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diff --git a/old/67476-0.txt b/old/67476-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f11c38f..0000000 --- a/old/67476-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6865 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Automaton Ear, and Other Sketches, -by Florence McLandburgh - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Automaton Ear, and Other Sketches - -Author: Florence McLandburgh - -Release Date: February 22, 2022 [eBook #67476] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from - images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AUTOMATON EAR, AND OTHER -SKETCHES *** - - - - - - THE - AUTOMATON EAR, - AND - OTHER SKETCHES. - - - BY - - FLORENCE McLANDBURGH. - - - CHICAGO: - JANSEN, McCLURG & CO. - 1876. - - - - - COPYRIGHT, - BY FLORENCE McLANDBURGH, - A. D. 1876. - -[Illustration: _LAKESIDE PUBLISHING & PRINTING CO. CHICAGO._] - - - - - Dedicated - - TO - - JOHN McLANDBURGH. - - - - -NOTE.—Some of the sketches and tales in this volume were contributed to -“Scribner’s Monthly,” “Appleton’s Journal,” and the “Lakeside Magazine,” -and are used here, in a revised form, by the kind permission of the -editors. Others appear now for the first time. - - F. McL. - -CHICAGO, _April, 1876_. - - - - -[Illustration] - - CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - THE AUTOMATON EAR, 7 - - THE PATHS OF THE SEA, 44 - - REINHART, THE GERMAN, 89 - - SILVER ISLET, 103 - - BOYDELL, THE STROLLER, 129 - - THE DEATH-WATCH, 149 - - THE MAN AT THE CRIB, 161 - - PROF. KELLERMANN’S FUNERAL, 183 - - THE FEVERFEW, 201 - - OLD SIMLIN, THE MOULDER, 213 - - THE ANTHEM OF JUDEA, 243 - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE AUTOMATON EAR. - - -The day was hardly different from many another day, though I will likely -recall it even when the mist of years has shrouded the past in an -undefined hueless cloud. The sunshine came in at my open window. Out of -doors it flooded all the land in its warm summer light—the spires of the -town and the bare college campus; farther, the tall bearded barley and -rustling oats; farther still, the wild grass and the forest, where the -river ran and the blue haze dipped from the sky. - -The temptation was greater than I could stand, and taking my book I shut -up the “study,” as the students called my small apartment, leaving it -for one bounded by no walls or ceiling. - -The woods rang with the hum and chirp of insects and birds. I threw -myself down beneath a tall, broad-spreading tree. Against its -moss-covered trunk I could hear the loud tap of the woodpecker secreted -high up among its leaves, and off at the end of a tender young twig a -robin trilled, swinging himself to and fro through the checkered -sunlight. I never grew weary listening to the changeful voice of the -forest and the river, and was hardly conscious of reading until I came -upon this paragraph:— - - “As a particle of the atmosphere is never lost, so sound is never - lost. A strain of music or a simple tone will vibrate in the air - forever and ever, decreasing according to a fixed ratio. The diffusion - of the agitation extends in all directions, like the waves in a pool, - but the ear is unable to detect it beyond a certain point. It is well - known that some individuals can distinguish sounds which to others - under precisely similar circumstances are wholly lost. Thus the fault - is not in the sound itself, but in our organ of hearing, and a tone - once in existence is always in existence.” - -This was nothing new to me. I had read it before, though I had never -thought of it particularly; but while I listened to the robin, it seemed -singular to know that all the sounds ever uttered, ever born, were -floating in the air _now_—all music, every tone, every bird-song—and we, -alas! could not hear them. - -Suddenly a strange idea shot through my brain—Why not? Ay, _why not -hear_? Men had constructed instruments which could magnify to the eye -and—was it possible?—Why not? - -I looked up and down the river, but saw neither it, nor the sky, nor the -moss that I touched. Did the woodpecker still tap secreted among the -leaves, and the robin sing, and the hum of insects run along the bank as -before? I can not recollect, I can not recollect anything, only Mother -Flinse, the deaf and dumb old crone that occasionally came to beg, and -sell nuts to the students, was standing in the gateway. I nodded to her -as I passed, and walked up her long, slim shadow that lay on the path. -It was a strange idea that had come so suddenly into my head and -startled me. I hardly dared to think of it, but I could think of nothing -else. It could not be possible, and yet—why not? - -Over and over in the restless hours of the night I asked myself, I said -aloud, Why not? Then I laughed at my folly, and wondered what I was -thinking of and tried to sleep—but if it _could_ be done? - -The idea clung to me. It forced itself up in class hours and made -confusion in the lessons. Some said the professor was ill those two or -three days before the vacation; perhaps I was. I scarcely slept; only -the one thought grew stronger—Men had done more wonderful things; it -certainly was possible, and I would accomplish this grand invention. I -would construct the king of all instruments—I would construct an -instrument which could catch these faint tones vibrating in the air and -render them audible. Yes, and I would labor quietly until it was -perfected, or the world might laugh. - -The session closed and the college was deserted, save by the few musty -students whom, even in imagination, one could hardly separate or -distinguish from the old books on the library shelves. I could wish for -no better opportunity to begin my great work. The first thing would be -to prepare for it by a careful study of acoustics, and I buried myself -among volumes on the philosophy of sound. - -I went down to London and purchased a common ear-trumpet. My own ear was -exceedingly acute, and to my great delight I found that, with the aid of -the trumpet just as it was, I could distinguish sounds at a much greater -distance, and those nearer were magnified in power. I had only to -improve upon this instrument; careful study, careful work, careful -experiment, and my hopes would undoubtedly be realized. - -Back to my old room in the college I went with a complete set of tools. -So days and weeks I shut myself in, and every day and every week brought -nothing but disappointment. The instrument seemed only to diminish sound -rather than increase it, yet still I worked on and vowed I would not -grow discouraged. - -Hour after hour I sat, looking out of my narrow window. The fields -of barley and waving oats had been reaped, the wheat too had ripened -and gone, but I did not notice. I sprang up with a joyful -exclamation—Strange never to have thought of it before! Perhaps I -had not spent my time in vain, after all. How could I expect to test -my instrument in this close room with only that little window? It -should be removed from immediate noises, high up in the open air, -where there would be no obstructions. I would never succeed here—but -where should I go? It must be some place in which I would never be -liable to interruption, for my first object was to be shielded and -work in secret. - -I scoured the neighborhood for an appropriate spot without success, when -it occurred to me that I had heard some one say the old gray church was -shut up. This church was situated just beyond the suburbs of the town. -It was built of rough stone, mottled and stained by unknown years. The -high, square tower, covered by thick vines that clung and crept round -its base, was the most venerable monument among all the slabs and tombs -where it stood sentinel. Only graves deserted and uncared for by the -living kept it company. People said the place was too damp for use, and -talked of rebuilding, but it had never been done. Now if I could gain -access to the tower, that was the very place for my purpose. - -I found the door securely fastened, and walked round and round without -discovering any way of entrance; but I made up my mind, if it were -possible to get inside of that church I would do it, and without the -help of keys. The high windows were not to be thought of; but in the -rear of the building, lower down, where the fuel had probably been kept, -there was a narrow opening which was boarded across. With very little -difficulty I knocked out the planks and crept through. It was a cellar, -and, as I had anticipated, the coal receptacle. After feeling about, I -found a few rough steps which led to a door that was unlocked and -communicated with the passage back of the vestry-room. - -The tower I wished to explore was situated in the remote corner of the -building. I passed on to the church. Its walls were discolored by green -mould, and blackened where the water had dripped through. The sun, low -down in the sky, lit the tall arched windows on the west, and made -yellow strips across the long aisles, over the faded pews with their -stiff, straight backs, over the chancel rail, over the altar with its -somber wood-work; but there was no warmth; only the cheerless glare -seemed to penetrate the cold, dead atmosphere,—only the cheerless glare -without sparkle, without life, came into that voiceless sanctuary where -the organ slept. At the right of the vestibule a staircase led to the -tower; it ascended to a platform laid on a level with the four windows -and a little above the point of the church roof. These four windows were -situated one on each side of the tower, running high up, and the lower -casement folding inward. - -Here was my place. Above the tree-tops, in the free open air, with no -obstacle to obstruct the wind, I could work unmolested by people or -noise. The fresh breeze that fanned my face was cool and pleasant. An -hour ago I had been tired, disappointed, and depressed; but now, buoyant -with hope, I was ready to begin work again—work that I was determined to -accomplish. - -The sun had gone. I did not see the broken slabs and urns in the shadow -down below; I did not see the sunken graves and the rank grass and the -briers. I looked over them and saw the gorgeous fringes along the -horizon, scarlet and gold and pearl; saw them quiver and brighten to -flame, and the white wings of pigeons whirl and circle in the deepening -glow. - -I closed the windows, and when I had crawled out of the narrow hole, -carefully reset the boards just as I had found them. In another day all -the tools and books that I considered necessary were safely deposited in -the tower. I only intended to make this my workshop, still, of course, -occupying my old room in the college. - -Here I matured plan after plan. I studied, read, worked, knowing, -_feeling_ that at last I must succeed; but failure followed failure, and -I sank into despondency only to begin again with a kind of desperation. -When I went down to London and wandered about, hunting up different -metals and hard woods, I never entered a concert-room or an opera-house. -Was there not music in store for me, such as no mortal ear had ever -heard? _All_ the music, every strain that had sounded in the past ages? -Ah, I could wait; I would work patiently and wait. - -I was laboring now upon a theory that I had not tried heretofore. It was -my last resource; if this failed, then—but it would not fail! I resolved -not to make any test, not to put it near my ear until it was completed. -I discarded all woods and used only the metals which best transmitted -sound. Finally it was finished, even to the ivory ear-piece. I held the -instrument all ready—I held it and looked eastward and westward and back -again. Suddenly all control over the muscles of my hand was gone, it -felt like stone; then the strange sensation passed away. I stood up and -lifted the trumpet to my ear—What! Silence? No, no—I was faint, my brain -was confused, whirling. I would not believe it; I would wait a moment -until this dizziness was gone, and then—then I would be able to hear. I -was deaf now. I still held the instrument; in my agitation the ivory tip -shook off and rolled down rattling on the floor. I gazed at it -mechanically, as if it had been a pebble; I never thought of replacing -it, and, mechanically, I raised the trumpet a second time to my ear. A -crash of discordant sounds, a confused jarring noise broke upon me and I -drew back trembling, dismayed. - -Fool! O fool of fools never to have thought of this, which a child, a -dunce would not have overlooked! My great invention was nothing, was -worse than nothing, was worse than a failure. I might have known that my -instrument would magnify present sounds in the air to such a degree as -to make them utterly drown all others, and, clashing together, produce -this noise like the heavy rumble of thunder. - -The college reopened, and I took up my old line of duties, or at least -attempted them, for the school had grown distasteful to me. I was -restless, moody, and discontented. I tried to forget my disappointment, -but the effort was vain. - -The spires of the town and the college campus glittered white, the -fields of barley and oats were fields of snow, the forest leaves had -withered and fallen, and the river slumbered, wrapped in a sheeting of -ice. Still I brooded over my failure, and when again the wild grass -turned green I no longer cared. I was not the same man that had looked -out at the waving grain and the blue haze only a year before. A gloomy -despondency had settled upon me, and I grew to hate the students, to -hate the college, to hate society. In the first shock of discovered -failure I had given up all hope, and the Winter passed I knew not how. I -never wondered if the trouble could be remedied. Now it suddenly -occurred to me, perhaps it was no failure after all. The instrument -might be made adjustable, so as to be sensible to faint or severe -vibrations at pleasure of the operator, and thus separate the sounds. I -remembered how but for the accidental removal of the ivory my instrument -perhaps would not have reflected any sound. I would work again and -persevere. - -I would have resigned my professorship, only it might create suspicion. -I knew not that already they viewed me with curious eyes and sober -faces. When the session finally closed, they tried to persuade me to -leave the college during vacation and travel on the continent. I would -feel much fresher, they told me, in the Autumn. In the Autumn? Ay, -perhaps I might, perhaps I might, and I would not go abroad. - -Once more the reapers came unnoticed. My work progressed slowly. Day by -day I toiled up in the old church tower, and night by night I dreamed. -In my sleep it often seemed that the instrument was suddenly completed, -but before I could raise it to my ear I would always waken with a -nervous start. So the feverish time went by, and at last I held it ready -for a second trial. Now the instrument was adjustable, and I had also -improved it so far as to be able to set it very accurately for any -particular period, thus rendering it sensible only to sounds of that -time, all heavier and fainter vibrations being excluded. - -I drew it out almost to its limits. - -All the maddening doubts that had haunted me like grinning specters -died. I felt no tremor, my hand was steady, my pulse-beat regular. - -The soft breeze had fallen away. No leaf stirred in the quiet that -seemed to await my triumph. Again the crimson splendor of sun-set -illumined the western sky and made a glory overhead—and the dusk was -thickening down below among the mouldering slabs. But that mattered not. - -I raised the trumpet to my ear. - -Hark!—The hum of mighty hosts! It rose and fell, fainter and more faint; -then the murmur of water was heard and lost again, as it swelled and -gathered and burst in one grand volume of sound like a hallelujah from -myriad lips. Out of the resounding echo, out of the dying cadence a -single female voice arose. Clear, pure, rich, it soared above the tumult -of the host that hushed itself, a living thing. Higher, sweeter, it -seemed to break the fetters of mortality and tremble in sublime -adoration before the Infinite. My breath stilled with awe. Was it a -spirit-voice—one of the glittering host in the jasper city “that had no -need of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it?” And the water, was -it the river clear as crystal flowing from the great white throne? But -no! The tone now floated out soft, sad, human. There was no sorrowful -strain in that nightless land where the leaves of the trees were for the -healing of the nations. The beautiful voice was of the earth and -sin-stricken. From the sobbing that mingled with the faint ripple of -water it went up once more, ringing gladly, joyfully; it went up -inspired with praise to the sky, and—hark! the Hebrew tongue:— - -“The horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.” - -Then the noise of the multitude swelled again, and a crash of music -broke forth from innumerable timbrels. I raised my head quickly—it was -the song of Miriam after the passage of the Red Sea. - -I knew not whether I lived. - -I bent my ear eagerly to the instrument again and heard—the soft rustle, -the breathing as of a sleeping forest. A plaintive note stole gently -out, more solemn and quiet than the chant of the leaves. The mournful -lay, forlorn, frightened, trembled on the air like the piteous wail of -some wounded creature. Then it grew stronger. Clear, brilliant, it burst -in a shower of silver sounds like a whole choir of birds in the glitter -of the tropical sunlight. But the mournful wail crept back, and the -lonely heartbroken strain was lost, while the leaves still whispered to -one another in the midnight. - -Like the light of a distant star came to me this song of some -nightingale, thousands of years after the bird had mouldered to nothing. - -At last my labor had been rewarded. As sound travels in waves, and these -waves are continually advancing as they go round and round the world, -therefore I would never hear the same sound over again at the same time, -but it passed beyond and another came in its stead. - -All night I listened with my ear pressed to the instrument. I heard the -polished, well-studied compliments, the rustle of silks, and the quick -music of the dance at some banquet. I could almost see the brilliant -robes and glittering jewels of the waltzers, and the sheen of light, and -the mirrors. But hush! a cry, a stifled moan. Was that at the——No, the -music and the rustle of silk were gone. - -“Mother, put your hand here,—I am tired, and my head feels hot and -strange. Is it night, already, that it has grown so dark? I am resting -now, for my book is almost done, and then, mother, we can go back to the -dear old home where the sun shines so bright and the honeysuckles are -heavy with perfume. And, mother, we will never be poor any more. I know -you are weary, for your cheeks are pale and your fingers are thin; but -they shall not touch a needle then, and you will grow better, mother, -and we will forget these long, long, bitter years. I will not write in -the evenings then, but sit with you and watch the twilight fade as we -used to do, and listen to the murmur of the frogs. I described the -little stream, our little stream, mother, in my book.—Hark! I hear the -splash of its waves now. Hold me by the hand tight, mother. I am tired, -but we are almost there. See! the house glimmers white through the -trees, and the red bird has built its nest again in the cedar. Put your -arm around me, mother, mother—” - -Then single, echoless, the mother’s piercing cry went up—“O my God!” - -Great Heaven! It would not always be music that I should hear. Into this -ear, where all the world poured its tales, sorrow and suffering and -death would come in turn with mirth and gladness. - -I listened again. The long-drawn ahoy!—ahoy!—of the sailor rang out in -slumbrous musical monotone, now free, now muffled—gone. The gleeful -laugh of children at play, then the drunken boisterous shout of the -midnight reveler—What was that? A chime of bells, strange, sublime, -swimming in the air they made a cold, solemn harmony. But even over them -dashed the storm-blast of passion that sweeps continually up and down -the earth, and the harmony that bound them in peace broke up in a wild, -angry clamor, that set loose shrill screams which were swallowed up in a -savage tumult of discord, like a mad carnival of yelling demons. Then, -as if terrified by their own fiendish rage, they retreated shivering, -remorseful, and hushed themselves in hoarse whispers about the gray -belfry. It was the Carillonneur, Matthias Vander Gheyn, playing at -Louvain on the first of July, 1745. - -Yes, my invention had proved a grand success. I had worked and worked in -order to give this instrument to the world; but now when it was -finished, strange to say, all my ambition, all my desire for fame left -me, and I was anxious only to guard it from discovery, to keep it -secret, to keep it more jealously than a miser hoards his gold. An -undefinable delight filled my soul that I alone out of all humanity -possessed this treasure, this great Ear of the World, for which kings -might have given up their thrones. Ah! they dreamed not of the wonders I -could relate. It was a keen, intense pleasure to see the public for -which I had toiled live on, deaf forever save to the few transient -sounds of the moment, while I, their slave, reveled in another world -above, beyond their’s. But they should never have this instrument; no, -not for kingdoms would I give it up, not for life itself. - -It exerted a strange fascination over me, and in my eager desire to -preserve my secret a tormenting fear suddenly took possession of me that -some one might track me to the tower and discover all. It seemed as if -the people looked after me with curious faces as I passed. I went no -longer on the main road that led to the church, but, when I left my -room, took an opposite direction until out of sight, and then made a -circuit across the fields. I lived in a continual fear of betraying -myself, so that at night I closed my window and door lest I might talk -aloud in my sleep. I could never again bear the irksome duties of my -office, and when the college reopened I gave up my situation and took -lodgings in town. Still the dread of detection haunted me. Every day I -varied my route to the church, and every day the people seemed to stare -at me with a more curious gaze. Occasionally some of my old pupils came -to visit me, but they appeared constrained in my presence and were soon -gone. However, no one seemed to suspect my secret; perhaps all this was -merely the work of my imagination, for I had grown watchful and -reticent. - -I hardly ate or slept. I lived perpetually in the past listening to the -echoing song of the Alpine shepherd; the rich, uncultivated soprano of -the Southern slave making strange wild melody. I heard grand organ -fugues rolling, sweeping over multitudes that kneeled in awe, while a -choir of voices broke into a gloria that seemed to sway the great -cathedral. The thrilling artistic voices of the far past rang again, -making my listening soul tremble in their magnificent harmony. It was -music of which we could not dream. - -Then suddenly I determined to try the opera once more; perhaps I was -prejudiced: I had not been inside of a concert-room for more than a -year. - -I went down to London. It was just at the opening of the season. I could -hardly wait that evening until the curtain rose; the orchestra was harsh -and discordant, the house hot and disagreeable, the gas painfully -bright. My restlessness had acquired a feverish pitch before the prima -donna made her appearance. Surely that voice was not the one before -which the world bowed! Malibran’s song stood out in my memory clearly -defined and complete, like a magnificent cathedral of pure marble, with -faultless arches and skillfully chiseled carvings, where the minarets -rose from wreaths of lilies and vine-leaves cut in bas-relief, and the -slender spire shot high, glittering yellow in the upper sunlight, its -golden arrow, burning like flame, pointing towards the East. But this -prima donna built only a flat, clumsy structure of wood ornamented by -gaudily painted lattice. I left the opera amid the deafening applause of -the audience with a smile of scorn upon my lips. Poor deluded creatures! -they knew nothing of music, they knew not what they were doing. - -I went to St. Paul’s on the Sabbath. There was no worship in the -operatic voluntary sung by hired voices; it did not stir my soul, and -their cold hymns did not warm with praise to the Divine Creator, or sway -the vast pulseless congregation that came and went without one quickened -breath. - -All this time I felt a singular, inexpressible pleasure in the -consciousness of my great secret, and I hurried back with eager haste. -In London I had accidentally met two or three of my old acquaintances. I -was not over glad to see them myself: as I have said, I had grown -utterly indifferent to society; but I almost felt ashamed when they -offered me every attention within their power, for I had not anticipated -it, nor was it deserved on my part. Now, when I returned, every body in -the street stopped to shake hands with me and inquire for my health. At -first, although I was surprised at the interest they manifested, I took -it merely as the common civility on meeting, but when the question was -repeated so particularly by each one, I thought it appeared strange, and -asked if they had ever heard to the contrary; no, oh no, they said, but -still I was astonished at the unusual care with which they all made the -same inquiry. - -I went up to my room and walked directly to the glass. It was the first -time I had consciously looked into a mirror for many weeks. Good -Heavens! The mystery was explained now. _I could hardly recognize -myself._ At first the shock was so great that I stood gazing, almost -petrified. The demon of typhus fever could not have wrought a more -terrific change in my face if he had held it in his clutches for months. -My hair hung in long straggling locks around my neck. I was thin and -fearfully haggard. My eyes sunken far back in my head, looked out from -dark, deep hollows; my heavy black eyebrows were knit together by -wrinkles that made seams over my forehead; my fleshless cheeks clung -tight to the bone, and a bright red spot on either one was half covered -by thick beard. I had thought so little about my personal appearance -lately that I had utterly neglected my hair, and I wondered now that it -had given me no annoyance. I smiled while I still looked at myself. This -was the effect of the severe study and loss of sleep, and the excitement -under which I had labored for months, yes, for more than a year. I had -not been conscious of fatigue, but my work was done now and I would soon -regain my usual weight. I submitted myself immediately to the hands of a -barber, dressed with considerable care, and took another look in the -glass. My face appeared pinched and small since it had been freed from -beard. The caverns around my eyes seemed even larger, and the bright -color in my cheeks contrasted strangely with the extremely sallow tint -of my complexion. I turned away with an uncomfortable feeling, and -started on a circuitous route to the church, for I never trusted my -instrument in any other place. - -It was a sober autumn day. Every thing looked dreary with that cold, -gray, sunless sky stretched overhead. The half-naked trees shivered a -little in their seared garments of ragged leaves. Occasionally a cat -walked along the fence-top, or stood trembling on three legs. Sometimes -a depressed bird suddenly tried to cheer its drooping spirits and -uttered a few sharp, discontented chirps. Just in front of me two boys -were playing ball on the roadside. As I passed I accidentally caught -this sentence: - -“They say the professor ain’t just right in his head.” - -For a moment I stood rooted to the ground; then wheeled round and cried -out fiercely, “What did you say?” - -“Sir?” - -“What was that you said just now?” I repeated still more fiercely. - -The terrified boys looked at me an instant, then without answering -turned and ran as fast as fright could carry them. - -So the mystery now was really explained! It was not sick the people -thought me, but crazy. I walked on with a queer feeling and began -vaguely to wonder why I had been so savage to those boys. The fact which -I had learned so suddenly certainly gave me a shock, but it was nothing -to me. What did I care, even if the people did think me crazy? Ah! -perhaps if I told my secret they would consider it a desperate case of -insanity. But the child’s words kept ringing in my ears until an idea -flashed upon me more terrifying than death itself. How did I know that I -was _not_ insane? How did I know that my great invention might be only -an hallucination of my brain? - -Instantly a whole army of thoughts crowded up like ghostly witnesses to -affright me. I had studied myself to a shadow; my pallid face, with the -red spots on the cheeks and the blue hollows around the eyes, came -before my mental vision afresh. The fever in my veins told me I was -unnaturally excited. I had not slept a sound, dreamless sleep for weeks. -Perhaps in the long, long days and nights my brain, like my body, had -been overwrought; perhaps in my eager desire to succeed, in my desperate -determination, the power of my will had disordered my mind, and it was -all deception: the sounds, the music I had heard, merely the creation of -my diseased fancy, and the instrument I had handled useless metal. The -very idea was inexpressible torture to me. I could not bear that a -single doubt of its reality should exist; but, after once entering my -head, how would I ever be able to free myself from distrust? I could not -do it; I would be obliged to live always in uncertainty. It was -maddening: now I felt as if I might have struck the child in my rage if -I could have found him. Then suddenly it occurred to me, for the first -time, that my invention could easily be tested by some other person. -Almost instantly I rejected the thought, for it would compel me to -betray my secret, and in my strange infatuation I would rather have -destroyed the instrument. But the doubts of my sanity on this subject -returned upon me with tenfold strength, and again I thought in despair -of the only method left me by which they could ever be settled. - -In the first shock, when the unlucky sentence fell upon my ear, I had -turned after the boys, and then walked on mechanically towards the town. -Now, when I looked up I found myself almost at the college gate. No one -was to be seen, only Mother Flinse with her basket on her arm was just -raising the latch. Half bewildered I turned hastily round and bent my -steps in the direction of my lodgings, while I absently wondered whether -that old woman had stood there ever since, since—when? I did not -recollect, but her shadow was long and slim—no, there were no shadows -this afternoon; it was sunless. - -As I reached the stairs leading to my room, my trouble, which I had -forgotten for the moment, broke upon me anew. I dragged myself up and -sat down utterly overwhelmed. As I have said, I would sooner destroy the -instrument than give it to a thankless world; but to endure the -torturing doubt of its reality was impossible. Suddenly it occurred to -me that Mother Flinse was mute. I might get her to test my invention -without fear of betrayal, for she could neither speak nor write, and her -signs on this subject, if she attempted to explain, would be altogether -unintelligible to others. I sprang up in wild delight, then immediately -fell back in my chair with a hoarse laugh—Mother Flinse was _deaf_ as -well as dumb. I had not remembered that. I sat quietly a moment trying -to calm myself and think. Why need this make any difference? The -instrument ought to, at least it was possible that it might, remedy loss -of hearing. I too was deaf to these sounds in the air that it made -audible. They would have to be magnified to a greater degree for her. I -might set it for the present and use the full power of the instrument: -there certainly would be no harm in trying, at any rate, and if it -failed it would prove nothing, if it did not fail it would prove every -thing. Then a new difficulty presented itself. How could I entice the -old woman into the church? - -I went back towards the college expecting to find her, but she was -nowhere to be seen, and I smiled that only a few moments ago I had -wondered if she did not always stand in the gateway. Once, I could not -exactly recall the time, I had passed her hut. I remembered distinctly -that there was a line full of old ragged clothes stretched across from -the fence to a decayed tree, and a bright red flannel petticoat blew and -flapped among the blackened branches. It was a miserable frame cabin, -set back from the Spring road, about half a mile out of town. There I -went in search of her. - -The blasted tree stood out in bold relief against the drab sky. There -appeared no living thing about the dirty, besmoked hovel except one lean -rat, that squatted with quivering nose and stared a moment, then -retreated under the loose plank before the door, leaving its smellers -visible until I stepped upon the board. I knocked loudly without -receiving any reply; then, smiling at the useless ceremony I had -performed, pushed it open. The old woman, dressed in her red petticoat -and a torn calico frock, with a faded shawl drawn over her head, was -standing with her back towards me, picking over a pile of rags. She did -not move. I hesitated an instant, then walked in. The moment I put my -foot upon the floor she sprang quickly round. At first she remained -motionless, with her small, piercing gray eyes fixed upon me, holding a -piece of orange-and-black spotted muslin; evidently she recognized me, -for, suddenly dropping it, she began a series of wild gestures, grinning -until all the wrinkles of her skinny face converged in the region of her -mouth, where a few scattered teeth, long and sharp, gleamed strangely -white. A rim of grizzled hair stood out round the edge of the turbaned -shawl and set off the withered and watchful countenance of the -speechless old crone. The yellow, shriveled skin hung loosely about her -slim neck like leather, and her knotted hands were brown and dry as the -claws of an eagle. - -I went through the motion of sweeping and pointed over my shoulder, -making her understand that I wished her to do some cleaning. She drew -the seams of her face into a new grimace by way of assent, and, putting -the piece of orange-and-black spotted muslin around her shoulders in -lieu of a cloak, preceded me out of the door. She started immediately in -the direction of the college, and I was obliged to take hold of her -before I could attract her attention; then, when I shook my head, she -regarded me in surprise, and fell once more into a series of frantic -gesticulations. With considerable trouble I made her comprehend that she -was merely to follow me. The old woman was by no means dull, and her -small, steel-gray eyes had a singular sharpness about them that is only -found in the deaf-mute, where they perform the part of the ear and -tongue. As soon as we came in sight of the church she was perfectly -satisfied. I walked up to the main entrance, turned the knob and shook -it, then suddenly felt in all my pockets, shook the door over, and felt -through all my pockets again. This hypocritical pantomime had the -desired effect. The old beldam slapped her hands together and poked her -lean finger at the hole of the lock, apparently amused that I had -forgotten the key. Then of her own accord she went round and tried the -other doors, but without success. As we passed the narrow window in the -rear I made a violent effort in knocking out the loose boards. The old -woman seemed greatly delighted, and when I crawled through willingly -followed. I gave her a brush, which fortunately one day I had discovered -lying in the vestibule, and left her in the church to dust, while I went -up in the tower to prepare and remove from sight all the tools which -were scattered about. I put them in a recess and screened it from view -by a map of the Holy Land. Then I took my instrument and carefully -adjusted it, putting on its utmost power. - -In about an hour I went down and motioned to Mother Flinse that I wanted -her up stairs. She came directly after me without hesitation, and I felt -greatly relieved, for I saw that I would likely have no trouble with the -old woman. When we got into the tower she pointed down to the trees and -then upward, meaning, I presume, that it was high. I nodded, and taking -the instrument placed my ear to it for a moment. A loud blast of music, -like a dozen bands playing in concert, almost stunned me. She watched me -very attentively, but when I made signs for her to come and try she drew -back. I held up the instrument and went through all manner of motions -indicating that it would not hurt her, but she only shook her head. I -persevered in my endeavor to coax her until she seemed to gain courage -and walked up within a few feet of me, then suddenly stopped and -stretched out her hands for the instrument. As she did not seem afraid, -provided she had it herself, I saw that she took firm hold. - -In my impatience to know the result of this experiment, I was obliged to -repeat my signs again and again before I could prevail upon her to raise -it to her ear. Then breathlessly I watched her face, a face I thought -which looked as if it might belong to some mummy that had been withering -for a thousand years. Suddenly it was convulsed as if by a galvanic -shock, then the shriveled features seemed to dilate, and a great light -flashed through them, transforming them almost into the radiance of -youth; a strange light as of some seraph had taken possession of the -wrinkled old frame and looked out at the gray eyes, making them shine -with unnatural beauty. No wonder the dumb countenance reflected a -brightness inexpressible, for the Spirit of Sound had just alighted with -silvery wings upon a silence of seventy years. - -A heavy weight fell unconsciously from my breast while I stood almost -awed before this face, which was transfigured, as if it might have -caught a glimmer of that mystical morn when, in a moment, in the -twinkling of an eye, we shall all be changed. - -My instrument had stood the test; it was proved forever. I could no -longer cherish any doubts of its reality, and an indescribable peace -came into my soul, like a sudden awakening from some frightful dream. I -had not noticed the flight of time. A pale shadow hung already over the -trees—yes, and under them on the slime-covered stones. Ay! and a heavier -shadow than the coming night was even then gathering unseen its rayless -folds. The drab sky had blanched and broken, and the sinking sun poured -a fading light through its ragged fissures. - -The old woman, as if wrapped in an enchantment, had hardly moved. I -tried vainly to catch her attention; she did not even appear conscious -of my presence. I walked up and shook her gently by the shoulder, and, -pointing to the setting sun, held out my hand for the instrument. She -looked at me a moment, with the singular unearthly beauty shining -through every feature; then suddenly clutching the trumpet tight between -her skinny claws, sprang backward towards the stairs, uttering a sound -that was neither human nor animal, that was not a wail or a scream, but -it fell upon my ears like some palpable horror. Merciful Heaven! Was -that thing yonder a woman? The shriveled, fleshless lips gaped apart, -and a small pointed tongue lurked behind five glittering, fang-like -teeth. The wild beast had suddenly been developed in the hag. Like a -hungry tigress defending its prey, she stood hugging the trumpet to her, -glaring at me with stretched neck and green eyes. - -A savage fierceness roused within me when I found she would not give up -the instrument, and I rushed at her with hands ready to snatch back the -prize I valued more than my life—_or hers_; but, quicker than a hunted -animal, she turned and fled with it down the stairs, making the tower -ring with the hideous cries of her wordless voice. Swiftly—it seemed as -if the danger of losing the trumpet gave me wings to fly in pursuit—I -crossed the vestibule. She was not there. Every thing was silent, and I -darted with fleet steps down the dusky aisle of the church, when -suddenly the jarring idiotic sounds broke loose again, echoing up in the -organ-pipes and rattling along the galleries. The fiend sprang from -behind the altar, faced about an instant with flashing eyes and gleaming -teeth, then fled through the vestry-room into the passage. The sight of -her was fresh fuel to my rage, and it flamed into a frenzy that seemed -to burn the human element out of my soul. When I gained the steps -leading into the coal-room she was already in the window, but I cleared -the distance at a single bound and caught hold of her clothes as she -leaped down. I crawled through, but she clutched the instrument tighter. -I could not prize it out of her grasp; and in her ineffectual efforts to -free herself from my hold she made loud, grating cries, that seemed to -me to ring and reverberate all through the forest; but presently they -grew smothered, gurgled, then ceased. Her clasp relaxed in a convulsive -struggle, and the trumpet was in my possession. It was easily done, for -her neck was small and lean, and my hands made a circle strong as a -steel band. - -The tremor died out of her frame and left it perfectly still. Through -the silence I could hear the hiss of a snake in the nettle-weeds, and -the flapping wings of some night bird fanned my face as it rushed -swiftly through the air in its low flight. The gray twilight had -deepened to gloom and the graves seemed to have given up their tenants. -The pale monuments stood out like shrouded specters. But all the dead in -that church-yard were not under ground, for on the wet grass at my feet -there was something stark and stiff, more frightful than any phantom of -imagination—something that the daylight would not rob of its ghastly -features. It must be put out of sight, yes, it must be hid, to save my -invention from discovery. The old hag might be missed, and if she was -found here it would ruin me and expose my secret. I placed the trumpet -on the window-ledge, and, carrying the grim burden in my arms, plunged -into the damp tangle of weeds and grass. - -In a lonesome corner far back from the church, in the dense shade of -thorn-trees, among the wild brambles where poisonous vines grew, -slippery with the mould of forgotten years, unsought, uncared for by any -human hand, was a tomb. Its sides were half buried in the tall -underbrush, and the long slab had been broken once, for a black fissure -ran zigzag across the middle. In my muscles that night there was the -strength of two men. I lifted off one-half of the stone and heard the -lizards dart startled from their haunt, and felt the spiders crawl. When -the stone was replaced it covered more than the lizards or the spiders -in the dark space between the narrow walls. - -As I have said, the instrument possessed a singular fascination over me. -I had grown to love it, not alone as a piece of mechanism for the -transmission of sound, but like a _living_ thing, and I replaced it in -the tower with the same pleasure one feels who has rescued a friend from -death. My listening ear never grew weary, but now I drew quickly away. -It was not music I heard, or the ripple of water, or the prattle of -merry tongues, but the harsh grating cries that had echoed in the -church, that had rattled and died out in the forest—that voice which was -not a voice. I shivered while I readjusted the instrument; perhaps it -was the night wind which chilled me, but the rasping sounds were louder -than before. _I could not exclude them._ There was no element of -superstition in my nature, and I tried it over again: still I heard -them—sometimes sharp, sometimes only a faint rumbling. Had the soul of -the deaf-mute come in retribution to haunt me and cry eternally in my -instrument? Perhaps on the morrow it would not disturb me, but there was -no difference. I could hear only it, though I drew out the trumpet for -vibrations hundreds of years old. I had rid myself of the withered hag -who would have stolen my treasure, but now I could not rid myself of her -invisible ghost. She had conquered, even through death, and come from -the spirit world to gain possession of the prize for which she had given -up her life. The instrument was no longer of any value to me, though -cherishing a vague hope I compelled myself to listen, even with -chattering teeth; for it was a terrible thing to hear these hoarse, -haunting cries of the dumb soul—of the soul I had strangled from its -body, a soul which I would have killed itself if it were possible. But -my hope was vain, and the trumpet had become not only worthless to me, -but an absolute horror. - -Suddenly I determined to destroy it. I turned it over ready to dash it -in pieces, but it cost me a struggle to crush this work of my life, and -while I stood irresolute a small green-and-gold beetle crawled out of it -and dropped like a stone to the floor. The insect was an electric flash -to me, that dispelled the black gloom through which I had been battling. -It had likely fallen into the instrument down in the church-yard, or -when I laid it upon the window-sill, and the rasping of its wings, -magnified, had produced the sounds which resembled the strange grating -noise uttered by the deaf-mute. - -Instantly I put the trumpet to my ear. Once more the music of the past -surged in. Voices, leaves, water, all murmured to me their changeful -melody; every zephyr wafting by was filled with broken but melodious -whispers. - -Relieved from doubts, relieved from fears and threatening dangers, I -slept peacefully, dreamlessly as a child. With a feeling of rest to -which I had long been unused, I walked out in the soft clear morning. -Every thing seemed to have put on new life, for the sky was not gray or -sober, and the leaves, if they were brown, trimmed their edges in -scarlet, and if many had fallen, the squirrels played among them on the -ground. But suddenly the sky and the leaves and the squirrels might have -been blotted from existence. I did not see them, but I saw—_I saw Mother -Flinse come through the college gateway and walk slowly down the road!_ - -The large faded shawl pinned across her shoulders nearly covered the red -flannel petticoat, and the orange-and-black spotted muslin was wrapped -into a turban on her head. Without breathing, almost without feeling, I -watched the figure until at the corner it turned out of sight, and a -long dark outline on the grass behind it ran into the fence. The shadow! -Then it was not a ghost. Had the grave given up its dead? I would see. - -At the church-yard the briers tore my face and clothes, but I plunged -deeper where the shade thickened under the thorn-trees. There in the -corner I stooped to lift the broken slab of a tomb, but all my strength -would not avail to move it. As I leaned over, bruising my hands in a -vain endeavor to raise it, my eyes fell for an instant on the stone, and -with a start I turned quickly and ran to the church; then I stopped—the -narrow fissure that cut zigzag across the slab on the tomb was filled -with green moss, and this window was nailed up, and hung full of heavy -cobwebs. - -And my instrument? - -Suddenly, while I stood there, some substance in my brain seemed to -break up—it was the fetters of monomania which had bound me since that -evening long ago, when, by the river in the oak-forest, I had heard the -robin trill. - -No murder stained my soul: and there, beside the black waves of insanity -through which I had passed unharmed, I gave praise to the great -Creator—praise silent, but intense as Miriam’s song by the sea. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE PATHS OF THE SEA. - - -Around the porch there hung that day a crimson glory. It was the -climbing rose about the door displaying its gorgeous bloom in a thousand -crowns. Green, grass-green were the hills, but in front of the house the -cliff fell abruptly, with a precipitous drop, to the sea. On either side -the waving coast-line stretched away, a shining belt of yellow sand. -There the breakers with unfurled banners of fleece followed each other -in a never ending procession to the shore. But at the foot the billows, -by day and night running in forever, dashed against the rock and chopped -to a seething foam that threw up in one continual briny shower its white -and glittering spray. - -The surf at this point, even in pleasant weather, sounded a constant -roar, and in times of storm it increased to a deafening thunder that -appalled the ear and made the heart tremble before the sea in its savage -ferocity. Looking off to the right, perhaps the greater part of a mile -distant, the harbor discovered itself, blue, bluer than the sky. A few -vessels that had grown mysteriously upon the empty horizon, and come in -over the vast waste of waters, were idly lying at anchor, each one -biding her time to spread her sails in the breeze and recede upon her -lonely course, going, as she had come, like some spirit of solitude, -dropping down silently beyond the remote sea-reaches. There the Nereid -swung herself gently over the long ground-swell, patiently awaiting the -coming night when again to take up her watery track that would carry her -over the great Atlantic to other lands and far-off harbors. Not a -trimmer ship sailed the high seas. - -The sun had traveled almost down the western slope, and it lit up the -mighty ocean with a splendor that burned in lances of flame along the -waves, and floated in myriad rainbows over the surf. The pomp of the -departing day passed across the boundless waters, a magnificent -pageantry. As the sun went down, the sky became a scarlet canopy. The -flying spray took up the color and spread out a thousand streamers to -the wind. Long, gold-green lanes of sea ran out to where the distant -mists let down their gorgeous drapery. The tireless gulls, shaking the -red light from their wings, sailed and sailed and dipped and sailed -again. A few fishing smacks loitered in the orange haze, and, leagues -away, a single sloop in the humid north stood, like some wan -water-wraith, with a garland of foam about its feet. Eastward, above the -hills, the waiting moon hung her helmet, paler than pearl, and the land, -transfigured by the evening light, looked on while the sea in its play -flashed up a hundred hues. - -The widow Aber had lived there on the cliff and seen the tides ebb and -flow for more now than the quarter of a century. She was not a young -girl when, twenty-six years back, poor Jacob Aber had married her. It -was a sudden fancy on his part and a great surprise to the place, for -Jacob was well on towards fifty, and many a girl had set her cap to -catch the handsome sailor in vain. But he never rued his bargain. He was -not a rich man, because he had always been a generous man, and he was -content with enough merely to bring him in a modest living. When he -married he took what little he had and built this cottage, built it of -brick good and strong, where he could feel the salt wind blow, right in -the face of the sea—the sea that, until he met Miriam Drew with her soft -gray eyes, he had loved better than every thing else in all the wide -world. - -They were happy and prosperous for four long years. First a son, then a -daughter had come to brighten their home, and it was on just such an -evening as this that Miriam, holding her infant child in her arms, told -Jacob good-bye two-and-twenty years ago. - -It would be his last cruise, he said. The vessel was his own, and in -twelve months, or less, he would come back rich enough to stay always, -and if the tears were in his voice he choked them down bravely, saying -again it was but for a little while he should be gone, and she must -cheer up for the long and happy years that would come after. - -Then she suddenly laid down her child and with a smothered sob put up -her arms about his neck. It was the first time she had fairly given way, -and she clung to him trembling violently, but uttering not one word. He -smoothed her brow gently, with a caressing touch, for her sake keeping -his own grief crushed within his heart, and said,— - -“Miriam don’t you remember once saying you could always tell a sailor by -the dreamy far-off look in his eyes, an expression that came only to -those that lived upon the sea and watched its wide, wide fields? And -don’t you remember sometimes when I was sitting quietly at home you -would come up suddenly and ask me what it was I saw miles and miles -away, over the summer water, in that distant sunny land? Well, do not -cry so, for even when my ship has vanished from your sight, when on -every side there is no trace of shore, I can stand upon her deck and -look beyond the far horizon at our peaceful, happy home. And when at -evening, with your eyes upon the sea, you sit and hold the children in -your lap, remember I will be watching you from across its glittering -line. There, that is right! You are a good, brave girl! It is but for a -little while. I can look beyond this parting—I can see your waiting face -turn radiant as my boat sails safely back!” - -Then, when he had kissed her and the little ones, and turned and kissed -them again, there was a faint smile struggling through her tears. So, -striving to keep down her grief, she parted without saying one word of -the terrible dread that lay upon her heart. - -And two-and-twenty years ago he had sailed away. - -Many days, many nights, many weeks, many months, Miriam had watched the -sea with wistful eyes. For his sake she had very nearly grown to love -it, and the color came again to her cheeks as the time went by and the -year was almost up, when it would give back forever the one she valued -more than life. In those days she scanned the water-line, and waited -patiently, and went about the house singing. She chattered to her -baby-daughter all how its father was sailing home, until it laughed and -cooed in wild delight. Every morning she dressed little Tommy in his -best, and tied about his waist the beautiful sea-green sash that Jacob -had brought her from the distant Indies; and in the queer frosted vases -on the mantel, that had come from some foreign port, she kept a fresh -bouquet of sweet wild flowers. - -But poor Jacob never came back. - -Homeward bound, his vessel was wrecked off the treacherous Newfoundland -shore. A storm drove her helpless, enshrouded in fog, against the rocks -where she foundered, and captain and crew went down together. Only two -men escaped from the terrible disaster. - -When the dreadful news came and they told Miriam as they met her on the -porch, she made no reply. She did not moan or scream. She only looked -out for a moment at the deceitful sea, smiling in its sheen of a -thousand tints, then turned and went into the house and shut the door. - -She had always been a strange woman, and they left her to bear her grief -alone. She asked nobody’s sympathy, she did not complain, she never -spoke of Jacob. She did not, as the people had expected, sell her house. -She made no change so far as the world could see, only that she held -herself, if possible, more aloof from society than ever. But before -three months had gone by they noticed that her brown and shining hair -had turned white, and her gray eyes showed half concealed within their -depths an unfathomed trouble. Then too, her figure, once erect and -straight as a dart, grew bent and stooped across the shoulders, and -nothing ever brought the color to her face any more that was always pale -and thin. Otherwise, however, there appeared no difference. She lived -economically, and sometimes took in a small amount of fine sewing, as, -beside the house, she had little else, for the sea when it buried her -husband had buried his earnings also in the same watery grave. - -She staid at home and watched the children in whom her life was now -wholly bound up. They were her world, her all. She seemed to find in -them her very existence, and after the queer frosted vases on the mantel -had stood empty for years, their young hands filled them again with -sweet wild flowers. So the house once more was bright and sunny, and, -though Miriam herself never sang, Hannah’s voice was clear and happy. - -Hannah had grown up the very picture of her mother when in her early -girlhood, but young Tom was like his father. He was like his father in -more respects than one, and while still a boy the people said he too -will prove a sailor. They were right; though Miriam had struggled -against it and watched over him with an absorbing care. She saw again -developed in him the same wild fascination for the sea. She knew its -strength and that it must prevail, and when he came and begged so hard, -with the well remembered far-off look in his eyes, she felt all -opposition would be vain. - -She did not reproach herself that she had lived upon the coast and -played with him upon the beach, for something in her heart told her that -it could have been no different, even had she raised him up in another -place where the sound of the sea would not have been always in his ears. -She recognized in this fatal love the heritage he had received from his -father. The thought that it could be eradicated, that he would ever be -satisfied with any thing else she knew to be hopeless, and so the widow -had given up, and he had gone at fourteen to seek his fortune, like his -father before him, a sailor on the high seas. - -Now, ten years later, and two-and-twenty years since poor Jacob had -started on his fateful cruise, young Tom was ready for his fourth -voyage. He had climbed unaided several steps up the ladder in his -calling, and the Nereid, waiting down in the harbor would carry him in a -few hours, her first mate, out upon her long two years’ absence. It was -a great lift to him, for, besides his promotion, Luke Denin, who this -time commanded the ship, had been his early friend. There was but little -difference in their age. They had been boys together, and together they -had explored the shore for miles and fished for days, and they had -rambled the hills and the woods over; so, as young Tom said, it would be -just as good for him as if he commanded the Nereid himself. - -When he told his mother this she had only patted him on the head, and -said in a choked voice,—“My little sailor boy!” - -The widow Aber, ever since her son took to following the sea, had been -gradually breaking. From that time her health, heretofore always strong -and robust, began perceptibly to decline. The people noticed it, but -then she told them that she was getting old—how could they expect a -woman well up into the sixties to be as active as a girl, and besides -this she had the rheumatism. So she was constantly excusing her -feebleness with anxious care, as if she feared they might attribute it -to some other cause than age. - -This evening she was even weaker than usual, though she did not -acknowledge it, but sitting at the supper table her hands trembled so -badly that the cups and saucers rattled a little as she served the tea. -Miriam, whose life had been one constant struggle, was struggling still. -No wonder the widow was proud of her son, her only son. Her gray eyes, -beautiful as in her youth, would wander to him again and again, and rest -upon his face with a strange, yearning expression, but whenever he -turned to her she would drop them quickly and move a little nervously in -her chair, striving to conceal, as she had done so many years ago, the -burden of grief that lay at her heart. - -It was a pleasant party to look at, for Luke Denin too was there, and -the young people carefully avoided any allusion to the separation before -them. Tom, always gay and happy, was more than handsome in his sailor’s -dress, with the bronze of the tropical sun upon his face. And Luke, if -he was not so tall by half a head, and if his hair, instead of being -black and crisp with waves, was light and straight, had at least as -honest and frank a pair of deep blue eyes as Hannah cared to see—not -that Hannah looked at them, for she looked only at her plate, and once -in a while anxiously at her mother. Young Tom was evidently determined -that this last meal at home should not be a sorrowful one, as he kept up -the conversation in his liveliest mood. He told wonderful tales in such -an absurd vein of exaggeration, that sometimes it even called up a smile -on the widow’s face; and when the meal was over he picked her up -playfully in his strong arms and carried her out upon the porch. There -together they all watched the moonlight gradually show itself out of the -dissolving day, in long paths across the water. Then the hour came to -say good-bye. - -It was a desperate battle for Miriam, as she clung to her son in that -parting moment. Then it was, for the first time, that something in her -face went to the man’s inmost heart like a chill. She was old and frail, -and his absence would be long, perhaps he might never look upon her -again. In his wild fascination for the sea, was he not sacrificing her? -The anguish of the thought overcame him. Had it been possible then he -would have given up this voyage and staid at home, but it was too late -now, and when he had turned for a moment, and with a strong effort -fought his grief under control, he said gently,— - -“No, no! Do not be so distressed, mother! It is all for the best; and -when I come back this time, mother, I will never leave you any more.” - -But Miriam, thinking of that other parting so long ago, remembered that -Jacob, too, had said when he came back he would never leave her any -more, and with a half suppressed cry she clasped her hands tighter about -his neck. - -“O, my son, you will come back! Only promise me you will come back, and -I can wait patiently and long!” - -There was a wild energy in her voice that frightened him, as she went on -hurriedly with an accent he had never heard till then,— - -“Once before, with this same dread at my heart, I parted two-and-twenty -years ago, but I let _him_ go without saying a word. I waited patiently. -I even sang and tried to be happy. As the time went by I laughed as I -thought how pleased he would be when he saw how his children had grown. -I tied about your waist a sash of his favorite color, that he had -brought me from the distant Indies, and I kept every thing in readiness -for—what? They came and told me that he had gone down at sea—No, no; do -not interrupt me. I let him go without saying a word. I must speak this -time!” - -She paused for a moment as if waiting until her excitement had calmed, -and with her trembling hand put back the hair from his forehead, then -went on unsteadily in a tone but little louder than a whisper,— - -“You have the same dreamy far-off look in your eyes. I know you must go -my child, I know you can not resist—but when your father left he said it -would be only for a little while, and I—I have waited two-and-twenty -years.” - -There was another moment of silence, as though her thoughts had gone -back over that long, long watch, then, in a wavering voice, she went on -once more, calling him again unconsciously by the name she had used when -he was a little child,— - -“Tommy, Tommy! my boy, my only boy! if you—if the cruel sea—O, I can not -say it, I can not bear it! You will come back, you must come back to -me!” - -A wild terror had crept into her face, then she broke down completely. - -“There, forgive me, Tommy, forgive me! I did not used to be so foolish. -Do not mind me. I am getting old and feeble, Tommy—I am not strong any -more, but—I can wait again—” - -“Why, mother, there is no danger. Look,” he said, drawing his arm close -about her, “how peaceful is the sea! After you, mother, I love it better -than any thing else in the whole world. It has always been gentle to -me—you need not fear, I will surely come back, surely—if—if you can only -wait.” - -Tom’s voice had grown thick and choked, as he added the last words, and -when Miriam, anxious to atone for her past weakness, said quickly,— - -“Yes, yes, Tommy, I can wait—” he made her repeat it. Then rallying -himself he went on gaily,— - -“Why, I will come back, mother, I will come back so grand and rich that -you shall be three times as proud of me, you shall, indeed! And I will -take care of you always then. But, mother,” he said, the choking -sensation coming again in his throat,—“promise that you will not worry -about me while I am gone, or I shall never be happy, not even in any of -the beautiful lands I will see—won’t you promise me, mother? Promise me -that you will wait patiently, promise me that—that you will not give -up—” - -“Yes, yes, Tommy, if you will only come back, I can wait again—I can -even wait a long while.” - -“It will not be so very long! why the time will slip by, and almost -before you know it you will find me standing beside you here again, when -I mean you to be so proud of me that it will well nigh turn my head.” - -“Ah, Tommy, you know I am proud of you now, so proud of you, that -sometimes it fairly frightens me, and I dare not think of it.” - -“Heaven knows,” he said, all the gay sound dying from his voice, as, -stricken with remorse, he remembered the many times he had left her with -no thought beyond the parting moment, “I’m not much to be proud of, but, -mother—” taking up her thin hand and passing it over his face, once more -driven to the last extremity to command his voice—“you and Nan are all I -have on earth to care for me, and out in midocean, or in the far-off -foreign ports, your love, like a constant prayer to keep me from harm, -will be with me always. When I am at home once more I am going to be a -good boy to you, mother. Nothing, not even the sea, shall ever part us -again.” - -“You have always been a good boy to me, Tommy—I only thought—I was -afraid that—O never mind, I can wait for you, Tommy. I do not feel so -nervous now.” - -“There, that is right! We will meet again, mother, and then we will be -very, very happy.” - -He kissed her yearningly, reverentially. It seemed as if he stood awed -before the heart that for a moment had disclosed itself in its most -silent depths, and in that moment there had been revealed to him, with -all its overwhelming strength, that divine love which is mightier than -life. It seemed as if now, for the first time, and almost blinded by the -revelation, he saw—his mother. - -After a little silence, taking her face between his hands, he said, -gently,— - -“Mother, I want to see you smile once more before I go.” - -“I will wait for you, Tommy,” she said again. - -“And I will surely come back.” - -When Miriam looked up there was a faint smile struggling through her -tears, as there had been once before, two-and-twenty years in the past. -Then he was gone. - -Down by the gate Hannah stood, trying to hide in the shadow of the great -honeysuckle the new shy beauty on her face that had been called there by -the kiss of warmer lips than the gentle sea-breeze. - -“Good-bye, Nan,” said Tom, unsuspiciously, throwing his arms about her -in his rough brotherly embrace,—“why how you are trembling! You are not -going to cry? Don’t, I can’t stand it!” - -“No, no,” came uncertainly in a helpless voice, evidently, in her wild -conflict of emotion, not knowing exactly what she was going to do. - -“There, that’s right! Don’t cry, or I’ll—I’ll break down too!” said Tom, -hoarsely, fairly strangling in his throat, and almost worn out by the -strain he had undergone. - -Hannah, surprised, raised her face, but Tom had already got the better -of himself. “How your eyes shine to-night, Nan; I did not know how -pretty you were before!” Down went her head again immediately, and -changing his voice he said, with a sigh,—“Nannie, there ain’t many -fellows that have as good a mother and sister as mine; you won’t forget -me while I’m gone, or get tired waiting? I’ve been a worthless, roving -chap; I’ve never been of much comfort to you or mother, but when I come -back next time, I’m going to stay at home a while. Look up now and tell -me you are glad.” - -“O, Tom, I am! You don’t know how glad I am, if it was only for mother’s -sake.” - -Then, turning his head away to hide the anguish that had come over his -face, he asked, slowly, trying rather ineffectually to keep his voice -natural,—“You don’t think, Nan, any thing will happen to her while I am -gone?” - -“What do you mean?” said Hannah, struck by the awe in his tone. - -“I mean,” he said, unwilling to trouble his sister by the thought that -had so oppressed him, and speaking gaily again: “I mean that you must be -a good girl, and keep up mother’s spirits, but don’t get so used to my -absence, that neither of you will care when I come back.” - -“O, Tom!” - -“Come out into the moonlight where I can see you. I’m dreadfully proud -of you, Nan, because you don’t take on like other girls. You see I -couldn’t have stood it!” said Tom, in a frightfully uncertain state of -mind, as to whether it was possible to swallow the lump in his throat. -“I’m going now. Be good to mother, you know she’s—she’s not very -strong—Have you told Captain Denin good-bye?” - -“No, she hasn’t. Not yet. I thought I’d let you do it first; but you’ll -tell me good-bye now, until I come back never to say it again, won’t -you, Nanine?” said Luke, coming up in his most masterly way, right under -Tom’s very nose, and almost hiding his sister from view in an embrace -that this time was neither rough nor brotherly. - -“Whew!” gasped Tom, as Hannah came in sight again, with no friendly -honeysuckle near to conceal the carnation bloom upon her cheeks. “Is -that the way the wind blows! I’ve been as blind as a bat. Kiss me, -quick, both of you, or I’m a gone case!” - -“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Sit down on the stone there, and recover -yourself. You’ve said your good-bye, now just wait for me!” said the -superior officer triumphantly. And Tom, spent, exhausted, sank down; but -the next instant Hannah had her arms tight about his neck, and was -hiding her face against the crisp waves of his black hair. - -“Tom, dear, you ain’t sorry?” - -“No, Nan, I couldn’t have wished for any thing better; but it was so -sudden, it just kind of knocked the wind out of my sails for a minute.” -Then, after a pause,—“I say, there’ll be a grand glorification when the -Nereid comes back, won’t there?” - -“Yes.” - -“I—I wish it was back now! I don’t know what’s upset me so—There, kiss -her, Luke, and let’s be off, quick, or I’ll disgrace myself outright, -before I know it!” and Tom, gulping down great quantities of air with -all his might, got up from the stone hurriedly, as if he meditated -making a sudden bolt. - -But he did not. He stood there quietly looking out at sea; and when, a -moment after, the young captain, taking his arm, said, “Come, now I am -ready,” he started as from a dream. Turning to his sister, with every -trace of his rollicking manner lost, he said, as though he had not -spoken of her before,— - -“You must take good care of mother—poor mother. Do not let her grieve -while I am gone. Oh, Hannah, you will be very careful of her, and not -allow any thing—not allow her to get tired, and tell her always, while -she waits, that when I am with her again, I will never leave her.” - -Then they had passed through the gate and were going rapidly down the -narrow foot-path to the bottom of the hill. Hannah strained her eyes -after them, and when at the turn of the road both brother and lover were -lost to view, still she lingered at the spot pondering over Tom’s -unwonted emotion. It was not like him. Never before had she seen him so -singularly affected, and now that he was gone, it came back to her with -redoubled intensity. The unusual sorrow that had almost choked him, the -strange tone in his voice that he had tried vainly to conceal, the -sudden wish that the Nereid was back even now, his repeated charges -about their mother, all troubled her. - -An uneasy feeling of dread oppressed her, she knew not why. The heavy -perfume of the honeysuckle suddenly make her sick and faint. The tall -and prickly cedar stood up straight and still, covered on one side with -a fret-work of silver, on the other clothed with the very gloom of -darkness, and somewhere from among its shadowy branches a dove, as if -half wakened out of a dream, stirred, uttered its brooding note, then -sank again to silence. Hannah had heard the same dove a hundred times -before, she even knew that there were purple ripples on its neck, but -this time she started violently and shivered. It seemed as if the summer -night had suddenly grown cold and chilled her to the heart, and with -hurried steps she ran back to the house. - -The porch was deserted and strangely lonesome when she passed across. -Even the crimson bloom, with its thousand crowns, looked black through -the shade, as if it had withered in the hour, and she heard its leaves -make a weird rustle, like a complaint, as she closed the door. The sense -of desolation was so strong upon her that she could hardly keep from -crying out in the solitude, but she went on swiftly to her mother’s -room, and entered with noiseless feet. A great sigh of relief came to -her lips when she saw the peaceful face upon the pillow, for Miriam, -overcome by the reaction, already slept calmly as a child. Hannah sat -down beside the bed. There was a smile upon her mother’s lips. How long -she sat there, whether one hour, or two hours, she did not know, but -when she got up all the tumult in her heart had subsided. - -She kissed the sleeping face gently and went quietly up stairs to her -own room. She threw the shutters open wide, and lo! out upon the sea -with her wings spread, white as the plumage of a gull, the Nereid! -Lonely, spirit-like, beyond the reach of voice, she stood upon the -mighty desert of the ocean. Before her prow the waves held out their -wreath of down, and above, solitary in the vast moonlit sky, hung the -royal planet Jupiter. Steady, radiant, it burned like the magic Star in -the East. Hannah, watching, saw the ship fade away in the far-off -endless isles of silver mist. A great peace had come to her soul, and -when she lay down to sleep there was no trouble on her face. Gone, the -Nereid was gone, but still, even in her dreams, she knew that the star -in the sky was shining. - -Slowly the days came and went. Miriam, yet a little feebler, was bright -and happy. Never, since that night when she said good-bye, had she -murmured or uttered a word of complaint. Every thing at the cottage -glided smoothly on; for Hannah attended to the house, and waited upon -her mother with an untiring care, but even while she went about -performing her different duties her eyes, unconsciously, would wander -off to sea. Often in the afternoon, when the widow nodded in the great -rocking chair by the window, she would slip away down to the beach, and -sit there by the hour. - -Those were pleasant days to Hannah. Then the sea, clear and calm, -rounded out, a great circle of splendor, to the horizon; or on its -surface the giant mists reared themselves, triumphant, in towering -arches. Perhaps her thoughts went out beyond these mighty phantom -aisles, seeking always the two loved ones across their portals, over the -vast and solemn ocean. Sometimes when the sky was warm and the wind blew -shoreward it seemed to bring faintly the scent of foreign flowers; for -nearer now to her were those mystical lands where Summer, almighty -Summer, sat upon an everlasting throne. - -Hannah knew every vessel that sailed into port; and sometimes a boat, -returning, had spoken the Nereid at sea, sometimes at long intervals a -letter came. Then when for weeks, for months it might be, there was no -word, no sign, the royal planet, moving in its eternal orbit, hung again -in the sky, a star of promise. To Hannah, as she watched it night after -night above the sea, it came as a messenger bearing glad tidings of -great joy. - -So the time waned. The peaceful days passed by and fierce storms broke -with a savage roar upon the coast. The green upon the hill-sides faded -out, and the freezing spray encrusted the cliff with ice where the -wintry sea threw up its bitter brine—and sometimes, farther off upon the -shelving beach, it threw up more than brine, or stiffened weed. Broken -spars, dreary fragments of wrecks drifted in, told of the wild -desolation out upon the hoarse wilderness of beaten waves. - -But even those days too passed, and the Spring clothed the land again -with emerald. More than a year had worn away since the Nereid had faded -out of the horizon, and presently another Fall set in. - -For five months no word had come from the absent wanderers. Still Miriam -made not the least complaint. Even when the storms lashed the sea, until -it sent up a roar that made the young girl shiver, the widow evinced no -anxiety. Had she not promised that she would wait patiently? She talked -very little, and generally sat quietly by the window from morning till -evening. But Hannah, saying nothing, had grown heavy-hearted with the -long silence. - -It was November, a dull, dreary day in November. Heavy clouds stretched -themselves in a somber, leaden sky, that near the water gathered dark -and frowning. The gray sea, cold and hoarse, uttered eternally its -hollow roar. But for this it seemed as if a mighty silence would have -brooded over earth and ocean, a silence vast and dreadful as the grave. -Dead white, the hungry surf crawled sullenly up the sand. Leagues away -the fishing smacks all headed to shore, and the gulls were flying -landward, when Hannah looking out, counted a new sail in the harbor. - -Any word to break this long heart-sick watch? - -Quick she had her hat, and glancing at her mother sleeping tranquilly in -the great chair, she ran out, without shawl or wrapping, and started -down the hill. Once at the bottom she slackened her pace a little to -gain breath. A fine drizzle already blew through the air, and the waters -running in upon the smooth beach did not rumble with a great noise as at -the foot of the cliff, but washed, washed, keeping up endlessly a weary -lamentation. The damp settled on her hair in minute globules, and -enveloped all her clothing in its clammy embrace, but she did not heed -the weather. She never looked out once at the desolate, rainy sea, she -hardly heard its solemn moan. Hurrying, hurrying, she went on swiftly -with the one idea absorbing every power. Rapidly, half-running, -half-walking, she never paused until she reached the slippery wharf. - -A group of sailors parted to let her pass. So eager was she that she did -not hear the sudden exclamations, or see the look of pity that had come -upon more than one rough sunburnt face when she made her appearance; for -living all her life in the same quiet village many of the sailors knew -Hannah by sight, many by her gentle manner and kind words, and many a -sailor’s wife had to thank her as a guardian angel when sickness and -poverty had come upon them unawares. She, flurried, her heart throbbing -with expectation, saw only it was the good ship Bonibird that had come -to port. Stephen, old Steve, belonged to it now! She remembered him -well. Often when she was a child had he given her curious shells, and -once he had brought her, in a little bowl filled with seawater, a tiny, -live fish that glittered all over with beautiful colors. Oh yes, she -remembered him well! Surprised and pleased she turned to look for him -among the groups of sailors, but the old man was already at her side. - -Stained and weather-beaten old Steve stood there with his cap off, -shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, and when with an -exclamation of joy Hannah held out her hand, he took it eagerly between -his rough palms. - -“God bless you! God bless you!” broke from his lips in a thick -utterance; then he dropped her hand nervously, and drawing his breath -hard passed his sleeve hurriedly across his face. - -“I’m glad to see you back, Stephen,” she said. “You’ve been gone a long -time.” - -“Yes, you beant so tall then.” - -“Is there any news from the Nereid?” she asked eagerly, hardly noticing -his last reply. - -The old man seemed fairly to break out in a violent perspiration. He -moved again uneasily on his feet and, turning his head from her, mopped -his face once more hurriedly with his sleeve. - -“I’m——I’m feared thar be a storm comin’ up, Miss. Those clouds over the -water do look ugly, and the gulls be all flyin’ land’ard.” - -“Never mind, I’m not afraid of the storm!” she said, impatiently. - -“Why you be all wet now, standin’ out in this nasty drizzle.” - -“No, no, I don’t care! I want to know if you heard any thing from the -Nereid. Why don’t you tell me?” an alarm gathering quickly in her voice -as the first sickening suspicion came over her. “O Stephen,” she said, -with a terrified cry that fairly frightened the man, “you have, and -there is something wrong! O the Nereid—the Nereid is not lost! Say it is -not lost!” - -She had caught the man’s arm in her wild excitement, and clung to him -trembling like a leaf from head to foot. - -“Why, no, no!” he said, scared by the girl’s dreadful agitation; “the -Nereid be all right, she be all right! I didn’t think of sich an idee -comin’ to you, or I’d a said afore she be all right. Thar beant nothin’ -the matter with her, nothin’, I was aboard o’ her myself—I’m afeard -it’ll make you sick, Miss, a standin’ here in the drizzle like this, an’ -with nothin’ to keep off the wet,”—trying to appear as if he had settled -the trouble, but all the time keeping his face turned carefully from -her. - -In the first instant of relief Hannah had let go of his arm and put her -hands to her head without one word, so intense had been the strain; -then, looking up suddenly, and drawing a quick breath, she faced round -to him. - -“Stephen, is this the truth that you have told me? You are not deceiving -me? Is there _nothing_ the matter?” - -“Lord, no, Miss, it beant no lie,” but the old sailor hesitated -painfully while she looked at him, worked his hands nervously about his -neck, put them irresolutely to his pockets once or twice, till unable to -stand it any longer, he suddenly made an end to his indecision by -jerking out a letter, at the same time muttering some half-coherent -sentence about how it had been given to him for her on board the Nereid. - -“O, a letter!” she cried, joyfully, breaking the seal, while her face -that had been so clouded lighted up radiantly. - -As she looked up for a second, with a smile upon her lips, the old -sailor became more distressed in his manner than ever; and when she -unfolded the paper he even put out his hand once or twice, as if he -would have taken it back. Evidently he could not bear to see her read it -then; he had not thought she would open it there. Troubled, he looked -about, shuffling again with that uneasy movement on his feet. If only he -could find some means to prevail upon her first to take it home, and -driven to desperation he turned once more to her, and said in an -appealing voice,— - -“I’m feared thar be a bad storm comin’ up, Miss; the sea it really do -look ugly, and may hap you’d better run home first; thar beant much time -to lose noways.” - -But alas! it was too late. Hannah, utterly oblivious to the old man’s -entreaty, was already eagerly reading down the sheet. Suddenly the color -fled from her face. She appeared dazed and confused. For an instant she -held the paper in a convulsive grasp, staring at it with a stony glare. -Then she uttered a long, shivering sound, and her fingers gradually -relaxed their hold. - -In a second the letter was gone. A savage wind broke loose with a tiger -roar from the sea. The billows, in swift rage and with frightful tumult, -piled up their fierce scrolls in a chaos of towering surge. Mist and -spray and foam whirled in a blinding froth to the sky. - -Old Steve, half-carrying, half-dragging—for the girl seemed hardly able -to take a step unassisted—drew Hannah back into the one long low -building by the wharf, where most of the people that were standing about -a few moments before had taken shelter from the storm. Quickly half a -dozen rough hands drew out a small packing-box and placed it for a seat, -and some one threw a woolen shawl around her shoulders. - -She kept her lips closed tight. She looked at no one, she shivered -constantly. The howling blast swept its brine up the wharf—“Washed -overboard at sea.” The cruel breakers lifted and struck with -thunder-crash—“Washed overboard at sea.” Bitter cold, the salt surf -leaped and writhed and reached out with demoniac fury—“Washed overboard -at sea.” Giant waves opened and shut with a grinding wrath their hungry -jaws. Relentless, appalling, the mighty waters filled earth and sky with -the terror of their strength. - -And Tom, poor Tom, had been washed overboard at sea! - -It was horrible. The awful words rang constantly in her ears. They -repeated themselves over and over. Where, how—she knew naught, only the -one sentence, with its dreadful import. After that she had read nothing, -and before it she forgot all. Rocking a little back and forth on her -seat, she sat there pale and dumb. Like her mother, two-and-twenty years -in the past, she asked no sympathy, she heeded no comment. - -The ashen clouds, racing before the wind like the scud of the sea, drove -swiftly down behind the hills, and the blinding fury of the storm had -spent itself. Drearily the gray sky let down again its endless drizzle, -when Stephen, his honest voice painfully choked by emotion, prevailed -upon her to go home. At first looking at him blankly, she seemed hardly -to comprehend what he said, and it was only when he spoke of her mother -that she gave any heed to his entreaty. Her mother! how could she tell -her the terrible news, her patient, waiting mother! Old Stephen, many -times after, used to say how in that moment, when she looked at him, he -wished he had been dead before ever he brought her such a letter. - -Shivering, always shivering, she drew the shawl tight about her -shoulders, and slipped down off the fishy box without a word. The old -sailor in his anxious care would have followed too, but she only shook -her head, and without having opened her lips, he saw her go alone. - -The sullen mist hung its reeking folds along the shore, and the tide, -running out, left a wide dank stretch of yellow slime. Above it, where, -in Summer, the green swords of the sea-wrack grew, the storm had washed -up clammy masses, heavy with ooze, of the pale and sticky tangle. -Fiercely the treacherous waters had swept over the shore and covered it -with their bitter dregs; but more fiercely had they surged, a dreary -desolation, over the girl’s young heart. - -Upon the bloated girdles, on the wet sand, in the chilly damp, with the -salt spray clinging to her clothes, she went, and the wild sea, calming -down, mourned again at her feet, like a sinister mockery of grief, in -loud lamentation. When she went up the narrow foot-path on the hill, and -came to the garden gate, she stopped a moment, she hardly knew why. It -was a mechanical action with her. She scarcely felt or thought. Her -heart was heavy as a stone. - -The branches of the great honeysuckle were black and bare. She looked at -the old rock by the path now slippery with rain. She looked at the tall -and prickly cedar drenched with mist and spray. She looked out at the -storm-beaten sea, then she looked back once more at the dripping -evergreen. The dove in its thorny spire was gone—the dove with the -purple ripples on its neck. It had never built another nest. Shivering, -shivering, she went on, crossed the porch, where the arms of the -bloomless rose, weird and gaunt, flung down great heavy tears at her -feet, and, still shivering, she went into the house and shut the door. - -Miriam, used to the tumult of the sea, sat patiently in the chair by the -window, as she had done so many, many times in the past. When Hannah -came in she looked up with surprise. The girl would have avoided her, -but Miriam, seeing her so wet became alarmed, and, rising from her seat, -had met Hannah in the hall before she could escape. - -“I thought you were up stairs! What took you out in such stormy weather? -You’re all wet and shivering with the cold, and—why, child, your face is -as white as a sheet! What is the matter?” - -“Nothing, I—I—was caught in the rain, and—and got a little damp.” The -words came uncertainly in a deep voice, for Hannah could hardly trust -herself to speak, lest some unguarded tone should abruptly betray the -terrible truth. The girl felt as if it was written all over her, or that -she might disclose it in every movement; but she had turned her back to -her mother, and with trembling hands was hurriedly shaking out the wet -shawl. “I’ll go and change my clothes. It will not hurt me.” - -“Well, do it quickly, and come down to the fire right away. I’m afraid -it will make you cough.” - -Hannah, eager to escape, gathered the shawl on her arm; but at the foot -of the stairs she stopped and looked back. - -“You—you’ve had a nice sleep, mother?” - -“Yes, dear, so very sound that I only heard the wind like a gentle -zephyr.” - -“And you feel well?” - -“Oh yes, better to-day than I have for a long, long time. I’m going to -get stronger now steadily,” she said, with a smile that, for a moment, -brought into the wan face a strange beauty, like a gleam of the same -radiance that so far in the past poor Jacob had placed upon the shrine -of his heart. - -Hannah, turning her head quickly, almost overpowered by sudden -faintness, went up stairs, staggered across the room, and sank down by -the window in a silent agony of grief. She did not sob or cry audibly, -her whole being was one mental wail of despair—her mother! her gentle, -waiting mother! Fierce unspoken rebellion had taken possession of the -girl’s soul. To one that had been always as a ministering spirit to -those about her, why had Providence allotted so cruel a destiny? She, -whose life had been but a long heart-struggle; she, that had done no -evil, that had suffered without a murmur; she, feeble and bent with -years, marked with the silver brand of sorrow and age; she, far down the -avenue of her days, almost where the mighty mists of eternity close up -their impenetrable curtains, she must yet be compelled to go on, to the -last, through the darkness of new trouble! Was there no mercy, no -justice? - -Bitterly Hannah looked out, dry-eyed, at the relentless sea. There was -no distant line against the sky; above, below, drear and empty, the gray -stretched to infinity—not a sail on all the waters, and the tides were -out—aye, the tides _were_ out for her. - -She had never shed a tear. Forgetful of her wet clothing, she leaned a -long time upon the window-sill, motionless, and the lines in her young -face were hard and strained. Perhaps the memory of that night came back -to her with its vision of the royal planet that had seemed a star of -promise—a star of promise? A mockery it had been, a cruel mockery! - -Then Miriam’s voice calling from the foot of the stairs roused her, and -hurriedly she changed her damp dress, but she could not yet meet her -mother. She lingered about the room. She fell upon her knees; she tried -to pray, but her heart refused to utter a single petition, and Miriam -had called again and yet again before Hannah went down. - -“Come close to the fire. You were so long I am afraid it will make you -sick.” - -“No, mother, I am cold a little, that is all.” - -Miriam did not ask again what had taken her out, and Hannah, shading her -eyes with her hand, sat by the grate trying to prepare herself for the -dreadful duty that awaited her. She knew her mother must be told, lest -it should come upon her abruptly from the lips of a stranger with a -shock greater than she could bear. It was a hard struggle for Hannah; -the girl would gladly have borne all the trouble herself, but that could -not be. - -Just how she said it she never remembered, only suddenly she felt calm -and strong for the duty, and with a strange desperation on her face, -slowly, gently as human means could do, she told the terrible news. - -And Miriam? - -Sitting in her chair she did not scream, or moan, or faint. She leaned a -little forward with her elbow on her knee, and looked at Hannah, looked -at her long and steadily, with a strange wavering light in her eyes. - -“Mother, mother, speak to me!” the girl cried, frightened at this light -in her eyes, terrified that she said nothing, did nothing. - -“Yes, dear, I am better to-day, yesterday I walked to the garden gate. I -will even be strong enough to go down to the wharf when the Nereid comes -in, and it will be such a glad surprise for him, such a glad surprise!” - -She had leaned back in her chair again, and her face, like a revelation, -was radiant once more almost with the lost beauty of her girlhood. - -Hannah, dropping her head in her hands, could scarcely speak for the -awful beating of her heart. - -“No, no, Mother, you do not understand. He is—dead. He will—never -come—home—” - -The same wavering light flickered a second time in Miriam’s eyes as the -girl spoke. She put up her thin hands for a moment and wearily stroked -the silver hair back from her forehead. She looked slowly, with a -bewildered expression about the room, then, smiling again, she said,— - -“Home? Yes, the time is nearly up. In the Spring, in the early Spring, -he shall be home, home to stay always. I know he will not disappoint me. -I promised to wait patiently, and I have not complained, have I Hannah?” - -“No, no——” - -“And I shall be stronger then, and we must make the house pleasant for -him. It will never be lonely any more when he is here. Why do you cry -so, Hannah? It is not long to wait for him now.” - -Hannah, trying to smother her choking sobs, slipped down on the floor -with her face covered, and Miriam talked on and on of the happy times -they would have when “Tommy” came back in the Spring. - -She could be made to comprehend nothing of the dreadful tidings. He had -promised her he would come back, and her faith never faltered. But there -was a distinct change in her from that day. The quiet, reserved manner -that had been with her always a marked characteristic, seldom -volunteering a sentence to a stranger, was gone. She talked incessantly -of her son. She would tell every person she met how much stronger she -was getting, and how she meant to go and meet him at the wharf when the -Nereid came in. - -So months went by, and Miriam did get stronger every day. She had not -been so well in years, not since long ago when poor Tom had first taken -to following the sea. Bright and happy she seemed from morning till -night, only Hannah noticed that sometimes when speaking most earnestly -she would stop suddenly for a moment, and look at her in a bewildered -way, with that same wavering light flickering up in her eyes. - -All the villagers knew the sorrowful story of the Widow Aber’s waiting -so trustfully for “Tommy,” her sailor son that could never come back, -and they were good to Hannah that Winter. The girl had not cast her -bread upon the waters in vain. When she found herself weak and faint a -dozen hands were ready with some kind office, and there was little left -for her to do about the house. Those bitter months as they waxed and -waned were one long, mute agony, but the girl did not break down under -the terrible strain. Trouble does not kill the young; thin and pale she -grew, but strong in her youth, stronger in her love, for Miriam’s sake, -and with something of Miriam’s early nature, she kept her grief crushed -within her heart. She seldom went out of the house now. She staid always -with her mother, as if fearful to leave her for an hour; and those who -went to the house from the village, told how dreadful it was to see her -sitting quietly, even sometimes forcing a smile to her trembling lips -when the widow would say,— - -“Do not look so sad, Hannah. I am strong and well, are you not glad? He -said he liked to see me smile, and he must find us bright and cheerful -when he comes in the Spring.” - -The Spring! Hannah hardly dared to think what might happen then. Every -day, as she watched her mother, the dread upon her grew stronger. She -would have held back the coming of the Nereid, the beautiful Nereid, -that now, with its white wings, might return only as the angel of death -to Miriam. She would understand it all then, and the shock, the dreadful -shock! It was the terror of this that haunted Hannah day and night. - -The last winter month had gone by, and the chilly winds of March were -whistling along the coast, when, one morning, old Steve came hurriedly -up the hill to the house. He brought the news that Hannah had so long -dreaded. The Nereid was even then heading round the cliff. She had asked -him to let her know in time, that she might keep it from her mother, at -least till after the boat had landed. But while he was in the very act -of telling, he stopped suddenly, and a look of fright came over his -face. Hannah turned to find the cause, and saw her mother standing in -the open doorway. She had overheard it all. The girl’s heart sank in her -breast like a stone. - -Vainly she endeavored to dissuade her from going to the wharf, but -Miriam, radiant as a child in her joy, nervous in her pitiful haste, -paid no heed to her remonstrances, that it was cold, that it was too -far, that she would go in her place, until Hannah, driven to -desperation, told her mother again of the dreadful disaster, and how -poor Tom could not be there to meet her. Then the widow stayed her -trembling hands for a moment in their flurried effort to tie her bonnet, -and looked at Hannah, looked at her long and steadily, as she had done -before, with the same strange gaze in her eyes. It always seemed as if -she was dimly conscious, for the instant, that something was wrong, but -even as the shadow flitted over her face, it was gone. - -“Come,” she said, her countenance all brilliant with eager excitement, -“hurry, we must not be late. I feel young and strong, and it will be -such a glad surprise for him!” - -Hannah, powerless to keep Miriam back, gave up the endeavor, and went -on, with a mortal agony in her heart, beside the frail woman who, in all -faith, was going to welcome home her son—her son out upon the silent sea -of eternity, where even a mother’s voice could never reach. No wonder -the girl’s grief made her dumb. Was there no escape? She heard the -waters running in, it seemed to her for a thousand leagues, sounding -their dreadful dirge. At that moment gladly would she have lain down -forever in the same boundless grave with father and brother, where the -waves, slow and sad, were playing for them this requiem on every shore -of every land. But Miriam, in the extremity of her haste, never -stopping, went on steadily over the wet ground, bending, sometimes -almost staggering, before the raw March wind that swept in fierce gusts -from the still frozen north. - -A sudden hush fell upon all the people at the wharf as they came down. -With her gray hair blown about in strands, her eyes fever-bright, and -her breath coming quick and short, paying no heed to any one, the widow -Aber glided silently among them, like an apparition. Unconscious of -every thing but the ship, even then in the mouth of the harbor, she -stood, her face so thin and worn, all quivering with excitement, and her -pale lips moving constantly with some inarticulate sound. Once or twice -she stretched out her trembling hands toward the vessel, then, gathering -her shawl, held them tight against her breast, as if she would keep down -the throbbing of her heart. Frail and shadowy, she seemed hardly human, -as she waited, with her garments fluttering in the bitter wind, with her -very soul reaching, struggling, looking out eagerly in her gray eyes. - -Slowly the ship sailed up the harbor, slowly it reached the dock, and -after almost two years’ wandering, the Nereid rested once more in her -native waters. As the boat touched the wharf, Hannah had taken her -mother’s arm, perhaps that she might hold her back, but Miriam made no -effort to move. The girl could feel her trembling, trembling, but she -only put up her hand unsteadily and brushed the hair away from her face. - -Too well Hannah knew poor Tom would not be there, and, as through a -mist, she saw the sailors swing themselves down. In the dreadful trouble -that had come upon her, she had almost forgotten Luke. During all these -weeks of anguish she had thought only of her mother, but this morning -the strain had been too severe. She had given up the battle, and now -waited stonily; she would have waited on all day, when Miriam, suddenly -breaking loose from her, in a voice half stifled by a wild delight, -cried,— - -“O, Tommy, my boy, my only boy!” - -It was Luke that stood beside her, whom she had strangely mistaken for -her son. She would have fallen to the ground had he not caught her in -his arms. Unable to speak for a moment, she clung to him trembling -violently. Clasping her hands tight about his neck, she closed her eyes, -and, with a quivering sigh, laid her head against his shoulder. Hannah, -looking at Luke quickly, made a gesture that kept him silent, then -Miriam, without moving, said, brokenly,— - -“I have waited for you, Tommy. It was such a long, long time, but I knew -you would come—” - -She paused, while a slight struggle in her breath escaped, like a sob, -from her lips, then went on once more still in an unsteady tone,— - -“I am so glad, so glad! I am well and strong, Tommy. I feel a little -tired now, but I am well and strong. You will never leave me, never -leave me any more—” - -There was another feeble struggle in her throat; then when she spoke -again, her voice, growing fainter at every effort, seemed to come from -some far-off distance, drifting in to them as from the desert spaces of -an illimitable sea. - -“Do not let me go. It is cold, and the wind—Hark! Listen, oh listen how -sweet and soft the waters wash! Hold me close, Tommy. I am weary. Why, -it is Summer! Look! see the land, the foreign land! Stay, Tommy, I am -tired—so tired—” - -Her head had drooped back heavily on the man’s arm, but her lips still -moved, and suddenly her face lighted up with a radiant smile. - -“Nearer,—come nearer—How bright the sunlight shines upon your face! -Tommy, my boy—my sailor boy—” - -So, on that bleak March morning when the Nereid came in, Miriam had -indeed gone to meet her son, her sailor son, on that far, far off -foreign shore that is girdled by the mightier ocean of eternity. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - REINHART, THE GERMAN. - - -Poor Reinhart! He certainly was a brilliant fellow. Even the German -Professors overlooked his English origin, and felt proud of him. -Probably they argued that if he was born in Yorkshire, it was not his -fault. And, besides, as the name showed, his family, no matter where -they had since strayed, must have been, at some period of the past, true -children of the Fatherland. - -As far as he was concerned, he seemed to have very little attachment for -his native country. Indeed, he never evinced very much of an attachment -for any place or any body. We had been together the greater part of ten -years. He possessed a singular influence over me. I hardly know what I -would not have done for Reinhart. But he was in disposition not the -least demonstrative; and whether he ever saw any attraction in me, I can -not tell. I simply imagined so, because time wore away without drifting -us apart. - -A profound interest in metaphysics absorbed his whole being; and through -this channel he had crept into the good graces of the college -authorities. During his long study upon this subject, he had woven about -himself all the labyrinthine meshes of the subtile German philosophy. -Though only a tutor of twenty-five, the doctors of metaphysics touched -their hats to him; all the students bowed before him; and I—I felt sorry -for him. - -Why? I can hardly tell. But he had grown thin and pale and nervous -within the last year; and I could not help wishing that all Germany was -as ignorant of psychology as in the days when the Suabians danced their -dryad dances upon the very spot where now the great University lifted up -its towers—this great University whose walls were built not of stone -from the quarry, but of the labors of many lives, some of whose proudest -pinnacles, reaching into a light of dazzling splendor, had been reared -only by the everlasting sacrifice of reason. - -A vague idea had floated into my mind, but so very terrible it was that -I had never dared acknowledge its existence even to myself; -nevertheless, it oppressed me constantly. Finally, it grew into such a -burden that I could bear it no longer, and so made up my mind to do what -little I could to relieve myself at any rate. A plan occurred to me -whereby I might accomplish my chief design, which was to draw him away -from this study that was consuming him; to draw him away from his myriad -theories into life. But before I had said a word, while I was still -meditating how it could best be done, Reinhart settled the trouble -himself. - -I never was more astonished or more pleased than when he proposed the -very thing I had been trying to broach, that the two of us should spend -the next six months in traveling. What had suggested it to him, or what -his reasons were, I never asked. Had _he_ any suspicions of this strange -fancy that I would not admit to myself, and yet had been vainly striving -to drive from my mind? Since then I have sometimes thought so, and -sometimes thought not. To the proposition I consented eagerly, and did -my best in hastening all the arrangements; therefore no time was lost -before we found ourselves _en route_ for the south of Europe. - -As I have said, Reinhart was not in the least demonstrative. Very likely -his natural reserve had been greatly increased by his sedentary life. -But I noticed, early in our trip, that he seemed laboring to throw off -his abstracted manner. I felt encouraged, notwithstanding I knew it was -an effort to him, and determined, not only that he should see something -of the world, but, what would be of much more benefit, that he should -see something of society. - -In the beautiful Italian scenery my own spirits rose perceptibly. The -great load which had been burdening me lessened and finally raised -itself altogether, as I saw this shadow of the German University that -had been resting on my companion break. But I know now I was mistaken. -It was only the battalion preparing for action; the marshalling of the -forces before the conflict. - -It had been almost a month since we left Germany. Many of the English -and American gentlemen residing in Florence had shown us not only -attention but hospitality. One thing I noticed quickly that Reinhart -cared almost nothing for the society of ladies. He endured it; never -sought it. The most beautiful faces he would pass without any notice, or -with merely an indifferent glance. I was sorry for this, because here -was a channel, I had thought, wherein might be turned the current of his -existence. - -With this subject still uppermost in my mind, I determined one morning I -would bring my sounding-line into play, if it were only on account of my -own satisfaction. We were sitting upon the deep sill of the open window, -smoking our cigars and enjoying the utter tranquillity of the southern -day, when I asked, indifferently, as if the question had been wholly -unpremeditated,— - -“Reinhart, were you ever in love?” - -He looked up quickly, waited a moment, as though at first he had not -exactly understood, then answered,— - -“No.” - -Now, I knew very well he never had been; for, as I have said, the last -ten years we had spent together; but at present I was bent upon the -intent of discovering what probability there was that such a catastrophe -could ever be brought about; so I said again,— - -“Reinhart, do you think you _ever will_ be in love?” - -I expected a repetition of my former answer, but, to my surprise, -without any hesitation, he replied,— - -“Yes.” - -“Indeed!” I gasped, with my breath almost gone,—“and when may it come to -pass?” - -Looking up, I dropped the tone of raillery I had been using immediately, -for I saw it was a serious matter to him; and overcome by astonishment, -I subsided into complete silence. - -The perfume of roses came in on the breeze, and a scarlet-cloaked -flower-girl carrying her wares, the only person on the street, turned -out of sight. A small bird, with red plumes in its wings, lighted nearly -within reach, upon the tree, and broke into song, but, checking the -strain almost in the first note, it flew away, settling, a mere speck, -upon the northern spire of the Cathedral. Then Reinhart said, as though -there had been no pause in the conversation,— - -“I do not know; it may never come in this life.” - -I looked at him, thoroughly puzzled, almost frightened. Then, thinking -perhaps I had not heard aright, said,—“What?” But, without heeding my -interrogation, he continued,— - -“Perhaps it never will come in this life.” - -Yes, I had heard aright. Possibly we were each talking of different -things; and as a last resource, I said,— - -“Perhaps _what_ will never come in this life?” - -“Why, love,” he replied, making a slight gesture of impatience, as -though I had been unpardonably dull. - -“But,” I persisted, determined to understand, “then it will never be at -all, for they neither marry nor are given in marriage in the next -world.” - -“No,” he repeated, “they ‘neither marry nor are given in marriage.’” He -said the words over slowly but mechanically, exactly as if he might have -said, or thought, the same words over a hundred times before. - -That he believed in the immortality of the soul, I quite well knew, for -it was the one shoot of his English education, which, springing in early -boyhood, had survived, like a foreign plant, amid all the German -sophisms. I did not like the strange aspect of his face, and, somewhat -ill at ease, I said,— - -“Then, what do you mean?” I waited a moment for the answer. - -“I can hardly tell you. I have always had a theory of my own—no, not a -theory, a belief. I have never undertaken to express it in language, and -do not know whether I can render myself intelligible. I think every soul -has somewhere in the universe an affinity—I am obliged to use the word -for lack of a better one—and I believe that before complete happiness -can be attained the two are merged into one. It is not marriage: that is -purely earthly. These affinities may possibly meet in this life, though -it is hardly probable; but in the ages to come it will occur just as -certainly as there is an eternity. Mind, I do not call it marriage. It -is the fusing together of two souls, a masculine and feminine, just as -they combine chemicals, producing a new substance. I believe, as I said, -these two souls may sometimes meet in this life; but it is a destiny -that comes to few in centuries, and those few should kneel in -everlasting gratitude before their Creator.” - -When Reinhart ceased speaking, I could see that he had worked himself -almost into a fever, for his eyes were bright and restless, and the -blood surged in waves across his usually colorless face. With a rough -hand, I had struck the chord whose undecided vibrations had, a month -ago, appalled me. The great burden which had so oppressed me settled -down again heavier than before. It was not so much what he had said as -the expression of his face that filled me anew with anxiety. And -struggling under this burden, I made a poor attempt to laugh the matter -off. - -“Reinhart, this is some of your German metaphysics.” - -“No; though you are at liberty to call it what you please; but I have -never read such a theory in any place.” - -“Well, it is an absurd idea,” I retorted, “and sounds exactly like some -of your humbug philosophers, who never believe in any thing but -fantasies; and I would advise you to let them alone.” - -This was hardly wise on my part. I should not have allowed myself to -express any impatience when I saw it excited him, and only augmented -what I was striving to allay. The blood rushed again over his face, but -he said nothing; only, rising from his seat, he walked several times -across the room. - -In the silence that followed, a strain of joyful music broke suddenly -upon us. It was the swell of the Cathedral organ, sounding a prelude for -some wedding. But if the strain was ever finished, we did not hear it, -for the next moment a crash of terrific discord drowned the music, -shaking the very ground. Some object flew swiftly past my face, struck -the wall and fell upon the floor. I sprang up and shut the window -quickly. Half the sky was covered with a black cloud, and from the -carpet at my feet I picked up a dead bird, a small bird with red plumes -in its wings. - -The storm passed over in less than half an hour, leaving the sky -perfectly clear again; but for the remainder of the day I could not -recover my spirits. Whether Reinhart suffered from a like oppression, I -know not; but he seemed possessed by the very demon of unrest. He was -not still a moment. He had little to say; and quite late in the evening -proposed a walk. Without any remark upon the unusual hour, I acquiesced. - -The night was quiet and beautiful, beautiful even for that southern -clime. There was no moon, and still the sky was filled with a soft -light, brighter than the trembling rays of the stars alone. I remember -it because it was a peculiar luminous haze, that I had seen only in -Italy, and because, though no clouds swept over the sky, and the haze -never paled until lost in the crimson glow of morning, that night, to -me, was the blackest night of my life, whose vision sometimes yet rises -before me, even at noon-day, with appalling reality. Ah! why were the -sky and stars beautiful? O, cruel sky! O, cruel stars! Was the sorrow on -earth nothing to you, that you gave no warning? - -We had walked perhaps two squares, when Reinhart stopped just as -suddenly as if he might have come in contact with a stone wall, -invisible to me. Alarmed, I said, quickly, “What is the matter? Are you -ill?” - -“No,” he replied, still standing motionless. Then, in a moment, without -another word, he turned and began retracing his steps. - -“Are you going home already?” I inquired, puzzled by his strange -conduct. - -“No; I am going to the Cathedral.” - -We had just passed the Cathedral, when he had made no motion to enter; -but now I tried in vain to dissuade him from it. I told him that there -was no service at this hour; that we might as well not have left home as -to go inside of any house. All to no purpose; he was just as determined -as at first, until finally he turned fiercely upon me and said, with a -strange emphasis in his tone,— - -“I will go; I must go; I feel something within me that _compels_ me to -go!” - -Was this again the vibration of that terrible chord in his nature—that -terrible chord that threatened to destroy forever the harmony of his -life? - -Powerless to turn him from his intent, together we crossed the northern -portal and entered the nave. It was so dim that the heavy shadows -clustered in a rayless cloud among the arches, and at the end, far -off—they looked like stars in the gloom—flickered a few tapers at the -altar, while higher up swung the sacred but sickly flame that had been -burning for centuries. There was not a stir, not a sound. I trembled all -over with a singular sensation of weakness that came upon me as I -followed Reinhart, who went steadily down the long aisle to where the -transepts met, then stopped as abruptly as he had stopped a few moments -before in the street. - -It was, as I have said, just where the transepts met. There, upon a low -platform or dais, stood a bier covered by a velvet pall, whose heavy -border fell in waveless folds. And upon it rested a casket with silver -mountings. Beside it two tapers burned, one at the head and one at the -foot; and two monks kneeled, motionless. Beyond the choir I saw the -gleam of the organ-pipes, wavering, come and go. The altar lights -circled about each other, and they, too, receded in infinite space; they -grew dim; they vanished; they sprang again; they fled again. The great -tombs loomed out and faded; the figure on an ebon crucifix, inspired -with life, writhed in fearful agony, then once more became transfixed, -and the weak, trembling sensation under which I had been laboring was -gone. - -I saw that we were standing by the dead of some noble family, for the -repose of whose soul the monks were offering up their prayers. I drew a -little nearer. Upon the snow-like cushions within the casket a young -girl lay sleeping the last deep and solemn sleep. Or was it a -vision?—one of that mystical land, whose white portals are beyond the -sun; that land where there is no shadow, no stain; where there is beauty -celestial, peace everlasting? No, it was all the future we ever see; it -was still this side the gates of eternity; it was death. - -A chaplet of flowers crowned her brow, all colorless as marble, and -garlands of flowers wreathed her robe, that was purer than fleece; but -her hands held no lilies, no jasmine; more sacred than these, they held -a small golden crucifix, an emblem imperishable, holy. The burning -tapers threw not over the face, turned slightly toward the altar, that -beautiful dream-light; it was the last inscription written by the -spirit, even after it had seen down the radiant vista of immortal -happiness. - -Ah! why offer prayers for a soul beyond the troubled sea, beyond the -dread valley? O, frail humanity! Even then beside the pall, where rested -the solemn silence no voice could break, stood one for whom the kneeling -monks might have told a thousand _aves_. - -Reinhart raised his face suddenly. Straightening himself, he extended -his arm with a wild gesture, uttering a laugh that grated clear up to -the dome. - -“Did I not tell you?” he cried. “Did I not feel the mysterious summons -that brought me to this spot? Do you see her? _It is she!_ It is her -soul and mine that will abide together through all eternity.” - -The startled monks rose to their feet. The great arches of the Cathedral -threw back his voice in terrible groans. Quick as thought I sprang -toward him, but was hurled off with the ease of a giant. He stooped for -a moment and put one hand to his head, as if a sudden faintness might -have swept over him; but he did not touch the casket. Then, dropping on -one knee beside it, he raised his face and said softly, so softly that -the last word seemed to come to us from a great distance,— - -“O, beautiful soul, part of my spirit, I will not keep you waiting!” - -We gathered around and raised him up. It needed no force now; and when -they laid him down again, with a great throbbing in my breast, I folded -his hands. He had taken his life. - -O, Germany! like this fair day you lured a bird high up into your -sunshine, a bird with brilliant plumes in its wings; then, before it had -sung one song from the pinnacle where it rested, blackening suddenly -into a storm, you killed it. Reinhart, poor Reinhart! you lured high up -into the fantastic light of psychology; then before he had reared one -minaret upon the temple where he climbed, you darkened suddenly into a -gigantic gloom that, rising up like a storm, overwhelmed him. - -Yes, better had it been for Reinhart were the Suabians still dancing -their dryad dances. - - - - -[Illustration] - - SILVER ISLET. - - -In Lake Superior, near its northern shore, a mere speck of land, -scarcely two hundred feet square, barely shows itself above the water. -This is Silver Islet, and on it sinks the shaft of the richest silver -mine in the world. Covering almost its entire dimensions, stand two -buildings. One, a low frame house, encloses the mouth of the mine, and -the other, immediately adjacent, a small wooden structure, forms the -watch-tower. - -Through this tower, every evening, the miners, when dismissed for the -day, are compelled to pass out one by one, and submit themselves to an -examination, where their clothes are thoroughly searched, that none of -the precious metal may be carried away secreted upon the person. So -extreme is the vigilance employed that visitors are never allowed, -except by special permit, and though isolated upon the waters, the place -is kept by day and night under this strict martial surveillance. - -To the north, about a quarter of a mile distant, is another island, -perhaps six or eight acres in extent. It is high and rocky, and in one -place reaches up more than a hundred feet. Here, built upon its sloping -side, is the little settlement that could count up altogether, it might -be, thirty houses. Here the miners live with their families. Here, too, -every thing that pertains to the business of the place carries itself -on; and here it was that father had brought me to stay. - -I was about eighteen years old then. I do not know how father happened -to receive the position of assistant overseer at the mine. I never knew -very much about father. Indeed I had hardly seen him more than half a -dozen times in my life, until that day he came to take me from the farm. -I could not remember my mother, who died in my infancy, and brother or -sister I had none. Father was a morose, unsociable man by nature, and I -think he cared but very little for me. I had been left at my uncle’s to -grow up, and so, as I said, about him I knew almost nothing. - -Uncle George lived on a poverty-stricken farm upon the flattest of -prairies. I hardly know how I did grow up there, it was such a wretched, -miserable place. Although I had never experienced any thing different, -it was so forlorn an existence, that I chafed inwardly against it every -hour. I possessed a kind of dumb consciousness that surely, surely I -must be made for something better than this. I saw nothing of the world, -nothing of humanity outside of my uncle’s family, and the two or three -rough farm hands that he occasionally employed. I would rather have had -the cattle, the poor half-starved cattle, for companions than these. -They were none of them kind to me. I know not whether father ever paid -any thing for my board; but I know I worked far harder than any hired -servant. I did not rebel outwardly, but I was constantly unhappy. Was I -to live on all my days in this hopeless, miserable way? Was there never -to be any thing better? Looking out of the window, I thought of the -great, busy world, and the far-off, unknown cities; but before my eyes -there was only a dead level of the hateful yellow prairie, and above, -the colorless sky stretched itself out in a gigantic, measureless blank. - -From this life it was that father came, without word or warning, and -took me. I know now that he only wanted me with him as a convenience, -but then I was wild with delight. In my great craving for human sympathy -I would have loved father with all my heart, had he given me any -encouragement. I did love him for this one good deed. I knew not where -he was taking me, but I was sure it could be no worse place. With an -intense joy I went up and surveyed, for the last time, the miserable -little room where I had vainly cried so many hot tears over my weary -existence. I stayed my steps a moment beside the one window, a little -window facing westward. From here I had seen the only beauty that ever -came before my passionate eyes flame up with a splendor, as of gold, -along the sky when the sun went down. A thousand times my yearning heart -had watched the short-lived glory fade, like a mockery, into the dreary -blank. From here, too, year by year, with a rank rebellion in my soul, I -had looked out at the shadowless prairie that lay over all the earth, a -great, glaring, uncovered, yellow blister. - -So it was with nothing but glad emotion that I stood upon the spot -consciously for the last time. I had a keen, absorbing love of the -beautiful, a hunger insatiable, that unfed was sapping my life. This -wretched existence had almost killed me; but for the change I believe -that my longing spirit, like my mother’s in the far past, would have -broken its wings. Now there was an avenue of escape suddenly opened up -before me—of escape from the dreadful monotony, from the intolerable -agony of everlasting sameness that, by day and night, recurring forever, -had made up the tiresome years as they passed. My whole being was turned -to my father with one inspiration of gratitude. - -Had I known any thing of Pythagoras then, almost I could have believed -in the transmigration of souls, or that my spirit had passed into some -different body, so utterly strange and new I felt at Silver Islet. Here -father had rented a little house that stood apart from the rest, upon -the very highest point. The whole settlement was grouped within the -least possible compass, and considerable of the island, small as it was, -still remained in its original condition. There were no trees -immediately about our house, but to the right, and running thinly all -the way down on the other side to the water, a few straggling pines -clung, with their rope-like roots, to the rocks. It was no trouble to me -to keep house for only one. I got the breakfast and supper, and every -morning put up a dinner for father, which he took with him to the mine. -So all day I was left wholly to myself. - -As I said, so strange and new I felt it seemed to me for a while as if I -had lost my own identity. Here, for the first time in my life, there lay -before my eyes a vast expanse of glittering waves—the mighty mystery of -far-reaching waters! Rolling, moving, changing, remaining for endless -ages, attracting, terrifying—only the mightier mystery of eternity can -fathom the hidden secret of this unceasing problem. A hush fell upon my -fluttering spirits, a hush of profound awe before this symbol, this -vision of the unknown infinite. At last the cry of my soul for food was -silenced, the dreadful hunger of my heart, that through all my life I -could not allay, was pacified. - -At dawn I saw the timid light creep up along the east and wait and -brighten, until it set an emblazoned standard in the sky, and below, far -out, covered with the pomp of the rising sun, the distant billows -clashed their blood-red shields. At noon, I saw the mid-day radiance, -falling through the air in torrents of splendor, float far and near, -changing into gorgeous mosaics upon the sea. At night I saw the long -line of mighty cliffs upon the silent Canadian shore reach out their -giant shadow through the dusk of evening that, slowly, softly, gathered -into a twilight sweeter than the luminous haze of a dream. - -I had no one to care for me, no friend, no lover, but I needed none now. -I was happy, happy as in a new and glorious world. I forgot the dreadful -prairie, dry and parched—the vast, staring, level of land that for so -many years had oppressed me by its terrible, never ending monotony. I -even forgot the thousand times I had longed and longed to see a great -city, to live among its busy throng. - -It was November, and presently the wind, keen and cold, swept down, like -the wind from the Arctic zone. Mad, pitiless, the boundless waters piled -themselves in towering billows. They leaped and menaced. They broke over -Silver Islet with a frightful roar and drenched it with their freezing -spray. They danced about it in savage fury. They beat against it -continually, and the howling gale, swift and strong, dashed the foam in -blinding sheets. Already the long, fierce winter of the North was -rapidly setting in. - -Great layers of ice formed and broke, and ground up and formed again, -until December, still and frigid, locked us within the impenetrable -barriers of a vast, frozen sea. To the east, to the west, to the south, -an illimitable wilderness of snow, the mighty Superior for miles lay -wrapped in a silence profound as the grave. To the north, shrouded in -their eternal solitude, cold, white and spectral, the cliffs upon the -long Canadian shore held up their stony battlement, sheeted in ice, as -in a pall. Utterly devoid of warmth, the sunlight blazed with a -brilliance indescribable through an atmosphere that, clearer than -crystal, glittered as with the scintillations of feldspar. But the -nights—the nights swinging in their long winter arc, were illuminated by -a glory more gorgeous than the unreal splendor wrought in the loom of -dreams. The stars, myriads upon myriads, studded the whole heaven with -drops of intense light, and the planets, magnified through the vast -laboratory of the air, showed great balls of molten silver against a -vault of jet. Sometimes when the night was at its blackest, suddenly -there shot up, flaming from the white battlements of the Canadian shore, -a thousand lances. Like the parade of an army, like the marshalling of -far-reaching cohorts, the mighty processions swept the semicircle of the -sky. They rose and fell. They wavered like the spears of troops in -battle. Then the vast battalions, closing together, ran up in a towering -shaft to the zenith. A river of ice-cold fire, it divided the heaven. It -overflowed and spread out in a sea of gorgeous color that receded, wave -upon wave, until it burned, a deep blue flame upon the frozen crown of -the Canadian cliffs. I have watched this aurora in its changeful mood a -hundred times. I have watched the illimitable fields of snow beneath, -while the reflected light played upon them in weird rays, far out to the -remote horizon. - -During the Winter, unused to the severe climate, I rarely left the -house. So far as was possible, I held myself aloof from the people, the -people, that, as I said, were only the rough families of miners. -Ignorant and uneducated, painfully ignorant and uneducated I was myself, -still I could not associate with such as these. I did not grow tired, -but yet I was glad when the long, frozen months had passed by. As the -late Spring opened, Winter even then did not yield its supremacy without -a fierce contest, but in the contest—the savage storms from the -north—the ice broke. The huge cakes, drifting about, slowly, gradually, -wore themselves away, and the wind dropped its javelins of frost. - -Late it was in June before the last vestige was gone of the bitter cold -that had held us in its frigid clasp for more than two-thirds of a year. -Then there opened for me an unfailing source of enjoyment. I learned to -row, and father allowed me to buy a small boat. It was almost the only -favor I ever asked of him, and how much have I to be thankful for that -he did not deny me! Though slight of figure, my muscles were strong, and -after awhile, with constant practice, I could row twenty miles in a day -without exhaustion, and every day now, and all the day, I spent my time -upon the water. - -The Summer, beautiful to me beyond description, was like a perpetual -Spring. In my little boat, alone, I explored the shore far and near. I -rowed to the very ledges of those cliffs that I had watched all Winter -long lifting themselves, like a huge, jagged spine, against the sky. A -thousand, sometimes twelve hundred feet, they reached up, gray and -naked, a sheer, barren wall of rock from the water. With the cold waves -forever at their feet, gloomy, silent, they stood in their drear -majesty, and the chilly fog wrapped them round with the folds of its -clammy garb. Only in the most beautiful weather did this fog lift from -about them its clinging skirts, and slowly the damp mists trailed -themselves off in long white plumes of down. At such times, floating -idly in my skiff, I felt oppressed by the vast burden of their dreadful -silence. I believe there is no greater solitude than that which -sometimes at noon, when sea and sky are unwrinkled by wave or cloud, -sits upon this mighty shore of desolate, desert rock. Yet here, where -this profound silence broods, upon these tawny bastions of stone, -occasionally fierce thunder storms play, and the waters in wild tumult -dash against their base with a noise like the roar of heavy artillery. - -So the weeks slipped by, and it was in the early part of October that -first I saw a change had come over father. As I have said, he was by -nature a reserved, unsociable, even morose man. He was never -communicative, and to me sometimes spoke hardly two dozen words in a -day. I had grown used to this, and felt that I had nothing to complain -about, as he laid no restrictions upon me in any respect. But now I -could not help noticing a decided alteration, both in his looks and -manner. Constitutionally a thin man, his face appeared thinner to me -than ever. So exceedingly pale and worn was he, that I do not know that -I had ever seen a more haggard countenance. His eyes, which were very -light in color and deep-set in his head, had an unnatural brightness, a -strange expression I can hardly describe, a peculiar, watching -wakefulness. His manner was restless and uneasy in the extreme, and he -spoke even less frequently than usual. He staid out much later than had -been his ordinary habit, often not coming home until early in the -morning; and several times I heard him with a slow step walk back and -forth, back and forth, over the floor of his room all night. - -As I have said, I knew nothing of his duties, nor did I know any thing -of the miners. When first I noticed the change upon father, I thought he -was over fatigued perhaps, then I became alarmed lest he was ill. Little -as he cared for me, he was the only human being on earth upon whom I had -the slightest claim, and I would have done any thing for him. I could -not bear to see him look so badly. He had never manifested any thing -towards me but utter indifference, and so strangely reserved was he that -I, in my great dread that he might be harsh some time, had hardly ever -volunteered a single sentence to him. I was troubled, and did not know -what to do. That night at supper I said, gently,— - -“Father, do you feel well?” - -At first he did not appear to hear, and I repeated my question, then he -turned his pale eyes upon me suddenly with a quick, startled look in -them that frightened me,— - -“What?” - -“I asked if you felt well,” I said again, embarrassed by his strange -manner. “You look so badly lately I thought maybe there was something -the matter.” - -He did not speak at all for a moment, but sat there staring at me -wildly. Catching his breath slightly, he looked all round the room and -brought his eyes, his pale eyes, with an angry gleam in them now, back -to my face, then said, fiercely,— - -“See here, don’t you meddle in my matters! I am able to take care of -myself.” - -“Oh, father, I only thought—” - -“Do you hear me?” he said, savagely. “Mind your own business. There is -nothing the matter with me. If you can’t do any thing better than -interfere in my affairs, you can go back. See that you don’t do it -again, or—” - -He broke off abruptly, and I, my heart throbbing as if it might break, -got up and went into my own room. I had not interfered in his affairs. I -had done nothing wrong, said nothing to call up such an outburst of -passion, and his dreadful anger had terrified me. I went to the window -to try and calm myself. I put up the sash and leaned out. - -The twilight had almost dissolved itself in night, a night so soft and -gentle that the very waters, wooed from their troubled toil, ceased -their long complaint and slept. The pine trees, slim and black, -whispered to each other in their mysterious language with peaceful -cadence, telling, perhaps, of the time when they would shed their -countless needles. In the west, shining like a harvest sickle, hung the -yellow crescent of the new October moon. Trying to still the throbbing -in my veins, I watched it grow and change and deepen as it sank, until -above the water it poised, a great Moorish sword of blood-red fire, and -a long line of vermilion light ran out upon the quiet sea. Then suddenly -it was blotted in darkness. - -The figure of a man obstructed my range of vision. - -Instantly the dreadful throbbing in my heart leaped up again. I drew -back noiselessly from the window. The man, only a few feet distant—I -could almost have put out my hand and touched him—stopped, hesitated -irresolutely for a moment, turned about as if to see that no one watched -him, then with stealthy step went across the open space and began to -climb, catching from tree to tree, down the precipitous rocks towards -the lake. Once or twice I heard a stone loosen from beneath his feet, -and presently I heard the plash of oars in the water, then it died out, -and straining my ears I could detect no sound but the quiet, mysterious -whisperings of the pines. I laid my head upon the window-sill sick and -faint. The figure of the man I had seen was father. - -Too well I knew now that he was neither tired, nor ill. Why should he -have crept down so stealthily over these wild, almost perpendicular -rocks to the lake? Why not have gone by the ordinary path through the -settlement? Ah, why? Something was wrong—but what? I turned cold and -dizzy. I would not, I _dared_ not think. - -I tried vainly to sleep that night. Haunted by a thousand forebodings, I -could not even close my eyes, and it was almost day-break when I heard -father come in quietly and go to his room. - -I never referred again to his ill looks, nor did he, but somehow I could -not help thinking that from this time he watched me a little -suspiciously. I felt hurt that he imagined I would play the spy upon his -actions. Whatever he might do, whatever he might say, he was still my -father, and I could not give him up. It was dreadful, those days that -followed. It seemed like living upon the verge of a precipice, or that -some unseen calamity hung above my head ready to fall at any moment and -crush me. - -One evening, just after I had lighted the lamp and put it on the supper -table, I went, as was my usual habit, to draw down the blinds. Father -had not yet come home. As I crossed his room I saw through the window a -man standing close beside it on the outside, so close that I could not -have seen him more distinctly had he been within reach of my touch. His -arms were folded across his chest, and his head dropped a little in the -attitude of one waiting. His figure was large and thick-set, almost that -of a giant. As I looked he took off his cap and passed his hand over his -short-cut, bristly hair, and in the action I saw his face,—a coarse, -heavy, brutish face, that made me shudder. I noticed that the window -sash was down and bolted, and I did not go near to touch the blind. I -went back with an uneasy feeling into the dining-room. - -A few moments afterward father came in. He took up the light hurriedly, -saying some thing about wanting it for a moment, and carried it into his -room and shut the door. I heard him walking about in there, opening and -closing drawers, and after a little I thought I heard a sound as if he -were raising the window-sash gently. Then he came out. He looked at me -sharply for a moment, and remarked that he had been hunting for a key. -Strange! He was not in the habit of accounting for his actions. After he -got up from the table he did not leave the house again, but went to bed -almost immediately. - -In the morning when I put up his dinner and handed it to him as usual, -he said,— - -“You need not get any supper for me to-night. I have office work to do -at the mine and will not be back.” - -I was surprised. He had frequently not come home to the evening meal, -but never before had he thought it worth his while to give me notice. I -stood looking after him as he went out of the gate, when suddenly an -idea flashed into my head that made my heart sink in my breast like a -stone. I do not know why it should have come to me then so suddenly, -with such strong conviction. Quickly I turned and ran into father’s -room. I looked about. I opened the drawers. Yes—the most of his clothing -was gone! It was as I thought. He did not mean to come back at -all—Deserted! The dreadful word choked up my throat. I knew nothing of -father’s actions, I knew not what he had done, but I would gladly have -gone with him, have stood disgrace with him even, if that were -necessary. I am sure I can not tell why I clung to him with such -desperation. Though I was ignorant and inexperienced, I was also young -and strong, and I was not afraid I would fail to make my living alone in -the world. But kneeling upon the floor I laid my head upon the foot of -the bedstead, and heavy, suffocating sobs came to my lips. Probably I -would never see him again, and if he did not love me, at least, except -that one time, he had not been harsh to me, and he was my father. - -At first I thought I would follow him; I would go to the mine and see if -he might not still be there. Then I knew that to make inquiries about -him would probably only increase the danger that threatened, whatever -that danger might be, and though it was justice pursuing him for some -crime, I would have shielded him still. I was powerless. I could do -nothing to recall him; I could do nothing but wait. Wandering about with -only the one thought in my mind, after awhile the house became -positively intolerable. I must do something at least to keep myself -employed, or I should absolutely go wild. My head ached unbearably, and -I had a compressed feeling across my chest. - -I took my heavy, scarlet cloak and threw it over my arm. I do not know -why I should have taken this one, for I wore it generally only in the -bitter cold of midwinter. With a strange feeling of dread when any one -looked at me, I went down hurriedly through the settlement to the wharf. -I got into my boat and pushed off. On the water I could breathe better. - -I rowed, rowed, rowed, steadily, steadily, taking note of nothing. My -only relief lay in violent exercise. How many miles up the shore I went -I do not know, but it was farther than I had ever reached before, and -when I drew in my oars to rest, like a mighty conflagration, the red -embers of the sun-set’s fire were dying down along the sky. - -In this region of the lake, from a quarter to two miles from shore, at -wide intervals isolated rocks rise up out of the water, or mere points -of land covered with a thick growth of underbrush show themselves, so -small they look from a distance like a floating fleck of green that the -waves could drift about at pleasure. The gulls rest upon them -undisturbed by man or beast. Lonely, a thousand times more lonely, these -islands make it seem than a clear, open stretch of water. A few of them, -perhaps, are fifteen or twenty feet in extent. On a dark night it would -have been dangerous to row here. - -I felt weak and tired. The lake stretched itself out, quiet and peaceful -as a painted ocean. Not a ripple disturbed the tranquil surface that -mirrored the sky like a glass. I drew my cloak over me and lay down in -my boat. I cared not when I got back, the later the better, for I still -clung to a forlorn hope, that perhaps in the morning father would -return. I was not afraid, for the moon had reached its full and would be -up even as the last halo of the departing day was fading from the west. -Out of the water I saw it come. An enormous globe of maroon fire, it sat -upon the horizon and stained the lake with its magenta rays. Fatigued -and exhausted, I think I must have slept, for when next I looked, bright -and yellow, it was swung high up in the sky, shedding through the air a -splendor like pearl. - -I felt glad I had brought my cloak, for it was cold, very cold, and I -would have been almost numb without it. I knew by the position of the -moon that it must be somewhere near eleven o’clock. I sat up, shivered a -little, drew my wrap closer about me and reached out one hand for the -oars—when suddenly, midway in the action, I held it suspended, -motionless! Sometimes there is nothing so startling as the sound of a -human voice. I heard two men talking. For an instant I was paralyzed. My -boat lay close beside one of these little knolls of land I have -described. I could have put out my arm and touched the rank sword-grass -that grew along its border. I did catch hold of it and noiselessly drew -my skiff nearer, into a kind of curve, so that, though I was on the -bright side, the overhanging brambles threw me into shadow, and another -skiff, passing by, would hardly have detected me, when instantly I found -that the men were not on the water. A cold terror crept over me. They -were distant scarcely three yards. I could not see them, but I could -almost feel the underbrush crackling beneath their feet. They evidently, -though, had no knowledge of my presence, and I, not daring to stir, -fairly held my breath. They seemed to be removing something from the -ground and transferring it to their boat which, as I supposed, lay upon -the other side. I could hear them lift and carry, what, I did not know. -It sounded sometimes like stones falling with a partially muffled thud -when they put them down. One of the men in a rough voice said, with a -loud, harsh laugh, evidently resting for a moment,— - -“This repays for lots o’ trouble! That was a neat slip we gave ’em all -to-night. By —— I’m glad to be quit o’ the place! Its ——” - -“Be quiet can’t you!” - -My heart, at a single bound, leaped into my mouth. In these few words, -spoken low and stern, I instantly recognized the voice. It was father’s. -The other man did not reply, but muttered a half intelligible curse. -They were both in the boat now, for I heard the plash of their oars. -Presently father said, in a sharp, quick tone,— - -“Take care! Sit down, sit down I tell you!” - -Again the man muttered something between his shut teeth. The next moment -they came round into the light and passed me, pulling hard. Then I -recognized the thick-set, burly figure that I had seen last night. He -was in the stern of the boat, and I saw his face again, the same -repulsive face, but with a sullen scowl upon the brutish features. - -They were heavily loaded and rowed slowly. They had got well past me -when I heard father say something; what, I did not understand; but the -man, dropping his oars, turned his head and replied, savagely,— - -“Look’e yer! You’ve did nothin’ but boss, an’ boss, an’ I’m tired o’ it! -This yer’s as much mine as yourn, and by —— I’d jes as lief make it all -mine!” - -Quick as the movement of a cat he changed his position, facing round to -father. Quicker still, he stooped and caught up something in his hand -that by the glint of the moonlight explained their heavy load, and all -the mystery which had been hanging over father’s actions. It was a -rough, jagged piece of silver ore. He raised his powerful arm and struck -father with it on the head. He struck him two or three times. I -screamed. There was a dreadful struggle, and at the same second that I -saw the gleam of father’s pistol I heard its report. The man raised up -his huge figure for an instant, wavered, and fell back heavily with a -cry like a wounded tiger. The boat, without capsizing, tilted beneath -the shock, filled with water, and went down like a stone. - -I absolutely do not know how I pushed out from my hiding-place, but with -two or three swift strokes I was on the spot. For an instant there was -most frightful silence. I can see the waves widening their circle yet. -Then, right at my boat’s head, father came to the surface. I was made -strong by the energy of desperation. - -With a wild, straining reach I leaned over and caught him by the arm, -and with the other hand I rowed backward towards the knoll. I would have -capsized and gone down rather than have let go my grasp. I was within a -skiff’s length of the little island when just at my side I saw the huge -form of the miner come up. He struggled and made one mighty effort to -catch hold of my boat. No more terrible can the faces of the damned look -than this face that glared up at me from the water. It has haunted me -waking and sleeping. God forgive me, I could do nothing else! I struck -him with the flat side of my oar. Evidently weakened by loss of blood, -exhausted and nearly gone, he fell back and sank almost instantly from -sight. - -I worked round to a place where there was only grass growing, and -catching by it drew close to its border. I could never have lifted -father up but that he was sensible and could help himself somewhat. I -got him on the ground, and from the ground into my boat. Then he -fainted. - -His head was terribly wounded. I knew I had no time to waste. I was -afraid he would die in the coming hours before I could reach assistance. -I rubbed his hands. I loosened and took off some of his wet clothing. I -folded my cloak over him carefully and seized the oars. Inspired by my -strange burden with a strength superhuman, my boat shot swiftly almost -as if it had been propelled by steam. But the east was already -brightening again with Indian colors when I reached the wharf at last, -at last! - -They raised him softly and carried him up to the house. I paid no -attention to their thousand questions. I do not know what I said—I said -it was an accident. - -In the weeks of his long fever and delirium, I watched over him day and -night. He did not die. He came back to life. How many times I had -wondered would he be kind, would he be gentle to me now? Ah, poor -father! He was never harsh to any one after that. - -When the people came and spoke to him, he would laugh a gentle, -meaningless laugh, and sometimes, holding to me tight, he would point to -a button or color on their dress and say,— - -“Pretty, pretty!” - -He grew well and strong again, but it had shattered his mind forever. - -How he had avoided the officers at the tower in carrying away the -precious metal which he had secreted from time to time, I do not know, -but they suspected nothing. I held utter silence about the incident, and -if the people did connect the missing miner with his mysterious -“accident,” what was there to do? They pitied me that he was simple. -Shall I say it? Perhaps it was better so. A strange, new joy came to me, -as every day I saw the pale eyes, innocent now as those of a child, -follow me about with a grateful look. He was easily managed, and he -seemed to cling to me with an affection that would atone for the long -blank in the past. - -I waited until the bitter Winter had gone by, and the first steamer came -in the Summer. - -What would become of us in the big, untried city? I had my youth, I had -my health. - -I stood upon the deck of the great vessel and saw this mere speck of -land recede in the distance. Father, standing by my side, touched my -arm, and holding out his open hand, said,— - -“Pretty, pretty!” - -There was a shell in it clean and white, and he looked up at me and -smiled. - -Yes, better so, it was better so! - -He had gone there a man, strong and wicked. By the strange mysteries of -Providence, he came from it a child, weak and innocent, with a soul -white as the shell which for the moment he cherished in his simple -delight. - -When next I raised my eyes, only the cold waters of Lake Superior washed -the horizon, and Silver Islet had vanished from my sight forever. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - BOYDELL, THE STROLLER. - - -He was a strolling player. During the month of February, 1868, I was at -Chicago, gathering up a theatrical troupe to do the provinces. I found -no difficulty in getting my general utility people, but still lacked a -“first old man.” Every person wanted leading business—that was exactly -the trouble. When I was in the midst of my perplexity, I stumbled across -Carey, whom I knew to be out of a job, and offered him the position. - -Now I felt that this act was a real charity, for I knew poor Carey had -never received such a chance in all his theatrical days—years, I should -say; for he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed, -dumb-founded, when Carey refused it, absolutely, positively refused -it,—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd -twinkle in his eye, and presently the truth leaked out. He had just -married a pretty, young girl, and—and—well, he had promised to quit the -stage; that was the whole of it. But Carey suited me exactly, and I did -not give up. I told him it was all nonsense; his wife would be glad -enough for him to accept the position. Carey evidently began to waver; -the old love for his profession threatened to out-weigh that other love -which had crept into his heart. However, it was finally determined that -I should call upon his wife and submit the matter to her decision. - -I found her really young and really pretty, but, also, really in -earnest. Carey could not go, that was certain; at the very first mention -of the subject, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me -except to retreat, which I did with many apologies. - -Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew of a person, one -Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to fill the position. A few days -after, Carey brought him up and gave me an introduction. A tall man he -was, six feet-one or two, with a fine presence, heightened by a peculiar -dignity of manner and voice. There was dramatic power stamped upon his -English face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set -eyes. I had no idea of Boydell’s age. I could not have guessed it by -fifteen years one way or the other. He was one of those singular -individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. There were -a few wrinkles about his bronzed features, but they were surely not the -wrinkles of time. His thick, brown hair was combed straight back, and -hung down behind his ears. His dress was what might be called the -shabby-genteel. Black from head to foot, nothing in it was new, and one -would almost think nothing ever had been new. The garments had -apparently existed in just their present condition of wear from time -immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back, and a trifle small too, -as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length both in -body and arms. On his feet he wore queer, English shoes, with broad -spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up after the -fashion of a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned, with curved rim, such as -we see in pictures of Beau Brummel, was set well back upon his head. - -But, notwithstanding these peculiarities, there was something in his -bearing that gave Boydell the appearance of a finished gentleman, and -his fine address added to the impression he created of eminent -respectability. He accepted the position, and our business was speedily -accomplished. I requested him to call on the following day, when I would -be able to make the final arrangements for our departure, and he left -with a dignified bow. - -Gathering together a company of actors and actresses from nowhere in -particular, and attempting to form them into something like an organized -troupe, is not by any means the most encouraging work with which one -might employ himself. Again and again my patience was exhausted, and -again and again I resolved to persevere. Several times we had almost -been ready for action, when somebody would “back out,” and throw us once -more into confusion. Now, however, I determined to surmount every -difficulty, no matter what, so that the next train might bear us _en -route_ for the West. - -In the midst of the morning’s turmoil, Boydell made his appearance. I -informed him of our arrangements, inquired where he kept his baggage, -and told him I would send for it immediately. - -“That will be unnecessary, as I have it with me. This, Sir, is my -baggage.” - -While Boydell spoke, he put his hand back into his coat-tail pocket and -quietly drew out a scratch wig. I looked at his face to find something -which might belie the dignified voice, but there was not even the shadow -of a smile breaking up its gravity. His countenance was as composed when -he returned the wig to his pocket as though he had just shown to my -admiring gaze a complete wardrobe of great magnificence. Indeed, I was -so impressed by his aristocratic manner, that the ludicrous aspect of -the interview hardly presented itself to me until it was over. - -But I had no time to be amused, and, with the annoying trials that would -turn up where I least expected them, no inclination. When I sent round -for the luggage I found that two of the boys had “shoved up their trunks -at their uncle’s,” and, as it was the last moment, I was compelled to -redeem them. Then I hired a carriage, and went to conduct the -_soubrette_, to the depot. When I arrived in front of the house, -_Madame_, _la mere_, came out and informed me that her daughter could -not go, would not go, unless I gave them fifteen dollars to get her -front teeth away from the dentist’s! What could we do without a -_soubrette_? With a groan I handed over the fifteen dollars. - -Playing in the smaller towns along our route, we cleared our traveling -expenses, and got into pretty good working order. - -When we arrived at St. Joseph we gathered up all our strength, and came -out in full glory as “The New York Star Company.” There we played for -three weeks to crowded audiences. On “salary days” the money was -forthcoming, a rare occurrence with strolling actors, and of course we -were all greatly delighted. - -Under such circumstances our spirits ran high, and each one began to -tell of the particular _rôles_ in which he or she had, in days gone by, -electrified an audience and won applause. Boydell caught the infection. -It happened that we had been running plays in which the “first old man” -was, at best, only a “stick” part, and Boydell fretted considerably at -his ill-luck. One night he came into the green-room, and to his -inexpressible joy found himself cast for the part of “Colonel Damas” in -Bulwer’s comedy of the “Lady of Lyons.” Now this was his pet _rôle_, and -at the intelligence he felt all his dramatic genius kindle into a fresh -flame. - -“Boys,” he said, straightening up his dignified form, “Boys, you will -see me make a great hit to-night. The passage commencing, ‘The man who -sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,’ has -never been to my mind rightly given.” - -Many of us had seen him do pretty well before, but now we looked forward -to such an effort as the stage in St. Joseph had never witnessed. - -The next evening I repaired to the theater half an hour earlier than -usual, but found Boydell already dressed for the play. His shabby black -coat looked more eminently respectable than ever, and was buttoned over -smooth white linen, or what he made answer the purpose of linen,—half a -yard of paper muslin folded into tucks, and pinned to his paper collar. -In his hand ready for use he held his one valuable—the scratch wig. It -still lacked a few minutes before he would be called, and he -disappeared, as he said, to “steady his nerves.” Various winks and -knowing looks passed among the boys; such disappearances on his part at -this time of the evening were by no means rare or unaccountable. - -Boydell came back and went directly on the stage. The excitement behind -the scenes grew, for, although few of us would admit it, we all knew -Boydell was a born actor, and we clustered eagerly around the wings in -breathless expectation. - -He started out with dramatic gesture,— - - “‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman - Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air— - On air—air—’” - -Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and his sentences incoherent. Those few -moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of -the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder -through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware -of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen -countenance. - -When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all -assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the -others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and -delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members, -presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token -of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it -would reflect upon the troupe.” - -That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two -shillings. - -He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any -other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening -appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance. -He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and -pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for -one price. When the boys asked him why he held the tumbler in that -peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at -Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a -logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It -was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he -(Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only the _principle_ he -objected to; it appeared penurious. - -Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which -Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood -who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through -rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from -feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges, -with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the -British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving, -vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often -profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded -respect. - -Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not -prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run. -We played two weeks at Leavenworth City, and disbanded, scattering in -all directions. - -I went home to M—— with a feeling of unutterable relief. My theatrical -experience had brought me to the determination of letting the stage -alone for the present, or trying it in a different capacity. Devoting my -whole time to a more lucrative business, I heard nothing about any of -the old troupe, and I did not care to see one of them again, unless it -was Boydell. I had little hope of ever meeting him; it would be mere -chance if I did, and I knew he might just as likely now be in Europe or -Australia as in this country. But we were destined once more to come in -contact. - -M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in Western Illinois. It had -built a theater, and was a focus for strolling actors and adventurers—a -kind of center, where the remnant of theatrical troupes that had come to -grief straggled in to recruit. The citizens did not consider this a very -distinguishing characteristic to boast of, but in reality it was what -raised the place out of oblivion; otherwise its few thousand inhabitants -might, like their neighbors, have lived for ever in obscurity. - -Early last Summer a business engagement took me to the suburbs of this -town. The atmosphere was clear as crystal and glittering with sunshine. -The cherries hung dead-ripe upon the trees; the blackbirds chattered -about them to each other with red-stained bills, and the cats, stretched -lazily in the sunshine, watched the winged robbers with no charitable -feelings. The leaves, if they were thirsty, complained but gently, and -in the dry and pleasant fields the grasshoppers, without flagging, held -a jubilee, and from the level pastures farther off came the sound of -distant bells, and sometimes, close by the roadside, the farmers whetted -their scythes. - -Coming towards me a man upon the turnpike was approaching the town on -foot. As we neared each other, old recollections came back upon me. Yes, -that tall erect figure seemed familiar—it was Boydell coming into M—— -from parts unknown. - -The same coat I had seen do such good service, only a little shinier -now, was buttoned over the same—no, it was likely another piece of paper -muslin. On his feet were a pair of shoes, a present undoubtedly, which -lacked a size or more in length; but this trouble had been remedied by -cutting out the counters, and strapping down his pantaloons to cover his -naked heels. The fact that I knew his high silk hat, the one of olden -times, had lost its crown, was owing entirely to the elevation I gained -by being on horseback. Under other circumstances it would never have -been discovered, for the edges were trimmed smoothly round, and Boydell, -as I said, was tall. - -And so I met him again, the same courtly vagabond, the same Boydell of -former days. His bearing was majestic, almost regal; his dress was—a -respectable shell. But there seemed to be a change, too. He did not look -any older, although I noticed a little silver had sprinkled itself -through his thick waving hair since we had parted, but there was -something about his eyes that did not appear natural, and a tired, a -weary expression sat upon his face—an expression I had never seen there -before. Perhaps he had walked many miles. - -I looked after him as he went on towards the town, thinking what an -unsettled, wild, worthless life he led, this man with the divine gift of -genius, this vagrant with the clinging air of gentility. Maybe fate was -against him; maybe he really had higher aspirations; but without -friends, without home, the cold, unsympathetic world had crushed them; -and still watching, it suddenly entered my head how easily I could guess -the contents of his coat-tail pocket! - -Some little time after this meeting, when Boydell had almost passed out -of my mind, a gentleman called at my office, and during our conversation -told me about a case of destitution that had accidentally come to his -knowledge. At first I listened with well-bred indifference, for the -experience I had acquired thoroughly cured all my philanthropic symptoms -with which I had once been afflicted, but when he related the -circumstances my interest awakened. - -A man, a stranger, had stopped at the tavern on the suburbs of the town -and fallen sick. He had no money, no friends, indeed he had not even a -shirt to his back, and the landlord threatened to turn him out, utterly -helpless as he was. I suddenly thought of Boydell, and inquired the -man’s name. My friend could not recall it, but said he represented -himself as an actor; though the landlord did not place much reliance on -this statement, for the fellow had no wardrobe of any description, and -the only thing in his possession was a scratch wig, which a black-leg -would be as likely to own as an actor. This dispelled what little doubt -had remained in my mind. It was Boydell, and something must be done at -once for his relief. - -Generosity does not prevail in any profession to a greater extent, -especially among the lower members, than it does in the dramatic. As it -was the hour for rehearsal, we went up to the theater. We told of -Boydell’s condition, and I related what I knew of his history. One -appeal was sufficient; the contribution they made up would at least -relieve his present wants. - -There, at the tavern, we found him in a stupor. Neglected, without the -barest necessities, he had had no medical attendance of any kind. In a -room high up under the roof he was lying across a broken bedstead, on a -worn-out husk mattress, with nothing to shade him from the fierce, -blazing sun or the crawling flies that kept up a loud, incessant buzz. -And he had been sick eight days. On the floor old Mounse had crammed -himself into the one shady corner. - -Old Mounse was a besotted beggar round town who had arrived at the state -where the rims of his eyelids appeared to be turned inside out and -resembled raw beefsteak. The landlady, who was somewhat more -compassionate than her worser half, fearing that Boydell might die on -her hands, had sent up old Mounse, an hour ago, with a little gruel -which he had swallowed himself, and was then peacefully snoring in the -corner. - -We sent immediately for a physician, and employed ourselves in having -Boydell removed to another apartment, where, at least, he might escape -being broiled to death by the sun, or devoured by flies. When the doctor -arrived, we had him fixed in quite comfortable quarters. Boydell’s -disease, as we feared, was a severe form of the typhoid fever. From the -lifeless stupor, he suddenly broke into the wild ravings of delirium, so -that our combined strength could hardly avail to keep him upon the bed. - -We reinstated old Mounse on his watch, only with strict orders that the -granulated eyelids were to be kept wide open. Old Mounse was one of -those rare persons with the _delirium tremens_, who had hovered on the -verge of dissolution for thirty years, and still lived along. Palsied -and feeble, and crippled and unshaven, and dirty and whiny, he just -managed to keep himself on this side of the grave. The adjective “old,” -which had become a prefix to his name, could not have been better -applied, for his clothes, too, were ready at any moment to keep him -company and return to their original element. Old Mounse’s one merit -was, he had become so aged that he could just do what he was told and -nothing more. The case had assumed altogether a new aspect to him, now -that Boydell seemed to have friends. - -Every day the doctor reported the condition of his patient, which grew -more and more unfavorable, until one morning he came and told us he -thought Boydell had not over twenty-four hours to live. We went -immediately to the tavern with him. Boydell, for the first time since -his illness, was perfectly conscious. Here, in the silence of this -barren room, unhallowed by the presence of sorrowing ones, the wild, -reckless life was drawing to a close. It seemed as if the specter hands -of death were already stretched out to snap the last binding thread. The -face on the pillow, haggard and ghastly with its hollow cheeks, very -little resembled the one over which that weary, indefinable expression, -the shadow, the forerunner of the fever, had crept but three weeks ago. -Boydell recognized me, and motioned to a chair beside the bed. He made -two or three efforts before he spoke. - -“I am going to die—” - -We could only answer by silence. It was something terrible to see this -strong man, now weaker than an infant, lie calmly on the brink of -eternity; even old Mounse dropped his beefy lids, and drew back with a -subdued sniffle of awe. We asked if there was any thing that he wished -done. After a little he turned his head that his voice might the better -reach us. - -“I have relatives—it will not matter to them that I am gone; they hold -themselves up in the world; it will only be a disgrace wiped out; but—I -would like them to know, and when I am dead, why—I wish you would please -write to—to my brother. I have not heard from him for nearly fifteen -years.” - -He closed his eyes, and seemed to dream, but presently roused himself, -and looked anxiously about the room. - -“There was something else—oh, yes. Tell him that—I am gone. He is rector -of St. Paul’s Church, S——, Lower Canada.” He paused and then said -slowly, as though repeating his words for the first time, “It is no -matter—but tell him I am—dead.” - -He felt up and down the seam of the quilt feebly with his fingers, then -closed his eyes again in unconsciousness. - -All day the dread phantom hands seemed to hover closer to that quivering -thread of life, until sometimes we almost thought it broken; but at -nightfall they receded, and the shred strengthened. There was a change -for the better, and Boydell fell into soft, natural slumber. - -Several days after this it occurred to me that if Boydell had relatives -in Canada who were well off, they ought to help him in his time of need. -Without making him or any one else acquainted with my intention, I wrote -a letter setting forth Boydell’s illness and utterly destitute condition -among strangers. As they held no communication with Boydell, they would -hardly be willing to send him the money. I was unknown, and to assure -them it was no imposition, I wrote if they wished to send any -assistance, direct “To the Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, M——, -Illinois.” - -About a week later that minister came to me and showed a letter -post-marked S——, which contained a check for three hundred dollars. It -specified that the money was to be given to Boydell only on condition -that he would promise to renounce the stage forever, and so soon as he -was able to travel, come home to his relatives. I felt delighted at the -success of my plan, for of course he would accept the money, and whether -he fulfilled his promise afterwards by renouncing the stage and going -home to Canada, which would be extremely doubtful, I considered was no -business of mine. - -When we entered his room, Boydell was propped up almost in a sitting -posture by pillows. The window-shutter had been thrown partly open to -admit the air, and a narrow streak of sunlight fell across the bed. We -told him of the good news, and after we had made him understand how it -had all come about, read the letter aloud. He listened in perfect -silence, without changing position, and when it was finished, took the -check and said,— - -“Three hundred dollars?” - -“Yes,” we said, “it is three hundred dollars.” - -He held the slip of paper in his emaciated hands, that trembled with -weakness, and repeated,— - -“Three hundred dollars—” - -He seemed trying to convince himself of its reality; but suddenly a -bewildered expression broke over his face, and he looked from the check -to the letter, which still laid open. We asked Boydell if he wished to -hear it again, but at the second reading his bewilderment only seemed to -increase. He looked at us with an inquiring gaze that wandered round the -bare, desolate room, and settled on the strip of blue sky in the window. -Then he said, as if asking himself the question,— - -“Give up the stage? Renounce the stage?” - -His eyes came back to the money in his hand. Presently he folded it up, -pressing the creases with his thin fingers, and slowly holding it out, -shook his head saying,— - -“Send it back.” - -The ribbon of sunlight had crept further and further round until it -stretched itself across the broad, white forehead, and we stood in -greater awe than when the angel of death had hovered there. Suddenly -before us a dazzling ray had flashed out from the black waste of that -sinful life. The unbroken check went back to Canada. - -A month later I was riding in the country. A purple light overhung the -shadowy prairie, which stretched away, broad, level and without bound. -Occasionally a wild bird rose up and darted with swift wings, seeking a -resting place, for already the September moon waited the coming night. -Nearer, the tall weeds raised themselves from the great, soundless ocean -of grass, like the masts of receding vessels. A single wagon, the only -object on all the void prairie, stood out bold and sharp against the -bright line of the horizon, and clearly defined above the driver, high -up on top of the hay, the figure of a man cut the sky. Even at that -distance I knew it was Boydell. - -Some one had given him a little money, and with renewed health and -spirits he was going out of M——. Whither? - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE DEATH-WATCH. - - -“Didn’t you hear it?” - -“When?” - -“Just now.” - -“No.” - -“They say it foretells death. Hush!” - -The two men sat motionless. Not a sound broke the silence, not even a -creak of the old boards in the floor, or a sigh of the wind, or a -flapping shutter. - -“They say it foretells death. I heard it last night and the night -before. What’s that?” - -“Nothing. It’s stiller than a graveyard.” - -“I heard it last night, and the night before about this time, near one. -’Taint a very pleasant sound, and this old garret’s dismal enough any -way.” - -“Monk, you’re afeard. It’s nothing. Don’t waste no more time. I’m -dead-tired and sleepy. You wouldn’t have been in this old hole now if it -hadn’t been for Peters.” - -“No, if it hadn’t been for Peters, the strike, like enough, would have -took. But he won’t stand in nobody’s way again.” - -While Monk spoke, he drew out a sharp, slender knife, and ran his finger -along the blade. - -“I tell you, Shiflet, we must do it the night after this blast’s done, -and the men in the shed say the coal will run out on the 6th, that’s -to-morrow. When Peters is fixed, the managers will have to give in or -quit runnin’ the furnace.” - -Both men sat with their arms leaning on the table, and the flickering -light of the tallow candle between them showed two faces, rough, -begrimed by smoke and soot, and disfigured by evil passions, that grew -fiercer as they calmly plotted against the life of a fellow-being. - -“We’ll meet at one, where the roads cross. It’ll be quiet then, and -Peters’s house is alone.” - -“I’ll be all right,” said Shiflet, with a grin that rendered his -brute-like countenance doubly repulsive. “I’m confounded tired. Bring -your candle and light me down them infernal stairs.” - -The men stood up. Monk, small and slim, was dwarfed by the almost giant -stature of his companion. With a few parting words as to secrecy and -silence, they separated. - -Monk stood on the upper step until Shiflet disappeared, then closed the -door and replaced the candle on the table. - -The room, neither large nor small, was a mere hole, smoked, dirty, and -unplastered, high up in a frame tenement-house. Two or three chairs, an -old chest of drawers, a rickety bedstead, and pine table, composed its -furniture. Some old boots and broken pieces of pig-iron lay scattered -about. The small, box-shaped window was set just below where the ceiling -or roof sloped to the wall. The only door led directly to the stairs -that went down two, three flights to the ground. There were many such -places in Agatha, where the furnace-hands lived. - -Monk walked rapidly up and down the room, as if making an effort to wear -off the excitement that the last few moments had brought upon him. His -features had lost much of the malignant expression, which was by no -means habitual. His countenance was not hardened or stamped with the -impress of crime like Shiflet’s, who had just parted from him at the -door—a countenance in which every trace of conscience had long ago been -erased. Monk’s face was neither good nor bad, neither bright nor dull; -but he was a man easily wrought into a passion, governed by impulse. - -Crossing to the table, he slung his coat over a chair, and stretched out -his hand to extinguish the light. Midway in the action he suddenly -checked himself, looked hurriedly around the room for an instant, and -stood motionless, with inclined head, listening intently. Not a sound -disturbed the stillness. Pinching out the light, he threw himself on the -bed, and in the darkness there soon came the heavy, regular respiration -of sleep. - -The house at Agatha nestled under the north cliff. A hundred feet above -them the railroad lost itself in the black mouth of a tunnel and -reappeared beyond, a high wall of trestlework stretching southward down -the valley to Ely’s Mines. Hours ago, the toiling men and cattle had -lain down to rest, and now the wild, rocky hills around slept in the -moonlight. No sound broke upon the stillness but the muffled puff, puff, -of the furnace, and a murmur of frogs that rose and fell interruptedly -along the shrunken water-course. The cabins under the cliff shone white -and sharp; the iron on the metal-switch flashed with a million gems; the -rails upon the trestle, receding, turned to silver, and the foliage of -early Summer glittered on the trees. A few passionless stars blinked -feebly in the yellow light, where the hill-tops cut against the sky, and -sank below the verge. Calmly, peacefully waned the night—calmly and -peacefully, as though the spirit of evil had not stalked abroad plotting -the death and ruin of men’s bodies and souls. - -That narrow spot of ground, with the houses down in the valley, formed -the world for four hundred people. The furnace-hands and their families -saw nothing beyond the hills and rocks that hemmed in their village; -knew nothing of the mad tumults outside. An untaught, sturdy race of -men, they differed little one from another. Every day, when the sun -rose, they went forth to toil, and every night, when the great furnace -over the creek glimmered red, they lay down to sleep. But ignorance and -superstition filled their hearts, and anger, and hate, and jealousy, -were as rife among them as in the crowded cities. - -Another day passed, and the night which followed it was dark and cloudy. -Near midnight, the great bell signalled for the last run of iron. -Occasionally blue flames leaped up from the furnace, lurid as the fiery -tongues of a volcano. The long and narrow roof brooded over the sand-bed -like the black wings of some monster bird hovering in the air. Under its -shadow groups of men were but wavering, dusky figures. Suddenly, as an -electric flash, a dazzling yellow glare broke out, and a fierce, -scorching, withering blast swept from an opening that seemed the mouth -of hell itself. Slowly out of the burning cavern a hissing stream of -molten iron came creeping down. It crawled, and turned and crawled, rib -after rib, until it lay like some huge skeleton stretched upon the -ground. A thin vapor floated up in the sulphurous air and quivered with -reflected splendor. The scarlet-shirted men looked weird in the -unearthly brightness. The yellow glow faded to red, that deepened to a -blood-colored spot in the night. The bell rang to discharge the hands, -and squads of men broke up, scattering in the dark. - -Monk went to his garret-room, hesitated a moment at the door, then -passed in and shut it so violently that the floor shook. He struck a -match. In the brimstone light a horrible demon countenance wavered, blue -and ghastly; but, when the candle flamed, it grew into Monk’s face, -covered by the black scowl of rage that had disfigured it once before—a -rage that was freshly roused. - -“If I’d had my knife, I’d have done it just now, when I stumbled against -him. But he dies to-morrow night at—” - -The words froze on his lips, and his black scowling face was suddenly -overspread by a strange pallor. He stood motionless, as if chained to -the floor, his eyes darted quickly about, and he seemed to suspend his -very breath. - -A clear, distinct, ticking sound occurred at regular intervals for a -minute, and left profound silence. - -Monk raised his head. - -“It’s a sign of coming death. That’s for Peters. There it is again!” - -The strange sound, like a faint metallic click, repeated itself several -times. - -“D—n it! I don’t like to hear the thing. But there _will_ be a sudden -death.” - -Time after time Monk heard at intervals the same faint sound, like the -ticking of a watch for a minute, and it made his blood run cold. He -found himself listening to it with terror, and in the long silence, -always straining his ears to catch it, always expecting, dreading its -repetition, until the thing grew more horrible to him than a nightmare. -Sometimes he would fall into a doze, and, wakening with a start, hear -it, while cold perspiration broke in drops on his forehead. - -It grew intolerable. He swore he would find the thing and kill it, but -it mocked him in his search. The sound seemed to come from the table, -but when he stood beside the table it ticked so distinctly at the window -that he thought he could put his finger on the spot; but when he tried -to, it had changed again, and sounded at the head of his bed. Sometimes -it seemed close at his right, and he turned only to hear it on the other -side, then in front, then behind. Again and again he searched, and swore -in his exasperation and disappointment. - -The sound became exaggerated by his distempered imagination, till he -trembled lest some one else should hear this omen which so plainly -foretold his anticipated crime. Once an hour dragged by, and his unseen -tormentor was silent. His eyes, that had glittered with deathly hatred, -now wore a startled look, and wandered restlessly about the room. - -An owl, that perched on the topmost branch of a high tree near by, -screamed loud and long. A bat flew in at the open window, banged against -the ceiling, and darted out. - -Monk shivered. Leaning his head between his arms, he drummed nervously -on the table with his fingers. Instantly the clear metallic click -sounded again. He looked up, and a strange light broke into his face, a -mixed expression of amazement and fright. For a moment he seemed -stupefied, then raising his hand he tapped lightly against the wood with -his finger-nail. The last tap had not died until it was answered by what -seemed like a fainter repetition of itself. - -Uttering a fearful oath, Monk recoiled from the table, but, as if drawn -back and held by a weird fascination, he sat an hour striking the hard -surface with his nails, and pausing for the response that each time came -clear and distinct. - -Gray streaks crept along the east, and quivered like a faded fringe -bordering the black canopy. Still he sat tapping, but no answer came. He -waited, listened vainly; no echo, no sound, and the dull, hueless light -of the cloudy morning glimmered at his window. Then he threw himself on -his bed, and fell into restless slumbers. - -A damp thick fog enveloped the houses in its slimy embrace. At nightfall -its reeking folds gathered themselves from the ground, and a noiseless -drizzle came sullenly down. - -Monk had not stirred from his room all day. The feverish sleep into -which he had fallen fled from him before noon, and now he stood at his -window looking out into the blackness. A clammy air blew against his -face. He stretched out his hand and drew it back suddenly, as if he had -touched the dead. It was cold and moist. He rubbed it violently against -his clothes, as though he could not wipe off the dampness. A tremor -seized upon him. Hark! was that the dripping of water? No. A sickly -smile played over his countenance. He went to the table and tapped -lightly with his fingers, as he had done before. In another moment the -taps were answered, and he involuntarily counted as they came, -one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—then all was silent. He made the call -a second time, he tried it over and over, and at each response it ticked -seven times, never more, never less, but seven times clearly, -distinctly. Suddenly he sprang up, and through shut teeth hissed,— - -“The seventh day, by Heaven! But I’ll cheat you—I’ll not kill him!” - -He darted noiselessly down the stairs, and struck out through the woods. -In half an hour he emerged on the edge of a clearing, a dozen yards from -a chopper’s cabin. Creeping stealthily to the door he shook it, then -after a moment’s irresolution cried out,— - -“Peters! Peters! look out for Shiflet. He has sworn to murder you -to-night.” - -Without waiting for a reply he sprang away, and was quickly lost among -the trees. - -A moment afterward a tall form arose out of the shadow of a stump near -the cabin, and passed rapidly in an opposite direction. - -At the summit of the hill east of Agatha, a steep precipice is formed by -a great, bare, projecting rock. From the valley, its outline resembles -an enormous face in profile, and they call it “The Devil’s Head.” The -full moon rendered the unbroken mass of cloud translucent, producing a -peculiar sinister effect. The mist still blew through the air, but in -the zenith there was a dull ashen hue, and the surrounding cloud was the -color of earth. The far-off hills loomed up majestic, terrible, against -the gloom; nearer objects were strangely magnified in the tawny light. -At the foot of this phantom crag, on a terrace, is the ore-bank and -blackened coal-shed. Below rose the metal-stack, from whose stone hearth -a waste of sand sloped gently to the creek. The furnace squatted grim -and black. Its blood-shot eye was shut; its gaping throat uttered no -sigh, no groan; its throbbing pulse was stilled—the fierce, struggling -monster was dead. The only bright spot in all the valley was the yellow -circle made by the watchman’s lantern in the coal-shed. - -After leaving the “choppings,” Monk threaded his way through the forest, -coming out at last on the open road. This road led directly over the -“Devil’s Head,” and entered the valley by a steep descent half a mile to -the south. At the precipice Monk paused. The wind eddied with a mournful -wail, and the constant motion of tall trees gave the scene almost the -wavering, unsubstantial appearance of a vision. There was something -oppressive in this strange midnight twilight, but Monk did not feel it. -He only felt relief, inexpressible relief; he only stopped there to -breathe, to breathe freely once more with the heavy weight thrown from -him. - -After a moment he ran carelessly down the hill, passed under the -ore-cars and into the coal-shed. He hailed Patterson, the watchman, and -the lantern threw gigantic shadows of the two men over the ground. Then -he walked along the narrow cinder-road leading to the bridge over the -creek. Sometimes the willows, that grew on either side, swept their damp -hair against his face. An hour ago he would have started convulsively, -now he heeded not, for he was free and light of heart. - -Monk reached the stairs, and ascended to his room. As he passed in, the -powerful figure of Shiflet sprang upon him from behind. There was a -scuffle, some muttered oaths, then a heavy fall. Monk lay stretched upon -the floor motionless, lifeless, and the echo of fleeing steps died away, -leaving the place still as the now silent death-watch. - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE MAN AT THE CRIB.[1] - - -One morning in the Spring of 1867—whether in April or May I am now -unable certainly to determine, but think it was in the latter month—I -was sitting at the breakfast-table, leisurely reading the morning paper, -and enjoying my last cup of coffee, when my eye accidentally fell upon -the following advertisement:— - - “WANTED—A reliable man to take charge of the Crib. An unmarried German - preferred. One who can come well recommended, and give bond for - faithful performance of duty, will receive a liberal salary. Apply - immediately to the Board of Public Works, Pumping Department, Nos. 15 - and 17 South Wells Street.” - -Footnote 1: - - The Crib is the name given to the isolated structure at the opening of - the Chicago Water Works tunnel, in the lake, two miles from the shore. - -My attention was arrested by the thought of so strange an occupation, -and whether any one would be found willing to accept the situation and -live alone in the crib two miles from the shore. There all companionship -would be cut off, and I wondered what effect the utter solitude and -confinement in the small round building rising out of the water, with -little in the scenery to relieve the eye, and nothing to rest the ear -from the continual dashing of the waves against the frame sides—I -wondered what effect it would have upon the occupant. - -It happened I had been lecturing before a class of medical students in -one of our colleges upon the relation of mind to body, and it occurred -to me that this crib-tender might prove an illustration of my theory. -His mind would have afforded it an opportunity to prey upon itself, and -might become perverted. Under certain circumstances the mental exerts an -influence over the physical system, aside from the voluntary volition of -the will, and it frequently transpires that what is mere illusion in the -spiritual nature appears a reality to the material, so closely are the -two linked together. - -My interest being awakened, I secretly determined that I would try to -discover who accepted this situation, and notice, if possible, what -effect it would produce upon the keeper. Some time later I learned that -the above advertisement had been answered the same day (the exact date I -can not remember) by a German, one Gustav Stahlmann, who presented -himself at the address indicated, and applied for the situation. After a -slight examination he proved satisfactory in every respect. His -recommendations were of the highest kind and bore testimony to his -strict integrity and upright character. - -The position was accordingly offered to him, provided he would be -willing to comply with certain conditions. First, that in accepting it -he would bind himself to remain in the situation at least two years; -and, secondly, that during that period, he would upon no occasion or -pretense whatever, leave the crib. He manifested little hesitation in -assenting to these requirements, as the salary was good, and an -opportunity afforded for resting from the severe labor to which he had -been accustomed. - -All necessary arrangements were completed, and upon the following day, -with his dog for the sole companion of his future home, he had been -taken out and instructed in the duties of his office. These were few and -light, consisting mainly of attention to the water-gates of the tunnel, -opening and closing them as required, and removing any obstructions -which might clog their action. At night he was to trim and light the -lamp which had been placed on the apex of the roof as a warning to -passing vessels. This was all; the remainder of the time lay at his own -disposal. A boy might readily have accomplished this labor, and he -congratulated himself upon his good luck in securing so easy a -berth—one, too, which yielded a good income. - -The first time I saw Stahlmann myself was soon after he had accepted the -situation. If I recollect rightly, he told me he had been a month on the -Crib. I had rowed myself out from the foot of Twelfth Street in a small -boat. - -At this early period in its history the Crib was not so well finished -and comfortable as now, but was bare and barn-like, being in fact -nothing more than a round unplastered house, rising out of the lake. The -wooden floor, which was some fifteen feet above the water, contained in -its center a well about six feet in diameter, around which arose the -iron rods of the water-gates. A small room, the only apartment, had been -partitioned off by three plank walls from the southeastern part of the -circular interior, and furnished for the abode of the keeper. If it were -rough, there was all present that he could reasonably desire for his -comfort. A sufficient supply of provisions were delivered to him once a -month by a tug-boat from the city. - -I found Stahlmann to be a man rather above the medium height, with a -broad muscular frame, but there were no evidences of sluggishness in his -movements; on the contrary, his elasticity and gracefulness betokened -great powers of endurance, and indicated to me activity both of body and -mind. He was perhaps thirty-five years of age, and his frank, open -countenance was marked by regular features of a somewhat intellectual -cast; honesty and principle were plainly visible in his face, and a -ready command of language betrayed considerable education. He impressed -me as superior to the majority of men in his rank of life, and from this -conclusion I was none the less driven by the appearance of his coarse -and soiled clothing. I engaged him in conversation, into which he was -easily drawn, and I was surprised by the native love of the beautiful -which he evidently possessed. He seemed to take great pleasure in -pointing out the beauties in the scene that laid before our view. - -The sun was scarcely an hour high, and we could hardly turn our eyes -eastward for the splendor of his rays reflected on the water. To the -north the sea-like horizon was flecked by the white sails of retreating -vessels, some hull-down in the distance, others uncertain specks -vanishing from our range of vision. Stretching along the shore to the -westward, Chicago shot a hundred spires, glistening and glorified, into -the morning sunlight, while just opposite us stood the grim lighthouse, -a motionless sentinel keeping watch over the harbor. - -I admitted the attraction of the scene, and made an effort to turn the -conversation to his private life. He was easily led to talk of himself, -although he did it in a natural and unaffected manner. I gathered that -he was born in Bavaria, and that when he had attained his sixteenth -year, some difficulty had driven his parents to this country. They were -well educated, but misfortune compelled them, on their arrival, to put -their son to labor. The instruction he had received in the Fatherland -had evidently strengthened his powers of observation and quickened his -understanding. - -I asked him if he did not find his life at the Crib very tiresome, and -what he did to pass away the time. I remarked that I believed, if I were -in his place, I would be smitten most fearfully with the blues. He -laughed good humoredly, and said he had never been troubled in that -manner, that there were daily a great number of visitors, -curiosity-seekers, which the Crib attracted, as it was altogether novel, -and had but just been completed. Then he said he had his dog for -companionship, and that they lived very pleasantly together. He was -evidently much attached to this animal, whom he called Caspar, for he -frequently interrupted the conversation to stroke it on the head. I was -astonished to find him well acquainted with the current news of the day, -but he readily explained this, for usually some one who came out carried -a paper, which was willingly given to him, and having nothing else to -occupy his time he read it much more carefully than we do who are in the -turmoil of the city. - -Towards the middle of the day I left him, almost envying his peaceful -life and happy contentment, yet doubting if this would last long, for, -after the novelty wore away, I could not help thinking that he might -find his solitary existence less pleasing. I had become wonderfully -interested in this man, and determined to pay him another visit when I -could again find half a day to devote to pleasure. - -It was not, however, until the following September that I could spare -time for another trip to the Crib. This visit, as I said, had been -prompted out of curiosity to watch the effects of this solitary life -upon Stahlmann. Although four months had elapsed, I found him situated -just as I had left him, and by the appearance of the surroundings, I -might have almost believed it was but yesterday I had looked upon him. -When I remarked this to him, I noticed a peculiar smile play across his -features, and it struck me that his face had not the same happy -expression which had so pleased me before. I observed, too, that he -carried himself in a listless manner, very unlike his former erect -bearing. I found him, however, just as readily drawn into conversation, -although some of his old enthusiasm was gone, and he manifested an -evident disinclination to speak of himself, for when I made an effort to -bring up the subject, he displayed considerable skill in evading it. -This was repeated again and again until I found that he would not be -forced to it, but I saw full well by his actions that he had already -grown tired of his monotonous life. All my jokes about the solitude, -which he had laughed at before, were now received in silence and with -furtive glances. Evidently it had become a serious matter, and I dropped -the disagreeable subject. - -He inquired most eagerly for any news, and said he had not seen a paper -for almost a week, as the wet weather had interfered with visitors, -preventing any one from coming out. When I left he repeatedly invited me -to come again, which I promised to do, as in our slight intercourse we -had struck up a mutual friendship. My interest, too, had been increased, -as I plainly saw that his life had become distasteful to him, and I had -considerable curiosity to ascertain whether he would, according to his -promise, remain the two full years upon the Crib; at any rate, I -concluded that I would not lose sight of him. - -Directly after this visit, business arrangements called me away from -home, and detained me in New York City without interruption until last -May. During this period, of course, I had no means of learning any thing -whatever concerning Gustav Stahlmann. On my return, the first glimpse I -caught of the familiar lake recalled him to my memory, and revived the -old interest. I determined to renew our former acquaintance, but found, -to my great disappointment, that all visitors to the Crib had been -prohibited by the authorities soon after I was called from home; yet I -did not give up in my attempt to find out if he still remained in his -situation. After many fruitless inquiries, I finally learned that he was -dead. This was the only knowledge I could gain, and, disappointed by the -sad intelligence, I dismissed the subject from my mind. - -A week ago I made the startling discovery that the Crib at the eastern -terminus of the lake tunnel, within the year following its completion, -had been the scene of a tragedy, the particulars of which, when I -learned them, thrilled me with horror, and called forth my profoundest -sympathy for the poor victim. The whole circumstance had been so -carefully kept secret by an enforced reticence on the part of the -authorities, that beyond two or three individuals no one in Chicago had -the slightest suspicion of the sickening drama which was enacted but two -miles from her shores. - -I was walking through the Court House looking at the arrangement of the -newly erected portion of the building, and while in the rooms occupied -by the Water Board, I accidentally stumbled upon an old memorandum book -which had evidently been misplaced during the recent removal of this -department from their old quarters on Wells Street to the first floor of -the west wing. Upon examination it proved to be a kind of diary, and was -written with pencil in the German character. On the inside of the front -cover, near the upper right hand corner, was inscribed the name Gustav -Stahlmann, and underneath a date—1865. A small portion of the book, the -first part, was filled with accounts, some of them of expenditures, -others memoranda of days’ work in different parts of the city, and under -various foremen. But it was to the body of the book that my attention -was particularly called. This was in the journal form, being a record of -successive occurrences with the attending thoughts. The entries were -made at irregular intervals and without any regard to system. Sometimes -it had been written in daily for a considerable period, then dropped, -and taken up again apparently at the whim of the owner. In places there -appeared no connection between the parts separated by a break of even -short duration; at others the sense was obscure, and could only be -attained by implication. The earliest records in the second part were in -June, 1867, and I found dates regularly inserted as late as the November -following. In December they ceased entirely; afterward the diary, if -such it might then be called, was either by the day or the week, or -without any direct evidence as to the time when the circumstances -therein narrated had occurred. In fact, throughout the whole of the -concluding portion there was nothing to indicate that the matter had not -been written on a single occasion, except the variations which almost -every person’s hand-writing exhibits when produced under different -degrees of nervous excitement. - -From this black morocco memorandum book; from the hand-writing of Gustav -Stahlmann himself, I learned the incidents of his career after I parted -from him. They constitute the history of a fate so horrible in every -respect, that I shudder at the thought that any human being was doomed -to experience it. - -The main facts in this narrative I have translated, sometimes literally, -at others using my own language, where the thoughts in the original were -so carelessly or obscurely expressed as to render any other course -simply impossible. - -It seems, as I supposed, that when Stahlmann was first settled in the -Crib, he was greatly pleased with his situation. The weather was mild -and beautiful; the fresh air blowing across the water was a grateful -change from the close and dusty atmosphere of Chicago. Many of his old -friends came out to take a look at his new quarters, and almost surveyed -them with envy while listening to an account of his easy, untroubled -life. At dusk, after he had lighted his lamp, and it threw out its rays, -he would watch to see how suddenly in the distance, as if to keep it -company, the great white beacon in the lighthouse would flash out, -burning bright and clear. Then along the western shore the city lights, -one by one, would kindle up, multiplying into a thousand twinkling stars -that threw a halo against the sky. Afterwards the soughing of the waves -as they washed up the sides of his abode, fell pleasantly on his ear, -and lulled him to sleep with Caspar lying at his feet. - -But it seemed as if the same day came again and again, for still the -waters broke around him, and still night after night the same lights -flashed and burned. Then the time appeared to become longer, and he -watched more eagerly for the arrival of some visitors, but, if his -watching had been in vain, he went wearily to sleep at night with a -feeling of disappointment, only to waken and go through the same -cheerless routine. Sometimes for a whole week he would not see a single -human being nor hear the sound of a human voice, save his own when he -spoke to the dog, who seemed by sagacious instinct to sympathize in his -master’s lonesome position, and capered about until he would attract his -attention, and be rewarded by an approving word and caress upon the -head. - -Visitors had become less and less frequent until the last of September, -when they ceased altogether. Stahlmann in trying to explain this to -himself correctly concluded that the authorities must have prohibited -them, as he had heard some time previously they entertained such an -intention, although he had been reluctant to believe it, and still -vainly hoped that it might not be true. But time only confirmed the -suspicion which he had been so unwilling to accept, and although within -two miles of a crowded city, he found himself completely isolated, cut -off, as it were, from the human race. - -Then he searched for something that might amuse him and help wear away -the interminable days, but he found nothing. He would have been glad -even if only the old newspapers had been preserved that he might re-read -them, but they were destroyed, and he owned no books. His former severe -labor, performed in company with his fellow men, was now far preferable -in his eyes to this complete solitude, with nothing to occupy his hands -or mind. He saw the vessels pass until they seemed to become companions -for him in his loneliness; he had watched them all the Summer, but the -winds grew chill and rough, sweeping out of sullen clouds, and -boisterously drove home the ships. - -Stahlmann found himself utterly alone on the wide lake, and the fierce -blasts howled around his frame house, covering it with spray from the -lashing billows that seemed ready to engulf it. Crusts of ice formed and -snapped, rattling down to the waves. Heavy snow fell, but did not whiten -the unchanging scenery, for it was drowned in the waste of waters. Night -after night he lit the beacon and looked yearningly westward to the -starred city. Then the solitude grew intolerable. It was like the vision -of heaven to the lost spirits shut out in darkness forever. He was -alone, all alone, craving even for the sound of a kindred voice, so that -he cried out in his anguish. The flickering lights he was watching threw -their rays over thousands of human beings, yet there was not one to -answer his despairing call. - -Sleep would no longer allow him to forget that he was shut out from all -human society, for he lost consciousness of his lonesome position only -to find himself struggling in some nightmare ocean, where there was no -eye to see his distress. Then he would be awakened by the dog rubbing -his nose against his face, and knew he had groaned aloud in his troubled -slumber, and Caspar had crawled closer, as if to comfort his unhappy -master. Sometimes the tempter whispered escape—escape from this Crib, -which had been so correctly named, for it had, indeed, become a dismal -cage. He felt himself strong to combat the waves in flying from the -horrible solitude; he could swim twice the distance in his eagerness to -be once again among his fellow beings; but his high principles shrank in -horror from the thought of violating a promise. He had solemnly given -his word that he would remain upon the place, and it bound him stronger -than chains of iron. He cast the thought, which had dared to arise in -his mind, from him with a sense of shame that it had been a moment -entertained. - -Early on one bitter cold night, when his house was thick-ribbed with -ice, Stahlmann noticed a great light, which increased until it illumined -all the western sky. He saw the city spires as plainly as though bathed -in the rays of the setting sun, and the lurid glare lit up the waters, -making the surrounding blackness along the lake shore appear more -terrible. The fire brightened and waned, brightened and waned again. He -watched it far into the night, and thought of the thousands of anxious -faces that were turned toward the same light, until he fell into a -troubled sleep, yearning for the sight of a single countenance. This -fire which he witnessed must have been the great conflagration on Lake -Street that occurred in February, 1868. - -He was sitting one dull, cloudy afternoon, looking out over the dreary -waves, when his attention was attracted by the strange behavior of -Caspar. The dog was greatly excited; it would jump about him, whining -and howling, then run to the door, which stood partly open, and look -down into the water, at the same time giving a short, quick yelp. This -was repeated so frequently that Stahlmann was aroused from his gloomy -reverie. He followed it to the threshold, and saw for an instant some -black object that the waves threw up against the Crib. A second time it -arose, and Stahlmann plunged into the water with the quick instinct that -prompts a brave man to peril his own life in attempting to save another -from drowning. In one moment more he had grasped the body, and fastened -it to the rope ladder that hung down the western side of the Crib. Then -mounting it himself, he drew it up after him on to the floor. - -It was the form of a young man, and Stahlmann eagerly kneeled over it, -hoping yet to find a faint spark of vitality. A glance showed him that -the body must have been in the water several hours, for it was already -somewhat bloated; but even then, in his mad desire to restore life, he -rubbed the stiffened limbs; but the rigid muscles did not relax. He -wrung the water from the black hair, which in places was short and -crisp, looking as if it might have been singed by fire. The features -were not irregular, but the open eyes had a stony, death-glaze on them, -and the broad forehead was cut across in gashes which had evidently been -made by the waves beating it against the walls of the Crib. The hands -were clenched and slightly blistered. - -Stahlmann’s frenzied exertions could not call back the departed spirit, -and he sat gazing wildly upon it in his bitter disappointment. Then a -startling thought broke suddenly into his mind—What, out in his desolate -and watery home, could he do with the dead? Where could he put the -stiffened corpse? But as the night came on, he arose to light the -beacon; then descended again immediately, taking up his former position -by the lifeless form, for it appeared to exert a peculiar fascination -over him; he felt a strange kind of pleasure in the presence of the form -of a human being, even though it were dead. He seemed to have found a -companion, and the thought, which had startled him at first died from -his memory. - -Hour after hour as he sat beside the corpse; its strange influence -increased, until it gradually filled up in his troubled heart the aching -void which had so yearned for society. He left it only as necessity -called him away to attend to his duties, each time returning with -increasing haste. Day by day the spell continued, and he grew to regard -the dead body with all the tenderness he would have manifested toward a -living brother. He did not shrink from the cold, clammy skin when he -raised the head to place it on a stool, but sat and talked to it. He -asked why it looked at him with that stony glare, and why its face had -turned that dark and ugly color; but when no answer came, he said he -realized that it was dead and could not speak. Then the terrible truth -flashed upon him. With a groan he saw that he could keep the corpse no -longer, and the thought which had startled him once before crept in -again with increased significance. Where could he bury it? In the bottom -of the lake, where nothing would disturb its peace. He gently let it -down into the water, and, as he saw it disappear, he awoke to wild grief -at losing it, and would have plunged in to rescue it the second time, -but it was gone from sight forever. - -Might not this body have been one of the lost from the ill-fated Sea -Bird, which burned in the beginning of April, 1868, a few miles north of -the city? Stahlmann must have found it about this time. - -His grief for the loss of his dead companion grew upon him each day, and -rendered the solitude more unendurable. Solitude? It was no longer -solitude, for the place was peopled by the phantom creations of his -inflamed imagination. Here a part of the diary is altogether incoherent, -showing into what utter confusion his intellect had been thrown. - -The waves roared at him in anger, and the winds joined them in their -rage. Fiendish spirits seemed to rise up before him that were fierce to -clutch him and gloat over his terror. The lights in the west danced -together and glared at him in mockery, and his own beacon threw its cold -white rays over the familiar aperture where the iron rods of the -water-gates rose; but that opening had suddenly become an undefined -horror to him. The very terror with which he regarded it drew him to its -verge. He cast his eyes into its depths, down upon the troubled but -black and silent water, and glared at the vision which met his strained -sight, for the ghostly face of the man who had been murdered in the -tunnel peered at him through the uncertain light. - -There was only the dog that he could fly to in his agony, but it, too, -had a strange appearance and answered his call by low plaintive howls -that sent a shiver through his frame. He repeated its name aloud, and -Caspar crawled closer to his master, still at times making moans that -sounded sorrowful—almost like the pleading of a human voice in distress, -and he thought its eyes had a strange reproachful gaze. While he spoke -to it, the dog uttered a prolonged wail. Stahlmann shivered, and a cold -chill crept through his blood; all his superstition was roused afresh. -The wind lost its rage and died down to funeral-sobs. The sound of the -waves fell into a dirge-like cadence, and that melancholy wail which had -chilled his blood rang in his ears—it rang with the awful significance -of an evil omen long after it had died upon the air. The dog lay -perfectly motionless; he stooped to stroke it, but it did not move. He -stared at it with a bewildered gaze, when suddenly the horrible reality -with the fearful explanation, broke upon his half-crazed brain, and he -staggered back with a wild shriek. In the utter misery of his solitude, -in his strange grief for the loss of the drowned corpse, and his terror -from the hallucinations of a disordered intellect, he had neglected to -feed his faithful dog, and had starved to death the only living creature -that existed for him in the world. Caspar was dead. - -Stahlmann in his agony seemed to hear once more the piteous cry which -the dog had uttered with its expiring breath, and to him the wail -sounded in its pathetic mournfulness like the mysterious herald of -another death. - -The diary is so blurred at this point that it is hardly legible. What -can be read is incomprehensible from broken, incoherent sentences—the -empty language of a lunatic. Save one remaining passage, I could make -out nothing further. This entry must have been written in a lucid -interval when he realized to what a fearful condition he had been -reduced by unbroken solitude. Because it is the last record, I translate -it literally, as follows: - - “That cry again—what have I come through? Hell with its host of furies - can not be worse than this awful Crib—I kill myself. - - G. STAHLMANN.” - -What remains is soon told. A few inquiries in the proper direction -revealed that on the morning of the first of May, 1868, when the tug -boat from Chicago made its usual trip to the Crib to supply provisions, -the dog was discovered dead upon the floor, and near by—just to the -right of the entrance, and about ten feet distant from it—hung the dead -body of Gustav Stahlmann, suspended by the neck from one of the rafters. -It was at once cut down and the Coroner quietly notified. Among his few -effects was found the memorandum book which so curiously came into my -possession. - -The authorities were in no way to blame for this unfortunate occurrence. -On that day they placed several persons in charge of this lonely -structure and have changed them at regular intervals ever since. Because -if the circumstance were known, they were fearful they could get no one -to fill the situation, either on account of the solitude or from the -fact that many persons are afraid to live in a house that has been the -scene of a suicide—they wisely concluded to say nothing whatever about -the melancholy event, and, as I said before, few persons in the city are -acquainted with its details. - - - - -[Illustration] - - PROF. KELLERMANN’S FUNERAL. - - -It had snowed persistently all day, and now, at night, the wind had -risen and blew in furious gusts against the windows, a bleak December -gale. - -The Professor tramped steadily up and down his floor, up and down his -floor, from wall to wall and back again. It was not a cheerful room; -with but one strip of carpet, a chair or two, a table and bedstead, and -one dim tallow candle, flickering in a vain struggle to give any thing -better than a sickly light, which was afflicted, at uncertain intervals, -with violent convulsions. No, it was not a pleasant place, for the -Professor was poor, and lived a lonely, hermit-like life in the heart of -the great German city. - -He had no relations—no friends. He was not a popular man, though he had -once been well known, and the public had all applauded his great -scholarship. His books, one after another, as they came out, if they -brought him no money, had brought him some fame then; but the last one -had appeared years ago, and been commented upon, and conscientiously put -aside, and the public, never very much interested in the author -personally, had about forgotten him. - -During these long years he had been living secluded, waging a perpetual -war with himself. Entangled in the meshes of the subtile German -infidelity, which was at variance with his earlier training, he found -himself encompassed about by unbelief—unbelief in the orthodox theology -of his youth, unbelief, also, in the philosophy of this metaphysical -land. A man of vast learning, and a close student, he discovered his -knowledge to be always conflicting; and thus the long debate within him -was no nearer a termination than at the moment when the first doubt had -asserted itself. - -Preyed upon by this harassing mental anxiety, and by encroaching -poverty, he was seized by a nervous fever, which had gradually -undermined his health, and almost disordered his mind. - -And now, this night, in a condition of exhaustion, weary of life and its -ceaseless struggle—without friends, without money, without hope—his -black despair, like the evil tempter, rose before him and suggested a -thought from which he had at first drawn back appalled. But it was only -for a moment. Why not put an end forever to all these troubles? Had he -not worked for years, and had he ever done the world any good, or had -the world ever done him any good? No! The world was retrograding daily. -The selfishness of humanity, instead of lessening, was constantly -growing worse. How had they repaid him for his long studies? He had shut -himself up and labored over heavy questions in metaphysics—sifting, -searching, reading, thinking—only for a few thankless ones, who had -glanced at his works, smiled a faint smile of praise, and straightway -left them and him to be lost again in obscurity! - -The future was dark, the present a labyrinth of care and suffering, from -which there was but the one escape. Then why not accept it? So he had -been arguing with himself all the evening, and, in his growing -excitement, pacing the floor of his garret to and fro with a quick, -nervous tread. But there had another cause risen in his mind which he, -at first, would hardly acknowledge to himself. - -A faint, undefined shadow, as it were, of his early faith stirred within -him, and before him the “oblivion” of death was peopled with a thousand -appalling fancies, illumined by the red flame of an eternal torment. In -vain he strove to dispel it by remembering the more rational doctrine of -reason, that death is but a dreamless sleep, lasting forever. - -Suddenly, feeling conscious of the heinousness of the crime he was -meditating, and knowing that he was in an unnatural feverish condition, -he paused abruptly in his hurried tramp, stood a few moments utterly -motionless, then, dropping on his knees, he made a vow that he would -take twenty-four hours to consider the deed, and, if it were done, it -should not be done rashly. “Hear me, O Heaven!” Springing up, he cried; -“Heaven! Heaven!—There is no Heaven! Vow!—to whom did I vow? There is no -God!” Muttering a faint laugh, he said, after a moment: “I vowed to -myself; and the vow shall be kept. Not all the theories and philosophies -of Germany shall cheat me out of it.” - -It seemed like the last struggle of his soul to assert itself. Almost -staggering with exhaustion, he fell upon the bed and slept. - -A gentle breeze from the far past blew around him in his native land. He -saw the white cliff at whose base the sea-foam threw up its glittering -spray with a ceaseless strain of music. He saw the green meadows, where -the quiet, meek-eyed cattle found a pasture, stretching away to the -green hills, where flocks of sheep browsed in the pleasant shade beneath -the tall oak trees. He saw, far off on the highest summit of the wavy -ridge, the turrets of the great castle rear themselves above the foliage -like a crown—the royal diadem upon all these sun-bathed hills and -valleys. He stood within the cottage, the happy cottage under the -sheltering sycamores; and, brighter, clearer, more beautiful than all -these, he saw a face look down upon him with a calm and earnest smile. -It was the home of his childhood, it was the face of his mother, all -raised in the mirage of sleep—a radiant vision lifted from the heavy -gloom of forty years, years upon which Immanuel Kant, years upon which -the Transcendental school had crept with their baleful influence, -poisonous as the deadly nightshade. - -He struggled to speak, and wakened. A dream, yes, all a dream! He -pressed his hands against his brow—A dream? Yes, childhood had been but -a dream. Life itself is but an unhappy dream! - -The wild December wind still blew with a rattling noise against the -windows, and sometimes swept round the corner with a dreary, -half-smothered cry. The candle had burned down almost to the socket, and -was seized more frequently than before with its painful spasms, making -each gaunt shadow of the few pieces of furniture writhe in a weird, -silent dance on the wall. As the Professor sat on the bed, they appeared -to him like voiceless demons, performing some diabolical ceremony, -luring his soul to destruction. Then they seemed moving in fantastic -measure to a soundless dirge, which he strained his ears to hear, when -the candle burned steadily, and they paused in their dumb incantation. - -A loud knock, which shook the door, made the Professor start up amazed, -and the shadows re-begin their uncanny pantomime. For a moment he stood -stupefied with surprise. It was far in the small hours of the night, and -visitors at any time were unknown. He had lived there for months an -utter stranger, and no footsteps but his own had ever crossed the floor. -An uncontrollable fit of trembling came upon him, and he lay down once -more, thinking it all the creation of his overwrought fancy. But the -knock was repeated louder than before, and the gaunt shadows again made -violent signals to each other in their speechless dialect, as though -their grim desires were just then upon the eve of accomplishment. - -With an effort the Professor got up and said “Come!” but the word died -away in his throat, a faint whisper. He tried it a second time; then, -partially overruling the weakness that had seized upon him, crossed the -room and opened the door. - -“Good gracious! What’s the matter with you?” said a voice from out of -the dark on the landing. - -It was the son of the undertaker, who lived down stairs. They were not -acquainted, and had never spoken, but they had often passed each other -in the street—though, until that moment, the Professor was not aware -that he had ever even noticed him; but now he recognized him and drew -back. The young man, however, entered uninvited. - -“I say, what the deuce is the matter with you?” - -“Nothing! What do you want, sir?” - -“Want? Why your face is as white as a sheet, and your eyes, your eyes -are—confound me if I want any thing!” he said, backing to the door in -alarm. - -Indeed, the expression which rested on the features of the Professor was -hardly pleasant to look at alone, and in the night. But, having followed -his instinct, so far as to his bodily preservation, and having backed -into the hall so that the Professor could hardly distinguish the outline -of his figure, the young man’s courage got the better of his fright. He -came to a standstill, passed his hand nervously round his neck, cleared -his throat several times, and then, in a husky voice—caused, evidently, -by his recent alarm, and not by the message, singular as it was, that he -came to deliver—said,— - -“We want you. It is Christmas—we want you for a corpse.” - -It may have been a very ordinary thing to them, considering their -profession, to want people for corpses, either at Christmas or any other -time; but it was hardly an ordinary thing to the Professor to be wanted -for one; and the announcement was certainly somewhat startling, made in -a sepulchral tone from out the gloom. It was still stranger that the -young man himself appeared rather faint-hearted for one who entertained -so malevolent a desire, and had the boldness to make the assertion -outright. The Professor for a moment fairly thought him in league with -the shadows, for they were at work once more, beckoning and pointing -fiercely, as the wind swept up the staircase, to the indistinct figure -out in the dusk, that was the son of the undertaker, and who said -again,— - -“We want you, sir, for a corpse—” - -Here he paused abruptly, to clear his throat anew, as though he found -himself disagreeably embarrassed by the unfriendly appearance of his -host, whose face, if it had been pale at first, was of a gray, ashen -color now. He evidently could not see why his request should have been -taken in such ill part, and he stammered and stuttered, and was about -ready to begin again, when the Professor said,— - -“You will likely get me.” - -The peculiar expression that rested upon the Professor’s mouth as he -uttered these words, was hardly encouraging; but the young man—as though -every body would recognize that it was absolutely essential to them, in -order that they might celebrate the great gala-day with their family, to -have a corpse, just as other people have a tree—immediately brightened -up, and, advancing a step or two, said gratefully,— - -“I am very glad, sir; I am very glad. It is Christmas, you know, and I -told them as how I thought you’d do, for you are spare, sir, and—” - -Here he found another blockade in his throat, which, after a slight -struggle, he swallowed, and went on,— - -“I told them as how I thought you’d do, sir, for you see we want -somebody that is small and thin, and will be light to carry after he is -all fixed up. Hans Blauroch did for us last time; but this year, instead -of parading Santa Claus up and down the street, we’ve concluded to bury -him. It will be something new this Christmas; and Hans is too heavy to -carry; and when I thought of you, sir, I just took the liberty of coming -right up; because it’s near daylight, and there ain’t no great while -left to get the funeral ready.” - -So the blockhead had finally jerked out what he came for, which was not -so malevolent after all as he had at first made it appear. He deserved, -rather, to be praised for his persistency than censured for his -awkwardness, considering the difficulties under which he had labored. - -The Professor did not show whether he felt relieved by this -_denouement_. He had listened without moving; and when the young man -finished speaking he hesitated a moment, then, with the same peculiar -expression visible about his mouth, said he would be glad to place -himself at their service; he would be with them directly; that he had -not been feeling well; indeed, he only an hour ago almost fainted, and -had not yet recovered when he heard the knock upon his door; but he was -feeling better, and would come down immediately. - -The young man laughed good-naturedly as he replied,— - -“I am obliged to say I did not like the looks of you at first. You must -have been out of your head.” - -The Professor waited until the last echo of the retreating footsteps -died away down at the bottom of the stairs, then shut his door. - -“A strange thing,” he muttered; “what have I to do with Christmas? I, -who have studied, studied! I had forgotten there was any time called -Christmas. What is it to a scholar? Philosophy says nothing about it; -and reason would teach that—ah, yes, it too is a dream, a dream within -the dream called life. Then what have I to do with it? Why did I -promise? I will not go. Yet my vow—twenty-four hours. I dare not trust -myself alone. A funeral, did he say? I will see how it feels; yes, for I -will probably need one in another day. They wanted me ‘for a corpse,’ -and I said they would likely get me, and I would be glad to ‘place -myself at their service.’ Ha, ha! They can bury me twice. But my vow, my -vow! I will not trust myself alone. It is nothing to me; I will go.” - -He had been tramping again rapidly up and down the room, when he -suddenly turned, took up his hat, looked around for a moment at the -shadows that were still making unintelligible signs to each other, then -extinguished them in darkness and slowly went down stairs. - -The lodgings were directly over the undertaker’s establishment. Living -so secluded, speaking to none, it had never occurred to the Professor -before what a grim place he had chosen for his home. But now the -silver-barred coffins in the show-case were ghastly as he passed. - -Night had not yet yielded up her supremacy. A heavy covering of snow, -that clung to every roof, tower, and spire, made the place look unreal -through the gloom, like some colorless apparition of a great specter -city. Close-blinded, silent and cold, without one glimmer of life, the -houses faced each other down the long street. Far off, the ghostly dome -and pinnacles of the cathedral reached into the sky—the empty, soundless -sky—for the wind had fallen away, leaving a gray expanse that seemed to -stretch through infinitude. But, though the Professor did not notice, -there was a rift that divided the dreary cloud down near the horizon, -and disclosed, brighter than the pale light of the coming day, a star -shining in the East. - -And it was Christmas morning. - -The Professor walked block after block, feeling unconsciously refreshed -by the crisp air upon his heated brow. Then he turned back, and when he -had reached the building went down an alley-way and entered by a door in -the rear. - -A great confusion and general dimness, not lessened any by two or three -candles that were burning, pervaded the room, which was long and ran -almost across the house. Half a dozen men were standing or moving about, -and some were sitting or leaning upon coffins and biers, that covered -all the floor, except where they occasionally left narrow passages -between, like irregular aisles. - -At the Professor’s entrance, the young man who had paid him so friendly -a visit came up instantly, took hold of him by the arm, and turned him -round, with the exclamation,— - -“Here he is father! He is thin enough to be easily carried.” - -The man denominated “father” by the young off-shoot of the establishment -surveyed the Professor with a critical eye from head to foot, and, as -there could be no better sample of physical spareness than he presented, -said, laconically,— - -“He’ll do.” - -Then there was new confusion and bustling about, and two or three -persons immediately seized the Professor, one by his hair, one by his -feet, one by his arms. With a grim smile, he submitted, in perfect -silence, to the operations of this dressing committee. - -He saw himself—him, Gustav Kellermann, the philosopher!—blossom into -brilliant colors, scarlet and blue and orange. He saw them clasp a -girdle round his waist, to which they hung gilded toys and bells in all -directions, until he was fairly covered over with trinkets of every -device. He felt them encase his head—his learned, metaphysical head—in a -cap that was adorned at the point and round the sides with innumerable -swinging-dolls. - -It had been daylight three or four hours when all the mysterious -preparations, which had been done almost without speaking a single word, -were finally completed, and every thing waited in readiness. - -There, strangely conspicuous in that dismal room, with its dismal -paraphernalia of death, was a brilliant, half-human, half-monkey-like -creature, standing up on its hind legs, and flaming all over in gaudy -colors. To this grotesque figure, the important actor, evidently the -chief agent in the contract, a man of brief speech, came up and said, -brusquely,— - -“Now, you are dead, you know, and have nothing to do but be dead. You -are not to be fidgeting, or stirring round, or peeping. When you are -dead, you are dead, you know, and that is all.” - -O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Good reasoning! When you are -dead, you are _dead_. - -Then they picked up this half-human, half-monkey-like object, which had -uttered not one word, placed it in a coffin, and put upon it a -mask-face. Carrying it out by the rear door, they raised it and set it -down on a catafalque, draped in a black velvet pall, and ornamented with -tall black funeral plumes. - -O vain pomp and grandeur of death! When you are dead, you are _dead_. - -A confused hurry and tramp of many feet was succeeded by a pause, and -some one said,—“Ready.” - -The procession reached the open avenue and moved slowly down the street -to the sound of a funeral march. Solemnly, with measured tread, they -advanced, and the people flocked to the doors on every side. There was a -cry of surprise and alarm. “What is it?” “Who is it?” ran from lip to -lip. The crowd gathered. The procession, with its sable plumes and -ribbons of _crepe_, still continued on its way. There was the sound of -lamentation, and at every moment the throng and confusion increased, the -multitude thickened, and men, women and children were held off by the -guard. Do they go to the great cemetery? No, they turned eastward, and -at the Rosenthal halted. There the wondering spectators saw, in its -center, a pure white tomb. Before it the catafalque was brought to a -stand, and the coffin solemnly lowered. - -Immediately a broken shout ran through the crowd, that was taken up and -repeated until it grew into a laugh, and men and women, catching up the -children, cried,— - -“It is Kriss Kringle! Ha! ha! See, child, it is Kriss Kringle! He is -dead. Kriss Kringle is dead!” - -It was a great relief to the people, so suddenly alarmed, and they good -humoredly held up the little ones, saying,— - -“See! Kriss Kringle is dead. He will never come any more. He is dead!” - -There was a silence; and many little faces, awe-stricken, looked -sorrowfully down, and many little arms were stretched out, and many -little voices, quivering, sobbed,— - -“No, no, no! He will come back. He brought us pretty things. He will -come back to us.” - -O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Is your strength still -greater than this? - -There was a stir under the heavy pall, and a voice—hark! a voice!— - -“Yes, children, I will come back to you. I have come back to you!” And -from beneath the sable funeral drapery, Kriss Kringle sprang, all -jingling with silver bells, and flashing with a thousand toys. - -Then again there was great confusion, but this time no sound of -lamentation; and the solemn funeral march swept into a strain of joyful -music. And the children! Oh, the children, in wild delight, played in -circles about the queer, grotesque being, who set to work destroying the -snow-tomb. He threw it at them in small crystal showers that called up, -each time as they fell, a burst of gleeful laughter. He detached the -bright toys from his girdle, from his cap, from his elbows, from his -knees, and rained them down upon the little ones who raced round him in -their mad frolic. Then he took off the false face and threw it far away, -and the people, in surprise, cried, “It is the Professor!” and drew back -awe-struck, to think they had taken such liberties with so renowned a -scholar. But the children never paused in their romp; and he said, while -they scrambled about him in merry laughter,— - -“I have come back to you, children. I have come back to you!” - -And in his heart he cried, “I knew not what life was; then how should I -know of death?” O, Immanuel Kant! O, transcendental school! Here are -those who teach a philosophy of which you know nothing—a philosophy -higher than the critics; a philosophy of life; a philosophy of love; a -philosophy of death that is no sleep! - -The sun came out and spread a jeweled splendor on the snow, over which, -hand-in-hand, the happy children danced. - - -The Professor is an old man now, and the fame of his learning has become -great in the land. And all the people tell about his funeral; and how, -every Christmas since, in his scarlet clothes and furs, laden with -“pretty things,” he leads the children in their play, and scatters on -them a thousand toys, while they, in gleeful groups, join their hands -and dance. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE FEVERFEW. - - -During my youth I suffered from a naturally delicate constitution. I was -pale, feeble and sickly, but from no decided disease. A dreamy, quiet -cast of temperament caused me to shrink from the rough sports of my -brothers; the contact of strangers was equally disagreeable, and I -seldom strayed from home. Indeed, I lived almost entirely within myself, -although by no means devoid of natural affection; on the contrary, my -emotions were strong, and my sympathy easily aroused. - -How it happened that I acquired a love of learning I do not know, all -the outward circumstances by which I was surrounded tending to foster -any thing rather than intellectual habits, for our family, although each -member possessed a common education, were strictly practical; but this -difference in my disposition cut me off from their pursuits, and I found -my chief enjoyment in the volumes of a library to which I obtained -access. - -Perhaps it was the sedentary life I led, the close confinement, and lack -of exercise, that brought on a violent attack of sickness when I was in -my nineteenth year, so that I lay for several weeks completely -prostrated. During two or three days my life hung as in a balance, which -a breath might have turned and launched me beyond the confines of time. -However, the disease succumbed to the persevering attention of -experienced nurses. I arose from my weary bed and found my physical -health slowly improving, but from that period I was subject at irregular -intervals to what the physician pronounced temporary delirium, which I -knew he used as a milder term for insanity. - -But it was not insanity. I never lost control of my mind, but I lost -control of my body. It obeyed a will that was not my own. A mighty -antagonistic power seemed to creep over my brain, which impelled my -movements and held my struggling soul in subjection. I presented the -singular phenomenon of one person governed by two separate and distinct -wills, for my mind was not disordered, but only mastered by superior -strength. In this strange condition I would see familiar objects -magnified, exaggerated, and contorted, in an atmosphere varying with all -colors, at the same time being perfectly conscious of their real -appearance. I would hear sounds sweet and musical grow into wails of -heart-rending despair. I could recognize my friends when they were -present, but was forced to regard them with the cold eye of a stranger. -I would commit acts that no human agency could have compelled me to do -when my faculties were untrammelled. I never submitted without a -struggle, and always felt conscious that, if I could but once resist -this seemingly invincible power, if I could but once disregard its -promptings, I should be free. - -The attacks were never of long duration. They always left me utterly -exhausted, and it would sometimes require a week to recruit my expended -strength. I could afterward recall every incident with the most distinct -minuteness, for they were branded in characters of fire on my memory. -Vainly I asserted again and again that it was not delirium, that I was -forced into subjection to some mysterious power I could not withstand; -my statements made no impression upon the physician, who evidently -considered mine but a common case of one suffering from attacks of -temporary insanity, and, when I persisted in my statement, he forbade -any further reference to the subject. - -However, I could not prevent my mind from continually dwelling upon it -in secret. What was this so foreign, so antagonistic to myself that -mastered my will, that controlled my actions, that made me literally -another being? Why did I not shake off this evil influence and be free? -I felt perfectly conscious of possessing the power, but was not able to -arouse it from a latent condition. - -As I have said before, I was naturally of a studious disposition, and I -now turned my attention to metaphysics. I read works, ancient and -modern, on its different branches; I studied medical treatises on -insanity, and, the more I learned, the more thoroughly convinced I -became that I was not suffering from mental aberration. Constant -brooding over my disease greatly wore upon my physical strength; -traveling was recommended, in hopes that change of climate and scene -might benefit my health. My old aversion to strangers clung to me, and, -although possessed by a restlessness to which I was wholly unaccustomed, -I persistently refused to leave home; no arguments could gain my -consent, so that my friends were forced to give up the project in -despair. - -One morning, when more than the usual gloom oppressed my spirits, I made -an effort to arouse myself and throw off the melancholy that was -settling upon me, which each day I felt to be growing more confirmed. I -was sitting by a window, which stood wide open, and, just outside, a -caged canary was singing and fluttering its feathers in the warm spring -sunshine. The little bird was my particular property, and I regarded it -with an affection which is rarely bestowed upon pets. With the exception -of my young sister, a child about four years of age, this was the only -living thing that I had taken any interest in since my sickness. I had -trained the canary from the shell, and the little creature seemed to -repay all my care, for from no other member of the family would it -receive caresses. I was so much afraid of its being accidentally injured -that I never allowed it to be freed from the cage, except in my -presence. At my call it would fly about me, resting on my head, -shoulders, or hands, and chirping in a perfect ecstasy of enjoyment. - -I arose and opened the door of its prison, then, reseating myself, -softly whistled while it darted into the air, wheeled once or twice, and -descended upon my hand. Stroking its spotless yellow plumage, I regarded -the little thing with a degree of pleasure I had not experienced for -several weeks. But sudden horror almost caused my heart to cease its -beatings, and the perspiration started from my forehead in great drops, -for I felt my fingers slowly closing over the delicate bird. Although I -made an attempt greater than the racking effort we sometimes exert in -the nightmare, I had no power to restrain them. The canary fluttered in -my clasp. I would have dropped it, I would have shrieked for help, but -my muscles, my voice, my _body_, obeyed me not, and my fingers, like the -steady working of machinery, gradually tightened their relentless grasp. -In my agony the veins of my face protruded like lines of cordage. I -heard the frail bones breaking beneath the crushing pressure, then my -involuntary grip suddenly relaxed, and the bird fell upon my knee, dead -and mangled! - -At the same moment, I saw, through the open door, my little sister -playing upon the grass-plat; and, almost before I was aware of moving, -or of any volition, I found myself walking rapidly toward her, while my -fingers twitched with a convulsive, clutching movement. Good Heavens! I -already saw her face turn purple, and heard her gasping breath smothered -by gurgling blood. With this terrible picture before my mental vision, -my brain felt as if it would burst its bounds in the desperate, but -unavailing effort I made to turn back, to fly from the spot. But I could -not command myself. In that moment I endured suffering more intense than -language can describe. Perhaps my strange and wild appearance frightened -the child; for, in place of holding out her arms to me, her favorite -brother, she fled crying to the nurse, who did not observe my approach, -and carried her into the house. Saved! unconsciously saved—saved from a -fate too terrible to contemplate. - -I sank insensible upon the ground, and, when I recovered, found myself -surrounded by the family, each one applying some restorative, for I had -been in a long and death-like swoon. Slowly, but distinctly, the -recollections of the events which had reduced me to this condition -presented themselves to my memory with all their appalling horror, -nearly depriving me again of consciousness. - -I did not refer in any manner to the subject, which was also carefully -avoided by all others in my presence, for fear that it might produce -renewed excitement, and my friends had no suspicion of the circumstances -which brought it about. The bird was found dead upon the floor, and the -family imagined that it had met with some accident. They were evidently -surprised, when the fact was communicated to me, that I made no remarks, -for they had anticipated an outburst of grief. - -Grief! I did not suffer from grief; grief was overpowered by the horror -that racked my brain—horror for the act I had committed, and the more -fearful one which had been so mercifully prevented. I had committed? No, -it was not _my_ mind or will which had prompted my hand to do the deed. -I was innocent, even though my fingers had dripped with the blood of a -sister; but the frightful thought filled me with a terror that wrung my -soul. I pondered continually upon it. When might not this mysterious -demon again assert its evil control over me? Strange as it may seem, I -felt certain that it was some foreign agency—I knew not what—that -mastered my will, and not the result of my own intellect, in a -disordered condition. - -This overpowering dread of the future, of what might happen, which took -possession of me, drove me to the decision of leaving home, as the best -way of avoiding danger to my friends. Perhaps, too, if my physical -health became better, I might gain strength enough to defy this infernal -power; for, as I have said before, I possessed a singular consciousness -that, if I could once successfully resist its promptings, my soul would -be liberated from thraldom. I announced my determination of making a -journey, without any explanation of my sudden change, and it was greeted -with delight by my friends and relatives, who were anxious to hasten my -departure while the humor was upon me; but they need not have feared any -change of purpose on my part, for I was haunted by this terrible dread -of the future, and I gladly said farewell for a time to my home and -birthplace. - -The incidents of travel and of new scenes broke the monotony, and -dispelled to some degree the gloom that had taken fast hold upon me. In -a short period I found myself rapidly improving. Every week brought me -an increase of strength, and I suffered less frequently from these -frightful attacks. Although they occurred at longer intervals than -formerly, they seemed to grow more severe in character; the conflict was -fiercer, and my mind made a more desperate effort to gain the supremacy. -My whole frame would be racked by the intense struggle which I -constantly maintained, though I was constantly vanquished. - -The increasing delight I took in the scenery, the continued exercise and -excitement, almost drove despair from me, and hope once more brightened -my countenance. I began to look forward to the time when my health would -be entirely restored, and my body and mind be in unison. I did not hope -vainly, for the final conflict came, and with it a strange termination -of my long sufferings. - -I stood upon the side of an Eastern mountain. Above my head vast rocks -arose in solemn grandeur, their summits lost in canopied mists which, -gray and clinging, wrapped them in obscurity. Below, a great chasm rent -the mountain; a yawning, bottomless gulf. While I gazed, awed by the -thought of its mysterious depths, where no human eye had seen, where no -human foot had trod, a ray of light struggled in and rested on gaunt -trees, on snake-like ferns, damp and cold, that clung to its slimy -sides, and on one pale flower which nodded in the chill draught that -came up, a palpable horror, from the blackness of darkness. I turned -away. Near the western horizon dead clouds were piled one above another, -and their heavy shadow lay brown and dark upon the sullen earth. No wind -stirred the forests, or rustled their motionless leaves, and the awe of -the unbroken silence fell, with a dread oppression, upon my heart. - -Suddenly I was seized by an ungovernable desire to possess the -flower—the colorless flower that hung far down in the death-damp of the -chasm. A freezing terror crept through my blood as I recognized this -decree of a will I had never been able to disobey. I felt myself -crawling closer to the verge of the precipice; nearer, yet nearer, until -I sat within the very jaw of the savage gulf. The dead clouds heaved -their shroud-like forms and wavered overhead. I heard the rush of -subterranean waters sounding a muffled requiem. The sickly flower with -its long stem writhed and twisted, as a serpent stretches his folds into -the air. Slowly back and forth it swayed, glaring at me like a -lustreless eye. - -My brain reeled, and all the forces of my nature gathered up their -increased strength for one fierce and final conflict. I felt the blood -rage through my veins with the headlong fury of cataracts. The very -spring of life within me was stirred and troubled, when, with one mighty -strain, I drew myself up and fell backward on the grass. - -The whole world went out in utter darkness. Before my eyes stretched a -vast, illimitable gloom, when suddenly out of its impenetrable depths -above my head there grew and glimmered faintly a thin and wavering mist. -Folding upon itself, it hung down, white and luminous, a cloud of -palpitating nebulæ. Pricked with a thousand points of fire it gathered -slowly to a nucleus in the center—a flickering speck, a disc, it flamed, -blazed into a star, and lo! poised midway in the air, an aureole of -light, it rested upon the brow of a female figure. - -Her scornful eyes looked down upon me with a lurid gleam that seemed to -burn my soul. A smile of derision sat upon her lips that were more vivid -in hue than the vermilion dye. Her locks were yellow as the sun at -noontide; her skin was white as the leper’s; her breath hot as the -desert air, and the light of the star upon her forehead burned red with -the frightful redness of fresh blood. Suddenly I saw that the murky -clouds on either side her form swarmed with a thousand dwarfed and -warted shapes. Black and hideous, they knotted, flitted to and fro, in -and out, with their formless claws and tumultuous motion. She spread her -wings. Immediately there gathered all the dusky shapes—the legion demons -of delirium with their needle eyes—and settled down upon her sable -plumes. A shrill phantom laugh rang out, mocked itself by echoes that -ran up in thin shafts of sound to the skies, and the SPIRIT OF FEVER had -fled from me forever! - -The rays of the sun as it sank to rest, slanting through rose-colored -avenues, fell upon the gray mists, and crowned the mountain’s summit in -a rainbow of glory. The rising breeze swept through the forests with a -soothing sound, and, eastward, the eye was lost in mellow lines of -golden haze, which to my soul freed from captivity, seemed cathedral -aisles of peace. - - - - -[Illustration] - - OLD SIMLIN, THE MOULDER. - - -“You’re right! I ain’t got no relatives an’ nobody to look after, so -thar isn’t any sense in workin’ too much. That’s just what I say.” - -And that is just what he always did say, poor Simlin, but he never -ceased, notwithstanding. Nearly every body that knew him and spoke to -him about it always found him quick to acquiesce: “Thar was nothin’ -plainer than what they said, and it was just what he said, too.” But it -did not make the slightest difference, for he continued to work away all -the same; so what else could be done but merely to give up the question? - -Now, if he had only expressed himself in decided opposition, there might -have been something to hope for in the matter—at least, it would have -opened the way for an argument upon the subject; and, then, there was -always the possibility that he might be induced to change his mind. -However, his provoking approval put the case wholly beyond reach. And so -old Simlin, toiling early and late, quietly followed his vocation. - -There was not a better moulder in the whole foundry, or one that drew -much higher wages. But, then, he was getting old. To be sure, he never -had been young, so far as they knew any thing about him, even ten years -ago, when, altogether unknown and friendless, he had first made his -appearance in the village. But these ten years combined had not worn -upon him like the last one. His head now, if once the soot had been -removed, would not have shown a single black hair; and his voice was -weak and cracked, and there was a visible trembling about the old man’s -legs. Perhaps he did imbibe liquor; but nobody had any right to say so, -for nobody could prove that it was true. Only of late he had a strangely -confused manner when anyone addressed him, and, raising his unsteady -hand nervously to his head, would repeat the sentence that had been on -his lips a hundred, yes, a thousand times, until it had long ago grown -into a stereotyped form—“I ain’t got no relatives an’ nobody to look -after, so thar isn’t any sense in workin’ too much.” - -Perhaps he really thought that the people would never see that he was -straining every effort, using every moment of his time, though, before -the sun was up, and often after it was gone, the old man was at his -place. And Simlin was always the first on hand if there was an extra job -that would bring an extra cent. - -But, other than making the assertion that he had no relatives, and -nobody depending upon him, and that he did not think it worth while to -work over-much, he never carried on a conversation. That there was no -one to look after _him_ was a self-evident fact. He lived utterly alone, -in a small cabin on the brow of the hill. Rarely a soul but himself ever -crossed its threshold. Under the step the gray gophers made their -burrow, and, beneath the tall beech trees, that threw down their prickly -nuts, the brown weasels played in peaceful groups. The shy quail, -sounding their whistle, fled among the ferns; and above, from the myriad -branches, the beautiful wild doves mourned out their perpetual sadness. -At evening, when the sun went down, and the long line of the Scioto -Hills flushed crimson with serene glory; when, by slow degrees, the -pageant of departing day withdrew its gorgeous colors; even when the -valley below was black with the gloom of night, the western radiance -lingered, like the transforming light of some other land, upon the rude -cabin, standing on its high and solitary perch. - -Empty and bare, it afforded but little protection from the weather, for -through it the winds blew in Winter, and the rains dripped in Summer. -Simlin’s wants, however, appeared to be few and simple. He seldom had a -fire, even at the coldest season. What he subsisted upon, nobody knew. -Once, perhaps, in two or three days, he would buy a loaf of coarse bread -from the baker in the village, and his table evidently was supplied in -the most frugal manner. - -The people put down his besetting sin to be avarice; and the hut, if it -contained no furniture, was reported to contain wealth enough, hidden -away in its obscure cracks and corners, to have draped its dreary boards -in the most costly velvet and lace, and encased its walls with marble. -Of course, he was a miser. More than ten years now he had been at the -foundry, and not a cent of the wages which he drew regularly had he -spent, or put so much as a farthing into the savings bank, where many of -the hands had laid up quite a pile. But, unlike the majority of misers, -the old man never complained of being poor; indeed, he never complained -at all, or spoke of money in any way. If the subject was brought up in -his presence, he either preserved utter silence or quietly got up and -left; and, if driven to the last extremity, and made to say something, -he would remark, running into the same old channel, that “It didn’t much -matter—he hadn’t any relatives nor any body dependin’ upon him.” - -So lonely and forlorn did he seem, and so harmless withal—for the old -man never was known to do a mean action, or resent an angry word—that -many uncouth kindnesses had been shown him on the part of the hands, -with whom he was by no means unpopular. Especially had this been the -case latterly; for, though he himself was apparently unconscious of it, -so terribly broken had he become that the change was sorrowful to -behold; and, rude as were the foundry-workmen, what there was pathetic -in the patient manner in which the feeble old man silently worked on -told upon them by instinct. - -There had even been an interest taken in him up at the great house. -Every season, “the colonel,” as the owner and sole proprietor of the -Rocky Ford Foundry was called by all the employes, brought his family -down from the city to spend a few months rusticating in the beautiful -Scioto Valley, where he had built a summer residence for that purpose, -and that he might be near his great iron-works at the same time. There -was always gay company up at the house—visitors from town, who needed no -second invitation to entice them from the dust of the city to this -peaceful retreat among the lovely hills of Ohio. Besides, the colonel -had a beautiful daughter, and every body liked the “young misses.” -Seldom, though, did she ever go down to the foundry; never, indeed -unless some special object took her there. - -Coming from her home a mile distant—this home for her embowered in -perpetual Summer and wrapped in the peace that broods upon the -everlasting hills, where she could see, far off, the golden meadow-lands -and the more distant Paint Ridge, with its transparent veil of mist; -this home from which she had often looked out and listened to the blue -Scioto, unflecked with sail or skiff, struggling by day and night to -tell its mysterious story, as it flowed forever on its lonely -course—coming from this home, over the narrow path that led down the -slope to the river’s edge, where the green rushes grew and the wild -columbine hung its bells above the water—coming on, past the great -rocks, where the scarlet lichens flamed in the sun and the blossoming -alder displayed its drifted clusters; coming still with active feet over -the velvet moss—coming from the lovely valley, coming from the tranquil -hills, when she entered the foundry it seemed like stepping suddenly -from the beautiful world into some haunt of evil spirits. - -Within the great dingy walls no shining sunlight brightened the air. Dim -and cheerless, it hung laden with smoke and vapor, that floated in -clouds to the rafters. The harsh clang of heavy machinery, together with -the roar of the furnaces, seemed to shake the very building. Among the -enormous wheels that whirled with frightful velocity, and the immense -belts that whizzed above their heads, the workmen, black and begrimed, -looked small, weird and unearthly, moving about upon the damp ground, -with its jet-like covering of charred cinders. The place seemed an -apparition of demons, performing in some cavern of the lower regions -their evil incantations. No wonder the young lady seldom went there. Its -gloom fell upon her with a heavy oppression, and her breath only came -freely when once more she found herself out in the clear and open -sunlight. - -It happened in this manner that she first came to take any notice of old -Simlin: There were gathered quite a party of young folks; and the -colonel, who had been in Cincinnati upon business, had returned the -previous evening, bringing with him another gentleman, apparently a -stranger to the family. - -It was at the breakfast-table that the company were discussing the -“sights” of the neighborhood, and debating whether they would take him -first over to Paint Creek upon a fishing-excursion, or across the river -to Mount Logan, famous for having been the rendezvous of the great -Indian chief, when the colonel spoke up,— - -“Why not begin at home?” he said. “Do not fatigue him to death the first -day, and I am proud enough of my foundry to think it might be of -interest even to Mr. Safford; at least I mean to have him shown over it -before he leaves.” - -The young man, of course, immediately stated that it would give him -great pleasure, and the whole company, to the most of whom it would -prove a novelty, gladly acquiesced in the proposition. So it was -decided, and two hours later they all started on their way. - -When they entered the foundry it seemed more gloomy than ever, the -atmosphere more stifling, and the jar of the machinery more painfully -loud and discordant. Even the gay young people who had chatted and -laughed all the morning felt the sudden change that involuntarily -subdued their merriment. They broke up and scattered in twos and threes -over the place, following the lead of simple curiosity, but the -stranger-gentleman staid beside Helen, the “young misses.” - -“What a queer, unreal place!” he said. “One would never expect to find -any thing like it in this beautiful valley. Does it not make you think, -coming upon it suddenly out of the sunlight, of the evil genii you have -read about in some fairy-tale long ago? And the workmen, at whose -bidding all this gigantic power is brought into action, how small and -weird they look!” - -The two had been slowly approaching the great furnace, and, just as the -gentleman ceased speaking, the immense door was thrown open, -discovering, like a glimpse of the infernal regions, the seething flame -within. Though they were not near enough to experience any inconvenience -from the heat, Helen uttered a frightened exclamation and drew back; but -the gentleman stood as if spellbound, for immediately in front of him -from this opening streamed a broad but sharply defined streak of -blood-red light, that fell full upon old Simlin, and transformed the -blackened cinders on the ground beneath his feet into a mass of living -embers. - -As the old man straightened up, and was in the act of raising his hand -to shield his eyes from the sudden illumination, they encountered the -stranger, and a mingled expression of surprise and fright instantly -struggled up through their weak color. For a moment, like an apparition, -he stood transfixed. The red glare showed the old man’s shrunken figure; -it showed his attenuated arms and death-like mouth, his tattered clothes -and the few wisps of his scant hair. - -Mr. Safford had stopped simply at the startling effect which the glow of -the furnace had produced, falling by accident upon a single workman. -But, when the man rose up, he gazed at him, utterly taken aback by his -strange behavior. - -For an instant, the old man stared without moving a muscle, then his -lips began to work convulsively, and, raising his hand before his face, -as if to screen it from view, he half uttered an unintelligible sentence -and sank down. At the same time, the door of the furnace had been -closed, shutting off the brilliant light that for a moment had so -strangely thrown him into violent relief. - -For a second, Safford almost thought the whole thing had been an optical -illusion, or some hallucination of his own brain; then, stepping -forward, he saw the old man lying in a heap upon the ground. - -The young lady, recovering immediately from her sudden fright at the -unexpected blaze, had seen the workman fall, and, coming up, asked, in a -terrified voice,— - -“What is the matter? Oh, he is dead!” she exclaimed, kneeling down -beside him. - -“No, he is not dead. Run for some brandy—quick!” Mr. Safford called to -the nearest hand. Then, assisted by one of the men, he raised the -prostrate figure, not a heavy burden, and carried it out into the open -air. - -“I allus thought old Simlin’d come to this,” said the man who had helped -in carrying him. “We all knowd he was over-workin’ himself.” - -“Why? Was he so feeble?” asked Mr. Safford, while he bathed the grimy -forehead with his wet handkerchief. - -“Feebil? He’s that feebil he’s just been of a trembil all over; and he’s -getting pretty much used up here, too,” said the man, dropping his -voice, and significantly touching his forehead. “It’s my idee he’s not -booked for this world much longer.” - -“Poor man!” said Miss Helen, leaning tenderly over the pale face that -still showed no symptoms of returning consciousness; “how very thin and -emaciated he is! Has he no wife or family to take care of him?” - -“That’s just it, ma’am! That’s just what he’s allus harpin’ on! He says -he ain’t got no relatives, and nobody to look after, and—” - -The young lady suddenly raised her hand with a warning gesture; and, -before the workman had ceased speaking, old Simlin opened his eyes. He -looked around for a moment in a bewildered way; then his uncertain -glance, falling upon the gentleman kneeling by his side, immediately -became fixed, and grew into a wild stare. Raising himself unsteadily -upon his elbow, still with his eyes fixed upon him, the old man threw -out his trembling arm with a gesture as if addressing the whole -company,— - -“It’s a lie! Who said I had any relatives, or any body to look after? I -hain’t! It’s a lie—a _lie_, I say! I never seen you before. He’s a -stranger!”—still keeping his arm extended, and appealing excitedly to -those around him—“you all know he is a stranger. I ain’t got no -relatives, nor any body to look after!” - -It was evident enough that what the workman had told them about his -intellect was too true, they all thought, as they looked at each other -with a quick glance. - -“I tell you I don’t know you, sir! It’s all a lie. I never seen you -before! I—” - -“No, you never saw me before.” - -Mr. Safford had spoken, hoping to soothe him; but, instead, the sentence -appeared to act upon the old man like an electric battery, for he raised -himself into a sitting posture, and, with his head bobbing violently -about, fairly screamed, his cracked voice running into high treble,— - -“That’s right!—that’s right! Do you all hear it? He says I never seen -him before. It’s all a lie about my havin’ got any relatives. I hain’t! -I never seen him before—You heerd him say so—you all heerd him?” he -inquired, for the first time, taking his pale, watery eyes from the -gentleman, and looking, in a frightened, appealing way, round the group. - -Then his strength seemed to fail suddenly, and he fell back upon the -grass, panting for breath. - -At this moment the colonel came up, and knelt down by his side. He -uttered his name several times, and even put his hand upon the wrinkled -forehead; but the old man, with vacant eyes fixed on the sky, paid no -heed, though his lips trembled. - -“I have ordered a wagon. It will be here directly. He must be taken to -the house, where he can receive every attention. Poor man! I am afraid -this will be about the last. I have expected it for a long time. Here, -Safford, help me to lift him,” he added, as Hendricks came back with the -wagon. - -“Safford! Safford! Who called me Safford?” said the old man, suddenly -looking round in a terrified manner. “I—I’ve been a dreamin’,” uttering -a weak laugh. “It’s not my—I mean nobody said it. I never heerd that -name before. It’s darned funny, ain’t it? but I never even heerd that -name before in my life! You know I didn’t”—growing wild and excited -again—“you know it’s a lie! I ain’t got no relatives, nor nobody to look -after.” - -The gentlemen, without speaking, stooped to raise him; but he struggled -violently, and, keeping his eyes still fixed on the younger one, he -cried, with such an extreme distress upon his face, that they -involuntarily drew back,— - -“No, no! I’m not fit to be near you. Stand off! You’re a fine gentleman; -it’s not for the likes of you to touch me!” - -Then turning toward the colonel, he muttered some inarticulate apology, -and actually staggered, unaided, to his feet,— - -“I’m ’bliged to ye all,” he said, nodding his head up and down, and -backing, with uncertain steps, toward the foundry, as if afraid to take -his eyes from the party as long as he was within their sight. “Thar -ain’t nothin’ the matter with me! I jest felt faint a spell from the -heat—the heat. It ain’t nothin’, an’ it’s gone now! I’ll go back to my -work agin—I’m all right—I’m ’bliged to ye! It was jest the heat as -overcum me—jest the heat—” and, with a painful smile upon his thin lips, -still muttering unintelligible excuses, he tottered into the building. - -For a moment, taken by surprise, the group remained motionless. Then -Helen said; “Poor old man! I declare, it almost made me cry only to look -at him!—Father, you will have him cared for; you will not allow him to -work any more?” - -“No. He is dreadfully broken down, and I have heard the hands say that, -latterly, he was breaking in his mind, too; but I did not know it was so -bad. I will see that he does as little as possible; but he will never -quit until he gives out utterly, and he can not hold on long in this -condition. Strange, Safford, how the sight of you seemed to excite him! -Did you notice with what a wild, terrified gaze he stared at you, as if -he had been hunted down? and, when you stooped to raise him up, he -almost drew himself into a knot. I did not suppose, when I saw him on -the ground, that he had strength enough left to stand on his feet -without help; and it seemed as if it was this fear of you that inspired -him with the power.” - -The younger man stood leaning against the tree from which he had not -moved. - -“Yes,” he replied, “it was strange; I noticed it. How long have you had -him in your employ?” - -“More than ten years, and he has been about the most valuable hand in -the foundry.” - -“Then I’m sure, father, you will take care of him, and not let him work -any more?” said Helen, again. - -“Yes—yes, child! don’t bother yourself so—of course I will;” but the -younger gentleman turned toward her quickly, while his face lighted up, -then checked himself abruptly in what would have been an eager gesture -of gratitude, and looked away without saying a word. - -They remained a few moments to hear that the old man had recovered, and -when the messenger reported him working at his place quietly as usual, -without re-entering the foundry, or waiting for their companions, the -two started homeward. Helen’s reluctance to go back into the building -again had been so manifest that the gentleman could hardly do otherwise. -Not until the straggling little village and the smoke of the great -foundry were left in the distance did she fairly draw a breath of -relief, and even then they still walked on almost in silence. - -The day had reached its noon. On the river flowing past the lances of -the sun broke into a thousand flakes of fire that followed each other -over its surface in myriad ranks; and on either side, where the twisted -birch reached out its branches, the waves with a grateful murmur turned -up their cool white crests. - -There was no loud hum of grasshoppers. Hardly a leaf stirred upon the -trees, hardly a bird fluttered its wings. Even the far-off mists had -disappeared, and a hush was on the hills—a hush as of awe before the -splendor of the sky. No wonder they spoke but little. Almost solemn was -the glory of the day in its noon. Yet perhaps neither one felt this -influence which rested upon the land, and subdued alike to silence the -peewee and the bobolink. It may be that the girl was not wholly -unconscious of the scene, but it was certainly some other influence that -wrapped her companion in abstraction. He saw not even the checkered -shade that fell in arch and groin upon their path. - -They were half-way home. Rousing himself suddenly with an effort, as if -but just aware of this long abstraction, he said, for lack of any thing -better,— - -“Miss Helen, do you like the country?” - -“Dearly. I love these hills and the river. The time I spend here is the -happiest part of my life.” - -“And are you not always happy?” he inquired. “You should be.” - -A strange gentleness in his tone as he uttered the last words made Helen -look up quickly as she answered him with a smile,— - -“I am. I never had a trouble in my life.” - -They had reached the turn where the path led up the slope from the foot -of the hill. - -“Do not go back to the house,” he said; “let us sit down here a little -while in the shade. I feel strangely oppressed, and the four walls of a -room would suffocate me.” - -Apparently, he had uttered the last sentence involuntarily, as he took -off his hat, and passed his hand several times across his forehead, for, -catching his breath quickly, he added, as if by way of an apology,— - -“It is so much pleasanter in the open air, and I am less fortunate than -you. I seldom have a chance to enjoy the country.” - -He had evidently spoken truly, however, when he said he felt strangely -oppressed, for his eyes wandered up the valley, far off to the remote -Paint Ridge, yet he did not see the glittering Scioto, or how Summer sat -enthroned in royal pomp upon the hills. - -There was a thoughtful, almost anxious expression on his face. Presently -he added, in a tone of voice as if they might have been discussing the -subject at the moment, and which showed his mind was still occupied -wholly by the incident at the foundry,— - -“Miss Helen, had you ever seen that man before?” - -“What man?” she inquired. “The workman, you mean?” - -“Yes, the old moulder.” - -“No. I have often heard them speak of him. I rarely go to the foundry; -it is gloomy, and the hands are so rough father does not like to have me -come in contact with them in any way, so I do not know one from another. -I did not recollect at first, but I remember now hearing him say that -old Simlin was queer, that he was a miser, and that he lived all alone -on the Spring Hill. But I am sure father did not know he was so feeble, -or how he was losing his mind. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. It -must be dreadfully sad, ignorant though he is, to grow old and have not -a soul on the earth to care for him.” - -Again the gentleman turned to her, as she spoke, with a sudden emotion -in his eyes that would have called the color to her cheeks had she seen -it, but in another instant he had looked away, and the troubled cloud -settled back once more upon his features. - -“The river _is_ beautiful,” he said, after a pause; “see how the fire -dances down its surface.” - -He had dismissed the subject from their conversation, if not from his -own thoughts. More than an hour later Helen sprang up with a conscious -blush upon her face as the sound of approaching voices told her how the -time had fled. Ah, for her at least it had been wafted by on silver -wings! They both joined the party, and all went together to the house. -There, almost immediately, Mr. Safford excused himself and went to his -room. - -Shut in alone, the same anxious, troubled expression he had worn when he -looked unconsciously up the river came back upon him as he walked -thoughtfully to and fro across the floor. The incident at the foundry -had affected him singularly. He could not throw off its depressing -influence. Why, he asked himself—why did the face of the old man haunt -him perpetually—the thin, wrinkled face, as it had looked at him with -sudden surprise and terror struggling up through its watery eyes? Why -did the cracked voice, with its accent of fright, ring constantly in his -ears? If it were but the wild vagary of an unsettled mind, why should he -give it any heed? “I am nervous,” he muttered to himself. “They said the -man was crazy, and surely I never saw him before—no, I never saw him -before. Then why should the sight of me have so excited him? Probably -another stranger would have done the same. I am foolish—and they said -the man was crazy—” - -He still paced the floor of his room up and down, while he tried to -argue himself out of the unreasonable hold which the circumstance had -taken on his mind. “I wish I could forget it!” he exclaimed. Then -walking to the window, and looking out mechanically, he said slowly to -himself, as if weighing well his words,— - -“It is not possible; no, it is not possible that here I am going to find -any clew. The man _was_ crazy, that is all.” - -He returned again, however, not the least relieved, to his track over -the carpet, and, before he went down stairs, he had determined that he -would “wait and see.” He would not, as he had previously intended, leave -the place within a day or two. He could not go away until he had -satisfied himself about the matter wholly, and in the mean time he would -find out what he could in regard to the old man. - -He did not make any inquiries of the family, and the only information he -could gain was simply what he had been already told. - -His sleep that night was strangely disturbed. Over and over in his -troubled slumber a thin, shrunken figure stood with its trembling arm -stretched out toward him. It was always before him, even when sometimes -there flitted through his dreams the form of one whose face was fair as -the morning, whose hair was yellow as the reaper’s wheat. He rose -feeling little refreshed. The night, instead of lessening, had but -strengthened the hold which the incident of the previous day had taken -upon him, and against which he struggled without avail. - -The colonel’s prophecy did not prove incorrect when he said Simlin could -not last long, for, just as the family were rising from the -breakfast-table, a messenger arrived, saying the old man was lying -insensible in his cabin. It seemed he did not make his appearance at the -foundry at his usual time, and, after waiting an hour in vain, -Hendricks, who suspected something might be wrong, sent one of the hands -to the hut, where he was found in this condition. - -“Tell Hendricks I will see to him immediately,” the colonel said to the -messenger, as he retired; then turning to young Safford, who stood with -his hat in his hand, inquired, “Are you going out?” - -“I will go with you, if you have no objection. I may be of some service, -and I am in need of exercise at any rate.” - -He hesitated as he spoke, endeavoring to cover the unusual interest -which he took in the matter, and the excitement he felt that the news -had brought upon him. - -“Why, my dear fellow, you are absolutely pale this morning! Our country -air ought to do better for you than this. Yes, I wish you would go with -me. I don’t know exactly what is to be done. If old Simlin is very ill, -he can not be moved, and anyhow there is no road leading up that side of -the Spring Hill, nothing but a narrow foot-path, which I guess he has -worn himself, for nobody else ever goes in that direction. The cabin -must have been originally put up by hunters. The place is so lonely and -inaccessible, I have often tried in vain to prevail upon him to come -down into the village. He is a strange man, almost a hermit in his -habits.” - -“Father, can not I go along with you? Maybe I can do something for him, -too, if he is sick.” - -“You, Helen?” said her father, smiling. “What can you do for such a -person? No, no, child, it is no place for you. I do not like to have you -go among any of these wretched people.” - -He stooped and kissed the fair countenance raised so entreatingly to -his. A swift expression of pain had come across the younger gentleman’s -face as the colonel spoke, but the girl persisted, and her father -reluctantly gave his consent. - -“Well, well, as you will! Tell Margaret to put a few things into a -basket with some wine and brandy, and tell Jake to follow us with it -immediately. We may need him anyhow, and he has no work to do about the -house this morning. I can not spare Hendricks from the foundry, and very -likely, if we can not move Simlin, the hut will have to be fixed up a -little.” - -Losing no time, they started on their errand of mercy. The walk was -long, but well shaded. Down the hill, along the valley, up the hill, all -Nature seemed reveling in an excess of joy. The little song-sparrows, -wild with delight, united in a jubilant choir; the blackbirds called, -and called, and called; the orioles, in myriad numbers, fluttered their -golden wings; and sometimes a chaffinch loitered for a moment in her -flight to the far-off wheat fields. - -It seemed strange that there should be any misery, any suffering. The -girl could not realize it until they came out on top of the Spring Hill -to the little clearing where the cabin stood, which, in its utter -desolation, appeared to overwhelm her. There was no sign of a human -presence any where. A silent robin sat idly on the chimney-top, while -its mate flitted wistfully over the sunburnt grass. The place was so -lonely that the gentle wind seemed to smother a sob. Below, the wide -valley stretched away to the remote sky. And in this wretched hovel, on -this solitary site, old Simlin lived, like one ostracized from society. - -“Wait here a moment,” said the colonel, “while I go in first, and I will -come and tell you.” - -He left them in the shade of the tall beech trees, and they saw him go -into the cabin. Though neither had spoken, they knew that upon each -heart rested the same burden of dread. In the moment that followed there -came over the young man an almost sickening anxiety, but the girl stood, -awed only by the thought that perhaps even then the black wings of Death -might be settling unknown within their very presence. Then she saw her -father come to the door and beckon—the old man at least was not dead—and -they went in together. - -The place was far more bare and desolate than even its exterior had -appeared. The rough boards of the floor were shrunken apart. Through the -windows, unshielded by even a plank, the glaring light poured in a -pitiless flood. A broken chair or two were propped against the wall, and -in the corner an old pine table stood in a precarious condition upon its -uneven legs. - -There, stretched across the wretched bed dressed in his grimy clothes, -just as they had seen him at the foundry twenty-four hours ago, the old -man lay insensible. All their restoratives were powerless to rouse him -from this heavy stupor. Not even a muscle responded to their efforts. -The half-closed eyes were glazed. There was no quiver now about the -bloodless lips. The thin, emaciated face seemed thinner, more emaciated, -for over all the features rested that sunk expression which those who -look upon it behold with despair at their hearts. But for the slow rise -and fall of his chest, they might have thought the last glimmer of life -had died out of that frail form forever. - -It was plain that they could not dare to move him, and the colonel -carefully shaded the window with a few pieces of plank, still leaving -free access to the air. Helen had quietly taken all the things from the -basket, and set them ready for use, though there was little chance now -that they could be of any avail. Safford stood at the foot of the bed, -utterly unconscious of every thing at the moment but the prostrate -figure before him. Since he entered the room he had hardly changed his -position, only that he folded his arms across his breast, and drooped -his head a little, as if in that attitude he might the more intently -watch the sleeper. - -When the colonel came and spoke to him he started up as if frightened, -like one out of a dream, so that the elder man looked at him in -surprise; but Safford, with a strong effort controlling himself, said -quickly, in a husky voice,— “I beg your pardon. You startled me!” - -“I only wanted to know how long you thought he could last?” - -“I can not tell. It may be until evening, hardly longer.” - -He was right. The day wore on without any apparent change until about -the going down of the sun, when the old man moved a little. They had -once or twice dropped a few drops of wine between his lips, but this was -the first symptom of any break in the heavy stupor which had held him so -long in its death-like embrace. His respiration quickened, and became -audible. He muttered one or two incoherent sentences, then a tremor -passed over his features, and he opened his eyes. - -Helen, whom her father had vainly endeavored during the afternoon to -persuade into going home, stood with her head turned away; and the -colonel, too intent upon watching the dying man, did not notice Safford, -from whose face, at the first struggle in the inanimate form, every -particle of color fled, and who, trembling violently all over, clutched -the bed for support. - -The old man for a moment looked about the room blankly, as if a haze -obscured his vision. Raising himself slowly on his elbow, his face -lighted up, and he opened his lips to speak, but as suddenly the light -faded out, his features quivered pitiably, and he sank down, saying, -brokenly, in an accent of despair,— - -“Dead—she is dead! She is dead!” - -Then, starting up wildly, he cried out,— - -“Do not look at me like that, Hetty; you will kill me! It was not for -the likes o’ me to have married you. Now you are so white an’ thin, an’, -Hetty, when I took ye to the church, yer cheeks were redder nor the -summer rose. Oh, forgive me, Hetty—forgive me!” - -A terrible struggle in his throat compelled him to pause for a moment, -then he went on with rapid utterance, and an entreaty whose distress -could hardly find expression in words:— - -“No, no, Hetty, do not ye call the little one that; I can not bar -it!—not that, not my name! I swear to ye, he shall not take after the -likes of his father—he must not be like me! Hetty, I swear to ye, if I -live, he shall never hear a low word, nor touch a drop o’ whisky! He -shall have learnin’, an’ be a gentleman—a fine gentleman. Hetty, I’ve -been a worthless dog—a brute, a beast! I can’t hardly look at ye now—I -darn’t, thar’ is sich a shinin’ light about yer face—but hear me, Hetty, -I swear to ye, the little one, even if ye will call him George Safford, -shall grow up to be a hon—Hetty, you are so still! O Hetty!—dead! she is -dead—dead!” - -Both the colonel and Helen turned with astonishment to young Safford -when the old man, in his delirium, had spoken his name; but the latter, -unconscious of their surprise, with a single cry, sprang forward, and -supported the exhausted figure in his arms as it sank back. - -“Father—my father!” The words broke from his lips in a voice painfully -choked by emotion. - -There was another severe struggle for breath, then, with renewed -strength, the old man raised himself into a sitting posture, and, -looking round quickly, began in a hurried manner, fumbling about with -his hands,— - -“I’ll go some place else; he mustn’t see me agin! He mustn’t never know -as I’m alivin’. He mustn’t never be disgraced by the likes o’ me.” He -paused a moment, and the expression of his face changed. “It’s a lie!” -he cried, fiercely; “I ain’t got no relatives, nor any body to look -after! It’s all a _lie_!” Then, shivering suddenly, he said, lowering -his voice, and speaking softly to himself: “It’s cold, but I’ll not have -no fire. Work—I must work! He’s a gentleman. I said he should be a -gentleman—and he’s got learnin’—lots o’ learnin’——No, no! I never seen -you before—I never seen you before!” - -The wild, terrified voice died with a rattling sound in his throat. - -“Father, father, speak to me! It is I, George!” - -Safford, in his agony, fell upon his knees. During the moment that -followed there was profound silence; then Simlin opened his eyes, and -said, gently,— - -“George! the little George!” A radiant light rested upon his thin face. -He raised his trembling hands, and passed them unsteadily over the man’s -head. “Yer hair is soft an’ black as hern, George. Hist! Don’t ye hear -her singin’?—Why, Hetty, I’m a-comin’, Hetty!—I’m a-comin’——” - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - THE ANTHEM OF JUDEA. - - - I. - -At the foot of the hill stood a low, old-fashioned frame house, with a -picket-fence round the yard, which ran down to a small stream that -sometimes flowed along slowly, and sometimes with a great rush, and -sometimes slept tranquilly beneath a sheeting of ice. Nearly a mile off, -smooth and level, with pleasant streets, and a church whose spire shone -in the sunlight long after the evening shade had crept over the ground, -was the village of Pickaway, the gem of Paint Valley. - -From there, two days in every week, to the quaint old-fashioned house at -the foot of the hill, the children wended their way with music folios, -coming loiteringly in Summer over the narrow foot-path where the wild -columbine grew by the creek, but in Winter walking hurriedly over the -frozen turnpike, swinging their arms, blowing their fingers, and -sometimes doing battle bravely with the snow. - -Here Franz Erckman lived in the plainest manner, with only his piano and -his cottage-organ for companions. Wife and children he had none, nor any -relative, nor any domestic pet. There was never a dog, or cat, or even -so much as a chicken, to be seen about the premises. One servant he -kept, to be sure, but she, a cross old woman, never opened her mouth for -the purpose of speech more than a dozen times in a year, and then it was -only upon some unusual provocation, as when the scholars broke a -pitcher, or muddied her floor, when she would give utterance to some -incoherent but disagreeable ejaculation. - -Franz Erckman had lived in this way for nearly twenty years, and was -just as bluff in manner, and just as reserved in disposition, as when he -had first come there, an unknown young foreigner, without friends, or -acquaintances, or money, and commenced in a modest way giving -music-lessons to a few pupils at first, to many after a time. - -When the new church was built, and a new organ with great gilded pipes -put in, his services were engaged, as well they might, for no other -person in the whole village could have made any thing whatever out of -all those stops, and pedals, and keys. - -Now that Pickaway had grown to be quite a town, with a very respectable -hotel, many tourists came down in the summer season from the city to -rusticate for a week or two, and they always heard the organist with -astonishment. Inquiries about him were so often repeated by these -cultivated strangers, that Pickaway had finally grown to feel proud of -its musician, and it became as natural to them to show off Franz Erckman -as it did to call attention to the beautiful scenery. It would have been -hard to have overlooked either, for a more picturesque landscape could -rarely have been found. - -However, all this praise and adulation had apparently made little effect -upon the village music-master, who had been again and again invited to -come up for one season to the city by these friendly tourists. They held -out to him the allurements of the orchestras and operas, and told -wonderful tales of the superb voices of the great _prime donne_. It was -all in vain. He always thanked them for their proffered hospitality, but -never accepted it, and lived along, seemingly content enough to teach -the village children, and play the church-organ. Only his one servant -knew how at night, and sometimes all night through, he tried -ineffectually to satisfy his great craving for music, and how, not until -the pale light of morning was visible in the east, would he shut his -cottage-organ. And when he turned from it there was always a strange -expression of despair upon his features. - -The people of the town said he was penurious, for he invariably exacted -the tuition of each scholar in advance, and if at the appointed time it -was not forthcoming, he quietly dismissed the pupil without a word, and -there were no more lessons given until the quarter had been paid. -However, they grew to know him so well that every body fell into the -habit, in his case at least, of being punctual. - -So, working steadily year after year, as he had done, with almost no -expenses of living, Pickaway thought he must have laid by quite a -fortune, and when the Widow Massey, poverty-stricken though she was, -made up her mind to send her little daughter—her only child—the poor, -weak, crippled little Alice, who went every Sunday to the church, and -listened with such deep delight to the strains of the great organ—when -the Widow Massey made up her mind to send her daughter to the -music-master, and give her this one pleasure, that it might brighten -somewhat the life so early blighted, all the people thought he would -surely take the child for nothing. But he did not—he took the money, the -full amount; and, if the people made sarcastic remarks about his -penuriousness, _they_ never offered to pay for the little girl. And the -mother never thought of asking a favor from any one. Though she earned -by hard labor scarcely enough to keep them, still for the last year she -had had this thought at heart, and quietly saved a little at a time, -until finally the long-coveted sum was in her possession; and gladly she -went and gave it to the music-master, who put it down at the bottom of -his vest-pocket, and told her to send the little girl twice a week. And -twice a week the little girl went. - -That was in the Summer. She was pale, and thin, and delicate, and the -scholars all wondered how she would get there through the snow in the -Winter. But before the bleak winds had blown one rude blast, the little -Alice had a worse trouble. The Widow Massey suddenly fell ill and died, -commending her beloved child to the care only of the great Guardian -above. - -It was a terrible stroke, and the people all wondered what would become -of the helpless daughter, who was too feeble to do any kind of work for -a means of subsistence, and every person thought it strange that -somebody else did not come to her relief. - -It was very sad. The poor little creature seemed fairly racked with -grief, and had sat by the side of her dead mother day and night. On the -afternoon of the funeral they tried in vain to take her away, until -Franz Erckman came, and the people in surprise saw him lift her up in -his arms without a struggle, and quietly carry her out of the house. -They saw him, still with her arms clasped tight about his neck, crossing -the green pastures, strike the narrow foot-path by the creek, and -disappear as the path turned behind the heavy foliage that was brilliant -in the scarlet dyes of October. - -It was not one of the days upon which he gave lessons. There was only -the ripple of water over the stones and the rustle of leaves that -occasionally blew down from the trees, to break the profound quiet of -the place as he passed through his gate. Not one word had been spoken, -and still in perfect silence he carried the frail little being, that he -could feel trembling from head to foot—he carried her across the broad -veranda and into the pleasant parlor—not the room that the scholars -used, but where his cottage-organ stood. Then he drew the sofa up beside -the instrument and laid her down upon it. - -Her fingers unclasped with a convulsive movement, and Franz turned his -face away, for the child had not uttered a sound. Her eyes, dry and -unnaturally bright, wore a startled look, a mute, beseeching expression, -like the eyes of a wounded animal, and the pallor of her countenance, -that had a wild grief branded upon it, was almost as ghastly in hue as -death. It was suffering terrible to behold, and the hands of the strong -man trembled as he opened the mahogany case of his organ. - -There was a moment’s silence; then music, soft and sorrowful, floated -out on the air gently, almost timidly; so very mournful, that the -strain, beautiful though it was, seemed to have in it a human cry of -pain. It was a language that could appeal to the heart when word or lip -failed. - -The child’s whole frame shook beneath the heavy sobs that swelled up in -her throat, and the great grief had opened its flood-gates. Hour after -hour he played untiringly, while the violence of the storm spent itself. -The music, at first sorrowful, hurt, had cried out in its pain; then it -grew into a measure so yearning, it seemed the very genius of sympathy. -Making an intense appeal, it swelled into a great passion, which -gradually became exhausted by its own intense vehemence, until about the -going down of the sun it died. And the child slept. - -The wild storm of anguish was over. Upon the face, the thin, pale face -of the little girl in her slumber, there shone an expression of such -absolute rest that Franz, with a sudden movement, bent down his head and -listened. Had she passed with the music to the land where there are -strains that swell into a _gloria_ never ending? He held his breath. Was -this the reflection of that peace eternal, that rest which endureth -forever? A sob quivered for a moment on her features, and escaped from -the lips of the sleeper. No, no, for sorrow showed its painful presence. -She was not dead, and, at the sigh, sad though it was to see, the man -arose with a smothered exclamation of relief. - -The quiet day was drawing to its close. Within the room the shadows were -already thickening; without, long lines of mist festooned the hills in -plumes of royal purple, and the red haze of Indian-summer had gathered -into broad streamers that unfurled their splendor across the tranquil -sky. The floating twilight hung over the wide and level pastures. Down -by the creek the scarlet sage still showed its coral fringe, and -sometimes the woodbine, close by the house, waved its painted leaves. -Far off in the filmy vale the group of maples that had stood crowned -with a golden glory now shrouded themselves in black; and beyond, like a -long stretch of desolate shore, the great gloom lifted up its chilly -banks. - -Many times from the window in his parlor Franz Erckman had watched the -divine pageant of night ascend the valley in all the pomp and grandeur -of its magnificence, in all the solemn majesty of its silence, in all -the ineffable depths of its sadness. Many times in his loneliness he had -seen it pass, when a vision of the fair Rhineland would come back to his -heart. Many times through its profound solitude he had looked out with -yearning eyes, with listening ears, striving to comprehend its sublime -mystery. Many times he had turned to it with a soul oppressed by despair -reaching toward the Infinite. For, though the people did not know it, -beneath the rough exterior of this reserved German dwelt a love of the -beautiful—a love so passionate sometimes, it seemed crushing his very -spirit that he could not give it utterance in his music. Then it was -that often he would rise from his organ in bitter disappointment, and go -out with his trouble to seek consolation from the night—the night -forever wan with her own unspoken sorrow. - -But he stood watching the face of the sleeper, paying no heed to the -gathering shade. He stooped and arranged the cushions about the fragile -form with the gentle touch of a woman, while upon his features there -rested an expression more beautiful than they could ever borrow from the -softened light of the evening. - -“She would have died,” he said to himself. “But for the music, I believe -she would have died! The chords of the organ spoke to her when all -earthly words failed. She, at least, can understand the language I have -been striving to learn.” - -Frail little creature! She appeared, indeed, like a spirit of some other -world. Her every nerve had vibrated in sympathy, and Franz could hardly -help thinking, as he looked at her, that, soundless to human ears, there -played about her ceaseless strains of melody. Music seemed to be the -vitality that gave her life, the only nourishment that fed her soul. - -When she first came to him for instruction, he quickly discovered that -she possessed not the least power of execution, and then had taken no -special notice of her further. Wrapped up in his art, teaching the -children had never been a pleasure to him. He compelled himself to -endure it as a means of subsistence. - -The great object for which he worked was once to secure means enough to -keep penury always from his door, and then give himself up unreservedly -to this art which he loved better than his life. So he took no -particular interest in any of his scholars, and it was only when he saw -how eagerly the little Alice drank in every sound, that gradually he -began to observe the child more narrowly. As he had at first seen, she -possessed no power of execution whatever. She could not even learn to -read the notes, and she would probably never be able to play a single -bar correctly. But he had noticed how keenly alive she was to harmony, -how peculiarly sensitive to discord. It seemed as though her lessons -were a constant pain. Yet she came eagerly, and often lingered when they -were finished. - -He had found her once, late in the day, when he had been playing -dreamily to himself, sitting on the veranda near the window of his -parlor, listening with a rapt attention, wholly unconscious of any thing -but his music. Since that, when she came to take her lesson, he had -always played for her, carelessly at first, but after a time with -greater interest, until gradually he had given up altogether any effort -to instruct her, and in its place each day played for her the oratorios -and symphonies of the great composers. Then he had changed from the -piano to his organ, and he had grown to wait nearly as anxiously for the -hour to come round as the little girl herself. - -By degrees the visits of the child became to him almost indispensable. -He seemed to feel always a strange inspiration come upon him in her -presence. Why, he did not know; but it was then that sometimes the wild -tumult, the infinite longings of his soul struggled into expression. -But, when the child went, he would find himself again dejected, and -wholly unable even to recall the strains which seemed to have died at -the very moment of their birth. - -Franz stood, still watching her motionless form. The sobs, quivering -through her sleep, had one by one exhausted themselves, and left her -face strangely peaceful to look upon. - -“She is mine,” he muttered. “I will never part with her. She is my -spirit of sound!” - -Suddenly he heard the grating noise of footsteps on the graveled walk. -Turning quickly, he drew the curtain over the window to shield the -sleeper from the damp night-air. Then he went softly out and closed the -door after him, wrapped once more in his severe reserve, and with the -old stern expression upon his features. His brows knit themselves into a -frown, and his lips curled for a moment with a smile of contempt when he -recognized the figure coming into the hall. - -“Ha! Erckman, good-evening,” said the man, in a loud and boisterous -tone, which seemed to dissipate all the serenity of the night in its -pompous swell. - -“Good-evening.” - -If it had been the first time they had ever met, Franz could not have -spoken with colder formality as he showed his guest into the piano-room. - -Mr. Cory claimed to be the richest man in Pickaway, and very likely it -was true. He owned hundreds of green and fertile acres, with cattle -sleek and fat. He was ruling elder in the church, and his wife bought -all her bonnets and flounces in the city, and they had built the finest -house in the whole of Paint Valley. Indeed, nothing was done without his -presence, and every one, from the minister to the sexton, received his -advice, which he distributed far more liberally than he did his money. -So it was that Franz had mentally guessed the object of his visit the -instant he recognized him in the hall. - -“Fine weather, this.” - -The organist made no more audible reply to the remark than a -half-uttered grunt, as he struck a match down the corner of the -mantelpiece, and lighted the lamp. Mr. Cory sat uneasily on the hard, -hair-cloth chair, dimly conscious of some obstruction in the usually -smooth channel of his discourse. - -“Sad affair of the Widow Massey.” - -“Yes.” - -He looked about the room for a moment, as though expecting to discover -the presence of some third person, then repeated,— - -“Sad affair! sad affair! We are all liable to sudden death, and she -ought to have been saving up, in case of such an event. She left nothing -to provide for the child at all. Nothing at all. The furniture will -barely bring enough to pay for her funeral expenses.” - -Franz had sat down mechanically on the music-stool, and rested one hand -on the keyboard of the piano. Just as the conversation had reached this -point, he suddenly took his hand away, with a nervous movement that -sounded three or four discordant bass-notes of the instrument as he did -so, and Mr. Cory for the second time found himself laboring under an -ill-defined sense of discomfort, something wholly unusual. But, seeing -his host showed no symptoms of breaking the silence, after a slight -cough, he went on,— - -“We have been talking this afternoon as to what is going to be done with -the child. You’ve got her here, haven’t you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, one can’t do a great deal in this way, but you know it is such a -sad case, and the child can’t do any work about a house, and my wife is -so interested in her she thinks she’ll take the little girl—What did you -say?” - -“Nothing.” - -“I beg your pardon, I thought you spoke. My wife is so interested in her -she thinks she’ll take the little girl and send her for a year to the -industrial school in the city, where she can learn to do fine sewing and -embroidery. That will give her a chance to earn her living, and we can -take up a collection in church to defray the expense.” - -“‘Fine sewing and embroidery’—_fine suffering and death_!” said Franz, -suddenly letting loose his pent-up wrath. “Mr. Cory, would you kill the -child? She is frailer than a flower, a sickly little thing, and -crippled. One month’s stooping over a needle would put her in the grave. -I thought for a moment, but an hour ago, that she was dead.” As he spoke -the last word he left his seat, and, taking up the lamp, said,—“Come -with me, and step lightly.” - -Utterly taken aback at the sudden outburst of the music-master, Mr. Cory -followed him across the hall, saw him open the door of the opposite -room, and motion him to enter. Then he said, in a quiet voice, while he -shaded the lamp carefully with his hand, so that its rays did not fall -directly upon the face of the child,— - -“Look at her.” - -The man stepped forward, but almost immediately drew back, with a -shiver, from the sleeper, whose repose so strangely resembled death. She -lay upon the sofa, with her hands folded across her breast, as when she -had at first fallen into slumber. - -Franz stood intently regarding her, when suddenly his guest, coming up -close to him, said, with his rough voice dropped into a frightened -whisper, and his eyes looking quickly about the room,— - -“Where does it come from?” - -“What?” asked Franz, startled by his singular manner. - -“Do you hear it?” - -“Hear what?” - -“The music.” - -“Music!” exclaimed Franz, dropping his voice also to a whisper, and -involuntarily suspending his breath for a moment—“no, I hear no music.” - -“It did not seem like the piano or organ. It must have been the wind in -the trees outside, but it sounded just like a strain of music. We had -better go, or we may waken her,” said Mr. Cory, as he turned to the -door, and drew one hand across his forehead, where the perspiration had -collected in drops, although the evening was cold and the air chilly. - -Franz followed him out, springing the latch gently with his hand as it -caught, and they both went back to the piano-room. Here Mr. Cory seemed -to recover somewhat of his usual composure. - -“Well, Erckman, she does look thin and delicate-like, but sewing won’t -hurt her, not a bit. She’ll be better when she’s got something to do. -She can’t exist on air, and she can’t live in idleness. She has got -nothing, and it’s the only way I know of she can make her living. She -must do work of some kind for support.” - -Before Franz’s eyes there floated visions of broad and fertile acres, of -fine cattle, of fine clothes, of fine houses, but “she must do work of -some kind for support,” so he said nothing, while the church-elder -continued,— - -“There is James Maxwell going to the city to-morrow, and my wife said we -had better send her to the school by him.” - -“Send her—, Mr. Cory,” said the organist, with a suppressed fierceness -in his voice, “You saw how frail she is, how she looks as if, even now, -the shadow of death might be upon her. You know how, from her birth, she -has been crippled. I tell you one month in that school among strangers -would kill her. Are there not strong arms enough in the world, is there -not wealth enough already, that this unfortunate one, this perpetually -enfeebled child, must wear out her brief span of life in a painful -struggle to gain a little food?” - -“We are not, sir, expected to keep the ‘unfortunate one,’ as you call -her,” blustered Mr. Cory, fairly purple with indignant astonishment. -“What do you mean, sir? We are not under obligations to do any thing -whatever for the girl. She should be thankful we interested ourselves in -her behalf,” he said, partially choking with rage. “We will do this for -her, but that is all. She is nothing to us.” - -“I had no intention of dictating,” said the organist, politely, who had -quieted down as quickly as he had roused up. “You are right, sir, she is -nothing to you, and you need not trouble yourself about the matter -further. I will see that the child is provided for.” - -Then Mr. Cory looked at Franz as if he thought he had not heard aright, -or that the music-master might be departing from his senses. - -“I repeat, I will see that the child is provided for, and you need not -trouble yourself in regard to her further.” - -“Very well, sir, very well!” exclaimed the elder, rising, almost -speechless with surprise. But when he reached the piazza he said,—“Then -it is understood that I am not responsible in the case?” - -“It is understood.” - -Franz had had no intention of parting with the child. He would not have -given her up had Mr. Cory offered all his grassy meadows. He watched him -as he walked down the graveled path and disappeared in the darkness. -“Charity!” he muttered. “Shut him out, O Night—hide him from view! Wrap -your impenetrable mantle about him, that it may shield him from the eye -of God and man!” - -The German stood for a moment looking out into the limitless gloom, -which screened alike the evil and the good, then he turned again into -the house. - -He went back, through the dining-room where his supper was spread -untouched upon the table, to the kitchen, where Margery sat warming -herself by the dying embers in the stove. The old servant was used to -his irregular ways, and often saw his meals go untasted without a -remark. But it was rarely the master ever intruded upon her premises, -and she rose up as he came in, with an expression of surprise upon her -quiet face. - -“Margery,” he said, “fix up the bedroom next to yours, then come down to -me in the parlor.” - -The old woman heard him without a question, though never before could -she remember when the guest-chamber had been used, or a visitor staid -overnight at the house. - -When she had obeyed his instructions she presented herself at the -parlor-door. There was no lamp in the room, only a narrow strip of light -fell upon the floor from across the hall, but it did not penetrate the -heavy shadow, and Margery, with a half-uttered apology upon her lips, -drew back. At the sound of the woman’s steps, Franz came out of the -gloom. - -“I beg your pardon, sir.” - -“What is the matter?” - -“I did not know you was playin’, or I would have waited,” said the -servant, respectfully, who had learned long ago never under any -circumstances to interrupt her master at his practice. - -“I was not playing.” - -“Warn’t it you, sir? It was so dark I could not see.” - -“Me? no; nor any body else. No one was playing.” - -“Why, I thought I heard—but it must have been the wind,” said Margery, -glancing across her shoulder to the vacant piano-stool. “I thought I -heard music just as I opened the door.—The room is ready, sir.” Franz -bent over the sofa and raised the sleeping form in his arms. Turning to -Margery, he said,— - -“She is light. Here, carry her up and put her to bed. Don’t waken her if -you can help it, and go to her once or twice in the night to see that -she sleeps, for she is not well.” - -Then he added, as an abrupt explanation,— - -“She will occupy that room always. This is to be her home, and I want -you to see that she has every thing necessary.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -If the old servant was surprised at the announcement, she made no -remark. She took her up, arranged every thing for the night, and the -child never awakened. - -It was not an unpleasant expression that spread itself upon the face of -the woman as she stooped over the bed, and laid with a careful hand -every fold about the sleeper. With noiseless feet she came again and -again to look once more at the unconscious form that seemed to possess -for her a singular attraction. Taking up the lamp, she turned to go into -her own (the adjoining) room, but, with an abrupt start, she checked -herself midway in the action, held the light suspended, and stood with -every muscle arrested, as if some unexpected sound had fallen suddenly -on her ears. Then she bent her head for a moment over the sleeper, -glanced quickly about the room, and hurriedly crossed to the hall. - -She ran down the flight of stairs, looked first into the piano-room, -then into the parlor opposite. Both places were deserted, and the -instruments closed. The front door was bolted, and the master had -evidently retired. She went back to the guest-chamber. The child still -slept, and Margery held every nerve in suspense, but there was not the -least sound. She stepped to the window, pushed up the sash, then leaned -out and listened. The night was perfectly calm. What gentle breeze there -had been two hours before had died away and left a profound silence -unbroken even by the chirp of an insect. She closed the shutter, went -back to the bedside again for an instant; then, saying quietly to -herself, “It must have been mere fancy,” passed out to her own room, and -left the door partially open between the two apartments. - - - II. - -So the little Alice had found a home. All the people in Pickaway -expressed their utter surprise at this unexpected generosity of the -penurious music-master. He certainly was about the last person in the -town from whom such an act might have been anticipated. Indeed, it was -little short of an enigma to the place. But their astonishment knew no -bounds when, within a few days after he had taken the little girl, he -quietly dismissed all his pupils, and steadily refused to give any more -lessons to a single soul. Nothing could prevail upon him, no entreaties -whatever could persuade him, and he could never be induced to offer the -least explanation. - -Some of the wealthier ones, unwilling to give him up, had voluntarily -proposed to pay double the former price, but even money, which all the -village had thought the god of his life, failed to move him from his -determination. He was inexorable. Every body wondered what might be the -reason. No person could discover any apparent cause why he should so -suddenly give up teaching. They inquired about his health. It was very -good, he said. Did he expect to leave home? No. He would continue to -play the church-organ? Yes, oh, yes; he had no intention of stopping -that. So they conjectured until tired of the task, while Franz Erckman -paid no attention. - -However, as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, all the -village saw that a change had come over the organist. He was less -communicative than formerly, and more severely reserved. - -From the borders of the creek the fringe of scarlet flowers had -vanished. The myriad leaves had lost their rainbowed glory, and dropped, -one after another, in russet tatters to the ground. The woodbine had -thrown off its vermilion raiment, and now stretched up unclothed its -weird and snake-like arms. The group of maples had laid down its golden -crown; the hills, too, had cast aside their tiara of brilliant emerald. -The Summer and Fall, in all their emblazoned splendor, had passed by, -and the gorgeous livery of Autumn faded to the grizzled hues of Winter. - -Up the tawny valley a bleak December wind swept, making a cheerless -rattle among the naked trees, and the creek slumbered quietly beneath -its covering of ice; but this time no children came over the frozen -turnpike to the house at the foot of the hill. More secluded than ever -it seemed. Before the bitter winds had risen, in the pleasant November -days, Franz had often rambled through the woods, carrying the little -Alice, when she felt tired, in his arms. But, as the air grew chill, -they staid almost wholly within the house. After that Franz rarely left -it except when his duties as organist called him to the church, and then -he invariably took the little girl with him, wrapped carefully in a -heavy cloak. - -The people noticed that he was never seen any where without the child. -If the weather proved bad on the Sabbath, or on the days when he went -sometimes during the week to play, he still carried her with him, but an -additional fur mantle was thrown around her for protection. She had -never grown stronger; but, since that first night, when the organist had -broken down the great barrier of grief that was closing up like a strong -wall about her heart, they were seldom separated in her waking hours. - -During all this time Franz had changed so strangely that the village -gossips said one would hardly have known him for the same person. To be -sure, he had always been silent and reserved, but now he had become -absolutely inapproachable. His manner, which was naturally abrupt, was -often now wild and feverish. His face, too, had grown thin, his cheeks -hollow, his whole figure gaunt. His eyes, brilliant but sunken, had -assumed a singular expression of unrest, a perpetually searching look, -as if forever striving to see the invisible, and it began finally to be -whispered about among the people that the church-organist was not quite -right in his head. They noticed, besides, that he would never allow the -child to be enticed out of his sight. The ladies often tried to pet her, -but she shrank invariably from every one except Franz, to whom she clung -as if he were the one prop that sustained her life. - -So the time had worn away at the musician’s home. Margery, respectful as -ever in her manner, assiduously waited upon the little girl, who -received all her attentions gratefully, and never voluntarily made a -single demand. But there had passed a change over the old servant also. -From her usually quiet ways she had become restless, as if there might -be something upon her mind that rendered her constantly uneasy, or from -which she was ineffectually trying to free herself. If she were sour or -cross in disposition, as all the scholars used to tell, she had never -shown it to the little orphan. She watched the child with a strange -devotion. She would follow her about the house at a distance, and, if -the little girl for a time sat down upon the veranda, Margery, too, -farther off, would sit there with her sewing, or embrace that -opportunity to trim the woodbine, and once or twice she had even found -an excuse to intrude herself for a moment in the parlor. - -Every evening, when she put the little girl to bed, Margery, with a -strange, expectant look upon her face, would linger about the room long -after her charge had fallen into a peaceful sleep. Then, when she had -retired, often in the very middle of the night, she would suddenly waken -from a sound slumber, spring out of bed, and, before she was thoroughly -conscious, discover herself standing beside the child, with her head -bent down in a listening position, and every nerve strained to catch the -slightest sound. Immediately she would rundown stairs into the -music-rooms, only to find them both deserted and the instruments closed. -With a white countenance she would return, pause once more in the -child’s room, and then lie down again, saying to herself, for the -hundredth time,— - -“It must be mere fancy. I have been dreaming.” - -There was no element of superstition in Margery, but this incident would -recur over and over, night after night, until she began to ask herself -if, before she had reached sixty years, she was already losing her mind, -and this the first fancy of a disordered imagination. It was strange, -she told herself, that she should dream the same thing so often, and -every time it should be so vivid, for she heard a strain of music as -distinctly as she ever heard a sound in her life, though it was not like -the piano, organ, or, indeed, any instrument. And, though vivid, it was -so evanescent it made her doubt the veracity of her senses. Then, too, -it never came from down stairs, or out-of-doors, but always seemed -apparently to emanate from the bedside of the little child, though, as -soon as she had stooped to listen, it was gone, and the reign of silence -again left supreme. Once or twice, even during the day, when standing -beside the little Alice, Margery had heard, or thought she heard, a -sudden waft of this soft melody sweep by her, but so fleeting that it -was gone before she could catch her breath to listen, or be sure it was -not simply all her own imagination. - -So, with this constantly upon her mind, Margery had grown restless, and -found herself continually watching the little girl. She was not -insensible either of the great change that had, by some means or other, -been wrought in her master since the child had come into the house. She, -as well as the people, had noticed that he would never, if possible, -allow her out of his sight. He never played a night now by himself as he -had been used to doing for years. After the child went to bed the -instruments were always closed, for he never put his hand upon the -keyboard unless she were present. And, even when he had her beside him, -he did not seem happy. - -The people at church said, as he had changed, his music, too, had -changed; but, as he had grown more wild and feverish in manner, his -music had grown more softened and beautiful in style. And once, after he -had played a dreamy harmony that held them all entranced, he had come -down from the organ-gallery with a fierce fire burning in his eyes, and -hands that trembled violently, though they were clasped tight over the -little girl in his arms. When they had complimented him he looked -bewildered, and spoke in a confused way, as though he could not remember -what he had been playing. Now, more convinced than ever were the people -that something was evidently wrong with the music-master, and, -notwithstanding he had lost nothing in his art, many shook their heads, -and whispered that poor Erckman was, beyond a doubt, going crazy. - -December had worn almost into Christmas. In every house of the village -there were preparations for the approaching holiday. The church, too, -was undergoing some mysterious process at the hands of the young people, -who went in and out at all hours by the back way, and steadily refused -admittance to any one. They had even closed the doors against the -organist when he went there one morning to play, but he was easily -persuaded to withdraw, as he cared far more for solitude than society. - -Franz sat moodily by the fire in his parlor, with the little girl upon a -cushion at his feet. They were both naturally silent, and would often -sit quietly together for hours. But now, though the musician gazed -absently into the grate, and seemed to take no heed of the child, she -looked up once or twice into his face, then said, in a timid voice,— - -“Father, to-morrow is Christmas.” - -Franz had long ago taught her to call him father, and he merely answered -mechanically, without taking his eyes from the illuminated coals,— - -“Yes.” - -“How dark the night is out, and how shrill and bleak the wind blows!” -She had risen from her seat and gone to the window. “But to-morrow is -Christmas-day, and I know it will be bright then; oh, I am sure it will -be bright!” - -She stood a moment longer by the casement without speaking, then came -back and sat down again, looking almost as ethereal as some spirit, that -might vanish any moment forever into the glow of the red firelight. - -“You will play something very beautiful to-morrow, will you not, father? -You will make the voluntary better than all the service besides? Oh, for -such a celebration, it ought to be the most magnificent music in the -world, for, think, father, it will be Christmas, the grandest day in all -the year! It seems to me I can hardly wait to hear you, I have been -looking forward to it so long. But, father, you have not practised any -for it, have you?” said the child, looking up suddenly with quick dismay -upon her features. - -Franz, still without glancing at the little girl, or taking his eyes -from the fire, said,— - -“No,” but he clasped his hands nervously together. - -“Oh, father, you did not forget about it, did you?” she asked eagerly. -“I have so often and often thought of it, though I did not say any -thing, but it is strange I never once thought about the practising. Oh, -you could not have forgotten it, father?” - -She was so intensely earnest, it seemed as if her whole soul was in the -question, trembling while it awaited the reply. - -“No, I have not forgotten it,” said Franz, “It has hardly been out of my -mind one moment for many weeks; but I have nothing to play.” - -At first, her face had been perfectly radiant; but, when he added the -last clause, she got up, put her arms about his neck, and said, with a -kind of terror in her voice,— - -“Oh, no, no! You will play, father—tell me you will play!” - -Franz moved uneasily in his seat. - -“And it will be something grand, father. Oh, you will please everybody—I -am not afraid of that. Quick, tell me you will play. Father, if you did -not—I can not bear to think of it—oh, you will—say you will!” - -Her entreaty had fairly grown into wild desperation. Every fiber of her -frame quivered as she clung to him. Alarmed at her singular agitation, -he took her up on his knee, and said, hurriedly,— - -“Yes, yes; I will play. Do not be troubled about it; I will play.” - -“Oh, I am so glad! I knew you would, and it will be grand, I am sure, -for to-morrow is Christmas!” - -Her face was radiant with pleasure; but so extreme had been her -excitement that nearly an hour later, when Margery came to take her -upstairs, she still trembled. - -Franz, left alone, paced the floor of his room up and down, sometimes -stopping to look moodily into the fire. He had had this thing long upon -his mind. Feeling the divine power of genius within him, he was not -willing to play over again what generations had played over a hundred -times before him. Yet he tried unavailingly to improvise. Once or twice, -when playing, with the little Alice beside him, he had suddenly -entranced even himself; but as soon as he undertook to reproduce the -notes, either upon paper or upon the organ, he discovered them gone from -his memory, and himself utterly powerless. It had only been latterly -that he felt hampered in this way; yet he was conscious, -notwithstanding, that his music at the same time had undergone a vast -improvement. But he struggled against this one fault vainly. He had been -determined to work out a new composition for this great occasion; and -now, upon the very verge of Christmas-day, after all his unceasing -anxiety, he found himself without a single idea—wholly unprepared. In -his disappointment, he had almost been ready to absent himself -altogether from the church; but the sudden appeal of the little girl had -compelled him to give up this cowardly refuge, of which in a better mood -he would have been ashamed. - -The child had not prophesied incorrectly. Under cover of night, the -clouds marshaled themselves into gray battalions, which fled -precipitately before the lances of the morning, that in resplendent -array, column upon column, mounted the eastern sky; and Christmas—this -day forever sacred to the world in its grand memories—dawned with the -blaze of victorious colors. - -Bathed in sunlight, the crystal valley wreathed itself with brilliant -jewels; the sparkling trees held up their embossed arches of frosted -silver; and from the glittering hill-sides cold flakes of fire burned in -diamond hues almost blinding to the eye—for a slight fall of snow during -the night had spread itself over the land, and covered it as with a -mantle of transfiguration. - -The bell in the tower had long been ringing out its invitation to -worship, before Franz, carrying the little Alice on his arm, left the -house. A singular eagerness rested on the face of the child, whose -usually pale cheeks were now colored with a crimson flush that deepened -almost to scarlet in the center. She held quietly to Franz, sometimes -looking at him for a moment, then turning her eyes again toward the -village. - -Though she said no word, it seemed as if she could hardly wait until -they reached the church, but that her impatient spirit would break its -bounds and fly. But Franz walked with a slow, unwilling step. A fierce -despair appeared to be consuming him. His disappointment was made keener -when he saw the wild expectation with which the little Alice looked -forward to his music, and her confident belief that it would be far -grander than any thing he had ever done before. - -The villagers, by groups, in twos, in threes, with happy faces, coming -from far and near, poured into the church. Paying no heed to any one as -he passed, Franz entered by the side door, and went immediately up into -the organ-gallery. With glad eyes, the little Alice saw the church in -its festival decorations. Beautiful wreaths of cedar coiled themselves -around the great pillars, and crept in waving lines over altar, arch, -and casement, their unfading green sometimes flecked with amber, -sometimes dyed in violet light, as the rays of the sun caught the tints -from the windows of stained glass. Resting against the center of the -chancel rail, a magnificent cross of hot house flowers loaded the air -with the perfumes of summer—an incense more pure and holy than the -incense of myrrh; and on either side sprays of English ivy, in long and -twining branches, displayed their wax-like leaves. - -The last vibrations of the bell died away. The congregation chanted its -anthem; the minister read the Christmas service; and the first strains -of the organ-voluntary, after the close of the litany, sounded through -the church. The little Alice, with a throbbing pulse, crept close to -Franz as he played; but it was only the familiar music, that the world -already knew by heart, and had heard a thousand times before. Poor -Franz, warring against himself, had been driven back to the composition -of others, though he knew he possessed within him a power that should -have created, that should have raised him above all written measure. But -now even his execution was a dead, mechanical labor. - -A swift expression of keen disappointment fell upon the child’s face. -She looked up at him, with a gesture, slight but strangely appealing, -and with eyes filled by a sorrowful reproach—such a look as one might -wear in the last moment, whose most cherished friend had suddenly turned -and dealt him a death-blow. - -But Franz played on mechanically, with the pang of despair at his heart. -Suddenly, half-way in a bar, in the very midst of a single note almost, -a sensation of fear came upon him—an overwhelming awe that seemed to -lock his muscles and turn his hands into stone. The organ ceased -abruptly; he sat motionless as a statue; and a death-like silence -reigned throughout the church. Had the same unaccountable awe fallen -upon the congregation, too? The whole universe waited. - -Out of the profound silence a sound was born, a sound more beautiful -than the music of a dream. Soft as a whisper, clear and distinct, it -grew, wave upon wave, into a grand volume of harmony, that was not loud, -though it seemed as if it reached beyond the church-walls and floated on -through endless space. Was it, then, music from that land where the -crystal air breathes a perpetual melody? The people by one impulse -sprang to their feet, and turned with awe-stricken faces toward the -gallery. Grander, more majestic, it swelled into a glad chorus, whose -_gloria_, inspired with praise, rose up into heaven. It was an adoration -of sublime joy that seemed too intense to be ascribed to mortal spirit; -and the people fell upon their knees while they listened. Over plains, -over hills, in the sky, it seemed to reverberate and answer back, -sweeter than the sound of silver, vaster than the roll of ocean—the -hallelujah of myriad voices, the song as of an innumerable multitude,— - -“Glory be to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward -men—” - -Again and again the refrain gathered into a measure more triumphant than -the strains of a victorious army. Then, ascending higher and higher, it -fainted through infinite distance, and was gone as if it had passed -beyond the very portals of eternity. - -The spellbound audience hardly moved for a moment, even after the music -had died; but when the first stir broke the silence they collected about -the organist with eager questions. Franz, still sitting at his -instrument, had never turned. Anxious to testify their wild admiration, -they were ready almost to bow down before him; but they were obliged to -speak several times before he gave the slightest heed. Then he looked up -abruptly and said with a strange impatience,— - -“Did not you see?” - -There was a confused expression in his eyes, as if they might have been -blinded by a great light, and their vision not yet wholly recovered. The -people looked at him, then at each other in bewilderment, but, as if he -had suddenly comprehended their meaning, he went on quickly,— - -“It was not I. I did not play a note. It was the music of another world, -the music of the first Christmas. Did not you see the host of angels in -the sky, and the shepherds that watched their flocks by night upon the -plains of Judea? It was the _gloria_ sung at the nativity of Christ by -the angels centuries ago, beside the village of Bethlehem!” - -Then the people, regarding him with doubtful faces, drew back, and he -said, with fierce excitement,— - -“If you do not believe, ask the little Alice there. She will tell you.” - -The little girl sat close to his bench, but when they turned to her she -made no reply. They raised her up. Their question never received an -answer, and Franz with a wild cry fell upon his knees by her side. The -child was dead. - -For many years afterward the musician lived on in the old place at the -foot of the hill, but he never again could be prevailed upon to strike a -note of any instrument or listen to a strain of any music. More rarely -than ever did he speak to a soul, and then it was only at the Christmas -time, to tell again of the little Alice, his spirit of sound, to tell of -that wonderful _gloria_ of immortal praise sung by a multitude of the -heavenly hosts, whose splendor, almost blinding to his eyes, had lighted -up earth and sky over the far-off plains of Palestine, where the -shepherds, centuries ago, were watching their flocks by night. - -Strangers heard his tale with a scarcely concealed smile, and shook -their heads sorrowfully as the old man, feeble and palsied, with a -singular brilliance in his sunken eyes, turned away. But all the -villagers spoke of him with respect, almost with awe, and the children -learned to hush their mirth in reverence as he passed by. Margery, with -a face quieter than ever, said little, but served her master with an -untiring devotion, and after she had closed his eyes in death, when she -was an old, old woman, sometimes in the evening she would suddenly break -her long silence to tell a wondering group of Franz and the little -Alice, and of the mysterious melody that played about the child. - -And so the people of Paint Valley relate the story yet, and show the -graves in the long grass of the village church-yard, where, side by -side, they wait to join at the last day the throng whose immortal -_gloria_ shall surpass even that grand Christmas anthem—the song of the -angels heard by the shepherds upon the plains of Judea. - - - THE END. - -[Illustration] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - PUBLICATIONS - - OF - - JANSEN, MCCLURG & CO. - - CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. - - - =CATON.—A Summer in Norway=, with Notes on the Industries, Habits, - etc., of the People, the History of the Country, the Climate and - Productions, and of the Red Deer, Reindeer, and Elk, by Hon. 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Price, $1.50. - -“Miss Giles’ first work has had a very large sale, and has attracted the -attention of readers and critics throughout the country. Her second book -gives evidence of the ripening powers of the authoress, and shows the -improvement which she has made as a writer, and a mastery of style and -effect which are really uncommon.”—_Milwaukee News._ - -“The characters are all well conceived, and the story is pleasantly -written.”—_Inter-Ocean._ - - =GILES.—Bachelor Ben.= A Novel; by Miss ELLA A. GILES. 12mo., 308 - pages. Price, $1.50. - -“A story of great descriptive and analytic mastery. * * A master-piece -of free and natural handling of human life, and marks a new departure in -fiction, in that the hero never marries, and the author has attempted to -group the sympathies of readers about an unconventional man.”—_Home -Journal_ (New York). - -“The book is refreshingly guiltless of all superfluous characters. The -tone is good throughout. The moral apparent.”—_Chicago Times._ - - =HALL.—Poems of the Farm and Fireside.= By EUGENE J. HALL. 8vo., 114 - pages. Fully illustrated. Plain, price, $1.75; full gilt, price, - $2.25. - -“In vigor and pathos they are certainly equal—we should say superior—to -Carleton’s Farm Ballads; in humor scarcely inferior to the Biglow -Papers.”—_Interior._ - -“There is a nobility of mind even among the toilers of the land too -often overlooked, and for this reason we like the flavor of these poems, -because they smell of the field and forest, as well as portray the inner -life of society at the fireside.”—_Pittsburgh Commercial._ - - =HEWITT.—“Our Bible.”= Three Lectures, delivered at Unity Church, Oak - Park, Ill., by Rev. J. O. M. HEWITT. 12mo., 109 pages. 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It is uniform with ‘Memories,’ the fifth edition -of which has just been published, and it should stand side by side with -that on the shelves of every lover of pure, strong thoughts put in pure, -strong words. ‘Graziella’ is a book to be loved.”—_Tribune._ - - =MASON.—Mae Madden.= A Story; by Mrs. MARY MURDOCH MASON, with an - introductory poem by JOAQUIN MILLER. 16mo., red edges. 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The rough heroes and heroines are -evidently drawn from life, and the dramatic scenes are full of thrilling -interest. Bret. Harte has never worked this rich vein of American life -to better advantage. - - =MÜLLER.—Memories=; A Story of German Love. Translated from the German - of MAX MÜLLER, by GEO. P. UPTON. Small 4to., 173 pages, red line, - tinted paper, full gilt. Price, $2.00. The same, 16mo., red edges. - Price, $1.00. - -“‘Memories’ is one of the prettiest and worthiest books of the year. -The story is full of that indescribable half-naturalness, that -effortless vraisemblance, which is so commonly a charm of German -writers, and so seldom paralleled in English. * * * Scarcely could -there be drawn a more lovely figure than that of the invalid Princess, -though it is so nearly pure spirit that earthly touch seems almost to -profane her.”—_Springfield (Mass.) Republican._ - - =McLANDBURGH.—The Automaton Ear and Other Sketches.= By MISS FLORENCE - MCLANDBURGH. 12mo., 282 pages. 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He has -no taste for hair-splitting subtleties, but presents a broad and -generous view of human duty, appealing to the highest instincts and the -purest motives of a lofty manhood.”—_New York Tribune._ - - =SWING.—Truths for To-Day.= _Second Series._ By PROFESSOR DAVID SWING. - 12mo., 294 pages, tinted paper. Price, $1.50. - -This volume will contain the latest discourses of PROF. SWING, some of -them preached at the Fourth Church, but most of them spoken at the -Theatre to the New Central Church. It is universally conceded that these -are the finest efforts he has ever made, and the general demand for -their preservation in more permanent form than the newspaper reports, -has led to their issue in this volume. They are selected, revised and -arranged for publication by PROF. SWING himself. - - =SWING.—Trial of Prof. Swing.= The _Official Report_ of this important - trial. 8vo., 286 pages. Price, $1.75. - -“It constitutes a complete record of one of the most remarkable -ecclesiastical trials of modern times.”—_Boston Journal._ - -“This volume will be a precious bit of history twenty-five years hence, -and its pages will be read with mingled interest and surprise.”—_Golden -Age._ - -=Any of the books on this list sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of -price by the publishers.= - - JANSEN, McCLURG & CO. - 117 & 119 STATE ST., CHICAGO. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - 4. 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