all, "Can I assist you?" he asked. "No, thank you," replied Clara. "I'm fatigued, - that's and am resting here a few minutes." "Here's a little house that belongs to me," said the gentleman, pointing to a neat though small wooden tenement before which they were standing. "I do not live here, but the family who do will be pleased to receive you for my sake. You shall have a room all to yourself, and rest there till you are refreshed. Do you distrust me, my child?? There are faces out of which Truth looks so unequivocally, that to distrust them seems like a profanation. Clara did not distrust, and yet she hesitated, and replied through her tears, "No, I do not distrust you, but I've no claim on your kindness." "Ah! but you have a claim," said Vance (for it was he); "you are unhappy, and the unhappy are my brothers and my sisters. I've been unhappy myself. I knew one years ago, young like you, and like you unhappy, and through her also you have a claim. There! Let me relieve you of that bag. Now take my arm. Good! This way." Clara's tears gushed forth anew at these words, and yet less at the words than at the tone in which they were uttered. So musical and yet so melancholy was that tone. He knocked at the door. It was opened by Madame Bernard, a spruce little Frenchwoman, who had married a journeyman printer, and who felt unbounded gratitude to Vance for his gift of the rent of the little house. "Is it you, Mr. Vance? We've been wondering why you did n't come." "Madame Bernard, this young lady is fatigued. I wish her to rest in my room." "The room of Monsieur is always in order. Follow me, my dear." And, taking the carpet-bag, Madame conducted her to the little chamber, then asked: "Now what will you have, my dear? A little claret and water? Some fruit or cake?" 66 Nothing, thank you. I'll rest on the sofa awhile. You're very kind. The gentleman's name is Vance, is it?" "Yes; is he not an acquaintance?" "I never saw him till three minutes ago. He noticed me resting, and, I fear, weeping in the street, and he asked me in here to rest." ""T was just like him. He's so good, so generous! He gives me the rent of this house with the pretty garden attached. You can see it from the window. Look at the grapes. He reserves for himself this room, which I daily dust and keep in order. Poor man! 'Twas here he passed the few months of his marriage, years ago. His wife died, and he bought the house, and has kept it in repair ever since. This used to be their sleeping-room. 'Twas also their parlor, for they were poor. There's their little case of books. Here's the piano on which they used to play duets. 'Twas a hired piano, and was returned to the owner; but Mr. Vance found it in an old warehouse, not long ago, had it put in order, and brought here. 'Tis one of Chickering's best; a superb instrument. You should hear Mr. Vance play on it." "Does he play well?" asked Clara, who had almost forgotten her own troubles in listening to the little woman's gossip. "Ah! you never heard such playing! I know something of music. My family is musical. I flatter myself I'm a judge. I've heard Thalberg, Vieuxtemps, Jael, Gottschalk; and Mr. Vance plays better than any of them." "Is he a professor ?" 'No, merely an amateur. But he puts a soul into the Do you play at all, my dear? " notes. "Yes, I began to learn so early that I cannot recollect the time when." "I thought you must be musical. Just try this instrument, my dear, that is, if you're not too tired." "Certainly, if 't will oblige you." Seating herself at the piano, Clara played, from Donizetti's Lucia, Edgardo's melodious wail of abandonment and despair, "L'universo intero e un deserto per me sensa Lucia." Mrs. Bernard had opened the door that Vance might hear. At the conclusion he knocked and entered. "Is this the way you rest yourself, young pilgrim?" he asked. "You're a pro ficient, I see. You've been made to practise four hours a day." "Yes, ever since I can remember." "So I should think. Now let me hear something in a different vein." Clara, while the blood mounted to her forehead, and her whole frame dilated, struck into the "Star-spangled Banner," playing it with her whole soul, and at the close singing the refrain, "And the Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall wave "But that's treason!" cried Mrs. Bernard. 66 Yes, Mrs. Bernard," said Vance," run at once to the policestation. Tell them to send a file of soldiers. We must have her arrested." "O no, no!" exclaimed Clara, deceived by Vance's grave acting. Then, seeing her mistake, she laughed, and said: "That's too bad. I thought for a moment you were in earnest." "We will spare you this time," said Vance, with a smile that made his whole face luminous; "but should outsiders in the street hear you, they may not be so forbearing. They will tear our little house down if you're not careful." "Will "I'll not be so imprudent again," returned Clara. you play for me, sir?" And she resumed her seat on the sofa. Vance played some extemporized variations on the Carnival of Venice; and Clara, who had regarded Mrs. Bernard's praises as extravagant, now concluded they were the literal truth. "Oh!" she exclaimed, naively, "I never heard playing like that. Do not ask me to play before you again, sir.” Mrs. Bernard left to attend to the affairs of the cuisine. "Now, mademoiselle," said Vance, "what can I do before I go?" "All I want,” replied Clara, "is time to arrange some plan. I left home so suddenly I'm quite at a loss." "Do I understand you've left your parents?" I have no parents, sir." "Then a near relation, or a guardian?" "Neither, sir. I am independent of all ties." "Have you no friend to whom you can go for advice?" "I had a friend, but she gave me up because I'm an Abolitionist." "My poor little lady! An Abolitionist? You? In times like these? When Sumter has fallen, too? No wonder your friend has cast you off. Who is she? She lives at the St. Charles. Do "Slightly. I met her in the drawing-room not long since. She does not appear unamiable. But why are you an Abolitionist ?" ter. "Because I believe in God." Vance felt that this was the summing-up of the whole matHe looked with new interest on the "little lady." In height she was somewhat shorter than Estelle, - not much over five feet two and a half. Not from her features, but from the maturity of their expression, he judged she might have reached her eighteenth year. Somewhat more of a brunette than Estelle, and with fine abundant hair of a light brown. Eyes - he could not quite see their color; but they were vivid, penetrating, earnest. Features regular, and a profile even more striking in its beauty than her front face. A figure straight and slim, but exquisitely rounded, and every movement revealing some new grace. Where had he seen a face like it? "Do not After a few moments of contemplation, he said: think me impertinently curious. You have been well educated. You have not had to labor for a living. Are the persons to whom you've been indebted for support no longer your friends? " "They are my worst enemies, and all that has been bestowed on me has been from hateful motives and calculations.". "Now I'm going to ask a very delicate question. Are you provided with money ? " "O yes, sir, amply." "How much have you?" Twenty dollars."-"Indeed! Are you so rich as that? What's your name?" "The name 66 66 I've been brought up under is Ellen Murray; but I hate it." "I dreamed that a beautiful lady led me by the hand into a spacious garden. On one side were fruits, and on the other side flowers, and in the middle a circle of brilliant verbenas from the centre of which rose a tall fountain, fed from a high hill in the neighborhood. And the lady said, 'This is your garden; and your name is not Ellen Murray.' Then she gave me a letter sealed with blue-no, gray - wax, and said, 'Put this letter on your eyes, and you shall find it there when you wake. Some one will open it, and your name will be seen written there, though you may not understand it at first.' 'But am I not awake?' I asked. 'O no,' said the lady. This is all a dream. But we can sometimes impress those we love in this way.' And who are you?' I asked. "That you will know when you interpret the letter,' she said." 6 "And what resulted from the dream?" "The moment I waked I put my hand on my eyes. Of course I found no letter. The next night the lady came again, and said, 'The seal cannot be broken by yourself. Your name is not Ellen Murray, — remember that.' A third night this dream beset me, and so forcibly that I resolved to get rid of the name as far as I could. And so I made my friends call me Darling." "Well, Darling, as you -"O, but, sir! you must not call me Darling. That would never do!" - -"What can I call "Call me Miss, or Mademoiselle." you, then?" "Well, Miss." "No, I do not like the sibilation." " Will Ma'am do any better?” "Not till I'm more venerable. Call me Perdita." "Perdita what?" "Perdita Brown, love the name of Brown." yes, I "Well, Perdita, as you've not quite made up your mind to seek the protection of Miss Tremaine, my advice is that you remain here till to-morrow. Here is a little case filled with books; and on the shelf of the closet is plenty of old music,works of Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schubert, and some of the Italian masters. Do you play Schubert's Sacred Song?" "I never heard it." "Learn it, then, by all means. "Tis in that book. Shall I tell Mrs. Bernard you 'll pass the night here?” "Do, sir. I'm very grateful for your kindness." "Good by, Perdita! Should anything detain me to-morrow, wait till I come. Keep up your four hours' prac tice. Madame Bernard is amiable, but a little talkative. I shall tell her to allow you five hours for your studies. Adieu, Perdita!" He held out his hand, and Clara gave hers, and cast down her eyes. "You've told me a true story?" said he. "Yes! . I will trust you." |