"HALF-WAY BETWEEN THE STILES."
(A RIGHT-OF-WAY INCIDENT.)
By the road, Scarby village is good three miles from Colletwood, thenearest town and railway station. But there is a short cut over thehills for foot passengers. _Over_ the hills they call it, but _between_the hills would be more correct, for there is a sort of tableland onceyou have climbed a short, steep bit up from the town, which extendsnearly to Scarby, sloping gradually down to the village.
And on each side of this tableland the hills rise again, north andsouth, much higher to the north than to the south. So this flat stretch,though at some considerable height, is neither bleak nor exposed, beingsheltered on the colder side, and fairly open to the sunshine south andwest.
It is a pleasant place, and so it must have been considered in the olddays; for a large monastery stood there once, of which the ruins arestill to be seen, and of which the memory is still preserved in thename--"Monksholdings".
Pleasant, but a trifle inconvenient, as the only carriage-road makes agreat round from Colletwood, winding along the base of the hill on thenorth side till it reaches the village, then up again by the gradualslope, half a mile or so--a drive in all of three to four miles,whereas, as the bird flies or the pedestrian walks, the distance fromthe town is barely a quarter of that.
In the old days there was probably no road at all, the hill-pathdoubtless serving all requirements. Naturally enough, therefore, it cameto be looked upon as entirely public property, and people forgot--if,indeed, any one had ever thought of it--that though the monastery was aruin, the once carefully kept land round about the old dwelling-place ofMonksholdings was still private property.
And the sensation was great when suddenly the news reached theneighbourhood that this "unique estate," as the agents called it, wassold--sold by the old Duke of Scarshire, who scarcely remembered thathe owned it, to a man who meant to live on it, to build a house whichshould be a home for several months of the year for himself and hisfamily.
There was considerable growling and grumbling; and this rose to itsheight when a rumour got about that the hill-path--such part of it, thatis to say, as lay within the actual demesne--was to be closed--_must_ beclosed, if the site already chosen for the new house was to be retained;for the house would actually stand upon the old foot-track, and therecould be no two opinions that this position had been well and wiselyselected.
Things grew warlike, boding no agreeable reception for the newcomers--aMr. Raynald and his family, newcomers to England, it was said, as wellas to Scarshire. Every one plunged into questions of right-of-way; thelocal legalities raised and discussed knotty points; Colletwood andScarby were aflame. But it all ended, flatly enough, in a compromise!
Mr. Raynald turned out to be one of the most reasonable and courteous ofmen. He came, saw, and--conquered. The goodwill of his future neighbourswas won e'er he knew he had risked its loss. Henceforward congratulations,reciprocated and repeated, on the charming additions to Scarby societywere the order of the day, and the _detour_, skirting the south boundaryof the Monksholdings grounds, which the footpath was now inveigled intomaking, was voted "a great improvement".
And in due time the mansion rose.
"A great improvement" also, to the aspect of the surrounding landscape.It was in perfectly good taste--unpretentious and quietly picturesque.It might have been there always for any jarring protest to the contrary.
And just half-way along the old foot-track, that is to say, between thetwo stiles which let the traveller to or from Scarby in or out of theMonksholdings demesne, stood Sybil Raynald's grand piano!
The stiles remained as an interesting survival; but they were made useof by no one not bound for the house itself. And beside each was agate--a good oaken gate, that suited the place, as did everything aboutit; and beside each gate a quaint miniature dwelling, one of which cameto be known as the east, and the other as the west, Monksholdings lodge.
The first time the Raynalds came down to their new home they made buta short stay there. It was already late in the season, and though thepreceding summer had been a magnificent one for drying fresh walls andplaster, it would scarcely have done to risk damp or chilly weather inso recently-built a house.
They stayed long enough to confirm the favourable impression the head ofthe family had already made, and to lead themselves to look forward withpleasure to a less curtailed stay in Scarshire.
The last morning of their visit, Sybil, the eldest daughter, up andabout betimes, turned to her father, when she had taken her place besidehim at the breakfast-table, with a suspicion of annoyance on her usuallycheerful face.
"Papa," she said, "I have seen that old man _again_, leaning on thestile by the Scarby lodge and looking in--along the drive--_so_ queerly.I don't quite like it. It gave me rather a ghosty feeling; or else he isout of his mind."
Her brother, Mark by name, began to laugh, after the manner of brothers.
"How very oddly you express yourself!" he said. "I should like toexperience 'a ghosty feeling'. A ghost is just what this place wants tomake it perfect. But it should be the spirit of one of the originalmonks."
Mr. Raynald turned to his son rather sharply.
"I don't want any nonsense of that kind set about, Mark," he said. "Itwould frighten the younger children when they come down here. I will askabout the old man. It is quite possible he is half-witted, or somethingof that sort. I forgot about it when Sybil mentioned it before. But nodoubt he is perfectly harmless. Has no one seen him but you, Sybil?"
The girl shook her head.
"None of _us_," she replied. "And I wasn't exactly frightened. There wassomething very pathetic about him. He looked at me closely, murmuringsome words, and then shook his head. That was all."
But just then her father was called away to give some last directions,and in the bustle of hurry to catch their train the matter passed fromthe minds of the younger as well as the elder members of the family.
It returned to Sybil's memory, however, when she found herself in theirLondon house again, and called upon by her younger sisters to relateevery detail of Monksholdings and its neighbourhood. But mindful of herfather's warning, she said nothing to Esther or Annis of the figure atthe gate. It was only to Miss March--Ellinor March--the dearly-lovedgoverness, who was more friend than teacher to her three pupils, thatshe spoke of it, late in the evening, when the younger ones had gone tobed, and her father and mother were busy with Indian letters in Mr.Raynald's study.
The two girls, we may say--for Ellinor was still some years underthirty--were alone in the drawing-room. Ellinor had been playingsomething tender and faintly weird--it died away under her fingers, andshe sat on at the piano in silence.
Sybil spoke suddenly.
"That is _so_ melancholy," she said, "something so long ago about it,like the ghost of a sorrow rather than a sorrow itself. I know--I knowwhat it makes me think of. Listen, Ellinor."
For out of school hours the two threw formality aside. And Sybil told ofthe sad, wistful old face looking over the stile.
"Now it has come back to me," she said, "I can't forget it."
Ellinor, too, was impressed.
"Yes," she said, "it sounds very pitiful. Who knows what tragedy isbound up in it?" and she sighed.
Sybil understood her. Miss March's own history was a strange one.
"We must find out about it when we go down to Monksholdings next year,"she said.
"And perhaps," added Ellinor, "even if he is half-witted, we might dosomething to comfort the poor man."
Sybil hesitated.
"Then you don't think he can be a ghost?" she said, looking half ashamedof the suggestion.
Miss March smiled--her smile was sad.
"In one sense, no, I should think it highly improbable; in another, yes,there must be the ghost of some great sorrow about the face youdescribe," she said.
So there was.
This is the story.
At the farther end of Scarby village--the farther end, th
at is to say,from Monksholdings and the path between the hills--the road dropsagain somewhat suddenly. Only for a short distance, however; MaylingFarm--"Giles's" as it is colloquially called--which is the first houseyou come to when you reach level ground again, being by no means lowlying.
On the contrary, the west windows command a grand view of the greatScarshire plain beneath, bordered by the faint hazy blue, scarcely to bedistinguished from clouds, of the long range of hills concealing thefar-off glimmer of the ocean, which otherwise might sometimes beperceptible.
Mayling is a very old place, and the Giles's had been there "always," soto speak--steady-going, unambitious, save as regards their farming andits success; they had been just the make of men to settle on to theirground as if it and they could have no existence apart. A fine racephysically as well as morally, though some twenty-five years or sobefore the Raynalds bought Monksholdings, a run of ill luck, a wholechapter of casualties, had brought them down to but one representative,and he scarcely the typical Farmer Giles of Mayling.
This was Barnett, the youngest of four stalwart sons; the youngest andthe only survivor. He was already forty when his father died, earnestlycommending to him the "old place," which even at eighty the aged farmerfelt himself better fitted to manage than the somewhat delicate,sensitive man whom his brothers had made good-natured fun of in hisyouth as a "book-worm".
But Barnett was intelligent and sensible, and he rose to the occasion.Circumstances helped him. The year after old Giles's death Barnett forthe first time fell in love, wisely and well. His affection was bestowedon a worthy object--Marion Grover, the daughter of a yeoman in the nextcounty--and was fully returned.
Marion was years younger than her lover, fifteen at least, eminentlypractical, healthy, and pretty. She brought her husband just exactlywhat he was most in need of--brightness, energy, and youth. It was anideal marriage, and everything prospered at Mayling. Four years afterthe advent of the new Mrs. Giles you would scarcely have recognised thefarmer, he seemed another man.
