CHAPTER XXXVI.

HAGAR AT HEATH HALL.

“Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria.” DANTE.

All night the children slept on their rude pallet, lulled by the howling of the storm, as it came dulled through the thick walls of the fishing-house. All night Hagar slumbered a fitful and uninterrupted slumber, more like a succession of fainting fits than a natural sleep, for overpowered by fatigue, she would fall into a state of deep insensibility, from which she would often start in terror, aroused by a sudden consciousness or dream of wrong, danger, or censure, of a terrible and impending destiny. All night Gusty sat upon the inverted tub drawn up between the fire-dogs, guarding his charges and keeping up the fire. Gusty, in whom the animal so largely predominated, found it very hard to keep awake—yet Gusty, who had never lost a meal’s victuals or a night’s sleep for any grief or disappointment he had ever suffered—Gusty, now that the health and comfort of others made it necessary for him to do so—propped his eyes open with heroic perseverance. Every one knows how difficult it is to keep from going to sleep, alone, in a quiet room over a good fire; there is something soporific in its genial heat, even in the day time. Gusty could have sworn he had not closed his eyes the whole night, yet by some inexplicable magic he had, or dreamed he had taken up a stick to mend the fire—at deep, dark, stormy midnight—and when he put it down, or when it fell from his hand—the instant after—it was broad, bright, glorious daylight! with the sun beaming a blinding light through the window, whose form was traced in amber radiance upon the opposite wall, near which Hagar stood in her travelling dress, ready for a walk, with the two babies standing clinging to her skirts, and gazing with baby wonder upon the strange scene in which they found themselves.

“Lord!—yes!—well!—I declare!—so it is!” exclaimed Gusty, starting up.

“I am glad you slept well, Gusty, dear, kind friend,” said Hagar.

“I never SLEPT!” averred Gusty, with his eyes still wide open with astonishment, thinking himself bewitched.

Hagar smiled sadly to herself, and did not contradict him.

Gusty arose, and shook himself, like a great honest dog roused from slumber, and walking to the door opened it and looked out.

“Oh! Hagar, come!” said he, “look out—what a glorious morning!”

She went up to his side. It was indeed a gorgeous scene! The heath and hills were covered with crusted and brilliant snow, glittering with diamond dust. The forest trees carved in ice, with icicles for foliage. From every bough and bud dropped millions of pendent jewels. Earth wore a gorgeous bridal dress, bedecked with diamonds, and the morning sun kindled up into dazzling splendor the icy glories of the scene, until the snow flashed back to heaven, in lines of blinding light, a glory brilliant as the sun himself. Gusty shaded his eyes from the blinding radiance. Hagar gazed unwinking with her eagle eyes upon the landscape, until the fire kindled in her cheek and burned on her lips. When they had breathed the pure air, and enjoyed the prospect a few minutes, Gusty said,

“You must remain here an hour, Hagar, until I go to the Hall and fetch a horse—it is almost impossible for you to get over these slippery and mountainous snow-drifts yet.”

“But it will be quite impossible to get over it with a horse.”

“Yes, just now it will, but in an hour or two the crust will be melted. Oh! this snow, deep as it is, will not last long; it comes too late in the season; the last offering of old winter, who turned back to make it. Yes, there is a great change since last night, I should think the thermometer had risen thirty degrees. I declare the sun begins to feel warm on my shoulders. Well, Hagar, stay here till I come. Oh! there are some crackers in my trunk, if you want them for the children, here are the keys,” and throwing them to her, he buttoned up his great coat, drew on his gloves, clapped his hat upon his head, and set out. He might have been gone an hour, but she heard no trampling of horse feet upon the snow, and so was unconscious of their approach until Gusty opened the door, and stood smilingly with his broad good-humored face within it. Behind him—standing on tiptoe, to look over his shoulder, was Tarquinius, grinning with delight from ear to ear, and breaking past them, yelping defiance like fire and sword, sprang two pointers straight upon Hagar, whom they overwhelmed with welcome caresses! She started with brightening eyes, and returned their honest fondling. Then how they bounded, leaped, and fell into convulsions of joy! or lay their muzzles out upon her lap, every hair vibrating with a still delight.

