"He smiled and talked."

"Are you going to-day?"

"Yes; Dr. Lake will call for me about five."

"You and Dr. Lake are getting to be great friends."

"Are we?"

"Do you know what he says about Felix?"

"He can say nothing but that he may never be himself again."

"Yes, he did; but you mustn't repeat it; promise me."

"There is no need for me to promise."

"He said that his mind will grow weaker and weaker. Do you know that he has been having _fits_ for two years?"

"Yes, I am aware of it."

"Isn't it a dreadful, horrible thing? But he always was a little wild and queer, not quite like other folks. I was sure that he would die; he may yet, he may have a relapse. I should think that they would rather have him dead than grow silly. I suppose that Laura will never be married now; he will never be fit to be left alone. His father can marry though, and that would leave her free. I never object to second marriages, do you?"

"That depends upon several things."

"My father was married three times. I had two stepmothers, and might have had four if he had lived longer. Some people think, but I never did, that an engagement is as good as a marriage, do you?"

"Yes."

"Of course, I knew that you would think so. But I never had any high-flown ideas about engagements. I was engaged to John Gesner-your father doesn't know it to this day-he has high and mighty ideas about things like you. _You_ ought to have some feeling about Felix Harrison, then, for he always wanted you. Professional men are always poor; Dr.

Lake is not much of a 'catch.'"

"I think he is-or will be-to the woman who can appreciate him."

"I beseech you don't you go to appreciate him."

"I do now-sufficiently," she answered, smiling.

Two weeks later, having seen Felix several times during the interval, Dine brought her a letter late in the afternoon.

Felix always had written her name in full, saying that it was prettier than the one that she had given herself in baby-days; the penmanship appeared like a child's imitation of his bold strokes.

Not daring and not caring to open it immediately, she put on her hat and went out to walk far past the end of the planks down into the green country. She thought that she knew every tree and every field all the long way to the Harrison Homestead.

Opening the letter at last, she read:

"My Friend,-I suppose you know all the truth. I wrung it out of Dr.

Greyson to-day after you left me. You may have known it all the time.

Father has known it, but not Laura. I shall never be what I once was; I know it better than any physician can tell me. If I live to forget every thing else (and I may), I think that I shall never forget that night.

But I shall not let my mind go without a struggle; I shall read, I shall write, I shall travel, when I am able. I have been reading Macaulay to-day. I shall be a burden to father and Laura, and to any who may nurse me for wages. But I shall not be a burden to you. I know that you meant that _you_ would never break our covenant, when you said: 'Promises are made to be kept,' but _I_ will break it. I am breaking it now. You did belong to me when you last said good-by and laid your young, strong hand over my poor fingers; but you do not belong to me as you read this. As I can not know the exact moment when you read it, I can never know when you cease to belong to me. Laura and father intend to take me away; do not come to me until I return. No one knows. In all my ravings, I never spoke your name; it was on my mind that I had promised not to speak of it, and I never once forgot. But your presence was in every wild and horrible dream; you were being scalped and drowned and burned alive, and often and often you sat beside me holding my hand; many many times you came to me and said, 'I will keep my word,' but something took you away; you never went of your own accord. I have asked them all what I raved about and every name that I spoke, but no one has answered 'Tessa.' Write to me this once, and never again, and tell me that you agree, that you are willing to break the bond that held us together such a little while. I am a man, and a selfish one at that, therefore I rejoice that you _were_ mine. You can have but one answer to give. I will not accept any devotion from you that may hinder your becoming the happy wife of a good man. Do not be too sorry for me. Laura will expect you to write to her, but I pray you, do not write; I should look for your letters and they would take away the little fort.i.tude I have. Be a good girl; love somebody by and by. You have burned a great many letters that I have written. This is the last."

"F. W. H."

Again and again she read it, pausing over each simple, full utterance.

He could never say to her again, "You have spoiled my life." She had done her best to atone for the sorrow that she had so unwittingly caused him, and it had not been accepted by Him who had planned all her life.

There was nothing more for her to do. The letter was like him. She remembered his kindly, gracious ways; his eagerness to be kind to her, how he would sit or stand near her to watch her as she talked or worked; how timidly he would touch her dress or her hand; how his face would change if she chanced to look up at him; how his pale green eyes would glitter when she preferred the society of Gus Hammerton or any other of the Dunellen boys, ever so long ago, as they were boys and girls together; almost as long ago as when she was a little girl and he a big boy and he would bring her fruit and flowers! On their Sat.u.r.day excursions after nuts or berries or wild flowers, how he would fall behind the others when she did and catch her hand if they heard a noise in the woods or lost themselves for half a minute among a new clump of trees.

In the long, happy weeks that she had pa.s.sed at the Homestead, in the days when his mother was alive, how thoughtful he had been of her comfort, how he had tried to please her in work or play! One evening after they had all been sitting together on the porch and telling stories, she had heard his mother say to his father: "Tessa has great influence over Felix, I hope that she will marry him."

"I won't," her rebellious little heart had replied. And at bedtime she had told Laura that she meant to marry a beautiful young man with dark eyes who must know every thing and wear a cloak. "And Felix has light eyes," she had added.

She laughed and then sighed over the foolish, innocent days when girlhood and womanhood had meant only wonderful good times like the good times in fairy tales and Bible stories.

Then for the last time she read his letter and tore it into morsels, scattering them hither and thither as she walked.

She had done all she could do; he could not keep hold of her hand any longer.

The last bit of paper fluttered on the air; she gave a long look towards the dear old Homestead; she could see the spires of the two churches at Mayfield, the bra.s.s rooster on the school-house where Felix had taught, and then she turned homeward to write the letter that would release him from the covenant whose keeping had been made impossible to them. As she turned, the noise of wheels was before her, the dust of travel in her face; she lifted her eyes in time to return a bow from Ralph Towne and to feel the smile that lighted the face of the white-haired lady at his side.

In the dusk she came down-stairs, dressed for a walk, with several letters in her hand.

"Whither does fancy lead you, daughter?" her father asked as she was pa.s.sing through the sitting-room. He was lying upon the lounge with a heavy shawl thrown over him; his voice came quick and sharp as though he were in pain.

She moved towards him instantly. "Why, father, are you sick?"

"No, dear, not-now," catching his breath. "I have been in pain and it has worn upon me. Greyson gave me something to carry with me some time ago, I have taken it three times to-day and now I shall go to sleep?"

"Are you _sure_ you feel better?" she asked caressing the hand that he held out to her. "Let me stay and do something for you."

"No. I must go to sleep. Run along. I have sent your mother away, and now I send you away."

She lingered a moment, stooping to kiss the bald forehead and then the plump hand.

Her father was very happy to-night, for her mother, of her own accord, for the first time in fifteen years, had kissed him.

He held Tessa's hand thinking that he would tell her, then he decided that the thought of those fifteen years would hurt her too sorely.

"I thought that you meant to tell me something," she said.

"No; run along."

Along the planks, along the pavement, across the Park, she walked slowly, in the summer starlight, with the letters in her hand.

"Star light! Star bright!

I wish I may, I wish I might, See somebody I want to see to-night."

A child's voice was chanting the words in a dreamy recitative.