A CHARLESTON

LOVE STORY;

OR,

HORTENSE VANROSS,

BY

T. G. STEWARD.

F. TENNYSON NEELY,

PUBLISHER,

LONDON.NEW YORK.

Copyright, 1899.

by

F. TENNYSON NEELY

in

United States

and

Great Britain.

All Rights Reserved.

A CHARLESTON LOVE STORY.

CHAPTER I.

"I don't think our Len will ever amount to much," said Leonard Howell, senior, one day to his wife as he entered the house.

"Why not, father?" anxiously inquired Aunt Milly.

"Oh! well, he's too careless and too trifling. He's smart enough, got wit enough, but it all runs the wrong way. I've about gi'n him up."

"Oh, no, father, don't say that; don't get discouraged. Let's wait awhile longer. You and I and Bernice here ought to be able to bring up one boy, even if we are getting old. I shall not give him up yet.

He may come out a good man, after all," said Mrs. Howell kindly.

"Ah, mother, what is bred in the bone can't be got out through the flesh. The boy is his mother right over‐‐‐&hyphen"

"There, father, don't let us talk about than7period; You know we agreed years ago to bury that matter forever."

This dialogue occurred in an old‐fashioned country house in a settlement not far from Philadelphia, over fifty years ago. The house was built wholly of wood, and consisted of two parts‐‐an old and a new‐although the new part gave evidence of having seen many summers. The old part was only one story high, but the long rafters and consequently high peaked roof gave room for a large attic. It had its heavy, projecting eaves; its oaken door, which had one day been red; its genuine leather latchstring hanging outside, and its

heavy oaken latch within. There were also the large open fireplace, the swinging crane with its pothooks of various lengths, and the heavy wrought andirons. The furniture of this part of the house consisted of a solid table; several chairs, some with splint bottoms and others with bottoms of untanned skin; a carved corner cupboard; and a rude settee which served often as a bed.

The new part of the house was of two stories, although the ceilings were low; and the furniture of the room, as it was called, differed from that in the older part of the house. Indeed, two generations were represented in the furniture of this humble dwelling. In the "room" were a ten‐stove; a wooden clock, with its picture of two brothers clasped in loving embrace on its front, and its pecularly musical stroke; a black walnut table, with

its feet of dragon claws, then more than a half‐century old; and a well‐worn rocking chair.

The house within and the yard around were generally kept scrupulously neat and orderly; and the small farm on which it stood showed signs of industry and thrift in all its details. The fences were clean and in good repair; the wagons, plows, and barrows, as well as the live stock, all showed the effects of intelligent care.

Leonard Howell was no idler, nor did he tolerate idleness in those around him. Brusque in manner, diligent in business, of good health and with good appetite, endowed with energy and a constant flow of good spirit, he was a thorough master of his work and the strength and support of the home. Or, at least, he had been so for many yhears; now, however, he was rapidly advancing toward old age. The estate

upon which he lived had been left him by his father, and he was at this time possessed of sufficient means to afford a plain but comfortable living, and was free from debt. In his earlier days he had been successful both as a small farmer and as a dealer in cordwood and hoop‐poles; and many of his ventures in this line had sailed out of the tortuous rivers of South Jersey to Philadelphia, where the wood and the poles then found ready sale.

Leonard Howell was fairly shrewd at driving a bargain, and was possessed of an exterior which on first sight would indicate rather a hard nature; but those who knew him well could bear testimony to his benevolence of heart,l and also to a keen sense of humor which he at times manifested. Like most men of his time and vicinity, he occasionally drank apple whiskey, or apple "Jack," as it was called;

but he was never known to become the worse for liquor. He was a member of the church, and was thoroughly sound in the faith, and a good contributor; but religious matters with him were to a large extent turned over to his brother, who was a deacon in the church, and to his wife, who was better read than himself, and who was thoughtful and pious. Leonard Howell, evidently, leaned more upon his wife's prayers and his brother's counsels than upon any devotions of his own. He had his "principles," and was ever ready to do what he called "the right thing," but as for services of devotion and the like‐‐well‐‐he submitted to them but never gave evidence that he enjoyed them.

Aunt Milly Howell was in many respects the very opposite of her husband both in outward and inward character. She was spare and delicate of form, and quite gen‐

erally in poor health. Her manners were soft and refined, and she was far above the average woman of her neighborhood in point of intelligence. She had read much, considering her opportunities, and her memory was well stored with Bible facts and texts and with many gems of old English literature.

Although usually unwell herself, she was nevertheless filled with the tenderest sympathy for others, and was the special friend of the children of the community. Her resignation and patience, and here quiet, pleasant manner filled the old home with a soothing influence, making all who dwelt there happier, if not indeed better because of it. The restraint which her presence imposed upon the boisterous was by no means burdensome, because it was always accompanied by her own subdued example, and by her instructive and elevat‐

ing conversation. I can see here now as I write, sitting in her high‐backed chair, with her neat‐fitting house dress on, the clean handkerchief folded over her shoulders with its lower ends concealed beneath her apron, her spectacles, her white cap with its frills, her gray hair and smooth brow, her softly treading slippers. Yes, I see her now in that old homestead, with the light of heaven falling in its gentle fullness upon her paid‐worn face, and my soul warms with the vision. She was one of God's angels sent to bless the earth.

In this quiet home lived also the maiden daughter, Bernice, the youngest of a family of seven sons and daughters who had passed their childhood there. She was, at the time of the dialogue above mentioned, about twenty‐five years of age; rather large and stalwart in form, inheriting her father's energy and self‐reliance, coupled

with much of her mother's reserve and kindness. She had the will, the nerve, and the cool courage fitting her to fill a more important sphere. Her dignity of manner was sublime, here scorn terrible. She could freeze or flay with less than a word. Her look was enough. She lived long beyong the time of my story, but she never married. Her's was the helping hand of the community ever ready to do good.

No home is complete without the boy. Leonard C. Howell, junior, was a grandson, and was at this time about thirteen years old. He was bright, but it could not be said that he was industrious; and he seemed to have imbibed a dislike to everything about the farm except the fruit that grew on the trees and the food that came to his place at table. The fowls, calves, colts, horses, and dogs‐‐all seemed to hate or fear him. He was inclined to be

cruel as well as "careless." His chief pastime was to blow outlandish airs upon a small fife, the notes of which were as much out of place in that orderly home as were his manners and temper.

Leonard, however, always had a faithful and powerful friend and apologist in his Aunt Bernice; and hence when Grandfather Howell expressed himself as being about worn out with little "Len," Bernice waited until her mother had finished, and then with her black eyes fairly snapping fire, she added:

&quotLen is not so bad. He is mischievour, and careless and troublesome; but he is only a boy yet. He'll be all right when he gets older."

This was said with an emphasis that meant much more than the words themselves expressed; and as Bernice wielded great influence over her father, and as she

was pleading for his namesake and grandson, the case was soon won, and the old gentleman dismissed the matter by saying: "God grant he may&pereiod;"

The father of young Leonard, the oldest son of Leonard Howell, senior, had married greatly against the judgment of his parents; and although the aged couple had long ago forgiven him and had freely received his wife as their daughter‐in‐law, yet they had never really changed their opinion. It was to this wife, of course, and not to his own son, that Grandpa Howell referred when he said, "What is bred in the bone, can't be got out through the flesh." He may have been right, but it is just as probable that he was wrong. He believed he was right, however, and his beliefs were always quite positive. Bernice shared none of this feeling, and to her Leonard was simply a nephew to be warmly loved and kindly treated.

Leonard did not stay long on the farm after this conversation; although the treatment he continued to receive was kind even to indulgence. He became more and more discontented, and, early one bright morning in May, was missing. A brief search revealed the fact that he had run away. He took the natural course of runaway boys, which was to the city; and thence made his way by sailing vessel to Boston. He had hired himself to the shipmaster as cabin boy, but Leonard grew heartily tired of the sea and of the discipline on shipboard long before he reached Boston; and as soon as the vessel was snugly at her wharf, he slipped away from her, forfeiting what little pay was due him.

Out in the streets of this strange city, with scarcely a penny in his pocket, without a friend or acquaintance to whom he could look, and altogether unacquainted

with city life, Leonard for the first time repented his rashness. The seat of his repentance was, however, rather in his stomach than in his heart; and his feelings came and went according as he happened to be hungry or fed. When want pinched him, his thoughts would turn toward the smoking dinners of coarse but wholesome food that he had so often sat down to in the old home, and he would then reproach himself for running away; but when chance threw a good meal in his way, all these reflections departed and his evil courage returned.

Thus he wandered up and down the crooked streets of Boston for a number of days, catching odd jobs, and living around the markets; until one day it was his good fortune to meet with a farmer who was needing help and who offered him a temporary home.

A bargain was soon made, and it was with a glad heart that Leonard leaped into the farmer's wagon to enter upon the same sort of life as that from which he had run away. His short experience however had taught him the importance of having a home, and he entered upon his contract with a full resolution to fulfill it, by staying until the haying season was over. With such feelings he began his work on the Kingsley farm.

Although he had been bred to farm work in South Jeresey, he soon found that being a hired boy on a farm in Massachusetts, differed very much from the life he had lived upon his grandfather's farm in New Jersey. The land was rough and stony; the hills quite steep and high, and the people were accustomed to long days and hard work. Up in the morning by the time it was light, they did half a Jersey

day's work before breakfast, and supplemented the day with the other half after supper. Poor Leonard had indeed fallen into a trying situation. He was earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, and was becoming so lean and hollow‐eyed that it did not seem that even the poor privilege of sweating would be long allowed him. His voice became thin and piping, and his spirits sank within him. He was tired every moment, and saw no prospect of relief until the end of the terrible haying season. This came at last, and with it the promised lull in the incessant rage of labor that for weeks had been sweeping over the sultry hills and valleys of the commonwealth.

Leonard had succeeded so well during the few weeks that Farmer Kingsley now offered him a permanent home, agreeing to pay him regular wages until the autumn's

work should be over, and to board him during the winter, he doing the chores, and in the meantime going to school. This was accepted, and by the latter part of November the work was well over and Leonard ready to enter the district school.

Dressed in thick, comfortable clothes, with stout boots, and large for his age, muscular and well formed, he was a noticeable accession, but when he came in contact with the other boys he soon found that he was far behind them in his studies. He was awkwardly out of place and entirely too large for his grade. This, however, instead of paralyzing his energies tended to greatly stimulate them, and he resolved to catch up with those more advanced.

The teacher was a young man who had completed a sub‐academic course, and was now preparing himself for college by private study, and at the same time trying

to earn the money necessary for college expenses by teaching the district school. He was earnest and efficient as a teacher and kind to his pupils; but being somewhat absorbed in his own studies, and ambitious to enter college with a good record, he was rather too much preoccupied to be a good disciplinarian. He enjoyed the work of teaching, but disliked the drudgery of enforcing order.

In keeping with the inborn principles of his nature, Leonard soon formed the acquaintance of the more disorderly boys, and became in some respects their ring‐leader. Being entirely away from parental restraint, he was more reckless in his manner than most of the other boys, and they soon accorded him the bad eminence of leadership. Although not orderly, he was naturally apt, and was rapidly advancing to a position in school more in accord with his size.

As Grandfather Howell had said, he had "wit" enough, and could acquire knowledge readily when he chose to do so; and just now he was bent on his books. But his mischievous, malevolent disposition had not been at all modified by his hard experience. On the contrary, it had grown apace, and had hardened in form during these months; and he had become more habitually surly in his nature and more liable to fits of unreasonable passion. It was evident almost from the day of his entrance to the school that Leonard's presence was not to be a blessing to it; and as soon as he had acquired the (quasi) leadership the audacity of the turbulent element increased, and the principles of order and respect were trampled underfoot. The condition soon became so bad that the attention of the trustees was called to it; but they were in favor of mild measures,

and accordingly induced the superintendent, a kind and elderly gentleman, to give the boys a lecture on their behavior. This, instead of correcting the evil, rather emboldened the offenders; and Leonard, who now rejoiced in being the bully of the school, began openly to annoy the teacher, as if purposing to bring on a conflict.

"He'll not attempt to flog any of us," shouted Bill Woodford, as he ran from the schoolhouse door to join the group of turbulents that stood in a distant part of the yard.

"Hum! I'd look to see him try it, wouldn't you, Len?" squeaked little Dave Claypole, looking up in Leonard's face.

"Say, fellers, I tell you what let's do," said Sam Duncan. "When he calls us out in class this afternoon let'sall stand with our feet wide apart‐‐so, and our hands in our pockets, and our heads way back, like

that," striking the attitude, at which all the boys laughed heartily.

"That's the very thing," piped out little Dave. "That will make him mad; he hates anything like that."

All were soon agreed, and mutual pledges were passed with considerable formality. They were to stand by one another in the fight, and were never to tell anything about their part of the mattere afterward. Thus filled with evil purposes, the little band of juvenile covenanters entered the schoolroom.

Leonard had said but little, but he had agreed to the proposal, not having the moral courage to oppose, although he knew that, being at the head of the class, he would be the first one to meet the issue, the probable consequences of which had now begun to swim before his mind.

During all these days of semi‐defiance

the teacher had not been unobservant nor idle. He had studied the situation thoroughly and had reached his own conclusion. He kneew that a crisis must soon come, and had braced himself for it. Flogging had not gone out of practice in the schoolroom, nor was there any law or sentiment that interfered with the teacher's free use of the birch.

When the boys were to take their places in class, true to their agreement, they ambled out slowly and noisily, pounding the floor and the desks with their big boots as they went along, and finally all stood in a line with their legs well straddled out, their hands in their pockets, and their chins well up in the air. Stripped from its intention, it was altogether a comic sight, and it is not at all unlikely that Mr. Boyne saw something funny in the froglike attitude which the boys assumed. It

was grotesque, and was not lost on the rest of the school. The teacher had ignored many breaches of order, but he determined not to ignore this.