“Come, Mrs. Withers, are you quite ready?” said Gusty, drawing off his gloves and putting them into his pocket.

“Oh, yes, quite ready.”

“How do you do, Tarquinius?” said she, kindly holding out her hand to the man that had been standing smiling and bowing his reverential welcome (making his _obedience_, he called it), through all this scene. “How is old Cumbo—how is your grandmother, Tarquin?”

“Putty much de same, I tank you, ma’am—I does not see any changes.”

“Yet she is very aged.”

“Yes, ma’am, but her ages does not get any wusser, but commiserably better.”

“Can she do anything for herself?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am! she deforms de cookinary boderations as well as ever she did,” and making two or three deep bows, Tarquinius Superbus retired from the conference.

There was an unusual kindliness in Hagar’s manner while inquiring after the welfare of her old nurse; one of the blessed influences of sorrow was beginning to manifest itself—her heart was softening, becoming capable of being impressed by the afflictions of others.

“Hagar, come!” said Gusty, lifting up a child in each arm, and preceding her from the door.

Hagar followed, and no sooner had she emerged into the dazzling sunlight upon the crusted snow, than with a neigh of joy her little jet black pony Starlight, bounded to meet her. She fell upon his neck, caressing him, as if he had been her brother, too surprised and glad to ask an explanation of his arrival. She patted, talked to him, and laying her hand upon his mane, sprang into the saddle with something of her former agility and gladness. She had thought the coming of the dogs accidental, she thought that Gusty had met them on an early hunt, and that they had naturally recognised an old friend and followed him to the house; but now that she felt herself again upon Starlight’s back, with the dogs at her feet, she wondered how it came so.

“Sit Agatha here before me, Gusty, I can hold her with one hand, and guide Starlight with the other. I mean to accustom the children early to riding.”

“And which _is_ Agatha, and which is Agnes?—hang me if I can tell, though I have a preference! for this little one on my left arm loves me the most, presses close to me, looks up in my face, and seeks my eyes; and if I turn away my head, she puts up her little dimpled hand upon my chin, and turns my face around again, till she can see my eyes. God love her! God bless her! the loving darling! while this other child sits perched upon my arm, as if it were a high chair, with closed lips and level gaze, with all the composed dignity of an infant princess. Now, which is Agatha, and which is Agnes? If my loving darling is Agatha, I won’t give her up.”

“No, your favorite is Agnes—the other is Agatha; hand her to me; and, Gusty, I wish you would not manifest the slightest preference for one child above the other—it is a fatal cruelty. Agatha is still, because she has less vitality than her sister; she is more delicate, dear child. I discovered it the first moment I had an opportunity of comparing them.”

Gusty placed the sedate infant in her mother’s care, and seemed very well pleased to be relieved from the burden, and at liberty to devote his whole care to the “loving darling” in his arms. And so the party set out over the brilliant snow, under the glorious sunshine. They reached the old Hall in twenty minutes’ ride. Agatha had fallen asleep on her mother’s bosom. They entered through the broken gate, and Hagar rode quite up to the piazza, and handing the sleeping babe to Tarquinius, she sprang from her saddle, took back the child, and entering the doorway, stood one moment in silent prayer, and passed on into the parlor, where stood old Cumbo leaning on her stick, with a red handkerchief on her head, tied under her chin, and forming a brilliant red frame around a face, black, wrinkled, and shining as a dried prune. Awed by the memory of Hagar’s pride and hardness, the old woman did not advance to welcome her, but when Hagar approached and spoke to her gently and kindly, she fell to crying and calling her dear “piccaninni.” Hagar looked around upon the scene; it appeared to her strange that everything had remained unchanged during the long century that her two years’ absence seemed to be. It was the same old parlor papered with the martyrs—with the shadows of the same poplar trees intercepting the sun at the windows that looked out upon the piazza. A good hickory fire was burning on the ample hearth, and a good breakfast smoking on the table. Hagar set her child down upon the carpet, and began to take off her travelling dress, just as Gusty entered, followed by Tarquinius, bearing a dish of fine white perch, fried, which he had just brought from the kitchen, and now set upon the table. They sat down to breakfast.

