"And the landlord, you said, they were speaking together?"

"Oh, yes, quite friendly."

"What did they talk about--could you hear?"

"Yes, a little, now and then."

"Well!"

"Oh, it was a word lifted above the rest, when Storms got into the saddle."

"A word--well, what was it?"

"Something about a la.s.s near 'Norston's Rest,' that folks say the young man is to wed."

When Judith spoke again, her voice was so husky that the old man looked at her inquiringly, and wondered if it was the shadows that made her so pale.

She felt his eyes upon her, and turned away.

"Did you chance to hear the name--I mean _her_ name--the girl he is going to wed?"

"If I did, it has slipped from my mind, but it was some one about 'Norston's Rest.' She is to have a mint of money when some people die who are in the way."

"Did he say this?"

"Yes, daughter."

When Hart looked around, he saw that Judith had laid the loaf of bread on the table, with the knife thrust in it, and was gone. The old man was used to such reckless abandonment whenever Judith was displeased with a subject, or disliked a task; so, after waiting patiently a while for her to come back, he broke off the half-severed slice of bread, and began to make his supper from that.

After a while Judith came into the room. Her color was all gone, and a look of fiery resolve broke through the trouble in her eyes.

"Where has he gone, father--can you tell me that?"

"How can I say? He wasn't likely to give much of an account of himself to an old man like me."

"Don't you think it strange that he should go off like that?"

"Well, no," answered the old man, with some deliberation. "Young fellows like him take sudden ideas into their heads. They're not to be depended on."

"And this is all you know, father?"

"Yes; how should I know more?"

"Good-night, father."

The girl went into the hall, came back again, and kissed her father on the forehead three or four times. While she did this, tears leaped into her eyes, and the arms around his neck trembled violently.

"Why, what has come over the girl?" said the old man. "I'm not angry about the supper, child. One can't always expect things to be hot and comfortable. There, now, go to bed, and think no more about it."

"Go to bed!" No, no! the girl had no thought of sleep that night. Far into the morning the light of her meagre candle gleamed through the window of her room, revealing her movements as she raved to and fro, like a wild animal in its cage--sometimes crouching down by the window as if impatient for the dawn--sometimes flinging herself desperately on the bed, but always in action.

Hart went to his work very early the next morning, and did not see his daughter, who sometimes slept far beyond the breakfast hour. He was very tired and hungry that night, when he came home from work, but found the house empty, and saw no preparation for supper, except that the leaf of a table which stood against the wall was drawn out, and an empty plate and spoon stood upon it.

Finding that Judith did not appear, he arose wearily, went into the pantry, and brought out a dish of cold porridge in one hand, with a pitcher of milk in the other. With this miserable apology for a meal, he drew his chair to the table and began to eat, as he had done many a time before, when, from caprice or idleness, the girl had left him to provide for himself. Then the poor old man sat by the hearth, from habit only; for nothing but dead ashes was before him, and spent a dreary hour waiting. Still Judith did not come, so he went, with a heavy heart, into a small untidy room where he usually slept, carrying a candle in his hand.

As he sat on the bed wondering, with vague uneasiness, what could have kept his daughter out so late, the old man saw a crumpled paper, folded somewhat in the form of a letter, lying on the floor at his feet, where some reckless hand had tossed it. When this paper met the poor father's eye, he arose from the bed, with painful weariness, and took it to the light. Here he smoothed the heartless missive with his hands, and wandered about a while in search of his iron-bound spectacles, that shook in his hand as he put them on:

FATHER --Don't fret about me; but I am going away for a while.

This old place has tired me out, and there is no use in starving oneself in it any longer. The wages you get is not enough for one, to say nothing of a girl that has wants like other folks, and is likely to keep on wanting if she stays with you against her will. I might feel worse about leaving you so if I had ever been of much use or comfort to you; but I know just as well as you do, that I haven't done my share, and nothing like it. I know, too, that if I stayed, it would be worse instead of better; for I couldn't stand trying to be good just now--no, not to save my life!

You won't miss me, anyhow; for when I'm gone, the people you work for will ask you to take a meal now and then; besides, you were always handy about the house, and know how to cook for yourself.

I would have come in to say good-by, but was afraid you might wake up and try to keep me from going. Now don't put yourself out, or let the neighbors fill your head with stories about me.

There's nothing to tell, only that I have taken an idea to get a place and better myself, which I will before you see me again. If I do, never fear that I will not send you some money.

Your daughter, JUDITH

The old man read this rude scrawl twice over--the first time shaking like a leaf, the last time with tears--every one a drop of pain--trembling in his eyes and blinding them.

"Gone!" he said, wiping his eyes with the soiled linen of his sleeve.

"My la.s.s gone away, no one knows where, and nothing but this left behind to remember her by! Poor thing!--poor young thing! It was lonesome here, and maybe I was hard on her in the way of work--wanted too much cooking done! But I didn't mean to be extravagant--didn't mean to drive her away from home, poor motherless thing! It's all my fault! it's all my fault! Oh! if she would only come back, and give me a chance to tell her so!"

The poor old man went to his work that day, looking worn out, and so downcast that the neighbors turned pitying glances at him as he pa.s.sed down the hill, for he never had stooped so much or appeared so forlorn to them before. One or two stopped to speak with him. He said nothing of his daughter, but answered their greetings with downcast eyes and humble thanks, not once mentioning his trouble, or giving a sign of the gnawing anguish that racked his bosom and sapped his strength. She had left him, and in that lay desolation too dreary for complaint.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE WIFE'S VISIT.

"I must see him. I will see him! Oh, Mrs. Mason, if you only knew how important it is!"

The good housekeeper, who sat in her comfortable parlor at "The Rest,"

was surprised and troubled by the sudden appearance of her pretty favorite from the gardener's cottage. She was hard to move, but could not altogether steel herself against the pathetic pleading of that pale young creature, who had come up from her home through the lonely dusk, to ask a single word with the young heir.

Sick or well, she said, that word must be spoken. All she wanted of Mrs. Mason was to let her into his room a single minute--one minute--she would not ask for more. Only if Mrs. Mason did not want to see her die, she would help her to speak that one word.

There is something in pa.s.sionate earnestness which will awake the most lethargic heart to energy, if that heart is kindly disposed. The stout housekeeper of the Hall had known and petted Ruth Jessup from the time she was old enough to carry her little ap.r.o.n full of fruit or flowers from the gardener's cottage to her room in the great mansion. It went to her heart to refuse anything to the fair young creature, who still seemed to her nothing more than a child; but the wild request, and the tearful energy with which it was urged, startled the good woman into sharp opposition.

"Mr. Walton! You wish to see him, Ruthy? Who ever heard of such a thing? It quite makes me tremble to think of it. What can a child like you want with the young master, and he sick in bed, with everybody shut out but the doctor, and wet ice-cloths on his head, night and day. I couldn't think of mentioning it. I wonder you could bring yourself to ask me. If it had been anything in my line now!"

"It is! It is! Kindness is always in your line, dear G.o.dmother!"

pleaded the poor girl, putting one arm over the housekeeper's broad shoulders, and laying her pale cheek against the rosy freshness which bloomed in that of her friend. "I wouldn't ask you, only it is so important."

"But what can it be that you want to say, Ruthy? I cannot begin to understand it," questioned the old woman, faltering a little in her hastily expressed denial; for the soft-pleading kisses lavished on her face had their effect. "If you were not such a child now."

"But I am not a child, G.o.dmother."