priscilla's beauty was of that shadowy and spiritual kind that it took a good while to find out that she was a beauty at all. certainly priscilla's sisters, the misses mildmay, had sublime faith in priscilla's charms; but the poor girl herself had spent so much of her twenty-five years of life trying to conform to the standard of behavior inculcated in the misses mildmay's boarding and day school for young ladies and little girls that it had robbed her of that delicious and ingenuous vanity which is the glorious inheritance of pretty young things of her gender. the misses mildmay lived in an imposing four-story brick mansion in a street of the sternest respectability; there was not a suspicion of the shop in the stately front door, and the heavily draped windows bore no advertising sign. the tall man-servant who opened the door was loftily oblivious to the pupils who sneaked in by the garden way. the misses mildmay had made money in their school—and it was all for priscilla. had this youngest birdling in the dove-cote been like her elder sisters, nothing could have been better contrived than the scheme of happi

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ness proposed to her. but unfortunately priscilla was no more a mildmay than she was a montmorency or a condé. it is true that she conformed outwardly to the mildmay model, but nature's original priscilla was a merry, fiery young creature with peachy cheeks and a perpetual smile and a good appetite. all these things, however, were kept in abeyance—particularly her color and her appetite. had that dignified footman been cut up into juicy chops for priscilla's breakfast, and that mahogany door been made into rich soups for priscilla's dinner, she would no doubt have lost some of that pretty pallor, that pathetic look out of her dark eyes. but the income of the misses mildmay did not admit of the footman and the mahogany door and the juicy chops and rich soups too, so they skimped on the dinners, skimped on the amusements, skimped on all those vanities that had never had any charms for them, but which mother nature, who is obstinate as well as perverse, had meant for the younger sister.

the mildmay religion was necessarily of a well-bred and repressive type; but priscilla was given to getting up early and walking long distances to a church in east harrowby, where not one single person could be found who might be called "in society" except priscilla herself. the clergyman, it is true, was a gentleman, but he was said to be so cold, so stern, so unsocial, that he strongly repelled his own class. there was, however, a reason for the rev. mr. thorburn's indifference to general society. he had met with the most awful of

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domestic calamities. the wife whom he loved had lost her mind, and was then in a private asylum. the only shifting of his burden that the stern mr. thorburn showed was, he had given up the charge which he had held for ten years, and where his happy married life had been spent, and had taken a very small and pitifully poor church in east harrowby. his congregation was made up entirely of working people, to mr. thorburn's intense satisfaction. he had the spirit of an apostle, but he was handicapped by his temperament and by the traditions of his class. he could not be persistent, or aggressive, or personally solicitous about the highly educated, moral, and well-bred persons who made up his first congregation. he desired earnestly and even fiercely to wake them up to a spiritual life, but all of them, pastor as well as people, were too well bred for that sort of intimate discussion to be forced between them. he found, after some years' experience, that they were willing to let him look after their morals, but they proposed to look after their spiritual affairs themselves—which is one of the commonest and queerest developments of modern religious thought.

in the course of time, thorburn grew weary of trying to spiritualize a congregation of people who were so well off in this world that they regarded their probable transposition to heaven with great distaste. he sickened of being restricted in his spiritual efforts to emotional women and priggish boys and girls. religion, he felt, was an affair for men—but of the few men communicants in the

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church, every one of them would have instantly withdrawn his subscription and quitted the church had the clergyman showed any undue solicitude about his soul. and if he had ventured to speak of their sins, in any except the most general way, the bishop would have come down upon him. so this zealous man, so cruelly misplaced, found his fashionable congregation and handsome salary utterly unendurable after that frightful and heart-breaking tragedy in his life. he was glad enough for the chance to preach to a congregation of decent brick makers, such as made up most of the population of east harrowby, and who did not find this world so pleasant that they could not grasp the idea of a better one.

dr. sunbury, the rector of the handsome stone church in west harrowby, was a good man, but he would have cut a poor figure as an apostle alongside of that independent citizen, paul of tarsus, or peter the fisherman. the doctor had the kindest heart, though, and the most liberal mind in west harrowby, and having early had a safe and easy path to heaven pointed out to him, he had walked along it for forty years, never doubting that he would get there in the end. it is true that the spectacle of mr. thorburn, going night and day among his poor parishioners, being doctor, nurse, adviser, everything to them, sometimes gave the excellent old doctor a qualm, but he had sense enough to see that, even if he wished to follow the same life as the rev. mr. thorburn, he couldn't do it. there were no sick, poor, ignorant people in the well-bred, well-fed

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congregation that listened to dr. sunbury's mild and strictly general exhortations.

priscilla mildmay alone of all the doctor's flock went after the new parson at east harrowby and his shabby, uncomfortable church. but priscilla always had an odd way with her, so her elder sisters gently lamented. for example, instead of reading the religious flapdoodle with which they were quite satisfied, priscilla would devour her thomas à kempis as if all of truth was to be found therein, and declared she could not read anything after that except the four gospels. the misses mildmay had not failed to report priscilla's iniquity to dr. sunbury, but they got cold comfort.

"let the girl alone," he said. "thorburn's a better preacher than i am, and, god knows, he is a better man" (the doctor possessed, without knowing it, one of the greatest christian' virtues—humility) "and don't bother her. she is right. i'd go to hear thorburn myself if i didn't have to preach." the two clergymen were upon the most friendly terms, although so widely apart in every respect but that of mutual good-will. the only house in west harrowby that thorburn visited was dr. sunbury's and the old doctor trudged over to east harrowby sometimes, to smoke a pipe of peace in thorburn's dingy lodgings. dr. sunbury hated walking, but he could not find it in his conscience to drive over to that woe-begone community in his snug brougham—all of which the recording angel put down in his favor.

priscilla's face had not escaped thorburn's

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notice. he had keen eyes, and he saw everything. he saw priscilla with wonder. women, as a rule, did not flock to his church. they said they found his sermons cold. men, and some of them none of the best, chiefly made up his audiences. it was not hard anywhere to observe priscilla's snow-drop face in her little black bonnet, with her eager, beseeching eyes. after a while mr. thorburn began to feel their mesmeric influence, as dr. sunbury had done ever since she was fifteen. he began to watch for her, to preach at her, to feel that she understood him—a very comfortable thing for a public speaker. of course he knew who miss priscilla mildmay was—"very nice, but not the equal of the elder misses mildmay," he usually heard—and sometimes they had met at dr. sunbury's. as mr. thorburn was naturally a silent man, and priscilla lacked courage in a drawing-room, they scarcely exchanged half a dozen words. it came about, though, as these things will, that in the course of his parish work he came upon priscilla—priscilla teaching a class of ragged boys their lessons, after having taught the most stylish young ladies in west harrowby the most elegant branches of a polite education. some way, all the restraint they had felt in dr. sunbury's drawing-room melted away in the little bare school room. there priscilla reigned supreme, calmly confident under mr. thorburn's searching gaze. she had a peculiar knack of teaching. her gentle, "now, please, boys," had the same effect as mr. thorburn's stern, "see, you fellows, behave yourselves." mr. thor

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burn watched with admiration the tact with which she managed her somewhat unruly crowd.

of course all this teaching did not go on with the unqualified approbation of the misses mildmay. priscilla showed a phenomenal determination about it, and being upheld by dr. sunbury, who in some way always encouraged her vagaries, the misses mildmay, although they might look coldly on it, could not forbid it.

it did not take much to violently excite west harrowby; and therefore when the harrowby union-palladium published one morning, with a big display head that covered half the first page of the paper, the burning of the northern lunatic asylum, a certain circumstance connected therewith gave west harrowby something to talk about for a week. five inmates of the women's ward were missing, and among them was mrs. eleanor thorburn. five bodies, charred beyond recognition, were found in the ruins. some days after a notice appeared in the obituary column of the union-palladium: "suddenly, on the 17th of february, mrs. eleanor thorburn, wife of the reverend edmund thorburn, of east harrowby." that was all.

nobody—not the most censorious—could accuse mr. thorburn of not paying scrupulous respect to his wife's memory. yet it made but little outward difference in his life. for two or three sundays he was absent from his pulpit, and when he reappeared he wore a band of crape upon his hat.

so things went on until nearly two years had slipped past. one spring afternoon dr. sunbury,

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with his particular chum and crony, dr. forman, the great light of the medical profession in and about harrowby, was enjoying a quiet saunter through the familiar shady street. they had wrestled in argument so often, and practiced in company so much, that dr. sunbury had become a pretty good doctor of medicine, and dr. forman was no mean proficient in theology. right in the midst of a friendly-fierce wrangle on the subject of ecclesiastical history, dr. forman suddenly remarked, "that's going to be a match."

dr. sunbury glanced up, and saw mr. thorburn, as he met priscilla mildmay, stop, smile, speak a few words, and, lifting his hat, go upon his way.

"bless my soul!" almost shouted dr. sunbury, stopping short and gazing at dr. forman's immovable face.

"why not?" said the doctor testily. "i see them together half a dozen times a week."

dr. sunbury was at heart an inveterate matchmaker, as all truly benevolent old persons are apt to be, and as soon as he allowed his imagination to feast upon the idea of a match between thorburn and priscilla, its manifest fitness impressed itself so upon him that he would fain have got out a license, gone to them, and commanded them to stand up and be married immediately. he did, however, firmly resolve to give thorburn a hint; but giving thorburn hints was always a matter of more or less difficulty with everybody. at last, however, the opportunity came, and dr. sunbury

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seized it courageously. he had been spending the evening with mr. thorburn at his lodgings, and the other clergyman happening to mention, as dr. sunbury was taking his leave, that he thought of getting lodgings elsewhere, dr. sunbury remarked quite naturally that he "had heard something regarding mr. thorburn and miss priscilla mildmay which perhaps accounted for the proposed change." they were standing at mr. thorburn's door, and by the bright moonlight dr. sunbury saw the dark flush which overspread mr. thorburn's somewhat saturnine face.

"i—i assure you—" he began; and then, after a pause, "i am too old."

"nonsense!" replied dr. sunbury. "priscilla is nearly twenty-six" (ah! doctor, you know she was only twenty-five month before last), "and you are—let me see—thirty-seven."

"thirty-nine," conscientiously said mr. thorburn.

"well, thirty-nine. you are enough man of the world to see that age interposes no obstacle in the case. however, i shall say no more. good-night."

"if i hadn't been going just then, i don't think i could have said it," confidentially remarked dr. sunbury to dr. forman.

the little seed that dr. sunbury had planted in mr. thorburn's mind grew, and waxed to be a great tree. but all the time he looked upon it as impossible. priscilla was but a child, and he was a man grown old in sorrow, in suffering, and

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labor. no, it could never be. and having come to the conclusion that he was in no danger whatever, mr. thorburn fared just as such presumptuous samsons always do. he met priscilla under the most adverse circumstances, running home from a shower, and in a manner the most unexpected to himself, proposed to her just as they came in front of the west harrowby savings-bank, which was also the post-office and the principal apothecary's shop. priscilla's behavior was of a piece with his own. the idea had never been presented to her mind before, and it was a matter that required the utmost circumspection in deciding, and yet by the time she reached her own door she had accepted mr. thorburn, the rain meanwhile from his umbrella trickling in little rivers down her back. there was neither time nor opportunity for love-making in the midst of a pouring shower, upon the pavement in front of the mildmay mansion, so mr. thorburn could only take her little cold hand and say, "god bless you, god bless you, my priscilla!"

in due course of time the wedding—a very quiet one—came off, and mr. and mrs. thorburn were settled in a modest rectory in east harrowby. the misses mildmay had suggested—indeed, urged—that mr. thorburn should establish his rectory in the more fashionable precinct of west harrowby, but mr. thorburn demurred, on the ground of its being a clergyman's duty to live in his parish.

they were as happy as the day was long. priscilla, under the new influence of happiness and

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good roast beef and a daily pint of porter, grew rosy, and blossomed out into a regular beauty, and mr. thorburn's face lost that painful expression it had been wont to wear when he strode through the streets on his parish work. and time went by so fast—so fast; they had been married nearly three years, when they felt as if their honey-moon was just beginning.

it was getting toward dusk one misty november afternoon when priscilla went tripping past dr. forman's house, which stood on the opposite side of the street. the moisture from the over-hanging branches of the elm trees was dripping upon her, and her boots were quite soaked through. across the way the doctor was just stepping out of his buggy, and she stopped and debated whether she should not go over and ask him to drive her a quarter of a mile further down the road to the rectory. as she stood hesitating, a woman approached her out of the mist, and spoke.

