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Title: Out of the depths

or, The Rector's trial

Author: Madeline Leslie

Release date: May 18, 2026 [eBook #78705]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Ira Bradley & Co., 1879

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78705

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE DEPTHS ***

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

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

FRONTISPIECE.

OUT OF THE DEPTHS;

OR,

THE RECTOR'S TRIAL.

————

BY

MRS. MADELINE LESLIE

AUTHOR OF "HOME LIFE," "LESLIE SERIES,"

"TIM THE SCISSORS GRINDER," ETC., ETC.

————

"Out of the depths have I cried to Thee, O Lord."—David.

BOSTON:

PUBLISHED BY IRA BRADLEY & CO.

SUCCESSORS TO HENRY HOYT.

Copyrighted

By IRA BRADLEY & CO.

1879.

DEDICATION.

—————

TO MY

Precious Little Ones,

THESE VOLUMES ARE INSCRIBED, BY THEIR LOVING

GRANDMOTHER.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

SUNSET

CHAPTER II.

RETROSPECTION

CHAPTER III.

THE MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION

CHAPTER IV.

THE GATHERING CLOUD

CHAPTER V.

THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER VI.

FRIENDSHIP

CHAPTER VII.

THE BURDEN SHARED

CHAPTER VIII.

CONFIDENCE

CHAPTER IX.

AULD ROBIN GRAY

CHAPTER X.

THE SQUIRE'S PARTY

CHAPTER XI.

THE IMPORTANT LETTER

CHAPTER XII.

THE CRUEL INNUENDO

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DAUGHTER'S GRIEF

CHAPTER XIV.

COUNSEL AND CLIENT

CHAPTER XV.

"THY WILL BE DONE"

CHAPTER XVI.

THE TELEGRAM

CHAPTER XVII.

THE GATE OF HEAVEN

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STRANGE PROPOSITION

CHAPTER XIX.

THE COMMITTEE OF REFERENCE

CHAPTER XX.

THE ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XXI.

GOD'S ANSWER TO PRAYER

CHAPTER XXII.

CONCLUSION

OUT OF THE DEPTHS.

CHAPTER I.

SUNSET.

IT was the close of a lovely day in October, in the year of our Lord—but no matter what year. The morning king had been heralded by a rich display of fireworks: and now his departure caused a gorgeous illumination of the whole western sky. Purple and orange and amber and scarlet, rose bank upon bank, each color vying with the others in its endeavor to do honor to the departing monarch.

The place was Canterbury, a thriving village in the suburbs of the large city of —.

In a room with a pretty bay window looking towards the West, and which was obviously used as a study or library, a man of grave, earnest countenance, sat gazing upon the gorgeous scene.

"Wondrous beauty!" he murmured. "The work of thy fingers, O God. Thou hast prepared the light and the sun."

"Shall I tell you, Henry?" inquired a soft voice at his side. "Of what I was thinking as I looked upon that display of splendor? These precious words flashed into my mind:

"'For the Lord God is a sun and shield.'

"Surely a Being who can paint the heavens like that before us, with the sun as a centre from which all those gorgeous hues radiate,—who likens himself to a sun, has power to throw light upon the darkest paths. Believe me, Henry, according to his promise, He will be a shield to us in the coming storm."

A profound sigh was for a moment the only answer. Then the man, trying to infuse a tone of hopefulness into his voice, said:

"Thank you, Mary, and I thank God continually, that in the midst of my trials, I have a hopeful wife. But," he added, sighing again, "I am heavily burdened. I feel strangely desponding to-night. The adversary of souls has been busy with me. I am ready to sink. If it were not for you and our children, I would like to flee and hide myself from the face of man."

"Oh, Henry! Oh, my husband! You have indeed been tempted. That would look like guilt, and you are as innocent of this crime as a new born babe."

"In intention, I certainly am."

"Well, isn't that enough to make us thankful all our lives? Suppose now, that you had violated your trust, you might then talk of hiding yourself from man: and I should want to take the children and fly with you. But we could not hide from God: and only think of the horror of feeling His anger,—of not daring to ask Him to be our friend and protector and sun and shield, and refuge from all danger. Oh, Henry, think of that; nothing certainly, now that you are innocent, can make us wretched, like knowing that our heavenly Father is angry with us."

"You are right, Mary, and I am wrong,—wanting in faith in Him who afflicteth his children for their profit. Like Job I will try to say,—

"'Shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?'"

"Look, Henry, the sun has sunk out of sight, but we know, because we have the promise, that it shall rise again to-morrow to gladden our hearts. Why can't we feel the same confidence in his promise to work all things for good to those who love him. You remember the precious words you took for a text, just before your voice failed.

"'The Lord upholdeth all that fall, and raiseth up all those that be bowed down.'"

"Yes, Mary, those are indeed precious words. I have pleaded them in prayer, and felt their power of late as I never did before,—and the following verses,—

"'The Lord is nigh to all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth. He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him: He also will hear their cry, and will save them. The Lord preserveth all them that love Him: but all the wicked will he destroy.'"

"Oh, Henry, it does seem as if those words were written expressly for us. I have never felt so hopeful since—since our trouble came. I see now why we've had temptations from Satan. We've been trying to carry our burden ourselves, instead of asking help from above. We won't do so any more, will we?"

She passed her arm within his, as she spoke, and he turned his face towards hers, with a glance fraught with love, anxiety and tenderness. This expression was quickly followed by one of anguish, which in the deepening twilight she did not see. And it was happy for her that she did not.

The bell at this moment summoned them to supper, a summons they at once obeyed, and presently entered an adjoining apartment, sitting and dining room combined, where Marion, Ruth and Josey stood ready to receive the praises they felt to be their due for having prepared so tempting a repast.

A double pile of smoking hot waffles, buttered and sugared to the taste, was flanked on one side by a dish of stewed pears, and on the other by a plate of fresh gingerbread. Tea for the elders, and milk for the children, finished the bill of fare for the meal.

The Rector took his station behind his chair, and with his right hand slightly raised, as was his custom, proceeded to invoke God's blessing on the food his providence had provided, after which all took their seats.

While the younger ones, at least, enjoyed their meal unmindful of cares or anxieties, we will go back a few years in the history of the family, and explain the nature of the burden which had fallen on the parents.

CHAPTER II.

RETROSPECTION.

REV. Henry Washburn settled in the ministry at the age of twenty-eight years. Soon after his graduation from the divinity school,—where we may add he took first rank in his class—he was called to be Rector of St. Mark's, a flourishing parish in Canterbury. There was no Rectory, and he spent two-thirds of the small patrimony he had inherited from his parents, in purchasing a small house at a short distance from the then new church edifice. Connected with the house, and without which the owner would not sell, were fourteen acres of land in a lamentable state of starvation, for want of fertilization. For years this was only fit for the growth of sorrel, with occasional tufts of coarse grass, from which last it acquired the respectable name of pasturage.

To this home, the young Rector, a few months after his installation, brought his bride Mary Lawton, as ardent and full of zeal for the glorious cause of bringing souls to the knowledge and love of Christ, as her husband. By the blessing of his great Master upon his faithful, unwearying labors, his ministry had been eminently a successful one. The list of names in the catalogue of church members, doubled and trebled in the course of seventeen years, nor were they mere names, but live, working men, women and children, the majority of whom let their light shine to win others from darkness, instead of hiding it under a bushel.

Every man has his hobby, and it was true that the Rector had his. He talked about it in season and out of season. He preached upon it directly and indirectly. His hobby was founded upon this text as applied to Christians:—

"'By their fruits ye shall know them.'"

"It is of small value," he said, repeatedly, "for a man to make professions of godliness, if he does not live a godly, righteous and sober life. If he professes benevolence toward his fellow creatures, and will not give a dollar to save them from starvation, what is his profession worth? If he professes temperance, and is known to indulge in the wine cup—to visit drinking saloons, and prefers for associates men with bleared eyes and tottering limbs, will he be an honor or a disgrace to his profession? If he professes love to the Saviour, who shed his blood to procure pardon for the guilty, and never raises his voice to warn or to win those around him, what is his profession worth?"

While the church flourished, and its members became an example for others, the Rector's home grew more beautiful within and without. An immense, ark-like barn, stood at the lower end of his land, at the corner of two streets. At a convenient opportunity, he sold this and ten thousand feet of land, to a gentleman who finished the building off for a factory for painting oil-cloth. The money thus derived, gave him the means of adding another story to his small house, and an L in the rear of the kitchen; the room previously used for cooking being converted into a sitting and dining room. One of the front rooms was the Rector's study, the other a parlor, seldom used in winter. On the South end, a wide piazza without a covering, ran the whole length, including the portico covered with woodbine and prairie rose, which had been built with the house.

From the dwelling, the ground sloped suddenly down to the street, a distance of about fifty feet. Access to this had formerly been gained by an awkward flight of stone steps, and an overgrown foot-path to the front door. In the course of time, a pretty, shaded avenue was opened, which curved up from a gate on one side to the door, and then down to a gate at equal distance on the other. Then the old path was ploughed up, enriched and sodded with grass like the rest of the lawn—the stone steps given to a neighboring farmer in payment for the work on the new lawn.

Another year saw little patches of flowers in the form of rhombuses and rhomboids, and various other mathematical figures to suit the taste of the ladies: for by this time there were small duplicates of our friend Mary, the eldest, by name Emily, volunteering her opinion freely on the subject of landscape gardening, without waiting to be urged to do so.

Still later, the dearly loved home was rendered perfect,—to the inmates at least—by the bay window thrown out by Emily from papa's study, while he was gone to Convention. The means to pay John Pratt & Sons, carpenters and jobbers, being turned into this channel from the original one of purchasing a black silk dress, of quality sufficiently firm to stand alone, said silk to be a gift from Mrs. Emily Lawton, her aunt for whom she was named.

During all these years, the sum of three thousand dollars remaining from the Rector's patrimony, over and above the purchase of the farm, had been left at interest in a bank in the neighboring city, where it had swelled to what the owners considered a very neat little fortune. From time to time, as his family increased, his people had considerately added to his salary. He had a wife who was truly a helpmeet, four children like olive plants around his table, an affectionate, appreciative flock, and a wide field for usefulness in the service of a Master, whom his soul loved.

He often asked himself, "Was ever man so favored of the Lord as I am favored?"

Emily Lawton was in her eighteenth year, when her father, while returning from evening service at his mission chapel, was overtaken by a shower, and got so wet that a violent cold followed, which completely prostrated him. An affection of the lungs succeeded, the worst symptom being the entire loss of voice. A most pleasing solicitude was manifested by his people, who generously hired a supply for the pulpit, and allowed his salary to go on month after month. Then they voted him a generous sum to pay the expense of his spending one winter in a warmer climate, promising that his family should not want while he was away.

It was not till the end of a year from the commencement of his illness, that the parish with great reluctance consented to the sundering of the tie which had so happily bound them to their Rector for twenty years.

Mr. Washburn, on his return from the South, finding his voice still insufficient for the demands of the pulpit, sent his resignation to his wardens, with an earnest request that they would accept it, stating that his conscience would not allow him longer to remain their pastor, while not able to perform a pastor's duties: and closing with a fervent prayer that God would direct them to a man who would proclaim to them the truth as it is in Jesus, as he had, though in a most humble manner, endeavored to do.

This request caused great excitement in the parish. All the female portion exclaimed against it, and many of the male members. Churchwardens and vestry were inclined to the opinion that they had better hire a preacher for a year, and allow their dearly loved Rector time to recover. In the end, however, Mr. Washburn convinced them that it was wisest both for them and him, that a new Rector should be settled over them. He promised, however, to remain for the present among them, assuring them that they would always be like loved children to him and to his wife.

I wish to be minute concerning these facts, because of their connection with after events.

When the separation finally took place, a large number of the church and parish met at the house of their late Rector, and presented him with a purse of money as a token of their deep affection. No man was more prominent in expressing his regret at the resignation than a member bearing the euphonious name of Barnes Bailey, who had once incurred the censure of his Rector, and at length even expulsion from the church. He had, however, forsaken his evil ways, and been readmitted to the fellowship of the church.

If any one had ever doubted the sincerity of his penitence, and the truthfulness of his grateful affection toward one who had checked him in his downward career, his conduct on this occasion was calculated to set their doubts at rest. He shed tears as he warmly pressed Mr. Washburn's hand at parting, and thanked him for the faithfulness and watchful care which had "plucked him as a brand from the burning."

Still there was one who secretly doubted him, who distrusted his piety and his ready tears. This one was Emily Lawton, the Rector's daughter.

CHAPTER III.

THE MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION.

LONG before Mr. Washburn had found the bottom of the purse presented by his people, he had received an appointment to be Secretary and Treasurer of one of the great benevolent societies of the day. The appointment was particularly acceptable, as it brought him into constant association with those who had long been intimate friends,—gentlemen with whom he had labored and prayed for the advancement of the cause of missions. This appointment also enabled him to live in his own house at Canterbury.

Though his voice was still feeble, he was thankful to find that as his general health became firm, he could speak with more ease. As his business required him to visit the parishes in the Diocese, and as far as possible to present the cause of missions, his first object was to prepare a plain statement of facts, with which he was already perfectly familiar. This lecture, or sermon, from the text, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature," became exceedingly popular. With various changes and amplifications, Mr. Washburn preached it more than a hundred times in the course of the succeeding two years. Never had the funds of the society been so large as during this period.

But to return to Mr. Washburn's family. Emily and Marion, the two elder girls, had been educated by their father with great care. Emily, in particular, discovered a special aptness for the acquisition of languages, and her father, who ranked among the first as a classical scholar, had taught her Latin and Greek. With German and French she was also familiar,—Mr. Washburn having playfully enforced a law that there should be a German day and a French day, when at meals not a word of English should be spoken.

Music, both social and instrumental, was, however, Emily's specialty. Long before her tiny fingers could span an octave, her mother commenced teaching her the scales upon a piano brought with her as a bride. From the time she was sixteen, Emily had enjoyed the advantage of a teacher in the neighboring city, going thither twice a week for the purpose, in an omnibus which ran hourly between the two places.

Except occasional visits to her aunt Emily and her grandmother Lawton, the young girl had seen little of the world. It was quite natural, therefore, that on her father being thrown out of employment, she should urge her desire to leave home, and become a teacher of music.

This project at first met with strong opposition. But circumstances arose which caused Emily to urge her request with great vigor, and her parents, with reluctance, gave a conditional consent.

The circumstance alluded to was this. Mr. Bailey, or Barnes Bailey, as he was universally called, had fallen into the habit of calling at the house of his former Rector with great frequency, and when there, directed much of his conversation to Emily. Mr. Washburn, in the overflowing of a heart full of love and charity, entertained a special regard for the young man, whom he believed himself to have been instrumental in assisting, and whom he considered sincere in his expressions of deep penitence. He therefore welcomed the gentleman with great cordiality to his house and table. Mrs. Washburn, taking the initiative from her husband, also treated him with marked kindness.

Not so Emily. When obliged to be present during his calls and visits, she treated him as coolly as civility would allow. His approach to the house was her signal for leaving it if possible, certainly, of returning to her own chamber. As his attention to her became more marked, her distrust and dislike of him increased. She began to shudder when she met the glance of his usually cold, gray eye, but she kept these feelings locked in her own breast. Not even to her sister Marion, her loving confidant on almost every subject, did she hint at her suspicions and her distrust; and so skilfully did she excuse herself on the plea of other engagements that for a long time no one suspected her motive in absenting herself from the room.

Barnes Bailey was, however, not a man to be hindered when he had set his heart upon any object. He determined, if Emily would not see him, she should read his letters, and from this time, presented her with little missives delivered by her brother Josey, who was innocent enough to believe what was told him by Barnes, that the notes contained Sunday School questions. Whatever they did contain, Emily's fine eyes flashed whenever she found one of these epistles on her table, and threw several of them into the fire without reading.

A day soon arrived when she was obliged to meet the subject face to face. Her father, one morning, requested her to walk with him to visit an old parishioner who was dying in consumption. He then handed her a letter which, with a smile, he requested her to read. It contained a proposition for her hand in marriage, with the implication that the writer had her consent to address her father.

"It is false!" she cried, her eyes flashing, and her thin nostrils dilating with anger. "I have never given him the least encouragement. The letters to which he here alludes, I threw into the fire without unsealing."

"But why, my daughter? The offer he makes is an honorable one, though I am far from wishing you to form an engagement at so early a period of life. It took me by surprise at first. You are a mere child, only little, loving Emily to me, my dear."

"I am almost out of my teens, father," she answered, returning his smile, "old enough to decide that I never will marry Barnes Bailey."

"What reason shall I give him, child?"

"Tell him that I despise him, but he must be a fool not to know that already. No, I don't think him a fool. I think him mean, low in his tastes, and capable of any villainy to compass his ends. There, father," she said with a shudder. "I have given you my answer, and I hope never to hear his name again. I'm sure you and mother don't wish to get rid of me."

Her father drew her hand still closer within his own, gazing with a grave smile into her face, still glowing with unwonted excitement. For some time they walked on in silence, the rector pondering upon, and wondering at his daughter's words. He did not think it the time to caution her against her too hasty judgment, but resolved to take another opportunity to do so. On the whole, he was extremely gratified that she had formed no attachment to a man who, after all, was stained in the eyes of the community.

As they approached the house where the sick woman lived, Emily slackened her steps.

"Father," she said, "I can't stay in Canterbury. I've been annoyed with that man long enough. I wish you would consent to my writing Ella Sampson. You know she is in Mrs. Duxbury's family school, where a few weeks ago the situation of music teacher was vacant. If I write her at once, I may get it. You would like me to be with Ella, and I'm sure I could get a splendid note of recommendation from Monsieur Rolfe."

Mr. Washburn paused in his walk, and fixed his eyes absently on the ground.

Presently he said, "I must consult your mother, child."

"Does she know of Barnes' letter, sir?" the color rising in her cheeks again.

"Yes, she has read it."

"I'll go home and talk with her. If she consents, I will write to Ella by the next mail. But, father, please say nothing of my plan, now or any time. It is enough for any one that I have left town. I will not have letters like this forwarded to me."

She looked in his face, read a half consent, and ran away, leaving him to go into the house, and minister consolation to the dying woman.

At the end of two hours when he returned, Emily's letter to her friend was already on its way.

In a week, she had joined Miss Sampson at the school, which was situated in the large town of U—, two hundred miles from Canterbury.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GATHERING CLOUD.

MR. WASHBURN had for some time occupied his position as Secretary and Treasurer of the Missionary Association, and had become thoroughly identified with its interests, when after a Sunday of unusual fatigue, he went to his office in the city before returning to his home. It was a hot, sultry day in August, and he had risen in the morning with dizziness and pain in his head. Since then he had travelled forty miles in the cars, and he acknowledged to himself that it would be wise to reach home as soon as possible.

There was no one in the room with him but his clerk, who, by the way, was Barnes Bailey. As his dizziness increased, he tried to say, "I am not well. You had better call the doctor." But the words were too indistinct to be understood. This was the last of his recollection.

When he recovered his consciousness, he found himself in a chamber unfamiliar to him, no person in sight, but an exquisite picture of the Christ hanging on the wall opposite the bed. With his first movement, however, his wife started from her position at his side. Seeing that he recognized her, she uttered a fervent "Thank God!" then bent down and kissed his forehead, tears of joy, meanwhile, starting to her eyes.

"I remember," he said faintly. "I was ill and became unconscious. Where am I now?"

"With good friends, dear, but you mustn't talk. I'll tell you all, by-and-by."

"How long have I been here?"

"This is Wednesday. Barnes Bailey came out to Canterbury Monday noon. I found you had been brought here. Now you must rest; the Doctor will soon be in."

After a fortnight's convalescence Mr. Washburn was able to resume his labors, but during the succeeding autumn, he had several slight returns of what he called dizziness, and what his physician called indigestion. These were followed by longer or shorter periods of unconsciousness, no attack being as severe as the first.

On recovering from one of these, he found a letter on his office table in his own handwriting, which astonished and even alarmed him. The letter was addressed to a brother clergyman, but was so disconnected and one side of the object that it could not have failed of being misunderstood. He tore it into pieces and threw it into the waste basket, with a profound feeling of gratitude that it had not been sent. At the same time, he resolved that, when under the influence of these seizures, he would not attempt the transaction of business. Between the Rector and his clerk a pleasant relation existed, notwithstanding past events. Mrs. Washburn, too, after Barnes' apparent sympathy when her husband lay ill, treated him in a more unreserved manner than since his proposition for her daughter.

In the winter, Mr. Washburn was sensibly in more confirmed health than for several years. He went back and forth from his office nearly every day, instead of twice a week as at first. He labored without ceasing and with great success, but at length his wife was obliged to confess that he seemed to have a weight on his spirits. When he came home, instead of joining his family, he went at once to his study, and here his wife several times found him, sitting near his table, his head propped by his hand.

On her entrance, he always roused himself, and met her with a smile, but she was not deceived.

"What can it be?" she asked herself again and again.

Only one slight clue to the mystery was gained during the winter. She woke one night and found him pacing the chamber. Supposing her asleep, he spoke aloud in a wild, incoherent way. Then stopping, he threw his arms over his head, exclaiming,—

"Father in Heaven, help me! Am I losing my reason?"

Then falling on his knees, he prayed long and earnestly, though in tones too subdued for her to understand.

After this, for days when he was at home, she secretly watched him, but could discover not the slightest symptom of insanity.

In March, Mr. Temple, one of the gentlemen connected with the Mission Board, came to Canterbury, but without calling on Mr. Washburn. Marion and Ruth saw him go into several houses belonging to their former parishioners. Mrs. Washburn, to whom they stated the fact on their return home, thought nothing of the circumstance, and was much surprised when her husband exhibited great excitement, questioning each of his daughters on the subject, asking whether they were sure it was Mr. Temple, making them describe his appearance. Then when convinced that they had really seen him, sighing repeatedly.

Resolved at length to break through this reserve, his wife, the moment they were alone, inquired,—

"Of what consequence is it whether Mr. Temple made calls in Canterbury? You seemed to attach special importance to the fact."

"Because I know what he came for, and may God forgive him."

He uttered the words with a blanched face, but when she pressed him, "Henry, my husband, tell me. What is this mystery?"

He only said, faintly, "You will know soon enough, too soon, 'far' too soon."

The Saturday following, he hesitated long whether to fulfill an engagement to preach on missions in a distant parish. Twice his wife went to the study, but found the door locked.

Listening with some anxiety, she heard his voice in earnest supplication. Upon one petition he lingered long, as though his voice was stifled with grief.

"Father, help me to say, Thy will be done. But, O gracious God, if it be right in Thy sight deliver me from snares too powerful for me."

For the first time, her courage gave way, and she hastened to her own chamber where for a long time, she wept convulsively. For months, anxious forebodings had weighed upon her spirits, and had seriously affected her health. It was with an effort she partook of food enough to sustain life, but she had never allowed her spirits to flag. Should her husband and children witness her despondence, they would feel that indeed all was lost.

When her grief had spent itself in tears, she fell on her knees to ask counsel of her Almighty Friend. Soothed and calmed by this exercise, she sat down to reflect upon her duty.

In a few minutes, she heard her husband's voice in the entry, asking,—

"Where's your mother, Ruth? I am going to take the next coach into town."

She hurried to meet him, one resolution having been born during the last hour, and this was to delay no longer to ask for that confidence which she felt that she had a right to demand. To her surprise, her husband's face was calm, almost peaceful.

Observing traces of tears on her cheek, he put his arm tenderly about her kissing her affectionately.

"Don't fear, my poor darling," he said. "Our sympathizing Saviour knows all our trials. I have been sadly wanting in faith, but I am comforted now by His gracious promises to His children."

"I'm sure I should feel better, Henry, if I knew the worst. I dread something, I know not what."

"Yes, dear. You have a right to know all that I do, but that will not solve the mystery which enshrouds me. I have had a letter this morning which calls me away on Monday, and I may not return till night; possibly not till Tuesday. Then I will tell you all that I know myself."

He took out his watch, glanced at the hour, then said hurriedly, "I have asked Marion to go in town with me. You do not object?"

"Would you rather have me go?"

"No, dear, not to-day. I almost wish Emily were here, for your sake, Mary, not for mine. Do the children suspect anything?"

"They often say how worn and sad papa looks, nothing more."

He sighed. "God knows," he faltered, "how painful it is for me to bring sorrow on their young lives. But I will trust. Yes, 'I will trust Him though He slay me.'"

It was nearly night when Marion returned, as she had taken advantage of her trip to do some necessary business for the family. As she opened the door into the sitting room, it was evident something had occurred to excite her. Though less impulsive than Emily, indeed she was usually quite calm, now her cheeks were crimson and her eyes flashing, while her whole appearance, as she tossed her travelling bag into the chair, betokened strong and perhaps angry emotion.

"I wish I hadn't gone to town," she exclaimed, in answer to three pairs of astonished eyes fixed full upon her. "I was never so vexed in all my life, not for myself, but for papa: poor, dear papa. He acted like a saint through it all. Oh, dear! I didn't know there were such horrid people in Canterbury. Mamma, what have we done that our old friends treat us so?"

"Do explain yourself, Marion. Treat us how?"

"Well, I'll try to tell you,—but I'm afraid I've done your shopping all wrong. I couldn't keep my mind on my errands a minute, and if I hadn't had your memorandum, I shouldn't have remembered half."

"Don't talk about memorandums," cried Ruth, impatiently. "You see how pale mamma is. You ought to tell her right off."

"I'm going to as soon as I get my breath. Oh, mamma, I'm so sorry for you!"—as she noticed her mother putting her trembling hands to her heart. "Perhaps I'd better not say any more."

"Go on," came feebly from the white lips. "Is your father safe?"

"Oh, yes. There is nothing the matter with him, only I do love him twenty thousand times better than ever. Well," with another glance at her mother's blanched face, "I'll tell you all about it."

"Papa and I walked dawn to the post office, and took the coach there. On the way, he urged me to be very attentive to you, mamma, and try to relieve you from all care,—and to keep Ruth and Josey at their lessons,—and to practice my music. I couldn't help thinking it was just as though he was going away for a year. I promised to be a good girl, and do my very best. Then he stopped at the door, and kissed me good-bye."

"Why, I'm going papa," I said.

"Oh, yes, I forgot. Get right in, my dear."

"Opposite us sat Hepsah Bancroft, just as stiff, with her nose up in the air. She looked me all over to my very shoes, and sniffed in a scornful manner. I tried not to care, and kept telling myself, 'She's a sour old maid,' but when she wouldn't return papa's bow, but stared at him as though he were a stranger, I wanted to scratch her. You know how papa visited her when she was so sick, and how we had to keep her supplied with jellies, because no one made them like ours, she said. Oh, I was real angry with her, and I'm glad I was. I'm sure it would have been wicked not to be.

"When we reached the four corners, Mr. Morse and his son-in-law, Joseph Gray, got in. Mr. Morse sat down by papa, before he saw who it was. When papa spoke and offered his hand, he started and the color flew all over his face. He just touched papa's fingers and let them drop, and after that, he turned and began to talk to Joseph as fast as he could. We had almost reached the city, when Hepsah Bancroft let her pocket-book fall. I saw it under her feet, but I was too angry to tell her. I hoped she'd lose it. She deserved to."

"Oh, Marion, my dear child!"

"Well, mamma, if you had been there, I believe you would have felt so too, good as you are. I wish you could have seen her nose. Oh, dear! After a while, papa saw the pocket-book, and picked it up for her."

"'I'm afraid you would meet with some inconvenience if you lost this,' he said, just as kindly as could be.

"What do you think she did? She snatched it from his hand, without even saying, thank you. The next minute, I heard her tell a woman next her, 'I'm sure I put it in my pocket. It's really getting unsafe to travel in these coaches. One never knows what is going to happen.'"

"Oh, dear, I hope I never shall feel so angry again! I had it on my lips to ask, 'Who do you suspect of stealing your old pocket-book?'

"When I happened to glance at papa, and there he was really smiling. He saw how I felt, and put his hand on mine, as he said in German, 'Never mind, my dear. As long as we have a clear conscience, it is of little consequence what others think of us.'"

"I think Hepsah Bancroft is hateful," exclaimed Josey; "I never will get her any more leaves or ferns."

"Yes, you will, Josey. Miss Bancroft has been very kind to you. I don't understand her conduct now, but I'm sure she'll be sorry some time."

CHAPTER V.

THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER.

AT the door of a large mansion, with wings spread widely on either side, two ladies are standing, engaged in watching the progress of a young miss, who, under the care of an elderly gentleman, is taking her first lesson in riding. They both laughed as she stopped in front of the door, her face pallid with fear.

"You're a little goosey," said the older lady, patting kindly the small hand clinging to the pummel. "What are you afraid of?"

"It seems so high. Oh, Mr. Duxbury, can't I get off now?"

"Get off! No, indeed, Susan." He then turned to the younger lady at the door, and said earnestly, "You promised to sing that anthem for me last night. What excuse have you for forgetting it?"

"Only this, sir," was the merry response—"that I went to the music-room and fulfilled my pledge, but you were not there to hear it."

"Ah! I am sorry; but I must attend to Susy, now."

He turned back once or twice, listening to her laugh, which sounded like chiming bells. "I envy her father," he said to himself. "She's a perfect treasure in any home."

While Mr. Duxbury is patiently following the young equestrian up and down the maple avenue, I will endeavor to make a pen-picture of the young lady at the door.

Not more than the usual height, her erect figure, and her head carried so daintily back from her chest, give one the impression that she is tall. Her hair is the deepest shade of auburn, glistening and glowing as the sun touches it, like a live thing. It is very abundant, wound at the back into a large, loose coil, than which nothing could be more beautiful. In front there is just enough wave to be a suitable framing to the pure, broad brow, the ends carried back and coiled around the rest. Her eyes are dark hazel, the expression constantly changing. Now they are alive with fun. When she is singing, they grow dark and deep and full of soul, almost sad; anon they flash or melt as her mood varies. Her mouth is not very small; her lips ripe, red, and tremulous with feeling. Just a kissable mouth, often repeated her friends, when trying to describe her.

Can you guess who this young lady is? No other than our Emily Washburn; and this noble mansion is the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury, who have a score of young ladies in their charge, with three resident teachers, of whom none is more loved and petted than our Emily, who had been in their family for two years.

Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury are held in great respect by their fellow citizens, visiting and receiving visits from the most refined people in the town. Indeed, their monthly levees are better attended than almost any parties in the place.

Ella Sampson, Emily's friend and room-mate, has gone home for a short recess, her place as German and French teacher being filled by Miss Washburn.

Mrs. Duxbury and Emily were still sitting on the doorsteps, when a party of four, two ladies and two gentlemen rode gaily up the avenue.

"Good evening," exclaimed Miss Lawrence, who was rather in advance of the others. "Isn't it lovely out? We are going down the river road, and came for Miss Washburn to accompany us."

"Thank you," answered Mrs. Duxbury, fearing that Emily would refuse. "It will do her good."

"If you mean to benefit my health, I am perfectly well now," added the young girl merrily. "I should dearly love to," with a glance toward Mr. Duxbury, "but I have neither horse, habit, nor hat."

"All of which shall be forthcoming in ten minutes, if you say the word," answered the gentleman, warmly.

"Come with me," said Mrs. Duxbury, in a gay tone. "You shall be Cinderella, and I'll be the fairy grandmother."

The old gentleman rang a bell connected with the stable, which stood at some distance from the house, and ordered the servant who appeared, to bring round Chestnut, with a lady's saddle.

"I am very glad you called for her," he said, addressing one of the gentlemen. "She will prove an addition to any party."

"I am very sure of it, at least as sure as I can be from one glimpse of the lady. I have never had an introduction. My cousin, Miss Lawrence, made the proposition to come for her."

Cecilia Lawrence was a native of old Virginia, but her parents removed to Michigan when she was a child, leaving her with an aunt at the North, to complete her education. Since leaving school, she had twice crossed the ocean and travelled abroad, once in company with her parents, only spending a summer in Great Britain, and a winter in Rome. The second time, she went with her only brother, several years older than herself, who had just graduated from a law school in New England. This time, she passed three years most delightfully in visiting places of sacred interest in the Holy Land, and of classic and historic fame in many parts of Europe.

On their return, Frederic Lawrence acceded to the wishes of his parents and settled in the West, where his talents speedily attracted attention, and in his thirty-third year, he was sent from his adopted state as a Representative to Congress. He had been a member of the House in Washington one year, his sister having passed the winter with him, when she made her appearance in our story. She was now passing several weeks with the family of Judge Wilson, the gentleman being also a Virginian, and a cousin two or three degrees removed.

At a party given by her friends for their accomplished visitor, Emily was present, and contributed greatly to the pleasure of the company by her fine singing, and also by the charming grace and ease of her manners. Miss Lawrence, though several years the senior, conceived an attachment, as warm as it was sudden, for the beautiful Emily. She resolved to see as much as possible of the young girl during her stay in U—.

"What a sensation she would create in Washington!" she said to Mrs. Wilson, after they had discussed the party, and individual members of it. "She makes me proud of my countrywomen. I have seen no one, either side of the water, who impressed me as so altogether charming."

This opinion Miss Lawrence endorsed, with great emphasis, the morning after the ride. And this time, she was joined enthusiastically by George Wilson, her so-called cousin, who returned from College one day too late for the party.

"It is a perfect delight to watch one so fresh, unassuming and wholly unconscious of her own charms," urged Cecilia, dwelling continually on the subject. "Still I almost shrink from pursuing the acquaintance, for fear I shall discover the blemish which stains the character of us all in this wicked world. So far I have failed to discover any."

"You make a staunch friend, Cecilia," remarked Judge Wilson, smiling over his newspaper. "If it will please you, I will tell one remarkable trait I noticed in the young girl the evening she was here."

"Hear! Hear!" cried George, clapping his hands. "Father is a capital critic of ladies," he murmured in an aside to his cousin. "He knows a beautiful face, too, as well as the next one." This was said in a louder tone.

"Aye! aye! my son. But I do not call beautiful all those who catch your fancy. Mere regularity of features, or mere brilliancy of complexion do not, in my opinion, constitute beauty. I want to see the soul, flashing and glowing through the eye, the cheek. This beauty I confess Miss Washburn has. She reminded me of a description I once read of a young lady:—

"'Every thought and emotion that passed through her mind, reflected itself upon her countenance, as the under-current of a streamlet breaks the sunshine into ripples on the surface.'

"But the particular trait I referred to was this. She was surrounded with young and old of both sexes; and they all talked to her on rational subjects—music, painting, classical literature, and she showed an intelligent understanding of them all. I lingered in her vicinity for some time, and not once did I hear her descend to personalities. She has wit, but she does not use it to cut her friends. Every glimpse that I obtained into her soul revealed innocence and grace. I envy her father."

"Good! Good! Three cheers for Judge Wilson!" shouted the young collegian in tones so loud that his father laughingly put his fingers to his ears.

"I would give something to be by when your opinions of her character were conveyed to her," said Cecilia, earnestly.

"I'm sure," added the Judge, "she has been carefully trained by judicious parents. Her father is a clergyman, I hear."

"Yes, sir, but now advanced to a position of trust in the Missionary Society of our church. So she told me last night. She is very proud of her father, and indeed she spoke in terms of the warmest affection of all her family. It is two years since she came to U—. This is her first separation from them."

"But not the last, if I have any influence," retorted George, rising with a flushed cheek, and drawing up his tall form to its full height.

"You talk of influence! You, a Sophomore! Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed the Judge, gazing at his son with a merry twinkle in his eyes. "Why, my boy, do you suppose she will wait—let me see—three, six, nine years, for you. It will be just about that period before you can offer to supply her with bread and butter."

"I don't consider myself a subject for ridicule," said George, with a flushed face.

"Neither do I, my boy; but a very fair one for mirth, just now."

"Come, George," urged Cecilia, rising and putting her arm through his. "Let us go to the garden, before it is too warm. I want to gather a basket of flowers."

CHAPTER VI.

FRIENDSHIP.

THE acquaintance between Cecilia and Emily ripened every hour. Not a day passed which did not bring the former to the large mansion on the hill, and scarcely an evening when she did not by argument or entreaty, persuade the latter to accompany her to the residence of her friend Judge Wilson.

"You are spoiling me," remonstrated Emily, when on one occasion, the old gentleman, his wife and son met her at the door, with the cordiality of long tried friends.

Mrs. Wilson, and even the Judge claimed the privilege of his gray hairs, to kiss her glowing cheeks, while they all thanked Cecilia again and again, for bringing her to their home.

"You will spoil me with such kind attention," repeated Emily, every feature glowing with appreciation of their cordiality.

"I'll risk it, child," said the Judge, patting the well-shaped hand he had taken in his own.

"But when Cecilia goes, I shall miss you all so much."

"Miss us, shall you, hey? Well, what is to hinder your coming to cheer the old people, when the young birds have flown?"

"May I? I shall be so glad. But I mustn't forget a message from papa and mamma. Of course I have written all about you, and how kind you have been to their little girl: and they want me to thank you. Papa reminds me that it is one more token of my heavenly Father's love and watchful care that Christian friends have been raised up for me, a child away from parental restraint."

"Aye! aye! dear," patting her hand again. "We're too apt to forget our Father's hand in all our mercies. When you write again, you may tell your parents that it is exactly such a message as I would expect from them."

"Why, do you know papa?"

"Yes, Emily, I know him well—through his daughter. Every time I have seen you, I have recognized his opinion, his religion, his tastes, carefully impressed on his child."

Tears gushed to Emily's eyes. "Oh, sir, can you say so? I'm very happy. Nothing you could have said would have made me so thankful: and I know papa and mamma will be pleased that I have in any way honored them."

"You may add to your letter," said Mrs. Wilson, "that as they have daughters and we have none, we should regard the gift of the eldest, as an act of Christian charity on their part."

"Thank you!" repeated the ardent girl, pressing another kiss on the old lady's lips. "I wish my parents knew you. They would express their gratitude, so much better than I can."

"I can give a guess that you had a happy home."

"Never were children blessed with more loving, judicious parents. I have always considered my father's good name better than great riches to his children."

"Yes, old Solomon was right there. A fair, unsullied name is a rich inheritance for any children."

"It is an inheritance George is blessed with," playfully remarked Cecilia.

"Don't be personal," remarked the Judge, patting her cheek; at the same time, he looked very much gratified.

At ten o'clock, a servant from the school came to attend Miss Washburn home, and she bade her friends good-night, with a feeling that she had never enjoyed a pleasanter or a more profitable evening.

An hour later, Cecilia still sat in the moonlight, gazing on the quiet scene spread out before her, but upon which her thoughts had not for a moment been fixed. At last, she started to her feet, lit the gas as she said half aloud, "I'll do it, and I'll do it to-night."

Pausing only to fasten into the window the wire net, to prevent the musquitoes from entering to the bright flame, she drew a portfolio from her trunk, and still standing by her bureau, dashed off the following lines:—

"DEAR FRED:

"I wonder whether you are thinking of me. Don't be vain, old fellow, when I tell you that for the last hour I have been thinking of you. I have only time before midnight, to tell you the ultimatum to which I have arrived. I claim your promise to come for me. Our friends have succeeded in making my visit in U—, one of the pleasantest I have ever known. Come in season to make a stay of a fortnight, and go with me to some of the places in the vicinity, rendered sacred by historic associations.

"Love and adieu,

"CECILIA."

"How do you manage, Emily, to accomplish so much in the course of a day?" said the same young lady, presenting herself the next morning a few minutes before school hours.

The music teacher laughed as she skilfully wound the abundant coil around her shapely head. They were standing in front of the mirror in her chamber, and by way of reply, she pointed to the figure five on her watch.

"What do you mean, Emily?"

"I have been up since that hour, have practised forty-five minutes, heard one class recite, a splendid recitation, too, and given two dull pupils their music lessons."

"Recite in what? I didn't know that you had any department except music."

Emily blushed slightly, as she always did when speaking of herself. "Since my friend, Miss Sampson went away to be married, I have taught her classes in German and French."

Cecilia held up her hands. "You're a wonder of wonders. Here you are working all day long, and yet in the evening, you're as fresh as though you had just risen from bed."

"I am the oldest daughter," laughed Emily, "and in a clergyman's family, there is always enough work, domestic and parish, to keep one very busy. But you give me more credit than I deserve. I had heard Ella's classes on a few occasions when she was away, and when she announced to Mr. Duxbury her approaching marriage, he asked me whether I would like to take her place and salary in addition to my own. He said his niece, who had been my pupil for a year, could relieve me by teaching the beginners in music, and that as he should save the board of one teacher, he could well afford to pay his niece a small salary. Isn't he generous?"

"Well!"

"It was merely an experiment at first, but now that I am getting accustomed to it, I like it vastly. My father's method of teaching us at home, made the acquisition of languages more like play than work."

"And how many languages do you boast among your accomplishments, you wonderful genius?"

"I don't boast of any, my dear, but I do boast of my punctuality, which is a cardinal virtue, in my opinion, though a painful one in this instance, as in three minutes it deprives me of your delightful society."

In answer to this, Cecilia removed her hat and mantilla, laying them with her parasol on the bed. Seeing Emily's glance of surprise, she said in French, "I am going to spend the day here and go into your classes."

In the same language, Emily answered quickly, "I'm afraid it will be dull for you. To me it will be only pleasure. Come, the bell is ringing for the opening exercises. I'm glad you love sacred music. My class of girls do themselves credit by their singing."

Conducting Miss Lawrence to a seat near the desk, Emily joined a group of girls standing about the piano, and hastily selecting the beautiful chant, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," commenced a soft accompaniment on the instrument.

Often as she had heard it, the words and tones thrilled the visitor to the soul. Emily's voice, clear as a bell, rose full and sweet above the others, her enunciation being so distinct, that every word could be plainly heard, her pupils joining with her in such perfect time, the whole sentiment expressed with such a true appreciation of the sacred theme, that Cecilia seemed lifted above herself.

This was followed by a short service from the prayer book, simply a psalm and the collects for the day, with an extempore prayer from Mr. Duxbury at the close.

Mrs. Duxbury perceived that their visitor was much impressed with their simple service, and when they were separating into different rooms, spoke to her of it.

"I can't tell you how delighted I am," murmured Cecelia, her eyes dewy with tears. "I feel that I should be better with such helps at the beginning of the day. Mrs. Duxbury, I envy your scholars."

Emily stood waiting to speak to her. "Will you go with Mr. Duxbury for an hour or two?" she said. "I have music scholars who I fear would be embarrassed by your presence."

"Class in Intellectual Philosophy," said the Principal from the desk.

The visitor was shown to a seat, and was so much interested in the manner of teaching, and the quick intelligent answers of the pupils, that she was surprised when at the end of the hour, another class was called.

At eleven, the bell rang for recess, which was spent by the friends in walking up and down the shady avenue.

"You ought to be very happy, Emily," began Cecilia, in a serious tone.

"I am truly so. I have yet to learn what sorrow is. The only trial I have ever known, real trial I mean, was when papa lost his voice. You must know my parents, Cecilia. I owe them so much."

"I am prepared to love, as well as I now respect them. You are unlike any girl of my acquaintance," and she lovingly pressed her arm within hers.

"If I have any good traits, Cecilia, such as your partiality invests me with, I owe it all to the care which my dear papa and mamma took of me, in common with my sisters and little brother. I should have been a wild, headstrong girl, if papa had not checked me. Mamma's example too, was worth everything."

"Excuse me, Emily, for entering on a theme, which as many of our flatterers suppose, is the invariable subject of young ladies' conversation: but were you ever in love?"

"Never!" was the rather indignant exclamation, as the young girl recalled the overtures of Barnes Bailey.

"I see you have some unpleasant associations with the subject, and by that I infer—" continued Cecilia, laughing.

"I confess," said Emily, blushing furiously as she interrupted her, "that the subject has once been presented for my consideration. But I,—oh, there's the bell?"

CHAPTER VII.

THE BURDEN SHARED.

MONDAY noon, Monday evening came, but the absent one, about whom were clustering so many anxious forebodings, did not return.

"Supper with papa's favorite dish of cream-toast, and he not here," exclaimed Ruth, after gazing down the street from the study window. "Let's tell Ann to set it in the warmer, mamma, and wait for the next coach."

This was agreed to by all except Joseph, who complained that he was "so" hungry. But the next coach and three succeeding ones lumbered by, and still the Rector came not.

"He said he might not be here till Tuesday," Mrs. Washburn reminded her daughters, trying to resist the gloom that seemed spreading all around them. "We had better have prayers and retire."

Turning aside from the chapter in course, she read with great feeling the ninety-first psalm, dwelling for a moment on the precious promise,—

"Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust."

"You have often seen the hen-mother," she said, "in time of danger, call her young brood and shelter them under her wings, covering them almost out of sight with her feathers. There they feel perfectly secure from harm. So our Heavenly Father, our Almighty Friend promises to shield His children from evil. Enemies may, indeed, lurk around and come very close, but with God for our protector, we may rest in quietness and peace."

"What a wonderful book the Bible is, mother," said Marion, with deep feeling. "It has words of comfort for everybody."

"Yes, my dear, which is one strong proof of its divine origin. Now let us sing your father's hymn,—

"'Nearer, my God, to thee—

"and then ask His loving care to be around us through the night."

The dear father was not forgotten in the petitions which followed. All the family joining in them were more willing after the sweet promises to which they had listened, to leave him in divine care.

Mrs. Washburn tarried a few minutes after the rest retired, then went to her daughters' chamber for a good-night kiss, glanced at Josey, who, with his arms thrown over his head, had forgotten all cares in the present or future, and then sought her own room.

The night was lovely. The moon was full, and its soft rays fell upon the floor; the shadows from a horse-chestnut tree near by flickering and changing into graceful pictures as the leaves outside were rustled in the gentle breeze.

Carrying the light she held in her hand into the hall, she drew the curtain to the top and stood gazing out upon the quiet scene. For some minutes she stood thus, her heart raised in prayer to the Creator of all this loveliness, when her attention was directed to a traveller coming toward her across the field opposite. Almost holding her breath with excitement, she kept her eyes fixed on the man until, as he leaped the wall and crossed the road to enter their gate, she recognized her husband.

"Where can he have come from on foot at this hour?" she asked herself, as she softly glided down the stairs to let him in.

She was so much astonished at the wild, haggard expression that met hers, that she was unable to articulate a word. She stood one moment absolutely dumb, holding the open door in her hand, till he asked sadly:

"Have you no welcome? I thought when all others failed me, I should be welcomed here."

"My dear husband, my own Henry. It was my surprise which, for a moment, kept me silent. I thank God that you have returned in safety."

"I am faint and weary," he murmured. "I have walked from P—."

"What, three miles beyond the city! Here, lie down on the sofa and let me cover you. You are perspiring so freely you will take cold. Now I will have something ready for you in a minute."

A door above opened softly, and a glad voice inquired,—

"Has papa come? I thought I heard papa's voice."

"Yes, dear, he has come."

"'Welcome, dear papa, welcome home!" shouted down Marion and Ruth. "We shall sleep better now that we know you are here."

"Poor girls! Poor children! Perhaps they will not say so to-morrow night. But I wrong them. O, God, forsake me not."

Like the true wife that she was, Mrs. Washburn put by her own anxiety, and soon appeared with a tray containing a covered dish, sugar, cream, and a plate of cold roast beef. She ran back for a plate, knife, fork and cup, saying, with a smile, as she set them before him,—

"Fortunately the tea-kettle was almost boiling. The tea will be ready in a minute."

He seemed scarcely to hear her. He had covered his face with his hands, and was breathing heavily.

"Come, Henry. You will feel better when you have eaten. This is Marion's toast. She made it for you, and insisted on keeping it, for we expected you every hour until the last coach came in."

"Look in the pocket of my coat for some papers," was all his reply.

She took out two letters, and asked, wondering, "Is that all?"

"Yes," after a glance at them, which caused a flush to rise all over his pale face. "I thought of tearing them to pieces. I was afraid I had."

The wife's heart beat wildly. Every moment her wonder increased. "What could he mean?" But she never doubted him.

Seeing that he made no movement to rise, she pulled a small table close to the sofa, poured out a cup of tea and held it toward him.

He took the cup and drained it.

"Yes," he said, "I need food. I have tasted nothing since—I can't remember when I ate anything. It seems so long ago. What day is it, Mary?"

"Monday, dear, Monday night. Now please me by eating this," laying a piece of rare beef upon his plate where she had already placed some toast.

He looked earnestly in her face, put up his finger and wiped away a tear which all her self-control could not keep back, then sighing heavily, turned to the food and did not stop until the plates were cleared.

"I feel better, stronger. Now, before you sleep, I must tell you the trial that has befallen me. Mary, dear, faithful wife, when we pledged our vows to each other, I did not anticipate that I should have to—But you shall read the Bishop's letter. I cannot tell you in words with what I am charged."

She took the envelope, her hands trembling so much that she could scarcely remove the note from its enclosure, and read the following words:—

"REV. HENRY WASHBURN,

"DEAR SIR:—It is with the most profound regret that I proceed to the accomplishment of a duty toward one whom I have highly esteemed and loved for his work's sake. I am credibly informed that there is a large deficit in the funds placed in your charge. Funds raised by yourself by contributions from churches in our diocese, for a purpose so sacred that it would have seemed that they were in no danger of being misapplied. Other circumstances in connection with this sad charge, have been related to me by those in whom I have confidence. I have endeavored hitherto to keep my mind unbiassed. There is a possibility of mistake.

"'It is unlikely,' I have urged to those who have come to me, 'that a brother whose character has been free from stain for forty years, should be led to commit sacrilege.'

"It is my wish to see you as soon as possible, and will remain in the city till Tuesday morning for that purpose.

"Yours in Christ,—

"———— —————."

The Rector scarcely drew a breath, as he sat watching the effect of this communication upon his wife.

She read it through, and then with a gasp of excitement, tossed the letter upon the table.

"You staid in the city to see the Bishop, then," she asked, her voice tremulous with suppressed excitement. "I hope you insisted on his telling you from whom this infamous accusation originated. I hope you did not go to him faint from the want of food—as ghastly and pale as you came home. I hope you convinced him that you are as incapable of committing such a crime, as an angel from heaven. Oh, Henry, why didn't you tell me this long ago. I understand it all now,—the conversation suddenly checked as we entered, the looks askant, Hepsah Bancroft's sneers. Oh, that I had known this before! I would have—"

"Stop, Mary! I cannot say that the charge is unfounded."

"What!" starting away from him. "I cannot have heard aright. Oh, that I should live to hear my husband confess such a crime." With a cry which rent his heart, the poor wife fell forward, and would have struck the floor, had he not caught her, and laid her on the sofa.

"I feared such a result," he faltered, in the saddest tone.

Mary's condition began to alarm him. The fountain of her grief was unloosed, and she sobbed till her whole frame was convulsed.

"Oh, Henry, my heart is breaking. I wish I had died before you told me this. Oh, my Emily, so proud of her father's good name. Poor child! Poor children, all of them!"

"Mary! Mary! Hear me. I don't think you understood me. Surely you, who know me so well, cannot believe that I wilfully and in my right mind, abstracted money from the funds in my care."

Hope once more dawned in her eye, as she started up crying,—

"What do you mean, then?"

"You know those fits of unconsciousness? I was unfit for business then and I might have—but no, I cannot believe it. Mary, I depend on you to help me. I am bewildered. The torture and suspense of the last months have told upon my nerves. One thing I can say. Before God, I am innocent of wrong intention in this thing."

"Then I care for nothing else, not for Bishops or all the world." She clasped her arms around his neck, and imprinted passionate kisses on his forehead, eyes and lips. She caught his hands, and fondled them as she would the dearest treasure on earth.

"Forgive me," she sobbed, again and again, "for having doubted you for one instant. Nothing but your own words, which I misunderstood, could have made me doubt you. No, my husband, you erred only in this, that you did not confide to me your sorrows the first moment you were afflicted with them. Now let us kneel, and cast our burden on one better able to bear it than we are. One whose arms are already outstretched to take it."

"Will you pray, Mary?"

They kneeled side by side, the wife still clasping her husband's hand, while she uttered the following brief petitions:

"We are thankful, O Lord, that we are in the presence of one who knows the purposes of the heart, as well as the actions of the life, and that it is by our motives for good or for evil that we shall be judged, or condemned. We leave our cause with thee, pleading thy promises to appear for us, and bring to light that which is dark.

"Help us to avoid the sin of unkind thoughts to which we are tempted, and to rest upon Thee with the trust of little children. For our Saviour's sake, we, thy unworthy servants, ask these and all other favors. Amen."

"Now, Henry," she said, turning to her husband with a real smile, "having given our burden to the Lord, don't let us take it back again. Remember the sweet words you used to urge on me when you were ill, and I was so fearful of the result:

"'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee: because he trusteth in Thee.'"

CHAPTER VIII.

CONFIDENCE.

THE fatigue which he experienced in consequence of his long walk, and his sensible relief in the feeling that his wife knew the worst, caused the Rector to fall into a heavy sleep, soon after his head touched the pillow. But through the remainder of the night, not once did the sorrowing wife lose the recollection of the affliction which had overtaken them. She lay a long time wondering, hoping, fearing by turns: plan after plan for solving the mystery was made and rejected. At length, becoming too much excited by conflicting emotions to remain quiet, she arose and going into an adjoining room, fell upon her knees to implore that guidance which her own unaided wisdom demanded in this emergency.

Even the knowledge that One ever watchful over his children was near, and could, by His powerful hand sweep away all the obstacles that lay in her husband's path, soothed and cheered her. Never had the Father-love of God seemed so precious as now. Never had faith in His promises seemed so much like an electric chain which connected her and the mercy-seat. In that one hour of communion with the Father of her spirit, she experienced a sweet confidence in His willingness to hear her cry, a peaceful rest on Him which she never forgot. She reviewed her own married life, and fervently thanked God for the long years of evidence that her husband had been born of the Spirit,—that he had a singleness of heart and of purpose in his high calling which precluded almost the possibility that he had committed the crime of which he was accused.

"But did he abstract funds from the Association when under aberration of mind?"

This was a question more difficult to answer. The scene at midnight, when she awoke and found him pacing the floor, praying God not to take away his reason, occurred to her mind with great vividness. He had told her of the letter which he had written to a brother clergyman while his head was in such a confused state that he was unfit for the transaction of business, and had begged her to be watchful at such times that nothing of importance went from his hand. Might it not be possible that, in a moment of dizziness and confusion of mind, he had retained a part or all of the funds collected from some parish to whom he had been preaching. If so, what had he done with this extra supply of cash? Certainly even this seemed scarcely possible without her becoming aware of a superfluous fund. She delighted to remember that her husband had always been methodical and exact in his transaction of business. Early in their married life, he had taught her the best method of keeping the family accounts, and had always insisted that every article purchased for home consumption should be regularly entered under the head of expenditures.

On the reception of his salary for the quarter, as long as he had been a pastor, he counted out to her one third of the amount, as every article was to be paid for when purchased, and kept the remainder in his desk for the next two months. Imperative indeed must be the necessity, such as sickness, which drew a consent from him to intrude upon a month's payment in advance.

During his long illness, the present of a purse of money from their then affectionate people had prevented the necessity of drawing from the bank any part of the money placed there on the death of his father, principal and interest having been devoted to his wife and children in case of his decease,—an arrangement which precluded the necessity of laying by any part of his running income for future necessities—an arrangement which he had often remarked gave him far more relief than he could possibly have derived from its use in the purchase of any luxury.

Since he had drawn a salary from the Missionary Society, all his expenses had been arranged in the same methodical manner. Supposing he had taken several hundred or thousand dollars in addition to his usual allowance, what had he done with it? While still under temporary insanity, he must have disposed of it in some secret manner.

With all these circumstances in mind, Mrs. Washburn could not argue herself into the possibility of his having committed such a mistake. Then her thoughts recurred to the Bishop's letter, which under the circumstances, was as kind as could be expected. She suddenly recollected that she had taken two letters from her husband's pocket, and she had read but one. The contents of that had so absorbed all her thoughts that she had forgotten the other.

Down stairs to the study she glided, both to satisfy her curiosity and to secure it against being seen by any intruder. Striking a light, she soon discovered a rumpled paper lying on the floor near the sofa. It was directed to her husband's office in town, and was signed William Temple, a prominent member of the Society. It was simply this:—

"DEAR WASHBURN:—I called here to see you, but your clerk tells me you have gone to fulfill an engagement to preach. I don't know as I ought to be surprised at this, and yet I am. I have had some conversation with the Bishop regarding the unpleasant rumors concerning you, and he tells me he has an appointment with you on Monday. You are well aware how much confidence I, as well as all our Board, have had in your integrity, but we are, the best of us, but mortals, and, in an emergency, many a man may have borrowed from funds in his possession, fully intending to repay to the uttermost farthing. Should this unhappily be your position, I advise you as a friend, to confess all to our good Bishop as speedily as possible.

"Hoping you will receive this in the same spirit in which it is written, and that you will be directed in all your future course, I am—

"Yours, &c.,

"WILLIAM TEMPLE."

"No wonder poor Henry wished to destroy such a letter," cried Mrs. Washburn, her face flushing as she crushed it in her hands. "Such advice, in advance of proof, is an insult to a Christian minister. I am very sure Henry would have begged from door to door, before he would in his right mind, have been guilty of such sophistry. Borrowing from funds devoted to God's service, or from any funds not his own, I'm sure he would call stealing."

This letter roused her indignation to such a degree that she was obliged to take her Bible and read several chapters before she became composed enough to return to her chamber.

The sun was just rising when the Rector awoke and saw his wife dressed and sitting by his side. Lying open in her lap was the book of Common Prayer, but she was not reading. Her eyes were fastened on the dear face before her, and many sighs had escaped her lips, as the returning light of day brought to view the deep lines care and grief had graven on the broad, open brow.

"I have slept well and am refreshed," he said, returning her smile.

For in one respect, her duty had been made clear to her during her long self-communing.

"Show him that I trust him, and that I am confident our Father above will sooner or later, in His own good time, bring the truth to light. This I must do by a calm, cheerful performance of present duty."

So she replied in a courageous tone, "I am glad, for we have much to do to-day."

"Yes; I must finish my quarterly report to be read at our next meeting."

"Certainly; but there are other duties more pressing."

"Of what nature?"

"Duties, Henry, connected with this charge. I am grieved that you delayed so long taking me into your confidence, for it makes my task much more difficult, though I appreciate your motive. Now I am going to show you what a woman's, or rather a wife's wit and shrewdness can do when enlisted in behalf of her husband. When you are dressed, I want you to go over all the facts with me beginning at the very first hint you had of this disgraceful business."

A look of pain clouded Mr. Washburn's features.

"I have been over and over the whole to myself in minute detail so many times," he said wearily, "but I never can arrive at any satisfactory result. I have almost come to the conclusion that in a moment of insanity or absence of mind, or confusion of ideas, I did retain in my possession more than was really my due."

"Which would render you an object of compassion, and necessitate you to resign your office. That is all. No disgrace could attach to you, not for a moment. But I am far from believing you did even so much. If you kept what was not your own, what did you do with it?"

The Rector's face brightened. "Yes, Mary, that is an important question. Have I given you more than the stipulated amount of my salary?"

"Not a penny. I have, during the night, examined both the family account-book and your private memorandum. Either, with the cunning of an insane man you have hidden the deposit in some out-of-the-way place, or you have developed a new phase of character and have spent money on personal luxuries in the city."

This she said so archly that they both laughed. Then he caught her hand and kissed it tenderly.

"God be praised for a good wife," he said with great fervor. "Mary, I have not had so light a heart for a month."

"Nor I; and I have much better reasons for cheerful contentment with our lot, though it is a little cloudy at present than you have expressed. I have a Friend, who, I am confident, will help clear away the clouds and allow us to see the bright sunshine again."

"You mean an Almighty friend. My good wife, you make me ashamed of my little faith."

"And I can account for your doubts in a degree. For a year or two, you have not been in your usual strength. Especially since your first seizure, you have been subject to sudden attacks of pain and confusion in the head, and while in this weakened condition, you have been tortured with doubts of your own actions, while under the temporary loss of your mental power. This shrinking from your usual companions may, to some, have borne the appearance of guilt, instead of being the natural working of a too sensitive organization. From my present standpoint, I can see many instances where it would have been wiser for you to act differently. But that is all past. Now, my husband, you must have done with doubts. You must rouse your manly courage to look this accusation fairly in the face. You must demand a thorough investigation of the whole receipts and expenditures from the hour you entered upon your duties as Treasurer."

"I told the Bishop that would be my wish, and that I would afford him all the aid in my power, by giving into his hands all books and papers connected with my work."

"You have seen the Bishop, then?"

"Yes, for an hour or more at my office. It was a most painful interview."

"When did you go to P—?"

"At four o'clock. I went out by advice of the Bishop to see Mr. Temple."

"Was that interview equally painful?" flushing as she thought of the insulting letter.

"Far more so. Oh, Mary, it is terrible to experience such humiliation from those we accounted our truest friends."

"So it was for our blessed Lord. Now, Henry, you must dress, and meet the children at breakfast with an unclouded brow. I shall take the first opportunity to tell them all. Family secrets are my abhorrence. After prayers, I have several questions to ask you."

CHAPTER IX.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

IN the meantime, our friend Emily wrote and received answers to her weekly letters, unconscious that while her own heart was buoyant, the members of the home circle were plunged in the deepest distress.

Mrs. Washburn reminded her husband of her dislike to family secrets. But in reference to the absent one, they at length concluded that her anxieties would be increased by her distance from home, and that the knowledge of their affliction might so absorb her thoughts, as to render her unfit for her school duties. She was now delightfully situated, and in the receipt of a handsome income, which, as her parents reflected, might become necessary for her, in case her father resigned his connection with the Missionary Association. It was decided therefore, to leave her in ignorance of the charges against her father's integrity, as long as it was possible to do so.

One morning, about a week subsequent to Cecilia's letter to her brother, the young lady made her appearance at the school, with an uncommonly animated countenance.

"I cannot stop to go in," she said to the servant. "I would like to see Miss Washburn one moment."

Emily soon appeared running down the stairs with some sheets of new music in her hand. She looked so sweet and kissable, with her school dress of plain buff cambric, and a tiny white apron, the narrow ruffle so daintily fluted, her hair as she stood in the sunlight, glowing and glistening with every movement, that her friend stood for a moment in silence, with her eyes riveted on the sweet vision. Then embracing her ardently, she exclaimed:

"How lovely you do look! But I can't stop even to expatiate on your charms. I came with a message from Judge Wilson. He has a friend from somewhere out west, who is to remain a few days, and he wants you to come over to tea, and sing for him this evening."

"I'll go with great pleasure," replied Emily, gaily. "Fortunately I have no other engagement. And please tell the Judge that I love him so much," (blushing a little as she spoke) "that I would do a great deal more besides singing, which affords me personal gratification, to oblige him or his friend. You know," she added, "that he and Mrs. Wilson have in a manner adopted me."

"So have I!" retorted Cecilia, with a merry laugh, as she kissed her friend once more, and ran down to the steps.

"Oh, by the way, I was to tell you that as we shall be out riding, Mark shall come for you in the carriage. Will you be ready at five?"

"Yes, if that isn't too early."

"Not a minute. Good-bye!"

Emily's salary was sufficient for the purchase of jewels and silks for the adornment of her person, but she was simple in her tastes, and the influence of her education had been such that, she recognized many higher uses for money than the mere gratification of her fancy in dress. In cold weather, merinos, or other soft fabrics, of pretty, modest shades, a clean linen collar and cuffs, and the stylish aprons which her own deft fingers wrought into these pretty shapes, was her invariable school dress, generally with a knot or bow of some bright color to give warmth to the whole. For visiting, she preferred black silk, which being suitable for any occasion, she also considered the most economical. During her last visit home, she had indulged herself with a new silk of heavy rich texture, which had been made up simply, and was exceedingly becoming.

On the present occasion, in order to show her respect to Judge Wilson and his friend, she resolved to wear this dress, together with her best set of laces, and her agate pin, a present from her mother on her first leaving home.

Perhaps, also, she devoted a little extra time to brushing and arranging the rich coils of hair around her shapely head. At any rate, one last glance in her small mirror, met a well satisfied expression from the face opposite. She smiled, as she said, gaily, "I wish mamma and Marion could see me, and pronounce their judgment."

With a quick change of thought, she turned towards the window, saying to herself, "How silly I am: I must be growing vain."

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Duxbury entered, playfully holding up her hands.

"Mark has come for you," she said. "I didn't know there was to be a party. I suppose the young ladies would tell you that you are gotten up regardless."

"I have never worn my new silk to Judge Wilson's," explained Emily, laughing, as she put on her hat. "And as he has an old gentleman there, I thought I would do him all the honor in my power."

"The dress is elegant simplicity," said Mrs. Duxbury. "I shall not say what I think of the wearer," imprinting, however, several kisses on the glowing cheeks.

"I hope, Mrs. Duxbury, Joseph will be able to come for me at ten."

"Yes, he shall go. Enjoy yourself all you can."

"How kind everybody is. I ought to be a very good girl," reflected Emily, as she was rapidly whirled over the road to Judge Wilson's.

Cecilia was on the watch for the carriage, and greeted her friend with even more than her usual cordiality.

"Come right up into my chamber, where I can look at you," she said, merrily. "Mrs. Wilson is busy at this moment, and the Judge—well, he is absorbed in discussing politics with his friend."

Emily took off her hat and laid it on the bed, blushing rosily as Cecilia gave her a long stare, taking in her whole appearance, from the glistening coils to the tiny tip of the neatly fitting boot.

"You are ab-so-lute-ly-per-fect," was her flattering encomium at last. "No, wait one moment. I brought in some flowers for my hair, and I saved this bud for you."

An exquisite blush rose, struggling to release itself from its covering of moss, was speedily tucked in among Emily's locks, and looked as contented as though it had grown there.

"Come, now we'll go to the dining room, and find Mrs. Wilson. She'll never forgive me for monopolizing you." She put her arm lovingly about Emily's waist, adding, "You're an innocent, unsuspecting little puss as I ever saw. I'm a good mind to—"

"A good mind to—what?" asked the young teacher, stopping short in descending the stairs.

"Oh, nothing but one of the Judge's jokes. I'll tell you, by-and-by."

Mrs. Wilson, on housewifely cares intent, was deep in the mysteries of pouring blanc-mange from the moulds, when she felt an arm stealing around her neck and a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Deary me!" she exclaimed, turning quickly. "I'm glad to see you, child. I didn't know till just now, that Mark had come back. Have you seen the Judge?"

"Not yet. I came to find you first."

"That's right, dear. Now I'll wipe my hands and go right to the parlor with you. I'm all through here."

But neither in the parlor nor in the library were the gentlemen to be found. Presently, however, the ladies heard the Judge's voice expatiating on the "Constitutional Bill," and followed on to the back porch, where, taking Emily's hand in hers, the kind old lady led her forward, saying to a gentleman who rose to meet her—

"I told you I had a new daughter. Here she is."

"Yes, yes, that's so!" repeated Judge Wilson, taking the young girl's hand after she had returned the visitor's polite bow, and patting it softly in his own peculiar kind manner. "Yes, yes, little girl, I hope you have come prepared to sing my favorite tune."

"I'll sing whatever you wish, sir, that is if I can. You know I'm in duty bound to so kind a papa."

Then the Judge, who to spare Emily's blushes, had refrained from kissing her in the presence of a stranger, found it impossible not to do so, in appreciation of her long speech. So he deliberately put one hand each side her face, and snatched a kiss from her lips, at the same time casting an exultant glance at his guest.

"My old friend and I are airing our ideas concerning the present administration," he went on with a slight emphases on the word "old." "You and Cecilia are quite welcome to take part in the discussion, if you wish."

"Thank you, sir, but I don't entertain my company by musty old politics," retorted Cecilia with a gay laugh. "Come, Emily, we'll have time before tea to practice that duet."

One piece after another followed in rapid succession, but still the "old" friends remained on the porch, until Cecilia grew really wrathy.

"I don't understand how the state of the finances, and all those bills they talk about can be so absorbing!" she exclaimed. "But I don't care, we're having a good time, and if they can't appreciate fine music, they are to be pitied. Now, Emily, sing something, will you?"

The sound of the tea-bell, at this moment, summoned all to the dining room.

Mrs. Wilson motioned Emily to a seat at her right hand, and the Hon. Frederic Lawrence to a chair beside her. But he either did not notice her movement, or chose to disregard it, for he deliberately walked to the other side of the table and seated himself opposite, leaving his sister to the chair by her friend.

When they rose from the table, Mr. Lawrence, finding himself near Miss Washburn, thanked her warmly for the music with which she had favored them, mentioning one or two of the pieces as special favorites.

Emily thanked him with modest dignity.

"But," added the gentleman, "I really care little comparatively for mere instrumental music. I had rather hear one simple ballad sung with real feeling, than all the sonatas and waltzes in the world."

Emily's fine eyes flashed with emotion as she replied, "I have heard my father make the same confession. He is a good judge of music, too, and often composes an accompaniment to his own singing."

As she spoke, every feature glowing with filial affection, Mr. Lawrence gazed at her in entire forgetfulness of his usual politeness.

"Come, come," said the Judge, tucking Emily's arm under his own, "I'm getting jealous hearing so much of that wonderful papa."

"I hope you'll know him sometime, sir. I'm very sure you would like him."

Then with a rosy blush as she perceived that the eyes of the Judge's "old" friend were still fixed gravely upon her, she went forward to the hall table where a bouquet of exquisite cut-flowers were standing, and selecting a purple verbena, added quickly to it a tiny rosebud and two leaves of geranium, found a piece of thread to tie them together, then returned and held them out, smilingly, to her kind friend.

"What is that? A peace offering. What am I expected to do with it?"

"It's a button-hole bouquet, sir."

"Oh, child, I'm too old for such fol-de-rals. Give it the member from Michigan." The Judge's eyes twinkled merrily as he said this.

But Emily insisted on his wearing it, and fastened it into his coat with her own hands.

As the evening wore on, Cecilia regarded her brother with astonishment. The conversation had been general and on many topics, Emily listening with apparent interest, answering the Judge's occasional questions with an intelligence which proved her to have thought much, but never intruded her opinion or forced herself into notice. This, Cecilia knew, would excite her brother's approbation, who, in fact, was hard to please as far as ladies were concerned. But he gave no evidence of being interested in her friend, except that when she spoke, he did not take his eyes from her face until she ceased.

After a time, Cecilia saw Emily steal a glance at her watch, and suddenly became aware that the evening was passing without music. Still, she was resolved not to be the one to invite her friend to sing. The Judge was heartily interested in a conversation with Mr. Lawrence on the internal resources of wealth in his adopted state, while Mrs. Wilson and Emily sat contentedly side by side, crocheting for a coming fair. Her impatience was just reaching a crisis when Judge Wilson started suddenly, exclaiming—

"Bless me, I quite forgot the treat we were to have. Come, Emily, child, give us a song."

