The Earth Trembled. Edward Payson Roe

for refusing the hand held out so loyally and persistently to her help. She became confused, torn, and overwhelmed by conflicting emotions; her lip quivered, and, bowing her head in her hands, she sobbed, "You are breaking my heart."

      In an instant he was on one knee at her side. "Mara," he began gently, "if I wound it is only that I may heal. Truly no girl in this city needs a friend as you do. For some reason I feel this to be true in my very soul. Who in God's universe would forbid you a loyal friend?" and he tried to take her hand.

      "I forbid you to be her friend," said a stern voice.

      Springing up, Clancy encountered the gaze of a gaunt, white-haired woman, with implacable enmity stamped upon her thin visage. The young man's eyes darkened as they steadily met those of Mrs. Hunter, and it was evident that the forbearance he had manifested toward the girl he loved would not be extended to her guardian. Still he controlled himself, and waited till she should speak again.

      "Mr. Clancy," she resumed after a moment, "Miss Wallingford is my ward; I received her from her dying mother, and so have rights which you must respect. I forbid you seeing her or speaking to her again."

      "Mrs. Hunter," he replied, "permit me to tell you with the utmost courtesy that I shall not obey you. Only Mara herself can forbid me from seeing her or speaking to her."

      "What right have you, sir—"

      "The best of rights, Mrs. Hunter, I love the girl; you do not. As remorselessly as a graven image you would sacrifice her on the altar of your hate."

      "Mr. Clancy, you must not speak to my aunt in that way. She has been devoted to me from my infancy."

      "On the contrary, she has devoted you from infancy to sadness, gloom, and bitter memories. She is developing within you the very qualities most foreign to a woman's heart. Instead of teaching you to enshrine the memory of your kindred in tender, loving remembrance, she is forging that memory into a chain to restrain you from all that is natural to your years. She is teaching you to wreck your life in fruitless opposition to the healing influences that have followed peace. Madam, answer me—the question is plain and fair—what can you hope to accomplish by your enmity to me and to the principles of hope and progress which, in this instance, I represent, but the blighting of this girl whom I love?"

      "You are insolent, sir," cried Mrs. Hunter, trembling with rage.

      "No, madam, I am honest, and be the result to me what it may, you shall both hear the truth to-night."

      "This is our home," was the harsh response, "and you are not a gentleman if you do not leave it instantly."

      "I shall certainly do so. Mara, am I to see you and speak to you no more?"

      She had sunk into a chair, and again buried her face in her hands.

      He waited a moment, but she gave no sign. Then with his eyes fixed on her he sadly and slowly left the apartment.

      At last she sprang up with the faint cry, "Owen," but her aunt stood between her and the door, and he was gone.

CHAPTER VI

       Table of Contents

      "PAHNASHIP"

      When Mara realized that her lover had indeed gone, that in fact he had been driven forth, and that she had said not one word to pave the way for a future meeting, a sense of desolation she had never known before overwhelmed her. Hitherto she had been sustained by an unfaltering belief that no other course than the one which her aunt had inculcated was possible; that, cost what it might, and end as it might, it was her heritage. All now was confused and in doubt. She had heard her lofty, self-sacrificing purpose virtually characterized as vain and wrong. She had idolized the memory of her father and mother, and yet had been told that her course was the very one of which they would not approve. The worst of it all was that it now seemed true, for she could not believe that they would wish her to be so utterly unhappy. In spite of her unworldliness and lack of practical training, the strong common-sense of Clancy's question would recur, "What good will it do?" She was not sacrificing her heart to sustain or further any cause, and her heart now cried out against the wrong it was receiving. These miserable thoughts rushed through her mind and pressed so heavily upon all hope that she leaned her arms upon the table, and, burying her face, sobbed aloud.

      "Mara," said her aunt, severely, "I did not think you could be so weak."

      Until the storm of passionate grief passed, the young girl gave no heed to Mrs. Hunter's reproaches or expostulations. At last she became quiet, as much from exhaustion as from self-control, and said wearily, "You need worry no further about Mr. Clancy. He will not come again. If he has a spark of pride or manhood left, he will never look at me again," and a quick, heart-broken sob would rise at the thought.

      "I should hope you would not look at him again after his insolence to me."

      Mara did not reply. For the first time her confidence in her aunt had been shaken, for she could not but feel that Mrs. Hunter, in her judgment of Clancy, saw but one side of the question. She did not approve of his stern arraignment of her aunt, but she at least remembered his great provocation, and that he had been impelled to his harsh words by loyalty to her.

      At last she said, "Aunty, I'm too worn out to think or speak any more tonight. There is a limit to endurance, and I've reached it."

      "That's just where the trouble is," Mrs. Hunter tried to say reassuringly.

       "In the morning you will be your own true, brave self again."

      "What's the use of being brave; what can I be brave for?" thought Mara in the solitude of her room.

      Although her sleep was brief and troubled, she had time to grow calm and collect her thoughts. While she would not admit it to herself, Clancy's repeated assertions of his love had a subtle and sustaining power. She could see no light in the future, but her woman's heart would revert to this truth as to a secret treasure.

      In the morning after sitting for a time almost in silence over their meagre breakfast, her aunt began: "Mara, I wish you to realize the truth in regard to Mr. Clancy. It is one of those things which must be nipped in the bud. There is only one ending to his path, and that is full acceptance of Northern rule and Northern people. What is more, after his words to me, I will never abide under the same roof with him again."

      "Aunty," said Mara sadly, "we have much else to think about besides Mr.

       Clancy. How are we going to keep a roof over our own heads?"

      Compelled to face their dire need, Mrs. Hunter broke out into bitter invective against those whom she regarded as the cause of their poverty.

      "Aunty," protested Mara, almost irritably, for her nerves were sadly worn, "what good can such words do? We must live, I suppose, and you must advise me."

      "Mara, I am almost tempted to believe that you regret—"

      "Aunty, you must fix your mind on the only question to be considered. What are we to do? You know our money is almost gone."

      Mrs. Hunter's only response was to stare blankly at her niece. She could economize and be content with very little as long as her habitual trains of thought were not interrupted and she could maintain her proud seclusion. Accustomed to remote plantation life, she knew little of the ways of the modern world, and much less of the methods by which a woman could obtain a livelihood from it. To the very degree that she had lived in the memories and traditions of the past, she had unfitted herself to understand the conditions of present life or to cope with its requirements. Now she was practically helpless. "We can't go and reveal our situation to our friends," she began hesitatingly.

      "Certainly not," said Mara, "for most of them have all they can do to sustain themselves, and I would rather starve than live on the charity of those on whom we have no claim."

      "We might take less expensive rooms."