My Pretty Maid; or, Liane Lester

"Then it must be your beau, you look so bashful. Have you got a beau in Boston?"

Liane shook her pretty head, but she looked so conscious that the woman plied her with curious questions, until the young girl owned that she knew one person in Boston, a young man, who had spent several weeks at Stonecliff. Then the curious matron did not rest until she had learned his name.

"Jesse Devereaux! Was he handsome as a picture, with big, rolling, black eyes? Yes? Why, my pretty dear, you must not set your heart on him. He is one of the young millionaires up on Commonwealth Avenue, the swellest young man in Boston. He would never stoop to a poor working girl."

She saw the beautiful color fade from the girl's rosy cheek, and her bosom heaved with emotion as she faltered:

"He was very kind to me at Stonecliff!"

Mrs. Brinkley knew the world so well that she took instant alarm, exclaiming warningly:

"Don't you set any store by his kindness, child. No good comes of rich young men showing attentions to pretty working girls. If you have followed him here through a fancy for his handsome face, then you had better go home to-night."

Eagerly, blushingly, Liane disclaimed such a purpose, saying granny had brought her to see a relative.

"I—I only thought I might see his face in some of the crowded streets," she faltered.

"It is better for you never to see his face again, for it's plain to be seen he has stolen your heart," chided the widow. "Come, I'll show you his grand home, and then you may understand better how much he is above you, and how useless it is to hope to catch him."

Liane's cheeks burned at the chidings of the good woman, and tears leaped to her eyes, but she did not refuse the proffer of seeing Devereaux's home. She thought eagerly:

"I might see him at the window, or perhaps coming down the steps into the street. Then, if he should come and speak to me joyfully, as he did that night at the beauty contest, I believe even this good, anxious woman could see that he loves me."

She walked along happily by Mrs. Brinkley's side, carrying the jaunty brown jacket on her arm, as Lizzie had advised, for the sun's rays were warm, and she was weary from her sightseeing. The scarlet silk waist looked very gay, but if she had dreamed of the dreadful letter that had told Devereaux she was coming to Boston to buy a red silk gown, she would have torn it off and trampled it beneath her feet.

Her beautiful eyes sparkled with pleasure at sight of the splendid homes of Boston's wealthy class, and she could not help exclaiming:

"I am not envious, but I would like to be rich and live in one of these palaces."

"That you can never do, child, so don't think about it any more, as I tell Lizzie, when she gets to sighing for riches," rejoined the prudent matron. "Look, now, at that grand house we're coming to; Mr. Devereaux lives there with his old father and his young married sister, the proudest beauty in Boston. You see, I read all about them in the society columns, and—oh!"

She paused with a stifled shriek, for the great front door of the grand mansion had indeed opened, as Liane secretly prayed it would, and a man came down the steps—Jesse Devereaux himself!

Leaving Lyde beside his father's bed, he was going out for a walk to try to shake off the benumbing influences of the letter that had shattered his air castles into hopeless ruins.

It seemed to him as if his thoughts had taken bodily shape, as he beheld Liane there in reach of his hand, her timid, eager glance lifted almost appealingly to his face.

He hesitated, he almost stopped to speak to her, so thrilled was he by the sight of her lovely face again, but his eyes fell on the gay red silk waist, and the words of her letter recurred to his mind:

"I'm coming down to Bostin to see the sites, and buy a red silk gown. I've always been crazy for one."

She was here, she had the red silk gown she craved, and idle curiosity had led her to pass his house, perhaps boasting to her companion, meanwhile, that she had flirted with the owner and refused his hand.

A deep crimson rose to his brow, and his heart almost stopped its beating with wounded love and pride. Just glancing at Liane with cold, indifferent eyes, he lifted his hat, bowed stiffly, and passed her by in scorn.

The girl, who had almost stopped to speak to him, gave a sigh that was almost a sob, and dropped her eyes, moving on by Mrs. Brinkley's side with a sinking heart.

"That was he, Jesse Devereaux himself," whispered the latter excitedly. "My, what a cold, haughty stare and bow; enough to freeze you. You see how 'tis, my dear? When city folks visit the country they're mighty gracious, but when country folks come to the city, they don't hardly recognize 'em."

Liane's pale smile at Mrs. Brinkley's observation was sadder than the wildest outburst of tears.

"I see that you are right," she answered, with gentle humility that touched her new friend's heart, and made her exclaim:

"Don't never give him another thought, honey. He ain't worth it. You're sweet enough and pretty enough to marry the proudest in the land, but nothing don't count now but money."

They hurried home to the poor lodgings, so different from the splendid locality they had just left, and found granny just returned from her search and in rather a good humor from the day's outing.

She did not scold Liane for going out, as the girl expected, but said calmly:

"I was too late. I found Cora dead and the funeral just starting, so I went with it, and saw her laid away in her last home. Then I thought I had just as well finish the day looking over the things she left, but I wasn't any better off by it, for the people where she boarded took it all for debt."

She was lying straight along, but, of course, Liane did not know it, and she tried to feel a little sorrow for the unknown mother laid in her lonely grave to-day, but the emotion was very faint. She could not grieve much for one she had never seen, and of whom granny had given such a frankly bad report.

Her first thought was that now she could go back to Stonecliff, away from the city that had held Jesse Devereaux, whose proud glance and chilling bow had stabbed her heart with such cruel pain.

But on making this request, the old woman scowled in disapproval.

"Back to Stonecliff? No, indeed!" she cried. "I hate the place, and I left it for good when we came away. You can get a place to work in Boston, and we will stay here."

"Yes, it will be easy to get in as a salesgirl at the store where I work. I'll recommend you," said the sick girl kindly.

Liane knew there was no appeal from granny's decision, and, after thanking Lizzie for the loan of her gown and hat, she returned to the shabby little room, longing to seek solitude in her grief.

But granny soon entered, carrying a bundle, and exclaiming:

"Mrs. Brinkley says you bought this dress to-day, and paid for it, too! Now, where'd the money come from, I'd like to know?"

Liane had to confess the truth about the beauty contest, and, as soon as the old woman took it in, she cried furiously:

"And you dared to spend that money for finery, you vain hussy?"

"It was my own, granny," Liane answered.

"Where is the rest of it? Give me every penny that is left, before I beat you black and blue!" raged the old termagant.

"Granny, you promised never to beat me again if I would stay and work for you in your old age," reminded Liane.

"I don't care what I promised! Give me the rest of the money before I kill you!" hissed the savage creature, clutching Liane's arm so tight that she sobbed with pain.

"Let go, or I'll call for help!"

"Dare to do it, and I'll choke you before any one comes!" winding her skinny claws about the fair white throat.

Liane felt as if her last hour had come, and she was so unhappy she did not greatly care, but she struggled with the old harpy, and succeeded in throwing her off, while she said rebelliously:

"I will never give you the money while I live, and if you kill me to get it, it will do you no good. You will be hanged for my murder."

Perhaps granny saw the force of this reasoning, for she desisted from her brutality, whining: