PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, hg [Complete. /# ae ee BEADLE’S Oe 2 ~S NovELerves Number One. MYRTLE: THE: | CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. BY ROSE KENNEDY. | : Hew-UYork: BEADLE AND COMPANY, 141 WILLIAM ST. rm Ross & Tousey, Gen’l Agts. fi £ q Entered according to Act of Congress, in the it Duce \\ 7 year 1860, by BEADLE AND COMPANY, in the Clerk’s \* ge J Office of the District Court of the United States NS for the Southern district of New York. } | AN EXQUISITE ROMANCE BEADLE’S DIME NOVELS No. 14. [Ready Jan. 1st, 1861.] No. 14. THE EMERALD NECKLACE; Mrs. Butterby’ S Boarder. BY ROSE KENNEDY. The Publishers of the Dime Novels take great pleasure in intro- ducing this exquisite romance to their readers. It is from the pen of one of the most graceful and popular writers of fiction in this country, and by its fascinations, both of style and story, will serve to create a renewed interest in this already vastly popular series of "THE EMERALD NECKLACE” {s founded upon incidents of a historic though highly romantic na- ture. Jts characters are of to-day. It is, therefore, of that school of fiction which, while it preserves all the studied truthfulness of historical incident, still is so wholly given up to the passion of the story, as to render its perusal siedenroe fascinating, and its impres- sion pleasing. BE SURE TO GET IT! BEADLE & COMPANY, General Dime Book Publishers, NEW-YORK. MYRTLE, CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE, BY ROSE KENNEDY. NEW YORK: . BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 141 Wituram Sr., Corner oF Fuiton. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1860, by BEADLE AND COMPANY, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. * THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. CHAPTER I. THE CITY OF WAKWAKA. * “Mercy! what have we here?” As he uttered this exclamation, Hugh Fielding pulled at his horse’s bridle so suddenly that the animal was very nearly thrown upon his kaunches, which was fortunate, for, had he taken another step forward, it would have been into the bosom of a little child asleep and alone upon the prairie. The rider remained in his saddle a moment, gazing with astonishment down upon the ground where, half-covered by the tall grass and gorgeous blossoms, this vision had startled him. The infant, not more than a year of age apparently, was a little girl in a white frock, the sleeves of which were looped up with corals; she had round, rosy limbs, and a sweet face, A few flowers were grasped in one hand, the other was under her cheek; one shoe was on, the other lost, while her little mantle of blue silk was crumpled beneath her feet. As if in protection, a rose-bush leaned over her, from some of whose fullest blossoms the leaves had dropped into her golden hair. It was not strange that Mr. Fielding was surprised, for he was eighteen miles from any habitation; and his piercing eye, darting its glances in every direction, could detect not the slightest trace of any other human being. He dismounted from his horse and took the little one in his arms, who opened T : & 4 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. a pair of bright eyes and looked vaguely around, then wistful- ly into his face. “Mamma!” she cried, in a plaintive voice, again and again, but she did not otherwise cry, or make those active demonstra- tions of grief which her finder dreaded. Hugh was a man of thirty-three, and ought to have been the father of several such pretty creatures of his own; but he was a bachelor, reserved, taciturn, “ uns din all the arts and wiles” of soothing infants. He was touched almost to ‘tears by the evident grief and forlornness of the little thing. She seemed to pine with hunger, too. He placed her upon the saddle, while he examined the contents of a brown bag which he had stored with provisions at the last settlement. Dried venison, hard bread—ah, here were some soda-crackers !—sor- ry food for the baby that was still perhaps dependent upon a mother’s bounty for sustenance. But she was too hungry to be particular; she seized upon the cracker, and ate it with a relish, and, after finishing what was given her, looked at her new friend and smiled. That confiding smile went straight to his heart and stirred in it a new sensation. ~ What was to be done? Of course, he thought not for an instant of abandoning the child to the destruction of solitude ; but a baby-girl was not the most desirable companion for a man going into a new country to hunt and fish, and dwell alone wherever his fancy might prompt him to wander. A sudden thought that the parents might also be sleeping some- where in the vicinity, improbable as it was, occurred to him; and he forthwith halloed so lustily that his charge began to ery with fright, when he left off and began sootlring her, pat- ting her golden head, with some rather ineffectual efforts at baby-talk, F Mounting his horse again, and keeping her in his arms, he took a circuit of a mile around the spot, hoping to find the lost guardians. But the tiny shoe which mated the one upon her foot, and a blue ribbon-sash hanging upon the thorns of a rose-bush, were all that he discovered. Something in the color of the blue scarf, and something in the color of the baby’s eyes, which were a soft, bright, dark hazel, reminded him of a history in his past life which it was part of his purpose in coming West to forget. He thought io CAMPING ON THE PRAIRIE. 45 it very ridiculous in himself to connect things so remote from each other, even in fancy; nevertheless, he crew the child closer to his heart and spoke to it in the softest tone of his deep and musical voice. But what was to bedone? The sun was going down be- hind the earth as into a sea of emerald and jasper. He had meant to pass the prairie before night; but now he thought it. best to remain - re he was, in the taint hope that some one would come to claim his charge. He had come upon a little brook trickling through the grass in a gully, as_ he described the circle of a mile, with a little clump of trees to which he could fasten his horse, making it a desirable place upon which to camp out. Here he alighted and began preparations for the night. His little companion, left to herself upon the grass, commenced again her plaintive cry after “mamma, mamma!” Occasionally, in the course of preparing his sup- per, he would try to beguile her away from the one desire which yearned in her forlorn little heart, but in vain, Like a dove moaning in the wilderness, she kept up her sorrowful cry. A few sticks broken from the dead branch of a tree furnished him with materials for a fire, which he kindled upon he ground, the prairie grass being too green to endanger its burning. -In a little tin-pot he boiled a cup of tea, a portion of which he sweetened for the child, but she was too much grieved to be induced to partake of tit. His steed, who had quenched his thirst in the stream, cropped at his leisure the fragrant blossoms and rich verdure about his feet. By the time the meal of tea, toasted crackers, and dried meat was over, twilight had descended over the scene, and the infant had sobbed her poor, weary little self to sleep. Mr. Fielding took a blanket from his portmanteau, and, being nearly as tired as she, took the sleeper to his bosom tenderly, wrapped the blanket about them, and, with some of their traps for a pillow, disposed himself for the night. Before slumber stole upon his conjectures, he had concluded that the mystery might be accounted for by the fact that the Indians had lately been troublesome, and that there were re- ports at the last settlements of their having been seen prowl- ing about the neighborhood for the past few days. How sad and terrible it must be if some emigrant family had 6 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. been attacked by them, the father murdered, the mother borne off into slavery, and the child left to perish! What agony must not that mother at this moment be enduring! Was she young and beautiful? Had she eyes like those of the in- fant whose soft breath played over his cheek? There had been no traces of any murderous struggle about the spot where he found the babe; but they might have taken it with them some distance and thrown it away at last, because it impeded their flight. Thus mused the traveler until his fancies melted into indistinct visions; and, with only his horse for guard and his gun for defense, he slumbered as sweetly upon the wide plain as he had ever done in the spacious halls of a luxurious civilization. A kiss upon his cheek and the caress of a soft hand awoke him in the morning; and he dreamed for a blissful moment thnt he was a’ married man. “ Dear Myrtle,” he said, in a rapturous tone, at which the baby laughed, asif familiar with the name, thereby awakening him to a sense of his situation. Quickly the sweet dream van- ished; and, as he sprang to his feet, ready dressed, for a mo- ment a cloud of pain was upon his brow; but it faded present- ly as he became absorbed in his culinary preparations, while his companion sat upon the blanket and watched. his move- ments with a pretty curiosity. After breakfast, the two resumed their journey, Mr. Field- ing thinking it useless to wait there any longer. The child sat quietly in front of him, seeming to enjoy the ride, and yet musing over some secret grief of her own; but she had no language by which to tell either her grief or sorrow, except her one word, “mamma.” 3 The hot July sun was very endurable to Mr. Fielding, who was almost a world-wide traveler. But he observed that it scorched the lovely face of his companion, who had no bonnet to shelter her from its rays; so he contrived an impromptu shade out of his handkerchief. E It was nearly noon when they reached the city of Wakwa- ka, which was, for the present, the destination of the travel- ers. As they left the prairie and ascended a slight eminence. which gave them a view of the town and surrounding scenery, Hugh reined in his horse and gazed for a while upon the er —j Sr ARRIVAL AT WAKWAKA. a7 novel prospect. A long, river-like lake, whose bright blue waters lay smooth beneath the cloudless sky, flowed along be- tween high banks of singular beauty, These bluff-like banks stretched back into narrow emerald plains, from which rose again beautiful wooded hills, between which he could catch glimpses of another glorious prairie beyond. At the foot of the eminence upon which he now was, along the south bank as smooth and fair as a terrace, lay the fifty houses which composed the present cily of Wakwaka. About half of these were of canvas, gleaming whitely in the sunlight; the rest were of boards put rudely together, and three or four brick buildings which did not seem completed. The fact is, this ambitious and flourishing town had not been in existence six — months before, its exact age being five months and one week. The virgin beauty of the lake-shore was already defaced by a dock, from which a little steamboat had just puffed cheerily away, leaving the group of men who had gathered at the land- ing to look after her a few moments, and then turn again to their different employments. Mr. Fielding spurred up his horse ei rode down along the street, taking, as he passed along with his gun on his shoulder and a baby in his arms, the place of the departed steamer in the interest and curiosity of the people. It is doubted if any in the motley crowd who had gathered from various impulses of self-interest in that new city, could more truly be called adventurers than the couple who now made their way to the principal and in truth the only hotel. It was Hugh Fielding’s business to seek adventure; and, as for the little girl, she, alas, by some strange and mysterious fortune, had been cast into a unique situation which promised only singular experiences. The theater chosen for her first appearance in her new part seemed altogether appropriate. It wasa stage upon which almost any new drama might be performed with unprecedent- ed success. The cloth houses, the sound of hammers, the flag fluttering from the top of the one-story hotel, the rattle of an omnibus, the distant hills, the lovely lake, the flowers and berries growing upon the very street of the city, formed no more strange a jumble of objects than her life might form of events. 8- THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE, The arrival of a new-comer, though of constant occurrence, was still a matter of intense interest to the dwellers in Wak- waka; and the crowd upon the landing proceeded across the way and gathered about the front of the hotel to welcome with inquisitive-eyes the approach of the strangers. * Hugh was not a man to be embarrassed even by the novel charge held so gently in his arm. One glance upon the group of shrewd, speculative, yet. cool faces about him, revealed to him the elements upon which the rapidity of Western civiliza- tion depends. He smiled slightly as he glanced at the house built of rough boards with canvas wings, like some strange, unfeathered bird just settled from a flight, and thought of how he had often rested beneath the shadow of the Coliseum. “ Have our new house done next week—that brick yonder,” said the landlord, who already had his horse by the bridle, as he detected the smile. “Have you any women in the house ?” asked Hugh. “Lots of them,” was the ready response. “Well, take this child in, and have them provide some bread-and-milk for her, if you please.” The curiosity expressed in the neighboring faces gave place to a look of admiration as he took his handkerchief from the head of the little girl. The extreme beauty of her infant countenance delighted even the coarsest in the crowd. Her golden hair curled up in: short, shining ringlets, which hung like a garland about her head, the crown of her ex- quisite loveliness. She shrank and clung to her protector when the landlord went to take her; but when Hugh asked her to go, she obeyed. A woman, who had been looking from a window, was already at the door to take her within and minister to her comfort. : Mr. Fielding, as he dismounted, found himself in a group of men, most of them intelligent, many educated, all ready to ask after the world they had left, and to give all the infor- mation desired about their new home and _ its prospects. He soon related the story of the child’s being found by him ; and it was unanimously concluded that its parents had fallen a prey to some revengeful Indians who did not dare open warfare, but sometimes attacked unprotected cmigrants. Great MYRTLE FIELDING. 9 pity and interest were felt; and twenty fiery hearts blazed up with a determination to hunt out and punish the maraud- ers, if any traces of them could be found. The next thing proposed was that each man present should subscribe a sum toward the proper support and education of the Child of the Prairie (as one imaginative person proposed she should be called); and several hundred dollars were offered on the gpot. Bat Mr. Fielding, with many thanks for their generosity, told them that, althongh he was, and always expected to be, a bachelor, and had hitherto regarded children as rather need- less and unjustifiable intruders upon people’s time and com- fort, yet, as Providence had thrown this one in his way, and he was very well able to provide for her, and already loved | the motherless little creature, he should himself see that she was well taken care of. A low cheer of approval broke from some of the young men ; and they gathered about the windows and doors to get an- other peep at the pretty heroine who was being lionized by all the females of the house. Hugh only waited to shake the dust of travel off him, and partake of the dinner waiting upon a long table in the canvas dining-hall, before he went to inquire after his charge. She had eaten her bread and milk, and was sitting in her nurse’s lap very patiently, making no trouble, but with two great tears glittering upon her eyelids, ready to fall. When she saw Hugh, she laughed, and came eagerly to his arms. It was evident that she was a delicate flower, to be guarded from too broad sunshine and too severe storms. She seemed dismayed to receive so much attention from strangers, and clung to him with an affection which made him feel how im- possible it was for him to abandon her. *“ What are you going to name her?” asked one. “T believe I shall call her Myrtle,” replied Hugh. “What makes you give her such an out-of-the-way namé as that ?” said another. “ Mary would be much more to my mind.” “Tt was the name of a friend of mine,” he answered ; “and, besides, the meaning of Myrtle is ‘love’—a pretty meaning for a child’s or a woman’s name; though the name does not al- ways indicate the character,” he added, with a sigh. 10 THE CHILD OF THF PRAIRIE. “As true as I am: born,” said the first speaker, “if the initial on the clasp of her corals is not‘M! But, of course, her name must have been Mary.” “ Of course it was,” added the second. “T think Myrtle will be very pretty,” said a sweet voice in the corner. Hugh looked that way. “Do you know, madam,” he inquired, “ where I could find some kind woman who would take care of her a few days un- til I get my plans somewhat arranged? She shall be well’ rewarded.” “J will take her with pleasure, and wish no reward, of course. ‘She will be company for me,” answered the lady. With this pleasant person, who was the young bride of a lawyer who had come out to take advantage of the making of a new country, and whose winning ways were well suited to soothe the timid child, Mr. Fielding left his little Myrtle. THREE HUNDRED ACRES. 11 CHAP TER: ET. MR. FIELDING’S ESTABLISHMENT. A week from thence Mr. Fielding was settled to his heart’s content. He had succeeded in purchasing three hundred acres lying along. the shores of the Jake, and including some of its most romantic portions, at a distance of not more than two miles from the city. It was not his intention to live in any community, unless it were a community of pheasants, par- tridges, deer, and wild-turkeys ; and, if it had not been for his finding of baby Myrtle, he would have camped out until cold weat her, making excursions of several days’ length. : It was the fresh and wonderful loveliness of the pure water and its surrounding scenery, looking as if here for untold yeats nature had made one of her sweetest retiring-places, that in- duced him to stop near Wakwaka. In a sheltered nook, protected from any stray winds which might prove too strong for it, and overlooking the water at its most beautiful point, he erected his canvas house. The op- posite shore was lined with a wooded bank, a hill peering over its shoulder in the distance; and he had but to walk a few steps from the door to look down one of the loveliest vis- tas in the world of prairie-land, broken by clumps of trees, and glittering for a time with a silvery edge of water. Mr. Fielding was a little tinged with misanthropy—as much. so as a man of his mingled dignity and generosity of character could be—and there may have been some very good reason for it. Certainly he did not look like a person to whom mis- anthropy ‘came by nature or inheritance. Z He had intended to live alone ; but his finding of that stray waif upon the prairie had altered his determination. So he had two rooms to his impromptu house, one of which was oc- cupied by a neat old lady who had consented to take charge of his domestic affairs, including little Myrtle. 12 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE, For a man who had criticised the palaces of the Old World, his apartment could not be said to display that love of beauty which was one of the strong elements of his character. There was just the slightest haughty motion to Myrtle’s head, as good Mrs. Jones spoke of an aequaintanceship with her nephew, which proved a little innate aristocracy ; but the young girl was sweetness itself, and could not be: forbidding long at a time: so she smiled at the speaker, and kept her eyes carefully from the nephew. Mrs. Jones had not the least idea but that her handsome, wild, ‘“ smiart,” fearless young rel- ative was “fit for a queen’s” friendship; and neither was Myrtle quite sure but that he was. “Proud of fiddlesticks!’ said her husband, testily. “If John would quit his do-nothin’ ways of trying to make an ar- tist of himself, there would be somethin’ to be proud of. Ive een-a’most give up all hope. If he’d quit pencils and papers and such little putterin’ trash, aud take to lawyerin’ or farmin’, he’d suit me better. Not that I mean to be harsh,* he added, in a softer tone; “and not but makin’ picters is pretty work for young gals.” Myrtle caught the young gentleman’s eye, as old Mr. Jones concluded his speech, and laughed outright in her sweet merry way. “Do not make any apologies for being severe upon us,” she said. ‘We know it’s the fashion of the world to think there is common sense, as they call it, in nothing but in making money: so we do not expect sympathy.” “True !? respoaded the nephew, emphatically; and he and the beautiful girl opposite him began to feel more friendly. “Waal, how are we to get along without money, I'd like to know ®” asked Mr. Jones senior, but in that gentle tone which he always used in speaking to Myrtle. “Oh, don’t ask me!’ cried she; “I know nothing about it THE LANDSCAPE SKETCH. 35 —TI have never thought. I suppose papa furnishes me with what I want: and so I have not been obliged to ask.” “About as much as women usually know!” growled her questioner, with a laugh. A general good-humor prevailed at the close of the meal ; after which, the youth—for he could scarcely have been of age —asked Myrtle if he might see her sketch. “With pleasure,” she replied, “if you will reward me with a return. You, too, have been at work.” * - “JT find so much here that is beautiful,” he said, “that I have half filled my book already. You may see all but the one I took this morning.” Of course, that excited her feminine curiosity to see that one above all the rest; and of course she pleaded until her wish was gratified. Myrtle took the sketch and held it-in her hand without speaking. There was the smooth water, the rocky point, the glimpse of city beyond, and, in the foreground, the elm-tree, the rose-bush, and herself. “Law, if he hasn’t got Miss Myrtle in as natural as her own face !” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, delightedly. “Did you set still and let him take you ?” a “She sat very still,” replied the artist, with a spice of enjoy- ment in his tone. “She scarcely stirred for two hours. Just the position I liked, too. See how exquisite the profile is, the graceful bend of the head; while the pencil in her hand and the sketch in her lap give her an artistic air highly becoming to my picture.” “Thank you for flattering me through my likeness,” an-' swered Myrtle, half vexed and half amused. “TI do not think I should have sat so still if I had known who was in my vVi-_ cinity. I shall only forgive you for your presumption upon condition that you bestow the drawing upon me.” “T do not ask your forgiveness,” said he, with that careless, proud, and yet gay manner which scarcely: displeases, because of its frank independence. “I am privileged to sketch na- ture wherever I find her beautiful ; and, if there are accesso- ries to the landscape which render it yet more charming, am I to blame for that ?” Myrtle had no refuge except in the case of drawings. Any 36 THE CHILD OF THR PRAIRIE. remark of hers about the picture only called forth compliments which it was saucy of him to pay in that manner. Still, she was not very deeply offended at his audacity. She admired his drawings, many of them done carefully in water-colors, very much, and, saw that the glow of real genius had touched his pencil, and graced even his most careless sketches. Where there is sympathy of tastes, it does not take long be- fore interest and friendship are felt. Talking enthusiastically about the various places remarkable for beauty in the neigh- borhood, Myrtle found herself tying on her hat to introduce her new acquaintance, to a favorite haunt of hers which he had not yet discovered. And, if John Jones could hardly appreciate, the beauty of the spot, as pointed out to him by the excited young creature before him, for thinking of the cluster- ing glory of her hair, the faultless loveliness of her features, andthe expression of infantine innocence. lighted with. bril- liancy, of soul which rendered them doubly attractive, it must likewise, be confessed that, Myrtle caught herself at many a stolen glance at the face of the. high-spirited, interesting boy. Boy! Myrtle would have resented the term almost as quickly as he. Nevertheless, as he was not quite twenty-one, he would have had to submit to it. _ “A handsomer couple were never seen nowhere,” muttered his aunt to herself, as she watched them coming slowly back to the house, conversing with animated looks and sympa- thetic smiles. “They take to each other mightily, too, I can see. I reckon John will fall in love with her. Sakes, what a match it would be !—two such good-lookin’ picterin’ people : it. would, be like a story-book.” She kept her thonghts to herself very wisely, filling Myrtle’s pockets and sachel. with some cake she had baked on purpose for her, while she was out walking. Myrtle, too, was. she any thing but a school-girl, as she re- turned along the road toward the seminary, feasting upon bits of cake for which she had a double appetite, since she never. got any except. when she went out visiting? The sachel and the cake made. her look very much like a ‘ bread- and-butter. miss;” but something deepened in her eyes. and ‘flushed upon her cheek which spoke not altogether of school- books or bonbons, he tic ha hi A DECLARATION OF LOVE. 37 Myrtle never breathed a word of her adventure to any of her companions, who would have gone half wild with roman- tic sentiment to hear of it. She told Mrs. Dennison that she had had a very pleasant day, and showed her the sketch she had made for her father. The lady praised it highly, and felt an emotion of pride in the success of her pupil, knowing that such a’ proof of her talent would delight Mr. Fielding, and thata part of his approval would of course fall upon her. " Mrs. Dennison was a widow of about Mr. Fielding’s age; and it would not be unparalleled if some hopes of an endear- ing relationship to Myrtle had induced a portion of the ex- treme kindness she showed her. The next Saturday, Myrtle went again to “her home,” and every Saturday henceforth for weeks, This was always her custom in feasible weather; and Mrs. Dennison must not be blamed. Could she have dreamed that the people at the cabin had a nephew ? or that her fastidious scholar could have been pleased with an unknown John Jones ? or that the said John was an artist, and a very handsome, polite, and fascinating boy ? A golden mist hung over Myrtle’s studies, obscuring their meaning in a haze of splendor. Perhaps the reason of her great and startling happiness, her unwonted moods of reverie, her constant thrilling anticipations, was that she was soon to see her father. This did indeed take up a large portion of her thoughts; and she looked forward to the meeting with the in- tensity of a four years’ old anticipation. One Saturday she was no longer left to doubt the full mean- ing of her late emotions. In the bower beneath the elm, in an unexpected moment of impassioned feeling, her boy-lover had sank at her feet; and she had smiled upon his avowal. She did not ask if he had position—if he had wealth—if her father would approve—if her lover was worthy of her—if if she was doing her duty; for when did a young girl, for the first time in love, pause to answer such questions ? Myrtle believed as fully in the truth and worthiness of her lover as she did in her own existence. She knew her father would approve; and, in the mean time, she waited for him in ardent expectation, aa * 7 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIB. C.ALAP TER .:V¥il. MR. FIELDING RETURNS HOME. AaaIn Mr. Fielding stood upon the eminence from which he first looked down upon Wakwaka. Below him lay a city of twenty thousand inhabitants; and on either side were gar- dens gorgeous with cultivated flowers, tree-shadowed avenues, fine mansions, and a costly, fashionable church. Beyond was the prairie upon which he had picked up the stray waif which had, since become the “light of his eyes,” the delight of his existence—something to love, to plan for, to make happy. That prairie waved with wild-grass and unnamed blossoms no longer: it was cheekered with fields of green corn and wheat just gilded with the June sun; and a railroad passed in a straight, shining line across its bosom. ~-While he lingered and _lcoked, the iron horse came shrieking and panting along it, in place of the majestic wild steeds which once swept in their might through the long and rustling grass. _ Thoughts of the past and present stirred strangely tender emotions in Hugh’s breast. He remembered the little creature he had held so closely to him as he rode over the hills; he remembered the tragic fate of her mother, that beautiful woman who, alone of all the women in the world, had bowed down his heart, and whose weakness or whose filseness had poisoned all of his existence for the last twenty years. Thinking of all this, he hurried on, eager to greet his long- forsaken little Myrtle—for little she still seemed to him. He knew her better in memory than in present reality. He had left. the coach on the hill, that he might have a better oppor- tunity of observing the changes in the town. As he passed along the handsome street, he saw Mrs. Dennison’s door-plate on a larger building than she occupied when he left, for her school had grown with the city. He rang, and was shown int sor wl ins utr FATHER, DEAR FATHER ! 39 into a receiving-room, where he sent his name to Mrs. Denni- son and his daughter. He sat waiting in impatient joy, eager to see his child again, when the door opened, and she glided in. He arose to his feet instinctively, but the words he was to have spoken were - unsaid. It was all in vain that Myrtle had kept telling him in her letters how much she had grown, and that she was quite a young lady, and all that. To be sure, he had entertained a faint idea.of her having put up some of her curls and Jength- ened her frocks a little, and that perhaps she would be a little awkward in her transition state from pretty embroidered pan- talettes to dignified long dresses. But tis Myrtle !—the word “daughter” died in his heart, and another word leaped up. It was as 1f the vision of his early manhood—that glorious vision which had invested life with such.a brightness, only to vanish and leave it more dark and prosaic than before—again lived, and breathed before him. Here was the same slender and rounded form, elate with health and an unconscious grace, the same brown hair falling in shadowy masses touched with gold, the same fair face, the same eyes beaming their luminous sweetness upon him. ots “ Myrtle!” he murmured. She hesitated a moment, as if wondering why he did not open his arms to receive her, and then flew to him, and flung her arms about his neck. “Father! dear father!” she sobbed, with a little burst of joyful tears; and then she kissed his cheeks a dozen times, and Jeaned her head on his shoulder, laughing and wiping away the sparkling drops from her eyes. “Futher, indeed!” thought Hugh to himself, as those soft lips showered their kisses upon him. “Thank Heaven, though, I am not your father !” ‘““Are you not glad to see your little girl?” asked Myrtle, suddenly, grieved at the silence with which he received her caresses. “Oh, papa, you have forgotten your Myrtle !” He yearned to take her to his breast, and kiss her with the passionate love which was struggling in his heart; but he felt that it would not be a paternal kiss, and so he gave her none. He knew that her girlish timidity would shrink from so sud- 40 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. den an expression of feeling, could she be conscious of its na- ture, and its perceptions of truth were too delicate to permit him to deceive her. But oh, what a sweet hope had flowered into beauty im his soul! Hugh Fielding forgot that he was forty-eight years of age. He was as strong, as handsome, as full of life as ever, and he forgot that he was growing old. He did not ask himself if he was the ideal of a young girl’s lover. The surprise was too sudden, too overpowering—he did not as yet even question his own emotions. “No, Myrtle,” he said, “I have not forgotten you—scarcely for an instant. I have been as eager as you for this meeting. 3ut I was so surprised to find you so tall, so beautiful, so much - of a young lady.” Myrtle blushed and laughed. “ Didn’t I tell you, papa, that you would be astonished ?” At this moment Mrs. Dennison came in, haying paused to arrange her ringlets and put on a new, coquettish little thread- lace cap, with lilies-of-the-valley drooping from its softness, and mingling with her still raven curls. The beautiful and satisfactory appearance of her pupil had had the desired effect upon Mr. Fielding, for he greeted her with marked pleasure. His joy, his gratitude, tinged his man- ner with rosy warmth; and she being equally gratified, they were a happy trio. “Would you think, Mrs. Dennison, papa was amazed to find me grown so tall ?” cried the young girl. “ He imagined I had stood still for the last four years.” “T suppose he hardly realized that he would have a young lady on his hands, ready to be introduced into the world. Do not you think it a great responsibility, Mr. Fielding ?” with a sweet smile. “Why, yes! certainly; it presents itself to me ina new light,” was the rather hesitating reply. “Oh, papa, I assure you I shall not be the least trouble,” laughed Myrtle. “I have never teased Mrs, Dennison very much, and I shall tease you still less.” “ Your daughter says truly that she was never much trouble to me. She seems more like a child than a pupil. It will be a severe struggle for me to give her up to yu I feel like a mother to her.” in; pr cc - CROSS-PURPOSES. 4 1a- “You have been very, very kind,” murmured Myrtle, leay- nit ing her clasp of her father’s hand to glide over and give her ed preceptress a kiss. “ But we shall live so near that I can ag come to see you every week, and you can spend the vacations aS with us. Will not that be pleasant, papa ?” d. “ Delightful!” he replied; for whatever pleased Myrtle, ’s pleased him. Te Myrtle had to resign her new-found treasure while he went to his hotel to rid himself of. the dust of travel. But he re- y turned, by invitation, to tea, and she had a happy evening. . Once Mrs. Dennison sent her from the room for a while upon L some excuse, for, as she told Mr. Fielding, she had an impor- tant matter to speak of, which her interest in the dear child — prompted should be said. “ You know,” she said, in this confidential communication, “that Myrtle is no longer a child. She has graduated with the first honors of my school, and must now take her place in society, Mr. Fielding. She requires a female friend and cha-_ peron: some relative of yours, perhaps, you can invite to re- side with you for that purpose. I wish that Myrtle had a mother; but, as that can not be, I think it well for you to think of what I have suggested ; and more especially, as you are only her adopted father: to be sure you think of her as fondly and tenderly—” “T do,” interrupted her listener. “ As if she were your own child; yet the world—since we live in the world, Mr. Fielding, we must regard its dictates.” Haugh was really much obliged to the lady for what she had said und hinted. He confessed that, since he had seen Myr- tle, some idea of this difficulty had dawned dimly upon his mind, but he had not yet had time to reflect upon it. If Mrs, Dennison would consent, he should leave her pupil with her a few weeks, until some arrangements could be made, This plan pleased her very much. She would have an op-- portunity of impressing upon him deeply the necessity of a mother for Myrtle. In the mean time, as the object of this discussion came gliding in her radiant beauty back into the room, Hugh smiled at his inward thought of how little Mrs. Dennison knew of his real purposes, of how little she suspected the ease with % 42 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. which he could take upon himself the office of protector. Thus do people oftentimes work at cross-purposes. Myrtle sang and played, bewitching the heart of her bach- elor guardian more and more; and when at last she kissed him good-night, and he went to his dreams, they wore more the roseate hue of twenty-two than forty-eight. The next day, he began to display that energy which had . not particularly marked his character since the mainspring of hope had been withdrawn. He took Mrs. Dennison and Myr- tle out to his place to select a situation for the mansion which he had already partially contracted for. Of course, the elder lady was glad to have a voice in the matter which might here- after be of importance to her; and she took it as a very favora- ble symptom that she was asked to make one of the party. Hugh was only acting upon her suggestions that he must have a chaperon for the young girl. They alighted before the cabin door, where John Jones, the artist, came out and assisted the ladies to alight. Did Hugh mark the blush upon the cheeks of the young couple? Of course he did not. Never was there a man blinder to truth and fate than he. After Mr. Fielding had exchanged greetings with the ten- ants of his house, and been introduced to their nephew, he in- vited the latter to accompany them, and they started out on their search. The fine, artistic taste of the boy at once attracted Hugh’s attention, and he learned that the young man was an artist by profession. It was John himself who, with becoming modesty, pointed out the spot which he would deem most desirable ; and its admirable fitness striking all the rest of the party, help- “ed to complete the good opinion Mr. Fielding had inyolunta- rily formed of him. “ There is certainly a good deal of genius about that young fellow,” he remarked to Myrtle, when John was busy talking about pictures with Mrs. Dennison. “He has a glorious eye —full of fire and frankuess.” How the young girl’s heart leaped up !—while she made not the least reply. Alas, Hugh flattered himself that that glowing cheek and drooping eye was an evidence of some gentle emotion for him ! ANOTHER DECLARATION. Learning that the young artist had made architecture his study, Mr. Fielding gave him a commission to draw the plan for the proposed residence, giving him a summary of what he should like as to size, style, and expense. He was usually a man of piercing vision, and but few things escaped his keen apprehension ; yet, all-absorbed as he was in his own dreams, he did not notice the expressive glance and stolen pressure of hands with which Myrtle and the young man parted. Mrs. Dennison, too, bewildered by gorgeous visions of a mansion over which she was to preside, the site for which she had just seen selected, was deaf, and dumb, and blind to every thing _ but Mr. Fielding. So the party drove back to town as contented with each other as when they started out. Myrtle was impatient to get away from the seminary, as school-girls usually are. She did not know how to wait for the new house. If it would not have involved the necessity of driving John Jones away, she would have wished the cabin immediately vacated, that they might return to their old, ro- mantic way of living. Mrs. Dennison was so continually with them that it seemed as if she should never get an opportunity of revealing to her father the weight that was on her heart— a confidence she did not fear so much to make, since she saw how he favored her lover. When she actually found herself walking out to the farm alone with Mr. Fielding, her heart be- gan to palpitate frightfully with anticipation. She found that what she so longed to say was very hard to put into words, after all. So they passed onward, Hugh doing most of the talking, until they reached the bower. The sight of the spot where her lover had sank upon his knee at her feet impelled her to the trial. “Dear father,” she began, in a faltering voice, “I have wished so much for an opportunity—” A long pause, while she stood picking a rose to pieces, the color suffusing cheeks and brow. “ Dear father—” “ Never call me father again !” cried Hugh, in a sudden burst of passionate energy. She looked up amazed. is cheek was likewise flushed ; and his dark eyes were bent upon her with an expression which she could not understand. | THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. “T can not endure it,” he said, grasping her hand tightly. “ Every time you have uttered that word since my return, it has almost distracted me. Can not you guess why, Myrtle ?” Her eyes fell under the glow of tender light which burned in his. She trembled with a sudden apprehension. “Tt is because I love you with other than paternal love, darling Myrtle. Since the first moment of my return, I have felt how impossible it was for me to resist the torrent of pas- sion which rushes through my heart. You are to me my Myrtle—the Myrtle of old, whom I once loved with the fervor of youth. It is true that your mother—for I feel that she was ~ your mother—was false; but, in your heart, Myrtle, there is nothing but truth. You have not learned the ways of the world. You are my boyhood’s dream. Will you marry me ?” Poor child! how she trembled! He thought it was all with maiden timidity, and put his arm around her and drew her to his side. She leaned her head upon his.shoulder, sob- bing: “ You are my father, Mr. Fielding. Oh, still remain so, or you will break my heart !” “Father!” again he exclaimed, in a voice of such concen- trated feeling that she involuntarily looked up into his pale face. “T tell you I will not hear it. Wife is a much dearer term than daughter, Myrtle’—how tenderly he spoke the word wife !—“ and, if you can not be that, I must go away again— back to the loveless life I led before I found you, a little sleep- ing, helpless child, upon the prairie.” With a great, high-hearted struggle of duty and gratitude over youthful love, Myrtle flung her arms, in the old childish way, about his neck. “¥ou shall not do that, fa— Hugh; I will be whatever you wish. I will be your wife, Mr. Fielding.” PARTING OF THE LOVERS. shtly, : rn, it le” = rhed ; . ove : ned CHAPTER vil. Das- THE PLOT. od Mr. Freiprne was reclining at his leisure upon a knoll be- Pas neath a tree, half-hidden by the long grass which rustled ig around him. A volume of “ Skakspeare,” open at the “Mid- . summer Night’s Dream,” had nearly dropped from his hand; 99) for he had forgotten all about the fairies and the lovers of the : mn play in musing upon his own happiness. | The clink of work- a men’s hammers, as they carved and polished the stone for his new house, smote upon his ears pleasantly ; for, as the hum of the bee tells of summer and summer sweets, the soft tumult of = the distant work told of a home and a wife. The first thing which roused him from his reverie was the sound of approaching voices, conversing in low but earnest tones. Looking up, he saw his Myrtle and the young artist slowly walking, arm in arm, to aad fro, on the level stretch just beneath him. At first, he could distinguish no words, and, indeed, he did not wish nor intend to, though his curiosity . was excited by the absorbing interest with which they ap- peared to listen and reply. At last, they paused quite near him, and, throwing their arms about each other, sobbed like two little children. “A pretty scene! behold it, ye heavens and earth!” mut- tered Hugh, between his compressed lips, his vest-buttons ready to burst with his suppressed anger. “Is there no truth in woman ?” After yielding to their passionate grief for a time, Myrtle stood back, and folded her hands tightly together. He could see her beautiful face bathed in tears. “Go, John,” she said, in that voice of forced calmness which tells most plainly of despair. “I must never see you again. You will not blame me, ever, in your thought, I know. . You will not call me false. I should be false to every impulse of 46 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. gratitude and duty did I consult owr happiness before that of my friend, my benefactor, my more than father. You know all that he has done for me—all the claims he has upon me. I should rather we should both be miserable all our lives than to be the one to inflict pain upon him. You do not ask it, do you, John 2” “ No, no, I do not. ‘His claims are superior to mine. But oh, Myrtle, it is killing me !” “ Dont say that, John. You will be happy some time, if only to reward you for your noble sacrifice now: I know you will. Heaven will bless you. Good-by.” ~ Her companion gazed at her as if he could not tear himself away. “Go, go, dear John. Good-by.” “OQ God! Myrtle. . Good-by.” He turned from her with a listless, weary step, and went away, leaving her leaning against a young maple-tree, looking after him with blinded eyes. Hugh had heard and seen it all. Slowly his anger had melted away, as he heard this youthful pair bravely renounc- ing what was their evident happiness for im. For the first time, his own selfishness appeared to him. What right had he to require the love and duty of that young heart which had turned so much more naturally to a more fitting mate? Yes, he had to acknowledge, proud and conscious of his rare ac- quirements as he was, that John Jones, with his boyish beauty and enthusiasm and fresh feeling, was a more suitable compan- ion than he for the fair girl who had chosen him. Yet he ‘had not meant to be selfish, He loved Myrtle too well for that. Ah, it was always his fate to play the martyr—to see the untasted cup snatched away, to know no fruition of his hopes. He was too much of a hero to shrink from the crisis. He could not blight the happiness of two young souls fora few years of bliss for himself. He would emulate the gener- osity which he had just seen. He wanted to rise and call the boy to return and receive from his hands the most precious gift which he had to bestow. But when he attempted to call} he found his throat so parched that no sound would come from it. The disappointment was too terrible—it had come upon him too suddenly. of v AT THE MANSHION. 4? The clink of workmen’s hammers still smote upon his ears, but now the sound was full of pain; he felt as if he must put a stop to it; he wished a paralysis to seize upon that noble building, smiting it, as it stood—fixing it forever, unfinished and desolate—that it might never fulfil its destiny as a home of warmth, andluxury, and comfort, the shelter of loving hearts, the birth-place of happy children. Unfinished, and going to decay, the unfulfilled promise of a home, showing its wealth of rooms and splendor of proportions, only to make its ruin the more conspicuous—would it not be like his life, thus un- satisfactory, thus cheated of its development? A bitterness more bitter than that of his first disappointment welled up in his soul. From under the shadow of the hand upon which his forehead was drooped, he watched in silence, until the young girl had wept herself quiet and walked away in the direction of the town. Then he arose and sauntered listlessly toward the new mansion. Young Jones was overseeing the work as usual. Pereeiving Mr. Fielding, he approached him. “T have sudden and very important reasons for resigning the charge of yeur work,” he began, in a low but firm yoice. “Hew, now 2” interrupted Hugh, angrily. “JT do not think I shall put you to any inconvenience by doing so,” continued the young man; “the plans are so minutely finished, and the work so far progressed, that it can be finished without trouble. Besides, I have consulted an archi- tect of Wakwaka, who promises to take my place—” “Take your place—no one can take your place, John Jones!” Now this might be intended as a compliment; if it was, it was thundered forth ina strangely savage tone. “T assure you I shall not release you, sir; you must fulfil your engagement with me, or forfeit the whole.” Mr. Fielding was usually so courteous and considerate in all his dealings, that Joln looked up amazed; there was a dark look upon his countenance which he had never before observed. “Ah!” thought he, sadly, “can it be possible he is so un- just that se has such a temper? if this is ~ case, poor Myrtle, I pity you” “ Yes, sir! you must conclude this work according to agreement. From not one article of the contract will I ab- solye you.” 48 THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. Poor Hugh! his companion little guessed what a tempest warred within bim; and that he was only putting on a little outside fierceness to cover a purpose the most unselfish and pure. The only consolation he had in his solitude of heart, was the playing of a pretty farce, by which he kept two young people miserable for the time being, with the expectation of surprising them with a double and overwhelming happiness by-and-by. | Not one hint did he give of the knowledge he possessed, but exacted of the young architect the fulfilment of his contract, thus keeping him in the vicinity so fraught, to him, with dangerous dreams and mocking desires. Almost every day, as the summer sped by, he would pierce the heroic breast of the youth with some such shaft as the following : “ Hurry up the workmen, John, my boy. Don’t you know the wedding is set for the 10th of September? We must have wedding and house-warming at the same time.” Or this :— “You are doing so nicely, John, you shall come to the wedding to pay for this. You shall dance with the bride.” As often as twice a week his handsome open barouche would drive up into the new grounds; the spirited bay horses - would be checkec with a gay flourish, and the owner of the establishment would hand outits future mistress to spend a half-hour in inspecting the progress made on the mansion, and giving his opinion as to this improvement and that, and would it suit her taste to have things thus and so, as if he feasted upon their secret misery. Mr. Fielding seemed to make op- portunities for throwing the young pair into each other’s socie- ty. Their tastes were mutually consulted, and they were left to decide matters of minor importance to themselves. It was cruel of the arch plotter—he knew it was, yet he justified him- self with glowing pictures of a future surprise in which all this wretchedness should be blotted out in sudden splen- dor, and he only be the suffering party—a sufferer whom no one should know was wretched. It would have been hard enough for the young couple to forget each other if they had separated at once and forever, as they had resolved todo. He tnade the self-imposed task, one which human nature rebelled against, yet he took a strange pride in perceiving the noble principle of both—how well they guarded their looks aud action and fi My and ¢ any 4 prov the ] THE WEDDING-DRESS. 49 actions—how calm their voices, how innocent their greetings, and farewells. Myrtle was acting according to the promptings of gratitude and duty; and she did not intend to humiliate her sacrifice by any thought or deed which should wrong’ the man she had promised to marry. She meekly obeyed his suggestions as to the preparations for the approaching marriage. “Have you plenty of money to buy pretty things, Myrtle ?” “T suppose so, Mr. Fielding. My purse is always supplied. No matter how much I waste, the next time I open it, it is full.” “A comfortable purse, indeed. But really, my dear, you are not extravagant. Have you ordered the wedding-dress ?” “Mrs. Dennison has, I believe. I trusted it to her.” “T hope it will bea pretty one. Don’t fail to have it pretty, Myrtle. Do you know I am particular about ladies’ dress? I like to see youthful and pretty creatures looking like roses and lilies.” : “ Mrs. Dennison will see that it is all it should be—she has the same taste, I believe.” “And are you indifferent? Young girls usually go half- crazy over the delight and excitement of the bridal Wousseau.” “Why, no, Mr. Fielding, I hope I am not indifferent. I should like to look to please you.” How wearily the young head drooped against his shoulder ! He looked earnestly into her face. She was so beautiful—he loved her so much—almost was he tempted to renounce his vowed self-denial, to accept the expected sacrifice. He could not give her up—he would not! She was his; she looked upon herself as his wife; was it not more than man could do, to put her into the arms of another? The arm he had laid about her waist drew her so tightly that she sighed with the pain. It was the first time he had bestowed one caress upon her for weeks, except a quiet kiss upon the cheek at meeting and parting. She did not know it, but there “ were farewells in a.kiss”—a farewell to all such future joy, in that one pas- sionate embrace. “This is the fifth of September,” said he, seating her by his side, and studying her drooped face; “in five days, Myrtle! It is time the wedding-dress was made.” THE CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE. “Tt is made, and it is beautiful enough to please you, be you as fastidious as you may: white silk, rich and shining, coyered with costly, delicate lace; flowers on the bosom; a wreath for my hair, and a vail of the most exquisite design. his. Dennison sent to New York for them. Mrs. Dennison takes great interest in these things; but she does not seem in as good spirits lately. She says I am to be envied.” She seemed to be talking to keep thought away,and to prevent him saying those tender things which girls generally Jove to hear. He looked at her closely while she chattered away; her cheek was surely growing thinner, though suffused with the bloom of excitement; there was a sadness, as of un- shed tears, in the faltering eyes—yet she smiled, such tremu- lous, lovely smiles, and tried hard to seem gay and glad. He 2 worshiped her all the more, as he saw the depths of her char- -acter thus proved by circumstance. Those gentle smiles touched him to renew more firmly his vow to secure her hap- piness, and let his own take care of itself. “Tt is only five days more,” he murmured. “Let me keep you till then; let me call you mine until then. Five days will not rob you of many dimples which the future will not restore to your cheeks.” “What did you say, Mr. Fielding ?” “T was ‘talking in my sleep’—no matter what I said. Mrs. Dennison has been low-spirited, has she? Well, I have a present for her. Ask her to accept it from me as a trifling return for her kindness to you. She must wear them to the wedding.” He showed her a velvet-lined box, containing a superb set of jewels—brooch and ear-rings—a large diamond in each, set about with small emeralds. “And here is my gift to you; you must wear it withthe vail and wreath,” and he placed in her hand a necklace of pearls. fi “You are too good to me—far too good to me,” murmured Myrtle, tremulously, hardly looking at the beautiful ornament. She felt as if she had wronged this generous man by ever having had a thought of another, no matter how conscientiously she now strove to forget that other. “Come, Myrtle, you look regretful. Do you not like the u, be ning, ny; 2a sign, ison n in to ly red ed in- u- le r- Ss \- THE GIFTS, 51 pearls? Never mind; we will change them, then. Play for me, now. I have not heard you sing for a fortnight.” He led her to the piano. “What shall I sing? have you any choice “Here is something that reads prettily; I do not think I have heard the music. Try it, and I will tell yca if it pleases me.” So she began, in a trembling voice, which gradually steadied itself: ” “*Tipa, lady of the land, Hath a crowd of gallant suitors; Squires who fly at her command; Knights her slightest motion tutors : She hath barons kneeling mute, To hear the fortune of her proffers ; All—except the honest suit Jounny Gorpon humbly offers. “