down quite in tlic dark, and following them 
with her eyes. lie had not said,— “Imo¬ 
gens, won’t you go';"' No, and ahe knew 
he never would say it again. 
She was glad when that hearty, bluff 
brother of here came home at last, bringing 
noise and confusion with him. 
"What! in the dark, girl? Where ure 
the others ? Couldn't get back no sooner, 
you see. Had that sale of the wood lots to 
dose up. The judge wanted the old place 
altogether; but some way, though there’s 
more land than you and I’ll ever want, I 
couldn’t quite give it up to him; for when it 
came to selling off the very old rooms where 
—where they died, Imooene, and where we 
were little shavers, I couldn’t go it, no how. 
Well! you’ll alius stand by me in any case, 
I hope, little sis?” 
It was unusual for Daniel to speak with 
upon that other woman’s neck, her warm 
hair lying against her cheek. 
“O, Imooene,” she said, “ I have no one 
to tell it to but you, you know.’’ 
They cried together there, as women al 
ways do over such things, quietly, until they 
heard the old clock striking eleven. 
She loosed her from her ami then. 
“ I utn very glad,” she sold, “ he is a good 
man, Mbs Byrce ." 
Blic could not, she dare not, say anything 
beside. It was enough. The light hearted 
girl was more of a woman as she kissed her 
“good-night.” 
“ I ahull never forget you, J mooene. Wc 
both love youthen she went out again. 
Well, this was her first duty. She lay 
listening to the sea, with a queer smile on 
her lips, a long, long time, though. 
When Miss Byrce had gone, and she had 
that hoarse tremor in his strong voice, and seen the two ride off together, on the chilly 
he laid a heavy hand on the dark liair, in an morning that followed, she took up her old 
almost womauly way. She caught it, that ways again. It seemed, this long, hazy 
brown, hard hand, In both her own, sud- summer, to lie very far back now; with its 
denly. glowing days, its flower laden nights, with 
“ ^ os > Daniel, always, always? Oh, you all the murmur of its waveband the pulsing 
must never go away from me; I mean we of its hidden life. 
must never leave each other,” she said, in The fields lay brown now; the hills were 
quick, tcur-filled tones. taking on their blue, stolid look, facing the 
Whatever reply cume playfully to his lips, winter and the north sturdily, as though 
he bit back, sullenly almost; for be read the they had never been flower-crowned, grassy, 
woman’s face, all atrernble in its pain; and with shadows, and cold, white streams 
Him, in a low, sweetening tone, like unto tumbling spray showers down their sides, 
the mother’s they had both lost, he said, Poor old hills! The feet that used to climb 
quickly, “ 0, no, little sis I We’ll be a mu- them felt as old as they! 
tunl support, I fancy, these long years yet,” She even fandied the subtle perfume, that 
89 lie went out after the lights. always clung to glove or ribbon of that girl’s, 
Soon she heard him whistling in his cheery had penetrated the atmosphere of the old 
way; and she grew quite culm again, sitting farm house, as she found an unforgotien 
by the window' there Her life seemed plain song, an Italian fragment, often sung to 
enough to her, clearly; she did what a brave them in that plain little parlor. If she went 
woman ought—buried her little dream with- up stairs, the vacant room, w ith its strange, 
out a useless .struggle. Ifshe had been build- unused look, stared at her; she missed the 
mg up an impossible future all these years; garden hat, from the kitchen wall; yet she 
she tore it down to-night with her own hands, stifled the memory of that other woman, aud 
II she had hung heart-pictures in her life, of her triumph, and tried to think, calmly, of 
a woman’s home, duty bound, with the bright the difference between them, 
heads of children, love filled, and a man’s No wonder, she thought, a Spanish face, 
destiny that kept her own from the barren- with soft, dusky eyes, and that impressible 
ness of a w inter twilight, - for a womuu’s charm of manner, could hold a man with 
life has, even at its best , some seasons of soli- his tastes. Her own bauds looked so rough, 
tude, some cups for drinklug that come so large, as she held them up before her eyes 
to her alone,- il she had thought of such as an instant. All things had their place, so 
these, She shrouded them, and put the great doubtless this was here. Only once, when 
seal of silence against the sepulchre. Maurice Delmar first came there to live, 
Bhe was quite ready for the duty she fore- yearn before, she had fancied,—it was that 
saw would be hers, possibly forever, —the winter when she came back from the city 
ordering of Daniel’s home until, Ood school, so she was doubly foolish then,— 
willing, a wifely right usurped hers Well, that he thought her plain fuce the very best 
oven then she could fiud a place; she would in all the world. 
