"The lover came. It was a June night; the moon was full. We went quietly along the avenue. The gate was opened. We were just passing through when your grandfather and Colonel Wayne suddenly stepped from the shadow of the wall and the trees.

"Your mother and her lover stood perfectly still. She gave a little cry.

Your grandfather was furious.

"'Go, Sir!' he shrieked at the young man.

"'If your daughter commands it,' he replied.

"Your grandfather seized him involuntarily.

"'Sir, my daughter is the betrothed wife of Colonel Wayne.'

"The young man looked with an incredulous smile at your mother, who had sunk senseless into my arms, and said, in a low voice,

"'She was mine before she ever saw him.'

"Your grandfather actually hissed at him with contempt.

"'Go--before I strike you!'

"The young man hesitated for a few moments, saw that it was useless to remain longer at that time, and went.

"The next day Mr. Burt sent for Dr. Peewee.

"The moment I knew what he intended to do I ran to your grandfather and told him that Colonel Wayne was not a fit husband for his daughter. But when I told him that the Colonel had deserted me, Mr. Burt laughed scornfully.

"'You, Mrs. Simcoe? Why, you have lost your wits. Remember, Colonel Wayne is a gentleman of the oldest family, and you are--you were--'

"'I was a poor country girl,' said I, 'and Colonel Wayne loved me, and I loved him, and here is the pledge and proof of it.'

"I drew out his miniature as I spoke, and held it before your grandfather's eyes. He fairly staggered, and rang the bell violently.

"'Call Colonel Wayne,' he said, hastily, to the servant.

"In a moment the Colonel came in. I saw his color change as his eye fell upon me, holding the locket in my hand, and upon your grandfather's flushed face.

"'Colonel Wayne, have you ever seen Mrs. Simcoe before?'

"He was very pale, and there were sallow circles under his eyes as he spoke; but he said, calmly,

"'Not to my knowledge.'

"Scorn made me icily calm.

"'Who gave me that, Sir?' said I, thrusting the miniature almost into his face.

"He took it in his hand and looked at it. I saw his lip work and his throat quiver with an involuntary spasm.

"'I am sure I do not know.'

"I was speechless. Your grandfather was confounded. Colonel Wayne looked white, but resolute.

"'God only is my witness,' said I, slowly, as if the words came gasping from my heart. 'So help me God, I loved him, and he loved me.'

"A quiver ran through his frame as I spoke, but he preserved the same placidity of face.

"'There is some mistake, Mrs. Simcoe,' said your grandfather, not unkindly, to me. 'Go to your room.'

"I obeyed, for my duty was done."

Mrs. Simcoe paused, and rocked silently to and fro. Hope took her hand and kissed it reverently. Presently the narration was quietly resumed:

"I told your mother my story. But she was stunned by her own grief, and I do not think she comprehended me. Dr. Peewee came, and she was married.

Your mother did not say yes--for she could not utter a word--but the ceremony proceeded. I heard the words, 'Whom God hath joined together,'

and I laughed aloud, and fell fainting.

"It was a few days after the marriage, when Colonel Wayne and his wife were absent, that your grandfather said to me,

"'Mrs. Simcoe, your story seems to be true. But think a moment. A man like Colonel Wayne must have had many experiences. We all do. He has been rash, and foolish, and thoughtless, I have no doubt. He may even have trifled with your feelings. I am very sorry. If he has done so, I think he ought to have acknowledged it the other day. But I hope sincerely that we shall all let by-gones be by-gones, and live happily together. Ah! I see dinner is ready. Good-day, Mrs. Simcoe. Dr. Peewee, will you ask a blessing?'"

It was already midnight, and the two women sat before the fire. It was the moment when Abel Newt was stealing through his rooms, fastening doors and windows. Hope Wayne was pale and cold like a statue as she listened to the voice of Mrs. Simcoe, which had a wailing tone pitiful to hear.

After a long silence she began again:

"What ought I to have done? Should I have gone away? That was the easiest course. But, Hope, the way of duty is not often the easiest way. I wrote a long letter to the good old Bishop Asbury, who seemed to me like a father, and after a while his answer came. He told me that I should seek the Lord's leading, and if that bade me stay--if that told me that it would be for my soul's blessing that my heart should break daily--then I had better remain, seeing that the end is not here--that here we have no continuing city, and that our proud hearts must be bruised by grief, even as our Saviour's lowly forehead was pierced with thorns.

"So I staid. It was partly pity for your mother, who began to droop at once. It was partly that I might keep my wound bleeding for my soul's salvation; and partly--I see it now, but I could not then--because I believed, as before God I do now believe, that in his secret heart I was the woman your father loved, and I could not give him up.

"Your mother's lover wrote to me at once, I discovered afterward, but his letters were intercepted, for your grandfather was a shrewd, resolute man. Then he came to Pinewood, but he was not allowed to see your mother.

The poor boy was frantic; but before he could effect any thing your mother was the wife of Colonel Wayne. Then, in the same ship in which he had come from India, he returned; and after he was gone all his letters were given to me. I wrote to him at once. I told him every thing about your mother, but there was not much to tell. She never mentioned his name after her marriage. There were gay parties given in honor of the wedding, and her delicate, drooping, phantom-like figure hung upon the arm of her handsome, elegant husband. People said that her maidenly shyness was beautiful to behold, and that she clung to her husband like the waving ivy to the oak.

"She did not cling long. She was just nineteen when she was married--she was not twenty when you were born--she was just twenty when they buried her. Oh! I did not think of myself only, but of her, when I heard the saintly youth breathe that plaintive prayer, 'Draw them to thee, for they wearily labor: they are heavily laden, gracious Father! oh, give them rest!'

"'No chilling winds or pois'nous breath Can reach that healthful shore: Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, Are felt and fear'd no more.'"

"And my father?" asked Hope, in a low voice.

"He went abroad for many years. Then he returned, and came sometimes to Pinewood. His life was irregular. I think he gambled, for he and your grandfather often had high words in the library about the money that he wanted. But your grandfather never allowed you to leave the place. He rarely spoke of your mother; but I think he often thought of her, and he gradually fell into the habit you remember. Yet he had the same ambition for you that he had had for your mother. He treated me always with stately politeness; but I know that it was a dreary home for a young girl. Hope," said Mrs. Simcoe, after a short pause, "that is all--the end you yourself remember."

"Yes," replied Hope, in the same low, appalled tone, "my father went out upon the pond, one evening, with a friend to bathe, and was drowned. Mr.

Gray's boys found him. My grandfather would not let me wear mourning for him. I wore a blue ribbon the day Dr. Peewee preached his funeral sermon; and I did not care to wear black. Aunty, I had seen him too little to love him like a father, you know."

She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who merely bowed her head.

It was past midnight. It was the very moment when Abel Newt was starting with horror as he saw his own reflection in the glass.

Something yet remained to be said between those two women. Each knew it--neither dared to begin.

Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and then said, calmly, but in a low voice,