CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the poor heart was calmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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