CHAPTER III.

ON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in, these days.

When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her grandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt, for grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with "A merry Christmas to you, sir; happy and oft this day return to thee," he rubbed his old eyes in amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He murmured "Beautiful!" but whether it referred to the charming room, the faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?

He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white grapes and bananas, which he presented with a "Merry Christmas" to Mr. Winthrop.

"You have friends with you?" he said, glancing about him.

"Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr. Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our Christmas a happy one."

So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.

In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr. Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, "My dear, take our friend out and show him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another plant like it in this country."

"Here is something finer than roses," Lily said, pausing at the entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with blossoms.

"They are wonderfully sweet," he said, bending over them, "but I have a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them as freely as water or air."

"I can show you some of those, too," she said. "I brought them from the woods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner."

This was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns behind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.

"This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the ferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be astonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by the stump in the woods where I found them?"

It seemed that Mr. Thornton's lips opened of themselves to say, "Yes, I very well remember the day."

And Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious circumstance that had often puzzled her—the maple branch broken off and laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but herself. "Was Mr. Thornton there, too?" She gave him a quick look, but he was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face, and she put the idea from her as absurd.

"He is very absent-minded," she told herself; "is in haste to be gone, and considers me tiresome."

He came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of their sweetness, then said, "I have a friend who calls this her flower, and these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you kindly cut a few for her?" And drawing out his watch, "It is quite time I was gone." He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the beauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky and white moonlit earth.

"Gloriously beautiful, is it not?" he said. "Think of looking up at such a sky as that,—

"'In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,'

"searching for the one star."

"Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky," she said, with upturned face.

The pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion fear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he involuntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.

"After all, Mr. Thornton," she said, "my thoughts are rather on the earth than the sky, to-night. 'Peace on earth, good will to men.' I've been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this Christmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own—Grandpa told you, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear little gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?"

It was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious words to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.

In lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her flowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now, and looked them over lovingly.

"He has a friend who loves white violets," she told them. "Do you suppose she is like him?" but the perfumed breath did not answer.

"You darling!" to a white rose, "I'm so glad you have come; I have watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen," and she touched her lips to the delicate petals. "What if she were like you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla, beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies, in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she wise and good? She must be like him," she whispered to the heliotrope, putting her face down amid its sweetness, "or he could not have called her life fragrant." She put a sharp, quick check just then on both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought; that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too, as if to say, "Be careful, do not set your heart upon me." She felt vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about preparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude! It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled as fast as they could go to "The Old Ladies' Home," and gave out their fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then stored them among his treasures when he reached home!

Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and pruning plants.

Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, "No, no, I will stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go," whereat Lily bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound her in loving servitude to the family.

By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse, assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had, paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that had been bare, and every old lady in the "Home" had her pet in the shape of a plant of his giving.

The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers; indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr. Winthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might have been these:—

"A sweet attractive kinde of grace, A full assurance given by lookes, Continuall comfort in a face The lineaments of Gospell bookes."

And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this. The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction, and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and conscience approved.

There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel, and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he should discover the hideous blight spot.

It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily, while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance. She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels, and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare, delicate fragrance typified her to him!

If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms, she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful, trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that promised only a life of toil.

It so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the greenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she seemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that it was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing and annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton's perplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her, but to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.

One evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she "must suspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless many points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet visited."

The enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when one could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this devout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about, she was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed families and the different members, as if people and not plants were being analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these families that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the broad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of God's beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there were so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that the talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to maintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather's. They came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley—just putting forth creamy bells.

"Dear little hardy things," Mr. Thornton said, bending over them. "These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out before winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave and sweet and modest."

"You surely forget," Lily said, "that the lily family is a large one."

"Yes, I know. There's that immense one, all purple and gold and crimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are sweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy, but mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance."

"You forget the queenly calla."

"No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot take her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit everywhere. They may fasten the bride's veil or strew the dead baby's pillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak hand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They are such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green. I repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She, too, is a lover of them."

Lily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of the rose that it brushed against.

"His 'friend!' alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome spectre?"

While she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.

"I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted one other."

Has she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that "my friend" aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had not been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when she raised her eyes, after a little pause, with "Well?"

"This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will flourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and the rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it develops."

"That is strange," she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.

"What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round."

"Is it fragrant?"

"Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its delicate fragrance."

"What color is it?"

"White, with a delicate flush of rose."

"It must be lovely," she said, holding off her flowers to get the effect of the arrangement. "Where are those flowers found?"

"They are very rare. I never saw but one."

"Did you say it was a lily?"

"A lily."

"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?"

"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one autumn day, was where I first saw it," he said, looking into her eyes.

And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for her.

What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she was making that reminded her of "his friend." What right had he, though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?

Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying coldly: "Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—" "As your friend probably is for you," she wanted to add.

Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while the full meaning of white violets and "your friend" dawned upon him.

Here was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower—she would have none of what rightfully belonged to another.

As Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,—

"Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go with me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would be cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?"

She hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:

"Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You can go to-morrow, can't you, dear?"

And Lily answered "Yes" to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr. Thornton, not even when he said "that he would call for her at four, and would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?" Then he said "Good-night!" and went.

It was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over that strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He probably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity had made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said. What right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?

And what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she had imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she remembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones, and earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said she was like them—this friend.

She was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she had prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk on the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects they happened to pass. Arriving at the "Old Ladies' Home," they were at once taken to the room of the invalid.

Aunt Phœbe, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face, with gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not seem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied eyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and "had now sat down to rest a bit before she went home," she said. Her face broke into a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.

"Aunt Phœbe," he said, "I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop; Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend."

"Are you feeling bright to-day?" he asked, putting into her hand—with as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets. As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words; then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention entirely to Aunt Phœbe.

They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily listened she found herself repeating, "I believe in the communion of saints."

They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.

"Bless you! Dear child," whispered back the old lady. "I've known you this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word, than from some very long speeches." The last few words reached Mr. Thornton's ears, who said:

"That is a blow aimed at me," then taking up the basket of flowers, "Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?"

So they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. "But why did you not tell me?" Lily said, "and I would have made them into bouquets."

"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers, and I let them choose."

Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton purchased. How many revelations were being made!

On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well as that of "The Home," its organization, management, workings, etc., leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.

He simply said "Good-night!" when he left her at her own door, and drove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came, though, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in the greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,—

"How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?" The vision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before her in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily, and Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after that.

While the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there were more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked upon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor the lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.

Weeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the "H" in his name represented.

"Hathaway," he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret was out.

Lily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.

"Is it possible that you are—that you can tell me—who the friend is to whom I am so much indebted?" Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Thy Heavenly Friend," said Mr. Thornton reverently.

"MY AUNT KATHERINE."

———

"IT is perfectly absurd that she should occupy the best room in the house. What difference can it possibly make to an old lady where she is, so she is comfortable? She ought to be thankful that you allow her to stay here at all."

This was said in an excited tone, by a tall, thin lady with thin lips and flashing, light blue eyes.

Her husband was a silent man, with a horror of discord. It had taken him but a short time to discover that the only means of avoiding it was to let his new wife have her own way, so he held his peace and looked out of the window, and the lady went on.

"If she had any delicacy, she would not wish to remain now that she has no possible claim upon you. There is the 'Old Lady's Home,' why could she not go there? It is a magnificent building, with beautiful rooms."

New wife though she was, she had overshot the mark this time. The tall silent man drew himself up two inches taller and answered sternly:—

"Laura, you are mistaken! My mother-in-law will always have a claim upon me. As long as I have a home she shall share it with me. What do you take me for? As if I would ever turn my Margaret's mother out upon charity! She is, besides, very dear to me for her own sake. She is a remarkable example of unselfishness, and that is a rare quality in this world."

There were two stings in this speech, which was a long one for Mr. Agnew. The selfish woman who heard it bit her lip in vexation, and all the jealousy in her nature rose up at the words "My Margaret"; jealous of that other wife who had been in her heavenly home for five years; whose husband, albeit, was more to be pitied now than when she first left him desolate; because he was that phenomenon—over which men and angels might weep—a true, noble man, joined for life to a selfish, heartless, coarse-grained woman, and that of his own deliberate choice. If some men should shut their eyes and marry the first woman they happened to open them on, they could not make more fatal mistakes than they do.

When Margaret Agnew selected this particular room for her mother it was because it was large and convenient and sunny; because one window looked off to distant hills, and another one to the busy street, while from another you stepped into the flower garden. It was, it is true, in many respects the best room in the house, and into it was gathered whatever of comfort and beauty the loving daughter could devise.

As soon as the second Mrs. Agnew stepped into the house she set covetous eyes on this room and resolved, to use her own elegant language,—"that she would oust the old lady from that."

Whatever such women resolve to have, they usually get. After the rebuff on the part of her husband she did not again approach him on the subject, but planned the attack differently. By means of hints and disagreeable thrusts she managed to make the sensitive old lady feel quite ill at ease until she was established in one of the back chambers. It was a dreary room. She missed the cheerful outlook, and it was not easy, with a slight lameness, to get up and down stairs, but, for peace's sake, she forebore to complain. So skillfully was everything managed that it was several days before her son-in-law knew of her removal; then he was indignant, and insisted that she must return, but this she would not consent to do. She even displayed so much cheerfulness that he was deceived into thinking she preferred the change. It was a hardened nature that could not be won by her sweet spirit. She was like her Master; she followed her copy closely; "when she suffered she threatened not," and she had much to bear: a system of petty annoyances that only female ingenuity could devise.

After she had passed through this furnace and suffered loneliness and desolation, another crisis in her life arrived. Mr. Agnew fell suddenly ill. While his life hung in the balance and reason was shaken, his wife induced him to make his will, leaving to herself the whole of his property. Then he died, and the chief emotion that throbbed in the heart of his widow and hid behind the blackest and deepest crape was—triumph!

Not for worlds would Mr. Agnew have so arranged his affairs had it not been that in his half-delirious state he was subject to the will of another. He had always intended to settle a competence upon Mrs. Lyman—his mother-in-law. He had expected to live years yet. Who does not?

Mrs. Agnew lost no time. As soon as the funeral services were over she questioned Mrs. Lyman as to her plans for the future. The poor old lady felt bewildered at having to make any plans, so lovingly had she been cared for all her life. She had scarcely realized as yet that her one protector was gone; above all, that he had made no provision for her. Homeless and penniless and nearly seventy years of age, where should she go? What should she do? Where would a helpless being go in straits but to the One who plans and governs our lives? And thither she went. She well knew the road. Old friends gathered about her with kindly offers of aid, but she believed she saw her path plainly, and declined their many invitations to tarry with them for a time. She had a little money of her own, enough to insure her entrance into the "Home for Aged Women," and there she determined to go. Mrs. Lyman had occasionally driven with her daughter through the grounds of the "Home." She had admired the stately edifice, and remarked that it was a grand charity; she had also contributed to it; but it had not entered her mind that she was ever to become one of its inmates. She thought of it that afternoon as the carriage which conveyed her there wound slowly up the avenue. The trials of the past few days had been peculiarly sharp. She had gone out from the dear home, with its precious memories, forever. She could not, without contention, claim even her daughter's gifts to herself; contend she would not, so she left them: so many things that almost had a tongue to speak of other days. There were no tears in her eyes, and the old face was placid as she leaned back and looked up at rows and rows of windows. She even repeated to herself some favorite lines:

"That's best which God sends. 'Twas his will; it is mine."

The room Mrs. Lyman shortly found herself in was a strong contrast to the one her daughter had carefully fitted up for her. It was spotlessly clean and trim; the walls were high and white, the furniture of the plainest, the floors bare except for the strip of carpet by the bed and one by the window, where the occupant would be supposed to sit in the cane-seat rocker. It depended entirely on one's previous surroundings what her first impressions of life in this place would be. Old Mrs. Carter, who had lived at sixes and sevens all her life, with scarcely a corner that she could call her own, thought her room was next to Heaven itself. To Mrs. Lyman it simply looked bare and dreary. The buzz in the long dining room, mingling with the clatter of cups and spoons, was cheerfulness itself to Mrs. Carter, while to Mrs. Lyman's refilled ears and sensitive nerves it was positively distressing. It was trying to her, too, to mingle with all sorts of natures, to listen to garrulous complaints and garrulous stories from gossipy old women. She would much have preferred to shut herself in with her books and her own thoughts, but she did not. Her Master was always kind and helpful to the most uncongenial people; so would she be, for his sake. Necessarily, though, it was a lonely, monotonous life for her. Old friends were too remote and too busy to remember her often.

One afternoon she sat at her window looking down into the street, when a carriage drew up, and a young lady stepped lightly out. The coachman handed her a basket of flowers, and she almost ran up the broad stone steps, with that childlike eagerness of manner which is in refreshing contrast to the languid air of many of her class.

Mrs. Lyman listened eagerly as her fresh young voice was heard in the hall. The golden hair, and eyes as blue as the hyacinths she carried, brought to her visions of another girl as bright and graceful. Just so she looked, years ago, her dear lost Margaret. Then the mother's heart went back over the girlhood and womanhood of her darling, and just as she was wondering how it was possible for Robert Agnew ever to have fancied he loved that other woman, when his life had been so blessed with Margaret, there came a knock at the door, and the matron brought in the bright-haired girl with her flowers, saying:—

"Mrs. Lyman, I have brought Miss Harlowe in to see you. She's come on ahead to tell you that spring is coming some day."

She looked sweet and fair enough to be spring's herald in very truth, coming in, as she did, out of the snow and sleet of the winter day, roses in her hands and roses on her cheeks, looking up almost shyly into the face of the stately old lady.

Each regarded the other for a moment with surprise and admiration, and Esther Harlowe, yielding to a sudden impulse, reached up and left a kiss soft as a rose leaf on the faded old cheek; then selecting the choicest of the roses, begged her to accept them.

They both forgot themselves. The young lady forgot that she was being kind to a "poor old body" in "The Old Lady's Home."

This dignified, handsome old lady was surely one of the friends of their family. And Mrs. Lyman, too, imagined for a moment that she was welcoming a young visitor to the Agnew mansion. They fell into conversation as naturally as if this were the case, and, in the short interview, they gained more than a glimpse of each other's lives.

"How strange that you should be here," Esther said. "I have often passed Mr. Agnew's house; perhaps you were sitting at the window looking out. But isn't it dreadful to you? How can you endure it?"

"No, not 'dreadful,' dear; sometimes it is a little lonely, and this way of living is all new to me; but I daresay I shall soon get accustomed to it. I ought to feel continually grateful that when I am old and poor, there is such a place provided for me."

"How can you, when you have lived so differently? I'm sure I should die. I knew you didn't belong here as soon as I saw you. It is a shame!"

"If God put me here, I must belong here, child. He makes no mistakes," the old lady said, smiling at her visitor's impetuous manner.

"But how can you be so calm and good about it? I should think you would go distracted."

"I wonder if she will understand," Mrs. Lyman said, after searching the young face a moment; then asked, "Did you ever read these lines?—

"'To will what God doth will, that is the only science That gives us any rest.'

"The secret of calmness is in that: having God's will our will. It is called a science, you see, and it is deep and difficult, or rather, people make it so. It takes some of them years to learn it. I learned it very slowly myself, but once acquired, it is forever after easier to bear hard things. It does bring peace."

"Oh! Show me how to learn it, then," said Esther, tears starting to her eyes. "There are so many hard things in my life."

"Poor dear! Have they come to you so early?" The motherly voice and pitying eyes were like sunshine to this girl who was not much more than a child, and whose heart was hungry.

"I suppose it is because I am so wicked," Esther said, hesitatingly, "but I am afraid I never can feel as you do about God's will. Perhaps it is his will that I shall go through terrible troubles. It frightens me, and I can't want to have his will done."

"Is there anybody whom you dearly love," said Mrs. Lyman, "in whom you have unbounded confidence, feeling sure that he will always do right?"

"No, there is nobody," Esther answered sadly; then flushing a little as she realized the confession she had made, added,—

"I did have somebody once—my darling mother—but she is gone. She always did right."

"How did you feel about her plans for you? Were you fearful she would always be inventing something wherewith to torture you?"

"My dear, lovely mother! No, indeed. She was always thinking of my happiness."

"And yet she was obliged to thwart your own plans and wishes often, I presume. Did you rebel?"

"O, no I was always obedient to my mother. I loved her so, I would not have grieved or displeased her for the world."

"There it is, my dear!—the whole secret. When once we love God with all the heart, it is sweet to do or suffer his will."

"But I never have thought of God in that way. He seems majestic and glorious, but I think I fear him more than I love him. I cannot realize that he loves me either."

"It will help you greatly, my dear, to take the Bible and Concordance and go through the words 'Love' and 'Father;' then you may see and 'believe the love that God hath for us.' He has tried very hard—has written it plainly all through the Book to make us understand that he is truly our Father. Call it mother love if that makes it plainer to you: think that he feels toward you as your mother did; Father, as God uses it, stands for father and mother both. It is the tenderness of mother joined to the protecting care and greater strength of father."

"I must go now, the carriage has come," Esther said, rising hastily, "but I shall never forget your talk. I am sure it will do me good. I came here to-day with the flowers because Dr. Foster preached about giving a cup of cold water for Christ's sake, to some of his children; and I couldn't think of anybody to carry one to but some of these old ladies; I didn't think I was going to have my reward so soon. It was so nice to find you; you seem like my own dear grandma who died when I was a little child. I am coming often to see you; may I?" And the sweet face smiled up into hers.

"Yes, indeed, my dear, and I thank you with all my heart for coming. No cup of cold water could have refreshed me more than this visit, if I had been famishing for some,—and these roses!—" taking a long breath of them as she spoke,—"each one is a separate blessing."

As the carriage rattled over the city streets in the dusk Esther's aunt and cousin, fresh from shopping, discussed laces and silks while she leaned back and thought of Mrs. Lyman, her heart thrilling with the new thought that God loved her as her mother loved her.

At last her Cousin Sophy said:—

"What are you dreaming about, Esther? Where have you been all this while?"

Esther started as the cold, fault-finding tones broke in on her reverie and said evasively, "I went to the 'Old Lady's Home,' you know."

"Been there all this time?—Impossible! Will you never be like other people?"

Miss Sophy Ward had passed her first youth and was growing sharp and severe, especially toward girls who were guilty of being nineteen. She took it upon herself to keep strict watch over every thought, word and deed of her young cousin who had lived with them since the death of her mother. Esther dreaded the lecture that she knew was forthcoming, so she began eagerly to try to divert attention from herself.

"O, Cousin Sophy! you have no idea what a lovely old lady I found there." Not even the curl that distorted Miss Sophy's lip just then prevented her from going on.

"She looks as I should imagine an angel might,—I always thought if I made pictures of angels they should be dear old grandmas, and not girls. Her hair is like fine white silk, and waves beautifully. Her eyes are hazel, and they are not old eyes a bit—they are bright and clear. She wore a dove-colored dress, and a soft white mull handkerchief about her neck. And do you know, she is Mrs. Agnew's mother; you remember we saw, Mr. Agnew's death in the paper a few months ago."

This last piece of information had the desired effect, for mother and daughter indulged in a bit of gossip concerning it, but Miss Sophy presently returned to the charge.

"It is perfectly incomprehensible," she went on, "what you find in a company of poverty-stricken old women to interest you. But then, your mother always had just such tastes; never so happy as when she was poking about in some alley or hovel, among miserable people."

If the light had not faded, Cousin Sophy might have seen Esther's cheek pale and flush, and her lips press closely together to keep herself from saying what she should not. But she did not see it; she went on and on in an exasperating manner. Her mother added a word occasionally by way of endorsement and emphasis, and poor Esther had the grace to keep silence, half-wishing that she were an old woman, too, so that she could live where Mrs. Lyman did.

In her uncle's luxurious home there was everything to make life desirable—everything but love and peace. When either mother or daughter was in ill humor Esther was the escape valve. They lectured her on behavior, dress, and the Christian virtues. They criticised all she said and did and thought, and judged her without mercy.

During the last few months, however, it had begun to dawn upon them that the girl was grown up, and possessed decided tastes and opinions of her own. She was becoming a person of more importance, too, because of very pointed attentions bestowed upon her by Mr. Clifford Langdon. He was the son of one of the oldest families—handsome, agreeable, literary, rich. If they sought the world over, where could be found a more desirable husband for Esther? He might have captivated the girl's fancy, perhaps, if she had not heard her aunt and cousin ring the changes on his name until she almost wearied of it. In their eyes he was a paragon. They exhorted her to do this, and not to do that, as Mr. Langdon had very fastidious tastes, and they openly expressed their astonishment that so incomparable a person should do her the honor to notice her.

All this naturally had the effect of causing a girl like Esther to avoid him and to declare that it was a matter of indifference to her what Mr. Langdon thought. She wished for no more critics.

That gentleman was as much in love with Esther as he ever could be with anybody besides himself. Since first he had been conscious of existence, he had never forgotten himself long enough to be absorbed in anything or anybody. His own pleasure was the chief end of his life. Yet he had no vices; his narrow, cold nature did not tempt him in the direction that larger natures are tempted. The world called him a fine, moral young man. They did not know he was selfish, domineering and conceited; his nearest friends would scarcely admit it to themselves. He enjoyed ruling over anything; he took pleasure in his many pets when a boy, chiefly for the sake of training and ordering about a parrot, or dog, or pony; and a tyrannical master he made. As a man, he retained the characteristic. At this time he had just returned from a four years' course of study in Europe, his education completed, and his self-conceit intolerable. He felt competent to sit in judgment upon the creations of genius in art and literature or in anything under the sun, as well as to direct, advise, suggest and control the mental food of all the young ladies of his acquaintance. He at once became an oracle among them. The book he approved was largely read, and the book he condemned was shunned. Whoever differed in opinion from him he considered devoid of fine taste. Solomon must have had this young man in mind when he wrote, "Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there is more hope of a fool than of him."

When Mr. Langdon met Esther, he pronounced her a "fine creature," and declared he would like the training of her, much as he would have spoken of Frisk, his black colt. He was not aware that he needed to be put in training himself and taught by Mr. Ruskin how to reverence womanhood.

That she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing her. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did not hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.

It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone in the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was smarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily that there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much whether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love, home, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.

Ether was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her, as he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh for a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her, and that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since her mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and good he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then she found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to him, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet, at least. Of course she must marry somebody—an orphan girl like her. Perhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him had changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from what she had thought it would be when that time should come in which somebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave and true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It frightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be, nor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to books and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if she refused him, and—and—he said he loved her. What should she say to him, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What could she say? "O, mother! What would you have me say?"

She made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light glancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and serious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr. Langdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately. Her hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he attributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so sure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or, indeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be his wife—when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never come into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants entered into!

Mr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied that he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so delightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to suit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had not tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.

He was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary society—to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and demerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely from their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made her recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he criticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much taste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture on style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not escape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the sweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it, or her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she must begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.

Esther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious three words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing, somebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even though her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it. And, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their spirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr. Langdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant consciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will to his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's entertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go anywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.

They were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and music for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for the mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed used to amuse her, now, they mortified her.

There was yet another more important subject on which they differed. Since the day of her first visit, Esther had gone often to see Mrs. Lyman, and it was impossible to come into close contact with her sweet spirit and strong faith without having the religious life quickened and strengthened; so Mr. Langdon's views jarred her more than they would have done a few months previous when she was a formal, worldly Christian. He pronounced many of Esther's opinions to be "mere cant." Some of the hymns she loved were "in very bad taste," "perfect trash," while the convictions of her tender conscience were "superstitions." He assured her that the time would come when, as her mind became more expanded and her tastes elevated, she would appreciate his criticisms.

This was too much, even though it were well seasoned with honeyed words, and Esther's indignant protest warned Mr. Langdon not to be too urgent in this direction. There was a limit even to meekness and forbearance.

It was Christmas morning, and Esther was in the conservatory. Her uncle had given her permission to take as many flowers for her own use as she pleased. He well knew they would go to brighten some dreary home this Christmas Day. While she worked she was thinking—going back over the year somewhat. It had not been a happy year to her. She was obliged to confess to herself that she had never been more harassed and worried in her life. A shadow fell on her face as she meditated that when once Christmas is well gone, Spring is not far distant. Then she must be married. This home was not such a happy one that she need mourn to leave it, but she dreaded that new home more. Her troubled thoughts and troubled face did not accord with the beauty and fragrance about her, and neither brightened when Mr. Langdon was announced. He came in where she was at once, saying he was in haste.

"We have arranged a sleigh-ride for to-day," he said, after greeting her. "It was quite impromptu, because we were uncertain about the snow. We are going fifteen miles in the country, to Mr. Clayton's father's, where we are invited to dine. How soon can you get ready, Esther?"

"Oh! I cannot go. You know I told you, Mr. Langdon, that I had an engagement this morning at the 'Old Ladies' Home.'"

Mr. Langdon's lip curled. "Engagement! Surely you can postpone that."

"Surely I cannot. Patrick has gone to got me some greens, and I am going to trim their rooms a little and make a bouquet for each of them. They would be disappointed if I did not come—and so should I. They have looked forward to Christmas for weeks. They are old and poor and have so few pleasures, how can I deprive them of this when they have set their hearts on it?"

"As if nobody could attend to that nonsense but you! Send a servant with the flowers."

"But that wouldn't do at all. It's I they want more than anything. You see, there are very few people who appreciate me. Those old ladies do. I read to them and sing to them, and they think I am an angel just dropped down from Heaven. So you will be good and excuse me this time, and let me give you this as a Christmas token," and she tried to fasten a small white chrysanthemum in his coat.

But Mr. Langdon stepped back and said, with much sharpness of tone, "Esther, it is impossible that you are in earnest. I certainly shall not excuse you, if you are. Of course you will go with me. Go quickly and make ready. I shall call for you in an hour."

Esther reached up and clipped a spray of smilax before she spoke, which she did in a slow, resolute way. "Mr. Langdon, I am quite in earnest; I cannot go. I have made a promise, and I must keep it."

He had never seen Esther assume so much dignity before. She certainly did mean what she said. He was angry enough to go without her, but that would cause him some embarrassment; so he would condescend to persuasion, but this was done in such a manner as to be more offensive than some people's commands.

"My little girl," he said, smiling derisively, "what new airs have you taken on? They do not become you in the least. What has come over you? Is she trying to be a strong-minded female, or is she doing penance or works of supererogation? Come, now, have done with this nonsense, and say you will be ready, my pretty one," and he put his finger under her chin, as one would do to a child, adding, "Look up here, and let us have no tantrums? Some day I must get a bit and bridle for you, my beauty; you are growing spirited."

Esther could never remember feeling more outraged at anything than at this speech. It was a new and repulsive glimpse of his character.

Mr. Langdon had an opportunity to see her in a new character then. She drew herself up, and said coldly: "Such language is very distasteful to me, and I wish to hear no more of it. Please understand distinctly that I am not going, so it will not be necessary for you to detain yourself further."

He thought his ears must have deceived him, that she should dare to assert herself thus, when he supposed he had her under such good control!

He grew white with anger; so angry: that he forgot himself, and said between his teeth,—

"I command you to go."

"You have no right to command me," Esther said calmly.

Then growing desperate, and resolved not to be baffled, he drew out his watch, saying:—

"I will give you three minutes to decide. Once for all: I warn you; you would better repent your decision. If a pack of old women are to be put before me, we shall see. You may take the consequences if you refuse."

Then he turned and walked up and down the short space, while Esther went on clipping flowers. Her fingers trembled, and her hands were nerveless, but the steady clip, clip, of the shears came to the ears of the man who was waiting.

The time was up; he walked toward Esther, and looked at her. She laid another flower in the basket, and said in a low tone, without looking at him, "I shall not go," and then he strode away without another word; and Esther gathered up her flowers and started on her mission.

How very much hung upon her keeping her promise she could not have imagined. She had arranged with Mrs. Lyman to sit with her after she had gone the rounds, and she carried a book to read her some Christmas poems. So after flitting about among the rooms, pinning a bit of the evergreen here, and a vine there, and dispensing flowers and kind wishes to all, she knocked at Mrs. Lyman's door. It was opened by a nurse who told her that the old lady had met with an accident. While going down-stairs that morning she had slipped and fallen, and could see no one.

Hearing a voice she loved, Mrs. Lyman said, "Is it Miss Harlowe? Let her come in."

She was in bed, pale with suffering, and a surgeon was setting her broken ankle. Esther came softly to her side, slipped her hand into hers, and stood still, watching the operation. It was like an anæsthetic in its soothing effect upon the patient— this fresh young face, with hair and eyes like Margaret's, the perfume of the flowers filling the room, and the warm little hand in hers.

Esther watched the surgeon's fingers curiously. How swift and cool their movements!—no uncertainty or clumsiness. A lady sorting embroidery silks could not work more delicately. As he put the finishing touches to his task Esther almost forgot there was any pain connected with it, and found herself wondering if he did not enjoy what he could do so deftly and neatly. Then for the first time she let her gaze rest upon his face. He was a young man—she had thought surgeons were always old or elderly. It was a strong, pure face, with wavy dark hair falling carelessly over the broad forehead. It was but a few seconds, but girls can think much in that time. She decided that hair was much more becoming worn so than plastered down in a precise manner, as she was accustomed to see it. He was surely not in the least like the young men of her acquaintance. Sire tried to fancy him arrayed in swallow-tail coat, light kids and slippers, dancing, and talking nonsense at an evening party. He could never be one of that sort, she was sure. He was too grave and earnest to be a trifler. When he had finished his work, he lifted a pair of clear, penetrating eyes to hers, and they surveyed each other an instant; then the doctor bowed, and Esther turned and, bending down, whispered a few words to Mrs. Lyman, left her flowers on the pillow, and a kiss on the worn cheek, and glided away. She made one or two more calls that she had left till the last, and was passing through the hall to go home, when a nurse met her and asked her to come in and sing to old Mrs. Moore. She had been very ill for many days, and they hoped the singing might quiet her nervous restlessness, and soothe her to sleep. Esther went willingly; she loved to sing, and loved to help others. But here was that eagle-eyed doctor to spoil it. She wished he would go, but he did not.

There was a tall old rocker by the bed, where they motioned her to sit, but she took her place at the back of the chair and folded her hands over its top. Standing so, the doctor could not see her face. He could hear, though, and to that he gave himself. Resting his head on his hand, he closed his eyes and let the sweet melody flow over him.

Almost as soon as the pure, soft tones met her ear the patient ceased her restless tossing, and listened eagerly to catch the words, which were articulated so plainly that not one was lost. They were simple words, just suited to the simple-minded old woman, and peculiarly soothing because they brought to mind the prayer of childhood. Neither was she the only one who felt the spell of the humble little song as it floated through the still room:—

"Now I lay me down to sleep, As the shadows softly creep, As the bird, with folded wing, On some tiny bough doth swing; As the flowers, wet with dew, Bow themselves in slumber, too, In the stillness, awful, deep, Now I lay me down to sleep.

"Now I lay me down to sleep, Friends and kindred 'round me weep; But I know no want or fear, For no darkness, Lord, is here; All my way is lit by thee, Through the shade thou leadest me. Knowing that the Lord will keep, May I lay me down to sleep."

Refreshed and calmed, the old lady folded her, hands and said, "'Now I lay me down to sleep.' Oh if I only had somebody to pray with me, I believe I could go to sleep."

There was silence a moment, and one looked at another. Who could pray? Not the doctor, surely; that was not considered to be in his line; but Dr. Evarts knelt down, and, in a few simple, tender words, besought a blessing on the aged mother whose journey was almost done. Here was another evidence, Esther thought, that this young man was different from any she had ever known. She thought about it as she walked home, and sighed as she remembered Mr. Langdon and the angry look on his face as he left her that morning.

Esther had promised Mrs. Lyman that she would come again to see her on the morrow. She was free from pain, and welcomed her visitor eagerly.

"I have such great news to tell you, my dear, that I could scarcely wait. You know it is a whole fortnight now since you were here. Such a wonderful thing has happened! I am not a poor, lonely old woman any longer, Esther. I have a dear boy to care for me. The young physician you found attending me yesterday is my nephew. I was sorry I felt too sick to introduce you. He is Paul Evarts, and he is my dear sister's only son. His mother was left a widow, and they went to England to live when Paul was but a boy. My sister died a few years ago, and we lost sight of Paul. I thought he had forgotten his old auntie, but he had not. He came almost purposely to look me up. He thinks of remaining and going into practice in his native city. If he does he will take a house, and I shall be his housekeeper. Now, what do you think of that, my dear?"

