Chapter III: Part 3

She said these words with an infinite satisfaction, and the expression of her face was triumphant--almost happy. Her cheeks had still that feverish color, and her eyes were wide and brilliant, as they rested with a hungry, expectant look upon his face. He, meantime, sat silent, looking into the fire. When, at last, compelled by her steady gaze, he looked at her, there was such dumb, intense entreaty in her eyes as he could not misunderstand.

“Mim,” he said, in a whisper, “do you want me to kiss you?”

The tears sprang to her eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind--just once,” she answered.

Their lips met in a long kiss. As he drew backward from it, he put her gently from him, and rose to his feet.

“I must say good-by, now,” he said. “It’s time for me to go.”

She gave a little cry, and looked at him with a half-distracted gaze, as she said, excitedly:

“Oh, not yet--not yet, surely! I thought you would stay for hours. Oh, Bertie, don’t leave me yet--just as we were so happy! My heart will break!”

She turned away with an instinct to conceal from him the agony in her face. He saw her wring her little hands together, and then put them to her lips and bite them, and he knew she was making an effort, for his sake, not to cry. But it was worse still to see this courageous struggle with agony, and his one thought was to get away.

“Bertie,” she said, suddenly turning toward him her pallid and terrified face, “I’m going to bear it if I can. I’ll do my very best, but if--if I find I can’t--if it is going to be like this always, and I can’t bear it, would you mind it very much--do you think you could keep from letting it make you unhappy--if I couldn’t bear it--and killed myself?”

“Mind it! What are you talking about! Why, what do you think I’m made of? I should never have another happy moment as long as I lived. You would simply make me a miserable man for life.”

“Then I won’t do it!” she said, hurriedly. “Indeed, indeed, I won’t! Don’t look at me reproachfully, darling! Forget that I ever thought of that. It was only a moment’s frenzy, and it doesn’t really amount to anything. I give you my promise not to do it, and I know you’ll believe in that.”

“Lord, what a relief!” he said, with a great sigh. “You frightened me out of my wits; but of course you didn’t mean it. Now that you’ve promised, I feel safe. You are too good and tender to give me such a life-long sorrow as that would be. You never could have done it; but it gave me a scare. You don’t believe it now, but once it is inevitable, you’ll get over this extreme feeling about me, and be happy.”

“O Bertie,” she said, timidly, “I don’t want to make you angry, dearest, but if you only _wouldn’t_ say that! I’m willing for you to think of me as happy, if it would comfort you, but not by losing one atom of my love for you. Try to think of it this way--that I’m happy because I love you, so that to have given you the wish of your heart makes me happier than to have the wish of my heart. Will you try?”

“Of course I will, darling. I’ll do anything on earth I can to please you. I’m sure I ought. But now,” glancing at the clock, “I must really be going. I’m obliged to get back on to-night’s train.”

It was no use struggling any longer. She had no strength for the effort. With the weakness of utter surrender, she threw herself into his arms and sobbed.

“There, there, baby,” he said, soothingly. “Don’t cry so, darling. Why, there’s lots and lots to make you happy in life yet. I’ll always remember you as the noblest and most unselfish little woman that ever lived; you’ll have that to comfort you. Don’t let it make you so wretched, precious child. You and Fleecy will have many merry days together yet.”

At the mention of Fleecy, who was contentedly napping on the rug, the poor little creature lifted her head, to say, brokenly:

“Would you like to have Fleecy? You always loved her so. I meant to tell you you could have her if you wanted. I could give her up, if it would please you.”

“No, my precious, no--not for the world. I wouldn’t take her from you, for anything. How could you think I’d be so selfish?”

“Thank you, darling,” she sobbed, with her face hidden on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t care so very much to keep her, but that you gave her to me, and loved her, and she was always with us when we were so happy. Oh, Bertie, darling, beloved, precious treasure of my heart, you’ve been so good to me! You made me, for two years, the happiest creature outside of heaven. If it’s any comfort to you, you can think of that.”

“Of course it will be a comfort to me, darling--and, by Jove, I expect to need something to comfort me, when I think of you, and how unhappy I’ve made you!”

“Don’t reproach yourself. You couldn’t help it. I always knew there was nothing in me to keep the love of such a man as you. Oh, Bertie, my husband!” she cried, still clasping his neck, but drawing back that she might look into his eyes, “let me call you by that name once more, for you are still my husband--mine, mine, mine, and no one else’s! Call me ‘wife’ once more, my darling, before we say good-bye.”

“My little wife, my little wife--my good, true, noble, unselfish, little wife,” he said, while her arms clasped him tighter and tighter, and a shiver shook her little frame from head to foot.

The man’s face, too, was seamed with the lines of pain and disturbance. He looked at the clock and at the door, with the evident desire to escape; but he could not force her from him while she cried and clung like this.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said, suddenly, as a thought struck him, “I’ll walk you, as I used to do, when you got nervous and unhappy. It always made you quiet--do you remember?”

“Oh, you’re so good to me, darling!” she murmured, as he took her up in his arms like a child, and began to walk up and down the room with her. He was magnificently strong, and she was light and little, so that it was no great tax upon him. Fleecy, with her plumy tail held high and her little gold bell tinkling, joined them, and walked at their side, up and down, up and down. Now and then Mimi would murmur some words of tenderness and gratitude, and he would answer with some soothing caress.

The faculty of humor was not lacking in his composition, at least, for, in spite of the agitated pain he had just been suffering, when he caught sight of the little procession in passing a mirror, he smiled at his own reflection. The smile was quickly suppressed, however, as he went on speaking to her soothingly. It had--as he had predicted--a marvellous effect. The little thing ceased sobbing, and her breast grew quiet, after its excited heavings.

At last, the clock struck, and he took her to the lounge and laid her down. “I have not another moment,” he said, “you will let me go now, like the good, brave darling you are?”

“Yes,” she whispered, in a faint, unnatural tone. “I’ll let you go now. Tell me good-by once more.”

“Good-by, my darling wife.”

“Good-by, my darling husband.”

She put her lips up, and he pressed a quick kiss on them, and was gone.

On the landing outside Mauma was sitting, erect and repellent, in every line of figure and face.

“Go to your mistress, Mauma,” said Leith. “I trust you to look after her and take good care of her.”

“Yes--bress de Lord, I say!” replied Mauma, with cold contempt. “It’s a pow’ful good thing nobody don’ trus’ _you_--fur that or nuthin’! Dee’d find deeselves mistaken, ef dee did.”

With a smile of amusement, the man shook off the sadness that had clung to him, in coming from that room, and said in a gay, though carefully lowered tone:

“You’re just the same as ever, Mauma, I see! Well, I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t have you changed for anything. I always told your mistress that you were the one woman I had found it impossible to win! So, you see, you have a unique charm for me.”

“I hope to de Lord some woman’ll pay you back fur what you’se bin mek dat angil-child suffer,” was the solemn response, “en you mark my words--de day’s gwine come!”

With his unfailing instinct to escape from what was unpleasant, Leith hurried down the stairs, threw on his coat, and let himself out into the street. As the door closed behind him, Mauma, bending over her little mistress, found that she was in a dead faint.

Restoratives were used, and she at last recovered consciousness; but that evening’s ordeal was followed by a long attack of fever, in which death, after promising relief for a while, withdrew and left her to her life of misery.

“There is one blessing in this illness,” Mr. Manning said to Mrs. Bryan, when he called one day to inquire for the invalid, “she never knew the day of her divorce. Now she will just recognize the fact that it is past, and that she’s no longer that scoundrel’s wife. A more cold-blooded, selfish, unmitigated brute I never came across, and it’s a blessed thing she’s got the divorce, poor little thing! All the same, it has broken her heart.”

By the time the invalid was able to go about again, the papers mentioned the marriage of Herbert Leith, in Spain.

Nothing but the bare fact reached the ears of Mimi, who still bears his name and wears his ring, and bullies Mauma and pampers Fleecy, and looks almost as childish, though never as pretty again, as she did on the night of that parting.

The Thirst and the Draught

The Thirst and the Draught

“The thirst which from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a draught divine!”

“Most extraordinary!”

These words were uttered aloud by Mr. Black as he sat alone in his editorial office, engaged in the laborious work of reading manuscript. He was a reserved man; indeed, he had to be, for nothing but his great self-possession and power of concentration could have enabled him to get through with the duties of his position. With the aid of these, however, he did accomplish them thoroughly and systematically, and was always deliberate in his manner--rarely hurried, and rarely excited.

For this reason it was all the more remarkable that such an exclamation as the one recorded should have escaped him. His duties included such an endless amount of boredom that the perusal of a manuscript which could have had such words applied to it would have been cause for immense gratulation to him, had it been its merit which had called forth such an expression. As a matter of fact, it was not this, but rather a very extraordinary coincidence.

Mr. Black was possessed of a marvellous insight into the literary demands of his subscribers, and it was this insight which had swelled his list to its present size; and he knew perfectly well that the manuscript now in his hands would have to be refused, as he knew also that the one which he had laid down just before it must share the same fate. And yet to himself, personally, both of these manuscripts had been of deep and peculiar interest.

The first was written in a woman’s hand, and was signed “Ethel Ross,” and, in the note that had accompanied it, Miss Ethel Ross had given her address in a certain small and obscure town. This note, as well as the manuscript itself, had a certain _naïveté_ about it which gave Mr. Black some insight into the writer. The freedom with which the note was written was of a piece with the freedom with which the manuscript was written, and Mr. Black felt pretty sure that both of them were under the protection of a _nom de guerre_. The young lady calling herself Miss Ethel Ross had taken him into her confidence in the amusing way in which a contributor so often confides in an unknown editor. Mr. Black, however, was a very human-hearted editor, and he never objected to these confidences, and even did what he could to give a friendly word of response to the writers, independent of his judgment of the manuscript.

In this instance the writer had acknowledged the fact that this was her first manuscript, and had added that it would probably be her last! She had always heard, she went on to say, that everybody had one story in them, and, if that saying were true, this was her story. She had never thought of writing for publication before, she said, but for certain reasons she had suddenly concluded to make the effort, and the accompanying manuscript was the result.

With these data to go upon, Mr. Black, who was a keen student of human nature, had seen the whole thing as plain as a picture before his eyes, even to the understanding of the “certain reasons.” He felt sure that the need of money had been the reason--a _motif_ for literary effort known to him all too well. There was no indication in either the letter or the manuscript of even the faintest stirring of the divine afflatus of literary creation. There was no hint of any desire for fame. It was distinctly, and he felt sure, honestly, owned, that the writer had emptied herself in this story, and would be incapable of doing anything further. Of all the incentives to writing known to him, the need of money was the only one that fitted this case. And how powerful must that need have been to have caused a woman to write her heart out, as this woman had done here.

The story, if it could be called a story, was absolutely without literary form, and so unfinished in style that no magazine could have ventured to print it. And yet there breathed through it such an exquisite soul of sweetness, such a spirit of refinement, purity, innocence, aspiration and charm, that Mr. Black was tempted to ask her to re-cast the manuscript, leave out the poor attempt at plot, and let the subtle self-analysis appear in the form of entries in a journal, or letters, or something of that sort. There were two reasons against this, though--one was, that he felt that the girl would have been incapable of doing what he wanted, and would simply have made a mess of it; and the other was, that he positively shrank from exposing to public view the secrets of the heart of this young girl. For the keynote of this poor story of hers was the aspiration of a young, innocent, and ardent woman after love. What it described was the hardships of a lot keenly interpenetrated with pain, full of privation of body and soul, obscured by perplexities and difficulties on every side, and yet sweetened, illuminated, glorified, by the possibility of the attainment of the supreme good, which, to this being, at least, was to be found only in love. Here was a creature, if ever words painted truth, whose waiting heart was kept both strong and pure by the sanctification of that hope. The manuscript proved beyond a doubt, that, though she could not write, she could love!

Mr. Black had laid it down, with tenderness and regret, and had rather sadly gone about the task of writing her a note to be sent with the returned manuscript. He had had to harden his heart to this sort of thing so often, that he did not flinch from the plain duty before him, and he would not lead this girl to believe that she could ever write. What he felt like telling her was, that he found himself positively grateful to her for the self-revelation of so pure a heart and so strong a spirit. This, of course, he was not at liberty to express; but he said what he could to soften the blow to her, and he put aside to be returned to the author the manuscript, which was beautifully written (on both sides of the paper, however), and tied with a bit of blue ribbon.

Then he took up the next manuscript, and, to his relief, found it to be in a man’s handwriting. It would help him, he hoped, to efface the impression which its predecessor had made on him. This strong and vigorous writing was unknown to him also, and Mr. Black began to read, with that stirring of possibilities which rises in the jaded mind of the editor at the sight of the work of a perfectly new contributor, and which ninety-nine times out of a hundred ends in disappointment.

This case proved not to be the exceptional one, for this manuscript possessed the same faults of inexperience and lack of literary form as the last one. The letter that accompanied it furnished a further coincidence, in the fact that it acknowledged the use of a _nom de guerre_, and that the present was the first effort of the writer, who, for certain reasons, had been impelled to write this one story, and would probably never write another. The motive, however, in this case, must have been a different one; for this man, who called himself Hugh Robertson, said that he didn’t think his story worth paying for; (This made Mr. Black smile. Could it then be worth publishing?) but he would like to have it come out in this magazine, because its circulation was so large that, in that way, it would reach a great number of readers.

And what, then, was the message for which this Hugh Robertson desired such a wide audience? Mr. Black read the manuscript attentively, and then, after a brief study of the man, as his character was indicated in his note and his handwriting, he constructed his theory of the case. Here was a man, strong, able, successful, surrounded by conditions of prosperity and ease which flatly contradicted the case of Ethel Ross--and yet the keynote to this soul, too, was the all-powerful one of love. Between the two there was a difference, however, for the woman’s heart was attuned to aspiration and the man’s to renunciation. The message from the woman’s heart was that every trial and earthly evil could be borne without complaint, so long as there remained the possibility of the fulfilment of ideal love. The message from the man’s heart was that the fulfilment of ideal love was so well-nigh impossible a thing (though every other fulfilment which the world could give was scant joy in comparison with it), that it behooved one to learn earnestly the lesson of resignation without cynicism. The man’s voice was the stronger of the two, and his message was the nobler, but then there was every indication of its being the outcome of a maturer mind.

It had been as Mr. Black laid down the second manuscript that he had uttered the exclamation already recorded, and the thing that struck him as so very extraordinary was the subtle sort of answering to each other’s needs which these two manuscripts conveyed to his mind. The man’s was as obviously a self-revelation as the woman’s; and the perspicacious editor shrewdly suspected him of being a very shy man, who would not have been able to express himself fully and freely in his own person, and who had therefore sought this means of saying what he had to say to as large an audience as he could reach. Mr. Black could not quite explain why he felt it so, but, in reality, he was convinced that this was a man of influence and importance, who lived a life of active labor, in which he was able to express himself objectively, but who was now, for the first time, giving his soul a subjective expression in this manuscript. The address given by Hugh Robertson was in a great and populous city. It was also in a locality not very far away from the little town from which Ethel Ross had dated her letter. Mr. Black reflected on this fact rather wistfully. He wished that this man and this woman could meet. He could hardly have been the judge of fiction that he was, without a certain amount of romance in him; but, on the other hand, he had an equal amount of common sense, and he saw that the obvious and practical duty of the present moment was to guard the confidence of his contributors in the discharge of his functions as editor.

So he drew a sheet of paper toward him, and wrote his letter to Hugh Robertson. It was much shorter and more restrained than the former one, for no one could fail to recognize in this man a person quite able to stand on his own feet, and yet Mr. Black felt conscious of a regret in this instance, too. A man so strongly capable of renouncing seemed to him the very man who deserved to possess.

Before he had quite finished, he was interrupted by a pressing business demand, so he thrust both the finished and unfinished letters into the drawer of his desk, together with the letters to which they were the answers. Before he left the room, he called one of his assistants and delivered to him the two manuscripts, to be put up for return, and giving the addresses, told the clerk to send on the manuscripts, and he would forward, later in the day, his letters to the two authors.

He hurried away from the room then, and the clerk took the two manuscripts into the outer office, put them up with great precision and care, and in all unconsciousness sent Hugh Robertson’s manuscript to Ethel Ross, and Ethel Ross’s manuscript to Hugh Robertson. He had understood Mr. Black’s very explicit directions, but, in putting up and sealing the two parcels, he had mixed them.

So it came to pass that when Miss Ethel Ross--whose real name, in full, was Ethel Ross Duncan--went on her daily mission to the little postoffice of the small country town, she received one day, not the envelope containing a check, for which she so mightily longed, but a bulky package, which made her very young and ardent heart sink low within her. She really had not expected to have her story returned. It had seemed to her, as she had written it with breathless agitation, in stolen moments, alone in her chamber at night, so palpitatingly interesting, that, as she had ended it, she had felt a positive certainty of seeing those thrilling words turned into print, and of having, in exchange for it, a check which should be large enough for her to carry out a passionate desire of her heart.

It was with difficulty that she could repress her tears as she took the package, which had suddenly become so stale and poor and worthless a thing, and walked homeward with it.

It could hardly be called a home to which she was going back, for she had neither father nor mother to give that sacred character to the shabby little house she now approached. But this house contained, all the same, the being who was at once the source of the sweetest pleasure and the keenest pain in her young life. This was her little brother, who, long ago, had had an injury from a fall, and who had been an invalid and a cripple ever since. The whole responsibility of his care, as well as his support, was upon Ethel, and she had been able to discharge it by means of a position in the village school, which paid her just enough for the bare living of the two. For years her brother’s case had been considered hopeless, and the local doctor, saying he could do no good, had not kept up his visits. Lately, however, Ethel had heard of wonderful things achieved by a distinguished surgeon in a great city not far away, and it had now became an ardent hope in her heart to take little Bob there. She confided this wish to the woman with whom they boarded, but the rural mind is slow to catch enthusiasm, and she had only responded by saying that it would take more money than ever she could scrape together. Ethel had managed to save a little by great economy, and she calculated that this would cover the traveling expenses, if only she could get from somewhere enough to pay the doctor.

This had been the spur that had led her to make that desperate effort with the story, and to lay bare the deepest and most sacred feelings of her heart. She was a very reserved girl, and she never could have done it, but for the safety of distance, and the protection of a name that was not her own.

Well, she had done it, and done it conscientiously. She had “dipped her pen in herself” and written out of her own heart, and this was the result--to have the record of her soul-life returned with thanks, or perhaps without them. She felt no interest in opening the packet, and went and thrust it out of sight in the back of a drawer in her own room as soon as she reached the house. Bob was in pain, and he called to her crossly, and complained because she had left him. He was often impatient with her, and she generally bore it sweetly; but to-day it cut and irritated her.

She said nothing, however, as she took off her hat and came to the side of the couch where he was lying. The child looked up and saw tears in her eyes, and his face and tone grew more resentful still.

“What are you crying about?” he said. “What business have _you_ to cry, when you are well and strong, and you can walk and run and go about wherever you please, and never have an ache or a pain? And then you have the ‘cheek’ to tell me to be brave, and to bear my pain, and not to cry!”

“O Bobby, you are right!” she said. “I ought not to cry and be a coward, and I _am_ ashamed of it; but something has happened that has disappointed me so dreadfully. However, I’ll try to be brave about it, and remember the lessons I have tried to teach to you. I wish I could help you--poor little Bob! It _is_ awful, _awful_, to have to suffer all the time as you do; but, at least, you don’t suffer in your mind--do you? You know I always take care of you and make you as comfortable as I can. Tell me that, Bobby, for it comforts me more than anything in the world to think of that.”

“Of course, I know you will take care of me,” said the child; “but is nobody ever going to do anything to make me any better? Am I going to lie and suffer all my life, and never be strong and well like other boys?”

“O Bobby, I don’t know! I don’t know!” said the poor girl, remembering, with a pang, the failure of the only effort it had been in her power to make. “I want to take you to the city to see that great doctor, for I think he might be able to help you. I will do it, if I ever can, but poor sister can do so little to make money, and it takes money to do a thing like that.”

“Yes, I know,” said the boy, with a certain change in his tone. “When I was little, I used to think I’d make money for you. I used to say you were too pretty to work, and that I would work for you. When Mother died and the pension stopped, I thought if you’d work for me a little while, I’d soon be able to work for you, and I would have done it, if I had not had that fall. Oh, why didn’t it kill me at once! I wish it had!”

“No, my Bobby, no!” said Ethel, bending over him and drawing his arm around her neck. “If you had died, poor sister would have had no one in the world to love; and that would be the worst thing that could happen to anybody.”

“It’s not so bad as being lame,” said the boy.

“O Bobby, I think it’s worse!” said Ethel, half involuntarily.

“Then it shows how much you know about it!” said Bobby; and Ethel made haste to soothe and reassure him, and tell him how much she sympathized with his trouble, and stifled back the wish that he, or somebody, could sympathize with hers.

When night came at last, and the child had gone to sleep, and Ethel was alone in her little room that opened into his, she softly closed the door between them, and gave herself up to the luxury of a good cry. It was one of the few luxuries within her reach; she did not often indulge herself in this, but to-night she felt she must. It was this craving for sympathy which brought it on her--the passionate wish that somebody understood her and was aware of the struggle she made continually, by day and by night, to still the craving of her heart for love. She loved Bobby, but he was an unceasing care to her, and she wanted somebody to care for her, as she cared for him. If she had, how ardently grateful would she be for such care and protection--and how little he seemed to respond to or appreciate it! Of course, it was not to be expected of a crippled boy, continually preoccupied by pain, and, as a rule, she never thought of expecting it. But to-night she felt that need of being understood swelling up within her so passionately, that it seemed almost more than she could bear.

When she had cried until there seemed to be no more tears left to shed, she got up and went to the old dressing-table to prepare for bed. She looked at herself, half bitterly, as she realized how useless all those foolish tears had been. She might as well make up her mind that her lot in life was to be drudgery and disappointment, and that no one would ever really understand her or enter into the feelings of her heart.

She pulled open a drawer to get something out, and as she did so she remembered the manuscript. She took it out and looked at the cold, unsympathetic typewriting on the back. It was foolish of her to shrink from opening it, and she would compel herself to look once more at those poor pages which she had written with such heart throbbings, and sent off with such hopes.

Running a hairpin along the edge of the sealed envelope, she cut it open and drew the contents out. How was this? They looked unfamiliar. There was no binding with blue ribbons, no delicate woman-writing. Instead, she held in her hands a number of loose sheets covered with the strong, distinct, nervous characters of a man’s hand. The title of this manuscript was _The Draught Divine_. The title of hers had been _The Soul-Thirst_. The caption under the title was exactly the one that she had put under hers:

“The thirst which from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a draught divine.”

But for this coincidence she would probably have suspected some mistake at the editorial office and put the manuscript by; but after seeing this, she felt that she must read it.

And so, standing fascinated where she was, she turned leaf after leaf, and read breathlessly on. As she did so, the old mirror opposite reflected a picture whose glowing beauty deepened every minute. Here, the divine draught of love was so strongly analyzed, its component parts so comprehendingly described, and its powerful effects so brilliantly demonstrated, that the paper had almost the character of a scientific treatise. The subject, she felt, could scarcely have been handled in this deliberate way but for the very fact that the writer was in an attitude, not of anticipation, but of renunciation. It mattered little to Ethel that the plot of this story was ill-constructed and illogical, and the situations commonplace and trite. What she saw before her on these sheets, and felt permeating every corner of her soul, was the renunciation of all the ideal conditions of living and loving that her heart aspired to. What this man gave up was what she had always so resolutely claimed--what she had never wavered in demanding and expecting of life, until this very evening, when, for the first time, she had looked in the face of possible renunciation.

But with the reading of this paper she shifted back to her old ground, for here, at least, she felt herself comprehended at last. Not one of all the people with whom her lot had hitherto been cast had ever uttered thoughts and feelings such as these; but here, in this manuscript, were the very echoes of her own soul. Yes, all of them--the loud, sonorous, reverberating ones, no less than the delicate soundings of her finest needs. She looked at the signature at the end, and saw the words, “Hugh Robertson.” This gave an individual character to the consciousness that had just entered into her, and the mere knowledge of the existence of such a personality in the world was a stimulating and an exhilarating thought that made her smile.

As she did so, she looked up and caught the reflection of herself in the mirror before her. Happiness, the supreme beautifier, had swiftly done its wonder-work, and she could not fail to realise that she was very fair to see. The knowledge of it gave her pleasure. The power of enjoyment, lately so stultified and depressed, returned to her with a glowing ardor. All the world began suddenly to look more hopeful. Ah, life was sweet, its opportunities were great and precious, its possibilities were divine!

As these thoughts darted through her mind and illuminated her beautiful face there came a sudden recollection which checked the first and clouded the second--the thought of Bob with his sad burden of pain and helplessness. Oh, how dreadful that such things could be! Couldn’t it be helped? she wondered. Couldn’t something be done? Somehow, a new power seemed to have come into her--a power of initiative and action, such as she had never felt before. She suddenly determined that she would write to the great doctor, of whose skill she had heard so much, and ask him if he would examine Bob if she brought him on, and tell her what could be done. The incentive was so strong that she got her desk and wrote the letter at once, explaining that she had no money now, except enough for the bare expenses of the trip, but adding that, if treatment could be had for Bob at a moderate cost, she might hope to save the money for it, if she could pay a little at a time.

She finished the letter, and addressed it in her delicate, characteristic hand to Dr. Arthur H. Hubert, but there she had to stop. It would be necessary to wait until she could get his address.

Ethel waked next morning with a feeling of renewed youth, for which she could not account, until she recollected the manuscript, which, in her ardent way, she had slipped under her pillow, before going to sleep. Perhaps it was to that cause that she was indebted for some very sweet and joy-giving dreams, in which she had lived in such a rose-colored world that, even in returning to the sombreness of the actual one, she brought with her a portion of that lovely hue.

To-day’s mail brought her Mr. Black’s letter, and made it perfectly clear that this manuscript had been sent her by mistake, instead of her own. The kind words in the letter helped and strengthened her, and the reading of the manuscript had given her such joy that she felt the sting of the failure of her own half obliterated. She sat down and wrote to Mr. Black, telling him of the mistake, and asking him to give her the address of Hugh Robertson, so that she might send his manuscript to him and ask for her own back, if he should, as she supposed, have received hers. She knew that the more regular way would be to send the manuscript back to Mr. Black; but the fact was, she hated to part with it, and she resorted to this means of keeping it a little longer. She was too refined a girl to have any idea of getting up an acquaintance with the writer of the story in this way, and it would never have occurred to her to do more than let him know that she had read it. That, she thought, she might do, though she did not mention the fact to Mr. Black.

Immediately upon the receipt of her letter Mr. Black wrote and asked that the manuscript might be returned to him, apologizing for the mistake. He said the addresses of his contributors were a matter of professional confidence, and he felt bound, therefore, to return the manuscript himself. He made many apologies for having also, through a fault in his office, sent her manuscript to Hugh Robertson, and added that he had just received from that gentleman a request for her address, to which he had replied in the same terms as those of his letter to her. As soon as he received her manuscript he would forward it to her, he said.

What he did not say, however, was, that the clerk who had made the mistake had been let off with a lighter reprimand than was usual with Mr. Black, who somehow felt that if he said too much he might be tampering with the designs of Providence.

Dr. Hubert sat alone in his office opening his mail--a great pile of letters and papers and medical journals, relative chiefly to his practice and the working of his hospital. Many of the people who wrote to the celebrated surgeon from a distance were much surprised, when they came to see him, to find him so young a man. The great success of his surgical practice had brought him almost suddenly into notice and prominence, and now, although he was under forty, he had a well-established and very successful hospital of his own. He was unmarried, despite the fact of such decided personal attractions as made him almost an idol with the ladies; and the current belief was, that he had been “disappointed in love.” Although this fact was generally accepted, no one had ever been able to identify the object of this theory. If the more intimate of his friends and patients ventured to question him on this point, he would laughingly defy them to point out the lady; but, confident as he was of their inability to do this, he acknowledged, to his own heart, at least, that it was literally true that he had been “disappointed in love.” That was exactly it. No loved woman had ever disappointed him, but his feelings came from the fact that love itself had disappointed him; and the little god, though long expected and looked for, had resolutely turned his back and looked the other way. So now, at last, Dr. Hubert had made up his mind to be independent of Cupid; and having spent much of his force in restless watching and wooing of him, he had determined to secure a greater power of concentration in his profession by bidding him farewell. He was essentially a deliberate and methodical man, however; and as it was his habit to study and investigate every theory and practice of medicine and surgery before he either accepted or rejected it, and even to formulate his grounds of action in writing, he had written out his theory of love, and formulated to himself the grounds of his rejection of it. The chief reason for this rejection was the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of realizing his ideal. Dr. Hubert was an intensely energetic man, and the great secret of his success had been in his excellent discrimination between the attainable and unattainable. So in his profession he left the province of abstract and experimental theories to less active men, and only worked along the lines that gave promise of definite results. He was very ambitious in his profession, and he knew that he had so long served it with a divided heart, that he now proposed to do in the matter of love what he had done in all other departments, and give up a search for what plainly appeared to be the unattainable.

Accordingly, it had occurred to him to make the matter more impersonal by writing his thesis on renunciation in the form of a story, and, having written it, to publish it under a _nom de guerre_, and send it to a journal with a large circulation. He was accustomed to having his papers considered important, and he had never written one that appeared to him more so than this. Moreover, he had an absolute horror of wasted force in any department, and he wanted this paper to be widely read. The message which he delivered in it was a warning to men, and women too, not to spend their best energies in a restless seeking after love, but, rather, after a reasonable amount of time and force had been put into the quest, to make a strong act of renunciation, and to have their faculties unimpeded for whatever work they could find to do.

This was the story which he had sent to Mr. Black’s magazine, and which, with Mr. Black’s usual admirable promptness, had been returned to him, as he supposed. But, lo! upon opening the envelope he had found another manuscript, written in the beautiful handwriting of a refined woman, tied with a bit of blue ribbon, and having a title strongly allied to his own, and a sub-title that was identical.

Of course he read the manuscript. He began it with interest, which increased to eagerness, and ended in avidity. Whoever Ethel Ross might be, she had a soul that answered his; a heart that gave back to his heart, throb for throb. He had dashed off a note to Mr. Black, asking for her address, that he might return the manuscript to its author, and Mr. Black had sent him, by this post, the letter in which he had declined to give the address, and had asked that the manuscript might be returned to him.

This was the letter which Dr. Hubert had singled out of the pile before him, recognizing it by the name of the magazine printed in the corner, and pushing all his other mail aside.

He read the letter twice, with a look of distinct disappointment on his face, but mingled with it there was a look of strong determination. He was in the habit of overcoming difficulties, and he did not purpose to let himself be conquered here. He put Mr. Black’s communication in a drawer, and drew the remainder of his letters toward him.

He read them rapidly through, putting them by to be answered by his stenographer in the evening, until he came to the one at the bottom of the pile. When he saw the address on this letter, he started. All the rest he had read with business-like composure, but now his face actually flushed. The handwriting looked familiar; its character was peculiar, and he had seen it before--he knew where.

He hastily cut it open and turned to the signature. It was “Ethel R. Duncan.” What could it mean? Had she, perchance, read his manuscript, too, and more successful than he, obtained his address and written to him? These questions were soon answered by the reading of the letter.

He found himself addressed simply in his capacity as physician, and the whole tone of the letter was that of a young person speaking to an elder. This grated on him a little, but it was a mere detail, and the main point was, that he found the coveted opportunity, which he had been prepared to do much to win, just within his grasp.

He held the letter in his hand a moment, and then opening a drawer, and taking out the manuscript eagerly, identified the writing. There could not be a shadow of a doubt. This letter proposed to give him immediately the power to make her acquaintance, by coming on to his hospital at once, and bringing her little brother to him for treatment. This was her wish and design, provided the very scanty means which she acknowledged should not be an obstacle. One point that she made, was the necessity for immediate action, as her school was to re-open in three weeks, and she, at least, would have to return.

Dr. Hubert drew a sheet of paper toward him at once, and wrote to Miss Duncan, taking the tone that it was the most natural thing in the world for people to bring patients to his hospital without any prospect of paying for their treatment, and urging her not to lose a day in bringing her brother on, saying that the financial part of the transaction could all be settled at some future time, when it had been seen whether or not the patient could be benefitted. This he left to be copied on the typewriter.

Then he wrote a very light and easy letter to Mr. Black, and with the utmost propriety returned the manuscript. He had fancied that it would be a great trial to him to give up that little packet of paper but now, with the opportunity which he had in view, he could let it go willingly, especially as every word of it was inscribed on his heart.

These two matters disposed of, Dr. Hubert got into his buggy, and had himself driven to the hospital. It was not his usual time for coming, and the matron and nurses were thrown into quite a little flutter of surprise at seeing him. He soon explained, however, that he had only come to give explicit orders that Number 29 was not to be given to any one, as he wished it reserved for a patient whom he was expecting in a day or two. This was his favorite room in the hospital; its wallpaper, furniture, and situation were the very best in the house, and the price of it corresponded to this fact.

When Dr. Hubert sprang into his buggy again, there was a buoyancy in his manner which was unusual, even to this energetic man. A little later, as he came suddenly in view of a florist’s window, he put out his hand and jerked up the horse suddenly, to the driver’s surprise, and went into the shop. When he came out, he had a rose in his button-hole, and a big bunch of carnations in his hands. These he smelt with evident pleasure, from time to time, finally bestowing them on a little crippled boy who was one of his patients.

By return of post Dr. Hubert got a letter announcing the day and hour on which the new patient and his sister might be expected.

On that day and hour he sent one of his young assistant physicians to the station to meet the brother and sister, explaining that they had been very especially commended to his care, and that, as the boy was lame, the young lady might require assistance in moving him.

As he uttered the words “young lady,” the possibility crossed his mind that the adjective might possibly be proved to be a mistake. Suppose, after all, she should turn out to be elderly, unlovable, and unbeautiful! He laughed to himself, in ardent rejection of the idea. Such a woman might well have been the author of those two letters, which were models of stiff propriety and reserve, but such a woman could never be the author of that manuscript. When he remembered the free expression of vivid thought and ardent feeling that that story had contained, he felt a positive certainty that the being who had written it would prove to be both young and lovely.

And both young and lovely did she prove. When “The Doctor,” as he was called by all the inmates of the hospital, whether they served and worshipped him as employees or as patients, arrived that afternoon, he paid every visit that was due on the premises before he went to Number 29. These visits were unusually brief, however, and as he consulted his watch before tapping at that door, he saw that he had managed well, and had left himself plenty of time to be deliberate in the examination of this patient and the talking over of his case with his sister.

Certainly it was a youthful voice that called, “Come in,” in answer to his knock. He came in, accordingly, and closed the door behind him.

He was a very handsome man, this doctor, and very young for his great reputation. He stood just within the threshold, with his hands resting on his hips in an attitude of much natural grace. Then he bowed politely and took in the two occupants of the room with a keen and concentrated gaze, through a pair of very light and polished glasses.

The crippled boy was lying on the bed, and a beautiful, blooming, vigorous young girl was sitting by him in an attitude of expectation, and with a look upon her face that was tinged with a shy timidity. The doctor did not speak at first, having a fancy that she should open the conversation. She stood up, in evident hesitation what to do, and then said:

“Did you want to speak to me about anything?”

“I fancied you wanted to speak to me,” he said.

“You are, perhaps, one of the doctors,” said Ethel, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes, I’m one of the doctors,” he said, looking at her keenly all the time, with a self-possession which she found it impossible to imitate. She was so confused, in fact, that she could think of nothing to say but, “Which one?”

“Dr. Hubert,” he said.

“Oh, are there two Dr. Huberts?” she asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“There is but one Dr. Hubert, so far as I know,” he said. “Why do you object to my being he?”

“Oh, really!” said the girl, blushing. “Please excuse me. I thought he would be an old man.”

“I’m glad he ain’t. I hate old men!” put in Bobby, unexpectedly.

“Thank you very much, my boy,” said the doctor, advancing to the bed-side. “Your sister, it seems, is disappointed in me. I am afraid I will have to make a big effort to build up her confidence.”

“Oh, no, no! It isn’t that,” said Ethel, eagerly; but he was plainly not attending to her words, as he bent over the bed and looked scrutinizingly into the boy’s face, and then took one of the small, thin hands into his, and held it in a watchful sort of way as he turned to the girl and said, with earnest interest:

“Is his general health pretty good?”

“Oh, yes, I think so,” began Ethel; but the child interrupted her, roughly:

“Oh, yes, you think so!” he said. “As if you knew how I suffer! You never have an ache or a pain, and you don’t care how _I_ feel!”

Ethel was about to speak, when the doctor, catching Bobby by the chin and looking intently into his eyes, said firmly:

“Now look here, my youngster, I’m going to put a stop to this at once--do you understand? I’m not going to have your sister spoken to in any such a way as that. She’s your best friend, and she seems to be a good enough one for any boy alive, and I’d like to see you treat her with a little respect, if you please.”

The boy flushed deeply as he realized the impression that he had made upon this new doctor, from whom he hoped so much. He was very angry with himself, and said quickly:

“Perhaps you think I don’t love her, or know how good she is to me. If you think so, you are wrong. I love her better than all the world, and I know there never was such a good sister; but she doesn’t mind. She knows how I suffer, and she lets me talk to her like that, when the pain is very bad.”

There were tears of regret and mortification in his eyes as he spoke, seeing which the doctor’s face grew suddenly very gentle.