o love, can the tree lure the summer bird

again to the bough where it used to sing,

when never a throat in the autumn is heard,

and never the glint of a vagrant wing?

—arthur stringer.

the autumn days came, and all the landscape within the range of granny long's telescope turned golden with its wealth of harvest. the apples dropped, rosy-cheeked, from the orchard trees, the corn and the pumpkins ripened in the garden. all day the binder sang in the yellow fields, and at night a great harvest moon hung alone in the violet heavens. as soon as the first blue haze of autumn settled over the ravine the mill closed, and the men scattered to work in the fields, or at threshing-bees, or went farther north to the winter lumber camps.

john mcintyre did not leave, as people had expected. he remained in his old shanty by the drowned lands, harvesting his little crop of potatoes, or laying up his stock of winter wood from the adjacent swamp. the village saw him only on the rare occasions when he came up to the flour-mill or store for provisions. but he did not live a solitary life, for the eldest sawyer orphan had now become his chum and confidant, and would have gone down to visit him almost every evening, even if old hughie cameron had reversed proceedings and paid him to stay away.

when the silent, dark man was removed from the village, and there was no likelihood of encountering him on the street in the evening, dr. gilbert allen experienced a feeling of relief. every time he met the man's disdainful gaze, the remembrance of his accusation returned, and with it a feeling of self-abasement. he longed to vindicate himself, to put it beyond the range of possibility that any man could say he had been dishonest. but that meant a great sacrifice, one that gilbert was not yet prepared to make.

when the first chill of the waning year came the doctor had a new patient. all summer miss arabella winters' health had been steadily failing. she never complained, nor did she seem to have any disease, but just pined quietly away. susan scolded and petted and doctored her, and made her wear flannel on her chest, but all to no avail. miss arabella, in her gentle, unobtrusive fashion, grew steadily worse. she seemed to have lost not only the power, but the desire, to get better.

elsie cameron had long noted the change in her friend, and strove in every way to arouse her. one day she organized a nutting party down into treasure valley, a still, smoky autumn day, when the rainbow leaves floated down and rested lightly upon the earth with a fairy touch. the orphans came, of course, and they flew up and down the hill, gathering hazelnuts and red berries and scarlet leaves, while miss arabella strayed here and there, her arms full of purple asters, until the look of hopelessness left her eyes and her face took on a pretty pink flush. but the twins strayed away, and before they were found the amethyst mists of the autumn evening were filling the valley. miss arabella took a severe cold, and the next day she went to bed.

mrs. winters scolded the whole picnic party, arabella most of all; and having used all her medical skill upon her to no avail, she grew alarmed, and called in dr. allen.

he came to see the quiet, patient little woman nearly every day for a week, and at the end of that time was forced to confess that she was growing steadily worse, and that there was something wrong with her that quite baffled his skill.

he left her house one afternoon, and went slowly down the walk with a very grave face. polly called after him from the veranda that times were still very slow, but he did not hear, and he almost stumbled against elsie cameron as she came through the gateway carrying a covered bowl.

"ah, you are the very person i want to consult," he said, his face brightening. "i wish you would do something for my patient in there."

"is her cold worse?"

"no, it isn't a cold that ails her; i confess i don't know what it is. there seems to be some secret trouble weighing on her mind. i wish you could discover what it is, and see if you can help her. i am doing her no good, and there's no doubt that she is steadily growing weaker."

his manner was very serious, and elsie entered the little house with a foreboding at her heart. he was right. some strange trouble had been pressing upon arabella's mind all summer, she felt sure. she passed through the house and placed the bowl on the kitchen table.

mrs. winters was there, and the place was dazzlingly clean. "there!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction, "i've polished the stove and scrubbed the floor, an' put up five quarts o' pickled pears, an' to-morrow i'm goin' to house-clean the front part. arabella always kept things kind of in order, but she was never anything of a manager. if you were thinkin' o' stayin' a little, elsie, i'd run over an' look after my bread, an' then give hannah a hand with her sewing. it's a caution how them twins get through their clothes. they ought to be well whipped for it. now, that soup's just awful nice, elsie. it was good of your ma to send it, an' it's only slops like that arabella'll take. no, she ain't a bit better, the doctor says; an' i say it jist looks like as if she was too stubborn to quit bein' sick, now she's started. if yous folks hadn't gone gallivantin' off down the crick that day this would never 'a' happened. arabella's too old for such foolishness, anyhow. well, i'll run home. tell her i'll be back in an hour or so an' shake out the mats."

elsie went into the spare bedroom, where miss arabella lay, propped up on pillows. her little, wan face brightened at the sight of her visitor.