lie nil that she could as aunt to his children. But, was she building castles yet? Could 
But without, in the dark, she could hear no lesson of pain cure her of the old, nn- 
the sea moaning to the sands there, and it healthy habit? 
seemed as though it were saying: She was a strange sort of child once, this 
" Thou thou nevershonlrt'stforgot: woman; she used to creep close up to you 
And yp, - i,UJ yet ~ tli0U “ wv foritel when you had finished a story to her, and 
chapter n. say, with un eager, a disappointed look in 
Daniel came in to read a stupid speech her eyes you seldom could forget—” Is that 
aloud, and she sat darning his gray hose, all?” So now, Bl»e might have questioned 
The quiet, old-fashioned room w T as home alter with her fnte, had she dared, holding out 
all, only — when later they came into it, it woman’s hands, empty, to her Ood Instead 
dwarfed into positive ugliness. They were of that, she turned back to her old life of 
both of them hushed, coming in from their darning stockings, making pics, and turning 
walk, awed, almost as from a now revelation, her old winter dresses again; but, for all 
The new phase suited Miss Byrce, she sut that, looking deep into her eyes, one could 
down at tlic piauo-siool and played a little find that same eager look of disappointment, 
German monody, with a tenderness in her I fancy. 
face. She was a stately woman. As she wont 
1MOOENE did not heed the words that were about the plain old farm house, with its out¬ 
spoken after that, until she sat alone In her look of brown, autumn woodland, and tlic 
own little upper room; then she remembered break in the distance with the gray sea tosa- 
tliem, and the new, strange look In the man’s ing, and where the dimly defined tower of 
eyes. the “ Point Lighthouse” lifted a mute finger 
That homely little room. She had loved to the sky, she unconsciously drew her tall 
it so all these twenty-five years of hers, form to its fullest, braving her coming years, 
Loved it for the tears she had given to it, as that old tower did the storm, 
the heart secrets she had brought there; and Maurice Delmar, with his fastidious 
to-night she sat opposite the old chest of tastes, had been wont to note the quiet ton- 
drawers with the strip of mirror in the black ing of her home dresses, fancying that a 
frame above, and looked at her face. Stern, bright bit of color would improve them , 
hard, and sharp outlines had come into it; still, in that olden time, when he used to 
the clear, steady eyes were like granite gather the creamy roses fVorn the old 
walls iu? for penetration from without. It “kitchen garden,” and put them into her 
was not a young face to-night! Not the face heavy hair, he never thought he should 
she had decked iu the old time with faded come to despising those plain gowns of hers, 
blue ribbons, and that had the trick of It fretted him, when he came back that 
changing its soft colors so readily, once. A week,— the very contrast she presented to 
woman’s face. Plain, positively beauty-less, that other woman whom he had seen in 
with a scar on her right cheek, and level, these same home places. Sitting by the fire, 
heavy brows, like Daniel’s, meeting over he recalled the soft outline of her oval face, 
her eyes She smiled as she thought of the her dusky hair; and looking at Imogens 
“classic oval”—the rare,dark beauty, with through the twilight, where she sat at her 
the Spanish voice, as she heard Miss Byrce homely task by the low window, she seemed 
ringing over her packing in the next room, to have grown old so fast of late. He almost 
There wns a pause at length. Then a soft, reproached himself for not noting the sunken 
low tap at her door. lines of her face, the weary droop of her pa- 
" Imooene, 1 want you to have these, tienthcad; he almost regretted he had not 
They are not much, I know, but. this has told her of his good fortune,—bow all his old 
been such a pleasant summer.” dreams had come true, how he had so soon 
“ They are beautiful," she said, taking them to go abroad to perfect his studies of the 
from the girl’s hand, after a moment. “ You wonderful Madonnas and ideal faces of the 
ore very kind Old World, and after a four years’ separa- 
Tbcy were laces, costly, rare ; she should lion he was coming back — to what ? Even 
never have anything half beautiful enough in the darkness a glow crept to his man’s 
to wear them with; still she would not pain cheek; he was no longer young, he had 
her by refusing her gift. If there was any- prized this fruit the more because it had 
thing Jd this frivolous little woman it should come late to his plucking, and yet,—he smiled 
not be stifled by her hands. She looked at at the thought,—yet, it was only eight years 
her with her grand billowy hair tailing about since he had fancied that he found his ideal 
her. There was a deep shadow in the depth in that sad-faced woman yonder. lie lmd 
Df those two great eyes, as she put her head carried an ache at his heart, from the dis- 
I mooene diil not heed the words that were 
spoken after that, until she sut alone in her 
own little upper room; then she remembered 
them, and t he new, strange look In the man’s 
eyes. 
