For five years Barbara had dwelt there alone, and now this young girl, claiming to be her niece, the offspring of that guilty couple—her sister and Leonard Arnold—had come to her claiming her protection. Could she ever love her? "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," she murmured softly. After all the girl was not to blame, and she would try and love her at least, and so, arising, she bathed her face—which, however, bore traces of her grief when she re-entered the sitting-room, bearing tea and toast for her unwelcome guest.
CHAPTER II.
Two months have come and gone, and the bright June days have come once more. The villagers have ascertained that the young lady who had come into their midst on that rainy April day is named Etta Arnold, and that she is Barbara Clay's niece. She goes and comes in and out among them with a kind word for everyone who addresses her, but her face is very sad, and she seldom smiles. It has been decided that she shall remain with her aunt, and Barbara is beginning to love the girl who is always so eager to please her and so gentle and fair. It is a lovely evening. The full moon is shining brightly, and the simple little village looks very peaceful, nestled in between high hills that rise on either side. It has become very dear to her—this home of her adoption, and Barbara thinks she shall never leave it while her saddened life lasts, and at its close she will be lain away in yonder cemetery whose simple headstones she can see shining in the moonlight. Etta has taken a walk over to the post-office, and her aunt sits by the window watching for her return. At length she sees her coming, walking rapidly up the path from the road. As she enters the house she says, in a glad voice, "At last, dear auntie, I have received my long looked for letter, and by its size I think I shall be repaid for waiting."
"I am very glad my dear. You can light the lamp at once. "
Etta hastens to the kitchen and soon returns bearing a lighted lamp, and with an eagerness unusual to her, seats herself to read her letter. Barbara watches her and smiles to herself as she sees the girl's face light up with sudden joy as she reads. "She has a lover, and I shall lose her, when I prize her most," she thinks to herself, the smile dying away as she thinks how hard it will be to part with her. Etta rapidly scans page after page and her aunt notices that one sheet is carefully lain aside unread, and wonders at it. At length, Etta arises and extinguishing the light, says, "Aunt Barbara this moonlight is too lovely not to be enjoyed," and drawing a hassock to her aunt's feet she seats herself thereon.
"You are happier tonight than I have ever seen you before my dear. I hope you will always be so in the future. I have often thought you must be very unhappy with me, you always seem so sad," said Barbara, stroking the girl's hair tenderly.
"I am happy here with you aunt Barbara, and I do not think I am very sad. I was always different from other girls, for my life has been full of trouble," she replied sadly.
"You are so different from your mother, my dear. She was all joy and brightness, you are just the reverse," continued the lady.
"I can not remember the time that my mother was otherwise than sad. You have no idea of the unhappy life she led," returned Etta, in a choking voice.
For several moments the silence remained unbroken, then Barbara said gently, "Etta, I have refrained from asking you any questions concerning your parents, for your sake as well as my own, but tonight I feel that I would like to know something more concerning them. I hope Leonard Arnold was not unkind to the young girl he tempted away from her happy home," she concluded bitterly.
For several moments Etta made no reply, then she said in a voice slightly tremulous, "Aunt Barbara I have a story to tell you-which, however, I have
