Signing the Contract and What it Cost. Finley Martha

cry of agony.

      Utter astonishment dominated for the moment every other feeling in Miss Wells’s breast; then infinite pity and tenderness took its place, and gathering the girl to her heart, she wept over her as her own mother might, asking no questions, feeling no curiosity, every other emotion lost in the boundless compassion which would have done or suffered almost everything to restore its object to happiness.

      Hannah Wells, now far on the shady side of fifty, a woman with a large, loving heart, had found few upon whom to lavish the wealth of her affection, and upon Floy she had poured it out without stint.

      For many years she had maintained herself by her needle, first as seamstress, then as dressmaker; and employed by Mrs. Kemper in both capacities ever since the coming of the latter to Cranley, had often made her home in that house for weeks and months together, always treated with the kindly consideration accorded to a welcome guest or one of the family; for, spite of her poverty, Miss Wells was unmistakably a lady.

      She was a woman, too, of excellent common-sense, sterling integrity, and deep piety, evinced by a life of blameless purity, a thoroughly consistent walk and conversation.

      She was now enjoying a moderate degree of prosperity, having a little home of her own and something laid by for a rainy day.

      She kept a number of apprentices now, who usually carried home the finished work, but loving Floy so dearly, she had herself brought home the poor child’s mourning.

      The love and caresses of this old and tried friend were as balm to the sorely-wounded heart. Floy presently grew calmer, and poured out her whole story, including her half-formed plans for the future, seeking advice in regard to the latter.

      Miss Wells entered into them with deep interest, highly approving Floy’s course in regard to the property, and of her resolve first to search for her long-lost mother, then to seek employment by which to earn a living for herself and for her mother if found.

      “Don’t be afraid to try it, dear,” Hannah said; “try it with determination to let no difficulty conquer you, yet trusting in the Lord, and you will succeed. It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man. Yes, dear, I’ve tried it, and proved it in my own experience. Like you I was left an orphan early in life, and without means. I had relations who gave me a home, enough to eat, and decent clothes, and didn’t seem to grudge it either; but I saw that they had plenty of other uses for their money, and I couldn’t bear to have them do without anything in order to provide for me; so I resolved to strike out bravely for myself, trusting only in the Lord, and from that day to this He’s taken care of me: and its so sweet, so sweet to take everything as a gift right from His dear hand.”

      CHAPTER XI

      LOVE AND PRIDE

      “Had we never loved so kindly,

      Had we never loved so blindly,

      Never met or never parted,

      We had ne’er been broken-hearted.” —

Burns.

      As the dressmaker left, Espy came in and went direct to the parlor, where Floy sat in an attitude of deep dejection, her elbow on the arm of the sofa, her cheek resting on her hand.

      He sprang to her side, and, as she started and half rose from her seat, caught both hands in his.

      “Floy, Floy, what have they been doing? What have they been saying to you? Never mind it, darling, nothing shall ever come between us.”

      The eyes that met his were full of anguish; the lips moved, but no sound came from them.

      He threw his arms about her as if to shield her from harm. “Floy, dear, don’t mind it. I can’t bear to see you look so. Isn’t my love enough to make you happy? Ah, if you only knew how I love you, dearest!”

      “But – oh, Espy, I’ve given you up! I’ve no right now to your love!”

      “Given me up! Do you not love me, Floy?” His voice grew hoarse with emotion.

      “You are all I’ve left – all.”

      He bent his ear to catch the low-breathed words. His heart gave a joyous bound, and he drew her closer to him; but she struggled to release herself.

      “Espy, you are free. I have given you up.”

      “I will not accept my freedom, nor give you yours, my own little wife – I may call you that, because we are pledged to each other, and it’s almost the same: we belong to each other quite as much as if we were already married.”

      She shook her head with sad determination. “Your father refuses his consent, and – I – I cannot go into a family that is not willing to receive me.”

      “My father had no right to withdraw the consent already given!” he exclaimed hotly.

      “That was given to your union with the rich Miss Kemper, not with a poor and nameless waif,” she returned, with a bitter smile.

      “Ah! but I pledged myself to neither the wealth nor the name, but to the dear girl who has not changed unless to grow dearer and lovelier still.”

      “But I think children are bound to respect the wishes, and certainly the commands, of their parents.”

      “I’m not a child!” he cried, with a mixture of anger and pride. “I shall be my own master in a few months; then I shall not consider his consent absolutely necessary, and in the mean time I shall not break my engagement to you.”

      “No, Espy, but I release you.”

      “I will not be released!” he cried, with increasing anger, “nor will I release you!”

      “You will surely not be so ungenerous as to hold me to it against my will?” she said coldly, averting her face and moving farther from him.

      A sudden suspicion flashed upon him, a pang of jealous rage stabbed him to the heart, and he grew white and rigid.

      “You love another; you have played me false, and are glad of an excuse to get rid of me!” he said in cutting tones.

      She made no reply, but drew herself up proudly, yet kept her face turned from him.

      “Farewell, then, false girl; you are free!” he cried, rushing madly from the room.

      Floy looked after him, with a dreary smile more pitiful than tears.

      “Oh, Espy, Espy! must we part like this?” she sighed inwardly, putting her hand to her head.

      “Miss Floy, are you sick? got a headache?” queried Susan, coming in. “What can I do for ye?”

      “Nothing, thank you, Susan; I’ll be better soon.”

      “Try a cup o’ tea; it’ll do ye good. I heard Mr. Espy go ’way, and I thought I’d just come and tell you that supper’s ready.”

      Something in Susan’s tones jarred upon Floy’s sensitive nerves, and, with a sort of dull comprehension that the girl’s rising suspicions must be lulled to rest, she rose, went to the table, and forced herself to drink a cup of tea and swallow a few mouthfuls of food.

      The blow dealt her by Espy’s parting words began to lose its stunning effects, and to be succeeded by a feverish impulse to fly from him and from these scenes of former happiness, of present sorrow and loss. She left the table with the sudden resolve that she would set out that very night on her intended journey in search of her long-lost mother.

      Fortunately Mr. Crosby, thinking of some new question to ask, called at the door just as she was passing through the hall on her way upstairs.

      “Have you any idea where to go, Miss Floy?” he asked, when she had told him of her intention to depart immediately.

      “Yes,” she said, “I remember having heard what route father and mother took in coming out West, and she told me the name of the station where they met my own mother and obtained possession of me; I mean to go directly there and make inquiries.”

      “You will find things greatly changed since then,”