University of Virginia Library

The Gable-Roofed House at Snowdon.

“Now, Mary,” said my Great-Aunt Sally, as o'er the
title of this tale her golden spectacles for a moment
peered, “Now Mary, what could possess you to choose
such a subject? Seems as though you had no knack in
getting up a taking title. Why don't you ever write
about `The Murdered Sisters,' or `Lover's Revenge,' or
some such thrilling themes?” and Aunt Sally settled
herself for her afternoon nap, in the large, stuffed easy
chair, before the grate of glowing Lehigh, greatly lamenting
the incapacity of her niece for “getting up taking
titles.”

Dear Aunt Sally, who, since my earliest remembrance,
has worn the same sweet, placid smile, the same neatly
fashioned caps, and carried the same large tortoise shell
snuff-box! could I not, if I would, weave a story of her
now so quietly passing into the winter of life!

And now her heavy breathings show that I and my
story have ceased to trouble her, while Malta, the pet kitten,
snugly nestled in its mistress' lap, purrs out her contentment,
occasionally lifting her velvet paw toward the
nose which bows and nods so threateningly above her.
Darkly across the floor fall the shadows of the locust
trees, whose long branches make mournful music as they
sweep against the loosened shutter. On the almost deserted

side walk is heard the patter of the September rain,
and in the delicious quiet of a still, smoky, rainy afternoon,
commences the first chapter in the life of one, who, in the
somber old church at Snowdon, was christened Josephine
Clayton.

1. CHAPTER I.
JOSEPHINE.

The house which Uncle Isaac Clayton, the shoemaker
of Snowdon, called his, was an old brown, gable-roofed
building, containing wide fire-places, huge ovens, ash-pits
of corresponding magnitude, and low rooms, where the
bare rafters looked menacingly down, strikingly suggestive
of bumped heads, especially to those who, being above
the medium height, carried their heads too high. Then
there were the little narrow windows, so far from the
floor, that every time a wagon was heard, the six red-backed,
splint-bottomed chairs were brought into requisition
by Uncle Isaac's six white-haired boys, all eager to
know “who's goin' by!”

It was in the same room which contained these six red-backed
chairs, that Josephine first opened her eyes on
the light of a fair September morning, and, in the same
room, too, the six white-haired boys, on tip-toe, stole up
to the bed to see the novelty, for never before had a
daughter graced Uncle Isaac's domestic circle.

“She makes up just such faces and looks just as ugly
as Jim did when he was a baby,” said Frank, the oldest
of the boys; and with a whistle which he meant should

be very indifferent, he walked away, followed by all his
brothers save Jimmy, who lingered longer to look at the
stranger, who so unceremoniously had usurped his rights
and privileges as the youngest. Though cradled in the
lap of poverty, a more restless and ambitious being has
seldom sprung into existence than was she, whose soft cheek
and tiny fingers Jimmy so lovingly caressed. Yes, Jimmy,
love her now, lavish upon her all the affection of your
noble heart, for the time will come when she, a haughty,
beautiful woman, will turn her back on you, ashamed to
own that once beneath the old gable-roof she called you
brother.

Over Josephine's early days we will not linger, or stop
to tell how both early and late Uncle Isaac's pegs and
long waxed-ends flew, to meet the increased demands for
money which the new comer made, nor how Jimmy, in
order that his sister might have the bright pink dress,
which so well became her rosy cheeks and silken curls,
went, with generous self-denial, without the new Sunday
coat, wearing the old patched one, until it was hard to
tell which piece belonged to the original article.

It was no ordinary love which Jimmy Clayton bore
his only sister; and as she grew older and he saw her
passion for dress, he carefully hoarded every penny
which he earned, and then when she least expected it,
poured his treasure into her lap, thus, with mistaken
kindness, gratifying a fondness for dress far above her
means. Though possessing less of it than most small villages,
Snowdon had its ton, its upper set, who, while
they commented upon the marvelous beauty of Josephine,
still passed her by as one not of their number.
This was exceedingly mortifying to her pride, and when
at the school which she attended, Mabel Howland, the
lawyer's child, spoke sneeringly of “the poor shoemaker's

daughter,” her spirit was fully roused, and she resolved
to leave no means untried until money was within her
reach. Accordingly, when sixteen years of age, she was
willingly apprenticed to a milliner in the city, with the
understanding that at the end of six months she should
return home for a short visit. Many articles which were
absolutely necessary for the coming winter, did Mrs.
Clayton deny herself, that a decent outfit might be procured
for the thankless girl, who, without a tear, left the
humble home she so much despised.

But, in spite of her faults, she left behind her loving
hearts, which many long days missed her bright, handsome
face and bounding footstep. Darker than ever
seemed the dark old kitchen at Snowdon, while the cricket
'neath the large flat stones which served as a hearth,
mournfully chirped, “she's gone,” as on the first evening
after her departure Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Jimmy
gathered around the frugal board. The other five boys,
now grown to manhood, were away, three of them being
respectable farmers, and the other two mechanics.

Jimmy had always been a home boy, and he remained
with his mother, learning his father's trade, and working
in the little shop which had been built in the rear of the
house. In his childhood he had thirsted for more knowledge
than could be obtained by a yearly attendance of
five months at the district school of Snowdon, but, taught
by his father to believe that education was only for the
rich, he hushed the desire he had once had for something
noble and high, and patiently, day by day, he toiled uncomplainingly
in the shop, thinking himself sufficiently
rewarded by the smile of approbation with which his
mother always greeted him, and the few words of kindness
which his sister occasionally gave him. But in that
close, smoky shop was the germ of a great mind. The

scholar and statesman was there, who one day would
stand forth among the great men of the land.

But not with Jimmy must we tarry. Our story leads
to the noisy city, where already had Josephine's uncommon
beauty been the subject of remark, drawing to Mrs.
Lamport's shop many who were attracted thither by the
hope of seeing the beautiful apprentice girl, who was frequently
sent to wait upon them. “What a pity that she
should be a milliner,” had more than once been whispered
in her hearing, and ere three months of her apprenticeship
had expired, she was devising schemes by which to
rise to the level for which she believed nature intended
her; and fortune, or rather ill fortune, seemed to favor
her wishes.

Among the millionaires of the city was a Mr. Hubbell,
who, with a gouty foot, restless mind, and nervous, sickly
daughter of eighteen, managed to kill time by playing
chess, reading politics, giving dinner parties, humoring
his daughter, visiting every fashionable watering place,
cursing the waiters, and finding fault generally. Not always,
however, had Mr. Hubbell possessed so peculiar a
disposition. Late in life his quiet bachelor habits had
been broken by a young, joyous creature, on whom he
doted with an almost idolatrous love; but the same sun
which first shone on him, a happy father, left him at its setting,
a stricken, desolate mourner. Anna, his cherished
girl-wife, had left him forever. He had not thought she
could die, and when they told him she was dying, with
the shriek of a madman he caught her in his arms, as if he
would contend with the king of terrors for the prize he
was bearing away. She died, and from the quiet, easy
husband, Enos Hubbell became a fault-finding, fretful, disconsolate
widower.

His daughter Anna had, in her childhood, been subject

to severe and protracted fits of sickness, and now, at
eighteen, she was a pale, delicate, kind-hearted girl,
though rather peculiar in her likes and dislikes, for upon
whatever object her affections chanced to fasten, she clung
to it with a tenacity which nothing could weaken. For
one thing in particular she was famous. She was always
discovering people whom she thought “far below their
position in life.” These she generally took under her
special notice, and as might be expected, usually succeeded
in making them both discontented and unhappy.

Josephine had been in Mrs. Lamport's employment
nearly three months, when she was one morning sent to
wait upon Miss Hubbell, who came on some trifling errand.
Something in the face and appearance of the apprentice
girl deeply interested Anna, who felt sure that
for once she discriminated rightly,—that she had at
last found one really worthy of being her protege,—in
short, Josephine was discovered! Many were the visits
made to Mrs. Lamport's, until the intimacy between
Anna and Josephine became a subject of gossip among
the shop girls, each of whom, according to her own pretensions
for beauty, was jealous of her handsome rival.

Anna Hubbell's nature was largely spiced with romance,
and she had long sighed for a companion near her age,
who would be the confidant of all her thoughts and feelings,
and in Josephine Clayton, she fancied she had
at last found the desired friend. She believed, too, it
would be an act of kindness to lend her a helping hand,
for Josephine had often insinuated that reverse of fortune,
alone, had placed her where she was. To her father
Anna first communicated her plan, seizing her opportunity
when he was not only free from gout, but had also
just beaten her at chess three times out of four. First
she descanted on Josephine's extreme beauty and natural

refinement of manner; next she spoke of the misfortune
which had obliged her to become a milliner, and finished
her argument by telling how lonely she herself was,
when obliged by ill health to remain in the house for
weeks.

Mr. Hubbell heard her through, and then striking the
ashes from his cigar, said, “Why don't you come to the
point at once, and say you want this girl to pet, flatter,
and make a fool of you generally?”

“And if I do,” answered Anna, “you have no objections,
have you?” And Anna wound her arms around
her father's neck, until a twinge of the gout suddenly returning,
he threw her half way across the room, exclaiming,
“For pity's sake and the old Harry, lug in a wash-woman
for all of me, if you wish to!”

So the matter was settled, and in the course of an hour,
a note was dispatched to Josephine, bidding her come
that evening, if possible, as her friend had something
pleasant to communicate. Just as the street lamps were
lighted, Josephine ascended the marble steps of Mr.
Hubbell's stately dwelling, and in a moment was in Anna's
room, where she soon learned why she was sent for.
So unexpected was the proposal, that for a time she was
mute with surprise, and then on her knees she thanked
Anna Hubbell for the great good she was doing her.

