hollow. She came in the storm: was it a token of the life that awaited her? Outside were the snow, the darkness, the pitiless, wailing blast; within, only the girl, so young, so fair even in her ruin, and the two old people, tearless now and silent, keeping breathless watch over their one child.

The baby came into the world with a wail. Mary Grant brought forth from an old bureau, where they had lain for almost eighteen years, the tiny garments, soft and delicate in fabric, antique and simple in make, which her own fingers had fashioned, joyfully, hopefully, for her youngest-born, Margaret; and in them she robed Margaret's child.

But death was written on the young mother's brow, and the parents could not choose but read. She drew her little one to her arms, and, holding her on her bosom, she blessed her.

"She shall be called Elinor Trumbull, after the mother of her father." When she had said these words, in a firm, quiet tone of command, she seemed to sink in unconsciousness. After a time she roused herself with wild energy.

"Let no one defraud my child of her name," she cried out. "It is hers she has a right to it. Father, mother, promise me that you will call her by this name-Elinor Trumbull ?"

The two old people, with one consent, faltered the required promise, and then she said, in a humble tone, “Before I die, forgive me, my parents. God knows I have loved you, in spite of all I have done to make you suffer. Tell me that you forgive me."

They forgave her without reproach or question. They blessed her with tender tears, and, sitting at her

bed's head, they watched her as she sank again into a sort of drowse, still holding her babe on her breast. After that she never opened her eyes, but she murmured dreamily of green fields and fragrant blossoms, and the babblings of summer brooks, blent now and then with loving words or tender memories about her baby's father. Then all was very still, and they thought her sleeping; but somehow, I know not how, unseen and silently, from that calm her soul stole forth, and was translated to the great endless calm lying beyond. Margaret was dead!

For the next two days the storm raged with unabated violence. The snow, swept by the fierce wind from the mountain tops, was piled high in the valleys, and Moses Grant and his wife were all alone with their dead child and the living babe she had left them. In the interim much of his old sternness had come back to the elder's heart, the self-command and reticence to his outward life. I think he remembered his promise, that the little one should be called by the name of her father's family, with a kind of grim satisfaction in keeping with the silent pride of his character. The village where he lived was in the western part of Connecticut, under the shadows of the mountains, and Trumbull was an old and proud name in the far eastern portion. Gilbert Trumbull had won Margaret Grant's love during a shooting season among the hills, and, a few months after he left Mayfield, driven forth by her father's harshness and scorn, she had followed him. Trumbull was a name any woman might be proud to wear worthily, and Moses Grant was well resolved the world should never know, through him, that it did not legitimately belong to his infant grandchild.

For two days the elements did battle, but the third morning of Elinor Trumbull's life rose calm, and bright, and fair. Early in the day Moses Grant went forth to seek the pastor of the old Presbyterian church, in which he had been an elder for so many years, and arrange for his daughter's burial.

That afternoon, where the snow had been scooped away behind the church on the hill-top, they laid the elder's last child, beside her six brothers and sisters, in her narrow grave; and she, the youngest, the fairest, slept best, perhaps, of all, for the calm is most precious that comes after the wildest storms.

Very dear was she to the gray-haired pastor who had baptized her in infancy, and had always accounted her the gentlest and sweetest among the lambs of his flock-very dear to every heart among the many which beat around her grave that winter day. But they asked few questions concerning her death or her life. She had been the elder's favorite child, they all knew, but no one had ever heard him mention her name since the summer night when she went away from Mayfield-no one knew whether alone or in company. So they respected the old man's sorrow and silence.

It was not many months before over Margaret's grave there rose a simple head-stone, but no one's curiosity was gratified by the inscription. It only said,

MARGARET-AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS.

The child was duly christened. The country folk understood what an old and respectable name she bore; and at length the wonder died away, and she was left to grow up in the quiet stillness of the old red house.

Indeed, very few were brought into any near connection with her, for Moses Grant and his wife-neither made nor received any visits now. Her only regular education was imparted by her grandparents, who taught her the three needfuls of an old-fashioned New England woman—to read, and write, and cipher. In addition, when she grew older, Parson Blake gave her a few books and a chance lesson now and then; and she learned early to form shrewd, self-reliant theories and opinions, which no one mistrusted, however, that she possessed.

Mary Grant often remarked that the little Elinor was her mother's own child. She had the same fair hair; the same clear blue eyes; the same slight figure; but beyond these was a difference rather to be felt than explained. About her mouth was a graver, more saint-like smile. A tenderer light shone in her blue eyes, and her voice did not ring out with quite such joyous music as made Margaret's tones in her early years such a cheery sound to hear. Elinor's were lower, quieter-she spoke more slowly, as if, even in childhood, to address others, she had to come out of an inner world where she oftenest dwelt-the world of thought and of dreams. Gentle, quiet child as she was, her name, her stately name, borne once by the proudest belle in Norwich, seemed not unsuited to the simple dignity of her nature.

Sunday after Sunday she sat by Moses Grant's side, in the old-fashioned Presbyterian church, bowing her graceful head through the long prayers, lifting up her clear voice to join in the well-known hymns. Sunday after Sunday-first as child, then as maiden; and the old pastor watched her lovingly-lovingly for her own

sake-lovingly for the sake of a grave under the willow trees; and all the while, Sunday after Sunday, his own hair grew whiter and his step more feeble.

II.

Parson Blake was dead. His life, his kindly life, seventy summers and no winter, was ended. In the little church-yard on the hill-top they laid him gently and reverently to his long sleep-the little churchyard where he had faltered the last prayer over so many of his flock; where, sixteen years before, he had stood tearfully beside the bier of Margaret Grant.

Wife and children he had none. He had lived alone all his blameless life, and his people had been to him instead of kindred. Like his children they all mourned for him. Not a heart beat in Mayfield to which he was not dear—not an eye but was dim with tears at the pastor's burial. He had married the old folk, he had baptized their children, he had buried their dead, and now he was gone to receive the reward of his labors. More than forty years had he been in and out before them, and broken bread in their midst. Was it strange that his death left a great void, which never, thereafter, could be filled?

It was with saddened mien the elders met together to consult on the choice of his successor. No one could ever be to them in his stead, and perhaps it could hardly be expected of human nature that they should award due credit to the honest endeavors of a younger man. Thus Walter Fairfield came to them under a disadvantage. They were kind-hearted peo