Calling on Leonard to recite, he said calmly:

"Take your hands out of your pockets and stand as you ought to."

Leonard did not move, but began to recite, his face wearing an air of defiance and contempt.

"Leonard, I say, take your hands out of your pockets and stand as you ought to," repeated Mr. Boyne.

Leonard smiled but did not move. The teacher turned quietly around and drew from behind his desk a seasoned rod that the boys had never seen before; and the next instand this rod was wrapping itself around Leonard's straddled legs with amazing vigor. The teacher struck only two

blows, but these stung as though a red‐hot wire had been coiled around his bare skin. Leonard sprang forward and caught the teacher by the throat clutching it with all the strength of his hardy nature, his whole being inflamed with wild passion. He drew back his right hand with his fist clinched to strike. He never delivered the blow, however, for Mr. Boyne, quick as lightning, threw out his left hand, seized Leonard's right wrist, and the next instand, by a trip and a twirl, threw him full length to the floor, falling upon him. In his descent Leonard's head had struck heavily against a desk, and he was partially stunned; nevertheless, he still clung to the teacher's throat, and for a few moments the struggle was fierce. All this time Mr. Boyne had refrained from blows; and when at length he freed himself and arose to his feet he was still quite cool and col‐

lected. Leonard arose, but the fall and the flow he had received from the desk had unnerved him; and dazed, humbled, and bleeding, he went away to his seat, and sank down into a half‐unconscious condition.

The boys who had done so much in planning the affair, and who had pledged themselves so solemnly&conmma; had been very careful to take no part in the fight, and were now quite backward in showing their sympathy toward Leonard. As they looked upon the late bully, exhausted and cowed, with clothes torn, hair disheveled, face besmeared, and head bruised and bleeding, they may have inwardly charged him with folly, and chuckled over their own good sense; but it would have been impossible to have defended themselves from the charge of meanness. After a painful waiting, one or two of them finally ventured to

assist him in getting himself fixed up, and Leonard, crestfallen and disgusted, set out for home.

To Leonard's everlasting credit be it said he had not acquired the habit of lying; and on arriving home he gave Farmer Kingsley a truthful account of the affair, no doubt suppressing the circumstances which told most against himself. Farmer Kingsley listened patiently, and although he had no sympathy whatever with Leonard's conduct, he did not hastily decide against him. He had seen Leonard's ambition to learn, and knew that he was apt; and he was not convinced that the recent experience had made upon him a good impression. This was true. Leonard was not only thoroughly humiliated, but was also greatly enlightened, and had firmly resolved to alter his ways.

His work done and supper eaten, he

went early to bed, but slept little during the night. His head pained him seriously, but the reflections which came to his mind were much more painful. He saw that he had made a fool of himself, even if he did not clearly see the wrong he had been guilty of. And then, the recollections of his earlier wrong steps, and the dark pictures of the immediate future, which his lively imagination painted‐‐for as yet he kneew nothing of Farmer Kingsley's intentions‐‐pursued each other back and forth across his mind like the wavese of a squall‐tossed sea. This severe agitation served to confirm within him the resolution he had formed; and the next morning, when Mr. Kingsley proposed that he should return to school, he felt greatly relieved, although as yet he did not know how the matter could be settled.

Farmer Kingsley was a man of great

energy and probity of character, and was well known. His influence was almost without limit in the community; and convinced of Leonard's sincerity, he now took his cause, and by much persuasion finally had him restored to the school.

Leonard's change of conduct was apparent to all, and becoming more diligent than ever, he fairly bounded along in his studies. Had his reformation been more thorough, and had he gone back to the rpinciples he had been taught by precept and by loving example in his New Jersey home; had his change been deeply moral, and led him to retrace his runaway steps and ask forgiveness of the tender relatives he had wronged, his whole life would doubtless have been brighter. As it was, the change was great, and his resolution noble; but it had respect only to prudence, and rested upon a merely utilitarian morality. It was a half‐measure

and a compromise; and it was upon such a basis that Leonard set out to erect that character upon which as a monument he should at last inscribe his name and the record of his life.

His schooldays were finished without further event; and in the spring he returned to work with increased energy and fidelity, saving his earnings with scrupulous care. He soon won the reward due his upright and manly bearing in the confidence and good will of the community; and the unpleasant school episode faded from public memory. It was a boyish freak that should not be charged to the disadvantage of the enterprising young man, who had not only repudiated it, but who had done all in his power to atone for it. Leonard Howell was forgiven.

CHAPTER II.

The city of Charleston, in South Carolina, is often spoken of as the hotbed in which the rebellion of the South was sprouted. Before the war Charleston was a delightful city, especially for persons whose temperament fitted them to enjoy its semi‐tropical climate and customs. Socially it was extremely staid and conservative; and the various classes of which its population was composed moved along their allotted planes with but little apparent friction, each individual family seeming content with its social lot. Charleston was the Philadelphia of the South, with increased emphasis.

In situation, it enjoyed the advantages

of which New York may boast, without having the obstruction of Long Island. From the Battery, which beautifully matched New York's Castle Garden, the eye uninterrupted might sweep out over a harbor of quiet beauty and drop its exhausted vision to rest in the distant haze of the open sea. The low, green‐crested islands which marked the lines of the opening perspective, served as a delicate border, connecting the picture with ourselves; while bold Sumter challenged our gaze for a moment as she reared her grim form against the eastern sky as the faithful gatekeeper of the "City by the Sea."

The view presented by the city itself to the traveler approaching it from the sea was also one of rare beauty. Its shipping, spires, and abundant shrubbery and shade trees combined to enlist the lively sympathy of the visitor; while its background

of forest and its surrounding meads of luxuriant green enwrapped it in a setting as delightful as ever greeted the eye.

East and west of the city flowed the Ashly and Cooper rivers, quite similar to the East and North rivers of New York; and on their waters floated the tiny boats of the scores of fishermen who daily supplied the markets with the best fish in the world. Within the city were fine old residences reflecting the wealth and magnificent tastes of their occupants; but the visitor would be more deeply impressed by the public buildings. There was the old Saint Michael's Church, with its magnificent chimes‐‐Saint Michael's, once saved by the heroism of a negro slave, upon whom the rich sentiment of Charleston bestowed, as a wreath of honor, the boon of freedom. There stood the old French Church, telling its story of the Huguenots;

there the citadel, filled with aristocratic cadets; there the theater, coming down from colonial times; the arsenal, asylums, hotels, and school buildings. Churches were numerous and the population decidedly church‐going.

