The letter was accordingly put in his pocket, and in a few moments he rejoined his master and Mr. Middleton. The next day they returned home.

Rondeau's first act was to draw Leffie aside, and after winning from her various strong promises of secrecy, he imparted to her the astounding fact that, "He had found one of marster's letters in his trousers-no, his coat pocket. It had been there two weeks, and he didn't know what in cain to do with it. If he gave it to marster now, 'twould make him lose faith in him, and so forth."

Leffie heard him through, and then fully agreed with him that 'twas best not to tell marster at this late hour. "But," said she, "I'd put it out of the way, so 'twouldn't be poppin' out in sight some time."

"Shall I burn it?" asked Rondeau.

"Oh, no," said Leffie; "keep it so marster can have it, if he ever hears of it. There's your cigar box, take it and bury the letter in it."

"Whew-ew," said Rondeau, with a prolonged whistle, "it takes you women to calculate anything cute!"

The cigar box was brought out, and in a few moments the poor letter was lying quietly under a foot and a half of earth.

"There," said Leffie, as Rondeau laid over the spot a piece of fresh green turf, "n.o.body'll ever have any idee whose grave this is."

Rondeau rolled up his eyes, and a.s.suming a most doleful expression, said, "Couldn't you manage to bust a tear or two, just to make it seem like a real buryin'?"

Leffie answered him by a sound box on his ear, at the same time threatening to expose his wickedness at the next cla.s.s meeting. Aunt Dilsey's voice was now heard calling out, "Leffie, Leffie, is you stun deaf and blind now that fetched Rondeau's done gone home? Come here this minute!"

Rondeau and Leffie returned to the house, leaving buried a letter, the reading of which would have changed the tenor of their master's feelings.

For a knowledge of its contents as well of its author, we must go back for a time to Frankfort whence it came, promising that Mr. Middleton will follow us in a few days.

CHAPTER XIII

LETTERS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECEIVED

In order to keep the threads of our narrative connected, it is necessary that we go back for a time, and again open the scene in Frankfort, on the 24th of March, several days after the party, at which Florence Woodburn met f.a.n.n.y Middleton. Seated at her work table, in one of the upper rooms of Mrs. Crane's boarding house, is our old friend, Kate Miller. Her dazzling beauty seems enhanced by the striking contrast between the clearness of her complexion and the sable of her robe.

On a low stool, at her feet, sits f.a.n.n.y. Her head is resting on Mrs.

Miller's lap, and she seems to be sleeping. She has been excused from school this afternoon, on account of a sick, nervous headache, to which she has recently been frequently subject. Finding the solitude of her own chamber rather irksome, she had sought Mrs. Miller's room, where she was ever a welcome visitor. To Kate she had imparted a knowledge of the letter which she supposed Dr. Lacey had written.

Mrs. Miller's sympathy for her young friend was as deep and sincere as was her resentment against the supposed author of this letter. As yet, she had kept f.a.n.n.y's secret inviolate, and not even her husband had ever suspected the cause of f.a.n.n.y's failing strength. But, this afternoon, as she looked on the fair girl's sad, white face, which seemed to grow whiter and thinner each day, she felt her heart swell with indignation toward one who had wrought this fearful change. "Surely," thought she, "if Dr. Lacey could know the almost fatal consequence of his faithlessness he would relent; and he must, he shall know it. I will tell Mr. Miller and he I know will write immediately." Then came the thought that she had promised not to betray f.a.n.n.y's confidence; but she did not despair of gaining her consent, that Mr. Miller should also know the secret.

For a time f.a.n.n.y slept on sweetly and quietly; then she moved uneasily in her slumber, and finally awoke.

"How is your head now?" asked Mrs. Miller, at the same time smoothing the disordered ringlets which lay in such profusion over her lap.

"Oh, much better," said f.a.n.n.y. "I had a nice sleep, and so pleasant dreams, too."

"Did you dream of him?" asked Mrs. Miller, in a low tone.

Quick as thought the crimson tide stained f.a.n.n.y's cheek and forehead, but she answered, somewhat bitterly, "Oh, no, no! I never dream of him now, and I am trying hard to forget him. I do not think I love him half as well now as I once thought I did."

Poor little f.a.n.n.y! How deceived she was! After a time Mrs. Miller said, "f.a.n.n.y, Mr. Miller seems very anxious about your altered and languid appearance. May I not tell him the truth? He will sympathize with you as truly as I do; for he feels for you almost the affection of a brother."

At first f.a.n.n.y objected. "I know," said she, "that Mr. Miller would only think me a weak, silly girl." Mrs. Miller, however, finally gained permission to tell everything to her husband. "I know, though," persisted f.a.n.n.y, "that he will laugh at me. You say he likes me; I know he did once; but since the time when he visited my father's, more than a year ago, he has not treated me with the same confidence he did before. I never knew the reason, unless it was that foolish, romping mistake which I made one afternoon by riding into the schoolhouse!"

With many tears and some laughing-for the remembrance of the exploit always excited her mirth-f.a.n.n.y told a part of what we already know concerning Mr. Miller's visit at her father's the winter previous. She related the adventure of the sled ride, and said that the morning after she noticed a change in Mr. Miller's manner toward her. The unsuspecting girl little thought what was the true reason of that change.

While she was yet speaking, Mr. Miller entered the room. On seeing f.a.n.n.y there, and weeping, he said: "What, Sunshine in tears? That is hardly the remedy I would prescribe for headache. But come, f.a.n.n.y, tell me what is the matter."

"Oh, I cannot, I cannot!" said f.a.n.n.y, and again she buried her face in Kate's lap.

Mr. Miller looked inquiringly at his wife, who had not yet ceased laughing at f.a.n.n.y's ludicrous description of her sled ride; but overcoming her merriment, she at length found voice to say, "f.a.n.n.y is crying because she thinks you do not like her as well as you used to."

Kate had never dreamed that her husband had once felt more than a brother's love for the weeping girl before her, and she did not know what pain her words inflicted on his n.o.ble heart. Neither did she think there was the least ground for f.a.n.n.y's supposition, and she desired her husband to say so.

"I cannot say so and tell the truth," said Mr. Miller, "but I can a.s.sure you that Bill Jeffrey's sled had nothing to do with it."

"What was it then?" asked Kate and f.a.n.n.y, both in the same breath.

Mr. Miller drew f.a.n.n.y toward him with the freedom of an elder brother, and, in a low, earnest tone, said: "Did nothing else occur during my visit, which could have changed my opinion of you?"

f.a.n.n.y lifted her large blue eyes to Mr. Miller's face with so truthful, wondering a gaze that he was puzzled. "Can it be," thought he, "that I did not hear aright, that I was deceived? I will, at least, ask her how she spent that evening," so he said: "f.a.n.n.y, do you remember where you were, or how you were occupied during the last evening of my stay at your father's?"

At first f.a.n.n.y seemed trying to recall the events of that night; then she said: "Oh, yes, I remember now perfectly well. You and Mr. Wilmot had letters to write, and went to your room early, while father and mother went to one of the neighbors, leaving Julia and me alone in the sitting room."

"Did you both remain in the sitting room during the evening?" continued Mr. Miller.

"Yes," said f.a.n.n.y, "or, that is, I stayed there all the time; but Julia was gone a long time, and when she returned she would not tell me where she had been."

"But were not you and Luce in your room at all that evening?" continued Mr. Miller.

"Luce!" said f.a.n.n.y; "I do not remember having seen her once that night; neither was I in my room until bedtime."

There was so much frankness and apparent truth in f.a.n.n.y's face and manner that Mr. Miller never for a moment doubted her. His first feeling was one of intense happiness at finding that f.a.n.n.y was, indeed, all he had once fancied her to be. Back through the channels of his heart rolled, for an instant, the full tide of his once secretly nurtured affection for her. It was for an instant, however; for one look at the beautiful Kate convinced him that the love he once bore the gentle, timid girl at his side was nought, when compared with the deep, ardent affection which he now felt for his own cherished wife. "f.a.n.n.y," said he, "I have wronged you in thought, but never in word or deed, to my knowledge. I was, however, grossly deceived, although I can see no object for the deception."

"What can you mean?" asked Kate, rather anxiously. "Do explain yourself, and not deal in mysteries any longer. What dreadful thing did you imagine f.a.n.n.y had done-set the stables on fire, or abused the blacks-which?"

Mr. Miller did not immediately answer; and f.a.n.n.y said: "Come, Mr. Miller, it is not fair to suspect me of evil and not tell what it is. You should be more frank."

"I will tell you," said Mr. Miller; and, in as few words as possible he repeated to f.a.n.n.y the conversation which he had overheard, between Luce and herself, as he supposed.

When he finished speaking, both Kate and f.a.n.n.y were silent for a moment; then Kate said: "It was Julia, I know it was. Did you ever notice how much alike their voices are? And, besides, I once heard Julia lay a wager with Mr. Raymond that she could imitate her sister's voice so exactly that one, not seeing her, would be thoroughly deceived."

"Oh, Mrs. Miller," said f.a.n.n.y, "it cannot be! Why should Julia wish to do so wicked a thing? And yet I now remember that when I was sick, Luce came to me one night and asked me to forgive her for everything bad she had ever done to me. I a.s.sured her I knew of nothing to forgive; and then she cried, and said I did not know all she did about her wickedness. She must have referred to that night. I can forgive her; for she is a poor ignorant girl, and much afraid of Julia. But how could my own sister do me so great a wrong, and what could have been her object?"

Here f.a.n.n.y burst into tears, while Kate gave vent to her indignation by expressing her opinion pretty freely of Miss Julia.

"I can see," said she, "what Julia's object was. I fancy she was always fearful lest my brother should like f.a.n.n.y the best; and she probably took this method to make you both think meanly of f.a.n.n.y."

"Your idea is, probably, the correct one," said Mr. Miller, who would have added more, but Kate interrupted him by saying, "Yes, I think I understand it all now. Julia is, probably, at the foundation of Dr. Lacey's neglect.