about losses and misfortunes that have brought him to the necessity of throwing his poor motherless boy upon the generosity of his only living relative ?' What hindered Philip Murdock from being successful, more than William Montford, I should like to know ?" "He was unfortunate, and sick, and—” "O yes, he was unfortunate.' Weak, shiftless people always are!" Mr. Montford interrupted, sneeringly. "Anything else, Master Mark Murdock ?" 'Only one thing that I remember distinctly, sir," the boy, answered, quietly, but with an angry fire in his eyes. "Perhaps you might as well mention it, then, while we are on the subject." "I intend to, though perhaps you mayn't like to hear," he replied, with a little short reckless laugh. "Father said that if his mother had had her rightful share of his grandfather's fortune, instead of its all being fraudulently taken possession of by her brother, Anthony Montford—” 66 Silence!" interrupted Mr. Montford, angrily, and taking a step or two toward the boy. "How dare you stand in my house and repeat your miserable father's slanders against my father's good name ?" "Because it's true," said Mark, undauntedly. Mr. Montford had hated the boy from the first, but now his anger and aversion rose to a white heat, and he quite forgot his usual coolness and dignity. Taking another step forward, he caught him by the shoulder in a nowise gentle manner. 66 "O papa, he is such a little boy beside you, please don't strike him!" interrupted a soft childish voice; and a pair of small hands fluttered in between them, and a pretty little pink and white face, with great brown eyes that had a startled look in them, was lifted eagerly and imploringly to her father's face. Mr. Montford's hand fell to his side, and the slightest tinge of color came into his face. "He is a bad impertinent boy, little Dora," he said, hastily. "Is he? I'm sorry," she said, with a very sober little face. "Wouldn't you like to be good, boy?" she asked, gravely; "and why don't you be?" "Because nobody cares whether I am or not," he said, with a bitterness pitiful to see in one so young. "O yes, I care ""' she cried, brightly, putting out her hand toward him with a little shy coaxing smile. "Come away, Dora," her father said, almost sternly. 66 "You wont hurt him, papa, if he is bad?" she asked, anxiously. Maybe he isn't all bad." "No, I wont touch him; now go up stairs till he is gone," he said, hastily. Dora obeyed; but as she passed the illdressed neglected-looking boy, she looked up into his face with a warm bright smile and a little nod of her pretty head. The quick tears came into the boy's eyes, and the hard defiant look faded out of his face. Poor child! little enough had his life known of smiles, and brightness, and beauty. There is a natural hunger of the human heart for love and tenderness, and poor Mark Murdock's, despite the untoward circumstances of his life, was no exception. This had happened thirteen years ago. Since then, Mr. Montford had grown richer and prouder, and, if possible, more bitter and uncompromising toward the weak, and erring, and unfortunate. If a man was bad, he was all bad; he could see no redeeming thing in him. If he was poor and unfortunate, he was nearly as bad, for only criminal shiftlessness and weakness could have made him so. These were two very prominent articles in Mr. Montford's creed, and alas! very frequently overshadowed all the rest. Otherwise, he was a man of more than average worth and character, though possibly too aristocratic to be generally popular in a country town. I wish I could record that Mark Murdock had grown better as he grew bigger, but I am afraid he had not done so. He was little changed, save that the years had made him somewhat more reckless and defiant, had hardened somewhat the heart which, alas! had been subject to all too few good influences. Upon second thought Mr. Montford had decided to help his cousin Philip's boy, which he did by taking him to the seaboard and sending him off on a three years' trip to the Indies! It is barely possible that Mark felt very grateful for the interest his rich relative had taken in him, but not exactly probable. If Mr. Montford had any vague hopes that something might happen to keep him from returning, those hopes were blasted by his appearance in Sanborn one day nearly nine years after his departure. I do not think he really knew himself why he went there again. It was not that his former welcome led him to think his presence desirable; but through all these long years of careless drifting here and there, knocked roughly about both on sea and shore, sometimes repentant, sometimes reckless, in the midst of rudeness and coarseness, tempted at every turn, with little to hope or strive for, and less of strength to resist-through all, deep down in his heart one beautiful memory blossomed in perennial sweetness; the memory of the pretty child who had smiled upon him in the darkest hour of his life, and ventured the possibility that he was "not all bad." Mark Murdock never knew how often that memory had held him back from sin, or how much it had helped him, in the hardening and demoralizing influences by which he was so constantly surrounded, from becoming as bad as his companions. So, though but very vaguely conscious, if conscious at all, of the subtile influence which drew him, he came to Sanborn again. Mr. Montford, driving a pair of beautiful spirited horses, met him and recognized him at once. There was something