{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_74998/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_74998","id":"gutenberg_74998","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74998","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Short Stories","Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction","Children's stories","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.\n\n[Illustration: IMPROVEMENTS HAD BEEN MADE IN THE GREENHOUSE\n AS WELL AS THE COTTAGE.]\n\n\n\n                             PROFILES\n\n                                BY\n\n                     PANSY (MRS. G. R. ALDEN)\n\n                               AND\n\n                      MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON\n\n\n                         [Illustration]\n\n\n                             BOSTON\n                       D. LOTHROP COMPANY\n\n\n\n                         COPYRIGHT, 1888,\n\n                                BY\n\n                       D. LOTHROP COMPANY.\n\n\n\n                            CONTENTS.\n\n                             \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n   CLEAN HANDS   _\"Pansy\"_\u2014_Mrs. G. R. Alden_\n\n      CHAPTER I.\n\n      CHAPTER II.\n\n      CHAPTER III.\n\n      CHAPTER IV.\n\n   CIRCULATING DECIMALS       \"     \"     \"\n\n      CHAPTER I.\n\n      CHAPTER II.\n\n      CHAPTER III.\n\n      CHAPTER IV.\n\n   FISHING FOR PHIL           \"     \"     \"\n\n      CHAPTER I.\n\n      CHAPTER II.\n\n      CHAPTER III.\n\n   OUR CHURCH CHOIR           \"     \"     \"\n\n      CHAPTER I.\n\n      CHAPTER II.\n\n      CHAPTER III.\n\n      CHAPTER IV.\n\n      CHAPTER V.\n\n      CHAPTER VI.\n\n      CHAPTER VII.\n\n   HIS FRIEND              _Mrs. C. M. Livingston_\n\n      CHAPTER I.\n\n      CHAPTER II.\n\n      CHAPTER III.\n\n   \"MY AUNT KATHERINE\"        \"     \"     \"\n\n   THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS   \"     \"     \"\n\n   JUANA'S MASTER             \"     \"     \"\n\n   TEN BUSHELS                \"     \"     \"\n\n   MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS  \"     \"     \"\n\n   THE DOCTOR'S STORY   _\"Pansy\"_\u2014_Mrs. G. R. Alden_\n\n\n\n                             PROFILES\n\n                              \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n                           CLEAN HANDS.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\"AND I hope, Elsie, you will be careful, all the while you are gone,\nnot to soil your hands.\"\n\nThey stood together in the hall, Elsie Burton and her pastor; he had\nheld out his hand to bid her good-by, and added these words which\nbrought a puzzled look to her eyes, and a rich glow of color to her\ncheeks.\n\nWhat could Dr. Falconer mean? Elsie glanced swiftly down at her\ndelicate, gracefully shaped hands, and then back to his face; he was\nnot laughing; although there was a smile on his face, it was backed by\nan earnest gleam in his eyes that meant business. It was not probable\nthat he was trying to rally her a little on the exquisite care which\nshe took of those same hands, always managing to keep them in a state\nof dainty cleanliness, with the shapely nails of just the right length.\nNo, that was simply absurd! In the first place, all respectable people\ntook as good care of their hands as circumstances would admit, of\ncourse; and, in the second place, Dr. Falconer was not the man to rally\npeople in regard to personal habits; he was too intensely in earnest\nfor that, unless, indeed, there was some important end to be gained.\n\nCould he possibly mean to refer to the fact that she took out her\nhandkerchief, and carefully rubbed her hand, last Sabbath, after Teddy\nReilly had held it! But there was certainly excuse for that; poor\nlittle Teddy's hand was so exceedingly dirty that it left its stain on\nthe fair skin, and it was unnecessary, and therefore foolish, to draw\non her delicate kid gloves over the brown marks, when a few passes of\nher handkerchief would efface them! She had waited until little Teddy\nwas fairly out of sight; she would not have wounded his loving heart,\nnor indeed have missed the caressing from his dirty hand, for a great\ndeal. Dr. Falconer certainly could not mean that.\n\nShe decided for frankness, as Elsie Burton was very apt to do. \"Dr.\nFalconer, I don't in the least understand you; all people are careful\nof their hands, not to soil them more than is necessary in getting\nthrough this dirty world.\" The sentence closed with a little laugh, but\nthe great bright eyes, fixed questioningly on his face, showed that\nElsie was honestly in pursuit of light.\n\n\"Do you think so?\" he said, and his voice was grave. \"On the contrary,\nI think people are almost more careless of their hands than of any\nother organ which they possess. And hands soil readily, and are not\neasy to cleanse. Let me bring you a little book I have been reading;\nthe marked passages in it will show you what I mean, and how I came to\nsuggest my caution to you. I must not detain you longer, or you may\nmiss your train. I have to call at the depot this morning, and I will\ngive you the book there. I hope you will have a happy visit, and be the\nmeans of doing an incalculable amount of good.\"\n\n\"Oh! I shall not have much opportunity for doing either good or evil,\nDr. Falconer; I am not going to be gone long enough. You know I have\nbut a week's vacation.\"\n\n\"And you think a week not long enough to accomplish much! I see I shall\nhave to mark another passage in my little book. Be sure to read the\nmarked portion.\"\n\nAnd then he was gone, and Elsie Burton went hurriedly about the final\npreparations for her journey. \"Clean hands!\" she repeated with a\ncurious smile, as, having given the final touches to her brown hair,\nshe applied the sweet-smelling soap lavishly, making a fine white foam\nin which to lave them. \"I wonder what Dr. Falconer is aiming at! If he\nhad told me to guard my tongue, I should have understood him without\ndifficulty; but if there is anything about me that gets taken care of,\nI'm sure it is my hands.\" Whereupon she gave them an extra dash of\nfresh water.\n\nFairly seated in the East-bound express, shawl-strap and hand-satchel\ntucked away behind their proper lattice, herself by no means tucked\ninto the corner, but spread out as luxuriously as a young lady of\neighteen or so knows how to arrange, Elsie Burton had leisure to draw a\nlong breath of satisfaction and look about her. The last few days had\nbeen so full of the bustle of preparation, combined with the closing\nhours of school, that she had had little leisure for anything. Now for\nthe long-promised holiday week at Uncle Leonard's. Elsie Burton had few\nfittings from the home nest to remember. Indeed I may say that she was\none of those fortunate young ladies who had never, until that time,\nbeen on the cars without either mother or father. A sweet, sheltered,\nhappy life she had led, and a sweet, bright girl was she. Occasionally\na little restless flutter had shown the mother-bird that her nestling\nlonged to try her wings alone; hence this visit, promised and planned.\nAnd Elsie, curled comfortably in her seat, with the seat before her\nturned to receive her lunch basket and any stray apples or papers that\nshe might purchase, felt that she was a little school girl no longer,\nbut in the last half-hour had blossomed into a young lady.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, daughter,\" had been her father's last tenderly\nspoken message, a little anxious look about the eyes telling her that\nthis business of trying one's wings was not so pleasant for the old\nbirds as for those who wire experimenting; Dr. Falconer had added, with\na meaning smile, \"And remember the hands.\" This latter message lingered\nwith her. She meant to take care of herself, to be so wise and prudent\nthat both father and mother would be delighted with her. And of course\nshe meant to take care of her hands! But the hint half-vexed her; she\ndid not understand it, and felt for the little book which she had\ndropped into her pocket but a few minutes before. What a tiny book it\nwas! Paper-covered too, but daintily illuminated; looking, indeed, as\nthough it had been gotten up for choice moments.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said our young lady to herself, \"if this bit of a volume\ncan be a dissertation on the care of hands?\" She laughed a little as\nshe said it, and stopped to fasten the fourth button of her dark, neat,\nexquisitely-fitting kid gloves; her hands certainly looked well in\nthem. She could not endure ill-shaped gloves, and as for wearing ripped\nones, she never did it; nor, truth to tell, did she like to wear mended\nones. It would have been a pleasure to her, on the discovery of the\nfirst rip, to have consigned the offending gloves to the waste bag,\nbut this was by no means the teaching of her mother; so the shapely\nhands were sometimes marred\u2014in the estimation of their owner\u2014by mended\ngloves, albeit the mending was very neat. Dr. Falconer could hardly\nhave meant that. Now she began to look for the marked passages. Marked\npassages? Why, the little book was full of them!\n\nCould her pastor have expected her to spend the hours of her first\njourney alone in reading them all? Ah, no; here was one, marked in\ndifferent colored ink, and on the upper margin of the page was her\nown name, \"Elsie.\" This, then, was the portion meant for her. (Not\na lengthy passage; she could accomplish so much with a fair hope\nof remembering it.) And she read, \"It may seem an odd idea, but a\nsimple glance at one's hand, with the recollection, this hand is not\nmine; it has been given to Jesus, and it must be kept for Jesus,' may\nsometimes turn the scale in a doubtful matter, and be a safeguard from\ncertain temptations. With that thought fresh in your mind, as you\nlook at your hand, can you let it take up things, which, to say the\nleast, are not 'for Jesus'? Things which evidently cannot be used, as\nthey most certainly are not used, either for Him or by Him. Can you\ndeliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well,\nby sadly-repeated experience, lead you farther from, instead of nearer\nto Him? . . . Books which you would not care to read at all, if your\nheart were burning within you at the coming of His feet? Next time any\ntemptation of this sort approaches you just look at your hand.\"\n\nElsie Burton paused in her reading and looked down at her hand, a\nsingular expression on her face. Given to Christ! Certainly it was true\nof her; she had given herself to Him and promised to be His disciple;\nyet never until this moment had occurred to her that even her hands\nactually belonged to this Master. What a strange idea! How singular it\nwould be for one to stop and think whether her hands were doing what He\nwould have them? Yet, why not? If they really were given to Him, what\nmore reasonable than that they should be kept for His service?\n\nWould that make any difference with the work of her hands, she\nwondered, supposing she had thought of them in this light before? Such\ndainty care as she had taken of them! Had she possibly soiled them in\nHis sight? There were other marked bits in this strange little book,\nher name attached; she read on: \"Danger and temptation to let the hands\nmove at other impulses is every bit as great to those who have nothing\nelse to do but to render service: and who think they are doing nothing\nelse. Take one practical instance\u2014our letter writing. Have we not been\ntempted (and fallen before the temptation), according to our various\ndispositions, to let the hand that holds the pen move at the impulse to\nwrite an unkind thought of another; or to say a clever and sarcastic\nthing, which will make our point more telling; or to let out a grumble\nor a suspicion; or to let the pen run away with us into flippant words?\"\n\nThe rich color on Elsie's cheek was deepening every moment. This was\ncertainly narrow ground. She felt herself jostled against. \"Clever\nand sarcastic things\" were so natural to her pen that they almost\nseemed to write themselves. What a ridiculous report she had given of\nNed Holden's failure in geometry. How skillfully she had turned into\nridicule his mortified attempts to recover himself. She had imagined\nher cousins, Carrie and Ben, laughing immoderately over the whole\nthing. Well, what harm? Her account of it would never reach poor Ned's\nears: she would not have given it for anything had there been the\nleast fear, but\u2014what good did it accomplish? Had she written it with\na purpose? Yes, she had; her purpose had been to give a few minutes'\nfun to her cousins. Anything wrong about that? Yet the truthful girl\nadmitted to herself almost immediately that it was fun at the expense\nof certain fine feelings which she had jarred. Was she inclined to be\nso sympathetic with failures as she would be if it were not such fun to\nwrite them up? What a caricature she had made of Ned as he stood there\non the platform, his face aglow, the eyes of a hundred girls leveled\nat him! She laughed again as she remembered how funny her picture was;\nbut then she sighed. Soiled hands. Was it possible that she had soiled\nhers that day? Did Dr. Falconer mean such things? Did he know about\nthe letter and the caricature? She felt her face grow hot over the\npossibility; she would not have him know it for anything! Here again\nwas a revelation. Why not? And if not Dr. Falconer, surely not the Lord\nJesus! Yet He knew.\n\nThere really was not much comfort in thinking about it. But Elsie\ndecided that these things must be thought about and decided another\ntime. If it really was wrong to repeat in a ludicrous way the ludicrous\nthings that the boys, and sometimes the girls, and sometimes the\nprofessors were doing, why, then she must give it up; but it was great\nfun. Another marked sentence\u2014her name again: \"Perhaps one hardly needs\nto say that kept hands will be very gentle hands. Quick, angry motions\nof the heart will sometimes force themselves into expression by the\nhand, though the tongue may be restrained. The very way in which we\nclose a door, or lay down a book, may be a victory or a defeat.\"\n\nAt this point Elsie closed the little book and laid it down with no\ngentle hand. She was vexed with it. What nonsense was this! The idea\nthat when one banged the door a little with nobody around to see, and\nnot meaning anything in particular, only a general vexation, one had\ndishonored Christ! That was straining a point! Just as if people could\nkeep from doing those little things! And just as though they did any\nhurt! The little book was fanatical; she didn't like it at all.\n\nWhat sent her back, just then, to her little class in Sabbath-school?\nseven or eight of the babies under her care. What verse was that which\nshe had taught them only last Sabbath? \"Who shall ascend into the hill\nof the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place?\" That was the\nquestion she had asked. How had she taught them to answer? She seemed\nto see the sixteen little hands raised, while eight little voices\nrepeated: \"He that hath clean hands and a pure heart.\" Whose fanaticism\nwas this? What had she herself taught those little ones that \"clean\nhands\" meant? Had she really meant that they, those babes in Christ,\nmust carefully watch their small hands, lest they slam the door in\nanger or throw the book, and that she, Elsie Burton, eighteen years old\nand for four years a Christian, could do any of these trifles without\nsoiling hers? It was illogical, certainly.\n\nYet, can I make you understand, I wonder, what a ferment all these\nlittle things set Miss Elsie into? They seemed so new to her; so\nunexpected. She was a bright young Christian; she desired in general,\nto honor her Master. Yet, like many another, she had selected great\nways in which to honor Him, and, occasionally, at least, looked about\nfor something large to do in His service, forgetting, or ignoring, many\nsmall daily opportunities. She liked her own way royally well, did this\nyoung lady; and when on occasion older wills in authority crossed hers,\nshe submitted indeed; it would be unladylike to do otherwise, and Elsie\nBurton did not like to be unladylike; but she frowned and banged the\ndoor; yes, she did, a little, a very little, occasionally, and threw\nher books on the table with determination, and wrote sarcastic letters\nto her special friend, and grumbled occasionally to mamma. All these\nthings she had rather looked upon as her perquisites; little personal\nrewards for submitting. In what a different way did the tiny book talk\nabout them all!\n\nShe sat very still and thought it over. \"It reaches too far,\" she told\nherself, catching her breath. \"It would make perfectly awful work of\nliving! Just think! One couldn't\u2014oh dear! one couldn't do anything,\nwithout looking at it to see if it were just exactly the right thing to\ndo. According to that doctrine, I don't belong to myself at all. Such\nfanaticism!\"\n\n\"Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God\nin your bodies and your spirits, which are His.\" Who whispered that\nverse to her? It was not in the offending little book. Whose fanaticism\nwas this?\n\nMeantime the car had been filling up. Her luxurious turned seat had\nbeen unceremoniously returned, while she was too busy with her book\neven to frown. There come next a man with a child in his arms, and\nleading one by the hand; a commonly-dressed, jaded man; he looked\nabout him right and left for a seat; vain hope; Elsie's was the only\nunoccupied one in the car. \"May I sit here?\" he asked meekly and\nprepared to seat himself, taking the other child on his knee, her small\nhand which was not of the cleanest coming in dangerous contact with\nElsie's faultless bronze travelling suit. She saw it and twitched the\nskirt of her dress, not gently, away from the disagreeable member,\nmuttering low as she did so, that the seat was \"not intended for four\npersons.\"\n\n\"Perhaps one hardly need to say that the kept hands will be very gentle\nhands.\" She did not repeat the words, but they repeated themselves to\nher, in a way that startled. Once more she looked down at her hands.\nWas He actually dishonored by that quick, irritable movement? The face\nof the man beside her looked troubled; he had seen the movement and had\nreached forth and clasped the offending little hand in his own rough\none. He looked very careworn, and the smaller of the children, who was\nbut a baby, began to utter wailing cries which he vainly tried to hush.\nHopeless little cries they were; they went, someway, to Elsie's heart.\nShe was sorry her hand had been so un-Christ-like in its movement. How\ncould she atone for it? She reached forth for her lunch basket, and\ndrawing therefrom a rosy-cheeked apple presented it to the little girl.\nThe small soiled hand grasped after it eagerly, and the father smiled\nand leaned forward to admonish the child to thank the giver. \"They both\nlook very tired,\" Elsie said, gently; \"travelling is hard for children.\"\n\nThe man drew a heavy sigh. \"It is hard for them,\" he said. \"They miss\ntheir mother; they don't know what to make of it, and I don't know how\nto do for them as she would. I buried her last Tuesday.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nA DISMAYED exclamation from Elsie; then she added, \"Poor little\nthings!\" in a tone that conveyed much to the sad father's heart.\n\n\"You may well say that,\" he said, getting out his handkerchief hastily,\nto wipe the great tears that would gather in his eyes. \"Two babies, you\nmay say, with no one but a blundering father to do for them! I'm bound\nto do the very best I can, but what's a man worth when it comes to such\nwork as that! And them crying for their mother every little while! This\none,\" touching the head of the older child with gentle hand, \"couldn't\nget herself to go to sleep, no how, last night. I patted her, and\ncoaxed her for an hour; but she said she 'wanted mamma too bad for\nanything.'\"\n\nThere were tears in Elsie's eyes now, and she reached for the soiled\nlittle hand and gathered it tenderly into her gloved one. For the rest\nof that journey the motherless child had a friend. The baby slept\non his father's shoulder; and Elsie devoted herself to making the\nfive-year-old happy. Among other womanly offices, she took the child\nforward to the water-cooler, and by dint of patient use of handkerchief\nand some of her own sweet-scented soap, she made the small hands rosy\nwith cleanliness. This was so that she could have a delicately tinted\ncard from the lady's pocket. An illuminated card, with an outline\npicture of two hands clasped; the one a small, childish hand, the other\nlarge and firm, suggestive of strength and protection. There were words\nunderneath, and the child demanded that they be read. It was one of\nElsie's class cards, and the verse: \"Who shall ascend into the Hill of\nthe Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place? He that hath clean\nhands and a pure heart.\"\n\n\"It means, who shall go to live with Jesus in heaven?\" explained Elsie.\n\nThe little girl looked gravely down at her small pink hands. \"My hands\nare clean,\" she said, reflectively. \"I guess I can go, mamma went. It\nwas Jesus who took her.\"\n\nElsie's eyes dimmed again as she answered the child gently, \"Yes, and\nHe wants you; wants you to keep your hands clean, so you can go. Not\nsimply clean with water, you know, but clean from every wrong and\nnaughty thing.\"\n\nThe grave-eyed child considered. \"I slap Johnnie, sometimes,\" she said,\nsadly, \"when he's cross.\"\n\n\"Oh! And that soils your hands with the kind of soil that water will\nnot wash away. Look at the picture; that little hand is clasped in a\nstrong one; the picture is to make you think of Jesus' hand; He holds\nit out for you to put yours in it, so He can keep it safe from getting\nsoiled.\"\n\n\"How?\" said the child, looking puzzled. \"Where is He? Why doesn't He\nhold His hand out to me?\"\n\n\"He does, darling; you cannot see it, nor feel it, because He has not\ngiven you the kind of eyes yet with which to see Him; but if you give\nyour hand to Him, and then ask Him every day to keep it from doing\nwrong things, and make it clean, He will; and by and by He will take\nyou up to Heaven, where mamma is, and where you can see Him, and feel\nthe touch of His hand.\"\n\nSuch sweet, serious eyes as that child had! She looked down at her\nsmall unmothered hand, in such a grave, considering way, as seemed\nalmost too much for Elsie to bear; and at last she said, \"I will do it;\nI mean to go to mamma.\" And the shadow of a smile was on her face\u2014a\nserious little face, old beyond its years. Elsie did not wonder that\nthe father wiped great tears away; but he grasped her hand heartily and\nsaid, \"God bless you, ma'am, for showing the little girl how to smile.\nShe hasn't smiled since\u2014\" and the sentence was left unfinished.\n\nThere was no time for further words. The car bell was ringing, and the\ndinner gong of the eating house was clattering, and the car was in a\nbustle of preparation to depart. Elsie gathered her wraps and packages,\nsecured the little book which had told her strange truths, made tender\nby the practical commentary on them drawn from her new acquaintances,\nthen shook hands with the little girl, bending to kiss her and whisper,\n\"Remember.\"\n\n\"I will,\" the child said.\n\n\"And I will,\" murmured Elsie. \"I must surely take the counsel which I\nhave given her; else how could I bear to meet the child when we both\nsee Him face to face?\"\n\n\"Hurrah! here you are. I was afraid you did not come, after all. I\nleft Carrie consumed with anxiety lest you had missed the train, or\nsomething.\"\n\nIt was Cousin Ben, face and voice full, of eager welcome. He seized\nupon Elsie's belongings as he spoke, managing shawl-strap and bag and\nbundles with the air of one long used to business; called for checks,\nand gave rapid, business-like orders to a porter in waiting, talking to\nElsie incessantly all the time\u2014at least, so it seemed to her.\n\n\"Now, shall we take a carriage or a sleigh? We have both at your\nservice, you see; and the wheeling is so abominable that there is but\none thing worse, which is the sleighing. The fact is, we have neither\nwheeling nor sleighing just now. Whichever way you take, you will be\nsure to wish you had chosen the other.\"\n\n\"Why can't we walk?\" Elsie asked, laughing at his description and his\nvolubility.\n\n\"Walk! A young lady, just arrived from a fatiguing journey of three\nhours' duration, walking up from the depot! I'm afraid Carrie will\nfaint. Still, in all sincerity, it is much the better way, if one\nonly thinks so. Do you honestly vote for it? Sensible young lady\u2014the\nfirst one I have met this winter. Halloo, porter! That scamp has gone\nalready, I declare! He will be back here, ready to earn another fifty\ncents, before we get started. I wanted to palm off some of these\ndry goods on him. O, no, not at all,\" as Elsie tried to offer her\nassistance; \"they are not heavy, only slippery. This wretched little\nbox is such a nuisance. I found it at the express office, and I wish I\nhad left it there. Ah, well, now, if you insist, you may carry the box.\nIt is small, you see, but slippery; seems to have an affinity for the\npavement. I've landed it there once, already.\"\n\nThe small, compact box, neatly wrapped in paper, was transferred from\nBen's crowded arms to Elsie's empty ones. Then the walk commenced.\nA bright sunny day, the air just keen enough to be exhilarating,\nand the business street down which their road lay was aglow with\nholiday trappings. A walk was certainly not an unattractive thing.\nYet there was a cloud on Elsie's face; and if her gay cousin had been\nwatching her, he would have discovered that she bestowed suspicious\nglances on the innocent-looking box which she carried. It was not its\nweight that disturbed her; that was a mere trifle. What then? She\nwatched her opportunity, when Ben was busy re-arranging his load, and\nunceremoniously applied her nose to the box. Faugh! It was as she\nsuspected. Here was she, Elsie Burton, who hated the sight and smell\nand very name of the vile weed tobacco, actually carrying a box of\ncigars through the street! She could have dropped them into the muddy\ncarriage drive, across which they were just picking their way, with a\ngood grace.\n\n\"I wonder if Ben smokes!\" This was her indignant mental query. \"I\ndeclare, if that boy has gone and spoiled himself in such a hateful\nway, I shall drop him.\" There were certain phases of moral courage\nin which Elsie was by no means lacking. She was entirely willing\nto express then and there, to her handsome young cousin, her utter\nand intense abhorrence of everything pertaining to tobacco; and the\nprobabilities are strong that her very manner of doing so would have\noutwitted any good which she desired to accomplish; that is, if she\nreally wished to accomplish anything beyond expressing her indignation.\nSomething quieted her just then. The memory of certain words: \"Can\nyou let it take up things which, to say the very least, are not 'for\nJesus'?\" Suppose people really did govern their lives by such rules as\nthat? Suppose Ben did. Would he be carrying home cigars to smoke? What\na thing it was that he had been the one to lead her unwittingly into\nthis first soiling of her hands! Almost before she realized that she\nwas doing so, she spoke her thoughts aloud: \"Oh, Ben! You have made me\nsoil my hands.\"\n\nHer cousin turned to her quickly, his face expressive of concern. \"I\nbeg ten thousand pardons! Was I such a stupid dolt as to give you a\nsoiled paper to carry? What is it? Are your gloves ruined?\" But he\nlooked in vain for soil; the delicate bronze gloves were as delicate as\nbefore she touched the box, and the neat manilla wrapping was guiltless\nof a stain.\n\nElsie laughed a little. \"I was thinking aloud,\" she said. \"I did not\nmean my gloves, but my hands. Ben, I don't like the soil of cigars.\"\n\n\"Are they so very offensive to you?\" This with a puzzled air. \"It isn't\npossible that you get their odor at this distance!\"\n\n\"O, Ben! You know you are not stupid. Why do you pretend that you don't\nunderstand me to mean moral soil?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I never thought of such a thing!\" And Ben stared at his\ncousin in genuine astonishment. \"Isn't that straining a point, my wise\nlittle cousin?\"\n\n\"Is it? Suppose I believe that my hands should do nothing to help along\nanything that is wrong in the world, could I, in that case, handle\ncigars much?\"\n\n\"That depends. Are cigars wicked?\"\n\nElsie flashed a pair of keen eyes on him. \"Are cigars good?\"\n\nHe laughed good-naturedly. \"Why, no; I haven't been in the habit of\nattaching any moral character to them whatever.\"\n\n\"Very well; then why do you pretend that I am talking about their moral\ncharacter? The question is, do I believe that it is wrong to spend\nmoney for cigars, and to spoil one's breath, and poison the air that\nbelongs to other people with their vile odors? In that case, I must be\nconsistent with my belief, and not let my hands help along that which I\nconsider mischievous.\"\n\n\"Pitch them into the gutter if you want to,\" he said, good-humoredly.\n\"You see they are not mine; I promised to bring them up for Hal; so I\ncan afford to be generous.\"\n\n\"Does Hal smoke?\"\n\n\"Like a furnace. I won't tell him, though, that you helped the matter\nalong. I'll appear to have carried the offending box every step of the\nway myself.\"\n\nBut Elsie did not smile. \"If I were Emmeline,\" she began, then stopped.\n\n\"What then? Supposing I can stretch my credulity enough to imagine\nanything so preposterous.\"\n\n\"Never mind; perhaps I ought not to say it.\"\n\n\"But it will do no harm for me to guess it. In the light of your last\nsharp remarks, I fancy you were going to say: If I were Emmeline I\nwould not marry a cigar smoker.'\"\n\n\"It is true,\" Elsie said, laughing a little, \"I wouldn't.\"\n\n\"Really? Are you serious about this thing? Do you honestly think there\nis anything so very wicked about smoking a cigar now and then?\"\n\n\"What a way to put it! As if a thing must be 'so very wrong' in order\nto be\u2014not right. As to the 'now and then'\u2014Oh, if you needed a lecture,\nBen, I think I could give it; I've thought a great deal about the\nmatter; but just now I was looking at it from such a simple platform\nthat it doesn't need argument. Hal, you know, is a Christian, and he\nprofesses to govern all his life by one rule, as a servant who belongs\nbody and purse to Christ. How very easy it would be for him to decide\nwhether he ought to spend his money on cigars!\"\n\nBen, I regret to say, was guilty of the ungentlemanly act of whistling.\nA low whistle, instantly suppressed, but it expressed his views. \"How\nmany Christians do you suppose govern themselves by any such rules?\"\n\n\"The question has nothing whatever to do with the argument,\" Elsie\nsaid; \"but I'll answer it. Very few, I think. Does that annihilate the\nrule?\"\n\n\"How fortunate it is for me that we are just at the door,\" Ben\nanswered, gayly. \"Give me the box of cigars, quick; and don't convert\nEmmeline to your way of thinking, or we shall have no wedding to\nattend.\"\n\nI do not know whether, had Elsie known all the temptations and\nembarrassments to beset her on that very next day, she would have been\nable to make so emphatic a resolution as the one with which she left\nthe car. A shopping excursion was in order for the morning. Cousin\nCarrie had a dozen trifles which must be bought that day, and it suited\nBen to attend them gallantly all the morning. Now shopping was not a\ntrial to Elsie; it had all the charm of novelty for her, for hitherto\nher busy young life had known comparatively little of it. On this\nparticular morning the circumstances were particularly agreeable. She\nhad no grave responsibilities, but was merely an interested looker-on,\nready to give bits of advice as occasion offered; while nestled away in\nher pretty porte-monnaie were two shining gold pieces which her father\nhad given her that morning to spend as she pleased. Oh, the charming\nthings that a girl of eighteen may please to buy! Cousin Carrie was a\nhelpful companion in that direction. She had wide-open eyes, and dealt\nin superlatives:\n\n\"Oh, Elsie! Do look at this lovely shade in kids. Aren't they perfectly\nexquisite? Just your number, too, and, match your new hat exactly.\nReally, Elsie, you ought to have a pair of those. I never saw a more\nperfect match.\"\n\nElsie looked interested but doubtful. \"I have just bought new gloves,\"\nshe said, \"and they match nicely, I think.\"\n\n\"Oh, they do; they are charming. But these are that lovely, peculiar\nshade which one so rarely finds in kid\u2014just the tint of your long\nplume. Oh, I do think they are too lovely for anything!\"\n\n\"They are expensive.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think so. Only two and a quarter. You can't get really\ngood kid for less than that, and poor gloves are not worth buying.\nBesides, they have the Foster fastenings. Now I really dote on Foster\nfastenings.\"\n\nElsie was being persuaded. They did look as though they would fit her\nshapely hand so well, and they really were a remarkable match. What\nif she had just bought a pair? Gloves would keep and would be always\nneeded. Mamma approved of good gloves, and papa had told her to spend\nthe gold pieces just as she pleased.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, a slight hesitation still in her voice, \"I think\nI'll\u2014\" and she glanced down at her hands.\n\n\"Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you, just look at\nyour hand.\" It was to Elsie as though the words were written on the\nback of her glove, so distinctly did she seem to see them. A temptation\nof what sort? Was this box of gloves in the list? \"Can you let it take\nup things, which, to say the least, are not for Jesus?\" Were the gloves\nfor Him? The question startled her, seemed a little irreverent, yet she\nwas a clear-brained girl and knew what the query meant.\n\nWas she buying them because she felt that she needed them to complete\na neat and tasteful toilet? If\u2014it was a sufficiently startling thought\nto make the color run into her cheeks, yet she thought it\u2014if the Lord\nJesus Christ stood there in the flesh, occupying the space at her side\nnow filled by Cousin Ben, would she spend two dollars and a quarter for\nan unneeded pair of gloves? Should the hand belonging to Him do aught\nthat His glance would not approve?\n\nShe was ready to finish her sentence. \"I think I will not take them,\nCarrie. I have gloves enough for the present, and the styles may\nchange, before I need them.\"\n\n\"What nonsense! These are in the very latest shade. I never saw any\nquite like them before. I wish they would match anything of mine and\nwould buy them in a moment, although Auntie gave me a full box of\ngloves at Christmas. How many pairs have you, Elsie?\"\n\nThis question amused Ben wonderfully. \"An official report, if you\nplease,\" he said, his eyes twinkling with laughter. \"How many\nhandkerchiefs have you, and how many ribbons and how many ruffles? Do\nyou young ladies keep an inventory for each other's special benefit?\"\n\nElsie laughed, but Carrie turned from her coldly. She set her heart on\nmanaging the glove matter, and it was ignominious to fail.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHIS is but a faint specimen of the ways in which temptation assailed\nthe fair hands in whose stewardship two gold pieces had been placed. It\nseemed to Elsie a curious coincidence that the first temptation should\nhave to do with a covering for those hands. But for that she might not\nhave gotten through so well.\n\nIt was wonderful, the number of articles that Carrie found which she\nwas sure her Cousin Elsie needed and ought to purchase; delicate\nlaces of a peculiarly rare and choice pattern that might not be found\nagain; soft, fluffy ruches particularly becoming to Elsie's face; fine\nhandkerchiefs, delicately embroidered, sold at a bargain; a peculiar\nperfume, the like of which had never been smelled before; even scented\nsoaps joined hands with Elsie's companions that day and tried to\nbeguile her; yet she stood firm.\n\nIt was a curious experience. Could she have divested herself of\npersonal feeling, and looked on as an outsider, she would have enjoyed\nthe study. There was absolutely nothing presented which stood the test.\nHis hands, they must make no purchase save such as would please their\nMaster.\n\n\"I cannot think what is the matter with you!\" Carrie said, watching her\ncousin curiously. \"You used to be ready enough to buy pretty things.\nI've seen at least a hundred and fifty articles this morning that I\nshould have bought if I had as much spending money as you have. Papa\nkeeps me dreadfully close these days; everything has to be saved for\nEmmeline. I tell papa just to wait until I get engaged, and I'll be\nrevenged. It can't be that you are saving up for that, Elsie; you are\nnot out of school yet.\"\n\nThrough it all Ben watched with amused face, not helping his cousin in\nthe least; on the contrary, he made several wise suggestions as to the\nutility of some of the temptations.\n\n\"It is worse than cigars, isn't it?\" he queried at last, his wicked\neyes dancing mischievously. Elsie felt that he was amusing himself at\nher expense\u2014turning her scruples into ridicule. Would it not be better\nto lay aside her new ideas, and change the current of his thoughts by\ndisposing of the spending money that seemed to be the cause of so much\ntrouble? Wasn't it a sort of \"casting pearls before\u2014\" and here she\npaused; partly because she did not like to apply the simile, and partly\nbecause her brain was too keen to admit of such reasoning. If Ben chose\nto be led into sin through her conscientious effort to do right, he\nmust bear the blame of it.\n\nBut she was to be tried in a way that was harder to bear. Carrie,\npositively vexed because she could not persuade her cousin into buying,\nat the jewel counter, a lovely little charm for her chain, turned from\nher and spoke to Ben in a very poor undertone: \"I don't understand\nElsie. I'm afraid she is growing penurious, and that is really a more\nhateful fault in a girl than in a boy. She used to be so free and\ngenerous with her money.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Uncle Wells keeps her close,\" was Ben's hateful suggestion.\n\"He is well off, to be sure, but he may not be growing liberal as he\ngrows older.\"\n\nDear! You should have seen the flush on Elsie's face then! The idea of\nthat upstart of a boy daring to speak so about her dear father! He was\nnot rich either, and everybody knew he denied himself to have the more\nto give to others. For a moment Elsie wondered whether she did not hate\nher Cousin Ben\u2014just a little!\n\nAlso, she felt just like dashing out in some wild expenditure that\nwould show her cousins how indifferent she could be to money when she\nchose. What should she buy? There was plenty of opportunity. Just next\ndoor in the plate-glass window stood temptations enough. Grapes, out of\nseason, large; white, luscious. They were marked fifty cents! Suppose\nshe should buy a bunch for herself, and one each for Carrie and Ben,\nand two or three bunches to take home to Aunt Carrie? Beside them was a\nsilver-papered box of choice bonbons, marked one dollar; she might add\nthat and a bouquet of rare flowers. Would not these expenditures show\nthat she knew how to use money and had it to use?\n\nHer hand was on the door-knob. She was burning with the desire to slip\nin next door and make her purchases while Carrie studied over shades\nof ribbons. Suddenly she withdrew the hand quickly, as though it had\ncome in contact with something that repelled it. \"Clean hands!\" To\nwhat base uses was she about to put hers! Why did she want to buy the\nfancy bonbons and the fruits and flowers out of season? As a tribute of\nlove? Her honest heart told her that it was rather a tribute of anger!\nDid her father's reputation rest on such slight ground that it could\nbe injured by the ignorant chatter of a silly boy, or be built up by\na daughter's ill-humored extravagance? Very much astonished with, and\nashamed of, herself, Elsie turned away, and stood quite still for a\nmoment, eyes and head drooping. After that, she was better prepared for\nthe rest of the hour, even though the cousins chose next a way of being\ncousinly that was almost unendurable. Ben actually bought some of the\ngreat white grapes, and forced a few on her, though she felt as though\nit would take but one to choke her. The truth is, fair Elsie, during\nthat and several following days, took lessons in the fact that Satan\nmakes sharp battle for every power of our being; and that the cross is\nstill waiting to be borne; the only reason that we feel its weight so\nlittle being the fact that we have fallen into the habit of slipping\nquietly around it, instead of boldly taking it up.\n\n\nThe curtains were drawn and the gas was lighted in the cosy back\nparlor. Without the rain was steadily falling, and there was a rush\nof wind every few minutes against the casement, which sharpened the\ncontrast between the dreary outside and the brightness of the home\nscene within.\n\nOver the family there had come the sort of lull which follows special\ndays of eager life and keen excitement. There had been the whirl of\npreparation for, and then the excitement of participation in, wedding\nfestivities, and then the bustle of departure. Emmeline and Hal were\nmade one, and had gone away together, Elsie taking note, with much\ninward disgust, that the groom actually smoked a cigar at the depot,\nwhile waiting for the belated train.\n\nNow those who tarried behind had reached a stormy Saturday evening,\nwith nothing to do but lounge amid the easy chairs and rest and visit.\n\nSomewhat to their astonishment, they found this dull work. The reaction\nfrom so much excitement was upon them, and many a yawn was hastily\ncovered so that the others might not suspect.\n\n\"Somebody read something,\" proclaimed Ben at last. \"We are all too\nindolent to talk\u2014let some fellow who knows how talk for us. Who will\nvolunteer?\"\n\n\"Elsie must read,\" said Carrie. \"Papa says she is the best reader in\nthe set. I've been sulky over that remark ever since he made it, so of\ncourse I will not.\"\n\nSome gay talk followed this statement, but at last they settled down to\nlisten. Elsie, by no means unwilling to be appointed reader, for, like\nmost persons who are accustomed to reading aloud and who like to do it,\nshe hated to listen.\n\nThe book selected was a recent publication by a popular author. It\nopened well, and in a very few minutes the listless company was giving\nabsorbed attention.\n\nA half-hour passed, and then a dismayed, \"Oh! Dear! Who is coming to\ndisturb us!\" from Carrie, mingled with the sound of talking in the hall.\n\nA moment more, and the relieved exclamation, \"It's only Freem!\" greeted\na newcomer.\n\n\"Freem,\" or Mr. Freeman Vance, was a gentleman who was much at home\nwith the young people of the house, and, during her visit Elsie had met\nhim several times. He was older than the cousins, having passed beyond\nthe age in which he was spoken of as \"one of the boys.\" Carrie called\nhim a \"full-fledged young man,\" but admitted that he was \"nicer\" than\nmost of them.\n\nHe dropped readily into an easy chair, drawn up near the grate,\nmurmured that this was delightful, and that it was a wretched night\noutside, then begged that the reading might go on; there was nothing\nthat he enjoyed better than listening to a good reader.\n\nThere was a heightened color on Elsie's cheeks, but it was not brought\nthere by the implied compliment. She knew that she was a fairly good\nreader. To-night, however, she was giving only partial attention to the\nbook. With by far the keener portion of her brain she was carrying on\nan argument somewhat after this fashion: \"I don't know about this book.\nThere are some queer expressions in it; I doubt whether papa would\napprove. I wonder if that sentence is really intended as a covert sneer\nat religion? I don't believe I like to hear the Bible quoted in just\nthis manner. Mamma wouldn't call that girl prudish; she would think she\nshowed a proper degree of self-respect.\"\n\nYou are to understand that these mental comments did not all rush\nforward at one time and demand attention, but presented themselves at\nintervals during the reading. Yet the doubt in Elsie's mind about the\nbook grew so rapidly that, just as Freeman Vance was announced, she\nhad almost resolved to declare boldly her objections and decline to\nread. But his coming had made this a doubly difficult thing to do. Poor\nElsie felt instinctively that she stood alone; she was breathing an\natmosphere so unlike the one in which she had been reared that it would\nbe almost impossible to make her audience understand her scruples. She\nshrank from trying. \"What mattered a few pages of a book?\" she told her\nconscience. She need not admire the book; certainly there was no danger\nthat she should. Once through with this disagreeable evening, and she\nneed never look into it again.\n\nSo the reading continued. And the mental arguments continued, also, for\nto the reader's wide-open eyes the sentiments expressed did not grow\nless objectionable. It was not that they were pronounced in their form;\nthere was neither downright mockery of things sacred nor downright\nridicule of things pure. It was simply like many a book which is being\nread in parlors; full of delicately-served, sugar-coated poisons. And\nit was commended, too, in a general way, by some of the very newspapers\nthat might have been expected to stand guard over its intrusion into\nChristian homes.\n\nIt was charmingly written. The pale hero was so fascinating in his\nmanner that, when he languidly quoted a moral lie and gracefully\npropped it with arguments, you, being eighteen and guileless, could not\nhelp admiring him a little.\n\nYet did Elsie read under protest. \"Mamma\" appeared before her\nfrequently, with keen eyes and clear brain, and swept away a filmy\nweb which would hide a falsehood from less cultured minds. \"Papa's\"\nstrong logic came often to mind to overthrow some subtle reasoning. Dr.\nFalconer's very last sermon loomed up before her once, text and all, to\nrefute utterly a hint which the pale hero put forth.\n\nIf Freeman Vance had not appeared on the scene the book would certainly\nhave been laid aside; but how utterly foolish would her position appear\nto him! He would call her a prude, as she had heard him call a young\nlady who had been the subject of conversation the other day. She knew\njust how his lip curled when he said it. Not that she cared for Freeman\nVance's opinion, she told herself; but, then, nobody liked to be talked\nabout. As she reached this conclusion she turned another leaf. The\ninteresting hero was in the midst of a statement given with as much\nenergy as he ever used, and, by way of emphasizing his point, he used\nan unmitigated oath.\n\n\"Can you deliberately hold in your hand books of a kind which you know\nperfectly well lead you farther from instead of nearer to Him?\"\n\nThe quotation came to the reader suddenly, with almost as much force as\nthough it had been spoken by an audible voice. She made an instant's\npause\u2014the oath unread\u2014and looked down at her fair hands. They were\nbeing soiled! There was no question in her heart about it. With a\nsudden, impulsive movement, she spread open her hands with a repellent\ngesture, as though she recoiled from the thing touched, and the book\nfell to the floor. Freeman Vance sprang to return it and Carrie gave a\nnervous start.\n\n\"Why, Elsie Burton, what is the matter? You made me drop six stitches\noff my hook.\"\n\n\"Is there a ghost on that page?\" queried Ben, mischief in his voice.\n\n\"No,\" said Elsie, her courage and her color rising. \"I think it is a\nserpent. Thank you, Mr. Vance; I don't want the thing again. I have had\nquite too much of it. You must all excuse me from farther reading of\nthat book. I am not in sympathy with the morals or the manners of its\ncharacters. I am ashamed that I have allowed myself to read it so long.\"\n\n\"I'll venture that it is another case of 'soiled hands,'\" Ben said,\nnothing but amusement in his voice.\n\nHis cousin turned toward him with flashing eyes. \"Yes,\" she said, \"it\nis.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHEN began a babel of tongues. The book was \"elegant!\" \"Charming!\"\nEverybody said it was the best one from that popular writer's pen. The\n\"critics were just raving over it.\" \"Certainly it was written in a most\nfascinating manner.\"\n\nThese were some of the statements which Elsie seemed to be expected to\nanswer. She had very little to say. The truth was, she felt painfully\nconscious of the fact that many of her arguments would sound to this\ncompany like an unknown tongue. What did they know of loyalty to the\nMaster who owned her, heart and hands? What wild fanaticism would they\nthink it, if she said that she felt herself to have dishonored Christ,\nin having lent her hands and her voice to the book which she had just\ndropped?\n\nYet she said this, speaking steadily, albeit with glowing cheeks. She\nfelt it to be the least that she could do, as His witness, to speak\nthe simple truth, and bear the storm of words, the incredulity, the\nlaughter, the raillery; and the almost more disagreeable attempt to be\npatient with her, as with an ignorant child, fresh from country life\nand country ideas.\n\n\"Oh, well!\" said Carrie, at last. \"We might as well save our breath,\nas to coax her after she has made up her mind. You always were an\nobstinate child, you know, Elsie, my dear. Ben, suppose you read.\"\n\n\"Not I,\" said Ben, with emphasis. \"It is my brains, instead of my\nhands, that I am afraid of; I never had the proper amount to bear me\nout in reading aloud. Vance, will you volunteer?\"\n\nAn expressive shrug of shapely shoulders was the young man's only\nreply, but it seemed to be considered decisive.\n\n\"Then we must give it up,\" Carrie said, great vexation in her voice.\n\n\"What shall we do? I'm too dull to talk. Oh, I'll tell you, let's have\na game. Freem Vance, I owe you a grudge for beating me, the last time\nwe played. Get the cards, Ben, and I'll see if I cannot redeem my\nreputation in that line.\"\n\nBen laughed good-humoredly, but made no attempt to obey.\n\n\"You are dull to-night, Carrie, duller than usual, that's a fact, if\nyou have any idea that our fair cousin will let her hands go so far\nastray as to dabble with cards.\"\n\n\"Well, I should like to know why not. There is no irreligion about\nthem, certainly, poor little innocent things! Elsie, you will play a\ngame with us, won't you?\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" Elsie said, trying to make her voice sound natural; \"I\nnever play cards.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's of no consequence! You can easily learn. Ben, you could\nteach her in five minutes, so she could play with you, couldn't you?\"\n\n\"Doubt it exceedingly. There is an insurmountable objection, I fancy.\nUnless I am mistaken, she will decline to be taught.\"\n\n\"No, she won't; we can't make up a set without her, and she will not be\nso disagreeable as to refuse. Come, Elsie, you will be accommodating,\nwon't you?\"\n\nPoor Elsie felt like nothing so much as bursting into tears, and\nrunning away, but she stood her ground bravely.\n\n\"I am sorry to appear unaccommodating, Carrie, but Ben is right; I\ncannot play cards any better than I can read that book.\"\n\n\"What is the matter with cards?\" There was a sneering tone to Carrie's\nvoice; perhaps it was well for Elsie that such was the case. Sneers\nwere apt to give her courage.\n\nShe choked back the tears, and tried to answer lightly: \"They are\ninnocent enough, I suppose; it is the rough handling that the poor\nthings get to which I object.\"\n\n\"That is begging the question. Our professor of rhetoric says people\nalways do that when they are unable to prove their statements. I am\ntired of hints and sanctimonious flings. Everything is wicked nowadays.\nYou used to have as much life in you as anybody; if there is any reason\nfor such pokiness, I should like to hear it. Why won't you play cards?\"\n\n\"The prisoner will stand and answer to the solemn charge preferred\nagainst her.\"\n\nThis from Ben. His sister's manner was so dictatorial that he was\nashamed of her, and was inclined, in a rollicking way, to aid Elsie.\nShe glanced toward him, smiling, then turned to Carrie.\n\n\"Why, Caroline, my dear, you surely do not need the ordinary arguments\nagainst card-playing quoted to you! Everybody who has given any thought\nto the subject understands them, and it wouldn't make them any plainer\nor more forceful to quote them. For myself, I am sure I need only give\nyou one. My father and mother do not approve of the amusement.\"\n\nBen gave a curious little laugh at this point. \"No more do ours, eh,\nCarrie?\" he said.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" returned that young lady sharply. \"I'm sure papa said\nonly the other night that times were changed since he was young, and\nlived in the country. A great many people who live in little country\ntowns get narrow views of things, breathe them in the atmosphere which\nsurrounds them; but that is no reason they should hold to them when\nthey get a chance to see the world. I don't know what you mean, Ben;\nI'm sure papa has never forbidden us to play cards. I am going to have\na game\u2014I know that; and if Elsie won't play, I'll call Mary down. She\nwill like the fun of joining us.\"\n\n\"Mary\" was the fourteen-year-old sister who was tolerated only\noccasionally among the older young people.\n\nAs Carrie arose to summon her, Mr. Freeman Vance spoke the first\nsentence he seemed to have considered himself called upon to utter\nsince the conversation commenced.\n\n\"At the same time, Miss Carrie, suppose you secure little Belle to take\nmy place. I do not feel equal to cards this evening.\"\n\nWhereupon Ben burst into hearty laughter. \"Amusement under\ndifficulties, upon my word!\" he said, as soon as he could speak. \"What\nshall be done with them, Carrie?\"\n\n\"Oh, well!\" Carrie said, returning to her seat with an offended air.\n\"Since you are all disposed to be so very accommodating, you may\nentertain yourselves. I'm sure I shall make no farther attempt. It is\nthe first time I ever knew you, Freem Vance, to decline cards. You are\nplaying a new game to-night, I should think.\"\n\nWhereunto this embarrassing and ill-humored conversation would have\ngrown, I cannot tell you; for at that point occurred an interruption,\nin the shape of a summons for Ben.\n\nHis father desired to see him at once, in the library, on a matter of\nbusiness.\n\nAnd no sooner had he, with a little good-humored grumbling, departed,\nthan Carrie unceremoniously left the room by another door, and the two\nguests were alone together.\n\nI am aware that I have had to present Miss Carrie to you in a very\nunfavorable light. As a rule, she was good-humored and ladylike, and,\nbeing a year or two older than Elsie, was in the habit of being looked\nup to by her. But, being a young woman without a settled purpose of\nlife or a guiding motive for speech or action, she was left, more or\nless, at the mercy of the passing mood; and the excitements of the past\nfew days had served to unsettle her nerves to an unusual degree.\n\nLeft to themselves, an embarrassing silence followed. Elsie did not\nknow how to commence a conversation with this cultured man of the\nworld; especially, after the experiences of the last hour.\n\nIt was he who finally led the way:\n\n\"Would you mind giving me some of your objections to card-playing for\namusement? I think I am not well posted as you suppose your cousin to\nbe.\"\n\nThere was neither banter nor sarcasm in his voice; instead, he seemed\nto be in earnest. But Elsie, full of sparkling logic for the boys and\ngirls, was unused to arguing with a gentleman, and hesitated.\n\n\"Don't they become snares to some young men, and lead them into\ntemptation and misery sometimes?\" she said at last.\n\nHe seemed surprised at the answer, and waited a moment before he said,\n\"I think they do; but it does not seem to me that your cousin Ben is\ntempted in that direction.\"\n\n\"I was not thinking of him at all. If any person came to mind it\nwas little Teddy Reilly, my Sabbath-school boy, whose father is a\nprofessional gambler, and who lives in an atmosphere of impurity. I\nwant to keep my hands so clean from all such things that there shall\nnever be the possibility of his associating me with them. And the world\nis full of Teddy Reillys; we may meet them when we do not know it, and\ninfluence them when we are not thinking of such a thing. Besides, I\nhave two little brothers. I don't want them ever to find in gambling\nsaloons anything that will remind them of home and home pleasures.\"\n\n\"I am answered,\" he said, smiling; but there was nothing unpleasant in\nthe smile.\n\nAfter a little, he spoke again, still in the same gentle tone: \"Would\nit be disagreeable to you to tell me what you meant, a little while\nago, about the book, and what Ben's reference to 'clean hands' had to\ndo with it?\"\n\nThis question caused the color to deepen on Elsie's cheeks. Such things\nwere harder to explain; she doubted his ability to understand.\n\n\"It began with Dr. Falconer, my pastor,\" she replied, hesitatingly. \"He\nsaid, when he bade me good-by, that he hoped I would be careful not\nto soil my hands. Then he lent me a little book of Miss Havergal's,\nand I read it on the cars. There were marked passages in it, about\nhands having been given to Christ and being kept for His service. One\nsentence is, 'Can you let your hands take up things which, to say the\nleast, are not for Jesus? Can you deliberately hold in it books of\na kind which you know perfectly well lead you farther from, instead\nof nearer to, Him?' I thought of that all the time I was reading the\nbook; and at last, when it came to a direct profanation of His name, I\ndropped it. I wish I had done so before.\"\n\n\"It is narrow ground,\" said Freeman Vance.\n\n\"Yes, it is. I am amazed to see how it hedges one in. One of my\nSabbath-school verses is, 'He that hath clean hands and a pure heart.'\nI have been very careful to teach the children what the words mean, and\nthat has made them plainer to myself, I think. At home, with my father\nand mother, the way is plain enough, and bright and pleasant, but in\nthis atmosphere things are hard. I think I need mamma to-night.\"\n\nHer lip was quivering. With the quotation of the Bible verse, Freeman\nVance had shaded his face with his hand. He made no response to her\nwords, and she struggled silently for composure.\n\nAt last he spoke again; a quiet voice, but it revealed a good deal of\nsuppressed feeling.\n\n\"Cards are a great temptation to me. I am very fond of them, and, like\nyou, I need my mother, and can never have her any more.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Elsie, and the sympathy she put into that word must be\nimagined, not described. \"You need Jesus, Mr. Vance. If you give your\nhands to Him, He will keep them and you.