Forrest House by Mary Jane Holmes read by Various Part 3/3 | Full Audio Book

Chapter Fifty Two of Forest House. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Donald Warren, Forest House by Mary Jane Holmes. Breaking the news to Everard. It was an hour behind the usual time, when the train from the north stopped for a moment at Ratsay, and four people—or rather three—stepped out into the storm. And hurried to the shelter of the carriage waiting for them, the fourth, whose face was carefully hidden from sight, was carried in the strong arms of Yula, and held like a child until Beatrice's house was reached, where it was taken at once to the room where Rassi used to occupy when visiting at Elm Park. Rassi was very tired and wept, both in body and mind, but had not seemed at all excited during the journey from New York, until Rassi was reached. And she was in the carriage riding along the old familiar road. She had once thought she should never see again. Then she roused from her apathy and, sitting upright, looked eagerly out through the driving rain toward the forest house, which lay to the right. And seemed a blaze of lights as the startled servants moved rapidly from room to room, for it was just then that the soul had taken wing and was on its flight to the world untried. Look! Look," she said, "so many lights in the old home, as if to welcome me back. As ever are there waiting for me. No, Rosy Beatrice said, "We are not going there tonight. I thought it best to bring you home with me until you have seen Everard." There was a little sigh of disappointment, and then Rosy laid her head on Eula's arm and did not speak again until she was on the soft bed in the blue room at Elm Park. Where, when Bee asked her how she felt, she whispered, "So happy and glad because I shall see him in the morning. Send for him very early." And when the morning came, a message was dispatched to Everard, to the effect that Mister and Missus Morton had returned and wished to see him immediately. But another message had found its way to the office before this one, for knots of crape were streaming in the November wind from every doorknob at the forest house, and the village bell was tolling in token that some soul had gone to the God who gave it. In his office, Herford sat listening to the bell, every stroke of which thrilled him with a sensation of something like dread, as if that mellowed death were in some way connected with himself. Who was it dead that day that the bell should clamor so long and would never strike the age? He asked himself just as the door opened and Lawyer Russell came in, flurried and excited, and red and white by turns as he shook the raindrops from his overcoat. For the storm, though greatly abated, was not over yet. Who is dead? Do you know? Everard asked, and Mr. Russell replied, "Yes, Ned. It will be a great shock to you—an infernal shock. Of course you are all over any hankering after her, but it's that Mathewson woman. She died last night, and there's about forty yards of crape flying from the doors up there. And a doctor, they say, is actually taken on to kill and blubbering like a calf. But we'll fix him. You'll see. He's watched. There's a pooh. Oh, Lord! What have I said?" Or come near saying. And in his disgust at himself for having nearly let out the secret before the time, the lawyer retreated into the adjoining room, leaving Everard alone to meet what had been a terrible shock to him. For though he had heard at different times from Magnus of Josephine's illness, he had never believed her dangerous, and now she was dead—the woman he once fancied that he loved. There were great drops of sweat about his mouth and under his hair, and his lips quivered nervously. While human as he was, there came over him with a rush the thought that now indeed he was free in a way which even Rossi would have recognized had she been alive. But Rossi too was dead. His freedom had come too late. Everybody is dead. He whispered sadly, while hot tears sprang to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Tears not for the woman at the forest house, for whom the bells kept steadily tolling. But for the dear little dead girl, as he believed so far away, who in reality was so very near, and even then asking when he would come, soon, darling, soon, Beatrice said, for she had sent a note to Everard, and the messenger was at his office door and in the room before Everard was aware of his presence. Mrs. Morton at home, he exclaimed, as he took the note from the servant's hand. Dear Everard, Beatrice wrote. We came home last night on the late train, and I am so anxious to see you and have so much to tell. Don't delay a minute, but come at once. Yours, B. She had something to tell him of Rosy, of course, and in an instant he was in the street, speeding along toward Elm Park and glancing but once in the direction of the Forest House, where every blind was closed and where through the leafless trees he could see the flapping of the yards of crepe, which Lawyer Russell had said were streaming from the doors. For an instant, a cold shudder went over him as if he had seen a corpse, but