"What shall I sing?" she asked, rising to comply with his request.

"Make your own selection, dear."

Instead of offering to help the young lady to a seat at the piano, as would have been only common politeness, Mr. Lawrence rose and walked to the farther end of the long parlor. While Cecilia, who was greatly chagrined, tried to supply his place. She had never seen him so awkward or to so little advantage as on the present occasion. She didn't understand it.

Emily turned over the music book until she came to Auld Robin Gray, when Cecilia stopped her, and whispered—

"Sing that." She knew this to be a favorite with her brother, but did not wish him to know it was her selection.

Emily ran her fingers over the keys in a dreamy way, repeating the prelude with some variations, before she could get herself into the spirit of the words. Then in a subdued tone, clear and rich, she commenced the tender confession—

"Young Jamie loved me well, and asked me for his bride,

But excepting a crown he had naething else beside."

As she went on, there was profound silence in the room. Mr. Lawrence took advantage of a symphony between the verses to approach softly toward the singer. Judge Wilson sat in his arm-chair, his head thrown back, and two big tears rolling down his cheeks.

Not a word was spoken when the last note died out, and Emily feeling slightly embarrassed at her position, was rising from her seat, when the Judge burst out—

"What an old fool I am!" Then wiping his tears, began to blow his nose with all his might.

"Don't get up," urged Cecilia, observing with secret pleasure that her brother was greatly moved. "Sing something lively this time."

"Sister, you mistake in asking her to sing again," remarked Mr. Lawrence, hastily placing his hand on his sister's arm. Then without another word, he returned to his seat.

Emily greatly confused at such unusual conduct, was much relieved to hear a ring at the door-bell.

"It is Joseph," she said, approaching Mrs. Wilson to say good-night.

While the Judge was thanking her for coming, and bidding her be a good girl till he saw her again, she overheard Cecilia urging her brother to dismiss Joseph, and walk to the school with her friend. She rolled her crocheting in her handkerchief, ran up stairs for her hat and shawl, and when she came down, found the gentleman, willing or unwilling, waiting at the door.

"Brother is going with you," said Cecilia. "I shall see you in the morning as usual."

But to the astonishment of sister and brother, Emily very civilly, but firmly declined his escort. Then when she saw that Cecilia looked grave, she said, laughingly—

"Joseph is a staunch friend, and I would not hurt his feelings for the world."

CHAPTER X.

THE SQUIRE'S PARTY.

WHILE at the breakfast table the next morning, Mr. Duxbury received a package of envelopes, from among which he passed one to Emily directed to herself. It proved to contain a card of invitation to a party in the evening at Squire Matthews, one of the great men in the village. There were cards also directed to Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury and family, which included the teachers and any of the older pupils the Principal thought proper to invite.

Half an hour later, Cecilia appeared, and was rejoiced to find invitations had been sent to the school.

"But I do not intend to go," explained Emily. "I am getting quite too dissipated."

"You must go," urged her friend, hesitating for a moment what reason to give, as she could not state the real one.

"Why must I?"

"Oh, because there would be no enjoyment for me unless you were there."

"Why, you will have your brother."

"Certainly, that is, I suppose he will go. Now say you will accept to oblige me."

"I'll think of it, and consult—"

"I am sure Mrs. Duxbury will wish you to accept. It's a fine thing for the school to have her teachers so popular."

"I didn't intend to consult any person, only my engagement book. Since you have been here, I have found your society so delightful that I have not studied as much as I ought."

"But now you have ceased to appreciate me. Is that it, or is it—Will you tell me the truth, dear? Is it because my brother behaved so much like a bear last night? I can't make any excuse for him. He's a puzzle to me. Why, he is usually very polite and polished. The truth is, he has been spoiled by too much attention from ladies. If you could have seen the enthusiasm with which he was received by the ladies in Washington, the parties made for him, the caps set to catch the new member from Michigan, the attention, for his sake, extended to his sister, his favorite songs practiced and played at him, the traps set for him, you'd scarcely wonder that with a very few exceptions, he has not the highest opinion of ladies."

"I have nothing to complain of in his treatment of me," answered Emily, with a slight curl of the lip. "I suppose the Judge's joke was that he put an unusual meaning upon the term 'old' friend. I should scarcely have gone to sing for a 'young' Honorable."

"Now, Emily, you are vexed with me, and I'm going away so soon."

"Indeed I am not vexed with any one. I love you very dearly, Cecilia; and never, as long as I live, shall I forget your generous affection for a stranger. I confess I was a trifle annoyed when I found a young gentleman instead of one with silver hair, as I expected. I was afraid I might be thought bold, but I resolved at once not to act silly but to make the best of it."

"Emily, be a good girl and show me you forgive me by going to-night."

"I will try to get through my engagements in time, if it will really please you."

The evening was quite advanced when Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury, with four young ladies, reached the house of Squire Matthews. Cecilia, who had been watching the door for an hour, had given her friend up, and was in the conservatory with some young people.

There was one, however, who saw her enter, watched the ease and dignity with which she made herself known to Mrs. Matthews, saw with what affection she was greeted by young and old, stood near enough to listen to her animated conversation with an old gentleman, in reference to a new poem which was exciting much attention, heard her chat in a lively tone with some who had been her pupils, and failed to hear one word which would sting, or a single remark unfavorable to the character of another.

He noticed that after a time she began to look around as though in search of some one, and in doing so, her eye met his fixed gravely upon her. She recognized him by a bow only, then left the room and soon joined his sister.

Moving slowly towards the conservatory, he was stopped by Mrs. Matthews, who asked, "Are you fond of music? If so, I think I can promise you a treat. Miss Washburn has the finest voice I ever heard."

"I shall be most happy to hear her."

"I shall tell her so," laughing.

"I fear the wishes of a stranger would avail little."

But for a wonder, Emily declined to sing alone, and indeed begged Mrs. Matthews to excuse her altogether.

"You know," she said frankly, "I do not want to be urged. I always comply at once when I can."

Poor Mrs. Matthews looked so distressed that Emily agreed to join with Cecilia in the beautiful piece set to the sentiment of the Psalmist.

"As pants the hart for cooling streams,

When heated by the chase,

So pants my soul, O Lord, for thee,

And thy redeeming grace."

The two friends went together to the piano, Cecilia standing by Emily to turn the sheets, etc., but when the second part struck in, instead of Cecilia's voice, a rich tenor sustained the response, and joined in with the chorus.

The company showed their appreciation by their perfect silence.

When the piece was finished, Emily rose, turned to see who had accompanied her, and met the eye of Honorable Mr. Lawrence fastened upon her. Blushing vividly, she was turning hastily away, when he said—

"Excuse me, Miss Washburn. Like our father in olden time, I must cast the blame on the woman, and say that Cecilia insisted."

She smiled and said, "Thank you, sir. Your voice gave me new courage."

After this evening, it was several days before Mr. Lawrence and Emily met again. All Cecilia's begging, and coaxing, was in vain. She would not go to Judge Wilson's, certainly while she was to be the only guest. On Wednesday, invitations were issued for Mrs. Duxbury's levee, which was to take place on Friday evening. Of course, Judge Wilson's family and guests were specially remembered.

Cecilia watched her brother when Mrs. Wilson read the invitation, adding that Mrs. Duxbury possessed the faculty of putting all her guests at their ease, and that her levees were immensely popular. She noticed that he looked pleased, and when the Judge added, "I shall go if only to scold that naughty girl for neglecting me," he laughed outright.

But within twenty-four hours, Cecilia was doomed to receive a shock in her designs for her brother's happiness. She came upon him suddenly on the porch, when he thought her at a distance, and found him looking immensely happy over a letter he was reading, but which he immediately put out of sight, and she was very sure that he blushed. Making some incoherent excuse, he left her and went up to his chamber.

"What does it mean? Who can that letter be from?" she asked herself. "If it were from a client, he would not have been so embarrassed."

Suddenly she perceived an envelope on the floor, and picking it up with some curiosity, saw that it was directed in a very fine hand, to Hon. Frederic Lawrence. The post mark was New York. Vexed as she was, Cecilia could scarcely help laughing at the failure of her little plan, but congratulated herself that she had kept it confined to her own breast.

At the levee, she was more than ever proud of her friend, and felt sure that only a prior attachment could render her brother unmindful of Emily's charms of person and manner, they were so exactly what she had often heard him describe as his ideal of a perfect lady.

At Mrs. Duxbury's special request, the music teacher stood by her side to assist her in receiving her guests, and afterwards mingling with them, sought by every means in her power to make the evening an agreeable one. Old and young, ladies and gentlemen, all were made to feel that their presence was desired, and contributed to the pleasure of the occasion. She invited the young ladies to play, and the gentlemen to join in the singing, but not until near the close of the evening did she sing herself, and then at the request of Judge Wilson, who said that he only came for the purpose of hearing her.

He gave her his arm, and escorted her to the piano, where he stood until she had sung his favorite ballads. Then saying—

"That will do, little girl. You have done very well," he led her back to his wife amidst the laughter of all the company.

On their return home, Judge Wilson asked Mr. Lawrence how he liked Mr. Manning, a gentleman to whom he had introduced him.

"Do you mean the gentleman who tried to usurp Miss Washburn's attention?"

"Yes," explained his sister. "And who conducted her to the refreshment table."

"I think him one of the most disagreeable men I have met."

"I wonder whether there is an engagement between them. I think Emily would have told me if there was anything settled, but he certainly seems very much enamored." Cecilia addressed herself to the Judge, who fired up at once, as she expected.

"If that child gets herself entangled in any matter of that kind without my consent, I'll know the reason why."

Cecilia noticed, with special delight, that her brother looked very glum, and that taking one of the night-lamps which had been placed on the table by a servant, he went to his chamber without another word.

"After all," she reflected, "that letter may have been purely on business."

CHAPTER XI.

THE IMPORTANT LETTER.

IN the morning following Reverend Mr. Washburn's interview with the Bishop, breakfast and family prayers were delayed an hour or two past the usual time by the arrival of a stranger on business. They were still sitting at the table when a boy mounted on a pony, trotted up to the gate, jumped off, and came to the door with a letter.

"I think no answer is expected," he said, bowing politely, as Marion took the letter from him, mounted again, and was off out of sight.

Mrs. Washburn saw her husband's face flush as he glanced at the address, and retired with him at once to the study, to know the nature of the contents.

"It's from the Bishop," he said, seating himself with a heavy sigh. "It is strange he writes so soon."

He tore it open, but as though he dreaded further pain.

Before he had time to read, his wife placed her hand over the page.

"Wait a minute," she said. And she brought him a glass containing a mixture of iron and quinine. "Now," she added cheerfully, "I hope you will look less like a convicted thief. Why, Henry, if I were a stranger to you, I should condemn you by your own actions." Her voice sounded as though she meant what she said.

He bore the reproof so meekly that her heart reproached her for severity, and she added quickly—

"I know, dear, how much you've suffered, and that you are unnerved by sleepless nights."

"Your words seemed hard at first, Mary, but I'm not sure that they are not just the tonic I need."

He turned to the letter, and she, sitting by his side, read it with him. It was in these words:—

"DEAR BROTHER:—I could not sleep last night, as my mind dwelt constantly on our late interview. I am compelled to take a more hopeful view of your case, and I have risen this morning to drop you a note, which the son of my host will take to you. Perhaps I am premature in giving my opinion; but to a Christian brother who has been found faithful to the cause of his divine Master for so many years, I cannot refrain from saying that your whole appearance yesterday, your manly grief at being suspected of crime, your earnest wish for a thorough investigation of facts, your evident desire that no dishonor shall be done through you to the cause of Christ,—all this has made me feel confident that your accusers are laboring under a strange misapprehension.

"I agree with you that the sooner a Committee of Reference can be appointed, the better it will be for the Association and for you. I wish that you would consider this communication confidential for the present.

"With Christian love I am yours in the fellowship of the Gospel.

"———— —————."

Tears of gratitude dropped from Mrs. Washburn's eyes as she read, but she quickly wiped them away.

"There, Henry, the Lord has raised you up one good strong friend," she exclaimed, as the Rector rose, and with his hands behind him, began to pace the room. "Now I want you to tell me all from the beginning. When did you first learn of this accusation?"

"In March, I go over the accounts in reference to the Quarterly report which comes out in April. We have one large book in the office in which I keep the account of all moneys collected from parishes, or other funds of the Association. This is called a journal. Another book is devoted to the record of all expenditures, including the rent of the office, salary of clerks, money paid for printing reports, and also my travelling expenses. My salary, you know, comes in another way, and is paid me in quarterly installments."

"Are those the large leather-bound books that I have seen on the shelves over your desk?"

"Yes; they are open to any members of the Board, though I think they seldom examine them until the yearly business meeting. Besides these books, I have a private account-book which I keep locked in my desk, where I jot down my travelling expenses. I do this on Monday while the sum is fresh in mind. I write it in this way, 'Preached in —; cost of trip so much.' Now —" He stopped walking, his eyes fixed in thought.

How many times during the last six months had his wife seen him thus abstracted, as though trying to peer into the past or the future. She waited a minute, and then said softly—

"What is it, dear?"

"It always seems as though there was something I ought to remember. And yet, when I try to fix my thoughts or assist my memory, it is gone."

"Perhaps I can help you. Tell me what clue you have."

"None at all. That is what I want. If I had a clue, it seems to me I could follow it out. I have tried so much to recall every event. There does seem floating through my memory like a half-remembered dream, the recollection of a large sum which I have either received or expended. If so, it must have been at a time when the confusion of my head rendered me unfit for business."

"Let that go now, Henry, and tell me about the office books."

"There is a discrepancy in the accounts. Several thousand dollars of money credited on the pages of the ledger are not accounted for."

"Will the money in bank which you have settled on me cover the deficiency?"

"More than twice over."

"Then the Association need lose nothing."

He stopped walking and gazed earnestly in her face, his chin quivering with emotion.

"Would you give up your little patrimony, Mary?"

"Every cent of it. I would go out to work, and live on one meal a day, rather than have the Association lose a dollar through your means."

"Oh, what a relief! I believed it would be so. I have tried to ask you many times, but was unable."

"In your usual state of health, you would never have doubted it for a moment. Have you told me all?"

"Not quite. In my private account-book, there is certainly some want of exactness. For instance, there is a trip to and from —, costing five dollars, put down twice, and several more expensive journeys not, put down at all."

"When do these mistakes occur?"

"At the period when my head was worst."

"And this time against your own interest?"

"Yes, and leave me more than twenty dollars out of pocket."

"I am glad of that. I don't think it's so very bad."

"The fact that is most against me is this. In my April report, I represented the books as balancing. Indeed, I am so sure they did, I could almost take my oath of it. Yet figures do not lie, and they are nearly four thousand dollars against me."

"Did the Bishop speak of this discrepancy in the books?"

"In general only. It was evident that he was acquainted with the facts. Indeed, he said Mr. Temple had told him."

"Shall you answer the Bishop's letter?"

"It requires no answer."

"What do you propose to do?"

"First of all, I shall write to the Association, requesting that a meeting be called 'at once,' to examine the books, and everything relating to the charges. Then I intend to get together matter for my next report, which will be called for in October."

"You mean the report to the Association merely, not the annual one which is published."

"Yes, but I confess I feel physically unable to go to town."

"Why not write your letter to the Association, and send Marion with it? Joseph can go with her, and bring the books home. Yes," seeing her husband hesitate, "that will be best."

She did not leave the study, till she saw him seated at his table with paper before him: then she went into the sitting room and calling Ruth and Marion, related to them in brief the facts she had heard from her husband.

Poor Marion! Her face flushed with anger. "How dare any one accuse him, my good father?" she exclaimed. "Why, he is the best man in the world, and wouldn't touch a penny that didn't belong to him, to save all our lives."

"Is that what has made Papa and you so sober?" inquired Ruth, eagerly.

"Yes, my dear. Your father has borne his grief alone to try to save us: and I have suffered in seeing him suffer, though I knew not the cause till last night."

"Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so very glad!" Ruth clasped her hands, while tears of relief rolled down her cheeks.

"What do you mean?" asked Marion, almost angrily. "How can you be glad?"

"Because it's so much better than I was afraid. I thought papa was in a consumption. I heard some of the ladies talking about him in Sunday School. One said, 'He's running down hill very fast,' and Miss Cross answered, 'He'll never outlive it. Oh, dear!' Then when they saw me looking at them, they touched each other and moved away. I've been frightened about dear papa ever since."

Mrs. Washburn silently drew the loving girl to her side, and kissed her. Presently she said,—

"Yes, darling. This sorrow is nothing to that. Let us thank God, and take courage. It won't do for us to let papa see that we are cast down, and fearful concerning the result of the trial."

"Oh, mamma!" screamed Marion. "Will papa be tried?"

"Certainly. It is his own wish. He has already told the Bishop that he should demand a thorough investigation. At this minute, he is writing a letter to the Association, requesting them to appoint a time. And Marion, he wishes you to take it to his office, and bring home his books—the large leather ones in the case over his desk. You had better get ready at once."

"Will you read this, Mary?" asked Mr. Washburn, holding up a letter he had written.

She took it, and sat down by his side. It began:—

"'To the members of the Missionary Association:'

"GENTLEMEN:—Having learned that certain charges reflecting on my integrity, and the faithful performance of my duties as Secretary and Treasurer of your society, have been preferred against me, I request that a Committee be immediately appointed to investigate the truth or falsity of these charges, and to confer on all subjects connected with my relations to the Association.

"With great respect,

"Your fellow laborer in the gospel of Christ,

"HENRY WASHBURN."

"Just right, dear," she said, returning it to him. "Not an unnecessary word. Shall Marion leave it at the office?"

"Yes, she may give it to Mr. Bailey, and say that I wish it to be in the hands of the Committee at the earliest possible moment. Stay, I will write Mr. Bailey my wish, and also an order for the books."

"Now, Henry, you must drink this, and take a walk with me," said his wife, about an hour after Marion started for the city.

She held a goblet toward him foaming with froth. "Egg, milk and sugar," she explained, laughing. "It will strengthen you; drink every drop."

"Do you really think I had better go out?"

"Yes, I do. You have had a sweet sleep. I came in twice, and you did not awake. Now the air is delightful, and I want your company."

"Where are you going?"

"To see Widow Marsh. She has not many days to live."

"Ah! I should like to see her once more."

CHAPTER XII.

THE CRUEL INNUENDO.

ELIZABETH MARSH had been one of the early fruits of the Rector's faithful preaching, and for nearly twenty years had been a devout member of St. Mark's church. She was poor in the world's esteem, but rich in faith, looking forward to the glorious inheritance laid up for her in heaven. Between the humble widow and her pastor there had ever been a tie which death itself could not sever. She had often told him that it was one source of her joy that duty had not called him away to a distance, for it was from his lips she hoped to hear the last prayer in which she could join on earth. And it was her earnest desire that he should perform the funeral services when God called her home.

As they entered the lowly cottage, they saw her lying on the bed, while a young girl stood near wiping the death moisture from her forehead. At first, she did not recognize Mrs. Washburn, who hastily advanced and bent over her. But when made to understand that her pastor was by her side, she revived, her whole countenance illumined with joy.

After partaking of the cordial which Mrs. Washburn had brought, she pointed upward, exclaiming with rapture,—

"I'm almost home. Soon I shall see my Saviour and dwell with him forever."

She signified her wish to hear a few verses from her favorite portions of Scripture, and while the Rector was finding the places, herself repeated Christ's words.

"'Let not your heart be troubled . . . In my Father's house are many mansions—I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, ye may be also.'"

The Rector read the last chapters of St. John's Revelation, concerning the new Jerusalem, and then asked,—

"Shall I pray with you?"

"Yes, yes, pray once more. I have almost done with prayer. Soon I shall begin to praise—praise Him forever and ever."

"For what shall I pray?"

"That He will make me patient to the end."

He made a short prayer, when she instantly added,—

"O, my gracious Father, bless him who first drew my feet from the ways of sin. Fill his soul so full of Thy love that all the trials and vexations of this world may seem less than nothing to him. Give him living faith in Thy promises; and when he comes to the end of life, take away the sting of death, as Thou hast taken it from Thy poor hand-maid—"

The last words were scarcely audible; the strength that had momentarily revived sank again. Her eyes soon became fixed, and with a few feeble gasps, the lamp of life went out, to be relighted and shine forever and ever in the Paradise above.

Mrs. Washburn sent the young girl for a neighbor to assist in performing the last offices, and then left, promising to send a shroud and cap for the funeral.

"I was glad to be there," remarked the Rector, after they had walked for some time in silence.

"Her prayer seemed almost prophetic. Do you think, Henry, she has ever heard of your present trial?"

"She seemed to refer to present trial. She has now, through the abounding mercy of God, entered upon a state of bliss. No doubt, when she looks back to her life here, her poverty and years of pains seem less than nothing to her. May God in infinite mercy grant us a like peaceful exit."

The effect of this scene was most happy on the mind of the Rector. The reflection that life is only a state of probation—this world a place to tarry in for a night on our journey heavenward, made it easier to bear the trial which met him on his return home.

Marion had come back from the city, but without the books. She was in such a state of excitement that at first she could not give an intelligible account of what had transpired.

"Come with me, my child," said Mrs. Washburn. "You will feel better after you have bathed those burning cheeks."

Then requesting her husband to relate to Ruth the scene they had witnessed, she hastened to Marion's chamber.

"Oh, mamma, look at this paper! It is shameful! I wonder God lets people do such wicked things."

"Hush, my child. God, our Father, knows what is best for us."

Marion had been frantically tearing open a newspaper she had snatched from her pocket, and now in an unsteady voice read aloud,—

"'We regret to learn that in one of our most prominent benevolent societies, the fraud which has for some time been suspected, has been traced to the Treasurer, Rev. H. W., a gentleman who has enjoyed the confidence and affection of the churches for years. It is said that thousands of dollars, the contributions of widows and orphans to the cause of missions, has been diverted from its sacred object, and has not been accounted for.'"

Mrs. Washburn sank back into a chair, and for one moment the chamber seemed whirling around her.

"Cruel! Cruel!" she murmured. But almost instantly rousing herself she asked, "Who did you see at the office?"

"Barnes Bailey was there alone when I went in. I gave him the letter for the Committee, and then I asked him for the books, showing him papa's order.

"'I don't know about that,' he said, and his face grew very red. 'I'm not sure that your father has a right to take them from the office.' He kept twirling the order around in his fingers, and presently said, 'Wait a minute.' And then started to go down stairs.

"I heard somebody coming up, and recognized Mr. Temple's voice talking with Barnes. I couldn't hear Barnes, but Mr. Temple said, 'I think as you do, that under existing circumstances it would not be prudent.'

"Then they both came back to the office, and Barnes took papa's letter from the table and gave it to him.

"I waited a little while, and then I said, 'I want to get the next omnibus. Will you please put up the books?'

"'Tell your father he had better come to the office if he wants them,' Barnes said. 'It isn't usual to send account-books out of town.'

"I didn't answer a word but walked out of the room pretty quick. When I was in the omnibus, a boy came to the door with papers, and I bought one to try and take up my mind. Almost the first thing I saw was this horrid paragraph."

"There is the dinner-bell, Marion. Try to calm yourself, and come down."

"Shall you tell papa about the—the papers?"

"Yes, but not to-night. I mean to write Emily this evening. We can't keep our trouble from her any longer."

"She will want to come home directly. I'm sure of it, mamma."

"I shall advise her to stay in U—, for the present."

To her surprise, Mr. Washburn looked perfectly unruffled when she entered the dining room. He was listening to some story of Josey's, and smiled quite in his old way at the boy.

