and now this story must again pass over a period of ten years in the history of eben and hetty williams. during all these years, hetty had been working faithfully in st. mary's; and dr. eben had been working faithfully in welbury. hetty was now fifty-six years old. her hair was white, and clustered round her temples in a rim of snowy curls, peeping out from under the close lace cap she always wore. but the snowy curls were hardly less becoming than the golden brown ones had been. her cheeks were still pink, and her lips red. she looked far less old for her age at fifty-six than she had looked ten years before.

dr. eben, on the other hand, had grown old fast. his work had not been to him as complete and healthful occupation as hetty's had been to her. he had lived more within himself; and he had never ceased to sorrow. his sorrow, being for one dead, was without hope; save that intangible hope to which our faith so pathetically clings, of the remote and undefined possibilities of eternity. hetty's sorrow was full of hope, being persuaded that all was well with those whom she did not see.

dr. eben loved no one warmly or with absorption. hetty loved every suffering one to whom she ministered. dr. eben had never ceased living too much in the past. hetty had learned to live almost wholly in the present. hetty had suffered, had suffered intensely; but all that she had suffered was as nothing in comparison with the sufferings of her husband. moreover, hetty had kept through all these years her superb health. dr. eben had had severe illnesses, which had told heavily upon his strength. from all these things it had come to pass, that now he looked older and more worn than hetty. she looked vigorous; he looked feeble; she was still comely, he had lost all the fineness of color and outline, which had made him at forty so handsome a man. he had been growing restless, too, and discontented.

raby was away at college; old cæsar and nan had both died, and their places were filled by new white servants, who, though they served dr. eben well, did not love him. deacon little had died also, and jim and sally had been obliged to go back to the old homestead to live, to take care of mrs. little, who was now a helpless paralytic.

“gunn's,” as it was still called, and always would be, was no longer the brisk and cheerful place which it had once been. the farm was slowly falling off, from its master's lack of interest in details; and the old stone house had come to wear a certain look of desolation. the pines met and interlaced their boughs over the whole length of the road from the gate to the front-door; and, in a dark day, it was like an underground passage-way, cold and damp. if hetty could have been transported to the spot, how would her heart have ached! how would she have seen, in terrible handwriting, the record of her mistaken act; the blight which her one wrong step had cast, not only upon hearts and lives, but even upon the visible face of nature. but hetty did not dream of this. whenever she permitted her fancy to dwell upon imaginings of her old home, she saw it bright with sunshine, merry with the voices of little children: and her husband handsome still, and young, walking by the side of a beautiful woman, mother of his children. at last dr. eben took a sudden resolution; the result, partly, of his restless discontent; partly of his consciousness that he was in danger of breaking down and becoming a chronic invalid. he offered “gunn's” for sale, and announced that he was going abroad for some years. spite of the dismay with which this news was received throughout the whole county, everybody's second thought was: “poor fellow! i'm glad of it. it's the best thing he can do.”

hetty's cousin, josiah gunn, the man that she had so many years ago predicted would ultimately have the estate, bought it in, out-bidding the most determined bidders (for “gunn's” was much coveted); and paying finally a sum even larger than the farm was really worth. dr. eben was now a rich man, and free. the world lay before him. when all was done, he felt a strange unwillingness to leave welbury. the travel, the change, which had looked so desirable and attractive, now looked formidable; and he lingered week after week, unable to tear himself away from home. one day he rode over to springton, to bid rachel barlow good-by. rachel was now twenty-eight years old, and a very beautiful woman. many men had sought to marry her, but dr. eben's prediction had been realized. rachel would not marry. her health was perfectly established, and she had been for years at the head of the springton academy. doctor eben rarely saw her; but when he did her manner had the same child-like docility and affectionate gratitude that had characterized it when she was seventeen. she had never ceased to feel that she owed her life, and more than her life, to him: how much more she felt, dr. eben had never dreamed until this day. when he told her that he was going to europe, she turned pale, but said earnestly:

“oh, i am very glad! you have needed the change so much. how long will you stay?”

“i don't know, rachel,” he replied sadly. “perhaps all the rest of my life. i have done my best to live here; but i can't. it's no use: i can't bear it. i have sold the place.”

rachel's lips parted, but she did not speak; her face flushed scarlet, then turned white; and, without a moment's warning or possibility of staying the tears, she buried her face in her hands, and wept convulsively. in the same instant, a magnetic sense of all that this grief meant thrilled through doctor eben's every nerve. no such thought had ever crossed his mind before. rachel had never been to him any thing but the “child” he had first called her. very reverently seeking now to shield her womanhood from any after pain of fear, lest she might have betrayed her secret, he said:

“why, my child! you must not feel so badly about it. i ought not to have spoken so. of course, you must know that my life has been a very lonely one, and always must be. but i should not give up and go away, simply for that. i am not well, and i am quite sure that i need several years of a milder climate. i dare say i shall be home-sick, and come back after all.”

rachel lifted her eyes and looked steadily in his. her tears stopped. the old clairvoyant gaze, which he had not seen on her face for many years, returned.

“no. you will never come back,” she said slowly. then, as one speaking in a dream, she said still more slowly, and uttering each word with difficulty and emphasis:

“i—do—not—believe—your—wife—is—dead.” much shocked, and thinking that these words were merely the utterance of an hysterical excitement, dr. eben replied:

“not to me, dear child; she never will be: but you must not let yourself be excited in this way. you will be ill. i must be your doctor again and prescribe for you.”

rachel continued to watch him, with the same bright and unflinching gaze. he turned from her, and, bringing her a glass of water in which he had put a few drops from a vial, said in his old tone:

“drink this, rachel.”

she obeyed in silence; her eyes drooped; the tension of her whole figure relaxed; and, with a long sigh, she exclaimed:

“oh, forgive me!”

“there is nothing to forgive, my child,” said the doctor, much moved, and, longing to throw his arms around her as she sat there, so gentle, appealing, beautiful, loving. “why can i not love her?” “what else is there better in life for me to do?” he thought, but his heart refused. hetty, the lost dead hetty, stood as much between him and all other women to-day, as she had stood ten years before.

“i must go now, rachel,” he said. “good-by.”

she put her cold hand in his. as he took it, by a curious freak of his brain, there flashed into his mind the memory of the day when, by the side of this fragile white little hand lying in his, hetty, laughingly, had placed her own, broad and firm and brown. the thought of that hand of hetty's, and her laugh at that moment, were too much for him, and he dropped rachel's hand abruptly, and moved toward the door. she gave a low cry: he turned back; she took a step towards him.

“i shall never see you again,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “i owe my life to you,” and she carried his hand to her lips, and kissed it again and again. “god bless you, child! good-by! good-by!” he said. rachel did not speak, and he left her standing there, gazing after him with a look on her face which haunted him as long as he lived.

why doctor eben should have resolved to sail for england in a canadian steamer, and why, having reached canada, he should have resolved to postpone his voyage, and make a trial of the famous springs of st. mary's, are mysteries hid in that book of fate whose leaves no mortal may turn. we prate in our shallow wisdom about causes, but the most that we can trace is a short line of incidental occasions. a pamphlet which doctor eben found in the office of a hotel was apparently the reason of his going to st. mary's; all the reason so far as he knew, or as any man might know. but that man is to be pitied who lives his life out under the impression that it is within his own guidance. only one remove from the life of the leaf which the winds toss where they list would be such a life as that.

it was with no very keen interest that doctor eben arrived in st. mary's. he had some faint hope that the waters might do him good: but he found the sandy stretches and long lines of straight firs in canada very monotonous; and he was already beginning to be oppressed by the sense of homelessness. his quiet and domestic life had unfitted him for being a wanderer, and he was already looking forward to the greater excitements of european travel; hoping that they would prove more diverting and entertaining than he had thus far found travel in america.

he entered st. mary's as hetty had done, just at sunset. it was a warm night in june; and, after his tea at the little inn, dr. eben sauntered out listlessly. the sound of merry voices in the square repelled him; unlike hetty, he shrank from strange faces: turning in the direction where it seemed stillest, he walked slowly towards the woods. he looked curiously at the little red chapel, and at father antoine's cottage, now literally imbedded in flowers. then he paused before hetty's tiny house. a familiar fragrance arrested him; leaning on the paling he looked over into the garden, started, and said, under his breath: “how strange! how strange!” there were long straight beds of lavender and balm, growing together, as they used to grow in the old garden at “gunn's.” both the balm and the lavender were in full blossom; and the two scents mingled and separated and mingled in the warm air, like the notes of two instruments unlike, yet in harmony. the strong lemon odor of the balm, was persistently present like the mastering chords of the violoncello, and the fine and subtle fragrances from the myriad cells of the pale lavender floated above and below, now distant, now melting and disappearing, like a delicate melody. dr. eben was borne away from the present, out of himself. he thrust his hand through the palings, and gathered a crushed handful of the lavender blossoms: eagerly he inhaled their perfume. drawers and chests at “gunn's” had been thick strewn with lavender for half a century. all hetty's clothes—hetty herself—had been full of the exquisite fragrance. the sound of quick pattering steps roused him from his reverie. a bare-footed boy was driving a flock of goats past. the child stopped and gazed intently at the stranger.

“child, who lives in this little house?” said dr. eben, cautiously hiding his stolen handful of lavender.

“tantibba,” replied the boy.

“what!” exclaimed the doctor. “i don't understand you. what is the name?”

“tantibba! tantibba!” the child shouted, looking back over his shoulder, as he raced on to overtake his goats. “bo tantibba.”

“some old french name i suppose,” thought dr. eben: “but, it is very odd about the herbs; the two growing together, so exactly as hetty used to have them;” and he walked reluctantly away, carrying the bruised lavender blossoms in his hand, and breathing in their delicious fragrance. as he drew near the inn, he observed on the other side of the way a woman hurrying in the opposite direction. she had a sturdy thick-set figure, and her step, although rapid, was not the step of a young person. she wore on her head only a close white cap; and her gray gown was straight and scant: on her arm she carried a basket of scarlet plaited straw, which made a fine bit of color against the gray and white of her costume. it was just growing dusk, and the doctor could not distinguish her features. at that moment, a lad came running from the inn, and darted across the road, calling aloud, “tantibba! tantibba!” the woman turned her head, at the name, and waited till the lad came to her. dr. eben stood still, watching them. “so that is tantibba?” he thought, “what can the name be?” presently the lad came back with a bunch of long drooping balm-stalks in his hand.

“who was that you spoke to then?” asked the doctor.

“tantibba!” replied the lad, hurrying on. dr. eben caught him by the shoulder. “look here!” he exclaimed, “just tell me that name again. this is the fourth time i've heard it tonight. is it the woman's first name or what?” the lad was a stupid english lad, who had but recently come to service in st. mary's, and had never even thought to wonder what the name “tantibba,” meant. he stared vacantly for a moment, and then said:

“indeed, sir, and i don't know. she's never called any thing else that i've heard.”

“who is she? what does she do?” asked the doctor.

“oh, sir! she's a great nurse, from foreign parts: she has a power of healing-herbs in her garden, and she goes each day to the english house to heal the sick. there's nobody like her. if she do but lay her hand on one, they do say it is a cure.”

“she is french, i suppose,” said the doctor; thinking to himself, “some adventuress, doubtless.”

“ay, sir, i think so,” answered the lad; “but i must not stay to speak any more, for the mistress waits for this balm to make tea for the cook jean, who is like to have a fever;” and the lad disappeared under the low archway of the basement.

dr. eben walked back and forth in front of the inn, still crushing in his fingers the lavender flowers and inhaling their fragrance. idly he watched “tantibba's” figure till it disappeared in the distance.

“this is just the sort of place for a tricky old french woman to make a fortune in,” he said to himself: “these people are simple enough to believe any thing;” and dr. eben went to his room, and tossed the lavender blossoms down on his pillow.

when he waked in the morning, his first thoughts were bewildered: nothing in nature is so powerful in association as a perfume. a sound, a sight, is feeble in comparison; the senses are ever alert, and the mind is accustomed always to act promptly on their evidence. but a subtle perfume, which has been associated with a person, a place, a scene, can ever afterward arrest us; can take us unawares, and hold us spell-bound, while both memory and knowledge are drugged by its charm.

dr. eben did not open his eyes. in an ecstasy of half consciousness he murmured, “hetty.” as he stirred, his hand came in contact with the withered flowers. touch was more potent than smell. he roused, lifted his head, saw the little blossoms now faded and gray lying near his cheek; and saying, “oh, i remember,” sank back again into a few moments' drowsy reverie.

the morning was clear and cool, one window of the doctor's room looked east; the splendor of the sunrise shone in and illuminated the whole place. while he was dressing, he found himself persistently thinking of the strange name, “tantibba.” “it is odd how that name haunts me,” he thought. “i wish i could see it written: i haven't the least idea how it is spelled. i wonder if she is an impostor. her garden didn't look like it.” presently he sauntered out: the morning stir was just beginning in the village. the child to whom he had spoken at “tantibba's” gate, the night before, came up, driving the same flock of goats. the little fellow, as he passed, pulled the ragged tassel of his cap in token of recognition of the stranger who had accosted him. without any definite purpose, dr. eben followed slowly on, watching a pair of young kids, who fell behind the flock, frolicking and half-fighting in antics so grotesque that they looked more like gigantic grasshoppers than like goats. before he knew how far he had walked, he suddenly perceived that he was very near “tantibba's” house.

“i'll walk on and steal another handful of the lavender,” he thought; “and if the old woman's up, perhaps i'll get a sight of her. i'd like to see what sort of a face answers to that outlandish name.”

as the doctor leaned over the paling, and looked again at hetty's garden, he saw something which had escaped his notice before, and at which he started again, and muttered—this time aloud, and with an expression almost of terror,—“good heavens, if there isn't a chrysanthemum bed too, exactly like ours! what does this mean?” hetty had little thought when she was laying out her garden, as nearly as possible like the garden she had left behind her, that she was writing a record which any eye but her own would note.

“i believe i'll go in and see this old french woman,” he thought: “it is such a strange thing that she should have just the same flowers hetty had. i don't believe she's an adventuress, after all.”

dr. eben had his hand on the latch of the gate. at that instant, the cottage door opened, and “tantibba,” in her white cap and gray gown, and with her scarlet basket on her arm, appeared on the threshold. dr. eben lifted his hat courteously, and advanced.

“i was just about to take the liberty of knocking at your door, madame,” he said, “to ask if you would give me a few of your lavender blossoms.”

as he began to speak, “tantibba's” basket fell from her hand. as he advanced towards her, her eyes grew large with terror, and all color left her cheeks.

“why do i terrify her so?” thought dr. eben, quickening his steps, and hastening to reassure her, by saying still more gently:

“pray forgive me for intruding. i”—the words died on his lips: he stood like one stricken by paralysis; his hands falling helplessly by his side, and his eyes fixed in almost ghastly dread on this gray-haired woman, from whose white lips came, in hetty's voice, the cry:

“eben! oh! eben!”

hetty was the first to recover herself. seeing with terror how rigid and pale her husband's face had become; how motionless, like one turned to stone, he stood—she hastened down the steps, and, taking him by the hand, said, in a trembling whisper:

“oh, come into the house, eben.”

mechanically he followed her; she still leading him by the hand, like a child. like a child, or rather like a blind man, he sat down in the chair which she placed for him. his eyes did not move from her face; but they looked almost like sightless eyes. hetty stood before him, with her hands clasped tight. neither spoke. at last dr. eben said feebly:

“are you hetty?”

“yes, eben,” answered hetty, with a tearless sob. he did not speak again: still with a strange unseeing look, his eyes roved over her face, her figure. then he reached out one hand and touched her gown; curiously, he lifted the soft gray serge, and fingered it; then he said again:

“are you hetty?”

“oh, eben! dear eben! indeed i am,” broke forth hetty. “do forgive me. can't you?”

“forgive you?” repeated dr. eben, helplessly. “what for?”

“oh, my god! he thinks we are both dead: what shall i do to rouse him?” thought hetty, all the nurse in her coming to the rescue of the woman and wife.

“for going away and leaving you, eben,” she said in a clear resolute voice. “i wasn't drowned. i came away.”

dr. eben smiled; a smile which terrified hetty more than his look or voice or words had done.

“eben! eben!” she cried, putting both her hands on his shoulders, and bringing her face close to his. “don't look like that. i tell you i wasn't drowned. i am alive: feel me! feel me! i am hetty;” and she knelt before him, and laid her arms across his knees. the touch, the grasp, the warmth of her strong flesh, penetrated his inmost consciousness, and brought back the tottering senses. his eyes lost their terrifying and ghastly expression, and took on one searching and half-stern. “you were not drowned!” he said. “you have not been dead all these years! you went away! you are not hetty!” and he pushed her arms rudely from his knees. then, in the next second, he had clasped her fiercely in his arms, crying aloud:

“you are hetty! i feel you! i know you! oh hetty, hetty, wife, what does this all mean? who took you away from me?” and tears, blessed saving tears, filled dr. eben's eyes.

now began the retribution of hetty's mistake. in this moment, with her husband's arms around her, his eyes fixed on hers, the whole cloud of misapprehension under which she had acted was revealed to her as by a beam of divine light from heaven. smitten to the heart by a sudden and overwhelming remorse, hetty was speechless. she could only look pleadingly into his face, and murmur:

“oh, eben! eben!”

he repeated his questions, growing calmer with each word, and with each moment's increasing realization of hetty's presence.

“who took you away?”

“nobody,” answered hetty. “i came alone.”

“did you not love me, hetty?” said dr. eben in sad tones, struck by a new fear. this question unsealed hetty's lips.

“love you!” she exclaimed in a piercing voice. “love you! oh, eben!” and then she poured out, without reserves or disguises, the whole story of her convictions, her decision, and her flight. her husband did not interrupt her by word or gesture. as she proceeded with her narrative, he slowly withdrew his eyes from her face, and fixed them on the floor. it was harder for her to speak when he thus looked away from her. timidly she said:

“do not turn your eyes away from me, eben. it makes me afraid. i cannot tell you the rest, if you look so.”

with an evident effort, he raised his eyes again, and again met her earnest gaze. but it was only for a few seconds. again his eyes drooped, evaded hers, and rested on the floor. again hetty paused; and said still more pleadingly:

“please look at me, eben. indeed i can't talk to you if you do not.”

like one stung suddenly by some insupportable pain, he wrenched her hands from his knees, sprang to his feet, and walked swiftly back and forth. she remained kneeling by the chair, looking up at him with a most piteous face. “hetty,” he exclaimed, “you must be patient with me. try and imagine what it is to have believed for ten years that you were dead; to have mourned you as dead; to have spent ten whole years of weary, comfortless days; and then to find suddenly that you have been all this time living,—voluntarily hiding yourself from me; needlessly torturing me! why, hetty! hetty! you must have been mad. you must be mad now, i think, to kneel there and tell me all these details so calmly, and in such a matter-of-fact way. do you realize what a monstrous thing you have been doing?” and dr. eben's eyes blazed with a passionate indignation, as he stopped short in his excited walk and looked down upon hetty. then, in the next second, touched by the look on her uplifted face, so noble, so pure, so benevolent, he forgot all his resentment, all his perplexity, all his pain; and, stooping over her, he lifted her from her knees, and, folding her close to his bosom, exclaimed:

“oh, my hetty, my own; forgive me. i am the one that is mad. how can i think of any thing except the joy of having found you again? no wonder i thought at first we were both dead. oh, my precious wife, is it really you? are you sure we are alive?” and he kissed her again and again,—hair, brow, eyes, lips,—with a solemn rapture.

a great silence fell upon them: there seemed no more to say. suddenly, dr. eben exclaimed:

“rachel said she did not believe you were dead.”

at mention of rachel's name, a spasm crossed hetty's face. in the excitement of her mingled terror and joy, she had not yet thought of rachel.

“where is rachel?” she gasped, her very heart standing still as she asked the question.

“at home,” answered the doctor; and his countenance clouded at the memory of his last interview with her. hetty's fears misinterpreted the reply and the sudden cloud on his face.

“is she—did you—where is her home?” she stammered.

a great light broke in on dr. eben's mind.

“good god!” he cried. “hetty, it is not possible that you thought i loved rachel?”

“no,” said hetty. “i only thought you could love her, if it were right; and if i were dead it would be.”

a look of horror deepened on the doctor's face. the idea thus suggested to his mind was terrible.

“and supposing i had loved her, thinking you were dead, what then? do you know what you would have done?” he said sternly.

“i think you would have been very happy,” replied hetty, simply. “i have always thought of you as being probably very happy.”

dr. eben groaned aloud.

“oh, hetty! hetty! how could god have let you think such thoughts? hetty!” he exclaimed suddenly, with the manner of one who has taken a new resolve: “hetty, listen. we must not talk about this terrible past. it is impossible for me to be just to you. if any other woman had done what you have done, i should say she must be mad, or else wicked.”

“i think i was mad,” interrupted hetty. “it seems so to me now. but, indeed, eben, oh, indeed, i thought at the time it was right.”

“i know you did, my darling,” replied the doctor. “i believe it fully; but for all that i cannot be just to you, when i think of it. we must put it away from us for ever. we are old now, and have perhaps only a few years to live together.”

here hetty interrupted him with a sudden cry of dismay:

“oh! oh! i forgot every thing but you. i ought to have been at dr. macgowan's an hour ago. indeed, eben, i must go this minute. do not try to hinder me. there is a patient there who is so ill. i fear he will not live through the day. oh, how selfish of me to have forgotten him for a single moment! but how can i leave you! how can i leave you!”

as she spoke, she moved hastily about the room, making her preparations to go. her husband did not attempt to delay her. a strange feeling was creeping over him, that, by hetty's removal of herself from him, by her new life, her new name, new duties, she had really ceased to be his. he felt weak and helpless: the shock had been too great, and he was not strong. when hetty was ready, he said:

“shall i walk with you, hetty?”

she hesitated. she feared to be seen talking in an excited way with this stranger: she dreaded to lose her husband out of her sight.

“oh, eben!” she exclaimed, “i do not know what to do. i cannot bear to let you go from me for a moment. how shall i get through this day! i will not go to dr. macgowan's any more. i will get sister catharine from the convent to come and take my place at once. yes, come with me. we will walk together, but we must not talk, eben.”

“no,” said her husband.

he understood and shared her feeling. in silence they took their way through the outskirts of the town. constantly they stole furtive looks at each other; hetty noting with sorrow the lines which grief and ill-health had made in the doctor's face; he thinking to himself:

“surely it is a miracle that age and white hair should make a woman more beautiful.”

but it was not the age, the white hair: it was the transfiguration of years of self-sacrifice and ministering to others.

“hetty,” said dr. eben, as they drew near dr. macgowan's gate, “what is this name by which the village people call you? i heard it on everybody's lips, but i could not make it out.”

hetty colored. “it is french for aunt hibba,” she replied. “they speak it as if it were one word, 'tantibba.'”

“but there was more to it,” said her husband. “'bo tantibba,' they called you.”

“oh, that means merely 'good aunt hibba,'” she said confusedly. “you see some of them think i have been good to them; that's all: but usually they call me only 'tantibba.'”

“why did you call yourself 'hibba'?” he said.

“i don't know,” replied hetty. “it came into my head.”

“don't they know your last name?” asked her husband, earnestly.

“oh!” said hetty, “i changed that too.”

dr. eben stopped short: his face grew stern.

“hetty,” he said, “do you mean to tell me that you have put my very name away from you all these years?”

tears came to hetty's eyes.

“why, eben,” she replied, “what else could i do? it would have been absurd to keep my name. any day it might have been recognized. don't you see?”

“yes, i see,” answered dr. eben, bitterly. “you are no longer mine, even by name.”

hetty's tears fell. she was dumb before all resentful words, all passionate outbreaks, from her husband now. all she could say was:

“oh, eben! eben!” sometimes she added piteously: “i never meant to do wrong; at least, no wrong to you. i thought if there were wrong, it would be only to myself, and on my own head.” when they parted, dr. eben said:

“at what hour are you free, hetty?”

“at six,” she replied. “will you wait for me at the house? do not come here.”

“very well,” he answered; and, making a formal salutation as to a stranger, he turned away.