University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
REDSTONE HALL.

News had been received at Redstone Hall, that the
family would be there on the 13th; but Frederic's
coming home was a common occurrence now, and did
not create as great a sensation among his servants as it
once had done. Still it was an event of considerable
importance, particularly as he was to bring with him a
new governess, who, judging from his apparent anxiety
to have everything in order, was a person of more
distinction than the prosy Mrs. Jones, or even the brilliant
Isabel. Old Dinah accordingly worked herself
up to her usual pitch of excitement, and then, long
before it was time, started off her spouse, who was to
meet his master at Big Spring Station, and who waited
there impatiently at least an hour ere the whistle and
smoke in the distance announced the arrival of the
train.

“We are here at last,” said Frederic, when they
stopped before the depot; and he touched the arm of
Marian, who sat leaning against a window, her head
bent down, and her thoughts in such a wild tumult
that she scarcely comprehended what she was doing or
where she was.

During the entire journey she had labored under the
highest excitement, which manifested itself sometimes
in snatches of merry songs, sometimes in laughter
almost hysterical, and again when no one saw her, in
floods of tears, which failed to cool her feverish impatience.
It seemed to her she could not wait, and she

counted every mile-stone, while her breath came faster
and faster as she knew they were almost there. With
a shudder she glanced at the clump of trees under
whose shadow she had hidden six years before, and
those who noticed her face as she passed out marvelled
at its deathly pallor.

“Jest gone with consumption,” was Phil's mental
comment; and he wondered at the eager, curious
glance which she gave to him. “'Spects she never
seen a nigger before,” he muttered; and as by this
time the travelers were comfortably seated in the wide
capacious carriage, he chirrupped to his horses, and
they moved rapidly on toward Redstone Hall.

Marian did not try longer to conceal her delight,
and Frederic watched her wonderingly, as with glowing
cheeks and beaming eyes she looked first from one
window and then from the other, the color deepening
on her face and the pallor increasing about her mouth,
as way-mark after way-mark was passed and recognized.

“You seem very much excited,” he said to her at
last; and, assuming as calm a manner as possible, she
replied:

“For years back the one cherished object of my life
was to visit Kentucky; and now that I am really here,
I am so glad! oh, so glad!” and Frederic could see the
gladness shining in her eyes, and making her so wondrously
beautiful to look upon that he was sorry when
the twilight shadows began to fall, and partially obscured
his vision.

“There is the house,” he said, pointing to the chimneys,
just discernible above the trees.

But Marian had seen them first, and when as they
turned a corner, the entire building came in view, she
sank back upon the cushion, dizzy and sick with the
thoughts which came crowding so fast upon her. The
day had been soft and balmy, and mingled with the
gathering darkness was the yellow, hazy light the sun
of the Indiam summer often leaves upon the hills. The

early mist lay white upon the river, while here and
there a shower of leaves came rustling down from the
tall trees, which grew in such profusion around the old
stone house. And Marian saw everything — heard
everything—and when the horses' hoofs struck upon
the bridge, where once they fancied she had stood and
plunged into eternity, an icy chill ran through her
frame, depriving her of the power to speak or move.
Through the dim twilight she saw the dusky forms
gathered expectantly around the cabin doors—saw the
full, rounded figure of Dinah on the piazza—saw the
vine-wreathed pillar where six years ago that very
night, she had leaned with a breaking heart, and wept
her passionate adieu to the man, who, sitting opposite
to her now, little dreamed of what was passing in her
mind. In a distant hempfield she heard the song some
negroes sang returning from their labor, and as she listened
to the plaintive music, her tears began to flow, it
seemed so natural—so much like the olden time.

Suddenly as they drew nearer and the song of the
negroes ceased the stillness was broken by the deafening
yell which Bruno, from his cage, sent up. His voice
had been the last to bid the runaway good bye, and
it was the first to welcome her back again. With a
stifled sob of joy too deep for utterance, she drew her
veil still closer over her face, and when at last they
stopped and the light from the hall shone out upon
her, she sat in the corner of the carriage motionless
and still.

“Come, Miss Grey,” said Frederic, when Alice had
been safely deposited and was folded to Dinah's bosom,
“Come, Miss Grey, are you sleeping?” and he touched
the hand which lay cold and lifeless upon her lap.
“She has fainted,” he cried. “The journey and excitement
have over-taxed her strength,” and, taking
her in his arms as if she had been a little child, he
bore her into the house and up to her own chamber,
for he rightly guessed that she would rather be there
when she returned to consciousness.

Laying her upon the lounge, he removed her bonnet
and veil, and then kneeling beside her, looked
wistfully into her face, which in its helplessness seemed
more beautiful than ever.

“Has she come to, yet?” asked the puffing Dinah,
appearing at the door. “It's narves what ailed her, I
reckon, and I told Lyd to put some delirian to the
steep. That'll quiet her soonest of anything.”

Frederic knew that his services were no longer needed,
and after glancing about the room to see that
everything was right, he went down stairs leaving Marian
to the care of Dinah, who, as her patient began
to show signs of returning consciousness, undressed her
as soon as possible and placed her in the bed, herself
sitting by and bathing her face and hands in camphor
and cologne. The fainting fit had passed away, but it
was succeeded by a feeling of such delicious languor
that for a long time Marian lay perfectly still, thinking
how nice it was to be again in her old room with
Dinah sitting by, and once as the hard, black hand
rested on her forehead, she took it between her own,
murmuring involuntarily, “Dear Aunt Dinah, I thank
you so much.”

“Blessed lamb,” whispered the old lady, “they told
her my name, I 'spect. 'Pears like she's nigher to me
than strangers mostly is,” and she smoothed lovingly
the bright hair floating over the pillow.

Twice that evening there came up the stairs a cautious
step which stopped always at the door, and Dinah
as often as she answered the gentle knock, came back
to Marian and said, “It's marster axin' is you any
wus.”

“Tell him I am only tired, not sick,” Marian would
say, and turning on her pillow, she wept great tears
of joy to think that Frederic should thus care for her.

At last, having drank the “delirian tea,” more to
please old Dinah than from any faith she had in its
virtues, she fell into a quiet sleep, which was disturbed
but twice, once when at nine o'clock Bruno was loosed

from his confinement, and with a loud howl went rushing
past the window, and once when Alice crept carefully
to her side, holding her breath lest she should
arouse her, and whispering low her nightly prayer.
Then, indeed, Marian moved as if about to waken,
and the blind girl thought she heard her say, “Darling
Alice,” but she was not sure, and she nestled
down beside her, sleeping ere long the dreamless sleep
which always came to her after a day of unusual
fatigue.

The rosy dawn was just stealing into the room, next
morning, when Marian awoke with a vague, uncertain
feeling as to where she was, or what had happened.
Ere long, however, she remembered it all; and, stepping
upon the floor, she glided to the window, to feast
her eyes once more upon her home. Before her lay
the garden, and though the November frosts had
marred its Summer glory, it was still beautiful to her;
and, hastily dressing herself, she went forth to visit
her olden haunts, strolling leisurely on until she
reached a little Summer-house which had been built
since she was there. Over the door were some pencil
marks, in Frederic's hand writing; and though the
rains had partly washed the letters away, there were
still enough remaining for her to know that “Marian
Lindsey” had been written there.

“He has sometimes thought of me,” she said; and
she was about entering the arbor, when there rose upon
the air a terrific yell, which, had she been an intruder,
would have sent her flying from the spot. But
she did not even tremble, and she awaited fearlessly
the approach of the huge creature, which, bristling
with rage, came tearing down the graveled walk, his
eyeballs glowing like coals of fire, and his head lowered
as if ready for attack.

Bruno was still on guard, and when, in the distance,
he caught a sight of Marian, he started with a lion-like
bound, which soon brought him near to the brave girl,

who calmly watched his coming, and, when he was
close upon her, said to him:

“Good old Bruno! Don't you know me, Bruno?”

At the first sound of her voice, the fire left the mastiff's
eye, for he, too, caught the tone which had once
so startled Alice, and which puzzled Frederic every
day; still, he was not quite assured, and he came rushing
on, while she continued speaking gently to him.
With a bound, half playful, half ferocious, he sprang
upon her, and, catching him around the neck, she
passed her hand caressingly over his shaggy mane, saying
to him, softly,

“I am Marian, Bruno! Don't you know me?”

Then, indeed, he answered her—not with a human
tongue, it is true; but she understood his language
well, and by the low, peculiar cry of joy he gave as he
crouched upon the ground, she knew that she was recognised.
Of all who had loved her at Redstone Hall,
none remembered her save the noble dog, who licked
her face, her hair, her hands, her dress, her feet; while
all the time his body quivered with the intense delight
he could not speak.

At last as she knelt down beside him, and laid her
cheek against his neck, he bent his head, and gave
forth a deep, prolonged howl, which was answered at
a little distance by a cry of horror, and turning quickly
Marian saw Frederic hastening toward the spot,
his face pale as ashes, and his whole appearance indicative
of alarm. He had been roused from sleep by
the yell which Bruno gave when he first caught sight
of Marian, and ere he had time to think what it could
be, Alice knocked at his door, exclaiming:

“Oh, Frederic, Miss Grey, I am sure, has gone into
the garden, and Bruno is not yet secured. I heard
him bark just like he did last year when he mangled
black Andy so. What if he should tear Miss Grey?”

Frederic waited for no more, but dressing himself
quickly he hastened out, sickening with fear, as he
came upon the fresh tracks the dog had made when

going down the walk. He saw Marian's dress, and
through the lattice he caught a sight of Bruno.

“He has her down! He is drinking her life-blood!”
he thought; and for an instant the pulsations of his
heart stood still, nor did they resume their wonted beat
even after he saw the attitude of Marian Grey, and his
terrible watch-dog, Bruno.

“Marian!” he began, for he could not be formal
then. “Marian! leave him, I entreat you. He is cruelly
savage with strangers.”

“But I have tamed him, you see,” she answered,
winding her arms still closer around his neck, while
he licked again her face and hair.

Wonderingly Frederic looked on, and all the while
there came to him no thought that the two had met
before—that the hand patting so fondly Bruno's head
had fed him many a time—and that amid all the
changes which six years had made, the sagacious animal
had recognized his mistress and playmate, Marian
Lindsey.

“It must be that you can win all hearts,” he said,
watching her admiringly, and marvelling at her secret
power.

Shaking back her sunny curls, and glancing upward
into his face Marian answered involuntarily:

“No, not all. There is one I would have given
worlds to win, but it cast me off, just when I needed
comfort the most.”

She spoke impulsively, and as she spoke there arose
within her the wish that he, like Bruno, might know
her then and there. But he did not. He only remembered
what Will Gordon had said of her hopeless attachment
and her apparent confession of the same to him,
smote heavily upon his heart, though why he, a married
man, should care he could not tell. He didn't really care,
he thought; he only pitied her, and by way of encouragement
he said, “Even that may yet be won;” and
while he said it, there came over him a sensation of
dreariness, as if the winning of that heart would necessarily

take from him something which was becoming
more and more essential to his happiness.

Their conversation was here interrupted by Josh,
who was Bruno's keeper, and had come to chain him
for the day. Marian knew him at once, though he
had changed from the short, thick lad of twelve to the
taller youth of seventeen; and when, as he saw her position
with Bruno, he exclaimed, “Goo-goo-good
Lord!” she turned her beaming face toward him and
answered laughingly, “I have a secret for charming
dogs.”

Involuntarily Josh's old cloth cap came off, while
over his countenance there flitted an expression as if
that voice were not entirely strange to him. Touching
his master's arm, and pointing to the kneeling maiden,
he stammered out:

“Ha-ha-hain't I s-s-seen her afore?”

“I think not,” answered Frederic, and with a doubtful
shake of the head, Josh attempted to lead Bruno
away.

But Bruno would not move, and he clung so obstinately
to Marian that she arose, and patting his side,
said playfully:

“I shall be obliged to go with him, I guess. Lead
the way, boy.”

With eyes protruding like saucers, Josh turned back,
followed by Marian and Bruno, the latter of whom offered
no resistance when his mistress bade him enter
his kennel, though he made woundrous efforts to escape
when he saw that she was leaving him.

“In the name of the Lord,” exclaimed Hetty, shading
her eyes with her hand, to be sure she was right,
“if thar ain't the young lady shettin' up the dog. I
never knowed the like o' that.”

Then as Marian came towards the kitchen, she continued,
“'Pears like I've seen her somewhar.”

“Ye-ye-yes,” chimed in Josh, who had walked faster
than Marian. “Who-o-oo is she, Hetty?”

Marian by this time had reached the door, where

she stood smiling pleasantly upon the blacks, but not
daring to call them by name until she saw Dinah, who
curtesied low, and coming forward asked, “Is you better
this mornin'?”

“Yes, quite well, thank you. Are these your companions?”
said Marian, anxious for an opportunity to
talk with her old friends.

“Yes, honey,” answered Dinah. “This is Hetty,
and this is Lyd, and this—”

She didn't finish the sentence, for Hetty, who had
been earnestly scanning Marian's features, grasped her
dress, saying, “Whar was you born?”

“Jest like them Higginses,” muttered Dinah. “In
course, Miss Grey don't want to be twitted with bein'
a Yankee the fust thing.”

But Hetty had no intentions of casting reflections
upon the place of Marian's birth. Like Josh she had
detected something familiar in the young girl's face,
and twice she had swept her hand across her eyes to
clear away the mist and see if possible what it was
which puzzled her so much.

“I was born a great many miles from here,” said
Marian, and ere Hetty could reply, Josh, whose gaze
had all the time been riveted upon her, stuttered out,
“Sh-sh-she is-s-s-s like M-m-m-Miss Marian.”

Yes, this was the likeness they had seen, but Marian
would rather the first recognition should come from
another source, and she hastened to reply, “Oh, Mrs.
Raymond, you mean. Alice noticed it when I first
went to Riverside. You suppose your young mistress
dead, do you not?”

Instantly Dinah's woolen apron was called into use,
while she said, “Yes, poor dear lamb, if thar's any
truth in them Scripter sayin's, she's a burnin' and a
shining light in de kingdom come.” And the old negress
launched forth into a long eulogy, in the midst
of which Frederic appeared in quest of Marian.

“I am listening to praises of your wife,” she said,
and there was a mischievous triumph in her eye as she

saw how his forehead flushed, for he was beginning to
be slightly annoyed when she, as she often did, alluded
to his wife.

Why need she thrust that memory continually upon
him? Was it not enough for him to know that somewhere
in the world there was a wife, and that he would
rather hear any one else speak of her than the bright-haired
Marian Grey.

“Dinah can be very eloquent at times,” he said,
“but come with me to Alice. She has been sadly
frightened on your account,” and he led the way to the
piazza, where the blind girl was waiting for them.

Breakfast being over, Marian and Alice sought the
parlor, where, instead of the old fashioned instrument
which the former remembered as standing there, she
found a new and beautifully carved piano.

“Frederic ordered this on purpose to please you,”
whispered Alice. “He said it was a shame for you to
play on the other rattling thing.”

This was sufficient to call out Marian's wildest strains,
and as a matter of course the entire band of servants
gathered about the door to listen just as they once had
done when the performer was Isabel. As was quite
natural, they yielded their preference to the last comer,
old Hetty acknowledging that even “Miss Beatrice
couldn't beat that.”

It would seem that Marian Grey was destined to
take all hearts by storm, for ere the day was done her
virtues had been discussed in the kitchen and by the
cabin fire, while even the gallant Josh, at his work in
the hemp-field, attempted a song, which he meant to
be laudatory of her charms, but as he was somewhat
lacking in poetical talent, his music ran finally into
the well known ballad of “Mary Ann,” which suited
his purpose quite as well.

Meantime, Marian, stealing away from Alice, quietly
explored every nook and corner of the house, opening
first the little box where she once had kept her mother's
hair. It was just as she had left it, and kissing it reverently

she placed it by the side of her silken locks, to
see how they compared. It might be that the tress
of the dead had faded somewhat, for there was certainly
a richer, darker tinge to her own wavy hair, and
bowing her head upon the bureau she dropped tears
of thankfulness that her childhood's prayer had been
more than answered. The library was visited next, and
she seated herself again in the chair where she had sat
when penning her last farewell to Frederic. Where
was that letter now? She wished that she could see
it, though she did not care to read it, and without any
expectation of finding it she pressed what she knew
was the secret spring to a private drawer. It yielded
to her touch—the drawer came open, and there before
her lay the letter—her letter—she knew it by its superscription,
and by its tear-stained, soiled appearance.
She had wept over it herself, but she knew full well
her tears alone had never blurred and blotted it like
this. Frederic's had mingled with them, and her
heart was trembling with joy when another object
caught her eye and quickened her rapid pulsations.
Her glove! the little black kid glove she had dropped
upon the bridge was there, wrapped in a sheet of paper,
and with it the handkerchief!