\"\n\nThere were footsteps in the hall. Carrie, ashamed apparently of her ill\nhumor and rudeness, had returned in a better mood. But there was no\nmore conversation. Freeman Vance arose almost immediately, saying that\nhe had but waited to bid her good-night.\n\n\"You have made an enemy of poor Freem,\" Carrie said, trying to laugh,\nas the outer door closed after him. \"He thinks an evening without cards\nis a dreadful bore. People do say that he plays for something besides\namusement. But he has so much money that I suppose he thinks it no\nharm to throw away some of it if he wants to. They say he never keeps\nany that he wins. It seems a pity, though, to have him play with those\nfellows. I always keep him at cards just as late as I can, so that he\nwill not be tempted to go to the saloons.\"\n\nBut Elsie had no answer for this phase of virtuous self-abnegation.\nShe was sore-hearted and disappointed. The world was not the beautiful\nthing she had thought it. The shelter of home and mother were treasures\nto be prized. The atmosphere of home was something to look forward to\nwith longing. The week was gone; she was glad of it. On Monday she was\ngoing home. But\u2014and here was the place for tears\u2014she had disappointed\nherself. She was not going back with hands as clean as she had hoped.\nThey were stained. His hands? Yes, but not kept always sheltered in His\ngrasp. And her lips had spoken few words for Him.\n\nHere was this young man, Freeman Vance, in danger, it seemed, and\nmotherless; and she had met him every day for a week, several times a\nday, indeed, and to-night's stammering sentence had been the first that\nshe had ever spoken to him of Christ. What a servant was she?\n\n\nIt was evening, and it was raining; and in the back parlor there was a\nfire in the grate, throwing its bright gleams of light over the room\nand playing gayly with the pictures on the walls.\n\nTwo easy chairs were drawn near to the grate, that their occupants\nmight the better enjoy the play of firelight and shadow. In one of them\nsat Elsie Burton. A trifle over a year older than when you saw her\nlast. Not changed much, unless the brightness on her face has toned\ninto something softer, something which, while it belongs still to the\nfreshness of girlhood, hints of the coming woman.\n\nThe parlor is not the same in which you last saw her. It is her\nfather's own.\n\nElsie graduated a few weeks ago, just a little past nineteen; but she\npreferred to spend the following months in the quiet of her own home,\nthough Cousin Carrie eagerly urged the delights of the great city upon\nher.\n\nThe other occupant of an easy chair I presume you would also recognize,\nthough he, I think, is more changed than Elsie; but you would like\nthe change. I don't remember whether I told you that Freeman Vance\nwas a handsome man. A year ago, if you are a careful student of human\nnature, you would have been a little troubled over the face. Handsome\ndark eyes, but with an unrest about them that made you not sure of his\nfuture. Handsome, quiet mouth, but with a look of strength about it, or\nof firmness; and to be firm in a wrong direction means obstinacy\u2014means\ndanger. And about the whole man there had been a certain something\nwhich told you that he thought himself master of himself; and when a\nman thinks that, wise people know that he is a slave.\n\nBut he was changed. What is the change which comes into these handsome,\nmanly faces, when their owners give themselves over, body and soul,\ninto the keeping of the King? Is it a stamp of the King's signet ring?\nIs it a hint of the coming fulfillment\u2014\"We shall be like Him when we\nshall see Him as He is\"? Whatever it is, you saw it plainly on Freeman\nVance's face.\n\n\"It is singular that it rains.\" This was what he was saying.\n\n\"Why?\" The word mellowed into a happy little laugh. The laugh said:\n\"Let it rain, and let the wind sigh and moan among the leafless\nbranches; I don't care in the least; the night, and the darkness, and\nthe sighing are as nothing to me; they are all 'without,' and I am\nhedged in, and sheltered, and safe, and happy.\"\n\n\"It rained, that night, you know. I remember just how the drops sounded\non the window-pane, and how the wind moaned, and shook the trees\nangrily because it could not get in at you. It seemed to know that it\nwould never be able to touch you, and to know, also, that in a few\nminutes I would have to come out to it in the darkness and be whirled\nwhither it would.\"\n\n\"What a dreadful picture!\" Still there was content in the voice. \"I\nremember the night, and the rain, and the wind; but I did not think\nyou noticed it, or cared whether it touched me or not. Carrie said I\noffended you that evening.\"\n\n\"Poor Carrie! It is difficult to conceive of a young lady making less\nof life than she is doing.\"\n\n\"How is it with Ben? He is getting on well, is he not?\"\n\n\"Splendidly! The dear fellow! I saw him last night. Some memory of old\ntimes came over us, and he spoke of that very evening; said he should\nhave reason to remember it forever; though it was words spoken on the\nfirst day of your coming, during the walk up from the depot, he said,\nwhich set him to thinking.\"\n\n\"No one ever acted less as though he were thinking! I was sure that he\nwas simply amused with me, as a little country dunce. Many a time he\nhelped to make it hard for me.\"\n\n\"I presume so; trying the temper of the steel. Ben is developing well.\nHe is the chief dependence of the young men's meeting in his church;\nand he has a great deal of influence over the boys younger than\nhimself. Fenton tells me that he has about broken up the card-parties\nwhich used to be so fashionable in that set; not by any aggressive\nmeasures, you know\u2014just a steady, quiet influence.\n\n\"'Clean hands,' he said to me last night. 'That is my motto, Freem.'\nAnd there were tears in the dear fellow's eyes. You did good work in\nthe field during that one week, little Elsie. Went into the enemy's\nranks and captured right and left.\"\n\n\"I remember,\" said Elsie, when the laughter and the blushing over\npart of this sentence had subsided\u2014\"I remember I cried that night,\nbecause I felt that I had spent such a useless week, and, after all\nmy resolutions, was coming home with soiled hands and stained heart.\nGod was very good to own my feeble, blundering attempts. Poor Carrie\nthought I cried because I had offended you.\"\n\n\"Poor Carrie!\" repeated Arr. Vance, laughing a little. Then both of\nthem sighed. The year that was past had not improved Cousin Carrie.\n\n\"Does Ben know\u2014\" began Elsie, then stopped. Mr. Vance seemed able to\nunderstand half sentences.\n\n\"Ben does not know anything, except where I am gone for vacation; but\nI think he suspects a great deal and keeps his own counsel. I do not\nvisit often at your uncle's, now, for reasons that you may possibly\nsurmise.\"\n\nJust a moment of silence, during which both watched the play of the\nfirelight.\n\nThen Freeman Vance bent toward the other easy chair, which was lower\nthan his.\n\n\"I have something to show you, Elsie, and something to tell you. Will\nyou let me see if this fits?\"\n\nThen the firelight flashed about a cluster of small, pure diamonds,\nquaintly set.\n\n\"It was my mother's ring, Elsie, and there is something to tell you\nabout it\u2014something strange, which will make you feel more than ever\nthat God plans all our ways for us.\n\n\"When my mother gave it to me, a boy of twenty, she said: 'It is for\nyour wife, Freeman, with a mother's blessing. And, my son, promise me\nthis: the girl on whose finger you place it must have clean hands and a\npure heart. Will you be careful of that, my boy?' I promised it on my\nknees, by my mother's dying bed.\n\n\"You may judge now something of the thrill it gave me to hear you quote\nthose words.\n\n\"I have carried the ring on my watch-guard, hidden from sight, for five\nyears.\n\n\"Now it has found its rightful owner, and, my darling, I know I have\nobeyed my mother's words.\"\n\n\n\n                       CIRCULATING DECIMALS.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE Sabbath-school library of the Penn Avenue Church was really in a\ndisgraceful condition. For years it had been let alone, until it had\nfinally put itself into that state of dilapidation which let alone\nthings can so skillfully assume. Covers were sadly torn, corners\ncurled, fly-leaves gone, in many cases the first dozen or twenty pages\nof the book missing, to say nothing of great gaps in the middle of the\nstory or history. Some books had almost every leaf defaced by those\nirritating scribblers, who are never safe creatures with a lead pencil\nin their hands. Many of the books were missing, having been swallowed\nin that mysterious vortex which ingulfs lost things, no person living\nbeing able to give a lucid account of their departure. And, to crown\nall, according to the statement of Mrs. Marshall Powers, who knew most\nthings, \"Not more than half the books were fit for a Sabbath-school\nlibrary in the first place.\"\n\nWho needs a photograph of a disabled library? Alas, the ghastly\nremains lie around so profusely that there is no need for more than\na word to recall the very bend of their limp covers\u2014those of them\nwhich have covers left. Such was, and had been, the condition of the\nPenn Avenue library for many a month. It had been long since a book\nhad been spoken of by the bright girls and boys who belonged to its\nSabbath-school without a contemptuous curling of upper lips. Spasms of\ninterest had been from time to time awakened, and much talk had been\nwasted in repeating the patent fact\u2014\"We certainly ought to do something\nabout our library,\" the main difficulty being that the effort went no\nfarther than talk; and the day came when a suggestion of this sort\nwould set the aforesaid lips to curling in derisive incredulity. They\nbelieved\u2014those boys and girls\u2014that the Penn Avenue library was dead.\n\nSuch, however, was not the case. One summer morning it revived. The\nyoung ladies' society took hold of it with interest; they would have a\nfair and festival forthwith; they would spare no pains and no expense\nto make the matter a grand success, and secure the means for a new and\ncomplete library, which should at once be the admiration and the envy\nof every other church in town.\n\nDo you need to be told how that society hummed and buzzed after that?\nMeetings were held each week, sometimes twice a week. Committees were\nformed, and dashed hither and thither through the crowded streets.\nWorsted, and canvas, and embroidery silk, and ribbon, and beads, and\nlace came to the front, and became matters of even more importance than\nusual. The air was full of them, parlors were full of them, tongues\nwere full of them; go where you would, you were destined to hear about\n\"a lovely rose-colored tidy in a new stitch,\" or \"an elegant afghan,\"\nthe materials for which were to cost twenty dollars, or a \"magnificent\nBible cushion\" that was all a mass of raised silk embroidery that would\ntake \"days and days of close work to finish\"; or of some other of the\nendless pieces of fancy work getting ready for the fair. Neither was\nthe festival part neglected. The city was districted, the streets were\ncanvassed, miles of energetic walking were accomplished, and the result\nwas cake\u2014black cake, white cake, brown cake, chocolate, delicate,\ncream, cocoanut, sponge, and, to crown all, the \"loveliest great mound\nof angels' food that was ever made in this town!\" So one enthusiastic\nmiss reported. Think of a company of rational beings, meeting and\neating up a loaf or two of angels' food, for the purpose of securing a\nSabbath-school library! Cakes were not all! Jellies, pickles, chickens,\nham, tongue\u2014oh! What not? If you had looked into the receiving room of\nthe Penn Avenue Church, on the afternoon of the eventful evening, you\nwould have almost supposed that the dear people were making ready to\ngive a Christmas dinner to this great, cold, homeless outside world,\nso bountiful were the provisions. But they were not; they were only\npreparing to eat their way into a Sunday-school library for the use of\ntheir own boys and girls.\n\nBut let no novice suppose for a moment that the afternoon of this day\nhad been reached in peace. If I should undertake to give you a history\nof one third of the troubles through which the self-sacrificing leaders\nwalked, my story would be far too long. Did not Helen Brooks say that\nSallie Stuart's pincushion was a \"dowdy-looking thing,\" and should not\nbe on her table; that Sallie did not know how to do fancy work anyway,\nand never ought to have tried? Did not Alice Jenkins say that Stella\nSomebody had marked her sofa pillow \"ridiculously high;\" that it was\nreally a disgrace to a church to charge such exorbitant prices? And did\nnot both Sallie and Stella hear of these things, by that mysterious\nprocess which is rife in all society, and which nobody understands,\nand did they not both withdraw in affront, declaring that they would\nhave nothing more to do with the Penn Avenue fair, nor the Penn Avenue\nSabbath-school? This is only a hint of the miasm of which the air was\nfull.\n\nBut one story I must tell you: an \"ower true tale\" it is. If any of\nthe Penn Avenue people read this, I ask their pardon for making it\npublic, but it should be recorded as a matter of history. It was all\nabout a doll. A great, beautiful waxen doll, direct from Paris, having\nwonderful real hair, and wonderful eyes that looked as though they must\nbe real, and rosy parted lips, and teeth that gleamed like pearls. This\ndoll was a special grant of grace to the young ladies' society. Mrs.\nArcher, just returned from a European tour, had brought it home for\nthe very purpose to which she now dedicated it, namely, the library\nof the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school. Think of the number of children in\nthat Sabbath-school whose very arms would quiver with the desire to\nclasp such a treasure as their own! Assuredly there were fifty fathers\nin the congregation who would think nothing of investing a dollar for\nthe possibility of securing it for the darling at home. Nothing easier\nthan to sell fifty tickets, at a dollar each, and let the child whose\nfortunate number corresponded with the number on the inside of the\nParisian lady's Parisian slipper carry off the prize in triumph, while\nthe forty-nine other children held their breaths and controlled their\nsobs as best they could.\n\nNow all this proved to be very correct reasoning. Hot buckwheat cakes\non a frosty morning never disappeared faster than those fifty tickets\nwere exchanged for shining silver spheres or crisp national currency.\nWith great satisfaction did the committee count out its fifty dollars\nfor the treasury of the Lord, mourning over but one thing: \"We might\nhave had seventy-five or a hundred tickets just as well as fifty.\"\n\nStill, it was not all smooth sailing. Murmurs long and deep began to\nbe heard, and presently they waxed loud enough to claim attention.\nThere were those among some of the fathers and mothers in Israel who\nsucceeded in making it understood that they had conscientious scruples\nagainst gambling, even for religious purposes. They declared that\nthis thing ought not to be, and therefore must not be. Triumphant\nwere the answers: \"The tickets are all sold; what are you going to do\nabout it?\" But the conscientious element was in earnest. Something\nought to, and therefore something could, be done about it; the money\ncould be refunded, the tickets destroyed, the Parisian lady valued\nat a reasonable price and set up for sale, if they would, but never\nraffled for. Great was the consternation\u2014loud were the voices. Give\nback the fifty dollars! Guess they would, hard as they had worked for\nit! Great need in being so squeamish! They had heard of people who\nstrained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. They believed, if the truth\ncould be told, the trouble started with somebody who was disappointed\nbecause his little girl did not get a ticket. They were not going to\ngive up the doll, not they. Did people suppose they would do all the\nwork, and then be dictated to by a few narrow-minded men and women?\nThe strife ran high; it threatened to rend in pieces the young ladies'\nsociety. There were those who would do nothing if the Parisian lady\nwas insulted; there were those who would do nothing if the raffle was\npermitted. Into the midst of the turmoil came the Sabbath to make what\nlull it could. The offending lady was carried home on Saturday by one\nof her allies, and securely locked in the \"spare chamber\" to spend the\nSabbath in repose. Alas, and alas! The day was warm, the windows of the\nspare room fronted the south; the blinds had been thrown wide-open, the\nevening before, to catch the last rays of light for a special object,\nand by some strange mismanagement had not been closed again. The\nblue-eyed lady in her arm-chair directly in front of the window, looked\nher loveliest all day; and all day the sunbeams hovered around her,\nand wooed her, and kissed her, and caressed her, never realizing the\nfierce heat of their love; and on Monday morning, when the determined\ncommittee went to remove my lady to her throne in the church parlor,\nbehold, her delicate complexion was seamed and soiled; what had been\nred cheeks were simply long faded streaks, extending in irregular\nlines to her neck; her eyelashes were gone, her nose was gone, her\nlovely lips were washed out, and she was, in short, a ruined wreck of\nher former self! There was no raffling at that fair. The money was\nreturned, the doll was patched up, and packed up, and sent to a little\nniece of one of the committee\u2014the disappointed auntie having bought my\nlady for a trifle\u2014mid apparent calm succeeded the angry threatenings.\nYet, despite all their efforts at composure, the young ladies could\nnot get away from the miserable feeling that the trouble was in some\nway due to the opposition; and cold looks, and sarcastic speeches, and\ndiscomfort and distrust had it very much their own way among certain of\nthe workers.\n\nWell, the fair was held. Tidies, and tidies, and tidies! The number and\nvariety seemed endless.\n\n\"Tidies to right of us, tithes to left of us, tidies before us, tidies\nbehind us, tumbled and tangled,\" paraphrased a young man who caught\nhis sleeve button in one of the meshes and drew a small avalanche of\nthem to the floor. Another, looking on hopelessly at the mass, asked\nwhat sort of carpets they would make. And another, turning from them\nto the pincushions, wanted to know if some of those things were not\nlarge enough for bolsters. All this aside, of course. Sales were\nbrisk, apparently, and yet many articles were unsold. The trifles, the\nsmall keepsakes, the pretty nothings found ready purchasers; but the\npieces that represented miles of silk embroidery, and hours of toil,\nand were to bring large returns, were still the property of the young\nladies when the evening was over. It was over at last, and weary bodies\nand excited brains sat down to count the spoils. There was a bill to\npay at the fancy store for materials; there was a bill to pay at the\nconfectioner's; there was a bill to pay for dishes rented, and broken,\nand otherwise injured; there was a bill to pay for cream\u2014where do all\nthe little bills come from which swarm round a distracted treasurer\nat such a time? Unexpected expenses, and enough fancy work on hand to\nstock a modest store! The bills were paid, and the wearied soldiers\nwent into camp for repairs\u2014mental and moral; and there was deposited\nwith the treasurer of the library fund the sum of twenty-two dollars\nand sixteen cents!\n\nAfter that there was a lull in the Penn Avenue Church.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE next spasm that seized them started in the choir. They would give\nan entertainment, musical and literary. No such gross and material\nthings as food for the body should intrude. Committee meetings were\nagain the order of the day. It was soon found that even in preparing\nfor \"a feast of reason and a flow of soul,\" differences of opinion\nwould arise. Should it be the cantata of Queen Esther, or the operetta\nof the Milkmaid, or something lighter than either, say, the Dance of\nthe Fairies? There were those who thought a series of tableaux would\nbe better than any of these, and there were those who thought there\nwas talent enough in the Penn Avenue Church to get up a genuine play,\ninstead of one of these milk-and-water affairs. At last, after some\nplain speaking, and a few heart-burnings, it was decided that the\ncantata of Esther should have the right of way, the casting vote in\nits favor being made because there was a young man visiting at the\nJudsons' who had just graduated from the theological seminary, and\nwould make a \"magnificent Haman.\" Then began rehearsals. Music was to\nbe interspersed between the various scenes, and certain sopranos were\nasked to prepare choice selections, such as: \"I think only of thee,\nlove,\" and \"My heart's dearest treasure,\" and \"Ever thine own, love,\"\nand a few other of those gems which we hear screamed out by seraphic\nvoices to large and appreciative audiences. I have never heard it\nexplained why so much of our popular music should be wedded to words\nwhich the performer would blush to repeat in prose to an audience of\nmore than one; but the fact, I suppose, is indisputable.\n\nOh, those rehearsals! Why are they attended with so many trials? Does\nSatan make special arrangements to be present at all efforts of this\nkind? And, if so, why? Does his superior genius recognize in these\ngatherings fruitful soil for the developments dear to his heart, I\nwonder?\n\nMiss Minnie Coleman was general-in-chief of this particular\nentertainment, and she dropped a limp heap among the cushions one\nevening and recounted her trials to sympathetic ears: \"Such a time,\nmamma! You never saw anything like it. It really is enough to\ndiscourage one with any attempt at doing good! Who do you suppose\nwants to be Vashti? That ridiculous little Kate Burns! She says she\nknows more than half of the part already, because she helped them get\nthis up in the Vesey Street social; the idea! Everything she did was\nto prompt at one of the rehearsals! She is too dumpy for a queen; and\nshe has a simpering little voice. Oh! It would be just too ridiculous\nfor anything, and yet she is bent on it; she has talked with each one\nof the committee separately, and hinted that we ought to propose her.\nThen there's that Jennie Harmon, vexed because she hasn't been chosen\nfor Esther. She makes all manner of fun of Essie (whom everybody says\nis just the one for the part), and I'm really afraid Essie will hear\nof it, and refuse to act; the girls are so hateful, mamma, you haven't\nan idea! They get so excited about things that don't go just as they\nwant them; they burst right out with whatever is in their minds. Three\nof the committee went home crying to-night just because of things that\nthey had overheard said; and I'd cry, too, if I were not so provoked.\nIt does seem too bad when we are working for benevolence, and trying\nour best to make a little money, to have people go and spoil things\nin this way. (Jessie Morrison is fretting, too; she doesn't like her\npart; says her mother thinks the dress is unbecoming. 'What of it?' I\nasked her, somebody had to wear it, and it might as well be she as any\none; well, she said her mother did not think it was exactly a proper\ndress to appear in, in public. So absurd!) I am just tired of the whole\nthing. I told Fannie to-night I would give anything if we were safely\nout of it all, and if I once get through I shall wash my hands of all\nbenevolent enterprises in the future. Fannie was a poor one to talk to,\nthough; she is so vexed because she hasn't been asked to sing a solo\nthat she could tear everything to pieces. I'm sure I hope those library\nbooks, if we ever get them, will do a great deal of good; they ought\nto, such a world of trouble as they have made.\"\n\nAh, well, they lived through it. It is surprising how many trials we do\nsucceed in pushing through and coming out alive on the other side!\n\nThe cantata argued and frowned and sparred and grumbled its way into\nperfection. The large hall was engaged for two evenings, because a\ncomplete rehearsal at the hall was a necessity. The town was duly\nplacarded, inviting the public to the unique entertainment gotten up\nby the energetic young people of the Penn Avenue Church. The usual\nnumber of street jokes floated through the air, about the \"Penn Avenue\nTheatre,\" or the \"religious opera,\" sent afloat by that large class of\nirreligious young men who inhabit every town and city, and who seem to\nknow by instinct just what is appropriate to a religious body, and just\nwhat is not. When the church and the world start out to walk hand in\nhand, it is a curious thing that it is always the world that sees the\ninconsistencies, and laughs, and always the church that is blind.\n\nThe modern Queen Esther did hear of the trouble, and, unlike her great\nnamesake, faltered and pouted and would have nothing to do with the\naffair, so at a late hour a new queen had to be hastily chosen, who\nmarred the occasion by forgetting some of her parts; and this is only\na hint of the sea of trials which encompassed the executive committee\nthat evening. Still, as I said, they lived, and came to the hour when\nthey sat down to count their gains. From this exercise they rose\nup sadder and wiser girls. The costumes had been so unique, and so\nrich, and were of such brilliant colors that, being available for the\noccasion only, many things had to be bought, and the bills sent to the\ntreasurer. The purchases did not seem many nor heavy, as they were\nbought by different people, at different times, but they counted up so\nmercilessly when the figures were set in those inexorable rows! Then\nthe charge for the hall was simply enormous. The poor committee looked\nat each other and said this a dozen times during the counting up; the\nidea of charging as much for the use of the hall for the rehearsal as\nthey did for the regular evening! Who would have imagined such a thing!\nThen the bills of the piano lenders were more than they had supposed\npossible, and the printer's bill was another ruinous item. Will it not\nbe easily credited by the great army of the initiated that nineteen\ndollars and two cents gave the sum of the net proceeds of all these\nweeks of outlay! Actually nineteen dollars and two cents! \"There!\" said\nthe treasurer, tossing down her pencil with a determined air, \"I shall\nnot add that column again! I've begun at the top, and in the middle,\nand added the fives and the nines separately, and done everything I can\nthink of, and it comes every time to that miserable little nineteen\ndollars and two cents! Let's take the nineteen dollars to pay for the\nshoe leather we've worn-out, and hand in the two cents to the library\ncommittee, and then go and drown ourselves.\"\n\nThey laughed, as girls will, at almost anything, if somebody will only\nlead off. But when they reached home they, every one of them, cried.\nPoor things! My heart aches for them. There is no class of workers more\nutterly to be pitied than those who struggle and toil, making bricks\noften times without straw, and who find at the close that, some way,\nthe bricks seem not to have been worth the cost.\n\nIt was months afterward, winter indeed, before the library association\ngasped again. Then up rose the women, the respectable, middle-aged,\nmatronly women. The library must be replenished, money must be\nraised. It would not do to set girls at it; girls always got into\ntrouble, they were so sensitive, so quick to take offence, so lacking\nin self-control. They\u2014the matrons\u2014would do this thing speedily and\nquietly. They would have an oyster supper on a large scale, make\npreparation for a great many guests, furnish oysters in every possible\nstyle, and with them such coffee as only they could make, to say\nnothing of the inevitable cake and cream, and side dishes, for those\nwho did not relish oysters. So they went to work, quietly, skillfully,\nexpeditiously. Baking, broiling, frying, stewing! What tales could\nnot the kitchens and pantries have told during those days! They got\nthrough to the weary end, not without heart-burnings and a few tears,\nand much pressure of lips lest they speak unadvisedly, and occasional\nhome confidences not flattering to their fellow workers, and I protest\nthat in this age of the world, with Satan so manifestly at the helm as\nhe is, it is not possible to get up a church fair, festival, opera, or\nwhat not, without these, but the matrons were as they had promised to\nbe, on the whole, discreet, forbearing, and silent; no open breaches\ncame.\n\nThe evening of the supper came. Dark!\u2014was it ever darker? Rain!\u2014not a\nfitful dash with gleams of moonlight between. Just a steady, pelting,\npitiless rain, mud at every crossing, pools of water at some. Warm\u2014so\nwarm that, to the average oyster eater, the very thought of one of\nthose bivalves was disgusting. A few damp yet resolute people stood\naround in the corners of the great room, and steadily ate large dishes\nof oysters, double dishes, some of them, and the minister, the one who\nperhaps could afford it least, ushered in from the dark outer world, in\nthe course of the evening, seven wet, hungry newsboys, and gave them\nsuch a supper as they will tell of twenty years hence, and paid the\nbills! Meantime the cooked oysters in huge quantities were sent out to\nthe deserving poor, and the uncooked ones were forgotten and left in\nthe warm room all night, and by morning were not fit for the deserving\npoor, or any other poor! In the early forenoon of the next day, while\nthe rain was thus falling drearily, a few draggled and discouraged\nfemales wended their way homeward, laden with soup tureens, cooking\nutensils, and a loaf each of cake! And this was the outcome of Penn\nAvenue's third effort!\n\nNow you are not to suppose that this church was poor. It was not\nwealthy in the sense that some city churches are, which need only\nto mention a want to have it supplied from a full treasury; but its\nmembers, the great majority of them, lived in comfortable, and some\nof them in elegant homes; none of them ever arranged for himself to\nhave a supper brought in by his friends, and eaten by his friends,\nand paid for by his friends, in order to help him through with the\ncurrent expenses of the year. Not one of them had ever been known to\nsolicit articles for a fancy fair in order to help pair house rent, or\neven pew rent. All of them were in the habit of putting their hands in\ntheir pockets and furnishing the money with which to meet all these\nreasonable needs. Why, then, did they resort to such pitiable devices\nto replenish their church library? Is there any person who can give a\nsatisfactory answer to that question?\n\nI want also to be understood about those young ladies. They were by no\nmeans working for self-gratification; they were honest in their desire\nto raise money for the cause; neither were they of a more quarrelsome\ndisposition than others of their age and position. The simple fact\nwas, that the unusual surroundings, the endless rehearsals, the\nposing in characters strange to them, the curious costumes which made\nthem feel unlike themselves, the need for haste, and undue exertion,\nthe necessity for planning for so many contingencies, the sense of\nresponsibility, the consciousness of criticism freely offered, the\npossibility of failure, all these strained heavily on young nerves\nunused to great strains, and produced the highly wrought condition\nof nervous irritability which made molehills loom up like mountains,\nand made the things that would on ordinary occasions have raised a\nmerry laugh start the quick tears instead. I take the bold ground\nthat misunderstandings, and heart-burnings, and coldnesses, sometimes\nfar-reaching in their influences and results, are almost necessary\naccompaniments to work of this character; there are notable exceptions,\nbut exceptions emphasize rules. Really now, how many church festivals,\nfairs, concerts, cantatas, Christmas dramas, and what not, have you\nwatched closely from their inception to their close, without hearing of\na jar which did more or less harm?\n\nWhat does this prove? I am not proposing to prove anything by it, I am\nonly stating certain facts. Also, I am advocating the cause of the Penn\nAvenue Church; it was like unto other churches.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nIF you please, now, go back with me to the early summer in which the\nfirst spasm of interest in regard to the library took hold of the young\npeople. The new superintendent, unwittingly, perhaps, set the ball to\nrolling, by remarking that the library had been closed and locked by\nvote of the executive committee of the school, until such time as there\nwere found to be any books worth giving out. Then, among those who had\nlooked at each other and shaken their heads in disapproval of such a\nstate of things, were the young ladies in Mrs. Jones's class,\u2014ten of\nthem. They occupied the corner down by the door, between the door and\nthe east window; a corner that was cold in winter and warm in summer;\na corner that other classes shunned. Perhaps that will give you a hint\nin regard to Mrs. Jones's class. They were young ladies belonging to\na certain clique. None of them wealthy, none of them even well-to-do,\nin the sense which you probably mean by that term. They represented\ncomfortable homes, where the fathers worked hard, daily, for daily\nneeds, where the mothers took their share of daily burdens, where the\ndaughters did what they could to help lighten the burdens of both.\n\nFor instance, one was a sewing girl, and went every day among the fine\nhouses on the fashionable streets to do plain sewing. Another was a\nmilliner's apprentice, and in the busy season worked over bonnets\nfrom seven o'clock of a Monday morning often until twelve o'clock\nof a Saturday night. The fact was, she knew some of the Penn Avenue\nSabbath-school teachers who had their bonnets sent home in the gray\ndawn of the Sabbath morning, because they must have them for that day's\nworship. Another managed the entire culinary and kitchen department\nfor a large family, in order that the mother might sit all day, and\nsew (on the many garments which were brought to her, to cut and fit,\nand repair and make). Still another was clerk in a fancy store, and\nknew much about the pretty things that less busy girls than she were\nfond of making. Two were teachers in the graded school and spent\ntheir Saturdays in helping with the family ironing, to relieve an\nover-burdened mother. Workers they were, every one; not a drone in the\nhive. By common consent they were almost entirely counted out of the\n\"fancy department,\" as they had named the young ladies' society. They\nhad not time for fancy work, neither did they move in the same circle\nwith the fancy workers. Oh, they attended the same church, and were on\nfriendly enough terms with the young people, at least with those whom\nthey knew sufficiently to exchange bows when they met on the street;\nthey met nowhere else save in church. I am sure you know all about\nthose subtle, oftentimes mysterious, yet plainly defined, society\ndistinctions. They are to be found in every village, however small, as\nwell as in our largest cities.\n\nThis corner class looked at each other and shook their heads with the\nrest, but they did one thing more. Sarah Potter said, \"Girls, let us do\nsomething. Mrs. Jones, let us have a Sabbath-school library.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Jones, briskly, heartily, \"I'm agreed. Let us, by all\nmeans.\" Then they laughed a little. Mrs. Jones was a tailoress, and\nworked hard all day, and every day, and was devoted to her ten young\nladies.\n\nBut Sarah Potter had more to say: \"Oh, now I mean it. It is high time\nsomething was done. Let us meet to-morrow evening at Jennie's and talk\nit over.\"\n\nNow Jennie was one of the ten, and all meetings to discuss ways and\nmeans were always held at her house. In fact it was the settled place\nof meeting for anything connected with this class. It had been two\nyears since Jennie had met with them elsewhere than in her own room.\nYet the class was always counted as numbering ten. One glance at her\npale, bright face would have told you the story. She never left her\nroom, nor her bed, and looked forward now to but one way of leaving\nthat spot, which would be when they carried her out into the world once\nmore, in her coffin! Yet Jennie was the strong bond of union in that\nclass. \"She is the class soul!\" affirmed Mrs. Jones in her strong and\nsomewhat quaint language, and the one to whom she spoke understood, and\ndid not controvert it.\n\nWorkers are very apt to move promptly in whatever line they take up.\nThe next evening the ten met in Jennie's room. She was eager to receive\nthem, ready to further their plans to the best of her powers. But had\nthey any plans? \"Sarah began it,\" they said, \"she must tell us what she\nwants.\"\n\n\"I want a new library; and I say, let's get one, somehow.\"\n\n\"Very well, I'll be secretary and put that down. So much decided. 'A\nlibrary somehow.'\" Hannah Wood wrote the sentence in large letters, the\nothers gleeful meanwhile. \"Now, Sarah, proceed. We are all ready for\nthe plans.\"\n\n\"I haven't any plans; only that the thing must be done. It has been\ntalked long enough. Yes, I have plans. Look at the Woman's Board; see\nhow much money they are raising with ten cents a month. Why couldn't we\ndraw up pledges for ten cents a month and get signers? There are ten of\nus to work; ten cents a month from everybody that we can wheedle into\ngiving it. A regular decimal performance.\"\n\n\"Circulating decimals at that,\" laughed her sister. \"Think how we shall\nhave to circulate through this town to get signers!\"\n\n\"Jennie, you must be our treasurer; we'll report to you once a month.\nMrs. Jones, won't that be nice?\"\n\nThe subject was fairly opened for discussion, and vigorously was it\ndiscussed. Before the evening closed, each of the ten had a copy of the\npledge written in a fair round hand. \"We, the undersigned, do pledge\nourselves to give ten cents each month at the call of a person holding\nthis paper, for the benefit of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school Library\nFund, until such time as we shall ourselves erase our name from this\npaper.\"\n\n\"And it will be one while before you get a chance to do that,\"\naffirmed Sarah Potter, reading the pledge with grave satisfaction. \"If\never our church gets into another muddle over a library, I shall be\ndisappointed.\"\n\nThis was the beginning. The girls pocketed their papers, kissed\nJennie, and went home. Thereafter, steady, silent work was done with\nthese pledges. The thing created scarcely a ripple on the surface\nof the church society. The sum asked for was so small; it was so\neasy to change your mind and erase your name at any time; it was so\nimprobable that those girls would call for so small a sum many months\nin succession; it was so much easier to comply than to refuse; people\nlaughed and said one to another: \"Do you know what those girls in Mrs.\nJones's class are trying to do? Poor things, they want books badly. I\nhope they won't be old and gray before a new library is bought, but I\nam afraid they will at that rate. Oh, yes, I put down my name! It is a\nwhim that will blow over very soon, and it is just a trifle anyway.\"\nVery few members of the fancy department even heard of the plan; they\nwere busy making pincushions for the fair, and did not often meet the\nother class. But the original scheme widened. The ten met one evening\nat Jennie's call in her room; she had a plan.\n\n\"I've been thinking all the week, girls, and praying over it. Don't you\nbelieve we could each give an evening a week to the library?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear, yes, two of them if there was money in it! I'm becoming\ninterested and mercenary.\" This from Sarah Potter.\n\n\"Well, why don't you each go into business?\"\n\n\"Why don't we what!\" unbounded amazement in tone and manner.\n\n\"Go into business,\" repeated Jennie. Then she laughed. \"I've been\nthinking, and I find there is some one thing that each of you can do,\nand do well; why not get up an evening class, one evening a week, and\ngive the result to the library fund?\"\n\n\"Bless your dear heart! What an idea! There isn't a thing in life that\nI know how to do!\"\n\n\"Yes, there is. Don't you know, Trudie, that you make better cake for\nthe festivals than any of the fancy cooks? People always say so, and I\nknow two girls this minute who would be delighted to learn. I believe\nyou could have a large class.\"\n\n\"To learn to make cake! What an idea!\"\n\n\"It is a good one, isn't it, girls? I'll tell you, Trudie; I was\npraying about our library this very morning, and I asked the Heavenly\nFather to give me an idea; and just then the Emmons girls came in; they\nexpect company, and they were dreading all the work there would be to\nlook after; Sadie said if it were not for cake she wouldn't mind, but\nshe never had success, and it gave her the blues to think of having to\nattend to it. Just then it flashed over me this whole plan, and I knew\nit was an answer to my prayer.\"\n\n\"Oh, Jennie, Jennie! Cake making and praying are too far apart to get\nmixed in that way. Do you really think God attends to such things?\"\n\nThen it was time for Mrs. Jones. \"Why, dear, me!\" she said. \"Don't you\nknow your Bible? 'Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye\ndo, do all to the glory of God.' If he is to be glorified by our work,\nit is likely he knows a good deal about it.\"\n\n\"You can't glorify God by making cake!\"\n\n\"Can't? Then I should like to know what business you have spending your\ntime making it. There's the direction.\"\n\n\"If you can turn cake into library books, Trudie, I should say the way\nwas plain.\" This from Mary Brooks. Then Nettie Brooks: \"Come, Trudie,\ntake your cake and move out of the way. This is a splendid notion, but\nwhat in the world can I do? I know how to sell fancy goods, and sort\ncolors, and bear all manner of impudence from ladies who tumble them\nover, but I have no colors to sell.\"\n\n\"O Nettie, I thought of you! Look at your lovely handwriting. Think of\nthat winter when you took lessons to help the writing teacher pay her\nboard, and said you did not know what in the world you learned for. It\nmay be that God had you do it for just this time; and, don't you think,\nI know three scholars for you. I've had ever so many calls to-day.\"\n\n\"Put her down,\" said Hannah gravely. \"She'll get scholars; Jennie has\nprayed it all out for her. I know what I can do; I can teach decimal\nfractions; I've been at it all day, and I think I could teach them to a\npost. But the question is, where is the post?\"\n\n\"Mr. Nelson is willing to send his chore boy to an evening class, if\none is started; and Mrs. Silverton is willing to send both the Brewster\nboys.\"\n\n\"I shall teach an evening school; and teach decimal fractions, and\ncirculating decimals at that. Every scholar shall circulate around a\nnew Sabbath-school library before another year. I begin to see floods\nof daylight.\"\n\nDo you think this scheme came to naught? Not in a single instance.\nDuring the long winter evenings, the cake classes, and the soup\nclasses, and the writing classes, and the dress-cutting classes and the\narithmetic classes, were busy and enthusiastic.\n\n\"I suppose Jennie prayed them all there,\" said Sarah Potter,\nthoughtfully, when after a night of heavy rain they met to compare\nnotes, and found that all could report progress. It grew to be their\nworking motto, \"Jennie prayed us through.\" They worked carefully; if\nJennie was praying, the work must match the prayer.\n\n\"Girls,\" she said to them one night, \"I've been thinking. Hannah, you\ndear child, Bud says he begins to understand how to divide; he thought\nhe would never know. He said the carrying business bothered him always,\nuntil last night you made it as plain as day. Can't you teach him how\nto carry himself over bodily into the service of the Lord?\"\n\nSaid Hannah, with amused voice, but tearful eyes, \"O you blessed little\nfraction! I'll try! I truly will.\"\n\n\"We must all try hard,\" Jennie said. \"It is God's chance for us each.\nIt grows on me. The library will come; I feel sure of that, but so much\nelse will come if we teach for His glory. O girls, it is blessed to\nwork for Him! I cannot do it, and over again, but I am glad to say over\nand over again, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' I can only\nlie and wait, but I pray for the workers.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Hannah, \"foolish child! She doesn't see that she is the hub,\nand we nothing but the spokes in the wheel!\"\n\nThey went home strengthened. There was more to do than merely to secure\na Sabbath-school library; and there was more done.\n\nIt was about this time that the fancy department counted over its\nnineteen dollars and two cents, and wept!\n\nWell, the winter hasted away; spring came and passed, and the workers\nworked steadily, quietly on. Almost anything that takes a year to do\nis done quietly. The mere surface talkers always get through talking,\nearly in the year, and conclude that because they are tired of the\nsubject it has, therefore, dropped. Very few people even took time\nto notice the regularity with which their pledge was presented to\nthem and their ten cents claimed. Those who noticed it said, with a\npatronizing, and somewhat pitying, smile: \"So you are not tired of\nthat little effort of yours yet, eh? It reminds me of the old fable of\nthe bird trying to carry away the sand on the seashore. Well, every\nlittle helps, and I am sure every effort is commendable. Our library is\ncertainly a disgrace.\" This class, having encouraged (?) the workers,\ncalmly shouldered the \"disgrace,\" and went on their way thinking no\nmore about it. And the ten-cent pieces accumulated. New names were\nconstantly added. Most of Nettie Brooks's customers in the fancy store\nsigned to please her, she was so accommodating they all liked her.\n\nThe high school girls signed because Miss Wood was interested in it,\nand all the scholars liked Miss Wood. And a whole army of people signed\nbecause poor Jennie, lying always on her white bed, was pleased to have\nthem, and it was \"very little to do for one so afflicted.\"\n\nThis same Jennie, as the days went by, and the little iron bank\nin which she kept her money grew full, and must needs be emptied\nagain, had another plan, which involved taking the minister into\nconfidence. So one day, a little before the spring opened, he came\nand sat by Jennie's couch, and they talked long together. And at the\nnext meeting of the \"Decimals,\" which by tacit consent had come to be\nconsidered their pet name, he was present; and there was more talking,\nand the minister's wife and the minister's mother were received\ninto confidence. Not long thereafter came an express package to the\nminister's door\u2014books; but nobody thought anything of that, ministers\nwere always buying books. There was a certain upper room in the\nparsonage, clean and sunny, and destitute of furniture, save shelves\nand chairs. The shelves had been crowded with newspapers, but one day\nthey gathered themselves into systematic bundles and took their silent\nway to the attic; they had been superseded. The shelves were dusted\nand treated to a row of new books in tasteful bindings. Thereafter\nthe \"Decimals\" spent many leisure moments in the upper room of the\nparsonage, admiring books. People wondered, occasionally, why \"those\ngirls in Mrs. Jones's class were running to the parsonage so much.\"\nMrs. Marshall Powers explained the mystery by saying she supposed the\npastor and his wife were trying to get an influence over girls of that\nclass. The pastor heard it and laughed, and said to his wife that the\nfact was girls of that class were getting a great influence over him;\nhe wished they were multiplied in every church in a tenfold ratio.\n\nAnd the days passed, and more express packages came; and on one or\ntwo occasions certain packages went back again, for the committee on\nselection was very choice, and very cautious.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHERE came a day toward the close of summer when the Penn Avenue Church\ncalled a congregational meeting.\n\nThe object thereof was to discuss\u2014not a Sabbath-school library,\ntheir hopes in that direction had sunk below zero. Neither the fancy\ndepartment nor the choir would venture a pincushion or a song. Not a\nmatron could be coaxed to offer suggestion. Nobody dare say \"cake\" or\n\"oysters\" aloud. The subject under discussion was a new carpet for the\nchurch parlor. One was sadly needed; indeed, no more church socials\ncould be held until the parlor was re-furnished, because no matron\ncould be found who would preside as hostess.\n\nIt was voted to secure means for a carpet forthwith. Then did the\nchairman of the library committee delight the hearts of the carpet\ncommittee by announcing that they had unanimously voted to place the\nfunds raised toward a new library in the hands of the carpet committee\nto use at their discretion, inasmuch as there was no present prospect\nof a library, and the amount raised would be such a trifle compared\nwith what would have been needed for that purpose.\n\nThen arose a cloud that presaged a storm. The funds were raised for the\npurpose of securing a library. What right had this committee to vote\nthem away? Could they not be placed in the bank until such time as the\nneeded amount was secured, and then used for their legitimate purpose?\nTongues were numerous now, and waxed eloquent; differences of opinion\nwere marked, and were urged with energy. The cloud, at first, no bigger\nthan a man's hand, bade fair to spread over all the congregation, and\ninvolve them in a party squall.\n\nThen up rose the pastor; the long weeks of silent action were over;\nthe time for speech-making had come. It was true that the funds under\ndiscussion had been raised toward the purchase of a new library; it\nwas also true that without a general vote to that effect the committee\nwould not be justified in turning those funds into another channel. At\nthis point the belligerents who desired a new carpet, and meant to have\nit at once, looked disgusted and the belligerents who desired a new\nlibrary, and meant to have one sometime, if they could get it, looked\ncomplacently defiant, and affirmed with nodding heads that they should\nnever, no, never, vote away that sum of money for any other purpose\nunder the sun! But the pastor had more to say; also he had something to\ndo. The congregational meeting was held in the Sabbath-school room, and\njust behind the pastor was the great handsome library case, closed and\nunoccupied for many a day; for, to the honor of the Penn Avenue church,\nbe it written, they had not left the old library to lie in dust on the\nshelves, but had selected, and mended, and re-covered, such of the\nbooks as were deemed worthy of being missionaries, and freighted them\nto a Western Sabbath-school.\n\nThat was accomplished during the pincushion and tidy fever, when\nexpectation ran high over the immediate prospect of re-peopling those\nlibrary shelves; but, as you are aware, the hopes centered on fairs\nand festivals had been vain, and the library shelves were vacant and\ndust-covered. So thought every person in that church that afternoon\nsave ten.\n\n\"I have something to show you,\" said the pastor, and, as if by magic,\nthose handsome doors swung open, revealing rows upon rows of books\nunmistakably new, handsomely bound, delightfully large, many of them.\nTier upon tier they rose. It took but little arithmetic for those\nfamiliar with the library case to discover that there must certainly be\nmore than three hundred books.\n\n\"Three hundred and forty-five!\" said the pastor, reading the\nmathematical calculations all over the room. \"Handsomely bound,\" and he\ntook one in his hand; \"duly marked and numbered,\" and he opened to the\nfly-leaf and read: \"'Penn Avenue Sabbath-School Library. No. 7.'\"\n\nWhat did it mean? Where did they come from? How were they obtained?\nNobody spoke, yet these sentences seemed to float all over the room, so\ndistinctly were they written on the sea of eager faces.\n\n\"I can tell you about them,\" said the pastor. \"Yes, they are new, every\none of them, and they are ours if we vote to accept them. I have very\nlittle doubt but that we will accept them, for they were bought by\nour own money which we had deliberately and in sound mind dedicated\nto that purpose.\" He further explained that the money was procured by\na system of decimal notation not so thoroughly understood as it ought\nto be; it had long been known that ten times one were ten, but the\npower of the number ten divided into tenths, and circulating freely and\nrepeating themselves after the peculiar manner of decimals, was not\ngenerally understood or appreciated. We were indebted to the rising\ngeneration for many things, and not the least among them, in this\nchurch hereafter, would, he thought, be the exposition of the power of\ncirculating decimals.\n\nHad the pastor suddenly become insane? What in the world was he talking\nabout! The opposing forces forgot their opposition and were lost in a\ncommon curiosity. Why were people looking over to those girls in Mrs.\nJones's class? What had they to do with it?\n\nHark! The pastor was speaking again. He had forgotten certain\nstatements that he was to make. One was, that these books were not\nevolved from cake and pickles, nor yet from tidies and slippers; but\nwere the representatives of the value of systematic offerings, and\nsystematic work done by individuals and individually devoted to this\ncause. Another was a request that, for reasons which would be better\nunderstood in the future than they now were, the library be named\nthe \"Jennie Stuart Library.\" And still another was the announcement\nthat, as the library pledges held good until the signers erased their\nown names, the collectors would still continue their duties, hoping,\nby this means, to render any future leanness of library shelves an\nimpossibility in Penn Avenue Church.\n\nLight was beginning to dawn, albeit it was still much obscured by\nfog. The \"Jennie Stuart Library.\" She was one of Mrs. Jones's girls.\nDecimals\u2014one, two, three\u2014well, there were just ten of them; it had not\nbeen noticed before. But how could they have secured such a library as\nthat? Could it be possible that that little ten-cent affair of theirs\nhad grown to such dimensions!\n\nI suppose it is needless to tell you that the threatened storm blew\nover, and smiles and congratulatory speeches ruled the hour. The\ndecimal class received a vote of thanks, which overwhelmed them with\nblushes; their suggestions were adopted by a unanimous vote. Penn\nAvenue rose to the acknowledgment of the fact that the only proper way\nto manage a Sabbath-school library was to have a standing committee to\nsupply and add new books, in monthly installments.\n\nOf course the opposition to the appropriation for the new carpet was\nwithdrawn, and gracefully, too. Everybody was willing to have a new\ncarpet.\n\nEverybody shook hands with everybody, and congratulated themselves\nand the world generally, and said, \"Who would have thought that such\ntrifling subscriptions would amount to anything!\" And \"they were sure\nthose girls deserved a great deal of credit;\" and \"who were they,\nanyway?\"\n\nIt is true that Mrs. Marshall Powers said it was a queer way to manage\nbusiness! And there ought to have been a committee of selection. She\nwas sure she hoped the books were worth reading! But even she was\nalmost satisfied when she had examined them.\n\nAnd so, at last, Penn Avenue Church had a new library.\n\n\"We have lost our motive power,\" said the girls, laughing a little, as\nthey met together in the evening to talk things over.\n\n\"I'm afraid,\" said one, \"it will be humdrum work now. It was such fun\nto ask people for their ten cents and see some of them look bored, and\nsome look like martyrs, suffering, in order that we might learn the\nfolly that was in us.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said another, \"now that it is all out, and the glorification has\nbegun, I shall grow tired and ashamed of collecting money. There will\nbe so much said, and so many questions to answer. I'm almost sorry we\npromised to continue.\"\n\n\"Oh, you wretches!\" said Mrs. Jones. \"What is the use in being sorry\nabout anything, when Susy Perkins has learned to make cake and keep\nher temper in the bargain; and Alice Burns can make her own dresses,\nand means to work for something besides her own self hereafter; and\npoor Bud is going to join the church to-morrow, and be a minister for\nanything you know? The library is the very least of it, you ungrateful\ncreatures!\"\n\nThe girls laughed again, but with tender notes in the laughter. \"Oh! We\nknow it,\" they said with shining eyes; \"that part of it is lovely, and\nwe are glad to go on. But we are afraid the library business will grow\ncommonplace after this. We must ask Jennie to give us something that\nwill lift it up.\"\n\nDear, thoughtless girls! Even then was preparing that which would\nforever lift the Penn Avenue Library above the commonplace!\n\nIt was only the next afternoon that they were summoned, the class and\ntheir teacher and the pastors to Jennie's room to meet a guest whose\npresence has power to hush all other interests. The \"King of Terrors\"\nhe has been named; but there was no shadow of terror anywhere about\nthat room, least of all on the peaceful face of the one who lay on her\nwhite couch, with a spray of late blossoming roses in her hand. Yet\nthey had gathered to say good-by.\n\nThe circle was to be broken; the central figure, as they loved to call\nher, had been called. They were very still; there was no sound of\nweeping in the room. Tears would have seemed out of place in view of\nthe shining of that face on the couch.\n\n\"Girls,\" she said, breaking the hush; she was not looking at them; her\neyes were resting on a heavy gold band which encircled her finger.\n\"Girls, I have been thinking\u2014\" the same simple words with which she had\nbeen wont to preface her sweet and helpful thoughts to them during all\nthe days gone by. It struck them like a knell. Was it possible that\nthis might be the last time? \"I have not been sure about this ring\nuntil to-day. There was a time when I thought to take it into the grave\nwith me; but why should my poor worn-out body be decked with a ring? It\nwill not need it in the resurrection morning; I will not let this ring\nlie in the dust and wait. I will leave it to work, while I go away to\nrest. Girls, some of you knew Kent Pierson? You did, Nannie? Yes, and\nyou all know he is in Africa to-day, working for Christ. But you did\nnot know that I was to go out to him, did you? When he put this ring\non my finger I thought I would surely be well enough to go in another\nyear. But I am going to Heaven instead, and I have been thinking that\nour ring should do some of my work for Africa. Will you take it, girls,\nand change it into books for the library? Books about the needs of the\nheathen? and the work of the missionaries, and tell all the boys and\ngirls who read them that those books are Kent Pierson's voice, calling\nthem to service?\"\n\nThe tears came then, and low sobbing. Not from fair Jennie; her eyes\nwere bright and her face smiling. \"Don't cry,\" she said gently, \"you\nneed not; for me, you know, all the bitterness is passed. I am too near\nhome to cry. I suppose it will be hard for Kent for a little while, but\nthen, it will soon be over, and Heaven is as near to Africa as it is to\nyou.\"\n\nThey kissed her silently that day\u2014their voices were not to be\ntrusted\u2014and went out softly, as from the guest chamber of the royal\npalace. Nearer they were to the invisible presence than they had known.\nThat very night, \"or ever she was aware,\" Jennie saw the \"shining of\nHis face.\" No noise, or sound of wings, or rush of music, at least so\nfar as those left behind can tell:\n\n     \"They watched her breathing through the night,\n      Her breathing soft and low,\n    As in her breast the wave of life\n      Kept heaving to and fro.\n\n     \"Their very hopes belied their fears,\n      Their fears their hopes belied.\n    They thought her dying when she slept,\n      And sleeping when she died.\"\n\nThe plain gold band was exchanged for books, and it came to pass\nthat an upper shelf in the Penn Avenue library was cleared and held\nas sacred ground for those five books. Never had books been more\ncarefully chosen than these, and as the pastor marked them, \"The Kent\nPierson Library, presented by Jennie Stuart, gone to Heaven,\" he almost\nwondered whether there hovered over him angel witnesses to see whether\nhis part of the commission were well done.\n\n   \"It lies around us like a cloud,\n    The world we cannot see.\"\n\nOne of the five, the first in the row, was that wonderful record of a\nconsecrated life, \"Crowned in Palm-Land\"; and the pastor, as he read\nthe sweet, and simple, and unutterably pathetic story of that life of\nlove and service, and finally of that lonely death, with not a human\neye to watch the last triumph of faith as the feet touched the valley\nof the shadow, felt that such a book would do faithful work for Jennie\nand for Africa.\n\nBarely five days after Jennie had been laid to rest in the hillside\nCemetery that consecrated book began its work for foreign missions, the\nstory of which can only be told when we all meet where they will never\nsay foreign missions any more, because the foreigners will have become\nfellow-citizens.\n\n\"There are ten of us still,\" said the girls, looking through tears at\nthe consecrated upper shelf. \"Jennie is working with us.\"\n\nAnd they felt, every one, that the Penn Avenue library had received its\n\"lifting up.\"\n\n\n\n                        FISHING FOR PHIL.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nSHE, Daisy, knelt upstairs in front of the window, looking down on the\nsnowy street. A pretty picture she made, framed in the frosty window,\nher fresh young breath making fancy shapes of the frost-work.\n\nA brown head, crowned with masses of hair of that peculiar shade of\nbrown which makes you think when you look at it on a cloudy day, that\nthe sun is certainly shining somewhere and rippling those waves of hair\nwith gold.\n\nIt was not banged; it was not even frizzed. Daisy's mother belonged to\nthat class, of which there are a few rare specimens still extant, who\nliked neither style, and Daisy herself belonged to that possibly still\nrarer class of girls, who liked above all things to dress to please her\nmother. There had been an attempt to make the brown hair lie in smooth\nand glossy bands, but Nature had been too much for the owner. The hair\nescaped, and waved and frizzed itself to that inimitable way which is\nso very pretty and becoming, and of which all the hair-pin efforts are\nsuch exasperating imitations.\n\nBrown eyes under the hair, large, bright, sweet, sad or grave,\naccording to the mood of the wearer. Eyes which changed with the\nchanging expression, and seemed to do much of the speaking. For the\nrest, you may imagine her.\n\nThere was a clear complexion; there was a sweet mouth and rosy cheeks.\n\nThere are a great many such girls, and yet they lack the something\nwhich, shining in Daisy's face, made the looker want to turn and look\nagain, and half smile, in sympathy with the charm lingering there.\n\nWhat is it? Who shall describe it? I fancy it is one of the ways in\nwhich the soul looks out from its prison-house of clay. Yet who will\nundertake to describe a soul?\n\nShe was looking down and smiling at, and bowing to Phil on the street\nbelow, while he tarried in the frosty air to execute a series of bows,\nextravagant in their burlesque of profound respect; also he was at\nintervals tossing up delicate balls of the soft snow, which it amused\nhim to see her dodge, though the glass protected her from their touch.\n\n\"Throw up the sash,\" he shouted, \"and crown your hair with ermine!\"\n\nBut she shook her head merrily, albeit there was a wistful look in her\neye, and she would have liked nothing better than to have gone down,\ncoated and mittened, and had a snow-frolic in the street.\n\nHad it been some friendly back-yard, instead of one of the public\nthoroughfares, or had they been seven and ten, instead of seventeen and\ntwenty, she would have gone in a minute.\n\nAnd then she gave one of those flitting sighs to her happy past, which\nis all that a happy girl of seventeen ever troubles herself about her\npast.\n\nShe sighed again, though, and her face grew grave with a sweet, sad\ngravity, born of something deeper than the desire for a snow-frolic;\nand as she looked after the handsome young fellow, who had used up his\nbrief space of time in fun, and was now striding rapidly toward the\nbank, to get there before the clock struck nine, she said aloud, and\nwistfully:\n\n\"If I could only coax him to go with me! It might be a beginning of\nsomething better. It would certainly be better than what he is doing\nnow. Mr. Easton is so interesting; I am almost certain he would enjoy\nit if he could once form the habit of going.\"\n\nNot all of this aloud. After the first slow, wistful sentence, she went\nover the rest in her own thoughts, as she had done often and often\nbefore, and advanced no farther toward a solution; for her face did not\nclear as she arose and went about arranging the ribbons and laces in\nher drawer.\n\nThere was need for anxious thought. At least, so it seemed to Daisy\nMorris, Phil's cousin, and so it seemed to Aunt Mattie, Phil's mother.\n\nAunt and niece had spent hours already in serious talk over the\npossibilities and dangers of this young man.\n\n\"He used to be such a good boy,\" would Aunt Mattie say, with a sigh,\nand then hasten to correct herself: \"Not but that he is a good boy\nnow, so devoted to his mother and sister, so careful of their comfort!\nThere isn't a better boy in the city in all such ways; but you know\nwhat I mean. He used to go to church as regularly as I do, and to\nSabbath-school. I have a box full of reward cards which he received in\nthe school for perfect lessons when he was a little boy; and he used\nto go to prayer meeting, too, and seemed to like to go; his father\nwould often remark on its being unusual in such a little fellow. But\nhe fell in with those unfortunate companions, and little by little the\nchange came. Why, he had stayed at home from church for five or six\nsuccessive weeks before I realized it! There always seemed to be a good\nreason; and now he only goes occasionally of an evening, and as for\nSabbath-school, he seems to be disgusted with the very thought of it!\n\n\"Every Sabbath, he goes out for a walk, or sometimes a ride, with a\nparty of young men who are far from being of the sort that a mother\nwould choose for her son's companions, and he goes less and less to\nchurch, even in the evenings.\n\n\"Since Mr. Easton has come here, I have tried very hard to induce Phil\nto go to Sabbath-school. I thought if he would but go once into that\nBible class, he would be attracted; for Mr. Easton has such a winning\nway with young men, and Phil is so intellectual, that he could not fail\nto be pleased. We have done our best, Blanche and I, but he seems fully\nresolved upon having nothing to do with Sunday-school in any form. I am\nso disappointed! For I had really counted a great deal on Mr. Easton's\ninfluence, but of course he can't do anything so long as Phil avoids\nhim. My dear, there is another thing on which I am counting now, and\nthat is your influence over Phil.\n\n\"If you can induce him to go to Sunday-school once, to please you, I\nbelieve that a good deal would be accomplished. And you know boys will\noften do for a young and pretty cousin what they will not even for a\nmother.\"\n\nThis is only a general view of the numerous talks which had been held\non the same subject since Daisy Morris had come from her distant home\nto visit Aunt Hattie Hurst.\n\nMany particulars had been added from time to time, and Daisy's quick\neyes had seen some things of which she did not speak to either mother\nor sister. She believed that her handsome young cousin was in more\ndanger than his own family realized. She know that the cigarettes which\nhe smoked grew daily more numerous, and she had once or twice detected\nthe odor of wine about him, and had been frightened over a certain gay\nrecklessness which was unlike his usual courtesy. She believed that,\nwhile the restraints of a business life and the responsibility of\nstanding somewhat, at least, in his dead father's place, held him in\ncheck during the week, the freedom of Sunday and the influence of his\nchosen friends were dragging him downward faster than his mother knew.\n\nShe had tried hard to use her influence in the right direction; but\nwhile she certainly had influence with him, it was not strong enough to\ndraw him to church or to the Sabbath-school.\n\nSince Daisy had made acquaintance with the new pastor, Mr. Easton,\nand joined his Bible Class, she had begun to share her aunt's almost\nsuperstitious belief that if Phil could only be gotten under that man's\ninfluence, great things would be accomplished.\n\nBut it was just that man's influence which he seemed determined to\navoid. Only the Sabbath before had Daisy spent the entire morning\ncoaxing and arguing, being gayly answered by her quick-witted cousin;\nshe alternately hopeful and fearful; but so earnest had been her effort\nand her prayer, that hope had really predominated until she saw him\ndrive away from the door with one of his friends, just as she was\ntying her ribbons in a flutter of haste to catch him and make one last\neffort. After that she sat down in a little heap before her window and\ncried, and told herself that it was of no use, she had done all she\ncould.\n\nNo wonder that on this Saturday morning she sighed when the young man\nwas gone. Last evening the odor of wine had been distinct about him,\nand the wildness which his mother called good spirits, Daisy believed\nmeant danger in a more terrible form than the mother had even thought\nof as yet.\n\nA succession of low, rapid, impatient knocks sounded at her door, and\nalmost before she could answer, her Cousin Blanche flitted in.\n\nA marked contrast to Daisy was this Cousin Blanche. Not that her hair\nwas not brown, and her cheeks rosy, and her whole face full of sparkle;\npretty she was, decidedly, if she had kept her hair out of her eyes,\nwhich, when fully dressed, she never did. And there was a certain\npleasure in looking at her. She took life in all its forms, even its\nforms of care such as touched her, with a sort of joyish abandon.\n\nYet I think if you understood girls, you would have looked at her\nagain, and sighed. There was such a chance to fade; you felt that\nshe would fade, perhaps, with the first storm. You could not find\nwhat there was in Daisy's face that looked as though it might glow\neven amidst the storm, and certainly shine serene and sweet after the\nfierceness of storm was past.\n\nShe was in full flutter of excitement this morning, and caught at Daisy\nand whirled her about the room until the child was breathless, and\nher hair blown in waves into her wondering eyes, before there was an\nexplanation of her mood.\n\n\"Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have such good, splendid news for you! What do you\nthink Phil says?\n\n\"We've been talking with him, mamma and I, and he promised; he actually\npromised! Daisy, do you hear?\n\n\"And when Philip Hurst promises anything, it is as good as done.\"\n\n\"What did he say?\" This from Daisy, her cheeks like two blush roses,\nand the shadow gone.\n\n\"Why, he said he would go to Sabbath-school with you to-morrow, and go\ninto Mr. Easton's class, and stay through the entire session, if we\nwould get you to do something for him.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\"OH, I'll do it!\" said Daisy, with a happy little laugh, her eyes\nshining, \"I'm ready to do anything. I'll go down on Madison Square and\nsnowball with him if he says so.\"\n\n\"I told Phil you would do it, and it isn't such a very dreadful thing\nto do, Daisy Morris. I know girls, plenty of them, who would jump at\nthe chance.\n\n\"He wants you to go to Dorrance Hall with him this evening. It will be\njust lovely! I promised Harry I would go, and I wanted you along all\nthe time.\"\n\nThe smile and the brightness faded together, and the shadow returned.\nDaisy's voice was low, almost tremulous. Her disappointment was great.\n\n\"Blanche dear, I don't go to the theatre, you know.\"'\n\n\"I know you don't, and no more do I\u2014at least, not often; but this is a\nspecial occasion; everybody goes. They say the characters are perfectly\nwonderful! It isn't like these miserable travelling troupes generally.\nEverything is first-class, and they say the principal actress is a\nlovely woman. Besides, why, Daisy, I'm sure you will not hesitate.\nThink of Phil's promise. You said you would do anything.\"\n\nThe tone was reproachful, and Daisy felt it.\n\n\"I meant anything that is right,\" she made answer, speaking low.\n\n\"Well, of course, I would not ask you to do anything wrong; at least,\nmamma would not. I think you may trust her, if you cannot me. I tell\nyou this is very different from an ordinary theatre; everybody goes.\nThe same company was here last winter, and you ought to have seen the\ncrowded houses! The very best people in the city. Why, Mrs. Schuyler\nVan Vorst went three nights in succession, and so did her husband, and\nhe is an officer in our church.\"\n\n\"Blanche, did Mr. Easton go?\"\n\n\"Mr. Easton! What an idea! Of course not! Public opinion doesn't\nexactly approve of ministers going to such places, though I am sure I\ndon't see why; and I think it is mean, too. If I were a minister, I\nwould not stand it. I think he has as good a right to go as anybody\nelse.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" declared Daisy significantly.\n\nBut Blanche made haste with her arguments:\n\n\"But I don't care, Daisy, whether you ever go to a theatre again\nin your life\u2014you needn't if you don't want to\u2014if you will only go\nto-night. Think how much is at stake.\n\n\"We have been coaxing Phil for so long, and mother is almost\ndiscouraged. You said yourself last Sunday that you had given up all\nhope of his going to Sabbath-school; and here the matter is in your own\nhands. You can't think how delighted mamma is! She says she knows Mr.\nEaston will fascinate him right away.\"\n\n\"How came Phil to make such a condition as that? He has asked me before\nto go to a theatre, and he knew just what I thought.\"\n\n\"Oh, well; but you see, he feels like everybody else, that such a\ntheatre as this is an exception. He says it is the very fact that you\nhave never been, which makes him want to take you. He wants to see what\nthe effect of the scenery, and the costumes, and everything, would be\non one who sees it all for the first time. Then he says you have great\ntalent in the way of personating people in dialogue, and he wants\nto see how it will affect you to hear it done in its perfection. He\nsaid it would be as good as a play to watch your face, and he added\nsome very complimentary things about your eyes and cheeks, which you\nwill not mind since you are his cousin. Oh, Daisy Morris, I know\nyou will go! You would never be so cruel as to disappoint us. Mamma\nbegan to plan at once about your dress. She hopes you will wear that\nwine-colored silk, with plenty of white about it. That dress ought to\nbe trimmed with ermine for such occasions, Daisy. Oh, dear! mamma's\ncalling me.\"\n\nDaisy was not sorry for this. Her brain was in a whirl. She needed to\nbe alone.\n\nErmine trimming suggested the handsome face that had been raised to\nhers in petition to crown her hair with ermine. He knew she looked\npretty in red and white. She knew it herself. Her wine-colored dress\nwas lovely.\n\nBut she put it firmly from her thoughts. Here was a question to be\ndecided, with which it ought to have nothing to do.\n\nSeventeen years spent in a city, and she had never attended a theatre.\nIt was by no means for lack of opportunity. It was because of what some\npeople called the narrowness of her environments.\n\nIt was at first because mother and father never went, and did not\napprove. It was because, afterward, she adopted their views and\nfeelings, and did not desire to go.\n\nMany had been her invitations, but here came her first great\ntemptation. Not for herself, but for this young cousin whom she\nadmired, whom she thought was in danger; for his mother, who was\ntroubled, and who looked to her for help. Ought she to yield her\nscruples on this occasion? She need not change her view; she need never\ngo again. She could tell Phil frankly that she was going in order to\nsecure the fulfillment of his promise, and for no other reason.\n\nWhile the question was still in chaos, came her Aunt Mattie, with\nradiant face.\n\n[Illustration: DAISY CANNOT DECIDE IN FAVOR OF THE THEATRE.]\n\n\"Our little girl has caught him in her snare,\" she said, kissing Daisy\ntenderly. \"The naughty boy declared to me only two months ago that he\ncould not think of any inducement strong enough to make him submit to\nthe boredom of an hour in Sunday-school; and here, for the sake of\nwitnessing the innocent delight of his pretty cousin over new sights\nand sounds, he is willing to pledge himself. You must look your very\nprettiest to-night, my dear.\"\n\n\"But, Aunt Mattie, you know what mamma and papa think about these\nthings; and how I have been brought up to feel.\"\n\nWhereupon her Aunt Mattie kissed her again. \"Yes, dear child, I know.\nYour mother and I had the same bringing up, and we thought very much\nalike; and your uncle was fully in sympathy with such views; but he\ndied before his children became of an age to modify them in the least;\nand your father and mother have been blessed with one dear child\nwho imbibed their views so early that they have had no need to make\nsacrifices on her account; but there is a great difference in children.\n\n\"Neither Blanche nor Phil thought as I do about these things, though I\nbrought them up. And, indeed, my views, as I said, have been somewhat\nmodified. I do not approve of the indiscriminate theatre any more than\nI ever did, nor of frequent attendance. But occasionally, when there\nis a strictly moral play, presented by artists of acknowledged worth,\nI have found it necessary to let my children go; and I have, once or\ntwice, yielded to Phil's coaxing, and gone myself.\"\n\n\"Aunt Mattie, it is Saturday evening.\"\n\n\"I know, my dear, and that part I regret. I do not, by any means,\nconsider it the best preparation for the Sabbath; but the occasion,\nyou know, is exceptional. It is this evening, or not at all, for this\nplay; and I thought you would not mind making your little sacrifice for\nPhil's sake, when there may be so much at stake.\"\n\nAfter that, Daisy was glad at the coming of callers who took her aunt\nto the parlor, and left her alone. She must think. What was her duty?\nWhat would mamma and papa say? It was certainly an exceptional case;\nshe had never heard the line of argument which would have helped her\nto answer her aunt and cousin. She, too, believed that Mr. Easton's\ninfluence over her handsome and brilliant young cousin would be\ninvaluable, and she knew only too well how much he needed influencing.\nOught she not to help, when the way was plainly opened to her? This was\nan exceptional play; she knew enough about the theatre to be sure of\nit. She did not fear hearing or seeing what would cause her to blush.\n\nHer pretty new dress was all ready to wear to some place demanding\na brilliant costume. Her aunt would be bitterly disappointed if she\nfailed her. Perhaps, just for this once, she ought to go.\n\nSlowly, almost reluctantly, she came to this decision; but she opened\nthe little box of delicate laces, and let herself think: \"If I should\ngo, I wonder if this, or this, would look the prettiest?\" She opened\nher glove-box, and wondered whether she ought to get new kids.\n\nOh, there was her darling little hand-painted bouquet-holder. Phil\nought to get her some lovely flowers to wear in it to-night. She\nwondered if he would think of it.\n\nShe reached down into the box for the pretty toy, and her hand\ntouched a little book in a plain gray paper cover. What was this? Oh,\nshe remembered; papa had brought it home on the evening before her\ndeparture, and had said: \"There is something for you to study at your\nleisure, daughter. I don't know that you need it; but it is well for\nevery Christian to be prepared to give a reason for his opinions.\"\n\nShe had thanked him, and kissed him, and dropped the book into the box\nshe was packing, and had not thought of it since. There had been no\noccasion to go to the bottom of this particular box before.\n\nNow she drew it out, and felt startled and flushed over the title:\n\"Plain Talks About the Theatre.\" Could this be mere chance?\n\nShe hesitated but a moment, then closed the drawer and sat resolutely\ndown with the little gray book. Certainly, if ever she needed any plain\ntalk about the theatre, it was now. There was much to read; much that\nwas new and startling to this young girl.\n\nThe statements made there, coming from the honored minister whose name\nshe well knew, were such as to make the glow on her cheek something to\nnotice and remember. Still, they all had to do with the regular drama,\nand not those occasional and exceptional plays such as were being\nperformed by a rare company in this little city. Could there not be\nsuch things as exceptions, which even a Christian might be justified in\nenjoying?\n\nWait; what was this? She bent her brown head lower over the page, and\nread the keen, clear-cut sentences: \"What if it be also true that\nthis dark programme of the theatre is padded here and there with the\nso-called standard drama, to win the countenance and patronage of the\nmost respectable and decent! I do not need to be told that to some\nextent it wins them. But neither do you need to be told, moral and\nChristian men and women, of decent and cleanly homes, thus drawn to\nsee an exceptional play of high and chaste form and tone, that you are\nquoted and paraded as friends and supporters of the establishment\u2014an\nestablishment, three fourths or nine tenths of whose influence is\npernicious and poisonous. Your patronage goes to swell the receipts\nof, and to give countenance to, the house whose common and most\ncharacteristic features are an offense to purity, to religion and to\nGod.\"\n\nThe gray book dropped from her hands and slid to the floor. The young\ngirl put both hands up to her flushed forehead, and pushed back the\nmasses of hair. Then she spoke four words, fraught with intense and\nfar-reaching meaning, \"I want to pray,\" and dropped upon her knees.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nDURING the afternoon, the handsome house in Lincoln Place was filled\nwith uncomfortable and disappointed people.\n\nDaisy, the bright and generally-yielding cousin, was quiet and gentle,\nbut firm as a rock in her decision to attend no theatre, either on that\nevening or any other. She had tried to present her arguments to Aunt\nMattie and to Blanche, but neither mother nor daughter was in the mood\nto be reached by argument.\n\nThe former had silenced her young guest by coldly referring to the\ntendency of the times, which led young people to fancy themselves wiser\nthan their elders, even in matters of morals and religion, and the\nlatter had only that unanswerable reply, 'Oh, fiddlesticks!' to make to\nany form of argument.\n\nMatters had not improved by the six o'clock dinner hour.\n\nDaisy watched for and waylaid Phil in the hall, and dashed eagerly into\nher subject without introduction:\n\n\"Oh, Phil, I am sorry; but I can't do what you want, because I don't\nthink it is right. I don't approve of any sort of theatre, and I\ncannot, of course, attend one; yet you know I would do anything to\nplease you that I could.\"\n\nBut Phil had been cold, too, and had replied with dignity that he was\nsorry he was supposed to desire to take her to improper places; that\nshe must, at least, give him the credit of not intending anything wrong.\n\nAnd to her earnest attempts at explanation, had finally answered in his\nusual tone of gayety that it was all right; of course, he did not want\nto take her where she did not want to go, and that he had expected no\nother answer to his invitation, which was what had made him so willing\nto give the promise that Blanche had been ridiculous enough to claim.\n\nThen they had gone in to dinner; and all through the dinner hour Phil\nhad been ceremoniously polite, and the other members of the family had\nbeen noticeably silent. At last the mother broached the sore topic:\n\n\"My son, will you be willing to take your old mother for a companion\nthis evening? I suppose it is too late for you to make pleasanter\nplans; and while you know it is not my custom to go out on Saturday\nevening, yet there is no sacrifice I am not ready to make, and no place\nwhere I am not ready to go, if it will give my boy any pleasure.\"\n\nThen had Phil arched his eyebrows slightly, but answered promptly that\nit would give him great pleasure to attend her, if she would really\nlike to go; but he hoped there would be no martyrs on his account,\nas he was not absolutely dependent upon the theatre that evening for\noccupation; or, for the matter of that, he could go alone.\n\nIt was finally decided, however, that the mother would accompany him,\nand she made her young guest miserable with elaborate excuses for\nleaving her alone. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not think\nof such a thing, and the theatre was the last place where she cared\nto go; but she desired above all things to help Phil to find always\nhis companionship at home, and dreaded above all things his seeking\ndoubtful acquaintances under the impulse of a sore feeling of repulse\nfrom those whose society he had imagined he could command.\n\nWith a swelling heart, and eyes that wanted constantly to brim with\ntears, did the young Daisy go through with the trials of the early\nevening. She arranged the flowers in Blanche's frizzed hair, and the\nbows of her sash, and buttoned her kids, and attended to all the little\ndetails of that particular young lady's toilet; and folded her aunt's\nshawl, and held her fan and gloves, and went herself to the door with\nthem, to see the carriage roll away, leaving her to solitude. After\nthat she cried, but not long.\n\nThen she wrote a cheery letter to her mother, saying not a word of\ntheatre or loneliness. Then she read a little more in the gray book,\nand went from that to her Bible, choosing words that matched the\nthoughts of her heart, beginning, \"Wherefore, come out from among them,\nand be ye separate;\" and from that she went to her knees.\n\nHer face was peaceful when she at last began to prepare for rest; and\nshe even hummed a sweet, tender tune, breaking once into language:\n\n     \"Father, I know that all my life\n      Is portioned out by thee;\n    And the trials that will surely come,\n      I do not fear to see.\n    But I ask thee for a present mind,\n      Intent on serving thee.\"\n\nIt proved the next morning that the week had been too much for Phil. He\ndid not come to breakfast, and sent word that he meant to rest until\nafternoon.\n\nFrom the lunch table, at noon, he was summoned to see some friends in\nthe parlor.\n\n\"There,\" said the mother, with an air and tone of general reproach,\n\"I was going to advise you, Blanche, to remain from Sabbath-school,\nand try to entertain your brother this afternoon. Sabbath-schools and\neverything else sink in importance compared with the effort to keep\na soul from going astray. Now those miserable fellows have come for\nhim, and he will be away with them all the afternoon. I knew there was\nsome special scheme for to-day, which made me doubly anxious that Phil\nshould be rescued from them; but it is too late now.\"\n\nThe tone and manner of the speaker made poor Daisy feel like a criminal\nwho had deliberately led her Cousin Phil to his ruin. Blanche had only\na sigh for answer. Presently she said:\n\n\"I shall stay at home, anyway, mamma, if Daisy will excuse me. My head\naches, and I don't feel like talking nor thinking.\"\n\n\"Oh! Daisy will excuse us, I think. She is quite an independent little\nlady, I am sure, and able to go alone to Sabbath-school or elsewhere;\naren't you, dear?\"\n\n\"Yes 'm,\" said Daisy bravely, \"I shall not mind going alone, if you are\nnot able to go.\"\n\nThen she went away in haste, lest the tears should fall. They had not\ncared to have her stay: She would willingly have done so, if that\nwould have helped Phil; but she had lost her influence over him, and\ndisappointed mother and sister, and she felt as she set her brown\nhat on her head, that she wanted to go home to her mother. She had\ndone right; of that she felt sure. But doing right was very hard work\nsometimes, especially when one was away from one's mother.\n\nDown-stairs she could hear Phil moving up and down the room, whistling\nsnatches of tune. He had not gone out yet, it seemed. Perhaps if she\nhurried away, Blanche could coax him to stay and sing. She seized her\nBagster Bible, and ran hastily down-stairs. The whistler came to the\nhall to meet her.\n\n\"What a ponderous book!\" he said, in mock dismay. \"Is it really\nnecessary to carry such a great Bible as that?\"\n\n\"I like it,\" she said simply.\n\n\"Like to carry it, I suppose. You ought to have it expressed; but that\nwould not do for Sunday. I see that I shall have to go and carry it.\"\nHe was donning his overcoat with speed, and possessed himself of the\nBible before Daisy could recover from her surprise.\n\nIt was a long walk to the church, and the air was brisk and clear. The\nsun shone brilliantly, and Phil was at his brightest; every trace of\nill humor seemed to have passed away. It was not until they neared the\nchurch, that he referred to the events of the day before.\n\n\"So, Daisy, you wouldn't go to a theatre with me, even to save my soul,\nwhich has seemed to trouble you so much?\"\n\n\"Oh, Phil, I couldn't do wrong, you know, whatever the imaginary\nmotive; and I had no hope at all that my doing a wrong thing would help\nyou or any one in the least. I had to do as I did; I wish I could make\nyou understand that.\"\n\n\"Was it hard work?\"\n\n\"What? To stay at home, do you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes; did you really want to go?\"\n\n\"It was hard to refuse you, and disappoint Aunt Mattie and Blanche.\nYes; I should have wanted to go, should have liked to go, if it had\nseemed right. But you know I couldn't want to do anything that it was\nmade plain to me would dishonor Christ. I desire above all things to\nplease him; and he made it very plain to me, Phil.\"\n\nNow they were at the church door, and she reached for her Bible.\n\n\"You are not going to invite me in, I suppose? You are tired of that\neffort, and have given me up?\"\n\n\"'You said you would not go,\" she answered, with a wistful smile. She\nbelieved he was mocking her eagerness, and meant nothing else.\n\n\"I know I did; but isn't a bad promise better broken than kept? You\nneed not ask me again. There is no need. I am going to accept your\nformer invitations. Take me into your class, and introduce me to Mr.\nEaston.\"\n\n\n\"Did he really go into the class?\"\n\n\"Oh, Daisy, you darling, you don't mean it? And what did Mr. Easton\nsay? He liked him, didn't he? I knew he would.\"\n\n\"Oh, Daisy, how did you get him to go? I thought it was all over.\"\n\nThese were some of the exclamations and queries of the delighted mother\nand sister, who had waited between alternate hope and fear, to see\nwhether Phil would really return with his cousin, or had joined his\nSunday friends elsewhere.\n\nBefore she could make other than the most general answers, he had come\ndown-stairs again, and joined the group in the back parlor.\n\n\"He is here to answer for himself,\" she said, with a smile, as he\nleaned over his mother's chair.\n\n\"My dear boy,\" she said fondly, reaching up her hand to his, \"you have\nmade your mother very happy. Do tell me that you mean to go again.\"\n\n\"Yes 'm, I mean to go again. I have joined the class, and promised to\nbe there regularly.\"\n\n\"Oh, Phil!\" This from the mother, with tremulous lips.\n\n\"I knew Mr. Easton would fascinate you.\" This from Blanche, with a\npleased little laugh.\n\nHer brother turned to her.\n\n\"No, Blanche; I must be honest. I liked him, and shall like him, I\nthink. But the decision of to-day was made before I saw him, and\nreaches farther than to the Bible Class. I have determined to serve\nGod. I have gone on my knees, and asked him to make what he can of me.\n\n\"And the immediate reason for doing so is, because I have decided that\nthere is such a thing as genuine religion which satisfies, so that\nthe heart does not need the world in the shape of theatres or operas\nor dancing-parties, or any such thing; and that one who unreservedly\ngives herself to Him can resist all the lighter and safer forms of its\nfascinations, if she suspects evil lurking in them\u2014can resist them\nsteadily and gently, and remain calm under fire.\"\n\nHe paused for a moment, while the astonished group waited for what\nmight come next. Then he bent lower over his mother.\n\n\"Mamma dear, I honor your intentions, but believe it is a mistake. No\nyoung man will ever be won to Christ by going with him to the theatre.\nHe understands them too well. And while I never asked you or my sister\nto attend a place of amusement that was in itself objectionable, I knew\nin my soul that I insulted your religion by asking you at all. They all\nflourish under the rebel flag.\n\n\"Mamma, when our Daisy here refused to compromise one inch of the way,\nI knew that my tower of defence was broken, and that I must own that\nChrist had been sufficient for one soul, and could be for another.\"\n\nBy this time the tears were falling fast from his mother's eyes.\n\n\"My boy,\" she said, \"it is what your father believed; but I have let\nthe mother in my heart come between me and Christ. I was so anxious for\nyou, that I thought I must yield even his honor to save you.\"\n\nBut Blanche, bewildered, and flushing red, declared this:\n\n\"I must say I don't see why a boy should coax a girl to do what he is\nashamed to have her do; and be all changed around because she refuses\nto do it.\"\n\nYet there is many a boy who coaxes a girl to go where he wishes in his\nsoul she may have Christian firmness enough to refuse.\n\n\n\n                        OUR CHURCH CHOIR.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHERE was a time when our church had no choir, but gloried in the fact\nthat we had congregational singing. At least the conservative fathers\ngloried in it; but the aggressive young people grumbled much.\n\nAnd certainly the most gentle spirit might have found some occasion\nfor grumbling. If the thing had been named \"congregational drawling\"\ninstead of \"singing,\" perhaps it would have been as correct. Our church\nwas large, and the leader, a dear old man who had led the singing from\ntime immemorial, until his ears had deafened and his voice cracked in\nthe service, was unable to keep the scattered elements of his army in\norder. Sing as slow as he might, he always finished the line at least\ntwo syllables in advance of old Auntie Barber, who sat in the southwest\ncorner back pew, and who had a chronic affection of the nose and throat\nwhich caused her to pronounce her words somewhat after this fashion:\n\n    \"Naow be the gospil banner\n     I-n'every lan-d'unfurl';\n   An' be the shout hosanner\n     Re-yeehoed raound the worl'.\"\n\nAuntie Barber was fond of singing, and sang loud. Then there was Uncle\nCharlie Bennett, who had a deep bass voice, and who always sang a note\nbelow the key, making a distinct heavy monotone of growl, all on one\nnote, and who frequently paused in the middle of a line to clear his\nthroat with an \"Ahem-h-e-m,\" then quickened his growl to catch up, and\ncome in triumphant on the last word.\n\nThis is only a hint of the peculiarities of our music.\n\nThe day came when our exasperated young people arose en masse and\ndeclared it was not in human nature to endure such tortures longer.\n\nNo doubt this climax was hastened by the fact that the church had\nreceived a thorough renovation\u2014fresh carpets, fresh paint, modernized\npulpit, even a new minister. What better time to introduce a thorough\nchange in the music?\n\nThe modern element prevailed. A congregational meeting was held, in\nwhich, after much discussion, and not without a sharp word or two, the\nmatter was put into the hands of a committee, every one of them young\npeople, without instructions, to perfect their plans and report them at\na called meeting.\n\nThe young people lost no time; in fact they had known just what they\nwanted to do at least three weeks before the meeting was called. There\nwas a certain Theodore Pemberton in town, a clerk in one of the drug\nstores, who was a perfectly elegant singer, and the way he sang:\n\n   \"I wander alone, my love, to-night\"\n\nwas enough to draw tears from the heart of a stone. Then, he was an\nexcellent leader. He actually drilled a chorus in Grandville to sing\none of the most difficult operas in the list, and they say that every\nmember of his chorus cried when they found he was coming away. And if\nGrandville thought so highly of him, he must be superior.\n\nIt was the unanimous opinion of the young people that the immaculate\nTheodore should be invited to take charge of the music in their church,\nand be allowed to follow out his own ideas. Then they would have music\nworth hearing.\n\nThis report was followed by much discussion. There were difficulties\nwhich presented themselves to the minds of some. First and foremost,\nmoney. Brother Hoarding did not consider it just the thing to pay\npeople for singing the praises of God. But then, Brother Hoarding\nbelieved that everything connected with the church should be free as\nair\u2014always excepting the oil for the lamps, which was bought from his\nstore, and the wood for the stoves, which was chopped from his wood\nlots. So, really, Brother Hoarding's opinion did not weigh as much as\nit might. The truth is, Auntie Barber put in her weak word at this\npoint. \"I always love to sing,\" she said; \"and I always sang the air in\nour choir when I was a girl, and nobody thought of paying for it. But\nthen, times is changed; and I ain't one of them that think it's a sin\nto spend money paying folks for giving of their time and their talents\nfor the church. If this young man will spend his Saturday evenings in\nteachin' folks how to sing better, why shouldn't he be paid for it? The\nLord's people ain't paupers!\"\n\n\"Free-will offerings, Sister Barber,\" spoke up Brother Hoarding, in a\ngood, strong voice; \"freewill offerings. That is what the church should\nhave.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know. Why in the singin' any more than in kerosene and\nwood and sich things?\"\n\nAuntie Barber couldn't sing; I will insist that she couldn't; but she\ncould reason, bless her! And her keen, clear eyes saw through the films\nof selfishness and penuriousness wherever found. The committee of young\npeople looked over at her and smiled and nodded approvingly. They had\nfound an unexpected ally.\n\nHere Deacon Turner put in a demur. He had no objection to a church\nspending money for music, provided they had it to spend; but did the\nbrethren think that in their condition, with a larger salary to raise,\nand the home mission collection not yet taken, and new books to pay\nfor, they ought to put in an extra bill for music?\n\nNow, this argument might have had more weight, but for the fact that\nDeacon Turner was in the mood to want all the money given to foreign\nmissions when the subject of home missions was broached, and he wanted\nit given to the library, or the salary, or some other needy cause, when\nthe question of foreign missions was before them. Anything but the\nmatter in hand, was Deacon Turner's motto.\n\nI have not time to give you all the pros and cons of that discussion;\nbut the result was a partial vote to invite Theodore Pemberton to take\ncharge of their music.\n\nGreat was the joy of the young people. So pleased were they with\nAuntie Barber that they gave kindly answer to her somewhat timidly put\nquestion:\n\n\"I suppose he is a good young man?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear, yes! Judge Bourne said his habits were very correct, indeed;\nnoticeably so for a young man in his position. Those were Judge\nBourne's very words.\"\n\n\"Yes\u2014but I meant\u2014you know\u2014I hope he is a Christian?\"\n\n\"Well, as to that, I believe he is not a church member; but he respects\nreligion. Why, when he put his price so very low, he said it was\nfor the sake of the cause. 'We must work cheap for the cause, you\nknow,' he said, and he smiled very pleasantly. I am sure that sounds\nChristian-like.\"\n\nAuntie Barber sighed a little. She could not be certain from that\nremark that the young man served the Lord.\n\n\"Besides,\" said little Miss Parker briskly, \"it will be a help to him,\nyou know; he isn't very regular in his attendance at church; no young\nmen are, nowadays. I think it will be doing a good deed to put him in a\nposition where he will feel obliged to be in church.\"\n\nOver this idea, Auntie Barber went home to think, and the triumphant\ncommittee went to formally invite Mr. Pemberton.\n\nThe next Sabbath morning, it must be confessed that our church was\nunusually full, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the choir\ngallery, which was just back of the pulpit, and had for several years\nbeen vacant. All the seats were filled now, with bright, expectant\nfaces. Mr. Pemberton believed in a chorus choir, and had been prodigal\nin his invitations. All the pretty girls he knew had been cordially\nasked to come and help sing.\n\nAuntie Barber looked up at the rows of faces with a benignant smile.\n\n\"The young folks like it,\" she murmured, \"and it ain't a bad looking\nsight. They'll drown'd our voices, and that will be all right. I've\nbeen most afraid this good while that I sung too loud, for I s'pose my\nvoice is getting old, but now I needn't be afraid of troubling anybody.\"\n\n\"You'll have to permit congregational singing,\" explained lively Miss\nParker to Mr. Pemberton, at their first rehearsal. \"It was the only\nground on which the innovation was permitted, that the choir should\nsimply lead the congregation. It's in the charter, or the constitution,\nor something; no, the man who gave the organ, fifty years or so ago,\nstipulated that there should always be congregational singing.\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly,\" said the affable Mr. Pemberton; \"we'll simply lead\nthe congregation; that is all in the world we propose to do; they may\nsing to their heart's content.\" And he twinkled his handsome eyes, and\nlooked so good-naturedly about him, that the girls voted him \"perfectly\ndelightful.\"\n\nSo now everything was in readiness, and the pastor was reading the hymn:\n\n    \"All hail the power of Jesus' name;\n     Let angels prostrate fall;\n   Bring forth the royal diadem\n     And crown Him Lord of all.\"\n\n\"Coronation!\" Auntie Barber's special favorite, and the tune to which\nUncle John Bennett always growled his heaviest bass. Old Deacon\nSlocumb, the former leader, adjusted his spectacles, found the place\nand meekly waited. He was about to sing the songs of Zion in a strange\nland, or at least under strange circumstances; but he loved the\nservice, and struggled for a meek and quiet spirit.\n\nAnd the song burst forth. Coronation indeed! Old Coronation was\nhoary-haired when the tune was born. How it rolled and swelled in\ntriumph through the astonished church!\n\n\"All hail!\" said the tenor in clear, full tones. \"All hail!\" repeated\nthe bass in voice of thunder. \"All hail!\" shrieked the soprano in full\nvolume, followed hard after by the alto, who would not be outdone; and\nthen the entire strength of the choir took up the words and shouted\nand roared, \"All hail the power!\" Then, wonderful to relate, went back\nto the \"All hail\" and did it over. About this time Auntie Barber had\nreached, through much quavering, the last word of the second line, then\nlifted her bewildered eyes to the choir and listened.\n\n\"I must have lost the place,\" she meekly said. Even yet, it had not\noccurred to her that the choir could possibly be singing anything but\nCoronation to those words!\n\nAs for Deacon Slocumb, he took off his spectacles, carefully wiped and\nre-adjusted them, and was looking for his place again by the time the\nchoir reached the word \"power.\" They finished the line in unison, then\nwent off into a whirl of ecstasy over the angels. \"Let a-a-a angels\u2014\"\nsang one part, \"prostrate fall, FALL, FALL,\" thundered another part;\nuntil Joe Slocumb, the Deacon's graceless son, looked about him and\ngrinned, and wondered where they were falling to!\n\nBefore this time Uncle Charlie's growl had been vanquished, and Deacon\nSlocumb's book was closed; and dear Auntie Barber, although she kept\nher book open and her meek eyes fixed on the page, knew that Coronation\nhad gone far beyond her reach.\n\nThe triumphant choir swept through to the close, and seated themselves\nin smiling satisfaction.\n\n\"I'm sure we led the congregation,\" whispered Mr. Pemberton into the\near of the first soprano. \"They can't complain of our part of the\ncontract.\"\n\nAnd that entire company let itself explode into a succession of\ngiggles, over the peculiar aptness of the text at that moment\nannounced: \"He leadeth me by a way that I have not known.\"\n\n\"That's as true as preaching!\" whispered the leader of the choir, and\nthen that ripple of laughter went again through the triumphant company.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHIS was the beginning, but by no means the end. The smiling Theodore\nwas a perfect gentleman, no doubt, as regarded affability of manners,\nand he carried his point, whatever it was, by sheer good-natured\naudacity, but reverence for the house of God seemed to have no place in\nhis nature.\n\nWhen he wanted to hum a new tune during prayer time, why he hummed\nthe tune, in decorous undertone, it is true, and looking perfectly\ngood-natured the while; but to hum tunes and turn leaves seemed to be\nthe gentlemanly Theodore's idea of decorum in prayer time. Indeed,\nas time passed this grew to be by no means the most trying part of\nthe proceedings of the choir. It became necessary to transact a great\ndeal of business after the services had fairly commenced. It suited\nthe leader's idea to sometimes change the tune but the moment before\nsinging, and of course the whispered word had to be passed down the\nchoir. This proceeding served as a sufficient explanation or excuse\nwhenever one of the more daring spirits ventured to criticise: \"Why we\nhave to consult, of course. What would you have us do?\u2014Sing hap-hazard?\nWhy must there always be such a fuss made over the consultation of\nsingers? Deacon Simmons can squeak down the aisle and consult with the\nBrother Sharp about the hour for prayer meeting, in a whisper which can\nbe heard all over the room; and it is all right; but the moment one of\nthe choir ventures a whisper, people act as though we had committed the\nunpardonable sin.\" This will serve as a specimen of the spirit in which\ncriticisms were received. Generally the fault-finders-were subdued by\nthese hints of volcanic eruptions, and did not venture to explain that\nDeacon Simmons and Brother Sharp were never caught giggling behind\ntheir fans, nor, however loud their whispers, no such sentences as\nthese floated through the room from their lips: \"Have a chocolate\ndrop? Chocolate's good for the voice, you know;\" or, \"Isn't the sermon\ndreadfully long drawn out this morning? I do wish he'd get through.\"\n\nThe winter waned, and the good-natured Theodore kept his position, and\nintroduced innovation after innovation in his gentlemanly way, until it\nis a wonder the old church knew itself. Among other things the old reed\norgan, which had done good service for several years, was pronounced\na wheezy, squeaky, harsh-throated old thing; in which opinion let me\nhasten to confess my sympathy. I had no love for that organ, which,\nwhen all the stops were out, had the power to drown any voice, however\nsweet. It was declared that a pipe organ was the only thing fit for a\nchurch, anyway; and here, again, I must admit that my heart approved. I\nlove the music of a pipe organ.\n\nIt was found that a certain church, known to the friendly Theodore,\nwas about to set up a new organ, and would dispose of their old one,\npurely out of consideration for the said Theodore, at a very low figure\nindeed. And our choir, which could be very enthusiastic indeed when it\nchose, declared its intention of raising enough money, forthwith, for\nthat organ.\n\nVigorously did they set to work. A busy winter we had of it. And by\npop-corn parties, and white-apron parties, mid post-offices, and\nprize pincushions, and grab-bags, necktie sociables, and sheet and\npillow-case sociables, and every other kind of sociable or game of grab\nwhich was ever invented, the organ fund actually swelled to respectable\nproportions. Never was a busier winter, nor a more popular man than the\ngentlemanly leader of our choir. His good nature and his self-sacrifice\nknew no bounds. Indeed, the young people were all self-sacrificing.\nThey sacrificed the prayer meeting, and the mission band, and the\nreading circle, and almost everything else except the skating rink, in\ntheir zeal for the pipe organ. \"It is all for the sake of the cause,\nyou know,\" grew to be the motto of the young people, and it was really\nwonderful what marvels of ingenuity they became!\n\nAnd they succeeded; just as a band of young people, plunged heart and\nsoul into anything, are almost certain to succeed. The everlasting pity\nis that so often success is not worth the price paid!\n\nBut there came a happy day in which the pipe organ was set up by\nskilled hands in our church, and the Sabbath following the choir outdid\nthemselves. It was long since Auntie Barber had attempted to sing; but\non this particular day she was seen moving her lips. She explained it\nafterwards. \"The critter rolled so loud, and the girls all sang so\nhigh, that I just put in Old Hundred, softly, because I wanted to have\na share in the praising. I thought nobody would mind. They drownded it,\nyou know.\"\n\nBut Auntie Barber was mistaken; the echo of her tremulous notes:\n\n   \"'Praise Him all creatures here below,'\"\n\nwent up to Heaven, and the angels minded it very much. And the\ngood-natured Theodore happened to notice the movement of her lips, and\nwhispered to the first soprano during an organ interlude:\n\n\"Look at old Auntie Barber mouthing it; won't she have a time, though,\nkeeping up with the next strain!\"\n\nWhereat the first soprano giggled, and whispered to the second soprano,\nwho giggled, and passed the whisper down the line, and all were so much\namused that they liked not to have been ready for the next strain,\nwhich ran so high that they expected to leave old Auntie in the lurch.\nBut this time the gentlemanly Theodore was mistaken. Old Auntie's\nmouthing reached higher than any strain of music his small soul had\never felt.\n\nWhether the pipe organ was at fault, or whatever was the cause of it,\nhilarity seemed to develop in our choir, during the spring, to a really\nalarming extent. The gentlemanly Theodore took to writing notes, not\nalways about the next selection, as was proved by finding one or two\nran thus:\n\n\"Father Stearns didn't approve of our last effort. Notice his face; it\nlooks as though he had eaten a ten-penny nail preserved in vinegar.\"\n\nAt another time a paper containing advice as to the next selection was\nfound, and read as follows:\n\n\"If Dr. Prosy ever subsides, let's sing 'Oh, long expected day begin,'\nas more appropriate to our feelings than the one we have chosen.\"\n\nThose notes, of course, had to travel the entire length of the large\nchoir, and great was the amusement created; fans, handkerchiefs and\nhymn books were in constant requisition to cover the explosions of\nuntimely mirth.\n\nThere were also sundry little private missives, passed by the leader to\nhis special favorites, which, of course, must be answered; and as there\nwere young men in the choir who had favorites, and as a leader is to be\nfollowed of course, this form of entertainment became very popular.\n\nThe gentlemanly Theodore also developed artistic talent, and adorned\nthe fly-leaves of his note book with certain photographs labeled \"The\nDeacon in the dumps,\" or \"Old Auntie in a seraphic state;\" and down\nthe line would be passed the caricature of Deacon Slocumb with his\nchin dropped into his shirt collar, his thumbs interlocked in the act\nof twirling, and a frown on his forehead so deep that it seemed to\ncast a shadow over his whole face. Then dear old Auntie Barber's face\nwould travel from one simpleton to another\u2014 her rather old-fashioned\nblack bonnet exaggerated until it was larger and queerer than any she\never thought of wearing, and yet looking enough like it to suggest the\nold lady, even though her placid face hadn't peeped out from under\nit, her head slightly thrown back, her eyes closed, a pair of immense\nspectacles pushed up on her forehead, and a sort of exaggeration of\nsatisfaction on her old face; the whole calculated to make the young\nand heedless laugh. It was really a good comic likeness of the old\nlady; there is no denying that the affable Theodore had other than\nmusical talent. But there was that about the picture, after all, which\nit seemed to me was calculated to make a young person who had a dear\nold mother flush with indignation.\n\nIt always seemed to me a bad sign to see people amused with caricatures\nof good, pure old faces.\n\nI don't remember how long the members of our choir indulged in these\nvarious entertainments; but I know that, as the weeks went by, they\nwaxed bolder and bolder. Candies, nuts, and even lemons, circulated\nfreely; notes were industriously written and boldly passed, and the\nwhispering became almost incessant. The fact was, our choir was\nbecoming noted for something besides its music; some of us were\nactually ashamed to take a guest to church with us, lest our choir\nmight shock them. Well do I remember the Sunday on which the crisis\ncame.\n\nThe whispering had been almost incessant during the first part of the\nsermon, and more than once an audible chuckle had rippled down to\nthose who sat nearest. The minister, good, long-suffering man, tried\nearnestly not to let his annoyance be seen; but he had borne a great\ndeal; and those who knew him well watched anxiously the steadily rising\nflush on his unusually pale face. Once he stopped in the middle of a\nsentence, and waited for full half a minute, which of course seemed\nto us anxious ones like half an hour, for the whispering behind him\nto cease. I do not know to this day whether it was unusual and almost\nunaccountable heedlessness, or a spirit of defiant recklessness, which\ntook possession of our choir for the rest of the morning. Whatever it\nwas, Satan must have been proud of them, for certainly he had it very\nmuch his own way among most of them. Suddenly the minister made another\nominous pause; so sudden was the silence that part of the loud whisper\nbehind him was heard in the still church; \"Tell him I'll flat in the\nnext hymn awfully if he doesn't\u2014\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nWE never knew what the accomplished flatter wanted when she spoke out\nin meeting. She became suddenly aware that the noise just below her had\nceased. The minister turned slowly around and faced his tormentors, and\ninto that tremendous silence came his voice: \"I shall have to ask the\nmembers of the choir to desist from whispering during the sermon; else\nit will be impossible for me to continue.\"\n\nHad an angel from Heaven appeared suddenly among us, more startled\nquiet could not have ensued. The members of the choir did not even dare\nto glance at one another. One by one their faces dropped behind book or\nfan or handkerchief, and some of them, at least, shed indignant tears.\nThe minister continued his sermon, and perhaps somebody listened, but\nUncle Charlie Bennett cleared his throat several times, with hoarse\ngrowls, a way he had when much agitated; and Auntie Barber fanned\nviolently, though the day was cool. As for the affable Theodore, he\npresently took his hat, and slipped quietly and decorously from a side\ndoor; and part of the choir rendered the last hymn as best they could\nwithout him.\n\nWhat a week was that which followed. The whole town was in a ferment,\nand seethed and boiled in an alarming manner. The choir was large,\nand many homes had been touched. There was every shade and grade of\nindignation and disapprobation expressed concerning the minister, from\nthe extreme wrath of Miss Armitage, the first soprano, who thought that\n\"after insulting half his congregation, he ought never to be allowed to\nshow his head in the pulpit again,\" down to patient old Auntie Barber,\nwho said she knew the minister had been dreadfully put to it, poor dear\nman; she didn't blame him, but then, if he could have spoken to the\nyoung things kind of softly, she would have been dreadful glad.\n\nWell, another Sabbath came; and with much fear and trembling we went\nto church. The minister was in his place as usual; but the long rows\nof seats behind him were vacant. Not a singer put in an appearance.\nHere and there through the church were scattered a few of them, seated\ndecorously beside their parents, wearing ominously set lips, which\nboded silence, so far as they were concerned, but for the most part the\nchoir had followed the example of its leader and remained away from the\nsanctuary.\n\nThe hymn was announced, and read; and silence followed; even the new\norgan was dumb. The young performer thereon had been one of the most\nefficient whisperers, and was, of course, aggrieved.\n\nDeacon Slocumb fumbled for the spectacles with which he saw to read,\nand exchanged for them the spectacles with which he saw the minister\nand commenced\u2014\n\n   \"Alas, what hourly dangers rise,\n    What snares beset my way,\"\n\nand suddenly stopped. He had been snared in his haste and perturbation\nby a long metre tune for this common metre hymn, and it was too long\ndrawn out, even for Auntie Barber, though she quavered in tremulously,\non the last word. Of course the members of the choir who were present\ngiggled scornfully, and Joe Slocumb, the wicked, disgraced himself by\nan audible laugh, but the deacon, red in the face, tried again, and\nacquitted himself better, and all the congregation lived through that\nhymn.\n\nStormy times ensued for our church. In fact there was a time when Satan\nmust have gloried in it, so wonderfully did it live up to his ideas of\nchurch management.\n\nReally, it seemed as though the throes of this eruption would rend us\nto pieces. It had been made plain to the church and the world generally\nthat the long-suffering Mr. Pemberton was now roused. He said with\nsevere dignity that there was a time when patience ceased to be a\nvirtue, and that time had come to him. He had endured enough. He should\nnever enter the doors of that church again, until the minister should\neither in person or by letter make satisfactory apology to him, and to\nall the members of his choir, for the insult which they had received.\nJust what he meant by having \"endured enough,\" or what had so exercised\nhis patience, did not appear. But the roused and indignant Theodore\nwore all the time a look which translated would have filled volumes.\nEvery member of the choir heartily sympathized with this outburst, and\nwaited for their apology. Now in regard to this apology there was one\ndifficulty. The minister declined to make it! It was not that he was\nnot willing to \"become all things to all men,\" it was not that he did\nnot \"study the things which make for peace;\" it was simply that he\ncould not very well tell a lie.\n\nHe was willing to say that perhaps he had erred in judgment in thus\npublicly addressing the choir; though even here, in justice to the\ntruth, he would have to explain that he had heretofore spoken seriously\nand gently with several individual members, with no apparent results;\nand that he came to the serious conclusion that the course he pursued\nwas the best, and perhaps the only one calculated to remove the\ndifficulty.\n\nNo explanation of this sort would the affable Theodore admit for a\nmoment. The minister must say in so many words that he was sorry and\nashamed for his sin in thus publicly disgracing his choir, or the choir\nwould refuse to perform, and Mr. Pemberton would never again enter the\nchurch. As I said, there was a constitutional and moral objection on\nthe part of our minister to this decision, so it seemed to be necessary\nfor the accommodating Theodore to stay without.\n\nSeveral miserable weeks ensued, during which time our music was at\nits worst. It had not even the redeeming feature of being enjoyed by\nDeacon Slocumb and Auntie Barber. The Deacon sang under protest; and\ndear old Auntie seemed to understand that her voice was in disgrace,\nand wailed forth her notes with a tremulousness not all due to age.\nIt was during this time that certain of us made a discovery as to why\nour congregational singing was so unusually poor. It was apparent that\nthe fresh young voices which had rolled out so jubilantly from the\nchoir seats were absolutely dumb when they were scattered about in the\ncongregation. Look where you would, during Deacon Slocumb's struggles\nwith a tune, and among the young people you would find only apathetic\nfaces and closed lips. They could sing like birds, but they would not.\n\nIn due course of time the important question, \"What shall be done about\nour church music?\" came up again for official discussion. Some things\nwhich we could not do were plain. We could not again enjoy the services\nof the good-natured Theodore. Not only did he refuse to yield one inch\nof his dignity, but the triumphant hour came when he refused to return,\neven though a dozen apologies were furnished him. He declared with\ndignity that he had waited a reasonable time for advances, and could\nnot be expected to do more. Certain wise ones hinted, however, that the\nreal reason was because the Park Street church had borne him off in\ntriumph, at an advance of fifty dollars on his salary.\n\nIn the midst of our perplexities came a ray light in the shape of H.\nBeethoven Smith, the common-placeness of the surname being utterly lost\nin the melody of the given names, \"Handel Beethoven.\" He, too, was a\nnewcomer, and came heralded as a musical genius of no common order.\nIt was represented that a wonderful series of accidental, not to say\nprovidential, circumstances had given us opportunity to secure his\nservices.\n\nIn fact the incidents which seemed to point in the direction of Handel\nBeethoven Smith became so marked that it would have seemed almost like\na tempting of Providence to ignore them. Yet there were difficulties\nin the way. In the first place, he demanded a much larger salary than\nhad satisfied the genial Theodore; and, in the second place, it was\nrumored that he had in time past lent the glory of his voice to an\nopera troupe. But with perseverance these and other difficulties were\novercome, and Prof. Handel Beethoven Smith was duly installed as leader\nof our choir.\n\nProsperity seemed to crown our efforts. The members of the choir came\ntrooping back; it was folly to nurse their wrath to the extent of\nlosing such an opportunity as this. But we had hardly settled into\ncalm, when it became apparent that it was a deceitful calm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nHANDEL BEETHOVEN SMITH proved to be of uncertain temper. At times he\nwas sullen, or sarcastic, and he was always severe. He would not have\nthis, and he would have that. He told the leading bass that his voice\nsounded like a trombone, without its correctness of pitch. He said\nthe Emmons girls had harsh, grating voices, and that Carrie Fowler's\nsinging reminded him of a certain rooster which used to disturb his\nmorning slumbers. You hardly need to be told the results of all this.\nThey became apparent to us by degrees. One by one the choir grew\nsmaller. The leading bass accepted an invitation elsewhere. The Emmons\ngirls felt their throats needed rest from regular singing. Cissy Burton\ndecided that she preferred a seat by mamma. Poor Cissy was a nervous\nlittle thing, her mother said, quite unused to Mr. Smith's brusque\nways; dear Mr. Pemberton had always been so considerate of people's\nfeelings. It is true that Mr. Smith had been rather brusque. He told\nher savagely one day that she was always half a tone behind, and\nsang with no more expression than a hand-organ! Nor was it the choir\nalone, who were the subjects of these home thrusts. Handel Beethoven\nSmith carried things with a high hand in every direction. He told Dr.\nPowers, who asked to have the chant, \"Suffer little children to come\nunto me,\" rendered the Sabbath after the funeral of his little child,\nthat they had sung it but three Sabbaths before at somebody's request,\nand he couldn't afford to establish such a precedent as that; a leader\nof a choir couldn't be all the time practising funeral chants because\npeople's babies would die. That \"Suffer little children\" was nothing\nbut trash, anyway; ought never to be sung; he had strained a point to\nsing it once, and he didn't mean to get caught in that way again.\n\nI must do Mr. Smith the justice to explain that when he called the\nchant in question \"trash,\" he referred to the words, not the music.\nWords were the merest nothings to him; indeed, he had been heard to say\nthat all music ought to be rendered in Italian, that the clumsiness of\nthe English tongue might be lost sight of. Handel Beethoven Smith had a\nvery cultivated ear.\n\nDr. Powers was by no means the only senior whom Mr. Smith subdued\nwith savage speech. The long-suffering minister ventured one day to\nsuggest to the organist the wish that he would not send the people out\nof church to the sound of music which seemed to belong to the dance,\nor the parade, or some festive scene, when the organist assured him\nthat he was himself under orders, that he did not dare to hint to the\nleader that his soul was his own, much less his fingers. After due\nconsideration, and also after the minister had preached a sermon on the\nbetrayal, and heard a young lady exclaim, as she fluttered down the\naisle a few minutes after its solemn closing, \"Oh, isn't that music\nperfectly exquisite! I can hardly keep my feet from whirling off with\nme in a waltz,\" he determined to brave the fierce Handel Beethoven\nhimself; and little did he gain by the operation. The great artist\ninformed him that he did not presume to dictate to him what texts he\nshould select, nor, indeed, how long he should make his discourses;\nhowever much he might dislike their length, he was in the habit of\nleaving that matter entirely to the minister's judgment, and he desired\nand expected to be treated in the same way as regarded the music. If\nthe minister would see to it that his part of the service was properly\nmanaged, be sure that he, Handel Beethoven Smith, was entirely capable\nof attending to his part.\n\nNeither did the constant resignations from the choir apparently disturb\nthe leader in the least. Indeed, he sometimes, with an approach to\nalmost complaisance, remarked that they were well rid of such an one,\nand the choir improved with each departure. He had no very high opinion\nof chorus choirs, anyway; you could never do really classic work with a\nmixed chorus.\n\nHe imported in the place of the irate bass singer a young man with a\nfaultless voice and dress. To be sure, this importation created dismay;\nit was whispered abroad that the owner of the divine voice supported\nhimself by selling fancy liquors in a fashionable up-town saloon!\nCould it be endured that he should roll out the praises of God in our\nchoir on Sundays, and deal out liquid death to our young men during\nthe week? There were many who thought it could not, and Deacon Slocumb\nwas appointed chairman of a committee to interview the savage leader,\nwho, after hearing his somewhat lengthy complaint, silenced him with\nthe severe statement: \"You are laboring under a foolish mistake, Deacon\nSlocumb. I engaged the young man because of his voice, not because\nof his business. He does not sell his fancy drinks in our choir on\nSunday, and it is a form of business which has not, as yet, affected\nhis throat. He has a very cultured voice, which can be said of very few\nsingers in this town, I assure you; music is at a very low ebb here,\nand lower nowhere than in your church. I tell you frankly I do not\nthink there is a man among you who knows real music when he hears it,\nand therefore it is absurdly impossible that you should be permitted to\ndictate to me.\"\n\nThe deacon was silenced, but not convinced. Still, we had been through\nsuch seas of trouble with our choir that we trembled at the thought of\ntouching it. And then, there was dear old Auntie Barber, who murmured:\n\"Well, the young man gets to church twice a day by this means; and they\ndo say he hasn't been in the habit of going to church for years. If\nhe has a mother, poor soul, she must be glad of something that brings\nhim within sound of the Gospel.\" And yet Auntie Barber remembered,\nwithin her honest, sinking heart, how they had rejoiced in bringing the\naffable Theodore under the sound of the Gospel, and how disastrous had\nbeen the apparent results.\n\nThere came a morning in our church which I am inclined to think was\na triumph to our highly cultivated leader. One by one the chorus had\nslipped away, until now there were left just four singers\u2014the leading\nsoprano, the best alto we had, the divine bass voice of the saloon\nclerk, and for tenor, Handel Beethoven himself. That he was satisfied\nwith the situation he showed in his face, and the first piece they\nrendered certainly astonished the congregation. Joe Slocumb, who was\nlearning to take notes of what was said and sung, for the benefit of\nthe dear old grandma at home, gave the following copy of the words:\n\n    \"Whytee ugh seeeepro take tip ou-ou-ou-ouur\n     Beem I'ven wiiiish us till,\n   Nan mate is conseek raaateee tower,\n     We uth beeeta ropes by Phil.\"\n\nIn vain did grandma don her spectacles and study carefully for a\nfamiliar word. Then she laid the paper down with a sigh and a protest:\n\n\"I didn't think, Joe, that you would be for playing tricks on your old\ngrandma.\"\n\nThen Joe, virtuous and indignant: \"I didn't, Grandma, do any such\nthing. Them's the very words, jist as near as I can make them out. It\nwasn't a piece the minister read; they just squealed it out, without\nanybody telling what it was; and if them ain't the words, then it\ndidn't have any words.\"\n\nBy all of which I trust you will understand how entirely Handel\nBeethoven Smith succeeded in training his choir to overcome the\nclumsiness of the English language.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nBUT, alas for us, the day of peace was not yet!\n\nIt took a great deal to satisfy our leader, and he sat down after his\nlast effort, gloomy and unsatisfied. His fierce brows remained drawn\nand unbending during the entire service. Almost before the \"amen\" of\nthe benediction was pronounced, he expressed his mind, quite loud\nenough for the soprano to hear: \"It is of no use to bring classic music\ninto this choir; the singers are not equal to it. After all our drill,\nthat A was flatted wretchedly! This is the last time; I shall never\nagain attempt anything but the most ordinary psalm tune.\"\n\nI regret that I cannot give you his rendering of the word \"psalm.\"\nIt was spoken as though the \"ordinary psalm tune\" was the lowest and\nmost discouraging of all human productions, and to be reduced to the\nnecessity of singing it conferred a degree of self-abasement below\nwhich it would be hard to fall.\n\nAlas for our leading soprano! It was she who had flatted that miserable\n\"A.\" It was she whose cheeks now glowed a painful crimson as she\nlistened to the stinging criticism. It was also she who handed in her\nwritten resignation to Handel Beethoven that very afternoon, couched\nin language which he could not fail to understand. Since she, who had\nfor years borne the name of being the most correct singer in town,\nand of having an unusually pure soprano voice, could not give him\nsatisfaction, she was more than willing to resign her seat, and let him\nfill it when and where he could.\n\nOver this note Handel Beethoven did look thoughtful. Soprano singers\nwhom he could control were certainly growing scarce.\n\nIn his perplexity, he actually consulted Deacon Slocumb, or, at least,\nhe grumbled before him to the effect that he didn't know what they were\ngoing to do, as their soprano had a severe attack of ill humor. He\npresumed he could hardly be expected to manufacture sopranos to order,\nfree of charge; though almost everything else was expected of him. If\nthe church had a paid quartette choir, as it ought to have, all these\nnuisances would be avoided.\n\nDeacon Slocumb had no word to offer, but when was dear old Auntie\nBarber other than sympathetic in any form of trouble? She, waiting in\nthe aisle, overheard the grumbler, opened her mouth to speak, then\nthought better of it and moved on, then turned back and stood in the\nleader's way, wrapping and unwrapping her hymn hook in a painfully\nembarrassed manner. She was very shy of Handel Beethoven.\n\n\"Well,\" he said in a surly tone, \"do you want anything?\"\n\nThen Auntie Barber found voice. Mrs. Adams, her neighbor, had a niece\nvisiting her, a young thing from Boston, who sang around the house like\na lark, and Mrs. Adams told her they set store by her in a church in\nBoston; she had come to the country for the summer, to rest, and Auntie\nBarber did not know but maybe he would like to get her to help him for\na little while; at least, she thought it would do no harm to mention it.\n\nHandel Beethoven Smith forgot to thank her, did not relax one muscle of\nhis gloomy face, and merely remarking that because somebody in Boston\n\"set store\" by a singer, was no sign that he would be able to tolerate\nher, brushed past meek old Auntie, and went his way. Nevertheless, in\nthe course of the afternoon, he did call on Mrs. Adams, and hold a\nconsultation with the niece from down East.\n\nEvening came, and those who knew of the latest disturbance in our\nchoir, waited, some of them in anxiety, and some in amusement, to see\nwhat development we would have next. A little thrill of comfort stole\ninto Auntie Barber's heart as she saw the down East niece in the choir,\nbut the rest of us did not know the fair-faced stranger.\n\nThe organ, contrary to its usual manner, was filling the church with\nslow, sweet sounds, as the people gathered, and then, suddenly, we had\na sensation. A voice, sweeter, it seems to me, than could ever have\nsounded on earth before, rose on the hushed air, and rolled in melody\ndown the aisles, each word as distinctly spoken as though it was a\nsermon by itself, reached our hearts:\n\n     \"While Thee I seek, protecting power,\n      Be my vain wishes stilled,\n   And may this consecrated hour,\n      With better hopes be filled.\"\n\nWhat was there in that voice to make us feel the solemn hush of the\ngreat \"protecting power\" all around us? Why, under its spell, did we\nfeel our petty strifes and bickerings and jealousies hushing into\nstillness? How came the longing stealing over us for a higher life, and\nholier aims, and \"better hopes?\"\n\nPerhaps none of us understood the \"why,\" but we were under the spell.\nAnd certainly none of us knew or even dreamed that we were listening to\nthe same words which Joe Slocumb had taken down verbatim in the morning.\n\nThe wonderful voice continued its marvelous sermon:\n\n   \"Thy love the power of thought, bestowed.\"\n\nWhat a wonderful thing to have bestowed upon us, and to what uses had\nwe sometimes put it! But the voice went on:\n\n   \"To Thee my thoughts would soar.\"\n\nOh, yes, gracious, protecting Power, lift Thou our thoughts up into thy\nplane!\n\n   \"Thy mercy on my life has flowed,\n    That mercy I adore.\"\n\nDid we need a sermon after that? We had had our sermon; and yet, our\nminister had never preached a better one. We could feel that his faith\nhad soared upward on the wings of that prayer-song, and taken fresh\nheart for work.\n\nFor the first time in our lives we had the pleasure of seeing Handel\nBeethoven Smith in thoroughly good humor. The wonderful voice which he\nhad invited into his choir shed a reflected glory on him, and filled\nhis small soul with as much elation as it could hold. His expressions\nof satisfaction might not have sounded remarkable to the fair singer,\nbut for him they really were profuse:\n\n\"It is certainly a great pleasure to hear your rendering, after the\nsoul-torturing performances which I have endured so long. I permitted\nyou to use the same selection which we attempted in the morning, in\norder that this obtuse congregation might feel the difference, if it\nhas any musical taste, which I doubt.\"\n\nThen was the pretty singer discomfited: \"Is it possible I chose\nsomething which was sung here this morning? I was not here; I went with\nUncle to his church. I wouldn't have done it for the world! I am afraid\nI hurt somebody's feelings.\"\n\nOur leader made haste to reassure her. No solo had been attempted; he\nhad been too wise for that. It had only been sung as a quartette; and\nreally, she need not be troubled. Nobody in that congregation knew good\nsinging from bad.\n\nPerhaps there was truth in the statement, but some of the congregation\nwent away that night with a queer feeling tugging at their hearts that\ntheir lives, so wonderfully encircled by that Protecting Power, ought\nto be living exponents of its greatness, as they could but feel they\nwere not.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHERE was much looking forward to next Sabbath's services, and\nmuch eagerness to hear the glorious voice again. And we were not\ndisappointed. With much elation did Mr. Handel Beethoven Smith spread\nthe news. Miss Haviland, of Boston, was in the country for rest, but a\nlittle quiet Sunday singing she would not mind in the least: indeed,\nshe would help them all she could; would like to do it. And when\nHandel Beethoven repeated this gracious acceptance of his invitation,\nhe added thoughtfully that he presumed she would not be sorry to have\nthe benefit of his training for a few weeks, and that it was a comfort\nto him to feel that he need not accept her help without being able to\ngive a very adequate return. However that was, Miss Alice Haviland made\nglorious music for us all that Sabbath day.\n\n\"She sings like a nightingale,\" said Deacon Slocumb, \"but when I look\nat her I can't think of nothing but one of them little bright-winged\ncritters who flutter all ways to once.\"\n\nAs for Joe Slocumb, when he tried to describe her to his grandmother,\nhe got no further than to say: \"She's all in white, bunnit and all,\nonly some blue ribbons a flying, and fluffy hair, the color of\u2014say,\nGrandmother, do you s'pose the angels wear hair, and ribbons and\nthings?\"\n\nA second Sabbath came and almost passed. The hush of the Sabbath\nevening was upon us. Our church was very full; people not accustomed\nto church-going had been drawn in to hear the singer whom we were all\nbeginning to understand was wonderful. We had almost held our breaths\nthat evening in the fear that she would not be there. For she came a\ntrifle late, and looked flushed, and troubled. But she sang the soprano\nin the opening hymns with her usual power, then dropped back into her\nseat, and some of us noticed that she kept her eyes shaded by her hand\nduring the entire sermon. Mr. Smith touched her hand just before its\nclose and whispered: \"The doctor wants you to sing this as a solo. The\nwords are mere doggerel, but the music will set off your voice to good\nadvantage.\"\n\nHer face, which had grown pale, flushed a little over that; and I knew\nher afterwards well enough to understand that she would have refused to\nsing it, had not the minister's name been in the direction. She took\nit, however, without demur, and presently her marvelous voice filled\nthe church:\n\n   \"Take my life, and let it be\n    Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.\n    Take my hands and let them move\n    At the impulse of Thy love.\"\n\nEach word as distinctly enunciated as though the singer was reciting\nthem. On, through the description of mental and physical powers, until\nshe reached the words:\n\n   \"Take my voice, and let me sing,\n    Always, only for my King.\"\n\nShe was singing from sheet music, and the arrangement was such that\nthe word \"voice\" rolled up into the higher notes, strong and pure, as\nthough the singer would reach up, even to the throne, with the offering.\n\n   \"Take my voice, and\u2014\"\n\nSuddenly the singer faltered, the voice ceased. The organ, which had\nbeen keeping only a modest undertone of accompaniment, hurried into the\nmelody, the player striking the chords with firm hand, as though to\nencourage the singer, but in vain. She only looked pleadingly at the\nleader and shook her head. And the minister who had been listening with\nclosed eyes, and a heart attuned to the words wafted to him, caught the\npleading look, and, rising, lifted his hands in benediction.\n\nFollowing hard on the \"amen\" came questions. Anxious friends had\nhurried to the choir gallery. \"What is it?\" \"Were you faint?\" \"Get her\na glass of water.\" \"Where's a fan?\" \"Do you feel sick?\"\n\nShe turned from them toward the leader: \"Mr. Smith, I am very sorry,\nbut, indeed, I could not sing it; those words are awful!\"\n\n\"Words!\" he said, in high indignation. \"Is it possible you stopped for\nthem? I told you they were mere doggerel. It was the marvelous tune,\nand your voice fits it. What are words?\"\n\nShe shivered as she answered him: \"Words are awful, Mr. Smith\u2014those\nwords are. I could not speak them. Think of me calling God to witness\nthat I give Him my voice, to sing only for Him, when I never sang a\nline for Him in my life!\n\n   \"'Always, only for my King!'\n\n\"And I have never owned Him as my King! I tell you I could not speak\nthose words. It is mockery. And, oh! How much of it I have done. It is\nall mockery; I do not mean any of it.\"\n\nAnd she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.\n\nUtter, silent consternation took possession of us. Not one seemed to\nknow what word to offer.\n\nBut there was more than consternation on the face of Handel Beethoven\nSmith, and he was the first to regain power of speech as he turned to\nmove away:\n\n\"Well, I had supposed myself familiar with all the forms of hysteria in\nwhich lady singers can indulge, but this is new!\"\n\nThe minister had come to offer sympathy, but had been struck dumb by\nthe singer's outcry. But now he rallied:\n\n\"My dear young lady, there is a remedy for your trouble. He is ready to\nblot out all the past. Will you give your voice to Him for the future?\"\n\nThe rest of us were moving away, but the singer suddenly arrested us\nagain. She seemed not to have heard the minister; but at that moment\nshe caught sight of the wistful old face of Auntie Barber.\n\n\"Auntie\u2014Auntie Barber,\" she said, springing up, and leaning over the\nchoir rail, \"Wait! I want to see you.\" And then she vanished from our\nsight.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nIT was some weeks afterwards that I heard from Alice herself the rest\nof the story.\n\nOn that Sabbath afternoon she had been bustling about her room making\nready for the evening service, singing snatches of sacred song, with no\nmore thought of the words than had the wood robin just then singing his\nevening song. \"I never thought words,\" she vehemently told me; \"they\nhad always seemed to me like so much necessary machinery on which to\nexhibit the tune.\"\n\nWhile she fluttered from bureau to dressing table, then loitered a\nmoment by the open window trilling her song, from the open window of\nthe next house, separated from her only by a narrow passage way, came a\nvoice, distinct and tremulous with earnestness. It took but a moment to\nrealize that it was Auntie Barber at prayer.\n\n\"And I heard her pray for me,\" said Alice, her voice awe-stricken as\nshe told of it. \"You never heard such a prayer! At least, I never have.\nI was not used to hearing people pray for me. And she asked the Lord to\nget me ready to sing with the angels. Think how that must have made me\nfeel! I, who had never thought about angels, and was afraid to die, and\nafraid to hear about death! But she prayed more than that. She asked\nGod to let me sing for some soul that night; sing it a song that would\nmake it want Christ for a friend. Think of it; I sing for a soul! It\nfrightened me. I turned from that window feeling all white and faint. I\nthought I could not sing at all, and yet I must. But I cannot describe\nto you what an evening it was. I could not get away from that prayer.\nIt seemed to float all about me. Try as I would, I could not put it\naside. What if Auntie Barber's prayer should be answered, and I should\nsing some soul into peace with God, and there was I, afraid of Him!\nBut that last hymn just stabbed me. Standing up there, all alone, and\nsinging those awful words:\n\n   \"'Take my voice, and let me sing\n    'Always, only for my King.'\n\n\"It seemed to me that I mocked Him with the words; that I had always\nbeen mocking Him, and I was afraid. I had just found out that it was\na fearful thing to be able to sing. You remember that I called out to\nAuntie Barber as she passed, and went away with her? But I said hardly\nanything to her that I meant to. I began: 'O, Auntie Barber, you don't\nknow me. You think I sing for God, but I don't. I've been mocking Him\nwith just words all my life, and I am frightened, frightened!' She\ninterrupted me just there.\n\n\"'Dear heart,' she said, 'He knows all about you, and he loves you, and\nis waiting for you. Come in, and tell Him the whole story.' And she\ndrew me into that very room where she had prayed for me!\n\n\"The rest of the story isn't long to tell,\" said Alice, smiling on me\nwith eyes that glistened; \"but it will take eternity to live it! I\nfinished the hymn that evening in Auntie Barber's room:\n\n   \"'Take myself, and I will be\n     Ever, only, all for Thee!\"\n\nAnd she meant the words.\n\n\nI wish I had time to tell you the rest of the story about our church\nchoir. Once more it was reconstructed. He declared that all our singers\nwere either ill-humored or hysterical, and every one of them flatted.\n\nThen our Boston guest took up the burden. For three weeks she preached\nthe Gospel to us in song, alone, utterly unsustained, save by the\norganist, who bravely held the fort with her. During those three weeks\nshe worked. She gathered the girls about her\u2014those elements of power in\nevery church, if they were only understood. \"Let us have a new choir,\"\nshe said; \"let us take this for our motto:\n\n   \"'Take my voice, and let me sing\n     Ever, only for my King.'\"\n\nShe printed those words in illuminated text, and framed them and hung\nthem in the choir gallery.\n\nIn process of time they found a leader, one who was willing to sing\nby the new motto. I will not tell the story; it is long. But, in its\ndetails, it shows what we each need to more fully realize; the power of\nreconstruction which lies in one young consecrated life. Three months\nour borrowed songstress stayed with us, and when she went away she left\nour choir singing by the motto; the essential difference between their\nmusic and all others which we had ever enjoyed being embodied in that\none brief sentence: They meant the words.\n\nThe last time I heard Alice Haviland sing was in our church, on a\nweek-day afternoon, just as the autumn leaves were beginning to fall.\nShe stood near to an open coffin, in which lay an old, worn body, a\nwrinkled face, crowned with white satin hair, and the most reposeful\nsmile that ever Auntie Barber's dear old face had ever worn. And the\nyoung singer, looking down on the quiet sleeper, breathed out the words\nto wondrous melody:\n\n   \"Forever with the Lord,\n      Amen, so let it be;\n    Life from the dead is in that word,\n      'Tis immortality.\n\n   \"Servant of Christ, well done;\n      Praise be thy new employ;\n    And while eternal ages run.\n      Rest in thy Saviour's joy.\"\n\nAnd as the voice ceased, and the singer turned toward me with\ntear-dimmed eyes, while they closed the coffin-lid, she murmured: \"I am\nsure Auntie Barber has already joined the choir. Her soul was just full\nof song. And, oh! How she can sing now. And she will always mean the\nwords.\"\n\n\n\n                           HIS FRIEND.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nIT would have puzzled many of his friends to understand what possible\ninterest Mr. Thornton could have had in the old cottage which he\nstood surveying. What was there in the dingy, cobwebby place to call\nfor so much thought as he seemed to be putting upon it? He was not\na real estate agent estimating its value, nor a mechanic contriving\nhow he might make it good as new; for his cultured face had not the\nsharp business look of the one, neither did his elegant attire belong\nto the latter. The old place might have been picturesque in its day,\nbut now the luxuriant growth of lawn and garden were all in a tangle;\nthe maples and elms were locking arms, and that \"gadding vine,\" the\nwoodbine, had strayed away to the top of the tall hemlock.\n\nIt may be that Mr. Thornton was musing upon the possibilities of the\nforlorn little house, thinking it pitiful that even houses, trees and\nvines should not make the most of themselves. He had a passion for\nbringing up human ruins from depths of sin. It would not be strange if\nthis divine outgoing widened and extended to inanimate things.\n\nPeople said that Mr. Thornton was very peculiar. He puzzled the world\nin which he moved in more ways than one. It was incomprehensible to\nthem why a man with thousands to bestow in charity, did not sit in\nhis easy chair, and with a few flourishes of his pen make munificent\ngifts to public institutions, which would trumpet his praises far and\nnear, instead of giving it out in driblets as he did, and half of the\ntime nobody ever heard of it, except by chance; giving himself such\nextra trouble, too, hunting out objects of charity that nobody else\nwould ever think of. Ah! That was just what he did accomplish; things\nthat most people would not think of doing; little helps given here and\nthere, tiding a discouraged man over it rough spot, saving the home\nto a widow, giving a month's rest to a poor sewing woman, a barrel of\nflour or load of coal to a family suddenly driven to straits who would\nstarve rather than beg. And money was not all he gave; no one but God\nand themselves ever knew how he followed young men in and out, bringing\nthem back from the very door of the pit to respectability and to Christ.\n\nAmong the poorest classes he was a most successful worker, because,\nlike his Master, he brought not only the bread of life, but also the\nmaterial, homely loaf for fainting bodies.\n\nWhatever could possess one of intellectual tastes, with wealth and\nleisure and the wide world before him to spend time in such a strange\nway? People who could see no farther than the outside said that\nhe wanted to be a sort of patron saint to the unfortunate; others\nexplained it by that convenient word \"eccentric.\" That which really\nwas the true motive power of this life they could not understand or\nappreciate.\n\nEvery person finds his greatest pleasure in some particular way. It\nwas natural for Mr. Thornton to find his in making others happy. As a\nboy, he often gave a bit of silver to a beggar or a rose to a forlorn\nwoman, because he so loved to see the face change from dullness to glad\nsurprise. Of late years, though, there had come into his life something\nstronger and purer as a controlling power. He had been taken into near\ncompanionship with the Lord Jesus. He consulted with him in every small\naffair of his life, and received special guidance, consequently he had\nno worries and anxieties; he was under orders, not as servant only,\u2014 it\nwas more as one might carry out the least wish of a dear absent friend.\nThe beneficence that flowed from his purse was simply dispensing\nanother's bounty. Every flower or kind word bestowed, were the cups of\ncold water given in the Friend's name, for none of which he claimed\nmerit.\n\nAfter many years spent abroad Mr. Thornton had returned to his native\ncity. This neglected cottage, along with other pieces of property,\nhad fallen into his hands at the death of an old aunt, and with the\nrest had much needed his attention for some time past. It was an\nold-fashioned house with low ceilings, small windows, wide fireplaces\nand broad hearthstones. Outside, there were broad verandas, a garden\nfull of roses, shrubs and vines; a disorderly mass now, but capable of\nbeing a delight.\n\nTrue to himself, he immediately set to work\u2014in imagination\u2014transforming\nthe shabby house into a thing of beauty. His artistic eye could see how\ncharming the parlor would be with the sunlight and the roses peeping\nthrough white-curtained windows, the lawn a velvety green, cleared of\nall but one grand oak, and the garden with trained vines and trimmed\nwalks. What wonders might not paper, and paint, and pruning-knife\naccomplish! He grew enthusiastic over it as he went on. But what of it\nall when it was finished? It would be easy to give it into the hands of\nan agent to dispose of, and so have no further trouble about it, but\nhe had an impression that in some way this house might be used for the\ncomfort and help of some one in the Father's family, and he resolved to\ndedicate it to that purpose.\n\nHe sat on the porch and thought it all out while the shadows of the\nvines danced over him and the morning-glories nodded approvingly. Yes,\nhe would make the place fresh and fair, and it should be to refresh the\nheart of some old saint who was homeless and friendless, with nothing\nleft but memories of the past and hopes of the future.\n\n\"She will train these vines into orderliness and sit with her knitting\nin this shade,\" he said to himself, as he turned the key in lock\nand went his way. So eager was he to have the work commenced that\nhe brought out his knife and clipped disorderly branches from the\nsweet-brier that overhung the gateway as he passed through.\n\nThe vacant cottage stood on a pleasant street that stretched itself\non out into the country, and Mr. Thornton, lured by the beauty of the\nautumn days and the flaming colors hung out on a piece of woods not far\ndistant, turned his steps thitherward, pausing a moment on the brow\nof the hill to take in all the beauty. He was rewarded by a tableau\nof surprising loveliness. Nature, growing lavish with the dying year,\nhad again festooned the old tree trunks and brown limbs with royal\nhangings. Red maples, yellow elms and the pine's dark green, wove such\ntapestry of gorgeous tints and rare blending as Persian looms might\nassay in vain to imitate.\n\nUnder one of the maples, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the\nbright branches, was a young girl. The little figure was trim and neat\nin soft gray suit and well-fitting thick boots. She was no sylph-like\nmaiden that a breath might blow away. Every curve of her form was\ninstinct with life and energy, yet the attitude was the personification\nof grace. Her broad-brimmed hat had fallen back on her shoulders, and\nthe upturned face was eager and rosy as a child's as she reached a\nplump hand far above her head, and almost grasped the coveted scarlet\nbranch; like a child's, too, in the wave of disappointment that swept\nover it when she found her utmost efforts unavailing. She picked up\nthe basket at her feet, already half filled with ferns, and moved\non a few steps; then her face glowed again, and her eyes beamed on\nsome new discovery. This was apparently no city maiden, come out for\na sentimental stroll, for down she went on her knees before a clump\nof wood violets growing about an old stump. Eagerly she seized her\ntrowel, carefully loosened the earth about them, and lifted them almost\nreverently into her basket.\n\nMr. Thornton was a devout admirer of the beautiful in art and nature,\nbut he had not lived thirty years without knowing that a fair face\nand form may hide a hollow heart. He had studied, in the galleries\nof Europe, perfect faces, painted by the old masters; he had met in\nsociety women gifted with glorious beauty, and discovered that one was\nno more soulless than the other, consequently mere external charms\nfailed to impress him deeply. And yet, screened by the friendly sumach,\nhe watched with keen interest the pretty pose under the tree, and the\nchildish attitude on the ground, as the energetic little worker lifted\nroot after root of the homely plants into her basket. And this, not\nalone because she made a pretty picture, but it was refreshing as a\nbreath of mountain air to discover one who could bring such enthusiasm\nto autumn leaves and a few wildwood plants, and step about with that\njoyous, unconscious air as if it were not in her nature to think of\nherself, or do anything for the mere sake of effect.\n\nShe fitted in well with the bright sky, bracing air and song of birds.\nHe loved simple pleasures so much himself that he shared in her\ndelight. As she disappeared into the woods far enough away for him to\nescape observation, he came and stood under the tree that had refused\nto give her one of its branches. From his height it was easy to reach\nthe very one the little hand had aspired to; he broke it off, and\nseveral other bright sprays still higher up, then he dropped two or\nthree of the finest just in the path by which she must return. And this\nhe did, not from mere sentimentality; he would have done the same for\nany wrinkled old woman. It was this man's nature to help everybody to\nwhat they wanted, if it were right and he could do it.\n\nHe had the satisfaction after a little to see her come down the path,\npause with a puzzled look beside the branches in her way, send a\nswift reconnoitering look about her, then with a smile and a murmured\nexpression of delight, place them in her basket, the crowning glory\nof the whole. Then another scrutinizing sweep of her eyes, all about\nher,\u2014half-frightened this time, as if she just realized that she was\nnot alone, and she took up her basket and sped away like the wind.\n\nHad she only known how true and good a man stood guard over her she\nneed not have put herself in such a flutter. She walked steadily on,\nbearing her burden as bravely as though it were customary for the young\nladies to walk through city streets carrying large baskets.\n\nLily Winthrop's home was on one of the broad avenues; a large old\nmansion that had been palatial in its day, but now owed its chief\nattraction to its location, and the fine grounds surrounding it. She\nwas met in the broad gateway by a tall, silver haired old gentleman,\nwho looked reproachfully at the basket and said:\n\n\"Lily, my child, is it possible you have brought that through the\nstreets? Why did you not take Gretchen with you to carry it?\"\n\n\"O, Grandpa! it is not at all heavy, and Gretchen was busy. See my\nspoils; look at that lovely bright maple branch. It is the strangest\nthing where that came from. I tried so hard to get it, but it was above\nmy reach, and when I came back that way, there it lay right in the\npath! It must have been some good fairy or friendly squirrel who took\npity on me. Aren't these ferns beautiful?\"\n\n\"What if you had met the Berkeleys or the Madisons, and you carrying a\ngreat basket like any market woman?\"\n\n\"I would have made my best bow to them, Grandpa, exactly as if I had\nnothing in my hand, and with my best clothes on, was sailing out to\nkill time; and I would have shown them all my worldly treasures, and\nperhaps I would have given them this lovely little bouquet which I will\nnow give to you, my best grandpa, if you don't scold me any more.\" And\nshe fastened on his coat a small bunch of scarlet berries, tiny white\nflowers, and dark leaves.\n\nThe old gentleman smiled down into her merry eyes, despite his\nvexation, and put his arm about her fondly.\n\n\"Poor child!\" he said. \"How can you keep a gay heart under such crosses\nas you have to carry!\"\n\n\"All the crosses I carry are good for me, dear Grandpa. I have had a\ndelightful time in the woods this afternoon. Now let us go in to tea.\nAfter that I have a fresh newspaper for you.\"\n\nShe stepped to her room and freshened herself with a soft lace necktie\nand a few bright leaves in her hair and at her throat, so that\nGrandpa's old eyes might imagine he had a lady in full dress at his\ntable. Then she sat down and presided over the tea-urn with all due\ndignity and grace, taking care to have everything just as he liked\nit; the table in faultless array, and Gretchen with spotless apron\nin waiting, and certain other little ceremonies that he was fond of\nkeeping up.\n\nSupper over, and Mr. Winthrop comfortably established with his paper,\nLily slipped off to the greenhouse to pot her ferns and violets. This\nwas her workshop; here she toiled early and late, surreptitiously\noften, for it grieved the grandfather sorely that his darling had been\nbrought to such straits, so she managed by various small strategies to\nkeep from him the full extent of her labors.\n\nIt was the old story\u2014unfortunate speculations\u2014signing a note for\nanother, etc., and a fortune had taken wings. Affluence and luxury\nhad been exchanged for poverty, debts and anxieties. Lily had been\nbequeathed to her grandfather at the death of her widowed mother. So\nthey two, the first and the last of the family, had been left alone\nin the old homestead; and it had been a happy life until this great\nchange. Mr. Winthrop came out of the storm with nothing left but a\nsmall bank account.\n\nA lifelong friend bought the residence at auction sale, telling Mr.\nWinthrop to stay just where he was; that when he needed the place he\nwould let him know, giving him plainly to understand, however, that\nprobably he should never ask him to leave it. And now the question\narose as to what could be done to eke out a support without consuming\nat once the little they possessed. Mr. Winthrop had long since given\nup active business life; if there had been anything for him to do he\nwas too feeble and aged to attempt it. Lily was a proficient in music,\nbut, alas! there were many teachers and much competition. She succeeded\nby dint of great exertion in obtaining two or three pupils. They had\nmany friends in their prosperous days who were \"very sorry\" for them\nnow, but who considered it their solemn duty to employ none but German\nprofessors.\n\nAn inspiration came to Lily one day in this form: There was the\ngreenhouse well stocked with plants, why should it not be a source\nof profit to them? It had always held a sort of fascination for her.\nShe had watched John for hours, and asked questions innumerable,\nhad even learned how to arrange flowers in different styles, little\nthinking the knowledge would ever prove useful to her. John had been\ndismissed, but she felt quite sure that by the aid of books she could\ncare for the plants and realize a sum\u2014with their other sources of\nincome\u2014sufficient for their wants. But there were difficulties in the\nway of accomplishing this. Her grandfather was a born aristocrat, and\nheld to the belief that a lady, especially a Winthrop, must be hedged\nabout with all sorts of dainty care, must not harden her hands with any\nmanual labor, above all things must not engage in petty traffic like\nany huckster, in fine, that she was a rare and delicate flower that the\nwinds must not visit too roughly, and that some chivalrous man must\nguard and cherish, as he had cared for her, and as he meant to do until\nthis horrible thing had come upon them. \"No, indeed, she must not think\nof putting her own hands to such work. If worst had come to worst, and\nthey must make merchandise of the plants, then John must be recalled\nand the thing done up properly.\"\n\nPoor Lily sighed, and tried to make her unpractical grandfather see\nthat John would swallow up all the profits; but he was inexorable,\ndeclaring that as long as he lived she should never thus demean\nherself. Meanwhile, he should get into some business, he was sure. And\nnow he cast about to see what he could do. Ah, yes, what? His business\nfor forty years had been to direct others. He had been president of\na bank and of a railroad company; but such offices are not open to\nmen over seventy. He put pitiful little advertisements in the papers\nto the effect that \"a skilled financier, one of large experience in\nrailroading and banking desired a position.\" Then growing humbler\nwould come down to \"a ready accountant, a skillful penman, wishing a\nsituation,\" forgetting that his poor old brain could scarcely add a\ncolumn of figures correctly if life depended upon it, and that the\ntrembling hand could no longer make graceful curves.\n\nDay after day he sat and waited for the postman's ring; it sometimes\ncame, but the longed-for letter did not come; then he was sure he\nshould hear something to-morrow, and so the hours passed in trembling\nexpectancy. While this was going on, Lily was hard at work pruning,\npotting, gathering out dead leaves and transferring plants from lawn to\ngreenhouse, working in the early mornings while her grandfather slept.\nShe must have it all in order, for she hoped to win him to consent to\nher plan after a time. And so it proved; by many womanly man\u0153uvres\nshe brought it about. She made her grandfather see that it was highly\nnecessary to her health and happiness to be among the plants; then\u2014\"the\nshelves were getting crowded; would he sell a few young plants to Mr.\nHarris, the grocer.\"\n\nAt this, the old gentleman was nettled, saying, \"Oh, that is small\nbusiness; give Mr. Harris a few plants if he wishes them; we have more\nthan enough.\"\n\nThen Lily would fix her innocent brown eyes on her grandfather's and\nsay, \"Grandpa, I suppose I don't know much about business, but when you\ncome right down to it, isn't it about the same thing to receive four or\nfive dollars from Mr. Harris who wants our plants, as for you to have\nreceived four of five thousand dollars when you were a banker from men\nwho wanted your services?\"\n\nAt this grandpa laughed and said, \"Go on, child, have your own way; you\nare a real Winthrop. If I once you take a thing into your head, you'll\nnever give up till it is accomplished.\" He said to himself, \"Sure\nenough, when you put it in that way, what is the difference?\"\n\nAnd now business began in a lively manner. Lily rose before the sun,\ncut her flowers and arranged them in attractive style, and Gretchen\ncarried them to the market\u2014transmuting rosebuds into beefsteak for the\nmorning meal.\n\nThese bouquets were much in demand among people of good taste; they\nwere not the stiff, ungainly things one usually sees, but were grouped\nloosely and tastefully together with a rare grace that could not be\nimitated. She possessed true womanly tact, and succeeded in interesting\nher grandfather in the structure and habits of plants. She brought\nbooks from the library, scientific and practical, and, during the long\nevenings they studied them together until the elder student began to\ncatch some of the enthusiasm of the younger, and both grew to be wise\nin plant lore. Mr. Winthrop even came into the greenhouse himself and\nmade bungling efforts to be useful. It touched Lily to the heart to\nsee her stately, dignified grandfather, who had never dealt much with\ndetails of any sort, sitting before a basket of flowers, sorting out\nheliotrope, primroses and smilax with painful precision.\n\nAs for herself she was perfectly in love with the work; busy and happy\nshe hind almost forgotten to notice that her many dear friends had\nnearly all ceased to visit her, so she had ample time for her new\npursuit. Bringing to it such zeal and love, success was sure. Shut in\nher little green world, that other world where she had flitted about\nwith gay butterflies of fashion, seemed far off\u2014another state of\nexistence; this greenery was a better, purer world; it was easier to\nremember the Heavenly Father when intimate with his delicate creations.\nPerhaps the work he gave man to do for the new-born earth always\nhas peculiar blessings attending it. However it was, new color and\nroundness came to her cheek and unwonted love and consecration to her\nheart.\n\nSo two years passed away in quiet contentment. With much economy they\nwere more than comfortable, were even able to pay a small rent which\nadded not a little to the happiness of the proud-spirited old gentleman.\n\nJust as they were looking forward to another winter of pleasure and\nprofit everything was changed in the space of a few hours. Satan long\nago intruded himself among vines and flowers and here he came again\u2014in\nthe person of a sharp, covetous man who claimed the property as his\nown. The friend, to whose generosity they owed so much, passed to\nanother world without so much as a moment's warning. It had been his\npurpose to bequeath the Winthrop estate to its lifelong owners, but he\nhad neglected to add this to his will. Much of the property now fell\ninto the hands of a distant relative who claimed the last dollar that\nthe law allowed him, although knowing the often expressed intention of\nthe one whose wishes and words, as far as this life is concerned, had\nforever come to an end.\n\nThis very September morning, when the golden sunshine seemed full of\nblessing, the cruel order came to vacate the premises within three\nmonths. This was a heavy blow indeed, and Mr. Winthrop was almost\ncrushed beneath it. To be turned out into the world without a home\nat his age was bad enough, but to bring this upon the dear child was\nfearful. All the old struggle of regret and remorse returned. To\nthink that he should have imperiled all, when he had such a treasure\nentrusted to him. He walked the floor nights and days calling himself\nby all hard names, sometimes trying to pray, but in despair declaring\nthat he had been so proud and covetous the Lord had forsaken him in his\nold age.\n\n\"Poor child!\" he would exclaim to Lily. \"What a pity it is that you\nbelong to such a senseless old dolt.\"\n\nLily did not try to talk much at such times. She would sing low and\ntender in bird-like notes some sweet assuring words, oftenest his\nfavorite hymn that he had sung and believed for fifty years:\n\n   \"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,\n    Is found for your faith in his excellent Word.\"\n\nThe grand words of promise were sure to bring relief, and by the time\nshe came to:\n\n   \"I'll never, no, never, no, never, forsake\u2014\"\n\nthe poor heart was calmed.\n\n\"Here is a good place to read to-night, Grandpa,\" she sometimes said,\nturning the leaves of the large Bible to some chapter where God's\nloving heart whispers words that have comforted sad souls in all ages.\nWhen he had again realized these gracious promises it was easier to\nkneel and commit all to \"Him who careth for us.\"\n\nAnd so for the time being it seemed necessary that the learner turn\nteacher, and keep constantly before the fainting heart the unfailing\nRefuge.\n\n\"It will all come out right, dear Grandpa. You told me long ago that\nGod cares for each of his children exactly as if that one were all\nalone in the world,\" she would say when the next dark cloud began to\nsettle over him. \"The Heavenly Father knows we need another home. He is\nsurely getting it ready for us. We haven't suffered any yet; I know it\nwill come in time.\"\n\nThen Grandpa would murmur, \"Blessed child, you shame my feeble faith.\"\n\nStrong as Lily's confidence was, however, she went about the work of\nseeking some employment exactly as if everything depended upon her\nown efforts. Day after day with untiring perseverance she answered\nadvertisements, seeking interviews with this and that one, but \"the\nplace was just filled,\" or they \"needed no more help,\" or they \"would\nconsider her case.\" Nothing definite opened, though, through rain and\nmud, late and early, in schools, offices and families, she pursued her\ninquiries for a situation as copyist, teacher, governess\u2014anything;\npursued them without avail. \"In all God's fair, wide world no corner\nfor me,\" another might have bitterly murmured, but when he sweetens a\nspirit, what can make it bitter?\n\n\"It is His way for me, it must be the best way,\" she continually told\nherself as she plodded on, \"walking with God in the dark,\" knowing\nthat it was \"better than to walk alone in the light;\" then brought a\ncheerful face home to her grandfather, made his tea, sung his evening\nsong each time as fresh and sweet and hopeful as if she had just\nconcluded an engagement at a salary of a thousand or two a year. There\nwere times, though, when it required all her fortitude to bear up\nagainst impertinent stares or cold rebuffs as she pushed her way into\nplaces where she would never have gone but from necessity. She was\noften obliged to struggle to keep back tears as she withdrew from some\nplace where she had been rudely repulsed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nAH! It is pitiful\u2014a woman knocking at iron doors and tugging with\nfeeble fingers at heavy bars, watching eagerly if perchance the great\ngates may open never so little and let them into a niche\u2014to work for\nbread. It is not the laborers, at their posts from sun to sun, who\nneed our sympathy, after all. It is the long line of discouraged men\nand women who cannot get the work to do, who do what is harder than\nwork\u2014wait.\n\nOne morning in November, business took Mr. Thornton to one of the banks\nof the city. While he stood waiting for his account to be balanced, he\nheard a low, clear voice not far from him that thrilled and interested\nhim at once, because there was trouble in the tones. One needed only to\nbe in misfortune to possess strong attractions for Mr. Thornton.\n\nA young girl stood at the counter below, conversing with one of the\nbank officers. The interview was not intended to be public, but the\ntones of one speaker were gruff and loud naturally, and could not\neasily be softened, while those of the other were clear and penetrating\nas a flute.\n\n\"Mr. Haines,\" she said, \"would you not be so kind as to allow us to\nremain in our\u2014in your house for the winter? We can pay a small rent,\nand it will relieve us of much embarrassment and distress if you will.\"\n\nThe voice matched the face, pure, true, and sweet, and the brown eyes\nlooked pleadingly into the dead eyes of the speaker.\n\nNot a muscle of his face changed as he said, \"The time cannot possibly\nbe extended beyond what I mentioned\u2014Christmas week.\"\n\nHow could he speak of the glad Christmas-tide, the blossoming out of\n\"peace on earth, good will to men,\" in that stony way and with that\neager face before him!\n\n\"Sir,\" she said, and a little flash came into the eyes now, \"I would\nnever ask it for myself, but my grandfather is growing old. It is very\nhard for him to be turned out of the home where he has lived for forty\nyears. Will you not have pity on an old man?\"\n\n\"My plans are all made; I regret that I cannot accommodate you, Miss\nWinthrop. You must excuse me now, as I have an engagement,\" was the\nanswer to the appeal, in the same business-like tones that he would\nhave used if reading from his ledger. Then he walked away, and she\nstood for a moment, indignation, mortification and disappointment\nstruggling together in her face.\n\nAs she turned to go, her eyes met Mr. Thornton's; such true, kind eyes\nthey were; if only this man were Mr. Haines!\n\nAnd Mr. Thornton, looking down at her, thought, \"If only she were a\nlittle girl, or an old lady, I could go to her and say, 'Tell me your\ntrouble, won't you?' But now, how can I help her?\"\n\nWhile he asked it, she was gone, and, as he stood wondering where he\nhad seen the face before, there came a dim memory floating about it\nlike a frame, of a blue September sky, bright leaves and ferns, and\nthen he knew where. He resolved to know more of one apparently in deep\ntrouble of some kind. He searched the directory, found the street and\nnumber, and soon after walked by the house. Yes, there was the name\n\"Winthrop\" on the door-plate, the letters nearly defaced by time, and\nthe grand old place giving evidence that its owner had been growing\nold and poor. He saw the grand-looking old man, too, walking up and\ndown the long veranda, his white hair blowing in the November wind, his\nhands crossed behind him, his head down, musing, the young man thought,\non the past that had been lived in that house, and the future that was\nto be lived\u2014where?\n\nHis heart went out in tender pity over him, and Mr. Thornton's pity was\nnot wont to spend itself in mere emotions. He stepped into a street-car\non his way home. There were but two passengers besides himself for\nseveral squares\u2014two ladies, who, living in the same vicinity, and\nhaving just passed the house, were, naturally enough, discussing the\nvery persons who occupied his thoughts just then.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know what they are to do?\" one said. \"They are\nobliged to leave that house by Christmas. Just think of that! As many\ngrand Christmas doings as they have had there! Pretty gay the old house\nused to be when Lily's father and mother were living. I should think it\nwould break the old man's heart to go then; the contrast would be so\nsharp; his children gone, his wife gone, and now the old place must go,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is hard,\" the other lady replied, \"but he has a great deal to\nbe thankful for yet. He has his religion left, and the dearest comfort\nin Lily that anybody ever had. Lily is a noble girl. It is perfectly\nmarvelous what she has accomplished. She has taken the entire care\nof the greenhouse and worked like any market woman; sold plants and\nflowers enough to realize a nice sum, besides teaching two or three\nmusic scholars. They have a little money left yet, I hear, and could\nprobably get along nicely, situated as they were, but, as you say,\nI don't see just what they will do now. Old Mr. Winthrop is so much\nrespected people would help them, I dare say, if they thought of it,\nbut he is the last one to give hints, or even let them know how he\nis situated; pretty proud, the old gentleman is, but it is not to be\nwondered at, he's always been up, and he don't know how to come down.\"\n\n\"Everything would have turned out all right,\" said the first speaker,\n\"if Mr. Walters had just put into his will what he intended to. He\nmentioned to several that he should give the place in the end to Lily.\nIf only people would not procrastinate.\"\n\n\"If only he had given it to her then, you mean,\" returned the other.\n\"It is a good deal better to help people over a rough place when they\nneed it, I think, than to leave them a great sum at death, just as they\nare getting ready to die, and are beyond wanting any help. If I had\nmuch money to give away I am sure I should want to see it doing good as\nI went along.\"\n\nThey said much more, thoroughly discussing the situation as two women\nwill who have no troubles of their own on their minds, and are free to\nattend to their neighbors. But then this was not ill-natured gossip,\nand Mr. Thornton really felt obliged to them for telling him so many\nthings he wished to know.\n\nLater in the day Mr. Thornton called upon Mr. Haines to inquire about\nthe property, hoping that he might be able to get it into his own\npossession, but he was informed that it was not for sale\u2014that the\nlocation was the choicest in the city, and the house was soon to be\nremodeled for the owner's own residence. Moreover, he could not extend\nthe time, as carpenters were to commence work on the inside as soon as\npossible. He considered it a marked favor that he gave the family as\nmuch time as he did, but then, some people were always ungrateful.\n\nThe more Mr. Thornton heard of this family the more interested did he\nbecome. This old man to be turned out of his home; this fair, brave\ngirl battling with poverty appealed to everything sacred and chivalrous\nin his nature. How much he wished they were friends of his that he\nmight say, \"Share my home with me.\" He passed the house frequently\nthe next few days and hunted his brain for a pretext for calling. The\nopportunity came in an unlooked-for way. One morning while he was\npassing, Mr. Winthrop happening to be coming down the stone steps\nleading from his lawn, lost his footing and would have fallen forward\non the pavement had not Mr. Thornton sprang to his aid. As it was,\none of his ankles was injured so that he was obliged to lean on Mr.\nThornton's arm and return to the house. On examination both gentlemen\nagreed that it was probably only a slight sprain, not requiring the\nattendance of a surgeon. Mr. Thornton remained and assisted in bathing\nand bandaging it with his own hands, declaring that he was experienced\ninasmuch as he once had a sprained ankle himself.\n\nMr. Winthrop was slow to take in strangers, but who could wrap himself\nin cold reserve before the fascination of Mr. Thornton's manner? It was\nthe perfection of kindness and delicate politeness. Mr. Winthrop found\nhimself conversing with the freedom of an old friend, and begged him\nwhen he took leave, to come again.\n\nMr. Thornton in turn was perfectly captivated with the old gentleman.\nA most delightful plan began to loom up in his mind, and he betook\nhimself to his favorite retreat to perfect it. The cottage had passed\nthrough the renovating process and was now as neat and pretty a home as\ncould be desired.\n\nInside, it was finished up according to Mr. Thornton's own taste,\nwhich was of the best. He had pleased himself by fitting up one room\nin the style of the olden time. The modern wall-paper adorned with\nmorning glory vines, and the fern leaf carpet chimed in with the idea\nsufficiently well. He procured a wide lounge covered with chintz, two\nhigh-backed old rocking-chairs, and several others of antique patterns\nand splint-bottoms. From an old aunt's possessions, he begged a tall\nsecretary and bookcase, curiously carved, a table with claw feet, and\na stand with three legs. He put tall candlesticks of silver on the\nhigh mantel, brass andirons in the broad fireplace, and when he had a\nveritable hickory log snapping on them, the firelight dancing on the\nwall, and gayly flowered damask curtains at the windows, he delightedly\npronounced the room as much like his great-grandmother's as he could\nmake it.\n\nTo-night he dropped the curtains, drew the arm-chair to the fire, and\nsettled himself to the solving of a problem. He often came to this\nroom when he wanted to be specially quiet; indeed, so fascinated was\nhe by it that he would have enjoyed taking up his abode there. The old\nlady for whom all this comfort was intended, had not yet appeared. He\nhad been quietly waiting and watching, certain that in due time his\noffering would be needed, and now he felt assured the time had come.\nBut how to bestow it on Mr. Winthrop without bringing him under a sense\nof obligation that would be embarrassing whenever they met, for he had\nno idea of dropping the acquaintance just begun! His sympathies had a\nwide scope, and yet his friends were few and choice; he hoped to number\nthis pure-hearted, clear-headed old man among them, and, mayhap, this\nmaiden of heroic deeds.\n\nOpen fires must be favorable to untying hard knots, for after knitting\nhis brows for a time he seemed to have arrived at some conclusion that\npleased himself, at least, and he turned to his table and wrote a\nletter, sealed and addressed it, then sank back in his chair with the\nair of one who has dispatched his business and is free to dream dreams\nof firelight.\n\nThe letter was not the only result of the cogitations. It was but a\nday or two after that when workmen were busy with shovel and saw and\nhammer engaged in building a greenhouse. The season favored the plan;\nthe frosts not having penetrated the ground yet. Mr. Thornton was\nthere continually, directing, watching with as much interest as if he\ncontemplated taking up the vocation of a florist at once.\n\nOne evening the postman brought a letter of importance to the\nWinthrops. It was just at dusk, and Lily, returned from another day of\nfruitless wanderings, sat by the fire, feeling more depressed in heart\nthan was at all usual with her. The day had been \"dark and cold and\ndreary,\" and chilled her through and through, soul as well as body.\nNone of this appeared, though, in the cheerful words she forced herself\nto speak to her dispirited grandfather, who had almost lost hope,\nthough struggling hard to keep up. He did not know that in the dark and\ndrizzle of the November night a light was on the way to him.\n\nAnd now appeared Gretchen with a letter for Mr. Winthrop. Lily turned\nit over curiously, noting, as she passed it to her grandfather, that\nit was a city letter, and a feeble hope sprang up that Mr. Haines had\nrelented, and would allow them to remain until spring.\n\nMr. Winthrop read it slowly through, once and again, and then almost\nsprang to his feet, forgetting his lameness in the excitement. \"Lily,\"\nhe called, \"come here, quick! This is most extraordinary; read\nthat\u2014read it aloud! It must be that I have made some mistake.\" And Lily\nread:\n\n   \"MR. WINTHROP:\n\n   \"Dear Sir: I write to inform you that I have been entrusted by a dear\nfriend of yours\u2014who is at present absent\u2014with a piece of property which\nhe desires to bestow upon you as a Christmas gift. The cottage is in\nthe city, pleasantly located, with a fine greenhouse in good order. The\nkey and the deed of it will be sent to you in the course of a month,\nwhen it will be ready for occupancy. I advise you thus early that you\nmay shape your plans accordingly.\n\n                                 \"Yours truly,\n\n                                          \"A. HATHAWAY.\n\n\"Now, dear child, what is the meaning of all this? Could anybody play\nsuch a cruel joke upon us?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no, Grandpa,\" Lily said, her face radiant. \"It is the answer\nto our prayers. Have we not asked and asked Him for a home, and now he\nhas sent it to us?\"\n\nGrandpa closed his eyes, and there was silence for a moment; each knew\nthat the other was whispering thanksgivings too deep for spoken words.\n\n\"Bless the Lord, O my soul,\" Grandpa murmured at length. \"This\ndeliverance came for the sake of you, his little one; such stupid\nunbelief as mine could never have brought the blessing. But who is Mr.\nHathaway, and why in reason did he not tell me the name of my friend? I\nwill write to him this very evening, and know something more about this\nwonderful transaction.\"\n\nIt was as good as a play could have been to others, and much better\nthan one could possibly be to Mr. Thornton, when he called later in the\nevening to inquire after the sprained ankle, to observe the change in\nthe manner of both. The grandfather appeared to have chopped off ten\nyears of age, and seasoned his speech with lively sallies and sparkles\nof wit as he had not done for a long time. The girl's eyes, too, had\nlost their look of patient care and sparkled with repressed joyousness.\nShe seemed like one in possession of some happy secret, and in haste\nto be alone that she might turn it over and look at it. This was pure,\nexquisite pleasure to turn sighs into smiles. He knew us well who said,\n\"It is more blessed to give than to receive.\"\n\n\"Hathaway\" was Mr. Thornton's middle name, after one of his ancestors,\n\"Allan Hathaway.\" He had never lived in that vicinity, so his namesake\nknew that he might safely hide behind it, especially as there was no\none of the same name in the city. He felt too that he could truthfully\nsay that he acted under the directions of another, who was Mr.\nWinthrop's dear friend, for was not the Lord whom they served both\nMaster and Friend, and who but he had put it into his own heart to\nremember his servant?\n\nThe sprained ankle, though doing well, yet gave Mr. Thornton continued\npretexts for calling very often. He brought in new books and the daily\npapers, and sometimes stopped to read the news to the invalid; then the\ntwo held many arguments and discussions on the topics of the day. Their\nviews were too nearly alike to make the discussions very lively, though\nthe fact gave each an exalted opinion of the other. Lily seldom joined\nthem; not that she was indifferent to the fascination of such brilliant\nsociety, but there was much work to be done, now that they were not\nto be bereft of their beloved plants, and she took the opportunity to\nattend to it while her grandfather was being so pleasantly entertained.\nPerhaps too, the fact that the visitor seemed indifferent to either\nher absence or presence made her less anxious to be present. She was\nnot one to thrust herself upon any person's notice. She had not done\nthat when she was a courted heiress, certainly not now, when in the\nestimation of the world she had fallen from a great height. Had her\nspirit, been less sweet she might have felt a degree of pique at not\nbeing considered the chief attraction in the house, especially to\ngentlemen from whom she had received homage enough to spoil an ordinary\ngirl. She settled finally down to the theory that Mr. Thornton was\na philanthropist, not a wholesale one, but a grand, loving-hearted\nChristian, doing his Master's will in small things as faithfully as if\nthey were great; and that he considered it his Christian duty probably\nto extend kindness and good cheer to her grandfather\u2014and that he was\nonly one of many objects of his charity\u2014for of course he must know by\nthis time about their reduced circumstances. She would have enjoyed the\nsweet savor of his conversation, as did everybody who ever talked with\nhim, but she declared within herself, \"He shall never have a shadow of\ncause to imagine that I appropriate these visits to myself, and so be\nannoyed and cease to come\u2014that is probably the reason he never inquires\nfor me at the door. I do want him to come, he is such a comfort to\nGrandpa.\"\n\nWith this tormenting suggestion, that some officious elf thrust into\nher mind, she allowed herself but seldom to remain in the room during\nhis visits, and, depriving herself of a pleasure she would have enjoyed\nexceedingly, rarely joined in the conversation, only occasionally\nforgetting ugly suggestions of prim propriety, and putting in her\nvivacious word or merry laugh with such childlike abandon as made Mr.\nThornton remember the maple leaves and the violets.\n\nHe did not mean to be an artful man, but the truth was, that there was\nnot a look or tone or motion of this maiden's but he noted and studied,\nno matter how absorbed he pretended to be with the subject in hand. It\npuzzled him not a little that she seemed to avoid him, for he too was\naccustomed to being considered a person of importance. And yet it was\nalmost refreshing to meet a young lady who did not constantly seek his\nsociety, oppress him with attention and smile approval upon him. Always\nsmiling, it was restful to meet this face that could be grave, and\nlips that could be silent, or speak of something besides trifles and\ninanities.\n\nAnd so the visits and the\u2014studies\u2014continued, twice, three times a week;\nif he were late, the old gentleman would fidget like a maiden waiting\nfor her lover.\n\nAnd now the greenhouse was completed, furnished with all the\nappurtenances that such an establishment requires. Some little changes,\ntoo, had been made in the cottage in consideration of the choice\nspirits who were to occupy it; in short, nothing more could be asked\nfor it in the way of taste and convenience. The deed and the key had\nbeen sent as promised, and the Christmas gift had been searched out\nand found to be no myth, but a joyful reality; two delighted people\nhad pronounced it \"cosy,\" \"lovely,\" \"home-like.\" They were still in\nwonder and perplexity as to the donor. Mr. Winthrop lay awake nights,\ngoing as far back among the families of the city as his memory would\ntravel, to find the name \"Hathaway,\" but could get no clue. He turned\nover in his mind the names of all his acquaintances whom he knew to be\nabroad, and surmised it to be this one, and then that one, to whom he\nwas indebted for this princely gift, but could never settle permanently\nupon any one. As much at home as Mr. Thornton had become in a short\ntime in the household, Mr. Winthrop had never mentioned the matter to\nhim; with true Puritan reticence, he kept his personal affairs, if\npossible, within his own family. So, as the time drew near for removal,\nthe former could scarcely conceal a smile when Mr. Winthrop, with a\ntouch of his old stateliness in his manner, said that he must make a\ndisclosure that, perhaps, should have been made long ago; that he never\nliked to sail under false colors, and, while he would not hint that\nwealth was the sole standard Mr. Thornton set up for his friendships,\nstill he wished him to know that he himself was a poor man, that his\nhome had been taken from him, in fact, he was to leave it in a few days\nforever, for a small property that \"was given to us by some unknown\nfriend, and for which we hourly thank God,\" he said with moist eyes.\n\n\"But that is not all,\" he went on, as if determined to further mortify\nhis remaining pride. \"We are to be known hereafter as those who earn\ntheir daily bread by the toil of their own hands. I have been among the\nfools who thought it a disgrace to do so, but I have been rebuked for\nmy foolish pride of birth, and now I lay it down forever; but I wish\nevery one who seeks friendship with us to know the truth.\"\n\nMr. Thornton heard this speech with kindling eyes, and simply said, as\nhe gave him a warm hand clasp, \"Then, sir, you may have fewer friends,\nbut truer.\n\n   \"'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,\n    Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.'\n\n\"May I be so happy as to be one such friend?\"\n\n\"What a thing it would be, eh? To be the father of such a son!\" Mr.\nWinthrop said within himself, as he watched the young man spring\nlightly down the steps and walk away; and there were tears in the old\neyes as he remembered a handsome profligate son who had found an early\ngrave.\n\nA few days before Christmas found the Winthrops established in their\nnew home, happy, grateful souls as ever opened eyes on Christmas\nmorning. The delightful old-fashioned house reminded one of a hen and\nchickens, so many small rooms joined on here and there clustering\nabout it. Inside, it seemed to open in all directions, so that when\nyou stood in the center you had a peep into every room. And each room,\nfitted up by Lily's artistic taste with articles that had long been\nheirlooms in the family, had an individuality of its own. The living\nroom, warm and bright in rich colors, the dining room, with antique\nsideboard and a few old pieces of silver shining on it, the tiny green\ncarpeted library, glimpses into one fair and white, the guest chamber,\nand another in rose tints, such as girls love, then the old-time room,\nwhich Mr. Winthrop declared was to be his the moment he saw it.\n\n\"It carries me back sixty-free years to my mother's knee,\" he said.\n\nMr. Thornton had come as soon as possible after the settlement of the\nnew home and taken a delighted survey. He could scarcely have believed\nit to be the same, evidences of refined taste and deft fingers were\neverywhere.\n\n\"The most charming effect without exception that I ever saw in any\nhouse,\" he told his happy host, who took almost a childish pleasure in\ndisplaying his new possession, carrying his visitor at last in triumph\nto his own room and seating him in the arm-chair, with \"Now did you\never see anything to equal this, even to the candlesticks and snuffer\ntray, all complete? This room does me more good than anything that has\ncome to me in years.\"\n\nAnd Mr. Thornton, looking into the old man's happy face, the firelight\nthrowing a halo about his white hair; thanked God for money. His\npleased eyes took in the fact, too, that the room remained unchanged in\nevery particular, a tribute, he smilingly thought, to the taste of Mr.\nHathaway.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his\nafternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate\nthis wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and\nautumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself\nwith, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines\nfestooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along\nthe gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums\nbloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table\nin spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock\ndinner\u2014sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in,\nthese days.\n\nWhen all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have\noccasion to wear in her workaday world\u2014a white cashmere, her\ngrandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt,\nfor grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight\nat the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited\nfor him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had\nexchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he\ncame into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and\nroses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to\nreceive him, sweeping a low courtesy with \"A merry Christmas to you,\nsir; happy and oft this day return to thee,\" he rubbed his old eyes in\namazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two\nlookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen\ndoor, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was\nguilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage\nof a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He\nmurmured \"Beautiful!\" but whether it referred to the charming room, the\nfaultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?\n\nHe came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white\ngrapes and bananas, which he presented with a \"Merry Christmas\" to Mr.\nWinthrop.\n\n\"You have friends with you?\" he said, glancing about him.\n\n\"Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance\nto please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr.\nThornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a\nseat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our\nChristmas a happy one.\"\n\nSo sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest\nexperienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world\nthere was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most\nenjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious\nand delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never\nlacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.\n\nIn the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr.\nWinthrop turned to Lily, saying, \"My dear, take our friend out and show\nhim that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another\nplant like it in this country.\"\n\n\"Here is something finer than roses,\" Lily said, pausing at the\nentrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with\nblossoms.\n\n\"They are wonderfully sweet,\" he said, bending over them, \"but I have\na great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy\nlittle souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and\nopen their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not\nexclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by\nscattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them\nas freely as water or air.\"\n\n\"I can show you some of those, too,\" she said. \"I brought them from the\nwoods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner.\"\n\nThis was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns\nbehind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.\n\n\"This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the\nferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be\nastonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by\nthe stump in the woods where I found them?\"\n\nIt seemed that Mr. Thornton's lips opened of themselves to say, \"Yes, I\nvery well remember the day.\"\n\nAnd Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious\ncircumstance that had often puzzled her\u2014the maple branch broken off\nand laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but\nherself. \"Was Mr. Thornton there, too?\" She gave him a quick look, but\nhe was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face,\nand she put the idea from her as absurd.\n\n\"He is very absent-minded,\" she told herself; \"is in haste to be gone,\nand considers me tiresome.\"\n\nHe came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of\ntheir sweetness, then said, \"I have a friend who calls this her flower,\nand these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you\nkindly cut a few for her?\" And drawing out his watch, \"It is quite time\nI was gone.\" He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the\nbeauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky\nand white moonlit earth.\n\n\"Gloriously beautiful, is it not?\" he said. \"Think of looking up at\nsuch a sky as that,\u2014\n\n   \"'In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,'\n\n\"searching for the one star.\"\n\n\"Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky,\" she said,\nwith upturned face.\n\nThe pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion\nfear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he\ninvoluntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.\n\n\"After all, Mr. Thornton,\" she said, \"my thoughts are rather on the\nearth than the sky, to-night. 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'\nI've been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this\nChristmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own\u2014Grandpa told\nyou, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear\nlittle gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?\"\n\nIt was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious\nwords to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.\n\nIn lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her\nflowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now,\nand looked them over lovingly.\n\n\"He has a friend who loves white violets,\" she told them. \"Do you\nsuppose she is like him?\" but the perfumed breath did not answer.\n\n\"You darling!\" to a white rose, \"I'm so glad you have come; I have\nwatched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen,\" and\nshe touched her lips to the delicate petals. \"What if she were like\nyou, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla,\nbeautiful, and white, and cold\u2014not sweet? What if she be some little\nplain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none\nthe less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies,\nin your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she\nwise and good? She must be like him,\" she whispered to the heliotrope,\nputting her face down amid its sweetness, \"or he could not have\ncalled her life fragrant.\" She put a sharp, quick check just then on\nboth tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an\nunwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had\nenjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions\nas she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to\nput on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She\nhad shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to\ntake early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought;\nthat his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too,\nas if to say, \"Be careful, do not set your heart upon me.\" She felt\nvexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about\npreparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like\nair. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into\nlittle knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people\nwould need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow\nthe day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but\nthe very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed\nher, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude!\nIt should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut\nthe door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song\u2014snatches of\nold Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled\nas fast as they could go to \"The Old Ladies' Home,\" and gave out their\nfragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she\ndid no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had\nshe known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before\nhe parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then\nstored them among his treasures when he reached home!\n\nLife had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop\nseemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a\nhumble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and\npruning plants.\n\nSturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of\nthe deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means\nof paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, \"No, no, I will\nstay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf\nyou; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go,\" whereat Lily\nbestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound\nher in loving servitude to the family.\n\nBy many skillful man\u0153uvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his\nown gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse,\nassuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from\nidleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had,\npaying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he\nfurnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain\nit is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to\ndo, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that\nhad been bare, and every old lady in the \"Home\" had her pet in the\nshape of a plant of his giving.\n\nThe winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings\nat the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it\nwas not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside\nand a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know\nthat while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as\ncosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden\nstole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and\nsat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers;\nindeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable\nimpression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as\nthey thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection\nupon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of\nhis own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr.\nWinthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might\nhave been these:\u2014\n\n   \"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,\n      A full assurance given by lookes,\n    Continuall comfort in a face\n      The lineaments of Gospell bookes.\"\n\nAnd yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this.\nThe truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though\ndelightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction,\nand he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and\nconscience approved.\n\nThere was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much\nhollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among\nyoung ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the\naim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in\nwomankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had\nin early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a\nbeautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to\nbe empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel,\nand counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a\nkeen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere\nappearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day\nby day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the\nconsecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he\nshould discover the hideous blight spot.\n\nIt had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton\ncame, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily,\nwhile she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance.\nShe pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments\nof finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels,\nand a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must\nshe be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his\ncoming\u2014always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare,\ndelicate fragrance typified her to him!\n\nIf sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms,\nshe dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was\nthis? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well\nto her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This\nwas only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of\u2014that she did\nnot admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful,\ntrusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that\npromised only a life of toil.\n\nIt so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the\ngreenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she\nseemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that\nit was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing\nand annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton's\nperplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her,\nbut to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.\n\nOne evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she \"must\nsuspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless\nmany points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet\nvisited.\"\n\nThe enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when\none could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this\ndevout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about,\nshe was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed\nfamilies and the different members, as if people and not plants were\nbeing analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these\nfamilies that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the\nbroad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of\nGod's beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there\nwere so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that\nthe talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to\nmaintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather's.\nThey came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley\u2014just putting\nforth creamy bells.\n\n\"Dear little hardy things,\" Mr. Thornton said, bending over them.\n\"These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out\nbefore winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave\nand sweet and modest.\"\n\n\"You surely forget,\" Lily said, \"that the lily family is a large one.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know. There's that immense one, all purple and gold and\ncrimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are\nsweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy,\nbut mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance.\"\n\n\"You forget the queenly calla.\"\n\n\"No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot\ntake her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit\neverywhere. They may fasten the bride's veil or strew the dead baby's\npillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak\nhand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They\nare such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green.\nI repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She,\ntoo, is a lover of them.\"\n\nLily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of\nthe rose that it brushed against.\n\n\"His 'friend!' alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome\nspectre?\"\n\nWhile she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.\n\n\"I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted\none other.\"\n\nHas she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that \"my\nfriend\" aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had\nnot been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when\nshe raised her eyes, after a little pause, with \"Well?\"\n\n\"This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will\nflourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and\nthe rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it\ndevelops.\"\n\n\"That is strange,\" she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.\n\n\"What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round.\"\n\n\"Is it fragrant?\"\n\n\"Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its\ndelicate fragrance.\"\n\n\"What color is it?\"\n\n\"White, with a delicate flush of rose.\"\n\n\"It must be lovely,\" she said, holding off her flowers to get the\neffect of the arrangement. \"Where are those flowers found?\"\n\n\"They are very rare. I never saw but one.\"\n\n\"Did you say it was a lily?\"\n\n\"A lily.\"\n\n\"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?\"\n\n\"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one\nautumn day, was where I first saw it,\" he said, looking into her eyes.\n\nAnd now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the\ngreen leaves. In a flash it came to her\u2014his meaning\u2014and the maple bough\nin the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for\nher.\n\nWhat words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she\nwas making that reminded her of \"his friend.\" What right had he,\nthough, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?\n\nWithout speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted\nthem together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying\ncoldly: \"Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I\nmust go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me\u2014\" \"As your friend\nprobably is for you,\" she wanted to add.\n\nMr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the\ndarkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while\nthe full meaning of white violets and \"your friend\" dawned upon him.\n\nHere was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower\u2014she\nwould have none of what rightfully belonged to another.\n\nAs Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,\u2014\n\n\"Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go\nwith me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would\nbe cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?\"\n\nShe hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:\n\n\"Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You\ncan go to-morrow, can't you, dear?\"\n\nAnd Lily answered \"Yes\" to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr.\nThornton, not even when he said \"that he would call for her at four,\nand would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?\" Then he said\n\"Good-night!\" and went.\n\nIt was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over\nthat strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He\nprobably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity\nhad made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said.\nWhat right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?\n\nAnd what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she\nhad imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she\nremembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones,\nand earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said\nshe was like them\u2014this friend.\n\nShe was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she\nhad prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk\non the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects\nthey happened to pass. Arriving at the \"Old Ladies' Home,\" they were at\nonce taken to the room of the invalid.\n\nAunt Ph\u0153be, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face,\nwith gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not\nseem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied\neyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and \"had now\nsat down to rest a bit before she went home,\" she said. Her face broke\ninto a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.\n\n\"Aunt Ph\u0153be,\" he said, \"I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop;\nMiss Winthrop, this is Aunt Ph\u0153be\u2014my friend.\"\n\n\"Are you feeling bright to-day?\" he asked, putting into her hand\u2014with\nas courtly grace as if she were a duchess\u2014the bunch of white violets.\nAs he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words;\nthen he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention\nentirely to Aunt Ph\u0153be.\n\nThey talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words\nto each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily\nlistened she found herself repeating, \"I believe in the communion of\nsaints.\"\n\nThey rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as\nshe put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.\n\n\"Bless you! Dear child,\" whispered back the old lady. \"I've known you\nthis long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in\nlooking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word,\nthan from some very long speeches.\" The last few words reached Mr.\nThornton's ears, who said:\n\n\"That is a blow aimed at me,\" then taking up the basket of flowers,\n\"Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?\"\n\nSo they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of\nflowers, and receiving in return benedictions. \"But why did you not\ntell me?\" Lily said, \"and I would have made them into bouquets.\"\n\n\"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them\nover and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers,\nand I let them choose.\"\n\nHere, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton\npurchased. How many revelations were being made!\n\nOn the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Ph\u0153be, as well\nas that of \"The Home,\" its organization, management, workings, etc.,\nleaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.\n\nHe simply said \"Good-night!\" when he left her at her own door, and\ndrove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came,\nthough, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in\nthe greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,\u2014\n\n\"How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?\" The\nvision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before\nher in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily,\nand Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after\nthat.\n\nWhile the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there\nwere more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked\nupon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor\nthe lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.\n\nWeeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the \"H\" in\nhis name represented.\n\n\"Hathaway,\" he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret\nwas out.\n\nLily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.\n\n\"Is it possible that you are\u2014that you can tell me\u2014who the friend is to\nwhom I am so much indebted?\" Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling\nwith emotion.\n\n\"Thy Heavenly Friend,\" said Mr. Thornton reverently.\n\n\n\n                       \"MY AUNT KATHERINE.\"\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\"IT is perfectly absurd that she should occupy the best room in the\nhouse. What difference can it possibly make to an old lady where she\nis, so she is comfortable? She ought to be thankful that you allow her\nto stay here at all.\"\n\nThis was said in an excited tone, by a tall, thin lady with thin lips\nand flashing, light blue eyes.\n\nHer husband was a silent man, with a horror of discord. It had taken\nhim but a short time to discover that the only means of avoiding it was\nto let his new wife have her own way, so he held his peace and looked\nout of the window, and the lady went on.\n\n\"If she had any delicacy, she would not wish to remain now that she has\nno possible claim upon you. There is the 'Old Lady's Home,' why could\nshe not go there? It is a magnificent building, with beautiful rooms.\"\n\nNew wife though she was, she had overshot the mark this time. The tall\nsilent man drew himself up two inches taller and answered sternly:\u2014\n\n\"Laura, you are mistaken! My mother-in-law will always have a claim\nupon me. As long as I have a home she shall share it with me. What do\nyou take me for? As if I would ever turn my Margaret's mother out upon\ncharity! She is, besides, very dear to me for her own sake. She is a\nremarkable example of unselfishness, and that is a rare quality in this\nworld.\"\n\nThere were two stings in this speech, which was a long one for Mr.\nAgnew. The selfish woman who heard it bit her lip in vexation, and all\nthe jealousy in her nature rose up at the words \"My Margaret\"; jealous\nof that other wife who had been in her heavenly home for five years;\nwhose husband, albeit, was more to be pitied now than when she first\nleft him desolate; because he was that phenomenon\u2014over which men and\nangels might weep\u2014a true, noble man, joined for life to a selfish,\nheartless, coarse-grained woman, and that of his own deliberate choice.\nIf some men should shut their eyes and marry the first woman they\nhappened to open them on, they could not make more fatal mistakes than\nthey do.\n\nWhen Margaret Agnew selected this particular room for her mother it\nwas because it was large and convenient and sunny; because one window\nlooked off to distant hills, and another one to the busy street, while\nfrom another you stepped into the flower garden. It was, it is true,\nin many respects the best room in the house, and into it was gathered\nwhatever of comfort and beauty the loving daughter could devise.\n\nAs soon as the second Mrs. Agnew stepped into the house she set\ncovetous eyes on this room and resolved, to use her own elegant\nlanguage,\u2014\"that she would oust the old lady from that.\"\n\nWhatever such women resolve to have, they usually get. After the\nrebuff on the part of her husband she did not again approach him on\nthe subject, but planned the attack differently. By means of hints\nand disagreeable thrusts she managed to make the sensitive old lady\nfeel quite ill at ease until she was established in one of the back\nchambers. It was a dreary room. She missed the cheerful outlook, and\nit was not easy, with a slight lameness, to get up and down stairs,\nbut, for peace's sake, she forebore to complain. So skillfully was\neverything managed that it was several days before her son-in-law knew\nof her removal; then he was indignant, and insisted that she must\nreturn, but this she would not consent to do. She even displayed so\nmuch cheerfulness that he was deceived into thinking she preferred the\nchange. It was a hardened nature that could not be won by her sweet\nspirit. She was like her Master; she followed her copy closely; \"when\nshe suffered she threatened not,\" and she had much to bear: a system of\npetty annoyances that only female ingenuity could devise.\n\nAfter she had passed through this furnace and suffered loneliness and\ndesolation, another crisis in her life arrived. Mr. Agnew fell suddenly\nill. While his life hung in the balance and reason was shaken, his\nwife induced him to make his will, leaving to herself the whole of\nhis property. Then he died, and the chief emotion that throbbed in\nthe heart of his widow and hid behind the blackest and deepest crape\nwas\u2014triumph!\n\nNot for worlds would Mr. Agnew have so arranged his affairs had it\nnot been that in his half-delirious state he was subject to the will\nof another. He had always intended to settle a competence upon Mrs.\nLyman\u2014his mother-in-law. He had expected to live years yet. Who does\nnot?\n\nMrs. Agnew lost no time. As soon as the funeral services were over she\nquestioned Mrs. Lyman as to her plans for the future. The poor old lady\nfelt bewildered at having to make any plans, so lovingly had she been\ncared for all her life. She had scarcely realized as yet that her one\nprotector was gone; above all, that he had made no provision for her.\nHomeless and penniless and nearly seventy years of age, where should\nshe go? What should she do? Where would a helpless being go in straits\nbut to the One who plans and governs our lives? And thither she went.\nShe well knew the road. Old friends gathered about her with kindly\noffers of aid, but she believed she saw her path plainly, and declined\ntheir many invitations to tarry with them for a time. She had a little\nmoney of her own, enough to insure her entrance into the \"Home for Aged\nWomen,\" and there she determined to go. Mrs. Lyman had occasionally\ndriven with her daughter through the grounds of the \"Home.\" She had\nadmired the stately edifice, and remarked that it was a grand charity;\nshe had also contributed to it; but it had not entered her mind that\nshe was ever to become one of its inmates. She thought of it that\nafternoon as the carriage which conveyed her there wound slowly up the\navenue. The trials of the past few days had been peculiarly sharp. She\nhad gone out from the dear home, with its precious memories, forever.\nShe could not, without contention, claim even her daughter's gifts to\nherself; contend she would not, so she left them: so many things that\nalmost had a tongue to speak of other days. There were no tears in her\neyes, and the old face was placid as she leaned back and looked up at\nrows and rows of windows. She even repeated to herself some favorite\nlines:\n\n   \"That's best which God sends.\n    'Twas his will; it is mine.\"\n\nThe room Mrs. Lyman shortly found herself in was a strong contrast to\nthe one her daughter had carefully fitted up for her. It was spotlessly\nclean and trim; the walls were high and white, the furniture of the\nplainest, the floors bare except for the strip of carpet by the bed and\none by the window, where the occupant would be supposed to sit in the\ncane-seat rocker. It depended entirely on one's previous surroundings\nwhat her first impressions of life in this place would be. Old Mrs.\nCarter, who had lived at sixes and sevens all her life, with scarcely a\ncorner that she could call her own, thought her room was next to Heaven\nitself. To Mrs. Lyman it simply looked bare and dreary. The buzz in the\nlong dining room, mingling with the clatter of cups and spoons, was\ncheerfulness itself to Mrs. Carter, while to Mrs. Lyman's refilled ears\nand sensitive nerves it was positively distressing. It was trying to\nher, too, to mingle with all sorts of natures, to listen to garrulous\ncomplaints and garrulous stories from gossipy old women. She would much\nhave preferred to shut herself in with her books and her own thoughts,\nbut she did not. Her Master was always kind and helpful to the most\nuncongenial people; so would she be, for his sake. Necessarily, though,\nit was a lonely, monotonous life for her. Old friends were too remote\nand too busy to remember her often.\n\nOne afternoon she sat at her window looking down into the street, when\na carriage drew up, and a young lady stepped lightly out. The coachman\nhanded her a basket of flowers, and she almost ran up the broad stone\nsteps, with that childlike eagerness of manner which is in refreshing\ncontrast to the languid air of many of her class.\n\nMrs. Lyman listened eagerly as her fresh young voice was heard in the\nhall. The golden hair, and eyes as blue as the hyacinths she carried,\nbrought to her visions of another girl as bright and graceful. Just so\nshe looked, years ago, her dear lost Margaret. Then the mother's heart\nwent back over the girlhood and womanhood of her darling, and just as\nshe was wondering how it was possible for Robert Agnew ever to have\nfancied he loved that other woman, when his life had been so blessed\nwith Margaret, there came a knock at the door, and the matron brought\nin the bright-haired girl with her flowers, saying:\u2014\n\n\"Mrs. Lyman, I have brought Miss Harlowe in to see you. She's come on\nahead to tell you that spring is coming some day.\"\n\nShe looked sweet and fair enough to be spring's herald in very truth,\ncoming in, as she did, out of the snow and sleet of the winter day,\nroses in her hands and roses on her cheeks, looking up almost shyly\ninto the face of the stately old lady.\n\nEach regarded the other for a moment with surprise and admiration, and\nEsther Harlowe, yielding to a sudden impulse, reached up and left a\nkiss soft as a rose leaf on the faded old cheek; then selecting the\nchoicest of the roses, begged her to accept them.\n\nThey both forgot themselves. The young lady forgot that she was being\nkind to a \"poor old body\" in \"The Old Lady's Home.\"\n\nThis dignified, handsome old lady was surely one of the friends of\ntheir family. And Mrs. Lyman, too, imagined for a moment that she\nwas welcoming a young visitor to the Agnew mansion. They fell into\nconversation as naturally as if this were the case, and, in the short\ninterview, they gained more than a glimpse of each other's lives.\n\n\"How strange that you should be here,\" Esther said. \"I have often\npassed Mr. Agnew's house; perhaps you were sitting at the window\nlooking out. But isn't it dreadful to you? How can you endure it?\"\n\n\"No, not 'dreadful,' dear; sometimes it is a little lonely, and\nthis way of living is all new to me; but I daresay I shall soon get\naccustomed to it. I ought to feel continually grateful that when I am\nold and poor, there is such a place provided for me.\"\n\n\"How can you, when you have lived so differently? I'm sure I should\ndie. I knew you didn't belong here as soon as I saw you. It is a shame!\"\n\n\"If God put me here, I must belong here, child. He makes no mistakes,\"\nthe old lady said, smiling at her visitor's impetuous manner.\n\n\"But how can you be so calm and good about it? I should think you would\ngo distracted.\"\n\n\"I wonder if she will understand,\" Mrs. Lyman said, after searching the\nyoung face a moment; then asked, \"Did you ever read these lines?\u2014\n\n   \"'To will what God doth will, that is the only science\n     That gives us any rest.'\n\n\"The secret of calmness is in that: having God's will our will. It is\ncalled a science, you see, and it is deep and difficult, or rather,\npeople make it so. It takes some of them years to learn it. I learned\nit very slowly myself, but once acquired, it is forever after easier to\nbear hard things. It does bring peace.\"\n\n\"Oh! Show me how to learn it, then,\" said Esther, tears starting to her\neyes. \"There are so many hard things in my life.\"\n\n\"Poor dear! Have they come to you so early?\" The motherly voice and\npitying eyes were like sunshine to this girl who was not much more than\na child, and whose heart was hungry.\n\n\"I suppose it is because I am so wicked,\" Esther said, hesitatingly,\n\"but I am afraid I never can feel as you do about God's will. Perhaps\nit is his will that I shall go through terrible troubles. It frightens\nme, and I can't want to have his will done.\"\n\n\"Is there anybody whom you dearly love,\" said Mrs. Lyman, \"in whom you\nhave unbounded confidence, feeling sure that he will always do right?\"\n\n\"No, there is nobody,\" Esther answered sadly; then flushing a little as\nshe realized the confession she had made, added,\u2014\n\n\"I did have somebody once\u2014my darling mother\u2014but she is gone. She always\ndid right.\"\n\n\"How did you feel about her plans for you? Were you fearful she would\nalways be inventing something wherewith to torture you?\"\n\n\"My dear, lovely mother! No, indeed. She was always thinking of my\nhappiness.\"\n\n\"And yet she was obliged to thwart your own plans and wishes often, I\npresume. Did you rebel?\"\n\n\"O, no I was always obedient to my mother. I loved her so, I would not\nhave grieved or displeased her for the world.\"\n\n\"There it is, my dear!\u2014the whole secret. When once we love God with all\nthe heart, it is sweet to do or suffer his will.\"\n\n\"But I never have thought of God in that way. He seems majestic and\nglorious, but I think I fear him more than I love him. I cannot realize\nthat he loves me either.\"\n\n\"It will help you greatly, my dear, to take the Bible and Concordance\nand go through the words 'Love' and 'Father;' then you may see and\n'believe the love that God hath for us.' He has tried very hard\u2014has\nwritten it plainly all through the Book to make us understand that he\nis truly our Father. Call it mother love if that makes it plainer to\nyou: think that he feels toward you as your mother did; Father, as God\nuses it, stands for father and mother both. It is the tenderness of\nmother joined to the protecting care and greater strength of father.\"\n\n\"I must go now, the carriage has come,\" Esther said, rising hastily,\n\"but I shall never forget your talk. I am sure it will do me good. I\ncame here to-day with the flowers because Dr. Foster preached about\ngiving a cup of cold water for Christ's sake, to some of his children;\nand I couldn't think of anybody to carry one to but some of these old\nladies; I didn't think I was going to have my reward so soon. It was\nso nice to find you; you seem like my own dear grandma who died when I\nwas a little child. I am coming often to see you; may I?\" And the sweet\nface smiled up into hers.\n\n\"Yes, indeed, my dear, and I thank you with all my heart for coming. No\ncup of cold water could have refreshed me more than this visit, if I\nhad been famishing for some,\u2014and these roses!\u2014\" taking a long breath of\nthem as she spoke,\u2014\"each one is a separate blessing.\"\n\nAs the carriage rattled over the city streets in the dusk Esther's aunt\nand cousin, fresh from shopping, discussed laces and silks while she\nleaned back and thought of Mrs. Lyman, her heart thrilling with the new\nthought that God loved her as her mother loved her.\n\nAt last her Cousin Sophy said:\u2014\n\n\"What are you dreaming about, Esther? Where have you been all this\nwhile?\"\n\nEsther started as the cold, fault-finding tones broke in on her reverie\nand said evasively, \"I went to the 'Old Lady's Home,' you know.\"\n\n\"Been there all this time?\u2014Impossible! Will you never be like other\npeople?\"\n\nMiss Sophy Ward had passed her first youth and was growing sharp and\nsevere, especially toward girls who were guilty of being nineteen. She\ntook it upon herself to keep strict watch over every thought, word and\ndeed of her young cousin who had lived with them since the death of her\nmother. Esther dreaded the lecture that she knew was forthcoming, so\nshe began eagerly to try to divert attention from herself.\n\n\"O, Cousin Sophy! you have no idea what a lovely old lady I found\nthere.\" Not even the curl that distorted Miss Sophy's lip just then\nprevented her from going on.\n\n\"She looks as I should imagine an angel might,\u2014I always thought if\nI made pictures of angels they should be dear old grandmas, and not\ngirls. Her hair is like fine white silk, and waves beautifully. Her\neyes are hazel, and they are not old eyes a bit\u2014they are bright\nand clear. She wore a dove-colored dress, and a soft white mull\nhandkerchief about her neck. And do you know, she is Mrs. Agnew's\nmother; you remember we saw, Mr. Agnew's death in the paper a few\nmonths ago.\"\n\nThis last piece of information had the desired effect, for mother and\ndaughter indulged in a bit of gossip concerning it, but Miss Sophy\npresently returned to the charge.\n\n\"It is perfectly incomprehensible,\" she went on, \"what you find in a\ncompany of poverty-stricken old women to interest you. But then, your\nmother always had just such tastes; never so happy as when she was\npoking about in some alley or hovel, among miserable people.\"\n\nIf the light had not faded, Cousin Sophy might have seen Esther's cheek\npale and flush, and her lips press closely together to keep herself\nfrom saying what she should not. But she did not see it; she went on\nand on in an exasperating manner. Her mother added a word occasionally\nby way of endorsement and emphasis, and poor Esther had the grace to\nkeep silence, half-wishing that she were an old woman, too, so that she\ncould live where Mrs. Lyman did.\n\nIn her uncle's luxurious home there was everything to make life\ndesirable\u2014everything but love and peace. When either mother or daughter\nwas in ill humor Esther was the escape valve. They lectured her on\nbehavior, dress, and the Christian virtues. They criticised all she\nsaid and did and thought, and judged her without mercy.\n\nDuring the last few months, however, it had begun to dawn upon them\nthat the girl was grown up, and possessed decided tastes and opinions\nof her own. She was becoming a person of more importance, too, because\nof very pointed attentions bestowed upon her by Mr. Clifford Langdon.\nHe was the son of one of the oldest families\u2014handsome, agreeable,\nliterary, rich. If they sought the world over, where could be found a\nmore desirable husband for Esther? He might have captivated the girl's\nfancy, perhaps, if she had not heard her aunt and cousin ring the\nchanges on his name until she almost wearied of it. In their eyes he\nwas a paragon. They exhorted her to do this, and not to do that, as Mr.\nLangdon had very fastidious tastes, and they openly expressed their\nastonishment that so incomparable a person should do her the honor to\nnotice her.\n\nAll this naturally had the effect of causing a girl like Esther to\navoid him and to declare that it was a matter of indifference to her\nwhat Mr. Langdon thought. She wished for no more critics.\n\nThat gentleman was as much in love with Esther as he ever could be\nwith anybody besides himself. Since first he had been conscious of\nexistence, he had never forgotten himself long enough to be absorbed in\nanything or anybody. His own pleasure was the chief end of his life.\nYet he had no vices; his narrow, cold nature did not tempt him in the\ndirection that larger natures are tempted. The world called him a fine,\nmoral young man. They did not know he was selfish, domineering and\nconceited; his nearest friends would scarcely admit it to themselves.\nHe enjoyed ruling over anything; he took pleasure in his many pets\nwhen a boy, chiefly for the sake of training and ordering about a\nparrot, or dog, or pony; and a tyrannical master he made. As a man, he\nretained the characteristic. At this time he had just returned from a\nfour years' course of study in Europe, his education completed, and his\nself-conceit intolerable. He felt competent to sit in judgment upon\nthe creations of genius in art and literature or in anything under\nthe sun, as well as to direct, advise, suggest and control the mental\nfood of all the young ladies of his acquaintance. He at once became\nan oracle among them. The book he approved was largely read, and the\nbook he condemned was shunned. Whoever differed in opinion from him he\nconsidered devoid of fine taste. Solomon must have had this young man\nin mind when he wrote, \"Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there\nis more hope of a fool than of him.\"\n\nWhen Mr. Langdon met Esther, he pronounced her a \"fine creature,\" and\ndeclared he would like the training of her, much as he would have\nspoken of Frisk, his black colt. He was not aware that he needed to\nbe put in training himself and taught by Mr. Ruskin how to reverence\nwomanhood.\n\nThat she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing\nher. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did\nnot hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.\n\nIt was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone\nin the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was\nsmarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily\nthat there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much\nwhether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love,\nhome, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.\n\nEther was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her,\nas he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh\nfor a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her,\nand that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since\nher mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and\ngood he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then\nshe found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to\nhim, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet,\nat least. Of course she must marry somebody\u2014an orphan girl like her.\nPerhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him\nhad changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from\nwhat she had thought it would be when that time should come in which\nsomebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave\nand true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It\nfrightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be,\nnor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to\nbooks and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if\nshe refused him, and\u2014and\u2014he said he loved her. What should she say to\nhim, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What\ncould she say? \"O, mother! What would you have me say?\"\n\nShe made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light\nglancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and\nserious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr.\nLangdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately.\nHer hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he\nattributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so\nsure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or,\nindeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be\nhis wife\u2014when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never\ncome into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants\nentered into!\n\nMr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied\nthat he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so\ndelightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to\nsuit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had\nnot tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.\n\nHe was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary\nsociety\u2014to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and\ndemerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely\nfrom their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made\nher recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he\ncriticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much\ntaste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture\non style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not\nescape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the\nsweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it,\nor her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she\nmust begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.\n\nEsther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious\nthree words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing,\nsomebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even\nthough her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it.\nAnd, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their\nspirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr.\nLangdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant\nconsciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will\nto his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's\nentertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go\nanywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.\n\nThey were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and\nmusic for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for\nthe mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed\nused to amuse her, now, they mortified her.\n\nThere was yet another more important subject on which they differed.\nSince the day of her first visit, Esther had gone often to see Mrs.\nLyman, and it was impossible to come into close contact with her sweet\nspirit and strong faith without having the religious life quickened\nand strengthened; so Mr. Langdon's views jarred her more than they\nwould have done a few months previous when she was a formal, worldly\nChristian. He pronounced many of Esther's opinions to be \"mere cant.\"\nSome of the hymns she loved were \"in very bad taste,\" \"perfect trash,\"\nwhile the convictions of her tender conscience were \"superstitions.\"\nHe assured her that the time would come when, as her mind became more\nexpanded and her tastes elevated, she would appreciate his criticisms.\n\nThis was too much, even though it were well seasoned with honeyed\nwords, and Esther's indignant protest warned Mr. Langdon not to be\ntoo urgent in this direction. There was a limit even to meekness and\nforbearance.\n\nIt was Christmas morning, and Esther was in the conservatory. Her uncle\nhad given her permission to take as many flowers for her own use as she\npleased. He well knew they would go to brighten some dreary home this\nChristmas Day. While she worked she was thinking\u2014going back over the\nyear somewhat. It had not been a happy year to her. She was obliged to\nconfess to herself that she had never been more harassed and worried\nin her life. A shadow fell on her face as she meditated that when once\nChristmas is well gone, Spring is not far distant. Then she must be\nmarried. This home was not such a happy one that she need mourn to\nleave it, but she dreaded that new home more. Her troubled thoughts and\ntroubled face did not accord with the beauty and fragrance about her,\nand neither brightened when Mr. Langdon was announced. He came in where\nshe was at once, saying he was in haste.\n\n\"We have arranged a sleigh-ride for to-day,\" he said, after greeting\nher. \"It was quite impromptu, because we were uncertain about the snow.\nWe are going fifteen miles in the country, to Mr. Clayton's father's,\nwhere we are invited to dine. How soon can you get ready, Esther?\"\n\n\"Oh! I cannot go. You know I told you, Mr. Langdon, that I had an\nengagement this morning at the 'Old Ladies' Home.'\"\n\nMr. Langdon's lip curled. \"Engagement! Surely you can postpone that.\"\n\n\"Surely I cannot. Patrick has gone to got me some greens, and I am\ngoing to trim their rooms a little and make a bouquet for each of them.\nThey would be disappointed if I did not come\u2014and so should I. They have\nlooked forward to Christmas for weeks. They are old and poor and have\nso few pleasures, how can I deprive them of this when they have set\ntheir hearts on it?\"\n\n\"As if nobody could attend to that nonsense but you! Send a servant\nwith the flowers.\"\n\n\"But that wouldn't do at all. It's I they want more than anything. You\nsee, there are very few people who appreciate me. Those old ladies do.\nI read to them and sing to them, and they think I am an angel just\ndropped down from Heaven. So you will be good and excuse me this time,\nand let me give you this as a Christmas token,\" and she tried to fasten\na small white chrysanthemum in his coat.\n\nBut Mr. Langdon stepped back and said, with much sharpness of tone,\n\"Esther, it is impossible that you are in earnest. I certainly shall\nnot excuse you, if you are. Of course you will go with me. Go quickly\nand make ready. I shall call for you in an hour.\"\n\nEsther reached up and clipped a spray of smilax before she spoke, which\nshe did in a slow, resolute way. \"Mr. Langdon, I am quite in earnest; I\ncannot go. I have made a promise, and I must keep it.\"\n\nHe had never seen Esther assume so much dignity before. She certainly\ndid mean what she said. He was angry enough to go without her, but\nthat would cause him some embarrassment; so he would condescend to\npersuasion, but this was done in such a manner as to be more offensive\nthan some people's commands.\n\n\"My little girl,\" he said, smiling derisively, \"what new airs have you\ntaken on? They do not become you in the least. What has come over you?\nIs she trying to be a strong-minded female, or is she doing penance\nor works of supererogation? Come, now, have done with this nonsense,\nand say you will be ready, my pretty one,\" and he put his finger under\nher chin, as one would do to a child, adding, \"Look up here, and let\nus have no tantrums? Some day I must get a bit and bridle for you, my\nbeauty; you are growing spirited.\"\n\nEsther could never remember feeling more outraged at anything than at\nthis speech. It was a new and repulsive glimpse of his character.\n\nMr. Langdon had an opportunity to see her in a new character then. She\ndrew herself up, and said coldly: \"Such language is very distasteful to\nme, and I wish to hear no more of it. Please understand distinctly that\nI am not going, so it will not be necessary for you to detain yourself\nfurther.\"\n\nHe thought his ears must have deceived him, that she should dare to\nassert herself thus, when he supposed he had her under such good\ncontrol!\n\nHe grew white with anger; so angry: that he forgot himself, and said\nbetween his teeth,\u2014\n\n\"I command you to go.\"\n\n\"You have no right to command me,\" Esther said calmly.\n\nThen growing desperate, and resolved not to be baffled, he drew out his\nwatch, saying:\u2014\n\n\"I will give you three minutes to decide. Once for all: I warn you; you\nwould better repent your decision. If a pack of old women are to be put\nbefore me, we shall see. You may take the consequences if you refuse.\"\n\nThen he turned and walked up and down the short space, while Esther\nwent on clipping flowers. Her fingers trembled, and her hands were\nnerveless, but the steady clip, clip, of the shears came to the ears of\nthe man who was waiting.\n\nThe time was up; he walked toward Esther, and looked at her. She laid\nanother flower in the basket, and said in a low tone, without looking\nat him, \"I shall not go,\" and then he strode away without another word;\nand Esther gathered up her flowers and started on her mission.\n\nHow very much hung upon her keeping her promise she could not have\nimagined. She had arranged with Mrs. Lyman to sit with her after she\nhad gone the rounds, and she carried a book to read her some Christmas\npoems. So after flitting about among the rooms, pinning a bit of the\nevergreen here, and a vine there, and dispensing flowers and kind\nwishes to all, she knocked at Mrs. Lyman's door. It was opened by a\nnurse who told her that the old lady had met with an accident. While\ngoing down-stairs that morning she had slipped and fallen, and could\nsee no one.\n\nHearing a voice she loved, Mrs. Lyman said, \"Is it Miss Harlowe? Let\nher come in.\"\n\nShe was in bed, pale with suffering, and a surgeon was setting her\nbroken ankle. Esther came softly to her side, slipped her hand\ninto hers, and stood still, watching the operation. It was like an\nan\u00e6sthetic in its soothing effect upon the patient\u2014 this fresh young\nface, with hair and eyes like Margaret's, the perfume of the flowers\nfilling the room, and the warm little hand in hers.\n\nEsther watched the surgeon's fingers curiously. How swift and cool\ntheir movements!\u2014no uncertainty or clumsiness. A lady sorting\nembroidery silks could not work more delicately. As he put the\nfinishing touches to his task Esther almost forgot there was any pain\nconnected with it, and found herself wondering if he did not enjoy\nwhat he could do so deftly and neatly. Then for the first time she\nlet her gaze rest upon his face. He was a young man\u2014she had thought\nsurgeons were always old or elderly. It was a strong, pure face, with\nwavy dark hair falling carelessly over the broad forehead. It was but\na few seconds, but girls can think much in that time. She decided that\nhair was much more becoming worn so than plastered down in a precise\nmanner, as she was accustomed to see it. He was surely not in the least\nlike the young men of her acquaintance. Sire tried to fancy him arrayed\nin swallow-tail coat, light kids and slippers, dancing, and talking\nnonsense at an evening party. He could never be one of that sort, she\nwas sure. He was too grave and earnest to be a trifler. When he had\nfinished his work, he lifted a pair of clear, penetrating eyes to hers,\nand they surveyed each other an instant; then the doctor bowed, and\nEsther turned and, bending down, whispered a few words to Mrs. Lyman,\nleft her flowers on the pillow, and a kiss on the worn cheek, and\nglided away. She made one or two more calls that she had left till the\nlast, and was passing through the hall to go home, when a nurse met her\nand asked her to come in and sing to old Mrs. Moore. She had been very\nill for many days, and they hoped the singing might quiet her nervous\nrestlessness, and soothe her to sleep. Esther went willingly; she loved\nto sing, and loved to help others. But here was that eagle-eyed doctor\nto spoil it. She wished he would go, but he did not.\n\nThere was a tall old rocker by the bed, where they motioned her to sit,\nbut she took her place at the back of the chair and folded her hands\nover its top. Standing so, the doctor could not see her face. He could\nhear, though, and to that he gave himself. Resting his head on his\nhand, he closed his eyes and let the sweet melody flow over him.\n\nAlmost as soon as the pure, soft tones met her ear the patient ceased\nher restless tossing, and listened eagerly to catch the words, which\nwere articulated so plainly that not one was lost. They were simple\nwords, just suited to the simple-minded old woman, and peculiarly\nsoothing because they brought to mind the prayer of childhood. Neither\nwas she the only one who felt the spell of the humble little song as it\nfloated through the still room:\u2014\n\n   \"Now I lay me down to sleep,\n    As the shadows softly creep,\n    As the bird, with folded wing,\n    On some tiny bough doth swing;\n    As the flowers, wet with dew,\n    Bow themselves in slumber, too,\n    In the stillness, awful, deep,\n    Now I lay me down to sleep.\n\n   \"Now I lay me down to sleep,\n    Friends and kindred 'round me weep;\n    But I know no want or fear,\n    For no darkness, Lord, is here;\n    All my way is lit by thee,\n    Through the shade thou leadest me.\n    Knowing that the Lord will keep,\n    May I lay me down to sleep.\"\n\nRefreshed and calmed, the old lady folded her, hands and said, \"'Now\nI lay me down to sleep.' Oh if I only had somebody to pray with me, I\nbelieve I could go to sleep.\"\n\nThere was silence a moment, and one looked at another. Who could pray?\nNot the doctor, surely; that was not considered to be in his line; but\nDr. Evarts knelt down, and, in a few simple, tender words, besought a\nblessing on the aged mother whose journey was almost done. Here was\nanother evidence, Esther thought, that this young man was different\nfrom any she had ever known. She thought about it as she walked home,\nand sighed as she remembered Mr. Langdon and the angry look on his face\nas he left her that morning.\n\nEsther had promised Mrs. Lyman that she would come again to see her on\nthe morrow. She was free from pain, and welcomed her visitor eagerly.\n\n\"I have such great news to tell you, my dear, that I could scarcely\nwait. You know it is a whole fortnight now since you were here. Such\na wonderful thing has happened! I am not a poor, lonely old woman any\nlonger, Esther. I have a dear boy to care for me. The young physician\nyou found attending me yesterday is my nephew. I was sorry I felt too\nsick to introduce you. He is Paul Evarts, and he is my dear sister's\nonly son. His mother was left a widow, and they went to England to live\nwhen Paul was but a boy. My sister died a few years ago, and we lost\nsight of Paul. I thought he had forgotten his old auntie, but he had\nnot. He came almost purposely to look me up. He thinks of remaining\nand going into practice in his native city. If he does he will take a\nhouse, and I shall be his housekeeper. Now, what do you think of that,\nmy dear?\"\n\n\"It's beautiful!\" said Esther. \"Just beautiful! Why, it's a book acted\nout. I am so very glad.\"\n\n\"And the queer part of it all,\" said Mrs. Lyman, \"is that after he had\nbeen here a few days I must needs go and break my ankle, as if to test\nhis skill as a surgeon. There is no loss, though, without some gain.\nPerhaps you will take pity on me and come oftener to see me because of\nmy affliction. But you must sing the song now, and read the poem that I\nwas cheated out of yesterday.\"\n\nAfter that they had a long talk. Esther's girl friends were never\ntaken into such close confidence as Mrs. Lyman, and, if girls would\nbut believe it, a wise, sweet-spirited, youthful-hearted old lady is a\nvaluable friend for a girl to have. Who should know the dangers of the\nway so well as those who have just passed over it?\n\n\"Your face has a shadow on it this morning, dear child,\" Mrs. Lyman\nsaid presently; \"I like to feel that everybody is happy when I am so\nhappy.\"\n\nEsther wanted counsel and comfort sorely, so she told her troubles.\n\n\"Did I do wrong? Ought I to have gone with Mr. Langdon, do you think?\"\nshe asked.\n\n\"Perhaps the wrong is further back than that. Did you wish to go, but\nthought it your duty to come here because you had promised?\"\n\n\"To tell the truth, I preferred coming here to taking a long ride,\"\nEsther said, laughing and flushing. \"I enjoy bringing flowers here so\nmuch; perhaps I was selfish, and then, I did want to keep my promise.\"\n\n\"Can it be that hearts have changed since I was a girl?\" the old lady\nsaid archly. \"What would have tempted me to stay at home when Eleazer\nasked me to go with him\u2014anywhere? A long ride in the country! Why, that\nwould have been blessed. Are you sure you care for this young man in\nthe right way, dear\u2014if I may ask you a plain question?\"\n\n\"Why, I don't know,\" Esther said, stammeringly. \"I suppose I do. I try\nto.\"\n\n\"My dear little girl,\" said Mrs. Lyman, \"can you really think of\nmarrying a person for whom you entertain such a vague uncertain\naffection?\"\n\n\"Why, that's the trouble,\" said Esther. \"I don't really want to marry\nanybody ever. I wish I could be let alone, and not be perplexed about\nthese things, and yet it is very pleasant to have people fond of you,\nand not feel alone as I do.\"\n\n\"You poor little bud of a girl,\" Mrs. Lyman said, putting her arms\nabout her, \"you should not have been disturbed for a long time yet;\nyou needed a mother to shield you; but you ought to be told that when\nthe one God intends for you crosses your path you will not find it\nnecessary to try to love him. You will, instead, have to pray God to\nkeep you from making him an idol, and where he is, there you will wish\nto be. Marriage may be the highest state of earthly happiness, and it\nmay be the bitterest bondage. Take care, dear child, how you take vows\nupon you that your soul revolts from. I believe much of the misery\nof this life is God's protest against the profanation of this holy\nordinance.\"\n\nIt became evident, as the days went by, that Mr. Langdon was hopelessly\noffended. He did not come to the house or write. Esther was both glad\nand troubled. Relieved of his constant supervision and criticisms\nshe drew a long breath, and knew, as she had not before, that\nwhatever heart she might possess was not in his keeping. She lived in\nconstant dread that he would return to her after he had punished her\nsufficiently. And yet his remaining away brought her into trouble with\nher aunt and cousin; they were already questioning and harassing her\nbeyond endurance. At last, when her aunt wrote Mr. Langdon demanding\nan explanation, he sent a brief note, saying the engagement between\nhimself and Miss Marlowe was at an end. If she wished for reasons he\nwould refer her to her niece.\n\nThen the storm burst in all its fury. The tongues of mother and\ndaughter were let loose upon her. \"Now you shall tell me just what you\nhave done,\" declared her aunt. \"I will not have a gentleman like Mr.\nLangdon insulted in my own house.\"\n\nWhen the story was told, the case was no better for Esther. The rage\nand disappointment of aunt and cousin knew no bounds.\n\n\"Esther, you are a fool!\" said her aunt.\n\n\"She's a contemptible little minx!\" said Miss Sophy. \"And I would shut\nher up and feed her on bread and water until she apologizes.\"\n\n\"I shall never do that,\" said Esther firmly. \"I told him some time\nbefore that I should be occupied on Christmas morning, and he had no\nright to try to force me to alter my plans. The apology must come from\nhim. I have done no wrong.\"\n\n\"Just hear the stupid little simpleton! He apologize to her! The idea!\nTo think she should dare to go contrary to his wishes, and run the risk\nof losing him, and all for the sake of amusing a few old women!\"\n\n\"Do you know,\" Sophy said, turning fiercely to Esther, \"what you have\ndone? Or haven't you brains enough to take it in? Mr. Langdon will be\nthe richest man in the city when his father dies, and you have lost\nhim, probably.\"\n\n\"I don't care for money,\" Esther said dreamily, her eyes out of the\nwindow, following a fleecy cloud that was sailing by, and thinking what\nshe dare not speak, that it was far better to be able to pray as that\nyoung doctor did, than to have great riches.\n\n\"You don't care for money!\" screamed her aunt. \"Indeed! You will find\nout whether you care for it when you are left alone in the world\nwithout a penny, as you probably will be. Go to your room, do! And stay\nthere out of my sight. You are too exasperating to be tolerated.\"\n\n\"I had no idea she was so stubborn,\" Mrs. Ward told her daughter, as\nday after day passed, and Esther refused to send a humble confession\nto Mr. Langdon. They constructed one themselves at last, ordering her\nto copy it, but Esther was firm. She had nothing to confess, and she\nwould not, for any consideration, engage herself to him again. It was\ndelightful to be free again; if only they would not torment her she\ncould be almost happy. When she expressed something of this to them\nthey looked at each other aghast, as if here was proof that Esther was\na subject for a lunatic asylum.\n\nThe weeks that followed were dreary ones to Esther. She was kept on\nbread and water, figuratively, if not literally, and ice-water at that.\nIt was curious how a house that is warmed And lighted until it fairly\nglows can be rendered dark and chilly as a tomb to some of its inmates.\nIf the girl's life had been unpleasant before, it was wretched now.\nCold looks and sharp words were her portion, when she was not ignored\nutterly, all the more so because Mr. Langdon had transferred his\naffections to a Boston belle, visiting in the city, and was hopelessly\nand forever lost to Esther.\n\nIt was not all dark, though. There were occasional visits to a snug\nlittle house at the other end of the city, where dwelt a lovely,\nwhite-haired old lady called by her devoted nephew, Aunt Katherine.\n\nMrs. Lyman insisted on a weekly visit from Esther, and sometimes she\nwas kept to cosy little suppers. It was a delightful place to visit,\nand it was no wonder Esther liked it. She was warmly welcomed and\npetted to her heart's content. There was usually a good, long talk with\nher old friend first, then the doctor would come home, and bring out\na store of stories from his brain, of things in foreign lands, grave\nand gay and instructive; he was a charming talker, and Esther was a\ngood questioner. Then he had great volumes of rare engravings of which\nshe never tired, and a microscope whereby she became wise about some\nof nature's secrets. Her education was going on surprisingly, all the\nmore because one was entirely unaware that he was teaching, and the\nother that she was being taught. Aunt Katherine watched the glowing\nfaces,\u2014the golden head and the brown head bending together over one\nbook\u2014and smiled. After they had sung numberless songs and hymns it was\ntime for Esther to go home. Of necessity, Dr. Evarts must accompany her\nhome, in a long walk across the city, which latter was not a necessity,\nbut which they much preferred to street cars, the walk being not at all\nlong to them.\n\nAs they thus walked and talked one winter night when the Christmas moon\nshone solemnly down on a white world, and the songs of angels floated\non the clear air\u2014heard only by those two\u2014the breeze wafted back some of\nthe words. Their talk was all about themselves\u2014how the precious gift of\neach to the other began a year ago last Christmas. And they tried to\nsettle bewildering questions: Whether, if Esther had not insisted on\ngoing to the \"Old Ladies' Home\" that morning she would be walking this\nChristmas Eve with Paul, and suppose there had been no \"Old Ladies'\nHome,\" would they ever have met.\n\n\"And if your Aunt Katherine had not been there\u2014\" said Esther. \"We owe\nit all to her, after all.\"\n\n\"Your Aunt Katherine! Say my Aunt Katherine,\" Paul said, looking down\nat her with shining eyes.\n\nAnd Esther obediently repeated, \"My Aunt Katherine.\" The old moon hid\nherself behind a cloud just then, and neither she nor Paul saw the\nlovely color that flushed the happy face.\n\nIn the spring when all things are made new, they two clasped hands and\nbegan their new life together. Their wedding journey was not made to\nsome famous fashionable resort; they were of one mind in this, as in\neverything else. They sought a quiet retreat where they might carry on\ntheir intimacy with nature, and she rewarded them; she unsealed her\nfountains and discovered to them her secret nooks and crannies, her\nbuds and blossoms and delicacies, as she does to no one but ardent\nworshippers. They searched the woods and glens, climbed mountains and\nwandered by streams, and walked and rode and talked and studied, with\nnot one hour of dullness. And then they went back to the little house\nand lived their beautiful lives.\n\n   \"Two to the world for the world's work's sake,\n    But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one.\"\n\nAnd the world said, \"Poor thing! She was jilted by that rich Mr.\nLangdon, you know, and now she has had to take up with a poor young\ndoctor;\" which shows just how much the world knows about Esther's\naffairs, and ours.\n\nWhen the years had gone away and Dr. Evarts' praises were in every\nmouth, and he had become rich and celebrated, Miss Sophy Ward was fond\nof speaking of \"My cousin, Mrs. Dr. Evarts.\"\n\nAunt Katherine, too, had occasion for triumph and for heaping some\nvery hot \"coals of fire,\" but she never thought of either. Mrs. Agnew\nhad lost her property, and the Agnew estate was sold to the highest\nbidder, which was Dr. Evarts. Strange to say he was able to place Aunt\nKatherine in her old room, with many of the dear familiar objects of\nother days about her; while the wretched woman who had played her brief\npart in this history, lived in a humble home not far off. She was\nsick and poor and miserable. To her Mrs. Lyman ministered as if she\nhad received nothing but kindness at her hands. And Christ-like love\nconquered in the end; it broke down the hard heart and brought her into\nfaith and peace.\n\nWhen riches increased, Dr. Evarts obeyed the Scripture, \"set not thy\nheart upon them.\" They flowed out in all directions, blessing and\ncomforting others.\n\nEvery Christmas, he and Esther visited the \"Old Ladies' Home,\" with\na bountiful thank-offering. Each recurring year they were wont to go\nover every small detail of their meeting, and sometimes make little\nconfessions that were new to the other.\n\n\"It was here you stood to sing,\" the dignified doctor would remark, or,\n\"Was ever anything lovelier than when you stood there with those roses,\nwatching me set the broken bones?\"\n\n\"And how you frightened me when you flashed your eyes on me so\nsuddenly.\"\n\n\"It is a good place,\" the doctor would say; \"here we found each other,\nand here began the love that has blessed our lives.\"\n\n\"And here I found my Aunt Katherine,\" Esther was fond of adding.\n\n\n\n                    THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\"WHY, Auntie! What a quantity of lunch you are putting up. You don't\nexpect me to take my Christmas dinner on the cars, do you?\"\n\n\"Stranger things than that have come to pass, even though you should,\"\nAunt Ruth said, tucking in another half-dozen biscuits. \"Massachusetts\nis a long way off, and Christmas is pretty near at hand. You'll have\nsharp work to get through by Christmas, I'm thinking. The connections\nwill have to be very good, and no set-backs on the way. That don't\nalways happen in winter, you know. Trains will be behind time, or there\n'll be a bridge down, or something. Then as you get on toward the East\nthere will be snow-storms\u2014snow you up for a week, maybe\u2014better stay\ntill after Christmas yet.\"\n\n\"Aunt Ruthie, don't! Please don't prophesy such terrible things; I\nshall get on all right, I am sure. Good-by, dear own auntie!\" And the\nyoung girl wound her arms about the elder woman's neck, and laid her\nbrown head close to the gray one.\n\n\"Good-by, dearie!\" Aunt Ruth said in broken tones. \"The Lord bless you\nand keep you\u2014and see here, child, I'll tuck these two little books into\nyour basket, and some more biscuits, then if you should have to spend a\nweek on the way, you will have something to feed soul and body both.\"\n\nA last loving look into Aunt Ruth's eyes, and Marian sprang into a\nlight wagon by Uncle Eli's side, and two ponies trotted off over\nthe smooth country road. The frosty air, the crackle of dry leaves\nand twigs, the morning sun, the fragrant cedars, and the flutter of\ngay-winged birds, made the heart of this girl, whose eye and ear were\nopen to all sweet influences of nature, sing for joy\u2014the mere joy of\nbeing\u2014on this glorious morning. And truly a winter morning in the\npoetical, picturesque southwest, with its balmy airs, green fields,\nand gay birds, at Christmas time, can but seem to a New Englander the\npresage of that morning when all things shall be made new.\n\nAunt Ruth watched them far down the road, then she went into the house\nwith a slow step and a heavy heart. She wiped away the tears as she\ngathered up Marian's woody treasures that she had forgotten\u2014lichens,\nmoss twigs, and purple berries. The house was empty and dull. The\nbright young creature who had filled it with an atmosphere of warmth\nand gladness was gone. How grim and desolate it seemed!\n\nFor two months Aunt Ruth had lived a charmed life. Marian, the daughter\nof her favorite niece, whom she loved as her own child, had come from\nher far city home for a brief visit\u2014to honor one whom her mother prized\nso highly. Her stay was protracted far beyond what duty required,\nthough. The girl enjoyed the free, unconventional life, the novel\nexperiences, and the almost idolatrous love bestowed upon her.\n\nIt was hard to say which was most delighted with the other. The younger\none painted scenes of the gay, busy world, that seemed to the elder,\nhard-worked woman like the tales of Aladdin. Then she, in turn, in\nquaint speech, seasoned with wit, poured into the young ears the\nprivations and romances of frontier life, as well as the love tales\nof long ago, which were far more delightful than one could find in a\nbook, because they had been lived out before Aunt Ruth's eyes. She\nknew whether the fine gold of the marriage day had become dim; what\nthey did, and how they lived, and so on to the very last chapter. With\ngraphic words she made them live again for her eager listener\u2014a long\nline of ancestors\u2014sketching her characters with no mean skill, her\ncharitable nature hiding their faults behind their graces, so that they\nwere most fascinating as heroes and heroines. In short, Aunt Ruth was\nto Marion a delightful old book, full of wisdom and strong sweetness.\nAnd while Marian was to her aunt a revelation of grace and loveliness,\nshe was besides gifted with an active brain, and was the very soul of\ntruth and candor, so that she seemed to the New England woman like a\nbreath of air fresh from the old Massachusetts hills. Aunt Ruth always\ndisparaged the East in contrast with the West when she re-visited it,\nand yet she loved its rocky hills with all her heart. At the same time,\nanything or anybody of Eastern make or birth, was held up to Western\npeople as a model of all excellence.\n\n\"She is just wonderful,\" the old lady would declare, in confidential\nchats with Uncle Eli. \"There she has been brought up in a great city,\nher folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn't\nspoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk\nfull of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks\nhere, but not a bit of it! She's devouring the old yellow books in the\nbookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down\nthe 'History of the Reformation,' and there she sat the whole forenoon,\nnever stirred or looked up as I went in and out\u2014so deep in her book.\nIn the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit\nover Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons\nfor getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I\nhad, too. They were: 'That he might please his father, spite the Pope,\nand vex the devil.' Said she, 'I should have wanted him to have one\nmore reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy\u2014the only reason\u2014because he\nloved me.' She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before\nI thought, and I said, 'Of course he would. How could anybody help\nloving you, dearie?' You ought to 'a' seen her pretty blush, then;\nexactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She's reading 'Paradise\nLost,' now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she\nis up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She's a regular\nold-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn't raise\nsuch girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time\ndressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they\ncouldn't stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn't\nany piety nor anything else\u2014nothing but pretty faces. Now, there's\nMarian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with\nthe baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that,\nshe's truly pious. She isn't going to make one of the strong-minded\nkind, either\u2014stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge\nfence. She's as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I\nnever thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of\nthe window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o'\ndancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her\neyes. I said to myself, 'Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and\nshe will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then\ntake herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is\nmy great-niece.' But here she has been, week after week, and don't want\nto go home yet.\"\n\n\nThe first fifty miles of Marian's journey was unmarked by anything of\nspecial interest. This brought her to the junction where she was to\nchange cars for the main line. But there, to her dismay, she discovered\nthat the train with which she was supposed to connect had been gone for\nan hour, her own train being late. There was nothing to be done but\nto wait at a forlorn little hotel for the next one, which would not\nbe until noon of the next day. It was of no use to feel provoked, or\nto fret, so Marian set herself to bear it patiently. She walked about\nthe small village, and on into the country, made the acquaintance of\nchildren gathering Christmas greens, and returned with her hands full\nof evergreen and bitter-sweet berries.\n\n\nThe time did not hang so heavily as she had anticipated, although she\nwas heartily glad when the long train glided in, and she was once more\nseated in the car, and on her homeward way. As it was to be a long\njourney, she was not a little interested in her surroundings. So she\nbegan to scrutinize her fellow-passengers, to measure, and classify,\nand determine, by those few swift glances, their standing\u2014mental,\nsocial and moral\u2014and whether they were agreeable, or selfish and\nill-natured. She reached her conclusions\u2014unjust ones in some instances,\nperhaps; and yet the intuitions of some fine natures are a little short\nof divine. When she wearied of that, she brought out pencil and paper,\nand scribbled a voluminous letter to Aunt Ruth. Having a talent for\nsketching, she embellished her sheet here and there with portraits of\nher fellow-travellers, \"to cheer up Auntie,\" she told herself, albeit\nthe artist seemed to enjoy her work immensely, and to put a deal of\npainstaking into it. There was a scornful big woman with a pug-nosed\ndog, a laughing baby, a great pompous man asleep with his mouth open,\nthe sweet face of an old lady biding away under a deep bonnet, and at\nlast, with careful touches, the profile of a young man who sat just\nahead of her; a fine scholarly face, bent over a book.\n\nThat letter made two old people happy for more than one evening. What\nif our cheery words went oftener to brighten lonely homes!\n\nStuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat\njust below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those\nabout him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no\npossible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover\nwho sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have\nbeen amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just\nbeen executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come.\nThat which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of\ngolden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave\nhimself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine.\nMarian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious\npicture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old\nlady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with\na \"gospel face.\" As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they\nnever saw a sunset. \"Eyes have they, but they see not,\" applies to more\nthan heathen idols. It is always so: God's best things are for the few;\nthe many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears\nare dull, and \"their eyes they have closed.\"\n\nThose who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the\nevening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft\nviolet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of\ndelight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was\nnear\u2014the end of all journeyings\u2014and that rushing train was speeding on\nstraight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should\nmeet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed\nin, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and\nthe farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and\nStuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said,\n\"No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you\nold people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses.\nWe are not afraid.\"\n\nIt was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she\nunconsciously and softly sang,\u2014\n\n   \"'Day is dying in the west,\n     Heaven is touching earth with rest;\n     Wait and worship while the night\n     Sets her evening lamps alight\u2014'\"\n\nFollowed by Keble's sweet evening hymn,\u2014\n\n   \"'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,\n     It is not night if Thou be near.'\"\n\nHymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none\nbut herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and\nlooked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned\nall but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently,\nthe music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in\nhis seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in\ndetermining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed\nby any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a\nsealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown\nhair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass,\nand while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips\nframed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had\nforgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was\na charming picture, and he enjoyed it.\n\nDuring the evening people dropped off at the different stations\nalong the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who\nwearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should\nbe attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even\nwhile they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly\ncame to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours,\nwas the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy\nstate of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that\nat sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging\nmonsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to\nsweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a\nthing to be desired\u2014standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless\nprairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with\ntelegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs\nwas met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last\nfew hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming\ndoors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines\nthat could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright,\nfearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a\ncollision.\n\nStuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of\ntrust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a\nlong life of disappointments, was philosophical. \"What can't be cured,\nmust be endured,\" she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet\nand hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little\npreparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she\nsaid, \"I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord,\nonly makest me to dwell in safety.'\"\n\nIf only she had said those words aloud!\n\nMarian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably\nin her seat, and went to sleep.\n\n\"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee,\" makes a soft pillow.\n\nMr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was\na good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief\npoints in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so\nthat he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain,\nwhich he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to\u2014probably this\nmiserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned\ninwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in\nhis mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances\nat the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a\ncertain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers\nwere distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of\nfaces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions,\nwith closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put\nup to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and\nfolded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth\nlooked as if the lips had closed themselves on,\u2014\"I will trust.\" It was\na calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself\nthinking as he gazed, \"If only a soul ever matched a fair face!\"\n\nIf she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the\ncheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a\ngirl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular\nthat a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one,\nand not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy\nhair, and radiant with calm content.\n\nThe old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a\nsort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone.\n\"Dear lamb,\" she murmured to herself, \"she is taking a good sleep.\"\n\nMarian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few\nhours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing\nstill. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not\nfar away\u2014one of them\u2014an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her\njust then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to\na certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and\nshe felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but\nhe was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of\npeople, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in\nthe gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, \"How are you\ngetting on, my dear?\" There was a world of comfort in that \"my dear.\"\n\nMr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep\nhimself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but\nknown her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if\ncloser scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely\nhead thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high,\nfine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something.\nPerhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in\na satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of\nthe idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond\nof wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, \"a face to trust;\" she\ncomposed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two\nprotectors.\n\nWhen the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in\nsheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had\nnot yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for\nall concerned.\n\nThe fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady\nhad a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with\nwhom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted,\nthe men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was\nmoodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old\nlady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket,\nbegged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, \"for I'm sure\nyou must be all tuckered out by this time,\" she added sympathetically.\nBut this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her\nthat he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of\ndepriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the\njourney.\n\nShe looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the\nrefusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved\nthat he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from\nher stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she\ntold herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too;\nwonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on\nthe way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained\nat the hotel to keep it in good condition.\n\nIt went sorely against Marian's nature to enjoy her nice breakfast,\nknowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share\nwith him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man\ninstead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now,\nshe would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might\nget courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not\nlook so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as\nshe glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness,\ntoo, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to\nmore humility.\n\nStuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed\neyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by\nthe morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her\nwrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her\nfingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little\nhat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none\nof that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after\nhaving sat up all night in the cars.\n\nBut the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first\nfascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever\nseen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable\nworld; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come\nout of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as\nit was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent\neyes, but when they spoke\u2014their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener\nslang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were\ninane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and\neven that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an\nanalysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in\nChinese. They had no thoughts\u2014not more than humming-birds; they had\nnever been taught to think; the few exceptions\u2014in his experience\u2014were\nthose who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to\nbe an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a\n\"society girl,\" with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting.\nIt would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under\nthese extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before\nthem, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would\nprobably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end,\nor she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow\npassenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately\nsmitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth\none ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no\nadvance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he\ndived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his\nbrows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing\nmore so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a\nvolume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a\nhungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two\nlittle books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the\nsmall package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of\nsoft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little\nvolume of \"Daily Food\" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the\nyear, and a copy of Thomas \u00e0 Kempis' \"Imitation of Christ,\" daintily\nbound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt\nRuth's round cramped hand, \"Marian Chester:\" \"The Lord bless thee and\nkeep thee.\" \"Dear aunt Ruth,\" she murmured. \"What would she say if she\nknew where I am? And what will they think at home?\" She just began to\nrealize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears\nstood on her cheeks.\n\nMr. Lynde was returning from one of his visits to the engine, and was\njust in time to catch, for an instant, the flash of that tear. A smile\nwas a hollow thing to him. His coat of mail was proof against a whole\nbattalion of the most bewitching; but a tear! He bowed in reverence\nbefore a tear; and, acting on that impulse, paused, and before he had\ngiven himself leave to speak was saying, \"I beg your pardon, but can I\ndo anything for you?\"\n\nPoor Marian! It was so sudden, and she was so mortified to be caught\ncrying like a baby, that her tones were defiant and her answer curt:\n\"No, sir, I thank you, not anything.\"\n\nWhen she raised her eyes he was gone. Then, her sense of desolation was\nlost in vexation, that she had made herself an object of pity to him\nand requited his attempt at kindness by what must have seemed extreme\nrudeness.\n\nThe rained had ceased, but this was not an advantage in one way, for\nthe air at once became intensely cold, so making it more difficult to\nrepair damages, as washouts and bridges swept from swollen streams were\nreported ahead. As if to bring dreariness to a culminating point, the\nsupply of coal was low and the cars were becoming chilly. Adversity\nwas apparently having a good effect upon Mr. Lynde; he was developing\nunder it, and waking up to some interest in humanity that was not in a\nbook. He was not in general a close observer of the dress of ladies,\nbut he knew the difference between a long sealskin cloak and an old\nblack cashmere shawl. Consequently he was very sure where the large,\nsoft lap robe he carried was most needed. Thereupon he took it over\nto the old lady, and begged her with as much deference as if she had\nbeen a duchess, to accept it. She demurred, but he insisted and folded\nit about her as a son might have done, and the lines about his mouth\nrelaxed into sweetness as she showered her thanks upon him.\n\n\"Why did I not think to do that?\" Marian said to herself, casting\nregretful eyes on her own warm shawl. It was too late now, so she drew\nit over herself and retired into her book.\n\nAunt Ruth spoke better than she knew when she talked of food for the\nsoul. Some darkened minds would call it \"cant,\" but those who know the\nsecret of the Lord, know that as a few drops of stimulant revive a\nfainting body, just as surely will a strong, comforting word from the\nScriptures send the lifeblood tingling again through a benumbed soul,\nif that soul belong to Christ.\n\nSo when Marian read in her \"Daily Food\":\u2014\n\n   \"The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting\narms;\"\n\n   \"The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and\ndelivereth them;\"\n\n   \"The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord\nshall cover him all the day long;\"\n\n   \"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou\nshalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.\"\n\nThen her faith and courage returned, and her heart already sang songs\nof deliverance.\n\nMr. Lynde had already done all that travellers usually do in such\nemergencies. He had stood in the teeth of a keen wind and talked with\nthe brake man and engineer and conductor as to the extent of the\naccident, and what the probabilities were of soon resuming the journey;\nhad stepped out and walked briskly up and down, and the old lady\nremarked as he strode by, \"He's a handsome young fellow; straight as an\narrow, and he walks with a kind o' spring, just like my Benjamin,\" and\nMarian had given in response an amused smile.\n\nNow he had come back again and settled himself down to endure, with\ngrim fortitude, what could not be cured; not with the same spirit,\nthough, as the old saint who sat just beyond him, for, she said, \"It\n'll all turn out for the best somehow, and we'll likely see it some\nday.\" It would take long to convince him, though, that the important\ncase to which he was hurrying home could possibly be bettered by his\nabsence. But he tried to be a philosopher. He turned up his coat\ncollar, as men do when they are cold and seem to think they have made\nall reasonable provisions for comfort, put his eyes on his book, and\ntried to merge his thoughts into the author's; but when a man is\nhungry, and ever so slightly cold, the circumstances are not favorable\nfor metaphysical research.\n\nIt was noon, and the time for those who had any dinner to eat it; so\nMarian took down her lunch basket again. If only she had somebody to\nenjoy it with her! She glanced about the car; the men had gone. The old\nlady, thanks to the warmth of the lap robe, was enjoying a nice nap.\nThere was just one person on whom to exercise her benevolence.\n\nShe amused herself by laying together in a fresh napkin three or four\nbiscuits, some slices of chicken, and some cake; then, while she\nthoughtfully put bits into her own mouth, debated the question with\nherself after this fashion: I ought, I really ought to do it, but how\ncan I? I wish he would go out; I would slip it into his seat, and he\nwould think the ravens or something had been sent to feed him. If I\nshould carry this over there and he should decline it with a lofty\nair, how could I endure such humiliation? To be sure, I did reply very\nhaughtily when he spoke to me, and whatever possessed me, I'm sure I\ndon't know.\n\nThe head at which she was casting furtive glances, went down at this\njuncture, wearily down, on the seat before him, and the action decided\nher.\n\nStuart Lynde thought he had, in that moment, dropped asleep, and was in\na blissful dream, for a soft voice just behind him, said, \"Sir, I was\nmistaken; I would like to ask a favor of you.\"\n\nThe head was erect in an instant, and he began,\u2014\n\n\"I shall be most happy;\" but when he saw this haughty lady changed\ninto a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner,\nand heard her say, \"Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I\nhave a great abundance?\" then the fluent speech for which he was noted,\nforsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then\u2014they\nlooked squarely into each other's eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke\ninto a merry laugh.\n\nThe ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible.\n\nAfter that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the\nappetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been\nentirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number\nof biscuits.\n\n\"That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I\npossess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth,\" Marian said,\nwhile she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had\nwakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It \"quite\nchirked her up,\" she said, \"to hear something going on once more.\"\n\nThe two young people talked together some minutes before they\nrecollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should\nhave introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,\u2014\n\n                      \"STUART LYNDE,\n              Attorney and Counsellor at Law.\"\n\nAnd Marian said simply, \"I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts.\"\n\nIt would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech\nagain, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were\nendless\u2014the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the\nadvantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes\nfinally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had\nvisited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary\nprairie, miles from anywhere.\n\nMr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read\nbiographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets,\nand yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of\nfiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read \"Jane Eyre,\"\nold as it was, nor \"Romola,\" nor even the lighter novels that most\nschoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen.\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"I know almost nothing of them; my father has his\nown ideas in regard to these things,\" and she said it reverently and\nsweetly, as if \"anything that my father wishes is good and right;\" not;\n\"My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the\nconsequences\u2014\"\n\n\"His theory is that a taste for solid reading should first be formed,\nand that whatever of fiction is indulged in, should be by the best\nwriters and quite simple. With the exception of a few books, rather\njuvenile in character, I am to read my first novel this winter with\nfather. I read aloud to him a great deal, and he is my dictionary and\nencyclop\u00e6dia. We have most delightful times, and we read all sorts of\nbooks. Perhaps, if one were to come down to my level in the line of\nlight reading, I might intelligently discuss the merits of some works,\"\nshe said archly; \"I know almost by heart 'Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales'\nand the 'Tanglewood Tales;' as well as 'Alice in Wonderland,' and\n'Water Babies,' and several other lovely stories.\"\n\nHappy daughter! To read her first novel\u2014some pure, noble work of his\nchoosing\u2014with her father, instead of stealthily devouring a vile,\nyellow-covered thing at midnight, when she should have been sleeping,\nor secreting it under her desk at school, and snatching a guilty morsel\nwhen she should have been studying.\n\nThe father's theory had been well carried out, and he must have been\ndelighted with results, for the girl could enjoy a scientific research,\nor a simple story, one of which would have been voted dull, and the\nother childish, by those reared on more highly seasoned mental food.\nThen there was in her a cheery freshness, and a hearty enjoyment of\nsimple pleasures, in sharp contrast with many specimens of restless,\nlanguid young ladyhood, interested in nothing on earth or under\nit\u2014nothing except themselves.\n\nMr. Lynde was charmed. Here was an anomaly, a rare study: a girl not\nmade up of artificialities, nor morbid sentimentalism.\n\nThe time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings,\nuntil Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered\nso sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew\nsuddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would\nher father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would\nhave believed that she could have been guilty of making advances,\nof drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew\nutterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she\nhad judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face\nreflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly\nsilent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and\nreverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go\nback to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but\nit was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and\nher society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk\nupon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies;\nand Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as\nshe supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when\ntongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who\nwould not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the\neloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew\ndark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to\ntake pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.\n\n\"And this is the extent of mine,\" Marian said, producing her little\nbooks, \"my Christmas present from a dear old auntie,\" and she gave them\ninto his hands, and received his volume of essays.\n\nIt had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony,\nthis new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating\nconversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and\ndisturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she\ntold herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she\ndo otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to\ntalk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt\nacquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old\nfriend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain\nin the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was\nindignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and\nshe set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point.\nHis conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an\nold lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention\nwas that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in\nhis home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself\nas to the comfort of old ladies.\n\nDuring the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better.\nFood was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the\ntrain was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many\na jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at\nall. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night\nat their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged\nto change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks\nacross the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her\nshawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was\npleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains\namong bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by\ndaylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this\nlate hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of\nother travellers bound for the same train.\n\nAll hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars,\nand the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o'clock. The Christmas morning\nalready begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as\nthey stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of\neach a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning\u2014\"Within that\nprovince far away.\"\n\n   \"'In the solemn midnight,\n              Centuries ago,'\"\n\nquoted Mr. Lynde.\n\nMarian was surprised into saying: \"How very singular! The same words\nwere running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to\nask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar\nwith that poem.\"\n\n\"Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:\n\n    \"'The earth was still\u2014but knew not why,\n   The world was listening\u2014unawares.\n How calm a moment may precede\n   One that shall thrill the world forever!\n To that still moment none would heed,\n   Man's doom was linked, no more to sever,\n      In the solemn midnight,\n               Centuries ago.\"\n\nTo Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of\nsomething else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with\na stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was\npositively enjoying it, had the effect to make her \"good-night\" seem\ncold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she\nvanished into the section assigned her.\n\nIt had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel\nalone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and\naccompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be\nsupposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the\nuncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable\nthat he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian\nhad decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by\nthis time quite like a veteran traveller.\n\nIn the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They\nhad just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how\nhe could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired\ngentleman bustled up with, \"Ah, Marian, here you are!\" bent and kissed\nher cheek, saying in the same breath, \"So glad you came this morning,\nmy dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col.\nWinslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the\ninvitation for you, too.\" Marian's face put in a protest.\n\n\"Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people;\nyou will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting.\"\n\nAs soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde,\nas one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him\na hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under\nshaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian's hand under his arm and was moving\noff.\n\nOne moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured\nthanks, and she was gone.\n\nTo say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it.\nWho was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most\nreluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He\nremembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps,\nwould join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking\nforward to a day's travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it\nhad all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.\n\nIn his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the\nimperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely\nescaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He\nrealized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in\nhis possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it,\ninasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize.\nHe brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his\nside pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken\nfrom the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he\nenjoyed the fragrance, and partly\u2014he knew not why. He laid it with the\nbooks. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence\nthat, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon\nhe tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself\na fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that\nmanner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a\ntask. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between\nhim and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and\narranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain\nto determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret\nin her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their\nconversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again\nher attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when\nshe came to minister to his necessities. \"Not one in a hundred would\nhave done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at\nall, indeed,\" he told himself.\n\nThe thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not\nobtained her address; \"Massachusetts,\" that was all he knew.\n\nHe took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was\nthere: \"Marian Chester.\" What a fair name it was; how it just suited\nher. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or\nwhere Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: \"The Lord bless thee and\nkeep thee.\" It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his\nheart re-echoing that prayer.\n\nAs for Marian, she found the last half of her journey dull in\ncomparison with the first, and she was dimly conscious why. The thought\nsent bright flushes into her cheeks, but she did not sit down and\nanalyze and define it, or recall looks and tones and words. She shut\nthe door on that corner of her heart and locked it. She told herself\nthat it was a matter of perfect indifference to her who or what he was,\nand yet when her uncle asked, \"Who was the young man you introduced to\nme, my dear?\" and she produced his card, she was more than pleased to\nhear Col. Winslow declare that he knew him well by reputation; that he\nwas one of the most brilliant young lawyers in the State, and, morally,\nwas without blemish.\n\n\nIn the busy months that followed, it was becoming a habit with Mr.\nLynde to refresh himself with a look into one or other of the little\nbooks he kept among his treasures. Even when most pressed by business\nmatters, he was sure to snatch a brief moment through the day or night\nto glance at a verse. He did this at first because they belonged to\n\"the maiden,\" he called her in his thought; that old-fashioned sweet\nword just fitted her, and seemed to single her out as above and beyond\nall others. Then the words of Thomas \u00e0 Kempis charmed him; he studied\nthat book for the quaint simplicity of its style, and wondered that he\nhad not before discovered such a gem. And, while he thought it childish\nin him, he noted with not a little curiosity the text for each day in\nthe \"Daily Food.\" When he went a journey, it amused even himself that\nhe always slipped the little books into some pocket, and they went\nalong.\n\nOne night at the close of a triumphant day, when he had come off victor\nin a difficult case, and had been congratulated and complimented until\nhe was surfeited, he opened the small book to search out the text for\nthat day. To one conscious of having gloried not a little in the very\ngratifying success of that day, it was almost startling to read\u2014\n\n\"Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man\nglory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches. Let\nhim that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth\nme, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment and\nrighteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the\nLord.\"\n\nNot since he was a boy at his mother's knee, had a word of Scripture\ncome into his heart with power such as this.\n\nHe knew he had gloried in his wisdom and power; had been proud of his\ntriumph, and proud of his spotless life and high morality, but now how\nit all flashed upon him in an instant, that he was weak and foolish\nand sinful before God. He could speak in many tongues, and understand\nmysteries of science, but he did not know and understand the Lord. The\none thing in which it would be right to glory, he did not possess. When\na boy, he had the habit of prayer, but, as he grew toward manhood,\nlost his faith by reading skeptical writers, so for many years he had\nnot spoken to God until he came into possession of these two precious\nbooks, then, curiously enough, he had begun to pray one petition: \"The\nLord bless her and keep her.\" But now, when the sense of the utter\nworthlessness of all he attained, and God left out, was flashed upon\nhim, he cried, \"Teach me to know and understand thee,\" and the first\nanswer to that prayer was to show him that he was blind and poor and in\nneed of all things. His eye fell upon words just then which told that\nanother soul, generations ago, had gone by the same road to find his\nGod, for Thomas \u00e0 Kempis said:\n\n   \"But if I abase and know myself to be nothing, if I renounce all\nself-esteem and (as I am) account myself to be but dust; thy grace will\nbe favorable unto me, and thy light will be near unto my heart.\n\n   \"And all self-esteem, how little soever, shall be swallowed up in the\ndeep valley of my nothingness, and perish everlastingly.\n\n   \"There thou showest thyself unto me, what I am, what I have been, and\nwhither I am come; for I am nothing and I knew it not.\n\n   \"And if I be left to myself, behold, I become nothing and all weakness.\n\n   \"But if thou lookest upon me, I am made strong.\"\n\nThe light had entered the darkened soul. The Spirit used a few texts\nof Scripture and the devout words of an old monk to teach him \"that\nall our righteousness is as filthy rags,\" and that \"the blood of Jesus\nChrist cleanseth us from all sin.\" The old miracle was repeated in\nhim. In silence and quiet the change went on. A proud, ambitious,\nself-seeking man, learning to pray with that other saint:\n\n   \"Grant me, O, most gracious and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above\nall creatures:\n\n   \"Above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all\npower and dignity, above all knowledge and subtlety, above all riches\nand arts, above all joy and gladness, above all hope and promise, above\nall desert and desire; above all gifts and presents that thou canst\ngive and impart unto us: above all joy and triumph that the mind of man\ncan receive and feel.\"\n\n\nA year went away, and the stars of Christmas night glowed in the sky as\nbrightly as long ago, \"when shepherds watched their flocks by night,\"\nand \"the angel of the Lord came down.\" Mr. Lynde, as he walked and\nthought\u2014thought of that night, \"within that province far away,\" to\nwhich his destiny was now \"linked\" in a peculiar and tender relation.\nHe would not have been human not to have recalled that other night,\ntoo, a year ago. So he walked the silent, moonlight streets, and\nrepeated softly\u2014\n\n   \"'In the solemn midnight,\n              Centuries ago,'\"\n\nHe might walk and walk miles, though, it would not bring that other one\nwho walked by his side then. He might not have sighed so heavily at\nthat thought if his vision could have compassed distance and known who\nwatched the stars with him.\n\nThat these two paths should ever cross again, would seem as impossible\nas that two small ships adrift on the wide ocean should \"speak\" each\nother.\n\nThe ingenuity and perseverance with which he had prosecuted the\nsearch all these months was something remarkable. As Boston is the\nmetropolis of Massachusetts, he made business trips to Boston, and the\n\"business\" was to walk the streets, haunt picture galleries, attend\nlectures and concerts, always searching for one face. He read Boston\npapers, especially the list of marriages and deaths. He took the\nwestward journey many times, hoping she might have repeated the visit\nto Aunt Ruth. Once he ventured to send her a letter through the Boston\npost-office, and it came back to himself.\n\n\"She knows where I am,\" he would tell his unreasoning self. \"How easily\nshe could send me some little sign, but, such as she never would, even\nthough she cared.\"\n\nAll this time Marian was hidden away in a suburban town ten miles from\nBoston, in her father's country home, though spending much time in the\ncity. Why did not one or the other of their good angels cause them to\nturn their eyes in the right direction that day they almost brushed\nagainst each other in the crowd?\n\nThrough the year she had stoically crushed out pleasant remembrances\nof the brief acquaintance, never allowing the thought that possibly\nthey might meet again, and yet she always searched an audience with a\nkeener interest than had been her wont. It might just be possible, but\nhow preposterous, after all! He lived far away in a Western city. Why\nshould he come to Boston?\n\n'Tis true, too, that on Christmas night she indulged herself in a bit\nof dreaming, lingering purposely at her chamber window, looking out\non the white world until the clock in the steeple should chime out\ntwelve, feeling, unconsciously, that she was keeping an indefinable\ntryst with some mythical being by so doing. She, too, went in memory\nover the walk and the poem, recalled the excellent rendering of the few\nlines recited, and then being dimly conscious that it would be the most\ndelightful thing in life to go on and on in an interminable walk, with\nthat one voice sounding always in her ears, she brought her reverie to\nan abrupt ending, drew her curtains and shut out the witching moonbeams\nwith tantalizing memories,\u2014like a sensible maiden that she was.\n\nMr. Lynde's book had been diligently studied by her, partly because\nit was his, and for the reason that it was in rather a different line\nfrom anything she had read. She did not at once comprehend its subtle\nlogic, and her ambition required that she should. Her well-trained mind\nwas not long in discovering that this book was not all gems and pearls,\nas she had supposed when the fascinating rhetoric attracted her. There\nwere half-truths, skeptical suggestions, and flings at doctrines dear\nto Christian hearts. It filled her with sorrow and surprise that such\nhigh, beautiful thoughts should be so marred.\n\nDid Mr. Lynde believe these things? From a remark he dropped, she\nhalf-feared he did. From that time his name came into her daily prayer\nas she asked that her little books might not be lost, but be seed that\nshould spring up and bear fruit.\n\nIt was not in a crowded assembly, nor on the city streets, nor on a\nrailroad train, that Mr. Lynde finally found his treasure. He was\nreturning from a trip in the Northwest, and near the end of a day's\ntravel was obliged to wait at a small town a few hours, in order to\ntake an express train. Finding the time hang heavily, he walked out and\nturned his steps into a little foot path that led out into the country.\n\nIt was a perfect day. The clear sky, the tinted woods, the stream, the\n\"rare blue hills,\" made lovely pictures on all sides.\n\nHe had not the most remote idea that this noisy brook bounded Aunt\nRuth's farm, and that the next bend in the road would reveal a charming\npicture that would make his pulses stand still with joy.\n\nA narrow footbridge spanned the stream, and leaning over the railing,\nintently watching the hurrying waters, her white dress fluttering in\nthe breeze, stood Marian. He knew her in an instant, and came forward,\nhis heart in his face. Marian looked up quickly, in a startled way, at\nthe sound of a footstep, and the joyful radiance that lighted her eyes\nwhen he said, \"At last I have found you,\" revealed the whole story.\nThere was scarcely need of question and answer.\n\nAnd then? They sauntered along the bank of the winding stream, and\nbegan a walk that did not end till life ended.\n\nThe express train went its way without the traveller, and they two came\nup through the lengthening shadows to the old farmhouse, where Aunt\nRuth sat on the porch. They told the whole long story to her, and she\nlistened, with now a smile and then a tear, and when it was finished\nshe laid a hand on the head of each, and said sweetly and solemnly,\n\"Children, the Lord bless thee and keep thee!\"\n\n\n\n                          JUANA'S MASTER.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nA PICTURESQUE object it was, this old Spanish-looking house, in the\nCity of Mexico, with turrets and towers and balconies, set amid tall\ntrees and clambering vines. The hot breath of the summer afternoon had\nsent most of the inhabitants to search out cool, dark retreats, and\nlose the sense of languor in sleep. Even the leaves and the flowers\nwere drowsy, and universal silence settled upon all things, broken only\nby the plashing of fountains and the sleepy little songs of birds.\n\nIn an upper balcony of the old house a young wife sat, her head\nresting on one hand, her eyes fastened on the distant mountains\njust discernible through a soft haze. She was not building pretty\nair-castles, nor absorbed in the dreamy, wondrous beauty of the scene\nbefore her; nor when she bowed her head on the railing, did her eyes\nclose in happy forgetfulness.\n\n\"Sleep seldom visits sorrow,\" and this sad heart was breathing out sobs\nand moans.\n\nJuana Valerie, descended from both Mexican and Spanish ancestors, was,\nwith the exception of an old aunt, the last of the family, which, in\nits day, had been one of much note. Left an orphan at an early age,\nher only remaining relative\u2014feeble in both mind and body\u2014found it no\neasy task to bring the fiery, frisky little mortal under any great\ndegree of control. As she grew older her positive nature and keen\nmind outgeneraled both teachers and aunt. When she chose to spend the\nlivelong day frolicking in the grounds, or clambering trees, instead of\nporing over dull books, she did so, always being able by means of ready\nwit and winning ways to escape punishment. However, as the years went\non, she contrived to secure a fair share of education, absorbing it, it\nmust be; surely it was not accomplished by hard study.\n\nJuana's parents had been staunch Roman Catholics, and while they lived\nshe was trained in the strict observance of the rules of that church.\nWhether it was that the little maiden was a born rebel, or that from\nsome honest-hearted ancestor she had inherited a hatred of shams, it\nturned out that at a very early age she began to throw off the shackles\nthe Church of Rome binds about its victims. The Confessional had always\nbeen to her childish mind a dread and horror, and as she grew to\ngirlhood she stoutly refused to go to it. The aunt and the old priest\nscolded and threatened, which had the effect only to drive her from the\nchurch entirely. Then they persecuted and warned, holding up to her\nview the awful fate of an apostate soul. They tried to hedge her in on\nthis side and that, but she shook her willful little head, and leaping\nover all inclosures, ran free as the wind. No threats or persuasions\navailing to bring her under control, she was deemed incorrigible, and\nthe anathema of the Church pronounced against her. This did not bring\nthe least shadow upon her spirit, however; a strange intuition seemed\nto make this young girl aware that truth in its purity was not there,\nand that a mere man had no power to pronounce either blessing or curse\nupon her.\n\nShe was not unloving to her old aunt, nor did she intend to be\nundutiful, but she did purpose always and everywhere to have her own\nway; so the feeble old lady settled down to the inevitable, and Juana\ncame and went free as a bird. Hitherto, her flowers and her pets had\nabsorbed her, but now she was awakening to the fact that a whole bright\nworld of pleasure lay all about, beckoning her to its revelries. So she\ndrifted in with the giddy throng, and was flattered and followed and\nsmiled upon to her heart's content.\n\nIn one of the gay assemblies she met Paul Everett, a young American.\nAt first glance each became immediately fascinated by the other, and\nsubsequent interviews served to deepen the enchantment. As Juana\ncould speak not a word of English, and the young stranger but very\nlittle Spanish, it would seem that the attachment could not make\nrapid progress; but love has a mystic language of its own, and is\nindependent of clumsy words. The reasons for this irresistible and\nmutual attraction were quite as good as many lovers can plead. He was\ncarried captive by flashing dark eyes, raven hair, and the graceful\nform gleaming in crimson and gold, flitting through the dance like some\ngay tropical bird. She, in turn, fondly believed that the tall blonde\nyoung man, with locks and mustache of golden hue, with eyes of heavenly\nblue, and, above all, in faultless attire, was nothing short of a\ndemi-god. On such slender basis they built fair hopes, and were ready\nto promise everything, and more, that lay in mortal's power to bestow.\nThe business that drew Paul Everett to Mexico was the same in which\nhe had been engaged the last five years. His indulgent friends termed\nit \"sowing wild oats,\" though he himself professed to be gathering\nmaterial for some literary work. In this line he had much taste, and\nfair talents, and might have succeeded if only it had been possible for\nhim to engage in any pursuit with earnestness and enthusiasm; or if he\nhad known any other rule of life than self-indulgence.\n\nThe wooing was short; they were soon married, and Paul for a time\nexceedingly enjoyed the little idyll he was living. The situation\nwas most novel and delightful. The flowery land, its blue skies and\nbalmy air suited his poetical temperament. The old castle and grounds\nwere picturesque and spacious, and he was master of them, or would\nbe on the death of the old aunt; besides, did he not possess the\nentire adoration of the most charming and unique little creature that\never breathed? Paul had a mania for the unique, and one of Juana's\ngreatest attractions to him was that she was unlike all the rest of\nwomankind; of whom, as he assured himself, he was heartily weary, but\nthis sparkling, piquant winning sprite\u2014ah! She was as far beyond and\nabove all other women as wine was above water\u2014 and that distance was\nimmeasurable to Paul's taste.\n\nHe enjoyed teaching Juana to speak English. Her musical voice\nstammering out pretty broken words in his own language, was a pleasant\nthing to hear. She was not content with simply speaking it. Should\nshe be the wife of an American and not be able to read his language?\nSo under his tuition, she set about the study of it with much more\nindustry than suited her husband's indolent temperament. These were\nhalcyon days; seldom were a young couple more united. Their views of\nlife and their aims were the same. The world was a gay garden, and\nthey two were butterflies, disporting themselves in the warm sunshine\nand draining every drop of sweetness from every flower in their path.\nInnocent enough flowers they were at first; the delight in each other's\nsociety in rambling, riding, boating, and resting under the shadows of\nbroad spreading trees, or, from a lofty balcony enjoying the panorama\nthe summer evening spread before them; the fair city at their feet, its\nspires and minarets gleaming in the moonlight, and distant mountains\npiled in soft masses against the crystal sky.\n\nWhen Juana added to the witchery of the scene by singing sweet Spanish\nairs to the music of the guitar, the young husband half believed he had\nattained heaven and the society of the angels.\n\nWhen these simple delights ceased to charm, there was the outside world\nwhich they had come near to forgetting while in this ecstatic trance.\nSo they plunged into every amusement the gay wicked city offered, and\n\"gave their hearts to folly.\" They lived in a whirl of pleasure, and\nJuana felt that now there was nothing more to ask for in life. To be\nthe chosen bride of such a man, and to take her fill of amusement,\nto dress and dance and sing the days and nights away\u2014was ever cup of\nhappiness so strangely full as hers?\n\nIf some stray breeze had whispered in her ear that she had tied her\nhappiness to a slender thread, that the day would come when all these\nthings would be to her as chaff, and that if her husband should weary\nof her, he would fling her aside as he did the rose he plucked in the\nmorning, after breathing its sweetness a moment\u2014then Juana would never\nhave believed such a false whisperer.\n\nPaul Everett tired of everything sooner or later. His restless, fickle\nnature demanded constant change and new sensations. So, after the first\nnovelty of his new mode of life had worn off, he began to return to\nhis old habits of roving, making only short absences at first, but\ngradually to extend them till weeks grew into months.\n\nJuana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from\nthe whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and\nconscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter\nsomewhat into the experience of another one who \"laid hold on folly,\"\nand found it \"vanity and vexation of spirit.\" Of late an unaccountable\nfeeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal\nover her. A voice seemed often to ask her, \"If this was all of life,\nto frolic away a few brief days and die, and then\u2014what? Could it be\nthat death was the end?\" One evening during her husband's absence,\nshe walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone\ngateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer\nmeeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and\nwished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so\nthat she might find out what it was that made them seem so different\nfrom all others.\n\n\"Those people are happy, Ria,\" she said to the maid; \"they look as if\nthey had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was.\"\nAnd Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what\nshe had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and\nbetook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from\nthe little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender\nairs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something\nbetter and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the\nfirst dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good,\nseeking for its God.\n\nThese feelings did not pass away with the next morning's sunlight. She\nfelt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This\ncould not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for\nwhen he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed\nher, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine\naffection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the\ntrouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes.\nBut Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature,\nwas only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the\ndignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.\n\nThere was a fascination to Juana in watching the small company of\nworshipers go to and from the chapel. One evening, as the melody of\ntheir hymns floated up to her, she became possessed of a desire to come\nnearer to the heavenly sounds. So, enveloping her head and shoulders\nin a large veil, she glided softly forth into the moonlight alone;\nher husband was down in the city and would not return until late. She\nwas glad to go alone, though for some reason that she did not herself\nunderstand. She stole silently along, and stood under the shadow of\nthe trees where she could observe without being seen. Now their heads\nwere bowed in prayer. In the earnest petitions from one and another she\noften caught the name \"God.\" She had never heard it in English. If they\nhad spoken the word in her own language, though, no distinct idea would\nhave been conveyed to her; only a dim, shadowy something that she had\nheard of long ago.\n\nSoon they broke out into song again:\n\n   \"Come, happy souls, approach your God\n    With new melodious songs.\"\n\nAlthough Juana could converse in simple broken words in English, she\ncould comprehend scarcely nothing of what she now heard; and yet the\nmusic thrilled and animated her. How joyful these faces and voices\nwere, and yet subdued and tender, and they sang about \"God\"\u2014that same\nname! Still she lingered as if fascinated until the closing hymn, that\nlullaby for trusting souls in all ages:\n\n   \"Glory to thee, my God, this night,\n    For all the blessings of the light:\n    Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,\n    Beneath thine own almighty wings.\"\n\nAnd still they sang that same name\u2014\"God.\" If only the poor heart\nstanding there in the shadows could know about the \"Almighty wings!\"\nJuana did not forget the sound of the new name she had heard\u2014that Being\nto whom those people prayed and sang praises, and read about in their\nBible. If she could but read English and have one of their Bibles, then\nshe should know all about Him! Oh! If somebody would tell her about Him.\n\n\"If those English people know about God, why should not Paul?\" she\nmused, as they sat together one afternoon.\n\nPaul was reclining in a hammock, the smoke of a cigar curling far above\nhis head, absorbed in a French novel.\n\nWhen Juana broke the silence by asking him if he owned a Bible, he\nanswered with a frown, \"Of course not.\"\n\n\"Paul, could you tell me about God?\" Juana ventured again.\n\n\"Very easily,\" said Paul, puffing out a whiff of smoke. \"There is no\nGod. So you see you needn't bother your pretty head any more about that\nquestion.\"\n\nHe did not see the startled, disappointed look in Juana's face as he\nsettled himself again to his book with an air that said he was not to\nbe further disturbed. Paul's word, ordinarily, was law to Juana, but\nin this case she was not satisfied. She could not believe there was no\nGod. She knew there must be one, and that not by reasoning it out. A\ngreater than human reason had taught her. If now she could but find out\nabout Him! She had not looked into a Spanish Bible since she was a very\nlittle child, but she could not go to that for help. She distrusted\neverything that the Church of Rome had to do with. \"But if a Spanish\nBible tells Catholics about their religion, why should not an English\nBible teach the Protestant religion?\" she reasoned. She resolved to\nhave one, if possible, and when Juana resolved, her strong will left no\nstone unturned toward accomplishment.\n\nA day or two after, as her husband was making preparations for another\njourney, Juana preferred her request:\n\n\"There is one thing I do much want. Will you not please get it for\nme, dear Paul, before you go? I do so want it! And that is an English\nBible.\"\n\n\"Pray, what in the world would you do with that?\" Paul asked, in much\nastonishment. \"You cannot read English.\"\n\n\"Ah! Shall I not read it soon if I study much? I can try to read the\nstories in it, and it will help make the time to fly, so you will soon\ncome back to me,\" she added coaxingly.\n\nPaul was willing enough that other people should have what they\nwanted if it did not interfere with his pleasure. So as he went about\nattending to various purchases for himself, he remembered Juana's\nrequest, and was at not a little pains to obtain for her a copy of the\nBible. \"Every one to his taste,\" he remarked to himself as he looked it\nover. \"I think I could find fables that would prove more entertaining\nto me than this one.\"\n\nDuring her husband's stay at home Juana had much of the time been\ncarrying on an inward struggle. She had endeavored to quiet her unrest\nby plunging into reckless dissipation, but the still small voice\nfollowed her even to the midnight revel. And often, when she had filled\nall her waking hours with busy trifles\u2014purposely to crowd out these\nintrusive thoughts\u2014she would wake as by a flash, her spirit filled\nwith a strange dread, and then, in the still solemn hour the eternal\nwould speak to the mortal, who, shrinking away in conscious guilt, felt\nthat there were just two things in the universe; herself, and an awful\npresence who searched her through.\n\nWhen left again to her lonely life, Juana gave herself with unceasing\napplication to the study of English, so that she might read her new\nBible. She could already spell out texts made up of simple words, and\nform a tolerably clear conception of their meaning. If she was going\nto read a book, she must of course begin at the beginning and read it\nthrough; so she plunged boldly into the great volume. As well might one\nessay to cross the ocean in a tiny sail-boat, as for this dark-minded\ngirl to get any available knowledge from such a deep; the unbeliever\nwould say, and truly, the undertaking would have been hopeless had it\nnot been a wonderful Book, with a wonderful Teacher.\n\nShe labored through the first chapter of Genesis with that great name\nin almost every verse. Never was tale more fascinating than this one.\nIt was read in a poor blundering way; but the truth had been gleaned\nthat God made the world and all it contains. No doubt as to the truth\nof it entered her mind for a moment. Day after day she spelled her\nway through succeeding chapters. It was all new and wonderful, but\ndisappointing. It was not what she craved: something that would remove\nthe strange heaviness that weighed upon her. On the contrary she\ngathered that all the world had gone astray from God and were under\nhis wrath and curse, and that agreed with what she had conceived. God\nto be; a stern, awful being, holding a sword over the heads of his\ncreatures. The more she read the greater grew the mystery. \"I cannot\nmake it out,\" she said, almost despairingly, \"it is all confusion;\"\nthen, with the superstition of her race, resolved, \"I will put the book\nof God under my pillow; I will see if some good may not come to me\nfrom it while I sleep.\" Perchance there might be sweeter sleep if the\n\"book of God\" oftener pillowed troubled heads. Finally she abandoned\nthe project of reading the Bible through, and puzzled out bits here and\nthere, hoping to chance upon something that she could understand.\n\n\"All have sinned and come short of the glory of God,\" she read, then\nsadly murmured, \"Yes, I know that; the very first of the book tells it,\nand that is what I am, a sinner. I have a bad heart, oh! so bad. But\nhow shall I make it good I know not.\" And just here Juana discovered\nthe old remedy that many burdened souls resort to. She would propitiate\nHeaven with good works. So she gave money freely and liberally whenever\na hand was stretched out, and tried to be amiable and lovely, and made\na solemn vow to perfectly keep all the commandments. The result was\nthe usual one that comes to a sinner trying to justify himself by the\nlaw. Every dormant evil in the poor girl's heart awoke and clamored.\nSatan worried and buffeted at every turn, and, growing irritable and\nimpatient she declared, \"What should I want of a book that makes me so\nunhappy? It must be bad, for since I know it I am not so good as once I\nwas.\"\n\nAfter that the book was not opened for days, but rested in the bottom\nof Juana's trunk, \"under much clothes, so that I could not see it,\"\nshe said, and she herself wandered up and down like a lost spirit, out\nof heart with everything within and about her. Then, to fill up the\nwretched, lonely days with something, she again brought out her Bible\nand plunged into the laborious task more earnestly than before.\n\nGracious and kind as He ever is, the Lord was teaching this one poor\nlittle scholar as if she were the only soul in the universe. After\nJuana had thoroughly learned that she was a sinner, this blessed truth\nflashed up at her one day as she was toiling through a verse: \"Christ\nJesus came into the world to save sinners.\" She went through it again,\neagerly, with dilating eyes and suspended breath. \"Ah! What is this!\"\nshe exclaimed. \"This is news indeed! Christ Jesus: Who can he be? He\nsaves sinners! And that is me.\"\n\nAt last she found the key. And now how intently she searched out that\nname, drinking in the truth, as one dying of thirst would seize a cup\nof cold water. Little by little she got it all\u2014the old, old story; the\nbirth in Bethlehem, the lowly, lovely life in Nazareth, the cross, the\ndeath, the tomb, the resurrection, the ascension, and, at last, the\ngracious invitation\u2014\n\n   \"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you\nrest.\"\n\n\"Oh! I want rest,\" she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her\nfirst prayer, \"I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!\" Without\neven realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart\nbefore Him. \"I know not how long I did talk to Him,\" she told some one\nafterward; \"a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could\nnot stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I\nfeel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window\nI say, 'O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees\nso grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory\nbefore.' Then something say, 'It is wrong for you to be so happy When\nyou are such a sinner,' so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I\ncannot; I can only sing for joy.\"\n\nSecure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her\nhusband's return, eager to tell him the good news.\n\n\"Paul is very wise,\" she told herself, \"he will not have so hard a time\nto understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear\nbook that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his\nsoul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be.\"\n\nIn a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting.\nHe was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to\nhave such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to\nminister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited\nmaiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head\nmeekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle\nhand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple\nof discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice.\nWhy would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the\nembodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?\n\n\"My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks\nand frowns have grace and favor in them,\" was the honest feeling of\nthis deluded soul.\n\nIt was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when\nshe first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for\nhim, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and\ntriumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but\nas she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he\ngrew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince\nhim, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, \"Do, dear Paul, read\nabout the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all\ntrue,\" he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.\n\nJuana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it\nto her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.\n\nThe young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen\nher hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than\nhis own.\n\nHe waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and\npromises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet\nhis perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little\npuzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved\nto treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by\nlittle in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her\nnew whims.\n\nTo please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre,\nand spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl's\nconscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown\ninto a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts\nin our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of\nany church, or inquire of wise theologians \"what she must give up\" if\nshe became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned\nto Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the\nway was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny\nblossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control\nhis child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that\nChrist and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges\nheart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and\ndelight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had\nleft her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By\na law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at\nthe same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world\ncannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded\nChristian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet\nexperience.\n\nPaul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of\nloving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures,\nhe rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the\nhitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his\nastonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could,\nthat her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and\ntheaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to\ndelight her?\n\nWhat wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a\ndoll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and\nasserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought\ncontrary from his!\n\n\"What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?\" he demanded.\n\nWhat a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes,\nfilled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering\ntongue in pretty, crooked words, said: \"The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is\nmy Master,\" and Juana's tongue lingered lovingly over the word\u2014she had\nlately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her\u2014\"I fear, oh!\nvery much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here,\"\nand both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.\n\nPaul's answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending\nwith\u2014\"I am your master! You are to obey me and none other.\" And then he\nstooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would\nbe terrible to her: \"If you do not, I will cast you off!\"\n\nIt was not will-power, nor strength of purpose\u2014inherited from any\nancestor, either Spanish or Mexican\u2014but grace divine, that enabled\nJuana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift\nher soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him,\ncome what would.\n\nWhen Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any\nother time. He hated \"religionists,\" and was determined not to have\nthe wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism.\nMoreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down.\nHe would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible\nreading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting\nto be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his\ndispleasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands,\nthreats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved\nto leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted\nabsence, loneliness would bring her to terms.\n\n\"I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly\nobedient,\" Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory\nand beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching\nhim disappear through the great gateway\u2014gone and she alone in her\nsorrow. \"What if he never came up that flower 'broidered path again?\nHer Paul was firm, he would not relent.\" (The poor, blind child did not\nknow that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)\n\nMartyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall\nsay which is most heroic\u2014to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the\nheart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the\nslow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?\n\nWeary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away,\nbut the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not\nfail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour\nher friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart;\nso that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received\nmany letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for\nhis return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for\nhim but deny or displease \"the dear Christ Jesus.\" \"He do make me happy\neven in my sorrow,\" she wrote. This was more than the vain man could\nbear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!\n\nPaul's next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in\nthe heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country\nfor years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on\nherself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to\nhim to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted\nto hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither\nshould she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to\nthis cruel decision more easily from just having received news that\nJuana's old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the\nchurch, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy\nfrom the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain\nhimself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be\nburdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.\n\nFor weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As\nstrength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her\nanguish, \"I can never, never live without him.\"\n\nShe did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a\nwild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her\nhusband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find\nhim, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change.\nShe could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her\nsmall property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary\njourney arrived\u2014a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed\nthe cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The\nsearch proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious.\nFaint and ready to perish\u2014did some one speak her name? \"Child, come\nunto me, I will give you rest.\" And then Juana's heart leaped, and she\nanswered quickly, \"Master.\" Then were her eyes opened, and she knew\nthat the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting\nup in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought\nforgiveness, he showed the \"vividness of His mercy,\" and gave her not\nonly comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself\nand her husband at his feet with, \"Thy will be done.\"\n\nIn loving submission she asked now, \"What wilt Thou have me to do?\"\nAnd for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism\nand idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but\nwhat could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very\nlittle money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold\nitself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the\ndoor stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear.\nJuana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in\nshe followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman's\nmissionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different\nsubjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low\ntones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then,\nthe faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a\ngood place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and\nthen, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that.\nAfter prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about\nMexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and\nfine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them.\nShe listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her\ncommission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid\ntones, said, \"Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little\nword for her?\" It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never\nwas appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to \"send help now,\nfor they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all.\"\n\nThen, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat.\nBut the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would,\npersuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of\nso many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting\neverything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion.\nThe eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she\ndescribed her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women\nto their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as\nthis young stranger were hidden away there.\n\nThe fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church,\nand the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts\nturned warmly to the \"land of the sun,\" as this young wife, a miracle\nof God's grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken,\neager words, pleaded with tears for \"my dear Mexico.\"\n\nGladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by\nthis means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached\nand moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.