“These are very nice, Tarquin—did you catch them?” asked Gusty, placing a perch upon the plate before him.

“Yes, sir! I did, sir; I most in general confuses my ledger hours by angulating in the bay, whenever the perdition of the hemisphere commits.”

“Ah, that’s right; has my mother—has Mrs. Buncombe been over at the Hall to give any directions?”

“No, sor, but de reverend gen’lem’n, sir, he come ober, and dejected us to have ebery ting impaired, and all the molestic confairs deranged for Mrs. Widders, an’ so we have conveyed his ardors to de best of our debility.”

“Thank you—you are a valuable agent!—Hagar!”

“Well?”

“I shall have to take leave of you immediately after breakfast; I must see my mother—she is uneasy, I know—perhaps sick. Say, are they all well over to the Grove, Tarquin?”

“Yes, sir, de reveren gen’lem’n, he has got over his room-atism, and goes all over the house; but he is inflicted with a dog-matism in his ear, owing to Mr. Green’s big dog, Silver, jumpin’ up and bitin’ him.”

“Oh!”

“Speaking of dogs, will you tell me, Gusty, how Starlight, and Remus, and Romulus came here?”

“Came here? Why, they have been here all the time; did not you know it?”

“No, indeed; tell me about it.”

“In the first place, the dogs would not stay anywhere else. Gardiner Green tied them up, but they gnawed their rope in two and fled to the Hall; and then he caught them and chained them, but they kept such a dismal howling—”

“Poor dogs!”

“That Mrs. Green, who is very superstitious, insisted on their being set at liberty, and they immediately returned to the Hall!”

“Dear, true dogs! Well, but Starlight?”

“Yes, Starlight! _he_ was worse, it was a regular conspiracy. Star behaved like a comet—like a devil let loose. Gardiner Green mounted him on Sunday to ride to church, but no sooner was he prisoned on the saddle, than Star shot forward like a meteor, while Green fell upon his neck and grasped his mane; Star fled across the meadow, making the turf fly beneath his digging feet, fled towards the river, plunged in, swam it, climbed the opposite side, and took the way towards the forest. Soon the pointers came baying behind him. On fled Star, with Green clinging in deadly terror to his neck, bent on a regular steeple chase, bounding over the hills, tearing through the forest, springing over gates, leaping across chasms, till at last reaching and clearing Devil’s Gorge at a bound, he sent Gardiner Green spinning from his back like a shot from a pop-gun! and keeping on his course, arrived in a somewhat excited state of mind at his own stall at Heath Hall, where the pointers soon overtook him. Gardiner Green was picked up by those who went to look for him, battered, bruised, and terrified nearly to death, but not lamed, dead, or otherwise injured. The next morning they sent over and had Starlight led back; and Starlight stepped statelily forth with the indignant air and threatening eye of a captive king led in triumph, who expects yet to rise and crush his enemies.”

“My noble Starlight!”

“Oh! he was a hero—he was not born to be a slave, or to serve any master except for love.”

“Like his mistress,” thought Hagar, and her brow grew dark with recollection.

“Well, they carried him home and geared him up into Mistress Green’s gig—but he ran away with that, threw Mrs. Green out, spoiling her beauty but not seriously injuring her—kicked the gig to flinders, and brought the remnant of his gearing as a trophy home to the stables of Heath Hall that very evening. Then they put him in a cart, which he served in the same manner. Then they put him in a plough with another horse.”

“Poor, dear Starlight—to degrade my elegant Starlight so!”

“Exactly! but his highness, Prince Starlight, the Black Prince, would not stand it—he kicked, and reared, and plunged, and tried to excite his comrade to run away. And when his small-souled comrade would not, he bit him severely on the neck, as a punishment for helping to keep him prisoner. And then Gardiner Green offered ‘the black fiend’ to any one for half the price he gave for him. It was just at this juncture of affairs that I had run down here to see mother again before going the voyage I expected to sail on, and hearing of this, I gladly purchased the horse at half-price, and returned him to the stables at Heath Hall, for the use of Hagar if ever she should return—for, Hagar, it is demonstrated that he will not serve man, woman, or child, but you.”

“I know that,” said Hagar, “and Gusty, I thank you, very sincerely—but I must repay you.”

“Be hanged if you shall! I will give him to you, but as for _selling him to you_! I’d cut his throat first! I was very willing to pay a good price for him, only I was enraged with that old brute, Gardiner Green, for having the atrocious assurance to buy your horse and dogs without your consent; for, of course, Hagar, I knew perfectly well that you would never have agreed to the sale, and so I would not be generous! I was too glad to punish his fault through his tenderest point, his pocket.”

“But,” said Hagar, choking with the unavailing effort to speak _a name_ that had not passed her lips since its owner was lost to her sight, “_he_ sold them, and of course my consent was understood or unnecessary.”

This was the first occasion upon which even the most distant allusion was made between Hagar and Gusty to the party that was nevertheless ever present to the minds of both. Gusty soon after arose from the table, and in taking leave of Hagar, promised that if it were possible for his mother to venture through the deep snow, he would bring her over in the afternoon.

* * * * *

The family of Grove Cottage had just arisen from breakfast. The parson had just buttoned up his greatcoat, set his hat upon his head, and was drawing on his wool-lined gloves for a walk to the village, when the door opened, and Gusty entered.

“Oh! how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Buncombe, slightly starting back with surprise, and then cordially shaking his hand. Gusty, returning his salute, passed on to where his mother sat at the head of the table. Emily arose with tears in her eyes. Gusty caught and folded her warmly to his bosom.

Mr. Buncombe returned, and laying his hand upon his step-son’s shoulder, said—“Gusty, my boy, I am called to the sick bed of one of my parishioners, and must leave you. I am sorry, but I shall meet you here at dinner?”

“Yes, sir. Oh! never mind me, my dear sir.”

The parson departed, and Gusty releasing his mother, snatched up his infant sister, Rose, and began to cover her with caresses and praises by way of diverting the storm of maternal grief and resentment, that he felt too ready to break over his head. Emily was weeping bitterly, until, seeing _his_ grief and embarrassment, she arose and fell upon his shoulder, exclaiming,

“Oh, Gusty! Gusty! you have destroyed the labor and the hopes of many years and cares. You have nearly broken my heart—but you are welcome, nevertheless! Welcome, welcome, my boy!”

“Mother! _don’t_, now _don’t_—don’t make me _feel_ like a brute, when I _know_ I have behaved like a man!” said Gusty, setting down the child, and returning his mother’s embrace. “I have not merited this misfortune, mother; and I know that therefore, sooner or later, it will turn out well!”

“Ah! but, Gusty, it is _such_ a blow! and you did nothing to avert, and will do nothing to remedy it! _Why_ did you not, why _do_ you not, even now, hasten to Washington, and petition to be reinstated?”

“I would see the whole United States Navy swamped first, mother! No, much as I honor my flag, I honor myself more! and God most!”

“Ah, Gusty! ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ is a very true proverb.”