that soon passed away. And when Elm Park was reached, he was in such a fever of excitement that the sweat drops stood like rain upon his face, which nevertheless was very pale as he greeted Beatrice and asked. Did you hear anything of her? Did you find her grave, or see anyone who was with her at the last? Beatrice had planned everything thus far with great coolness and nerve. She had kept Rosy quiet and made her very sweet and attractive in one of her own dainty white wrappers, and arranged her beautiful hair, which had been kept short at the Maison de Sante, but which was now growing in soft curling rings, giving her small white face a singularly young expression, so that she might easily have passed for a child of fourteen as she reclined upon the pillows, a smile upon her lips and an eager, expectant look in her large bright eyes, turning constantly to the door at every sound which met her ear. At last she heard the well-remembered voice in the hall below, and the step upon the stairs. For Bee had, after all, lost her self-control, and in answer to Everard's rapid questions had said, "We did hear news of Rosy, and oh, Everard, don't let anything astonish or startle you, but go upstairs to the blue room, Rosy's old room, you know." He did not wait to hear more, but darted up the stairs, expecting not to find his darling there alive, but dead perhaps, and thus brought back to him. For Bee was capable of anything. So he sped on his way and entered the room where the fire burned so brightly in the grate, and the flowers were everywhere. While through the window came a sudden gleam of sunlight, which fell directly on the couch, where lay not a dead but a living Rosy, with a halo of gladness on her face and in her beautiful eyes, which met him as he came so swiftly into the room, pausing suddenly with a cry, half of terror, half of joy, as he saw the little girl among the pillows raise herself upright and stretch her arms toward him, while she called so clearly and sweetly, "Oh, Everard, I am home again, and you may kiss me once." There was a sudden movement of his hand to his head as if the blow had struck him there, and then he staggered rather than walked toward the white-robed figure, which sprang into his arms and nestled there like a frightened bird which has been torn from its nest and suddenly finds itself safe in its shelter again. For an instant, Everard recoiled from the embraces as if it were a phantom he held, but only for an instant. For there was nothing phantom-like in the warm flesh and blood trembling in his arms, nothing corpse-like in the soft hands caressing his face, or in the eyes meeting his so fondly. It was Rosy herself, come back to him from the grave where he had thought her buried, and the shock was at first so overpowering that he could not utter a word. He could only look at her with wildly staring eyes and face, which quivered all over with strong emotions, while his heart beat so loudly that every throb was audible to himself. And Rosy, who as he did not speak, lifted her head from his shoulder and said, "What is it, Everard? Are you not glad to have me home again?" That broke the spell, and brought a shower of kisses upon her face and lips, while he murmured words of fondness and love and poured forth question after question. Until Ransy grew bewildered and confused, and whispered faintly. I don't know. I don't understand. I'm very tired. Ask Beatrice. She knows. She did it. Let me lie down again. He saw how pale and weary she looked and placed her among the pillows, but held her hands in his while he turned to Beatrice, who was standing just outside the door, and who now came forward. Not here, Rosy is too tired. She cannot bear it. She said, as he asked her what it meant and where she had found his darling. Then, drawing him into the adjoining room, she told him very rapidly all the steps which had led to Rosy's release from the madhouse, which had been intended as her living tomb. And as he listened to the story, Everard grew more and more enraged until he seemed like some wild animal roused to the highest pitch of fury. And seizing his hat, was about rushing from the room when Beatrice detained him and locking the door to prevent his egress, said to him, "I know what is in your mind. You wish to arrest the doctor at once, but there is no haste at present. Everything has been attended to for you. Everard's lawyer Russell heard from me that Rosy was alive. The Forest House has been under close espionage. An escape for the doctor made impossible. Last night, in all that storm, officers were on guard so that he could not get away if he had received a hint of what had been done." Yes, I know, but now, now, why not seize him now? Why wait any longer when I long to tear him limb from limb? Everard exclaimed, gnashing his teeth in his rage, and seeming to Beatrice, like a tiger doing battle for its young. Because she answered, and she spoke softly. Now we must hold his sorrows sacred. We must let him bury his dead. Surely you know, Josephine died last night. Yes, yes, but I'd forgotten it in my excitement. He gasped, and his face was whiter, if possible, than before. You are right. We must not molest him now, but have a double watch. Yes, trouble if necessary. He must not escape. There was terrible vengeance in Everard's flashing eyes as he paced up and down the room. Doctor Mathewson, though he were ten times Rosy's brother, had nothing to hope from him. But for the sake of the dead woman lying in such state at the forest house, he must keep quiet and bide his time. So, after another interview with Rosy, whose weak state he began to understand more plainly, he left her and schooled himself to go quietly back to his office and transact his business as if he were not treading the borders of a mine which would explode when he bade it to do so. And his request to number of officers was doubled, and every possible precaution taken lest the victim should escape, which it did not seem likely to do so, for he made a great show of his grief and sat all day by the side of his dead wife, seeing no one but Agnes and those who had made the funeral in charge. Thus, he did not even know of Beatrice's sudden return, which took the people so by surprise and was the theme of wonder and comment, second only to the grand funeral for which such great preparations were making and which was to take place the third day after the death. End of Chapter Fifty Two. Chapter Fifty Three of Forest House. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Forest House by Mary Jane Holmes, the arrest. At Elm Park, the utmost secrecy was maintained with regard to Rossi. Whose presence in the house was wholly unsuspected by anyone, except a few necessarily in the secret. The servants knew, of course, but they were trusty and silent as the grave, and almost as eager for the dénouement as Julia herself, who had personal wrongs to be avenged, but who seldom spoke to anyone, lest she should betray what must be kept. Two or three times after dark, she had stolen up to the forest house, which she examined minutely, while she shook her fist and muttered in execration of the man who she heard sat constantly by his wife, with his face buried in his hands, as if he really mourned for the woman whom he knew so much better than anyone else. And to a certain extent, his grief was genuine. Her beauty had dazzled and pleased him, and something in her selfish, treacherous nature had so answered to his own that, in a way, she was necessary to him. And when she went from him so suddenly, he experienced a shock and sense of loss which struck him down as he had never before been stricken. Agnes wished to have her sister taken to Holburton and buried by her mother. But Holburton was too democratic a town, and Roxy Fleming's bones far too plebeian, for his wife to lie beside. And so he bought a vacant lot in Rosay, and gave orders that no expense should be spared to make the funeral worthy of his money and position as the richest man in the county. And now, at the close of the third day, the grand funeral was over, and grand it certainly was. If a costly coffin, a profusion of flowers, twenty carriages, and a multitude of lookers-on could make it so. But how much real grief there was, aside from what Agnes felt, was a matter of speculation to the people, who went in crowds to the forest house, which was filled from kitchen to parlor. And the doctor knew they were there, and felt a thrill of gratification at the honor paid him. Though he sat with his head bent down and never once looked up or seemed to notice anyone. Even had he glanced about him at the sea of heads filling anterooms and halls, he would not have remarked the men, who, without any apparent intention, were always in the foreground, just where they could command a view of the chief mourner in the imposing procession which moved slowly to the cemetery. Where all that was mortal of Josephine was buried from sight. At the grave, the doctor's grief took a demonstrative form, and he stood with his face covered with his hands, while his body shook as if from suppressed sobs. And when a low cry escaped Agnes, as the coffin box scraped the gravelly earth, he put out his arm toward her, as if to comfort and reassure her. But she instinctively drew back, with a feeling of treachery in her heart. As if, for the sake of the dead sister, she ought to warn him of his danger, and give him a chance to escape, if it were possible, which she doubted. For, though she did not know just what the plan was, she knew how closely the house had been watched, and recognized in the crowd the men whom she had seen on the premises, and whose office she rightly conjectured. But she had sworn to keep the secret, and so her lips were sealed, and she never uttered a word as they drove back to the house, where she went directly to her room, and on her knees begged forgiveness if she were doing a wrong to the unsuspecting man, who, all unconscious of peril, went also to his own room to draw what consolation he could from the fumes of his best cigars and the poison of his brandies. And so he was as surely doomed as if the manacles were already upon his hands, and the prison walls around him. In the hall below, there was the sound of voices in low consultation, Everard's voice and Lawyer Russell's, and the officers of justice who had taken possession of the house and locked every door below to shut off all means of escape. In the kitchen, the astonished and frightened servants were crowded together, asking each other what it meant, and what was about to happen, but not one of them dared to move after the officers commanded that they keep quiet. Whatever might occur. Then up the stairs came the two strange men, with Everard and Mister Russell following close behind. And on through the hall to the door of the doctor's room. It was a little ajar, and he heard their footsteps, and half rose to meet them as they stepped across the threshold. But when he saw Everard's white set face and saw how excited Lawyer Russell seemed, there flashed over him an inkling of the truth. And when the foremost of the officers advanced toward him. And laying his hand on his arm, arrested him for perjury. He felt sure that the desperate game he had been playing had ended in disgrace, and defeat. But he was too proud to manifest any emotion whatever, if his revolver had been in his pocket. Where he usually carried it, he would have used it unhesitatingly, but it was not. He had no means of defence, and in as natural a tone of voice as he could command, he asked what they meant and on what ground the arrest was made. How had he perjured himself, and when? When you swore that Rossy was dead, and knew that it was false, and that she was incarcerated in a madhouse, where you put her, you villain! Rossy is not dead, she is here in town, at Elm Park, and all your infernal rascality is known. Edward burst out, for he could restrain himself no longer, and he felt a thrill of triumph when he saw how white the doctor grew, and how, for a moment, he tottered as if he would fall. He did not attempt to get away. He merely said, "Rossy here." Rossy alive, take me to her. I must see her. Gentlemen, there is some mistake which can be cleared up if only I can see her. I beg of you, take me to her. But his request was not granted. He was a prisoner, and all resistance was vain. Cold and pallid, and seemingly indifferent, he did just what they bade him do, and went with them down the stairs and out of the house. He was never to enter again. On the piazza outside, they encountered a strange woman who threw herself directly in the prisoner's way, and shrieked into his ear. It be's you, Doctor Matheson. I knows you sure, and I has the revenge. I finds her there in Haldarstrassen, and sends a letter here to him. Pointing to Everard, and the lady, Madame Morton, she comes and I gives her way, and you into the concierge.ry Ha ha! What does you think now of the tragic queen? And she snapped her fingers in his face, which was deadly white and livid in spots, as he recoiled from her, exclaiming. Eula, betrayed by you. Yes, me. I swore it. I's glad to be revenged. She cried and was going on with more abuse when the officer stopped her and hurried the doctor away to a place of safety, where a close guard was placed over him, and he was left alone with his wretched thoughts. It did not take long for the news to spread over the town, for secrecy was no longer necessary, and never had there been such wild excitement in Rothesay. That Rosy Hastings had been alive all this time, and buried in a madhouse, while her brother enjoyed her property, seemed almost incredible. But there could be no doubt of it, for Old Axie had seen her and talked with her face to face. And in their fury, a mob, preceded by the old negress, assembled in the streets and surrounding the building where the doctor was confined, demanded the prisoner that they might wreak vengeance on him then and there. Order was, however, soon restored, and the wretched man was left in quiet to think over his wicked past, and to dread the future, which he knew had no hope for him. His sin had found him out, and though he had not conscious enough to be much troubled with remorse. His pride and self-love were cruelly wounded, and he writhed in the anguish of bitter mortification and rage. End of chapter fifty-three, read by Nancy Cochran Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona, November twenty-three, two thousand twenty-five. Chapter fifty-four of Forest House. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Stacy M. Forest House by Mary Jane Holmes. Telling the truth to Rossi. Rossi had asked on her voyage home who lived at the Forest House, and had been simply told that Josephine was there still, but no mention had been made of the unnatural marriage, lest it should excite her too much. Now, however, it was desirable that she should know the truth, in part at least, for her testimony would be necessary when the trial came on. So Everard told it to her a few days after the arrest, when she seemed stronger than usual and able to bear it. She had been steadily improving since Rathsay was reached. Though she talked but little, and was most of the time so absorbed in thought that she did not always hear when spoken to, or answer if she did, she heard, however, when Everard came, and recognized his step the moment he touched the piazza, and her pale face would light up with sudden joy, and her large eyes glow like coals of fire. But since their first interview, she had not suffered him to kiss her, or even to hold her hands in his as he sat and talked to her. Josephine Living was a bar between them still, and Everard guessed as much, and told her at last that Josephine had died on the very night of her return to Rosay. She was sitting in her easy chair with her head resting upon a pillow and her little white thin hands held tightly on her lap, as if afraid of the masculine fingers beating restlessly upon the arm of her chair. But when she heard of Josephine's death, her hands involuntarily unlocked and crept toward the restless fingers, which caught and held them fast. While Everard went on very slowly and cautiously to tell her the rest of the story. The part which involved her brother, whose name he had not before mentioned to her. At first, she listened breathlessly, with parted lips and wide-open eyes, which almost frightened him with their expression of wonder and surprise and incredulity. Everard, Everard, she gasped, "You are not telling me the truth. Say you are not." I would almost rather have died in that dreadful place than know my brother did this. Surely it is not true, yes, true in every particular. Everard replied, softening now as much as possible what he had still to tell of the man whose trial would come on very soon and for whom there was no escape. Couldn't you save him, Everard? If you should try. Couldn't I do something? She asked. No, Rosy," he answered. "You could not save him, and ought not if you could. Men like him must be punished, must answer for their misdeeds. Else, there is no such thing as justice or protection for anyone. You are not angry with me, Rosy," he continued, as she drew her hand from his and leaned back in her chair. "No, not angry. Only it is also very horrible and brings the buzzing back and the confusion, and I hardly know who I am or who you are or what it's all about. Only you must go away. I can't hear any more," she said wearily. And after that, there were days and weeks when she lay in bed and scarcely moved or noticed anyone except Everard, whom she welcomed with her sweetest smile, saying to him always the same thing. I have been thinking and thinking and praying and praying, and I suppose it is right. But oh, I am so sorry. Everard knew that her mind was dwelling upon the miserable man, who, when told of her condition and that the trial was to be delayed till she was able to give her testimony, had said, "No need of that. I don't want Rosy dragged into the court to swear against me. I know more than she does. Nothing can save me. I shall not put in a defence." And he did not. Coldly, proudly, and apparently unmoved, he sat in the criminal's seat and listened to his trial and saw the looks of horror and execration cast at him, and saw Eula's face like the face of a fiend sneering exultingly at him and heard at last his sentence of imprisonment with the utmost composure and no one who saw him on his way to his new home would have dreamed of the fate which awaited him. Only once did he show what he felt, and that was when the prison dress was brought for him to put on. He had been very fastidious with regard to his personal appearance, and he blanched a little and turned pale for an instant. Then rallying quickly, he tried to smile and affect some pleasantry with regard to the unsightly garb which transformed him at once from an elegant man of fashion into a branded felon with no marked distinction between him and his daily companions. End of Chapter Fifty Four. Chapter Fifty Five. A Forest House. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Forest House by Mary Jane Holmes, Conclusion. After the trial was over, and the doctor safely lodged in prison to serve out his length of time. Rasay gradually grew quiet and ceased to talk of the startling events, which had thrown the town into such a commotion. They were getting accustomed of the fact that Rossy was alive, and with them again. She had appeared in the streets with Beatrice two or three times, and many of her old friends had been admitted to see her. But she was still very weak in body and mind, and was kept as quiet as possible. Beatrice had made a short visit with her husband to Boston, but had returned again to her own home, bringing Tricks and Bunchy with her, hoping the effect on Rosy might be good. And it was, for from the moment the children came, and turned the orderly house upside down with their play and prattle, she began to approve and seem much like the Rosy of old, except that her face and figure were thinner, and there were no roses on her cheeks, and there was always a tired look in her eyes and about her mouth. Of her brother, she never spoke, nor of Josephine either. Neither had she ever been near the forest house, which, without her knowledge, had gradually been undergoing a transformation, preparatory to the time when she should be equal to visit it. Both Everard and Beatrice, with an ax to assist them, had been busy as bees, removing from the house every article of furniture which either the doctor or Josephine had bought, and replacing it with the old familiar things of Rosy's childhood. When the doctor refurnished the house, he had ordered all the rubbish, as he called it, to be stored away in the attics and unused rooms, where it had lain untouched, save as dust and cobwebs had accumulated on it, and thus it was comparatively easy for the rooms to assume their natural appearance, except so far as they had been changed by new windows and doors, and partitions thrown down to make them more commodious. Could Axy have had her way, she would have put everything back as it was, and not have left a vestige of the old past. But Everard had the good sense to see that the changes were such as both he and Rosy, would like when accustomed to them. He put himself with Rosy, for he knew he should live there with her, although nothing definite was settled by word of mouth. He had a plan which he meant to carry out, and when the house was restored to itself, and the same old carpets were on the floor, and the same old pictures on the wall, and the chairs in his father's room standing just as they stood that day, when Rosy came to him so fearlessly, and asked to be his wife, he went to her and said she was to ride with him that morning. As there was something he wished to show her. She assented readily, and was soon beside him in Beatrice's Peaton, driving toward the forest house grounds, into which he suddenly turned. Oh, Everard! She cried, as her cheek flushed scarlet. Where are you going? Not there. I cannot bear it yet. It will bring the buzzing back and all the uncertainty. Don't go, please. It's like a haunted place. But Everard was firm and quieted her as well as he could, and pointed out Aunt Axey standing in the door just as she used to stand, waiting for her young mistress. And John, farther on in the staleyard, and even the old dogs barking in the early sunshine, and running to meet them as they came up. It did not seem strange nor haunted now, and Rosy made no resistance whenever I lifted her from the paeton. And carried her into the house, which seemed so restful and homelike, that she felt all her old morbid feelings and fears dropping from her, and flitted from room to room like some joyous bird, until she came to the judge's chamber, where she paused a moment on the threshold, while it flashed upon her a remembrance of that day which seemed so long ago, when she had entertained it so fearlessly, and done that for which she always blushed when she recalled it. Passing his arm around her, Everard drew her into the room and closing the door, made her sit down beside him while he said. Rosy, you surely have not forgotten a scene which took place here more than six years ago, when a miserable, sorely tried young man sat here a beggar, with a secret on his mind far worse, and harder to bear than prospective poverty. And while he sat thinking of the future, and shrinking from it with a dread of which you cannot conceive, there came to him a little sweet-faced girl. Who, in her desire to comfort him and give back what she believed to be his, asked to be his wife, without a thought of shame. No, Rosy, don't try to get away from me, for you cannot. I shall keep you now for ever. He continued, as Rosy tried to free herself from the arm, which only held her closer, as Everard went on. In one sense, that time seems to me ages and ages ago. So much has happened since, while in another it seems but yesterday. So distinctly do I recall every incident and detail, even to the dress and apron you wore, and the expression of your face as it changed from perfect unconsciousness to a sense of what you had done. You came to me a child, but you left me a woman, whom I do believe I would even then have taken to my heart, but for the bar between us. That bar is now removed, and Rosy, my darling, I have brought you here to the old home and into the very room to answer the question you asked me then, that is, if you are still of the same mind. Are you Rosy? Do you still wish to be my wife? He had her face between his two hands, and was looking into her eyes, which filled with tears as she said to him. Oh Everard, yes, yes, I have wished it so much when it was wicked to do so, and now that it is not, I wish it still. Only I am afraid I must not, for there is such a horrible fear before me all the time, which I cannot shake off. Day and night it haunts me, that I am not all right in my brain. I saw so much and suffered so much that I can't put things together quite straight, and my head buzzes at times, and I do not remember, and am even troubled to know just who I am, and what has happened. Oh, do you think? Do you suppose I'm going to be a, a? She hesitated, and her lips quivered pitifully as she finally pronounced the dreadful word, "poor." Everard's laugh was something pleasant and good to hear. It was so long and loud. Fool, Rossy. No, you are only tired out and must have the perfect rest which you can find alone with me," he said, and he covered her face with kisses. And were you ten times a fool? I want you just the same. And you are mine, my own precious little Rosy, who will be my wife very soon. There is no need for delay. I want you, and you need me. And Beatrice ought to go to her husband, which she will not do while she thinks you need her care. So it will be within two weeks at the farthest. You need no preparation, just to come home. Though we will go away farther south for a while, where the season is earlier, and where the roses will soon come back to these pale cheeks, and vigour to the poor tired brain. Rosy let him arrange it all as he pleased, and the wedding took place two weeks from that day in Beatrice's drawing room, without parade or show, for both bride and groom had suffered too much to care for publicity now. But both were perfectly happy, and Rosy's face was sweet and beautiful, as are the faces of Murillo's Madonnas, as she lifted it for her husband's first kiss, and heard him say, "My wife, at last! Thank God!" There was a trip southward as far as the mountains of Tennessee, where, in a lovely secluded spot, Rosy gained so rapidly both in body and mind that the second week in May was fixed upon for their return to the forest house. Where Anaxi again reigned supreme, and where Agnes had found a haven of rest at last. Beatrice, who had gone with Tricks and Bunchy to Boston, had offered Agnes a home with her as nursery governess to the children, but Rosy had said to her first. If you can, Aggie, I wish you would live with me. It will make me happier to have you at the Forest House. And so Agnes went to the Forest House, and was there to meet the newly married couple when they came back one lovely afternoon in May, to take possession of their old house, amid the pealing of bells and the rejoicing of the people, who had assembled in crowds upon the lawn in front of the house, where Everard's most intimate acquaintances had arranged a grand picnic, to which all who were his friends, and wished to do him honor, were publicly invited. It would seem as if everybody was his friend or Rosy's, for the whole town was out, filling the grounds, which were beautifully decorated. While over the gateway, a lovely arch of flowers was erected, with the inscription on it, "Welcome to the Rifle Ares." And so, amid the ringing of bells and the huzzas of the crowd, and strains of sweet music, as the Rossay band played a merry strain. Everard and Rossy drove up the avenue, and passed into the house where they had known so much joy and sorrow both. And which hereafter was to be to them an abode of perfect peace and happiness. There was a dance upon the lawn that night. After the hundreds of lamps and lanterns were lighted, and people came from afar to see the sight. Which equalled the outdoor fests of the Champs Elysees, and were continued until the village clock chimed twelve. When, with hearty handshakes and three cheers for Mr. and Mrs. Forrest. The crowd departed to their respective homes, and peace and quiet reigned again at the forest house. And now, there is little more to tell of the characters with whom my readers have grown familiar. Doctor Morton is still in Boston and perfectly happy with Beatrice, who is the best of wives and stepmothers, idolized by husband and little ones, and greatly honored by the people, notwithstanding that she sometimes startles them with her independent way of acting and thinking. Eula is at the forest house in the capacity of waiting maid, and no one looking at her usually placid German face, would dream of the terrible expression it can assume, if but the slightest allusion is made to the wretched man, who in his felon cell, drags out his miserable days, with no hope of the future, and nothing but horror and remorse in his retrospect of the past. Once or twice he has written to Rossi, asking her forgiveness and begging her to use her influence to shorten his term of imprisonment. But Rossi is powerless there, and can only weep over her fallen brother, whose punishment she knows is just, and who is but reaping what he sowed so bountifully. In course of time, Everard heard from Michael Fawn of the excitement caused by Rossi's escape. Of the means taken at first to trace her, and of the indignation of the people, and the invectives heaped upon Van Schaffner, when Michael told, as he was finally compelled to do. What he knew of Rossi's unjust attention as a lunatic. It is more than six months now since Rossi came home a bride, and in that time, no cloud, however small, has darkened her domestic horizon or brought a shadow to her face. The house has been refurnished from garret to cellar, and is seldom without guests, both from city and country. While the village people are never tired of taking their friends to see the beautiful grounds of which they are so proud, and to call upon the fair young matron, on whom the duties of wifehood sit so prettily. And who is as sweet and innocent as in the days when she wore, her white sunbonnet, and was known as Little Rosy Hastings. End of chapter fifty-five, read by Nancy Cochran Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona, November twenty-four, two thousand twenty-five. And a forest house by Mary Jane Holmes.