The clearly‐defined classes in Charleston society were nearly as follows: On the one extreme were the old families who enjoyed a distinction founded upon blood, and who were generally accorded the first place in everything. The other extreme was occupied by the fewe white laborers and mechanics, to whom was permitted no social standing whatever. They existed and looked on; they did not live and partake. Among the aristocrats were to be found the merchants of the best class;the planters who maintained city residences, or who were frequent visitors to the city; the lawyers, and, above all, the leaders in

politics. As a rule, they were gentlemen of leisure, with fair education, and had sometimes traveled extensively; dignified and infolent of manner, and splendid talkers. Their pronunciation of English was old‐fashioned, but uniform and fixed; as one pronounced, they all pronounced; their tones were musical and their inflections indicative of taste. They were not without virtue, although the South Carolina aristocracy was really an item brought forward from a closed accounht, and was both out of date and away from home in the American republic; nevertheless, it had its era and some virtue. Of its vices it is not necessary to speak; all who knew it will admit that it was more admirable at a distance than at close view. The lowest class of whites need not be specially noted. Many of them were upright and respectable, and under freer conditions would have reached

the higher ranks of society. The "poor white trash" of the Carolinas generally were not always the worst people. They were uniformly sinned against by the lordly class, and were very much what their condition made them; but among them were many who were far from being despicable.

Between the two extremes already mentioned were several strata of the middle class, comprising superior mechanics, merchants of secondary grade, school teachers, clerks, bookkeepers, and the like. Among these were to be found the usual proportion of good and bad, no doubt; but it was also among them that some of the best people that the city every produced were to be found. The virtues somewhat spurned by the upper classes, and rendered impossible to the lowest class by reason of their social surroundings, seemed to find con‐

genial homes among many of those who were niehter high nor low in the social scale. Here alone the domestic virtues especially received their warmest support and brought forth their best fruit.

Charleston was also the center and marked representative of a slaveholding section, and had a very large slave population. Here the Denmark Vesey insurrection was planned, and here too it came to grief, when twenty‐two resolute negroes, who had been willing to risk something for freedom, met their death in silence on the scaffold. Here also was the whipping‐house, known among negroes ironically as the "sugar house," to which genteel slaveholders sent their slaves to be whipped at so much per lash. Yes, Charleston had her slaves, her free negroes, her free browns, and her mixed‐blooded colored people, seemingly without number. The

colored people, too, free and slave, were also divided into several classes, the most noted of which were the "free browns," the center of which was the "Brown Fellowship Society," representing persons of mixed blood who were freeborn; and the "Compact," a society of blacks that admitted none to membership saving blacks who had been born in wedlock.

The ante&hyphens;bellum Charleston, however, is passed away, leaving behind it only memories. For anything like a correct description of it we are dependent upon the fast‐fading recollections of the few survivors who knew it as it was. Its picture, beautiful as it was in many respects, is not to be found in its own current literature, not that artists were wanting, but rather because the leaders of thought carried public attention into other fields. The ambitions of politics utterly despoiled the provinces of literature.

The Vanross family belonged to the middle and non‐slaveholding class; and it may be well to observe that this class of Southerners, so generally kept in the background, was very largely in the majority. Reduced to the very minimum in social influences by the slaveholding policy of the South, they have seldom appeared in Southern literature except at great disadvantage. Nor indeed have they received from the North that share of public attention in any form to which their character and their numbers entitle them. The slaveholder, actual or ex, has always managed to set himself up as the exclusive representative of the South; and he has been too often admitted as such, without a thought concerning the great majority of good people whom he did not represent. The Vanross family were not slaveholders, but were, nevertheless, intense Southern‐

ers. They were plain, practical, and industrious, considered in the light of the habits and custom of their community. In another place they would have reached high rank in society. As it was, they enjoyed a large share of respect.

The discussion going on in the country foreboding actual war, reached the quiet home of Mrs. Vanross, and greatly agitated the little domestic circle. They loved Charleston as only Charlestonians can; and from this standpoint, in widening circles but with diminishing degrees, they loved the whole South. The soft skies, the balmy climate, the richly‐scented flowers, the song‐birds, the delicious fruits, their own loved home, the band of cherished friends‐‐these were their South, rather than the hideous machine of human slavery, rolling out its bales of cotton on one side and oozing out its stream of blood and death on the other.

True to the political and religious teachings they had received from infancy, the whole family went with their State. The two older sons knew that if the war came it would be "a rich man's war and a poor man's fight;" but they also knew the intolerant spirit by which they were surrounded, and for the sake of their mother and sisters they saw that they should be compelled to shoulder muskets. The family consisted of a widowed mother, two daughters, and three sons, two of whom, William and Charles, were well grown. The father had not been long dead, and the house in which they lived was their own, and Mrs. Vanross had a small income besides.

The boys had been early taught to lend a hand in their own support, and the girls had been carefully trained by their mother in all household duties, they and their

mother usually doing all the work of the family. When help was necessary they usually employed free colored people. This, however, occasioned no remark, for slaveholders sometimes did the same. As a matter of fact, the members of the Vanross family were all opposed to slavery; but they were very careful never to give expression to their views. With the same hearts, had they lived in Boston rather than in Charleston, they would have been earnest abolitionists. As it was, they were noted for their kindness to colored people, both free and slave.

May, 1865. The Charleston of the past was gone. Great fires had swept over it. Shot and shell had pierced and racked its buildings. Pinching want had reigned within it. All was over now&period War had spent its fury and peace had returned.

The flag of our Union once more floated from the flagstaff of the Citadel. Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers were marching everywhere. Socially Charleston now was chaos and coma. The cornerstone of its fabric, slavery, had been plucked out of the building, and a general collapse had followed. Paralyzed and confused, at this hour, it had not taken its first steps toward social reconstruction. The city was not without population, however, for besides the soldiers, from forty‐five to fifty thousand civilians were moving to and fro amid its ruins.

The ruling class that had giventone to its society had practically disappeared; and the others, entirely unaccustomed to lead, were existing in a state of apparent bewilderment. Negro soldiers were there, some fresh from the island plantations, others from the free North and West. They had

entered the city triumphantly singing "John Brown," and thousands of freedmen had caught the stirring chorus. The streets were daily crowded; old faces were slowly disappearing, and new ones arriving with every steamer.

Two colored soldiers of the Fifty‐fourth Massachusetts were making their way rather carelessly along Vanderhost Street, in front of the market. Both sides of the walk were lined with rude market stands, and the narrow passageway was thronged with people. The soldiers stopped before an old colored lady's stand and asked for glasses of "root beer." They were chatting, and stepping backward rather carelessly, quite rudely jostled two typical Southern white ladies. The ladies, being naturally in a sensitive state of mind, felt themselves insulted. The soldiers, quickly observing their fault, immediately straight‐

ened themselves up, and raising their caps, politely offered their apologies.

"We are not accustomed to that sort of treatment from negroes," said the elder lady.

"Oh! ma, 'tis no use to talk; the negroes have got the city now," said the younger lady. I hope the Yankees are satisfied now; they have put us under our own negroes."

This was a little more than the soldiers could bear cheerfully. Whether a thought of Butler's famous New Orleans order came into their minds or not it would be impossible to say; but they at once changed their attitude, and taking up the glasses of root beer which they had ordered, they tendered them in a brusque manner to the ladies, and with the freedom of thorough familiarity commanded them to drink to the old flag.