“May be so—but I’ll improve upon that, ‘God helps those who help their neighbors!’ I have Scripture for _that_, mother; ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days it shall return, and whoso giveth, _lendeth_ to the Lord.’ Come, mother, I lost my commission by doing a higher duty than any I owed my flag, and so I am not uneasy; but, mother, you have not once inquired after Hagar, who landed last night in the midst of the storm, and who is now at the Hall.”

“Well! how should I be able to think of Hagar, when I have so many anxieties on your account, unfortunate boy? but how is Hagar, then?”

“Recovering slowly, but _very_ slowly; will you not go over to see her, then, this afternoon?”

Emily was silent and thoughtful, and sooth to say, rather displeased at the proposition.

“Will you not, mother? Come, mother; when you see Hagar, so wretched, so ill, so changed, your unjust displeasure with her will be dissipated; you should not indeed feel angry with her because she was the involuntary, the unconscious cause of my misfortune, which she does not even know of yet—thinking I am on furlough—and do not tell her, mother.”

“Yes, but I see no _reason_ for all this wretchedness. I knew that Hagar madly loved her husband, but I do not see why his leaving her for two years should cause her to lose the power of directing her own life, and so cause you to lose all the hopes and prospects of yours.”

Gusty mused. Could he, he thought, enlighten his mother as to the _real_ state of affairs? After some minutes’ reflection, he determined to keep the secret of the elopement, veiled as it was by the foreign mission; both because, though his suspicions came as near truth as suspicions _could_ come, yet they were not fully proved—_he_ might feel very sure himself, yet he might not he able to assure another mind—and because he did not wish to inflict upon his mother another sorrow, in addition to the one she was now almost sinking under. He felt sure that she would never receive a hint from Hagar, whom self-esteem, as well as her continued and inevitable love for her husband, would keep silent upon the subject of his perfidy, and her own wrongs and sufferings.

After dinner, Emily, attended by her son, rode towards Heath Hall.

* * * * *

When Gusty May had left the breakfast-table for his walk to Grove Cottage, Hagar took her two children up to her own chamber—to her old eyrie in the third story. This room also was unchanged—except—yes! there sat her children’s little rose-wood crib, with all its furniture, just as it was before it had been sold at the third execution. There could be but _one_ to whom she was indebted for this delicate attention, and though her morbid pride was at first startled, yet her affections were touched by this instance of disinterested friendship.

Without any pretensions, Gusty was doing everything to sanctify the uses of adversity to the heart of Hagar. It was impossible not to be softened by the kind offices of a friendship that gave everything without hope or even thought of return. This was Hagar’s first, her _very_ first experience of disinterested affection—the love of Raymond was intensely selfish, craving only the possession of its object, regardless of her affections or her happiness—and Hagar had felt that bitterly through all her married life, and most bitterly in her desertion. The effect of this selfish and cruel abandonment on the character of Hagar’s mind and heart, must have been most deleterious, fatal, but that the antidote was provided in a new phase of human sympathy revealed to her in the disinterested affection of one—an alien by blood—a rejected and humbled lover of her girlhood, a sufferer by the same treachery that laid her own hopes in the dust; one who, without pretending to any fine feelings, or expressing any fine sentiments, had quietly suppressed and concealed his own griefs, in ministering to her wants, in trying to alleviate her sorrows. Hagar’s maternity had first inspired her deepest prayer—her children had been the angels sent to conduct her heart to God—to whom, ever since, with an almost hearing, seeing, touching faith, she had offered all her joys, gratitudes, and praises, and where, alas! she had also impiously carried all her fears, complaints, and reproaches. But now she must ask a boon of Providence, that He would bless and prosper the kind soul that she was unable to benefit. This was the silent prayer—the silent fragrance rising from the bruised heart to heaven—while she loosened her babies’ clothes, and laid them in the crib to take their forenoon nap. And then she looked around the pleasant room with its agreeable associations, the extensive prospect from the windows of the broad river, the village with its little stir and bustle on the opposite side, the boundless bay with its occasional passing packet, all inspiring the feeling of life, liberty, and strength. If God is a kind father, as all his children devoutly feel and acknowledge, _Nature_ is a good nursing mother, and under the care of both, Hagar was even now beginning to feel her torpid life stir again. She was at _home_, under her own roof; what if the house were half a ruin—it was HER OWN. She was upon her own land, and though it was only a desert heath, it was HER OWN. There was a sense of independence in that, and of pride in the thought that for this home she was not indebted to Mr. Withers—for, though she still _must_ love him, in her high self-appreciation she now felt an unconquerable reluctance to receive anything from him who had withdrawn his love and personal protection. And then there was a sense of returning power in the new life that was tiding in and filling all her veins. Turning from the window, from which she had been gazing, her eye fell upon her own image in the glass; that glass which had so often reflected the slight dark figure of the high-spirited maiden, whose long blue-black ringlets glittered down a crimson cheek blushing with pride, _now_ gave back the form of the matron, whose fair, wan, spiritual face was faintly flushed with returning life, and softly shaded by the tiny black ringlets of the young hair just visible under the delicate lace border of her little cap. Hagar scarcely knew herself. It was so strange to see that changed picture in that frame.