\n\nThe Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her\nnative country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good\nnews, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work\nfor Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with\ntreasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and\nloving farewells of hosts of God's people.\n\nTo-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells\nthe glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she\nworks her prayer goes up that Paul may become \"a new creature in Christ\nJesus,\" and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work\nby her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that\nthe Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a\nsaint.\n\nPatiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she\nhas come to \"the valley of blessing,\" to rest and peace, and the song\nshe loves best to sing, is\u2014\n\n     \"Emptied, that He might fill me,\n      As forth to His labor I go,\n   Broken, that so unhindered\n      His life through me might flow.\"\n\n\n\n                           TEN BUSHELS.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nMRS. LYMAN was in the kitchen superintending dinner. She was but a\nyoung housekeeper, so there was a certain amount of anxiety connected\nwith making even a kettle of soup. She stirred and tasted and put in\nanother shake of pepper and another pinch of salt, and said to her maid\nof all work, who stood by watching the process:\n\n\"I do wish I had an onion to put in it; soup is not very good without\nan onion flavor.\"\n\nThe remark was made more to herself than to Barbara, whose knowledge of\nEnglish was somewhat limited. If it had not been, and if she had known\nthe way and it had not been too late, she might have gone down town and\nbought some onions. As those obstacles were all in the way, the soup\nmust needs go without.\n\nWhen the six o'clock dinner was spread in the very prettiest dining\nroom that can be imagined, the table glittering in its new silver, and\nthe soup smoking in the tureen, the master of the house\u2014a young man who\nhad only enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the head of his own table\nfor a couple of months\u2014took it all in, as his own tastes were capable\nof doing. The savory odors, the cheery room, the careful attention to\nevery detail of comfort and beauty, and then the slight figure opposite\nhim, an embodiment of dignity and grace\u2014he found nothing lacking in it\nall.\n\n\"This soup is not quite perfect,\" the young wife said, as she began to\nserve it, \"I had no onions to put in it. I wish you would order some\nwhen you go down town to-morrow, Philip; they are nice just now for\nboiling, too.\"\n\nThis young couple had compared views on Browning and Ruskin, but not on\nonions. They had long ago discussed poetry, philosophies, and art, as\nwell as architecture and house furnishings, and they had found hitherto\nthat their tastes were in most delightful accord. Mrs. Lyman was not\nprepared, therefore, for the frown that contracted her husband's\nhandsome brows as he ejaculated:\n\n\"Onions! Don't mention them. Excuse me from that purchase, please.\nThey are abominable; not fit for human beings to eat. They ought to be\nbanished from every respectable table.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" Mrs. Lyman answered, with rising color, \"but\nall do not agree in such a sweeping denunciation. Many of the best\nphysicians consider them most nutritious and healthful.\"\n\n\"Well, at all events, I shall not have my house polluted with the\nvile things. If there is anything that reminds one of a third-rate\nboarding-house, it is to get a whiff of onions the moment you enter the\nfront door. It is vulgar and low. I can't see how any one of refined\ntastes can touch them. I hope you are not an onion eater, Nettie,\nbecause if you are, I fear you will have to abstain; I cannot abide\nthem.\"\n\nNow Mrs. Annette Heyward Lyman was exceedingly fond of onions. She was\nnot of the sort to declare that she was \"passionately fond of them,\"\nbut she did think a nice dish of boiled onions, pretty white ones,\nswimming in hot milk and butter, was just the thing to go with\u2014stewed\nchicken, say. Then, she enjoyed thin slices of raw onions cut into\nvinegar; and crisp, green-topped young ones, dipped in salt and eaten\nwith bread and butter, were just delicious. And yet, if Philip had\nmildly hinted that he had a special aversion for that vegetable, she\nwould have declared, \"I will eat no onions while the world standeth.\"\nBut to attack them in this sharp way, to declare them vulgar, and,\nabove all, to dictate to her what she should or should not eat, as if\nhe were her master, and to say \"my house!\" it was too much, and she\nanswered in an icy tone that \"she must beg leave to differ; to her mind\nthe onion was a most delicious vegetable, and she must reserve for\nherself the right of choice in this and in other matters.\"\n\nTheir first quarrel! And all about an onion! What cares Satan whether\nit be an apple or an onion, so that he spoil the Edens?\n\nThere were many more words quite as pungent as onions, and then\nthere fell a silence between them that was not broken after Barbara\nhad lighted the gas in the parlor, and drawn the table under the\ndrop-light, and they were seated with books and newspapers. There was\nno reading done, but much ugly thinking. One line of it ran after this\nfashion:\n\n\"Strange that so delicate, refined a nature should have a taste for\nthat vile, flagrant, odious onion!\" A wretched discovery, that his\nwife should be fond of that for which he had always felt disgust! And\nevidently she did not mean to give them up, not even for his sake. Was\nshe selfish and proud and obstinate and\u2014and high-tempered? Had he been\nmistaken in her character and her regard for him?\n\nThe wife meantime was recalling an opinion long ago expressed by a\nfriend, who said that Philip Lyman possessed a domineering spirit and\nwas bound to rule all connected with him. She, herself, had never\nbelieved it, but this looked like it\u2014wishing her to give up whatever\nhe did not fancy, and hinting that she would be obliged to. Indeed! He\nwould find that she did not drive well; no, indeed. If her husband had\nobserved the glowing cheeks and flashing eyes just then he would have\nbeen justified in concluding that she was \"high-tempered.\"\n\nAnd now came a break in this uncomfortable state of things in the shape\nof Mr. John Lyman, on a business trip; \"could only spend the night with\nhis brother. He was sorry to spoil their evening together.\" He would\nhave been sorrier had he known they had not spoken for just two hours.\n\nAnnette soon retired, leaving the brothers to talk over home affairs\nwhile she went to her room to indulge in the luxury of grief. How\ndark it all looked. Philip was changing. Perhaps he was sorry they\nwere married. He had the same as said she was vulgar and coarse. He\nwas fastidious; she could never please him; they would have dreadful\nquarrels, for she could not submit to be ordered. And now the tears\nthat had been stored up all these bright years fell in most surprising\nshowers, until sleep had got the better of them.\n\nThe morning was a hurrying time; the brother must get down town for the\nearly train. A hasty good-by with averted eyes, and Philip was gone.\nAs he lunched near his office, two miles away, he would not be at home\nagain until night.\n\nA long, unhappy day before Annette! She felt ten years older than\nyesterday morning, when Philip had come all the way back from the gate\nto put a rose in her hair. She wished she could see her mother; she\nwished she could go off where Philip wouldn't find her in years; that\nis, she thought she did. Oh! What a wretched world it was. Poor foolish\nchild! But she had only lived twenty little years.\n\nMr. Philip Lyman alone in his office, tried to settle himself to his\nusual duties, but he felt ill at ease and uninterested. Finally he\nthrew down his pen, tipped back in his chair, and locked his fingers\ntogether at the back of his head, a favorite thinking attitude. His\neyes wandered out the window, resting on white clouds sailing through\nthe sky. Perhaps the deep blue reminded him of Nettie's eyes, or the\nwrapper she had worn that morning. However it was, he soon fell to\nconfessing to those soft clouds.\n\n\"What a consummate idiot! She thinks me a tyrant, and rude and selfish.\nShe ought to be vexed at me. As if I should make over her tastes, and\ntry to control her. I was rude and hateful and unkind. Contemptible!\"\n\nAnd with that he seized his hat and dashed down-stairs into the street.\nHe went straight to a market, bought a peck of onions and ordered them\nsent home. An unpoetical peace offering, he reflected, but the most\nappropriate for him under the circumstances. But stop, those were red\nonions. This fact was brought to his consciousness by observing on the\nsidewalk a basket of unusually fine white ones; and she had especially\nwished white onions. Immediately he stepped in and bought a peck of\nthose.\n\nAs he walked along, filled with the peaceful consciousness of having\nmade some atonement, he spied a wagon filled to the top with clean\nshiny-skinned, white onions. \"They really look attractive,\" he said to\nhimself. Then there darted into his mind a new idea. What if he should\nprove to Annette what a magnanimous, self-denying being he really was,\nand take to eating the obnoxious things himself just to please her; be\na philosopher, a stoic, and will to like what he detested?\n\nThere must be no half-way work about this act of self-abnegation;\nhe would provide a generous supply. Now that he thought of it,\nautumn was just the time to lay in a supply of vegetables. What had\nhe been thinking of, buying only a peck? Nov, how many was a good\nquantity\u2014enough to last all winter? That was a conundrum. He had dim\nmemories of ten bushels of this and that stored in his father's cellar.\nTrue his father had a large family. But then, they should have a\ngreat many visitors. The proprietor of the wagon stared when he heard\nthe order, but his business was to sell onions. If Philip Lyman was\ncomplacent before, he was jubilant now in contemplation of his virtues.\nHe bounded up the stairs, resolving to go home at noon, surprise\nNettie, and \"make up.\" He was a monster to have left her in such a cold\nway. He was obliged to abandon that plan, though, having already lost\nso much time.\n\nAnnette meantime had been aroused from her despondent mood by the first\ninstallment of onions. Onions have healing properties, everybody knows.\nThey began to prove efficacious in this case. Philip wanted to show her\nthat he was sorry, she reasoned, and had taken this way to do it. It\nwas just as delicate and kind as if the onions had been flowers,\u2014she\nignored the fact that they were red. While her spirits were being thus\nsoothed and comforted, the second peck of onions arrived. This was\nperplexing. Why had he done that? Ah! These were white, and he had\nrecollected that she liked white ones. How thoughtful and good! How\nunselfish and candid and noble to own himself wrong, and she\u2014had been\nfoolish and wicked to get angry at nothing.\n\nShe was just beginning to feel that life was worth living, when another\nman presented himself announcing that he had brought some onions.\nAnnette assured him there was some mistake, as they had sufficient\nfor a long time. But he affirmed most strenuously this was the spot,\nproducing the directions in her husband's handwriting. Then Annette\ntold him that she must countermand the order; that she positively\nwished for no more onions.\n\n\"But ye see I got my pay for 'em,\" he answered, with a horrible grin,\nwhereupon the discomfited young woman retired into the house and the\ntriumphant onions went into the cellar.\n\nTramp, tramp, and roll, roll. Would he never have done? He seemed like\nan arch fiend, sent to torment her. If she could but have known the\nsoliloquy he of the onions carried on as he went back and forth, and\nthat he took a malicious delight in getting the better of her, it might\nhave turned the tide of her rising wrath into a laugh. When a laugh\ncomes in, wrath goes out.\n\n\"That's jest the way with wimmin folks\u2014headstrong! They think they know\na leetle the most about everything. The young feller likes onions, I\ns'pose, and she don't, and she's 'tarmined he sha'n't have 'em. I'm\nglad she's got a boss. She needs it.\"\n\nBy the time the tenth bushel was deposited all Annette's late estimates\nand decisions had been reversed. Of all despicable acts this was the\nclimax\u2014to send a whole load of those horrible things, as if to say,\n\"Grovelling creature, can't live without onions! Take them!\" It was\njust a simple exhibition of spite and sarcasm. She would never have\nbelieved he could do so cruel a thing. Since she was a child she had\nnot been so angry. It was a lofty, scornful anger that did not vent\nitself in tears. Besides, the tears were all used up.\n\nSnatching her hat and mantle, she went out into the air to try to calm\nherself. On and on she went out into the country, dreading to return.\nFinding herself within half a mile of her cousin's house, she decided\nto call in order to get away from her thoughts. It proved the right\nplace for that purpose. Little Harry had become suddenly ill, and the\ndistracted mother welcomed her gladly. The two worked over him all\nthe afternoon. As night came on Annette felt that it would be cruel\nto leave until there was some ray of hope. So she wrote a note to her\nhusband, briefly and coldly explaining her absence. A passing boy\nagreed to deliver it, but it never got beyond his own pocket.\n\nToward evening Barbara began to wonder what kept her mistress, and\ndecided to take matters into her own hands and get up a dinner. Seeing\nthe large bin of onions in the cellar, she said within herself, \"This\nis what she all time want; I will cook some!\" During the process of\ncooking she made many trips to the front door to watch for her lost\nmistress. Each time she left all the doors open behind her, and so\nthoroughly perfumed the whole house with the odor of the dinner.\n\nIn the city Paul had picked up an old college friend and persuaded him\nto stay over a train and dine with him. As he ushered his friend into\nthe pretty house, with a pardonable pride, it was somewhat taken down\nby the unmistakable odor that greeted him.\n\n\"Onions! As I live,\" he said to himself, \"and Merwin is such a\nfastidious fellow! However, wait till he sees Annette.\" So he went in\nhaste to bring her.\n\nUpstairs and down and in the garden he searched. She was not to be\nfound. This was a new departure\u2014to be away on his return. He told his\nfriend she had probably been detained\u2014would be in presently.\n\nChagrined and mortified almost beyond his power to conceal, after\nwaiting an hour, he was obliged to invite his friend to a table\nwithout a hostess. The first cover he removed disclosed a dozen huge\nspecimens of that obnoxious, ill-odored vegetable that had caused their\nunhappiness. He forgot his heroic resolve and shut it with emphasis\u2014not\nto-night would he eat onions. It was unlike the delicate tact of his\nwife to have ordered them cooked that night, while she was still\nignorant of what had passed in his mind.\n\nBarbara was not yet perfect. The dinner both in cooking and serving\nmissed the supervision of the mistress. The host was ill at ease and\nabsent, and was not sorry that his guest soon bade him good-by.\n\nAnd now Philip grew positively uneasy, and proved himself not a whit\nbehind a woman in the power to conjure up dire probabilities. Perhaps\nshe had slipped from that high bank where they sometimes walked along\nthe river! And he rushed out through the garden and over the fields\ntill he stood on the bank amidst the gathering shadows and peered\nremorsefully into the dark waters. What if somebody had abducted her;\nhad brought word that he was ill and had carried her off! That thought\nwas maddening. Then he remembered her one relative in that vicinity\u2014her\ncousin.\n\nNo public conveyance went that way, and in hot haste, he started on\nfoot. His speed astonished himself. Breathless and panting, he arrived\nand was about to ring, when, obeying an impulse, he stepped to the\nside porch and looked through the vine-covered window. Yes; surely,\nthere was Annette! A little group near the open fire; she kneeling by\na low chair, her bright head bending over little Harry, who lay in his\nmother's lap.\n\nThe first feeling was of relief and gratitude. She was safe. And then,\nit was his turn. There came surging over him, like a hot breath from\na furnace, a wave of anger, and he strode away. His hasty glance had\nnot shown him the death-like pallor on the baby face, nor the anxious\nexpressions of the others. His conclusion was that the baby was being\nmade ready for bed, and the two were admiring his pretty pink toes.\n\nOn he went in the darkness, his resentment gathering force at every\nstep. Here she had deliberately planned to put him to torture. How\nlittle she must care for him when she would allow him to spend a\nwhole night in anxiety. He had supposed her nature to be gentle and\nforgiving, and here she had treasured up a few hasty words and was\nintent on revenge. He had made concessions, and she had scorned them.\nAlas! He had not the dimmest suspicion that those ten bushels of\nconcessions were just what widened the breach. He walked the floor for\nhours, then flinging himself on a lounge, toward morning chopped into a\nheavy sleep.\n\nThe result of the night's meditation was a decision that the next\nadvance toward reconciliation must come from Annette herself. Just as\nhe was about starting for the office in the morning, Annette was driven\nup to the door. They looked at each other in silence. He lingered a\nmoment to see if she had any explanations to offer, and she waited in\nthe hall hoping that possibly he had repented of the odious conduct\nof yesterday and was willing to confess it. Silence is not always\n\"golden;\" the proverb is misleading. If he had but asked, \"Why did you\ngo away?\" Or she had said some pleasant word! But, no; they passed each\nother in grim silence.\n\nAnother day of gloom and despair for both. This unwonted strain, added\nto the night's watching, brought upon Annette a nervous headache, so\nthat by the time of Philip's return she could not raise her head. It\nwas fortunate. But for this they might have gone on till happiness was\nwrecked. Annette, with spirited little head erect, sailing through the\nhouse, was to be considered somewhat differently from this one, her\nhead on a pillow, racked with pain. No mother could have cared for her\nmore tenderly and skillfully than Philip. Throwing his resentment to\nthe winds, he administered to her for hours until she fell into a quiet\nsleep.\n\nIn the morning, with the pain all gone, explanations were in order. It\nwas hard to tell which was the more astonished as the misunderstandings\nof each began to come out.\n\n\"And you did not go away to have revenge on me?\" \"And you did not send\nhome all those onions just to tease me?\" were some of the questions\nasked. Then the ludicrous side began to appear, and they laughed long\nand merrily.\n\n\"Whatever shall we do with all those onions?\" queried Annette when she\nfound her breath.\n\n\"We will make sweet fragrance to our names by means of them,\" said\nPhilip. \"We will send gifts to the poor\u2014always of onions. We will\nbecome famous as philanthropists, and our eccentric charities will be\nthe theme of succeeding generations. But, Nettie, I wish you would make\na picture of some of those silvery-skinned onions. We will hang it up\nin the dining room, and it shall teach us wholesome lessons that nobody\nelse can read but just us two. Shall teach me not to forget the 'small\nsweet courtesies of life.'\"\n\n\"And shall teach me,\" said Annette humbly, \"'that anger dwells in the\nbosom of fools.'\"\n\n\"And that 'greater is he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh\na city,'\" added Philip.\n\n\"My darling,\" he said, as their lips met in the kiss of reconciliation,\n\"let us never again misinterpret, misjudge, or lose faith in each\nother, whatever comes.\"\n\n\n\n                    MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nMISS RACHEL WHITTAKER, as the years went by, found herself sole\noccupant of the old family homestead. Father and mother had lived\ntheir long honored lives, finished their work, and entered into rest.\nBrothers and sisters had one after another made for themselves new\nhomes and gone their different ways. Miss Rachel had passed safely\nthrough the romances of youth and settled down to sober middle-aged\nlife. She had also resisted all persuasions of friends to sell the old\nplace and make her home with some one of the various families. \"Because\nthere is no man in the case,\" said Miss Whittaker, with a slightly\ncontemptuous emphasis on the \"man,\" \"is no reason why I should not have\na home of my own.\"\n\nSo life went on in the old Whittaker mansion with the same zest and\norder as if the household numbered a half-dozen, instead of a single\nlone female and her servant. There was the same punctilious regard\nto times and seasons. The house-cleaning paroxysm invariably came on\na certain day of the month, the Monday's wash flapped in the wind,\nand the Saturday's baking sent forth spicy odors as regularly as they\nhad done for the last forty years. The cellar continued to be stocked\neach autumn with \"Mercers\" and \"Pink-eyes,\" with \"Greenings\" and\n\"Spitzenbergs,\" with \"Golden Pippins\" and \"Pound Sweets.\" The closet\nshelves contained their due amount of riches: rows of jars and glasses,\nfilled with peaches, pears, quinces and jellies. In short, everything\npertaining to good cheer was literally brimming over.\n\nAnd Miss Rachel fed her chickens, counted her eggs, watered her plants\nand pattered upstairs and down, or sat in her large, sunny room and\nread her books and magazines, or clicked her knitting needles to the\nticking of the tall old clock. Or she gathered a few friends about her\nfor a social tea drinking, or, flung wide the doors of the old house\nto a troop of nieces and nephews. It was not alone that Miss Whittaker\nwas fond of company, but it was pleasant to keep up the old customs. It\nwas a pitiful attempt to bring back, as far as possible, the old times.\nIt was easier when gay chatter and merry prattle filled the rooms, to\nsee the white-haired father and mother as of old in their arm-chairs\nby the fireside. The most prosaic have a vein of sentiment somewhere.\nRachel Whittaker's took this form; she guarded with a reverence that\namounted to idolatry every object and principle belonging to those two.\nHer father's old hat occupied the identical peg on which he himself\nhung it the last time he went out; and mother's darning basket stood on\nthe little stand, with balls and thimble and glasses; the needle stuck\nin the ball of blue yarn just where her own fingers placed it so long\nago. And so, housekeeping was something more than ministering to her\nown wants or entertaining friends; it was having things go on as \"they\"\nwould like to see them go on.\n\nThis devoted daughter was careful, as well, to direct the family\nbenevolences into the well-worn channels in which they were accustomed\nto run. The church subscription and the contributions to home and\nforeign missions, and the various \"Boards,\" were as faithfully attended\nto as if good Squire Whittaker still sat at the head of his pew.\n\nShe even loved and perpetuated her father's prejudices, and was\ntoo apt, like him, to have more sympathy for the unfortunate in\nBooroboolagha, than for those at her own door. She was prone to set\nall these down as \"drunken\" or \"shiftless.\" However, she had not much\nopportunity to cultivate the grace of charity in home work, as nearly\nall the little community were well-to-do.\n\nOne of Miss Rachel's duties as a good housekeeper was to see that the\nlarge stock of bedding, packed away in trunks and closets, was aired\nat frequent intervals. It was more than abundant for the needs of a\nlarge family\u2014and the Whittaker family was a large one when gathered\nin the old home at Thanksgiving and the holidays. One day in early\nwinter\u2014\"just the right sort of a day for airing bedclothes, so warm and\nbright,\" Miss Rachel declared\u2014the lines in the yard were filled with\nblankets, quilts, comfortables, etc., and the piazza roofs were adorned\nwith feather beds and pillows.\n\nAmong the passers-by was Mrs. Barnes. She lived in the little gray,\nweather-beaten house just under the hill. She was neither shiftless\nnor drunken, yet she was pitifully poor, and was a widow as well,\nwith three little children. She could \"dig,\" though to \"beg\" she was\nashamed, and managed by hard work and much pinching and stinting to\npiece out a living. What a tempting sight was this goodly array to the\nhalf-frozen woman!\n\nNobody knew but herself how hard she had tried to get enough bedding\ntogether for the winter; how she had saved every old scrap and pieced\nit up and eked out the cotton with newspapers that she had secured from\nMiss Rachel; and yet, with all that, the old house was so open it was\ngoing to be hard work to keep warm in the long, cold nights.\n\nShe stood and looked at those soft double blankets and thick\ncomfortables, and said to herself, \"What a thing it must be, eh, to\nhave such lots of bedclothes; to pile on as many as you please and be\nwarm as toast all night! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven\u2014I\ndon't know how many blankets, double at that, and ever and ever so many\ncomfortables, besides quilts and spreads. And there she is with all\nthem warm things and nobody to keep warm but herself, and here I be,\nwith three little children and no warm things. Oh dear! Why couldn't\nthe two 'a' gone together, I should like to know.\" Then she brushed\naway a tear with the corner of her shawl and went on her way.\n\nMiss Whittaker sat near the side window and noticed that the Widow\nBarnes stopped and looked over the fence. Somehow she didn't like to\nsee her standing there, her thin dress blowing in the wind, her faded\nold shawl drawn close about her, and with such anxious-looking eyes\nfixed on those blankets. But now the obnoxious figure in the old shawl\nmoved on, and Miss Rachel could once more give her undivided attention\nto a very difficult piece of embroidery she was engaged in making for a\nfair.\n\nThat very night winter began in earnest. The north wind and the frost\nwent out hand in hand. They built bridges over streams, made rocky\nroads, and crept in here and there, unbidden and unwelcome. They\nfound their way to Miss Rachel's chamber, but she got a victory over\nthem by simply reaching out her hand and drawing over her self a soft\ncomfortable.\n\nThe same unmerciful couple visited the poor as well as the rich; they\ncrept into the cracks and crannies of the Widow Barnes' little house.\nShe awoke with chills creeping over her, and got up and hunted about\nin the dark for something more to put over the two little girls in the\ntrundle-bed, who had once or twice sleepily called out \"cold!\" She\ntucked her shawl and their old sacks about them, then snuggled little\nBessie close in her arms and \"wished for the day.\"\n\nThe frost and the wind had their own way all through the following\nday. It was a gloomy prospect for the night to Mrs. Barnes. She had\nhoped before cold weather set in to manage in some way to get more\nbedclothes. A fire all night was out of the question. As a forlorn\nhope, she put on her hood and shawl and went towards night, up the\nhill to Miss Whittaker's. Why, she scarcely knew. There was the least\nglimmer of a prospect that she might get some plain sewing to do, or,\n\"Who knows,\" she told herself, \"but that Miss Whittaker will say, 'Mis'\nBarnes, here is an old comfortable; if you can make it useful, you\nare welcome to it.' Oh! if she only would.\" And while the poor woman\nstruggled up the hill against the wind she was unconsciously concocting\na suitable reply to such a gracious proposition.\n\nMiss Rachel had an excellent habit of employing her odds and ends of\ntime in reading. By means of it she kept up familiar acquaintance with\nold authors.\n\nTo-night, after the lamps were lighted\u2014and there were yet a few minutes\nbefore tea\u2014she took a dip into \"Thomson's Seasons.\" She was just\nreading:\n\n   \"See, winter comes to rule the invested year,\n    Sullen and sad with all his rising train,\n    Vapors and clouds and storms.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *       *       *\n\n   \"'Tis done! dread winter spreads his latest glooms,\n    And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year,\u2014\"\n\nwhen the kitchen door opened and Mary admitted Mrs. Barnes. What a\nheavenly place that room, with its warmth and brightness, seemed to\nthis other woman. Miss Rachel laid aside her book and gave kindly\nattention to her poorer neighbor. They talked about the weather, how\nvery early the cold had come on, how sharp the wind had been all day,\nand what an exceedingly cold night last night was.\n\n\"I put everything I could lay my hands on over us, and yet we shivered\nin our beds,\" Mrs. Barnes said.\n\nThen Miss Rachel suggested that the house was probably open, and gave\nsome valuable advice as to the best method of making doom and windows\nweather-proof. \"Stop up all the chinks, and I think you will be more\ncomfortable,\" she said; and then added that she was sorry she knew of\nno work for her. It was very difficult to get anything to do in the\nwinter time. Had she not better try to put out her children and go into\nsome nice family herself? It would be a great deal better all round.\n\nMrs. Barnes got up hastily, then, and said she must go. She wanted\nto say that if she could get work to do she could take care of her\nchildren without help from anybody, but something choked her, so that\nshe could not speak. This was the horrible thing that was always\nstaring her in the face\u2014to part with the children. Must she come to it,\njust for want of a little help over this hard spot?\n\nShe pushed out into the cold and darkness, and went on her way, slowly\nand heavily. \"I most hope she'll be cold herself some time, just to see\nhow it feels,\" she murmured, half aloud, as she caught the last glimpse\nof Miss Rachael's light, in the bend of the road. \"Why couldn't she let\nme have a couple of old comfortables and pay for it in work? I don't\nwant to beg, goodness knows, but I'll have to come to it, for all I\nsee.\"\n\nMiss Whittaker was not so hard-hearted as she might seem. All the time\nMrs. Barnes was talking, she was engaged in consultation with herself\nas to whether there was anything in the way of bedclothes that she\ncould possibly spare. She did not wish to commit herself, so she made\nno promises, but she inwardly resolved that on the morrow she would\ntake a look to that end.\n\nAccordingly, the next morning found her with her head in chests and\nclosets amid piles of blankets and the like. It was astonishing how\nmany beds one woman, who lived all alone, had to provide for.\n\nThat pile was for Sister Martha's bed, that for Elvira's, that for\nBrother Ephraim's. Then, suppose they should all come at once and bring\na couple of children apiece; they never had yet, but then they might,\nand if they did, at least six beds would need to be made ready; and if\nthe weather should prove to be very cold at the time, why, it would\ntake an enormous amount of covering, and it was always best to be ready\nfor emergencies. Then there were certain quilts that she would not part\nwith under any consideration, even though they were somewhat faded.\nThe \"album\" quilt contained precious association of all the Whittaker\nfamily. The \"wheel within a wheel\" mother pieced and quilted; \"the\nbirds in the air\" she pieced herself, beginning at the early age of\nfour. As for common comfortables, it was needful to have a good many to\nspread over feather beds and mattresses.\n\nThere! It was done. Miss Rachel had gone laboriously through them all,\nand yet nothing had been found that was in any way suitable to bestow\nupon the Widow Barnes.\n\nDinner time came now, and she put them all away with\u2014\"I will see about\nit some other time.\" Ah, how many good things Satan hinders with that\nsalve to the conscience\u2014\"some other time\"!\n\nAfter the cold came the snow, pouring out from the sky one ceaseless,\nsilent stream for three days and nights. It piled itself in huge drifts\nin roadways, hid the fences, and\u2014most buried the little house in the\nhollow. The widow occupied her time in shovelling snow before her\ndoors and windows, lest they should be buried entirely. Her thoughts,\nmeantime, were gloomy and sad. She knew about the God who hears the\nyoung ravens when they cry, but she did not believe He would hear her,\nand\u2014like many more of his children\u2014when trouble came, stopped her ears\nto gracious promises and fell into sullen gloom.\n\nMiss Whittaker was a prisoner, too, in her cheery rooms. She was\npleasantly employed, though; she knit bright socks for Martha's baby\nboy, made up a store of mince pies and fruit cake, and read a new\nbook called \"Snow Bound.\" In short, she was altogether comfortable\nand happy, or would have been but for one thing. And that thing was\nnot snow; she liked that. What disturbed Miss Rachel's serenity\nduring those few days, was, that she could not shake off a feeling of\nuneasiness with regard to the Widow Barnes. Her face, pale and worn,\nkept coming up before her, and the words, \"We shivered in our beds,\"\nsounded in her ears. Then all the texts in the Bible she had ever\nread about the poor kept coming and going through her brain. She was\na diligent reader, and her memory was good. When she would fain have\nentertained herself recalling the musical flow of\u2014\n\n   \"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,\n    And the winter winds are wearily sighing,\"\n\nshe could think of nothing but\u2014\n\n   \"Blessed is he that considereth the poor, the Lord will deliver him\nin time of trouble.\"\n\nOr,\u2014\n\n   \"If any of you see a brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels\nof compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?\"\n\nShe was not unmindful of the poor; she had helped Mrs. Barnes in\nvarious little ways. Why must she feel so condemned? she asked herself\nagain and again.\n\nWith fair weather came the cold again; came stealing down upon the\nsleeping world like a thief in the night. Miss Rachel was unusually\ntired and slept very soundly, so that she did not waken even when the\nfire on her hearth had died out, and the cold become so intense in her\nroom that the windows were frost covered, and the breath of the sleeper\nwent up in little clouds of smoke. She stirred uneasily several times,\nand was just awake enough to know that she was cold, and not awake\nenough to bestir herself and get more covering. For a few minutes she\nlay in that half-waking state, thinking she ought, and would, and must\nrouse up and get more blankets. Finally, she thought she had done so\nand slept on.\n\nVery soon after that she found herself far away from her own home,\ntrying to walk over a floor of solid ice. She gazed about her in\nhorror! The place was a large, deep pit, lighted by a lurid glare.\nWhichever way she turned her eyes, she saw nothing but ice, icy floor\nand icy walls, smooth and shining like glass. She clutched at them to\nsave her sliding steps, but there was nothing to hold to; her hands\nslipped and she fell in a heap on the floor. She looked wildly above\nher for a way of escape. At the top of the pit she saw pretty rooms,\nwith bright fires and happy-looking people sitting about sewing,\nreading and chatting. She shrieked for help, but they only shook their\nheads and went smilingly on with their occupations.\n\nOn one side she saw the Widow Barnes and her children. They sat amidst\npiles of blankets, heaped all about them, and they were soft and fleecy\nas her own had been. Oh! If she had but one to keep out this deathly\nchill. She screamed out again in an agony of torture, begging that just\none blanket might be thrown down to her. But a mocking voice only came\nback to her, and it said, \"Stop up the chinks, and I think you'll be\ncomfortable.\"\n\nIn shivering terror she awoke, relieved beyond measure to find herself\nat home in her own bed, and then there flashed over her mind the story\nof Goody Blake and Harry Gill.\n\nHad the Widow Barnes been praying that she might never be warm again?\nAnd must she go through life with her teeth chattering as they were\nnow? Mingling confusedly with the words of the old ballad, \"Chatter,\nchatter, chatter still,\" came a rush of Scripture texts, vivid and\nstartling as if a voice spoke them in her ears, and they were all about\nthe poor.\n\nShe was so thoroughly stiffened by cold and fear that she could\nscarcely rise and go to the closet for the needed covering which on\nthis night she had forgotten to place by her bedside.\n\nMiss Rachel had been accustomed to draw up and write out, at the\ncommencement of each year, a series of severe resolutions; the fact\nthat she never kept one half of them not abating their rigor in the\nleast. But never in calmest moments, with pen in hand and diary before\nher, had any such earnest, self-denying resolves been made as were now\nmade by the woman who stood in night array in her closet, holding a\nflickering lamp in one hand, and with the other taking down blankets\nand comfortables and piling them on chairs.\n\nThat done, she took a bountiful supply for herself and went back to\nbed. Her shivering soon ceased, and for the remainder of the night she\nslept the sleep of the just.\n\nAs a matter of course, when the daylight streamed into her room, and\nthe red sun sent a slanting bar across her bed, Satan told Miss Rachel\nthat it was perfect foolishness to pay any attention to a dream, and\nthat it was simply improvident to go and give away that great pile of\nbedding she had laid out; that a couple of old ragged quilts would\nanswer every purpose. He was obliged, however, to leave her in peace,\nfor when Miss Rachel shut her lips tight, and said, \"I shall do it,\" in\nthat decisive way of hers, there was no need of further parley.\n\nNo sooner were the roads broken than she went in search of a man with\na sleigh. When all was ready, it was a sight to behold\u2014at least to the\neyes of cold and hungry people. In the very bottom was a quantity of\ndry wood, then came a layer of meat, potatoes, apples, flour. And this\nwas crowned by blankets and comfortables, more than enough for two beds\nin the very coldest weather. \"I'll see if I don't get the upper hand of\nthis mean, selfish spirit,\" Miss Rachel had ejaculated, as she stowed\nan extra blanket on the load at the last minute.\n\nThe Widow Barnes was bending over her smoky old stove, trying to coax\nsome green knots to ignite, when the sleigh stopped in front of her\nhouse. She had a dream, too, last night. It was about Heaven. That\nhappy place seemed to be filled with blankets and warm fires. But here,\nbehold, was Heaven come down to her door! She assured the man he had\ncome to the wrong place, but the note he handed her, with money to buy\na whole load of wood, settled the matter.\n\nFrom that time forth Miss Rachel took it upon her, as a sacred trust,\nto see to it that the Widow Barnes lacked for nothing. And, strange to\nrelate, her subscriptions to foreign missions, home missions, freedmen,\neducation, etc., have not been cut down a particle in consequence.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S STORY.]\n\n\n\n                       THE DOCTOR'S STORY.\n\n                               \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\"I WANT to tell you a story, young man.\"\n\nThe speaker was the Rev. Joseph Mentor, D. D., a gray-haired,\nkeen-eyed, large-brained, sweet-faced, grand old Christian. He sat\nin his own parlor, which was not a parlor, after all, but a sort of\nstudy; lined with books on every hand, almost crowded with easy chairs;\nconvenient little writing-tables occupying cosy corners, with all the\nappurtenances thereto lavishly furnished, coaxing the privileged guest\nto write his letters, or arrange his neglected accounts, or read items\nfrom the various journals of the day, at his elbow, as his taste might\ndictate.\n\nThe present occupants of the room were three; the aforesaid Doctor,\nleaning back at rest in his favorite study chair\u2014his life had been\na long, grand one, and if ever disciple of the Master could afford\nto rest on earth, the Rev. Joseph Mentor might have claimed the\nprivilege; yet his very rest was active; the Doctor's son, a young\nman of twenty-five or so, now co-pastor, who had excused himself to\ntheir guest, in the manner that one may treat guests who are almost as\nmuch at home as they are themselves\u2014on the plea that there were two\nimportant letters to answer for the evening mail\u2014and then had turned to\none of the writing-tables, leaving his father to entertain the young\nman with a pale face and scholarly air, who sat in a half-dejected\nattitude in the straight-backed, old-fashioned chair near the Doctor.\nIt was to him that the old gentleman had turned with the apparently\nabrupt statement,\u2014\n\n\"I want to tell you a story, young man?\"\n\nThat the young man would be glad to hear any story that Doctor Mentor\nmight choose to honor him with, was evident from the flash of his eyes\nand the instant look of interest that overspread his face.\n\nThen the Doctor began: \"About a month ago I attended the funeral of a\nman in whom I have taken a deep interest all my life. He was an old\nman, and a plain man all his long life; yet, though I have attended a\ngreat many funerals in the last half-century, I don't think I ever saw\na greater uprising of the people to offer the last tribute of respect\nand affection to a plain man in their midst. I want to tell you a\nlittle about that man. Miller, his name was, Daniel Miller; he was\nolder than I, and in my young days I used to watch him from his pew in\nthe church. I liked his face, even then, before I knew him; a grave,\nhalf-sad face, yet never gloomy\u2014only a look of patient resignation to\nthe inevitable. A Christian man he was, one of the sterling sort. Talk\nwith anybody in that town about him, and they would pay almost instant\ntribute to his sterling worth, and almost always close with, 'What a\npity that such a good man as he is should be so hard of hearing.'\n\n\"That was his trouble, and a great trouble it was. I suppose it was\nthe means of breaking in pieces a number of plans of his youth. Well,\nthe thought was written all over his patient, sad face: 'I am hard of\nhearing and growing worse. It destroys my usefulness, it hinders my\nwork in every direction, it makes me appear unsocial and unsympathetic,\nin short, it is a burden hard to be borne.' As I watched him, I could\nsee that this feeling grew upon him; grew with his infirmity, and that\nprogressed quite rapidly.\n\n\"You have no idea, I suppose, what a drawback it was to him on all\noccasions. It got so that he didn't dare to open his lips in the prayer\nmeeting. He would look all around him, to see whether anybody was\nspeaking, but some of the members had a way of keeping their seats when\nthey talked, so he found that he couldn't tell by their position, and\nonce or twice he arose and began to pray when some one was talking; he\nwas a diffident man, and it embarrassed him dreadfully. Then he used to\nsay that he never knew whether what he had to offer was in a line with\nwhat had been said, or was very wide of the mark; and if the minister\nasked him to pray, he had to shout out the request, and sometimes poor\nMr. Miller couldn't hear it, and his wife would have to give his elbow\na nudge, and lean over and whisper to him loud enough for all the house\nto hear, 'He wants you to lead in prayer.'\n\n\"It was a real embarrassment all around. People didn't wonder that he\ngradually grew into the feeling that he couldn't take part very often\nin religious meetings; though I never thought that was right; I always\nbelieved that his prayers would be in a line with what the Lord wanted\nto have said, and that he would be safe enough, whether he followed the\nline of the others or not.\n\n\"So it went on, Daniel Miller growing deafer and deafer, and the\npatient, sad look on his face deepening, and the feeling growing in his\nheart that he wasn't of any use to the Church of Christ that he loved\nwith all his soul.\n\n\"One day somebody in that church had an inspiration. 'I tell you what\nit is,' one of the members said, bringing down his doubled-up fist on\nthe seat before him for emphasis, 'I believe we ought to make Daniel\nMiller our treasurer. That thing would suit him, and he is just the man\nto do the work.'\n\n\"'But Daniel Miller is so deaf,' objected one. 'He grows worse and\nworse; I notice that his wife always has to find the hymns for him, and\nthe place in the Bible, and point to the text.'\n\n\"'What if he is deaf?' said his champion; 'a man doesn't have to hear\nin order to add money and keep accounts, and make out bills and send\nthem out, and keep everything straight. I believe it is work that he\ncould do, and I believe it would do him good; make him feel that he can\ndo something for the church, and that we have confidence in him. I tell\nyou what it is, brethren, I'm going to propose his name at our next\nelection.'\n\n\"Well, he was as good as his word, and sure enough, all the people\nsaid 'Amen.' They did it with so much enthusiasm, and with such a look\non their faces that said, 'What a splendid idea! I wonder we never\nthought of it before,' that there was quite an excitement, and Mrs.\nMiller looked about her, and the tears began to gather in her eyes, and\nshe put her head down suddenly on the seat in front of her. She was a\ngrand, good woman\u2014a helpmeet to her good husband in every sense of the\nword.\n\n\"Well, Daniel Miller looked around with that meek, inquiring look on\nhis face, a little troubled, as much as to say, 'Are you having a good\ntime, brethren, or is there something going on in the Lord's house that\noughtn't to be; I'm jealous for his honor; I hope all is well.'\n\n\"The chairman got out of his chair of office and went down the aisle,\nand bent over Mr. Miller, and said in a good, loud voice, 'You have\nbeen elected our Church Treasurer by a unanimous vote.'\n\n\"You ought to have seen his face then; it was a picture. It flushed and\nglowed, and his eyes grew dim, and his lips quivered, and it seemed for\na minute that he couldn't speak at all. Then he stammered out something\nabout not being fitted for the work\u2014his infirmity being so great; he\nwished he could do something, he would be glad to, if he could, but\nmaybe it was a risk to try it.\n\n\"Then the chairman put down his mouth to his ear again, and called out,\n'We all stand ready to go your security, every one of us.'\n\n\"And then, sir, if you will believe it, that decorous assembly, made\nup of a class of people who believed every one of them in doing things\ndecently and in order, just clapped their hands, and he understood it,\nand he got out his handkerchief very suddenly. You never saw anything\nwork more like a charm than that arrangement did all around.\n\n\"Daniel Miller took hold of the work with a will, I tell you, and the\nwork was never better done. His 'infirmity,' as he always meekly called\nit, was a positive advantage to him. There wasn't any use in trying\nto tell him how the accounts stood, or explain away this or that; he\ncouldn't hear; it all had to be reduced to writing. And when a man sits\ndown in quiet to make a written account of anything that another man\nis expected to fully understand, why he uses language carefully, don't\nyou see? You don't suppose they were foolish enough, when his year was\nout to go and put in another treasurer, do you? Not a bit of it; the\nmachine was running too smoothly. They elected him again by as large a\nvote as before.\n\n\"'It does my heart good,' one old lady said, 'to see Daniel Miller go\nup for the collections on Sundays. He does it with such a glad look on\nhis face, as if he had found out something he could do for the church,\nand do well.'\n\n\"He did it well, too; no mistakes. By and by he began to send out\nlittle notes with his bills: 'We owe it to our pastor to pay his\nquarter's salary on the day promised.' Well, sir, when the next\nquarter's salary was paid the morning of the day: on which it was due,\nwithout having been asked for or run after, that minister thought\nthe millennium was about to dawn! He hadn't been used to that sort\nof thing. You never saw anything like the promptness with which pew\nrents were paid in the church. If a man was twenty-four hours behind\ntime, he was almost sure to receive a call from Mr. Miller; no writing\nnotes this time. That man understood human nature well. Just imagine\na gentleman standing in his store or office, and trying to carry on a\nconversation with Daniel Miller about not having paid his pew rent.\n'Money has been a little short with me lately,' he begins, 'and I\nthought a few days' delay\u2014'\n\n\"'What is it?' interrupts Daniel, with his hand to his ear. 'I'm hard\nof hearing, you know; speak a little louder, please.'\n\n\"Do you suppose that man is going to yell out for the benefit of the\npassers-by that he is a little short of money, and had deliberately\nplanned a few days' delay for his minister? The way it worked was\nfor him to scream out, 'You shall have the money at noon to-day, Mr.\nMiller.' Very likely, he grumbled that he wouldn't get caught in that\ntrap again, and he didn't. People didn't enjoy calls from Daniel Miller\nwhen they owed the church any money. I watched that thing with the\ngreatest interest. It grew all the time. It made a wonderful difference\nin Daniel's life; he kept his head straighter, and walked faster on the\nstreet. The church was large, and there was a good deal of business\nto be transacted, and Daniel had no temptation to brood over his\ninfirmity. Then he knew just what was going on; just what the church\ngave to Foreign Missions and Home Missions, and all benevolences. He\nhad no need any more to wonder painfully what was being done, and after\nhesitating over it a good while make up his mind to ask somebody, and\nfeel sorry for them all the time to think they had got to answer him.\nInstead, people had to come to him for information. Nothing could be\npaid for, not a cent of money could be sent anywhere or done anything\nwith unless the thing passed through Daniel Miller's hands. And I tell\nyou the treasurer's reports of that church were curiosities; they were\nmanaged with such exactness and clearness. He had a little witch of a\ndaughter, Nettie her name was, as pretty as a picture.\n\n\"Do you remember her, my son?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, distinctly,\" came promptly from the table where the son was\nwriting letters.\n\nAnd the Doctor continued: \"Her father made her his clerk almost as soon\nas she could talk plainly, and began to train her up to business habits\nand business terms; he took her with him a good deal. 'Daniel Miller's\nears' we used to call the bright little thing; and she was as bright\nas a diamond. We used to notice that Daniel could hear her to the last\nbetter than anybody else, even his wife. 'She's got a voice like an\nangel,' he said to me once; 'I know by her that I shall be able to hear\nthe angels.' His hearing grew steadily worse. For a good many years he\nwas able to hear some of the sermon, the loud parts as he used to call\nthem, but by degrees, he lost the power of doing that. 'Did you hear?'\nthe minister would shout at him, after service, as he came up for the\ncollection. He would shake his head, but his eyes would look bright as\nhe answered, 'No, sir, not with my ears; but I've got it here.' And\nhe would lay his hand on his great, noble heart. It was true, too,\nand he went out and lived it a great deal better than many who heard\neverything. You must understand, young man, that I am covering a good\ndeal of ground with this long story. The years went by, and at each\nelection Daniel Miller was re-instated, until at last that congregation\nwould have laughed in the face of any man who had suggested a change.\n'What should we do without Daniel Miller?' That is as near as they ever\ncame to mentioning the time when they might have to do without him; and\nthe time came when they said that in lowered tones and with a hint of\ntears, for he was growing an old man and the church couldn't afford to\nlose him.\n\n\"Bless you! I hope you don't think that keeping the finances of the\nchurch straight was all the man did? It would take all night to tell\nyou half the things that grew out of it; and then it wouldn't be told;\nit can't be. The Lord of the vineyard is the only one who has the whole\nstory. I told you, he took to writing little marginal readings on the\nchurch bills and receipts. Well, is there any reason why marginal\nreadings on church bills can't be about other matters than money?\nThe 'words in season' that this deaf man spoke in this way, in quiet\nhours, to one and another of the flock, and the fruit they bore, I know\nsomething of, a good deal of, in fact; but, as I tell you, the Master\nis the only one who has the entire record.\n\n\"One night he had a new idea, or rather, he worked out what was to him\nan old idea. He went on Saturday evening to the parsonage with the\nquarter's salary; he apologized for intruding on Saturday, but said he,\n'According to date this money should be paid to-morrow morning, and of\ncourse I couldn't do that, so I made bold to come to-night.'\n\n\"Well, he happened to be one of those men who never intrude on a\npastor, no matter what time they come; so his pastor told him he was\nglad to see him, and would talk with him while he finished and put\nup his sermon; but Daniel didn't seem to want to talk; he watched\nthat sermon with a curious, wistful air. At last he spoke, 'I've been\nturning a ridiculous idea over in my mind for a long time; I don't\nsuppose it could be done, but I've thought sometimes that I would just\nlike to try an experiment, and read over one of your sermons before you\npreached it, and see if I couldn't follow you from the pulpit better\nafter that.' It was a queer notion, but it took the pastor's fancy.\nThe fact was, he loved Daniel Miller so much that almost anything he\nsaid took his fancy, and he handed over the sermon and told the old\ngentleman to try it, by all means, he could have it as well as not. It\nwould have done your heart good to see Daniel Miller's radiant face the\nnext day. 'It worked, sir, it worked!' he said to the pastor, and he\nrubbed his hands together like a gleeful boy; 'I could follow you right\nalong a good piece at a time.' If you'll believe it, that thing grew\ninto a regular custom; the pastor had a boy, a bright enough fellow,\nwho was always ready to scamper over to Daniel Miller's with the sermon\non Saturday nights as soon as the minister could spare it, and wait\nwhile Daniel Miller went over it. Fact is, as the years went by, he was\nmore willing to do that than any other errand the father could get up,\nand he and Nettie went over church accounts, and some other accounts\ntogether, many a Saturday night. But I happen to know that that pastor\ncame to have a queer feeling that he couldn't preach a sermon until\nDaniel Miller went over it! That might be in part because he discovered\nthat the old man had a way of going over it on his knees, and every\nsentence he came to that seemed to him ought to do a certain person any\ngood, he would pray, 'Lord, bless that to John Watkins,' and so on, you\nknow. Little Nettie, she let that secret out to the boy one night; and\nthe minister came to feel that Daniel Miller was the associate pastor,\nand was praying the sermon into the hearts of the people all the time\nit was being preached. When a minister really feels that, he preaches\ncarefully, I believe.\n\n\"Well, sir, it was a wonderful life; and when it ended, as I tell you\nit did a little more than a month ago, I never saw anything like the\ndemonstration; and I didn't wonder at it. Twenty-nine years they had\nelected that man to office, and the Lord had elected him to a much\nhigher office here on earth; his little notes bore a big harvest; and\nwhen the Lord called him to his seat in the Church triumphant, the\nChurch on earth looked around for some one on whom his mantle could\nfall, and I tell you it seemed for a time impossible to do without him.\nWhy, I moderated the meeting for them when they met to try to fill his\nplace, and they just spent the first half-hour in tears and praying!\nSuch lives tell. 'Infirmity,' indeed! God grant us more men like Daniel\nMiller.\"\n\n\"What became of Nettie and the boy? Did they get their accounts all\nsettled?\" It was the first time the intent listener had interrupted\nthe old Doctor's vivid story. Indeed, it could not be called an\ninterruption, now, for the Doctor had paused, and let his thoughts run\nback into the tender past. He roused himself with the question and\nlaughed a little:\u2014\n\n\"How is it, my son?\" he asked, looking over toward the writing-table.\n\"Have you and Nettie finished the accounts, or are they open yet?\"\n\n\"We mean to keep them open, sir, until we join the 'Church\ntriumphant.'\" The young man answered quickly, albeit his voice was\nhusky, and he brushed his hand hastily over dim eyes. Then he turned to\nthe guest.\n\n\"My father has given you a true picture of my father-in-law's fruitful\nlife; as good a picture as can be drawn on the moment; but it is as he\nsays: no one can tell the story in its fullness. I think we shall have\na wonderful account of it some day.\"\n\nThere was silence in the pleasant room for a few moments. Then the\nguest turned to Dr. Mentor. \"Thank you,\" he said brightly, \"thank you\nvery much; they say that 'a word to the wise is sufficient,'\" and he\nstammered as he tried to speak; then he arose to go.\n\n\"Father,\" said the son, returning from seeing the guest to the door,\nand stopping for a moment before his father, \"do you think Frank Horton\nin danger of becoming deaf? Or is it because he stammers, or just what\nis the hidden purpose of the story?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Doctor, \"I told him that story because he is like\nMoses, 'slow of speech and slow of tongue.' I think he caught the\nlesson and will put it in practice. I am told that he is a very bright,\nearnest Christian, but that he broods over his infirmity and is very\nsad; you can see it in his countenance. There is a niche for him,\njust where, perhaps, the infirmity will tell for God's glory. Look at\nyour father-in-law. I tell you there is a defect in most lives, an\n'infirmity' of some sort, that grace must supplement. It is not for us\nto fold our hands and say, 'What a pity!' but to help find the niche\nwhere the marble fits. Mr. Horton is like Daniel Miller. He could not\nbe a good Sunday-school teacher, or elder, or minister, but he can do\nsomething.\"","title":"Profiles","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":85542}