Mr. Valance looked pained, surprised beyond words, not thus was Miss Meredith wont to speak of the life he had consecrated to all lofty uses. Seeing she had stabbed her lover, her woman's nature reproached her. Something of the warm, sweet manner, entirely her own, came back. “Forgive me, Philip," she said, gently touching his forehead with a caress. "I will play for you whatever you like." She played her softest music, chorded low like harp-murmurs, As she played, her friend, Mabel Grand, came in. A wide mirror hung inclined just above the piano. Miss Meredith, for the first time in her life a spy, fixed her eyes upon its surface; some reflections might be profitable, perhaps they would bear out her theory. Serene, graceful, with that half-disdain that seemed to scorn her beauty, Mrs. Grand came in, holding amber-haired child Belle by the hand. At the sight of Philip Valance her aspect changed, warmed into life and eagerness. She came forward quickly. Mr. Valance lifted the child, kissed it, held it close, set it down, then with one of his sweetest, tenderest smiles, whispered into Mrs. Grand's ear. Oh, what words were those that made her flush and kindle, catch Philip Valance's hand in hers, and press on it such kisses as seemed alien to the inflexible mouth that had declared she lived "only for her child?" Miss Meredith looked no more-it was enough; love lay slain, hope fell dead beside it—it was a mortal wound, this! For an instant only the music ceased. Then the woman gathered herself up-none need know her death-agony. The swan dies singing, they say. She would be dead to them henceforward, so she began to play, they listened to what? A dirge, sad and sweet, that went sobbing and sighing along the keys, striking sometimes a keen note of woe that made them shiver. The last notes seemed the wailing ery of a child calling, at night out of icy blasts and wintry cold, for help. "Oh, what is that, Elizabeth?" asked both lover and friend, below their breath. "Hush!" she said; "that is called a dirge; it has no other name; but do you not hear how a heart is breaking in it? There, it is broken now, and the music is ended." The keys clashed beneath a sudden and final sweep. Miss Meredith rose, said "Good-night," and went away. She is like a child, we must humor her," and taking his hat, Mr. Valance departed, half sad, half-puzzled, yet with a bright, sweet smile uppermost the smile one would fancy of a lover who refused to doubt or lose faith for a moment in the one beloved. Mabel Grand placed her hand to her forehead, and thought—“ I wonder if Elizabeth has found it all out? I knew she would be displeased, but I had not fancied she would lay it so to heart. But then she is so sensitive, so high-flown in her generosity; it will be hard work to reconcile her, I suppose." Yet Mabel smiled, even as these thoughts passed through her mind, and an expression, pleased and triumphant, touched the mouth so choicely cut, so inflexibly firm. Then she also left the grand suit of drawing-rooms, whose long vistas of brightness showed what art, combined with noble taste, could do for the adornment of what one woman had made—what is not often found where all else is beautiful-a home. Yes, here Elizabeth Meredith had drunk the choicest nectar that the world can hold to a woman's lips. Shadows, save those born of twilight revery, and tender, graceful sadnesses, had not touched her. Cradled in sunlight, she had walked a pathway lustrous, as all men saw. If angels' eyes had read another history, if angels' hands, knowing that perfection is won only through suffering, were leading her out of the dark mystery of sin, into the true light cast from above, then were it well, indeed, that heavy disaster had seemed to come at last! I will not ask you to witness what Miss Meredith was suffering alone there in the quiet of her room, while the others slept. Be sure, though, that if tears were wept they were those of mortal agony; never again would the starry eyes shine with the old lustre of keen vitality and exuberance of glee. "My best days are done," bitterly said Miss Meredith, as the pale dawn, creeping up the sky, touched the forehead, regal yet, though the coronet of queenship the world had placed there should shine upon it no more forever. None, None saw Miss Meredith that day. except one very cool, quiet old gentleman-her lawyer, David Square. With him she held close consultation for an hour. If he looked aghast at her unique proposals; if, lifting his spectacles, he regarded his client as if he imagined her "clean daft-bereft of her senses, Miss Meredith, firm as a rock, carried her point. The business being settled, this "client extraordinary," as David Square called her to his quiet self, asked for pen and ink, wrote a few words, enclosed the same, and handed it to her lawyer. The missive was addressed to Mabel Grand and Philp Val ance. These were the words contained therein: changed and yet so changeless, in its fixed deter| mination—it seemed as if the dawn of some sweet hope missed of before in all the beautiful reveries that had been so fair, was rising to the sight. "God will keep me," said Miss Meredith, with "I know the truth. Mabel and Philip, marry wondering awe, as if she hardly understood the and be happy. ELIZABETH MEREDITH." Oh, it was very like this woman to write so, no reproach, no bandying of bitter epithets! She smiled when she had finished, she took a strange content in her own generosity. word, yet longed to know its meaning, and so with bowed head left David Square standing in the midst of his parchments. He actually forgot to escort his client to her carriage. The truth ` is that for the first, last, and only time in the course of any business transaction, David Square "Miss Meredith, you are certain this is your fixed mind. Half your fortune to Philip Val-was actually crying. ance, who was to have been your husband, and your house and furniture to Mabel Grand, who is to be the wife of the same-said Philip Valance?" II. Restonville was an exceedingly quiet country town, its streets long vistas of trees, that made a That is my will, sir, none can change or dim, sweet twilight even on summer noons when revoke it." Mr. Square brought in papers and witnesses; presently, his client, with the face that had been ever changing until now, signed everything with immovable mien, then rose to go. the air was ablaze with sunlight. Miss Meredith drove through the still streets, feeling very much as if the person she had always known by that name, were dead and done for, and as if she were attending the funeral. For a second the face quivered, then settled into a dead calm. "Mr. Square, I accept at The carriage stopped before a subdued-looking once the home proposed by you. When the brown house, opposite a wide park filled with two I need not name them-are married, trees that gleamed now with all brilliant colorsafely and surely, with enough to keep theming, as if they had caught a sunset in their from all want, you may tell them where Miss branches, and loved it too well to let it go for Meredith has found her home." many a long day. The quiet, subdued old gentleman, who had always looked upon himself as Miss Meredith's legal adviser only, looked strangely troubled now that the business part of the transaction was concluded, David Square discovered that he had a human heart beating within his breast. "God keep you from all harm, Miss Meredith!" She turned, with a touch of her old genial impulsiveness. "Say that again, dear friend, say it again." A lady, in silver-gray, came out and stood on the long piazza. She held out a kindly hand, saying-" David Square tells me thy name is Elizabeth. Thee is welcome to the best my house offers, for David's sake." So Miss Meredith entered the home her lawyer had placed at her disposal. She was to remain, if it suited her. In her changed mood, Miss Meredith felt at once that it would suit. She retained her old knack of making herself at "God keep you, my child, and bless you home, that would never leave her. always." As he spoke, Miss Meredith caught at the hand that had always seemed dry, and hard, and business-like as his parchments, made to drive a quill and hold a retaining fee-it held a blessing now. She took this hand, laid it upon the shining nair, rolled in broad waves back from the forehead, said, simply and sadly-"I have been blessed always, Mr. Square. There is no one to bless me now." "I have heard Mr. Square speak of you as Aunt Miriam; I may call you so too. And because I am very tired, please take me to my room." 44 Aunt Miriam led the way up the shining staircase of burnished oak. These are thy rooms, Elizabeth," she said. "I trust they will suit thee." "Yea, verily," answered Elizabeth, halfsmiling, half ready to cry, for again the strange sensation smote her of her other self being dead, With quivering lip the heretofore cool, quiet and her present self being in attendance at the man of business repeated his word of blessing.funeral. A soft light touched, for a moment, the face so There were two rooms, the first a parlor. thought within herself, "Zilla I will touch thee with an enchanter's wand presently." The next day almost the only article of all her beautiful possessions that the heiress had retained came to hand. It was that she was wont to term "birdie" and "darling"-the piano of ebony and gold, made by the first master of the trade in Germany. With this standing in her room, a sense of home, sweet and bitter both, settled upon its possessor. She flung wide the door and began to improvise. Footsteps swift yet soft drew near. Presently Miss Meredith, turning herself in profile, saw Zilla's face bright with radiant glee; she owned the wand of the enchanteryielded herself without resistance. "Oh, I love you, I would die for you!" said Zilla, stooping and kissing the fingers that could weave such magic of all instruments from the Let us see what will happen next," thought Miss Meredith, now that I am dead and buried." How quiet the house seemed. A light foot-keys of one. step passed the door, a low, gushing warble, like the caroling of a lark fell upon Miss Meredith's ear. Just a few notes, then the singer, as if remembering herself, hushed the delicious sweetness, and quiet was everywhere. "Zilla, Zilla! thy pies are burning!" called Aunt Miriam, in clear, warning accents from below. Exit Zilla, lowering and defiant. "Out of her sphere-she is a genius," quoth Miss Meredith, continuing her music, exulting "I shall not live the winter out," thought in her own gift and its perfect cultivation. Miss Meredith, and began unpacking. It came tea-time, and Miss Meredith, somewhat to her surprise found herself desperately hungry. This was no misfortune at Aunt Miriam's table so spotless in its white purity of linen and quaint old china that held dainty fare enough for an epicure, if Aunt Miriam did say, "We are but plain folks, Elizabeth. I trust thee will not starve, though." "I think not, indeed, Aunt Miriam," quoth Elizabeth, dryly, looking up at a young girl who had just entered with a dish from whence waffles of a