The Angel and the Demon: A Tale

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.

THE Angel and the Demon: A TALE.

By T. S. Arthur.

Philadelphia: J. W. Bradley, 48 North Fourth Street, 1859.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by

J. W. Bradley,

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

Stereotyped By L. Johnson & Co. Philadelphia.

Philadelphia: Printed By King & Baird, 607 Sansom Street.

Preface

We think few mothers can read this volume without being struck with the great importance of care in regard to the dispositions and moral qualities of those into whose hands they place their children. There are sad disorders in society at the present time, and influences of a baleful character at work: above all things, let tender, innocent children be kept wholly beyond their sphere. In but rare cases should there be a delegation of the mother’s duties: extreme ill health is, perhaps, the only excuse for such delegation; but when it is made, let the nurse or governess be of known pure life and firm integrity. There should be no guess-work here; no trusting of a stranger, unless under the amplest testimonials from known parties; for wrong done to childhood is, too often, wrong done for the whole life. But we can only hint here at what we have endeavored to illustrate in the present volume.

Contents.

Page Chap. I.—The Young Governess 9

II.—Gaining Influence 21

III.—Trials 32

IV.—Worth And Pretension 40

V.—The Wind And The Sun 48

VI.—The Governess Dismissed 60

VII.—A Revelation 71

VIII.—The New Governess 82

IX.—The Shadow Of Evil 91

X.—A Little Breeze 101

XI.—The Demon Unveiled 108

XII.—A Fearful Mystery 119

XIII.—Doubt And Anxiety 127

XIV.—Painful Consequences 138

XV.—Alarming Occurrence 150

XVI.—Disappearance Of Madeline 158

XVII.—The Search 165

XVIII.—A Nest Of Pseudo-Spiritualists 189

XIX.—The Bird And The Serpent 204

XX.—The Rescue 215

XXI.—The Arrest 223

XXII.—Breaking The Spell 236

XXIII.—The Angel Stronger Than The Demon 245

XXIV.—An Unexpected Revelation 269

XXV.—A Revelation 278

XXVI.—Reviewing The Matter 287

XXVII.—Getting Right 298

XXVIII.—Conclusion 304

The

Angel And The Demon.

Chapter I.

The Young Governess.

Mrs. Dainty’s health was poor, and her nerves delicate. It was no use, she said: the wear and tear of body and mind were more than she could stand. She must have a governess for the children. Mr. Dainty never opposed his wife in any thing, and so replied,—

“Very well, Madeline. Find your governess.”

But Uncle John—Uncle Johns, by-the-way, if they happen to be on the mother’s side, and old bachelors at that, are proverbially inclined to interfere with the home-management of their nieces—had, as usual, a word to say after he was alone with Mrs. Dainty.

“Don’t have any thing of the kind,” said he. “Be governess to your own children.”

“But I’m not equal to the task. It will kill me. See how thin and pale I am getting; and my nerves are in a terrible condition.”

“No wonder.”

“Why?”

“Dissipation will destroy any woman’s nerves.”

“Dissipation! Why, Uncle John!”

“How many nights were you out last week?”

“Only three.”

“Only three! and each time until long after midnight. Dancing, late hours, hot suppers, and confectionery! No wonder your nerves are shattered! Such a life would kill me up in half a year.”

“Well, in my case, it is all that keeps me going. These social recreations, coming at intervals upon the enervating cares of domestic life, give new vitality to the exhausted system.”

“Filigree and nonsense!” replied Uncle John, impatiently. “You know better than to talk after this fashion.”

And so, for the time, the debate closed between them.

Meeting with no opposition from her husband, Mrs. Dainty proceeded at once to the work of procuring a governess. Among her fashionable friends she first made inquiry, but in no direction could she hear of the right individual. The qualifications were set forth at large. She must speak French with the true Parisian accent, and be able to teach that language; her knowledge of music must be thorough; she must be perfect in drawing and painting; her manners must be ladylike, her tastes refined: in a word, she must possess all the high accomplishments necessary to educate the children of a fashionable mother who was “in society.” She would greatly prefer a Frenchwoman.

At last she heard of a “French lady,” the daughter of a French count of the old régime, who was desirous of procuring the situation of governess in a family of “good standing.” An interview with this lady was held in the presence of Uncle John, who took occasion to ask her some questions about Paris, where he had spent several years. The stately manner and superior air which she assumed at the commencement of the interview gradually gave way under these questions, until madame showed considerable embarrassment.

“Your face is very familiar to me,” said Uncle John, finally. “I am sure I must have met you in Paris.”

“Monsieur is undoubtedly mistaken,” said the lady, with returning dignity.

“Perhaps so,” replied Uncle John. Then, in a more serious voice, he added, “But one thing is certain: you do not possess the qualifications desired in the governess of my nieces.”

The “French lady” offered no remonstrance, and asked for no explanations, but, with a flushed face, arose and retired.

“Better keep clear of counts’ daughters,” said Uncle John, as the applicant withdrew. “If you will have a governess for the children, procure one born and bred so near at home that you can readily learn all about her.”

Mrs. Dainty, who was particularly attracted by the appearance of the French lady, was not altogether pleased with Uncle John’s summary mode of despatching her, though a little startled at the idea of getting an impostor in her house.

What next was to be done? “Suppose we advertise?” said Mrs. Dainty.

“And have your bell-wire broken before ten o’clock the next morning,” replied Uncle John. “Take my advice, and wait a few days.”

“What good will waiting do? Unless we take some steps in the direction we wish to go, we shall never arrive at the end of our journey.”

“Good steps have been taken,” said Uncle John, cheerfully. “You have already made known to quite a number of your friends that you want a governess. The fact will not die; many will remember and speak of it, and somebody will happen to think of somebody who will just suit you.”

So Mrs. Dainty concluded to wait a few days, and see what time would bring forth.

On the third morning after the interview with the French count’s daughter, as Mr. and Mrs. Dainty and Uncle John sat talking together on the governess-question, the waiter opened the door, and said that a young woman wished to speak with Mrs. Dainty.

“Who is she, and what does she want?” inquired Mrs. Dainty, with an air of indifference, stroking the head of her King Charles spaniel, which, instead of her baby, occupied a comfortable position in her lap.

The servant went down to gain what information he could from the visitor touching her business with Mrs. Dainty, and returned with the information that she was an applicant for the situation of governess in the family, having been informed that the lady wanted a person in that capacity.

“Tell her to come up,” said Mrs. Dainty. “I wonder who she can be?” was added, as the servant withdrew.

Uncle John sat with his chin resting on the head of his cane, apparently so much engaged with his own thoughts as to be unconscious of what was passing.

In a few minutes the door reopened, and a young woman in plain attire, and of modest, almost timid aspect, entered. Mr. Dainty was standing with his back to the fire; Mrs. Dainty sat in her morning wrapper, with the King Charles spaniel still in comfortable quarters; and Uncle John remained in the same position, not stirring as the girl entered.

“Take a chair,” said Mrs. Dainty, with that supercilious indifference which imagined superiority often puts on toward imagined inferiors.

The girl flushed, trembled, and sat down, letting her eyes fall to the floor.

“What is your name?” asked Mrs. Dainty.

“Florence Harper,” replied the girl.

“Where do you live?”

“At No. — Elwood Street.”

“With whom?”

“My aunt.”

“Are your father and mother living?”

“No, ma’am.” Even Mrs. Dainty felt the sadness with which this reply was made.

“I am in want of a governess for my children,” said Mrs. Dainty, coldly; “but I hardly think you will suit.”

The young girl arose at once.

“Sit down.” Mrs. Dainty spoke with a slight impatience. The visitor resumed her chair, while Mr. Dainty kept his place before the fire, with his eyes fixed upon her curiously.

“Do you speak French?” inquired Mrs. Dainty.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What French school did you attend?”

“I was with Mr. Picot for six years.”

“Indeed!” There was a new interest in Mrs. Dainty’s voice.

“How is it in regard to your musical qualifications?” she continued.

“I will satisfy you, madam,” said the applicant, in a quiet but firm and dignified manner, “in regard to my ability to teach the various branches of a polite education, by references, if you desire them.”

“Oh, certainly! I shall expect references, of course. You don’t imagine that I would take an entire stranger into my house without the most rigid inquiries touching her character?”

Miss Harper arose.

“Do you wish,” said she, “to make any inquiries about me? Or have you concluded that I will not suit you?”

“You can leave your references,” replied Mrs. Dainty.

The names of two ladies were given. Mrs. Dainty had no acquaintance with them, but she knew their standing.

“That will do,” she replied.

“Shall I call again, or will you send me word if you desire to see me,” said the young girl.

“You may call.” Mrs. Dainty spoke in a very indifferent manner.

The visitor retired.

“I don’t like her,” said Mrs. Dainty.

“Why not?” inquired Uncle John, lifting, for the first time, his chin from the head of his cane.

“Too plebeian,” said Mrs. Dainty.

“Nothing but a countess will do for your young hopefuls,” retorted Uncle John. “Plebeian! There is the air of a lady in every movement. Take my advice, and learn all you can about her; and I’m mistaken if you don’t at once secure her services.”

Mrs. Dainty’s heart was set on having a governess; and, as no better opportunity offered for procuring one, she made inquiries about Miss Harper, and received encouraging information. A family council, consisting of herself, husband, and Uncle John, decided in the affirmative on the question of engaging the young lady, who, as she did not return to know whether her services would be desired or not, was sent for. Terms, duties, and the like being discussed and settled, Miss Harper, with many misgivings and strong reluctance, assumed the difficult and responsible position of governess in the family of Mrs. Dainty.

Three children were placed under her care: Agnes, the eldest daughter, now in her fourteenth year; Madeline, the second, eleven years old; and George, in his sixth summer. Many unwise remarks had been made about the young girl in the presence of the children; and when she assumed, formally, the charge of them, she perceived at a glance that they held her in contempt, and were not in the least inclined to obey her authority.

The first day’s trials were severe enough. Mrs. Dainty, in whose mind there was a foregone conclusion adverse to the young governess, made it her business to be present with her for some hours while giving her introductory lessons to the children, or, rather, while making her first efforts to dive into their minds and see what had already been stored away. The mother did not act very wisely during the time; for she was not a very wise woman. Could she have seen the image of herself as it was pictured in the mind of Miss Harper, she would not have felt very much flattered. A small portion of light entered the region of perception once or twice, the way being opened by a quiet answer to some remark that broadly displayed her ignorance. One result followed this rather meddlesome interference on the part of Mrs. Dainty. Her respect for the young governess was materially heightened.

On the second day, Miss Harper was left in the undisturbed charge of her young pupils, and she had a better opportunity for studying their natures. Agnes, the oldest, she found to be indolent, proud, and quite ready to imitate the example of her mother in disrespectful conduct toward herself. Madeline was of a gentler, more loving, and more obedient disposition; while George was a rude, well-spoiled specimen of a boy who showed no inclination whatever to come under even the mildest discipline.

“She’ll never do any thing with them,” said Mrs. Dainty, in a confident manner, as she sat alone with her husband and Uncle John, on the evening of the first day, and talked over the new arrangement.

“Why do you think so?” asked Uncle John.

“She’s too young and inexperienced. She hasn’t character enough. Agnes is almost as much of a woman as she is.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Uncle John.

“Agnes will have to live very fast if she ever overtakes Miss Harper.”

“She’s rather an indifferent-looking personage,” remarked Mr. Dainty, in a careless way, “and hasn’t stuff enough in her for the management of three such spirited children as ours.”

Uncle John smiled.

“You are quite taken with her,” said his niece.

“I haven’t had much time for observation,” replied Uncle John; “but the little I have seen impresses me favorably. Beneath that modest, quiet, almost timid exterior, there lies, if I am not mistaken, far more reserved power than you imagine. Give her a fair chance, second her efforts in every attempt she makes to bring the children into order and subordination, and particularly refrain from the slightest word in their presence that will lower her in their respectful regard.”

Mrs. Dainty saw, from the last remark, that she had erred in a very thoughtless way; and her cheeks burned a little when Uncle John added,—

“I have heard something of Miss Harper’s history from a lady friend, who represents her as a very superior girl, and says that she was raised in a circle of refined and highly-intelligent people.”

“Oh, well, we can give her a trial. Perhaps she will do,” replied Mrs. Dainty, in a languid manner. “I’m glad she has been raised among refined people. My greatest fear was that she would impart vulgar manners to the children.”

“I don’t think she can do them any harm.” Uncle John spoke a little ironically.

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Dainty, seriously; and the subject, not taking a turn that was agreeable to her, dropped of its own weight.

We shall see, in another chapter, some of the results of this new arrangement in the home of the fashionable mother.

Chapter II.

Gaining Influence.

Having procured a governess for the children,—even if she were not all that was expected in the individual who was to fill so important a place,—our fashionable mother felt a weight of care removed from her shoulders. She could now go out when she pleased, and stay as long as she pleased, and not suffer from the troublesome consciousness that she was neglecting her children,—a species of dereliction that never escaped the watchful eyes of Uncle John, who had no hesitation about speaking plainly.

Miss Harper’s experiences with the children on the first and second days were not very encouraging; and this was particularly so in the case of Agnes, whose conduct toward her was exceedingly offensive.

On the third morning, this young lady positively refused to give her French recitation at the time required by Miss Harper, declaring that it was her wish to take a music-lesson. She had overheard her mother and Uncle John conversing on the subject of Miss Harper’s authority over the children, on which occasion Mrs. Dainty had said,—

“I will have no iron rule with Agnes. Miss Harper must treat her with that respectful consideration to which a young lady in her position is entitled. There must be no petty domineering; no ordering with upstart authority; no laying down of law.”

“Do you expect to be always present with Miss Harper in the school-room?” Uncle John asked quietly, as if he was really in earnest.

“Of course not! What a preposterous idea!” replied Mrs. Dainty.

“Then Miss Harper must have authority in your absence.” Uncle John spoke very decidedly.

“Agnes will never submit to any authority from her.”

“Why not from _her_, pray?”

“Because Agnes has reached an age when she can comprehend the wide difference between their respective stations. She is almost a young lady.”

“You are a weak woman, Madeline,” said Uncle John,—“a very weak woman, and I am almost out of patience with you. Now, do you wish to know, plainly, how I regard this matter?”

“Not particularly.” Mrs. Dainty gaped as she spoke.

“You shall know, for all your well-bred indifference,” said Uncle John, a little sharply. “In my opinion, Miss Harper is in every way the superior to Agnes, and, if I am not vastly mistaken, will in a few years be recognised, in society, as superior.”

“Society!” Mrs. Dainty curled her lip. “What do you mean by society?”

“Something more perhaps than you mean,” was answered. “Men and women recognised by common consent as superior to the mass.”

“Well, you can talk as you please, and think as you please, Uncle John; but I’m not going to have Agnes domineered over by this plebeian girl, and if she attempt any thing of the kind, she will get her immediate dismissal.”

All of this was heard by Agnes, who very naturally made up her mind to be the director of her own studies in the absence of her mother.

“I wish to take my music-lesson now,” she said, when the governess asked for her French recitation.

“From twelve to one is the hour for music,” replied Miss Harper, mildly, yet firmly, fixing her eye steadily upon the eye of Agnes. There was something in the expression of that eye which the young lady had never seen before, and which held her by a kind of fascination. It was not anger, nor rebuke, nor sternness, but the quiet power of a superior mind over that of an inferior. Agnes tried to withdraw her gaze, but it seemed impossible to do so. A strange feeling of respect, almost awe came stealing into her heart and repressing her dominant selfhood. When Miss Harper withdrew her steady gaze, Agnes almost caught her breath, so marked was the sense of relief that followed.

“Madeline dear,” said Miss Harper, in a cheerful, pleasant voice, speaking to the younger sister, “shall I hear you read now?”

Madeline came smiling to her side, and, lifting her book to her face, read the lesson which had been given to her.

“Very well done! You are improving already.” Miss Harper spoke so encouragingly that Madeline looked up into her kind face, and said, without thinking of the place and the occasion, “Thank you!” The young governess had already opened a way into her heart.

“Now, Agnes,” said Miss Harper, “if you are ready with your French lesson, I will hear it.” She spoke kindly and cheerfully, fixing her eyes at the same time steadily upon her, and with the same look of quiet power which had subdued her a little while before.

“I would rather take my music-lesson first.” Agnes could not yield without a show of resistance. Something was due to pride.

“The hours of study were fixed in consultation with your mother,” said Miss Harper, mildly; “and it is my duty as well as yours to act in conformity therewith.”

“Oh, mother won’t care!” Agnes spoke with animation. “If I prefer this hour to twelve it will be all the same to her.”

“Your mother don’t care for her word, Agnes?” Miss Harper spoke in a tone of surprise.

“I didn’t mean that,” was answered, with some little confusion of manner. “I only meant that if she knew I preferred one time to another she would not hesitate to gratify my wishes.”

“Very well. We will consult her this evening,” said Miss Harper. “And if she consents to a new arrangement of the study-hours I will make no objection. But at present both you and I are bound to observe existing rules. I have no power to change them if I would. So, come up to the line cheerfully, to-day, and to-morrow we will both be governed by your mother’s decision.”

Agnes was subdued. Without a sign of hesitation she went on with her lesson in French, and said it all the better for this little contention, through which she came with an entirely new impression of Miss Harper.

When the young teacher came to George, this little reprobate would do nothing that was required of him. His book he had, from the commencement of the school-hours, refused to open; replying to every request of Miss Harper to do so with a sullen, “A’n’t a-going to.”

“Now, George, you will say your lesson,” said Miss Harper, in a pleasant tone.

“A’n’t a-going to,” replied the little fellow, pouting out his lips, and scowling from beneath his knit brows.

“Oh, yes; George will say his lesson.”

“A’n’t a-going to.”

“Oh, yes, Georgie,” said Agnes, now coming to the aid of Miss Harper. “Say your lesson.”

“A’n’t a-going to.” His lips stuck out farther, and his brow came lower over his eyes.

“Come, Georgie, do say your lesson,” urged Agnes.

“A’n’t a-going to.” The resolute will of the child had no other expression.

“I’ll tell mother,” said Agnes.

“Don’t care! Tell her! You wouldn’t say _your_ lesson.”

“Oh, yes, Georgie, Agnes did say her lesson like a good girl; and so did Madeline.” Miss Harper showed not the least excitement. Her voice was calm and her manner even. “Now say yours.”

“A’n’t a-going to.” The persistent little rebel had no idea of capitulation.

“I knew a little boy once——”

There was such a pleasant, story-telling tone in the voice of Miss Harper that George was betrayed into looking up into her face, when she fixed his eye as she had, not long before, fixed the eye of his self-willed sister.

“I knew a little boy once,” she repeated, “who had no mother. Before he was as old as you are now, his mother died and went to heaven. Poor, dear little fellow! it was a sad day for him when his good mother died and left him to the care of strangers.”

George was all attention. Already the unpleasant lines of frowning disobedience were fading from his childish countenance, and a gentle, earnest look coming into his eyes.

“After this little boy’s mother died,” went on the governess, “there was nobody in the house to love him as she had done. His father was absent all day, and very often did not get home in the evening until poor little Willy was fast asleep in bed. As it would not do to leave Willy alone with the cook and chambermaid, his father got a governess, who was to have the care of him and teach him all his lessons. Now, it so happened that this governess was not kind and good as Willy’s mother had been, but was selfish and cruel. She gave him long, hard lessons, and if he did not get them—which he often could not—would punish him cruelly; sometimes by shutting him up in a dark closet, sometimes by making him go without eating, and sometimes by whipping him. And all the while she managed to make Willy’s father believe that she was kind and good to him.

“Poor little Willy! He grew pale and sad-looking, and no wonder. I was at the house one day——”

“Oh, Miss Harper! Did you know him?” said George, with a countenance full of interest.

“Yes, dear, I knew little Willy; and I knew his mother before she died. As I was just saying, I called one day at the house, a few months after his mother was taken away from him; and, as the servant opened the door for me, I heard the voice of Willy, and he was crying bitterly. All at once the voice was hushed to a low, smothered sound.

“‘What is the matter with Willy?’ I asked; and the servant answered that she supposed the governess was putting him into the dark closet again. In an instant there seemed to stand before me the child’s dead mother, and she pointed upward with her finger. I did not stop to think, but ran up-stairs into the nursery, where I found the governess sitting by the window with a book in her hand.

“‘Where’s Willy?’ I demanded. She started, and looked very much surprised and a little angry. But I was in earnest.

“‘Where’s Willy?’ I repeated my question more sternly. As she did not stir, I went quickly across the room and opened a closet door, which I found locked, with the key on the outside. There, lying on his face, was the dear child. I took him up in my arms and turned his face to the light. It was pale as marble. I thought he was dead.

“‘Bring me some water,’ I called, in a loud, quick voice. The frightened governess fled from the room, but soon returned with water. I threw it into the dear child’s face, and rubbed his hands and feet. In a few minutes, he began to breathe.

“‘Give him to me, now,’ said the governess, endeavoring to lift him from my arms. But I said, ‘No; cruel woman!’ She looked angry, but I was not moved. ‘Untie my bonnet-strings,’ I spoke to the chambermaid; and the girl took off my bonnet.

“‘Jenny,’ said I to the chambermaid,—I knew her name,—‘Jenny, I want you to go for Willy’s father.’

“Jenny did not hesitate a minute. ‘There’s no use in sending for his father,’ said the governess. But we didn’t mind what she said. When Willy’s father came, she was gone. He was very much distressed when he saw his dear little boy, and very angry when I told him about the dark closet. After that I became Willy’s nurse and teacher. But he did not stay with us very long. The angels came for him one lovely summer evening, and bore him up to the heavenly land; and he is now happy again with his mother.”

Tears came into the eyes of all the children when Florence Harper ceased speaking. She had found the way to their hearts, and, not only this, had lifted for them just so much of the veil that concealed her true character as to let them see enough to win something of love and something of respectful consideration.

The book was still in the hand of George, and, as he let his eyes fall from the face of Miss Harper, they rested on the open page. Nothing was said by the latter. A few moments of silence passed, and then George, in a low but rather earnest voice, said over his lesson.

The young governess had conquered.

Chapter III.

Trials.

It was late when Mrs. Dainty came home. Her husband had already arrived, and was waiting for his dinner. George and Madeline, pleased as children usually are when the visiting mother returns from her recreations, crowded around her with their questions and complaints, and annoyed and hindered her to a degree that broke down her small stock of patience.

“Miss Harper!” she called, in a fretful voice, going to her chamber-door.

The governess heard, and answered from her room, leaving it at the same time, and coming down toward the chamber of Mrs. Dainty.

“Call those children away!” said the mother, sharply. “And see here! When I come home next time, don’t let them beset me like so many hungry wolves. I’ve hired you to take the care of them, and I want the care taken. That’s your business.”

Mrs. Dainty was annoyed and angry; and she looked her real character for the time. She was a superior, commanding an inferior, with a complete consciousness of the gulf that stretched between them. Her manner, even more than her words, was offensive to the young governess, whose native independence and self-respect impelled her at once to resign her position and leave the house.

“George; Madeline.” She spoke quietly,—almost indifferently.

“Why don’t you call them as if you had some life in you?” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty, losing all patience.

Miss Harper turned away without a word, and went up-stairs, intending to put on her bonnet and leave the house. Near her room-door she met Uncle John, who had overheard the offensive language of his niece. He saw that the young girl’s face wore an indignant flush, and that both lips and eyes indicated a settled purpose.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, letting her see by look and tone that he understood her feelings.

“I am going away from here,” she replied, firmly.

“You must not do it,” said Uncle John.

“Self-respect will not permit me to remain,” answered Florence.

“Feeling must yield to duty, my dear young lady,” said Uncle John, with an earnestness that showed how much he was interested.

“My duty is not here,” was the slowly-spoken answer.

“Our duty is where we can do the most good. I know something of your morning’s trials and wise discipline. You have done nobly, Florence,—nobly. There is good in these children, and you must bring it forth to the light.”

“I am but human,” said Florence, with a quivering lip.

“You are gold in the crucible,” replied Uncle John. “The fire may be very hot, my dear young friend; but it will leave no mark upon your real character. It is not every spirit that has a quality pure enough to meet life’s higher ordeals. No, no: shrink not from the trials in your way. The lions are chained, and can only growl and shake at you their terrible manes. Go back for the children. For their sakes, draw them to yourself with the singular power you possess. Be to them all their mother fails to be. And always regard me as your friend and advocate.”

Uncle John left her and went back to his own room. A few moments Florence stood irresolute. Then, stepping to the head of the stairs, she called to George, who was pounding at his mother’s door. Mrs. Dainty had re-entered her chamber and locked it against the children. The child did not heed her in the least. Going down to him, and taking his hand, which the stubborn little fellow tried to prevent her from doing, she said, in a voice that was very kind, and in a tone full of interest,—

“George, dear, did I ever show you my book of pictures?”

Instantly the firm, resisting hand lay passively in hers; though he neither looked up nor answered.

“It is full of the sweetest pictures you ever saw,—birds, and sheep, and horses; children playing in the woods; and ducks and geese swimming in the water.”

“Won’t you show them to me?” said the child, turning to his young teacher, and half forgetting, already, in the pleasing images she had created in his thoughts, his angry disappointment in being thrust from his mother’s room.

“Yes; and you shall look at them just as long as you please,” answered Florence.

Madeline had thrown herself upon the passage-floor in a stubborn fit. Her mother’s discipline in the case, if the child had remained there until she came from her chamber, would have been to jerk her up passionately, and, while passion remained in the rapidly-acquired ascendant, inflict upon her from two to half a dozen blows with her hand. Wild, angry screams would have followed; and then the repentant mother would have soothed her child with promised favors.

“Madeline must see them also,” said Miss Harper, pausing and stooping over the unhappy little girl. “Don’t you want to see my picture scrap-book?” She spoke very cheerfully.

“Oh, yes, Madeline! Do come! Miss Harper is going to show us a book full of such beautiful pictures.”

The voice of George went home. Madeline arose to her feet. Taking, each, a hand of their governess, the two children went with light feet up to her room, and in her book of pictures soon lost all marks of their recent unhappy disturbance.

Mrs. Dainty appeared at the dinner-table in a bad humor, and commenced scolding about the new governess.

“She’ll have to do better than this, before I am suited with her,” she said, captiously.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Mr. Dainty, in a manner that exhibited some annoyance.

“Matter!” replied his wife. “I guess you’d think it was some matter, if, when you came in late, tired and hungry, the whole body of children were to hover around you with their thousand wants and complaints. It’s Miss Harper’s business to keep them out of the way. She’s paid for doing it. I had to call her down from her room, and when I spoke to her sharply she turned herself from me with an air of offended dignity that was perfectly ridiculous. The upstart! I shall have it out with her this afternoon. No domestic shall treat me with even a shadow of disrespect. I scarcely think she comprehends her true position in the family; but I will enlighten her fully.”

The children listened with wide open ears, from Agnes down to George. Mr. Dainty made no response, and Uncle John merely remarked, “I hope you will think twice before you act once in this business of defining Miss Harper’s position and making yourself clearly understood. My advice is, to be very sure that you understand yourself first.”

There was nothing to offend in the manner of Uncle John. He spoke in sober earnest.

“Mother,” said Agnes, breaking in through the pause that followed Uncle John’s remark, “did you say that I should take my French lesson first?”

“No: who said that I did?” Mrs. Dainty answered, without a moment’s reflection.

“Why, Miss Harper said so, and made me give my French recitation before I was ready for it.”

“I said no such thing.” Mrs. Dainty spoke with some indignation, born of a vague notion, from what Agnes had said, that the young governess was assuming arbitrary rule over the children, and falsely quoting her as authority. “I said no such thing! What does she mean by it?”

“Well, she said you did, and made me say a lesson before I had half learned it. That’s not the way to do!”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty. “Here comes the trouble I feared! Give these vulgar people a position a little in advance of what they have been used to, and forthwith they take on airs. I saw it in the girl at the first interview. I knew then that she wouldn’t suit, and if my judgment hadn’t been overruled she never would have come into the house.”

Mrs. Dainty glanced toward meddlesome Uncle John as she said this. But Uncle John did not seem to be in the least disturbed.

“Agnes,” said he, looking across the table at the injured and complaining girl, “what lesson did you propose to recite in place of your French?”

Agnes flushed a little as she answered,—

“My music-lesson.”

“Ah! That was the substitute. What about it?” And Uncle John turned his quiet eyes upon the countenance of his niece. “If I am not mistaken, I heard you tell Miss Harper that you thought the hour from twelve to one the best for music.”

“Maybe I did,” answered Mrs. Dainty, pettishly; “but I didn’t fix it as a law more binding than the statutes of the Medes and Persians. Something was left to the girl’s own discretion.”

“And I think it will be found on examination,” said Uncle John, “that she used the discretion wisely.”

“Oh, but she said”—Agnes had taken her cue from her mother—“that the hours for study had positively been fixed by mother, and that she had no authority to vary them in the least.”

“Preposterous!” ejaculated Mrs. Dainty.

“What’s the news to-day?” said Uncle John, turning to Mr. Dainty. “Any thing of importance stirring in the city?”

He wished to change a subject the discussion of which could do nothing but harm among the children.

The answer of Mr. Dainty led the conversation into an entirely new channel. Once or twice, during the dinner-hour, Mrs. Dainty tried to renew her complaints against the governess; but Uncle John managed to throw her off, and so the matter was dropped for the time.

Chapter IV.

Worth And Pretension.

The manner in which Florence Harper met the insolence of Mrs. Dainty—we give her conduct its true designation—chafed that high-spirited lady exceedingly. She could neither forget nor forgive such conduct in an inferior. What right had she to exhibit an independent spirit?—to show a womanly pride that would not brook an outrage? The very thought made the hot blood leap along the veins of indignant Mrs. Dainty. Oh, yes. She would “have it out with her!” So, toward the middle of the afternoon, Florence was sent for, and she went down to the sitting-room where Mrs. Dainty was alone. Uncle John was on the alert. He had remained in his own apartment, listening, with the door ajar, for nearly an hour, and heard the summons given to Florence. He was in the sitting-room almost as soon as she was, and in time to prevent an interview, the result of which would, in all probability, be the withdrawal of Miss Harper from the family. His niece looked at him with a frown as he entered. An offensive interrogation was just on her tongue, but she repressed the words, substituting therefor this query:—

“When did we fix the hours of study for the children, Miss Harper?”

“On the day before yesterday, ma’am,” replied Florence, in a calm, respectful voice.

“I never had any thing to say to you on the subject!” Mrs. Dainty lost temper, and, of course, dignity and self-respect.

“Was not ten o’clock mentioned by you as the hour when it would be best to commence the lessons?” inquired Florence.

“If it was, that doesn’t mean fixing all the hours of study!”

“You said you wished Agnes to begin with French,” said Florence, quietly.

“Well, suppose I did: what then?”

“Only, that I understood you to mean that you wished her to let French constitute her first lesson as most important. You will, no doubt, remember that I approved this, as her mind would always come fresh to the study.”

“Approved!” Mrs. Dainty could not repress this manifestation of contempt.

“You will also remember, that you spoke of the hour from twelve to one as most suitable for music.”

Miss Harper looked at the excited lady with a steady gaze.

“And upon that you based a set of arbitrary rules, and tried to enforce them by representing me as their author!”

“No, madam, I did no such thing.” Florence drew her slender form up to its full height, and looked calmly, steadily, and with an air of dignified self-respect upon Mrs. Dainty. “I simply remained firm to my duty when Agnes wished to begin with music; and said to her, that the hours of study had been arranged in consultation with you, and that I had no authority to change them. So I understood the matter, and, in my action, simply regarded the good of your child. I did not, of course, permit my pupil to direct the plan of study, and only yielded a reference to you in order to make my firmness of purpose the less offensive to her pride. And you must forgive me, madam, for saying, that it is neither just to me nor your children thus to react upon my honest efforts to meet your wishes in regard to their studies, and serve at the same time their best interests as a teacher. I wish, for the sake of your children, you knew me better. As it is, if you desire me to remain their instructor, you must either fix the hours and subjects of study in so plain a way that no one can mistake them, or leave it altogether in my hands. In either case, I will guarantee submission on the part of the children.”

The outraged pride of Mrs. Dainty broke through the pressure of involuntary respect which the dignified, resolute, perfectly independent manner of the young teacher had inspired, and the word “Impertinent!” was on her lips, when Uncle John said,—

“Miss Harper is clearly right, and I am pleased to know that she has acted with so much firmness and so much prudence. She is entitled to praise, not blame.”

Mrs. Dainty waved her hand for the governess to leave the room. Without a word, or the slightest apparent hesitation, Miss Harper retired.

“Uncle John!” Mrs. Dainty turned angrily upon the old gentleman the moment they were alone, “I am out of all patience with you! What chance have I to command respect from inferiors in my house, if you step in to justify them to my face when I am attempting to blame improper actions? It’s an outrage, and I won’t have it!”

“There is only one way to command the respect of your household, Madeline,” replied Uncle John, “and that is, to treat them with kindness and justice. You may demand respect from those whom you regard as your inferiors, forever; but, unless your actions toward them be marked with dignity and ladylike self-possession, your command will be no more heeded than was that of the old British king who commanded the waves of the sea to stop their advancing course. Respect or contempt is an independent thing, and always has free course. If a lady desires the first, she has to do something more than utter her proud behest. She has got to deserve it; and, if she fail in this, she will surely have the last,—contempt.”

“I don’t wish to hear any more of that,” replied Mrs. Dainty, curtly. “I hardly think it fair to seek a justification of your own conduct in turning around and assailing me. What right had you to approve Miss Harper’s conduct to her face, when I was blaming her?”

“The common right which every one has to drag another from the brink of a precipice over which he is about blindly casting himself. I have observed Miss Harper very closely since she has been in the house, and at times when she could not be aware of this observation. When you have been in the street, I have been at home, watching her deportment among the children; and it has always been kind, wise, and consistent. There has been no shadow of that domineering spirit of which you seem so nervously afraid, but always a firmness that knew just how far to yield, and how far to be immovable. I happened to hear all that passed in regard to the French and music lessons. Agnes was all to blame, and Florence was all right. It was beautiful to see with what a gentle dignity Florence met the efforts of Agnes to be mistress instead of scholar, and how wisely she subdued the incipient lady’s rebellious pride. She gave no offence in doing so, but really won upon her kind feelings; and, but for the opportunity given her pride to speak out its mortification, you would never have heard a word of complaint.

“You will thus understand,” continued Uncle John, “why I threw in a word of justification in time to prevent the utterance of language on your part, which would inevitably have resulted in the loss of a governess for your children who has already gained more power over them for good than any other being in the world possesses. And now, Madeline, let me warn you against any further exhibitions of passion, pride, or contempt toward one into whose hands you have committed the well-being of your children. Seek to elevate, not depress her. Treat her with respect and consideration, and your children will do the same. You make her the guide, counsellor, and companion of your children. Think of the vast influence she must exercise over them! The work of forming their young minds—of directing their characters—is in her hands, not yours. The mother’s high prerogative you choose to delegate to one regarded as an inferior. Happily, in this case, the choice of a representative has not been foolishly made. In all respects Miss Harper is qualified for her position, and, if sustained in it, will act her part nobly. She is no common person, let me tell you, but one of superior mind, high moral worth, and almost perfect accomplishments,—in a word, a model for your children! But she is, at the same time, a young woman with too much self-respect to bear your haughty, insulting manners. If you wish to keep her, therefore, you must not repeat the offences of to-day.”

“Does she expect me to curtsy every time I meet her, and to say, ‘If you please,’ and ‘By your leave, miss’?” The lips of Mrs. Dainty curled, and he looked very scornful.

“No,—nothing of the kind. Only that you shall treat her with common decency,—which you have not done!” Uncle John was provoked.

“You are quite complimentary, I must confess,” said Mrs. Dainty, with an offended manner.

“I speak the truth, and that is always the highest compliment I shall ever pay you, my foolish niece!” retorted Uncle John, who used his prerogative, in most cases, to the full extent.

“I think we had better drop this subject,” said Mrs. Dainty.

“Very well; let it drop now. I will renew it again when your feelings are less excited and your judgment less obscured. Only let me repeat my warning about Miss Harper. You have an angel in your dwelling: let her remain to bless your children. But the guest will not remain if you treat her as though she were a spirit of evil.”

Chapter V.

The Wind And The Sun.

“Mother, can’t I take my music-lesson first?” said Agnes. It was on the morning after her fruitless effort to be mistress instead of scholar.

Mrs. Dainty was in the middle of one of the most absorbing chapters of the “Mysteries of Paris,” a book which she had read until twelve o’clock on the night previous, and to which she had turned, immediately after her late breakfast, with the eagerness of a mere excitement-lover. She did not heed her daughter’s question. Only the sound of a disturbing voice was perceived.

“Mother!” Agnes uttered her name in a loud, impatient tone, grasping her arm as she spoke, and shaking it to attract attention.

“What do you want, you troublesome girl?” Mrs. Dainty turned angrily toward her daughter.

“Can’t I take my music-lesson first?”

“I don’t care what lesson you take first! Go away, and don’t disturb me!”

This was the mother’s thoughtless answer. Agnes glided away in triumph, and Mrs. Dainty’s eyes fell back to the pages of her book, unconscious of the meaning of her reply.

“I’m going to take my music-lesson first!” said Agnes, as she came into the study-room, where Miss Harper was seated with George and Madeline. And she tightened her lips firmly, elevated her chin, and tossed her head jauntily, while from her clear, dark eyes looked out upon her teacher a spirit of proud defiance.

“Very well,” replied Florence, in a voice that showed not the slightest disturbance. “At twelve o’clock I will be ready to give the lesson.”

“I’m going to take it now,” said Agnes, drawing up her petite form to its extreme height, and looking, or rather trying to look, very imperious.

Miss Harper could scarcely help smiling; but she repressed all feeling, and merely answered,—

“You can practise your scales for the next two hours, if you prefer doing so, Agnes. At twelve I will give you a lesson.”

“I’ll go and tell mother that you won’t give me my music-lesson!” said the baffled, indignant girl, flirting out of the room.

“Mother!” She had grasped the arm of her mother again.

“Go away, and don’t annoy me!” Mrs. Dainty threw out her arm, and swept her daughter away from her side.

“Mother!” Agnes had pressed back again, determined that she would be heard.

“What do you want?” Mrs. Dainty dropped her book from before her face, and turned, with anger flashing in her eyes, upon her daughter.

“Miss Harper won’t give me my music-lesson!”

“Oh, dear! There’s to be nothing but trouble with that stuck-up girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty. “I saw it from the first.”

And, tossing her book from her, she started up, and went with quick steps and a burning face to the room where Miss Harper sat with the two children next younger than Agnes, who were leaning upon her and looking up into her face, gathering intelligence from her eyes as well as her fitly-spoken words.

“See here, miss!” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty, as she came sweeping into the room, “I’m getting tired of this kind of work, and it must end! What do you mean by refusing to give Agnes her music-lesson?”

“Do you wish her music to precede her French?” Very calmly, and with a quiet dignity that rebuked the excited mother, was this question asked; but Mrs. Dainty was partially blinded by anger, and, obeying an ill-natured impulse, made answer,—

“I want no airs nor assumptions from such as you! I hired you to instruct the children, not to set them by the ears. I saw from the beginning that you wouldn’t suit this house,—that a little brief authority would make a tyrant of you, as it does of all vulgar minds.”

Mrs. Dainty was losing herself entirely.

The face of Miss Harper flushed instantly, and for a moment or two an indignant fire burned in her eyes. But right thoughts soon find a controlling influence in all superior minds. The assailed young governess regained, almost as quickly as it had been lost, her calmness of exterior; nor was this calmness merely on the surface. She made no further remark, until the stubble fire in Mrs. Dainty’s mind had flashed up to its full height and then died down for want of solid fuel. Then, in a voice that betrayed nothing of disturbed feeling, she said,—

“If it is your wish, madam, that Agnes should take her music-lesson first, I have no objection. My duty is to teach her, and I am trying to do so faithfully. But things must be done in order. Establish any rules you deem best, and I will adhere to them faithfully.”

“Give Agnes her music-lesson!” Mrs. Dainty spoke with an offensive imperiousness, waving her hand toward the door.

Miss Harper did not move.

“Do you hear me?” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty. The fires had received a new supply of stubble.

“Fool!”

Mrs. Dainty turned quickly, a shame-spot already on her cheek, and met the angry eyes and contemptuous face of Uncle John, who had thrown his voice into her ears alone.

“Fool!” His lips shaped the word for her eyes; and she saw it as plainly as if it had been written in staring capitals.

Uncle John beckoned to her with his head, stepping back as he did so, in order to prevent the other inmates of the room from seeing him. Mrs. Dainty obeyed the signal, and, without venturing another remark, retired from the study-room, and, sweeping past Uncle John, sought refuge in her own chamber.

“A’n’t you going to give me my music-lesson, miss?”

If her mother had retired from the field, there was no disposition whatever on the part of Agnes to follow her example.

“Certainly,” was the mild, evenly-spoken answer.

“Come along, then, and give it to me now.”

“I will be ready at twelve o’clock, Agnes.”

“Mother told you to give it to me now, and you’ve got to do so.”

“Oh, don’t talk so to Miss Harper, Aggy!” said Madeline, her voice trembling and her eyes filling with tears.

The words came just in season. Miss Harper felt that all this was more than she ought to bear; and outraged pride was about rising above convictions of duty.

“Georgy and I love you. We will say our lessons.” The sweet child lifted her large, beautiful eyes to the face of her governess.

“Tell us a story, won’t you, Miss Harper?”

It was George who made the request.

“As soon as you and Madeline have said your lessons, I will tell you a nice little story.” And Florence won him to her will with a kiss.

The lesson-books were opened instantly, and, the light tasks set, the little ones entered upon them with willing spirits.

“Come and give me my music-lesson!” broke in, discordantly, the voice of Agnes.

“At twelve o’clock, Agnes.” There was not the smallest sign of disturbed feeling in the manner of the governess.

“Mother will turn you out of the house! I heard her say so!”

A red spot painted itself on the brow of Miss Harper. But it faded as quickly as it came.

Seeing that she was not to have her will with the governess, Agnes flirted from the room, and sought the apartment to which her mother had retired.

“Mother! mother! That upstart thing says she won’t give me my music-lesson for you nor anybody else!”

Now Agnes went a step too far, and at the wrong moment. It was just then dawning upon the mind of Mrs. Dainty that her daughter had exaggerated the conduct of Miss Harper, and led her into an unladylike exhibition of herself. The sting of mortification excited her quite enough to make her turn with sharp acrimony upon this wilful daughter.

“I don’t believe a word of it!” she said, angrily. “All this trouble has grown out of your bad conduct. Go off and say your lessons at the right time. I won’t be annoyed in this way any longer.”

“But, mother——”

Mrs. Dainty took her by the arm and thrust her from the room, saying, passionately,—

“Don’t let me see your face again to-day!”

For several minutes Agnes sat upon the stairs leading up to the study-room, so disappointed and mortified that only anger kept her from tears. Down from this room came the low murmur of voices; and her ears recognised now that of Madeline or George, and now that of Miss Harper. How musical was the latter, compared with the sound of her mother’s rebuking tones that were still in her ears! In spite of pride and self-will, her heart acknowledged the contrast; and, with this acknowledgment, touches of shame were felt. Even with mean false accusation on her side, self-will had failed to triumph. Success would have blinded her to the quality of her own spirit; but failure made her vision clearer.

All remained still in the mother’s chamber and still through the house, as the mortified girl sat almost crouching on the stairs, and quiet was only disturbed faintly by the muffled voices that were heard in the study-room.

Agnes could not help but think, for passion was subsiding; and thought dwelt naturally upon the persons and circumstances by which passion had been aroused into turbulence. A contrast between the mother’s spirit and the spirit thus far shown by Miss Harper forced itself upon her mind, and she saw the beauty of the one and the deformity of the other. In spite of her pride, a feeling of respect for Miss Harper was born; and with this respect something of contempt for her weak, passionate mother found an existence.

“Now tell us the story, won’t you, Miss Harper?”

It was the voice of George, ringing down from the study-room. The lessons were over; and the promised story was to come.

Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Agnes moved quietly up the stairs, until she was near enough to the door of the study-room to hear distinctly.

“There was once a little flower-bud.” Miss Harper began her story in a low voice, and Agnes leaned forward, listening earnestly. “It was very small, and two green leaves gathered their arms closely around it, for there was a hidden treasure of sweetness in the heart of that bud. One day the cold, angry wind came along, and wanted the bud to open her beautiful pink leaves and give out from her heart the sweet perfumes that were hidden there. He blew harshly upon her, throwing her little head first on one side and then upon the other, and called angrily for her to open, that her sweetness might breathe in his ugly face. But the two green leaves only hugged their arms closer around the bud. Then he dashed her head upon the ground, and tried to trample the life out of her; for he did not love her at all: he only loved himself. The light stem that held the bud did not break, but only bent down, and, when the cruel wind was gone, raised up again from the ground and lifted the bud into the warm sunshine that was coming abroad.

“It was very different when the gentle, loving sunshine came and asked the two green leaves to unclasp themselves and let the bud grow into a flower, that the sweetness might come out of its little heart. Greener and softer grew these leaves, and they seemed almost to smile with pleasure, as they gently fell back from the swelling bud, that opened and opened in the face of the sunshine until it became a beautiful flower, the perfume in its heart filling all the air around.”

Miss Harper paused.

“What a sweet story!” said Madeline, looking still into the face of her governess, and with wondering eyes, for she felt, child as she was, that the story had a signification.

“Love and kindness are always better than anger,” said Miss Harper, answering the child’s eyes.

“The sunshine was love?” said Madeline.

“Yes; and the cold wind was anger.”

“And what was the flower?” asked the child.

“You and George are human flowers, dear;” and, from the swelling love in her pure spirit, Miss Harper pressed a kiss on the lips of both the children.

“Am I a flower?” asked George.

“I call you a little human flower,” answered the governess,—“a little human flower, with love in your heart, hidden away there like sweetness in the heart of the bud I was telling you about. Will you let me be your sunshine?”

The wayward boy flung his arms around the neck of Florence and clasped her tightly, but without speaking. He felt more than he could utter.

A tear dropped upon the hand of Agnes, as she sat upon the stairs near the door of the study-room. It seemed to her as if heaven were in that room, while she was on the outside. Never in her life had she felt so strangely; never had such a sense of desolation oppressed her. That lesson of the bud, the wind, and the sunshine,—how deeply it had sunk into her heart! Acting from a sudden impulse, she started up, and, going in where the young governess sat with an arm drawn around each of the two children, she said, with burning eyes, and a voice unsteady from emotion,—

“Be my sunshine also, Miss Harper! Oh, be my sunshine! I have long enough been hurt by the angry wind!”

An appeal so unlooked for surprised Florence; but she did not hesitate. Rising instantly, she took the extended hands of Agnes in both of hers, and answered,—

“I have only sunshine to give, dear Agnes. Regard me no longer as an enemy and an oppressor. I am your friend.”

“I know it, I know it, Miss Harper!”

“Your true friend,” added Florence, kissing her. “And now,” she added, in a sweet, persuasive voice, “let us make this room sacred to peace, order, and instruction, and open all its windows for love’s warm sunshine to stream in upon us daily.”

“It shall be no fault of mine if otherwise,” was the low, earnest reply of the young girl, whom love had conquered.

Chapter VI.

The Governess Dismissed.

“How do you like your governess?” inquired a fashionable friend, who was making a call upon Mrs. Dainty.

Mrs. Dainty shook her head and pursed up her lips in a vulgar way that was natural to her.

“Not perfect, of course,” said the friend.

“No,—not within a thousand miles of perfection.”

“An American girl, I presume?”

“Yes.” The lip of Mrs. Dainty assumed a curl of contempt.

“Poor American girls are an indifferent set,” remarked the lady. “A’n’t you afraid that your children will, imperceptibly, imbibe her low habits and vulgar ways of speaking?”

“Yes; that is my greatest fear. Already I think I see a change.”

“I wouldn’t keep her an hour, if that were the case,” said the lady. “No, not for the fraction of an hour!” she added, with emphasis. “I had almost as soon see my children vicious as vulgar; for vice may be eradicated, but vulgarity is a stain nothing can polish out.”

“And, to add to her offence,” remarked Mrs. Dainty, “she has assumed an upstart authority which has kept the house in hot water ever since she came into it. The children, and particularly Agnes, will not submit to her rules and exactions.”

“Why don’t you pack her off? I’d do it in less than no time,” said the refined acquaintance.

“I’ve about made up my mind to do it, and in spite of all opposition.”

“Opposition! Who has any right to oppose?”

“That fussy old uncle of mine is always meddling in our affairs,—Uncle John.”

“Why do you keep him about the house?”

“He’s my mother’s brother,” replied Mrs. Dainty. She could have given a better reason; but it would have been at the expense of an exposure of selfishness she did not care to make.

“If he were my mother’s great-grandfather, he couldn’t find harbor in my house if he interfered in what didn’t concern him,” said the lady.

Mrs. Dainty sighed. Uncle John was a great trouble to her, for he would say what he thought and do what he pleased. But then Uncle John owned the house they lived in, which they occupied rent free, or in compensation for board. And, moreover, Uncle John was worth two or three dollars where her not over-thrifty husband was worth one. No, no. It wouldn’t just answer to turn Uncle John out of the house; for that would be a losing business.

“If I could only find the right stamp of a governess,” said Mrs. Dainty, sighing again.

“I think I know a person who would just suit you.”

“Oh, indeed! Where can I see her?”

“Have you any acquaintance with Mrs. Ashton?”

“No,—though I have long desired to be numbered among her friends.”

“Only yesterday she mentioned to me,” said the visitor, “that she knew a highly-accomplished English lady, a widow, whose husband died in the East India Company’s service, and asked me to bear her in remembrance if I should hear of any one who wanted a governess.”

“How fortunate!” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty. “An educated English lady! What more could I desire?”

“Nothing. Shall I speak to Mrs. Ashton about you, and learn the lady’s address?”

“By all means. Won’t you see her this very day?”

“If you desire it.”

“Oh, I do desire it above all things.”

“I will see the lady for you.”

“How kind of you!”

“Shall I say that you wish to engage her?”

“Oh, by all means!”

“What will you do with your American girl?” asked the lady.

“Give her notice to quit immediately. She shall not pass another night under this roof: my mind is made up to that. The way she has acted this day decides me.”

“At what time shall I tell this English lady to call?”

“I will see her at four this afternoon.”

“Very well.”

“In the mean time I will close up matters with Miss Harper.”

“Is that the name of your present governess?” inquired the lady, evincing some interest.

“Yes.”

“Florence Harper?”

“Yes. Do you know any thing about her?”

“I knew her mother when I was a girl,” replied the lady,—“though I never fancied her a great deal. She had too much mock dignity for me. She married very well, and for some time moved in moderately good society. But her husband failed in business several years ago, and died shortly afterward, I think. So it is her daughter you have for a governess! How things will come around! There was a time when she seemed to think I wasn’t good enough to associate with her; and now her daughter has come down to the position of a hireling. Well, well! Isn’t this a queer world? If Florence is like her mother, I don’t think she will suit.”

“She puts on airs above her station,” said Mrs. Dainty.

“An inherited fault. Her mother had a way of looking down upon everybody. I couldn’t bear her!”

“Humph! This spawn of hers actually assumed to put herself on a level with me, and to ‘approve’ my opinions in regard to the children’s education! I was too provoked!”

“You’ll always have trouble with her,” said the lady. “The stock isn’t right. Is Agnes taking lessons in music?” she inquired, in a pause that followed. The sound of a piano had for some time been heard.

Mrs. Dainty drew out her watch as she answered in the affirmative. She saw that it was half-past twelve o’clock. A moment or two she listened, while a serious expression came into her face.

“I don’t like that,” said she.

“What?”

“This girl is bound to have her way, I see!”

“Who?”

“Why, Miss Harper. There’s been a contention between her and Agnes about the hour at which the music-lesson shall be given. Agnes wished to take it at ten o’clock; but Miss Harper said twelve. I told her two hours ago to give Agnes her lesson. But you see how it is! She means to be mistress. I’m too provoked!”

“If she begins by domineering over your children in this way, what will it be in the end? I only wonder that a girl like Agnes would submit.”

“It is the last music-lesson she gives in this house,” said Mrs. Dainty. “My mind is made up to that. Send me the English lady, and I will engage her on the spot. Tell her that I would like her to come this very day, if it is agreeable. I will send Miss Harper away, and take her without consulting anybody. When the thing is done, Uncle John may scold to his heart’s content. He can’t change the fact.”

And so the thing was settled. At dinner-time Mrs. Dainty maintained a perfect silence in regard to the governess. Agnes looked subdued. Her mother noticed this, and her blood grew hot as she imagined the cause to be a crushed spirit under the iron rule of Miss Harper. Uncle John had made it his business to see a great deal more of what was going on than any one imagined. He understood the state of Agnes’s mind far better than did her mother. All was coming right, he saw, and his wise heart, so full of interest for the children, felt a burden of care removed. After dinner he went out.

“Just what I wished for,” said Mrs. Dainty to herself, as she saw him take his hat and cane. “I will make clean work of it with this ‘angel’ of yours: see if I don’t!”

“Tell Miss Harper that I wish to see her in my room,” Mrs. Dainty spoke to a servant, half an hour later. The servant carried the message to the governess, who obeyed the summons without a moment’s delay.

“I have sent for you, Miss Harper, to say what you must have yourself inferred,—that you will not suit me for a governess.”

Mrs. Dainty spoke coldly,—almost severely. That Florence was surprised, her suddenly-heightened color showed plainly. She caught her breath, and, for a few moments, looked bewildered. Mrs. Dainty observed this, and said,—

“You have no reason to be surprised or disappointed, miss. I told you in the beginning that I didn’t think you would suit; and I have never seen cause for a moment to change my mind since you came into the house. Instead of falling into your place and doing your duty as became one in your position, you have done nothing but keep me and the children in hot water from the day you entered the house. When you get a good situation again, take my advice, and be content with a hireling’s place, and don’t assume the airs of a mistress. No lady will have her children domineered over as you have domineered over mine.”

“Mrs. Dainty, I repel——”

“Not a word to me, miss! Not a word to me!” replied the lady, imperiously. “I permit no one in my house to answer back. Here are your wages for the time you have been instructing the children. Take the money, and go!”

Miss Harper did not touch the money, but turned away, and was leaving the room.

“Miss Harper!” The voice of Mrs. Dainty had in it a commanding tone.

Florence paused, and turned partly around.

“Why don’t you take the money? say!”

“I cannot receive pay for services that are so poorly regarded,” was her calmly-spoken answer.

“Impudent!” Miss Harper turned away again.

“Stop!” The foot of Mrs. Dainty jarred on the floor. Miss Harper looked back.

“Don’t see one of the children; but go off with yourself immediately!”

The young governess flitted away almost as noiselessly as a spirit. At the same moment Mrs. Dainty rung her bell violently. To the servant who answered, she said,—

“Tell all the children to come to my room.”

“They shall see who is mistress in this house.” (So she talked with herself in the interval.) “Uncle John has had his way a little too long. But there is a point beyond which patience ceases to be a virtue; and I have arrived at that point.”

“What do you want, mamma?” asked Madeline, as she came with Agnes and her little brother into her mother’s apartment.

“I want you to stay here with me,” was the cold answer.

“Can’t I go back to Miss Harper? She was telling us such a sweet story when you sent for her.”

“No; you can’t go back. You must stay here.”

“I don’t want to stay here. I’m going back to Miss Harper. I like her better than anybody in this house.” And little self-willed George made for the door, in his determined way.

“You George! Come back this instant!” cried his mother, in anger.

“A’n’t a-going to,” replied the little rebel.

“George!”

“A’n’t a-going to!” sounded resolutely down from the stairs.

“I’ll punish you!”

“Don’t care! Miss Harper! Miss Harper!”

Almost like a fury did the mother rush away after her child. He heard her coming, and ran to Miss Harper for protection. She had gone to her own apartment: not seeing her in the study-room, the child knew where to find her.

“Go back to your mother, George!” said Florence, speaking firmly, but kindly, as the child rushed toward her.

“A’n’t a-going to!”

“Oh, yes; Georgie must.”

“No, no! A’n’t a-going to!”

“This is the way you encourage disobedience in my children!” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty, as she swept into the room at the moment when Miss Harper was stooping down to kiss the little boy in the fulness of her swelling love. “Out of my house! and quickly!”

Grasping George by an arm, she bore him, screaming, from the room; and, as his cries came back to her from the distance, Miss Harper could hear mingling with them the sound of passionate blows.

“Poor children!” she said. “There is good in them, but how sadly overgrown by weeds! With such a mother, what hope is there? But I must not linger here. For their sakes I would have remained, even though suffering insult daily. No choice is left me, however, and I must go.”

As Miss Harper passed the door of Mrs. Dainty’s room, on her way down-stairs, dressed to leave the house, she heard the sobbing of George and Madeline, mingled with stormy words that were passing between Agnes and her mother. The purport of these she did not stop to hear, but hurried on, and, without seeing or speaking to any one, took her silent departure.

Chapter VII.

A Revelation.

“Florence!” Miss Harper stopped suddenly, and looked up in a bewildered manner.

“Florence!” repeated the voice of Uncle John.

“Mr. Fleetwood!” She could only utter the kind old man’s name in a low, choking voice.

“Where are you going, Florence?” he asked.

“Home,” was the answer.

“Has any thing happened at home? Is your aunt sick?”

“No, sir.”

“Are _you_ sick, Florence?”

“Yes, sir. Sick at heart!” was the reply of Florence, made with quivering lips.

Uncle John turned, and walked beside Miss Harper, in the direction he had found her going.

“There is something wrong, Florence,” said he. “Why have you left the house of my niece so suddenly?”

“Mrs. Dainty has dispensed with my services.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Dainty does not wish me any longer to hold the place of governess to her children,” said Florence.

Uncle John was silent for some moments. He then said,—

“How did this happen? Tell me every thing freely.”

Florence related what had passed between her and Mrs. Dainty at the hurried interview preceding her departure from the house.

“You must go back again,” said Uncle John, after Florence had finished her brief narrative.

“Impossible!” was her firm answer.

“Say not so, Florence.”

“Impossible, Mr. Fleetwood! Impossible! I am not strong enough to bear all this insult and indignity. I can suffer pain, or even death; but my spirit will not brook humiliation like this! Only for the children’s sake have I remained up to this day.”

“And only for their sakes would I still have you remain,” said Uncle John.

“But the door is shut against me; and I will never knock to have it opened,” said the young girl, with an indignant spirit; “never! never!” She repeated the words very firmly.

“The door must be opened for you, and without the preliminary of a knock. Leave all that to me,” said Uncle John.

By this time they had reached a small house in a part of the city where persons in moderate circumstances reside, and both paused at the door.

“Will you come in, Mr. Fleetwood?” said Miss Harper, speaking in a tone of unusual familiarity. “Aunt Mary will, I know, be glad to see you.”

“Yes, I must go in, and have a little more talk with you, and a little conference with good Aunt Mary.”

In the next moment they passed together into the house,—the manner of Uncle John being that of a man who was entering a familiar place. In the small, neatly-furnished sitting-room to which both proceeded they found a plainly-dressed lady, somewhat advanced in years. She was reading in a volume that seemed to have been taken up casually, as her knitting-work was in her lap.

“How are you, Mrs. Elder?” said Uncle John, in the familiar voice of a friend; and he took the old lady’s hand and shook it cordially.

“Right well, and right glad to see you, Mr. Fleetwood,” was the frank, cheerful response, as she returned the hearty pressure of Uncle John’s hand. “But to what cause am I indebted for this visit?” she added, a slight shadow coming into her face as she looked more narrowly at Florence.

“A providential one, doubtless,” said Mr. Fleetwood, smiling. “I met your niece, just now, fleeing from the post of duty, and have accompanied her hither, that I might hear the report she has to make of herself.”

“A good report, I doubt not,” replied the old lady, throwing a kind but serious glance upon the countenance of her niece.

“When the door is shut in your face, you can hardly be blamed for leaving the threshold,” said Florence, with some bitterness in her tones.

“Is it so bad as that, my child?” Mrs. Elder spoke with much tenderness, which did not wholly conceal a flush of indignation.

“Just so bad.” Florence said this slowly, and with an emphasis on every word. “Just so bad,” she repeated. “And yet Mr. Fleetwood wishes me to return for the children’s sake.”

“And is not that a powerful motive?” said the old gentleman, speaking before Mrs. Elder had time to reply. “For the children’s sake! For the sake of those little ones whom the Lord, when upon the earth, took up in his arms and blessed with a divine blessing,—who are so precious in the eyes of Heaven that their angels do always behold the face of Our Father. I urged, you see, Mrs. Elder, no light motive.”

The eyes and countenance of Florence both drooped to the floor, and she remained sitting almost motionless.

“I must know all the facts in the case, Mr. Fleetwood, before I can say a word touching the duty of my niece. What she sees to be right she has the courage to do, and, if my eyes can aid her in seeing right, I will gladly lend her their more experienced vision. Let me have the whole story of this new trouble with Mrs. Dainty.”

In as few words as possible, Florence rehearsed what had passed between her and Mrs. Dainty, giving to her auditors that lady’s emphatic and insulting terms of dismissal.

Mrs. Elder remained gravely silent for some minutes after Florence had ceased speaking; while Mr. Fleetwood waited patiently to get the conclusion of her thoughts.

“I don’t see that it is possible for Florence to go back again,” said the old lady, speaking as if that view of the case were clearly settled in her mind.

“Extreme cases require extreme measures,” said Mr. Fleetwood. “I treat my niece, for most of the time, as if she were partially demented. And so she is; for vanity and love of the world have in a measure dethroned her reason. She was my favorite when a little girl; and I remained strongly attached to her as she grew up toward womanhood,—though I could not be over-patient with the fashionable follies to which she showed far too early an inclination. For some years I have been altogether out of heart with her, and see no hope of her reformation, except through virtue of some great calamity. But she has children, to whom all my love is transferred,—children who may be trained to good or warped to evil. I had almost come to despair of them, when a bright day renewed old acquaintanceship, and I discovered in your excellent niece all the qualities needed to save these children. How wisely, lovingly, and unselfishly she has performed her task so far I need not repeat to you, Mrs. Elder, for I have told you every word before. And now, do you think I can give her up? No, no. She must return. But I will make the way as easy for her as possible. All the rough places I cannot hope to make even; but she has courage to walk, if she knows the voice of duty, even where sharp stones are certain to cut her tender feet. Already she has won her way into the hearts of the children, and has at this moment more power over them for good than any living soul. This power must not be lost.”

