hand, stroking it gently. How would he write to her? She had never received a letter in her life except from Delphine and Jack and Josie Durant. This would be quite different, and so, at last, full of hope and happiness, and a wondering as to what it contained, which enhanced both, she opened the letter and spread it out before her. 66 “O please,” begged Clary Luckiwinner, entering timidly, will you tie my sash? But you are not dressed! Are you not going down?" "Don't wait for me," Katey replied; "I fear I shall be late." "But you will wear some of my flowers?" And Clary, prodigal of sweets, dropped a handful of blossoms upon Katey's dressingtable as she hastened away. CHAPTER XVII. THE RED ROSE CRIES, "SHE IS NEAR, SHE IS NEAR." "DEAR KATEY," it began-as Jack or Delphine might have written; but the words held a new significance—“I must see you. Something has happened, and I am going away. Send me a line by the bearer (if the stupid little fool ever gives this to you). If I do not hear from you, THE Company had gathered in the music telling me when and where I can see you room, and the library adjoining; the girls to-day, I shall be in the school-garden towere grouped about one of the pianos, with night at nine o'clock. Do not fail to meet Prof. Grôte darting here and there, arrangme. If you do I shall appear in the school- ing the music, whispering a suggestion, and room at prayers, by way of the garden and finally taking his place behind the player, veranda. The long window opening upon and signifying by an upward motion of his the veranda was left unfastened last night. head and bâton that the madrigal, rehearsed Did you know it? I am inclined to atso often for a month past, might now begin. tend prayers in order to confound Dyce. Katey, drawing back behind Prof. Paine, What unlucky star ever sent you to his glanced at the clock just over Prof. Grôte's school? I did not recognize him that day head. The minute and the hour hand had upon the street, though he knew me. It almost met at nine. The time had come. came to me afterwards. He lived in She must slip away now while they were Boston for years—always, indeed, until he singing. Refreshments would follow, and went abroad. My youthful career is pershe would not be missed for a little time. fectly familiar to him, and probably my But still she did not go. She only stood later exploits. But if he makes you un- quite still, staring as though fascinated comfortable in any way I'll-well, anything at the hands of the clock, while the song you choose. I know your window, Katey- the girls were chanting rang through her did. You stood a long while before it last night. You should have sleeping, young woman, to keep the dusky eyes bright. Ah, Katey, Katey, it would be better if I had gone without seeing you. It would be better for you if I had never seen you at all. But do come to me this once. must see you. D." I The letter fell out of her hands. What did it mean? What had happened! and where was he going? O, she must see him indeed; she would write to him at once. Then she remembered that the time for that had passed. He would come to the garden, expecting to meet her there, and she must steal out to him like a thief in the night! There was no help for it now. There was a sweep of trailing gowns outside; high-pitched voices echoed through the hall; doors opened and shut; already the girls were preparing for a descent to the dull festivities. She thrust the letter into her pocket as a low rap sounded upon the door. head: "I love my love in the morning, For she like the morn is fair-is fair." At the last moment her courage had failed her, and, yet, she must go. Prof. Dyce, standing just within the library door, watched her curiously. What had suddenly checked the very breath, as it seemed, upon her lips? At what was the girl staring with such intent and almost frightened gaze? When he looked again she was gone. She had opened the door behind her, and crossed the veranda to the school-room. Some shawls were lying upon one of the desks here; she caught one up as she passed, wrapped it about her, and then ran down the stairs leading to the class-rooms, at the foot of which was a door opening under the high veranda upon the garden. The hall was dark; but the door once found it was easy to turn the key in the lock. The cool evening air touched her face. There was a faint rust ling outside. But it was only the dead leaves of the woodbine swirled by a sudden gust of wind. The garden was not an inviting place at its best, and was gloomy enough at this hour. It was raised above the street, from which it was separated by a wall. This wall, with a row of half dead poplars, extended also across one side, shutting it in from its neighbors. The two school-buildings completed the square. The ground was irregular and grass-grown; showing by daylight faint traces of paths and flower-beds. It was denuded of everything now save these old poplars and a clump of willows overhanging the street. close by the school-buildings. She gathered the white drapery of her gown about her, and listened a moment before stepping out. There was no sound from the veranda, and the windows of the practicing-rooms overlooking the garden were silent and dark. A form moved out from the clump of willows, and came to meet her. What if it should not be Dacre after all? He caught her as she shrank back. 66 Katey? Why how white you are—even to your face. Did I frighten you?" 66 "O, how dared you come?" she exclaimed. "Dared!" He laughed scornfully. "I tell you, Katey, if you had not met me I would have “Hush! hush!" for his voice had risen dangerously. "Come away then;" and he led her down to the foot of the garden. Overhead the stars shone bright and clear; but a soft dusky cloud seemed to have dropped upon the earth. Was it this which had suddenly come between them? The slender branches of the willows stirred with a faint, sighing sound; a fitful wind rustled the dead leaves upon the grass; a passing step below lagged, and paused, then went on, growing faint at last in the distance. "What are they doing in there?" Dacre motioned towards the house. "They were singing when I came out. I can only stay a moment; they would miss me," she added quickly. "And if they did?