Much confounded, her husband at first could only scratch his head, and repeat, "What on arth!" in a helpless manner two or three times— so interspersing her voluble expressions of incertitude and dismay. But as he was departing on his usual afternoon avocations, all at once he turned back, struck, as it seemed, with a sudden inspiration of counsel.

"Tell ye what, mother. I doubt the best way's t' let her be. She'll come to-she'll come to. Dont you worret. And I wouldn't have no more talking, neither, yet awhile. Just let her be. She'll

come to."

CHAPTER IV.-TRIED WITH FIRE.

So Susy was let be." And for the rest of that day she had abundant opportunity for pacing up and down her own room (it was too cold to sit still, the weather being thoroughly seasonable, as it used to be twentyfive years ago), nursing her bitter sense of injury, and strengthening her determination to have nothing to say to Michael Barton. No one disturbed her; no one called her. Solitude was permitted her to her heart's content, and perhaps a little over and above. When tea time came, she knew she ought to have continued in that dignified seclusion, only most unhappily, she was so hungry. And healthy hunger, that human weakness from which heroines, as we all know, are invariably exempt, so far overcame romance and indignation, that she went down to tea as usual. However, it was easy to maintain a stolid silence while eating hor bread and butter, and this she did to admiration. No one noticed her, though, for much talk was going on among the rest; two or three of her brothers' friends having come in with them. In her disturbance of mind she had actually forgotten it was Christmas-eve, until reminded of the fact by the festive aspect of the room, and every one in it-her father and mother perhaps excepted -though she never observed the exception. An attempt had been made at the usual decorations of holly, and ivy, and mistletoe, about the walls and windows; they were not nearly so elaborate or so tasteful as those Susy had been wont to take such proud pleasure in arranging every year since she was a child-till this year. She felt rather compunctious as she thought of it. Presently again, she was made still more uncomfortable when, as the party gathered together in a half-circle before the grand, blazing, hilarious fire, some one asked, "Where's Michael ?” and her mother, with alarming quietness of manner and poverty of words, answered, "He's not coming to night." Loud disapprobation and wonder from many others followed, for Michael Barton had been used to spend his Christmas-eve at that fireside for many a year past. Crimson, downcast, silent, Susy sat, feeling in spite of her long day of romantic meditation, more like a criminal than a heroine. She wished

she could run away from all the talking and laughing that was going on; it was miserable to be in the midst of the Christmas mirth, and yet to have no part in it. Her mind wandered without her will, and she could not help speculating how Michael was spending that evening. She wished he had come. Whatever she felt concerning him, and his new pretensions, she liked him-yes, very much, as a friend, and she was sorry, quite sorry, so that the tears rose to her eyes at the thought, that he should keep from the house on her account. She hoped he wouldn't continue to do so. She hoped, she wished, she regretted, she feared, and then hoped and wished over again she scarcely knew what, to a great extent, on that strange uncomfortable evening. Then, too, one of her brothers, the youngest, and of course the most mischievous, slyly commented on her "dullness," and loudly whispered in her ear—

"I say, Susy, don't fret! That fine London beau of yours can't come to-night, you know. You shouldn't expect it. It's a heast wind, and, besides the frost, he's got the hinfluenza already, he says; and he came down thump lots of times skating, to-day; and he got wet over his boots, and the country hair 's too keen for his delicate constitooshun, and he mustn't run no risks, whatever," concluded Jack, highly delighted with his own mimicry of the metropolitan accent, and at the success of his laudable attempt to teaze his sister.

If she had not so much desired to appear unconcerned, no doubt she might have done so without much hypocrisy. Mr. Augustus's absence was certainly not felt by her as any affliction. Jack's impudence would not have vexed her much, if she had not felt so wretched beforehand, that every additional annoyance seemed to sting with tenfold sharpness.

But at last, at last, the long evening of talking and laughing, and telling stories, and playing games, in all of which she had, to avoid notice, gone through the form of taking part, came to an end. The hot elder wine had been swallowed, the visitors helped on with their great coats, and seen out at the door, and the farmer was inspecting the locking up of the house, as usual. In that interval, Susy wished her mother a hasty good night, said she was tired, and hurried upstairs to her room.

That room of her's was one of the very pleasantest and prettiest in the fine old house. It was lofty and well sized, with antique carved wood panels and doors, and was lighted by the oriel window, which was such a pretty feature of the house from the outside. On one side it opened into a small apartment, known as the flower room, where Susy kept a few pet plants, and a great many books, and odds and ends of property. And now, at that window, which by daylight commanded a goodly prospect of the country round, some of the ricks in the upper yard at Hillside, and the tall trees that stood

on the front lawn, Susy seated herself, with the idea of having a good cry, and looking at the moon. Unluckily there was no moon, but the stars were shining with frosty brightness in the clear sky, and they might do as well. And she was appropriately engaged in watching them through her tears, when a low knock at her door was succeeded by the entrance of Phoebe, the servant girl, who came towards her young mistress on tip-toe, with an air of much mystery, and one hand concealed in her apron. This hand then offered to her a letter; a letter which "that there gen'leman as come yesterday to tea, had give her that afternoon, with partick'ler d'rections as she was to give it to Miss Susan herself, when no one else wasn't by." And the girl, full of importance, was going on to volunteer her admiring opinion of “that there gen'leman's" appearance and manners, when the distant sound of Mrs. Rushbrook's voice calling "Phoebe !" caused her to hurry off, leaving Susy with the secret missive in her hand, feeling flurried, and frightened, and wondering, and altogether rather overwhelmed.

