"Tell him it is best--he must not argue against me, for I feel myself giving way through my great love for him, and it is not right. Tell him so Mr. Hastings--plead my cause for me--say what a true woman ought to say, for, believe me, I am in earnest in giving him to Anna."

There was a ghastly hue upon her face, and her features looked pinched and rigid, but the terrible heart-beats were not there. G.o.d, in his great mercy, kept them back, else she had surely died under that strong excitement. Thornton thought she was fainting, and, going hastily to her side, pa.s.sed his arm around her and put her in the chair; then, standing protectingly by her, he said just what first came into his mind to say. It was a delicate matter in which to interfere, and he handled it carefully, telling frankly of what had pa.s.sed between himself and Anna, and giving it as his opinion that she loved Arthur to-day just as well as before she left Hanover.

"Then, if that is so and Arthur loves her, as I know he does, it is surely right for them to marry, and they must," Lucy exclaimed, vehemently, while Thornton laid his hand pityingly upon her head and said:

"And only you be sacrificed?"

There was something wondrously tender in the tone of Thornton's voice, and Lucy glanced quickly up at him, while her blue eyes filled with the first tears she had shed since she came into that room.

"I am willing--I am ready--I have made up my mind and I shall never revoke it," she answered, while Arthur again put in a feeble remonstrance.

But Thornton was on Lucy's side. He did with cooler judgment what she could not, and when, at last, the interview was ended, there was no ring on Lucy's forefinger, for Arthur held it in his hand and their engagement was at an end.

Stunned with what he had pa.s.sed through, Arthur stood motionless, while Thornton drew Lucy's cloak about her shoulders, fastened her fur himself, tied on her satin hood, taking such care of her as a mother would take of a suffering child.

"It is hardly safe to send her home alone," he thought, as he looked into her face and saw how weak she was. "As a friend of both, I ought to accompany her."

She was, indeed, very weak, so weak that she could scarcely stand, and Thornton took her in his arms and carried her to the sleigh; then springing in beside her he made her lean her tired head upon his shoulder as they drove to Prospect Hill. She did not seem frivolous to him now, but rather the n.o.blest type of womanhood he had ever met. Few could do what she had done, and there was much of warmth and fervor in the clasp of his hand as he bade her good-by and went back to the rectory, thinking how deceived he had been in Lucy Harcourt.

Great was the consternation and surprise in Hanover when it was known that there was to be but one bride at Prospect Hill on the night of the fifteenth, and various were the surmises as to the cause of the sudden change; but, strive as they might, the good people of the village could not get at the truth, for Valencia held her peace, while the Hethertons were far too proud to admit of being questioned, and Thornton Hastings stood a bulwark of defence between the people and their clergyman, adroitly managing to have the pulpit at St. Mark's supplied for a few weeks while he took Arthur away, saying that his health required the change.

"You have done n.o.bly, darling," f.a.n.n.y Hetherton had said to Lucy when she received her from Thornton's hands and heard that all was over; then, leading her half-fainting cousin to her own cheerful room, she made her lie down while she told of the plan she had formed when first she heard what Lucy's intentions were.

"I wrote to the doctor, asking if he would take a trip to Europe, so that you could go with us, for I know you would not wish to stay here.

To-day I have his answer, saying he will go, and what is better yet, father and mother are going, too."

"Oh, I am so glad, so glad. I could not stay here now," Lucy replied, sobbing herself to sleep, while f.a.n.n.y sat by and watched, wondering at the strength which had upheld her weak little cousin in the struggle she had been through, and, now that it was over and the doctor safe from temptation, feeling that it was just as well; for, after all, it was a _mesalliance_ for an heiress like her cousin to marry a poor clergyman.

There was a very quiet wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of the fifteenth, but neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick again at the St. Denis in New York and she was alone in her chamber, fighting back her tears and praying that, now the worst was over, she might be withheld from looking back and wishing the work undone. She went with the bridal party to New York, where she tarried for a few days, seeing no one but Anna, for whom she sent at once. The interview had lasted more than an hour, and Anna's eyes were swollen with pa.s.sionate weeping when at last it ended, but Lucy's face, though white as snow, was very calm and quiet, wearing a peaceful, placid look, which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks later and the steamer bore her away across the water, where she hoped to outlive the storm which had beaten so piteously upon her. Thornton Hastings and Anna went with her on board the ship, and for their sakes she tried to appear natural, succeeding so well that it was a very pleasant picture which Thornton cherished in his mind of a frail little figure standing upon the deck, holding its waterproof together with one hand and with the other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and himself.

More than a year after, Thornton Hastings followed that figure across the sea, finding it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through the moon-lit streets and listening to the music which came so oft from the pa.s.sing gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness and the face was even more beautiful than it had been before, for the light frivolity was all gone and there was reigning in its stead a peaceful, subdued expression which made Lucy Harcourt very fair to look upon. At least, so thought Thornton Hastings, and he lingered at her side, feeling glad that she had given no outward token of agitation when he said to her:

"There was a wedding at St. Mark's, in Hanover, just before I left; can you guess who the happy couple were?"

"Yes--Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to be married on Christmas Eve. I am so glad it has come round at last."

Then she questioned him of the bridal, of Arthur, and even of Anna's dress, her manner evincing that the old wound had healed and nothing but a sear remained to tell where it had been. And so the days went on beneath the sunny Italian skies, until one glorious night, when Thornton spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each loved another, expressing himself as glad that, in his case, the matter had ended as it did, and then asking Lucy if she could conscientiously be his wife.

"What, you marry a frivolous plaything like me?" Lucy asked, her woman's pride flashing up once more, but this time playfully, as Thornton knew by the joyous light in her eye.

She told him what she meant and how she had hated him for it, and then they laughed together; but Thornton's kiss smothered the laugh on Lucy's lips, for he guessed what her answer was, and that this, his second wooing, was more successful than his first.

"Married, in Rome, on Thursday, April 10th, Thornton Hastings, Esq., of New York City, to Miss Lucy Harcourt, also of New York, and niece of Colonel James Hetherton."

Anna was out in the rectory garden bending over a bed of hyacinths when Arthur brought her the paper and pointed to the notice.

"Oh, I am so glad--so glad--so glad!" she exclaimed, emphasizing each successive "glad" a little more and setting down her foot, as if to give it force. "I have never dared to be quite as happy with you as I might," she continued, leaning lovingly against her husband, "for there was always a thought of Lucy and what a fearful price she paid for our happiness. But now it is all as it should be; and, Arthur, am I very vain in thinking that she is better suited to Thornton Hastings than I ever was, and that I do better as your wife than Lucy would have done?"

A kiss was Arthur's only answer, but Anna was satisfied, and there rested upon her face a look of perfect content as all that warm spring afternoon she worked in her pleasant garden, thinking of the newly-married pair in Rome, and glancing occasionally at the open window of the library, where Arthur was busy with his sermon, his pen moving all the faster for the knowing that Anna was just within his call--that by turning his head he could see her dear face, and that by-and-by when his work was done she would come in to him, and with her loving words and winsome ways, make him forget how tired he was, and thank heaven again for the great gift bestowed when it gave him Anna Ruthven.

THE END.

AUNT HENRIETTA'S MISTAKE

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

"Before thy soul, at this deep lottery, Draw forth her prize ordained by destiny, Know that there's no recanting a first choice; Choose then discreetly."

"Heigh-ho! This is Valentine's day. Oh, how I would like to get a valentine! Did you ever get one, aunty?" said little Etta Mayfield.

"Yes, many of them. But not when I was a child. In my day children were children. You get a valentine! I'm e'en a'most struck dumb with astonishment to hear you think of such things. Go, get your doll-baby, or your sampler, and look on that. Saints of Mercy! It seems only yesterday you were a baby in long clothes," answered Miss Henrietta Mayfield, a spinster of uncertain age; but the folks in the village, who always knew everything, declared she had not owned to a day over thirty-five for the last ten years. This, if true, was quite excusable, for Miss Henrietta's little toilette gla.s.s reflected a bright, pleasant, and remarkably youthful face.

"I'm almost seventeen, aunty, and I'm tired of being treated like a child," said Etta, with a pout of her rosy lips.

"Ten years to come will be plenty time enough for you to think of such things. A valentine, indeed! I'd like to know who is to send one to you, or to any one else. There are only three unmarried men in our village; which of them would you like for your valentine; Jake Spikes, the blind fiddler; Bill Bowen, the deaf mail-boy, or Squire Sloughman?

If the squire sends a valentine, I rather guess it will be to me. Oh, I forgot! There's the handsome stranger that boarded last summer with Miss Plimpkins. I noticed him at church Sunday. Come down to make a little visit and bring Miss Plimpkins a nice present ag'in, I guess.

He is mighty grateful to her for taking such good care of him while he was sick. A uncommon handsome man. But 'taint a bit likely he'll think of a baby like you. He is a man old enough to know better--near forty, likely. He was monstrous polite to me; always finding the hymns, and pa.s.sing his book to me. And I noticed Sunday he looked amazing pleasing at me. Land! it's ten o'clock. You'd better run over to the office and get the paper. No, I'll go myself. I want to stop in the store, to get some yarn and a little tea."

Miss Henrietta hurried off, and little Etta pouted on and murmured something about:

"People must have been dreadful slow and dull in aunty's young days,"

and then her thoughts wandered to that same handsome stranger.

She, too, had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew well how the rosy blush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she had hoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; such a splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die an old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger.

"Has Bill got in with the mail?" asked Miss Mayfield.

"Yes, miss; here's your paper what Bill brought, and here is a letter or valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village," said the little old postmaster, with a merry laugh.

Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly hand to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman," thought Miss Henrietta. "He has spoken, or rather written his hopes at last." But, no, that was not his handwriting.

Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened the envelope, and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and then at the signature--Arthur Linton.

"Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name of the handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking to me. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my having a little property, and that's what he's after. I'll read his valentine over again: