ou cannot
go out," and, with a little haste in her manner, Agnes left the room.

Mabel looked out of the window, in time to catch a glimpse of James
Harrington walking slowly and thoughtfully towards the shore. Directly
Agnes Barker joined him, and they seemed to enter into conversation, but
moved on, and were soon out of sight.

He was not ill then, but avoided her purposely, and took long strolls
with that strange girl. More and worse--no other hand could have
arranged those rose buds. Years and years ago, she had worn such buds
and leaves, tint for tint, upon her own bosom. Alas, that the memory
gave her so much anguish.

CHAPTER XXI.

BEN BENSON GIVES AN OPINION.

Mabel went back into the room sick and faint; her heart was enveloped in
shadows again.

Another knock at the door, a rambling timid knock, as if every knuckle
of a great hand lent its own sound to the wood. Mabel was impatient and
cried out, "come in, come in."

The door half opened and closed, opened again, and a huge foot was
planted on a cluster of roses in the carpet. Another foot appeared, and
our old friend Ben presented himself with a small basket on his arm, and
a huge bouquet of wild flowers in hand.

"I beg pardon, marm," said the honest fellow, taking off his tarpaulin
and setting it down by the door, "I begs any amount of pardons for this
here intrusion, but I thought that you'd like to see these ere shiners
afore the cook spiled their beauty on the gridiron; besides I found some
blue asters and a tuft of golden-rod in a holler of the woods that the
frost hasn't found out yet, and tied 'em up ship shape, thinking as you
might like the smell on 'em, now that they've got so scarce."

The quick tears sprung into Mabel Harrington's eyes. She held out her
hand with that beaming expression of face which rendered her at times
more than beautiful.

"Ben, my good old friend, you helped to save my life; how can I ever
thank you enough!"

Ben took the white hand in his huge grasp tenderly as if it had been a
newly-fledged dove. "Don't, don't, now, I can't stand it, that ere look
knocks the pins from under me, circumvents me into a lubberly boy again.
What was Ben Benson--the old scoundrel about, that he didn't do the hull
thing hisself? Don't hurt the poor feller's feelins by thanking him for
what he didn't do--he's ashamed of hisself, and hain't done nothing but
rip and tear at hisself for a sneak and coward ever since."

"Oh, Be