“Every child that is born,” said Aunt Mary, in a thoughtful tone, “is precious in the eyes of God, and his love toward that child is manifested in the best possible arrangement of things external to its life, in order that these may awaken in its heart emotions of kindness, mercy, and pity toward others. Such emotions, whenever excited, fix themselves as permanent things in the young immortal, and remain there like good seed that may be warmed into life and produce good fruit when time has brought the age of rational freedom. It is by such remains of good and true things in all their varieties, which are stored up in the minds of children from the earliest days of infancy, up to manhood, that our Divine Father is able to save us from the evil inclinations we inherit, when we step forth, as men and women, self-reliant and rationally responsible. To help in the work of storing up in the minds of young children such ‘remains,’ as I have called them, is indeed a heavenly work; and all who engage in it are co-workers with angels.”

“And to neglect such work,” said Mr. Fleetwood, “when it lies in our way, and will be performed by no other hands if we refuse to do it, involves no light responsibility. The perversion, corruption, and final ruin of an immortal soul is a fearful thought.”

A deep sigh fluttered the bosom of Florence Harper; but she made no remark.

“If a mother neglect her high duties in this regard,” said Mrs. Elder, “can we say that another becomes responsible in her stead?”

Florence raised her head and listened with marked interest for Mr. Fleetwood’s answer to this question. He reflected a moment, and then made reply:—

“For the work God sets before us are we alone responsible. His love for his children is so great that he is ever providing the means to help them to a knowledge of the good that is needful to secure their happiness. If those appointed by nature to do good to his little ones neglect their high trust, he leads others to a knowledge of their wants; and, if these pass by unmoved to kindness, he still offers the heavenly work to other hands.”

The head of Florence again drooped, and again her bosom trembled with a sigh.

“I do not ask Florence to return to our house to-day,” said Mr. Fleetwood. “She must have a little time for rest and reflection, and I must have a little time for observation and management at home. The meaning of this hasty step on the part of my niece I do not comprehend. Something lies behind it that I must make out clearly before acting.”

“I will see you in the morning, Florence,” added the old gentleman, on rising to go. Then, taking her hand, he said, very earnestly, and with slight emotion,—

“Ever regard me as your friend,—nay, more than a friend,—as a father. Do not fear that I will advise you to any course of action in this matter that I would not advise you to take were you indeed my own child—as—as you might have been!”

The voice of the old man grew strangely veiled with feeling as he uttered, in something of an absent way, the closing words of the last sentence.

“Yes! yes! as you might have been, Florence!” repeated Mr. Fleetwood, with sudden energy, catching at the hand of the young girl and pressing it to his lips.

“Tell her all! yes, tell her all!” he added, turning to Mrs. Elder in a hurried, excited manner. “Her presence moves me strangely, and memories of the past are too strong for an old man’s feelings.”

Mr. Fleetwood left, abruptly, the apartment, passing into the street, and so leaving the aunt and niece alone.

“Tell me all of what, Aunt Mary?” said Florence, coming to the side of Mrs. Elder. Her face had become very pale.

“A simple story of thwarted love and undying affection,” replied Aunt Mary, calmly. “Mr. Fleetwood loved your mother, and that love was only in a measure returned. Your father won her heart more truly, and she decided in his favor. They were married, and you are their only child. If your mother had married Mr. Fleetwood, the current of her life might have run smoother; but whether she would have been happier is not for me to say. Mr. Fleetwood never would marry again; and it seems that his love for your mother has been an undying passion. I will say no more than this. But he is a man of great moral worth, noble sentiments, and a true heart. His interest in you is not a passing whim or preference, but has in it such deep regard as a wise and good father knows only for his child. And so you may be very sure that he will advise you to no course of action in regard to his niece and her children that he would not advise for his own daughter. It was his love for these children that led him to desire you for their governess,— you, whom he rightly knew only through my representation of your character. I think you will see it best to return to your post.”

“I can only go back through Mrs. Dainty’s invitation, and, I was going to say, after her apology.”

“Withhold for the present that last condition,” said Aunt Mary. “I doubt not, when the time comes, the way in which your feet should walk will be made very plain.”

Chapter VIII.

The New Governess.

Mrs. Dainty was asleep in her easy-chair, and the children, with no governess to interest or instruct them, were ranging through the house at will, and finding their own amusements, when the educated English lady arrived, and sent up her card.

“Mrs. Jeckyl—Jeckyl: who is she? I have no acquaintance by that name,” said Mrs. Dainty, as she looked at the card through her half-awake eyes. “What kind of a person is she?”

“She’s dressed in black,” replied the waiter.

“Have you ever seen her before?” inquired Mrs. Dainty.

“No, ma’am.”

“Is she genteel-looking? Has she the appearance of a lady?”

“She walks like a lady,” replied the discriminating waiter; “but her black is a little rusty.”

“Somebody that wants charity, I suppose,” said Mrs. Dainty, with a look of disgust and an impatient toss of the head. “Go down and say that I am engaged, but that she can send me word as to her business.”

The waiter retired. On coming back he said,—

“The woman wouldn’t tell me her business. She says she was desired to call by Mrs. Ashton, but that, if you are not prepared to see her, it is of no consequence.”

“Mrs. Ashton! Oh, yes; now I understand! Has she gone?”

The manner of Mrs. Dainty changed suddenly; and she made the inquiry with manifest eagerness.

“She acted as if she were going,” replied the waiter.

“Go back quickly, and say that I will be down in a moment.”

A gleam of satisfaction shot across the face of Mrs. Dainty.

“My new English governess!” she ejaculated, in a low tone, as the waiter left the room. “I’ll soon have a new order of things with the children!”

After slightly adjusting her dress, which had become disarranged during her sleep in the easy-chair, Mrs. Dainty put on as grave an air of dignity as she could assume, and went down to the parlor. As she entered, a tall woman dressed in black arose, and stood, awaiting her approach, with a half proud, half deferential air, fixing upon her at the same time two small, gray, piercing eyes, that seemed to go right through Mrs. Dainty. Her widow’s weeds, as the waiter had informed his mistress, were a little rusty; and the same might be said of her complexion. Her nose was rather a marked feature for prominence and size; her lips were delicate in comparison with the rest of her face, and had a certain flexibility which showed them to be quick indicators of feeling. The whole aspect of the face made upon Mrs. Dainty, at the first glance, rather an unfavorable impression; and she seemed to be pushed from rather than drawn toward the woman.

“Mrs. Jeckyl?” she said, assuming a frank, smiling courtesy, as she came forward and offered her hand.

“My name.” And the visitor bowed with a reserved dignity, giving only the tips of her fingers to Mrs. Dainty.

“Mrs. Ashton desired you to call?”

“Yes, ma’am. She said you were about changing your governess, and would like to see me on the subject.”

The woman’s manner a little embarrassed Mrs. Dainty: there was in it an air of conscious superiority that rather overawed her.

“I have dismissed an upstart American girl, who took on airs with both me and my children,” replied Mrs. Dainty, with considerable warmth.

“American girls, I have observed,” said the visitor, “are apt to forget themselves in the respect you mention. It grows naturally out of your system of government, I presume. This equality of the people must often show itself as an offensive element in society. I have been many times annoyed by it since I came to America.”

“Oh, it’s dreadful!” replied Mrs. Dainty. “Dreadful!”

“Like other evils,” was replied, “it will, I suppose, cure itself in time. People who can afford to be independent will throw off the rude familiars who thrust themselves too far in advance of their right positions.”

“Exactly so, as I have done in the case of Miss Harper, whom I sent off without a moment’s warning, for the offence of presumption. She very foolishly imagined that her judgment and her will touching the children were superior to mine, and ventured to set me at naught in their eyes. It was a bold experiment on her part, and proved, of course, a failure.”

“If all American ladies would act with a like decision of character,” said Mrs. Jeckyl, “a needed reform would take place much sooner than it is likely to occur while things go on as at present. But to the purpose of my visit. You desire, as I understand, to secure the services of a competent governess for your children.”

“I do,” replied Mrs. Dainty.

“So I have been informed; and I have called to see you at the particular request of Mrs. Ashton. I do not know that I am prepared to make a positive engagement at present, however. The position will be new to me; and I feel averse to assuming it. Having moved all my life in the best English society, I find it hard to repress a natural repugnance to becoming a mere employee—a kind of half servant—in an American family.”

“I am not surprised at the feeling,” said Mrs. Dainty, whose respect for the lady had mounted at least thirty degrees on the scale of estimation. “It would be strange if you felt differently. But I think we can make your position in our family wholly agreeable. At least, it shall not be my fault if there is any failure.”

“If the lady herself is on my side——” Mrs. Jeckyl paused.

“You need not be troubled for the rest,” said Mrs. Dainty, finishing the sentence.

“Very truly said,” was remarked, in a compliant, insinuating manner.

The two ladies then came down to a regular business interview, in which the questions of service and compensation were fully discussed. The terms of the applicant were high, and her stipulations varied. She was to have no care of the children beyond their education. Mrs. Dainty must have a nurse to give all attention to their bodily wants, while she administered solely to their mental needs. The hours of study must be fixed, and the nurse produce the children at the study-room doors precisely at the time specified. With the termination of the study-hours, all demands upon the governess for service in the family must end. After that her time must be her own. As to her meals, they must be sent to her room, and she must have the privilege of ordering as she desired from the day’s bill of fare. All this was imperative, and all this Mrs. Dainty yielded, so earnest was she in her desire to secure the services of this accomplished English lady.

“There is one thing of which I must advise you,” said Mrs. Dainty, during the interview. “We have residing with us a bachelor uncle of mine, who, being in no business, amuses himself by petty interferences in our family concerns. He is a terrible annoyance sometimes. I mention this in the beginning, that you may be prepared for him. One of the reasons why I sent off that American girl was, because he took her side in every thing, and encouraged her in all her airs and assumptions.”

“He must keep out of my way.” There was a peculiar lifting of Mrs. Jeckyl’s upper lip as she said this,—as we sometimes see it in an angry beast,—just showing her teeth enough to make it evident that she had the power to bite, and the will, too under sufficient provocation. The effect on Mrs. Dainty was not pleasant; but she waved aside the warning impression as something in which there was no meaning.

“Hold him entirely aloof,” she said. “Do not permit his interference in the smallest matter.”

“What right has he to interfere?” Mrs. Jeckyl showed a measure of womanly indignation.

“None!” was answered, with warmth. “None! I consider myself competent to decide in all questions touching the management of my own children, and his meddlesome interference puts me out of all patience. We must lay our heads together to circumvent him entirely.”

“Why circumvent?” said Mrs. Jeckyl. “Why take all that trouble? Isn’t there an easier and plainer way?”

“I do not wish seriously to offend my uncle,” replied Mrs. Dainty, slightly depressing her tone. “He is an excellent, well-meaning, kind-hearted man. I would therefore circumvent rather than harshly oppose him. He is rather quick-tempered, and an open rupture might ensue. The best way for you will be to keep him entirely at a distance. Stand wholly on your dignity. Do not respond to any suggestion or advice that he may offer in regard to the children, but keep your own counsel and carry out your own views.”

“Trust me for that,” said Mrs. Jeckyl. “He will always find me rock or India-rubber.”

“When will you come?” asked Mrs. Dainty, as this preliminary interview was about closing.

“As early as you desire,” replied the educated English lady. “To-morrow, if it is agreeable.”

“I wish you would say this afternoon.”

“This afternoon!” Mrs. Jeckyl opened her small gray eyes wider than usual.

“I have a particular reason,” said Mrs. Dainty.

“If it is very particular.” There was a yielding air about Mrs. Jeckyl.

“It is,—_very_ particular. I will explain. Uncle John knows nothing at all yet about my break with Miss Harper, and still thinks her in the house. Her services were obtained through him, and he seems to regard her as a kind of _protégé_. Now, in order to let him understand that I am entirely in earnest, and that her return is impossible, I wish him to learn two facts in the case at the same time,—that the old governess has left the house, and that a new one has entered. This will prevent a brief but unpleasant struggle for the mastery. You understand me?”

“Certainly.”

“And will remain?”

Mrs. Jeckyl reflected for some time.

“I see exactly what you wish to accomplish,” she said, “and sympathize with you entirely. To-morrow would suit me better; yet troublesome difficulties may pile themselves up between this and to-morrow.”

“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” remarked Mrs. Dainty.

“It is, as every one has proved a hundred times in life,” said the new governess.

“It will be wise for us, then, to use the ounce of prevention.”

“It will,” replied Mrs. Jeckyl.

“Then you will at once assume your new duties in my family?”

“Yes.”

“I am delighted at your compliance!” said Mrs. Dainty, pleased as an impulsive child in gaining some desired object. “We shall soon have a new order of things that will defy Uncle John’s petty interference. Come with me, and I will take you to your room and then introduce you to my children.”

Chapter IX.

The Shadow Of Evil.

Showing the room was a simple affair, but when it came to showing up the children the matter assumed rather a complicated aspect. Agnes was the first whom Mrs. Dainty ventured to introduce to the new governess.

“My oldest daughter, Mrs. Jeckyl,” she said, as Agnes, who had been summoned to the study-room, entered with a grave, half-wondering, perceptibly-clouded face. “Agnes, Mrs. Jeckyl, our new governess, who takes the place of Miss Harper.”

Agnes, who had advanced to within a few steps of her mother and Mrs. Jeckyl, stopped suddenly. The quicker-flowing blood dyed her face to a deep crimson. The tall, repulsive-looking Englishwoman—repulsive to the sight of Agnes—advanced a step and offered her hand; but, instead of taking the extended hand, Agnes merely returned her sharp penetrating look, with one half fearful and half repugnant.

“Why don’t you speak to the lady?” said Mrs. Dainty, with some sharpness of tone.

Agnes partially extended her hand, and Mrs. Jeckyl, changing her dignified look to one of smiling insinuation, accepted the reluctant courtesy.

“Sit down, my dear.” Mrs. Dainty’s manner changed, and her voice assumed its pleasantest tones.

The three then sat down, facing each other, but neither of them at ease.

“Mrs. Jeckyl,” said the mother, “has come to take the place of Miss Harper as your governess. She is an accomplished English lady, and will be very kind to you. I shall expect you to submit yourselves to her dutifully, and to be guided by her instructions. You are the oldest, my daughter, and your example to Madeline and George will be all-potent. As you lead, they will follow. Lead them kindly, then, into obedience and acquiescence. It is in your power to make this change an easy one for all parties. Confide in Mrs. Jeckyl. You will find her worthy of all confidence.”

“Believe me, my dear child,” (Mrs. Jeckyl took up the theme in a peculiarly insinuating voice, and with a smile that obliterated nearly every disagreeable feature in her countenance,) “that I am indeed your friend. I do not come here as a harsh, exacting tyrant, but as a sympathizing instructor. I shall not be over-exacting, though earnest in seeking your improvement. Do not fear that I will require you to run where only the skill to walk is possessed. Let us be friends in the beginning.”

And she seized the hand of Agnes and gave it a warm pressure.

Mrs. Dainty was delighted at this; it was so different from the cold, unbending manner of Florence Harper. She saw in it the polished complaisance of a superior, educated woman, in contrast with the weak, upstart pretensions of a presuming American girl elevated by circumstances into a position of authority.

But Agnes was not to be won over so easily. Young eyes often see deeper at the first glance than old ones. The hand taken by Mrs. Jeckyl gave no returning pressure. Mrs. Dainty was chafed at this, and said, with some impatience of manner, yet in a low tone, meant only for the ears of her daughter,—

“This is unladylike! Try and show a little breeding.”

“Oh, never fear, madam,” spoke out, in a free way, the new governess, who had heard the admonition: “we will be good friends enough. Your daughter must have time to make my acquaintance. First impressions are rarely continued. She will find me considerate, just, and sympathizing. I have been young, and can well remember the days of girlhood. Indeed, the child in me is not all extinguished yet. I like your daughter’s face, and see in it the index of a mind to which judicious culture will give strength and beauty.”

“Thank you for the prophecy,” said Mrs. Dainty, highly pleased with this well-timed remark. “I have seen that Agnes possessed more than ordinary endowments, and that all she wanted was a judicious instructor, who could be at the same time a wise and loving friend. Be that to her, Mrs. Jeckyl, and you will have our everlasting gratitude.”

“Trust me, madam, that I will seek the highest good of your children in all things,” was replied in a manner that was meant to be impressive, but which so thinly veiled the hypocrite that Agnes, whose eyes were upon the woman’s face, curled her lip in almost involuntary contempt.

“Call George and Madeline,” said Mrs. Dainty, but little encouraged by Agnes’s reception of the governess, and anxious to get matters settled between this latter personage and the children as quickly as possible.

Agnes left the room, and soon returned with her brother and sister. Madeline entered with a demure face, and shy, timid air; while George bounded in, boy-like, shouting at the top of his voice.

“George!” Mrs. Dainty held up her finger in a warning way.

George checked his rude manner, and stood with his large eyes fixed curiously upon the face of Mrs. Jeckyl, who tried to put on a most winning countenance. But, so far as the boy was concerned, her effort was entirely fruitless. To him her aspect was wholly repulsive.

“What old woman is this, mamma?” he asked, looking from Mrs. Jeckyl to his mother.

“Why, George! George! Hush! What do you mean? Where are your manners?” And the face of Mrs. Dainty crimsoned.

“You see, Mrs. Jeckyl,” she said, trying to apologize for the child’s rudeness, “how our children ape the coarse manners of these vulgar American domestics. Miss Harper, the governess whom I have just dismissed, has left her mark behind her, as you see; and a very ugly mark it is.”

“She isn’t ugly at all!” exclaimed George, by no means comprehending the drift of his mother’s remark, but understanding clearly enough that Miss Harper was the subject of disparaging words. “She’s beautiful, and I love her. I do!”

“Madeline dear,”—Mrs. Dainty turned from George, over whom she had but little influence, and spoke very pleasantly,—“let me present you to Mrs. Jeckyl, who is to be your governess in the place of Miss Harper.”

But the child, instead of advancing toward Mrs. Jeckyl, stepped back slowly,—as if the woman’s eyes were two broad, strong hands, pushing her away,—receding until she stood against the wall.

“Madeline! Come here this moment! What do you mean?” Mrs. Dainty spoke sharply.

The child now moved, sideling, along the wall, keeping her gaze fixed, as by a kind of fascination, upon Mrs. Jeckyl, until she came opposite lo where her mother was sitting. Then, not withdrawing her eyes for an instant from the strange woman’s face, she came forward and stood by her mother’s side.

“This is my second daughter, Madeline,” said Mrs. Dainty, pushing the child toward Mrs. Jeckyl.

“How are you, my dear?” Mrs. Jeckyl, seeming not to observe the intense repugnance of the child, reached out a hand, and, taking hold of Madeline, drew her almost forcibly to her side.

“What a nice little girl!” she said, holding her tightly in one hand, and smoothing her hair with the other. “What sweet curls! Where did you get them, dear?”

But Madeline, with a flushed, half-frightened face, tried to release herself from the woman’s firm grip.

“What dear children you have!” said Mrs. Jeckyl, now insinuating an arm around Madeline, and continuing to smooth her hair with gentle but regularly-repeated passes. “We shall be the best of friends in a little while. I shall love them very much.”

Once or twice Madeline, over whose face rapid changes were passing, (at one moment it was deeply flushed, and at the next overspread by a strange pallor,) made a spring in the effort to release herself. But the hand of Mrs. Jeckyl, that was upon her arm, tightened to a vice-like grasp, while the other intermitted not for an instant its regular motions, just above, or slightly touching, her hair.

“We shall be very good friends, madam,—the best of friends. I always attach children strongly.” Mrs. Jeckyl spoke confidently, and like one wholly at her ease.

At this moment Mrs. Dainty became oppressed with a feeling of vague terror, united with an almost intolerable repugnance toward Mrs. Jeckyl; and it was with an effort that she overcame the impulse to spring forward and snatch Madeline from her investing arm. A little while she struggled weakly against this strange feeling; then it passed slowly away, and, like one awakening from a dream, she found the current of her life moving on once more in its regular channels. But she had a different impression of Mrs. Jeckyl, and a new feeling toward her. It seemed as if they had been suddenly removed from each other, and to so great a distance that immediate contact was forever impossible. She was about suggesting that it might be as well for Mrs. Jeckyl to defer until the next day her formal entrance into the family, when she observed a change in Madeline, who, instead of endeavoring to get away from the new governess, now leaned against her, although the hand that held her a little while before was no longer closed upon her arm. Almost at the moment of noticing this, Mrs. Jeckyl raised the unresisting child to her lap, who leaned her head back against her, and gazed up into her face with a pleased, confiding, almost affectionate, look.

“I said we would be good friends.” Mrs. Jeckyl glanced with an exultant smile toward Mrs. Dainty. “I understand the art of attaching children. What a dear, sweet child this is! I promise myself a world of pleasure in entering into her pure young mind and storing it with lessons of wisdom. And your oldest daughter——”

Mrs. Jeckyl turned her glittering eyes—that seemed to have in them a charmed power—upon Agnes.

For a moment or two the young girl was retained by them, as if a spell were on her: then she turned away and fled from the room, her whole being pervaded by a strange sense of fear.

Not in the smallest degree did Mrs. Jeckyl seem to be disconcerted at this.

“Young people have curious fancies,” she said, in an even voice. “I am used to them, and know how to adapt myself to all these variant peculiarities. Give yourself no further trouble about my position with your children. I will manage all that. Leave me now with Madeline and George. I want to make their better acquaintance. Come, Georgie dear; I have in my pocket the funniest little box, with the funniest little man in it, you ever saw in your life.”

The funny little box, and the funny little man, won over the romping boy, and he went to the side of Mrs. Jeckyl without a moment’s hesitation.

It was as much as Mrs. Dainty could do to tear herself from the apartment and leave her two little children alone with this woman. She felt a vague sense of evil. A shadow, as from the wing of danger, seemed to have fallen upon her spirit. But Mrs. Jeckyl asked to be alone with them, and she felt that she must retire.

Chapter X.

A Little Breeze.

“Who is that old woman I met on the stairs just now?” inquired Mr. Fleetwood, late in the afternoon of the day made memorable by the entrance of Mrs. Jeckyl into the Dainty family.

“It is our new governess,” replied Agnes, to whom the question was addressed. A look of disgust marred her face as she spoke.

“Your new governess!” exclaimed Uncle John, in amazement. “When did she come, and where from?”

“She came two hours ago; but whether she dropped from the clouds, or was dug out of the earth, is more than I can tell. She’s horrible! I don’t know what’s come over mother!”

“Who is she? What is her name?”

“A wicked-looking old woman, whom mother calls an accomplished English lady. Her name is Jeckyl.”

“Jeckyl? Jeckyl?” Uncle John shook his head. “Never heard of her before.”

“Nor anybody else but mother. And where she found her, the dear only knows!”

“Why was Florence Harper sent away?”

A sad expression came into the face of Agnes, as she replied,—

“My fault, I suppose. In my blind self-will, I resisted her when she was right and I was wrong; and I complained of her unjustly. Mother talked very roughly to her,—she’s always done that; and then—and then, I believe, Miss Harper went away.”

“Miss Harper was a kind, good girl,” said Uncle John, “and tried always to do what was right. I am sorry you misunderstood or resisted her, for she was the best friend you will ever find in a governess.”

“I know she was, uncle; and I have learned it just too late. Oh, I would give any thing in the world to have her back again.”

“I must see your mother at once,” said Uncle John. “Where is she?”

“In her own room.”

“Will you say that I want her?”

Agnes went to her mother’s room.

“Uncle John wishes to see you,” said she.

“What does he want to see me about?” asked Mrs. Dainty.

“I don’t know. He’s waiting for you over in the sitting-room.”

“Tell him I’m engaged just now.”

But that reply didn’t suit Uncle John at all. His niece had no business to be engaged, to him!

“What is she doing?” he inquired of Agnes.

“Reading.”

“Ah, well! If she can’t come to me, I can, at least, go to her.” And Uncle John left the sitting-room. Mrs. Dainty started and looked confused as Mr. Fleetwood entered her chamber.

“Very particularly engaged?” said the old gentleman, a little sarcastically.

“I didn’t imagine that your business was one of life and death!” retorted Mrs. Dainty, with heightening color.

“And yet it may be, for all your defect of imagination,” said the old man, seating himself with the air of one who had something on his mind.

“Where is Florence Harper?”

“That is a question not in my power to answer,” replied Mrs. Dainty. “She left here some hours ago.”

“Why did she leave?”

“I sent her away.”

“For what cause?”

“She did not suit me.”

“In what respect?”

“In all respects.”

“A sweeping range of objections, truly. May I ask another question?”

“Forty, if you like.”

“Who is that old woman I met on the stairs a little while ago?”

“Old woman! I’ve seen no _old woman_.” Mrs. Dainty emphasized the last words.

“A middle-aged woman, then, with a hard—almost wicked—face. She was dressed in black.”

“Our new governess, probably,” said Mrs. Dainty.

“That old hag your new governess!” Uncle John felt outraged, and spoke intemperately.

“I beg of you not to use such language, Uncle John.” Mrs. Dainty affected calmness, and spoke in a tone of quiet rebuke. “The person to whom you refer is an accomplished English lady, whose husband—a man of rank, I believe—died in the East India Company’s service.”

“Poh! A cast-off, superannuated lady’s maid, more like!” retorted Uncle John, with overflowing indignation.

“This is insufferable!” exclaimed Mrs. Dainty, losing temper.

“What is insufferable?”

It was Uncle John’s turn to assume an exterior calmness.

“Your unwarrantable interference in our family concerns! It has come to a pretty pass when I cannot even buy a beefsteak, or turn off a disorderly domestic, but you must interfere in the matter and volunteer an ignorant condemnation. To tell you the plain truth, Uncle John, I am getting very tired of this, and wish it to end. I didn’t consult you about this affair, because I didn’t think it one in which you had any rights or interest.”

“Indeed! You ignore my interests quite summarily. Pray, did you consult your husband?” inquired Mr. Fleetwood.

“No, I did not!” was replied. “There was no occasion to worry his mind on the subject.”

“Probably you thought he had no more right in the case than your troublesome old uncle,” said Mr. Fleetwood, sarcastically.

“Whether he had or not doesn’t signify in the present controversy,” replied Mrs. Dainty, still showing a great deal of angry excitement. “I chose to send away an offensive, upstart American girl, who didn’t know her place, and who kept the children by the ears half of the time, and take in her stead an accomplished, middle-aged lady, with years and experience on her side. I have no question in regard to my husband’s acquiescence, and therefore shall not permit you to hector me on the subject. So pray, Uncle John, spare me any further annoyance! It will only tend to produce, in both of us, states of unkindness.”

“Where so much is at stake, I must venture much,” said Mr. Fleetwood. “I pray you, in turn, be not offended, if I press you on this subject. The love I bear for you and these children will not let me keep silence. You have strangely misapprehended Florence Harper. She——”

“Uncle John!” Mrs. Dainty interrupted the old gentleman, “I have shut the door against her: so let her name die in this house. I shall not consent to canvass with you either her good or evil qualities. I know just as much of her as I ever care to know.”

“What do you know of this Mrs. Jeckyl, to whom, in such mad haste, you have given over the care of your children? An accomplished English lady? Is that the extent of your knowledge? Did you ever hear of her before to-day?”

“Go on, Uncle John! Go on! I will try to be patient!” said Mrs. Dainty, leaning back in her chair and forcing to her lips a smile of resignation.

“A fig for your patience! Answer me in reason!” retorted the old gentleman.

“I will when I make you my father confessor; but not before. I have no need at present for such a ghostly appendage.”

In this spirit the controversy went on for more than half an hour, no advantage whatever being gained by Uncle John. Mrs. Dainty said that she had tried a governess of his selection, and tried her faithfully; and now she was going to try one of her own choosing, and, if he talked until doomsday, it would not, in the smallest degree, affect her purposes in the case.

Most reluctantly did Mr. Fleetwood consent to abandon the argument. He felt that too much was at stake. But a woman’s will in the case was altogether too strong for him. Mrs. Dainty had made up her mind to have her own way, and all remonstrance, argument, and persuasion went with her for nothing.

Chapter XI.

The Demon Unveiled.

“Such a scene as I have had with that meddlesome old uncle of mine!” said Mrs. Dainty to Mrs. Jeckyl. The two ladies met in the room of the latter, whither Mrs. Dainty repaired as soon as Mr. Fleetwood, hopeless of gaining any influence over her, had retired, discomfited, from the field of controversy.

“On what subject?” inquired the new governess.

“Oh, about you!” said Mrs. Dainty.

“About me? What about me?” The small, gray eyes of Mrs. Jeckyl lightened.

“I told you that Miss Harper, that abominable girl I sent off to-day, was a pet of his.”

“Ah, yes; I remember. Well, there’s one thing very certain, madam: he’ll find no pet or plaything in me!” There was the look of an ogre in the woman’s skinny face. “I met him on the stairs an hour ago: one glance told me his character. I read him like a book.”

“How did you read him?” asked Mrs. Dainty.

“He’s an old cot-betty! A thing I despise!” said Mrs. Jeckyl, with contempt.

“He’s kind-hearted.” Mrs. Dainty uttered a word of apology for Uncle John. It came from her lips almost unbidden.

“Kind-hearted! Any fool may be kind-hearted,” said Mrs. Jeckyl, “and yet be very annoying in his folly. I never had much fancy for what are called kind-hearted people by way of apology for a thousand annoying vices and defects of character.”

“Uncle John has few defects of character, and no vices.” Mrs. Dainty could not help this just defence of her excellent relative.

“By your own showing, madam,” said Mrs. Jeckyl, affecting a pleasant tone, “he is very much inclined to be meddlesome in your affairs: that I call a vice. If you think the appellation too severe, you can call the peculiarity by another name. I can’t tolerate such men!”

“I don’t ask your toleration of him. Only avoid, if possible, giving offence. For my mother’s sake, if not for his own, I must bear with him and treat him with all considerate kindness.”

“I’ll manage him,” said Mrs. Jeckyl. “So don’t give yourself any trouble about his interference with my duties or privileges in the house.”

There was considerable modification in the tone and manner of Mrs. Jeckyl. She saw that she had shown her rough side a little too plainly, and that there were reasons why Mrs. Dainty could not ignore Uncle John altogether.

“You must bear as kindly as possible with his peculiarities. He means well,” said Mrs. Dainty, as a very feeling sense of her many obligations to Uncle John, past, present, and to come, grew distinct in her mind.

“He won’t trouble me any.” Mrs. Jeckyl smiled in a lamb-like way,—or, rather, tried so to smile. But the effort was one so unusual to her that she failed in the result; and Mrs. Dainty was in some doubt as to the meaning of the curious expression that came into the woman’s face. She had visited the room of Mrs. Jeckyl for the purpose of having a very free talk about Uncle John, and also for the purpose of settling with that lady some very decided plans of operation in regard to him. But the spirit in which Mrs. Jeckyl showed herself disposed to act rather cooled her ardor, and set her to thinking in a new direction.

The conference closed almost abruptly, and little to the satisfaction of either party. Mrs. Dainty more than half repented of her hasty action in taking this strange woman into the house and giving over her children to a guardianship and an influence that might be for evil instead of good. When her husband questioned her, she put as bold a face upon the matter as was possible,—denouncing Miss Harper in unmeasured terms, and extolling the educated, accomplished English lady whom she had been so fortunate as to secure in her place.

“It is best, sometimes, to let well-enough alone,” said Mr. Dainty, on learning from his wife the change she had seen proper to make in a matter of so much importance. “And I think Miss Harper was at least well enough.”

This was all he remarked, and Mrs. Dainty saw it best to leave the matter, so far as he was concerned, just there. His easy indifference left her generally free to do about as she pleased: so, whenever he failed of prompt acquiescence in any course she designed to take, she pursued the easy policy of not disturbing his mind on the subject.

“Oh, she’s hateful! I’ll get a gun and shoot her!” It was little George who thus freely expressed his indignant appreciation of the new governess. He was talking to Madeline; and they were near enough to their mother’s door to be heard distinctly.

“I wish Miss Harper was back again,” said Madeline. Her voice had a mournful sound in the ears of Mrs. Dainty. “I loved her so.”

“Miss Harper was good, but this old woman is hateful. What made you sit in her lap and lean your head against her?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t help it,” replied Madeline, still speaking in a kind of plaintive way. “I wish mother would send her out of the house. I’m afraid of her.”

“I’m not afraid of her!” spoke out little George, boldly. “And I don’t mean to say a single lesson.”

“That won’t be right,” said Madeline. “She is our teacher, you know.”

“She isn’t my teacher if I don’t choose; and I don’t choose,” responded young America. “I’ll say my lessons to Miss Harper; and I won’t say them to anybody else.”

“Madeline dear!” It was a new voice among the interlocutors, and the tones send a strange thrill among the nerves of Mrs. Dainty.

All was silent for some moments. The presence of the new-comer seemed to have thrown a spell over the children.

“Come, dear; I want to show you something beautiful I have in my room.”

Mrs. Dainty sat breathlessly still, listening. There was the sound as of a child rising slowly from the floor.

“Come, George.” It was the same voice.

“A’n’t a-going to!” was the quick, sturdy reply.

“Yes, George; come. I’ve got some beautiful things up in my room.”

“Don’t go, Madeline!” said George. “She’s got a snake up there, and it’ll bite you! I saw it as I passed her door!”

“You wicked little wretch!” exclaimed Mrs. Jeckyl, thrown for a moment off her guard. “How dare you utter such a falsehood?”

“Mother!” It was the voice of Madeline, and its low tones came to Mrs. Dainty’s ears with such an appealing fear in them that she repressed only by a strong effort an impulse to rush forth into the passage and catch the child up in her arms. But she sat still and listened.

“Don’t go, Maddy!” persisted George, nothing daunted. “She _has_ got a snake there. I saw it.”

A wild cry of fear now broke from the lips of Madeline, that went thrilling through the house. Mrs. Dainty sprung from her room and caught the child from Mrs. Jeckyl’s grasp. As she did so, Madeline shrunk against and clung to her, while her whole frame quivered as you have felt a bird quiver in your hand.

“What ails you, dear?” Mrs. Dainty laid her face down upon the child’s face, and spoke very tenderly.

“It’s that wicked little boy of yours,” said Mrs. Jeckyl, “who has been frightening her with the story of a snake in my room. How dare you do so, sir?”

“Well, so you have!” persisted little Don’t Care. “I saw it. There it is now, in your bosom! See! If its head isn’t peeping out alongside of your neck!”

It was now Mrs. Jeckyl’s turn to start and look frightened. So natural and earnest was the boy’s tones, that even she was for a moment deceived, and clutched convulsively at the imaginary snake.

“Too bad!” she exclaimed, recovering herself. “Too bad!”

Others soon joined the little group at the door of Mrs. Dainty’s chamber; for the cry of Madeline had reached every ear in the dwelling. Among the first to arrive was Uncle John.

“She did it!” cried George, pointing to Mrs. Jeckyl. “She did it!”

“Did what?” asked Uncle John.

“Frightened Maddy! She’s got a snake in her bosom! Take care!”

“A snake!” Uncle John looked puzzled.

“I saw it in her room; and she’s got it in her bosom now,” persisted the little fellow, quite delighted in observing the storm he had raised, and more delighted at the discomfiture of the enemy.

“You wicked little wretch!” exclaimed Mrs. Jeckyl, advancing toward the boy.

George glided behind Uncle John, and, peering out from his place of refuge, made a new attack.

“They’re in her eyes now! Don’t let her come near you, sister Aggy! Take care, papa! _Old snake!_ She’s the mother of snakes! See! They’re crawling all over her!”

A tiger about to spring upon his victim could not have glared with two more cruel eyes than those that sought the form of little George.

“Silence!” cried Mr. Dainty, who had joined the excited company. “Silence!” he repeated, sternly, as George attempted to speak again. “What does all this mean?”

“It simply means,” said Mrs. Jeckyl, with forced composure, “that this little boy of yours has frightened his sister with an improbable story of a snake in my room. He seems to have a fruitful imagination, as he now multiplies the snake by a score, and covers my body with them.”

Uncle John now observed Madeline, who stood with her face hidden upon her mother’s bosom, and shrinking very closely to her, turn her head slowly and look at Mrs. Jeckyl. Her countenance was pale, and her eyes had a strange—almost terrified—expression. She gave only a single glance, and then hid her face again, while a low shudder was seen pervading her body.

“It is plain,” said Uncle John, taking advantage of the singular state of affairs presented, and addressing the new governess, “that your efforts to gain influence over these children have been unsuccessful, and that, judging from the present state of affairs, such efforts in the future will be hopeless. My advice to you, therefore, is to retire immediately.”

“I have no knowledge of you, sir, in the case,” replied Mrs. Jeckyl, growing at once self-possessed, and speaking with dignity. “I am here, under regular engagement with Mrs. Dainty, to perform a service to her children, for which I hold myself entirely competent, and to recede from which under the reaction of simple child’s-play like this I am not in the least inclined. Am I covered with snakes, sir?”

“Not literally,” replied Uncle John.

“Not literally! What am I to understand, sir, by your words?”

“Simply the meaning they convey to your mind. Nothing more.”

“Are there snakes in my eyes?” The woman was losing her forced composure.

“Say yes, Uncle John! Say yes!” spoke out little George.

“If you look into a mirror, you can see for yourself,” replied the old gentleman, who, now that he had come fairly into conflict with the stranger, determined to adopt any mode of warfare that would drive her from the house. “I don’t wonder that you frightened Madeline.”

“Uncle John!” Mrs. Dainty now made a feeble effort to speak in favor of her new governess. “This is insufferable! Am I to have no control in my own house? Are people to be insulted——”

“Oh, mother! mother! send her away!”

It was Madeline who interrupted Mrs. Dainty, as she lifted her face with a look of such pleading fear that it checked her utterance. And the shudder that thrilled the child’s frame was so strong that it sent the blood coldly to her mother’s heart.

“Madam!” (Mr. Dainty now assumed the controlling power, and spoke to Mrs. Jeckyl like a man who was in earnest,) “after this scene you cannot remain here in any comfort to yourself, nor in any acceptance in our family. I beg you, therefore, to retire from the house, and at once.”

“Sir——” Mrs. Jeckyl made an effort to reply, but Mr. Dainty would have no parley with her. “Madeline,” he said, laying his hand upon his wife and speaking very firmly, “go into your room with Maddy and George; and you, Agnes, leave us.”

There was no hesitation on the part of any thus addressed, for all, except George, were more than glad to get out of the presence of Mrs. Jeckyl. He,—little rebel!—as he went at his father’s bidding, looked back over his shoulder, and called out,—

“Snakes! Snakes!”

As soon as Mrs. Jeckyl was alone with Mr. Dainty and Uncle John, and found herself without any chance of holding the place she was in reality particularly desirous to retain, she gave full course to her indignant feelings, and for some minutes poured forth a torrent of mad invective. Not a single word was said in reply; and so, like one beating the air, she soon exhausted herself. Her departure was like the lifting of a storm-cloud from the dwelling of Mr. Dainty; but the storm did not pass without leaving some traces of its evil work. Scarcely had Mr. Dainty seen this woman beyond the threshold, ere he was startled by a cry of distress from his wife, and the eager calling of his name. On reaching the chamber from which her voice came, he saw Madeline lying upon the bed, pale and deathly in appearance; and when he laid his hands upon her he found that she was rigid and insensible.

Chapter XII.

A Fearful Mystery.

The family physician, who was hurriedly summoned to the strangely-affected child, entered the dwelling of Mr. Dainty in about thirty minutes after the departure of Mrs. Jeckyl. He found Madeline showing a few signs of returning animation, but not of conscious life. Her face was still of an ashen hue, and its expression painful to look upon. At first he asked no questions, endeavoring, by an observation of her symptoms, to comprehend the case. He soon saw that extraordinary causes had been at work, and that the child’s condition was one not to be reached through ordinary treatment. After looking at her for some minutes, and examining all the life-indications, he said, turning to Mr. Dainty,—

“How long has she been in this state?”

“More than half an hour.”

“What produced it?”

“I am not able to answer your question,—at least, not satisfactorily. To me her state is unaccountable.”

“Had she a fall, or a fright?” asked the physician.

“Neither. And yet her mind was seriously disturbed.”

“By what?”

“I can scarcely explain, for I am in doubt myself.”

“Perhaps your wife can answer my questions more clearly.” And the physician addressed himself to Mrs. Dainty. But the mother was silent. To her mind there was a deep mystery in the affair. That Madeline’s state was, in some way, dependent upon Mrs. Jeckyl’s influence over her, she had a vague conviction. But as to the manner and meaning of this influence she was in total ignorance.

“Will you inform me, as briefly as possible, as to the condition of things existing at the time this partial suspension of life took place?”

The physician addressed Mrs. Dainty.

“I think she was frightened at something said by George,” Mrs. Dainty answered.

“What was that something?”

“He said that our governess had a snake in her bosom, and that snakes were crawling all over her.”

The doctor looked thoughtfully upon the floor, and waited for additional information. But Mrs. Dainty said nothing further. Little George was standing close to the bedside. As the doctor raised his head, his eyes rested upon the boy’s face.

“I think,” he said, as he looked at the bright-eyed child, “that you must have seen very sharp to find serpents about Miss Harper.”

“Oh, it wasn’t Miss Harper!” replied the boy, in a quick tone: “she’s lovely!”

“Who, then, was it? I thought Miss Harper was governess to your children?” And the physician turned to Mrs. Dainty.

“No, sir; Miss Harper is no longer the governess of my children.”

There was a certain coldness of manner about Mrs. Dainty that was meant to repress inquiry on this particular subject.

“I hope, madam,” said the doctor, speaking with some earnestness, and a little severity of tone, “that you will be as unreserved as possible in your communications. Unless I have all the information in regard to the cause of Madeline’s illness that it is in your power to give me, it will be impossible to prescribe intelligently, or with any hope of reaching the case. Miss Harper, I understand, then, was not the person to whom your little son referred as having a snake in her bosom?”

As Mrs. Dainty did not reply immediately, Uncle John spoke out in his blunt way, and right to the purpose, saying,—

“No, it was not Miss Harper, but a wicked old hag that my niece picked up somewhere. If I had any faith in witchcraft, I would believe that she had laid a spell on Madeline.”

The doctor now turned to Uncle John.

“When did this new governess of whom you speak come into the family?”

“To-day.”

“Only to-day?”

“She came into the house only a few hours ago.”

“Was Madeline well this morning?”

“Perfectly.”

“This is a sudden illness, then?”

“So I understand it,” replied Uncle John. “How is it, Agnes?” And he spoke to the sister of Madeline, who was leaning over the bed, gazing with wet eyes upon her pallid face. “Did Madeline show any symptoms of illness before this sudden attack?”

“She has acted strangely ever since Mrs. Jeckyl came into the house.”

“Mrs. Jeckyl!” said the physician, in a tone of surprise.

The eyes of all turned quickly to his face with looks of inquiry.

“Do you know this woman?” asked Mr. Dainty.

“I am not certain. But I think I have heard the name before.” There was an air of evasion about the doctor.

“She is an Englishwoman,” remarked Mr. Fleetwood.

The doctor looked at Agnes, and pursued his inquiries.

“Acted strangely, you say. In what respect?”

“I can hardly explain, sir,” replied Agnes. “But I have heard tell of birds being charmed by serpents; and the way Madeline acted toward Mrs. Jeckyl made me think all the while of a bird and a serpent. I do not much wonder that Georgie saw snakes in her eyes. They were the strangest eyes I ever looked into, and made me shudder. She’s done something dreadful to Madeline!”

“Were they alone together?” inquired the physician.

“For a little while.”

“Did Madeline seem repelled, or attracted, by this woman?”

“Both. She appeared to be drawn toward her, yet acted like one struggling to get away. Oh, sir, it was dreadful! I never met so terrible a woman! Her eyes shone, sometimes, like coals of fire. I was afraid of her.”

“Did you see her put her hands on Madeline?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In what manner?”

“She held her with one hand, while with the other she smoothed her hair.”

“Did Madeline try to get away?”

“At first she did; but after a while all her struggles ceased, and she laid her head back against her, half shutting her eyes, and looking like one just going to sleep.”

The doctor’s countenance assumed a still graver aspect.

“Was this woman an entire stranger?” he asked, in tones of surprise, turning to Mrs. Dainty.

“She came highly recommended by Mrs. Ashton, as an accomplished Englishwoman, the widow of a distinguished officer who died in the service of the East India Company.”

“Her own story, I suppose, believed by Mrs. Ashton without evidence. And on this slight knowledge of the woman you placed these tender, impressible children under her control!”

And the doctor shook his head ominously.

“There has been harm done here,” he added, “beyond my skill to cure.”

“What harm?” Mrs. Dainty’s face grew suddenly as pale as the face of her unconscious child.

“Do you not know, madam,” said the doctor, “that there are men and women at this day who possess an evil power over the minds of those who submit themselves to their influence, stronger than even the witch of Endor possessed of old,—persons in mysterious league with evil spirits, who delight through them to break down the soul’s God-given freedom and make it the slave of their will? If this were my child, I would rather a thousand times see her pass upward into heaven than live on here exposed to the assaults of infernal spirits, who, in my opinion, have gained admittance to her through this evil woman’s power!”

“Doctor,” said Mr. Fleetwood, laying his hand upon the physician’s arm with some firmness of clasp, “no more of that, if you please! It is neither the time nor the place!”

“I stand rebuked,” answered the doctor. “But I feel strongly on this subject, and am apt to speak warmly.”

“Time is passing,” said Mr. Fleetwood, “and every moment is precious. This child needs your most skilful attention. I think you understand her case as fully as it can be understood through any further explanation at this time. We place her in your hands. Do for her to the utmost of your skill.”

Chapter XIII.

Doubt And Anxiety.

It was nearly two hours from the time the physician entered the house of Mr. Dainty before he retired, and then the night had fallen. He left Madeline in a natural slumber, and with her pulses beating evenly. She had recovered from her almost cataleptic condition with the rapidity of one awakening, and showed a tranquil rather than disturbed state of mind. The presence of the doctor seemed a little to surprise her, and she asked, as she looked from face to face, who had been sick. Soon after, like one overwearied, she sunk into a gentle sleep.

Before retiring from the house, the physician had a long conversation with Mr. Dainty and Mr. Fleetwood, in which he gave it as his opinion that Mrs. Jeckyl had attempted to gain a mesmeric influence over Madeline, and with a successful result that it was frightful to contemplate.

“She looked to me like a very fiend incarnate,” said Mr. Fleetwood. “I can believe any thing against her as to evil purpose; but I am hardly prepared to reach your conclusion in the case.”

“Has the child ever shown symptoms of nervous disease at all resembling her present affection?”

“Never,” replied Mr. Dainty.

“You heard Agnes describe the way in which she acted toward this woman?”

“Yes.”

“Was it not remarkable?”

“Very.”

“Have you any theory in regard to it different from mine?”

“I have no theory on the subject,” said Mr. Dainty. “The whole thing is beyond my reach.”

“Are you familiar with these modern phenomena, which some call, oddly enough, spiritualism?”

A look of disgust came into the face of Mr. Dainty, as he answered,—

“No.”

“If you were familiar with them, either from reading or observation,” said the doctor, “you might be inclined to think as I do touching your daughter’s sudden terror, which was followed by so deep a prostration of mind and body.”

“Her imagination,” said Mr. Fleetwood, “is no doubt far more active than we had supposed, and she may have an idiosyncrasy in regard to snakes which threw her into a condition of paralyzing terror when George declared that the woman had serpents crawling all over her. I am sure that her eyes were remarkably snaky at the time. This, to me, is a more intelligible explanation.”

The doctor did not urge his view of the case, although his response to Mr. Fleetwood was not of a character to show any leaning, on his part, to that gentleman’s opinion. After charging them to keep Madeline as free as possible from all disturbing influences, he went away, promising to call in the morning.

Before making his visit to the house of Mr. Dainty on the next day, the doctor, whose mind had become very much interested in Madeline’s case, called to see Mrs. Ashton, whom he knew very well. After making a few friendly inquiries about her family, he said,—

“You recommended to Mrs. Dainty an Englishwoman as a suitable person to take the place of governess to her children?”

An expression of surprise came into the face of Mrs. Ashton, as she answered,—

“I have not the pleasure of an acquaintance with Mrs. Dainty.”

For a moment the doctor looked puzzled. Before he had time to put another question, Mrs. Ashton said,—

“There is an Englishwoman named Jeckyl——”

“The same! What do you know of her?” The doctor spoke quickly, interrupting the lady.

“Very little,” replied Mrs. Ashton. “But why do you question me in regard to this woman, Dr. Edmonson?”

“Mrs. Dainty engaged her on your recommendation.”

“On my recommendation!”

“Yes.”

“In the first place, doctor, I don’t know Mrs. Dainty, except by sight; and, in the second place, I have never recommended Mrs. Jeckyl to anybody.”

“There has been some deception, then,” said Dr. Edmonson.

“There certainly has, if I have been made to endorse the woman. I did speak of her, to one or two persons, as an Englishwoman who desired to get the situation of governess, and I may have spoken of her as educated and accomplished,—not so much from my knowledge of her acquirements as from her own testimony in the case. And now I remember that somebody told me that Mrs. Dainty was about changing her governess, and that I mentioned this to Mrs. Jeckyl and advised her to see about the matter. This is the utmost of my doings in the case.”

“What is your impression of the woman?” inquired the doctor.

“Not particularly favorable,” said Mrs. Ashton. “I can hardly tell how she got access to my family in the beginning. At first I pitied her lonely and almost helpless condition in a strange country, and felt some interest in her; but this interest has steadily diminished, until now the woman is so repulsive that I can scarcely endure her presence.”

“And this is all you know of her?”

“All; and I am pained to think that she has been received into any family on my supposed recommendation. I should not like her to have a controlling influence over my children. But pray, doctor, what has happened in connection with her and Mrs. Dainty’s family? I hope she has not been robbing them, or any thing of that kind?”

“Nothing of that kind,” answered the doctor. “But I’m afraid she has been attempting mesmeric influence over one of Mrs. Dainty’s children.”

“Dr. Edmonson!”

There was about Mrs. Ashton a peculiar tone and manner that excited the doctor’s curiosity.

“Are you aware that she possesses any power of this kind?”

“Your question throws a flood of light into my mind,” said Mrs. Ashton, “and gives, I think, the key to a singular fact that has always puzzled me. On occasion of one of Mrs. Jeckyl’s visits here, my little Emmeline was suffering with a sick headache. You know how much she has been troubled with these headaches. She was lying on the sofa, with pale face, and red, suffused eyes, when this woman came in. Seeing that Emmeline was sick, she made a number of inquiries about her, and then, sitting down by the sofa, laid her hand, with a light pressure, as I could see, upon her head. ‘Poor child!’ she murmured, and then began stroking her hair. I noticed that she bent down and looked very intently into her face. I thought her manner a little curious, but did not regard it as significant of any thing unusual. This result followed: Emmeline, in less than two minutes, closed her eyes and went off into a deep sleep, which lasted over an hour, or until Mrs. Jeckyl ended her visit. On rising to go, she referred to the child, and, leaning over her, moved her hand, in what struck me as a singular way, over her face. Emmeline roused up instantly. ‘How does your head feel, dear?’ asked this woman. ‘It does not ache any,’ was answered. ‘I thought you would be better,’ said Mrs. Jeckyl, as if speaking to herself. Once or twice since, in thinking of this incident, I have had a vague impression that the sleep of Emmeline on that occasion was not a natural one, and that it depended, in some way, on the act of Mrs. Jeckyl.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Dr. Edmonson.

“You have not?”

“No: evidently the woman transferred, for the time, some will-force of her own to the child, producing temporary unconsciousness. Her spirit overshadowed the helpless little one.”

The words of Dr. Edmonson sent a shudder along the nerves of Mrs. Ashton.

“You frighten me!” she said.

“You have cause to be frightened. When half-insane men and women step beyond the orderly course of natural life and invoke powers of evil—for all things disorderly are evil—to enable them to exercise a mysterious and controlling influence over their weaker fellow men and women, there is subtle danger abroad, more fearful in its effects than the invisible pestilence walking in darkness and wasting at noonday. It is no light thing, Mrs. Ashton, to disturb the divine harmonies of the human soul,—to thrust an impious hand boldly down among its hidden strings! I am amazed at the folly and weakness that prevail on this subject,—at the singular infatuation of well-meaning persons, who permit themselves to become the instruments of invisible powers and influences the quality of which even the feeblest reason might determine. To hear some of these persons talk confidently, and with self-satisfied tone and countenance, about penetrating the arcana of the spiritual world, excites my mirth sometimes, but oftener affects me with sadness.”

“I have two or three friends,” said Mrs. Ashton, “who have been carried away by these things, and their lapse from reason has caused me deep regret.”

“You rightly designate their state of mind,” replied the doctor, “as a lapse from reason. No mind possessing a _true rational balance_ is in any danger of falling from its mountain-height and crystal atmosphere, where every thing is seen in its true relation, down into this miry valley, where the thick atmosphere distorts every object and mirage adds its mocking illusions. I am in no wonder at the result,—at toppling reason, lapsing virtue, desolated homes! Every tree may be known by its fruit; and the product of this has shown itself to be evil from rind to core!

“Never again, Mrs. Ashton, permit this woman Jeckyl to darken your chambers with the shadow of her presence. If she have once brought your little Emmeline under this direful influence of which we are speaking, she has disturbed the natural order of her mind and gained a certain power over her. A second trance will be induced more easily than the first. Even by her serpent-eye she may cast on her a spell.”

Mrs. Ashton grew pale and shuddered.

“I warn you in plain words,” added the doctor, “speaking as I think, and from a solemn sense of duty. Mrs. Jeckyl, if I am to judge by the way in which her presence and active sphere affected one of Mrs. Dainty’s children, has a potency of will almost irresistible. In Madeline’s efforts at resistance—for she manifested from the very beginning an intense repugnance toward the woman—she was thrown into a condition of trance profound almost as death. The state in which I discovered her, when summoned by the family, was not that of an ordinary suspension of vital powers. I saw in an instant that extraordinary causes had been at work. And I now fully comprehend the case. There has been a disturbance of the order of that child’s life that may never be corrected. Ah, Mrs. Ashton, a mother can never be too careful in the selection of those who are to be the daily companions, and, I might say, educators, of her children!”

From the house of Mrs. Ashton, Dr. Edmonson went to Mrs. Dainty’s. He found Madeline as well, apparently, as usual, and her mother’s cheerfulness restored. He made an effort to startle her mind with a clear apprehension of the danger through which the child had just passed, but only partially succeeded. Mrs. Dainty hadn’t much faith, she said, in the strange stories told about the power of mesmerists, and considered nine-tenths of the alleged phenomena as sheer delusion. She could understand how Madeline’s repugnance to Mrs. Jeckyl might have been so strong as to produce vital suspension for a period; but that Mrs. Jeckyl had gained any power over her was a thing not to be admitted for a moment.

The doctor observed Madeline very closely, and was satisfied that a change had taken place.

“Did you sleep well last night?” he inquired of her.

“Not very well,” was answered.

“Why?”

“I had ugly dreams, that waked me up.”

“Often?”

“Two or three times.”

“What did you dream about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try if you can remember one of your dreams.”

“I fell into the water once,” said Madeline.

“And that woke you?”

“No, sir; but I thought that Mrs. Jeckyl tried to push me under, and that made me wake up.”

The doctor looked very earnestly into Madeline’s face. Its expression troubled him.

“Can you remember another dream?”

“No, sir; I can’t remember any more.”

“You may be thankful, Mrs. Dainty,” said Dr. Edmonson, “that circumstances so soon showed the character of this woman. The harm she might have done your children is inconceivable.”

“I think you put too serious a face upon the matter, doctor,” replied Mrs. Dainty.

“Time, I fear, will tell you a different story,” said the doctor, as he arose to depart. “For the present let me enjoin upon you to keep this child as free as possible from all disturbing causes.”

Mrs. Dainty made no answer, and the doctor, bowing almost formally, bade her good-morning.

Chapter XIV.

Painful Consequences.

“Madeline.”

Mrs. Dainty looked up, a slight expression of annoyance coming into her face: Uncle John stood before her.

“Well? What is it?” She did not speak with an air of encouragement; nor did she by look or motion give the old gentleman an invitation to sit down. He had entered the library, where she was reading.

“I want to have a talk with you about the children,” said Mr. Fleetwood. He was altogether self-possessed, and his tone and manner were earnest.

A deeper shade of annoyance passed over the countenance of Mrs. Dainty.

“You still purpose having a governess?”

“I don’t know that I purpose any thing,” replied Mrs. Dainty. “I’ve had such wretched luck, so far, with governesses, that I shall hardly feel safe in trying another.”

“Why not recall Miss Harper?” said Mr. Fleetwood.

“Uncle John!” Mrs. Dainty turned upon the old gentleman a look of indignant surprise.

“The children are all attached to her; and she is pure-minded, true-hearted, and——”

“She’s insolent and upstart!” retorted Mrs. Dainty, with passion; “and I will never have her back in her old place.”

“You have altogether misapprehended Florence,” urged Mr. Fleetwood, with unusual earnestness of manner.

“I am not apt to misapprehend people,” said Mrs. Dainty, drawing her head up a little proudly.

“Have you noticed Madeline particularly, during the last few days?” inquired Mr. Fleetwood, after a pause.

“Particularly? How?” Mrs. Dainty looked curiously at the old gentleman.

“Do you see no change in her since that remarkable experience with Mrs. Jeckyl?”

“No,” was answered, without hesitation.

“I have.”

“Indeed! you are sharp-sighted, Uncle John!” Mrs. Dainty spoke lightly.

“Love is always sharp-sighted when danger is about,” was sententiously answered.

“You are fanciful.”

“No, Madeline!” The countenance of Mr. Fleetwood became still more serious. “No, Madeline; I am not a dealer in light fancies, but a man of sober thoughts and direct purposes, as you have reason to know. There is a change in our little pet, and one boding, I fear, unhappy consequences, unless she is at once surrounded by counteracting influences. The spirit of that bad woman, in overshadowing her, left something of its darkness on her young spirit.”

Mrs. Dainty sighed unconsciously.

“What is the change you have observed, Uncle John?” she said, her repellant manner subsiding.

“Do you remember to have heard her merry laugh ringing through the house as of old?”

Mrs. Dainty thought for a moment or two, and then replied,—

“I do not.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“No.”

“Come with me.”

The old gentleman arose, and moved toward the library-door. His niece followed him, with a look of questioning interest on her countenance.

“Where is she?” The mother spoke in a whisper.

“Step softly,” said Mr. Fleetwood.

From the library they went noiselessly up to the nursery.

“See!” And the old gentleman directed the attention of his niece to Madeline, who was sitting there alone, her back to the door, silent and motionless.

“She is reading,” whispered the mother.

Uncle John shook his head.

“Madeline!” Mrs. Dainty could not repress the impulse to speak.

The child started up and turned with something of a frightened look toward the door.

“What are you doing here all alone?” asked Mrs. Dainty.

“Nothing,” answered the child, looking confused.

“Nothing?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How long have you been here alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come down with me to the library.”

“I’d rather stay here,” replied Madeline.

“And I’d rather have you in the library,” said Mrs. Dainty, with an air of impatience.

“I wasn’t doing any thing,” urged Madeline.

“I didn’t say that you were. But that doesn’t signify. Come down into the library.”

“I don’t want to go down into the library.”

“Come! Do you hear me?”

But Madeline stirred not.

Mrs. Dainty was about starting forward to grasp the child’s arm and constrain obedience, when Uncle John held her back, whispering,—

“Patience! patience! Remember that you are now dealing with a diseased mind instead of a healthy one. There is something wrong about the child, and, if you love her, be prudent.”

“You deal in riddles,” said Mrs. Dainty, yielding to the constraining force of Uncle John. “Disobedience, it strikes me, is a disease that should be dealt with promptly.” She spoke in a whisper.

“Madeline!” There was a winning tenderness in the old man’s voice that found its way to the child’s heart, for she moved toward Uncle John and grasped his outstretched hand. The moment she felt its warm pressure, she shrunk close to his side, while a pleasant change in her young face revealed the change which had come over her spirit.

“I want you in the library,” said Mrs. Dainty, firmly. She did not think it right to let the child have her own way.

“Come,” Uncle John spoke, cheerfully; and moving away, Madeline followed without resistance.

But Mrs. Dainty failed altogether in awakening an interest in the child’s mind. Uncle John, thinking it best to leave them alone for a time, withdrew from the library. The mother, on whose mind a pressure of concern had fallen, took down a large volume of natural history, filled with costly engravings, and, opening it on a table, drew Madeline’s attention to the pictures.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” she said, pausing over a group of exquisitely-colored birds.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the child, in a tone that betrayed an entire lack of interest.

“Humming-birds! Oh, how beautiful!” The tones of Mrs. Dainty’s voice were animated. “This one with golden wings and emerald-green bosom is like the darling wee bird we saw this spring, fluttering among the honeysuckle-leaves in the garden. Isn’t it sweet?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was not a ripple of interest in Madeline’s voice.

“Don’t you like birds?” inquired the disappointed mother.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Here are two beautiful doves. How lifelike! It seems every moment as if they would fly away! A’n’t they lovely, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Dainty bent down and looked into the child’s face. Her eyes were not on the book, but cast dreamily to the floor, and there was in her countenance a sad expression.

“Madeline!” Mrs. Dainty spoke with a suddenness that caused her child to start and the varying color to dance over her face.

“What do you mean by this? I don’t understand you!” Mrs. Dainty’s mind was growing confused through impatience.

For an instant Madeline looked frightened, and then burst into tears.

“What are you crying about, silly child? What ails you?”

Madeline answered nothing, but wept more violently.

“Are you sick?”

“No, ma’am,” sobbed the unhappy child.

“What’s the matter with you, then?