He adored his wife, and could hardly find it in his heart to regret thattheir child was not a son, even though, failing an heir, the old namemust die out; for if there was one creature the husband and wife lovedmore than each other it was their baby girl.
A month or two after this child's second birthday the singularcatastrophe occurred which changed the world to poor Barnett Giles,leaving him but a wreck of his former self, physically and mentally.
Young Mrs. Giles was strong in every way, and from the first she tookthe line of saving her husband all extra fatigue or annoyance whichshe could possibly hoist on to her own brave shoulders. There wassomething quaint and even pathetic in the relations of the couple. For,notwithstanding Marion's being so much Barnett's junior, her attitudetowards him had a decided suggestion of the maternal about it, though attimes of real emergency his sound judgment and advice never failed her.It was within a week or two of Christmas; the weather was bitingly,raspingly cold. And though as yet no snow had fallen, the weather-wisewere predicting it daily.
"I _must_ go over to Colletwood this week," said Mrs. Giles, "and I musttake Nelly. Her new coat is waiting to be tried at the dressmaker's, andI must get her some boots and several other things before Christmas. Andthere is a whole list of other shopping too--all our Christmas presentsto see to."
Her husband was looking out of the window, it was still very early inthe day.
"I doubt if the snow will hold off much longer," he said.
"And once it begins it may be heavy," his wife replied, "and then Imight not be able to go for ever so long, even by the road,"--for a deepfall of snow at Scarby was practically a stoppage to all traffic. "I'lltell you what, Barnett, we'll go to-day and make sure of it. I will putother things aside and start before noon. A couple of hours, or three atthe most, will do everything, and then Nelly and I will be back longbefore dark. You'll come to meet us, won't you?"
"Of course I will--if you go. But," and again he glanced at the sky.The morning was, so far, clear and bright, though very cold, but overtowards the north there was a suspicious look about the blue-greyclouds. "I don't know," he said, "but that you'd better wait tillto-morrow and see if it blows off again."
But Marion shook her head.
"I've a feeling," she said, "that if I don't go to-day, I won't go atall. And I really must. I'll take Betsy to carry the child till we'rejust above the town, and then send her home, so as not to be tired forcoming back. Not that I'm _ever_ tired, as you know," with a smile.
He gave in, only stipulating that at all costs they should start toreturn by a certain hour, unless the snow should have already begun, inwhich case Marion was to run no risks, but either to hire a fly to bringher home by the road, or to stay in the town with some of her friendstill the weather cleared again.
"And I'll meet you," he added. "Let us set our watches together--I'llstart from here so as to be at--let me see----"
"Half-way between the stiles," said Marion. "We can each see the otherfrom one stile to the opposite one, you know, even though it's a goodbit of a way. Yes, dear, I'll time it as near as I can to meet half-waybetween the stiles."
And with these words the last on her lips, she set off, a picture ofhealth and happiness--little Nelly crowing back to "Dada" from overstout Betsy's shoulder.
Betsy was home again within the hour.
But the mother and child--alas and alas! It was the immortal story of"Lucy Gray" in an almost more pathetic shape.
Farmer Giles, as I have said, was a studious, often absent-minded man.There was not much to do at that season and in such weather, and whatthere was, some amount of supervision on his part was enough for. Afterhis early dinner he got out his books for an hour or two's quiet readingtill it should be time to set off to meet his darlings. No fear of hisforgetting _that_ time, but till the clock struck, and he saw it wasapproaching nearly, he never looked out--he was unconscious of the rapidgrowth of the lurid, steely clouds; he had no idea that the snowflakeswere already falling, falling, more and more closely and thickly witheach instant that passed.
Then rose the storm spirit and issued his orders--all too quicklyobeyed. Before Barnett Giles had left the village street he foundhimself in what now-a-days would be called a "blizzard". And his paleface grew paler, and his heart beat as if to choke him, when at last hereached the first stile and stood there panting, to regain his breath.It was all he could do to battle on through the fury of the wind, theblinding, whirling snow, which seemed to envelop him as if in sheets.Not for many and many a day will that awful snowstorm be forgotten inScarshire.
* * * * *
It was at the appointed trysting place they found him--"half-way betweenthe stiles". But not till late that evening, when Betsy, more alarmed byhis absence than by her mistress's not returning, at last struggled outthrough the deep-lying snow to alarm the nearest neighbours.
