CHAPTER XVII.

DANGER AND COURAGE.

WE must now pass over three years in the history of our friends. Harry Everett is four years old, a bright, beautiful boy, of whom any mother might be proud. Words fail me when I attempt to describe this child. With perfect boyish instincts,—indeed, quite a romp at outdoor frolics,—there is a maturity and precociousness about him which impresses every one with the feeling "he has not long for this world."

"I do not believe," said a visitor at Mr. Everett's, "the doctrine I learned when a child from the numerous biographies of boys and girls, that all the good children die young, and that only wicked ones live to grow up. But I do believe that often our heavenly Father sees a plant in his earthly garden of such peculiar beauty and grace that he determined to transplant it to his celestial garden. Upon this lovely nursling he bestows such degrees of care and tenderness as bring it forward to an early maturity, which all who are witnesses thereof wonder at and admire."

Harry was of ordinary height, erect and graceful in figure. His head was of unusual size,—his broad, open brow being shaded by locks of chestnut hair, which fell in a shower of ringlets on his fair neck. His eyes, shaded by long, dark lashes, were hazel, bright, but not flashing, with often a pensive, thoughtful expression unusual in a child of his years. His nose was straight and well formed, while the small mouth, full-parted lips, and dimpled chin were expressive of both sweetness and decision of character. Harry was naturally passionate, energetic, and full of enthusiasm. The first trait was early restrained, or rather he was taught to exercise self-control, so that a stranger would never have imagined him easily moved to anger.

As a foundation for a good character, Lily learned from her Bible she must teach her child obedience,—prompt, unasking, cheerful obedience and perfect truthfulness; and this by the aid of prayer she succeeded in doing at a very early period. When he was only twenty months old, Lily took him with her to call upon a friend who also had a little son. When she rose to leave, the lady asked him to give her a parting kiss, which he readily did.

"Kiss the little boy, too, Harry," said his mother.

The boy shook his shoulders and made no advances.

"Mamma wants you to kiss little Frankey," Lily said, firmly.

Harry looked gravely at the boy, but still refused.

"Never mind," urged the lady, "he'll do it another time."

The mother thought otherwise. "If I allow him to disobey me now," she said, softly, "it will be more difficult next time for him to obey."

She took his hand, led him off a few steps and whispered in his ear, when he instantly walked up to Frankey and gave him a cordial kiss. She appealed to his love for her and his desire to please her, and was successful.

Harry's health, which, though good, was never firm, prevented him from being put to his books, but this want was more than supplied by the eagerness with which he listened to stories of children and animals, and particularly to stories from the Bible. Hour after hour he would sit drinking in the inspired words,—the stories of Abraham, Moses, Joseph, and all the worthies of the Old Testament being as familiar to him as household names. But what moved his tender heart more than all other reading was the story of the God Man, born in a manger, nurtured in a carpenter's shop, visiting the temple, asking questions of the doctors, his mission of love to all men, and, finally, his death on the cross. These sacred truths stole insensibly into his heart, and at a very early age began to influence his whole character.

"You need not tell me to say my prayers," he often said as his mother was unrobing him for the night. "I always remember." And running to his little chair, he would pour out his heart in childish petitions to his heavenly Father, a being he had been taught to love and not to fear.

Harry was not now an only child. In his fourth year, a little sister came to share his parents' love; and never was there a more tender, affectionate brother. Sweet little Paulina gave him her first smile, and learned before she was three months old to recognize his voice in the hall, and would turn her dainty head to catch the first glimpse of him as he entered the room.

Contrary to the opinion of most of her friends, Lily proved to be a firm, judicious mother. Though so young when married, yet she had witnessed too often the anxious care which mothers brought upon themselves by neglecting to train their children according to the Scripture rules, and she made it her earnest prayer that she might be guided in the right course. What was wanting in experience was made up from the fountain of wisdom, from which all are permitted to draw. Can we wonder that the result was as nearly a model of perfection as is ever seen among depraved humanity?

Mr. Everett does not now live in the stone cottage where we last saw him. Three years ago, he removed a mile nearer to his business in the city, to a house he had purchased on a new street, with an ornamental park in front. The house was in a block built of brick, with a granite front, and iron railings to the nicely-cut steps. It had large, airy rooms, well, but not expensively, furnished, and containing every modern improvement. A few well-chosen pictures adorned the walls, and some choice articles of "bijouterie," tastefully arranged by Lily's skilful hands, gave an air of refinement to the dwelling.

The young matron herself is changed, and yet the same. There is still the fresh, beaming face and sweet smile, sometimes breaking out into a musical laugh, as light and "abandon" as ever; but there is a deeper, holier light in her eye, an expression of thoughtfulness at times on her features which is very becoming. One trait has been discovered in her which even those who loved her best did not imagine her to possess. Shielded from her infancy from the least semblance of danger, when she was married, it was natural for her to look to her husband for guidance and protection. As we have seen, she shrunk from encountering the servants after their dishonesty had been discovered. But as her character, especially her Christian character, matured, she grew more self-possessed and self-reliant. These traits showed themselves in a degree in her every-day duties, but circumstances were to prove that, united to her confiding, trusting disposition, there was also firmness and resolution to meet the emergencies of the hour.

Mr. and Mrs. Percival had been returned from Paris nearly three years, he having been far more successful than he had at first expected in saving his fortune. Taught by experience, however, they never again entered on such a life of fashion and display, but took a house similar to Mr. Everett's, only two squares distant.

Aunt Mercy divided her time between her own home and her nephew's, but was at this period in N—.

One afternoon Mr. Everett returned to dinner an hour earlier than common, having received a telegram from his aunt, who had been suddenly taken ill, and wished to see him. His plan was to take the early afternoon train, which would leave him at his destination about half-past three, and return, if possible, at eight, reaching home a little before midnight.

He brought from his store a large packet of bank-notes, which he asked her to put carefully away, remarking that he had just taken them from the bank in order to pay a bill, when the telegram was given to him.

Lily reached out her hand doubtfully, which led him to say, with a laugh,—"If you are afraid to have so much money in the house, send Maggie with it over to your father."

"No, I'm not afraid," was her quiet answer. "How much is there?"

"Twenty-one hundred dollars."

"I'll put it in the closet in my room with the silver," she answered. "It will be perfectly safe there."

It was quite cool weather; and Mr. Everett had scarcely buttoned on his outside coat, and bade her a hasty adieu, before Lily was summoned to the kitchen to see a poor man, who wanted food.

Taking Harry by the hand, she went below, and found, sitting near the kitchen fire, one of the most repulsive-looking men she had ever seen. His cap was torn, revealing hair grizzled and matted; his eyes were bloodshot, his face red and bloated; while his whole features wore a look of cunning painful to witness.

He told a pitiful story of suffering, which completely conquered Lily's repugnance, notwithstanding the glances and signs of caution made by the shrewder Maggie.

Bidding the girl prepare a bowl of tea as quickly as possible, with her own hands, this delicate, high-born lady, dressed the wounded hand which he exhibited, expressing words of sympathy and encouragement which might have softened the heart of a brute.

When she had done this, and had seen him engaged in eating a hearty meal, she told him to sit near the fire till he was thoroughly warmed, and was leaving the kitchen, when she noticed a glance of triumph shoot from his eyes, for which she could not account.

Maggie ran to the stairs after her.

"I wish you'd bid him go at once," she said, earnestly. "There's an ill look about him,—a look which makes me think of murder and stealing."

"Hush, Maggie! He'll hear you. I think he'll go presently."

"But, ma'am, I'm afraid to stay alone with him, and I'm afraid to leave him. He might set the house on fire over our heads."