The ladies, embarrassed and frightened, saw now their mistake, and fancied themselves in danger. Their eyes filled with tears, and they were now ready to apologize in their turn. The soldiers did no more than press the glasses upon them, but this to them was a terrible humiliation. As they stood hemmed in by the crowd, and suffering from their rude stare, suddenly a young officer dashed up, and comprehending to some extent the situation, addressed the soldiers loudly:

"What in thunder are you boys doing?"

"Nothing, sir," was the quick response.

"Well, then, move on," said Lieutenant Howell.

The soldiers drank their beer and at once complied with the order, although a glance passing from the officer to the men covertly assured them that they had nothing to fear from him.

Lieutenant Howell then advanced directly to the ladies, proffering his assistance and escort, at the same time handing to the elder lady his card. His offer was kindly accepted, and in the short walk from the market to their home his manners and conversation so pleased the ladies that he not only received their thanks, but also an invitation to call on them at his convenience.

When the war broke out Leonard, who had just reached manhood, and still possessed that martial spirit which had manifested itself in the shrill notes of his boyish fife, enlisted at the first call. Entering the ranks as a private soldier, he carried within him a spirit of frankness and fidelity which had been growing in his character since the memorable schoolroom battle; and being blessed with that enthusiasm which naturally springs from good health, it was

not long before he became favorably known to both officers and men. He possessed also a fair degree of patriotism, and distinguished himself early by a close attention to duty and by a careful and intelligent execution of orders.

But, like hundreds of other privates who remained in the ranks all through the war, although more worthy to command than scores of others, who through political influence secured shoulder‐straps, Leonard seemed destined never to hold a commission. Advanced to the position of sergeant, his course of promotion stopped, and in all probability he would have reached no higher military plane had not the government been compelled about this time to accept the services of colored soldiers. The black regiments that were forming needed officers, and it was the policy of the government to put only white men in

command. This opened before the white non‐commissioned officers a prospect of promotion toward which they could regard themselves as in direct line. Faithfulness to duty, efficiency in drill, gallantry in the field, all led to promotion as commissioned officers to these newly‐forming colored regiments. Here was a chance for merit to make its way; and it has been claimed that these white officers, placed in charge of colored troops, were among the best found in the service.

Hence, when Sergeant Howell received a commission as a second lieutenant in the Fifty‐fourth Massachusetts regiment, composed of colored soldiers, it was not only a partial surprise to him, but a compliment to his fidelity and skill.

Entering upon his new duties, his bearing and manners were such that he soon won the respect of the men of his company

and the confidence of his superior officers. He was at the storming of Wagner, and at the fearful and disastrous battle of Olustee, when it was evident that "some one had blundered." At Honey Hill he participated in that bloody bayonet duel between his own regiment and a crack regiment from Georgia, the "Savannah Grays," in which the Southern regiment was literally cut to pieces; in a word, he was with his regiment constantly, from the time that he joined it with his new commission until it practically ended the war with the last fight against rebellion at Boynton's Mill. Singular enough it is, that the black man should open the war by becoming its first victim in Baltimore, on April 18, 1861, and should close it in the last victory won over armed treason in 1865.

But the fighting was now over; Jefferson

Davis was in hiding probably somewhere in Georgia, carrying the Executive Department of the gasping Confederacy in his trunk; his cabinet and other high officials were seeking rest for their weary feet in the glades and forests, and awaiting opportunities to escape to foreign lands. The whole South was under military rule; and the provost marshal was the most important dignitary in every town. The condsition of things under the military was bad enough, but it was immeasurably better than it had been under the declining days of the Confederacy, and better in many respects than that rule which followed it under the guise of reconstruction.

When the two black privates stopped Mrs. Vanross and her daughter and were insisting upon their drinking to the old flag in a glass of common root beer, they had not the fear of so‐called Southern chivalry,

or Southern law before their eyes. They knew that Southern chivalry had been unhorsed by Federal bayonets, and that Southern law had been declared inoperative by the Department Commander. The glance that passed between Lieutenant Howell and the men was not entirely soldierly; it was rather patriotic and fraternal, and the men moved cheerfully on as bid, deporting themselves as though nothing unusual had occurred.

Lieutenant Howell bowed his thanks on leaving the ladies, for their kind invitation to call, and turned away with as much dignity as he could command. He was greatly elated over the whole affair and felt very much more like complimenting the soldiers who had brought it about than like reporting them for breach of discipline. His accidental meeting with the two modest ladies had made him quite a hero, and

had set his mind running in a new direction.

Returning to his quarters, occupied with his own bright thoughts, his life began to assume a romantic cast, and he began to paint himself as the leading character of a drama already well on its course. The pleasant words and sweet smiles of Mrs. Vanross and her daughter had been accepted by him very much above their real value. So long deprived of female society, and knowing but little of the ways of the world, Lieutenant Howell was not prepared to interpret the language and manners of Charleston politeness. He had been decidedly embarrassed while in the presence of the ladies, and had barely borne himself above the gauge of awkwardness; but now that he was at home he saw himself only as a victor. He was not familiar with the fact that Charleston had learned

her English greatly through the French; and that words uttered by her fair daughters, especially in their own home, as far as they are employed as vehicles of sentiment, needed to be greatly modified as they are translated into the received currency of New England life. Hence our lieutenant had taken the words and manners of the ladies to signify a great deal more than was intended; and yet the ladies were not insincere, nor had they been extravagant. On the contrary they were both reserved and sincere, according to their standard, notwithstanding they appeared so cordial.

It was with difficulty that Leonard restrained himself until a seasonable time for the promised call should arrive. It came however at length, and most carefully attired, Leonard set out for the visit. His reception was all that he could have

wished; and he was delighted with the quiet grace of the mother, and with the beauty of Miss Hortense. To tell the whole truth, Leonard had never before enjoyed the companionship or even the anxiety, of such thoroughly refined people‐‐excepting of course their antipathy to negro soldiers, which to them at that time was quite excusable.

Leonard's visits to the Vanross residence became afterward quite frequent, and as the days and weeks rolled on, the intimacy between himself and the family grew into friendship; and when in midsummer, his regiment was ordered North to be mustered out of service, Miss Hortense had exacted from him the promise to write to her. The whole family also joined in inviting him to pay them a visit during the coming winter.

CHAPTER III.

Scarcely had the frost painted the leaves of the New England forests their many colors before Lieutenant Howell, with his trunk packed, was on his way to New York, there to take the first outgoing steamer for Charleston. A delightful passage of three days brought him to the city, and as soon as propriety would permit he was striking the knocker of the high gate of the Vanross residence. His reception was an overflow of genuine cordiality.

"I am so glad to see you," exclaimed Mrs. Vanross, her deep black eyes still sparkling with a luster that seemed to contradict the testimony of her gray hairs.

"You are looking so well," said Hor‐

tense, and Leonard fairly blushed with pride and confusion.

"We are all glad to welcome you back to Charleston," said Lavinia, disclosing to the full a set of pearly teeth, her arched eyebrows and long drooping eyelashes resting upon a complexion of richest brunette, possessed of a figure most delicately molded, and crowned with a luxuriant mass of black and glossy hair, which had just enough of curl in it to give it a look of life.

Lavinia was in fact bewitchingly beautiful; and as she advanced toward Mr. Howell, clad in snowy evening dress, extending her faultlessly shaped hand to clasp his, that seemed so large and ill‐made in comparison, he experienced a degree of embarrassment hard to define. In a few moments, however, he was at his ease. Seated on the piazza, with a sister on

either side, and the mothere in front, he told in his best style, which was indeed poor enough, his experiences during the passage northward, and of the great "muster out," not omitting to mention the greetings he had received among his friends at his home.

Led on by their interested attention and artless questions, he spoke quite freely of his plans for the future, continually circling around the one point more important to him than all others, and yet keeping it well in the distance. Much of what he said was intended especially for Hortense; and Leonard hoped that she would see that she made the greater part of that really practical future which he enthusiastically painted, although he carefully avoided any self‐committing expressions. Like the ship‐of‐war seeking to draw the fire of some concealed battery, he hoped by his honest

description, his bits of romance, and his occasional jets of wit to bring some response from the well‐guarded fort within. But all in vain. Hortense listened with Desdemona‐like sympathy and talked with the ulmost freedom, but she more than puzzled him by giving out no sign that she was reading the ardent story of his heart, that was fairly living and breathing between the lines of his sprightly conversation.

Lavinia fluttered around him, almost as gay in manner as the little humming‐bird, which at that moment was flitting among the flowers that scented the piazza. She was unquestionably superior to her sister in beauty, and was also her junior in years. Leonard greatly admired her‐‐indeed, he was bewildered by her beauty‐‐and if pressed for a reason for not preferring her to her sister would probably have answered in a tone subdued almost to reverence: "She is too handsome for me."

Leonard C. Howell admired the beauty of Lavinia, but he was of too coarse a cast to hope to bring to his side a creataure so fine of fiber and so spiritual as Lavinia; and he had the supreme manliness not to seek to possess and despoil a soul for whose intimate companionship he was in no sense fitted. He admired Lavinia, but she was above his love.

The love which he felt for Hortense had in a measure created his world anew; for although it was ardent and romantic enough, it was at the same time accompanied by the fond hope that at an early day the noble object would be his. And it was this hope which inspired him in his practical planning for the future, and which bore him up in his present sacrifices of pleasure and often of comfort.

The course of true love was never smooth. If for a time Leonard's way

seemed so clear and the goal so near at hand, it was only to entice him to surrender himself more completely to its gentle but imperious sway. He is honest and earnest, and the love which he brings to Hortense is the full offering of his ripening manhood; and there seems nothing to prevent its being kindly accepted. The differences in manner, in taste, expression, and experience between them only serve to make them more interesting to each other; and although on different sides during the war, that does not now interfere with their friendship.

The evening's conversation terminataed very pleasantly, after an engagement on Leonard's part to join the Vanross family in a little social gathering at their home a week later, on which occasion he would be regarded as the guest of the family generally and the especial escort of Hortense.

Up to this time there was nothing like a betrothal between the two young people; that is, there had been no formal proposal, nor indeed any set courtship or lovemaking. The feeling between them had come up Topsy‐like, without any making; it had grown secretly but irresistibly, and although neither had confessed it in words, yet both knew and felt its presence, and had manifested it to others in a thousand ways, even when trying most to hide it.

The long week ended at last, and Leonard found himself the center of a very quiet evening party at the Vanross residence. It was a gathering of the relatives and very intimate friends; for even the middle circle in which the Vanross ladies moved was not generally prepared to entertain an ex‐"Yankee" officer. Great care had been exercised in sending out the invitations that no inharmonious guest should be present.

The party therefore was small but congenial, and the time passed in easy conversation, Lieutenant Howell receiving marked attention. He noticed, however, that the guests on retiring were more ceremonious, and that they were generally richer in their expressions than those he had been accustomed to meet in his Northern experience.

As the party had been in his honor, he was of course the last to leave; and during the brief after‐conversation the first straw to cross his pathwayu fell. It was but a straw, but it came, and it stayed.

Seated alone with the family, by the merest accident the subject of religion came up in some form, and the fact was disclosed that Mrs. Vanross and her daughters were Christians of the old‐fashioned, orthodox type. The Bible was to them the supreme rule of life, and Hortense an earnest defender of its teachings.

Leonard had imbibed somewhat of the so‐called liberal ideas of New England; and although he had no definite creed of his own, he had learned, perhaps, to doubt orthodoxy, as he called it, but of which he had no precise ideas, and certainly to complain of the restraints of religion. Hence, when he saw his adored Hortense appear as the champion of a subject and a cause which he inwardly hated, there arose within him a warfare which for the time compelled him to maintain silence. It was now the turn of Hortense to play the part of the tantalizing corvette, and despite Leonard's caution he soon found himself reduced to the necessity of exposing his opinions.

Hortense, observing his uneasiness during the conversation and the maladroitness of some of his responses, said with kindness:

"I fear, Mr. Howell, that the conversation is hardly agreeable to you. Perhaps we had better turn our thoughts into another channel."

"By no means," replied Mr. Howell, "if you are willing to allow a difference of opinion. Who knows but we may hit upon some undiscovered truth? At least it will be a pleasure to hear Hypatia discourse, even upon that driest and most threadbare of all subjects‐‐creeds and confessions," said he, with an air of compliment to Hortense, and of ill‐concealed contempt for religion.

"Oh, Mr. Howell, the subject does not seem dry at all to me; you must come and hear our minister‐‐Dr. Caulfield. He makes it interesting enough."

"Oh, yes; I have heard many fine preachers, and have heard many good things from the pulpit; and I have noth‐

ing to say against the many hard‐working men in that calling who honestly believe what they say; I only feel sorry for them; but for those who do not believe, and who yet go on and preach, I have no feeling but one of contempt. I admit all the morality claimed and taught by the most ardent religionists, but I am not willing to enslave myself to their creeds."

"Well," replied Hortense laughingly, "perhaps it is because you do not have the time to think of religion as we do, or are so strong that you do not feel the need of something to lean upon. Gentlemen do not seem naturally so religious as women. I and sister Lavinia have been so accustomed all our lives to lean upon either papa, while he lived, or upon William since papa's death, that we have been molded for religion. We could not live without it. And, then, ma‐‐she has just

led us to God by her own faith and life."

Leonard was a little disturbed by the reply of Hortense. Her earnestness and sincerity greatly heightened his admiration, but at the same time he saw enough to convince him that she would not readily surrender her faith. Unwilling to appear as a direct opponent of religion, and desiring to avoid being pushed further into a discussion which had suddenly assumed so serious a form, he turned the admirable plea aside with a pleasantry, remarking that one so strong in character and so rich in endowments as herself had much more to give than to receive. He doubted not that the favored brothers could see something of divinity in their sister.

Hortense, though earnest and pious, was not beyond the effects of a compliment, especially from Leonard; and she knew

that the compliment was sincere, if not indeed deserved. Her dark cheek crimsoned slightly, and betraying a little confusion she said:

"Oh, Mr. Howell, you do not mean me; you mean sister Lavinia. She is the boys' idol. Sister Lavinia, in their eyes, is the incomparable one."

This was said with no tone of sisterly jealousy. Hortense knew that Lavinia was more richly endowed than herself in point of beauty; but far from envying her on this account, she rather took pleasure in it, as so much the more added to the common stock of the household. Besides, Hortense heerself was by no means devoid of beauty. She was of the same type as her sister; had the same black eyes; the same glossy hair, pearly teeth, ruby lips, and rich, dark complexion; but therer was more of the robust, the positive, the mate‐

rial in Hortense. She was rather grand and stately, while her sister was more fairy‐like and captivating. The beauty of Lavinia was of that type that brings its worshipper to her feet bewildered and almost bereft of his mind; the beauty of Hortense bids him rise to his greatest altitude and gird himself with his noblest thought.

Lavinia, who was not far away, having heard her name mentioned, was soon standing by the side of Hortense, her face beaming with sisterly affection, and her bewitching eyes sending their gleaming arrows right through Leonard Howell's heart. An entrancing picture she presented as she poised herself gracefully a moment and said:

"What is it, sister? May I not have a share in this deeply interesting conversation? You have complimented me by mentioning my name, and‐‐you know a

woman's curiosity‐‐so you must tell me what you are talking about."

Explanations were made and the conversation lightened up, and as it was growing late, Mr. Howell soon after sought his hat and light overcoat and withdrew, the ladies accompanying him to the piazza, and following him with their gaze until he had descended the high steps and passed down the shrub‐lined white walk to the high street gate. Opening this, he paused and bowed his final good‐night, and then started briskly down Rutledge Street to return to his hotel.

The streets were badly lighted, the sidewalks uneven, and, except on the best business streets, unpaved. A large part of the city through which he passed was familiarly known as the "burnt district," in which stood numerous chimneys rearing their heads sullenly in the darkness as so

many tombstones marking the graves of departed homes. On every hand was also to be seen the ruinous work of shot and shell. The scene altogether, as it was revealed by the dim lamplight, was well fitted to awaken in the mind of the solitary walker serious if not somber reflection.

Mr. Howell had left the Vanross residence in no gay mood. He felt somewhat dissatisfied with himself and with the part he had played in the later conversation of the evening. Nor was he well pleased as he thought over the entire evening. The party had been very agreeable, and he had been the center of attention; still he was not satisfied. But little accustomed to fashionable life, and altogether a stranger to the social manners of Charleston, he felt that he had not been able to deport himself with becoming grace; and he was specially mortified that he had disclosed

his religious views to the Vanross family. The more he thought over the matter the greater became his uneasiness, and the more intense his disgust with himself.

"The whole family will turn against me, sure," said he half aloud; "and as to Hortense‐‐ah, well! it is fortunate that I have said no more to her. She shall never know what I intended; I will quietly withdraw, and she will be none the wiser for my experience. It is clear she will never love me, and why should I waste my love further upon her? The affair must drop right where it is, and we will remain only friends."

Soliloquizing thus, Leonard drew himself up to his full height, and with the firm step that the drill had taught him flattered himself that he had reached a conclusion and had dismissed a new‐born love. Calling up the gayety of his spirits, he entered

the hotel and hastened to his room. His sleep, however, was not refreshing, and when morning at last came he found himself as firmly bound in the toils of unpleasant thought as when he paced the dark streets on the night before. The party, the conversation, and Hortense were still with him, and it seemed as difficult to get away from them as to get away from himself.

CHAPTER IV.

Leonard continued sadly confused in mind all that day, and it was several days before he regained his wonted composure. He was not an insincere coxcomb, and had never indulged in the ghastly pastime of playing at chess with women's hearts. On the contrary, he had a heart of his own, and at present he seemed pretty much all heart. A hundred times in a day did he resolve to untwine the silken cords that bound him to Hortense; and a hundred times in a day, at the conclusion of each series of efforts, would he find himself more firmly bound than before. Her face, her form, her eyes, her teeth, her hair, her sweet, musical voice, her refined, silvery

Charleston laugh, her graceful though rather stately carriage, her artless and becoming manners‐‐each charm in detail had its hold upon him, and when each was loosened, as he fancies, he soon found that the tout ensemble had entirely restored its hold. Ah, love! love! Who can measure thy power or weigh thy force! Less ponderous than sunlight, thou art heavier than the universe!

But it was not only Leonard's heart that caused to rremain in Charleston, and that would send him in a few days back to the Vanross gate, but his pride was also divided in its forces. A goodly part of his pride acted as ally with his heart; for, had not his flowing tongue and pen got the better of him at times among his old army associates, as well as among the companions of his early youth? And was it not an open secret among his acquaintances that

he had gone South on an errand of love? Brave as Leonard was before his heart, he found it hard to bear up against the assaults of his pride. He had faced bullets on the field, but he fairly cowed now at the thought of facing ridicule; and so, yielding to the power of love, he nevertheless took some comfort in the unmanly thought that he surrendered rather to his pride.

It was but a few days indeed before Leonard again found himself at Mrs&period Vandross', but these had been long days to him. The welcome proved that no ill effect from his previous conversation had lingered in the hearts of the ladies. It was quite early in the afternoon of a beautiful November day, and Mr. Howell came to invite the young ladies to take a drive. The invitation was accepted, and in a few minutes all were seated in the best conveyance to be

had, himself and Hortense on the back seat and Lavinia directly in front.

The drive included a short trip up the road to the Half‐Moon Battery, and through the lanes of live‐oaks that then lined the plank roadway extending for some miles north of the city; thence somewhat retracing their course, they ended their drive with a tour through the city to the famous "Battery," arriving home just about dark.

The conversation during all the way had been cheerful and free; but still Leonard was not fully relieved from the unpleasant recollections of the brief discussion on the night of the party. It was his purpose to recur to the topic at the first convenient opportunity, in order that he might clear away any unfavorable impression which he feared his remarks had made. But the scenes of the drive had so occupied the attention of the entire party that he was

kept busy in observing, especially as on their return, the whole beautiful harbor came into view.

Arriving and alighting from the carriage, which was then dismissed, Leonard accompanied the ladies into the house, and was soon seated alone with Hortense in the parlor, while Lavinia busied herself in preparing a simple repast. Notwithstanding the heroic efforts he had made to free himself from the peculiar bonds which seemed to link his fate to the chariot wheels of Hortense Vanross, Leonard never before felt as completely under her sway; and although he had longed for the moment to come when he might be alone with her, now that it had come he was confused and almost paralyzed in his efforts to talk or even to think. However, moving over and taking a seat on the large old‐fashioned sofa on which Hortense was already seated,

he made an effort to reintroduce the subject that had caused him so much uneasiness, at the same time desiring to offer some apologies for his manner and to modify the remarks he had made.

"I fear, Miss Hortense," said he, &quotthat you were not pleased with what I said the other evening when we were talking on the subject of religion."

"Perhaps I did not altogether agree with you, Mr&period Howell, and perhaps I spoke too warmly. I beg pardon for anything in my tone or manner which may have led you to think that I was displeased; I assure you I was not at all displeased," replied Hortense seriously.

"I surely did not mean to be impolite or in any way lacking in courtesy; I accidentally got into the subject, and I have felt ever since that I expressed myself quite improperly. I am certainly not a

heathen, nor do I claim to be an infidel, although I admit that I am not orthodox on all religious topics. But I wished to call up the matter only to apologize for my manner on that evening; and after this, with your consent, we will taboo the subject altogether."

"Oh, no, Mr. Howell, you do not need to apologize, I am sure. No one was the least offended, and it has not been talked of at all. The subject is not at all disagreeable to me, and I shall be glad to resume it at any time whenever it may please you."

Leonard's confusion and embarrassment rather increased as the conversation went on, and he felt himself far away from the subject at that time dearest to his heart. How should he ever unfold to the honored creature at his side the love that was consuming his life? A few weeks ago he

flattered himself that she knew his interest in her and more than reciprocated it; and he imagined then that he could go through the form of proposal without a ruffle of spirit or quake of heart, and would carry off in triumph the rich evidence of his conquest. How tall and proud he appeared then in his own eyes as he surveyed himself in the flattering mirror of his own fancy. With what excusable assurance did he speak of his "Southern belle" and his "Southern beauty," the "Charleston rebel" that he had captured.

Thus talked Lieutenant Howell to his army associates when miles away; but where now is that volubility, adroitness, and courage, as he sits on this old‐fashioned sofa, not far from the side of his adored Hortense? What has become of the freedom of tongue he possessed, even on the occasion of his first visit to the Vanross

house after his return to the city as a civilian?

Lieutenant Howell was in a new rôle, and his situation could have been described as one of painful deliciousness. He suffered, but he enjoyed his own sufferings.

"My dear Hortense, I am always ready to converese with you upon this subject or about anything. Whatever pleases you delights me. It is such a rich privilege to be in your society that the sort of conversation is not of much importance. It is a pleasure to me to look at you and to listen." And Leonard moved a little nearer to her, but still the distance between them on that long sofa was very respectable.

Hortense replied with thanks for the compliment, and suggested pantomime, but Leonard was not equal to the demands of such a performance and begged to be excused. Miss Hortense then returned to

the earlier conversation about where they had left off.

"No, Mr. Howell, you cannot be a heathen; and you say you are not an infidel, which I must also accept; but then at the same time you tell us that you do not believe in creeds and confessions; and you do not believe in Christians and in churches. Of course this is all strange to us, who have alwayus believed in such things. Pardon me, but I am curious to know just what you do believe on these subjects."

Although Lieutenant Howell would have much preferred to have passed from the subject by an easier route, now that he had done his best to remove the previous unpleasantness, yet he saw no way to avoid the open door into which Hortense almost commandingly invited him to enter. In his own mind and heart a question was

struggling for utterance, which at that time was vastly more important to him than the questions of his faith. His hobby of irreligion had now lost all its charms. However, he made some efforts to avow his beliefs, but found the task very difficult. It had been an easy matter to talk with men of his own way of thinking about superstitious and creeds and churches and preachers; but when he was called upon to make a confession of his faith to that earnest, Christian woman, who was already the sovereign of his heart, his tongue was singularly tame.

Again the honest demand of Hortense had somewhat nonplussed him. He had been in the habit of asserting only his disbeliefs and ridiculing the beliefs of others; now he was asked for his own belief; and to ridicule the belief of Hortense did not enter his thought. Leonard found himself

reduced within very narrow limits, and for the nonce was compelled to cast the lead into the depths of his own soul. He was unable to command art enough to deceive even had he been so inclined. Hortense had brought him abruptly vis‐àvis with himself, and transfixed him, as it were, before his own soul with mesmeric power, and he must stay until the answer was given. Leonard, thou art now at the command of the empress of thy heart, looking in upon thy soul, and thou must answer her question. Thou art unable to deceive; thou durst not disobey. What does thou believe? Negatives and ridicule will not avail thee in the presence of this spotless woman, who awes thee by the very divinity of her character.

"Well, it would be much easier, Miss Hortense," said Leonard, "to tell what I do not believe than to tell just what I do

believe. But I say this; I do believe in God, and I believe him to be a being of wisdom and love, but I do not hold the usual orthodox opinions about religion either as a theory or as an experience. I believe all things are under invariable law," thus sliding into a familiar retreat and hoping the discussion would soon terminate.

"Well," replied Hortense; "Perhaps we do not differ so widely in our opinions. You believe in a God of goodness and love; and in law, which to me is nothing more than God's unchangeable ways. This is a part of religion, to believe in God as good and loving."

"Yes; but somehow I cannot bring myself to think of the great

God as taking any personal interest in us individually, or as having anything to do with our petty affairs. I look upon it that all things are placed under law and left to work out

their destiny. I believe the law the best that could be for the whole but not the best for each individual; I will even grant it to be a law of bvenevolence, but I think it is fixed; and so I cannot see the value of prayer; nor can I recognize any personal communication with the Divine Being. I lack all that element which is called faith. I am not spiritual; perhaps if I had your gifts I should have also your faith."

"But Mr. Howell," replied Hortense, now turning her gaze full upon him, and appearing grander in his eyes than ever before, as her whole face kindled with an earnestness that heightened every line of beauty in her form and features, "I am sure you do not lack sympathy even if you do lack faith. I noticed to‐day how easily you were interested in everything along the drive; and how you were fairly enraptured with our beautiful harbor and

Battery. Myself and sister were delightfully entertained by your enlivening remarks. You wrong yourself, Mr. Howell. You have a soul to see the beautiful and admire it, and to see suffering, and you have a heart to feel with the sufferer and to relieve his sufferings if possible. Your soldier training may have deceived you; but I know that you have sentiment enough, spiritual life enough. Do not say you are not spiritual; you wrong yourself."

Lieutenant Howell had never listened to such flattering remarks concerning himself before in all his life, and he was greatly affected. He would have been pleased had the words been spoken by only a friend; but to hear them spoken by the one person above all otheers whose good opinion he desired, transported him beyond himself. He saw earnestness and interest in the

tone, look and attitude of Hortense, all so chaste, and he drew in at once the most exhilarating draught of hope. The old anticipation that had been a little blurred by rercent circumstances, now came back increased a thousandfold. He felt that he not only enjoyed the good opinion of Hortense as expressed by her kind words and kinder tones; but what was so much more previous to him, he read in the sign‐language, known only to reral lovers, that her heart was not locked against him. He permitted himself to believe that he had at length secured a recognition in her heart as something morer than a friend.

Before he could press the advantage which came to him through the kind words of Hortense, Lavinia entered the room and invited them to tea, and the remainder of the evening was passed in the presence of the family. The conversation became

quite general, although it was unavoidably colored from the effects of the previous brief discussion, and the whole family recognized Lieutenant Howell's opposition to Christianity as pro