LUKE BECOMES DOWN-HEARTED.

Mr. Hudson did not return to his home after the funeral, and William Sterling sought for him there in vain, before he started for the West. As for little Rhoda, she had no time for the indulgence of her grief, but with a quick, impressionable nature like hers, it was impossible that an experience like that through which she had passed so recently, should not have a strong and lasting effect.

Rhoda was as active and energetic as ever; but she seemed gentle, more capable of understanding Luke's wayward fancies, and better able to sympathize with his varying moods than she had ever been before.

She could see that the poor lad was greatly changed. He was more restless and excitable—neither ate or slept; and all her importunities and efforts to prepare some dainty that could tempt his appetite, seemed only to distress him.

One day, Rhoda broke down completely. She had tried everything in her power, and her last resources had given way so entirely that she really had no refuge, except the feminine one of tears, and that was one which the girl struggled bravely against.

Only the night before, inspired by a happy thought, she had made a hop pillow for her brother's bed, having faith that it would produce some soporific effect; but Luke peevishly flung it on the floor, and asked her if she meant to suffocate him.

To be sure, a moment after, his natural goodness of heart made him repent, and he exclaimed,

"I didn't mean it, Rhoda—I'm sorry! There, go to bed, dear; I dare say I shall sleep."

But he did not sleep; hours after Rhoda could hear him moving about his little room, and every footfall seemed pressing directly on her anxious heart. She absolutely worked herself into a nervous headache for the first time in her life; then abused herself for being so helpless and miserable. Early in the morning she was up, regardless of the throbbing and beating in her temples as a Spartan could have been, and went about to prepare breakfast. She remembered a dish of eggs and bread-crumbs, prepared in some peculiar way, that Luke had always been fond of, and tried her hand at that. It looked so appetizing when she saw it on the dish, that her hopes began to rise.

It was all of no use, however. Luke thanked her, and tried to eat; but the first mouthful seemed choking him and he pushed the plate away.

"I can't," he said. "Don't mind me, Rhoda, I'll get better soon."

He went away, and Rhoda sat down with the breakfast dishes unwashed, and had a grand cry all to herself, and felt the better for it, as anything feminine usually does after such an outburst.

It was late in the afternoon before Luke came in, and Rhoda had become so anxious that she was thinking of going round to the theatre in search of him, when he returned.

He looked so pale and worn out that a new pang seized her; but she had learned, with a woman's quickness, that a display of anxiety only vexed him; so she got up as much of a smile as she could manage, and said cheerfully,

"I began to think you were lost, Luke! I've got some hot water. Will you have a cup of tea?"

"I don't want it," he said, wearily; "let me lie down." Luke stretched himself on his bed, and Rhoda sat down by him, her fingers busy with some knitting, for she could not afford to waste time, however great might be her trouble.

Luke lay there in silence, with one arm thrown half across his face; and Rhoda saw the great tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.

The girl could not bear this silent grief, but fell on her knees by the bed, and put her arms about him.

"What is it, Luke? Do tell me—I can't understand; it breaks my heart to see you take on so."

"You're too good, Rhoda," he answered, still keeping his face hidden. "I'm ashamed to be such a baby; but I can't help it. I'm so wretched—I'm so wretched."

"What has happened, Luke? I know it's about her—do tell me."

"She's gone, Rhoda: they've taken her away."

"Gone? Where?"

"Out West, to live."

"But they'll come back some time, Luke—their home is here."

"Oh, Rhoda! there's no comfort in that! I can't believe it—I feel as if I should never see her again. That is what ails me—I can't sleep or eat. You don't know, Rhoda—you don't know!"

"N—not from any p—personal experience," sobbed Rhoda; "but I love you so well I can understand."

Luke threw his arm about her neck and kissed her, as he went on with his revelations.

"To-day I went to the rehearsal, but I couldn't play—I got them to let me off. So I started for her house; I knew one of the servants, and the old woman let me in. Oh, Rhoda! she showed me all over it!—such a lovely place! Filled with pictures and flowers; and in her father's room there's a portrait of her—Rhoda, I went down on my knees before it."

He broke off for an instant; Rhoda soothed him and whispering,

"Poor boy! poor boy!" till he could control his voice sufficiently to go on.