"You're nervous, Maggie," the lady said, laughing, at the same time her thoughts recurring to the large sum of money she had in the house. She returned to the sitting-room followed by Harry, and, engaged with him and the baby, soon forgot her late visitor.

Being alone, she retired to her room earlier than common, where, sitting before the bright fire, she hummed a soft air to Paulina, who was restless in her crib.

As she sat there gently rocking the little sleeper, a sudden turn of her head led her to look toward the wall at the farther end of the chamber. The fire was burning brightly, but beside this there was little light, the nurse having turned the gas down when she went below. But there she saw, just above the canopy over her bed, the top of the soiled cap the beggar had worn, with the matted gray hair sticking through it.

For a moment her breath stopped; the blood seemed frozen in her veins. But she was alone, and in the power of this brute, whose object, she could not doubt, was to obtain possession of the silver in her closet. Thoughts flew like lightning through her brain.

"He must have stolen up here from the kitchen, and seen Maggie put the tray in the closet. But oh, the money! Why didn't I send it away? Perhaps he knew it was here. Yes, it was just after Lawrence went that he came. I took it from my husband in the hall, and he heard me say I should keep it here. Now what is to be done? Maggie and nurse have both gone to bed; and if they were here, what could three weak women do against such a brute as this? First of all, I must be calm, and appear calm." And with that, she began again to hum the rest of the verse:—

"Hush, my child, lie still in slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed, Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head."

Even during the singing, a plan was suggested to her. She ascribed it to her Father in heaven, who was even now watching over her and her little ones.

"Yes," she said to herself, "he must have heard Lawrence tell me there was twenty-one hundred dollars; that was the reason of his triumphant smile. Maggie distrusted him from the first. How did he get in here unseen?"

She glanced timidly toward the bed. There the figure stood immovable as a statue.

With a silent prayer for strength, and a countenance from which every shade of color had vanished, but with a look of noble resolve in her eye, she arose and began to prepare for bed.

But first she turned up the gas, filling the room with light. And then, bringing the tray from the closet, she set it on the table and began to count the forks, spoons, and napkin-rings, to all appearances as unmoved as if nothing had occurred to terrify her.

Taking them up in her hand, she went on: "Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—I wonder what Maggie has done with the others! Oh, here they are among the forks! Twenty-three, twenty-four; that's all right!"

Making as much display as possible of the coffee-urn, salver, and tea-set, she carried the whole back to the closet, taking the opportunity to slip the money into a high drawer, and pull out the key.

After this, she slowly took off one garment after another. Her heart sometimes almost failed her, and then, being reassured by a short petition for strength, she put on her embroidered night-dress, and knelt down for her evening prayer.

In a voice low, but perfectly distinct, she said,—

"Father, unto thy kind care I commit myself and those so dear to me. Protect me from all harm and danger. Let thy holy angels watch around my bed. Help all those who are in distress, and particularly those who are driven by their poverty into crime. Forgive all my many sins, for the sake of thy Son, my Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen."

She arose, calmed by the exercise, without one glance toward the intruder, drew the crib across the floor near the bed, and then lay herself down, but not to rest.

She feigned sleep, however, and soon heard a stealthy movement behind the couch. It was evident the robber thought his opportunity had come.

Stealthily as a cat creeps toward his prey, he moved across the carpet toward the closet. Once only poor Lily dared to open her eyes; he was just entering the door.

"Now is my time," she said to herself, and springing softly from her couch, she darted after him, shut the door with a bound, and locked it upon him.

Then her strength all left her, and she sank almost fainting into a chair. But realizing that the danger was not yet over, she tried to rally, and, crawling to the window, raised the sash and screamed, "Murder! Murder!!" with all the strength her lungs would permit.

The next step was to ring the chamber-bell for nurse, who soon appeared terrified beyond measure, and gave a more decided call for help. Maggie came and opened the door for the watch, who secured the villain, and, having put on handcuffs, carried him off to the station house, to await his trial.