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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 "Well, we went there the middle of June, and we have been there
ever since. Three weeks ago, as I said, your sister came up—or your
sister-in-law, isn't she?"
"Yes, but all the sister I have, so I claim her."
"I should think you would. She is lovely. She and Blitzen have
been the bright spots in my summer."
"Oh, of course, Blitzen. I had forgotten him."
"He is delightful. So sympathetic! Our temperaments are just
alike."
Page listened with interest. He could imagine the small dog and
this young woman in a romp. He could picture her, and he liked to, in
a light cambric gown, going at evening with Blitzen up into the
pasture to get the cow.
"Aunt Love has given him to me," continued the girl
complacently.
Her companion smiled reminiscently.
"What does Blitzen say to the transfer?" he asked.
"I sometimes suspect he doesn't know it," she returned seriously.
"I mention it to him every day, though. Mr. Van Tassel laughs at me,
and says that I needn't expect to take the dog,—that Blitzen thinks
I'm a humbug."
Page was not listening. "Mr. Van Tassel?" he repeated in blank
surprise.
"Yes. Didn't I say? Excuse me. He is my sister's husband—and
your uncle. I forgot that. The dearest man that ever lived."
Page felt staggered, and confusedly afraid that he should show
the shock he felt. His eyes fell. This was one of that obscure family
who had "roped Uncle Richard in." Like lightning there flashed across
his mind the consideration that beauty had made his uncle weak.
 "Yes—ahem"—he stammered, for he feared it might have been
long that he had sat there dazed. "I'm sorry to hear that my uncle is
ailing. Jack—his son knows nothing of it."
"No; it is Mr. Van Tassel's wish that his son should not be
informed of his indisposition." The girl's reply sounded curiously stilted
in contrast to her previous ease of manner. Page blamed himself for
the new coldness.
"Just like his unselfishness, isn't it?" he returned cordially. "I can't
help thinking how surprised Hilda will be to see me appear with you.
She does not know when to expect me."
Mrs. Page was indeed surprised when the train stopped at R——,
and she stood on the platform and beheld her brother and her guest
leave the car together. She was a vivacious little woman with a trim
figure, and keen blue eyes that looked out beneath her sailor hat, full
of lively interest in everything and everybody. She pounced upon the
pair, and kissed them both with enthusiasm.
"How perfectly delightful!" she exclaimed. "I couldn't help
worrying a little about you, Miss Bryant." ("Oh yes, Bryant was the
name," thought Page.) "I knew you were not familiar with Boston,
and although I had given you such detailed directions, I should have
been frantic if you hadn't come out of the car just when you did.
Gorham, how did you happen to find her? Did you go out to Pearfield?
How is Uncle Richard, Miss Bryant? There, Gorham, don't let that
stage go without us. Not the white one, the yellow. Is there room for
three?"
When they were in the stage that was to take them to the hotel,
these queries and many more were answered before the long extent
of surf came in sight, vividly blue beyond the firm white shore on
which a foamy lacework melted.
 Mrs. Page ensconced her guest in a pleasant room near her own,
and then returned to her own quarters with an impatient hope that
her brother would seek her there. She had not long to wait, and she
welcomed him eagerly.
"What do you think of my new acquisition?" she asked, as she
gave him a seat that commanded the ocean, and took one near by.
"I was greatly surprised."
"I thought you would be," said Hilda triumphantly; "but what do
you think of her? Isn't she handsome?"
"Very," answered Page, looking dreamily out upon the water.
"Haven't you fallen in love with her, you wooden man?"
"Hardly, yet. I suppose I shall, though," he added resignedly.
Mrs. Page laughed so gleefully that he smiled. "It is all the
queerest thing," she said with sudden serious zest. "I was belated in
every sort of way about getting down here this year, and when I was
finally ready it suddenly came over me that Uncle Richard was with
Aunt Love in the character of a semi-invalid, and that it would be civil
in me to call on him once, as he had come to see me on his way
through the city."
"It is odd that Jack hasn't mentioned his father's being at
Pearfield, or his not being well. To be sure, I haven't seen Jack since
last March, still he would naturally have mentioned it in the few letters
I've had from him."
Mrs. Page lifted her finger impressively. "Jack doesn't know one
word about his father's illness. Be sure you don't mention it to him."
"Call it fatigue. It isn't illness, is it?"
"Why, Gorham Page, he had a stroke early this spring."
"No! Why, that is too bad. Surely it is wrong to keep it from
Jack," said Page with a strong mental uprising of resentment against
unknown scheming Bryants. Of course that innocent, inexperienced
young creature of the train would have no word in the matter.
"Well, I don't know," returned his sister dubiously. "It was only a
warning, the doctors said, and I suppose Uncle Richard thinks he is all
right now with care; and there's a wheel within a wheel there,
Gorham. Didn't you notice to-day," lowering her voice dramatically,
"that I didn't say a word about Jack? Jack is a sore subject." She
nodded her head several times by way of emphasis.
"I dare say," returned the other. "The Bryants must have known
that he was very much cut up by his father's marriage."
"Oh, they did; or the girls did. The mother never was allowed to
know. I became very well acquainted with this child Mildred in the few
days I stayed at Pearfield, but she told me nothing. Aunt Love told me
the whole story, for Mrs. Van Tassel had confided in her. Aunt Love is
perfectly devoted to Uncle Richard's wife."
"Humph!"
"They have been through a great deal in a year. I suppose you
heard through Jack, though I knew nothing about it, that Mrs. Van
Tassel's little brother and sister took scarlet fever and died in the
same week."
"Yes, I knew that. Jack felt it deeply. I am sure he must have
written home very kindly about it. It occurred only about a month
after the wedding."
"Very likely he did. I don't know. Then Mrs. Bryant grew weaker
and weaker through the winter. They took her South, and surrounded
her with every luxury, but in April she died."
"No. I didn't know that."
"Yes, she died very peacefully and happily; but she had not been
gone a fortnight when Uncle Richard had that stroke."
 "What a procession of calamities!"
"I should think so. Well, Aunt Love says the worst part of it is,
that Mrs. Van Tassel seems to connect all this misfortune with Jack's
anger at her. Something on the old idea of a curse, I suppose."
Page's lip curled slightly under his mustache.
"I saw very little of Mrs. Van Tassel myself," continued his voluble
sister. "Uncle Richard's head was very easily tired. He had to keep
very quiet, and she was with him constantly. You never saw such
devotion."
"No doubt," said Page ambiguously. "I can easily believe that she
will not allow him out of her sight. It looks to me as if it were our duty
to inform Jack of his father's condition."
"No, no. I saw enough of Uncle Richard to discover his wishes
about that. He does not want to have Jack hurried. He does not
consider his condition in the least alarming."
Page's face indicated his disapproval. "So Mrs. Van Tassel is to
succeed in keeping Jack at a distance," he remarked.
"I don't think it is her doing."
"Of course it is," said Page without heat. "Uncle Richard must
know the circumstances."
"He may suspect something, of course," replied Hilda, "but Aunt
Love tells me they do not avoid the subject of Jack at all. Mrs. Van
Tassel speaks of him with perfect naturalness, whenever necessity
demands, and she has never told Uncle Richard of the angry parting
that worried her so. He never asked her about it."
"Wise Uncle Richard! He knew better." Page shook his head. "It is
a bad business."
His sister demurred. "I do not know that it is such a bad business
for Uncle Richard to have gained such a devoted nurse. He needs it
now. As for Miss Bryant, I pitied the girl, cooped up there in that
lonely, monotonous village, and begged Mrs. Van Tassel to allow her
to stay with me a week or two. She consented very willingly, even
gladly. I wanted to give people a chance to look at her. I'm a
philanthropist. The sight of her will do a weakly person as much good
as the sea air; and she was"—
A knock at the door interrupted. Mrs. Page gave her brother a
knowing little nod, and when she answered the call, it was her guest
who entered. The girl had exchanged her black dress for one all
white.
"You told me to come as soon as I was ready," she said, looking
from one to the other.
"Yes, I was in haste to have you see my view. Isn't it a fine one?"
Mildred moved to the window, followed by Page's unconscious,
openly admiring gaze. He had risen at once upon her entrance and
stood, his hands resting on a chair-back, forgiving Mrs. Van Tassel's
arts for the moment, in entire approval of her sister's appearance.
Hilda, to whom her brother-in-law's potential love affairs were a
constant entertainment, kept his ingenuous face in view, even while
her tongue rattled on.
"For a conscientious, well-intentioned man," she had once said to
her husband, "Gorham Page can be the most dangerous creature. Any
girl receiving such a look as his would believe him deeply smitten.
Then he will go on, getting acquainted with her in his way, inquiring
into her thoughts and opinions, even probing her hidden feelings,
getting at the real woman, as he calls it, and having exchanged
theories with her for a while, his mind will go mooning off, perhaps in
the test of some new thought she has suggested, while the girl,
gradually neglected, is soon as entirely forgotten as last year's
fashions. It amounts to unprincipled flirting, and yet he doesn't
suspect it in the least. He is too modest, really. A queer paradox."
Hilda suddenly finished the description of a distant lighthouse,
and turning, walked straight up to her brother, who was still lost in
critical approval of the noble lines and curves of her guest's tall figure.
"But come," she said, smiling with significant sauciness into his
face. "We cannot live entirely on the beautiful things we can take in
through our eyes. I fancy there is some dinner downstairs
somewhere."
"Yes," agreed Page, stirring. He had finished his soup before he
realized that there had been any personal intention in her speech.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE TELEGRAM.

Mrs. Page promised herself to keep a sharp lookout in behalf of the

young girl of whom she had assumed temporary charge. At the very
first of those exclusive walks and sails which she foresaw, she meant
to reason with her brother, and indirectly to warn Mildred of his
idiosyncrasy. Her guest seemed wonderfully well-poised and self-
possessed for a girl of her age. Doubtless she had already become
accustomed to admiration; but Gorham's attentions would be of an
unusual sort. Mrs. Page meant to keep an eye on him.
She was disappointed, however. The very day following, he
mentioned his intention of returning to the city.
"You must have known that I only came down to call on you," he
replied to Hilda's expressions of surprise and dismay. "After such a
prolonged holiday as I have had, you surely didn't suppose I was
going to idle away more time here."
"I think it is very shabby of you," pouted Mrs. Page, with no
thought of her own inconsistency. "Miss Bryant and I need you to
entertain us while Robert is away. Don't we, Miss Bryant?"
Mildred assented. "It is hard to be deprived of both Blitzen and
Mr. Page," she said feelingly, and her hostess wished she had not
appealed to her.
Page regarded his sister thoughtfully. "Shall I send you some
books?" he asked. "Miss Bryant said last night that she had not
brought any books with her."
"You needn't trouble yourself," returned Hilda quickly. "His first
symptom of interest," she noted mentally. "I know you," she added
aloud. "The lightest entertainment we could hope for would be
Buckle's 'History of Civilization.' No. Leave us if you must; but don't
send us any literature!"
So he departed, and Mrs. Page was left to sound his praises
instead of his defects, to her friend. After Mildred's saucy speech, she
was determined that the girl should appreciate how far above the
common run of men this rara avis of a brother was; and she rang the
changes upon his high principle, his conscientiousness, his
unselfishness, until the faint light of ironical amusement in her guest's
eyes arrested her.
"I wouldn't have you think Gorham a prig," she added hastily. "He
is the furthest from it."
Mildred's week at the beach slipped quickly and pleasantly away,
and then she was recalled to Pearfield by her sister, who wrote that
Mr. Van Tassel felt so much stronger that he wished to return home at
once.
 Mrs. Page received one letter from the girl, after they reached
Chicago, descriptive of the journey, and the parting from Pearfield.
Blitzen, she said, they were obliged to leave behind, as on the day of
departure he was nowhere to be found. Humiliating as it was to
confess it, they all believed he had heard the plans for his removal,
and had gone into hiding.
September passed and October was nearly gone, when one
morning as he opened his mail in his office, Gorham Page found a
letter from his cousin Jack.
It began by responding to some theories and warnings, which
Page had recently written him, relative to the unwholesomeness of
beer-drinking.

DEAR GORHAM,—Your interesting and instructive letter just received.