-if they found you here?" "I should be disgraced before them all." "For me;" and there was something like triumph in his voice. "It would do nothing for you;" she said sadly. She had been filled with appre hension, and yet with a strange joy at the thought of seeing him again. Does anything ever come to us as we dream it will? Was it because of this other, lesser fear of being found here-of being shamed before the school that even the wonder and anxiety which his note awakened had fled now, and she was conscious only-of what? Was it disappointment? "A plague on respectability; it is too delicate a garment for me;" he said, with a laugh which jarred upon Katey even more than the words. "I threw mine away some time ago." "Hush," she said again. "It pains me to hear you speak so, even in a jest. Tell me about all these weeks since I saw you last. I have only a moment to stay." "Tell you ?" he said, turning upon her fiercely. "You don't know what you ask.' "You have not heard, then? They have not written you?" he went on eagerly. "I have heard nothing; but what you yourself wrote me." All her anxiety returned now. "O, what has happened? Where are you going?" But he did not seem to hear her question. "They will say hard things of me, I know; but, Katey," and he clutched her arm so that with difficulty she refrained from crying out, "you will not believe them?" Was it the pain brought the sob with her words? "I will believe you. Tell me the truth. Tell me, now, Dacre." sweeping "I must staid too Come to Suddenly the sound of voices broke out into the night. There was the of garments over the veranda. go;" whispered Katey. "I have long. But don't leave me so. the house, and ask for me to-morrow." "Come to the house? Not I. go to church ever in the evening?" "Yes." "And alone?" "Sometimes." Do you "I'll meet you then to-morrow night. No matter when and where; I shall not miss you." He swung himself over the wall, and disappeared. The voices had ceased. It was only a party of girls crossing the veranda. They had passed on, and the place was still again. Katey stood for a moment leaning against the wall where he had left her. And this was the meeting she had looked forward to for weeks past! This was the new life which was to come to him through her! What had happened to him she could not think, but no good she was sure. And for the first time she realized the burden she had taken upon herself,-realized that, though her presence might influence him, when away from her he would fall into the old channels which led, she knew not where, but away from everything good and honest and true. But she had known something of this from the first; if she had only paused to think, if she had only acknowledged it to herself; should she turn away from him, now that he was in trouble? Ono; never! She would be true to him in the face of the whole world, though her heart was heavy and sad, and full of forebodings as she made the vow. She crossed the garden, locked the door behind her, and ran up the stairs without meeting any one. It was only when her hand was upon the door of the music-room that she remembered the shawl still wrapped about her shoulders. She carried it back to the desk where she had found it. Then she saw that the pretty white gown, whose folds she held, was wet with dew. She shook it out while she waited a moment to still her hurried breathing before joining the others. The music-room was quite deserted now; the company had returned to the parlors. As she stood a moment in the library, where some of the girls lingered, a voice spoke in her ear: What a fine color! Pray where did you find it?" She turned, and met Miss Wormley's face drawn into a smile that was more than half a sneer. “Ah, what a pity! You have stained your gown." It was true; the slimy moss from the wall had left its mark. "It is still quite fresh; let me remove it ;" and she took out her handkerchief "Don't trouble yourself, it is nothing," Katey replied coldly; but growing red and white by turns as she drew her dress away, while the girls, grouped about eating their ices, looked up to wonder, not understanding this by-play. There had been another silent witness of the scene, who came forward now. "Allow me; you have not been served, I see," Prof. Dyce said, putting a plate into Katey's hand. He seemed to have forgotten his annoyance at her stupidity the other evening, as well as the part of spy he had played the day before, as, turning his back upon, and quite ignoring Miss Wormley, he chatted gravely but graciously for the few moments before the breaking up of the company-about what she could not have told. She only felt gratefully that his words called for rare and brief response, and served to banish her tormentor. She was passing through the musicroom on her way to breakfast the next morning, when President Humphrey called to her from the library. "Pray, calm your fears," he said, as she answered the summons with a sinking heart, which showed itself in a startled face, we have no fault to find with you, have we, Dyce?" Then she saw that Prof. Dyce was writing before the table by the window. "I beg your pardon?" he said interrogatively, raising his eyes for an instant, and then returning to his writing again. The President laughed as he shuffled the letters in his hand. He was greatly amused at the awe he fancied his presence had inspired in the mind of his junior teacher. "Miss Katherine Earle," he read, selecting one. "It was for this I called you back, not to scold you. Dyce, here, gives me a very good account of your stewardship." So he had praised her! That was strange. The pen had ceased to scratch over the paper at the other end of the room. Prof. Dyce raised his head. "You have managed your classes exceedingly well," he said. That was all! There was a reservation, she felt, in his tone and his commendation. She made a little comprehensive courtesy as she received her letter. It might imply thanks if he choose to consider it so, at least it hid the tears which sprang to her eyes. Then she quitted the room. The letter was from Delphine. She had recognized her handwriting even before the President gave it to her. She remembered Dacre's words, "Delphine or Jack will write you." Then came the appeal, "but you will not believe them!" What was she not to believe? She had hardly courage to open the letter when she was once locked into her room. Here she might stay through all the morning, alone. It was not her turn to take the girls to church, and her absence would not be remarked upon. "My dear Katey," the letter said, "how dreadful it is that Dacre Home should be involved in that bank affair! I really can think of nothing else. The cashier told Robert that he doubted if it could be proved that he was one of the gang; but there was no doubt about it in his own mind. They have caught some of them, as you may have heard. I cannot but hope But he may escape, however. It would be so painful for the family-even if he were not convicted. And to think we have known him so well! Of course, now, we shall never meet him again. I am sorry we saw him so often at the sea-side-indeed, I regret that he ever came there at all. I used to fancy sometimes that he was fond of you; I fairly shudder at the thought; and yet, how foolish to refer to it; I was mistaken, of course. But how shocking it is! Where he is now no one knows. It is supposed that he has escaped to Canada. enough of this;" and she proceeded to speak of other matters, which were as sticks and straws to poor Katey, who stared at the words, taking in nothing of their meaning. As to the first part of the letter, it was impressed as by fire upon her brain. They all condemned him; they all believed him guilty; but there rose within her a conviction, a blessed conviction, without which she felt she must have fallen where she stood, that he had spoken the truth to her the night before, and that he was innocent. Nothing should shake her in this belief. how cruel society had been to this handsome boy; who had sat through all the long summer days with her hands folded in her lap, giving countenance to the pretty play which seemed to end like a tragedy; who had even pleaded with her for him! Had she forgotten it all? In truth, poor Delphine had written from her perplexity and self-reproach, hoping by ignoring the past to warn her of the future, if, indeed, warning were necessary. But she misjudged Katey. To one who has enlisted heart and soul in a warfare the time to waver is not when the foe appears; to one who has really taken upon himself vows the time to doubt is not when the rack is brought out. She would never desert him now. She folded up the letter and laid it away. She was dizzy and ill,-and yet she must not be ill. She must see him to-night, at any cost. She would rest now; and she crept into bed, forcing herself to compose her body, and close her eyes, and so she lay through all the long morning. Sleep was impossible; but she would rest, she said over and over again. Clary came at noon and brought a cup of tea, and at night she rose and dressed herself and went down with the others. (To be continued.) And Delphine had fancied he was fond of her, but acknowledged now that she had been mistaken! Delphine who had encouraged him; who had talked to her of THE NEW HOMES OF NEW YORK. A STUDY OF FLATS. VERY few New York houses wear out. Fewer still are built to wear out. The manifest destiny of most is to be torn down after a limited service, if they are so fortunate as not to tumble down, or burn up in the meantime, to give place to something else, generally something better. Commerce crowds, and fashion shifts her seat from year to year. The mansion house of yesterday is a shop to-day, or has been demolished to make room for one; and the business edifice which was the marvel and boast of the generation just past, has been overtopped or displaced by a structure such as our fathers never dreamed of. The disposition to tear down and rebuild, or the necessity for it, so characteristic of New York, is in one respect an advantage. It facilitates growth, and allows the readiest adaptation of our houses to the rapidly changing needs of the community. Especially is it favorable to the reform in domestic architecture, which has made so much progress during the last decade, and which, in spite of the misdirected zeal of traditional builders, promises to work great changes in our household economy and social habits before the current century shall have run out. There is probably no great city in the world which needs a reform in domestic architecture more urgently than New York, as there is none which contains such a preponderance of dwellings unsuited to the wants of the people who inhabit them. As a rule New York houses are not made for any one in particular; or in case they happen to have been so constructed, they are rarely occupied by the people, or even the same class of people they were originally intended for. As a consequence, the majority of New York households are living like hermit crabs in other creatures' shells, suiting their lives to dwellings that do not fit them, and themselves to a style of living agreeable neither to their taste nor their pockets. Seeing the prevailing four and five-story dimensions of our common houses, and knowing that each is intended for but a single family, a stranger might reasonably infer that households of patriarchal strength and fertility were the rule among us, and marvel at the cry that the race is dying out. Still more might he marvel to discover that hundreds of these handsome residences are standing empty, while the crying need in New York is respectable shelter at reasonable cost. From a domestic point of view, indeed, New York is a city of paradoxes. It is full of palatial dwellings and homeless people the most hopelessly homeless living not unfrequently in the bravest houses and paying for unsocial subsistence a price that, under a wiser system, might give them every domestic comfort the heart could wish. HOLLY S PROPOSED FAMILY HOTEL. |