 24 Don had been in New York for two months, after various trying experiences in getting there, and all that time she had been unable to find anything to do by which she could earn her living. The miserable little boarding-place, the best she could afford, was growing more and more uncomfortable as the hot weather came on. Don was thin and worn and sad. Her money which she had earned during the winter and which she had always carried sewed inside her garments was fast melting away. A few more weeks and she would be penniless. She began to wonder what would come next, and to question whether it would not have been better to stay with the school and trust the old minister and Daniel to protect her from Harrington Winthrop. But always, after thinking it over, she decided that she could not have been safe when he knew her whereabouts. There was one other thing which troubled her constantly now. It was that sentence of Daniels. He'd rather have you and the trouble than to have no trouble without you. Was it true? Did Charles love her that way? Was she giving him trouble by staying away? If he's anything like you say he is, he's most crazy hunting you, Daniel had said. Was that true, too? Could he be hunting her yet? Had she been wrong and coming away? Gradually she came to admit to herself that there might have been a better way. She might have made a mistake, but it was too late now to remedy it. She could not go back on her promise that she would trouble him no more. She could not bring added disgrace to him now that she had stayed away all these months and everybody must know it. Oh, how long and hard life was! And then she once more went wearily at her task of hunting a position. Slowly, stealthily, up from the south, strangely unexpectedly down from the Canadian border, there crept a grim specter of death. Heard from afar within difference at first, it gradually grew more terrifying as it drew nearer. Now and then the death of a well-known victim caused uneasiness to become more manifest. Hotter grew the sun and nearer drew the specter. The daily papers contained advice for protection against it. The cities cleaned their streets and warned their citizens. The temperance societies called attention to the fact that hard drinkers were in more danger than others. Meat and milk and vegetables were carefully inspected. Water was boiled. Cheerfulness was put on like a garment and assurance was flaunted everywhere. People were told to keep up a good heart and keep clean and there was little danger. Still the specter crept nearer, laying hands upon its victims, and daily reports grew more alarming. It was near the end of June when the ministers met in New York and petitioned the president to appoint a general day of fasting and prayer to avert the oncoming pestilence. Andrew Jackson replied that it was in their line, not his, to decide whether this matter was important enough to bring to the notice of the Almighty and he left it in their hands. The days went by and the specter crept on. The governors of the states began to appoint days of prayer. At last the cholera was a recognized fact. It had come to do its worst. The newspapers abandoned their talk of its impossibility and said about making the best of things, describing the precautions to be taken, the preliminary symptoms, and the best method of treatment. For a time during the latter part of June and the early part of July, it was hoped that by vigilance and care it could be kept out of New York City. The worst of the pestilence was in the southern states, though it had made great ravages as far north as Cincinnati. And from Canada it was spreading south into New York State. Here and there a little town would have a single case, which would send terror throughout the county, and daily the number grew greater. Charles was looking more and thin. He had bought the little house and had had it renovated. It was furnished now and waiting for the bride who did not come. His heart grew sick with the great fear that was growing within him, the fear that he should never find her on this earth. Of late a new worry had come to him. A letter had come to his father from Herrington's wife, saying that she was destitute, and that her husband had deserted her again. He had stayed with her but a week after he brought her home, though he had promised many things. In spite of himself, Charles could not get it out of his mind that Herrington had spirited dawn away somewhere. He did not doubt her for an instant. He would not let himself think that she might still have some lurking love for the man who had not scrupled to do her wrong. He laid all blame if blame there was upon his brother. Herrington had sometimes appropriated his younger brother's boyish treasures to his own use when they were both younger, and Charles had no doubt he would not hesitate to do thus even with his brother's wife were such a thing possible. Sometimes the remembrance of the terror in Don's eyes when she asked about Herrington and where she would have to meet him made Charles fairly writhe, and he felt that he must fly somewhere to the ends of the earth if need be and find her. He lay on the couch in the library one warm evening in early July. Betty sat beside him, reading the New York paper which had just been brought by the evening coach. She was trying to distract his mind from the ever-present sorrow over which he seemed to brood every minute when he was not in actual motion trying to find his wife. This evening there was a deeper gloom over them on account of having received, that morning, news of the death of Mr. van Rensselaer. Charles lay still with his face shaded from the candlelight and let Betty read. He was paying little heed, but it made Betty happier to think that she was helping him to bear his pain. The little sister's sympathy was a great comfort, and so if she could think she was helping him he was glad. He was occupied in trying to think out a plan for finding Herrington just to make sure that he knew nothing about Don. Here's something about the new railroad, Charles. Shall I read that, or would you rather have me read Parley's magazine than the commercial advertiser? Oh, read the commercial advertiser, by all means, said Charles, trying to rouse himself to take an interest for Betty's sake. His head was aching, and he was weary in both body and soul. Well, listen to this, Charles. Isn't this wonderful? They've completed the railroad from Saratoga to Balston. They can go eight miles in twenty-eight minutes. Think of that beside the stagecoach traveling. It takes only an hour and five minutes to go from Balston to Senecti, and you can go from Albany to Saratoga in three hours. Who would ever have believed it true? Do you suppose it is true, or have they exaggerated? Oh, I guess they can do it, said Charles with a sigh. The new railroad made him think of his wedding journey. Oh, to take it over again and never let his bride out of his sight. Betty read on. Governor Howard of Maryland has set July 4th as a day of prayer that the cholera may decline. Governor Cass says, but a lone moan from Charles made her fly to another column to distract his mind. Here's the report of the meeting of the Foreign Mission Board in New York. Would you like to hear that? It looks interesting. The evening address was made by the Honorable Stephen Van Rensselaer. Why, Betty stopped in dismay, but Charles answered the wonder in her tone quietly. Yes, Betty, Stephen Van Rensselaer is a cousin of Mr. Van Rensselaer. He is a fine speaker. Read about it. But Charles did not attend, though Betty rattled off a lot of statistics glibly, inwardly blaming herself for constantly coming upon things that would remind Charles of his loss. There are 12 missions now with 25 stations under the board. Seven are in India, two in Asia, four in the Mediterranean, seven in the Sandwich Islands, 27 among the Southwestern Indians, four among the Northeastern Indians, and four among the Indians of New York State. There are 75 missionaries, four physicians, four printers, 18 teachers, 20 farmers and mechanics, and 131 females married and single sent out from this country. My isn't that a lot, commented Betty. Just below the report of the missionary meeting was a brief paragraph. She plunged into it without stopping to glance it over. Disappeared, a female dressed in a white straw bonnet trimmed with white satin ribbon, a black silk gown, white crepe shawl with flowered border, black silk stockings and chocolate-colored parasol. Oh! cried Betty in dismay, and then went wildly on to the next column, not daring to look at her brother. The honorable William Ward has purchased a plantation in Florida and is going to work it with hired hands. This will do more toward opening the eyes of the slaveholders and all the declamatory efforts of the free states since the adoption of the Constitution. That is quoted from the United States Gazette, Charles, and the editor of this paper has a long, dry-looking comment on it. Do you want to hear it? Betty looked uneasily at her brother, but his wide face was turned toward the wall. Here's an article about Barnumus Bidwell and something about General Prosper Wintmore. Doesn't Father know General Wintmore, Charles? Betty felt she was not getting on well at all. I believe he does, answered her brother patiently, and then the knocker sounded insistently through the house, and Charles came to an upright position in an instant. He seemed ever to be thus on the alert for something to happen, and this time something did happen. A negro boy stood at the door with a note scrawled on a leaf from a memorandum book. He said he was to give it to Mr. Winthrop at once. As his father was out, Charles read it. Betty held the candle for him to see. It was badly written with pale ink. Betty's hand trembled and made the candle waver. She felt that something momentous was in the air. Come to me at once. I'm desperately ill, Harrington, read the note. It was like the writer, to command and expect to be obeyed. Charles pressed the note into Betty's hand, saying, Give it to Father as soon as he comes, and don't let Mother or Aunt Martha know. Then he seized his hat and sprang out into the night, urging his escort into a run, and demanding an explanation as he went. But the boy could tell little of what was the matter. He knew only that he had been sent in great haste and that the gentleman was very sick. The night was still and warm. There was a yellow haze over the world and a sultry feeling in the air. People had been remarking all day how warm it was for the season of the year. Charles plunged through the night with only one thought in mind. He was to see his brother in a few minutes, and he must take every means to find out whether he had any knowledge of dawn. His whole soul was bent on the purpose that had been his main object in life during the past year. It occurred to him that Harrington might be in need of medical attendance, though that was a sort of secondary consideration at the time. So he sent the Negro boy after their family physician. He himself went on alone to the inn, some two miles from the village where the boy said his brother was stopping. When Charles reached the inn, he found a group of excited people gathered near the steps, and the word cholera floated to his ears but it meant little to him. In a moment he was standing by his brother's bedside. Harrington turned away from him with a groan. Is it only you he muttered angrily I sent for father? Father was not in. He will come as soon as he returns. I will do anything you want done. I have sent for the doctor. But before I do anything, you must answer me one question. Do you know where dawn is? Have you seen her since the day of the wedding? Harrington turned bloodshot eyes upon his brother. Who is dawn, he sneered. Oh, I see. You mean Miss Van Rensselaer. Yes, I remember you were smitten with her the only time you ever saw her. I believe in my soul it was you who cheated me out of my little game, and not Alberta at all. Well, it doesn't matter. I've got something better on the string now. If I ever get out of this cursed hole, let the doll face baby go. She wasn't worth all the trouble it took to keep track of her. Then suddenly he was seized in the vise of an awful agony and cried out with oaths and curses. Down below his window a group of huddled negroes heard and a shutter went through them. They drew away and whispered in sepulchral tones. Charles stood over his brother in helpless horror until the agony was passed and Harrington gasped out. Go for the doctor, you fool. Do you want to see me die before your eyes? Charles' voice was grave and commanding as he stood over his brother and demanded once more. Answer me, Harrington. Have you seen her since the day of the wedding? Answer me quickly. I will help you just as soon as I know all. I shall not do a thing until you tell me. A groan and a curse were all the answer he got and a cold frenzy seized him, lest he should never get Harrington to tell what he knew. He understood that his brother was a very sick man. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. Get me some whisky, you brute! cried out the stricken man. That awful agony is coming again. Well, if you must know she's teaching school in a little forsaken village over beyond Skohari, butternuts, they called it. At least she was till I appeared on the scene. Then she made away with herself somehow. I stayed three days waiting for her, but she didn't come back. I stopped off last week and the people said she'd never returned. No one knew anything about her, but a toe-headed boy who called himself Daniel and said he helped carry her bag to the stagecoach. Now get me that whisky quick, I feel the pain coming again. Charles turned without a word and dashed downstairs to the landlady, demanding hot water and blankets. He knew little about illness save what his mother's semi-invalid state had taught him, but he had read enough in the papers lately to make him sure that Harrington had the cholera, and he knew that whisky was not a remedy. Before he could return to his brother the doctor arrived and together they went up to the sick man who was writhing in agony and again demanding whisky. The old doctor shook his head when he saw the patient. He has indulged in that article far too much already, he said. Then began a night of horror followed by a day of stupor on the part of the patient. The doctor had said from the start that it was cholera and that the disease was almost always fatal to persons of intemperate habits. Charles held himself steadily to the task of the moment and tried to still the calling of his heart to fly at once and find dawn. Not another word had he been able to get from his brother. The pain had been so intolerable that Harrington had been unable to speak, and little by little he grew delirious until he did not recognize any of them. At times he cried out as if in wild corrals. Once or twice he called out, Alberto, in an angry tone, then muttered Mr. Van Rensselaer's name. Never once did he speak the name of dawn. This fact gave Charles unspeakable relief. All through the night and day the doctor, the brother, and the father worked side by side, but each knew from the first that there was no hope, and at evening he died. They buried Harrington Winthrop in the old lot where rested the mortal remains of other more worthy members of the family. And the father turned away with bowed head and broken heart for such an ending to his elder son's misspent life, and kept saying over to himself, Has it been my fault? Has it been my fault? They were almost home when Charles, who had been silent and thoughtful, touched the older man on the shoulder. Father, shall you mind my going away at once? He asked. I have a clue and must follow it. Mr. Winthrop lifted his grief-stricken head and looking at his son tenderly said, Go, my boy, and may you gain your heart's desire. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 of Dawn of the Morning This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dawn of the Morning by Grace Livxton Hill The next evening at sunset, Charles stood beside the Butterworth Gate about to enter where Daniel came out. The boy had finished his early supper and was going to the village on an errand. His face was grave and thoughtful, as always since the teacher's departure. Charles watched him coming down to the gate, and like his broad shoulders and the blue eyes under his curly yellow lashes as he looked up, Are you Daniel Butterworth as Charles? I am, said Dan, eyeing him keenly. Are you the one? Charles was going to say boy, but that did not seem to apply exactly to this great young fellow. Are you the one who carried the teacher's baggage to the stagecoach when she went away so suddenly? Charles had studied the question carefully. He did not know by what name Dawn had gone, or that she had used his or kept her own maiden name, or had assumed still another. He would not cast a shadow of reflection upon her, or was his chance of finding her by using the wrong name. Therefore, he called her the teacher. On acquiring about her at the inn where the stagecoach stopped, he had been referred to at once to Peggy Gillett, who immediately guided him to the point in the road where he could see the Butterworth house. Daniel started and looked the stranger over suspiciously. There was something about this clean-faced, long, strong fellow that reminded him a little, just a very little, of the scoundrel who had frightened the teacher away. Yet he instinctively liked the man, and felt that he was to be trusted. Rags too, generally suspicious of strangers, having smelling and snapping about this man, and now stood viking his tail with a smile on his homely, shaggy face. Rags' judgment was generally to be trusted. I might be, responded Daniel slowly, and then again I mightn't. Who are you? Charles understood that the boy was testing him, and he liked him the better for it. His heart warmed toward the one who had a protected Dawn. That's all right, responded Charles heartily. I'm ready to identify myself. I'm the one who loves her more than my life, and I've done nothing for a year but search for her. He let Daniel see the death of his meeting in his eyes. As the boy looked keenly, wistfully into his face, Daniel was satisfied, and with a great sigh of renunciation he said, I knew it. I told her so I knew you would be half crazy hunting her. You're the one she said she belonged to, aren't you? A great light broke over Charles' face, bringing out all the beauty of his soul, all the lines of character that's suffering and set upon his youth, and that light had brought into his fiber. Oh, Daniel, bless you! Did she tell you that? Yes, she belongs to me, and I to her. Oh, if you only tell me where to find her, you'll make me the happiest man on earth. He grasped the boy's hand and his firm smooth one, and they stood as if picking a life compact, each glad of the other's touch. Daniel, I feel as if you are an angel of light, broke out Charles. The angel in blue homespun lifted his eyes to the stranger's face, and was glad, since he might not have the one he loved, that she belonged to this other. He had done the best he could do for her, and his was the part of sacrifice. I can't tell you just where she is, said Daniel gravely. I thought maybe you'd know from this. She sent me two books since she went away, and they're both postmarked in New York. That's all I know. He pulled out a tattered paper that I wrapped in parcel, and together they studied the marks. Charles' face grew grave. New York was a large place even in those days. Yet it was more definite than the whole United States, which had been its field of action thus far. He would not despair. He would take heart of grace and go forward. Daniel, said he, handing back the paper to its owner, with a delicate feeling that the boy had the first right to it, said he was the link between them. Will you go to New York tonight with me? And help me to find her. Dan's face lit up until he was actually handsome. Me? Rags whacked his tail hard and gave a sharp little bark, as if to say, me? Yes, both of you, said Charles joyously. He felt as if he were on the right track at last, and his soul could fairly shout for happiness. Rags might do a lot toward finding her. He'd track her anywhere. It was all I could do to get him away from her when she'd gone into the stagecoach to go away. Dan looked down at his four-footed companion lovingly, and Rags lifted one ear in recognition of the compliments, meanwhile keeping wistful eyes on the stranger. It almost looked as if he understood. Charles stooped down and patted him warmly, and the ugly little dog wriggled all over with great happiness. Of course you must go with us then, said Charles. Yes, and the way he lit into that dressed up chap that came and frightened her away with something fine, put on Dan. Tell me about it, said Charles. Dan gave a brief account of Harrington's visit to the village and Don's departure. Charles' face was grave and sad as they spoke of his brother. Harry Tingxeth was too recent and too terrible to admit of bitter memories. He kept his head bent down toward Rags, who was luxuriating in the stranger's fondling while Daniel was talking. Then he gave the dog a final pat and stood up. Daniel, said he? That man was my brother, and he died of cholera three days ago. He died wrong, and made a lot of trouble, and he almost broke my father's heart. But his death was an awful one, and perhaps you'd better not think about his part in this matter anymore. He's gone beyond our reach. I didn't know, said Dan awkwardly. I'm sorry I said anything. Oh, it's alright, said Charles heartedly. I saw how you felt and I thought I'd better tell you all about it. I need your help, and it's best to be frank. And now? How about it? Will you go with me to help find her? Will your family object? I'll see to the expense, of course, and we'll make it as pleasant as I can for you. I'll go, said Dan briefly, but his tone meant a great deal. If he had lived in these days, he would have answered, Sure! With that peculiar inflection that implies his whole soul's loyalty. Charles understood the embarrassed heartedness, and took the reply as it was intended. How soon could we start, he asked anxiously. Every moment meant something to him, and he was impatient to be off. He took out his watch. It was quarter to six. They told me there was a night coach picking connection with the early but for New York. It starts at seven o'clock. Would that be too soon for you? Well, that's alright, said Daniel, and a voice that was hoarse with excitement. I just gotta change my clothes. Will you come in? Suppose I wait on the front stoop? Suggested Charles, seeing the embarrassment in the boy's face. Alright, said Daniel. I won't be long. Mrs. Butterwood looked up anxiously as Daniel came into the kitchen. She had been watching the interview from the side window. I'm going to New York with one of the teacher's friends, Ma. He said in the same tone he would have told her if he was going to the village store. Have I got a clean shirt? To New York? I called the woman who herself had never been outside of the county. To New York? I gasped. Now, you look out, Daniel. You can't tell about strangers. He may want you to get away from your friends and rob you. Well, what is there to rob? I'd like to know. He's welcome to all he can get. Oh, you can never tell, said his mother, shaking her head fearfully. You better take care, Daniel. What's the matter with you, Ma? Didn't I tell you he's a friend of Ole Miss Montgomery? She told me all about him. We're going out to New York together to see her. Where's my shirt? Look, he's invited me. You need to worry. I may be gone a few days. I'll write you a letter when I get there. I'm going to take the dog. We're going on a seven o'clock stage, and maybe I'll find out, you know, tell them I'm going to college. I'm going to college this fall if there's any way. I don't know whether he's had any supper. You might give him a donut. He's not on the front stoop. Say, where's my clean shirt, Ma? Let's get him late. Daniel had thrown off his coat and was struggling with a refractory buckle of his suspenders as he talked. His mother was roused at last due her duties and brought the shirt, with which he vanished to the loft. Then the mother, partly to reassure herself about the stranger, filled the plate with cold ham, bread and butter, a generous slice of apple pie, and three or four fat donuts, and cautiously opened the door. Rags, not having the changes closed, had remained with Charles. It was enjoying a friendly hand on his head while he sat alert, waiting for what was to happen next. When Dan appeared, things would move he knew, and he meant to be in them. He wasn't going to trust any verbal promises. He was going with them if he had to do it on the sly. Charles arose and received the bountiful supper graciously. When Mrs. Butler saw the manner of the stranger who sat on her front saddle, she was ashamed to be handing him a plate outside as if he were a tramp. Dana said you wouldn't come in, she said hospitably, and I couldn't bear not to give you a bite to eat. You should have happened long sooner while supper was hot. We all thought a lot of Mrs. Montgomery. Was you her brother perhaps? While she had prepared the lunch, she had a question within herself, what sort of friend this might be with whom Dan was going to visit the teacher. If Dan wanted to make up the teacher, why did he not go alone? Charles perceived that Daniel had not explained to his mother and keeping his own counsel returned pleasantly. Oh no, not her brother. And he began to tell Mrs. Butterworth how glad he was to have her son's company on his visit to New York. His manner was so reassuring that she decided he was all right. And as Dan came down, his face shining from much soap, and his hair plastered as smoothly as his rough curls would allow, she said pleasantly, You'll see in my ball you don't get into bad company down in New York, won't you? I'm worried sort of. For as Paul said last night, there was color around. Charles' face sobered in an instant. We'll take good care of each other, Mrs. Butterworth. Don't you worry. I'm much obliged for you letting me have Daniel for company, and I'll try to make him have a pleasant time. The village people stared at Dan as he got into this stage with a stranger. They wondered where he was going. One of the boys made a bold dislike after the coach and asked him, but he got little satisfaction. Just running down to New York for a few days, Dan answered nonchalantly, as if it were a matter of everyday occurrence. Amid the envious stares of the boys, the coach drove away into the evening and Daniel sat silently behind his companion. Wondering at himself, I start throbbing greatly that he might within a few hours see the girl who made such a difference in his life. Daniel, said Charles, suddenly breaking the silence that it fell upon them, though each knew the other was not sleeping. By what name did she go? Your mother spoke of her as Miss Montgomery. Was that the name she gave? Yes, said Daniel, wondering. Mary Montgomery. It was her mother's name, said Charles, reverently. Donna talked to him of her mother on their wedding trip. Daniel, there is something more that perhaps I ought to tell you. Did you tell you that she and I are married? No, said Dan. His voice was shaking as he tried to take in the thought. It was as if he were expecting an unbearable pain in an earth that had already throbbed its life out and was at rest. He was surprised to find how natural it seemed. Then he stammered out. I guess I must have known, though. She said she belonged to you, and so nobody else could take care of her. Thank you for telling me that, said Charles. He laid his hand warmly on Dan's. The boy liked his touch. Rags he was sleeping at their feet, nestled closer to them both with a sleepy whine. He was content now that he was really on his way. I guess, said Dan jokingly. I guess I better tell you the whole, because I like you and you're the right kind. You seem like what she ought to have, and I'm glad it's you. But it was kind of hard, you see. I'd like to take care of her myself. I didn't know about you until she told me, and though I knew, of course, I wasn't much to look at beside her. I could have done a lot for her, and I mean to go to college yet, anyway, just to show her. You see, I guess it ain't right to go along with you to see her, and not tell you what I said to her. I told her I loved her, and it was true, too. I'd have died for her if it was necessary. If that makes any difference to you, Rags and I'll get out and walk back now. I thought I ought to tell you. I couldn't help loving her, could I? When she did so much for me. You see, I never knew about you. It was a long speech for the silent Dan to make, but Charles' warm hand grasped through it all helped wonderfully, as well as Dan's growing liking for Don's husband. Bless you, Daniel, said Charles, throwing his arm about his companion's shoulders, as he used to do with his chums in college. You just sit tight still where you are. It was noble and honest of you to tell me that. I believe in my heart. I like you all the better for it. We're brothers, you see. For I love her that way too, and it gives me a lot of comfort to know you could understand me. But, old fellow, I don't quite know how to say it. I'm deeply sorry that your love has brought you only pain. And I feel all the more warmly toward you that you tried to help her when you knew she belonged to someone else. I never can thank you enough. I couldn't have helped it, said Dan gruffly. If anybody loved her, they'd have to take care of her. If it killed them. Dan, old fellow, I love you, said Charles impulsively. You can't know what this is to me. That you took care of her when I couldn't. I love you always, and I shall never forget what you've done for me. Now, begin at the beginning and tell me all you know about her, won't you? I'm hungry to hear. Dan found himself telling the whole story of how Don had conquered him, the ringleader of mischief in the school, made him her slave, and helped him up to a plane where higher ambitions and no-blur standards had changed his whole idea of life. As he listened to the homely, boyish phrases and read between the lines the pathos of Don's struggles, Charles found tears standing in his eyes to think his little girl wife had been through so much all by herself, without him near to help and comfort. Would he ever, ever be able to make up to her for it? He expressed his thought clumsily to Dan, and the boy, all leagering out with sympathy and loving Charles as loyally as Don said royally. I'll calculate one side of your face, we'll make her forget it all. At least the way is that's the way it looks to me. They talked at intervals all night. Charles drew from Daniel his ambition to get an education, and be worthy to be the friend of such a teacher as he had had. The boy said shyly, and then added, and you too if you'll let me. And there in the early breaking of the morning light, the two young men made a solemn compact of friendship through life. When the sun shone forth and touched the hills, glitzing the Hudson in the distance, Daniel set up and looked about him with a new interest in life, and a happier feeling in his heart than he had since Don went away. Three days they spent in New York searching for Don. The paper that had wrapped Don's book that took to the post office first, and by careful inquiry were able to discover in what quarter of the city the package was mailed though. Though of course this was very slight information, as she might have been far from her living place when she mailed it. They also discovered the store where the books were bought, for Charles had had the foresight to send Daniel back for them before they started. The clerk who had sold them to her remembered her and described her as beautiful, with black curls outside a white bonnet and a dark silk frock. He said she had sad eyes and looked thin and pale. This troubled Charles more than he was willing to admit to Don. Having narrowed their clues at this most indefinite point, they held the consultation and decided that the only thing to do was to walk around the quarter of the city and see if they could get sight of her. Or possibly Rags would get on a scent of her footsteps, and some spotless traveled than others. It was almost a hopeless search, yet they started bravely on the hunt and talked to Rags in a way that would have made any ordinary dog beside himself. Charles had with him the gloves that Don had dropped on the floor beside the bed when she fled from his home. He always carried them with him in his breast pocket. It took them out and let Rags smell them. Then Dad said, Rags, go find teacher. Teacher Rags, go, go find teacher. Rags sniffed and looked wistfully in their faces, then barked and started on a sniffing tour all about them. His homely yellow-brown face wearing a look of dog anxiety. He thought he comprehended what they wanted, but was not sure. He had felt a great loss since the teacher went away. Was it possible they expected him to find her? During the three days, they haunted the streets of the city, both day and evening, and Rags was quite worn out with sniffing. More so twice he thought he had found a trail, but it came to nothing, and he scurred ejectively on ahead, hoping his followers had not noticed him bark. On the morning of the fourth day, they turned into a narrow street, which is almost like a lane compared to other streets. There's only a tiny gloomy houses and noisy foreign-looking people stood in the doorways or conversed across the street. It seemed the most unlikely neighborhood for their search, and Charles was half of mind to turn back and take another street. But almost at the entrance to the street, Rags had gone quite wild and noticed his way down rapidly, the uneven pavement, until he stopped beside a humble doorstep, and went nosing about and yelping in great delight. The door was closed, but he tried the steps and even sniffed under the crack, then came bounding back to his companions. What have you found, Rags boy? said Charles half-heartedly. He did not believe that he would find any trace of dawn here. He thinks he's found her, said Dan convincingly. He never acts like that without a reason. Rags, find teacher. Where is she, Rags? Answered Rags sharply, as much as to say, why don't you open the door and find her yourself? An old woman came to the door and looked sharply at the dog on her step. Charles took off his hat. We were looking for a friend, ma'am, who was stopping in this neighborhood somewhere and we did not know her address. Our doll thinks he has found a trace of her because he is probably mistaken. You don't have him to have noticed anyone near here, a young woman with dark eyes and dark curling hair. Lately comes to the city, not more than two months ago, perhaps? You don't want to mean pretty ma'am Montgomery. Bless her heart, would you? The old woman asked quizzically, surveying the two. But Rags had stayed not on the order of his going. He had dashed past the old woman and up the stairs to the floor above. Look at the little vomit, said the old woman, forgetting her question and dashing after the dog, thus missing the startled look that came into the faces of both young men. But after a series of short, sharp barks, Rags returned as quickly as he had gone, almost knocking the old lady down her rickety stairs, in his delight and burying in his mouth a fragment of gray cloth, which he brought and laid triumphantly at his master's feet. Dan stooped and picked it up almost reverently and smoothed the frayed edges. It was a bit of Don's gray school dress that he had torn off where the facing was worn and it caught her foot as she walked. Dan recognized the cloth at once. Charles had never seen the gown, but he saw that bit of cloth had some significance to Dan. He rushed in after the old lady. He would now descend at the stairs, wrathfully behind the dog. Tell me where this Miss Montgomery is, please. He said as quietly as he could. He had followed so many clues and seen them turn into nothing before his eyes. He scarcely could dare hope now. His heart was beating wildly. Was he to see Don again at last? Ah, and I wished I knew the darling, said the girl, old woman. She left me yesterday morning. And it's true, I missed the sight of her sweet smile in her pretty ways. Ah, she was a young woman of quality, was she? And I, says to me, daughter, says, ah, Kate. Bound the ways of her. The pretty way is all Mary Montgomery, says, ah. For it's not soon you'll see such a lady again. Has she been here in your house, do you say? Asked Charles anxiously. He felt he must keep very calm or he might lose the clue. Yes, sir, as she was, she occupied me back second floor, and a sweet lady never walked the earth. As she was hunting for work for her pretty soft hands to do, what she could have get no worse, sir, more is the pity. Would you like us to come up and take a look at the room? It's as neat a room as you'll find in the street, if I do say I shouldn't. Though a bit small for two. For there's the front second floor we'll be vacant tomorrow, and only as should I mow the wake. Daniel held the fragment of cloth. It's the frock she wore to school, he said. He spoke hoarsely and handed it as though it belonged to the dead. It seemed terrible to him to have found where she had been and not find her. They followed the old woman upstairs, scarcely hearing her dissertation, nor realizing that she took damn for a possible rumor. The room was neat as the woman had said, but bare, so bare and gloomy. Nothing but blank walls and chimneys to be seen from the tiny window, where the sun streamed in unhindered across the meager bed, and deal chair and table, which were the only furnishings. Charles' heart grew tender with pity, and his eyes filled with tears. As he looked upon it all and realized that his wife had slept there on that hard bed, and had for a time called that dreary spot home. He glanced involuntarily out of the window, looking at the garbage in the backyards below, and the unpleasant odors that arose. And remember the warnings and precautions with which the papers had been filled, even before the caller had become so close to them. He shuddered to think what might have happened to Dawn. But where is she gone? He asked the old woman. Yes, that's all we want to know, said Dan. Yes, where? Barked rags behind the old woman's heels, which made her jump and explain, Ach the varmin, until Dan called the dog to her side. She's gone, left me at no reason at all, saying that she couldn't find work and her money most gone. As soon as she went out that door says, You better get home to your friends if you can't find them. It's bad times for a pretty young thing like you, and you with your hands that soft. But she only smiled at me like a white rose and was away, saying she see, and she taking all the wiles for the little I've been able to do for her. Me that's a water and me self decay. Nothing more could they get from the woman though, though they tried with money and questions. Dawn had been there for two months and had gone on every day hunting for work. She had come back every night weary and discouraged, but always with a smile. At last she had come home with the newspaper, her face whiter than usual, and as the old widow had put it said, Mrs. O'Donnell, I'm away in the barn, for I'm thinking it's best, and away she goes. The two young men turned away at last, after having made Rags smell all around the room. He insisted upon their taking a full bit of paper that he found on the floor by the window, as if it were something precious belonging to her. The maid Mrs. O'Donnell could buy after Charles were giving her something to solace her for losing two prospective rumors and went out to search again. Rags proceeded them down the street, following us in rapidly until he reached the corner, where he seemed in some perplexity for a time. Finally he chose the street leading to the river, and going more slowly and quickly, some fans zigzagging and some fans going back to make sure. He brought them at last to the boat landing. Perhaps they thought she might have followed the advice of the old woman and gone back to her own home region. Who knew? With heavy hearts, they said about finding what boats had left the door of the day before, about the hour the old woman had said that the girl had left her house. But the morning boat of the day before had just come in and was lying by for repairs. After some questioning, the captain professed to recall such a passenger as they described, but as all the decks have been scrubbed, Rags with his eager nose was unable to corroborate the captain's testimony. Charles and Dan lost no time in securing passage on the boat, which was a stale that evening for Albany, where the captain said he was sure the young lady had gone up the evening before. The remainder of the afternoon, they spent in making inquiries in every direction, leaving written messages directed to Miss Mary Montgomery and putting notices in the various city papers. Rags meantime was much annoyed and disturbed by their digression. He felt that the boat was the place to stay, he was satisfied they were on the right track. If he had been managing the expedition, he would have had the boat start at once. When it finally did leave the wharf, he sat up on deck with his forefeet on the railing and barked to satisfaction, then settled down to rest of the feet of his two beloved ones, with a smile of satisfaction on its grisly face. The day before Don left New York, the city papers officially announced that the cholera had reached the city. Their columns were filled with admonitions, and the symptoms of the disease from start to finish were plainly told. Everyone was ordered to clean up and keep clean. There seemed to be nothing but cholera news in the paper. A full report was given of every case, and two long columns reported the progress of the disease in other states and cities. As Don passed weirdly away from an office where she had spent the entire day waiting for a man, who she hoped might use his influence to get her a chance to teach a small school in a country district, but who did not come, she caught the cry of the news boys. New York commercial advertiser, all about the cholera. Well, it was not often she spent her hoarded pennies for a paper, but a sudden desire to know the truth about the fearful epidemic seized her. She bought a paper and turned to the general report column. Almost at once, her eye caught the name of a town, not far from where her father lived, with a report of three cases of cholera. She read on down the column, and suddenly her heart stood still with horror. Sloansville, she read. A man who gave his name as Harrington Winthrop died here last week of cholera. He was in an advanced stage of the disease when he arrived in a hired carriage and died a few hours later. His father and brother were sent for and arrived before his death. This case has caused a panic among the Negroes in the vicinity, and there have been a few suspicious cases of illness, which are being carefully watched. Everything is being done to prevent a further spread of the disease. Dawn felt a sudden weakness and hurried back to a rigid boarding place to lie down. She did not feel like eating any supper, though the old woman prepared some tea and toast and brought it up to her. Dawn lay panting on her hard little bed, and the hot breath of the night came in at her window, relevant of all the departed dinners of the neighborhood. The stench of garbage sometimes varied the atmosphere, as the faint breeze died away, and the noises of a careless, happy-go-lucky community jangled all about her. She thought of the rules of cleanliness that had been laid down in the papers, and of the probability that they would not be carried out in the street. She pictured herself sick with cholera, with no one but the poor old woman to wait upon her, and no doctor. The smells, the awful smells, would be going on and on, and she would be unable to get up and get away from them. She thought of the hot, hot sun that would stream in on her curtain-less window when the day broke again, and wondered why she had come to this terrible city, where there was no work and no place in the world for a lonely pilgrim whom nobody wanted. Then over her rolled a deep relief at the thought that Harrington Winthrop would trouble her no more, though it seemed awful to rejoice in what must have been a terrible death. Yet, it could not but make life freer for her, for she would have one thing less to fear. Gradually, as she thought about it, another fear seized her. Charles, his brother, her husband, had been with him when he died. Perhaps he too would take it and die, and she would never know, never see him again in his life. She would be left alone, alone in this awful world where she had no friends, and none to love her. Save a poor boy to whose kind heart she had brought only pain. Why not go back to the neighborhood where Charles was? She need not let herself be known. She could surely find some secluded place where she could earn enough to keep her, yet where she might find out how he was, and maybe catch a glimpse of him now and then. It was strange this idea had not entered her mind before. It had never seemed to her possible that she could go back. But now the specter of death had made her see things in a different light. She wanted to get back to the greenness and the coolness of the country, and most of all, she wanted to know if Charles was living and was well. After that, it did not matter what became of her. But now she knew she was going back, and she was going at once in the morning. She went down to tell the old lady her purpose, and after that she slept. The next morning she gathered up her few belongings and took the boat for Albany. She had no subtle purpose of where she would go after reaching her objective point. She did not know the name of the town where Charles lived. Strangely enough, it had never been mentioned in her hearing, and she had not thought to ask. She is beginning to feel as if she must have been half asleep when a good many important events in her life happened. Was she half asleep now also, she wondered idly. As they passed the old school of friend Ruth, Don looked out hungrily and longed inexpressively to be a girl again, and knowing little of the hardness of life. When the boat reached Albany, she took the first stage coach that appeared without asking where it went. Her money was almost gone, but she paid the fare without a paying. What did anything matter now that she lived out of New York? Everywhere the talk was of cholera, and her heart grew sick as she heard the details of the dread disease, and long, minute descriptions of how best to nurse it. The stage coach reached a pretty village late in the afternoon, and Don left it to take a walk and rest herself from the long sitting. She had but a few dollars left, perhaps she ought not to use any more for fare, but stay where she was if she liked it or walk further. She did not feel like eating anything, so she grasped her little bundle of well worn garments and walked down the village street. There was a white church with a wide porch, and stairs in front leading to the gallery. At the side was the graveyard, its wicked gate shaded by a great weeping willow. Just inside was a seat under the tree. Don tried the gate and found it unlatched, and she went in and wandered about among the graves, reading here and there a name idly, and wondered how it would seem to lie down and sleep in that quiet resting place. Deep in the center, so far from the street that she could not be seen, she sank in the grass at the foot of a green mound, and laid her face down upon the blossoming myrtle. How nice it would be if this were a great free inn where strangers might come and lie down, and the servants would bring each one a green blanket for covering, and a white stone at the head of his pillow, and let him sleep in peace and quietness forever. She was so weary, so weary, body and soul. At last she roused herself, and looking up at the stone above her, draped the name of startled senses. Mary Montgomery, born 1798, died 1825. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Now, indeed, dawned was wide awake. This, then, was her mother's grave. She verified the dates with her own memory. She traced the letters tenderly with her fingers. She took in the significance of the quotation and read her mother's story as she had never been told it by anyone. Her mind, made keen by suffering, could understand and sympathize. Her young heart ached with longing for the mother who was gone from her. How might they have comforted each other if they could only have been permitted to stay together? A little later she moved her position and saw that there was a smaller mound beyond her mother's grave, and that the white stone read, Carol Montgomery Van Rasseler, aged two years and nine months. He shall gather the lambs in his arms. Before this dawn, dawn knelt in wonder. Had she then had a brother? And how much more of the story was there? Oh, if she had only asked her father more questions, perhaps some day she would dare to go to him and find out many things. Not now, not till she was older and had forgotten some of the troubles she had worn. Poor child! She knew not that his body had been resting beneath a stately monument these ten days past. Beyond her was her grandfather's stone, and beside it her grandmother's, much older and moss covered. In the same enclosure were many other Montgomery's who had lived and died. Some of their names she thought she remembered. She sighed wearily, she sighed wearily, and going back to her mother's grave, touched the letters of her name gently, as if she would have bit them farewell, picked a spray of the blossoming myrtle, and went sadly out into a lonely world again. She could not stay here, it was too sorrowful. She walked to the next village that afternoon, and took another coach, the first that came along, going she knew not where. When she reached the end of the route the next morning, she took up her walk again, resolving to spend no more money for riding. She did not realize how long she had walked, but sometime in the afternoon she came into a familiar region. She could not tell where she was at first, but as she drew near the village, she recognized it as her native town. At first she was frightened, and stopped by the roadside to think what to do. Then a great longing to see the garden once more, and creep into the old summer house came over her. Scarding the woods on the outside of the village, and going around by the sawmill, she at last came to the hedge at the lower end of her father's garden, and slipped through the summer house as she had wished. The mansion looked quiet. No one seemed moving about, but then it had always seemed that way. She had no fear that anyone would discover her, for the hedge was thick and tall, and had not been cut lately. She crept into her old corner in the greenness and quiet. The cushions were there as they used to be, but they looked weather-beaten, as if no one had been there in a long time. She brushed them all, spread her mantle upon them, and lay down. It was very still all about, and she soon slept. Sometime in the night she awoke with a feeling of chills and loneliness. It was night she knew about the darkness, and a sense of something strange and sad brooded in the air. But she was very weary, and soon slept again. When she awoke again, it was late morning. She knew by the sun that the day was well begun, and she was impressed almost immediately by the quietness of her surroundings. There seemed to be no one about. Not a sound came from the house. The bees and the cicadas droned, and wetted their hot sights in the burning day, but otherwise there was a torrid silence. The little hedged summer house was not far from the street. It seemed strange to the girl that she heard no one passing. She got up and made herself as tidy as the circumstances allowed, and then stole towards the house, keeping within hiding of the hedges. She had no mind to let anyone see her. But a strange fascination led her to look again upon her old home. The shutters were all staring wide as if forgotten, and the front doors stood open, but no one was about. Dawn wondered if the old servants were still there, but no sound came from the direction of the kitchen. She stole nearer, though her judgment warned her to go away if she did not wish to be seen and recognized. A power stronger than she realized seemed drawing her on. With sudden impulse, she stepped softly up to the front door and peeped in. She had no deep love for this old house, for the memories of her mother there had been dimmed and marred by later happenings. But Dawn had been a wanderer so many months now, that even to look upon a place where she had once had a right to be was good. The hall looked much as ever, though there was no hat lying on the polished mahogany table, and a coat of dust showed clearly in the stream of sunshine from the front door. Her father's walking sticks were not in their accustomed place either. She wandered a little, and then was impressed again by the deep stillness that lay over everything. What could it mean? Was no one about? Surely they had not gone off and left the house alone and the front door wide open. The curious longing for a sight of something familiar which had brought her thus far drew her on. Cautiously, she stepped into the hall, and peered into this room and that, the parlor, the library, the dining room, and back through the servants' quarters into the kitchen. All were empty. The fire was out, and a heap of ashes lay on the earth, as if no one had made an attempt to put things to rights for hours. There were unwashed dishes on the kitchen table, and on the breadboard, beside the knife, lay half a loaf of bread which had molded in the warm moist atmosphere. It was all so strange. What could have happened? With a growing sense that the house was empty now, Dawn went upstairs, looking first into her own old room and the guest rooms, and coming at last to the door of that which had been her stepmother's. It was closed, and she hesitated to open it. What need had she to go in there anyway? It could profit her nothing. If her stepmother was there, Dawn did not wish to see her. The girl paused an instant. Then her soft tread turned back again to go downstairs, but a low sound, like a moan, caught her ear, and something made her turn again and open the door. Though cold chills were creeping down her spine and a frenzy of fear had seized upon her. There, upon the high four-poster bed lay her stepmother, her eyes sunken into deep sockets, her cheeks hollow, her nose thin and pointed, her whole face pinched in blue, with lines of agony in her expression. Dawn felt her heart leap in fear, but she went forward. There seemed nothing else to do. The sunken eyes turned toward her dolly, and the blue lips uttered a low moan. Then, suddenly, the sick woman fixed her gaze upon the girl's face in growing horror, and a livid look came into her face. Is that you at last? She asked, in a deep, hoarse voice that sounded strange and unnatural. Are we both dead? A cold perspiration had come out upon the girl, and the awfulness of the situation seemed to be taking her senses away, but she tried to speak coolly and still the wild beating of her heart. Yes, I've come, said Dawn, but we're not dead. What is the matter? Are you sick? I've found the front door open, and no one around. They've all gone and left me, moaned the woman, beginning to turn her head with a strange restless movement from side to side. They rushed off like frightened cattle. You'll go, too, I suppose. When you know I've got the cholera. Yes, go quick. I don't want to do you any more harm than I have already. Oh! The sentence broke in a cry of agony, and the sick woman writhed in terrible contortions, which passing left her weak and almost lifeless. The girl's heart was filled with horror, but she took off her bonnet and cape, and laid down her bundle. No, I'm not going to leave you, she said sadly, almost dullly. I'm not afraid, and besides, it doesn't matter about me anyway. Have you had the doctor? The woman shook her head. The agony was not all past. There wasn't anyone to go for him, she murmured weakly, tossing restlessly again. Oh, I'm so thirsty. Can you get me some water? Where's father? Asked on, wondering if he, too, had deserted her. Didn't you know he was dead? Asked the sick woman in that strange, hoarse voice. No, Dawn said, shuddering. Everybody seemed to be dying. Would she die, too? She hurried to the old medicine closet, and in a moment returned with a canfore bottle and some lumps of sugar, and administered several drops of canfore. The patient's hands were cold and blue. Dawn tucked her up with blankets warmly. You lie still, she said in a business-like tone. I'll get some hot water bottles for your hands and feet, and then I'll call the doctor. It isn't worthwhile for you to stay here and get the cholera, said the woman plaintively. I'm not going to get over it. I've known it all night. It was coming on yesterday. I tried to straighten up the house, but I was too dizzy and weak. The servants all went away when they heard me say I didn't feel well. There have been several other cases. But Dawn did not hear all her stepmother said, for she hurried down to get a fire started. It was no easy task for her unaccustomed hands to strike the fire from the tender box. And after one or two fruitless efforts she decided to waste no more time, but to run to the neighbors and borrow a kettle of water, at the same time sending a message for the doctor. She was terribly frightened by her stepmother's appearance, and knew she must be very ill indeed. It seemed as if all possible haste was necessary if she would help to save her life. Upstairs, the sick woman was tossing him money. The sudden appearance of the girl who had been the occasion of so much trouble in her life seemed to make the agony all the greater. She knew that she was face to face with death. And now to have the girl she had injured meet her almost on the threshold of the other world and minister to her was double torment. If only she could do something to make amends for the wrong she had done, before she left the world and went to meet her just retribution. Her fevered brain tried to think. What was there she could do? The girl had come and would probably take the disease and die. Her husband might never know she was here. No one would find it out until she was dead. If only she, Mrs. Van Rensler, had some way of letting Charles Winthrop know that his wife had come home, if she could get up and go out into the street and beg someone to take him a message. But her strength was gone. And the agony might come upon her at any moment. She would have to do it at once or the girl would return and stop her. Could she try? All her life she had been a woman of iron will. She had made herself and everyone accept her husband been to it. She summoned it now. She would try. She would make one supreme effort to right the great wrong of her life. If in the other world to which she knew she was going in a few short hours, there was an opportunity to meet the husband she had loved, as she had loved nothing else on earth besides herself, she would like to tell him that she had tried, that at the last hour she had tried to make some amends. With the extraordinary strength which mind sometimes gives to body at times of great necessity, as in cases of soldiers mortally wounded fighting to the end, the woman crawled out of the bed and dragged herself over to the desk. Her eyes were bright with her great purpose and blazed like sunken fires. Her gray, thin hair straggled down upon the collar of the old dressing gown she had put on when first taken sick. She seized her quill pen and a sheet of paper that lay there and with cramped shaking hand, wrote Dawn is here and signed her name Maria Van Rensler. The scroll was almost unreadable, but she dared not try to write it over. She dared not add another word. Her time was short. Her strength already was failing. She had yet to get the message into someone's hands. Perhaps even now she would fail. She crushed the foals together with her cold fingers wrote. Charles went through and the address and then taught her to cross the room to the door. She almost fell as she reached the stair landing. The dizzy, blinding blackness that seemed pressing upon her almost overwhelmed her. She felt the pain and torment surging back, but she fought it off and would not yield. This was her last chance to make amends. Her last chance. She set it over to herself as she clung to the banisters and got down the stairs clumsily. If Dawn had been in the house, she must have heard her. It looked like miles to the front gate as the sick woman came out on the fiazza, but somehow she got there. A queer, ghastly figure of death clinging to the gate post with a letter and a purse in her hand. In the distance she saw a negro approaching. He was scuttling along with a frightened gate as if he wished to hurry through the street. She felt her strength going. If she could only stand up till he reached her. It seemed to her hours before he came to the gate. She had kept back out of sight, instinctively feeling he would be scared away if he saw her. Take that to the post office or God will punish you. She said in the deep horse voice the disease had given her and thrust the letter and the purse upon him. The negro stopped with a yellow fright, but her words had the desired effect. She had worked upon a superstition of his race. He dared not disobey her command. Taking the letter and the purse in his thumb and finger, that he might not come in contact with them more than was necessary, for a glance at the face of the woman, had warned him of her malady. He ran at top speed to the post office. His eyes rolled with horror as he told of the old woman who had accosted him. He felt as if his days were numbered and he fled the village immediately, not caring where he went so he got away from the haunting memory of the living dead who had given him the letter. With almost superhuman effort, Mrs. Van Rensler turned to go back to the house, but the iron will could carry her no further. Her strength was gone. She had accomplished her errand and had come to an end. She had done her best to make amends for her sin. She sank unconscious by the gateway. Meantime, Dawn had hurried through the hedge by a short cut to the nearest neighbors, but failed to get any response to her urgent knock. She went around the house and perceived that it was closed. The family must be away. She flew to the neighbor just below with the same result, and going on farther down the street to four other houses found no one in sight. At the fifth, some distance from her home. A woman stepped fearfully out of the kitchen door and agreed to send word to the doctor, but shook her head at the demand for hot water. She could not spare her kettle. She had sickness in her house herself. No, she didn't think Dawn could get any at the next house either. Everyone that could get away had gone since the cholera struck the town. Then the woman went in and shut the door, and with new horror, Dawn sped back to try her hand again at making the fire. The necessity was so strongly upon her now that she fairly made that fire burn, and at last had a kettle of hot water to carry upstairs. Dawn was so intent upon carrying her great steaming kettle to the front stairs without spilling the contents that she failed to hear the wheels of a carriage upon the gravel-dried outside. It was not until she had carried the kettle into the bedroom and put it on the hearth, and then turned towards the bed that she discovered the bed was empty. A great horror filled her. Trumbling, she knew not why. She quickly glanced into the other rooms on that floor. It seemed almost as if the pestilence had become a living being that could snatch people bodily away from the earth. She seemed to have no voice with which to call, yet she felt upon her a necessity of great haste. Perhaps her stepmother had gone downstairs in search of her. She hurried down a few steps, then stopped, startled. Someone was coming into the front door, staggering under the heavy burden of an inert human form. It looked to vivid blot of darkness against the background of the hot summer sunshine outside. Dawn hurried down with white face and horrified eyes, and saw that it was the old family doctor in that he held her stepmother in his arms. A sudden pang of remorse went through her heart that she had been away from the sick one so long. Yet how could she have helped it? Was Mrs. Van Rensler perhaps trying to find her, or was she seeking aid and had fallen, by the way? Oh, why did she get up? She exclaimed regretfully. I came just as soon as I could get the water hot. Then she caught hold of the heavy form of the unconscious woman and helped with all her young strength to lift and drag her up to her room again. She might have been out of her head, child, said the doctor kindly, as if in answer to her exclamation. He was searching in his medicine case for a certain bottle as he spoke. His breath was coming in short, quick gasp from the exertion of carrying the sick woman upstairs, and the perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead. His face looked old and haggard, and his voice was that of one who had seen much recent sorrow. He walked rapidly after a few keen questions and giving brief directions. He nodded approvingly at the kettle of hot water. Sent dawn for one or two articles he needed, then when he had done all he could, and the sick woman was breathing more naturally, he turned and looked at dawn. She had told him in a few words how she had found the house when she arrived, and the little she had done. He looked her through with his kind, tired eyes, noted the sweet sad face, the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of the thin cheeks, and shook his head doubtfully. You're young for this sort of thing, he said gruffly. It's a hard case, and her only hope is good nursing. I'm afraid you're not equal to it. You'll break down yourself. Oh no, I'm quite strong, said dawn, bravely trying to smile. Well, I don't know how it can be helped, he mused. I don't know of a single person I can get to help you. It may be patients how could come if she can get away from the petty bones. I'll see what I can do. I'll stop and send a line to Mrs. Van Rensler's sister. She'll likely come down by tomorrow. You know she was here when your father died. Do you think you could get along tonight alone, in case I can't get anyone? I'll try to get back here before dark if I can, and bring someone to stay with you. I haven't had a wink of sleep for 48 hours, except what I caught on the road. I'll get back as soon as I can. Dawn assured him she would do her best, though her heart quaked within her at thought of staying alone with a death-like sleeper upon the bed. The doctor gave a few directions and cautions and hurried away. The house settled into quiet, and the hours stretched into torturing length. Dawn slipped downstairs to find some food, for she was growing faint with long fasting. But there was nothing in the house fit to eat. The bread was moist and sticky with a damp, warm atmosphere, and she had no heart to cook anything. She had arranged the fire to keep the kettle boiling, for hot water was an essential in the sick room. Now she caught sight of a basket of eggs and dropped several into the boiling water. These would keep her alive and be easy to eat. The afternoon was a long agony. She spent most of the time applying hot cloths and shaping the skin of her stepmother. From time to time the woman would almost waken or moan and toss in her sleep, as the hot red sun slipped down into the west and the oppressive darkness settled upon the house. Dawn felt more alone than she had ever been in all of her short, troublesome life. She lighted a candle and set it on the floor in the hall, as in the room it seemed to trouble the patient. The long, flickering shadows wavered over the floor in ghostly march, and the nurse sat and watched them till it seemed that they were the shadows of all the troubles that had taken their way through her young life. It was late in the evening when the doctor finally returned, and he was alone. But Dawn was glad to see his kindly face, for she had almost given up hoping for him that night, and it seemed terrible to her to sit there and feel that the death angel was standing at the other side of the bed perhaps. But the doctor's eyes brightened a little as he looked at the patient. She's holding her own, he muttered. You've done pretty well, little girl, just as well as an experienced nurse. If you can keep it up during the night, you may save her life. I'm sorry I couldn't get anyone to stay with you tonight, but there wasn't a soul who was not already taking care of two or more cases. I'd stay myself, but there are three cases I must save tonight if possible. Keep up the treatment as before, and if she rouses again, try this new medicine. He was gone as quickly as he had come, and she was alone with her charge once more. But a new spark of interest was in her work. He had said she might save her stepmother's life. She wondered dolly why she should care when the woman had done her so much harm. But she did care, and the fact gave her peace. While she thus thought she was aware that the sick woman's eyes had opened, and were gazing at her with a strange deep wonder, as if they would ask. Are you here yet? Have you stayed alone to nurse me? When I have always hated you and done you harm? Dawn came quickly over to the bed and stood in the path of light that the candle shed from the hallway. She took the patient's hands in her own and noticed that they were not so cold as they had been, and she asked her gently. Do you want anything? For a moment, her stepmother only looked at her, and then her lips stirred, as if in an effort to speak. But she uttered only one word for good. Dawn's heart bounded with a sudden unexpected pleasure, and the tears sprang to her eyes. Of course, she said briskly. It's all right, but you must lie still and help get well. A gentler light came into Mrs. Van Rensler's anxious eyes. Once more, as if to make sure that she had heard a right, she murmured her question. Forgive? Dawn stooped impulsively and kissed her. Then an actual smile of peace settled into the hard face of die woman on the bed, changing it utterly. It's all right, Dawn said eagerly. And now, you must take your medicine and not talk anymore. You are going to get well, the doctor said so, and you must go to sleep at once. She administered the new medicine, and with another smile, like a tired child, the sick woman sank away into a gentle, restful sleep. It was late in the afternoon of the following day that the doctor returned with Mrs. Van Rensler's sister who established herself by the bedside with energy and competence. The doctor, noticing Dawn's wane look and sleep heavy eyes, ordered her to go to bed at once, or there would be two patients instead of one to look after. Mrs. Van Rensler, he pronounced decidedly better. Dawn, as she slipped away from the sick room, felt dizzy and faint with weariness. She reflected that she would probably contract the disease herself, and it might come upon her suddenly. She had read of many cases that died almost at once. The thought gave her no alarm. It would be good to go quickly. She went to her old room feeling that she had come almost to the end of things. Her dress was torn and wet, from much working with the hot water and flannels. Her face and hands were blackened with soot from the fire. Tired as she was, she must freshen herself a little before going to sleep. She bathed and dressed in fresh garments that she found hanging in her closet and put on the little white frock she had worn the day before her marriage. Smoothed her hair and then, taking a pillow and some comfortables from the bed, she went downstairs. The thought had come to her that it would be good to get out of the arbor again. If she were to die, it would be as well there as anywhere. As she passed down the garden walk, a rose-thorn caught her white gown, and in freeing herself she noticed a spray of roses, like those Charlie had picked for her a year ago. Their fragrance seemed to touch her tired senses like healing balm. After she had spread her comfortables on the floor of the little summer house, she stepped back and broke off the spray of roses and lay down with her cool leaves against her hot cheek. Breathing in their odor, she fell into a deep sleep in which no dreams came to ruffle her peace. She had not noticed when she lay down that the long red rays of the sun were very low. The excitement through which she had lived, the lack of food, the unusual exertion, and the sudden release from the necessity of doing anything made her stupid with weariness. The sun slipped quickly down and the cool darkness of the garden soothed her. A tiny breeze gave her new life, and she slept as sweetly as the sleeping birds in the trees over her head, while the kind stars looked down and kept watch. And the roses nestled close and spoke of him she loved. In the village, pestilence stalked abroad, and the shadow of death hovered. But in the garden, there were quiet and peace and rest. And if the languid winds played a solemn dirge among the pines near the old house, they disturbed her not. Safe, sheltered among God's flowers, with others of his beautiful, dependent creatures. Charles and Dan had stayed in Albany several days, questioning coach-drivers and making inquiries at all the ins, but no one seemed to remember Don. It happened that the driver with whom she had left Albany had broken his leg the very day after, so he was not there to be questioned. Heart-sick and despairing, the two young men did not know what to do. Even rags was dejected and whined at having to leave the boat. Somehow he seemed to think it would bring them to her if they but stayed by it long enough. He was foregoing back to New York when the boat went, and told the others so with a wise bark. But they heated him not. He went about snuffing helplessly and spent much time with his nose and his paws, one sad, blinking eye open to a disappointing world. They reached the Winthrop home a few hours before Mrs. Van Rensselaer's letter arrived. It was Betty who brought the strange, scrawled letter to Charles, and she wore an anxious look. She had half-hesitated whether she would not keep it till morning. He looked so tired and worn. These were troubleous times, and no one knew at night but that his dearest friend might be dead by morning. Betty would have spared her brother if she had dared. Charles noticed the postmark and tore the envelope open quickly, some premonition quickening his heartbeats. Don is here. He read the significant words, then repeated them aloud, his voice containing a solemn ring of wonder and joy. Could it be true? Betty, tell the boy to saddle two horses and have them ready at once. Dan, you'll go with me, of course. No, I've no time for supper. Well, just a cup of hot broth. Or, stay, put some in a bottle and I'll take it with me. I might need it on the way. Are you ready, Dan? Tell Father, Betty, I'll be downstairs in just a minute. They were off almost immediately, for the willing servant had hastened with the horses and had ready a lantern for their use when the moon should go down. Betty handed each of them a bottle of hot broth tightly sealed to put in their pockets. They rode through the night, silent for the most part, each gravely apprehensive of what might be at the end of the journey. It was a strange, abrupt message Charles had received, and he pondered over and over what its purport might be. Was Don sick or dead? Why had not Mrs. Van Rensler told him more? Perhaps before he could reach his wife, she would be gone again as before. With this thought he hurried his horse. Once he caught a glimpse of a sharp abyss within a few feet of where he passed. One misstep and the journey would have ended. Charles marveled how he was going through unknown dangers without a thought, just because his heart was full of a great purpose. It was in the early morning that they reached the village where the Van Renslers lived. Rags was tired and splashed with mud. His tail dragged wearily behind him, his head drooped, and his tongue hung out. He wasn't used to being up all night nor to traveling on foot behind fast horses. He thought his companions must be crazy to come away off here where there was no scent. How could they expect to know what they were doing in the night? Rags went at a good juicy bone and a rug in a quiet place. As the two young men turned their horses in at the Great Gate, the sound of the hoofs clattered hollowly and echoed back in the empty place. Rags mounted the steps and sat down, looking disconsolently around. He did not care for this place, fine though it might be. He was dreadfully tired. The front door was open, but he had no desire to investigate. Charles dismounted and went into the house. It struck him as strange that the front door should be opened so early in the morning. He had noticed the deserted look of this part of the town and he felt the chill of fear grip his heart. Had the cholera reached her ahead of him? Was it in this town, even in this house? As Don had done, he looked into the empty rooms. Rags got up and limped to the door after him, snuffed around, and then suddenly gave a short, sharp bark and was off with his nose to the ground. He disappeared among the rosebushes down the garden path and his young master sprang off his horse and hastened after him. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of Don of the Morning This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Patty T. Don of the Morning by Grace Livingston Hill, Chapter 28 Quickly as Dan followed, rags was before him, with his sharp, peculiar bark, and then a sudden low whine of fear or trouble. The boy's heart stood still, and he hurried the faster. Rags came whining to his feet as he reached the arbor, and then Dan saw her. She lay sleeping on the pile of comfortables, in her little white frock, with the spray of roses in her hand and a slight tinge of color in her cheek, like the flush on a half-open rosebud. The comb had fallen from her hair, and the beautiful curls lay tumbled out upon the pillow in lovely confusion. The boy gazed with awe, and then turned his head reverently away. But rags went whining about her feet again. Dan signed to the dog to be still, and bending over with sudden anxiety, watched to see if she were breathing naturally. Gently as a child she slept, and the roses trembled with her soft breathing. His heart leaped with joy. Rags, stay here and guard her, he commanded. Sit right there. He pointed to a spot in the garden walk. Now be still. Rags whined softly. He was trembling with excitement. Be still! The little dog thumped his tail in acquiescence, but looked wistfully after his master as he turned away, and then at the sleeping goddess. Dan hastened back to the house. The horses were cropping their breakfast from the lawn at the edge of the gravel driveway. Charles was coming down the steps, his face white and drawn. Dan, I cannot find her, and there is cholera here. Mrs. Van Rensseler is lying desperately ill upstairs. There is another woman caring for her, and she says Don has gone. He buried his face in his hands and stood still. Dan thought he was going to fall. Don't, said Dan. I found her. Come! He eagerly drew Charles along the garden walk. Oh, do you mean it? Are you sure, Dan? Sure, said the boy. Rags found her. She's asleep. Walk softly. Is there anything to matter with her, Dan? said Charles apprehensively, yet waited not to hear the answer. For at that instant he reached the arbor, almost stumbling over rags, who jumped upon him with delight, and wagged and wriggled himself joyously, albeit silently. But Charles stood still and gazed at his beloved. His hungry eyes drank in her loveliness. His anxious heart searched keenly for any sign of illness. He felt himself growing weak with fear and joy. Dan stood silent behind him, his own face lighting with the other's joy and solemn rejoicing that they had found her. Not so rags, he thought the time had come for the Princess to awaken, and he laid a cold, audacious nose in the open palm of Don's pink hand. She at once opened her eyes. Don, my darling, murmured Charles, and dropped upon his knees beside her. Rags was beside himself with joy now. He had brought the teacher to life. But Dan grasped him by the collar and drew him away. He and rags might rejoice, but it was not for them to intrude at such a time as this. Charles gathered his young wife into his arms, laying his face gently against hers, and over her stole a thrill of deep, solemn joy. He had come after her. He wanted her. She was loved. In spite of the way she had married him, she was beloved. She closed her eyes and let the joy flow over her, a sweet, sweet pain, till almost it took her breath away, and brought tears to her happy eyes. He kissed them away and said over and over, My darling, my darling, I have found you at last! And she nestled closer to him and hid her face against his breast. It seemed a long time to Rags, and finally he broke away from his master with a bound. And stood barking joyously at their feet. Oh, there is Rags, exclaimed Don with a happy little laugh. Dear Rags! Yes, said Rags in his own way, Dear Teacher, I'm glad I found you! And Dan is here too, said Charles. Come here, Dan, and share our joy. Then came Daniel, his face red with embarrassment, and stood bashfully before her. I found him, and he's helped me to find you, dear, said Charles. He's told me all about everything. All the shovel that she was, with her lovely hair about her shoulders, Don stood bravely to receive him, and put out both hands to the boy. Dear Dan, she said. She took his hands and hers for an instant, and Dan bowed his head. But he had nothing to say. He felt that he had received a benediction. Rags saw how he felt about it, and tried to help him out. Me too, he barked. And Don, laughing, stooped, and patted the dog lovingly, while he wriggled himself half in two in his joy. But have you had any breakfast, asked Charles, with sweet responsibility in his tone? As Don shook back her curls, and gathered them into a knot on her head, fastening them with her comb quite properly. Dan lowered his eyes deferentially, and looked away from the pretty sight, knowing it was not for him. Don's face grew grave. Is it morning? said she. How could I have slept so long when there was so much to be done? Mrs. Van Rensseler. I know, dear, Charles stopped her, but she is being cared for. The woman told me she seemed a little better. I got her letter last evening, and we came at once. Dan and I. We had been down to New York, hunting you, and just missed you. We had gone home utterly discouraged. When this note came, just these words. Don is here. We started at once. How long had she been ill? The letter? said Don. I don't understand. I just came myself yesterday morning. She was very ill when I got here. She couldn't have mailed any letter, unless... Oh, it must be that she dragged herself out and sent it while I was hunting hot water and a doctor for her? The doctor found her lying at the gate unconscious and brought her in. She had done you a great injury, said Charles, with a grave face. But she almost gave her life to make it right again, said Don solemnly. I have heard exertion is usually fatal in cholera. And she asked me twice to forgive her. Think of that. Wasn't it wonderful? But you don't know her and can't understand how unlike her that seems. Don was crying softly now, and Charles soothed her anxiously. You must put the thought of it away, dear, or you will be ill, too. Are you sure you feel quite well? It was a terrible experience for you to have to go through alone. Come, we must get you something to eat at once. What did you have last? I hope you ate nothing that had been around the sick room. I ate two boiled eggs, said Don, smiling through her tears. It was all I could find, and I was too tired to make a fire. Dear child, said Charles, but it was the best thing you could have done, I guess. Dan, there's that broth we brought along. Betty put up enough for a regiment. We will go to the kitchen and make a fire, said Don. You must have breakfast, too. You have had a long hard ride. Yes, breakfast, barked rags, impolitely. Charles grew grave at once. Now, Don, you must not go near that house again. You have been sufficiently exposed already. Dan and I will bring you some breakfast. I don't like the idea of your eating anything that comes out of that house. It isn't safe. Couldn't we make a little fire there at the edge of the woods and warm that broth? If we had a tin dish. There's a long-handled saucepan in the kitchen, said Don. I'll go and get it. You'll stay right here, said Dan, in his kindly gruff way. I'll go and get it. Before they could stop him, he had gone. And in a few minutes, he returned with a pail of water, a tea kettle, a saucepan, and three cups. Then he gathered sticks, and he and Charles made the fire, rigging up a kind of crane to hold the kettle. Soon they had hot water to pour over the dishes. And then Don heated the broth, and they each had a good cupful. Even rags had a few spoonfuls, though he sat up quite politely at a word from Dan, with his head cocked sideways, and a knowing look as much as to say, serve yourselves first, and I'll lick the dishes. After all, it was Dan who did everything for them. He told Charles that it was best he should stay with his wife and guard her. There was no telling, but she might get sick or something, and it was not safe for her to be left alone just now. Besides, it was Charles's business to care for her, and for that reason he must keep out of danger himself. What would happen to Don if Charles should get the cholera? But you might get it yourself, Dan, and we'd never forgive ourselves. Ah, said Dan, turning away in scorn, don't you worry about me. So Dan had his way. When the doctor came, he agreed with Charles that Don should be gotten away at once into a high, healthy region. By this time Mrs. Van Rensler's brother had arrived, with a faithful family servant. There was no need to stay. Mrs. Van Rensler had roused herself to add her voice of urgency, that Don go at once away from contagion. So they hitched their horses to the big Van Rensler carriage, and rode away on a second wedding journey, attended by Dan and rags, two faithful servitors. Once during the afternoon, when Dan had left them for a few minutes, they had looked after him lovingly. Dear Dan, said Charles, I don't know what I should have done without him. He must have his college course. How would you like to have us send him to Harvard as a sort of bank offering for what he has done for us? And Don smiled happily into her husband's eyes as she answered, Oh, how beautiful, could we? They planted all out briefly then, and that evening at the setting of the sun, as they rode forth from the plague-stricken village, toward the high, cool hills, where waited the little white house, Charles broached the subject to Dan. Charles and Don were in the backseat, Dan driving in front, with rags at his feet, with his head held proudly, as if he had always ridden in a carriage with two gray horses. Dan, said Charles, leaning forward a little, that he might the better see the boy's face. When Don and I go back to Cambridge in the fall, for my last year at Harvard, we're going to take you with us. Rags smiled widely. He had heard the talk in the afternoon, and he expected to go to college himself. Dan turned with a radiant, odd face, and grasped Charles' hand. Could I? he asked eagerly. How could I? You may need some preparation, said Charles. Wouldn't it be a good idea for you to come up to our house in the hills and let me coach you? How about it, Don? We have always room for Dan, haven't we? And Don, smiling and happy, assured the boy that he would always be welcome. Later, when Charles drew Don's head down upon his shoulder in the darkness, put his arm close about her, and with his free hand held both of hers, there was tender joy and thankfulness. Dan and Rags, up in the front, knew that there were depths of happiness in the back seat, not for them. But they were content, for were they not going to college, and in company with the two they loved best of all? A week later, Charles and Don stood together on the hillside, in front of their own little house. It was very early in the morning, and off beyond another hill, the sun was just flashing into view, a great red disc against a sky of amethyst and opal. Hill, valley, winding river, and every tree and shrub were touched with the glory of the Don. They were watching Dan right away to his home, to gather his belongings, and prepare his family for the new order of his life. In the afternoon, Betty was to arrive by stagecoach. She was to spend the rest of the hot weather in the cool hills with them, until the cholera had disappeared. This was their first time absolutely alone together, since they had known each other. They stood silent, watching the gray figure of horse and man, as it proceeded slowly down the hillside, and disappeared among the trees in the shadowy road, where night was yet lurking. Slowly slowly the sun slipped up, till a great ball of ruby light grew into a brilliant glory their eyes could not look upon, and stretched before them lay the day, with all its radiant possibilities. And he shall be as the light of the morning when the sun rises, even a morning without clouds, as the tender grass bringing out of the earth by clear shining after rain, quoted Charles solemnly. They involuntarily drew closer together as they looked. Then the husband put his arm about the wife, and looking down upon her said, Don of the morning, do you know that you are like all that to me? She hid her happy face on his shoulder, and he bent down and whispered, darling, Don of my morning, my Don, end of chapter 28, end of Don of the morning, by Grace Livingston Hill.