After they were seated at the table, and grace had been said, he told them of the peaceful end of their old friend, and in his own peculiarly happy manner, urged each of his children so to live that whenever death should come, he would not be an unwelcome messenger.

It was evident to all that the poor widow's last words, and her earnest prayer for him, had caused an elevation of soul which quite raised him above the petty vexations of the day.

The next morning, Mr. Washburn prepared to go to his office.

And when Marion, with a quickly beating heart, asked, "Shall I go with you papa?" he answered with a smile, "No, my dear, that isn't necessary."

He returned at the usual time, and, in answer to his wife's questioning, replied that he had done a good day's work, and did not feel unusually fatigued.

"What excuse did Barnes make for his impertinent reply about the books?"

"I gave him no opportunity for conversation. I did remind him that I regretted his frequent absences of late, and added that every one whom I employed in the office, must prove himself faithful, by obedience to my orders."

"Do you intend to preach next Sunday?"

"Yes. I made an engagement to-day, and also for the Sunday following."

"Did you say anything to the Bishop about preaching while the trial is pending?"

"Yes. I told him that while my own conscience absolved me from all intentional wrong in regard to the Association, I considered it my duty to preach as I have done; and he agreed with me. It was the Bishop who sent the two gentlemen to my office to-day, to engage my services."

"During your absence in town, Mr. Whiting called in reference to Widow Marsh's funeral. He said she sent for him a week ago, and told him it was her desire that you should read the burial service, and he said he hoped you would feel able to do so. He evidently was in earnest."

"Did you say that I would?"

"I told him, he had better call this evening. The funeral is to-morrow in church."

At the hour appointed, the body of the church was filled,—Rev. Mr. Whiting having taken pains to spread the notice that the former Rector would perform the service. After the opening prayer, Mr. Washburn, in a few words, gave a sketch of the conversion, life of prayer, and triumphant entrance into glory of the deceased, and closed by urging each one of his beloved people so to live, that he might die the death of the righteous, and his last end be like his.

As the congregation dispersed, many paused to seize the hand of their loved Rector, while from more than one, came low spoken words, sometimes accompanied with tears.

"I shall never forget that you won me to the Saviour."

"I always pray for my dear Rector."

"A godly life, such as for more than twenty years you have lived among us, is the best refutation of slander."

This last was from a silver haired man more than eighty years old. Mrs. Washburn could not refrain from raising his withered hand to her lips, as she said,—

"Thank you, sir. You have done us good."

To be sure, there were others who stood aloof,—who avoided meeting the eye of the Rector, and among them those with whom he had been most intimate. But he cherished no resentment toward them. He only repeated the words, as if to himself, "But the greatest of all is charity. Charity which hopeth all things,—thinketh no evil."

During the remainder of the week, Mr. Washburn confessed that he felt better in health,—that his nerves were firmer, and his spirits more hopeful than for many months. Since his trials were approaching a crisis, he was conscious of an Almighty arm placed about him for his support. And like a child tired of carrying his burden, he leaned lovingly on the gracious helper. Morning and evening at the family altar, he betook himself and his family to the throne of grace, and there making known his wants, entreated his watchful Father to give him the wisdom, strength, gentleness and charity, necessary in this emergency.

These prayers were not offered in vain.

As his courage rose, and Mrs. Washburn found herself not absolutely needed, she began to be tormented with doubts as to the result of the trial. Her husband had confessed to her that he had never been present on a similar occasion, and therefore had little idea what course would be pursued. Whether the Committee would be competent to summon witnesses, or to oblige any one to give evidence, he was not sure. She began to dread the occasion, and to feel a strange misgiving concerning the mode of trial.

On Monday, the Rector returned from preaching, and brought with him from the office an answer from his letter to the Committee. It was very kind, and on the whole was quite satisfactory with one exception. This was that owing to circumstances which they declared beyond their power to control, the Committee of Reference with whom the case had been charged, would not be able to meet until quite the last of November. This was nearly two months from the present time.

Mrs. Washburn, who had secretly almost hoped for some delay, now felt that she could scarcely endure the suspense for so long a period.

Ah, how little did she realize that their Father was leading them by paths which they knew not, but which would result to their good and His own glory.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DAUGHTER'S GRIEF.

THE acquaintance so earnestly desired by Cecilia Lawrence, between her brother and Emily, progressed but slowly. Notwithstanding that he prolonged his stay from one day to another, for reasons which seemed frivolous to every one but himself, yet with the exception of two occasions, he had never enjoyed free conversation with her. On both of these occasions he had accidentally met her walking alone.

The first time, she was walking quite through the village to a small cottage beyond, where a servant of Mrs. Duxbury lay ill, when she met him, and he instantly turned, went with her to the house, and only left her when they reached her own door. The second time, it was almost dark, and he was passing a large house, and heard Miss Washburn's voice at the door.

"Do let me speak to my brother," said a fresh, girlish voice. "He will be very happy to go home with you."

"No, indeed," answered Emily. "It is my own fault for staying so late, but I don't think I shall be afraid. I walk very fast, you know. Good-bye."

When she reached the gate, she was a little startled by seeing a tall form directly in her path.

"Good evening, Miss Washburn," he said. "I was passing and heard your remark. I don't think it wise for young ladies to be out alone at this hour." So saying, he took her hand, placed it on his arm, in the most matter of fact way, and went on at once with the conversation which they had commenced during their first walk.

Unconsciously to herself, the young teacher was led on to talk of her home, her parents, of Marion and Ruth. Of Josey and her wish that he should be a lawyer,—of herself and the desire she had felt from a child to travel in the old world. To hear the famous composers of her favorite music, and see with her own eyes the paintings of the old masters.

He listened as he would to a child, and said at last, "No doubt you will go some time."

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, laughing. "That is my very airiest castle. I never expect to go, but I long for it all the same."

This was just as they parted, and he held her hand, while he said—

"I'm a good prophet, I think you will go."

Now he and his sister had left town, and to Cecilia's intense regret without any arrangement having been made for Emily to pass the winter in Washington, where, as the bride of her brother, she would have made such a pleasing sensation. She still believed this would have been accomplished, had it not been for a force behind the mysterious letters, which continued to arrive at regular intervals during his whole visit at Judge Wilson's, and which she was persuaded drew her brother's heart in an opposite direction.

So the last kisses had been interchanged, the last adieus uttered, with a promise on both sides of writing frequently.

The week following, the class in German had been called, and sat in the recitation room wondering at the very unusual want of punctuality in their teacher, when Mr. Duxbury opened the door.

"Young ladies," he said, gravely, "your recitation will be omitted to-day. You will be prepared with a double lesson to-morrow. You are dismissed."

The class broke up suddenly, and the girls surrounding Mr. Duxbury begged to be told what was the reason Miss Washburn did not come.

"Is she ill? Is any one dead? I hope she is not going to leave?"

"I think I may tell you that she has received sad intelligence from home. I'm sure you will all be very considerate of her feelings. Show your sympathy when you see her, without intruding on her sorrow. When she is able to speak of it, she will tell you herself."

Mr. Duxbury subscribed for several daily papers in which he was in the habit of advertising his school. On the morning of which we have spoken, Emily, having a few spare minutes before the school would be called to order, took up a late issue, and glanced down the columns. Suddenly her eyes became fixed on one short paragraph, her heart beats almost to suffocation as she sees her father's name in full, and oh, horror of horrors! in such a connection.

It was a paragraph similar to one which had so excited Marion's indignation, but in this instance, with the full name instead of the initials.

Mrs. Duxbury happening to pass through the hall at that moment, flew to the poor girl as she suddenly, and for almost the first time in her life, sank fainting to the floor. The newspaper was torn to pieces, and the contents scattered under the table.

Hastily summoning her husband, with the help of one of the servants, Emily was carried to her chamber, where she lay so long unconscious that the lady was leaving the room to call a physician, when the poor girl opened her eyes, and with a wild shriek, exclaimed,—

"It is false! It is cruelly false! Oh, it will kill me!"

Finding herself in her own room, and upon the bed, she sprang up, saying, "I ought to be packing my trunk. I must go home. I must start in the next train." Then a copious flood of tears came to her relief.

Dismissing every one from the chamber, Mrs. Duxbury drew the sobbing girl to a chair, and endeavored to draw from her the cause of her sudden grief.

"Oh, the paper, the cruel newspaper!" sobbed Emily. "Where is it? I tore it up. No one must see it. The story is false. My dear, good, honest father. Oh, how dreadful!"

"Shall I go and see whether the paper is destroyed or not?"

"Oh, if you would! But what shall I do? I can never be happy again. I ought to be at home to comfort my dear father. And mother, how she will mourn!"

Mrs. Duxbury left the room, wondering what had occurred, and soon returned with scraps of the newspaper, which she crushed together in her hand.

"Tell me all about it, my poor child," said the lady soothingly. "You know I love you dearly, and for your sake, all who belong to you."

"I can't! I can't! It's too dreadful! Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, if you knew my dear father, you'd be sure it isn't true! He would cut off his hands before he would take what was not his own."

"And is such an outrageous charge brought against him? No wonder you are angry. Tell me all about it, dear. Perhaps I can advise you what to do."

Then Emily, with a shudder, hid her burning blushes in her hands, and in an unsteady voice repeated the horrid words she had seen in the paper.

"Have your parents ever hinted at any trial through which they were passing?"

"Not a word," cried Emily, with sudden hope. "Is it possible there can be two treasurers by the name of Henry Washburn?"

"That is not very probable, but still I think you are laboring under a mistake. If it were true, your parents would never allow you to run the risk of reading it in a public journal."

"I thought they wrote in uncommonly good spirits," said Emily, wiping away her tears. "Mrs. Duxbury, did you ever have such a dreadful trial? I can't pray, or any thing. I can only feel how terrible such a charge must be to my dear, godly father. Don't you think I ought to go right home?"

"Certainly not, until you hear from your parents. If it will be any relief to you, Joseph shall go to the office when the morning mail comes in. That will give you letters, if there are any, five or six hours in advance of the usual time."

"Thank you. Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, I'm making you a great deal of trouble! My heart aches so, I can't bear to see any body but you, and my scholars will wonder where I am."

"Never mind the girls, dear. You must remember that your trouble is my trouble, and I shall try to help you all I can. You know, my poor child, where to go for abiding strength. I am going to leave you for a little while. When Joseph comes back, I will bring you a letter if I can."

Poor Emily When she was alone, she threw herself on her knees beside the bed, and though her sobs were too frequent for audible petitions, yet her whole heart went out to her sympathizing Saviour in a cry for help, and for submission to bear whatever trials might be sent upon her. Then she arose, and after bathing her swollen eyes, sat down to reflect on the past. The very vagueness of the rumor, made it far more distressing to her. Not for one instant did she give credit to the terrible accusation, but she longed to know whether it had come suddenly upon him. Who had dared point a finger at him? Were the score of years in which he had walked blameless in the sight of his brethren, of no account? What course would he pursue? Would her mother sink or rise in such an emergency? And then poor Marion and Ruth. Josey was too young to feel the affliction as the rest would. By the time Mrs. Duxbury returned, her brain reeled with overwhelming suggestions.

"Why, my child, how pale you are," said the kind lady coming in with a letter in her hand. "Here is something to cheer you, I hope and believe. I shall give you half an hour to read it. See what a thick one it is."

Probably in all her happy life, Emily had never read a letter of such absorbing interest as the ten closely written pages she held in her hand. Her mother began in her usual manner.

"Dear child," and then went on.

"An item relating to your father has found its way into the papers, and I sit down this evening to write you in advance of your weekly letter from home, lest you should happen to see it, and imagine the circumstance much worse than they are. If you could take a peep into the study at this moment, and see your father tied by twine strings to Josey, at the same time that he is endeavoring to find out a puzzle that the little rogue has brought home from school; and if you could hear your father's hearty laugh at Josey's exultant airs, as he says,—

"'You can't find it out, papa. Will you give it up? It's real easy when you know it,' then you would be sure that a good conscience can well afford to wait God's time to bring to light whatever is momentarily dark and obscure. Yet, Emily, we are in the midst of trial, and it is right you should know about it. The only mistake your father has made, of which I am aware, is, that for months this cloud has been hanging over him, and he has kept it from us, hoping to save us from anxiety."

Mrs. Washburn then proceeded to relate the circumstance in detail. In closing, she said,—

"I feel better, dear child, for having told you all this. I don't fear the result of the trial, but I do dread the trial itself. I am resolved to be present, and if Marion can control her indignation sufficiently to keep quiet, I shall let her accompany me. I wish exceedingly that we had a friend in whom we could confide, who would act as counsel for your father. He confesses that he knows nothing whatever of the steps he ought to take in preparation, or whether he ought to take any. But the Bishop has proved himself very friendly, and will probably do all that is needful.

"Widow Marsh died in triumph last Monday, with a prayer for your father still on her lips. We were both present. It was good to be there. Oh, my child, if we only live in the fear and love of God, it is easy, yes, blessed to die, and go to a world where all is love and joy and peace."

Emily still sat with the open sheets in her hand, when, after a low tap, Mrs. Duxbury reentered the chamber.

"I see," she said, with an affectionate kiss, "that your long letter has relieved you. You have lost the strained expression of pain."

"Mrs. Duxbury," cried Emily, impulsively, "I am going to prove to you how much I love you, and how grateful I am for your kindness, by reading you mother's letter. I suppose," she added, wiping her eyes, "that it will be made public, and I want you and Mr. Duxbury to know all about it."

"Thank you, Emily. I don't think you will regret your confidence."

The young girl began with the first sheet and read every word. When she came to the part where her mother said—

"Your father told the Bishop he wished to have a thorough investigation of the whole affair,—"

with a burst of filial tears, Emily exclaimed—

"That doesn't look like a man who has defrauded the treasury."

Mrs. Duxbury sat very quiet during the reading, and when the letter was finished, she seemed to be lost in thought. At last she said,—

"I know something of these ecclesiastical counsels or meetings of reference, or whatever they are called. Tell me, Emily, am I right about your father? Is he a man who believes every one as good as himself?"

"Yes; he is wholly unsuspicious of evil."

"So I thought. Now to be examined by a company of gentlemen, even though each individual is a saint by himself, needs a man who unites the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove. I had a friend, my dear, a cousin, who was under trial once, and—" she shook her head in an expressive manner—"he was sacrificed,—yes, and when he was in his grave with a broken heart, the truth which would have vindicated him, all came out."

"Don't cry so, child. I tell you as a warning, your father isn't fit, by his own confession, to conduct his case, and he must have some legal friend to conduct it for him. Why don't you go to Judge Wilson and consult him? He's a good friend to you, and as true as steel."

"I will! I will! Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, I feel better already. Does it cost a great deal to employ a lawyer? You know I have more than a thousand dollars. How gladly I will use that."

"Money is no consideration in such a case, Emily. I've had experience, you know."

"I'm going to Judge Wilson's now. I'll tell him about that horrid piece in the paper, and then read him mother's letter."

CHAPTER XIV.

COUNSEL AND CLIENT.

THE Judge was sitting in his favorite seat on the porch, with a cigar in his mouth, when Emily found him. Mrs. Wilson, the girl had informed her, had gone out for the afternoon.

"Hi, pussy," he said laughing, "come to see papa, have you? Fi, child, for shame to paint at your age," tapping her burning cheeks.

"They are not painted with rouge," she answered, her eyes filling with tears. "I've had bad news from home, and I've come to tell you all about it."

Judge Wilson snatched the cigar from his mouth, and was all tenderness and attention.

"All right, pussy. That's what I should expect from my adopted daughter."

"You've heard me speak of my father, sir."

"I rather think I have. As near a saint as any man on earth. We lawyers learn to reason from effect to cause, you know."

Emily then burst into a eulogy of her father's devoted piety, his instructions to his children, his self-denying labors among his people. Then putting a violent restraint on her feelings, which the Judge saw and approved, she gave him an account of the item she had read in the paper, and then drawing her letter from her pocket, read it all through from beginning to end.

He had taken his cigar again, and when she had folded the sheets and returned them to the envelope, he sat gazing abstractedly up in the sky, the smoke wreathing into a cloud and curling up into the still air. It was some minutes—it seemed to the waiting girl, hours—before he spoke. Then catching a glimpse of her wistful eyes fixed so piteously on him, he smiled, reached toward her and patted her hand, then said,—

"Tell me about the periods of unconsciousness, as your mother calls them. How long did they last?"

"The first one lasted several days."

"Was he wholly unconscious?"

"Oh, yes, sir! He lay ill in bed. But after that, he had several turns of being dizzy, or, as he called it, confusion of ideas. He used to put his hand to his head, and said the feeling was that it would fly away."

"Of course, at such times, he attempted no business."

"Yes, sir; sometimes he tried to drive off the bad feelings. But he was rather alarmed, one day, by finding a letter which he had written to a clergyman in this confused state. It had fortunately not been sent from the office. It was very incoherent and wholly aside from what he had wished to say. He thought this a warning to attempt no business while suffering in this manner. Once he felt that he ought to resign his trust, but his health soon became firmer. I don't think he has had any of these dizzy turns of late."

"And so the trial comes off the last of November?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you want to engage the services of a lawyer?"

"Yes, sir. I have more than a thousand dollars of my own."

Another smile and loving tap of his fingers.

"You have no means of knowing whether the Committee will employ counsel?"

"No, sir. Mr. Temple, one of the Board, is a lawyer, and perhaps some other members of the Reference will be."

He nodded expressively. "Hem! Just so; well child, I think I'll undertake the case."

"You, sir? You undertake it? Oh, Judge Wilson!" She couldn't say another word, but she put her arms around his neck and kissed him as a loving daughter would have done.

"Yes, yes, I'll be your adviser. I know Bishop —; he's a good man, square as a brick, with a good man's leaning toward charity. But from what I know of your father, in a Committee of Reference, he would be like a lamb in the midst of wolves. So Mr. Temple is a lawyer, and he thought your father, may be, had borrowed the money and forgotten to pay it. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"It seems too good to believe that you will advise in the case. May I tell them when I write home?"

"Wait a little. I must put on my thinking cap."

He sat smoking again, but Emily was very patient this time. She began to be very hopeful in regard to the result.

"Well," he began at length, "if you will vouch for the silence of your parents, you may tell them as much as this: You have consulted a legal friend, name me if you wish, and when the right time comes, I will see that he has counsel to help him through."

"May I tell Mrs. Duxbury?"

"Not a syllable. And remember your mother, through you, must keep me advised of everything connected with the case, however minute. There must be no private judgment on your part, whether this or that is of consequence. I must know everything that bears upon it in the least. What paper did you say the statement was in?"

"The Daily —."

"Ah, go and see whether the copy of that paper is in the library."

"Yes, sir; here it is;" pointing with flushed cheeks to the item.

"Do you recollect what you said once about your father's good name?"

"Yes, sir," tearfully.

"Well, child, after this little blast of bad wind, your father's good name will shine brighter than ever, or I'm a false prophet."

She rose to go, saying, "I don't know how to thank you, sir."

"I'll tell you how. Stay and pour out a cup of tea for me, and then sing me a song."

"I'm afraid it will be a very sad one, sir."

"Go home, child!" he said with mock severity. "I don't want a client who demeans herself as though she had lost her case. You've no confidence in me, after all."

Emily laughed aloud. "How shall I show you that I have confidence?" She held up her lips for a kiss, but he waved her away.

"Shall I sing now, sir?"

"Perhaps I should feel better if you sang 'Yankee Doodle.'" This he said in such a tragic tone that she laughed again merrily.

"I thought when I saw that awful piece this morning, that my laughing days were over." She went to the piano and played "Yankee Doodle" in her liveliest manner, singing at the same time, "Five times five are twenty-five and five times six are thirty." When she was through, she heard the Judge whistling an accompaniment with great zeal.

Emily Praying for Relief.

After tea she went home, leaving her letter with the Judge, and devoted the rest of the evening to writing her mother. It was with a full tide of gratitude that she kneeled at a late hour by her bed, to thank her Father in Heaven for the relief that had already come to her overburdened heart. She remembered her kind friend, the Judge, in her petitions, and implored for him the wisdom he might need in the direction of the case.

The next morning, when the bell rang for school to commence, Emily had given three lessons in music, and was ready for her classes in French and German. Her pupils proved their sympathy by flocking around her, taking her hand, and by strict obedience to her instructions, showed her that they meant to give no unnecessary trouble.

Her mother had written that they thought it best for her to remain in U—, for the present, and she resolved to allow no personal trial to render her unfaithful to the duties she had undertaken. Indeed, she had a double motive for keeping busy. The moment she gave herself time to think, she was miserably anxious to be among the loved ones.

For two days she did not see the Judge nor Mrs. Wilson, but on the afternoon of the third, the old lady drove to the school, asked for Emily, and when the young girl ran to the parlor, folded her arms about her in the most motherly manner.

"My dear child," she said tenderly, "the Judge has told me all about it. It's a burning shame, but it's sure to come out right."

"Yes, I feel so safe since it is in your husband's hands."

"I didn't refer to him, dear. Of course he will do all he can. If you belonged to us, he could scarcely love you better. But, my dear Emily, you remember there is One all-powerful who watches over His children, and though the paths through which He leads them sometimes seem strange and rough, yet He knows the way well, and is sure to bring them to the right haven."

"Did you read mother's letter?"

"The Judge read it to me. You ought to be a good child with such parents."

"Indeed I ought."

"Have you heard from Cecilia, lately?"

"Last week I had a letter. You know I read it to you. She is travelling with her brother. She is a warm-hearted girl and loves you dearly.

"As I do her; and I owe her a great deal for introducing me to you and your good husband."

"Well, child, you must come and see us as often as you can. We are older than you and can't get about as quickly."

"Thank you: I always love to be there."

A fortnight passed. Emily had heard twice from home, but nothing new had occurred connected with the trial, except that the Committee of Reference would consist of eight gentlemen, besides the Bishop who gave the casting vote. This fact Emily communicated to Judge Wilson, and also that her father seemed more cheerful than for a long time.

Except by his prayers, which were exceedingly earnest and childlike, in which he gave all his cares into the hands of his Heavenly Father, no one would have known that he was on the eve of a trial for his honor, which he held more precious than his life. He preached every Sunday, and found people uncommonly willing to give, in answer to his call. In a number of cases, he had heard of the Bishop recommending parishes to apply to him to present the cause of missions.

When Emily read this paragraph to Judge Wilson, he nodded his head approvingly.

"Yes, yes," he murmured. "Well, he would hardly do that if he thought the Rector a defaulter."

He referred to this again, and Emily saw him making a note of it. Sometimes she longed to ask him how he intended to give counsel at such a distance, and whether it would be necessary for him to go to Canterbury. But she did not like to intrude upon his confidence, and she felt sure he would not have undertaken it if he had not expected to succeed.

One evening, at the end of the fortnight, the young girl was in her chamber writing to her mother, when a servant knocked at her door, and giving her a card, told her a gentleman was in the parlor waiting to see her.

In great surprise, she read the name, "Frederic Lawrence," and only stopping for a glance in her mirror to see whether she was presentable, she ran quickly down stairs. She gave him her hand cordially, and then glanced around the room.

"Is not Cecilia with you?" was her eager inquiry.

"No; I left her in Baltimore. I had business which called me north again, rather unexpectedly. I did not mention to her that I should come to U—, or she would have loaded me with messages."

"When do you return South? I will try to have a letter ready for you, if you will take the trouble to give it to her."

"My return depends on circumstances." He spoke with some embarrassment, and, to Emily's surprise, went to the door and shut it.

"Miss Washburn," he began, placing a chair by her side and seating himself in it, "if I introduce a subject painful to you, I hope you will believe that I do it only in the way of business, and as a matter of necessity. I refer to the Committee of Reference, appointed by your father's request, to examine into certain accusations against his character."

