428 ANNETTE LYLE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT.
been a queen's, and feeling a necessity for
apology.
“It is what must be expected,” she replied, turning toward him eyes blind with weeping. “I should have been prepared, but I could not! bear it.”
There was an enigma in her words and ac- tions which Dean could not understand. He tried, by a few vague but kind words, to soothe her distress. She listened for a moment, then glanced up at him with an indescribable louk, and rushed away.
He did not follow her again; but that look thrilled and haunted him. He moved away slowly in a delicious dream. The world grows wiser every day, but not the heart of two-and-twenty.
The little dress-maker found her tasks doubly hard for the next few days. The invalid, who, rendered feverish and irritable by advancing disease, seemed particularly harsh and hard with her. He would not dispense with her presence, notwithstanding his wife’s hints; and he often questioned her as to her past life and antecedents. The girl, at such times, wrung her hands secretly, in helpless anguish.
Summer lapsed into autumn, and autumn was giving place to winter. All the gay butterflies of fashion were back from their summer haunts long ago, Mrs. Burlington amongst them, their chief and queen, who had recommended Annette to Mrs. Johnson, and who now came to inquire about her favorite.
“The girl is well-born, my dear,” she ex- plained to Mrs. Johnson, as they sat alone, and has a history. Her mother was my inti mate friend at school and abroad; an English officer’s daughter, who eloped with a lieutenant in her father’s regiment. The poor fellow sold his commission, and came to this country to seek his fortune, but died soon after landing, leaving her alone in poverty; and when next I heard of her, it was by finding this child in the Sisters’Asylum, where I had gone to inquire for an embroideress.
“It seems that my old school-mate, her mother, driven by sheer poverty, had applied for the situation of housekeeper, after her hus band’s death, in the household of a wealthy, elderly gentleman, with two single daughters. The old man fell in love with, and married her; but, influenced by his children, would have can celed the marriage. Discovering this, she in dignantly left his house, and sought refuge in the Asylum where her child was born. There; she died soon after. I have been told by those who knew her, that had she boldly asserted her daughter’s rights and her own, she would have won her suit; but she was crushed, hopeless, and gave up without a struggle.”
Mrs. Johnson listened to this story with a strangely contracted brow, and repeated it afterward to her husband, without comment or reservation. The sick man heard her in silence; the world was growing dimmer to his sight, but he still struggled to be true to the teachings he had obeyed all his life.
Again Charles Dean came down with his weekly report from the office; and this time there was a look of unusual care upon his face. Some anxiety pressed heavily upon him, which the senior partner did not share; nor would the latter recognize the hints and allusions by which the younger man strove to pave the way to an unwelcome subject.
“I have, in my leisure hours,” he said, at last, very low and gently, “been occupied with the case in which I told you I felt so much interest.”
The invalid made a movement of impatience.
“I find,” he went on, “that the woman who strove to prosecute this claim, died very soon after taking the preliminary steps, in great seclusion and destitution; and that her child is a girl still living, and always conscious of the existence of the suit, but is without means to carry it on. This child is now an inmate of your house. Her father, and the husband of Mary Lyle, was the late Stephen P. Johnson. This property is, therefore, undoubtedly hers And, since the death of your unmarried sisters she is their and your legal heir to the rest.”
There was dead silence in the room. Mrs. Johnson, very pale, sat listening, but put in no disclaimer. Presently the sick man rose in his bed.
There were tears in his hard, gray eyes. Charles,” he said, ‘I love you. Ever since I married your mother, I have looked upon you as my son and heir. I acknowledge my father’s marriage, and have provided for the girl; she has a sufficient legacy in my will. But if the property you claim as hers is given up, it will leave you nothing. Do not press so Quixotic a demand. I will never consent to impoverish you.”
The young man bent and kissed the feverish, trembling hand. “Father,” he said, ‘let us do justice. I should not prosper if I took the bread of the widow and the fatherless. Give it to the rightful owner, and let me work, as is my privilege; I cannot defraud a friendless and helpless girl.”
But Mr. Johnson was firm, and opposition
