A Day of Fate. Edward Payson Roe

teach me a little topography? It would be no worse than reading that newspaper."

      "Indeed, I think it might be better. It will be a useful task, at least; for, left to yourself, you might get lost, and make Mr. Yocomb no end of trouble. Did you not tell me, sir (to our host), that on one occasion you had to hunt some one up with fish-horns, lanterns, etc.?"

      "Yes, and he was from New York, too," said Mr. Yocomb.

      "If I get lost, leave me to my fate. There will be one editor the less."

      "Very true; but I'd rather have thee on thy paper than on my conscience. So Emily Warren, thee look after him, and show him the right and proper ways, for I am now too old to enjoy a night hunt, even with the music of fish-horns to cheer us on. I ask thee, Emily, for some of thine instead when thee comes back."

CHAPTER VIII

       Table of Contents

      THE MYSTERY OF MYSTERIES

      "Is it a task, then, to show me the right paths and proper ways?" I asked, as we strolled away, leaving Adah looking as if—in her curiosity to know more of the new species, a night editor—she wished Silas Jones in the depths of the Dead Sea.

      "That may depend on how apt and interesting a scholar you prove. I'm a teacher, you know, and teaching some of my scholars is drudgery, and others a pleasure."

      "So I'm put on my good behavior at once."

      "You ought to be on your good behavior anyway—this is Sunday."

      "Yes, and June. If a man is not good now he'll never be. And yet such people as Mrs. Yocomb—nor will I except present company—make me aware that I am not good—far from it."

      "I am glad Mrs. Yocomb made just that impression on you."

      "Why?"

      "Because it proves you a better man than your words suggest, and, what is of more consequence, a receptive man. I should have little hope for any one who came from a quiet talk with Mrs. Yocomb in a complacent mood or merely disposed to indulge in a few platitudes on the sweetness and quaintness of her character, and some sentimentalities in regard to Friends. If the depths of one's nature were not stirred, then I would believe that there were no depths. She is doing me much good, and giving me just the help I needed."

      "I can honestly say that she uttered one sentence that did find soundings in such shallow depths as exist in my nature, and I ought to be a better man for it hereafter."

      "She may have found you dreadfully bad, Mr. Morton: but I saw from her face that she did not find you shallow. If she had, you would not have touched her so deeply."

      "I touched her?"

      "Yes. Women understand each other. Something you said—but do not think

       I'm seeking to learn what it was—moved her sympathies."

      "Oh, she's kind and sympathetic toward every poor mortal."

      "Very true; but she's intensely womanly; and a woman is incapable of a benevolence and sympathy that are measured out by the yard—so much to each one, according to the dictates of judgment. You were so fortunate as to move Mrs. Yocomb somewhat as she touched your feelings; and you have cause to be glad; for she can be a friend that will make life richer."

      "I think I can now recall what excited her sympathies, and may tell you some time, that is, if you do not send me away."

      "I send you away?"

      "Yes, I told you that you were the one obstacle to my remaining."

      She looked at me as if perplexed and a little hurt. I did not reply at once, for her countenance was so mobile, so obedient to her thought and feeling, that I watched its varied expressions with an interest that constantly deepened. In contrast to Adah Yocomb's her face was usually pale; and yet it had not the sickly pallor of ill-health, but the clear, transparent complexion that is between the brunette and the blonde. Her eyes were full, and the impression of largeness, when she looked directly at you, was increased by a peculiar outward curve of their long lashes.

      Whether her eyes could be called blue I could not yet decide, and they seemed to darken and grow a little cold as she now looked at me; but she merely said, quietly:

      "I do not understand you."

      "This was your chosen resting-place for the summer, was it not, Miss

       Warren?"

      "Yes."

      "Well, then, what right have I, an entire stranger, to come blundering along like a June beetle and disturb your rest? You did not look forward to associations with night editors and like disreputable people when you chose this sheltered nook of the world, and nestled under Mrs. Yocomb's wing. You have the prior right here."

      As I spoke, her face so changed that it reminded me of the morning of this eventful day when I first looked out upon its brightness, and as I ceased her laugh rang out heartily.

      "So after all your fate is in my hands."

      "It is. You have pre-empted this claim."

      "Suppose I am a little non-committal, and should say, You may spend the evening, you may stay till to-morrow; would you be content?"

      "No, indeed, but I would have to submit."

      "Well, this is rich. Who ever heard of an editor—and the shrewd, alert, night editor at that—in such a dilemma! Do you realize what an unwise step you have taken? Mr. Yocomb justly complimented your shrewdness in getting Mrs. Yocomb on your side, and having won her over you were safe, and might have remained in this Eden as long as you chose. Now you place it within the power—the caprice even—of an utter stranger to send you out into the wilderness again."

      I said, with a smile, "I am satisfied that you differ from your mother

       Eve in one respect."

      "Ah! in what respect?"

      "You are not the kind of woman that causes banishment from Eden."

      "You know very little about me, Mr. Morton."

      "I know that."

      She smiled and looked pleased in spite of herself.

      "I think I'll let you stay till—till to-morrow," she said, with an arch side glance; then added, with a laugh, "What nonsense we are talking! As if you had not as good a right to be here as I have."

      "I beg your pardon. I spoke in downright sincerity. You found this quiet place first. In a large hotel, all kinds of people can meet almost as they do on Broadway; but here we must dwell together as one family, and I feel that I have no right to force on you any association without your leave, especially as you are here alone. In a certain sense I introduce myself, and compel you to meet me socially without your permission. You may have formed a very different plan for your summer's rest."

      "It is rather rare for a music-teacher to receive so much consideration. It bewilders me a little."

      "Pardon me. I soon discovered that you possessed woman's highest rank."

      "Indeed! Am I a princess in disguise?"

      "You are more than many princesses have been—a lady. And, as I said before, you are here alone."

      She turned and looked at me intently, and I felt that if I had not been sincere she would have known it. It was a peculiar and, I eventually learned, a characteristic act. I am now inclined to think that she saw the precise attitude of my mind and feeling toward her; but my awakening interest was as far removed from curiosity as is our natural desire to have a melody completed, the opening strains of which are captivating.

      Her face quickly lost its aspect of grave scrutiny, and she looked away, with a slight accession of color.