"It's beautiful!" said Esther. "Just beautiful! Why, it's a book acted out. I am so very glad."

"And the queer part of it all," said Mrs. Lyman, "is that after he had been here a few days I must needs go and break my ankle, as if to test his skill as a surgeon. There is no loss, though, without some gain. Perhaps you will take pity on me and come oftener to see me because of my affliction. But you must sing the song now, and read the poem that I was cheated out of yesterday."

After that they had a long talk. Esther's girl friends were never taken into such close confidence as Mrs. Lyman, and, if girls would but believe it, a wise, sweet-spirited, youthful-hearted old lady is a valuable friend for a girl to have. Who should know the dangers of the way so well as those who have just passed over it?

"Your face has a shadow on it this morning, dear child," Mrs. Lyman said presently; "I like to feel that everybody is happy when I am so happy."

Esther wanted counsel and comfort sorely, so she told her troubles.

"Did I do wrong? Ought I to have gone with Mr. Langdon, do you think?" she asked.

"Perhaps the wrong is further back than that. Did you wish to go, but thought it your duty to come here because you had promised?"

"To tell the truth, I preferred coming here to taking a long ride," Esther said, laughing and flushing. "I enjoy bringing flowers here so much; perhaps I was selfish, and then, I did want to keep my promise."

"Can it be that hearts have changed since I was a girl?" the old lady said archly. "What would have tempted me to stay at home when Eleazer asked me to go with him—anywhere? A long ride in the country! Why, that would have been blessed. Are you sure you care for this young man in the right way, dear—if I may ask you a plain question?"

"Why, I don't know," Esther said, stammeringly. "I suppose I do. I try to."

"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Lyman, "can you really think of marrying a person for whom you entertain such a vague uncertain affection?"

"Why, that's the trouble," said Esther. "I don't really want to marry anybody ever. I wish I could be let alone, and not be perplexed about these things, and yet it is very pleasant to have people fond of you, and not feel alone as I do."

"You poor little bud of a girl," Mrs. Lyman said, putting her arms about her, "you should not have been disturbed for a long time yet; you needed a mother to shield you; but you ought to be told that when the one God intends for you crosses your path you will not find it necessary to try to love him. You will, instead, have to pray God to keep you from making him an idol, and where he is, there you will wish to be. Marriage may be the highest state of earthly happiness, and it may be the bitterest bondage. Take care, dear child, how you take vows upon you that your soul revolts from. I believe much of the misery of this life is God's protest against the profanation of this holy ordinance."

It became evident, as the days went by, that Mr. Langdon was hopelessly offended. He did not come to the house or write. Esther was both glad and troubled. Relieved of his constant supervision and criticisms she drew a long breath, and knew, as she had not before, that whatever heart she might possess was not in his keeping. She lived in constant dread that he would return to her after he had punished her sufficiently. And yet his remaining away brought her into trouble with her aunt and cousin; they were already questioning and harassing her beyond endurance. At last, when her aunt wrote Mr. Langdon demanding an explanation, he sent a brief note, saying the engagement between himself and Miss Marlowe was at an end. If she wished for reasons he would refer her to her niece.

Then the storm burst in all its fury. The tongues of mother and daughter were let loose upon her. "Now you shall tell me just what you have done," declared her aunt. "I will not have a gentleman like Mr. Langdon insulted in my own house."

When the story was told, the case was no better for Esther. The rage and disappointment of aunt and cousin knew no bounds.

"Esther, you are a fool!" said her aunt.

"She's a contemptible little minx!" said Miss Sophy. "And I would shut her up and feed her on bread and water until she apologizes."

"I shall never do that," said Esther firmly. "I told him some time before that I should be occupied on Christmas morning, and he had no right to try to force me to alter my plans. The apology must come from him. I have done no wrong."

"Just hear the stupid little simpleton! He apologize to her! The idea! To think she should dare to go contrary to his wishes, and run the risk of losing him, and all for the sake of amusing a few old women!"

"Do you know," Sophy said, turning fiercely to Esther, "what you have done? Or haven't you brains enough to take it in? Mr. Langdon will be the richest man in the city when his father dies, and you have lost him, probably."

"I don't care for money," Esther said dreamily, her eyes out of the window, following a fleecy cloud that was sailing by, and thinking what she dare not speak, that it was far better to be able to pray as that young doctor did, than to have great riches.

"You don't care for money!" screamed her aunt. "Indeed! You will find out whether you care for it when you are left alone in the world without a penny, as you probably will be. Go to your room, do! And stay there out of my sight. You are too exasperating to be tolerated."

"I had no idea she was so stubborn," Mrs. Ward told her daughter, as day after day passed, and Esther refused to send a humble confession to Mr. Langdon. They constructed one themselves at last, ordering her to copy it, but Esther was firm. She had nothing to confess, and she would not, for any consideration, engage herself to him again. It was delightful to be free again; if only they would not torment her she could be almost happy. When she expressed something of this to them they looked at each other aghast, as if here was proof that Esther was a subject for a lunatic asylum.

The weeks that followed were dreary ones to Esther. She was kept on bread and water, figuratively, if not literally, and ice-water at that. It was curious how a house that is warmed And lighted until it fairly glows can be rendered dark and chilly as a tomb to some of its inmates. If the girl's life had been unpleasant before, it was wretched now. Cold looks and sharp words were her portion, when she was not ignored utterly, all the more so because Mr. Langdon had transferred his affections to a Boston belle, visiting in the city, and was hopelessly and forever lost to Esther.

It was not all dark, though. There were occasional visits to a snug little house at the other end of the city, where dwelt a lovely, white-haired old lady called by her devoted nephew, Aunt Katherine.

Mrs. Lyman insisted on a weekly visit from Esther, and sometimes she was kept to cosy little suppers. It was a delightful place to visit, and it was no wonder Esther liked it. She was warmly welcomed and petted to her heart's content. There was usually a good, long talk with her old friend first, then the doctor would come home, and bring out a store of stories from his brain, of things in foreign lands, grave and gay and instructive; he was a charming talker, and Esther was a good questioner. Then he had great volumes of rare engravings of which she never tired, and a microscope whereby she became wise about some of nature's secrets. Her education was going on surprisingly, all the more because one was entirely unaware that he was teaching, and the other that she was being taught. Aunt Katherine watched the glowing faces,—the golden head and the brown head bending together over one book—and smiled. After they had sung numberless songs and hymns it was time for Esther to go home. Of necessity, Dr. Evarts must accompany her home, in a long walk across the city, which latter was not a necessity, but which they much preferred to street cars, the walk being not at all long to them.

As they thus walked and talked one winter night when the Christmas moon shone solemnly down on a white world, and the songs of angels floated on the clear air—heard only by those two—the breeze wafted back some of the words. Their talk was all about themselves—how the precious gift of each to the other began a year ago last Christmas. And they tried to settle bewildering questions: Whether, if Esther had not insisted on going to the "Old Ladies' Home" that morning she would be walking this Christmas Eve with Paul, and suppose there had been no "Old Ladies' Home," would they ever have met.

"And if your Aunt Katherine had not been there—" said Esther. "We owe it all to her, after all."

"Your Aunt Katherine! Say my Aunt Katherine," Paul said, looking down at her with shining eyes.

And Esther obediently repeated, "My Aunt Katherine." The old moon hid herself behind a cloud just then, and neither she nor Paul saw the lovely color that flushed the happy face.

In the spring when all things are made new, they two clasped hands and began their new life together. Their wedding journey was not made to some famous fashionable resort; they were of one mind in this, as in everything else. They sought a quiet retreat where they might carry on their intimacy with nature, and she rewarded them; she unsealed her fountains and discovered to them her secret nooks and crannies, her buds and blossoms and delicacies, as she does to no one but ardent worshippers. They searched the woods and glens, climbed mountains and wandered by streams, and walked and rode and talked and studied, with not one hour of dullness. And then they went back to the little house and lived their beautiful lives.

"Two to the world for the world's work's sake, But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one."

And the world said, "Poor thing! She was jilted by that rich Mr. Langdon, you know, and now she has had to take up with a poor young doctor;" which shows just how much the world knows about Esther's affairs, and ours.

When the years had gone away and Dr. Evarts' praises were in every mouth, and he had become rich and celebrated, Miss Sophy Ward was fond of speaking of "My cousin, Mrs. Dr. Evarts."

Aunt Katherine, too, had occasion for triumph and for heaping some very hot "coals of fire," but she never thought of either. Mrs. Agnew had lost her property, and the Agnew estate was sold to the highest bidder, which was Dr. Evarts. Strange to say he was able to place Aunt Katherine in her old room, with many of the dear familiar objects of other days about her; while the wretched woman who had played her brief part in this history, lived in a humble home not far off. She was sick and poor and miserable. To her Mrs. Lyman ministered as if she had received nothing but kindness at her hands. And Christ-like love conquered in the end; it broke down the hard heart and brought her into faith and peace.

When riches increased, Dr. Evarts obeyed the Scripture, "set not thy heart upon them." They flowed out in all directions, blessing and comforting others.

Every Christmas, he and Esther visited the "Old Ladies' Home," with a bountiful thank-offering. Each recurring year they were wont to go over every small detail of their meeting, and sometimes make little confessions that were new to the other.

"It was here you stood to sing," the dignified doctor would remark, or, "Was ever anything lovelier than when you stood there with those roses, watching me set the broken bones?"

"And how you frightened me when you flashed your eyes on me so suddenly."

"It is a good place," the doctor would say; "here we found each other, and here began the love that has blessed our lives."

"And here I found my Aunt Katherine," Esther was fond of adding.

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

———

"WHY, Auntie! What a quantity of lunch you are putting up. You don't expect me to take my Christmas dinner on the cars, do you?"

"Stranger things than that have come to pass, even though you should," Aunt Ruth said, tucking in another half-dozen biscuits. "Massachusetts is a long way off, and Christmas is pretty near at hand. You'll have sharp work to get through by Christmas, I'm thinking. The connections will have to be very good, and no set-backs on the way. That don't always happen in winter, you know. Trains will be behind time, or there 'll be a bridge down, or something. Then as you get on toward the East there will be snow-storms—snow you up for a week, maybe—better stay till after Christmas yet."

"Aunt Ruthie, don't! Please don't prophesy such terrible things; I shall get on all right, I am sure. Good-by, dear own auntie!" And the young girl wound her arms about the elder woman's neck, and laid her brown head close to the gray one.

"Good-by, dearie!" Aunt Ruth said in broken tones. "The Lord bless you and keep you—and see here, child, I'll tuck these two little books into your basket, and some more biscuits, then if you should have to spend a week on the way, you will have something to feed soul and body both."

A last loving look into Aunt Ruth's eyes, and Marian sprang into a light wagon by Uncle Eli's side, and two ponies trotted off over the smooth country road. The frosty air, the crackle of dry leaves and twigs, the morning sun, the fragrant cedars, and the flutter of gay-winged birds, made the heart of this girl, whose eye and ear were open to all sweet influences of nature, sing for joy—the mere joy of being—on this glorious morning. And truly a winter morning in the poetical, picturesque southwest, with its balmy airs, green fields, and gay birds, at Christmas time, can but seem to a New Englander the presage of that morning when all things shall be made new.

Aunt Ruth watched them far down the road, then she went into the house with a slow step and a heavy heart. She wiped away the tears as she gathered up Marian's woody treasures that she had forgotten—lichens, moss twigs, and purple berries. The house was empty and dull. The bright young creature who had filled it with an atmosphere of warmth and gladness was gone. How grim and desolate it seemed!

For two months Aunt Ruth had lived a charmed life. Marian, the daughter of her favorite niece, whom she loved as her own child, had come from her far city home for a brief visit—to honor one whom her mother prized so highly. Her stay was protracted far beyond what duty required, though. The girl enjoyed the free, unconventional life, the novel experiences, and the almost idolatrous love bestowed upon her.

It was hard to say which was most delighted with the other. The younger one painted scenes of the gay, busy world, that seemed to the elder, hard-worked woman like the tales of Aladdin. Then she, in turn, in quaint speech, seasoned with wit, poured into the young ears the privations and romances of frontier life, as well as the love tales of long ago, which were far more delightful than one could find in a book, because they had been lived out before Aunt Ruth's eyes. She knew whether the fine gold of the marriage day had become dim; what they did, and how they lived, and so on to the very last chapter. With graphic words she made them live again for her eager listener—a long line of ancestors—sketching her characters with no mean skill, her charitable nature hiding their faults behind their graces, so that they were most fascinating as heroes and heroines. In short, Aunt Ruth was to Marion a delightful old book, full of wisdom and strong sweetness. And while Marian was to her aunt a revelation of grace and loveliness, she was besides gifted with an active brain, and was the very soul of truth and candor, so that she seemed to the New England woman like a breath of air fresh from the old Massachusetts hills. Aunt Ruth always disparaged the East in contrast with the West when she re-visited it, and yet she loved its rocky hills with all her heart. At the same time, anything or anybody of Eastern make or birth, was held up to Western people as a model of all excellence.

"She is just wonderful," the old lady would declare, in confidential chats with Uncle Eli. "There she has been brought up in a great city, her folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn't spoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk full of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks here, but not a bit of it! She's devouring the old yellow books in the bookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down the 'History of the Reformation,' and there she sat the whole forenoon, never stirred or looked up as I went in and out—so deep in her book. In the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit over Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons for getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I had, too. They were: 'That he might please his father, spite the Pope, and vex the devil.' Said she, 'I should have wanted him to have one more reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy—the only reason—because he loved me.' She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before I thought, and I said, 'Of course he would. How could anybody help loving you, dearie?' You ought to 'a' seen her pretty blush, then; exactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She's reading 'Paradise Lost,' now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she is up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She's a regular old-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn't raise such girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time dressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they couldn't stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn't any piety nor anything else—nothing but pretty faces. Now, there's Marian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with the baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that, she's truly pious. She isn't going to make one of the strong-minded kind, either—stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge fence. She's as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I never thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of the window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o' dancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her eyes. I said to myself, 'Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and she will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then take herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is my great-niece.' But here she has been, week after week, and don't want to go home yet."

The first fifty miles of Marian's journey was unmarked by anything of special interest. This brought her to the junction where she was to change cars for the main line. But there, to her dismay, she discovered that the train with which she was supposed to connect had been gone for an hour, her own train being late. There was nothing to be done but to wait at a forlorn little hotel for the next one, which would not be until noon of the next day. It was of no use to feel provoked, or to fret, so Marian set herself to bear it patiently. She walked about the small village, and on into the country, made the acquaintance of children gathering Christmas greens, and returned with her hands full of evergreen and bitter-sweet berries.

The time did not hang so heavily as she had anticipated, although she was heartily glad when the long train glided in, and she was once more seated in the car, and on her homeward way. As it was to be a long journey, she was not a little interested in her surroundings. So she began to scrutinize her fellow-passengers, to measure, and classify, and determine, by those few swift glances, their standing—mental, social and moral—and whether they were agreeable, or selfish and ill-natured. She reached her conclusions—unjust ones in some instances, perhaps; and yet the intuitions of some fine natures are a little short of divine. When she wearied of that, she brought out pencil and paper, and scribbled a voluminous letter to Aunt Ruth. Having a talent for sketching, she embellished her sheet here and there with portraits of her fellow-travellers, "to cheer up Auntie," she told herself, albeit the artist seemed to enjoy her work immensely, and to put a deal of painstaking into it. There was a scornful big woman with a pug-nosed dog, a laughing baby, a great pompous man asleep with his mouth open, the sweet face of an old lady biding away under a deep bonnet, and at last, with careful touches, the profile of a young man who sat just ahead of her; a fine scholarly face, bent over a book.

That letter made two old people happy for more than one evening. What if our cheery words went oftener to brighten lonely homes!

Stuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat just below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those about him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no possible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover who sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have been amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just been executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come. That which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of golden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine. Marian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious picture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old lady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with a "gospel face." As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they never saw a sunset. "Eyes have they, but they see not," applies to more than heathen idols. It is always so: God's best things are for the few; the many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears are dull, and "their eyes they have closed."

Those who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the evening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft violet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of delight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was near—the end of all journeyings—and that rushing train was speeding on straight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should meet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed in, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and the farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and Stuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said, "No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you old people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses. We are not afraid."

