written in a delicate hand, stood “ Clara 
Cottinwood,” on the other “Clara” —as 
if the surname had been torn off and kept by 
the writer for a purpose. 1 have the slip in 
the locked drawer of my dressing-bureau 
now. Mrs. Poor kept il carefully until such 
time as I could be trusted with the legacy 
myself. 
So l was called Ci.aua Cottinwood and 
was bred up by the Poors. “They were 
poor," declared the good mother, uncon¬ 
sciously punning, “ but they weren't poor 
enough to turn that child out.” Susan 
fondled mo sometimes, as a sister might have 
done. And the farmer would rub Ids hard 
chin on my cheek, asking whose little girl I 
was, and teach me to reply “ T am your little 
girl, sir.” They were never very demon¬ 
strative, I believe few New Englanders are. 
One of the first lessons 1 learned in this 
world was to contain my heart in my own 
bosom. But in childhood nothing touched 
me deeply hut those clasping arms and that 
crooning song in the woods; 1 used to go to 
those woods and sit where she might have 
sat. There I carried all my whippings, my 
snubs, my disgraces, my griefs. It became a 
confessional for me. 
I loved good mother Poou, and she was 
very fond of me, though her rigid arms rarely 
enfolded me. go 1 grew year after year, 
from little pics to school-hooks, from school- 
books to long skirts, and from long skirts to 
womanhood. When I was ten, Susan mar¬ 
ried and went to live with her husband in 
another village. At eighteen I had become 
a mature, dark woman, very small, with 
abundant curling hair, and of quick move¬ 
ment. I taught in the Academy, where I 
was educated, and was thus aide, in some 
measure, to repay my benefactors. 
About this time Dr. Moffat came to our 
village. 1 do not know how we became ac¬ 
quainted. We met every day on the village 
sidewalk. 1 liked his pleasant face and clear 
eyes, lie, by-and-by, lifted his hat to me. 
And then he came to our cottage to show 
me books and to talk. The old habit of re¬ 
straining my emotions did me good service, 
though he was the man best calculated in 
the world to overcome it,. So T unconscious¬ 
ly drew him to besiege me sorely before 1 
yielded and became Ids wife. “ The fairy 
fluttered so long above his reach,” lie used to 
say, “ that he paid an awkward scamper and 
many ungainly leaps for the prize." 
Old wives in the village periodically resur¬ 
rected my story. Dr. Moffat heard it soon 
after his arrival. I have often approached a 
group, to break in on a discourse something 
alter this style:—“She wasn’t more’n four 
year old, and t hey look her in and kept her 
just like their own. There ain’t no Corrix- 
wootw around here, so there’s no tailin’ 
where the child camo from.” I told all the 
story solemnly to Charles on the day of his 
proposal. He made me lean against his 
shoulder, that he might, ascertain if J were 
tangible and real, and then commented with 
a solemnity that mimicked mine. “ l shall 
be satisfied, little Brownie, If you do not dis¬ 
appear as mysteriously as you came. ’ 
Authors tell us so much of love before 
marriage, but bow their lovers out on the op¬ 
posite side of the altar, as if a wedding-day 
were the climax of life. I do not remember 
my courtship, beside my married life. It all 
melts to a pleasant glamour, but above it, like 
a bead on some cloudy figure, stand the dis¬ 
tinct features of wifehood. 
We took a litt le cottage. My foster-parents 
could give me scant dower; their goods 
rightfully belonged to Susan ; but my hus¬ 
band wished for nothing. 1 do not know 
why he chose me; but I have always tried 
to keep him emphasizing his choice. Good 
mother Poor went over our house with 
lifted hands and staring spectacles. Ah, 
what a nest it was! I begged Charles to 
gel no servant, for how could I see profaning 
hands soil the conveniences so dear to every 
Eastern housekeeper, or endure the pouring 
of a muddy third current into our lives? 
“ But how can the Brownie lie both maid 
and mistress?" lie asked. 
"O, trust it to my skill,” I laughed. “I 
have been used to putting my band to do¬ 
mestic tools, and 1 promise 3-011 the vine and 
fig-tree sliali flourish, and that I shall, as 
well, find time to sit in the shade thereof.” 
Ho we began housekeeping. Our parlor 
was a square room, neatly carpeted and up¬ 
holstered, with a shining grata and mantle- 
piece. 1 hung my school pictures there and 
kept my plants in one window. On stormy 
nights, when my husband was out, that par¬ 
lor sent such a glow between parted curtains 
away out on bis dark track, that lie used to 
say it warmed him long before be entered. 
Here lie spent such time as his profession 
could spare to me. The quiet hours were 
like drops of gold molten from the ore of 
common-place life. Here I sang for him 
and he read to me. And here, after our tea 
was over, and the tray carried out, and dark¬ 
ness was closing around our home, lie took 
me in his arms and we sat together, too deep- 
13 ' glad for speech. 
During his absences 1 was very busy. 
What cooking and inventing and beautify¬ 
ing filled up the magic spaces ! And I gave 
one hour of each day to intellectual culture. 
A brawny laundress took all my ugly work, 
with willing hands. But a curtain of sails 
was kept fluttering between my captain’s 
eyes and the unseemly “ropes” of his house¬ 
hold craft. He saw we sailed smoothly; 
and he used to lift me up, exclaiming, “ She 
is certainly a lairy; she never soils her 
wings among the kettles” 
It was my hand that brought him coffee 
after his hard night rides; that served his 
hot, tempting dinner; that laid heliotrope on 
his pillow to soothe him in headaches ; that 
guarded closing doors when he took an after¬ 
noon nap; that held unsurrendered every 
domestic key. 
1 showed to him fkithfnlly the first picture 
my memory had received, lie was inter¬ 
ested and questioned me. 
“ Did you not see the woman’s face ?” 
“No, for it was dark." 
“ Did she not speak to 3 'ou ?” 
“ I only heard her voice in the song, of 
which I cannot remember the words or 
catch the air.” 
“ Yet 3 'ou know that song?” laughed my' 
husband. 
\ es; and I am sure I should recognize 
the woman if she (should sing it to me again. 
As I know the song 1 should know her. 
She was good. 0 Charles, I believe she 
was a good woman.” 
11 1 do not doubt that, darling,” he whis¬ 
pered, pushing back my hair. 
“ Ch arles, I came to 3-011 from obscurity-. 
I cannot trace back an ancestry ns you can. 
I am a comet drawn from the darkness to 
revolve closely around a great genial sun. 
o, shall 1 ever return on that dreadful ellipti¬ 
cal line appointed me, to whence 1 came?” 
“No, Brownie,” lie replied with tender 
cheer, “1 have- drawn you to mo, and you 
arc mine. The comet approaches nearer the 
sun than the spheres do. No darkness shall 
ever come between 11 s but death.” 
About a year after our marriage my foster 
father died, and the dear old mother was 
besought to enter our home. Susan’s house 
was crowded with children, freckled, wide- 
mouthed, kindly girls, like herself, yet she, 
too, had a place for the mother, and her en¬ 
treaties prevailed. 
“I ought to go to Susan,” explained my 
old friend, tenderly. “She’s my own; my 
Did 
am 
right’s there. I’ve always felt a mother’s 
interest in you, Clarie darling, but 1 ain’t 
your mother, and somebody else is. Keep 
the place for her. I’d have no right to crowd 
iu. 1 believe she’ll come to take it yet.” 
This prophecy knit me closer to good Mrs. 
Poor, and after its pattern I wove many 
wonderful dreams. 
Two years the liapp3 r cornet revolved un¬ 
disturbed. O, how a woman can love! To 
meet his sweet blue eyes,—to touch Ids hair, 
— sent undulations of happiness throughout 
mo. lie was mine and 1 was his; it was 
good and beautiful for us so to bo. 1 used 
to think about it till present, past and future 
melted together and carried me along in a 
golden haze. I did not mind the little vexa¬ 
tions of housekeeping, and my husband did 
not mind little inconveniences. 
One dark night in November I looped the 
parlor curtains aside, and heaped the parlor 
grate. The round table was laid ; the ket¬ 
tle was steaming on the kitchen range; 
Charles was coming somewhere. I piled 
my cake-buskeL with fragrant blocks, and 
set down the pretty spoons, tinkling against 
their holder, on the cloth. 
And thou, with sudden eagerness, 1 started 
to the window to strain my eyes against 
the shadows from within. But before 1 
reached it, something that was not a shadow 
from within stopped me short,-a face flat¬ 
tening itself against the glass, and staring in 
greedily at the comfort, but most at me in 
the midst of that comfort. 
I did not scream, for Charles disliked 
nervous Habits, and I had long since learned 
to control myself. I gazed, and the direful 
eyes gazed, till I shook off the nightmare 
of inaction and approached the window, 
while, as I approached, the face drew slowly 
away. 1 seized a lamp and hurried to tho 
door. 
“ Here we are, Brownie,” said my hus¬ 
band, dismounting upon tho walk and giv¬ 
ing the reins to ids groom, the laundress’ 
son. “ You need not have brought a lamp 
to the door, for the windows are perfect 
beacons, and the hall light always keeps me 
from stumbling when 1 come in." 
He closed the door, and carried both lamp 
and me back to our parlor. I took bis 
wraps and brought his gown and slippers. 
“This is comfort,” lie decided, stretching 
hack in the easy chair. Then I leaned on 
his shoulder tremulous with the fright. I had 
gotten, 
“Charles, some one looked in at the 
window awhile ago. 
“Did he? Well, I cannot blame the en¬ 
vious wretch. / looked in at the window.” 
“ Was it you, then, that flattened 3 'our 
nose on the pane? But it surely did not 
look like you. It was so hideous.” 
“ Come around here, Brownie. You were 
frightened, weren’t you, little fairy ? 
some one really trouble you ?" 
“ I was frightened, but I didn’t scream, 
Charles. It looked like a woman’s face. 
Thought it might liavo been 3 T our groom, as 
he was waiting for 3 'our horse. He is not 
a well-bred boy.” 
“Depend upon it, Julius is the culprit," 
cried my husband, cheerfully. “ And the 
brave little woman ran out with a lamp to 
scare away intruders? Well, keep the cur¬ 
tains closed hereafter. The fire shows right 
bravely through them.” 
“ O no, I will not do that. Those windows 
must always be your beacons. See, I 
not nervous any longer.” 
He drew me down to make the observa¬ 
tion, and continued making it, until the tea¬ 
kettle in the kitchen boiled over with indig¬ 
nation at. such delay, and spouted a long, 
hissing complaint to tho range. 
The door-bell rang before we bad laid up 
our napkins. The hotel-keeper’s son stood 
without. “Father sent him fur to ask the 
doctor if lie wouldn’t come and sen a poor 
woman, which was lying very sick in the 
house. She had come there sick in the stage. 
Father didn’t know whether she had any 
money or not, but she looked like a lady sort 
of woman." 
The doctor soon muffled himself and went 
off, full of interest. 
“ Good night, Clara,” he said to me. “ I 
may be out late.” To which I replied, 
“ Good-night.” And these were our farewells. 
I cleared tho tea-table, and sat down with 
a sewing-basket beside me. I remember 
singing nearly half an hour, and making 
plans while I sewed. Thinking suddenly of 
the face at t he window, a nervous chill ran 
down my shoulders, and I turned to glance 
around. By the door stood a woman in the 
act of turning the latch noiselessly back. 
She had entered as softly at the hall door, 
and she was now ready to face me. 
1 shuddered all over, but pressed my lips 
tightly together. When she turned around, 
her direful eyes glared at roe, and there Avas 
now no partition of glass between us. 
“ I’ve come to tell ye, 3*0 can git out of 
this,” she crackled in my horrified cars. 
“ Who arc you ?” I whispered, “ and what 
do 3 r ou want ?’’ 
“ I’m your mother, that brought 3 r ou into 
the world—a child of my shame. I put 3-0 
among poor folks, and wanted yo to he 
brought up respectable; but I didn’t calcu¬ 
late ye to marry a rising man and clog him 
down. I’m an honorable woman, I am 
Most folks in ray place would blackmail ye 
But 1 suv—git out Of flRJ! and go to your 
kind.” 
I clawed at the back of my chair for sup¬ 
port, my nails slipping smoothly from ina¬ 
bility to grasp. There was no fainting for 
me. 1 must helplessly fumble with numb 
hands and look with wide,horrible eyes, into 
this thing spread before me. 
“ You are not my mother,” I articulated. 
" You did not sing in the woods!” 
She laughed with a tone of that wood- 
song, like a demon mimicking angels. It 
shakes mo to this day to think of it. 
“Ain’t I your mother?” she crackled. 
“ I’ll give ye till to-morrow rooming to git 
out of this. If ye stay longer, I’ll go round 
to every house and declare myself, and your 
line husband that’s so fond of 3-0 will be glad 
to throw 3 r e off.” 
T felt an impulse to rush at her and put out 
her dreadful life! How could she blacken a 
woman that wore his name? She, my 
mother, whose arms had nursed me I All 
things tumbled together and settled them¬ 
selves inverted. Heaven went down to the 
depths, absorbing blackness, as snow sinks 
in a gutter. Thoughts of all shades whirled 
like a storm of autumn leaves through my 
brain. Charles would not “ throw me off’,” 
but how could 1 expect him to remain un¬ 
changed ? Men are creatures of fancy. He 
had shared my fond imaginings: he could 
but shudder with me at my reality. If I 
staid with him, this woman, after disgracing 
me, would make me a tie to hind her loath¬ 
someness to our family. And I was a child 
of her shame! IIow many prowling wretches 
might come and brood like Banshees through 
his windows and settle on his comforts? 
If I left him, lie would be freed from my 
curse; tho law could separate our names; 
ho was such a man as women love; lie might 
be yet happy without me. These thoughts 
gave me such pain ft9 I cannot describe, but 
I made the hard decision. 
“ Go away,” I said to the creature. “ Go 
Out of this village to-night, and never come 
back again. If you promise to do this, I will 
obey 3 r ou! ” 
“ Aye ; It’s a compact,” she crackled, grin¬ 
ning. “ And now, haven’t you got nothing 
for your poor mother to eat nor to drink ? I 
haven’t asked 3 r ou for money or for valuables, 
as many a one would have done. I’m 
honorable! ” 
But when food was set before her, she fell 
a-trembling, and was unable to take it. “ I’ll 
go,” slie said, looking up liideously. “ Now 
you mind what you promised. I put my 
bottle down by the steps. Spirits never 
freeze, and it’s what I want just now.” 
I touched her ragged shawl to make her 
look at ino before I opened the hall door. 
“If 3 ’ou ever come near him, or trouble 
him in any way, 1 believe wherever I am I 
shall know it, and come and punish y'ou.” 
Then I pushed the door shut on her— 
ah ! I could not help it. 
I remember myself thence on for many 
weeks as another person. The I seemed 
separated from 1113 ' body, but floated near 
it, so that I saw the woman I once inhabited 
in all her movements. Perhaps it will look 
clearer if 1 8 : 13 ' I was like a double shadow. 
Or if I tell you that my body acted and I 
felt, but we did not influence each other as 
formerly. 
The woman, Clara Cottinwood, out¬ 
cast, who an hour before had been Mrs. Dr. 
Moffat, returned to the cheerful grate, and 
stood with folded hands staring at it. Then 
she sat. clown and wrote a note; after 
which, in a sudden hurry, she put some 
things in a small valise, and found her 
wrappings. She went to the kitchen and 
made some arrangements lor a breakfast 
for one. She put her hands to Iter fore¬ 
head as if to remember whether there 
were other things to be done. Then she 
crept up stairs and looked into a bed-cham¬ 
ber, smoothed pillows, altered tho posi¬ 
tions of chairs, and with a piteous cry, like 
some suffering brute’s, picked up a neck-tic 
left carelessly by its owner on the bureau. 
She and 1 were one again for an instant. 1 
remember the passion of my fingers as I 
buttoned my bodice light over that silken 
scrap, the passion of my throat as il closed 
hoarsely around tender words: —“ 0 , 1113 ' 
love, my love, my love I” 
Afterwards there was a woman fifing 
through darkness, hugging her shawl, and 
carrying a valise. There was a night that 
was an Instant and an eternity. There were 
foot-soreness and bedraggled garments, and 
an entrance into a confusing city. 
Tho woman got cheap lodging, and hunted 
liko a starving hound for work. She made 
shirts for a few cents apiece; emigrated from 
one garret to another, and in all her wretch¬ 
edness had but one want — to look on one 
man’s blue C 3 'es. She begged the good God, 
who holds us all in the hollow of His hand, 
to make that man happy; and turned aside 
from her prayer to cry lest he were content 
wilhottt her. 
She scourged herself with the conviction 
that this had come upon her for her idolatry; 
because her husband, in high intellectual 
and Christian manhood, had been her expo¬ 
nent of what she ought to worship, an 
image simplified for her. She sat by her 
garret window and watched the smoke rising 
over tho city, while she did many a bitter 
penance. 
Ami then this woman would argue with 
herself, it ought to suffice that he hud been 
hers. She had known such perfect, happi¬ 
ness as perhaps only twenty women in a 
generation know. Women all around her 
suffered as did she, and they had always suf¬ 
fered. The first of her life had been such a 
beautiful revelation that tho last of it must bo 
enlightened thereby. Though now knowing 
herself to be a wretch whose flesh had sprung 
from shame, she could think of him; that 
would harm neither of them; and she was 
akin to him in soul. 
One evening,—the eve of other people’s 
Thanksgiving,—coming home with her bun¬ 
dle of slop-work under her arm, she saw the 
man she loved. She slunk into a corner and 
watched him. He looked pale and anxious, 
and walked slowly, scanning every face that 
passed. He was searching for her. Ah, 
what a greedily happy woman was the out¬ 
cast slinking in that corner! 
But he suddenly turned his face on her, 
drawn by the magnetism of gazing eyes, and 
made a step to reach her, from which she 
fled, until a pair of arms imprisoned her. 
Then she sunk through them a long, long 
space into deep unconsciousness, the I, 
Clara Cottinwood, being quenched like a 
candle in its socket. 
strange 
CHAPTER II. 
Sound woke me to the third phase of my 
life. I dreamed awhile before my eyelids 
parted, and seemed to bo walking with a 
woman hi a wood. She held my hand ! I 
felt the warm pulses throb against mine. 
Now, taking me on her shoulder, she sung 
to me. The old wood air at last embodied 
itself. I listened intensely and caught it. 
“ Ein feste Eurg 1st untcr Oott,'’ 
sang that familiar voice. I opened m 3 ' eves 
wide to see a delicate face, and wider to take 
in the whole of a delicate form beside me. 
The lady’s sad look brightened as I recog¬ 
nized her presence. And she stooped to 
kiss me. 
“ Who are you ?” I asked trembling with 
strange emotion. 
“ I am } r our mother, darling!” 
“ But the other one—” 
“ That poor creature who frightened y'ou 
so? She is nothing to 3011 , Clara. A 
wretched vagabond, delirious and revengeful, 
she took advantage of circumstances, and at¬ 
tempted to rob me of 1113 ' child and you of 
your inheritance.” 
“ But why should she, dear, 
mother? It all puzzles me so.” 
“ I will lell 3 'ou the avIioIc story when you 
are strong enough to hear. Her life was 
painfully intermixed with mine. I never 
thought she would drop poison into yours.” 
I Avas excited, and moved about uneasily 
on my pillow. And seeing it would be bet¬ 
ter to clear my mind at once, the tender 
nurse took my head on her arm and pre¬ 
pared to tell the secret of my life. I nestled 
l) 3 r her comfortably. 
“ It seems natural to have 1113 ' head here.” 
“ Docs it, darling ?” 
“ And I know the song you sang awhile 
ago. You sang it to me in the woods.” 
“ Do you remember, darling?” 
“ Yes. Now tell me all about it, mother.” 
“ We’ll not make a romance of it, daugli- 
ter. I’ll tell it briefly and plainly. Your 
father and I were married when quite young. 
Our parents arranged the marriage; and 
though he did not love me ns I at first be¬ 
lieved, wc were happy, and I won him more 
and more to me. Wo lived in New York, 
and there you were born and carefully 
watched by us both, until }’ou were four 
years old. You were always a sickly little 
babe, and did not seem to notice anything. 
My husband met a gay woman in society; 
she Was coarse, but beautiful; she dazzled 
him. In a commercial crisis, be fled with 
her, and left me destitute, with you in 1113 ' 
arms. 1 believe 1 was crazy, for awhile. I 
wandered off, and after many changes of 
light and darkness, found myself near a vil¬ 
lage, with you still in my arms. I put 3 'ou 
down and let 3-011 walk awhile. Then, sit¬ 
ting on a broken log to sing 3-011 to sleep, I 
made up 1113 ' mind to la v 3-011 on the stops of 
some kindly looking house, and to go :i\v;iy 
to death. But T was unconsciously hum¬ 
ming Luther’s old hymn, ‘ Bin fcSte Burg 
id vriser J 1 made me feel hotter. I 
resolved to leave 3 'ou until I could make a 
home for us, and then to come and claim 
you. So when it was done, [ wrote your 
name on both sides a slip of paper, and tore 
the slip in 1 wo, keeping half myself and pin¬ 
ning half to 3 -our little apron. Then I hur¬ 
ried to the village. There was little time to 
make a choice of homes for 3 - 011 . 1 prayed 
the God who had put Ilis name between 
my desolate lips, to guide me as He guided 
the Hebrew mother, and to take care of you 
as he took care of Moses.. There was n poor, 
nice-looking house near the woods. 1 chose 
it, and stripped off all my wrappings to make 
you warm while you should lie at the door. 
Then 1 kissed and laid 1113 - baby down, and 
hid till an old man opened the door and 
started back, and a kind looking woman 
came and lifted her hands over 3 'ou and car¬ 
ried 3 r ou in. 
“ I toiled back to the city, and lived for 
years such a life as 3-011 entered, darling,— I 
was a seamstress. IIow often 1 hoarded up 
little heaps of money, and grew almost, able 
logo for you, and how often sickncs: melted 
them, 1 will not tell. You know something 
of the life. 
“ A year ago I met your father in the 
street. Changed as I was, lie knew 1113 - face, 
and drooped before me. I never had hated 
him ; he was always my husband. I let him 
take me to a lodging-house and tell me his 
confession. They had been in California, 
and had prospered, but the woman had long 
been a loathing to him. She waa very wicked. 
He could not rid himself of that bod}' of 
death. He begged me to forgive and help 
him. 
“lie died soon, Clara, but she tormented 
him to the last. When he was gone I came 
according to his request to seek our child 
and heiress. The woman followed me, de¬ 
termined on revenge, and I suppose, while 
your husband was absent giving me medical 
advice and hearing your story, she entered 
the house and drove you away with false 
representations.” 
M3' mother smoothed her hand over my 
wasted face and kissed me again. “ You 
must forgive her, Clara, she is dead. She 
was found not many doom aw ay from here 
lying with a bottle iu her hands. I hope tho 
good God will have mercy on her.” 
Charles looked in at us, and seeing I was 
conscious, he came and took me. 
So my sweet mother sits in her place in 
our house. We have hopes that she will 
keep it long. Plenty of merry armfuls does 
she get, and plenty of times lias she sung, 
“ Ein feste Burg ut v riser Gotl" over little 
sleeping faces. Good Mrs. Poor. comes often 
to recall her happy prophesy', and to talk 
with my mother about their “ mutual child.*’ 
And Susan brings her speckled brood to be 
counted and petted and awed by the delicate 
little lady whom they address stiffly as “ .Mis¬ 
tress Cottinwood.” 
On a certain night in each year’s Novem¬ 
ber, my love and I unlock a drawer and look 
together on a carefully pieced slip of paper, 
bearing the name " Clara Cottinwood.” 
We do not speak much. It is a night for 
remembrances. The slip symbolizes not only 
our united family, but my united history, 
reunited happiness. And as I advance to¬ 
ward the sere and yellow leaf, there it lies 
also growing yellow. 