"And her room—it's like a fairy's bower in the theatre, Rhoda! All pink silk and lace, her bird in its cage; the chair where she sits by the window, and Rhoda——"

"Yes, dear!"

"On the table there was a glove; when the woman wasn't looking, I slipped it into my vest. See!"

He pulled out a tiny primrose-colored glove, then hastily pushed it into its hiding-place again, as if it were too sacred even for Rhoda's eyes to behold.

He lay there, and told his sister the whole story—the poor, pathetic little story, that meant so much to that dreaming, imaginative soul.

"I feel as if I should die if she staid West," he said.

"When she is near, even if I don't see her, it seems to give me new life; but to know that she is so far away, makes me feel as if some chord in my heart was stretched until it must break. I can feel it trembling to-night, Rhoda."

Rhoda did not attempt to argue with him. She listened patiently, soothed and caressed him, until at length he grew quiet, and fell asleep.

Rhoda's knitting was forgotten. She sat curled up in a little heap at the foot of the bed, her forehead puckered into a score of wrinkles in her effort to devise some means which should bring a little comfort and happiness to her poor Luke.

Suddenly her face brightened; she fairly clapped her hands in noiseless triumph, and crept away into the kitchen to keep the water hot for Luke's tea; sometimes muttering congratulations to herself, for she saw the light.

When Rhoda heard Luke stirring, she went back to his room.

"Don't get up yet," she said, "I've something to say first. Now, Luke, just listen to me. If you could see her would you promise to get well?"

"Indeed, I would!" he exclaimed. "But what's the good of talking that way—you know I can't."

"That's what we are to see about," said Rhoda, nodding her head sagely. "You said they were traveling from one city to another—Chicago, Columbus, St. Louis; and all the rest of those places that are just like Jonah's gourd for growing."

"Yes. Well, what of it, Rhoda?"

"I've been thinking, Luke—I don't believe in having a head for nothing—and I've been thinking——"

"Do go on, Rhoda!"

"You can play the violin like an angel—though it's harps, I believe, that they use! But no matter; you can play and sing—and father is a wonder, too, when I'm by to keep him straight——"

"Oh, Rhoda! when I'm so impatient!"

"I'm coming to it! I want you to start out and give concerts—There! We'll go to all the places where she is. They'll bring her to hear you; and you'll see her every evening, besides making such a lot of money that you'll be like a prince."

"And I shall grow famous," cried Luke, seizing her idea in a fullness and breadth which it had not possessed to her mind. "Oh, Rhoda! we can do it—I know we can!"

"We will," said Rhoda, stamping her foot, as if she defied fate itself to interfere with the plan.

"It's a heavenly thought," Luke went on, in raptures at once. "You're like an angel to me, Rhoda! We will get ready and start next week. Father will go——you can coax him."

"Of course he'll go! Just the traveling will be good for you, Luke."

"Oh! I'm well now!" he exclaimed, springing off the bed; "you've cured me, Rhoda."

"I'll believe that, if you'll come and eat some dinner," Rhoda answered, cheerfully, while a sharp pain smote her heart as she watched his flushed cheeks and burning eyes, lighted up into new beauty by this precious hope she had brought to him in his darkness, for she had not nursed the poor young woman that was gone without learning the sad significance of these symptoms.

"Yes, I can eat now," he said. "I must get strong—I must practice, too. I'll begin to-night. I wish father would come in; I want to hear what he thinks of it."

"Just leave that to me," returned Rhoda. "I'm going to be the agent and business manager of this concern—you've too much music in your head. I shall go and see Mr. Thurman, the leader of the orchestra, to-morrow; he'll tell us just what to do."

"I shall see her, Rhoda! She likes to hear me play—he'll be sure to come. And when they applaud she'll be pleased. Perhaps she will feel I do it all for her. Oh, Rhoda! Rhoda! you have made me so happy—you have given me new life."

And Rhoda smiled on him, and listened to his fancies; but all the while the pain at her heart grew more intense as she noticed how the dark eyes brightened with unnatural lustre, and the fragile frame armed itself with a feverish strength which must freeze the very springs of life itself.