By BURTON E. STEVENSON Author of “The Marathon Mystery,” “The Halliday Case,” “The Young Section Hand,” etc. ILLUSTRATED BOSTON L. C. PAGE & COMPANY MDCCCCIX The Quest for the Rose of Sharon...

Grandaunt always was eccentric. Indeed, I was sometimes tempted to call her a much harsher name in the dark days when the clouds hung so heavy above us that I often doubted if there really was a sun behind them. But, as Mr. Whittier says, “Death softens all resentments, and the consciousness of a common inheritance of frailty and weakness modifies the severity of judgment;” and, looking back through the mist of years which blurs the sharp outlines of those days of trial, I can judge grandaunt mo

The history of the eight years that followed forms no portion of this story, and need be touched upon here only in the most casual way. After grandaunt had washed her hands of us, as it were, and definitely abandoned us to our fate, mother threw off her despondency by a mighty effort of will, and went seriously to work to plan for our future. I like to believe that Grandaunt Nelson really expected to hear from us, really expected mother to appeal to her for help, and stood ready to answer that a

It was only an hour’s run to the little station of Fanwood, which is as near as one can get to Plumfield by rail; and there Mr. Chester had a carriage waiting for us, and we drove over to the little village a mile away, where Grandaunt Nelson had lived nearly all her life. The road was a pleasant one, winding between well-kept hedges, and just rolling enough to give one occasional views of the country round about. In the distance, to the west, we could see a range of hills, and Mr. Chester told

I think we were all a little dazed by the scene we had just gone through. Indeed, the problem grandaunt had set us was enough to confuse anyone. For myself, I know that I have only the most confused recollection of Mr. Chester bundling us into the carriage, of a long drive over a smooth country road, past stately old houses and pretty modern cottages half-hidden among the trees, and finally of rolling through a massive stone gateway, and of getting out, at last, before a great, square red-brick

The sun was nearly down, and the long shadows from the trees cut the lawn into alternate aisles of light and shade. The afternoon was almost gone, and I saw that I had no time to lose. Since the first object of my search was a rose of Sharon, it was evident that it must begin in the garden and I made my way into it through an opening in the hedge. The hedge was very close and thick, though spraggly and badly kept, and must have been planted many years before. The garden, as I have said, was a de

As I ran around the corner of the house, I saw mother standing at the front door. “Why, Cecil,” she said, reproachfully, as I sprang up the steps, “where have you been all this time?” “It isn’t so late, is it, mother?” “It’s very late, and I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why, look at your hands!” she cried, as she saw me more clearly. “And your frock! Where have you been, Cecil?” “I was out in the garden, mother,” I answered, suddenly conscious that my hands were very dirty, and that great

“ I think we should all like to say just what Tom has said,” remarked Mr. Chester, after a moment. “We should all like to help, if we could.” “Oh, you all can!” I cried, impulsively. “I’m sure you can help a great deal.” “How?” asked Mr. Chester, quietly, but with an earnestness there was no mistaking. “I’m sure you could help us to work out that riddle that grandaunt left us,” I said. “You know that is the only clue we have.” “You forget that I haven’t seen the riddle,” he remarked. “What was i

The dawn, streaming in through the window, awakened me, and, incapable of lying still a moment longer, I climbed down softly from the four-poster, without awakening mother. I hurried into my clothes, and down the stairs to the lower hall, which seemed alarmingly grim and gloomy in the dim light. I paused an instant to give the big grandfather’s clock a little friendly pat—it seemed so kind and fatherly ticking leisurely away there in the gloom, a sober survival of that stately period when time w

I opened my eyes to find mother bathing my face and chafing my hands. The reaction—the plunge from certainty to disappointment—had been too much for me. I felt strangely weak and flabby. I could scarcely raise my shaking hand to my face. But the feeling passed in a moment, and I sat up and pushed my hair away from my forehead. I confess I was ashamed of myself. “Really, Cecil,” said mother, when she saw that I was all right again, “if you’re going to take it this way, I think the sooner we get a

The sound of that piercing scream, and the sight of Silas Tunstall dropping lifeless to the ground, gave me such a shock that I stopped dead where I was, unable to stir hand or foot. For a moment longer, I saw, with starting eyes, the two ghostly figures circling uncertainly around the prostrate form, in the increasing gloom; then they stopped, drew together, and I heard a hasty consultation in muffled tones, which I seemed to recognize. “Biffkins!” called Dick’s frightened voice, at last; “come

So I had aided the enemy! I had thought myself clever enough to match my wits against his, and I had lost! It was a bitter reflection! I had underestimated his strength, had dared to face him when I should have run away, and he had defeated me ignominiously. He had learned from me exactly what he wished to learn, and now he could rest secure until the month was up. I could guess how the thought that we might, after all, carry the matter to the courts had worried him—his very anxiety went far to

Little sleep did I get that night. Minute by minute, I heard the old clock ticking away, while I lay there and thought and thought. I had told nothing of my suspicion to anyone—I hadn’t the heart; but I was absolutely sure that Silas Tunstall had stolen into the grounds the evening before, knowing that we were away, and had secured the treasure. But where had it been hid? We had searched everywhere so thoroughly. Evidently not in the house, for the thief would scarcely have dared enter it while

And so we came to the last evening. I had said nothing about my interview with Silas Tunstall. I did not see that it would do any good, and besides I knew that mother would not approve of it. More than that, I had virtually promised him that it should remain between ourselves. I realized that it was useless to struggle against fate, and resigned myself to the inevitable. I cannot say that it was a cheerful resignation, but I bore up as well as I could. It was a kind of dreadful nightmare—those l

I don’t know how long I lay there, but after a while, I felt a gentle hand laid on my shoulder. “Good gracious, Miss Cecil!” said a kind voice at the bedside. “Don’t take on so, dear. You’ll make yourself sick!” “I—I don’t care,” I sobbed desperately. “I wish I was dead. You—you would cry, too.” And I looked up at Jane’s dear old face. “I know I would,” assented that good creature, and, indeed, at that very moment, she was compelled hastily to use the corner of her apron to check a tear that was