The bells of the city were tolling the hour of nine ere
Josephine returned to her pleasant room at Mrs. Lamport's,
which now looked poor and humble, compared
with the elegant home she was soon to have. When
Mrs. Lamport was informed of the plan, she refused to
release Josephine until the term of her apprenticeship
should have expired, alleging, as one reason, that Josephine
might sometime find her trade of great service to
her. Accordingly, though much against her will, Josephine

was obliged to remain until the end of the six
months; but she resolved not to go home, and about the
time when she would be expected, she wrote to her parents,
telling them of her future prospects, and saying
that, as Miss Hubbell wished for her immediately, she
should be obliged to forego her expected visit.

Owing to some mistake, this letter did not reach its
destination, and Jimmy, all impatient to see his beloved
sister, started for the city on purpose to accompany her
home. Going to Mrs. Lamport's, he was told that “Josephine
had gone out shopping.” “Gone to buy some
presents for mother, I presume,” thought he, as he retraced
his steps through the crowded streets. Coming
to a jeweler's shop, he concluded to step in, as he had
long contemplated the purchase of a watch. At the further
end of the store were seated two young ladies, surrounded
by jewelry, from which they were making selections.
As Jimmy entered the door, one of the young ladies
glanced at him; their eyes met, and involuntarily
Jimmy started forward, half exclaiming, “Josephine!”
but the lady's lip curled scornfully, and a dark frown lowered
on her brow as she turned quickly away. Jimmy
was puzzled, and glancing, for the first time, at the young
girl's dress, he thought, “Of course 't is n't Josephine;
what a blunder I should have made!”

Just then the clerk asked him to step into an adjoining
room, where they would show him the kind of watches
he wished for. As he was passing the two ladies, the one
whose face he had not seen looked up at him. He would
have thought no more of this occurrence, had he not overheard
her say to her companion, “Why, Josephine, that
young man looks enough like you to be your brother.”

The reply, too, he distinctly heard, uttered in Josephine's
well remembered voice: “Oh fie, Miss Hubbell!

pray, don't take that clownish clod-pole to be my
brother!”

Jimmy instantly turned toward the speaker, but with
her companion she was leaving the shop. Mechanically
declining to purchase anything, he also left, and, going to
the hotel, called for a room, where, locking himself in, he
burst into a flood of tears. “Josephine, his sister Josephine,
was ashamed to own him,—had denied him!”
For half an hour he wept bitterly; then over him a reäction
stole, and rising up, he rapidly paced the room, saying,
“Ashamed of me!—she shall see the day when she
will be glad that I am her brother.” Then in that little
room was a resolution made, and a course of life marked
out which made for America a son of whom she has since
been proud.

That evening Jimmy met his sister at Mrs. Lamport's,
but not as in the olden time. A change had come over
him, which even Josephine noticed, although she scarcely
regretted it. He offered no remonstrance when told that
she would not accompany him home; but, after bidding
her good-by, he turned back, and with a scarcely steady
voice, said, “When I return home, and mother, your
mother, weeps because you do not come, shall I tell her
that you sent no word of love?”

“Why, Jim,” said Josephine, “what a strange mood
you are in to-night! Of course, I send my love to all of
them. Have n't I told you so? If I have n't, it was because
I forgot it.”

“One of us, at least, will not forget you so easily,” answered
Jimmy, but he told not what fresh cause he had
for remembrance.

2. CHAPTER II.
A PEEP AT THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON.

Never was floor scoured whiter than was the floor in
the long, dark kitchen at Snowdon, on the day when Mrs.
Clayton, with a mother's joy, said, “Josephine is coming
to-night.” Everything within told of recent renovation
and fixing up, and the large square room, whose four
bare walls had echoed back the first shrill cry of Uncle
Isaac's seven children, now looked really neat and pretty,
with its bright rag carpet, its polished brass andirons,
and its six flag-bottomed chairs, for the old red-backs had
long since been removed to the kitchen, their place being
supplied by six yellow chairs, which now in turn gave up
their long standing right to flag-bottoms of a more modern
date.

The two boys who lived nearest came home, the one
bringing several pounds of coffee, while the other brought
the snow-white sugar loaf, which was only to be used in
Josephine's cup, for “Josephine was coming home.”
Yes, “Josephine was coming home,” and Uncle Isaac finished
work full three hours earlier, in order that he might
have ample time to remove the heavy beard, don the
clean linen, and assume the blue, Sunday coat with the
brass buttons.

In one corner of the old rickety barn, a turkey, the
only turkey Isaac Clayton owned, had long been fattening,
and now in the oven was roasting, for “Josephine
was coming home;” and as the sun drew nearer and
nearer to the western horizon, Mrs. Clayton's step grew
lighter, while the smile on her face grew brighter and
more exultant. Again was the white counterpane on the

best bed smoothed, and the large round pillows gently
patted, for Josephine's soft, fair cheek would ere long
nestle there. Alas! poor, fond, but disappointed mother!
The Josephine, so anxiously waited for, slept that night
on finer linen and softer couch than could be found, I
ween, 'neath the gable-roofed house at Snowdon.

Now the sun has set behind a pile of purple clouds,
and there is darkness in the nooks and corners of the
house at Snowdon. The maple fire in the large square
room is crackling and laughing and blazing, and casting
on the somber walls fantastic shadows, which chase each
other, “chassee, cross over, and then cross back,” while
to the dancing flames Uncle Isaac adds still another stick,
for it is a raw March night, and Josephine will be cold.
Upon the time-worn bridge which crosses Snowdon creek
is heard the sound of wheels; and the crack of the driver's
whip, together with the tramp of many feet, shows that
the stage is coming at last. But what! Why does not
the driver stop at the little board gate which stands so
invitingly open? Is he going to let Josephine dismount
in the muddy street?

Before these queries are satisfactorily solved, the stage
rattles on, and only Jimmy stands among them, beset by
inquiries for Josephine.

“Wait until I get to the fire and I will tell you,” said
he, as he blew his red fingers; but Mrs. Clayton could
not wait, and leading him toward the house, she said,
“Tell me, is Josephine sick?”

“Perfectly well, I believe,” he answered, and then,
when seated before the cheerful blaze, he told them why
he was alone; but of the insult he had received he said
nothing. That was a secret, which he kept to himself,
brooding over it until its venom ate into his inmost soul.

It was a sad group which gathered around the supper

table that night; and, as over the dishes she had prepared
with so much care Jimmy saw his mother's tears fall, his
heart swelled with resentment, and he longed to tell her
how unworthy was the selfish girl who scorned her own
brother, but he did not, though he resolved, by an increased
kindness of manner, to compensate his honored
mother for the love which Josephine refused to give.
Noble Jimmy! In this world there are choice spirits like
yours, but their name is not legion!

Next morning the two older boys returned to their employment,
while Mr. Clayton sold to Mabel Howland, who
had long coveted them, the fairy-like slippers, which for
two weeks he had kept for his daughter; and amid a rain
of tears Mrs. Clayton put away in the drawer the lamb's-wool
stockings which she had knit for Josephine, weaving
in with each thread the golden fibers of a mother's undying
love. After his daily work was done, Jimmy stole
up to the little green trunk under the gable-roof where
lay the pile of bright half dollars he had hoarded for Josephine.
Counting out half, he threw them into his mother's
lap, and with the remainder repaired to the Snowdon
bookstore, exchanging them for their value in books.
The old desire for learning had returned, and early and
late was each leisure moment improved. His parents offered
no opposition, but approved his plan of reciting two
hours each day to Mr. Allen, the clergyman, who became
much interested in the young student. “Excelsior” was
Jimmy's motto, and his teacher became surprised at the
rapid improvement and the magnitude of the mind committed
to his care. Ere long, Jimmy's fame as a scholar
became known throughout the village, attracting toward
him many who had never before noticed the humble boy,
except, perhaps, to remark his fine face and figure. Now,
however, they came thronging about him, offering books

and advice in large quantities. But Jimmy respectfully
declined their attentions, for Mr. Allen's library, to which
he had free access, contained whatever books he needed,
and his good sense, together with Mr. Allen's experience,
furnished all the advice necessary. At one time Mr. Allen
hoped that the brilliant talents, which he knew his
young friend possessed, would be devoted to the ministry;
but Jimmy's taste and disposition turned toward
the bar, and as Judge Howland was in want of a clerk,
Mr. Clayton was induced to give up the services of his
son, who now bent all his energies upon the study of law,
and the course of instruction which Mr. Allen had marked
out for him. Leaving him to pursue his onward path to
greatness, we will return to Josephine, who for some
time has been the bosom friend and companion of Anna
Hubbell.

3. CHAPTER III.
LOCUST GROVE.

About fifty miles west of the city, at the foot of a
bright sheet of water, lies the small village of Lockland,
consisting of one broad, handsome street, and two narrow
ones, diverging at right angles. The quiet which forever
reigns in this secluded spot, seemed not unlike the deep
hush of a Sabbath morning. In the center of the village
stand the two dry goods stores, where kind-hearted clerks,
in consideration of its being you, measured off calico at a
shilling per yard, which positively cost fifteen cents, and
silks for a dollar, which could n't be bought in the city
for less than a dollar and a quarter.

Directly opposite these sacrificing stores stands the hotel,
on whose creaking old sign is written in flaming letters,
“Temperance House,” although the village gossips,
particularly the woman who lives next door, have frequently
hinted, confidentially of course, that the word
“temperance” was all humbug. Side by side with the
hotel stands the old brick church, the only church in
Lockland.

A little out of the village, and on an eminence which
overlooks it, is a handsome, white cottage, which, from
the number of locust trees around it, had long been
known as “Locust Grove.” This cottage was the property
of Mrs. Wilson, Anna Hubbell's grandmother, and
thither, each summer, Anna repaired, in hopes of coaxing
to her pale cheeks the hue of the roses which grew in
such profusion around the doors, windows, and porticos
of her grandmother's dwelling.

Across the way was another, a large building, elegant
in structure and imposing in appearance. It was owned
by Gen. Granby, who had retired from public life, and
was living upon the interest of his money. These two
families were on terms of intimacy with but few of the
villagers, and consequently were called proud and haughty
by those who had nothing to do except to canvass affairs
at Locust Grove and Elmwood Lodge, as Gen. Granby's
residence was termed.

One morning in early June, the little village suddenly
found itself in a state of fermentation, occasioned by Mrs.
Wilson's traveling carriage, which passed up Main street,
and from the windows of which looked forth, not only the
plain, delicate features of Anna Hubbell, but also another, a
most beautiful face. Such eyes, such curls, and more than
all, so dazzling a complexion, had seldom been seen in Lockland,
and the villagers were all eager to know who the

stranger could be, and why Anna Hubbell had brought her
there. Did she not fear her influence over George Granby,
to whom, for a long time, she was known to have been engaged,
and who, with his sister Delphine, had been traveling
in Europe, and was now daily expected home? Still
more was the gossip increased when, that afternoon, Lockland's
back parlors and sitting rooms were vacated by their
inmates, who from behind half-raised curtains and half-closed
shutters, peeped out, while with long black skirts
and leghorn hats, Anna Hubbell and her companion galloped
leisurely through the village and down upon the lake
shore. But not upon Anna did an eye rest. All were
fixed upon the lady at her side, whose red lips curled in
scorn at the same curiosity of which she had often been
guilty in the gable-roofed house in far off Snowdon.

That night, in Anna's dressing-room, Josephine was
weeping, and to Anna's repeated inquiries as to the cause
of her tears, she at last answered, “It is foolish, but I
cannot help it. In the city all knew I was your hired
companion, but here, in the country, — oh, need they
know?”

“I appreciate your feelings,” said Anna, “but rest assured
that no one shall know you are not fully my equal.
Grandmother, indeed, knows your real position, but if I
request it, she will be silent.”

So the terrible secret that Josephine was poor, and a
dependent, was kept from the villagers, who marveled at
her great beauty and the richness of her attire, for all her
wages were expended in dress. Not one penny ever
found its way to Snowdon, where it would have been joyfully
received, not because they were in actual want of it,
but because it came from Josephine.

Mrs. Granby, who was an amiable and lady-like woman,
treated Josephine with great cordiality, frequently expressing

a wish that her daughter, Delphine, would return,
as it would be so pleasant for her to have two companions
so near. Josephine had no objections to seeing
George Granby, whose many excellences Anna each day
lauded to the skies, but she greatly dreaded the return
of Miss Granby. Six years before, when but a child, she
remembered that Mabel Howland had one day brought
to school a cousin, Dell Granby, two or three years her
senior, and whose place of residence she felt sure was at
Lockland. Always fearing that her humble parentage
might be discovered, she trembled lest Dell Granby
should recognize her, or that in some way her real position
should become known.

“I shall soon know the worst,” thought she, as one afternoon,
about three weeks after her arrival at Lockland,
she saw a handsome carriage drive up in front of Gen.
Granby's residence. From it sprang a gentleman, who
was quickly followed by a young lady of remarkably elegant
appearance. After embracing Mrs. Granby, who
came out to meet her, she turned toward the window,
where Josephine was sitting, and thinking it was Anna,
playfully threw a kiss from the tips of her snowy, jeweled
fingers; then she instantly disappeared in the long hall,
followed by the gentleman.

“That must be Dell Granby,” thought Josephine; “but
if that is her brother, he is not one-half as fine looking as
Anna has described him to be; but then she is in love,
and of course no judge.”

Just then, Anna, who had been sleeping, awoke. On
hearing of Delphine's arrival, her cheeks alternately
flushed and grew pale, as she nervously ordered her waiting
maid to dress her becomingly, preserving at the same
time the utmost simplicity. When her toilet was completed,
she asked Josephine's opinion. Both were standing

before the mirror, and as Josephine noticed the contrast
between herself, dressed as usual, and Anna, arrayed
in the most becoming manner, the thought for the first
time entered her mind, that if possible she would supplant
her benefactress in George Granby's affections.

At that moment a servant entered, bearing a tiny note,
Anna hastily read it, and then throwing herself on the
sofa, burst into tears. Josephine ordered the servant
girl to leave the room, and then, while Anna's face was
buried in her hands, she picked up the note, and in a lady's
delicate handwriting, read:

The cause of Anna's grief can be explained in a few
words. Two years before, when only sixteen, she had
been betrothed to George Granby, whom she ardently
loved, fearing, at the same time, that her affection was but
half returned. Their engagement had been a sort of family
arrangement, in which George tacitly acquiesced, for
Anna was not indifferent to him, although she possessed
but few attractions which could fascinate a fashionable
young man of twenty-two. Still, he had never seen one
whom he liked better, and as Anna was extremely young,
he hoped that during the five years which were to elapse
before their marriage, she would be greatly improved.

The last year he had spent in Europe, whither his sister,
a girl of superior endowments, had accompanied him.
He wrote frequently to Anna, his letters being more
like a brother's than a lover's. Still she prized them
highly, and had looked forward joyfully to his return.
But now he was not coming, and as she threw herself
upon the sofa, she thought, with some reason, “I know
he does not love me.”

Josephine, too, was disappointed. If George came not,
her plan could not well be carried out. But not long did
she dwell upon this. The words “seamstress,” and “companion,”
troubled her, and awoke within her heart a hatred
for Delphine Granby, as undying as it was unfounded.
Soon, however, her thoughts took another channel. This
M'Gregor, was he not worth winning; suppose he was
awkward, he was rich! and Josephine smiled exultingly,
as, glancing in the mirror, she smoothed her luxuriant
curls, and said, “the shoemaker's daughter will yet outshine
them all.”

4. CHAPTER IV.
DELPHINE AND M'GREGOR.

In Mrs. Wilson's parlors Josephine first met the two
persons who were so greatly to influence her after life.
It was the day following their arrival, and Anna had invited
them to tea. Pleading a headache, Josephine did
not make her appearance until evening, thinking her
charms would be greatly enhanced by candle light.

With all the dignity of a queen she swept into the
room, and Anna herself was surprised at the case with
which she returned the salutations of M'Gregor and Delphine.
Seating herself upon a low ottoman, she for a
time seemed unconscious of M'Gregor's presence, but
fixed her eyes curiously upon Delphine, who, she concluded,
was the most polished, lady-like person she had
ever seen. Envy, too, crept in, and mingled with her
admiration, for though she knew Miss Granby was not as
beautiful as herself, there was still a nobleness, an elegance
of appearance about her, which would readily distinguish
her from a thousand.

At length it was Delphine's turn to look, and her bright
hazel eyes fastened upon Josephine, whose face turned
scarlet, for she fancied that the hated words, “milliner,”
“shoemaker,” “gable-roof,” were stamped upon her brow
as legibly as “seamstress,” “companion,” were written
in the tiny note. Delphine was puzzled at Josephine's
confusion, but soon forgetting it, she complied with Anna's
request, and seated herself at the piano.

“Do you play, Miss Clayton?” asked M'Gregor.

“No, sir,” was the reply.

“Nor sing?” he returned.

“Certainly not,” Josephine answered somewhat haughtily.
“If I could sing I should play, of course. They
usually go together.”

M'Gregor was taken aback. He was perfectly bewildered
with Josephine's beauty, although her cool reserve
had slightly disconcerted him; and as he was nothing of a
lady's man, he had tried hard to think of something to
say to her, and now that he said it, 'twas not the thing.
Josephine, however, had scanned him from head to foot,
wig and all, and with Delphine's assertion, “he is rich,”
still ringing in her ears, she had secretly concluded that
he would do, in spite of his awkwardness. Fearing lest
he should question her on other points than music, she
did not wait for him to broach another subject, but did it
herself, by asking about his European tour.

Once during the evening she heard Delphine telling
Anna that on her return home she had stopped for a day
and a night with her cousin Mabel, at Snowdon. In an
instant her brow became crimson; but her fears were
groundless, for not a word was spoken of the “gable-roof,”
and her heart was beginning to beat at its usual
rate, when Delphine added, “By the way, Anna, I must
tell you that at Snowdon I saw my beau ideal.”

“Indeed,” said Anna, and M'Gregor continued: “Oh,
yes, and she has done nothing since but talk of the handsome
student, who is still in his minority.”

“What is his name?” asked Anna.

“Clayton, I believe,” answered M'Gregor, and then
turning to Josephine, he said, “A relative of yours, perhaps!
You remind me of him.”

“I am not aware of his being so, for I have no relations
in Snowdon!” was Josephine's unhesitating answer;
and in the first part of the assertion, she spoke

the truth, for at Jimmy's request, a knowledge of his
studies had been kept from her, and she did not believe
that Jimmy, her homespun brother, could possibly interest
the elegant Miss Granby.

But all doubt on the subject was removed, when, as
Delphine was about to depart, she remarked, “There is
something, too, so romantic about this young Clayton.
His father, as I am told, is a poor shoemaker at Snowdon,
and his son, until recently, has worked with him at his
trade. Just think of it, a learned shoemaker. Of course
he will be a great man;” and she ran gaily down the
steps followed by M'Gregor, horribly jealous of Jimmy
Clayton, two-thirds in love with Josephine Clayton, and
never suspecting the relationship between them.

That night Josephine bitterly repented her falsehood,
for if Delphine Granby could be interested in Jimmy,
knowing his poverty, she really would not scorn his sister;
but 'twas too late to retract, and though she knew that,
sooner or later, her lie would be known, she resolved to
put a bold face upon the matter and make the best of it.
She had never spoken of Snowdon as being the residence
of her parents, consequently Anna had no suspicion that
the student whom Delphine extolled so highly was in any
way connected with her protege.

It would make our story too long to enumerate the
many ways in which Josephine sought to enslave
M'Gregor, who for three weeks lingered at Lockland,
vacillating between Delphine and herself. Josephine
fascinated him, but there was about her something
which bade him beware; and he never would have
thought seriously of her, had not Delphine kindly but
firmly refused the hand he offered her, her mother meantime
wondering what she could object to, for if he was
not quite as polished as some, he was rich, well educated,

and amiable to a fault, or as one of the villagers said,
“wonderful clever.” But it was this very cleverness
which Delphine disliked. Had M'Gregor possessed more
intellect, more energy and decision of character, she
might —, but no, she had seen Jimmy Clayton, and
though she would not own it, either to herself or to
M'Gregor, the remembrance of his high, classical brow,
bright, intelligent eye, and sad, handsome face, influenced
her decision.

After M'Gregor's first mortification was over, he turned
to Josephine, and in the sunshine of her smiles soon forgot
that Delphine had said, “I can never love you;”
but, other than by actions, he did not commit himself, and
when he left Lockland, he was not pledged to Josephine,
who for several days kept her bed, troubling in every
possible way poor Mrs. Wilson, who wondered at her
grand-daughter's fancy in choosing such a companion, as
much as Aunt Sally wondered at my choice of a subject.

5. CHAPTER V.
JIMMY.

Thick and fast from the heavy laden clouds the fringed
snow-flakes had fallen the livelong day, covering sidewalk
and street, doorstep and roof, with one thick vail of
whiteness. As the night closed in, the feathered flakes
ceased to fall, while in the western sky the December sun
left a few red beams, the promise of a fair to-morrow.
In Mr. Hubbell's parlor the astral lamp was lighted, and

coals were heaped in the glowing grate, whose bright blaze
rendered still more brilliant the flowers of the costly
Brussels. Curtains of rich damask shaded the windows,
and around the marble center-table were seated our fair
friends, Josephine, Anna, and Delphine, the last of whom
had recently come to spend the winter in the city.

Josephine seemed nervously anxious, starting up at every
sound, and then blushing as she resumed her former
attitude. The cause of her restlessness was, that she was
hourly expecting Mr. M'Gregor, her affianced husband!
Two weeks before she left Lockland he had visited her,
and ere his return she had promised to be his wife, regretting,
meantime, the fatality which left George Granby
across the Atlantic until she was given to another. “If
I could only see him,” thought she, “only have an opportunity
to judge of his merits and my chance of success;”
but it could not be. The ocean lay between them; so
she engaged herself to M'Gregor, with many assurances
of affection, of the sincerity of which our readers can
judge as well as ourselves.

As yet Delphine had no thought that her “beau ideal”
was aught to Josephine, although Anna knew it all.
Compelled by necessity, Josephine had, with many tears
and protestations of grief, confessed her falsehood, and
Anna not only forgave her, but weakly took her again
to her confidence, thinking her sufficiently punished by
the sorrow she professed to have felt on account of her
sin.

M'Gregor had written that he should probably be in
the city that night, and each moment they were expecting
him. At length the sound of a footstep was heard on the
threshold, the door-bell echoed through the hall, Delphine
and Anna exchanged smiles, while Josephine half rose
from her seat, and as the parlor door opened the six eyes

of the three girls fell upon—M'Gregor? no, not M'Gregor,
but Jimmy Clayton! He had come to the city on business
for Judge Howland, and had been commissioned by
Mabel to carry a letter to her cousin Delphine, besides
her love, which of course could not be sent in a letter!

Delphine arose to meet him, but not on her did his eye
rest. It wandered on until it fell upon Josephine, to
whom Delphine immediately introduced him. A little
sarcastically he answered, “Thank you, Miss Granby,
but I hardly need an introduction to my own sister!”

“Your sister!” repeated Delphine. “Impossible!”
And she glanced quickly at Josephine, who seeing no escape
sprang forward, overwhelming Jimmy with caresses
and questions concerning Snowdon and its inhabitants,
taking care to inquire after the rich and those whom Delphine
had probably heard of, though she herself had
never exchanged over a dozen words with them.

After a time Jimmy gave Delphine her letter, which
she received with a smile and a glance of her eyes which
made his blood tingle, and when Anna asked him if it
were not unpleasant traveling, he answered, “Quite well,
I thank you!”

By this time Josephine's old coldness had returned.
She was afraid M'Gregor might come, and, although she
was not now ashamed to own her brother, she feared the
result. Jimmy soon arose to go, but Anna insisted upon
his remaining all night. This plan Delphine warmly seconded,
and Jimmy began to waver. He looked at his
sister, one word from whom would have decided the matter,
but that word was not spoken, and Jimmy departed,
saying he would call again on the morrow.

Scarcely had the door closed after him when Delphine
looked sternly and inquiringly at Josephine, who, in the
most theatrical manner, fell upon her knees, sobbing out

the confession of her falsehood, and finishing by saying,
“Do not betray me to M'Gregor, will you?”

“M'Gregor!” repeated Delphine scornfully, “You
wrong him if you suppose he would love you less for
your poverty.”

“'Tis not that, 'tis not that,” said Josephine, and Delphine
continued: “But he would despise you for scorning
your own parents, and refusing to own a brother of
whom you should be proud.”

“But you will not betray me?” persisted Josephine.
“Promise that you will not, and a falsehood shall never
again sully my lips.”

“Of course I shall not tell M'Gregor,” answered Delphine,
“but it will be long ere I can again respect you.”
Here Anna interposed a word for her friend, saying that
“Delphine had never known what it was to contend with
poverty, and have the cold finger of scorn pointed at
her—”

“And if I had,” interrupted Delphine, “I should not
revenge myself by pointing my finger at my parents and
brother.”

There now ensued an embarrassed silence, and, as it
was past the hour for M'Gregor to arrive, Josephine repaired
to her room, gratified to think that if her sin had
found her out, M'Gregor had not.

The next day M'Gregor did not come, but Jimmy did,
and as he was about to leave, he asked Josephine to accompany
him home, saying his mother would be delighted to
see her. Delphine waited for Josephine's answer, that
she could not go, as she was expecting a friend, and
then said, “Suppose, Mr. Clayton, you take me as a substitute.”

“You!” exclaimed Anna. “You go to Snowdon!”

“Yes; why not,” answered Delphine. “Mabel is anxious
to see me, and the sleighing is fine.”

Accordingly, next morning, Jimmy's sleigh stood before
Mr. Hubbell's door, and Delphine, warmly wrapped
in furs and merinos, tripped down the steps, and was
soon seated by Jimmy, whose polite attentions during
the ride only increased the estimation in which she held
him.

The same day that Delphine left the city, M'Gregor
came, overjoyed to meet his beautiful Josephine, whom,
with strange infatuation, he sincerely loved. That evening,
as they sat alone in the parlor, Josephine, fearing
that in some way he might discover the falsehood, determined
to tell him herself. In the smoothest manner possible,
she told her story, saying that her parents now
lived in Snowdon, but intimated that they had not always
resided there. Jimmy was then mentioned, and
acknowledged to be her brother, although she said that
he had been long in Judge Howland's office ere she knew
of it.

M'Gregor heard her through, and then drawing her
more closely toward him, assured her that he did not love
her less for being poor, for he had never supposed her
rich, and ended by proposing to accompany her to Snowdon.
The proposal was made in such a way that Josephine
could not refuse, but she determined not to go, for
though M'Gregor might love her with poverty in the distance,
she fancied that a sight of the “old gable-roof”
and “shoemaker's shop” would at once drive him from
her. The next day was fixed upon for the journey, but
when the morning came, Josephine did not appear at the
breakfast table, sending word that she was suffering
from an attack of the influenza! Snowdon of course
was given up, and M'Gregor paced the long parlors,

inquiring every ten minutes for Josephine, who knew
enough not to be convalescent too soon, and all day
long did penance by keeping her bed and drinking herb
tea.

6. CHAPTER VI.
SNOWDON.

With unbounded delight Mabel welcomed her cousin
Delphine, but she whispered, “Now Dell, I know well
enough that nothing but the agreeable escort of James
Clayton could have brought you to this stupid place in
the winter.”

Delphine's only answer was a deeper glow on her cheek,
which she declared was owing to the chill night air, and
Mabel said no more on the subject until they retired for
the night. Then, in the privacy of the dressing room
and before a cheerful fire, she teased and tortured her
cousin concerning her evident preference for the young
student, saying, “I know he is noble and generous, and
father thinks him a gem of rare talents, but after all—”

“After all what?” asked Delphine, suspending for a
moment the operation of brushing her silken hair.

“Why he is of a very low family,” answered Mabel, and
Delphine continued: “Why low? Is there anything bad
or disreputable about them?”

“Oh, no,” said Mabel. “I don't suppose there is a
more honest, upright man in town than cobbler Clayton,
but they are dreadfully poor, or, as mother says, shiftless.
Why, Dell, one glance at the old gable-roof, and one

whiff of the leather smell, constantly around it, would spoil
all romance connected with the handsome son.”

“Pshaw!” was Delphine's only reply, and there the
conversation ended; nor was it resumed again until two
or three days after, when Delphine announced her intention
of calling on Mrs. Clayton!

“Call on Mrs. Clayton?” exclaimed Mabel, who was
listlessly turning over the leaves of her music book, and
occasionally striking the keys of her piano. “Call on
Mrs. Clayton? You cannot be in earnest.”

“I am,” answered Delphine, and Mabel continued:
“Pray don't ask me to accompany you.”

“You need not be alarmed on that score, as I greatly
prefer going alone,” was Delphine's answer, as she left the
room.

In a few moments she was on her way to the “gable-roof,”
which really looked poor enough; for, as Mrs. Howland
had expressed it, Uncle Isaac was rather “shiftless,”
and though he now had only himself and wife to care for,
he was worth but little more than when, in years gone by,
seven hungry children clustered around his fireside. His
wife, who was greatly his superior, was a paragon of neatness,
and made the most of what little she had. On this
afternoon, with clean cap and gingham apron, she sat
knitting, so wholly absorbed in her thoughts of Josephine,
that, though thrice repeated, she heard not the timid
knock of Delphine, nor was she aware of her presence until
the lady stood before her. Then, in some confusion,
she arose, but Delphine immediately introduced herself,
apologizing for her call, by saying that she thought Mrs.
Clayton might be glad to hear from Josephine. Eagerly
then her hand was grasped, and for the next hour Mrs.
Clayton listened breathlessly, while Delphine recounted
everything concerning Josephine which she thought would

interest her mother. As she saw how many times the
gingham apron was brought into requisition, to wipe away
the tears of maternal love, she felt indignant toward the
heartless girl who could thus spurn her home and fireside,
because they lay beneath a gable-roof.

Swiftly the time flew on, and though upon the polished
stove the highly polished tea-kettle boiled and boiled, and
then boiled over, Mrs. Clayton heard it not; and though
token after token that daylight was departing fell around
them, still Delphine sat there, gazing at the high, placid
brow and clear, hazel eyes of her new acquaintance, and
tracing therein a likeness to Jimmy, who at last suddenly
opened the door, astonished beyond measure when he found
who was his mother's companion. At his unexpected appearance,
Mrs. Clayton started up, exclaiming, “Bless me,
it's past tea time! How I forgot myself!” while Delphine,
casting a rueful glance at the little narrow window, said,
“Dear me, how dark it is! What shall I do?”

“Stay to tea,” answered Mrs. Clayton, “and then Jimmy
will see you home. He'd just as lief, I know!”

For an instant Jimmy's and Delphine's eyes met, and
the next moment a velvet cloak and rich hood were lying
on the little lounge, while Delphine, demurely seating herself
in the corner, thought, “How funny! I wonder what
Mabel will say. Perhaps she'll think I came here on purpose
to see him; but I didn't.”

By this time tea was ready, and though the table lacked
the transparent china, silver forks, and delicate napkins,
to which Delphine had always been accustomed, she has
frequently declared that never was tea so hot, bread so
white, butter so sweet, or honey so delicious, as were they
that night in Isaac Clayton's sitting room. After supper,
Jimmy, inasmuch as his mother had offered his services,
felt in duty bound to conduct Miss Delphine home, and

all the misgivings which she had felt as to what Mabel
would say, were put to flight by that delightful moonlight
walk.

“I declare, Dell,” was Mabel's first exclamation, “you
are actually reversing the order of things, and paying
your addresses to young Clayton, instead of waiting for
him to pay them to you.”

“And shows her sense, too,” said Judge Howland, who
was present, “for James, who looks upon her as far
above him, would never presume to address her first.
But, Mab,” he continued, “you had better have an eye on
her, for, in case Dell does not secure him, I intend him for
my own son-in-law.”

“Oh, capital!” said Mabel, clapping her hands, “won't
that be nice? He can attend to all of Uncle Isaac's lawsuits,
and, in return, Uncle Isaac can make all our shoes.”

“But I am in earnest,” said Judge Howland, seriously.
“You will never do better.”

“How absurd,” said Mabel. “Why, he is six months
younger than I am.”

“Six months be hanged,” answered the judge. “Why,
there's your mother, five years my senior, though I believe
she owns to only one!”

“Mr. Howland, how can you talk so?” said the highly
scandalized lady, who, with fair, round face, clear, blue
eyes, and white, sound teeth, really looked five years the
junior of her portly spouse, and probably was.

Had Jimmy been questioned concerning his feelings for
Delphine Granby, he might have pointed to some bright
star, which, while it hovered round and over his pathway,
was still too far distant for him ever to hope to reach
it. And yet, no matter how big the law book was which
he opened, or how intently over its printed leaves he pored,
one face, one form, and one voice ever came between him

and his studies; and once, in making out a bond, he wrote,
instead of “Know all men by these presents, &c,” “Know
Delphine Granby, &c.,” nor was he aware of his mistake,
until, with the best natured twinkle in the world, Judge
Howland pointed it out, saying, “Not so bad, after all;
for if a woman knows it, all the world stand a fair chance
of knowing it, too.”

Poor Jimmy! How he blushed, and stammered, and
apologized, apologized, stammered, and blushed, while
the judge good humoredly said, “Never mind; Dell
is a girl of the right stamp, and if you play your cards
right, 'tis not her fault if you do not win her.”

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE NEW HOUSE.

Christmas came and went during Delphine's stay at
Snowdon, and a few days after it, she went to visit Mrs.
Clayton, who with eager joy told her that Christmas
morning she had received from the city a hundred dollar
bill, enclosed in an envelope, on which was simply written,
“Do with it as you see fit.” A deep flush mounted to
Delphine's brow as she quietly remarked, “You must
have some unknown friend in the city.”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Clayton, “it was Josephine of
course; she is a dear good girl, and then she speaks about
it so modestly.”

“What does she say?” quickly asked Delphine, and
Mrs. Clayton replied, “I immediately wrote to her, thanking

her for the money, and saying I hoped she did not
rob herself. To-day I got her answer, in which she merely
alluded to the subject by saying that whatever she gave
me I must enjoy without thinking she was denying
herself.”

“She is worse than I supposed,” thought Delphine, but
she said nothing, while Mrs. Clayton continued: “It has
come in the right time, too, and is just what we need.”

Then she proceeded to tell Delphine how for years they
had tried to lay by enough to build a house, which would
cost about one thousand dollars. “We have already nine
hundred, and with this one hundred we shall venture to
commence.”

Here the conversation ceased, and Delphine, soon
after, returned home. Many were the consultations
which she afterwards held with Mrs. Clayton concerning
the construction of the new house, a plan of which she and
Jimmy at length proposed drawing. This took a deal of
time, and frequently kept them together for hours; but
at length the plan was completed, and Delphine returned
to the city, leaving Snowdon all a blank to Jimmy, who,
solitary and alone, pursued his studies.

In the spring the house was commenced, and early in
autumn there stood in the corner of Isaac Clayton's garden,
a small, handsome cottage, contrasting strangely with
the brown old gable-roof, which in a rage shook off a few
shingles and clapboards, as at Jimmy's suggestion a poor
widow, with three children to feed and nothing to feed
them with, was placed in it, rent free. One act of charity
made way for another, for the woman thus assisted took
from the poor house, where she had been for more than a
year, her blind old mother, who gladly exchanged the cold
charities of a pauper's home, for a seat by her daughter's
fireside.

Alas! within the fairest flower is found the sharpest
thorn. Scarcely had three months passed since Isaac Clayton
and his wife had taken possession of their new home,
when over their quiet dwelling the dark pall of death was
unfurled, covering with its shadow the wife, who, for more
than thirty years, had walked faithfully and lovingly by
the side of her husband. Fever, which took the typhoid
form, settled upon her, and when the physician who attended
her was questioned concerning the probable result,
he shook his head mournfully to the group of six
young men, who, with filial affection, had gathered around
their mother's sick-bed.

And where all this time was Josephine? Why came
she not to soothe her mother's last great agony, and
administer consolation to those who, stern of heart and
strong of nerve, still in the hour of affliction bent like
a broken reed? Yes, where was she? This question
Mrs. Clayton often asked, for at the commencement of
her illness a letter had been dispatched, to which no answer
had been received, and at last Jimmy was sent to
bring her home. Judge Howland kindly offered his covered
sleigh and horses, and as Jimmy was driving from
the yard, Mabel, who knew that Delphine was in the city,
requested him if convenient to bring her cousin back with
him, saying that Kate Lawrence, a mutual friend and
school-mate of theirs, was then visiting her, and wished to
see Delphine.

Jimmy drove nearly all night, and at dawn of day the
spires and roofs of the city were discernible in the distance.
Impatiently he waited at a hotel, until an hour
when he thought Mr. Hubbell's family would be astir.
Then going to the house, he nervously rang the door bell.
His call was answered by a servant girl.

“Is Miss Clayton at home?” he asked.

“She is,” was the answer.

“I must see her, instantly,” said he.

The girl eyed him curiously, and replied, “What name
shall I give her? 'cause, unless it's something extraordinary,
she won't see you. It's her wedding day.”

Jimmy handed her his card, and then in the parlor sat
down to await her coming. In an upper room Josephine
was seated, together with Anna and Delphine, who unwillingly
had consented to be present at the wedding, and
had twice nearly broken her promise not to acquaint
M'Gregor with the nature of her he was taking to his bosom.
As Josephine glanced at the card which the servant
girl gave her, she exclaimed, “What can Jim want in the
city at this time?”

“Oh, is James Clayton here?” asked Delphine. “How
fortunate?”

Josephine's manner changed, as she said faintly, “Yes,
'tis fortunate, for now he can see me married. But I
wonder what he wants.”

“Go down and see,” answered Delphine, and Anna added,
“Or ask him up here to see Dell;” to which Josephine
rejoined, “Delphine can go down with me—I wish
she would.”

Acting on the impulse of the moment, Delphine accompanied
Josephine to the parlor. But the sight of Jimmy's
pale, sad face alarmed her, and she instantly asked,
“What is the matter? Is any one dead?”

He soon told all, and then repeated to Delphine Mabel's
request that she, too, should accompany him to Snowdon.
Without once thinking it possible that his sister could refuse,
he asked how soon she would be ready. Bursting into
tears, which arose more from the dilemma in which she was
placed than from actual grief, Josephine wrung her hands,
saying, “Oh, I cannot go, I cannot. To-night is my bridal

night. The guests are all invited, and I cannot go. Mother
will not die. I know she will not. She must live, and
to-morrow I will surely come.”

Jimmy was confounded, but ere he had time to open
his mouth, another had stepped in to plead his cause.
“Josephine Clayton,” she said, more sternly than ever before
she had spoken to her—“I have long known that
you had no heart, but I did not suppose you so perfectly
callous as not to go when your dying mother bids you
come. I would leave all the bridegrooms in the world to
go to mine. Go, or I shall blush that I, too, am a
woman!”

Angrily Josephine turned upon her, saying, “Who are
you that presumes to question my conduct? I shall go, or
not, just as I choose, and on this occasion I choose not
to go.”

“Is that your decision?” asked Jimmy.

“It is, for how can I go?” she answered. “Mother
cannot expect it of me.”

“Then I will go without you,” said Delphine, who, besides
being pleased at again meeting Kate Lawrence,
whom she so much esteemed, was also glad of an excuse
not to see Josephine married.

Jimmy, though pleased at having her for a companion,
would still gladly have exchanged her for his sister;—for
how could he go home without her? how tell his dying
mother, when she asked for Josephine, that she had not
come? When they were alone, almost convulsively he
threw his arms around his sister's neck, beseeching her
to go; but she only gave him tear for tear, for she could
weep, while her invariable answer was, “I cannot, oh,
I cannot.”

At length his tears ceased, and Delphine reentered the
parlor in time to see him, with blanched face, quivering

lips, and flashing eye, seize Josephine's arm, as he said,
“For more than two years you have not been at home.
Twice have I come for you. Once you spurned me, and
denied that I was your brother, and this, the second time,
when I come from mother's death-bed, you still refuse to
go. Far be it from me to curse you, for gladly would I
shield you from harm, but from this hour I feel that you
are cursed! You and yours! Blight will fall upon everything
connected with you, and remember, when next I
come, you will surely go!”

Long, long did these words haunt Josephine, and in the
years of bitterness which came, she had reason to remember
them but too well. Weary and sad was that ride to
Snowdon; but with Delphine for a companion, and her
encouraging words sounding in his ear, Jimmy grew
more strong and hopeful, though his mother's face was
constantly before him. Delphine knew that it would
take more time to leave her at her uncle's, so with kind
consideration she requested him to drive immediately to
his father's.

Supported in the arms of her eldest son, Mrs. Clayton
lay in a death-like stupor, from which she occasionally
roused to ask if Josephine had come. Upon the old stone
bridge there was again heard the sound of horses' feet,
and a smile of joy broke over her face, as some one whispered,
“They are coming.”

Instantly Isaac Clayton and his sons went forth to meet
the travelers, but the face they met was strange to them
all, save Uncle Isaac, who quickly asked for Josephine.
“She is to be married to-night, and deemed that a sufficient
excuse for not coming,” said Jimmy, stamping on
the ground, by way of adding emphasis to his words.

With a bitter groan Uncle Isaac staggered backward,

and would have fallen, but for the timely assistance of
Frank. “Who, oh, who can tell her!” said he.

There was silence for an instant, when Delphine said,
“I will tell her, if you wish it.”

Then, with the stricken group, she entered the room,
where the first words which met her ear were, “Josephine
and Jimmy, I have blessed them all but you.
Now come to me, while there is time.”

Side by side they advanced to her bedside. With a
wild, searching look at Delphine, she said, “You are not
Josephine. Where is she? Shall I not see her?”

“In heaven, perhaps, you may,” answered Frank, “but
in this world you never will.”

Those who were present will long remember the shriek
which echoed through the room, as Mrs. Clayton exclaimed,
“She is not dead! Tell me, is Josephine dead?”

Delphine's soft white hand was placed on the brow already
wet with the moisture of death, and she gently
whispered, “It is her bridal night, and she could not
come.”

For a time Mrs. Clayton seemed paralyzed. Then
raising her head, she beckoned for Jimmy to come
near her. He did so, and taking his and Delphine's hand
in hers, she said, “May God in heaven be with and take
care of you both, and bless you, even as you have been a
blessing to me, my dear, my precious boy, my Jimmy.
And you, Delphine, my child, my children.” There was
a moment's pause, and then, as if the departing spirit had
summoned all its energies for one great effort, she let go
the hand of Jimmy and Delphine, clasped her own together,
and raising them high over her head, started up
erect, exclaiming, “Will God forgive my Josephine for
all she's made me suffer.” Then, with one long, low, despairing

cry, she fell back upon the pillow, and naught was
left of Josephine Clayton's mother, save the tenement
which once enshrined the soul.

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MRS. M'GREGOR.

The marriage ceremony was ended, and Josephine
Clayton, now Mrs. M'Gregor, was receiving the congratulations
of her friends. First among them came Anna,
but the gentleman who accompanied her was a stranger,
and Josephine was greatly surprised at hearing him introduced
as Mr. Granby, Delphine's brother. He had returned
from Europe sooner than he expected. On reaching
home, and learning that his sister was in the city, he
hastened thither, reaching Mr. Hubbell's just in time to
witness the ceremony. Thoughts of him, as we well
know, had occupied many of Josephine's waking dreams,
and now when she at last saw him, the knowledge that
she was not free to try upon him her powers of art, only
rendered him doubly attractive.

In personal appearance and manners he was as unlike
M'Gregor as was Josephine unlike Anna; and once during
the evening, as he and Josephine were standing side
by side near the center-table, they overheard a remark
not intended for their ears. It was, “How much better
the bride looks with Mr. Granby than she does with that
awkward M'Gregor!” To which the person addressed
replied, “Yes; and M'Gregor seems far better suited for

plain Miss Hubbell! See! they are standing together
there by the window.”

Instantly George Granby's and Josephine's eyes met,
and then glanced across the room to the spot where
M'Gregor was making most desperate efforts to play the
agreeable to Anna Hubbell, who was smiling, and bowing,
and twirling her fan. Again their eyes met, and
this time a scarcely perceptible smile curled the corner
of Josephine's mouth, while George Granby, offering her
his arm, conducted her back to her husband, and taking
Anna, led her to the music-room, where some one was
playing the piano. But Josephine's eyes and thoughts
followed him.

As we well know, she had not married M'Gregor for
love, but because he was rich, and she knew that riches
would procure for her the position in society she so
greatly coveted. Insensibly she began to contrast her
husband with George Granby, and ere long she was blaming
the former for having hastened their marriage.
This was an uncommon mood, surely, for a young bride
to be in, but Josephine was an uncommon bride, and by
the time the last guest was gone, and they were alone,
she might safely be said to be in a fit of the sulks, whilst
poor M'Gregor, distressed beyond measure, strove to ascertain
the cause of her apparent melancholy. She saw
the necessity of making some explanation, so she told
him, for the first time, of her mother's illness, alleging
that as the cause of her sadness.

“Why did you not tell me before?” said M'Gregor.
“I would, of course, have postponed our marriage for a
few days.”

“Would to heaven I had!” said Josephine, with more
meaning in her words than M'Gregor gave her credit for.

The next morning, at an early hour, a gay livery stood

before Mr. Hubbell's door, and M'Gregor, helping in his
young bride, and taking a seat beside her, was driven off
in the direction of Snowdon. It was a delightful morning,
and under almost any other circumstances Josephine
would have enjoyed the ride. Now, however, she chose
to find fault with all her husband's assiduous attentions
and politeness, saying, at last, ill-naturedly, “Do, M'Gregor,
stop your fussing. I am doing well enough, and will
let you know if I am uncomfortable.”

He complied with her request, as who would not, thinking
she had changed her tone and manner very soon.
About three o'clock they reached Snowdon, and by the
side of her pale, dead mother, the ice about Josephine's
heart gave way, and in the most extravagant terms she
bewailed her loss. Uncle Isaac, overjoyed at again beholding
his daughter, and deceived by her loud show of
grief, wound his arm about her, blessing her, and calling
her his precious child. The next day they buried Mrs.
Clayton, and the day following, Josephine returned to the
city, in spite of her father's entreaties that she would stay
a while longer with him. Promising to return in the
spring, she bade him good-by, and when again in the city,
she, to all appearance, soon forgot that death had been so
near her.

Frequently she met George Granby, but the influence
she had hoped to gain over him was partially prevented
by the presence of Delphine, who, together with Mabel
Howland and Kate Lawrence, had come to the city to
pass the winter, her father, at her earnest request, having
removed there for the season.

M'Gregor took a house opposite Mr. Hubbell's, and
commenced housekeeping in great style. Nothing could
exceed the elegance of his establishment; and Josephine,
who managed to keep the house filled with a set of fashionable

young men, seemed at last perfectly happy,
though her husband was far from being so. True, he
had the best furnished house and the handsomest wife in
the city, but he found too late that beauty alone is not
the only requisite in a wife; and before the winter was
over he would have hailed the disfiguring small pox as a
blessing, had it succeeded in keeping from his house the
set of young men so frequently found there.

M'Gregor was not naturally jealous, but when, night
after night, on his return from business, he found his wife
so engrossed with company as to be wholly incapable of
paying him any attention, he grew uneasy, and once ventured
to remonstrate with her; but she merely laughed
him in the face, telling him that whatever he could say
would be of no avail — that he could n't expect one so
young and gay as she to settle down into the humdrum
Mrs. M'Gregor—that it would be time enough to do that
when she wore a wig or colored her hair.

George Granby at first only called occasionally, but on
such occasions Josephine did her best, acting the agreeable
hostess so admirably that, insensibly, George became
attracted toward her, and ere Delphine was aware of it, he
was a regular visitor at the house of M'Gregor, who never
objected to him; for, unlike the others who came there,
George treated him with the utmost deference, always
seeming pleased to see him present.

One evening the three were together, and conversing
about ill-assorted marriages. Josephine, as one who ought
to know, discoursed eloquently on the matter, and descanted
so feelingly on the wretchedness resulting from such
unions, that two large tears actually dropped from her eyes,
and fell upon her worsted work. M'Gregor would have
given anything to have known if his wife considered their
marriage an unfortunate one, but he wisely kept silent, and

Josephine continued: “Whenever I see a person for whom
I feel an uncommon interest, about to unite himself with
one every way unsuited to him, my heart aches for him,
and I long to warn him of his danger.”

“Why not do so, then?” said George.

“Would my advice be kindly received?” asked Josephine,
at the same time giving him a searching look.

He understood her, but made no reply, and when the
conversation changed, somehow or other it turned upon
Anna, who, Josephine said, was a kind-hearted girl, but
it was such a pity she hadn't more character,—more life.

“But do you not think she has improved in the last respect?”
asked George.

Josephine faintly admitted that she had, but in the
next breath she spoke of her as possessing very little, if
any intellect, and lamented her utter incapacity to fill
the sphere for which she was intended. George Granby
needed not that she should tell him all this, for he feared
as much, though he had never once thought of breaking
his engagement with her. He had returned from Europe
intending to make her his wife, and hoping to find
her greatly improved. And she was improved, both in
personal appearance and manners. Constant intercourse
with Delphine had been of great benefit to her, and when
George came home, he was pleased to see how much she
had brightened up. Her health, too, had greatly improved,
and as she always dressed with the utmost taste,
she more than once had been called quite pretty, though
at all parties where Delphine, Kate Lawrence, Mabel,
and Mrs. M'Gregor were present, she was entirely overlooked,
or pointed out to strangers as the young lady
who was engaged to the polished Mr. Granby.

We have not yet described Kate Lawrence, and we
cannot do so better than to say, that to a style of beauty

fully equal to Josephine, she added a proportionate kindheartedness
and intelligence. She was just the one whom
Delphine would have selected for her brother, had he not
been engaged to Anna Hubbell. Now, however, she
never harbored such a thought, and she assiduously strove
to assimilate Anna more to her brother's taste, always
speaking encouragingly to her, and kindly of her.

George had as yet never directly asked Delphine's
opinion of Anna, but the morning following his conversation
with Josephine, he sought an interview with his sister,
abruptly asking her if she sincerely thought that Anna
Hubbell would make him happy as his wife.

Delphine was taken by surprise. She had that morning
accidentally discovered that Kate Lawrence had a secret
liking for her brother, and she was just wishing it
might be—wishing it could be—when George startled her
with his question.

“Why, George,” said she, “what could have put that
idea into your head? Have Kate's bright eyes dimmed
the luster of poor Anna's charms?”

“No, no; I am not thinking of Kate,” said he, somewhat
impatiently; “but tell me, honestly, your opinion.”

And Delphine did tell him her opinion. She spoke of
Anna's gentleness and kindness of heart, admitting that
on many points she was rather weak and inefficient.
“But,” said she, “you are engaged to her, you have
promised to marry her, and my brother will surely keep
his word.” Here a loud call from Mabel that Delphine
should join her in the parlor, put an end to the conversation.

Meantime, Mr. M'Gregor was about to commit a sad
blunder. Thinking George to be his sincere friend, as
indeed he was, and knowing the great influence which he
possessed over Josephine, he resolved upon asking him to

use that influence in dissuading her from receiving the
visits of so many gentlemen. Accordingly, the next time
George called, M'Gregor took the opportunity, when they
were for a few moments alone in the drawing-room. After
stammering awhile, he broached the subject, and with
much difficulty succeeded in making George understand
what he wanted.

“Silly old fool,” said Josephine, who in an adjoining
room had overheard every word. “He is meaner than I
thought him to be;” and then she listened, while George
respectfully declined any interference with M'Gregor's
family matters.

“Your wife has sufficient discretion,” said he, “to prevent
her doing anything wrong; besides, I should be
working against myself, for I come here as frequently as
any one.”

This was true; and as Josephine at that moment joined
them, M'Gregor said no more on the subject, but soon
after recollecting some business which he had down street,
he left them alone. For an hour they conversed on different
topics, and then Josephine, demurely folding her
hands, said, “When are you going to begin to lecture
me? I believe you have been requested to do so, have
you not?”

George blushed scarlet, and while he admitted the
fact, he disclaimed all intention of doing so; then, in the
tones of a deeply injured woman, Josephine detailed her
grievances, saying that each day she saw more and more
her mistake, and that though she did not exactly regret
her marriage, she yet many times wished she had not
been quite so hasty. George Granby was perfectly intoxicated
with her beauty, while the tones of her voice
and the glance of her eye thrilled every nerve. Snatching
her hand to his lips, he exclaimed, “Josephine, Josephine!

why did you not wait a little longer?” Then, as
if regretting what he had said, he hastily rose, and saying
that he had another engagement, bade her good night,
and hurried away, almost cursing himself for the words
and manner which he had used toward a married woman.

The engagement of which he had spoken was with
Anna Hubbell, and going to her father's, he asked to see
her. She had long been expecting him, but was not prepared
for the vehemence with which he insisted upon her
naming an early day for their marriage.

“Why such haste?” asked Anna.

“Ask me no questions,” said he, “but if you would
save me from evil, become my wife, and that soon.”

In an instant Anna thought of Kate, and looking him
fully in the face, she said, “Answer me truthfully, George,
do you love Kate Lawrence?”

“No, no,” said he, “it would not be sinful to love her
—she is free; but that other one—”

Anna knew that he was in the habit of frequenting
M'Gregor's house, and suddenly a light flashed upon her
mind, and she said, “It cannot be Josephine, my friend
Josephine.”

“Your friend!” he answered, bitterly; “call her not
your friend, she does not deserve it. But you have
guessed right; I blindly put myself in the way of temptation,
seeing no danger, and believing there was none.”

The color receded from Anna's cheeks, and when
George looked at her for an answer, he was surprised at
the changed expression of her face. Something between
a sob and a groan came from her white lips, but he succeeded
in soothing her, and ere he left the house he had
gained her consent that the marriage should take place in
one week from that day, and that he might speak to her
father.

Mr. Hubbell was n the library. On learning the nature
of George's errand, he gave vent to a few impatient
“umphs” and “pshaws,” but ended by giving his consent,
on condition that Anna remained with him a year
after her marriage.

Scarcely had the street door closed upon George, ere
Anna was told that her father wished to see her. “Well,
now, what's the mighty hurry?” were his first words, as
she entered his room, but anything further was prevented
by the sight of her unusually white face and swollen eyes.
“Why, Anna, child,” said he, “what's the matter?
Don't you love George? Don't you want to married?”

“Yes, yes, father,” said she, “but don't ask me anything
more, for I am very unhappy;” and bursting into
tears, she sat down on a stool at her father's feet, and
laying her face in his lap, sobbed until wholly exhausted,
and then fell asleep, while Mr. Hubbard gently stroked
her soft, brown hair, wondering what ailed her, and if his
Anna cried so a week before they were married.

The remembrance of his own darling wife caused two
tears to drop from his eyes and fall upon Anna's face.
This roused her, and rising up, she said, “Forget my
foolishness, father. To-morrow I shall be myself again.”
Then bidding him good-night, she repaired to her own
room. For several days she had been suffering with a
severe pain in the head, and when she awoke next morning,
it had increased so rapidly that she could scarcely
rise from her pillow without fainting. Her father, instantly
alarmed, sent for a physician, who expressed a
fear that her disease might terminate in brain fever. On
learning of her friend's illness, Delphine immediately hastened
to her. During the afternoon a servant girl entered
the sick-room, saying that Mrs. M'Gregor was in
the parlor, and wished to see Miss Hubbell.

“I cannot see her,” said Anna; then calling Delphine
to her, she said, “Will you stay with me while I am
sick?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” was the answer, and Anna
continued, “And, Dell, if I should get crazy, and Josephine
comes again, you won't let her in, will you?”

Delphine promised that she would not, wondering
what could have produced this change in Anna, in regard
to Josephine. Next day Anna was much worse, and, as
had been feared, she grew delirious. Constantly she
talked of Josephine, who, she said, “had stolen away the
only heart she ever coveted.” Delphine was greatly puzzled,
and when that night she for a few moments returned
home, she mentioned the circumstance to George,
who, with his usual frankness, immediately told her all.
Delphine heard him through, and then repeated to him
all which she knew concerning Josephine's character for
intrigue and deceit, blaming herself for not having warned
him before. The scales dropped from George's eyes;
Josephine's power over him was gone, and he saw her in
her real character. The next day, at his earnest request,
he was allowed to enter Anna's room; but she did not
know him, though her eyes, intensely bright with the fire
of delirium, glared wildly upon him as she motioned him
away. Approaching, and bending over her, he said,
“Anna, don't you know me? I am George, and next
Thursday will be our bridal day.”

For a moment she was silent, and then with a satisfied
smile she answered, “Yes, that's it; that 's what I 've
tried so hard to remember and couldn't.” Then as the
physician entered the room, she said to him, “Next
Thursday is to be my bridal day, and you will come, for
it will be a novel sight. Everybody will cry but George,
and I, the bride, will be in my coffin.”

Poor Anna! Her words proved true, for the sunlight
of Wednesday morning fell upon her gray-haired, stricken
father, weeping over his dead, and the next day at the same
hour at which the wedding was to have taken place, the
black hearse stood before Mr. Hubbell's door. In it a narrow
coffin was placed, and then, followed by a long train of
carriages, it proceeded slowly toward the home of the
dead, while each note of the tolling bell fell like a crushing
weight on the heart of Mr. Hubbell, as by the side
of her, long since laid to rest, he buried his only child.

9. CHAPTER IX.
CHANGES.

Ten years have passed away, since we followed poor
Anna Hubbell to her early grave. With the lapse of
time many changes have come to those who have kept
with us in the early chapters of this story. Jimmy Clayton,
long since admitted to the bar, is now a lawyer of
some celebrity in one of our western cities. For six
happy years he has called Delphine Granby his wife, and
in his luxurious home a little boy four years old watches
each night for his father's coming, while the year old
baby, Anna, crows out her welcome, and Delphine, beautiful
as ever, offers her still blooming cheek for her husband's
usual greeting, and then playfully assists the little
Anna in her attempts to reach her father's arms. Truly,
Jimmy's was a happy lot. Blest with rare talents, abundant
wealth, and influential friends, he was fast approaching

that post of honor, which he has since filled, and of
which we will not speak, lest we be too personal.

But on his bright horizon one dark cloud heavily lowered.
He could not forget that Josephine, his once beautiful
sister Josephine, was now an object of reproach and
dark suspicion. Step by step she had gone on in her career
of folly, until M'Gregor, stung to madness by the
sense of wrong done him, turned from his home and sought
elsewhere a more agreeable resting place. At first he
frequented the more fashionable saloons, then the gaming
room, until at last it was rumored that more than once at
midnight he had been seen emerging from some low, underground
grocery, and with unsteady step wending his
way homeward, where as usual Josephine was engaged
with her visitors; and her half intoxicated husband, without
entering the parlor, would repair to his sleeping room,
and in heavy slumbers wear off ere morning the effect of
his night's debauch. In this way he became habitually
intemperate, ere Josephine dreamed of his danger.

One night she was entertaining a select few of her
friends. The wine, the song, and the joke flowed freely,
and the mirth of the company was at its height, when
the door bell rang furiously, and in a moment four men
entered the drawing-room, bringing with them Mr.
M'Gregor, in a state of perfect insensibility. Laying
him upon a sofa, they touched their hats respectfully to
the ladies and left.

With a shriek of horror and anger Josephine went off
into violent hysterics, wishing herself dead, and declaring
her intentions of taking immediate steps for becoming so,
unless some one interfered and freed her from the drunken
brute. One by one the friends departed, leaving her
alone with her husband, whose stupor had passed away

and was succeeded by a fit of such silly, maudlin fondness,
that Josephine in disgust fled from his presence.

From this time matters rapidly grew worse. Still, as
long as Josephine was surrounded by the appliances of
wealth, her old admirers hovered around her; but when
everything was gone, when she and her husband were
houseless, homeless beggars, they left her, and she would
have been destitute, indeed, had it not been for her eldest
brother, Frank, who did for her what he could, remembering,
though, that in her palmy days of wealth she had
treated him and his with the utmost contempt. Her second
brother, John, was in one of the southern states.
The next one, Archie, was across the ocean. Jimmy, too,
was away at the west, and for the two between Archie
and Jimmy, graves had been dug in the frozen earth just
three years from the day of their mother's death. It was
well for Uncle Isaac that he, too, was sleeping by the side
of his wife, ere he heard the word dishonor coupled
with his daughter's name.

For a time after their downfall, M'Gregor seemed trying
to retrieve his character. He became sober, and labored
hard to support himself and wife, but alas! she
whose gentle words and winsome ways should have led
her erring husband back to virtue, spoke to him harshly,
coldly, continually upbraiding him for having brought her
into such poverty. At length, in a fit of desperation, he
left her, swearing that she might starve for aught more
he should do for her. For a time she supported herself
by sewing, but sickness came upon her, and then she was
needy indeed.

Once, in her hour of destitution, George Granby, now
the happy husband of Kate Lawrence, found her out, and
entering her cold, comfortless room, offered her sympathy
and aid; but with her olden pride she coldly rejected

both, saying she was doing well enough, though even
then she had not a mouthful of food, nor the means of
buying it. George guessed as much, and when after his
departure she found upon the little pine table by the
window a golden eagle, she clutched it eagerly, and purchased
with it the first morsel she had eaten in twenty-four
hours.

In a snug, cozy parlor in the city of C—, are seated
our old friends, Jimmy Clayton and Delphine. The latter
is engaged upon a piece of needle-work, while the former
in brocade dressing gown and embroidered slippers, is
looking over an evening paper, occasionally reading a
paragraph aloud to his wife. At last throwing aside the paper
he said, “I have been thinking of Josephine all day.
It is a long time since I heard from her, and I greatly fear
she is not doing very well.”

“Do you believe her to be in actual want?” asked
Delphine.

“I don't know,” was the answer. “From her letters
one would not suppose so, but she is so proud and independent,
that you can hardly judge. Frank, too, has
left Snowdon, and there is now no one left to look after
her.”

There was a rap at the door, and a servant entered,
saying, “The evening mail is in, and I brought you this
from the post-office,” at the same time presenting a letter
to Mr. Clayton, who instantly recognized the hand
writing of Josephine. Nervously breaking the seal, he
hurriedly read the blurred and blotted page. Jimmy had
not wept since the day when the coffin lid closed upon

his mother, but now his tears fell fast over his sister's letter.
It was as follows:

“Jimmy, dear Jimmy, my darling brother Jimmy.
Have you still any affection for me, your wretched sister,
who remembers well that once, proudly exultant in her
own good fortune, she denied you, and that more than
once she turned in scorn from the dear ones in the old
Snowdon home? You cursed me once, Jimmy, or rather
said that I was accursed. Do you remember it? It was
the same day that made me a wife and our blessed mother
an angel. They ring in my ears yet, those dreadful
words, and they have been carried out with a tenfold vengeance.
I am cursed, I and mine, but my punishment
seems greater than I can bear; and now, Jimmy, by the
memory of our mother, who died without one word of
love from me,—by the memory of our gray-haired father,
—and by our two brothers, whose graves I never saw,
and for whom I never shed a tear,—by the memory of
all these dead ones, come to me or I shall die.

“Patiently I worked on, until wasting sickness came,
and since then I have suffered all the poor can ever suffer.
Frank is gone; and from those I once knew in this city,
I dare not seek for aid. Perhaps you, too, have heard
that I was faithless to my husband, but of that sin God
knows that I am innocent. The firelight by which I am
writing this is going out, and I must stop. I know not
where M'Gregor is, but I do not blame him for leaving
me. And now Jimmy, won't you come, and quickly,
too? Oh, Jimmy, my brother Jimmy, come, come.”

It was a chill, dreary night. Angry clouds darkened
the evening sky, and the cold December wind swept furiously
through the almost deserted streets, causing each
child of poverty to draw more closely to him his tattered
garment, which but poorly sheltered him from the blasts
of winter. In a cheerless room in the third story of a
crazy old building, a young woman was hovering over a
handful of coals, baking the thin corn-cake which was to
serve for both supper and breakfast. Everything within
the room denoted the extreme destitution of its occupant,
whose pale, pinched features told plainly that she
had drained the cup of poverty to its very dregs. As
she stooped to remove the corn-cake, large tears fell upon
the dying embers, and she murmured, “He will not come,
and I shall die alone.”

Upon the rickety stairway there was the sound of
footsteps, and the gruff voice of the woman, who occupied
the second floor, was heard saying, “Right ahead, first
door you come to. Yes, that's the one; now be careful,
and not fall through the broken stair;” and in another
moment Jimmy Clayton stood within the room, which for
many months had been his sister's only home.

There was a long, low cry of mingled shame and joy,
and then Josephine was fainting in her brother's arms.
From the old broken pitcher upon the table Jimmy took
some water, and bathed her face and neck until she recovered.
Then was she obliged to reassure him of her identity,
ere he could believe that in the wreck before him, he
beheld his once beautiful sister Josephine.

He took immediate measures to have her removed to a
more comfortable room, and then with both his hands
tightly clasped in hers, she told him her sad history since
the day of her husband's desertion. She did not blame
M'Gregor for leaving her, but said that were he only restored

to her again, she would, if possible, atone for the
past; for, said she, “until he left me, I did not know that
I loved him.”

Jimmy heard her story, and then for a time was silent.
On his way to the city he had stopped at Snowdon, at the
home where his father and mother had died, and which
now belonged to him. He had intended to place Josephine
in it, but the time for which it was rented would
not expire until the following May. At first he thought
to take his sister to his western home, but this he knew
would be pleasant neither to her nor his wife. The old
“gable-roof” was still standing, and as there seemed no
alternative, he ordered it to be decently fitted up as a
temporary asylum for his sister. When at last he spoke,
he told her all this, and then with a peculiar look, he said,
“Will you go?”

“Gladly, oh, most gladly,” said she. “There, rather
than elsewhere.”

The lumbering stage coach had long since given place
to the iron horse, which accomplished the distance to
Snowdon in little more than an hour. Accordingly, the
evening following the incidents just narrated, Jimmy
Clayton and his sister took the night train for Snowdon.
The cars had but just rolled out from the depot, when a
tall, thick set man, with his face completely enveloped in
his overcoat and cap, entered and took a seat directly in
front of our friends. For a moment his eye rested upon
Josephine, causing her involuntarily to start forward, but
instantly resuming her seat, she soon forgot the stranger,
in anxiously watching for the first sight of Snowdon. It
was soon reached, and in ten minutes time the door of the
old gable-roof swung open, and Delphine, whom Jimmy
had left at Judge Howland's, appeared to welcome the
travelers. On the hearth of the old fashioned sitting-room,

a cheerful fire was blazing. Before it stood the neatly
spread tea-table, and scattered about the room were various
things, which Delphine had procured for Josephine's
comfort.

Sinking into the first chair, Josephine burst into a fit of
weeping, saying, “I did not expect this; I do not deserve
it.” Then growing calm, she turned to Jimmy and said,
“Do you know that eleven years ago to-night our angel
mother died, and eleven years ago this morning, you uttered
the prophetic words, “when next I come, you will
surely go?”

She would have added more, but the outside door slowly
opened, and the stranger of the cars stood before them,
saying, “Eleven years ago to-night, I took to my bosom
a beautiful bride, and I thought I was supremely blessed.
Since then, we have both suffered much, but it only makes
our reünion on this, the anniversary of our bridal night,
more happy.”

Drawing from his head the old slouched cap, the features
of Hugh M'Gregor stood revealed to his astonished
listeners. With a wild shriek Josephine threw herself
into his arms, while he kissed her forehead and lips, saying,
“Josephine, my poor, dear Josephine. We shall be
happy together now.”

After a time he briefly related the story of his wanderings,
saying, that immediately after separating from his
wife he resolved upon an entire reformation, and the better
to do this, he determined to leave the city, so fraught
with temptation and painful reminiscences. Going west,
he finally located in a small country village, engaging himself
in the capacity of a teacher, which situation he had
ever since retained.

“I never forgot you, Josephine,” said he, “though at
first my heart was full of bitterness toward you; but with

improved health came a more healthful tone of mind, and
in the past I saw much for which to blame myself. At
last, my desire to hear something from you was so great,
that I visited the city where your brother resides. I went
to his house, but on the threshold my step was arrested
by the sound of your name. James was speaking of you.
Soon a servant entered, bringing your letter. I listened
while he read it aloud, and wept bitterly at the recital of
your sufferings. I knew he would come to you, and determined
to follow him, though I knew not whether my
presence would be welcome or not. I was at the door of
that desolate room when you met. I was listening when
you spoke kindly, affectionately of me. I heard of your
proposed removal to Snowdon, and made my plans accordingly.
Now here I am, and it is at Josephine's option
whether I go away or stay.”

He stayed, and faithfully kept was the marriage vow
that night renewed in the “Gable-roofed House at
Snowdon.”