Macaria. Evans Augusta Jane

which many found repulsive. His black hair was slightly sprinkled with grey, and his features were still decidedly handsome, though the expression of mouth and eyes was, ordinarily, by no means winning. Irene was his only child; her mother had died during her infancy, and on this beautiful idol he lavished all the tenderness of which his nature was capable. His tastes were cultivated, his house was elegant and complete, and furnished magnificently; every luxury that money could yield him he possessed, yet there were times when he seemed moody and cynical, and no one could surmise the cause of his gloom. The girl looked up at him fearing no denial.

      "Father, I wish, please, you would give me two hundred dollars."

      "What would you do with it, Queen?"

      "I do not want it for myself; I should like to have that much to enable a poor woman to recover her sight. She has cataracts on her eyes, and there is a physician in New Orleans who can relieve her. Father, won't you give me the money?"

      He took the cigar from his lips, shook off the ashes, and asked indifferently —

      "What is the woman's name? Has she no husband to take care of her?"

      "Mrs. Aubrey; she – "

      "What!"

      The cigar fell from his fingers, he put her from his knee, and rose instantly. His swarthy cheek glowed, and she wondered at the expression of his eyes, so different from anything she had ever seen there before.

      "Who gave you permission to visit that house?"

      "No permission was necessary. I go there because I love her and Electra, and because I like Russell. Why shouldn't I go there, sir? Is poverty disgrace?"

      "Irene, mark me. You are to visit that house no more in future; keep away from the whole family. I will have no such association. Never let me hear their names again. Go to bed."

      "Give me one good reason, and I will obey you."

      "Reason! My will, my command, is sufficient reason. What do you mean by catechising me in this way? Implicit obedience is your duty."

      The calm, holy eyes looked wonderingly into his; and as he marked the startled expression of the girl's pure face his own eyes drooped.

      "Father, has Mrs. Aubrey ever injured you?"

      No answer.

      "If she has not, you are very unjust to her; if she has, remember she is a woman, bowed down with many sorrows, and it is unmanly to hoard up old differences. Father, please give me that money."

      "I will bury my last dollar in the Red Sea first! Now are you answered?"

      She put her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some painful vision; and he saw the slight form shudder. In perfect silence she took her books and went up to her room. Mr. Huntingdon reseated himself as the door closed behind her, and the lamplight showed a sinister smile writhing over his dark features. He sat there, staring out into the starry night, and seeing by the shimmer of the setting moon only the graceful form and lovely face of Amy Aubrey, as she had appeared to him in other days. Could he forget the hour when she wrenched her cold fingers from his clasp, and, in defiance of her father's wishes, vowed she would never be his wife? No; revenge was sweet, very sweet; his heart had swelled with exultation when the verdict of death upon the gallows was pronounced upon the husband of her choice; and now, her poverty, her humiliation, her blindness gave him deep, unutterable joy. The history of the past was a sealed volume to his daughter, but she was now for the first time conscious that her father regarded the widow and her son with unconquerable hatred; and with strange, foreboding dread she looked into the future, knowing that forgiveness was no part of his nature; that insult or injury was never forgotten.

       CHAPTER III

      THE MISSING WATCH

      Whether the general rule of implicit obedience to parental injunction admitted of no exceptions, was a problem which Irene readily solved; and on Saturday, as soon as her father and cousin had started to the plantation (twenty-five miles distant), she put on her hat, and walked to town. Wholly absorbed in philanthropic schemes, she hurried along the sidewalk, ran up a flight of steps, and knocked at a door, on which was written in large gilt letters "Dr. Arnold."

      "Ah, Beauty! come in. Sit down, and tell me what brought you to town so early."

      He was probably a man of fifty; gruff in appearance, and unmistakably a bachelor. His thick hair was grizzled, so was the heavy beard; and the shaggy grey eyebrows slowly unbent, as he took his visitor's little hands and looked kindly down into her grave face. From her infancy he had petted and fondled her and she stood as little in awe of him as of Paragon.

      "Doctor, are you busy this morning?"

      "I am never too busy to attend to you, little one. What is it?"

      "Of course you know that Mrs. Aubrey is almost blind."

      "Of course I do, having been her physician."

      "Those cataracts can be removed, however."

      "Perhaps they can, and perhaps they can't."

      "But the probabilities are that a good oculist can relieve her."

      "I rather think so."

      "Two hundred dollars would defray all the expenses of a trip to New Orleans for this purpose, but she is too poor to afford it."

      "Decidedly too poor."

      His grey eyes twinkled promisingly, but he would not anticipate her.

      "Dr. Arnold, don't you think you could spare that small sum without much inconvenience?"

      "Really! is that what you trudged into town for?"

      "Yes. I have not the necessary amount at my disposal just now, and I came to ask you to lend it to me."

      "Do you want the money now?"

      "Yes, if you please; but before you give it to me I ought to tell you that I want the matter kept secret. No one is to know anything about it – not even my father."

      She looked so unembarrassed that for a moment he felt puzzled.

      "I knew Mrs. Aubrey before her marriage." He bent forward to watch the effect of his words, but if she really knew or suspected aught of the past there was not the slightest intimation of it. Putting back her hair, she looked up and answered —

      "That should increase your willingness to aid her in her misfortunes."

      "Hold out your hand; fifty, one hundred, a hundred and fifty, two hundred. There, will that do?"

      "Thank you! thank you. You will not need it soon, I hope?"

      "Not until you are ready to pay me."

      "Dr. Arnold, you have given me a great deal of pleasure – more than I can express. I – "

      "Don't try to express it, Queen. You have given me infinitely more, I assure you."

      Her splendid eyes were lifted toward him, and with some sudden impulse she touched her lips to the hand he had placed on her shoulder. Something like a tremor crossed the doctor's habitually stern mouth as he looked at the marvellous beauty of the girl's countenance, and he kissed her slender fingers as reverently as though he touched something consecrated.

      "Irene, shall I take you home in my buggy?"

      "No, thank you, I would rather walk. Oh! Doctor, I am so much obliged to you."

      In answer to Irene's knock, Electra opened the cottage door, and ushered her into the small room which served as both kitchen and dining-room. Everything was scrupulously neat, not a spot on the bare polished floor, not a speck to dim the purity of the snowy dimity curtains, and on the table in the centre stood a vase filled with fresh fragrant flowers. In a low chair before the open window sat the widow knitting a blue and white nubia. She glanced round as Irene entered.

      "Who is it, Electra?"

      "Miss Irene, aunt."

      "Sit down, Miss Irene; how are you to-day?"

      "Mrs. Aubrey, I am sorry to hear your eyes are no better."

      "Thank you for