Returning and looking again at her children, she drew the light muslin curtain around them, and left the room to take a look through the house. She went into the large, old drawing-room hall, as it was called in those days, and there the first thing that met her eyes was her grand piano, and her harp, from the Rialto. Hagar started in surprise and embarrassment—the burden of obligation was beginning to feel oppressive—she called Tarquin in.

“When did these arrive, and who brought them here?”

“They ’riv’ ’tother day, ma’am, by the packet ‘Future,’ Cap’n Hope, who sent ’em up to the Hall by two sailors.”

“With any message?”

“No, ma’am, freight paid in advance—dinner is ready, Mrs. Withers,” said the man, throwing open the parlor door with all the ceremonious observance of “better days.” Hagar passed in and sat down to her solitary meal. It was a well served, delicate little repast, purveyed by the affectionate care of Cumbo and Tarquin from the rich resources of the Heath and bay, which were always abundantly supplied with wild game, water fowl, fish, crabs, oysters, &c., in their respective seasons. There was no danger of our Hagar starving, and that was one comfort; nor of her freezing, as long as the forest stood behind the Heath, and that was another consolation. Her dinner was scarcely over and the things removed from the table, when looking through the window, she saw Emily on her little mare with her little girl before her, and Gusty riding by her side. This of course was the first sight she had had of Emily for two years past; she hastened out to meet her. Gusty had dismounted, and was lifting his little sister from his mother’s lap, previous to assisting her from the saddle. She greeted Hagar with as much cordiality as could be expected under the circumstances. Hagar immediately ran, and lifting, caressed the little girl that was but a few months older than her own children. Emily’s sullen anger was somewhat softened by witnessing the sincere interest manifested by the youthful mother in _her_ child, and so they went into the house. Soon Hagar led her babies, who could now walk, into the room, and the two women for a time forgot—the one her pride, the other her anger, and both their antagonism, in comparing and admiring the three babies as they toddled about. Emily remained to tea, and forgot her displeasure so far as not only to suppress the fact of her son’s having been cashiered, but also to invite Hagar to come and spend a week at Grove cottage, as soon as she should be able to go out.

The next morning, directly after breakfast, Gusty came over to Heath Hall to inquire after Hagar and the babies, and to know if she wanted anything.

“Yes, Gusty, I want to speak to you. Come in here, Gusty,” and taking his hand she drew him into the drawing-room and pointed to the piano and harp.

“Ah, yes! certainly! give me a tune!” said Gusty, blushing and stammering with embarrassment.

“But, Gusty, _you_ sent these here!”

“Oh—yes—well—what of it?”

“Only _this_, Gusty, that you are _very good, too good_ for your own sake—but, Gusty, dear friend, you must not lavish such presents upon me.”

