over their own secrets. I do not think most girls of eighteen would have liked him; but I did, rather. Perhaps he perceived it in my face, for he smiled-a bright, heartsome smile, that for the moment changed his whole expression. "Mr. Caleb Hall's daughter, I presume?" "Yes, Sir;" and then I hesitated how to begin my errand. He perceived my embarrassment, and asked me, very kindly, to sit down and speak to him at my leisure. He had an hour to spare before it would be necessary for him to be in court. So I began my story—though, after all, I had not much to tell-what we considered the farm worth, the circumstances of my father's indorsing for James Harris, and how sure we were that we could pay it all up, with interest, in a very few years. These were the chief points; though I said a little about what it would be to all of us, and most especially to father and mother, to leave the dear old home. I don't know but my voice trembled; but I kept the tears back, for the cool, penetrating glance which rested on my face warned me effectually to steer clear of sentimentality. When I was through he answered me kindly, though not as I had hoped. "It seems almost unfair," he said, "in Mr. Goodell's absence, to bring his feelings forward as a reason why I can not do what you wish; but it is the simple truth. I would do it, if it depended on myself alone. But Mr. Goodell wishes the matter settled up. He is averse to lending money, and only consented to it, in this instance, out of personal regard for poor Harris. And now he is determined to close the business. I think there is no way but for the sale to go forward. I do not see, however, why that should oblige your father to leave. Some one might buy it who would let him remain at a reasonable rent." That was a new thought-still another hope to cling to. I thanked him for it, and went home full of the idea. My mother seized upon it at once, and wondered that no one had thought of it before; but my father derived no comfort from it. Because one scheme had failed he thought all would, and fell back into the depth of his despondency. He said no one would buy the place who did not want to live on it, and there was no chance in the world of our staying there. Marcia did not say any thing; but I think she felt the failure of my mission more keenly than any of us. dows were open, and we were close to them, half hidden by the curtains, where we could see and hear every thing. Mr. Hope made the first bid-three thousand dollars then a neighbor whose land joined ours, and who had long wanted Ingleside, raised it. Besides those two there were no other bidders. They fought the ground slowly, rising fifty dollars at a time. Marcia watched Mr. Hope, and after one of his bids she said: "That man will have it any way. I can see it in his eyes. I wonder Job Barker doesn't see it too, and stop bidding against him.” She was right. To oppose David Hope was like opposing fate. When they got up to four thousand neighbor Barker perceived it and stopped-stopped too soon for our interest, for it was only four-fifths the true value of the place. Mr. Hope closed up the business quickly. He arranged to receive his deed the next day. Of course two thousand dollars were to go to the firm-the other two we were to put on interest. As he went out, after making an appointment with father for the next forenoon, he said to me, in a low tone: "I do not think you will have to leave Ingleside." I did not repeat his words; only waited, with what patience I could, for the next day's developments. Mother went with father, as, of course, her signature was also necessary. It was a sad journey for them. As I tied mother's bonnet, and pulled out the bows-for I always did such little things for her-she said, with tears in her eyes: 66 "I never thought to leave this house, Theo, till I went to one not made with hands. But God knows what is best for us all; and what He sends must be right." I felt a secret hope, which supported me while they were gone, that I should see a brighter look on the dear faces when they returned. Nor was I disappointed. "Your Mr. Hope is a good man, Theo," my father said, when he came in. I don't know why he said my Mr. Hope, unless he had a secret suspicion that my representations, when I went to the office, had something to do with the way matters had turned. I questioned him eagerly.. "To begin with, we are to stay at Ingleside. I really think it was with that intention that We did not eat any dinner-none of us had Mr. Hope purchased it. We are to pay him a the heart for it. The moments dragged on, rent of two hundred dollars a year; for he said and the time for the sale-half past two-ar- he should be satisfied with five per cent. for his rived. With the two o'clock train Mr. David money, and the place kept in good repair. Hope had come out, alert to look after his own And, better still, we are to have the privilege, and his partner's interests. A dozen or more any time in ten years, of buying the homestead men collected the auctioneer came; and they back at precisely what he paid for it. We have all gathered together in front of the house, in two thousand dollars toward it now, you know, the shadow of the great old elms which my fa- and I think we can earn and save two thousand ther's father had planted. I saw father among more in that time-don't you?" and he looked them, with the despondent look on his face, the round on his group of listeners for confirmation womanish quivering round his white lips. The of his hopes. Then Marcia spoke-her first rest of us were indoors, all three; but the win-words during the conversation "You won't have to wait ten years, father." We remembered what she said afterward. The next day she went to town-the first time she had ever gone off the home place since James died. She kept her object secret, and only said she should be gone but a few hours. I told you I was pretty, but Marcia had a beauty higher than mere prettiness. Our eyes and hair were similar in color-a dark brown, almost black. Our features were not unlike; and yet what was prettiness in me deepened in her into positive beauty. I had never felt it more than when I saw her dressed to go away that morning. I whispered, as I kissed her, "What a grand creature you are!" have girls work under me, and take contracts, and so make money very fast, for a woman.' Her face had kindled while she spoke, and her cheeks flushed; she looked more like a queen, or what we fancy a queen ought to be, than a girl whose best prospect was to earn a good deal of money by running a sewing-machine. I could see that father did not like the idea. He had a little pride about such matters-weak, to be sure, but, as I have told you, he was weak in some things. I believe he was going to remonstrate, if mother had not spoken first, and come out clearly on Marcia's side. Afterward, when my sister had gone up stairs to answer And she, kissing me back, in one of her in- her letter, mother told us that she liked the idea frequent moods of tenderness, answered: "Say a prayer for me while I am gone, child, that beauty, or something better, may help me to accomplish my purpose." But she did not tell me what that purpose was, and when she came back she was equally incommunicative. Two days afterward there was a letter for her. She read it, and then she came and sat down with it in her hand on a stool at my father's feet. Before her trouble she had had an imperious way of her own. She used to make poor James Harris feel it sometimes, dearly as she loved him; but she was always gentle to father. That womanly weakness and tenderness of which I have told you, appealed, I think, to her stronger nature, and always softened her to a thoughtful sweetness where he was concerned. not so much for the money-though, if Marcia should succeed, that would be a thing not to be despised-as for the good it would do Marcia herself. She had been afraid, ever since James died, of her falling into morbid melancholy, and she hoped this business would take her thoughts from the one engrossing subject and restore the healthy tone of her mind. So it was all settled, and the next Monday my sister went away. You will not care to hear the particulars of her undertaking. She succeeded, of course, for she was one of those persons who seem to command success by right of nature-some royal prerogative born with them. Once in a while she came to see us. She told us that she was doing well and saving money. In a few months we knew that she had a shop of her own, and that she had taken some large contracts from clothing-stores; but she did not go into details. She always spoke of Mr. Hope-told us what a kind friend she found him-how much his inIfluence had helped her, and when once I ventured a joke about his Scotch face, with its high cheek-bones, she resented it with a warmth which made me wonder if James Harris's successor were already elected; and somehow the idea was not pleasant to me. "I am going away from home, father," she said, just touching his hand with a little caress. "Going away!" we all three cried in chorus. "Yes; that was what I went to town for. would not say any thing for fear you should oppose me, and I did not want to go right against your advice. For I knew I must go, in any case. It will be all you can do, father, to pay the rent and take care of the family with what comes off the farm. The interest of the two thousand dollars we have now will help you some; but it must be my business to earn the other two thousand. I went to see if Mr. Hope could advise me-all the rest of you had found him so kind. He has procured me a situation already, and I can go next week." "What to do?" For ourselves, at home, we got along very well. It is strange how many of the things to which one has been accustomed one finds it easy and possible to do without, under the pressure of necessity. Hitherto we had been in the habit of spending all the income from our farm ; and we thought, too, that we had been careful livers. But we managed now to pay our rent without encroaching on the interest of the two thousand dollars; so we felt that we were gaining a little all the time. Once in a while Mr. Hope came out to see his place. He would go all over the grounds with father, and talk patiently about rotation of crops, and clover, and timothy, and buckwheat. Father said he understood things wonderfully for a man whose life had been passed That was my question. Mother was looking at her, with a face proud though sad, and father's eyes were full of trouble and uneasiness. "To work on a sewing-machine. You know it is the one thing I can do well. I talked it all over with Mr. Hope. I am not thoroughly educated enough to teach any thing but small children, and though I might take care of myself at that business, I should never earn enough to clear the farm. I have been used to a sew-in town. It was his Scotch quickness, I suping-machine for three years, and I can work on pose. Every time he came, too, he used to one for other people just as well as for ourselves. chat an hour with mother