CHAPTER II.

STRANGE GAME.

THE same ridge of which the weary traveler expressed such unqualified disapproval extended for five miles westward. It here, however, became the rocky shore of an arm of the lake, a narrow strip of water running inland for about a mile and a half; the outer shore being bold and precipitous, clothed here and there with tufts of ragged evergreens and wild vines, the inner or bay-shore low and marshy, fringed with alders, iris, spikenard, and other denizens of a wet soil. The only house within some distance was that of Mr. Vanvannick, which stood on the other side of the inlet on the main road, and, as the crow flies, about a mile from the high shore. The land on the ridge being quite worthless, it was only used as a pasture for sheep and young cattle, and was seldom trodden by any human foot. In the autumn the cranberry-pickers sometimes invaded the solitudes of the marsh, and Mr. Vanvannick or his son occasionally paddled across in the old punt with salt for the colts and cattle; otherwise, for months together, the waste of rock and brushwood would be undisturbed.

This being the case, it was somewhat singular that on this particular morning not only had the girl whose acquaintance we have already made acknowledged to having been at Low's swale, the name by which the marsh was generally known, but at the moment when she made the announcement the ridge was tenanted by five other persons. Who the five were will perhaps be made manifest before the close of our narrative; at present we have to do with but two of them.

It happened that for some little time previously the ridge had been the resort of a large number of wild-pigeons, and, as these birds are held-and deservedly so-in considerable esteem, their haunts were soon discovered and invaded by sportsmen eager for the spoil. Were it not for the busy time of the year, the number of these might have been much greater; but the hay absorbed the attention of most of the surrounding country, and only here and there an idler or one whose work was slack could afford the time needful for the slaughter of the game.

The two young men who have some connection with our story were strangers in the neighborhood. Traveling together on the main road, and putting up for the night at Bleekman's, they had been told of the pigeon-roost, and resolved to devote a day to sport. Their own fast horse had conveyed them to the entrance of the scrub and brushwood, and, tied to a tree, awaited their return; while they, each with a borrowed gun in his hand, pursued the mazes of the woody paths in search of the game, but had not proclaimed their presence on the ridge by a single shot. Their day's adventures were to be very different from what they had anticipated.

'Well, I'm hanged if I see much fun in this," said one, as they met, after a short separation, and trod together a grassy path wide enough for the two to walk abreast. "Here have we tramped about for more than an hour and haven't found the place yet. We should have brought a guide."

"Have patience, Phil," said the other, with a laugh. "Our luck will come. If we don't see the roost, I'm persuaded we shall find something before the day is out."

The sun beat fiercely down into the open glade where they stood, and, as the rays were reflected from the rocky slabs and burnt grass beneath their

feet, the heat became almost unbearable. The young men paused, and the one addressed as Phil took off his light straw hat to wipe his heated brow. A momentary lull in the wind had let the rustling leaves drop motionless, and a deep silence reigned for an instant in the wood.

It was suddenly broken. At no great distance from them apparently, they heard the sound of a man's voice, rapid and loud; then followed a shout; and then what sounded very like a woman's scream. To the latter neither would swear afterward, but at the moment each was sure that he heard a female voice, and, each seeing in his companion's face the suspicion of something wrong, both bounded off in the direction whence the sound had come. As they started, Phil stumbled over a root, his gun going off as he fell; but, quickly gathering himself up again unhurt, he was but a moment or two behind his friend.

Utterly ignorant of the locality, they passed some few minutes in a blind search, and at last came out on the same road farther on. This they pursued for a short distance, and at a turn of the path the eyes of both fell together on the body of a man lying full length upon the grass some way before them.

"Hallo! what's up?" said Phil's companion, quickening his pace.

"Remains of a spree, I fancy," remarked Phil, with a laugh. "Gad, though, it's a queer place to be drunk at this time of day."

But the other, who was a few steps in advance, turned round with his face gone suddenly white. "Hush, Phil, for God's sake!" he said, low and sharp. "The man's killed."

It was so. Before them lay a young man of two or three and twenty, evidently struck down by a sudden and fatal blow; still breathing, but gasping out his life in short, quick sobs, while blood trickled slowly from a small, deep wound in his neck. Phil's companion fell on his knees beside him and raised his head, his eyes lighted, but he seemed past speech.

As

"What's the matter? What has happened? What can we do for you?" were Phil's rapid question; but there came no reply.

"Here's a business, Dunc. What are we to do?"

"I don't know. The man's dying, I'm afraid, and he didn't kill himself, that's certain. I wish he could tell us something about it."

The dying man seemed to hear and understand. "Can you speak? Can you let us know who you are, and what to do?" said Duncan, very gently.-"Phil, I wonder if there's any water to be got?"

The man heard, and, though he could not raise his hand, moved a finger in one direction, and at last, by a violent effort, words came :

"Ávice-Harmer-down there-pond ;" and the voice died away.

Phil sprang to his feet, and was hurrying in the direction indicated, when the other called him back.

"Stop, Phil! If any one goes there, I do. You're none too cool any time and who knows what or who may be there?-What was that name you said? Who is the cause of this work?" the last words to the man whose head still rested on his knee.

"Follow-pond-Avice-"

"Did Avice do it?" said Phil, impatiently, for the man's life was evidently ebbing fast away.

But no more words came. Another effort to speak brought a horrible rattle to the throat, and a rush of blood to the lips. The eyes closed, and the

in the vicinity. They had been on a visit to the betrothed wife of the latter, and were returning, this being Tuesday, after an absence of three days. The character of both was unimpeachable, the testimony of both beyond suspicion, and when they had told their story, and related the events of the morning so far as they knew them, it was received as the truth without a moment's doubt.

And out of the darkness grew gradually a glimmer of dawn; and what had been enveloped in mystery assumed, when questions had elicited all the evidence Philip Mason had to give, a very different complexion. Stephen Vanvannick was one who might be supposed to have not an enemy in the world; he was good-tempered, good-natured, free with help of time and money to those who needed either, never quarreled with his neighbors, and lived on the best of terms both with his own family and those around him. But inquiry, conjecture, and comparison of notes, brought to light a possible enemy, and if a possible why not a certain one? The second name uttered by Stephen had escaped the memory of both the young men, but both, from its peculiarity, were clear as to the "Avice," and on being asked if the other were "Harmer," recognized it at once, and never wavered afterward. This was enough. Every one knew that Stephen had once been a lover of Avice Gray—every one had heard that Fred Harmer sought her in marriage now-what easier than to believe that Stephen's slumbering passion had been revived, and his jealousy aroused by the appearance of a new suitor? Indeed, he had been heard to swear that no other should marry Avice Gray while he lived; he was dead, and positive evidence given that a woman was on the spot when he gasped his last breath-what better premises could be desired for arriving at a conclusion? Was it not clear and plain that Avice preferred the new lover to the old one, and that in some scene of reproach and quarrel she had—perhaps intentionally, perhaps in passion and by accident-struck from her path the opposer of her union? How, or in what manner, no one stopped to inquire; when people are determined to prejudge, who ever keeps probabilities in sight? The case was prejudged against Avice Gray, to the satisfaction of all who discussed it, two hours after it had come under discussion at all. Why suspicion lighted easily on her, why it rested heavily when once excited, and why people were ready to believe the worst that could be told them, may now be explained. No one will wonder at the explanation. We all know that justice and charity are not the breath of the world; that poverty and helplessness are not the surest passports to public favor; and that, for those who labor under these disadvantages, to be accused is generally to be condemned.

Avice Gray was servant, or, to speak more properly, “hired girl," at Mrs. Harmer's. Mrs. Harmer was a widow, who, with a family of three sons and a daughter, occupied a large farm, across one corner of which extended the wood-road of which the first scene of this history gave us a glimpse. If you object to a heroine of such low rank in the social scale, Í am sorry, but I cannot help it; Avice was but a servant, and never rose far above that station, while we shall trace her story-the story which I must relate as it occurred, or not at all-and her life was no easy one. Mrs. Harmer, though a kind-hearted woman, was an exacting one, and Avice served her humbly for scanty pay. That she had to do so was either (according to your way of thinking) her misfortune or her fault. Young as she was, fair and innocent as she seemed, Avice bore a "light name,"

and it was not so easy for her to find home and occupation as though she had been of untarnished fame.

"Oh, the odious creature!" exclaims some matronly reader, eager, at the first breath of suspicion, to fasten on its victim all the rigor of condemnation. "Shut the book, my dear; we want to hear nothing about such people." Do so, madam; for you, and such as you, I do not write the story of poor Avice Gray; perhaps, if there were fewer like you, there would not be so many to suffer like her. But for those who do not look on the suspicion of evil as evil itself who believe that, on condition of "sinning no more," even the sinner may be forgivenand whose hearts can melt with charity and swell as readily with indignation against the powerful, as with contempt for the weak, I will continue the tale. I am not without example; not for nothing, doubtless, but to teach a most noble and much-needed lesson, was written that sweetest of sermons on charity, "Parson Gartand's Daughter."

Avice Gray was the only surviving child of a widowed mother. Her father, a sailor, had been drowned before her birth, and on the widow, left almost destitute by his sudden fate, and crushed alike by sickness and by sorrow, devolved the duty of bringing up the infant who came fatherless into the world. Had she been naturally robust, the task might not have proved beyond her strength, for she had friends able and willing to help her; but she was come of decent folks," and did not like to accept charity. She would take nothing without giving an equivalent, and, in rendering that equivalent in the labor sufficient to earn what would feed and clothe herself and her child, however poorly, she wore herself out. Her health, always frail, grew frailer. She had tried to send her child to school, but was obliged to withdraw her to perform the few household tasks which, few as they were, she could no longer execute. She tried needlework, but failed to satisfy her employers. How could they wait while she was incapable of holding her needle? Even knitting at last became too much for her; and at length, when Avice was thirteen, she sank quietly to rest. Her few relations had, in the mean time, died or removed, and Avice was left alone in the world.

Alone in the world! Words easy to speak, easy to write, but how hard to realize!-words whose sound is often in our ears, but how seldom is their import in our hearts! The world to cope with-the world to struggle against-the world to dare. The world is a harsh antagonist, and but few of those who enter the lists of combat single-handed are ever enrolled as victors. God help those who, like Avice Gray, are alone in the world!

Among those who had been interested in and kind to her mother, was Mrs. Vanvannick, and into Mrs. Vanvannick's household she was taken on her mother's death. Here, for two years, she was comfortable and tolerably happy. Mrs. Vanvannick was a hard-working woman, and demanded hard work from those around her; but she was not one materially to ill-treat any one under her care; she gave, in return for the services performed for her, abundance of good food and ample clothing, and did not scold more than the natural course of things made necessary. The girl's education was of course neglected; she could read tolerably, and write a little wretchedly; and there it seemed probable her learning would begin and end; but she became skilled in all kinds of househould-work, and was so handy, so cheerful, so trustworthy, so good-tempered, and so willing to learn, that, by the time she was fifteen, Mrs. Vanvannick hugged herself greatly on the fore

thought that had made her charitable, and believed herself in possession of a treasure.

But all too soon the pleasant dream departed. The two years changed Avice from an unformed child into a sweet and lovely girl, not woman yet, but with all womanly charms and graces fast budding into bloom-a half - opened human flower, stirred already with the mysteries of life and thought as the bud is stirred to open to the yet unknown sunshine-that most endearing of creations, a maiden good and fair, with all the charm and sweetness of the one period of life where "brook and river meet." Ah, where was now the tender, fostering care that should have nursed the young and lovely promise into safe and pure maturity? Who shall blame the vine, created to cling, that it accepts the support offered by the stately tree? And what shall be said or thought of her who, ignoring the sacred responsibility incurred in the charge of this young soul, could for worldly, selfish ends betray her trust, and cast out to certain danger and probable destruction one utterly without defense?

Mrs. Vanvannick was not slow to perceive the change that time, good food, and a healthy life, had wrought in Avice Gray; but, to her unutterable annoyance, she found that her son was quite as much alive to it as she. Her anger made her quicksighted, and, long before Avice was aware of the nature of her own feelings, the astute elder woman knew well enough that her handsome, winning son had gained possession of all the heart a girl of fifteen has to bestow. At that she was not surprised, and, like most of her sex (not all, thank God! and shame on them that there are so many!), him she scarcely even blamed. That he should amuse himself with the child kept out of charity, without a serious thought or a moment's reflection on the misery he might cause, was right enough: young men will be young men. But what opprobrium could be deep enough for her? Could vile ingratitude and shameless levity go beyond what she had shown? Should she not have been able to take his words at their true worth, and rate all his proffered jewels as dust and ashes? Should she not have "forecast the years," and seen from the beginning what the end must be? Ah, woman of fifty! when will you remember that you were once fifteen? Why will you forget, when you have gained the knowledge of evil, that you have attained it but with years? Would you take from youth its blessed ignorance, envious of a joy you can never know again? Or would you not rather cry in anguish for a return of those early years when suspicion was unknown-when men were true and faithful, and life stretched a fair land of promise to your view? It is not likely that any such thoughts as these entered the mind of Mrs. Vanvannick. She was a hard, worldly-wise woman, with whom sentiment and refinement of thought had never been daily bread. But there was method in her anger. She knew that to accuse is often to suggest, and she said no word to the girl whose welfare in this world, and perhaps in the next, depended upon her, and to whom a word of tender, motherly warning would have been Heaven-sent charity. After some consideration, she did speak to her son, and received in reply a laughing assurance that there was no foundation for her fears. Her suspicions were lessened, but by no means dissipated; she kept strict watch, and her vigilance was at length rewarded by the discovery of a stolen interview - an unmistakable lovers' tryst under the orchard-wall one Sunday afternoon. Denial was no longer of any avail, and

Stephen not only avowed his liking for his mother's orphan dependent, but intimated his intention of making her his wife. Then her anger blazed forth indeed, and the young man clearly perceived that, though evil intentions toward the girl would have been a sore misdemeanor in his mother's eyes, to offer her to her as a daughter would be an offense of a still deeper dye. The lesson was not lost. By deference and submission, partly affected and partly real, he soothed his mother until her indignant reproaches changed to gentle chiding, and on the defenseless girl fell the weight of her wrath. She was turned out of the house

Perhaps that in itself might have been no great misfortune, for homes are easily found in our Western world by those who possess skilled hands and the will to use them. Avice could be no less than a servant, and with Mrs. Vanvannick she had been nothing more. But her mistress, to justify a course which she could not but feel to be unjustifiable, did not hesitate to infer, if not to allege, accusations against her as fact which she knew in her heart to be less than suspicion. It is possible to repeat an assertion till, however little foundation there may be for it, we believe it ourselves; perhaps Mrs. Vanvannick did so. At all events, she found it convenient to believe what completely excused the harshness of her conduct in the eyes of those with whom lay the shaping of Avice's future, and closed against her the doors of the homes she might otherwise have entered, as well as those of the one she had left.

Homeless, friendless, and with a character touched, if not blighted, by the freezing breath of suspicion at fifteen! The world had dealt hardly with Avice Gray. What wonder had she, in her first distress, accepted, like others, any shelter that might open to her? What wonder had she, writhing under accusations borne for her lover's sake and his desertion, welcomed his return to her on any terms? What wonder had she, in her utter helplessness, become what they would have made her? But Avice was preserved; when it seemed least likely, a friend came to her aid. Whether out of contradiction to the general feeling; whether out of interest or charity; or whether out of real belief in the girl's worth, Mrs. Harmer declared herself her friend. She asserted her confidence of the girl's perfect innocence of all wrong, and took her home.

Mrs. Harmer was kind to Avice. I should be sorry to attribute this altogether to the fact that her services were valuable, and her gratitude so deep, that for those services she would accept little compensation beyond the food she ate and the poor clothes she wore, but I will not say that such may not in some degree have been the case. At any rate, let us give her credit for what she did. She acted a mother's part to Avice, not only in the bestowal of food and shelter, but motherly advice and motherly care; she saved her from the danger which might have attended the further pursuit of Stephen Vanvannick; and she did her best to restore to the girl the good opinion of others, by boldly and constantly expressing her own. If she took some credit to herself for her charity and her trustfulness; if she reaped some benefit from her kindness, and received some recompense for the care and the shelter, who shall blame her? In this world, where there are so few good deeds, why should we hide our own under a bushel?

To Avice Gray, at all events, such considerations as these did not suggest themselves, and Mrs. Harmer was to her an angel of mercy and light. In simple natures, not cultivated or refined out of the

possession or exercise of the primitive virtues, gratitude sometimes takes strong hold, and it struck deep root in the heart of Avice Gray. To her, the woman who had believed and trusted her, who, instead of thrusting her over the precipice, had sustained her with firm arm even while bidding her look (and beware) into its yawning depths, who had given her protection when all others failed, was one to be simply revered and served with all the strength of which her mind and sense were capable. It would perhaps be scarcely too much to say that she considered her life at the disposal of the friend who had made that life worth keeping. When, shortly after her entrance into her new service, Mrs. Harmer was the victim of a dangerous and infectious disorder, it was Avice who supplied to her the daughter's place, which the daughter herself was too terrified to fill; it was Avice who bathed the fevered head, Avice who gave the cooling drink, Avice who watched by night and worked by day till her mistress was completely restored. She had her reward, for Mrs. Harmer, instead of only kindly feeling, conceived for her a real attachment, and was wont to hold her dutiful conduct before her own child as an example to be followed; not, it must be owned, very much to that young lady's satisfaction.

Thus for two years Avice had dwelt under Mrs. Harmer's roof, safe and contented, if not very happy. Very happy she could not be, for she had been really fond of Stephen Vanvannick, and his desertion of her, no less than the shadow on her good name, had cast a deep gloom over her young life. But she found her comfort in the knowledge that her mistress trusted her, that her many duties were faithfully performed, and that all who dwelt with her and witnessed her daily life were her friends.

It was a mistaken comfort. Of those she deemed friends one was fast becoming, indeed, had already become, far more than a friend-another was no friend at all. Fred Harmer had learned to think Stephen Vanvannick a fool, and to hope, with time and patience, to win as a prize the girl he had rejected and forsaken. Dorade Harmer hated her with all the strength of a passionate and jealous heart.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GLEAM OF SUNSET.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Avice Gray entered the kitchen where Mrs. Harmer, busied with her handmaiden's neglected work, was wondering and fuming at her absence. She looked up severely as she set down the heavy iron with which she was employed, and prepared to administer

a stern rebuke.

"You'd be a good one to send for sorrow, Avice Gray; I'm glad you don't carry my good luck with you. I'd like to know where you've been and what you've been doing, and me with all the work on my shoulders this whole melting day?"

"I'm verry sorry, Mrs. Harmer," said the girl, but there was little grief in either her face or her tone. The pink flush yet remained in her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with an excitement evidently of a pleasurable nature. Her mistress, looking at her again, seemed struck with her appearance, and spoke in a different tone.

"Why, what have you been doing to yourself, Avice? you look as spry as a cricket-say, where have you been?"

I'll tell you, Mrs. Harmer," said the girl, as she

took off her sun-bonnet, and prepared to resume her duties. 'You've been the best of friends to me, and you shall be the first to hear what I've to tell, as you've good right. I'm sorry I'm so late, but it was so warm over on the ridges, and I was so tired hunting the berries, that I sat down to rest in the shade coming home, and fell asleep before I thought." "You left this at five this morning, and you must have got across the ridges and out to the berry-field before seven. If you got none, why didn't you come right home? You hain't been asleep all that time, so don't tell me you have."

"I'll not tell you so, Mrs. Harmer, because it would not be true. When you know how it was, you'll forgive me, I know." The girl put up her hands as she spoke to arrange her disordered hair, and in doing so disengaged some lime-flowers which were fastened among the rings and curls, and which fell upon the table. She also, as she lifted her arms, exposed the scratch, and Mrs. Harmer's attention was attracted, as that of the man on the ridge had been, by the stained condition of her dress.

"I should think you might have more sense, Avice Gray. How in creation did you hurt yourself so, and what are you dressed up in flowers for, in such a rig as yours?"

The girl smiled-a soft, happy smile. “I'll tell you all about it," she said. "I did go straight across the_ridges to the berry-field, but, try as I would, I couldn't get more than a couple of quarts, and them I lost when I fell over the fence and hurt my arm. I'd have picked them up if the ground had been dry, but the swamp mud had spoiled them."

ly.

"What swamp?" demanded Mrs. Harmer, quick"Was you at Low's swale?"

"Yes," said Avice, with a blush, and casting down her eyes. "I came across the corner that way home."

Mrs. Harmer shook her head. "Will you never be anything but a fool, Avice? I'd have more spirit if I was you than to ever think of a man that considered himself too good for me. Stephen Vanvannick's brought trouble enough on you already, and if I was in your place I'd not go anigh the spot where I might chance to meet him."

But Avice only smiled again, and seemed unmoved by the rebuke. "I did meet him this morning," she said, softly. "He was over to salt the cattle, and I saw him."

"And you staid out all morning on that ridge with Stephen Vanvannick? O Avice, that's too bad of you! To go and set folks talking again, after all the pains I've been at to clear you! You'd ought to know better-for my sake, if not your own."

"Folks will have to talk a little more before they stop," said Avice, demurely, looking down. Then she suddenly raised her eyes, and, though she colored to her hair, she looked steadily into Mrs. Harmer's face. "You may as well know it at once," she said. "Stephen and me are going to be married next week."

Mrs. Harmer stared at her, and then dropped, dumb with astonishment, into the nearest chair. As she expressed it afterward, "her breath was fairly taken away."

Avice waited a moment, and then, as no words came, spoke timidly. "Are you angry, Mrs. Harmer? I thought you'd be pleased."

46

Pleased, child?" said her mistress, finding her tongue again, and, in her woman's pleasure at the prospect of a marriage, forgetting all her former severity—“ pleased, child? I'm knocked senseless! Pleased? yes, of course, if you're pleased I am. But, O Avice!" she exclaimed, as a sudden remembrance came to her, "do you know what you've done?"