xt7fj678sw5q https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7fj678sw5q/data/mets.xml Holmes, Mary Jane, 1825-1907. 18881885  books b97-24-37872602 English G.W. Dillingham, : New York : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Bessie's fortune  : a novel / by Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. text Bessie's fortune  : a novel / by Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. 1888 2002 true xt7fj678sw5q section xt7fj678sw5q 



            a NeutL



                 AUTIOk c r

               NEW YORK:
   G. JfV Dilbzghaam, Publisher,
          LON1JON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
               MDCCC LXXXVIII.


  CoeIGrr, age,


Jo. 31GW7)  ESBRVO.


               TO MY NU'HEW,

              (OF WORCESTER, WASS.),



 This page in the original text is blank.



             PART I.
The Jerrolds of Boston, .
Grey Jerrold,
Lucy, .
Thanksgiving Day at Grey's Park,
The Old Man and the Boy,
Miss Betsey McPherson,
The Dinner at Which Bessie is Intr

VIII. After The Dinner,
IX. The [oi'rror at the Farmn-House,

The Interview,
At the Old Man's Bedside,
The Story, .
Facing it,
The Effect of the Story,
Grey and the Secret,
Expecting Bessie,

             PART II.
The McPhersons,.
At Monte Carlo,
Little Bessie,
At Penrhyn Park,
Seven Years Later,
Neil's Discomnforture,
Jack and Bessie,
Christmas at Stoneleigh,
Grey, .

  ,   .  36
      I 50
roduced,   54
     . 103
     . 112

.   .  .  131
 .     . 137
 . .   .  '43
.   .     150
    . 1 56
 . .     172
 . .   . ]9o
I,      . 201
    .   . 215






(Cspter                                      fP69
   XI. Christmas Day,   .     .               225
   XII. The Contract,      .   .    .       . 234
 XIII. The New Grey, .   .    .   .   .      240
 XIV. Miss McPherson and the Letter   .    .243
 XV. From January to March,  .   .          249
 XVI. From March to June, .   .   '   .    . 255
 XVII. Mrs. Rossiter-Browne,   .   .   .    . 262
XVIII. The Birds which sang, and the shadows which
           Fell,    .   .   .      .   .   .  270
 XIX. What Grey and Jack Did, .   .   .    . 280
 XX. What The McPhersons Did,        .    . 28!
 XXI. What Daisy Did,     .   .   .          29  

                   PART   III.
    I. In Rome,             .   .          . 310
    II. Farewell,           .              . 318
    III. Dead,     .   .   .    .         .    323
  IV. Poor Daisy,    .   .              .    329
  V. Bessie's Decision,      .       .    . 339
  VI. In Liverpool,  .   .    .     .      . 342
  VII. On the Ship,     .     .    .   .   . 350
  VIII. Grey and his Aunt,     .      .     . 356
  IX. Bessie is Promoted.  .    .     .   . 360
    X. Bessie meets her Aunt,  .   .   .   . 368
    XI. Miss McPherson's Housemaid, .   .   . 374
  XII. Bessie's Successor,  .   .    .     . 386
  XIII. Bessie goes to Grey's Park         . 393
  XIV. Telling Bessie,.   .    .   .   .    . 399
  XV. Wedding Bells,   .    .   .     .    . 407
  XVI. Bessie's Fortune,       .        .   . 413
XVII. Old Friends,       .    .   .        . 423
XVIII. Home again,          .               . 431
XIX. Joel Rogers' Mon lment,              . 435
  XX  After Five Years,       .    .    .




                    PART I.

                  CHAPTER I.


n A-RS. GERALDINE JERROLD, of Boston, had
         in her girlhood been Miss Geraldine Grey,
         of Allington, one of those quiet, pretty little
         towns which so thickly dot the hills and
         valleys of New England. Her father, who
died before her marriage, had been a sea-captain, and a
man of great wealth, and was looked upon as a kind of
autocrat, whose opinion was a law and whose friendship
was an honor. When a young lady, Miss Geraldine had
chafed at the stupid town and the stupider people, as
she d(esignated the citizens of Allington, and had only
been happy when the house at Grey's Park was full of
guests after the manner of English houses, where hospi-
tality is dispensed oil a larger scale than is common in
America. She had been abroad, and had spent some
weeks in Derbyshire at the Peacock Inn, close to the
park of Chatsworth, which she admired so much that on
her return to Allington she never rested until the five
acres of land, in the midst of which her father's house
stood, were improved and fitted up as nearly as possible
like the beautiful grounds across the sea. With good
taste and plenty of money, she succeeded beyond her
most sanguine hopes, and Grey's Park was the pride of
the town, and the wonder of the entire county. A kind
        1                             1



Of show place it became, and Miss Geraldine was never
happier or prouder than when strangers were going over
the grounds or through the house, which was filled with
rare pictures and choice statuary gathered from all parts
of the world, for Captain Grey had brought something
curious and costly from every port at which his vessel
touched, so that the house was like a museum, or, as
Miss Geraldine fancied, like the palaces and castles in
Europe, which are shown to strangers in the absence of
the family.
   At the age of twenty-two, Miss Geraldine had mar-
ried Burton Jerrold, a young man from one of the lead-
ing banks in Boston, and whose father, Peter Jerrold,
had, for years, lived on a small farm a mile or more
from the town of Allington. So far as Geraldine knew,
the Jerrold blood was as good as the Grey's, even if old
Peter did live a hermit Life and wear a drab overcoat
which must have dated back more years than she could
remember. No one had ever breathed a word of censure
against the peculiar man, who was never known to
smile, and who seldom spoke except he was spoken
to, and who, with his long white hair falling around his
thin face, looked like some old picture of a saint, when
on Sunday he sat in his accustomed pew by the door,
and like the publican, seemed almost to smite upon his
breast as he confessed himself to be a miserable sinner.
   Had Burton Jerrold remained at home and been con-
tent to till the barren soil of his father's rocky farm, not
his handsome face, or polished manners, or adoration of
herself as the queen of queens, could have won a second
thought from Geraldine, for she hated farmers, who
smelled of the barn and wore cowhide boots, and would
sooner have died than been a farmer's wife. But Bur-
ton had never tilled the soil, nor worn cowhide boots
nor smelled of the barn, for when he was a mere bo),
his mother died, and an old aunt, who lived in Boston,
took him for her own, and gave him all the advantages
of a city education until he was old enough to enter one
of the principal banks as a clerk; then she died and left
him all her fortune, except a thousand dollars which she
gave to his sister Hannah, who still lived at home upon
the farm, and was almost as silent and pecaliar as tie
tather him.self,




   " Marry one of the Grey girls if you can," the aint
had said to her nephew upon her death bed. " It .s a
good family, and blood is worth more than money ; it
goes further toward securing you a good position in
Boston society. The Jerrold blood is good, for aught I
know, though not equal to that of the Greys.  Your
father is greatly respected in Allington, where he is
known, but he is a codger of the strictest type, and clings
to everything old-fashioned and oaure. He has resisted
all my efforts to have him change the house into some-
thing more modern, even when, for tho sake of your
mother, I offered to do it at my own expense. Especially
was I anxious to tear down that projection which he
calls a lean-to, but when I suggested it to him, and said
I would bring a carpenter at once, lhe flew into such a
passion as fairly frightened me.  'The lean-to should
not be touched for a million of dollars ; he preferred it
as it was,' he said ; so I let him alone. He is a strange
man, and-and-Burton, I may be mistaken, but I have
thought there was something lie was hiding. Else, why
does he never smile, or talk, or look you straight in the
face And why is he always br-ooding, with his head
bent down and his hands clenched together  Yes, there
is something hidden, and Hannah knows it, and this it is
which turned her hair grey so early, and has made her
as queer and reticent as your father. There is a secret
between them, but do not trv to discover it. There may
be disgrace of some kind which would affect your whole
life, so let it alone. Make good use of what I leave you,
and marry one of the Greys. Lucy is the sweeter and
the more amiable, but Geraldine is more ambitious and
will help you to reach the top."
   This was the last conversation Mrs. Wetherby ever
held with her nephew, for in two days more she was
dead, and Burton buried her in Mt. Auburn, and went
back to the house which was now his, conscious of three
distinct ideas which even during the funeral had recurred
to him constantly. First, th it he was the owner of a
large house and twenty thousand dollars; second, that
he must marry one of the Greys, if possible; and third.
that there was some secret between his father and hiz
sister Hannah; something which had made them whit
they were; something which had given his father the




me of the half-crazy hermit, and to his sister that 4
the recluse; something which he must never try to
unearth, lest it bring disquiet and disgrace.
   That last word had an ugly sound to Burton Jerrold,
who was more ambitious even than his aunt, more
anxious that people in high positions should think well
of him, an-i he shivered as he repeated it to himself,
while all sorts of fancies flitted though his brain.
   " Nonsense !" he exclaimed at last, as he arose, and,
walking to the window, looked out upon the common,
where groups of children were playing. " There is noth-
ing hidden. Why should there be  My father has
never stolen, or forged, or embezzled, or set any one's
house on fire. They esteem him a saint in Allington,
and I know he reads his Bible all the time when he is
not praying, and once he was on his knees in his bed-
room a whole hour, for I timed him, and thought he
must be crazy. Of course so good a man can have noth-
ing concealed, and yet-"
   Here Burton shivered again, and continued: "And
yet, I always seem to be in a nightmare when I am at the
old hut, and once I told Hannah I believed the house
was haunted, for I heard strange sounds at night, soft
footsteps, and moans, and whisperings, and the old dog
Rover howled so dismally, that he kept me awake, and
made me nervous and wretched. I don't remember what
Hannah said, except that she made light of my fears, and
told me that she would keep Rover in her room at night
on the floor by her bed, which she did ever after when I
was at home. No, there is nothing, but I may as well
sound Hannah a little, and will go to her at once."
   When Mrs. Wetherby died, her nephew sent a mes-
sage to his father and sister, announcing her death, and
the time of the funeral. He felt it his duty to do so
much, but he did not say to them, " Come, I expect volv."
In fact, away down in his heart, there was a hope t'nat
they would not come. His father was well enough in
Aiiington, where he was known ; but, what a figure he
would cut in Boston, in his old drab surtout and white
hat, which he had worn since Burton could remember.
Hannah was different, and must have been Dretty in her
early girlhood. Indeed, she was pretty now. and no one
could Io1pJ into Jwr pale, sad face, and soft dark eyes, or



listen to her low, sweet voice, without being attracted to
her and knowing instinctively that, in spite of her plain
Qurakerish dress, she was a lady in the true sense of the
word. So, when she came alone to pay the last token of
respect to the aunt who had never been very gracious to
her, Burton felt relieved, though he wished that her bon-
net was a little more fashionable, and suggested her
ba;ying a new one, which hie would pay for. But Hannah
said " no," very quietly and firmly, and that was the end
of it. The old style bonnet was worn as well as the old
style cloak, and Burton felt keenly the difference between
her personal appearance and his own. He, the Boston
dandy, with every article of dress as faultless as the best
tailor could make it, and she, the plain countrywoman,
with no attempt at style or fashion, with nothing but her
own sterling worth to commend her, and this was far
more priceless than all the wealth of the Indies. Hannah
Jerrold had been tried in the fire, and had come out
purified and almost Christlike in her sweet gentleness
and purity of soul. She knew her brother was ashamed
of her-whether designedly or not, he always made her
feel it-but she had felt it her duty to attend her aunt's
funeral, even though it stirred anew all the bitterness of
her joyless life.
   And now the funeral was over, and she was going
home that very afternoon-to the gloomy house among
the rocks, where she had grown old, and her hair gray
long before her time-going back to the burden wvhicl
pressed so heavily upon her, and from which she shrank
as she had never done before. Not that she wished to
stay in that grand house, where she was so sadly out of
place, but she wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, so
that she escaped from the one spot so horrible to her.
She was thinking of all this and standing with her face
to the window, when her brother entered the room and
began, abruptly:
   " I say, Hannah, I want to ask you something. Just
before Aunt Wetherby died, she had a long talk with me
on various matters, and among other things she said she
believed there was something troubling you and father,
some secret you were hiding froen me and the wo Id.
Is it so Do you know anything which I do not"
   " Yes, many things."


