Chapter 10 - Economic Fluctuations, Unemployment, and Inflation

Economics 11th Edition Slavin

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Chapter 10
Economic Fluctuations, Unemployment, and Inflation
A. After studying this chapter the student should be able to

1. Analyze the business cycle.

2. List and discuss the various business cycle theories.
3. Understand how economic forecasting is done.
4. Calculate the unemployment rate.
5. List and identify the types of unemployment.
6. Construct a consumer price index.
7. Name and explain the theories of inflation.
8. Compute the misery index.

B. Ideas for use in class

Getting started

1. Students will bring to class varying understanding of the “business cycle.”

Ask them for other items that vary irregularly over time for which we have
imperfect explanations (earthquakes; temperature; a person’s mood and so
on.)

Ask students to identify the economy’s current place in the business cycle (see
Figures 3 and 4).

Ask students what they remember about past points on the business cycle
(either from their own experience or stories told by friends and family
members.)

2. Unemployment and inflation will be terms that students have heard before
attending the class. Find out their own (or friends’ or family’s) experiences

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Chapter 10 - Economic Fluctuations, Unemployment, and Inflation

with these events. In particular, find out if anyone has a personal story about a
recent Great Recession. These stories will bring the concepts to life and
motivate questions for this and subsequent chapters.

3. Several terms in the chapter will be familiar to students—but not in their

technically-correct economic meaning. Stress to students that colloquial
understanding isn’t wrong, but we want to use these terms in a different sense
in macroeconomics. For example:

 the business cycle is not a regular one as in physics

 the natural rate of unemployment is not natural as in a scientific sense
 real prices are inflation adjusted, not the price before full-price ticketed
item is marked on sale

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Chapter 10 - Economic Fluctuations, Unemployment, and Inflation

 the unemployment rate is not the fraction of the population without work,
but rather the fraction of the labor force actively seeking work. (This
confusion often causes the public to believe the current unemployment
rate is 25% or more.)

Active learning strategies

1. Conduct an in-class confidential survey using the BLS questions. Post the
numbers from this survey and ask pairs of students to calculate the class
unemployment rate. Compare this unemployment rate with the U.S.
unemployment rate and, if appropriate, the unemployment rate for 16–19 year
olds. (Data available at the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics at
http://www.bls.gov.)

2. Ask students to chart the unemployment rate, inflation rate and real GDP
growth rate using numbers from inside the front and back cover of the
textbook. To make the job less tedious, give students graph paper and assign
one decade to an individual, or choose selected years for analysis.

Even though these graphs are available in the book, students are more likely to
notice changes if they chart the data themselves.

Then ask questions: When were recessions? What happened to

unemployment? When was inflation highest? Why?

3. In order to practice formulas in this chapter (unemployment rate; inflation

rate), ask students to make up a problem (designating variables such as labor
force, number of unemployed, CPIs, and some distracters such as population,
number receiving unemployment insurance, price of oil, value of the U.S.
dollar) and then pass the problem to the person next to them to solve.

For example, student one fills in the following:

Population ______; Employed full time _____; Employed part time ______;
Actively seeking work ______; Receiving unemployment insurance ______

CPI last year ____; Price of oil this year _____; CPI this year _____;
Price of oil this year ____; Change in the value of U.S. dollar compared to
other currencies _____

Second student must calculate: Unemployment rate ___; Inflation rate ____

Second students passes answers back to first student to be checked.

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Chapter 10 - Economic Fluctuations, Unemployment, and Inflation

C. Homework questions and projects

This chapter permits a large number of possible projects using the web to find
current data on unemployment, inflation and economic growth. Listed below are a
number of such projects. Select the ones best suited to the interests and
capabilities of your students.

1. Check out the unemployment rate in your state. Go to most requested series
and then to geographic profiles at:

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics at http://www.bls.gov/.

Is the state’s unemployment rate lower or higher than the U.S. rate?

2. Compare the unemployment rate in different countries from the U.S. Bureau
of Labor Statistics at:
http://www.bls.gov/ilc/intl_unemployment_rates_monthly.htm

How does the trend in the U.S. compare with other countries?

3. Ask students to find the unemployment rate for their own age group, gender,
or ethnicity at:

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics http://www.bls.gov.

Students can compare each rate with the overall U.S. unemployment rate and
use the types of unemployment described in the textbook to explain why each
of these unemployment rates for differs from the overall unemployment rate.

4. Students can find the employment prospects for their chosen profession at:

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics at http://www.bls.gov/oco/

5. The National Bureau for Economic Research is the “official” arbiter of the
business cycle. Ask students to find out the official determination of recent
peaks and troughs at:

The National Bureau for Economic Research at

http://www.nber.org/cycles.html.

Ask students to label two peaks and troughs and identify the number of
months between them.

Find out the unemployment rate at each trough at:

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of McGraw-Hill Education.
Chapter 10 - Economic Fluctuations, Unemployment, and Inflation

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics at http://www.bls.gov.

Which recession was worse? Ask students to justify their answers.

6. Students can examine the business cycle in other countries using data from:

The Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development at

http://www.oecd.org/std/national-accounts.

Ask students to find out which countries have recently experienced recession
and which have experienced growth and identify the country with the longest
lasting recession. Students might be asked to use their knowledge of recent
events to explain the business cycle in these countries. Or, students might be
asked to do additional research to understand these cycles.

7. The most recent CPI is available at:

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics http://www.bls.gov.

Ask students to find the CPI for the most recent month and the same month
last year and to use these two numbers to compute the inflation rate for the
year.

8. Inflation rates in different countries are available at

https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/fields/2092.html.

Ask students to determine which countries have experienced high inflation

rates? Students might do additional research to determine what caused that
inflation? Also, ask students how does US inflation compare with inflation in
other countries during these years?

9. Students can see the U.S. Congressional Budget Office projections for output
and the price level for the next ten years at http://www.cbo.gov/.

Ask students to look at these projections and determine if they are optimistic
or pessimistic.

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Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
 “‘Mr. West,’ he writes, with the Mr. heavily underscored, as if to
make it doubly evident that he ignored the title of Dr. in my case:
‘Enclosed find five dollars for professional services rendered to
self July 22d. If I hadn’t had such a confounded stomach-ache I
suppose I should have marched you out-doors in double-quick
time, as that is what I’ve threatened to do with all kinds of quacks;
but I’m glad I didn’t, as my remembrance of you is that you are a
gentleman, even if you have a soft spot in the brain. Jessie,—that’s
my youngest,—insists that your spoon victuals did me good, and
prides herself on having cajoled you into the house,—but she
needn’t tell me; I know better. Bell, too,—that’s my eldest,—has
partially gone over to the enemy, but I’ll stick to my principles. It’s
all a piece of tomfoolery, though if you’ll never breathe a word of it
to Bell, nor Jessie, there is something about those paltry little pills
in that phial that will stop the tallest kind of a gripe! I’d like to
know you better, young man, and so would my daughters. Come
here in the autumn, when the shooting is fine. We have splendid
woods for hunting, if you enjoy it.

