“Well, I was in Mr. Hubbs’ store to-day, and Oliver, his boy, was sorting the letters that the mail had just brought in, and indeed a good-sized cat might have carried them all for the length of the day, and not have had a hair turned at the end of the journey, but Oliver showed them all to me, and one of them was for Miss Lennox—a grand letter, quite different from all the rest, and nice writing, and such a beautiful seal; so you see, sir, Oliver and I thought it must be from some of her fine relations that had sent for her, and no doubt she’ll soon be going to them.”
“You and Oliver are wonderfully wise,” said Keefe; and then turning his face from the boy’s quick eyes, he asked: “have you any other reason for thinking Miss Lennox is going to leave this?”
“No, sir, none in the world, and I dare say it’s no reason at all, only I thought you might like to know about the letter, that's all.”
“Well, I would advise you and Oliver not to trouble yourself so much about other people's concerns. A pretty way that post-office is managed. There, never mind now. Go into the house, Mrs. Wendell has something she wants to send to your mother.”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” and Con disappeared.
When he came out again, with a basket on his arm, Keefe said:
“You needn't come back to-night, Con, I am not going to fish.”
“There's other fish besides those in the lake,” said Con to himself sagely; “if I hadn’t told him about that letter he'd have come, but it’s no matter. I thought he ought to know.”
Keefe now went into the house and avoided Mrs. Wendell, as if he thought his purpose could be read in his looks, took his gun, and passing through the garden entered the woods. By taking a circuit he reached the banks which girdled the hollow without going through the village, and in another minute, he found himself close to Helen who still sat beside the spring.
“Mr. Dillon,” said Helen, rising and then sitting down again. For a minute Keefe could not speak, but leaning against a tree looked at her silently. She felt his gaze, though her lids were downcast, and her cheeks, before so pale, were crimson.
Conquering his agitation, Keefe broke the silence:
“Miss Lennox, I have something to say to you—something to tell you. May I speak?”
Helen’s heart said “Yes,” but her lips could not utter the word. However, Keefe went on.
“Long ago—when I was a child—one winter I found a bird perishing in a snow drift. It was a snow-banting, pure white, driven by some strange accident from its home in the Arctic circle. I took it in, warmed it, and nursed it; I loved it with all the love it was then in my power to feel, and I tried to make it love me, but it would not. Next winter when snow came again, I stood one day at the door with my bird perched on my arm and eating out of my hand, when a troop of its kindred snow-bantings swept by. Perhaps they had come to look for their lost comrade. It and heard their plaintive chirpings and answered, spread its wings, fluttered, and was gone.
“Did it never come back?” asked Helen.
“Never. I was nothing to it but a stranger and an alien,—it had found its kindred, and gone back with them to its nest in its native zone.”
He paused, and then continued in a more hurried and agitated voice:
“Long years after a stranger came to my home. I will not try to tell you how beautiful she was. I did not love her with a childish love, but with the full fervour and passion of a man's strong heart. She infused into me a new existence—she made the present lovely, and threw a magic rainbow over the future. All of hope, or joy, or brightness the world possessed for me lay in her keeping. Could she leave me—rob me of hope and bappiness—leave me to gloom and despair? Miss Lennox, I know I must often seem rude, savage, uncultured in your eyes, but if you could read my heart—if all its thoughts and wishes could be laid bare before you; if you knew the deep love I feel for you—which neither time nor anything on earth could ever lessen—I think you would not scorn it.”
Helen had covered her face with her hands, but through her fingers tears were slowly forcing their way. The sight was more than Keefe could bear. and flinging himself at her feet he caught hold of her dress and pressed it to his lips.
“Oh, Helen!” he exclaimed, “why do you cry? Have I given you pain? Is my love hateful to you?”
And then, in a low broken voice, Helen answered:
“Oh, no; it is more precious to me than anything in the world!”
They sat by the well till the sun had set,—till the fires in the clearings grew red and strong, and sent up columns of flame and showers of sparks to the dark purple sky; the stars gathered in bright groups in the heavens and looked down on the happy lovers with their soft pure light; on no happier pair had they ever gazed since their glory first began.
CHAPTER XXV.
Helen and Keefe were to go to Buffalo in Keefe’s skiff, accompanied by Mrs. Wendell and Faith Prior, and get married there. There were no marriage settlements to delay their happiness,—no jewels or fine clothes to prepare—no bridal-feast to make ready—no wedding guests to invite; at this marriage there would be no show, glitter, or fashion; nothing but love, simplicity, and truth, and the union of two hearts and souls too closely bound together ever to be divided.
A few days before this marriage, Helen was sitting in the school-house, giving the last lesson before she dismissed her pupils, when a quick imperative knock came to the door. It could not be Mr. Hubbs, for he had left Long Arrow the morning after Helen had astonished and mortified him by rejecting the gracious offer of his hand, which he had expected her to accept with delight and gratitude; first letting it be known in the village that an important matter of trade called him to New York, and that he did not intend to return