That homely littlo room. .She had loved 
it. so all these twenty-five years of hers. 
Loved it for the tenrs she had given to it, 
the heart secrets she had brought there; and 
to-nlglit she sat opposite the old chest of 
drawers with the strip of mirror in the black 
frame above, and looked at ber face. Stern, 
hard, and sharp outlines had come into it; 
the clear, steady eyes were like granite 
walls iu? for penetration from without. It 
was not a young face to-night I Not the face 
aim had decked iu the old time with faded 
blue ribbons, and that, had the trick of 
changing Its Bofl colors so readily, once. A 
woman’s luce. Plain, positively beauty-less, 
with a scar on her right cheek, and level, 
heavy brows, like Daniel’s, meeting over 
her eyes She smiled as she thought of the 
“classic oval”—the rare,dark beauty, with 
the Spanish voice, as she heard Miss Byrce 
singing over her packing in the next room. 
There wns a pause at length Then a soft, 
low tap at her door. 
“ Imooene, I want you to have these. 
They are not much, I know, but this has 
been such a pleasant summer." 
“ They are beautiful,” she said, taking them 
from the girl’s hand, after a moment. “ You 
arc very kind.” 
They were laces, costly, rare; she should 
never have anything half beautiful enough 
to wear them with; still she would not pain 
her by refusing her gift. If there was any¬ 
thing Jd this frivolous little woman it should 
not be stifled by her hands. She looked at 
her with her grand billowy hair lulling about 
her. There was a deep shadow in the depth 
of those two great eyes, as she put her head 
covery that she was indifferent, unrespon¬ 
sive to his love, and so he bad folded the 
words, unspoken, to his heart again, fancy¬ 
ing, as men will, that it was the beginning 
of an old song that would haunt him till the 
daisies hushed his life-singing. 
Well, he did not care to think ho had con¬ 
quered that dream thus early. Sitting by the 
home hearth he built dreams where another 
than Imooene sut sewing by the twilight; 
this grave man, Maurice Delmar, with 
whom fate had wrought so strangely. 
Long aftei, he remembered how she had 
arisen after he had told her of his plans, 
coining-very close to his side as she said, 
“ Maurice, you will be a great man then. 
1 hope she is as glad as I; you deserve it.” 
And she put her hands out in her straight¬ 
forward way, and be took them kindly. 
After that he never held them so. 
When bis last evening came to the old 
house where lie lmd been so long, it wns just 
the same. Daniel was quieter, though. 
“You will write to ns often when you 
come to be a great chap/’ he said, hesitating¬ 
ly, this gruff brother of here; for, after all, 
deep down in hia heart he always carried 
Ids dream of how these two had loved, had 
wed—but he tried to speak just as heartily 
as ever, to-night. 
“Y r cs! and you must answer. I shall 
want to hear fiow the days go on with you 
both. We have been too long together to 
I part lightly.” 
His voice Bank suddenly. Was it. because 
he remembered those hidden years ? There 
came a pause, in which 1 think they were 
all three thinking of that other woman. 
Y'cars after, Maurice Delmar remem¬ 
bered bow, looking up, he caught her eyes 
upon his face; for an instant the veil be¬ 
tween their souls swept aside, baring the 
true knowledge of the life mistake they lmd 
made, and to the last one face of the two 
never lost the look that settled upon it after 
that moment. 
