is sighing out a farewell. The sunlight is casting fantastic shadows where her foot, but a moment since, rested. The leaves glisten and whisper strange things. The golden buttercups laugh up in the sun's face, as if there were no drama of loving and hating, sin and atonement, daily enacted on their green, motherly bosom. And Madeline Payne has put her childhood behind her, and turned her face to the darkness beyond.
CHAPTER III.
THE STORY OF A CRIME.
Nurse Hagar was displeased. She plied her knitting-needles fiercely, and seemed to rejoice in their sharp clicking. She rocked furiously backwards and forwards, and sharply admonished the cat to "take himself away," or she "would certainly rock on his tail." She "wanted to do something to somebody, she did!" She looked across the fields in the direction of Oakley, and dropping her knitting and bringing her chair to a tranquil state, soliloquized:
"It's always the way with young folks; they don't never remember that old uns have feelings. They run away after a new face, and if it's a young one and a handsome one, they turn everybody out of their thoughts; everybody else. Not that I think that city fellow's a handsome chap; by no means," she grumbled; "but Maidie does; that's certain sure. And she won't let me say a word about him—oh, no; I'm a poor old woman, and my advice is not wanted!"
Hagar resumed her knitting and her rocking with fresh vigor. But her face relaxed a measure of its grimness as, looking up, her eye rested on a dainty nosegay, tossed in at the window only that morning, by this same neglectful young girl.
"She don't mean to forget me, to be sure," she resumed. "She is always kind and gentle to her old nurse. She is lonesome, of course, and should have young company, like other girls, but—" here the needles slacked again—"drat that city chap! I wish he had stayed away from Bellair."
"Goodness, auntie, what a face! I am almost afraid to come in."
Madeline laughed, despite her anxiety, as Aunt Hagar permitted her opinion of the "city feller" to manifest itself in every feature.
"Get that awfully defiant look out of your countenance, auntie," continued Madeline; "for I'm coming in to have a long talk with you, and I must not be frightened in the beginning."
The lovely face disappeared from the open window, and in a moment reappeared in the doorway.
To permit herself to be propitiated in a moment, however, was not in the nature of Dame Hagar.
"I s'pose you think it's very respectful to pop your saucy head in at an old woman's window, and set her all of a tremble and then tell her, because she is not grinning for her own amusement, that she looks awfully cross, and that you are afraid she will bite you. You are a nice one to talk of being afraid; you, who never showed an atom of fear of anything from your cradle up. If you were a bit afraid, when you were out in the woods, for instance, and meet a long-legged animal with a smooth tongue, and eyes that ought to make you nervous, 'twouldn't be to your discredit, I think. Of course, I don't mean to say that you don't meet him quite by accident; oh, no! And I don't say that he ain't a very nice, respectable sort of chap, whatever I may think. You are just like your poor mother, and if this fellow with a name that might as well be Devil, and done with it—"
"There, now, auntie—" Madeline's face flushed, and she put the cat down with sudden emphasis; "I won't let you say bad things of Mr. Davlin, for I think you would be sorry for it afterward."
She drew a low seat to the side of the old lady, and looking her full in the face, spoke in a voice low, intense, full of purpose.
"Auntie, it is time you told me more about my mother. You have evaded, my step-father has forbidden, my questioning, but if I am ever to know aught of my dead mother's history, I intend to hear it from your lips to-day."
Surprise for a time held the old woman speechless; a look of sorrow and affection drove the querulousness out of her face and voice.
"What ails you, child?" she said, wonderingly. "Do you want to make Mr. Arthur hate me more, and keep you from me entirely? Don't you know, dearie, how he swore that the day I told you these things, he would forbid you to visit me; and if you disobeyed, take you away where I could not even hear of you?"
Tears were in Hagar's eyes, and she held out her wrinkled hands imploringly. "Don't tease your old nurse, dearie; don't. I can't tell you these things now, and they could not make you any happier, child. Wait a little; the time will come—"
"So will old age, auntie; and death, and all the knowledge we want, I suppose, when it is too late to make it profitable. Well, auntie, I will tell you something in exchange for my mother's story, and to make it easier for you to relate it. But first, will you answer a few questions?—wait, I know what you would say," as the old woman made a deprecating movement, and essayed to speak. "Hear me, now."
Hagar looked at the girl earnestly for a moment, and then said, quietly:
"Go on then, dearie."
"First," pursued Madeline; "my father dislikes me very much; is this the truth?" Hagar nodded assent.
"He dislikes you because you were always good to me." Here she paused, and Hagar again nodded.
"Because you were attached to my mother." Again she paused, and again the old woman bowed assent.
"And because"—the girl fixed the eyes of the old nurse with her own—"because you were too familiar with my mother's past, and his, and knew too well the secret of his hatred of me!"
Hagar sat silent and motionless, but Madeline, who had read her answer in the troubled face, continued: "Very good; I knew all this before, and I'll tell you what else I know. I know why Mr. John Arthur hates me!"
Hagar opened her mouth, and shut it again quickly.
"He hates me," pursued Madeline, "because my mother left him her fortune so tied up that he can only use it; never dispose of it. And at his death it reverts to me."
Hagar still looked her amazement, and Madeline condensed the remainder of her force into one telling shot.
"If I would be kind enough to die, he would consider it a great favor. But as I evidently intend to live long, he desires, of course, to see me happy. Therefore he has bargained me in marriage to Amos Adams, for the splendid consideration of a few thousand dollars, and the promise of a few thousand more if I die young!"
Still the bewildered look rested upon the old woman's face, and still she gazed at the young girl before her. Suddenly, she leaned forward, and taking the fair head between two trembling hands, gazed long at her. As if satisfied at last with her scrutiny, she drew a deep, sighing breath and leaned back in her chair.
"It's true," groaned Hagar; "it's too true! She has found it out, and my little girl has gone away;—my Baby Madeline is become a woman! There was never a coward in all the race, and a Payne never forgave! It has come at last," she wailed, "and now, what will she do?"
Madeline lost not a look nor tone; and when the old woman ceased her rocking