“Frederic has saved them all,” she whispered, shuddering
involuntarily, for it seemed almost like looking
into the grave, where he had buried these sad remembrances
of her. He had preserved them carefully, she
thought, and she continued her investigation, coming
at last upon a daguerreotype of herself, taken when
she was just fifteen.

“Oh, horror!” she cried, and sinking back in her
chair, she laughed until the tears ran at the forlorn little
face which looked upon her so demurely from the
casing. “Frederic must enjoy looking at you vastly,
and thinking you are his wife,” she said, and she felt a
thrill of pride in knowing that Marian Grey bore
scarcely the slightest resemblance to that daguerreotype.

There was a similarity in the features and in the
way the hair grew around the forehead, while the eyes
were really alike. But the likeness extended no further,
and she did not wonder that none, save Bruno,
had recognized her. Returning the picture to its
place, she was about to leave the room, when Frederic
came in, appearing somewhat surprised to find her
there, sitting in his chair as if she had a perfect right
so to do. At first she was too much confused to apologize,
but she managed at last to say:

“This cozy room attracted me, and I took the liberty
to enter. You have a very fine library, I think;
some of the books must have been your father's.”

It was the books, of course, which she came to see,
and sitting down opposite to her Frederic talked with
her about them until she chanced to spy a portrait,
put away behind the ponderous sofa, with its face
turned to the wall.

“Whose is it?” she asked, directing Frederic's attention
to it. “Whose is it, and why is it hidden there?”

Instantly the young man's face grew dark, and Marian
trembled beneath the glance he bent upon her.
Then the cold, hard look passed away, and he replied:

“It is an unfinished portrait of Mrs. Raymond,
taken from a daguerreotype of her when she was only
fifteen. But the artist did not understand his business,
and it looks even worse than the original.”

This last was spoken bitterly, and Marian felt the
hot blood rising to her cheeks.

“I never even told Alice of it,” he continued, “but
put it away in here, where I hide all my secrets.”

He glanced at the private drawer—so did Marian;
but she was too intent upon seeing a portrait which
could look worse than the daguerreotype to heed
aught else, and she said, entreatingly, “Oh, Mr. Raymond,
please let me see it, won't you? I lived in New
York a long time, you know, and perhaps I may have
met her, or even known her under some other name?

May I see it?” and she was advancing toward the
sofa, when Frederic seized both her hands, and holding
them in his, said, half hesitatingly, half mournfully:
“Miss Grey, you must excuse me for refusing your
request. Poor Marian was far from being handsome,
nay, I sometimes thought her positively ugly. She is
certainly so in the portrait, and a creature as highly
gifted with beauty as you, might laugh at her plain
features, but if you did—” He paused a moment, and
Marian's eyelashes fell beneath his steady gaze—“And
if you did,” he continued, “I never could like you
again, for she was my wife, and as such must be
respected.”

Marian could not tell why it was, but Frederic's
words and manner affected her painfully. She half
feared she had offended him by her eagerness to see the
portrait, while mingled with this was a strange feeling
of pity for poor, plain Marian Lindsey, as she probably
looked upon the canvas, and a deep respect for
Frederic, who would, if possible, protect her from
even the semblance of insult. Her heart was already
full, and, releasing her hands from Frederic's, she resumed
her seat, and leaning her head upon the writing-desk,
burst into tears, while Frederic paced the room,
wondering what, under the circumstances, he was expected
to do. He knew just how to soothe Alice, but
Marian Grey was a different individual. He could
not take her in his lap and kiss away her tears, but he
could at least speak to her; and he did at last, laying
his hand as near the little white one grasping the table
edge as he dared, and saying, very gently:

“If I spoke harshly to you, Miss Grey, I am sorry—
very sorry; I really did not intend to make you cry.
I only felt that I could not bear to hear you, of all
others, laugh at my poor Marian, and so refused your
request. Will you forgive me?”

And by some chance, as he looked another way, his
hand did touch hers, and held it, too! He did not
think that an insult to the portrait at all, nor yet of

the supposed original; for there was something in the
way the snowy fingers twined themselves round his,
which drove all other ideas from his mind, and for one
brief instant he was supremely happy.

From the first he had thought of Marian Grey as a
sweet, beautiful young creature, whom some man
would one day delight to call his own; but the possibility
of loving her himself had never occurred to him
until now, when, like a flash of lightning, the conviction
burst upon him that, spite of Marian Lindsey—
spite of his marriage vow—spite of the humble origin
which would once have shocked his pride—and spite
of everything, Marian Grey had won a place in his
heart from which he must dislodge her. But, how?
He could not send her away, for she seemed a part of
himself, and he could not live without her; but he
would stifle his new-born love, he said, and as the best
means of doing so, he would talk to her often of his
wife as a person who certainly had an existence, and
would some day come back to him; so, when Marian
replied: “I feared you were angry with me, Mr. Raymond;
I would not have asked to see the portrait had
I supposed you really cared,” he drew his chair at a
respectful distance and said: “I cannot explain the
matter to you, but if you knew the whole sad story of
my marriage, and the circumstances which led to it,
you would not wonder that I am somewhat sensitive
upon the subject. I used to think beauty the principal
thing I should require in a wife, but poor Marian
had none of that, and were you to see the wretched
likeness, you would receive altogether too unfavorable
an impression of her; for, notwithstanding her plain
face, she was far too good for me.”

“Do you really think so?” was Marian's eager exclamation,
while close behind it was the secret struggling
hard to escape, but she forced it back, until such
time as she should be convinced that Frederic loved
her as Marian Grey, and would hail with delight the
news that she was indeed his wife.

He seemed surprised at her question, but he answered,
unhesitatingly:

“Yes; far too good for me.”

“And do you really wish to find her?” was Marian's
next question, which brought a flush to Frederic's face,
and caused him to hesitate a little ere he replied.

Yesterday he would have said Yes, at once, but since
coming into that library he had discovered that the
finding of his wife would be less desirable than before.
But it should not be so. He would crush every
thought or feeling which detracted in the least from
his late interest in Marian Lindsey, and with a great
effort he said:

“I really wish to find her;” adding, as he saw a peculiar
expression flit over Marian's face; “Wouldn't
you, too, be better pleased if Redstone Hall had a mistress?”

“Yes, provided that mistress were your wife, Marian
Lindsey,” was the ready answer; and, looking into her
face, Frederic was conscious of an uneasy sensation,
for Miss Grey's words would indicate that the presence
of his wife would give her real pleasure.

Of course, then, she did not care for him, as he cared
for her; and why should she? He asked himself this
question many a time after the chair opposite him was
vacant, and she had left him there alone. Why should
she, when she came to him with the knowledge that he
was already bound to another. She might not have
liked him perhaps had he been free, though, in that
case, he could have won her love, and compelled her
to forget the man who did not care for her. Taking
the high-backed chair she had just vacated, he rested
his elbow upon the table, and tried to fancy that Marian
Lindsey had never crossed his path, and Marian
Grey had never loved another. It was a pleasant picture
he drew of himself were Marian Grey his wife,
and his heart fairly bounded as he thought of her stealing
to his side, and placing upon his arm those little
soft white hands of hers, while her blue eyes looked

into his own, and her rose-bud lips called him “Husband!”
and, as he thought, it seemed to him more
and more that it must one day be so. She would be
his at last, and the sun of his domestic bliss would
shine upon him all the brighter for the dreary darkness
which had overshadowed him so long. From this
dream of happiness there came ere long a waking, and
burying his face in his hands he moaned aloud, “It
cannot be, and the hardest part of all to bear is the
wretched thought that but for my dastardly, unmanly
act, it might, perhaps, have been—but now, never!
never! Oh, Marian Grey! Marian Grey! I would
that we had never met!”

“Frederic, didn't you hear me coming? I made a
heap of noise,” said a voice close to his side, and
Alice's arm was thrown across his neck.

She had heard all he was saying, but she did not
comprehend it until he muttered the name of Marian
Grey, and then the truth flashed upon her.

“Poor Frederic,” she said, soothingly, “I pity you
so much, for though it is wicked, I am sure you cannot
help it.”

“Help what?” he asked, rather impatiently, for this
one secret he hoped to bury from the whole world, but
the blind girl had discovered it, and she answered unhesitatingly:

“Can't help loving Marian Grey. I've been fearful
you would,” she continued, as he made no reply. “I
did not see how you could well help it, either, she is so
beautiful and good, and every night I pray that if our
own Marian is really dead God will let us know.”

This was an entire change in Alice. Hitherto she had
pleaded a living Marian—now she suggested one deceased,
but Frederic repelled the thought at once.

“Marian was not dead,” he said, “and though he
admired Miss Grey, he had no right to love her. He
didn't intend to, either, and if Alice had discovered
anything, he trusted she would forget it.”

And this was all the satisfaction he would give the

little girl, who, feeling that he would rather be alone,
turned away, leaving him again with his unhappy
thoughts.

That night he joined the young girls in the parlor
and compelled himself to listen while Marian made the
old walls echo with her ringing, merry music. But
he would not look at her, nor watch her snowy fingers
sweeping over the keys, lest they should make worse
havoc with his heart-strings than they had already
done. At an early hour he sought his chamber where the
livelong night he fought manfully with the love which,
now that he acknowledged its existence, grew rapidly in
intensity and strength. It was not like the love he had
felt for Isabel—it was deeper, purer, more absorbing,
and what was stranger far than all, he could not feel
that it was wicked, and he trembled when he thought
how hardened he had become.

The next day, which was the Sabbath, he determined
to see as little of Marian as possible, but when at
the breakfast table she asked him in her usual frank,
open-hearted way to go with her to church, he could
not refuse, and he went, feeling a glow of pride at the
sensation he knew she was creating, and wondering
why she should be so excited.

“I cannot keep the secret much longer,” Marian
thought, as she looked upon the familiar faces of her
friends, and longed to hear them call her by her real
name. “I will at least tell Alice who I am, and if she
can convince me that Frederic would be glad, I will
perhaps explain to him.”

When church was out, Mrs. Rivers, who still lived
at her father's, pressed forward for an introduction,
and after it was over, whispered a few words to Frederic,
who replied, “Not in the least,” so decidedly that
Marian heard him, and wondered what Agnes' remark
could have been. She was not long left in doubt, for
as they were riding home, Frederic turned to her and
said: “Mrs. Rivers thinks you look like my wife.”

Marian's cheeks were scarlet, as she replied:

“Josh and Hetty thought so, too, and it is possible
there may be a resemblance,”

“Not the slightest,” returned Frederic, half vexed
that any one should presume to liken the beautiful girl
at his side to one as plain as he had always considered
Marian Lindsey to be.

Leaning back in the carriage, he relapsed into a
thoughtful mood, which was interrupted once by Marian's
asking “if he believed he should know his wife
in case he met her accidentally?”

“Know her? Yes—from all the world!” was the
hasty answer; and, wrapping his shawl still closer
about him, Frederic did not speak again until they
stopped at their own door.

That night, as Marian sat with Alice in their chamber,
she said to the little girl:

“If you could have any wish gratified which you
chose to make, what would it be?”

For an instant Alice hesitated—then her eyes filled
with tears, and, and winding her arms around her
teacher's neck, she whispered:

“At first I thought I'd rather have my sight—but
only for a moment—and then I wished, if Marian were
not dead, she would come back to us, for I'm afraid
Frederic is getting bad again, though he cannot help
it, I'm sure.”

“What do you mean?” Marian asked, and Alice replied:

“Don't you know? Can't you guess? Don't you
hear it in his voice when he speaks to you?”

Marian made no response, and Alice continued:

“Frederic seems determined to love everybody better
than Marian, and though I love you more than I
can tell, I want her to come back so much.”

“And if you knew she were coming, when would
you rather it should be?” asked Marian, and Alice
replied:

“Now—to-night; but as that is impossible, I'd be
satisfied with Christmas. Yes, on the whole, I'd rather

it would be then; I should call her our Christmas Gift,
and it would be the dearest, sweetest one that I could
have.”

“Darling Alice,” thought Marian, “your wish shall
be gratified.”

And, kissing the blind girl affectionately, she resolved
that on the coming Christmas, one at least of
the inmates of Redstone Hall should know that Marian
Grey was only another name for the runaway Marian
Lindsey.