished, even to the ivory ear-piece. I held the instrument all ready—I held it and looked eastward and westward and back again. Suddenly all control over the muscles of my hand was gone, it felt like stone; then the strange sensation passed away. I stood up and lifted the trumpet to my ear—What! Silence? No, no—I was faint, my brain was confused, whirling. I would not believe it; I would wait a moment until this dizziness was gone, and then—then I would be able to hear. I was deaf now. I still held the instrument; in my agitation the ivory tip shook off and rolled down rattling on the floor. I gazed at it mechanically, as if it had been a pebble; I never thought of replacing it, and, mechanically, I raised the trumpet a second time to my ear. A crash of discordant sounds, a confused jarring noise broke upon me and I drew back trembling, dismayed.

Fool! O fool of fools never to have thought of this, which a child, a dunce would not have overlooked! My great invention was nothing, was worse than nothing, was worse than a failure. I might have known that my instrument would magnify present sounds in the air to such a degree as to make them utterly drown all others, and, clashing together, produce this noise like the heavy rumble of thunder.

The college reopened, and I took up my old line of duties, or at least attempted them, for the school had grown distasteful to me. I was restless, moody, and discontented. I tried to forget my disappointment, but the effort was vain.

The spires of the town and the college campus glittered white, the fields of barley and oats were fields of snow, the forest leaves had withered and fallen, and the river slumbered, wrapped in a sheeting of ice. Still I brooded over my failure, and when again the wild grass turned green I no longer cared. I was not the same man that had looked out at the waving grain and the blue haze only a year before. A gloomy despondency had settled upon me, and I grew to hate the students, to hate the college, to hate society. In the first shock of discovered failure I had given up all hope, and the Winter passed I knew not how. I never wondered if the trouble could be remedied. Now it suddenly occurred to me, perhaps it was no failure after all. The instrument might be made adjustable, so as to be sensible to faint or severe vibrations at pleasure of the operator, and thus separate the sounds. I remembered how but for the accidental removal of the ivory my instrument perhaps would not have reflected any sound. I would work again and persevere.

I would have resigned my professorship, only it might create suspicion. I knew not that already they viewed me with curious eyes and sober faces. When the session finally closed, they tried to persuade me to leave the college during vacation and travel on the continent. I would feel much fresher, they told me, in the Autumn. In the Autumn? Ay, perhaps I might, perhaps I might, and I would not go abroad.

Once more the reapers came unnoticed. My work progressed slowly. Day by day I toiled up in the old church tower, and night by night I dreamed. In my sleep it often seemed that the instrument was suddenly completed, but before I could raise it to my ear I would always waken with a nervous start. So the feverish time went by, and at last I held it ready for a second trial. Now the instrument was adjustable, and I had also improved it so far as to be able to set it very accurately for any particular period, thus rendering it sensible only to sounds of that time, all heavier and fainter vibrations being excluded.

I drew it out almost to its limits.

All the maddening doubts that had haunted me like grinning specters died. I felt no tremor, my hand was steady, my pulse-beat regular.

The soft breeze had fallen away. No leaf stirred in the quiet that seemed to await my triumph. Again the crimson splendor of sun-set illumined the western sky and made a glory overhead—and the dusk was thickening down below among the mouldering slabs. But that mattered not.

I raised the trumpet to my ear.

Hark!—The hum of mighty hosts! It rose and fell, fainter and more faint; then the murmur of water was heard and lost again, as it swelled and gathered and burst in one grand volume of sound like a hallelujah from myriad lips. Out of the resounding echo, out of the dying cadence a single female voice arose. Clear, pure, rich, it soared above the tumult of the host that hushed itself, a living thing. Higher, sweeter, it seemed to break the fetters of mortality and tremble in sublime adoration before the Infinite. My breath stilled with awe. Was it a spirit-voice—one of the glittering host in the jasper city “that had no need of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it?” And the water, was it the river clear as crystal flowing from the great white throne? But no! The tone now floated out soft, sad, human. There was no sorrowful strain in that nightless land where the leaves of the trees were for the healing of the nations. The beautiful voice was of the earth and sin-stricken. From the sobbing that mingled with the faint ripple of water it went up once more, ringing gladly, joyfully; it went up inspired with praise to the sky, and—hark! the Hebrew tongue:—

“The horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.”

Then the noise of the multitude swelled again, and a crash of music broke forth from innumerable timbrels. I raised my head quickly—it was the song of Miriam after the passage of the Red Sea.

I knew not whether I lived.

I bent my ear eagerly to the instrument again and heard—the soft rustle, the breathing as of a sleeping forest. A plaintive note stole gently out, more solemn and quiet than the chant of the leaves. The mournful lay, forlorn, frightened, trembled on the air like the piteous wail of some wounded creature. Then it grew stronger. Clear, brilliant, it burst in a shower of silver sounds like a whole choir of birds in the glitter of the tropical sunlight. But the mournful wail crept back, and the lonely heartbroken strain was lost, while the leaves still whispered to one another in the midnight.

Like the light of a distant star came to me this song of some nightingale, thousands of years after the bird had mouldered to nothing.

At last my labor had been rewarded. As sound travels in waves, and these waves are continually advancing as they go round and round the world, therefore I would never hear the same sound over again at the same time, but it passed beyond and another came in its stead.

All night I listened with my ear pressed to the instrument. I heard the polished, well-studied compliments, the rustle of silks, and the quick music of the dance at some banquet. I could almost see the brilliant robes and glittering jewels of the waltzers, and the sheen of light, and the mirrors. But hush! a cry, a stifled moan. Was that at the——No, the music and the rustle of silk were gone.

“Mother, put your hand here,—I am tired, and my head feels hot and strange. Is it night, already, that it has grown so dark? I am resting now, for my book is almost done, and then, mother, we can go back to the dear old home where the sun shines so bright and the honeysuckles are heavy with perfume. And, mother, we will never be poor any more. I know you are weary, for your cheeks are pale and your fingers are thin; but they shall not touch a needle then, and you will grow better, mother, and we will forget these long, long, bitter years. I will not write in the evenings then, but sit with you and watch the twilight fade as we used to do, and listen to the murmur of the frogs. I described the little stream, our little stream, mother, in my book.—Hark! I hear the splash of its waves now. Hold me by the hand tight, mother. I am tired, but we are almost there. See! the house glimmers white through the trees, and the red bird has built its nest again in the cedar. Put your arm around me, mother, mother—”

Then single, echoless, the mother’s piercing cry went up—“O my God!”

Great Heaven! It would not always be music that I should hear. Into this ear, where all the world poured its tales, sorrow and suffering and death would come in turn with mirth and gladness.

I listened again. The long-drawn ahoy!—ahoy!—of the sailor rang out in slumbrous musical monotone, now free, now muffled—gone. The gleeful laugh of children at play, then the drunken boisterous shout of the midnight reveler—What was that? A chime of bells, strange, sublime, swimming in the air they made a cold, solemn harmony. But even over them dashed the storm-blast of passion that sweeps continually up and down the earth, and the harmony that bound them in peace broke up in a wild, angry clamor, that set loose shrill screams which were swallowed up in a savage tumult of discord, like a mad carnival of yelling demons. Then, as if terrified by their own fiendish rage, they retreated shivering, remorseful, and hushed themselves in hoarse whispers about the gray belfry. It was the Carillonneur, Matthias Vander Gheyn, playing at Louvain on the first of July, 1745.

Yes, my invention had proved a grand success. I had worked and worked in order to give this instrument to the world; but now when it was finished, strange to say, all my ambition, all my desire for fame left me, and I was anxious only to guard it from discovery, to keep it secret, to keep it more jealously than a miser hoards his gold. An undefinable delight filled my soul that I alone out of all humanity possessed this treasure, this great Ear of the World, for which kings might have given up their thrones. Ah! they dreamed not of the wonders I could relate. It was a keen, intense pleasure to see the public for which I had toiled live on, deaf forever save to the few transient sounds of the moment, while I, their slave, reveled in another world above, beyond their’s. But they should never have this instrument; no, not for kingdoms would I give it up, not for life itself.

It exerted a strange fascination over me, and in my eager desire to preserve my secret a tormenting fear suddenly took possession of me that some one might track me to the tower and discover all. It seemed as if the people looked after me with curious faces as I passed. I went no longer on the main road that led to the church, but, when I left my room, took an opposite direction until out of sight, and then made a circuit across the fields. I lived in a continual fear of betraying myself, so that at night I closed my window and door lest I might talk aloud in my sleep. I could never again bear the irksome duties of my office, and when the college reopened I gave up my situation and took lodgings in town. Still the dread of detection haunted me. Every day I varied my route to the church, and every day the people seemed to stare at me with a more curious gaze. Occasionally some of my old pupils came to visit me, but they appeared constrained in my presence and were soon gone. However, no one seemed to suspect my secret; perhaps all this was merely the work of my imagination, for I had grown watchful and reticent.

I hardly ate or slept. I lived perpetually in the past listening to the echoing song of the Alpine shepherd; the rich, uncultivated soprano of the Southern slave making strange wild melody. I heard grand organ fugues rolling, sweeping over multitudes that kneeled in awe, while a choir of voices broke into a gloria that seemed to sway the great cathedral. The thrilling artistic voices of the far past rang again, making my listening soul tremble in their magnificent harmony. It was music of which we could not dream.

Then suddenly I determined to try the opera once more; perhaps I was prejudiced: I had not been inside of a concert-room for more than a year.

I went down to London. It was just at the opening of the season. I could hardly wait that evening until the curtain rose; the orchestra was harsh and discordant, the house hot and disagreeable, the gas painfully bright. My restlessness had acquired a feverish pitch before the prima donna made her appearance. Surely that voice was not the one before which the world bowed! Malibran’s song stood out in my memory clearly defined and complete, like a magnificent cathedral of pure marble, with faultless arches and skillfully chiseled carvings, where the minarets rose from wreaths of lilies and vine-leaves cut in bas-relief, and the slender spire shot high, glittering yellow in the upper sunlight, its golden arrow, burning like flame, pointing towards the East. But this prima donna built only a flat, clumsy structure of wood ornamented by gaudily painted lattice. I left the opera amid the deafening applause of the audience with a smile of scorn upon my lips. Poor deluded creatures! they knew nothing of music, they knew not what they were doing.

I went to St. Paul’s on the Sabbath. There was no worship in the operatic voluntary sung by hired voices; it did not stir my soul, and their cold hymns did not warm with praise to the Divine Creator, or sway the vast pulseless congregation that came and went without one quickened breath.

All this time I felt a singular, inexpressible pleasure in the consciousness of my great secret, and I hurried back with eager haste. In London I had accidentally met two or three of my old acquaintances. I was not over glad to see them myself: as I have said, I had grown utterly indifferent to society; but I almost felt ashamed when they offered me every attention within their power, for I had not anticipated it, nor was it deserved on my part. Now, when I returned, every body in the street stopped to shake hands with me and inquire for my health. At first, although I was surprised at the interest they manifested, I took it merely as the common civility on meeting, but when the question was repeated so particularly by each one, I thought it appeared strange, and asked if they had ever heard to the contrary; no, oh no, they said, but still I was astonished at the unusual care with which they all made the same inquiry.

I went up to my room and walked directly to the glass. It was the first time I had consciously looked into a mirror for many weeks. Good Heavens! The mystery was explained now. I could hardly recognize myself. At first the shock was so great that I stood gazing, almost petrified. The demon of typhus fever could not have wrought a more terrific change in my face if he had held it in his clutches for months. My hair hung in long straggling locks around my neck. I was thin and fearfully haggard. My eyes sunken far back in my head, looked out from dark, deep hollows; my heavy black eyebrows were knit together by wrinkles that made seams over my forehead; my fleshless cheeks clung tight to the bone, and a bright red spot on either one was half covered by thick beard. I had thought so little about my personal appearance lately that I had utterly neglected my hair, and I wondered now that it had given me no annoyance. I smiled while I still looked at myself. This was the effect of the severe study and loss of sleep, and the excitement under which I had labored for months, yes, for more than a year. I had not been conscious of fatigue, but my work was done now and I would soon regain my usual weight. I submitted myself immediately to the hands of a barber, dressed with considerable care, and took another look in the glass. My face appeared pinched and small since it had been freed from beard. The caverns around my eyes seemed even larger, and the bright color in my cheeks contrasted strangely with the extremely sallow tint of my complexion. I turned away with an uncomfortable feeling, and started on a circuitous route to the church, for I never trusted my instrument in any other place.

It was a sober autumn day. Every thing looked dreary with that cold, gray, sunless sky stretched overhead. The half-naked trees shivered a little in their seared garments of ragged leaves. Occasionally a cat walked along the fence-top, or stood trembling on three legs. Sometimes a depressed bird suddenly tried to cheer its drooping spirits and uttered a few sharp, discontented chirps. Just in front of me two boys were playing ball on the roadside. As I passed I accidentally caught this sentence:

“They say the professor ain’t just right in his head.”

For a moment I stood rooted to the ground; then wheeled round and cried out fiercely, “What did you say?”

“Sir?”

“What was that you said just now?” I repeated still more fiercely.

The terrified boys looked at me an instant, then without answering turned and ran as fast as fright could carry them.

So the mystery now was really explained! It was not sick the people thought me, but crazy. I walked on with a queer feeling and began vaguely to wonder why I had been so savage to those boys. The fact which I had learned so suddenly certainly gave me a shock, but it was nothing to me. What did I care, even if the people did think me crazy? Ah! perhaps if I told my secret they would consider it a desperate case of insanity. But the child’s words kept ringing in my ears until an idea flashed upon me more terrifying than death itself. How did I know that I was not insane? How did I know that my great invention might be only an hallucination of my brain?

Instantly a whole army of thoughts crowded up like ghostly witnesses to affright me. I had studied myself to a shadow; my pallid face, with the red spots on the cheeks and the blue hollows around the eyes, came before my mental vision afresh. The fever in my veins told me I was unnaturally excited. I had not slept a sound, dreamless sleep for weeks. Perhaps in the long, long days and nights my brain, like my body, had been overwrought; perhaps in my eager desire to succeed, in my desperate determination, the power of my will had disordered my mind, and it was all deception: the sounds, the music I had heard, merely the creation of my diseased fancy, and the instrument I had handled useless metal. The very idea was inexpressible torture to me. I could not bear that a single doubt of its reality should exist; but, after once entering my head, how would I ever be able to free myself from distrust? I could not do it; I would be obliged to live always in uncertainty. It was maddening: now I felt as if I might have struck the child in my rage if I could have found him. Then suddenly it occurred to me, for the first time, that my invention could easily be tested by some other person. Almost instantly I rejected the thought, for it would compel me to betray my secret, and in my strange infatuation I would rather have destroyed the instrument. But the doubts of my sanity on this subject returned upon me with tenfold strength, and again I thought in despair of the only method left me by which they could ever be settled.

In the first shock, when the unlucky sentence fell upon my ear, I had turned after the boys, and then walked on mechanically towards the town. Now, when I looked up I found myself almost at the college gate. No one was to be seen, only Mother Flinse with her basket on her arm was just raising the latch. Half bewildered I turned hastily round and bent my steps in the direction of my lodgings, while I absently wondered whether that old woman had stood there ever since, since—when? I did not recollect, but her shadow was long and slim—no, there were no shadows this afternoon; it was sunless.

As I reached the stairs leading to my room, my trouble, which I had forgotten for the moment, broke upon me anew. I dragged myself up and sat down utterly overwhelmed. As I have said, I would sooner destroy the instrument than give it to a thankless world; but to endure the torturing doubt of its reality was impossible. Suddenly it occurred to me that Mother Flinse was mute. I might get her to test my invention without fear of betrayal, for she could neither speak nor write, and her signs on this subject, if she attempted to explain, would be altogether unintelligible to others. I sprang up in wild delight, then immediately fell back in my chair with a hoarse laugh—Mother Flinse was deaf as well as dumb. I had not remembered that. I sat quietly a moment trying to calm myself and think. Why need this make any difference? The instrument ought to, at least it was possible that it might, remedy loss of hearing. I too was deaf to these sounds in the air that it made audible. They would have to be magnified to a greater degree for her. I might set it for the present and use the full power of the instrument: there certainly would be no harm in trying, at any rate, and if it failed it would prove nothing, if it did not fail it would prove every thing. Then a new difficulty presented itself. How could I entice the old woman into the church?

I went back towards the college expecting to find her, but she was nowhere to be seen, and I smiled that only a few moments ago I had wondered if she did not always stand in the gateway. Once, I could not exactly recall the time, I had passed her hut. I remembered distinctly that there was a line full of old ragged clothes stretched across from the fence to a decayed tree, and a bright red flannel petticoat blew and flapped among the blackened branches. It was a miserable frame cabin, set back from the Spring road, about half a mile out of town. There I went in search of her.

The blasted tree stood out in bold relief against the drab sky. There appeared no living thing about the dirty, besmoked hovel except one lean rat, that squatted with quivering nose and stared a moment, then retreated under the loose plank before the door, leaving its smellers visible until I stepped upon the board. I knocked loudly without receiving any reply; then, smiling at the useless ceremony I had performed, pushed it open. The old woman, dressed in her red petticoat and a torn calico frock, with a faded shawl drawn over her head, was standing with her back towards me, picking over a pile of rags. She did not move. I hesitated an instant, then walked in. The moment I put my foot upon the floor she sprang quickly round. At first she remained motionless, with her small, piercing gray eyes fixed upon me, holding a piece of orange-and-black spotted muslin; evidently she recognized me, for, suddenly dropping it, she began a series of wild gestures, grinning until all the wrinkles of her skinny face converged in the region of her mouth, where a few scattered teeth, long and sharp, gleamed strangely white. A rim of grizzled hair stood out round the edge of the turbaned shawl and set off the withered and watchful countenance of the speechless old crone. The yellow, shriveled skin hung loosely about her slim neck like leather, and her knotted hands were brown and dry as the claws of an eagle.

I went through the motion of sweeping and pointed over my shoulder, making her understand that I wished her to do some cleaning. She drew the seams of her face into a new grimace by way of assent, and, putting the piece of orange-and-black spotted muslin around her shoulders in lieu of a cloak, preceded me out of the door. She started immediately in the direction of the college, and I was obliged to take hold of her before I could attract her attention; then, when I shook my head, she regarded me in surprise, and fell once more into a series of frantic gesticulations. With considerable trouble I made her comprehend that she was merely to follow me. The old woman was by no means dull, and her small, steel-gray eyes had a singular sharpness about them that is only found in the deaf-mute, where they perform the part of the ear and tongue. As soon as we came in sight of the church she was perfectly satisfied. I walked up to the main entrance, turned the knob and shook it, then suddenly felt in all my pockets, shook the door over, and felt through all my pockets again. This hypocritical pantomime had the desired effect. The old beldam slapped her hands together and poked her lean finger at the hole of the lock, apparently amused that I had forgotten the key. Then of her own accord she went round and tried the other doors, but without success. As we passed the narrow window in the rear I made a violent effort in knocking out the loose boards. The old woman seemed greatly delighted, and when I crawled through willingly followed. I gave her a brush, which fortunately one day I had discovered lying in the vestibule, and left her in the church to dust, while I went up in the tower to prepare and remove from sight all the tools which were scattered about. I put them in a recess and screened it from view by a map of the Holy Land. Then I took my instrument and carefully adjusted it, putting on its utmost power.

In about an hour I went down and motioned to Mother Flinse that I wanted her up stairs. She came directly after me without hesitation, and I felt greatly relieved, for I saw that I would likely have no trouble with the old woman. When we got into the tower she pointed down to the trees and then upward, meaning, I presume, that it was high. I nodded, and taking the instrument placed my ear to it for a moment. A loud blast of music, like a dozen bands playing in concert, almost stunned me. She watched me very attentively, but when I made signs for her to come and try she drew back. I held up the instrument and went through all manner of motions indicating that it would not hurt her, but she only shook her head. I persevered in my endeavor to coax her until she seemed to gain courage and walked up within a few feet of me, then suddenly stopped and stretched out her hands for the instrument. As she did not seem afraid, provided she had it herself, I saw that she took firm hold.

In my impatience to know the result of this experiment, I was obliged to repeat my signs again and again before I could prevail upon her to raise it to her ear. Then breathlessly I watched her face, a face I thought which looked as if it might belong to some mummy that had been withering for a thousand years. Suddenly it was convulsed as if by a galvanic shock, then the shriveled features seemed to dilate, and a great light flashed through them, transforming them almost into the radiance of youth; a strange light as of some seraph had taken possession of the wrinkled old frame and looked out at the gray eyes, making them shine with unnatural beauty. No wonder the dumb countenance reflected a brightness inexpressible, for the Spirit of Sound had just alighted with silvery wings upon a silence of seventy years.

A heavy weight fell unconsciously from my breast while I stood almost awed before this face, which was transfigured, as if it might have caught a glimmer of that mystical morn when, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, we shall all be changed.

My instrument had stood the test; it was proved forever. I could no longer cherish any doubts of its reality, and an indescribable peace came into my soul, like a sudden awakening from some frightful dream. I had not noticed the flight of time. A pale shadow hung already over the trees—yes, and under them on the slime-covered stones. Ay! and a heavier shadow than the coming night was even then gathering unseen its rayless folds. The drab sky had blanched and broken, and the sinking sun poured a fading light through its ragged fissures.

The old woman, as if wrapped in an enchantment, had hardly moved. I tried vainly to catch her attention; she did not even appear conscious of my presence. I walked up and shook her gently by the shoulder, and, pointing to the setting sun, held out my hand for the instrument. She looked at me a moment, with the singular unearthly beauty shining through every feature; then suddenly clutching the trumpet tight between her skinny claws, sprang backward towards the stairs, uttering a sound that was neither human nor animal, that was not a wail or a scream, but it fell upon my ears like some palpable horror. Merciful Heaven! Was that thing yonder a woman? The shriveled, fleshless lips gaped apart, and a small pointed tongue lurked behind five glittering, fang-like teeth. The wild beast had suddenly been developed in the hag. Like a hungry tigress defending its prey, she stood hugging the trumpet to her, glaring at me with stretched neck and green eyes.

A savage fierceness roused within me when I found she would not give up the instrument, and I rushed at her with hands ready to snatch back the prize I valued more than my life—or hers; but, quicker than a hunted animal, she turned and fled with it down the stairs, making the tower ring with the hideous cries of her wordless voice. Swiftly—it seemed as if the danger of losing the trumpet gave me wings to fly in pursuit—I crossed the vestibule. She was not there. Every thing was silent, and I darted with fleet steps down the dusky aisle of the church, when suddenly the jarring idiotic sounds broke loose again, echoing up in the organ-pipes and rattling along the galleries. The fiend sprang from behind the altar, faced about an instant with flashing eyes and gleaming teeth, then fled through the vestry-room into the passage. The sight of her was fresh fuel to my rage, and it flamed into a frenzy that seemed to burn the human element out of my soul. When I gained the steps leading into the coal-room she was already in the window, but I cleared the distance at a single bound and caught hold of her clothes as she leaped down. I crawled through, but she clutched the instrument tighter. I could not prize it out of her grasp; and in her ineffectual efforts to free herself from my hold she made loud, grating cries, that seemed to me to ring and reverberate all through the forest; but presently they grew smothered, gurgled, then ceased. Her clasp relaxed in a convulsive struggle, and the trumpet was in my possession. It was easily done, for her neck was small and lean, and my hands made a circle strong as a steel band.

The tremor died out of her frame and left it perfectly still. Through the silence I could hear the hiss of a snake in the nettle-weeds, and the flapping wings of some night bird fanned my face as it rushed swiftly through the air in its low flight. The gray twilight had deepened to gloom and the graves seemed to have given up their tenants. The pale monuments stood out like shrouded specters. But all the dead in that church-yard were not under ground, for on the wet grass at my feet there was something stark and stiff, more frightful than any phantom of imagination—something that the daylight would not rob of its ghastly features. It must be put out of sight, yes, it must be hid, to save my invention from discovery. The old hag might be missed, and if she was found here it would ruin me and expose my secret. I placed the trumpet on the window-ledge, and, carrying the grim burden in my arms, plunged into the damp tangle of weeds and grass.

In a lonesome corner far back from the church, in the dense shade of thorn-trees, among the wild brambles where poisonous vines grew, slippery with the mould of forgotten years, unsought, uncared for by any human hand, was a tomb. Its sides were half buried in the tall underbrush, and the long slab had been broken once, for a black fissure ran zigzag across the middle. In my muscles that night there was the strength of two men. I lifted off one-half of the stone and heard the lizards dart startled from their haunt, and felt the spiders crawl. When the stone was replaced it covered more than the lizards or the spiders in the dark space between the narrow walls.

As I have said, the instrument possessed a singular fascination over me. I had grown to love it, not alone as a piece of mechanism for the transmission of sound, but like a living thing, and I replaced it in the tower with the same pleasure one feels who has rescued a friend from death. My listening ear never grew weary, but now I drew quickly away. It was not music I heard, or the ripple of water, or the prattle of merry tongues, but the harsh grating cries that had echoed in the church, that had rattled and died out in the forest—that voice which was not a voice. I shivered while I readjusted the instrument; perhaps it was the night wind which chilled me, but the rasping sounds were louder than before. I could not exclude them. There was no element of superstition in my nature, and I tried it over again: still I heard them—sometimes sharp, sometimes only a faint rumbling. Had the soul of the deaf-mute come in retribution to haunt me and cry eternally in my instrument? Perhaps on the morrow it would not disturb me, but there was no difference. I could hear only it, though I drew out the trumpet for vibrations hundreds of years old. I had rid myself of the withered hag who would have stolen my treasure, but now I could not rid myself of her invisible ghost. She had conquered, even through death, and come from the spirit world to gain possession of the prize for which she had given up her life. The instrument was no longer of any value to me, though cherishing a vague hope I compelled myself to listen, even with chattering teeth; for it was a terrible thing to hear these hoarse, haunting cries of the dumb soul—of the soul I had strangled from its body, a soul which I would have killed itself if it were possible. But my hope was vain, and the trumpet had become not only worthless to me, but an absolute horror.

Suddenly I determined to destroy it. I turned it over ready to dash it in pieces, but it cost me a struggle to crush this work of my life, and while I stood irresolute a small green-and-gold beetle crawled out of it and dropped like a stone to the floor. The insect was an electric flash to me, that dispelled the black gloom through which I had been battling. It had likely fallen into the instrument down in the church-yard, or when I laid it upon the window-sill, and the rasping of its wings, magnified, had produced the sounds which resembled the strange grating noise uttered by the deaf-mute.

Instantly I put the trumpet to my ear. Once more the music of the past surged in. Voices, leaves, water, all murmured to me their changeful melody; every zephyr wafting by was filled with broken but melodious whispers.

Relieved from doubts, relieved from fears and threatening dangers, I slept peacefully, dreamlessly as a child. With a feeling of rest to which I had long been unused, I walked out in the soft clear morning. Every thing seemed to have put on new life, for the sky was not gray or sober, and the leaves, if they were brown, trimmed their edges in scarlet, and if many had fallen, the squirrels played among them on the ground. But suddenly the sky and the leaves and the squirrels might have been blotted from existence. I did not see them, but I saw—I saw Mother Flinse come through the college gateway and walk slowly down the road!

The large faded shawl pinned across her shoulders nearly covered the red flannel petticoat, and the orange-and-black spotted muslin was wrapped into a turban on her head. Without breathing, almost without feeling, I watched the figure until at the corner it turned out of sight, and a long dark outline on the grass behind it ran into the fence. The shadow! Then it was not a ghost. Had the grave given up its dead? I would see.

At the church-yard the briers tore my face and clothes, but I plunged deeper where the shade thickened under the thorn-trees. There in the corner I stooped to lift the broken slab of a tomb, but all my strength would not avail to move it. As I leaned over, bruising my hands in a vain endeavor to raise it, my eyes fell for an instant on the stone, and with a start I turned quickly and ran to the church; then I stopped—the narrow fissure that cut zigzag across the slab on the tomb was filled with green moss, and this window was nailed up, and hung full of heavy cobwebs.

And my instrument?

Suddenly, while I stood there, some substance in my brain seemed to break up—it was the fetters of monomania which had bound me since that evening long ago, when, by the river in the oak-forest, I had heard the robin trill.

No murder stained my soul: and there, beside the black waves of insanity through which I had passed unharmed, I gave praise to the great Creator—praise silent, but intense as Miriam’s song by the sea.

THE PATHS OF THE SEA.

Around the porch there hung that day a crimson glory. It was the climbing rose about the door displaying its gorgeous bloom in a thousand crowns. Green, grass-green were the hills, but in front of the house the cliff fell abruptly, with a precipitous drop, to the sea. On either side the waving coast-line stretched away, a shining belt of yellow sand. There the breakers with unfurled banners of fleece followed each other in a never ending procession to the shore. But at the foot the billows, by day and night running in forever, dashed against the rock and chopped to a seething foam that threw up in one continual briny shower its white and glittering spray.

The surf at this point, even in pleasant weather, sounded a constant roar, and in times of storm it increased to a deafening thunder that appalled the ear and made the heart tremble before the sea in its savage ferocity. Looking off to the right, perhaps the greater part of a mile distant, the harbor discovered itself, blue, bluer than the sky. A few vessels that had grown mysteriously upon the empty horizon, and come in over the vast waste of waters, were idly lying at anchor, each one biding her time to spread her sails in the breeze and recede upon her lonely course, going, as she had come, like some spirit of solitude, dropping down silently beyond the remote sea-reaches. There the Nereid swung herself gently over the long ground-swell, patiently awaiting the coming night when again to take up her watery track that would carry her over the great Atlantic to other lands and far-off harbors. Not a trimmer ship sailed the high seas.

The sun had traveled almost down the western slope, and it lit up the mighty ocean with a splendor that burned in lances of flame along the waves, and floated in myriad rainbows over the surf. The pomp of the departing day passed across the boundless waters, a magnificent pageantry. As the sun went down, the sky became a scarlet canopy. The flying spray took up the color and spread out a thousand streamers to the wind. Long, gold-green lanes of sea ran out to where the distant mists let down their gorgeous drapery. The tireless gulls, shaking the red light from their wings, sailed and sailed and dipped and sailed again. A few fishing smacks loitered in the orange haze, and, leagues away, a single sloop in the humid north stood, like some wan water-wraith, with a garland of foam about its feet. Eastward, above the hills, the waiting moon hung her helmet, paler than pearl, and the land, transfigured by the evening light, looked on while the sea in its play flashed up a hundred hues.

The widow Aber had lived there on the cliff and seen the tides ebb and flow for more now than the quarter of a century. She was not a young girl when, twenty-six years back, poor Jacob Aber had married her. It was a sudden fancy on his part and a great surprise to the place, for Jacob was well on towards fifty, and many a girl had set her cap to catch the handsome sailor in vain. But he never rued his bargain. He was not a rich man, because he had always been a generous man, and he was content with enough merely to bring him in a modest living. When he married he took what little he had and built this cottage, built it of brick good and strong, where he could feel the salt wind blow, right in the face of the sea—the sea that, until he met Miriam Drew with her soft gray eyes, he had loved better than every thing else in all the wide world.

They were happy and prosperous for four long years. First a son, then a daughter had come to brighten their home, and it was on just such an evening as this that Miriam, holding her infant child in her arms, told Jacob good-bye two-and-twenty years ago.

It would be his last cruise, he said. The vessel was his own, and in twelve months, or less, he would come back rich enough to stay always, and if the tears were in his voice he choked them down bravely, saying again it was but for a little while he should be gone, and she must cheer up for the long and happy years that would come after.

Then she suddenly laid down her child and with a smothered sob put up her arms about his neck. It was the first time she had fairly given way, and she clung to him trembling violently, but uttering not one word. He smoothed her brow gently, with a caressing touch, for her sake keeping his own grief crushed within his heart, and said,—

“Miriam don’t you remember once saying you could always tell a sailor by the dreamy far-off look in his eyes, an expression that came only to those that lived upon the sea and watched its wide, wide fields? And don’t you remember sometimes when I was sitting quietly at home you would come up suddenly and ask me what it was I saw miles and miles away, over the summer water, in that distant sunny land? Well, do not cry so, for even when my ship has vanished from your sight, when on every side there is no trace of shore, I can stand upon her deck and look beyond the far horizon at our peaceful, happy home. And when at evening, with your eyes upon the sea, you sit and hold the children in your lap, remember I will be watching you from across its glittering line. There, that is right! You are a good, brave girl! It is but for a little while. I can look beyond this parting—I can see your waiting face turn radiant as my boat sails safely back!”

Then, when he had kissed her and the little ones, and turned and kissed them again, there was a faint smile struggling through her tears. So, striving to keep down her grief, she parted without saying one word of the terrible dread that lay upon her heart.

And two-and-twenty years ago he had sailed away.

Many days, many nights, many weeks, many months, Miriam had watched the sea with wistful eyes. For his sake she had very nearly grown to love it, and the color came again to her cheeks as the time went by and the year was almost up, when it would give back forever the one she valued more than life. In those days she scanned the water-line, and waited patiently, and went about the house singing. She chattered to her baby-daughter all how its father was sailing home, until it laughed and cooed in wild delight. Every morning she dressed little Tommy in his best, and tied about his waist the beautiful sea-green sash that Jacob had brought her from the distant Indies; and in the queer frosted vases on the mantel, that had come from some foreign port, she kept a fresh bouquet of sweet wild flowers.

But poor Jacob never came back.

Homeward bound, his vessel was wrecked off the treacherous Newfoundland shore. A storm drove her helpless, enshrouded in fog, against the rocks where she foundered, and captain and crew went down together. Only two men escaped from the terrible disaster.

When the dreadful news came and they told Miriam as they met her on the porch, she made no reply. She did not moan or scream. She only looked out for a moment at the deceitful sea, smiling in its sheen of a thousand tints, then turned and went into the house and shut the door.

She had always been a strange woman, and they left her to bear her grief alone. She asked nobody’s sympathy, she did not complain, she never spoke of Jacob. She did not, as the people had expected, sell her house. She made no change so far as the world could see, only that she held herself, if possible, more aloof from society than ever. But before three months had gone by they noticed that her brown and shining hair had turned white, and her gray eyes showed half concealed within their depths an unfathomed trouble. Then too, her figure, once erect and straight as a dart, grew bent and stooped across the shoulders, and nothing ever brought the color to her face any more that was always pale and thin. Otherwise, however, there appeared no difference. She lived economically, and sometimes took in a small amount of fine sewing, as, beside the house, she had little else, for the sea when it buried her husband had buried his earnings also in the same watery grave.

She staid at home and watched the children in whom her life was now wholly bound up. They were her world, her all. She seemed to find in them her very existence, and after the queer frosted vases on the mantel had stood empty for years, their young hands filled them again with sweet wild flowers. So the house once more was bright and sunny, and, though Miriam herself never sang, Hannah’s voice was clear and happy.

Hannah had grown up the very picture of her mother when in her early girlhood, but young Tom was like his father. He was like his father in more respects than one, and while still a boy the people said he too will prove a sailor. They were right; though Miriam had struggled against it and watched over him with an absorbing care. She saw again developed in him the same wild fascination for the sea. She knew its strength and that it must prevail, and when he came and begged so hard, with the well remembered far-off look in his eyes, she felt all opposition would be vain.

She did not reproach herself that she had lived upon the coast and played with him upon the beach, for something in her heart told her that it could have been no different, even had she raised him up in another place where the sound of the sea would not have been always in his ears. She recognized in this fatal love the heritage he had received from his father. The thought that it could be eradicated, that he would ever be satisfied with any thing else she knew to be hopeless, and so the widow had given up, and he had gone at fourteen to seek his fortune, like his father before him, a sailor on the high seas.

Now, ten years later, and two-and-twenty years since poor Jacob had started on his fateful cruise, young Tom was ready for his fourth voyage. He had climbed unaided several steps up the ladder in his calling, and the Nereid, waiting down in the harbor would carry him in a few hours, her first mate, out upon her long two years’ absence. It was a great lift to him, for, besides his promotion, Luke Denin, who this time commanded the ship, had been his early friend. There was but little difference in their age. They had been boys together, and together they had explored the shore for miles and fished for days, and they had rambled the hills and the woods over; so, as young Tom said, it would be just as good for him as if he commanded the Nereid himself.

When he told his mother this she had only patted him on the head, and said in a choked voice,—“My little sailor boy!”

The widow Aber, ever since her son took to following the sea, had been gradually breaking. From that time her health, heretofore always strong and robust, began perceptibly to decline. The people noticed it, but then she told them that she was getting old—how could they expect a woman well up into the sixties to be as active as a girl, and besides this she had the rheumatism. So she was constantly excusing her feebleness with anxious care, as if she feared they might attribute it to some other cause than age.

This evening she was even weaker than usual, though she did not acknowledge it, but sitting at the supper table her hands trembled so badly that the cups and saucers rattled a little as she served the tea. Miriam, whose life had been one constant struggle, was struggling still. No wonder the widow was proud of her son, her only son. Her gray eyes, beautiful as in her youth, would wander to him again and again, and rest upon his face with a strange, yearning expression, but whenever he turned to her she would drop them quickly and move a little nervously in her chair, striving to conceal, as she had done so many years ago, the burden of grief that lay at her heart.

It was a pleasant party to look at, for Luke Denin too was there, and the young people carefully avoided any allusion to the separation before them. Tom, always gay and happy, was more than handsome in his sailor’s dress, with the bronze of the tropical sun upon his face. And Luke, if he was not so tall by half a head, and if his hair, instead of being black and crisp with waves, was light and straight, had at least as honest and frank a pair of deep blue eyes as Hannah cared to see—not that Hannah looked at them, for she looked only at her plate, and once in a while anxiously at her mother. Young Tom was evidently determined that this last meal at home should not be a sorrowful one, as he kept up the conversation in his liveliest mood. He told wonderful tales in such an absurd vein of exaggeration, that sometimes it even called up a smile on the widow’s face; and when the meal was over he picked her up playfully in his strong arms and carried her out upon the porch. There together they all watched the moonlight gradually show itself out of the dissolving day, in long paths across the water. Then the hour came to say good-bye.

It was a desperate battle for Miriam, as she clung to her son in that parting moment. Then it was, for the first time, that something in her face went to the man’s inmost heart like a chill. She was old and frail, and his absence would be long, perhaps he might never look upon her again. In his wild fascination for the sea, was he not sacrificing her? The anguish of the thought overcame him. Had it been possible then he would have given up this voyage and staid at home, but it was too late now, and when he had turned for a moment, and with a strong effort fought his grief under control, he said gently,—

“No, no! Do not be so distressed, mother! It is all for the best; and when I come back this time, mother, I will never leave you any more.”

But Miriam, thinking of that other parting so long ago, remembered that Jacob, too, had said when he came back he would never leave her any more, and with a half suppressed cry she clasped her hands tighter about his neck.

“O, my son, you will come back! Only promise me you will come back, and I can wait patiently and long!”

There was a wild energy in her voice that frightened him, as she went on hurriedly with an accent he had never heard till then,—

“Once before, with this same dread at my heart, I parted two-and-twenty years ago, but I let him go without saying a word. I waited patiently. I even sang and tried to be happy. As the time went by I laughed as I thought how pleased he would be when he saw how his children had grown. I tied about your waist a sash of his favorite color, that he had brought me from the distant Indies, and I kept every thing in readiness for—what? They came and told me that he had gone down at sea—No, no; do not interrupt me. I let him go without saying a word. I must speak this time!”

She paused for a moment as if waiting until her excitement had calmed, and with her trembling hand put back the hair from his forehead, then went on unsteadily in a tone but little louder than a whisper,—

“You have the same dreamy far-off look in your eyes. I know you must go my child, I know you can not resist—but when your father left he said it would be only for a little while, and I—I have waited two-and-twenty years.”

There was another moment of silence, as though her thoughts had gone back over that long, long watch, then, in a wavering voice, she went on once more, calling him again unconsciously by the name she had used when he was a little child,—

“Tommy, Tommy! my boy, my only boy! if you—if the cruel sea—O, I can not say it, I can not bear it! You will come back, you must come back to me!”

A wild terror had crept into her face, then she broke down completely.

“There, forgive me, Tommy, forgive me! I did not used to be so foolish. Do not mind me. I am getting old and feeble, Tommy—I am not strong any more, but—I can wait again—”

“Why, mother, there is no danger. Look,” he said, drawing his arm close about her, “how peaceful is the sea! After you, mother, I love it better than any thing else in the whole world. It has always been gentle to me—you need not fear, I will surely come back, surely—if—if you can only wait.”

Tom’s voice had grown thick and choked, as he added the last words, and when Miriam, anxious to atone for her past weakness, said quickly,—

“Yes, yes, Tommy, I can wait—” he made her repeat it. Then rallying himself he went on gaily,—

“Why, I will come back, mother, I will come back so grand and rich that you shall be three times as proud of me, you shall, indeed! And I will take care of you always then. But, mother,” he said, the choking sensation coming again in his throat,—“promise that you will not worry about me while I am gone, or I shall never be happy, not even in any of the beautiful lands I will see—won’t you promise me, mother? Promise me that you will wait patiently, promise me that—that you will not give up—”

“Yes, yes, Tommy, if you will only come back, I can wait again—I can even wait a long while.”

“It will not be so very long! why the time will slip by, and almost before you know it you will find me standing beside you here again, when I mean you to be so proud of me that it will well nigh turn my head.”

“Ah, Tommy, you know I am proud of you now, so proud of you, that sometimes it fairly frightens me, and I dare not think of it.”

“Heaven knows,” he said, all the gay sound dying from his voice, as, stricken with remorse, he remembered the many times he had left her with no thought beyond the parting moment, “I’m not much to be proud of, but, mother—” taking up her thin hand and passing it over his face, once more driven to the last extremity to command his voice—“you and Nan are all I have on earth to care for me, and out in midocean, or in the far-off foreign ports, your love, like a constant prayer to keep me from harm, will be with me always. When I am at home once more I am going to be a good boy to you, mother. Nothing, not even the sea, shall ever part us again.”

“You have always been a good boy to me, Tommy—I only thought—I was afraid that—O never mind, I can wait for you, Tommy. I do not feel so nervous now.”

“There, that is right! We will meet again, mother, and then we will be very, very happy.”

He kissed her yearningly, reverentially. It seemed as if he stood awed before the heart that for a moment had disclosed itself in its most silent depths, and in that moment there had been revealed to him, with all its overwhelming strength, that divine love which is mightier than life. It seemed as if now, for the first time, and almost blinded by the revelation, he saw—his mother.

After a little silence, taking her face between his hands, he said, gently,—

“Mother, I want to see you smile once more before I go.”

“I will wait for you, Tommy,” she said again.

“And I will surely come back.”

When Miriam looked up there was a faint smile struggling through her tears, as there had been once before, two-and-twenty years in the past. Then he was gone.

Down by the gate Hannah stood, trying to hide in the shadow of the great honeysuckle the new shy beauty on her face that had been called there by the kiss of warmer lips than the gentle sea-breeze.

“Good-bye, Nan,” said Tom, unsuspiciously, throwing his arms about her in his rough brotherly embrace,—“why how you are trembling! You are not going to cry? Don’t, I can’t stand it!”

“No, no,” came uncertainly in a helpless voice, evidently, in her wild conflict of emotion, not knowing exactly what she was going to do.

“There, that’s right! Don’t cry, or I’ll—I’ll break down too!” said Tom, hoarsely, fairly strangling in his throat, and almost worn out by the strain he had undergone.

Hannah, surprised, raised her face, but Tom had already got the better of himself. “How your eyes shine to-night, Nan; I did not know how pretty you were before!” Down went her head again immediately, and changing his voice he said, with a sigh,—“Nannie, there ain’t many fellows that have as good a mother and sister as mine; you won’t forget me while I’m gone, or get tired waiting? I’ve been a worthless, roving chap; I’ve never been of much comfort to you or mother, but when I come back next time, I’m going to stay at home a while. Look up now and tell me you are glad.”

“O, Tom, I am! You don’t know how glad I am, if it was only for mother’s sake.”

Then, turning his head away to hide the anguish that had come over his face, he asked, slowly, trying rather ineffectually to keep his voice natural,—“You don’t think, Nan, any thing will happen to her while I am gone?”

“What do you mean?” said Hannah, struck by the awe in his tone.

“I mean,” he said, unwilling to trouble his sister by the thought that had so oppressed him, and speaking gaily again: “I mean that you must be a good girl, and keep up mother’s spirits, but don’t get so used to my absence, that neither of you will care when I come back.”

“O, Tom!”

“Come out into the moonlight where I can see you. I’m dreadfully proud of you, Nan, because you don’t take on like other girls. You see I couldn’t have stood it!” said Tom, in a frightfully uncertain state of mind, as to whether it was possible to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m going now. Be good to mother, you know she’s—she’s not very strong—Have you told Captain Denin good-bye?”

“No, she hasn’t. Not yet. I thought I’d let you do it first; but you’ll tell me good-bye now, until I come back never to say it again, won’t you, Nanine?” said Luke, coming up in his most masterly way, right under Tom’s very nose, and almost hiding his sister from view in an embrace that this time was neither rough nor brotherly.

“Whew!” gasped Tom, as Hannah came in sight again, with no friendly honeysuckle near to conceal the carnation bloom upon her cheeks. “Is that the way the wind blows! I’ve been as blind as a bat. Kiss me, quick, both of you, or I’m a gone case!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Sit down on the stone there, and recover yourself. You’ve said your good-bye, now just wait for me!” said the superior officer triumphantly. And Tom, spent, exhausted, sank down; but the next instant Hannah had her arms tight about his neck, and was hiding her face against the crisp waves of his black hair.

“Tom, dear, you ain’t sorry?”

“No, Nan, I couldn’t have wished for any thing better; but it was so sudden, it just kind of knocked the wind out of my sails for a minute.” Then, after a pause,—“I say, there’ll be a grand glorification when the Nereid comes back, won’t there?”

“Yes.”

“I—I wish it was back now! I don’t know what’s upset me so—There, kiss her, Luke, and let’s be off, quick, or I’ll disgrace myself outright, before I know it!” and Tom, gulping down great quantities of air with all his might, got up from the stone hurriedly, as if he meditated making a sudden bolt.

But he did not. He stood there quietly looking out at sea; and when, a moment after, the young captain, taking his arm, said, “Come, now I am ready,” he started as from a dream. Turning to his sister, with every trace of his rollicking manner lost, he said, as though he had not spoken of her before,—

“You must take good care of mother—poor mother. Do not let her grieve while I am gone. Oh, Hannah, you will be very careful of her, and not allow any thing—not allow her to get tired, and tell her always, while she waits, that when I am with her again, I will never leave her.”

Then they had passed through the gate and were going rapidly down the narrow foot-path to the bottom of the hill. Hannah strained her eyes after them, and when at the turn of the road both brother and lover were lost to view, still she lingered at the spot pondering over Tom’s unwonted emotion. It was not like him. Never before had she seen him so singularly affected, and now that he was gone, it came back to her with redoubled intensity. The unusual sorrow that had almost choked him, the strange tone in his voice that he had tried vainly to conceal, the sudden wish that the Nereid was back even now, his repeated charges about their mother, all troubled her.

An uneasy feeling of dread oppressed her, she knew not why. The heavy perfume of the honeysuckle suddenly make her sick and faint. The tall and prickly cedar stood up straight and still, covered on one side with a fret-work of silver, on the other clothed with the very gloom of darkness, and somewhere from among its shadowy branches a dove, as if half wakened out of a dream, stirred, uttered its brooding note, then sank again to silence. Hannah had heard the same dove a hundred times before, she even knew that there were purple ripples on its neck, but this time she started violently and shivered. It seemed as if the summer night had suddenly grown cold and chilled her to the heart, and with hurried steps she ran back to the house.

The porch was deserted and strangely lonesome when she passed across. Even the crimson bloom, with its thousand crowns, looked black through the shade, as if it had withered in the hour, and she heard its leaves make a weird rustle, like a complaint, as she closed the door. The sense of desolation was so strong upon her that she could hardly keep from crying out in the solitude, but she went on swiftly to her mother’s room, and entered with noiseless feet. A great sigh of relief came to her lips when she saw the peaceful face upon the pillow, for Miriam, overcome by the reaction, already slept calmly as a child. Hannah sat down beside the bed. There was a smile upon her mother’s lips. How long she sat there, whether one hour, or two hours, she did not know, but when she got up all the tumult in her heart had subsided.

She kissed the sleeping face gently and went quietly up stairs to her own room. She threw the shutters open wide, and lo! out upon the sea with her wings spread, white as the plumage of a gull, the Nereid! Lonely, spirit-like, beyond the reach of voice, she stood upon the mighty desert of the ocean. Before her prow the waves held out their wreath of down, and above, solitary in the vast moonlit sky, hung the royal planet Jupiter. Steady, radiant, it burned like the magic Star in the East. Hannah, watching, saw the ship fade away in the far-off endless isles of silver mist. A great peace had come to her soul, and when she lay down to sleep there was no trouble on her face. Gone, the Nereid was gone, but still, even in her dreams, she knew that the star in the sky was shining.

Slowly the days came and went. Miriam, yet a little feebler, was bright and happy. Never, since that night when she said good-bye, had she murmured or uttered a word of complaint. Every thing at the cottage glided smoothly on; for Hannah attended to the house, and waited upon her mother with an untiring care, but even while she went about performing her different duties her eyes, unconsciously, would wander off to sea. Often in the afternoon, when the widow nodded in the great rocking chair by the window, she would slip away down to the beach, and sit there by the hour.

Those were pleasant days to Hannah. Then the sea, clear and calm, rounded out, a great circle of splendor, to the horizon; or on its surface the giant mists reared themselves, triumphant, in towering arches. Perhaps her thoughts went out beyond these mighty phantom aisles, seeking always the two loved ones across their portals, over the vast and solemn ocean. Sometimes when the sky was warm and the wind blew shoreward it seemed to bring faintly the scent of foreign flowers; for nearer now to her were those mystical lands where Summer, almighty Summer, sat upon an everlasting throne.

Hannah knew every vessel that sailed into port; and sometimes a boat, returning, had spoken the Nereid at sea, sometimes at long intervals a letter came. Then when for weeks, for months it might be, there was no word, no sign, the royal planet, moving in its eternal orbit, hung again in the sky, a star of promise. To Hannah, as she watched it night after night above the sea, it came as a messenger bearing glad tidings of great joy.

So the time waned. The peaceful days passed by and fierce storms broke with a savage roar upon the coast. The green upon the hill-sides faded out, and the freezing spray encrusted the cliff with ice where the wintry sea threw up its bitter brine—and sometimes, farther off upon the shelving beach, it threw up more than brine, or stiffened weed. Broken spars, dreary fragments of wrecks drifted in, told of the wild desolation out upon the hoarse wilderness of beaten waves.

But even those days too passed, and the Spring clothed the land again with emerald. More than a year had worn away since the Nereid had faded out of the horizon, and presently another Fall set in.

For five months no word had come from the absent wanderers. Still Miriam made not the least complaint. Even when the storms lashed the sea, until it sent up a roar that made the young girl shiver, the widow evinced no anxiety. Had she not promised that she would wait patiently? She talked very little, and generally sat quietly by the window from morning till evening. But Hannah, saying nothing, had grown heavy-hearted with the long silence.

It was November, a dull, dreary day in November. Heavy clouds stretched themselves in a somber, leaden sky, that near the water gathered dark and frowning. The gray sea, cold and hoarse, uttered eternally its hollow roar. But for this it seemed as if a mighty silence would have brooded over earth and ocean, a silence vast and dreadful as the grave. Dead white, the hungry surf crawled sullenly up the sand. Leagues away the fishing smacks all headed to shore, and the gulls were flying landward, when Hannah looking out, counted a new sail in the harbor.

Any word to break this long heart-sick watch?

Quick she had her hat, and glancing at her mother sleeping tranquilly in the great chair, she ran out, without shawl or wrapping, and started down the hill. Once at the bottom she slackened her pace a little to gain breath. A fine drizzle already blew through the air, and the waters running in upon the smooth beach did not rumble with a great noise as at the foot of the cliff, but washed, washed, keeping up endlessly a weary lamentation. The damp settled on her hair in minute globules, and enveloped all her clothing in its clammy embrace, but she did not heed the weather. She never looked out once at the desolate, rainy sea, she hardly heard its solemn moan. Hurrying, hurrying, she went on swiftly with the one idea absorbing every power. Rapidly, half-running, half-walking, she never paused until she reached the slippery wharf.

A group of sailors parted to let her pass. So eager was she that she did not hear the sudden exclamations, or see the look of pity that had come upon more than one rough sunburnt face when she made her appearance; for living all her life in the same quiet village many of the sailors knew Hannah by sight, many by her gentle manner and kind words, and many a sailor’s wife had to thank her as a guardian angel when sickness and poverty had come upon them unawares. She, flurried, her heart throbbing with expectation, saw only it was the good ship Bonibird that had come to port. Stephen, old Steve, belonged to it now! She remembered him well. Often when she was a child had he given her curious shells, and once he had brought her, in a little bowl filled with seawater, a tiny, live fish that glittered all over with beautiful colors. Oh yes, she remembered him well! Surprised and pleased she turned to look for him among the groups of sailors, but the old man was already at her side.

Stained and weather-beaten old Steve stood there with his cap off, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, and when with an exclamation of joy Hannah held out her hand, he took it eagerly between his rough palms.

“God bless you! God bless you!” broke from his lips in a thick utterance; then he dropped her hand nervously, and drawing his breath hard passed his sleeve hurriedly across his face.

“I’m glad to see you back, Stephen,” she said. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Yes, you beant so tall then.”

“Is there any news from the Nereid?” she asked eagerly, hardly noticing his last reply.

The old man seemed fairly to break out in a violent perspiration. He moved again uneasily on his feet and, turning his head from her, mopped his face once more hurriedly with his sleeve.

“I’m——I’m feared thar be a storm comin’ up, Miss. Those clouds over the water do look ugly, and the gulls be all flyin’ land’ard.”

“Never mind, I’m not afraid of the storm!” she said, impatiently.

“Why you be all wet now, standin’ out in this nasty drizzle.”

“No, no, I don’t care! I want to know if you heard any thing from the Nereid. Why don’t you tell me?” an alarm gathering quickly in her voice as the first sickening suspicion came over her. “O Stephen,” she said, with a terrified cry that fairly frightened the man, “you have, and there is something wrong! O the Nereid—the Nereid is not lost! Say it is not lost!”

She had caught the man’s arm in her wild excitement, and clung to him trembling like a leaf from head to foot.

“Why, no, no!” he said, scared by the girl’s dreadful agitation; “the Nereid be all right, she be all right! I didn’t think of sich an idee comin’ to you, or I’d a said afore she be all right. Thar beant nothin’ the matter with her, nothin’, I was aboard o’ her myself—I’m afeard it’ll make you sick, Miss, a standin’ here in the drizzle like this, an’ with nothin’ to keep off the wet,”—trying to appear as if he had settled the trouble, but all the time keeping his face turned carefully from her.

In the first instant of relief Hannah had let go of his arm and put her hands to her head without one word, so intense had been the strain; then, looking up suddenly, and drawing a quick breath, she faced round to him.

“Stephen, is this the truth that you have told me? You are not deceiving me? Is there nothing the matter?”

“Lord, no, Miss, it beant no lie,” but the old sailor hesitated painfully while she looked at him, worked his hands nervously about his neck, put them irresolutely to his pockets once or twice, till unable to stand it any longer, he suddenly made an end to his indecision by jerking out a letter, at the same time muttering some half-coherent sentence about how it had been given to him for her on board the Nereid.

“O, a letter!” she cried, joyfully, breaking the seal, while her face that had been so clouded lighted up radiantly.

As she looked up for a second, with a smile upon her lips, the old sailor became more distressed in his manner than ever; and when she unfolded the paper he even put out his hand once or twice, as if he would have taken it back. Evidently he could not bear to see her read it then; he had not thought she would open it there. Troubled, he looked about, shuffling again with that uneasy movement on his feet. If only he could find some means to prevail upon her first to take it home, and driven to desperation he turned once more to her, and said in an appealing voice,—

“I’m feared thar be a bad storm comin’ up, Miss; the sea it really do look ugly, and may hap you’d better run home first; thar beant much time to lose noways.”

But alas! it was too late. Hannah, utterly oblivious to the old man’s entreaty, was already eagerly reading down the sheet. Suddenly the color fled from her face. She appeared dazed and confused. For an instant she held the paper in a convulsive grasp, staring at it with a stony glare. Then she uttered a long, shivering sound, and her fingers gradually relaxed their hold.

In a second the letter was gone. A savage wind broke loose with a tiger roar from the sea. The billows, in swift rage and with frightful tumult, piled up their fierce scrolls in a chaos of towering surge. Mist and spray and foam whirled in a blinding froth to the sky.

Old Steve, half-carrying, half-dragging—for the girl seemed hardly able to take a step unassisted—drew Hannah back into the one long low building by the wharf, where most of the people that were standing about a few moments before had taken shelter from the storm. Quickly half a dozen rough hands drew out a small packing-box and placed it for a seat, and some one threw a woolen shawl around her shoulders.

She kept her lips closed tight. She looked at no one, she shivered constantly. The howling blast swept its brine up the wharf—“Washed overboard at sea.” The cruel breakers lifted and struck with thunder-crash—“Washed overboard at sea.” Bitter cold, the salt surf leaped and writhed and reached out with demoniac fury—“Washed overboard at sea.” Giant waves opened and shut with a grinding wrath their hungry jaws. Relentless, appalling, the mighty waters filled earth and sky with the terror of their strength.

And Tom, poor Tom, had been washed overboard at sea!

It was horrible. The awful words rang constantly in her ears. They repeated themselves over and over. Where, how—she knew naught, only the one sentence, with its dreadful import. After that she had read nothing, and before it she forgot all. Rocking a little back and forth on her seat, she sat there pale and dumb. Like her mother, two-and-twenty years in the past, she asked no sympathy, she heeded no comment.

The ashen clouds, racing before the wind like the scud of the sea, drove swiftly down behind the hills, and the blinding fury of the storm had spent itself. Drearily the gray sky let down again its endless drizzle, when Stephen, his honest voice painfully choked by emotion, prevailed upon her to go home. At first looking at him blankly, she seemed hardly to comprehend what he said, and it was only when he spoke of her mother that she gave any heed to his entreaty. Her mother! how could she tell her the terrible news, her patient, waiting mother! Old Stephen, many times after, used to say how in that moment, when she looked at him, he wished he had been dead before ever he brought her such a letter.

Shivering, always shivering, she drew the shawl tight about her shoulders, and slipped down off the fishy box without a word. The old sailor in his anxious care would have followed too, but she only shook her head, and without having opened her lips, he saw her go alone.

The sullen mist hung its reeking folds along the shore, and the tide, running out, left a wide dank stretch of yellow slime. Above it, where, in Summer, the green swords of the sea-wrack grew, the storm had washed up clammy masses, heavy with ooze, of the pale and sticky tangle. Fiercely the treacherous waters had swept over the shore and covered it with their bitter dregs; but more fiercely had they surged, a dreary desolation, over the girl’s young heart.

Upon the bloated girdles, on the wet sand, in the chilly damp, with the salt spray clinging to her clothes, she went, and the wild sea, calming down, mourned again at her feet, like a sinister mockery of grief, in loud lamentation. When she went up the narrow foot-path on the hill, and came to the garden gate, she stopped a moment, she hardly knew why. It was a mechanical action with her. She scarcely felt or thought. Her heart was heavy as a stone.

The branches of the great honeysuckle were black and bare. She looked at the old rock by the path now slippery with rain. She looked at the tall and prickly cedar drenched with mist and spray. She looked out at the storm-beaten sea, then she looked back once more at the dripping evergreen. The dove in its thorny spire was gone—the dove with the purple ripples on its neck. It had never built another nest. Shivering, shivering, she went on, crossed the porch, where the arms of the bloomless rose, weird and gaunt, flung down great heavy tears at her feet, and, still shivering, she went into the house and shut the door.

Miriam, used to the tumult of the sea, sat patiently in the chair by the window, as she had done so many, many times in the past. When Hannah came in she looked up with surprise. The girl would have avoided her, but Miriam, seeing her so wet became alarmed, and, rising from her seat, had met Hannah in the hall before she could escape.

“I thought you were up stairs! What took you out in such stormy weather? You’re all wet and shivering with the cold, and—why, child, your face is as white as a sheet! What is the matter?”

“Nothing, I—I—was caught in the rain, and—and got a little damp.” The words came uncertainly in a deep voice, for Hannah could hardly trust herself to speak, lest some unguarded tone should abruptly betray the terrible truth. The girl felt as if it was written all over her, or that she might disclose it in every movement; but she had turned her back to her mother, and with trembling hands was hurriedly shaking out the wet shawl. “I’ll go and change my clothes. It will not hurt me.”

“Well, do it quickly, and come down to the fire right away. I’m afraid it will make you cough.”

Hannah, eager to escape, gathered the shawl on her arm; but at the foot of the stairs she stopped and looked back.

“You—you’ve had a nice sleep, mother?”

“Yes, dear, so very sound that I only heard the wind like a gentle zephyr.”

“And you feel well?”

“Oh yes, better to-day than I have for a long, long time. I’m going to get stronger now steadily,” she said, with a smile that, for a moment, brought into the wan face a strange beauty, like a gleam of the same radiance that so far in the past poor Jacob had placed upon the shrine of his heart.

Hannah, turning her head quickly, almost overpowered by sudden faintness, went up stairs, staggered across the room, and sank down by the window in a silent agony of grief. She did not sob or cry audibly, her whole being was one mental wail of despair—her mother! her gentle, waiting mother! Fierce unspoken rebellion had taken possession of the girl’s soul. To one that had been always as a ministering spirit to those about her, why had Providence allotted so cruel a destiny? She, whose life had been but a long heart-struggle; she, that had done no evil, that had suffered without a murmur; she, feeble and bent with years, marked with the silver brand of sorrow and age; she, far down the avenue of her days, almost where the mighty mists of eternity close up their impenetrable curtains, she must yet be compelled to go on, to the last, through the darkness of new trouble! Was there no mercy, no justice?

Bitterly Hannah looked out, dry-eyed, at the relentless sea. There was no distant line against the sky; above, below, drear and empty, the gray stretched to infinity—not a sail on all the waters, and the tides were out—aye, the tides were out for her.

She had never shed a tear. Forgetful of her wet clothing, she leaned a long time upon the window-sill, motionless, and the lines in her young face were hard and strained. Perhaps the memory of that night came back to her with its vision of the royal planet that had seemed a star of promise—a star of promise? A mockery it had been, a cruel mockery!

Then Miriam’s voice calling from the foot of the stairs roused her, and hurriedly she changed her damp dress, but she could not yet meet her mother. She lingered about the room. She fell upon her knees; she tried to pray, but her heart refused to utter a single petition, and Miriam had called again and yet again before Hannah went down.

“Come close to the fire. You were so long I am afraid it will make you sick.”

“No, mother, I am cold a little, that is all.”

Miriam did not ask again what had taken her out, and Hannah, shading her eyes with her hand, sat by the grate trying to prepare herself for the dreadful duty that awaited her. She knew her mother must be told, lest it should come upon her abruptly from the lips of a stranger with a shock greater than she could bear. It was a hard struggle for Hannah; the girl would gladly have borne all the trouble herself, but that could not be.

Just how she said it she never remembered, only suddenly she felt calm and strong for the duty, and with a strange desperation on her face, slowly, gently as human means could do, she told the terrible news.

And Miriam?

Sitting in her chair she did not scream, or moan, or faint. She leaned a little forward with her elbow on her knee, and looked at Hannah, looked at her long and steadily, with a strange wavering light in her eyes.

“Mother, mother, speak to me!” the girl cried, frightened at this light in her eyes, terrified that she said nothing, did nothing.

“Yes, dear, I am better to-day, yesterday I walked to the garden gate. I will even be strong enough to go down to the wharf when the Nereid comes in, and it will be such a glad surprise for him, such a glad surprise!”

She had leaned back in her chair again, and her face, like a revelation, was radiant once more almost with the lost beauty of her girlhood.

Hannah, dropping her head in her hands, could scarcely speak for the awful beating of her heart.

“No, no, Mother, you do not understand. He is—dead. He will—never come—home—”

The same wavering light flickered a second time in Miriam’s eyes as the girl spoke. She put up her thin hands for a moment and wearily stroked the silver hair back from her forehead. She looked slowly, with a bewildered expression about the room, then, smiling again, she said,—

“Home? Yes, the time is nearly up. In the Spring, in the early Spring, he shall be home, home to stay always. I know he will not disappoint me. I promised to wait patiently, and I have not complained, have I Hannah?”

“No, no——”

“And I shall be stronger then, and we must make the house pleasant for him. It will never be lonely any more when he is here. Why do you cry so, Hannah? It is not long to wait for him now.”

Hannah, trying to smother her choking sobs, slipped down on the floor with her face covered, and Miriam talked on and on of the happy times they would have when “Tommy” came back in the Spring.

She could be made to comprehend nothing of the dreadful tidings. He had promised her he would come back, and her faith never faltered. But there was a distinct change in her from that day. The quiet, reserved manner that had been with her always a marked characteristic, seldom volunteering a sentence to a stranger, was gone. She talked incessantly of her son. She would tell every person she met how much stronger she was getting, and how she meant to go and meet him at the wharf when the Nereid came in.

So months went by, and Miriam did get stronger every day. She had not been so well in years, not since long ago when poor Tom had first taken to following the sea. Bright and happy she seemed from morning till night, only Hannah noticed that sometimes when speaking most earnestly she would stop suddenly for a moment, and look at her in a bewildered way, with that same wavering light flickering up in her eyes.

All the villagers knew the sorrowful story of the Widow Aber’s waiting so trustfully for “Tommy,” her sailor son that could never come back, and they were good to Hannah that Winter. The girl had not cast her bread upon the waters in vain. When she found herself weak and faint a dozen hands were ready with some kind office, and there was little left for her to do about the house. Those bitter months as they waxed and waned were one long, mute agony, but the girl did not break down under the terrible strain. Trouble does not kill the young; thin and pale she grew, but strong in her youth, stronger in her love, for Miriam’s sake, and with something of Miriam’s early nature, she kept her grief crushed within her heart. She seldom went out of the house now. She staid always with her mother, as if fearful to leave her for an hour; and those who went to the house from the village, told how dreadful it was to see her sitting quietly, even sometimes forcing a smile to her trembling lips when the widow would say,—

“Do not look so sad, Hannah. I am strong and well, are you not glad? He said he liked to see me smile, and he must find us bright and cheerful when he comes in the Spring.”

The Spring! Hannah hardly dared to think what might happen then. Every day, as she watched her mother, the dread upon her grew stronger. She would have held back the coming of the Nereid, the beautiful Nereid, that now, with its white wings, might return only as the angel of death to Miriam. She would understand it all then, and the shock, the dreadful shock! It was the terror of this that haunted Hannah day and night.

The last winter month had gone by, and the chilly winds of March were whistling along the coast, when, one morning, old Steve came hurriedly up the hill to the house. He brought the news that Hannah had so long dreaded. The Nereid was even then heading round the cliff. She had asked him to let her know in time, that she might keep it from her mother, at least till after the boat had landed. But while he was in the very act of telling, he stopped suddenly, and a look of fright came over his face. Hannah turned to find the cause, and saw her mother standing in the open doorway. She had overheard it all. The girl’s heart sank in her breast like a stone.

Vainly she endeavored to dissuade her from going to the wharf, but Miriam, radiant as a child in her joy, nervous in her pitiful haste, paid no heed to her remonstrances, that it was cold, that it was too far, that she would go in her place, until Hannah, driven to desperation, told her mother again of the dreadful disaster, and how poor Tom could not be there to meet her. Then the widow stayed her trembling hands for a moment in their flurried effort to tie her bonnet, and looked at Hannah, looked at her long and steadily, as she had done before, with the same strange gaze in her eyes. It always seemed as if she was dimly conscious, for the instant, that something was wrong, but even as the shadow flitted over her face, it was gone.

“Come,” she said, her countenance all brilliant with eager excitement, “hurry, we must not be late. I feel young and strong, and it will be such a glad surprise for him!”

Hannah, powerless to keep Miriam back, gave up the endeavor, and went on, with a mortal agony in her heart, beside the frail woman who, in all faith, was going to welcome home her son—her son out upon the silent sea of eternity, where even a mother’s voice could never reach. No wonder the girl’s grief made her dumb. Was there no escape? She heard the waters running in, it seemed to her for a thousand leagues, sounding their dreadful dirge. At that moment gladly would she have lain down forever in the same boundless grave with father and brother, where the waves, slow and sad, were playing for them this requiem on every shore of every land. But Miriam, in the extremity of her haste, never stopping, went on steadily over the wet ground, bending, sometimes almost staggering, before the raw March wind that swept in fierce gusts from the still frozen north.

A sudden hush fell upon all the people at the wharf as they came down. With her gray hair blown about in strands, her eyes fever-bright, and her breath coming quick and short, paying no heed to any one, the widow Aber glided silently among them, like an apparition. Unconscious of every thing but the ship, even then in the mouth of the harbor, she stood, her face so thin and worn, all quivering with excitement, and her pale lips moving constantly with some inarticulate sound. Once or twice she stretched out her trembling hands toward the vessel, then, gathering her shawl, held them tight against her breast, as if she would keep down the throbbing of her heart. Frail and shadowy, she seemed hardly human, as she waited, with her garments fluttering in the bitter wind, with her very soul reaching, struggling, looking out eagerly in her gray eyes.

Slowly the ship sailed up the harbor, slowly it reached the dock, and after almost two years’ wandering, the Nereid rested once more in her native waters. As the boat touched the wharf, Hannah had taken her mother’s arm, perhaps that she might hold her back, but Miriam made no effort to move. The girl could feel her trembling, trembling, but she only put up her hand unsteadily and brushed the hair away from her face.

Too well Hannah knew poor Tom would not be there, and, as through a mist, she saw the sailors swing themselves down. In the dreadful trouble that had come upon her, she had almost forgotten Luke. During all these weeks of anguish she had thought only of her mother, but this morning the strain had been too severe. She had given up the battle, and now waited stonily; she would have waited on all day, when Miriam, suddenly breaking loose from her, in a voice half stifled by a wild delight, cried,—

“O, Tommy, my boy, my only boy!”

It was Luke that stood beside her, whom she had strangely mistaken for her son. She would have fallen to the ground had he not caught her in his arms. Unable to speak for a moment, she clung to him trembling violently. Clasping her hands tight about his neck, she closed her eyes, and, with a quivering sigh, laid her head against his shoulder. Hannah, looking at Luke quickly, made a gesture that kept him silent, then Miriam, without moving, said, brokenly,—

“I have waited for you, Tommy. It was such a long, long time, but I knew you would come—”

She paused, while a slight struggle in her breath escaped, like a sob, from her lips, then went on once more still in an unsteady tone,—

“I am so glad, so glad! I am well and strong, Tommy. I feel a little tired now, but I am well and strong. You will never leave me, never leave me any more—”

There was another feeble struggle in her throat; then when she spoke again, her voice, growing fainter at every effort, seemed to come from some far-off distance, drifting in to them as from the desert spaces of an illimitable sea.

“Do not let me go. It is cold, and the wind—Hark! Listen, oh listen how sweet and soft the waters wash! Hold me close, Tommy. I am weary. Why, it is Summer! Look! see the land, the foreign land! Stay, Tommy, I am tired—so tired—”

Her head had drooped back heavily on the man’s arm, but her lips still moved, and suddenly her face lighted up with a radiant smile.

“Nearer,—come nearer—How bright the sunlight shines upon your face! Tommy, my boy—my sailor boy—”

So, on that bleak March morning when the Nereid came in, Miriam had indeed gone to meet her son, her sailor son, on that far, far off foreign shore that is girdled by the mightier ocean of eternity.

REINHART, THE GERMAN.

Poor Reinhart! He certainly was a brilliant fellow. Even the German Professors overlooked his English origin, and felt proud of him. Probably they argued that if he was born in Yorkshire, it was not his fault. And, besides, as the name showed, his family, no matter where they had since strayed, must have been, at some period of the past, true children of the Fatherland.

As far as he was concerned, he seemed to have very little attachment for his native country. Indeed, he never evinced very much of an attachment for any place or any body. We had been together the greater part of ten years. He possessed a singular influence over me. I hardly know what I would not have done for Reinhart. But he was in disposition not the least demonstrative; and whether he ever saw any attraction in me, I can not tell. I simply imagined so, because time wore away without drifting us apart.

A profound interest in metaphysics absorbed his whole being; and through this channel he had crept into the good graces of the college authorities. During his long study upon this subject, he had woven about himself all the labyrinthine meshes of the subtile German philosophy. Though only a tutor of twenty-five, the doctors of metaphysics touched their hats to him; all the students bowed before him; and I—I felt sorry for him.

Why? I can hardly tell. But he had grown thin and pale and nervous within the last year; and I could not help wishing that all Germany was as ignorant of psychology as in the days when the Suabians danced their dryad dances upon the very spot where now the great University lifted up its towers—this great University whose walls were built not of stone from the quarry, but of the labors of many lives, some of whose proudest pinnacles, reaching into a light of dazzling splendor, had been reared only by the everlasting sacrifice of reason.

A vague idea had floated into my mind, but so very terrible it was that I had never dared acknowledge its existence even to myself; nevertheless, it oppressed me constantly. Finally, it grew into such a burden that I could bear it no longer, and so made up my mind to do what little I could to relieve myself at any rate. A plan occurred to me whereby I might accomplish my chief design, which was to draw him away from this study that was consuming him; to draw him away from his myriad theories into life. But before I had said a word, while I was still meditating how it could best be done, Reinhart settled the trouble himself.

I never was more astonished or more pleased than when he proposed the very thing I had been trying to broach, that the two of us should spend the next six months in traveling. What had suggested it to him, or what his reasons were, I never asked. Had he any suspicions of this strange fancy that I would not admit to myself, and yet had been vainly striving to drive from my mind? Since then I have sometimes thought so, and sometimes thought not. To the proposition I consented eagerly, and did my best in hastening all the arrangements; therefore no time was lost before we found ourselves en route for the south of Europe.

As I have said, Reinhart was not in the least demonstrative. Very likely his natural reserve had been greatly increased by his sedentary life. But I noticed, early in our trip, that he seemed laboring to throw off his abstracted manner. I felt encouraged, notwithstanding I knew it was an effort to him, and determined, not only that he should see something of the world, but, what would be of much more benefit, that he should see something of society.

In the beautiful Italian scenery my own spirits rose perceptibly. The great load which had been burdening me lessened and finally raised itself altogether, as I saw this shadow of the German University that had been resting on my companion break. But I know now I was mistaken. It was only the battalion preparing for action; the marshalling of the forces before the conflict.

It had been almost a month since we left Germany. Many of the English and American gentlemen residing in Florence had shown us not only attention but hospitality. One thing I noticed quickly that Reinhart cared almost nothing for the society of ladies. He endured it; never sought it. The most beautiful faces he would pass without any notice, or with merely an indifferent glance. I was sorry for this, because here was a channel, I had thought, wherein might be turned the current of his existence.

With this subject still uppermost in my mind, I determined one morning I would bring my sounding-line into play, if it were only on account of my own satisfaction. We were sitting upon the deep sill of the open window, smoking our cigars and enjoying the utter tranquillity of the southern day, when I asked, indifferently, as if the question had been wholly unpremeditated,—

“Reinhart, were you ever in love?”

He looked up quickly, waited a moment, as though at first he had not exactly understood, then answered,—

“No.”

Now, I knew very well he never had been; for, as I have said, the last ten years we had spent together; but at present I was bent upon the intent of discovering what probability there was that such a catastrophe could ever be brought about; so I said again,—

“Reinhart, do you think you ever will be in love?”

I expected a repetition of my former answer, but, to my surprise, without any hesitation, he replied,—

“Yes.”

“Indeed!” I gasped, with my breath almost gone,—“and when may it come to pass?”

Looking up, I dropped the tone of raillery I had been using immediately, for I saw it was a serious matter to him; and overcome by astonishment, I subsided into complete silence.

The perfume of roses came in on the breeze, and a scarlet-cloaked flower-girl carrying her wares, the only person on the street, turned out of sight. A small bird, with red plumes in its wings, lighted nearly within reach, upon the tree, and broke into song, but, checking the strain almost in the first note, it flew away, settling, a mere speck, upon the northern spire of the Cathedral. Then Reinhart said, as though there had been no pause in the conversation,—

“I do not know; it may never come in this life.”

I looked at him, thoroughly puzzled, almost frightened. Then, thinking perhaps I had not heard aright, said,—“What?” But, without heeding my interrogation, he continued,—

“Perhaps it never will come in this life.”

Yes, I had heard aright. Possibly we were each talking of different things; and as a last resource, I said,—

“Perhaps what will never come in this life?”

“Why, love,” he replied, making a slight gesture of impatience, as though I had been unpardonably dull.

“But,” I persisted, determined to understand, “then it will never be at all, for they neither marry nor are given in marriage in the next world.”

“No,” he repeated, “they ‘neither marry nor are given in marriage.’” He said the words over slowly but mechanically, exactly as if he might have said, or thought, the same words over a hundred times before.

That he believed in the immortality of the soul, I quite well knew, for it was the one shoot of his English education, which, springing in early boyhood, had survived, like a foreign plant, amid all the German sophisms. I did not like the strange aspect of his face, and, somewhat ill at ease, I said,—

“Then, what do you mean?” I waited a moment for the answer.

“I can hardly tell you. I have always had a theory of my own—no, not a theory, a belief. I have never undertaken to express it in language, and do not know whether I can render myself intelligible. I think every soul has somewhere in the universe an affinity—I am obliged to use the word for lack of a better one—and I believe that before complete happiness can be attained the two are merged into one. It is not marriage: that is purely earthly. These affinities may possibly meet in this life, though it is hardly probable; but in the ages to come it will occur just as certainly as there is an eternity. Mind, I do not call it marriage. It is the fusing together of two souls, a masculine and feminine, just as they combine chemicals, producing a new substance. I believe, as I said, these two souls may sometimes meet in this life; but it is a destiny that comes to few in centuries, and those few should kneel in everlasting gratitude before their Creator.”

When Reinhart ceased speaking, I could see that he had worked himself almost into a fever, for his eyes were bright and restless, and the blood surged in waves across his usually colorless face. With a rough hand, I had struck the chord whose undecided vibrations had, a month ago, appalled me. The great burden which had so oppressed me settled down again heavier than before. It was not so much what he had said as the expression of his face that filled me anew with anxiety. And struggling under this burden, I made a poor attempt to laugh the matter off.

“Reinhart, this is some of your German metaphysics.”

“No; though you are at liberty to call it what you please; but I have never read such a theory in any place.”

“Well, it is an absurd idea,” I retorted, “and sounds exactly like some of your humbug philosophers, who never believe in any thing but fantasies; and I would advise you to let them alone.”

This was hardly wise on my part. I should not have allowed myself to express any impatience when I saw it excited him, and only augmented what I was striving to allay. The blood rushed again over his face, but he said nothing; only, rising from his seat, he walked several times across the room.

In the silence that followed, a strain of joyful music broke suddenly upon us. It was the swell of the Cathedral organ, sounding a prelude for some wedding. But if the strain was ever finished, we did not hear it, for the next moment a crash of terrific discord drowned the music, shaking the very ground. Some object flew swiftly past my face, struck the wall and fell upon the floor. I sprang up and shut the window quickly. Half the sky was covered with a black cloud, and from the carpet at my feet I picked up a dead bird, a small bird with red plumes in its wings.

The storm passed over in less than half an hour, leaving the sky perfectly clear again; but for the remainder of the day I could not recover my spirits. Whether Reinhart suffered from a like oppression, I know not; but he seemed possessed by the very demon of unrest. He was not still a moment. He had little to say; and quite late in the evening proposed a walk. Without any remark upon the unusual hour, I acquiesced.

The night was quiet and beautiful, beautiful even for that southern clime. There was no moon, and still the sky was filled with a soft light, brighter than the trembling rays of the stars alone. I remember it because it was a peculiar luminous haze, that I had seen only in Italy, and because, though no clouds swept over the sky, and the haze never paled until lost in the crimson glow of morning, that night, to me, was the blackest night of my life, whose vision sometimes yet rises before me, even at noon-day, with appalling reality. Ah! why were the sky and stars beautiful? O, cruel sky! O, cruel stars! Was the sorrow on earth nothing to you, that you gave no warning?

We had walked perhaps two squares, when Reinhart stopped just as suddenly as if he might have come in contact with a stone wall, invisible to me. Alarmed, I said, quickly, “What is the matter? Are you ill?”

“No,” he replied, still standing motionless. Then, in a moment, without another word, he turned and began retracing his steps.

“Are you going home already?” I inquired, puzzled by his strange conduct.

“No; I am going to the Cathedral.”

We had just passed the Cathedral, when he had made no motion to enter; but now I tried in vain to dissuade him from it. I told him that there was no service at this hour; that we might as well not have left home as to go inside of any house. All to no purpose; he was just as determined as at first, until finally he turned fiercely upon me and said, with a strange emphasis in his tone,—

“I will go; I must go; I feel something within me that compels me to go!”

Was this again the vibration of that terrible chord in his nature—that terrible chord that threatened to destroy forever the harmony of his life?

Powerless to turn him from his intent, together we crossed the northern portal and entered the nave. It was so dim that the heavy shadows clustered in a rayless cloud among the arches, and at the end, far off—they looked like stars in the gloom—flickered a few tapers at the altar, while higher up swung the sacred but sickly flame that had been burning for centuries. There was not a stir, not a sound. I trembled all over with a singular sensation of weakness that came upon me as I followed Reinhart, who went steadily down the long aisle to where the transepts met, then stopped as abruptly as he had stopped a few moments before in the street.

It was, as I have said, just where the transepts met. There, upon a low platform or dais, stood a bier covered by a velvet pall, whose heavy border fell in waveless folds. And upon it rested a casket with silver mountings. Beside it two tapers burned, one at the head and one at the foot; and two monks kneeled, motionless. Beyond the choir I saw the gleam of the organ-pipes, wavering, come and go. The altar lights circled about each other, and they, too, receded in infinite space; they grew dim; they vanished; they sprang again; they fled again. The great tombs loomed out and faded; the figure on an ebon crucifix, inspired with life, writhed in fearful agony, then once more became transfixed, and the weak, trembling sensation under which I had been laboring was gone.

I saw that we were standing by the dead of some noble family, for the repose of whose soul the monks were offering up their prayers. I drew a little nearer. Upon the snow-like cushions within the casket a young girl lay sleeping the last deep and solemn sleep. Or was it a vision?—one of that mystical land, whose white portals are beyond the sun; that land where there is no shadow, no stain; where there is beauty celestial, peace everlasting? No, it was all the future we ever see; it was still this side the gates of eternity; it was death.

A chaplet of flowers crowned her brow, all colorless as marble, and garlands of flowers wreathed her robe, that was purer than fleece; but her hands held no lilies, no jasmine; more sacred than these, they held a small golden crucifix, an emblem imperishable, holy. The burning tapers threw not over the face, turned slightly toward the altar, that beautiful dream-light; it was the last inscription written by the spirit, even after it had seen down the radiant vista of immortal happiness.

Ah! why offer prayers for a soul beyond the troubled sea, beyond the dread valley? O, frail humanity! Even then beside the pall, where rested the solemn silence no voice could break, stood one for whom the kneeling monks might have told a thousand aves.

Reinhart raised his face suddenly. Straightening himself, he extended his arm with a wild gesture, uttering a laugh that grated clear up to the dome.

“Did I not tell you?” he cried. “Did I not feel the mysterious summons that brought me to this spot? Do you see her? It is she! It is her soul and mine that will abide together through all eternity.”

The startled monks rose to their feet. The great arches of the Cathedral threw back his voice in terrible groans. Quick as thought I sprang toward him, but was hurled off with the ease of a giant. He stooped for a moment and put one hand to his head, as if a sudden faintness might have swept over him; but he did not touch the casket. Then, dropping on one knee beside it, he raised his face and said softly, so softly that the last word seemed to come to us from a great distance,—

“O, beautiful soul, part of my spirit, I will not keep you waiting!”

We gathered around and raised him up. It needed no force now; and when they laid him down again, with a great throbbing in my breast, I folded his hands. He had taken his life.

O, Germany! like this fair day you lured a bird high up into your sunshine, a bird with brilliant plumes in its wings; then, before it had sung one song from the pinnacle where it rested, blackening suddenly into a storm, you killed it. Reinhart, poor Reinhart! you lured high up into the fantastic light of psychology; then before he had reared one minaret upon the temple where he climbed, you darkened suddenly into a gigantic gloom that, rising up like a storm, overwhelmed him.

Yes, better had it been for Reinhart were the Suabians still dancing their dryad dances.

SILVER ISLET.

In Lake Superior, near its northern shore, a mere speck of land, scarcely two hundred feet square, barely shows itself above the water. This is Silver Islet, and on it sinks the shaft of the richest silver mine in the world. Covering almost its entire dimensions, stand two buildings. One, a low frame house, encloses the mouth of the mine, and the other, immediately adjacent, a small wooden structure, forms the watch-tower.

Through this tower, every evening, the miners, when dismissed for the day, are compelled to pass out one by one, and submit themselves to an examination, where their clothes are thoroughly searched, that none of the precious metal may be carried away secreted upon the person. So extreme is the vigilance employed that visitors are never allowed, except by special permit, and though isolated upon the waters, the place is kept by day and night under this strict martial surveillance.

To the north, about a quarter of a mile distant, is another island, perhaps six or eight acres in extent. It is high and rocky, and in one place reaches up more than a hundred feet. Here, built upon its sloping side, is the little settlement that could count up altogether, it might be, thirty houses. Here the miners live with their families. Here, too, every thing that pertains to the business of the place carries itself on; and here it was that father had brought me to stay.

I was about eighteen years old then. I do not know how father happened to receive the position of assistant overseer at the mine. I never knew very much about father. Indeed I had hardly seen him more than half a dozen times in my life, until that day he came to take me from the farm. I could not remember my mother, who died in my infancy, and brother or sister I had none. Father was a morose, unsociable man by nature, and I think he cared but very little for me. I had been left at my uncle’s to grow up, and so, as I said, about him I knew almost nothing.

Uncle George lived on a poverty-stricken farm upon the flattest of prairies. I hardly know how I did grow up there, it was such a wretched, miserable place. Although I had never experienced any thing different, it was so forlorn an existence, that I chafed inwardly against it every hour. I possessed a kind of dumb consciousness that surely, surely I must be made for something better than this. I saw nothing of the world, nothing of humanity outside of my uncle’s family, and the two or three rough farm hands that he occasionally employed. I would rather have had the cattle, the poor half-starved cattle, for companions than these. They were none of them kind to me. I know not whether father ever paid any thing for my board; but I know I worked far harder than any hired servant. I did not rebel outwardly, but I was constantly unhappy. Was I to live on all my days in this hopeless, miserable way? Was there never to be any thing better? Looking out of the window, I thought of the great, busy world, and the far-off, unknown cities; but before my eyes there was only a dead level of the hateful yellow prairie, and above, the colorless sky stretched itself out in a gigantic, measureless blank.

From this life it was that father came, without word or warning, and took me. I know now that he only wanted me with him as a convenience, but then I was wild with delight. In my great craving for human sympathy I would have loved father with all my heart, had he given me any encouragement. I did love him for this one good deed. I knew not where he was taking me, but I was sure it could be no worse place. With an intense joy I went up and surveyed, for the last time, the miserable little room where I had vainly cried so many hot tears over my weary existence. I stayed my steps a moment beside the one window, a little window facing westward. From here I had seen the only beauty that ever came before my passionate eyes flame up with a splendor, as of gold, along the sky when the sun went down. A thousand times my yearning heart had watched the short-lived glory fade, like a mockery, into the dreary blank. From here, too, year by year, with a rank rebellion in my soul, I had looked out at the shadowless prairie that lay over all the earth, a great, glaring, uncovered, yellow blister.

So it was with nothing but glad emotion that I stood upon the spot consciously for the last time. I had a keen, absorbing love of the beautiful, a hunger insatiable, that unfed was sapping my life. This wretched existence had almost killed me; but for the change I believe that my longing spirit, like my mother’s in the far past, would have broken its wings. Now there was an avenue of escape suddenly opened up before me—of escape from the dreadful monotony, from the intolerable agony of everlasting sameness that, by day and night, recurring forever, had made up the tiresome years as they passed. My whole being was turned to my father with one inspiration of gratitude.

Had I known any thing of Pythagoras then, almost I could have believed in the transmigration of souls, or that my spirit had passed into some different body, so utterly strange and new I felt at Silver Islet. Here father had rented a little house that stood apart from the rest, upon the very highest point. The whole settlement was grouped within the least possible compass, and considerable of the island, small as it was, still remained in its original condition. There were no trees immediately about our house, but to the right, and running thinly all the way down on the other side to the water, a few straggling pines clung, with their rope-like roots, to the rocks. It was no trouble to me to keep house for only one. I got the breakfast and supper, and every morning put up a dinner for father, which he took with him to the mine. So all day I was left wholly to myself.

As I said, so strange and new I felt it seemed to me for a while as if I had lost my own identity. Here, for the first time in my life, there lay before my eyes a vast expanse of glittering waves—the mighty mystery of far-reaching waters! Rolling, moving, changing, remaining for endless ages, attracting, terrifying—only the mightier mystery of eternity can fathom the hidden secret of this unceasing problem. A hush fell upon my fluttering spirits, a hush of profound awe before this symbol, this vision of the unknown infinite. At last the cry of my soul for food was silenced, the dreadful hunger of my heart, that through all my life I could not allay, was pacified.

At dawn I saw the timid light creep up along the east and wait and brighten, until it set an emblazoned standard in the sky, and below, far out, covered with the pomp of the rising sun, the distant billows clashed their blood-red shields. At noon, I saw the mid-day radiance, falling through the air in torrents of splendor, float far and near, changing into gorgeous mosaics upon the sea. At night I saw the long line of mighty cliffs upon the silent Canadian shore reach out their giant shadow through the dusk of evening that, slowly, softly, gathered into a twilight sweeter than the luminous haze of a dream.

I had no one to care for me, no friend, no lover, but I needed none now. I was happy, happy as in a new and glorious world. I forgot the dreadful prairie, dry and parched—the vast, staring, level of land that for so many years had oppressed me by its terrible, never ending monotony. I even forgot the thousand times I had longed and longed to see a great city, to live among its busy throng.

It was November, and presently the wind, keen and cold, swept down, like the wind from the Arctic zone. Mad, pitiless, the boundless waters piled themselves in towering billows. They leaped and menaced. They broke over Silver Islet with a frightful roar and drenched it with their freezing spray. They danced about it in savage fury. They beat against it continually, and the howling gale, swift and strong, dashed the foam in blinding sheets. Already the long, fierce winter of the North was rapidly setting in.

Great layers of ice formed and broke, and ground up and formed again, until December, still and frigid, locked us within the impenetrable barriers of a vast, frozen sea. To the east, to the west, to the south, an illimitable wilderness of snow, the mighty Superior for miles lay wrapped in a silence profound as the grave. To the north, shrouded in their eternal solitude, cold, white and spectral, the cliffs upon the long Canadian shore held up their stony battlement, sheeted in ice, as in a pall. Utterly devoid of warmth, the sunlight blazed with a brilliance indescribable through an atmosphere that, clearer than crystal, glittered as with the scintillations of feldspar. But the nights—the nights swinging in their long winter arc, were illuminated by a glory more gorgeous than the unreal splendor wrought in the loom of dreams. The stars, myriads upon myriads, studded the whole heaven with drops of intense light, and the planets, magnified through the vast laboratory of the air, showed great balls of molten silver against a vault of jet. Sometimes when the night was at its blackest, suddenly there shot up, flaming from the white battlements of the Canadian shore, a thousand lances. Like the parade of an army, like the marshalling of far-reaching cohorts, the mighty processions swept the semicircle of the sky. They rose and fell. They wavered like the spears of troops in battle. Then the vast battalions, closing together, ran up in a towering shaft to the zenith. A river of ice-cold fire, it divided the heaven. It overflowed and spread out in a sea of gorgeous color that receded, wave upon wave, until it burned, a deep blue flame upon the frozen crown of the Canadian cliffs. I have watched this aurora in its changeful mood a hundred times. I have watched the illimitable fields of snow beneath, while the reflected light played upon them in weird rays, far out to the remote horizon.

During the Winter, unused to the severe climate, I rarely left the house. So far as was possible, I held myself aloof from the people, the people, that, as I said, were only the rough families of miners. Ignorant and uneducated, painfully ignorant and uneducated I was myself, still I could not associate with such as these. I did not grow tired, but yet I was glad when the long, frozen months had passed by. As the late Spring opened, Winter even then did not yield its supremacy without a fierce contest, but in the contest—the savage storms from the north—the ice broke. The huge cakes, drifting about, slowly, gradually, wore themselves away, and the wind dropped its javelins of frost.

Late it was in June before the last vestige was gone of the bitter cold that had held us in its frigid clasp for more than two-thirds of a year. Then there opened for me an unfailing source of enjoyment. I learned to row, and father allowed me to buy a small boat. It was almost the only favor I ever asked of him, and how much have I to be thankful for that he did not deny me! Though slight of figure, my muscles were strong, and after awhile, with constant practice, I could row twenty miles in a day without exhaustion, and every day now, and all the day, I spent my time upon the water.

The Summer, beautiful to me beyond description, was like a perpetual Spring. In my little boat, alone, I explored the shore far and near. I rowed to the very ledges of those cliffs that I had watched all Winter long lifting themselves, like a huge, jagged spine, against the sky. A thousand, sometimes twelve hundred feet, they reached up, gray and naked, a sheer, barren wall of rock from the water. With the cold waves forever at their feet, gloomy, silent, they stood in their drear majesty, and the chilly fog wrapped them round with the folds of its clammy garb. Only in the most beautiful weather did this fog lift from about them its clinging skirts, and slowly the damp mists trailed themselves off in long white plumes of down. At such times, floating idly in my skiff, I felt oppressed by the vast burden of their dreadful silence. I believe there is no greater solitude than that which sometimes at noon, when sea and sky are unwrinkled by wave or cloud, sits upon this mighty shore of desolate, desert rock. Yet here, where this profound silence broods, upon these tawny bastions of stone, occasionally fierce thunder storms play, and the waters in wild tumult dash against their base with a noise like the roar of heavy artillery.

So the weeks slipped by, and it was in the early part of October that first I saw a change had come over father. As I have said, he was by nature a reserved, unsociable, even morose man. He was never communicative, and to me sometimes spoke hardly two dozen words in a day. I had grown used to this, and felt that I had nothing to complain about, as he laid no restrictions upon me in any respect. But now I could not help noticing a decided alteration, both in his looks and manner. Constitutionally a thin man, his face appeared thinner to me than ever. So exceedingly pale and worn was he, that I do not know that I had ever seen a more haggard countenance. His eyes, which were very light in color and deep-set in his head, had an unnatural brightness, a strange expression I can hardly describe, a peculiar, watching wakefulness. His manner was restless and uneasy in the extreme, and he spoke even less frequently than usual. He staid out much later than had been his ordinary habit, often not coming home until early in the morning; and several times I heard him with a slow step walk back and forth, back and forth, over the floor of his room all night.

As I have said, I knew nothing of his duties, nor did I know any thing of the miners. When first I noticed the change upon father, I thought he was over fatigued perhaps, then I became alarmed lest he was ill. Little as he cared for me, he was the only human being on earth upon whom I had the slightest claim, and I would have done any thing for him. I could not bear to see him look so badly. He had never manifested any thing towards me but utter indifference, and so strangely reserved was he that I, in my great dread that he might be harsh some time, had hardly ever volunteered a single sentence to him. I was troubled, and did not know what to do. That night at supper I said, gently,—

“Father, do you feel well?”

At first he did not appear to hear, and I repeated my question, then he turned his pale eyes upon me suddenly with a quick, startled look in them that frightened me,—

“What?”

“I asked if you felt well,” I said again, embarrassed by his strange manner. “You look so badly lately I thought maybe there was something the matter.”

He did not speak at all for a moment, but sat there staring at me wildly. Catching his breath slightly, he looked all round the room and brought his eyes, his pale eyes, with an angry gleam in them now, back to my face, then said, fiercely,—

“See here, don’t you meddle in my matters! I am able to take care of myself.”

“Oh, father, I only thought—”

“Do you hear me?” he said, savagely. “Mind your own business. There is nothing the matter with me. If you can’t do any thing better than interfere in my affairs, you can go back. See that you don’t do it again, or—”

He broke off abruptly, and I, my heart throbbing as if it might break, got up and went into my own room. I had not interfered in his affairs. I had done nothing wrong, said nothing to call up such an outburst of passion, and his dreadful anger had terrified me. I went to the window to try and calm myself. I put up the sash and leaned out.

The twilight had almost dissolved itself in night, a night so soft and gentle that the very waters, wooed from their troubled toil, ceased their long complaint and slept. The pine trees, slim and black, whispered to each other in their mysterious language with peaceful cadence, telling, perhaps, of the time when they would shed their countless needles. In the west, shining like a harvest sickle, hung the yellow crescent of the new October moon. Trying to still the throbbing in my veins, I watched it grow and change and deepen as it sank, until above the water it poised, a great Moorish sword of blood-red fire, and a long line of vermilion light ran out upon the quiet sea. Then suddenly it was blotted in darkness.

The figure of a man obstructed my range of vision.

Instantly the dreadful throbbing in my heart leaped up again. I drew back noiselessly from the window. The man, only a few feet distant—I could almost have put out my hand and touched him—stopped, hesitated irresolutely for a moment, turned about as if to see that no one watched him, then with stealthy step went across the open space and began to climb, catching from tree to tree, down the precipitous rocks towards the lake. Once or twice I heard a stone loosen from beneath his feet, and presently I heard the plash of oars in the water, then it died out, and straining my ears I could detect no sound but the quiet, mysterious whisperings of the pines. I laid my head upon the window-sill sick and faint. The figure of the man I had seen was father.

Too well I knew now that he was neither tired, nor ill. Why should he have crept down so stealthily over these wild, almost perpendicular rocks to the lake? Why not have gone by the ordinary path through the settlement? Ah, why? Something was wrong—but what? I turned cold and dizzy. I would not, I dared not think.

I tried vainly to sleep that night. Haunted by a thousand forebodings, I could not even close my eyes, and it was almost day-break when I heard father come in quietly and go to his room.

I never referred again to his ill looks, nor did he, but somehow I could not help thinking that from this time he watched me a little suspiciously. I felt hurt that he imagined I would play the spy upon his actions. Whatever he might do, whatever he might say, he was still my father, and I could not give him up. It was dreadful, those days that followed. It seemed like living upon the verge of a precipice, or that some unseen calamity hung above my head ready to fall at any moment and crush me.

One evening, just after I had lighted the lamp and put it on the supper table, I went, as was my usual habit, to draw down the blinds. Father had not yet come home. As I crossed his room I saw through the window a man standing close beside it on the outside, so close that I could not have seen him more distinctly had he been within reach of my touch. His arms were folded across his chest, and his head dropped a little in the attitude of one waiting. His figure was large and thick-set, almost that of a giant. As I looked he took off his cap and passed his hand over his short-cut, bristly hair, and in the action I saw his face,—a coarse, heavy, brutish face, that made me shudder. I noticed that the window sash was down and bolted, and I did not go near to touch the blind. I went back with an uneasy feeling into the dining-room.

A few moments afterward father came in. He took up the light hurriedly, saying some thing about wanting it for a moment, and carried it into his room and shut the door. I heard him walking about in there, opening and closing drawers, and after a little I thought I heard a sound as if he were raising the window-sash gently. Then he came out. He looked at me sharply for a moment, and remarked that he had been hunting for a key. Strange! He was not in the habit of accounting for his actions. After he got up from the table he did not leave the house again, but went to bed almost immediately.

In the morning when I put up his dinner and handed it to him as usual, he said,—

“You need not get any supper for me to-night. I have office work to do at the mine and will not be back.”

I was surprised. He had frequently not come home to the evening meal, but never before had he thought it worth his while to give me notice. I stood looking after him as he went out of the gate, when suddenly an idea flashed into my head that made my heart sink in my breast like a stone. I do not know why it should have come to me then so suddenly, with such strong conviction. Quickly I turned and ran into father’s room. I looked about. I opened the drawers. Yes—the most of his clothing was gone! It was as I thought. He did not mean to come back at all—Deserted! The dreadful word choked up my throat. I knew nothing of father’s actions, I knew not what he had done, but I would gladly have gone with him, have stood disgrace with him even, if that were necessary. I am sure I can not tell why I clung to him with such desperation. Though I was ignorant and inexperienced, I was also young and strong, and I was not afraid I would fail to make my living alone in the world. But kneeling upon the floor I laid my head upon the foot of the bedstead, and heavy, suffocating sobs came to my lips. Probably I would never see him again, and if he did not love me, at least, except that one time, he had not been harsh to me, and he was my father.

At first I thought I would follow him; I would go to the mine and see if he might not still be there. Then I knew that to make inquiries about him would probably only increase the danger that threatened, whatever that danger might be, and though it was justice pursuing him for some crime, I would have shielded him still. I was powerless. I could do nothing to recall him; I could do nothing but wait. Wandering about with only the one thought in my mind, after awhile the house became positively intolerable. I must do something at least to keep myself employed, or I should absolutely go wild. My head ached unbearably, and I had a compressed feeling across my chest.

I took my heavy, scarlet cloak and threw it over my arm. I do not know why I should have taken this one, for I wore it generally only in the bitter cold of midwinter. With a strange feeling of dread when any one looked at me, I went down hurriedly through the settlement to the wharf. I got into my boat and pushed off. On the water I could breathe better.

I rowed, rowed, rowed, steadily, steadily, taking note of nothing. My only relief lay in violent exercise. How many miles up the shore I went I do not know, but it was farther than I had ever reached before, and when I drew in my oars to rest, like a mighty conflagration, the red embers of the sun-set’s fire were dying down along the sky.

In this region of the lake, from a quarter to two miles from shore, at wide intervals isolated rocks rise up out of the water, or mere points of land covered with a thick growth of underbrush show themselves, so small they look from a distance like a floating fleck of green that the waves could drift about at pleasure. The gulls rest upon them undisturbed by man or beast. Lonely, a thousand times more lonely, these islands make it seem than a clear, open stretch of water. A few of them, perhaps, are fifteen or twenty feet in extent. On a dark night it would have been dangerous to row here.

I felt weak and tired. The lake stretched itself out, quiet and peaceful as a painted ocean. Not a ripple disturbed the tranquil surface that mirrored the sky like a glass. I drew my cloak over me and lay down in my boat. I cared not when I got back, the later the better, for I still clung to a forlorn hope, that perhaps in the morning father would return. I was not afraid, for the moon had reached its full and would be up even as the last halo of the departing day was fading from the west. Out of the water I saw it come. An enormous globe of maroon fire, it sat upon the horizon and stained the lake with its magenta rays. Fatigued and exhausted, I think I must have slept, for when next I looked, bright and yellow, it was swung high up in the sky, shedding through the air a splendor like pearl.

I felt glad I had brought my cloak, for it was cold, very cold, and I would have been almost numb without it. I knew by the position of the moon that it must be somewhere near eleven o’clock. I sat up, shivered a little, drew my wrap closer about me and reached out one hand for the oars—when suddenly, midway in the action, I held it suspended, motionless! Sometimes there is nothing so startling as the sound of a human voice. I heard two men talking. For an instant I was paralyzed. My boat lay close beside one of these little knolls of land I have described. I could have put out my arm and touched the rank sword-grass that grew along its border. I did catch hold of it and noiselessly drew my skiff nearer, into a kind of curve, so that, though I was on the bright side, the overhanging brambles threw me into shadow, and another skiff, passing by, would hardly have detected me, when instantly I found that the men were not on the water. A cold terror crept over me. They were distant scarcely three yards. I could not see them, but I could almost feel the underbrush crackling beneath their feet. They evidently, though, had no knowledge of my presence, and I, not daring to stir, fairly held my breath. They seemed to be removing something from the ground and transferring it to their boat which, as I supposed, lay upon the other side. I could hear them lift and carry, what, I did not know. It sounded sometimes like stones falling with a partially muffled thud when they put them down. One of the men in a rough voice said, with a loud, harsh laugh, evidently resting for a moment,—

“This repays for lots o’ trouble! That was a neat slip we gave ’em all to-night. By —— I’m glad to be quit o’ the place! Its ——”

“Be quiet can’t you!”

My heart, at a single bound, leaped into my mouth. In these few words, spoken low and stern, I instantly recognized the voice. It was father’s. The other man did not reply, but muttered a half intelligible curse. They were both in the boat now, for I heard the plash of their oars. Presently father said, in a sharp, quick tone,—

“Take care! Sit down, sit down I tell you!”

Again the man muttered something between his shut teeth. The next moment they came round into the light and passed me, pulling hard. Then I recognized the thick-set, burly figure that I had seen last night. He was in the stern of the boat, and I saw his face again, the same repulsive face, but with a sullen scowl upon the brutish features.

They were heavily loaded and rowed slowly. They had got well past me when I heard father say something; what, I did not understand; but the man, dropping his oars, turned his head and replied, savagely,—

“Look’e yer! You’ve did nothin’ but boss, an’ boss, an’ I’m tired o’ it! This yer’s as much mine as yourn, and by —— I’d jes as lief make it all mine!”

Quick as the movement of a cat he changed his position, facing round to father. Quicker still, he stooped and caught up something in his hand that by the glint of the moonlight explained their heavy load, and all the mystery which had been hanging over father’s actions. It was a rough, jagged piece of silver ore. He raised his powerful arm and struck father with it on the head. He struck him two or three times. I screamed. There was a dreadful struggle, and at the same second that I saw the gleam of father’s pistol I heard its report. The man raised up his huge figure for an instant, wavered, and fell back heavily with a cry like a wounded tiger. The boat, without capsizing, tilted beneath the shock, filled with water, and went down like a stone.

I absolutely do not know how I pushed out from my hiding-place, but with two or three swift strokes I was on the spot. For an instant there was most frightful silence. I can see the waves widening their circle yet. Then, right at my boat’s head, father came to the surface. I was made strong by the energy of desperation.

With a wild, straining reach I leaned over and caught him by the arm, and with the other hand I rowed backward towards the knoll. I would have capsized and gone down rather than have let go my grasp. I was within a skiff’s length of the little island when just at my side I saw the huge form of the miner come up. He struggled and made one mighty effort to catch hold of my boat. No more terrible can the faces of the damned look than this face that glared up at me from the water. It has haunted me waking and sleeping. God forgive me, I could do nothing else! I struck him with the flat side of my oar. Evidently weakened by loss of blood, exhausted and nearly gone, he fell back and sank almost instantly from sight.

I worked round to a place where there was only grass growing, and catching by it drew close to its border. I could never have lifted father up but that he was sensible and could help himself somewhat. I got him on the ground, and from the ground into my boat. Then he fainted.

His head was terribly wounded. I knew I had no time to waste. I was afraid he would die in the coming hours before I could reach assistance. I rubbed his hands. I loosened and took off some of his wet clothing. I folded my cloak over him carefully and seized the oars. Inspired by my strange burden with a strength superhuman, my boat shot swiftly almost as if it had been propelled by steam. But the east was already brightening again with Indian colors when I reached the wharf at last, at last!

They raised him softly and carried him up to the house. I paid no attention to their thousand questions. I do not know what I said—I said it was an accident.

In the weeks of his long fever and delirium, I watched over him day and night. He did not die. He came back to life. How many times I had wondered would he be kind, would he be gentle to me now? Ah, poor father! He was never harsh to any one after that.

When the people came and spoke to him, he would laugh a gentle, meaningless laugh, and sometimes, holding to me tight, he would point to a button or color on their dress and say,—

“Pretty, pretty!”

He grew well and strong again, but it had shattered his mind forever.

How he had avoided the officers at the tower in carrying away the precious metal which he had secreted from time to time, I do not know, but they suspected nothing. I held utter silence about the incident, and if the people did connect the missing miner with his mysterious “accident,” what was there to do? They pitied me that he was simple. Shall I say it? Perhaps it was better so. A strange, new joy came to me, as every day I saw the pale eyes, innocent now as those of a child, follow me about with a grateful look. He was easily managed, and he seemed to cling to me with an affection that would atone for the long blank in the past.

I waited until the bitter Winter had gone by, and the first steamer came in the Summer.

What would become of us in the big, untried city? I had my youth, I had my health.

I stood upon the deck of the great vessel and saw this mere speck of land recede in the distance. Father, standing by my side, touched my arm, and holding out his open hand, said,—

“Pretty, pretty!”

There was a shell in it clean and white, and he looked up at me and smiled.

Yes, better so, it was better so!

He had gone there a man, strong and wicked. By the strange mysteries of Providence, he came from it a child, weak and innocent, with a soul white as the shell which for the moment he cherished in his simple delight.

When next I raised my eyes, only the cold waters of Lake Superior washed the horizon, and Silver Islet had vanished from my sight forever.

BOYDELL, THE STROLLER.

He was a strolling player. During the month of February, 1868, I was at Chicago, gathering up a theatrical troupe to do the provinces. I found no difficulty in getting my general utility people, but still lacked a “first old man.” Every person wanted leading business—that was exactly the trouble. When I was in the midst of my perplexity, I stumbled across Carey, whom I knew to be out of a job, and offered him the position.

Now I felt that this act was a real charity, for I knew poor Carey had never received such a chance in all his theatrical days—years, I should say; for he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed, dumb-founded, when Carey refused it, absolutely, positively refused it,—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd twinkle in his eye, and presently the truth leaked out. He had just married a pretty, young girl, and—and—well, he had promised to quit the stage; that was the whole of it. But Carey suited me exactly, and I did not give up. I told him it was all nonsense; his wife would be glad enough for him to accept the position. Carey evidently began to waver; the old love for his profession threatened to out-weigh that other love which had crept into his heart. However, it was finally determined that I should call upon his wife and submit the matter to her decision.

I found her really young and really pretty, but, also, really in earnest. Carey could not go, that was certain; at the very first mention of the subject, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me except to retreat, which I did with many apologies.

Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew of a person, one Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to fill the position. A few days after, Carey brought him up and gave me an introduction. A tall man he was, six feet-one or two, with a fine presence, heightened by a peculiar dignity of manner and voice. There was dramatic power stamped upon his English face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set eyes. I had no idea of Boydell’s age. I could not have guessed it by fifteen years one way or the other. He was one of those singular individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. There were a few wrinkles about his bronzed features, but they were surely not the wrinkles of time. His thick, brown hair was combed straight back, and hung down behind his ears. His dress was what might be called the shabby-genteel. Black from head to foot, nothing in it was new, and one would almost think nothing ever had been new. The garments had apparently existed in just their present condition of wear from time immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back, and a trifle small too, as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length both in body and arms. On his feet he wore queer, English shoes, with broad spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up after the fashion of a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned, with curved rim, such as we see in pictures of Beau Brummel, was set well back upon his head.

But, notwithstanding these peculiarities, there was something in his bearing that gave Boydell the appearance of a finished gentleman, and his fine address added to the impression he created of eminent respectability. He accepted the position, and our business was speedily accomplished. I requested him to call on the following day, when I would be able to make the final arrangements for our departure, and he left with a dignified bow.

Gathering together a company of actors and actresses from nowhere in particular, and attempting to form them into something like an organized troupe, is not by any means the most encouraging work with which one might employ himself. Again and again my patience was exhausted, and again and again I resolved to persevere. Several times we had almost been ready for action, when somebody would “back out,” and throw us once more into confusion. Now, however, I determined to surmount every difficulty, no matter what, so that the next train might bear us en route for the West.

In the midst of the morning’s turmoil, Boydell made his appearance. I informed him of our arrangements, inquired where he kept his baggage, and told him I would send for it immediately.

“That will be unnecessary, as I have it with me. This, Sir, is my baggage.”

While Boydell spoke, he put his hand back into his coat-tail pocket and quietly drew out a scratch wig. I looked at his face to find something which might belie the dignified voice, but there was not even the shadow of a smile breaking up its gravity. His countenance was as composed when he returned the wig to his pocket as though he had just shown to my admiring gaze a complete wardrobe of great magnificence. Indeed, I was so impressed by his aristocratic manner, that the ludicrous aspect of the interview hardly presented itself to me until it was over.

But I had no time to be amused, and, with the annoying trials that would turn up where I least expected them, no inclination. When I sent round for the luggage I found that two of the boys had “shoved up their trunks at their uncle’s,” and, as it was the last moment, I was compelled to redeem them. Then I hired a carriage, and went to conduct the soubrette, to the depot. When I arrived in front of the house, Madame, la mere, came out and informed me that her daughter could not go, would not go, unless I gave them fifteen dollars to get her front teeth away from the dentist’s! What could we do without a soubrette? With a groan I handed over the fifteen dollars.

Playing in the smaller towns along our route, we cleared our traveling expenses, and got into pretty good working order.

When we arrived at St. Joseph we gathered up all our strength, and came out in full glory as “The New York Star Company.” There we played for three weeks to crowded audiences. On “salary days” the money was forthcoming, a rare occurrence with strolling actors, and of course we were all greatly delighted.

Under such circumstances our spirits ran high, and each one began to tell of the particular rôles in which he or she had, in days gone by, electrified an audience and won applause. Boydell caught the infection. It happened that we had been running plays in which the “first old man” was, at best, only a “stick” part, and Boydell fretted considerably at his ill-luck. One night he came into the green-room, and to his inexpressible joy found himself cast for the part of “Colonel Damas” in Bulwer’s comedy of the “Lady of Lyons.” Now this was his pet rôle, and at the intelligence he felt all his dramatic genius kindle into a fresh flame.

“Boys,” he said, straightening up his dignified form, “Boys, you will see me make a great hit to-night. The passage commencing, ‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,’ has never been to my mind rightly given.”

Many of us had seen him do pretty well before, but now we looked forward to such an effort as the stage in St. Joseph had never witnessed.

The next evening I repaired to the theater half an hour earlier than usual, but found Boydell already dressed for the play. His shabby black coat looked more eminently respectable than ever, and was buttoned over smooth white linen, or what he made answer the purpose of linen,—half a yard of paper muslin folded into tucks, and pinned to his paper collar. In his hand ready for use he held his one valuable—the scratch wig. It still lacked a few minutes before he would be called, and he disappeared, as he said, to “steady his nerves.” Various winks and knowing looks passed among the boys; such disappearances on his part at this time of the evening were by no means rare or unaccountable.

Boydell came back and went directly on the stage. The excitement behind the scenes grew, for, although few of us would admit it, we all knew Boydell was a born actor, and we clustered eagerly around the wings in breathless expectation.

He started out with dramatic gesture,—

“‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air—
On air—air—’”

Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and his sentences incoherent. Those few moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen countenance.

When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members, presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it would reflect upon the troupe.”

That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two shillings.

He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance. He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for one price. When the boys asked him why he held the tumbler in that peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he (Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only the principle he objected to; it appeared penurious.

Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges, with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving, vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded respect.

Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run. We played two weeks at Leavenworth City, and disbanded, scattering in all directions.

I went home to M—— with a feeling of unutterable relief. My theatrical experience had brought me to the determination of letting the stage alone for the present, or trying it in a different capacity. Devoting my whole time to a more lucrative business, I heard nothing about any of the old troupe, and I did not care to see one of them again, unless it was Boydell. I had little hope of ever meeting him; it would be mere chance if I did, and I knew he might just as likely now be in Europe or Australia as in this country. But we were destined once more to come in contact.

M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in Western Illinois. It had built a theater, and was a focus for strolling actors and adventurers—a kind of center, where the remnant of theatrical troupes that had come to grief straggled in to recruit. The citizens did not consider this a very distinguishing characteristic to boast of, but in reality it was what raised the place out of oblivion; otherwise its few thousand inhabitants might, like their neighbors, have lived for ever in obscurity.

Early last Summer a business engagement took me to the suburbs of this town. The atmosphere was clear as crystal and glittering with sunshine. The cherries hung dead-ripe upon the trees; the blackbirds chattered about them to each other with red-stained bills, and the cats, stretched lazily in the sunshine, watched the winged robbers with no charitable feelings. The leaves, if they were thirsty, complained but gently, and in the dry and pleasant fields the grasshoppers, without flagging, held a jubilee, and from the level pastures farther off came the sound of distant bells, and sometimes, close by the roadside, the farmers whetted their scythes.

Coming towards me a man upon the turnpike was approaching the town on foot. As we neared each other, old recollections came back upon me. Yes, that tall erect figure seemed familiar—it was Boydell coming into M—— from parts unknown.

The same coat I had seen do such good service, only a little shinier now, was buttoned over the same—no, it was likely another piece of paper muslin. On his feet were a pair of shoes, a present undoubtedly, which lacked a size or more in length; but this trouble had been remedied by cutting out the counters, and strapping down his pantaloons to cover his naked heels. The fact that I knew his high silk hat, the one of olden times, had lost its crown, was owing entirely to the elevation I gained by being on horseback. Under other circumstances it would never have been discovered, for the edges were trimmed smoothly round, and Boydell, as I said, was tall.

And so I met him again, the same courtly vagabond, the same Boydell of former days. His bearing was majestic, almost regal; his dress was—a respectable shell. But there seemed to be a change, too. He did not look any older, although I noticed a little silver had sprinkled itself through his thick waving hair since we had parted, but there was something about his eyes that did not appear natural, and a tired, a weary expression sat upon his face—an expression I had never seen there before. Perhaps he had walked many miles.

I looked after him as he went on towards the town, thinking what an unsettled, wild, worthless life he led, this man with the divine gift of genius, this vagrant with the clinging air of gentility. Maybe fate was against him; maybe he really had higher aspirations; but without friends, without home, the cold, unsympathetic world had crushed them; and still watching, it suddenly entered my head how easily I could guess the contents of his coat-tail pocket!

Some little time after this meeting, when Boydell had almost passed out of my mind, a gentleman called at my office, and during our conversation told me about a case of destitution that had accidentally come to his knowledge. At first I listened with well-bred indifference, for the experience I had acquired thoroughly cured all my philanthropic symptoms with which I had once been afflicted, but when he related the circumstances my interest awakened.

A man, a stranger, had stopped at the tavern on the suburbs of the town and fallen sick. He had no money, no friends, indeed he had not even a shirt to his back, and the landlord threatened to turn him out, utterly helpless as he was. I suddenly thought of Boydell, and inquired the man’s name. My friend could not recall it, but said he represented himself as an actor; though the landlord did not place much reliance on this statement, for the fellow had no wardrobe of any description, and the only thing in his possession was a scratch wig, which a black-leg would be as likely to own as an actor. This dispelled what little doubt had remained in my mind. It was Boydell, and something must be done at once for his relief.

Generosity does not prevail in any profession to a greater extent, especially among the lower members, than it does in the dramatic. As it was the hour for rehearsal, we went up to the theater. We told of Boydell’s condition, and I related what I knew of his history. One appeal was sufficient; the contribution they made up would at least relieve his present wants.

There, at the tavern, we found him in a stupor. Neglected, without the barest necessities, he had had no medical attendance of any kind. In a room high up under the roof he was lying across a broken bedstead, on a worn-out husk mattress, with nothing to shade him from the fierce, blazing sun or the crawling flies that kept up a loud, incessant buzz. And he had been sick eight days. On the floor old Mounse had crammed himself into the one shady corner.

Old Mounse was a besotted beggar round town who had arrived at the state where the rims of his eyelids appeared to be turned inside out and resembled raw beefsteak. The landlady, who was somewhat more compassionate than her worser half, fearing that Boydell might die on her hands, had sent up old Mounse, an hour ago, with a little gruel which he had swallowed himself, and was then peacefully snoring in the corner.

We sent immediately for a physician, and employed ourselves in having Boydell removed to another apartment, where, at least, he might escape being broiled to death by the sun, or devoured by flies. When the doctor arrived, we had him fixed in quite comfortable quarters. Boydell’s disease, as we feared, was a severe form of the typhoid fever. From the lifeless stupor, he suddenly broke into the wild ravings of delirium, so that our combined strength could hardly avail to keep him upon the bed.

We reinstated old Mounse on his watch, only with strict orders that the granulated eyelids were to be kept wide open. Old Mounse was one of those rare persons with the delirium tremens, who had hovered on the verge of dissolution for thirty years, and still lived along. Palsied and feeble, and crippled and unshaven, and dirty and whiny, he just managed to keep himself on this side of the grave. The adjective “old,” which had become a prefix to his name, could not have been better applied, for his clothes, too, were ready at any moment to keep him company and return to their original element. Old Mounse’s one merit was, he had become so aged that he could just do what he was told and nothing more. The case had assumed altogether a new aspect to him, now that Boydell seemed to have friends.

Every day the doctor reported the condition of his patient, which grew more and more unfavorable, until one morning he came and told us he thought Boydell had not over twenty-four hours to live. We went immediately to the tavern with him. Boydell, for the first time since his illness, was perfectly conscious. Here, in the silence of this barren room, unhallowed by the presence of sorrowing ones, the wild, reckless life was drawing to a close. It seemed as if the specter hands of death were already stretched out to snap the last binding thread. The face on the pillow, haggard and ghastly with its hollow cheeks, very little resembled the one over which that weary, indefinable expression, the shadow, the forerunner of the fever, had crept but three weeks ago. Boydell recognized me, and motioned to a chair beside the bed. He made two or three efforts before he spoke.

“I am going to die—”

We could only answer by silence. It was something terrible to see this strong man, now weaker than an infant, lie calmly on the brink of eternity; even old Mounse dropped his beefy lids, and drew back with a subdued sniffle of awe. We asked if there was any thing that he wished done. After a little he turned his head that his voice might the better reach us.

“I have relatives—it will not matter to them that I am gone; they hold themselves up in the world; it will only be a disgrace wiped out; but—I would like them to know, and when I am dead, why—I wish you would please write to—to my brother. I have not heard from him for nearly fifteen years.”

He closed his eyes, and seemed to dream, but presently roused himself, and looked anxiously about the room.

“There was something else—oh, yes. Tell him that—I am gone. He is rector of St. Paul’s Church, S——, Lower Canada.” He paused and then said slowly, as though repeating his words for the first time, “It is no matter—but tell him I am—dead.”

He felt up and down the seam of the quilt feebly with his fingers, then closed his eyes again in unconsciousness.

All day the dread phantom hands seemed to hover closer to that quivering thread of life, until sometimes we almost thought it broken; but at nightfall they receded, and the shred strengthened. There was a change for the better, and Boydell fell into soft, natural slumber.

Several days after this it occurred to me that if Boydell had relatives in Canada who were well off, they ought to help him in his time of need. Without making him or any one else acquainted with my intention, I wrote a letter setting forth Boydell’s illness and utterly destitute condition among strangers. As they held no communication with Boydell, they would hardly be willing to send him the money. I was unknown, and to assure them it was no imposition, I wrote if they wished to send any assistance, direct “To the Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, M——, Illinois.”

About a week later that minister came to me and showed a letter post-marked S——, which contained a check for three hundred dollars. It specified that the money was to be given to Boydell only on condition that he would promise to renounce the stage forever, and so soon as he was able to travel, come home to his relatives. I felt delighted at the success of my plan, for of course he would accept the money, and whether he fulfilled his promise afterwards by renouncing the stage and going home to Canada, which would be extremely doubtful, I considered was no business of mine.

When we entered his room, Boydell was propped up almost in a sitting posture by pillows. The window-shutter had been thrown partly open to admit the air, and a narrow streak of sunlight fell across the bed. We told him of the good news, and after we had made him understand how it had all come about, read the letter aloud. He listened in perfect silence, without changing position, and when it was finished, took the check and said,—

“Three hundred dollars?”

“Yes,” we said, “it is three hundred dollars.”

He held the slip of paper in his emaciated hands, that trembled with weakness, and repeated,—

“Three hundred dollars—”

He seemed trying to convince himself of its reality; but suddenly a bewildered expression broke over his face, and he looked from the check to the letter, which still laid open. We asked Boydell if he wished to hear it again, but at the second reading his bewilderment only seemed to increase. He looked at us with an inquiring gaze that wandered round the bare, desolate room, and settled on the strip of blue sky in the window. Then he said, as if asking himself the question,—

“Give up the stage? Renounce the stage?”

His eyes came back to the money in his hand. Presently he folded it up, pressing the creases with his thin fingers, and slowly holding it out, shook his head saying,—

“Send it back.”

The ribbon of sunlight had crept further and further round until it stretched itself across the broad, white forehead, and we stood in greater awe than when the angel of death had hovered there. Suddenly before us a dazzling ray had flashed out from the black waste of that sinful life. The unbroken check went back to Canada.

A month later I was riding in the country. A purple light overhung the shadowy prairie, which stretched away, broad, level and without bound. Occasionally a wild bird rose up and darted with swift wings, seeking a resting place, for already the September moon waited the coming night. Nearer, the tall weeds raised themselves from the great, soundless ocean of grass, like the masts of receding vessels. A single wagon, the only object on all the void prairie, stood out bold and sharp against the bright line of the horizon, and clearly defined above the driver, high up on top of the hay, the figure of a man cut the sky. Even at that distance I knew it was Boydell.

Some one had given him a little money, and with renewed health and spirits he was going out of M——. Whither?

THE DEATH-WATCH.

“Didn’t you hear it?”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“No.”

“They say it foretells death. Hush!”

The two men sat motionless. Not a sound broke the silence, not even a creak of the old boards in the floor, or a sigh of the wind, or a flapping shutter.

“They say it foretells death. I heard it last night and the night before. What’s that?”

“Nothing. It’s stiller than a graveyard.”

“I heard it last night, and the night before about this time, near one. ’Taint a very pleasant sound, and this old garret’s dismal enough any way.”

“Monk, you’re afeard. It’s nothing. Don’t waste no more time. I’m dead-tired and sleepy. You wouldn’t have been in this old hole now if it hadn’t been for Peters.”

“No, if it hadn’t been for Peters, the strike, like enough, would have took. But he won’t stand in nobody’s way again.”

While Monk spoke, he drew out a sharp, slender knife, and ran his finger along the blade.

“I tell you, Shiflet, we must do it the night after this blast’s done, and the men in the shed say the coal will run out on the 6th, that’s to-morrow. When Peters is fixed, the managers will have to give in or quit runnin’ the furnace.”

Both men sat with their arms leaning on the table, and the flickering light of the tallow candle between them showed two faces, rough, begrimed by smoke and soot, and disfigured by evil passions, that grew fiercer as they calmly plotted against the life of a fellow-being.

“We’ll meet at one, where the roads cross. It’ll be quiet then, and Peters’s house is alone.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Shiflet, with a grin that rendered his brute-like countenance doubly repulsive. “I’m confounded tired. Bring your candle and light me down them infernal stairs.”

The men stood up. Monk, small and slim, was dwarfed by the almost giant stature of his companion. With a few parting words as to secrecy and silence, they separated.

Monk stood on the upper step until Shiflet disappeared, then closed the door and replaced the candle on the table.

The room, neither large nor small, was a mere hole, smoked, dirty, and unplastered, high up in a frame tenement-house. Two or three chairs, an old chest of drawers, a rickety bedstead, and pine table, composed its furniture. Some old boots and broken pieces of pig-iron lay scattered about. The small, box-shaped window was set just below where the ceiling or roof sloped to the wall. The only door led directly to the stairs that went down two, three flights to the ground. There were many such places in Agatha, where the furnace-hands lived.

Monk walked rapidly up and down the room, as if making an effort to wear off the excitement that the last few moments had brought upon him. His features had lost much of the malignant expression, which was by no means habitual. His countenance was not hardened or stamped with the impress of crime like Shiflet’s, who had just parted from him at the door—a countenance in which every trace of conscience had long ago been erased. Monk’s face was neither good nor bad, neither bright nor dull; but he was a man easily wrought into a passion, governed by impulse.

Crossing to the table, he slung his coat over a chair, and stretched out his hand to extinguish the light. Midway in the action he suddenly checked himself, looked hurriedly around the room for an instant, and stood motionless, with inclined head, listening intently. Not a sound disturbed the stillness. Pinching out the light, he threw himself on the bed, and in the darkness there soon came the heavy, regular respiration of sleep.

The house at Agatha nestled under the north cliff. A hundred feet above them the railroad lost itself in the black mouth of a tunnel and reappeared beyond, a high wall of trestlework stretching southward down the valley to Ely’s Mines. Hours ago, the toiling men and cattle had lain down to rest, and now the wild, rocky hills around slept in the moonlight. No sound broke upon the stillness but the muffled puff, puff, of the furnace, and a murmur of frogs that rose and fell interruptedly along the shrunken water-course. The cabins under the cliff shone white and sharp; the iron on the metal-switch flashed with a million gems; the rails upon the trestle, receding, turned to silver, and the foliage of early Summer glittered on the trees. A few passionless stars blinked feebly in the yellow light, where the hill-tops cut against the sky, and sank below the verge. Calmly, peacefully waned the night—calmly and peacefully, as though the spirit of evil had not stalked abroad plotting the death and ruin of men’s bodies and souls.

That narrow spot of ground, with the houses down in the valley, formed the world for four hundred people. The furnace-hands and their families saw nothing beyond the hills and rocks that hemmed in their village; knew nothing of the mad tumults outside. An untaught, sturdy race of men, they differed little one from another. Every day, when the sun rose, they went forth to toil, and every night, when the great furnace over the creek glimmered red, they lay down to sleep. But ignorance and superstition filled their hearts, and anger, and hate, and jealousy, were as rife among them as in the crowded cities.

Another day passed, and the night which followed it was dark and cloudy. Near midnight, the great bell signalled for the last run of iron. Occasionally blue flames leaped up from the furnace, lurid as the fiery tongues of a volcano. The long and narrow roof brooded over the sand-bed like the black wings of some monster bird hovering in the air. Under its shadow groups of men were but wavering, dusky figures. Suddenly, as an electric flash, a dazzling yellow glare broke out, and a fierce, scorching, withering blast swept from an opening that seemed the mouth of hell itself. Slowly out of the burning cavern a hissing stream of molten iron came creeping down. It crawled, and turned and crawled, rib after rib, until it lay like some huge skeleton stretched upon the ground. A thin vapor floated up in the sulphurous air and quivered with reflected splendor. The scarlet-shirted men looked weird in the unearthly brightness. The yellow glow faded to red, that deepened to a blood-colored spot in the night. The bell rang to discharge the hands, and squads of men broke up, scattering in the dark.

Monk went to his garret-room, hesitated a moment at the door, then passed in and shut it so violently that the floor shook. He struck a match. In the brimstone light a horrible demon countenance wavered, blue and ghastly; but, when the candle flamed, it grew into Monk’s face, covered by the black scowl of rage that had disfigured it once before—a rage that was freshly roused.

“If I’d had my knife, I’d have done it just now, when I stumbled against him. But he dies to-morrow night at—”

The words froze on his lips, and his black scowling face was suddenly overspread by a strange pallor. He stood motionless, as if chained to the floor, his eyes darted quickly about, and he seemed to suspend his very breath.

A clear, distinct, ticking sound occurred at regular intervals for a minute, and left profound silence.

Monk raised his head.

“It’s a sign of coming death. That’s for Peters. There it is again!”

The strange sound, like a faint metallic click, repeated itself several times.

“D—n it! I don’t like to hear the thing. But there will be a sudden death.”

Time after time Monk heard at intervals the same faint sound, like the ticking of a watch for a minute, and it made his blood run cold. He found himself listening to it with terror, and in the long silence, always straining his ears to catch it, always expecting, dreading its repetition, until the thing grew more horrible to him than a nightmare. Sometimes he would fall into a doze, and, wakening with a start, hear it, while cold perspiration broke in drops on his forehead.

It grew intolerable. He swore he would find the thing and kill it, but it mocked him in his search. The sound seemed to come from the table, but when he stood beside the table it ticked so distinctly at the window that he thought he could put his finger on the spot; but when he tried to, it had changed again, and sounded at the head of his bed. Sometimes it seemed close at his right, and he turned only to hear it on the other side, then in front, then behind. Again and again he searched, and swore in his exasperation and disappointment.

The sound became exaggerated by his distempered imagination, till he trembled lest some one else should hear this omen which so plainly foretold his anticipated crime. Once an hour dragged by, and his unseen tormentor was silent. His eyes, that had glittered with deathly hatred, now wore a startled look, and wandered restlessly about the room.

An owl, that perched on the topmost branch of a high tree near by, screamed loud and long. A bat flew in at the open window, banged against the ceiling, and darted out.

Monk shivered. Leaning his head between his arms, he drummed nervously on the table with his fingers. Instantly the clear metallic click sounded again. He looked up, and a strange light broke into his face, a mixed expression of amazement and fright. For a moment he seemed stupefied, then raising his hand he tapped lightly against the wood with his finger-nail. The last tap had not died until it was answered by what seemed like a fainter repetition of itself.

Uttering a fearful oath, Monk recoiled from the table, but, as if drawn back and held by a weird fascination, he sat an hour striking the hard surface with his nails, and pausing for the response that each time came clear and distinct.

Gray streaks crept along the east, and quivered like a faded fringe bordering the black canopy. Still he sat tapping, but no answer came. He waited, listened vainly; no echo, no sound, and the dull, hueless light of the cloudy morning glimmered at his window. Then he threw himself on his bed, and fell into restless slumbers.

A damp thick fog enveloped the houses in its slimy embrace. At nightfall its reeking folds gathered themselves from the ground, and a noiseless drizzle came sullenly down.

Monk had not stirred from his room all day. The feverish sleep into which he had fallen fled from him before noon, and now he stood at his window looking out into the blackness. A clammy air blew against his face. He stretched out his hand and drew it back suddenly, as if he had touched the dead. It was cold and moist. He rubbed it violently against his clothes, as though he could not wipe off the dampness. A tremor seized upon him. Hark! was that the dripping of water? No. A sickly smile played over his countenance. He went to the table and tapped lightly with his fingers, as he had done before. In another moment the taps were answered, and he involuntarily counted as they came, one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—then all was silent. He made the call a second time, he tried it over and over, and at each response it ticked seven times, never more, never less, but seven times clearly, distinctly. Suddenly he sprang up, and through shut teeth hissed,—

“The seventh day, by Heaven! But I’ll cheat you—I’ll not kill him!”

He darted noiselessly down the stairs, and struck out through the woods. In half an hour he emerged on the edge of a clearing, a dozen yards from a chopper’s cabin. Creeping stealthily to the door he shook it, then after a moment’s irresolution cried out,—

“Peters! Peters! look out for Shiflet. He has sworn to murder you to-night.”

Without waiting for a reply he sprang away, and was quickly lost among the trees.

A moment afterward a tall form arose out of the shadow of a stump near the cabin, and passed rapidly in an opposite direction.

At the summit of the hill east of Agatha, a steep precipice is formed by a great, bare, projecting rock. From the valley, its outline resembles an enormous face in profile, and they call it “The Devil’s Head.” The full moon rendered the unbroken mass of cloud translucent, producing a peculiar sinister effect. The mist still blew through the air, but in the zenith there was a dull ashen hue, and the surrounding cloud was the color of earth. The far-off hills loomed up majestic, terrible, against the gloom; nearer objects were strangely magnified in the tawny light. At the foot of this phantom crag, on a terrace, is the ore-bank and blackened coal-shed. Below rose the metal-stack, from whose stone hearth a waste of sand sloped gently to the creek. The furnace squatted grim and black. Its blood-shot eye was shut; its gaping throat uttered no sigh, no groan; its throbbing pulse was stilled—the fierce, struggling monster was dead. The only bright spot in all the valley was the yellow circle made by the watchman’s lantern in the coal-shed.

After leaving the “choppings,” Monk threaded his way through the forest, coming out at last on the open road. This road led directly over the “Devil’s Head,” and entered the valley by a steep descent half a mile to the south. At the precipice Monk paused. The wind eddied with a mournful wail, and the constant motion of tall trees gave the scene almost the wavering, unsubstantial appearance of a vision. There was something oppressive in this strange midnight twilight, but Monk did not feel it. He only felt relief, inexpressible relief; he only stopped there to breathe, to breathe freely once more with the heavy weight thrown from him.

After a moment he ran carelessly down the hill, passed under the ore-cars and into the coal-shed. He hailed Patterson, the watchman, and the lantern threw gigantic shadows of the two men over the ground. Then he walked along the narrow cinder-road leading to the bridge over the creek. Sometimes the willows, that grew on either side, swept their damp hair against his face. An hour ago he would have started convulsively, now he heeded not, for he was free and light of heart.

Monk reached the stairs, and ascended to his room. As he passed in, the powerful figure of Shiflet sprang upon him from behind. There was a scuffle, some muttered oaths, then a heavy fall. Monk lay stretched upon the floor motionless, lifeless, and the echo of fleeing steps died away, leaving the place still as the now silent death-watch.

THE MAN AT THE CRIB.[1]

One morning in the Spring of 1867—whether in April or May I am now unable certainly to determine, but think it was in the latter month—I was sitting at the breakfast-table, leisurely reading the morning paper, and enjoying my last cup of coffee, when my eye accidentally fell upon the following advertisement:—

“WANTED—A reliable man to take charge of the Crib. An unmarried German preferred. One who can come well recommended, and give bond for faithful performance of duty, will receive a liberal salary. Apply immediately to the Board of Public Works, Pumping Department, Nos. 15 and 17 South Wells Street.”

1. The Crib is the name given to the isolated structure at the opening of the Chicago Water Works tunnel, in the lake, two miles from the shore.

My attention was arrested by the thought of so strange an occupation, and whether any one would be found willing to accept the situation and live alone in the crib two miles from the shore. There all companionship would be cut off, and I wondered what effect the utter solitude and confinement in the small round building rising out of the water, with little in the scenery to relieve the eye, and nothing to rest the ear from the continual dashing of the waves against the frame sides—I wondered what effect it would have upon the occupant.

It happened I had been lecturing before a class of medical students in one of our colleges upon the relation of mind to body, and it occurred to me that this crib-tender might prove an illustration of my theory. His mind would have afforded it an opportunity to prey upon itself, and might become perverted. Under certain circumstances the mental exerts an influence over the physical system, aside from the voluntary volition of the will, and it frequently transpires that what is mere illusion in the spiritual nature appears a reality to the material, so closely are the two linked together.

My interest being awakened, I secretly determined that I would try to discover who accepted this situation, and notice, if possible, what effect it would produce upon the keeper. Some time later I learned that the above advertisement had been answered the same day (the exact date I can not remember) by a German, one Gustav Stahlmann, who presented himself at the address indicated, and applied for the situation. After a slight examination he proved satisfactory in every respect. His recommendations were of the highest kind and bore testimony to his strict integrity and upright character.

The position was accordingly offered to him, provided he would be willing to comply with certain conditions. First, that in accepting it he would bind himself to remain in the situation at least two years; and, secondly, that during that period, he would upon no occasion or pretense whatever, leave the crib. He manifested little hesitation in assenting to these requirements, as the salary was good, and an opportunity afforded for resting from the severe labor to which he had been accustomed.

All necessary arrangements were completed, and upon the following day, with his dog for the sole companion of his future home, he had been taken out and instructed in the duties of his office. These were few and light, consisting mainly of attention to the water-gates of the tunnel, opening and closing them as required, and removing any obstructions which might clog their action. At night he was to trim and light the lamp which had been placed on the apex of the roof as a warning to passing vessels. This was all; the remainder of the time lay at his own disposal. A boy might readily have accomplished this labor, and he congratulated himself upon his good luck in securing so easy a berth—one, too, which yielded a good income.

The first time I saw Stahlmann myself was soon after he had accepted the situation. If I recollect rightly, he told me he had been a month on the Crib. I had rowed myself out from the foot of Twelfth Street in a small boat.

At this early period in its history the Crib was not so well finished and comfortable as now, but was bare and barn-like, being in fact nothing more than a round unplastered house, rising out of the lake. The wooden floor, which was some fifteen feet above the water, contained in its center a well about six feet in diameter, around which arose the iron rods of the water-gates. A small room, the only apartment, had been partitioned off by three plank walls from the southeastern part of the circular interior, and furnished for the abode of the keeper. If it were rough, there was all present that he could reasonably desire for his comfort. A sufficient supply of provisions were delivered to him once a month by a tug-boat from the city.

I found Stahlmann to be a man rather above the medium height, with a broad muscular frame, but there were no evidences of sluggishness in his movements; on the contrary, his elasticity and gracefulness betokened great powers of endurance, and indicated to me activity both of body and mind. He was perhaps thirty-five years of age, and his frank, open countenance was marked by regular features of a somewhat intellectual cast; honesty and principle were plainly visible in his face, and a ready command of language betrayed considerable education. He impressed me as superior to the majority of men in his rank of life, and from this conclusion I was none the less driven by the appearance of his coarse and soiled clothing. I engaged him in conversation, into which he was easily drawn, and I was surprised by the native love of the beautiful which he evidently possessed. He seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out the beauties in the scene that laid before our view.

The sun was scarcely an hour high, and we could hardly turn our eyes eastward for the splendor of his rays reflected on the water. To the north the sea-like horizon was flecked by the white sails of retreating vessels, some hull-down in the distance, others uncertain specks vanishing from our range of vision. Stretching along the shore to the westward, Chicago shot a hundred spires, glistening and glorified, into the morning sunlight, while just opposite us stood the grim lighthouse, a motionless sentinel keeping watch over the harbor.

I admitted the attraction of the scene, and made an effort to turn the conversation to his private life. He was easily led to talk of himself, although he did it in a natural and unaffected manner. I gathered that he was born in Bavaria, and that when he had attained his sixteenth year, some difficulty had driven his parents to this country. They were well educated, but misfortune compelled them, on their arrival, to put their son to labor. The instruction he had received in the Fatherland had evidently strengthened his powers of observation and quickened his understanding.

I asked him if he did not find his life at the Crib very tiresome, and what he did to pass away the time. I remarked that I believed, if I were in his place, I would be smitten most fearfully with the blues. He laughed good humoredly, and said he had never been troubled in that manner, that there were daily a great number of visitors, curiosity-seekers, which the Crib attracted, as it was altogether novel, and had but just been completed. Then he said he had his dog for companionship, and that they lived very pleasantly together. He was evidently much attached to this animal, whom he called Caspar, for he frequently interrupted the conversation to stroke it on the head. I was astonished to find him well acquainted with the current news of the day, but he readily explained this, for usually some one who came out carried a paper, which was willingly given to him, and having nothing else to occupy his time he read it much more carefully than we do who are in the turmoil of the city.

Towards the middle of the day I left him, almost envying his peaceful life and happy contentment, yet doubting if this would last long, for, after the novelty wore away, I could not help thinking that he might find his solitary existence less pleasing. I had become wonderfully interested in this man, and determined to pay him another visit when I could again find half a day to devote to pleasure.

It was not, however, until the following September that I could spare time for another trip to the Crib. This visit, as I said, had been prompted out of curiosity to watch the effects of this solitary life upon Stahlmann. Although four months had elapsed, I found him situated just as I had left him, and by the appearance of the surroundings, I might have almost believed it was but yesterday I had looked upon him. When I remarked this to him, I noticed a peculiar smile play across his features, and it struck me that his face had not the same happy expression which had so pleased me before. I observed, too, that he carried himself in a listless manner, very unlike his former erect bearing. I found him, however, just as readily drawn into conversation, although some of his old enthusiasm was gone, and he manifested an evident disinclination to speak of himself, for when I made an effort to bring up the subject, he displayed considerable skill in evading it. This was repeated again and again until I found that he would not be forced to it, but I saw full well by his actions that he had already grown tired of his monotonous life. All my jokes about the solitude, which he had laughed at before, were now received in silence and with furtive glances. Evidently it had become a serious matter, and I dropped the disagreeable subject.

He inquired most eagerly for any news, and said he had not seen a paper for almost a week, as the wet weather had interfered with visitors, preventing any one from coming out. When I left he repeatedly invited me to come again, which I promised to do, as in our slight intercourse we had struck up a mutual friendship. My interest, too, had been increased, as I plainly saw that his life had become distasteful to him, and I had considerable curiosity to ascertain whether he would, according to his promise, remain the two full years upon the Crib; at any rate, I concluded that I would not lose sight of him.

Directly after this visit, business arrangements called me away from home, and detained me in New York City without interruption until last May. During this period, of course, I had no means of learning any thing whatever concerning Gustav Stahlmann. On my return, the first glimpse I caught of the familiar lake recalled him to my memory, and revived the old interest. I determined to renew our former acquaintance, but found, to my great disappointment, that all visitors to the Crib had been prohibited by the authorities soon after I was called from home; yet I did not give up in my attempt to find out if he still remained in his situation. After many fruitless inquiries, I finally learned that he was dead. This was the only knowledge I could gain, and, disappointed by the sad intelligence, I dismissed the subject from my mind.

A week ago I made the startling discovery that the Crib at the eastern terminus of the lake tunnel, within the year following its completion, had been the scene of a tragedy, the particulars of which, when I learned them, thrilled me with horror, and called forth my profoundest sympathy for the poor victim. The whole circumstance had been so carefully kept secret by an enforced reticence on the part of the authorities, that beyond two or three individuals no one in Chicago had the slightest suspicion of the sickening drama which was enacted but two miles from her shores.

I was walking through the Court House looking at the arrangement of the newly erected portion of the building, and while in the rooms occupied by the Water Board, I accidentally stumbled upon an old memorandum book which had evidently been misplaced during the recent removal of this department from their old quarters on Wells Street to the first floor of the west wing. Upon examination it proved to be a kind of diary, and was written with pencil in the German character. On the inside of the front cover, near the upper right hand corner, was inscribed the name Gustav Stahlmann, and underneath a date—1865. A small portion of the book, the first part, was filled with accounts, some of them of expenditures, others memoranda of days’ work in different parts of the city, and under various foremen. But it was to the body of the book that my attention was particularly called. This was in the journal form, being a record of successive occurrences with the attending thoughts. The entries were made at irregular intervals and without any regard to system. Sometimes it had been written in daily for a considerable period, then dropped, and taken up again apparently at the whim of the owner. In places there appeared no connection between the parts separated by a break of even short duration; at others the sense was obscure, and could only be attained by implication. The earliest records in the second part were in June, 1867, and I found dates regularly inserted as late as the November following. In December they ceased entirely; afterward the diary, if such it might then be called, was either by the day or the week, or without any direct evidence as to the time when the circumstances therein narrated had occurred. In fact, throughout the whole of the concluding portion there was nothing to indicate that the matter had not been written on a single occasion, except the variations which almost every person’s hand-writing exhibits when produced under different degrees of nervous excitement.

From this black morocco memorandum book; from the hand-writing of Gustav Stahlmann himself, I learned the incidents of his career after I parted from him. They constitute the history of a fate so horrible in every respect, that I shudder at the thought that any human being was doomed to experience it.

The main facts in this narrative I have translated, sometimes literally, at others using my own language, where the thoughts in the original were so carelessly or obscurely expressed as to render any other course simply impossible.

It seems, as I supposed, that when Stahlmann was first settled in the Crib, he was greatly pleased with his situation. The weather was mild and beautiful; the fresh air blowing across the water was a grateful change from the close and dusty atmosphere of Chicago. Many of his old friends came out to take a look at his new quarters, and almost surveyed them with envy while listening to an account of his easy, untroubled life. At dusk, after he had lighted his lamp, and it threw out its rays, he would watch to see how suddenly in the distance, as if to keep it company, the great white beacon in the lighthouse would flash out, burning bright and clear. Then along the western shore the city lights, one by one, would kindle up, multiplying into a thousand twinkling stars that threw a halo against the sky. Afterwards the soughing of the waves as they washed up the sides of his abode, fell pleasantly on his ear, and lulled him to sleep with Caspar lying at his feet.

But it seemed as if the same day came again and again, for still the waters broke around him, and still night after night the same lights flashed and burned. Then the time appeared to become longer, and he watched more eagerly for the arrival of some visitors, but, if his watching had been in vain, he went wearily to sleep at night with a feeling of disappointment, only to waken and go through the same cheerless routine. Sometimes for a whole week he would not see a single human being nor hear the sound of a human voice, save his own when he spoke to the dog, who seemed by sagacious instinct to sympathize in his master’s lonesome position, and capered about until he would attract his attention, and be rewarded by an approving word and caress upon the head.

Visitors had become less and less frequent until the last of September, when they ceased altogether. Stahlmann in trying to explain this to himself correctly concluded that the authorities must have prohibited them, as he had heard some time previously they entertained such an intention, although he had been reluctant to believe it, and still vainly hoped that it might not be true. But time only confirmed the suspicion which he had been so unwilling to accept, and although within two miles of a crowded city, he found himself completely isolated, cut off, as it were, from the human race.

Then he searched for something that might amuse him and help wear away the interminable days, but he found nothing. He would have been glad even if only the old newspapers had been preserved that he might re-read them, but they were destroyed, and he owned no books. His former severe labor, performed in company with his fellow men, was now far preferable in his eyes to this complete solitude, with nothing to occupy his hands or mind. He saw the vessels pass until they seemed to become companions for him in his loneliness; he had watched them all the Summer, but the winds grew chill and rough, sweeping out of sullen clouds, and boisterously drove home the ships.

Stahlmann found himself utterly alone on the wide lake, and the fierce blasts howled around his frame house, covering it with spray from the lashing billows that seemed ready to engulf it. Crusts of ice formed and snapped, rattling down to the waves. Heavy snow fell, but did not whiten the unchanging scenery, for it was drowned in the waste of waters. Night after night he lit the beacon and looked yearningly westward to the starred city. Then the solitude grew intolerable. It was like the vision of heaven to the lost spirits shut out in darkness forever. He was alone, all alone, craving even for the sound of a kindred voice, so that he cried out in his anguish. The flickering lights he was watching threw their rays over thousands of human beings, yet there was not one to answer his despairing call.

Sleep would no longer allow him to forget that he was shut out from all human society, for he lost consciousness of his lonesome position only to find himself struggling in some nightmare ocean, where there was no eye to see his distress. Then he would be awakened by the dog rubbing his nose against his face, and knew he had groaned aloud in his troubled slumber, and Caspar had crawled closer, as if to comfort his unhappy master. Sometimes the tempter whispered escape—escape from this Crib, which had been so correctly named, for it had, indeed, become a dismal cage. He felt himself strong to combat the waves in flying from the horrible solitude; he could swim twice the distance in his eagerness to be once again among his fellow beings; but his high principles shrank in horror from the thought of violating a promise. He had solemnly given his word that he would remain upon the place, and it bound him stronger than chains of iron. He cast the thought, which had dared to arise in his mind, from him with a sense of shame that it had been a moment entertained.

Early on one bitter cold night, when his house was thick-ribbed with ice, Stahlmann noticed a great light, which increased until it illumined all the western sky. He saw the city spires as plainly as though bathed in the rays of the setting sun, and the lurid glare lit up the waters, making the surrounding blackness along the lake shore appear more terrible. The fire brightened and waned, brightened and waned again. He watched it far into the night, and thought of the thousands of anxious faces that were turned toward the same light, until he fell into a troubled sleep, yearning for the sight of a single countenance. This fire which he witnessed must have been the great conflagration on Lake Street that occurred in February, 1868.

He was sitting one dull, cloudy afternoon, looking out over the dreary waves, when his attention was attracted by the strange behavior of Caspar. The dog was greatly excited; it would jump about him, whining and howling, then run to the door, which stood partly open, and look down into the water, at the same time giving a short, quick yelp. This was repeated so frequently that Stahlmann was aroused from his gloomy reverie. He followed it to the threshold, and saw for an instant some black object that the waves threw up against the Crib. A second time it arose, and Stahlmann plunged into the water with the quick instinct that prompts a brave man to peril his own life in attempting to save another from drowning. In one moment more he had grasped the body, and fastened it to the rope ladder that hung down the western side of the Crib. Then mounting it himself, he drew it up after him on to the floor.

It was the form of a young man, and Stahlmann eagerly kneeled over it, hoping yet to find a faint spark of vitality. A glance showed him that the body must have been in the water several hours, for it was already somewhat bloated; but even then, in his mad desire to restore life, he rubbed the stiffened limbs; but the rigid muscles did not relax. He wrung the water from the black hair, which in places was short and crisp, looking as if it might have been singed by fire. The features were not irregular, but the open eyes had a stony, death-glaze on them, and the broad forehead was cut across in gashes which had evidently been made by the waves beating it against the walls of the Crib. The hands were clenched and slightly blistered.

Stahlmann’s frenzied exertions could not call back the departed spirit, and he sat gazing wildly upon it in his bitter disappointment. Then a startling thought broke suddenly into his mind—What, out in his desolate and watery home, could he do with the dead? Where could he put the stiffened corpse? But as the night came on, he arose to light the beacon; then descended again immediately, taking up his former position by the lifeless form, for it appeared to exert a peculiar fascination over him; he felt a strange kind of pleasure in the presence of the form of a human being, even though it were dead. He seemed to have found a companion, and the thought, which had startled him at first died from his memory.

Hour after hour as he sat beside the corpse; its strange influence increased, until it gradually filled up in his troubled heart the aching void which had so yearned for society. He left it only as necessity called him away to attend to his duties, each time returning with increasing haste. Day by day the spell continued, and he grew to regard the dead body with all the tenderness he would have manifested toward a living brother. He did not shrink from the cold, clammy skin when he raised the head to place it on a stool, but sat and talked to it. He asked why it looked at him with that stony glare, and why its face had turned that dark and ugly color; but when no answer came, he said he realized that it was dead and could not speak. Then the terrible truth flashed upon him. With a groan he saw that he could keep the corpse no longer, and the thought which had startled him once before crept in again with increased significance. Where could he bury it? In the bottom of the lake, where nothing would disturb its peace. He gently let it down into the water, and, as he saw it disappear, he awoke to wild grief at losing it, and would have plunged in to rescue it the second time, but it was gone from sight forever.

Might not this body have been one of the lost from the ill-fated Sea Bird, which burned in the beginning of April, 1868, a few miles north of the city? Stahlmann must have found it about this time.

His grief for the loss of his dead companion grew upon him each day, and rendered the solitude more unendurable. Solitude? It was no longer solitude, for the place was peopled by the phantom creations of his inflamed imagination. Here a part of the diary is altogether incoherent, showing into what utter confusion his intellect had been thrown.

The waves roared at him in anger, and the winds joined them in their rage. Fiendish spirits seemed to rise up before him that were fierce to clutch him and gloat over his terror. The lights in the west danced together and glared at him in mockery, and his own beacon threw its cold white rays over the familiar aperture where the iron rods of the water-gates rose; but that opening had suddenly become an undefined horror to him. The very terror with which he regarded it drew him to its verge. He cast his eyes into its depths, down upon the troubled but black and silent water, and glared at the vision which met his strained sight, for the ghostly face of the man who had been murdered in the tunnel peered at him through the uncertain light.

There was only the dog that he could fly to in his agony, but it, too, had a strange appearance and answered his call by low plaintive howls that sent a shiver through his frame. He repeated its name aloud, and Caspar crawled closer to his master, still at times making moans that sounded sorrowful—almost like the pleading of a human voice in distress, and he thought its eyes had a strange reproachful gaze. While he spoke to it, the dog uttered a prolonged wail. Stahlmann shivered, and a cold chill crept through his blood; all his superstition was roused afresh. The wind lost its rage and died down to funeral-sobs. The sound of the waves fell into a dirge-like cadence, and that melancholy wail which had chilled his blood rang in his ears—it rang with the awful significance of an evil omen long after it had died upon the air. The dog lay perfectly motionless; he stooped to stroke it, but it did not move. He stared at it with a bewildered gaze, when suddenly the horrible reality with the fearful explanation, broke upon his half-crazed brain, and he staggered back with a wild shriek. In the utter misery of his solitude, in his strange grief for the loss of the drowned corpse, and his terror from the hallucinations of a disordered intellect, he had neglected to feed his faithful dog, and had starved to death the only living creature that existed for him in the world. Caspar was dead.

Stahlmann in his agony seemed to hear once more the piteous cry which the dog had uttered with its expiring breath, and to him the wail sounded in its pathetic mournfulness like the mysterious herald of another death.

The diary is so blurred at this point that it is hardly legible. What can be read is incomprehensible from broken, incoherent sentences—the empty language of a lunatic. Save one remaining passage, I could make out nothing further. This entry must have been written in a lucid interval when he realized to what a fearful condition he had been reduced by unbroken solitude. Because it is the last record, I translate it literally, as follows:

“That cry again—what have I come through? Hell with its host of furies can not be worse than this awful Crib—I kill myself.

G. Stahlmann.”

What remains is soon told. A few inquiries in the proper direction revealed that on the morning of the first of May, 1868, when the tug boat from Chicago made its usual trip to the Crib to supply provisions, the dog was discovered dead upon the floor, and near by—just to the right of the entrance, and about ten feet distant from it—hung the dead body of Gustav Stahlmann, suspended by the neck from one of the rafters. It was at once cut down and the Coroner quietly notified. Among his few effects was found the memorandum book which so curiously came into my possession.

The authorities were in no way to blame for this unfortunate occurrence. On that day they placed several persons in charge of this lonely structure and have changed them at regular intervals ever since. Because if the circumstance were known, they were fearful they could get no one to fill the situation, either on account of the solitude or from the fact that many persons are afraid to live in a house that has been the scene of a suicide—they wisely concluded to say nothing whatever about the melancholy event, and, as I said before, few persons in the city are acquainted with its details.

PROF. KELLERMANN’S FUNERAL.

It had snowed persistently all day, and now, at night, the wind had risen and blew in furious gusts against the windows, a bleak December gale.

The Professor tramped steadily up and down his floor, up and down his floor, from wall to wall and back again. It was not a cheerful room; with but one strip of carpet, a chair or two, a table and bedstead, and one dim tallow candle, flickering in a vain struggle to give any thing better than a sickly light, which was afflicted, at uncertain intervals, with violent convulsions. No, it was not a pleasant place, for the Professor was poor, and lived a lonely, hermit-like life in the heart of the great German city.

He had no relations—no friends. He was not a popular man, though he had once been well known, and the public had all applauded his great scholarship. His books, one after another, as they came out, if they brought him no money, had brought him some fame then; but the last one had appeared years ago, and been commented upon, and conscientiously put aside, and the public, never very much interested in the author personally, had about forgotten him.

During these long years he had been living secluded, waging a perpetual war with himself. Entangled in the meshes of the subtile German infidelity, which was at variance with his earlier training, he found himself encompassed about by unbelief—unbelief in the orthodox theology of his youth, unbelief, also, in the philosophy of this metaphysical land. A man of vast learning, and a close student, he discovered his knowledge to be always conflicting; and thus the long debate within him was no nearer a termination than at the moment when the first doubt had asserted itself.

Preyed upon by this harassing mental anxiety, and by encroaching poverty, he was seized by a nervous fever, which had gradually undermined his health, and almost disordered his mind.

And now, this night, in a condition of exhaustion, weary of life and its ceaseless struggle—without friends, without money, without hope—his black despair, like the evil tempter, rose before him and suggested a thought from which he had at first drawn back appalled. But it was only for a moment. Why not put an end forever to all these troubles? Had he not worked for years, and had he ever done the world any good, or had the world ever done him any good? No! The world was retrograding daily. The selfishness of humanity, instead of lessening, was constantly growing worse. How had they repaid him for his long studies? He had shut himself up and labored over heavy questions in metaphysics—sifting, searching, reading, thinking—only for a few thankless ones, who had glanced at his works, smiled a faint smile of praise, and straightway left them and him to be lost again in obscurity!

The future was dark, the present a labyrinth of care and suffering, from which there was but the one escape. Then why not accept it? So he had been arguing with himself all the evening, and, in his growing excitement, pacing the floor of his garret to and fro with a quick, nervous tread. But there had another cause risen in his mind which he, at first, would hardly acknowledge to himself.

A faint, undefined shadow, as it were, of his early faith stirred within him, and before him the “oblivion” of death was peopled with a thousand appalling fancies, illumined by the red flame of an eternal torment. In vain he strove to dispel it by remembering the more rational doctrine of reason, that death is but a dreamless sleep, lasting forever.

Suddenly, feeling conscious of the heinousness of the crime he was meditating, and knowing that he was in an unnatural feverish condition, he paused abruptly in his hurried tramp, stood a few moments utterly motionless, then, dropping on his knees, he made a vow that he would take twenty-four hours to consider the deed, and, if it were done, it should not be done rashly. “Hear me, O Heaven!” Springing up, he cried; “Heaven! Heaven!—There is no Heaven! Vow!—to whom did I vow? There is no God!” Muttering a faint laugh, he said, after a moment: “I vowed to myself; and the vow shall be kept. Not all the theories and philosophies of Germany shall cheat me out of it.”

It seemed like the last struggle of his soul to assert itself. Almost staggering with exhaustion, he fell upon the bed and slept.

A gentle breeze from the far past blew around him in his native land. He saw the white cliff at whose base the sea-foam threw up its glittering spray with a ceaseless strain of music. He saw the green meadows, where the quiet, meek-eyed cattle found a pasture, stretching away to the green hills, where flocks of sheep browsed in the pleasant shade beneath the tall oak trees. He saw, far off on the highest summit of the wavy ridge, the turrets of the great castle rear themselves above the foliage like a crown—the royal diadem upon all these sun-bathed hills and valleys. He stood within the cottage, the happy cottage under the sheltering sycamores; and, brighter, clearer, more beautiful than all these, he saw a face look down upon him with a calm and earnest smile. It was the home of his childhood, it was the face of his mother, all raised in the mirage of sleep—a radiant vision lifted from the heavy gloom of forty years, years upon which Immanuel Kant, years upon which the Transcendental school had crept with their baleful influence, poisonous as the deadly nightshade.

He struggled to speak, and wakened. A dream, yes, all a dream! He pressed his hands against his brow—A dream? Yes, childhood had been but a dream. Life itself is but an unhappy dream!

The wild December wind still blew with a rattling noise against the windows, and sometimes swept round the corner with a dreary, half-smothered cry. The candle had burned down almost to the socket, and was seized more frequently than before with its painful spasms, making each gaunt shadow of the few pieces of furniture writhe in a weird, silent dance on the wall. As the Professor sat on the bed, they appeared to him like voiceless demons, performing some diabolical ceremony, luring his soul to destruction. Then they seemed moving in fantastic measure to a soundless dirge, which he strained his ears to hear, when the candle burned steadily, and they paused in their dumb incantation.

A loud knock, which shook the door, made the Professor start up amazed, and the shadows re-begin their uncanny pantomime. For a moment he stood stupefied with surprise. It was far in the small hours of the night, and visitors at any time were unknown. He had lived there for months an utter stranger, and no footsteps but his own had ever crossed the floor. An uncontrollable fit of trembling came upon him, and he lay down once more, thinking it all the creation of his overwrought fancy. But the knock was repeated louder than before, and the gaunt shadows again made violent signals to each other in their speechless dialect, as though their grim desires were just then upon the eve of accomplishment.

With an effort the Professor got up and said “Come!” but the word died away in his throat, a faint whisper. He tried it a second time; then, partially overruling the weakness that had seized upon him, crossed the room and opened the door.

“Good gracious! What’s the matter with you?” said a voice from out of the dark on the landing.

It was the son of the undertaker, who lived down stairs. They were not acquainted, and had never spoken, but they had often passed each other in the street—though, until that moment, the Professor was not aware that he had ever even noticed him; but now he recognized him and drew back. The young man, however, entered uninvited.

“I say, what the deuce is the matter with you?”

“Nothing! What do you want, sir?”

“Want? Why your face is as white as a sheet, and your eyes, your eyes are—confound me if I want any thing!” he said, backing to the door in alarm.

Indeed, the expression which rested on the features of the Professor was hardly pleasant to look at alone, and in the night. But, having followed his instinct, so far as to his bodily preservation, and having backed into the hall so that the Professor could hardly distinguish the outline of his figure, the young man’s courage got the better of his fright. He came to a standstill, passed his hand nervously round his neck, cleared his throat several times, and then, in a husky voice—caused, evidently, by his recent alarm, and not by the message, singular as it was, that he came to deliver—said,—

“We want you. It is Christmas—we want you for a corpse.”

It may have been a very ordinary thing to them, considering their profession, to want people for corpses, either at Christmas or any other time; but it was hardly an ordinary thing to the Professor to be wanted for one; and the announcement was certainly somewhat startling, made in a sepulchral tone from out the gloom. It was still stranger that the young man himself appeared rather faint-hearted for one who entertained so malevolent a desire, and had the boldness to make the assertion outright. The Professor for a moment fairly thought him in league with the shadows, for they were at work once more, beckoning and pointing fiercely, as the wind swept up the staircase, to the indistinct figure out in the dusk, that was the son of the undertaker, and who said again,—

“We want you, sir, for a corpse—”

Here he paused abruptly, to clear his throat anew, as though he found himself disagreeably embarrassed by the unfriendly appearance of his host, whose face, if it had been pale at first, was of a gray, ashen color now. He evidently could not see why his request should have been taken in such ill part, and he stammered and stuttered, and was about ready to begin again, when the Professor said,—

“You will likely get me.”

The peculiar expression that rested upon the Professor’s mouth as he uttered these words, was hardly encouraging; but the young man—as though every body would recognize that it was absolutely essential to them, in order that they might celebrate the great gala-day with their family, to have a corpse, just as other people have a tree—immediately brightened up, and, advancing a step or two, said gratefully,—

“I am very glad, sir; I am very glad. It is Christmas, you know, and I told them as how I thought you’d do, for you are spare, sir, and—”

Here he found another blockade in his throat, which, after a slight struggle, he swallowed, and went on,—

“I told them as how I thought you’d do, sir, for you see we want somebody that is small and thin, and will be light to carry after he is all fixed up. Hans Blauroch did for us last time; but this year, instead of parading Santa Claus up and down the street, we’ve concluded to bury him. It will be something new this Christmas; and Hans is too heavy to carry; and when I thought of you, sir, I just took the liberty of coming right up; because it’s near daylight, and there ain’t no great while left to get the funeral ready.”

So the blockhead had finally jerked out what he came for, which was not so malevolent after all as he had at first made it appear. He deserved, rather, to be praised for his persistency than censured for his awkwardness, considering the difficulties under which he had labored.

The Professor did not show whether he felt relieved by this denouement. He had listened without moving; and when the young man finished speaking he hesitated a moment, then, with the same peculiar expression visible about his mouth, said he would be glad to place himself at their service; he would be with them directly; that he had not been feeling well; indeed, he only an hour ago almost fainted, and had not yet recovered when he heard the knock upon his door; but he was feeling better, and would come down immediately.

The young man laughed good-naturedly as he replied,—

“I am obliged to say I did not like the looks of you at first. You must have been out of your head.”

The Professor waited until the last echo of the retreating footsteps died away down at the bottom of the stairs, then shut his door.

“A strange thing,” he muttered; “what have I to do with Christmas? I, who have studied, studied! I had forgotten there was any time called Christmas. What is it to a scholar? Philosophy says nothing about it; and reason would teach that—ah, yes, it too is a dream, a dream within the dream called life. Then what have I to do with it? Why did I promise? I will not go. Yet my vow—twenty-four hours. I dare not trust myself alone. A funeral, did he say? I will see how it feels; yes, for I will probably need one in another day. They wanted me ‘for a corpse,’ and I said they would likely get me, and I would be glad to ‘place myself at their service.’ Ha, ha! They can bury me twice. But my vow, my vow! I will not trust myself alone. It is nothing to me; I will go.”

He had been tramping again rapidly up and down the room, when he suddenly turned, took up his hat, looked around for a moment at the shadows that were still making unintelligible signs to each other, then extinguished them in darkness and slowly went down stairs.

The lodgings were directly over the undertaker’s establishment. Living so secluded, speaking to none, it had never occurred to the Professor before what a grim place he had chosen for his home. But now the silver-barred coffins in the show-case were ghastly as he passed.

Night had not yet yielded up her supremacy. A heavy covering of snow, that clung to every roof, tower, and spire, made the place look unreal through the gloom, like some colorless apparition of a great specter city. Close-blinded, silent and cold, without one glimmer of life, the houses faced each other down the long street. Far off, the ghostly dome and pinnacles of the cathedral reached into the sky—the empty, soundless sky—for the wind had fallen away, leaving a gray expanse that seemed to stretch through infinitude. But, though the Professor did not notice, there was a rift that divided the dreary cloud down near the horizon, and disclosed, brighter than the pale light of the coming day, a star shining in the East.

And it was Christmas morning.

The Professor walked block after block, feeling unconsciously refreshed by the crisp air upon his heated brow. Then he turned back, and when he had reached the building went down an alley-way and entered by a door in the rear.

A great confusion and general dimness, not lessened any by two or three candles that were burning, pervaded the room, which was long and ran almost across the house. Half a dozen men were standing or moving about, and some were sitting or leaning upon coffins and biers, that covered all the floor, except where they occasionally left narrow passages between, like irregular aisles.

At the Professor’s entrance, the young man who had paid him so friendly a visit came up instantly, took hold of him by the arm, and turned him round, with the exclamation,—

“Here he is father! He is thin enough to be easily carried.”

The man denominated “father” by the young off-shoot of the establishment surveyed the Professor with a critical eye from head to foot, and, as there could be no better sample of physical spareness than he presented, said, laconically,—

“He’ll do.”

Then there was new confusion and bustling about, and two or three persons immediately seized the Professor, one by his hair, one by his feet, one by his arms. With a grim smile, he submitted, in perfect silence, to the operations of this dressing committee.

He saw himself—him, Gustav Kellermann, the philosopher!—blossom into brilliant colors, scarlet and blue and orange. He saw them clasp a girdle round his waist, to which they hung gilded toys and bells in all directions, until he was fairly covered over with trinkets of every device. He felt them encase his head—his learned, metaphysical head—in a cap that was adorned at the point and round the sides with innumerable swinging-dolls.

It had been daylight three or four hours when all the mysterious preparations, which had been done almost without speaking a single word, were finally completed, and every thing waited in readiness.

There, strangely conspicuous in that dismal room, with its dismal paraphernalia of death, was a brilliant, half-human, half-monkey-like creature, standing up on its hind legs, and flaming all over in gaudy colors. To this grotesque figure, the important actor, evidently the chief agent in the contract, a man of brief speech, came up and said, brusquely,—

“Now, you are dead, you know, and have nothing to do but be dead. You are not to be fidgeting, or stirring round, or peeping. When you are dead, you are dead, you know, and that is all.”

O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Good reasoning! When you are dead, you are dead.

Then they picked up this half-human, half-monkey-like object, which had uttered not one word, placed it in a coffin, and put upon it a mask-face. Carrying it out by the rear door, they raised it and set it down on a catafalque, draped in a black velvet pall, and ornamented with tall black funeral plumes.

O vain pomp and grandeur of death! When you are dead, you are dead.

A confused hurry and tramp of many feet was succeeded by a pause, and some one said,—“Ready.”

The procession reached the open avenue and moved slowly down the street to the sound of a funeral march. Solemnly, with measured tread, they advanced, and the people flocked to the doors on every side. There was a cry of surprise and alarm. “What is it?” “Who is it?” ran from lip to lip. The crowd gathered. The procession, with its sable plumes and ribbons of crepe, still continued on its way. There was the sound of lamentation, and at every moment the throng and confusion increased, the multitude thickened, and men, women and children were held off by the guard. Do they go to the great cemetery? No, they turned eastward, and at the Rosenthal halted. There the wondering spectators saw, in its center, a pure white tomb. Before it the catafalque was brought to a stand, and the coffin solemnly lowered.

Immediately a broken shout ran through the crowd, that was taken up and repeated until it grew into a laugh, and men and women, catching up the children, cried,—

“It is Kriss Kringle! Ha! ha! See, child, it is Kriss Kringle! He is dead. Kriss Kringle is dead!”

It was a great relief to the people, so suddenly alarmed, and they good humoredly held up the little ones, saying,—

“See! Kriss Kringle is dead. He will never come any more. He is dead!”

There was a silence; and many little faces, awe-stricken, looked sorrowfully down, and many little arms were stretched out, and many little voices, quivering, sobbed,—

“No, no, no! He will come back. He brought us pretty things. He will come back to us.”

O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Is your strength still greater than this?

There was a stir under the heavy pall, and a voice—hark! a voice!—

“Yes, children, I will come back to you. I have come back to you!” And from beneath the sable funeral drapery, Kriss Kringle sprang, all jingling with silver bells, and flashing with a thousand toys.

Then again there was great confusion, but this time no sound of lamentation; and the solemn funeral march swept into a strain of joyful music. And the children! Oh, the children, in wild delight, played in circles about the queer, grotesque being, who set to work destroying the snow-tomb. He threw it at them in small crystal showers that called up, each time as they fell, a burst of gleeful laughter. He detached the bright toys from his girdle, from his cap, from his elbows, from his knees, and rained them down upon the little ones who raced round him in their mad frolic. Then he took off the false face and threw it far away, and the people, in surprise, cried, “It is the Professor!” and drew back awe-struck, to think they had taken such liberties with so renowned a scholar. But the children never paused in their romp; and he said, while they scrambled about him in merry laughter,—

“I have come back to you, children. I have come back to you!”

And in his heart he cried, “I knew not what life was; then how should I know of death?” O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Here are those who teach a philosophy of which you know nothing—a philosophy higher than the critics; a philosophy of life; a philosophy of love; a philosophy of death that is no sleep!

The sun came out and spread a jeweled splendor on the snow, over which, hand-in-hand, the happy children danced.

The Professor is an old man now, and the fame of his learning has become great in the land. And all the people tell about his funeral; and how, every Christmas since, in his scarlet clothes and furs, laden with “pretty things,” he leads the children in their play, and scatters on them a thousand toys, while they, in gleeful groups, join their hands and dance.

THE FEVERFEW.

During my youth I suffered from a naturally delicate constitution. I was pale, feeble and sickly, but from no decided disease. A dreamy, quiet cast of temperament caused me to shrink from the rough sports of my brothers; the contact of strangers was equally disagreeable, and I seldom strayed from home. Indeed, I lived almost entirely within myself, although by no means devoid of natural affection; on the contrary, my emotions were strong, and my sympathy easily aroused.

How it happened that I acquired a love of learning I do not know, all the outward circumstances by which I was surrounded tending to foster any thing rather than intellectual habits, for our family, although each member possessed a common education, were strictly practical; but this difference in my disposition cut me off from their pursuits, and I found my chief enjoyment in the volumes of a library to which I obtained access.

Perhaps it was the sedentary life I led, the close confinement, and lack of exercise, that brought on a violent attack of sickness when I was in my nineteenth year, so that I lay for several weeks completely prostrated. During two or three days my life hung as in a balance, which a breath might have turned and launched me beyond the confines of time. However, the disease succumbed to the persevering attention of experienced nurses. I arose from my weary bed and found my physical health slowly improving, but from that period I was subject at irregular intervals to what the physician pronounced temporary delirium, which I knew he used as a milder term for insanity.

But it was not insanity. I never lost control of my mind, but I lost control of my body. It obeyed a will that was not my own. A mighty antagonistic power seemed to creep over my brain, which impelled my movements and held my struggling soul in subjection. I presented the singular phenomenon of one person governed by two separate and distinct wills, for my mind was not disordered, but only mastered by superior strength. In this strange condition I would see familiar objects magnified, exaggerated, and contorted, in an atmosphere varying with all colors, at the same time being perfectly conscious of their real appearance. I would hear sounds sweet and musical grow into wails of heart-rending despair. I could recognize my friends when they were present, but was forced to regard them with the cold eye of a stranger. I would commit acts that no human agency could have compelled me to do when my faculties were untrammelled. I never submitted without a struggle, and always felt conscious that, if I could but once resist this seemingly invincible power, if I could but once disregard its promptings, I should be free.

The attacks were never of long duration. They always left me utterly exhausted, and it would sometimes require a week to recruit my expended strength. I could afterward recall every incident with the most distinct minuteness, for they were branded in characters of fire on my memory. Vainly I asserted again and again that it was not delirium, that I was forced into subjection to some mysterious power I could not withstand; my statements made no impression upon the physician, who evidently considered mine but a common case of one suffering from attacks of temporary insanity, and, when I persisted in my statement, he forbade any further reference to the subject.

However, I could not prevent my mind from continually dwelling upon it in secret. What was this so foreign, so antagonistic to myself that mastered my will, that controlled my actions, that made me literally another being? Why did I not shake off this evil influence and be free? I felt perfectly conscious of possessing the power, but was not able to arouse it from a latent condition.

As I have said before, I was naturally of a studious disposition, and I now turned my attention to metaphysics. I read works, ancient and modern, on its different branches; I studied medical treatises on insanity, and, the more I learned, the more thoroughly convinced I became that I was not suffering from mental aberration. Constant brooding over my disease greatly wore upon my physical strength; traveling was recommended, in hopes that change of climate and scene might benefit my health. My old aversion to strangers clung to me, and, although possessed by a restlessness to which I was wholly unaccustomed, I persistently refused to leave home; no arguments could gain my consent, so that my friends were forced to give up the project in despair.

One morning, when more than the usual gloom oppressed my spirits, I made an effort to arouse myself and throw off the melancholy that was settling upon me, which each day I felt to be growing more confirmed. I was sitting by a window, which stood wide open, and, just outside, a caged canary was singing and fluttering its feathers in the warm spring sunshine. The little bird was my particular property, and I regarded it with an affection which is rarely bestowed upon pets. With the exception of my young sister, a child about four years of age, this was the only living thing that I had taken any interest in since my sickness. I had trained the canary from the shell, and the little creature seemed to repay all my care, for from no other member of the family would it receive caresses. I was so much afraid of its being accidentally injured that I never allowed it to be freed from the cage, except in my presence. At my call it would fly about me, resting on my head, shoulders, or hands, and chirping in a perfect ecstasy of enjoyment.

I arose and opened the door of its prison, then, reseating myself, softly whistled while it darted into the air, wheeled once or twice, and descended upon my hand. Stroking its spotless yellow plumage, I regarded the little thing with a degree of pleasure I had not experienced for several weeks. But sudden horror almost caused my heart to cease its beatings, and the perspiration started from my forehead in great drops, for I felt my fingers slowly closing over the delicate bird. Although I made an attempt greater than the racking effort we sometimes exert in the nightmare, I had no power to restrain them. The canary fluttered in my clasp. I would have dropped it, I would have shrieked for help, but my muscles, my voice, my body, obeyed me not, and my fingers, like the steady working of machinery, gradually tightened their relentless grasp. In my agony the veins of my face protruded like lines of cordage. I heard the frail bones breaking beneath the crushing pressure, then my involuntary grip suddenly relaxed, and the bird fell upon my knee, dead and mangled!

At the same moment, I saw, through the open door, my little sister playing upon the grass-plat; and, almost before I was aware of moving, or of any volition, I found myself walking rapidly toward her, while my fingers twitched with a convulsive, clutching movement. Good Heavens! I already saw her face turn purple, and heard her gasping breath smothered by gurgling blood. With this terrible picture before my mental vision, my brain felt as if it would burst its bounds in the desperate, but unavailing effort I made to turn back, to fly from the spot. But I could not command myself. In that moment I endured suffering more intense than language can describe. Perhaps my strange and wild appearance frightened the child; for, in place of holding out her arms to me, her favorite brother, she fled crying to the nurse, who did not observe my approach, and carried her into the house. Saved! unconsciously saved—saved from a fate too terrible to contemplate.

I sank insensible upon the ground, and, when I recovered, found myself surrounded by the family, each one applying some restorative, for I had been in a long and death-like swoon. Slowly, but distinctly, the recollections of the events which had reduced me to this condition presented themselves to my memory with all their appalling horror, nearly depriving me again of consciousness.

I did not refer in any manner to the subject, which was also carefully avoided by all others in my presence, for fear that it might produce renewed excitement, and my friends had no suspicion of the circumstances which brought it about. The bird was found dead upon the floor, and the family imagined that it had met with some accident. They were evidently surprised, when the fact was communicated to me, that I made no remarks, for they had anticipated an outburst of grief.

Grief! I did not suffer from grief; grief was overpowered by the horror that racked my brain—horror for the act I had committed, and the more fearful one which had been so mercifully prevented. I had committed? No, it was not my mind or will which had prompted my hand to do the deed. I was innocent, even though my fingers had dripped with the blood of a sister; but the frightful thought filled me with a terror that wrung my soul. I pondered continually upon it. When might not this mysterious demon again assert its evil control over me? Strange as it may seem, I felt certain that it was some foreign agency—I knew not what—that mastered my will, and not the result of my own intellect, in a disordered condition.

This overpowering dread of the future, of what might happen, which took possession of me, drove me to the decision of leaving home, as the best way of avoiding danger to my friends. Perhaps, too, if my physical health became better, I might gain strength enough to defy this infernal power; for, as I have said before, I possessed a singular consciousness that, if I could once successfully resist its promptings, my soul would be liberated from thraldom. I announced my determination of making a journey, without any explanation of my sudden change, and it was greeted with delight by my friends and relatives, who were anxious to hasten my departure while the humor was upon me; but they need not have feared any change of purpose on my part, for I was haunted by this terrible dread of the future, and I gladly said farewell for a time to my home and birthplace.

The incidents of travel and of new scenes broke the monotony, and dispelled to some degree the gloom that had taken fast hold upon me. In a short period I found myself rapidly improving. Every week brought me an increase of strength, and I suffered less frequently from these frightful attacks. Although they occurred at longer intervals than formerly, they seemed to grow more severe in character; the conflict was fiercer, and my mind made a more desperate effort to gain the supremacy. My whole frame would be racked by the intense struggle which I constantly maintained, though I was constantly vanquished.

The increasing delight I took in the scenery, the continued exercise and excitement, almost drove despair from me, and hope once more brightened my countenance. I began to look forward to the time when my health would be entirely restored, and my body and mind be in unison. I did not hope vainly, for the final conflict came, and with it a strange termination of my long sufferings.

I stood upon the side of an Eastern mountain. Above my head vast rocks arose in solemn grandeur, their summits lost in canopied mists which, gray and clinging, wrapped them in obscurity. Below, a great chasm rent the mountain; a yawning, bottomless gulf. While I gazed, awed by the thought of its mysterious depths, where no human eye had seen, where no human foot had trod, a ray of light struggled in and rested on gaunt trees, on snake-like ferns, damp and cold, that clung to its slimy sides, and on one pale flower which nodded in the chill draught that came up, a palpable horror, from the blackness of darkness. I turned away. Near the western horizon dead clouds were piled one above another, and their heavy shadow lay brown and dark upon the sullen earth. No wind stirred the forests, or rustled their motionless leaves, and the awe of the unbroken silence fell, with a dread oppression, upon my heart.

Suddenly I was seized by an ungovernable desire to possess the flower—the colorless flower that hung far down in the death-damp of the chasm. A freezing terror crept through my blood as I recognized this decree of a will I had never been able to disobey. I felt myself crawling closer to the verge of the precipice; nearer, yet nearer, until I sat within the very jaw of the savage gulf. The dead clouds heaved their shroud-like forms and wavered overhead. I heard the rush of subterranean waters sounding a muffled requiem. The sickly flower with its long stem writhed and twisted, as a serpent stretches his folds into the air. Slowly back and forth it swayed, glaring at me like a lustreless eye.

My brain reeled, and all the forces of my nature gathered up their increased strength for one fierce and final conflict. I felt the blood rage through my veins with the headlong fury of cataracts. The very spring of life within me was stirred and troubled, when, with one mighty strain, I drew myself up and fell backward on the grass.

The whole world went out in utter darkness. Before my eyes stretched a vast, illimitable gloom, when suddenly out of its impenetrable depths above my head there grew and glimmered faintly a thin and wavering mist. Folding upon itself, it hung down, white and luminous, a cloud of palpitating nebulæ. Pricked with a thousand points of fire it gathered slowly to a nucleus in the center—a flickering speck, a disc, it flamed, blazed into a star, and lo! poised midway in the air, an aureole of light, it rested upon the brow of a female figure.

Her scornful eyes looked down upon me with a lurid gleam that seemed to burn my soul. A smile of derision sat upon her lips that were more vivid in hue than the vermilion dye. Her locks were yellow as the sun at noontide; her skin was white as the leper’s; her breath hot as the desert air, and the light of the star upon her forehead burned red with the frightful redness of fresh blood. Suddenly I saw that the murky clouds on either side her form swarmed with a thousand dwarfed and warted shapes. Black and hideous, they knotted, flitted to and fro, in and out, with their formless claws and tumultuous motion. She spread her wings. Immediately there gathered all the dusky shapes—the legion demons of delirium with their needle eyes—and settled down upon her sable plumes. A shrill phantom laugh rang out, mocked itself by echoes that ran up in thin shafts of sound to the skies, and the SPIRIT OF FEVER had fled from me forever!

The rays of the sun as it sank to rest, slanting through rose-colored avenues, fell upon the gray mists, and crowned the mountain’s summit in a rainbow of glory. The rising breeze swept through the forests with a soothing sound, and, eastward, the eye was lost in mellow lines of golden haze, which to my soul freed from captivity, seemed cathedral aisles of peace.

OLD SIMLIN, THE MOULDER.

“You’re right! I ain’t got no relatives an’ nobody to look after, so thar isn’t any sense in workin’ too much. That’s just what I say.”

And that is just what he always did say, poor Simlin, but he never ceased, notwithstanding. Nearly every body that knew him and spoke to him about it always found him quick to acquiesce: “Thar was nothin’ plainer than what they said, and it was just what he said, too.” But it did not make the slightest difference, for he continued to work away all the same; so what else could be done but merely to give up the question?

Now, if he had only expressed himself in decided opposition, there might have been something to hope for in the matter—at least, it would have opened the way for an argument upon the subject; and, then, there was always the possibility that he might be induced to change his mind. However, his provoking approval put the case wholly beyond reach. And so old Simlin, toiling early and late, quietly followed his vocation.

There was not a better moulder in the whole foundry, or one that drew much higher wages. But, then, he was getting old. To be sure, he never had been young, so far as they knew any thing about him, even ten years ago, when, altogether unknown and friendless, he had first made his appearance in the village. But these ten years combined had not worn upon him like the last one. His head now, if once the soot had been removed, would not have shown a single black hair; and his voice was weak and cracked, and there was a visible trembling about the old man’s legs. Perhaps he did imbibe liquor; but nobody had any right to say so, for nobody could prove that it was true. Only of late he had a strangely confused manner when anyone addressed him, and, raising his unsteady hand nervously to his head, would repeat the sentence that had been on his lips a hundred, yes, a thousand times, until it had long ago grown into a stereotyped form—“I ain’t got no relatives an’ nobody to look after, so thar isn’t any sense in workin’ too much.”

Perhaps he really thought that the people would never see that he was straining every effort, using every moment of his time, though, before the sun was up, and often after it was gone, the old man was at his place. And Simlin was always the first on hand if there was an extra job that would bring an extra cent.

But, other than making the assertion that he had no relatives, and nobody depending upon him, and that he did not think it worth while to work over-much, he never carried on a conversation. That there was no one to look after him was a self-evident fact. He lived utterly alone, in a small cabin on the brow of the hill. Rarely a soul but himself ever crossed its threshold. Under the step the gray gophers made their burrow, and, beneath the tall beech trees, that threw down their prickly nuts, the brown weasels played in peaceful groups. The shy quail, sounding their whistle, fled among the ferns; and above, from the myriad branches, the beautiful wild doves mourned out their perpetual sadness. At evening, when the sun went down, and the long line of the Scioto Hills flushed crimson with serene glory; when, by slow degrees, the pageant of departing day withdrew its gorgeous colors; even when the valley below was black with the gloom of night, the western radiance lingered, like the transforming light of some other land, upon the rude cabin, standing on its high and solitary perch.

Empty and bare, it afforded but little protection from the weather, for through it the winds blew in Winter, and the rains dripped in Summer. Simlin’s wants, however, appeared to be few and simple. He seldom had a fire, even at the coldest season. What he subsisted upon, nobody knew. Once, perhaps, in two or three days, he would buy a loaf of coarse bread from the baker in the village, and his table evidently was supplied in the most frugal manner.

The people put down his besetting sin to be avarice; and the hut, if it contained no furniture, was reported to contain wealth enough, hidden away in its obscure cracks and corners, to have draped its dreary boards in the most costly velvet and lace, and encased its walls with marble. Of course, he was a miser. More than ten years now he had been at the foundry, and not a cent of the wages which he drew regularly had he spent, or put so much as a farthing into the savings bank, where many of the hands had laid up quite a pile. But, unlike the majority of misers, the old man never complained of being poor; indeed, he never complained at all, or spoke of money in any way. If the subject was brought up in his presence, he either preserved utter silence or quietly got up and left; and, if driven to the last extremity, and made to say something, he would remark, running into the same old channel, that “It didn’t much matter—he hadn’t any relatives nor any body dependin’ upon him.”

So lonely and forlorn did he seem, and so harmless withal—for the old man never was known to do a mean action, or resent an angry word—that many uncouth kindnesses had been shown him on the part of the hands, with whom he was by no means unpopular. Especially had this been the case latterly; for, though he himself was apparently unconscious of it, so terribly broken had he become that the change was sorrowful to behold; and, rude as were the foundry-workmen, what there was pathetic in the patient manner in which the feeble old man silently worked on told upon them by instinct.

There had even been an interest taken in him up at the great house. Every season, “the colonel,” as the owner and sole proprietor of the Rocky Ford Foundry was called by all the employes, brought his family down from the city to spend a few months rusticating in the beautiful Scioto Valley, where he had built a summer residence for that purpose, and that he might be near his great iron-works at the same time. There was always gay company up at the house—visitors from town, who needed no second invitation to entice them from the dust of the city to this peaceful retreat among the lovely hills of Ohio. Besides, the colonel had a beautiful daughter, and every body liked the “young misses.” Seldom, though, did she ever go down to the foundry; never, indeed unless some special object took her there.

Coming from her home a mile distant—this home for her embowered in perpetual Summer and wrapped in the peace that broods upon the everlasting hills, where she could see, far off, the golden meadow-lands and the more distant Paint Ridge, with its transparent veil of mist; this home from which she had often looked out and listened to the blue Scioto, unflecked with sail or skiff, struggling by day and night to tell its mysterious story, as it flowed forever on its lonely course—coming from this home, over the narrow path that led down the slope to the river’s edge, where the green rushes grew and the wild columbine hung its bells above the water—coming on, past the great rocks, where the scarlet lichens flamed in the sun and the blossoming alder displayed its drifted clusters; coming still with active feet over the velvet moss—coming from the lovely valley, coming from the tranquil hills, when she entered the foundry it seemed like stepping suddenly from the beautiful world into some haunt of evil spirits.

Within the great dingy walls no shining sunlight brightened the air. Dim and cheerless, it hung laden with smoke and vapor, that floated in clouds to the rafters. The harsh clang of heavy machinery, together with the roar of the furnaces, seemed to shake the very building. Among the enormous wheels that whirled with frightful velocity, and the immense belts that whizzed above their heads, the workmen, black and begrimed, looked small, weird and unearthly, moving about upon the damp ground, with its jet-like covering of charred cinders. The place seemed an apparition of demons, performing in some cavern of the lower regions their evil incantations. No wonder the young lady seldom went there. Its gloom fell upon her with a heavy oppression, and her breath only came freely when once more she found herself out in the clear and open sunlight.

It happened in this manner that she first came to take any notice of old Simlin: There were gathered quite a party of young folks; and the colonel, who had been in Cincinnati upon business, had returned the previous evening, bringing with him another gentleman, apparently a stranger to the family.

It was at the breakfast-table that the company were discussing the “sights” of the neighborhood, and debating whether they would take him first over to Paint Creek upon a fishing-excursion, or across the river to Mount Logan, famous for having been the rendezvous of the great Indian chief, when the colonel spoke up,—

“Why not begin at home?” he said. “Do not fatigue him to death the first day, and I am proud enough of my foundry to think it might be of interest even to Mr. Safford; at least I mean to have him shown over it before he leaves.”

The young man, of course, immediately stated that it would give him great pleasure, and the whole company, to the most of whom it would prove a novelty, gladly acquiesced in the proposition. So it was decided, and two hours later they all started on their way.

When they entered the foundry it seemed more gloomy than ever, the atmosphere more stifling, and the jar of the machinery more painfully loud and discordant. Even the gay young people who had chatted and laughed all the morning felt the sudden change that involuntarily subdued their merriment. They broke up and scattered in twos and threes over the place, following the lead of simple curiosity, but the stranger-gentleman staid beside Helen, the “young misses.”

“What a queer, unreal place!” he said. “One would never expect to find any thing like it in this beautiful valley. Does it not make you think, coming upon it suddenly out of the sunlight, of the evil genii you have read about in some fairy-tale long ago? And the workmen, at whose bidding all this gigantic power is brought into action, how small and weird they look!”

The two had been slowly approaching the great furnace, and, just as the gentleman ceased speaking, the immense door was thrown open, discovering, like a glimpse of the infernal regions, the seething flame within. Though they were not near enough to experience any inconvenience from the heat, Helen uttered a frightened exclamation and drew back; but the gentleman stood as if spellbound, for immediately in front of him from this opening streamed a broad but sharply defined streak of blood-red light, that fell full upon old Simlin, and transformed the blackened cinders on the ground beneath his feet into a mass of living embers.

As the old man straightened up, and was in the act of raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sudden illumination, they encountered the stranger, and a mingled expression of surprise and fright instantly struggled up through their weak color. For a moment, like an apparition, he stood transfixed. The red glare showed the old man’s shrunken figure; it showed his attenuated arms and death-like mouth, his tattered clothes and the few wisps of his scant hair.

Mr. Safford had stopped simply at the startling effect which the glow of the furnace had produced, falling by accident upon a single workman. But, when the man rose up, he gazed at him, utterly taken aback by his strange behavior.

For an instant, the old man stared without moving a muscle, then his lips began to work convulsively, and, raising his hand before his face, as if to screen it from view, he half uttered an unintelligible sentence and sank down. At the same time, the door of the furnace had been closed, shutting off the brilliant light that for a moment had so strangely thrown him into violent relief.

For a second, Safford almost thought the whole thing had been an optical illusion, or some hallucination of his own brain; then, stepping forward, he saw the old man lying in a heap upon the ground.

The young lady, recovering immediately from her sudden fright at the unexpected blaze, had seen the workman fall, and, coming up, asked, in a terrified voice,—

“What is the matter? Oh, he is dead!” she exclaimed, kneeling down beside him.

“No, he is not dead. Run for some brandy—quick!” Mr. Safford called to the nearest hand. Then, assisted by one of the men, he raised the prostrate figure, not a heavy burden, and carried it out into the open air.

“I allus thought old Simlin’d come to this,” said the man who had helped in carrying him. “We all knowd he was over-workin’ himself.”

“Why? Was he so feeble?” asked Mr. Safford, while he bathed the grimy forehead with his wet handkerchief.

“Feebil? He’s that feebil he’s just been of a trembil all over; and he’s getting pretty much used up here, too,” said the man, dropping his voice, and significantly touching his forehead. “It’s my idee he’s not booked for this world much longer.”

“Poor man!” said Miss Helen, leaning tenderly over the pale face that still showed no symptoms of returning consciousness; “how very thin and emaciated he is! Has he no wife or family to take care of him?”

“That’s just it, ma’am! That’s just what he’s allus harpin’ on! He says he ain’t got no relatives, and nobody to look after, and—”

The young lady suddenly raised her hand with a warning gesture; and, before the workman had ceased speaking, old Simlin opened his eyes. He looked around for a moment in a bewildered way; then his uncertain glance, falling upon the gentleman kneeling by his side, immediately became fixed, and grew into a wild stare. Raising himself unsteadily upon his elbow, still with his eyes fixed upon him, the old man threw out his trembling arm with a gesture as if addressing the whole company,—

“It’s a lie! Who said I had any relatives, or any body to look after? I hain’t! It’s a lie—a lie, I say! I never seen you before. He’s a stranger!”—still keeping his arm extended, and appealing excitedly to those around him—“you all know he is a stranger. I ain’t got no relatives, nor any body to look after!”

It was evident enough that what the workman had told them about his intellect was too true, they all thought, as they looked at each other with a quick glance.

“I tell you I don’t know you, sir! It’s all a lie. I never seen you before! I—”

“No, you never saw me before.”

Mr. Safford had spoken, hoping to soothe him; but, instead, the sentence appeared to act upon the old man like an electric battery, for he raised himself into a sitting posture, and, with his head bobbing violently about, fairly screamed, his cracked voice running into high treble,—

“That’s right!—that’s right! Do you all hear it? He says I never seen him before. It’s all a lie about my havin’ got any relatives. I hain’t! I never seen him before—You heerd him say so—you all heerd him?” he inquired, for the first time, taking his pale, watery eyes from the gentleman, and looking, in a frightened, appealing way, round the group.

Then his strength seemed to fail suddenly, and he fell back upon the grass, panting for breath.

At this moment the colonel came up, and knelt down by his side. He uttered his name several times, and even put his hand upon the wrinkled forehead; but the old man, with vacant eyes fixed on the sky, paid no heed, though his lips trembled.

“I have ordered a wagon. It will be here directly. He must be taken to the house, where he can receive every attention. Poor man! I am afraid this will be about the last. I have expected it for a long time. Here, Safford, help me to lift him,” he added, as Hendricks came back with the wagon.

“Safford! Safford! Who called me Safford?” said the old man, suddenly looking round in a terrified manner. “I—I’ve been a dreamin’,” uttering a weak laugh. “It’s not my—I mean nobody said it. I never heerd that name before. It’s darned funny, ain’t it? but I never even heerd that name before in my life! You know I didn’t”—growing wild and excited again—“you know it’s a lie! I ain’t got no relatives, nor nobody to look after.”

The gentlemen, without speaking, stooped to raise him; but he struggled violently, and, keeping his eyes still fixed on the younger one, he cried, with such an extreme distress upon his face, that they involuntarily drew back,—

“No, no! I’m not fit to be near you. Stand off! You’re a fine gentleman; it’s not for the likes of you to touch me!”

Then turning toward the colonel, he muttered some inarticulate apology, and actually staggered, unaided, to his feet,—

“I’m ’bliged to ye all,” he said, nodding his head up and down, and backing, with uncertain steps, toward the foundry, as if afraid to take his eyes from the party as long as he was within their sight. “Thar ain’t nothin’ the matter with me! I jest felt faint a spell from the heat—the heat. It ain’t nothin’, an’ it’s gone now! I’ll go back to my work agin—I’m all right—I’m ’bliged to ye! It was jest the heat as overcum me—jest the heat—” and, with a painful smile upon his thin lips, still muttering unintelligible excuses, he tottered into the building.

For a moment, taken by surprise, the group remained motionless. Then Helen said; “Poor old man! I declare, it almost made me cry only to look at him!—Father, you will have him cared for; you will not allow him to work any more?”

“No. He is dreadfully broken down, and I have heard the hands say that, latterly, he was breaking in his mind, too; but I did not know it was so bad. I will see that he does as little as possible; but he will never quit until he gives out utterly, and he can not hold on long in this condition. Strange, Safford, how the sight of you seemed to excite him! Did you notice with what a wild, terrified gaze he stared at you, as if he had been hunted down? and, when you stooped to raise him up, he almost drew himself into a knot. I did not suppose, when I saw him on the ground, that he had strength enough left to stand on his feet without help; and it seemed as if it was this fear of you that inspired him with the power.”

The younger man stood leaning against the tree from which he had not moved.

“Yes,” he replied, “it was strange; I noticed it. How long have you had him in your employ?”

“More than ten years, and he has been about the most valuable hand in the foundry.”

“Then I’m sure, father, you will take care of him, and not let him work any more?” said Helen, again.

“Yes—yes, child! don’t bother yourself so—of course I will;” but the younger gentleman turned toward her quickly, while his face lighted up, then checked himself abruptly in what would have been an eager gesture of gratitude, and looked away without saying a word.

They remained a few moments to hear that the old man had recovered, and when the messenger reported him working at his place quietly as usual, without re-entering the foundry, or waiting for their companions, the two started homeward. Helen’s reluctance to go back into the building again had been so manifest that the gentleman could hardly do otherwise. Not until the straggling little village and the smoke of the great foundry were left in the distance did she fairly draw a breath of relief, and even then they still walked on almost in silence.

The day had reached its noon. On the river flowing past the lances of the sun broke into a thousand flakes of fire that followed each other over its surface in myriad ranks; and on either side, where the twisted birch reached out its branches, the waves with a grateful murmur turned up their cool white crests.

There was no loud hum of grasshoppers. Hardly a leaf stirred upon the trees, hardly a bird fluttered its wings. Even the far-off mists had disappeared, and a hush was on the hills—a hush as of awe before the splendor of the sky. No wonder they spoke but little. Almost solemn was the glory of the day in its noon. Yet perhaps neither one felt this influence which rested upon the land, and subdued alike to silence the peewee and the bobolink. It may be that the girl was not wholly unconscious of the scene, but it was certainly some other influence that wrapped her companion in abstraction. He saw not even the checkered shade that fell in arch and groin upon their path.

They were half-way home. Rousing himself suddenly with an effort, as if but just aware of this long abstraction, he said, for lack of any thing better,—

“Miss Helen, do you like the country?”

“Dearly. I love these hills and the river. The time I spend here is the happiest part of my life.”

“And are you not always happy?” he inquired. “You should be.”

A strange gentleness in his tone as he uttered the last words made Helen look up quickly as she answered him with a smile,—

“I am. I never had a trouble in my life.”

They had reached the turn where the path led up the slope from the foot of the hill.

“Do not go back to the house,” he said; “let us sit down here a little while in the shade. I feel strangely oppressed, and the four walls of a room would suffocate me.”

Apparently, he had uttered the last sentence involuntarily, as he took off his hat, and passed his hand several times across his forehead, for, catching his breath quickly, he added, as if by way of an apology,—

“It is so much pleasanter in the open air, and I am less fortunate than you. I seldom have a chance to enjoy the country.”

He had evidently spoken truly, however, when he said he felt strangely oppressed, for his eyes wandered up the valley, far off to the remote Paint Ridge, yet he did not see the glittering Scioto, or how Summer sat enthroned in royal pomp upon the hills.

There was a thoughtful, almost anxious expression on his face. Presently he added, in a tone of voice as if they might have been discussing the subject at the moment, and which showed his mind was still occupied wholly by the incident at the foundry,—

“Miss Helen, had you ever seen that man before?”

“What man?” she inquired. “The workman, you mean?”

“Yes, the old moulder.”

“No. I have often heard them speak of him. I rarely go to the foundry; it is gloomy, and the hands are so rough father does not like to have me come in contact with them in any way, so I do not know one from another. I did not recollect at first, but I remember now hearing him say that old Simlin was queer, that he was a miser, and that he lived all alone on the Spring Hill. But I am sure father did not know he was so feeble, or how he was losing his mind. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. It must be dreadfully sad, ignorant though he is, to grow old and have not a soul on the earth to care for him.”

Again the gentleman turned to her, as she spoke, with a sudden emotion in his eyes that would have called the color to her cheeks had she seen it, but in another instant he had looked away, and the troubled cloud settled back once more upon his features.

“The river is beautiful,” he said, after a pause; “see how the fire dances down its surface.”

He had dismissed the subject from their conversation, if not from his own thoughts. More than an hour later Helen sprang up with a conscious blush upon her face as the sound of approaching voices told her how the time had fled. Ah, for her at least it had been wafted by on silver wings! They both joined the party, and all went together to the house. There, almost immediately, Mr. Safford excused himself and went to his room.

Shut in alone, the same anxious, troubled expression he had worn when he looked unconsciously up the river came back upon him as he walked thoughtfully to and fro across the floor. The incident at the foundry had affected him singularly. He could not throw off its depressing influence. Why, he asked himself—why did the face of the old man haunt him perpetually—the thin, wrinkled face, as it had looked at him with sudden surprise and terror struggling up through its watery eyes? Why did the cracked voice, with its accent of fright, ring constantly in his ears? If it were but the wild vagary of an unsettled mind, why should he give it any heed? “I am nervous,” he muttered to himself. “They said the man was crazy, and surely I never saw him before—no, I never saw him before. Then why should the sight of me have so excited him? Probably another stranger would have done the same. I am foolish—and they said the man was crazy—”

He still paced the floor of his room up and down, while he tried to argue himself out of the unreasonable hold which the circumstance had taken on his mind. “I wish I could forget it!” he exclaimed. Then walking to the window, and looking out mechanically, he said slowly to himself, as if weighing well his words,—

“It is not possible; no, it is not possible that here I am going to find any clew. The man was crazy, that is all.”

He returned again, however, not the least relieved, to his track over the carpet, and, before he went down stairs, he had determined that he would “wait and see.” He would not, as he had previously intended, leave the place within a day or two. He could not go away until he had satisfied himself about the matter wholly, and in the mean time he would find out what he could in regard to the old man.

He did not make any inquiries of the family, and the only information he could gain was simply what he had been already told.

His sleep that night was strangely disturbed. Over and over in his troubled slumber a thin, shrunken figure stood with its trembling arm stretched out toward him. It was always before him, even when sometimes there flitted through his dreams the form of one whose face was fair as the morning, whose hair was yellow as the reaper’s wheat. He rose feeling little refreshed. The night, instead of lessening, had but strengthened the hold which the incident of the previous day had taken upon him, and against which he struggled without avail.

The colonel’s prophecy did not prove incorrect when he said Simlin could not last long, for, just as the family were rising from the breakfast-table, a messenger arrived, saying the old man was lying insensible in his cabin. It seemed he did not make his appearance at the foundry at his usual time, and, after waiting an hour in vain, Hendricks, who suspected something might be wrong, sent one of the hands to the hut, where he was found in this condition.

“Tell Hendricks I will see to him immediately,” the colonel said to the messenger, as he retired; then turning to young Safford, who stood with his hat in his hand, inquired, “Are you going out?”

“I will go with you, if you have no objection. I may be of some service, and I am in need of exercise at any rate.”

He hesitated as he spoke, endeavoring to cover the unusual interest which he took in the matter, and the excitement he felt that the news had brought upon him.

“Why, my dear fellow, you are absolutely pale this morning! Our country air ought to do better for you than this. Yes, I wish you would go with me. I don’t know exactly what is to be done. If old Simlin is very ill, he can not be moved, and anyhow there is no road leading up that side of the Spring Hill, nothing but a narrow foot-path, which I guess he has worn himself, for nobody else ever goes in that direction. The cabin must have been originally put up by hunters. The place is so lonely and inaccessible, I have often tried in vain to prevail upon him to come down into the village. He is a strange man, almost a hermit in his habits.”

“Father, can not I go along with you? Maybe I can do something for him, too, if he is sick.”

“You, Helen?” said her father, smiling. “What can you do for such a person? No, no, child, it is no place for you. I do not like to have you go among any of these wretched people.”

He stooped and kissed the fair countenance raised so entreatingly to his. A swift expression of pain had come across the younger gentleman’s face as the colonel spoke, but the girl persisted, and her father reluctantly gave his consent.

“Well, well, as you will! Tell Margaret to put a few things into a basket with some wine and brandy, and tell Jake to follow us with it immediately. We may need him anyhow, and he has no work to do about the house this morning. I can not spare Hendricks from the foundry, and very likely, if we can not move Simlin, the hut will have to be fixed up a little.”

Losing no time, they started on their errand of mercy. The walk was long, but well shaded. Down the hill, along the valley, up the hill, all Nature seemed reveling in an excess of joy. The little song-sparrows, wild with delight, united in a jubilant choir; the blackbirds called, and called, and called; the orioles, in myriad numbers, fluttered their golden wings; and sometimes a chaffinch loitered for a moment in her flight to the far-off wheat fields.

It seemed strange that there should be any misery, any suffering. The girl could not realize it until they came out on top of the Spring Hill to the little clearing where the cabin stood, which, in its utter desolation, appeared to overwhelm her. There was no sign of a human presence any where. A silent robin sat idly on the chimney-top, while its mate flitted wistfully over the sunburnt grass. The place was so lonely that the gentle wind seemed to smother a sob. Below, the wide valley stretched away to the remote sky. And in this wretched hovel, on this solitary site, old Simlin lived, like one ostracized from society.

“Wait here a moment,” said the colonel, “while I go in first, and I will come and tell you.”

He left them in the shade of the tall beech trees, and they saw him go into the cabin. Though neither had spoken, they knew that upon each heart rested the same burden of dread. In the moment that followed there came over the young man an almost sickening anxiety, but the girl stood, awed only by the thought that perhaps even then the black wings of Death might be settling unknown within their very presence. Then she saw her father come to the door and beckon—the old man at least was not dead—and they went in together.

The place was far more bare and desolate than even its exterior had appeared. The rough boards of the floor were shrunken apart. Through the windows, unshielded by even a plank, the glaring light poured in a pitiless flood. A broken chair or two were propped against the wall, and in the corner an old pine table stood in a precarious condition upon its uneven legs.

There, stretched across the wretched bed dressed in his grimy clothes, just as they had seen him at the foundry twenty-four hours ago, the old man lay insensible. All their restoratives were powerless to rouse him from this heavy stupor. Not even a muscle responded to their efforts. The half-closed eyes were glazed. There was no quiver now about the bloodless lips. The thin, emaciated face seemed thinner, more emaciated, for over all the features rested that sunk expression which those who look upon it behold with despair at their hearts. But for the slow rise and fall of his chest, they might have thought the last glimmer of life had died out of that frail form forever.

It was plain that they could not dare to move him, and the colonel carefully shaded the window with a few pieces of plank, still leaving free access to the air. Helen had quietly taken all the things from the basket, and set them ready for use, though there was little chance now that they could be of any avail. Safford stood at the foot of the bed, utterly unconscious of every thing at the moment but the prostrate figure before him. Since he entered the room he had hardly changed his position, only that he folded his arms across his breast, and drooped his head a little, as if in that attitude he might the more intently watch the sleeper.

When the colonel came and spoke to him he started up as if frightened, like one out of a dream, so that the elder man looked at him in surprise; but Safford, with a strong effort controlling himself, said quickly, in a husky voice,— “I beg your pardon. You startled me!”

“I only wanted to know how long you thought he could last?”

“I can not tell. It may be until evening, hardly longer.”

He was right. The day wore on without any apparent change until about the going down of the sun, when the old man moved a little. They had once or twice dropped a few drops of wine between his lips, but this was the first symptom of any break in the heavy stupor which had held him so long in its death-like embrace. His respiration quickened, and became audible. He muttered one or two incoherent sentences, then a tremor passed over his features, and he opened his eyes.

Helen, whom her father had vainly endeavored during the afternoon to persuade into going home, stood with her head turned away; and the colonel, too intent upon watching the dying man, did not notice Safford, from whose face, at the first struggle in the inanimate form, every particle of color fled, and who, trembling violently all over, clutched the bed for support.

The old man for a moment looked about the room blankly, as if a haze obscured his vision. Raising himself slowly on his elbow, his face lighted up, and he opened his lips to speak, but as suddenly the light faded out, his features quivered pitiably, and he sank down, saying, brokenly, in an accent of despair,—

“Dead—she is dead! She is dead!”

Then, starting up wildly, he cried out,—

“Do not look at me like that, Hetty; you will kill me! It was not for the likes o’ me to have married you. Now you are so white an’ thin, an’, Hetty, when I took ye to the church, yer cheeks were redder nor the summer rose. Oh, forgive me, Hetty—forgive me!”

A terrible struggle in his throat compelled him to pause for a moment, then he went on with rapid utterance, and an entreaty whose distress could hardly find expression in words:—

“No, no, Hetty, do not ye call the little one that; I can not bar it!—not that, not my name! I swear to ye, he shall not take after the likes of his father—he must not be like me! Hetty, I swear to ye, if I live, he shall never hear a low word, nor touch a drop o’ whisky! He shall have learnin’, an’ be a gentleman—a fine gentleman. Hetty, I’ve been a worthless dog—a brute, a beast! I can’t hardly look at ye now—I darn’t, thar’ is sich a shinin’ light about yer face—but hear me, Hetty, I swear to ye, the little one, even if ye will call him George Safford, shall grow up to be a hon—Hetty, you are so still! O Hetty!—dead! she is dead—dead!”

Both the colonel and Helen turned with astonishment to young Safford when the old man, in his delirium, had spoken his name; but the latter, unconscious of their surprise, with a single cry, sprang forward, and supported the exhausted figure in his arms as it sank back.

“Father—my father!” The words broke from his lips in a voice painfully choked by emotion.

There was another severe struggle for breath, then, with renewed strength, the old man raised himself into a sitting posture, and, looking round quickly, began in a hurried manner, fumbling about with his hands,—

“I’ll go some place else; he mustn’t see me agin! He mustn’t never know as I’m alivin’. He mustn’t never be disgraced by the likes o’ me.” He paused a moment, and the expression of his face changed. “It’s a lie!” he cried, fiercely; “I ain’t got no relatives, nor any body to look after! It’s all a lie!” Then, shivering suddenly, he said, lowering his voice, and speaking softly to himself: “It’s cold, but I’ll not have no fire. Work—I must work! He’s a gentleman. I said he should be a gentleman—and he’s got learnin’—lots o’ learnin’——No, no! I never seen you before—I never seen you before!”

The wild, terrified voice died with a rattling sound in his throat.

“Father, father, speak to me! It is I, George!”

Safford, in his agony, fell upon his knees. During the moment that followed there was profound silence; then Simlin opened his eyes, and said, gently,—

“George! the little George!” A radiant light rested upon his thin face. He raised his trembling hands, and passed them unsteadily over the man’s head. “Yer hair is soft an’ black as hern, George. Hist! Don’t ye hear her singin’?—Why, Hetty, I’m a-comin’, Hetty!—I’m a-comin’——”

THE ANTHEM OF JUDEA.

I.

At the foot of the hill stood a low, old-fashioned frame house, with a picket-fence round the yard, which ran down to a small stream that sometimes flowed along slowly, and sometimes with a great rush, and sometimes slept tranquilly beneath a sheeting of ice. Nearly a mile off, smooth and level, with pleasant streets, and a church whose spire shone in the sunlight long after the evening shade had crept over the ground, was the village of Pickaway, the gem of Paint Valley.

From there, two days in every week, to the quaint old-fashioned house at the foot of the hill, the children wended their way with music folios, coming loiteringly in Summer over the narrow foot-path where the wild columbine grew by the creek, but in Winter walking hurriedly over the frozen turnpike, swinging their arms, blowing their fingers, and sometimes doing battle bravely with the snow.

Here Franz Erckman lived in the plainest manner, with only his piano and his cottage-organ for companions. Wife and children he had none, nor any relative, nor any domestic pet. There was never a dog, or cat, or even so much as a chicken, to be seen about the premises. One servant he kept, to be sure, but she, a cross old woman, never opened her mouth for the purpose of speech more than a dozen times in a year, and then it was only upon some unusual provocation, as when the scholars broke a pitcher, or muddied her floor, when she would give utterance to some incoherent but disagreeable ejaculation.

Franz Erckman had lived in this way for nearly twenty years, and was just as bluff in manner, and just as reserved in disposition, as when he had first come there, an unknown young foreigner, without friends, or acquaintances, or money, and commenced in a modest way giving music-lessons to a few pupils at first, to many after a time.

When the new church was built, and a new organ with great gilded pipes put in, his services were engaged, as well they might, for no other person in the whole village could have made any thing whatever out of all those stops, and pedals, and keys.

Now that Pickaway had grown to be quite a town, with a very respectable hotel, many tourists came down in the summer season from the city to rusticate for a week or two, and they always heard the organist with astonishment. Inquiries about him were so often repeated by these cultivated strangers, that Pickaway had finally grown to feel proud of its musician, and it became as natural to them to show off Franz Erckman as it did to call attention to the beautiful scenery. It would have been hard to have overlooked either, for a more picturesque landscape could rarely have been found.

However, all this praise and adulation had apparently made little effect upon the village music-master, who had been again and again invited to come up for one season to the city by these friendly tourists. They held out to him the allurements of the orchestras and operas, and told wonderful tales of the superb voices of the great prime donne. It was all in vain. He always thanked them for their proffered hospitality, but never accepted it, and lived along, seemingly content enough to teach the village children, and play the church-organ. Only his one servant knew how at night, and sometimes all night through, he tried ineffectually to satisfy his great craving for music, and how, not until the pale light of morning was visible in the east, would he shut his cottage-organ. And when he turned from it there was always a strange expression of despair upon his features.

The people of the town said he was penurious, for he invariably exacted the tuition of each scholar in advance, and if at the appointed time it was not forthcoming, he quietly dismissed the pupil without a word, and there were no more lessons given until the quarter had been paid. However, they grew to know him so well that every body fell into the habit, in his case at least, of being punctual.

So, working steadily year after year, as he had done, with almost no expenses of living, Pickaway thought he must have laid by quite a fortune, and when the Widow Massey, poverty-stricken though she was, made up her mind to send her little daughter—her only child—the poor, weak, crippled little Alice, who went every Sunday to the church, and listened with such deep delight to the strains of the great organ—when the Widow Massey made up her mind to send her daughter to the music-master, and give her this one pleasure, that it might brighten somewhat the life so early blighted, all the people thought he would surely take the child for nothing. But he did not—he took the money, the full amount; and, if the people made sarcastic remarks about his penuriousness, they never offered to pay for the little girl. And the mother never thought of asking a favor from any one. Though she earned by hard labor scarcely enough to keep them, still for the last year she had had this thought at heart, and quietly saved a little at a time, until finally the long-coveted sum was in her possession; and gladly she went and gave it to the music-master, who put it down at the bottom of his vest-pocket, and told her to send the little girl twice a week. And twice a week the little girl went.

That was in the Summer. She was pale, and thin, and delicate, and the scholars all wondered how she would get there through the snow in the Winter. But before the bleak winds had blown one rude blast, the little Alice had a worse trouble. The Widow Massey suddenly fell ill and died, commending her beloved child to the care only of the great Guardian above.

It was a terrible stroke, and the people all wondered what would become of the helpless daughter, who was too feeble to do any kind of work for a means of subsistence, and every person thought it strange that somebody else did not come to her relief.

It was very sad. The poor little creature seemed fairly racked with grief, and had sat by the side of her dead mother day and night. On the afternoon of the funeral they tried in vain to take her away, until Franz Erckman came, and the people in surprise saw him lift her up in his arms without a struggle, and quietly carry her out of the house. They saw him, still with her arms clasped tight about his neck, crossing the green pastures, strike the narrow foot-path by the creek, and disappear as the path turned behind the heavy foliage that was brilliant in the scarlet dyes of October.

It was not one of the days upon which he gave lessons. There was only the ripple of water over the stones and the rustle of leaves that occasionally blew down from the trees, to break the profound quiet of the place as he passed through his gate. Not one word had been spoken, and still in perfect silence he carried the frail little being, that he could feel trembling from head to foot—he carried her across the broad veranda and into the pleasant parlor—not the room that the scholars used, but where his cottage-organ stood. Then he drew the sofa up beside the instrument and laid her down upon it.

Her fingers unclasped with a convulsive movement, and Franz turned his face away, for the child had not uttered a sound. Her eyes, dry and unnaturally bright, wore a startled look, a mute, beseeching expression, like the eyes of a wounded animal, and the pallor of her countenance, that had a wild grief branded upon it, was almost as ghastly in hue as death. It was suffering terrible to behold, and the hands of the strong man trembled as he opened the mahogany case of his organ.

There was a moment’s silence; then music, soft and sorrowful, floated out on the air gently, almost timidly; so very mournful, that the strain, beautiful though it was, seemed to have in it a human cry of pain. It was a language that could appeal to the heart when word or lip failed.

The child’s whole frame shook beneath the heavy sobs that swelled up in her throat, and the great grief had opened its flood-gates. Hour after hour he played untiringly, while the violence of the storm spent itself. The music, at first sorrowful, hurt, had cried out in its pain; then it grew into a measure so yearning, it seemed the very genius of sympathy. Making an intense appeal, it swelled into a great passion, which gradually became exhausted by its own intense vehemence, until about the going down of the sun it died. And the child slept.

The wild storm of anguish was over. Upon the face, the thin, pale face of the little girl in her slumber, there shone an expression of such absolute rest that Franz, with a sudden movement, bent down his head and listened. Had she passed with the music to the land where there are strains that swell into a gloria never ending? He held his breath. Was this the reflection of that peace eternal, that rest which endureth forever? A sob quivered for a moment on her features, and escaped from the lips of the sleeper. No, no, for sorrow showed its painful presence. She was not dead, and, at the sigh, sad though it was to see, the man arose with a smothered exclamation of relief.

The quiet day was drawing to its close. Within the room the shadows were already thickening; without, long lines of mist festooned the hills in plumes of royal purple, and the red haze of Indian-summer had gathered into broad streamers that unfurled their splendor across the tranquil sky. The floating twilight hung over the wide and level pastures. Down by the creek the scarlet sage still showed its coral fringe, and sometimes the woodbine, close by the house, waved its painted leaves. Far off in the filmy vale the group of maples that had stood crowned with a golden glory now shrouded themselves in black; and beyond, like a long stretch of desolate shore, the great gloom lifted up its chilly banks.

Many times from the window in his parlor Franz Erckman had watched the divine pageant of night ascend the valley in all the pomp and grandeur of its magnificence, in all the solemn majesty of its silence, in all the ineffable depths of its sadness. Many times in his loneliness he had seen it pass, when a vision of the fair Rhineland would come back to his heart. Many times through its profound solitude he had looked out with yearning eyes, with listening ears, striving to comprehend its sublime mystery. Many times he had turned to it with a soul oppressed by despair reaching toward the Infinite. For, though the people did not know it, beneath the rough exterior of this reserved German dwelt a love of the beautiful—a love so passionate sometimes, it seemed crushing his very spirit that he could not give it utterance in his music. Then it was that often he would rise from his organ in bitter disappointment, and go out with his trouble to seek consolation from the night—the night forever wan with her own unspoken sorrow.

But he stood watching the face of the sleeper, paying no heed to the gathering shade. He stooped and arranged the cushions about the fragile form with the gentle touch of a woman, while upon his features there rested an expression more beautiful than they could ever borrow from the softened light of the evening.

“She would have died,” he said to himself. “But for the music, I believe she would have died! The chords of the organ spoke to her when all earthly words failed. She, at least, can understand the language I have been striving to learn.”

Frail little creature! She appeared, indeed, like a spirit of some other world. Her every nerve had vibrated in sympathy, and Franz could hardly help thinking, as he looked at her, that, soundless to human ears, there played about her ceaseless strains of melody. Music seemed to be the vitality that gave her life, the only nourishment that fed her soul.

When she first came to him for instruction, he quickly discovered that she possessed not the least power of execution, and then had taken no special notice of her further. Wrapped up in his art, teaching the children had never been a pleasure to him. He compelled himself to endure it as a means of subsistence.

The great object for which he worked was once to secure means enough to keep penury always from his door, and then give himself up unreservedly to this art which he loved better than his life. So he took no particular interest in any of his scholars, and it was only when he saw how eagerly the little Alice drank in every sound, that gradually he began to observe the child more narrowly. As he had at first seen, she possessed no power of execution whatever. She could not even learn to read the notes, and she would probably never be able to play a single bar correctly. But he had noticed how keenly alive she was to harmony, how peculiarly sensitive to discord. It seemed as though her lessons were a constant pain. Yet she came eagerly, and often lingered when they were finished.

He had found her once, late in the day, when he had been playing dreamily to himself, sitting on the veranda near the window of his parlor, listening with a rapt attention, wholly unconscious of any thing but his music. Since that, when she came to take her lesson, he had always played for her, carelessly at first, but after a time with greater interest, until gradually he had given up altogether any effort to instruct her, and in its place each day played for her the oratorios and symphonies of the great composers. Then he had changed from the piano to his organ, and he had grown to wait nearly as anxiously for the hour to come round as the little girl herself.

By degrees the visits of the child became to him almost indispensable. He seemed to feel always a strange inspiration come upon him in her presence. Why, he did not know; but it was then that sometimes the wild tumult, the infinite longings of his soul struggled into expression. But, when the child went, he would find himself again dejected, and wholly unable even to recall the strains which seemed to have died at the very moment of their birth.

Franz stood, still watching her motionless form. The sobs, quivering through her sleep, had one by one exhausted themselves, and left her face strangely peaceful to look upon.

“She is mine,” he muttered. “I will never part with her. She is my spirit of sound!”

Suddenly he heard the grating noise of footsteps on the graveled walk. Turning quickly, he drew the curtain over the window to shield the sleeper from the damp night-air. Then he went softly out and closed the door after him, wrapped once more in his severe reserve, and with the old stern expression upon his features. His brows knit themselves into a frown, and his lips curled for a moment with a smile of contempt when he recognized the figure coming into the hall.

“Ha! Erckman, good-evening,” said the man, in a loud and boisterous tone, which seemed to dissipate all the serenity of the night in its pompous swell.

“Good-evening.”

If it had been the first time they had ever met, Franz could not have spoken with colder formality as he showed his guest into the piano-room.

Mr. Cory claimed to be the richest man in Pickaway, and very likely it was true. He owned hundreds of green and fertile acres, with cattle sleek and fat. He was ruling elder in the church, and his wife bought all her bonnets and flounces in the city, and they had built the finest house in the whole of Paint Valley. Indeed, nothing was done without his presence, and every one, from the minister to the sexton, received his advice, which he distributed far more liberally than he did his money. So it was that Franz had mentally guessed the object of his visit the instant he recognized him in the hall.

“Fine weather, this.”

The organist made no more audible reply to the remark than a half-uttered grunt, as he struck a match down the corner of the mantelpiece, and lighted the lamp. Mr. Cory sat uneasily on the hard, hair-cloth chair, dimly conscious of some obstruction in the usually smooth channel of his discourse.

“Sad affair of the Widow Massey.”

“Yes.”

He looked about the room for a moment, as though expecting to discover the presence of some third person, then repeated,—

“Sad affair! sad affair! We are all liable to sudden death, and she ought to have been saving up, in case of such an event. She left nothing to provide for the child at all. Nothing at all. The furniture will barely bring enough to pay for her funeral expenses.”

Franz had sat down mechanically on the music-stool, and rested one hand on the keyboard of the piano. Just as the conversation had reached this point, he suddenly took his hand away, with a nervous movement that sounded three or four discordant bass-notes of the instrument as he did so, and Mr. Cory for the second time found himself laboring under an ill-defined sense of discomfort, something wholly unusual. But, seeing his host showed no symptoms of breaking the silence, after a slight cough, he went on,—

“We have been talking this afternoon as to what is going to be done with the child. You’ve got her here, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, one can’t do a great deal in this way, but you know it is such a sad case, and the child can’t do any work about a house, and my wife is so interested in her she thinks she’ll take the little girl—What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“I beg your pardon, I thought you spoke. My wife is so interested in her she thinks she’ll take the little girl and send her for a year to the industrial school in the city, where she can learn to do fine sewing and embroidery. That will give her a chance to earn her living, and we can take up a collection in church to defray the expense.”

“‘Fine sewing and embroidery’—fine suffering and death!” said Franz, suddenly letting loose his pent-up wrath. “Mr. Cory, would you kill the child? She is frailer than a flower, a sickly little thing, and crippled. One month’s stooping over a needle would put her in the grave. I thought for a moment, but an hour ago, that she was dead.” As he spoke the last word he left his seat, and, taking up the lamp, said,—“Come with me, and step lightly.”

Utterly taken aback at the sudden outburst of the music-master, Mr. Cory followed him across the hall, saw him open the door of the opposite room, and motion him to enter. Then he said, in a quiet voice, while he shaded the lamp carefully with his hand, so that its rays did not fall directly upon the face of the child,—

“Look at her.”

The man stepped forward, but almost immediately drew back, with a shiver, from the sleeper, whose repose so strangely resembled death. She lay upon the sofa, with her hands folded across her breast, as when she had at first fallen into slumber.

Franz stood intently regarding her, when suddenly his guest, coming up close to him, said, with his rough voice dropped into a frightened whisper, and his eyes looking quickly about the room,—

“Where does it come from?”

“What?” asked Franz, startled by his singular manner.

“Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“The music.”

“Music!” exclaimed Franz, dropping his voice also to a whisper, and involuntarily suspending his breath for a moment—“no, I hear no music.”

“It did not seem like the piano or organ. It must have been the wind in the trees outside, but it sounded just like a strain of music. We had better go, or we may waken her,” said Mr. Cory, as he turned to the door, and drew one hand across his forehead, where the perspiration had collected in drops, although the evening was cold and the air chilly.

Franz followed him out, springing the latch gently with his hand as it caught, and they both went back to the piano-room. Here Mr. Cory seemed to recover somewhat of his usual composure.

“Well, Erckman, she does look thin and delicate-like, but sewing won’t hurt her, not a bit. She’ll be better when she’s got something to do. She can’t exist on air, and she can’t live in idleness. She has got nothing, and it’s the only way I know of she can make her living. She must do work of some kind for support.”

Before Franz’s eyes there floated visions of broad and fertile acres, of fine cattle, of fine clothes, of fine houses, but “she must do work of some kind for support,” so he said nothing, while the church-elder continued,—

“There is James Maxwell going to the city to-morrow, and my wife said we had better send her to the school by him.”

“Send her—, Mr. Cory,” said the organist, with a suppressed fierceness in his voice, “You saw how frail she is, how she looks as if, even now, the shadow of death might be upon her. You know how, from her birth, she has been crippled. I tell you one month in that school among strangers would kill her. Are there not strong arms enough in the world, is there not wealth enough already, that this unfortunate one, this perpetually enfeebled child, must wear out her brief span of life in a painful struggle to gain a little food?”

“We are not, sir, expected to keep the ‘unfortunate one,’ as you call her,” blustered Mr. Cory, fairly purple with indignant astonishment. “What do you mean, sir? We are not under obligations to do any thing whatever for the girl. She should be thankful we interested ourselves in her behalf,” he said, partially choking with rage. “We will do this for her, but that is all. She is nothing to us.”

“I had no intention of dictating,” said the organist, politely, who had quieted down as quickly as he had roused up. “You are right, sir, she is nothing to you, and you need not trouble yourself about the matter further. I will see that the child is provided for.”

Then Mr. Cory looked at Franz as if he thought he had not heard aright, or that the music-master might be departing from his senses.

“I repeat, I will see that the child is provided for, and you need not trouble yourself in regard to her further.”

“Very well, sir, very well!” exclaimed the elder, rising, almost speechless with surprise. But when he reached the piazza he said,—“Then it is understood that I am not responsible in the case?”

“It is understood.”

Franz had had no intention of parting with the child. He would not have given her up had Mr. Cory offered all his grassy meadows. He watched him as he walked down the graveled path and disappeared in the darkness. “Charity!” he muttered. “Shut him out, O Night—hide him from view! Wrap your impenetrable mantle about him, that it may shield him from the eye of God and man!”

The German stood for a moment looking out into the limitless gloom, which screened alike the evil and the good, then he turned again into the house.

He went back, through the dining-room where his supper was spread untouched upon the table, to the kitchen, where Margery sat warming herself by the dying embers in the stove. The old servant was used to his irregular ways, and often saw his meals go untasted without a remark. But it was rarely the master ever intruded upon her premises, and she rose up as he came in, with an expression of surprise upon her quiet face.

“Margery,” he said, “fix up the bedroom next to yours, then come down to me in the parlor.”

The old woman heard him without a question, though never before could she remember when the guest-chamber had been used, or a visitor staid overnight at the house.

When she had obeyed his instructions she presented herself at the parlor-door. There was no lamp in the room, only a narrow strip of light fell upon the floor from across the hall, but it did not penetrate the heavy shadow, and Margery, with a half-uttered apology upon her lips, drew back. At the sound of the woman’s steps, Franz came out of the gloom.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“What is the matter?”

“I did not know you was playin’, or I would have waited,” said the servant, respectfully, who had learned long ago never under any circumstances to interrupt her master at his practice.

“I was not playing.”

“Warn’t it you, sir? It was so dark I could not see.”

“Me? no; nor any body else. No one was playing.”

“Why, I thought I heard—but it must have been the wind,” said Margery, glancing across her shoulder to the vacant piano-stool. “I thought I heard music just as I opened the door.—The room is ready, sir.” Franz bent over the sofa and raised the sleeping form in his arms. Turning to Margery, he said,—

“She is light. Here, carry her up and put her to bed. Don’t waken her if you can help it, and go to her once or twice in the night to see that she sleeps, for she is not well.”

Then he added, as an abrupt explanation,—

“She will occupy that room always. This is to be her home, and I want you to see that she has every thing necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

If the old servant was surprised at the announcement, she made no remark. She took her up, arranged every thing for the night, and the child never awakened.

It was not an unpleasant expression that spread itself upon the face of the woman as she stooped over the bed, and laid with a careful hand every fold about the sleeper. With noiseless feet she came again and again to look once more at the unconscious form that seemed to possess for her a singular attraction. Taking up the lamp, she turned to go into her own (the adjoining) room, but, with an abrupt start, she checked herself midway in the action, held the light suspended, and stood with every muscle arrested, as if some unexpected sound had fallen suddenly on her ears. Then she bent her head for a moment over the sleeper, glanced quickly about the room, and hurriedly crossed to the hall.

She ran down the flight of stairs, looked first into the piano-room, then into the parlor opposite. Both places were deserted, and the instruments closed. The front door was bolted, and the master had evidently retired. She went back to the guest-chamber. The child still slept, and Margery held every nerve in suspense, but there was not the least sound. She stepped to the window, pushed up the sash, then leaned out and listened. The night was perfectly calm. What gentle breeze there had been two hours before had died away and left a profound silence unbroken even by the chirp of an insect. She closed the shutter, went back to the bedside again for an instant; then, saying quietly to herself, “It must have been mere fancy,” passed out to her own room, and left the door partially open between the two apartments.

II.

So the little Alice had found a home. All the people in Pickaway expressed their utter surprise at this unexpected generosity of the penurious music-master. He certainly was about the last person in the town from whom such an act might have been anticipated. Indeed, it was little short of an enigma to the place. But their astonishment knew no bounds when, within a few days after he had taken the little girl, he quietly dismissed all his pupils, and steadily refused to give any more lessons to a single soul. Nothing could prevail upon him, no entreaties whatever could persuade him, and he could never be induced to offer the least explanation.

Some of the wealthier ones, unwilling to give him up, had voluntarily proposed to pay double the former price, but even money, which all the village had thought the god of his life, failed to move him from his determination. He was inexorable. Every body wondered what might be the reason. No person could discover any apparent cause why he should so suddenly give up teaching. They inquired about his health. It was very good, he said. Did he expect to leave home? No. He would continue to play the church-organ? Yes, oh, yes; he had no intention of stopping that. So they conjectured until tired of the task, while Franz Erckman paid no attention.

However, as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, all the village saw that a change had come over the organist. He was less communicative than formerly, and more severely reserved.

From the borders of the creek the fringe of scarlet flowers had vanished. The myriad leaves had lost their rainbowed glory, and dropped, one after another, in russet tatters to the ground. The woodbine had thrown off its vermilion raiment, and now stretched up unclothed its weird and snake-like arms. The group of maples had laid down its golden crown; the hills, too, had cast aside their tiara of brilliant emerald. The Summer and Fall, in all their emblazoned splendor, had passed by, and the gorgeous livery of Autumn faded to the grizzled hues of Winter.

Up the tawny valley a bleak December wind swept, making a cheerless rattle among the naked trees, and the creek slumbered quietly beneath its covering of ice; but this time no children came over the frozen turnpike to the house at the foot of the hill. More secluded than ever it seemed. Before the bitter winds had risen, in the pleasant November days, Franz had often rambled through the woods, carrying the little Alice, when she felt tired, in his arms. But, as the air grew chill, they staid almost wholly within the house. After that Franz rarely left it except when his duties as organist called him to the church, and then he invariably took the little girl with him, wrapped carefully in a heavy cloak.

The people noticed that he was never seen any where without the child. If the weather proved bad on the Sabbath, or on the days when he went sometimes during the week to play, he still carried her with him, but an additional fur mantle was thrown around her for protection. She had never grown stronger; but, since that first night, when the organist had broken down the great barrier of grief that was closing up like a strong wall about her heart, they were seldom separated in her waking hours.

During all this time Franz had changed so strangely that the village gossips said one would hardly have known him for the same person. To be sure, he had always been silent and reserved, but now he had become absolutely inapproachable. His manner, which was naturally abrupt, was often now wild and feverish. His face, too, had grown thin, his cheeks hollow, his whole figure gaunt. His eyes, brilliant but sunken, had assumed a singular expression of unrest, a perpetually searching look, as if forever striving to see the invisible, and it began finally to be whispered about among the people that the church-organist was not quite right in his head. They noticed, besides, that he would never allow the child to be enticed out of his sight. The ladies often tried to pet her, but she shrank invariably from every one except Franz, to whom she clung as if he were the one prop that sustained her life.

So the time had worn away at the musician’s home. Margery, respectful as ever in her manner, assiduously waited upon the little girl, who received all her attentions gratefully, and never voluntarily made a single demand. But there had passed a change over the old servant also. From her usually quiet ways she had become restless, as if there might be something upon her mind that rendered her constantly uneasy, or from which she was ineffectually trying to free herself. If she were sour or cross in disposition, as all the scholars used to tell, she had never shown it to the little orphan. She watched the child with a strange devotion. She would follow her about the house at a distance, and, if the little girl for a time sat down upon the veranda, Margery, too, farther off, would sit there with her sewing, or embrace that opportunity to trim the woodbine, and once or twice she had even found an excuse to intrude herself for a moment in the parlor.

Every evening, when she put the little girl to bed, Margery, with a strange, expectant look upon her face, would linger about the room long after her charge had fallen into a peaceful sleep. Then, when she had retired, often in the very middle of the night, she would suddenly waken from a sound slumber, spring out of bed, and, before she was thoroughly conscious, discover herself standing beside the child, with her head bent down in a listening position, and every nerve strained to catch the slightest sound. Immediately she would rundown stairs into the music-rooms, only to find them both deserted and the instruments closed. With a white countenance she would return, pause once more in the child’s room, and then lie down again, saying to herself, for the hundredth time,—

“It must be mere fancy. I have been dreaming.”

There was no element of superstition in Margery, but this incident would recur over and over, night after night, until she began to ask herself if, before she had reached sixty years, she was already losing her mind, and this the first fancy of a disordered imagination. It was strange, she told herself, that she should dream the same thing so often, and every time it should be so vivid, for she heard a strain of music as distinctly as she ever heard a sound in her life, though it was not like the piano, organ, or, indeed, any instrument. And, though vivid, it was so evanescent it made her doubt the veracity of her senses. Then, too, it never came from down stairs, or out-of-doors, but always seemed apparently to emanate from the bedside of the little child, though, as soon as she had stooped to listen, it was gone, and the reign of silence again left supreme. Once or twice, even during the day, when standing beside the little Alice, Margery had heard, or thought she heard, a sudden waft of this soft melody sweep by her, but so fleeting that it was gone before she could catch her breath to listen, or be sure it was not simply all her own imagination.

So, with this constantly upon her mind, Margery had grown restless, and found herself continually watching the little girl. She was not insensible either of the great change that had, by some means or other, been wrought in her master since the child had come into the house. She, as well as the people, had noticed that he would never, if possible, allow her out of his sight. He never played a night now by himself as he had been used to doing for years. After the child went to bed the instruments were always closed, for he never put his hand upon the keyboard unless she were present. And, even when he had her beside him, he did not seem happy.

The people at church said, as he had changed, his music, too, had changed; but, as he had grown more wild and feverish in manner, his music had grown more softened and beautiful in style. And once, after he had played a dreamy harmony that held them all entranced, he had come down from the organ-gallery with a fierce fire burning in his eyes, and hands that trembled violently, though they were clasped tight over the little girl in his arms. When they had complimented him he looked bewildered, and spoke in a confused way, as though he could not remember what he had been playing. Now, more convinced than ever were the people that something was evidently wrong with the music-master, and, notwithstanding he had lost nothing in his art, many shook their heads, and whispered that poor Erckman was, beyond a doubt, going crazy.

December had worn almost into Christmas. In every house of the village there were preparations for the approaching holiday. The church, too, was undergoing some mysterious process at the hands of the young people, who went in and out at all hours by the back way, and steadily refused admittance to any one. They had even closed the doors against the organist when he went there one morning to play, but he was easily persuaded to withdraw, as he cared far more for solitude than society.

Franz sat moodily by the fire in his parlor, with the little girl upon a cushion at his feet. They were both naturally silent, and would often sit quietly together for hours. But now, though the musician gazed absently into the grate, and seemed to take no heed of the child, she looked up once or twice into his face, then said, in a timid voice,—

“Father, to-morrow is Christmas.”

Franz had long ago taught her to call him father, and he merely answered mechanically, without taking his eyes from the illuminated coals,—

“Yes.”

“How dark the night is out, and how shrill and bleak the wind blows!” She had risen from her seat and gone to the window. “But to-morrow is Christmas-day, and I know it will be bright then; oh, I am sure it will be bright!”

She stood a moment longer by the casement without speaking, then came back and sat down again, looking almost as ethereal as some spirit, that might vanish any moment forever into the glow of the red firelight.

“You will play something very beautiful to-morrow, will you not, father? You will make the voluntary better than all the service besides? Oh, for such a celebration, it ought to be the most magnificent music in the world, for, think, father, it will be Christmas, the grandest day in all the year! It seems to me I can hardly wait to hear you, I have been looking forward to it so long. But, father, you have not practised any for it, have you?” said the child, looking up suddenly with quick dismay upon her features.

Franz, still without glancing at the little girl, or taking his eyes from the fire, said,—

“No,” but he clasped his hands nervously together.

“Oh, father, you did not forget about it, did you?” she asked eagerly. “I have so often and often thought of it, though I did not say any thing, but it is strange I never once thought about the practising. Oh, you could not have forgotten it, father?”

She was so intensely earnest, it seemed as if her whole soul was in the question, trembling while it awaited the reply.

“No, I have not forgotten it,” said Franz, “It has hardly been out of my mind one moment for many weeks; but I have nothing to play.”

At first, her face had been perfectly radiant; but, when he added the last clause, she got up, put her arms about his neck, and said, with a kind of terror in her voice,—

“Oh, no, no! You will play, father—tell me you will play!”

Franz moved uneasily in his seat.

“And it will be something grand, father. Oh, you will please everybody—I am not afraid of that. Quick, tell me you will play. Father, if you did not—I can not bear to think of it—oh, you will—say you will!”

Her entreaty had fairly grown into wild desperation. Every fiber of her frame quivered as she clung to him. Alarmed at her singular agitation, he took her up on his knee, and said, hurriedly,—

“Yes, yes; I will play. Do not be troubled about it; I will play.”

“Oh, I am so glad! I knew you would, and it will be grand, I am sure, for to-morrow is Christmas!”

Her face was radiant with pleasure; but so extreme had been her excitement that nearly an hour later, when Margery came to take her upstairs, she still trembled.

Franz, left alone, paced the floor of his room up and down, sometimes stopping to look moodily into the fire. He had had this thing long upon his mind. Feeling the divine power of genius within him, he was not willing to play over again what generations had played over a hundred times before him. Yet he tried unavailingly to improvise. Once or twice, when playing, with the little Alice beside him, he had suddenly entranced even himself; but as soon as he undertook to reproduce the notes, either upon paper or upon the organ, he discovered them gone from his memory, and himself utterly powerless. It had only been latterly that he felt hampered in this way; yet he was conscious, notwithstanding, that his music at the same time had undergone a vast improvement. But he struggled against this one fault vainly. He had been determined to work out a new composition for this great occasion; and now, upon the very verge of Christmas-day, after all his unceasing anxiety, he found himself without a single idea—wholly unprepared. In his disappointment, he had almost been ready to absent himself altogether from the church; but the sudden appeal of the little girl had compelled him to give up this cowardly refuge, of which in a better mood he would have been ashamed.

The child had not prophesied incorrectly. Under cover of night, the clouds marshaled themselves into gray battalions, which fled precipitately before the lances of the morning, that in resplendent array, column upon column, mounted the eastern sky; and Christmas—this day forever sacred to the world in its grand memories—dawned with the blaze of victorious colors.

Bathed in sunlight, the crystal valley wreathed itself with brilliant jewels; the sparkling trees held up their embossed arches of frosted silver; and from the glittering hill-sides cold flakes of fire burned in diamond hues almost blinding to the eye—for a slight fall of snow during the night had spread itself over the land, and covered it as with a mantle of transfiguration.

The bell in the tower had long been ringing out its invitation to worship, before Franz, carrying the little Alice on his arm, left the house. A singular eagerness rested on the face of the child, whose usually pale cheeks were now colored with a crimson flush that deepened almost to scarlet in the center. She held quietly to Franz, sometimes looking at him for a moment, then turning her eyes again toward the village.

Though she said no word, it seemed as if she could hardly wait until they reached the church, but that her impatient spirit would break its bounds and fly. But Franz walked with a slow, unwilling step. A fierce despair appeared to be consuming him. His disappointment was made keener when he saw the wild expectation with which the little Alice looked forward to his music, and her confident belief that it would be far grander than any thing he had ever done before.

The villagers, by groups, in twos, in threes, with happy faces, coming from far and near, poured into the church. Paying no heed to any one as he passed, Franz entered by the side door, and went immediately up into the organ-gallery. With glad eyes, the little Alice saw the church in its festival decorations. Beautiful wreaths of cedar coiled themselves around the great pillars, and crept in waving lines over altar, arch, and casement, their unfading green sometimes flecked with amber, sometimes dyed in violet light, as the rays of the sun caught the tints from the windows of stained glass. Resting against the center of the chancel rail, a magnificent cross of hot house flowers loaded the air with the perfumes of summer—an incense more pure and holy than the incense of myrrh; and on either side sprays of English ivy, in long and twining branches, displayed their wax-like leaves.

The last vibrations of the bell died away. The congregation chanted its anthem; the minister read the Christmas service; and the first strains of the organ-voluntary, after the close of the litany, sounded through the church. The little Alice, with a throbbing pulse, crept close to Franz as he played; but it was only the familiar music, that the world already knew by heart, and had heard a thousand times before. Poor Franz, warring against himself, had been driven back to the composition of others, though he knew he possessed within him a power that should have created, that should have raised him above all written measure. But now even his execution was a dead, mechanical labor.

A swift expression of keen disappointment fell upon the child’s face. She looked up at him, with a gesture, slight but strangely appealing, and with eyes filled by a sorrowful reproach—such a look as one might wear in the last moment, whose most cherished friend had suddenly turned and dealt him a death-blow.

But Franz played on mechanically, with the pang of despair at his heart. Suddenly, half-way in a bar, in the very midst of a single note almost, a sensation of fear came upon him—an overwhelming awe that seemed to lock his muscles and turn his hands into stone. The organ ceased abruptly; he sat motionless as a statue; and a death-like silence reigned throughout the church. Had the same unaccountable awe fallen upon the congregation, too? The whole universe waited.

Out of the profound silence a sound was born, a sound more beautiful than the music of a dream. Soft as a whisper, clear and distinct, it grew, wave upon wave, into a grand volume of harmony, that was not loud, though it seemed as if it reached beyond the church-walls and floated on through endless space. Was it, then, music from that land where the crystal air breathes a perpetual melody? The people by one impulse sprang to their feet, and turned with awe-stricken faces toward the gallery. Grander, more majestic, it swelled into a glad chorus, whose gloria, inspired with praise, rose up into heaven. It was an adoration of sublime joy that seemed too intense to be ascribed to mortal spirit; and the people fell upon their knees while they listened. Over plains, over hills, in the sky, it seemed to reverberate and answer back, sweeter than the sound of silver, vaster than the roll of ocean—the hallelujah of myriad voices, the song as of an innumerable multitude,—

“Glory be to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men—”

Again and again the refrain gathered into a measure more triumphant than the strains of a victorious army. Then, ascending higher and higher, it fainted through infinite distance, and was gone as if it had passed beyond the very portals of eternity.

The spellbound audience hardly moved for a moment, even after the music had died; but when the first stir broke the silence they collected about the organist with eager questions. Franz, still sitting at his instrument, had never turned. Anxious to testify their wild admiration, they were ready almost to bow down before him; but they were obliged to speak several times before he gave the slightest heed. Then he looked up abruptly and said with a strange impatience,—

“Did not you see?”

There was a confused expression in his eyes, as if they might have been blinded by a great light, and their vision not yet wholly recovered. The people looked at him, then at each other in bewilderment, but, as if he had suddenly comprehended their meaning, he went on quickly,—

“It was not I. I did not play a note. It was the music of another world, the music of the first Christmas. Did not you see the host of angels in the sky, and the shepherds that watched their flocks by night upon the plains of Judea? It was the gloria sung at the nativity of Christ by the angels centuries ago, beside the village of Bethlehem!”

Then the people, regarding him with doubtful faces, drew back, and he said, with fierce excitement,—

“If you do not believe, ask the little Alice there. She will tell you.”

The little girl sat close to his bench, but when they turned to her she made no reply. They raised her up. Their question never received an answer, and Franz with a wild cry fell upon his knees by her side. The child was dead.

For many years afterward the musician lived on in the old place at the foot of the hill, but he never again could be prevailed upon to strike a note of any instrument or listen to a strain of any music. More rarely than ever did he speak to a soul, and then it was only at the Christmas time, to tell again of the little Alice, his spirit of sound, to tell of that wonderful gloria of immortal praise sung by a multitude of the heavenly hosts, whose splendor, almost blinding to his eyes, had lighted up earth and sky over the far-off plains of Palestine, where the shepherds, centuries ago, were watching their flocks by night.

Strangers heard his tale with a scarcely concealed smile, and shook their heads sorrowfully as the old man, feeble and palsied, with a singular brilliance in his sunken eyes, turned away. But all the villagers spoke of him with respect, almost with awe, and the children learned to hush their mirth in reverence as he passed by. Margery, with a face quieter than ever, said little, but served her master with an untiring devotion, and after she had closed his eyes in death, when she was an old, old woman, sometimes in the evening she would suddenly break her long silence to tell a wondering group of Franz and the little Alice, and of the mysterious melody that played about the child.

And so the people of Paint Valley relate the story yet, and show the graves in the long grass of the village church-yard, where, side by side, they wait to join at the last day the throng whose immortal gloria shall surpass even that grand Christmas anthem—the song of the angels heard by the shepherds upon the plains of Judea.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

- THE Automaton Ear, AND OTHER SKETCHES.

- CONTENTS.

- THE AUTOMATON EAR.

- THE PATHS OF THE SEA.

- REINHART, THE GERMAN.

- SILVER ISLET.

- BOYDELL, THE STROLLER.

- THE DEATH-WATCH.

- THE MAN AT THE CRIB.[1]

- PROF. KELLERMANN’S FUNERAL.

- THE FEVERFEW.

- OLD SIMLIN, THE MOULDER.

- THE ANTHEM OF JUDEA.

- I.

- II.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE