Profiles
Author: Pansy; Mrs. C. M. Livingston
Date: 2024-12-30T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children's stories; Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Profiles

Author: Pansy

Mrs. C. M. Livingston

Release date: December 30, 2024 [eBook #74998]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: D Lothrop Company, 1888

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74998

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROFILES ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

IMPROVEMENTS HAD BEEN MADE IN THE GREENHOUSE
AS WELL AS THE COTTAGE.

PROFILES

BY

PANSY (MRS. G. R. ALDEN)

AND

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON

BOSTON

D. LOTHROP COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1888,

BY

D. LOTHROP COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

——————

CLEAN HANDS "Pansy"—Mrs. G. R. Alden

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CIRCULATING DECIMALS " " "

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

FISHING FOR PHIL " " "

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

OUR CHURCH CHOIR " " "

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

HIS FRIEND Mrs. C. M. Livingston

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

"MY AUNT KATHERINE" " " "

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS " " "

JUANA'S MASTER " " "

TEN BUSHELS " " "

MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS " " "

THE DOCTOR'S STORY "Pansy"—Mrs. G. R. Alden

PROFILES

—————

CLEAN HANDS.

———

CHAPTER I.

"AND I hope, Elsie, you will be careful, all the while you are gone, not to soil your hands."

They stood together in the hall, Elsie Burton and her pastor; he had held out his hand to bid her good-by, and added these words which brought a puzzled look to her eyes, and a rich glow of color to her cheeks.

What could Dr. Falconer mean? Elsie glanced swiftly down at her delicate, gracefully shaped hands, and then back to his face; he was not laughing; although there was a smile on his face, it was backed by an earnest gleam in his eyes that meant business. It was not probable that he was trying to rally her a little on the exquisite care which she took of those same hands, always managing to keep them in a state of dainty cleanliness, with the shapely nails of just the right length. No, that was simply absurd! In the first place, all respectable people took as good care of their hands as circumstances would admit, of course; and, in the second place, Dr. Falconer was not the man to rally people in regard to personal habits; he was too intensely in earnest for that, unless, indeed, there was some important end to be gained.

Could he possibly mean to refer to the fact that she took out her handkerchief, and carefully rubbed her hand, last Sabbath, after Teddy Reilly had held it! But there was certainly excuse for that; poor little Teddy's hand was so exceedingly dirty that it left its stain on the fair skin, and it was unnecessary, and therefore foolish, to draw on her delicate kid gloves over the brown marks, when a few passes of her handkerchief would efface them! She had waited until little Teddy was fairly out of sight; she would not have wounded his loving heart, nor indeed have missed the caressing from his dirty hand, for a great deal. Dr. Falconer certainly could not mean that.

She decided for frankness, as Elsie Burton was very apt to do. "Dr. Falconer, I don't in the least understand you; all people are careful of their hands, not to soil them more than is necessary in getting through this dirty world." The sentence closed with a little laugh, but the great bright eyes, fixed questioningly on his face, showed that Elsie was honestly in pursuit of light.

"Do you think so?" he said, and his voice was grave. "On the contrary, I think people are almost more careless of their hands than of any other organ which they possess. And hands soil readily, and are not easy to cleanse. Let me bring you a little book I have been reading; the marked passages in it will show you what I mean, and how I came to suggest my caution to you. I must not detain you longer, or you may miss your train. I have to call at the depot this morning, and I will give you the book there. I hope you will have a happy visit, and be the means of doing an incalculable amount of good."

"Oh! I shall not have much opportunity for doing either good or evil, Dr. Falconer; I am not going to be gone long enough. You know I have but a week's vacation."

"And you think a week not long enough to accomplish much! I see I shall have to mark another passage in my little book. Be sure to read the marked portion."

And then he was gone, and Elsie Burton went hurriedly about the final preparations for her journey. "Clean hands!" she repeated with a curious smile, as, having given the final touches to her brown hair, she applied the sweet-smelling soap lavishly, making a fine white foam in which to lave them. "I wonder what Dr. Falconer is aiming at! If he had told me to guard my tongue, I should have understood him without difficulty; but if there is anything about me that gets taken care of, I'm sure it is my hands." Whereupon she gave them an extra dash of fresh water.

Fairly seated in the East-bound express, shawl-strap and hand-satchel tucked away behind their proper lattice, herself by no means tucked into the corner, but spread out as luxuriously as a young lady of eighteen or so knows how to arrange, Elsie Burton had leisure to draw a long breath of satisfaction and look about her. The last few days had been so full of the bustle of preparation, combined with the closing hours of school, that she had had little leisure for anything. Now for the long-promised holiday week at Uncle Leonard's. Elsie Burton had few fittings from the home nest to remember. Indeed I may say that she was one of those fortunate young ladies who had never, until that time, been on the cars without either mother or father. A sweet, sheltered, happy life she had led, and a sweet, bright girl was she. Occasionally a little restless flutter had shown the mother-bird that her nestling longed to try her wings alone; hence this visit, promised and planned. And Elsie, curled comfortably in her seat, with the seat before her turned to receive her lunch basket and any stray apples or papers that she might purchase, felt that she was a little school girl no longer, but in the last half-hour had blossomed into a young lady.

"Take care of yourself, daughter," had been her father's last tenderly spoken message, a little anxious look about the eyes telling her that this business of trying one's wings was not so pleasant for the old birds as for those who wire experimenting; Dr. Falconer had added, with a meaning smile, "And remember the hands." This latter message lingered with her. She meant to take care of herself, to be so wise and prudent that both father and mother would be delighted with her. And of course she meant to take care of her hands! But the hint half-vexed her; she did not understand it, and felt for the little book which she had dropped into her pocket but a few minutes before. What a tiny book it was! Paper-covered too, but daintily illuminated; looking, indeed, as though it had been gotten up for choice moments.

"I wonder," said our young lady to herself, "if this bit of a volume can be a dissertation on the care of hands?" She laughed a little as she said it, and stopped to fasten the fourth button of her dark, neat, exquisitely-fitting kid gloves; her hands certainly looked well in them. She could not endure ill-shaped gloves, and as for wearing ripped ones, she never did it; nor, truth to tell, did she like to wear mended ones. It would have been a pleasure to her, on the discovery of the first rip, to have consigned the offending gloves to the waste bag, but this was by no means the teaching of her mother; so the shapely hands were sometimes marred—in the estimation of their owner—by mended gloves, albeit the mending was very neat. Dr. Falconer could hardly have meant that. Now she began to look for the marked passages. Marked passages? Why, the little book was full of them!

Could her pastor have expected her to spend the hours of her first journey alone in reading them all? Ah, no; here was one, marked in different colored ink, and on the upper margin of the page was her own name, "Elsie." This, then, was the portion meant for her. (Not a lengthy passage; she could accomplish so much with a fair hope of remembering it.) And she read, "It may seem an odd idea, but a simple glance at one's hand, with the recollection, this hand is not mine; it has been given to Jesus, and it must be kept for Jesus,' may sometimes turn the scale in a doubtful matter, and be a safeguard from certain temptations. With that thought fresh in your mind, as you look at your hand, can you let it take up things, which, to say the least, are not 'for Jesus'? Things which evidently cannot be used, as they most certainly are not used, either for Him or by Him. Can you deliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well, by sadly-repeated experience, lead you farther from, instead of nearer to Him? . . . Books which you would not care to read at all, if your heart were burning within you at the coming of His feet? Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you just look at your hand."

Elsie Burton paused in her reading and looked down at her hand, a singular expression on her face. Given to Christ! Certainly it was true of her; she had given herself to Him and promised to be His disciple; yet never until this moment had occurred to her that even her hands actually belonged to this Master. What a strange idea! How singular it would be for one to stop and think whether her hands were doing what He would have them? Yet, why not? If they really were given to Him, what more reasonable than that they should be kept for His service?

Would that make any difference with the work of her hands, she wondered, supposing she had thought of them in this light before? Such dainty care as she had taken of them! Had she possibly soiled them in His sight? There were other marked bits in this strange little book, her name attached; she read on: "Danger and temptation to let the hands move at other impulses is every bit as great to those who have nothing else to do but to render service: and who think they are doing nothing else. Take one practical instance—our letter writing. Have we not been tempted (and fallen before the temptation), according to our various dispositions, to let the hand that holds the pen move at the impulse to write an unkind thought of another; or to say a clever and sarcastic thing, which will make our point more telling; or to let out a grumble or a suspicion; or to let the pen run away with us into flippant words?"

The rich color on Elsie's cheek was deepening every moment. This was certainly narrow ground. She felt herself jostled against. "Clever and sarcastic things" were so natural to her pen that they almost seemed to write themselves. What a ridiculous report she had given of Ned Holden's failure in geometry. How skillfully she had turned into ridicule his mortified attempts to recover himself. She had imagined her cousins, Carrie and Ben, laughing immoderately over the whole thing. Well, what harm? Her account of it would never reach poor Ned's ears: she would not have given it for anything had there been the least fear, but—what good did it accomplish? Had she written it with a purpose? Yes, she had; her purpose had been to give a few minutes' fun to her cousins. Anything wrong about that? Yet the truthful girl admitted to herself almost immediately that it was fun at the expense of certain fine feelings which she had jarred. Was she inclined to be so sympathetic with failures as she would be if it were not such fun to write them up? What a caricature she had made of Ned as he stood there on the platform, his face aglow, the eyes of a hundred girls leveled at him! She laughed again as she remembered how funny her picture was; but then she sighed. Soiled hands. Was it possible that she had soiled hers that day? Did Dr. Falconer mean such things? Did he know about the letter and the caricature? She felt her face grow hot over the possibility; she would not have him know it for anything! Here again was a revelation. Why not? And if not Dr. Falconer, surely not the Lord Jesus! Yet He knew.

There really was not much comfort in thinking about it. But Elsie decided that these things must be thought about and decided another time. If it really was wrong to repeat in a ludicrous way the ludicrous things that the boys, and sometimes the girls, and sometimes the professors were doing, why, then she must give it up; but it was great fun. Another marked sentence—her name again: "Perhaps one hardly needs to say that kept hands will be very gentle hands. Quick, angry motions of the heart will sometimes force themselves into expression by the hand, though the tongue may be restrained. The very way in which we close a door, or lay down a book, may be a victory or a defeat."

At this point Elsie closed the little book and laid it down with no gentle hand. She was vexed with it. What nonsense was this! The idea that when one banged the door a little with nobody around to see, and not meaning anything in particular, only a general vexation, one had dishonored Christ! That was straining a point! Just as if people could keep from doing those little things! And just as though they did any hurt! The little book was fanatical; she didn't like it at all.

What sent her back, just then, to her little class in Sabbath-school? seven or eight of the babies under her care. What verse was that which she had taught them only last Sabbath? "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place?" That was the question she had asked. How had she taught them to answer? She seemed to see the sixteen little hands raised, while eight little voices repeated: "He that hath clean hands and a pure heart." Whose fanaticism was this? What had she herself taught those little ones that "clean hands" meant? Had she really meant that they, those babes in Christ, must carefully watch their small hands, lest they slam the door in anger or throw the book, and that she, Elsie Burton, eighteen years old and for four years a Christian, could do any of these trifles without soiling hers? It was illogical, certainly.

Yet, can I make you understand, I wonder, what a ferment all these little things set Miss Elsie into? They seemed so new to her; so unexpected. She was a bright young Christian; she desired in general, to honor her Master. Yet, like many another, she had selected great ways in which to honor Him, and, occasionally, at least, looked about for something large to do in His service, forgetting, or ignoring, many small daily opportunities. She liked her own way royally well, did this young lady; and when on occasion older wills in authority crossed hers, she submitted indeed; it would be unladylike to do otherwise, and Elsie Burton did not like to be unladylike; but she frowned and banged the door; yes, she did, a little, a very little, occasionally, and threw her books on the table with determination, and wrote sarcastic letters to her special friend, and grumbled occasionally to mamma. All these things she had rather looked upon as her perquisites; little personal rewards for submitting. In what a different way did the tiny book talk about them all!

She sat very still and thought it over. "It reaches too far," she told herself, catching her breath. "It would make perfectly awful work of living! Just think! One couldn't—oh dear! one couldn't do anything, without looking at it to see if it were just exactly the right thing to do. According to that doctrine, I don't belong to myself at all. Such fanaticism!"

"Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your bodies and your spirits, which are His." Who whispered that verse to her? It was not in the offending little book. Whose fanaticism was this?

Meantime the car had been filling up. Her luxurious turned seat had been unceremoniously returned, while she was too busy with her book even to frown. There come next a man with a child in his arms, and leading one by the hand; a commonly-dressed, jaded man; he looked about him right and left for a seat; vain hope; Elsie's was the only unoccupied one in the car. "May I sit here?" he asked meekly and prepared to seat himself, taking the other child on his knee, her small hand which was not of the cleanest coming in dangerous contact with Elsie's faultless bronze travelling suit. She saw it and twitched the skirt of her dress, not gently, away from the disagreeable member, muttering low as she did so, that the seat was "not intended for four persons."

"Perhaps one hardly need to say that the kept hands will be very gentle hands." She did not repeat the words, but they repeated themselves to her, in a way that startled. Once more she looked down at her hands. Was He actually dishonored by that quick, irritable movement? The face of the man beside her looked troubled; he had seen the movement and had reached forth and clasped the offending little hand in his own rough one. He looked very careworn, and the smaller of the children, who was but a baby, began to utter wailing cries which he vainly tried to hush. Hopeless little cries they were; they went, someway, to Elsie's heart. She was sorry her hand had been so un-Christ-like in its movement. How could she atone for it? She reached forth for her lunch basket, and drawing therefrom a rosy-cheeked apple presented it to the little girl. The small soiled hand grasped after it eagerly, and the father smiled and leaned forward to admonish the child to thank the giver. "They both look very tired," Elsie said, gently; "travelling is hard for children."

The man drew a heavy sigh. "It is hard for them," he said. "They miss their mother; they don't know what to make of it, and I don't know how to do for them as she would. I buried her last Tuesday."

CHAPTER II.

A DISMAYED exclamation from Elsie; then she added, "Poor little things!" in a tone that conveyed much to the sad father's heart.

"You may well say that," he said, getting out his handkerchief hastily, to wipe the great tears that would gather in his eyes. "Two babies, you may say, with no one but a blundering father to do for them! I'm bound to do the very best I can, but what's a man worth when it comes to such work as that! And them crying for their mother every little while! This one," touching the head of the older child with gentle hand, "couldn't get herself to go to sleep, no how, last night. I patted her, and coaxed her for an hour; but she said she 'wanted mamma too bad for anything.'"

There were tears in Elsie's eyes now, and she reached for the soiled little hand and gathered it tenderly into her gloved one. For the rest of that journey the motherless child had a friend. The baby slept on his father's shoulder; and Elsie devoted herself to making the five-year-old happy. Among other womanly offices, she took the child forward to the water-cooler, and by dint of patient use of handkerchief and some of her own sweet-scented soap, she made the small hands rosy with cleanliness. This was so that she could have a delicately tinted card from the lady's pocket. An illuminated card, with an outline picture of two hands clasped; the one a small, childish hand, the other large and firm, suggestive of strength and protection. There were words underneath, and the child demanded that they be read. It was one of Elsie's class cards, and the verse: "Who shall ascend into the Hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place? He that hath clean hands and a pure heart."

"It means, who shall go to live with Jesus in heaven?" explained Elsie.

The little girl looked gravely down at her small pink hands. "My hands are clean," she said, reflectively. "I guess I can go, mamma went. It was Jesus who took her."

Elsie's eyes dimmed again as she answered the child gently, "Yes, and He wants you; wants you to keep your hands clean, so you can go. Not simply clean with water, you know, but clean from every wrong and naughty thing."

The grave-eyed child considered. "I slap Johnnie, sometimes," she said, sadly, "when he's cross."

"Oh! And that soils your hands with the kind of soil that water will not wash away. Look at the picture; that little hand is clasped in a strong one; the picture is to make you think of Jesus' hand; He holds it out for you to put yours in it, so He can keep it safe from getting soiled."

"How?" said the child, looking puzzled. "Where is He? Why doesn't He hold His hand out to me?"

"He does, darling; you cannot see it, nor feel it, because He has not given you the kind of eyes yet with which to see Him; but if you give your hand to Him, and then ask Him every day to keep it from doing wrong things, and make it clean, He will; and by and by He will take you up to Heaven, where mamma is, and where you can see Him, and feel the touch of His hand."

Such sweet, serious eyes as that child had! She looked down at her small unmothered hand, in such a grave, considering way, as seemed almost too much for Elsie to bear; and at last she said, "I will do it; I mean to go to mamma." And the shadow of a smile was on her face—a serious little face, old beyond its years. Elsie did not wonder that the father wiped great tears away; but he grasped her hand heartily and said, "God bless you, ma'am, for showing the little girl how to smile. She hasn't smiled since—" and the sentence was left unfinished.

There was no time for further words. The car bell was ringing, and the dinner gong of the eating house was clattering, and the car was in a bustle of preparation to depart. Elsie gathered her wraps and packages, secured the little book which had told her strange truths, made tender by the practical commentary on them drawn from her new acquaintances, then shook hands with the little girl, bending to kiss her and whisper, "Remember."

"I will," the child said.

"And I will," murmured Elsie. "I must surely take the counsel which I have given her; else how could I bear to meet the child when we both see Him face to face?"

"Hurrah! here you are. I was afraid you did not come, after all. I left Carrie consumed with anxiety lest you had missed the train, or something."

It was Cousin Ben, face and voice full, of eager welcome. He seized upon Elsie's belongings as he spoke, managing shawl-strap and bag and bundles with the air of one long used to business; called for checks, and gave rapid, business-like orders to a porter in waiting, talking to Elsie incessantly all the time—at least, so it seemed to her.

"Now, shall we take a carriage or a sleigh? We have both at your service, you see; and the wheeling is so abominable that there is but one thing worse, which is the sleighing. The fact is, we have neither wheeling nor sleighing just now. Whichever way you take, you will be sure to wish you had chosen the other."

"Why can't we walk?" Elsie asked, laughing at his description and his volubility.

"Walk! A young lady, just arrived from a fatiguing journey of three hours' duration, walking up from the depot! I'm afraid Carrie will faint. Still, in all sincerity, it is much the better way, if one only thinks so. Do you honestly vote for it? Sensible young lady—the first one I have met this winter. Halloo, porter! That scamp has gone already, I declare! He will be back here, ready to earn another fifty cents, before we get started. I wanted to palm off some of these dry goods on him. O, no, not at all," as Elsie tried to offer her assistance; "they are not heavy, only slippery. This wretched little box is such a nuisance. I found it at the express office, and I wish I had left it there. Ah, well, now, if you insist, you may carry the box. It is small, you see, but slippery; seems to have an affinity for the pavement. I've landed it there once, already."

The small, compact box, neatly wrapped in paper, was transferred from Ben's crowded arms to Elsie's empty ones. Then the walk commenced. A bright sunny day, the air just keen enough to be exhilarating, and the business street down which their road lay was aglow with holiday trappings. A walk was certainly not an unattractive thing. Yet there was a cloud on Elsie's face; and if her gay cousin had been watching her, he would have discovered that she bestowed suspicious glances on the innocent-looking box which she carried. It was not its weight that disturbed her; that was a mere trifle. What then? She watched her opportunity, when Ben was busy re-arranging his load, and unceremoniously applied her nose to the box. Faugh! It was as she suspected. Here was she, Elsie Burton, who hated the sight and smell and very name of the vile weed tobacco, actually carrying a box of cigars through the street! She could have dropped them into the muddy carriage drive, across which they were just picking their way, with a good grace.

"I wonder if Ben smokes!" This was her indignant mental query. "I declare, if that boy has gone and spoiled himself in such a hateful way, I shall drop him." There were certain phases of moral courage in which Elsie was by no means lacking. She was entirely willing to express then and there, to her handsome young cousin, her utter and intense abhorrence of everything pertaining to tobacco; and the probabilities are strong that her very manner of doing so would have outwitted any good which she desired to accomplish; that is, if she really wished to accomplish anything beyond expressing her indignation. Something quieted her just then. The memory of certain words: "Can you let it take up things which, to say the very least, are not 'for Jesus'?" Suppose people really did govern their lives by such rules as that? Suppose Ben did. Would he be carrying home cigars to smoke? What a thing it was that he had been the one to lead her unwittingly into this first soiling of her hands! Almost before she realized that she was doing so, she spoke her thoughts aloud: "Oh, Ben! You have made me soil my hands."

Her cousin turned to her quickly, his face expressive of concern. "I beg ten thousand pardons! Was I such a stupid dolt as to give you a soiled paper to carry? What is it? Are your gloves ruined?" But he looked in vain for soil; the delicate bronze gloves were as delicate as before she touched the box, and the neat manilla wrapping was guiltless of a stain.

Elsie laughed a little. "I was thinking aloud," she said. "I did not mean my gloves, but my hands. Ben, I don't like the soil of cigars."

"Are they so very offensive to you?" This with a puzzled air. "It isn't possible that you get their odor at this distance!"

"O, Ben! You know you are not stupid. Why do you pretend that you don't understand me to mean moral soil?"

"Upon my word, I never thought of such a thing!" And Ben stared at his cousin in genuine astonishment. "Isn't that straining a point, my wise little cousin?"

"Is it? Suppose I believe that my hands should do nothing to help along anything that is wrong in the world, could I, in that case, handle cigars much?"

"That depends. Are cigars wicked?"

Elsie flashed a pair of keen eyes on him. "Are cigars good?"

He laughed good-naturedly. "Why, no; I haven't been in the habit of attaching any moral character to them whatever."

"Very well; then why do you pretend that I am talking about their moral character? The question is, do I believe that it is wrong to spend money for cigars, and to spoil one's breath, and poison the air that belongs to other people with their vile odors? In that case, I must be consistent with my belief, and not let my hands help along that which I consider mischievous."

"Pitch them into the gutter if you want to," he said, good-humoredly. "You see they are not mine; I promised to bring them up for Hal; so I can afford to be generous."

"Does Hal smoke?"

"Like a furnace. I won't tell him, though, that you helped the matter along. I'll appear to have carried the offending box every step of the way myself."

But Elsie did not smile. "If I were Emmeline," she began, then stopped.

"What then? Supposing I can stretch my credulity enough to imagine anything so preposterous."

"Never mind; perhaps I ought not to say it."

"But it will do no harm for me to guess it. In the light of your last sharp remarks, I fancy you were going to say: If I were Emmeline I would not marry a cigar smoker.'"

"It is true," Elsie said, laughing a little, "I wouldn't."

"Really? Are you serious about this thing? Do you honestly think there is anything so very wicked about smoking a cigar now and then?"

"What a way to put it! As if a thing must be 'so very wrong' in order to be—not right. As to the 'now and then'—Oh, if you needed a lecture, Ben, I think I could give it; I've thought a great deal about the matter; but just now I was looking at it from such a simple platform that it doesn't need argument. Hal, you know, is a Christian, and he professes to govern all his life by one rule, as a servant who belongs body and purse to Christ. How very easy it would be for him to decide whether he ought to spend his money on cigars!"

Ben, I regret to say, was guilty of the ungentlemanly act of whistling. A low whistle, instantly suppressed, but it expressed his views. "How many Christians do you suppose govern themselves by any such rules?"

"The question has nothing whatever to do with the argument," Elsie said; "but I'll answer it. Very few, I think. Does that annihilate the rule?"

"How fortunate it is for me that we are just at the door," Ben answered, gayly. "Give me the box of cigars, quick; and don't convert Emmeline to your way of thinking, or we shall have no wedding to attend."

I do not know whether, had Elsie known all the temptations and embarrassments to beset her on that very next day, she would have been able to make so emphatic a resolution as the one with which she left the car. A shopping excursion was in order for the morning. Cousin Carrie had a dozen trifles which must be bought that day, and it suited Ben to attend them gallantly all the morning. Now shopping was not a trial to Elsie; it had all the charm of novelty for her, for hitherto her busy young life had known comparatively little of it. On this particular morning the circumstances were particularly agreeable. She had no grave responsibilities, but was merely an interested looker-on, ready to give bits of advice as occasion offered; while nestled away in her pretty porte-monnaie were two shining gold pieces which her father had given her that morning to spend as she pleased. Oh, the charming things that a girl of eighteen may please to buy! Cousin Carrie was a helpful companion in that direction. She had wide-open eyes, and dealt in superlatives:

"Oh, Elsie! Do look at this lovely shade in kids. Aren't they perfectly exquisite? Just your number, too, and, match your new hat exactly. Really, Elsie, you ought to have a pair of those. I never saw a more perfect match."

Elsie looked interested but doubtful. "I have just bought new gloves," she said, "and they match nicely, I think."

"Oh, they do; they are charming. But these are that lovely, peculiar shade which one so rarely finds in kid—just the tint of your long plume. Oh, I do think they are too lovely for anything!"

"They are expensive."

"Oh, I don't think so. Only two and a quarter. You can't get really good kid for less than that, and poor gloves are not worth buying. Besides, they have the Foster fastenings. Now I really dote on Foster fastenings."

Elsie was being persuaded. They did look as though they would fit her shapely hand so well, and they really were a remarkable match. What if she had just bought a pair? Gloves would keep and would be always needed. Mamma approved of good gloves, and papa had told her to spend the gold pieces just as she pleased.

"Well," she said, a slight hesitation still in her voice, "I think I'll—" and she glanced down at her hands.

"Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you, just look at your hand." It was to Elsie as though the words were written on the back of her glove, so distinctly did she seem to see them. A temptation of what sort? Was this box of gloves in the list? "Can you let it take up things, which, to say the least, are not for Jesus?" Were the gloves for Him? The question startled her, seemed a little irreverent, yet she was a clear-brained girl and knew what the query meant.

Was she buying them because she felt that she needed them to complete a neat and tasteful toilet? If—it was a sufficiently startling thought to make the color run into her cheeks, yet she thought it—if the Lord Jesus Christ stood there in the flesh, occupying the space at her side now filled by Cousin Ben, would she spend two dollars and a quarter for an unneeded pair of gloves? Should the hand belonging to Him do aught that His glance would not approve?

She was ready to finish her sentence. "I think I will not take them, Carrie. I have gloves enough for the present, and the styles may change, before I need them."

"What nonsense! These are in the very latest shade. I never saw any quite like them before. I wish they would match anything of mine and would buy them in a moment, although Auntie gave me a full box of gloves at Christmas. How many pairs have you, Elsie?"

This question amused Ben wonderfully. "An official report, if you please," he said, his eyes twinkling with laughter. "How many handkerchiefs have you, and how many ribbons and how many ruffles? Do you young ladies keep an inventory for each other's special benefit?"

Elsie laughed, but Carrie turned from her coldly. She set her heart on managing the glove matter, and it was ignominious to fail.

CHAPTER III.

THIS is but a faint specimen of the ways in which temptation assailed the fair hands in whose stewardship two gold pieces had been placed. It seemed to Elsie a curious coincidence that the first temptation should have to do with a covering for those hands. But for that she might not have gotten through so well.

It was wonderful, the number of articles that Carrie found which she was sure her Cousin Elsie needed and ought to purchase; delicate laces of a peculiarly rare and choice pattern that might not be found again; soft, fluffy ruches particularly becoming to Elsie's face; fine handkerchiefs, delicately embroidered, sold at a bargain; a peculiar perfume, the like of which had never been smelled before; even scented soaps joined hands with Elsie's companions that day and tried to beguile her; yet she stood firm.

It was a curious experience. Could she have divested herself of personal feeling, and looked on as an outsider, she would have enjoyed the study. There was absolutely nothing presented which stood the test. His hands, they must make no purchase save such as would please their Master.

"I cannot think what is the matter with you!" Carrie said, watching her cousin curiously. "You used to be ready enough to buy pretty things. I've seen at least a hundred and fifty articles this morning that I should have bought if I had as much spending money as you have. Papa keeps me dreadfully close these days; everything has to be saved for Emmeline. I tell papa just to wait until I get engaged, and I'll be revenged. It can't be that you are saving up for that, Elsie; you are not out of school yet."

Through it all Ben watched with amused face, not helping his cousin in the least; on the contrary, he made several wise suggestions as to the utility of some of the temptations.

"It is worse than cigars, isn't it?" he queried at last, his wicked eyes dancing mischievously. Elsie felt that he was amusing himself at her expense—turning her scruples into ridicule. Would it not be better to lay aside her new ideas, and change the current of his thoughts by disposing of the spending money that seemed to be the cause of so much trouble? Wasn't it a sort of "casting pearls before—" and here she paused; partly because she did not like to apply the simile, and partly because her brain was too keen to admit of such reasoning. If Ben chose to be led into sin through her conscientious effort to do right, he must bear the blame of it.

But she was to be tried in a way that was harder to bear. Carrie, positively vexed because she could not persuade her cousin into buying, at the jewel counter, a lovely little charm for her chain, turned from her and spoke to Ben in a very poor undertone: "I don't understand Elsie. I'm afraid she is growing penurious, and that is really a more hateful fault in a girl than in a boy. She used to be so free and generous with her money."

"Perhaps Uncle Wells keeps her close," was Ben's hateful suggestion. "He is well off, to be sure, but he may not be growing liberal as he grows older."

Dear! You should have seen the flush on Elsie's face then! The idea of that upstart of a boy daring to speak so about her dear father! He was not rich either, and everybody knew he denied himself to have the more to give to others. For a moment Elsie wondered whether she did not hate her Cousin Ben—just a little!

Also, she felt just like dashing out in some wild expenditure that would show her cousins how indifferent she could be to money when she chose. What should she buy? There was plenty of opportunity. Just next door in the plate-glass window stood temptations enough. Grapes, out of season, large; white, luscious. They were marked fifty cents! Suppose she should buy a bunch for herself, and one each for Carrie and Ben, and two or three bunches to take home to Aunt Carrie? Beside them was a silver-papered box of choice bonbons, marked one dollar; she might add that and a bouquet of rare flowers. Would not these expenditures show that she knew how to use money and had it to use?

Her hand was on the door-knob. She was burning with the desire to slip in next door and make her purchases while Carrie studied over shades of ribbons. Suddenly she withdrew the hand quickly, as though it had come in contact with something that repelled it. "Clean hands!" To what base uses was she about to put hers! Why did she want to buy the fancy bonbons and the fruits and flowers out of season? As a tribute of love? Her honest heart told her that it was rather a tribute of anger! Did her father's reputation rest on such slight ground that it could be injured by the ignorant chatter of a silly boy, or be built up by a daughter's ill-humored extravagance? Very much astonished with, and ashamed of, herself, Elsie turned away, and stood quite still for a moment, eyes and head drooping. After that, she was better prepared for the rest of the hour, even though the cousins chose next a way of being cousinly that was almost unendurable. Ben actually bought some of the great white grapes, and forced a few on her, though she felt as though it would take but one to choke her. The truth is, fair Elsie, during that and several following days, took lessons in the fact that Satan makes sharp battle for every power of our being; and that the cross is still waiting to be borne; the only reason that we feel its weight so little being the fact that we have fallen into the habit of slipping quietly around it, instead of boldly taking it up.

The curtains were drawn and the gas was lighted in the cosy back parlor. Without the rain was steadily falling, and there was a rush of wind every few minutes against the casement, which sharpened the contrast between the dreary outside and the brightness of the home scene within.

Over the family there had come the sort of lull which follows special days of eager life and keen excitement. There had been the whirl of preparation for, and then the excitement of participation in, wedding festivities, and then the bustle of departure. Emmeline and Hal were made one, and had gone away together, Elsie taking note, with much inward disgust, that the groom actually smoked a cigar at the depot, while waiting for the belated train.

Now those who tarried behind had reached a stormy Saturday evening, with nothing to do but lounge amid the easy chairs and rest and visit.

Somewhat to their astonishment, they found this dull work. The reaction from so much excitement was upon them, and many a yawn was hastily covered so that the others might not suspect.

"Somebody read something," proclaimed Ben at last. "We are all too indolent to talk—let some fellow who knows how talk for us. Who will volunteer?"

"Elsie must read," said Carrie. "Papa says she is the best reader in the set. I've been sulky over that remark ever since he made it, so of course I will not."

Some gay talk followed this statement, but at last they settled down to listen. Elsie, by no means unwilling to be appointed reader, for, like most persons who are accustomed to reading aloud and who like to do it, she hated to listen.

The book selected was a recent publication by a popular author. It opened well, and in a very few minutes the listless company was giving absorbed attention.

A half-hour passed, and then a dismayed, "Oh! Dear! Who is coming to disturb us!" from Carrie, mingled with the sound of talking in the hall.

A moment more, and the relieved exclamation, "It's only Freem!" greeted a newcomer.

"Freem," or Mr. Freeman Vance, was a gentleman who was much at home with the young people of the house, and, during her visit Elsie had met him several times. He was older than the cousins, having passed beyond the age in which he was spoken of as "one of the boys." Carrie called him a "full-fledged young man," but admitted that he was "nicer" than most of them.

He dropped readily into an easy chair, drawn up near the grate, murmured that this was delightful, and that it was a wretched night outside, then begged that the reading might go on; there was nothing that he enjoyed better than listening to a good reader.

There was a heightened color on Elsie's cheeks, but it was not brought there by the implied compliment. She knew that she was a fairly good reader. To-night, however, she was giving only partial attention to the book. With by far the keener portion of her brain she was carrying on an argument somewhat after this fashion: "I don't know about this book. There are some queer expressions in it; I doubt whether papa would approve. I wonder if that sentence is really intended as a covert sneer at religion? I don't believe I like to hear the Bible quoted in just this manner. Mamma wouldn't call that girl prudish; she would think she showed a proper degree of self-respect."

You are to understand that these mental comments did not all rush forward at one time and demand attention, but presented themselves at intervals during the reading. Yet the doubt in Elsie's mind about the book grew so rapidly that, just as Freeman Vance was announced, she had almost resolved to declare boldly her objections and decline to read. But his coming had made this a doubly difficult thing to do. Poor Elsie felt instinctively that she stood alone; she was breathing an atmosphere so unlike the one in which she had been reared that it would be almost impossible to make her audience understand her scruples. She shrank from trying. "What mattered a few pages of a book?" she told her conscience. She need not admire the book; certainly there was no danger that she should. Once through with this disagreeable evening, and she need never look into it again.

So the reading continued. And the mental arguments continued, also, for to the reader's wide-open eyes the sentiments expressed did not grow less objectionable. It was not that they were pronounced in their form; there was neither downright mockery of things sacred nor downright ridicule of things pure. It was simply like many a book which is being read in parlors; full of delicately-served, sugar-coated poisons. And it was commended, too, in a general way, by some of the very newspapers that might have been expected to stand guard over its intrusion into Christian homes.

It was charmingly written. The pale hero was so fascinating in his manner that, when he languidly quoted a moral lie and gracefully propped it with arguments, you, being eighteen and guileless, could not help admiring him a little.

Yet did Elsie read under protest. "Mamma" appeared before her frequently, with keen eyes and clear brain, and swept away a filmy web which would hide a falsehood from less cultured minds. "Papa's" strong logic came often to mind to overthrow some subtle reasoning. Dr. Falconer's very last sermon loomed up before her once, text and all, to refute utterly a hint which the pale hero put forth.

If Freeman Vance had not appeared on the scene the book would certainly have been laid aside; but how utterly foolish would her position appear to him! He would call her a prude, as she had heard him call a young lady who had been the subject of conversation the other day. She knew just how his lip curled when he said it. Not that she cared for Freeman Vance's opinion, she told herself; but, then, nobody liked to be talked about. As she reached this conclusion she turned another leaf. The interesting hero was in the midst of a statement given with as much energy as he ever used, and, by way of emphasizing his point, he used an unmitigated oath.

"Can you deliberately hold in your hand books of a kind which you know perfectly well lead you farther from instead of nearer to Him?"

The quotation came to the reader suddenly, with almost as much force as though it had been spoken by an audible voice. She made an instant's pause—the oath unread—and looked down at her fair hands. They were being soiled! There was no question in her heart about it. With a sudden, impulsive movement, she spread open her hands with a repellent gesture, as though she recoiled from the thing touched, and the book fell to the floor. Freeman Vance sprang to return it and Carrie gave a nervous start.

"Why, Elsie Burton, what is the matter? You made me drop six stitches off my hook."

"Is there a ghost on that page?" queried Ben, mischief in his voice.

"No," said Elsie, her courage and her color rising. "I think it is a serpent. Thank you, Mr. Vance; I don't want the thing again. I have had quite too much of it. You must all excuse me from farther reading of that book. I am not in sympathy with the morals or the manners of its characters. I am ashamed that I have allowed myself to read it so long."

"I'll venture that it is another case of 'soiled hands,'" Ben said, nothing but amusement in his voice.

His cousin turned toward him with flashing eyes. "Yes," she said, "it is."

CHAPTER IV.

THEN began a babel of tongues. The book was "elegant!" "Charming!" Everybody said it was the best one from that popular writer's pen. The "critics were just raving over it." "Certainly it was written in a most fascinating manner."

These were some of the statements which Elsie seemed to be expected to answer. She had very little to say. The truth was, she felt painfully conscious of the fact that many of her arguments would sound to this company like an unknown tongue. What did they know of loyalty to the Master who owned her, heart and hands? What wild fanaticism would they think it, if she said that she felt herself to have dishonored Christ, in having lent her hands and her voice to the book which she had just dropped?

Yet she said this, speaking steadily, albeit with glowing cheeks. She felt it to be the least that she could do, as His witness, to speak the simple truth, and bear the storm of words, the incredulity, the laughter, the raillery; and the almost more disagreeable attempt to be patient with her, as with an ignorant child, fresh from country life and country ideas.

"Oh, well!" said Carrie, at last. "We might as well save our breath, as to coax her after she has made up her mind. You always were an obstinate child, you know, Elsie, my dear. Ben, suppose you read."

"Not I," said Ben, with emphasis. "It is my brains, instead of my hands, that I am afraid of; I never had the proper amount to bear me out in reading aloud. Vance, will you volunteer?"

An expressive shrug of shapely shoulders was the young man's only reply, but it seemed to be considered decisive.

"Then we must give it up," Carrie said, great vexation in her voice.

"What shall we do? I'm too dull to talk. Oh, I'll tell you, let's have a game. Freem Vance, I owe you a grudge for beating me, the last time we played. Get the cards, Ben, and I'll see if I cannot redeem my reputation in that line."

Ben laughed good-humoredly, but made no attempt to obey.

"You are dull to-night, Carrie, duller than usual, that's a fact, if you have any idea that our fair cousin will let her hands go so far astray as to dabble with cards."

"Well, I should like to know why not. There is no irreligion about them, certainly, poor little innocent things! Elsie, you will play a game with us, won't you?"

"Thank you," Elsie said, trying to make her voice sound natural; "I never play cards."

"Oh, that's of no consequence! You can easily learn. Ben, you could teach her in five minutes, so she could play with you, couldn't you?"

"Doubt it exceedingly. There is an insurmountable objection, I fancy. Unless I am mistaken, she will decline to be taught."

"No, she won't; we can't make up a set without her, and she will not be so disagreeable as to refuse. Come, Elsie, you will be accommodating, won't you?"

Poor Elsie felt like nothing so much as bursting into tears, and running away, but she stood her ground bravely.

"I am sorry to appear unaccommodating, Carrie, but Ben is right; I cannot play cards any better than I can read that book."

"What is the matter with cards?" There was a sneering tone to Carrie's voice; perhaps it was well for Elsie that such was the case. Sneers were apt to give her courage.

She choked back the tears, and tried to answer lightly: "They are innocent enough, I suppose; it is the rough handling that the poor things get to which I object."

"That is begging the question. Our professor of rhetoric says people always do that when they are unable to prove their statements. I am tired of hints and sanctimonious flings. Everything is wicked nowadays. You used to have as much life in you as anybody; if there is any reason for such pokiness, I should like to hear it. Why won't you play cards?"

"The prisoner will stand and answer to the solemn charge preferred against her."

This from Ben. His sister's manner was so dictatorial that he was ashamed of her, and was inclined, in a rollicking way, to aid Elsie. She glanced toward him, smiling, then turned to Carrie.

"Why, Caroline, my dear, you surely do not need the ordinary arguments against card-playing quoted to you! Everybody who has given any thought to the subject understands them, and it wouldn't make them any plainer or more forceful to quote them. For myself, I am sure I need only give you one. My father and mother do not approve of the amusement."

Ben gave a curious little laugh at this point. "No more do ours, eh, Carrie?" he said.

"Nonsense!" returned that young lady sharply. "I'm sure papa said only the other night that times were changed since he was young, and lived in the country. A great many people who live in little country towns get narrow views of things, breathe them in the atmosphere which surrounds them; but that is no reason they should hold to them when they get a chance to see the world. I don't know what you mean, Ben; I'm sure papa has never forbidden us to play cards. I am going to have a game—I know that; and if Elsie won't play, I'll call Mary down. She will like the fun of joining us."

"Mary" was the fourteen-year-old sister who was tolerated only occasionally among the older young people.

As Carrie arose to summon her, Mr. Freeman Vance spoke the first sentence he seemed to have considered himself called upon to utter since the conversation commenced.

"At the same time, Miss Carrie, suppose you secure little Belle to take my place. I do not feel equal to cards this evening."

Whereupon Ben burst into hearty laughter. "Amusement under difficulties, upon my word!" he said, as soon as he could speak. "What shall be done with them, Carrie?"

"Oh, well!" Carrie said, returning to her seat with an offended air. "Since you are all disposed to be so very accommodating, you may entertain yourselves. I'm sure I shall make no farther attempt. It is the first time I ever knew you, Freem Vance, to decline cards. You are playing a new game to-night, I should think."

Whereunto this embarrassing and ill-humored conversation would have grown, I cannot tell you; for at that point occurred an interruption, in the shape of a summons for Ben.

His father desired to see him at once, in the library, on a matter of business.

And no sooner had he, with a little good-humored grumbling, departed, than Carrie unceremoniously left the room by another door, and the two guests were alone together.

I am aware that I have had to present Miss Carrie to you in a very unfavorable light. As a rule, she was good-humored and ladylike, and, being a year or two older than Elsie, was in the habit of being looked up to by her. But, being a young woman without a settled purpose of life or a guiding motive for speech or action, she was left, more or less, at the mercy of the passing mood; and the excitements of the past few days had served to unsettle her nerves to an unusual degree.

Left to themselves, an embarrassing silence followed. Elsie did not know how to commence a conversation with this cultured man of the world; especially, after the experiences of the last hour.

It was he who finally led the way:

"Would you mind giving me some of your objections to card-playing for amusement? I think I am not well posted as you suppose your cousin to be."

There was neither banter nor sarcasm in his voice; instead, he seemed to be in earnest. But Elsie, full of sparkling logic for the boys and girls, was unused to arguing with a gentleman, and hesitated.

"Don't they become snares to some young men, and lead them into temptation and misery sometimes?" she said at last.

He seemed surprised at the answer, and waited a moment before he said, "I think they do; but it does not seem to me that your cousin Ben is tempted in that direction."

"I was not thinking of him at all. If any person came to mind it was little Teddy Reilly, my Sabbath-school boy, whose father is a professional gambler, and who lives in an atmosphere of impurity. I want to keep my hands so clean from all such things that there shall never be the possibility of his associating me with them. And the world is full of Teddy Reillys; we may meet them when we do not know it, and influence them when we are not thinking of such a thing. Besides, I have two little brothers. I don't want them ever to find in gambling saloons anything that will remind them of home and home pleasures."

"I am answered," he said, smiling; but there was nothing unpleasant in the smile.

After a little, he spoke again, still in the same gentle tone: "Would it be disagreeable to you to tell me what you meant, a little while ago, about the book, and what Ben's reference to 'clean hands' had to do with it?"

This question caused the color to deepen on Elsie's cheeks. Such things were harder to explain; she doubted his ability to understand.

"It began with Dr. Falconer, my pastor," she replied, hesitatingly. "He said, when he bade me good-by, that he hoped I would be careful not to soil my hands. Then he lent me a little book of Miss Havergal's, and I read it on the cars. There were marked passages in it, about hands having been given to Christ and being kept for His service. One sentence is, 'Can you let your hands take up things which, to say the least, are not for Jesus? Can you deliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well lead you farther from, instead of nearer to, Him?' I thought of that all the time I was reading the book; and at last, when it came to a direct profanation of His name, I dropped it. I wish I had done so before."

"It is narrow ground," said Freeman Vance.

"Yes, it is. I am amazed to see how it hedges one in. One of my Sabbath-school verses is, 'He that hath clean hands and a pure heart.' I have been very careful to teach the children what the words mean, and that has made them plainer to myself, I think. At home, with my father and mother, the way is plain enough, and bright and pleasant, but in this atmosphere things are hard. I think I need mamma to-night."

Her lip was quivering. With the quotation of the Bible verse, Freeman Vance had shaded his face with his hand. He made no response to her words, and she struggled silently for composure.

At last he spoke again; a quiet voice, but it revealed a good deal of suppressed feeling.

"Cards are a great temptation to me. I am very fond of them, and, like you, I need my mother, and can never have her any more."

"Oh!" said Elsie, and the sympathy she put into that word must be imagined, not described. "You need Jesus, Mr. Vance. If you give your hands to Him, He will keep them and you."

There were footsteps in the hall. Carrie, ashamed apparently of her ill humor and rudeness, had returned in a better mood. But there was no more conversation. Freeman Vance arose almost immediately, saying that he had but waited to bid her good-night.

"You have made an enemy of poor Freem," Carrie said, trying to laugh, as the outer door closed after him. "He thinks an evening without cards is a dreadful bore. People do say that he plays for something besides amusement. But he has so much money that I suppose he thinks it no harm to throw away some of it if he wants to. They say he never keeps any that he wins. It seems a pity, though, to have him play with those fellows. I always keep him at cards just as late as I can, so that he will not be tempted to go to the saloons."

But Elsie had no answer for this phase of virtuous self-abnegation. She was sore-hearted and disappointed. The world was not the beautiful thing she had thought it. The shelter of home and mother were treasures to be prized. The atmosphere of home was something to look forward to with longing. The week was gone; she was glad of it. On Monday she was going home. But—and here was the place for tears—she had disappointed herself. She was not going back with hands as clean as she had hoped. They were stained. His hands? Yes, but not kept always sheltered in His grasp. And her lips had spoken few words for Him.

Here was this young man, Freeman Vance, in danger, it seemed, and motherless; and she had met him every day for a week, several times a day, indeed, and to-night's stammering sentence had been the first that she had ever spoken to him of Christ. What a servant was she?

It was evening, and it was raining; and in the back parlor there was a fire in the grate, throwing its bright gleams of light over the room and playing gayly with the pictures on the walls.

Two easy chairs were drawn near to the grate, that their occupants might the better enjoy the play of firelight and shadow. In one of them sat Elsie Burton. A trifle over a year older than when you saw her last. Not changed much, unless the brightness on her face has toned into something softer, something which, while it belongs still to the freshness of girlhood, hints of the coming woman.

The parlor is not the same in which you last saw her. It is her father's own.

Elsie graduated a few weeks ago, just a little past nineteen; but she preferred to spend the following months in the quiet of her own home, though Cousin Carrie eagerly urged the delights of the great city upon her.

The other occupant of an easy chair I presume you would also recognize, though he, I think, is more changed than Elsie; but you would like the change. I don't remember whether I told you that Freeman Vance was a handsome man. A year ago, if you are a careful student of human nature, you would have been a little troubled over the face. Handsome dark eyes, but with an unrest about them that made you not sure of his future. Handsome, quiet mouth, but with a look of strength about it, or of firmness; and to be firm in a wrong direction means obstinacy—means danger. And about the whole man there had been a certain something which told you that he thought himself master of himself; and when a man thinks that, wise people know that he is a slave.

But he was changed. What is the change which comes into these handsome, manly faces, when their owners give themselves over, body and soul, into the keeping of the King? Is it a stamp of the King's signet ring? Is it a hint of the coming fulfillment—"We shall be like Him when we shall see Him as He is"? Whatever it is, you saw it plainly on Freeman Vance's face.

"It is singular that it rains." This was what he was saying.

"Why?" The word mellowed into a happy little laugh. The laugh said: "Let it rain, and let the wind sigh and moan among the leafless branches; I don't care in the least; the night, and the darkness, and the sighing are as nothing to me; they are all 'without,' and I am hedged in, and sheltered, and safe, and happy."

"It rained, that night, you know. I remember just how the drops sounded on the window-pane, and how the wind moaned, and shook the trees angrily because it could not get in at you. It seemed to know that it would never be able to touch you, and to know, also, that in a few minutes I would have to come out to it in the darkness and be whirled whither it would."

"What a dreadful picture!" Still there was content in the voice. "I remember the night, and the rain, and the wind; but I did not think you noticed it, or cared whether it touched me or not. Carrie said I offended you that evening."

"Poor Carrie! It is difficult to conceive of a young lady making less of life than she is doing."

"How is it with Ben? He is getting on well, is he not?"

"Splendidly! The dear fellow! I saw him last night. Some memory of old times came over us, and he spoke of that very evening; said he should have reason to remember it forever; though it was words spoken on the first day of your coming, during the walk up from the depot, he said, which set him to thinking."

"No one ever acted less as though he were thinking! I was sure that he was simply amused with me, as a little country dunce. Many a time he helped to make it hard for me."

"I presume so; trying the temper of the steel. Ben is developing well. He is the chief dependence of the young men's meeting in his church; and he has a great deal of influence over the boys younger than himself. Fenton tells me that he has about broken up the card-parties which used to be so fashionable in that set; not by any aggressive measures, you know—just a steady, quiet influence.

"'Clean hands,' he said to me last night. 'That is my motto, Freem.' And there were tears in the dear fellow's eyes. You did good work in the field during that one week, little Elsie. Went into the enemy's ranks and captured right and left."

"I remember," said Elsie, when the laughter and the blushing over part of this sentence had subsided—"I remember I cried that night, because I felt that I had spent such a useless week, and, after all my resolutions, was coming home with soiled hands and stained heart. God was very good to own my feeble, blundering attempts. Poor Carrie thought I cried because I had offended you."

"Poor Carrie!" repeated Arr. Vance, laughing a little. Then both of them sighed. The year that was past had not improved Cousin Carrie.

"Does Ben know—" began Elsie, then stopped. Mr. Vance seemed able to understand half sentences.

"Ben does not know anything, except where I am gone for vacation; but I think he suspects a great deal and keeps his own counsel. I do not visit often at your uncle's, now, for reasons that you may possibly surmise."

Just a moment of silence, during which both watched the play of the firelight.

Then Freeman Vance bent toward the other easy chair, which was lower than his.

"I have something to show you, Elsie, and something to tell you. Will you let me see if this fits?"

Then the firelight flashed about a cluster of small, pure diamonds, quaintly set.

"It was my mother's ring, Elsie, and there is something to tell you about it—something strange, which will make you feel more than ever that God plans all our ways for us.

"When my mother gave it to me, a boy of twenty, she said: 'It is for your wife, Freeman, with a mother's blessing. And, my son, promise me this: the girl on whose finger you place it must have clean hands and a pure heart. Will you be careful of that, my boy?' I promised it on my knees, by my mother's dying bed.

"You may judge now something of the thrill it gave me to hear you quote those words.

"I have carried the ring on my watch-guard, hidden from sight, for five years.

"Now it has found its rightful owner, and, my darling, I know I have obeyed my mother's words."

CIRCULATING DECIMALS.

———

CHAPTER I.

THE Sabbath-school library of the Penn Avenue Church was really in a disgraceful condition. For years it had been let alone, until it had finally put itself into that state of dilapidation which let alone things can so skillfully assume. Covers were sadly torn, corners curled, fly-leaves gone, in many cases the first dozen or twenty pages of the book missing, to say nothing of great gaps in the middle of the story or history. Some books had almost every leaf defaced by those irritating scribblers, who are never safe creatures with a lead pencil in their hands. Many of the books were missing, having been swallowed in that mysterious vortex which ingulfs lost things, no person living being able to give a lucid account of their departure. And, to crown all, according to the statement of Mrs. Marshall Powers, who knew most things, "Not more than half the books were fit for a Sabbath-school library in the first place."

Who needs a photograph of a disabled library? Alas, the ghastly remains lie around so profusely that there is no need for more than a word to recall the very bend of their limp covers—those of them which have covers left. Such was, and had been, the condition of the Penn Avenue library for many a month. It had been long since a book had been spoken of by the bright girls and boys who belonged to its Sabbath-school without a contemptuous curling of upper lips. Spasms of interest had been from time to time awakened, and much talk had been wasted in repeating the patent fact—"We certainly ought to do something about our library," the main difficulty being that the effort went no farther than talk; and the day came when a suggestion of this sort would set the aforesaid lips to curling in derisive incredulity. They believed—those boys and girls—that the Penn Avenue library was dead.

Such, however, was not the case. One summer morning it revived. The young ladies' society took hold of it with interest; they would have a fair and festival forthwith; they would spare no pains and no expense to make the matter a grand success, and secure the means for a new and complete library, which should at once be the admiration and the envy of every other church in town.

Do you need to be told how that society hummed and buzzed after that? Meetings were held each week, sometimes twice a week. Committees were formed, and dashed hither and thither through the crowded streets. Worsted, and canvas, and embroidery silk, and ribbon, and beads, and lace came to the front, and became matters of even more importance than usual. The air was full of them, parlors were full of them, tongues were full of them; go where you would, you were destined to hear about "a lovely rose-colored tidy in a new stitch," or "an elegant afghan," the materials for which were to cost twenty dollars, or a "magnificent Bible cushion" that was all a mass of raised silk embroidery that would take "days and days of close work to finish"; or of some other of the endless pieces of fancy work getting ready for the fair. Neither was the festival part neglected. The city was districted, the streets were canvassed, miles of energetic walking were accomplished, and the result was cake—black cake, white cake, brown cake, chocolate, delicate, cream, cocoanut, sponge, and, to crown all, the "loveliest great mound of angels' food that was ever made in this town!" So one enthusiastic miss reported. Think of a company of rational beings, meeting and eating up a loaf or two of angels' food, for the purpose of securing a Sabbath-school library! Cakes were not all! Jellies, pickles, chickens, ham, tongue—oh! What not? If you had looked into the receiving room of the Penn Avenue Church, on the afternoon of the eventful evening, you would have almost supposed that the dear people were making ready to give a Christmas dinner to this great, cold, homeless outside world, so bountiful were the provisions. But they were not; they were only preparing to eat their way into a Sunday-school library for the use of their own boys and girls.

But let no novice suppose for a moment that the afternoon of this day had been reached in peace. If I should undertake to give you a history of one third of the troubles through which the self-sacrificing leaders walked, my story would be far too long. Did not Helen Brooks say that Sallie Stuart's pincushion was a "dowdy-looking thing," and should not be on her table; that Sallie did not know how to do fancy work anyway, and never ought to have tried? Did not Alice Jenkins say that Stella Somebody had marked her sofa pillow "ridiculously high;" that it was really a disgrace to a church to charge such exorbitant prices? And did not both Sallie and Stella hear of these things, by that mysterious process which is rife in all society, and which nobody understands, and did they not both withdraw in affront, declaring that they would have nothing more to do with the Penn Avenue fair, nor the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school? This is only a hint of the miasm of which the air was full.

But one story I must tell you: an "ower true tale" it is. If any of the Penn Avenue people read this, I ask their pardon for making it public, but it should be recorded as a matter of history. It was all about a doll. A great, beautiful waxen doll, direct from Paris, having wonderful real hair, and wonderful eyes that looked as though they must be real, and rosy parted lips, and teeth that gleamed like pearls. This doll was a special grant of grace to the young ladies' society. Mrs. Archer, just returned from a European tour, had brought it home for the very purpose to which she now dedicated it, namely, the library of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school. Think of the number of children in that Sabbath-school whose very arms would quiver with the desire to clasp such a treasure as their own! Assuredly there were fifty fathers in the congregation who would think nothing of investing a dollar for the possibility of securing it for the darling at home. Nothing easier than to sell fifty tickets, at a dollar each, and let the child whose fortunate number corresponded with the number on the inside of the Parisian lady's Parisian slipper carry off the prize in triumph, while the forty-nine other children held their breaths and controlled their sobs as best they could.

Now all this proved to be very correct reasoning. Hot buckwheat cakes on a frosty morning never disappeared faster than those fifty tickets were exchanged for shining silver spheres or crisp national currency. With great satisfaction did the committee count out its fifty dollars for the treasury of the Lord, mourning over but one thing: "We might have had seventy-five or a hundred tickets just as well as fifty."

Still, it was not all smooth sailing. Murmurs long and deep began to be heard, and presently they waxed loud enough to claim attention. There were those among some of the fathers and mothers in Israel who succeeded in making it understood that they had conscientious scruples against gambling, even for religious purposes. They declared that this thing ought not to be, and therefore must not be. Triumphant were the answers: "The tickets are all sold; what are you going to do about it?" But the conscientious element was in earnest. Something ought to, and therefore something could, be done about it; the money could be refunded, the tickets destroyed, the Parisian lady valued at a reasonable price and set up for sale, if they would, but never raffled for. Great was the consternation—loud were the voices. Give back the fifty dollars! Guess they would, hard as they had worked for it! Great need in being so squeamish! They had heard of people who strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. They believed, if the truth could be told, the trouble started with somebody who was disappointed because his little girl did not get a ticket. They were not going to give up the doll, not they. Did people suppose they would do all the work, and then be dictated to by a few narrow-minded men and women? The strife ran high; it threatened to rend in pieces the young ladies' society. There were those who would do nothing if the Parisian lady was insulted; there were those who would do nothing if the raffle was permitted. Into the midst of the turmoil came the Sabbath to make what lull it could. The offending lady was carried home on Saturday by one of her allies, and securely locked in the "spare chamber" to spend the Sabbath in repose. Alas, and alas! The day was warm, the windows of the spare room fronted the south; the blinds had been thrown wide-open, the evening before, to catch the last rays of light for a special object, and by some strange mismanagement had not been closed again. The blue-eyed lady in her arm-chair directly in front of the window, looked her loveliest all day; and all day the sunbeams hovered around her, and wooed her, and kissed her, and caressed her, never realizing the fierce heat of their love; and on Monday morning, when the determined committee went to remove my lady to her throne in the church parlor, behold, her delicate complexion was seamed and soiled; what had been red cheeks were simply long faded streaks, extending in irregular lines to her neck; her eyelashes were gone, her nose was gone, her lovely lips were washed out, and she was, in short, a ruined wreck of her former self! There was no raffling at that fair. The money was returned, the doll was patched up, and packed up, and sent to a little niece of one of the committee—the disappointed auntie having bought my lady for a trifle—mid apparent calm succeeded the angry threatenings. Yet, despite all their efforts at composure, the young ladies could not get away from the miserable feeling that the trouble was in some way due to the opposition; and cold looks, and sarcastic speeches, and discomfort and distrust had it very much their own way among certain of the workers.

Well, the fair was held. Tidies, and tidies, and tidies! The number and variety seemed endless.

"Tidies to right of us, tithes to left of us, tidies before us, tidies behind us, tumbled and tangled," paraphrased a young man who caught his sleeve button in one of the meshes and drew a small avalanche of them to the floor. Another, looking on hopelessly at the mass, asked what sort of carpets they would make. And another, turning from them to the pincushions, wanted to know if some of those things were not large enough for bolsters. All this aside, of course. Sales were brisk, apparently, and yet many articles were unsold. The trifles, the small keepsakes, the pretty nothings found ready purchasers; but the pieces that represented miles of silk embroidery, and hours of toil, and were to bring large returns, were still the property of the young ladies when the evening was over. It was over at last, and weary bodies and excited brains sat down to count the spoils. There was a bill to pay at the fancy store for materials; there was a bill to pay at the confectioner's; there was a bill to pay for dishes rented, and broken, and otherwise injured; there was a bill to pay for cream—where do all the little bills come from which swarm round a distracted treasurer at such a time? Unexpected expenses, and enough fancy work on hand to stock a modest store! The bills were paid, and the wearied soldiers went into camp for repairs—mental and moral; and there was deposited with the treasurer of the library fund the sum of twenty-two dollars and sixteen cents!

After that there was a lull in the Penn Avenue Church.

CHAPTER II.

THE next spasm that seized them started in the choir. They would give an entertainment, musical and literary. No such gross and material things as food for the body should intrude. Committee meetings were again the order of the day. It was soon found that even in preparing for "a feast of reason and a flow of soul," differences of opinion would arise. Should it be the cantata of Queen Esther, or the operetta of the Milkmaid, or something lighter than either, say, the Dance of the Fairies? There were those who thought a series of tableaux would be better than any of these, and there were those who thought there was talent enough in the Penn Avenue Church to get up a genuine play, instead of one of these milk-and-water affairs. At last, after some plain speaking, and a few heart-burnings, it was decided that the cantata of Esther should have the right of way, the casting vote in its favor being made because there was a young man visiting at the Judsons' who had just graduated from the theological seminary, and would make a "magnificent Haman." Then began rehearsals. Music was to be interspersed between the various scenes, and certain sopranos were asked to prepare choice selections, such as: "I think only of thee, love," and "My heart's dearest treasure," and "Ever thine own, love," and a few other of those gems which we hear screamed out by seraphic voices to large and appreciative audiences. I have never heard it explained why so much of our popular music should be wedded to words which the performer would blush to repeat in prose to an audience of more than one; but the fact, I suppose, is indisputable.

Oh, those rehearsals! Why are they attended with so many trials? Does Satan make special arrangements to be present at all efforts of this kind? And, if so, why? Does his superior genius recognize in these gatherings fruitful soil for the developments dear to his heart, I wonder?

Miss Minnie Coleman was general-in-chief of this particular entertainment, and she dropped a limp heap among the cushions one evening and recounted her trials to sympathetic ears: "Such a time, mamma! You never saw anything like it. It really is enough to discourage one with any attempt at doing good! Who do you suppose wants to be Vashti? That ridiculous little Kate Burns! She says she knows more than half of the part already, because she helped them get this up in the Vesey Street social; the idea! Everything she did was to prompt at one of the rehearsals! She is too dumpy for a queen; and she has a simpering little voice. Oh! It would be just too ridiculous for anything, and yet she is bent on it; she has talked with each one of the committee separately, and hinted that we ought to propose her. Then there's that Jennie Harmon, vexed because she hasn't been chosen for Esther. She makes all manner of fun of Essie (whom everybody says is just the one for the part), and I'm really afraid Essie will hear of it, and refuse to act; the girls are so hateful, mamma, you haven't an idea! They get so excited about things that don't go just as they want them; they burst right out with whatever is in their minds. Three of the committee went home crying to-night just because of things that they had overheard said; and I'd cry, too, if I were not so provoked. It does seem too bad when we are working for benevolence, and trying our best to make a little money, to have people go and spoil things in this way. (Jessie Morrison is fretting, too; she doesn't like her part; says her mother thinks the dress is unbecoming. 'What of it?' I asked her, somebody had to wear it, and it might as well be she as any one; well, she said her mother did not think it was exactly a proper dress to appear in, in public. So absurd!) I am just tired of the whole thing. I told Fannie to-night I would give anything if we were safely out of it all, and if I once get through I shall wash my hands of all benevolent enterprises in the future. Fannie was a poor one to talk to, though; she is so vexed because she hasn't been asked to sing a solo that she could tear everything to pieces. I'm sure I hope those library books, if we ever get them, will do a great deal of good; they ought to, such a world of trouble as they have made."

Ah, well, they lived through it. It is surprising how many trials we do succeed in pushing through and coming out alive on the other side!

The cantata argued and frowned and sparred and grumbled its way into perfection. The large hall was engaged for two evenings, because a complete rehearsal at the hall was a necessity. The town was duly placarded, inviting the public to the unique entertainment gotten up by the energetic young people of the Penn Avenue Church. The usual number of street jokes floated through the air, about the "Penn Avenue Theatre," or the "religious opera," sent afloat by that large class of irreligious young men who inhabit every town and city, and who seem to know by instinct just what is appropriate to a religious body, and just what is not. When the church and the world start out to walk hand in hand, it is a curious thing that it is always the world that sees the inconsistencies, and laughs, and always the church that is blind.

The modern Queen Esther did hear of the trouble, and, unlike her great namesake, faltered and pouted and would have nothing to do with the affair, so at a late hour a new queen had to be hastily chosen, who marred the occasion by forgetting some of her parts; and this is only a hint of the sea of trials which encompassed the executive committee that evening. Still, as I said, they lived, and came to the hour when they sat down to count their gains. From this exercise they rose up sadder and wiser girls. The costumes had been so unique, and so rich, and were of such brilliant colors that, being available for the occasion only, many things had to be bought, and the bills sent to the treasurer. The purchases did not seem many nor heavy, as they were bought by different people, at different times, but they counted up so mercilessly when the figures were set in those inexorable rows! Then the charge for the hall was simply enormous. The poor committee looked at each other and said this a dozen times during the counting up; the idea of charging as much for the use of the hall for the rehearsal as they did for the regular evening! Who would have imagined such a thing! Then the bills of the piano lenders were more than they had supposed possible, and the printer's bill was another ruinous item. Will it not be easily credited by the great army of the initiated that nineteen dollars and two cents gave the sum of the net proceeds of all these weeks of outlay! Actually nineteen dollars and two cents! "There!" said the treasurer, tossing down her pencil with a determined air, "I shall not add that column again! I've begun at the top, and in the middle, and added the fives and the nines separately, and done everything I can think of, and it comes every time to that miserable little nineteen dollars and two cents! Let's take the nineteen dollars to pay for the shoe leather we've worn-out, and hand in the two cents to the library committee, and then go and drown ourselves."

They laughed, as girls will, at almost anything, if somebody will only lead off. But when they reached home they, every one of them, cried. Poor things! My heart aches for them. There is no class of workers more utterly to be pitied than those who struggle and toil, making bricks often times without straw, and who find at the close that, some way, the bricks seem not to have been worth the cost.

It was months afterward, winter indeed, before the library association gasped again. Then up rose the women, the respectable, middle-aged, matronly women. The library must be replenished, money must be raised. It would not do to set girls at it; girls always got into trouble, they were so sensitive, so quick to take offence, so lacking in self-control. They—the matrons—would do this thing speedily and quietly. They would have an oyster supper on a large scale, make preparation for a great many guests, furnish oysters in every possible style, and with them such coffee as only they could make, to say nothing of the inevitable cake and cream, and side dishes, for those who did not relish oysters. So they went to work, quietly, skillfully, expeditiously. Baking, broiling, frying, stewing! What tales could not the kitchens and pantries have told during those days! They got through to the weary end, not without heart-burnings and a few tears, and much pressure of lips lest they speak unadvisedly, and occasional home confidences not flattering to their fellow workers, and I protest that in this age of the world, with Satan so manifestly at the helm as he is, it is not possible to get up a church fair, festival, opera, or what not, without these, but the matrons were as they had promised to be, on the whole, discreet, forbearing, and silent; no open breaches came.

The evening of the supper came. Dark!—was it ever darker? Rain!—not a fitful dash with gleams of moonlight between. Just a steady, pelting, pitiless rain, mud at every crossing, pools of water at some. Warm—so warm that, to the average oyster eater, the very thought of one of those bivalves was disgusting. A few damp yet resolute people stood around in the corners of the great room, and steadily ate large dishes of oysters, double dishes, some of them, and the minister, the one who perhaps could afford it least, ushered in from the dark outer world, in the course of the evening, seven wet, hungry newsboys, and gave them such a supper as they will tell of twenty years hence, and paid the bills! Meantime the cooked oysters in huge quantities were sent out to the deserving poor, and the uncooked ones were forgotten and left in the warm room all night, and by morning were not fit for the deserving poor, or any other poor! In the early forenoon of the next day, while the rain was thus falling drearily, a few draggled and discouraged females wended their way homeward, laden with soup tureens, cooking utensils, and a loaf each of cake! And this was the outcome of Penn Avenue's third effort!

Now you are not to suppose that this church was poor. It was not wealthy in the sense that some city churches are, which need only to mention a want to have it supplied from a full treasury; but its members, the great majority of them, lived in comfortable, and some of them in elegant homes; none of them ever arranged for himself to have a supper brought in by his friends, and eaten by his friends, and paid for by his friends, in order to help him through with the current expenses of the year. Not one of them had ever been known to solicit articles for a fancy fair in order to help pair house rent, or even pew rent. All of them were in the habit of putting their hands in their pockets and furnishing the money with which to meet all these reasonable needs. Why, then, did they resort to such pitiable devices to replenish their church library? Is there any person who can give a satisfactory answer to that question?

I want also to be understood about those young ladies. They were by no means working for self-gratification; they were honest in their desire to raise money for the cause; neither were they of a more quarrelsome disposition than others of their age and position. The simple fact was, that the unusual surroundings, the endless rehearsals, the posing in characters strange to them, the curious costumes which made them feel unlike themselves, the need for haste, and undue exertion, the necessity for planning for so many contingencies, the sense of responsibility, the consciousness of criticism freely offered, the possibility of failure, all these strained heavily on young nerves unused to great strains, and produced the highly wrought condition of nervous irritability which made molehills loom up like mountains, and made the things that would on ordinary occasions have raised a merry laugh start the quick tears instead. I take the bold ground that misunderstandings, and heart-burnings, and coldnesses, sometimes far-reaching in their influences and results, are almost necessary accompaniments to work of this character; there are notable exceptions, but exceptions emphasize rules. Really now, how many church festivals, fairs, concerts, cantatas, Christmas dramas, and what not, have you watched closely from their inception to their close, without hearing of a jar which did more or less harm?

What does this prove? I am not proposing to prove anything by it, I am only stating certain facts. Also, I am advocating the cause of the Penn Avenue Church; it was like unto other churches.

CHAPTER III.

IF you please, now, go back with me to the early summer in which the first spasm of interest in regard to the library took hold of the young people. The new superintendent, unwittingly, perhaps, set the ball to rolling, by remarking that the library had been closed and locked by vote of the executive committee of the school, until such time as there were found to be any books worth giving out. Then, among those who had looked at each other and shaken their heads in disapproval of such a state of things, were the young ladies in Mrs. Jones's class,—ten of them. They occupied the corner down by the door, between the door and the east window; a corner that was cold in winter and warm in summer; a corner that other classes shunned. Perhaps that will give you a hint in regard to Mrs. Jones's class. They were young ladies belonging to a certain clique. None of them wealthy, none of them even well-to-do, in the sense which you probably mean by that term. They represented comfortable homes, where the fathers worked hard, daily, for daily needs, where the mothers took their share of daily burdens, where the daughters did what they could to help lighten the burdens of both.

For instance, one was a sewing girl, and went every day among the fine houses on the fashionable streets to do plain sewing. Another was a milliner's apprentice, and in the busy season worked over bonnets from seven o'clock of a Monday morning often until twelve o'clock of a Saturday night. The fact was, she knew some of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school teachers who had their bonnets sent home in the gray dawn of the Sabbath morning, because they must have them for that day's worship. Another managed the entire culinary and kitchen department for a large family, in order that the mother might sit all day, and sew (on the many garments which were brought to her, to cut and fit, and repair and make). Still another was clerk in a fancy store, and knew much about the pretty things that less busy girls than she were fond of making. Two were teachers in the graded school and spent their Saturdays in helping with the family ironing, to relieve an over-burdened mother. Workers they were, every one; not a drone in the hive. By common consent they were almost entirely counted out of the "fancy department," as they had named the young ladies' society. They had not time for fancy work, neither did they move in the same circle with the fancy workers. Oh, they attended the same church, and were on friendly enough terms with the young people, at least with those whom they knew sufficiently to exchange bows when they met on the street; they met nowhere else save in church. I am sure you know all about those subtle, oftentimes mysterious, yet plainly defined, society distinctions. They are to be found in every village, however small, as well as in our largest cities.

This corner class looked at each other and shook their heads with the rest, but they did one thing more. Sarah Potter said, "Girls, let us do something. Mrs. Jones, let us have a Sabbath-school library."

"Well," said Mrs. Jones, briskly, heartily, "I'm agreed. Let us, by all means." Then they laughed a little. Mrs. Jones was a tailoress, and worked hard all day, and every day, and was devoted to her ten young ladies.

But Sarah Potter had more to say: "Oh, now I mean it. It is high time something was done. Let us meet to-morrow evening at Jennie's and talk it over."

Now Jennie was one of the ten, and all meetings to discuss ways and means were always held at her house. In fact it was the settled place of meeting for anything connected with this class. It had been two years since Jennie had met with them elsewhere than in her own room. Yet the class was always counted as numbering ten. One glance at her pale, bright face would have told you the story. She never left her room, nor her bed, and looked forward now to but one way of leaving that spot, which would be when they carried her out into the world once more, in her coffin! Yet Jennie was the strong bond of union in that class. "She is the class soul!" affirmed Mrs. Jones in her strong and somewhat quaint language, and the one to whom she spoke understood, and did not controvert it.

Workers are very apt to move promptly in whatever line they take up. The next evening the ten met in Jennie's room. She was eager to receive them, ready to further their plans to the best of her powers. But had they any plans? "Sarah began it," they said, "she must tell us what she wants."

"I want a new library; and I say, let's get one, somehow."

"Very well, I'll be secretary and put that down. So much decided. 'A library somehow.'" Hannah Wood wrote the sentence in large letters, the others gleeful meanwhile. "Now, Sarah, proceed. We are all ready for the plans."

"I haven't any plans; only that the thing must be done. It has been talked long enough. Yes, I have plans. Look at the Woman's Board; see how much money they are raising with ten cents a month. Why couldn't we draw up pledges for ten cents a month and get signers? There are ten of us to work; ten cents a month from everybody that we can wheedle into giving it. A regular decimal performance."

"Circulating decimals at that," laughed her sister. "Think how we shall have to circulate through this town to get signers!"

"Jennie, you must be our treasurer; we'll report to you once a month. Mrs. Jones, won't that be nice?"

The subject was fairly opened for discussion, and vigorously was it discussed. Before the evening closed, each of the ten had a copy of the pledge written in a fair round hand. "We, the undersigned, do pledge ourselves to give ten cents each month at the call of a person holding this paper, for the benefit of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school Library Fund, until such time as we shall ourselves erase our name from this paper."

"And it will be one while before you get a chance to do that," affirmed Sarah Potter, reading the pledge with grave satisfaction. "If ever our church gets into another muddle over a library, I shall be disappointed."

This was the beginning. The girls pocketed their papers, kissed Jennie, and went home. Thereafter, steady, silent work was done with these pledges. The thing created scarcely a ripple on the surface of the church society. The sum asked for was so small; it was so easy to change your mind and erase your name at any time; it was so improbable that those girls would call for so small a sum many months in succession; it was so much easier to comply than to refuse; people laughed and said one to another: "Do you know what those girls in Mrs. Jones's class are trying to do? Poor things, they want books badly. I hope they won't be old and gray before a new library is bought, but I am afraid they will at that rate. Oh, yes, I put down my name! It is a whim that will blow over very soon, and it is just a trifle anyway." Very few members of the fancy department even heard of the plan; they were busy making pincushions for the fair, and did not often meet the other class. But the original scheme widened. The ten met one evening at Jennie's call in her room; she had a plan.

"I've been thinking all the week, girls, and praying over it. Don't you believe we could each give an evening a week to the library?"

"Oh, dear, yes, two of them if there was money in it! I'm becoming interested and mercenary." This from Sarah Potter.

"Well, why don't you each go into business?"

"Why don't we what!" unbounded amazement in tone and manner.

"Go into business," repeated Jennie. Then she laughed. "I've been thinking, and I find there is some one thing that each of you can do, and do well; why not get up an evening class, one evening a week, and give the result to the library fund?"

"Bless your dear heart! What an idea! There isn't a thing in life that I know how to do!"

"Yes, there is. Don't you know, Trudie, that you make better cake for the festivals than any of the fancy cooks? People always say so, and I know two girls this minute who would be delighted to learn. I believe you could have a large class."

"To learn to make cake! What an idea!"

"It is a good one, isn't it, girls? I'll tell you, Trudie; I was praying about our library this very morning, and I asked the Heavenly Father to give me an idea; and just then the Emmons girls came in; they expect company, and they were dreading all the work there would be to look after; Sadie said if it were not for cake she wouldn't mind, but she never had success, and it gave her the blues to think of having to attend to it. Just then it flashed over me this whole plan, and I knew it was an answer to my prayer."

"Oh, Jennie, Jennie! Cake making and praying are too far apart to get mixed in that way. Do you really think God attends to such things?"

Then it was time for Mrs. Jones. "Why, dear, me!" she said. "Don't you know your Bible? 'Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.' If he is to be glorified by our work, it is likely he knows a good deal about it."

"You can't glorify God by making cake!"

"Can't? Then I should like to know what business you have spending your time making it. There's the direction."

"If you can turn cake into library books, Trudie, I should say the way was plain." This from Mary Brooks. Then Nettie Brooks: "Come, Trudie, take your cake and move out of the way. This is a splendid notion, but what in the world can I do? I know how to sell fancy goods, and sort colors, and bear all manner of impudence from ladies who tumble them over, but I have no colors to sell."

"O Nettie, I thought of you! Look at your lovely handwriting. Think of that winter when you took lessons to help the writing teacher pay her board, and said you did not know what in the world you learned for. It may be that God had you do it for just this time; and, don't you think, I know three scholars for you. I've had ever so many calls to-day."

"Put her down," said Hannah gravely. "She'll get scholars; Jennie has prayed it all out for her. I know what I can do; I can teach decimal fractions; I've been at it all day, and I think I could teach them to a post. But the question is, where is the post?"

"Mr. Nelson is willing to send his chore boy to an evening class, if one is started; and Mrs. Silverton is willing to send both the Brewster boys."

"I shall teach an evening school; and teach decimal fractions, and circulating decimals at that. Every scholar shall circulate around a new Sabbath-school library before another year. I begin to see floods of daylight."

Do you think this scheme came to naught? Not in a single instance. During the long winter evenings, the cake classes, and the soup classes, and the writing classes, and the dress-cutting classes and the arithmetic classes, were busy and enthusiastic.

"I suppose Jennie prayed them all there," said Sarah Potter, thoughtfully, when after a night of heavy rain they met to compare notes, and found that all could report progress. It grew to be their working motto, "Jennie prayed us through." They worked carefully; if Jennie was praying, the work must match the prayer.

"Girls," she said to them one night, "I've been thinking. Hannah, you dear child, Bud says he begins to understand how to divide; he thought he would never know. He said the carrying business bothered him always, until last night you made it as plain as day. Can't you teach him how to carry himself over bodily into the service of the Lord?"

Said Hannah, with amused voice, but tearful eyes, "O you blessed little fraction! I'll try! I truly will."

"We must all try hard," Jennie said. "It is God's chance for us each. It grows on me. The library will come; I feel sure of that, but so much else will come if we teach for His glory. O girls, it is blessed to work for Him! I cannot do it, and over again, but I am glad to say over and over again, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' I can only lie and wait, but I pray for the workers."

"Ah," said Hannah, "foolish child! She doesn't see that she is the hub, and we nothing but the spokes in the wheel!"

They went home strengthened. There was more to do than merely to secure a Sabbath-school library; and there was more done.

It was about this time that the fancy department counted over its nineteen dollars and two cents, and wept!

Well, the winter hasted away; spring came and passed, and the workers worked steadily, quietly on. Almost anything that takes a year to do is done quietly. The mere surface talkers always get through talking, early in the year, and conclude that because they are tired of the subject it has, therefore, dropped. Very few people even took time to notice the regularity with which their pledge was presented to them and their ten cents claimed. Those who noticed it said, with a patronizing, and somewhat pitying, smile: "So you are not tired of that little effort of yours yet, eh? It reminds me of the old fable of the bird trying to carry away the sand on the seashore. Well, every little helps, and I am sure every effort is commendable. Our library is certainly a disgrace." This class, having encouraged (?) the workers, calmly shouldered the "disgrace," and went on their way thinking no more about it. And the ten-cent pieces accumulated. New names were constantly added. Most of Nettie Brooks's customers in the fancy store signed to please her, she was so accommodating they all liked her.

The high school girls signed because Miss Wood was interested in it, and all the scholars liked Miss Wood. And a whole army of people signed because poor Jennie, lying always on her white bed, was pleased to have them, and it was "very little to do for one so afflicted."

This same Jennie, as the days went by, and the little iron bank in which she kept her money grew full, and must needs be emptied again, had another plan, which involved taking the minister into confidence. So one day, a little before the spring opened, he came and sat by Jennie's couch, and they talked long together. And at the next meeting of the "Decimals," which by tacit consent had come to be considered their pet name, he was present; and there was more talking, and the minister's wife and the minister's mother were received into confidence. Not long thereafter came an express package to the minister's door—books; but nobody thought anything of that, ministers were always buying books. There was a certain upper room in the parsonage, clean and sunny, and destitute of furniture, save shelves and chairs. The shelves had been crowded with newspapers, but one day they gathered themselves into systematic bundles and took their silent way to the attic; they had been superseded. The shelves were dusted and treated to a row of new books in tasteful bindings. Thereafter the "Decimals" spent many leisure moments in the upper room of the parsonage, admiring books. People wondered, occasionally, why "those girls in Mrs. Jones's class were running to the parsonage so much." Mrs. Marshall Powers explained the mystery by saying she supposed the pastor and his wife were trying to get an influence over girls of that class. The pastor heard it and laughed, and said to his wife that the fact was girls of that class were getting a great influence over him; he wished they were multiplied in every church in a tenfold ratio.

And the days passed, and more express packages came; and on one or two occasions certain packages went back again, for the committee on selection was very choice, and very cautious.

CHAPTER IV.

THERE came a day toward the close of summer when the Penn Avenue Church called a congregational meeting.

The object thereof was to discuss—not a Sabbath-school library, their hopes in that direction had sunk below zero. Neither the fancy department nor the choir would venture a pincushion or a song. Not a matron could be coaxed to offer suggestion. Nobody dare say "cake" or "oysters" aloud. The subject under discussion was a new carpet for the church parlor. One was sadly needed; indeed, no more church socials could be held until the parlor was re-furnished, because no matron could be found who would preside as hostess.

It was voted to secure means for a carpet forthwith. Then did the chairman of the library committee delight the hearts of the carpet committee by announcing that they had unanimously voted to place the funds raised toward a new library in the hands of the carpet committee to use at their discretion, inasmuch as there was no present prospect of a library, and the amount raised would be such a trifle compared with what would have been needed for that purpose.

Then arose a cloud that presaged a storm. The funds were raised for the purpose of securing a library. What right had this committee to vote them away? Could they not be placed in the bank until such time as the needed amount was secured, and then used for their legitimate purpose? Tongues were numerous now, and waxed eloquent; differences of opinion were marked, and were urged with energy. The cloud, at first, no bigger than a man's hand, bade fair to spread over all the congregation, and involve them in a party squall.

Then up rose the pastor; the long weeks of silent action were over; the time for speech-making had come. It was true that the funds under discussion had been raised toward the purchase of a new library; it was also true that without a general vote to that effect the committee would not be justified in turning those funds into another channel. At this point the belligerents who desired a new carpet, and meant to have it at once, looked disgusted and the belligerents who desired a new library, and meant to have one sometime, if they could get it, looked complacently defiant, and affirmed with nodding heads that they should never, no, never, vote away that sum of money for any other purpose under the sun! But the pastor had more to say; also he had something to do. The congregational meeting was held in the Sabbath-school room, and just behind the pastor was the great handsome library case, closed and unoccupied for many a day; for, to the honor of the Penn Avenue church, be it written, they had not left the old library to lie in dust on the shelves, but had selected, and mended, and re-covered, such of the books as were deemed worthy of being missionaries, and freighted them to a Western Sabbath-school.

That was accomplished during the pincushion and tidy fever, when expectation ran high over the immediate prospect of re-peopling those library shelves; but, as you are aware, the hopes centered on fairs and festivals had been vain, and the library shelves were vacant and dust-covered. So thought every person in that church that afternoon save ten.

"I have something to show you," said the pastor, and, as if by magic, those handsome doors swung open, revealing rows upon rows of books unmistakably new, handsomely bound, delightfully large, many of them. Tier upon tier they rose. It took but little arithmetic for those familiar with the library case to discover that there must certainly be more than three hundred books.

"Three hundred and forty-five!" said the pastor, reading the mathematical calculations all over the room. "Handsomely bound," and he took one in his hand; "duly marked and numbered," and he opened to the fly-leaf and read: "'Penn Avenue Sabbath-School Library. No. 7.'"

What did it mean? Where did they come from? How were they obtained? Nobody spoke, yet these sentences seemed to float all over the room, so distinctly were they written on the sea of eager faces.

"I can tell you about them," said the pastor. "Yes, they are new, every one of them, and they are ours if we vote to accept them. I have very little doubt but that we will accept them, for they were bought by our own money which we had deliberately and in sound mind dedicated to that purpose." He further explained that the money was procured by a system of decimal notation not so thoroughly understood as it ought to be; it had long been known that ten times one were ten, but the power of the number ten divided into tenths, and circulating freely and repeating themselves after the peculiar manner of decimals, was not generally understood or appreciated. We were indebted to the rising generation for many things, and not the least among them, in this church hereafter, would, he thought, be the exposition of the power of circulating decimals.

Had the pastor suddenly become insane? What in the world was he talking about! The opposing forces forgot their opposition and were lost in a common curiosity. Why were people looking over to those girls in Mrs. Jones's class? What had they to do with it?

Hark! The pastor was speaking again. He had forgotten certain statements that he was to make. One was, that these books were not evolved from cake and pickles, nor yet from tidies and slippers; but were the representatives of the value of systematic offerings, and systematic work done by individuals and individually devoted to this cause. Another was a request that, for reasons which would be better understood in the future than they now were, the library be named the "Jennie Stuart Library." And still another was the announcement that, as the library pledges held good until the signers erased their own names, the collectors would still continue their duties, hoping, by this means, to render any future leanness of library shelves an impossibility in Penn Avenue Church.

Light was beginning to dawn, albeit it was still much obscured by fog. The "Jennie Stuart Library." She was one of Mrs. Jones's girls. Decimals—one, two, three—well, there were just ten of them; it had not been noticed before. But how could they have secured such a library as that? Could it be possible that that little ten-cent affair of theirs had grown to such dimensions!

I suppose it is needless to tell you that the threatened storm blew over, and smiles and congratulatory speeches ruled the hour. The decimal class received a vote of thanks, which overwhelmed them with blushes; their suggestions were adopted by a unanimous vote. Penn Avenue rose to the acknowledgment of the fact that the only proper way to manage a Sabbath-school library was to have a standing committee to supply and add new books, in monthly installments.

Of course the opposition to the appropriation for the new carpet was withdrawn, and gracefully, too. Everybody was willing to have a new carpet.

Everybody shook hands with everybody, and congratulated themselves and the world generally, and said, "Who would have thought that such trifling subscriptions would amount to anything!" And "they were sure those girls deserved a great deal of credit;" and "who were they, anyway?"

It is true that Mrs. Marshall Powers said it was a queer way to manage business! And there ought to have been a committee of selection. She was sure she hoped the books were worth reading! But even she was almost satisfied when she had examined them.

And so, at last, Penn Avenue Church had a new library.

"We have lost our motive power," said the girls, laughing a little, as they met together in the evening to talk things over.

"I'm afraid," said one, "it will be humdrum work now. It was such fun to ask people for their ten cents and see some of them look bored, and some look like martyrs, suffering, in order that we might learn the folly that was in us."

"Yes," said another, "now that it is all out, and the glorification has begun, I shall grow tired and ashamed of collecting money. There will be so much said, and so many questions to answer. I'm almost sorry we promised to continue."

"Oh, you wretches!" said Mrs. Jones. "What is the use in being sorry about anything, when Susy Perkins has learned to make cake and keep her temper in the bargain; and Alice Burns can make her own dresses, and means to work for something besides her own self hereafter; and poor Bud is going to join the church to-morrow, and be a minister for anything you know? The library is the very least of it, you ungrateful creatures!"

The girls laughed again, but with tender notes in the laughter. "Oh! We know it," they said with shining eyes; "that part of it is lovely, and we are glad to go on. But we are afraid the library business will grow commonplace after this. We must ask Jennie to give us something that will lift it up."

Dear, thoughtless girls! Even then was preparing that which would forever lift the Penn Avenue Library above the commonplace!

It was only the next afternoon that they were summoned, the class and their teacher and the pastors to Jennie's room to meet a guest whose presence has power to hush all other interests. The "King of Terrors" he has been named; but there was no shadow of terror anywhere about that room, least of all on the peaceful face of the one who lay on her white couch, with a spray of late blossoming roses in her hand. Yet they had gathered to say good-by.

The circle was to be broken; the central figure, as they loved to call her, had been called. They were very still; there was no sound of weeping in the room. Tears would have seemed out of place in view of the shining of that face on the couch.

"Girls," she said, breaking the hush; she was not looking at them; her eyes were resting on a heavy gold band which encircled her finger. "Girls, I have been thinking—" the same simple words with which she had been wont to preface her sweet and helpful thoughts to them during all the days gone by. It struck them like a knell. Was it possible that this might be the last time? "I have not been sure about this ring until to-day. There was a time when I thought to take it into the grave with me; but why should my poor worn-out body be decked with a ring? It will not need it in the resurrection morning; I will not let this ring lie in the dust and wait. I will leave it to work, while I go away to rest. Girls, some of you knew Kent Pierson? You did, Nannie? Yes, and you all know he is in Africa to-day, working for Christ. But you did not know that I was to go out to him, did you? When he put this ring on my finger I thought I would surely be well enough to go in another year. But I am going to Heaven instead, and I have been thinking that our ring should do some of my work for Africa. Will you take it, girls, and change it into books for the library? Books about the needs of the heathen? and the work of the missionaries, and tell all the boys and girls who read them that those books are Kent Pierson's voice, calling them to service?"

The tears came then, and low sobbing. Not from fair Jennie; her eyes were bright and her face smiling. "Don't cry," she said gently, "you need not; for me, you know, all the bitterness is passed. I am too near home to cry. I suppose it will be hard for Kent for a little while, but then, it will soon be over, and Heaven is as near to Africa as it is to you."

They kissed her silently that day—their voices were not to be trusted—and went out softly, as from the guest chamber of the royal palace. Nearer they were to the invisible presence than they had known. That very night, "or ever she was aware," Jennie saw the "shining of His face." No noise, or sound of wings, or rush of music, at least so far as those left behind can tell:

"They watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

"Their very hopes belied their fears,
Their fears their hopes belied.
They thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died."

The plain gold band was exchanged for books, and it came to pass that an upper shelf in the Penn Avenue library was cleared and held as sacred ground for those five books. Never had books been more carefully chosen than these, and as the pastor marked them, "The Kent Pierson Library, presented by Jennie Stuart, gone to Heaven," he almost wondered whether there hovered over him angel witnesses to see whether his part of the commission were well done.

"It lies around us like a cloud,
The world we cannot see."

One of the five, the first in the row, was that wonderful record of a consecrated life, "Crowned in Palm-Land"; and the pastor, as he read the sweet, and simple, and unutterably pathetic story of that life of love and service, and finally of that lonely death, with not a human eye to watch the last triumph of faith as the feet touched the valley of the shadow, felt that such a book would do faithful work for Jennie and for Africa.

Barely five days after Jennie had been laid to rest in the hillside Cemetery that consecrated book began its work for foreign missions, the story of which can only be told when we all meet where they will never say foreign missions any more, because the foreigners will have become fellow-citizens.

"There are ten of us still," said the girls, looking through tears at the consecrated upper shelf. "Jennie is working with us."

And they felt, every one, that the Penn Avenue library had received its "lifting up."

FISHING FOR PHIL.

———

CHAPTER I.

SHE, Daisy, knelt upstairs in front of the window, looking down on the snowy street. A pretty picture she made, framed in the frosty window, her fresh young breath making fancy shapes of the frost-work.

A brown head, crowned with masses of hair of that peculiar shade of brown which makes you think when you look at it on a cloudy day, that the sun is certainly shining somewhere and rippling those waves of hair with gold.

It was not banged; it was not even frizzed. Daisy's mother belonged to that class, of which there are a few rare specimens still extant, who liked neither style, and Daisy herself belonged to that possibly still rarer class of girls, who liked above all things to dress to please her mother. There had been an attempt to make the brown hair lie in smooth and glossy bands, but Nature had been too much for the owner. The hair escaped, and waved and frizzed itself to that inimitable way which is so very pretty and becoming, and of which all the hair-pin efforts are such exasperating imitations.

Brown eyes under the hair, large, bright, sweet, sad or grave, according to the mood of the wearer. Eyes which changed with the changing expression, and seemed to do much of the speaking. For the rest, you may imagine her.

There was a clear complexion; there was a sweet mouth and rosy cheeks.

There are a great many such girls, and yet they lack the something which, shining in Daisy's face, made the looker want to turn and look again, and half smile, in sympathy with the charm lingering there.

What is it? Who shall describe it? I fancy it is one of the ways in which the soul looks out from its prison-house of clay. Yet who will undertake to describe a soul?

She was looking down and smiling at, and bowing to Phil on the street below, while he tarried in the frosty air to execute a series of bows, extravagant in their burlesque of profound respect; also he was at intervals tossing up delicate balls of the soft snow, which it amused him to see her dodge, though the glass protected her from their touch.

"Throw up the sash," he shouted, "and crown your hair with ermine!"

But she shook her head merrily, albeit there was a wistful look in her eye, and she would have liked nothing better than to have gone down, coated and mittened, and had a snow-frolic in the street.

Had it been some friendly back-yard, instead of one of the public thoroughfares, or had they been seven and ten, instead of seventeen and twenty, she would have gone in a minute.

And then she gave one of those flitting sighs to her happy past, which is all that a happy girl of seventeen ever troubles herself about her past.

She sighed again, though, and her face grew grave with a sweet, sad gravity, born of something deeper than the desire for a snow-frolic; and as she looked after the handsome young fellow, who had used up his brief space of time in fun, and was now striding rapidly toward the bank, to get there before the clock struck nine, she said aloud, and wistfully:

"If I could only coax him to go with me! It might be a beginning of something better. It would certainly be better than what he is doing now. Mr. Easton is so interesting; I am almost certain he would enjoy it if he could once form the habit of going."

Not all of this aloud. After the first slow, wistful sentence, she went over the rest in her own thoughts, as she had done often and often before, and advanced no farther toward a solution; for her face did not clear as she arose and went about arranging the ribbons and laces in her drawer.

There was need for anxious thought. At least, so it seemed to Daisy Morris, Phil's cousin, and so it seemed to Aunt Mattie, Phil's mother.

Aunt and niece had spent hours already in serious talk over the possibilities and dangers of this young man.

"He used to be such a good boy," would Aunt Mattie say, with a sigh, and then hasten to correct herself: "Not but that he is a good boy now, so devoted to his mother and sister, so careful of their comfort! There isn't a better boy in the city in all such ways; but you know what I mean. He used to go to church as regularly as I do, and to Sabbath-school. I have a box full of reward cards which he received in the school for perfect lessons when he was a little boy; and he used to go to prayer meeting, too, and seemed to like to go; his father would often remark on its being unusual in such a little fellow. But he fell in with those unfortunate companions, and little by little the change came. Why, he had stayed at home from church for five or six successive weeks before I realized it! There always seemed to be a good reason; and now he only goes occasionally of an evening, and as for Sabbath-school, he seems to be disgusted with the very thought of it!

"Every Sabbath, he goes out for a walk, or sometimes a ride, with a party of young men who are far from being of the sort that a mother would choose for her son's companions, and he goes less and less to church, even in the evenings.

"Since Mr. Easton has come here, I have tried very hard to induce Phil to go to Sabbath-school. I thought if he would but go once into that Bible class, he would be attracted; for Mr. Easton has such a winning way with young men, and Phil is so intellectual, that he could not fail to be pleased. We have done our best, Blanche and I, but he seems fully resolved upon having nothing to do with Sunday-school in any form. I am so disappointed! For I had really counted a great deal on Mr. Easton's influence, but of course he can't do anything so long as Phil avoids him. My dear, there is another thing on which I am counting now, and that is your influence over Phil.

"If you can induce him to go to Sunday-school once, to please you, I believe that a good deal would be accomplished. And you know boys will often do for a young and pretty cousin what they will not even for a mother."

This is only a general view of the numerous talks which had been held on the same subject since Daisy Morris had come from her distant home to visit Aunt Hattie Hurst.

Many particulars had been added from time to time, and Daisy's quick eyes had seen some things of which she did not speak to either mother or sister. She believed that her handsome young cousin was in more danger than his own family realized. She know that the cigarettes which he smoked grew daily more numerous, and she had once or twice detected the odor of wine about him, and had been frightened over a certain gay recklessness which was unlike his usual courtesy. She believed that, while the restraints of a business life and the responsibility of standing somewhat, at least, in his dead father's place, held him in check during the week, the freedom of Sunday and the influence of his chosen friends were dragging him downward faster than his mother knew.

She had tried hard to use her influence in the right direction; but while she certainly had influence with him, it was not strong enough to draw him to church or to the Sabbath-school.

Since Daisy had made acquaintance with the new pastor, Mr. Easton, and joined his Bible Class, she had begun to share her aunt's almost superstitious belief that if Phil could only be gotten under that man's influence, great things would be accomplished.

But it was just that man's influence which he seemed determined to avoid. Only the Sabbath before had Daisy spent the entire morning coaxing and arguing, being gayly answered by her quick-witted cousin; she alternately hopeful and fearful; but so earnest had been her effort and her prayer, that hope had really predominated until she saw him drive away from the door with one of his friends, just as she was tying her ribbons in a flutter of haste to catch him and make one last effort. After that she sat down in a little heap before her window and cried, and told herself that it was of no use, she had done all she could.

No wonder that on this Saturday morning she sighed when the young man was gone. Last evening the odor of wine had been distinct about him, and the wildness which his mother called good spirits, Daisy believed meant danger in a more terrible form than the mother had even thought of as yet.

A succession of low, rapid, impatient knocks sounded at her door, and almost before she could answer, her Cousin Blanche flitted in.

A marked contrast to Daisy was this Cousin Blanche. Not that her hair was not brown, and her cheeks rosy, and her whole face full of sparkle; pretty she was, decidedly, if she had kept her hair out of her eyes, which, when fully dressed, she never did. And there was a certain pleasure in looking at her. She took life in all its forms, even its forms of care such as touched her, with a sort of joyish abandon.

Yet I think if you understood girls, you would have looked at her again, and sighed. There was such a chance to fade; you felt that she would fade, perhaps, with the first storm. You could not find what there was in Daisy's face that looked as though it might glow even amidst the storm, and certainly shine serene and sweet after the fierceness of storm was past.

She was in full flutter of excitement this morning, and caught at Daisy and whirled her about the room until the child was breathless, and her hair blown in waves into her wondering eyes, before there was an explanation of her mood.

"Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have such good, splendid news for you! What do you think Phil says?

"We've been talking with him, mamma and I, and he promised; he actually promised! Daisy, do you hear?

"And when Philip Hurst promises anything, it is as good as done."

"What did he say?" This from Daisy, her cheeks like two blush roses, and the shadow gone.

"Why, he said he would go to Sabbath-school with you to-morrow, and go into Mr. Easton's class, and stay through the entire session, if we would get you to do something for him."

CHAPTER II.

"OH, I'll do it!" said Daisy, with a happy little laugh, her eyes shining, "I'm ready to do anything. I'll go down on Madison Square and snowball with him if he says so."

"I told Phil you would do it, and it isn't such a very dreadful thing to do, Daisy Morris. I know girls, plenty of them, who would jump at the chance.

"He wants you to go to Dorrance Hall with him this evening. It will be just lovely! I promised Harry I would go, and I wanted you along all the time."

The smile and the brightness faded together, and the shadow returned. Daisy's voice was low, almost tremulous. Her disappointment was great.

"Blanche dear, I don't go to the theatre, you know."'

"I know you don't, and no more do I—at least, not often; but this is a special occasion; everybody goes. They say the characters are perfectly wonderful! It isn't like these miserable travelling troupes generally. Everything is first-class, and they say the principal actress is a lovely woman. Besides, why, Daisy, I'm sure you will not hesitate. Think of Phil's promise. You said you would do anything."

The tone was reproachful, and Daisy felt it.

"I meant anything that is right," she made answer, speaking low.

"Well, of course, I would not ask you to do anything wrong; at least, mamma would not. I think you may trust her, if you cannot me. I tell you this is very different from an ordinary theatre; everybody goes. The same company was here last winter, and you ought to have seen the crowded houses! The very best people in the city. Why, Mrs. Schuyler Van Vorst went three nights in succession, and so did her husband, and he is an officer in our church."

"Blanche, did Mr. Easton go?"

"Mr. Easton! What an idea! Of course not! Public opinion doesn't exactly approve of ministers going to such places, though I am sure I don't see why; and I think it is mean, too. If I were a minister, I would not stand it. I think he has as good a right to go as anybody else."

"So do I," declared Daisy significantly.

But Blanche made haste with her arguments:

"But I don't care, Daisy, whether you ever go to a theatre again in your life—you needn't if you don't want to—if you will only go to-night. Think how much is at stake.

"We have been coaxing Phil for so long, and mother is almost discouraged. You said yourself last Sunday that you had given up all hope of his going to Sabbath-school; and here the matter is in your own hands. You can't think how delighted mamma is! She says she knows Mr. Easton will fascinate him right away."

"How came Phil to make such a condition as that? He has asked me before to go to a theatre, and he knew just what I thought."

"Oh, well; but you see, he feels like everybody else, that such a theatre as this is an exception. He says it is the very fact that you have never been, which makes him want to take you. He wants to see what the effect of the scenery, and the costumes, and everything, would be on one who sees it all for the first time. Then he says you have great talent in the way of personating people in dialogue, and he wants to see how it will affect you to hear it done in its perfection. He said it would be as good as a play to watch your face, and he added some very complimentary things about your eyes and cheeks, which you will not mind since you are his cousin. Oh, Daisy Morris, I know you will go! You would never be so cruel as to disappoint us. Mamma began to plan at once about your dress. She hopes you will wear that wine-colored silk, with plenty of white about it. That dress ought to be trimmed with ermine for such occasions, Daisy. Oh, dear! mamma's calling me."

Daisy was not sorry for this. Her brain was in a whirl. She needed to be alone.

Ermine trimming suggested the handsome face that had been raised to hers in petition to crown her hair with ermine. He knew she looked pretty in red and white. She knew it herself. Her wine-colored dress was lovely.

But she put it firmly from her thoughts. Here was a question to be decided, with which it ought to have nothing to do.

Seventeen years spent in a city, and she had never attended a theatre. It was by no means for lack of opportunity. It was because of what some people called the narrowness of her environments.

It was at first because mother and father never went, and did not approve. It was because, afterward, she adopted their views and feelings, and did not desire to go.

Many had been her invitations, but here came her first great temptation. Not for herself, but for this young cousin whom she admired, whom she thought was in danger; for his mother, who was troubled, and who looked to her for help. Ought she to yield her scruples on this occasion? She need not change her view; she need never go again. She could tell Phil frankly that she was going in order to secure the fulfillment of his promise, and for no other reason.

While the question was still in chaos, came her Aunt Mattie, with radiant face.

DAISY CANNOT DECIDE IN FAVOR OF THE THEATRE.

"Our little girl has caught him in her snare," she said, kissing Daisy tenderly. "The naughty boy declared to me only two months ago that he could not think of any inducement strong enough to make him submit to the boredom of an hour in Sunday-school; and here, for the sake of witnessing the innocent delight of his pretty cousin over new sights and sounds, he is willing to pledge himself. You must look your very prettiest to-night, my dear."

"But, Aunt Mattie, you know what mamma and papa think about these things; and how I have been brought up to feel."

Whereupon her Aunt Mattie kissed her again. "Yes, dear child, I know. Your mother and I had the same bringing up, and we thought very much alike; and your uncle was fully in sympathy with such views; but he died before his children became of an age to modify them in the least; and your father and mother have been blessed with one dear child who imbibed their views so early that they have had no need to make sacrifices on her account; but there is a great difference in children.

"Neither Blanche nor Phil thought as I do about these things, though I brought them up. And, indeed, my views, as I said, have been somewhat modified. I do not approve of the indiscriminate theatre any more than I ever did, nor of frequent attendance. But occasionally, when there is a strictly moral play, presented by artists of acknowledged worth, I have found it necessary to let my children go; and I have, once or twice, yielded to Phil's coaxing, and gone myself."

"Aunt Mattie, it is Saturday evening."

"I know, my dear, and that part I regret. I do not, by any means, consider it the best preparation for the Sabbath; but the occasion, you know, is exceptional. It is this evening, or not at all, for this play; and I thought you would not mind making your little sacrifice for Phil's sake, when there may be so much at stake."

After that, Daisy was glad at the coming of callers who took her aunt to the parlor, and left her alone. She must think. What was her duty? What would mamma and papa say? It was certainly an exceptional case; she had never heard the line of argument which would have helped her to answer her aunt and cousin. She, too, believed that Mr. Easton's influence over her handsome and brilliant young cousin would be invaluable, and she knew only too well how much he needed influencing. Ought she not to help, when the way was plainly opened to her? This was an exceptional play; she knew enough about the theatre to be sure of it. She did not fear hearing or seeing what would cause her to blush.

Her pretty new dress was all ready to wear to some place demanding a brilliant costume. Her aunt would be bitterly disappointed if she failed her. Perhaps, just for this once, she ought to go.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she came to this decision; but she opened the little box of delicate laces, and let herself think: "If I should go, I wonder if this, or this, would look the prettiest?" She opened her glove-box, and wondered whether she ought to get new kids.

Oh, there was her darling little hand-painted bouquet-holder. Phil ought to get her some lovely flowers to wear in it to-night. She wondered if he would think of it.

She reached down into the box for the pretty toy, and her hand touched a little book in a plain gray paper cover. What was this? Oh, she remembered; papa had brought it home on the evening before her departure, and had said: "There is something for you to study at your leisure, daughter. I don't know that you need it; but it is well for every Christian to be prepared to give a reason for his opinions."

She had thanked him, and kissed him, and dropped the book into the box she was packing, and had not thought of it since. There had been no occasion to go to the bottom of this particular box before.

Now she drew it out, and felt startled and flushed over the title: "Plain Talks About the Theatre." Could this be mere chance?

She hesitated but a moment, then closed the drawer and sat resolutely down with the little gray book. Certainly, if ever she needed any plain talk about the theatre, it was now. There was much to read; much that was new and startling to this young girl.

The statements made there, coming from the honored minister whose name she well knew, were such as to make the glow on her cheek something to notice and remember. Still, they all had to do with the regular drama, and not those occasional and exceptional plays such as were being performed by a rare company in this little city. Could there not be such things as exceptions, which even a Christian might be justified in enjoying?

Wait; what was this? She bent her brown head lower over the page, and read the keen, clear-cut sentences: "What if it be also true that this dark programme of the theatre is padded here and there with the so-called standard drama, to win the countenance and patronage of the most respectable and decent! I do not need to be told that to some extent it wins them. But neither do you need to be told, moral and Christian men and women, of decent and cleanly homes, thus drawn to see an exceptional play of high and chaste form and tone, that you are quoted and paraded as friends and supporters of the establishment—an establishment, three fourths or nine tenths of whose influence is pernicious and poisonous. Your patronage goes to swell the receipts of, and to give countenance to, the house whose common and most characteristic features are an offense to purity, to religion and to God."

The gray book dropped from her hands and slid to the floor. The young girl put both hands up to her flushed forehead, and pushed back the masses of hair. Then she spoke four words, fraught with intense and far-reaching meaning, "I want to pray," and dropped upon her knees.

CHAPTER III.

DURING the afternoon, the handsome house in Lincoln Place was filled with uncomfortable and disappointed people.

Daisy, the bright and generally-yielding cousin, was quiet and gentle, but firm as a rock in her decision to attend no theatre, either on that evening or any other. She had tried to present her arguments to Aunt Mattie and to Blanche, but neither mother nor daughter was in the mood to be reached by argument.

The former had silenced her young guest by coldly referring to the tendency of the times, which led young people to fancy themselves wiser than their elders, even in matters of morals and religion, and the latter had only that unanswerable reply, 'Oh, fiddlesticks!' to make to any form of argument.

Matters had not improved by the six o'clock dinner hour.

Daisy watched for and waylaid Phil in the hall, and dashed eagerly into her subject without introduction:

"Oh, Phil, I am sorry; but I can't do what you want, because I don't think it is right. I don't approve of any sort of theatre, and I cannot, of course, attend one; yet you know I would do anything to please you that I could."

But Phil had been cold, too, and had replied with dignity that he was sorry he was supposed to desire to take her to improper places; that she must, at least, give him the credit of not intending anything wrong.

And to her earnest attempts at explanation, had finally answered in his usual tone of gayety that it was all right; of course, he did not want to take her where she did not want to go, and that he had expected no other answer to his invitation, which was what had made him so willing to give the promise that Blanche had been ridiculous enough to claim.

Then they had gone in to dinner; and all through the dinner hour Phil had been ceremoniously polite, and the other members of the family had been noticeably silent. At last the mother broached the sore topic:

"My son, will you be willing to take your old mother for a companion this evening? I suppose it is too late for you to make pleasanter plans; and while you know it is not my custom to go out on Saturday evening, yet there is no sacrifice I am not ready to make, and no place where I am not ready to go, if it will give my boy any pleasure."

Then had Phil arched his eyebrows slightly, but answered promptly that it would give him great pleasure to attend her, if she would really like to go; but he hoped there would be no martyrs on his account, as he was not absolutely dependent upon the theatre that evening for occupation; or, for the matter of that, he could go alone.

It was finally decided, however, that the mother would accompany him, and she made her young guest miserable with elaborate excuses for leaving her alone. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not think of such a thing, and the theatre was the last place where she cared to go; but she desired above all things to help Phil to find always his companionship at home, and dreaded above all things his seeking doubtful acquaintances under the impulse of a sore feeling of repulse from those whose society he had imagined he could command.

With a swelling heart, and eyes that wanted constantly to brim with tears, did the young Daisy go through with the trials of the early evening. She arranged the flowers in Blanche's frizzed hair, and the bows of her sash, and buttoned her kids, and attended to all the little details of that particular young lady's toilet; and folded her aunt's shawl, and held her fan and gloves, and went herself to the door with them, to see the carriage roll away, leaving her to solitude. After that she cried, but not long.

Then she wrote a cheery letter to her mother, saying not a word of theatre or loneliness. Then she read a little more in the gray book, and went from that to her Bible, choosing words that matched the thoughts of her heart, beginning, "Wherefore, come out from among them, and be ye separate;" and from that she went to her knees.

Her face was peaceful when she at last began to prepare for rest; and she even hummed a sweet, tender tune, breaking once into language:

"Father, I know that all my life
Is portioned out by thee;
And the trials that will surely come,
I do not fear to see.
But I ask thee for a present mind,
Intent on serving thee."

It proved the next morning that the week had been too much for Phil. He did not come to breakfast, and sent word that he meant to rest until afternoon.

From the lunch table, at noon, he was summoned to see some friends in the parlor.

"There," said the mother, with an air and tone of general reproach, "I was going to advise you, Blanche, to remain from Sabbath-school, and try to entertain your brother this afternoon. Sabbath-schools and everything else sink in importance compared with the effort to keep a soul from going astray. Now those miserable fellows have come for him, and he will be away with them all the afternoon. I knew there was some special scheme for to-day, which made me doubly anxious that Phil should be rescued from them; but it is too late now."

The tone and manner of the speaker made poor Daisy feel like a criminal who had deliberately led her Cousin Phil to his ruin. Blanche had only a sigh for answer. Presently she said:

"I shall stay at home, anyway, mamma, if Daisy will excuse me. My head aches, and I don't feel like talking nor thinking."

"Oh! Daisy will excuse us, I think. She is quite an independent little lady, I am sure, and able to go alone to Sabbath-school or elsewhere; aren't you, dear?"

"Yes 'm," said Daisy bravely, "I shall not mind going alone, if you are not able to go."

Then she went away in haste, lest the tears should fall. They had not cared to have her stay: She would willingly have done so, if that would have helped Phil; but she had lost her influence over him, and disappointed mother and sister, and she felt as she set her brown hat on her head, that she wanted to go home to her mother. She had done right; of that she felt sure. But doing right was very hard work sometimes, especially when one was away from one's mother.

Down-stairs she could hear Phil moving up and down the room, whistling snatches of tune. He had not gone out yet, it seemed. Perhaps if she hurried away, Blanche could coax him to stay and sing. She seized her Bagster Bible, and ran hastily down-stairs. The whistler came to the hall to meet her.

"What a ponderous book!" he said, in mock dismay. "Is it really necessary to carry such a great Bible as that?"

"I like it," she said simply.

"Like to carry it, I suppose. You ought to have it expressed; but that would not do for Sunday. I see that I shall have to go and carry it." He was donning his overcoat with speed, and possessed himself of the Bible before Daisy could recover from her surprise.

It was a long walk to the church, and the air was brisk and clear. The sun shone brilliantly, and Phil was at his brightest; every trace of ill humor seemed to have passed away. It was not until they neared the church, that he referred to the events of the day before.

"So, Daisy, you wouldn't go to a theatre with me, even to save my soul, which has seemed to trouble you so much?"

"Oh, Phil, I couldn't do wrong, you know, whatever the imaginary motive; and I had no hope at all that my doing a wrong thing would help you or any one in the least. I had to do as I did; I wish I could make you understand that."

"Was it hard work?"

"What? To stay at home, do you mean?"

"Yes; did you really want to go?"

"It was hard to refuse you, and disappoint Aunt Mattie and Blanche. Yes; I should have wanted to go, should have liked to go, if it had seemed right. But you know I couldn't want to do anything that it was made plain to me would dishonor Christ. I desire above all things to please him; and he made it very plain to me, Phil."

Now they were at the church door, and she reached for her Bible.

"You are not going to invite me in, I suppose? You are tired of that effort, and have given me up?"

"'You said you would not go," she answered, with a wistful smile. She believed he was mocking her eagerness, and meant nothing else.

"I know I did; but isn't a bad promise better broken than kept? You need not ask me again. There is no need. I am going to accept your former invitations. Take me into your class, and introduce me to Mr. Easton."

"Did he really go into the class?"

"Oh, Daisy, you darling, you don't mean it? And what did Mr. Easton say? He liked him, didn't he? I knew he would."

"Oh, Daisy, how did you get him to go? I thought it was all over."

These were some of the exclamations and queries of the delighted mother and sister, who had waited between alternate hope and fear, to see whether Phil would really return with his cousin, or had joined his Sunday friends elsewhere.

Before she could make other than the most general answers, he had come down-stairs again, and joined the group in the back parlor.

"He is here to answer for himself," she said, with a smile, as he leaned over his mother's chair.

"My dear boy," she said fondly, reaching up her hand to his, "you have made your mother very happy. Do tell me that you mean to go again."

"Yes 'm, I mean to go again. I have joined the class, and promised to be there regularly."

"Oh, Phil!" This from the mother, with tremulous lips.

"I knew Mr. Easton would fascinate you." This from Blanche, with a pleased little laugh.

Her brother turned to her.

"No, Blanche; I must be honest. I liked him, and shall like him, I think. But the decision of to-day was made before I saw him, and reaches farther than to the Bible Class. I have determined to serve God. I have gone on my knees, and asked him to make what he can of me.

"And the immediate reason for doing so is, because I have decided that there is such a thing as genuine religion which satisfies, so that the heart does not need the world in the shape of theatres or operas or dancing-parties, or any such thing; and that one who unreservedly gives herself to Him can resist all the lighter and safer forms of its fascinations, if she suspects evil lurking in them—can resist them steadily and gently, and remain calm under fire."

He paused for a moment, while the astonished group waited for what might come next. Then he bent lower over his mother.

"Mamma dear, I honor your intentions, but believe it is a mistake. No young man will ever be won to Christ by going with him to the theatre. He understands them too well. And while I never asked you or my sister to attend a place of amusement that was in itself objectionable, I knew in my soul that I insulted your religion by asking you at all. They all flourish under the rebel flag.

"Mamma, when our Daisy here refused to compromise one inch of the way, I knew that my tower of defence was broken, and that I must own that Christ had been sufficient for one soul, and could be for another."

By this time the tears were falling fast from his mother's eyes.

"My boy," she said, "it is what your father believed; but I have let the mother in my heart come between me and Christ. I was so anxious for you, that I thought I must yield even his honor to save you."

But Blanche, bewildered, and flushing red, declared this:

"I must say I don't see why a boy should coax a girl to do what he is ashamed to have her do; and be all changed around because she refuses to do it."

Yet there is many a boy who coaxes a girl to go where he wishes in his soul she may have Christian firmness enough to refuse.

OUR CHURCH CHOIR.

———

CHAPTER I.

THERE was a time when our church had no choir, but gloried in the fact that we had congregational singing. At least the conservative fathers gloried in it; but the aggressive young people grumbled much.

And certainly the most gentle spirit might have found some occasion for grumbling. If the thing had been named "congregational drawling" instead of "singing," perhaps it would have been as correct. Our church was large, and the leader, a dear old man who had led the singing from time immemorial, until his ears had deafened and his voice cracked in the service, was unable to keep the scattered elements of his army in order. Sing as slow as he might, he always finished the line at least two syllables in advance of old Auntie Barber, who sat in the southwest corner back pew, and who had a chronic affection of the nose and throat which caused her to pronounce her words somewhat after this fashion:

"Naow be the gospil banner
I-n'every lan-d'unfurl';
An' be the shout hosanner
Re-yeehoed raound the worl'."

Auntie Barber was fond of singing, and sang loud. Then there was Uncle Charlie Bennett, who had a deep bass voice, and who always sang a note below the key, making a distinct heavy monotone of growl, all on one note, and who frequently paused in the middle of a line to clear his throat with an "Ahem-h-e-m," then quickened his growl to catch up, and come in triumphant on the last word.

This is only a hint of the peculiarities of our music.

The day came when our exasperated young people arose en masse and declared it was not in human nature to endure such tortures longer.

No doubt this climax was hastened by the fact that the church had received a thorough renovation—fresh carpets, fresh paint, modernized pulpit, even a new minister. What better time to introduce a thorough change in the music?

The modern element prevailed. A congregational meeting was held, in which, after much discussion, and not without a sharp word or two, the matter was put into the hands of a committee, every one of them young people, without instructions, to perfect their plans and report them at a called meeting.

The young people lost no time; in fact they had known just what they wanted to do at least three weeks before the meeting was called. There was a certain Theodore Pemberton in town, a clerk in one of the drug stores, who was a perfectly elegant singer, and the way he sang:

"I wander alone, my love, to-night"

was enough to draw tears from the heart of a stone. Then, he was an excellent leader. He actually drilled a chorus in Grandville to sing one of the most difficult operas in the list, and they say that every member of his chorus cried when they found he was coming away. And if Grandville thought so highly of him, he must be superior.

It was the unanimous opinion of the young people that the immaculate Theodore should be invited to take charge of the music in their church, and be allowed to follow out his own ideas. Then they would have music worth hearing.

This report was followed by much discussion. There were difficulties which presented themselves to the minds of some. First and foremost, money. Brother Hoarding did not consider it just the thing to pay people for singing the praises of God. But then, Brother Hoarding believed that everything connected with the church should be free as air—always excepting the oil for the lamps, which was bought from his store, and the wood for the stoves, which was chopped from his wood lots. So, really, Brother Hoarding's opinion did not weigh as much as it might. The truth is, Auntie Barber put in her weak word at this point. "I always love to sing," she said; "and I always sang the air in our choir when I was a girl, and nobody thought of paying for it. But then, times is changed; and I ain't one of them that think it's a sin to spend money paying folks for giving of their time and their talents for the church. If this young man will spend his Saturday evenings in teachin' folks how to sing better, why shouldn't he be paid for it? The Lord's people ain't paupers!"

"Free-will offerings, Sister Barber," spoke up Brother Hoarding, in a good, strong voice; "freewill offerings. That is what the church should have."

"Well, I don't know. Why in the singin' any more than in kerosene and wood and sich things?"

Auntie Barber couldn't sing; I will insist that she couldn't; but she could reason, bless her! And her keen, clear eyes saw through the films of selfishness and penuriousness wherever found. The committee of young people looked over at her and smiled and nodded approvingly. They had found an unexpected ally.

Here Deacon Turner put in a demur. He had no objection to a church spending money for music, provided they had it to spend; but did the brethren think that in their condition, with a larger salary to raise, and the home mission collection not yet taken, and new books to pay for, they ought to put in an extra bill for music?

Now, this argument might have had more weight, but for the fact that Deacon Turner was in the mood to want all the money given to foreign missions when the subject of home missions was broached, and he wanted it given to the library, or the salary, or some other needy cause, when the question of foreign missions was before them. Anything but the matter in hand, was Deacon Turner's motto.

I have not time to give you all the pros and cons of that discussion; but the result was a partial vote to invite Theodore Pemberton to take charge of their music.

Great was the joy of the young people. So pleased were they with Auntie Barber that they gave kindly answer to her somewhat timidly put question:

"I suppose he is a good young man?"

"Oh, dear, yes! Judge Bourne said his habits were very correct, indeed; noticeably so for a young man in his position. Those were Judge Bourne's very words."