delicate brown sent up a tempting odor. This is Zilla," said Aunt Mirian. "She is my daughter by adoption and I think you will be company for one another." "No need to ask now who owned that fresh gushing voice that had struck joy into the quiet atmosphere-the joy of a skylark singing out of the clouds in May-time. Miss Meredith was too thoroughly a master-musician not to know by instinct a temperament akin to her own. Yet Zilla did not look joyous for all her voice of the skylark. The eyes and mouth were sullen and almost defiant. She looked, in fine, savagely discontented. Miss Meredith's breeding was choice; she let Zilla alone, talked with Aunt Miriam, yet The next day being Sunday, Miss Meredith went to church. When she had been her other self she had owned a pew at Grace, had gone there if she chanced not to oversleep herself of a Sunday morning; had yawned behind her glove-had recognized, in fine, as little of that loving worship which the devout heart renders to the Giver of all good as it was possible for any human heart to do. She went on foot to-day, strolling contentedly through the streets made rich and dim by wide over-arching boughs, shifting into brilliant tints of autumn. She found the house of God to which she had been sent. There was no bustle of carriages before the simple Gothic porchwithin, no glitter of jewels and silks-one had thought it opera-matinee at Grace of Sabbath mornings-this seemed better to Elizabeth Meredith as she entered beneath the belfry, ringing out its urgent invitation to the passer by. A devout quiet reigned within, and through the altar window a gentle light entered, was tinted by the crimson cross set in its midst, and touched, as with a blessing, the bowed heads of the reverent worshippers. Miss Meredith watched for the sermon: the ground was ready for seed; either the world would sow its bitter harvest of disdain, impatience of life, loss of faith in all things, or else→→ one listener would learn God's will that day, little opportunities, will be rocky as well when and strive to walk in the knowledge. the great one comes." With that most genial child-hearted impulsiveness which belonged to the best part of this Somehow as the organ music throbbed and rose, as the preacher took his place, underneath it all the words of David Square's parting bless-woman's nature, Miss Meredith held out a frank ing seemed to weave themselves into the harmony. "God bless yon, my child, and keep you from harm!" The preacher spoke; these were the words Miss Meredith found were said to her- The heart that hardens itself to little opportunities, will be rocky as well when the great one comes.' "Little opportunities," one listener's heart ached. What in times past had she done with the great ones ever at hand? She thought of Philip Valance, of his grand life given to the outcast and fallen, had she ever tried to understand and help him? Hush, why think of him! since friend and lover were false, had she not a right to doubt all things? That night saw another struggle, another conquest; in the morning was victory, not wrought by human power, but by the strength that battles for us, the weak, the sinful. Aunt Miriam, your adopted daughter, Zilla, has a wonderful voice; I will teach her to sing." "Thee-teach" asked Aunt Miriam, in surprise. 'Besides, I did not mean to make Zilla a fine lady." Miss Meredith coaxed-gained her point. Zilla, in a trance of rapture, found herself the pupil of a master-musician. hand of greeting" My name is Meredith, sirElizabeth Meredith. I wish to be employed to be made useful. Show me how." She had met with a heart as frank as her own. Presently they were in Restonville. With a few words, the preacher showed her work enough and to spare. There was the parish school for one thing. He needed "help." Would she give it? "Yes." Miss Meredith found herself installed as teacher; also a district lying riverward that needed a warm woman's heart and voice to reclaim and renovate it was hers. And still, wherever she came, the thought of Philip Valance was beside her. This, and far more than this, had been his life-work. Oh, if he had but been true! Hand in hand they might have walked together, and made the world brighter and better by God's help as they went. Saddest sweetness of a dream forever done. The brave heart faltered, the tears came for a moment, then a quiet strength, not her own, wrapped the spirit that had been so deeply wounded. Time passed; the dazzling lustre that had made starry spheres of Miss Meredith's eyes in the past, would shine no more, but the soft, clear light that now took up its abiding place, was like that of the planets, serene and fair. The chisel of suffering had touched as well the mobile face, and shaped it with that tender grace that Raphael's Madonnas wear. So far so good. That afternoon, Miss Meredith took a solitary walk. She chose a long walk up a steep hillside, from whence she might see lying beneath, in the quiet valley, the peaceful township of Restonville. It lay brilliant now in afternoon sunlight, with the gold and scarlet of autumn tinting its tree-lined avenues; a faint mist showed where its silvery boundary, the wide Hudson, swept by; beyond was the blue of its multitudinous hills; and farther yet away, faint upon the horizon, the cloudy sum-like friendly hands into the dark. A table, mits of the most majestic Catskills taxed the utmost limit of the gazer's eye. Elizabeth Meredith gazed long, the mountains faint and far distant, yet sent forth that potent voice which says ever to the