"oh, elsie, is it you? it's good o' you to come." she looked anxiously past her. "where's susan?"

"she's gone home, and i'm going to sit with you till she comes back."

miss arabella tried not to look relieved. "d'ye think it would hurt me much to have the curtains put back, elsie? i'd love to see out."

"of course not. you shall have the window taken right out if you want it." the girl rolled up the green paper blind, pushed back the stiff lace curtains, and opened the window from the top. it was a perfect october day, and miss arabella felt the gentle breeze, and saw the sumach at her gate, a patch of vivid scarlet against the deep blue of the sky. at a corner of the window the boughs of an old apple-tree, still green, looked in and nodded in a friendly manner. the invalid looked bright and interested for a few minutes, then sighed and grew wan and listless again.

elsie pulled her chair up close to the bedside.

"arabella, dear," she said earnestly, "what is the matter with you?"

"i—i—guess it's jist that cold i caught, hangin' on. susan says it is."

"dr. allen doesn't think so. he says he doesn't know what is making you ill, and susan doesn't know, and i don't know. but you do, arabella, and, oh, i wish you'd tell me!"

she put her two strong, young hands over the thin little one lying on the coverlid. her deep eyes were full of sympathy. a slow flush rose into miss arabella's face. she turned away from the girl's steady gaze.

"elsie," she whispered, "he's right. there—there is something the matter with me, and i—i think—i'm pretty sure—i'm going to die."

"no, no, arabella! you mustn't say that—you really mustn't!"

the invalid was perfectly calm. "i think i am, though," she said quietly. "it's about the best thing i can do now, since——" she paused and turned away her head again.

elsie slipped to her knees by the bedside. "won't you tell me what is wrong, arabella?" she whispered. "something's been troubling you all summer. i've noticed it ever since i came home."

"yes, it's jist about that time. but it can't be helped now. and it won't be long till it's all over. and, elsie"—she glanced around, as though fearful of being overheard—"i'm goin' to leave you something!"

"oh, arabella! don't!" cried the girl, tears rising to her eyes. "i can't bear to hear you talk like that. you'll be better in a day or two."

miss arabella shook her head firmly. "no, susan says i've got stubborn, an' i guess she's right; because i don't seem to want to bother about getting better. but i'd like you to have something to remember me by, elsie. you were always different from the other girls, an' never acted as if i was old an' queer, an' i'm goin' to leave you—something."

she lay still for a few moments while her companion regarded her with sorrow-filled eyes. "elsie," she whispered suddenly, "if i tell you something—something awful, mind you, will you promise never, never to tell it to a living soul? not even after i'm gone?"

elsie looked at her half alarmed. "oh, arabella!" she stammered, "of course i wouldn't tell—if you—that is if you'd really like to tell me."

miss arabella's cheeks were growing pale. "yes, i'd better tell you. i'll have to if i—i leave it to you. run out an' lock the door, elsie—the back door, too, and bring polly in. somebody might come in an' see it."

elsie obeyed, with a feeling of growing apprehension. she had evidently stirred up depths of which she had never dreamed. when she returned the invalid was half sitting up in bed, flushed with excitement. she pointed to the gay red riding-hood upon the dresser. "there's a key behind her, just inside the wolf," she whispered. "it unlocks that bottom drawer, an' you hand me out what's there."

elsie opened the drawer and took out a large parcel, done up in brown paper. miss arabella took it tenderly, and for a few moments lay smoothing it gently. then, slowly and tremblingly, she untied the string and let a billow of sky-blue silk roll out upon the bed.

elsie gave a little exclamation of admiration. "oh, arabella, what a lovely thing! it looks as though it had been intended for an old-fashioned wedding dress."

"that's just what it was for," whispered arabella, with drooping head.

the girl looked at her for a moment, and then, with a woman's intuition, she divined the secret. she sank upon her knees again and put her arms about the shrinking little figure.

"yours, arabella?" she whispered. "was it intended for you?"

miss arabella nodded. her head went down on her friend's shoulder. the girl patted her lovingly, as though she had been a hurt child. "there, there, dear," she said soothingly, "tell me all about it. i won't tell, you know i won't."

"do you promise, sure and certain, elsie?" came the frightened whisper.

"yes, sure and certain."

"i don't think i could stand it if susan an' bella were to know. even after i'm gone i'd like it kept a secret. i guess i'm foolish, an' susan says there's no fool like an old fool, but i jist can't help it."

she lay back again on her pillow, her thin fingers passing caressingly up and down the shining folds of silk. she was silent for some minutes, and at last, with much halting, she began the story of the blue silk gown. she told in a shy whisper of the lover of her girlhood days. she had met him a long time ago, while on a visit to an aunt, away over in bruce county. he was foreman in the mill there, and he was—well, she couldn't exactly tell what he was like, he was so awful nice. through the sentences elsie cameron could make out a picture of him: big, handsome, honest, whole-hearted, and as tender as a woman with his shy little sweetheart; but in miss arabella's worshiping eyes he was a very demigod.

his home was down in nova scotia, the story went on, his father and mother lived there alone on the home farm, and some day he was to take her there. and then she had come home, and her mother had helped her make her clothes for her wedding day. and once he had come to elmbrook and had taken her to a circus at lakeview, and they had seen this piece of silk in a store window. he had said it was just the color of her eyes—miss arabella blushed and hung her head at this confession—and he had gone right in and bought it, in spite of her. he was just that kind, always giving other folks everything. he had given her polly, too, had sent her all the way from halifax after he went back. he had taught her to say "annie laurie"—that was the name he always called her. but he had not taught polly that other dreadful thing she said; she learned that from the men on the ship.

it was while he was still working over in bruce county that the day was set for their wedding, and she and her mother were planning how she should have the blue silk made, when he wrote that he had had an accident. he had been almost killed by the saw in the mill, and he would have died only that a boy who worked there saved his life. "bert" was the boy's name; she did not remember his last one. he set a great store by that boy after that, and helped to send him to school, and to put him through college to make him a doctor. that took a lot of money, of course, and she said they had better wait until the boy was old enough to help himself. martin didn't want to, but susan said they must; and while they were waiting he went back to nova scotia to take care of the old folks. then they both died, and he found that his father didn't own a cent; everything belonging to him was gone. a man had cheated the old people out of it. so now he had nothing to offer her, he said, and so he started away west to make a new home. he had wanted her to come with him then, but her mother had died the summer before, and susan managed her affairs. and susan said no, she was not strong enough to go away out west and rough it, and she had bidden arabella write him a letter saying she would wait till he had a proper home ready. susan was always a great manager. here miss arabella sighed deeply. so she had let him go away alone, and for a long time she heard from him regularly; then only at long intervals, and at last not at all. he had taken up land in alberta, but everything seemed to go against him. the crops were frozen the first year and the next year his cattle died. then just about this time he heard that his best and oldest friend, away down in nova scotia—old john, he always called him—was in great trouble, had lost everything through the same man that had got his own property. old john had left the place and gone away, no one knew where, and he was writing here and there hunting him. at last he got word that his friend had gone to the klondyke. he thought he would be far more likely to make money there, so he sold his ranch and went away north to find john and make a fortune for her. that was five years ago last spring, and she had never heard from him since. but she had never quite given up hope until this last summer. she had always kept the blue silk, hoping that she might even yet wear it some day. but last may she had noticed it had begun to ravel; see—she held it up to the light—that was a sure sign. something told her, the minute she saw it, she would never wear it. likely he was dead; and she was going to die very soon herself. yes, she was; and she knew dr. allen thought so, too.

she stopped, and closed her eyes to hide the rising tears. a secret of so many years' growth could not be uprooted without some pain.

there was a moment's silence. polly craned her neck to see into the room, and murmured, "oh, annie laurie! annie laurie!" in a melancholy tone.

elsie drew a deep breath. "how long ago is it since you first met him, arabella?" she whispered.

"fifteen years, an' i never told a soul i was waitin' all this time. susan never said anything about him, and everybody thought he was dead."

