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closets, and then the "place" knew her just far enough apart to enable me to

no more.

I had felt, after having stayed a month, that it might greatly lighten my friends' cares should I postpone the rest of the visit to a more convenient season, and delicately influence Mr. Browne's cousins to do the same. This was not a delightful thing to do, and the Brownes, with their sensitive hospitality, never would have permitted it; but I did not ask their leave, when, in mentioning my departure to my fellow-visitors, I gave reasons also eminently applicable to themselves. Lucretia drew herself up as if there were essential impropriety in the bare suggestion of what I mentioned. Juliet paid not the smallest heed. I saw I might have spared my pains-remembering, too, that Mr. Stephen's vacation was but a week off.

There was no certainty of the O'Shaughnessy's place being soon, or, if eventually, fitly supplied. The young husband grew decidedly sober. The blue veins began to show pathetically plain on the temples of the little wife, and, try as she might to hide it, heart and strength were plainly beginning to fail.

I saw coming over that beautiful little home the cloud of sure disaster. Ellen was wasting, in this conscientious but useless strife, the strength and spirit which in a day to come might turn the balance between health and years of weakness-nay, between life and death.

Should I leave her in this strait? Here was the New Testament again: "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ."

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-into the kitchen. It ended in that. Though it took all the tact I had, yet imperceptibly I glided into the position of houseworker-in-chief, without the fact becoming too painfully apparent to the parties concerned.

Mr. Browne labored indefatigably to find competent help, but this seemed the appointed time for that severe discipline few families fully escape. A procession of incapables filed through the kitchen,

clear up after each one before a successor arrived. Finally, even these ceased, to my positive relief, and the perfect muffins and steaks the Ganymede served up were always and altogether from Miss Hayne's hands, and the dinners, from soup to dessert, substantially hers, for Ellen's little fussy assistance was more for her own satisfaction than any real help.

I found it the hardest work I ever did in my life-the doing all these things without seeming to do them. For it was certainly no concern of the Misses Lanphier or Mr. Zerrahn how Ellen and I arranged our private affairs. So to be cook, and yet in full toilet, with leisure, was a feat requiring real ingenuity to compass. That it could not be done perfectly I became, I confess not pleasantly, aware. When I sauntered in through the garden door, it was from no musing ramble, but direct from the kitchen-range, and my heated face and reddened hands contrasted unfavorably with Juliet's lovely white repose.

Then, too, I would be tired, too honestly tired, to show to intellectual advantage in the parlor when delightful hours of the student's vacation were passing. I saw him go in and out with Juliet Lanphier, who, like the beauties in Lalla Rookh, "grew lovelier every hour," I thought, under his eyes.

Somehow the Van Hattan service seemed light to this one! Partly, perhaps, because there in a manner I spent my days, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot."

Only cook there, but here both cook and Miss Hayne, the dignified guest, with her own state to maintain. And how far I succeeded in keeping it became a matter of question. The impression grew that Mr. Zerrahn was coming to regard me as an ordinary sort of young person-nice in my way, which was still a long way from reaching up to the higher possibilities of womanhood. Evidently it was not at all too bright or good to prepare human nature's daily food, as he must perceive, to some extent, I had a habit of doing. He often strolled in the

garden, well-kept and pretty even in winter, and so passed the kitchen windows, where I might be seen at very plebeian work; but what he saw or did not see I could not tell-not even that day when his eyes, glancing in, met mine full as I scrubbed the kitchen table, Ganymede's feint of doing so having been a failure. But a few minutes afterwards, when Juliet's enchanting voice appealed to him in some "song of love and longing," it seemed to echo up and down in me as if the space were wide and empty in my heart for it.

And that day, at the table, Lucretia philosophized; and the conclusion of the matter was thus. The tendency of human beings was, of course, to gravitate into their appropriate spheres. There was a great deal of talk nowa-days about women knowing how to do all sorts of work and doing it. But there was in reality an essential coarseness about most of the labors of the house, which made it evident nature never intended them for a certain class of minds. And observation would prove that the accidents were rare where thoroughly refined and delicate spirits failed to fit into their true places without contact with common labor.

All of which was received in silence. But these should be light things, I told myself, compared to the joy of being such a necessity and happiness to any human being as I had become to Ellen. Her "Douglas, tender and true," was of necessity absent most of the day. As to the brother, wherever he was the Misses Lanphier came also. In fact, Ellen had formally made them over to him in private for the vacation-anxious Mr. Browne's friends should be fitly entertained, and feeling herself less and less able to do it.

All parties seemed well pleased. Ellen and I sat chiefly in the little library off the parlor, not too distant to seem unsocial, though the current of talk in the two rooms seldom mingled.

One night the Misses Lanphier went to one of the æsthetic teas, and the parlor lights burned low. Coming into the little library, I saw through the open

door, in the dusky parlor, the tall brother, with his arm around Ellen, and her head on his shoulder. Then it was a real brother's heart he had, though he showed it to none but her. I had not been sure of that before. And certainly, if he agreed with Lucretia, she must seem to him by this time a prosy little body, fussing about her house and talking a good deal about servants-that in itself being, as is well known, a mark of limited culture.

She came out to me presently, and Stephen went in another direction. She asked me to read aloud, and I took up "Selden's Table-Talk," which I had seen Stephen reading shortly before. I turned over the rather cynical paragraphs without much content, when a paper of rhymes fell out. Whence copied did not appear. Glancing at a line or two, I saw that whatever woman had written or inspired them, they were also for Ellen; and I read.

Of all the ways of waiting in the world,

Waiting with chafe and strain or patience dumb, What expectation of it all compares

With hers who blindly waits a life to come? The others waiting, know for what they wait; Beneath her heart stir mystery and fear. She knows not if her dream of life and light,

Or form of piteous shape her child shall wear. She may not choose; no yearning wish of hers Shall image take-" Children are from the Lord." No vision warns her if the hidden life

Shall be her woe, or gracious, rich reward. Slow her sure hour of darkness draweth on: Up to the Lord upon His glorious height She tries to lift her heart from this low place,

Ready to change earth's joy for heaven's delight. She thinks of Agnes on her convent tower,

Yearning her soul up through the gates within, Whose shining ward "the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,

To shrive her free and make her pure of sin." The Heavenly Bridegroom! of his perfect grace Agnes, who knew no earthly one, might muse. But she-O Lord! forgive her, if between

Thee and her love below she fail to choose. Forgive her if her heart can not conceive The joy of rest in Thee from tears and sighs, Of peace, of music, splendor or delight,

What shuts her from the sight of his clear eyes. Break soon! thou cloud, let in the morning light, That shows a wife with honor in the landAn heir of endless life within her arms,

Who in Thine image at Thy feet shall stand.

"There is not a 'made-up' line in that," said Ellen, with a great bright tear rolling over her cheek. "It is all true. I wonder where it came from. Why, it is Stephen's handwriting," said she, seiz

ing it," and here is his initial. Why, the dear old brother! he has written it, and the thought was for me!"

"Is it possible?" said I, involuntarily. Ellen smiled. "You have not found out yet what a mother-heart he has. I wonder if any young lady in the world will ever know Stephen."

Would Juliet? I asked myself, but not Ellen. I felt for some reason stirred that evening, and paced back and forth as we talked. Partly for Ellen's comfort, and because it was uppermost in my heart, I told her how blessed among women she was, with her dear lovers, the brother and husband.. No care, suspense, or pain her joys might bring with them, were harder to bear than the lone refrain the most cheerful and useful single woman at times hears and smothers back in her heart. Would she hear the echo? It was, "Desolate, desolate, desolate!"

Finally, passing the parlor-door in my walk, I saw reclining there another listener. I had opened my "heart and hope of a woman to Stephen Zerrahn. And I had taken such pains to be just the "walking lady" in the play to him all winter! I wanted no third place in his interest; I should greatly have preferred he had not heard this talk, little as it might matter to him.

Yes, and little as it might have mattered to him had he known it, I may as well say it here first as last. After this evening I knew that I loved Stephen Zerrahn. Now, at length, when my heart had gone out it had departed unsought.

Well, the cloud lifted, and the morning joy was very bright. "All pain is gain," some say; and surely there was great reward here, even had the pain brought no other token than to prove the completeness of the affection of husband and brother and friend. We ran up and down, and fetched and carried, forgetting fatigue in joy that all was well. The Misses Lanphier secluded themselves in their room as if there had been contagion in the house, and kept Ganymede faithful to their needs by a "testimonial."

VOL. VI.-24

And here happened a piece of great good fortune. Mrs. Gamp did not come with her bundle and umbrella, but instead Mrs. Patience Dix, as true a philanthropist in her way as the great lady whose name she shares. She might have stepped out of one of Mrs. Stowe's New England romances. I confess I regarded her with surprise. Like the Dodo, I had imagined her type mythical or extinct.

She pervaded the house. There was no work in it to which her hands were not addressed. She did not stop to analyze this or that matter to see whether it belonged to her duty as nurse and must be done.

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The delightful consciousness that from basement to attic every thing was being seen to " pervaded the sick-room like an air of healing. In that apartment niceness rose to a fine art. Mrs. Dix made it almost a luxury to be sick. Under her influence even the servants seemed to enter into a happy secret of at least mediocrity. Mrs. Patience Dix was a greater than I, and with her advent my mission ended.

I thought my reward was with me when Ellen clung to my neck with tears, and called me her precious old woman.

The young husband's words were few, but his eyes not to be forgotten. So I left them to their happiness; and they were just as wonderfully glad as if there had never been a baby before-as if the very greatest blessings were not the commonest.

There was one thing more. In the shaded parlor for a minute there came Stephen Zerrahn, and he took my hands in his, and said: "Blessings and thanks, my friend." Then he did know that I had wrought not ill: so for me were blessings and thanks, but love for Juliet Lanphier-dear love.


It was not a very festive winter first and last; for I spent the rest of it helping nurse my father through the rheumatism, and when the long gray spring days began to come, I seemed tired, and they very long. At last, when the young year stood "with all its green com-

pleted," there came a letter from Ellen, so urgent, that one would have thought the glories of Commencement would not be glorious if Miss Hayne were not at Cambridge to see them, and behold the success of Stephen in the Valedictory.

It was, of course, foolishness for me to go, but I could not deny myself. I had a romantic fancy that to see Stephen before his great audience, and hear him pronounce his Vale, would nerve my heart up to such a pitch of heroism that it would utter mine for him, and thenceforth let Juliet have her lover without another regret.

So I took my journey and went with Ellen to Cambridge. I could not help thinking how many painful heart-throbs would be spared the hopeful yet apprehensive kindred of promising sprigs about to seek public honors, could they have possessed more of the superb confidence of Ellen in her brother. "I know he will succeed," said she, with quiet certainty.

And he did succeed. How well, one had only to look from the attentive faces of mature men, to those of the erudite spectacled ladies, young and old, to perceive. He was past the age of greenness and gush, and demonstrated that a young American of twenty-seven may reach a very goodly measure of manhood and sound thought.

Certainly Ellen's brother was the man of the hour; we felt it, especially at the elegant entertainment given in the evening. The Brownes and I marked with satisfaction the stir attending his entrance into the room after we arrived.

I saw Juliet Lanphier's quickened breath, and the little foot's eager unconscious advance from the trailing splendor of her dress. The happiest girl in all the wide world's round stands there, I thought.

Mr. Zerrahn made courteous but steady progress among his friends towards where we stood, and having reached us, silently offered me his arm. That was like his perfect breeding-I was his sister's guest. There were leafy walks about the grounds, and the people went in and out enjoying the clear night. We

walked here a good while in silence almost, till I, fearing he might wish to be with Juliet, spoke of going in.

"No, please, not yet," said he, and we went on. Another silence-and to break it I said, "I have not yet congratulated you upon your gratifying success."

"Do not," he returned, "for I have not yet succeeded, I fear. I fear, my friend, I have still to say, like that other scholar

I have striven and failed,

I set mine eyes upon a certain height,
Yet could not hail with them its deep-set light."

There was a wishful meaning in his voice and air, never before seen.

My heart sprung up in one unreasoning tumult.

"Mr. Zerrahn!"

He perceived my profound surprise. "Then you did know I loved you, Miss Hayne?"

"I did not even dream; but now I know-and dream.”

His eyes shone with delight at my reply, and he went on,

"Yet I have loved you well, and I began that very evening Ellen brought you in, and I saw your dear, calm, helpful face. But I confess I was cynic enough to watch carefully to see if the face were really the right index to the woman behind it. As the weeks went on, and I on what eagles' wings you were bearing up my precious little sister, while the rest of us talked bosh in the parlor, I felt too worthless to address you, and have been waiting for to-day, hoping for some praise of men to back me in my suit."


"And in any one of those past days I might have replied to you, Mr. Zerrahn, as the friend did to your 'scholar,' I love you for the sake of what you are, And not for what you do."

Now, in a minute all was made clear, and "the face of all the world was changed to me." We went back to the rooms on air, I suppose, for I did not feel the ground. The Brownes' experienced eyes found us out in an instant.

"You foolish old woman," said Ellen, with a beaming face, "where were your intuitions and things? You know you

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THE fox furnishes, perhaps, the only instance that can be cited of a fur-bearing animal that not only holds its own, but that actually increases in the face of the means that are used for its extermination. The beaver, for instance, was gone before the earliest settlers could get a sight of him; and even the mink and the martin are now only rarely seen, or not seen at all, in places where they were once abundant.

But the fox has survived civilization, and in some localities is no doubt more abundant now than in the time of the Revolution. For half a century at least he has been almost the only prize, in the way of fur, that was to be found on our mountains, and he has been hunted and trapped and waylaid, sought for as game and pursued in enmity, taken by fair means and by foul, and yet there is not the slightest danger of the species becoming extinct.

One would think that a single hound in a neighborhood, filling the mountains with his bayings, and leaving no nook or by-way of them unexplored, was enough to drive and scare every fox from the country. But not so. Indeed, I am almost tempted to say, the more hounds, the more foxes.

I recently spent a summer-month in a mountainous district in the State of New York, where, from its earliest settlement, the Red fox has been the standing prize for skill in the use of the trap and gun. At the house where I was stopping were two fox-hounds, and a neigh bor, half a mile distant, had a third. There were many others in the township, and in season they were well employed, too; but the three spoken of, attended by their owners, held high carnival on the

mountains in the immediate vicinity. And many were the foxes that, winter after winter, fell before them, twenty-five having been shot the season before my visit, on one small range alone. And yet the foxes were apparently never more abundant than they were that summer, and never more bold, coming at night within a few rods of the house, and of the unchained alert hounds, and making havoc among the poultry.

One morning a large fat goose was found minus her head and otherwise mangled. Both hounds had disappeared, and as they did not come back till near night, it was inferred that they had cut short Reynard's repast, and given him a good chase into the bargain. But next night he was back again, and this time got safely off with the goose. A couple of nights after he must have come with recruits, for next morning three large goslings were reported missing. The silly geese now got it through their noddles that there was danger about, and every night after came close up to the house to roost.

A brood of turkeys, the old one tied to a tree a few rods. to the rear of the house, were the next objects of attack. The predaceous rascal came, as usual, in the latter half of the night. I happened to be awake, and heard the helpless turkey cry "quit, quit," with great emphasis. Another sleeper, on the floor above me, who, it seems, had been sleeping with one ear awake for several nights in apprehension for the safety of his turkeys, heard the sound also, and instantly divined its cause. I heard the window open and a voice summon the dogs. A loud bellow was the response, which caused Reynard to take himself off in a


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