"I should hope not, truly."

"Well, she has a Northern girl visiting her, and a very remarkable looking girl she is."

"That is a different affair, although I do not approve of it. Miss Ainsley is the daughter of a rich man who is doing much for the South, and who feels kindly toward us, while old Mr. Houghton detests us as heartily as we do him. He is absorbing our business and taking it away from Southern men, and he exults over the fact. Miss Ainsley is certainly a very beautiful girl, for I've seen her. I suppose she received much attention."

Mara purposely turned her back on Ella, and busied herself in the further part of the kitchen. She had heard rumors of Clancy's attention to the fair Northerner, and she both dreaded and hoped to have them verified.

"Anything," she sighed, "oh, anything which will break his hold upon my heart!"

Unconsciously, Ella gave her more information than she could well endure.

"I reckon she did receive attention, very concentrated attention, and that was all she cared for evidently. She was rather languid until Mr. Clancy appeared, and then she welcomed him with all her brilliant eyes. He looked as if he understood her perfectly, and they spent most of the evening on the shadowy balcony together. It is another case of the North conquering the South; but if I were a man, I'd think twice before surrendering to that girl. I had an instinctive distrust of her."

Mara felt that she was growing pale, and she immediately busied herself about the stove until her face flamed with the heat.

"You don't seem to take much interest in the affair," Ella remarked, as Mara continued silent.

"I never expect to make Miss Ainsley's acquaintance," was the quiet reply, "and Mr. Clancy in my view has almost ceased to be a Southerner."

"Well, I never met him before, and have only heard a little about him from cousin Sophy, and that not in his favor. He has a strong, intelligent face though, and a very resolute look in his eyes."

"Yes," admitted Mara coldly, "I reckon he's one who would have his own way without much regard for others."

"He may slip up for once. Miss Ainsley struck me as a girl who would have her way, no matter how many hearts she fractured."

Aun' Sheba and Vilet now entered, diverting Ella's thoughts. The old woman sat down rather wearily, a look of deep dejection on her face.

"Look here, Aun' Sheba," said the lively girl, "you're not well, or else something is troubling you. You looked down-hearted yesterday, and you look funereal now."

"We'se been sot on," said Aun' Sheba solemnly.

"'Sot on!' good gracious! Aun' Sheba, what do you mean?"

"Well, dey sot on my ole man, an' husband an' wife am me. Hit didn't turn out bad as I s'posed it would, bress tat ar son-in-law ob mine, but I keeps a tinkin' it all ober, an' I'se 'jected, I is; an' dar's no use ob shoutin' glory wen you doan feel glory." Then she told the whole story, which kept Ella on pins and needles, for, while she felt an honest sympathy for the poor soul, she had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh.

"Yes, Missy Mara," concluded Aun' Sheba pathetically, "I'se s'pended, I s'pended myself, an' I'se gwine to stay s'pended till I feels mo' shuah."

"Suspended, Aun' Sheba!" said Mara, starting, suddenly becoming conscious of present surroundings.

Aun' Sheba looked at her wonderingly, but voluble Ella made it all right by saying, "No wonder Mara exclaimed. The idea! I wish I was half as good as you are."

"Oh, yes," cried Mara, striving to conceal her deep preoccupation, "that's the way with Aun' Sheba; the better she is, the worse she thinks she is.

Do you mean to say that your church people have suspended you?"

"No. I'se s'pended myself. Didn't I tole you?"

"There, there, Aunty, I didn't understand. I believe in you and always will."

"Well, honey, I reckon you'se ole nuss'll alers be do same ter you wheder she'se 'ligious or no."

Both the girls now stood beside her, with a hand on either shoulder, and Ella said heartily, "Now, Aun' Sheba, it is just as you said, you're 'jected; you've got the blues, and everything looks blue and out of shape to you. You can't see the truth any more than if you were cross-eyed. I can prove to you whether you're 'ligious or not. Vilet, ain't your grandma a good Christian woman?"

"'Deed an' she is troo an' troo," said the child, who had been a silent, yet deeply sympathetic listener. "Many's de time she's sent me wid good tings to po' sick folks."

"There now," cried Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you've got to believe the Bible.

'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' it says. You can't deceive a child. Vilet knows better than you do."

"Shuah now, does you tink it's dataway?" and Aun' Sheba looked up with hope in her eyes.

"Of course we think it's that way," said Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you know a heap, as you say, about many things, but you don't half know how good you are."

"I know how bad I is anyhow. I tells you I was in a dozin' sleep."

"Well, I've been in a dozin' sleep many a time," said Ella, "and I'm not going to be suspended by any one, not even myself."

"Aun' Sheba," said Mara gently but firmly, "you know I'm in earnest, and how much I love you for all your goodness ever since I was a helpless baby. You wouldn't say hard, untrue things against any one else. You have no more right to be unjust to yourself. As Ella says, I wish I was as good a Christian as you are."

