They are real ones all right

``Dear,'' she said, ``have our room- mates gone?''

Breakfast at dawn.  The mountain girls were ready to go to work.  All looked sorry to have us leave.  They asked us to come back again, and they meant it.  We said we would like to come back--and we meant it--to see them--the kind old mother, the pioneer-like old man, sturdy little Buck, shy little Cindy, the elusive, hard-working, unconsciously shivery Mart, and the two big sisters.  As we started back up the river the sisters started for the fields, and I thought of their stricken brother in the settlements, who must have been much like Mart.

Back up the Big Black Mountain we toiled, and late in the afternoon we were on the State line that runs the crest of the Big Black.  Right on top and bisected by that State line sat a dingy little shack, and there, with one leg thrown over the pommel of his saddle, sat Marston, drinking water from a gourd.

``I was coming over to meet you,'' he said, smiling at the Blight, who, greatly pleased, smiled back at him.  The shack was a ``blind Tiger'' where whiskey could be sold to Kentuckians on the Virginia side and to Virginians on the Kentucky side.  Hanging around were the slouching figures of several moonshiners and the villainous fellow who ran it.

``They are real ones all right,'' said Marston.  ``One of them killed a revenue officer at that front door last week, and was killed by the posse as he was trying to escape out of the back window.  That house will be in ashes soon,'' he added.  And it was.

As we rode down the mountain we told him about our trip and the people with whom we had spent the night--and all the time he was smiling curiously.

``Buck,'' he said.  ``Oh, yes, I know that little chap.  Mart had him posted down there on the river to toll you to his house--to toll YOU,'' he added to the Blight.  He pulled in his horse suddenly, turned and looked up toward the top of the mountain.

``Ah, I thought so.''  We all looked back.  On the edge of the cliff, far upward, on which the ``blind Tiger'' sat was a gray horse, and on it was a man who, motionless, was looking down at us.

``He's been following you all the way,'' said the engineer.

``Who's been following us?'' I asked.

``That's Mart up there--my friend and yours,'' said Marston to the Blight.  ``I'm rather glad I didn't meet you on the other side of the mountain--that's `the Wild Dog.' ''  The Blight looked incredulous, but Marston knew the man and knew the horse.

That was Mart at last

``Mart!'' she said coaxingly; ``git up thar now an' climb over inter bed with that ar stranger.''

That was Mart at last, over in the corner.  Mart turned, grumbled, and, to my great pleasure, swore that he wouldn't.  The old woman waited a moment.

``Mart,'' she said again with gentle imperiousness, `` git up thar now, I tell ye --you've got to sleep with that thar stranger.''

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She closed the door and with a snort Mart piled into bed with me.  I gave him plenty of room and did not introduce myself.  A little more dark silence--the shaking of the bed under the hilarity of those astonished, bethrilled, but thoroughly unfrightened young women in the dark corner on my left ceased, and again the door opened.  This time it was the hired man, and I saw that the trouble was either that neither Mart nor Buck wanted to sleep with the hired man or that neither wanted to sleep with me.  A long silence and then the boy Buck slipped in.  The hired man delivered himself with the intonation somewhat of a circuit rider.

``I've been a-watchin' that star thar, through the winder.  Sometimes hit moves, then hit stands plum' still, an' ag'in hit gits to pitchin'.''  The hired man must have been touching up mean whiskey himself.  Meanwhile, Mart seemed to be having spells of troubled slumber.  He would snore gently, accentuate said snore with a sudden quiver of his body and then wake up with a climacteric snort and start that would shake the bed.  This was repeated several times, and I began to think of the unfortunate Tom who was ``fitified.''  Mart seemed on the verge of a fit himself, and I waited apprehensively for each snorting climax to see if fits were a family failing.  They were not.  Peace overcame Mart and he slept deeply, but not I.  The hired man began to show symptoms.  He would roll and groan, dreaming of feuds, _quorum pars magna fuit_, it seemed, and of religious conversion, in which he feared he was not so great.  Twice he said aloud:

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``An' I tell you thar wouldn't a one of 'em have said a word if I'd been killed stone-dead.''  Twice he said it almost weepingly, and now and then he would groan appealingly:

``O Lawd, have mercy on my pore soul!''

Fortunately those two tired girls slept-- I could hear their breathing--but sleep there was little for me.  Once the troubled soul with the hoe got up and stumbled out to the water-bucket on the porch to soothe the fever or whatever it was that was burning him, and after that he was quiet.  I awoke before day.  The dim light at the window showed an empty bed--Buck and the hired man were gone.  Mart was slipping out of the side of my bed, but the girls still slept on.  I watched Mart, for I guessed I might now see what, perhaps, is the distinguishing trait of American civilization down to its bed-rock, as you find it through the West and in the Southern hills--a chivalrous respect for women.  Mart thought I was asleep.  Over in the corner were two creatures the like of which I supposed he had never seen and would not see, since he came in too late the night before, and was going away too early now --and two angels straight from heaven could not have stirred my curiosity any more than they already must have stirred his.  But not once did Mart turn his eyes, much less his face, toward the corner where they were--not once, for I watched him closely.  And when he went out he sent his little sister back for his shoes, which the night-walking hired man had accidentally kicked toward the foot of the strangers' bed.  In a minute I was out after him, but he was gone.  Behind me the two girls opened their eyes on a room that was empty save for them.  Then the Blight spoke (this I was told later).

When Ellinor was somewhere about fourteen

He liked, too, to see what was doing in art, or in literature; and as he gave pretty extensive orders for anything he admired, he was almost sure to be followed down to Hamley by one or two packages or parcels, the arrival and opening of which began soon to form the pleasant epochs in Ellinor's grave though happy life.

The only person of his own standing with whom Mr. Wilkins kept up any intercourse in Hamley was the new clergyman, a bachelor, about his own age, a learned man, a fellow of his college, whose first claim on Mr. Wilkins's attention was the fact that he had been travelling- bachelor for his university, and had consequently been on the Continent about the very same two years that Mr. Wilkins had been there; and although they had never met, yet they had many common acquaintances and common recollections to talk over of this period, which, after all, had been about the most bright and hopeful of Mr. Wilkins's life.

Mr. Ness had an occasional pupil; that is to say, he never put himself out of the way to obtain pupils, but did not refuse the entreaties sometimes made to him that he would prepare a young man for college, by allowing the said young man to reside and read with him.  "Ness's men" took rather high honours, for the tutor, too indolent to find out work for himself, had a certain pride in doing well the work that was found for him.

When Ellinor was somewhere about fourteen, a young Mr. Corbet came to be pupil to Mr. Ness.  Her father always called on the young men reading with the clergyman, and asked them to his house.  His hospitality had in course of time lost its recherche and elegant character, but was always generous, and often profuse.  Besides, it was in his character to like the joyous, thoughtless company of the young better than that of the old--given the same amount of refinement and education in both.

Mr. Corbet was a young man of very good family, from a distant county.  If his character had not been so grave and deliberate, his years would only have entitled him to be called a boy, for he was but eighteen at the time when he came to read with Mr. Ness.  But many men of five-and-twenty have not reflected so deeply as this young Mr. Corbet already had.  He had considered and almost matured his plan for life; had ascertained what objects he desired most to accomplish in the dim future, which is to many at his age only a shapeless mist; and had resolved on certain steady courses of action by which such objects were most likely to be secured.  A younger son, his family connections and family interest pre-arranged a legal career for him; and it was in accordance with his own tastes and talents.  All, however, which his father hoped for him was, that he might be able to make an income sufficient for a gentleman to live on.  Old Mr. Corbet was hardly to be called ambitious, or, if he were, his ambition was limited to views for the eldest son.

as he expressed himself.

Mr. Wilkins liked to feel his child dependent on him for all her pleasures.  He was even a little jealous of anyone who devised a treat or conferred a present, the first news of which did not come from or through him.

At last it was necessary that Ellinor should have some more instruction than her good old nurse could give.  Her father did not care to take upon himself the office of teacher, which he thought he foresaw would necessitate occasional blame, an occasional exercise of authority, which might possibly render him less idolized by his little girl; so he commissioned Lady Holster to choose out one among her many protegees for a governess to his daughter.  Now, Lady Holster, who kept a sort of amateur county register-office, was only too glad to be made of use in this way; but when she inquired a little further as to the sort of person required, all she could extract from Mr. Wilkins was:

"You know the kind of education a lady should have, and will, I am sure, choose a governess for Ellinor better than I could direct you. Only, please, choose some one who will not marry me, and who will let Ellinor go on making my tea, and doing pretty much what she likes, for she is so good they need not try to make her better, only to teach her what a lady should know."

Miss Monro was selected--a plain, intelligent, quiet woman of forty-- and it was difficult to decide whether she or Mr. Wilkins took the most pains to avoid each other, acting with regard to Ellinor, pretty much like the famous Adam and Eve in the weather-glass:  when the one came out the other went in.  Miss Monro had been tossed about and overworked quite enough in her life not to value the privilege and indulgence of her evenings to herself, her comfortable schoolroom, her quiet cozy teas, her book, or her letter-writing afterwards.  By mutual agreement she did not interfere with Ellinor and her ways and occupations on the evenings when the girl had not her father for companion; and these occasions became more and more frequent as years passed on, and the deep shadow was lightened which the sudden death that had visited his household had cast over him.  As I have said before, he was always a popular man at dinner-parties.  His amount of intelligence and accomplishment was rare in --shire, and if it required more wine than formerly to bring his conversation up to the desired point of range and brilliancy, wine was not an article spared or grudged at the county dinner-tables.  Occasionally his business took him up to London.  Hurried as these journeys might be, he never returned without a new game, a new toy of some kind, to "make home pleasant to his little maid," as he expressed himself.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER III.



From that time the tie between father and daughter grew very strong and tender indeed.  Ellinor, it is true, divided her affection between her baby sister and her papa; but he, caring little for babies, had only a theoretic regard for his younger child, while the elder absorbed all his love.  Every day that he dined at home Ellinor was placed opposite to him while he ate his late dinner; she sat where her mother had done during the meal, although she had dined and even supped some time before on the more primitive nursery fare.  It was half pitiful, half amusing, to see the little girl's grave, thoughtful ways and modes of speech, as if trying to act up to the dignity of her place as her father's companion,
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till sometimes the little head nodded off to slumber in the middle of lisping some wise little speech.  "Old-fashioned," the nurses called her, and prophesied that she would not live long in consequence of her old- fashionedness.  But instead of the fulfilment of this prophecy, the fat bright baby was seized with fits, and was well, ill, and dead in a day!  Ellinor's grief was something alarming, from its quietness and concealment.  She waited till she was left--as she thought--alone at nights, and then sobbed and cried her passionate cry for "Baby, baby, come back to me--come back;" till every one feared for the health of the frail little girl whose childish affections had had to stand two such shocks.  Her father put aside all business, all pleasure of every kind, to win his darling from her grief.  No mother could have done more, no tenderest nurse done half so much as Mr. Wilkins then did for Ellinor.
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If it had not been for him she would have just died of her grief.  As it was, she overcame it--but slowly, wearily--hardly letting herself love anyone for some time, as if she instinctively feared lest all her strong attachments should find a sudden end in death.  Her love-- thus dammed up into a small space--at last burst its banks, and overflowed on her father.  It was a rich reward to him for all his care of her, and he took delight--perhaps a selfish delight--in all the many pretty ways she perpetually found of convincing him, if he had needed conviction, that he was ever the first object with her. The nurse told him that half an hour or so before the earliest time at which he could be expected home in the evenings, Miss Ellinor began to fold up her doll's things and lull the inanimate treasure to sleep.  Then she would sit and listen with an intensity of attention for his footstep.  Once the nurse had expressed some wonder at the distance at which Ellinor could hear her father's approach, saying that she had listened and could not hear a sound, to which Ellinor had replied:

"Of course you cannot; he is not your papa!"

Then, when he went away in the morning, after he had kissed her, Ellinor would run to a certain window from which she could watch him up the lane, now hidden behind a hedge, now reappearing through an open space, again out of sight, till he reached a great old beech- tree, where for an instant more she saw him.  And then she would turn away with a sigh, sometimes reassuring her unspoken fears by saying softly to herself,

"He will come again to-night."

Mamma! mamma!

And one day she went out of it altogether and for evermore.  She had been well in the morning when Edward went down to his office in Hamley.  At noon he was sent for by hurried trembling messengers.  When he got home breathless and uncomprehending, she was past speech.  One glance from her lovely loving black eyes showed that she recognised him with the passionate yearning that had been one of the characteristics of her love through life.  There was no word passed between them.  He could not speak, any more than could she.  He knelt down by her.  She was dying; she was dead; and he knelt on immovable.  They brought him his eldest child, Ellinor, in utter despair what to do in order to rouse him. They had no thought as to the effect on her, hitherto shut up in the nursery during this busy day of confusion and alarm.  The child had no idea of death, and her father, kneeling and tearless, was far less an object of surprise or interest to her than her mother, lying still and white, and not turning her head to smile at her darling.

"Mamma! mamma!" cried the child, in shapeless terror.  But the mother never stirred; and the father hid his face yet deeper in the bedclothes, to stifle a cry as if a sharp knife had pierced his heart.  The child forced her impetuous way from her attendants, and rushed to the bed.  Undeterred by deadly cold or stony immobility, she kissed the lips and stroked the glossy raven hair, murmuring sweet words of wild love, such as had passed between the mother and child often and often when no witnesses were by; and altogether seemed so nearly beside herself in an agony of love and terror, that Edward arose, and softly taking her in his arms, bore her away, lying back like one dead (so exhausted was she by the terrible emotion they had forced on her childish heart), into his study, a little room opening out of the grand library, where on happy evenings, never to come again, he and his wife were wont to retire to have coffee together, and then perhaps stroll out of the glass-door into the open air, the shrubbery, the fields--never more to be trodden by those dear feet.  What passed between father and child in this seclusion none could tell.  Late in the evening Ellinor's supper was sent for, and the servant who brought it in saw the child lying as one dead in her father's arms, and before he left the room watched his master feeding her, the girl of six years of age, with as tender care as if she had been a baby of six months.

Edward was annoyed at all this

Edward was annoyed at all this; Lettice resented it.  She loved her husband dearly, and was proud of him, for she had discernment enough to see how superior he was in every way to her cousins, the young Holsters, who borrowed his horses, drank his wines, and yet had caught their father's habit of sneering at his profession.  Lettice wished that Edward would content himself with a purely domestic life, would let himself drop out of the company of the --shire squirearchy, and find his relaxation with her, in their luxurious library, or lovely drawing-room, so full of white gleaming statues, and gems of pictures.  But, perhaps, this was too much to expect of any man, especially of one who felt himself fitted in many ways to shine in society, and who was social by nature.  Sociality in that county at that time meant conviviality.  Edward did not care for wine, and yet he was obliged to drink--and by-and-by he grew to pique himself on his character as a judge of wine.  His father by this time was dead; dead, happy old man, with a contented heart--his affairs flourishing, his poorer neighbours loving him, his richer respecting him, his son and daughter-in-law, the most affectionate and devoted that ever man had, and his healthy conscience at peace with his God.
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Lettice could have lived to herself and her husband and children.
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Edward daily required more and more the stimulus of society.  His wife wondered how he could care to accept dinner invitations from people who treated him as "Wilkins the attorney, a very good sort of fellow," as they introduced him to strangers who might be staying in the country, but who had no power to appreciate the taste, the talents, the impulsive artistic nature which she held so dear.  She forgot that by accepting such invitations Edward was occasionally brought into contact with people not merely of high conventional, but of high intellectual rank; that when a certain amount of wine had dissipated his sense of inferiority of rank and position, he was a brilliant talker, a man to be listened to and admired even by wandering London statesmen, professional diners-out, or any great authors who might find themselves visitors in a --shire country- house.  What she would have had him share from the pride of her heart, she should have warned him to avoid from the temptations to sinful extravagance which it led him into.  He had begun to spend more than he ought, not in intellectual--though that would have been wrong--but in purely sensual things.  His wines, his table, should be such as no squire's purse or palate could command.  His dinner- parties--small in number, the viands rare and delicate in quality, and sent up to table by an Italian cook--should be such as even the London stars should notice with admiration.  He would have Lettice dressed in the richest materials, the most delicate lace; jewellery, he said, was beyond their means; glancing with proud humility at the diamonds of the elder ladies, and the alloyed gold of the younger. But he managed to spend as much on his wife's lace as would have bought many a set of inferior jewellery.  Lettice well became it all. If as people said, her father had been nothing but a French adventurer, she bore traces of her nature in her grace, her delicacy, her fascinating and elegant ways of doing all things.  She was made

for society; and yet she hated it.