   The voice which gave this reply was not like Hannah's
voice, but wvas hard and sharp, and sounded as if a great
ways off, and Burton could see how violently his sister
was agitated, even though she stood with her back to
7 -m  Suddenly he remembered that his aunt had alsc
said: " If there is a secret, never seek to discover it, lest
it should bring disgrace." And here he was, trying to
find it out almost before she was cold. A great fear took
possession of Burton then, for he was the veriest moral
coward in the world, and before Hannah could say
another word, he continued:
   "Yes, Aunt Wetherby was right. There is some-
thing; there has always been something; but don't tell
me, please. I'd rather not know."
   He spoke very gently for him, for somehow, there
had been awakened within him a great pity for his sister,
and by some sudden intuition he seemed to understand
all her loneliness and pain. If there had been a wrong-
doing it was not her fault; and as she still stood with
her back to him, and did not speak, he went up to her,
and laying his hand upon her shoulder, said to her:
   " I regret that I asked a question which has so
agitated you, and, believe me, I am sorry for you, for
whatever it is, you are innocent."
   Then she turned toward him with a face as white as
ashes and a look of terror in her large black eyes, before
which he quailed. Never in his life, since he was a
little child, had he seen her cry, but now, after regarding
him fixedly a moment, she broke into such a wild fit of
sobbing that he became alarmed, and passing his arm
around her, lead her to a seat and made her lean her
head upon him, while he smoothed her heavy hair, which
was more than half gray, and she was only three years
his senior.
   At last she grew calm, and rising up, said to him
   "Excuse me, I am not often so upset-I have not
cried in years-not since Rover died," here her voice
trembled again, bat she went Dn quite steadily. " He
was all the companion I had, you know, and he was so
faithful, so true. Oh, it almost broke my heart when he
died and left me there alone !"
   There was a world of pathos in her voice, as she
uttered the last two words, " There alone," and it



tlashel upon Burton that there was more meAning in
them than was at first indicated; that o live there alone
was something from which his sister recoiled  Stand-
ing before her, with his hand still upon her head, he
remembered, that she had not always been as she was
now, so quiet and impassive, with no smile u:pon her
face, no joy in her dark eyes. As a young girl, in the
days when lie, too, lived at home, and slept under the
rafters in the low-roofed house, she had been full of life
and frolic, and played with him all day long. She was
very pretty then, and her checks, now so colorless, were
red as the damask roses which grew by the kitchen door,
while her wavy hair was brown, like tie chestnuts they
used to gather from the trees, in the rocky pasture land.
It was was wavy still, and soft and luxurient, but it was
iron grey, and she wore it plain, in a knot at the back of
her head, and only a few short hairs, which would curl
about her forehead in spite of her, softened the severity
of her face. Just when the change began in his sister,
Burton could not remember, for, on the rare occasions
when lie visited his home he had not been a close
observer, and had only been conscious of a desire to
shorten his stay as much as possible, and return to fiis
aunt's house, which was much more to his taste. He
should die if he had to live in that lonely spot, he thought,
and in his newly awakened pity for his sister, he said to
1ier, impulsively:
   " Don't go back there to stay. Live with me. I am
all alone, and must have some one to keep my house.
You and I can get on nicely together."
   He made no mention of his father, and lie did not half
mean what he said to his sister, and had she accepted his
offer lie would have regretted that it had ever been made.
But she did not accept it, and she answered him at once:
   " No, Burton, so long as father lives I must stay with
him, and you will be happier without than with me.
We are not at all alike. But I thank you for asking me
all the same, and now it is time for me to go, if I take
the four o'clock train. Father will be expecting me."
  Burton went with her to the train, and saw her into
the car, and bought her Harper's Aon/tiy, and b.de her
good-by, and then, in passing out, met and lifted hi. naa


to the Misses Grey, Lucy and Geraldine, who had been
visiting in Boston, and were returning to Allington.
   This encounter drove his sister from his mind, and
made him think of his aunt's injunction to marry one of
the Greys. Lucy was the prettier and gentler of the
two, the one whom everybody loved, and who would
make him the better wife. Probably, too, she would be
more easily won than the haughty Geraldine, who had
not many friends. And so, before he reached his house
on Beacon street, he had planned a matrimonial campaign
and carried it to a successful issue, and made sweet Lucy
Grey the mistress of his home.
   It is not our purpose to enter into the details of Bur-
ton's wooing. Suffice it to say, that it was unsuccessful,
for Lucy said " No," very promptly, and then he tried
the proud Geraldine, who listened to his suit, and, after
a little, accepted him, quite as much to his surprise as to
that of her acquaintances, who knew her ambitious
   " Anything to get away from stupid Allington," she
said to her sister Lucy, who she never suspected had been
Burton's first choice. " I hate the country, and I like
Boston, and like Mr. Jerrold well enough. He is good-
looking, and well-mannered, and has a house and twenty
thousand dollars, a good position in the bank, and no
bad habits. Of course, I would rather that his father and
sister were not such oddities: but I am not marrying
them, and shall take good care to keep them in their
places, which places are not in Boston."
   And so the two were married, Burton Jerrold and
Geraldine Grey, and there was a grand wedding, at
Grey's Park, and the supper was served on the lawn,
where there was a dance, and music, and fireworks in the
evening ; and Sam Lawton, a half-witted fellow, went
up in a balloon, and came down on a pile of rocks on
the Jerrold farm, and broke his leg; and people were
there from Boston, and Worcester, and Springfield, and
New York, but very few from Allington, for the reason
that very few were bidden. Could Lucy have had her
way, the whole town would have been invited; but
Geraldine overruled her, and made herself life-long ene-
mies of the people who had known her from childhood.
Peter Jerrold staid at home, just as Burton hoped he




would, but Hannah was present, in a new gra: silk, with
some old lace, and a bit of scarlet ribbon at I er throat,
and her hair arranged somewhat after the fash on of the
times. This was the suggestion of Lucy Grey, who had
more influence over Hannah Jerrold than any one else
in the world, and when she advised the new silk, and the
'old lace, and the scarlet ribbon, Hannah assented readily,
and looked so youthful and pretty, in spite of her thirty
years, that the Rev. Mr. Sanford, who was a bachelor,
and had preached in Allington for several years, paid
her marked attention, helping her to ices, and walking
with her for half an hour on the long terrace in a corner
of the park.
   There was a trip to Saratoga, and Newport, and the
Catskills, and then, early in September, Burton brought
his bride to the house on Beacon street, which Geraldine
at once remodeled and fitted up in a style worthy of her
means, and of the position she meant her husband to
occupy. He was a growing man, and from being clerk
in a bank, soon came to be cashier, and then president,
and money and friends poured in upon him, and Geral-
dine's drawing-rooms were filled with the elite of the
city.  The fashionables, the scholars, the artists, and
musicians, and whoever was in any degree famous, met
with favor from Mrs. Geraldine, who liked nothing
better than to fill her house with such people, and fancy
herself a second Madame De Stael, in her character as
hostess. All this was very pleasing to Burton, who,
having recovered from any sentimental feeling he might
have entertained for Lucy, blessed the good fortune
which gave him Geraldine instead. fe never asked him-
self if he loved her; he only knew that he admired, and
revered, and worshiped her as a woman of genius and
tact; that what she thought, he thought; what she
wished, he wished; and what she did he was bound to
say was right, and make others think so too. There had
been a condescension on her part when she married him,
and she never let him forge'. it; while he, too, mentally
acknowledged it, and felt that, for it, he owed her Fe Jcct
allegiance, from which he never swerved,





                   CHAPTER II.

                   GREY JERROLD.

        UST a year after the grand wedding at GreVI
          Park, there was born to Burton and Getal-
          dine a little boy, so small and frail and puny,
          that much solicitude would have been felt for
          him had there not been a greater anxiety for
the young mother, who went so far down toward the
river of death that every other thought was lost in the
great fear for her. Then the two sisters, Hannah and
Lucy, came, the latter giving all her time to Geraldine,
and the former devoting herself to the feeble little child,
whose constant wail so disturbed the mother that she
begged them to take it away where she could not hear it
cry, it made her so nervous.
   Geraldine did not like children, and she seemed to
care so little for her baby that Hannah, who had loved
it with her whole soul the moment she took it in her
arms and felt its soft cheek against her own, said to her
brother one day:
   " I must go home to-morrow, but let me take baby
with me. His crying disturbs your wife, who hears him
however far he may be from her room. He is a weak
little thing, but I will take the best of care of him, and
bring him back a healthy boy."
   Burton saw no objection to the plan, and readily gave
his consent, provided his wife was willing.
   Although out of danger, Geraldine was still too sick
to care for her baby, and so it went with Hannah to the
old home among the rocks, where it grew round and
plump, and pretty, and filled the house with the music of
its cooing and its laughter, and learned to stretch its fat
hands toward the old grandfather, who never took it in
his arms, or laid his hands upon it. But Hannah once
saw him kneeling by the cradle where the child was
sleeping, and heard him whisper through his tears:
   "God bless you, my darling boy, and may you never
know wl-at it is to sin as I have sinned, until I am not



worthy to touch you with my finger' Oh, God fo;give
and make me clean as this little child."
   Then Hannah knew why her father kept aloof from
his grandson, and pitied him more than she had done
   It was the first of October before Geraldine came up
to Allington to claim her boy, of whom she really knew
   Only once since her marriage had she been to the
tarm-house, and then she had driven to tlme door in her
handsome carriage with the high-stepping bays, and had
held up her rich silk dress as she passed through the
kitchen into the " best room," around which she glanced
a little contemptuously.
    Not as well furnished as my cook's room," she
thought, but she tried to be gracious, and said how clean
every thing was, and asked Hannah if she did not get
very tired doing her own work, and praised the dahlias
growing by the south door, and ate a few plums, and
drank some water, which she said was so cold that it
made her think of the famous well at Carisbrooke Castle
on the Isle of Wight.
   " Your well must be very deep. Where is it" she
asked, not because she cared, but because she must say
someth ig.
   On being told it was in the woodshed she started for
it, and mistaking the door, was walking into a bedroom,
when she was seized roughly by her father-i'-law, whose
face was white as ashes, and whose voice shook, as he
   "Not in there; this is the way."
   For an instant Geraldine looked at him in surprise
he seemed s- agitated ; then, thinking to herself that
probably his room was in disorder, and the bed unmade,
she dismissed it from her mind, and went to investigate
the well, whose water tasted like that at Carisbrooke
   Half an hour in all she remained at the farm-house,
and that was the only time she had honored it with her
presence until the day when she came to take her boy
   Not yet fully recovered from her dangerous illness,
she assumed all the airs of an invalia, and kept her




wraps around her, and shrank a little when her husband
put her boy in her lap, and asked her if he was not a
beauty, and did not do justice to Hannah's care, and the
brindle cow whose milk he had fed upon. And in truth
he was a healthy, beautiful child, with eyes as blue as
the skies of June, and light chestnut hair, which lay in
thice cures upon his head. But he was strange to Ger-
aldine, and she was strange to him, and after regarding
her a moment with his great blue eves, he turned toward
Hannah, and with a quivering lip began to cry for her.
And Hannah took him in her arms and hugging him to
her bosom, felt that her heart was breaking. She loved
him so much, he had been so much company for her, and
had helped to drive away in part, the horror with which
her life was invested, and now he was going from her;
all she had to love in the wide world, and so far as sie
knew, the oniy living being that loved her with a pure,
unselfish love.
   "Oh, brother! oh, sister !" she cried, as she covered
the baby's dimpled hands with kisses, "don't take him
from me; let me have him; let him stay awhile longer.
I shall die here alone with baby gone."
   But Mrs. Geraldine said " No," very decidedly, for
though as yet she cared but little for her child, she cared
a great deal for the proprieties, and her friends were be-
ginning to wonder at the protracted absence of the boy;
so she must take him from poor Hannal), who tied on his
scarlet cloak and cap of costly lace, and carried him to
the carriage and put him into the arms of the red-haired
German woman who was hereafter to be his nurse and
wi n his love from her.
   Then the carriage drove off, but, as long as it was in
sight, Hannah stood just where it had left her, watching
it with a feeling of such utter desolation as she had
never felt before.
   " Oh, baby, baby! come back to me !" she moaned
piteously. " What shall I do without you "
    "'God will comfort you, my daughter. He can be
 more to you than baby was)" the old father said to her,
 and she replied:
    "I know that. Yes, but just now I cannot pray, and
 I am so desolate."
    The burden was pressing nore heavily than ever, and



Hannah's face grew whiter, and her eyes larger, and
sadder, and brighter as the days went by, and there was
nothing left of baby but a rattle-box with which he had
played, and the cradle in which he had slept. This last
she carried to her room up stairs and made it the shrine
over which her prayers were said, not twice or thrice,
but many times a day, for Hannah had early learned to
take every care, great and small, to God, knowing that
peace would come at last, though it might tarry long.
   Geraldine sent her a black silk dress, and a white
Paisley shawl in token of her gratitude for all she had
done for the baby. She also wrote hera letter telling of
the grand christening they had had, and of the handsome
robe from Paris which baby had worn at the ceremony.
   " We have called him Grey," Geraldine wrote, " and
perhaps, he will visit you again next summer," but-it was
not until Grey was two years old, that he went once
more to the farm-house and staid for several months,
while his parents were in Europe.
   What a summer that was for Hannah, and how
swiftly the days went by, while the burden pressed so
lightly that sometimes she forgot it for hours at a time,
and only remembered it when she saw how persistently
her father shrank from the advances of the little boy,
who, utterly ignoring his apparent indifference, pursued
him constantly, plying him with questions, and some-
times regarding him curiously, as if wondering at his
   One day, when the old man was sitting in his arm-
chair under the apple trees in the yard, Grey came up
to him, with his straw hat hanging down his back, his
blue eyes shining like stars, and all over his face that
sweet smile which made him so beautiful. Folding his
little white hands together upon his grandfather's knee,
he stood a moment gazing fixedly into the sad face,
which never relaxed a muscle, though every nerve of the
wretched man was strung to its utmost tension and
quivering with pain. The searching blue eyes of the
boy troubled him, for it seemed as if they pierced to the
depths of his soul and saw what was there.
   a Da-da," Grey said at last. "Take me, peese; I'sc
  Oh, how the old man longed to snatch the child to his




bosom and cover his face with the kisses he had so
hungered to give him, but in his morbid state of mind
he dared not, lest he should contaminate him, so he re
strained himself with a mighty effort, and replied:
   " No, Grey, no; I cannot take you. I am .ired,
   "Is you sick " was Grey's next question, to which his
grandfather replied:
   " No, I am not sick," while he clasped both his hands
tightly over his head out of reach of the baby fingers,
which sometimes tried to touch them.
   ' Is you sorry, then " Grey continued, and the grand-
father replied:
   " Yes, child, v