CHAPTER 29 Till now the dark was worn and overhead the lights of sunset and of sunrise mixed. 10. At New York Tom wrote a short letter to announce his safe arrival, and then pushed on by railway into Indiana. Winter had completely set in, and when he had linked the Rived at Winnie and Mack, he found that his sleigh was a far reddier mode of conveyance to Massent Saga than the wagons used in summer. His drive, through the white cathedral-like arcades of forest, hung with transparent icicles and with the deep blue sky above, becoming orange towards the west, was enjoyable, and even Massent Saga itself, when its skeleton trees were like their neighbors, embellished by the pure snowy covering, looked less forlorn than when their death contrasted with exuberant life around. He stopped at the hotel, left his baggage there, and after undergoing a catechism on his personal affairs, was directed to Mr. Muller's house, and made his way up his hard-trodden path of snow towards the green door, at which he knocked two or three times before it was opened by a woman whose hair and freckled skin were tinted nowhere but in Ireland. He made a step forward out of the cutting blast into the narrow entry, and began to ask, Is Miss Ward here? I mean, can I see Miss Warden? When, as if at the sound of his voice, there rang from within the door close by a shriek, one of the horse hysterical cries he had heard upon the day of the inquest. Without a moment's hesitation he pushed open the door, and beheld a young lady in speechless terror hanging over the stiffened figure on the couch. The eyes wide open, the limbs straight and rigid. He sprang forward, and lifted her into a more favourable posture, hastily asking for simple remedies likely to be at hand, and producing a certain amount of revival for a few moments, though this stiffness was not passing, nor was there evidence of consciousness.  No, but I have come to tell her that he is free. But the words were cut short by another terrible access of that most distressing kind that stimulates convulsion, and again the terrified woman instinctively rendered obedience to the stranger in the measures he rapidly took, and his words hysteria, a form of hysteria, were forced from him by the necessity of lessening Cor's intense alarm so as to enable her to be effective. We must send for Dr. Laidlaw she began in the first breathing moment, and again he looked up and said, I am a physician. Mr. Tom, she asked with a faintest shadow of a smile. He bent his head, and that was their introduction, broken again by another frightful attack. And when quiescence, if not consciousness, was regained, Tom knelt by the sofa, gazing with a sense of heart-rending despair at the wasted features and thin hands, the wax and whiteness of the cheek, and the tokens in which he clearly read long and consuming illness as well as the overthrow of the sudden shock.  Oh, she has been very sick, very sick, she answered. It was an attack of pleurisy, but she is getting better at last, though she will not think so, and this news will make all well. Does she hear? Say it again! Tom shook his head, afraid of the sound of the name as yet, and scarcely durst even utter the word, Ella, above his breath. She has gone out with cousin Deborah to an applebee, was the reassuring answer.  Is she getting better? Avery was roused by a cough, the sound which tore Tom's heart by its import, but he drew back out of her sight, and let Cor erase her and give her drink in a soothing, tender manner. That was evident restoration. Cora, dear, is it you, she said, faintly? Didn't I hear someone else's voice? Didn't they say? And the shiver that crapped over her was almost a return of the hysteric fit. We said he was free, said Cora, holding her in her arms. Free? Yes, I know what that means. Free among the dead, said Avery calmly, smoothing Cor's hair and looking at her face. Don't be afraid to let me hear. I shall be there with him, and men assume. Didn't somebody come to tell me? Please let him in. I'll be quiet now. And as she made gestures of arranging her hair and dress, Tom Gardely presented himself, saying in a voice that trembled with his endeavor to render it calm, did you think I should have come if I had nothing better to tell you? And as she put out her hand and greeted, he took it in both his own, and met her eyes, looking at him wide open. In the first dawning of the hope of an impossible gladness. Yes, he said, the truth has come out. He is cleared. He is at home, at stone borough. The hot fingers closed convulsively on his own. Then she raised herself, pressed her hands together, and gasped and struggled fearfully for breath. The joy and effort for self-command the more the mean feeble frame could support, and there was a terrible and prolonged renewal of those agonizing broxisms, driving away every thought from the other two except of the immediate needs. At last, when the violence of the attack had subsided and left what was either fainting or stupor, they judged it best to carry her to her bed, and trust that, reviving without the associations of the other room, the agitation would be less likely to return, and that she might sleep under the influence of an anodyne. Poor Tom. It was not the reception he had figured to himself, and after he had laid her down, and left her to Cora and to Cattie to be undressed. He returned to the parlor, and stood over the sinking wood fire and dejection and dreariness of heart. Wrung by the sufferings he had witnessed, with the bitter words, too late, echoing in his brain, and with a still more cruel thought, had it been his father or one of his brothers, anyone to whose kindness she could trust. The shock had not been so great, and there would have been more sense of soothing and comfort, and then he tried to collect his impressions of her condition, and judge what would serve for her relief. But all his senses seemed to be scattered. Dismay, compassion, and sympathy had driven away all power of forming a conclusion. He was no longer the doctor. He was only the anxious listener for the faintest sound from the room above, but none reached him save the creaking of the floor under Cattie's heavy tread. The gate-tinkle of sleigh bells was the next noise he heard, and pressently the door was open, and two muffled-hooded figures looked into the room, not only lighted by the red embers of the fire. Where's Cora? Where's Abe? said the bright tone of the lesser. It is all dark, and she was raising her voice to call, when Tom instinctively uttered a hush and moved forward. Hush, Ella, your sister has been ill. The little muffled figure started at the first sound of his voice, but as he stepped nearer, recoiled for a second, then with a low cry, almost a sob of recognition, exclaimed, Mr. Tom, oh, Mr. Tom, I knew you would come. Cousin Deborah, it's Mr. Tom, and she flew into his arms and clung with an ecstasy of joy, unknowing the why or how, but with a sense that light had shone, and that her troubles were over. She asked no questions. She only leaned against him with, Mr. Tom, Mr. Tom, under her breath. But what is it, stranger? Do tell. Where are the girls? What's this about Abe's being sick? Do you know the stranger, Ella? It's Mr. Tom, she cried, holding his arm round her neck, looking up in a rapturous restfulness. I brought Miss Ward in some good news that I fear has been too much for her, said he. I am only waiting to hear how she is. By way of answer, Deborah opened another door, which threw more light on the scene from the cooking stove in the kitchen, and at the same moment, Cora, with a candle, came down the stairs. Oh, Dr. May, she said. You have been too long left alone in the dark. I think she is asleep now. You will stay. We will have tea directly. Tom faltered something about the hotel, and began to look at Cousin Deborah, and to consider the proprieties of life. But Cousin Deborah, Cora, and Ella began to clare with one voice, that he must remain for the evening meal, and a bustle of cheerful preparation commenced, while Ella still hung on his hand. But, Ella, you've never asked my good news. Oh, dear, I was too glad. Are we going home, then? Yes, I trust so. I hope so, my dear. For Leonard's innocence has come to light, and he is free. Then Henry won't mind. And we may be called by our proper name again. And Abe will be well, cried the child, as the ideas came more fully on her comprehension. Oh, Cora. Oh, Cousin Deborah, do you hear? Does Abe know? May I run up and tell Abe? This, of course, was checked. But next, Ella impetuously tore off her wraps, for the convenience of spinning up and down widely about the kitchen and parlor. Leonard himself did not seem to have great part in her joy. Henry's policy had really nearly rooted out the thought of him personally, and there was a veil of confusion over the painful period of his trial, which at the time she had only partially comprehended. But she did understand that his liberation would be the term of exile. And though his name was to be connected with a mysterious shutter that made her shrink from uttering or hearing details, she had a security that Mr. Tom would set all right, and she loved him so hardly that his presence was sun-shining up for her. A little discomfited at the trouble he was causing, Tom was obliged to wait while not only Cousin Deborah, but Cora, besieged herself in the kitchen, and Ella, in her restless joy, came backwards and forwards to report their preparations, and at times deterring a short space by his side and tell of the recent troubles. Abe had been very ill, she said, very ill indeed about a month ago, and Henry had come home to see her, but had been obliged to go away to the Siege of Charleston when she was better. They had all been ill ever since they came there, but now Mr. Tom was come, should not they all go home to dear stone borough, away from this miserable place, if they could only take Cora with them? It was still a childish tongue, but Ella had outgrown all her plump brownness, and was so tall and pale that Tom would hardly have known her. Her welcome was relief and comfort, and she almost inspired her own belief that now all would be well. His English ideas were rather set at rest by finding that Mrs. Deborah was to preside at a tea table, and that he was not to be almost tet-a-tet with Miss Muller.  And now what brought himself out? She guessed he could not find an opening in the old country. Tom smiled, explained his opening at home, and mentioned his charge of his late friend's book. So you are come out about the book, and just come a few hundred miles out of the way to bring this bit of news that you could have telegraphed, said the Yankee Dane, looking at him with her keen eyes. Well, if you were coming, it was a pity you were not sooner. She has pined away ever since she came here, and to such a worn-down condition as hers, poor child, I doubt joy is kinder more upsetting than trouble when one is used to it. There, I'll fix the things, and go up and sit with Avey. She'll be less likely to work herself and do a fight again if she sees me than one of you. So Tom, less embarrassed now, found himself sitting by the fire, with Ella roasting her favorite nuts for him. And Miss Muller opposite, he was taken by surprise by her beautiful face, elegant figure, and ladylike manner, and far more by her evidently earnest affection for Avel. She told him that ever since the fatal turn of little women's illness, Avel had been subject to distressing attacks of gasping and rigidity, often passing into faintness, and know at the moment of emotion she often showed composure and self-command, yet that nature always thus revenged herself. Suspense, letters from home or from Henry, even verses, or times connected with the past, would almost certainly bring on the affection, and the heat of the summer had relaxed her frame, so as to render it even more unable to resist. There had been hope in the bracing of winter, but the first frost had brought chill, and a terrible attack of pleurisy, so dangerous that her brother had been summoned. She had struggled through, however, and recovered to a certain point, but there had stopped short, often suffering pain in the side, and never without panting breath and recurring cough. This had been a slightly better day, and she had been lying on the sofa, counting the days till Leonard's next letter, when the well-known boys fell on her ears, and the one strong effort to control herself had resulted in the frightful spasms, which had been worse than any Cora had yet witnessed. But she will get well, and we shall go home, said Ella, looking up wistfully into Tom's mournful face. And I shall lose you, said Cora, but indeed I have long seen it was the only thing, if I had only known that she never should have come here. No, indeed, I feel that you would have led her to nothing that was not for her good and comfort. Ah, but I did not know, said Cora. I had not been here, and I only thought of my own pleasure in having her. But if there is any way of frame her from this unfortunate speculation without a dead loss, I will make Father tell me. This, from Cora's pretty mouth, though only honest and prudent, rather jarred upon Tom in the midst of his present fears, and he began to prepare for his departure to the inn, after having sent up Ella to ask for her sister, and hearing that she still stopped soundly under the influence of the opiate. When April awoke it was already morning, and Cora was standing by her bed, with her eyes smiling with congratulation, like Veronica's on a sunny day. Cora, is it true, she said, looking up. Cora bent down and kissed her and whispered, I wish you joy, my dear. Then it is, she said, it is not all a dream. No dream, dearest. Who said it, she asked. Oh, Cora, that could not be true! And the color rose in her cheek. That, yes, April, if you mean that we had a visitor last evening. I took him for Leonard, do you know? Only I thought his eyes and hair did not quite answer the description. He is a very gentleman-like person. Did you not think so, said April? Ah, A, if I've heard a great deal, don't you think you'd better tell me some more? No, no, explained April. You are not to think of Folly, as coughing cut her short. I'll not think of any more than I can help, except what you tell me. Never think at all, Cora. Oh, what has brought him here? I don't know how I can dare to see him again. And yet he is not gone, is he? Oh, no, he is only at the inn. He is coming back again. I must be up. Let me get up, said April, raising herself, but pausing from weakness and breathlessness. And when they had forced some food upon her, she carried out her resolution, though twice absolutely fainting in the course of dressing, and at length crept softly, leaning on Corazon, into the parlor. Though Tom was waiting there, he neither spoke nor came forward till she was safely placed upon the sofa, and then, gathering breath, she sought him with her eager eyes, shining, large, lustrous, and wistful, as they looked out of the white, thin face, where the once glowing color had dwindled to two burning carnation spots. It was so piteous a change that as he took her hand, he was silent, from sheer inability to speak calmly. You have come to tell me, she said. I am afraid I could not thank you last night. How different that soft, pleading-language voice from the old half-defiant tone! I did not know you had been so unwell, he forced himself to say, or I would not have come so suddenly. I am grown so silly, she said, trying to smile. I hardly even understood last night, and the voice died away in an intense desire to hear. I—I was coming on business, and I thought you would not turn from the good tidings, though I was the bearer, he said, in a broken, agitated, apologetic way. And let me hear it again, she said. Did you say he was free? Yes, free as you are, or I, at home. My father was gone to fetch him. She put her hands over her face, and looked up with the sweetest smile he had ever seen, and whispered, Now I can say my nut dimitus. He could not at once speak, and before he had done more than make one deprecatory gesture, she asked, You have seen him? Not since this, not since September. I know, you have been very good, and he is at home. Ah, not home, but Dr. Mays. Was he well? Was he very glad? I have not seen him. I have not heard. You will hear soon. I came at once with the tidings. Thank you, and she clasped her hands together. Have you seen Henry? Does he know? Could I? Had not you the first right? Leonard! Oh, dear Leonard! She lay back for a few moments, panting under the ghost of exceeding joy, while he was silent, and tried not to seem to observe her with his anxious eyes. Then she recovered a little, and said, The truth come out! Did you say so? What was the truth? He paused a moment, afraid of the shock, and remembering that the suspicion had been all unknown to her. She recalled probabilities, and said, Was it from a confession? Is it known who? Who was the real unhappy person? Yes. Had you no suspicion? No, none, said Avril, shattering, unless it was some robber. Who was it? You had never thought of the other nephew? You do not mean Samuel Axworthy. Oh, no! Why, the last thing Leonard paid me was always to pray for him. Ah, said Tom, with bent head and colored cheeks. But who are those for whom such as Leonard would feel bound to pray? There was a moment's silence, and then she said, His enemy! Is that what you mean? But then he would have known it was he. He was entirely convinced that so it must have been, but there was no proof, and an unsupported accusation would only have made his own case worse. And has he confessed? Has he been touched and cleared Leonard at last? No, he had no space granted him. It was the receipt in your brother's writing that was found upon him. The receipt? Yes, Leonard always said the receipt would clear him. But oh, how dreadful! He must have had it all the time. How could he be so cruel? Oh, I never felt before that such wickedness could be, and she lay, looking appalled and overpowered. Think of your brother knowing it all, and bidding, and giving you that injunction, said Tom, feeling the necessity of overcoming evil with good. Oh, if I had known it, I could not, I could not have been like Leonard. And where? What has become of him? She asked breathlessly. You speak as if he was dead. Yes, he was killed and afraid at a gaming house. There was a long silence, first of all, then of thankfulness plainly being in her upraised eyes and transparent countenance, which Tom watched, filled with sensations, mournful, but not wholly wretched, shattered as she was, sinking away from her newfound happiness. It was a precious privilege to be holding to her the long-for-draft of joy. Tell me about it, please, she presently said, Where? How did the receipt come to light? Were the police told to watch for it? I want to know whom I have to thank. His heart beat high, but there was a spirit within him that could not broke any attempt to recall the promise he had pursued her with, the promise that he would not rest till he had proved her brother's innocence. He dreaded her even guessing any allusion to it, or fancying he had brought the profit price in his hand, and when he began with, Can you bear to hear of the most shocking scene I have ever witnessed? He gave no hint of his true motive in residing at Paris, of the clue that Wilson's draft had given him in thither pursuing axuity, nor of his severe struggle in relinquishing request. He threw over all the completest accidental error, and scarcely made it evident that it was he who had recognized the writing, and all that turned on it. Aver listened to the narration, was silent for some space, then having gone over it in her own mind, looked up and said, Then all this came of your being at that hospital, and a burning blush spread over the pale cheek, and made Tom shrink, start, and feel guilty of having touched the court of obligation, connected with that obtrusive pledge of his. Above all, however, to repress emotion was his prime object, and he calmly answered, It was a good providence that brought anyone there who knew the circumstances. She was silent, and he was about to rise and relieve her from the sense of his presuming on her gratitude when a cough, accompanied by the pressure of her hand on her side, betrayed in excess of suffering, that drew him on to his other purpose of endeavoring to learn her condition, and to do what he could for her relief. His manner, curiously like his father's, and all the home associations connected with it, easily drew from her what he wanted to ascertain, and she perfectly understood to purport, and was calm and even bright. I was glad to be better when Henry went away, she said. He had so much to do, and we thought I was getting well then. You must not frighten him and hurry him here. If you please, she said, earnestly, for he must not be wasting his time here, and you think it will last a month or two, don't you? I want to persuade Henry to bring you all home, and enter into partnership with Mr. Wright, said Tom. The voyage would, might, it would be the best thing for you. Could I ever be well enough again? Oh, don't tell me to think about it. The one thing I asked for before I die has been given me, and now I know he is free, I will, will not set my mind on anything else. There was a look so near heaven on her face, as she spoke, that Tom durst not say any more of home or earthly schemes. But quiet, grave, and ostrichin' left her to the repose she needed, and betook himself to the other room, where Ella, of course, flew on him, having been hardly detained by Cora from breaking in before. His object was to go to see the medical man who had been attending Ava, and Cora assuring him the horse had nothing to do in the frost, and telling him the times of the day when he would be most likely to find Dr. Leyla, he said forth. Ava, meantime, lay on her sofa, calmly happy, and thankful, the worn and worried spirit full of rest and gladness unspeakable, in the fullness of gratitude for the answered prayer that she might know her brother free before her death. If she had ever doubted of her own state, she had read full confirmation in her physician's saddened eyes, and the absence of all hopeful auguries, except a single hand that she might survive a voyage to England, and that, she wished unsaid. Life, for the last five years, had been mournful work. There had been one year of blind self-will, discord and bitterness, then a crushing stroke, and the rest exhausted submission and hopeless bending to sorrow after sorrow, with self-approach running through all. Wearing doubt, she was glad to lay down the birthing, and accept the evening gleam as sunset radiance, without energy to believe it as the dawn of a brighter day. She shrank from being made even to wish to see Leonard. If once she began to think it possible, it would be a hard sacrifice to give it up, and on one point her resolution was fixed, that she would not be made a cause for bringing him to share their wretchedness in America. Life and things of life were over with her, and she would only be thankful for the softening blessings that came at its close. Without stirring up any longings for more, that kindness of Tom May, for instance, how soothing it was after her long self-approach for her petulant and cutting unjust reply to his generous affection, generous above all at such a moment. And after all, it was he, it was he and no other who had cleared Leonard. He had fulfilled the pledge he had given when he did not know what he was talking of. How she hated the blush that the sudden remembrance had called upon her face. It was quite plain that he had been disgusted by her unkind, undignified, improper tone of rejection, and though out of humanity he had brought her the tidings, he would not let her approach to thanking him. She was ashamed that he should have traced an illusion, the most distant to the scene he had, doubtless, lowed in remembrance. He would, no doubt, go away to there tomorrow, and then these foolish thoughts would subside, and she should be left alone with Cora and her thankfulness, to think again of the great change before her. But Tom was not gone. Indeed, Aver was much more ill before the next morning, partly from hysteria, the reaction of the morning's excitement, and partly from an aggravation of the more serious pulmonary affection. It was a temporary matter, and one that made his remaining the merest act of common humanity, since he had found Dr. Laidlaw a very third-rate specimen, and her brother was too far off to have arrived in time to be of use. The fresh science and skill of the young physician were indeed of the highest value, and under his care Aver rallied after a few days of prostration and suffering, during which she had watched and observed a great deal, and especially the good understanding between her doctor and Cora Muller. When Cousin Deborah was sitting with her, they always seemed to be talking in the drawing-room. Nay, there were reports of his joining in the fabrication of some of the delicacies that were triumphantly brought to a room, and Ella was in a state of impatient peak at being slighted by Mr. Tom, who, she complained, was always fighting with Cora about their politics, and Cora herself used to bring what Dr. May had said as the choicest entertainment to her sick friend, while to herself he was merely the physician kind and gentle to the utmost degree, but keeping his distance so scrupulously that the pang awoke that he absolutely disliked her, and only attended her from common compassion, and, it might be, found consolation in being thus brought in contact with Cora. Oh, if it were only possible to own her wrongs, and ask his pardon without a compromise of maimliness, perhaps, perhaps she might, when she was still near her death, and when she was supposed to know how it was between him and Cora. Dear Cora, it would be a beautiful reward for them both, and they would take carabella. Cora would be happier than ever yet among the maize, and—oh, why? Why was there so much unkind selfish jealousy left, that instead of being glad, the notion left her so very miserable? Why did the prospect with such happiness for her self-devoted friend and nurse make her feel full of bitterness and hardly able to bear it patiently, when she heard her speak the name of Dr. May? April had again left her bed, and resumed her place on the sofa before letters arrived. There was lennards from Coxbroil Parsonage, the first thrill-letter she had had from him since his term of servitude had begun. It was a grave and thankful letter, very short, during little more than mention everyone's kindness, and express a hope of soon meeting her and Ella, however and wherever Henry should think best. Brief as it was, it made her more thoroughly realize his liberty, and feel that the yearning towards him in her heart was growing more and more ardent, in spite of her strivings not to let it awaken. The same post brought Henry's answer to Tom May's representation. It was decisive. He had broken off his whole connection with England, and did not wish to return to a neighborhood so full of painful recollections. He was making his way rapidly upwards in his present position, and it would be folly to give up the advantages it offered. Moreover, he had no fears of the future well-doing of the Massessaga Company. As soon as the weather permitted it, he helped to remove his sister to a healthier locale for change of air, but she could not be fit for a journey in the winter. There were plenty of acknowledgments to the Mays for their kindness to Leonard, from whom Henry said he had heard, as well as from Dr. May and others at Stoneboro. He should advise Leonard by all means to close with Mr. Bramshawe's offer, for he saw no opening for him in the United States at present, although the ultimate triumph over rebellion, and see, and see, and see, in the most inflated style of Henry's truly adopted country. No one who had not known the whole affair would ever enter into Leonard's entire innocence. The stigma of conviction would cleave to him, and he would create an impression against him and his family among strangers, and it was highly desirable that he should remain among friends. In fact, it was plain that Henry was still ashamed of him, and wished to be free of a dangerous appendage. Tom was so savagely angry at this letter that he could only work off his wrath by a wild expedition in the snow, in the course of which he lost his way. Wander till the adventure began to grow perilous, came at last upon a squatter, with great difficulty induced him to indicate the tracks efficiently for his English density, and arrived at Massa Saga at dinococ at night. Ava was still on her sofa, quite calm and quiet, all but her two red spots. But afterwards, in her own room, she had one of her worst fits of spasms. However, she was up and dressed by the middle of the next day, and, contrary to her want since the first time, she sent Ella out of the room when her doctor came to see her. I wanted to speak to you, she said. I have a great favor to ask of you. You will soon be going home. Would you? Could you take Ella with you? I know it is a great, a too great thing to ask. But I would not have her in any one's way. I am going to write to Mrs. Wills, at the school where I was, and Ella's means are quite enough to keep her there, holidays and all, till Leonard can give her a home. It will be much better for her, and a relief to Henry, and it will be giving back one, one to Leonard. It will be one thing more that I shall be happy about. Tom had let her go on with her short, gentle sentences, because he knew not how to answer. But at last she said, forgive me, and do not think of it, if I have asked what I ought not, or would be troublesome. Troublesome? No, indeed. I was only thinking, if it might not be better managed, he answered, rather by with giving himself time to debate whether the utterance of the one thought in his heart would lead to his being driven away. Pray, do not propose Leonard's coming for her. He must come to this feverish place in Spring. And if he came, and I were not here, and Henry not wanting him? Oh, no, no. Do not let me think of his coming. April, he said, kneeling on one knee, so as to be nearer, and to be able to speak lower. You are so unearthly in your unselfishness, that I dare the last to put before you the one way in which I could take Ella home to him. It is if you would overlook the past, and give me a brother's right in them both. She turned in amazement to see if she had heard a right. He had removed his glasses, and the deep blue expressive eyes so seldom plainly visible will blissfully, fleetingly fixed on her, brimming over with the dew of earnestness. Her face of inquiry gave him courage to go on. If you would only let me, I think I could bring you home to see him, and if you would believe it and try, I believe I could make you happier. And with an uncontrollable shake in his voice, he ceased, and only looked. She set upright. Her hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes shut, trying to collect her thoughts, and the silence lasted for several seconds. At last she said, opening her eyes, but gazing straight before her, not at him, I do not think I ought. Do you really know what you are saying? You know I cannot get well. I know, he said, all I ask is, to tend and watch over you while I may, to bring you home to Leonard and to be Ella's brother. His voice was still in low, and he laid his hand on her folded ones with reverent solemnity. But though it did not tremble, its touch was called as marble, and conveyed to Eirel an instant sense of the force of his repressed emotion. She started under it, and exclaimed with the first agitation she had shown. No, no, it would cost you too much. You, young, beginning life, you must not take a sorrow upon you. Is it not there already? He said, almost inaudibly. Would it lessen it to be kept away from you? Oh, do not go on, do not tempt me, she cried. Think of your father. Nay, think what he is yourself, or rather look here, and he took out a part of a letter from Ethel, and laid it before her. As to Papa not guessing your object, she said, that was a vain delusion if you ever entertained it, so you must not mind my having explained. He said if he had been you, it was just what he should have done himself, and he is quite ready to throw his heart into it, if you will only trust to his kindness. I do so want you really to try what that is. And you came for this, faltered Avril, leaning back, almost overcome. I did not come meaning to hurry this subject on you. I hoped to have induced Henry to have brought you all home, and then, when I had done my best to efface the recollection of that unpardonable behavior, to have tried whether you could look on me differently. I do not like you to say that, said Avril, simply but earnestly. I have felt over and over again how wrong I was, how ungrateful, to have utterly missed all the nobleness and generosity of your behavior, and answered in that unjust, ill-tempered way. Nothing was ever more deserved, he answered. I have hated myself ever since, and I hope I am not as obnoxious now. It was I, she said. I have lived every bit of the winter over again, and seen that I was always ready to be offended, and somehow I could not help caring so much for what you said, that lesser things from you hurt, and cut as other peoples did not. Do you know what that proof, said Tom, with an arch subsmile lighting on his eyes and mouth, and as they glow awoke on her pale cheek, he added, and won't you believe, too, that my propensity to contemptuous irony was all for my instinctive fear of what you could do to me? Oh, don't repeat that. I have been so bitterly ashamed of it. I am sure I have. And I have long so to ask your pardon. I thought I would leave a letter or message with Ella that you would understand. You can do better than that now. You can forgive me. Oh, said Avril, her hand suddenly joined over her face. This is one joy more. I cannot think why it is all growing so bright, just at last, at last. It is all come now. How good it is! She saw that she could bear no more. He pressed no more for a decisive answer. He did not return to the subject, but from that time he treated her as what belonged to him, as if it was his business to think, act, and judge for her, and to watch over her, and her acquiescence was absolute. There was not much speaking between them. There were chiefly skirmishes between him and Coral, to which she listened in smiling passive amusement. And even when alone together they said little, actually nothing at all about the future. He had written to Ethel on his first arrival, and on the reply, as well as on Avril's state, all must depend. Meanwhile such a look of satisfied repose and peace shone upon Avril's face as was most sweet to look upon. And though extremely feeble, and not essentially better, she was less suffering, and could in great anger, but in calm enjoyment, pass through day by day of the precious present that had come to crown her long trial. End of Chapter 29, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 30 of the trial. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Trial by Charlotte Mary Young, Chapter 30. Oh, when its flower seems feigned to die, the full heart grudges smile her side to op beside, though fair and dear. Like a bruised leaf, at touch of fear, its hidden fragrance love gives out. Lyra, in o'sentum. The letters had last, one to Ethel and three to Leonard. Now for it, Ethel. Ethel opened, read, ran out of the room without a word, and sought her father in his study, where she laid before him Tom's letter, written from Massessaga the day after his arrival. Dear Ethel, I have found my darling, but too late to arrest the disease. The work of her brother's perversiveness and wrongheadedness, I have no hope of saving her, though it will probably be a matter of several months, that is, with care, and removal from this vile spot. I am writing to Henry, but I imagine that he is too much charmed with his present prospects to give them up, and in her angelic self-sacrifice, she insists on Leonard's not coming out. Indeed, there would be no use in his doing so unless she leaves this place, but should no unforeseen complication supervene, it is my full persuasion that she could be removed, safely make the voyage, and even be spared for this summer among us. Surely my father will not object, it will be but a short time, and she has suffered so much, so piteously needs love and cherishing, that it is not in him to refuse. He who consented to Margaret's engagement cannot but feel for us.  I would never cast a thought beyond home, if only once hallowed by this dear presence for ever so short a time. Only let the answers be so cordial as to remove all doubts or scruples, and when they are sent, prepare for her. I would bring her as quickly as her health permits. No time must be lost in taking her from hence, and I wait only for the letters to obtain her consent to an immediate marriage. Furnish the house at once, I will repay you on my return. There is two hundred pounds for the first floor, sitting and bedrooms, for the rest the old will do. Only regard the making these perfect, coloring pink, all as cheerful and pleasant as money can accomplish. If Laura will bear with me, get her to help you, or else marry if cheviot forgives me. Only don't spare cost, I will make it up some way if you find more wanted. I saw an invalid sofa, an improvement on Margaret's, which I will write to Gaspar to send from Paris. If you could only see the desolate-ness of the house where she has wasted away these three years, you would long to make a bower of bliss for her. I trust to you. I find I must trust everything to you. I cannot write to my father. I have made nine beginnings and must leave it to you. He has comforted her. He knows her sorrows. He could not see her and bid me leave her. Only there must be no hesitation. That, or even remonstrance, would prevent her from consenting, and as to the objections, I cannot know them better than I do. Indeed, all this may be in vain. She is so near heaven that I do not talk to her of this, but I have written to Leonard while in chiefly on the chance of bringing her to him. Her desire to keep him from attempting to come out will, I trust, be an inducement. But if you could only see her, you would know how irreverent it seems to persecute one so nearly an angel with such matters. If I may only tend her to the last, I trust to you. This is for my father. Ever yours, Thomas May. The last sentence referred to a brief medical summary of her symptoms on a separate paper. Can this be Tom? Was the doctor's exclamation? Poor boy, it is going very hard with him. This would soften it more than anything else could, said Ethel. Oh yes, you right. Yes, and all right, and tell him he is free to take his own way. Poor child, she would have been a good girl if she had known how. Well, of all my 11 children, the Tom should be the one to go on in this way. Poor dear Tom, what do you think of his statement of her case? Is she so very ill? Dr.  A sad variety of mischief, he said. If all be as he thinks, I doubt is getting her home. But he is shunned and has his heart in it. I have seen her mother in a state like this only without the disease lungs. You can't remember it, but poor Ward never thought he could be grateful enough after she was pulled through. However, this is an aggravated case and looks bad, very bad. It is a mournful ending for that poor boy's patience. It will sink very deep, and he will be a sadder man all these days. But I would not hinder his laying up a treasure that will brighten as he grows older. Thank you, Papa. I shall tell him what you say. I shall write to her, I think. I owe him something for not proving that it is all as a study of pneumonia. I say, Ethel, what has become of the diseases of climate, he added, with a twinkle in his eye. In the nine beginnings. And how about the Massasaga Company? You heartless, all-worldly-minded father, said Ethel, when you take the prudence for Tom, what is the world coming to? And to order, said the doctor, shaking himself into the coach he held for him. Tom surrendered to a pet patient of mine. Now, for poor Leonard, goodbye, young people. I am off to Coxmore. Please take me, Grandpa Pa, cried Dickey, hopping into the hall. You, you one-legged mannequin? I'm going over all the world. And how are you to get home? On Leonard's back, said the undaunted Dickey.  I am his friend, said Dickey, with dignity. Then your friendship must not disturb him over his letters. And can you sit in the carriage and twirl your thumbs while I am at Fordham? I shall not twirl my thumbs. I shall make out a problem on my ship chessboard. That's the boy who was sent from the Antipodes that he might not be spoiled, quote Aubrey, as the doctor followed the child into the carriage. Granting reasonable wishes is not spoiling, said Ethel. May the system succeed as well with Dickey, as with. And Aubrey, in one flourish, indicated Gertrude and himself. I, we shall judge by the reception of Ethel's tidings, cried Gertrude. Now for it, Ethel, read us Tom's letter, confute the engineer, poised with his own petard. Now Ethel, confute the daisy, the greenfield daisy, the simple innocent daisy, deleted by diseases of climate. Ethel looks as concerned as if it were fatal truth, added Gertrude. What is it, asked Aubrey, if Henry Ward has gone down in a monitor at Charleston, I'll forgive him. Not that, said Ethel, but we little thought how ill poor Eve is. Dangerously, said Aubrey gravely. Not perhaps immediately so, but Tom means to merit once that he may have a chance of bringing her home to see Leonard. Another shock for Leonard, said Aubrey, quite subdued. Why can't he have a little respite? May they at least meet once more, said Ethel. There will be some comfort in looking to that. And what a fellow Tom is to have thought of it, added Aubrey. Nobody will ever dare to say again that he is not the best of the kid of us. I must be off now to the meet. But if you are writing, Ethel, I wish you would give her my love or whatever he would like and tell him he is a credit to the family. I say, may I tell George Rivers? Oh yes, it will soon be in the air and Charles Cheveo will be down on us. Awaitment Aubrey to mount the hunter that George Rivers placed at his service. Gertrude, who had been struck dumb, looked up to ask. Then it is really so? Indeed it is. Then cried Gertrude vehemently. You and he have been deceiving us all this time. No, Gertrude, there was nothing to tell. I did not really know and I could not gossip about him. You might have hinted. I tried, but I was clumsy.  One can't understand them and gets the credit of neglecting them. If people have a secret attachment, they ought to let all their family know. Perhaps they do in Ireland. You don't feel one grain for me, Ethel, said Gertrude, with tears in her eyes. Only think how Tom led me on to say hard things about the wards and now to recollect them when she is so ill too and he, she burst into sobs. My poor Daisy, I dare say it was half my fault. Gertrude gave an impatient leap.   I think that if you are quiet and kind and not flighty, he will forget all that and be glad to let you be a sister to her. A sister to Eve Ward. Pretty preferment, muttered Gertrude. Poor Eve. After the way she has borne her troubles, we shall feel it an honor to be sisters to her. And that chair broke out Gertrude. Oh, Ethel, you did out of malice, propense, make me bow, it should be for Mrs. Thomas May. Well, Daisy, if you won't suspect me of improving the circumstance, I should say that finishing it for her would be capital discipline. Or at mockery, I should say, returned Gertrude sadly. A gaudy rose-colored chair, all over white fox gloves, for a person in that state. Poor Tom's great wish is to have her drawing room made as charming as possible, and it would be a real welcome to her. Luckily, said Gertrude, breaking into laughter again, they don't know when it began, how in a weak moment I admired the pattern, and Blanche inflicted it and all its appurtenances on me, hoping to convert me to a fancy workwoman. Dear me, pride has a fall. I love to answer three stitches when Mrs. Blanche asked after my progress. Ah, Daisy, if you did but respect anyone. If they would not, I'll be tiresome. Seriously, I know I must finish the thing because of my word. Yes, and I believe keeping a light word that has turned out heavy is the best help in bridling the tongue. And, Ethel, I will really try to be seen as not heard while I am about the work, said Gertrude, with an earnestness which proved that she was more sorry than her mare conveyed. Her resolution stood the trying task of a visit from the elder married sisters. For, as Ethel said, the scent of the tidings attracted both Flora and the Chevyos, and the headmaster endeavored to institute a kind of family committee to represent to the doctor how undesirable the match would be, entailing inconveniences that would not end with the poor bride's life and bringing at once upon Tom a crushing anxiety and sorrow. Ethel's opinion was, of course, set aside by Mr. Chevyo, but he did expect concurrence from Mrs. Rivers and from Richard and Flora sent it to all his objections, but she was not to be induced to say she would run straight with her father or with Tom, and she animated the uselessness thereof so plainly that she almost hoped that Charles Chevyo would be less eager to assail the doctor with his arguments. No hope of that, said Ethel, when he had taken leave. He will disperse in his conscience, but then Papa is well able to take care of himself. Flora, I am so thankful you don't object. No indeed, said Flora. We all know it is a pity, but it would be a far greater pity to break it off now and do Tom an infinity of harm. Now tell me all. And she threw herself into the subject in the home-like manner that had grown on her, almost in proportion to Mary's guess-like ways and absorption in her own affairs. Six weeks from that time, another hasty note announced that Dr. and Mrs. Thomas May and Ella were at Liverpool, adding that Avel had been exceedingly ill throughout the voyage, though on being carried ashore, she had so far revived that Tom hoped to bring her home the next day, but emotion was so dangerous that he begged not to be met at the station, and above all, that Leonard would not show himself till summoned. Dr. May, being unavoidably absent, Ethel alone repaired to the newly furnished house for this strange, sad, bridal welcome. The first person to appear when the carriage door was open was a young girl, pale, tall, thin, only to be recognized by her black eyes. With a rapid kiss and greeting, Ethel handed her on to the further door, where she might satisfy the eagerness of the brother who there awaited her, while Tom almost lifted out the veiled, muffled figure of his bride and led her upstairs to the sitting room, where, divesting her of hat, cloak, muff, and respirator, he laid her on the sofa and looked anxiously for her reassuring smile before he even seemed to perceive his sister or left room for her greeting. The squarely-made, high complexion, handsome Averward was entirely gone. In Aver May, Ethel saw delicately refined sharpened features, dark beautiful eyes, enlarged, soften, and beaming with perilous luster, a transparently white, blue-veined skin, with a lovely rosy atent, deepening or fading with every word, look, or movement, and a smile painfully sweet and touching. As first of the three, the invalid found voice for thanks and inquiries for all. Quite well, said Ethel, but Papa has been most unluckily sent forth to Whitford and can't get home till the last train. It may be as well, said Tom, we must have perfect quiet till after the night's rest. May I see someone else tonight? she wistfully asked. Let us see how you are when you have had some coffee and are rested. Very well, she said, with a gentle submission, that was as new a sight as Tom's tenderness. But indeed, I am not tired, and it is so pretty and pleasant. Is this really Dr. Spencer's old house? Can there be such a charming room in it? I did not think so, said Tom, looking in amazement at the effect produced by the bright modern grate with its cheerful fire, the warm, delicate tents of the furniture, the appliances for comfort and ornament already giving a home look. I know this is in the man you are doing, Ethel, but who was the hand? All of us were hands, said Ethel, but Flora was the moving spring. She went to London for a week about it. Mrs. Rivers! Oh, how good! said Abril, flushing with surprise. Then, raising herself, as her coffee was brought in a dainty little service, she exclaimed. And oh, if it were possible, I should say that was my dear old piano. Yes, said Ethel, we thought you would like it, and Hector Ernstcliffe gave Mrs. Wright a new one for it. This was almost too much. Abril's lip trembled, but she looked up into her husband's face and made an answer, which would have been odd had she not been speaking of his thought. Never mind. It is only happiness and the kindness. And she drank the coffee with an effort and smiled at him again as she asked. Where is Ella? At our house, said Ethel, we mean her to be there for the present. Knowing with whom Ella must be, and fearing to show discontent with a mandate of patience, Abril again began to admire. What a beautiful chair! Look, Tom! Is it not exquisite? Whose work is it? Gertrude's. That is the most fabulous thing of all, said Tom, walking round it. Daisy! Her present, not her work? Her work, every stitch. It has been a race with time. The gratification of Abril's flash and smile was laid up by Ethel for Gertrude's reward. But it was plain that Tom wanted complete rest for his wife, and Ethel only waited to install her in the adjoining bedroom, which was as delightfully fitted up as the first apartment. Abril clung to her for the instant they were alone together, and whispered, Oh, it is all so sweet. Don't think I don't feel it, but you see it is all I can do for him to be as quiet as I can. Say so, please. Ethel felt the throb of the heart, and knew to whom she was to say so. But Tom's restless approaching step made Abril detach herself, and sink into an armchair. Ethel left her, feeling that the short clasp of their arms had sealed their sisterhood here and forever. It is too sad, too beautiful to be talked about, she said to Gertrude, who was anxiously on the watch for tidings. Obedient as Abril was, she had not understood her husband's desire that she should seek her pillow at once. She was feeling brisk and fresh, and by no means ready for captivity, and she presently came forth again with her soft, feeble, noiseless step. But she had nearly retreated again, feeling herself mistaken and bewildered, for in the drawing rooms stood neither Tom nor his sisters, but a stranger, a dark, grave, thoughtful man of a singularly resolute and settled cast of countenance. The rustle of her dress made him look up as she turned. A hape, he exclaimed, and as their eyes met, the light in those brown depths restored the whole past. She durst not trust herself to speak. As her head rested on a shoulder, his arms were round her. Only as her husband came on the scene with a gesture of surprise, she said, Indeed, I did not mean it. I did not know he was here. I might have known you could not be kept apart if I once let Leonard in, he said, as he arranged her on the sofa, and satisfied himself that there were no tokens of the repressed agitation that left such dangerous effects. Will you both be very good if I leave you to be happy together? He presently added, after a few indifferent words had passed. Aver looked wistfully after him, as if he were wanted to complete full felicity even in Leonard's presence. How little would they once have thought that her first words to her brother would be. Oh, was there ever anyone like him? We owe it all to him, said Leonard. So kind added Averle. Not to be vexed, though he dreaded our meeting so much, and you see I could not grieve him by making a fuss. But this is nice, she added, with a sigh going far beyond the effect with the homely word. You are better, Ella said so. I am feeling well tonight.  He knelt down beside her, and she stroked back the hair, which had fulfilled his wish that she should find it as long, though much darker than of old. Hosture and action recalled that meeting, when her couch had been his prison bed, and the cold white prison walls had frowned on them. Yet even in the rosy light of the cheerful room, there was on them the solemnity of an approaching doom. Where is the old face? Averle said. You look as you did in the fever. Your smile brings back something of yourself. But oh, those hollow eyes! Count Ugolino is Dr. May's name for me. But indeed, Abe, I have tried to fatten for your inspection. It is not the thinness, she said, but I had carried about with me the bright, daring, open face of my own boy. I shall learn to like this better now. Nay, it is you and Ella that are changed.  There were many things better than you fancy, she answered, and it is over. It is all gladness now. I see that in your face, he said, gazing his fill. You do look ill indeed, but, Abe, I never saw you so content. I can't help it, she said, smiling. Every moment comes some fresh kindness from him. The more trouble I give him, the kinder he is. Is it not as if the tempest was over, and we have been driven into the smoothest little sunshiney bay? To rest and refit, he said thoughtfully. For me, the last long wave, and the most gentle smooth one it is, said April, for you to refit for fresh voyage. Dear Leonard, I have often guessed what you would do. What have you guessed? Only what we used to plan in the old times after you had been at Coom, Leonard. Dear sister, and you would let me go? Our parting is near anyway, she said, her eyes turning to the print from Erie Schiffer, St. Augustine and Monica, whoever gave us that, divined how we ought to feel in these last days together. It was Richard May's gift, said Leonard. Abe, there was nothing wanting but your likeness. Then so it is, she asked. Unless the past disqualifies me, he said, I have spoken to no one yet except little Dickie. When I thought I ought to find some present employment, and wanted to take a clerkship at Bramshaw's, Dr. May made me promise to wait till I had seen you before I fixed on anything. But my mind is made up, and I shall speak now, with your blessing on it, Abe. I knew it, she said. He saw it was safer to quit this subject, and asked for Henry. He sent his love. He met us at New York. He has grown so soldierly, with such a black beard, that he is more grown out of knowledge than any of us, but I scarcely saw him, for he was quite over set at my appearance, and Tom thought it did me harm. I wish our new sister would have come to see me. Sister? Oh, did you not know? I thought Tom had written. She is a Virginian lady, whose first husband was a doctor, who died of camp fever early in the war, a federal, of course, and they are to be married as soon as Charleston is fallen. Leonard smiled. And April expressed her certainty that it had fallen by that time. And he is quite Americanized, asked Leonard. Does he return to our name? No, then I do not wonder he did not wish for me. Perhaps he may yet bear to meet me, someday when we are grown old. At least we can pray to be all together, where one is gone already, said April. That was the one comfort in parting with the dear Quora, my blessing through all the worst. Leonard, she would not go to live in the fine house her father has taken in New York, but she has gone to be one of the nurses in the midst of all the hospital miseries.  Here Tom returned, but made no objection to her brother's stay, perceiving that his aspect and voice were like fullness to the hungry heart that had climbed so long, but keeping all the others away, and they, meanwhile, were much entertained by Ella, who was in joyous spirits, a little subdued, indeed, by the unknown brother, but in his absence very communicative. Gertrude was greatly amused with her account of the marriage, in the sitting-room at Messessaga, and of Tom being so unprepared for the brevity of the American form, that he never knew where he was in the service, and completed it with a puzzled, Is that all? April had, according to Ella, been infinitely more calm and composed. She does nothing but watch his eyes, said Ella. And ever since we've parted from Cora, I have had no one to speak to. In the cabin he never stirred from sitting by her, and as she could speak at all, it was so low that I could not hear. School will be quite lively. Are you going to school? Oh, yes, where Eve was. That is quite fixed, and I have had enough of playing third person, said Ella, with her precocious Western manner. You know I have all my own property, so I shall be on no one's hands. Oh, and Cora made her father buy all of Eve's Messessaga shares, and a dead loss to us, of course. Well, said Gertrude, I am sorry Tom is not an American shareholder. It was such fun. He wanted to have made them all over to Henry, but Cora was determined, and her father is making heaps of money as a commissary, so I am sure he could afford it. Someday, when the rebellious subdued, I mean to go and see Cora and Henry and his wife, ated Ella, whose tinge of Americanism formed an amusing contrast with Dickie's colonial ease, especially when she began to detail the discomforts of Messessaga, and he made practical suggestions for the remedies of each, describing how Mama and he himself managed. The younger ones had all gone to bed, Richard had returned home, and Ethel was waiting to let her father in, when Leonard came back with the new arrivals. I did not think you would be allowed to stay so late, said Ethel. We did not talk much, I was playing chants most of the time, and after she went to bed, I stayed with Tom. What do you think of her? I cannot think, I can only feel a sort of awe, and as it may, it will have been a blessed thing to have had her among us like this. Yes, it ought to do us all good, and I think she is full of enjoyment. Perfect enjoyment, repeated Leonard. Thank God for that. After some plaza, during which he turned over his pocketbook, as of seeking for something, he came to her and said, Miss May, Avril has ascended to a purpose that has long been growing up within me, and that I had rather consult you about than anyone, because you first inspired it. I think I know the purpose you mean, said Ethel, her heart beating high. The first best purpose of my boyhood, he said, if only it may be given back to me. Will you be kind enough to look over this rough copy? It was the draft of a letter to the missionary bishop, Mr. Seaford's diocesan, briefly setting forth Leonard's early history, his conviction, and his pardon, referring to Archdeke May as a witness to the truth of his narrative. After this statement he proceeded, it appears to me little short of a frontery to offer myself for any share of the sacred labor in which your lordship is engaged. And though it had been the wish of the best days of my youth, I should not have ventured on the thought, but for the encouragement I received from Mr. Seaford, your lordship's chaplain. I have a small income of my own, so that I should not be a burden on the mission. And understanding that mechanical arts are found useful, I will mention that I learned shoemaking at Mailbank and carpentry at Portland, and I would gladly undertake any manual occupation needed in the mission. Laterally I was employed in the school master's department, and I have some knowledge of music. My education is, of course, imperfect, but I am endeavoring to improve myself. My age is twenty-one, I have good health, and I believe I can bring power of endurance and willingness to be employed in any manner that may be surfaceable, whether as artisan or catechist. I don't think they will make a shoemaker of you, said Ethel, with her heart full. Will they have me at all? There will always be a sort of ticket-of-leaf flavor about me, said Leonard, speaking simply, straightforwardly, but without dejection, and I might be doubtful material for a mission. Your brother put that in your head. He implied that my case, half-known, would be a discredit to him, and I am prepared for others thinking so. If so, I can get a situation in Portland, and I know I can be useful there. But when such a hope as this was open to me again, I could not help making an attempt. Do you think I might show that letter to Dr. May? Oh, Leonard, this is one of the best days of one's life. But what, he asked as she looked over the letter, what shall I alter? I do not know, only you are so businesslike, you do not seem to care enough. If I let myself out, it would look like unbecoming pressing of myself, considering what I am, but if you think I ought, I will say more. I have become so much used to writing letters under constraint that I know I am very dry. Let papacy at first, said Ethel. After all, earnestness is best out of sight. Mr. Wilmot, and he shall decide whether I may send it, he said, and in the meantime I would go to St. Augustine's, if they will have me. I see you have thought it all over. Yes, I only waited half-spoken with my sister, and she, dear, dear Eve, had separately thought of such a destination for me. It was more than acquiescence, more than I dared to hope. Her spirit will be with you, wherever she is, and with a sudden smile. Leonard, was not this the secret between you and Dickie? Yes, said Leonard, smiling too. The dear little fellow is so fresh and loving, as well as so wise and discreet, that he draws out all that is in one's heart. It has been a new life to me ever since he took to me. Do you know, I believe, he has been writing a letter of recommendation of being on his own account to the bishop. I told him he must enclose it to his father if he presumed descended, though he claims the bishop as his intimate friend. Ah, said Ethel. Papa is always telling me that they can't get on in New Zealand for one of the small Archdeacons, and that, I really think, abashes him more than anything else. He is not forward, he is only sensible, said Leonard, on whose heart Dickie had far too fast a hold, for even this slight disparagement not to be rebutted. I had forgotten what a child could be till I was with him. I felt like a stock or a stone among you all. Ethel smiled. I was nearly giving you marmine in remembrance of old times, on the night of the Christmas tree, she said, but I did not then feel as if the giving devil, for all your care and trouble had begun. The heart to feel it was so not come, said Leonard. Now, since I have grasped this hope of making known to others the way to that grace that held me up, he paused with excessive feeling. All has been joy, even in the recollection of the darkest days. Mr. Wilmot's words come back now, that it may all have been training for my master's work. Even the manual labour may have been my preparation. His eyes brightened, and he was indeed more like the eager, hopeful youth she remember than she had ever hoped to see him. But this brightness was the flash of steel, tried, strengthened, and refined in the fire, a brightness that might well be trusted. One knew it must be so, was all she could say. Yes, yes, he said eagerly. You sent me words of greeting that held up my faith, and, above all, when we read those books at Kuhn, you put the key of comfort in my hand, and I never quite lost it. Miss May, he added, as Dr. May Slatschke was heard in the front door, if ever I come to any good, I owe it to you. And that was the result of the boy's romance. The first tidings of the travels next morning were brought near the end of breakfast by Tom, who came in looking thin, worn, and anxious, saying that Averill had called herself too happy to sleep till morning, when a short dose had only rendered her feeble, exhausted, and depressed. I shall go and see her, said Dr. May. I like my patients best in that mood. Nor would the doctor let his restless, anxious son do more than make the introduction, but dispatched him to the hospital. Once returning to find himself still excluded, he could endure nothing but pacing up and down the lawn inside of his father's head in the window, and seeking, as usual, Ethel's sympathy. There was some truth in what Charles Cheviot had said. wedlock did enhance the grief and loss, and Tom found the privilege of these months of tendons more heart-wrenching than he had anticipated, though, of course, more precious and inestimable. Moreover, Averill's depression had been a phase of her illness, which had not before revealed itself in such a degree. Generally, he said, she is taught as if what she looks to were all such pure hope and joy, that though it broke one's heart to hear it, one saw it made her happy, and could stand it. Fancy, Ethel, not an hour after we were married, I found her trying the ring on this finger, and saying I should be able to wear it like my father. It seemed as if she would regret nothing but my sorrow, and that my keeping it out of sight was all that was needful to her happiness. But today she has been blaming herself for, for grieving to leave all so soon, just as her happiness might have been beginning. Think, Ethel, reproaching herself for unthankfulness, even to tears. It might have been more for her peace to ever main with her where she had no revival of these associations if they are only to pain her. Oh no, no, Tom, it only proves the pleasure they do give her. You know better than I do, that there must be ups and downs, failures of spirits from fatigue when the will is peaceful and resigned. I know it, I know it with my understanding, Ethel, but as to reasoning about her as if she was anybody else, the thing is mere mockery. What can my father be about, he added, for the twentieth time. Talking to her in the morning always knocks her up, if he had only let me warn him, but he hurried me off in his inconsiderate way. At last, however, they had disappeared and Tom rushed indoors. So, Tom, you have made shorter work of twenty-five patients than I have won. I'll go again, said poor Tom, in the desperation of resolute meekness. Only let me see how she is. Let Ethel go up now. She is very cheery except for a little headache. While Ethel obeyed, Dr. May began a minute interrogation of his son, so lengthened that Tom could hardly restrain sharp impatient replies to such apparent trifling with his agony to learn how long his father thought he could keep his treasure and how much suffering might be spared to her. At last, Dr. May said, I may be wrong. Your science is fresher than mine, but to me there seem indications that the organic disease is in the way of being arrested. Good health, of course, she cannot have, but if she weathers another winter, I think you may look for as many years of happiness with her as in an ordinary case. It was the first accent of hope since the hysteric scream that had been his greeting, and all his reserve in dread of emotion could not prevent his covering his face with his hands and sobbing aloud. Father, father, he said, you cannot tell what this is to me. I can't impart my boy, said the doctor, sadly. And he started up and walked about the room. You shall have the whole treatment. I will only follow your measures. No one at New York saw the slightest hope of checking it. They had your account, and you hardly allowed enough for the hysterical affection. I do not say it is certainty, far less health. Anyway, anyway, if I may only have her to lie and look at me, it is happiness un-look for. You don't think I could have treated her otherwise? No. Under his blessing you saved her yourself. You would have perceived the change if she had been an indifferent person. Tom made another turn to the door, and came back still half-wild, and laid his face on his arms upon the table. You tell her, he said, I shall never be able. Knocking at Avel's door, Dr. May was answered by a call of, Tom. Not this time, my dear. He is coming, but we have been talking you over. Abe, you have a very young doctor and rather too much interested. Indeed, she said indignantly, he has made me much better. Exactly so, my dear, so much better that he agrees with me that he expressed a strong opinion prematurely. They thought the same at New York, she said, to resolve on his defense. My dear, unless you are bent on growing worse in order to justify his first opinion, I think you will prove that which he now holds. And, Abe, it was under providence, skill that we may be proud of by which he has subdued the really fatal disorder. You may have much to undergo, and must submit to a sofa life and much nursing, but I think you will not leave him so soon. There was a long pause. At last she said, Oh, Dr. May, I beg your pardon. If I had known, I would never, never what, my dear, never have consented.  It is exactly what he wanted, my dear, if you will not fly at me for saying so. Nothing else could teach him that patients are not cases but persons, and here it comes to tell you what he thinks of the trouble of a sick wife. Well, said Dr. May, as he and Ethel walked away together. Poor young things, they have a checkered time before them. Pretty well for the doctor who painted sick people, wards, and stone-borrow. But, after all, I have liked none of our weddings better. I like people to robe on another brighter. And I am proud when the least unselfish nature has from first to last done the most unselfish things. No one of us has ever given up so much as Tom, and I am sure he will be happy in it. More can hardly be said without straying into the realms of prediction. Yet such of our readers, as are bent on caring on their knowledge of the daisies beyond their last sentence, may be told that, to the best of our belief, Leonard's shoemaking is not his foremost office in the mission, where he finds that fullness of hopeful gladness which experience shows is literally often vouchsafed to those who have given up all land and friends for the gospel's sake. His letters are the delight of more than one at stone-borrow, and his sister, upon her sofa, is that home member of a mission without whom nothing can be done. The copier of letters, the depot of gifts, the purveyor of commissions, the maker of clothes, the collector of books, the keeper of accounts, so that the house still merits the name of the SPG office, as it used to be called in the Spensarian era. But Mrs. Thomas May is a good deal more than this. Her sofa is almost a renewal of the family center that once Margaret's was. The region where all tidings are brought fresh for discussion, all joys and sorrows poured out, the external influence that, above all, has tended to soften Gertrude into the bright grace of womanhood. Mary Shevio and Blanche Ernstcliff cannot be cured of a pitting poor Tom, as I speak of the Professor, in which title the awkward sound of Dr. Tom has been merged, since an appointment subsequent to the appearance of the diseases of climate. But everyone else holds that not his honors as a scientific physician, his discoveries and ably written papers, not even his father's full and loving confidence and gratitude, give Professor May as much happiness as that bright-eyed, delicate wife with whom all his thoughts seem to begin and end. End of Chapter 30, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen End of the Trial by Charlotte Mary Young