and me, and he alI can get good wages from the very first; and ways spoke of Marcia-told what a brave, strong Mr. Hope thinks that after I get a little ac- spirit she had, and how nobly she was doing; quainted with town ways I can hire a shop and | till, after a while, I got used to the idea that they did care for each other, and by-and-by, when the farm was clear, Mr. Hope might be my brother. I tried to be glad, but I confess the feelings I had about it were often not generous. I hope I am not meaner or more selfish than the rest of the world, but I could not help asking myself sometimes how it was that two men had loved Marcia and none at all had loved me. If her beauty answered the question, then why had she been made more beautiful than I? What was at fault with the arrangement of things that all the sweet should come to some lives and all the bitter to others? Then I remembered how hard she was working, and felt ashamed of myself. But it did seem as if all her troubles blossomed into blessings. How superior Mr. Hope was to James Harris! Indeed I am not sure that I was not getting to think him superior to every one. Three years went round in this way, and it came the third anniversary of the day on which the farm had been sold. Marcia had not been home for some time; but she had written to us that she should come on that day. So we meant to make a sort of festival of it. We could afford to now, when, after all, we had not left Ingleside, and things had come out so much better than we had feared. Marcia deserved, too, a generous welcome. Mother and I had worked busily, getting the house into perfect order, making pies and cakes and sweetmeats, and when the day came we were all ready. We hurried through the morning tasks, and I put on a pretty fall dress, with a bright ribbon at my throat, and a bunch of brilliant scarlet leaves in my hair. Then I waited, eagerly enough, for my sister. She had promised to come in the early train, and a little past ten I saw her walking up from the dépôt, leaning on Mr. Hope's arm. "I think he might have let us have her to ourselves this one day," I said, a little bitterly. As they drew nearer I noticed that Marcia had left off her deep mourning. She wore black silk, and looked regal in it. I thought that the three years, instead of wearing upon her, had but deepened and enriched her beauty. She had certainly never seemed so peerless as when, having put aside her shawl and bonnet, she came and stood at the sitting-room window, looking out on the brightness of the autumn day. Her tall, slight figure seemed to have acquired new elegance in the midst of tasks that would have warped most women from their natural grace and symmetry. Her face was clear, and a bright color flushed her cheeks. Some secret gladness kindled her eyes and curved her lips. I did not wonder that Mr. Hope looked at her so much; but I thought of poor James Harris, forty rods away in his grave, and tried to believe that it was only for his memory I felt jealous. Do you and thank you, Mr. Hope, the farewell never came;" and she glanced up at him with that wonderful light in her eyes, and a smile which made her whole face brilliant. She looked a long time at the well-known, well-loved scene, with the bright October glory resting on it. Then she went up to father, and leaned over him with the old caressing manner. "Father," she said, " you must own Ingleside again." "Yes, daughter, if it please God," he answered, gently. He had always been gentle, and these last years had made him more so. "It has pleased God," she cried, impetuously. "Father, I have succeeded even better than my hopes. I gave myself five years to make two thousand dollars in, and I have accomplished it in three!" She took out a roll of bills, and handed them to him. "There it is, father. Now you have only to transfer the bank stock, and Ingleside will be paid for. You must own it again, to-day." Mr. Hope came forward and smiled-the old heartsome smile which I had noticed that first time I saw him. "She made me bring the deed," he said. "She hadn't patience to wait twenty-four hours longer-you must own Ingleside again before this sun went down.” Half-bewildered, my father attended, under Mr. Hope's direction, to the details of the business; and when it was all done he sat still, like one in a maze, turning the new deed over in his hand. Marcia went up to him and kissed him, and he took her into his arms. "God bless you, my child, my own child!" he breathed, fervently-"even as through you He has blessed me beyond my hopes." "I said I would live till the old place was cleared!" Marcia spoke triumphantly; and with that glow on her checks, that light in her eyes, I thought she looked as if she might live forever. "You will not go back again to town?" my mother asked her, with fond anxiety. The question suggested a new fear to my father, and he held Marcia's hand tight, and looked into her face. "No, child, you won't go back, will you?" he pleaded, searching her face with his eyes. She stooped and kissed him-they had always been so dear to each other. "No, father, I shall not go back. I have sold my lease and my business, and I shall stay with you. My work is done." I wondered how long she would stay-how long Mr. Hope would let her stay. Just then he spoke to me. "Come, Theo, they want Marcia to themselves. I am in the way, and you must take me out of it. They can do without you." "It is just such a day," she said, at last, "as the one before the old farm was sold. "Yes, every one could do without me," I remember, Theo, how we looked out of this win- thought, bitterly; but I went with him neverdow together, and saw father and mother mak-theless. We wandered around a little while, ing their mournful farewell round? Thank God, and then sat down to rest in the old arbor, in which I had sat and wept out, as I have told you, my girlish despair on that day which I have called the darkest day of my life. "Theo," he began, with grave gentleness, "I have something to tell you-something I should have told you long ago but for Marcia." I know what it is!" I cried, impatiently. "Do you?" with a smile of quiet amusement. "Suppose you tell me then." "That I am to have you for my brother. It's all right if Marcia can forget so easily. I couldn't-that's all." "Couldn't you? Marcia has been very firm of purpose, too, about this money. A year ago I begged her to let me give the deed to your father, and consider the debt canceled. But I could not prevail upon her, though I used all my eloquence. It was then that I told her what I was going to tell you to-day, only you forestalled me. By-the-way, you weren't quite right in your conjecture-that wasn't just what I had to tell you." "What was it, then ?" son of the house. I sat up with him a little later than the rest, just to hear over again what it was so very sweet to know at last-that he loved me. I began to find out the rare, deep tenderness of this man who claimed me as his He suited me exactly. Some girls would have thought, perhaps, that he lacked sentiment. He did not idealize me at all-I told you in the first place that his ideality was small -but he had strong, practical sense, and acute knowledge of human nature. He knew me just own. as I was with all my little tempers, and vanities, and follies-and, just as I was, he held me dear; so there would never be any disappointment between us. Our engagement was to be a short one, for he said he had waited long enough for his bride. So he only gave me until Christmas to make my modest preparations. When at last I left him I lingered a little at Marcia's door, and listened to see if she slept. I wanted to go to her a moment, and rest my heart, burdened with its fullness of joy, in the quiet of her sympathy. But, listening there, I heard her voice, a low, sweet voice always, murmur, "My work is done. I am ready now, my love, my love!" It was almost the old words, and it seemed to ing the day before I saw Mr. Hope first. I knew where her thoughts were, and I would not go in to mock them with my too happy looks. "That I loved you, Theo, and want you for my own. I think it began way back that first day when you came to my office. I did not acknowledge it to my own heart then; but I think it was my secret feeling for you which made me buy Ingleside, though I put the matter to my-me like the echo of her cry of passionate longself on different grounds. The charm deepened every time I saw my little lassie; and a year ago I made up my mind that I did not want to do without her any longer. It was then I went to Marcia, and tried to persuade her to come home, so that you could be spared to me; for I would not be selfish enough to ask you to leave your father and mother alone. I found her immovable as granite; but she begged me hard to wait till Ingleside was paid for before I said any thing to unsettle you. Somehow she beguiled a promise out of me, though I think I should not have given it but for my aversion to subjecting you to the unpleasantness of a long engagement. That is, you know, if you could love me well enough to be engaged to me at all. You have not told me that, Theo." Next day Mr. Hope went away, and Marcia took me into her room, and made me what she called a wedding present. It was five hundred dollars-the sum for which, after her two thousand were safely earned, she had sold her lease and her business. "It is for the wedding fineries, Theo, which I shall never want," she said, as she made me take it. I looked at her, so stately, so young, so beautiful-so much lovelier than I ever was or could be in any eyes save David Hope's-and I uttered my thought, I could not help it. "Surely you will love again, Marcia. For I looked him straight in the eyes-I meant to getfulness comes to every one in time; and you see his soul through them. are too good and too lovely not to be destined "Are you sure that you love me, David Hope, to make some man happy." me and no other?" "Very sure, Theo." "And you would rather have me for your wife than Marcia, beautiful and strong and grand as she is?" "Rather than any one else in the world, little lassic." Then, somehow, before I knew it, I was in his arms, crying on his shoulder. Joy tears, though; for this was what I meant when I spoke of the brightest day of my life. We went in together, after a while, to ask my parents for their blessing, and they gave it to us with full hearts. Mr. Hope did not go back to town that night. It was the first night he had ever passed at Ingleside, but he would come and go henceforth as a "I think my nature is granite, Theo, and impressions do not wear off it very easily; but whether I shall forget, or whether I shall remember, can have nothing to do with my making you a wedding present." So she forced me to accept her gift; and I had vanity enough-I, at twenty-one, and in love-to take real heart's delight in the pretty things it brought me. When Christmas came we were married and went away. I had not expected a journey, for I knew what a busy man Mr. Hope was; but he made every thing else give way, and