in the great black eyes, a look, an expression, that he never had forgotten. He glanced over his careless sailor garb, thinking how it would look in the richly furnished parlors of the "Glebe," with a little feeling of loathing and aversion. But he was a man now, and could not be ignored or disposed of as the boy had been; beside, he knew that old story about the Montford property, and might make it public there in Sanborn if he angered him. To be sure, it was no fault of his; the property came to him honestly, and if there had been anything wrong (and he knew there had) in the manner by which his father had come into possession of it, he was not respousible. After all, what good would it have done Phil Murdock? He would have lost it, as he did everything else, in his chronic unfortunateness. All this flashed through Mr. Montford's mind instantly. He drew in his horses slightly, bowed in his stateliest manner, and said, coldly, "Mr. Mark Murdock, I believe?'' "I didn't suppose you would know me, Mr. Montford," Mark said, with a faintly surprised look. "O, you're not changed much! Stopping in town just now, Mr. Murdock?” "I-I came this morning," Mark said, a little embarrassed by the elegant air of cool indifference in his relative. "Call at the Glebe, sir, if you find time before leaving." And with another stately inclination of the head, Mr. Montford touched the spirited horses lightly with his whip, and was whirled away in a little cloud of dust, through which sparkled a gleam of silver, as the sunlight reflected itself in the richly-mounted trappings of the glossy steeds. The angry light that had come into Mark Murdock's eyes that morning nine years before in the long drawing-room, came into them again now. He turned on his heel, stifling a curse between his compressed lips. But as he walked on his face cleared, a softer light came into his eyes, and his lips relaxed. "I will go up to the Glebe, for she is there," he said, softly, under his breath, turning shortly about and walking rapidly in the direction of Mr. Montford's residence. At the edge of the grounds he paused and let his eyes rest a moment on the lovely picture. The broad faintly-sloping plateau looked like a rich sea of emerald velvet, through which, like the wake of a ship, white paths gleamed and glittered like frosted silver. Against a background of sombre green a beautiful marble fountain sent up a cloud of snowy mist, through which the slant sunlight trembled in amber waves. White-blossomed shrubs, like fairy tents, stood here and there, and a clump of some sort of rare scarlet lilies glowed like soft fire under the sweet June morning sun. Contrasting charmingly with this color and brightness, the massive stone mansion, with its soft neutral tint of cool gray, stood like a crowned king, with long sprays of ivy drooping over doors and windows, and twining in rich luxuriance over arch, and cornice, and column. It is one grand compensation for those who have not, that they can enjoy the possessions of those who have. God's flowers, like his sunlight, gladden and brighten the heart of the beggar as freely as that of the king. Mark Murdock, in humble garb, with scarce a sou in his pocket, and without where to lay his head, got really more from that fair sun-kissed picture than ever its proud owner did; more, because something in his heart went out to it, and something in turn came from it to his heart. To Mr. Montford it was something to be proud of merely. As he walked slowly up the elm-bordered drive, there came upon him suddenly, with painful distinctness, the old feeling of awkwardness; the out-of-place feeling which had so oppressed him when he came to the Glebe the first time. Involuntarily he put up his hand and pulled out the ends of the carelessly-tied "sailor knot" at his throat, and smoothed down the broad collar of his shirt, and brushed the dust from his jacket with his handkerchief. Even then he halted in his walk, half resolved to go back and leave Sanborn in the next train. But just at that moment he caught the flutter of some sort of pale pink drapery, and almost instantly a young girl sprang from her seat under one of the trees, and looked up at him with a pretty mixture of shyness and dignity. I do not think that up to that moment he had thought of Dora Montford other than as a fair-haired beautiful child, with an angel's smile in her eyes and on her lips. But his heart told him instantly that this tall slender girl was she and none other. joyfully. "Something in your eyes looks just as it did then. I am glad to see you, Cousin Mark," she added, with grave cordiality. "Where do you live? I mean, where is your home?" "I haven't any home, Dora; I live anywhere and everywhere." "No home!" she echoed, blankly. "No; nor no one on the broad earth to care a penny if I died to-morrow. It seems dreadful to you, I suppose. I believe I have got hardened to the thought; it only troubles me now and then." "I am so sorry for you," she said, gently. 66 But if I am your cousin, I shall care for you, and so you mustn't think that any more." "But I am not worth caring for. Dora, young as I am, I have been half over the world, and associated with all sorts of people. It's not the sort of a life to make a saint of a fellow, and I had a poor foundation to start on. It is easy for you to be good-but think of the training I had! Why," he went on, impetuously, impelled to a vague craving for exoneration before her, "I cannot remember when I was not a waif, tossed hither and thither, and cursed whether I did a thing or did it not. You see, my mother died when I was a "You are Dora Montford," he affirmed, baby, and I was boarded out till I was five rather than asked. years old; then I was taken away by my She bowed, and looked up inquiringly father, because of cruel treatment, and into his face. "Do you remember once, a long time ago, of a boy-a bad boy-who came to the Glebe one cold spring morning, one whom your father did not like, but to whom you gave a bright smile-not a common thing to him-and a word of encouragement ?" "And did papa take him away somewhere ?-and are you he?" she asked, quickly. Yes, to both. But did he tell you who I was ?" "Yes; Mark Murdock. I remember, because I teased him a long time before he would tell me." "I mean did he tell you I was his cousin Philip Murdock's son ?" "O no!" "But I am-I am your cousin, Dora, though Heaven knows I am not worthy!" he cried, with a sudden fierce pathos in his voice. "O, I remember you now!" she said, kept with him a year or two; that is, when he was at home. He was some sort of a travelling agent; I don't remember what. Then he was ill a long time, and went to the hospital, and I was thrown upon the street, picking up my living by selling newspapers and running of errands, and huddling in at night among a score of similar unfortunates of all ages. I learned fast in those days lessons which, thank God, such as you can have no conception of! By-and-by father was discharged, though still out of health. For a few years he picked up a precarious living by speculation, in which he was mostly unfortunate, and lastly he was reduced to a little light writing, such as copying, which barely kept him alive. All the time he was growing whiter and thinner, and used to keep me awake half the night coughing fearfully. We had a poor little garret together then, where he stayed all the time, and I came at night. One day, after a worse night than usual, he told me that he had a cousin, his mother's only brother's son, in Sanborn, who was a man of wealth and importance. They two were all that were left now of the Montford family; at least, this branch of it. "‘And,' said he, 'I have written a letter to-day to my cousin, and if anything happens-if I leave you, my poor little waif, as I soon must, I want you to take it to him. I had rather you wouldn't know what is in it, and so I have sealed it. Give it to him just as it is, and wait his answer.' "That letter was what brought me here nine years ago. Your father was not particularly pleased to see me-I was that disagreeable thing, a poor relation-so he took me away with all possible despatch, and sent me to sea for three years. I have stayed three times three, but I met him this morning, and-well, no matter; I wont be sentimental. I realize the great gulf between us; but O Dora, I wanted to look in your face so!" a sudden huskiness coming into his voice. "I don't see why there need be a 'great gulf' between us, Cousin Mark," she said, softly, a wistful look in her brown eyes. "No, because you are too much of an angel to see with worldly eyes. But your father knows, and so do I. I only ask that, whatever I may be or do, you will believe that I am not wholly bad, that I hate the evil that is in me, and try, in a spasmodic way, to overcome it. But I slip back so easily, Dora! There, I am going now, for I have made you cry, and God knows I had rather die than cause you a moment's pain !' She lifted her face, her beautiful eyes swimming in tears. "I wish I could help you, dear Mark," she said, wistfully; "cannot I?" "Dear little Dora, you have helped me already. Some day perhaps I can make you understand my gratitude by doing something for you. If it is to the giving of my life I will do it gladly," he said, with solemn earnestness, a beautiful light shining out for a moment in his face; then he touched his lips reverently to her hand, and turned and walked hastily away. How vividly afterward that look and those words came back to her! Was it that for a moment the spirit of prophecy had descended upon him? CHAPTER II. FIVE years had brought few changes outwardly to Dora Montford. The graceful figure was a trifle fuller, and the brown eyes had a deeper steadier light, but the shy, sensitive, changeful face, that looked up so tenderly into Mark Murdock's that sunny June morning, had lost none of its fresh purity and unworldliness. The sweet faith and guilelessness of fifteen blossomed still in the pure heart and face of twenty. I think it was this subtile something, this spiritual fineness and delicacy, that, more than beauty of person or the eclat of wealth and position, attracted Arthur Blake to her side. Beautiful women were no novelty to him, and he knew that richer men than William Montford would be glad and proud to form an alliance with a family as old and aristocratic as his. It was no weak vanity that gave him the assurance of success if he chose to exert himself to obtain it. Possibly he was just a little blase, with his thirty years, though he had been more a student than a society man. Indeed, his pride-and he was proud-was of that rarer and more pardonable kind, the pride of intellect and culture. All his tastes and instincts rebelled against rudeness, and coarseness, and ignorance. Through these instincts he had conceived an aversion to poverty, because poverty is so often ignorant and uncultured. But he disliked none the less heartily the vulgarity and pretence of those who had nothing but money; unfortunately, a no small class in American society. In this he was, at least, consistent. Coming to Sanborn for a summer vacation from literary work, and being something of a lion for that small town, he was, of course, much sought after and admired, and had, so to speak, the "freedom of the town." All the small aristocracy vied with each other in doing him honor, a circumstance that he smiled over in secret, but accepted with quiet politeness, sometimes amused and sometimes bored. But one day Mr. Montford invited him to dinner, and pretty Dora Montford, with her shy graceful manners, presided. Her rare delicacy and fineness of soul revealed itself to him in every shade and expression of her sensitive face, and the thing he had so often ridiculed and scoffed at-love at first sight-came suddenly upon and overwhelmed him. After this he endured with delightful stoicism all the minor trials forced upon him by his admirers, and quietly abandoned the idea of leaving Sanborn, upon which he had seriously meditated of late. His books were shamefully neglected, also, for how could he sit himself down to the dry study of science and ancient history, when this new, fresh, charming book of Love, with its sweetly-illuminated texts, was unfolding its beautiful leaves in his heart? And there was always some new surprise, some hitherto unsuspected trait in the character of Dora Montford, that kept the charm of novelty perpetually about her. He was perfectly aware that his own nature had-like plants that are turned constantly to one light-grown a little one-sided. He knew that his intellect had been developed rather at the expense of his heart. He had been wont to look down rather scornfully upon simple goodness of heart, and call it "emotionalism" and "sentimentalism," in that peculiar contemptuous way which very intellectual people sometimes assume. Yet he watched with a novel sort of delight the quick tears of feeling spring to Dora's beautiful eyes at the sight of pain, or sorrow, or affliction, however lowly or even erring might be the sufferer. He couldn't feel in this way himself, but he loved her the better for the sweet charity that remembered nothing of the afflicted save their humanity. As for Dora, her heart was full continually of earnest prayer that she might be worthy of the great happiness which had crowned her life, and of him who, womanlike, she believed the very king of men; which, in a great many respects, he was. Mr. Montford was altogether delighted. He hadn't felt quite easy about Dora and Mark Murdock. The latter had been in Sanborn for the last year most of the time, and though he took special pains to impress upon him, as well as Dora, the difference in their station, he knew that they met sometimes, and that Dora treated him kindly and even cordially. "It would be just like him-these reckless poverty-stricken fellows have so little sense of honor-to work upon Dora's sympathies, she is so impulsive, and persuade her into fancying herself in love with him," he said, angrily, to himself. Not. that he had any fears of Dora's marrying him-he would put her in a lunatic asylum before she should do that-but he didn't want the scandal and disgrace of having Mark's name mixed up with his daughter's. Accordingly, he treated him with the most icy hauteur, and once or twice had been instrumental in getting him turned out of employment. He wanted to get him out of Sanborn. It isn't pleasant to have a "black sheep" in a family, but it is easier to bear if no one knows it, and he keeps a comfortable distance from the rest of the flock. Mr. Montford had been very careful not to mention the relationship existing between Mark and himself, but while Mark was in the place he could not feel quite safe. And then that story about the property; some senseless people might think it a duty of his to look after young Murdock, take him into his family perhaps, to compensate for some possible wrong done to his ancestors. He didn't intend himself to wrong any man, but he didn't consider himself to blame for the sins of his predecessors. It would be just like Murdock to tell the ridiculous story, to manufacture sympathy from it for himself. So, you see, he not only hated Mark, but feared him; hated him because he did fear him. Now, though relieved concerning Dora, he felt still very uncomfortable; for what would the proud, cultured, aristocratic Mr. Blake, upon whose family escutcheon there had been no stain for generations, say, if he knew this low coarsely-dressed fellow was Dora's cousin? He had sternly forbidden Dora's telling her lover of the relationship long ago, but who knew but Mark might tell of it at any moment? And Mark, what of him? What had the years done for him? After that morning's interview with Dora, he had gone immediately out of the place. All the better part of his nature was uppermost, and he made a score of good resolves as he was whirled over the rails to New York. He kept them through some sharp temptations, too, but he wasn't quite strong enough to go quite alone, and stand up single-handed against the hosts that came up against him. If only some strong firm hand had been reached out to him then! But that hand was wanting, and so he went down. Not because he loved the sin, but because he was too weak to resist it. Three years and over went by, and then he came back to Sanborn. He tried to keep away, but he could not. He knew |