It has been an unusual length of time on the road, and it was an ill
fate that delayed your temperance lecture, and deprived me of that
aid to sobriety any longer than was necessary, in view of the rapidity
with which I am traveling the downward road. It arrived, however, at
a critical period. A friend in the pension, whose besotted fancy could
not rise from the miry slough in which intemperance has sunk her, has
just made me a philopena present. Instead of bestowing upon me
some airy and diverting German philosophy, or fascinating English
tract, or an elevating necktie,—instead of finding something which, in
the guise of a trifling gift, should have brought to a debauched young
man blessed suggestions of a reformed life and renewed
respectability, she presented me a beer mug with a painting of
Lohengrin, Swan and Co. on the outside, and a line or two of German
words around the rim, having some reference to Parsifal and the Holy
Grail!
 That of course drives the last nail into my coffin! That puts me
beyond the pale of—water! In vain do you exclaim, "Be a man! Have
some backbone about you! Be content to look at your new beer mug,
without making other use of it. Keep it as bric-a-brac, dry, and always
perpendicular! Let its rigid uprightness be also that of your moral
character. Resist the dreadful power of this unrighteous alliance of a
refined taste for æsthetic pottery with a depraved taste for strong
drink!"
Alas, I cannot. How appalling and yet how interesting it is to
observe how Fate inclines to kick a fellow when he's down. Everything
conspires against the reform of one who has fallen.
As to my own case, even if I could overcome my craving for
liquor, I should still be obliged to go right on drinking my pint of beer
at dinner every day, for it seems that the German words around the
rim of my mug are not "fast colors;" they come off gradually as I
drink; and after long-drawn-out attempts by the other process, I
conclude that this is the only way in which I can ever get any German
into me, so I must go on to the bitter end. Bitte sehr!
I have decided to come home before the New Year. I dread it, as
you know, but the plunge into the new family circle must be taken
some time, and I want to see my father. I am sure he wants to see
me, too, though he doesn't say much about it. In a recent letter, he
admitted that he had not been very well during the summer. Bless
him! I suppose her griefs have shaken him very much. Of course I'm
sorry for her, but I can't be resigned to father's having had to
shoulder the Bryants' affairs. I tell you I am glad to know he is himself
again. His letter made me feel an intolerable distance away. Yes, I
shall see him by the New Year, whatever happens.
Page was folding this letter into its envelope, when a telegraph boy
entered the office.
"Want an answer?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
So while his clerk signed, the lawyer tore open the message. He
started as he read it, and a slow color rose over his face.
Taking a blank he scribbled an address, then added:—

Will be with you to-morrow evening.

GORHAM PAGE.

Making hasty preparations at the office and at home, he barely

succeeded in catching the limited train for Chicago. When he was
seated in his section, he drew forth from his pocket the telegram
that had startled him, and read it again.

Mr. Van Tassel died suddenly at nine last night. Can you come to us?

MILDRED BRYANT.