The night was hazy; a thin wave of silver 
swept across the old brown house, lying in 
its hollow. Imogene was not romantic; she 
was not cowardly; she stood at the window 
tluit night and saw the flicker of the sea in 
the moonlight, and then, after a moment, 
she lowered her curtain and fell upon her 
knees. 
Maurice Delmar never once looked 
back, riding ofl that next morning with 
Daniel. Through the early gray light he 
loomed up beside him. the two in their 
rough coats, against the whitish sky; so she 
lost them. 8ke went in where the early 
breakfast, nearly untasted, stood waiting. 
I am glad she sunk down in the worn 
chiutz chair and cried awhile, even though 
these were the last tears that ever came for 
the little sacrifice of her womnu’s life. She 
arose better, stronger, and when Daniel 
came back, she was singing about her work 
quite as she used to do. 
So tlic days of her life went on. They 
beard from the traveler often during those 
early years. He was full of brave hope; he 
should bring a famed name back to them all, 
he wrote. This was at first. Then the let¬ 
ters ceased; ouly from the columns of the 
papers did they learn of his success. It was 
strange,—it was,—but Daniel said, “ ’Twas 
Just the way with them great folks, only 
he’d a-tbougbt Maurice wouldn’t have 
taken quite them notions. You couldn’t 
tell, though, what folks might do.” 
CHAPTER III. 
It was once when she was in town that 
an elegant woman stopped her, holding out 
two gloved hands. “ Ton who won’t write 
me, nor even come to me, you terrible 
child, you shall come home with me to 
luncheon. Don’t shake your head , the 
fhmilynre away; I am housekeeper; think 
of the four years since I’ve seen you, Imo¬ 
gene, and come ” 
It was Miss Byrce. Of course she said 
“ 0 no 1” in her sweet, grave way; hut of 
course she went. Every one changed their 
negatives before Miss Byrce and her smile. 
That hour came as a dream into her life. 
She wondered why she never missed Wilton 
carpets and tailing lace draperies, marble 
Psyches, and rare proof engravings; more, 
she went back as she listened to the ripple 
of talk Miss Byrce kept up, to her old Ideal 
splendors, her Castle of Indolence, her life 
of unreal dreams, that once she had builded. 
Once, sipping her chocolate, lazily, during 
this dreamy time, ber breath came quick 
and forced from her lips; she awoke to her¬ 
self again; Mls9 Byrce was talking. 
“ You know that Mr. Delmar has become 
quite celebrated, 1 sup pose ?” 
Misa Byrce never looked up, lint toyed 
With her chocolate spoon, daintily. 
“ He has sent me a little gem of a thing, 
quite a study; qot one of his great studies, 
neither a chef <f centre, but a, — well, yon 
shall sec it, presently. I have so much, lie- 
sides, to show you. My trousseau is my future 
lord’s own choice, selected by him, — would 
you believe it?—to my veil itself. You will 
be sure to be down at the w r edding next 
Ckristma9-time, won’t you V It is only two 
months, I believe,” she said, carelessly. 
“ So soon ?” I mooene said, after a moment. 
“Yes; and still it’s not very sudden after 
all,” she replied, indifferently. Presently she 
arose and offered to lead her up for a view 
of the picture. 
With a strange, yet irresistible feeling, 
Imooene followed the woman as she went 
on before, gaily humming an opera snatch. 
At last, sweeping back the crimson folds of 
color that the warm, rich suulight might 
kiss the canvas into life, Mias Byrce stood 
quiet, watching tne woman who, with folded 
hand a, crept nearer to the picture. 
It was so like, so complete, so real! The 
stretch of r'.ea, the white moon, the glimpse 
of the hidden house in the hollow — her own 
favorite'hnunt, where, years ago he bad 
found her standing in her young girlhood by 
the shore, and left her with the waves at her 
feet, and a pain of untold love to carry 
through all her coming life. Couhl he he 
thus cruel ? It seemed as though all the old 
lights started out ns she looked,— white to 
her very lips an instant,— a woman’s figure 
on the shore, tall, awkward, with its droop¬ 
ing cloak, and faint, dusky outlines; it must 
be, it was, herself. 
Miss Byrce sat down on a low seat. Then 
she laughed. A cruel little laugh. Not 
Miss Byrce, now a hard, bitter woman. 