"may i inquire," she said, "the way to the house of the rev. mr. thorburn?"

she was perhaps forty, and had once been pretty. even now a certain pathetic charm attached to her, and the voice and accent were of that cultivated kind which established her title to be called a lady, in spite of the extreme plainness of her attire.

her hair, which was a beautiful auburn, curled over her forehead in little natural rings, and her eyes were strangely bright. she looked as if she had just recovered from illness, and was not physically

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strong, but there was a look of tremulous happiness in her face. when she said "the rev. mr. thorburn," her voice was musically lowered, and her gray eyes became radiant. priscilla took all this in at a glance. she was some woman whom thorburn had befriended, and who had come to him to lay down her load of gratitude at his feet.

"yes," said priscilla, with ready politeness; "just down the road, the first house to the left. you will have to wait an hour or two, perhaps, though, for mr. thorburn. he is seldom in before half past-six. i am mrs. thorburn, you see," she said, smiling.

the stranger looked at her for a moment with a kind of wide-eyed horror, and, throwing her arms up in the air, fell prone on the ground as if she had received a pistol shot through the heart.

priscilla had never been brought face to face with any startling emergencies during her quiet life. she stood for a moment frozen with terror, and then ran like a deer across to where dr. forman stood giving some directions to his man.

"oh, doctor, come! run as fast as you can." she pointed to the prostrate figure lying in the muddy road. dr. forman gave one glance, and started at a smart pace, priscilla keeping up with him, and telling him breathlessly what had occurred. the doctor bent down, turned the unfortunate woman over on her back, and said two words, "dead faint."

"can't i do something?" said priscilla, hovering near.

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"yes. go and tell sam to come here at once, and then go home yourself. you'll have another touch of rheumatism if you go out in this weather. i shall speak to thorburn about it."

the doctor was a man of authority; so priscilla, after sending sam over, and returning only to be sharply ordered about her business, went home. mr. thorburn was later than usual that night. a strike was threatened among the brick makers, and they had said they would treat with him and with no one else. he was troubled and harassed—and, contrary to the custom of some women in like circumstances, priscilla did not choose grewsome stories, like strange women fainting in the street, to entertain him—so nothing was said of the somewhat tragic occurrence of the afternoon. next morning he was off bright and early, priscilla making no mention of her aching joints. before night the doctor's promised touch of rheumatism had set in. priscilla made light of it, but agreed to send for dr. forman, and insisted that thorburn should attend to the business of averting the strike. instead of coming himself, young dr. curtis, dr. forman's assistant, came. dr. forman had a very ill patient. mrs. thorburn inquired eagerly about the woman who had dropped in the street. dr. curtis had heard dr. forman say something about it, but supposed it was all right, as he had heard nothing further on the subject. mrs. thorburn would be all right too if she would stay in the house in bad weather, and take care of herself.

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the incident made no very particular impression on priscilla. but on the night after it had happened, dr. sunbury got a very pressing message from dr. forman. he went at once to the doctor's house, picking his way through the dark november night; and dr. forman opened the door himself, and led the way into his little back office, where he told his visitor of the patient he had found in the street, and who at that moment lay up-stairs in the doctor's spare bedroom, with the doctor's housekeeper in attendance on her.

"and—she—is—" dr. forman hesitated. a strange pallor was upon his homely, good-natured face, and his voice was tremulous. he took a moment or two to recover himself, and then burst out: "she is—the first wife of mr. thorburn."

dr. sunbury rose from his chair and fell back in it again. he raised his hand as if in denunciation. "may god—"

"wait. he is as guiltless as you are." dr. forman paused a minute or two, and then took up the thread of his discourse where he had left off describing his sending priscilla thorburn home. "i brought her, with my man's help, into the house, and had her put in bed. it was plainly nothing but a faint; but she went from one fainting spell into another, and when i had finally brought her round, the fainting spell changed into convulsions. for hours i worked with her. at last i stopped them, and got her under the influence of an opiate. i was tired myself, and went to bed to get a few hours' sleep, leaving word for

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curtis to be called. in the middle of the night i was waked by jane standing by my bedside, looking frightened out of her wits. 'do, pray, dr. forman, come to the strange lady.' when i got to the room she was lying in the bed, weak, but perfectly conscious. she intimated to me that she wished to say something to me privately. of course i tried to induce her to put it off, but she was determined.

"i saw that she was no ordinary woman—she had been beautiful—and she was still comely. and she had that air of melancholy command that those who are in the crisis of tremendous misfortunes only have. so i sent jane out of the room. then she said, in the calmest possible way, 'doctor, i am the first wife of edmund thorburn.' i was incredulous, and thought her crazy, the more so that the next thing she told was that she had been for the last six years in a lunatic asylum. but when she told me her story i saw that she was at that moment as sane as i was. and such a story!" dr. forman, a stolid man usually, took out his handkerchief and buried his face in it, and an occasional sob escaped from him. dr. sunbury put his hand to his eyes, as the doctor gasped out at intervals. "they were so happy! she had given up everything to marry him, and wanted him to give up his parish because it did not suit him, and to take some such charge as east harrowby, and to share his poverty with him—she, delicately nurtured and finely bred. and then came the terrible illness, and a still more terrible blank; and then,

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after years which are as nothing in her mind, a return, an awakening, a resurrection to life and the most perfect felicity, so she thought—poor thing, poor thing!—and when she got here, to east harrowby, she was so overcome with the happiness in store for them, that she felt her heart would burst if she saw him too suddenly—she wandered about, waiting until dusk to go to his house, and to throw herself in her husband's arms—"

dr. forman paused for a long time. then presently recovering himself, he suddenly fell into his calm, professional tone.

"no family taint—violent fever, followed by more violent insanity, and likely to result in a cure." after a moment he continued: "she, of course, remembered nothing of her first attack. she called it insanity; nothing insane in her way of speaking of it, using just the same terms you or i would, without evasion, and supposes now that from certain faint recollections her cure had begun about the time of the asylum fire. she remembers something of the scene, and the next thing finding herself shivering and half clad in a railway train. she remembers nothing more until she became an inmate of the central lunatic asylum. there were no means of identifying her for a long time. she had been supplied with clothes by charitable people on the train. no inquiries were made about her, which she could not understand until i told her of her supposed death. she was called mrs. march, because it was in the month of march that she was brought to the asylum. her

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recovery was gradual, but it is a common experience with such persons that their own names and individuality is the last for the restored mind to grasp. about six months ago she became perfectly herself. she felt an entirely sane and rational doubt of herself, until time had tested it; but about a month ago she gave such information of herself as led to a letter being written to brightwood, where thorburn had a church at the time of her illness. thorburn was not there, but an answer was received saying he was at east harrowby. they wrote again. that letter could never have been delivered, and, after waiting four weeks for an answer, mrs. thorburn persuaded the superintendent to allow her to come here with an attendant to find her friends. the attendant found some acquaintances, and began to gossip with them. mrs. thorburn tells me that she felt shame and horror at returning to her husband's house accompanied by a keeper; so she slipped off, and met priscilla. you know the rest."

dr. sunbury sat looking like a man paralyzed. "well?"

"you must send thorburn here to-night."

dr. sunbury rose and walked restlessly about the little office.

"to-night," repeated dr. forman; "for i don't think she'll last beyond to-morrow."

"why, what's the matter with her?" asked dr. sunbury, pausing in his troubled walk.

"nothing but death," answered dr. forman. "skill can do nothing for that woman. she ought

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to have rallied from the fainting spells; instead, she went off into convulsions. she ought to have rallied from the convulsions; instead, she is sinking as fast as any mortal i ever saw. poor thing, so pretty, so gentle!"

it was arranged that mr. thorburn was to be sent for; and to dr. sunbury was left the dreadful task of telling him the truth.

an hour after that, dr. sunbury, thinking miserably of poor priscilla and the unhappy creature up-stairs, heard the wheels of dr. forman's buggy grinding on the gravel outside, and mr. thorburn's quick, firm step as he entered the house. dr. sunbury met him with a sinking heart, and a cold tremor that shook him like an aspen.

"i came at once, as you see, my friend," began thorburn cheerily. and then looking closer at dr. sunbury's white face, said, "why, what is the matter?"

dr. sunbury, without a word, led him back into the little office, and carefully closed the door. "thorburn," he said, "i believe you to be a man and a christian. call up, therefore, all your manhood, and all your dependence on god, to bear what i have to tell you."

mr. thorburn's dark skin grew a shade darker at these words, but he made no reply, only looking dr. sunbury full in the eye.

"priscilla told you, perhaps—of a woman fainting—in the road—tuesday afternoon," dr. sunbury got his words out in gasps.

"yes, yes."

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"she is now in this house. thorburn, she is—the wife you supposed dead."

mr. thorburn took in as quickly what had been told him as his dying wife had done. he rose from his chair; the strong man reeled and fell, with a deep groan, and his arms outstretched over the doctor's study table. dr. sunbury made no offer of consolation. he covered his face with his hands and wept.

after a pause, thorburn said: "we must do what is right. my poor priscilla!"

he suddenly checked himself. ah, it was but a little while since he had known priscilla—and the woman up-stairs was the wife of his youth. and he had loved her well. but which one of us would rejoice at having the dead to rise from their graves?

"will you not see—" said dr. sunbury, after a short silence, pointing overhead, where the dying mrs. thorburn lay.

"now? not yet, not yet. give me a moment, for god's sake."

"but she is dying; she has not long that she can wait for you."

thorburn rose at once. "tell me how it was, before i see her," he asked.

in a few words dr. sunbury told him.

just then dr. forman appeared. "you had best go now," he said to thorburn.

dr. sunbury took mr. thorburn's arm and led him up-stairs. dr. forman preceded them. as they reached the door, thorburn caught dr. for

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man's wrist, his face quite ashy and his eyes wild, as if to ask for a moment's grace; but it was too late, the door was open, and dr. forman had beckoned to the nurse to leave the bedside. thorburn closed the door after him, and walking to the bed, found himself alone with the woman that to him had risen from the dead.

"forgive me! forgive me!" was all that thorburn could say.

"forgive you?" asked the wife, in her old sweet voice. "why should i not forgive you? only, you must pity me. think! six years of agony, to return and find—i thought until now that it was easier to die than live," she continued, feebly. "it would save so much misery if death should free you from me."

"eleanor! eleanor!"

"and in one moment—in the twinkling of an eye, i was dashed from the most perfect happiness into the most terrible misery. i thought my home was waiting for me; i thought my husband's heart yearned for me—and without one word of warning—i beheld myself an outcast on the face of the earth—a being whose death would bless the man she loved!"

her voice grew strong in its intensity as she spoke. thorburn leaned on the bed, his arm around her, and great drops upon his pallid face. a groan burst from him. the dying can not weep, but there was a terrible and piercing pity for herself and for him in mrs. thorburn's uncertain voice and her misty eyes. thorburn tried to tell her

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that he had not forgotten her—that he loved her when he thought her dead—but it was only half expressed, and mrs. thorburn checked him gently.

"we have only a little while to be together," she said. "i felt myself to be dying the instant i felt myself to be alive. i have been dying for three days—and i tried to die without seeing you—but i could not—i could not!"

down-stairs dr. sunbury and dr. forman conversed in whispers, dr. forman holding his watch in his hand. on the stroke of the half-hour he went up-stairs. as he entered the room he saw thorburn half leaning on the bed, while mrs. thorburn's head rested on his breast. the doctor took one keen look at his patient, and suddenly whipping out his lancet, called, loudly:

"jane! jane! come at once. i want to give mrs. thorburn a hypoderm of brandy."

dr. sunbury heard the call, and came too. he obeyed a look from the doctor, and taking thorburn by the arm, almost dragged him from the room. jane came with the brandy, with salts, with the doctor's electrical appliances; but it was too late. mrs. thorburn breathed an hour or two longer, and then, without a word, a look, or a sigh, stopped breathing.

"it is all over," said dr. forman, going out on the landing to speak to dr. sunbury.

thorburn went away the night of his wife's death.

to dr. sunbury was intrusted the terrible task of telling priscilla. he came forth from that in

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terview ten years older, and tottering as he walked.

the affair was hushed up, and the world at large was no wiser about it. thorburn and priscilla left east harrowby, ostensibly on account of thorburn's breaking down. before they left, a marriage ceremony, the most painful that could be imagined, was performed between them in dr. sunbury's study, with dr. forman for a witness.

but never afterward were thorburn and priscilla happy. they were good, they loved each other, they were thrown upon each other for comfort—but between them sat the ghost of the dead woman, who had come to claim her happiness, and found another woman in possession of it.