"Poor Jack!" thought Page; and the wheels seemed to repeat the
words like a refrain. He disliked his own task, but it did not seem
strange to him that he had been summoned. Mr. Van Tassel had no
near relatives in Chicago. Page had had charge of his legal affairs in
Boston. Doubtless his address had been among the dead man's
papers, and Mrs. Van Tassel's advisers had suggested that he be
sent for.
Page shrank repugnantly from encountering this woman, whom
disaster followed so relentlessly. He tried not to think of her. Perhaps
it would not be necessary that they should meet at all; yet try as he
might, he could not prevent his imagination from picturing the siren,
who had succeeded in capturing the honest, cordial, fine-natured
man, whose death it was difficult to realize. How would Jack bear it?
How would his highly strung affectionate nature stand the strain?
This woman who had brazenly told him that she did not love his
father had been the one to stand near the latter's deathbed; while
the loving heart of the son had been kept at a distance by her
machinations.
For Page was now fully convinced that Jack had been
deliberately deceived as to his father's condition, and he blamed
himself hotly for obeying his sister and refraining from
intermeddling.
He said to himself that he ought to have talked with Miss Bryant
about the matter at R——. The thought of Mildred gave him no
pleasure. She was sister to the woman who had robbed Jack, and
broken his heart. He felt a sudden conviction of Mrs. Van Tassel's
appearance. She was an Amazon; tall, commanding, bold-faced,
loud-voiced, with a coarser repetition of her sister's beauty; and
involuntarily he shuddered with anticipatory disgust, and wished the
next few days well over.
But this was being extraordinarily imaginative for Page, and he
realized it all at once, and opened the paper which he had bought,
with the newsboy shuffling along beside him as he hastened through
the depot in Boston. But his thoughts would not concentrate upon
the printed page; rather they flew to Jack's brilliant face,—the face
which always said that life was good,—and saw it suddenly stamped
with white despair, alone in a strange land.
The next day, arrived in Chicago, Page left the train at Hyde
Park and went to a hotel. Half an hour afterward, he emerged and
walked toward the lake. It was a dreary day, such as seldom comes
in Chicago's October. The lake was gray from recent rain, and an
east wind was whipping dead leaves from the elms, across the green
lawn around the Van Tassel house.
Page looked at the drawn curtains, walked up the steps to the
crape-hung door, and an unexpected lump rose in his throat, for he
thought of Jack. In that moment, there came to him a new loyal
satisfaction in the fact that he had come; that some one beside
aliens would stand near Uncle Richard. It was with a strange mixture
of grief and resentment that he met the servant, and asked for Miss
Bryant.
He looked around the well-remembered parlor, where the maid
left him, and noted that it was newly and fashionably furnished; but
scarcely five minutes had passed before Mildred entered the room,
and walked straight up to him with outstretched hand.
He returned the greeting with cold formality, and even in the
shaded room he could see that the girl's eyes were swelled from
weeping.
"I am so glad you could come," she said tremulously. "Was it
very inconvenient? We thought you would probably wish to attend
the funeral any way. Mr. Van Tassel had so few"—she could go no
further, but broke down and wept into her handkerchief.
 "Crocodile tears!" thought Page. "It is more than likely that they
have everything between them.—Certainly, I should have wished to
come," he said aloud.
"Then—then," began Mildred, making an effort, "my sister
wanted your advice—she thought you would know best—Mr. Van
Tassel trusted you—Forgive me, but we have had such a shock"—
she tried vainly to go on, once, twice, then with a gesture turned
and left the room.
The visitor moved to a window, and looked out through a crack
of the blind.
"I'm sorry they think it necessary to go through this sort of
thing," he thought cynically. "Now I suppose she will send the other
one; and if that was a preface!" A sound behind him caused him to
set his teeth, and turn about with the coldest, blankest expression
he could assume. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light
now, and he saw a straight slight girl in black, standing and
regarding him with the saddest, loveliest countenance he had ever
looked upon. Her large eyes had shed all their tears, and her
delicate lips had never smiled. Her rippled brown hair framed a
colorless face, and her effect was less pathetic than awe-inspiring in
its pure unconscious dignity.
"This is Mr. Page?" she said, advancing and offering a hand
which the young man took mechanically. "It was kind of you to come
promptly. I felt that I must see you and you only, about—about Mr.
Van Tassel's son."
She spoke in an even, emotionless voice, but Page noted a faint
trembling of her lips at the mention of Jack.
 "You are the nearest relative, and you can best decide what
should be done."
Page was in all the confusion incident upon intense revulsion of
feeling. He felt that he had not yet full command of his ideas; but
the spontaneous desire to help this exquisite young creature, to let
neither himself nor any one else wound her further, constituted his
ruling passion for the moment.
"You have sent no word to Jack as yet?"
"No. As soon as your telegram came I decided to wait for you."
She had been waiting for him and he had filled the moments of
his coming with brutal contempt and criticism of her.
The tearless sadness of her voice went on: "It is better for the
word to go from you than from me." Her eyelids fell. "It will hurt
Jack less. I would"—she lifted her eyes again and gave Page a look
that his heart received as a pang. "I would gladly give my life if it
could procure Jack one hour with his father, alive."
"I believe it sincerely," he answered.
The respect and sympathy of Page's tone seemed to impel her
to further explanation. "It was terribly sudden and unexpected," she
said. "No one—the doctor himself did not believe in the possibility of
such a catastrophe. He was feeling so well for him. He was in the act
of speaking of it when he sank back. His last word was 'happy.'"
She stood a moment, her eyelids dropped, in statuesque
silence. Page watched her steady her tottering self-control.
"I had thought," she went on finally, "of a succession of
cablegrams. Could it be broken to your cousin a little more gently,
so?"
"Yes, that will be best."
 "And may I ask you to send them, without regard to cost?"
"Certainly. What else can I do? I beg you to let me be useful to
you in all ways that I can for Uncle Richard's sake."
"Thank you. I will give you the address of a neighbor, an old
and dear friend of Mr. Van Tassel, who has been most kind. Perhaps
he would be glad to consult with you."
Page soon took his leave, and until the day after the funeral did
not again have opportunity to speak with the young widow. Then
she sent for him and he went upstairs to the gay and delicate
boudoir which Richard Van Tassel had furnished for his young wife,
whose black gown to-day made the one dark spot amid its luxury.
She looked precisely the same as on the occasion of their first
meeting except that now, by daylight, Page could see more distinctly
her patient, marble beauty.
"I could not let you go East without thanking you," she said,
greeting him gravely. "You have been very kind, and a great help to
us."
The young man bowed, and murmured a polite platitude. He
could think of nothing to say to her.
"Do you—I suppose you do expect your cousin to return home
immediately."
"Yes. I think he will come."
"One thing which I wanted to say to you this morning is that my
sister and I are going immediately to California to spend the winter.
You will meet your cousin, very likely, upon his arrival?"
Page bowed.
"Will you kindly tell him that the house here is ready for him,
that we shall not return to it"—Mrs. Van Tassel's even, formal
utterance broke, and she suddenly averted her head. "Poor Jack!"
she exclaimed. "It will make him suffer afresh to come back here,
and who can comfort him? It is the best I can do, though," she
added suddenly, turning again toward Page. "You know there is not
one person save Mildred to whom I can speak of all this, and it is
wrong to dwell upon sad and humiliating subjects with a bright
young girl."
She looked scarcely older than Mildred herself, Page thought,
but he eagerly offered himself as a confidant.
"I am glad Jack has you," she continued. "I wish, oh, so deeply,
that I might do or say anything to alleviate his sorrow; but you see,"
appealingly, "the only thing I can do is to keep away. Jack and I
were good friends once, but that is all over."
As Page a little later came downstairs to leave the house,
Mildred Bryant rose from a seat near the fireplace in the hall. Her
face looked a little paler than was its wont, and faint shadows about
her eyes told of grief; but she was once more the self-possessed girl
he had first seen on the train.
"You are returning at once to Boston?" she asked.
"Yes. I leave to-night."
"I saw by your face as you came downstairs that you think my
sister looks badly; but of course you do. Well, I believe there is
nothing more, there are no more shocks that she can suffer—unless
she should lose me, and I fancy I am long for this world;" a shade of
the girl's pretty ironical smile flitted over her lips; "but I could lose
her," the hazel eyes suddenly became bright with unshed tears;
"and," with vehemence, "I will not. I am going, we are going away
to search for Clover's girlhood. It must come back. She has been
cheated out of it too soon."
"Mrs. Van Tassel told me that you intend going West. Southern
California will surely do her good."
"I hope so. I am glad you have been here these last days. It has
been a comfort to my sister."
"Do you really think so?" eagerly.
"Without doubt. I observed that she seemed less anxious about
—everything, from the moment of your coming."
"The matter of telling Jack had preyed upon her," said Page
sympathetically.
He saw an indefinable change come over Mildred's face. "I
suppose Jack must bear his troubles like the rest of the world," she
answered with a tinge of hardness. "We thank you very much for
everything, Mr. Page," she added, holding out her hand, and the
other clasped it warmly.
"I would not have failed to be here for any consideration, Miss
Bryant. I hope," looking into the girl's eyes earnestly, "that the time
may not be far distant when I shall meet you and Mrs. Van Tassel
again."
"Thank you," returned Mildred courteously, and the young man
left the house with a distinct sensation of disappointment because
she had not echoed his wish. He could not avoid the suspicion that
these young women would now expect and wish to walk in a
separate way from that of all connections of his dear lost uncle. He
himself would henceforth be classed with Jack, and, strange new
disloyalty, the prospect was unsatisfactory.
 He turned his steps toward the office where he was going to
await a cablegram, and on his way undertook to analyze his own
unreasonable feelings. "They are nothing to me, those girls," he
thought, while memory presented in fresh hues that averted head
leaning upon a white hand in Clover's spasm of impotent pity for
Jack, and all of a sudden, instead of theorizing, Page found himself
dwelling with eager pride, as if it were the climax of achievement in
his life, on the fact that he had been of assistance, of use, of
comfort, to that fair, pale creature, set in a sacred niche apart from
all the other women in the world.
He recalled himself with cold surprise from this Scylla, only to
fall into the Charybdis of a reverie in which Miss Bryant's face and
bearing were regal, as she declared that Jack must bear his trials
like the rest of the world.
Page threw back his head in self-impatience. "She is a fine,
bright girl, and I should like to know her better," he thought; "but
there is this comfort—in a couple of months I shall have forgotten all
about her. I couldn't remember her if I tried."
Before evening he received the expected message from his
cousin. Jack sailed from Bremen at once.

CHAPTER IX.
A CHRISTMAS VISITOR.

The national dispute finished regarding the location of the World's

Fair, a local contest at once arose among Chicago's citizens as to
which portion of the city was best fitted for the display. The debate
was long drawn out. Several sites were energetically lauded by their
several partisans, and their respective advantages were hotly
maintained and as hotly contradicted. It was very interesting to
Chicagoans, but to the public outside it was a matter of indifference
whether the North Side, the West Side, or the South Side, should
win the day.
Meanwhile a good many people—like Miss Berry, for instance—
forgot that such a thing as preparation for a World's Fair was going
on. She thought it vastly more interesting that Jack Van Tassel had
returned from Europe, and that in his desolation instead of going to
his father's deserted house he had begun to read law in his cousin's
office.
Miss Lovina's association with Mrs. Van Tassel during the
summer had brought much food for thought into her quiet life;
thought that haunted her after the young wife had become a widow,
and after Jack had come home; his sore heart full of cold anger, so
Miss Berry surmised, against a woman whom she devoutly declared
to be "one of the sweetest of God's creatures."
It was an exciting time to her when one November day she
received the letter from Gorham Page giving her hope that she need
not always be passive concerning a matter which, in her uneventful
life, she had greatly at heart. She read:—

DEAR AUNT LOVE,—Jack Van Tassel has come back and is with me
for the present. Of course he is very much shaken; and when I met
him at the dock I felt a good deal disturbed about him; but you
know his excitable, gay disposition. He will doubtless soon recover
from the shock, and react from his present low state. Naturally he
wants to blame somebody for his suffering, and I fear he is inclined
to accuse Mrs. Van Tassel of inconsiderateness in not sending for
him last summer. I never met her excepting on the occasion of the
funeral, so my defense has little weight; but I recall that my sister
said you esteemed her highly, and it occurred to me to ask you to do
what you can toward exonerating her when you see Jack, which I
dare say may be soon, as he has spoken of visiting you in order to
learn something of the last weeks of his father's life. Use your own
discretion about this. Jack will stay with me for a time, and read law
in my office for the sake of occupation. His father's affairs were left
in perfect shape. His will divided the fortune into three parts: one
third is left to charities and certain relatives; one third goes to Jack,
and the other to Mrs. Van Tassel, with the exception of an amount
sufficient to make her sister independent, which he has left to Miss
Bryant.
Please say nothing of this letter, and believe me, with best
wishes always,

Cordially yours, GORHAM PAGE.

These lines had not been penned without some uncomfortable

recollections on the part of the writer of a day when he had himself
received the announcement of Aunt Love's attachment to her young
guest in a spirit of impatient skepticism. Now that he discovered the
strength of his desire that Jack should be more yielding and
credulous, the memory of his own hardness was especially
exasperating.
 Miss Berry waited for her expected visitor with much interest,
and each day altered a little the form of the statement she intended
to make him when he came. She had opportunity to make a variety
of changes in her programme, for weeks went by without a sign
from him, and finally Miss Lovina's faith in his coming wavered.
Christmas day dawned in ideal fashion at Pearfield that year.
The sun fell on swelling drifts of virgin snow. The little town sparkled
like the village in a Christmas card, and just as the inevitable church
spire ornaments that souvenir, so the Congregationalist meeting-
house stood in a field of glistening white, as Miss Berry trudged up
the shoveled path to attend a service of song planned by the
Sunday-school as a fitting festivity for the morning. There was a
good attendance, and Miss Lovina gave her neighbors, old and
young, cheerful greeting as she regarded complacently the holly
wreaths which she had yesterday helped to place in the church
windows.
When the exercises were over she moved slowly down the aisle
by the side of Miss Getchell with whom she had promised weeks ago
to eat her Christmas dinner. If there was something of the martyr
concealed under Lovina's benevolent countenance as Miss Ann
clutched her arm, the latter would not be allowed to suspect it, and
together they emerged from the wide-open door; but once on the
porch Miss Berry, with an exclamation of surprise, shook herself free,
and Miss Getchell's astonished eyes beheld her friend hasten down
the steps towards some one who ascended to meet her.
"It was a reg'lar young prince of a feller with grand eyes," Ann
said afterward, dramatizing the occurrence to her old homekeeping
mother, "and he took off his hat as he come up to Loviny as though
she was somebody great." Miss Getchell's curious ears could not
grasp Jack's low-spoken question:—
"Are you going out to dinner anywhere, Aunt Love?"
Miss Lovina's conscience would have done credit to any Puritan
of them all, but Jack had said "are" instead of "were," and she
considered that in a flash before responding heartily:
"Indeed I am not, Mr. Jack. You're just comin' home with me
and I'm delighted. Wait one second till I speak to one o' my
neighbors."
Jack suspected her as she turned back to Miss Getchell, but her
evident pleasure in his arrival decided him not to press the question.
He turned his back while she hurriedly and emphatically accosted
her friend.
"I'm sorry it happens so, Ann, but"—
"Oh now, don't say you won't come, Loviny. Fetch the young
man along and welcome."
"Hush, don't say a word. It is Mr. Van Tassel's son. You
remember. I'll make it up to you sometime,—I mean you'll make it
up to me. You see it can't be helped. Now don't coax me, that's a
good girl; I can't possibly come, and don't be mad with me, Ann,
you see just how it is," and Miss Getchell allowed herself to be
twitched into dumbness by Lovina's anxious grasp upon her arm,
and departed on her lonely way in a measure consoled by the
consideration of two luscious mince pies which Miss Berry had sent
her as a gift the day before.
"I'll bet a cookie she wishes she had 'em back now," she
reflected as she looked after the erect, tall form moving away beside
Miss Berry's stout figure. "I'm glad 't ain't me caught by a city feller
like that on Christmas day without any decent dinner to give him."
But Miss Getchell and Miss Berry were two very different people.
The latter, as she walked along trying with some preoccupation to
talk to her guest, was filled with felicitation that Jack had chosen for
his visit the day when each heart is most inclined to gentleness, and
in the same breath she rejoiced that there were two roast chickens
in the larder at home prepared in a moment of dubiousness
regarding Ann Getchell's cooking. "If I don't relish my dinner, I'll
have a good supper," Miss Lovina had thought when she roasted
them, and now the most devout thanksgiving of the morning arose
from her heart in consequence.
"This is my first glimpse of Pearfield in winter," said Jack,
surveying the blue-white shadows on the unspotted fields. "I
dreaded Christmas this year, Aunt Love. It occurred to me yesterday
that I would come to see you. It is as I expected. 'Peace on earth'
doesn't seem such a satire here."
"You couldn't please me better," replied Miss Berry. "I've been
some expectin' you, for Mr. Gorham told me you laid out to be in
Boston a while."
"Yes. I have thought a great deal about Pearfield lately." There
was a brief silence as the two moved on between snowy bulwarks
thrown up by the village ox-plow that morning. "Do you never
become lonely here, Aunt Love?" asked her visitor at last.
"No, I don't know as I do. Pearfield's a nice safe stiddy place
and I'm as busy as a bee all the time. Once in a while there's a
tramp, but now Blitzen attends to them in short order. We all have
our gifts," continued Aunt Love, desiring for the present to keep the
conversation impersonal, "and seems if Blitzen's was appearin' to go
mad whenever he wants to."
"Rather a questionable accomplishment, I should suppose."
"It is convenient sometimes, though, there ain't any denyin' it.
Blitzen does hate a tramp. I believe if he was off in the woods a mile
he'd smell one, if he was comin' towards the house; and no sooner
does one o' the shif'less critters knock on the door and ask for a
meal o' victuals, than Blitzen's there. Even if I haven't seen him for
an hour and haven't the least idea where he is, he'll be there soon's
the tramp is, and barkin' so the feller can't hardly make himself
heard. Blitzen's tramp-bark is queer," continued Aunt Love
thoughtfully. "It's mysterious to me where he gets his breath. It ain't
just one bark after another, but he runs 'em all together without any
let up, and so loud and long, it's curious to me he don't just choke to
death and done with it."
"Rather discomposing to the tramp, I imagine."
"Well, 't is," admitted Miss Berry, one corner of her mouth
smiling. "Some stand it longer 'n others; but when one o' the critters
sticks to it till I'm wore out with him, I never have to do but just one
thing. I just look at Blitzen,—he's always jumpin' and whirlin' around
enough to make a clock dizzy,—and I say, 'What's the matter with
the dog!' Then I close the door a little and look through it at the
tramp and holler, 'You'll have to excuse me, but that dog acts so
queer I'—then, slam, I shut the door. It never fails to work. Takes
away a tramp's appetite every time."
"I should suppose Blitzen might feel the weight of a boot under
those circumstances."
 "Bless your heart, Mr. Jack, don't you believe it! A man would
have to be built like one o' these centerpedes to have any luck tryin'
to kick Blitzen when he's on the rampage. No sir, a tramp don't like
the idea of a mad dog, and he needs all the legs he's got to get over
the fence with. I always step to the winder pretty certain what I'll
see. A man just lightin' out for the road, and Blitzen after him,
makin' rosettes of himself, bringin' all four feet together at every
bound and hollerin' enough to croozle you."
Jack laughed.
"He's a smart dog," went on Miss Berry in the tone of one who
gives the devil his due. "He's been a means o' grace to me more 'n
once, but I won't deny he's talented. Now after one o' those
whirlwind times, you'd think he'd be so tuckered out he'd just have
to lay down a spell and get his wind back; but land, he never turns a
hair. All the time he's playin' hydrophoby on that tramp he's
rememberin' where he buried his last bone, and he hasn't any more
'n seen him over the fence when he switches around mute as a
mole, and digs in the ground just as pert as though he'd never used
any energy on anything else. He needs nourishment and he knows
it."
"I should suppose he would get it some day," remarked Van
Tassel, "in the shape of poisoned meat."
"Law, they've tried that," said Miss Berry contemptuously. "I've
had to laugh when I've picked it up in the yard and burned it. It was
such a simple idea. Why, if a tramp could come into the house and
get one o' ma's white China plates with the gold band, and set some
victuals o' mine on it and pizen 'em, he might stand some chance.
Blitzen puts on more airs and frills every day about what he will eat
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