"Yes—but I meant—you know—I hope he is a Christian?"

"Well, as to that, I believe he is not a church member; but he respects religion. Why, when he put his price so very low, he said it was for the sake of the cause. 'We must work cheap for the cause, you know,' he said, and he smiled very pleasantly. I am sure that sounds Christian-like."

Auntie Barber sighed a little. She could not be certain from that remark that the young man served the Lord.

"Besides," said little Miss Parker briskly, "it will be a help to him, you know; he isn't very regular in his attendance at church; no young men are, nowadays. I think it will be doing a good deed to put him in a position where he will feel obliged to be in church."

Over this idea, Auntie Barber went home to think, and the triumphant committee went to formally invite Mr. Pemberton.

The next Sabbath morning, it must be confessed that our church was unusually full, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the choir gallery, which was just back of the pulpit, and had for several years been vacant. All the seats were filled now, with bright, expectant faces. Mr. Pemberton believed in a chorus choir, and had been prodigal in his invitations. All the pretty girls he knew had been cordially asked to come and help sing.

Auntie Barber looked up at the rows of faces with a benignant smile.

"The young folks like it," she murmured, "and it ain't a bad looking sight. They'll drown'd our voices, and that will be all right. I've been most afraid this good while that I sung too loud, for I s'pose my voice is getting old, but now I needn't be afraid of troubling anybody."

"You'll have to permit congregational singing," explained lively Miss Parker to Mr. Pemberton, at their first rehearsal. "It was the only ground on which the innovation was permitted, that the choir should simply lead the congregation. It's in the charter, or the constitution, or something; no, the man who gave the organ, fifty years or so ago, stipulated that there should always be congregational singing."

"Oh, certainly," said the affable Mr. Pemberton; "we'll simply lead the congregation; that is all in the world we propose to do; they may sing to their heart's content." And he twinkled his handsome eyes, and looked so good-naturedly about him, that the girls voted him "perfectly delightful."

So now everything was in readiness, and the pastor was reading the hymn:

"All hail the power of Jesus' name;
Let angels prostrate fall;
Bring forth the royal diadem
And crown Him Lord of all."

"Coronation!" Auntie Barber's special favorite, and the tune to which Uncle John Bennett always growled his heaviest bass. Old Deacon Slocumb, the former leader, adjusted his spectacles, found the place and meekly waited. He was about to sing the songs of Zion in a strange land, or at least under strange circumstances; but he loved the service, and struggled for a meek and quiet spirit.

And the song burst forth. Coronation indeed! Old Coronation was hoary-haired when the tune was born. How it rolled and swelled in triumph through the astonished church!

"All hail!" said the tenor in clear, full tones. "All hail!" repeated the bass in voice of thunder. "All hail!" shrieked the soprano in full volume, followed hard after by the alto, who would not be outdone; and then the entire strength of the choir took up the words and shouted and roared, "All hail the power!" Then, wonderful to relate, went back to the "All hail" and did it over. About this time Auntie Barber had reached, through much quavering, the last word of the second line, then lifted her bewildered eyes to the choir and listened.

"I must have lost the place," she meekly said. Even yet, it had not occurred to her that the choir could possibly be singing anything but Coronation to those words!

As for Deacon Slocumb, he took off his spectacles, carefully wiped and re-adjusted them, and was looking for his place again by the time the choir reached the word "power." They finished the line in unison, then went off into a whirl of ecstasy over the angels. "Let a-a-a angels—" sang one part, "prostrate fall, FALL, FALL," thundered another part; until Joe Slocumb, the Deacon's graceless son, looked about him and grinned, and wondered where they were falling to!

Before this time Uncle Charlie's growl had been vanquished, and Deacon Slocumb's book was closed; and dear Auntie Barber, although she kept her book open and her meek eyes fixed on the page, knew that Coronation had gone far beyond her reach.

The triumphant choir swept through to the close, and seated themselves in smiling satisfaction.

"I'm sure we led the congregation," whispered Mr. Pemberton into the ear of the first soprano. "They can't complain of our part of the contract."

And that entire company let itself explode into a succession of giggles, over the peculiar aptness of the text at that moment announced: "He leadeth me by a way that I have not known."

"That's as true as preaching!" whispered the leader of the choir, and then that ripple of laughter went again through the triumphant company.

CHAPTER II.

THIS was the beginning, but by no means the end. The smiling Theodore was a perfect gentleman, no doubt, as regarded affability of manners, and he carried his point, whatever it was, by sheer good-natured audacity, but reverence for the house of God seemed to have no place in his nature.

When he wanted to hum a new tune during prayer time, why he hummed the tune, in decorous undertone, it is true, and looking perfectly good-natured the while; but to hum tunes and turn leaves seemed to be the gentlemanly Theodore's idea of decorum in prayer time. Indeed, as time passed this grew to be by no means the most trying part of the proceedings of the choir. It became necessary to transact a great deal of business after the services had fairly commenced. It suited the leader's idea to sometimes change the tune but the moment before singing, and of course the whispered word had to be passed down the choir. This proceeding served as a sufficient explanation or excuse whenever one of the more daring spirits ventured to criticise: "Why we have to consult, of course. What would you have us do?—Sing hap-hazard? Why must there always be such a fuss made over the consultation of singers? Deacon Simmons can squeak down the aisle and consult with the Brother Sharp about the hour for prayer meeting, in a whisper which can be heard all over the room; and it is all right; but the moment one of the choir ventures a whisper, people act as though we had committed the unpardonable sin." This will serve as a specimen of the spirit in which criticisms were received. Generally the fault-finders-were subdued by these hints of volcanic eruptions, and did not venture to explain that Deacon Simmons and Brother Sharp were never caught giggling behind their fans, nor, however loud their whispers, no such sentences as these floated through the room from their lips: "Have a chocolate drop? Chocolate's good for the voice, you know;" or, "Isn't the sermon dreadfully long drawn out this morning? I do wish he'd get through."

The winter waned, and the good-natured Theodore kept his position, and introduced innovation after innovation in his gentlemanly way, until it is a wonder the old church knew itself. Among other things the old reed organ, which had done good service for several years, was pronounced a wheezy, squeaky, harsh-throated old thing; in which opinion let me hasten to confess my sympathy. I had no love for that organ, which, when all the stops were out, had the power to drown any voice, however sweet. It was declared that a pipe organ was the only thing fit for a church, anyway; and here, again, I must admit that my heart approved. I love the music of a pipe organ.

It was found that a certain church, known to the friendly Theodore, was about to set up a new organ, and would dispose of their old one, purely out of consideration for the said Theodore, at a very low figure indeed. And our choir, which could be very enthusiastic indeed when it chose, declared its intention of raising enough money, forthwith, for that organ.

Vigorously did they set to work. A busy winter we had of it. And by pop-corn parties, and white-apron parties, mid post-offices, and prize pincushions, and grab-bags, necktie sociables, and sheet and pillow-case sociables, and every other kind of sociable or game of grab which was ever invented, the organ fund actually swelled to respectable proportions. Never was a busier winter, nor a more popular man than the gentlemanly leader of our choir. His good nature and his self-sacrifice knew no bounds. Indeed, the young people were all self-sacrificing. They sacrificed the prayer meeting, and the mission band, and the reading circle, and almost everything else except the skating rink, in their zeal for the pipe organ. "It is all for the sake of the cause, you know," grew to be the motto of the young people, and it was really wonderful what marvels of ingenuity they became!

And they succeeded; just as a band of young people, plunged heart and soul into anything, are almost certain to succeed. The everlasting pity is that so often success is not worth the price paid!

But there came a happy day in which the pipe organ was set up by skilled hands in our church, and the Sabbath following the choir outdid themselves. It was long since Auntie Barber had attempted to sing; but on this particular day she was seen moving her lips. She explained it afterwards. "The critter rolled so loud, and the girls all sang so high, that I just put in Old Hundred, softly, because I wanted to have a share in the praising. I thought nobody would mind. They drownded it, you know."

But Auntie Barber was mistaken; the echo of her tremulous notes:

"'Praise Him all creatures here below,'"

went up to Heaven, and the angels minded it very much. And the good-natured Theodore happened to notice the movement of her lips, and whispered to the first soprano during an organ interlude:

"Look at old Auntie Barber mouthing it; won't she have a time, though, keeping up with the next strain!"

Whereat the first soprano giggled, and whispered to the second soprano, who giggled, and passed the whisper down the line, and all were so much amused that they liked not to have been ready for the next strain, which ran so high that they expected to leave old Auntie in the lurch. But this time the gentlemanly Theodore was mistaken. Old Auntie's mouthing reached higher than any strain of music his small soul had ever felt.

Whether the pipe organ was at fault, or whatever was the cause of it, hilarity seemed to develop in our choir, during the spring, to a really alarming extent. The gentlemanly Theodore took to writing notes, not always about the next selection, as was proved by finding one or two ran thus:

"Father Stearns didn't approve of our last effort. Notice his face; it looks as though he had eaten a ten-penny nail preserved in vinegar."

At another time a paper containing advice as to the next selection was found, and read as follows:

"If Dr. Prosy ever subsides, let's sing 'Oh, long expected day begin,' as more appropriate to our feelings than the one we have chosen."

Those notes, of course, had to travel the entire length of the large choir, and great was the amusement created; fans, handkerchiefs and hymn books were in constant requisition to cover the explosions of untimely mirth.

There were also sundry little private missives, passed by the leader to his special favorites, which, of course, must be answered; and as there were young men in the choir who had favorites, and as a leader is to be followed of course, this form of entertainment became very popular.

The gentlemanly Theodore also developed artistic talent, and adorned the fly-leaves of his note book with certain photographs labeled "The Deacon in the dumps," or "Old Auntie in a seraphic state;" and down the line would be passed the caricature of Deacon Slocumb with his chin dropped into his shirt collar, his thumbs interlocked in the act of twirling, and a frown on his forehead so deep that it seemed to cast a shadow over his whole face. Then dear old Auntie Barber's face would travel from one simpleton to another— her rather old-fashioned black bonnet exaggerated until it was larger and queerer than any she ever thought of wearing, and yet looking enough like it to suggest the old lady, even though her placid face hadn't peeped out from under it, her head slightly thrown back, her eyes closed, a pair of immense spectacles pushed up on her forehead, and a sort of exaggeration of satisfaction on her old face; the whole calculated to make the young and heedless laugh. It was really a good comic likeness of the old lady; there is no denying that the affable Theodore had other than musical talent. But there was that about the picture, after all, which it seemed to me was calculated to make a young person who had a dear old mother flush with indignation.

It always seemed to me a bad sign to see people amused with caricatures of good, pure old faces.

I don't remember how long the members of our choir indulged in these various entertainments; but I know that, as the weeks went by, they waxed bolder and bolder. Candies, nuts, and even lemons, circulated freely; notes were industriously written and boldly passed, and the whispering became almost incessant. The fact was, our choir was becoming noted for something besides its music; some of us were actually ashamed to take a guest to church with us, lest our choir might shock them. Well do I remember the Sunday on which the crisis came.

The whispering had been almost incessant during the first part of the sermon, and more than once an audible chuckle had rippled down to those who sat nearest. The minister, good, long-suffering man, tried earnestly not to let his annoyance be seen; but he had borne a great deal; and those who knew him well watched anxiously the steadily rising flush on his unusually pale face. Once he stopped in the middle of a sentence, and waited for full half a minute, which of course seemed to us anxious ones like half an hour, for the whispering behind him to cease. I do not know to this day whether it was unusual and almost unaccountable heedlessness, or a spirit of defiant recklessness, which took possession of our choir for the rest of the morning. Whatever it was, Satan must have been proud of them, for certainly he had it very much his own way among most of them. Suddenly the minister made another ominous pause; so sudden was the silence that part of the loud whisper behind him was heard in the still church; "Tell him I'll flat in the next hymn awfully if he doesn't—"

CHAPTER III.

WE never knew what the accomplished flatter wanted when she spoke out in meeting. She became suddenly aware that the noise just below her had ceased. The minister turned slowly around and faced his tormentors, and into that tremendous silence came his voice: "I shall have to ask the members of the choir to desist from whispering during the sermon; else it will be impossible for me to continue."

Had an angel from Heaven appeared suddenly among us, more startled quiet could not have ensued. The members of the choir did not even dare to glance at one another. One by one their faces dropped behind book or fan or handkerchief, and some of them, at least, shed indignant tears. The minister continued his sermon, and perhaps somebody listened, but Uncle Charlie Bennett cleared his throat several times, with hoarse growls, a way he had when much agitated; and Auntie Barber fanned violently, though the day was cool. As for the affable Theodore, he presently took his hat, and slipped quietly and decorously from a side door; and part of the choir rendered the last hymn as best they could without him.

What a week was that which followed. The whole town was in a ferment, and seethed and boiled in an alarming manner. The choir was large, and many homes had been touched. There was every shade and grade of indignation and disapprobation expressed concerning the minister, from the extreme wrath of Miss Armitage, the first soprano, who thought that "after insulting half his congregation, he ought never to be allowed to show his head in the pulpit again," down to patient old Auntie Barber, who said she knew the minister had been dreadfully put to it, poor dear man; she didn't blame him, but then, if he could have spoken to the young things kind of softly, she would have been dreadful glad.

Well, another Sabbath came; and with much fear and trembling we went to church. The minister was in his place as usual; but the long rows of seats behind him were vacant. Not a singer put in an appearance. Here and there through the church were scattered a few of them, seated decorously beside their parents, wearing ominously set lips, which boded silence, so far as they were concerned, but for the most part the choir had followed the example of its leader and remained away from the sanctuary.

The hymn was announced, and read; and silence followed; even the new organ was dumb. The young performer thereon had been one of the most efficient whisperers, and was, of course, aggrieved.

Deacon Slocumb fumbled for the spectacles with which he saw to read, and exchanged for them the spectacles with which he saw the minister and commenced—

"Alas, what hourly dangers rise,
What snares beset my way,"

and suddenly stopped. He had been snared in his haste and perturbation by a long metre tune for this common metre hymn, and it was too long drawn out, even for Auntie Barber, though she quavered in tremulously, on the last word. Of course the members of the choir who were present giggled scornfully, and Joe Slocumb, the wicked, disgraced himself by an audible laugh, but the deacon, red in the face, tried again, and acquitted himself better, and all the congregation lived through that hymn.

Stormy times ensued for our church. In fact there was a time when Satan must have gloried in it, so wonderfully did it live up to his ideas of church management.

Really, it seemed as though the throes of this eruption would rend us to pieces. It had been made plain to the church and the world generally that the long-suffering Mr. Pemberton was now roused. He said with severe dignity that there was a time when patience ceased to be a virtue, and that time had come to him. He had endured enough. He should never enter the doors of that church again, until the minister should either in person or by letter make satisfactory apology to him, and to all the members of his choir, for the insult which they had received. Just what he meant by having "endured enough," or what had so exercised his patience, did not appear. But the roused and indignant Theodore wore all the time a look which translated would have filled volumes. Every member of the choir heartily sympathized with this outburst, and waited for their apology. Now in regard to this apology there was one difficulty. The minister declined to make it! It was not that he was not willing to "become all things to all men," it was not that he did not "study the things which make for peace;" it was simply that he could not very well tell a lie.

He was willing to say that perhaps he had erred in judgment in thus publicly addressing the choir; though even here, in justice to the truth, he would have to explain that he had heretofore spoken seriously and gently with several individual members, with no apparent results; and that he came to the serious conclusion that the course he pursued was the best, and perhaps the only one calculated to remove the difficulty.

No explanation of this sort would the affable Theodore admit for a moment. The minister must say in so many words that he was sorry and ashamed for his sin in thus publicly disgracing his choir, or the choir would refuse to perform, and Mr. Pemberton would never again enter the church. As I said, there was a constitutional and moral objection on the part of our minister to this decision, so it seemed to be necessary for the accommodating Theodore to stay without.

Several miserable weeks ensued, during which time our music was at its worst. It had not even the redeeming feature of being enjoyed by Deacon Slocumb and Auntie Barber. The Deacon sang under protest; and dear old Auntie seemed to understand that her voice was in disgrace, and wailed forth her notes with a tremulousness not all due to age. It was during this time that certain of us made a discovery as to why our congregational singing was so unusually poor. It was apparent that the fresh young voices which had rolled out so jubilantly from the choir seats were absolutely dumb when they were scattered about in the congregation. Look where you would, during Deacon Slocumb's struggles with a tune, and among the young people you would find only apathetic faces and closed lips. They could sing like birds, but they would not.

In due course of time the important question, "What shall be done about our church music?" came up again for official discussion. Some things which we could not do were plain. We could not again enjoy the services of the good-natured Theodore. Not only did he refuse to yield one inch of his dignity, but the triumphant hour came when he refused to return, even though a dozen apologies were furnished him. He declared with dignity that he had waited a reasonable time for advances, and could not be expected to do more. Certain wise ones hinted, however, that the real reason was because the Park Street church had borne him off in triumph, at an advance of fifty dollars on his salary.

In the midst of our perplexities came a ray light in the shape of H. Beethoven Smith, the common-placeness of the surname being utterly lost in the melody of the given names, "Handel Beethoven." He, too, was a newcomer, and came heralded as a musical genius of no common order. It was represented that a wonderful series of accidental, not to say providential, circumstances had given us opportunity to secure his services.

In fact the incidents which seemed to point in the direction of Handel Beethoven Smith became so marked that it would have seemed almost like a tempting of Providence to ignore them. Yet there were difficulties in the way. In the first place, he demanded a much larger salary than had satisfied the genial Theodore; and, in the second place, it was rumored that he had in time past lent the glory of his voice to an opera troupe. But with perseverance these and other difficulties were overcome, and Prof. Handel Beethoven Smith was duly installed as leader of our choir.

Prosperity seemed to crown our efforts. The members of the choir came trooping back; it was folly to nurse their wrath to the extent of losing such an opportunity as this. But we had hardly settled into calm, when it became apparent that it was a deceitful calm.

CHAPTER IV.

HANDEL BEETHOVEN SMITH proved to be of uncertain temper. At times he was sullen, or sarcastic, and he was always severe. He would not have this, and he would have that. He told the leading bass that his voice sounded like a trombone, without its correctness of pitch. He said the Emmons girls had harsh, grating voices, and that Carrie Fowler's singing reminded him of a certain rooster which used to disturb his morning slumbers. You hardly need to be told the results of all this. They became apparent to us by degrees. One by one the choir grew smaller. The leading bass accepted an invitation elsewhere. The Emmons girls felt their throats needed rest from regular singing. Cissy Burton decided that she preferred a seat by mamma. Poor Cissy was a nervous little thing, her mother said, quite unused to Mr. Smith's brusque ways; dear Mr. Pemberton had always been so considerate of people's feelings. It is true that Mr. Smith had been rather brusque. He told her savagely one day that she was always half a tone behind, and sang with no more expression than a hand-organ! Nor was it the choir alone, who were the subjects of these home thrusts. Handel Beethoven Smith carried things with a high hand in every direction. He told Dr. Powers, who asked to have the chant, "Suffer little children to come unto me," rendered the Sabbath after the funeral of his little child, that they had sung it but three Sabbaths before at somebody's request, and he couldn't afford to establish such a precedent as that; a leader of a choir couldn't be all the time practising funeral chants because people's babies would die. That "Suffer little children" was nothing but trash, anyway; ought never to be sung; he had strained a point to sing it once, and he didn't mean to get caught in that way again.

I must do Mr. Smith the justice to explain that when he called the chant in question "trash," he referred to the words, not the music. Words were the merest nothings to him; indeed, he had been heard to say that all music ought to be rendered in Italian, that the clumsiness of the English tongue might be lost sight of. Handel Beethoven Smith had a very cultivated ear.

Dr. Powers was by no means the only senior whom Mr. Smith subdued with savage speech. The long-suffering minister ventured one day to suggest to the organist the wish that he would not send the people out of church to the sound of music which seemed to belong to the dance, or the parade, or some festive scene, when the organist assured him that he was himself under orders, that he did not dare to hint to the leader that his soul was his own, much less his fingers. After due consideration, and also after the minister had preached a sermon on the betrayal, and heard a young lady exclaim, as she fluttered down the aisle a few minutes after its solemn closing, "Oh, isn't that music perfectly exquisite! I can hardly keep my feet from whirling off with me in a waltz," he determined to brave the fierce Handel Beethoven himself; and little did he gain by the operation. The great artist informed him that he did not presume to dictate to him what texts he should select, nor, indeed, how long he should make his discourses; however much he might dislike their length, he was in the habit of leaving that matter entirely to the minister's judgment, and he desired and expected to be treated in the same way as regarded the music. If the minister would see to it that his part of the service was properly managed, be sure that he, Handel Beethoven Smith, was entirely capable of attending to his part.

Neither did the constant resignations from the choir apparently disturb the leader in the least. Indeed, he sometimes, with an approach to almost complaisance, remarked that they were well rid of such an one, and the choir improved with each departure. He had no very high opinion of chorus choirs, anyway; you could never do really classic work with a mixed chorus.

He imported in the place of the irate bass singer a young man with a faultless voice and dress. To be sure, this importation created dismay; it was whispered abroad that the owner of the divine voice supported himself by selling fancy liquors in a fashionable up-town saloon! Could it be endured that he should roll out the praises of God in our choir on Sundays, and deal out liquid death to our young men during the week? There were many who thought it could not, and Deacon Slocumb was appointed chairman of a committee to interview the savage leader, who, after hearing his somewhat lengthy complaint, silenced him with the severe statement: "You are laboring under a foolish mistake, Deacon Slocumb. I engaged the young man because of his voice, not because of his business. He does not sell his fancy drinks in our choir on Sunday, and it is a form of business which has not, as yet, affected his throat. He has a very cultured voice, which can be said of very few singers in this town, I assure you; music is at a very low ebb here, and lower nowhere than in your church. I tell you frankly I do not think there is a man among you who knows real music when he hears it, and therefore it is absurdly impossible that you should be permitted to dictate to me."

The deacon was silenced, but not convinced. Still, we had been through such seas of trouble with our choir that we trembled at the thought of touching it. And then, there was dear old Auntie Barber, who murmured: "Well, the young man gets to church twice a day by this means; and they do say he hasn't been in the habit of going to church for years. If he has a mother, poor soul, she must be glad of something that brings him within sound of the Gospel." And yet Auntie Barber remembered, within her honest, sinking heart, how they had rejoiced in bringing the affable Theodore under the sound of the Gospel, and how disastrous had been the apparent results.

There came a morning in our church which I am inclined to think was a triumph to our highly cultivated leader. One by one the chorus had slipped away, until now there were left just four singers—the leading soprano, the best alto we had, the divine bass voice of the saloon clerk, and for tenor, Handel Beethoven himself. That he was satisfied with the situation he showed in his face, and the first piece they rendered certainly astonished the congregation. Joe Slocumb, who was learning to take notes of what was said and sung, for the benefit of the dear old grandma at home, gave the following copy of the words:

"Whytee ugh seeeepro take tip ou-ou-ou-ouur
Beem I'ven wiiiish us till,
Nan mate is conseek raaateee tower,
We uth beeeta ropes by Phil."

In vain did grandma don her spectacles and study carefully for a familiar word. Then she laid the paper down with a sigh and a protest:

"I didn't think, Joe, that you would be for playing tricks on your old grandma."

Then Joe, virtuous and indignant: "I didn't, Grandma, do any such thing. Them's the very words, jist as near as I can make them out. It wasn't a piece the minister read; they just squealed it out, without anybody telling what it was; and if them ain't the words, then it didn't have any words."

By all of which I trust you will understand how entirely Handel Beethoven Smith succeeded in training his choir to overcome the clumsiness of the English language.

CHAPTER V.

BUT, alas for us, the day of peace was not yet!

It took a great deal to satisfy our leader, and he sat down after his last effort, gloomy and unsatisfied. His fierce brows remained drawn and unbending during the entire service. Almost before the "amen" of the benediction was pronounced, he expressed his mind, quite loud enough for the soprano to hear: "It is of no use to bring classic music into this choir; the singers are not equal to it. After all our drill, that A was flatted wretchedly! This is the last time; I shall never again attempt anything but the most ordinary psalm tune."

I regret that I cannot give you his rendering of the word "psalm." It was spoken as though the "ordinary psalm tune" was the lowest and most discouraging of all human productions, and to be reduced to the necessity of singing it conferred a degree of self-abasement below which it would be hard to fall.

Alas for our leading soprano! It was she who had flatted that miserable "A." It was she whose cheeks now glowed a painful crimson as she listened to the stinging criticism. It was also she who handed in her written resignation to Handel Beethoven that very afternoon, couched in language which he could not fail to understand. Since she, who had for years borne the name of being the most correct singer in town, and of having an unusually pure soprano voice, could not give him satisfaction, she was more than willing to resign her seat, and let him fill it when and where he could.

Over this note Handel Beethoven did look thoughtful. Soprano singers whom he could control were certainly growing scarce.

In his perplexity, he actually consulted Deacon Slocumb, or, at least, he grumbled before him to the effect that he didn't know what they were going to do, as their soprano had a severe attack of ill humor. He presumed he could hardly be expected to manufacture sopranos to order, free of charge; though almost everything else was expected of him. If the church had a paid quartette choir, as it ought to have, all these nuisances would be avoided.

Deacon Slocumb had no word to offer, but when was dear old Auntie Barber other than sympathetic in any form of trouble? She, waiting in the aisle, overheard the grumbler, opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it and moved on, then turned back and stood in the leader's way, wrapping and unwrapping her hymn hook in a painfully embarrassed manner. She was very shy of Handel Beethoven.

"Well," he said in a surly tone, "do you want anything?"

Then Auntie Barber found voice. Mrs. Adams, her neighbor, had a niece visiting her, a young thing from Boston, who sang around the house like a lark, and Mrs. Adams told her they set store by her in a church in Boston; she had come to the country for the summer, to rest, and Auntie Barber did not know but maybe he would like to get her to help him for a little while; at least, she thought it would do no harm to mention it.

Handel Beethoven Smith forgot to thank her, did not relax one muscle of his gloomy face, and merely remarking that because somebody in Boston "set store" by a singer, was no sign that he would be able to tolerate her, brushed past meek old Auntie, and went his way. Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon, he did call on Mrs. Adams, and hold a consultation with the niece from down East.

Evening came, and those who knew of the latest disturbance in our choir, waited, some of them in anxiety, and some in amusement, to see what development we would have next. A little thrill of comfort stole into Auntie Barber's heart as she saw the down East niece in the choir, but the rest of us did not know the fair-faced stranger.

The organ, contrary to its usual manner, was filling the church with slow, sweet sounds, as the people gathered, and then, suddenly, we had a sensation. A voice, sweeter, it seems to me, than could ever have sounded on earth before, rose on the hushed air, and rolled in melody down the aisles, each word as distinctly spoken as though it was a sermon by itself, reached our hearts:

"While Thee I seek, protecting power,
Be my vain wishes stilled,
And may this consecrated hour,
With better hopes be filled."

What was there in that voice to make us feel the solemn hush of the great "protecting power" all around us? Why, under its spell, did we feel our petty strifes and bickerings and jealousies hushing into stillness? How came the longing stealing over us for a higher life, and holier aims, and "better hopes?"

Perhaps none of us understood the "why," but we were under the spell. And certainly none of us knew or even dreamed that we were listening to the same words which Joe Slocumb had taken down verbatim in the morning.

The wonderful voice continued its marvelous sermon:

"Thy love the power of thought, bestowed."

What a wonderful thing to have bestowed upon us, and to what uses had we sometimes put it! But the voice went on:

"To Thee my thoughts would soar."

Oh, yes, gracious, protecting Power, lift Thou our thoughts up into thy plane!

"Thy mercy on my life has flowed,
That mercy I adore."

Did we need a sermon after that? We had had our sermon; and yet, our minister had never preached a better one. We could feel that his faith had soared upward on the wings of that prayer-song, and taken fresh heart for work.

For the first time in our lives we had the pleasure of seeing Handel Beethoven Smith in thoroughly good humor. The wonderful voice which he had invited into his choir shed a reflected glory on him, and filled his small soul with as much elation as it could hold. His expressions of satisfaction might not have sounded remarkable to the fair singer, but for him they really were profuse:

"It is certainly a great pleasure to hear your rendering, after the soul-torturing performances which I have endured so long. I permitted you to use the same selection which we attempted in the morning, in order that this obtuse congregation might feel the difference, if it has any musical taste, which I doubt."

Then was the pretty singer discomfited: "Is it possible I chose something which was sung here this morning? I was not here; I went with Uncle to his church. I wouldn't have done it for the world! I am afraid I hurt somebody's feelings."

Our leader made haste to reassure her. No solo had been attempted; he had been too wise for that. It had only been sung as a quartette; and really, she need not be troubled. Nobody in that congregation knew good singing from bad.

Perhaps there was truth in the statement, but some of the congregation went away that night with a queer feeling tugging at their hearts that their lives, so wonderfully encircled by that Protecting Power, ought to be living exponents of its greatness, as they could but feel they were not.

CHAPTER VI.

THERE was much looking forward to next Sabbath's services, and much eagerness to hear the glorious voice again. And we were not disappointed. With much elation did Mr. Handel Beethoven Smith spread the news. Miss Haviland, of Boston, was in the country for rest, but a little quiet Sunday singing she would not mind in the least: indeed, she would help them all she could; would like to do it. And when Handel Beethoven repeated this gracious acceptance of his invitation, he added thoughtfully that he presumed she would not be sorry to have the benefit of his training for a few weeks, and that it was a comfort to him to feel that he need not accept her help without being able to give a very adequate return. However that was, Miss Alice Haviland made glorious music for us all that Sabbath day.

"She sings like a nightingale," said Deacon Slocumb, "but when I look at her I can't think of nothing but one of them little bright-winged critters who flutter all ways to once."

As for Joe Slocumb, when he tried to describe her to his grandmother, he got no further than to say: "She's all in white, bunnit and all, only some blue ribbons a flying, and fluffy hair, the color of—say, Grandmother, do you s'pose the angels wear hair, and ribbons and things?"

A second Sabbath came and almost passed. The hush of the Sabbath evening was upon us. Our church was very full; people not accustomed to church-going had been drawn in to hear the singer whom we were all beginning to understand was wonderful. We had almost held our breaths that evening in the fear that she would not be there. For she came a trifle late, and looked flushed, and troubled. But she sang the soprano in the opening hymns with her usual power, then dropped back into her seat, and some of us noticed that she kept her eyes shaded by her hand during the entire sermon. Mr. Smith touched her hand just before its close and whispered: "The doctor wants you to sing this as a solo. The words are mere doggerel, but the music will set off your voice to good advantage."

Her face, which had grown pale, flushed a little over that; and I knew her afterwards well enough to understand that she would have refused to sing it, had not the minister's name been in the direction. She took it, however, without demur, and presently her marvelous voice filled the church:

"Take my life, and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.
Take my hands and let them move
At the impulse of Thy love."

Each word as distinctly enunciated as though the singer was reciting them. On, through the description of mental and physical powers, until she reached the words:

"Take my voice, and let me sing,
Always, only for my King."

She was singing from sheet music, and the arrangement was such that the word "voice" rolled up into the higher notes, strong and pure, as though the singer would reach up, even to the throne, with the offering.

"Take my voice, and—"

Suddenly the singer faltered, the voice ceased. The organ, which had been keeping only a modest undertone of accompaniment, hurried into the melody, the player striking the chords with firm hand, as though to encourage the singer, but in vain. She only looked pleadingly at the leader and shook her head. And the minister who had been listening with closed eyes, and a heart attuned to the words wafted to him, caught the pleading look, and, rising, lifted his hands in benediction.

Following hard on the "amen" came questions. Anxious friends had hurried to the choir gallery. "What is it?" "Were you faint?" "Get her a glass of water." "Where's a fan?" "Do you feel sick?"

She turned from them toward the leader: "Mr. Smith, I am very sorry, but, indeed, I could not sing it; those words are awful!"

"Words!" he said, in high indignation. "Is it possible you stopped for them? I told you they were mere doggerel. It was the marvelous tune, and your voice fits it. What are words?"

She shivered as she answered him: "Words are awful, Mr. Smith—those words are. I could not speak them. Think of me calling God to witness that I give Him my voice, to sing only for Him, when I never sang a line for Him in my life!

"'Always, only for my King!'

"And I have never owned Him as my King! I tell you I could not speak those words. It is mockery. And, oh! How much of it I have done. It is all mockery; I do not mean any of it."

And she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.

Utter, silent consternation took possession of us. Not one seemed to know what word to offer.

But there was more than consternation on the face of Handel Beethoven Smith, and he was the first to regain power of speech as he turned to move away:

"Well, I had supposed myself familiar with all the forms of hysteria in which lady singers can indulge, but this is new!"

The minister had come to offer sympathy, but had been struck dumb by the singer's outcry. But now he rallied:

"My dear young lady, there is a remedy for your trouble. He is ready to blot out all the past. Will you give your voice to Him for the future?"

The rest of us were moving away, but the singer suddenly arrested us again. She seemed not to have heard the minister; but at that moment she caught sight of the wistful old face of Auntie Barber.

"Auntie—Auntie Barber," she said, springing up, and leaning over the choir rail, "Wait! I want to see you." And then she vanished from our sight.

CHAPTER VII.

IT was some weeks afterwards that I heard from Alice herself the rest of the story.

On that Sabbath afternoon she had been bustling about her room making ready for the evening service, singing snatches of sacred song, with no more thought of the words than had the wood robin just then singing his evening song. "I never thought words," she vehemently told me; "they had always seemed to me like so much necessary machinery on which to exhibit the tune."

While she fluttered from bureau to dressing table, then loitered a moment by the open window trilling her song, from the open window of the next house, separated from her only by a narrow passage way, came a voice, distinct and tremulous with earnestness. It took but a moment to realize that it was Auntie Barber at prayer.

"And I heard her pray for me," said Alice, her voice awe-stricken as she told of it. "You never heard such a prayer! At least, I never have. I was not used to hearing people pray for me. And she asked the Lord to get me ready to sing with the angels. Think how that must have made me feel! I, who had never thought about angels, and was afraid to die, and afraid to hear about death! But she prayed more than that. She asked God to let me sing for some soul that night; sing it a song that would make it want Christ for a friend. Think of it; I sing for a soul! It frightened me. I turned from that window feeling all white and faint. I thought I could not sing at all, and yet I must. But I cannot describe to you what an evening it was. I could not get away from that prayer. It seemed to float all about me. Try as I would, I could not put it aside. What if Auntie Barber's prayer should be answered, and I should sing some soul into peace with God, and there was I, afraid of Him! But that last hymn just stabbed me. Standing up there, all alone, and singing those awful words:

"'Take my voice, and let me sing
'Always, only for my King.'

"It seemed to me that I mocked Him with the words; that I had always been mocking Him, and I was afraid. I had just found out that it was a fearful thing to be able to sing. You remember that I called out to Auntie Barber as she passed, and went away with her? But I said hardly anything to her that I meant to. I began: 'O, Auntie Barber, you don't know me. You think I sing for God, but I don't. I've been mocking Him with just words all my life, and I am frightened, frightened!' She interrupted me just there.

"'Dear heart,' she said, 'He knows all about you, and he loves you, and is waiting for you. Come in, and tell Him the whole story.' And she drew me into that very room where she had prayed for me!

"The rest of the story isn't long to tell," said Alice, smiling on me with eyes that glistened; "but it will take eternity to live it! I finished the hymn that evening in Auntie Barber's room:

"'Take myself, and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee!"

And she meant the words.

I wish I had time to tell you the rest of the story about our church choir. Once more it was reconstructed. He declared that all our singers were either ill-humored or hysterical, and every one of them flatted.

Then our Boston guest took up the burden. For three weeks she preached the Gospel to us in song, alone, utterly unsustained, save by the organist, who bravely held the fort with her. During those three weeks she worked. She gathered the girls about her—those elements of power in every church, if they were only understood. "Let us have a new choir," she said; "let us take this for our motto:

"'Take my voice, and let me sing
Ever, only for my King.'"

She printed those words in illuminated text, and framed them and hung them in the choir gallery.

In process of time they found a leader, one who was willing to sing by the new motto. I will not tell the story; it is long. But, in its details, it shows what we each need to more fully realize; the power of reconstruction which lies in one young consecrated life. Three months our borrowed songstress stayed with us, and when she went away she left our choir singing by the motto; the essential difference between their music and all others which we had ever enjoyed being embodied in that one brief sentence: They meant the words.

The last time I heard Alice Haviland sing was in our church, on a week-day afternoon, just as the autumn leaves were beginning to fall. She stood near to an open coffin, in which lay an old, worn body, a wrinkled face, crowned with white satin hair, and the most reposeful smile that ever Auntie Barber's dear old face had ever worn. And the young singer, looking down on the quiet sleeper, breathed out the words to wondrous melody:

"Forever with the Lord,
Amen, so let it be;
Life from the dead is in that word,
'Tis immortality.

"Servant of Christ, well done;
Praise be thy new employ;
And while eternal ages run.
Rest in thy Saviour's joy."

And as the voice ceased, and the singer turned toward me with tear-dimmed eyes, while they closed the coffin-lid, she murmured: "I am sure Auntie Barber has already joined the choir. Her soul was just full of song. And, oh! How she can sing now. And she will always mean the words."

HIS FRIEND.

———

CHAPTER I.

IT would have puzzled many of his friends to understand what possible interest Mr. Thornton could have had in the old cottage which he stood surveying. What was there in the dingy, cobwebby place to call for so much thought as he seemed to be putting upon it? He was not a real estate agent estimating its value, nor a mechanic contriving how he might make it good as new; for his cultured face had not the sharp business look of the one, neither did his elegant attire belong to the latter. The old place might have been picturesque in its day, but now the luxuriant growth of lawn and garden were all in a tangle; the maples and elms were locking arms, and that "gadding vine," the woodbine, had strayed away to the top of the tall hemlock.

It may be that Mr. Thornton was musing upon the possibilities of the forlorn little house, thinking it pitiful that even houses, trees and vines should not make the most of themselves. He had a passion for bringing up human ruins from depths of sin. It would not be strange if this divine outgoing widened and extended to inanimate things.

People said that Mr. Thornton was very peculiar. He puzzled the world in which he moved in more ways than one. It was incomprehensible to them why a man with thousands to bestow in charity, did not sit in his easy chair, and with a few flourishes of his pen make munificent gifts to public institutions, which would trumpet his praises far and near, instead of giving it out in driblets as he did, and half of the time nobody ever heard of it, except by chance; giving himself such extra trouble, too, hunting out objects of charity that nobody else would ever think of. Ah! That was just what he did accomplish; things that most people would not think of doing; little helps given here and there, tiding a discouraged man over it rough spot, saving the home to a widow, giving a month's rest to a poor sewing woman, a barrel of flour or load of coal to a family suddenly driven to straits who would starve rather than beg. And money was not all he gave; no one but God and themselves ever knew how he followed young men in and out, bringing them back from the very door of the pit to respectability and to Christ.

Among the poorest classes he was a most successful worker, because, like his Master, he brought not only the bread of life, but also the material, homely loaf for fainting bodies.

Whatever could possess one of intellectual tastes, with wealth and leisure and the wide world before him to spend time in such a strange way? People who could see no farther than the outside said that he wanted to be a sort of patron saint to the unfortunate; others explained it by that convenient word "eccentric." That which really was the true motive power of this life they could not understand or appreciate.

Every person finds his greatest pleasure in some particular way. It was natural for Mr. Thornton to find his in making others happy. As a boy, he often gave a bit of silver to a beggar or a rose to a forlorn woman, because he so loved to see the face change from dullness to glad surprise. Of late years, though, there had come into his life something stronger and purer as a controlling power. He had been taken into near companionship with the Lord Jesus. He consulted with him in every small affair of his life, and received special guidance, consequently he had no worries and anxieties; he was under orders, not as servant only,— it was more as one might carry out the least wish of a dear absent friend. The beneficence that flowed from his purse was simply dispensing another's bounty. Every flower or kind word bestowed, were the cups of cold water given in the Friend's name, for none of which he claimed merit.

After many years spent abroad Mr. Thornton had returned to his native city. This neglected cottage, along with other pieces of property, had fallen into his hands at the death of an old aunt, and with the rest had much needed his attention for some time past. It was an old-fashioned house with low ceilings, small windows, wide fireplaces and broad hearthstones. Outside, there were broad verandas, a garden full of roses, shrubs and vines; a disorderly mass now, but capable of being a delight.

True to himself, he immediately set to work—in imagination—transforming the shabby house into a thing of beauty. His artistic eye could see how charming the parlor would be with the sunlight and the roses peeping through white-curtained windows, the lawn a velvety green, cleared of all but one grand oak, and the garden with trained vines and trimmed walks. What wonders might not paper, and paint, and pruning-knife accomplish! He grew enthusiastic over it as he went on. But what of it all when it was finished? It would be easy to give it into the hands of an agent to dispose of, and so have no further trouble about it, but he had an impression that in some way this house might be used for the comfort and help of some one in the Father's family, and he resolved to dedicate it to that purpose.

He sat on the porch and thought it all out while the shadows of the vines danced over him and the morning-glories nodded approvingly. Yes, he would make the place fresh and fair, and it should be to refresh the heart of some old saint who was homeless and friendless, with nothing left but memories of the past and hopes of the future.

"She will train these vines into orderliness and sit with her knitting in this shade," he said to himself, as he turned the key in lock and went his way. So eager was he to have the work commenced that he brought out his knife and clipped disorderly branches from the sweet-brier that overhung the gateway as he passed through.

The vacant cottage stood on a pleasant street that stretched itself on out into the country, and Mr. Thornton, lured by the beauty of the autumn days and the flaming colors hung out on a piece of woods not far distant, turned his steps thitherward, pausing a moment on the brow of the hill to take in all the beauty. He was rewarded by a tableau of surprising loveliness. Nature, growing lavish with the dying year, had again festooned the old tree trunks and brown limbs with royal hangings. Red maples, yellow elms and the pine's dark green, wove such tapestry of gorgeous tints and rare blending as Persian looms might assay in vain to imitate.

Under one of the maples, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the bright branches, was a young girl. The little figure was trim and neat in soft gray suit and well-fitting thick boots. She was no sylph-like maiden that a breath might blow away. Every curve of her form was instinct with life and energy, yet the attitude was the personification of grace. Her broad-brimmed hat had fallen back on her shoulders, and the upturned face was eager and rosy as a child's as she reached a plump hand far above her head, and almost grasped the coveted scarlet branch; like a child's, too, in the wave of disappointment that swept over it when she found her utmost efforts unavailing. She picked up the basket at her feet, already half filled with ferns, and moved on a few steps; then her face glowed again, and her eyes beamed on some new discovery. This was apparently no city maiden, come out for a sentimental stroll, for down she went on her knees before a clump of wood violets growing about an old stump. Eagerly she seized her trowel, carefully loosened the earth about them, and lifted them almost reverently into her basket.

Mr. Thornton was a devout admirer of the beautiful in art and nature, but he had not lived thirty years without knowing that a fair face and form may hide a hollow heart. He had studied, in the galleries of Europe, perfect faces, painted by the old masters; he had met in society women gifted with glorious beauty, and discovered that one was no more soulless than the other, consequently mere external charms failed to impress him deeply. And yet, screened by the friendly sumach, he watched with keen interest the pretty pose under the tree, and the childish attitude on the ground, as the energetic little worker lifted root after root of the homely plants into her basket. And this, not alone because she made a pretty picture, but it was refreshing as a breath of mountain air to discover one who could bring such enthusiasm to autumn leaves and a few wildwood plants, and step about with that joyous, unconscious air as if it were not in her nature to think of herself, or do anything for the mere sake of effect.

She fitted in well with the bright sky, bracing air and song of birds. He loved simple pleasures so much himself that he shared in her delight. As she disappeared into the woods far enough away for him to escape observation, he came and stood under the tree that had refused to give her one of its branches. From his height it was easy to reach the very one the little hand had aspired to; he broke it off, and several other bright sprays still higher up, then he dropped two or three of the finest just in the path by which she must return. And this he did, not from mere sentimentality; he would have done the same for any wrinkled old woman. It was this man's nature to help everybody to what they wanted, if it were right and he could do it.

He had the satisfaction after a little to see her come down the path, pause with a puzzled look beside the branches in her way, send a swift reconnoitering look about her, then with a smile and a murmured expression of delight, place them in her basket, the crowning glory of the whole. Then another scrutinizing sweep of her eyes, all about her,—half-frightened this time, as if she just realized that she was not alone, and she took up her basket and sped away like the wind.

Had she only known how true and good a man stood guard over her she need not have put herself in such a flutter. She walked steadily on, bearing her burden as bravely as though it were customary for the young ladies to walk through city streets carrying large baskets.

Lily Winthrop's home was on one of the broad avenues; a large old mansion that had been palatial in its day, but now owed its chief attraction to its location, and the fine grounds surrounding it. She was met in the broad gateway by a tall, silver haired old gentleman, who looked reproachfully at the basket and said:

"Lily, my child, is it possible you have brought that through the streets? Why did you not take Gretchen with you to carry it?"

"O, Grandpa! it is not at all heavy, and Gretchen was busy. See my spoils; look at that lovely bright maple branch. It is the strangest thing where that came from. I tried so hard to get it, but it was above my reach, and when I came back that way, there it lay right in the path! It must have been some good fairy or friendly squirrel who took pity on me. Aren't these ferns beautiful?"

"What if you had met the Berkeleys or the Madisons, and you carrying a great basket like any market woman?"

"I would have made my best bow to them, Grandpa, exactly as if I had nothing in my hand, and with my best clothes on, was sailing out to kill time; and I would have shown them all my worldly treasures, and perhaps I would have given them this lovely little bouquet which I will now give to you, my best grandpa, if you don't scold me any more." And she fastened on his coat a small bunch of scarlet berries, tiny white flowers, and dark leaves.

The old gentleman smiled down into her merry eyes, despite his vexation, and put his arm about her fondly.

"Poor child!" he said. "How can you keep a gay heart under such crosses as you have to carry!"

"All the crosses I carry are good for me, dear Grandpa. I have had a delightful time in the woods this afternoon. Now let us go in to tea. After that I have a fresh newspaper for you."

She stepped to her room and freshened herself with a soft lace necktie and a few bright leaves in her hair and at her throat, so that Grandpa's old eyes might imagine he had a lady in full dress at his table. Then she sat down and presided over the tea-urn with all due dignity and grace, taking care to have everything just as he liked it; the table in faultless array, and Gretchen with spotless apron in waiting, and certain other little ceremonies that he was fond of keeping up.

Supper over, and Mr. Winthrop comfortably established with his paper, Lily slipped off to the greenhouse to pot her ferns and violets. This was her workshop; here she toiled early and late, surreptitiously often, for it grieved the grandfather sorely that his darling had been brought to such straits, so she managed by various small strategies to keep from him the full extent of her labors.

It was the old story—unfortunate speculations—signing a note for another, etc., and a fortune had taken wings. Affluence and luxury had been exchanged for poverty, debts and anxieties. Lily had been bequeathed to her grandfather at the death of her widowed mother. So they two, the first and the last of the family, had been left alone in the old homestead; and it had been a happy life until this great change. Mr. Winthrop came out of the storm with nothing left but a small bank account.

A lifelong friend bought the residence at auction sale, telling Mr. Winthrop to stay just where he was; that when he needed the place he would let him know, giving him plainly to understand, however, that probably he should never ask him to leave it. And now the question arose as to what could be done to eke out a support without consuming at once the little they possessed. Mr. Winthrop had long since given up active business life; if there had been anything for him to do he was too feeble and aged to attempt it. Lily was a proficient in music, but, alas! there were many teachers and much competition. She succeeded by dint of great exertion in obtaining two or three pupils. They had many friends in their prosperous days who were "very sorry" for them now, but who considered it their solemn duty to employ none but German professors.

An inspiration came to Lily one day in this form: There was the greenhouse well stocked with plants, why should it not be a source of profit to them? It had always held a sort of fascination for her. She had watched John for hours, and asked questions innumerable, had even learned how to arrange flowers in different styles, little thinking the knowledge would ever prove useful to her. John had been dismissed, but she felt quite sure that by the aid of books she could care for the plants and realize a sum—with their other sources of income—sufficient for their wants. But there were difficulties in the way of accomplishing this. Her grandfather was a born aristocrat, and held to the belief that a lady, especially a Winthrop, must be hedged about with all sorts of dainty care, must not harden her hands with any manual labor, above all things must not engage in petty traffic like any huckster, in fine, that she was a rare and delicate flower that the winds must not visit too roughly, and that some chivalrous man must guard and cherish, as he had cared for her, and as he meant to do until this horrible thing had come upon them. "No, indeed, she must not think of putting her own hands to such work. If worst had come to worst, and they must make merchandise of the plants, then John must be recalled and the thing done up properly."

Poor Lily sighed, and tried to make her unpractical grandfather see that John would swallow up all the profits; but he was inexorable, declaring that as long as he lived she should never thus demean herself. Meanwhile, he should get into some business, he was sure. And now he cast about to see what he could do. Ah, yes, what? His business for forty years had been to direct others. He had been president of a bank and of a railroad company; but such offices are not open to men over seventy. He put pitiful little advertisements in the papers to the effect that "a skilled financier, one of large experience in railroading and banking desired a position." Then growing humbler would come down to "a ready accountant, a skillful penman, wishing a situation," forgetting that his poor old brain could scarcely add a column of figures correctly if life depended upon it, and that the trembling hand could no longer make graceful curves.

Day after day he sat and waited for the postman's ring; it sometimes came, but the longed-for letter did not come; then he was sure he should hear something to-morrow, and so the hours passed in trembling expectancy. While this was going on, Lily was hard at work pruning, potting, gathering out dead leaves and transferring plants from lawn to greenhouse, working in the early mornings while her grandfather slept. She must have it all in order, for she hoped to win him to consent to her plan after a time. And so it proved; by many womanly manœuvres she brought it about. She made her grandfather see that it was highly necessary to her health and happiness to be among the plants; then—"the shelves were getting crowded; would he sell a few young plants to Mr. Harris, the grocer."

At this, the old gentleman was nettled, saying, "Oh, that is small business; give Mr. Harris a few plants if he wishes them; we have more than enough."

Then Lily would fix her innocent brown eyes on her grandfather's and say, "Grandpa, I suppose I don't know much about business, but when you come right down to it, isn't it about the same thing to receive four or five dollars from Mr. Harris who wants our plants, as for you to have received four of five thousand dollars when you were a banker from men who wanted your services?"

At this grandpa laughed and said, "Go on, child, have your own way; you are a real Winthrop. If I once you take a thing into your head, you'll never give up till it is accomplished." He said to himself, "Sure enough, when you put it in that way, what is the difference?"

And now business began in a lively manner. Lily rose before the sun, cut her flowers and arranged them in attractive style, and Gretchen carried them to the market—transmuting rosebuds into beefsteak for the morning meal.

These bouquets were much in demand among people of good taste; they were not the stiff, ungainly things one usually sees, but were grouped loosely and tastefully together with a rare grace that could not be imitated. She possessed true womanly tact, and succeeded in interesting her grandfather in the structure and habits of plants. She brought books from the library, scientific and practical, and, during the long evenings they studied them together until the elder student began to catch some of the enthusiasm of the younger, and both grew to be wise in plant lore. Mr. Winthrop even came into the greenhouse himself and made bungling efforts to be useful. It touched Lily to the heart to see her stately, dignified grandfather, who had never dealt much with details of any sort, sitting before a basket of flowers, sorting out heliotrope, primroses and smilax with painful precision.

As for herself she was perfectly in love with the work; busy and happy she hind almost forgotten to notice that her many dear friends had nearly all ceased to visit her, so she had ample time for her new pursuit. Bringing to it such zeal and love, success was sure. Shut in her little green world, that other world where she had flitted about with gay butterflies of fashion, seemed far off—another state of existence; this greenery was a better, purer world; it was easier to remember the Heavenly Father when intimate with his delicate creations. Perhaps the work he gave man to do for the new-born earth always has peculiar blessings attending it. However it was, new color and roundness came to her cheek and unwonted love and consecration to her heart.

So two years passed away in quiet contentment. With much economy they were more than comfortable, were even able to pay a small rent which added not a little to the happiness of the proud-spirited old gentleman.

Just as they were looking forward to another winter of pleasure and profit everything was changed in the space of a few hours. Satan long ago intruded himself among vines and flowers and here he came again—in the person of a sharp, covetous man who claimed the property as his own. The friend, to whose generosity they owed so much, passed to another world without so much as a moment's warning. It had been his purpose to bequeath the Winthrop estate to its lifelong owners, but he had neglected to add this to his will. Much of the property now fell into the hands of a distant relative who claimed the last dollar that the law allowed him, although knowing the often expressed intention of the one whose wishes and words, as far as this life is concerned, had forever come to an end.

This very September morning, when the golden sunshine seemed full of blessing, the cruel order came to vacate the premises within three months. This was a heavy blow indeed, and Mr. Winthrop was almost crushed beneath it. To be turned out into the world without a home at his age was bad enough, but to bring this upon the dear child was fearful. All the old struggle of regret and remorse returned. To think that he should have imperiled all, when he had such a treasure entrusted to him. He walked the floor nights and days calling himself by all hard names, sometimes trying to pray, but in despair declaring that he had been so proud and covetous the Lord had forsaken him in his old age.

"Poor child!" he would exclaim to Lily. "What a pity it is that you belong to such a senseless old dolt."

Lily did not try to talk much at such times. She would sing low and tender in bird-like notes some sweet assuring words, oftenest his favorite hymn that he had sung and believed for fifty years:

"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is found for your faith in his excellent Word."

The grand words of promise were sure to bring relief, and by the time she came to:

"I'll never, no, never, no, never, forsake—"

the poor heart was calmed.

"Here is a good place to read to-night, Grandpa," she sometimes said, turning the leaves of the large Bible to some chapter where God's loving heart whispers words that have comforted sad souls in all ages. When he had again realized these gracious promises it was easier to kneel and commit all to "Him who careth for us."

And so for the time being it seemed necessary that the learner turn teacher, and keep constantly before the fainting heart the unfailing Refuge.

"It will all come out right, dear Grandpa. You told me long ago that God cares for each of his children exactly as if that one were all alone in the world," she would say when the next dark cloud began to settle over him. "The Heavenly Father knows we need another home. He is surely getting it ready for us. We haven't suffered any yet; I know it will come in time."

Then Grandpa would murmur, "Blessed child, you shame my feeble faith."

Strong as Lily's confidence was, however, she went about the work of seeking some employment exactly as if everything depended upon her own efforts. Day after day with untiring perseverance she answered advertisements, seeking interviews with this and that one, but "the place was just filled," or they "needed no more help," or they "would consider her case." Nothing definite opened, though, through rain and mud, late and early, in schools, offices and families, she pursued her inquiries for a situation as copyist, teacher, governess—anything; pursued them without avail. "In all God's fair, wide world no corner for me," another might have bitterly murmured, but when he sweetens a spirit, what can make it bitter?

"It is His way for me, it must be the best way," she continually told herself as she plodded on, "walking with God in the dark," knowing that it was "better than to walk alone in the light;" then brought a cheerful face home to her grandfather, made his tea, sung his evening song each time as fresh and sweet and hopeful as if she had just concluded an engagement at a salary of a thousand or two a year. There were times, though, when it required all her fortitude to bear up against impertinent stares or cold rebuffs as she pushed her way into places where she would never have gone but from necessity. She was often obliged to struggle to keep back tears as she withdrew from some place where she had been rudely repulsed.

CHAPTER II.

AH! It is pitiful—a woman knocking at iron doors and tugging with feeble fingers at heavy bars, watching eagerly if perchance the great gates may open never so little and let them into a niche—to work for bread. It is not the laborers, at their posts from sun to sun, who need our sympathy, after all. It is the long line of discouraged men and women who cannot get the work to do, who do what is harder than work—wait.

One morning in November, business took Mr. Thornton to one of the banks of the city. While he stood waiting for his account to be balanced, he heard a low, clear voice not far from him that thrilled and interested him at once, because there was trouble in the tones. One needed only to be in misfortune to possess strong attractions for Mr. Thornton.

A young girl stood at the counter below, conversing with one of the bank officers. The interview was not intended to be public, but the tones of one speaker were gruff and loud naturally, and could not easily be softened, while those of the other were clear and penetrating as a flute.

"Mr. Haines," she said, "would you not be so kind as to allow us to remain in our—in your house for the winter? We can pay a small rent, and it will relieve us of much embarrassment and distress if you will."

The voice matched the face, pure, true, and sweet, and the brown eyes looked pleadingly into the dead eyes of the speaker.

Not a muscle of his face changed as he said, "The time cannot possibly be extended beyond what I mentioned—Christmas week."

How could he speak of the glad Christmas-tide, the blossoming out of "peace on earth, good will to men," in that stony way and with that eager face before him!

"Sir," she said, and a little flash came into the eyes now, "I would never ask it for myself, but my grandfather is growing old. It is very hard for him to be turned out of the home where he has lived for forty years. Will you not have pity on an old man?"

"My plans are all made; I regret that I cannot accommodate you, Miss Winthrop. You must excuse me now, as I have an engagement," was the answer to the appeal, in the same business-like tones that he would have used if reading from his ledger. Then he walked away, and she stood for a moment, indignation, mortification and disappointment struggling together in her face.

As she turned to go, her eyes met Mr. Thornton's; such true, kind eyes they were; if only this man were Mr. Haines!

And Mr. Thornton, looking down at her, thought, "If only she were a little girl, or an old lady, I could go to her and say, 'Tell me your trouble, won't you?' But now, how can I help her?"

While he asked it, she was gone, and, as he stood wondering where he had seen the face before, there came a dim memory floating about it like a frame, of a blue September sky, bright leaves and ferns, and then he knew where. He resolved to know more of one apparently in deep trouble of some kind. He searched the directory, found the street and number, and soon after walked by the house. Yes, there was the name "Winthrop" on the door-plate, the letters nearly defaced by time, and the grand old place giving evidence that its owner had been growing old and poor. He saw the grand-looking old man, too, walking up and down the long veranda, his white hair blowing in the November wind, his hands crossed behind him, his head down, musing, the young man thought, on the past that had been lived in that house, and the future that was to be lived—where?

His heart went out in tender pity over him, and Mr. Thornton's pity was not wont to spend itself in mere emotions. He stepped into a street-car on his way home. There were but two passengers besides himself for several squares—two ladies, who, living in the same vicinity, and having just passed the house, were, naturally enough, discussing the very persons who occupied his thoughts just then.

"I'm sure I don't know what they are to do?" one said. "They are obliged to leave that house by Christmas. Just think of that! As many grand Christmas doings as they have had there! Pretty gay the old house used to be when Lily's father and mother were living. I should think it would break the old man's heart to go then; the contrast would be so sharp; his children gone, his wife gone, and now the old place must go, too."

"Yes, it is hard," the other lady replied, "but he has a great deal to be thankful for yet. He has his religion left, and the dearest comfort in Lily that anybody ever had. Lily is a noble girl. It is perfectly marvelous what she has accomplished. She has taken the entire care of the greenhouse and worked like any market woman; sold plants and flowers enough to realize a nice sum, besides teaching two or three music scholars. They have a little money left yet, I hear, and could probably get along nicely, situated as they were, but, as you say, I don't see just what they will do now. Old Mr. Winthrop is so much respected people would help them, I dare say, if they thought of it, but he is the last one to give hints, or even let them know how he is situated; pretty proud, the old gentleman is, but it is not to be wondered at, he's always been up, and he don't know how to come down."

"Everything would have turned out all right," said the first speaker, "if Mr. Walters had just put into his will what he intended to. He mentioned to several that he should give the place in the end to Lily. If only people would not procrastinate."

"If only he had given it to her then, you mean," returned the other. "It is a good deal better to help people over a rough place when they need it, I think, than to leave them a great sum at death, just as they are getting ready to die, and are beyond wanting any help. If I had much money to give away I am sure I should want to see it doing good as I went along."

They said much more, thoroughly discussing the situation as two women will who have no troubles of their own on their minds, and are free to attend to their neighbors. But then this was not ill-natured gossip, and Mr. Thornton really felt obliged to them for telling him so many things he wished to know.

Later in the day Mr. Thornton called upon Mr. Haines to inquire about the property, hoping that he might be able to get it into his own possession, but he was informed that it was not for sale—that the location was the choicest in the city, and the house was soon to be remodeled for the owner's own residence. Moreover, he could not extend the time, as carpenters were to commence work on the inside as soon as possible. He considered it a marked favor that he gave the family as much time as he did, but then, some people were always ungrateful.

The more Mr. Thornton heard of this family the more interested did he become. This old man to be turned out of his home; this fair, brave girl battling with poverty appealed to everything sacred and chivalrous in his nature. How much he wished they were friends of his that he might say, "Share my home with me." He passed the house frequently the next few days and hunted his brain for a pretext for calling. The opportunity came in an unlooked-for way. One morning while he was passing, Mr. Winthrop happening to be coming down the stone steps leading from his lawn, lost his footing and would have fallen forward on the pavement had not Mr. Thornton sprang to his aid. As it was, one of his ankles was injured so that he was obliged to lean on Mr. Thornton's arm and return to the house. On examination both gentlemen agreed that it was probably only a slight sprain, not requiring the attendance of a surgeon. Mr. Thornton remained and assisted in bathing and bandaging it with his own hands, declaring that he was experienced inasmuch as he once had a sprained ankle himself.

Mr. Winthrop was slow to take in strangers, but who could wrap himself in cold reserve before the fascination of Mr. Thornton's manner? It was the perfection of kindness and delicate politeness. Mr. Winthrop found himself conversing with the freedom of an old friend, and begged him when he took leave, to come again.

Mr. Thornton in turn was perfectly captivated with the old gentleman. A most delightful plan began to loom up in his mind, and he betook himself to his favorite retreat to perfect it. The cottage had passed through the renovating process and was now as neat and pretty a home as could be desired.

Inside, it was finished up according to Mr. Thornton's own taste, which was of the best. He had pleased himself by fitting up one room in the style of the olden time. The modern wall-paper adorned with morning glory vines, and the fern leaf carpet chimed in with the idea sufficiently well. He procured a wide lounge covered with chintz, two high-backed old rocking-chairs, and several others of antique patterns and splint-bottoms. From an old aunt's possessions, he begged a tall secretary and bookcase, curiously carved, a table with claw feet, and a stand with three legs. He put tall candlesticks of silver on the high mantel, brass andirons in the broad fireplace, and when he had a veritable hickory log snapping on them, the firelight dancing on the wall, and gayly flowered damask curtains at the windows, he delightedly pronounced the room as much like his great-grandmother's as he could make it.

To-night he dropped the curtains, drew the arm-chair to the fire, and settled himself to the solving of a problem. He often came to this room when he wanted to be specially quiet; indeed, so fascinated was he by it that he would have enjoyed taking up his abode there. The old lady for whom all this comfort was intended, had not yet appeared. He had been quietly waiting and watching, certain that in due time his offering would be needed, and now he felt assured the time had come. But how to bestow it on Mr. Winthrop without bringing him under a sense of obligation that would be embarrassing whenever they met, for he had no idea of dropping the acquaintance just begun! His sympathies had a wide scope, and yet his friends were few and choice; he hoped to number this pure-hearted, clear-headed old man among them, and, mayhap, this maiden of heroic deeds.

Open fires must be favorable to untying hard knots, for after knitting his brows for a time he seemed to have arrived at some conclusion that pleased himself, at least, and he turned to his table and wrote a letter, sealed and addressed it, then sank back in his chair with the air of one who has dispatched his business and is free to dream dreams of firelight.

The letter was not the only result of the cogitations. It was but a day or two after that when workmen were busy with shovel and saw and hammer engaged in building a greenhouse. The season favored the plan; the frosts not having penetrated the ground yet. Mr. Thornton was there continually, directing, watching with as much interest as if he contemplated taking up the vocation of a florist at once.

One evening the postman brought a letter of importance to the Winthrops. It was just at dusk, and Lily, returned from another day of fruitless wanderings, sat by the fire, feeling more depressed in heart than was at all usual with her. The day had been "dark and cold and dreary," and chilled her through and through, soul as well as body. None of this appeared, though, in the cheerful words she forced herself to speak to her dispirited grandfather, who had almost lost hope, though struggling hard to keep up. He did not know that in the dark and drizzle of the November night a light was on the way to him.

And now appeared Gretchen with a letter for Mr. Winthrop. Lily turned it over curiously, noting, as she passed it to her grandfather, that it was a city letter, and a feeble hope sprang up that Mr. Haines had relented, and would allow them to remain until spring.

Mr. Winthrop read it slowly through, once and again, and then almost sprang to his feet, forgetting his lameness in the excitement. "Lily," he called, "come here, quick! This is most extraordinary; read that—read it aloud! It must be that I have made some mistake." And Lily read:

"MR. WINTHROP:

"Dear Sir: I write to inform you that I have been entrusted by a dear friend of yours—who is at present absent—with a piece of property which he desires to bestow upon you as a Christmas gift. The cottage is in the city, pleasantly located, with a fine greenhouse in good order. The key and the deed of it will be sent to you in the course of a month, when it will be ready for occupancy. I advise you thus early that you may shape your plans accordingly.

"Yours truly,

"A. HATHAWAY.

"Now, dear child, what is the meaning of all this? Could anybody play such a cruel joke upon us?"

"Oh, no, no, Grandpa," Lily said, her face radiant. "It is the answer to our prayers. Have we not asked and asked Him for a home, and now he has sent it to us?"

Grandpa closed his eyes, and there was silence for a moment; each knew that the other was whispering thanksgivings too deep for spoken words.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul," Grandpa murmured at length. "This deliverance came for the sake of you, his little one; such stupid unbelief as mine could never have brought the blessing. But who is Mr. Hathaway, and why in reason did he not tell me the name of my friend? I will write to him this very evening, and know something more about this wonderful transaction."

It was as good as a play could have been to others, and much better than one could possibly be to Mr. Thornton, when he called later in the evening to inquire after the sprained ankle, to observe the change in the manner of both. The grandfather appeared to have chopped off ten years of age, and seasoned his speech with lively sallies and sparkles of wit as he had not done for a long time. The girl's eyes, too, had lost their look of patient care and sparkled with repressed joyousness. She seemed like one in possession of some happy secret, and in haste to be alone that she might turn it over and look at it. This was pure, exquisite pleasure to turn sighs into smiles. He knew us well who said, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

"Hathaway" was Mr. Thornton's middle name, after one of his ancestors, "Allan Hathaway." He had never lived in that vicinity, so his namesake knew that he might safely hide behind it, especially as there was no one of the same name in the city. He felt too that he could truthfully say that he acted under the directions of another, who was Mr. Winthrop's dear friend, for was not the Lord whom they served both Master and Friend, and who but he had put it into his own heart to remember his servant?

The sprained ankle, though doing well, yet gave Mr. Thornton continued pretexts for calling very often. He brought in new books and the daily papers, and sometimes stopped to read the news to the invalid; then the two held many arguments and discussions on the topics of the day. Their views were too nearly alike to make the discussions very lively, though the fact gave each an exalted opinion of the other. Lily seldom joined them; not that she was indifferent to the fascination of such brilliant society, but there was much work to be done, now that they were not to be bereft of their beloved plants, and she took the opportunity to attend to it while her grandfather was being so pleasantly entertained. Perhaps too, the fact that the visitor seemed indifferent to either her absence or presence made her less anxious to be present. She was not one to thrust herself upon any person's notice. She had not done that when she was a courted heiress, certainly not now, when in the estimation of the world she had fallen from a great height. Had her spirit, been less sweet she might have felt a degree of pique at not being considered the chief attraction in the house, especially to gentlemen from whom she had received homage enough to spoil an ordinary girl. She settled finally down to the theory that Mr. Thornton was a philanthropist, not a wholesale one, but a grand, loving-hearted Christian, doing his Master's will in small things as faithfully as if they were great; and that he considered it his Christian duty probably to extend kindness and good cheer to her grandfather—and that he was only one of many objects of his charity—for of course he must know by this time about their reduced circumstances. She would have enjoyed the sweet savor of his conversation, as did everybody who ever talked with him, but she declared within herself, "He shall never have a shadow of cause to imagine that I appropriate these visits to myself, and so be annoyed and cease to come—that is probably the reason he never inquires for me at the door. I do want him to come, he is such a comfort to Grandpa."

With this tormenting suggestion, that some officious elf thrust into her mind, she allowed herself but seldom to remain in the room during his visits, and, depriving herself of a pleasure she would have enjoyed exceedingly, rarely joined in the conversation, only occasionally forgetting ugly suggestions of prim propriety, and putting in her vivacious word or merry laugh with such childlike abandon as made Mr. Thornton remember the maple leaves and the violets.

He did not mean to be an artful man, but the truth was, that there was not a look or tone or motion of this maiden's but he noted and studied, no matter how absorbed he pretended to be with the subject in hand. It puzzled him not a little that she seemed to avoid him, for he too was accustomed to being considered a person of importance. And yet it was almost refreshing to meet a young lady who did not constantly seek his society, oppress him with attention and smile approval upon him. Always smiling, it was restful to meet this face that could be grave, and lips that could be silent, or speak of something besides trifles and inanities.

And so the visits and the—studies—continued, twice, three times a week; if he were late, the old gentleman would fidget like a maiden waiting for her lover.

And now the greenhouse was completed, furnished with all the appurtenances that such an establishment requires. Some little changes, too, had been made in the cottage in consideration of the choice spirits who were to occupy it; in short, nothing more could be asked for it in the way of taste and convenience. The deed and the key had been sent as promised, and the Christmas gift had been searched out and found to be no myth, but a joyful reality; two delighted people had pronounced it "cosy," "lovely," "home-like." They were still in wonder and perplexity as to the donor. Mr. Winthrop lay awake nights, going as far back among the families of the city as his memory would travel, to find the name "Hathaway," but could get no clue. He turned over in his mind the names of all his acquaintances whom he knew to be abroad, and surmised it to be this one, and then that one, to whom he was indebted for this princely gift, but could never settle permanently upon any one. As much at home as Mr. Thornton had become in a short time in the household, Mr. Winthrop had never mentioned the matter to him; with true Puritan reticence, he kept his personal affairs, if possible, within his own family. So, as the time drew near for removal, the former could scarcely conceal a smile when Mr. Winthrop, with a touch of his old stateliness in his manner, said that he must make a disclosure that, perhaps, should have been made long ago; that he never liked to sail under false colors, and, while he would not hint that wealth was the sole standard Mr. Thornton set up for his friendships, still he wished him to know that he himself was a poor man, that his home had been taken from him, in fact, he was to leave it in a few days forever, for a small property that "was given to us by some unknown friend, and for which we hourly thank God," he said with moist eyes.

"But that is not all," he went on, as if determined to further mortify his remaining pride. "We are to be known hereafter as those who earn their daily bread by the toil of their own hands. I have been among the fools who thought it a disgrace to do so, but I have been rebuked for my foolish pride of birth, and now I lay it down forever; but I wish every one who seeks friendship with us to know the truth."

Mr. Thornton heard this speech with kindling eyes, and simply said, as he gave him a warm hand clasp, "Then, sir, you may have fewer friends, but truer.

"'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.'

"May I be so happy as to be one such friend?"

"What a thing it would be, eh? To be the father of such a son!" Mr. Winthrop said within himself, as he watched the young man spring lightly down the steps and walk away; and there were tears in the old eyes as he remembered a handsome profligate son who had found an early grave.

A few days before Christmas found the Winthrops established in their new home, happy, grateful souls as ever opened eyes on Christmas morning. The delightful old-fashioned house reminded one of a hen and chickens, so many small rooms joined on here and there clustering about it. Inside, it seemed to open in all directions, so that when you stood in the center you had a peep into every room. And each room, fitted up by Lily's artistic taste with articles that had long been heirlooms in the family, had an individuality of its own. The living room, warm and bright in rich colors, the dining room, with antique sideboard and a few old pieces of silver shining on it, the tiny green carpeted library, glimpses into one fair and white, the guest chamber, and another in rose tints, such as girls love, then the old-time room, which Mr. Winthrop declared was to be his the moment he saw it.

"It carries me back sixty-free years to my mother's knee," he said.

Mr. Thornton had come as soon as possible after the settlement of the new home and taken a delighted survey. He could scarcely have believed it to be the same, evidences of refined taste and deft fingers were everywhere.

"The most charming effect without exception that I ever saw in any house," he told his happy host, who took almost a childish pleasure in displaying his new possession, carrying his visitor at last in triumph to his own room and seating him in the arm-chair, with "Now did you ever see anything to equal this, even to the candlesticks and snuffer tray, all complete? This room does me more good than anything that has come to me in years."

And Mr. Thornton, looking into the old man's happy face, the firelight throwing a halo about his white hair; thanked God for money. His pleased eyes took in the fact, too, that the room remained unchanged in every particular, a tribute, he smilingly thought, to the taste of Mr. Hathaway.

CHAPTER III.

ON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in, these days.

When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her grandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt, for grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with "A merry Christmas to you, sir; happy and oft this day return to thee," he rubbed his old eyes in amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He murmured "Beautiful!" but whether it referred to the charming room, the faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?

He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white grapes and bananas, which he presented with a "Merry Christmas" to Mr. Winthrop.

"You have friends with you?" he said, glancing about him.

"Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr. Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our Christmas a happy one."

So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.

In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr. Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, "My dear, take our friend out and show him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another plant like it in this country."

"Here is something finer than roses," Lily said, pausing at the entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with blossoms.

"They are wonderfully sweet," he said, bending over them, "but I have a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them as freely as water or air."

"I can show you some of those, too," she said. "I brought them from the woods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner."

This was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns behind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.

"This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the ferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be astonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by the stump in the woods where I found them?"

It seemed that Mr. Thornton's lips opened of themselves to say, "Yes, I very well remember the day."

And Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious circumstance that had often puzzled her—the maple branch broken off and laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but herself. "Was Mr. Thornton there, too?" She gave him a quick look, but he was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face, and she put the idea from her as absurd.

"He is very absent-minded," she told herself; "is in haste to be gone, and considers me tiresome."

He came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of their sweetness, then said, "I have a friend who calls this her flower, and these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you kindly cut a few for her?" And drawing out his watch, "It is quite time I was gone." He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the beauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky and white moonlit earth.

"Gloriously beautiful, is it not?" he said. "Think of looking up at such a sky as that,—

"'In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,'

"searching for the one star."

"Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky," she said, with upturned face.

The pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion fear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he involuntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.

"After all, Mr. Thornton," she said, "my thoughts are rather on the earth than the sky, to-night. 'Peace on earth, good will to men.' I've been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this Christmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own—Grandpa told you, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear little gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?"

It was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious words to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.

In lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her flowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now, and looked them over lovingly.

"He has a friend who loves white violets," she told them. "Do you suppose she is like him?" but the perfumed breath did not answer.

"You darling!" to a white rose, "I'm so glad you have come; I have watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen," and she touched her lips to the delicate petals. "What if she were like you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla, beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies, in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she wise and good? She must be like him," she whispered to the heliotrope, putting her face down amid its sweetness, "or he could not have called her life fragrant." She put a sharp, quick check just then on both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought; that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too, as if to say, "Be careful, do not set your heart upon me." She felt vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about preparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude! It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled as fast as they could go to "The Old Ladies' Home," and gave out their fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then stored them among his treasures when he reached home!

Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and pruning plants.

Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, "No, no, I will stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go," whereat Lily bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound her in loving servitude to the family.

By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse, assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had, paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that had been bare, and every old lady in the "Home" had her pet in the shape of a plant of his giving.

The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers; indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr. Winthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might have been these:—

"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face
The lineaments of Gospell bookes."

And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this. The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction, and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and conscience approved.

There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel, and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he should discover the hideous blight spot.

It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily, while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance. She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels, and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare, delicate fragrance typified her to him!

If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms, she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful, trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that promised only a life of toil.

It so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the greenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she seemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that it was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing and annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton's perplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her, but to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.

One evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she "must suspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless many points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet visited."

The enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when one could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this devout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about, she was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed families and the different members, as if people and not plants were being analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these families that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the broad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of God's beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there were so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that the talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to maintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather's. They came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley—just putting forth creamy bells.

"Dear little hardy things," Mr. Thornton said, bending over them. "These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out before winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave and sweet and modest."

"You surely forget," Lily said, "that the lily family is a large one."

"Yes, I know. There's that immense one, all purple and gold and crimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are sweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy, but mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance."

"You forget the queenly calla."

"No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot take her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit everywhere. They may fasten the bride's veil or strew the dead baby's pillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak hand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They are such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green. I repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She, too, is a lover of them."

Lily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of the rose that it brushed against.

"His 'friend!' alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome spectre?"

While she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.

"I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted one other."

Has she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that "my friend" aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had not been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when she raised her eyes, after a little pause, with "Well?"

"This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will flourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and the rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it develops."

"That is strange," she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.

"What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round."

"Is it fragrant?"

"Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its delicate fragrance."

"What color is it?"

"White, with a delicate flush of rose."

"It must be lovely," she said, holding off her flowers to get the effect of the arrangement. "Where are those flowers found?"

"They are very rare. I never saw but one."

"Did you say it was a lily?"

"A lily."

"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?"

"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one autumn day, was where I first saw it," he said, looking into her eyes.

And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for her.

What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she was making that reminded her of "his friend." What right had he, though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?

Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying coldly: "Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—" "As your friend probably is for you," she wanted to add.

Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while the full meaning of white violets and "your friend" dawned upon him.

Here was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower—she would have none of what rightfully belonged to another.

As Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,—

"Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go with me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would be cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?"

She hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:

"Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You can go to-morrow, can't you, dear?"

And Lily answered "Yes" to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr. Thornton, not even when he said "that he would call for her at four, and would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?" Then he said "Good-night!" and went.

It was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over that strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He probably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity had made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said. What right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?

And what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she had imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she remembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones, and earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said she was like them—this friend.

She was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she had prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk on the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects they happened to pass. Arriving at the "Old Ladies' Home," they were at once taken to the room of the invalid.

Aunt Phœbe, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face, with gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not seem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied eyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and "had now sat down to rest a bit before she went home," she said. Her face broke into a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.

"Aunt Phœbe," he said, "I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop; Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend."

"Are you feeling bright to-day?" he asked, putting into her hand—with as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets. As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words; then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention entirely to Aunt Phœbe.

They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily listened she found herself repeating, "I believe in the communion of saints."

They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.

"Bless you! Dear child," whispered back the old lady. "I've known you this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word, than from some very long speeches." The last few words reached Mr. Thornton's ears, who said:

"That is a blow aimed at me," then taking up the basket of flowers, "Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?"

So they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. "But why did you not tell me?" Lily said, "and I would have made them into bouquets."

"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers, and I let them choose."

Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton purchased. How many revelations were being made!

On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well as that of "The Home," its organization, management, workings, etc., leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.

He simply said "Good-night!" when he left her at her own door, and drove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came, though, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in the greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,—

"How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?" The vision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before her in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily, and Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after that.

While the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there were more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked upon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor the lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.

Weeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the "H" in his name represented.

"Hathaway," he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret was out.

Lily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.

"Is it possible that you are—that you can tell me—who the friend is to whom I am so much indebted?" Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Thy Heavenly Friend," said Mr. Thornton reverently.

"MY AUNT KATHERINE."

———

"IT is perfectly absurd that she should occupy the best room in the house. What difference can it possibly make to an old lady where she is, so she is comfortable? She ought to be thankful that you allow her to stay here at all."

This was said in an excited tone, by a tall, thin lady with thin lips and flashing, light blue eyes.

Her husband was a silent man, with a horror of discord. It had taken him but a short time to discover that the only means of avoiding it was to let his new wife have her own way, so he held his peace and looked out of the window, and the lady went on.

"If she had any delicacy, she would not wish to remain now that she has no possible claim upon you. There is the 'Old Lady's Home,' why could she not go there? It is a magnificent building, with beautiful rooms."

New wife though she was, she had overshot the mark this time. The tall silent man drew himself up two inches taller and answered sternly:—

"Laura, you are mistaken! My mother-in-law will always have a claim upon me. As long as I have a home she shall share it with me. What do you take me for? As if I would ever turn my Margaret's mother out upon charity! She is, besides, very dear to me for her own sake. She is a remarkable example of unselfishness, and that is a rare quality in this world."

There were two stings in this speech, which was a long one for Mr. Agnew. The selfish woman who heard it bit her lip in vexation, and all the jealousy in her nature rose up at the words "My Margaret"; jealous of that other wife who had been in her heavenly home for five years; whose husband, albeit, was more to be pitied now than when she first left him desolate; because he was that phenomenon—over which men and angels might weep—a true, noble man, joined for life to a selfish, heartless, coarse-grained woman, and that of his own deliberate choice. If some men should shut their eyes and marry the first woman they happened to open them on, they could not make more fatal mistakes than they do.

When Margaret Agnew selected this particular room for her mother it was because it was large and convenient and sunny; because one window looked off to distant hills, and another one to the busy street, while from another you stepped into the flower garden. It was, it is true, in many respects the best room in the house, and into it was gathered whatever of comfort and beauty the loving daughter could devise.

As soon as the second Mrs. Agnew stepped into the house she set covetous eyes on this room and resolved, to use her own elegant language,—"that she would oust the old lady from that."

Whatever such women resolve to have, they usually get. After the rebuff on the part of her husband she did not again approach him on the subject, but planned the attack differently. By means of hints and disagreeable thrusts she managed to make the sensitive old lady feel quite ill at ease until she was established in one of the back chambers. It was a dreary room. She missed the cheerful outlook, and it was not easy, with a slight lameness, to get up and down stairs, but, for peace's sake, she forebore to complain. So skillfully was everything managed that it was several days before her son-in-law knew of her removal; then he was indignant, and insisted that she must return, but this she would not consent to do. She even displayed so much cheerfulness that he was deceived into thinking she preferred the change. It was a hardened nature that could not be won by her sweet spirit. She was like her Master; she followed her copy closely; "when she suffered she threatened not," and she had much to bear: a system of petty annoyances that only female ingenuity could devise.

After she had passed through this furnace and suffered loneliness and desolation, another crisis in her life arrived. Mr. Agnew fell suddenly ill. While his life hung in the balance and reason was shaken, his wife induced him to make his will, leaving to herself the whole of his property. Then he died, and the chief emotion that throbbed in the heart of his widow and hid behind the blackest and deepest crape was—triumph!

Not for worlds would Mr. Agnew have so arranged his affairs had it not been that in his half-delirious state he was subject to the will of another. He had always intended to settle a competence upon Mrs. Lyman—his mother-in-law. He had expected to live years yet. Who does not?

Mrs. Agnew lost no time. As soon as the funeral services were over she questioned Mrs. Lyman as to her plans for the future. The poor old lady felt bewildered at having to make any plans, so lovingly had she been cared for all her life. She had scarcely realized as yet that her one protector was gone; above all, that he had made no provision for her. Homeless and penniless and nearly seventy years of age, where should she go? What should she do? Where would a helpless being go in straits but to the One who plans and governs our lives? And thither she went. She well knew the road. Old friends gathered about her with kindly offers of aid, but she believed she saw her path plainly, and declined their many invitations to tarry with them for a time. She had a little money of her own, enough to insure her entrance into the "Home for Aged Women," and there she determined to go. Mrs. Lyman had occasionally driven with her daughter through the grounds of the "Home." She had admired the stately edifice, and remarked that it was a grand charity; she had also contributed to it; but it had not entered her mind that she was ever to become one of its inmates. She thought of it that afternoon as the carriage which conveyed her there wound slowly up the avenue. The trials of the past few days had been peculiarly sharp. She had gone out from the dear home, with its precious memories, forever. She could not, without contention, claim even her daughter's gifts to herself; contend she would not, so she left them: so many things that almost had a tongue to speak of other days. There were no tears in her eyes, and the old face was placid as she leaned back and looked up at rows and rows of windows. She even repeated to herself some favorite lines:

"That's best which God sends.
'Twas his will; it is mine."

The room Mrs. Lyman shortly found herself in was a strong contrast to the one her daughter had carefully fitted up for her. It was spotlessly clean and trim; the walls were high and white, the furniture of the plainest, the floors bare except for the strip of carpet by the bed and one by the window, where the occupant would be supposed to sit in the cane-seat rocker. It depended entirely on one's previous surroundings what her first impressions of life in this place would be. Old Mrs. Carter, who had lived at sixes and sevens all her life, with scarcely a corner that she could call her own, thought her room was next to Heaven itself. To Mrs. Lyman it simply looked bare and dreary. The buzz in the long dining room, mingling with the clatter of cups and spoons, was cheerfulness itself to Mrs. Carter, while to Mrs. Lyman's refilled ears and sensitive nerves it was positively distressing. It was trying to her, too, to mingle with all sorts of natures, to listen to garrulous complaints and garrulous stories from gossipy old women. She would much have preferred to shut herself in with her books and her own thoughts, but she did not. Her Master was always kind and helpful to the most uncongenial people; so would she be, for his sake. Necessarily, though, it was a lonely, monotonous life for her. Old friends were too remote and too busy to remember her often.

One afternoon she sat at her window looking down into the street, when a carriage drew up, and a young lady stepped lightly out. The coachman handed her a basket of flowers, and she almost ran up the broad stone steps, with that childlike eagerness of manner which is in refreshing contrast to the languid air of many of her class.

Mrs. Lyman listened eagerly as her fresh young voice was heard in the hall. The golden hair, and eyes as blue as the hyacinths she carried, brought to her visions of another girl as bright and graceful. Just so she looked, years ago, her dear lost Margaret. Then the mother's heart went back over the girlhood and womanhood of her darling, and just as she was wondering how it was possible for Robert Agnew ever to have fancied he loved that other woman, when his life had been so blessed with Margaret, there came a knock at the door, and the matron brought in the bright-haired girl with her flowers, saying:—

"Mrs. Lyman, I have brought Miss Harlowe in to see you. She's come on ahead to tell you that spring is coming some day."

She looked sweet and fair enough to be spring's herald in very truth, coming in, as she did, out of the snow and sleet of the winter day, roses in her hands and roses on her cheeks, looking up almost shyly into the face of the stately old lady.

Each regarded the other for a moment with surprise and admiration, and Esther Harlowe, yielding to a sudden impulse, reached up and left a kiss soft as a rose leaf on the faded old cheek; then selecting the choicest of the roses, begged her to accept them.

They both forgot themselves. The young lady forgot that she was being kind to a "poor old body" in "The Old Lady's Home."

This dignified, handsome old lady was surely one of the friends of their family. And Mrs. Lyman, too, imagined for a moment that she was welcoming a young visitor to the Agnew mansion. They fell into conversation as naturally as if this were the case, and, in the short interview, they gained more than a glimpse of each other's lives.

"How strange that you should be here," Esther said. "I have often passed Mr. Agnew's house; perhaps you were sitting at the window looking out. But isn't it dreadful to you? How can you endure it?"

"No, not 'dreadful,' dear; sometimes it is a little lonely, and this way of living is all new to me; but I daresay I shall soon get accustomed to it. I ought to feel continually grateful that when I am old and poor, there is such a place provided for me."

"How can you, when you have lived so differently? I'm sure I should die. I knew you didn't belong here as soon as I saw you. It is a shame!"

"If God put me here, I must belong here, child. He makes no mistakes," the old lady said, smiling at her visitor's impetuous manner.

"But how can you be so calm and good about it? I should think you would go distracted."

"I wonder if she will understand," Mrs. Lyman said, after searching the young face a moment; then asked, "Did you ever read these lines?—

"'To will what God doth will, that is the only science
That gives us any rest.'

"The secret of calmness is in that: having God's will our will. It is called a science, you see, and it is deep and difficult, or rather, people make it so. It takes some of them years to learn it. I learned it very slowly myself, but once acquired, it is forever after easier to bear hard things. It does bring peace."

"Oh! Show me how to learn it, then," said Esther, tears starting to her eyes. "There are so many hard things in my life."

"Poor dear! Have they come to you so early?" The motherly voice and pitying eyes were like sunshine to this girl who was not much more than a child, and whose heart was hungry.

"I suppose it is because I am so wicked," Esther said, hesitatingly, "but I am afraid I never can feel as you do about God's will. Perhaps it is his will that I shall go through terrible troubles. It frightens me, and I can't want to have his will done."

"Is there anybody whom you dearly love," said Mrs. Lyman, "in whom you have unbounded confidence, feeling sure that he will always do right?"

"No, there is nobody," Esther answered sadly; then flushing a little as she realized the confession she had made, added,—

"I did have somebody once—my darling mother—but she is gone. She always did right."

"How did you feel about her plans for you? Were you fearful she would always be inventing something wherewith to torture you?"

"My dear, lovely mother! No, indeed. She was always thinking of my happiness."

"And yet she was obliged to thwart your own plans and wishes often, I presume. Did you rebel?"

"O, no I was always obedient to my mother. I loved her so, I would not have grieved or displeased her for the world."

"There it is, my dear!—the whole secret. When once we love God with all the heart, it is sweet to do or suffer his will."

"But I never have thought of God in that way. He seems majestic and glorious, but I think I fear him more than I love him. I cannot realize that he loves me either."

"It will help you greatly, my dear, to take the Bible and Concordance and go through the words 'Love' and 'Father;' then you may see and 'believe the love that God hath for us.' He has tried very hard—has written it plainly all through the Book to make us understand that he is truly our Father. Call it mother love if that makes it plainer to you: think that he feels toward you as your mother did; Father, as God uses it, stands for father and mother both. It is the tenderness of mother joined to the protecting care and greater strength of father."

"I must go now, the carriage has come," Esther said, rising hastily, "but I shall never forget your talk. I am sure it will do me good. I came here to-day with the flowers because Dr. Foster preached about giving a cup of cold water for Christ's sake, to some of his children; and I couldn't think of anybody to carry one to but some of these old ladies; I didn't think I was going to have my reward so soon. It was so nice to find you; you seem like my own dear grandma who died when I was a little child. I am coming often to see you; may I?" And the sweet face smiled up into hers.

"Yes, indeed, my dear, and I thank you with all my heart for coming. No cup of cold water could have refreshed me more than this visit, if I had been famishing for some,—and these roses!—" taking a long breath of them as she spoke,—"each one is a separate blessing."

As the carriage rattled over the city streets in the dusk Esther's aunt and cousin, fresh from shopping, discussed laces and silks while she leaned back and thought of Mrs. Lyman, her heart thrilling with the new thought that God loved her as her mother loved her.

At last her Cousin Sophy said:—

"What are you dreaming about, Esther? Where have you been all this while?"

Esther started as the cold, fault-finding tones broke in on her reverie and said evasively, "I went to the 'Old Lady's Home,' you know."

"Been there all this time?—Impossible! Will you never be like other people?"

Miss Sophy Ward had passed her first youth and was growing sharp and severe, especially toward girls who were guilty of being nineteen. She took it upon herself to keep strict watch over every thought, word and deed of her young cousin who had lived with them since the death of her mother. Esther dreaded the lecture that she knew was forthcoming, so she began eagerly to try to divert attention from herself.

"O, Cousin Sophy! you have no idea what a lovely old lady I found there." Not even the curl that distorted Miss Sophy's lip just then prevented her from going on.

"She looks as I should imagine an angel might,—I always thought if I made pictures of angels they should be dear old grandmas, and not girls. Her hair is like fine white silk, and waves beautifully. Her eyes are hazel, and they are not old eyes a bit—they are bright and clear. She wore a dove-colored dress, and a soft white mull handkerchief about her neck. And do you know, she is Mrs. Agnew's mother; you remember we saw, Mr. Agnew's death in the paper a few months ago."

This last piece of information had the desired effect, for mother and daughter indulged in a bit of gossip concerning it, but Miss Sophy presently returned to the charge.

"It is perfectly incomprehensible," she went on, "what you find in a company of poverty-stricken old women to interest you. But then, your mother always had just such tastes; never so happy as when she was poking about in some alley or hovel, among miserable people."

If the light had not faded, Cousin Sophy might have seen Esther's cheek pale and flush, and her lips press closely together to keep herself from saying what she should not. But she did not see it; she went on and on in an exasperating manner. Her mother added a word occasionally by way of endorsement and emphasis, and poor Esther had the grace to keep silence, half-wishing that she were an old woman, too, so that she could live where Mrs. Lyman did.

In her uncle's luxurious home there was everything to make life desirable—everything but love and peace. When either mother or daughter was in ill humor Esther was the escape valve. They lectured her on behavior, dress, and the Christian virtues. They criticised all she said and did and thought, and judged her without mercy.

During the last few months, however, it had begun to dawn upon them that the girl was grown up, and possessed decided tastes and opinions of her own. She was becoming a person of more importance, too, because of very pointed attentions bestowed upon her by Mr. Clifford Langdon. He was the son of one of the oldest families—handsome, agreeable, literary, rich. If they sought the world over, where could be found a more desirable husband for Esther? He might have captivated the girl's fancy, perhaps, if she had not heard her aunt and cousin ring the changes on his name until she almost wearied of it. In their eyes he was a paragon. They exhorted her to do this, and not to do that, as Mr. Langdon had very fastidious tastes, and they openly expressed their astonishment that so incomparable a person should do her the honor to notice her.

All this naturally had the effect of causing a girl like Esther to avoid him and to declare that it was a matter of indifference to her what Mr. Langdon thought. She wished for no more critics.

That gentleman was as much in love with Esther as he ever could be with anybody besides himself. Since first he had been conscious of existence, he had never forgotten himself long enough to be absorbed in anything or anybody. His own pleasure was the chief end of his life. Yet he had no vices; his narrow, cold nature did not tempt him in the direction that larger natures are tempted. The world called him a fine, moral young man. They did not know he was selfish, domineering and conceited; his nearest friends would scarcely admit it to themselves. He enjoyed ruling over anything; he took pleasure in his many pets when a boy, chiefly for the sake of training and ordering about a parrot, or dog, or pony; and a tyrannical master he made. As a man, he retained the characteristic. At this time he had just returned from a four years' course of study in Europe, his education completed, and his self-conceit intolerable. He felt competent to sit in judgment upon the creations of genius in art and literature or in anything under the sun, as well as to direct, advise, suggest and control the mental food of all the young ladies of his acquaintance. He at once became an oracle among them. The book he approved was largely read, and the book he condemned was shunned. Whoever differed in opinion from him he considered devoid of fine taste. Solomon must have had this young man in mind when he wrote, "Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there is more hope of a fool than of him."

When Mr. Langdon met Esther, he pronounced her a "fine creature," and declared he would like the training of her, much as he would have spoken of Frisk, his black colt. He was not aware that he needed to be put in training himself and taught by Mr. Ruskin how to reverence womanhood.

That she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing her. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did not hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.

It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone in the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was smarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily that there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much whether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love, home, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.

Ether was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her, as he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh for a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her, and that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since her mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and good he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then she found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to him, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet, at least. Of course she must marry somebody—an orphan girl like her. Perhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him had changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from what she had thought it would be when that time should come in which somebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave and true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It frightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be, nor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to books and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if she refused him, and—and—he said he loved her. What should she say to him, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What could she say? "O, mother! What would you have me say?"

She made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light glancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and serious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr. Langdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately. Her hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he attributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so sure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or, indeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be his wife—when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never come into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants entered into!

Mr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied that he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so delightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to suit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had not tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.

He was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary society—to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and demerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely from their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made her recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he criticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much taste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture on style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not escape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the sweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it, or her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she must begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.

Esther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious three words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing, somebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even though her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it. And, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their spirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr. Langdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant consciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will to his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's entertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go anywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.

They were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and music for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for the mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed used to amuse her, now, they mortified her.

There was yet another more important subject on which they differed. Since the day of her first visit, Esther had gone often to see Mrs. Lyman, and it was impossible to come into close contact with her sweet spirit and strong faith without having the religious life quickened and strengthened; so Mr. Langdon's views jarred her more than they would have done a few months previous when she was a formal, worldly Christian. He pronounced many of Esther's opinions to be "mere cant." Some of the hymns she loved were "in very bad taste," "perfect trash," while the convictions of her tender conscience were "superstitions." He assured her that the time would come when, as her mind became more expanded and her tastes elevated, she would appreciate his criticisms.

This was too much, even though it were well seasoned with honeyed words, and Esther's indignant protest warned Mr. Langdon not to be too urgent in this direction. There was a limit even to meekness and forbearance.

It was Christmas morning, and Esther was in the conservatory. Her uncle had given her permission to take as many flowers for her own use as she pleased. He well knew they would go to brighten some dreary home this Christmas Day. While she worked she was thinking—going back over the year somewhat. It had not been a happy year to her. She was obliged to confess to herself that she had never been more harassed and worried in her life. A shadow fell on her face as she meditated that when once Christmas is well gone, Spring is not far distant. Then she must be married. This home was not such a happy one that she need mourn to leave it, but she dreaded that new home more. Her troubled thoughts and troubled face did not accord with the beauty and fragrance about her, and neither brightened when Mr. Langdon was announced. He came in where she was at once, saying he was in haste.

"We have arranged a sleigh-ride for to-day," he said, after greeting her. "It was quite impromptu, because we were uncertain about the snow. We are going fifteen miles in the country, to Mr. Clayton's father's, where we are invited to dine. How soon can you get ready, Esther?"

"Oh! I cannot go. You know I told you, Mr. Langdon, that I had an engagement this morning at the 'Old Ladies' Home.'"

Mr. Langdon's lip curled. "Engagement! Surely you can postpone that."

"Surely I cannot. Patrick has gone to got me some greens, and I am going to trim their rooms a little and make a bouquet for each of them. They would be disappointed if I did not come—and so should I. They have looked forward to Christmas for weeks. They are old and poor and have so few pleasures, how can I deprive them of this when they have set their hearts on it?"

"As if nobody could attend to that nonsense but you! Send a servant with the flowers."

"But that wouldn't do at all. It's I they want more than anything. You see, there are very few people who appreciate me. Those old ladies do. I read to them and sing to them, and they think I am an angel just dropped down from Heaven. So you will be good and excuse me this time, and let me give you this as a Christmas token," and she tried to fasten a small white chrysanthemum in his coat.

But Mr. Langdon stepped back and said, with much sharpness of tone, "Esther, it is impossible that you are in earnest. I certainly shall not excuse you, if you are. Of course you will go with me. Go quickly and make ready. I shall call for you in an hour."

Esther reached up and clipped a spray of smilax before she spoke, which she did in a slow, resolute way. "Mr. Langdon, I am quite in earnest; I cannot go. I have made a promise, and I must keep it."

He had never seen Esther assume so much dignity before. She certainly did mean what she said. He was angry enough to go without her, but that would cause him some embarrassment; so he would condescend to persuasion, but this was done in such a manner as to be more offensive than some people's commands.

"My little girl," he said, smiling derisively, "what new airs have you taken on? They do not become you in the least. What has come over you? Is she trying to be a strong-minded female, or is she doing penance or works of supererogation? Come, now, have done with this nonsense, and say you will be ready, my pretty one," and he put his finger under her chin, as one would do to a child, adding, "Look up here, and let us have no tantrums? Some day I must get a bit and bridle for you, my beauty; you are growing spirited."

Esther could never remember feeling more outraged at anything than at this speech. It was a new and repulsive glimpse of his character.

Mr. Langdon had an opportunity to see her in a new character then. She drew herself up, and said coldly: "Such language is very distasteful to me, and I wish to hear no more of it. Please understand distinctly that I am not going, so it will not be necessary for you to detain yourself further."

He thought his ears must have deceived him, that she should dare to assert herself thus, when he supposed he had her under such good control!

He grew white with anger; so angry: that he forgot himself, and said between his teeth,—

"I command you to go."

"You have no right to command me," Esther said calmly.

Then growing desperate, and resolved not to be baffled, he drew out his watch, saying:—

"I will give you three minutes to decide. Once for all: I warn you; you would better repent your decision. If a pack of old women are to be put before me, we shall see. You may take the consequences if you refuse."

Then he turned and walked up and down the short space, while Esther went on clipping flowers. Her fingers trembled, and her hands were nerveless, but the steady clip, clip, of the shears came to the ears of the man who was waiting.

The time was up; he walked toward Esther, and looked at her. She laid another flower in the basket, and said in a low tone, without looking at him, "I shall not go," and then he strode away without another word; and Esther gathered up her flowers and started on her mission.

How very much hung upon her keeping her promise she could not have imagined. She had arranged with Mrs. Lyman to sit with her after she had gone the rounds, and she carried a book to read her some Christmas poems. So after flitting about among the rooms, pinning a bit of the evergreen here, and a vine there, and dispensing flowers and kind wishes to all, she knocked at Mrs. Lyman's door. It was opened by a nurse who told her that the old lady had met with an accident. While going down-stairs that morning she had slipped and fallen, and could see no one.

Hearing a voice she loved, Mrs. Lyman said, "Is it Miss Harlowe? Let her come in."

She was in bed, pale with suffering, and a surgeon was setting her broken ankle. Esther came softly to her side, slipped her hand into hers, and stood still, watching the operation. It was like an anæsthetic in its soothing effect upon the patient— this fresh young face, with hair and eyes like Margaret's, the perfume of the flowers filling the room, and the warm little hand in hers.

Esther watched the surgeon's fingers curiously. How swift and cool their movements!—no uncertainty or clumsiness. A lady sorting embroidery silks could not work more delicately. As he put the finishing touches to his task Esther almost forgot there was any pain connected with it, and found herself wondering if he did not enjoy what he could do so deftly and neatly. Then for the first time she let her gaze rest upon his face. He was a young man—she had thought surgeons were always old or elderly. It was a strong, pure face, with wavy dark hair falling carelessly over the broad forehead. It was but a few seconds, but girls can think much in that time. She decided that hair was much more becoming worn so than plastered down in a precise manner, as she was accustomed to see it. He was surely not in the least like the young men of her acquaintance. Sire tried to fancy him arrayed in swallow-tail coat, light kids and slippers, dancing, and talking nonsense at an evening party. He could never be one of that sort, she was sure. He was too grave and earnest to be a trifler. When he had finished his work, he lifted a pair of clear, penetrating eyes to hers, and they surveyed each other an instant; then the doctor bowed, and Esther turned and, bending down, whispered a few words to Mrs. Lyman, left her flowers on the pillow, and a kiss on the worn cheek, and glided away. She made one or two more calls that she had left till the last, and was passing through the hall to go home, when a nurse met her and asked her to come in and sing to old Mrs. Moore. She had been very ill for many days, and they hoped the singing might quiet her nervous restlessness, and soothe her to sleep. Esther went willingly; she loved to sing, and loved to help others. But here was that eagle-eyed doctor to spoil it. She wished he would go, but he did not.

There was a tall old rocker by the bed, where they motioned her to sit, but she took her place at the back of the chair and folded her hands over its top. Standing so, the doctor could not see her face. He could hear, though, and to that he gave himself. Resting his head on his hand, he closed his eyes and let the sweet melody flow over him.

Almost as soon as the pure, soft tones met her ear the patient ceased her restless tossing, and listened eagerly to catch the words, which were articulated so plainly that not one was lost. They were simple words, just suited to the simple-minded old woman, and peculiarly soothing because they brought to mind the prayer of childhood. Neither was she the only one who felt the spell of the humble little song as it floated through the still room:—

"Now I lay me down to sleep,
As the shadows softly creep,
As the bird, with folded wing,
On some tiny bough doth swing;
As the flowers, wet with dew,
Bow themselves in slumber, too,
In the stillness, awful, deep,
Now I lay me down to sleep.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,
Friends and kindred 'round me weep;
But I know no want or fear,
For no darkness, Lord, is here;
All my way is lit by thee,
Through the shade thou leadest me.
Knowing that the Lord will keep,
May I lay me down to sleep."

Refreshed and calmed, the old lady folded her, hands and said, "'Now I lay me down to sleep.' Oh if I only had somebody to pray with me, I believe I could go to sleep."

There was silence a moment, and one looked at another. Who could pray? Not the doctor, surely; that was not considered to be in his line; but Dr. Evarts knelt down, and, in a few simple, tender words, besought a blessing on the aged mother whose journey was almost done. Here was another evidence, Esther thought, that this young man was different from any she had ever known. She thought about it as she walked home, and sighed as she remembered Mr. Langdon and the angry look on his face as he left her that morning.

Esther had promised Mrs. Lyman that she would come again to see her on the morrow. She was free from pain, and welcomed her visitor eagerly.

"I have such great news to tell you, my dear, that I could scarcely wait. You know it is a whole fortnight now since you were here. Such a wonderful thing has happened! I am not a poor, lonely old woman any longer, Esther. I have a dear boy to care for me. The young physician you found attending me yesterday is my nephew. I was sorry I felt too sick to introduce you. He is Paul Evarts, and he is my dear sister's only son. His mother was left a widow, and they went to England to live when Paul was but a boy. My sister died a few years ago, and we lost sight of Paul. I thought he had forgotten his old auntie, but he had not. He came almost purposely to look me up. He thinks of remaining and going into practice in his native city. If he does he will take a house, and I shall be his housekeeper. Now, what do you think of that, my dear?"

"It's beautiful!" said Esther. "Just beautiful! Why, it's a book acted out. I am so very glad."

"And the queer part of it all," said Mrs. Lyman, "is that after he had been here a few days I must needs go and break my ankle, as if to test his skill as a surgeon. There is no loss, though, without some gain. Perhaps you will take pity on me and come oftener to see me because of my affliction. But you must sing the song now, and read the poem that I was cheated out of yesterday."

After that they had a long talk. Esther's girl friends were never taken into such close confidence as Mrs. Lyman, and, if girls would but believe it, a wise, sweet-spirited, youthful-hearted old lady is a valuable friend for a girl to have. Who should know the dangers of the way so well as those who have just passed over it?

"Your face has a shadow on it this morning, dear child," Mrs. Lyman said presently; "I like to feel that everybody is happy when I am so happy."

Esther wanted counsel and comfort sorely, so she told her troubles.

"Did I do wrong? Ought I to have gone with Mr. Langdon, do you think?" she asked.

"Perhaps the wrong is further back than that. Did you wish to go, but thought it your duty to come here because you had promised?"

"To tell the truth, I preferred coming here to taking a long ride," Esther said, laughing and flushing. "I enjoy bringing flowers here so much; perhaps I was selfish, and then, I did want to keep my promise."

"Can it be that hearts have changed since I was a girl?" the old lady said archly. "What would have tempted me to stay at home when Eleazer asked me to go with him—anywhere? A long ride in the country! Why, that would have been blessed. Are you sure you care for this young man in the right way, dear—if I may ask you a plain question?"

"Why, I don't know," Esther said, stammeringly. "I suppose I do. I try to."

"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Lyman, "can you really think of marrying a person for whom you entertain such a vague uncertain affection?"

"Why, that's the trouble," said Esther. "I don't really want to marry anybody ever. I wish I could be let alone, and not be perplexed about these things, and yet it is very pleasant to have people fond of you, and not feel alone as I do."

"You poor little bud of a girl," Mrs. Lyman said, putting her arms about her, "you should not have been disturbed for a long time yet; you needed a mother to shield you; but you ought to be told that when the one God intends for you crosses your path you will not find it necessary to try to love him. You will, instead, have to pray God to keep you from making him an idol, and where he is, there you will wish to be. Marriage may be the highest state of earthly happiness, and it may be the bitterest bondage. Take care, dear child, how you take vows upon you that your soul revolts from. I believe much of the misery of this life is God's protest against the profanation of this holy ordinance."

It became evident, as the days went by, that Mr. Langdon was hopelessly offended. He did not come to the house or write. Esther was both glad and troubled. Relieved of his constant supervision and criticisms she drew a long breath, and knew, as she had not before, that whatever heart she might possess was not in his keeping. She lived in constant dread that he would return to her after he had punished her sufficiently. And yet his remaining away brought her into trouble with her aunt and cousin; they were already questioning and harassing her beyond endurance. At last, when her aunt wrote Mr. Langdon demanding an explanation, he sent a brief note, saying the engagement between himself and Miss Marlowe was at an end. If she wished for reasons he would refer her to her niece.

Then the storm burst in all its fury. The tongues of mother and daughter were let loose upon her. "Now you shall tell me just what you have done," declared her aunt. "I will not have a gentleman like Mr. Langdon insulted in my own house."

When the story was told, the case was no better for Esther. The rage and disappointment of aunt and cousin knew no bounds.

"Esther, you are a fool!" said her aunt.

"She's a contemptible little minx!" said Miss Sophy. "And I would shut her up and feed her on bread and water until she apologizes."

"I shall never do that," said Esther firmly. "I told him some time before that I should be occupied on Christmas morning, and he had no right to try to force me to alter my plans. The apology must come from him. I have done no wrong."

"Just hear the stupid little simpleton! He apologize to her! The idea! To think she should dare to go contrary to his wishes, and run the risk of losing him, and all for the sake of amusing a few old women!"

"Do you know," Sophy said, turning fiercely to Esther, "what you have done? Or haven't you brains enough to take it in? Mr. Langdon will be the richest man in the city when his father dies, and you have lost him, probably."

"I don't care for money," Esther said dreamily, her eyes out of the window, following a fleecy cloud that was sailing by, and thinking what she dare not speak, that it was far better to be able to pray as that young doctor did, than to have great riches.

"You don't care for money!" screamed her aunt. "Indeed! You will find out whether you care for it when you are left alone in the world without a penny, as you probably will be. Go to your room, do! And stay there out of my sight. You are too exasperating to be tolerated."

"I had no idea she was so stubborn," Mrs. Ward told her daughter, as day after day passed, and Esther refused to send a humble confession to Mr. Langdon. They constructed one themselves at last, ordering her to copy it, but Esther was firm. She had nothing to confess, and she would not, for any consideration, engage herself to him again. It was delightful to be free again; if only they would not torment her she could be almost happy. When she expressed something of this to them they looked at each other aghast, as if here was proof that Esther was a subject for a lunatic asylum.

The weeks that followed were dreary ones to Esther. She was kept on bread and water, figuratively, if not literally, and ice-water at that. It was curious how a house that is warmed And lighted until it fairly glows can be rendered dark and chilly as a tomb to some of its inmates. If the girl's life had been unpleasant before, it was wretched now. Cold looks and sharp words were her portion, when she was not ignored utterly, all the more so because Mr. Langdon had transferred his affections to a Boston belle, visiting in the city, and was hopelessly and forever lost to Esther.

It was not all dark, though. There were occasional visits to a snug little house at the other end of the city, where dwelt a lovely, white-haired old lady called by her devoted nephew, Aunt Katherine.

Mrs. Lyman insisted on a weekly visit from Esther, and sometimes she was kept to cosy little suppers. It was a delightful place to visit, and it was no wonder Esther liked it. She was warmly welcomed and petted to her heart's content. There was usually a good, long talk with her old friend first, then the doctor would come home, and bring out a store of stories from his brain, of things in foreign lands, grave and gay and instructive; he was a charming talker, and Esther was a good questioner. Then he had great volumes of rare engravings of which she never tired, and a microscope whereby she became wise about some of nature's secrets. Her education was going on surprisingly, all the more because one was entirely unaware that he was teaching, and the other that she was being taught. Aunt Katherine watched the glowing faces,—the golden head and the brown head bending together over one book—and smiled. After they had sung numberless songs and hymns it was time for Esther to go home. Of necessity, Dr. Evarts must accompany her home, in a long walk across the city, which latter was not a necessity, but which they much preferred to street cars, the walk being not at all long to them.

As they thus walked and talked one winter night when the Christmas moon shone solemnly down on a white world, and the songs of angels floated on the clear air—heard only by those two—the breeze wafted back some of the words. Their talk was all about themselves—how the precious gift of each to the other began a year ago last Christmas. And they tried to settle bewildering questions: Whether, if Esther had not insisted on going to the "Old Ladies' Home" that morning she would be walking this Christmas Eve with Paul, and suppose there had been no "Old Ladies' Home," would they ever have met.

"And if your Aunt Katherine had not been there—" said Esther. "We owe it all to her, after all."

"Your Aunt Katherine! Say my Aunt Katherine," Paul said, looking down at her with shining eyes.

And Esther obediently repeated, "My Aunt Katherine." The old moon hid herself behind a cloud just then, and neither she nor Paul saw the lovely color that flushed the happy face.

In the spring when all things are made new, they two clasped hands and began their new life together. Their wedding journey was not made to some famous fashionable resort; they were of one mind in this, as in everything else. They sought a quiet retreat where they might carry on their intimacy with nature, and she rewarded them; she unsealed her fountains and discovered to them her secret nooks and crannies, her buds and blossoms and delicacies, as she does to no one but ardent worshippers. They searched the woods and glens, climbed mountains and wandered by streams, and walked and rode and talked and studied, with not one hour of dullness. And then they went back to the little house and lived their beautiful lives.

"Two to the world for the world's work's sake,
But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one."

And the world said, "Poor thing! She was jilted by that rich Mr. Langdon, you know, and now she has had to take up with a poor young doctor;" which shows just how much the world knows about Esther's affairs, and ours.

When the years had gone away and Dr. Evarts' praises were in every mouth, and he had become rich and celebrated, Miss Sophy Ward was fond of speaking of "My cousin, Mrs. Dr. Evarts."

Aunt Katherine, too, had occasion for triumph and for heaping some very hot "coals of fire," but she never thought of either. Mrs. Agnew had lost her property, and the Agnew estate was sold to the highest bidder, which was Dr. Evarts. Strange to say he was able to place Aunt Katherine in her old room, with many of the dear familiar objects of other days about her; while the wretched woman who had played her brief part in this history, lived in a humble home not far off. She was sick and poor and miserable. To her Mrs. Lyman ministered as if she had received nothing but kindness at her hands. And Christ-like love conquered in the end; it broke down the hard heart and brought her into faith and peace.

When riches increased, Dr. Evarts obeyed the Scripture, "set not thy heart upon them." They flowed out in all directions, blessing and comforting others.

Every Christmas, he and Esther visited the "Old Ladies' Home," with a bountiful thank-offering. Each recurring year they were wont to go over every small detail of their meeting, and sometimes make little confessions that were new to the other.

"It was here you stood to sing," the dignified doctor would remark, or, "Was ever anything lovelier than when you stood there with those roses, watching me set the broken bones?"

"And how you frightened me when you flashed your eyes on me so suddenly."

"It is a good place," the doctor would say; "here we found each other, and here began the love that has blessed our lives."

"And here I found my Aunt Katherine," Esther was fond of adding.

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

———

"WHY, Auntie! What a quantity of lunch you are putting up. You don't expect me to take my Christmas dinner on the cars, do you?"

"Stranger things than that have come to pass, even though you should," Aunt Ruth said, tucking in another half-dozen biscuits. "Massachusetts is a long way off, and Christmas is pretty near at hand. You'll have sharp work to get through by Christmas, I'm thinking. The connections will have to be very good, and no set-backs on the way. That don't always happen in winter, you know. Trains will be behind time, or there 'll be a bridge down, or something. Then as you get on toward the East there will be snow-storms—snow you up for a week, maybe—better stay till after Christmas yet."

"Aunt Ruthie, don't! Please don't prophesy such terrible things; I shall get on all right, I am sure. Good-by, dear own auntie!" And the young girl wound her arms about the elder woman's neck, and laid her brown head close to the gray one.

"Good-by, dearie!" Aunt Ruth said in broken tones. "The Lord bless you and keep you—and see here, child, I'll tuck these two little books into your basket, and some more biscuits, then if you should have to spend a week on the way, you will have something to feed soul and body both."

A last loving look into Aunt Ruth's eyes, and Marian sprang into a light wagon by Uncle Eli's side, and two ponies trotted off over the smooth country road. The frosty air, the crackle of dry leaves and twigs, the morning sun, the fragrant cedars, and the flutter of gay-winged birds, made the heart of this girl, whose eye and ear were open to all sweet influences of nature, sing for joy—the mere joy of being—on this glorious morning. And truly a winter morning in the poetical, picturesque southwest, with its balmy airs, green fields, and gay birds, at Christmas time, can but seem to a New Englander the presage of that morning when all things shall be made new.

Aunt Ruth watched them far down the road, then she went into the house with a slow step and a heavy heart. She wiped away the tears as she gathered up Marian's woody treasures that she had forgotten—lichens, moss twigs, and purple berries. The house was empty and dull. The bright young creature who had filled it with an atmosphere of warmth and gladness was gone. How grim and desolate it seemed!

For two months Aunt Ruth had lived a charmed life. Marian, the daughter of her favorite niece, whom she loved as her own child, had come from her far city home for a brief visit—to honor one whom her mother prized so highly. Her stay was protracted far beyond what duty required, though. The girl enjoyed the free, unconventional life, the novel experiences, and the almost idolatrous love bestowed upon her.

It was hard to say which was most delighted with the other. The younger one painted scenes of the gay, busy world, that seemed to the elder, hard-worked woman like the tales of Aladdin. Then she, in turn, in quaint speech, seasoned with wit, poured into the young ears the privations and romances of frontier life, as well as the love tales of long ago, which were far more delightful than one could find in a book, because they had been lived out before Aunt Ruth's eyes. She knew whether the fine gold of the marriage day had become dim; what they did, and how they lived, and so on to the very last chapter. With graphic words she made them live again for her eager listener—a long line of ancestors—sketching her characters with no mean skill, her charitable nature hiding their faults behind their graces, so that they were most fascinating as heroes and heroines. In short, Aunt Ruth was to Marion a delightful old book, full of wisdom and strong sweetness. And while Marian was to her aunt a revelation of grace and loveliness, she was besides gifted with an active brain, and was the very soul of truth and candor, so that she seemed to the New England woman like a breath of air fresh from the old Massachusetts hills. Aunt Ruth always disparaged the East in contrast with the West when she re-visited it, and yet she loved its rocky hills with all her heart. At the same time, anything or anybody of Eastern make or birth, was held up to Western people as a model of all excellence.

"She is just wonderful," the old lady would declare, in confidential chats with Uncle Eli. "There she has been brought up in a great city, her folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn't spoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk full of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks here, but not a bit of it! She's devouring the old yellow books in the bookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down the 'History of the Reformation,' and there she sat the whole forenoon, never stirred or looked up as I went in and out—so deep in her book. In the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit over Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons for getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I had, too. They were: 'That he might please his father, spite the Pope, and vex the devil.' Said she, 'I should have wanted him to have one more reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy—the only reason—because he loved me.' She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before I thought, and I said, 'Of course he would. How could anybody help loving you, dearie?' You ought to 'a' seen her pretty blush, then; exactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She's reading 'Paradise Lost,' now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she is up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She's a regular old-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn't raise such girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time dressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they couldn't stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn't any piety nor anything else—nothing but pretty faces. Now, there's Marian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with the baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that, she's truly pious. She isn't going to make one of the strong-minded kind, either—stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge fence. She's as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I never thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of the window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o' dancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her eyes. I said to myself, 'Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and she will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then take herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is my great-niece.' But here she has been, week after week, and don't want to go home yet."

The first fifty miles of Marian's journey was unmarked by anything of special interest. This brought her to the junction where she was to change cars for the main line. But there, to her dismay, she discovered that the train with which she was supposed to connect had been gone for an hour, her own train being late. There was nothing to be done but to wait at a forlorn little hotel for the next one, which would not be until noon of the next day. It was of no use to feel provoked, or to fret, so Marian set herself to bear it patiently. She walked about the small village, and on into the country, made the acquaintance of children gathering Christmas greens, and returned with her hands full of evergreen and bitter-sweet berries.

The time did not hang so heavily as she had anticipated, although she was heartily glad when the long train glided in, and she was once more seated in the car, and on her homeward way. As it was to be a long journey, she was not a little interested in her surroundings. So she began to scrutinize her fellow-passengers, to measure, and classify, and determine, by those few swift glances, their standing—mental, social and moral—and whether they were agreeable, or selfish and ill-natured. She reached her conclusions—unjust ones in some instances, perhaps; and yet the intuitions of some fine natures are a little short of divine. When she wearied of that, she brought out pencil and paper, and scribbled a voluminous letter to Aunt Ruth. Having a talent for sketching, she embellished her sheet here and there with portraits of her fellow-travellers, "to cheer up Auntie," she told herself, albeit the artist seemed to enjoy her work immensely, and to put a deal of painstaking into it. There was a scornful big woman with a pug-nosed dog, a laughing baby, a great pompous man asleep with his mouth open, the sweet face of an old lady biding away under a deep bonnet, and at last, with careful touches, the profile of a young man who sat just ahead of her; a fine scholarly face, bent over a book.

That letter made two old people happy for more than one evening. What if our cheery words went oftener to brighten lonely homes!

Stuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat just below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those about him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no possible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover who sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have been amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just been executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come. That which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of golden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine. Marian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious picture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old lady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with a "gospel face." As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they never saw a sunset. "Eyes have they, but they see not," applies to more than heathen idols. It is always so: God's best things are for the few; the many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears are dull, and "their eyes they have closed."

Those who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the evening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft violet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of delight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was near—the end of all journeyings—and that rushing train was speeding on straight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should meet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed in, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and the farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and Stuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said, "No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you old people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses. We are not afraid."

It was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she unconsciously and softly sang,—

"'Day is dying in the west,
Heaven is touching earth with rest;
Wait and worship while the night
Sets her evening lamps alight—'"

Followed by Keble's sweet evening hymn,—

"'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near.'"

Hymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none but herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and looked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned all but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently, the music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in his seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in determining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed by any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a sealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown hair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass, and while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips framed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had forgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was a charming picture, and he enjoyed it.

During the evening people dropped off at the different stations along the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who wearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should be attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even while they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly came to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours, was the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy state of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that at sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging monsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to sweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a thing to be desired—standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless prairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with telegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs was met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last few hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming doors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines that could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright, fearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a collision.

Stuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of trust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a long life of disappointments, was philosophical. "What can't be cured, must be endured," she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet and hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little preparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she said, "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety.'"

If only she had said those words aloud!

Marian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably in her seat, and went to sleep.

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee," makes a soft pillow.

Mr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was a good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief points in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so that he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain, which he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to—probably this miserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned inwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in his mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances at the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a certain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers were distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of faces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions, with closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put up to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and folded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth looked as if the lips had closed themselves on,—"I will trust." It was a calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself thinking as he gazed, "If only a soul ever matched a fair face!"

If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one, and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy hair, and radiant with calm content.

The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone. "Dear lamb," she murmured to herself, "she is taking a good sleep."

Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, "How are you getting on, my dear?" There was a world of comfort in that "my dear."

Mr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep himself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but known her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if closer scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely head thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high, fine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something. Perhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in a satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of the idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond of wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, "a face to trust;" she composed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two protectors.

When the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in sheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had not yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for all concerned.

The fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady had a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with whom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted, the men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was moodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old lady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket, begged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, "for I'm sure you must be all tuckered out by this time," she added sympathetically. But this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her that he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of depriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the journey.

She looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the refusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved that he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from her stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she told herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too; wonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on the way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained at the hotel to keep it in good condition.

It went sorely against Marian's nature to enjoy her nice breakfast, knowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share with him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man instead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now, she would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might get courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not look so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as she glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness, too, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to more humility.

Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after having sat up all night in the cars.

But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a "society girl," with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting. It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end, or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little volume of "Daily Food" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," daintily bound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt Ruth's round cramped hand, "Marian Chester:" "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." "Dear aunt Ruth," she murmured. "What would she say if she knew where I am? And what will they think at home?" She just began to realize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears stood on her cheeks.

Mr. Lynde was returning from one of his visits to the engine, and was just in time to catch, for an instant, the flash of that tear. A smile was a hollow thing to him. His coat of mail was proof against a whole battalion of the most bewitching; but a tear! He bowed in reverence before a tear; and, acting on that impulse, paused, and before he had given himself leave to speak was saying, "I beg your pardon, but can I do anything for you?"

Poor Marian! It was so sudden, and she was so mortified to be caught crying like a baby, that her tones were defiant and her answer curt: "No, sir, I thank you, not anything."

When she raised her eyes he was gone. Then, her sense of desolation was lost in vexation, that she had made herself an object of pity to him and requited his attempt at kindness by what must have seemed extreme rudeness.

The rained had ceased, but this was not an advantage in one way, for the air at once became intensely cold, so making it more difficult to repair damages, as washouts and bridges swept from swollen streams were reported ahead. As if to bring dreariness to a culminating point, the supply of coal was low and the cars were becoming chilly. Adversity was apparently having a good effect upon Mr. Lynde; he was developing under it, and waking up to some interest in humanity that was not in a book. He was not in general a close observer of the dress of ladies, but he knew the difference between a long sealskin cloak and an old black cashmere shawl. Consequently he was very sure where the large, soft lap robe he carried was most needed. Thereupon he took it over to the old lady, and begged her with as much deference as if she had been a duchess, to accept it. She demurred, but he insisted and folded it about her as a son might have done, and the lines about his mouth relaxed into sweetness as she showered her thanks upon him.

"Why did I not think to do that?" Marian said to herself, casting regretful eyes on her own warm shawl. It was too late now, so she drew it over herself and retired into her book.

Aunt Ruth spoke better than she knew when she talked of food for the soul. Some darkened minds would call it "cant," but those who know the secret of the Lord, know that as a few drops of stimulant revive a fainting body, just as surely will a strong, comforting word from the Scriptures send the lifeblood tingling again through a benumbed soul, if that soul belong to Christ.

So when Marian read in her "Daily Food":—

"The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms;"

"The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them;"

"The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord shall cover him all the day long;"

"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."

Then her faith and courage returned, and her heart already sang songs of deliverance.

Mr. Lynde had already done all that travellers usually do in such emergencies. He had stood in the teeth of a keen wind and talked with the brake man and engineer and conductor as to the extent of the accident, and what the probabilities were of soon resuming the journey; had stepped out and walked briskly up and down, and the old lady remarked as he strode by, "He's a handsome young fellow; straight as an arrow, and he walks with a kind o' spring, just like my Benjamin," and Marian had given in response an amused smile.

Now he had come back again and settled himself down to endure, with grim fortitude, what could not be cured; not with the same spirit, though, as the old saint who sat just beyond him, for, she said, "It 'll all turn out for the best somehow, and we'll likely see it some day." It would take long to convince him, though, that the important case to which he was hurrying home could possibly be bettered by his absence. But he tried to be a philosopher. He turned up his coat collar, as men do when they are cold and seem to think they have made all reasonable provisions for comfort, put his eyes on his book, and tried to merge his thoughts into the author's; but when a man is hungry, and ever so slightly cold, the circumstances are not favorable for metaphysical research.

It was noon, and the time for those who had any dinner to eat it; so Marian took down her lunch basket again. If only she had somebody to enjoy it with her! She glanced about the car; the men had gone. The old lady, thanks to the warmth of the lap robe, was enjoying a nice nap. There was just one person on whom to exercise her benevolence.

She amused herself by laying together in a fresh napkin three or four biscuits, some slices of chicken, and some cake; then, while she thoughtfully put bits into her own mouth, debated the question with herself after this fashion: I ought, I really ought to do it, but how can I? I wish he would go out; I would slip it into his seat, and he would think the ravens or something had been sent to feed him. If I should carry this over there and he should decline it with a lofty air, how could I endure such humiliation? To be sure, I did reply very haughtily when he spoke to me, and whatever possessed me, I'm sure I don't know.

The head at which she was casting furtive glances, went down at this juncture, wearily down, on the seat before him, and the action decided her.

Stuart Lynde thought he had, in that moment, dropped asleep, and was in a blissful dream, for a soft voice just behind him, said, "Sir, I was mistaken; I would like to ask a favor of you."

The head was erect in an instant, and he began,—

"I shall be most happy;" but when he saw this haughty lady changed into a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner, and heard her say, "Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I have a great abundance?" then the fluent speech for which he was noted, forsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then—they looked squarely into each other's eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke into a merry laugh.

The ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible.

After that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the appetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been entirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number of biscuits.

"That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I possess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth," Marian said, while she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had wakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It "quite chirked her up," she said, "to hear something going on once more."

The two young people talked together some minutes before they recollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should have introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,—

"STUART LYNDE,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law."

And Marian said simply, "I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts."

It would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech again, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were endless—the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the advantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes finally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had visited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary prairie, miles from anywhere.

Mr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read biographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets, and yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of fiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read "Jane Eyre," old as it was, nor "Romola," nor even the lighter novels that most schoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen.

"No," she said, "I know almost nothing of them; my father has his own ideas in regard to these things," and she said it reverently and sweetly, as if "anything that my father wishes is good and right;" not; "My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the consequences—"

"His theory is that a taste for solid reading should first be formed, and that whatever of fiction is indulged in, should be by the best writers and quite simple. With the exception of a few books, rather juvenile in character, I am to read my first novel this winter with father. I read aloud to him a great deal, and he is my dictionary and encyclopædia. We have most delightful times, and we read all sorts of books. Perhaps, if one were to come down to my level in the line of light reading, I might intelligently discuss the merits of some works," she said archly; "I know almost by heart 'Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales' and the 'Tanglewood Tales;' as well as 'Alice in Wonderland,' and 'Water Babies,' and several other lovely stories."

Happy daughter! To read her first novel—some pure, noble work of his choosing—with her father, instead of stealthily devouring a vile, yellow-covered thing at midnight, when she should have been sleeping, or secreting it under her desk at school, and snatching a guilty morsel when she should have been studying.

The father's theory had been well carried out, and he must have been delighted with results, for the girl could enjoy a scientific research, or a simple story, one of which would have been voted dull, and the other childish, by those reared on more highly seasoned mental food. Then there was in her a cheery freshness, and a hearty enjoyment of simple pleasures, in sharp contrast with many specimens of restless, languid young ladyhood, interested in nothing on earth or under it—nothing except themselves.

Mr. Lynde was charmed. Here was an anomaly, a rare study: a girl not made up of artificialities, nor morbid sentimentalism.

The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings, until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances, of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies; and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.

"And this is the extent of mine," Marian said, producing her little books, "my Christmas present from a dear old auntie," and she gave them into his hands, and received his volume of essays.

It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony, this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point. His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself as to the comfort of old ladies.

During the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better. Food was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the train was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many a jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at all. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night at their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged to change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks across the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her shawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was pleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains among bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by daylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this late hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of other travellers bound for the same train.

All hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars, and the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o'clock. The Christmas morning already begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as they stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of each a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning—"Within that province far away."

"'In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago,'"

quoted Mr. Lynde.

Marian was surprised into saying: "How very singular! The same words were running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to ask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar with that poem."

"Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:

"'The earth was still—but knew not why,
The world was listening—unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man's doom was linked, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago."

To Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of something else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with a stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was positively enjoying it, had the effect to make her "good-night" seem cold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she vanished into the section assigned her.

It had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel alone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and accompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be supposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the uncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable that he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian had decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by this time quite like a veteran traveller.

In the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They had just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how he could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired gentleman bustled up with, "Ah, Marian, here you are!" bent and kissed her cheek, saying in the same breath, "So glad you came this morning, my dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col. Winslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the invitation for you, too." Marian's face put in a protest.

"Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people; you will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting."

As soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde, as one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him a hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under shaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian's hand under his arm and was moving off.

One moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured thanks, and she was gone.

To say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it. Who was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most reluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He remembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps, would join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking forward to a day's travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it had all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.

In his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the imperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely escaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He realized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in his possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it, inasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize. He brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his side pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken from the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he enjoyed the fragrance, and partly—he knew not why. He laid it with the books. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence that, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon he tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself a fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that manner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a task. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between him and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and arranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain to determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret in her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their conversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again her attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when she came to minister to his necessities. "Not one in a hundred would have done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at all, indeed," he told himself.

The thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not obtained her address; "Massachusetts," that was all he knew.

He took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was there: "Marian Chester." What a fair name it was; how it just suited her. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or where Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his heart re-echoing that prayer.

As for Marian, she found the last half of her journey dull in comparison with the first, and she was dimly conscious why. The thought sent bright flushes into her cheeks, but she did not sit down and analyze and define it, or recall looks and tones and words. She shut the door on that corner of her heart and locked it. She told herself that it was a matter of perfect indifference to her who or what he was, and yet when her uncle asked, "Who was the young man you introduced to me, my dear?" and she produced his card, she was more than pleased to hear Col. Winslow declare that he knew him well by reputation; that he was one of the most brilliant young lawyers in the State, and, morally, was without blemish.

In the busy months that followed, it was becoming a habit with Mr. Lynde to refresh himself with a look into one or other of the little books he kept among his treasures. Even when most pressed by business matters, he was sure to snatch a brief moment through the day or night to glance at a verse. He did this at first because they belonged to "the maiden," he called her in his thought; that old-fashioned sweet word just fitted her, and seemed to single her out as above and beyond all others. Then the words of Thomas à Kempis charmed him; he studied that book for the quaint simplicity of its style, and wondered that he had not before discovered such a gem. And, while he thought it childish in him, he noted with not a little curiosity the text for each day in the "Daily Food." When he went a journey, it amused even himself that he always slipped the little books into some pocket, and they went along.

One night at the close of a triumphant day, when he had come off victor in a difficult case, and had been congratulated and complimented until he was surfeited, he opened the small book to search out the text for that day. To one conscious of having gloried not a little in the very gratifying success of that day, it was almost startling to read—

"Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches. Let him that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the Lord."

Not since he was a boy at his mother's knee, had a word of Scripture come into his heart with power such as this.

He knew he had gloried in his wisdom and power; had been proud of his triumph, and proud of his spotless life and high morality, but now how it all flashed upon him in an instant, that he was weak and foolish and sinful before God. He could speak in many tongues, and understand mysteries of science, but he did not know and understand the Lord. The one thing in which it would be right to glory, he did not possess. When a boy, he had the habit of prayer, but, as he grew toward manhood, lost his faith by reading skeptical writers, so for many years he had not spoken to God until he came into possession of these two precious books, then, curiously enough, he had begun to pray one petition: "The Lord bless her and keep her." But now, when the sense of the utter worthlessness of all he attained, and God left out, was flashed upon him, he cried, "Teach me to know and understand thee," and the first answer to that prayer was to show him that he was blind and poor and in need of all things. His eye fell upon words just then which told that another soul, generations ago, had gone by the same road to find his God, for Thomas à Kempis said:

"But if I abase and know myself to be nothing, if I renounce all self-esteem and (as I am) account myself to be but dust; thy grace will be favorable unto me, and thy light will be near unto my heart.

"And all self-esteem, how little soever, shall be swallowed up in the deep valley of my nothingness, and perish everlastingly.

"There thou showest thyself unto me, what I am, what I have been, and whither I am come; for I am nothing and I knew it not.

"And if I be left to myself, behold, I become nothing and all weakness.

"But if thou lookest upon me, I am made strong."

The light had entered the darkened soul. The Spirit used a few texts of Scripture and the devout words of an old monk to teach him "that all our righteousness is as filthy rags," and that "the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin." The old miracle was repeated in him. In silence and quiet the change went on. A proud, ambitious, self-seeking man, learning to pray with that other saint:

"Grant me, O, most gracious and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above all creatures:

"Above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtlety, above all riches and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all hope and promise, above all desert and desire; above all gifts and presents that thou canst give and impart unto us: above all joy and triumph that the mind of man can receive and feel."

A year went away, and the stars of Christmas night glowed in the sky as brightly as long ago, "when shepherds watched their flocks by night," and "the angel of the Lord came down." Mr. Lynde, as he walked and thought—thought of that night, "within that province far away," to which his destiny was now "linked" in a peculiar and tender relation. He would not have been human not to have recalled that other night, too, a year ago. So he walked the silent, moonlight streets, and repeated softly—

"'In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago,'"

He might walk and walk miles, though, it would not bring that other one who walked by his side then. He might not have sighed so heavily at that thought if his vision could have compassed distance and known who watched the stars with him.

That these two paths should ever cross again, would seem as impossible as that two small ships adrift on the wide ocean should "speak" each other.

The ingenuity and perseverance with which he had prosecuted the search all these months was something remarkable. As Boston is the metropolis of Massachusetts, he made business trips to Boston, and the "business" was to walk the streets, haunt picture galleries, attend lectures and concerts, always searching for one face. He read Boston papers, especially the list of marriages and deaths. He took the westward journey many times, hoping she might have repeated the visit to Aunt Ruth. Once he ventured to send her a letter through the Boston post-office, and it came back to himself.

"She knows where I am," he would tell his unreasoning self. "How easily she could send me some little sign, but, such as she never would, even though she cared."

All this time Marian was hidden away in a suburban town ten miles from Boston, in her father's country home, though spending much time in the city. Why did not one or the other of their good angels cause them to turn their eyes in the right direction that day they almost brushed against each other in the crowd?

Through the year she had stoically crushed out pleasant remembrances of the brief acquaintance, never allowing the thought that possibly they might meet again, and yet she always searched an audience with a keener interest than had been her wont. It might just be possible, but how preposterous, after all! He lived far away in a Western city. Why should he come to Boston?

'Tis true, too, that on Christmas night she indulged herself in a bit of dreaming, lingering purposely at her chamber window, looking out on the white world until the clock in the steeple should chime out twelve, feeling, unconsciously, that she was keeping an indefinable tryst with some mythical being by so doing. She, too, went in memory over the walk and the poem, recalled the excellent rendering of the few lines recited, and then being dimly conscious that it would be the most delightful thing in life to go on and on in an interminable walk, with that one voice sounding always in her ears, she brought her reverie to an abrupt ending, drew her curtains and shut out the witching moonbeams with tantalizing memories,—like a sensible maiden that she was.

Mr. Lynde's book had been diligently studied by her, partly because it was his, and for the reason that it was in rather a different line from anything she had read. She did not at once comprehend its subtle logic, and her ambition required that she should. Her well-trained mind was not long in discovering that this book was not all gems and pearls, as she had supposed when the fascinating rhetoric attracted her. There were half-truths, skeptical suggestions, and flings at doctrines dear to Christian hearts. It filled her with sorrow and surprise that such high, beautiful thoughts should be so marred.

Did Mr. Lynde believe these things? From a remark he dropped, she half-feared he did. From that time his name came into her daily prayer as she asked that her little books might not be lost, but be seed that should spring up and bear fruit.

It was not in a crowded assembly, nor on the city streets, nor on a railroad train, that Mr. Lynde finally found his treasure. He was returning from a trip in the Northwest, and near the end of a day's travel was obliged to wait at a small town a few hours, in order to take an express train. Finding the time hang heavily, he walked out and turned his steps into a little foot path that led out into the country.

It was a perfect day. The clear sky, the tinted woods, the stream, the "rare blue hills," made lovely pictures on all sides.

He had not the most remote idea that this noisy brook bounded Aunt Ruth's farm, and that the next bend in the road would reveal a charming picture that would make his pulses stand still with joy.

A narrow footbridge spanned the stream, and leaning over the railing, intently watching the hurrying waters, her white dress fluttering in the breeze, stood Marian. He knew her in an instant, and came forward, his heart in his face. Marian looked up quickly, in a startled way, at the sound of a footstep, and the joyful radiance that lighted her eyes when he said, "At last I have found you," revealed the whole story. There was scarcely need of question and answer.

And then? They sauntered along the bank of the winding stream, and began a walk that did not end till life ended.

The express train went its way without the traveller, and they two came up through the lengthening shadows to the old farmhouse, where Aunt Ruth sat on the porch. They told the whole long story to her, and she listened, with now a smile and then a tear, and when it was finished she laid a hand on the head of each, and said sweetly and solemnly, "Children, the Lord bless thee and keep thee!"

JUANA'S MASTER.

———

A PICTURESQUE object it was, this old Spanish-looking house, in the City of Mexico, with turrets and towers and balconies, set amid tall trees and clambering vines. The hot breath of the summer afternoon had sent most of the inhabitants to search out cool, dark retreats, and lose the sense of languor in sleep. Even the leaves and the flowers were drowsy, and universal silence settled upon all things, broken only by the plashing of fountains and the sleepy little songs of birds.

In an upper balcony of the old house a young wife sat, her head resting on one hand, her eyes fastened on the distant mountains just discernible through a soft haze. She was not building pretty air-castles, nor absorbed in the dreamy, wondrous beauty of the scene before her; nor when she bowed her head on the railing, did her eyes close in happy forgetfulness.

"Sleep seldom visits sorrow," and this sad heart was breathing out sobs and moans.

Juana Valerie, descended from both Mexican and Spanish ancestors, was, with the exception of an old aunt, the last of the family, which, in its day, had been one of much note. Left an orphan at an early age, her only remaining relative—feeble in both mind and body—found it no easy task to bring the fiery, frisky little mortal under any great degree of control. As she grew older her positive nature and keen mind outgeneraled both teachers and aunt. When she chose to spend the livelong day frolicking in the grounds, or clambering trees, instead of poring over dull books, she did so, always being able by means of ready wit and winning ways to escape punishment. However, as the years went on, she contrived to secure a fair share of education, absorbing it, it must be; surely it was not accomplished by hard study.

Juana's parents had been staunch Roman Catholics, and while they lived she was trained in the strict observance of the rules of that church. Whether it was that the little maiden was a born rebel, or that from some honest-hearted ancestor she had inherited a hatred of shams, it turned out that at a very early age she began to throw off the shackles the Church of Rome binds about its victims. The Confessional had always been to her childish mind a dread and horror, and as she grew to girlhood she stoutly refused to go to it. The aunt and the old priest scolded and threatened, which had the effect only to drive her from the church entirely. Then they persecuted and warned, holding up to her view the awful fate of an apostate soul. They tried to hedge her in on this side and that, but she shook her willful little head, and leaping over all inclosures, ran free as the wind. No threats or persuasions availing to bring her under control, she was deemed incorrigible, and the anathema of the Church pronounced against her. This did not bring the least shadow upon her spirit, however; a strange intuition seemed to make this young girl aware that truth in its purity was not there, and that a mere man had no power to pronounce either blessing or curse upon her.

She was not unloving to her old aunt, nor did she intend to be undutiful, but she did purpose always and everywhere to have her own way; so the feeble old lady settled down to the inevitable, and Juana came and went free as a bird. Hitherto, her flowers and her pets had absorbed her, but now she was awakening to the fact that a whole bright world of pleasure lay all about, beckoning her to its revelries. So she drifted in with the giddy throng, and was flattered and followed and smiled upon to her heart's content.

In one of the gay assemblies she met Paul Everett, a young American. At first glance each became immediately fascinated by the other, and subsequent interviews served to deepen the enchantment. As Juana could speak not a word of English, and the young stranger but very little Spanish, it would seem that the attachment could not make rapid progress; but love has a mystic language of its own, and is independent of clumsy words. The reasons for this irresistible and mutual attraction were quite as good as many lovers can plead. He was carried captive by flashing dark eyes, raven hair, and the graceful form gleaming in crimson and gold, flitting through the dance like some gay tropical bird. She, in turn, fondly believed that the tall blonde young man, with locks and mustache of golden hue, with eyes of heavenly blue, and, above all, in faultless attire, was nothing short of a demi-god. On such slender basis they built fair hopes, and were ready to promise everything, and more, that lay in mortal's power to bestow. The business that drew Paul Everett to Mexico was the same in which he had been engaged the last five years. His indulgent friends termed it "sowing wild oats," though he himself professed to be gathering material for some literary work. In this line he had much taste, and fair talents, and might have succeeded if only it had been possible for him to engage in any pursuit with earnestness and enthusiasm; or if he had known any other rule of life than self-indulgence.

The wooing was short; they were soon married, and Paul for a time exceedingly enjoyed the little idyll he was living. The situation was most novel and delightful. The flowery land, its blue skies and balmy air suited his poetical temperament. The old castle and grounds were picturesque and spacious, and he was master of them, or would be on the death of the old aunt; besides, did he not possess the entire adoration of the most charming and unique little creature that ever breathed? Paul had a mania for the unique, and one of Juana's greatest attractions to him was that she was unlike all the rest of womankind; of whom, as he assured himself, he was heartily weary, but this sparkling, piquant winning sprite—ah! She was as far beyond and above all other women as wine was above water— and that distance was immeasurable to Paul's taste.

He enjoyed teaching Juana to speak English. Her musical voice stammering out pretty broken words in his own language, was a pleasant thing to hear. She was not content with simply speaking it. Should she be the wife of an American and not be able to read his language? So under his tuition, she set about the study of it with much more industry than suited her husband's indolent temperament. These were halcyon days; seldom were a young couple more united. Their views of life and their aims were the same. The world was a gay garden, and they two were butterflies, disporting themselves in the warm sunshine and draining every drop of sweetness from every flower in their path. Innocent enough flowers they were at first; the delight in each other's society in rambling, riding, boating, and resting under the shadows of broad spreading trees, or, from a lofty balcony enjoying the panorama the summer evening spread before them; the fair city at their feet, its spires and minarets gleaming in the moonlight, and distant mountains piled in soft masses against the crystal sky.

When Juana added to the witchery of the scene by singing sweet Spanish airs to the music of the guitar, the young husband half believed he had attained heaven and the society of the angels.

When these simple delights ceased to charm, there was the outside world which they had come near to forgetting while in this ecstatic trance. So they plunged into every amusement the gay wicked city offered, and "gave their hearts to folly." They lived in a whirl of pleasure, and Juana felt that now there was nothing more to ask for in life. To be the chosen bride of such a man, and to take her fill of amusement, to dress and dance and sing the days and nights away—was ever cup of happiness so strangely full as hers?

If some stray breeze had whispered in her ear that she had tied her happiness to a slender thread, that the day would come when all these things would be to her as chaff, and that if her husband should weary of her, he would fling her aside as he did the rose he plucked in the morning, after breathing its sweetness a moment—then Juana would never have believed such a false whisperer.

Paul Everett tired of everything sooner or later. His restless, fickle nature demanded constant change and new sensations. So, after the first novelty of his new mode of life had worn off, he began to return to his old habits of roving, making only short absences at first, but gradually to extend them till weeks grew into months.

Juana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from the whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and conscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter somewhat into the experience of another one who "laid hold on folly," and found it "vanity and vexation of spirit." Of late an unaccountable feeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal over her. A voice seemed often to ask her, "If this was all of life, to frolic away a few brief days and die, and then—what? Could it be that death was the end?" One evening during her husband's absence, she walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone gateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer meeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and wished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so that she might find out what it was that made them seem so different from all others.

"Those people are happy, Ria," she said to the maid; "they look as if they had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was." And Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what she had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and betook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from the little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender airs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something better and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the first dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good, seeking for its God.

These feelings did not pass away with the next morning's sunlight. She felt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This could not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for when he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed her, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine affection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the trouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes. But Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature, was only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the dignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.

There was a fascination to Juana in watching the small company of worshipers go to and from the chapel. One evening, as the melody of their hymns floated up to her, she became possessed of a desire to come nearer to the heavenly sounds. So, enveloping her head and shoulders in a large veil, she glided softly forth into the moonlight alone; her husband was down in the city and would not return until late. She was glad to go alone, though for some reason that she did not herself understand. She stole silently along, and stood under the shadow of the trees where she could observe without being seen. Now their heads were bowed in prayer. In the earnest petitions from one and another she often caught the name "God." She had never heard it in English. If they had spoken the word in her own language, though, no distinct idea would have been conveyed to her; only a dim, shadowy something that she had heard of long ago.

Soon they broke out into song again:

"Come, happy souls, approach your God
With new melodious songs."

Although Juana could converse in simple broken words in English, she could comprehend scarcely nothing of what she now heard; and yet the music thrilled and animated her. How joyful these faces and voices were, and yet subdued and tender, and they sang about "God"—that same name! Still she lingered as if fascinated until the closing hymn, that lullaby for trusting souls in all ages:

"Glory to thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light:
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath thine own almighty wings."

And still they sang that same name—"God." If only the poor heart standing there in the shadows could know about the "Almighty wings!" Juana did not forget the sound of the new name she had heard—that Being to whom those people prayed and sang praises, and read about in their Bible. If she could but read English and have one of their Bibles, then she should know all about Him! Oh! If somebody would tell her about Him.

"If those English people know about God, why should not Paul?" she mused, as they sat together one afternoon.

Paul was reclining in a hammock, the smoke of a cigar curling far above his head, absorbed in a French novel.

When Juana broke the silence by asking him if he owned a Bible, he answered with a frown, "Of course not."

"Paul, could you tell me about God?" Juana ventured again.

"Very easily," said Paul, puffing out a whiff of smoke. "There is no God. So you see you needn't bother your pretty head any more about that question."

He did not see the startled, disappointed look in Juana's face as he settled himself again to his book with an air that said he was not to be further disturbed. Paul's word, ordinarily, was law to Juana, but in this case she was not satisfied. She could not believe there was no God. She knew there must be one, and that not by reasoning it out. A greater than human reason had taught her. If now she could but find out about Him! She had not looked into a Spanish Bible since she was a very little child, but she could not go to that for help. She distrusted everything that the Church of Rome had to do with. "But if a Spanish Bible tells Catholics about their religion, why should not an English Bible teach the Protestant religion?" she reasoned. She resolved to have one, if possible, and when Juana resolved, her strong will left no stone unturned toward accomplishment.

A day or two after, as her husband was making preparations for another journey, Juana preferred her request:

"There is one thing I do much want. Will you not please get it for me, dear Paul, before you go? I do so want it! And that is an English Bible."

"Pray, what in the world would you do with that?" Paul asked, in much astonishment. "You cannot read English."

"Ah! Shall I not read it soon if I study much? I can try to read the stories in it, and it will help make the time to fly, so you will soon come back to me," she added coaxingly.

Paul was willing enough that other people should have what they wanted if it did not interfere with his pleasure. So as he went about attending to various purchases for himself, he remembered Juana's request, and was at not a little pains to obtain for her a copy of the Bible. "Every one to his taste," he remarked to himself as he looked it over. "I think I could find fables that would prove more entertaining to me than this one."

During her husband's stay at home Juana had much of the time been carrying on an inward struggle. She had endeavored to quiet her unrest by plunging into reckless dissipation, but the still small voice followed her even to the midnight revel. And often, when she had filled all her waking hours with busy trifles—purposely to crowd out these intrusive thoughts—she would wake as by a flash, her spirit filled with a strange dread, and then, in the still solemn hour the eternal would speak to the mortal, who, shrinking away in conscious guilt, felt that there were just two things in the universe; herself, and an awful presence who searched her through.

When left again to her lonely life, Juana gave herself with unceasing application to the study of English, so that she might read her new Bible. She could already spell out texts made up of simple words, and form a tolerably clear conception of their meaning. If she was going to read a book, she must of course begin at the beginning and read it through; so she plunged boldly into the great volume. As well might one essay to cross the ocean in a tiny sail-boat, as for this dark-minded girl to get any available knowledge from such a deep; the unbeliever would say, and truly, the undertaking would have been hopeless had it not been a wonderful Book, with a wonderful Teacher.

She labored through the first chapter of Genesis with that great name in almost every verse. Never was tale more fascinating than this one. It was read in a poor blundering way; but the truth had been gleaned that God made the world and all it contains. No doubt as to the truth of it entered her mind for a moment. Day after day she spelled her way through succeeding chapters. It was all new and wonderful, but disappointing. It was not what she craved: something that would remove the strange heaviness that weighed upon her. On the contrary she gathered that all the world had gone astray from God and were under his wrath and curse, and that agreed with what she had conceived. God to be; a stern, awful being, holding a sword over the heads of his creatures. The more she read the greater grew the mystery. "I cannot make it out," she said, almost despairingly, "it is all confusion;" then, with the superstition of her race, resolved, "I will put the book of God under my pillow; I will see if some good may not come to me from it while I sleep." Perchance there might be sweeter sleep if the "book of God" oftener pillowed troubled heads. Finally she abandoned the project of reading the Bible through, and puzzled out bits here and there, hoping to chance upon something that she could understand.

"All have sinned and come short of the glory of God," she read, then sadly murmured, "Yes, I know that; the very first of the book tells it, and that is what I am, a sinner. I have a bad heart, oh! so bad. But how shall I make it good I know not." And just here Juana discovered the old remedy that many burdened souls resort to. She would propitiate Heaven with good works. So she gave money freely and liberally whenever a hand was stretched out, and tried to be amiable and lovely, and made a solemn vow to perfectly keep all the commandments. The result was the usual one that comes to a sinner trying to justify himself by the law. Every dormant evil in the poor girl's heart awoke and clamored. Satan worried and buffeted at every turn, and, growing irritable and impatient she declared, "What should I want of a book that makes me so unhappy? It must be bad, for since I know it I am not so good as once I was."

After that the book was not opened for days, but rested in the bottom of Juana's trunk, "under much clothes, so that I could not see it," she said, and she herself wandered up and down like a lost spirit, out of heart with everything within and about her. Then, to fill up the wretched, lonely days with something, she again brought out her Bible and plunged into the laborious task more earnestly than before.

Gracious and kind as He ever is, the Lord was teaching this one poor little scholar as if she were the only soul in the universe. After Juana had thoroughly learned that she was a sinner, this blessed truth flashed up at her one day as she was toiling through a verse: "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." She went through it again, eagerly, with dilating eyes and suspended breath. "Ah! What is this!" she exclaimed. "This is news indeed! Christ Jesus: Who can he be? He saves sinners! And that is me."

At last she found the key. And now how intently she searched out that name, drinking in the truth, as one dying of thirst would seize a cup of cold water. Little by little she got it all—the old, old story; the birth in Bethlehem, the lowly, lovely life in Nazareth, the cross, the death, the tomb, the resurrection, the ascension, and, at last, the gracious invitation—

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."

"Oh! I want rest," she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her first prayer, "I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!" Without even realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart before Him. "I know not how long I did talk to Him," she told some one afterward; "a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could not stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I feel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window I say, 'O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees so grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory before.' Then something say, 'It is wrong for you to be so happy When you are such a sinner,' so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I cannot; I can only sing for joy."

Secure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her husband's return, eager to tell him the good news.

"Paul is very wise," she told herself, "he will not have so hard a time to understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear book that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his soul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be."

In a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting. He was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to have such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to minister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited maiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head meekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle hand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple of discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice. Why would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the embodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?

"My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns have grace and favor in them," was the honest feeling of this deluded soul.

It was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when she first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for him, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and triumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but as she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he grew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince him, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, "Do, dear Paul, read about the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all true," he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.

Juana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it to her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.

The young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen her hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than his own.

He waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and promises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet his perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little puzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved to treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by little in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her new whims.

To please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre, and spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl's conscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown into a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts in our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of any church, or inquire of wise theologians "what she must give up" if she became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned to Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the way was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny blossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control his child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that Christ and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges heart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and delight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had left her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By a law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world cannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded Christian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet experience.

Paul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of loving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures, he rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the hitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his astonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could, that her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and theaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to delight her?

What wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a doll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and asserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought contrary from his!

"What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?" he demanded.

What a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes, filled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering tongue in pretty, crooked words, said: "The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is my Master," and Juana's tongue lingered lovingly over the word—she had lately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her—"I fear, oh! very much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here," and both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.

Paul's answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending with—"I am your master! You are to obey me and none other." And then he stooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would be terrible to her: "If you do not, I will cast you off!"

It was not will-power, nor strength of purpose—inherited from any ancestor, either Spanish or Mexican—but grace divine, that enabled Juana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift her soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him, come what would.

When Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any other time. He hated "religionists," and was determined not to have the wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism. Moreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down. He would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible reading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting to be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his displeasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands, threats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved to leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted absence, loneliness would bring her to terms.

"I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly obedient," Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory and beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching him disappear through the great gateway—gone and she alone in her sorrow. "What if he never came up that flower 'broidered path again? Her Paul was firm, he would not relent." (The poor, blind child did not know that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)

Martyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall say which is most heroic—to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the heart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the slow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?

Weary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away, but the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not fail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour her friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart; so that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received many letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for his return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for him but deny or displease "the dear Christ Jesus." "He do make me happy even in my sorrow," she wrote. This was more than the vain man could bear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!

Paul's next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in the heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country for years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on herself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to him to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted to hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither should she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to this cruel decision more easily from just having received news that Juana's old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the church, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy from the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain himself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be burdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.

For weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As strength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her anguish, "I can never, never live without him."

She did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a wild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her husband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find him, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change. She could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her small property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary journey arrived—a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed the cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The search proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious. Faint and ready to perish—did some one speak her name? "Child, come unto me, I will give you rest." And then Juana's heart leaped, and she answered quickly, "Master." Then were her eyes opened, and she knew that the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting up in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought forgiveness, he showed the "vividness of His mercy," and gave her not only comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself and her husband at his feet with, "Thy will be done."

In loving submission she asked now, "What wilt Thou have me to do?" And for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism and idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but what could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very little money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold itself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the door stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear. Juana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in she followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman's missionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different subjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low tones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then, the faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a good place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and then, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that. After prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about Mexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and fine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them. She listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her commission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid tones, said, "Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little word for her?" It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never was appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to "send help now, for they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all."

Then, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat. But the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would, persuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of so many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting everything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion. The eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she described her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women to their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as this young stranger were hidden away there.

The fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church, and the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts turned warmly to the "land of the sun," as this young wife, a miracle of God's grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken, eager words, pleaded with tears for "my dear Mexico."

Gladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by this means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached and moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.

The Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her native country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good news, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work for Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with treasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and loving farewells of hosts of God's people.

To-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells the glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she works her prayer goes up that Paul may become "a new creature in Christ Jesus," and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work by her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that the Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a saint.

Patiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she has come to "the valley of blessing," to rest and peace, and the song she loves best to sing, is—

"Emptied, that He might fill me,
As forth to His labor I go,
Broken, that so unhindered
His life through me might flow."

TEN BUSHELS.

———

MRS. LYMAN was in the kitchen superintending dinner. She was but a young housekeeper, so there was a certain amount of anxiety connected with making even a kettle of soup. She stirred and tasted and put in another shake of pepper and another pinch of salt, and said to her maid of all work, who stood by watching the process:

"I do wish I had an onion to put in it; soup is not very good without an onion flavor."

The remark was made more to herself than to Barbara, whose knowledge of English was somewhat limited. If it had not been, and if she had known the way and it had not been too late, she might have gone down town and bought some onions. As those obstacles were all in the way, the soup must needs go without.

When the six o'clock dinner was spread in the very prettiest dining room that can be imagined, the table glittering in its new silver, and the soup smoking in the tureen, the master of the house—a young man who had only enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the head of his own table for a couple of months—took it all in, as his own tastes were capable of doing. The savory odors, the cheery room, the careful attention to every detail of comfort and beauty, and then the slight figure opposite him, an embodiment of dignity and grace—he found nothing lacking in it all.

"This soup is not quite perfect," the young wife said, as she began to serve it, "I had no onions to put in it. I wish you would order some when you go down town to-morrow, Philip; they are nice just now for boiling, too."

This young couple had compared views on Browning and Ruskin, but not on onions. They had long ago discussed poetry, philosophies, and art, as well as architecture and house furnishings, and they had found hitherto that their tastes were in most delightful accord. Mrs. Lyman was not prepared, therefore, for the frown that contracted her husband's handsome brows as he ejaculated:

"Onions! Don't mention them. Excuse me from that purchase, please. They are abominable; not fit for human beings to eat. They ought to be banished from every respectable table."

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Lyman answered, with rising color, "but all do not agree in such a sweeping denunciation. Many of the best physicians consider them most nutritious and healthful."

"Well, at all events, I shall not have my house polluted with the vile things. If there is anything that reminds one of a third-rate boarding-house, it is to get a whiff of onions the moment you enter the front door. It is vulgar and low. I can't see how any one of refined tastes can touch them. I hope you are not an onion eater, Nettie, because if you are, I fear you will have to abstain; I cannot abide them."

Now Mrs. Annette Heyward Lyman was exceedingly fond of onions. She was not of the sort to declare that she was "passionately fond of them," but she did think a nice dish of boiled onions, pretty white ones, swimming in hot milk and butter, was just the thing to go with—stewed chicken, say. Then, she enjoyed thin slices of raw onions cut into vinegar; and crisp, green-topped young ones, dipped in salt and eaten with bread and butter, were just delicious. And yet, if Philip had mildly hinted that he had a special aversion for that vegetable, she would have declared, "I will eat no onions while the world standeth." But to attack them in this sharp way, to declare them vulgar, and, above all, to dictate to her what she should or should not eat, as if he were her master, and to say "my house!" it was too much, and she answered in an icy tone that "she must beg leave to differ; to her mind the onion was a most delicious vegetable, and she must reserve for herself the right of choice in this and in other matters."

Their first quarrel! And all about an onion! What cares Satan whether it be an apple or an onion, so that he spoil the Edens?

There were many more words quite as pungent as onions, and then there fell a silence between them that was not broken after Barbara had lighted the gas in the parlor, and drawn the table under the drop-light, and they were seated with books and newspapers. There was no reading done, but much ugly thinking. One line of it ran after this fashion:

"Strange that so delicate, refined a nature should have a taste for that vile, flagrant, odious onion!" A wretched discovery, that his wife should be fond of that for which he had always felt disgust! And evidently she did not mean to give them up, not even for his sake. Was she selfish and proud and obstinate and—and high-tempered? Had he been mistaken in her character and her regard for him?

The wife meantime was recalling an opinion long ago expressed by a friend, who said that Philip Lyman possessed a domineering spirit and was bound to rule all connected with him. She, herself, had never believed it, but this looked like it—wishing her to give up whatever he did not fancy, and hinting that she would be obliged to. Indeed! He would find that she did not drive well; no, indeed. If her husband had observed the glowing cheeks and flashing eyes just then he would have been justified in concluding that she was "high-tempered."

And now came a break in this uncomfortable state of things in the shape of Mr. John Lyman, on a business trip; "could only spend the night with his brother. He was sorry to spoil their evening together." He would have been sorrier had he known they had not spoken for just two hours.

Annette soon retired, leaving the brothers to talk over home affairs while she went to her room to indulge in the luxury of grief. How dark it all looked. Philip was changing. Perhaps he was sorry they were married. He had the same as said she was vulgar and coarse. He was fastidious; she could never please him; they would have dreadful quarrels, for she could not submit to be ordered. And now the tears that had been stored up all these bright years fell in most surprising showers, until sleep had got the better of them.

The morning was a hurrying time; the brother must get down town for the early train. A hasty good-by with averted eyes, and Philip was gone. As he lunched near his office, two miles away, he would not be at home again until night.

A long, unhappy day before Annette! She felt ten years older than yesterday morning, when Philip had come all the way back from the gate to put a rose in her hair. She wished she could see her mother; she wished she could go off where Philip wouldn't find her in years; that is, she thought she did. Oh! What a wretched world it was. Poor foolish child! But she had only lived twenty little years.

Mr. Philip Lyman alone in his office, tried to settle himself to his usual duties, but he felt ill at ease and uninterested. Finally he threw down his pen, tipped back in his chair, and locked his fingers together at the back of his head, a favorite thinking attitude. His eyes wandered out the window, resting on white clouds sailing through the sky. Perhaps the deep blue reminded him of Nettie's eyes, or the wrapper she had worn that morning. However it was, he soon fell to confessing to those soft clouds.

"What a consummate idiot! She thinks me a tyrant, and rude and selfish. She ought to be vexed at me. As if I should make over her tastes, and try to control her. I was rude and hateful and unkind. Contemptible!"

And with that he seized his hat and dashed down-stairs into the street. He went straight to a market, bought a peck of onions and ordered them sent home. An unpoetical peace offering, he reflected, but the most appropriate for him under the circumstances. But stop, those were red onions. This fact was brought to his consciousness by observing on the sidewalk a basket of unusually fine white ones; and she had especially wished white onions. Immediately he stepped in and bought a peck of those.

As he walked along, filled with the peaceful consciousness of having made some atonement, he spied a wagon filled to the top with clean shiny-skinned, white onions. "They really look attractive," he said to himself. Then there darted into his mind a new idea. What if he should prove to Annette what a magnanimous, self-denying being he really was, and take to eating the obnoxious things himself just to please her; be a philosopher, a stoic, and will to like what he detested?

There must be no half-way work about this act of self-abnegation; he would provide a generous supply. Now that he thought of it, autumn was just the time to lay in a supply of vegetables. What had he been thinking of, buying only a peck? Nov, how many was a good quantity—enough to last all winter? That was a conundrum. He had dim memories of ten bushels of this and that stored in his father's cellar. True his father had a large family. But then, they should have a great many visitors. The proprietor of the wagon stared when he heard the order, but his business was to sell onions. If Philip Lyman was complacent before, he was jubilant now in contemplation of his virtues. He bounded up the stairs, resolving to go home at noon, surprise Nettie, and "make up." He was a monster to have left her in such a cold way. He was obliged to abandon that plan, though, having already lost so much time.

Annette meantime had been aroused from her despondent mood by the first installment of onions. Onions have healing properties, everybody knows. They began to prove efficacious in this case. Philip wanted to show her that he was sorry, she reasoned, and had taken this way to do it. It was just as delicate and kind as if the onions had been flowers,—she ignored the fact that they were red. While her spirits were being thus soothed and comforted, the second peck of onions arrived. This was perplexing. Why had he done that? Ah! These were white, and he had recollected that she liked white ones. How thoughtful and good! How unselfish and candid and noble to own himself wrong, and she—had been foolish and wicked to get angry at nothing.

She was just beginning to feel that life was worth living, when another man presented himself announcing that he had brought some onions. Annette assured him there was some mistake, as they had sufficient for a long time. But he affirmed most strenuously this was the spot, producing the directions in her husband's handwriting. Then Annette told him that she must countermand the order; that she positively wished for no more onions.

"But ye see I got my pay for 'em," he answered, with a horrible grin, whereupon the discomfited young woman retired into the house and the triumphant onions went into the cellar.

Tramp, tramp, and roll, roll. Would he never have done? He seemed like an arch fiend, sent to torment her. If she could but have known the soliloquy he of the onions carried on as he went back and forth, and that he took a malicious delight in getting the better of her, it might have turned the tide of her rising wrath into a laugh. When a laugh comes in, wrath goes out.

"That's jest the way with wimmin folks—headstrong! They think they know a leetle the most about everything. The young feller likes onions, I s'pose, and she don't, and she's 'tarmined he sha'n't have 'em. I'm glad she's got a boss. She needs it."

By the time the tenth bushel was deposited all Annette's late estimates and decisions had been reversed. Of all despicable acts this was the climax—to send a whole load of those horrible things, as if to say, "Grovelling creature, can't live without onions! Take them!" It was just a simple exhibition of spite and sarcasm. She would never have believed he could do so cruel a thing. Since she was a child she had not been so angry. It was a lofty, scornful anger that did not vent itself in tears. Besides, the tears were all used up.

Snatching her hat and mantle, she went out into the air to try to calm herself. On and on she went out into the country, dreading to return. Finding herself within half a mile of her cousin's house, she decided to call in order to get away from her thoughts. It proved the right place for that purpose. Little Harry had become suddenly ill, and the distracted mother welcomed her gladly. The two worked over him all the afternoon. As night came on Annette felt that it would be cruel to leave until there was some ray of hope. So she wrote a note to her husband, briefly and coldly explaining her absence. A passing boy agreed to deliver it, but it never got beyond his own pocket.

Toward evening Barbara began to wonder what kept her mistress, and decided to take matters into her own hands and get up a dinner. Seeing the large bin of onions in the cellar, she said within herself, "This is what she all time want; I will cook some!" During the process of cooking she made many trips to the front door to watch for her lost mistress. Each time she left all the doors open behind her, and so thoroughly perfumed the whole house with the odor of the dinner.

In the city Paul had picked up an old college friend and persuaded him to stay over a train and dine with him. As he ushered his friend into the pretty house, with a pardonable pride, it was somewhat taken down by the unmistakable odor that greeted him.

"Onions! As I live," he said to himself, "and Merwin is such a fastidious fellow! However, wait till he sees Annette." So he went in haste to bring her.

Upstairs and down and in the garden he searched. She was not to be found. This was a new departure—to be away on his return. He told his friend she had probably been detained—would be in presently.

Chagrined and mortified almost beyond his power to conceal, after waiting an hour, he was obliged to invite his friend to a table without a hostess. The first cover he removed disclosed a dozen huge specimens of that obnoxious, ill-odored vegetable that had caused their unhappiness. He forgot his heroic resolve and shut it with emphasis—not to-night would he eat onions. It was unlike the delicate tact of his wife to have ordered them cooked that night, while she was still ignorant of what had passed in his mind.

Barbara was not yet perfect. The dinner both in cooking and serving missed the supervision of the mistress. The host was ill at ease and absent, and was not sorry that his guest soon bade him good-by.

And now Philip grew positively uneasy, and proved himself not a whit behind a woman in the power to conjure up dire probabilities. Perhaps she had slipped from that high bank where they sometimes walked along the river! And he rushed out through the garden and over the fields till he stood on the bank amidst the gathering shadows and peered remorsefully into the dark waters. What if somebody had abducted her; had brought word that he was ill and had carried her off! That thought was maddening. Then he remembered her one relative in that vicinity—her cousin.

No public conveyance went that way, and in hot haste, he started on foot. His speed astonished himself. Breathless and panting, he arrived and was about to ring, when, obeying an impulse, he stepped to the side porch and looked through the vine-covered window. Yes; surely, there was Annette! A little group near the open fire; she kneeling by a low chair, her bright head bending over little Harry, who lay in his mother's lap.

The first feeling was of relief and gratitude. She was safe. And then, it was his turn. There came surging over him, like a hot breath from a furnace, a wave of anger, and he strode away. His hasty glance had not shown him the death-like pallor on the baby face, nor the anxious expressions of the others. His conclusion was that the baby was being made ready for bed, and the two were admiring his pretty pink toes.

On he went in the darkness, his resentment gathering force at every step. Here she had deliberately planned to put him to torture. How little she must care for him when she would allow him to spend a whole night in anxiety. He had supposed her nature to be gentle and forgiving, and here she had treasured up a few hasty words and was intent on revenge. He had made concessions, and she had scorned them. Alas! He had not the dimmest suspicion that those ten bushels of concessions were just what widened the breach. He walked the floor for hours, then flinging himself on a lounge, toward morning chopped into a heavy sleep.

The result of the night's meditation was a decision that the next advance toward reconciliation must come from Annette herself. Just as he was about starting for the office in the morning, Annette was driven up to the door. They looked at each other in silence. He lingered a moment to see if she had any explanations to offer, and she waited in the hall hoping that possibly he had repented of the odious conduct of yesterday and was willing to confess it. Silence is not always "golden;" the proverb is misleading. If he had but asked, "Why did you go away?" Or she had said some pleasant word! But, no; they passed each other in grim silence.

Another day of gloom and despair for both. This unwonted strain, added to the night's watching, brought upon Annette a nervous headache, so that by the time of Philip's return she could not raise her head. It was fortunate. But for this they might have gone on till happiness was wrecked. Annette, with spirited little head erect, sailing through the house, was to be considered somewhat differently from this one, her head on a pillow, racked with pain. No mother could have cared for her more tenderly and skillfully than Philip. Throwing his resentment to the winds, he administered to her for hours until she fell into a quiet sleep.

In the morning, with the pain all gone, explanations were in order. It was hard to tell which was the more astonished as the misunderstandings of each began to come out.

"And you did not go away to have revenge on me?" "And you did not send home all those onions just to tease me?" were some of the questions asked. Then the ludicrous side began to appear, and they laughed long and merrily.

"Whatever shall we do with all those onions?" queried Annette when she found her breath.

"We will make sweet fragrance to our names by means of them," said Philip. "We will send gifts to the poor—always of onions. We will become famous as philanthropists, and our eccentric charities will be the theme of succeeding generations. But, Nettie, I wish you would make a picture of some of those silvery-skinned onions. We will hang it up in the dining room, and it shall teach us wholesome lessons that nobody else can read but just us two. Shall teach me not to forget the 'small sweet courtesies of life.'"

"And shall teach me," said Annette humbly, "'that anger dwells in the bosom of fools.'"

"And that 'greater is he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh a city,'" added Philip.

"My darling," he said, as their lips met in the kiss of reconciliation, "let us never again misinterpret, misjudge, or lose faith in each other, whatever comes."

MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS.

———

MISS RACHEL WHITTAKER, as the years went by, found herself sole occupant of the old family homestead. Father and mother had lived their long honored lives, finished their work, and entered into rest. Brothers and sisters had one after another made for themselves new homes and gone their different ways. Miss Rachel had passed safely through the romances of youth and settled down to sober middle-aged life. She had also resisted all persuasions of friends to sell the old place and make her home with some one of the various families. "Because there is no man in the case," said Miss Whittaker, with a slightly contemptuous emphasis on the "man," "is no reason why I should not have a home of my own."

So life went on in the old Whittaker mansion with the same zest and order as if the household numbered a half-dozen, instead of a single lone female and her servant. There was the same punctilious regard to times and seasons. The house-cleaning paroxysm invariably came on a certain day of the month, the Monday's wash flapped in the wind, and the Saturday's baking sent forth spicy odors as regularly as they had done for the last forty years. The cellar continued to be stocked each autumn with "Mercers" and "Pink-eyes," with "Greenings" and "Spitzenbergs," with "Golden Pippins" and "Pound Sweets." The closet shelves contained their due amount of riches: rows of jars and glasses, filled with peaches, pears, quinces and jellies. In short, everything pertaining to good cheer was literally brimming over.

And Miss Rachel fed her chickens, counted her eggs, watered her plants and pattered upstairs and down, or sat in her large, sunny room and read her books and magazines, or clicked her knitting needles to the ticking of the tall old clock. Or she gathered a few friends about her for a social tea drinking, or, flung wide the doors of the old house to a troop of nieces and nephews. It was not alone that Miss Whittaker was fond of company, but it was pleasant to keep up the old customs. It was a pitiful attempt to bring back, as far as possible, the old times. It was easier when gay chatter and merry prattle filled the rooms, to see the white-haired father and mother as of old in their arm-chairs by the fireside. The most prosaic have a vein of sentiment somewhere. Rachel Whittaker's took this form; she guarded with a reverence that amounted to idolatry every object and principle belonging to those two. Her father's old hat occupied the identical peg on which he himself hung it the last time he went out; and mother's darning basket stood on the little stand, with balls and thimble and glasses; the needle stuck in the ball of blue yarn just where her own fingers placed it so long ago. And so, housekeeping was something more than ministering to her own wants or entertaining friends; it was having things go on as "they" would like to see them go on.

This devoted daughter was careful, as well, to direct the family benevolences into the well-worn channels in which they were accustomed to run. The church subscription and the contributions to home and foreign missions, and the various "Boards," were as faithfully attended to as if good Squire Whittaker still sat at the head of his pew.

She even loved and perpetuated her father's prejudices, and was too apt, like him, to have more sympathy for the unfortunate in Booroboolagha, than for those at her own door. She was prone to set all these down as "drunken" or "shiftless." However, she had not much opportunity to cultivate the grace of charity in home work, as nearly all the little community were well-to-do.

One of Miss Rachel's duties as a good housekeeper was to see that the large stock of bedding, packed away in trunks and closets, was aired at frequent intervals. It was more than abundant for the needs of a large family—and the Whittaker family was a large one when gathered in the old home at Thanksgiving and the holidays. One day in early winter—"just the right sort of a day for airing bedclothes, so warm and bright," Miss Rachel declared—the lines in the yard were filled with blankets, quilts, comfortables, etc., and the piazza roofs were adorned with feather beds and pillows.

Among the passers-by was Mrs. Barnes. She lived in the little gray, weather-beaten house just under the hill. She was neither shiftless nor drunken, yet she was pitifully poor, and was a widow as well, with three little children. She could "dig," though to "beg" she was ashamed, and managed by hard work and much pinching and stinting to piece out a living. What a tempting sight was this goodly array to the half-frozen woman!

Nobody knew but herself how hard she had tried to get enough bedding together for the winter; how she had saved every old scrap and pieced it up and eked out the cotton with newspapers that she had secured from Miss Rachel; and yet, with all that, the old house was so open it was going to be hard work to keep warm in the long, cold nights.

She stood and looked at those soft double blankets and thick comfortables, and said to herself, "What a thing it must be, eh, to have such lots of bedclothes; to pile on as many as you please and be warm as toast all night! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—I don't know how many blankets, double at that, and ever and ever so many comfortables, besides quilts and spreads. And there she is with all them warm things and nobody to keep warm but herself, and here I be, with three little children and no warm things. Oh dear! Why couldn't the two 'a' gone together, I should like to know." Then she brushed away a tear with the corner of her shawl and went on her way.

Miss Whittaker sat near the side window and noticed that the Widow Barnes stopped and looked over the fence. Somehow she didn't like to see her standing there, her thin dress blowing in the wind, her faded old shawl drawn close about her, and with such anxious-looking eyes fixed on those blankets. But now the obnoxious figure in the old shawl moved on, and Miss Rachel could once more give her undivided attention to a very difficult piece of embroidery she was engaged in making for a fair.

That very night winter began in earnest. The north wind and the frost went out hand in hand. They built bridges over streams, made rocky roads, and crept in here and there, unbidden and unwelcome. They found their way to Miss Rachel's chamber, but she got a victory over them by simply reaching out her hand and drawing over her self a soft comfortable.

The same unmerciful couple visited the poor as well as the rich; they crept into the cracks and crannies of the Widow Barnes' little house. She awoke with chills creeping over her, and got up and hunted about in the dark for something more to put over the two little girls in the trundle-bed, who had once or twice sleepily called out "cold!" She tucked her shawl and their old sacks about them, then snuggled little Bessie close in her arms and "wished for the day."

The frost and the wind had their own way all through the following day. It was a gloomy prospect for the night to Mrs. Barnes. She had hoped before cold weather set in to manage in some way to get more bedclothes. A fire all night was out of the question. As a forlorn hope, she put on her hood and shawl and went towards night, up the hill to Miss Whittaker's. Why, she scarcely knew. There was the least glimmer of a prospect that she might get some plain sewing to do, or, "Who knows," she told herself, "but that Miss Whittaker will say, 'Mis' Barnes, here is an old comfortable; if you can make it useful, you are welcome to it.' Oh! if she only would." And while the poor woman struggled up the hill against the wind she was unconsciously concocting a suitable reply to such a gracious proposition.

Miss Rachel had an excellent habit of employing her odds and ends of time in reading. By means of it she kept up familiar acquaintance with old authors.

To-night, after the lamps were lighted—and there were yet a few minutes before tea—she took a dip into "Thomson's Seasons." She was just reading:

"See, winter comes to rule the invested year,
Sullen and sad with all his rising train,
Vapors and clouds and storms."

*       *        *       *        *       *        *

"'Tis done! dread winter spreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year,—"

when the kitchen door opened and Mary admitted Mrs. Barnes. What a heavenly place that room, with its warmth and brightness, seemed to this other woman. Miss Rachel laid aside her book and gave kindly attention to her poorer neighbor. They talked about the weather, how very early the cold had come on, how sharp the wind had been all day, and what an exceedingly cold night last night was.

"I put everything I could lay my hands on over us, and yet we shivered in our beds," Mrs. Barnes said.

Then Miss Rachel suggested that the house was probably open, and gave some valuable advice as to the best method of making doom and windows weather-proof. "Stop up all the chinks, and I think you will be more comfortable," she said; and then added that she was sorry she knew of no work for her. It was very difficult to get anything to do in the winter time. Had she not better try to put out her children and go into some nice family herself? It would be a great deal better all round.

Mrs. Barnes got up hastily, then, and said she must go. She wanted to say that if she could get work to do she could take care of her children without help from anybody, but something choked her, so that she could not speak. This was the horrible thing that was always staring her in the face—to part with the children. Must she come to it, just for want of a little help over this hard spot?

She pushed out into the cold and darkness, and went on her way, slowly and heavily. "I most hope she'll be cold herself some time, just to see how it feels," she murmured, half aloud, as she caught the last glimpse of Miss Rachael's light, in the bend of the road. "Why couldn't she let me have a couple of old comfortables and pay for it in work? I don't want to beg, goodness knows, but I'll have to come to it, for all I see."

Miss Whittaker was not so hard-hearted as she might seem. All the time Mrs. Barnes was talking, she was engaged in consultation with herself as to whether there was anything in the way of bedclothes that she could possibly spare. She did not wish to commit herself, so she made no promises, but she inwardly resolved that on the morrow she would take a look to that end.

Accordingly, the next morning found her with her head in chests and closets amid piles of blankets and the like. It was astonishing how many beds one woman, who lived all alone, had to provide for.

That pile was for Sister Martha's bed, that for Elvira's, that for Brother Ephraim's. Then, suppose they should all come at once and bring a couple of children apiece; they never had yet, but then they might, and if they did, at least six beds would need to be made ready; and if the weather should prove to be very cold at the time, why, it would take an enormous amount of covering, and it was always best to be ready for emergencies. Then there were certain quilts that she would not part with under any consideration, even though they were somewhat faded. The "album" quilt contained precious association of all the Whittaker family. The "wheel within a wheel" mother pieced and quilted; "the birds in the air" she pieced herself, beginning at the early age of four. As for common comfortables, it was needful to have a good many to spread over feather beds and mattresses.

There! It was done. Miss Rachel had gone laboriously through them all, and yet nothing had been found that was in any way suitable to bestow upon the Widow Barnes.

Dinner time came now, and she put them all away with—"I will see about it some other time." Ah, how many good things Satan hinders with that salve to the conscience—"some other time"!

After the cold came the snow, pouring out from the sky one ceaseless, silent stream for three days and nights. It piled itself in huge drifts in roadways, hid the fences, and—most buried the little house in the hollow. The widow occupied her time in shovelling snow before her doors and windows, lest they should be buried entirely. Her thoughts, meantime, were gloomy and sad. She knew about the God who hears the young ravens when they cry, but she did not believe He would hear her, and—like many more of his children—when trouble came, stopped her ears to gracious promises and fell into sullen gloom.

Miss Whittaker was a prisoner, too, in her cheery rooms. She was pleasantly employed, though; she knit bright socks for Martha's baby boy, made up a store of mince pies and fruit cake, and read a new book called "Snow Bound." In short, she was altogether comfortable and happy, or would have been but for one thing. And that thing was not snow; she liked that. What disturbed Miss Rachel's serenity during those few days, was, that she could not shake off a feeling of uneasiness with regard to the Widow Barnes. Her face, pale and worn, kept coming up before her, and the words, "We shivered in our beds," sounded in her ears. Then all the texts in the Bible she had ever read about the poor kept coming and going through her brain. She was a diligent reader, and her memory was good. When she would fain have entertained herself recalling the musical flow of—

"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing,"

she could think of nothing but—

"Blessed is he that considereth the poor, the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble."

Or,—

"If any of you see a brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

She was not unmindful of the poor; she had helped Mrs. Barnes in various little ways. Why must she feel so condemned? she asked herself again and again.

With fair weather came the cold again; came stealing down upon the sleeping world like a thief in the night. Miss Rachel was unusually tired and slept very soundly, so that she did not waken even when the fire on her hearth had died out, and the cold become so intense in her room that the windows were frost covered, and the breath of the sleeper went up in little clouds of smoke. She stirred uneasily several times, and was just awake enough to know that she was cold, and not awake enough to bestir herself and get more covering. For a few minutes she lay in that half-waking state, thinking she ought, and would, and must rouse up and get more blankets. Finally, she thought she had done so and slept on.

Very soon after that she found herself far away from her own home, trying to walk over a floor of solid ice. She gazed about her in horror! The place was a large, deep pit, lighted by a lurid glare. Whichever way she turned her eyes, she saw nothing but ice, icy floor and icy walls, smooth and shining like glass. She clutched at them to save her sliding steps, but there was nothing to hold to; her hands slipped and she fell in a heap on the floor. She looked wildly above her for a way of escape. At the top of the pit she saw pretty rooms, with bright fires and happy-looking people sitting about sewing, reading and chatting. She shrieked for help, but they only shook their heads and went smilingly on with their occupations.

On one side she saw the Widow Barnes and her children. They sat amidst piles of blankets, heaped all about them, and they were soft and fleecy as her own had been. Oh! If she had but one to keep out this deathly chill. She screamed out again in an agony of torture, begging that just one blanket might be thrown down to her. But a mocking voice only came back to her, and it said, "Stop up the chinks, and I think you'll be comfortable."

In shivering terror she awoke, relieved beyond measure to find herself at home in her own bed, and then there flashed over her mind the story of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

Had the Widow Barnes been praying that she might never be warm again? And must she go through life with her teeth chattering as they were now? Mingling confusedly with the words of the old ballad, "Chatter, chatter, chatter still," came a rush of Scripture texts, vivid and startling as if a voice spoke them in her ears, and they were all about the poor.

She was so thoroughly stiffened by cold and fear that she could scarcely rise and go to the closet for the needed covering which on this night she had forgotten to place by her bedside.

Miss Rachel had been accustomed to draw up and write out, at the commencement of each year, a series of severe resolutions; the fact that she never kept one half of them not abating their rigor in the least. But never in calmest moments, with pen in hand and diary before her, had any such earnest, self-denying resolves been made as were now made by the woman who stood in night array in her closet, holding a flickering lamp in one hand, and with the other taking down blankets and comfortables and piling them on chairs.

That done, she took a bountiful supply for herself and went back to bed. Her shivering soon ceased, and for the remainder of the night she slept the sleep of the just.

As a matter of course, when the daylight streamed into her room, and the red sun sent a slanting bar across her bed, Satan told Miss Rachel that it was perfect foolishness to pay any attention to a dream, and that it was simply improvident to go and give away that great pile of bedding she had laid out; that a couple of old ragged quilts would answer every purpose. He was obliged, however, to leave her in peace, for when Miss Rachel shut her lips tight, and said, "I shall do it," in that decisive way of hers, there was no need of further parley.

No sooner were the roads broken than she went in search of a man with a sleigh. When all was ready, it was a sight to behold—at least to the eyes of cold and hungry people. In the very bottom was a quantity of dry wood, then came a layer of meat, potatoes, apples, flour. And this was crowned by blankets and comfortables, more than enough for two beds in the very coldest weather. "I'll see if I don't get the upper hand of this mean, selfish spirit," Miss Rachel had ejaculated, as she stowed an extra blanket on the load at the last minute.

The Widow Barnes was bending over her smoky old stove, trying to coax some green knots to ignite, when the sleigh stopped in front of her house. She had a dream, too, last night. It was about Heaven. That happy place seemed to be filled with blankets and warm fires. But here, behold, was Heaven come down to her door! She assured the man he had come to the wrong place, but the note he handed her, with money to buy a whole load of wood, settled the matter.

From that time forth Miss Rachel took it upon her, as a sacred trust, to see to it that the Widow Barnes lacked for nothing. And, strange to relate, her subscriptions to foreign missions, home missions, freedmen, education, etc., have not been cut down a particle in consequence.

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

———

"I WANT to tell you a story, young man."

The speaker was the Rev. Joseph Mentor, D. D., a gray-haired, keen-eyed, large-brained, sweet-faced, grand old Christian. He sat in his own parlor, which was not a parlor, after all, but a sort of study; lined with books on every hand, almost crowded with easy chairs; convenient little writing-tables occupying cosy corners, with all the appurtenances thereto lavishly furnished, coaxing the privileged guest to write his letters, or arrange his neglected accounts, or read items from the various journals of the day, at his elbow, as his taste might dictate.

The present occupants of the room were three; the aforesaid Doctor, leaning back at rest in his favorite study chair—his life had been a long, grand one, and if ever disciple of the Master could afford to rest on earth, the Rev. Joseph Mentor might have claimed the privilege; yet his very rest was active; the Doctor's son, a young man of twenty-five or so, now co-pastor, who had excused himself to their guest, in the manner that one may treat guests who are almost as much at home as they are themselves—on the plea that there were two important letters to answer for the evening mail—and then had turned to one of the writing-tables, leaving his father to entertain the young man with a pale face and scholarly air, who sat in a half-dejected attitude in the straight-backed, old-fashioned chair near the Doctor. It was to him that the old gentleman had turned with the apparently abrupt statement,—

"I want to tell you a story, young man?"

That the young man would be glad to hear any story that Doctor Mentor might choose to honor him with, was evident from the flash of his eyes and the instant look of interest that overspread his face.

Then the Doctor began: "About a month ago I attended the funeral of a man in whom I have taken a deep interest all my life. He was an old man, and a plain man all his long life; yet, though I have attended a great many funerals in the last half-century, I don't think I ever saw a greater uprising of the people to offer the last tribute of respect and affection to a plain man in their midst. I want to tell you a little about that man. Miller, his name was, Daniel Miller; he was older than I, and in my young days I used to watch him from his pew in the church. I liked his face, even then, before I knew him; a grave, half-sad face, yet never gloomy—only a look of patient resignation to the inevitable. A Christian man he was, one of the sterling sort. Talk with anybody in that town about him, and they would pay almost instant tribute to his sterling worth, and almost always close with, 'What a pity that such a good man as he is should be so hard of hearing.'

"That was his trouble, and a great trouble it was. I suppose it was the means of breaking in pieces a number of plans of his youth. Well, the thought was written all over his patient, sad face: 'I am hard of hearing and growing worse. It destroys my usefulness, it hinders my work in every direction, it makes me appear unsocial and unsympathetic, in short, it is a burden hard to be borne.' As I watched him, I could see that this feeling grew upon him; grew with his infirmity, and that progressed quite rapidly.

"You have no idea, I suppose, what a drawback it was to him on all occasions. It got so that he didn't dare to open his lips in the prayer meeting. He would look all around him, to see whether anybody was speaking, but some of the members had a way of keeping their seats when they talked, so he found that he couldn't tell by their position, and once or twice he arose and began to pray when some one was talking; he was a diffident man, and it embarrassed him dreadfully. Then he used to say that he never knew whether what he had to offer was in a line with what had been said, or was very wide of the mark; and if the minister asked him to pray, he had to shout out the request, and sometimes poor Mr. Miller couldn't hear it, and his wife would have to give his elbow a nudge, and lean over and whisper to him loud enough for all the house to hear, 'He wants you to lead in prayer.'

"It was a real embarrassment all around. People didn't wonder that he gradually grew into the feeling that he couldn't take part very often in religious meetings; though I never thought that was right; I always believed that his prayers would be in a line with what the Lord wanted to have said, and that he would be safe enough, whether he followed the line of the others or not.

"So it went on, Daniel Miller growing deafer and deafer, and the patient, sad look on his face deepening, and the feeling growing in his heart that he wasn't of any use to the Church of Christ that he loved with all his soul.

"One day somebody in that church had an inspiration. 'I tell you what it is,' one of the members said, bringing down his doubled-up fist on the seat before him for emphasis, 'I believe we ought to make Daniel Miller our treasurer. That thing would suit him, and he is just the man to do the work.'

"'But Daniel Miller is so deaf,' objected one. 'He grows worse and worse; I notice that his wife always has to find the hymns for him, and the place in the Bible, and point to the text.'

"'What if he is deaf?' said his champion; 'a man doesn't have to hear in order to add money and keep accounts, and make out bills and send them out, and keep everything straight. I believe it is work that he could do, and I believe it would do him good; make him feel that he can do something for the church, and that we have confidence in him. I tell you what it is, brethren, I'm going to propose his name at our next election.'

"Well, he was as good as his word, and sure enough, all the people said 'Amen.' They did it with so much enthusiasm, and with such a look on their faces that said, 'What a splendid idea! I wonder we never thought of it before,' that there was quite an excitement, and Mrs. Miller looked about her, and the tears began to gather in her eyes, and she put her head down suddenly on the seat in front of her. She was a grand, good woman—a helpmeet to her good husband in every sense of the word.

"Well, Daniel Miller looked around with that meek, inquiring look on his face, a little troubled, as much as to say, 'Are you having a good time, brethren, or is there something going on in the Lord's house that oughtn't to be; I'm jealous for his honor; I hope all is well.'

"The chairman got out of his chair of office and went down the aisle, and bent over Mr. Miller, and said in a good, loud voice, 'You have been elected our Church Treasurer by a unanimous vote.'

"You ought to have seen his face then; it was a picture. It flushed and glowed, and his eyes grew dim, and his lips quivered, and it seemed for a minute that he couldn't speak at all. Then he stammered out something about not being fitted for the work—his infirmity being so great; he wished he could do something, he would be glad to, if he could, but maybe it was a risk to try it.

"Then the chairman put down his mouth to his ear again, and called out, 'We all stand ready to go your security, every one of us.'

"And then, sir, if you will believe it, that decorous assembly, made up of a class of people who believed every one of them in doing things decently and in order, just clapped their hands, and he understood it, and he got out his handkerchief very suddenly. You never saw anything work more like a charm than that arrangement did all around.

"Daniel Miller took hold of the work with a will, I tell you, and the work was never better done. His 'infirmity,' as he always meekly called it, was a positive advantage to him. There wasn't any use in trying to tell him how the accounts stood, or explain away this or that; he couldn't hear; it all had to be reduced to writing. And when a man sits down in quiet to make a written account of anything that another man is expected to fully understand, why he uses language carefully, don't you see? You don't suppose they were foolish enough, when his year was out to go and put in another treasurer, do you? Not a bit of it; the machine was running too smoothly. They elected him again by as large a vote as before.

"'It does my heart good,' one old lady said, 'to see Daniel Miller go up for the collections on Sundays. He does it with such a glad look on his face, as if he had found out something he could do for the church, and do well.'

"He did it well, too; no mistakes. By and by he began to send out little notes with his bills: 'We owe it to our pastor to pay his quarter's salary on the day promised.' Well, sir, when the next quarter's salary was paid the morning of the day: on which it was due, without having been asked for or run after, that minister thought the millennium was about to dawn! He hadn't been used to that sort of thing. You never saw anything like the promptness with which pew rents were paid in the church. If a man was twenty-four hours behind time, he was almost sure to receive a call from Mr. Miller; no writing notes this time. That man understood human nature well. Just imagine a gentleman standing in his store or office, and trying to carry on a conversation with Daniel Miller about not having paid his pew rent. 'Money has been a little short with me lately,' he begins, 'and I thought a few days' delay—'

"'What is it?' interrupts Daniel, with his hand to his ear. 'I'm hard of hearing, you know; speak a little louder, please.'

"Do you suppose that man is going to yell out for the benefit of the passers-by that he is a little short of money, and had deliberately planned a few days' delay for his minister? The way it worked was for him to scream out, 'You shall have the money at noon to-day, Mr. Miller.' Very likely, he grumbled that he wouldn't get caught in that trap again, and he didn't. People didn't enjoy calls from Daniel Miller when they owed the church any money. I watched that thing with the greatest interest. It grew all the time. It made a wonderful difference in Daniel's life; he kept his head straighter, and walked faster on the street. The church was large, and there was a good deal of business to be transacted, and Daniel had no temptation to brood over his infirmity. Then he knew just what was going on; just what the church gave to Foreign Missions and Home Missions, and all benevolences. He had no need any more to wonder painfully what was being done, and after hesitating over it a good while make up his mind to ask somebody, and feel sorry for them all the time to think they had got to answer him. Instead, people had to come to him for information. Nothing could be paid for, not a cent of money could be sent anywhere or done anything with unless the thing passed through Daniel Miller's hands. And I tell you the treasurer's reports of that church were curiosities; they were managed with such exactness and clearness. He had a little witch of a daughter, Nettie her name was, as pretty as a picture.

"Do you remember her, my son?"

"Yes, sir, distinctly," came promptly from the table where the son was writing letters.

And the Doctor continued: "Her father made her his clerk almost as soon as she could talk plainly, and began to train her up to business habits and business terms; he took her with him a good deal. 'Daniel Miller's ears' we used to call the bright little thing; and she was as bright as a diamond. We used to notice that Daniel could hear her to the last better than anybody else, even his wife. 'She's got a voice like an angel,' he said to me once; 'I know by her that I shall be able to hear the angels.' His hearing grew steadily worse. For a good many years he was able to hear some of the sermon, the loud parts as he used to call them, but by degrees, he lost the power of doing that. 'Did you hear?' the minister would shout at him, after service, as he came up for the collection. He would shake his head, but his eyes would look bright as he answered, 'No, sir, not with my ears; but I've got it here.' And he would lay his hand on his great, noble heart. It was true, too, and he went out and lived it a great deal better than many who heard everything. You must understand, young man, that I am covering a good deal of ground with this long story. The years went by, and at each election Daniel Miller was re-instated, until at last that congregation would have laughed in the face of any man who had suggested a change. 'What should we do without Daniel Miller?' That is as near as they ever came to mentioning the time when they might have to do without him; and the time came when they said that in lowered tones and with a hint of tears, for he was growing an old man and the church couldn't afford to lose him.

"Bless you! I hope you don't think that keeping the finances of the church straight was all the man did? It would take all night to tell you half the things that grew out of it; and then it wouldn't be told; it can't be. The Lord of the vineyard is the only one who has the whole story. I told you, he took to writing little marginal readings on the church bills and receipts. Well, is there any reason why marginal readings on church bills can't be about other matters than money? The 'words in season' that this deaf man spoke in this way, in quiet hours, to one and another of the flock, and the fruit they bore, I know something of, a good deal of, in fact; but, as I tell you, the Master is the only one who has the entire record.

"One night he had a new idea, or rather, he worked out what was to him an old idea. He went on Saturday evening to the parsonage with the quarter's salary; he apologized for intruding on Saturday, but said he, 'According to date this money should be paid to-morrow morning, and of course I couldn't do that, so I made bold to come to-night.'

"Well, he happened to be one of those men who never intrude on a pastor, no matter what time they come; so his pastor told him he was glad to see him, and would talk with him while he finished and put up his sermon; but Daniel didn't seem to want to talk; he watched that sermon with a curious, wistful air. At last he spoke, 'I've been turning a ridiculous idea over in my mind for a long time; I don't suppose it could be done, but I've thought sometimes that I would just like to try an experiment, and read over one of your sermons before you preached it, and see if I couldn't follow you from the pulpit better after that.' It was a queer notion, but it took the pastor's fancy. The fact was, he loved Daniel Miller so much that almost anything he said took his fancy, and he handed over the sermon and told the old gentleman to try it, by all means, he could have it as well as not. It would have done your heart good to see Daniel Miller's radiant face the next day. 'It worked, sir, it worked!' he said to the pastor, and he rubbed his hands together like a gleeful boy; 'I could follow you right along a good piece at a time.' If you'll believe it, that thing grew into a regular custom; the pastor had a boy, a bright enough fellow, who was always ready to scamper over to Daniel Miller's with the sermon on Saturday nights as soon as the minister could spare it, and wait while Daniel Miller went over it. Fact is, as the years went by, he was more willing to do that than any other errand the father could get up, and he and Nettie went over church accounts, and some other accounts together, many a Saturday night. But I happen to know that that pastor came to have a queer feeling that he couldn't preach a sermon until Daniel Miller went over it! That might be in part because he discovered that the old man had a way of going over it on his knees, and every sentence he came to that seemed to him ought to do a certain person any good, he would pray, 'Lord, bless that to John Watkins,' and so on, you know. Little Nettie, she let that secret out to the boy one night; and the minister came to feel that Daniel Miller was the associate pastor, and was praying the sermon into the hearts of the people all the time it was being preached. When a minister really feels that, he preaches carefully, I believe.

"Well, sir, it was a wonderful life; and when it ended, as I tell you it did a little more than a month ago, I never saw anything like the demonstration; and I didn't wonder at it. Twenty-nine years they had elected that man to office, and the Lord had elected him to a much higher office here on earth; his little notes bore a big harvest; and when the Lord called him to his seat in the Church triumphant, the Church on earth looked around for some one on whom his mantle could fall, and I tell you it seemed for a time impossible to do without him. Why, I moderated the meeting for them when they met to try to fill his place, and they just spent the first half-hour in tears and praying! Such lives tell. 'Infirmity,' indeed! God grant us more men like Daniel Miller."

"What became of Nettie and the boy? Did they get their accounts all settled?" It was the first time the intent listener had interrupted the old Doctor's vivid story. Indeed, it could not be called an interruption, now, for the Doctor had paused, and let his thoughts run back into the tender past. He roused himself with the question and laughed a little:—

"How is it, my son?" he asked, looking over toward the writing-table. "Have you and Nettie finished the accounts, or are they open yet?"

"We mean to keep them open, sir, until we join the 'Church triumphant.'" The young man answered quickly, albeit his voice was husky, and he brushed his hand hastily over dim eyes. Then he turned to the guest.

"My father has given you a true picture of my father-in-law's fruitful life; as good a picture as can be drawn on the moment; but it is as he says: no one can tell the story in its fullness. I think we shall have a wonderful account of it some day."

There was silence in the pleasant room for a few moments. Then the guest turned to Dr. Mentor. "Thank you," he said brightly, "thank you very much; they say that 'a word to the wise is sufficient,'" and he stammered as he tried to speak; then he arose to go.

"Father," said the son, returning from seeing the guest to the door, and stopping for a moment before his father, "do you think Frank Horton in danger of becoming deaf? Or is it because he stammers, or just what is the hidden purpose of the story?"

"Well," said the Doctor, "I told him that story because he is like Moses, 'slow of speech and slow of tongue.' I think he caught the lesson and will put it in practice. I am told that he is a very bright, earnest Christian, but that he broods over his infirmity and is very sad; you can see it in his countenance. There is a niche for him, just where, perhaps, the infirmity will tell for God's glory. Look at your father-in-law. I tell you there is a defect in most lives, an 'infirmity' of some sort, that grace must supplement. It is not for us to fold our hands and say, 'What a pity!' but to help find the niche where the marble fits. Mr. Horton is like Daniel Miller. He could not be a good Sunday-school teacher, or elder, or minister, but he can do something."

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Table of Contents

- PROFILES

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE