WOULD SHE PART WITH HIM.

Scarcely had the carriage, which bore John Church away, passed out of the neighborhood, when Sterling came swiftly up the side-walk, and let himself into the tenement-house with his own key. Constance knew that he was coming, and cast an anxious glance at her father, who sat near the hearth with his clasped hands drooping between his knees, and his face bent on his chest, to all appearance given up to utter despondency.

Constance went up to him in eager haste, and laid one hand on his shoulder.

"Go to your room, father, dear. You look so tired."

Hudson got up and turned his haggard face upon her.

"Is _he_ coming up?"

"He? Who?"

"Church, that—that——"

"No, father. I sent him away."

"That's a good girl! Keep him at a distance—always keep him at a distance; though he kill me, I would have you do that. You understand, daughter? Now I will go to bed. I am glad you would not let him come up—it is an indecorous hour, but he is so persistent! Kiss me, Constance, and remember what I say."

She kissed him eagerly, and hurried him up to his sleeping-room above, waiting at the bottom of the stairs till his door closed. Then she went back to the parlor, flung the domino across his chair, the mask on the table, and sat down herself, breathless and pale, for Sterling was coming up from the door, and she was afraid to see him.

When the young man came into the room, she started up with a cry of surprise, his face was pale and locked, his eyes full of trouble. What could he know? These questions made the girl tremble. She arose and waited for him to speak.

He came toward her, reached out both arms and clasped her to his bosom, against which she felt the heart heave and struggle like some wounded thing!

"What is it? What have I done? Are you angry with me, William?"

"Angry with you? No, no!"

His voice shook, and he kissed her tenderly, as if each caress were a farewell.

"What is it, then?"

"Constance, are we to be parted? Or will you go with me to the house we were talking about, that log-house, you know, with a prairie farm?"

"What does this mean, William?"

"Just this, dear one. I have an appointment from Washington. It came today—I do not know how, or by whom obtained. Its duties will carry me unto the Pacific Railroad, to the Rocky Mountains, perhaps, and farther on as the road progresses. Will you go with me, Constance?"

"With you? Me? Me?" faltered the young wife. "What, out there among the Indians? Oh, William!"

"But there is no danger; I am not afraid for you or myself. Constance, take a little time to think of it. Of course, you will draw back at first, but remember, I shall be with you—my mother has already gone. We will let the whole world know of our marriage."

While he was speaking, the sharp wits of the girl had arranged themselves. The shock of this intelligence subsided. She saw at a glance how all this had come about, and was making a quick calculation of the results.

"When is it? When must you go?" she questioned, greatly disturbed, for she loved this man, so far as her imperfect nature could love, and the trial before her was a hard one.

"At once. I must go at once, or refuse the best chance of my life—the very best, if you will go with me."

"But my father—he has no one in the wide world but me."

"Let him go with us."

"He will not; he hates the country. But he might be persuaded while he knows nothing of our marriage—that would make him angry. Let us think of it, dear, and arrange what is best."

"I was in fear that your father would be up and prevent me talking with you alone. It was not till I saw a light in his room that I ventured in."

"Yes, he was completely tired out," answered Constance, taking the mask from the table, and tossing it into the chair with the domino. "After all, this masquerade was a disappointment to me and nothing but a torment to him."

"I am glad of it," answered the young man, glancing at her dress. "It certainly is a disappointment to me when I find my own wife in a dress like that."

"The gentlemen there seemed to think it just the thing, William; but you never were like other people."

"Never mind that; we will not quarrel about your dress or anything else tonight; after that there will, I hope, be little cause, for fashion does not penetrate to the prairies."

Constance thought of her blue dress, with all its garniture of filmy lace, and the prairies became more and more distasteful to her. Slowly but surely her heart was swaying back to its selfishness, out of which some generous impulses had aroused it for a few brief moments.

"Well, dear, we will think all this over and make up our minds, I am so tired and sleepy now."

She held up her lips sleepily for the kiss he pressed upon them, murmured good-night, and saw him depart reassured by the hope that she would accompany him.

When quite alone, the girl took up a lamp, and holding it before a looking-glass, fell to examining herself curiously, as if she had been a third person, and the lovely head before her a work of high art. The dress was not altogether a becoming one, for though her hair was dark-brown, and her eyes of a deep purplish-gray, the coloring of her garments was more suitable for a brunette than for a person of her brilliant complexion. But it was impossible that Constance should not look well in anything she chose to wear. Thus the head and bust thrown back from the mirror, shadowed by the blackness of her corsage, and brightened by the scarlet of her opera-cloak, produced an artistic effect which might have sickened any one of a life in the far west, where beauty itself is of little consequence, being confined to so few admirers.

"And I am to take this face and figure into a log-cabin for backwoodsmen and wild Indians to admire. Well, I hope he may get me there, that's all. But then he's so handsome, so good, so——Dear me! why can't such people have the money? It's awfully unjust."

It was almost daylight when Constance went to bed. Even then she lay awake, thinking over the two lives offered to her, drifting sway from the right and forming excuses for the wrong, till the sun shone in upon her in all its brightness, and saw how heavy her eyes had become, and what shadows had crept around them during the first honorable contest she ever made with the good that was in her.

"I will not refuse him; why settle anything just now? Let the dear old fellow go. Ten chances to one I shan't be able to live without him. While he is gone I can see what this fashionable life means. It doesn't just come up to my idea so far; but then I haven't really dashed into it yet. By-and-by the log-cabin may come in, and I'll go out to him, ready to be useful, and loving, and humble, and of no account, just as he wants me to be. Not just yet, though; not just yet! Gracious! how that blue silk would look sweeping across the floors of a log-cabin!"

Here Constance, struck by the ludicrous idea, broke into a laugh that made the bed shake under her.

"Perhaps I should go out milking in it, or picking blackberries, with the lace full of burs, and——Oh, dear! oh, dear! it is too funny!"

The end of all this was, that Constance resolved on half measures. She would neither break with her husband, nor go with him. Some good reason might be found, which would seem to justify her in remaining with her father. She would promise to follow Sterling after awhile, when he got settled and ready to claim her as his wife; in fact she did not believe that he would have money enough to bear her expenses. In that case, of course, the journey was impossible.