University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
AUNT BETSY GOES ON A JOURNEY.

JUST through the woods, where Uncle Ephraim
was wont to exercise old Whitey, was a narrow
strip of land, extending from the highway to the
pond, and fertile in nothing except the huckleberry
bushes, and the rocky ledges over which a few
sheep roamed, seeking for the short grass and stunted
herbs, which gave them a meagre sustenance. As a
whole it was comparatively valueless, but to Aunt Betsy
Barlow it was of great importance, as it was—her property—the
land on which she paid taxes willingly—the
real estate, the deed of which was lying undisturbed in
her hair trunk, where it had lain for years. Several dispositions
the good old lady had mentally made of this
property, sometimes dividing it equally between Helen
and Katy, sometimes willing it all to the former, and
again, when she thought of Mark Ray, leaving the interest
of it to some missionary society in which she was interested.

How then was the poor woman amazed and confounded
when suddenly there appeared a claimant to
her property; not the whole, but a part, and that part
taking in the big sweet apple-tree and the very best of
the berry bushes, leaving her nothing but rocks and
bogs, a pucker cherry tree, a patch of tansy, and one
small tree, whose gnarly apples were not fit, she said,
to feed the pigs.

Of course she was indignant, and all the more so because
the claimant was prepared to prove that the line
fence was not where it should be, but ran into his own
dominions for the width of two or three rods, a fact he
had just discovered by looking over a bundle of deeds,
in which the boundaries of his own farm were clearly
defined.

In her distress Aunt Betsy's first thoughts were
turned to Wilford as the man who could redress her
wrongs if any one, and a long letter was written to him

in which her grievances were told in detail and his advice
solicited. Commencing with “My dear Wilford,” closing
with “Your respected ant,” sealed with a wafer,
stamped with her thimble, and directed bottom side up,
it nevertheless found its way to No. — Broadway, and
into Wilford's hands. But with a frown and pish of contempt
he tossed it into the grate, and vain were all
Aunt Betsy's inquiries as to whether there was any letter
for her when Uncle Ephraim came home from the
office. Letters there were from Helen, and sometimes
one from Katy, but none from Wilford, and her days
were passed in great perplexity and distress, until
another idea took possession of her mind. She would
go to New York herself! She had never traveled over
half a dozen miles in the cars, it was true, but it was
time she had, and now that she had a new bonnet and
shawl, she could go to York as well as not!

Wholly useless were the expostulations of the family,
for she would not listen to them, nor believe that she
would not be welcome at that house on Madison Square,
to which Mrs. Lennox had never been invited since Katy
was fairly settled in it. Much at first had been said of
her coming, and of the room she was to occupy; but all
that had ceased, and in the mother's heart there had
been a painful doubt as to the reason of the silence, until
Helen's letters enlightened her, telling her it was Wilford
who had built so high a wall between Katy and her
friends.

Far better than she used, did Mrs. Lennox understand
her son-in-law, and she shrank in horror from suffering
her aunt to go where she would be so serious an annoyance,
frankly telling her the reason for her objections,
and asking if she wished to mortify the girls.

At this Aunt Betsy took umbrage at once.

“She'd like to know what there was about her to
mortify anybody? Wasn't her black silk dress made
long and full, and the old pongee fixed into a Balmoral,
and hadn't she a bran new cap with purple ribbon, and
couldn't she travel in her delaine, and didn't she wear
hoops always now, except at cleanin' house times? Didn't
she nuss both the girls, especially Catherine, carrying her
in her arms one whole night when she had the canker-rash,

and everybody thought she'd die? And when she
swallered that tin whistle didn't she spat her on the back
and swing her in the air till she came to and blew the
whistle clear across the room? Tell her that Catherine
would be ashamed! she knew better!”

Then, as a doubt began to cross her own mind as to
Wilford's readiness to entertain her at his house, she continued,

“At any rate, the Tubbses, who moved from Silverton
last fall, and who are living in such style on the Bowery,
wouldn't be ashamed, and I can stop with them at first,
till I see how the land lies. They have invited me to
come, both Miss Tubbs and 'Tilda, and they are nice
folks, who belong to the Orthodox Church. Tom is in
town now, and if I see him I shall talk with him about it,
even if I never go.”

Most devoutly did Mrs. Lennox and Aunt Hannah
hope that Tom would return to New York without honoring
the farm-house with a call; but unfortunately for
them he came that very afternoon, and instead of throwing
obstacles in Aunt Betsy's way, urged her warmly to
make the proposed visit.

“Mother would be so glad to see an old neighbor,”
the honest youth said, “for she did not know many folks
in the city. 'Till had made some flashy acquaintances,
of whom he did not think much, and they kept a few
boarders, but nobody had called, and mother was lonesome.
He wished Miss Barlow would come; she would
have no difficulty in finding them,” and on a bit of paper
he marked out the route of the Fourth Avenue cars, which
passed their door, and which Aunt Betsy would take after
arriving at the New Haven depot. “If he knew when
she was coming he would meet her,” he said, but Aunt
Betsy could not tell; she was not quite certain whether
she should go at all, she was so violently opposed.

Still she did not give it up entirely, and when, a few
days after Tom's return to New York, there came a pressing
invitation from the daughter Matilda, or Mattie, as
she signed herself, the fever again ran high, and this
time with but little hope of its abating.

“We shall be delighted, both mother and me,” Mattie
wrote. “I will show you all the lions of the city, and

when you get tired of us you can go up to Mrs. Cameron's.
I know exactly where they live, and have seen her at the
opera in full dress, looking like a queen.”

Over the last part of this letter Aunt Betsy pondered
for some time. “That as good an Orthodox as Miss
Tubbs should let her girl go to the opera, passed her.
She had wondered at Helen's going, but then she was a
'Piscopal, and them 'Piscopals had queer notions about
usin' the world and abusin' it.” Still, as Helen did not
attend the theatre and did attend the opera, there must be
a difference between the two places, and into the old lady's
heart there slowly crept the thought that possible she,
might try the opera too, if 'Tilda Tubbs would go, and
promise never to tell the folks at Silverton.

This settled, Aunt Betsy began to devise the best
means of getting off with the least opposition. Both
Morris and her brother would be absent from town
during the next week, and she finally resolved to take
that opportunity for starting on her visit to New York,
wisely concluding to keep her own counsel until she was
quite ready. Accordingly, on the very day Morris and
the deacon left Silverton, she announced her intention
so quietly and decidedly that further opposition was useless,
and Mrs. Lennox did what she could to make her
aunt presentable. And Aunt Betsy did look very respectable,
in her dark delaine, with her hat and shawl,
both Morris's gift, and both in very good taste. As for
the black silk and the new cap, they were carefully
folded away, one in a box and the other in a satchel she
carried on her arm, and in one compartment of which
were sundry papers of fennel, caraway, and catnip, intended
for Katy's baby, and which could be sent to it
from New York. There was also a package of dried
plums and peaches for Katy herself, and a few cakes of
yeast of her own make, better than any they had in the
city! Thus equipped she one morning took her seat in
the Boston and New York train, which carried her
swiftly on towards Springfield.

“If anybody can find their way in New York it is
Betsy,” Aunt Hannah said to Mrs. Lennox, as the day
wore on and their thoughts went after the lone woman,
who with satchel, umbrella and cap-box, was felicitating

in the luxury of a whole seat, and the near neighborhood
of a very nice young man, who listened with well-bred
interest while she told of her troubles concerning
the sheep-pasture, and how she was going to New York
to consult a first-rate lawyer.

Once she thought to tell who the lawyer was, and
perhaps enhance her own merits in the eyes of her auditor
by announcing herself as aunt to Mrs. Wilford Cameron,
of whom she had no doubt he had heard—nay,
more, whom he possibly knew, inasmuch as his home
was in New York, though he spent much of his time
at West Point, where he had been educated. But certain
disagreeable remembrances of Aunt Hannah's parting
injunction, “not to tell everybody in the cars that
she was Katy's aunt,” kept her silent on that point, and
so Lieutenant Bob Reynolds failed to be enlightened
with regard to the relationship existing between the
fastidious Wilford Cameron of Madison Square, and the
quaint old lady whose very first act on entering the car
had amused him vastly. At a glance he saw that she
was unused to traveling, and as the car was crowded, he
had kindly offered his seat near the door, taking the
side one under the window, and so close to her that she
gave him her cap-box to hold while she adjusted her
other bundles. This done and herself comfortably settled,
she was just remarking that she liked being close
to the door in case of a fire, when the conductor appeared,
extending his hand officially towards her as the first one
convenient. For an instant Aunt Betsy scanned him
closely, thinking she surely had never seen him before,
but as he seemed to claim acquaintance she could not
find it in her kind heart to ignore him altogether, and
so she grasped the offered hand, which she tried to shake,
saying apologetically,

“Pretty well, thank you, but you've got the better of
me, as I don't justly recall your name.”

Instantly the eyes of the young man under the window
met those of the conductor with a look which
changed the frown gathering in the face of the latter into
a comical smile as he withdrew his hand and shouted,

“Ticket, madam, your ticket!”

“For the land's sake, have I got to give that up so

quick, when it's at the bottom of my satchel,” Aunt Betsy
replied, somewhat crest-fallen at her mistake, and fumbling
in her pocket for the key, which was finally produced,
and one by one the paper parcels of fennel, caraway,
and catnip, dried plums, peaches and yeast cakes,
were taken out, until at the very bottom, as she
had said, the ticket was found, the conductor waiing
patiently, and advising her, by way of avoiding
future trouble, to pin the card to her shawl, where it
could be seen.

“A right nice man,” was Aunt Betsy's mental comment,
but for a long time there was a red spot on her
cheeks as she felt that she had made herself ridiculous,
and hoped the girls would never hear of it.

The young man, helped to reassure her, and in telling
him her troubles she forgot her chagrin, feeling very
sorry that he was going on to Albany, and so down
the river to West Point. West Point was associated in
Aunt Betsy's mind with that handful of noble men who
within the walls of Sumter were then the centre of so
much interest, and at parting with her companion she
said to him.

“Young man, you are a soldier, I take it, from your
havin' been to school at West Point. Maybe you'll
never have to use your learning, but if you do, stick to
the old flag. Don't you go against that, and if an old
woman's prayers for your safety can do any good, be
sure you'll have mine.”

She raised her hand reverently, and Lieutenant Bob
felt a kind of awe steal over him as if he might one day
need that benediction, the first perhaps given in the
cause then so terribly agitating all hearts both North
and South.

“I'll remember what you say,” he answered, and then
as a new idea was presented he took out a card, and
writing a few lines upon it, bade her hand it to the conductor
just as she was getting into the city.

Without her glasses Aunt Betsy could not read, and
thinking it did not matter now, she thrust the card into
her pocket, and bidding her companion good-by, took
her seat in the other train. Lonely and a very little
home-sick she began to feel; for her new neighbors were

not as willing to talk as Bob had been, and she finally
relapsed into silence, which resulted in a quiet sleep,
from which she awoke just as they were entering the
long, dark tunnel, which she would have likened to Purgatory,
had she believed in such a place.

“I didn't know we ran into cellars,” she said faintly;
but nobody heeded her, or cared for the anxious timid-looking
woman, who grew more and more anxious, until
suddenly remembering the card, she drew it from her
pocket, and the next time the conductor appeared
handed it to him, watching him while he read that
“Lieut. Robert Reynolds would consider it as a personal
favor if he would see the bearer safely into the Fourth
Avenue cars.”

Surely there is a Providence which watches over all;
and Lieutenant Reynolds's thoughtfulness was not a mere
chance, but the answer to the simple trust Aunt Betsy
had that God would take her safely to New York. The
conductor knew Lieutenant Bob, and attended as faithfully
to his wishes as if it had been a born princess instead
of Aunt Betsy Barlow whom he led to a street car,
ascertaining the number on the Bowery where she wished
to stop, and reporting to the conductor, who bowed in
acquiescence, after glancing at the woman, and knowing
intuitively that she was from the country. Could she
have divested herself wholly of the fear that the conductor
would forget to put her off at the right place,
Aunt Betsy would have enjoyed that ride very much;
and as it was, she looked around with interest, thinking
New York a mightily cluttered-up place, and wondering
if all the folks were in the streets; then, as a lady in
flaunting robes took a seat beside her, crowding her into
a narrow space, the good old dame thought to show that
she did not resent it, by an attempt at sociability, asking
if she knew “Miss Peter Tubbs, whose husband kept a
store on the Bowery?”

“I have not that honor,” was the haughty reply, the
lady drawing up her costly shawl and moving a little
away from her interlocutor, who continued, “I thought
like enough you might have seen 'Tilda, or Mattie as
she calls herself now. She is a right nice girl, and Tom
is a very forrard boy.”

To this there was no reply; and as the lady soon left
the car, Aunt Betsy did not make another attempt at
conversation, except to ask once how far they were from
the Bowery, adding, as she received a civil answer, “You
don't know Mr. Peter Tubbs?”

That worthy man was evidently a stranger to the occupants
of that car, which stopped at last upon a crossing,
the conductor pointing back a few doors to the right,
and telling her that was her number.

“I should s'pose he might have driv right up, instead
of leaving me here,” she said, looking wistfully after the
retreating car. “Coats, and trowsers, and jackets! I
wonder if there is nothing else to be seen here,” she continued,
as her eye caught the long line of clothing so
conspicuously displayed in that part of the Bowery.
“'Taint no great shakes,” was the feeling struggling into
Aunt Betsy's mind, as with Tom's outline map in hand
she peered at the numbers of the doors, finding the right
one, and ringing the bell with a force which brought
Mattie at once to the rescue.

If Mattie was not glad to see her guest, she seemed to
be, which answered every purpose for the tired woman,
who followed her into the dark, narrow hall, and up the
narrow stairs, through a still darker hall, and into the
front parlor, which looked out upon the Bowery.

Mrs. Tubbs was glad to see Aunt Betsy. She did not
take kindly to city life, and the sight of a familiar face,
which brought the country with it, was very welcome to
her. Mattie, on the contrary, liked New York, and there
was scarcely a street where she had not been, with Tom
for a protector; while she was perfectly conversant with
all the respectable places of amusement—with their
different prices and different grades of patrons. She
knew where Wilford Cameron's office was, and also his
house, for she had walked by the latter many a time,
admiring the elegant curtains, and feasting her eyes upon
the glimpses of inside grandeur, which she occasionally
obtained as some one came out or went in. Once
she had seen Helen and Katy enter their carriage, which
the colored coachman drove away, but she had never
ventured to accost them. Katy would not have known
her if she had, for the family had come to Silverton while

she was at Canandaigua, and as, after her return to Silverton,
until her marriage, Mattie had been in one of the
Lawrence factories, they had never met. With Helen,
however, she had a speaking acquaintance; but she had
never presumed upon it in New York, though to some of
her young friends she had told how she once sat in the
same pew with Mrs. Wilford Cameron's sister when she
went to the “Episcopal meeting,” and the consideration
which this fact procured for her from those who had
heard of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, of Madison Square,
awoke in her the ambition to know more of that lady,
and, if possible, gain an entrance to her dwelling. To
this end she favored Aunt Betsy's visit, hoping thus to
accomplish her object, for, of course, when Miss Barlow
went to Mrs. Cameron's, she was the proper person to
go with her and point the way. This was the secret of
Mattie's letter to Aunt Betsy, and the warmth with which
she welcomed her to that tenement on the Bowery, over
a clothing store, and so small that it is not strange Aunt
Betsy wondered where they all slept, never dreaming of
the many devices known to city housekeepers, who can
change a handsome parlor into a kitchen or sleeping
room, and vice versa, with little or no trouble. But she
found it out at last, lifting her hands in speechless
amazement, when, as the hour for retiring came, what
she had imagined the parlor bookcase was converted into
a comfortable bed, on which her first night in New
York was passed in comfort if not in perfect quiet.

The next day had been set apart by Mattie for showing
their guest the city, and possibly calling on Mrs.
Wilford; but the poor old lady, unused to travel and excitement,
was too tired to go out, and staid at home the
entire day, watching the crowds of people in the street,
and occasionally wishing herself back in the clean, bright
kitchen, where the windows looked out upon woods and
fields instead of that never-ceasing rush which made her
dizzy and faint. On the whole she was as nearly home-sick
as she well could be, and so when Mattie asked if
she would like to go out that evening, she caught eagerly
at the idea, as it involved a change, and again the
opera came before her mind, in spite of her attempts to
thrust it away.

“Did 'Tilda know if Katy went to the opera now?
Did she s'pose she would be there to-night? Was it far
to the show? What was the price?—and was it a very
wicked place?”

To all these queries Mattie answered readily. She
presumed Katy would be there, as it was a new opera.
It was not so very far. Distance in the city was nothing,
and it was not a wicked place; but over the price
Mattie faltered. Tickets for Aunt Betsy, herself and
Tom, who of course must go with them, would cost more
than her father had to give. The theatre was preferable,
as that came within their means, and she suggested
Wallack's, but from that Aunt Betsy recoiled as from
Pandemonium itself.

“Catch her at a theatre—a deacon's sister, looked up
to for a sample, and who run once for Vice-President of
the Sewing Society in Silverton! It was too terrible to
think of.” But the opera seemed different. Helen went
there; it could not be very wrong, particularly as the
tickets were so high, and taking out her purse, Aunt
Betsy counted its contents carefully, holding the bills
thoughtfully for a moment, while she seemed to be balancing
between what she knew was safe and what she
feared might be wrong, at least in the eyes of Silverton.

“But Silverton will never know it,” the tempter
whispered, “and it is worth something to see the girls in
full dress.”

This last decided it, and Aunt Betsy generously offered
“to pay the fiddler, provided 'Tilda would never let it
get to Silverton, that Betsy Barlow was seen inside a
play-house!” To Mrs. Tubbs it seemed impossible that
Aunt Betsy could be in earnest, but when she found she
was, she put no impediments in her way; and so, conspicuous
among the crowd of transient visitors who that
night entered the Academy of Music was Aunt Betsy
Barlow, chaperoned by Miss Mattie Tubbs, and protected
by Tom, a shrewd, well-grown youth of seventeen, who
passed for some years older, and consequently was a
sufficient escort for the ladies under his charge. It was
not his first visit there, and he managed to procure a seat
which commanded a good view of several private boxes,
and among them that of Wilford Cameron. This Mattie

pointed out to the excited woman gazing about her in
a maze of bewilderment, and half doubting her own
identity with the Betsy Barlow who, six weeks before, if
charged with such a sin as she was now committing,
would have exclaimed, “Is thy servant a dog, to do this
thing?” Yet here she was, a deacon's sister, a candidate
for the Vice-Presidency of the Silverton Sewing Society,
a woman who, for sixty-three years and-a-half, had led a
blameless life, frowning upon all worldly amusements
and setting herself for a burning light to others—here
she was in her black dress, her best shawl pinned across
her chest, and her bonnet tied in a square bow which
reached nearly to her ears. Here she was, in that huge
building, where the lights were so blinding, and the
crowd so great that she shut her eyes involuntarily, while
she tried to realize what she could be doing.

“I'm in for it now, anyhow, and if it is wrong may
the good Father forgive me,” she said softly to herself,
just as the orchestra struck up, thrilling her with its
ravishing strains, and making her forget all else in her
rapturous delight.

She was very fond of music, and listened eagerly,
beating time with both her feet, and making her bonnet
go up and down until the play commenced and she saw
stage dress and stage effect for the first time in her life.
This part she did not like; “they mumbled their words
so nobody could understand more than if they spoke a
heathenish tongue,” she thought, and she was beginning
to yawn when a nudge from Mattie and a whisper,
“There they come,” roused her from her stupor, and
looking up she saw both Helen and Katy entering their
box, and with them Mark Ray and Wilford Cameron.

Very rapidly Katy's eyes swept the house, running
over the sea of heads below, but failing to see the figure
which, half rising from its seat, stood gazing upon her,
the tears running like rain over the upturned face, and
the lips murmuring, “Darling Katy! blessed child!
She's thinner than when I see her last, but oh! so beantiful
and grand! Precious lambkin! It isn't wicked
now for me to be coming here, where I can see her face
again.”

It was all in vain that Mattie pulled her dress, bidding

her sit down as people were staring at her. Aunt Betsy
did not hear, and if she had she would scarcely have
cared for those who, following her eyes, saw the beautiful
young ladies, behind whom Wilford and Mark were
standing, but never dreamed of associating them with the
“crazy thing” who sank back at last into her seat, keeping
her eyes still upon the box where Helen and Katy
sat, their heads uncovered, and their cloaks falling off
just enough to show the astonished woman that their
necks were uncovered too, while Helen's arms, raised
to adjust her glass, were discovered to be in the same
condition.

“Aint they splendid in full dress!” Mattie whispered,
while Aunt Betsy replied,

“Call that full dress? I'd sooner say it was no dress
at all! They'll catch their death of cold. What would
their mother say?”

Then, as the enormity of the act grew upon her, she
continued more to herself than to Mattie,

“I mistrusted Catherine, but that Helen should come to
this passes me.”

Still, as she became more accustomed to it, and glanced
at other full-dressed ladies, the first shock passed away,
and she could calmly contemplate Katy's dress, wondering
what it cost, and then letting her eyes pass on to
Helen, to whom Mark Ray seemed so lover-like that Aunt
Betsy remembered her impressions when he stopped at
Silverton, her heart swelling with pride as she thought
of both the girls making out so well.

“Who is that young man talking to Helen?” Mattie
asked, between the acts, and when told it “was Mr. Ray,
Wilford's partner,” she drew her breath eagerly, and
turned again to watch him, envying the young girl who
did not seem as much gratified with the attentions as
Mattie fancied she should be were she in Helen's
place.

How could she, with Juno Cameron just opposite,
watching her jealously, while Madam Cameron fanned
herself indignantly, refusing to look upon what she so
greatly disapproved.

But Mark continued his attentions until Helen wished
herself away, and though a good deal surprised, was

not sorry when Wilford abruptly declared the opera a
bore, and suggested going home.

They would order an ice, he said, and have a much
pleasanter time in their own private parlor.

“Please not go; I like the play to-night,” Katy said;
but on Wilford's face there was that look which never
consulted Katy's wishes, and so the two ladies tied on
their cloaks, and just as the curtain rose in the last act,
left their box, while Aunt Betsy looked wistfully after
them, but did not suspect she was the cause of their
exit, and of Wilford's perturbation.

Running his eyes over the house below, they had
fallen upon the trio, Aunt Betsy, Mattie, and Tom, the
first of whom was at that moment partly standing, while
she adjusted her heavy shawl, which the heat of the
building had compelled her to unfasten.

There was a start, a rush of blood to the head and
face, and then he reflected how impossible it was that
she should be there, in New York, and at the opera, too.

The shawl arranged, Aunt Betsy took her seat and
turned her face fully toward him, while Wilford seized
Katy's glass and leveled it at her. He was not mistaken.
It was Aunt Betsy Barlow, and Wilford felt the perspiration
oozing out beneath his hair and about his lips, as
he remembered the letter he had burned, wishing now
that he had answered it, and so, perhaps, have kept her
from his door. For she was coming there, nay, possibly
had come, since his departure from home, and learning
his whereabouts had followed on to the Academy of
Music, leaving her baggage where he should stumble over
it on entering the hall.

Such was the fearful picture conjured up by Wilford's
imagination, as he stood watching poor Aunt Betsy, a
dark cloud on his brow and fierce anger at his heart, that
she should thus presume to worry and annoy him.

“If she spies us she will be finding her way up here;
there's no piece of effrontery of which that class is not
capable,” he thought, wondering next who the vulgar-looking
girl and gauche youth were who were with her.

“Country cousins, of whom I have never heard, no
doubt,” and he ground his teeth together as with his next
breath he suggested going home, carrying out his suggestion

and hurrying both Helen and Katy to the carriage
as if some horrible dragon had been on their track.

There was no baggage in the hall; there had been no
woman there, and Wilford's fears for a time subsided,
but grew strong again about the time he knew the opera
was out, while the sound of wheels coming towards his
door was sufficient to make his heart stop beating, and
every hair prickle at its roots.

But Aunt Betsy did not come except in Wilford's
dreams, which she haunted the entire night, so that the
morning found him tired, moody and cross. That day
they entertained a select dinner party, and as this was
something in which Katy excelled, while Helen's presence,
instead of detracting from, would add greatly to the éclat
of the affair, Wilford had anticipated it with no small
degree of complacency. But now, alas, there was a
phantom at his side,—a skeleton of horror, wearing Aunt
Betsy's guise; and if it had been possible he would have
given the dinner up. But it was too late for that; the
guests were bidden, the arrangements made, and there
was nothing now for him but to abide the consequences.

“She shall at least stay in her room, if I have to lock
her in,” he thought, as he went down to his office without
kissing Katy or bidding her good-by.

Business that day had no interest for him, and in
a listless, absent way he sat watching the passers-by and
glancing at his door as if he expected the first assault to
be made there. Then, as the day wore on, and he felt
sure that what he so much dreaded had really come to
pass, that the baggage expected last night had certainly
arrived by this time and spread itself over his house, he
could endure the suspense no longer, and startled Mark
with the announcement that he was going home, and
should not return again that day.

“Going home, when Leavit is to call at three!” Mark
said, in much surprise, and feeling that it would be a
relief to unburden himself to some one, the story came
out that Wilford had seen Aunt Betsy at the opera, and
expected to find her at Madison Square.

“I wish I had answered her letter about that confounded
sheep pasture,” he said, “for I would rather
give a thousand dollars—yes, ten thousand—than have

her with us to-day. I did not marry my wife's relations,”
he continued, excitedly, adding, as Mark looked
quickly up, “Of course I don't mean Helen. Neither do
I mean that doctor, for he is a gentleman. But this Barlow
woman—oh! Mark, I am all of a dripping sweat just
to think of it.”

He did not say what he intended doing, but with Mark
Ray's ringing laugh in his ears, passed into the street,
and hailing a stage was driven towards home, just as a
down town stage deposited on the walk in front of his
office “that Barlow woman” and Mattie Tubbs!