University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE FEVER.

Night and day Frederic Raymond had traveled,
never allowing himself a minute's rest, nor even stopping
at Yonkers, so intent was he upon reaching New
York and finding, if possible, some clue to Marian. It
was a hopeless task, for he had no starting point—
nothing which could guide him in the least, save the
name of Sarah Green, and even that was not in the
Directory, while to inquire for her former place of
residence, was as preposterous as Marian's inquiry for
Mrs. Daniel Burt! Still, whatever he could do he did,
traversing street after street, threading alley after
alley, asking again and again of the squalid heads
thrust from the dingy windows, if Sarah Green had
ever lived in that locality, and receiving always the
same impudent stare and short answer, “No.”

Once, in another and worse part of the city, he fancied
he had found her, and that she had not sailed for
Scotland as she had written, for they had told him
that “Sal Green lived up in the fourth story,” and
climbing the crazy stairs, he knocked at the low, dark
door, shuddering involuntarily and experiencing a
feeling of mortified pride as he thought it possible that
Marian—his wife—had toiled up that weary way to
die. The door was opened by a blear-eyed, hard-faced
woman, who started at sight of the elegant
stranger, and to his civil questions replied rather
gruffly, “Yes, I'm Sal Green, I s'pose, or Sarah, jest
which you choose to call me, but the likes of Marian
Lindsey never came near me,” and glancing around

the dirty, wretched room, Frederic was glad that it
was so. He would rather not find her, or hear tidings
of her, than to know that she had lived and died in
such a place as this, and with a sickening sensation he
was turning away, when the woman, who was blessed
with a remarkable memory and never forgot anything
to which her attention was particularly directed, said
to him, “You say it's a year last Fall sence she left
home.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied eagerly, and she continued,
“You say she dressed in black, and wore a great long
vail?”

“The same, the same,” he cried, advancing into the
room and thrusting a bill into the long hand, “oh, my
good woman, have you seen her, and where is she
now?”

“The Lord knows, mebby, but I don't,” answered
the woman, who was identical with the one who had
so frightened Marian by watching her on that day
when she sat in front of Trinity and wished that she
could die, “I don't know as I ever seen her at all,”
she continued, “but a year ago last November such a
girl as you described, with long curls that looked red
in the sunshine, sat on the steps way down by Trinity
and cried so hard that I noticed her, and knew she
warn't a beggar by her dress. It was gettin' dark, and
I was goin' to speak to her when Joe Black came up
and asked her what ailed her, or somethin'. He ain't
none of the likeliest,” and a grim smile flitted over the
visage of the wrinkled hag.

“Oh, Heaven,” cried Frederic, pressing his hands
to his head, as if to crush the horrid fear. “God save
her from that fate. Is this all you know? Can't you
tell me any more? I'll give you half my fortune if
you'll bring back my poor, lost Marian, just as she was
when she left me.”

The offer was a generous one, and Sal was tempted
for a moment to tell him some big lie, and thus receive
a companion to the bill she clutched so greedily, but

the agonizing expression of his white face kindled
a spark of pity within her bosom, and she replied, “I
did not finish tellin' you that while Joe was talking
and had seemingly persuaded her to go with him, a
tall chap that I never seen before knocked him flat,
and took the girl with him, and that's why I remember
it so well.”

“Who was he, this tall man? Where did he go?”
and Frederic wiped from his forehead the great drops
of sweat forced out by terrible fear.

“I told you I never seen him before,” was Sally's
answer, “but he had a good face—a milk and water
face—as if he never plotted no mischief in his life.
She's safe with him, I'm sure. I'd trust my daughter
with him, if I had one, and know he wouldn't harm
her. He spoke to her tender-like, and she looked glad,
I thought.”

Frederic felt that this information was better than
none, for it was certain it was Marian whom the woman
had seen, and, in a measure comforted by her assurance
of Ben Burt's honesty, he bade her good morning, and
walked away.

At last, worn out and discouraged, he returned to
his hotel, where he lay now burning with fever, and,
in his delirium, calling sometimes for Isabel, sometimes
for Alice, and again for faithful Dinah, but never asking
why Marian did not come. She was dead, and he
only begged of those around him to take her away
from Joe Black, or show him where her grave was
made, so he could go home and tell the blind girl he
had seen it. Every ray of light which it was possible
to shut out had been excluded from the room, for he
had complained much of his eyes, and when Mrs.
Burt entered, she could discover only the outline of a
ghastly face resting upon the pillows, scarcely whiter
than itself. It was a serious case, the attending physician
said, and so she thought when she looked into his
wild, bright eyes, and felt his rapid pulse. To her he

put the same question he had asked nearly of every
one:

“Do you know where Marian is?”

“Marian!” she repeated, feeling a little uncertain
how to answer.

“Humor him! say you do!” whispered the physician,
who was just taking his leave. And very truthfully
Mrs. Burt replied:

“Yes, I know where she is! She will come to you
to-morrow.”

“No!” he answered mournfully. “The dead never
come back, and it must not be, either. Isabel is coming
then, and the two can't meet together here, for—.
Come nearer, woman, while I tell you I loved Isabel
the best, and that's what made the trouble. She is
beautiful, but Marian was good—and do you know
Marian was the Heiress of Redstone Hall; but I'm
not going to use her money.”

“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Burt, trying to quiet
him, but in vain.

He would talk—sometimes of Marian, and sometimes
of Sarah Green, and the dreary room where he
had been.

“It made Marian tired,” he said, “to climb those
broken stairs—tired, just as he was now. But she was
resting so quietly in Heaven, and the April sun was
shining on her grave. It was a little grave—a child's
grave, as it were—for Marian was not so tall nor so old
as Isabel.”

In this way he rambled on, and it was not until the
morning dawned that he fell into a heavy sleep, and
Mrs. Burt had leisure to reflect upon the novel position
in which she found herself.

“It was foolish in me to give up to them children,”
she said, “but now that I am here, I'll make the best
of it, and do as well as I can. Marian shan't come,
though! It would kill her dead to hear him going
on.”

Mrs. Burt was a little rash in making this assertion,

for even while she spoke, Marian was in the receptionroom
below, inquiring for the woman who took care
of Mr. Raymond. Not once during the long night had
she eyelids closed in sleep, and with the early morning
she had started for the hotel, leaving Ben to get his
breakfast as he could.

“Say Marian Grey wishes to see her,” she said, in
answer to the inquiry as to what name the servant was
to take to No. —

“My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Burt; “why didn't
Ben keep her at home?” and, gliding down the stairs,
she tried to persuade Marian to return.

But when she saw the firm, determined expression
in the young girl's eye, she knew it was useless to reason
with her, and saying, rather pettishly, “You must
expect to hear some cuttin' things,” she bade her follow
up the stairs. Frederic still lay sleeping, his face
turned partly to one side, and his hand resting beneath
his head. His rich brown hair, now damp with heavy
moisture, was pushed back from his white forehead,
which, gleaming through the dusky darkness, first
showed to Marian where he lay. The gas light hurt
his eyes, and the lamp, which was kept continually
burning, was so placed that its dim light did not fall
on him, and a near approach was necessary to tell her
just how he looked. He was fearfully changed, and,
with a bitter moan, she laid her head beside him on
the pillow, so that her short curls mingled with his
darker locks, and she felt his hot breath on her cheek.

“Frederic—dear Frederic!” she said, and at the
sound of her voice he moved uneasily, as if about to
waken.

“Come away, come away,” whispered Mrs. Burt.
“He may know you, and a sudden start would kill
him.”

But Marian was deaf to all else save the whispered
words dropping from the sick man's lips. They were
of home, of Alice, of the library, and oh, joy! could
it be she heard aright—did he speak of her? Was it

Marian he said? Yes, it was Marian, and with a cry
of delight, which started Mrs. Burt to her feet, and
penetrated even to the ear of the unconscious Frederic,
she pressed her lips upon the very spot which they
had touched before on that night when she gave him
her first kiss. Slowly his eyes unclosed, but the wildness
was still there, and Mrs. Burt, who stood anxiously
watching him, felt glad that it was so. Slowly
they wandered about the room, resting first upon the
door, then on the chandelier, then on the ceiling
above, and dropping finally lower, until at last they
met and were riveted upon Marian, who, with clasped
hands, stood breathlessly awaiting the result.

“Will he know her? Does he know her?” was the
mental query of Mrs. Burt; while Marian's fast-breathing
heart asked the same question eagerly. There was
a wavering, a fierce struggle between delirium and
reason, and then, with a faint smile, he said:

“Did you kiss me just now?” and he pointed to the
spot upon his forehead.

Marian nodded, for she could not speak, and he continued:

“Marian kissed me there, too! Little Marian, who
went away, and it has burned and burned into my
veins until it set my brain on fire. Nobody has kissed
me since, but Alice. Did you know Alice, girl?”

“Yes,” answered Marian, keen disappointment swelling
within her bosom and forcing the great tears from
her eyes.

She had almost believed he would recognize her,
but he did not; and sinking down by his side, she buried
her face in the bed clothes, and sobbed aloud.

“Don't cry, little girl,” he said, evidently disturbed
at the sight of her tears. “I cried when I thought
Marian was dead, but that seems so long ago.”

“Oh Frederic—” and forgetful of everything, Marian
sprang to her feet. “Oh, Frederic, is it true?
Did you cry for me?”

At the sound of his own name the sick man looked

bewildered, while reason seemed struggling again to
assert its rights, and penetrate the misty fog by which
it was enveloped. Very earnestly he looked at the
young girl, who returned his gaze with one in which
was concentrated all the yearning love and tenderness,
she had cherished for him so long.

“Are you Marian?” he asked, and in an instant the
excited girl wound her arms around his neck, and laying
her cheek against his own, replied:

“Yes, Frederic yes. Don't you know me, your
poor lost Marian?”

Very caressingly he passed his hand over her short
silken curls—pushed them back from her forehead—
examined them more closely, and then whispered
mournfully,

“No, you are not Marian. This is not her hair. But
I like you,” he continued, as he felt her tears drop on
his face; “and I wish you to stay with me, and when
the pain comes back charm it away with your soft
hands. They are little hands,” and he took them between
his own, “but not so small as Marian's were
when I held one in my hand and promised I would
love her. It seemed like some tiny rose leaf, and I
could have crushed it easily, but I did not; I only
crushed her heart, and she fled from me forever, for
'twas a lie I told her,” and his voice sunk to a lower
tone. “I didn't love her then—I don't know as I
love her now, for Isabel is so beautiful. Did you ever
see Isabel, girl?”

“Oh, Frederic,” groaned Marian, and wresting her
hands from his gaasp, she tottered to a chair, while he
looked after her wistfully.

“Will she go away?” he said to Mrs. Burt. “Will
she leave me alone, when she knows Alice is not here
nor Isabel? I wish Isabel would come, don't you?”

There was another moan of anguish, and, rolling his
bright eyes in the direction of the arm chair, the poor
man whispered:

“Hark! that's the sound I heard the night Marian

went away! I thought then 'twas the wind, but I knew
afterwards that it was she, when her soul parted with
her body, and it's followed me ever since. There is not
a spot at Redstone Hall that is not haunted with that
cry. I've heard it at midnight, at noon-day—in the
storm and in the rushing river—where we thought she
was buried. All but Alice—she knew she wasn't,
and she sent me here to look. She don't like Isabel,
and is afraid I'll marry her. Maybe I shall, sometime!
Who knows?”

And he laughed in delirious glee.

“Heaven keep me, too, from going mad?” cried Marian.
“Oh! why did I come here?”

“I told you not to all the time,” was Mrs. Burt's
consolatory remark; which, however was lost on Marian,
who, seizing her bonnet and shawl, rushed from
the room, unmindful of the out-stretched arms which
seemed imploring her to stay.

The fresh morning air revived her fainting strength,
but did not cool the feverish agony at her heart, and
she sped onward, until she reached her home, where
she surprised Ben at his solitary breakfast, which he
had prepared himself.

“Oh! Ben, Ben!” she cried, coming so suddenly
npon him that he upset the coffee-pot into which he
was pouring some hot water. “Would it be wicked
for you to kill me dead, or for me to kill myself?”

“What's to pay now?” asked Ben, using the skirt
of his coat for a holder in picking up the steaming
coffee-pot.

Very hastily Marian related her adventures in the
sick room, telling how Frederic had talked of marrying
Isabel before her very face.

“Crazy as a loon,” returned Ben. “I shouldn't
think nothin' of that. You say he talked as though he
thought you was dead, and of course he don't know
what he's sayin'. Have they writ to his folks?”

“Yes,” returned Marian, who had made a similar
inquiry of Mrs Burt. “They directed a letter to

`Frederic Raymond's friends, Franklin County, Kentucky,'
but that may not reach them in a long time.”

“Wouldn't it be a Christian act,” returned Ben “for
us, who know jest who he is, to telegraph to that critter,
and have her come? By all accounts he wants to
see her, and it may do him good.”

Marian felt that it would be right, and, though it
cost her a pang, she said, at last:

“Yes, Ben, you may telegraph; but what name will
you append?”

“Benjamin Butterworth, of course,” he replied.
“They'll remember the peddler, and think it nateral
I should feel an interest.” And leaving Marian to
take charge of the breakfast table, he started for the
office.

Meantime the sick room was the scene of much excitement
— Frederic raving furiously, and asking for
“the girl with the soft hands and silken hair.” Sometimes
he called her Marian, and begged of them to
bring her back, promising not to make her cry again.

“There is a mystery connected with this Marian he
talks so much about,” said the physician, who was
present, “and he seems to fancy a resemblance between
her and the girl who left here this morning. What
may I call her name?”

“Marian, my daughter,” came involuntarily from
Mrs. Burt, whose mental rejoinder was, “God forgive
me for that lie, if it was one. Names and things is
gettin' so 'twisted up that it takes more than me to
straighten 'em!”

“Well, then,” continued the physician, “suppose
you send for her. It will never do for him to get so
excited. He is wearing out too fast.”

“I will go for her myself,” said Mrs. Burt, who
fancied some persuasion might be necessary ere Marian
could be induced to return.

But she was mistaken, for when told that Frederic's
life depended upon his being kept quiet, and his being
kept quiet depended upon her presence, Marian consented,

and nerved herself to hear him talk, as she
knew he would, of her rival.

“If he lives, I will be satisfied,” she thought, “even
though he never did or can love me,” and with a
strong, brave heart, she went back again to the sick
man, who welcomed her joyfully, and folding his feeble
arms around her neck, stroked again her hair, as
he said, “You will not leave me, Marian, till Isabel is
here. Then you may go—back to the grave I cannot
find, and we will go home together.”

Marian could not answer him, neither was it necessary
that she should. He was satisfied to have her
there, and with her sitting at his side, and holding his
hand in hers, he became as gentle as a child. Occasionally
he called her “little girl,” but oftener “Marian,”
and when he said that name, he always smoothed
her hair, as if he pitied her, and knew he had done
her a wrong. And Marian felt each day more and
more that the wound she hoped had partly healed was
bleeding afresh with a new pain, for while he talked
of Marian as a mother talks of an unfortunate child,
he spoke of Isabel with all a lover's pride, and each
word was a dagger to the heart of the patient watcher,
who sat beside him day and night, until her eyes were
heavy, and her cheeks were pale with her unbroken
vigils.

“Do you then love this Isabel so much?” she said
to him one day, and sinking his voice to a whisper he
replied, “Yes, and I love you, too, though not like
her, because I loved her first.”

“And Marian?” questioned the young girl, “Don't
you love her?”

Oh, how eagerly she waited for the answer, which
when it came almost broke her heart.

“Not as I ought to—not as I have prayed that I
might, and not as I should, perhaps, if she hadn't been
to me what she is. Poor child,” he continued, brushing
away the tears which rolled like rain down Marian's
cheeks, “poor child, are you crying for Marian?”

“Yes—yes, for Marian—for poor heart-broken me;”
and the wretched girl buried her face in the pillow
beside him, for he held her firmly by the wrist, and
she could not get away.

In this manner several days went by, and over the
intellect so obscured there shone no ray of reason,
while the girlish face grew whiter and whiter each
morning light, and at last the physician said that she
must rest, or her strength would be exhausted.

“Let me stay a little longer,” she pleaded—“stay at
least until Miss Huntington arrives.”

“Miss who?” asked the doctor. “Do you then know
his family?”

“A friend of mine knows them,” answered Marian,
a deep flush stealing over her cheek.

“I hope, then, they will reward you well,” continued
the physician. “The young man would have
died but for you. It is remarkable what control you
have over him.”

But Marian wished for no reward. It was sufficient
for her to know that she had been instrumental in saving
his life, even though she had saved it for Isabel. The
physician said that Frederic was better, and that afternoon,
seated in the large arm-chair, she fell into a
refreshing sleep, from which she was finally aroused
by Mrs. Burt, who bending over her, whispered in her
ear:

“Wake up. She's come—she's here—Miss Huntington!”

There was magic in that name, and it roused the
sleeping girl at once, sending a quiver of pain through
her heart, for her post she knew was to be given to another.
Not both of them could watch by Frederic,
and she, who in all the world had the best right to
stay, must go; but not until she had looked upon her
rival and had seen once the face which Frederic called
so beautiful. This done, she would go away and die, if
it were possible, and stand no longer between Frederic
and the bride he so much desired. She did not understand

why he had so often spoken of herself as being
dead, when he knew that she was not. It was a vagary
of his brain, she said—he had had many since she came
there, and she hoped he would sometimes talk of her
to Isabel, just as he had talked of Isabel to her. There
was a hurried consultation between herself and Mrs.
Burt, with regard to their future proceedings, and it
was finally decided that the latter should remain a few
days longer, and so report the progress of affairs to
Marian, who, of course, must go away. This arrangement
being made they sat down and rather impatiently
waited for the coming of Isabel, who was in
her room resting after her tiresome journey.

“Oh how can she wait so long?” thought Marian,
glancing at Frederic, who was sleeping now more
quietly than he had done before for a long time.

She did not know Isabel Huntington, and she could not
begin to guess how thoroughly selfish she was, nor how
that selfishness was manifest in every movement. The
letter, which at last had gone to Frahkfort, was received
the same day with the telegram, and as a natural
consequence, threw the inmates of Redstone Hall
into great excitement. Particularly was this the case
with Isabel, who unmindful of everything, wrang her
hands despairingly, crying out, “Oh! what shall I do
if he dies?”

“Do!” repeated Dinah, forgetting her own grief in
her disgust. “For the Lord's sake, can't you do
what you allus did? Go back whar you come from,
you and your mother, in course.”

Isabel deigned no reply to this remark, but hurried
to her chamber, where she commenced the packing of
her trunk

“Wouldn't it look better for me to go?” suggested
Mrs. Huntington, and Isabel answered:

“Certainly not, the telegram was directed to me. No
one knows me in New York, and I don't care what
folks say here. If he lives I shall be his wife, of course,
else why should he send for me. It's perfectly natural

that I should go.” And thinking to herself that she
would rather Frederic should die than to live for another,
she completed her hasty preparations, and was
on her way to the depot before the household had
time to realize what they were doing.

In passing the house of Lawyer Gibson she could
not forbear stopping a moment to communicate the sad
news to her particular friend, who, while condoling
with her, thought to herself, “He does care more for
her than I supposed, or he would not have not sent for
her.”

“When will you come back?” she asked, and Isabel
replied, “Not until he is better or worse. Oh, Agnes,
what if he should die. Imagine Mr. Rivers at the
point of death and you will know just how I feel.”

“Certainly, very, indeed,” was the meaningless answer
of Agnes, who, as the day of her bridal drew near,
began to fancy that she might be easily consoled in case
anything should come between herself and the white
haired Floridan. “Perhaps you will be married before
you return,” she suggested, and Isabel, who had
thought of the same possibility, replied, “Don't, pray,
speak of such a thing—it seems terrible when Frederic
is so sick.”

“You won't cotch the cars if you ain't keerful,”
chimed in Uncle Phil, and kissing each other a most
affectionate good-by, the young ladies parted, Agnes
thinking to herself, “I reckon I wouldn't go off to
New York after a man who hadn't really proposed—
but then it's just like her,” while Isabel's mental comment
was, “It's time Agnes was married, for she's
really beginning to look old; I wouldn't have my grandfather
though!”

So much for girlish friendships!

Distressed and anxious as Isabel seemed, it was no
part of her intention to travel nights, for that would
give her a sallow, jaded look; so she made the journey
leisurely, and even after her arrival, took time to rest
and beautify ere presenting herself to Frederic. She

had ascertained that he was better, and had the best
of care, so she remained quietly in her chamber an
hour or so, and it was not until after dark that she
bade the servant show her the way to the sick room.

“I will tell them you are coming,” suggested the
polite attendant, and, going on before her, he said to
Mrs. Burt that “Miss Huntington would like to come
in.”

In the farthest corner in the room, where the shadows
were the deepest, and where she would be the
least observed, sat Marian, her hands clasped tightly
together, her head bent forward, and her eyes fixed intently
upon the door through which her rival would
enter. Frederic was awake, and, missing her from
her post, was about asking for her, when Isabel appeared,
looking so fresh, so glowing, so beautiful, that
for an instant Marian forgot everything in her admiration
of the queenly creature, who, bowing civilly to
Mrs. Burt, glided to the bedside, and sank upon her
knees, gracefully—very gracefully—just as she had
done at a private rehearsal in her own room! Tighter
the little hands were clasped together, and the head
which had dropped before was erect now, as Marian
watched eagerly for what would follow next.

“Dear Frederic,” said Isabel, and over the white
face in the arm-chair the hot blood rushed in torrents
for it seemed almost an insult to hear him thus addressed—“Dear
Frederic, do you know me? I am Isabel:”
and, unmindful of Mrs. Burt, or yet of the motionless
figure sitting near, she kissed his burning forehead,
and said again; “Do you know me?”

The nails were marking dark rings now in the tender
flesh, while the blue eyes flashed until they grew almost
as black as Isabel's, and still Marian did not
move. She could not, until she heard what answer
would be given. As the physician had predicted,
Frederic was better since his refreshing sleep, and
through the misty vail enshrouding his reason a glimmer
of light was shining. The voice was a familiar

one, and though it partly bewildered him, he knew
who it was that bent so fondly over him. It was somebody
from home, and with a thrill of pleasure akin to
what one feels when meeting a fellow countryman far
away on a foreign shore, he twined his arms around her
neck, and said to her joyfully: “You are Isabel, and
you've come to make me well.”

Isabel was about to speak again, when a low sob
startled her, and, turning in the direction from whence
it came, she met a fierce, burning gaze which riveted
her as by some magnetism to the spot, and for a moment
the two looked intently into each other's eyes.
Isabel and Marian, the one stamping indelibly upon
her memory the lineaments of a face which had stolen
and kept a heart which should have been her own,
while the other wondered much at the strange white
face which even through the darkness seemed quivering
with pain.

Purposely Mrs. Burt stepped between them, and
thus the spell was broken, Isabel turning again to
Frederic, while Marian, unlocking her stiff fingers,
grasped her bonnet and glided from the room so silently
that Isabel knew not she was gone until she
turned her head and found the chair empty.

“Who was that?” she said to Mrs. Burt—“that
young girl who just went out?”

“My daughter,” answered Mrs. Burt, again mentally
asking forgiveness for the falsehood told, and
thinking to herself, “Mercy knows it ain't my nater
to lie, but when a body gets mixed up in such a scrape
as this, I'd like to see 'em help it!”

After the first lucid interval, Frederic relapsed again
into his former delirious mood, but did not ask for Marian.
He seemed satisfied that Isabel was there, and
he fell asleep again, resting so quietly that when it
was eleven Isabel arose and said, “He is doing so
well I believe I will retire. I never sat up with a
sick person in my life, and should be very little assistance

to you. That daughter of yours is somewhere
around, I suppose, and will come if you need help.”

Mrs. Burt nodded, thinking how different was this
conduct from that of the unselfish Marian, who had
watched night after night without giving herself the
rest she absolutely needed. Isabel, on the contrary,
had no idea of impairing her beauty, or bringing discomfort
to herself by spending many hours at a time
in that close, unwholesome atmosphere, and while Marian
in her humble apartment was weeping bitterly,
she was dreaming of returning to Kentucky as a bride.
Frederic could scarcely do less than reward her kindness
by marrying her as soon as he was able. She
could take care of him so much better, she thought,
and ere she fell asleep she had arranged it all in her
own mind, and had fancied her mother's surprise at
receiving a letter signed by her new name, “Isabel H.
Raymond.” She would retain the “H,” she said. She
always liked to see it, and she hoped Agnes Gibson, if
she persisted in that foolish fancy of the fish-knife,
would have it marked in this way!

It was long after daylight ere she awoke, and when
she did her first thought was of her pleasant dream
and her second of the girl she had seen the night before.
“How white she was,” she said, as she made
her elaborate toilet, “and how those eyes of hers
glared at me, as if I had no business here. Maybe she
has fallen in love while taking care of him;” and Isabel
laughed aloud at the very idea of a nursing
woman's daughter being in love with the fastidious
Frederic! Once she thought of Mrs. Daniel Burt,
wondering where she lived, and half wishing she could
find her, and, herself unknown, could question her of
Marian.

“Maybe this Mrs. Merton knows something of her,”
she said, and thinking she would ask her if a good opportunity
should occur, she gave an extra brush to her
glossy hair, looked in a small hand mirror to see that
the braids at the back of her head were right, threw

open her wrapper a little more to show her flounced
cambric skirt, and then went to the breakfast room,
where three attendants, attracted by her style and the
prospect of a fee, bowed obsequiously and asked what
she would have. This occupied nearly another hour,
and it was almost ten ere she presented herself to Mrs.
Burt, who was growing very faint and weary.

At the physicain's request more light had been admitted
into the room, and Frederic, who was much
better this morning, recognized Isabel at once. He
had a faint remembrance of having seen her the previous
night, but it needed Mrs. Burt's assertion to conconfirm
his conjecture, and he greeted her now as if
meeting her for the first time. Many questions he asked
of the people at home, and how they had learned of his
illness.

“We received a letter and a telegram both,” said Isabel,
continuing, “You remember that booby peddler
who sold Alice the bracelet and frightened the negroes
so? Well, he must have telegraphed, for his name was
signed to the dispatch, `Benjamin Butterworth.”'

Mrs. Burt was very much occupied with something
near the table, and Frederic did not notice her confusion
as he replied, “He was a kind-hearted man, I
thought, but I wonder how he heard of my illness, and
where he is now. Mrs. Merton, has a certain Ben Butterworth
inquired for me since I was sick?”

“I know nobody by that name,” returned Mrs. Burt,
and without stopping to think that her question might
lead to some inquiries from Frederic, Isabel rejoined,
“Well, do you know a Mrs. Daniel Burt?”

“Mrs. Daniel Burt!” repeated Frederic, as if trying
to recall something far back in the past, while the lady
in question started so suddenly as to drop the cup of
hot water she held in her hand.

Stooping down to pick up the cup, she said something
about its having burned her, and added, “I ain't
much acquainted in the city, and never know my next
door neighbors.”

“Mrs. Daniel Burt,” Frederic said again, “I have
surely heard that name before. Who is she, Isabel?”

It was Isabel's turn now to answer evasively; but
being more accustomed to dissimulate than her companion,
she replied, quite as a matter of course, “You
may have heard mother speak of her in New Haven.
I used to know her when I was a little girl, and I believe
she lives in New York. She was a very good,
but common kind of woman, and one with whom I
should not care to associate, though mother, I dare say,
would be glad to hear from her.”

“The impudent trollop,” muttered Mrs. Burt, marvelling
at the conversation, and wondering which was
trying to deceive the other, Frederic or Isabel. “The
former couldn't hoodwink her,” she said, “even if he
did Isabel. She understood it all, and he knew who
Mrs. Daniel Burt was just as well as she did, for even
if he had forgotten that she once lived with his father,
Marian's letter had refreshed his memory, and he was
only `putting on' for the sake of misleading Isabel.
But where in the world did that jade know her!” that
was a puzzle, and settling it in her own mind that
there were two of the same name, she left the room and
went down to her breakfast.

During the day not a word was said of Marian. Isabel
was evidently too much pleased with Frederic's delight
at seeing her to think of anything else, while Mrs.
Burt did not consider it necessary to speak of her. Frederic,
too, for a time had forgotten her, but as the day
drew near its close, he relapsed into a thoughtful mood,
replying to Isabel's frequent remarks either in monosyl-lables
or not at all. As the darkness increased he
seemed to be listening intently, and when a step was
heard upon the stairs or in the hall without, his face
would light up with eager expectation and then be as
suddenly overcast as the footstep passed his door. Gradually
there was creeping into his mind a vague remembrance
of something or somebody, which for many
days had been there with him, gliding so noiselessly

about the room that he had almost fancied it trod upon
the air, and he could scarcely tell whether it were a spirit
or a human being like himself. Little by little the
outline so dimly discerned assumed a form, and the
form was that of a young girl—a very fair young
girl, with sweet blue eyes, and soft, baby hands,
which had held his aching head and smoothed his tangled
hair, oh, so many times. Her voice too, was low
and gentle, and reminding him of some sad strain of
music heard long, long ago. It seemed to him, too, that
she called him Frederic, dropping hot tears upon his
face. But where was she now? Why did't she come
again, and who was she—that little blue-eyed girl?
For a time the vision faded and all was confused
again, but the reality came back ere long, and listening
eagerly for something which never came, he
thought and thought until great drops of sweat stood
thickly upon his brow; and Isabel, wiping them away,
became alarmed at the wildness of his eye and the
rapid beating of his pulse. A powerful anodyne was
administered, and he slept at last a fitful feverish sleep,
which however, did him good, and in the morning he
was better than he had been before.

Mrs. Burt, who had watched him carefully, knew
that the danger was past, and that afternoon she left
him with Isabel, while she went home, where she found
Marian seriously ill, with Ben taking care of her in his
kind but awkward manner.

“Did Frederic remember me? Does he know I
have been there?” were Marian's first questions, and
when Mrs. Burt replied in the negative, she turned
away whispering, mournfully, “It is just as well.”

“He is doing well,” said Mrs. Burt, “and as you
need me more than he does now, I shall come home
and let that Isabel take care of him. It wont hur't her
any, the jade. She can telegraph for her mother if
she chooses.”

Accordingly, she returned to the sick-room, where
she found Frederic asleep and Isabel reading a novel.

To her announcement of leaving, the latter made no
objection. She was rather pleased than otherwise, for,
as Frederic grew stronger, the presence of a third person,
and a stranger, too, might be disagreeable. She
would telegraph for her mother, of course, as she did
not think it quite proper to stay there alone. But her
mother was under her control; she could dispose of her
at any time, so she merely stopped her reading long
enough to say, “Very well, you can go if you like.
How much is your charge?”

Mrs. Burt did not hesitate to tell her; and Isabel,
who had taken care of Frederic's purse, paid her, and
then resumed her book, while Mrs. Burt, with a farewell
glance at her patient, went from the room, without
a word of explanation as to where she could be
found in case they wished to find her.

It was dark when Frederic awoke, and it was so
still around him that he believed himself alone.

“They have all left me,” he said; “Mrs. Merton,
Isabel, and that other one, that being of mystery—
who was she—who could she have been?” and shutting
his eyes, he tried to bring her before him just as
he had often seen her bending o'er his pillow.

He knew now that it was not a phantom of his
brain, but a reality. There had been a young girl
there, and when the world without was darkest, and
he was drifting far down the river of death, her voice
had called him back, and her hands had held him
up so that he did not sink in the deep, angry waters.
There were tears many times upon her face, he remembered,
and once he had wiped them away, asking
why she cried. It was a pretty face, he said, a very
pretty face, and the sunny eyes of blue seemed shining
on him even now, while the memory of her gentle acts
was very, very sweet, thrilling him with an undefined
emotion, and awakening within his bosom a germ of
the undying love he was yet to feel for the mysterious
stranger. She had called him Frederic, too, while he
had called her Marian. She had answered to that

came, she asked him of Isabel, and—oh, Heaven!” he
cried, starting quickly and clasping both hands upon
his head. Like a thunderbolt it burst upon him, and
for an instant his brain seemed all on fire. “It was
Marian!—it was Marian!” he essayed to say, but his
lips refused to move, and when Isabel, startled by his
sudden movement, struck a light and came to his bedside,
she saw that he had fainted!

In great alarm she summoned help, begging of those
who came to go at once for Mrs. Merton. But no one
knew of the woman's place of residence, and as she
had failed to inquire, it was a hopeless matter. Slowly
Frederic came back to consciousness, and when he was
again alone with Isabel he said to her, “Where is that
woman who took care of me?”

“She is gone,” said Isabel. “Gone to her home.”

“Gone,” he repeated. “When did she go, and
why?”

Isabel told him the particulars of Mrs. Burt's going,
and he continued:

“Was there no one else here when you came? No
young girl with soft blue eyes?” and he looked eagerly
at her.

“Yes,” she replied. “There was a queer acting
thing sitting in the arm-chair the night I first came
in—”

“Who was she, and where is she now?” he asked;
and Isabel answered, “I am sure I don't know where
she is, for she vanished like a ghost.”

“Yes, yes; but who was she? Did she have no name?”
and Frederic clutched Isabel's arm nervously.

“Mrs. Merton told me it was her daughter—that
is all I know,” said Isabel; and in a tone of disappointment
he continued;

“Will you tell me just how she looked, and how
she acted when you first saw her?”

“One would suppose you deeply interested in your
nurse's daughter;” and the glittering black eyes
flashed scornfully upon Frederic, who replied:

“I am interested, for she saved my life. Tell me,
won't you, how she looked?”

“Well, then,” returned Isabel pettishly, “she was
about fifteen, I think—certainly not older than that.
Her face was very white, with big, blue eyes, which
glared at me like a wild beast's; and what is queerer
than all, she actually sobbed when I, or rather you
kissed me; perhaps you have forgotten that you
did?”

He had forgotten it, for the best of reasons, but he
did not contradict her, so intent was he upon listening
to her story.

“I had not observed her particularly before; but
when I heard that sound I turned to look at her,
while she stared at me as impudently as if I had no
business here. That woman stepped between us purposely
I know, for she seemed excited; and when I saw
the arm-chair again the girl was gone.”

Thus far everything, except the probable age, had
confirmed his suspicions; but there was one question
more—an all-important one—and with trembling eagerness
he asked:

“What of her hair? Did you notice that?”

“It was brown, I think,” said Isabel—“short in
her neck and curly round her forehead. I should say
her hair was rather handsome.”

With a sigh of disappointment Frederic turned upon
his pillow, saying to her:

“That will do—I've heard enough.”

Isabel's last words had brought back to his mind
something which he had forgotten until now—the
girl's hair was short, and he remembered distinctly
twinning the soft rings around his fingers. They were
not long, red curls, like those described by Sally
Green. It wasn't Marian's hair—it wasn't Marian at
all; and in his weakness his tears dropped silently
upon the pillow, for the disappointment was terrible.
All that night and the following day he was haunted
with thoughts of the young girl, and at last, determining

to see her again and know if she were like Marian,
he said to Isabel:

“Send for Mrs. Merton. I wish to talk with her.”

“It is an impossibility,” returned Isabel; “for,
when she left us, I carelessly neglected to ask where
she lived—”

“Inquire below, then,” persisted Frederic. “Somebody
will certainly know, and I must find her.”

Isabel complied with his request, and soon returned
with the information that no one knew aught of Mrs.
Merton's whereabouts, though it was generally believed
that she came from the country, and at the time
of coming to the hotel was visiting friends in the city.

“Find her friends, then,” continued Frederic, growing
more and more excited and impatient.

This, too, was impossible, for everything pertaining
to Mrs. Merton was mere conjecture. No one could
tell where she lived, or whither she had gone; and
the sick man lamented the circumstance so often that
Isabel more than once lost her temper entirely, wondering
why he should be so very anxious about a woman
who had been well paid for her services—“yes, more
than paid, for her price was a most exorbitant one.”

Meantime, Mrs. Huntington, who, on the receipt of
Isabel's telegram, had started immediately, arrived,
laden with trunks, bandboxes, and bags, for the old
lady was rather dressy, and fancied a large hotel a
good place to show her new clothes. On learning that
Frederic was very much better, and that she had been
sent for merely on the score of propriety, she seemed
somewhat out of humor—“Not that she wanted Frederic
to die,” she said, “and she was glad of course that
he was getting well, but she didn't like to be scared
the way she was; a telegram always made her stomach
tremble so that she didn't get over it in a week; she had
traveled day and night to get there, and didn't know
what she could have done if she hadn't met Rudolph
McVicar in Cincinnati.”

“Rudolph!” exclaimed Isabel. “Pray, where is he
now?”

“Here in this very hotel,” returned her mother.
“He came with me all the way, and seemed greatly
interested in you, asking a thousand questions about
when you expected to be married. Said he supposed
Frederic's illness would postpone it awhile, and when
I told him you wan't even engaged as I knew of,
he looked disappointed. I believe Rudolph has reformed!”

“The wretch!” muttered Isabel, who rightly guessed
that Rudolph's interest was only feigned.

He had heard of her sudden departure for New
York, and had heard also (Agnes Gibson being the
source whence the information came) that she might,
perhaps, be married as soon as Frederic was able to sit
up. Accordingly, he had himself started northward,
stumbling upon Mrs. Huntington in Cincinnati, and
coming with her to New York, where he stopped at
the same hotel, intending to remain there and wait
for the result. He did not care to meet Isabel face to
face, while she was quite as anxious to avoid an interview
with him; and after a few days she ceased to be
troubled about him at all. Frederic absorbed all her
thoughts, he appeared so differently from what he
used to do—talking but little either to herself or her
mother, and lying nearly all the day with his eyes
shut, though she knew he was not asleep; and she
tried in vain to fathom the subject of his reflections.
But he guarded that secret well, and day after day he
thought on, living over again the first weeks of his
sickness in that chamber, until at last the conviction
was fixed upon his mind that, spite of the short hair,
spite of the probable age, spite of the story about Mrs.
Merton's daughter, or yet the letter from Sarah Green,
that young girl who had watched with him so long
and then disappeared so mysteriously, was none other
than Marian—his wife. He did not shudder now when
he repeated that last word to himself. It sounded

pleasantly, for he knew it was connected with the
sweet, womanly love which had saved him from death.
The brown hair which Isabel had mentioned he rejected
as an impossibility. It had undoubtedly looked
dark to her, but it was red still, though worn short in
her neck, for he remembered that distinctly. Sarah
Green's letter was a forgery—Alice's prediction was
true, and Marian still lived.

But where was she now? Why had she left him so
abruptly? and would he ever find her? Yes, he
would, he said. He would spare no time, no pains, no
money in the search; and when he found her he would
love and cherish her as she deserved. He was beginning
to love her now, and he wondered at his infatuation
for Isabel, whose real character was becoming
more and more apparent to him. His changed demeanor
made her cross and fretful; while Alice Gibson's
letter, asking when she was to be married, and
saying people there expected her to return a bride,
only increased her ill-humor, which manifested itself
several times toward her mother, in Frederic's presence.

At last, in a fit of desperation, she wrote to Agnes
Gibson that she never expected to be married—certainly
not to Frederic Raymond—and if every young
lady matrimonially inclined should nurse her intended
husband through a course of fever, she guessed they
would become disgusted with mankind generally, and
that man in particular! This done, Isabel felt better—
so much better indeed that she resolved upon another
trial to bring about her desired object, and one day,
about two weeks after her mother's arrival, she said to
Frederic:

“Now that you are nearly well, I believe I shall go
to New Haven, and, after a little, mother will come,
too. I shall remain there, I think, though mother, I
suppose, will keep house for you this year, as she has
engaged to do.”

To this suggestion Frederic did not reply just as she
thought he would.

“It was a good idea,” he said, “for her to visit her
old home, and he presumed she would enjoy it.” Then
he added, very faintly: “Alice will need a teacher
here quite as much as in Kentucky, and you can
retain your situation if you choose.”

Isabel bit her lip, and her black eyes flashed angrily
as she replied:

“I am tired of teaching only one pupil, for there is
nothing to interest me, and I am all worn out, too.”

She did look pale, and, touched with pity, Frederic
said to her, very kindly:

“You do seem weary, Isabel. You have been confined
with me too long, and I think you had better go
at once. I will run down to see you, if possible, before
I return to Kentucky.”

This gave her hope, and, drying her eyes, which
were filled with tears, Isabel chatted pleasantly with
him about his future plans, which had been somewhat
disarranged by his unexpected illness. He could not
now hope to be settled at Riverside, as he called his
new home, until some time in June—perhaps not so
soon—but he would let her know, he said, in time to
meet him there.

A day or two after this conversation, Isabel started
for New Haven, whither in the course of a week she
was followed by both her mother and Rudolph, the
latter of whom was determined not to lose sight of her
until sure that the engagement, which he somewhat
doubted, did not in reality exist.