"and this boy that he educated, arabella—what about him? didn't he help when his friend needed it so badly?"

"no; he kind of forgot about it, i guess. young folks is often like that, you know. you see, he jist put him through high school an' helped him some, at first, in college, an' learnin' doctorin' seems to take an awful long time. but i guess the boy must 'a' forgot about him, or he'd 'a' been able to come back before this. you won't ever tell, elsie, will you?"

"no, no, arabella! never!"

"mebby i'm foolish, but i can't bear to think o' susan knowin' i was waitin' all this time, an' bella would laugh, an' william, too. but i told you, 'cause when i die i want you to have this dress to wear on your wedding day. i intended to give it to you, anyway, jist as soon as i found out i wasn't ever goin' to wear it."

"oh, arabella!" there was a choking lump in elsie's throat. "you must not talk like that! you must not! you don't know that he's dead. he may be on the way home now, for all you know. no! no!" she added, pressing the blue silk back into the owner's hands, "i won't take it! i just won't! you just cheer up, and wait a little longer, dear, and who knows but you may hear any day that he's coming?" she was growing radiantly hopeful.

miss arabella looked up with hopeful eyes, but shook her head. "no, it's no use, elsie. it's awful good o' you, and i used to feel like that, too; but i've waited too long. i guess i'm jist tired," she added pathetically.

"arabella," whispered the girl, with heightening color, "have you—don't you ever pray about it?"

"i used to, but lately—ever since that dress gave way—i—i kind o' gave way, too. an' it seemed wicked, anyhow—like prayin' for dead folks, the way catholics does, and i knew mr. scott would think it was awful of me."

the beautiful eyes looked at her despairingly.

"oh, arabella! don't you care about me? think how lonesome i'll be without you—— what's that?"

she was interrupted by a scrambling, tearing noise in the region of the old apple-tree. for an instant a strange object outside darkened the window, there was a shriek, a splintering crash, and down from the apple boughs, breaking a window-pane in its head-long descent, and landing upon the veranda floor with a terrible bang, came the black-haired twin of the sawyer orphans!

miss arabella sat up with a cry of alarm. polly gave a long squall, and shouted out that times were very slow indeed, and elsie sprang up, and, unlocking the door, ran to the rescue.

the black-haired twin was scratched and torn and disheveled, and was howling lustily, but the young lady who picked her up showed her small sympathy. "lorena sawyer," she demanded solemnly, "where did you drop from?"

"i was sittin' up in the apple-tree," roared the fallen one, "an' the mean ole thing busted, an' i—i—tu-m-bled!"

"you were up at the window, listening to what arabella and i were saying! you know you were!"

the child nodded. "o' course," she answered innocently. "an' say, elsie"—she began to wipe away her tears—"if arabella's fellah doesn't come back, will you give me an' lenny a bit o' the silk for our dolls' dresses?"

elsie caught her by the arm and shook her.

"hush!" she cried, glancing toward the open window in dismay. "arabella'll hear you, and if you tell—if you breathe a word of it, she'll get sick and die; do you understand?"

"but will y' give us some of the blue silk?" asked the black-haired twin, with orphan-like persistence.

"elsie!" it was miss arabella's voice. "elsie, come here quick!"

with a parting warning to the culprit, the girl ran back to the bedroom in deep concern. surely this shock would be too much for the invalid, and now she certainly would die.

"arabella!" she cried in amazement, as she reached the bedroom door, "what are you doing?"

for the sick woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressing herself in trembling haste. she turned upon the alarmed girl, the fire of resolution in her eyes.

"i'm going to get up," she answered firmly. "i ain't going to die. that child heard every word i said."

"but, arabella," began the bewildered nurse, "i——" she stopped, unable to divine the connection between lorry's eavesdropping and this sudden determination to live. "don't be frightened. i'll make her promise she won't tell."

"she might keep her word, an' she mightn't; an' if susan an' bella was to find out i'd died because he never came back an' left me an old maid, i couldn't rest in my grave. i jist couldn't! an' she might let it out, elsie, now mightn't she?"

elsie paused a moment. she was about to reassure her, but checked herself. evidently soothing was not what the invalid needed.

"yes, arabella," she said honestly, "she might."