Part 20

Still there were times when Mrs. Endicott felt that to some God was not just in his dispensations, and the closer she observed Mrs. Adair, the less satisfied was she that one so pure-minded, so unselfish, so earnest to impart good to others, should be so hardly dealt by--should be compelled to grope through life with painful steps along a darkened way.

"There is a mystery in all this which my dim vision fails to penetrate," she said one day, to Mrs. Adair. "But we see here only in part--I must force myself into the belief that all is right. I say _force_, for it is indeed force-work."

"To me," was answered, "there is no longer a mystery here. I have been led by at way that I knew not. For a time I moved along this way, doubting, fearing trembling--but now I see that it is the right way, and though toilsome at times, yet it is winding steadily upwards, and I begin to see the sunshine resting calmly on the mountain-tops. Flowers, too, are springing by the wayside--few they are, as yet, but very fragrant."

Mrs. Adair paused for a moment, and then resumed,

"It may sound strange to you, but I am really happier than when all was bright and prosperous around me."

Mrs. Endicott looked surprised.

"I am a better woman, and therefore happier. I do not say this boastfully, but only to meet your question. I am a more useful woman, and therefore happier, for, as I have learned, inward peace is the sure reward of benefits conferred. The doing of good to another, from an unselfish end, brings to the heart its purest pleasure; and is not that the kindest Providence which leads us, no matter by what hard experiences, into a state of willingness to live for others instead of for ourselves alone? The dying mother, whose gift to you has proved so great--a good, might have passed away, though her humble abode stood beside the elegant residence I called my home, without exciting more than a passing wave of sympathy--certainly without filling my heart with the yearning desire to make truly peaceful her last moments, which led to the happy results that followed her efforts in my behalf. My children, too; you have often lamented that it is not so well with them as it would have been had misfortune not overshadowed us,--but I am not so sure of that. I believe that all external disadvantages will be more than counterbalanced by the higher regard I have been led to take in the development of what is good and true in their characters. I now see them as future men and women, for whose usefulness and happiness I am in a great measure responsible; and as my views of life have become clearer, and I trust wiser, through suffering, I am far better able, under all the disadvantages of my position, to secure this great end than I was before."

"But the way is hard for you--very hard," said Mrs. Endicott.

"It is my preparation for Heaven," replied the patient sufferer, while a smile, not caught from earth, made beautiful her countenance. "If my Heavenly Father could have made the way smoother, He would have done so. As it is, I thank Him daily for the roughness, and would not ask to have a stone removed or a rough place made even."

LOOK ON THIS PICTURE.

O, IT is life! departed days Fling back their brightness while I gaze-- 'Tis Emma's self--this brow so fair, Half-curtained in this glossy hair, These eyes, the very home of love, The dark thin arches traced above, These red-ripe lips that almost speak, The fainter blush of this pure cheek, The rose and lily's beauteous strife-- It is--ah, no! 'tis all _but_ life.

'Tis all _but_ life--art could not save Thy graces, Emma, from the grave; Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past, Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last, Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid, All we adored of thee is hid; Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell, Is throbless in the narrow cell: Thy gentle voice shall charm no more, Its last, last joyful note is o'er.

Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung, The requiem of the fair and young; The theme is old, alas! how old, Of grief that will not be controlled, Of sighs that speak a father's woe, Of pangs that none but mothers know, Of friendship with its bursting heart, Doomed from the idol-one to part-- Still its sad debt must feeling pay, Till feeling, too, shall pass away.

O say, why age, and grief, and pain, Shall long to go, but long in vain? Why vice is left to mock at time, And gray in years, grow gray in crime; While youth, that every eye makes glad, And beauty, all in radiance clad, And goodness, cheering every heart, Come, but come only to depart; Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day, Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away?

'Tis darkness all! black banners wave Round the cold borders of the grave; Then when in agony we bend O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend, One only comfort then we know-- We, too, shall quit this world of woe; We, too, shall find a quiet place With the dear lost ones of our race; Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend, And life's sad story find an end.

And _is_ this all--this mournful doom? Beams no glad light beyond the tomb? Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride; They do not quench the orb they hide; Still there it wheels--the tempest o'er, In a bright sky to burn once more; So, far above the clouds of time, Faith can behold a world sublime-- There, when the storms of life are past, The light beyond shall break at last.

THE POWER OF KINDNESS.

HOW much comprised in the simple word, _kindness!_ One kind word, or even one mild look, will oftentimes dispel thick gathering gloom from the countenance of an affectionate husband, or wife. When the temper is tried by some inconvenience or trifling vexation, and marks of displeasure are depicted upon the countenances and perhaps, too, that most "unruly of all members" is ready to vent its spleen upon the innocent husband or wife, what will a kind mien, a pleasant reply, accomplish? Almost invariably perfect harmony and peace are thus restored.

These thoughts were suggested by the recollection of a little domestic incident, to which I was a silent, though not uninterested spectator. During the summer months of 1834, I was spending several weeks with a happy married pair, who had tasted the good and ills of life together only a twelvemonth. Both possessed many amiable qualities, and were well calculated to promote each other's happiness. My second visit to my friends was of a week's duration, in the month of December. One cold evening the husband returned home at his usual hour at nine o'clock, expecting to find a warm fire for his reception, but, instead, he found a cheerless, comfortless room. His first thought, no doubt, was, that it was owing to the negligence of his wife, and, under this impression, in rather a severe tone, he said,

"This is too bad; to come in from the office cold, and find no fire; I really should have thought you might have kept it."

I sat almost breathless, trembling for the reply. I well knew it was no fault of hers, for she had wasted nearly all the evening, and almost exhausted her patience, in attempting to kindle a fire. She in a moment replied, with great kindness,

"Why my dear, I wonder what is the matter with our stove! We must have something done to-morrow, for I have spent a great deal of time in vain to make a fire."

This was said in such a mild, pleasant tone, that it had the most happy effect. If she had replied at that moment, when his feelings were alive to supposed neglect, "I don't know who is to blame; I have done my part, and have been freezing all the evening for my pains. If the stove had been put up as it should have been, all would have been well enough." This, said in an unamiable, peevish tone, might have added "fuel to the fire," and this little breeze might have led to more serious consequences; but fortunately, her mild reply restored perfect serenity. The next day the stove was taken down, and the difficulty, owing to some defect in the flue, was removed. What will not a kind word accomplish?

SPEAK KINDLY.

SPEAK kindly, speak kindly! ye know not the power Of a kind and gentle word, As its tones in a sad and weary hour By the trouble heart are heard. Ye know not how often it falls to bless The stranger in his weariness; How many a blessing is round thee thrown By the magic spell, of a soft, low tone. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of the sad and lonely, they're dear, how dear, And they nothing cost.

Speak kindly to childhood. Oh, do not fling A cloud o'er life's troubled sky; But cherish it well--a holy thing Is the heart in its purity. Enough of sorrow the cold world hath, Enough of care in its later path, And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw O'er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of joyous childhood, they're dear, how dear-- And they nothing cost.

Speak gently to age--a weary way Is the rough and toilsome road of life, As one by one its joys decay, And its hopes go out 'mid its lengthened strife. How often the word that is kindly spoken, Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken, Then pass not the feeble and aged one With a cold, and careless, and slighting tone; But kindly, speak kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of the care-worn and weary, they're dear, how dear-- And they nothing cost.

Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold, Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there; Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold-- Oh, every heart hath its burden of care. And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye Are often a bitter mockery, When a bursting heart its grief would hide From the eye of the world 'neath a veil of pride. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of the proud and haughty they're often dear, And they nothing cost.

Speak kindly ever--oh, cherish well The light of a gentle tone; It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell, A charm that is all its own. But see that it springs from a gentle heart, That it need not the hollow aid of art; Let it gush in its joyous purity, From its home in the heart all glad and free. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of all who hear them they're dear, how dear-- And they nothing cost.

HAVE PATIENCE.

IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finished mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a saucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat and comfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.' She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty. She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and her thin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showed signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew later, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach of some one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her door. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; it stopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid face brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, intelligent-looking lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evident delight.

"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said.

Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himself in the seat Mary had quitted.

"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "is anything the matter?"

"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper. I am quite ready for it."

As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look. Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper, of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen, and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, rested his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands covered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickle down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though he were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said, in a tone of indignation and resolve,

"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer."

Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, taking a stool, she seated herself beside him.

"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how many hundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's the matter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?"

Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of his thick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the too evident marks of cruel usage.

"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he be so cruel?"

"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, and he was sorry for it after."

"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with you?"

"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain, but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a _careless little rascal_, that he lost all patience with me. That hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he didn't say so."

"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore it so patiently.

"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work."

Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner that almost made poor Stephen cry,

"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer, Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world, And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad, and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if you are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it was for me to get you this situation; you might not get another; you must not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must be patient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, God knows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have to suffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, a few years longer."

Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears, while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in vain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said,

"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came in to-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But I will promise you to be patient and industrious still. Considering all that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to do for you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am patient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.--It's not so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there's one comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundays with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper. We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time."

Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, his patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor fellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a small country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for five years, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a little, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself away with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually fretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other, perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he did cease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many, many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; but he was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother. And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed Sundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always strengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolution for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would result from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only had faith in her doctrine--that patience and industry would some time be rewarded. _How_ the reward was to come in her son's case, she could not see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the doctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith.

It was now nearly four years since the conversation between mother and son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturday evening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle, kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked much older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment looking very downcast.

"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen, with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; I have borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent a moment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding all this, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me a single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know that apprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word to me about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word."

"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without saying something; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannot refuse to do something to help you."

"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of telling him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feel that he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask a favour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'd sooner do anything than that. He _ought_ to do something for me, and there's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him on Monday."

Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up his courage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be done when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they were liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time they separated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the shop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over: everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into the little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they were alone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account for the sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken in silence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed, still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his first cup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun to swallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before him untouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep breath, coloured slightly, and then began:--

"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you."

His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all surprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well, sir, speak on."