"The missis and Miss Nell will have stayed the night in the town," shesaid. "But I misdoubt me if the master will ever have got so far, thoughhe may have been tempted on when he did not meet them."
By this time the fury of the storm had spent itself, and they found poorGiles after a not very protracted search, and brought him home--dead,they thought at first.
No, he was not dead, but it was less than half _life_ that hereturned to. For his first inquiry late the next day, when glimmeringconsciousness had begun to revive--"Marion, the baby?"--seemed by somesubtle instinct to answer itself truthfully, in spite of the kindlyendeavour to deceive him for the time.
"Dead!" he murmured. "I knew it. Half-way between the stiles," and heturned his face to the wall.
They almost wished he had died too--the rough but kind-heartedcountry-folk who were his neighbours. But he lived. He never asked andnever knew the details of the tragedy, which, indeed, was never fullyknown by any one.
All that came to light was that the dead body of Marion Giles wasbrought by some semi-gipsy wanderers to the workhouse of a town several
miles south of Colletwood, early on the morning after the blizzard. Theyhad found it, they said, at some little distance from the road alongwhich they were journeying, so that she must have lost her way longbefore approaching the Monksholdings confines, not improbably, indeed,in attempting to retrace her steps to the town which she had soimprudently quitted. But of the child the tramps said nothing, and aftermaking the above deposition, they were allowed to go on their way, whichthey expressed themselves as anxious to do; for reasons of their own, nodoubt; possibly the same reasons which had prevented their returning toColletwood with the young woman's corpse, as would have seemed morenatural.
And afterwards no very special inquiry was made about the baby. Thefather was incapable of it, and in those days people accepted thingsmore carelessly, perhaps. It was taken for granted that "Little Nell"had fallen down some cliff, no doubt, and lay buried there, with thesnow for her shroud, like a strayed lambkin. Her tiny bones might yet befound, years hence, maybe, by a shepherd in search of some bleatingwanderer, or--no more might ever be known of the infant's fate!
Barnett Giles rose from his bed, after many weeks, with all the look ofa very old man. At first it was thought that his mind was quite gone;but it did not prove to be so. After a time, with the help of anexcellent foreman, or bailiff, he showed himself able to manage his farmwith a strange, mechanical kind of intelligence. It seemed as if thesense of duty outlived the loss of other perceptions, though these, too,cleared by degrees to a considerable extent, and material things,curious as it may appear, prospered with him.
But he rarely spoke unless obliged to do so; and whenever he felthimself at leisure, and knew that his work was not calling for him, heseemed to relapse into the half-dreamy state which was his more reallife. Then he would pass through the village and slowly climb the slopeto the stile, where he would stand for hours together, patiently gazingbefore him, while he murmured the old refrain: "'Half-way between thestiles,' she said. I shall meet them there, 'half-way between thestiles'."
Fortunately, perhaps, it was not often he attempted to climb over; hecontented himself with standing and gazing. Fortunately so, forotherwise the changes at Monksholdings would have probably terriblyshocked his abnormally sensitive brain. But he did not seem to noticethem, nor the new route of the old right-of-way agreed to by thecompromise. He was content with his post--standing, leaning on thestile, and gazing before him.
His, of course, was the worn, wistful face which had half frightened,half appealed to Sybil Raynald.
But she forgot about it again, or other things put it temporarilyaside, so that when the Raynalds came down to Monksholdings again thefollowing Easter it did not at once occur to her to remind her father ofthe inquiry he had promised to make.
Miss March was not with her pupils and their parents at first. She hadgone to spend a holiday week with the friends who had brought her upand seen to her education--good, benevolent people, if not speciallysympathetic, but to whom she felt herself bound by ties of sincerestgratitude, though her five years with the Raynald family had given hermore of the feeling of a "home" than she had ever had before.
And her arrival at Monksholdings was the occasion of much rejoicing.There was everything to show her, and every one, from Mark down tolittle Robin, wanted to be her guide. It was not till the morning of thenext day that Sybil managed to get her to herself for a _tete-a-tete_stroll.
Ellinor had some things to tell her quondam pupil. Mrs. Bellairs, herself-appointed guardian, was growing old and somewhat feeble.
"I fear she is not likely to live many years," said Miss March, "and shethinks so herself. She has a curious longing, which I never saw in herbefore, to find out my history--to know if there is no one reallybelonging to me to whom she can give me back, as it were, before shedies. She gave me the little parcel containing the clothes I had on whenshe rescued me from being sent to a workhouse. They are carefully washedand mended, and though I was a poor, dirty little object when I wasfound, they do not look really as if I had been a beggar child," with alittle smile.