gazer-" Aspire." With a gesture of entreaty, a silent prayer that she might be shown the way and walk therein, Miss Meredith turned. Coming towards her, she saw the preacher whose words had not ceased to vibrate since she had caught their meaning-"The heart that hardens itself to It was the eve of the New Year. Miss Meredith's room to-night wore something of the oldtime brightness that had always been the characteristic of her surroundings. Yule logs glowed, and cracked, and sparkled in the wide fireplace, and stretched out long lines of light choicely set with many a dainty, showed guests were expected. The swinging basket of mosses and scarlet blossoms adorned a bower of holly in the windows, and everywhere besides the fragrance of pine boughs, made into Christmas wreathings, turned the sad tintings of the room into brightness. Miss Meredith, too, acknowledged the magie of the season. Some of the scarlet sprays of the moss-basket swayed pendant from the purple black hair, and a knot of scarlet rested against the rim of lace surrounding the throat, that seemed pearly fair in the adornment that suited it best. Miss Meredith had made herself thus gay to "please the children," who began to come now thick and fast. Orphan children some of them were, some outcast worse than orphans, many with faces touched with marks of early suffering most piteous to see. But all happy to-night, all made fresh and clean in garments most of them fashioned by Miss Meredith's own hands, that had for years been so helpless, so idly soft; she bemoaned all that now bitterly enough. Zilla helped Miss Meredith entertain the little ones. Zilla, whose face had become fashioned into such fair content, you would have been surprised to see it. The sullen look all gone, it was as joyous as her voice that sang carols with the children, Miss Meredith playing meantime at her wondrous instrument with its voices of manifold music; waking such melody, leading the carols so sweetly that one verily thought it "angels singing." It was Aunt Miriam-who was not apt to be fanciful-who said this, standing in the doorway, in her dress of silver-gray, holding a quaint | high dish, filled with candied fruits of amber and ruby-red-this being her contribution to the feast. So the children supped merrily, played with gleeful faces thereafter, at last parted from their hostess with many a clinging kiss, pressing around her as if she had been their mother. Their voices died away-Zilla, caroling softly, laid her head in loving ecstasy upon the shoulder of the woman who had brought such brightness into her life, had trained her gift of song towards perfection with most reverent care. She went, also, at last, and Miss Meredith found herself alone, yet not lonely. The long waxen tapers, green, and pink, and white, that burned in sconces about the room, made brightness everywhere, the fire glowed with heat to its core. Outside, the rising moon showed the great park opposite, fair with many a tree clad in the saintly white of fresh-fallen snow-above, the stars were shining with the white lustre that belongs to the keen air of New Year's Eve. "I am not at all tired," thought Miss Meredith, ensconcing herself in a large chair of chintz beside the fire. "I will sit and watch the Old Year out, the New Year in." There was a bustle in the quiet street, certainly it was a carriage that stopped. Miss VOL. IV., No. 1.-2 Meredith's heart beat, her bosom thrilled with some wild presentiment; she went to the window. First, in the moonlight, a man's figure sprang, in impetuous haste, from the carriage. Philip Valance, none other than he! Next came a little broad figure-David Square; nexthere Miss Meredith prayed for strength, as she said the two words, beneath her breath'Mrs. Valance!" A moment more, and the three had reached her room, had entered by the open door. "My dear child," said Mr. Square, his voice quivering oddly for such a cool man of business, "these two-Philip Valance and Mabel Grand, wouldn't get married,'wouldn't be happy, haunted me until I told them where you were." Exit, David Square. Miss Meredith turned to the man she had called lover; he stood before her like an accusing angel, yet smiling his own sweet smile withal, as one who looks upon a lovely yet most unreasonable child. 66 'Elizabeth, what is the meaning of this riddle?" queried Mabel Grand, white as marble. Miss Meredith spoke as one who dreams. "I thought you two loved one another, that I stood in your way. Can it can it be I have wronged you both?" "A foul, unnatural wrong" said Mabel Grand; "what cause had you for this terrible mistake?" Miss Meredith dropped her head low; how had she dared to let trifles light as air persuade her against her lover, against her friend? "I saw you two together, standing, I thought, as lovers stand, hand in hand, in the hall, one night. I saw you both, once again, in the mirror, as I played, caressing one another, it seemed to me, as lovers may." Mabel Grand, with a face of anguish, fell upon her knees. Sister Elizabeth, I am ready to die even at the thought of such awful treachery. I had fancied myself penniless when I came to you-you who were so angel-kind in my distress. Afterwards, I found my husband had invested money in mines that every one had fancied might as well be in the moon, as far as any return could be expected. But your bounty, generous as it was, gnawed away my peace. I tried to hide my misery, at length told this man, here. Oh, Elizabeth! if you suspected me, could you not keep your faith in him?" Miss Meredith was weeping wildly. |