said the doctor vehemently. "You see, I
stand by my principles."

"But if I tell the story out I am afraid you would not," said Hubert.

"Why, isn't it done?"

"I beg your pardon, doctor, for having used a little craft. I had much
at stake. I have disguised this story in its details. But it is true, I
am the hero----"

The doctor looked quickly towards his daughter. Her head was bent low
over her book. Her long hair hung about it like a curtain, shutting out
all view of the face. The doctor walked to the other window and looked
out. Hubert sat like a mummy. After a minute Dr. Hood spoke.

"Cornelia!"

She lifted a face that was aflame. Tears glistened in her eyes, and I
doubt not there was a prayer in her heart.

"You are a brave girl. I had other plans. You have a right to choose
for yourself. God bless you both! But it's a great pity Hu is not a
lawyer; he pleads well." So saying he put on his hat and walked out.

This is the conversation that Hubert repeated to me that day sitting in
his own little parsonage in Allenville. A minute after his wife came
in. She had been prescribing for the minor ailments of some poor
neighbors. She took the baby from her crib, and bent over her till that
same long hair curtained mother and child from sight.

"I think," said Hubert, "that you folks who write love stories make a
great mistake in stopping at marriage. The honeymoon never truly begins
until conjugal affection is enriched by this holy partnership of loving
hearts in the life of a child. The climax of a love story is not the
wedding. It is the baby!"

"What do you call her?" I asked.

"Hope," said the mother.

"Hope Valentine," added the father, with a significant smile.

"And you spell the Hope with an 'a,' I believe," I said.

"You naughty Hu!" said Mrs. Cornelia. "You've been telling. You think
that love story is interesting to others because _you_ enjoy it so
much!"

_1871._

HULDAH, THE HELP.[2]

A THANKSGIVING LOVE STORY.

I remember a story that Judge Balcom told a few years ago on the
afternoon of Thanksgiving Day. I do not feel sure that it will interest
everybody as it did me. Indeed, I am afraid that it will not, and yet I
can not help thinking that it is just the sort of a trifle that will go
well with turkey, celery, and mince pie.

[2] This is the first story written by me, beyond a few juvenile
tales; and it was the first short story to appear in Scribner's
Mon