Without a word, she glided away, and joined Archie in the corner, who was doing his best to cheer and amuse the timid Celeste.
During the rest of the evening, Gipsy was unusually silent and still; and her little face would at times wear a puzzled, thoughtful look, all unused to it.
"What in the world's got into you, Gipsy?" asked Archie, at length, in surprise. "What are you looking so solemn about?"
"Archie," she said, looking up solemnly in his face, "am I possessed?"
"Possessed! Why, yes, I should say you were – possessed by the very spirit of mischief!"
"Oh, Archie, it's not that. Don't you know it tells in the Bible about people being possessed with demons? Now, Archie, do you think I am?"
"What a question! No; of course not, you little goose. Why?"
"Because when he," pointing to the doctor, "said what he did, I just felt as if something within me was forcing me to catch him by the throat and kill him. And, Archie, I could hardly keep from doing it; and I do believe I'm possessed."
This answer seemed to Master Archie so comical that he went off into another roar of laughter; and in the midst of it, he rolled off his seat upon the floor – which event added to his paroxysm of delight.
The doctor growled out certain anathemas at this ill-timed mirth, and ordered Master Rivers off to bed. Then Miss Hagar folded up her work, and taking Celeste with her, sought her own room, where a little trundle-bed had been prepared for the child. And Minnette – who, much against her will, was to share her room with Gipsy, for whom she had no particular love – got up and lit the night-lamp, and, followed, by the willful fay, betook herself to rest.
The next morning dawned clear, sunshiny and bright. Immediately after breakfast, Gipsy mounted Mignonne, and set out to encounter the storm which she knew awaited her at Sunset Hall.
CHAPTER XI.
GIPSY OUTWITS THE SQUIRE
"Then on his cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age;
Fierce he broke forth; 'And dar'st thou, then,
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?'" – Marmion.
Gipsy rode along, singing gayly, and thinking, with an inward chuckle, of the towering rage which "Guardy" must be in. As she entered the yard she encountered Jupiter, who looked upon her with eyes full of fear and warning.
"Hallo, Jupe! I see you haven't 'shuffled off this mortal coil' yet, as Louis says. I suppose you got a blowing up last night, for coming home without me, eh?"
"Miss Roarer, honey, for mussy sake, don't 'front mas'r to-day," exclaimed Jupiter, with upraised hands and eyes; "dar's no tellin' what he might do, chile. I 'vises you to go to bed an' say you's sick, or somefin, caze he'd jes' as lief kill you as not, he's so t'arin' mad."
"Nonsense, you old simpleton! Do you think I'd tell such a lie? Let him rage; I'll rage too, and keep him in countenance."
"Miss Roarer, if you does, dar'll be bloodshed, and den I'll be took up for all – I knows dar will," said poor Jupiter, in a whimpering tone. "Dis comes' o' livin' with ladies what ain't ladies, and old gen'lemen what's got de old boy's temper in dem."
"Why, you old good-for-nothing, do you mean to say I'm not a lady!" exclaimed Gipsy, indignantly.
"Jes' so, Miss Roarer, I don't care ef yer does whip me – dar! S'pose a lady, a real lady, would go for to shoot a poor nigger what ain't a doing no harm to nobody, or go ridin' out all hours ob de night as you do. No! stands to reason, dey wouldn't, an' dat's de trufe now, ef I is a good-for-nothin'. Dar!"
"You aggravating old Jupiter, you, I'll dar you if you give me any more of your impudence," said Gipsy, flourishing her whip over her head.
"Miss Roarer," began Jupiter, adroitly ducking his head to avoid a blow.
"Silence, sir! Don't 'Miss Roarer' me. Keep your advice till it's called for, and take Mignonne off to the stables, an' rub him down well; and if you leave one speck of dust on him, I'll leave you to guess what I'll do to you." And so saying, Gipsy gathered up her riding-habit in her hand, and ran up the broad step, singing at the top of her voice:
"Oh! whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,
Oh! whistle and I'll come to you, my lad;
Though Guardy and aunty, an' a' should go mad,
Just whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad."
"Gipsy, Gipsy, hush, child! Your guardian is dreadfully angry with you, and will punish you very severely, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Gower, suddenly appearing from the dining-room. "This reckless levity will make matters worse if he hears you. Oh, Gipsy, how could you do such an outrageous thing?"
"La, aunty! I haven't done any 'outrageous thing' that I know of."
"Oh, child! you know it was very wrong, very wrong, of you, indeed, to stay at Deep Dale all night against his express commands."
"Now, aunty, I don't see anything very wrong at all about it. I only wanted to have a little fun."
"Fun! Oh! you provoking little goose! he'll punish you very severely, I'm certain."
"Well, let him, then. I don't care. I'll pay him off for it some time – see if I don't. What do you s'pose he'll do to me, aunty? Have me tried by court-martial, or hold a coroner's inquest on top of me, or what?"
"He is going to lock you up in that old lumber-room, up in the attic, and keep you there on bread and water, he says."
"Well, now, I'll leave it to everybody, if that isn't barbarous. It's just the way the stony-hearted fathers in the story-books do to their daughters, when they fall in love, and then their beaus come, filled with love and rope-ladders, and off they go through the window. I say, aunty, is there any chance for me to get through the window?"
"No, indeed, they are fastened outside with wooden shutters and iron bolts. There is no chance of escape, so you had best be very good and penitent, and beg his pardon, and perhaps he may forgive you."
"Beg his pardon! Ha! ha! ha! aunty, I like that, wouldn't Archie laugh if he heard it. Just fancy me, Gipsy Gower, down on my knees before him, whimpering and snuffling, and a tear in each eye, like a small potato, and begging his serene highness to forgive me, and I'll never do it again. Oh! goodness gracious, just fancy what a scene it would be!"
"You provoking little minx! I am sure any other little girl would beg her guardian's pardon, when she knew she did wrong."
"But I don't know that I've did wrong. On the contrary, I know I've did right; and I'm going to do it over again, the first chance – there!"
"Oh, Gipsy! – child – you are perfectly incorrigible. I despair of ever being able to do anything with you. As I told you before, I shouldn't be surprised if your guardian turned you out of doors for your conduct."
"And as I told you before, aunty, I would not want better fun. Archie Rivers is going to West Point soon, and I'll go with him, and 'do my country some service' in the next war."
"If he turned you out, Gipsy, it would break my heart," said Mrs. Gower, plaintively.
"Yes, and I suppose it would break mine too, but I luckily don't happen to have a heart," said Gipsy, who never by any chance could, as she called it, "do the sentimental." "However, aunty, let's live in the sublime hope that you'll break the necks of two or three hundred chickens and geese, before you break your own heart yet. And I protest, here comes Guardy, stamping and fuming up the lawn. Clear out, aunty, for I expect he'll hurl the whole of the Proverbs of Solomon at my head, and one of 'em might chance to hit you. Go, aunty, I want to fight my own battles; and if I don't come off with drums beating and colors flying, it'll be a caution! Hooray!"
And Gipsy waved her plumed hat above her head, and whirled round the room in a defiant waltz.
She was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the squire, who, thrusting both hands into his coat pockets, stood flaming with rage before her; whereupon Gipsy, plunging her hands into the pockets of her riding-habit, planted both feet firmly on the ground, and confronted him with a dignified frown, and an awful expression of countenance generally, and to his amazement, burst out with:
"You unprincipled, abandoned, benighted, befuddled old gentleman! how dare you have the impudence, the effrontery, the brazenness, the impertinence, the – the – everything-else! to show your face to me after your outrageous, your unheard-of, your monstrous, your – yes, I will say it – diabolical conduct yesterday! Yes, sir! I repeat it, sir – I'm amazed at your effrontery, after sending a poor, unfortunate, friendless, degenerate son of Africa through the tremendous rain, the roaring lightning, the flashing thunder, the silent winds, in search of me, to stand there, looking no more ashamed of yourself than if you weren't a fair blot on the foul face of creation! Answer me, old gentleman, and forever afterward hold thy peace!"
"You abominable little wretch! You incarnate little fiend, you! You impish little imp, you! I'll thrash you within an inch of your life!" roared the old man, purple with rage.
"Look out, Guardy, you'll completely founder the English language, if you don't take care," interrupted Gipsy.
"You impudent little vixen! I'll make you repent yesterday's conduct," thundered the squire, catching her by the shoulder and shaking her till she was breathless.
"Loo – loo – look here, old gentleman, do – do – don't you try that again!" stuttered Gipsy, panting for breath, and wrenching herself, by a powerful jerk, free from his grasp.
"Why didn't you come home when I sent for you? Answer me that, or I won't leave a sound bone in your body. Now, then!"
"Well, Guardy, to tell the truth, it was because I didn't choose to. Now, then!"
"You – you – you incomparable little impudence, I'll fairly murder you!" shouted the squire, raising his hand in his rage to strike her a blow, which would assuredly have killed her; but Gipsy adroitly dodged, and his hand fell with stunning force on the hall table.
With something between a howl and a yell, he started after her as she ran screaming with laughter; and seizing her in a corner, where she had sunk down exhausted and powerless with her inward convulsions, he shook her until he could shake her no longer.
"I'll lock you up! I'll turn you out of doors! I'll thrash you while I am able to stand over you! No, I won't thrash a woman in my own house, but I'll lock you up and starve you to death. I'll be hanged if I don't!"
"You'll be hanged if you do, you mean."
"Come along; we'll see what effect hunger and solitary confinement will have on your high spirits, my lady," said the squire, seizing her by the arm and dragging her along.
"Guardy, if you do, my ghost'll haunt you every night, just as sure as shooting," said Gipsy, solemnly.
"What do I care about you or your ghost! Come along. 'The unrighteous shall not live out half their days,' as Solomon says; therefore it's according to Scripture, and no fault of mine if you don't live long."
"Solomon was never locked up in a garret," said Gipsy, thrusting her knuckles in her eyes and beginning to sob, "and he don't know anything about it. It's real hateful of you to lock me up – now! But it's just like you, you always were an ugly old wretch every way." Sob, sob, sob.
"That's right, talk away! You can talk and scold as much as you like to the four bare walls presently," said the squire, dragging her along.
"You're a hateful old monster! I wish you were far enough – I just do! and I don't care if I'm taken up for defamation of character – so, there! Boo, hoo – a hoo – a hoo," sobbed, and wept, and scolded Gipsy, as the squire, inwardly chuckling, led her to her place of captivity.
They reached it at length; a large empty room without a single article of furniture, even without a chair. It was quite dark, too, for the windows were both nailed up, and the room was situated in the remotest portion of the building, where, let poor Gipsy cry and scream as she pleased, she could not be heard.
On entering her prison, Gipsy ceased her sobs for a moment to glance around, and her blank look of dismay at the aspect of her prison, threw the squire into a fit of laughter.
"So," he chuckled, "you're caught at last. Now, here you may stay till night, and I hope by that time I'll have taken a little of the mischief out of you."
"And I'll have nothing to pass the time," wept Gipsy. "Mayn't I go down stairs and get a book?"
"Ha! ha! ha! No. I rather think you mayn't. Perhaps I may bring you up one by and by," said the squire, never stopping to think how Gipsy was to read in the dark.
"Look up there on that shelf, I can't reach; there's one, I think," said Gipsy, whose keen eye had caught sight of an old newspaper lying on the spot indicated.
The squire made a step forward to reach it, and like an arrow sped from a bow, at the same instant, Gipsy darted across the room, out through the open door. Ere the squire could turn round, he heard the door slam to, and he was caught in his own trap, while a triumphant shout, a delighted "hurrah!" reached his ear from without.
The squire rushed frantically to the door, and shook, and pulled, and swore, and threatened and shouted, to all of which Gipsy answered by tantalizingly asking him whether he'd come out now, or wait till she let him. Then, finding threats of no avail, he betook himself to coaxing; and wheedled, and persuaded, and promised, and flattered, but equally in vain, for Gipsy replied that she wouldn't if she could, couldn't if she would, for that she had thrown the key as far as she could pitch it, out of the window, among the shrubs in the garden – where, as she wasn't in the habit of looking for needles in hay-stacks, she thought it quite useless searching for it; and ended by delivering him a lecture on the virtue of patience and the beauty of Christian resignation. And after exhorting him to improve his temper, if possible, during his confinement, as she was going over to spend the day at Dr. Spider's and teach Miss Hagar's little girl to ride, she went off and left him, stamping, and swearing, and foaming, in a manner quite awful to listen to.
True to her word, Gipsy privately sought the stables, saddled Mignonne herself, and rode off, without being observed, to spend the day at Deep Dale. The absence of the squire was noticed; but it was supposed he had ridden off on business after locking up Gipsy, and therefore it created no surprise. As he had positively forbidden any one in the house to go near her prison, no one went; and it was only when Gipsy returned home late at night that she learned, to her surprise and alarm, he had not yet been liberated. The door was forced open by Jupiter, and the squire was found lying on the floor, having raged himself into a state that quite prevented him from "murdering" Gipsy as he had threatened. Two or three days elapsed before "Richard" became "himself again;" and night and day Gipsy hovered over his bedside – the quietest, the most attentive little nurse that ever was seen, quite unalarmed by his throwing the pillow, the gruel and pill-boxes at her head every time she appeared in his sight.
CHAPTER XII.
THE TIGRESS AND THE DOVE
"Oh, wanton malice – deathful sport —
Could ye not spare my all?
But mark my words, on thy cold heart
A fiery doom shall fall."
In the golden glow of the morning, Minnette Wiseman stood at the door, gazing out – not watching the radiant beauties of nature – not listening to the sweet singing of the birds – not watching the waves flashing and glittering in the sunlight – but nursing her own dark, fathomless thoughts.
From the first moment of the coming of Celeste she had hated her, with a deep, intense hatred, that was destined to be the one ruling passion of her life. She was jealous of her beauty, angry to see her so petted and caressed by every one, but too proud to betray it.
Pride and jealousy were her predominant passions; you could see them in the haughty poise of her superb little head, in the dusky fire smoldering in her glittering black eyes, in the scornful, curling upper lip, in the erect carriage and proud step. In spite of her beauty no one seemed to like Minnette, and she liked no one.
Among her schoolmates her superior talents won their admiration, but her eagle ambition to surpass them all soon turned admiration into dislike. But Minnette went haughtily on her way, living in the unknown world of her dark, sullen thoughts, despising both them and the love she might have won.
A week had passed since the coming of Celeste. Miss Hagar, feeling she was not competent to undertake the instruction of such a shy, sensitive little creature, wished to send her to school. The school to which Minnette and Gipsy went (sometimes) was two miles distant, and taught by the Sisters of Charity. Miss Hagar would have sent her there, but there was no one she could go with. She mentioned this difficulty to her brother.
"Can't she go with Minnette?" said the latter, impatiently.
"No, she sha'n't," said the amiable Minnette. "I'll have no such whimpering cry-baby tagging after me. Let Madam Hagar go with her darling herself if she likes."
"Just what I expected from you," said Miss Hagar, looking gloomingly in the sullen face before her. "If the Lord doesn't punish you one day for your hatred and hard-heartedness, it'll be because some of his creatures will do it for him. Take my word for it."
"I don't care for you or your threats," said Minnette, angrily; "and I do hate your pet, old Miss Hagar, and I'll make everybody else hate her if I can, too."
"Minnette, hold your tongue," called her father, angry at being interrupted in his reading.
Minnette left the room, first casting a glance full of dislike and contempt on Celeste, who sat in a remote corner, her hands over her face, while the tears she struggled bravely to suppress fell in bright drops through her taper fingers. Sob after sob swelled the bosom of the sensitive child, on whose gentle heart the cruel words of Minnette had fallen with crushing weight. Dr. Wiseman, after a few moments, too, left the room, and Celeste, in her dark corner, wept unseen and uncared for.
Suddenly a light footstep entering the room startled her. Her hands were gently removed from her tear-stained face, while a spirited voice exclaimed:
"Hallo! Sissy! what's the matter? Has that kite-heart, Minnette, been mocking you?"
"No-o-o!" faltered Celeste, looking up through her tears into the bright face of Archie Rivers.
"What's the case, then? Something's wrong, I know. Tell me, like a good little girl, and I'll see if I can't help you," said Archie, resolutely retaining the hands with which she struggled to cover her face.
"Miss Hagar wants to send me to school, and I've no one to go with. Minnette doesn't like to be troubled with – "
"Oh, I see it all! Minnette's been showing her angelic temper, and won't let you go with her, eh?"
"Ye-e-es," sobbed Celeste, trying bravely not to cry.
"Well, never mind, birdie! I have to pass the Sisters' school every day on my way to the academy, and I'll take care of you, if you'll go with me. Will you?" he said, looking doubtfully into her little, shrinking face.
"I – I think so," said Celeste, rather hesitatingly. "I will be a trouble, though, I'm afraid."
"Not you!" exclaimed Archie, gayly. "I'll be your true knight and champion now, and by and by you'll be my little wife. Won't you?"
"No-o-o, I don't like to," said Celeste, timidly.
Archie seemed to think this answer so remarkably funny that he gave way to a perfect shout of laughter. Then, perceiving the sensitive little creature on the verge of crying again, he stopped short by an effort, and said, apologetically:
"There! don't cry, sis: I wasn't laughing at you. I say, Miss Hagar," he added, springing abruptly to his feet as that ancient lady entered, "mayn't I bring Celeste to school? I'll 'tend to her as carefully as if she was my daughter. See if I don't."
A grim sort of smile relaxed the rigid muscles of Miss Hagar's iron face as she glanced benignly at his merry, thoughtless face over the top of her spectacles.
"Yes, she may go with you, and the Lord will bless you for your good, kind heart," she said, laying her hand fondly on his curly head.
Archie, throwing up his cap in the exuberance of his glee, said:
"Run and get ready, sis, and come along."
"No; wait until to-morrow," said Miss Hagar. "She cannot go to-day."
"All right; to-morrow, then, you've to make your debut in the school of St. Mark's. I say, Miss Hagar, what shall we call her? not your name – Dedley's too dismal."
"No; call her Pearl – she is a pearl," said Miss Hagar, while her voice became as gentle as such a voice could.
"Very well, Celeste. Pearl then be it. And so, Celeste, be ready bright and early to-morrow morning, and we'll go by Sunset Hall, and call for Gipsy and Louis. By the way, you haven't seen Louis yet, have you?"
"No," said Celeste.
"Oh, then, you must see him, decidedly, to-morrow. But mind, you mustn't go and like him better than you do me, because he's better-looking. I tell you what, little sis, he's a capital fellow, and so clever; he's ahead of every fellow in the academy, and beats me all to smash, because I'm not clever at anything except riding and shooting, and I'm his equal in those branches. So now I'm off – good-bye!"
And with a spring and a jump, Archie was out of the room and dashing along the road at a tremendous rate.
The next morning Celeste, with a beating heart, set out with Archie for school. How pretty she looked in her white muslin dress, her white sunbonnet covering her golden curls – a perfect little pearl!
Archie, having paid her a shower of compliments, took her by the hand and set out with her for Sunset Hall. At the gate Celeste halted, and no persuasions could induce her to enter.
"No, no; I'll wait here until you come back. Please let me," she said, pleadingly.
"Oh, well, then, I won't be long," said Archie, rushing frantically up the lawn and bursting like a whirlwind into the hall door.
In a few moments he reappeared, accompanied by Louis.
"Look, old fellow! there she is at the gate. Isn't she a beauty?" said Archie.
Louis stopped and gazed, transfixed by the radiant vision before him. In her floating, snowy robes, golden hair, her sweet, angel-like face, on which the morning sunshine rested like a glory, she was indeed lovely, bewildering, dazzling.
"How beautiful! how radiant! how splendid! Archie, she is as pretty as an angel!" burst forth Louis, impetuously.
"Ha, ha ha! a decided case of love at first sight. Come along and I'll introduce you," exclaimed Archie.
Having presented the admiring Louis to Celeste, who, after the first shy glance, never raised her eyes, he informed her that Gipsy had gone out riding early in the morning, and they were forced to go without her.
"Celeste, you must sit to me for your portrait," said Louis, impulsively, as they walked along.
"I don't know," said Celeste, shrinking closer to Archie, whom she had learned to trust in like an old friend.
"I'm sketching the 'Madonna in the Temple' for Sister Mary, and your sweet, holy, calm face will do exactly for a model," said Louis.
"That's a compliment, sis," said Archie, pinching her cheek; "you'd better sit. Hallo! if that isn't Gipsy's bugle! And here she comes, as usual, flying like the wind. If she doesn't break her neck some day, it will be a wonder."
As he spoke, the clear, sweet notes of a bugle resounded musically among the hills above them; and the next moment the spirited little Arabian, Mignonne, came dashing at a break-neck pace down the rocks, with Gipsy on his back, a fowling-piece slung over her shoulder, and sitting her horse as easily as though she were in an easy-chair. With a wild "tally-ho!" she cleared a yawning chasm at a bound, and reined her horse in so suddenly that he nearly fell back on his haunches. The next instant she was beside them, laughing at Celeste, who clung, pale with fear, to Archie.
"What luck this morning, Diana?" exclaimed Archie.
"Pretty well for two hours. Look!" said Gipsy, displaying a well-filled game-bag.
"Did you kill those birds?" inquired Celeste, lifting her eyes in fear, not unmixed with horror, to the sparkling face of the young huntress.
"To be sure! There! don't look so horror-struck. I declare if the little coward doesn't look as if she thought me a demon," said Gipsy, laughing at Celeste's sorrowful face. "Look! do you see that bird away up there, like a speck in the sky? Well, now watch me bring it down;" and Gipsy, fixing her eagle eye on the distant speck, took deliberate aim.
"Oh, don't – don't!" cried Celeste, in an agony of terror; but ere the words were well uttered, they were lost in the sharp crack of her little rifle.
Wounded and bleeding, the bird began rapidly to fall, and, with a wild shriek, Celeste threw up her arms, and fell to the ground.
"Good gracious! if I haven't scared the life out of Celeste!" exclaimed Gipsy, in dismay, as Archie raised her, pale and trembling, in his arms.
"What a timid little creature!" thought Louis, as he watched her, clinging convulsively to Archie.
"Oh, the bird! the poor bird!" said Celeste, bursting into tears.
Gipsy laughed outright, and pointing to a tree near at hand, said:
"There, Louis, the bird has lodged in that tree; go and get it for her."
Louis darted off to search the tree, and Gipsy, stooping down, said, rather impatiently:
"Now, Celeste, don't be such a little goose! What harm is it to shoot a bird? – everybody does it."
"I don't think it's right; it's so cruel. Please don't do it any more," said Celeste, pleadingly.
"Can't promise, dear? I must do something to keep me out of mischief. But here comes Louis. Well, is it dead?"
"No," said Louis, "but badly wounded. However, I'll take care of it; and if it recovers, Celeste, you shall have it for a pet."
"Oh, thank you! you're so good," said Celeste, giving him such a radiant look of gratitude that it quite overcame the gravity of Master Rivers, who fell back, roaring with laughter.
Celeste and Gipsy stood a little apart, conversing, and the boys sat watching them.
"I say, Louis, what do you think of her?" said Archie, pointing to Celeste.
"I think she is perfectly bewitching – the loveliest creature I ever beheld," replied Louis, regarding her with the eye of an artist. "She reminds me of a lily – a dove, so fair, and white, and gentle."
"And Gipsy, what does she remind you of?"
"Oh! of a young Amazon, or a queen eaglet of the mountains, so wild and untamed."
"And Minnette, what is she like?"
"Like a tigress, more than anything else I can think of just now," said Louis, laughing; "beautiful, but rather dangerous when aroused."
"Aroused! I don't think she could be aroused, she is made of marble."
"Not she. As Miss Hagar says, the day will come when she will, she must feel; every one does sometime in his life. What does Scott say:
"'Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent;
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent.'"
"Well, if you take to poetry, you'll keep us here all day," said Archie, rising. "Good-bye, Gipsy; come along Celeste!"
True to promise, Louis adopted the wounded bird; and under his skillful hands it soon recovered and was presented to Celeste. She would have set it free, but Louis said: "No; keep it for my sake, Celeste." And so Celeste kept it; and no words can tell how she grew to love that bird. It hung in a cage in her chamber, and her greatest pleasure was in attending it. Minnette hated the very sight of it. That it belonged to Celeste would have been enough to make her hate it; but added to that, it had been given her by Louis Oranmore, the only living being Minnette had ever tried to please; and jealousy added tenfold to her hatred.
Seeing the bird hanging, one day, out in the sunshine, she opened the cage-door, and, with the most fiendish and deliberate malice, twisted its neck, and then, going to Celeste, pointed to it with malignant triumph sparkling in her bold, black eyes.
Poor Celeste! She took the dead and mangled body of her pretty favorite in her lap, and sitting down, wept the bitterest tears she had ever shed in her life. Let no one smile at her childish grief; who has been without them? I remember distinctly the saddest tears that ever I shed were over the remains of a beloved kitten, stoned to death. And through all the troubles of after years, that first deep grief never was forgotten.
While she was still sobbing as if her heart would break, a pair of strong arms were thrown around her, and the eager, handsome face of Louis was bending over her.
"Why, Celeste, what in the world are all those tears for?" he inquired, pushing the disheveled golden hair off her wet cheek.
"Oh, Louis, my bird! my poor bird!" she cried, hiding her face on his shoulder, in a fresh burst of grief.
"What! it's dead, is it?" said Louis, taking it up. "Did the cat get at it?"
"No, no; it wasn't the cat; it was – it was – "
"Who?" said Louis, while his dark eyes flashed. "Did any one dare to kill it? Did Minnette, that young tigress – "
"Oh, Louis! don't, don't! You mustn't call her such dreadful names!" said Celeste, placing her hand over his mouth. "I don't think she meant it; don't be angry with her, please; it's so dreadful!"
"You little angel!" he said, smoothing gently her fair hair; "no, for your sake I'll not. Never mind, don't cry; I'll get you another, twice as pretty as that!"
"No, Louis; I don't want any more! I'd rather have the dear birds free! And now, will you – will you bury poor birdie?" said Celeste, almost choking in her effort to be "good and not cry."
"Yes; here's a nice spot, under the rose-bush," said Louis; "and I'll get a tombstone and write a nice epitaph. And you must console yourself with the belief that it's happy in the bird's heaven, if there is such a place," added Louis, as he placed poor "Birdie" in its last resting-place.
Half an hour after, Celeste sought the presence of Minnette. She found her sitting by the window, her chin resting on her hand, as was her habit, gazing out. She did not turn round as Celeste entered; but the latter went up softly, and, placing her hand on hers, said gently: