while Maidy played with her dolls beside me. Presently Sophia looked in to say that she had to go downstairs to prepare something in the kitchen; she had left the nursery door ajar: I could listen. The nursery was on the opposite side of the house, behind the diningroom; to reach it, one had to cross an open sort of place, unceiled and rather dark. There were beams overhead, and the sides were boarded up; several old wooden chests stood in it, in which we kept blankets and bedding. A flight of stairs descended to the kitchen from it. Across this dark space I made my way, once and again, to see if Baby were all right. Once I almost stumbled over Ann Day fumbling about outside Baby's door; she said she had been looking for the clothes-pins.

Baby slept long and peacefully. I went back to my sewing by the window. The air came in from across a leaden sea; Maidy leaned her head down on the window-sill; we were watching a nest of king-birds in a scraggy cedar tree that grew a few feet from the window. The scant foliage of the cedar was supplemented by a Virginia creeper that had grown over it, and hung from all its twisted limbs. In one of the crotches of this tree a pair of king-birds had built a nest and reared a brood. Two only of the young ones were left in the nest. We had watched them from the window often. While we were talking about them, I heard a gate opening from the farm-yard, and steps approaching. There was a lane which led up from Old Town Pond, about a mile away, which crossed our einpty farm-yard; not unfrequently people came that way, and crossed our premises. The place had been unoccupied so long, the villagers had got into the habit.

So I did not look up or notice till Maidy called out, as the steps paused below the window, and her eyes turned from the tree to the ground,

I

"Oh, there's Mr. Macnally and Ned; mamma, mayn't go down?"

"No, no," I said quickly, then looked out. Mr. Macnally stood with his cap off, making a low salaam to Maidy. He had his fishing-rod over his shoulder, and a creel. Ned had the same indications of his calling. He contented himself with saying good-morning, and tramped away across the garden, and went towards. home.

"I hope Baby is better," said Mr. Macnally, standing below the window.

"Oh, she is almost well, I hope; she's asleep now." "You had a great fright, I am afraid."

"Yes, indeed," I returned, drawing a long breath. There was a little silence; I was thinking what an age it seemed since we had driven home in the moonlight, and of all, inward and outward, that had passed since then. He was thinking-who can tell what? He did not seem exactly his easy, merry self, though he tried hard to counterfeit it.

I have brought you something, Maidy," he said, after a minute; "a lot of treasures from the beach that I picked up this morning-a baby horse-foot, two little crabs, and the prettiest scallop shells you ever yet beheld. See, they are all here in my creel. I haven't caught a fish, while Ned has got a dozen."

"Oh, mamma, let me go down and get them !" cried the child.

"No, no, Maidy, it is too damp for you. Mr. Macnally will leave them on the front steps, and Sophia will bring them to you by and by."

66

Sophia will break them," cried the child, all in tears. "She threw away the last shells that he brought ne; she said I never should bring one of them in the house if she could help it."

A swift red overspread my face, while I tried to stop the child's tears.

"I'm sorry," said Macnally, coloring, I fear, a little too. "I'm sorry that I suggested them. See here, Maidy, you can reach them if you try."

He swung himself up into the old cedar, and, sitting on a branch that brought him about on a level with the window, reached out his hand and gave her, one after another, the beloved treasures. She stretched out both little hands and grasped, first the crab, then the horsefoot, then the scallop shells, one by one, laughing, almost shrieking, with delight, the tears still shining o her cheeks. Macnally looked eager and happy while he was gratifying her; he stretched forward, steadying himself by one hand on a branch above, a lithe and graceful and almost boyish figure.

As

CHAPTER XV.

A PAY OF RECKONING.

"Who is spendthrift to passion,
Is debtor to thought."

S the day drew to a close, it grew duller rather than brighter. I felt a longing for fresh air after iny two days' confinement to the house. Baby was as well as a baby could be, and was having her tea in the nursery with Maidy. There was nothing to keep me in the house; so, wrapping myself in a rain cloak, and drawing the hood over my head, I went out into the twilight. I purposely avoided the road and the direction in which I might possibly meet any one, and followed the lane that led to the Old Town Pond-a lonely enough lane, with neither tree nor habitation on its whole length. A quick walk in the damp wind seemed to me what I needed to steady my nerves and shake off the overpowering depression that I had been feeling all day.

The landscape was almost shrouded by the twilight and by a faint mist blowing in from sea. Walking exhilarated me a little; I went on and on, till I reached the pond, and the road that led from it down to the sea. This road I followed, and soon stood on the sand, and heard, rather than saw, the waves that, under the mist, were rolling in upon the beach. The tide was

low; the wind was off the shore, and was beating down the surf, which broke on the sand with a sort of wail.

It was a lonely spot, a mile from any house; but I wasn't in a mood to feel afraid. Some fish-houses stood a little back from the beach; my walk had tired me, and I sat down in the shelter of one of them to rest. The reaction from my rapid walking, the moaning of the sea, and the dreary loneliness of the spot, overcame me, and putting my head down on my hands, the tears that I had been fighting against all day came to my relief. Yes, the harvest was ended, the day of reckoning had come, and I was wakening from my long and happy dream. No more summer seas for me; no more blue morning skies, and tender-tinted evening ones. Life must begin again in bitter earnest. The sea might well make moan for what was gone.

As I lifted my head for a moment with a despairing sort of weariness, I heard voices: one was a woman's, so I had no sensation of fear, but only drew back more in the shelter of the fish-house to escape attention. I listened rather anxiously, however, till they should pass, and I be free again. It was unexpected seeing any one here in so lonely a place. Presently the voices came nearer, and paused not four feet from me. I recognized the colonel's voice, and Mrs. Emlyn's. It was not unnatural that they should be here, as they were both good walkers, and often went on foot several miles. from home together when the weather was as cool as this; but it was unfortunate that they should have come here. How could I command my voice, and not show traces of my not yet past emotion? I sat still, hoping they would pass on and not see me. Mrs. Emlyn gave

a long breath of fatigue, and sat down on a boat just