University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
TRISTRAM TREVANION IS ACCEPTED, AND DR. GILBERT IS
REJECTED.

Dr. Gilbert accomplished his whole trip in less
than a week, and arrived at Crampton in the evening,
just as his family were retiring to bed. Fanny met
him with the very unusual demonstration of a kiss, and
Aunt Catharine shook his hand cordially, declaring she
was “right down glad to see him,” for she had had no
one to quarrel with since he went away. He was glad to
get home; and for the first ten minutes busied himself
with inquiries for his patients, his pony, his farmers, his
boy Fred, and every thing and everybody bearing any
direct relation to him.

“And how is our friend, Miss Hammett?” inquired
Dr. Gilbert, at last.

“She has not been herself at all, since you went
away,” replied Fanny. “When I told her that you
had gone to New York to get the book published, she
turned very pale, and came near fainting.”

“Hem!” from Aunt Catharine.

The doctor could neither help smiling nor feeling a

great deal more gratification than he was quite willing
to manifest.

“All I ask,” said Aunt Catharine, with mock
seriousness, “is, that you give me suitable notice to
quit, so that I can have time to get a new home.”

“Oh! nonsense! Catharine,” exclaimed the doctor,
yet he could not look displeased. The thought that the
gentle Mary Hammett cared for him was exceedingly
precious to him. It brought back with a wild sweep
through his heart the tides of youth, and seemed to
open to him another life.

“I suppose you and Fanny wish to get rid of me,”
said Aunt Catharine, “so, good night.”

After her obliging withdrawal, father and daughter
held a long conversation on the subject which the latter
had most at heart. The doctor told the story of his
journey, of his interview with Kilgore the elder, and of
his final arrangement with Mr. Frank Sargent. Closing
the narrative of his enterprise and adventures, he said:
“And now, Fanny, this is the last time I shall ever consent
to be engaged in any thing of this kind. You see
that your career is very much my career, and that you
were utterly powerless to do any thing alone. I have
neither time nor disposition to do this kind of business.
It does not pay in any way. It has already cost both
you and me more, tenfold, than it will ever return to
either of us, in money or reputation. It is all very well
for us to dream pretty dreams up here in Crampton,
but the world does not care for them, nor for us; so
what is the use of our caring about the world?”

Fanny was under too many obligations to her father
for his assistance to multiply words with him concerning

her future course; but he read, in her silence, her
firmly compressed lips, and the gray coldness of her
eyes, the strength of unrelinquished purpose.

The next day Dr. Gilbert was abroad early, looking
after his affairs. The little black pony had rested a
longer time than since he had been in Dr. Gilbert's
possession, and the little gig rattled and reeled along
behind him so merrily, that the doctor quite forgot the
excitements and vexations of the week, in the pleasures
of his business. But he was working against time quite
as evidently as when he was first introduced to the
reader, on the morning of the great exhibition of the
Crampton Light Infantry. He had always been faithful
in visiting schools, and the pony and gig understood
their way to the school-house door quite as well as to
the doors of half a dozen patients who had been on the
doctor's hands for twenty years. In fact, they seemed
to regard it as a hopelessly chronic case, and to turn up
regularly whenever they came that way.

At mid-afternoon, Dr. Gilbert, with feelings very
new and peculiar, knocked at the door of the centre
school-house, and was admitted by Miss Hammett, who
seemed to be possessed by feelings quite as new and
peculiar as his own. After the exchange of the routine
of civil inquiries, she went on with her recitations, alternately
flushed and pale. Her appearance was so unlike
what it had previously been, that Dr. Gilbert was
puzzled. What was the matter with Miss Hammett?
It was not joy, but apprehension, that she manifested
when he met her. Pleasure was not the parent of such
pallor. The flush of delight did not burn the forehead.

“I am not well,” said Miss Hammett, at last, “and
with your leave, Dr. Gilbert, I will dismiss the school.”

“Certainly. Do so at once,” responded her visitor.
“I will send Fanny over to see you, and, if you get no
relief, I will attend you.”

The doctor felt that she wished to get rid of him,
and lost no time in leaving her. Going directly to his
home, he bade Fanny visit the schoolmistress, and went
about his affairs oppressed with an unsatisfied, uneasy
feeling, that he could neither explain to himself nor
shake off.

Fanny made the visit, and while Miss Hammett reclined
in her chamber, entertained her with a long
account of her father's adventures in New York and by
the way. The story semed to possess almost miraculous
powers of healing. Miss Hammett listened with
the profoundest interest, and made a great many inquiries,
particularly with relation to the publishers
visited, and seemed to be interested in the minutest
particulars. Then she rose from the sofa, and sat with
her hand in Fanny's, and told her how much good she
had done her. “Tell your father,” said Miss Hammett,
“that his prescription has wrought wonders, and that if
he will visit my school again, I will not turn him out of
doors.”

Fanny went away very much puzzled, after promising
Miss Hammett that she would faithfully communicate
to her the result of the negotiations with Mr. Frank
Sargent.

A few days passed away after the usual fashion, and
then came the anxiously looked for letter. Dr. Gilbert
read it, made no comment, and handed it over to

Fanny. Fanny read it, made no comment, and went
directly to Miss Hammett's room with it; and there
she read it carefully to the schoolmistress. We will
look over her shoulder, and read it also:

When Fanny concluded the reading of this epistle, it
was with a most contemptuous curl of the lip, and a
general expression, upon her strong and handsome features,
of disgust. “Did you ever hear of any thing so

ridiculous as this in your life, Miss Hammett?” inquired
Fanny.

Miss Hammett could do nothing but laugh. She
seized the letter, re-read portions of it, and laughed
again uncontrollably—almost hysterically. Miss Fanny
Gilbert did not know what construction to put upon
this merriment. She tried to join with her at first, but
the joke would not seem pleasant to her. First came
upon her face a shadow of pain, then her eyes filled with
tears, and she rose and walked to the window to hide
her emotion. Her companion was sober in an instant,
and following her, put her arm tenderly around her, and
led her back to the sofa. “You know,” said Miss
Hammett warmly, “that I would not wound your feelings
for the world, but one has fits of laughing sometimes
that one cannot account for at all. I don't know
what I have been laughing at, I'm sure.”

If Fanny had been looking at Miss Hammett, she
would have seen that that young woman was having the
greatest difficulty in restraining herself from a further
outburst.

“It seems so mercenary,” said Fanny.

“And so professional,” said Miss Hammett.

“And so careless of an author's feelings.”

“And so ridiculous.”

“And so servile to public opinion. As if everybody
must be married or killed, because the precious
public demand it! Who cares what the public demand?”

“Tut, tut, Fanny! Take care!” said Miss Hammett,
looking archly into Fanny's face. “Are you sure
that you do not condemn yourself in your condemnation

of this young publisher? Unless I have misunderstood
you, the book was written for fame—for public applause—and
Mr. Sargent is only endeavoring to assist
you to accomplish your ends.”

“But I wish to accomplish my ends in my own
way,” said Fanny, imperiously.

“But suppose the public will not be pleased with
your way?” suggested Miss Hammett. “People who
work for public applause are not so independent as you
think. What do you care for the marriage of your
man, or the death of your dwarf, if it help you to obtain
your object?”

“But the title! Who ever heard of any thing so
preposterous as `Rhododendron,' or `Shucks'?”

“Everybody has heard of titles quite as ridiculous
as those, adopted for no reason in the world but to
catch the public eye. As for the first one suggested,
`Tristram Trevanion, or Butter and Cheese and All,' it
seems to me to have a charming mingling of the ideal
and the real in its structure.”

“Miss Hammett, you are laughing at me,” said
Fanny, in a tone of vexation.

“Indeed, I'm not. Now tell me why you chose the
title you did.”

“Because it was musical. Because—because—I
thought the public would like it,” said Fanny, blushing,
and biting her lips.

Miss Hammett broke into a low musical laugh.
“Ah! Fanny, Fanny,” said she, “we are not so much
elevated above the motives of our publishers as we
might be, are we? Let me advise you to be very just
toward Mr. Frank Sargent. You are both laboring for

one object—the popularity of Tristram Trevanion; and
if you put your heads together—I mean by mail, of
course—your hero will make the better headway in the
world for it. For my part, I see no objections to the
marriage and the murder proposed. As for the title, I
think you have the advantage; so you can compromise
by keeping that, and changing the issues of the story.”

“I wish Mr. Frank Sargent could know what an advocate
he has here,” exclaimed Fanny.

“Fanny,” said Miss Hammett with undisguised
alarm, “you must promise me that you will never
mention my name, or say one word about me, in any
communication you may make to Mr. Sargent. I am
really very much in earnest, as you see.”

Fanny did see this, but, with girlish perverseness,
said: “I positively cannot allow such disinterested service
to go unrewarded. Mr. Sargent must be informed,
in some way, of his indebtedness to you.”

Miss Hammett grasped Fanny's wrist, and said, almost
fiercely, “Fanny Gilbert, if you do not promise
me, before you leave this room, that you will never
mention my name, nor allude to me in any way in
your letters to New York, I will leave Crampton to-morrow.”

“Why, Miss Hammett!” exclaimed Fanny.

“Yes, to-morrow; and I shall go where you will
never see me again. I beg you to promise me, because
I am happier here than I have been for many months,
and happier than I can be elsewhere.”

“Of course, I promise you,” said Fanny; “but it's
very strange—very strange.”

“Oh! I thank you! I thank you a thousand times,”

said Miss Hammett; “but you must stop thinking how
strange it is. I cannot explain any thing to you now;
but some time—some time. There, dear, let's talk no
more about it. Please do not mention this to your
father. By the way, Fanny, leave me that letter for
half an hour. I wish to look it over, and think it over.”

The young women kissed each other, and Fanny
took her leave. Miss Hammett accompanied her to
the street-door, then locked it, then entered her own
room, and locked herself in, and then she took the business
letter of Mr. Frank Sargent in her hands, pressed
it to her heart, and walking back and forth in her apartment,
kissed it a hundred times. It does not become
us to linger, while she kneels and pours out her thanks,
giving and her prayer. Enough for us now that there
was something in the letter that touched the deepest
springs of her life, and startled its sleeping secrets into
intense alarm.

In the interval between Dr. Gilbert's call upon Miss
Hammett at her school-room, and the reception of the
letter from Mr. Frank Sargent, the doctor had seen her
more than once, and was glad to find her equanimity
quite restored. She treated him in the old frank way,
which had always been a way exceedingly charming to
him. He found himself more and more attracted to her,
and more and more significant did life look to him, as
he came to associate it with her life. He had very
honestly loved the mother of his children, and when she
passed away, it seemed to him that there was nothing
but work that could fill the vacant life she left. Now
he dreamed of this new, sweet presence in his house, of
a wise and sympathetic companion for his daughter, of

a mother for little Fred. Aunt Catharine, whose shrewd
eyes had read every thing, had noticed that he was more
careful about his linen, and took more pains with his
toilet, than usual; and the neighbors thought that the
school had never been so closely looked after by the
committee before.

Still, there was this mystery about Miss Hammett.
Would it be prudent for him—a man of position and
influence—to marry an unknown woman, picked out of
so dirty a factory as that at Hucklebury Run? What
would the people say? Would it not compromise his
respectability? Again and again he recalled the assurance
she gave him in her first interview with him:
“Only believe this, Dr. Gilbert—that if you ever learn
the truth about me, by any means, it will bring disgrace
neither to me nor to those who may befriend me.”
He did believe it; yet caution said, “This is what a
guilty woman would say quite as readily as an innocent
one. Be on your guard, Dr. Gilbert. You are too old
a fellow to be taken in by a sweet face, and plausible
words.” Miss Hammett, of course, was entirely unaware
of the nature of Dr. Gilbert's feelings, and the
character of his cogitations. She regarded him almost as
a father—at least, as a reliable counsellor and friend—
one to whom she might go with all her trials, and one in
whose protection she might thoroughly trust. She took
great pains to please him, and to satisfy all his wishes in
the arduous position she had assumed. They held frequent
consultations in the school-room, and at the doctor's
own tea-table, at which she was always a welcome
guest. In these interviews, the young woman's unassuming
manners, rare good sense, and charming modesty

and vivacity, won more and more upon the doctor's
heart, until he found that a day passed without seeing
her, and hearing her voice, was tasteless and meaningless.

A matter like this could not be long in coming to
maturity in a mind like that of Dr. Gilbert. To feel
that Mary Hammett was desirable, and to will the
possession of her hand, were one, so soon as he could
satisfy himself that Mary Hammett was indeed what
she seemed to be. How could he satisfy himself?
Alas! There was but one who could inform him, and
her lips were sealed, and he, as a man of honor, was
bound to respect their silence. For once he was forced
to trust to Providence, or chance, and to leave his own
action to impulse.

When Fanny returned home, after reading Mr.
Frank Sargent's letter to Miss Hammett, her father,
who guessed where she had been, inquired what the
young woman thought of the publisher's missive.
Fanny made a hurried, unsatisfactory reply, and went
to her room. This was excuse sufficient for Dr. Gilbert
to call upon the schoolmistress, and talk over the
affair. Accordingly, Miss Hammett had hardly composed
herself after the emotions excited by the letter,
when Mrs. Blague came to her door, and told her that
Dr. Gilbert waited for her in the parlor. Hurriedly
thrusting Mr. Frank Sargent's letter into her bosom,
and giving a glance in the mirror to see if her face were
telling forbidden tales or not, she descended, and met
her fatherly friend with her usual frankness and cordiality.

“Fanny has been to see you?” said the doctor.

“Yes.”

“And read to you Mr. Sargent's letter, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of it?”

“It seems to me to be the letter of a man who has
a sharp eye for business, and a shrewd insight into the
popular taste,” replied Miss Hammett.

“Hem! I hope you advised Fanny frankly in the
matter,” said the doctor.

“I can hardly say that I advised her at all.”

“Well, I am sorry you did not,” responded the doctor.
“Fanny needs womanly counsel. Poor child!
Since her mother died she has had little sympathy from
her own sex, and has grown up a little unfeminine, I
fear.”

“I have been very happy in her society,” said the
young woman, cordially, “and have always given her
such advice as I felt competent to give her.”

“Hem! I thank you. It has always been a comfort
to me to know that you were together. By the way,
how is my little boy getting along with his books?”

“Only too rapidly,” replied the schoolmistress. “I
sometimes tremble when I see how eagerly the little
fellow pursues his tasks, and how frail he is.”

The doctor's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and he
rubbed his hands with satisfaction as he said, “Ah!
Freddy is a rare boy—a rare boy! I think we shall
be able to make something of him.”

“But you must not force him, doctor. I'm afraid
he has too much study.”

“Well, I suppose,” said the doctor, “that I'm unfit
to manage him;” and then he blushed to think that he

had lied. He wanted somehow to say that the boy
needed a mother, but he was certainly unable to manage
that.

Dr. Gilbert found that the relations which existed
between him and Miss Hammett, though intimate and
cordial of their kind, formed almost an impassable gulf
between him and his wishes. How could the fatherly
Dr. Gilbert come to a declaration of his love for a
woman who, as she sat before him, seemed never to
have dreamed of any other relations as possible? The
gulf must be bridged, in some way—if not by artifice,
by violence—by main strength.

Dr. Gilbert cleared his throat again. “I have noticed
the intimacy between you and my daughter with
great pleasure,” said he, “and have been delighted with
the manner in which you have managed to secure the
affections of my little boy; of course, the thought has
naturally been forced upon me, that if this intimacy and
affection could be found at home, in one who would
bear the name of mother, it would be every way desirable.
You will pardon my abruptness, Miss Hammett,
when I say to you that you are the first woman I have
met, since the death of my wife, whom I would be glad
to see in her place.”

It was out. The gulf was bridged, and the doctor
was relieved to think that he had established a basis for
negotiations. But what was the impression upon the
young woman? As the nature of the declaration gradually
found its way into her consciousness, she grew
deathly pale, and sat speechless, with her eyes upon the
floor.

“I have believed,” continued the doctor, “that you

were not altogether without respect for me, and have hoped
that you might come to entertain a more genial sentiment.
There is difference of age between us, I grant;
but if I know my own heart, I offer you an honest affection,
as I certainly offer you my home, my protection,
and my position. There are some mysteries connected
with your life which I have not, as you will bear me
witness, sought to probe. I have trusted you, and of
course I trust you still. My proposition, I see, surprises
you, and if you wish for time to consider it,
I will leave you, and take your answer at some other
time.”

During all this speech, delivered in a low, firm tone
of voice, Dr. Gilbert had closely watched the young
woman. He saw the pale cheek and lips redden into
crimson. He saw tears forming slowly in her downcast
eyes, and then drop unheeded upon her hand. He
saw a tremor like a chill pass over her frame, and then,
as he concluded, and spoke of a future answer to his
proposals, he saw her lift her head, and heard her say,
“Do not go.”

The temptation to seize her hand and kiss it was irresistible.
The doctor grasped it, and bent his head
toward it, but instantly Miss Hammett had withdrawn
it, and was upon her feet. “Dr. Gilbert,” said she,
“that hand is sacred. It is not mine. It cannot be
yours. I will be your servant. I will do any thing for
the happiness of those you love that it is consistent for
me to do—but I cannot be your wife. I asked you not
to go, because my answer was ready.”

It was now Dr. Gilbert's turn to be surprised. He
could not realize that he—Dr. Gilbert—who had hesitated

to offer himself to an unknown woman, should be
so peremptorily rejected.

“You are hasty,” said he. “I beg you to consider
the matter. I have set my heart upon it; it must be
so; I—I cannot take your answer.”

Miss Hammett stood with her hands folded, and
pressed to her heart. “Dr. Gilbert,” said she, “I
should be entirely unworthy of the place to which you
invite me, if I were to give one moment's entertainment
to your proposition. Were I to consent to be your
wife, I should become a perjured wretch, fit only for
your loathing and your abhorrence.”

“My God!” exclaimed the doctor, the veins of his
forehead swelling fearfully, “and is my case with you
so hopeless? Why! woman, it darkens my whole
life.”

“Dr. Gilbert,” said Miss Hammett with assumed
calmness, “if I were my own, I could give myself to you,
but I am not, and why should we exchange further
words? You know that I would rather suffer much
than wound you, and you know, too, that I have never
invited this proposal from you. You have been always
a generous man toward me; I ask you to be so still,
and never to allude to this subject again. I am alone;
and if, after what I have told you, you persist in pursuing
the matter, I have but one remedy, and that is to
flee. I beg you to treat me generously.”

“God knows I thought I was treating you generously,
when I offered you my heart and my hand,”
said Dr. Gilbert, bitterly; “but it seems that a strapping,
unfledged boy is more esteemed, and I must e'en
take my offer in my teeth, and walk home with it.”

“Can you, Dr. Gilbert—a man—old enough to be
my father—talk to me like that without blushing? I
bid you good evening;” and, suiting the action to the
word, she bowed, and left Dr. Gilbert standing in the
middle of the parlor, alone.

An obstruction placed in the channel of a strong
will, and abruptly checking its flow, raises, by the reflux,
a power that climbs and plunges till the current of
life becomes turbid and unwholesome. It goes thus
madly back to sweep the obstruction away, and when
it finds it unyielding, it dashes over its verge with
broken voice and volume, and ploughs up the filth that
sleeps in the beds of the purest streams. It was thus
with the strong will of Dr. Gilbert. He had made up
his mind to the step he had taken. All the strong currents
of his life had, for the time, taken this new channel;
and when the irrevocable word was dropped into
it, the tide of a powerful life was stopped. It swelled
and piled, and then plunged madly over it, and lost, at
once, its music and its purity. But as streams thus
stopped and thus started, though still complaining, grow
pure again, so Dr. Gilbert's anger and mean jealousy
subsided at length, and left him subdued, sad, ashamed,
and acquiescent. If he could not have Miss Hammett's
love, he must not lose her respect. If her hand could
not be his, her society should not be sacrificed, and she
should see that he could not only be generous, but chivalrous
and brave.

Mrs. Blague had been made aware by Miss Hammett's
rapid passage through the hall that Dr. Gilbert
was alone, and as he lingered, she walked into the
parlor, and found him standing where Miss Hammett

had left him, with the marks of strong emotion still
upon his features.

“Madam,” said the doctor, “you will oblige me
by never alluding to what you have witnessed, and by
bearing a message to Miss Hammett.” He knew he
could rely upon his old friend, and, without waiting for
her reply, he advanced to the table, and wrote, in pencil,
a note to the schoolmistress. It was brief and characteristic:
“Miss Hammett: Whatever you deny me, I
know you will not refuse me the privilege of apologizing
for my inexcusable rudeness. Come down, and
permit me to bear away with me a measure of self-respect.”

Mrs. Blague took the note to Miss Hammett's
chamber, and the lady immediately appeared in response.
Her face was clothed with an expression of
pain, and her eyes were full of tears. The doctor advanced
to meet her, and held out his hand. “Miss
Hammett,” said he, “I have been mean and unmanly.
Will you forgive me?” Her cold hand was in his
strong grasp, and smiling sadly, and looking gratefully
and trustingly in his face, she answered, “Yes.” As
the doctor looked into her deep, honest, blue eyes, down
into the true soul which shone through them, and
thought in one wild moment of the treasure forever
swept beyond his winning, his frame shook with powerful
emotion. Oh! rare intuition! The small, cold
hand grew uneasy, and was slowly withdrawn, and
again folded over her heart.

“Will you be seated, Dr. Gilbert?” said the young
woman, pointing to a chair, and taking one herself.
“As between ourselves, Dr. Gilbert,” she continued,

“every thing is settled. You know my wishes, and
respect them. I take your apology very gladly, for I
did not wish to part with you, so that we might not
meet again; but you have made an allusion to some
one as a favorite of mine, and, that no other person may
suffer injustice, I think I should know to whom you
allude, and be allowed, for his sake and my own, to set
you right.”

The doctor blushed. In fact, he was never so
thoroughly ashamed in his life. “Miss Hammett, I beg
you not to humiliate me further,” said he. “I spoke
wildly and meanly—outrageously, if you will. Will
not that do?”

“I think I have a right,” pursued the young woman,
“to be more particular. You could not have said what
you did without some conviction, and I wish to put
your mind forever at rest on the subject. Tell me, Dr.
Gilbert, do you imagine that my hand belongs to any
man here in Crampton?”

The doctor fidgeted. “We talk in confidence, of
course,” said he. “I knew that Arthur Blague was interested
in you, very deeply. I knew that, at his susceptible
age, he could not be much under the same roof
with you without being impressed by you. I did not
know how far the matter had gone, and very naturally
thought of him when you so readily and so decidedly
replied to my proposals. It irritated me, of course, to
feel that an undeveloped youth, without means and
without position, should be able to win that which was
refused to me.”

The doctor stumbled through his explanation, and
Miss Hammett received it with a smile of amusement,

touched with sadness and apprehension. When he
closed, she said: “I thank you, for myself, and on behalf
of Arthur Blague. I confess to you that he is a
young man whom I very warmly esteem. It seems to
me that he possesses the very noblest elements of manhood,
and yet there is nothing that would give me more
pain than to know that he has other feelings toward me
than those of friendship. He has been very kind to
me, and I pray God that nothing may happen in our
intercourse to make my residence with his mother unpleasant
to either of us.”

Dr. Gilbert rose to his feet. The reaction had
come, and it was a healthy one—honorable to the
rugged nature in which it had taken place. Whether a
lingering memory of the shipping in New York harbor,
or a reminiscence of some great naval battle that he had
read about in history, rose to him on the moment,
under the spur of association, will never be known; but
he said: “Well, Miss Hammett, the deck is cleared, I
believe; the dead are thrown overboard, and the
wounded are taken care of, and doing well.” Then he
laughed a huge, strong laugh, that showed that his physical
system, at least, was unshaken.

Miss Hammett smiled—glad that the battle was
over, and particularly rejoiced that the “wounded”
were doing so well. She gave him her hand at the
parlor-door, and shaking it heartily, he said: “Let the
past be buried. We shall get along very well together.”

As he turned to leave her, he saw, standing in the
street-door before him, Arthur Blague in his working
dress. He knew that Arthur had overheard his last words.

The poor fellow stood like one paralyzed, and gave the
doctor his hand as he passed out in a state of the most
painful embarrassment. The doctor knew what it meant,
and went away (what an exceedingly mean and human
old fellow!) glad from the bottom of his heart that the
young man had got to pass through the same furnace
that he had.

It was Saturday night, and the young man had come
home to pass the Sabbath. Miss Hammett met him
cordially, but saw at once that there was something in
the words of Dr. Gilbert that oppressed him. In her
sweet endeavors to erase this impression, she only
drove still deeper into his heart the arrow by which he
had long been wounded. Ah! what charming torture
was that! What a Sabbath of unsatisfactory dreaming
followed it! How he listened for her steps in her
chamber! How like the singing of an angel sounded
her morning hymn! How her face shone on him as he
sat near her at the table! How did heaven breathe its
airs around him as he walked by her side to the village
church! How did he lean back for hours in his easy-chair
at home, with his eyes closed in delicious reverie!
Arthur Blague was nineteen. Poor fellow!