"But ought you not to tell her?" "No." "You are sure?" "Yes." like her! You poor little darling! It nearly makes me cry, to think of the tiny feet going tramp, tramp, all that horrible way, and she high up on her big horse! She always rides the biggest horse she can get! And then never to see or say a word to you, after she brought you home!" "Mr. Day," I returned, "I would not "You don't mean you will tell her a have told you had I known it would make story?" 66 Certainly not." "What will you do then?" you speak so naughtily of your mother. You make me unhappy." He was silent. I thought he was "I will tell her that I will not tell her." ashamed of himself, and was sorry for "Can that be right?" Through the dusk I could see his white teeth lighting up his smile as he answered: "I think so. You may be quite sure I shall not tell her." "But," I began. He interrupted me. It was with no hypocrisy I would have objected to the concealment of our interview. I was myself doing precisely the thing I would have questioned; but not only did I want to hear what he would say, in the hope of seeing my own duty more plainly, but I almost shuddered at the idea of having with any young man a secret against his mother-for against her surely her son's secret must be. "It must look strange to you," he said; "but you don't know my mother." "I think I do know your mother," I rejoined. "She saved my poor little life once, I think. I am not sure it was your mother, but I think it must have been." "How could it be?" he said. "When was it?" "Many years ago I cannot tell how many. But I remember the time I mean very well though the lady may not have been your mother. I cannot have been more than eight, I think." "She couldn't have been at the manor then could she?" he said, putting the question to himself, not me. "How was it? Tell me," he went on, rising to his feet, and looking at me with a peculiar, almost frightened eagerness. I told him the tale as I could recall the facts. He listened in absolute silence. When I had done he broke out, "It was my mother! I don't know an other woman would have let a child walk like that! Any other would have put you on the horse, or taken you up beside her!" "A gentleman would, I know," I replied. "But it is not so easy for a lady." "She could have done it well enough, either way. She's as strong as a horse herself, and rides like an Amazon. But I am not in the least surprised; it was just him. But my sympathy was wasted. The next instant he broke into a murmuring laugh of merriment. "When is a mother not a mother?" he said. "Do you give it up? When she's a north wind. When she's a Roman emperor. When she's an iceberg. When she's a brass tiger. There! that'll do. Good-bye, mother, for the present; I mayn't know much yet, as she's always telling me, but I do know that a noun is not a thing, nor a name a person." I would have expostulated. "For love-sake, dearest," he said, with solemnity, "don't let us dispute where only one of us knows. I will tell you all some day soon, I hope, very soon. am angry now! Poor little tramping child! I To I saw I had been behaving presumptuously, for I had attempted argument while in completest ignorance. Had not my uncle taught me the folly of reasoning from the ideal where no ideal was? reason of what is by what ought to be, is worse than useless. We can reason of only what will be by what ought to be. The ideal must be our guide as to how to treat the actual, but at least the actual must be there to treat. We must know what things exist before we can deal with them. I thought I saw also, that little enlightenment as to my duty was to be got from John Day; there could be no likeness between his mother and my uncle. was not worth telling be interesting? | a wife to the house she was in, as I would How then should I be interested in you? ask her to creep with me into the den of a But the thing that I know will interest me hyena." in the hearing, ought to interest you in the telling." "I see," he rejoined, with his merry laugh, "I shall have to be careful what Î say! The little lady will at once find out the weak points of its logic!" "I do not look for weak points any where; but my uncle has taught me that wisdom lies in knowing when I don't know a thing." "Yours must be a very unusual kind of uncle," he returned. "I think he has taught me how to learn," I said. "If God had made many men like my uncle, the world wouldn't be the same place." "I wonder why he didn't!" said John Day thoughtfully. "I have wondered much, and cannot answer the question," I replied. Of course there is an answer!" "What if it wouldn't be good for the world to have many good men in it before it was ready to treat them properly!" suggested John. The words let me know that at least he could think. Hitherto my uncle had seemed the only man that thought. "It may be so," I answered. "I will think of it. But now tell me something about yourself. Were you brought up at Rising? Have you been there all the time? Were you there that night? I should surely have known had you been in the house!" He looked at me with a grateful smile. "I was not brought up there," he answered. "Rising is my property, however at least will be when I come of age. It was left me some ten years ago by a greataunt. My father's property will be mine too of course. He left my mother some property in Ireland. She ought to be in Ireland, not here, but she likes my estates better than her own, and makes the most of being my guardian." "But you would not have her go there if she is happier here!" "All who have land ought to live on it, or else give it to those who do. What makes it theirs if their only connection with it is the money it brings them? If I let my horse run wild over the country, how could I claim him, and refuse to pay his damages?" "I don't quite understand you." 66 Well, never mind'; I don't put it quite clearly. But for my mother, I can say one thing plainly that I would as soon take It was too dreadful. I rose from my clover-throne. "You must excuse me, sir," I said. "With one who can speak so of his mother, I am where I ought not to be." "You have a right to know what my mother is," he answered coldly I thought, "and I should not be a true man if I spoke of her otherwise than I have done.' He had risen when I rose. He would pretend nothing to please me. I saw that I was again in the wrong. Was I so little read as to imagine that a mother must of necessity be a good woman? Must he speak of his mother as he did not believe of her, or be unfit for my company? Would untruth be a fitting bond between us? "I beg your pardon," I said; "I was wrong. But you can hardly wonder I should be shocked to hear a son speak so of his mother to one all but a stranger." "What!" he returned, with a look of surprise; "do you think of me so - as a stranger? I feel as if I had known you all my life - and before it." I was ashamed and silent. "You must not think I speak so to any one," he said. "Of those who know my mother and do not know her, not one has a right to demand of me the truth concerning her. But what right could I have to ask you to see me if I would not tell you the truth about my mother? Truth is at the root of all right. Wisdom says: Have nothing to do with the son of sucn a woman!? Not to tell you what she was, yet to seek your love, would make me a liar." He made it clear he felt far too strongly to be influenced by a world of commonplaces. 66 'Forgive me," I said. down again? "May I sit He held out his hand. I took it, and so reseated myself on the clover-hillock. He laid himself again at my feet. After a little silence, he resumed, and told me a good deal more-only of his outward history, however, while what I wanted was to know how he had come to be the kind of man he was. Plainly it was not easy to him to talk about himself. But I heard nothing more to wake the doubt whether I ought to have met him, and was loving him a great deal more by the time he had done than when he began. I then told him in return what my life bigger? 66 Perhaps that is just what is now being done with it," he answered. "I hope it may," I returned. is time I went in." "But it had hitherto been; how I knew nothing | It tears my heart. Why wasn't it made of father or mother; how my uncle had been everything to me, had taught me everything, had helped me to love what was good and hate what was evil, had made me know and love good books, and turn away from foolish ones. In short, I made him feel that all his mother had not been to him, my uncle had been to me; and that it would take a long time to make me as much indebted to a husband as already I was to my uncle. Then I put my question: "What would you think of me," I said, "if I were to have a secret from an uncle like that? "If I had an uncle like that," he answered, "I would sooner have my throat cut than keep anything from him." "I'm so glad," I cried. "You side with my conscience! He shall be told the minute he is able to hear it. But you understand it is just my love for my uncle that makes it hard to tell him? It has the look of turning away from him to love another." "It has that look, but I trust it is only a look. Anyhow he knows that such things must be; and the more he is a good man and a gentleman the less will he be pained that we should love one another." "I am sure of all that," I replied. "I am only afraid that he may never have been in love himself, and so does not know how it feels, and, not understanding it, may think I have forsaken him for you." "Have you been always together?" "No; I have been a good deal alone. He has always given me perfect liberty." "Then he could live without you?" "Yes, indeed. He would be a poor creature that could not live without an. other!" He said nothing, and I added, "He often goes out alone without me - sometimes in the darkest midnights." "Then be sure he knows what love is - or at least will understand when you tell him. But, if you would rather, I will tell him." "I could not have any one, even you, tell my uncle any news about me." "You are right. When will you tell him?" "I cannot be sure. I would go to him to-morrow, but they will not let me until he has got a little over this accident." Then I told John what had happened. "It is dreadful to think how he must have suffered," I said, "and how much more I should have thought about it but for you. "No," I answered. "Shall I not see you again to-morrow evening?" he asked. "You have helped me to see what is right. It is clear to me now. I must not see you again till I have told my uncle everything." "You do not mean for weeks and weeks - till he is well enough to be brought home! How am I to live till then?" "As I shall have to live. But I hope it will be but for a few days. Only then much will depend on what my uncle thinks." "Will he decide for you what you are to do?" "Yes -I think so. were Perhaps if he I was on the point of saying, "like your mother, I would act for myself;" but I stopped in time-or hardly. for I fear he saw what I just saved myself from. Never, then or after, did he once press me to complete an interrupted sentence. But he looked so sad, that I felt driven to say a word more. "I don't think there is any good," I remarked, "in resolving what you will or will not do, before the occasion appears, compelling decision. I will try to do what is right. I cannot promise anything without knowing what my uncle thinks.' We rose. He took me in his arms for a moment, and we parted with the understanding that I was to write to him as soon as I had spoken with my uncle. CHAPTER XV. THE TIME BETWEEN. THE certainty with which I now saw so far, was a wonder to me. So was the ease of my mind, now I had resolved, on the first opportunity, to make my uncle acquainted with what I had done. I might be in doubt about revealing my thoughts; I could be in none about revealing my actions. I found also that it was much less appalling, somehow, to tell what I had done, than to tell what I was feeling. I may here be allowed to remark, in addition, how much easier an action is when immediately demanded, than it seems while it lies in the contingent future-when the thing is before you in its reality, and not as a mere thought-spectre. The thing itself and the idea of it are two One thing more: when a woman wants to do right-I do not mean wants to coax the right to side with her she will, somehow, be led to see right. such different grounds upon which to | they imagine their presence necessary to come to a decision! all about them, when they learn that their disappearance from the world sent a thrill of relief through the hearts of those nearest them! It will one day prove a strong medicine for souls self-absorbed, to learn how little they were prized. "There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed." My uncle was very feverish and troubled the first night, and had a good deal of delirium, during which his care and anxiety seemed all about me. Martha had to assure him every other moment that I was well and in no danger of any sort; he would be silent for a time, and then again be tormented with forebodings about me. In the morning, however, he was better, only he looked sadder than usual. She thought he was anxious about me. So much I gathered from Martha's letter, by no means scholarly, but graphic enough. Its contents gave me much pain. My uncle was miserable about me; he had seen, and he knew and felt, that something had come between us. Alas, it was no fancy of the brain-troubled soul! Whether I was in fault or not, there was that something. It troubled that unity that had hitherto seemed a state essential and indivisible. Dared I go to him without a summons? I knew Martha would call me the moment the doctor allowed her, and did not feel it would be right to go without that call, especially as what I had to tell might justify more anxiety than the sight of me would counteract. If I went and said nothing, the keen eye of his love would but see the more plainly that there was something hid in my silence that all was not as it had been betwixt us. I resolved therefore to remain where I was, waiting as patiently as I could. CHAPTER XVI. FAULT AND NO FAULT. THE next day I kept the house till the evening, and then went walking in the garden in the twilight. Between the dark alleys and the open wilderness I flitted and wandered, alternating gloom and gleam outside me, even as they chased one another within me. In the wilderness all at once I looked up-and there was John! He stood outside the fence, just as I had seen him the night before, only now there was no aureole about his head; the moon had not yet reached the horizon. My first feeling was anger; he had broken our agreement. I did not reflect that there was such a thing as breaking a law, or even a promise, and being blameless. He leaped the fence, and clearing every bush like a deer, came straight toward me. It was no use trying to escape him. I turned my back, and stood. He stopped close behind me, a yard or two away. "Will you not speak to me?" he said. "It's not my fault I am come." "Whose fault else can it be?" I rejoined, with difficulty keeping my position. "My mother's, of course!" he answered. I turned and looked him in the eyes, saw through the dusk that he was troubled, ran to him, and put my arms about him. The next two days were perhaps the most uncomfortable ever I spent. A secret that one desires to turn out of doors at the first advantage, is not a comfortable companion. I do not say I was unhappy, still less that once I wished I had not seen "She has been spying," he said, as John Day, but oh, how I longed to love soon as he could speak. "She will part him openly! how I longed for my uncle's us at any risk if she can. She is having sanction, without which our love could us watched this very moment, most likely. not be perfected! Then John's mother She may be watching us herself. She is was by no means a gladsome thought. a terrible woman, my mother, when she is But however his feeling toward her might demand explanation, he must be a good man indeed who was good in spite of being unable to love, respect, or trust his mother! The true notion of heaven is to be with everybody one loves; to him the presence of his mother would destroy any heaven. What a painful but salutary shock it will be to those whose existence is such a glorifying of themselves that for or against anything. Literally, I don't know what she would not do to get her own way. She lives for her own way. The loss of it would be as the loss of her soul. She'll lose it this time. She'll fail this time for the first time, so far as I know." 66 Well," I returned, nowise inclined to take her part, “I hope she will fail! What does she say?" "She says she would rather go to her grave than see me the husband of one of your family." "What is there against my uncle? Is there anything against Martha Moon? What have I done? What is it?" "I don't think she has had time to invent anything against you yet; but she pretends there is something, and says if I don't give you up at once, if I don't swear never to look at you again, she will tell that something." "What did you say?" "I said no power on earth should make me give you up. Whatever she knew, she could know nothing against you, and I was as ready to go to my grave as she was. 'Mother,' I said, 'you may tell my determination by your own! When man and woman are both determined, then comes the tug! But I tell you this,' I said, 'whether I marry her or not, you and I part company the day I come of age; and if in the mean time you speak word or do deed against one of that family, my lawyer shall look strictly into your accounts as my guardian.' You see I knew where to touch her!" "It is dreadful you should have to speak like that to your mother." "It is; but you would feel to her just as I do, if you knew all-though you wouldn't speak so roughly. For that, even a man would have to live with her as long as I have done." "Can you guess what she has in her mind?" "Not in the least. She will pretend anything. It is enough that she is determined to part us. How, she cares nothing, so she succeed." "But she cannot!" "It rests with you." "How with me?" On my side, my uncle alone had a word in the matter, and I knew he would not willingly interfere with my happiness. For me, I should never marry another than John Day- that was a thing of course; I had he not kissed me? But the best of lovers had been parted, and that which had been, might be again, though I could not see how. It was good to hear John talk as he did; it was the right way for a lover to talk; but he had no supremacy over what was to be! "Some would say it cannot be so great matter, seeing we have known each other such a little while," I remarked. "The true time is the long enough!" he replied. "Would it be a sign that our love was strong, that it took a great while to grow up? The strongest things There he stopped, and I saw why; strongest things are not generally of quickest growth. But there is the eucalyptus! And was not St. Paul as good a Christian as any of them? I said nothing, however. There was indeed no rule in the matter. "You must allow it possible," I said, "that we may not be married." "I will not," he answered. "It is true my mother may get me brought in as incapable of managing my own affairs; but "What mother would do such a wicked thing?" I cried. "She would!" "Oh!" "It will be war to the knife between her and me. 66 If she succeeds, it must be with you." 66 What will you do to prevent it?" "What if you should see it your duty to give me up?" "What if there was no difference between right and wrong! We're as good as married!" "Yes, of course; but I cannot quite promise, you know, until I hear what my uncle will say." "If your uncle is half as good a man as you have made me think him, he will do what he can on our side. He loves what 'is fair; and what can be fairer than that those who love each other should marry!" | "Whatever she may do.” "How can we till she begins?" "She has begun." "How?" I asked, incredulous. "Leander is lame," he answered. "I am so sorry!" ! "I am so angry "Is it possible I understand you ?'” "Quite. She did it." "How do you know? "I can no more prove it than I can doubt it." 66 Is it not possible to know so as to be able to prove it?" "I cannot inquire into my mother's proceedings. I leave that sort of thing to |