Every particle of color left the poor girl's face and lips at this sudden mention of the subject by one so much a stranger. She determined, however, not to give way, and presently the blood came surging back to her cheeks, painting them crimson.

"Did you learn about it from Judge Wilson?" she inquired, but finding it impossible to look him in the face.

"Yes," he says, smiling, "that you have retained him, and he has retained me. I have already been to Canterbury. I saw your friends there, all of the family, I mean. I had a long interview with your father. I—in fact I offered myself as his Counsel, but he refused."

"Oh, why?" exclaimed Emily. "How could he?"

"From his firm trust in God as an all-sufficient helper. He had an idea that to have legal counsel would show a mistrust of divine aid. In all my life, I never saw such faith."

"But he knew of Judge Wilson's kind offer?"

"No; your mother heard him say he should refuse legal advice, and she did not tell him."

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Lawrence. I can't help thinking papa has made a mistake, and yet, he is usually very discreet and does not make up his mind hastily—"

"Your mother takes your view, and eagerly accepted my proffer of assistance. She has a clear head, and gave me the whole facts of the case in a manner I never heard equalled. I have set her down as a wonderful lady. I—"

He stopped, rose and walked the floor, then returned to his seat.

"Mr. Lawrence—"

He turned toward her abruptly, pausing for her to go on.

"I want to thank you for your kindness. I can't express myself, but I do feel grateful both to Judge Wilson and to you."

He seized her hand. "May I tell you," he asked, eagerly, "what I want? Will you pardon my abruptness, Miss Emily; I have known you a long time, at least so it seems to me. Will you give me the right to act the part of a son to your father? Will you be my wife?"

For one moment Emily stared at him without speaking. She felt sure her eyes betrayed her astonishment.

Then, as his gaze was fixed searchingly on her face, she answered firmly.

"Certainly not, Mr. Lawrence."

"I know you are not prepared for such a question. Indeed, I did not expect to ask it to-night—I forgot that you could not know how entirely your image has filled my mind since the first evening I had the happiness of seeing you, but certainly you must have suspected my devotion."

"No, sir; so far from it, if I had indulged any thought on the subject, your manner would have led me to suppose that you did not approve your sister's friend."

"Impossible! Why, I postponed my departure from time to time, and was quite angry with Cecilia for urging me to go at all."

"Certainly, sir, such an idea as my influencing you, in any way, never occurred to me. And even if I had, this is not a time, when my beloved father's good name is aspersed, for me to think of—of such a proposition."

He bowed gravely.

"Were I even engaged to be married," she went on, "under similar circumstances I should at once release the gentleman, for I would never consent that another should be disgraced by the publication of such items as I showed to Judge Wilson."

"Nothing of that kind would weigh a feather with me, Miss Emily."

"I have given you my answer, sir."

She rose to show him that the interview was ended, and he at once followed her example. Not a word in addition was said on either side. He stood up, his tall form rising above her, took her hand, gazed for a full minute steadily into her eyes, then with a heavy sigh left her alone.

She waited only till she heard the outer door shut, then flew up the stairs to her own chamber, locked the door, and sat down, trembling, to reflect on, and wonder at, the strange interview.

CHAPTER XV.

"THY WILL BE DONE."

THE morning sun was just peeping over the hills when the young teacher rose from her sleepless couch, and proceeded in a listless manner to dress herself, having an appointment with a pupil at a quarter before six. On approaching the mirror, she was shocked at the idea of presenting to any one, such a pale, wan face.

"Oh, dear!" she said to herself, with a sigh. "How I wish I could see mother. To no other person living, could I confess my foolish, ungrateful conduct. What must he think of me? When he came hundreds of miles to do a kindness to my beloved father, and then offered me the greatest compliment in the power of man to bestow, I might at least have answered him civilly. Then, too, how noble to choose a time when most men would have held aloof. How could I treat him so indifferently? But it's past now, and all my regrets at my want of even common politeness are too late. I have thought upon it all night, until I'm unfit for anything."

Yes, the poor child had revolved Mr. Lawrence's strange proposition, through all the weary hours since he left. She had thought of him in connection with her father, and the case that was pending. Suppose that by her want of consideration she had lost him, a powerful friend, and in consequence, that he should be sacrificed like Mrs. Duxbury's cousin. In that case, could she ever be happy again?

Then she thought of him as Cecilia's brother. What would she say to such conduct? Would he tell her she was mistaken in her friend, and would she withdraw her confidence?

And what would Judge Wilson think of such precipitation, which overthrew all his projects for her father's benefit? Never would she have courage to mention the subject of her father's trial again. And yet, what would he infer if she did not keep him informed of every event?

Rousing herself at last, she dashed cold water on her forehead, and proceeded to get ready for her pupil. Just as she was going to the music-room, the young scholar knocked at her door.

"Oh, Miss Washburn, I'm sure you have a headache! You are so very pale. It is not quite time for the lesson. Won't you come around the garden? It will do you ever so much good."

The morning air was clear and bracing, and Emily readily agreed to go, and was so much benefitted by the fresh air, and her pupil's lively conversation, that she went through not only with that lesson, but with all her duties of the day with comparative comfort.

Nothing occurred to change the current of her thoughts in regard to Mr. Lawrence for several days. To be sure her mind dwelt on him continually, and she wondered more and more at his supposition that she must be aware of his affection, when he had never given her the slightest reason to suspect it. Certainly, he was a peculiar man, or he had peculiar ideas concerning the manner a wife was to be won.

At the expected time, her mother's weekly letter came, always warmly welcomed, but now, poor Emily pressed the unopened envelope to her lips, her eyes dim with tears, as she said to herself,—

"No matter how foolish and stupid I am, I'm sure of one to love me. Dear, dear, mamma!"

After speaking of several items of family interest, Mrs. Washburn went on to describe a visit they had received from a gentleman, a stranger, who gave his name as Lawrence, a clerk she thought of Judge Wilson, but at any rate sent by him to make inquiries concerning her husband's trial.

"I wish you could have seen him," added the mother. "He rendered himself so agreeable that he won us all at once. Marion is in raptures about him, and so is Josey. He dined here twice; I insisted, you know, as there is no hotel in the village: and the last time he had a long conversation with your father. He offered to act as Counsel for him, and urged his services, saying that three members of the Reference were of the legal profession.

"Strange to say, your father refused, greatly to my regret. He says God knows his innocence of motive, and if he has in a moment of aberration, appropriated money belonging to the Society, he does not wish it covered up. He wants to know it, and to pay every dollar. I wish, my dear, you could hear his prayers. Mr. Lawrence was here once during family worship. He told me afterward that he had never listened to so fervent, simple, childlike a prayer. He said your father was to be envied for his perfect, childlike trust in God's loving, watchful care. I too, believe that God will bring to light all that is now so dark, and I do not doubt his power to do so without the aid of man: but I believe that it is in accordance with his will that we do all we can to aid ourselves.

"Probably we shall never see Mr. Lawrence again, but I shall always feel grateful to him for his kind interest, and also to your friend Judge Wilson for sending him."

Emily sighed more than once, after reading this letter. Then she turned back, and read again the pages relating to Mr. Lawrence. She could scarcely imagine one so grave and dignified sitting at their table, winning such golden opinions from them all. How they would blame her, if they were aware that she had returned his kindness with such cold contempt.

The letter she knew ought to go to Judge Wilson. Perhaps he was already aware that his offer of assistance through his friend, had been refused. Still, she ought to be sure that it was so. She really felt it impossible to carry the letter, and meet the bantering from the Judge, if he suspected what had taken place. After reflecting for a time upon the subject, she resolved to enclose the part relating to her father in a note to Mrs. Wilson, adding what was really the case, that for several days she had been troubled with headache.

An hour only after her letter was sent, Mark drove to the door, and asked to see Miss Washburn.

"The Squire sent me for you, Miss," he explained. "I'm to bring you without fail. That's my orders, Miss," he added, laughing. "I'm going to the store, and if you'll be ready in fifteen minutes, I'll be back then. But you wasn't to hurry yourself, Mrs. Wilson said."

She was received with true affection, many inquiries being made concerning her health.

"You don't exercise enough, child," said the Judge, tapping her pale cheeks. "You must give up your German classes. It won't do. We shall have you dying of consumption. Do you have enough to eat, child?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! We keep an excellent table," was the laughing reply, "but I confess that I haven't much appetite."

"Worrying about the trial, eh! Well that will soon be over now. I don't know what to say about your father. By the way, Frederic, Cecilia's brother, has been here. Only staid over one night, or he would have seen you, I suppose."

Emily's heart beat more freely.

"We sat up till midnight talking the case over. He'd been to Canterbury, and got hold of some facts. He's sharp as a razor. When once he's on the track, he's keen to ferret out any iniquity."

"I agree with mother in being sorry that father refused so noble an offer of assistance."

"Yes, yes, 'twas unfortunate, but I've great faith that all will come out right. Let me see, there are only three weeks before the case comes on. Now we'll have some music. If you don't come oftener, I shall have to send mother to the school to take lessons. There, child, you needn't play Yankee Doodle to-night. We'll keep that to celebrate the full and free acquittal of our honored treasurer, from all the charges made against him. Now you may select something for yourself."

Without a moment's hesitation, she turned over the book until she came to a chant, set to the words, "Thy will be done."

"'Thy will be done!' In devious way

The hurrying stream of life may run:

Yet still our grateful hearts shall say,

'Thy will be done!'

"'Thy will be done!' If o'er us shine

A gladd'ning and a prosperous sun,

This prayer will make it more divine—

'Thy will be done!'

"'Thy will be done!' Though shrouded o'er

Our path with gloom, one comfort—one

Is ours;—to breathe, while we adore.

'Thy will be done!'"

"If we can truly say that, we shall be happy indeed," remarked Mrs. Wilson, quietly.

Emily rose from the piano, and saw the Judge beckoning to her. His newspaper had dropped between his knees, and two large tears were making their way down the furrows time had graven on his cheeks. He pointed to a chair by his side, and presently took her hand in his.

"Good child!" he murmured, softly, "You've taught me a lesson, dear. Why didn't you sing that to me before?"

"I've chanted that many times," she answered, "but the words never came home to my heart as they did then."

He nodded expressively, but said no more.

Mrs. Wilson soon rose to go to the dining room, as was her custom a few minutes before each meal, and Emily followed her to offer any assistance in her power.

"Shall I tell you what the Judge said before you came?" said the old lady, with a smile.

"Yes, if you please."

"He said he wished our George was old enough and good enough to win you, he would so enjoy having you here for our real daughter. Our little Annie would have been about your age, if she had lived. We loved her dearly, and her father was almost heart broken when she died. I'm almost sure those beautiful words reminded him of the time when he tried so hard to say, 'Thy will be done!'"

At the supper table, the Judge exerted himself to be agreeable. He talked to the visitor of her home, said Frederic Lawrence had given him a glowing account of the family, that he thought her mother a wonder, and her older sister handsome.

Emily longed to ask whether the Judge or his friend had abandoned the idea of being present during the trial, but the burning in her cheeks at the bare mention of Mr. Lawrence's name, took away her courage. She learned nothing to relieve her anxiety during her visit, except what she gleaned from one fact.

Just as she was leaving, she said, "I will take mother's letter, if you please, sir. I'm going to answer it soon."

"Easier said than done, my dear," he answered laughing. "That's documentary evidence, and is filed accordingly. Don't you recollect the contract, child? I consented to take you for a client on the consideration of a thousand dollars, you said you had ready, and you were to furnish me with facts, family items, every thing that bears on the case."

His eyes twinkled, as he witnessed the astonishment of his wife at his reference to the money.

"That's a joke, Emily. He wouldn't touch a penny of your money."

"Then how do you expect me to find you in bread and butter, if you instruct my clients not to pay me."

Then he sat down and laughed till he choked. "I'd give a few hundred," he said, "to see you, child, counting out your bank bills to our Honorable member from Michigan. Ha! Ha! Ha! No, pussy, keep it to buy wedding finery, which, if all the young men weren't blind, you'd have had occasion for some time ago."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE TELEGRAM.

A LETTER from Cecilia arrived the next week, stating that she had at last reached home and that her happiness would be complete, if Emily were with her to share the eager welcome extended to herself and Frederic, from parents, neighbors and friends.

She stated, as an item of news, which was exciting great attention in their western world, that Frederic had carried up an important patent case to the Supreme Court, where, according to the newspapers, he had argued for five hours with such power and skill that he carried all before him.

"The best part of it was," added his sister, "that he won and received thirty thousand dollars for his services, though to be sure he has been engaged for a year in looking it up; all the time indeed that poor unsuspecting 'I' thought he was such a devoted brother travelling solely for my benefit. If you could be present at one of our western parties, and see how he is toasted and feasted and made much of, you would be surprised, considering, I mean, the stupid way in which he conducted himself in U—.

"I have told my father and mother all about my pet friend, and they cordially unite with me in the wish that you may take a trip out west, and make us a real good visit, at no distant day.

"CECILIA.

"P. S. I have read the letter to Frederic at the request of his Honor. But when I asked him whether he had any message, he paused a full minute, then said, gravely, 'No, I think not.' You can easily imagine that I gave his ears a frightful reminder of my indignation in your behalf."

The young teacher was very busy in preparing her classes for the quarterly examination, and practicing new pieces for the Commencement Levee, at Mr. Duxbury's particular request. In this manner, day after day flew by, until less than one week intervened before the twenty-second of November, the time appointed for the Council.

Mrs. Washburn kept her daughter informed of every thing connected with the case, at Emily's request, writing such items on separate sheets, which the young girl would show to the Judge. Nothing of importance had occurred since the reading of the quarterly report by the Treasurer, when a warm debate took place in reference to past accounts, except a visit from the Bishop, who passed the Sunday with them, and confirmed six persons, who had been presented for that purpose by Mr. Whiting, the new Rector.

On this occasion, Mrs. Washburn inquired in reference to the manner of conducting the trial, and announced her determination to be present during all its sessions. The Bishop smiled and said, "Such a course is unusual, but I see no objection to it." After this, he took an opportunity to inform the Rector what would be expected of him. The conversation soon became so free that Mrs. Washburn informed him that as her husband knew far more about laying out a sermon, and looking up authorities on different topics connected with it than he did the technical terms of law, or the management of his own case, she had wished him to employ a lawyer to assist him, and that a friend had voluntarily offered to act as his Counsel, but he had refused.

"Why so?" he asked. "There is no objection to such a course."

The Rector then had stated the reasons which had prevented him from accepting legal advice, at which the Bishop had seemed much moved, merely adding,—

"God never disappoints the expectations of those who put their trust in Him."

This letter reached Emily on Thursday. The trial was appointed to commence on Tuesday of the next week. It was expected to last two or three days. On Friday night, Emily sat with one of her German pupils, correcting an exercise, when a servant entered requesting her to step to the door. She found Mr. Duxbury signing his name in a book, while a boy, with an envelope in his hand, stood waiting to deliver it.

"A telegram for you, Miss Washburn."

She seized it with a sinking heart, and read,—

"Come home immediately. Father dangerously ill."

"Mr. Duxbury, what time does the next train start?" The voice was so strained and unnatural that the gentleman would not have known from whom it came had not he seen Emily, pallid and ghastly, with her hands firmly pressed to her heart, gazing in his face with her pitiful eyes.

He took out his watch. "If you must take the night train to Albany, you have nearly an hour. Joseph shall go with you so far, and see you safely on board the train going east."

She tried to speak, but no sound came from her white lips.

At this moment Mrs. Duxbury came hurrying in, and took Emily in her arms.

"My precious child," she whispered, "what can I say to comfort you?"

"Pray for him and for me."

"I will go and pack your travelling bag; whatever you need after, shall be sent by express." She then directed a servant to pack lunch for two or three meals, and followed the poor girl to her chamber.

"Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, will God let him die before his name is vindicated?" The eyes were tearless, but the tone was agony.

"My dear child, God loves your father with a deeper, better love than yours. If it is His will to take him to dwell with Himself, He will surely vindicate him in His own good time. My poor friend's name shines clear now, though he lies in his grave."

Emily groaned, but went on hurriedly to arrange her dress for the sad journey.

"Don't try to keep back your tears, my poor child," urged the lady, almost frightened at the wild glance in Emily's eyes.

She only shook her head, but said presently,—

"I want to ask Mr. Duxbury to send, in the morning, to Judge Wilson. They must know, without fail, that I have gone home, and why."

"He will go with you to the station, and call there on his way back."

"Thank you; now I am ready." She stood one moment gazing around the room where she had passed so many happy hours, then with a deep sigh, went down stairs.

The girls were all in the hall. They had begged to be allowed to give their loved teacher a parting embrace, promising not to say one word. As she passed through them, she lifted her veil and gave every one a silent kiss, put her arms around Mrs. Duxbury's neck, whispering the petition,—

"Pray that I may have the heart to say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'"

Joseph was already at the door with the carryall. Mrs. Duxbury repeated Emily's request concerning the message to Judge Wilson, and they drove away.

"I have consulted the paper," said Mr. Duxbury, "and find you will arrive in Albany at five to-morrow morning. Joseph will see you comfortably seated in the right car; he is used to travelling, and you may safely leave everything to him. We shall follow you through every mile of your journey; but what is of more consequence you will have the companionship and sympathy of your Saviour. He suffered, you remember, that he might share our grief."

"Thank you, sir. I love to think of that. Oh, Mr. Duxbury! What if he—what if I should never see him again! I don't think I could endure it."

"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' Here we are at the station. Good-bye, my dear. May God go with you and support you."

It was near dusk the next evening when Emily, worn with suspense and fatigue, reached the city near her home, and leaving the cars, hurried as fast as her strength would allow, toward the street from which the omnibus started for Canterbury. It had been gone about ten minutes. Poor Emily! She stood one minute almost stunned with disappointment.

"Can I endure another hour of suspense?" she asked herself.

She walked on, hesitating what to do, and wondering whether she could walk five miles in the dark, when to her surprise, she heard her name called. It was Mr. Butler, one of their neighbors, who had been to the train with a carryall to meet her, but missing her there, followed her to the omnibus stand.

"How is he?" she gasped out.

"About the same. The doctors have a consultation this evening."

"There is hope, then?"

"I'm afraid there is very little."

"Is it fever?"

"Pneumonia. He took cold attending a funeral, last Wednesday, in a violent storm." No more was said.

Emily had no heart to ask further questions, and he volunteered no information. The poor girl had known him all her life, and was sure if he could give her any encouragement, he would not fail to do so.

In less than an hour from her leaving the cars, she reached home—the dear, dear home where her father's arms had always been outstretched to receive her, but where he now lay unconscious of all about him.

As the carriage stopped, Marion appeared at the door, and the sisters were speedily in a close embrace. Marion's face was pale as marble. There were no traces of tears.

Emily sank into a chair in the familiar room, and with one glance toward her father's writing-table, with papers here and there just as he had left them, she burst into tears.

"Tell me," she sobbed, "tell me all."

"Dr. Monger and his young partner Dr. Rand have just gone. They agreed mostly with our doctor, but Dr. Rand wished to try a new remedy which has been very successful in the hospitals. He is coming back soon, and will remain all night. Dr. Sumner is here now."

"There is hope then?"

"I think Dr. Rand feels that there is a chance for his life. I heard him tell mamma that papa's strict temperance in eating and drinking is a great thing in his favor—that medicines, which have little effect in cases of others, seem to do the desired work with him."

"Does papa know his danger?"

"Oh, yes!" murmured Marion, her whole face assuming an expression of elevation. "He is perfectly happy. The house has been full of people to hear him talk, ministers, and gentlemen from the city, even. It seems like having the gates of heaven open to be in his chamber."

"Mr. Butler told me he was lying in a stupor."

"Yes; that is in consequence of the new medicine Dr. Rand has given him. He has scarcely slept a moment before."

"How is mamma?"

"Perfectly well, and so calm you wouldn't know there was anything the matter. Now take off your hat and get some supper. I'll go up to papa, and then mamma will come down."

A light step came over the stairs, and Emily started up and put her arms around her mother's neck.

"You poor, tired child," said the lady, after one glance into her daughter's face, "You must eat a hearty supper and then go to bed. I suppose Marion has told you that Dr. Rand will be here through the night. I shall get all the sleep I can, so as to have strength for to-morrow."

"I must see him first, mamma."

"So you may, my dear. I'm so glad to have you here. We who have been so privileged as to be in papa's sick room, have witnessed scenes that we can never forget. Now, I'll go to the dining room with you. I have taken nothing yet."

Ruth and Josey started with surprise at the sight of their sister. They were not aware that she had arrived. Josey's eyes were red and swollen. He had been trying to read his Sunday School book, but his heart was evidently with his father.

At nine o'clock, Dr. Rand came and went directly up stairs to his patient. Noticing no one, he passed at once to the bed, bent his ear to the sick man's breast, felt his skin, then sat down with his watch to count the pulse. Finally he took the lamp from the table and held it above the patient where the light would reflect on his face.

Poor Emily, who was present, could not suppress a groan, as, for the first time, she saw the ghastly, deathlike hue.

"Do you perceive any change?" inquired Dr. Sumner, retiring with Dr. Rand a few steps into the entry.

"I must apply my thermometer before I can decide," was the brief reply. "When did he take the quinine last?"

"At eight precisely."

Dr. Rand went back to the bed, stood several minutes thoughtfully regarding the sick and apparently dying man, then taking a piece of rice paper from a box on the table, took a powder from his pocket, folded the damp paper over it, and gently raising the patient's head, skilfully pushed it down his throat without awaking him.

"Now," said he, in a low tone, approaching Mrs. Washburn, "I want the house quiet. You can all go to bed, only tell me where to go to call you if I need anything. He will sleep for several hours."

"Knock at the door opposite," she answered. Then added, "You will find on a waiter, in the entry, some food for yourself."

"I need nothing."

"Can you give me a word of hope, doctor?"

"His strength to-night fully equals my expectations. As for the rest, he is in the hands of a compassionate God."

"Yes, sir; and I thank Him that He gives me grace to say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'"

CHAPTER XVII.

THE GATE OF HEAVEN.

FATIGUED by her long journey, Emily slept soundly until morning. She was awakened by seeing her mother bending over her with a smile.

"Come, my dear, your father is awake, and has inquired for you."

"Is he better then?"

"Dr. Rand says he is no worse."

In a few minutes, Emily passed out of her chamber, saw Dr. Rand lying asleep on a lounge in the little sitting room over the front door: and then noiselessly glided to her father's side.

Putting a violent restraint on her feelings, she bent over him, and kissed repeatedly his forehead, then seizing the hand he feebly held out to her, she knelt by the bed holding it to her lips.

"Welcome—home,—dear," he murmured faintly. "Remember, whether—I live—or die, that I love you tenderly."

Mrs. Washburn came forward to the bed. "That will do," she said. "You may look at each other, but no more talking at present. Here comes Marion with your beef tea, papa. Emily shall see me feed you, because she'll be wanting to take her turn."

A smile of ineffable sweetness shone on his face.

She spread a napkin under his chin, and tenderly as a mother would a babe, gave him half a dozen spoonfuls.

He then motioned to Emily, and whispered the words, "Sing, Rock of ages."

Her voice at first unsteady, rose gradually, and at length filled the room, the patient lying with his eyes shut, with an expression of holy rapture on every feature.

Dr. Rand afterwards told Marion that his sleep was disturbed by an angel's song, which thrilled his whole soul.

When she had finished, his lips moved, and bending nearer, Emily heard him repeating the words,—

"Simply to thy cross I cling."

Then he lay so quiet that Mrs. Washburn left the chamber to give some necessary directions below.

This was the Sabbath, and at nine o'clock, the bells of different churches rang for Sunday School. The sound roused the sick man, who spoke aloud with considerable strength, repeating the lines—

"Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love,

But there's a nobler rest above."

Then breaking out with a strain of rapture, he exclaimed in the words of the Psalmist,—

"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? . . . When thou saidst, Seek ye my face; my heart said unto Thee, Thy face, Lord, will I seek . . . I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.'"

At ten o'clock, Dr. Summer came and found the stairs and upper hall filled with members of the church, to whom the sick man had formerly ministered. Dr. Rand would not allow them to go into the chamber, on account of his patient's difficult breathing, but they wept as they heard his voice giving testimony to the reality and power of the religion of Jesus in a dying hour.

This continued through the day, the patient being propped up with pillows, occasionally sinking off into a doze. Toward night, the fever raged to an alarming degree. Dr. Rand who had been absent a few hours, said that the crisis was approaching, and that he should not leave his patient. Anodynes in large quantities were given, but for some time appeared to have little effect. Once when they thought him asleep, he opened his eyes, and asked,—

"How long have I to live?"

"Why?" inquired the doctor, keeping his fingers on the wiry pulse.

"Before I die, I want to bear my testimony for Jesus."

"God willing, we shall keep you for twenty-four hours."

He seemed perfectly satisfied.

But Marion who stood by, suddenly left the room with a cry of agony.

For an hour or two, his distress was terrible. Every breath was a groan, and yet in the midst of his agony, he looked up at his wife, and gasped the words,—

"All—is—peace. My Saviour—is—leading—me—gently down—to—the—swelling flood—" then after a moment added,—"Read."

She instantly turned to the twenty-third psalm, and read it in a clear voice. When she came to the words, "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'"

"Yes, yes," he repeated, "they comfort me."

Before ten o'clock the next morning, a carriage stopped at the gate, and the Bishop alighted. He was accompanied by Mr. Temple.

Emily took her mother's place by the bedside, while she went below.

The good Bishop, with deep sympathy and solicitude, inquired concerning the sick man, and Mrs. Washburn, without a tear, gave him an account of her husband's illness. She described his state of rapture, his exalted views of God's glory, and the richness of his love to fallen man, in sending Jesus Christ as a propitiation for their sins.

The Bishop, with feeling, remarked, "It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting. You have indeed had a glorious privilege to witness such triumph."

He was interrupted by a strain of music from the chamber above. It was a strain of rapture.

"Salvation, oh, the joyful sound,

'Tis music in our ears,

A sovereign balm for every wound,

A cordial for our fears."

Not a word was spoken until the song was finished, and then the lady explained,—

"It is my daughters, singing to their father. He often requests them to sing, and names the words. I will tell him you are here."

She returned almost instantly, with a request that they would follow her to the chamber.

The Rector was raised nearly to a sitting position. His breathing was so difficult that every respiration could be distinctly observed through the counterpane which covered him, but his face was more than serene. It was stamped with holy joy.

"Welcome friends," he said, as they approached the bed, and grasped his hot, dry hand. "I'm almost through. The Lord is very gracious to me."

After words of sympathy and affection from the Bishop, he asked,—

"Have you no regret in leaving the world just at this juncture?"

"The Lord God is my Lord. He will vindicate my cause." Then added with an expression of fervor,—

"'They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion that cannot be removed.'

"'The Lord is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me?'"

"Happy indeed are those who can rest their burden on the Lord," murmured the Bishop, his eyes filling with tears.

"There have been times of late," said the sick man, speaking slowly and with great effort, "when I have had to fortify my mind with His promises.—

"'Though I walk in the midst of trouble, Thou wilt revive me: Thou shalt stretch forth Thine hand against the wrath of Thine enemies, and Thy right hand shall save me.'"

Mr. Temple rose from his chair and left the room, but almost immediately returned, his countenance expressive of deep emotion.

"Mr. Washburn," he said, grasping the hand of the sick man, "I have wronged you in thought and in word. Can you forgive me?"

A bright smile illumined the sick man's face, as he replied,—

"Truly and fully I forgive you. I trust we shall spend a blessed eternity together in sounding the praises of our common Master."

"Thank you." And kneeling by the bedside, he touched his lips to the Rector's hand.

Emily, at this moment, went to the bed to give her father his quinine, and he made her understand that he wanted the Bishop to pray.

"Thank you," he said, when the prayer was ended. "It has done me good—I feel better," he said slowly, and indeed he did speak with less effort.

The visitors rose at once to leave, the Bishop saying,—

"It has been good to be here. It is indeed like the gate of Heaven."

They went down stairs, but seemed reluctant to leave the house without seeing one of the physicians.

The sick man, after taking part of a cup of broth, sank into a quiet sleep.

"What is this? I cannot account for this change," exclaimed Dr. Rand, after a short examination of his patient an hour or two later.

"Is it a favorable change?"

"Certainly. Every symptom is improved."

"It may be that the Lord has heard the prayer of a good man," said the patient, with a smile which was not of earth.

"Our Bishop has been here," explained Marion. "Papa at once said he felt better."

And indeed, wonderful to relate, from this time the sharp distress in the chest abated, the breathing became more natural. Soon the effects of the tonics and nourishing broths became apparent in the increasing strength of the sick man, until, on the morning of the second day after the crisis, he seemed to realize his own improvement.

His wife was wiping his face with a damp cloth, when he looked up at her, and asked with deep solemnity,—

"Mary, am I coming back to the world?"

"We hope so. Do you regret it?"

He paused a moment before replying. "I was near enough," he said, "to hear the harpers with their harps, and their song ever was,—

"'Worthy is the lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing.'

"Still," he added, after a long pause, "life is sweet. I would like to do something for my Master, to show Him my gratitude."

On the third day after this, Drs. Sumner and Rand met in the sick chamber for the last time. After giving his patient some general advice, Dr. Sumner said,—

"Mr. Washburn, under God, you owe your life to this young man. His care and skill have been blessed to your recovery. As he says he shall not cease his visits at present, there will be no need of my coming except occasionally as a friend."

The Rector expressed his thanks to both of them, in which his wife most fervently joined. Marion, who had been waiting on her father, rose and left the room. It was some time before she heard the firm step she had learned to know so well, and going out into the hall to meet him she began,—

"Dr. Rand, how can I thank you?" Then overcome by her emotion, she covered her face and wept.

"Miss Marion," he said, gently, "you owe me no gratitude; I have done as much for a hundred patients in the hospital who never thought of thanks. It has been a great privilege to be here. Many times while watching over him and thinking a few hours must be the end, I have prayed as I never prayed before,—

"'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.'

"Yes," he added, tenderly taking her hand from her face, "on many accounts which I cannot explain to you now, I consider these visits the most fortunate of my whole practice."

In a few weeks, Mr. Washburn was able to leave his room and go below to his meals. He now gained strength rapidly, and talked as though he should soon be able to preach. His wife often wondered whether he would again propose a trial, but as yet she had said nothing to him on the subject.

Emily had, weeks before, received her trunk from U—. The Christmas holidays were so near that she resolved not to return till New Year's, and perhaps not till Easter. She had received most affectionate letters from Judge and Mrs. Wilson, also from her friends at the school, and from Cecilia, in Washington. The latter said she was getting tired of entertaining visitors for her brother, and wished he would marry so that she could be with her parents who were not well. Emily was confident, however, from the tone of her friend's letter, that she had not an idea that he had asked any one to be his wife. Indeed, whenever Emily's thoughts recurred to that strange interview, it seemed like the wildest dream.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STRANGE PROPOSITION.

ONE evening toward the last of December, the Rev. Mr. Whiting called, and was shown into the Rector's study. He had always exhibited marked respect toward his predecessor, and had held himself entirely aloof from the rumors circulated in regard to the fraud. During the Rector's late sickness, he had been a frequent visitor, and confessed to his young wife that the lessons he learned in that sick chamber, were worth more than all the sermons on preparation for death that he had ever heard. He now came to invite Mr. Washburn to present the cause of missions to his former people, assuring him that if he felt equal to the effort, he would greatly delight his old friends, and he hoped they would contribute generously to the cause.

As he entered the study, the Rector was writing, and merely pushed the sheet of paper from his hand, before rising to welcome the visitor. Before they concluded the arrangement, Mr. Washburn passed the nearly finished letter to Mr. Whiting, with this remark—

"You are no doubt aware, sir, that an examination by a Committee of Reference, concerning certain charges against me was only delayed by my illness. As you will see by my note to them,—" passing him the open sheet,—"my desire is that a new and early appointment be made for the trial. Would it not be best to delay my presentation of the cause to your people until after that has taken place?"

Mr. Whiting hastened to assure him that he was confident the accusers were laboring under a mistake.

"Stop, sir," urged the Rector, with a smile, "you are prejudging the case." Then with great seriousness, he added, "It is certainly true that there is a discrepancy in the accounts, and I shall never rest until this is accounted for. I look to the examiners to help me. The more carefully they go over the ground, the more grateful I shall be to them. If during my attacks of dizziness, I disposed of several thousands of dollars of money contributed in charity, I hope their researches will discover what I did with it. Otherwise I shall have to make this loss good, which at my age, I confess will be a heavy burden to me. That is exactly how the case stands. Now if you prefer to have me postpone preaching for your people for a few weeks, I will do so."

"No, indeed, sir. I shall take it as a mark of friendship, if you will occupy the pulpit next Sunday, a part or the whole of the day, as you feel able." He rose, and seizing the Rector's hand, shook it warmly, saying, "I respect you, sir, more than I can express, for this confidence in one so much younger than yourself. Should I ever be placed in such an unfortunate position, I hope I shall profit by your example."

"Ah!" responded the Rector, with quick feeling. "I can give you a good staff to help you over a rough road:—

"'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee.'

"His promise is sure."

Before the letter to the Committee was sent, Mr. Washburn read it to his wife and two older daughters.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Emily. "How glad I shall be to have it over."

As she was intending to go to the city for some calls, her father requested her to leave the letter with his clerk at his office, for the moment forgetting that it might not be pleasant for her to meet Barnes Bailey. How little any of those present realized that this meeting was one of a series of circumstances which their Heavenly Father had arranged to result in the complete vindication of his afflicted servant.

On her way to the city, Emily's reluctance to meet her father's clerk every moment increased, until at length, she resolved to call at a friend's house, and send a messenger with the letter to the office.

"But this is cowardly," she said to herself. "It is early; I will go there first. Probably he will not be in, and I can leave it on his table."

Her hope, however, of not seeing him was disappointed. Her knock at the office door was instantly answered, and Barnes Bailey, not having yet removed his hat and coat, came to open it.

At the sight of her, he started back in great confusion, his face flushing painfully. He held out his hand, and instantly recovering himself, paid her a fulsome compliment on her improved appearance, excusing his momentary surprise by saying, "I was just thinking of your father, or rather of you, in connection with him. In fact, I came earlier to the office to write you a note."

"I am in haste," exclaimed Emily, with great dignity, handing him the letter with her father's directions. "If you have anything to say to my father, or to me, you can come to Canterbury."

"No! No!" he urged eagerly. "It is a confidential communication for your ear solely. This letter to the Committee is, I suppose, in reference to your father's trial. I must tell you before that. I beg you to stop a few moments. Take a chair; I will not detain you long."

His manner was so abrupt and strange and positive that Emily knew not how to refuse. Not a suspicion entered her mind of the purport of his communication. He had rolled her father's arm-chair toward her, and she sat down, when he excited her indignation again by opening the door into the hall, looking out, then shutting the door and locking it.

"I insist upon going, Mr. Bailey," she exclaimed, starting from her chair.

He only waved her back to her seat, every particle of color having left his face.

"It is for your father's sake—that is partly—that I make this communication. I am your father's clerk, and so pretty well acquainted with his affairs. Since he has been ill— and—and before, I have not been idle. I have suspicions, no, I have almost a certainty that I have discovered the mistake in regard to the books."

"Why did not you at once inform my father of this?"

"For reasons good and satisfactory to me. Miss Emily, it is for you to decide whether he ever shall be made acquainted with them. I have only to keep my month shut, and he will be deposed from his office, and end his days in disgrace. You can save him."

He approached nearer to her, and bent over her chair. His whole manner was so violent, and there was such a glare in his eyes that she could only think of a madman. But the very emergency of the case made her courage rise. Suppressing every sign of fear, she stood up, drawing up her form, and throwing back her head in a way she had when under intense excitement.

"Explain yourself, Mr. Bailey," she said coldly. "I cannot imagine how I can help or hinder you."

"Do you remember your answer to my proposal of marriage?" The words were almost hissed out.

She bowed.

"Reverse that answer, and I will set your father free."

"Do you not know my father better than to suppose he would purchase his freedom by the sacrifice of his daughter's happiness?" Her tone was freezing.

"I give you three days to decide," he said, trying to control his passion. "But you must decide for yourself. If you determine to accept my offer, I will devote my life to your happiness. If not—why—the charges of fraud will be sustained."

"God will take care of those charges, sir. Now I must go. I'll thank you to unlock the door."

"Remember," he said, "three days," obeying her.

"Three days," she repeated, leaving the room with a slight bow.

Emily's friend was intensely astonished when, on going to the parlor to give a cordial welcome to her favorite schoolmate, the young lady rushed into her arms with a burst of tears.

For a few minutes, she wept so violently that she could give no answer to the repeated inquiry,—

"What is it, dear? What can it be, Emily?"

"Papa has been very ill, you know," she replied, evasively, "and—and—my nerves are shaken, and—I met an old acquaintance, and—I'm all worried and nervous. Don't mind me. I'll be better, presently."

The young lady was well acquainted with the charges against Rev. Mr. Washburn, which, however, she knew him too well to believe. But she at once attributed Emily's agitation to a meeting in which the trial had been discussed, and did not wonder at it.

"You're to spend the day with me," she urged, rising to take off her friend's hat and sack.

"I can't. It is impossible. I'll come another time. I've come in to make some calls, and I want you to go with me. Don't refuse, for I need you."

Seeing that she was in earnest, her friend consented, and after a few minutes rose to prepare for the walk.

As it was a fine winter morning, two of her friends were out, and one was engaged with a sick brother, so that they only left their cards.

By noon, Emily found herself at the gate of her father's house. During the ride home, she had reflected on the strange conduct of Mr. Bailey, and resolved, for the present, to say nothing to her parents on the subject, but to write a minute account of the transaction to her friend Judge Wilson. Could she have imagined that he would send it by the next mail to Hon. Frederic Lawrence, she would have hesitated. But this fact she did not know. Once, indeed, she resolved to take the cars, make a flying visit to U—, talk with the Judge, make some arrangement with Duxbury about her classes, and be home before the Sabbath, but this, on farther reflection, she gave up.

She went at once to the study, merely said, "I did your errand, papa," and left him, without giving time for farther questions.

Fortunately at dinner, Josey had a long story to tell of some plan for a grand coasting party, and no one noticed Emily's appearance, except her mother, who asked kindly,—

"Did you suffer from the cold, my dear? Your cheeks show that you have been exposed to the wind."

The afternoon was passed by Emily in covering three sheets with fine writing. The more she reflected on what had passed, the more importance she attached to the words of the clerk.

"I always distrusted him," she said half aloud, "now I believe him capable of any iniquity."

The western mail left the city at eight in the morning. If the letter went the next day, it must be taken to the Canterbury office in season for the evening hourly. She resolved, therefore, to carry it at once, and inviting Marion to accompany her in a walk, set off in season to return before dark.

On their way, they met Dr. Rand in his sleigh.

Emily smiled to see how Marion blushed as she recognized him.

He jumped from his sleigh, and asked whether he should not have the pleasure of seeing them at the Rectory.

Marion pressed her sister's arm, as a signal for her to turn back, but she answered,—

"We are only going to the office, and shall be home almost as soon as you are."

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I'm going farther on to see a patient, but I intended to call on my way back."

"Mother would be delighted to have you take tea with us," Emily said.

At which happy suggestion Marion gave her arm another squeeze.

"Thank you; I'll be there with pleasure. Duke has already become acquainted with your father's stable." He jumped into his sleigh, and raising his seal-skin cap, with a low bow, dashed away.

"I have a great respect for Dr. Rand," said Emily, as they walked on. "I think him a true gentleman."

"I can't help thanking him for his attention to papa," murmured Marion, blushing again.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE COMMITTEE OF REFERENCE.

THE Committee had appointed the second week in January for their adjourned meeting. The first session was to be on Tuesday at ten o'clock. The Bishop had met Mr. Washburn by appointment at his office, and had told him that if he had changed his mind, and would like the counsel of a lawyer in regard to any point, or to make a statement of his case, Mr. Temple would be glad to act for him. He explained that since Mr. Washburn's illness, this gentleman had become a staunch friend—that if the Rector would give him an opportunity to show his full confidence in the honesty and ability displayed in the management of the Society, he would be very grateful.

In return, the Rector had promised if he needed any aid to call upon Mr. Temple, but added with a smile, "I do not want legal advisers to help me cover up any acts of mine. I need all the aid I can get to go to the bottom of this difficulty, and bring the hidden things to light. In regard to the final result, I feel as sure as that God's promises are true, that He will bring me forth and set my feet in a large place."

The Bishop placed his hand on the Rector's shoulder, saying, "You are a happy man. Blessed are all they that put their trust in Him."

The Sunday previous to the trial, the Rector preached in the city near by, and Mrs. Washburn accompanied him, intending to return home on Sunday evening. Mrs. Hall, the friend wish whom they stopped, begged permission to accompany Mrs. Washburn to the room where the trial was to take place. She also insisted that the whole family should take their dinners with her, as there was to be a morning and afternoon session.

The same Sunday the Rector's family had taken their seats in their own slip, when, happening to glance toward a side pew, Emily met the eyes of the member from Michigan fixed full upon her. Her surprise was so great that the blood flew into her cheeks, and her heart beat so fast that she could scarcely breathe.

In a moment, Marion and Ruth recognized him, and bowed.

Josey, who was next his sister Emily, touched her and whispered, "There is Mr. Lawrence. I'm going to speak to him after service. I'm very well acquainted with him."

It was in vain Emily resolved not to turn her eyes in that direction. There is a kind of fascination when one feels that the eyes of another are fastened on them, and her disobedient orbs continually wandered in the direction of Mr. Lawrence.

When the hymn was given out, Joseph noticed that the gentleman had no book, and instantly, without being told, stepped across the aisle to pass him one. When the service was concluded, Mr. Lawrence joined them, shook hands cordially with Marion, who then introduced her sister.

Emily knew that she was blushing furiously, and the consciousness of this, and the vexation she felt that he should witness her confusion, rendered her unable to explain that she had met him before.

When out of the church, Marion went forward, and the gentleman, with only a glance behind, joined her, leaving Emily with Ruth. Josey had seized Mr. Lawrence's hand, and was begging him to go home with them to dinner.

He declined, however, but said he should be happy to come in after the next service and hear them sing. He walked quite to their own gate, and then left them with a bow.

Emily rushed up to her chamber, thankful that she could be alone and collect her thoughts.

"Yes," she soliloquized, sitting on the side of the bed, without waiting to remove her outer garments, "Congress is in session, but he has heard of papa's trial, and has come on to be present. I wonder whether he has heard about Barnes Bailey's ridiculous proposition. I suppose Judge Wilson must have told him. How foolish in me to receive him as a stranger. I wish I could be as much at ease as Marion is. He evidently likes her very much, and he told Judge Wilson he thought her handsome."

She sighed, and then proceeded to take off her hat, at the same time resolving the first time his name was mentioned, to tell Marion that she had seen him in U—.

This she did while her back was turned, so as to hide the tell-tale blushes. Emily was laying the table for lunch, when she said in as careless a tone as possible,—

"Do you remember in my letters, I wrote you of a dear friend, Cecilia Lawrence. This is her brother. I met him at Judge Wilson's."

"Oh, did you?" replied her sister, looking up from her work. "How funny that I introduced you then. But perhaps he didn't recollect it, meeting you so far away. I think he's an elegant man."

Emily made no reply, but having finished her task, took a book and seated herself to read.

Soon after tea, a sudden and rather peremptory ring at the door-bell, made poor Emily almost jump from her chair. It was Mr. Lawrence, who apologized for coming so early, by saying that he found it very lonely being by himself at a strange boarding-house.

"Father and mother will be here soon," urged Marion, "and I'm confident they will not allow you to return there."

Emily said nothing. Indeed, in Mr. Lawrence's presence, she could not resist a return of the old feeling that, for some reason, he disliked her; for except meeting his eyes fixed upon her in the old grave way, he took little notice of her presence. While with Marion, he was as familiar as though he had known her all his life.

At an early hour, Mr. and Mrs. Washburn returned, and the evening was passed in conversation suited to the day, ending with sacred music and family worship.

When the visitor rose to go after having declined Mrs. Washburn's cordial invitation to spend the night, he remarked that this was one of the occasions which left pleasant memories to be carried through life. He promised to dine with them the next day, as he wished to see Mrs. Washburn before her husband's trial, and then left with a shake of the hand all around. When he took Emily's hand, he grasped it so tightly that the pressure was painful, and he bent over her as though he were going to speak, but did not.

The next day he had a long conversation with Mrs. Washburn, while the Rector had gone to the city to make some final arrangements for the coming trial. He told her that having business in the city, he should endeavor to be present at the trial, and inquired what member of the Committee he could consult if he wished to ask any question. She unhesitatingly referred him to Mr. Temple.

Before he left, he turned abruptly to Emily, and inquired whether she had heard from her old admirer, Judge Wilson, of late.

"Yes, sir," she replied. "I had a long, kind letter from his wife, in which he sent many messages."

She smiled as she recalled one message, which was that if she did not bid that man Bailey to keep his hands off, he, the Judge, would send him to prison.

She had indeed, the very day after meeting the clerk at the office, written him a brief answer to his proposition, in which she assured him that nothing on earth would ever induce her to accede to his wishes,—that she trusted the defence of her father to One who was well able to bring all hidden things to light.

The day of the trial came at last. It had been decided that for greater convenience, it should take place in the Episcopal rooms, and chairs had been set around for the Committee, with the Bishop in his official robes at the head. There was a long table piled with books,—the canons of the church—books of common law, and the large leather books in which the Treasurer had kept his accounts.

Opposite the Committee, an arm-chair had been placed for the Rector, and behind him about a dozen chairs which were at once occupied by Mrs. Washburn and her two elder daughters, together with Mr. and Mrs. Hall, and a select number of friends who had obtained permission to be present. Other than these, the trial was to be held with closed doors.

One request Mr. Lawrence had made of Mrs. Washburn in the interview referred to. This was that she would get her husband to order his clerk to be present.

This she did in the following way.

"There ought to be some one," she suggested, "to send on an errand, if you wish a messenger."

"That will not be necessary," he replied, interrupting her. "I have already told Mr. Bailey to be there. He can do every thing of that kind."

One thing Mr. Lawrence did, of which he made no mention. He hired a policeman to remain near the door, and to keep this man in sight. Also, he directed that until the trial closed, the clerk should not be lost sight of by day or night.

At the very minute that the Bishop called the meeting to order, Mr. Lawrence sat down directly behind Emily, in a chair he had before moved to that position.

The Bishop made some brief remarks upon the solemn business before them: and then read a prayer, at the end of which, he added some extempore petitions suited to the case in hand.

I do not propose to weary my readers with a detailed account of the transactions of the day. I will simply state that a gentleman by the name of Rogers opened the case, after which, Mr. Washburn having previously requested the Bishop to call upon him, rose to say a few words.

He stated the length of time he had been employed by the Missionary Association, the number of times he had presented the cause before different parishes, and in round numbers the sum total that had been contributed toward its funds. He referred briefly to his health, and the peculiar symptoms he could only describe by calling it confusion of ideas.

"It is a sad fact," he added, "that the accounts during those very months when I was thus disabled, do not balance, but that several thousands of dollars appear to be due from me to the Society. I have endeavored to the best of my ability, to account for this discrepancy, but so far in vain, and I now call upon you, gentlemen of the Committee, to give me your aid in solving the mystery. The books of the Society's accounts, the files of receipted bills, together with my own memorandum book, and my wife's book of home expenses for the time since I have been Treasurer, I now place in your hands. The more rigid you are in your investigations, the greater will be my gratitude. I now leave myself in your hands, and may God succeed your endeavors to ascertain the whole truth."

It was a tedious business going through the accounts, and comparing the moneys paid out with the receipted bills. When the hour for adjournment till the afternoon session came, little had been accomplished, but one fact called special attention. So far, that is during the first six months of Mr. Washburn's connection with the Society, the accounts balanced to a cent.

The intermission was an hour and a half. Emily alone was aware that it was by her means that Mr. Lawrence had been induced by Judge Wilson to be present at the trial. She was sure also that it must be at great inconvenience to himself, and she felt that she in particular owed him common civility. But resolve and re-resolve as she would, while the Committee were engaged in their work, she could not summon courage to speak to him. All she could do was to ask her mother whether it would not be well to give Mrs. Hall a hint that this gentleman had come from a distance, and solely for their benefit. The consequence of this hint was that before they left the room, Mr. Hall invited the stranger to accompany Mr. Washburn's family to his house for dinner.

This time, he glanced at Emily, who was, however, so much engaged in pulling on her glove that she did not look toward him, but Marion touched his arm, and insisted that he should accept.

More than this, she insisted that they should all feel better for some exercise after sitting so quiet, and ascertaining that dinner would not be served for three-quarters of an hour, she proposed that he should accompany her and her sister in a walk around the park.

There was one allusion made by Mr. Lawrence, just as they reached the steps to Mr. Hall's door, which quite spoiled Emily's pleasure in the otherwise delightful walk. He had at first talked to her of Cecilia,—said he was really afraid to tell her he had been in Canterbury, so dreadful would be her indignation at his not inviting her to accompany him.

Then Marion sought to draw from him what he intended to do at the close of the trial, in case they ascertained nothing concerning the missing money.

"Shall you make a speech?" she urged, laughing. "Why don't you make it at once? Please do."

"No, Miss Marion," he answered, gravely, as they were ascending the steps, "I cannot consent to do so, even to oblige you. I lost my case once—the most important case of my life, by being too precipitate. It was a serious lesson, but it will be a lasting one."

Emily happened to be looking at him, and for an instant found it impossible to withdraw her gaze, so earnestly were his deep set eyes fastened on hers.

CHAPTER XX.

THE ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY.

THE afternoon session was similar to the morning one. Mr. Washburn was continually appealed to for assistance in dates, etc., while Barnes Bailey went here and there at the bidding of the court.

Once, after the clerk had passed near them, his face became almost purple, as he noticed the distinguished looking stranger attracting the attention of Emily.

"Who is that man?" inquired Mr. Lawrence, in a low tone. "He looks like a villain."

"He is papa's clerk," was Emily's reply in the same tone, but not looking at him.

When the hour for adjournment came, the Committee seemed in excellent spirits. The Bishop, Mr. Washburn and Mr. Temple were standing together, when the former remarked,—

"Our success so far is very encouraging. I have great hopes that by this time to-morrow, we may have concluded the whole thing."

The Day of the Trial came at last.

"I have never seen accounts kept with greater exactness," observed Mr. Temple, placing his hand familiarly on the Rector's shoulder.

"The struggle has not come yet," returned Mr. Washburn, shaking his head. "I have a vague idea of a large sum paid by me. For months I have been tortured with the recollection, which yet I cannot get hold of. It has been my prayer to-day that some one may bring it to mind."

In the evening, the Rector was repeating this conversation to his wife, when Emily came in and stood listening to them.

"Perhaps you mean, papa, the thousand dollars you invested for me."

He started forward, gazed searchingly in her face. "Did I ever invest a thousand dollars for you?" He spoke slowly as though trying to recall the circumstances. "When was it, dear?"

"I'll get my bank-book, and that will give you the exact date."

She ran to her chamber, and he sat holding his head with his hands.

"There, papa, it was in October, more than a year ago."

"Just the period that you were suffering, Henry."

"Thank God!" ejaculated the Rector, fervently. But after a pause, "This does not help me with the accounts. Still, it is an immense relief. That thousand dollars has caused me more suffering than you can dream of, Emily. The clue is caught at last."

The next morning, when Emily, accompanied by her parents and Marion, entered the rooms, she saw Mr. Lawrence conversing in an animated manner with Mr. Temple. Their faces looked so eager that she pointed them out to her mamma.

At that moment, Mr. Lawrence caught sight of them, and left Mr. Temple, who said at parting—

"I will arrange it, sir. I agree with you entirely."

The member from Michigan came toward them, and saluted them in a gay tone. He then with the words "May I?" moved a chair to Emily's side, and said to her—

"I wish our friend Judge Wilson could be here to-day. He would enjoy it."

"Do you then feel so hopeful as to the result? If papa is not to be vindicated so that no shadow of a stain can rest upon him, I would rather our friends were away."

"I am advanced a stage beyond hope, Miss Emily; I am positive."

He feasted his eyes on her radiant face.

"Oh, Mr. Lawrence!" she exclaimed. "You have removed such a weight from my heart."

"Have I? Then may I hope that some time, in the distant future, you will forgive me?"

"I was not aware that I had anything to forgive." Her voice was so low that only by bending nearer could he hear her.

He gazed at her downcast eyes, uttering the words, "Thank you," in an eager tone.

The meeting was now called to order. Mr. Lawrence kept his position between Emily and her mother, and during the rather monotonous proceedings of the forenoon, contrived to let the young lady know that her last words had made him very happy. He seemed to take immense delight in turning, at the least pretext, to gaze in her face, and watch the rosy hue deepen on her cheeks, while these lines of a well-known writer were floating through his mind,—

"Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;

You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face."

"Why!" exclaimed Emily, naively, when the movement to adjourn was made. "I had no idea it was so late."

Then meeting her friend's eyes kindling with pleasure, she turned abruptly away.

"We shall expect you at dinner," observed Mr. Hall, addressing Mr. Lawrence.

"I accept with pleasure, sir. I have a little business which will detain me a short time, but I will be there at the hour."

Emily and her sister resolved to take a short walk as they had done the previous day.

On their return to Mr. Hall's house, their ring at the door-bell was not immediately answered. And supposing the servants to be engaged with dinner, they ran down the steps again, to the basement entrance. Here they found a rag and junk man trading with the cook.

"Yer ought not to come to gentlemen's houses at such an inconvenient time," she said in a cross tone. "I can't leave my roast to be trading with ye. No, I paint a bag to put the rags in. Sure, ye ought to find your own bags."

"I'll find one," answered the good-humored man.

So saying, he poured from a large hemp bag a quantity of waste paper into a basket, and proceeded to fill the same bag with rags to weigh them.

Scarcely knowing why she did so, Emily waited a moment, saying in a gay tone to the cook,—

"I hope you'll make a good bargain."

Suddenly her eye caught one of the papers in the basket. It was a long page written over, and had been crushed in the hand. Her heart almost stopped beating as she seized the paper, glanced over it, recognized instantly her father's handwriting, and more than suspected it to be a page from his account-book. Suppressing a scream, she asked the ragman,—

"Have you more of these? I would like them, and will pay you double what the paper is worth."

She eagerly turned over the rubbish in the basket, and succeeded in finding one other sheet.

"Where did you get these?" handing him a dime.

He laughed. "That's more than I can tell, Miss."

"Do you ever go to gentlemen's offices?"

"Yes, Miss, I get lots of papers at lawyer's offices, stores, and such like."

With a face blanched with emotion, Emily ran up stairs to find her sister, and impart the joyful news. The door-bell rang as she was going through the upper hall, and supposing it to be her parents, she opened it, and admitted Mr. Lawrence.

"Oh!" she cried, holding out the clutched pages. "My father is saved! My father is saved!"

Tears filled her eyes, as exhausted with the depth of her joy, she sank on the stairs and watched the lawyer, as his keen eyes possessed themselves of the contents of the sheets.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "It is a direct answer to the prayers of your good father."

Then ascertaining that the back parlor was unoccupied, he took her hand and drew her to a chair. She was so much agitated, he feared she would faint.

"Shall I ring for some water?" he asked tenderly.

"No, sir. Where is papa? I must tell him."

"When you are better, I want to ask you a favor. There, the color is coming back. I don't think you'll faint now."

"I am better," she said, removing her hat, which he instantly took from her hand, "and I'm so very happy. Dear, dear papa."

He sat down near her, and in a few rapid words told her he was not unprepared for this discovery. He then made a statement to her as to his plan for the afternoon session, and begged her to leave the precious sheets in his care, and to say nothing of them till night.

When the dinner-bell rang, Mr. and Mrs. Washburn came from the library, which was in the second story, and were somewhat surprised to see that their daughter had not yet removed her sack.

"You look tired," said her mother. "You had better remain quietly at home this afternoon."

"Oh, mamma, not for the world!"

Mr. Washburn sighed. "The battle is only commenced," he said. "God alone knows what will be the result."

"I'm sure," added Marion, "that Emily looks as though she knew what would be the end. See how triumphantly she smiles."

"I can see that she has faith in God's promise to answer the prayers of His children," remarked Mr. Lawrence, seriously. "I have been taught that we may ask for any favors that we need, however trifling they may seem. For instance, the burden of your father's prayers has been that God would throw light upon the obscurity that surrounds him. Ought we not to expect He will do it, and do it to-day?"

"Certainly his power is equal to that," replied Mrs. Washburn.

"I know He will," exclaimed Emily, tears gushing to her eyes.

On their way back to the rooms, Mr. Lawrence walked with Emily and her sister. They had not gone far from the house when they met Dr. Rand, who said he had been to the rooms hoping to meet them, as he wished to obtain a pass for the afternoon session.

Marion assured him there would be no objection made if he went with them, but she added, "I fear you will find it very dull."

They went on together a little in advance.

Emily explained to her companion, how much the family were indebted to the young physician, who was said to be very skilful.

"He looks like a man of power. I can see that he admires your sister. I hope she will reciprocate his affection."

Emily expressed her astonishment that he could judge so much by one glance.

"I am not surprised that you should consider me stupid," he urged without looking at her. "When I recall my conduct toward yourself, I confess I wonder at your kindness in saying you forgive me. Conceited fool that I was, to imagine that you were acquainted with my dearest hopes; that you even suspected whose image filled all my thoughts. But this is not a proper time nor place for the confession I wish to make, and yet as I must leave in the morning—"

"What time does the Bishop adjourn the meeting?" inquired Marion, suddenly stopping in her walk.

"I hope the trial will be at an end this afternoon," replied Mr. Lawrence, rather annoyed.

"Miss Emily, your mother has very kindly invited me to spend my last night at her house. Shall I accept her invitation?"

"We should all be happy to see you, sir."

"Thank you. I shall go. And, Miss Emily, I feel that I shall speak better, this afternoon, than I ever did before. There is an elixir called hope which is circulating through my veins, and renders me buoyant. I could do or dare anything, to-day. I shall be only too happy if I don't do something ridiculous."

"I don't recognize you at all as the grave, reticent Mr. Lawrence I met at U—," murmured Emily, with a smile.

"I'm glad of that. Let him go; I'm disgusted with him."

She laughed merrily at his comic air. "Here we are!" she added. "And there's papa just going in. Who is that man with a star on his coat?"

"The Sheriff who is to see that the orders of the Court are executed. Don't tremble, he understands his business."

CHAPTER XXI.

GOD'S ANSWER TO PRAYER.

WHEN they entered the room, the Committee were gathered around the Bishop, consulting in reference to the business of the afternoon. Their countenances were perplexed. The Bishop's denoted weariness and anxiety. Mr. Temple came up the stairs, and after glancing into the room, gave the Sheriff a chair near the door.

Mr. Washburn sat alone, his head resting on his hand, while in the corner farthest from him, Barnes Bailey stood looking gloomily on.

"What is the course of procedure this afternoon?" inquired Mr. Temple, approaching the Bishop.

"We are entirely at a loss," was the perplexed reply. "We seem to be at a point where it is impossible to proceed." Then lowering his voice, he added, "I am so confident of the integrity of our Treasurer that I am extremely reluctant to have the suspicion of unfaithfulness rest upon him. He looks to us, with God's help, to vindicate him."

"And with God's help, we will do it," exclaimed Mr. Temple, warmly.

He then drew the Bishop one side, and placing a card in his hand, explained that if the Committee would call upon him, the Honorable Mr. Lawrence, member of Congress, from Michigan, had facts which would seem to throw some light on the subject.

"Will Mr. Washburn consent, sir?"

"There is no occasion to ask him. It is in order, I believe, that you should call upon him, or, if you prefer, I will introduce him to the Committee."

"That will be best," returning the card. "Does the Treasurer know of these facts?"

"No, sir; he has no suspicion of them."

The Bishop returned to his seat, and the gentlemen of the Committee followed his example.

Mr. Lawrence occupied a chair next to Emily, as in the morning, and Dr. Rand sat by Marion.

The Bishop then stated that the account-books had been thoroughly examined, and compared with the receipted bills, and also with the monthly reports of the Treasurer. The books had been kept well, and there was a remarkable degree of exactness, with the exception of a few months when Mr. Washburn had been suffering from disease which affected his head, and at times, his memory. He said that so fully convinced were the Committee that if the discrepancy were the fault of the Treasurer, it was an involuntary fault for which he was not accountable, that they were ready to urge upon him their desire that he continue to fill a position in which he had been so signally blest.

"And I may here say," he urged, speaking with great emphasis, "that such is our desire. Still," he added, "I am well aware that our respected Treasurer will be grievously disappointed if this perplexing mystery is not solved, and I am happy to say that one of our number, Mr. Temple, will soon introduce to you a gentleman, who, I am told, has it in his power to throw some light on this dark subject."

This announcement caused great excitement, and to no one more than to Mr. Washburn, who turned eagerly in his chair to learn who the gentleman was. Mr. Temple took his stand at one end of the long table, when our friend from Michigan, rose quietly from his seat and joined him.

"It is my pleasure, Bishop and gentlemen of the Committee, to introduce to you Honorable Mr. Lawrence, member of Congress, from Michigan, to whose remarks, I am confident, you will listen with great interest."

"Gentlemen," began Mr. Lawrence, his tone low but so distinct that every syllable could be heard all over the room, "I am a stranger among you, but I hope you will not infer from that circumstance that I have no interest in the result of your investigations. I have an absorbing interest,—the interest which every Christian man must feel in the prevalence of right over wrong, of truth and virtue over falsehood and crime.

"While on a tour through this part of the country last autumn, my attention was directed to some items in the public journals of the day," taking some newspaper scraps from his pocket, "by a learned Judge of law, who assured me he had reason to know the accusations in these items were entirely false. As I was comparatively at leisure, my friend requested me to look into the case which, though an entire stranger to your Treasurer, there were reasons which led me to acquiesce in his wish. My first business was to find out the writer of this cruel innuendo," reading—

"'We regret to learn that in one of our most prominent benevolent societies, the fraud which has for some time been suspected, has been traced to the Treasurer, Rev. Henry Washburn, a gentleman who has enjoyed the confidence and affection of the churches for years. It is said that thousands of dollars, the contribution of widows and orphans to the Cause of missions, has been diverted from its sacred object, and have not been accounted for.'

"This was comparatively an easy task. The item was, as you perceive, anonymous; and great pains had been taken by the author to secure its insertion without signature. Having happily accomplished this, I had now a clue to start upon. My next business was to inquire into the standing and antecedents of the author."

Barnes Bailey here arose, his face purple with rage, and was making his way toward the door, when the speaker, in a tone of sarcasm, added, "I hope the audience will be quiet. But as some seem uneasy, I request that Sheriff Colburn be instructed to lock the door. To proceed: I learned that the author now resided in the city, but that he had formerly been connected with Mr. Washburn's church in Canterbury. To Canterbury, therefore, I went, and the result of my inquiries was this. The author had, years before, been convicted of grave charges, namely, stealing and forgery. For these he had been dealt with by the Rector in the most faithful manner, and finally giving no sign of penitence, he had been excommunicated from the church. After a series of years, however, he changed his course, appeared truly penitent, confessed to the Rector, and after a suitable time, was again received as a member of the church; not long after which event, he applied for and received an appointment as clerk of your Missionary Association."

Here Mr. Bailey suddenly threw up the window near him, and made an attempt to jump out, but Sheriff Colburn seized him, forced him into a seat, and sat down near him. When the excitement had a little subsided, the speaker went on calmly as though nothing had occurred.

"On learning these facts, I called on your Treasurer, and introducing myself as a member of the legal profession, offered myself as Counsel in the management of his cause before a Committee of Reference, which I had ascertained he had requested to be convened. I mentioned the fact that as two of this Committee were lawyers, he ought to have one near him who understood the technicalities of the profession. If I made a mistake, gentleman," added the speaker with a smile, "it was because it had never been my happiness to be present on an occasion like the present, which I shall always consider a model of Christian charity and good will.

"Your Treasurer, however, thanked me, but firmly declined. And when I rather urgently pressed him for his reasons, he said he had given his cause to the care of One who was able, unaided, to vindicate the right. Never shall I forget the expression of perfect faith in God which lighted up his features, as he repeated these passages of holy writ:

"'They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion that cannot be removed.'

"'The Lord is on my side I will not fear. What can man do unto me?'

"Notwithstanding my belief that he was a man to be envied, I concluded that it was my duty to continue my investigations. I made several calls at the office. I made my appearance there early and late. Under the clerk's desk was a basket filled with waste paper. I took the liberty to examine it. I found this piece of blotting pad. It may seem worthless to you, but I considered it a prize. On its surface you see," holding it up, "a distinct impression of several names written again and again, like a child copying his lesson.

"On my next visit, I made a still greater discovery, which was that two and perhaps three leaves had been skilfully removed from the book of recorded expenditures.

"Mr. Sheriff, I desire to direct your attention to the person next you."

All turned to gaze at Barnes Bailey, whose features were distorted with rage, his eyes glaring like those of a wild animal.

The Sheriff took the door key from his pocket, passed it to a gentleman near him, with a request that he would ask the policeman waiting outside, to come in. Then with a low spoken threat in case of resistance, and a significant movement in the direction of his hand-cuffs, the Sheriff motioned to Mr. Lawrence to go on.

"The leaves which had been removed relate to the months during which the whole discrepancies appear."

At this happy announcement, Mr. Washburn started to his feet, and unable to repress his emotion, said aloud,—

"I thank the Lord because he has heard my cry and answered me."

"I had made discoveries sufficient for my purpose," Mr. Lawrence went on, "and started for the West, resolving to return at the time of the trial. This, you know, was postponed on account of the dangerous illness of your Treasurer. When I learned through my friend, the Judge, that the Committee were to meet this week, I left my seat in Congress, feeling it due to the cause of humanity and religion, to come before you, and state these facts known only to myself and my legal friend. But I have not yet finished. Morning and night your Treasurer has cried to his God for deliverance, and to-day that deliverance has been accomplished. Yes, gentlemen, through a chain of events, ordered in infinite love, and in answer, as I fully believe to the fervent prayers of this righteous man, the very sheets, torn by the hand of malignant cruelty from your account-books have fallen, as it were, at our very feet. These sheets, in so far as I have had opportunity to examine them, exactly agree with your Treasurer's report for the months of August and September. And thus with these proofs of the guilt of one party," glancing toward the clerk, "you have the means of a full, free and glorious vindication of the character of your Treasurer."

The speaker had scarcely taken his seat amidst a burst of applause, when, with a yell of rage, Barnes Bailey snatched a pistol from his breast-pocket and levelled it at Mr. Lawrence's head. But the Sheriff being on the watch, knocked up his arm, and the ball entered the ceiling above.

All was instantly confusion, but it was at once quelled by the Sheriff, who produced his iron bracelets, and secured his prisoner from doing farther damage. It was the work of a few minutes only, to take him from the room, force him into a hack waiting at the door, and start with him for the jail.

These startling events had succeeded each other with such rapidity that a short time was necessary before a sufficient amount of order could be restored for the transaction of any farther business. Mr. Temple obtained the missing pages, and by comparing them with those in the book, speedily ascertained the object of the manipulation. The clerk had insisted that he had never received his wages for more than a year. A large bill for printing, also, he urged was due. He had stated to the Committee that the man had called several times for his pay, but was put off; and at last, he started for the West, leaving the business in his hands.

Mr. Washburn, when called upon, had testified that he had a very strong impression that Mr. Bailey's salary had been paid semi-annually, in accordance with his request. But as no such records were found in the books, and no receipts in the files of these documents, his statement was reluctantly received as correct. Of the printer's bill, the Treasurer could recollect nothing, except that such a bill was due, and he thought it had been paid.

The torn sheets suggested the reason for taking them out, thus destroying the testimony that the bills had been paid. The receipted bills, Mr. Bailey had no doubt also destroyed.

The moment Mr. Temple announced these facts, a resolution was framed and passed in which the Committee expressed their utmost confidence in their Treasurer, their sympathy in his past suffering, and their joy that his character, in the words of their Honorable friend, had been so fully, freely and gloriously vindicated.

Mr. Washburn, meantime, sat with his face covered, the unbidden tears trickling through his fingers. When the resolution, so flattering to him, passed almost by acclamation, his wife touched him as a reminder that he ought to make a response, but he only waved his hand to signify that he was utterly unable to do so.

The Bishop then remarked that it would be ungrateful and unworthy the character of Christian men, to separate until they had given thanks to Almighty God for the great favor he had vouchsafed to them, in answering the prayers of His godly servant, and bringing light out of darkness.

This closing exercise was a solemn and affecting one, an exercise long to be remembered.

CHAPTER XXII.

CONCLUSION.

"MY BELOVED CECILIA:—

"You say in your letter received last evening, that you fear I have forgotten my old friend. Never were you farther from the truth. I love you, Cecilia, for the warm heart which led you to show so much kindness to a stranger, and I love you for the many traits of your own character. I am going to give you a proof of my love and confidence—a proof given as yet to no other. Cecilia, how I wish you were by my side, that I might hide my burning face, blushing at the bare idea of putting a record of my happiness on paper. You asked me once whether I had ever been in love, and laughed at my indignant 'no.' If you were to ask that question now, my answer would be different. Yes, Cecilia, dearest friend, I have found one worthy of my deepest, truest affection. It is not quite twenty-four hours since he confessed that it was his dearest wish to have me for his own. What could I do otherwise than give my consent. Not in words. I absolutely had no power to speak; but he must have inferred it from my silence. Oh, Cecilia, I am so happy. I feel like a poor, fluttering bird who has found safe shelter. Papa and mamma have given their full, hearty consent, though they have not yet recovered from their astonishment, never having a suspicion of our interest in each other. But that was because they were so absorbed in grave subjects of which I will tell you at another time.

"Papa told me that it made his heart sore to think of my leaving home permanently, but that if he were to give me to any one, he could not choose a nobler, more reliable Christian man; and he gave his consent with the full confidence that my friend would be a tender, considerate husband, whose influence would lead me to higher degrees of holiness and happiness. My dear one left this morning, and I feel that he has carried away a large part of myself. I thank God for such a friend, who will be so wise a counsellor, and who will help me to correct my many faults.

"Mamma told me this morning that there seemed to be a conspiracy to get away her daughters. Dr. Rand asked papa, last evening, to allow him to visit here and try to win my sister Marion.

"With tender love, your own—

"EMILY.

"P. S. I have read my letter over, and am almost afraid to send it. To you only could I thus unburden my heart of its happiness. Then you will blame me for not mentioning the name of my 'friend.' Well, dear, I will not give you a half confidence; so, if you wish very much to know, you may ask—your brother Frederic."

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Table of Contents

OUT OF THE DEPTHS;

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE