{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_4589/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_4589","id":"gutenberg_4589","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4589","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian fiction"],"text":"Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nALL'S FOR THE BEST.\n\n\nBY\n\nT. S. ARTHUR.\n\n\n\n\nPHILADELPHIA:\n\n1869.\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n    I. FAITH AND PATIENCE.\n   II. IS HE A CHRISTIAN?\n  III. \"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.\"\n   IV. NOT AS A CHILD.\n    V. ANGELS IN THE HEART.\n   VI. CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.\n  VII. GOOD GROUND.\n VIII. GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.\n   IX. WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?\n    X. THE NURSERY MAID.\n   XI. MY FATHER.\n  XII. THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nALL'S FOR THE BEST.\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\nFAITH AND PATIENCE.\n\n\n\"_I HAVE_ no faith in anything,\" said a poor doubter, who had trusted\nin human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored to walk by\nthe lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by the light of\ndivine truth, and so lost his way in the world. He was fifty years old!\nWhat a sad confession for a man thus far on the journey of life. \"No\nfaith in anything.\"\n\n\"You have faith in God, Mr. Fanshaw,\" replied the gentleman to whom the\nremark was made.\n\n\"In God? I don't know him.\" And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in a\nbewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. \"People talk\na great deal about God, and their knowledge of him,\" he added, but not\nirreverently. \"I think there is often more of pious cant in all this\nthan of living experience. You speak about faith in God. What is the\nground of your faith?\"\n\n\"We have internal sight, as well as external sight.\"\n\nThere was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face.\n\n\"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with the\neyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his bodily eyes.\"\n\n\"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins,\" said Mr. Fanshaw, his\ncountenance brightening a little.\n\n\"In part,\" was replied. \"That he can see the building in his mind,\nestablishes the fact of internal sight.\"\n\n\"Admitted; and what then?\"\n\n\"Admitted, and we pass into a new world--the world of spirit.\"\n\nMr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly.\n\n\"I don't believe in spirits,\" he answered.\n\n\"You believe in your own spirit.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I have any spirit.\"\n\n\"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body,\" said Mr.\nWilkins.\n\n\"I can't say as to that.\"\n\n\"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region of\nsimple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul.\"\n\n\"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't wish\nto cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground of your\nfaith in God.\"\n\n\"Convictions,\" answered Mr. Wilkins, \"are real things to a man.\nImpressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like\nimages on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The\nfirst are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the\nlatter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily experience\nand careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith in God;--it is\nan inwrought conviction. First I had the child's sweet faith transfused\ninto my soul with a mother's love, and unshadowed by a single doubt.\nThen, on growing older, as I read the Bible, which I believe to be\nGod's word, I saw that its precepts were divine, and so the child's\nfaith was succeeded by rational sight. Afterwards, as I floated off\ninto the world, and met with storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with\nbaffling winds and adverse currents; with perils and disappointments,\nfaith wavered sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and\nthreatening, my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm\npassed, and the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed,\nwith a freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost.\nI have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being\nengulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them over,\nweeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their\nplace--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my\nloss, would not have been ventured.\n\n\"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence--always proving the divine\nannouncement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered.' Is there not\nground for faith here? If the word of God stand in agreement with\nreason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my convictions are\nclear, to disbelieve is impossible.\"\n\n\"We started differently,\" replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully. \"That\nsweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was never mine.\"\n\n\"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and\nexperience,\" said Mr. Wilkins.\n\n\"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in\nthe future. All before me is dark.\"\n\n\"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your\nexperiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall upon\nyour way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in\nanything. You spoke without due reflection.\"\n\n\"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In what\ncan I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be in\nruins--burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned my\nmoney to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in my\nneed. The bank in which I hold stock may break--the ship in which I\nhave an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure of\nnothing.\"\n\n\"Not even of the love of your child?\"\n\nA warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter\ntwelve years old.\n\n\"Dear Alice!\" he murmured, in a softer voice. \"Yes, I am sure of that.\nThere is no room for doubt. She loves me.\"\n\n\"One thing in which to have faith,\" said Mr. Wilkins. \"Not in a house\nwhich cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank, which may\nfail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea--but in love! Are\nyou afraid to have that love tried? If you were sick or in misfortune,\nwould it grow dim, or perish? Nay, would it not be intensified?\n\n\"I think, Mr. Fanshaw,\" continued his friend, \"that you have not tested\nyour faith by higher and better things--by things real and substantial.\"\n\n\"What is more real than a house, or a ship, or a bill of exchange?\"\nasked Mr. Fanshaw.\n\n\"Imperishable love--incorruptible integrity--unflinching honor,\" was\nreplied.\n\n\"Do these exist?\" Mr. Fanshaw looked incredulous.\n\n\"We know that they exist. You know that they exist. History,\nobservation, experience, reason, all come to the proof. We doubt but in\nthe face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things than\nwealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not serenest\nand happiest whose life rests on these as a house upon its foundations?\nYou cannot shake such a man. You cannot throw him down. Wealth may go,\nand friends drop away like withering autumn leaves, but he stands fast,\nwith the light of heaven upon his brow. He has faith in virtue--he has\ntrust in God--he knows that all will come out right in the end, and\nthat he will be a wiser and better man for the trial that tested his\nprinciples--for the storms that toughened, but did not break the fibres\nof his soul.\"\n\n\"You lift me into a new region of thought,\" said Mr. Fanshaw, \"A dim\nlight is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation not\nperceived before.\"\n\n\"Will you call with me on an old friend?\" asked Mr. Wilkins.\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"A poor man. Once rich.\"\n\n\"He might feel my visit as an intrusion.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"What reduced him to poverty?\"\n\n\"A friend, in whom he put unlimited faith, deceived and ruined him.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"And he has never been able to recover himself.\"\n\n\"What is his state of mind?\"\n\n\"You shall judge for yourself.\"\n\nIn poor lodgings they found a man far past the prime of life. He was in\nfeeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go out and\nattend to business. His wife was dead, and his children absent. Of all\nthis Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His surprise was real, when\nhe saw, instead of a sad-looking, disappointed and suffering person, a\ncheerful old man, whose face warmed up on their entrance, as if\nsunshine were melting over it. Conversation turned in the direction Mr.\nWilkins desired it to take, and the question soon came, naturally, from\nMr. Fanshaw--\n\n\"And pray, sir, how were you sustained amid these losses, and trials,\nand sorrows?\"\n\n\"Through faith and patience,\" was the smiling answer. \"Faith in God and\nthe right, and patience to wait.\"\n\n\"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who robbed\nyou of an estate holds and enjoys it still; while you are in poverty.\nHe is eating your children's bread.\"\n\n\"Do you envy his enjoyment?\" asked the old man.\n\nMr. Fanshaw shook his head, and answered with an emphasis--\"No!\"\n\n\"I am happier than he is,\" said the old man. \"And as for his eating my\nchildren's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but theirs is\nsweet.\" He reached for a letter that lay on a table near him, and\nopening it, said--\"This is from my son in the West. He writes:--'Dear\nFather--All is going well with me. I enclose you fifty dollars. In a\nmonth I am to be married, and it is all arranged that dear Alice and I\nshall go East just to see you, and take you back home with us. How nice\nand comfortable we will make you! And you shall never leave us!'\"\n\nThe old man's voice broke down on the last sentence, and his eyes\nfilled with tears. But he soon recovered himself, saying--\n\n\"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such danger\nthat through fear of his being led astray, I was often in great\ndistress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment; and you\nsee the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I not richer in\nsuch love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his love, I possessed\na million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it would all come out\nright. I had faith, and I tried to be patient. It is coming out right.\"\n\n\"But the wrong that has been done,\" said Mr. Fanshaw. \"The injustice\nthat exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful enjoyment\nof your goods, while you are in want.\"\n\n\"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He never\ndwells in security; but is always armed, and on the watch. As for me,\nit has so turned out that I have never lacked for food and raiment.\"\n\n\"Still, there is the abstract wrong, the evil triumphing over the\ngood,\" said Mr. Fanshaw.\n\n\"How do you reconcile that with your faith in Providence?\"\n\n\"What I see clearly, as to myself,\" was replied, \"fully justifies the\nways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune? Clearly\nthe gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came to me in\nthe guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my faith in\nhim. I waited patiently until he revealed himself in tender mercy;\nuntil the hand to which I clung in the dark valley led me up to the\nsunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the deep\nsatisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed me, I\nleave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He will not\nfind, in ill-gotten gain, a blessing. It will not make his bed soft;\nnor his food sweet to the taste. A just and righteous God will trouble\nhis peace, and make another's possessions the burden of his life.\"\n\n\"But that will not benefit you,\" said Mr. Fanshaw. \"His suffering will\nnot make good your loss.\"\n\n\"My loss is made good already. I have no complaint against Providence.\nMy compensation is a hundredfold. For dross I have gold. I and mine\nneeded the discipline of misfortune, and it came through the perfidy of\na friend. That false friend, selfish and grasping--seeing in money the\ngreatest good--was permitted to consummate his evil design. That his\nevil will punish him, I am sure; and in the pain of his punishment, he\nmay be led to reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, it\nwill tear his vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon a\nsecond theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will be\nturned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is, that\nthe discipline may lead to repentance and a better life.\"\n\n\"Your faith and patience,\" said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old man's\nhand in parting, \"rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you for having\nopened to my mind a new region of thought--for having made some things\nclear that have always been dark. I am sure that our meeting to-day is\nnot a simple accident. I have been led here, and for a good purpose.\"\n\nAs Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Wilkins left the poor man's lodgings, the former\nsaid--\n\n\"I know the false wretch who ruined your friend.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"Yes. And he is a miserable man. The fox is indeed tearing his vitals.\nI understand his case now. He must make restitution. I know how to\napproach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not suffer\nwrong to the end.\"\n\n\"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?\" asked Mr\nWilkins. \"Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and disaster,\nthe hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever out of evil\neduces good, ever through loss in some lower degree of life brings gain\nto a higher degree? Consider how, in an unpremeditated way, you are\nbrought into contact with a stranger, and how his life and experience\ntouching yours, give out a spark that lights a candle in your soul to\nillumine chambers where scarcely a ray had shone before; and this not\nalone for your benefit. It seems as if you were to be made an\ninstrument of good not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If you\ncan effect restitution in any degree, the benefit will be mutual.\"\n\n\"I can and I will effect it,\" replied Mr. Fanshaw. And he did!\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nIS HE A CHRISTIAN?\n\n\n\"_IS_ he a Christian?\"\n\nThe question reached my ear as I sat conversing with a friend, and I\npaused in the sentence I was uttering, to note the answer.\n\n\"Oh, yes; he is a Christian,\" was replied.\n\n\"I am rejoiced to hear you say so. I was not aware of it before,\" said\nthe other.\n\n\"Yes; he has passed from death unto life. Last week, in the joy of his\nnew birth, he united himself to the church, and is now in fellowship\nwith the saints.\"\n\n\"What a blessed change!\"\n\n\"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the great\ncompany of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in\nthe blood of the Lamb. There is joy in heaven on his account.\"\n\n\"Of whom are they speaking?\" I asked, turning to my friend.\n\n\"Of Fletcher Gray, I believe,\" was replied.\n\n\"Few men stood more in need of Christian graces,\" said I. \"If he is,\nindeed, numbered with the saints, there is cause for rejoicing.\"\n\n\"By their fruits ye shall know them,\" responded my friend. \"I will\nbelieve his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit in\ngood living. If he have truly passed from death unto life, as they say,\nhe will work the works of righteousness. A sweet fountain will not send\nforth bitter waters.\"\n\nMy friend but expressed my own sentiments in this, and all like cases.\nI have learned to put small trust in \"profession;\" to look past the\nSunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate religious\nquality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must be genuine\nlove of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God; for neighborly\nlove is the ground in which that higher and purer love takes root. It\nis all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal thing. Love is an active\nprinciple, and, according to its quality, works. If the love be\nheavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to the neighbor; but, if\ninfernal, in acts of selfishness that disregard the neighbor.\n\n\"I will observe this Mr. Gray,\" said I, as I walked homeward from the\ncompany, \"and see whether the report touching him be true. If he is,\nindeed, a 'Christian,' as they affirm, the Christian graces of meekness\nand charity will blossom in his life, and make all the air around him\nfragrant.\"\n\nOpportunity soon came. Fletcher Gray was a store-keeper, and his life\nin the world was, consequently, open to the observation of all men. He\nwas likewise a husband and a father. His relations were, therefore, of\na character to give, daily, a test of his true quality.\n\nIt was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray under\ncircumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of a\nmerchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the price\nof certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched him\nnarrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of his\ncountenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober,\nalmost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even to\nplaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities gradually\ndisappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood there\nunchanged--unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character. There\nwas nothing of the \"yea, yea,\" and \"nay, nay,\" spirit in his\nbargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage in\ntrade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five per\ncent. over cost was asked for a certain article, he still endeavored to\nprocure it at a lower figure than was named by the seller, and finally\ncrowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as he did, that the\nmerchant had a large stock on hand, and could not well afford to hold\nit over.\n\n\"He's a sharper!\" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray left\nthe store.\n\n\"He's a Christian, they say,\" was my quiet remark.\n\n\"A Christian!\"\n\n\"Yes; don't you know that he has become religious, and joined the\nchurch?\"\n\n\"You're joking!\"\n\n\"Not a word of it. Didn't you observe his subdued, meek aspect, when he\ncame in?\"\n\n\"Why, yes; now that you refer to it, I do remember a certain\npeculiarity about him. Become pious! Joined the church! Well, I'm\nsorry!\"\n\n\"For what?\"\n\n\"Sorry for the injury he will do to a good cause. The religion that\nmakes a man a better husband, father, man of business, lawyer, doctor,\nor preacher, I reverence, for it is genuine, as the lives of those who\naccept it do testify. But your hypocritical pretenders I scorn and\nexecrate.\"\n\n\"It is, perhaps, almost too strong language, this, as applied to Mr.\nGray,\" said I.\n\n\"What is a hypocrite?\" asked the merchant.\n\n\"A man who puts on the semblance of Christian virtues which he does not\npossess.\"\n\n\"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A true\nChristian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in the\nprice of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order that he\nmight secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even the live and\nlet live principle in that. No--no, sir. If he has joined the church,\nmy word for it, there is a black sheep in the fold; or, I might say,\nwithout abuse of language, a wolf therein disguised in sheep's\nclothing.\"\n\n\"Give the man time,\" said I. \"Old habits of life are strong, you know.\nIn a little while, I trust that he will see clearer, and regulate his\nlife from perceptions of higher truths.\"\n\n\"I thought his heart was changed,\" answered the merchant, with some\nirony in his tones. \"That he had been made a new creature.\"\n\nI did not care to discuss that point with him, and so merely answered,\n\n\"The beginnings of spiritual life are as the beginnings of natural\nlife. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through the\nperiods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the strong\nman ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed for the\nbattle. If Mr. Gray is in the first effort to lead a Christian life,\nthat is something. He will grow wiser and better in time, I hope.\"\n\n\"There is vast room for improvement,\" said the merchant. \"In my eyes he\nis, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the sake\nof the world and the church both, that his new associates will make\nsomething better out of him.\"\n\nI went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meeting\nwith Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a bill\nof goods some months previously. He had called to collect a portion of\nthe amount which remained unpaid. The mechanic was not ready for him.\n\n\"I am sorry, Mr. Gray,\" he began, with some hesitation of manner.\n\n\"Sorry for what?\" sharply interrupted Mr. Gray.\n\n\"Sorry that I have not the money to settle your bill. I have been\ndisappointed----\"\n\n\"I don't want that old story. You promised to be ready for me to-day,\ndidn't you?\" And Mr. Gray knit his brows, and looked angry and\nimperative.\n\n\"Yes, I promised. But----\"\n\n\"Then keep your promise. No man has a right to break his word. Promises\nare sacred things, and should be kept religiously.\"\n\n\"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been no\nfailure in mine to you,\" answered the poor mechanic.\n\n\"It is of no use to plead other men's failings in justification of your\nown. You said the bill should be settled to-day, and I calculated upon\nit. Now, of all things in the world, I hate trifling. I shall not call\nagain, sir!\"\n\n\"If you were to call forty times, and I hadn't the money to settle your\naccount, you would call in vain,\" said the mechanic, showing\nconsiderable disturbance of mind.\n\n\"You needn't add insult to wrong.\" Mr. Gray's countenance reddened, and\nhe looked angry.\n\n\"If there is insult in the case it is on your part, not mine,\" retorted\nthe mechanic, with more feeling. \"I am not a digger of gold out of the\nearth, nor a coiner of money. I must be paid for my work before I can\npay the bills I owe. It was not enough that I told you of the failure\nof my customers to meet their engagements----\"\n\n\"You've no business to have such customers,\" broke in Mr. Gray. \"No\nright to take my goods and sell them to men who are not honest enough\nto pay their bills.\"\n\n\"One of them is your own son,\" replied the mechanic, goaded beyond\nendurance. \"His bill is equal to half of yours. I have sent for the\namount a great many times, but still he puts me off with excuses. I\nwill send it to you next time.\"\n\nThis was thrusting home with a sharp sword, and the vanquished Mr. Gray\nretreated from the battle-field, bearing a painful wound.\n\n\"That wasn't right in me, I know,\" said the mechanic, as Gray left his\nshop. \"I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too closely. I\nam but human.\"\n\n\"He is a hard, exacting, money-loving man,\" was my remark.\n\n\"They tell me he has become a Christian,\" said the mechanic. \"Has got\nreligion--been converted. Is that so?\"\n\n\"It is commonly reported; but I think common report must be in error.\nSt. Paul gives patience, forbearance, long-suffering, meekness,\nbrotherly kindness, and charity as some of the Christian graces. I do\nnot see them in this man. Therefore, common report must be in error.\"\n\n\"I have paid him a good many hundreds of dollars since I opened my shop\nhere,\" said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt. \"If I\nam a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I get a\nlittle behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for don't pay up\nas they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't just square with\nMr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me, and talked just as you\nheard him to-day. He got his money, every dollar of it; and he will get\nhis money now. I did think, knowing that he had joined the church and\nmade a profession of religion, that he would bear a little patiently\nwith me this time. That, as he had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, of\nhis sins towards heaven, he would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah,\nwell! These things make us very sceptical about the honesty of men who\ncall themselves religious. My experience with 'professors' has not been\nvery encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy for\ngain as other men. We outside people of the world get to be very\nsharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality than\nwe, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue, we\njudge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very closely.\nIf he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager after money\nas before, we do not put much faith in his profession, and are very apt\nto class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine talk about faith,\nand heavenly love, and being washed from all sin, excite in us contempt\nrather than respect. We ask for good works, and are never satisfied\nwith anything else. By their fruits ye shall know them.\"\n\nOn the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him when\nhe entered. I noticed that all the lines of his face were drawn down,\nand that the whole aspect and bearing of the man were solemn and\ndevotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes cast to\nthe floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew in front\nof him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During the\nservices I heard his voice in the singing; and through the sermon, he\nmaintained the most fixed attention. It was communion Sabbath; and he\nremained, after the congregation was dismissed, to join in the holiest\nact of worship.\n\n\"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?\" I asked myself, as I walked\nhomeward. \"Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by pious\nacts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a day's\nmarch nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in the\ncommonest offices of neighborly love?\"\n\nIt so happened, that I had many opportunities for observing Mr. Gray,\nwho, after joining the church, became an active worker in some of the\npublic and prominent charities of the day. He contributed liberally in\nmany cases, and gave a good deal of time to the prosecution of\nbenevolent enterprises, in which men of some position were concerned.\nBut, when I saw him dispute with a poor gardener who had laid the sods\nin his yard, about fifty cents, take sixpence off of a weary strawberry\nwoman, or chaffer with his boot-black over an extra shilling, I could\nnot think that it was genuine love for his fellow-men that prompted his\nostentatious charities.\n\nIn no instance did I find any better estimation of him in business\ncircles; for his religion did not chasten the ardor of his selfish love\nof advantage in trade; nor make him more generous, nor more inclined to\nhelp or befriend the weak and the needy. Twice I saw his action in the\ncase of unhappy debtors, who had not been successful in business. In\neach case, his claim was among the smallest; but he said more unkind\nthings, and was the hardest to satisfy, of any man among the creditors.\nHe assumed dishonest intention at the outset, and made that a plea for\nthe most rigid exaction; covering his own hard selfishness with\noffensive cant about mercantile honor, Christian integrity, and\nreligious observance of business contracts. He was the only man among\nall the creditors, who made his church membership a prominent\nthing--few of them were even church-goers--and the only man who did not\nreadily make concessions to the poor, down-trodden debtors.\n\n\"Is he a Christian?\" I asked, as I walked home in some depression of\nspirits, from the last of these meetings. And I could but answer\nNo--for to be a Christian is to be Christ-like.\n\n\"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.\" This is\nthe divine standard. \"Ye must be born again,\" leaves to us no latitude\nof interpretation. There must be a death of the old, natural, selfish\nloves, and a new birth of spiritual affections. As a man feels, so will\nhe act. If the affections that rule his heart be divine affections, he\nwill be a lover of others, and a seeker of their good. He will not be a\nhard, harsh, exacting man in natural things, but kind, forbearing,\nthoughtful of others, and yielding. In all his dealings with men, his\nactions will be governed by the heavenly laws of justice and judgment.\nHe will regard the good of his neighbor equally with his own. It is in\nthe world where Christian graces reveal themselves, if they exist at\nall. Religion is not a mere Sunday affair, but the regulator of a man's\nconduct among his fellow-men. Unless it does this, it is a false\nreligion, and he who depends upon it for the enjoyment of heavenly\nfelicities in the next life, will find himself in miserable error.\nHeaven cannot be earned by mere acts of piety, for heaven is the\ncomplement of all divine affections in the human soul; and a man must\ncome into these--must be born into them--while on earth, or he can\nnever find an eternal home among the angels of God. Heaven is not\ngained by doing, but by living.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.\"\n\n\n\"_HAVE_ you noticed Miss Harvey's diamonds?\" said a friend, directing\nmy attention, as she spoke, to a young lady who stood at the lower end\nof the room. I looked towards Miss Harvey, and as I did so, my eyes\nreceived the sparkle of her gems.\n\n\"Brilliant as dew-drops in the morning sunbeams,\" I remarked.\n\n\"Only less brilliant,\" was my friend's response to this. \"Only less\nbrilliant. Nothing holds the sunlight in its bosom so perfectly as a\ndrop of dew.--Next, the diamond. I am told that the pin, now flashing\nback the light, as it rises and falls with the swell and subsidence of\nher bosom, cost just one thousand dollars. The public, you know, are\nvery apt to find out the money-value of fine jewelry.\"\n\n\"Miss Harvey is beautiful,\" said I, \"and could afford to depend less on\nthe foreign aid of ornament.\"\n\n\"If she had dazzled us with that splendid pin alone,\" returned my\nfriend, \"we might never have been tempted to look beneath the jewel,\nfar down into the wearer's heart. But, diamond earrings, and a diamond\nbracelet, added--we know their value to be just twelve hundred dollars;\nthe public is specially inquisitive--suggest some weakness or\nperversion of feeling, and we become eagle-eyed. But for the blaze of\nlight with which Miss Harvey has surrounded herself, I, for one, should\nnot have been led to observe her closely. There is no object in nature\nwhich has not its own peculiar signification; which does not correspond\nto some quality, affection, or attribute of the mind. This is true of\ngems; and it is but natural, that we should look for those qualities in\nthe wearer of them to which the gems correspond.\"\n\nI admitted the proposition, and my friend went on.\n\n\"Gold is the most precious of all metals, and it must, therefore,\ncorrespond to the most precious attribute, or quality of the mind. What\nis that attribute?--and what is that quality?\"\n\n\"Love,\" said I, after a pause, \"Love is the most precious attribute of\nthe mind--goodness the highest quality.\"\n\n\"Then, it is no mere fancy to say that gold corresponds to love, or\ngoodness. It is pure, and ductile, and warm in color, like love; while\nsilver is harder, and white and shining, like truth. Gold and silver in\nnature are, then, as goodness and truth in the human soul. In one we\nfind the riches of this world, in the other divine riches. And if gold\nand silver correspond to precious things of the mind, so must brilliant\njewels. The diamond! How wonderful is its affection for light--taking\nin the rays eagerly, dissolving them, and sending them forth again to\ngladden the eyes in rich prismatic beauty! And to what mental quality\nmust the diamond correspond? As it loves the sun's rays, in which are\nheat and light--must it not correspond to the affection of things good\nand true?--heat being of love, and light of truth or wisdom? The wearer\nof diamonds, then, should have in her heart the heavenly affection to\nwhich they correspond. She should be loving and wise.\"\n\n\"It will not do to make an estimate in this way,\" said I. \"The measure\nis too exacting.\"\n\n\"I will admit that. But we cannot help thinking of the quality when we\nlook upon its sign. With a beautiful face, when first seen, do we not\nalways associate a beautiful soul? And when a lady adorns herself with\nthe most beautiful and costly things in nature, how can we help\nlooking, to see whether they correspond to things in her mind! For one,\nI cannot; and so, almost involuntarily, I keep turning my eyes upon\nMiss Harvey, and looking for signs of her quality.\"\n\n\"And how do you read the lady?\" I inquired.\n\nMy friend shook his head.\n\n\"The observation is not favorable.\"\n\n\"Not favorable,\" he replied. \"No, not favorable. She thinks of her\njewels--she is vain of them.\"\n\n\"The temptation is great,\" I said.\n\n\"The fact of so loading herself with costly jewels, is in itself\nindicative of vanity--\"\n\nA third party joining us at this moment, we dropped the subject of Miss\nHarvey. But, enough had been said to make me observe her closely during\nthe evening.\n\nThe opening line of Moore's charming lyric,\n\n  \"Rich and rare were the gems she wore,\"\n\nkept chiming in my thoughts, whenever I glanced towards her, and saw\nthe glitter of her diamonds. Yet, past the gems my vision now went, and\nI searched the fair girl's countenance for the sparkle of other and\nricher jewels. Did I find them? We shall see.\n\n\"Helen,\" I heard a lady say to Miss Harvey, \"is not that Mary Gardiner?\"\n\n\"I believe so,\" was her indifferent answer.\n\n\"Have you spoken to her this evening?\"\n\n\"No, aunt.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Mary Gardiner and I were never very congenial. We have not been thrown\ntogether for some time; and now, I do not care to renew the\nacquaintance.\"\n\nI obtained a single glance of the young lady's face. It was proud and\nhaughty in expression, and her eyes had in them a cold glitter that\nawoke in me a feeling of repulsion.\n\n\"I wish you were congenial,\" the lady said, speaking partly to herself.\n\n\"We are not, aunt,\" was Miss Harvey's reply; and she assumed the air of\none who felt herself far superior to another with whom she had been\nbrought into comparison.\n\n\"The gems do not correspond, I fear,\" said I to myself, as I moved to\nanother part of the room. \"But who is Miss Gardiner?\"\n\nIn the next moment, I was introduced to the young lady whose name was\nin my thought. The face into which I looked was of that fine oval which\nalways pleases the eye, even where the countenance itself does not\nlight up well with the changes of thought. But, in this case, a pair of\ncalm, deep, living eyes, and lips of shape most exquisitely delicate\nand feminine--giving warrant of a beautiful soul--caused the face of\nMiss Gardiner to hold the vision as by a spell. Low and very musical\nwas her voice, and there was a discrimination in her words, that lifted\nwhatever she said above the common-place, even though the subjects were\nof the hour.\n\nI do not remember how long it was after my introduction to Miss\nGardiner, before I discovered that her only ornament was a small,\nexquisitely cut cameo breast-pin, set in a circlet of pearls. There was\nno obtrusive glitter about this. It lay more like an emblem than a\njewel against her bosom. It never drew your attention from her face,\nnor dimmed, by contrast, the radiance of her soul-lit eyes. I was\ncharmed, from the beginning, with this young lady. Her thoughts were\nreal gems, rich and rare, and when she spoke there was the flash of\ndiamonds in her sentences; not the flash of mere brilliant sayings,\nlike the gleaming of a polished sword, but of living truths, that lit\nup with their own pure radiance every mind that received them.\n\nTwo or three times during the evening, Miss Harvey, radiant in her\ndiamonds--they cost twenty-two hundred dollars--the price would intrude\nitself--and Miss Gardiner, almost guiltless of foreign ornament, were\nthrown into immediate contact. But Miss Gardiner was not recognized by\nthe haughty wearer of gems. It was the old farce of pretence, seeking,\nby borrowed attractions, to outshine the imperishable radiance of\ntruth. I looked on, and read the lesson her conduct gave, and wondered\nthat any were deceived into even a transient admiration. \"Rich and rare\nwere the gems she wore,\" but they had in them no significance as\napplied to the wearer. It was Miss Gardiner who had the real gems,\nbeautiful as charity, and pure as eternal truth; and she wore them with\na simple grace, that charmed every beholder who had eyes clear enough\nfrom earthy dust and smoke to see them.\n\nI never meet Miss Harvey, that I do not think of the pure and heavenly\nthings of the mind to which diamonds correspond, nor without seeing\nsome new evidence that she wears no priceless jewels in her soul.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nNOT AS A CHILD.\n\n\n\"_I DO_ not know how that may be,\" said the mother, lifting her head,\nand looking through almost blinding tears, into the face of her friend.\n\"The poet may be right, and, \"Not as a child shall I again behold him,\nbut the thought brings no comfort. I have lost my child, and my heart\nlooks eagerly forward to a reunion with him in heaven; to the blessed\nhour when I shall again hold him in my arms.\"\n\n\"As a babe?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. As a darling babe, pure, and beautiful as a cherub.\"\n\n\"But would you have him linger in babyhood forever?\" asked the friend.\n\nThe mother did not reply.\n\n\"Did you expect him always to remain a child here? Would perpetual\ninfancy have satisfied your maternal heart? Had you not already begun\nto look forward to the period when intellectual manhood would come with\nits crowning honors?\"\n\n\"It is true,\" sighed the mother.\n\n\"As it would have been here, so will it be there. Here, the growth of\nhis body would have been parallel, if I may so speak, with the growth\nof his mind. The natural and the visible would have developed in\nharmony with the spiritual and the invisible. Your child would have\ngrown to manhood intellectually, as well as bodily. And you would not\nhave had it otherwise. Growth--development--the going on to perfection,\nare the laws of life; and more emphatically so as appertaining to the\nlife of the human soul. That life, in all its high activities, burns\nstill in the soul of your lost darling, and he will grow, in the world\nof angelic spirits to which our Father has removed him, up to the full\nstature of an angel, a glorified form of intelligence and wisdom. He\ncannot linger in feeble babyhood; in the innocence of simple ignorance;\nbut must advance with the heavenly cycles of changing and renewing\nstates.\"\n\n\"And this is all the comfort you bring to my yearning heart?\" said the\nmother. \"My darling, if all you say be true, is lost to me forever.\"\n\n\"He was not yours, but God's.\" The friend spoke softly, yet with a firm\nutterance.\n\n\"He was mine to love,\" replied the bereaved one.\n\n\"And your love would confer upon its precious object the richest\nblessings. Dear friend! Lift your thoughts a little way above the\nclouds that sorrow has gathered around your heart, and let perception\ncome into an atmosphere radiant with light from the Sun of Truth. Think\nof your child as destined to become, in the better world to which God\nhas removed him, a wise and loving angel. Picture to your imagination\nthe higher happiness, springing from higher capacities and higher uses,\nwhich must crown the angelic life. Doing this, and loving your lost\ndarling, I know that you cannot ask for him a perpetual babyhood in\nheaven.\"\n\n\"I will ask nothing for him but what 'Our Father' pleaseth to give,\"\nsaid the mother, in calmer tones. \"My love is selfish, I know. I called\nthat babe mine--mine in the broadest sense--yet he was God's, as every\nother creature is his--one of the stones in his living temple--one of\nthe members of his kingdom. It does not comfort me in my great sorrow\nto think that, as a child, I shall not again behold him, but rays of\nnew light are streaming into my mind, and I see things in new aspects\nand new relations. Out of this deep affliction good will arise.\"\n\n\"Just as certainly,\" added the friend, \"as that the Sun shines and the\ndew falls. It will be better for you, and better for the child. To both\nwill come a resurrection into higher and purer life.\"\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nANGELS IN THE HEART.\n\n\n_THE_ heart is full of guest-chambers that are never empty; and as the\nheart is the seat of life, these guests are continually acting upon the\nlife, either for good or evil, according to their quality. As the\nguests are, so our states of life--tranquil and happy, if good;\ndisturbed and miserable, if evil.\n\nWe may choose our own guests, if we are wise. None can open the door\nand come in, unless we give consent; always provided that we keep watch\nand ward. If we leave wide open the doors of our houses, or neglect to\nfasten them in the night season, thieves and robbers will enter and\ndespoil us at will. So if we leave the heart, unguarded, enemies will\ncome in. But if we open the door only to good affections--which are\nguests--then we shall dwell in peace and safety. We have all opened the\ndoor for enemies; or let them enter through unguarded portals. They are\nin all the heart's guest-chambers. They possess the very citadel of\nlife; and the measure of their possession is the measure of our\nunhappiness.\n\nMarkland was an unhappy man; and yet of this world's goods, after which\nhe had striven, he had an abundance. Wealth, honor among men, luxury;\nthese were presented to his mind as things most to be desired, and he\nreached after them with an ardor that broke down all impediments.\nSuccess answered to effort, with almost unerring certainty. So he was\nfull of wealth and honors. But, for all this, Markland was unhappy.\nThere were enemies in the house of his life; troublesome guests in the\nguest-chambers of his heart, who were forever disturbing, if not\nwounding him, with their strifes and discords. Some of these he had\nadmitted, himself holding open the door; others had come in by stealth\nwhile the entrance was all unguarded.\n\nEnvy was one of these guests, and she gave him no peace. He could not\nbear that another should stand above him in anything. A certain pew in\nthe church he attended was regarded as most desirable. He must have\nthat pew at any cost. So when the annual choice of pews was sold at\nauction, he overbid all contestants, and secured its occupancy. For all\nthe preceding year, he had failed to enjoy the Sabbath services,\nbecause another family had a pew regarded as better situated than his;\nand now he enjoyed these services as little, through annoyance at\nhaving given so large a price for the right of choice, that people\nsmiled when they heard the sum named. He had paid too dear for the\nprivilege, and this fact took away enjoyment.\n\nEnvy tormented him in a hundred different ways. He could not enjoy his\nfriend's exquisite statuary, or paintings, because of a secret\nintimation in his heart that his friend was honored above him in their\npossession. Twice he had sold almost palatial residences, because their\narchitectural attractions were thrown into the shade by dwellings of\nlater construction. Thousands of dollars each year this troublesome\nguest cost him; and yet she would never let him be at ease. At every\nfeast of life she dashed his cup with bitterness, and robbed the\nchoicest viands of their zest. He did not enjoy the fame of an author,\nan orator, an artist, a man of science, a general, or of any who held\nthe world's admiring gaze--for while they stood in the sunlight, he\nfelt cast in the shade. So the guest Envy, warmed and nourished in his\nheart, proved a tormentor. She gave him neither rest nor peace.\n\nDetraction, twin-sister of Envy, was all the while pointing out defects\nin friends and neighbors. He saw their faults and hard peculiarities;\nbut rarely their good qualities. Then Doubt and Distrust crept in\nthrough the unguarded door, and soon after their entrance Markland\nbegan to think uneasily of the future; to fear lest the foundations of\nworldly prosperity were not sure. These troublesome guests were busiest\nin the night season, haunting his mind with strange pictures of\ndisasters, and with suggestions touching the arbitrary power of God,\nwhom he feared when the thought of him was present, but did not love.\n\"Whom He will He setteth up, and whom He will He casteth down.\" Doubt\nand Distrust revived this warning in his memory, and seeing that it\ngave his heart a throb of pain, they set it close to his eyes, so that,\nfor a time, he could see nothing else. Thus, night after night, these\nguests troubled his peace, often driving slumber from his eyelids until\nthe late morning watches. If there had been in his heart that true\nfaith in God which believes in him as doing all things well, Doubt and\nDistrust might never have gained an entrance. But he had trusted in\nhimself; had believed himself equal to the task of creating his own\nprosperity--had been, in common phrase, the architect of his own\nfortunes. And now just as he was pluming himself on success, in crept\nDoubt and Distrust with their alarming suggestions, and he was unable\nto cast them out.\n\nAffections, whether evil or good, are social in their character, and\nobey social laws. They do not like to dwell alone, and therefore seek\ncongenial friendships. They draw to themselves companions of like\nquality, and are not satisfied until they rule a man as to all the\npowers of his mind.\n\nIn the case of Markland, Envy made room for her twin-sister,\nDetraction; Ill-will, Jealousy, Unkindness, and a teeming brood of\ntheir malevolent kindred crowded into his heart, possessing its\nchambers, ere a warning reached him of their approach. Is there rest or\npeace for a man with such guests in his bosom?\n\nDoubt and Distrust only heralded the coming of Fear, Anxiety,\nSolicitude, Suspicion, Despondency, Foreboding. Markland had only to\nopen his eyes and look around him, to see, on every hand, the unsightly\nwrecks of palaces once as fair to the eye as that which he had raised\nwith such labor and forethought, and as he contemplated these, Doubt,\nDistrust, and their companions, filled his mind with alarming thoughts,\nand so oppressed him with a sense of insecurity that, at times, he saw\nthe advancing shadows of misfortune on his path.\n\nThus it was with Markland at fifty. He had all good as to the externals\nof life, yet was he a miserable man, and, worse than all, he felt\nhimself growing more and more unhappy as the years increased. Was there\nno remedy for this? None, while his heart was so filled with evil\naffections, which are always tormentors. He did not see this. Though\nhis guests disturbed and afflicted him, he called them friends, and\ngave them entertainments of the best his house afforded.\n\nSometimes Pity came to the door of his heart and asked for admission,\nbut he sent Unkindness to double bar it against her. Generosity\nknocked, but Avarice stood sentinel. Envy was forever refusing to let\nGood-will, Appreciation, Approval, Delight, come in. Detraction would\ngive no countenance to Virtue and Excellence. Doubt made deadly assault\nupon Faith, and Trust, and Hope, whenever they drew near, while\nIll-will stood ever on the alert to drive off Charity, Loving-kindness\nand Neighborly regard. Unhappy man! Fiends possessed him, and he knew\nit not.\n\nIt so happened on a time, that Markland, while standing in one of his\nwell-filled ware-houses, saw a child enter and come towards him in a\ntimid, hesitating manner.\n\n\"A beggar! Drive her away,\" said Unkindness and Suspicion, both\narousing themselves.\n\nMarkland was already lifting his hand to wave her back, when\nCompassion, who had just then found an old way into his heart, hidden\nfor a long time by rank weeds and brambles, said, in soft and pitying\ntones:\n\n\"She is such a little child!\"\n\n\"A thieving beggar!\" cried Unkindness and Suspicion, angrily.\n\n\"A weak little child,\" pleaded Compassion. \"Don't be hard with her.\nSpeak kindly.\"\n\nCompassion prevailed. Her voice had awakened into life some old and\nlong sleeping memories. Markland was himself, for a moment, a child,\nfull of pity, tenderness and loving-kindness. Compassion had already\nuncovered the far away past, and the sweetness of its young blossoms\nwas reviving old delights.\n\n\"Well, little one, what is wanted?\"\n\nMarkland hardly knew his own voice, it was so gentle and inviting.\n\nHow the pale, pure face of the child warmed and brightened! Gratefully\nwith trust and hope in her eyes, she looked up to the merchant. There\nwas no answer on her lips, for this unexpected kindness had choked the\ncoming utterance. Rebuff, threat, anger, had met her so often, that\nsoft words almost surprised her into tears.\n\n\"Well, what can I do for you?\"\n\nCompassion held open the door through which she gained an entrance, and\nalready Good-will, Kindness and Satisfaction had come in.\n\n\"Mother is sick,\" said the child.\n\n\"A lying vagrant!\" exclaimed Suspicion, jarring the merchant's inward\near.\n\n\"There is truth in her face,\" said Compassion, pleading, and, at the\nsame time, she unveiled an image, sharply cut in the past of Markland's\nlife--an image of his own beloved, but long sainted mother, pale and\nwasted, on her dying bed.\n\n\"Give this to your mother,\" he said, hastily, taking a coin from his\npocket. There was more of human kindness in his voice than it had\nexpressed for many years.\n\n\"God bless you, sir,\" the child dropped her grateful eyes from his\nface, as she took the coin, bending with an involuntary reverent\nmotion. Then, as she slowly passed to the warehouse door, she turned\ntwo or three times, to look on the man who, alone, of the many to whom\nshe had made solicitation that day, had answered her in kindness.\n\n\"So much for the encouragement of vagrancy,\" said Suspicion.\n\n\"Played on by the art of a cunning child,\" said Pride.\n\nMarkland began to feel ashamed of his momentary weakness. But, he was\nnot now, wholly, at the mercy of the guests who had so long tormented\nhim. Compassion, Good-will and Kindness were now his guests also; and\nthey had other and pleasanter suggestions for his mind. The child's\n\"God bless you, sir,\" they repeated over and over again, softening the\nyoung voice, and giving it increasing power to awaken tender and loving\nstates which had formed themselves in earlier and purer years.\nTranquility, so long absent from his soul, came in, now, through the\nentrance made by Compassion.\n\nMarkland went back into his counting-room, almost wondering at the\npeace he felt. Taking up a newspaper, he read of a rare specimen of\nstatuary just received from Italy, the property of a well-known\nmerchant. Envy did not move quickly enough. The old love of beauty and\nnature, which envy, detraction, greed of gain, and their blear-eyed\ncompanions, had kept in thrall, was already in a freer state; and found\nin good-will, kindness and tranquility, congenial friends.\n\nSo, love of art and beauty ruled his mind in spite of envy, and\nMarkland found real pleasure in the ideal given him by the description\nhe read. It was, almost, a new sensation.\n\nA friend came in, and spoke in praise of one who had performed a\ngenerous deed. There was an instant motion among the guests in\nMarkland's heart, the evil inciting to envy and detraction, the good to\napproval and emulation. Tranquility moved to the door through which she\nhad come in, as if to depart; but Good-will, Kindness and Approbation,\ndrew her back, and held, with her, possession of the mind they sought\nto rule. Envy and Detraction were shorn, for the time, of their power.\n\nWondering, as he lay on his bed that night, over the strange peace that\npervaded his mind--a peace such as he had not known for many\nyears--Markland fell asleep; and in his sleep there came to him a dream\nof the human heart and its guest-chamber; and what we have faintly\nsuggested, was made visible to him in living personation.\n\nHe saw how evil affections, when permitted to dwell therein, became its\nenemies and tormentors; and how, just in the degree that kind and good\naffections gained entrance, there was peace, tranquility and\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"I have looked into my own heart,\" he said, on awaking.\n\nThe incident of the child, and the dream that followed, were, in\nProvidence, sent for Markland's instruction. And they were not sent in\nvain. Ever after he set watch and ward at the doors of his heart. Evil\nguests, already in possession, were difficult to cast out; but, he\ninvited the good to come in, opening the way by kind and noble acts,\ndone in the face of opposing selfishness. Thus he went on, peopling the\nguest-chamber with sweet beatitudes, until angels instead of demons\nfilled his house of life.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nCAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.\n\n\n\"_TRIPPED_ again!\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Brantley.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow! He has a hard time of it. Is he all the way down?\"\n\n\"I presume so. When he begins to fall, he usually gets to the bottom of\nthe ladder.\"\n\nIt was true; Brantley had tripped again; and was down. He had been\nclimbing bravely for three or four years, and was well up the ladder of\nprosperity, when in his eagerness to make two rundles of the ladder at\na step instead of one, he missed his footing and fell to the bottom. My\nfirst knowledge of the fact came through the conversation just\nrecorded. From all I could hear, Brantley's failure was a serious one.\nI knew him to be honorable and conscientious, and to have a great deal\nof sensitive pride.\n\nA few days afterwards, while passing the pleasant home where Brantley\nhad been residing, I saw a bill up, giving notice that the house was\nfor sale. A few days later I met him on the street. He did not see me.\nHis eyes were on the pavement; he looked pale and careworn; he walked\nslowly, and was in deep thought.\n\n\"He is of tougher material than most men, if the heart is not all taken\nout of him,\" I said in speaking of him to a mutual friend.\n\n\"And he _is_ of tougher material,\" was answered, \"that is, of finer\nmaterial. Brantley is not one of your common men.\"\n\n\"Still, there must be something wrong about him. Some defect of\njudgment. He is a good climber; but not sure-footed. Or, it may be that\nbeyond a certain height his head grows dizzy.\"\n\n\"If one gets too eager in any pursuit, he is almost sure to make false\nsteps. I think Brantley became too eager. The steadily widening\nprospect as he went up, up, up, caused his pulses to move at a quicker\nrate.\"\n\n\"Too eager, and less scrupulous,\" I suggested.\n\n\"His honor is unstained,\" said the friend, with some warmth.\n\n\"In the degree that a man grows eager in pursuit, he is apt to grow\nblind to things collateral, and less concerned about the principles\ninvolved.\"\n\n\"In some cases that may be true, but is hardly probable in the case of\nBrantley. I do not believe that he has swerved from integrity in\nanything.\"\n\n\"It is my belief,\" I answered, \"that if he had not swerved, he would\nnot have fallen. I may be wrong, but cannot help the impression.\"\n\n\"Brantley is an honest man. I will maintain that in the face of every\none,\" was replied.\n\n\"Honest as the world regards honesty. But there are higher than legal\nstandards. What A and B may consider fair, C may regard as\nquestionable. He has his own standard; and if he falls below that in\nhis dealings with men, he departs from his integrity.\"\n\n\"I have nothing to say for Brantley under that view of the subject,\"\nsaid the friend. \"If he has special standards of morality, and does not\nlive up to them, the matter is between himself and his own conscience.\nWe, on the outside, are not his judges.\"\n\nIt so happened that I met Brantley a short time afterwards. The\ncircumstances were favorable, and our interview unreserved. He had sold\nhis house, and a large part of the handsome furniture it contained, and\nwas living in a humbler dwelling. I referred to his changed condition,\nand spoke of it with regret.\n\n\"There is no gratuitous evil,\" he remarked. \"I have long been satisfied\non that head. If we lose on one hand, we gain on another. And my\nexperience in life leads me to this conclusion, that the loss is\ngenerally in lower things, and the gain in higher.\"\n\nI looked into his face, yet bearing the marks of recent trial and\nsuffering, and saw in it the morning dawn.\n\n\"Has it been so with you?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes; and it has always been so,\" he answered, without hesitation. \"It\nis painful to be under the surgeon's knife,\" he added. \"We shrink back,\nshivering, at the sight of his instruments. The flesh is agonized. But\nwhen all is over, and the greedy tumor, or wasting cancer, that was\nthreatening life, is gone, we rejoice and are glad.\"\n\nHe sighed, and looked sober for a little while, as thought went back,\nand memory gave too vivid a realization of what had been, and then\nresumed:\n\n\"I can see now, that what seemed to me, and is still regarded by others\nas a great misfortune, was the best thing that could have taken place.\nI have lost, but I have gained; and the gain is greater than the loss.\nIt has always been so. Out of every trouble or disaster that has\nbefallen me in life, I have come with a deep conviction that my feet\nstumbled because they were turning into paths that would lead my soul\nastray. However much I may love myself and the world, however much I\nmay seek my own, below all and above all is the conviction that time is\nfleeting, and life here but as a span, that if I compass the whole\nworld, and lose my own soul, I have made a fearful exchange. There are\na great many things regarded by business men as allowable. They are so\ncommon in trade, that scarcely one man in a score questions their\nmorality; so common, that I have often found myself drifting into their\npractice, and abandoning for a time the higher principles in whose\nguidance there alone is safety. Misfortune seems to have dogged my\nsteps; but in this pause of my life--in this state of calmness--I can\nsee that misfortune is my good; for, not until my feet were turning\ninto ways that lead to death, did I stumble and fall.\"\n\n\"Are you not too hard in self-judgment?\" I said.\n\n\"No,\" he answered. \"The case stands just here. You know, I presume, the\nimmediate cause of my recent failure in business.\"\n\n\"A sudden decline in stocks.\"\n\nThe color deepened on his cheeks.\n\n\"Yes; that is the cause. Now, years ago, I settled it clearly with my\nown conscience that stock speculation was wrong; that it was only\nanother name for gambling, in which, instead of rendering service to\nthe community, your gains were, in nearly all cases, measured by\nanother's loss. Departing from this just principle of action, I was\ntempted to invest a large sum of money in a rising stock, that I was\nsure would continue to advance until it reached a point where, in\nselling I could realize a net gain of ten thousand dollars. I was doing\nwell. I was putting by from two to three thousand dollars every year,\nand was in a fair way to get rich. But, as money began to accumulate, I\ngrew more and more eager in its acquirement, and less concerned about\nthe principles underlying every action, until I passed into a temporary\nstate of moral blindness. I was less scrupulous about securing large\nadvantages in trade, and would take the lion's share, if opportunity\noffered, without a moment's hesitation. So, not content with doing well\nin a safe path, I must step aside, and try my strength at climbing more\nrapidly, even though danger threatened on the left and on the right;\neven though I dragged others down in my hot and perilous scramble\nupwards. I lost my footing--I stumbled--I fell, crashing down to the\nvery bottom of the hill, half way up which I had gone so safely ere the\ngreedy fiend took possession of me.\"\n\n\"And have not been really hurt by the fall,\" I remarked.\n\n\"I have suffered pain--terrible pain; for I am of a sensitive nature,\"\nhe replied. \"But in the convulsions of agony, nothing but the outside\nshell of a false life has been torn away. The real man is unharmed. And\nnow that the bitter disappointment and sadness that attend humiliation\nare over, I can say that my gain is greater than my loss. I would\nrather grope in the vale of poverty all my life, and keep my conscience\nclean, than stand high up among the mountains of prosperity with a\ntaint thereon.\n\n\"God knows best,\" he added, after a pause, speaking in a more subdued\ntone. \"And I recognize the hand of His good providence in this wreck of\nmy worldly hopes. To gain riches at the sacrifice of just principles is\nto gather up dirt and throw away goodly pearls.\"\n\n\"How is it with your family?\" I asked. \"They must feel the change\nseverely.\"\n\n\"They did feel it. But the pain is over with them also. Poor weak human\nnature! My girls were active and industrious at home, and diligent at\nschool, while my circumstances were limited. But, as money grew more\nplentiful, and I gave them a larger house to live in, and richer\nclothes to wear, they wearied of their useful employments, and\nneglected their studies. Pride grew apace, and vanity walked hand in\nhand with pride. They were less considerate of one another, and less\nloving to their parents. If I attempted to restrain their fondness for\ndress, or check their extravagance, they grew sullen, or used unfilial\nlanguage. Like their father, they could not bear prosperity. But all is\nchanged now. Misfortune has restored them to a better state of mind.\nThey emulate each other in service at home; their minds dwell on useful\nthings; they are tender of their mother and considerate of their\nfather. Home is a sweeter place to us all than it has been for a long\ntime.\"\n\n\"And so what the world calls misfortune has proved a blessing.\"\n\n\"Yes. In permitting my feet to stumble; in letting me fall from the\nheight I had obtained, God dealt with me and mine in infinite love. We\ngive false names to things. We call that good which only represents\ngood, which is of the heart and life, and not in external possessions.\nHe has taken from me the effigy that He may give me the good itself.\"\n\n\"If all men could find like you,\" I said, \"a sweet kernel at the centre\nof misfortune's bitter nut.\"\n\n\"All men may find it if they will,\" he answered, \"for the sweet kernel\nis there.\"\n\nHow few find it! Nay, reader, if you say this, your observation is at\nfault. God's providences with men are not like blind chances, but full\nof wisdom and love. In the darkness of sorrow and adversity a light\nshines on the path that was not illumined before. When the sun of\nworldly prosperity goes down, a thousand stars are set in the\nfirmament. In the stillness that follows, God speaks to the soul and is\nheard.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nINTO GOOD GROUND.\n\n\n\"_WHAT_ did you think of the sermon, Mr. Braxton?\" said one church\nmember to another, as the two men passed from the vestibule of St.\nMark's out into the lofty portico.\n\nMr. Braxton gave a slight shrug, perceived by his companion as a sign\nof disapproval. They moved along, side by side, down the broad steps to\nthe pavement, closely pressed by the retiring audience.\n\n\"Strong meat,\" said the first speaker, as they got free of the crowd\nand commenced moving down the street.\n\n\"Too strong for my stomach,\" replied Mr. Braxton. \"Something must have\ngone wrong with our minister when he sat down to write that discourse.\"\n\n\"Indigestion, perhaps.\"\n\n\"Or neuralgia,\" said Mr. Braxton.\n\n\"He was in no amiable mood--that much is certain. Why, he set\nnine-tenths of us over on the left hand side, among the goats, as\nremorselessly as if he were an avenging Nemesis. He actually made me\nshudder.\"\n\n\"That kind of literal application of texts to the living men and women\nin a congregation is not only in bad taste, but presumptuous and\nblasphemous. What right has a clergyman to sit in judgment on me, for\ninstance? To give forced constructions to parables and vague\ngeneralities in Scripture, about the actual meaning of which divines in\nall ages have differed; and, pointing his finger to me or to you,\nsay--'The case is yours, sir!' I cannot sit patiently under many more\nsuch sermons.\"\n\nMr. Braxton evidently spoke from a disturbed state of mind. Something\nin the discourse had struck at the foundations of self-love and\nself-complacency.\n\n\"Into one ear, and out at the other. So it is with me, in cases like\nthis,\" answered Mr. Braxton's companion, in a changed and lighter tone.\n\"If a preacher chooses to be savage; to write from dyspeptic or\nneuralgic states; to send his congregation, unshrived, to the nether\nregions--why, I shrug my shoulders and let it pass. Most likely, on the\nnext Sunday, he will be full of consideration for tender consciences,\nand grandly shut the gate he threw open so widely on the last occasion.\nIt would never answer, you know, to take these things to heart--never\nin the world. We'd always be getting into hot water. Clergymen have\ntheir moods, like other people. It doesn't answer to forget this. Good\nmorning, Mr. Braxton. Our ways part here.\"\n\n\"Good morning,\" was replied, and the men separated.\n\nBut, try as Mr. Braxton would to set his minister's closely applied\ndoctrine from Scripture to the account of dyspepsia or neuralgia, he\nwas unable to push from his mind certain convictions wrought therein by\nthe peculiar manner in which some positions had been argued and\nsustained. The subject taken by the minister, was that striking picture\nof the judgment given in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, from the\nthirty-first verse to the close of the chapter, beginning: \"When the\nSon of Man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him,\nthen shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and before him shall be\ngathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a\nshepherd divideth his sheep from the goats.\" The passage concludes:\n\"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous\ninto life eternal.\"\n\nNow, although Mr. Braxton had complained of the literal application of\nthis text, that term was hardly admissible, for the preacher waived the\nidea of a last general judgment, as involved in the letter of\nScripture, and declared his belief in a spiritual signification as\nlying beneath the letter, and applicable to the inner life of every\nsingle individual at the period of departure from this world; adding,\nin this connection, briefly: \"But do not understand me as in any degree\nwaiving the strictness of judgment to which every soul will have to\nsubmit. It will not be limited by his acts, but go down to his ends of\nlife--to his motives and his quality--and the sentence will really be a\njudgment upon what he _is_, not upon what he has _done_; although,\ntaking the barest literal sense, only actions are regarded.\"\n\nIn opening and illustrating his text, he said, farther: \"As the word of\nGod, according to its own declarations, is spirit and life--treats, in\nfact, by virtue of divine and Scriptural origin, of divine and\nspiritual things, must we not go beneath the merely obvious and natural\nmeaning, if we would get to its true significance? Is there not a\nhunger of the soul as well as of the body? May we not be spiritually\nathirst, and strangers?--naked, sick, and in prison? This being so, can\nwe confidently look for the invitation, 'Come, ye blessed of my Father,\nif our regard for the neighbor have not reached beyond his bodily life?\nIf we have never considered his spiritual wants and sufferings, and\nministered thereto according to our ability? Just in the degree that\nthe soul is more precious than the body, is the degree of our\nresponsibility under this more interior signification of Scripture. The\nmere natural acts of feeding the hungry and giving water to the\nthirsty, of visiting the sick, and those who lie in prison, of clothing\nthe naked and entertaining strangers, will not save us in our last day,\nif we have neglected the higher duties involved in the divine\nadmonition. Nor will even the supply of spiritual nourishment to hungry\nand thirsty souls be accounted to us for righteousness. We must find a\nhigher meaning still in the text. Are we not, each one of us, starving\nfor heavenly food?--spiritually exhausted with thirst?--naked, sick, in\nprison? Are we eating, daily, of the bread of life?--drinking at the\nwells of God's truth?--putting on the garments of\nrighteousness?--finding balm for our sick souls in Gilead?--breaking\nthe bonds of evil?--turning from strange lands, and coming back to our\nfather's house. If not, I warn you, men and brethren, that you are not\nin the right way;--that, taking the significance of God's word, which\nis truth itself, there is no reasonable ground of hope for your\nsalvation.\"\n\nIt was not with Mr. Braxton as with his friend. He could not let\nconsiderations like these enter one ear and go out at the other. From\nearliest childhood he had received careful instruction. Parents,\nteachers and preachers, had all shared in the work of storing his mind\nwith the precepts of religion, and now, in manhood, his conscience\nrested on these and upon the states wrought therefrom in the\nimpressible substance of his mind. Try as he would, he found the effort\nto push aside early convictions and early impressions a simple\nimpossibility; and, notwithstanding these had been laid on the\nfoundation of a far more literal interpretation of Scripture than the\none to which he had just been listening, his maturer reason accepted\nthe preacher's clear application of the law; and conscience, like an\nangel, went down into his heart, and troubled the waters which had been\nat peace.\n\nMr. Braxton was a man of thrift. He had started in life with a purpose,\nand that purpose he was steadily attaining. To the god of this world he\noffered daily sacrifice; and in his heart really desired no higher good\nthan seemed attainable through outward things. Wealth, position, honor,\namong men--these bounded his real aspirations. But prior things in his\nmind were continually reaching down and affecting his present states.\nHe could not forget that life was short, and earthly possessions and\nhonors but the things of a day. That as he brought nothing into this\nworld, so he could take nothing out. That, without a religious life, he\nmust not hope for heaven. In order to get free from the disturbing\ninfluence of these prior things, and to lay the foundations of a future\nhope, Mr. Braxton became a church member, and, so far as all Sabbath\nobservances were concerned, a devout worshiper. Thus he made a truce\nwith conscience, and conscience having gained so much, accepted for a\nperiod the truce, and left Mr. Braxton in good odor with himself.\n\nA man who goes regularly to church, and reads his Bible, cannot fail to\nhave questions and controversies about truths, duties, and the\nrequirements of religion. The barest literal interpretation of\nScripture will, in most cases, oppose the action of self-love; and he\nwill not fail to see in the law of spiritual life a requirement wholly\nin opposition to the law of natural life. In the very breadth of this\nliteral requirement, however, he finds a way of escape from literal\nobservance. To give to all who ask; to lend to all who would borrow; to\nyield the cloak when the coat is taken forcibly; to turn the left cheek\nwhen the right is smitten--all this is to him so evidently but a figure\nof speech, that he does not find it very hard to satisfy conscience.\nSetting these passages aside, as not to be taken in the sense of the\nletter, he does not find it very difficult to dispose of others that\ncome nearer to the obvious duties of man to man--such, for instance, as\nthat in the illustration of which, by the preacher, Mr. Braxton's\nself-complacency had been so much disturbed. He had never done much in\nthe way of feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing\nthe naked, or visiting the sick and in prison--never done anything of\nset purpose, in fact. If people were hungry, it was mostly their own\nfault, and to feed them would be to encourage idleness and vice. All\nthe other items in the catalogue were as easily disposed of; and so the\nliteral duties involved might have been set forth in the most\nimpassioned eloquence, Sabbath after Sabbath, without much disturbing\nthe fine equipose of Mr. Braxton. Alas for his peace of mind!--the\npreacher of truth had gone past the dead letter, and revealed its\nspirit and its life. Suddenly he felt himself removed, as it were, to\nan almost impossible distance from the heaven into which, as he had\ncomplacently flattered himself, he should enter by the door of mere\nritual observances, when the sad hour came for giving up the delightful\nthings of this pleasant world. No wonder that Mr. Braxton was\ndisturbed--no wonder that, in his first convictions touching those more\ninterior truths, which made visible the sandy foundations whereon he\nwas building his eternal hopes, he should regard the application of\ndoctrine as personal and even literal.\n\nIt was not so easy a thing to set aside the duty of ministering to the\nhungry, sick, and naked human souls around him, thousands of whom, for\nlack of spiritual nourishment, medicine and clothing, were in danger of\nperishing eternally. And the preacher in dwelling upon this great duty\nof all Christian men and women, had used emphatic language.\n\n\"I give you,\" he said, \"God's judgment of the case--not my own.\n'Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these, ye did it\nnot unto me. And these shall go away;' where? 'To everlasting\npunishment!' Who shall go thus, in the last day, from this\ncongregation?\"\n\nAs Mr. Braxton sat alone on the evening of that Sabbath, troubled by\nthe new thoughts which came flowing into his mind, the full impression\nof this scene in church came back upon him. There was an almost\nbreathless pause. Men leaned forward in their pews; the low, almost\nwhispered, tones of the minister were heard with thrilling distinctness\nin even the remotest parts of the house.\n\n\"Who?\" he repeated, and the stillness grew more profound. Then, slowly,\nimpressively, almost sadly, he said:\n\n\"I cannot hide the truth. As God's ambassador, I must give the message;\nand it is this: If you, my brother, are not ministering to the wants of\nthe hungry and thirsty, the stranger, the sick and in prison, you are\nof those who will have to go away.\"\n\nAnd the minister shut the Book, and sat down. If, as we have intimated,\nthe preacher had limited Christian duty to bodily needs, Mr. Braxton\nwould not have been much exercised in mind.\n\nHe had found an easy way to dispose of these merely literal\ninterpretations of Scripture. Now, his life was brought to the judgment\nof a more interior law, as expounded that day. It was in vain that he\nendeavored to reject the law; for the more he tried to do this, the\nclearer it was seen in the light of perceptive truth.\n\n\"God help me, if this be so!\" he exclaimed, in a moment of more perfect\nrealization of what was meant in the Divine Word. \"Who shall stand in\nthe judgment?\"\n\nFor awhile he endeavored to turn himself away from convictions that\nwere grounding themselves deeper and deeper every moment,--to shut his\neyes in wilful blindness, and refuse to see in the purer light which\nhad fallen around him. But this effort only brought his mind into\nseverer conflict, and consciously removed him to an almost fatal\ndistance from the paths leading upward to the mountains of peace.\n\n\"This is the way, walk ye in it.\" A clear voice rose above the noise of\nstrife in his soul, and his soul grew calm and listened. He no longer\nwrought at the fruitless task of rejecting the higher truths which were\nillustrating his mind, but let them flow in, and by virtue thereof\nexamined the state of his inner life. Now it was that his eyes were in\na degree opened, so that he could apprehend the profounder meanings of\nScripture. The parables were flooded with new light. He understood, as\nhe had never understood before, why the guest, unclothed with a wedding\ngarment, was cast out from the feast; and why the door was shut upon\nthe virgins who had no oil in their lamps. He had always regarded these\nparables as involving a hidden meaning--as intended to convey spiritual\ninstruction under literal forms--but, now, they spoke in a language\nthat applied itself to his inward state, and warned him that without a\nmarriage garment, woven in the loom of interior life, where motives\nrule, he could never be the King's guest; warned him that without the\nlight of divine truth in his understanding, and the oil of love to God\nand the neighbor in his heart, the door of the kingdom would be shut\nagainst him. Ritual observances were, to these, but outward forms, dry\nhusks, except when truly representative of that worship in the soul\nwhich subordinates natural affections to what is spiritual and divine.\n\nAt last the seed fell into good ground. Mr. Braxton had been a\n\"way-side\" hearer; but, ere the good seed had time to germinate, fowls\ncame and devoured it. He had been a \"stony-ground\" hearer, receiving\nthe truth with gladness, but having no root in himself. He had been as\nthe ground choked with thorns, suffering the cares of this world and\nthe deceitfulness of riches to choke and hinder the growth of heavenly\nlife. Now, into good ground the seed had at last fallen; and though the\nevil one tried to snatch it away, its hidden life, moving to the\nearth's quick invitation, was already giving prophetic signs of thirty,\nsixty, or a hundredfold, in the harvest time.\n\nWhy was there good ground in the mind of Mr. Braxton? Good ground, even\nthough he was wedded to external life; a self-seeker; a lover of the\nworld? In the answer to this question lies a most important truth for\nall to whom God has committed the care of children. Unless good ground\nis formed, as it was in his case, by early instruction; by storing up\nin the memory truths from the Bible, and states of good affection; by\nweaving into the web and woof of the forming mind precepts of\nreligion--there is small hope for the future. If these are not made a\npart of the forming life, things opposite will be received, and\ndetermine spiritual capabilities. Influx of life into the soul must be\nthrough prior things; as the twig is bent, the tree is inclined; as the\nchild's memory and consciousness is stored, so will the man develop and\nprogress. Take heart, then, doubting parent; if you have in all\nfaithfulness, woven precious truths, and tender, pious, unselfish\nstates into the texture of your child's mind--though the fruit is not\nyet seen, depend on it, that the treasured remains of good and true\nthings are there, and will not be lost.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nGIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.\n\n\n_OF_ all the fallacies accepted by men as truths, there is none more\nwidely prevalent, nor more fatal to happiness, than that which assumes\nthe measure of possession to be the measure of enjoyment. All over the\nworld, the strife for accumulation goes on; every one seeking to\nincrease his flocks and herds--his lands and houses--or his gold and\nmerchandise--and ever in the weary, restless, unsatisfied present,\ntightening with one hand the grasp on worldly goods, and reaching out\nfor new accessions with the other.\n\nIn dispensation, not in possession, lies the secret of enjoyment; a\nfact which nature illustrates in a thousand ways, and to which every\nman's experience gives affirmation. \"Very good doctrine for the idle\nand thriftless,\" said Mr. Henry Steel, a gentleman of large wealth, in\nanswer to a friend, who had advanced the truth we have expressed above.\n\n\"As good doctrine for them as for you,\" was replied. \"Possession must\ncome before dispensation. It is not the receiver but the dispenser who\ngets the higher blessing.\"\n\nThe rich man shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly annoyed, as\none upon whom a distasteful theme was intruded.\n\n\"I hear that kind of talk every Sunday,\" he said, almost impatiently.\n\"But I know what it is worth. Preaching is as much a business as\nanything else; and this cant about its being more blessed to give than\nto receive is a part of the capital in trade of your men of black coats\nand white neck-ties. I understand it all, Mr. Erwin.\"\n\n\"You talk lighter than is your wont on so grave a theme,\" answered the\nfriend. \"What you speak of as 'cant,' and the preacher's 'capital in\ntrade'--'it is more blessed to give than to receive, are the recorded\nwords of him who never spake as man spake. If his words, must they not\nbe true?\"\n\n\"Perhaps I did speak lightly,\" was returned. \"But indeed, Mr. Erwin, I\ncannot help feeling that in all these efforts to make rich men believe\nthat their only way to happiness is through a distribution of their\nestates, a large element of covetousness exists.\"\n\n\"That may be. But, to-day you are worth over a quarter of million of\ndollars. I remember when fifty thousand, all told, limited the extent\nof your possessions, and I think you were happier than I find you\nto-day. How was it, my friend?\"\n\n\"As to that,\" was unhesitatingly replied, \"I had more true enjoyment in\nlife when I was simply a clerk with a salary of four hundred dollars a\nyear, than I have known at any time since.\"\n\n\"A remarkable confession,\" said the friend.\n\n\"Yet true, nevertheless.\"\n\n\"In all these years of strife with fortune--in all these years of\nunremitted gain--has there been any great and worthy end in your mind?\nAny purpose beyond the acquirement of wealth?\"\n\nMr. Steel's brows contracted. He looked at his friend for a moment like\none half surprised, and then glanced thoughtfully down at the floor.\n\n\"Gain, and only gain,\" said Mr. Erwin. \"Not your history alone, nor\nmine alone. It is the history of millions. Gathering, gathering, but\nnever of free choice, dispensing. Still, under Providence, the\ndispensation goes on; and what we hoard, in due time another\ndistributes. Men accumulate gold like water in great reservoirs;\naccumulate it for themselves, and refuse to lay conduits. Often they\npour in their gold until the banks fail under excessive pressure, and\nthe rich treasure escapes to flow back among the people. Often secret\nconduits are laid, and refreshing and fertilizing currents, unknown to\nthe selfish owner, flow steadily out, while he toils with renewed and\nanxious labors to keep the repository full. Oftener, the great magazine\nof accumulated gold and silver, which he never found time to enjoy, is\nrifled by others at his death. He was the toiler and the\naccumulator--the slave who only produced. Miners, pearl-divers,\ngold-washers are we, my friend; but what we gather we fail to possess\nin that true sense of possession which involves delight and\nsatisfaction. For us the toil, for others the benefit.\"\n\n\"A flattering picture certainly!\" was responded by Mr. Steel, with the\nmanner of one on whose mind an unpleasant conviction was forcing itself.\n\n\"Is it not true to the life? Death holds out to us his unwelcome hand,\nand we must leave all. The key of our treasure-house is given, to\nanother.\"\n\n\"Yet, is he not bound by our will?\" said Mr. Steel. \"As we have\nordered, must not he dispense?\"\n\n\"Why not dispense with our own hands, and with our own eyes see the\nfruit thereof? Why not, in some small measure, at least prove if it be\nindeed, more blessed to give than to receive? Let us talk plainly to\neach other--we are friends. I know that in your will is a bequest of\nfive thousand dollars to a certain charitable institution, that, even\nin its limited way, is doing much good. I speak now of only this single\nitem. In my will, following your example and suggestion, is a similar\nbequest of one thousand dollars. You are forty-five and I am\nforty-seven. How long do we expect to live?\"\n\n\"Life is uncertain.\"\n\n\"Yet often prolonged to sixty, seventy, or even eighty years. Take\nsixty-five as the mean. Not for twenty years, then, will this\ninstitution receive the benefit of your good intention. It costs, I\nthink, about fifty dollars a year to support each orphan child. Only a\nsmall number can be taken, for want of liberal means. Applicants are\nrefused admission almost every day. Three hundred dollars, the interest\non five thousand, at six per cent., would pay for six children. Take\nfive years as the average time each would remain in the institution,\nand we have thirty poor, neglected little ones, taken from the street,\nand educated for usefulness. Thirty human souls rescued, it may be,\nfrom hell, and saved, finally, in heaven. And all this good might be\naccomplished before your eyes. You might, if you chose, see it in\nprogress, and comprehending its great significance, experience a degree\nof pleasure, such as fills the hearts of angels. I have made up my mind\nwhat to do.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Erase the item of one thousand dollars from my will.\"\n\n\"What then?\"\n\n\"Call it two thousand, and invest it at once for the use of this\ncharity. No, twenty years shall stand between my purpose and its\nexecution. I will have the satisfaction of knowing that good is done in\nmy lifetime. In this case, at least, I will be my own dispenser.\"\n\nLove of money was a strong element in the heart of Mr. Steel. The\nricher he grew, the more absorbing became his desire for riches. It was\ncomparatively an easy thing to write out charitable bequests in a\nwill--to give money for good uses when no longer able to hold\npossession thereof; but to lessen his valued treasure by taking\nanything therefrom for others in the present time, was a thing the very\nsuggestion of which startled into life a host of opposing reasons. He\ndid not respond immediately, although his heart moved him to utterance.\nThe force of his friend's argument was, however, conclusive. He saw the\nwhole subject in a new light. After a brief but hard struggle with\nhimself, he answered:\n\n\"And I shall follow in your footsteps, my friend. I never thought of\nthe lost time you mention, of the thirty children unblessed by the good\nact I purposed doing. Can I leave them to vice, to suffering, to crime,\nand yet be innocent? Will not their souls be required at my hands, now\nthat God shows me their condition? I feel the pressure of a\nresponsibility scarcely thought of an hour ago. You have turned the\ncurrent of my thoughts in a new direction.\"\n\n\"And what is better still,\" answered Mr. Erwin, \"your purposes also.\"\n\n\"My purposes also,\" was the reply.\n\nA week afterwards the friends met again.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mr. Erwin, as he took the hand of Mr. Steel, \"I see a new\nlight in your face. Something has taken off from your heart that dead,\ndull weight of which you complained when I was last here. I don't know\nwhen I have seen so cheerful an expression on your countenance.\"\n\n\"Perhaps your eyes were dull before.\" Mr. Steel's smile was so\nall-pervading that it lit up every old wrinkle and care-line in his\nface.\n\n\"I was at the school yesterday,\" said Mr. Erwin, in a meaning way.\n\n\"Were you?\" The light lay stronger on the speaker's countenance.\n\n\"Yes. A little while after you were there.\"\n\nMr. Steel took a deep breath, as if his heart had commenced beating\nmore rapidly.\n\n\"I have not seen a happier man than the superintendent for a score of\nweeks. If you had invested the ten thousand dollars for his individual\nbenefit, he could not have been half so well pleased.\"\n\n\"He seems like an excellent man, and one whose heart is in his work,\"\nsaid Mr. Steel.\n\n\"He had, already, taken in ten poor little boys and girls on the\nstrength of your liberal donation. Ten children lifted out of want and\nsuffering, and placed under Christian guardianship! Just think of it.\nMy heart gave a leap for joy when he told me. It was well done, my\nfriend--well done!\"\n\n\"And what of your good purpose, Mr. Erwin?\" asked the other.\n\n\"Two little girls--babes almost,\" replied Mr. Erwin, in a lower voice,\nthat almost trembled with feeling, \"were brought to me. As I looked at\nthem, the superintendent said: 'I heard of them two days ago. Their\nwretched mother had just died, and, in dying, had given them to a\nvicious companion. Hunger, cold, debasement, suffering, crime, were in\nthe way before them; and but for your timely aid, I should have had no\npower to intervene. But, you gave the means of rescue, and here they\nare, innocent as yet, and out of danger from the wolf.' In all my life,\nmy friend, there has not been given a moment of sincerer pleasure.\"\n\nFor some time Mr. Steel sat musing.\n\n\"This is a new experience,\" he said, at length. \"Something outside of\nthe common order of things. I have made hundreds of investments in my\ntime, but none that paid me down so large an interest. A poor\nspeculation it seemed. You almost dragged me into it; but, I see that\nit will yield unfailing dividends of pleasure.\"\n\n\"We have turned a leaf in the book of life,\" his friend made answer,\n\"and on the new page which now lies before us, we find it written, that\nin wise dispensation, not in mere getting and hoarding, lies the secret\nof happiness. The lake must have an outlet, and give forth its crystal\nwaters in full measure, if it would keep them pure and wholesome, or,\nas the Dead Sea, it will be full of bitterness, and hold no life in its\nbosom.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nWAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?\n\n\n\"_WHO_ is that young lady?\"\n\nA slender girl, just above the medium height, stood a moment at the\nparlor door, and then withdrew. Her complexion was fair, but colorless;\nher eyes so dark, that you were in doubt, on the first glance, whether\nthey were brown or blue. Away from her forehead and temples, the\nchestnut hair was put far back, giving to her finely-cut and regular\nfeatures an intellectual cast. Her motions were easy, yet with an air\nof reserve and dignity.\n\nThe question was asked by a visitor who had called a little while\nbefore.\n\n\"My seamstress,\" answered Mrs. Wykoff.\n\n\"Oh!\" The manner of her visitor changed. How the whole character of the\nwoman was expressed in the tone with which she made that simple\nejaculation! Only a seamstress! \"Oh! I thought it some relative or\nfriend of the family.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"She is a peculiar-looking girl,\" said Mrs. Lowe, the visitor.\n\n\"Do you think so? In what respect?\"\n\n\"If she were in a different sphere of life, I would say that she had\nthe style of a lady.\"\n\n\"She's a true, good girl,\" answered Mrs. Wykoff, \"and I feel much\ninterested in her. A few years ago her father was in excellent\ncircumstances.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" With a slight manifestation of interest.\n\n\"Yes, and she's been well educated.\"\n\n\"And has ridden in her own carriage, no doubt. It's the story of\ntwo-thirds of your sewing girls.\" Mrs. Lowe laughed in an\nunsympathetic, contemptuous way.\n\n\"I happen to know that it is true in Mary Carson's case,\" said Mrs.\nWykoff.\n\n\"Mary Carson. Is that her name?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Passing from her antecedents, as the phrase now is, which are neither\nhere nor there,\" said Mrs. Lowe, with a coldness, or rather coarseness\nof manner, that shocked the higher tone of Mrs. Wykoff's feelings,\n\"what is she as a seamstress? Can she fit children?--little girls like\nmy Angela and Grace?\"\n\n\"I have never been so well suited in my life,\" replied Mrs. Wykoff.\n\"Let me show you a delaine for Anna which she finished yesterday.\"\n\nMrs. Wykoff left the room, and returned in a few minutes with a child's\ndress in her hand. The ladies examined the work on this dress with\npractised eyes, and agreed that it was of unusual excellence.\n\n\"And she fits as well as she sews?\" said Mrs. Lowe.\n\n\"Yes. Nothing could fit more beautifully than the dresses she has made\nfor my children.\"\n\n\"How soon will you be done with her?\"\n\n\"She will be through with my work in a day or two.\"\n\n\"Is she engaged anywhere else?\"\n\n\"I will ask her, if you desire it.\"\n\n\"Do so, if you please.\"\n\n\"Would you like to see her?\"\n\n\"It's of no consequence. Say that I will engage her for a couple of\nweeks. What are her terms?\"\n\n\"Seventy-five cents a day.\"\n\n\"So much? I've never paid over sixty-two-and-a-half.\"\n\n\"She's worth the difference. I'd rather pay her a dollar a day than\ngive some women I've had, fifty cents. She works faithfully in all\nthings.\"\n\n\"I'll take your word for that, Mrs. Wykoff. Please ask her if she can\ncome to me next week; and if so, on what day?\"\n\nMrs. Wykoff left the room.\n\n\"Will Monday suit you?\" she asked, on returning.\n\n\"Yes; that will do.\"\n\n\"Miss Carson says that she will be at your service on Monday.\"\n\n\"Very well. Tell her to report herself bright and early on that day. I\nshall be all ready for her.\"\n\n\"Hadn't you better see her, while you are here?\" asked Mrs. Wykoff.\n\n\"Oh, no. Not at all necessary. It will be time enough on Monday. Your\nendorsement of her is all-sufficient.\"\n\nMrs. Lowe, who had only been making a formal call, now arose, and with\na courteous good morning, retired. From the parlor, Mrs. Wykoff\nreturned to the room occupied by Miss Carson.\n\n\"You look pale this morning, Mary,\" said the lady as she came in, \"I'm\nafraid you are not as well as usual.\"\n\nThe seamstress lifted herself in a tired way, and took a long breath,\nat the same time holding one hand tightly against her left side. Her\neyes looked very bright, as they rested, with a sober expression, on\nMrs. Wykoff. But she did not reply.\n\n\"Have you severe pain there, Mary?\" The voice was very kind; almost\nmotherly.\n\n\"Not very severe. But it aches in a dull way.\"\n\n\"Hadn't you better lie down for a little while?\"\n\n\"Oh, no--thank you, Mrs. Wykoff.\" And a smile flitted over the girl's\nsweet, sad face; a smile that was meant to say--\"How absurd to think of\nsuch a thing!\" She was there to work, not to be treated as an invalid.\nStooping over the garment, she went on with her sewing. Mrs. Wykoff\nlooked at her very earnestly, and saw that her lips were growing\ncolorless; that she moved them in a nervous way, and swallowed every\nnow and then.\n\n\"Come, child,\" she said, in a firm tone, as she took Miss Carson by the\narm. \"Put aside your work, and lie down on that sofa. You are sick.\"\n\nShe did not resist; but only said---\n\n\"Not sick, ma'am--only a little faint.\"\n\nAs her head went heavily down upon the pillow, Mrs. Wykoff saw a\nsparkle of tears along the line of her closely shut eyelids.\n\n\"Now don't stir from there until I come back,\" said the kind lady, and\nleft the room. In a little while she returned, with a small waiter in\nher hand, containing a goblet of wine sangaree and a biscuit.\n\n\"Take this, Mary. It will do you good.\"\n\nThe eyes which had not been unclosed since Mrs. Wykoff went out, were\nall wet as Mary Carson opened them.\n\n\"Oh, you are so kind!\" There was gratitude in her voice. Rising, she\ntook the wine, and drank of it like one athirst. Then taking it from\nher lips, she sat, as if noting her sensations.\n\n\"It seems to put life into me,\" she said, with a pulse of cheerfulness\nin her tones.\n\n\"Now eat this biscuit,\" and Mrs. Wykoff held the waiter near.\n\nThe wine drank and the biscuit eaten, a complete change in Miss Carson\nwas visible. The whiteness around her mouth gave place to a ruddier\ntint; her face no longer wore an exhausted air; the glassy lustre of\nher eyes was gone.\n\n\"I feel like myself again,\" she said, as she left the sofa, and resumed\nher sewing chair.\n\n\"How is your side now?\" asked Mrs. Wykoff.\n\n\"Easier. I scarcely perceive the pain.\"\n\n\"Hadn't you better lie still a while longer?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. I am all right now. A weak spell came over me. I didn't\nsleep much last night, and that left me exhausted this morning, and\nwithout any appetite.\"\n\n\"What kept you awake?\"\n\n\"This dull pain in my side for a part of the time. Then I coughed a\ngood deal; and then I became wakeful and nervous.\"\n\n\"Does this often occur, Mary?\"\n\n\"Well--yes, ma'am--pretty often of late.\"\n\n\"How often?\"\n\n\"Two or three times a week.\"\n\n\"Can you trace it to any cause?\"\n\n\"Not certainly.\"\n\n\"To cold?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Fatigue?\"\n\n\"More that than anything else, I think.\"\n\n\"And you didn't eat any breakfast this morning?\"\n\n\"I drank a cup of coffee.\"\n\n\"But took no solid food?\"\n\n\"I couldn't have swallowed it, ma'am.\"\n\n\"And it's now twelve o'clock,\" said Mrs. Wykoff; drawing out her watch.\n\"Mary! Mary! This will not do. I don't wonder you were faint just now.\"\n\nMiss Carson bent to her work and made no answer. Mrs. Wykoff sat\nregarding her for some time with a look of human interest, and then\nwent out.\n\nA little before two o'clock there was a tap at the door, and the waiter\ncame in, bearing a tray. There was a nicely-cooked chop, toast, and\nsome tea, with fruit and a custard.\n\n\"Mrs. Wykoff said, when she went out, that dinner would be late to-day,\nand that you were not well, and mustn't be kept waiting,\" remarked the\nservant, as he drew a small table towards the centre of the room, and\ncovered it with a white napkin.\n\nHe came just in time. The stimulating effect of the wine had subsided,\nand Miss Carson was beginning to grow faint again, for lack of food.\n\nIt was after three o'clock when Mrs. Wykoff came home, and half past\nthree before the regular dinner for the family was served. She looked\nin, a moment, upon the seamstress, saying as she did so--\n\n\"You've had your dinner, Mary?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, ma'am, and I'm much obliged,\" answered Miss Carson, a bright\nsmile playing over her face. The timely meal had put new life into her.\n\n\"I knew you couldn't wait until we were ready,\" said the kind-hearted,\nthoughtful woman, \"and so told Ellen to cook you a chop, and make you a\ncup of tea. Did you have enough?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, ma'am. More than enough.\"\n\n\"You feel better than you did this morning?\"\n\n\"A great deal better, I'm like another person.\"\n\n\"You must never go without food so long again, Mary. It is little\nbetter than suicide for one in your state of health.\"\n\nMrs. Wykoff retired, and the seamstress went on with her work.\n\nAt the usual hour, Mary Carson appeared on the next morning. Living at\nsome distance from Mrs. Wykoff's, she did not come until after\nbreakfast. The excellent lady had thought over the incident of the day\nbefore, and was satisfied that, from lack of nutritious food at the\nright time, Mary's vital forces were steadily wasting, and that she\nwould, in a very little while, destroy herself.\n\n\"I will talk with her seriously about this matter,\" she said. \"A word\nof admonition may save her.\"\n\n\"You look a great deal better this morning,\" she remarked, as she\nentered the room where Mary was sewing.\n\n\"I haven't felt better for a long time,\" was the cheerful answer.\n\n\"Did you sleep well last night?\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"Any cough?\"\n\n\"Not of any consequence, ma'am.\"\n\n\"How was the pain in your side?\"\n\n\"It troubled me a little when I first went to bed, but soon passed off.\"\n\n\"Did you feel the old exhaustion on waking?\"\n\n\"I always feel weak in the morning; but it was nothing, this morning,\nto what it has been.\"\n\n\"How was your appetite?\"\n\n\"Better. I eat an egg and a piece of toast, and they tasted good.\nUsually my stomach loathes food in the morning.\"\n\n\"Has this been the case long?\"\n\n\"For a long time, ma'am.\"\n\nMrs. Wykoff mused for a little while, and then asked--\n\n\"How do you account for the difference this morning?\"\n\nMiss Carson's pale face became slightly flushed, and her eyes fell away\nfrom the questioning gaze of Mrs. Wykoff.\n\n\"There is a cause for it, and it is of importance that you should know\nthe cause. Has it been suggested to your mind?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. To me the cause is quite apparent.\"\n\nThey looked at each other for a few moments in silence.\n\n\"My interest in you prompts these questions, Mary,\" said Mrs. Wykoff.\n\"Speak to me freely, if you will, as to a friend. What made the\ndifference?\"\n\n\"I think the difference is mainly due to your kindness yesterday.--To\nthe glass of wine and biscuit when I was faint, and to the early and\ngood dinner, when exhausted nature was crying for food. I believe, Mrs.\nWykoff\"--and Mary's eyes glistened--\"that if you had not thought of me\nwhen you did, I should not be here to-day.\"\n\n\"Are you serious, Mary?\"\n\n\"I am, indeed, ma'am. I should have got over my faint spell in the\nmorning, even without the wine and biscuit, and worked on until\ndinner-time; but I wouldn't have been able to eat anything. It almost\nalways happens, when I go so long without food, that my appetite fails\naltogether, and by the time night comes, I sink down in an exhausted\nstate, from which nature finds it hard to rally. It has been so a\nnumber of times. The week before I came here, I was sewing for a lady,\nand worked from eight o'clock in the morning until four in the\nafternoon, without food passing my lips. As I had been unable to eat\nanything at breakfast-time, I grew very faint, and when called to\ndinner, was unable to swallow a mouthful. When I got home in the\nevening I was feverish and exhausted, and coughed nearly all night. It\nwas three or four days before I was well enough to go out again.\"\n\n\"Has this happened, in any instance, while you were sewing for me?\"\nasked Mrs. Wykoff.\n\nMiss Carson dropped her face, and turned it partly aside; her manner\nwas slightly disturbed.\n\n\"Don't hesitate about answering my question, Mary. If it has happened,\nsay so. I am not always as thoughtful as I should be.\"\n\n\"It happened once.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Last week.\"\n\n\"Oh! I remember that you were not able to come for two days. Now, tell\nme, Mary, without reservation, exactly how it was.\"\n\n\"I never blamed you for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. You didn't think; and\nI'd rather not say anything about it. If I'd been as well as usual on\nthat day, it wouldn't have happened.\"\n\n\"You'd passed a sleepless night?\" said Mrs. Wykoff.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"The consequence of fatigue and exhaustion?\"\n\n\"Perhaps that was the reason.\"\n\n\"And couldn't eat any breakfast?\"\n\n\"I drank a cup of coffee.\"\n\n\"Very well. After that you came here to work. Now, tell me exactly what\noccurred, and how you felt all day. Don't keep back anything on account\nof my feelings. I want the exact truth. It will be of use to me, and to\nothers also, I think.\"\n\nThus urged, Miss Carson replied--\n\n\"I'll tell you just as it was. I came later than usual. The walk is\nlong, and I felt so weak that I couldn't hurry. I thought you looked a\nlittle serious when I came in, and concluded that it was in consequence\nof my being late. The air and walk gave me an appetite, and if I had\ntaken some food then, it would have done me good. I thought, as I stood\nat the door, waiting to be let in, that I would ask for a cracker or a\npiece of bread and butter; but, when I met you, and saw how sober you\nlooked, my heart failed me.\"\n\n\"Why, Mary!\" said Mrs. Wykoff. \"How wrong it was in you!\"\n\n\"May be it was, ma'am; but I couldn't help it. I'm foolish sometimes;\nand it's hard for us to be anything else than what we are, as my Aunt\nHannah used to say. Well, I sat down to my work with the dull pain in\nmy side, and the sick feeling that always comes at such times, and\nworked on hour after hour. You looked in once or twice during the\nmorning to see how I was getting on, and to ask about the trimming for\na dress I was making. Then you went out shopping, and did not get home\nuntil half past two o'clock. For two hours there had been a gnawing at\nmy stomach, and I was faint for something to eat. Twice I got up to\nring the bell, and ask for a lunch; but, I felt backward about taking\nthe liberty. When, at three o'clock, I was called to dinner, no\nappetite remained. I put food into my mouth, but it had no sweetness,\nand the little I forced myself to swallow, lay undigested. You were\nvery much occupied, and did not notice me particularly. I dragged on,\nas best I could, through the afternoon, feeling, sometimes, as if I\nwould drop from my chair. You had tea later than usual. It was nearly\nseven o'clock when I put up my work and went down. You said something\nin a kind, but absent tone, about my looking pale, and asked if I would\nhave a second cup of tea. I believe I forced myself to eat a slice of\nbread half as large as my hand. I thought I should never reach home\nthat night, for the weakness that came upon me. I got to bed as soon as\npossible, but was too tired to sleep until after twelve o'clock, when a\ncoughing spell seized me, which brought on the pain in my side. It was\nnear daylight when I dropped off; and then I slept so heavily for two\nhours that I was all wet with perspiration when I awoke. On trying to\nrise, my head swam so that I had to lie down again, and it was late in\nthe day before I could even sit up in bed. Towards evening, I was able\nto drink a cup of tea and eat a small piece of toast and then I felt\nwonderfully better. I slept well that night, and was still better in\nthe morning, but did not think it safe to venture out upon a day's\nwork; so I rested and got all the strength I could. On the third day, I\nwas as well as ever again.\"\n\nMrs. Wykoff drew a long sigh as Miss Carson stopped speaking and bent\ndown over her sewing. For some time, she remained without speaking.\n\n\"Life is too precious a thing to be wasted in this way,\" said the lady,\nat length, speaking partly to herself, and partly to the seamstress.\n\"We are too thoughtless, I must own; but you are not blameless. It is\nscarcely possible for us to understand just how the case stands with\none in your position, and duty to yourself demands that you should make\nit known. There is not one lady in ten, I am sure, who would not be\npleased rather than annoyed, to have you do so.\"\n\nMiss Carson did not answer.\n\n\"Do you doubt?\" asked Mrs. Wykoff.\n\n\"For one of my disposition,\" was replied, \"the life of a seamstress\ndoes not take off the keen edge of a natural reserve--or, to speak more\ncorrectly sensitiveness. I dislike to break in upon another's household\narrangements, or in any way to obtrude myself. My rule is, to adapt\nmyself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not disturb anything\nby my presence.\"\n\n\"Even though your life be in jeopardy?\" said Mrs. Wykoff.\n\n\"Oh! it's not so bad as that.\"\n\n\"But it is, Mary! Let me ask a few more questions. I am growing\ninterested in the subject, as reaching beyond you personally. How many\nfamilies do you work for?\"\n\nAfter thinking for a little while, and naming quite a number of ladies,\nshe replied--\n\n\"Not less than twenty.\"\n\n\"And to many of these, you go for only a day or two at a time?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Passing from family to family, and adapting yourself to their various\nhome arrangements?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Getting your dinner at one o'clock to-day, and at three or four\nto-morrow?\"\n\nMiss Carson nodded assent.\n\n\"Taking it now, warm and well served, with the family, and on the next\noccasion, cold and tasteless by yourself, after the family has dined.\"\n\nAnother assenting inclination of the head.\n\n\"One day set to work in an orderly, well ventilated room, and on the\nnext cooped up with children in a small apartment, the air of which is\nlittle less than poison to your weak lungs.\"\n\n\"These differences must always occur, Mrs. Wykoff,\" replied Miss\nCarson, in a quiet uncomplaining voice. \"How could it be otherwise? No\nhouse-keeper is going to alter her family arrangements for the\naccommodation of a sewing-girl. The seamstress must adapt herself to\nthem, and do it as gracefully as possible.\"\n\n\"Even at the risk of her life?\"\n\n\"She will find it easier to decline working in families where the order\nof things bears too heavily upon her, than to attempt any change. I\nhave been obliged to do this in one or two instances.\"\n\n\"There is something wrong here, Mary,\" said Mrs. Wykoff, with\nincreasing sobriety of manner. \"Something very wrong, and as I look it\nsteadily in the face, I feel both surprise and trouble; for, after what\nyou have just said, I do not see clearly how it is to be remedied. One\nthing is certain, if you, as a class, accept, without remonstrance, the\nhurt you suffer, there will be no change. People are indifferent and\nthoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any regard for\nothers--especially if they stand, socially, on a plane below them.\"\n\n\"We cannot apply the remedy,\" answered Miss Carson.\n\n\"I am not so sure of that.\"\n\n\"Just look at it for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. It is admitted, that, for\nthe preservation of health, orderly habits are necessary; and that food\nshould be taken at regular intervals. Suppose that, at home, my habit\nis to eat breakfast at seven, dinner at one, and supper at six. To-day,\nsuch is the order of my meals; but to-morrow, I leave home at half past\nsix, and sit down, on an empty stomach to sew until eight, before I am\ncalled to breakfast. After that, I work until two o'clock, when I get\nmy dinner; and at seven drink tea. On the day after that, may be, on my\narrival at another house where a day's cutting and fitting is wanted, I\nfind the breakfast awaiting me at seven; this suits very well--but not\nanother mouthful of food passes my lips until after three o'clock, and\nmay be, then, I have such an inward trembling and exhaustion, that I\ncannot eat. On the day following, the order is again changed. So it\ngoes on. The difference in food, too, is often as great. At some\nhouses, everything is of good quality, well cooked, and in consequence,\nof easy digestion; while at others, sour or heavy bread, greasy\ncooking, and like kitchen abominations, if I must so call them,\ndisorder instead of giving sustenance to a frail body like mine. The\nseamstress who should attempt a change of these things for her own\nspecial benefit, would soon find herself in hot water. Think a moment.\nSuppose, in going into a family for one or two days, or a week, I\nshould begin by a request to have my meals served at certain\nhours--seven, one and six, for instance--how would it be received in\neight out of ten families?\"\n\n\"Something would depend,\" said Mrs. Wykoff, \"on the way in which it was\ndone. If there was a formal stipulation, or a cold demand, I do not\nthink the response would be a favorable one. But, I am satisfied that,\nin your case, with the signs of poor health on your countenance, the\nmild request to be considered as far as practicable, would, in almost\nevery instance, receive a kind return.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so. But, it would make trouble--if no where else, with\nservants, who never like to do anything out of the common order. I have\nbeen living around long enough to understand how such things operate;\nand generally think it wisest to take what comes and make the best of\nit.\"\n\n\"Say, rather, the worst of it, Mary. To my thinking, you are making the\nworst of it.\"\n\nBut, Mrs. Wykoff did not inspire her seamstress with any purpose to act\nin the line of her suggestions. Her organization was of too sensitive a\ncharacter to accept the shocks and repulses that she knew would attend,\nin some quarters, any such intrusion of her individual wants. Even with\nall the risks upon her, she preferred to suffer whatever might come,\nrather than ask for consideration. During the two or three days that\nshe remained with Mrs. Wykoff, that excellent lady watched her, and\nministered to her actual wants, with all the tender solicitude of a\nmother; and when she left, tried to impress upon her mind the duty of\nasking, wherever she might be, for such consideration as her health\nrequired.\n\nThe Monday morning on which Mary Carson was to appear \"bright and\nearly\" at the dwelling of Mrs. Lowe, came round, but it was far from\nbeing a bright morning. An easterly storm had set in during the night;\nthe rain was falling fast, and the wind driving gustily. A chilliness\ncrept through the frame of Miss Carson as she arose from her bed, soon\nafter the dull light began to creep in drearily through the half closed\nshutters of her room. The air, even within her chamber, felt cold,\ndamp, and penetrating. From her window a steeple clock was visible. She\nglanced at the face, and saw that it was nearly seven.\n\n\"So late as that!\" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, and commenced\ndressing herself in a hurried, nervous way. By the time she was ready\nto leave her room, she was exhausted by her own excited haste.\n\n\"Mary,\" said a kind voice, calling to her as she was moving down\nstairs, \"you are not going out this morning.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, ma'am,\" she answered, in a cheerful voice. \"I have an\nengagement for to-day.\"\n\n\"But the storm is too severe. It's raining and blowing dreadfully. Wait\nan hour or two until it holds up a little.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no, Mrs. Grant! I can't stop for a trifle of rain.\"\n\n\"It's no trifle of rain this morning, let me tell you, Mary. You'll get\ndrenched to the skin. Now don't go out, child!\"\n\n\"I must indeed, Mrs. Grant. The lady expects me, and I cannot\ndisappoint her.\" And Miss Carson kept on down stairs.\n\n\"But you are not going without something on your stomach, Mary. Wait\njust for a few minutes until I can get you a cup of tea. The water is\nboiling.\"\n\nMary did not wait. It was already past the time when she was expected\nat Mrs. Lowe's; and besides feeling a little uncomfortable on that\naccount, she had a slight sense of nausea, with its attendant aversion\nto food. So, breaking away from Mrs. Grant's concerned importunities,\nshe went forth into the cold driving storm. It so happened, that she\nhad to go for nearly the entire distance of six or seven blocks, almost\nin the teeth of the wind, which blew a gale, drenching her clothes in\nspite of all efforts to protect herself by means of an umbrella. Her\nfeet and ankles were wet by the time she reached Mrs. Lowe's, and the\nlower parts of her dress and under-clothing saturated to a depth of ten\nor twelve inches.\n\n\"I expected you half an hour ago,\" said the lady, in a coldly polite\nway, as Miss Carson entered her presence.\n\n\"The morning was dark and I overslept myself,\" was the only reply.\n\nMrs. Lowe did not remark upon the condition of Mary's clothing and\nfeet. That was a matter of no concern to her. It was a seamstress, not\na human being, that was before her--a machine, not thing of sensation.\nSo she conducted her to a room in the third story, fronting east,\nagainst the cloudy and misty windows of which the wind and rain were\ndriving. There was a damp, chilly feeling in the air of this room. Mrs.\nLowe had a knit shawl drawn around her shoulders; but Mary, after\nremoving her bonnet and cloak, had no external protection for her chest\nbeyond the closely fitting body of her merino dress. Her feet and hands\nfelt very cold, and she had that low shuddering, experienced when one\nis inwardly chilled.\n\nMrs. Lowe was ready for her seamstress. There were the materials to\nmake half a dozen dresses for Angela and Grace, and one of the little\nMisses was called immediately, and the work of selecting and cutting a\nbody pattern commenced, Mrs. Lowe herself superintending the operation,\nand embarrassing Mary at the start with her many suggestions. Nearly an\nhour had been spent in this way, when the breakfast bell rang. It was\nafter eight o'clock. Without saying anything to Mary, Mrs. Lowe and the\nchild they had been fitting, went down stairs. This hour had been one\nof nervous excitement to Mary Carson. Her cheeks were hot--burning as\nif a fire shone upon them--but her cold hands, and wet, colder feet,\nsent the blood in every returning circle, robbed of warmth to the\ndisturbed heart.\n\nIt was past nine o'clock when a servant called Mary to breakfast. As\nshe arose from her chair, she felt a sharp stitch in her left side; so\nsharp, that she caught her breath in half inspirations, two or three\ntimes, before venturing on a full inflation of the lungs. She was, at\nthe same time, conscious of an uncomfortable tightness across the\nchest. The nausea, and loathing of food, which had given place soon\nafter her arrival at Mrs. Lowe's to a natural craving of the stomach\nfor food, had returned again, and she felt, as she went down stairs,\nthat unless something to tempt the appetite were set before her, she\ncould not take a mouthful. There was nothing to tempt the appetite. The\ntable at which the family had eaten remained just as they had left\nit--soiled plates and scraps of broken bread and meat; partly emptied\ncups and saucers; dirty knives and forks, spread about in\nconfusion.--Amid all this, a clean plate had been set for the\nseamstress; and Mrs. Lowe awaited her, cold and dignified, at the head\nof the table.\n\n\"Coffee or tea, Miss Carson?\"\n\n\"Coffee.\"\n\nIt was a lukewarm decoction of spent coffee grounds, flavored with tin,\nand sweetened to nauseousness. Mary took a mouthful and swallowed\nit--put the cup again to her lips; but they resolutely refused to\nunclose and admit another drop. So she sat the cup down.\n\n\"Help yourself to some of the meat.\" And Mrs. Lowe pushed the dish,\nwhich, nearly three-quarters of an hour before had come upon the table\nbearing a smoking sirloin, across to the seamstress. Now, lying beside\nthe bone, and cemented to the dish by a stratum of chilled gravy, was\nthe fat, stringy end of the steak. The sight of it was enough for Miss\nCarson; and she declined the offered delicacy.\n\n\"There's bread.\" She took a slice from a fresh baker's loaf; and spread\nit with some oily-looking butter that remained on one of the butter\nplates. It was slightly sour. By forcing herself, she swallowed two or\nthree mouthfuls. But the remonstrating palate would accept no more.\n\n\"Isn't the coffee good?\" asked Mrs. Lowe, with a sharp quality in her\nvoice, seeing that Miss Carson did not venture upon a second mouthful.\n\n\"I have very little appetite this morning,\" was answered, with an\neffort to smile and look cheerful.\n\n\"Perhaps you'd rather have tea. Shall I give you a cup?\" And Mrs. Lowe\nlaid her hand on the teapot.\n\n\"You may, if you please.\" Mary felt an inward weakness that she knew\nwas occasioned by lack of food, and so accepted the offer of tea, in\nthe hope that it might prove more palatable than the coffee. It had the\nmerit of being hot, and not of decidedly offensive flavor; but it was\nlittle more in strength than sweetened water, whitened with milk. She\ndrank off the cup, and then left the table, going, with her still wet\nfeet and skirts to the sewing-room.\n\n\"Rather a dainty young lady,\" she heard Mrs. Lowe remark to the waiter,\nas she left the room.\n\nThe stitch in Mary's side caught her again, as she went up stairs, and\nalmost took her breath away; and it was some time after she resumed her\nwork, before she could bear her body up straight on the left side.\n\nIn her damp feet and skirts, on a chilly and rainy October day, Mary\nCarson sat working until nearly three o'clock, without rest or\nrefreshment of any kind; and when at last called to dinner, the\ndisordered condition of the table, and the cold, unpalatable food set\nbefore her, extinguished, instead of stimulating her sickly appetite.\nShe made a feint of eating, to avoid attracting attention, and then\nreturned to the sewing-room, the air of which, as she re-entered,\nseemed colder than that of the hall and dining-room.\n\nThe stitch in her side was not so bad during the afternoon; but the\ndull pain was heavier, and accompanied by a sickening sensation. Still,\nshe worked on, cutting, fitting and sewing with a patience and\nindustry, that, considering her actual condition, was surprising. Mrs.\nLowe was in and out of the room frequently, overlooking the work, and\nmarking its progress. Beyond the producing power of her seamstress, she\nhad no thought of that individual. It did not come within the range of\nher questionings whether she were well or ill--weak or\nstrong--exhausted by prolonged labor, or in the full possession of\nbodily vigor. To her, she was simply an agent through which a certain\nservice was obtained; and beyond that service, she was nothing. The\nextent of her consideration was limited by the progressive creation of\ndresses for her children. As that went on, her thought dwelt with Miss\nCarson; but penetrated no deeper. She might be human; might have an\nindividual life full of wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities;\nmight be conscious of bodily or mental suffering--but, if so, it was in\na region so remote from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that no\nintelligence thereof reached her.\n\nAt six o'clock, Mary put up her work, and, taking her bonnet and shawl,\nwent down stairs, intending to return home.\n\n\"You're not going?\" said Mrs. Lowe, meeting her on the way. She spoke\nin some surprise.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. I'm not very well, and wish to get home.\"\n\n\"What time is it?\" Mrs. Lowe drew out her watch. \"Only six o'clock. I\nthink you're going rather early. It was late when you came this\nmorning, you know.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, if you please,\" said Miss Carson, as she moved on. \"I am\nnot very well to-night. To-morrow I will make it up.\"\n\nMrs. Lowe muttered something that was not heard by the seamstress, who\nkept on down stairs, and left the house.\n\nThe rain was still falling and the wind blowing. Mary's feet were quite\nwet again by the time she reached home.\n\n\"How are you, child?\" asked Mrs. Grant, in kind concern, as Mary came\nin.\n\n\"Not very well,\" was answered.\n\n\"Oh! I'm sorry! Have you taken cold?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid that I have.\"\n\n\"I said it was wrong in you to go out this morning. Did you get very\nwet?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nMrs. Grant looked down at Mary's feet. \"Are they damp?\"\n\n\"A little.\"\n\n\"Come right into the sitting-room. I've had a fire made up on purpose\nfor you.\" And the considerate Mrs. Grant hurried Mary into the small\nback room, and taking off her cloak and bonnet, placed her in a chair\nbefore the fire. Then, as she drew off one of her shoes, and clasped\nthe foot in her hand, she exclaimed--\n\n\"Soaking wet, as I live!\" Then added, after removing, with kind\nofficiousness, the other shoe--\"Hold both feet to the fire, while I run\nup and get you a pair of dry stockings. Don't take off the wet ones\nuntil I come back.\"\n\nIn a few minutes Mrs. Grant returned with the dry stockings and a\ntowel. She bared one of the damp feet, and dried and heated it\nthoroughly--then warmed one of the stockings and drew it on.\n\n\"It feels so good,\" said Mary, faintly, yet with a tone of satisfaction.\n\nThen the other foot was dried, warmed, and covered. On completing this\nwelcome service, Mrs. Grant looked more steadily into Mary's face, and\nsaw that her cheeks were flushed unnaturally, and that her eyes shone\nwith an unusual lustre. She also noticed, that in breathing there was\nan effort.\n\n\"You got very wet this morning,\" said Mrs. Grant.\n\n\"Yes. The wind blew right in my face all the way. An umbrella was\nhardly of any use.\"\n\n\"You dried yourself on getting to Mrs. Lowe's?\"\n\nMary shook her head.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"There was no fire in the room.\"\n\n\"Why, Mary!\"\n\n\"I had no change of clothing, and there was no fire in the room. What\ncould I do?\"\n\n\"You could have gone down into the kitchen, if nowhere else, and dried\nyour feet.\"\n\n\"It would have been better if I had done so; but you know how hard it\nis for me to intrude myself or give trouble.\"\n\n\"Give trouble! How strangely you do act, sometimes! Isn't life worth a\nlittle trouble to save? Mrs. Lowe should have seen to this. Didn't she\nnotice your condition?\"\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\n\"Well, it's hard to say who deserves most censure, you or she. Such\ntrifling with health and life is a crime. What's the matter?\" She\nobserved Mary start as if from sudden pain.\n\n\"I have suffered all day, with an occasional sharp stitch in my\nside--it caught me just then.\"\n\nMrs. Grant observed her more closely; while doing so, Mary coughed two\nor three times. The cough was tight and had a wheezing sound.\n\n\"Have you coughed much?\" she asked.\n\n\"Not a great deal. But I'm very tight here,\" laying her hand over her\nbreast. \"I think,\" she added, a few moments afterwards, \"that I'll go\nup to my room and get to bed. I feel tired and sick.\"\n\n\"Wait until I can get you some tea,\" replied Mrs. Grant. \"I'll bring\ndown a pillow, and you can lie here on the sofa.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mrs. Grant. You are so kind and thoughtful.\" Miss Carson's\nvoice shook a little. The contrast between the day's selfish\nindifference of Mrs. Lowe, and the evening's motherly consideration of\nMrs. Grant, touched her. \"I will lie down here for a short time.\nPerhaps I shall feel better after getting some warm tea. I've been\nchilly all day.\"\n\nThe pillow and a shawl were brought, and Mrs. Grant covered Mary as she\nlay upon the sofa; then she went to the kitchen to hurry up tea.\n\n\"Come, dear,\" she said, half an hour afterwards, laying her hand upon\nthe now sleeping girl. A drowsy feeling had come over Mary, and she had\nfallen into a heavy slumber soon after lying down. The easy touch of\nMrs. Grant did not awaken her. So she called louder, and shook the\nsleeper more vigorously. At this, Mary started up, and looked around in\na half-conscious, bewildered manner. Her cheeks were like scarlet.\n\n\"Come, dear--tea is ready,\" said Mrs. Grant.\n\n\"Oh! Yes.\" And Mary, not yet clearly awake, started to leave the room\ninstead of approaching the table.\n\n\"Where are you going, child?\" Mrs. Grant caught her arm.\n\nMary stood still, looking at Mrs. Grant, in a confused way.\n\n\"Tea is ready.\" Mrs. Grant spoke slowly and with emphasis.\n\n\"Oh! Ah! Yes. I was asleep.\" Mary drew her hand across her eyes two or\nthree times, and then suffered Mrs. Grant to lead her to the table,\nwhere she sat down, leaning forward heavily upon one arm.\n\n\"Take some of the toast,\" said Mrs. Grant, after pouring a cup of tea.\nMary helped herself, in a dull way, to a slice of toast, but did not\nattempt to eat. Mrs. Grant looked at her narrowly from across the\ntable, and noticed that her eyes, which had appeared large and\nglittering when she came home, were now lustreless, with the lids\ndrooping heavily.\n\n\"Can't you eat anything?\" asked Mrs. Grant, in a voice that expressed\nconcern.\n\nMary pushed her cup and plate away, and leaning back, wearily, in her\nchair, answered--\n\n\"Not just now. I'm completely worn out, and feel hot and oppressed.\"\n\nMrs. Grant got up and came around to where Miss Carson was sitting. As\nshe laid her hand upon her forehead, she said, a little anxiously, \"You\nhave considerable fever, Mary.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder.\" And a sudden cough seized her as she spoke. She\ncried out as the rapid concussions jarred her, and pressed one hand\nagainst her side.\n\n\"Oh dear! It seemed as if a knife were cutting through me,\" she said,\nas the paroxysm subsided, and she leaned her head against Mrs. Grant.\n\n\"Come, child,\" and the kind woman drew upon one of her arms. \"In bed is\nthe place for you now.\"\n\nThey went up stairs, and Mary was soon undressed and in bed. As she\ntouched the cool sheets, she shivered for a moment, and then shrank\ndown under the clothes, shutting her eyes, and lying very still.\n\n\"How do you feel now?\" asked Mrs. Grant, who stood bending over her.\n\nMary did not reply.\n\n\"Does the pain in your side continue?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\" Her voice was dull.\n\n\"And the tightness over your breast?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I want rest and sleep.\"\n\nMrs. Grant stood for some time looking down upon Mary's red cheeks; red\nin clearly defined spots, that made the pale forehead whiter by\ncontrast.\n\n\"Something more than sleep is wanted, I fear,\" she said to herself, as\nshe passed from the chamber and went down stairs. In less than half an\nhour she returned. A moan reached her ears as she approached the room\nwhere the sick girl lay. On entering, she found her sitting high up in\nbed; or, rather, reclining against the pillows, which she had adjusted\nagainst the head-board. Her face, which had lost much of its redness,\nwas pinched and had a distressed look. Her eyes turned anxiously to\nMrs. Grant.\n\n\"How are you now, Mary?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sick! Very sick, Mrs. Grant.\"\n\n\"Where? How, Mary?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!' I'm so distressed here!\" laying her hand on her breast.\n\"And every time I draw a breath, such a sharp pain runs through my side\ninto my shoulder. Oh, dear! I feel very sick, Mrs. Grant.\"\n\n\"Shall I send for a doctor?\"\n\n\"I don't know, ma'am.\" And Miss Carson threw her head from side to\nside, uneasily--almost impatiently; then cried out with pain, as she\ntook a deeper inspiration than usual.\n\nMrs. Grant left the room, and going down stairs, despatched her servant\nfor a physician, who lived not far distant.\n\n\"It is pleurisy,\" said the doctor, on examining the case.--\"And a very\nsevere attack,\" he added, aside, to Mrs. Grant.\n\nOf the particulars of his treatment, we will not speak. He was of the\nexhaustive school, and took blood freely; striking at the inflammation\nthrough a reduction of the vital system. When he left his patient that\nnight, she was free from pain, breathing feebly, and without\nconstriction of the chest. In the morning, he found her with\nconsiderable fever, and suffering from a return of the pleuritic pain.\nHer pulse was low and quick, and had a wiry thrill under the fingers.\nThe doctor had taken blood very freely on the night before, and\nhesitated a little on the question of opening another vein, or having\nrecourse to cups. As the lancet was at hand, and most easy of use, the\nvein was opened, and permitted to flow until there was a marked\nreduction of pain. After this, an anodyne diaphoretic was prescribed,\nand the doctor retired from the chamber with Mrs. Grant. He was much\nmore particular, now, in his inquiries about his patient and the\nimmediate cause of her illness. On learning that she had been permitted\nto remain all day in a cold room, with wet feet and damp clothing, he\nshook his head soberly, and remarked, partly speaking to himself, that\ndoctors were not of much use in suicide or murder cases. Then he asked,\nabruptly, and with considerable excitement of manner--\n\n\"In heaven's name! who permitted this thing to be done? In what family\ndid it occur?\"\n\n\"The lady for whom she worked yesterday is named Mrs. Lowe.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Lowe!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"And she permitted that delicate girl to sit in wet clothing, in a room\nwithout fire, on a day like yesterday?\"\n\n\"It is so, doctor.\"\n\n\"Then I call Mrs. Lowe a murderer!\" The doctor spoke with excess of\nfeeling.\n\n\"Do you think Mary so very ill, doctor?\" asked Mrs. Grant.\n\n\"I do, ma'am.\"\n\n\"She is free from pain now.\"\n\n\"So she was when I left her last night; and I expected to find her\nshowing marked improvement this morning. But, to my concern, I find her\nreally worse instead of better.\"\n\n\"Worse, doctor? Not worse!\"\n\n\"I say worse to you, Mrs. Grant, in order that you may know how much\ndepends on careful attendance. Send for the medicine I have prescribed\nat once, and give it immediately. It will quiet her system and produce\nsleep. If perspiration follows, we shall be on the right side. I will\ncall in again through the day. If the pain in her side returns, send\nfor me.\"\n\nThe pain did return, and the doctor was summoned. He feared to strike\nhis lancet again; but cupped freely over the right side, thus gaining\nfor the suffering girl a measure of relief. She lay, after this, in a\nkind of stupor for some hours. On coming out of this, she no longer had\nthe lancinating pain in her side with every expansion of the lungs;\nbut, instead, a dull pain, attended by a cough and tightness of the\nchest. The cough was, at first, dry, unsatisfactory, and attended with\nanxiety. Then came a tough mucus, a little streaked with blood. The\nexpectoration soon became freer, and assumed a brownish hue. A low\nfever accompanied these bad symptoms.\n\nThe case had become complicated with pneumonia, and assumed a very\ndangerous type. On the third day a consulting physician was called in.\nHe noted all the symptoms carefully, and with a seriousness of manner\nthat did not escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. Grant. He passed but few\nwords with the attendant physician, and their exact meaning was veiled\nby medical terms; but Mrs. Grant understood enough to satisfy her that\nlittle hope of a favorable issue was entertained.\n\nAbout the time this consultation over the case of Mary Carson was in\nprogress, it happened that Mrs. Wykoff received another visit from Mrs.\nLowe.\n\n\"I've called,\" said the latter, speaking in the tone of one who felt\nannoyed, \"to ask where that sewing girl you recommended to me lives?\"\n\n\"Miss Carson.\"\n\n\"Yes, I believe that is her name.\"\n\n\"Didn't she come on Monday, according to appointment?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, she came. But I've seen nothing of her since.\"\n\n\"Ah! Is that so? She may be sick.\" The voice of Mrs. Wykoff dropped to\na shade of seriousness. \"Let me see--Monday--didn't it rain?--Yes, now\nI remember; it was a dreadful day. Perhaps she took cold. She's very\ndelicate. Did she get wet in coming to your house?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know.\" There was a slight indication of annoyance on\nthe part of Mrs. Lowe.\n\n\"It was impossible, raining and blowing as it did, for her to escape\nwet feet, if not drenched clothing. Was there fire in the room where\nshe worked?\"\n\n\"Fire! No. We don't have grates or stoves in any of our rooms.\"\n\n\"Oh; then there was a fire in the heater?\"\n\n\"We never make fire in the heater before November,\" answered Mrs. Lowe,\nwith the manner of one who felt annoyed.\n\nMrs. Wykoff mused for some moments.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" she said, \"for asking such minute questions; but I know\nMiss Carson's extreme delicacy, and I am fearful that she is sick, as\nthe result of a cold. Did you notice her when she came in on Monday\nmorning?\"\n\n\"Yes. I was standing in the hall when the servant admitted her. She\ncame rather late.\"\n\n\"Did she go immediately to the room where she was to work?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You are sure she didn't go into the kitchen and dry her feet?\"\n\n\"She went up stairs as soon as she came in.\"\n\n\"Did you go up with her?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, Mrs. Lowe,\" said Mrs. Wykoff, who saw that these questions\nwere chafing her visitor, \"for pressing my inquiries so closely. I am\nmuch concerned at the fact of her absence from your house since Monday.\nDid she change any of her clothing,--take off her stockings, for\nstance, and put on dry ones?\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind.\"\n\n\"But sat in her wet shoes and stockings all day!\"\n\n\"I don't know that they were wet, Mrs. Wykoff,\" said the lady, with\ncontracting brows.\n\n\"Could you have walked six or seven squares in the face of Monday's\ndriving storm, Mrs. Lowe, and escaped wet feet? Of course not. Your\nstockings would have been wet half way to the knees, and your skirts\nalso.\"\n\nThere was a growing excitement about Mrs. Wykoff, united with an air of\nso much seriousness, that Mrs. Lowe began to feel a pressure of alarm.\nSelfish, cold-hearted and indifferent to all in a social grade beneath\nher, this lady was not quite ready to stand up in the world's face as\none without common humanity. The way in which Mrs. Wykoff was\npresenting the case of Miss Carson on that stormy morning, did not\nreflect very creditably upon her; and the thought--\"How would this\nsound, if told of me?\"--did not leave her in the most comfortable frame\nof mind.\n\n\"I hope she's not sick. I'm sure the thought of her being wet never\ncrossed my mind. Why didn't she speak of it herself? She knew her own\ncondition, and that there was fire in the kitchen. I declare! some\npeople act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible.\" Mrs. Lowe spoke now\nin a disturbed manner.\n\n\"Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong in\nnot doing so--very wrong,\" said Mrs. Wykoff. \"But she is shrinking and\nsensitive to a fault--afraid of giving trouble or intruding herself.\n_It is our place, I think, when strangers come into our houses, no\nmatter under what circumstances, to assume that they have a natural\ndelicacy about asking for needed consideration, and to see that all\nthings due to them are tendered_. I cannot see that any exceptions to\nthis rule are admissible. To my thinking, it applies to a servant, a\nseamstress, or a guest, each in a just degree, with equal force. Not\nthat I am blameless in this thing. Far from it. But I acknowledge my\nfault whenever it is seen, and repenting, resolve to act more humanely\nin the future.\"\n\n\"Where does Miss Carson live?\" asked Mrs. Lowe. \"I came to make the\ninquiry.\"\n\n\"As I feel rather troubled about her,\" answered Mrs. Wykoff, \"I will go\nto see her this afternoon.\"\n\n\"I wish you would. What you have said makes me feel a little\nuncomfortable. I hope there is nothing wrong; or, at least, that she is\nonly slightly indisposed. It was thoughtless in me. But I was so much\ninterested in the work she was doing that I never once thought of her\npersonally.\"\n\n\"Did she come before breakfast?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes.\"\n\n\"Excuse me; but at what time did she get her breakfast?\"\n\nThere was just a little shrinking in the manner of Mrs. Wykoff; as she\nanswered--\n\n\"Towards nine o'clock.\"\n\n\"Did she eat anything?\"\n\n\"Well, no, not much in particular. I thought her a little dainty. She\ntook coffee; but it didn't just appear to suit her appetite. Then I\noffered her tea, and she drank a cup.\"\n\n\"But didn't take any solid food?\"\n\n\"Very little. She struck me as a dainty Miss.\"\n\n\"She is weak and delicate, Mrs. Lowe, as any one who looks into her\nface may see. Did you give her a lunch towards noon?\"\n\n\"A lunch! Why no!\" Mrs. Lowe elevated her brows.\n\n\"How late was it when she took dinner?\"\n\n\"Three o'clock.\"\n\n\"Did she eat heartily?\"\n\n\"I didn't notice her particularly. She was at the table for only a few\nminutes.\"\n\n\"I fear for the worst,\" said Mrs. Wykoff. \"If Mary Carson sat all day\non Monday in damp clothes, wet feet, and without taking a sufficient\nquantity of nourishing food, I wouldn't give much for her life.\"\n\nMrs. Lowe gathered her shawl around her, and arose to depart. There was\na cloud on her face.\n\n\"You will see Miss Carson to-day?\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, yes.\"\n\n\"At what time do you think of going?\"\n\n\"I shall not be able to leave home before late in the afternoon.\"\n\n\"Say four o'clock.\"\n\n\"Not earlier than half past four.\"\n\nMrs. Lowe stood for some moments with the air of one who hesitated\nabout doing something.\n\n\"Will you call for me?\" Her voice was slightly depressed.\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"What you have said troubles me. I'm sure I didn't mean to be unkind.\nIt was thoughtlessness altogether. I hope she's not ill.\"\n\n\"I'll leave home at half past four,\" said Mrs. Wykoff. \"It isn't over\nten minutes' walk to your house.\"\n\n\"You'll find me all ready. Oh, dear!\" and Mrs. Lowe drew a long,\nsighing breath. \"I hope she didn't take cold at my house. I hope\nnothing serious will grow out of it. I wouldn't have anything of this\nkind happen for the world. People are so uncharitable. If it should get\nout, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I'm sure the girl is a\ngreat deal more to blame than I am. Why didn't she see to it that her\nfeet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her work?\"\n\nMrs. Wykoff did not answer. Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments, waiting\nfor some exculpatory suggestion; but Mrs. Wykoff had none to offer.\n\n\"Good morning. You'll find me all ready when you call.\"\n\n\"Good morning.\"\n\nAnd the ladies parted.\n\n\"Ah, Mrs. Lowe! How are you this morning?\"\n\nA street meeting, ten minutes later.\n\n\"Right well. How are you?\"\n\n\"Well as usual. I just called at your house.\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed! Come, go back again.\"\n\n\"No, thank you; I've several calls to make this morning. But, d' you\nknow, there's a strange story afloat about a certain lady of your\nacquaintance?\"\n\n\"Of my acquaintance?\"\n\n\"Yes; a lady with whom you are very, very intimate.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" There was a little anxiety mixed with the curious air of\nMrs. Lowe.\n\n\"Something about murdering a sewing-girl.\"\n\n\"What?\" Mrs. Lowe started as if she had received a blow; a frightened\nlook came into her face.\n\n\"But there isn't anything in it, of course,\" said the friend, in\nconsiderable astonishment at the effect produced on Mrs. Lowe.\n\n\"Tell me just what you have heard,\" said the latter. \"You mean me by\nthe lady of your intimate acquaintance.\"\n\n\"Yes; the talk is about you. It came from doctor somebody; I don't know\nwhom. He's attending the girl.\"\n\n\"What is said? I wish to know. Don't keep back anything on account of\nmy feelings. I shall know as to its truth or falsehood; and, true or\nfalse, it is better that I should stand fully advised. A seamstress\ncame to work for me on Monday--it was a stormy day, you know--took cold\nfrom wet feet, and is now very ill. That much I know. It might have\nhappened at your house, or your neighbors, without legitimate blame\nlying against either of you. Now, out of this simple fact, what\ndreadful report is circulated to my injury? As I have just said, don't\nkeep anything back.\"\n\n\"The story,\" replied the friend, \"is that she walked for half a mile\nbefore breakfast, in the face of that terrible north-east storm, and\ncame to you with feet soaking and skirts wet to the knees, and that you\nput her to work, in this condition, in a cold room, and suffered her to\nsit in her wet garments all day. That, in consequence, she went home\nsick, was attacked with pleurisy in the evening, which soon ran into\nacute pneumonia, and that she is now dying. The doctor, who told my\nfriend, called it murder, and said, without hesitation, that you were a\nmurderer.\"\n\n\"Dying! Did he say that she was dying?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. The doctor said that you might as well have put a pistol\nball through her head.\"\n\n\"Me!\"\n\n\"Yes, you. Those were his words, as repeated by my friend.\"\n\n\"Who is the friend to whom you refer?\"\n\n\"Mrs. T----.\"\n\n\"And, without a word of inquiry as to the degree of blame referable to\nme, she repeats this wholesale charge, to my injury? Verily, that is\nChristian charity!\"\n\n\"I suggested caution on her part, and started to see you at once. Then\nshe did sit in her wet clothing all day at your house?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether she did or not,\" replied Mrs. Lowe, fretfully.\n\"She was of woman's age, and competent to take care of herself. If she\ncame in wet, she knew it; and there was fire in the house, at which she\ncould have dried herself. Even a half-witted person, starting from home\non a morning like that, and expecting to be absent all day, would have\nprovided herself with dry stockings and slippers for a change. If the\ngirl dies from cold taken on that occasion, it must be set down to\nsuicide, not murder. I may have been thoughtless, but I am not\nresponsible. I'm sorry for her; but I cannot take blame to myself. The\nsame thing might have happened in your house.\"\n\n\"It might have happened in other houses than yours, Mrs. Lowe, I will\nadmit,\" was replied. \"But I do not think it would have happened in\nmine. I was once a seamstress myself and for nearly two years went out\nto work in families. What I experienced during those two years has made\nme considerate towards all who come into my house in that capacity.\nMany who are compelled to earn a living with the needle, were once in\nbetter condition than now, and the change touches some of them rather\nsharply. In some families they are treated with a thoughtful kindness,\nin strong contrast with what they receive in other families. If\nsensitive and retiring, they learn to be very chary about asking for\nanything beyond what is conceded, and bear, rather than suggest or\ncomplain.\"\n\n\"I've no patience with that kind of sensitiveness,\" replied Mrs. Lowe;\n\"it's simply ridiculous; and not only ridiculous, but wrong. Is every\nsewing-girl who comes into your house to be treated like an honored\nguest?\"\n\n\"We are in no danger of erring, Mrs. Lowe,\" was answered, \"on the side\nof considerate kindness, even to sewing-women. They are human, and have\nwants, and weaknesses, and bodily conditions that as imperatively\ndemand a timely and just regard as those of the most honored guest who\nmay sojourn with us. And what is more, as I hold, we cannot omit our\nduty either to the one or to the other, and be blameless. But I must\nhurry on. Good morning, Mrs. Lowe.\"\n\n\"Good morning,\" was coldly responded. And the two ladies parted.\n\nWe advance the time a few hours. It is nearly sundown, and the slant\nbeams are coming in through the partly-raised blinds, and falling on\nthe bed, where, white, and panting for the shortcoming breath, lies\nMary Carson, a little raised by pillows against which her head rests\nmotionless. Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deep\nfringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair has\nbeen smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual beauty\nin her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on one side of\nthe bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing intently on\nthe sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies come in,\nnoiselessly--Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers there to all\nbut Mary Carson, and she has passed too far on the journey homeward for\nmortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little back from the bed, and\nthe two ladies stand in her place, leaning forward, with half-suspended\nbreathing. The almost classic beauty of Miss Carson's face; the\nexquisite cutting of every feature; the purity of its tone--are all at\nonce so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that she gazes down, wonder and\nadmiration mingling with awe and self-accusation.\n\nThere is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The white\nlips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and all\nis still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows, close\nbeside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not of the\nearth. They fade, and life fades with them, going out as they recede.\nWith the last pencil of sunbeams passes the soul of Mary Carson.\n\n\"It is over!\" The physician breathes deeply, and moves backwards from\nthe bed.\n\n\"Over with her,\" he adds, like one impelled by crowding thoughts to\nuntimely utterance. \"The bills of mortality will say pneumonia--_it\nwere better written murder_.\"\n\nCall it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to it\nthat responsibility in such a case lies never at your door.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nTHE NURSERY MAID.\n\n\n_I DID_ not feel in a very good humor either with myself or with Polly,\nmy nursery maid. The fact is, Polly had displeased me; and I, while\nunder the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked her with a\ndegree of intemperance not exactly becoming in a Christian gentlewoman,\nor just to a well meaning, though not perfect domestic.\n\nPolly had taken my sharp words without replying. They seemed to stun\nher. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath were\nemptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless. Then\nshe turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step. There was\nan air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me a little.\n\nThe thermometer of my feelings was gradually falling, though not yet\nreduced very far below fever-heat, when Polly stood again before me. A\nred spot now burned on each cheek, and her eyes were steady as she let\nthem rest in mine.\n\n\"Mrs. Wilkins,\" said she, firmly, yet respectfully, \"I am going to\nleave when my month is up.\"\n\nNow, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence. So\nI answered, without hesitation or reflection,\n\n\"Very well, Polly. If you wish to leave, I will look for another to\nfill your place.\" And I drew myself up with an air of dignity.\n\nPolly retired as quickly as she came, and I was left alone with my not\nvery agreeable thoughts for companions. Polly had been in my family for\nnearly four years, in the capacity of nurse and chamber maid. She was\ncapable, faithful, kind in her disposition, and industrious. The\nchildren were all attached to her, and her influence over them was\ngood. I had often said to myself in view of Polly's excellent\nqualities, \"She is a treasure!\" And, always, the thought of losing her\nservices had been an unpleasant one. Of late, in some things, Polly had\nfailed to give the satisfaction of former times. She was neither so\ncheerful, nor so thoughtful, nor had she her usual patience with the\nchildren. \"Her disposition is altering,\" I said to myself, now and\nthen, in view of this change; \"something has spoiled her.\"\n\n\"You have indulged her too much, I suppose,\" was the reason given by my\nhusband, whenever I ventured to introduce to his notice the\nshortcomings of Polly. \"You are an expert at the business of spoiling\ndomestics.\"\n\nMy good opinion of myself was generally flattered by this estimate of\nthe case; and, as this good opinion strengthened, a feeling of\nindignation against Polly for her ingratitude, as I was pleased to call\nit, found a lodging in my heart.\n\nAnd so the matter had gone on, from small beginnings, until a state of\ndissatisfaction on the one part, and coldness on the other, had grown\nup between mistress and maid. I asked no questions of Polly, as to the\nchange in her manner, but made my own inferences, and took, for\ngranted, my own conclusions. I had spoiled her by indulgence--that was\nclear. As a thing of course, this view was not very favorable to a just\nand patient estimate of her conduct, whenever it failed to meet my\napproval.\n\nOn the present occasion, she had neglected the performance of certain\nservices, in consequence of which I suffered some small inconvenience,\nand a great deal of annoyance.\n\n\"I don't know what's come over you, Polly,\" said I to her sharply.\n\"Something has spoiled you outright; and I tell you now, once for all,\nthat you'll have to mend your ways considerably, if you expect to\nremain much longer in this family.\"\n\nThe language was hard enough, but the manner harder and more offensive.\nI had never spoken to her before with anything like the severity now\nused. The result of this intemperance of speech on my part, the reader\nhas seen. Polly gave notice that she would leave, and I accepted the\nnotice. For a short time after the girl retired from my room, I\nmaintained a state of half indignant independence; but, as to being\nsatisfied with myself, that was out of the question. I had lost my\ntemper, and, as is usual in such cases, had been harsh, and it might\nbe, unjust. I was about to lose the services of a domestic, whose good\nqualities so far overbalanced all defects and shortcomings, that I\ncould hardly hope to supply her place. How could the children give her\nup? This question came home with a most unpleasant suggestion of\nconsequences. But, as the disturbance of my feelings went on subsiding,\nand thought grew clearer and clearer, that which most troubled me was a\nsense of injustice towards Polly. The suggestion came stealing into my\nmind, that the something wrong about her might involve a great deal\nmore than I had, in a narrow reference of things to my own affairs,\nimagined. Polly was certainly changed; but, might not the change have\nits origin in mental conflict or suffering, which entitled her to pity\nand consideration, instead of blame?\n\nThis was a new thought, which in no way tended to increase a feeling of\nself-approval.\n\n\"She is human, like the rest of us,\" said I, as I sat talking over the\nmatter with myself, \"and every human heart has its portion of\nbitterness. The weak must bear in weakness, as well as the strong in\nstrength; and the light burden rests as painfully on the back that\nbends in feebleness, as does the heavy one on Atlas-shoulders. We are\ntoo apt to regard those who serve us as mere working machines. Rarely\ndo we consider them as possessing like wants and weaknesses, like\nsympathies and yearnings with ourselves. Anything will do for them.\nUnder any external circumstances, is their duty to be satisfied.\"\n\nI was wrong in this matter. Nothing was now clearer to me than this.\nBut, how was I to get right? That was the puzzling question. I thought,\nand thought--looking at the difficulty first on this side, and then on\nthat. No way of escape presented itself, except through some open or\nimplied acknowledgment of wrong; that is, I must have some plain, kind\ntalk with Polly, to begin with, and thus show her, by an entire change\nof manner, that I was conscious of having spoken to her in a way that\nwas not met by my own self-approval. Pride was not slow in vindicating\nher own position among the mental powers. She was not willing to see me\nhumble myself to a servant. Polly had given notice that she was going\nto leave, and if I made concession, she would, at once conclude that I\ndid so meanly, from self-interest, because I wished to retain her\nservices. My naturally independent spirit revolted under this view of\nthe case, but I marshalled some of the better forces of my mind, and\ntook the field bravely on the side of right and duty. For some time the\nconflict went on; then the better elements of my nature gained the\nvictory.\n\nWhen the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly. I saw, as she\nentered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the fire\nhad died out in her eyes. Her face was pale, and its expression sad,\nbut enduring.\n\n\"Polly,\" said I, kindly, \"sit down. I would like to have some talk with\nyou.\"\n\nThe girl seemed taken by surprise. Her face warmed a little, and her\neyes, which had been turned aside from mine, looked at me with a glance\nof inquiry.\n\n\"There, Polly\"--and I pointed to a chair--\"sit down.\"\n\nShe obeyed, but with a weary, patient air, like one whose feelings were\npainfully oppressed.\n\n\"Polly,\" said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, \"has anything\ntroubled you of late?\"\n\nHer face flushed and her eyes reddened.\n\n\"If there has, Polly, and I can help you in any way, speak to me as a\nfriend. You can trust me.\"\n\nI was not prepared for the sudden and strong emotion that instantly\nmanifested itself. Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed out,\nwith a violence that startled me. I waited until she grew calm, and\nthen said, laying a hand kindly upon her as I spoke--\n\n\"Polly, you can talk to me as freely as if I were your mother. Speak\nplainly, and if I can advise you or aid you in any way, be sure that I\nwill do it.\"\n\n\"I don't think you can help me any, ma'am, unless it is to bear my\ntrouble more patiently,\" she answered, in a subdued way.\n\n\"Trouble, child! What trouble? Has anything gone wrong with you?\"\n\nThe manner in which this inquiry was made, aroused her, and she said\nquickly and with feeling:\n\n\"Wrong with _me_? O no, ma'am!\"\n\n\"But you are in trouble, Polly.\"\n\n\"Not for myself, ma'am--not for myself,\" was her earnest reply.\n\n\"For whom, then, Polly?\"\n\nThe girl did not answer for some moments. Then with a long, deep sigh,\nshe said:\n\n\"You never saw my brother Tom, ma'am. Oh, he was such a nice boy, and I\nwas so fond of him! He had a hard place where he worked, and they paid\nhim so little that, poor fellow! if I hadn't spent half my wages on\nhim, he'd never have looked fit to be seen among folks. When he was\neighteen he seemed to me perfect. He was so good and kind. But--\" and\nthe girl's voice almost broke down--\"somehow, he began to change after\nthat. I think he fell into bad company. Oh, ma'am! It seemed as if it\nwould have killed me the first time I found that he had been drinking,\nand was not himself. I cried all night for two or three nights. When we\nmet again I tried to talk with Tom about it, but he wouldn't hear a\nword, and, for the first time in his life, got angry with his sister.\n\n\"It has been going on from bad, to worse ever since, and I've almost\ngiven up hope.\"\n\n\"He's several years younger than you are, Polly.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. He was only ten years old when our mother died. I am glad\nshe is dead now, what I've never said before. There were only two of\nus--Tom and I; and I being nearly six years the oldest, felt like a\nmother as well as a sister to him. I've never spent much on myself as\nyou know, and never had as good clothes as other girls with my wages.\nIt took nearly everything for Tom. Oh, dear! What is to come of it all?\nIt will kill me, I'm afraid.\"\n\nA few questions on my part brought out particulars in regard to Polly's\nbrother that satisfy me of his great lapse from virtue and sobriety. He\nwas now past twenty, and from all I could learn, was moving\nswift-footed along the road to destruction.\n\nThere followed a dead silence for some time after all the story was\ntold. What could I say? The case was one in which it seemed that I\ncould offer neither advice nor consolation. But it was in my power to\nshow interest in the girl, and to let her feel that she had my\nsympathy. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, and a look of sorrow\non her pale, thin face--I had not before re-marked the signs of\nemaciation--that touched me deeply.\n\n\"Polly,\" said I, with as much kindness of tone as I could express, \"it\nis the lot of all to have trouble, and each heart knows its own\nbitterness. But on some the trouble falls with a weight that seems\nimpossible to be borne. And this is your case. Yet it only seems to be\nso, for as our day is, so shall our strength be. If you cannot draw\nyour brother away from the dangerous paths in which he is walking, you\ncan pray for him, and the prayer of earnest love will bring your spirit\nso near to his spirit, that God may be able to influence him for good\nthrough this presence of your spirit with his.\"\n\nPolly looked at me with a light flashing in her face, as if a new hope\nhad dawned upon her heart.\n\n\"Oh, ma'am,\" she said, \"I have prayed, and do pray for him daily. But\nthen I think God loves him better than I can love him, and needs none\nof my prayer in the case. And so a chill falls over me, and everything\ngrows dark and hopeless--for, of myself, I can do nothing.\"\n\n\"Our prayers cannot change the purposes of God towards any one; but God\nworks by means, and our prayers may be the means through which he can\nhelp another.\"\n\n\"How? How? Oh, tell me how, Mrs. Wilkins?\"\n\nThe girl spoke with great eagerness.\n\nI had an important truth to communicate, but how was I to make it clear\nto her simple mind? I thought for a moment, and then said--\n\n\"When we think of others, we see them.\"\n\n\"In our minds?\"\n\n\"Yes, Polly. We see them with the eyes of our minds, and are also\npresent with them as to our minds, or spirits. Have you hot noticed\nthat on some occasions you suddenly thought of a person, and that in a\nlittle while afterwards that person came in?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I've often noticed, and wondered why it should be so.\"\n\n\"Well, the person in coming to see you, or in approaching the place\nwhere you were, thought of you so distinctly that she was present to\nyour mind, or spirit, and you saw her with the eyes of your mind. If\nthis be the right explanation, as I believe it is, then, if we think\nintently of others, and especially if we think with a strong affection,\nwe are present with them so fully that they think of us, and see our\nforms with the eyes of their spirits. And now, Polly, keeping this in\nmind, we may see how praying, in tender love for another, may enable\nGod to do him good; for you know that men and angels are co-workers\nwith God in all good. On the wings of our thought and love, angelic\nspirits, who are present with us in prayer, may pass with us to the\nobject of our tender interest and thus gaining audience, as it were,\nstir the heart with good impulses. And who can tell how effectual this\nmay be, if of daily act and long continuance?\"\n\nI paused to see if I was comprehended. Polly was listening intently,\nwith her eyes upon the floor. She looked up, after a moment, her\ncountenance calmer than before, but bearing so hopeful an aspect that I\nwas touched with wonder.\n\n\"I will pray for him morning, noon, and night,\" she said, \"and if,\nbodily, I cannot be near him, my spirit shall be present with his many\ntimes each day. Oh, if I could but draw him back from the evil into\nwhich he has fallen!\"\n\n\"A sister's loving prayer, and the memory of his mother in heaven, will\nprove, I trust, Polly, too potent for all his enemies. Take courage!\"\n\nIn the silence that followed this last remark, Polly arose and stood as\nif there was something yet unsaid in her mind. I understood her, and\nmade the way plain for both of us.\n\n\"If I had known of this before, it would have explained to me some\nthings that gave my mind an unfavorable impression. You have not been\nlike yourself for some time past.\"\n\n\"How could I, ma'am?\" Polly's voice trembled and her eyes again filled\nwith tears. \"I never meant to displease you; but----\"\n\n\"All is explained,\" said I, interrupting her. \"I see just how it is;\nand if I have said a word that hurt you, I am sorry for it. No one\ncould have given better satisfaction in a family than you have given.\"\n\n\"I have always tried to do right,\" murmured the poor girl, sadly.\n\n\"I know it, Polly.\" My tones were encouraging. \"And if you will forget\nthe unkind way in which I spoke to you this morning, and let things\nremain as they were, it may be better for both of us. You are not fit,\ntaking your state of mind as it now is, to go among strangers.\"\n\nPolly looked at me with gratitude and forgiveness in her wet eyes.\nThere was a motion of reply about her lips, but she did not trust\nherself to speak.\n\n\"Shall it be as it was, Polly?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, ma'am! I don't wish to leave you; and particularly, not now.\nI am not fit, as you say, to go among strangers. But you must bear with\nme a little; for I can't always keep my thoughts about me.\"\n\nWhen Polly retired from my room, I set myself to thinking over what had\nhappened. The lesson went deeply into my heart. Poor girl! what a heavy\nburden rested upon her weak shoulders. No wonder that she bent under\nit! No wonder that she was changed! She was no subject for angry\nreproof; but for pity and forbearance. If she had come short in\nservice, or failed to enter upon her daily tasks with the old\ncheerfulness, no blame could attach to her, for the defect was of force\nand not of will.\n\n\"Ah,\" said I, as I pondered the matter, \"how little inclined are we to\nconsider those who stand below us in the social scale, or to think of\nthem as having like passions, like weaknesses, like hopes and fears\nwith ourselves. We deal with them too often as if they were mere\nworking machines, and grow impatient if they show signs of pain,\nweariness, or irritation. We are quick to blame and slow to\npraise--chary of kind words, but voluble in reproof--holding ourselves\nsuperior in station, but not always showing ourselves superior in\nthoughtfulness, self-control, and kind forbearance. Ah me! Life is a\nlesson-book, and we turn a new page every day.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nMY FATHER.\n\n\n_I HAVE_ a very early recollection of my father as a cheerful man, and\nof our home as a place full of the heart's warmest sunshine. But the\nfather of my childhood and the father of my more advanced years wore a\nvery different exterior. He had grown silent, thoughtful, abstracted,\nbut not morose. As his children sprang up around him, full of life and\nhope, he seemed to lose the buoyant spirits of his earlier manhood. I\ndid not observe this at the time, for I had not learned to observe and\nreflect. Life was a simple state of enjoyment. Trial had not quickened\nmy perceptions, nor suffering taught me an unselfish regard for others.\n\nThe home provided by my father was elegant--some would have called it\nluxurious. On our education and accomplishments no expense was spared.\nI had the best teachers--and, of course, the most expensive; with none\nothers would I have been satisfied, for I had come naturally to regard\nmyself as on a social equality with the fashionable young friends who\nwere my companions, and who indulged the fashionable vice of\ndepreciating everything that did not come up to a certain acknowledged\nstandard. Yearly I went to Saratoga or Newport with my sisters, and at\na cost which I now think of with amazement. Sometimes my mother went\nwith us, but my father never. He was not able to leave his business.\nBusiness! How I came to dislike the word! It was always \"business\" when\nwe asked him to go anywhere with us; \"business\" hurried him away from\nhis hastily-eaten meals; \"business\" absorbed all his thoughts, and\nrobbed us of our father.\n\n\"I wish father would give up business,\" I said to my mother one day,\n\"and take some comfort of his life. Mr. Woodward has retired, and is\nnow living on his income.\"\n\nMy mother looked at me strangely and sighed, but answered nothing.\n\nAbout this time my father showed some inclination to repress our\ngrowing disposition to spend money extravagantly in dress. Nothing but\nhundred-dollar shawl would suit my ideas. Ada White had been presented\nby her father with a hundred-dollar cashmere, and I did not mean to be\nput off with anything less.\n\n\"Father, I want a hundred dollars,\" said I to him one morning as he was\nleaving the house, after eating his light breakfast. He had grown\ndyspeptic, and had to be careful and sparing in his diet.\n\n\"A hundred dollars!\" He looked surprised; in fact, I noticed that my\nrequest made him start. \"What do you want with so much money?\"\n\n\"I have nothing seasonable to wear,\" said I, very firmly; \"and as I\nmust have a shawl, I might as well get a good one while I am about it.\nI saw one at Stewart's yesterday that is just the thing. Ada White's\nfather gave her a shawl exactly like it, and you must let me have the\nmoney to buy this one. It will last my lifetime.\"\n\n\"A hundred dollars is a large price for a shawl,\" said my father, in\nhis sober way.\n\n\"Oh, dear, no!\" was my emphatic answer; \"a hundred dollars is a low\nprice for a shawl. Jane Wharton's cost five hundred.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it,\" said my father, turning from me rather abruptly.\n\nWhen he came home at dinner-time, I was alone in the parlor, practicing\na. new piece of music which my fashionable teacher had left me. He was\npaid three dollars for every lesson. My father smiled as he laid a\nhundred-dollar bill on the keys of the piano. I started up, and kissing\nhim, said, with the ardor of a pleased girl--\n\n\"What a dear good father you are!\"\n\nThe return was ample. He always seemed most pleased when he could\ngratify some wish or supply some want of his children. Ah! if we had\nbeen less selfish--less exacting!\n\nIt was hardly to be expected that my sisters would see me the possessor\nof a hundred-dollar shawl, and not desire a like addition to their\nwardrobes.\n\n\"I want a hundred dollars,\" said my sister Jane, on the next morning,\nas my father was about leaving for his store.\n\n\"Can't spare it to-day, my child,\" I heard him answer, kindly, but\nfirmly.\n\n\"Oh, but I must have it,\" urged my sister.\n\n\"I gave you twenty-five dollars only day before yesterday,\" my father\nreplied to this. \"What have you done with that?\"\n\n\"Spent it for gloves and laces,\" said Jane, in a light way, as if the\nsum were of the smallest possible consequence.\n\n\"I am not made of money, child.\" The tone of my father's voice struck\nme as unusually sober--almost sad. But Jane replied instantly, and with\nsomething of reproach and complaint in her tones--\"I shouldn't think\nyou were, if you find it so hard to part with a hundred dollars.\"\n\n\"I have a large payment to make to-day\"--my father spoke with unusual\ndecision of manner--\"and shall need every dollar that I can raise.\"\n\n\"You gave sister a hundred dollars yesterday,\" said Jane, almost\npetulantly.\n\nNot a word of reply did my father make. I was looking at him, and saw\nan expression on his countenance that was new to me--an expression of\npain, mingled with fear. He turned away slowly, and in silence left the\nhouse.\n\n\"Jane,\" said my mother, addressing her from the stairway, on which she\nhad been standing, \"how could you speak so to your father?\"\n\n\"I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna,\" replied\nmy sister, in a very undutiful tone. \"And what is more, Im going to\nhave one.\"\n\n\"What reason did your father give for refusing your request to-day?\"\nasked my mother.\n\n\"Couldn't spare the money! Had a large payment to make! Only an excuse!\"\n\n\"Stop, my child!\" was the quick, firm remark, made with unusual\nfeeling. \"Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who has\never been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you are\nsaying!\"\n\nMy sister looked something abashed at this unexpected rebuke, when my\nmother took occasion to add, with an earnestness of manner that I could\nnot help remarking as singular,\n\n\"Your father is troubled about something. Business may not be going on\nto his satisfaction. Last night I awoke, and found him walking the\nfloor. To my questions he merely answered that he was wakeful. His\nhealth is not so good as formerly, and his spirits are low. Don't, let\nme pray you, do anything to worry him. Say no more about this money,\nJane; you will get it whenever it can be spared.\"\n\nI did not see my father again until tea-time. Occasionally, business\nengagements pressed upon him so closely that he did not come home at\nthe usual hour for dining. He looked pale--weary--almost haggard.\n\n\"Dear father, are you sick?\" said I, laying a hand upon him, and gazing\nearnestly into his countenance.\n\n\"I do not feel very well,\" he replied, partly averting his face, as if\nhe did not wish me to read its expression too closely. \"I have had a\nweary day.\"\n\n\"You must take more recreation,\" said I. \"This excessive devotion to\nbusiness is destroying your health. Why will you do it, father?\"\n\nHe merely sighed as he passed onwards, and ascended to his own room. At\ntea-time I observed that his face was unusually sober. His silence was\nnothing uncommon, and so that passed without remark from any one.\n\nOn the next day Jane received the hundred dollars, which was spent for\na shawl like mine. This brought the sunshine back to her face. Her\nmoody looks, I saw, disturbed my father.\n\nFrom this time, the hand which had ever been ready to supply all our\nwants real or imaginary, opened less promptly at our demands. My father\ntalked occasionally of retrenchment and economy when some of our\nextravagant bills came in; but we paid little heed to his remarks on\nthis head. Where could we retrench? In what could we economize? The\nvery idea was absurd. We had nothing that others moving in our circle\ndid not have. Our house and furniture would hardly compare favorably\nwith the houses and furniture of many of our fashionable friends. We\ndressed no better--indeed, not so well as dozens of our acquaintances.\nRetrenchment and economy! I remember laughing with my sisters at the\nwords, and wondering with them what could be coming over our father. In\na half-amused way, we enumerated the various items of imaginary reform,\nbeginning at the annual summer recreations, and ending with our\nmilliner's bills. In mock seriousness, we proposed to take the places\nof cook, chambermaid, and waiter, and thus save these items of expense\nin the family. We had quite a merry time over our fancied reforms.\n\nBut our father was serious. Steadily he persisted in what seemed to us\na growing penuriousness. Every demand for money seemed to give him a\npartial shock, and every dollar that came to us was parted with\nreluctantly. All this was something new; but we thought less than we\nfelt about it. Our father seemed to be getting into a very singular\nstate of mind.\n\nSummer came round--I shall never forget that summer--and we commenced\nmaking our annual preparations for Saratoga. Money was, of course, an\nindispensable prerequisite. I asked for fifty dollars.\n\n\"For what purpose?\" inquired my father.\n\n\"I haven't a single dress fit to appear in away from home,\" said I.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" he asked.\n\nI thought the question a strange one, and replied, a little curtly,\n\n\"To Saratoga, of course.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" It seemed new to him. Then he repeated my words, in a questioning\nkind of a way, as if his mind were not altogether satisfied on the\nsubject.\n\n\"To Saratoga?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. To Saratoga. We always go there. We shall close the season\nat Newport this year.\"\n\n\"Who else is going?\" My father's manner was strange. I had never seen\nhim just in the mood he then appeared to be.\n\n\"Jane is going, of course; and so is Emily. And we are trying to\npersuade mother, also. She didn't go last year. Won't you spend a week\nor two with us? Now do say yes.\"\n\nMy father shook his head at this last proposal, and said, \"No, child!\"\nvery decidedly.\n\n\"Why?\" I asked.\n\n\"Because I have something of more importance to think about than\nSaratoga and its fashionable follies.\"\n\n\"Business! business!\" said I, impatiently. \"It is the Moloch, father,\nto which you sacrifice every social pleasure, every home delight, every\ngood! Already you have laid health and happiness upon the bloody altars\nof this false god!\"\n\nA few quick flushes went over his pale face, and then its expression\nbecame very sad.\n\n\"Anna,\" he said, after a brief silence, during which even my\nunpracticed eyes could see that an intense struggle was going on in his\nmind, \"Anna, you will have to give up your visit to Saratoga this year.\"\n\n\"Why, father!\" It seemed as if my blood were instantly on fire. My face\nwas, of course, all in a glow. I was confounded, and, let me confess\nit, indignant; it seemed so like a tyrannical outrage.\n\n\"It is simply as I say, my daughter.\" He spoke without visible\nexcitement. \"I cannot afford the expense this season, and you will,\ntherefore, all have to remain in the city.\"\n\n\"That's impossible!\" said I. \"I couldn't live here through the summer.\"\n\n\"_I_ manage to live!\" There was a tone in my father's voice, as he\nuttered these simple words, partly to himself, that rebuked me. Yes, he\ndid manage to live, but _how_? Witness his pale face, wasted form,\nsubdued aspect, brooding silence, and habitual abstraction of mind!\n\n\"_I_ manage to live!\" I hear the rebuking words even now--the tones in\nwhich they were uttered are in my ears. Dear father! Kind, tender,\nindulgent, long-suffering, self-denying! Ah, how little were you\nunderstood by your thoughtless, selfish children!\n\n\"Let my sisters and mother go,\" said I, a new regard for my father\nspringing up in my heart; \"I will remain at home with you.\"\n\n\"Thank you, dear child!\" he answered, his voice suddenly veiled with\nfeeling. \"But I cannot afford to let any one go this season.\"\n\n\"The girls will be terribly disappointed. They have set their hearts on\ngoing,\" said I.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said. \"But necessity knows no law. They will have to\nmake themselves as contented at home as possible.\"\n\nAnd he left me, and went away to his all-exacting \"business.\"\n\nWhen I stated what he had said, my sisters were in a transport of\nmingled anger and disappointment, and gave utterance to many unkind\nremarks against our good, indulgent father. As for my oldest sister,\nshe declared that she would go in spite of him, and proposed our\nvisiting the store of a well-known merchant, where we often made\npurchases, and buying all we wanted, leaving directions to have the\nbill sent in. But I was now on my father's side, and resolutely opposed\nall suggestions of disobedience. His manner and words had touched me,\ncausing some scales to drop from my vision, so that I could see in a\nnew light, and perceive things in a new aspect.\n\nWe waited past the usual time for my father's coming on that day, and\nthen dined without him. A good deal to our surprise he came home about\nfour o'clock, entering with an unusual quiet manner, and going up to\nhis own room without speaking to any one of the family.\n\n\"Was that your father?\" We were sitting together, still discussing the\nquestion of Saratoga and Newport. It was my mother who asked the\nquestion. We had heard the street door open and close, and had also\nheard footsteps along the passage and up the stairs.\n\n\"It is too early for him to come home,\" I answered.\n\nMy mother looked at her watch, and remarked, as a shade of concern\nflitted over her face,\n\n\"It certainly was your father. I cannot be mistaken in his step. What\ncan have brought him home so early? I hope he is not sick.\" And she\narose and went hastily from the room. I followed, for a sudden fear\ncame into my heart.\n\n\"Edward! what ails you? Are you sick?\" I heard my mother ask, in an\nalarmed voice, as I came into her room. My father had laid himself\nacross the bed, and his face was concealed by a pillow, into which it\nwas buried deeply.\n\n\"Edward! Edward! Husband! What is the matter? Are you ill?\"\n\n\"Oh, father! dear father!\" I cried, adding my voice to my mother's, and\nbursting into tears. I grasped his hand; it was very cold. I leaned\nover, and, pressing down the pillow, touched his face. It was cold\nalso, and clammy with perspiration.\n\n\"Send James for the doctor, instantly,\" said my mother.\n\n\"No, no--don't.\" My father partially aroused himself at this, speaking\nin a thick, unnatural voice.\n\n\"Go!\" My mother repeated the injunction, and I flew down stairs with\nthe order for James, our waiter, to go in all haste for the family\nphysician. When I returned, my mother, her face wet with tears, was\nendeavoring to remove some of my father's outer garments. Together we\ntook off his coat, waistcoat and boots, he making no resistance, and\nappearing to be in partial stupor, as if under the influence of some\ndrug. We chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his face, that wore a\ndeathly aspect, and used all the means in our power to rekindle the\nfailing spark of life. But he seemed to grow less and less conscious of\nexternal things every moment.\n\nWhen the physician came, he had many questions to ask as to the cause\nof the state in which he found my father. But we could answer none of\nthem. I watched his face intently, noting every varying expression, but\nsaw nothing to inspire confidence. He seemed both troubled and\nperplexed. Almost his first act was to bleed copiously.\n\nTwice, before the physician came, had my father been inquired for at\nthe door, a thing altogether unusual at that hour of the day. Indeed,\nhis presence in the house at that hour was something which had not\noccurred within a year.\n\n\"A gentleman is in the parlor, and says that he must see Mr. W----,\"\nsaid the waiter, speaking to me in a whisper, soon after the\nphysician's arrival.\n\n\"Did you tell him that father was very ill,\" said I.\n\n\"Yes; but he says that he must see him, sick or well.\"\n\n\"Go down and tell him that father is not in a state to be seen by any\none.\"\n\nThe waiter returned in a few moments, and beckoned me to the chamber\ndoor.\n\n\"The man says that he is not going to leave the house until he sees\nyour father. I wish you would go down to him. He acts so strangely.\"\n\nWithout stopping to reflect, I left the apartment, and hurried down to\nthe parlor. I found a man walking the floor in a very excited manner.\n\n\"I wish to see Mr. W.----,\" said he, abruptly, and in an imperative way.\n\n\"He is very ill, sir,\" I replied, \"and cannot be seen.\"\n\n\"I must see him, sick or well.\" His manner was excited.\n\n\"Impossible, sir.\"\n\nThe door bell rang again at this moment, and with some violence. I\npaused, and stood listening until the servant answered the summons,\nwhile the man strode twice the full length of the parlor.\n\n\"I wish to see Mr. W----.\" It was the voice of a man.\n\n\"He is sick,\" the servant replied.\n\n\"Give him my name--Mr. Walton--and say that I must see him for just a\nmoment.\" And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered the\nparlor.\n\n\"Mr. Arnold!\" he ejaculated, in evident surprise.\n\n\"Humph! This a nice business!\" remarked the first visitor, in a rude\nway, entirely indifferent to my presence or feelings. \"A nice business,\nI must confess!\"\n\n\"Have you seen Mr. W.----?\" was inquired.\n\n\"No. They say he's sick.\"\n\nThere was an unconcealed doubt in the voice that uttered this.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said I, stung into indignant courage, \"this is an outrage!\nWhat do you mean by it?\"\n\n\"We wish to see your father,\" said the last comer, his manner changing,\nand his voice respectful.\n\n\"You have both been told,\" was my firm reply, \"that my father is too\nill to be seen.\"\n\n\"It isn't an hour, as I am told, since he left his store,\" said the\nfirst visitor, \"and I hardly think his illness has progressed so\nrapidly up to this time as to make an interview dangerous. We do not\nwish to be rude or uncourteous, Miss W----, but our business with your\nfather is imperative, and we must see him. I, for one, do not intend\nleaving the house until I meet him face to face!\"\n\n\"Will you walk up stairs?\" I had the presence of mind and decision to\nsay, and I moved from the parlor into the passage. The men followed,\nand I led them up to the chamber where our distressed family were\ngathered around my father. As we entered the hushed apartment the men\npressed forward somewhat eagerly, but their steps were suddenly\narrested. The sight was one to make its own impression. My father's\nface, deathly in its hue, was turned towards the door, and from his\nbared arm a stream of dark blood was flowing sluggishly. The physician\nhad just opened a vein.\n\n\"Come! This is no place for us,\" I heard one of the men whisper to the\nother, and they withdrew as unceremoniously as they had entered.\nScarcely had they gone ere the loud ringing of the door bell sounded\nthrough the house again.\n\n\"What does all this mean!\" whispered my distressed mother.\n\n\"I cannot tell. Something is wrong,\" was all that I could answer; and a\nvague, terrible fear took possession of my heart.\n\nIn the midst of our confusion, uncertainty and distress, my uncle, the\nonly relative of my mother, arrived, and from him we learned the\ncrushing fact that my father's paper had been that day dishonored at\nbank. In other words, that he had failed in business.\n\nThe blow, long suspended over his head; and as I afterwards learned,\nlong dreaded, and long averted by the most desperate expedients to save\nhimself from ruin, when it did fall, was too heavy for him. It crushed\nthe life out of his enfeebled system. That fearful night he died!\n\nIt is not my purpose to draw towards the survivors any sympathy, by\npicturing the changes in their fortunes and modes of life that followed\nthis sad event. They have all endured much and suffered much. But how\nlight has it been to what my father must have endured and suffered in\nhis long struggle to sustain the thoughtless extravagance of his\nfamily--to supply them with comforts and luxuries, none of which he\ncould himself enjoy! Ever before me is the image of his gradually\nwasting form, and pale, sober, anxious face. His voice, always mild,\nnow comes to my ears, in memory, burdened with a most touching sadness.\nWhat could we have been thinking about? Oh, youth! how blindly selfish\nthou art! How unjust in thy thoughtlessness! What would I not give to\nhave my father back again! This daily toil for bread, those hours of\nlabor, prolonged often far into the night season--how cheerful would I\nbe if they ministered to my father's comfort. Ah! if we had been loving\nand just to him, we might have had him still. But we were neither\nloving nor just. While he gathered with hard toil, we scattered. Daily\nwe saw him go forth hurried to his business, and nightly we saw him\ncome home exhausted; and we never put forth a hand to lighten his\nburdens; but, to gratify our idle and vain pleasures, laid new ones\nupon his stooping shoulders, until, at last, the cruel weight crushed\nhim to the earth!\n\nMy father! Oh, my father! If grief and tearful repentance could have\nrestored you to our broken circle, long since you would have returned\nto us. But tears and repentance are vain. The rest and peace of\neternity is yours!\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\nTHE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.\n\n\n_IT_ has been said that no man can be a gentleman who is not a\nChristian. We take the converse of this proposition, and say that no\nman can be a Christian who is not a gentleman.\n\nThere is something of a stir among the dry bones at this. A few eyes\nlook at it in a rebuking way.\n\n\"Show me that in the Bible,\" says one in confident negation of our\nproposition.\n\n\"Ah, well, friend, we will take your case in illustration of our theme.\nYou call yourself a Christian?\"\n\n\"By God's mercy I do.\"\n\nAnswered with an assured manner, as if in no doubt as to your being a\nworthy bearer of that name.\n\n\"You seem to question my state of acceptance. Who made you a judge?\"\n\nSoftly, friend. We do not like that gleam in your eyes. Perhaps we had\nbetter stop here. If you cannot bear the probe, let us put on the\nbandage again.\n\n\"I am not afraid of the probe, sir. Go on.\"\n\nThe name Christian includes all human perfection, does it not?\n\n\"Yes, and all God-like perfection in the human soul.\"\n\nSo we understand it. Now the fundamental doctrine of Christian life is\nthis:--\"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.\"\n\n\"Faith in Christ is fundamental,\" you answer.\n\nUnless we believe in God, we cannot obey his precepts. The\nunderstanding must first assent, before the divine life can be brought\ninto a conformity with divine laws. But we are not assuming theologic\nground. It is the life to which we are looking. We said \"The\nfundamental doctrine of Christian _life_.\"\n\n\"All doctrine has relation to life, and I contend for faith as\nfundamental.\"\n\nWe won't argue that point, for the reason that it would lead us away\nfrom the theme we are considering. We simply change the form of our\nproposition, and call it a leading doctrine of Christian life.\n\n\"So far I agree with you.\"\n\nThen the way before us is unobstructed again. You asked us to show you\nauthority in the Bible for saying that a man cannot be a Christian who\nis not a gentlemen. We point you to the Golden Rule. In that all laws\nof etiquette, so called, are included. It is the code of good breeding\ncondensed to an axiom. Now it has so happened that our observation of\nyou, friend objector, has been closer than may have been imagined. We\nhave noted your outgoings and incomings on divers occasions; and we are\nsorry to say that you cannot be classed with the true gentleman.\n\n\"Sir!\"\n\nGently! Gently! If a man may be a Christian, and not a gentleman at the\nsame time, your case is not so bad. But to the testimony of fact. Let\nthese witness for or against you. Let your own deeds approve or\ncondemn. You are not afraid of judgment by the standard of your own\nconduct?\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\nAnd if we educe only well-remembered incidents, no offence will be\ntaken.\n\n\"Certainly not.\"\n\nWe go back, then, and repeat the law of true gentlemanly conduct. \"As\nye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.\" You were\nat Stockbridge last summer?\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAnd took supper at the hotel there, with a small company of strangers?\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThere was a dish of fine strawberries on the table, among the first of\nthe season. You are fond of strawberries. They are your favorite fruit;\nand, as their rich fragrance came to your nostrils, you felt eager to\ntaste them. So you counted the guests at the table, and measured the\ndish of strawberries with your eyes. Then you looked from face to face,\nand saw that all were strangers. Appetite might be indulged, and no one\nwould know that it was _you_. The strawberries would certainly not go\nround, So you hurried down a cup of tea, and swallowed some toast\nquickly. Then you said to the waiter, \"Bring me the strawberries.\" They\nwere brought and set before you. And now, were you simply just in\nsecuring your share, if the number fell below a dozen berries? You were\ntaking care of yourself; but in doing so, were not others' rights\ninvaded. We shall see. There were eight persons at the table, two of\nthem children. The dish held but little over a quart; of these nearly\none-third were taken by you! Would a true gentleman have done that? You\nhaven't thought of it since! We are sorry for you then. One of the\nchildren, who only got six berries, cried through half the evening from\ndisappointment. And an invalid, whose blood would have gained life from\nthe rich juice of the fruit, got none.\n\n\"It was a little selfish, I admit. But I am so fond of strawberries;\nand at hotels, you know, every one must take care of himself.\"\n\nA true gentleman maintains his character under all circumstances, and a\nChristian, as a matter of course. A true gentleman defers to others. He\ntakes so much pleasure in the enjoyment of others, that he denies\nhimself in order to secure their gratification. Can a Christian do less\nand honor the name he bears?\n\n\"It wasn't right, I see.\"\n\nWas it gentlemanly?\n\n\"No.\"\n\nChristian?\n\n\"Perhaps not, strictly speaking.\"\n\nIn the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity still, we fear, for\nall your profession. Christianity, as a system, must go deeper down\ninto the heart than that. But we have begun with you, friend, and we\nwill keep on. Perhaps you will see yourself a little differently by the\ntime we are through. A poor mechanic, who had done some trifling work\nat your house, called, recently, with his little bill of three dollars\nand forty cents. You were talking with a customer, when this man came\ninto your store and handed you his small account. You opened it with a\nslight frown on your brow. He had happened to come at a time when you\nfelt yourself too much engaged to heed this trifling matter. How almost\nrudely you thrust the coarse, soiled piece of paper on which he had\nwritten his account back upon him, saying, \"I can't attend to you now!\"\nThe poor man went out hurt and disappointed. Was that gentlemanly\nconduct? No, sir! Was it Christian? Look at the formula of Christian\nlife. \"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.\"\n\n\"He should have waited until I was at leisure,\" you answer. \"When a man\nis engaged with a customer who buys at the rate of hundreds and\nthousands, he don't want paltry bills thrust into his face. He'll know\nbetter next time.\"\n\nHave you settled the bill yet?\n\n\"No. He called day before yesterday, but couldn't give change for ten\ndollars.\"\n\nWhy haven't you sent him the trifling sum? He worked over half a day at\nyour house, and your family have been more comfortable for what he did\nthere ever since. He needs the money, for he is a poor man.\n\nYou half smile in our face at the suggestion, and say, \"Merchants are\nnot in the habit of troubling themselves to send all over the city to\npay the little paltry bills of mechanics. If money is worth having, it\nis worth sending or calling for.\"\n\nIn thought, reverse your positions, and apply the rule for a Christian\ngentleman; remembering, at the same time, that God is no respecter of\npersons. In his eyes, the man's position is nothing--the quality of his\nlife, everything.\n\nA gentleman in _form_, according to the rules of good breeding, is one\nwho treats everybody with kindness; who thinks of others' needs,\npleasures and conveniences; and subordinates his own needs, pleasures\nand conveniences to theirs. He is mild, gentle, kind and courteous to\nall. A gentleman in _feeling_ does all this from a principle of\ngood-will; the Christian from a _law of spiritual life_. Now, a man may\nbe a gentleman, in the common acceptation of the term, and yet not be a\nChristian; but we are very sure, that he cannot wave the gentleman and\nbe a Christian.\n\nYou look at us more soberly. The truth of our words is taking hold of\nconviction. Shall we go on?\n\nDo you not, in all public places, study your own comfort and\nconvenience? You do not clearly understand the question! We'll make the\nmatter plainer then:\n\nLast evening you were at Concert Hall, with your wife and daughter. You\nwent early, and secured good seats. Not three seats, simply, according\nto the needs of your party; but nearly five seats, for extra comfort.\nYou managed it on the expansive principle. Well, the house was crowded.\nCompression and condensation went on all around you; but your party\nheld its expanded position. A white-haired old man stood at the head of\nyour seat, and looked down at the spaces between yourself, your wife\nand daughter; and though you knew it, you kept your eyes another way\nuntil he passed on. You were not going to be incommoded for any one.\nThen an old lady lingered there for a moment, and looked wistfully\nalong the seat. Your daughter whispered, \"Father, we can make room for\nher.\" And you answered: \"Let her find another seat; I don't wish to be\ncrowded.\" Thus repressing good impulses in your child, and teaching her\nto be selfish and unlady-like. The evening's entertainment began, and\nyou sat quite at ease, for an hour and a half, while many were standing\nin the aisles. Sir, there was not even the gentleman in form here; much\nless the gentleman from naturally kind feelings. As to Christian\nprinciple, we will not take that into account. Do you remember what you\nsaid as you moved through the aisles to the door?\n\n\"No.\"\n\nA friend remarked that he had been obliged to stand all the evening,\nand you replied:\n\n\"We had it comfortable enough. I always manage that, in public places.\"\n\nHe didn't understand all you meant; but, there is One who did.\n\nHow was it in the same place only a few nights previously? You went\nthere alone, and happened to be late. The house was well filled in the\nupper portion, but thinly occupied below the centre. Now you are bound\nto have the best place, under all circumstances, if it can be obtained.\nBut all the best seats were well filled; and to crowd more into them,\nwould be to diminish the comfort of all. No matter. You saw a little\nspace in one of the desirable seats, and into it you passed, against\nthe remonstrance of looks, and even half uttered objections. A lady by\nyour side, not in good health, was so crowded in consequence, and made\nso uncomfortable, that she could not listen with any satisfaction to\nthe eloquent lecture she had come to hear.\n\nWe need say no more about your gentlemanly conduct in public places.\nEnough has been suggested to give you our full meaning.\n\nShall we go on? Do you call for other incidents in proof of our\nassumption? Shall we follow you into other walks of life?\n\n\"No.\"\n\nVery well. And, now, to press the matter home: Do you, in the sight of\nthat precept we have quoted, justify such conduct in a man who takes\nthe name of Christian? It was not gentlemanly, in any right sense of\nthe word; and not being so, can it be Christian?\n\n\"Perhaps not.\"\n\nAssuredly not. And you may depend upon it, sir, that your profession,\nand faith, and church-going, and ordinance-observing, will not stand\nyou in that day when the book of your life is opened in the presence of\nGod. If there has been no genuine love of the neighbor--no\nself-abnegation--no self-denial for the good of others, all the rest\nwill go for nothing, and you will pass over to abide forever with\nspirits of a like quality with your own.\n\nWho made us your judge? We judge no man! But only point to the law of\nChristian life as given by God himself. If you wish to dwell with him,\nyou must obey his laws; and obedience to these will make you nothing\nless than a Christian gentleman--that is, a gentleman in heart as well\nas in appearance.","title":"All's for the Best","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":34774}