“ You think I did not know it all,” she 
said. “Imooene, I didn’t '”ant your lover. 
He was your lover Foolish woman, I saw 
it that first day of my summer at the farm. 
1 only wanted to prove he was fallible—you 
see- and lie is; oh, yes, lie is as constant ns a 
man ! When I had his heart 1 read it. You 
know wc should never have been happy; 
Oh, dear me, no; so it is nearly a year since 
tliis went by. Don’t stare sol 1 am ouly 
enjoying mattere. You arc two of the most 
foolish people I ever saw! I am going to 
marry, but not Maurice Delmar. You 
shall have tlic picture, if you like it.” 
Again iu her life had this woman count¬ 
ed her cost and gained her triumph. 
Imooene stood beside her almost scorn¬ 
fully, awhile. 
“ 1 do not quite understand you, 1 believe. 
I do not want this picture of his, nor shall I 
ever many Maurice Delmar. You may 
tell him so. I hope you will be happy, Miss 
Byrce,” she said iu a slow, queer-soundiug 
voice. 
She thought,—this little, worldly woman, 
—“it was all very strange'” a9 she watched 
Imooene later, going in her stately, slow j 
manner down the street. She shrugged her 
shoulders, and smiled at her cleverness. 
They never met again, these women I 
think they never wanted to. 
Daniel whistled when Imooene told him 
at home that night. Why is It that the best 
of mc-n will sink to the level of a slow, sur- I 
prised whistle at times? lie said not a word; 
but he went, out, into the dark, and it was a 
strange thing for Daniel to do, for he was j 
tired, almost ill from a headache. 
He walked out into the chill air, a bitter 
pain at his honest heart, for he read a story 
in the face of the woman he loved best upon 
earth that it pained him to see. It hurt him j 
to think her life should be so empty. She j 
was growing older, too. These three or four 
long years had worn quiet, pale lines into 
her face; it was wrong to shut her down 
upon the old farm. They would go away 
where she might never hear that man’s name. 
When he had so decided, Daniel went back 
again, l’leasc God when Christmas-time 
came, they would be far away, he and Lmo- 
OENK 
Only Daniel was away at Christmas-time, 
however. 
The neighbors said, “it was sudden;” 
good, honest men who had known the father 
aud mother in their ripe old age, shook their 
heads sadly. Women who saw how she 
clung to his great brown hands, and watched 
the sick man as a babe,—how she choked 
bock the tears when he said “ sing,” to gratify 
him with no tremor in her voice,—how the 
tired blue eyes of the sick man wistfully fol¬ 
lowed her—how at last, she crept close lo 
hisoold lips, and moaned silently as she held 
his hands tighter,—these women, goodhearts, 
cried helplessly, as we women do, though we 
feel the iron in our souls, and stroked her 
hair quietly. 
But it was God, after all; more than this, 
it always is Goo.no matter how we may 
dispute this, at such times. 
So when they had laid the strong man 
away, as they would a little child, in the old 
white-fenced family burial place, where iu 
summer the golden rod, aud the robins, and 
the shifting light watched, and the sea 
Boughed and moaned at winter,— when the 
snow lay bleakly over the mouuds,— when 
Imooene had taken an old couple on the 
farm as tenants, and reserved her own room 
with its old-fashioned furniture, its black 
framed little mirror, and its view of the sea, 
only this, out of all the world, to be dignified 
by the name of “ home " — then, Imooene, 
in her black clothes and her quiet, sad-eyed 
face, wont out into the world to earn her 
living, Not that she had need, only heart 
need, and this is the sorest kind. 
You don’t care about the five years that 
followed, then. Ilow she strove, as we 
women all strive with life, some say with 
fate; but fate meaneth God, I cannot think 
wo dare say wc raise our puny might there. 
She found the ideal visions of her youth 
so many dead sparrows, who, poor littlu 
wingless creatures, shared the fate of our 
humanity, for, dying, God saw them, flut¬ 
tering out their ounce of breath; she found 
that duty may not be pleasureless, nor life a 
wood-path, deep with autumn leaves alone, 
as she crept on Into her thirties. 
She smiled if she ever heard people won¬ 
der “ whether that quiet person ever had a 
history;" for, only keep your own counsels, 
and the best of people will woudc-r just so 
about you, I promise; and then, one Cluist- 
mas-time she grew hungry for a sight of 
New England holly again, fancying that, 
could she smell the salt, brisk air, as it would 
toss her prim hair back from her faded 
brows, it would make her fitter for her life- 
work. 
So, she wrote, and the two old people in 
the farm house read the letter, and tlio queer, 
dusty room wns opened, the red holly hung 
over the low glass, and In the chill twilight 
the old house opened its arms to its child 
ogam. 
She smiled as she crossed the door-step, 
from thinking how they used to sit there, 
when they were no small,— Daniel and 
6he,— with their supper-howls, counting the 
grasses; and bow sometimes a cricket, who 
lived under that stone, used to bo compan¬ 
ionable, and come out into the sun; then, 
for all Daniel was no strong and boyish, lie 
would not touch the little black fellow, but 
shrank away from her when laying down 
her broad finger she made a bridge for his 
convenience. 
All tliin came back—came back bo that iu 
spite of the memories that ghost diko spread 
their anus out to her, gliding from the fa¬ 
miliar home places, in spite of these, she 
wore a gay little smile about her hard mouth 
lines, such as any one to whom she wns clear, 
would have been very glad to see. 
And this was Christmas Eve. The snow 
lay whitely over the world. The sea was 
like a tuneless psalm, gray in its unbroken 
outlook. She slept a sweet, deep, thankful 
sleep, that night; out of the ships she had 
seen ride at anchor in her life’s first venture, 
and that later had strewn wrecks upon the 
ebb and flow of all these years lyiug between, 
grateful that of them all she had the smallest 
little joy-pennon left her. 
She bad come to that carelessness, If so wo 
may call it—but after oil it, is better known 
among good people as submission—that care¬ 
lessness, I said, of ber futuro, that made her 
neither feor nor wish to alter it. Then, too, 
the sum of Joy she once had bound up in 
life’s ftfllest sheaf, seemed now, iu the harvest 
home, to be not so much as it, once was; she 
neither desired, nor was hopeless of, her long 
delayed dream; it was past, and that too, 
without any shadow of returning. 
So she was thoroughly able to wait, thor¬ 
oughly uble to be content, than which there 
is no fuller joyl In such natures, the chord 
of love, once struck, never ceases to give out 
its latent music, perhaps; but also, being left 
unfinished, I fancy the harmony never may 
be recalled. Not in lull chording sweetness, 
but softly, incomplete, as a voice that so long 
has sung alone. 
She found herself pityiDg Miss Byrce, on 
that Christmas day that dawned so Icy clear, 
so perfect; and smiled at the discovery, it was 
so like the pity of one woman for another, 
rich in all that life can bring, save love. 
The grave# were visited that day. Three 
crowns of holly lay upon the sleeper’s folded 
hands. 
Then, at sunset, after the sea had crooned 
a few mourulul secrets to her, as one old and 
long parted friend to another, Hhe watched 
the saffron and crimson lights quench them¬ 
selves in its waves, and went back again. 
The twilight was cloudy, and behind a 
wind-blown rack of cloud, the moon sailed, 
apecter-like. The old house, in its worn, 
ugly beauty, blinked at her from its low win¬ 
dows, kindly; it was as though it sung its 
carol to the risen Christ within this wo¬ 
man’s heart. 
She drew the gnte latch gently, with a 
fragment of a thankful anthem on her lips, 
as she went up the snow-drifted walk. The 
old room, with its huge patterned wall pa¬ 
pering, its worn sofa, and closed piano, 
looked even inviting after the chill hour out 
of doors. Unlighted as it<wos save by the 
fire’s uncertuiu flickering, still Imooene 
knew as she entered, there was a stranger 
within its shadow. 
“ A guest! some kind old neighbor; but I 
w’anted my Christmas,” she thought to her¬ 
self. “ I was selfish.” 
Then, os she came nearer to the old hearth, 
the blaze that revealed her face showed how, 
In the moment that she stood there with her 
hands clinging together in her old, abstracted 
habit, It had changed, this same woman’s 
fuce of hers. 
Aud looking down into it then, whatever 
the man, Maurice Delmar, had hoped or 
feared, before he had broken the silence that 
these long years had made, I think he read 
his answer 