"You a beggar child!" exclaimed Sybil indignantly. "Of course not.Perhaps, on the contrary, you were somebody very grand."
"No, no," said Ellinor sensibly. "In that case I should have beenadvertised for and inquired after. No, I have never thought that, and Ishould not wish it. I should be more than thankful to know I came ofgood, honest people, however simple; to have some one of my very own."
"I forget the actual details," said Sybil, "though you have often toldme about it. You were found--no, not literally in the workhouse, wasit?"
"They were going to take me there," said Miss March. "It was at avillage near Bath where Mr. and Mrs. Bellairs were then living, andone day, after a party of gipsies had been encamping on the common, acottager's wife heard something crying in the night, and found me in herlittle garden. She was too poor to keep me herself, and felt certain Iwas a child the gipsies had stolen and then wanted to get rid of. I wasfair-haired and blue-eyed, not like them. She was a friend or relationof some of Mrs. Bellairs's servants, and so the story got round to mykind old friend. And you know the rest--how they first thought ofbringing me up in quite a humble way, and then finding me--well,intelligent and naturally rather refined, I suppose, I got a really goodeducation, and my good luck did not desert me, dear, when I came to beyour governess."
Sybil smiled.
"And can you remember _nothing_?"
Ellinor hesitated.
"Queer, dreamy fragments come back to me sometimes," she said. "I havea feeling of having seen hills long, long ago. It is strange," shewent on, for by this time they had left the private grounds and werestrolling along the hill-path in the direction of the town, "it isstrange that since I came here I seem to have got hold of a tiny bit ofthese old memories, if they are such. It must be the hills," and shestood still and gazed round her with a deep breath of satisfaction, "Icould only have been between two and three when I was found," she wenton. "The only words I said were 'Dada' and 'Nennie'--it sounded like'Nelly'. That was why Mrs. Bellairs called me 'Ellinor,' and 'March,'because it was in that month she took me to her house."
Sybil walked on in silence for a moment or two.
"It _is_ such a romantic story," she said at last. "I am never tired ofthinking about it."
They entered Monksholdings again from the east entrance, Ellinor glancedat the stile.
"By-the-bye," she said, "this is one of the two old stiles, I suppose.Have you ever seen your ghost again, Sybil? Have you found out anythingabout him?"
Sybil looked round her half nervously.
"It is the other stile he haunts," she said. "I rather avoid it, atleast, I mean to do so now. It is curious you speak of it, for tillyesterday I had not seen him again, and had almost forgotten about it.But yesterday afternoon, just before you came, there he was--exactlythe same, staring in. I meant to speak to papa about it, but with thepleasure and bustle of your arrival, I forgot it. Remind me about it. Iam afraid he is out of his mind."
"Poor old man!" said Ellinor. "I wish we could do something to comforthim. I feel as if everybody _must_ be happy here. It is such a charming,exhilarating place. Dear me, how windy it is! The path is all strewnwith the white petals of the cherry blossom."
"They have degenerated into wild cherry trees," said Sybil. "Long agopapa says these must have been good fruit trees of many kinds, and thisis a great cherry country, you know."
The wind dropped that afternoon, but only temporarily. It rose again somuch during the night that by the next morning the grounds looked, touse little Annis's expression, "quite untidy".
"And down in the village, or just beyond it," said Mark, who had beenfor an early stroll, "at one place it really looks as if it had beensnowing. The road skirts that old farmhouse; you know it, father? Iforget the name--there's a grand cherry orchard there."
"'Mayling Farm,' you must mean," said Mr. Raynald. "Farmer Giles's. Oh,by the way, that reminds me, Sybil," but a glance round the table madehim stop short.
They were at breakfast. He scarcely felt inclined torelate the tragic story before the younger children, "they might lookfrightened or run away if they came across the poor fellow," hereflected. "I will tell Sybil about it afterwards."
Easter holidays were not yet over, though the governess had returned, soregular routine was set aside, and the whole of the young party, Ellinorincluded, spent that morning in a scramble among the hills.
The children seemed untirable, and set off again somewhere or other inthe afternoon. Sybil was busy with her mother, writing letters andorders to be despatched to London, so that towards four o'clock or so,when Miss March, having finished her own correspondence, entered thedrawing-room, she found it deserted.
Sybil had promised to practise some duets with her, and while waiting onthe chance of her coming, Ellinor seated herself at the piano and beganto play--nothing very important--just snatches of old airs which shewove into a kind of half-dreamy harmony, one melting into another asthey occurred to her.
All at once a shadow fell on the keys, and then she remembered havingheard the door softly open a moment or two before--so softly, that shehad not looked round, imagining it to be the wind, which, though fallennow, still lingered about.
Now her ideas took another shape.
"It is Sybil, no doubt," she thought with a smile. "She is going to makeme jump," and she waited, half expecting to feel Sybil's hands suddenlyclasped over her eyes from behind.
But this was not to be the mode of attack, apparently, though she heardwhat sounded like stealthy footsteps.
"You need not try to startle me, Sybbie," she exclaimed laughingly,without turning or ceasing to play, "I hear you."
It was no laughing voice which replied.
On the contrary, a sigh, almost a groan, close to her made her lookup sharply--a trifle indignant perhaps at the joke being carried sofar--and she saw, a pace or two from her only, the figure of an oldman--a white-haired, somewhat bent form, a worn face with wistful blueeyes--gazing at her.
She had scarcely time to feel frightened, for almost instantaneouslySybil's "ghost" recurred to her memory.
"He has found his way in, then," she thought, not without a slightand natural tremor, which, however, disappeared as she gazed, sopathetically gentle was the whole aspect of the intruder.
But--his face changed curiously--the sight of hers, now fully inhis view, seemed strangely to affect him. With a gesture of utterbewilderment he raised his hand to his forehead as if to brush somethingaway--the cloud still resting on his brain--then a smile broke over theold face, a wonderful smile.
"Marion," he said, "at last? I--I thought I was dreaming. I heard youplaying in my dream. It is the right place though, 'Half-way between thestiles,' you said. I have waited so long and come so often, and now itis snowing again. Just a little, dear, nothing to hurt. Marion, mydarling, why don't you speak? Is it all a dream--this fine room, themusic and all? Are _you_ a dream?"
He closed his eyes as if he were fainting. Inexpressibly touched, allEllinor's womanly nature went out to him. She started forward, halfleading, half lifting him to a seat close at hand.
"I--I am not Marion," she said, and afterwards she wondered what hadinspired the words, "but I am"--not "Ellinor," something made her changethe name as he spoke--"I am Nelly."
He opened his eyes again.
"Little Nell," he said, "has she sent you down to me from heaven? Mylittle Nell!"
And then he fell back unconscious--this time he had fainted.
She thought he was dead, but it was not so--her cries for help soonbrought her friends, Mr. Raynald first of all. He did not seem startled,he soothed Ellinor at once.
"It is poor old Giles," he said. "I know all about him, he has found hisway in at last."
"But--but----," stammered the girl, "there is something else, Mr.Raynald. I--I seem to remember something."
She looked nearly as white as their poor visitor, and as Mr. Raynaldglanced at her, a curious expression flitted across his own face.
Could it be so? He knew all her story.
"Wait a little, my dear," he said. "We must attend to poor Giles first."
They were very kind and tender to the old man, but he seemed to bebarely conscious, even after restoratives had brought him out of theactual fainting fit. Then Mrs. Raynald proposed that his servants--hishousekeeper if he had one--should be sent for.
And when faithful Betsy, stout as of old, though less nimble, made herappearance, her irrepressible emotion at the sight of Ellinor, pale andtrembling though the young governess was, gave form and substance to Mr.Raynald's suspicions.
Yes, they had met at last--father and daughter--"half-way between thestiles". He was "Dada," she was little "Nell". Might it not be thatMarion's prayers had brought them together?
Every reasonable proof was forthcoming--the little parcel of clothes,the correspondence in the dates, the strong resemblance to her mother.
And--joy does not often kill. Barnett was able to understand it allbetter than might have been expected. He was never _quite_ himself, butinfinitely better both in mind and body than poor old Betsy had everdreamt of seeing him. And he was perfectly content--content to live aslong as it should please God to spare him to his little Nell; ready togo to his Marion when the time should come.
And Ellinor had her wish--a home, though not a "grand" one; some one ofher "very own" to care for; a father's devoted love, and, to completeher happiness, the friends who had grown so dear to her close at hand.
More may yet be hers in the future, for she is still young. Her fathermay live to see his grandchildren playing about the farmstead atMayling, so that, though the name be changed, the old stock will stillnourish where so many generations of its ancestors have sown andreaped.