took me to some of the Southern cities first, and then for a glimpse of life at Washington. It was all so gay and strange and brilliant; and I was so happy. I scarcely had time to think about the old friends, the new life was so engrossing. And yet I did notice a vein of sadness in my mother's letters, and I rather wondered that Marcia did not write at all. I believe Mr. Hope thought more about these things than I did, for after a while he grew in a hurry to go home. We got there one mild evening in February; and the moment our greetings were over the change in Marcia struck me. It was as if the three years-which as they passed had seemed only to touch her with new grace and brightness -had done their whole wearing work in these few weeks of my absence. She looked strangely old and thin. Her lips were colorless, and no flush stained her cheeks. Her motions, too, were slow and languid. When I asked her about it, she told me she had not had time to be tired in three years, so she was taking it out now. She should be rested by-and-by when spring came. That night, when we were alone, Mr. Hope told me that he thought Marcia would die. I tever knew till just that moment how much I loved her how much I had loved her all my life. The thought of her dying seemed like a great gulf yawning at my feet, ready to swallow up half the happiness of my future. He soothed my passionate sorrow, and tried so tenderly to comfort me that I blessed him for it over and over in my heart. He told me that, much as he wanted me with him in town, he had concluded, since he had seen Marcia, that I ought to remain at Ingleside until there was some change. He would leave me there for the present, he thought, and come out every night. This was what I had been longing, yet afraid to ask him for I understood him well enough now to know that he made no small sacrifice. We announced our arrangement quietly the next morning, and I could see how glad they all were. So I spent the days with Marcia, and at night came "My Hope," as I used fondly to call him. It was my most frequent pet name, and I had discovered that my stern-browed Scot liked petting. As the weeks went on I found that Marcia grew weaker, and I knew that the rest the spring was to bring her would be rest indeed-the rest where "perfect day shall shine, Through peace to light." There were times when it seemed to me I could not bear it-when I sat dumb with woe, and watched her changed, wasting face, and turned away to meet the sadness in our mother's eyes, or see my father following his darling with long looks of wordless grief and despair. I think she saw it too, for, one night when we were all together, she said, tenderly: "If you only knew how happy I am, I think you would not grieve for me, any of you. It is God's great mercy which is letting me go home to James. I have hoped for it all along, but I dared not pray for it. I left it to my God, and He is leading me gently." | After that we tried to be cheerful in her presence; and before the gusty April days were over the end came; very suddenly, but peacefully as sleep. I was sitting by her alone, and I saw a change. I started to call some one, and as I went I heard the old, tender, longing cry—a little altered "I am coming, my love, my love!" When I had spoken to my mother, and turned back again to the bed, her lips were still, and I knew she had entered into her rest. Years have passed since then, and David Hope has made me very happy. The dear father and mother still live at Ingleside, and I go to them in summer with my boys and girls. But I miss Marcia, my one sister, when I stand among the old scenes; and sometimes, on a splendid autumn day such as this, I like to live the dead past over, and recall her image, as she was at her brightest and her loveliest, until I seem to see her once more-a radiant ghost-in the old home she worked so hard to keep. IN PICKED UP AT SEA. N the year of our Lord 1830, on the 24th day of January, a vessel, a man-of-war, was cruising leisurely homeward from the West India Islands. Peace then reigned supreme throughout the world-nation no longer lifted up its hand against nation, and all the weapons of war were stilled. "Two more days, with this breeze, and we shall be off old Hatteras," said the younger of two officers, who were quietly pacing up and down the main-deck during the middle watch. "I wish," returned the other, "we had been going to put in at the Bermudas. I wanted to see the place, and I have some friends living there that I have not heard of for some time. It is very provoking to be so near the place and not see them." They both stopped, as if by mutual consent, their pacing up and down, and with their pipes in their mouths leaned over the ship's taffrail and gazed thoughtfully on the deep blue waters of those tropical seas. "I say, Allix, how would you like to be overboard among those gentry there ?" pointing at the same time to two sharks following quietly in the wake of the vessel. "I had rather be excused a nearer acquaintance," replied he; "what a fiendish look the beasts have! God help those who come any way near them! Oh dear," he continued, with a yawn, "what slow work this cruising is! I wish the Britishers would get up a row with us, to let them see what the Stars and Stripes can still do, and to give us a chance at some of their fat merchantmen hereabouts!" "What a glorious night! See," said the one whose name was Wilson, "is that a fire out yonder, or only the moon rising ?" The other one looked in the direction pointed out. |