and when he bade her good night he was under a promise to call again soon. All hopes, however, of procuring her for his housekeeper were given up, for if she resented his offer of payment for what she had already done, she surely would be doubly indignant at his last proposed plan. After becoming convinced of this fact, it is a little strange how suddenly he found that he did not need a housekeeper—that Margaret, who before could not do at all, could now do very well—as well as anybody. And Margaret did do well, both as housekeeper and mother of little Willie, who seemed to have transferred to her the affection he had borne for his mother.
At intervals during the autumn Mrs. Carter called, always giving a world of good advice, patting Carrie's pale cheek, kissing Willie, and then going away. But as none of her calls were ever returned they gradually became less frequent, and as the winter advanced ceased altogether; while Margaret, hearing nothing, and seeing nothing, began to forget her fears, and to laugh at them as having been groundless.
CHAPTER V.
KATE KIRBY.
The little brooklet, which danced so merrily by the homestead burial-place, and then flowed on in many graceful turns and evolutions, finally lost itself in a glossy mill-pond, whose waters, when the forest trees were stripped of their foliage, gleamed and twinkled in the smoky autumn light, or lay cold and still beneath the breath of winter. During this season of the year, from the upper windows of the homestead the mill-pond was discernible, together with a small red building which stood upon its banks.
For many years this house had been occupied by Mr. Kirby, who had been a schoolboy with Ernest Hamilton, and who, though naturally intelligent, had never aspired to any higher employment than that of being miller on the farm of his old friend. Three years before our story opens Mr. Kirby had died, and a stranger had been employed to take his place. Mrs. Kirby, however, was so much attached to her woodland home and its forest scenery that she still continued to occupy the low red house together with her daughter Kate, who sighed for no better or more elegant home, although rumor whispered that there was in store for her a far more costly dwelling, than the "Homestead on the Hillside."
Currently was it reported that during Walter Hamilton's vacations the winding footpath, which followed the course of the streamlet down to the mill-pond, was trodden more frequently than usual. The postmaster's wife, too, had hinted strongly of certain ominous letters from New Haven, which regularly came, directed to Kate, when Walter was not at home; so, putting together these two facts, and adding to them the high estimation in which Mrs. Kirby and her daughter were known to be held by the Hamiltons, it was generally conceded that there could be no shadow of doubt concerning the state of affairs between the heir apparent of the old homestead and the daughter of the poor miller.
Kate was a universal favorite, and by nearly all was it thought that in everything save money she was fully the equal of Walter Hamilton. To a face and form of the most perfect beauty she added a degree of intelligence and sparkling wit, which, in all the rides, parties, and fêtes given by the young people of Glenwood, caused her society to be chosen in preference to those whose fathers counted their money by thousands.
A few there were who said that Kate's long intimacy with Margaret Hamilton had made her proud; but in the rude dwellings and crazy tenements which skirted the borders of Glenwood village was many a blind old woman, and many a hoary-headed man, who in their daily prayers remembered the beautiful Kate, the "fair forest flower," who came so oft among them with her sweet young face and gentle words. For Kate both Margaret and Carrie Hamilton already felt a sisterly affection, while their father smiled graciously upon her, secretly hoping, however, that his son would make a more brilliant match, but resolving not to interfere if at last his choice should fall upon her.
One afternoon, early in April, as Margaret sat in her chamber, busy upon a piece of needlework, the door softly opened, and a mass of bright chestnut curls became visible; next appeared the laughing blue eyes; and finally the whole of Kate Kirby bounded into the room saying, "Good afternoon, Maggie; are you very busy, and wish I hadn't come?"
"I am never too busy to see you," answered Margaret, at the same time pushing toward Kate the little ottoman on which she always sat when in that room.
Kate took the proffered seat, and throwing aside her bonnet, began with, "Maggie, I want to tell you something, though I don't know as it is quite right to do so; still you may as well hear it from me as any one."
"Do pray tell," answered Mag, "I am dying with curiosity."
So Kate smoothed down her black silk apron, twisted one of her curls into a horridly ugly shape, and commenced with, "What kind of a woman is that Mrs. Carter, down in the village?"
Instantly Margaret's suspicions were aroused, and starting as if a serpent had stung her, she exclaimed, "Mrs. Carter! is it of her you will tell me? She is a most dangerous woman—a woman whom your mother would call a 'snake in the grass.'"
"Precisely so," answered Kate. "That is just what mother says of her, and yet nearly all the village are ready to fall down and worship her."
"Let them, then," said Mag; "I have no objections, provided they keep their molten calf to themselves. No one wants her here. But what is it about her?—tell me."
Briefly then Kate told her how Mr. Hamilton was, and for a long time had been, in the habit of spending one evening every week with Mrs. Carter; and that people, not without good cause, were already pointing her out as the future mistress of the homestead.
"Never, never!" cried Mag vehemently. "Never shall she come here. She our mother indeed! It shall not be, if I can prevent it."
After a little further conversation, Kate departed, leaving Mag to meditate upon the best means by which to avert the threatened evil. What Kate had told her was true. Mr. Hamilton had so many questions to ask concerning his old classmates, and Mrs. Carter had so much to tell, that, though they had worked industriously all winter, they were not through yet; neither would they be until Mrs. Carter found herself again within the old homestead.
The night following Kate's visit Mag determined to speak with her father; but immediately after tea he went out, saying he should not return until nine o'clock. With a great effort Mag forced down the angry words which she felt rising within her, and then seating herself at her work she resolved to await his return. Not a word on the subject did she say to Carrie, who retired to her room at half-past eight, as was her usual custom. Alone now Margaret waited. Nine, ten, eleven had been struck, and then into the sitting-room came Mr. Hamilton, greatly astonished at finding his daughter there.
"Why, Margaret," said he, "why are you sitting up so late?"
"If it is late for me, it is late for you," answered Margaret, who, now that the trial had come, felt the awkwardness of the task she had undertaken.
"But I had business," answered Mr. Hamilton; and Margaret, looking him steadily in the face, asked:
"Is not your business of a nature which equally concerns us all?"
A momentary flush passed over his features as he replied, "What do you mean? I do not comprehend."
Hurriedly, and in broken sentences, Margaret told him what she meant, and then tremblingly she waited for his answer.