“Oh! nonsense! oh, pshaw! they were sold at auction, and I bought them in for a mere trifle.”

“Yes, but, dear friend, there are many reasons why you should not offer and I receive costly presents like these. Much as I dislike to do it I shall have to draw—upon—upon _his_ banker and pay you for them as well as for the horse and dogs.”

“HAGAR!”

“Dear Gusty, now listen to me quietly, _it must be so_; and moreover, dear Gusty, you must not get into the habit of visiting me every day as you appear inclined to do. You must never come to see me, Gusty, except in company with your mother.”

“THUNDER!” roared Gusty. “Hagar, how have I deserved that sentence? I can’t stand that!”

“Listen, Gusty! when I was a girl you know I did not care at all what people said or thought of me. I cared for nothing but to keep my Maker’s laws, because no one cared for me then.”

“And no one cares for you _now_ as I can see!” said Gusty, rudely.

“No—_but I care for others_! I care for the honor of one whose honor is more vulnerable through _me_ than through _himself_! Once I was unconnected, and if society had misunderstood, judged, and condemned me, I should have fallen alone! and so I had courage to do as I pleased and defy the fate! _now_ I am closely entwined with others, who, when _I_ am struck down, fall with me. I am weak, fettered, enslaved through them, Gusty. I cannot do as I please, and though I esteem and respect you beyond all other people in the world with one exception, and though your society would be the greatest solace in my reach, yet I must forego it, dear Gusty.”

“You have no faith in my honor, in your own purity, or in God! that is just the amount of it,” growled Gusty, straightening himself up with tears in his eyes as he buttoned up his greatcoat. “It seems to me you are not yourself; you are weak.”

“I am weak _through those I love_, Gusty!”

“And do you, Hagar, really _hope_ to propitiate the gossips of —— county by this course? and do you, a deserted wife!—there it’s out! well! it has been _in_ both our minds continually, so it had as well come out. I say, do you expect to be let alone? Do you not know that the old grudge against your wild girlhood will be remembered, and now that an opportunity is offered, will be visited with fury on your head. You will be cast forth from here, Hagar; a ground-swell of slander and persecution will lift and lift you, Hagar, until you take wing. Did you think when I brought you to be nursed into health and strength by the bracing air of your native heath, that I thought that YOU would stay _here_? No, Hagar! I could prophesy _more_ for you, but I will not now. I will leave you to the force of circumstances; to the inspirations of your own genius—to God in fine. But you are wrong to discard me. I have not deserved it. _I_ say it! But I charge all this weakness of yours upon bodily ill health. Good morning, Hagar;” and shaking her hand affectionately, he clapped his hat upon his head and went out.

* * * * *

It happened as Gusty had predicted. Hagar remained weeks, months at Heath Hall, and no one visited her—not a soul had come to welcome her back to her native neighborhood except the Buncombes. All sorts of evil reports got into circulation against her. She was, as Gusty said, a rich waif for the gossips of —— county. Some were contented with repeating that her husband had left her, that “of course he had good reason,” asserting that they “had always expected it.” Others declared that _she_ had eloped from _him_, and averred that they had “said so long ago.” Some said positively that he had left her upon account of the intimacy subsisting between herself and Lieutenant May—others had discovered that Lieutenant May had been cashiered upon her account, &c., &c., &c. Many other and more fatal rumors got into circulation, and though they never reached the ears of Hagar, she felt them in the utter abandonment and solitude into which she was suffered to fall; for even Emily’s visits became shorter and colder, and “few and far between,” until they ceased altogether, and Hagar Withers was left _alone_! And it was under these circumstances, and when her twins were little over a year old, that her third child was born. It was a little, fair-skinned, blue-eyed, golden-haired boy—with the very soul of Raymond Withers reposing on his features; and Hagar, if she could not love the babe more upon that account, was happier in her love, because the face of the baby gave her back the features of her absent and lost one.