Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 May 1895 — Silence [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Silence

By Miss Mulock

CHAPTER XIII. “What sort of people were we to meet to-night? Pleasant people, you said.” “And clever people from Edinburgh and London, visitors in the house. Lady Symington brought one or two of them to call here to-day. I liked them." “And I am sure they liked you, my darling,” said Roderick, with a tender pride. “Well, it will be rather nice to go back for an hour or two to the old life, and rest one’s ears from the endless buzz of machinery. Though lam fond of machinery,” added he, hastily and cheerily. “It is like presiding as a temporary providence over a cosmogony of one’s own making; taking care that all the wheels are kept going; doing one's utmost, and waiting calmly for the final result, as one must in all things. Yes, I enjoy my work, and I mean to enjoy my play, if I am not too tired.” He had come in very tired—he often did; but, refreshed with tea and tender words, had now begun dressing for the Symington dinner, putting on his diamond studs, brushing out his curly hair, and his wife could see he rather liked the proceeding. He was a young man still. She was young, too—not at all above the pleasure of “making herself pretty”— he told her she looked in her white ivedding dress, with her wedding veil transmuted into a shawl. He admired her—they mutually admired one another —and took a childish pleasure in the same. “I wish I could give you a carriage,” sighed Roderick, as he muffled her in hood and plaid for the ten minutes’ walk uuder the fir woods, through the clear frosty December night. “I am content with my own two feet, dear. Lady Symington offered the carriage, but I declined.” “Quite right. The poorer we are ths more independent we- will be. Alw,ay» stick to the principle, ‘Owe no man anything.’ ” “Except ‘to love one another,’ ” Silence added, gently. “I can’t help loving 1 her—that sweet old lady—however rich she is. And she is so cheerful, too. How she laughed at my thick boots, and showed them to the two young ladies she had with her—most gentlemanly young ladies, who dress almost like men, and pity themselves for being only women! Now, It may be very conceited of me, dear, but I never wished to be a man in all my life!” “Thank heaven for that,” said Roderick, with such energy that they both burst out laughing, and so started merrily, lantern in hand, through the solemn fir-wood, and across the open, breezy, star-lighted nioor. Silence clung to her husband’s arm. “This feels like the old days—the days when you used to walk home with us nt night.” She paused, and then continued in the low smothered tone which he had learned to understand now. “Did you ever think then that I loved you—that it was heaven to me just to walk beside you for a quarter of an hour? And now’ we walk together always—through life — into eternity. No—l shall not lose you even there.” He pressed her little hand nearer his heart, but said nothing. They walked ou, watching the round, red moon, which was creeping up slowly through a cleft in the hills. Neither said, “How beautiful,” just as neither said, “I am happy.” but they knew it without speaking. So they reached, two humble pedestrians, the Symington hall-door. “Are you afraid?” asked Roderick, as they paused to let a carriage pass them—the Castle Torre carriage, full of very resplendent McAllisters. “Not afraid of my host and hostess, but very much afraid of the butler, the footman, and the groom of the chambers.” ■“Nevertheless, let us face even them,” •said Roderick, gayly, “for I am determined to have a pleasant evening.” It felt like it when, having passed bravely through the ordeal of the entrance hall, they found themselves in the fine old drawing-room, rich with the relics of a dozen generations of Symingtons, where Sir John and his wife received their guests. There was once a popular song, “If I had a thousand a year,” wherein the singer described what he would do with that noble income—counted but a small one nowadays. But ten thousand a year —what could one do w’ith that? I think precisely what Sir John Symington did. A rich man, of cultivated tastes, with •every right to gratify them, knowing ■enough of sorrow to humble his heart toward God and soften it toward his neighbor; gifted with not only the power but the will to do good, and having lived long enough to reap the fruits of an honorable youth in a calm old age; such a man is, spite of his riches, not unlikely to enter the kingdom of heaven. Ay, even in this world, as you could see by his contented look and quiet, stately bearing. They were indeed quite a picture, this old couple; he tall and thin, she round and ares?, with a cheek like a girl, and a smile like a child, as they came forward to meet the young couple, to whom life wms only a.t its beginning. ■“ ‘Thine own friend, and thy father’s friend, forsake thou not.’ Mr. Jardine, it is kind of you to come here to-day. I hope it will not be the last time by many that Blackhall honors Symington by entering its doors.” These words, spoken with antique formality, and iu rather loud tone —Sir John was slightly deaf—were heard by everybody. Everybody saw, too, how Lady Symington kissed Mrs. Jardine on both cheeks, foreign fashion in cordial welcome. This might have been chance, or wise and kindly intention* but it had its effect. The MacAlisters, and all the ■other neighbors, came forward nt once, ignoring both the poverty and the millwork, and added their greetings. These “old families,” as well as the clever English guests, were much simpler, Silence found, both in manners and toilets, than the Richerden people. Very soon they made her feel thoroughly “at home.” The more so as she saw her husband was “at home” likewise. There is in ■some houses an unconscious atmosphere •of domestic and social ozone, which brightens everybody. Wealth cars not give it, nor poverty take it away.. As they Went into dinner, Mfs. Jardine leaning on Sir John’s arm, aB the stranger and the bride, she and Roderick smiled at one another, satisfied. It was a recherche rather than a sumptuous meal, not one of those where tile guests are evidently far less important than the food. And it was short—mhmu and a half being, the host said.

quite enough to. spend over eating and I drinking. Also, not long after the ladies i retired the gentlemen followed.them. “You see, having been much abroad, we have adopted the best of foreign customs,” said Lady Symington, smiling to see Mrs. Jardine’s smile, at the unexpected apparition of her husband behind her chair. “Sir John likes a pleasant evening, good talk and good music, quite as well as a good dinner; and I like it much better. Indeed. I am afraid I am very fond of society.” “So are we,” said Roderick, looking down on his wife’s happy face. And just as his host called him to join a group of men, every one of whom was “somebody,” or had done “something,” lie found time to whisper: “You were quite right, Silence; I am glad we came.” After that she watched him, talking, listening and being listened to, holding his own always with his habitual courtesy, but nevertheless with the firmness and self-respect of a man who has cast his lot in life, whose fate is fixed, and heart is at rest, so that he is now ready for the work of the world. He stood a good way from her, scarcely looking toward her—what need? This mingling with others made both feel only the more keenly and securely the sweet inward tie —“my own, my very own!” And she sat in her quiet corner, thnt passionate ambition, not for self, but a dearer self, which in some women’s hearts is as strong even as love, woke up—no, it had already wakened—but it seemed to make itself felt to the very depths of her soul, until there came added to it another feeling, roused by a few chance words she overheard. “Yes, a fine fellow, a very fine fellow, indeed. What a pity he is married.” “Do you think so?” “Just swamped; every man is, unless he can get that rara avis, a wife who is a help and not a hindrance, not only at home but in society.” “Hush! there she is—that quiet little thing in the corner.” “Eh?” Silence had sharp ears; at least, she seemed to hear by instinct every word that was said about her husband. As the two gentlemen passed her they saw only the composed face, the quietly folded hands, but—she had heard. Half an hour afterward Roderick, a little surprised, but glad, saw her ’the center of a circle, talking to all who talked to her, not only in her pretty, precise English, but in French and German —there were several foreigners in this cosmopolite house. Also, when requested by Lady Symington she went at once to the piano and sung. It was a very simple song; their fnvorite, “Oh, Nannie, wilt thou gang wi’ me?” but after it came a hush, and then abirrst of involuntary delight. Tos, that is my wife,” Silence heard her husband answer to some one, very briefly, but she caught both the look and the tone. She went bnck to her seat, all her nervousness gone. She could face the world now. He was not ashamed of her. • Human nature is human nature after all. Many a good man loves with patient tenderness a wife very inferior to himself; many a woman upholds faithfully beforo the world the man slid lias married, whom all the world sees, and wonders sometimes if she sees, is altogether unworthy of her. This is right, noble; but it is also a little sad. The perfect bond, the true marriage, must always be between those who not only love, but are proud of one another —as were these. The evening slipped by fast, so fast that the guests were already leaving; but Lady Symington begged the Jardines to stay a few minutes more. “Well, the moon is full, and our horses will not catch cold by standing,” said Roderick gayly to his wife. lie was so thoroughly enjoying himself that, for the first time, he did not notice the little tired face. But Lady Syminton did, and put Silence in her own arm-chair, secured round by curtains, above which hung the sweet picture of the long-dead boy. Upon it the eyes of both women, the young and the old, met tenderly. “He must have been so pretty,” Silence said. “Yes. Almost like an angel, or it seems so now. He was a Christmas child. This Christmas he would have been thirty-nine—no, forty years old. Howstrange!” The old lady spoke calmly, as old people learn to do. And then, like one habituated to repress herself and think of others only, she added: “Y,our husband is not near forty yet; ho could not be, fur Henry Jardine married late in life. Sir John lost sight of him after that, but he was always very fond of him. We thought him so clever, so sure to make a name for himself one day. Perhaps his sou will.” “I hope he will; yes, he shall.” The words were brief, but there was a sudden flash in the eye, indicating the faith which creates the hope, and the will which brings about both. And then, startled at herself, Silence shrunk back behind the curtains of her pleasant nook, glad to hide for a few minutes after the efforts even of their happy evening. She strained her ears to catch her husband’s voice, but instead she only heard the idle buzz of conversation behind her, little heeded, until her own name struck her ear. “Jardine? Surely I met a Mrs. Jardine at Richerden last week. Could she be a relation, a mother or aunt, to that young fellow? Impossible!” “Why impossible?” “Oh, Mrs. Mac Alister” (the speaker was one of the Symington guests), "if you had seen her! Astonishing in accent, and still more astonishing in dress; clannish, as I suppose you Scotch would call it—always talking of her ‘family,’ and evidently considering it the most important family in nil Scotland. She had three daughters—one married to a man named Thomson—ugh! a nice son-in-law to have! You should have seen him in the draw-ing-room after dinner. But she never spoke of any son.” “You don’t say so! That coarse, ignorant, vulgar woman?” At this talk—heard quicker than it takes to write, and impossible not to hear, for the speakers were behind the curtain —Silence looked at her companion, whose eyes were cast down on the carpet. Making some remark quite foreign to the subj ject, Lady Symington rose; then, seeing I the poor little scarlet face, she let all polite pretenses drop. “My dear, ‘les absens ont toujours tort.’ Let it pass; we will move away.” “How can I let it pass? It is not true. And she is his mother. It can not be true.” “If it were,” said the old lady, quietly, “it could not affect any right-minded people. Your husband is what he is, a Jardine of Blackhall, and the very image of his father.” “Still, a mother is a mother always. I had one once.” In another moment, patting aside Lady Symington’s detaining hand she stood before the two ladies. “1 beg your pardon, but I overheard you. I could not help overhearing. You mistake. lire. Jardine, my mother-in-law, is