“‘Yours truly,
“‘T V .’

“This is a judge’s letter, and I rather like him for it. He is not to
be convinced in a hurry, but those little pills will do the work. I’d
like to know him better, and his daughters too. There was
something fascinating in that haughty Bell’s manner, while the
mischievous Jessie attracted me at once. I may some time improve
the acquaintance commenced under so very singular
circumstances.”
 CHAPTER X.
DORA’S DIARY.

“It seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet ’tis only three
short weeks. But in that time so much has happened that I
scarcely can realize it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the
doctor left, and but for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so
constantly stirred up, I could hardly have borne the loneliness.
She is so full of life, and she has made me laugh so much as she
described her father’s conversion to homœopathy, and then went
off into ecstasies over Dr. West.
“But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie’s laugh was
hushed, and her merry eyes were dim with tears, as she helped me
array a little crippled form for the grave. Robin is dead! I can write
about it now, can speak of the darling composedly, but at first the
thought of him brought a great choking sob, and I could only
weep, so fast he grew in my love during the few days I watched
over him. He was worse I heard, and in spite of Mattie’s assertion
that I was not able to endure it, I went to see him. Nor was I sorry
when I met the look of love which beamed in his soft blue eyes, as
folding his arms around my neck, he said:
“‘I knew you’d come, for I asked God would He send you to little
Robin, and He did. You’ll stay, too, won’t you, till Robin’s dead?
and you’ll tell me again of my mother in heaven?’
“I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a dream I
had that night, in which Anna came to me, her robes all white and
pure as are the robes of the redeemed, a halo of glory round her
head, and a look of love in her eyes as she bent over me and said:
“‘There’s a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy, and ere
many days his baby hands will sweep its golden strings; but till
that time arrives, he wants you, Dora Freeman,—wants you to lead
him down into the river, across whose waters I shall wait to meet
him. For Richard’s sake, you’ll go.’
“The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke from
what seemed more reality than a dream.
“‘Not for Richard’s sake,’ I said, ‘but for Anna’s;’ and so next day
I went again to where the little sick boy lay, watching and waiting
for me.
 “‘I don’t call him Papa Richard now,’ he said, when my
wrappings were removed, and I sat down beside him. ‘I told him
what you said, that he was not my father, and he told me, “No,
Robin, I am not,” but he wouldn’t say where papa was. Do you
know, lady, is he in heaven, too?’
“I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into some other
channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and, vain girl that I was,
laying ingenious snares for ascertaining if Richard had mentioned
me when he was home.
“‘He talked of “Dora.” Is that you, and may I call you so?’ Robin
said, in reply to my direct interrogation as to what Richard had
talked about; and so after that I was Dora to the child, who would
scarcely let another wait upon him. ‘You seem like mother. You’ll
stay,’ he kept repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after me.
“I thought of Anna in my dream; thought of the little golden
harp, and stayed, while people talked, as people will, wondering
what kept me at that child’s sick-bed, and associating me at last
with Richard, for whose sake they said I had turned nurse to
Robin. This piece of gossip proved the resurrection of the old
story, which was told and retold in a thousand different forms,
until madcap Jessie Verner threatened to box the first one’s ears
who should say Anna West to her again. This she told me herself,
watching with me by Robin, and that was all that passed between
us on the subject. It seemed to be tacitly understood that neither
Mattie, Bell, nor herself were to speak of the story to me, and they
did not. Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just
what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this point
surrounded myself with so strong a barrier of reserve, that they
never tried to break it down.
“Jessie had come to Mrs. West’s unsolicited, and it was strange
how the quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once to receive the
wild young creature, while Robin turned to her trustingly, and
whispered when she was gone:
“‘I don’t mind—her seeing my feet. She laughs at most
everything, but she wouldn’t at my poor, twisted toes.’
“Precious Robin! I would he could have seen the gush of tears
with which Jessie baptized those twisted toes when first the
shrivelled things met her view; but he was then where the halt and
maimed are made whole, and the feet which here had never
stepped a step were treading the golden streets. It was strange that
one so young should be so sensitive about his deformity, but he
had been so from the time he first learned that he was lame, and
when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would often ask his
grandmother if she supposed the passers-by guessed that he was
not like them.
“It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body manifests
itself in the expression of the face, but it was not so with him. A
more beautiful face I never saw, and I loved to watch it as he lay
sleeping upon his pillow, wondering if the mother could have been
as beautiful as the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the
father, wherever he might be. I had said in my heart that I
exonerated Richard, but at times I experienced a feeling which I
called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West was almost hourly
expecting, and who, when he came, found me with Robin on my
lap, his head nestled upon my bosom, while I sang to him of the
Heavenly City, where his mother waited for him.
“It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the coach stop
before the gate, and a rapid step upon the walk. My voice must
have trembled, for Robin unclosed his eyes as if to ask the cause,
but I hushed him gently, while in the adjoining apartment a low
conversation was carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last
the doctor started for the room where I was sitting, but I gave no
sign of consciousness until he was close beside me and I met the
glance of his eyes,—a glance in which for an instant I fancied I
read more than a friendly interest; the blood surged hotly through
my veins; but thoughts of Anna, whom dying he had kissed,
holding her as I had held Robin, froze it back from my face, which
must have turned very white, for after his first words of greeting,
he said to me, ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have been
to mother. She has told me of your kindness; but Dora,’ and his
hand touched my hair lightly, ‘I fear you are overtaxing your
strength. You are very pale to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.’
“I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling that his
hand slid from my hair, while he began speaking to Robin, who
only complained of weariness.
“‘I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard,’ Robin said, putting
out his thin fingers and playing with the heavy beard of the doctor,
who had knelt beside me the better to see the child. ‘I call you
uncle all the time because Dora wanted me to.’
“Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson with
emotions whose nature I could not guess. I only knew they
hardened me into stone, and I was glad when at last Jessie came
in, for she relieved me from all necessity of talking. Richard liked
Jessie; her sprightly manner amused and rested him, I could see,
and it made me half angry to hear how merrily he laughed at her
remarks, even when he knew that Robin’s days were numbered.
How I clung to that child, refusing to give him to the care of Mrs.
West. He could not lie upon the bed, and I felt a kind of fierce
pleasure in holding him, and in knowing that Richard knew what I
was doing for Anna’s child.
“Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and the August
moon cast its beams across the floor, even to where I sat singing
the low lullaby. And out upon the piazza Dr. West and Jessie
talked and laughed together, until the sick boy whispered
moaningly, ‘It’s very cold and dark in here. Cover me closer, Dora,
and light the candles now.’
“I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow, whose
import I could not mistake, and half bitterly, half reproachfully, I
exclaimed:
“‘Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin needs you.’
“He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie; her eyes
filling with tears when she, too, saw and recognized the shadow
which had alarmed me. Robin was dying! We all knew it now, and
Robin knew it, too, and still refused to leave me for the arms
which Richard stretched out to him.
“‘It’s nicer here,’ he said, and there was a world of love in the
soft blue eyes as he nestled closer to me.
‘I guess I’m dying. It’s all so dark and queer. Is it very far to
heaven, and will I lose the way?’
“‘No, darling, for Jesus will go with you,’ Richard answered, now
pressing so close to Robin that his shoulder touched mine, and I
felt his breath upon my hair.
“‘And I won’t be a cripple any more? I’ll walk in heaven, and
mother’s there sure?’ was the next remark, to which there came no
response, except a moan from Mrs. West, until I answered:
“‘Yes, sure, Robin, sure.’
“‘I’ll tell her how good you was, and how much I loved you, too.
What shall I say for you, Grandma West? What word shall I carry
mother?’
 “Mrs. West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon the pillow,
where Robin’s had lain so long, and when he thus addressed her,
she answered:
“‘Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till my hair all
turned white, and tell her how if in thought I ever wronged her, I
am so sorry now.’
“‘I’ll tell her,’ Robin whispered; ‘and you, Uncle Richard, what
for you?’
“The doctor’s frame shook, and his face was white as ashes as he
was thus appealed to for a message to the dead, but he did not
speak until Robin twice repeated, ‘And what for you?’
“Then with a sob, he said:
“‘Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.’
“‘Why! didn’t you love my mother?’ the dying boy asked, the
look of surprise for a moment mastering the look of death upon
his face.
“‘Yes, he did,’ I said. ‘He loved her better than his life. He loves
her still. Tell her so.’
“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression of
his there was something which subdued all my pride, and brought
a rain of tears upon my face. I did not longer refuse to let him take
the child, nor did Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my
chair sick and faint, while that great struggle went on between
death and the little life whose lamp had burned so feebly.
“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard was
praying softly, and that his words were soothing to the sufferer,
who suddenly exclaimed:
“‘I see my mother! She’s like the picture in the frame! She’s
waiting for me over there where the banks are so green! She is in
heaven sure; but I don’t see my father anywhere! He is not there!
Oh, where is my father?’
“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay quietly upon
his couch, his golden curls all smooth and shining, just as Jessie
had made them, his blue eyes closed, his tiny hands folded upon
his bosom, his poor, crippled feet hidden from curious sight.
“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I fancied did
Dr. West. All her levity was gone for the time, and in its place
there came a tender, motherly manner, which brooded over and
encircled all in its careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a
very child in the hands of this girl of eighteen, while Richard, too,
was brought within her influence. He was weary with his long ride
of a hundred and thirty miles, but no one save Jessie seemed to
think of this. She remembered everything, and when I would have
worried Mrs. West with questions as to where Robin’s clothes
were kept, she hushed me gently, going about the house in quest
of what was needed, with as much assurance as if she had been the
daughter instead of a perfect stranger. It was Jessie who made
Richard lie upon the lounge in the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who
arranged his pillows for him, covering him up with his travelling-
shawl, and then brought him tea and toast she herself had made,
and which he so much needed after his wearisome ride. I did not
marvel that he followed her movements with eyes in which I read,
as I believed, more than an ordinary interest; while at me, still
keeping a useless watch by the dead boy, he seldom glanced. There
was a pang at my heart which I suppose was jealousy, though I did
not so define it, and I rather enjoyed thinking that Anna, and
Robin, and myself, were in some way wronged by this new interest
of Richard’s. I had cared for Robin to the last, but with his life my
usefulness had ceased. I was not needed longer, I thought, and so
next morning I went home, saying to Mrs. West and Richard,
when they asked if I would soon be back:
“‘I shall attend the funeral, of course. There is no necessity for
coming before. Jessie will do everything.’
“Mrs. West did not urge me to return, neither did Richard, but
he went with me to the gate, opening it for me, and then, standing
a moment as if there was something he would say, ‘You do look
tired, Dora,—more so than I thought. You are not strong enough
for all you have gone through. I think I must prescribe,’ and he
took my hand to feel the quickened pulse. ‘You are feverish,’ he
continued. ‘You ought to rest, but we shall miss you so much. It’s a
comfort to know you are here.’
“I was very foolish, very nervous, and the tears started, but I
dashed them away, and taking the offered medicine, answered
back, ‘I leave to Jessie the task of comforter. She will do better
than I.’
“The next moment I was walking rapidly down the street, never
looking back until the corner was reached, when, glancing over my
shoulder, I saw the doctor still standing where I had left him,
leaning upon the gate. I never remember a time when I was so
childish, or more unhappy, than I was that day and the following,
which last was the day of Robin’s funeral. There was no parade, no
display,—only a few friends and neighbors, with Jessie, presiding
genius, telling everybody what to do, while, stranger than all,
Judge Verner himself was there as director, his carriage bearing
Mrs. West and Richard to the grave where they buried Robin.
“There was something in the young man which he liked, he said,
even if he was a fool, and so he had offered no objections to
Jessie’s proceedings, and was himself doing what he could for the
family. There was room in the carriage for four, and greatly to my
surprise the Judge whispered to me:
“‘That chap they call Doctor wants you to go with them. He says,
next to his mother, the child loved you the best.’
“I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking back into the
corner I answered no, so decidedly that the judge hastened away,
repeating his ill success to Richard, who had risen, and with his
mother on his arm was advancing to the door. As he passed me he
stopped, and reaching his hand said gently, ‘Dora, come with us;
for Robin’s sake.’
“I could not resist that voice, and I went forward taking his
other arm, and so out into the yard, past the groups of people who
speculated curiously as to why Miss Freeman should go with the
chief mourners. Behind us came Mr. Randall’s carriage, with
Mattie, and Bell, and Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of
my rather awkward position.
“‘Mother,’ Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery, ‘it is
seven years to-day since Anna died. Do you remember?’
“‘Yes,’ she answered sadly, while I remembered that seven years
ago was also to have been his bridal.
“Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled road, past
the willow and the cedar, past the box, the pine, and fir, to where
Anna lay sleeping? Did he look back with anguish and regret to
that other day, when, with the August sunshine falling upon him
as it was falling now, he listened to the solemn words, ‘Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust,’ and heard the cold earth rattle down upon the
coffin-lid? Yes, he did, I was sure, and this was what blanched his
cheeks so white and made his lips quiver so, as we returned to the
carriage and were driven from the yard, leaving Anna and Robin
there alone.
“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could not remain
quietly in any place, but wandered uneasily about until near
nightfall, when I stole out unobserved and took my way to the
burying-ground, where Anna and Robin were. Just outside the
iron railing which enclosed their graves there was a rude, time-
worn seat, placed upon the grass-plat years ago, it would seem,
from the names and dates carved upon it. Here I sat down, and
leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all that had
transpired since I had come to Morrisville. Had I known all I was
to see and hear, would I have wished to come? I asked myself; but
could find no satisfactory answer. I was glad I had known Robin,
for his memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was
glad I had heard of Anna ere I learned to think too much of
Richard. Then thoughts of Jessie arose, and I said aloud, ‘Can he
ever forget Anna, who died in his arms?’
“‘No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I mourn for her
always, as I mourned when we first laid her here, and I sat nearly
all the night just where you are sitting, watching the stars as they
held their first vigil over Anna’s grave, and almost impiously
questioning the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.’
“I knew it was Richard’s voice speaking to me, and I gave a little
start of surprise, but did not lose a word which he had spoken.
“‘I half believed I should find you here,’ he said, sitting down
beside me, and drawing a little more about my neck the shawl
which had fallen off. ‘Something told me I should find you, and so
I came quite as much to join the living as the dead. Dora, you will
forgive the familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here,
where you have done me and mine so much good, you will surely
let me use a name which mother and Robin adopted.’
“I bowed, and he went on.
“‘You do not know how glad I am that you were with us when
Robin died, or how it lessens the smart to have you sitting with me
in sight of Robin’s grave.’
“‘And Anna’s?’ I said, looking at him for the first time.
“‘Yes, Anna’s,’ he continued in the same kind tone; ‘and it is of
her I would tell you, Dora,’ and he spoke hurriedly now. ‘How
much do you know of Anna, and who told you?’
“‘Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,’ I answered,
my voice full of tears, which I could not repress.
“‘Felton!’ he repeated in dismay. ‘Unless her reputation for
veracity has improved, I would not vouch for the truth of what she
might say, though she liked Anna. Shall I tell you her history,
Dora?’
“I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but I must
hear the story. I should never be happy till I had, and I answered
eagerly:
“‘Yes, tell me of Anna.’”
 CHAPTER XI.
RICHARD’S STORY.

“He was very white, and his voice trembled, while his eyes had in
them the far-off look I had once or twice observed before.
“‘There are some things in our family history,’ he began, ‘which I
shall omit, as they have nothing in particular to do with Anna and
myself. For instance, you know, perhaps, that we once lived at
West Lawn in different circumstances from what mother is living
in now, and that we suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller
one, and living in a cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I need
not say, except that Anna was in no way connected with it.
“‘She was my adopted sister; and she came to us when only six
years old. I was twelve, as was my twin-brother Robert. He went
from us years ago, and has never been heard from since. We fear
he is dead, and the uncertainty is killing my mother. I shall soon
be all alone. But I was telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into
our hearts, my brother and I quarrelling for the honor of drawing
her to school. This was in her childhood, but as she grew older
Robert professed to care less for her than I. “She was a doll-baby,”
he said; “a compound of red and white, and yellow curls.” He
would not even acknowledge that she was beautiful, but said she
could not compare with the maidens of New York, where he went
to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty. His coldness
troubled me at first, but when I came to think of her as something
dearer than a sister, I was glad that he so seldom came to
Morrisville, for he was far finer-looking than I am. Put us side by
side, and nineteen out of twenty would have given him the
preference. But he did not care for Anna, and when she was
sixteen I asked her to be my wife. It was here, too, Dora, on this
very bench, where you are sitting with me, and it was eleven years
ago this very day.
“‘Something most always happens to me on this day—something
which leaves its impress on my mind. One year ago we went to
that picnic by the lake. Do you remember it, Dora?’
“‘Yes,” I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully. ‘Yes, but go
on with Anna.’
“He was silent a moment, and then continued:
 “‘We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little dreaming
how near we were to the spot of earth where she would ere long be
lying. I have told you that I asked her to be my wife, but I have not
told you how much I loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much!
And she was worthy of my love. Whatever happened afterward she
was worthy then. You have seen her picture. It hardly does her
justice, for no artist can ever give a correct idea of what that face
was when lighted up with life, and health, and love. I have never
seen a face one half as beautiful as Anna’s. She knew that she was
beautiful, but it did not make her vain, for she knew that God had
given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and she tried to keep His
gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her heart pure in His sight.
I cannot think of a single fault she had unless it were that she
sometimes lacked decision, and was too easily swayed by those in
whom she had confidence. But in all essential points she was right,
serving God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to
His service.’
“‘Then why,’ I exclaimed, ‘when Robin asked if she was in
heaven sure, why did you hesitate to tell him yes?’
“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied:
“‘I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her to be my
wife. We read of angels falling,—then why not a mortal man?
though Heaven knows that I cannot fully believe that Anna fell. I
could not live if I believed it. Mother’s religious creed and mine
differ in one point, although we profess the same holy faith. To me
a child of God is a child forever, just as no act of mine can make
me cease to be my mother’s son. But to go on. I loved her with my
whole soul, and I told her so, while for a moment she made no
reply, except to lay her head upon my arm and weep. Then lifting
up her eyes she said she was too young to know her own mind yet;
that she loved me, and always had,—like a brother at first, but
latterly in a different way, and if I would not require her to be my
wife at once, and would promise to release her should she ever
come to think that she could not be mine, she would answer yes.
And so we were engaged.
“‘After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so full of
anticipation was my whole being. I had been graduated the
previous year, and I was then a student in Dr. Lincoln’s office, but
I boarded at home, and saw Anna every day, counting the hours
from the time I left her in the morning until I returned late in the
afternoon to our fashionable dinner, for we observed such matters
then. I shut my eyes at times, and those days come back again,
bringing with them Anna as she used to look when she came out to
meet me, her curls falling about her childish face, and her white
robes giving her the look of an angel. I loved her too much. I
almost placed her before Him who has declared He will have no
idols there, and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married
on her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous to that
time I had not the shadow of a suspicion that Anna’s love was not
wholly my own. I well remember the time, a dreary, rainy autumn
day, when she came into my room, and leaning one hand on my
shoulder, parted my hair with the other, as she was wont to do.
“‘“Richard,” she began, “isn’t it just as wicked to act a lie as it is
to tell one?”
“‘“I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued:
“‘“Then you won’t be angry when I tell you what I must. I was
very young when I promised to be your wife, and I am afraid I did
not quite know what I was doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but
you seem more like my brother; and, Richard, don’t turn so white
and tremble so,—I shall marry you if you wish it; but please don’t,
oh! don’t—”
“‘She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees before me,
my Anna, my promised wife. I had thought her low-spirited for
some days, but had no thought of this, and the shock was a terrible
one. I could not, however, see her so disturbed, when I had the
power to relieve her, and after talking with her calmly,
dispassionately, I released her from the engagement and she was
free. I did not even hint at the possibility of her learning to love me
in time, because I fancied she would be more apt to do so if wholly
untrammelled; but that hope alone kept my heart from breaking
during the wretched weeks which followed, and in which Anna’s
health seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A change of
air was proposed, and she was sent to Boston, where my mother
has relatives. It was on the eve of the new year when she came
back to us, with a white, scared look upon her face, which became
at last habitual, making it painful to look at her, she appeared so
nervous and frightened. It was as if some great terror were
continually haunting her, or some mighty secret, which it was
death to divulge and worse than death to cover up. I supposed it to
be a fear of what I might require of her, and so I said to her one
day that if the thing preying upon her mind was a dread lest I
should seek to make her my wife, she might put that aside, as I
should not annoy her in that way.
“‘Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her eyes,—a
look so full of anguish and remorse, that I turned away, for I could
not meet it.
“‘“O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could not touch
her, “you don’t know how wretched I am. It almost seems as if God
had forgotten that I did try to serve Him, Richard. What is the
unpardonable sin? Is it to deceive?”
“‘I thought she referred to her relations with me, and I tried to
soothe her agitation, telling her she had not deceived me; that she
had told me frankly how she felt; that she was wholly truthful and
blameless.
“‘With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she exclaimed:
“‘“No, no, you kill me! Don’t talk so! I am not blameless; but,
oh! I don’t know what to do! Tell me, Richard, tell me, which is
worse, to deceive, or break a solemn vow?”
“‘I had no idea what she meant, and without directly answering
her questions I tried to quiet her, but it was a useless task. She
only wrung her hands and sobbed more passionately, saying God
had cast her off, and she was lost forever. This seemed to be the
burden of her grief for many days, and then she settled down into
a stony calm, more terrible than her stormy mood had been,
because it was more hopeless. She did not talk to us now except to
answer questions in monosyllables, and would sit all day by the
window of her chamber, looking afar off as if in quest of some one
who never came.
“We thought when she came home that we had as much as we
could bear, for a domestic calamity had overtaken us, involving
both ruin and disgrace, unless it were promptly met; but in our
concern for Anna, we forgot the other trouble, else we had fainted
beneath the rod. At last the asylum was recommended, and the
first of March we carried her there, taking every precaution that
her treatment should be the kindest and most considerate.”
“‘How long ago was that?’ I asked, starting suddenly, as a
memory of the past swept over me.
“‘Seven years,’ he replied, and I continued:
“‘Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for seven years
this summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a schoolmate in Utica, and
one day we went from curiosity to the lunatic asylum, but I did not
see a face like Anna’s in the portrait. Oh yes,’ and I started again, ‘I
remember now a young girl with the most beautiful golden hair,
but her face was resting on the window-sill, and she would neither
look up nor answer my questions,—that was Anna,’ and in my
excitement I could scarcely control myself to listen, while Richard
continued:
“‘It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not answer any
one.
“‘Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after the first
time she never spoke to us; but tried to hide away where we could
not see her. She gave them no trouble whatever, as she seldom left
her chair by the window, where she sat the live-long day, looking
westward, just as she did at home. She had written one letter, they
said, and when we asked to whom, the matron could only
remember that she believed it was to California, adding that the
attendant who then took the letters to the office had sickened
since and died. It was to some imaginary person, no doubt, she
said, and so that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I could
not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said abruptly:
“‘“Anna, what correspondent have you in California?”
“‘Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell at my feet
senseless. This was a mystery upon which I dwelt day and night,
finding no solution whatever to it, and forgetting it at last as the
terrible tragedy drew to a close.
“‘Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and when she
returned her hair was almost as white as you now see it, while her
whole appearance was indicative of some great, crushing sorrow
which had fallen suddenly upon her. Anna had asked to be taken
home, she said,—had fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress
had kissed it abjectly, crying piteously, “Home, mother; take poor
Anna home; let her die there.”
“‘It was the first time she had spoken to us in months, and we
could not refuse. So she came,—the seventh day of August,—
travelling by railroad to the station, and coming the remainder of
the way in our carriage. Her last fancy was that she could not walk,
and I met her at our gate, carrying her into the house—and
upstairs to her old room, which had been made ready for her. As I
laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms tightly round my neck,
and whispered, “God has forgiven me, Richard, will you?”
 “‘I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who needed my
services more than Anna, and who lay all that evening on the
lounge as white and rigid as stone. The next day I saw a good deal
of Anna, and hope whispered that she was getting better. The
scared, wild look was gone, and a bright, beautiful color burned
upon her cheeks. Her hair, which had been cut, was growing out
again more luxuriant than ever, and curled in short ringlets about
her head. She talked a little, too, asking if we had ever heard from
Robert, and bidding me tell him, when he came back, that she
spoke kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth. The next
day was her birthday, the one fixed upon for our bridal. I do not
know if she remembered it, but I thought of nothing else as the
warm, still hours glided by, and to myself I said it may be some
other day. Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas! I little dreamed
of the scathing blow in store for me; the frightful storm which was
to rage so fiercely round me, and whose approach was heralded by
the arrival of Dr. Lincoln, who had been there before, holding
private consultations with my mother, and looking, when he came
from them, stern, perplexed, mysterious, and sorry.
“‘Dora, you know what all this portended, but you do not know,
neither can you begin to guess, how heavy,—how full of agony was
the blow which awaited me, when just at nightfall I came up from
the office where I had been for several hours. “Anna was dying.”
This was the message which greeted me in the hall, and like
lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting on the upper landing with
my mother, who had grown old twenty years since morning.
“‘“Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it? have they told
you? do you know?”
“‘“Yes,” I said, “Anna is dying. I must see her; let me go,” and I
tore away from the hands which would have held me back until I
was to some extent prepared.
“‘I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed door I
caught a glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and her hand was
beckoning. I was half-way across the room, when a sound met my
ear which took all consciousness away, and for the next three
hours I was insensible to pain. Then came the horrid waking, but
the blow had stunned me so, I neither felt nor realized as I did
afterwards. I went straight to Anna, for she was asking for me, she
from whom the rest stood aloof as from a polluted thing. Through
all the horror she had never spoken a word, or made the slightest
sound, and this suppression of feeling was hastening her end.
Nothing but the words, “Tell Richard to come,” had passed her lips
since, and when I went to her she could only whisper faintly,
“Forgive me, Richard. It’s all right, but I promised not to tell. It’s
right, it’s right.” Then she continued, entreatingly, “Let me lay my
head on your arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of
forgiveness.”
“‘Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex more
harshly than we do, but you would not have had me refuse that
dying request?’
“‘I should hate you if you had,’ I sobbed, while he continued:
“‘Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a stone, but
I did not heed her. I lifted Anna up; I held her on my bosom; I
pushed away the clustering curls; I kissed the quivering lips sueing
for forgiveness and assuring me all was right. I forgave her then
and there as I hoped to be forgiven; I said I would care for her
baby; I received her last injunction; I kept her in my arms until the
last fleeting breath went out, and when I laid her back upon the
pillow she was dead!
“‘Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her dying, threw
over the past a veil of charity, which only a few of the coarser,
unfeeling ones ever tried to rend. There was gossip and talk, and
wonder, and pity, and surmise, and something suspicious thrown
upon me, the more readily as people generally did not know that
our engagement had been broken; but I outlived it all, and when,
three months after Anna died, I rose from a sick-bed, and went
forth among people again, they gave me only sympathy and
friendly words, never mentioning either Anna or Robin in my
presence.
“‘During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the practice of
medicine underwent a change, and greatly to the horror of good
old Dr. Lincoln, with whom I studied, I became a homœopathist.
This furnished me with an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I
wished to investigate that mode of treatment, and gain every
possible information from physicians whom I knew to be
intelligent and thorough. I went first to New York, and after a few
months commenced my new practice in Boston; thence, as you
know, I went to Beechwood. Once I hoped mother might be
persuaded to go with me, but she said:
“‘“I would rather stay here, where people know all about it. I
could not bear to be questioned concerning Robin.”
 “‘Women are different from men; it takes them longer to rise
above anything like disgrace, and mother has never been what she
was before Anna’s death. She came in time to love Robin dearly,
but his misfortune added to her grief, until her cup seemed more
than full. Her health is failing rapidly, and a change of place is
necessary. For a long time past I have had it in my mind to sell the
cottage and take mother to Beechwood. A friend of mine stands
ready to purchase at any time. I saw him two hours since, and to-
morrow the papers will be drawn which will deprive us of our
home.’
“‘And your mother!’ I exclaimed, ‘will she go to Beechwood?’
“‘Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I am going with
mother to California as soon as I can arrange my affairs at home. I
may not return for a long time, certainly not for a year.’
“There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as he told
me this, while to me the world seemed changed, and I felt how
desolate his going would leave me. Still I made no comment, and
after a moment he continued:
“‘And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most important
of all. Men do not often lay bare their secrets except to one they
love! It has cost me a great effort to go over the past, and talk to
you of Anna, but I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the
heart I would offer you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora, only a
scar; believe me, only a scar. It does not quicken now one pulse
the faster when I remember Anna, who was to have been my wife.
I loved her. I lost her; and were she back just as she used to be,
and I knew you as I know you now, I should give you the
preference. You are not as beautiful as Anna, but you are better
suited to my taste,—you better meet the requirements of my
maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you began. I was
interested in you from the first. I have watched and pitied you
these four years, wishing often that I could lighten the load you
bore so uncomplainingly, and when you came away this time, life
was so dreary and monotonous that I said to myself, “Whether
Dora hears of Anna or not, I’ll tell her when she returns, and ask
her to be my wife.” At first I was a very coward in the matter, and
cautioned mother against revealing anything, but afterward
thought differently. If you are to be mine, there should be no
concealments of that nature, and so I have told you all, giving you
leave to repeat it if you please. There is one person whom I would
particularly like to know it, and that is Jessie Verner.’
 “The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it roused the
demon of jealousy, and when he continued:
“‘Dora, will you be my wife? Will you give me a right to think of
and love you during the time I am absent?’
“I answered pettishly:
“‘If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with Jessie? You
seem to admire her very much.’
“While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he was
leaning against the iron fence, where he could look me directly in
the face, and where I, too, could see him. As I spoke of Jessie, an
amused expression flitted over his features, succeeded by one
more serious as he replied:
“‘I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I wished to win
her, but now that I am at the confessional, I will say that next to
yourself Jessie Verner attracts and pleases me more than any one
with whom I have met since Anna died. There is about her a life
and sparkle which would put to rout a whole regiment of blues,
while her great kindness to mother and Robin show her to be a
true, genuine woman at heart. I have seen but little of her. I
admire her greatly, and had I never met you, Dora, I might have
turned to Jessie. Surely this should not make you jealous.’
“I knew it should not, but I think I must have been crazy;
certainly I was in a most perverse, unreasonable mood, and I
answered:
“‘I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admiration for
Jessie, and if on so short an acquaintance you like her almost as
well as you do me, whom you have known for years, it would not
take long for you to like her better, so I think it wise for you to wait
until you know your mind.’
“I wonder he did not leave me at once; he did move away
quickly, saying:
“‘It is not like you, Dora, to trifle thus. You either love me or you
do not. I cannot give you up willingly. You are tired, weak, excited,
and you need not answer me now, though I hoped for something
different. I shall think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am
gone, and possibly write to you; then, when I return, I shall repeat
the question of to-day, and ask you again to be my wife.’
“He was perfectly collected now, and something in his manner
awed me into silence. The sun had already set, and the night dews
beginning to fall. He was the first to notice it, and with tender care
he drew my shawl a second time about my neck, and then taking
my arm in his, led me away from Anna’s grave out into the streets,
where more than one turned to look inquiringly after us,
whispering their surmise that we were really engaged.
“He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and Mattie
invited him to tea, with Judge Verner’s family and Dr. Lincoln. He
came, as I knew he would, but the judge and the doctor kept him
so constantly talking of homœopathy that I hardly saw him at all
till just as he was going, when he held my hand in his own and
looked into my eyes so kindly that I could scarcely keep back the
tears which would have told him that I loved him now, and he
need not wait a year. A bad headache had prevented Bell from
coming, and as the judge was called away on business, the doctor
walked home with Jessie, while I watched them as far as I could
see, feeling myself grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie
leaned upon his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a
child.
“Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I tried one
day to tell her, but she knew it already from Mrs. West, and
exonerated Richard from all blame. She is at the cottage a great
deal, and Mattie thinks her greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish
he had not said that next to me he preferred Jessie, for it haunts
me continually, and makes me very unamiable.”
 CHAPTER XII.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

Telegram to Dora Freeman, Morrisville.

“‘S , August 25th.

“‘Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly

live.

“‘J R .’

This is the telegram which I received this morning, and to-morrow

I am going to poor Margaret. God grant she may not be dead! Dear
sister, what would I not give if I had never written those dreadful
things of her in my journal. Poor Margaret! her married life has
not been very happy with all those children born so fast, and if she
lives how much I will love her to make amends for the past. My
trunks are packed and standing in the hall, and I am looking, for
the last time it may be, on the woods and hills of Morrisville,
where the moonlight is falling so softly. I can see a little of the
cemetery in the distance, and I know where Anna’s grave is so
well. I have been there but once since that day, and then I found
Jessie with Mrs. West planting flowers over Robin. Mrs. West
loves that young girl, and so do I, in spite of what the doctor said;
but she does shock me with her boyish, thoughtless manners,
actually whistling John Brown as she dug in the yellow dirt. Jessie
is a queer compound. She and her father and Bell are going on
with me to Saratoga. Oh, if Dr. West could be there too, he would
cure Margaret. I have been half tempted to telegraph, but finally
concluded that brother John would do so if desirable. Poor John!
what will he do if he is left alone? and does Jessie remember the
foolish thing she said about his second wife? I trust not, for that
would be terrible, and Margaret not yet dead.

