"I don't want to be like her in that."

"In having friends in all the aged?"

"Oh, I don't know; in anything. I am well content with the friends I have."

"Well, some of them, at least, are well content with you. Now, Miss Grey, I want to speak to you of something that concerns me. You and my daughter Lucy are great friends?"

Minola almost started.

"I am very fond of Lucy."

"And she is very fond of you. We all are for that matter. Did you ever hear of an old Scottish saying about a person having a face like a fiddle--not in shape, you know, but in power of attracting people, and rousing sympathy?"

"Yes. I think I remember it in some of Scott's novels."

"Very well. I think you have a face like a fiddle; all our sympathies are drawn to you. Now that is why I speak to you of something which I wouldn't talk about to any other woman of your age--not even to my own daughter Theresa, an excellent creature, but not over sympathetic. I am very fond of my Lucelet. She isn't strong; she hasn't great intelligence. I know my little goose is not a swan, but she is very sweet, and sensitive, and loving: the most affectionate little creature that ever was made happy or unhappy by a man. I am morbidly anxious about her happiness. Now, you are her friend, and a thousand times cleverer and stronger than she, and she looks up to you. She would tell you anything. _Has_ she told you anything lately?"

Minola hesitated.

"Oh, you needn't hesitate, or think of any breach of confidence. You may tell me. I could get it all from herself in a moment. It isn't about that I want to ask you. Well, I'll save you all trouble. She has told you something."

"She has."

"She is in love!"

Minola a.s.sented.

Mr. Money ran his hand through his hair, got up and walked a turn or two up and down the study.

"The other day she was a child, and cared for n.o.body in the world but her mother and me! Now a young fellow comes along, and, like the Earl of Lowgave's la.s.sie in the old song, she does not love her mammy nor she does not love her daddy."

"Oh, but I don't think that at all," Miss Grey said earnestly. "No girl could be fonder of her father and mother."

Mr. Money smiled good-humoredly, but with a look of pity, as one who corrects an odd mistake.

"I know that very well, Miss Grey, and I was not speaking seriously, or grumbling at my little la.s.sie. But it does astonish us elderly parents, when we find out all of a sudden that there are other persons more important than we in the eyes of our little maidens, and we may as well relieve our minds by putting the feeling into words. Well, you know the hero of this little romance?"

Minola was looking steadily at the fire, and away from Mr. Money. She did not answer at once, and there was a pause. The suddenness of the silence aroused her.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Money. I know who he is," she said, without looking round.

"Very well. Now comes the delicate part of my questioning. Of course you can't be expected to read the secrets of other people's hearts, and I suppose you are not in _his_ confidence."

"No, indeed," she said very quietly.

"No--you couldn't tell how he feels toward my Lucelet?"

Minola shook her head.

"If I were a man, I am sure I should be in love with her," she said.

"You think so? Yes, perhaps so; but in this case, somehow----. Well, Miss Grey, another question, and then I'll release you, and speak to me frankly, like a true girl to a plain man, who treats her as such. Is there any woman, as far as you know, who is more to him than Lucelet?"

Mr. Money had now come near to where Minola was sitting. He stood leaning against the chimney-piece, and looking fixedly into her face. At first she did not even understand the meaning of his question. Then suddenly she felt that her cheeks began to burn and her heart to beat.

She looked up in wonder and pain, but she saw so much of earnestness and anxiety in Mr. Money's face that it would have been impossible not to understand and respect his purpose. In his anxiety for his daughter's happiness his whole soul was absorbed. Minola's heart forgot its own pain for the moment. Her own memory of a father was not of one thus unselfishly absorbed. She answered without hesitation, and with quiet self-possession.

"Oh, no, Mr. Money. I know of no such woman. So far as I can guess, none such exists."

Mr. Money drew a deep breath, and his eyes brightened.

"Miss Grey," he said, "I think any other woman in the world would have told me she wasn't in Mr.--in _his_ secrets, or given me some evasive or petulant answer. I thank you a thousand times. We may then--I may--pursue without compunction my matchmaking schemes. They are not very selfish; they are only for Lucelet's happiness. I would ask one of my office clerks to marry her if she loved him and he was likely to make her happy; and I would set them up in life. You may guess, then, whether this idea pleases me. But I confess I didn't think--well, of course, your a.s.surance is enough, but I began to think of something different."

Minola rose to go away.

"One word, Miss Grey. Pray don't say anything to my wife about this. She is the truest and kindest of women, as you know, but she can't understand keeping anything a secret, and she always begs of us to leave her out of the smallest plot of the most innocent kind, because she must let it all out prematurely. Now I'll release you, and you have, at all events, one friend in life to be going on with--friend among the aged I mean; the rest will come fast enough."

With a bewildered head and a bursting heart, Minola found her way to her own room.

MOHEGAN-HUDSON.

Where the northern forest flings Its shadows over weeping hills, Rivulets rise in myriad springs And run to meet in roaring kills.

Soon from these a great stream grows; Grows--and grows more strong and free, Till a n.o.ble river flows; Flows majestic to the sea.

Born of Adirondac tears, Nursed by storms of Katterskill, Yet a smiling face it wears, Rolls in tranquil silence still.

Gliding first o'er sands of gla.s.s, Then 'midst gra.s.sy meads estray, Now it shoots the highland pa.s.s, Hurrying southward on its way.

River, but the sea as well; Steady drift and changing tide; Here may float a c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l, Or the ocean navies ride.

'T is the sea in landscape set; 'T is the sea, by limits bound; But it is the river yet, Flowing through enchanted ground.

Countless wealth its currents bear, Wrought from forest, field, and mine; Giant steamships o'er it fare, Clouds of sails in sunlight shine.

Through the darkness, as in light, Sail the constant fleets the same; While along the sh.o.r.es at night Furnace fires perpetual flame.

In the bright October days, While I float upon the stream, Mellowed by transfiguring haze, All is like a fairy dream: Groves and gardens, towns and towers, Mountain tops and vales between, As the G.o.ds had builded bowers Scarce concealed and scarcely seen.

Thine no borrowed glories! thine, Matchless river! are thy own!

O'er thy scenes no false lights shine From the ages dead and gone.

Round no castles' crumbling walls Troops of knightly spectres throng, And within no ruined halls Thrills the spectre maiden's song;

Save when dusky phantoms glide, Still intent on savage rites, Or when he of Sunnyside Marshals his fantastic sprites: Then we seem again to hear War-whoops echoing 'midst the hills, And old Hendrick's l.u.s.ty cheer As the wind his canvas fills.

As Mohegan, ages old, Though for ever self-renewed, Through unbroken forests rolled All thy floods in solitude: But as Hudson, now and ever, Distant lands repeat thy name, And the world, O glorious river!

Stands the guardian of thy fame.

JAMES MANNING WINCh.e.l.l.