The girl's hand was half-extended to meet his, but with a quick glance toward the house she drew it back into the folds of her black dress, bowing instead. Horton let his hand fall, a little flush showing itself upon his forehead. "Are you not going to speak to me, Miss O'Connell ?" he said, in his frank, pleasant way. "Are you not going to say you are glad to see me back, like all the rest?" The color had all faded from the girl's cheeks and neck. She returned his smiling glance with an earnest, almost appealing look, hesitating before she spoke. "I am very glad, Mr. Horton," she said, at last, and, passing him, went swiftly out of sight. The young man stood a moment with his hand upon the gate, looking after her; then turned and went up the walk to the door, and rang the bell. A smiling maid admitted him, and showed him into a very pretty drawing-room. She He had not waited long when Florence, preceded by her mother, came in. She had been a pretty school-girl, but he was hardly prepared to see so beautiful a young woman, or one so self-possessed, and so free from provincialism in dress and manner. was a blonde beauty, of the delicate, porcelain-tinted type, small, but so well-made and well-dressed as to appear much taller than she really was. She was lovely to-night in a filmy white dress, so richly trimmed with lace as to leave the delicate flesh-tints of shoulders and arms visible through the fine meshes. She had always cared for Roger, and, being full of delight at his return and his distinguished appearance, let her delight appear undisguisedly. Although a good deal of a coquette, with Roger coquetry seemed out of place. His own simple, sincere manners were contagious, and Florence had never been more charming. "Tell us all about the pictures and artists and singers you have seen and heard," she said, in the course of their lively interchange of experiences. "I am afraid I can talk better about hospitals and surgeons," said Horton. "You know I am not a bit æsthetic, and I have been studying very closely." "You are determined, then, to practice medicine?" Mrs. Fairfield said, with rather more anxiety in her tones than the occasion seemed to demand. "I think I am better fitted for that profession than any other," Horton answered. "Y-yes," assented Mrs. Fairfield, doubtfully, looking at her daughter. "I should never choose it, if I were a man," said Florence, decidedly. "It seems to have chosen me," Horton said. "I have not the slightest bent in any other direction." "It is such a hard life," said Florence. "A doctor must be a hero." "You used to be enthusiastic over heroes," said Horton, smiling. "I am now," said Florence, “but ———” "Not the kind who ride in buggies and wield lancets instead of lances," laughed Horton, looking into the slightly vexed but lovely face opposite, with a great deal of expression in his tender dark eyes. "Of course you would not think of settling in Ridgemont," remarked Mrs. Fairfield, blandly," after all you have studied." "I don't see why not," he answered. "But for an ambitious young man," began Mrs. Fairfield. “I'm afraid I am not an ambitious young man," said Horton, shaking his head. "There is a good opening here, and the old home is very dear to me." Florence was silently studying the toe of one small sandaled foot. 66 Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, who always endeavored to fill up pauses in conversation,-"to be sure, Ridgemont is improving. Don't you find it changed a good deal?" "Why, not very much," Horton answered. "Places don't change so much in a few years as people. I met Lilly O'Connell as I came into your grounds. She has changed -wonderfully." "Y-yes," said Mrs. Fairfield, rather stiffly. "She has improved. Since her father died, she has lived in Parson Townsend's family. She is a very respectable girl, and an excellent seamstress." Florence had gone to the window, and was looking out. "She was very good at her books, I remember," he went on. "I used to think she would make something more than a seamstress." "I only remember her dreadful temper," said Florence, in a tone meant to sound careless. "We called her 'Tiger-Lily,' you know." "I never wondered at her temper," said Horton. "She had a great deal to vex her, poor girl. I suppose it is not much better now.' "Oh, she is treated well enough," said Mrs. Fairfield. "The best families in the place employ her. I don't know what more she can expect, considering that she is-a-" "Off color," suggested Horton. “No. She cannot expect much more. But it is terrible-isn't it?-that stigma for no fault of hers. It must be hard for a girl like herlike what she seems to have become." "Oh, as to that," said Florence, going to the piano and drumming lightly, without sitting down, "she is very independent. She asserts herself quite enough." "Why yes," broke in her mother, hastily. "She actually had the impudence to apply for a position as teacher of the primary school, and Parson Townsend, and Hickson of the School Board, were determined she should have it. The 'Gazette' took it up, and for a while Lilly was the heroine of the day. But of course she did not succeed. It would have ruined the school. A colored teacher ! Dreadful!" "Dreadful, indeed," said Horton. He rose and joined Florence at the piano, and a moment later Mrs. Fairfield was contentedly drumming upon the table, in the worst possible time, to her daughter's performance of a brilliant waltz. The evening terminated pleasantly. After Horton had gone, mother and daughter had a long, confidential talk upon the piazza, which it is needless to repeat. But at its close, as Mrs. Fairfield was closing the doors for the night, she might have been heard to say: "You could spend your winters in Boston, you know." To which Florence returned a dreamy "Yes." PRELUDE. ZERVIAH HOPE. IN the month of August, in the year 1878, the steamer Mercy, of the New York and Savannah line, cast anchor down the channel, off a little town in South Carolina which bore the name of Calhoun. It was not a regular part of her "run" for the Mercy to make a landing at this place. She had departed from her course by special permit to leave three passengers, two men and one woman, who had business of a grave nature in Calhoun. A man, himself a passenger for Savannah, came upon deck as the steamship hove to, to inquire the reason of the delay. He was a short man, thin, with a nervous hand and neck. His eyes were black, his hair was black, and closely cut. He had an inscrutable mouth, and a forehead well-plowed rather by experience than years. He was not an old man. He was cleanly dressed in new, cheap clothes. He had been commented upon as a reticent passenger. He had no friends on board the Mercy. This was the first time upon the voyage that he had been observed to speak. He came forward and stood among the others, and abruptly said: "What's this for?" He addressed the mate,, who answered with a sidelong look, and none too cordially: "We land passengers by the Company's order." "Those three?" "Yes, the men and the lady." "Who are they?" 66 Physicians from New York." "Ah-h!" said the man, slowly, making a sighing noise between his teeth. "That means that means "Volunteers to the fever district," said the mate, shortly, "as you might have known before now. You're not of a sociable cast, I see." "I have made no acquaintances," said the short passenger. "I know nothing of the news of the ship. Is the lady a nurse?" "She's a she-doctor. Doctors, the whole of 'em. There aint a nurse aboard." "Plenty to be found, I suppose, in this place you speak of ?" "How should I know?" replied the mate, with another sidelong look. One of the physicians, it seemed, overheard this last question and reply. It was the woman. She stepped forward without hesitation, and, regarding the short passenger closely, said: "There are not nurses. This place is perishing. Savannah and the larger towns have been looked after first-as is natural and right," added the physician, in a business-like tone. She had a quick and clearcut, but not ungentle voice. The man nodded at her curtly, as he would to another man; he made no answer; then with a slight flush his eye returned to her dress and figure; he lifted his hat and stood uncovered till she had passed and turned from him. His face, under the influence of this fluctuation of color, changed exceedingly, and improved in proportion as it changed. "Who is that glum fellow, Doctor?" One of the men physicians followed and asked the lady; he spoke to her with an air of camaraderie, at once frank and deferential; they had been class-mates at college for a course of lectures; he had theories averse to the medical education of women in general, but this woman in particular, having outranked him at graduation, he had made up his mind to her as a marked exception to a wise rule, entitled to a candid fellow's respect. Besides, despite her diploma, Marian Dare was a lady-he knew the family. “Is he glum, Dr. Frank?" replied Dr. Dare. But the other young man stood silent. He never consulted with doctresses. Dr. Dare went below for her luggage. A lonely dory, black of complexion and skittish of gait, had wandered out and hung in the shadow of the steamer, awaiting the passengers. The dory was manned by one negro, who sat with his oars crossed, perfectly silent. There is a kind of terror for which we find that animals, as well as men, instinctively refrain from seeking expression. The face and figure of the negro boatman presented a dull form of this species of fear. Dr. Dare wondered if all the people in Calhoun would have that look. The negro regarded the Mercy and her passengers apathetically. It was a hot day, and the water seemed to be blistering about the dory. So, too, the stretching sand of the shore, as one raised the eyes painfully against the direct noon-light, was as if it smoked. The low, gray palmetto leaves were curled and faint. Scanty spots of shade beneath sickly trees seemed to gasp upon the hot ground, like creatures that had thrown themselves down to get cool. The outlines of the town beyond had a certain horrible distinctness, as if of a sight that should but could not be veiled. Överhead, and clean to the flat horizon, flashed a sky of blue and blazing fire. "Passengers for Calhoun!" The three physicians descended into the dory. The other passengers-what there were of them-gathered to see the little group depart. Dr. Frank offered Dr. Dare a hand, which she accepted, like a lady, not needing it in the least. She was a climber, with firm, lithe ankles. No one spoke, as these people got in with the negro, and prepared to drift down with the scorching tide. The woman looked from the steamer to the shore, once, and back again, northwards. The men did not look at all. There was an oppression in the scene which no one was ready to run the risk of increasing by the wrong word. "Land me here, too," said a low voice, suddenly. It was the glum passenger. one noticed him, except, perhaps, the mate (looking on with the air of a man who would feel an individual grievance in anything this person would be likely to do) and the lady. toward one another, before they separated, by a blind sense of human fellowship. Even Remane found himself touching his hat. Dr. Frank asked Dr. Dare if he could serve her in any way; but she thanked him, and, holding out her firm, white hand, said, "Good-bye." This was, perhaps, the first moment when the consciousness of her sex had made itself oppressive to her since she ventured upon this undertaking. She would have minded presenting herself to the Relief Committee of Calhoun, accompanied by gentlemen upon whom she had no claim. She walked on alone, in her gray dress and white straw hat, with her luggage in her own sufficient hand. The reticent passenger had fallen behind with the negro boatman, with whom he walked slowly, closing the line. After a few moments, he advanced and hesitatingly joined the lady, beginning to 'May I ask you "Ah," interrupted Dr. Dare, cordially,. "it is you." "Will you tell me, madam, the best way of going to work to offer myself as a fever nurse in this place? I want the best way. I want real work." "Yes, yes," she said, nodding; "I knew you would do it." "I came from the North for this purpose, but I meant to go on to Savannah." 'Yes, I know. This is better; they need everything in this place." She looked toward the gasping little town through the relentless noon. Her merciful blue eyes filled, but the man's look followed with a dry, exultant light. "There is room for you," said Dr. Dare. The man let himself into the boat at a light bound, and the negro rowed them away. The Mercy, heading outwards, seemed to shrug her shoulders, as if she had thrown them off. The strip of burning water between them and the town narrowed rap-heartily, relinquishing her burden. idly, and the group set their faces firmly landwards. Once, upon the little voyage, Dr. Frank took up an idle pair of oars, with some vaguely humane intent of helping the negro-he looked so. "There is no porter," he said, abruptly, glancing at her heavy bag and shawl-strap. "Would you permit me to help you?" "Oh, thank you!" replied Dr. Dare, "I wouldn't, Frank," said the other gentleman. "Now, Remane-why, for instance ?" "I wouldn't begin by getting overheated." No other word was spoken. They landed in silence. In silence, and somewhat weakly, the negro pulled the dory high upon the beach. The four passengers stood for a moment upon the hot, white sands, moved Plainly, this poor fellow was not a gentleman. The lady could afford to be kind to him. "I know nothing how we shall find it," she chatted, affably, "but I go to work tonight. I presume I shall need nurses before morning. I'll have your address." She took from her gray sacque pocket a physician's note-book, and stood, pencil in hand. My name," he said, " is Hope-Zerviah Hope." She wrote without comment, walking as she wrote; he made no other attempt to converse with her. The two physicians followed, exchanging now and then a subdued word. The negro dragged himself wearily over the scorching sand, and thus the little procession of pity entered the town of Calhoun. My story does not deal with love or ladies. I have to relate no tender passages between the fever-physicians, volunteers from New York, for the afflicted region of Calhoun. Dr. Marian Dare came South to do a brave work, and I have no doubt she did it bravely, as a woman should. She came in pursuit of science, and I have no doubt she found it, as a woman will. Our chief interest in her at this time lies in the fact that certain missing fragments in the history of the person known as Zerviah Hope we owe to her. She hovers over the tale with a distant and beautiful influence, pervading as womanly compassion and alert as a woman's eye. I have nothing further to say about the story before I tell it, except that it is true. He That night, after the physicians had gone about their business, Zerviah Hope wandered, a little forlornly, through the wretched town. Scip, the negro boatman, found him a corner to spend the night. It was a passable place, but Hope could not sleep; he had already seen too much. His soul was parched with the thirst of sympathy. walked his hot attic till the dawn came. As it grew brighter he grew calmer; and, when the unkindly sun burst burning upon the land, he knelt by his window and looked over the doomed town, and watched the dead-carts slinking away toward the everglades in the splendid color of the sky and air, and thought his own thoughts in his own way about this which he had come to do. We should not suppose that they were remarkable thoughts; he had not the look of a remarkable man. Yet, as he knelt there, a sleepless, haggard figure blotted against the sunrise, with folded hands and moving lips, an artist, with a high type of imagination and capable of spiritual discernment, would have found in him a design for a lofty subject, to which perhaps he would have given the name of "Consecration" rather than of "Renunciation," or of "Exultance" rather than of " Dread." A common observer would have simply said: "I should not have taken him for a praying man." He was still upon his knees when Dr. Dare's order came, "Nurse wanted for a "His strength was as the strength of ten, quoted the young man, laughing lightly. "I don't know that I should have thought it, in this case. You've taken a fancy to the fellow." "I always respect an unmixed motive when I see it," she replied, shortly. "But I've been in practice too long to take sudden fancies. There is no profession like ours, Doctor, for putting the sympathies under double picket guard." She stiffened a little in her manner. She did not like to be thought an over-enthusiastic woman-womanish, unused to the world. The weather, soon after the arrival of the Mercy, took a terrible mood, and a prolonged drought settled upon Calhoun. The days dawned lurid and long. The nights fell dewless and deadly. Fatal and beautiful colors lurked in the swamps, and in the sifting dust, fine and hard, blown by siroccos across the glare of noon, like sands on the shores of the Lake of Fire. The pestilence walked in darkness, and the destruction wasted at midday. Men died, in that little town of a few thousand souls, at the rate of a score a day-black and white, poor and rich, clean and foul, saint and sinner. The quarantine laws tightened. Vessels fled by the harbor mouth under full sail, and melted like helpless compassion upon the fiery horizon. Trains upon the Shore Line shot through and thundered past the station; they crowded on steam; the fireman and his stoker averted their faces as they whirled by. The world turned her back upon Calhoun, and the dying town was shut in with her dead. Only, at long intervals, the Mercy, |