| a very good woman. Her children love | her much. Uneducated she may be—her j father was a working man—but ‘coarse.’ [ ‘vulgar,’ it is impossible.” “Whether or no,” said the young Lonj don lady, equally touched and surprised, i “I am sorry I said it. It is a certificate j of merit to any woman that her son’s \ wife should be so fond of her.” The poor little face, pale with pain, flushed visibly. “It is not thati-it is because of the injustice. One should never let an injustice pass if one can help iL” \. The eager voice, pathetic eve* in its indignant pride, the manner so simple and straightforward—Mrs. Mac Alister said next day. that young Mrs. Jardine was the oddest and most “unconventional” young lady she ever knew; but there was no mistaking her meaning. Both ladies felt themselves, as the younger expressed it, “quite shut up,” and made no end of incoherent apologies. Silence acepted them smiling. “It does not matter, since only I heard you—not my husband.” Just then, turning around, she saw Roderick standing beside Lady Symington, and was quite certain, by the expression of his face, that he had heard, or guessed, everything that had passed. He said nothing—what was there to say?—only came forward, bowing with almost more than his usual rather stately courtesy to the two ladies, drew his wife’s arm in his, and making their adieus to their hostess, took her away immediately. Not until they had got out into the dark —the quiet, soothing, solitary night—did he break out in a passion of anger and grief. ‘‘Coarse! Vulgar! How dared she say it? Ignorant she may be. How could she be otherwise with her up-bringing? But she is, as you say, a thoroughly good woman. Thank you for saying it; thank you, my darling, for being so generous to my poor mother.” “Not generous, only just,” whispered the soothing voice. “I could not be unjust to any mother, least of all to yours.’ They did not know her, these people, and they were sorry. You heard them say so.” “I heard all; I was close by; but how' could I speak? Cowavd that I was! It was you who were brave. Again, thank you, my darling.” They walked on awhile in total silence, then Roderick burst out again: “Yes, she is my mother. No unkindness can alter that. And she has done nothing really wrong—nothing that can make me cease to respect her. Her weaknesses—l know every one. It is nonsense to say children should not see their parents’ faults; they must and do. But then there is the love that covers all She loved me, too, once. If I saw her this minute, I believe I should forget everything except that she was my mother —my dear old mother.” And a great sudden sob, like a boy's, betrayed what his wife had loug guessed, the pent-up grief which even she could giot wholly heal.

It was hard, very hard; but Silence was neither hurt nor offended. “Faithful in one thing, faithful in all,” she murmured. Clasping both her hands around his arm, she crept still closer to his heart; all the truer and dearer because even its love for herself had failed to deaden any other lawful tenderness. ) “Forgive me, my wife. You must not •think that ” “I only think of you and of your pnin.” | “It must be conquered, and shall by and by.” “Or else the tide may turn; who knows?” “No; I have little hope of that. My mother has strong prejudices. In one sense she is, as they called her, a thorough Scotch woman, a warm friend, a bitter enemy. No, no, do not give me hope of things changing. Better let us submit to the inevitable. It is inevitable now.” They walked a little way in sad silence, then Roderick broke out again. “Did you hear what they said about Bella’s husband? Poor Bella! I knew It would come to that; I told her so, but she would not believe me. She was dazzled, blinded, overpersuaded. Girls often are, I suppose. Perhaps I ought to have spoken out more thoroughly; but I hated speaking—they never would understand me. And then they worried me so. Still I should have done my duty to them, whether or no. I have not liked to vex you, my darling; but sometimes I have vexed myself for days together with the doubt if I had really done my duty to them all. I cannot forget them. My dearest—my very dearest always—you would not wish me to forget them?” “No.”

“Thank you!” And then, with another half sob, he recovered himself. “Now we understand ene another quite, so let us put it all aside. What is done we can not undo; we would not if we could. Blood is thicker than water—especially with us Scotch —but love is beyond all and stronger than all.” “When .it is n righteous love. Ours would not have been such if it had made us do wrong. We did not do wrong. We had a right to marry if we chose. It made us happy and harmed no human being.” Firm and fearless, holding the balance even, and as just to,herself as she would have been to ally other woman, Silence spoke out. Her voice soothed and strengthened him as if it had been the voice of his own conscience. “You are right, as I think you always are. After all, if it comes to the point, a man must ‘leave his father and mother and cling unto his wife,’ and she will cleave to him —even though he may try her a little. Do I? Man-like, he might have wished this fact denied; but Silence was too honest. “Yes, dear,” and just then, as they came out of the dark wood into the moonlight, her pale face seemed to gain a sort of Abdiel-like look, angelic sternness mingled with its sweetness. “Yes, dear, you do try me very much sometimes, as no doubt Ido yon—as all married people must, more or less, try one another; but I love you—l love you!” “Do you? I often wonder why,” Roderick answered, with that almost childlike humility and doubt of himself which was so pathetic, so winning. “I love because I honor, and therefore I am afraid of nothing; because nothing could make me cease to love, except ceasing to honor. Me, myself, you might forsake, wound, torture, and if it were for conscience’s sake, I should accept it all. But if I ever came to despise you—as some women have to despise their husbands —pity might last, and duty; but love would go dead out, and no power on earth would light it up again. But now —but now ” She turned to him, her eyes shining with perfect trust —the very heart of love, love rooted in righteoiftness. He turned, too, and clasped her in his arms, with a passion such as even his lover days had never felt. Then it was the restless Graving after uncertain bliss. Now it was the deep content of satisfied union, each finding in the other more and more every day a perpetual refuge and rest. “My mother told me I would soon get over my love for you—and marry some other woman, who would do just as well. If it had been, and I had lost you, and had to live all my life without you! But now —oh, Silence! what in the world should I do without you A>w ?” Without answering, she looked up at him, a sudden, strangely earnest look. Roderick, who had begun with a laugh, as if anxious to get back into the light . commonplace of life once more, put his arm round her. “Are you tired? Let me help you. I think I could almost carry you. Lean on me, darling,” “Yes. I always do.” And so, half led, half carried—for she was evidently very weary—they came to their own door. “What a pleasant door it seems!” Roderick said, as they watched the long gleam from the parlor window across the lawn. "I enjoyed Symington. I like luxuries, as I like all pleasant things, but I can do without them. Now, there are certain things I could not do without.” “What are they?” “A peaceful, sunshiny, orderly home, and a wife to love me.” She laughed merrily. “Yes, it is a dear home, if we could only get into it.” For they had found the dooi*fastened—a' rare sact —and had been ringing and ringing, till at last Janet appeared, scared and flurried. “Have you been asleep, Janet? Nothing wrong? No ghosts frightened you?” said Roderick, kindly. “Na, na, but the leddy, she bode me ateeji the door.” “What lady?” , “'She came in a carriage, and said she was come to bide here. She’s been waiting in the parlor these two hours.” Roderick went hastily in, his wife following. There, still bonneted and shawled, dressed richly in velvet and fur, but with a face so .haggard that it was no wonder even her brother did not at first recognize her—sat the “leddy.” “Bella!” “Yes, it’s me! You didn’t know, I suppose?” “Dear Bella! so glad to see you." And he went bver and kissed her affectionately. But Bella made no response. “Stop a minute,” she said, in a hard, dry tone. “Don’t be too glad to see me. Ask your wife first I’m not respected. I’ve run away from my husband.” Roderick started. “Not with » man—oh, no, thank you!

I’ve had enough of men”—with the ghost of her old laugh—“only with a baby.” She opened her fur cloak and discovered the white long clothes of a tiny—such a very tiny—infant with such an old, withered, ugly little face. Nevertheless, Silence sprung to it and took it in her arms. “Oh, you’re quite welcome, if you want it. I don’t, though it’s my own,” said Mrs. Thomson, with another laugh. “A month old, when it was born, I hated the very sight of it, it was so like its father. Now—well, I endure it, that’s all! Isn’t it a miserable scrap of a thing?” It certainly was; but in an instant Silence, throwing off her wraps, had sat down to warm its skinny, 6tone-cold legs by the fire, with n look on her face that even her husband had never seen before. “She seems born to be a mother, which I’m sure I never was; I always hated children. They look exactly like young frogs or toads. No doubt this will turn out n toad, and spit in my face like—only it’s a feminine, not a masculine, article, thank goodness! It can never grow up a man like him.”

“Do you mean your husband?” said Roderick, gravely. “To be sure. The man I was ,fool enough to marry. Why didn't my mother prevent me, as she tried to prevent your marriage? But mine was all right—or she thought so—as she thinks still. I’ve got a handsome house, horses and carriages, butler, three footmen and a page. Didn’t I dodge them all cleverly? Crept out in the dark of the afternoon and took a tram—me, Mrs. Alexander Thomson — a common street tram—to the railway. What would Mr. Thomson have said? Ha! ha! ha! I wish he knew it, if only just to vex him!” Roderick sat down by his sister, grieved and sad. She was in such an excited state that he did not attempt a single question, but she went on rapidly talking. “What a hunt there’ll be. Not that he cares for me, not two straws, but it isn’t respectable to have one’s wife running away. And they will think I have gone mad and killed the baby—he knew I hated it. But I am not mad, lam quite in my sober senses, Rody—is that a noise? I told the girl to bolt the front door, somebody might come after me, though I don’t think it. And they never would imagine I had come here to you.” “No,” said Roderick, with involuntary bitterness. “Nevertheless, I being still your brother, and you having chosen to take refuge with me, you are safe. Be satisfied.” He laid his hand on her shoulder—she was shaking from head to foot; then untying her bonnet and cloak, he made her lean back in the arm chair. Tears started to Bella’s eyes “Thank you; you were always kind to me, Rody, and you have got used to woman’s ways, I see. But don’t be uneasy,' I shall not faint —I never do. I’m tough, like mamma, or I should have been killed long ago. He was such a brute—you’ve no idea. That is, when he was drunk. Sober, he is—well, only a fool! I must have been blind—many silly girls are”—passing her hand wearily over her eyes—“but, oh, Rody, fancy to wake up after a week or two and find yourself tied for life to a drunkard and a fool! A brute, too, as I say. Roderick”—clutching him by the arm—“you, a man with a wife of your own; and —yes, I know!—would you believe that the very day before that poor little wretch was born, he—he struck me?”

Roderick sprang to his feet. “Don’t get furious, you can do nothing, nobody can. It’s only the drink. He’s decent enough, just a fool at most, till he drinks, then he’s a devil; and I hate him as I hate the devil. It’s right.” “Right or wrong, you must keep quiet,” said the brother, himself making a violent effort at quietness and self-control. “My wife”—the instinctive appeal which hail become habitual now—“my wife, come here.” * Silence came, with the small bundle, so piteously still, as if only half alive, in her arms. She had been going in and out of the room with it while they talked. “Your bed is quite ready. Come, sister.” Bella, occupied with herself and her brother, had apparently forgotten her brother’s wife. When Silence stood before her—the young mistress of the house, the woman with tire womanly heart, which that forlorn babe seemed already to have found out, for it was fast asleep on her warm breast—this other woman, the miserable fine lady, the mother with the unmotherly soul, was struck with a mingled feeling, half surprise, half compunction. “Yes, of course we are sisters. But I thought you would hate me—hate us all. It was Roderick I ran away to. I never thought of you.” “That was natural. But now, all that are his are mine—as is also quite natural. Come.” Bella grasped the offered hand and rose, saying, with a feeble laugh, “Rody, your wife must be an exceedingly good woman.” “Cela va sans dire, I hope,” said he, trying to laugh as he hurried them away up-stairs, and sat down over the lire, thankful to bo alone. Most men dislike scenes, he more than most. The sight of his sister, the sound, of her familiar voice, even down to the old boyish pet-name, which belonged exclusively to those early days—his wife had ftever used it—affected him deeply. Then, too, be was a man, with all a man’s feeling about marital rights and duties. To find himself sheltering a runaway wife, though even his own sister, was very distasteful. Still every brotherly and manly emotion blazed up into righteous indignation at thought of Bella’s wrongs.

“To strike her—actually strike her! Poor, poor girl! It' I had been at hand—if she had had a brother to stand up for her!” And again his tender conscience smote him, as if he had not done half enough, as if his passive acceptance of fate had been of itself an error. Should he resist now? Seeing that his sister had come to him for refuge, should he not hide her—that ivas impossible,-nor, had it been possible, would he have stooped to any concealment—but openly protect her against her husband, her mother, and all the world? His head dropped in his hands to “think it over.” But he had grown unused to solitary thinking now. Wearily he looked round for the second self, always beside him, ready at least with the syjppathy which is often almost as good as counsel, sometimes even better still. But it was almost, an hour, quite the middle of the night, before Silence came in. She looked very pale and tired; but there was a deep joy in her face. With her light curls dropping over her white dressing-gown, she stood beside him, a vision of peace. “Dear, you put me in mind of one of Fra Angelico’s angels.” But I have been doing no angel’s work. I have been washing baby. She looked so sweet, though she ,is so very, very small. Then 1 put her to bed beside her mother, who said she ‘felt quite safe and comfortable.’ ” Poor Bella! And you—l fear you are terribly worn out, my darling.” “Oh, no; I like looking after people. And you—you are glad to have one of your ‘ain folk’ under your roof? Ia it

*o« strange, after our talk to-night r “Very strange. And,” with a kind o# sad apology, “you will be good to her? Yon don’t dislike her?” “Dislike her?” “No; there are likeable points about her, poor girl! And she has suffered so much! What shall we do with her? I have been wearying myself with thinking. Can she stay here?” “Of course she can. We have contrived admirably; I rather like contriving. She brought no clothes for herself, but she does not forget her baby. She had a great bundle of all things needful. I do not believe she cares for it after all. She laughed, actually laughed, when she saW it so happy in its bath, which was our wash-tub. Only think! neither she nor I have ever washed a baby before; wc were quite afraid; but Janet, who has had little brothers and sisters —six, I think—came to the rescue and helped us. Poor Janet, she was so proud!” The simple, wholesome, domestic details —comedy neutralizing tragedy—Roderick laughed at them, and felt more comforted than he could tell. Then, turning to his wife, he pressed his lips on the small right hand, so soft, yet so busy and so strong. “Coals of fire—coals of fire,” he murmured, much moved. Silence did not at first understand the allusion, then she said, “Yes, coals which melt and purify all sterling ore; that*waa how my father always explained the text. And who knows? —she may be softened yet.” “My mother?”

“I have been hearing all about her, how good she is, how generous and warmhearted,. And she was always so proud of you. She thought you ought to marry a countess, at least, and you married only me! It really was a little hard for her.” Roderick drew his wife down upon his knee —a “Fra Angelico,” but a mortal woman still —and buried her head on his shoulder. He did not speak, or nothing that she could hear, but she felt his tears. The said of fire,” when duly heaped up, warm others besides those they are meant to melt. Seldom had there been a brighter breakfast table than that in the little parlor at Blackhall; even though Bella kept it a long time waiting—“which must never happen again,” said the young master to the mistress. But for once both forgave, and when Mrs. Alexander Thomson sailed in, her splendid clothes contrasting strangely with her piteously white face, knelt with her brother and his wife around the family hearth, and then took her seat nt the simple family table, all the misery outside, the dreary past, the doubtful future, could not take away a certain sense of peace. But the simple breakfast of porridge and tea, bread, butter and eggs, which always satisfied Roderick, had, to confess the truth, its difficulties with the guest. Despite her condescending smile, it was evidently not exactly what Mrs. Alexander Thomson was used to, and she felt that she was condescending. Also, after the first warm pleasure of meeting’, both brother and sister became conscious of that curious sense of strangeness which, notwithstanding the closest tie of blood, rises up after awhile between those whose lives have drifted wide apart, never to be united more. So much so, that by and by conversation flagging, it was quite a relief to hear a feeble wail overhead. (To be continued.)