Yet, with all these feelings, and a dim sense besides, of wrong in the matter, creditable to her moral instincts, it is useless to deny that foolish Susy also felt pleased. She could not, in short, resist the delicious gratification of feeling herself in so romantic a position. She did not pause to think, but trembling and agitated, certainly, though quite as much by the exciting novelty of the circumstances as from any other cause, she opened the letter, and with some slight difficulty deciphered its elegant and ornamental characters. It was well calculated to satisfy her sentimental predilections. He adored her; she must know and feel that he adored her. Life had no charms for him, except by her side, etc., etc., etc., and he felt, he knew, he dared to hope that she also (That portion of the letter made Susy's cheeks burn redly. She felt intuitively that either this lover was very impertinent, or that she had been far too gracious to him.) Then came allusions to her parents, from whose worldliness they must of course expect opposition. ("Why?" wondered Susy's common sense, which would sometimes interfere so inconveniently with more romantic ideas.) And then the letter concluded with further rapturous expressions of devotion, and admiration, and adoration.

She had just read to the end, and was standing with the open letter in her hand, wishing she liked it better, and trying to persuade herself that she did,-when the sound of her mother's voice in the corridor leading to her room, and her mother's footsteps rapidly approaching, smote on the girl with such a horrible pang of fear, such a startled sense of guilt, as she had never felt in her life before. With a sudden impulse she set fire to the paper. It is difficult to determine whether in doing this she was impelled by dread of discovery simply, or of the

shame of having the letter read by any one else, or, finally, by a sort of instinctive following out of romantic precedent in such cases. Howbeit, she lighted the dangerous document at the candle, then, with an after thought, flew to the door of the flower-room, threw the flaming paper into the empty grate, closed the door again, and stood panting, and more miserably ill at ease than ever, ready to receive her mother-all in the brief space of time that it took that active woman to walk from her own room, at the end of the long passage, to her daughter's.

Mrs. Rushbrook, fully engrossed with her own ideas, and prepared also to find Susy different from her usual self, did not take much notice of her look and manner. She couldn't go to sleep on Christmaseve without "making it up" with her girl, foolish and provoking as sho had thought her. She took Susy into her capacious embrace, saying a

good deal to this effect, and repeating many times over, that "they wouldn't say no more of nothing else as there had been unpleasantness about, till Christmas was over and gone. For it's not the time for bickerings, and angers, and vexations of spirit," affirmed the good woman, "and we'd best just leave it all alone, and be friendly, and kind, and loving together, as I'm sure, Susy, you've never give your father or me a troubled heart yet, nor nothing but comfort and joy, ever since we brought you through the measles as you had so

violent, and we didn't think you'd live through the night. And so you will again, I know," concluded she, in allusion, it is to be supposed, to comfort, and not measles; "so give me a kiss, Susy, and let's go to sleep happy and peaceful, and time too, when its after eleven o'clock— and I never meant to be so late. Well, well-there, there-don't cry so, my lamb. It's all right now."

For Susy, with the sense of deception so heavy on her, was altogether overcome by the pathos of this unexpected tenderness, and had hid her face, and was sobbing uncontrollably. She said very little however. She could not make up her mind to confess just then, great as the relief would have been; and her mother attributed all her agitation to the general" upset," and her being so tired out. She staid to see her safe into bed, and leaned over the flushed, tear-stained face, when at last it lay on the pillow, looking at her, and kissing her with much depth of fondness, and a sudden cessation of articulate language,-symptoms of emotion which were seldom noticeable in Mrs. Rushbrook. Then she took the candle and quietly left the room. Susy heard the sound of her steps gradually grow fainter, and then the closing of the distant door. And softened thoughts were in Susy's mind-reproachful as regarded herself, but very loving as regarded every one else. The fit of naughtiness was fairly over, it may be hoped. Sentiment had had its way, and perhaps she recognized that it had not been a very good or happy way. For once, all her aspiration was not to be a heroine, but to be "a good girl." She would try-she would try to make them all happy. And very soon, being thoroughly wearied, and still in this transfigured state of mind she fell asleep.

It was a terrible awaking! A sense of oppression, and a strange, hissing, confused sound, had for some time made themselves felt through her sleep; and at length a convulsive gasping for breath aroused her from troubled dreams to a frightful reality. At first she could not understand that it was reality. At first she was stricken dumb, motionless-senseless almost. All that met her eyes might well indeed have been a continuation of the feverish visions of her sleep. Blinding, stifling smoke filled the room, and at the further end fire was raging. The wall dividing it from the little flower-room was one mass of flames, that roared, and leaped, exultant and victorious, whose lurid tongues greedily licked up every object within their reach-the chairs, the pieces of carpet, a dress that hung behind the door;-while the fatally dry, well seasoned" wooden panelling of the old walls themselves, was feeding them with ready fuel.

66

Then the unhappy girl realized the horror of her position. The door, the only means of egress from the room, was situated cornerwise, beyond that blazing barrier. And even in that dreadful moment,