"Now, Missy Mara, no mo' ob dat ar talk. I knows my inard feelin's bes' ob any one. What Vilet say chirk me up po'fully, kase she see me ebery day. I tell you what I'se gwine ter do; I'se gwine ter put myself on 'bation, and den see wot come ob it. Now, honeys, I'se 'feered long nuff wid business.

You'se dun me good, honey lam's, an' de Lawd bress you bofe. I'se tote de basket a heap pearter fer dis yere talk. I feels a monst'us sight betteh.

Wish I could see you, honey, lookin' as plump as Missy Ella. Dat do me mos' as much good as feelin' 'ligious."

Mara worried Mrs. Hunter over her pretence of making a dinner, and then gladly sought the solitude of her own room. At last she said with a bitter smile, "He has broken the last shred that bound me." But as the hours pa.s.sed in tumultuous thoughts, her heart told her how vain were such words.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE WARNING

Captain Bodine was halting serenely down into that new vista in his life of which we have already spoken. Every day both promise and fulfilment seemed richer than he had ever imagined any future experience could be. He was domiciled in a home exactly to his taste; his cousin's brave, cheerful spirit was infectious; the worry of financial straits was over, and Ella was blooming and happy. These favorable changes in themselves would have done much toward banishing gloom and despondency; but another element had entered into his existence which was as unexpected as it was sweet. A deep, subtile exhilaration was growing out of his companionship with Mara.

Every long, quiet talk that he enjoyed with her left a longing for another. She was learning to regard him almost as a father, but he did not think of her as he did of Ella. He loved Ella as his child, but her buoyant spirit, her intense enjoyment of the present, and her eager, hopeful eyes, fixed upon the future, separated her from him. He did not wish it otherwise in her case, for he hoped that there was a happy future for her, and he rejoiced daily over the gladness in her face. Mara, although so young, seemed of his own generation. He often repeated to himself his cousin's words, "She is as old as you are." She appeared to live in the past as truly as himself. There was scarcely a subject on which they were not in sympathy.

He believed that Mrs. Bodine was right, and that Mara was essentially different from others of her age. Indeed the impression grew upon him that the mysterious principle of heredity had prepared her for the companionship which apparently was valued as much by her as by himself.

During the many hours in which he was alone, he thought the subject over in all its aspects, as he supposed, and a hope, exquisitely alluring, began to take form in his heart.

No man is without a certain amount of egotism and self-love, and, although these were not characteristics of Bodine, he could not help dwelling upon the truth that the remainder of his life would be very different from what he had expected could Mara be near to him.

Her eloquent look of sympathy so soon after they met began to take the form of prophecy. At first it led him to believe that she would receive a paternal, loving regard, much the same as he gave to Ella; but, as time pa.s.sed, he began to dwell upon the possibility of a closer tie. She appeared to have no especial friends among young men, nor indeed to care for any. Might not a strong, quiet affection grow in each heart until they could become one in the closest sense, even as they were now one in so many of their thoughts and views?

It was natural that his deepening regard should tinge his manner, yet Mara dreamed of nothing beyond the affection which she was glad to receive from him. Vigilant eyes, however, were following Captain Bodine, and Clancy, with a lover's jealous intuition, was guessing his rival's thoughts and intentions more clearly every day. He did not adopt any system of espionage, nor did he ask questions of any one, but merely took occasion to walk on the Battery at an hour when it was most frequented. Here he often saw Mara and the veteran enjoying the cool sunset hour, and sometimes he observed that Mara saw him. So far from shunning such observation, he not infrequently compelled her recognition, which was always coldly bestowed upon her part.

"It would seem that Mr. Clancy is more inclined to be friendly than you are," Bodine remarked one evening.

"Before Mr. Clancy valued Northern friends more than Southern ones we were friendly," was Mara's quiet reply. She had schooled herself now into outward self-control, but she chafed at his presence, and thought he happened to be near her too frequently. Still it was ever will versus heart, for the latter always acknowledged him as master.

He was satisfied that his impressions in regard to Bodine were correct, and was impelled by his love to make an effort to save her from drifting into relations which he believed must inevitably destroy her chance for happiness. His strong, keen mind had a.n.a.lyzed her every word, tone, and varying expression, and he had become quite sure that her bearing toward him was not the result of indifference, but was rather due to pride, and a resolute purpose not to yield to him unless he adopted her views. He also understood her sufficiently well to dread lest a morbid sense of loyalty to her father's memory might lead her to accept his friend and old companion in arms.

"Her immediate a.s.sociates would encourage the idea," he thought, "and there are none to advise or warn her except myself. She is morbid and unbalanced enough to commit just such a fatal error. Her bringing up, and all the influence of that warped Mrs. Hunter, would lead her to sacrifice herself to the manes of her ancestors. Yet how can I warn her--how can I reach her except I write? I wish to look into her eyes when I speak. I wish to plead with her with all the power that I possibly possess. Great Heaven! if this that I fear should happen, what an awakening she might have when it was too late!"

At last he resolved on the simplest and most straightforward course, and wrote--