LITMIR.BIZ

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did not take her into her confidence.”

      “Why of course?”

      “At that early stage? But don’t you think that those first sweet uncertainties are always private? Mr. Morrison used to come every day, and take her out for a drive; I have been in Savannah myself, and I have often thought that probably they went to Bonaventure —so delightful! At last, one evening, Cicely told Cousin Emmeline that she was engaged. And the next day she wrote to us. She did not come home; they were married there at Emmeline’s.”

      “And none of you went to the wedding?”

      “There were only father and I to go; we have not always been able to do as we wished,” replied Miss Sabrina, gently.

      “Mr. Morrison had money, I suppose?”

      “I think not; we have never been told so.”

      “Didn’t you ask?”

      “That was for Cicely, wasn’t it? I dare say she knows. We could only hope, father and I, that she would be happy; but I fear that she has not been, ah no.” And Miss Sabrina sighed.

      “But we must not give it up so, she is still so young. Why don’t you write to Mr. Morrison yourself, and tell him, command him, to come back?” suggested Eve, boldly.

      “But – but I don’t know where he is,” answered Miss Sabrina, bewildered by this sudden attack.

      “You said South America.”

      “But I couldn’t write, ‘Ferdinand Morrison, Esquire, South America.’”

      “Some one must know. His relatives.”

      “Yes, there is his brother, and a most devoted brother, we are told,” responded Miss Sabrina, speaking more fluently now that she had launched upon family affection. “Yes, indeed – from all we have heard of Paul Tennant, we are inclined to think him a most excellent young man. He may not have Ferdinand’s beauty (we are told that Ferdinand is remarkably handsome); and it is probable, too, that he has not Ferdinand’s cultivation, for he is a business man, and has always lived at the North. – I beg your pardon, my dear, I am sure,” said the Southern lady, interrupting herself in confusion.

      “It doesn’t matter; the North won’t die of it. If you know where this brother is – But why has he a different name?”

      “The mother, Mrs. Tennant, who was a widow with this one boy, Paul, married one of the Maryland Morrisons – I reckon you know the family. Ferdinand is the child of this second marriage. His father and mother are dead; his only near relative is this half-brother, Paul.”

      “Write to Paul, then, and find out where Ferdinand is.”

      “This is a plot, isn’t it?” answered Miss Sabrina, smiling. “But I like it; it’s so sweet of you to plan for our poor Cicely’s happiness.”

      “You needn’t thank me! Then you will write?”

      “But I don’t know where Mr. Tennant is either. – I dare say Cicely knows.”

      “But if you ask her, she will suspect something. And if I ask her, it will be worse still! Doesn’t anybody in the world know where this Paul Tennant is?” said Eve, irritably.

      “I think we heard that it was some place where it is very cold – I remember that. It might have been Canada,” suggested Sabrina, reflectively.

      “Canada and South America – what a family!” said Eve, in despair.

      The wind had risen, the homeward voyage was rough. They reached Romney to find little Jack ill; before morning he was struggling with an attack of croup.

      VI

      “CICELY, what did you say to those people, that they stared at us so when they passed?”

      “Oh, they asked me if you were the man who went round with the panorama – to explain it, you know. So I told them that you were the celebrated Jessamine family – you and Miss Leontine; and that you were going to give a concert in Gary Hundred to-night; I advised them to go.”

      “Bless my soul! – the celebrated Jessamine family? What possessed you?”

      “Well, they saw the wagon, and they thought it looked like a panorama. They seemed to want something, so I told them that.”

      Eve broke into a laugh.

      But the judge put on his spectacles, and walked round the wagon with indignant step. “It is an infernal color,” he declared, angrily.

      “Our good Dickson had that paint on hand – he told me about it,” explained Miss Leontine. “It was left over” – here she paused. “I don’t know what you will think, but I believe it really was left over after a circus – or was it a menagerie? At any rate, the last thing that was exhibited here before the war.”

      The vehicle in question was a long-bodied, two seated wagon, with a square box behind, which opened at the back like the box of a carrier’s cart; its hue was the liveliest pea green.

      “Dickson had no business to give it to us; it was a damned impertinence!” said the judge, with a snort.

      “Don’t spoil your voice, when you’ve got to sing to-night, grandpa,” remarked Cicely. “And you will have to lead out Miss Leontine – who will sing ‘Waiting.’”

      The judge glanced at Miss Leontine. He could not repress a grin.

      But tall Miss Leontine remained amiable, she had never heard of “Waiting.” In any case she seldom penetrated jokes; they seemed to her insufficiently explained; often, indeed, abstruse. She was fifty-two, and very maidenly; her bearing, her voice, her expression, were all timidly virginal, as were also the tints of her attire, pale blues and lavenders, and faint green. Her face bore a strong resemblance to the face of a camel; give a camel a pink-and-white complexion, blue eyes, and light-brown hair coming down in flat bands on each side of its long face, and you have Miss Leontine. She was extraordinarily tall – she attained a stature of nearly six feet. Her step, as if conscious of this, was apologetic; her long narrow back leaned forward as though she were trying to reduce her height in front as she came towards one. She wore no crinoline; her head was decked with a large gypsy hat, from which floated a blue tissue veil.

      The little party of four – Eve, Cicely, the judge, and Miss Leontine – with Master Jack, had driven from Gary Hundred to Bellington; their hostess, Cousin Sarah Cray, had an old horse, and this wagon had been borrowed from Dickson, the village grainer (who had so mistakenly saved the circus paint); it would be a pleasant excursion in itself, and it would be good for Jack – which last was the principal point with them all.

      For the much longer excursion from Abercrombie Island to this inland South Carolina village had been taken on Jack’s account; the attack of croup had left him with a harassing cough, a baby’s little cough, which is so distressing to the ears of those who love him. Eve had walked about, day and night, carrying him in her arms, his languid head on her shoulder; she could not bear to see how large his eyes looked in his little white face; she did not sleep; she could scarcely speak.

      “We might go to Cousin Sarah Cray’s for a while, away from the coast,” Cicely suggested. She was always present when Eve walked restlessly to and fro; but she did not interfere, she let Eve have the child.

      Eve had no idea who or where was Cousin Sarah Cray, but she agreed to anything that would take Jack away from the coast. It was very cold now at Romney; the Sound was dark and rough all the time, the sea boomed, the winds were bitter. They had therefore journeyed inland, Jack and Eve, Cicely and her grandfather, leaving Miss Sabrina to guard the island-home alone.

      When they reached Gary Hundred and the softer air, Jack began to revive; Eve too revived, she came back to daily life again. One of the first things she said was: “I ought not to be staying here, Cicely; you must let me go to the hotel; your cousin is not my cousin.”

      “She’s Jack’s.”

      “Do you mean by that that Jack must stay, and if he does, I shall? But it isn’t decent; here we have all descended

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