It was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she unconsciously and softly sang,—

"'Day is dying in the west, Heaven is touching earth with rest; Wait and worship while the night Sets her evening lamps alight—'"

Followed by Keble's sweet evening hymn,—

"'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, It is not night if Thou be near.'"

Hymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none but herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and looked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned all but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently, the music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in his seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in determining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed by any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a sealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown hair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass, and while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips framed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had forgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was a charming picture, and he enjoyed it.

During the evening people dropped off at the different stations along the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who wearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should be attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even while they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly came to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours, was the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy state of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that at sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging monsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to sweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a thing to be desired—standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless prairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with telegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs was met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last few hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming doors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines that could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright, fearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a collision.

Stuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of trust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a long life of disappointments, was philosophical. "What can't be cured, must be endured," she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet and hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little preparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she said, "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety.'"

If only she had said those words aloud!

Marian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably in her seat, and went to sleep.

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee," makes a soft pillow.

Mr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was a good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief points in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so that he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain, which he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to—probably this miserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned inwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in his mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances at the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a certain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers were distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of faces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions, with closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put up to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and folded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth looked as if the lips had closed themselves on,—"I will trust." It was a calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself thinking as he gazed, "If only a soul ever matched a fair face!"

If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one, and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy hair, and radiant with calm content.

The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone. "Dear lamb," she murmured to herself, "she is taking a good sleep."

Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, "How are you getting on, my dear?" There was a world of comfort in that "my dear."

Mr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep himself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but known her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if closer scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely head thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high, fine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something. Perhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in a satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of the idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond of wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, "a face to trust;" she composed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two protectors.

When the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in sheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had not yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for all concerned.

The fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady had a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with whom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted, the men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was moodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old lady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket, begged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, "for I'm sure you must be all tuckered out by this time," she added sympathetically. But this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her that he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of depriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the journey.

She looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the refusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved that he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from her stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she told herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too; wonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on the way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained at the hotel to keep it in good condition.

It went sorely against Marian's nature to enjoy her nice breakfast, knowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share with him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man instead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now, she would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might get courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not look so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as she glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness, too, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to more humility.

Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after having sat up all night in the cars.

But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a "society girl," with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting. It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end, or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little volume of "Daily Food" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," daintily bound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt Ruth's round cramped hand, "Marian Chester:" "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." "Dear aunt Ruth," she murmured. "What would she say if she knew where I am? And what will they think at home?" She just began to realize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears stood on her cheeks.

Mr. Lynde was returning from one of his visits to the engine, and was just in time to catch, for an instant, the flash of that tear. A smile was a hollow thing to him. His coat of mail was proof against a whole battalion of the most bewitching; but a tear! He bowed in reverence before a tear; and, acting on that impulse, paused, and before he had given himself leave to speak was saying, "I beg your pardon, but can I do anything for you?"

Poor Marian! It was so sudden, and she was so mortified to be caught crying like a baby, that her tones were defiant and her answer curt: "No, sir, I thank you, not anything."

When she raised her eyes he was gone. Then, her sense of desolation was lost in vexation, that she had made herself an object of pity to him and requited his attempt at kindness by what must have seemed extreme rudeness.

The rained had ceased, but this was not an advantage in one way, for the air at once became intensely cold, so making it more difficult to repair damages, as washouts and bridges swept from swollen streams were reported ahead. As if to bring dreariness to a culminating point, the supply of coal was low and the cars were becoming chilly. Adversity was apparently having a good effect upon Mr. Lynde; he was developing under it, and waking up to some interest in humanity that was not in a book. He was not in general a close observer of the dress of ladies, but he knew the difference between a long sealskin cloak and an old black cashmere shawl. Consequently he was very sure where the large, soft lap robe he carried was most needed. Thereupon he took it over to the old lady, and begged her with as much deference as if she had been a duchess, to accept it. She demurred, but he insisted and folded it about her as a son might have done, and the lines about his mouth relaxed into sweetness as she showered her thanks upon him.

"Why did I not think to do that?" Marian said to herself, casting regretful eyes on her own warm shawl. It was too late now, so she drew it over herself and retired into her book.

Aunt Ruth spoke better than she knew when she talked of food for the soul. Some darkened minds would call it "cant," but those who know the secret of the Lord, know that as a few drops of stimulant revive a fainting body, just as surely will a strong, comforting word from the Scriptures send the lifeblood tingling again through a benumbed soul, if that soul belong to Christ.

So when Marian read in her "Daily Food":—

"The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms;"

"The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them;"

"The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord shall cover him all the day long;"

"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."

Then her faith and courage returned, and her heart already sang songs of deliverance.

Mr. Lynde had already done all that travellers usually do in such emergencies. He had stood in the teeth of a keen wind and talked with the brake man and engineer and conductor as to the extent of the accident, and what the probabilities were of soon resuming the journey; had stepped out and walked briskly up and down, and the old lady remarked as he strode by, "He's a handsome young fellow; straight as an arrow, and he walks with a kind o' spring, just like my Benjamin," and Marian had given in response an amused smile.

Now he had come back again and settled himself down to endure, with grim fortitude, what could not be cured; not with the same spirit, though, as the old saint who sat just beyond him, for, she said, "It 'll all turn out for the best somehow, and we'll likely see it some day." It would take long to convince him, though, that the important case to which he was hurrying home could possibly be bettered by his absence. But he tried to be a philosopher. He turned up his coat collar, as men do when they are cold and seem to think they have made all reasonable provisions for comfort, put his eyes on his book, and tried to merge his thoughts into the author's; but when a man is hungry, and ever so slightly cold, the circumstances are not favorable for metaphysical research.

It was noon, and the time for those who had any dinner to eat it; so Marian took down her lunch basket again. If only she had somebody to enjoy it with her! She glanced about the car; the men had gone. The old lady, thanks to the warmth of the lap robe, was enjoying a nice nap. There was just one person on whom to exercise her benevolence.

She amused herself by laying together in a fresh napkin three or four biscuits, some slices of chicken, and some cake; then, while she thoughtfully put bits into her own mouth, debated the question with herself after this fashion: I ought, I really ought to do it, but how can I? I wish he would go out; I would slip it into his seat, and he would think the ravens or something had been sent to feed him. If I should carry this over there and he should decline it with a lofty air, how could I endure such humiliation? To be sure, I did reply very haughtily when he spoke to me, and whatever possessed me, I'm sure I don't know.

The head at which she was casting furtive glances, went down at this juncture, wearily down, on the seat before him, and the action decided her.

Stuart Lynde thought he had, in that moment, dropped asleep, and was in a blissful dream, for a soft voice just behind him, said, "Sir, I was mistaken; I would like to ask a favor of you."

The head was erect in an instant, and he began,—

"I shall be most happy;" but when he saw this haughty lady changed into a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner, and heard her say, "Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I have a great abundance?" then the fluent speech for which he was noted, forsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then—they looked squarely into each other's eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke into a merry laugh.

The ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible.

After that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the appetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been entirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number of biscuits.

"That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I possess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth," Marian said, while she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had wakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It "quite chirked her up," she said, "to hear something going on once more."

The two young people talked together some minutes before they recollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should have introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,—

"STUART LYNDE, Attorney and Counsellor at Law."

And Marian said simply, "I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts."

It would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech again, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were endless—the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the advantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes finally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had visited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary prairie, miles from anywhere.

Mr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read biographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets, and yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of fiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read "Jane Eyre," old as it was, nor "Romola," nor even the lighter novels that most schoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen.

"No," she said, "I know almost nothing of them; my father has his own ideas in regard to these things," and she said it reverently and sweetly, as if "anything that my father wishes is good and right;" not; "My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the consequences—"

"His theory is that a taste for solid reading should first be formed, and that whatever of fiction is indulged in, should be by the best writers and quite simple. With the exception of a few books, rather juvenile in character, I am to read my first novel this winter with father. I read aloud to him a great deal, and he is my dictionary and encyclopædia. We have most delightful times, and we read all sorts of books. Perhaps, if one were to come down to my level in the line of light reading, I might intelligently discuss the merits of some works," she said archly; "I know almost by heart 'Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales' and the 'Tanglewood Tales;' as well as 'Alice in Wonderland,' and 'Water Babies,' and several other lovely stories."

Happy daughter! To read her first novel—some pure, noble work of his choosing—with her father, instead of stealthily devouring a vile, yellow-covered thing at midnight, when she should have been sleeping, or secreting it under her desk at school, and snatching a guilty morsel when she should have been studying.

The father's theory had been well carried out, and he must have been delighted with results, for the girl could enjoy a scientific research, or a simple story, one of which would have been voted dull, and the other childish, by those reared on more highly seasoned mental food. Then there was in her a cheery freshness, and a hearty enjoyment of simple pleasures, in sharp contrast with many specimens of restless, languid young ladyhood, interested in nothing on earth or under it—nothing except themselves.

Mr. Lynde was charmed. Here was an anomaly, a rare study: a girl not made up of artificialities, nor morbid sentimentalism.

The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings, until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances, of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies; and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.

"And this is the extent of mine," Marian said, producing her little books, "my Christmas present from a dear old auntie," and she gave them into his hands, and received his volume of essays.

It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony, this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point. His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself as to the comfort of old ladies.

During the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better. Food was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the train was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many a jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at all. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night at their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged to change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks across the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her shawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was pleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains among bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by daylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this late hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of other travellers bound for the same train.

All hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars, and the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o'clock. The Christmas morning already begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as they stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of each a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning—"Within that province far away."

"'In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago,'"

quoted Mr. Lynde.

Marian was surprised into saying: "How very singular! The same words were running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to ask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar with that poem."

"Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:

"'The earth was still—but knew not why, The world was listening—unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago."

To Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of something else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with a stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was positively enjoying it, had the effect to make her "good-night" seem cold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she vanished into the section assigned her.

It had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel alone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and accompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be supposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the uncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable that he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian had decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by this time quite like a veteran traveller.

In the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They had just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how he could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired gentleman bustled up with, "Ah, Marian, here you are!" bent and kissed her cheek, saying in the same breath, "So glad you came this morning, my dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col. Winslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the invitation for you, too." Marian's face put in a protest.

"Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people; you will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting."

As soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde, as one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him a hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under shaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian's hand under his arm and was moving off.

One moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured thanks, and she was gone.

To say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it. Who was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most reluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He remembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps, would join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking forward to a day's travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it had all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.

In his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the imperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely escaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He realized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in his possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it, inasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize. He brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his side pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken from the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he enjoyed the fragrance, and partly—he knew not why. He laid it with the books. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence that, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon he tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself a fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that manner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a task. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between him and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and arranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain to determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret in her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their conversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again her attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when she came to minister to his necessities. "Not one in a hundred would have done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at all, indeed," he told himself.

The thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not obtained her address; "Massachusetts," that was all he knew.

He took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was there: "Marian Chester." What a fair name it was; how it just suited her. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or where Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his heart re-echoing that prayer.

As for Marian, she found the last half of her journey dull in comparison with the first, and she was dimly conscious why. The thought sent bright flushes into her cheeks, but she did not sit down and analyze and define it, or recall looks and tones and words. She shut the door on that corner of her heart and locked it. She told herself that it was a matter of perfect indifference to her who or what he was, and yet when her uncle asked, "Who was the young man you introduced to me, my dear?" and she produced his card, she was more than pleased to hear Col. Winslow declare that he knew him well by reputation; that he was one of the most brilliant young lawyers in the State, and, morally, was without blemish.

In the busy months that followed, it was becoming a habit with Mr. Lynde to refresh himself with a look into one or other of the little books he kept among his treasures. Even when most pressed by business matters, he was sure to snatch a brief moment through the day or night to glance at a verse. He did this at first because they belonged to "the maiden," he called her in his thought; that old-fashioned sweet word just fitted her, and seemed to single her out as above and beyond all others. Then the words of Thomas à Kempis charmed him; he studied that book for the quaint simplicity of its style, and wondered that he had not before discovered such a gem. And, while he thought it childish in him, he noted with not a little curiosity the text for each day in the "Daily Food." When he went a journey, it amused even himself that he always slipped the little books into some pocket, and they went along.

One night at the close of a triumphant day, when he had come off victor in a difficult case, and had been congratulated and complimented until he was surfeited, he opened the small book to search out the text for that day. To one conscious of having gloried not a little in the very gratifying success of that day, it was almost startling to read—

"Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches. Let him that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the Lord."

Not since he was a boy at his mother's knee, had a word of Scripture come into his heart with power such as this.

He knew he had gloried in his wisdom and power; had been proud of his triumph, and proud of his spotless life and high morality, but now how it all flashed upon him in an instant, that he was weak and foolish and sinful before God. He could speak in many tongues, and understand mysteries of science, but he did not know and understand the Lord. The one thing in which it would be right to glory, he did not possess. When a boy, he had the habit of prayer, but, as he grew toward manhood, lost his faith by reading skeptical writers, so for many years he had not spoken to God until he came into possession of these two precious books, then, curiously enough, he had begun to pray one petition: "The Lord bless her and keep her." But now, when the sense of the utter worthlessness of all he attained, and God left out, was flashed upon him, he cried, "Teach me to know and understand thee," and the first answer to that prayer was to show him that he was blind and poor and in need of all things. His eye fell upon words just then which told that another soul, generations ago, had gone by the same road to find his God, for Thomas à Kempis said:

"But if I abase and know myself to be nothing, if I renounce all self-esteem and (as I am) account myself to be but dust; thy grace will be favorable unto me, and thy light will be near unto my heart.

"And all self-esteem, how little soever, shall be swallowed up in the deep valley of my nothingness, and perish everlastingly.

"There thou showest thyself unto me, what I am, what I have been, and whither I am come; for I am nothing and I knew it not.

"And if I be left to myself, behold, I become nothing and all weakness.

"But if thou lookest upon me, I am made strong."

The light had entered the darkened soul. The Spirit used a few texts of Scripture and the devout words of an old monk to teach him "that all our righteousness is as filthy rags," and that "the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin." The old miracle was repeated in him. In silence and quiet the change went on. A proud, ambitious, self-seeking man, learning to pray with that other saint:

"Grant me, O, most gracious and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above all creatures:

"Above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtlety, above all riches and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all hope and promise, above all desert and desire; above all gifts and presents that thou canst give and impart unto us: above all joy and triumph that the mind of man can receive and feel."

A year went away, and the stars of Christmas night glowed in the sky as brightly as long ago, "when shepherds watched their flocks by night," and "the angel of the Lord came down." Mr. Lynde, as he walked and thought—thought of that night, "within that province far away," to which his destiny was now "linked" in a peculiar and tender relation. He would not have been human not to have recalled that other night, too, a year ago. So he walked the silent, moonlight streets, and repeated softly—

"'In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago,'"

He might walk and walk miles, though, it would not bring that other one who walked by his side then. He might not have sighed so heavily at that thought if his vision could have compassed distance and known who watched the stars with him.

That these two paths should ever cross again, would seem as impossible as that two small ships adrift on the wide ocean should "speak" each other.

The ingenuity and perseverance with which he had prosecuted the search all these months was something remarkable. As Boston is the metropolis of Massachusetts, he made business trips to Boston, and the "business" was to walk the streets, haunt picture galleries, attend lectures and concerts, always searching for one face. He read Boston papers, especially the list of marriages and deaths. He took the westward journey many times, hoping she might have repeated the visit to Aunt Ruth. Once he ventured to send her a letter through the Boston post-office, and it came back to himself.

"She knows where I am," he would tell his unreasoning self. "How easily she could send me some little sign, but, such as she never would, even though she cared."

All this time Marian was hidden away in a suburban town ten miles from Boston, in her father's country home, though spending much time in the city. Why did not one or the other of their good angels cause them to turn their eyes in the right direction that day they almost brushed against each other in the crowd?

Through the year she had stoically crushed out pleasant remembrances of the brief acquaintance, never allowing the thought that possibly they might meet again, and yet she always searched an audience with a keener interest than had been her wont. It might just be possible, but how preposterous, after all! He lived far away in a Western city. Why should he come to Boston?

'Tis true, too, that on Christmas night she indulged herself in a bit of dreaming, lingering purposely at her chamber window, looking out on the white world until the clock in the steeple should chime out twelve, feeling, unconsciously, that she was keeping an indefinable tryst with some mythical being by so doing. She, too, went in memory over the walk and the poem, recalled the excellent rendering of the few lines recited, and then being dimly conscious that it would be the most delightful thing in life to go on and on in an interminable walk, with that one voice sounding always in her ears, she brought her reverie to an abrupt ending, drew her curtains and shut out the witching moonbeams with tantalizing memories,—like a sensible maiden that she was.

Mr. Lynde's book had been diligently studied by her, partly because it was his, and for the reason that it was in rather a different line from anything she had read. She did not at once comprehend its subtle logic, and her ambition required that she should. Her well-trained mind was not long in discovering that this book was not all gems and pearls, as she had supposed when the fascinating rhetoric attracted her. There were half-truths, skeptical suggestions, and flings at doctrines dear to Christian hearts. It filled her with sorrow and surprise that such high, beautiful thoughts should be so marred.

Did Mr. Lynde believe these things? From a remark he dropped, she half-feared he did. From that time his name came into her daily prayer as she asked that her little books might not be lost, but be seed that should spring up and bear fruit.

It was not in a crowded assembly, nor on the city streets, nor on a railroad train, that Mr. Lynde finally found his treasure. He was returning from a trip in the Northwest, and near the end of a day's travel was obliged to wait at a small town a few hours, in order to take an express train. Finding the time hang heavily, he walked out and turned his steps into a little foot path that led out into the country.

It was a perfect day. The clear sky, the tinted woods, the stream, the "rare blue hills," made lovely pictures on all sides.

He had not the most remote idea that this noisy brook bounded Aunt Ruth's farm, and that the next bend in the road would reveal a charming picture that would make his pulses stand still with joy.

A narrow footbridge spanned the stream, and leaning over the railing, intently watching the hurrying waters, her white dress fluttering in the breeze, stood Marian. He knew her in an instant, and came forward, his heart in his face. Marian looked up quickly, in a startled way, at the sound of a footstep, and the joyful radiance that lighted her eyes when he said, "At last I have found you," revealed the whole story. There was scarcely need of question and answer.

And then? They sauntered along the bank of the winding stream, and began a walk that did not end till life ended.

The express train went its way without the traveller, and they two came up through the lengthening shadows to the old farmhouse, where Aunt Ruth sat on the porch. They told the whole long story to her, and she listened, with now a smile and then a tear, and when it was finished she laid a hand on the head of each, and said sweetly and solemnly, "Children, the Lord bless thee and keep thee!"

JUANA'S MASTER.

———

A PICTURESQUE object it was, this old Spanish-looking house, in the City of Mexico, with turrets and towers and balconies, set amid tall trees and clambering vines. The hot breath of the summer afternoon had sent most of the inhabitants to search out cool, dark retreats, and lose the sense of languor in sleep. Even the leaves and the flowers were drowsy, and universal silence settled upon all things, broken only by the plashing of fountains and the sleepy little songs of birds.

In an upper balcony of the old house a young wife sat, her head resting on one hand, her eyes fastened on the distant mountains just discernible through a soft haze. She was not building pretty air-castles, nor absorbed in the dreamy, wondrous beauty of the scene before her; nor when she bowed her head on the railing, did her eyes close in happy forgetfulness.

"Sleep seldom visits sorrow," and this sad heart was breathing out sobs and moans.

Juana Valerie, descended from both Mexican and Spanish ancestors, was, with the exception of an old aunt, the last of the family, which, in its day, had been one of much note. Left an orphan at an early age, her only remaining relative—feeble in both mind and body—found it no easy task to bring the fiery, frisky little mortal under any great degree of control. As she grew older her positive nature and keen mind outgeneraled both teachers and aunt. When she chose to spend the livelong day frolicking in the grounds, or clambering trees, instead of poring over dull books, she did so, always being able by means of ready wit and winning ways to escape punishment. However, as the years went on, she contrived to secure a fair share of education, absorbing it, it must be; surely it was not accomplished by hard study.

Juana's parents had been staunch Roman Catholics, and while they lived she was trained in the strict observance of the rules of that church. Whether it was that the little maiden was a born rebel, or that from some honest-hearted ancestor she had inherited a hatred of shams, it turned out that at a very early age she began to throw off the shackles the Church of Rome binds about its victims. The Confessional had always been to her childish mind a dread and horror, and as she grew to girlhood she stoutly refused to go to it. The aunt and the old priest scolded and threatened, which had the effect only to drive her from the church entirely. Then they persecuted and warned, holding up to her view the awful fate of an apostate soul. They tried to hedge her in on this side and that, but she shook her willful little head, and leaping over all inclosures, ran free as the wind. No threats or persuasions availing to bring her under control, she was deemed incorrigible, and the anathema of the Church pronounced against her. This did not bring the least shadow upon her spirit, however; a strange intuition seemed to make this young girl aware that truth in its purity was not there, and that a mere man had no power to pronounce either blessing or curse upon her.

She was not unloving to her old aunt, nor did she intend to be undutiful, but she did purpose always and everywhere to have her own way; so the feeble old lady settled down to the inevitable, and Juana came and went free as a bird. Hitherto, her flowers and her pets had absorbed her, but now she was awakening to the fact that a whole bright world of pleasure lay all about, beckoning her to its revelries. So she drifted in with the giddy throng, and was flattered and followed and smiled upon to her heart's content.

In one of the gay assemblies she met Paul Everett, a young American. At first glance each became immediately fascinated by the other, and subsequent interviews served to deepen the enchantment. As Juana could speak not a word of English, and the young stranger but very little Spanish, it would seem that the attachment could not make rapid progress; but love has a mystic language of its own, and is independent of clumsy words. The reasons for this irresistible and mutual attraction were quite as good as many lovers can plead. He was carried captive by flashing dark eyes, raven hair, and the graceful form gleaming in crimson and gold, flitting through the dance like some gay tropical bird. She, in turn, fondly believed that the tall blonde young man, with locks and mustache of golden hue, with eyes of heavenly blue, and, above all, in faultless attire, was nothing short of a demi-god. On such slender basis they built fair hopes, and were ready to promise everything, and more, that lay in mortal's power to bestow. The business that drew Paul Everett to Mexico was the same in which he had been engaged the last five years. His indulgent friends termed it "sowing wild oats," though he himself professed to be gathering material for some literary work. In this line he had much taste, and fair talents, and might have succeeded if only it had been possible for him to engage in any pursuit with earnestness and enthusiasm; or if he had known any other rule of life than self-indulgence.

The wooing was short; they were soon married, and Paul for a time exceedingly enjoyed the little idyll he was living. The situation was most novel and delightful. The flowery land, its blue skies and balmy air suited his poetical temperament. The old castle and grounds were picturesque and spacious, and he was master of them, or would be on the death of the old aunt; besides, did he not possess the entire adoration of the most charming and unique little creature that ever breathed? Paul had a mania for the unique, and one of Juana's greatest attractions to him was that she was unlike all the rest of womankind; of whom, as he assured himself, he was heartily weary, but this sparkling, piquant winning sprite—ah! She was as far beyond and above all other women as wine was above water— and that distance was immeasurable to Paul's taste.

He enjoyed teaching Juana to speak English. Her musical voice stammering out pretty broken words in his own language, was a pleasant thing to hear. She was not content with simply speaking it. Should she be the wife of an American and not be able to read his language? So under his tuition, she set about the study of it with much more industry than suited her husband's indolent temperament. These were halcyon days; seldom were a young couple more united. Their views of life and their aims were the same. The world was a gay garden, and they two were butterflies, disporting themselves in the warm sunshine and draining every drop of sweetness from every flower in their path. Innocent enough flowers they were at first; the delight in each other's society in rambling, riding, boating, and resting under the shadows of broad spreading trees, or, from a lofty balcony enjoying the panorama the summer evening spread before them; the fair city at their feet, its spires and minarets gleaming in the moonlight, and distant mountains piled in soft masses against the crystal sky.

When Juana added to the witchery of the scene by singing sweet Spanish airs to the music of the guitar, the young husband half believed he had attained heaven and the society of the angels.

When these simple delights ceased to charm, there was the outside world which they had come near to forgetting while in this ecstatic trance. So they plunged into every amusement the gay wicked city offered, and "gave their hearts to folly." They lived in a whirl of pleasure, and Juana felt that now there was nothing more to ask for in life. To be the chosen bride of such a man, and to take her fill of amusement, to dress and dance and sing the days and nights away—was ever cup of happiness so strangely full as hers?

If some stray breeze had whispered in her ear that she had tied her happiness to a slender thread, that the day would come when all these things would be to her as chaff, and that if her husband should weary of her, he would fling her aside as he did the rose he plucked in the morning, after breathing its sweetness a moment—then Juana would never have believed such a false whisperer.

Paul Everett tired of everything sooner or later. His restless, fickle nature demanded constant change and new sensations. So, after the first novelty of his new mode of life had worn off, he began to return to his old habits of roving, making only short absences at first, but gradually to extend them till weeks grew into months.

Juana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from the whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and conscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter somewhat into the experience of another one who "laid hold on folly," and found it "vanity and vexation of spirit." Of late an unaccountable feeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal over her. A voice seemed often to ask her, "If this was all of life, to frolic away a few brief days and die, and then—what? Could it be that death was the end?" One evening during her husband's absence, she walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone gateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer meeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and wished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so that she might find out what it was that made them seem so different from all others.

"Those people are happy, Ria," she said to the maid; "they look as if they had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was." And Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what she had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and betook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from the little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender airs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something better and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the first dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good, seeking for its God.

These feelings did not pass away with the next morning's sunlight. She felt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This could not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for when he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed her, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine affection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the trouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes. But Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature, was only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the dignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.

There was a fascination to Juana in watching the small company of worshipers go to and from the chapel. One evening, as the melody of their hymns floated up to her, she became possessed of a desire to come nearer to the heavenly sounds. So, enveloping her head and shoulders in a large veil, she glided softly forth into the moonlight alone; her husband was down in the city and would not return until late. She was glad to go alone, though for some reason that she did not herself understand. She stole silently along, and stood under the shadow of the trees where she could observe without being seen. Now their heads were bowed in prayer. In the earnest petitions from one and another she often caught the name "God." She had never heard it in English. If they had spoken the word in her own language, though, no distinct idea would have been conveyed to her; only a dim, shadowy something that she had heard of long ago.

Soon they broke out into song again:

"Come, happy souls, approach your God With new melodious songs."

Although Juana could converse in simple broken words in English, she could comprehend scarcely nothing of what she now heard; and yet the music thrilled and animated her. How joyful these faces and voices were, and yet subdued and tender, and they sang about "God"—that same name! Still she lingered as if fascinated until the closing hymn, that lullaby for trusting souls in all ages:

"Glory to thee, my God, this night, For all the blessings of the light: Keep me, O keep me, King of kings, Beneath thine own almighty wings."

And still they sang that same name—"God." If only the poor heart standing there in the shadows could know about the "Almighty wings!" Juana did not forget the sound of the new name she had heard—that Being to whom those people prayed and sang praises, and read about in their Bible. If she could but read English and have one of their Bibles, then she should know all about Him! Oh! If somebody would tell her about Him.

"If those English people know about God, why should not Paul?" she mused, as they sat together one afternoon.

Paul was reclining in a hammock, the smoke of a cigar curling far above his head, absorbed in a French novel.

When Juana broke the silence by asking him if he owned a Bible, he answered with a frown, "Of course not."

"Paul, could you tell me about God?" Juana ventured again.

"Very easily," said Paul, puffing out a whiff of smoke. "There is no God. So you see you needn't bother your pretty head any more about that question."

He did not see the startled, disappointed look in Juana's face as he settled himself again to his book with an air that said he was not to be further disturbed. Paul's word, ordinarily, was law to Juana, but in this case she was not satisfied. She could not believe there was no God. She knew there must be one, and that not by reasoning it out. A greater than human reason had taught her. If now she could but find out about Him! She had not looked into a Spanish Bible since she was a very little child, but she could not go to that for help. She distrusted everything that the Church of Rome had to do with. "But if a Spanish Bible tells Catholics about their religion, why should not an English Bible teach the Protestant religion?" she reasoned. She resolved to have one, if possible, and when Juana resolved, her strong will left no stone unturned toward accomplishment.

A day or two after, as her husband was making preparations for another journey, Juana preferred her request:

"There is one thing I do much want. Will you not please get it for me, dear Paul, before you go? I do so want it! And that is an English Bible."

"Pray, what in the world would you do with that?" Paul asked, in much astonishment. "You cannot read English."

"Ah! Shall I not read it soon if I study much? I can try to read the stories in it, and it will help make the time to fly, so you will soon come back to me," she added coaxingly.

Paul was willing enough that other people should have what they wanted if it did not interfere with his pleasure. So as he went about attending to various purchases for himself, he remembered Juana's request, and was at not a little pains to obtain for her a copy of the Bible. "Every one to his taste," he remarked to himself as he looked it over. "I think I could find fables that would prove more entertaining to me than this one."

During her husband's stay at home Juana had much of the time been carrying on an inward struggle. She had endeavored to quiet her unrest by plunging into reckless dissipation, but the still small voice followed her even to the midnight revel. And often, when she had filled all her waking hours with busy trifles—purposely to crowd out these intrusive thoughts—she would wake as by a flash, her spirit filled with a strange dread, and then, in the still solemn hour the eternal would speak to the mortal, who, shrinking away in conscious guilt, felt that there were just two things in the universe; herself, and an awful presence who searched her through.

When left again to her lonely life, Juana gave herself with unceasing application to the study of English, so that she might read her new Bible. She could already spell out texts made up of simple words, and form a tolerably clear conception of their meaning. If she was going to read a book, she must of course begin at the beginning and read it through; so she plunged boldly into the great volume. As well might one essay to cross the ocean in a tiny sail-boat, as for this dark-minded girl to get any available knowledge from such a deep; the unbeliever would say, and truly, the undertaking would have been hopeless had it not been a wonderful Book, with a wonderful Teacher.

She labored through the first chapter of Genesis with that great name in almost every verse. Never was tale more fascinating than this one. It was read in a poor blundering way; but the truth had been gleaned that God made the world and all it contains. No doubt as to the truth of it entered her mind for a moment. Day after day she spelled her way through succeeding chapters. It was all new and wonderful, but disappointing. It was not what she craved: something that would remove the strange heaviness that weighed upon her. On the contrary she gathered that all the world had gone astray from God and were under his wrath and curse, and that agreed with what she had conceived. God to be; a stern, awful being, holding a sword over the heads of his creatures. The more she read the greater grew the mystery. "I cannot make it out," she said, almost despairingly, "it is all confusion;" then, with the superstition of her race, resolved, "I will put the book of God under my pillow; I will see if some good may not come to me from it while I sleep." Perchance there might be sweeter sleep if the "book of God" oftener pillowed troubled heads. Finally she abandoned the project of reading the Bible through, and puzzled out bits here and there, hoping to chance upon something that she could understand.

"All have sinned and come short of the glory of God," she read, then sadly murmured, "Yes, I know that; the very first of the book tells it, and that is what I am, a sinner. I have a bad heart, oh! so bad. But how shall I make it good I know not." And just here Juana discovered the old remedy that many burdened souls resort to. She would propitiate Heaven with good works. So she gave money freely and liberally whenever a hand was stretched out, and tried to be amiable and lovely, and made a solemn vow to perfectly keep all the commandments. The result was the usual one that comes to a sinner trying to justify himself by the law. Every dormant evil in the poor girl's heart awoke and clamored. Satan worried and buffeted at every turn, and, growing irritable and impatient she declared, "What should I want of a book that makes me so unhappy? It must be bad, for since I know it I am not so good as once I was."

After that the book was not opened for days, but rested in the bottom of Juana's trunk, "under much clothes, so that I could not see it," she said, and she herself wandered up and down like a lost spirit, out of heart with everything within and about her. Then, to fill up the wretched, lonely days with something, she again brought out her Bible and plunged into the laborious task more earnestly than before.

Gracious and kind as He ever is, the Lord was teaching this one poor little scholar as if she were the only soul in the universe. After Juana had thoroughly learned that she was a sinner, this blessed truth flashed up at her one day as she was toiling through a verse: "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." She went through it again, eagerly, with dilating eyes and suspended breath. "Ah! What is this!" she exclaimed. "This is news indeed! Christ Jesus: Who can he be? He saves sinners! And that is me."

At last she found the key. And now how intently she searched out that name, drinking in the truth, as one dying of thirst would seize a cup of cold water. Little by little she got it all—the old, old story; the birth in Bethlehem, the lowly, lovely life in Nazareth, the cross, the death, the tomb, the resurrection, the ascension, and, at last, the gracious invitation—

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."

"Oh! I want rest," she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her first prayer, "I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!" Without even realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart before Him. "I know not how long I did talk to Him," she told some one afterward; "a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could not stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I feel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window I say, 'O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees so grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory before.' Then something say, 'It is wrong for you to be so happy When you are such a sinner,' so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I cannot; I can only sing for joy."

Secure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her husband's return, eager to tell him the good news.

"Paul is very wise," she told herself, "he will not have so hard a time to understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear book that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his soul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be."

In a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting. He was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to have such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to minister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited maiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head meekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle hand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple of discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice. Why would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the embodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?

"My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns have grace and favor in them," was the honest feeling of this deluded soul.

It was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when she first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for him, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and triumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but as she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he grew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince him, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, "Do, dear Paul, read about the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all true," he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.

Juana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it to her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.

The young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen her hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than his own.

He waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and promises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet his perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little puzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved to treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by little in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her new whims.

To please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre, and spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl's conscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown into a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts in our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of any church, or inquire of wise theologians "what she must give up" if she became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned to Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the way was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny blossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control his child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that Christ and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges heart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and delight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had left her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By a law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world cannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded Christian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet experience.

Paul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of loving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures, he rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the hitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his astonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could, that her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and theaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to delight her?

What wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a doll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and asserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought contrary from his!

"What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?" he demanded.

What a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes, filled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering tongue in pretty, crooked words, said: "The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is my Master," and Juana's tongue lingered lovingly over the word—she had lately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her—"I fear, oh! very much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here," and both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.

Paul's answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending with—"I am your master! You are to obey me and none other." And then he stooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would be terrible to her: "If you do not, I will cast you off!"

It was not will-power, nor strength of purpose—inherited from any ancestor, either Spanish or Mexican—but grace divine, that enabled Juana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift her soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him, come what would.

When Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any other time. He hated "religionists," and was determined not to have the wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism. Moreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down. He would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible reading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting to be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his displeasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands, threats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved to leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted absence, loneliness would bring her to terms.

"I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly obedient," Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory and beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching him disappear through the great gateway—gone and she alone in her sorrow. "What if he never came up that flower 'broidered path again? Her Paul was firm, he would not relent." (The poor, blind child did not know that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)

Martyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall say which is most heroic—to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the heart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the slow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?

Weary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away, but the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not fail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour her friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart; so that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received many letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for his return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for him but deny or displease "the dear Christ Jesus." "He do make me happy even in my sorrow," she wrote. This was more than the vain man could bear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!

Paul's next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in the heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country for years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on herself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to him to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted to hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither should she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to this cruel decision more easily from just having received news that Juana's old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the church, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy from the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain himself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be burdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.

For weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As strength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her anguish, "I can never, never live without him."

She did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a wild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her husband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find him, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change. She could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her small property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary journey arrived—a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed the cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The search proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious. Faint and ready to perish—did some one speak her name? "Child, come unto me, I will give you rest." And then Juana's heart leaped, and she answered quickly, "Master." Then were her eyes opened, and she knew that the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting up in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought forgiveness, he showed the "vividness of His mercy," and gave her not only comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself and her husband at his feet with, "Thy will be done."

In loving submission she asked now, "What wilt Thou have me to do?" And for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism and idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but what could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very little money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold itself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the door stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear. Juana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in she followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman's missionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different subjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low tones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then, the faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a good place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and then, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that. After prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about Mexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and fine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them. She listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her commission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid tones, said, "Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little word for her?" It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never was appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to "send help now, for they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all."

Then, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat. But the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would, persuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of so many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting everything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion. The eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she described her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women to their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as this young stranger were hidden away there.

The fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church, and the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts turned warmly to the "land of the sun," as this young wife, a miracle of God's grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken, eager words, pleaded with tears for "my dear Mexico."

Gladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by this means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached and moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.

The Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her native country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good news, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work for Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with treasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and loving farewells of hosts of God's people.

To-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells the glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she works her prayer goes up that Paul may become "a new creature in Christ Jesus," and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work by her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that the Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a saint.

Patiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she has come to "the valley of blessing," to rest and peace, and the song she loves best to sing, is—

"Emptied, that He might fill me, As forth to His labor I go, Broken, that so unhindered His life through me might flow."

TEN BUSHELS.

———

MRS. LYMAN was in the kitchen superintending dinner. She was but a young housekeeper, so there was a certain amount of anxiety connected with making even a kettle of soup. She stirred and tasted and put in another shake of pepper and another pinch of salt, and said to her maid of all work, who stood by watching the process:

"I do wish I had an onion to put in it; soup is not very good without an onion flavor."

The remark was made more to herself than to Barbara, whose knowledge of English was somewhat limited. If it had not been, and if she had known the way and it had not been too late, she might have gone down town and bought some onions. As those obstacles were all in the way, the soup must needs go without.

When the six o'clock dinner was spread in the very prettiest dining room that can be imagined, the table glittering in its new silver, and the soup smoking in the tureen, the master of the house—a young man who had only enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the head of his own table for a couple of months—took it all in, as his own tastes were capable of doing. The savory odors, the cheery room, the careful attention to every detail of comfort and beauty, and then the slight figure opposite him, an embodiment of dignity and grace—he found nothing lacking in it all.

"This soup is not quite perfect," the young wife said, as she began to serve it, "I had no onions to put in it. I wish you would order some when you go down town to-morrow, Philip; they are nice just now for boiling, too."

This young couple had compared views on Browning and Ruskin, but not on onions. They had long ago discussed poetry, philosophies, and art, as well as architecture and house furnishings, and they had found hitherto that their tastes were in most delightful accord. Mrs. Lyman was not prepared, therefore, for the frown that contracted her husband's handsome brows as he ejaculated:

"Onions! Don't mention them. Excuse me from that purchase, please. They are abominable; not fit for human beings to eat. They ought to be banished from every respectable table."

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Lyman answered, with rising color, "but all do not agree in such a sweeping denunciation. Many of the best physicians consider them most nutritious and healthful."

"Well, at all events, I shall not have my house polluted with the vile things. If there is anything that reminds one of a third-rate boarding-house, it is to get a whiff of onions the moment you enter the front door. It is vulgar and low. I can't see how any one of refined tastes can touch them. I hope you are not an onion eater, Nettie, because if you are, I fear you will have to abstain; I cannot abide them."

Now Mrs. Annette Heyward Lyman was exceedingly fond of onions. She was not of the sort to declare that she was "passionately fond of them," but she did think a nice dish of boiled onions, pretty white ones, swimming in hot milk and butter, was just the thing to go with—stewed chicken, say. Then, she enjoyed thin slices of raw onions cut into vinegar; and crisp, green-topped young ones, dipped in salt and eaten with bread and butter, were just delicious. And yet, if Philip had mildly hinted that he had a special aversion for that vegetable, she would have declared, "I will eat no onions while the world standeth." But to attack them in this sharp way, to declare them vulgar, and, above all, to dictate to her what she should or should not eat, as if he were her master, and to say "my house!" it was too much, and she answered in an icy tone that "she must beg leave to differ; to her mind the onion was a most delicious vegetable, and she must reserve for herself the right of choice in this and in other matters."

Their first quarrel! And all about an onion! What cares Satan whether it be an apple or an onion, so that he spoil the Edens?

There were many more words quite as pungent as onions, and then there fell a silence between them that was not broken after Barbara had lighted the gas in the parlor, and drawn the table under the drop-light, and they were seated with books and newspapers. There was no reading done, but much ugly thinking. One line of it ran after this fashion:

"Strange that so delicate, refined a nature should have a taste for that vile, flagrant, odious onion!" A wretched discovery, that his wife should be fond of that for which he had always felt disgust! And evidently she did not mean to give them up, not even for his sake. Was she selfish and proud and obstinate and—and high-tempered? Had he been mistaken in her character and her regard for him?

The wife meantime was recalling an opinion long ago expressed by a friend, who said that Philip Lyman possessed a domineering spirit and was bound to rule all connected with him. She, herself, had never believed it, but this looked like it—wishing her to give up whatever he did not fancy, and hinting that she would be obliged to. Indeed! He would find that she did not drive well; no, indeed. If her husband had observed the glowing cheeks and flashing eyes just then he would have been justified in concluding that she was "high-tempered."

And now came a break in this uncomfortable state of things in the shape of Mr. John Lyman, on a business trip; "could only spend the night with his brother. He was sorry to spoil their evening together." He would have been sorrier had he known they had not spoken for just two hours.

Annette soon retired, leaving the brothers to talk over home affairs while she went to her room to indulge in the luxury of grief. How dark it all looked. Philip was changing. Perhaps he was sorry they were married. He had the same as said she was vulgar and coarse. He was fastidious; she could never please him; they would have dreadful quarrels, for she could not submit to be ordered. And now the tears that had been stored up all these bright years fell in most surprising showers, until sleep had got the better of them.

The morning was a hurrying time; the brother must get down town for the early train. A hasty good-by with averted eyes, and Philip was gone. As he lunched near his office, two miles away, he would not be at home again until night.

A long, unhappy day before Annette! She felt ten years older than yesterday morning, when Philip had come all the way back from the gate to put a rose in her hair. She wished she could see her mother; she wished she could go off where Philip wouldn't find her in years; that is, she thought she did. Oh! What a wretched world it was. Poor foolish child! But she had only lived twenty little years.

Mr. Philip Lyman alone in his office, tried to settle himself to his usual duties, but he felt ill at ease and uninterested. Finally he threw down his pen, tipped back in his chair, and locked his fingers together at the back of his head, a favorite thinking attitude. His eyes wandered out the window, resting on white clouds sailing through the sky. Perhaps the deep blue reminded him of Nettie's eyes, or the wrapper she had worn that morning. However it was, he soon fell to confessing to those soft clouds.

"What a consummate idiot! She thinks me a tyrant, and rude and selfish. She ought to be vexed at me. As if I should make over her tastes, and try to control her. I was rude and hateful and unkind. Contemptible!"

And with that he seized his hat and dashed down-stairs into the street. He went straight to a market, bought a peck of onions and ordered them sent home. An unpoetical peace offering, he reflected, but the most appropriate for him under the circumstances. But stop, those were red onions. This fact was brought to his consciousness by observing on the sidewalk a basket of unusually fine white ones; and she had especially wished white onions. Immediately he stepped in and bought a peck of those.

As he walked along, filled with the peaceful consciousness of having made some atonement, he spied a wagon filled to the top with clean shiny-skinned, white onions. "They really look attractive," he said to himself. Then there darted into his mind a new idea. What if he should prove to Annette what a magnanimous, self-denying being he really was, and take to eating the obnoxious things himself just to please her; be a philosopher, a stoic, and will to like what he detested?

There must be no half-way work about this act of self-abnegation; he would provide a generous supply. Now that he thought of it, autumn was just the time to lay in a supply of vegetables. What had he been thinking of, buying only a peck? Nov, how many was a good quantity—enough to last all winter? That was a conundrum. He had dim memories of ten bushels of this and that stored in his father's cellar. True his father had a large family. But then, they should have a great many visitors. The proprietor of the wagon stared when he heard the order, but his business was to sell onions. If Philip Lyman was complacent before, he was jubilant now in contemplation of his virtues. He bounded up the stairs, resolving to go home at noon, surprise Nettie, and "make up." He was a monster to have left her in such a cold way. He was obliged to abandon that plan, though, having already lost so much time.

Annette meantime had been aroused from her despondent mood by the first installment of onions. Onions have healing properties, everybody knows. They began to prove efficacious in this case. Philip wanted to show her that he was sorry, she reasoned, and had taken this way to do it. It was just as delicate and kind as if the onions had been flowers,—she ignored the fact that they were red. While her spirits were being thus soothed and comforted, the second peck of onions arrived. This was perplexing. Why had he done that? Ah! These were white, and he had recollected that she liked white ones. How thoughtful and good! How unselfish and candid and noble to own himself wrong, and she—had been foolish and wicked to get angry at nothing.

She was just beginning to feel that life was worth living, when another man presented himself announcing that he had brought some onions. Annette assured him there was some mistake, as they had sufficient for a long time. But he affirmed most strenuously this was the spot, producing the directions in her husband's handwriting. Then Annette told him that she must countermand the order; that she positively wished for no more onions.

"But ye see I got my pay for 'em," he answered, with a horrible grin, whereupon the discomfited young woman retired into the house and the triumphant onions went into the cellar.

Tramp, tramp, and roll, roll. Would he never have done? He seemed like an arch fiend, sent to torment her. If she could but have known the soliloquy he of the onions carried on as he went back and forth, and that he took a malicious delight in getting the better of her, it might have turned the tide of her rising wrath into a laugh. When a laugh comes in, wrath goes out.

"That's jest the way with wimmin folks—headstrong! They think they know a leetle the most about everything. The young feller likes onions, I s'pose, and she don't, and she's 'tarmined he sha'n't have 'em. I'm glad she's got a boss. She needs it."

By the time the tenth bushel was deposited all Annette's late estimates and decisions had been reversed. Of all despicable acts this was the climax—to send a whole load of those horrible things, as if to say, "Grovelling creature, can't live without onions! Take them!" It was just a simple exhibition of spite and sarcasm. She would never have believed he could do so cruel a thing. Since she was a child she had not been so angry. It was a lofty, scornful anger that did not vent itself in tears. Besides, the tears were all used up.

Snatching her hat and mantle, she went out into the air to try to calm herself. On and on she went out into the country, dreading to return. Finding herself within half a mile of her cousin's house, she decided to call in order to get away from her thoughts. It proved the right place for that purpose. Little Harry had become suddenly ill, and the distracted mother welcomed her gladly. The two worked over him all the afternoon. As night came on Annette felt that it would be cruel to leave until there was some ray of hope. So she wrote a note to her husband, briefly and coldly explaining her absence. A passing boy agreed to deliver it, but it never got beyond his own pocket.

Toward evening Barbara began to wonder what kept her mistress, and decided to take matters into her own hands and get up a dinner. Seeing the large bin of onions in the cellar, she said within herself, "This is what she all time want; I will cook some!" During the process of cooking she made many trips to the front door to watch for her lost mistress. Each time she left all the doors open behind her, and so thoroughly perfumed the whole house with the odor of the dinner.

In the city Paul had picked up an old college friend and persuaded him to stay over a train and dine with him. As he ushered his friend into the pretty house, with a pardonable pride, it was somewhat taken down by the unmistakable odor that greeted him.

"Onions! As I live," he said to himself, "and Merwin is such a fastidious fellow! However, wait till he sees Annette." So he went in haste to bring her.

Upstairs and down and in the garden he searched. She was not to be found. This was a new departure—to be away on his return. He told his friend she had probably been detained—would be in presently.

Chagrined and mortified almost beyond his power to conceal, after waiting an hour, he was obliged to invite his friend to a table without a hostess. The first cover he removed disclosed a dozen huge specimens of that obnoxious, ill-odored vegetable that had caused their unhappiness. He forgot his heroic resolve and shut it with emphasis—not to-night would he eat onions. It was unlike the delicate tact of his wife to have ordered them cooked that night, while she was still ignorant of what had passed in his mind.

Barbara was not yet perfect. The dinner both in cooking and serving missed the supervision of the mistress. The host was ill at ease and absent, and was not sorry that his guest soon bade him good-by.

And now Philip grew positively uneasy, and proved himself not a whit behind a woman in the power to conjure up dire probabilities. Perhaps she had slipped from that high bank where they sometimes walked along the river! And he rushed out through the garden and over the fields till he stood on the bank amidst the gathering shadows and peered remorsefully into the dark waters. What if somebody had abducted her; had brought word that he was ill and had carried her off! That thought was maddening. Then he remembered her one relative in that vicinity—her cousin.

No public conveyance went that way, and in hot haste, he started on foot. His speed astonished himself. Breathless and panting, he arrived and was about to ring, when, obeying an impulse, he stepped to the side porch and looked through the vine-covered window. Yes; surely, there was Annette! A little group near the open fire; she kneeling by a low chair, her bright head bending over little Harry, who lay in his mother's lap.

The first feeling was of relief and gratitude. She was safe. And then, it was his turn. There came surging over him, like a hot breath from a furnace, a wave of anger, and he strode away. His hasty glance had not shown him the death-like pallor on the baby face, nor the anxious expressions of the others. His conclusion was that the baby was being made ready for bed, and the two were admiring his pretty pink toes.

On he went in the darkness, his resentment gathering force at every step. Here she had deliberately planned to put him to torture. How little she must care for him when she would allow him to spend a whole night in anxiety. He had supposed her nature to be gentle and forgiving, and here she had treasured up a few hasty words and was intent on revenge. He had made concessions, and she had scorned them. Alas! He had not the dimmest suspicion that those ten bushels of concessions were just what widened the breach. He walked the floor for hours, then flinging himself on a lounge, toward morning chopped into a heavy sleep.

The result of the night's meditation was a decision that the next advance toward reconciliation must come from Annette herself. Just as he was about starting for the office in the morning, Annette was driven up to the door. They looked at each other in silence. He lingered a moment to see if she had any explanations to offer, and she waited in the hall hoping that possibly he had repented of the odious conduct of yesterday and was willing to confess it. Silence is not always "golden;" the proverb is misleading. If he had but asked, "Why did you go away?" Or she had said some pleasant word! But, no; they passed each other in grim silence.

Another day of gloom and despair for both. This unwonted strain, added to the night's watching, brought upon Annette a nervous headache, so that by the time of Philip's return she could not raise her head. It was fortunate. But for this they might have gone on till happiness was wrecked. Annette, with spirited little head erect, sailing through the house, was to be considered somewhat differently from this one, her head on a pillow, racked with pain. No mother could have cared for her more tenderly and skillfully than Philip. Throwing his resentment to the winds, he administered to her for hours until she fell into a quiet sleep.

In the morning, with the pain all gone, explanations were in order. It was hard to tell which was the more astonished as the misunderstandings of each began to come out.

"And you did not go away to have revenge on me?" "And you did not send home all those onions just to tease me?" were some of the questions asked. Then the ludicrous side began to appear, and they laughed long and merrily.

"Whatever shall we do with all those onions?" queried Annette when she found her breath.

"We will make sweet fragrance to our names by means of them," said Philip. "We will send gifts to the poor—always of onions. We will become famous as philanthropists, and our eccentric charities will be the theme of succeeding generations. But, Nettie, I wish you would make a picture of some of those silvery-skinned onions. We will hang it up in the dining room, and it shall teach us wholesome lessons that nobody else can read but just us two. Shall teach me not to forget the 'small sweet courtesies of life.'"

"And shall teach me," said Annette humbly, "'that anger dwells in the bosom of fools.'"

"And that 'greater is he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh a city,'" added Philip.

"My darling," he said, as their lips met in the kiss of reconciliation, "let us never again misinterpret, misjudge, or lose faith in each other, whatever comes."

MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS.

———

MISS RACHEL WHITTAKER, as the years went by, found herself sole occupant of the old family homestead. Father and mother had lived their long honored lives, finished their work, and entered into rest. Brothers and sisters had one after another made for themselves new homes and gone their different ways. Miss Rachel had passed safely through the romances of youth and settled down to sober middle-aged life. She had also resisted all persuasions of friends to sell the old place and make her home with some one of the various families. "Because there is no man in the case," said Miss Whittaker, with a slightly contemptuous emphasis on the "man," "is no reason why I should not have a home of my own."

So life went on in the old Whittaker mansion with the same zest and order as if the household numbered a half-dozen, instead of a single lone female and her servant. There was the same punctilious regard to times and seasons. The house-cleaning paroxysm invariably came on a certain day of the month, the Monday's wash flapped in the wind, and the Saturday's baking sent forth spicy odors as regularly as they had done for the last forty years. The cellar continued to be stocked each autumn with "Mercers" and "Pink-eyes," with "Greenings" and "Spitzenbergs," with "Golden Pippins" and "Pound Sweets." The closet shelves contained their due amount of riches: rows of jars and glasses, filled with peaches, pears, quinces and jellies. In short, everything pertaining to good cheer was literally brimming over.

And Miss Rachel fed her chickens, counted her eggs, watered her plants and pattered upstairs and down, or sat in her large, sunny room and read her books and magazines, or clicked her knitting needles to the ticking of the tall old clock. Or she gathered a few friends about her for a social tea drinking, or, flung wide the doors of the old house to a troop of nieces and nephews. It was not alone that Miss Whittaker was fond of company, but it was pleasant to keep up the old customs. It was a pitiful attempt to bring back, as far as possible, the old times. It was easier when gay chatter and merry prattle filled the rooms, to see the white-haired father and mother as of old in their arm-chairs by the fireside. The most prosaic have a vein of sentiment somewhere. Rachel Whittaker's took this form; she guarded with a reverence that amounted to idolatry every object and principle belonging to those two. Her father's old hat occupied the identical peg on which he himself hung it the last time he went out; and mother's darning basket stood on the little stand, with balls and thimble and glasses; the needle stuck in the ball of blue yarn just where her own fingers placed it so long ago. And so, housekeeping was something more than ministering to her own wants or entertaining friends; it was having things go on as "they" would like to see them go on.

This devoted daughter was careful, as well, to direct the family benevolences into the well-worn channels in which they were accustomed to run. The church subscription and the contributions to home and foreign missions, and the various "Boards," were as faithfully attended to as if good Squire Whittaker still sat at the head of his pew.

She even loved and perpetuated her father's prejudices, and was too apt, like him, to have more sympathy for the unfortunate in Booroboolagha, than for those at her own door. She was prone to set all these down as "drunken" or "shiftless." However, she had not much opportunity to cultivate the grace of charity in home work, as nearly all the little community were well-to-do.

One of Miss Rachel's duties as a good housekeeper was to see that the large stock of bedding, packed away in trunks and closets, was aired at frequent intervals. It was more than abundant for the needs of a large family—and the Whittaker family was a large one when gathered in the old home at Thanksgiving and the holidays. One day in early winter—"just the right sort of a day for airing bedclothes, so warm and bright," Miss Rachel declared—the lines in the yard were filled with blankets, quilts, comfortables, etc., and the piazza roofs were adorned with feather beds and pillows.

Among the passers-by was Mrs. Barnes. She lived in the little gray, weather-beaten house just under the hill. She was neither shiftless nor drunken, yet she was pitifully poor, and was a widow as well, with three little children. She could "dig," though to "beg" she was ashamed, and managed by hard work and much pinching and stinting to piece out a living. What a tempting sight was this goodly array to the half-frozen woman!

Nobody knew but herself how hard she had tried to get enough bedding together for the winter; how she had saved every old scrap and pieced it up and eked out the cotton with newspapers that she had secured from Miss Rachel; and yet, with all that, the old house was so open it was going to be hard work to keep warm in the long, cold nights.

She stood and looked at those soft double blankets and thick comfortables, and said to herself, "What a thing it must be, eh, to have such lots of bedclothes; to pile on as many as you please and be warm as toast all night! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—I don't know how many blankets, double at that, and ever and ever so many comfortables, besides quilts and spreads. And there she is with all them warm things and nobody to keep warm but herself, and here I be, with three little children and no warm things. Oh dear! Why couldn't the two 'a' gone together, I should like to know." Then she brushed away a tear with the corner of her shawl and went on her way.

Miss Whittaker sat near the side window and noticed that the Widow Barnes stopped and looked over the fence. Somehow she didn't like to see her standing there, her thin dress blowing in the wind, her faded old shawl drawn close about her, and with such anxious-looking eyes fixed on those blankets. But now the obnoxious figure in the old shawl moved on, and Miss Rachel could once more give her undivided attention to a very difficult piece of embroidery she was engaged in making for a fair.

That very night winter began in earnest. The north wind and the frost went out hand in hand. They built bridges over streams, made rocky roads, and crept in here and there, unbidden and unwelcome. They found their way to Miss Rachel's chamber, but she got a victory over them by simply reaching out her hand and drawing over her self a soft comfortable.

The same unmerciful couple visited the poor as well as the rich; they crept into the cracks and crannies of the Widow Barnes' little house. She awoke with chills creeping over her, and got up and hunted about in the dark for something more to put over the two little girls in the trundle-bed, who had once or twice sleepily called out "cold!" She tucked her shawl and their old sacks about them, then snuggled little Bessie close in her arms and "wished for the day."

The frost and the wind had their own way all through the following day. It was a gloomy prospect for the night to Mrs. Barnes. She had hoped before cold weather set in to manage in some way to get more bedclothes. A fire all night was out of the question. As a forlorn hope, she put on her hood and shawl and went towards night, up the hill to Miss Whittaker's. Why, she scarcely knew. There was the least glimmer of a prospect that she might get some plain sewing to do, or, "Who knows," she told herself, "but that Miss Whittaker will say, 'Mis' Barnes, here is an old comfortable; if you can make it useful, you are welcome to it.' Oh! if she only would." And while the poor woman struggled up the hill against the wind she was unconsciously concocting a suitable reply to such a gracious proposition.

Miss Rachel had an excellent habit of employing her odds and ends of time in reading. By means of it she kept up familiar acquaintance with old authors.

To-night, after the lamps were lighted—and there were yet a few minutes before tea—she took a dip into "Thomson's Seasons." She was just reading:

"See, winter comes to rule the invested year, Sullen and sad with all his rising train, Vapors and clouds and storms."

* * * * * * *

"'Tis done! dread winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year,—"

when the kitchen door opened and Mary admitted Mrs. Barnes. What a heavenly place that room, with its warmth and brightness, seemed to this other woman. Miss Rachel laid aside her book and gave kindly attention to her poorer neighbor. They talked about the weather, how very early the cold had come on, how sharp the wind had been all day, and what an exceedingly cold night last night was.

"I put everything I could lay my hands on over us, and yet we shivered in our beds," Mrs. Barnes said.

Then Miss Rachel suggested that the house was probably open, and gave some valuable advice as to the best method of making doom and windows weather-proof. "Stop up all the chinks, and I think you will be more comfortable," she said; and then added that she was sorry she knew of no work for her. It was very difficult to get anything to do in the winter time. Had she not better try to put out her children and go into some nice family herself? It would be a great deal better all round.

Mrs. Barnes got up hastily, then, and said she must go. She wanted to say that if she could get work to do she could take care of her children without help from anybody, but something choked her, so that she could not speak. This was the horrible thing that was always staring her in the face—to part with the children. Must she come to it, just for want of a little help over this hard spot?

She pushed out into the cold and darkness, and went on her way, slowly and heavily. "I most hope she'll be cold herself some time, just to see how it feels," she murmured, half aloud, as she caught the last glimpse of Miss Rachael's light, in the bend of the road. "Why couldn't she let me have a couple of old comfortables and pay for it in work? I don't want to beg, goodness knows, but I'll have to come to it, for all I see."

Miss Whittaker was not so hard-hearted as she might seem. All the time Mrs. Barnes was talking, she was engaged in consultation with herself as to whether there was anything in the way of bedclothes that she could possibly spare. She did not wish to commit herself, so she made no promises, but she inwardly resolved that on the morrow she would take a look to that end.

Accordingly, the next morning found her with her head in chests and closets amid piles of blankets and the like. It was astonishing how many beds one woman, who lived all alone, had to provide for.

That pile was for Sister Martha's bed, that for Elvira's, that for Brother Ephraim's. Then, suppose they should all come at once and bring a couple of children apiece; they never had yet, but then they might, and if they did, at least six beds would need to be made ready; and if the weather should prove to be very cold at the time, why, it would take an enormous amount of covering, and it was always best to be ready for emergencies. Then there were certain quilts that she would not part with under any consideration, even though they were somewhat faded. The "album" quilt contained precious association of all the Whittaker family. The "wheel within a wheel" mother pieced and quilted; "the birds in the air" she pieced herself, beginning at the early age of four. As for common comfortables, it was needful to have a good many to spread over feather beds and mattresses.

There! It was done. Miss Rachel had gone laboriously through them all, and yet nothing had been found that was in any way suitable to bestow upon the Widow Barnes.

Dinner time came now, and she put them all away with—"I will see about it some other time." Ah, how many good things Satan hinders with that salve to the conscience—"some other time"!

After the cold came the snow, pouring out from the sky one ceaseless, silent stream for three days and nights. It piled itself in huge drifts in roadways, hid the fences, and—most buried the little house in the hollow. The widow occupied her time in shovelling snow before her doors and windows, lest they should be buried entirely. Her thoughts, meantime, were gloomy and sad. She knew about the God who hears the young ravens when they cry, but she did not believe He would hear her, and—like many more of his children—when trouble came, stopped her ears to gracious promises and fell into sullen gloom.

Miss Whittaker was a prisoner, too, in her cheery rooms. She was pleasantly employed, though; she knit bright socks for Martha's baby boy, made up a store of mince pies and fruit cake, and read a new book called "Snow Bound." In short, she was altogether comfortable and happy, or would have been but for one thing. And that thing was not snow; she liked that. What disturbed Miss Rachel's serenity during those few days, was, that she could not shake off a feeling of uneasiness with regard to the Widow Barnes. Her face, pale and worn, kept coming up before her, and the words, "We shivered in our beds," sounded in her ears. Then all the texts in the Bible she had ever read about the poor kept coming and going through her brain. She was a diligent reader, and her memory was good. When she would fain have entertained herself recalling the musical flow of—

"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing,"

she could think of nothing but—

"Blessed is he that considereth the poor, the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble."

Or,—

"If any of you see a brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

She was not unmindful of the poor; she had helped Mrs. Barnes in various little ways. Why must she feel so condemned? she asked herself again and again.

With fair weather came the cold again; came stealing down upon the sleeping world like a thief in the night. Miss Rachel was unusually tired and slept very soundly, so that she did not waken even when the fire on her hearth had died out, and the cold become so intense in her room that the windows were frost covered, and the breath of the sleeper went up in little clouds of smoke. She stirred uneasily several times, and was just awake enough to know that she was cold, and not awake enough to bestir herself and get more covering. For a few minutes she lay in that half-waking state, thinking she ought, and would, and must rouse up and get more blankets. Finally, she thought she had done so and slept on.

Very soon after that she found herself far away from her own home, trying to walk over a floor of solid ice. She gazed about her in horror! The place was a large, deep pit, lighted by a lurid glare. Whichever way she turned her eyes, she saw nothing but ice, icy floor and icy walls, smooth and shining like glass. She clutched at them to save her sliding steps, but there was nothing to hold to; her hands slipped and she fell in a heap on the floor. She looked wildly above her for a way of escape. At the top of the pit she saw pretty rooms, with bright fires and happy-looking people sitting about sewing, reading and chatting. She shrieked for help, but they only shook their heads and went smilingly on with their occupations.

On one side she saw the Widow Barnes and her children. They sat amidst piles of blankets, heaped all about them, and they were soft and fleecy as her own had been. Oh! If she had but one to keep out this deathly chill. She screamed out again in an agony of torture, begging that just one blanket might be thrown down to her. But a mocking voice only came back to her, and it said, "Stop up the chinks, and I think you'll be comfortable."

In shivering terror she awoke, relieved beyond measure to find herself at home in her own bed, and then there flashed over her mind the story of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

Had the Widow Barnes been praying that she might never be warm again? And must she go through life with her teeth chattering as they were now? Mingling confusedly with the words of the old ballad, "Chatter, chatter, chatter still," came a rush of Scripture texts, vivid and startling as if a voice spoke them in her ears, and they were all about the poor.

She was so thoroughly stiffened by cold and fear that she could scarcely rise and go to the closet for the needed covering which on this night she had forgotten to place by her bedside.

Miss Rachel had been accustomed to draw up and write out, at the commencement of each year, a series of severe resolutions; the fact that she never kept one half of them not abating their rigor in the least. But never in calmest moments, with pen in hand and diary before her, had any such earnest, self-denying resolves been made as were now made by the woman who stood in night array in her closet, holding a flickering lamp in one hand, and with the other taking down blankets and comfortables and piling them on chairs.

That done, she took a bountiful supply for herself and went back to bed. Her shivering soon ceased, and for the remainder of the night she slept the sleep of the just.

As a matter of course, when the daylight streamed into her room, and the red sun sent a slanting bar across her bed, Satan told Miss Rachel that it was perfect foolishness to pay any attention to a dream, and that it was simply improvident to go and give away that great pile of bedding she had laid out; that a couple of old ragged quilts would answer every purpose. He was obliged, however, to leave her in peace, for when Miss Rachel shut her lips tight, and said, "I shall do it," in that decisive way of hers, there was no need of further parley.

No sooner were the roads broken than she went in search of a man with a sleigh. When all was ready, it was a sight to behold—at least to the eyes of cold and hungry people. In the very bottom was a quantity of dry wood, then came a layer of meat, potatoes, apples, flour. And this was crowned by blankets and comfortables, more than enough for two beds in the very coldest weather. "I'll see if I don't get the upper hand of this mean, selfish spirit," Miss Rachel had ejaculated, as she stowed an extra blanket on the load at the last minute.

The Widow Barnes was bending over her smoky old stove, trying to coax some green knots to ignite, when the sleigh stopped in front of her house. She had a dream, too, last night. It was about Heaven. That happy place seemed to be filled with blankets and warm fires. But here, behold, was Heaven come down to her door! She assured the man he had come to the wrong place, but the note he handed her, with money to buy a whole load of wood, settled the matter.

From that time forth Miss Rachel took it upon her, as a sacred trust, to see to it that the Widow Barnes lacked for nothing. And, strange to relate, her subscriptions to foreign missions, home missions, freedmen, education, etc., have not been cut down a particle in consequence.

[Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S STORY.]

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

———

"I WANT to tell you a story, young man."

The speaker was the Rev. Joseph Mentor, D. D., a gray-haired, keen-eyed, large-brained, sweet-faced, grand old Christian. He sat in his own parlor, which was not a parlor, after all, but a sort of study; lined with books on every hand, almost crowded with easy chairs; convenient little writing-tables occupying cosy corners, with all the appurtenances thereto lavishly furnished, coaxing the privileged guest to write his letters, or arrange his neglected accounts, or read items from the various journals of the day, at his elbow, as his taste might dictate.

The present occupants of the room were three; the aforesaid Doctor, leaning back at rest in his favorite study chair—his life had been a long, grand one, and if ever disciple of the Master could afford to rest on earth, the Rev. Joseph Mentor might have claimed the privilege; yet his very rest was active; the Doctor's son, a young man of twenty-five or so, now co-pastor, who had excused himself to their guest, in the manner that one may treat guests who are almost as much at home as they are themselves—on the plea that there were two important letters to answer for the evening mail—and then had turned to one of the writing-tables, leaving his father to entertain the young man with a pale face and scholarly air, who sat in a half-dejected attitude in the straight-backed, old-fashioned chair near the Doctor. It was to him that the old gentleman had turned with the apparently abrupt statement,—

"I want to tell you a story, young man?"

That the young man would be glad to hear any story that Doctor Mentor might choose to honor him with, was evident from the flash of his eyes and the instant look of interest that overspread his face.

Then the Doctor began: "About a month ago I attended the funeral of a man in whom I have taken a deep interest all my life. He was an old man, and a plain man all his long life; yet, though I have attended a great many funerals in the last half-century, I don't think I ever saw a greater uprising of the people to offer the last tribute of respect and affection to a plain man in their midst. I want to tell you a little about that man. Miller, his name was, Daniel Miller; he was older than I, and in my young days I used to watch him from his pew in the church. I liked his face, even then, before I knew him; a grave, half-sad face, yet never gloomy—only a look of patient resignation to the inevitable. A Christian man he was, one of the sterling sort. Talk with anybody in that town about him, and they would pay almost instant tribute to his sterling worth, and almost always close with, 'What a pity that such a good man as he is should be so hard of hearing.'

"That was his trouble, and a great trouble it was. I suppose it was the means of breaking in pieces a number of plans of his youth. Well, the thought was written all over his patient, sad face: 'I am hard of hearing and growing worse. It destroys my usefulness, it hinders my work in every direction, it makes me appear unsocial and unsympathetic, in short, it is a burden hard to be borne.' As I watched him, I could see that this feeling grew upon him; grew with his infirmity, and that progressed quite rapidly.

"You have no idea, I suppose, what a drawback it was to him on all occasions. It got so that he didn't dare to open his lips in the prayer meeting. He would look all around him, to see whether anybody was speaking, but some of the members had a way of keeping their seats when they talked, so he found that he couldn't tell by their position, and once or twice he arose and began to pray when some one was talking; he was a diffident man, and it embarrassed him dreadfully. Then he used to say that he never knew whether what he had to offer was in a line with what had been said, or was very wide of the mark; and if the minister asked him to pray, he had to shout out the request, and sometimes poor Mr. Miller couldn't hear it, and his wife would have to give his elbow a nudge, and lean over and whisper to him loud enough for all the house to hear, 'He wants you to lead in prayer.'

"It was a real embarrassment all around. People didn't wonder that he gradually grew into the feeling that he couldn't take part very often in religious meetings; though I never thought that was right; I always believed that his prayers would be in a line with what the Lord wanted to have said, and that he would be safe enough, whether he followed the line of the others or not.

"So it went on, Daniel Miller growing deafer and deafer, and the patient, sad look on his face deepening, and the feeling growing in his heart that he wasn't of any use to the Church of Christ that he loved with all his soul.

"One day somebody in that church had an inspiration. 'I tell you what it is,' one of the members said, bringing down his doubled-up fist on the seat before him for emphasis, 'I believe we ought to make Daniel Miller our treasurer. That thing would suit him, and he is just the man to do the work.'

"'But Daniel Miller is so deaf,' objected one. 'He grows worse and worse; I notice that his wife always has to find the hymns for him, and the place in the Bible, and point to the text.'

"'What if he is deaf?' said his champion; 'a man doesn't have to hear in order to add money and keep accounts, and make out bills and send them out, and keep everything straight. I believe it is work that he could do, and I believe it would do him good; make him feel that he can do something for the church, and that we have confidence in him. I tell you what it is, brethren, I'm going to propose his name at our next election.'

"Well, he was as good as his word, and sure enough, all the people said 'Amen.' They did it with so much enthusiasm, and with such a look on their faces that said, 'What a splendid idea! I wonder we never thought of it before,' that there was quite an excitement, and Mrs. Miller looked about her, and the tears began to gather in her eyes, and she put her head down suddenly on the seat in front of her. She was a grand, good woman—a helpmeet to her good husband in every sense of the word.

"Well, Daniel Miller looked around with that meek, inquiring look on his face, a little troubled, as much as to say, 'Are you having a good time, brethren, or is there something going on in the Lord's house that oughtn't to be; I'm jealous for his honor; I hope all is well.'

"The chairman got out of his chair of office and went down the aisle, and bent over Mr. Miller, and said in a good, loud voice, 'You have been elected our Church Treasurer by a unanimous vote.'

"You ought to have seen his face then; it was a picture. It flushed and glowed, and his eyes grew dim, and his lips quivered, and it seemed for a minute that he couldn't speak at all. Then he stammered out something about not being fitted for the work—his infirmity being so great; he wished he could do something, he would be glad to, if he could, but maybe it was a risk to try it.

"Then the chairman put down his mouth to his ear again, and called out, 'We all stand ready to go your security, every one of us.'

"And then, sir, if you will believe it, that decorous assembly, made up of a class of people who believed every one of them in doing things decently and in order, just clapped their hands, and he understood it, and he got out his handkerchief very suddenly. You never saw anything work more like a charm than that arrangement did all around.

"Daniel Miller took hold of the work with a will, I tell you, and the work was never better done. His 'infirmity,' as he always meekly called it, was a positive advantage to him. There wasn't any use in trying to tell him how the accounts stood, or explain away this or that; he couldn't hear; it all had to be reduced to writing. And when a man sits down in quiet to make a written account of anything that another man is expected to fully understand, why he uses language carefully, don't you see? You don't suppose they were foolish enough, when his year was out to go and put in another treasurer, do you? Not a bit of it; the machine was running too smoothly. They elected him again by as large a vote as before.

"'It does my heart good,' one old lady said, 'to see Daniel Miller go up for the collections on Sundays. He does it with such a glad look on his face, as if he had found out something he could do for the church, and do well.'

"He did it well, too; no mistakes. By and by he began to send out little notes with his bills: 'We owe it to our pastor to pay his quarter's salary on the day promised.' Well, sir, when the next quarter's salary was paid the morning of the day: on which it was due, without having been asked for or run after, that minister thought the millennium was about to dawn! He hadn't been used to that sort of thing. You never saw anything like the promptness with which pew rents were paid in the church. If a man was twenty-four hours behind time, he was almost sure to receive a call from Mr. Miller; no writing notes this time. That man understood human nature well. Just imagine a gentleman standing in his store or office, and trying to carry on a conversation with Daniel Miller about not having paid his pew rent. 'Money has been a little short with me lately,' he begins, 'and I thought a few days' delay—'

"'What is it?' interrupts Daniel, with his hand to his ear. 'I'm hard of hearing, you know; speak a little louder, please.'

"Do you suppose that man is going to yell out for the benefit of the passers-by that he is a little short of money, and had deliberately planned a few days' delay for his minister? The way it worked was for him to scream out, 'You shall have the money at noon to-day, Mr. Miller.' Very likely, he grumbled that he wouldn't get caught in that trap again, and he didn't. People didn't enjoy calls from Daniel Miller when they owed the church any money. I watched that thing with the greatest interest. It grew all the time. It made a wonderful difference in Daniel's life; he kept his head straighter, and walked faster on the street. The church was large, and there was a good deal of business to be transacted, and Daniel had no temptation to brood over his infirmity. Then he knew just what was going on; just what the church gave to Foreign Missions and Home Missions, and all benevolences. He had no need any more to wonder painfully what was being done, and after hesitating over it a good while make up his mind to ask somebody, and feel sorry for them all the time to think they had got to answer him. Instead, people had to come to him for information. Nothing could be paid for, not a cent of money could be sent anywhere or done anything with unless the thing passed through Daniel Miller's hands. And I tell you the treasurer's reports of that church were curiosities; they were managed with such exactness and clearness. He had a little witch of a daughter, Nettie her name was, as pretty as a picture.

"Do you remember her, my son?"

"Yes, sir, distinctly," came promptly from the table where the son was writing letters.

And the Doctor continued: "Her father made her his clerk almost as soon as she could talk plainly, and began to train her up to business habits and business terms; he took her with him a good deal. 'Daniel Miller's ears' we used to call the bright little thing; and she was as bright as a diamond. We used to notice that Daniel could hear her to the last better than anybody else, even his wife. 'She's got a voice like an angel,' he said to me once; 'I know by her that I shall be able to hear the angels.' His hearing grew steadily worse. For a good many years he was able to hear some of the sermon, the loud parts as he used to call them, but by degrees, he lost the power of doing that. 'Did you hear?' the minister would shout at him, after service, as he came up for the collection. He would shake his head, but his eyes would look bright as he answered, 'No, sir, not with my ears; but I've got it here.' And he would lay his hand on his great, noble heart. It was true, too, and he went out and lived it a great deal better than many who heard everything. You must understand, young man, that I am covering a good deal of ground with this long story. The years went by, and at each election Daniel Miller was re-instated, until at last that congregation would have laughed in the face of any man who had suggested a change. 'What should we do without Daniel Miller?' That is as near as they ever came to mentioning the time when they might have to do without him; and the time came when they said that in lowered tones and with a hint of tears, for he was growing an old man and the church couldn't afford to lose him.

"Bless you! I hope you don't think that keeping the finances of the church straight was all the man did? It would take all night to tell you half the things that grew out of it; and then it wouldn't be told; it can't be. The Lord of the vineyard is the only one who has the whole story. I told you, he took to writing little marginal readings on the church bills and receipts. Well, is there any reason why marginal readings on church bills can't be about other matters than money? The 'words in season' that this deaf man spoke in this way, in quiet hours, to one and another of the flock, and the fruit they bore, I know something of, a good deal of, in fact; but, as I tell you, the Master is the only one who has the entire record.

"One night he had a new idea, or rather, he worked out what was to him an old idea. He went on Saturday evening to the parsonage with the quarter's salary; he apologized for intruding on Saturday, but said he, 'According to date this money should be paid to-morrow morning, and of course I couldn't do that, so I made bold to come to-night.'

"Well, he happened to be one of those men who never intrude on a pastor, no matter what time they come; so his pastor told him he was glad to see him, and would talk with him while he finished and put up his sermon; but Daniel didn't seem to want to talk; he watched that sermon with a curious, wistful air. At last he spoke, 'I've been turning a ridiculous idea over in my mind for a long time; I don't suppose it could be done, but I've thought sometimes that I would just like to try an experiment, and read over one of your sermons before you preached it, and see if I couldn't follow you from the pulpit better after that.' It was a queer notion, but it took the pastor's fancy. The fact was, he loved Daniel Miller so much that almost anything he said took his fancy, and he handed over the sermon and told the old gentleman to try it, by all means, he could have it as well as not. It would have done your heart good to see Daniel Miller's radiant face the next day. 'It worked, sir, it worked!' he said to the pastor, and he rubbed his hands together like a gleeful boy; 'I could follow you right along a good piece at a time.' If you'll believe it, that thing grew into a regular custom; the pastor had a boy, a bright enough fellow, who was always ready to scamper over to Daniel Miller's with the sermon on Saturday nights as soon as the minister could spare it, and wait while Daniel Miller went over it. Fact is, as the years went by, he was more willing to do that than any other errand the father could get up, and he and Nettie went over church accounts, and some other accounts together, many a Saturday night. But I happen to know that that pastor came to have a queer feeling that he couldn't preach a sermon until Daniel Miller went over it! That might be in part because he discovered that the old man had a way of going over it on his knees, and every sentence he came to that seemed to him ought to do a certain person any good, he would pray, 'Lord, bless that to John Watkins,' and so on, you know. Little Nettie, she let that secret out to the boy one night; and the minister came to feel that Daniel Miller was the associate pastor, and was praying the sermon into the hearts of the people all the time it was being preached. When a minister really feels that, he preaches carefully, I believe.

"Well, sir, it was a wonderful life; and when it ended, as I tell you it did a little more than a month ago, I never saw anything like the demonstration; and I didn't wonder at it. Twenty-nine years they had elected that man to office, and the Lord had elected him to a much higher office here on earth; his little notes bore a big harvest; and when the Lord called him to his seat in the Church triumphant, the Church on earth looked around for some one on whom his mantle could fall, and I tell you it seemed for a time impossible to do without him. Why, I moderated the meeting for them when they met to try to fill his place, and they just spent the first half-hour in tears and praying! Such lives tell. 'Infirmity,' indeed! God grant us more men like Daniel Miller."

"What became of Nettie and the boy? Did they get their accounts all settled?" It was the first time the intent listener had interrupted the old Doctor's vivid story. Indeed, it could not be called an interruption, now, for the Doctor had paused, and let his thoughts run back into the tender past. He roused himself with the question and laughed a little:—

"How is it, my son?" he asked, looking over toward the writing-table. "Have you and Nettie finished the accounts, or are they open yet?"

"We mean to keep them open, sir, until we join the 'Church triumphant.'" The young man answered quickly, albeit his voice was husky, and he brushed his hand hastily over dim eyes. Then he turned to the guest.

"My father has given you a true picture of my father-in-law's fruitful life; as good a picture as can be drawn on the moment; but it is as he says: no one can tell the story in its fullness. I think we shall have a wonderful account of it some day."

There was silence in the pleasant room for a few moments. Then the guest turned to Dr. Mentor. "Thank you," he said brightly, "thank you very much; they say that 'a word to the wise is sufficient,'" and he stammered as he tried to speak; then he arose to go.

"Father," said the son, returning from seeing the guest to the door, and stopping for a moment before his father, "do you think Frank Horton in danger of becoming deaf? Or is it because he stammers, or just what is the hidden purpose of the story?"

"Well," said the Doctor, "I told him that story because he is like Moses, 'slow of speech and slow of tongue.' I think he caught the lesson and will put it in practice. I am told that he is a very bright, earnest Christian, but that he broods over his infirmity and is very sad; you can see it in his countenance. There is a niche for him, just where, perhaps, the infirmity will tell for God's glory. Look at your father-in-law. I tell you there is a defect in most lives, an 'infirmity' of some sort, that grace must supplement. It is not for us to fold our hands and say, 'What a pity!' but to help find the niche where the marble fits. Mr. Horton is like Daniel Miller. He could not be a good Sunday-school teacher, or elder, or minister, but he can do something."