“C H ,S .}
August 30th. }
 “My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to some one,
and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out my grief. Margaret is
dead; and all around, the gay world is unchanged; the song and
the dance go on the same as if in No.—there were no rigid form, no
pale Margaret gone forever,—no wretched husband weeping over
her,—no motherless little children left alone so early.
“It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I stepped from the
car into the noisy, jostling crowd which Judge Verner pushed
hither and thither in his frantic efforts to find his baggage, and
secure an omnibus. How sick of fashionable life it made me, to see
the throng upon the sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we
drove along the streets, and how anxiously I looked up at all the
upper windows as we stopped before the Clarendon, saying to
myself, ‘Is this Margaret’s room, or that?’
“I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and
remembering how curiously new-comers are inspected, I drew my
veil before my face and was following Judge Verner, when Jessie
suddenly exclaimed, ‘Perfectly splendid!’ and the next moment my
hand was grasped by Dr. West. He was waiting for us, he said; he
expected us on that train, and was staying downstairs to meet us.
“‘And Margaret?’ I asked, clinging to his arm, and throwing off
my veil so I could see his face.
“‘Your sister is very sick,’ he replied, ‘but your coming will do
her good. She keeps asking for you. I arrived yesterday, starting as
soon as I received your brother’s telegram. Johnnie is nearly
distracted, and nothing but my telling him I was sure you would
prefer to have him remain at home, was of the least avail to keep
him from coming with me.
“All this he told me while we waited in the reception-room for
the keys to our apartments.
“‘It is very crowded here,’ he said, ‘but by a little engineering I
believe you are all comfortably provided for. Your room
especially,’ and he nodded to me, ‘is the most desirable in the
building.’
“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going himself
into a little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous Richard, you are a
great comfort to me these dreadful days. As he had said, my own
room was every way desirable, but I only gave it at first a hasty
glance, so anxious was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come,
and was asking continually for me. How sadly she was changed
from the Margaret who stood upon the piazza and said good-by
one morning last June. The long curls were all brushed back, and
the blue eyes looked so large, so unnaturally bright, as they turned
eagerly to me, and yet I liked her face better than ever before.
There was less of self stamped upon it, and more of kindly interest
in others.
“‘Dora, darling sister,’ was all she said, as she wound her arms
about my neck, but never since my childhood had she called me by
so endearing a title, and I felt springing up in my heart a love
mightier than any I had ever felt for her, while with it came a keen
remorse for the harsh things written against my dying sister.
“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but that soon,
very soon, she would be gone, for there was upon her face the
same pinched look I had seen on father and Robin just before the
great destroyer came.
“‘Dora,’ she whispered at last, ‘I am so glad you are here. I was
afraid I might never see you again, and I wanted so much to tell
you how sorry I am for the past. I did not make your home with
me as happy as I might. Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John
so much. He says I never did, but I know better. I’ve thought it all
over, lying here, and I know you cannot be so sorry to have me die
as I should if it were you.’
“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been happy with her,
—but she would not listen, and talked on, telling me next of the
little life which had looked for half an hour upon this world, and
then floated away to the next.
“‘I called it Dora for you,’ she said, ‘for something told me that I
should die, and I thought you might love baby better if she bore
your name. But I am glad she died; it makes your burden less: for
Dora, you will be my children’s mother,—you will care for them.’
“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided us, but I
answered, ‘Yes, I will care for the children;’ and then, to stop her
talking, I was thinking of leaving her, when Jessie’s voice was
heard in the hall, speaking to the chamber-maid.
“‘Who is that?’ Margaret asked, her old expression coming back
and settling down into a hard, unpleasant expression, when I
replied:
“‘That’s Jessie Verner. The family came with me, or rather I
came with them. You know her; she was here a few weeks since.’
 “‘The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she whistles, and romps with the
dog, and talks to the gentlemen, and goes down the sidewalk hip-
pi-ti-hop, and up the stairs two at a time; and joked with John
about being his second wife right before me! Actually, Dora, right
before me!’ and Margaret’s voice was highly indicative of her
horror at this last-named sin of Jessie’s.
“‘It was better to joke before you than when you were absent.
Jessie is at least frank and open-hearted,’ I said, but Margaret
would not hear a word in her favor, so deeply prejudiced had she
become against the young girl, who half an hour later inquired for
her with much concern, and asked if she might see her.
“‘I did not know,’ I said, ‘I’d ask.’
“‘Never, Dora, never!’ and Margaret’s lips shut firmly. ‘That
terrible girl see me! No, indeed!’ and in this she persisted to the
last, Dr. West telling Jessie that he did not think it best for her to
call on Mrs. Russell, as it might disturb her.
“That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top in the
drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and winning a host
of male admirers by her frankness and originality. Next morning I
counted upon her table as many as six bouquets, the finest of
which she begged me carry Margaret, with her compliments.
“Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been the
previous night, but her eyes lighted up with a gleam of pleasure
when I appeared with the flowers, and she involuntarily raised her
hand to take them.
“‘Miss Jessie sent them,’ I said, and instantly they dropped from
Margaret’s grasp, while she exclaimed:
“‘That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight. They make me
sick. I can’t endure it!’
“So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the children’s
room, and then went back to Margaret, who kept me by her the
live-long day, talking of the years gone by, of our dead parents,
and finally of the rapidly coming time when she would be dead
like them. Then she spoke of Johnnie and the little boys at home,
and gave to me messages of love, with sundry injunctions to mind
whatever I might tell them. Remembering Johnnie’s letter, in
which he had expressed so much contrition for the saucy words
said to her when he did battle for me, I told her of his grief and his
desire that I should do so. Margaret was beautiful then, with the
great mother-love shining out upon her face, as with quivering lip
she bade me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the
past, and only thought of him as her eldest-born and pride.
“‘And, Dora, when I’m dead, cut off some of my curls, and give
the longest, the brightest to Johnnie.’
“I assented with tears, and received numerous other directions
until my brain was in a whirl, so much seemed depending upon
me.
“Hovering constantly over and around her was brother John,
doing everything so clumsily and yet so kindly, that Margaret did
hot send him from her until the day was closing. Then as I came
back to her after a short absence, during which I had gone with
Bell and Jessie to the Congress Spring, she said to him softly:
“‘Now leave me with Dora.’
“He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush upon his
cheek as he closed the door upon us. All thought of that, however,
was forgotten in Margaret’s question:
“‘Dora, are you engaged?’
“How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from the window
I saw Dr. West leaning against a tree, and talking to Jessie, who
sat with Bell upon the piazza. I thought she referred to him, and I
answered her no, wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told
her.
“‘I am glad,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘When I heard he
was at his sister’s in Morrisville, I thought it might end in an
engagement, particularly as he admired you so much when he
visited us last summer.’
“I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed, and that
no suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever crossed her mind,
and so I listened, while she continued:
“‘I told you last night that you must be my children’s mother,
and you promised that you would. Tell me so again, Dora. Say that
no one else shall come between you, and if, in after years, children
of your own shall climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love
mine still for your dead sister’s sake. Promise, Dora.’
“For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought, the
reality of which would prove a living death, and in that interval I
felt all the sickening anguish which would surely come upon me
were I to take her place in everything. But she did not mean that.
She could not doom me to such a fate, and so when she said to me
again faintly, oh! so faintly, while the perspiration stood on her
white lips, and her cold hand clasped mine pleadingly, ‘Promise,
Dora, to be my children’s mother.’
“I answered, ‘Yes, I will care for and be to them a mother.’
“‘You make me so happy,’ she replied; ‘for, Dora,’ and her dim
eyes flashed indignantly, ‘you may say it was all in a jest, but I
know that dreadful whistling girl meant more than half she said.
She fancied John, and sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I
should rise out of my grave to have her there, in my room, riding
in my carriage, sporting my diamonds, and using my dresses, the
whistling hoyden!’
“I shed tears of repentance over Margaret’s dead body for the
merry laugh I could not repress at the mere idea of her being
jealous of Jessie Verner, who was only eighteen years of age, while
brother John was almost forty. My laugh disturbed her, and so I
forced it back, going at her request for John, who, when next we
met alone, stroked my hair kindly, saying to me:
“‘You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy about the
children.’
“Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through every
nerve, and hurrying on to the farther end of the long hall, I sat
down upon the floor and wept bitterly as I thought, ‘What if
Margaret did mean that I should some time be his wife. Am I
bound by a promise to do so?’
“From the busy street below came up a hum of voices, among
which I recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr. West, while
there stole over me a mad desire to fly to him at once, to throw
myself into his arms and ask him to save me from I knew not
what, unless it were the white-faced sister going so fast from our
midst. And while I sat there crouching upon the floor, Jessie came
tripping down the hall, her bright face all aglow with excitement,
but changing its expression when she saw and recognized me.
“‘Poor Dora!’ she whispered, kneeling beside me and pressing
her warm cheek against my own; ‘I am so sorry for you. It must be
dreadful to lose one’s sister. Why, only this afternoon, when I was
talking and laughing with those young men downstairs, whom I
can’t endure, only I like to have them after me, I was thinking of
you, and the tears came into my eyes as I tried to fancy how I
should feel if Bell were dying here. Death seems more terrible,
don’t it, when it comes to such a place as this, where there is so
much vanity, and emptiness, and fashion? I have been saying so to
Dr. West, who talked to me so Christian-like. Oh! I wish I was as
good as Dr. West! I should not then be afraid to lie where your
sister does, and go out from this world alone in the night, leaving
you all behind. Is she afraid, do you think?’
“I did not know, and I answered only with a choking sob, as I
gazed up into the clear evening sky, where the myriads of stars
were shining, and thought of the father and mother already gone,
wondering if we should one day all meet again, an unbroken
family. For a long time we sat there, I listening while Jessie talked
as I had not thought it possible for her to talk. There was more to
her even than to Bell I began to realize, wishing Margaret might
live to have her prejudice removed. But that could not be. Even
then the dark-winged messenger was on his way, stealing
noiselessly into the crowded house and gliding past the gay
throng, each one of which would some day be sent for thus. Up the
winding stair he went and through the upper halls until Margaret’s
room was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the first to
detect his presence, knowing he was there by the peculiar shadow
cast by his dark wing upon the ghastly face and by the fluttering of
the feeble pulse; and Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and
the children.
“I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the glittering
stars, when a step came hurriedly towards us, and Dr. West’s voice
said to me, pityingly:
“‘Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she is dying.’
“I had expected she would die,—had said I was prepared to meet
it; but now when it came it was a sudden blow, and as I rose to my
feet I uttered a moaning cry, which made the doctor lay his hand
on my head, while, unmindful of Jessie’s presence, he passed one
arm round my waist, and so led me on to where the husband and
the children wept around the dying wife and mother. The waltzing
had commenced in the parlor below, and strain after strain of the
stirring music came in through the open windows, making us
shudder and grow faint, for standing there, with death in our
midst, the song and the dance were sadly out of place. For a
moment I missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard
how a few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to stop the
revellers, who silently dispersed, some to the other hotels, where
there was no dying-bed, some to the cool piazzas, where in hushed
tones they talked together of Margaret, and others to their rooms,
thinking, as Jessie had done, how much more terrible was death at
such a place as this, than when it came into the quiet bedchamber
of home. And the great hotel was silent at last, every guest
respecting the sorrow falling so heavily on a few, and even the
servants in the kitchen catching the pervading spirit, and speaking
only in whispers as they kept on with their labor. And up in
Margaret’s room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life going out
slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were gone from the
many windows, and the nuns in the convent across the street had
ceased to tell their beads ere the chamber-maid in our hall leaned
over the bannisters, and whispered to a chamber-maid below, ‘The
lady is dead.’
“There had been a last word, and it was spoken to me, ringing in
my ears for hours after the stiffening limbs were straightened, and
the covering laid over the still, white face of her who said them.
“‘Remember your promise, Dora,—your promise to your dead
sister.’
“Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I said to myself,
hugging little Daisy in my arms, and soothing her back to the sleep
which had been broken that her mother might kiss her once more.
And while I cared for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she
had for Robin. Jessie was a blessing to us then, and we could not
well have done without her. Bell, though ten years older, was
helpless as a child, while her young sister ordered all, thought of
all, even to the bereaved husband sobbing so long by the side of
his lost wife. In the gray dawn of the morning, as I passed the
room, I saw her standing by him, and knew she was comforting
him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he had been
her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if from the dead there
came no sign of disapprobation; but no, the wife was lying there so
still, while Jessie comforted the husband.

“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen hours since

she died, and to-morrow we shall go with her back to the home
she left a few weeks since, and whither a telegram has preceded us
telling them of our loss. Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I
do not think it best, neither does Bell, and so she will remain
behind, and visit me in the winter with her sister. I shall need her
then so much, for the world will be doubly lonely,—Margaret gone,
and the California sun shining down on Richard. Do I love him
now? Yes, oh yes, and I am not ashamed to confess it here on
paper, while more than once I have wished so much to tell it to
him,—wished he would ask me again what he did by Anna’s grave,
and I would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would say to
him:
“‘Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret’s children are a few
years older, and then I will be yours, caring still for the little ones
as I promised I would.’
“But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie and Bell far
more than he does with me. He is going with us to Beechwood,
and then in a few weeks’ time he too, will be gone, and I left all
alone. Oh, if he would but give me a right to think of, and talk of
him as of one who was to be my husband, that terrible something
would not haunt me as it does, neither should I ask myself so
constantly:
“‘Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a mother I
should care for her children?’”