CHAPTER X.

SUNSHINE AT THE HALL; SHADOWS AT THE COTTAGE.

Morning, noon, and night, was Madeline inventing some new scheme of fun and frolic, never, however, neglecting her harp.

Mademoiselle generally managed to get about half of her lessons; Aunt Matilda did not interfere, for Maddy had company, and could not be expected to study much.

"You know, aunt, that it would be the height of impoliteness, and I could not expect the girls to take lessons; to be sure, Lucy does, as a matter of choice."

This was sufficient, and Madeline's all-powerful arguments prevailed.

Poor M'lle Fouladoux was often sorely tried, and Fanfan was her only comfort.

Occupied with her young friends, Madeline knew but little of the shadows gathering over her friends at the cottage.

It was all sunshine at Woodcliff; for thus far, Maddy's life had been all a bright summer day; but it would have been quickly dimmed, if the young heiress had known the sorrows that were threatening her humble friends.

Mr. Hamilton had formerly lived in the South, and having freed the servants who lived with him, he had brought his house-domestics to his Northern home. They were strongly attached to their master's family, and Madeline, especially, was their idol.

Nanny thought nothing could surpass her young mistress in beauty, or grace, or smartness, and many a cup of flattery was administered by this faithful, but foolish servant.

"Girls, I think that we shall have some rare sport this fall; Jim, the coachman, is quite smitten with our Nanny; they shall have a wedding, and I'll be mistress of the ceremonies. You ought to see the darkies dance;" and Madeline mimicked to the life what she had often seen in the kitchen.

"Will they be married here?" inquired Lavinia.

"Yes, indeed; they shall be married in our dining-room, and I'll dress Nanny's head myself."

Madeline watched her opportunity, and questioned Nanny about the affair.

"Lor' bless you, young missus, what put this ere in your head? Jim is jest a perticelar friend."

"Yes, I know, Nanny; you need not try to deceive me," answered the child.

"Well, Miss Maddy, what do you all think of Jim?"

"He's a clever fellow, Nanny, and we are all willing."

"Well, then, Miss, I mout as well tell; we are gwan to be married in about a month."

"You shall have a nice wedding, Nanny; I'll give you your wedding suit; you shall be married in the dining-room; get your bridesmaids and groomsmen, and you shall have a grand time, Nanny."

Maddy was a busy little bee during the next month; the evening at length arrived, and the guests assembled in the dining-room waiting for the bride and groom. Maddy had been superintending the bride's dress; but having completed that, with her cousins, joined the company in the parlor. The minister stood waiting at the head of the room. At length the bridesmaids and groomsmen appeared, then Nanny and the groom. She was dressed in white, with low neck and short sleeves, and her head encircled by a wreath of large red roses. The ceremony proceeded. When about half through, Jim, supposing it ended, turned to kiss his bride.

"Not yet," said the minister.

"Oh, well! so far, so good. Go on, Massa."

When the ceremony was ended, they took their seats among the congratulations of their numerous colored friends, and with the imitative quickness of their race, the manners of ladies and gentlemen were most amusingly copied in Mr. Hamilton's dining room.

"Why, Miss Nanny, you're quite brilliance to-night," said one of the groomsmen.

"Who are you calling Miss Nanny, Bill?" said the other groomsman, tittering, "that is Miss Roberts now."

Nanny hung her head bashfully, and, looking up at Jim, said,

"That name sounds mighty quar."

About ten o'clock, a nice supper was announced in the servants' sitting room, and it was really amusing to our young folks, to see the airs with which the colored gentlemen handed out the belles to the supper table.

"We're much obliged to you, Miss Madeline," said Jim, "for this party, for we know that you got it up for us."

"I hope that you will make Nanny a good husband, Jim, for she is a good girl. I won't let you be cross to her."

After supper, a number of songs enlivened the evening, and a serenade at a late hour, in which four voices joined, wound up the affair.

Madeline had heard nothing of the Bruces for several weeks, excepting by a few casual words in the Sunday-school room, for Lucy and she still attended. On the following Sunday morning, Maddy thought that Roland looked very sad, and Effie was not present.

"What is the matter, Roland?" asked the child.

"Oh, Madeline! dear mother is so sick; she seems to be growing weaker every day."

"Don't get disheartened, Roland; you know what you have often said to me, 'Look up for help.'"

"Yes, I know, Madeline; but the loss of my mother would be such a great calamity, that I cannot always look up. Sometimes, I cannot trust the promises; then I get so weak, I can scarcely hold up my head."

"I am sorry, Roland. Is there anything that I can do for her?"

"Come and see her, Madeline, that would cheer her up."

"I have been detained by company, Roland, that is all the reason."

"Yes, I know that; we can't expect you to leave them often."

"I will come soon, Roland; I am so very sorry."

Madeline kept her word, but her high spirits were suddenly saddened, when she saw the pale face and trembling hands of her kind friend. Mrs. Bruce was sitting up endeavoring to sew, but the marks of languor were so apparent, that a chill settled around Maddy's heart, and she feared that Roland must soon lose this dear mother.

"You are not well, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, as she took her friend's extended hand.

"No, my dear, flesh and heart are failing; but 'God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for evermore.' While he is left, I am perfectly at peace."

Madeline looked upon the placid face, and the sweet smile of trusting faith that lit the features of her friend, and thought how precious was that holy trust.

"I know now, Mrs. Bruce, what you mean by looking up; how happy you must be."

"If I looked down upon myself, Maddy, with all my weakness and sin; or if I looked upon my dear children, who may soon be left motherless, my heart would sink; but when I look upward at the rest in store for those who love God, and at the sure promises to the children of the righteous, I can even rejoice in tribulation, because, my dear, they work patience, experience, and hope."

Madeline glanced at Roland and Effie--the former was regarding his mother with a look of loving reverence, as though he partook of her lofty hope; but poor, delicate Effie sat with her head bowed upon her hands, and the big tears rolling down her sweet face. Madeline drew the weeping child towards her, and, passing her arm around her, whispered,

"Don't cry so, Effie; your mother may get better, and we will always be your friends."

"I know that, Madeline; but where shall I ever find another mother?"

Maddy returned with a saddened spirit, for with all her sanguine nature, she could not but fear that deep sorrow was settling around the cottage household. Not a day passed, without some little delicacy from Woodcliff; sometimes by Madeline's own hand, or else sent by a servant.

Lucy frequently accompanied her cousin in her visits, but Lavinia never--she could not stoop to such a condescension.

In all her letters to her father, Maddy never forgot her humble friends, and, in return, Mr. Hamilton directed that every comfort should be supplied to the declining mother.

After a few weeks, Mrs. Bruce appeared to rally once more, and hope revived the spirits of all who loved her. Madeline especially was greatly elated, and was sure that her dear friend was recovering. With the revival of her hopes, her high spirits rose again.

"Don't be alarmed, Roland, your mother will soon recover," and Maddy yielded to the delusion with full confidence.

Roland was now called to bear a heavy burden, for the support of the family fell chiefly upon him. Busy in their little garden, he toiled with a cheerful spirit, and found his donkey and cart a great treasure, for now he could go into market three times a week with the produce of his little plot of ground. It pained him sorely to leave school, but duty called, and the obedient spirit submitted. The delicacies from the Hall kept his mother well supplied, and with the strong faith of a Gordon, he could labor, wait, and even rejoice. The boy of seventeen, under the discipline of trial, and the teaching of a holy mother, seemed to have reached the maturity of riper years; and Mrs. Bruce felt that she might lean upon him with affectionate trust, as the instrument which God had chosen to cheer her declining days.

Autumn was now rapidly closing around them, and Madeline, with her elastic step and bird-like voice, frequently crossed the door-sill of the cottage, always lighting it up with her bright, hopeful face, and leaving behind her the sweet echoes of her own joyous nature.

Full of hope for her friends, her merry spirit kept the family all alive at the Hall. Her young friends were to stay until Christmas, and Madeline promised them great sport should there be snow enough for a sleigh-ride.

Tony Willikins, her warm admirer at school, often stepped in at Woodcliff to pay his respects, and having seen Mademoiselle at church, and met her occasionally in her walks with Madeline, that prankish little girl had contrived to bring about quite an intimacy between the two. Many a bouquet that was sent for Madeline was conveyed to Mademoiselle, with Tony's compliments; and Tony himself was often chagrined, on seeing the French teacher innocently wearing the flowers intended for the roguish child.

Tony had somehow learned a few French phrases, and, much to the amusement of our young friends, he made a barbarous use of his slim stock of language, not at all aware of his false pronunciation.

His salutation of "Maddymorthelle," always set our young friend in a titter; and his persevering efforts taxed Mademoiselle's French politeness to the utmost.

Poor Tony was a complete butt for Madeline and Lavinia, and many a joke did they play upon the unconscious youth.

One afternoon, Tony paid them a visit in what he considered splendid costume.

He had been told that small-clothes were to be the fashion that winter, so, to be ahead of all others, had ordered a new suit of clothes; and presented himself at Woodcliff in black tights, with black silk stockings, pumps, silver knee and shoe buckles, and, to crown all, a pair of blue glasses, which he had been told was becoming; he wore also a fancy-colored guard ribbon, and a diamond pin. Tony thought himself irresistible; and when Madeline entered the parlor, and saw the ludicrous figure, it was next to impossible to restrain her laughter.

At that moment, fortunately, Fanfan performed some of her amusing pranks, which gave Maddy an opportunity of indulging her risible faculties, and if Tony had not been such a weak youth, he might have seen that the laugh continued much longer than Fanfan's oft-repeated tricks could call forth.

"Mith Madeline, I want to thow you my new guard ribbonth," and Tony opened a package which contained every imaginable color.

"Which do you think the prettieth, mith?"

"I like blue; that is my favorite color."

Immediately Tony changed his scarlet guard for a blue one; and, much to the amusement of the young girls, he continued,

"Blue ith my color now."

"Won't you sing, Tony?" asked Madeline.

"Yeth, if Maddymorthelle will play for me. What shall I thing, mith?"

"'How can I leave thee!'" answered Madeline, with a merry twinkle.

"That is tho affecting, mith; I am afraid that I can't get through it, but I'll try."

Mademoiselle took her seat at the piano, and Tony commenced with a lisping, languishing tone to sing. Madeline was convulsed with laughter; and Tony, who saw her handkerchief covering her face, thought that she was deeply affected, and said,

"We had better not finith the thong, Maddymorthelle; it affecth Mith Maddyth' nervth."

Madeline could stand no more; jumping up, she ran out of the room to indulge her burst of laughter, which could no longer be restrained.

Lucy did not sympathize with the jokes played upon Tony, for his weakness was his misfortune; and with her correct principles, she could no more ridicule that, than she could a blind, deaf, or lame man; but Madeline had not yet learned to ask about the right or wrong of an action, the impulses of the moment yet ruled the child. Sometimes, the thought would cross her mind, that it might not be just right, but the love of fun prevailed over her light scruples.

* * * * *

The cold increased, and one morning, Madeline ran into Lavinia's room, saying,

"Get up, Lavinia, here is a grand snow-storm! Now for our promised ride."

They watched the progress of the storm anxiously; all day and night it continued, and by the next morning, the sleighs began to fly around the neighborhood.

At that moment, a sleigh stopped, and Tony, dismounting, invited the young ladies to take a ride.

"I will call about four o'clock, and we will ride up to the White Houth, take thupper, and return by moonlight."

Maddy ran to her aunt to obtain her consent, which was given on condition that she should make one of the party.

Accordingly, at the appointed hour, furred, tippeted, and well protected from the cold, our party set off in high glee.

"You can manage those spirited horses, I hope, Tony?" said Aunt Matilda.

"Don't be afraid, ma'am; I have driven them many a mile, and never had an acthident yet."

The ride was splendid, Madeline in wild spirits, and the whole party affected by her merry sallies.

Arrived at the White House, Tony ordered a supper, and, after a lively dance in one of the parlors, in which all joined but Lucy, they sat down to a nice supper, and then started for home.

There was a number of sleighs on the road, all travelling at full speed; Tony's animals were not to be passed. A large sleigh came dashing by. Tony tried to check the wild animals, but all in vain--on they rushed. Miss Matilda was in an agony of terror.

Utterly unable to manage them, they galloped on madly, till, bringing up on a snow-bank, they upset the party on the road-side, and raced furiously on, until overtaken by several men, who came to the rescue, and, after some time, succeeded in quieting the excited horses.

Miss Matilda was in a state of dreadful alarm; Mademoiselle Fouladoux deploring the condition of little Fanfan, who had accompanied the party; Madeline laughing at the adventure; Lavinia provoked; and Lucy quietly awaiting the return of Tony.

When the youth at length appeared, Mademoiselle threw up her hands, exclaiming, piteously,

"Oh, Monsieur Willikins! take us home; ma pauvre Fanfan will take a dreadful cold."

Tony wrapped the dog up in his foot muff, and proceeded home as rapidly as they could go with safety.

"We have had a jolly time, Mademoiselle," exclaimed Madeline. "I think the upset was the best part; none of us were hurt, and it was only a good joke after all."

Little did Maddy know of the sorrow that was wringing the young hearts at the cottage. Not having heard for several days, the next morning Madeline started to see her friends. On entering the house, no one was visible; all was quiet, and she proceeded up stairs to the widow's chamber. Propped up with pillows, with a face as pale as the white sheet, and laboring for breath, she beheld her humble friend. Effie was sitting on one side of the bed, close to her mother, and Roland was reading the Bible to his declining parent.

"'Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me; in my Father's house are many mansions.'" He stopped for one moment, but Madeline said, "Go on, Roland;" and, with his own rich voice, he proceeded to repeat a Psalm, "'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.'"

"My help cometh even from the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth," responded the mother, with uplifted eyes and hands clasped over her panting breast.

"Come here, Madeline, my dear child," said the fading Christian; "you see that it will not be long before I shall go home, and be no more seen; but remember what I tell you, that God is a sufficient refuge in this hour of trial, and the Saviour of sinners my all in all!"

"Can you look up still, dear Mrs. Bruce?" asked Madeline, with deep solemnity.

"Yes, my dear child; I know that he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. 'He will not suffer the sun to smite thee by day, nor the moon by night,' that is the promise, Maddy, and I believe it with all my heart; 'his rod and his staff they comfort me.'"

"You will get better yet, Mrs. Bruce, I am sure," answered the child, "for I know that Roland and Effie pray for you, and God has promised to answer prayer."

"Yes, he will answer us, when we ask with submission to his will; his will now is made clear and plain, my days on earth are drawing swiftly to a close. I am ready and willing to depart and be with Jesus, which is far better than to stay here; but to leave my darlings, Maddy, is a sore trial. You will not forget them, dear, when I am gone."

"Forget your children! Never! I know none that I love so well; and so long as I live, they will find me, little Madeline, their true friend."

"Bless you! my dear child, for those kind words; they cheer my heart. I look upon them as an answer to my prayer; for this morning there was an hour of darkness, when I thought of them, especially of Effie; but now I can keep my eyes fixed upon Heaven, and bid adieu forever to earthly cares."

Effie was weeping bitterly, her mother turned her face towards her and said,

"Do not distrust our Heavenly Father, my child; he will comfort and sustain you; he has sent this dear little friend to us in our hour of sorrow." Turning to Madeline, she continued, "Tell your father, Maddy, that we shall never forget his kindness; for weeks your family physician has been attending me, sent by your father; he has done all that he can, but vain is the help of man."

Madeline was deeply impressed by the lesson of that solemn hour, for she had never been so near the presence of death before. From that hour, she spared no pains to administer to the comfort of her precious friend.

Betty, the old cook, was a kind-hearted woman, and daily prepared some little delicacy grateful to the invalid, which Madeline and Lucy took with their own hands.

Deep was the sorrow settling down upon the heart of Roland Bruce; for his mother was parent, friend, guide--his only earthly stay. When he looked into the wilderness of life without his mother, it did indeed seem a desolate, dreary waste. He sat looking upon the pale face regarding him with such a look of unutterable love.

"Roland, come sit by me; I have much to say to you while I have strength to speak."

He arose and seated himself close by his mother's side. "You are seventeen now, my son, with almost the character of a man; and, blessed be God! I believe that you are his dear child."

Roland took his mother's hand, and while tears rained over it, he replied,

"To you, dear mother, under God, I owe all that I am. I can never forget the lessons of wisdom, truth, trust in God, and heroic endurance that you have taught me by examples from the Bible, from the world, and especially from our own honored race."

"You must never forget your lineage, Roland; you are not descended from those who derive their greatness from outward show, magnificent adornment, or the pomp and equipage of courts. Your ancestors were trained in the humble manse, in the lowly cottage, among the rude mountains of Scotland, and their grandeur was moral only. They were born in the days when to be a spiritual Christian was to hold life very cheap--the spirit of those days has always distinguished our race, for in every generation, there has been a witness for God among the Gordons."

"I have never forgotten it, mother," answered Roland. "I think it is that which makes me think so little of the pomp of this world. I have never felt at all impressed by what I have seen at Woodcliff, because I contrast it all with the humble tomb-stone in that Scottish glen, and with all else that you have told me of the name of Gordon."

"I believe, my son, that God destines you for something good and great. Roland, remember what I mean by great; not rich or grand in earthly goods, or even in intellectual culture merely, but great in deeds of benefit to your race; in order to reach that point, spare no pains to obtain a good education."

"How shall I, mother? it is what I long for; but I have no money, no means, no influence. I am all alone."

"Where there is a will, there is a way, Roland. I do not wish you to have money or influential friends; I want you to have trust in God; this is the motto I leave with you, my son, 'Looking aloft;' remember it is your dying mother's motto; when discouraged, turn to that, and I am sure that you will prosper."

"Oh, mother! how shall I live without you? your voice is like a trumpet to me; it stirs the very depths of my soul; and when you speak, it seems as if I could dare anything. I never shall forget my feelings when you bade me read the inscription on the tomb-stone of our martyred ancestors; my soul seemed to take a great leap, and really to swell within my childish form. I felt as if I never could be low, or mean, or grovelling after that, and so I feel to-day; but what will it be when you are gone?" and Roland bowed his head and wept.

She laid her hand upon his head and said: "When I am gone, Roland, these memories will be with you, I know, 'to keep your soul from blight.' I have perfect confidence that God will keep his promise to me, and to you; he will guide you, I am sure; and though you may have sore trials, he will sustain my Roland, and make him a blessing to the world--too many twilight hours of consecration, too many seasons of dedication has my Father witnessed when Roland's name was itself a prayer, to allow one moment's doubt--not one of those sacred hours will ever be forgotten by our covenant-keeping God."

"Ob, what I am losing in you, my mother!"

"It is God's will, my son; perhaps by cutting you loose from all earthly dependence, he designs to cast you wholly upon himself--this is the way that you are to learn the blessedness of 'looking aloft.' Think what others have done who have risen from the humblest walks of life, and do likewise; only let all be done for the glory of God, not for your own exaltation, Roland. If it is ever in your power, I wish you to visit your home in Scotland; you have an aunt and cousin living there; there is some property also, and I think that it will be to your advantage to seek out your relations. There is an old friend of mine whom I should like you to see, Malcolm Graham; he would be a valuable friend. Above all things, get a good education; stop at no sacrifice; shrink from no labor."

Roland listened to his mother's words as though it were a voice from Heaven, and to him it was; for the message of that hour guided all his earthly destiny. He rose with reverence; his feelings were too deep for utterance; pressing a kiss on either cheek, and on the calm pale forehead, he left the room, and bowed by his bed-side, poured out his young soul in fervent prayer.

"What has been done, by the blessing of God, shall be done again," said Roland to himself--"'looking aloft,' trusting in God, I can do all things."

The resolution of that silent hour was sublime; it was known to none but God; but doubtless a record was entered in the book of God's remembrance which was never blotted out, never revoked; and the name of Roland Bruce was seen by angels signed to that recorded dedication, and sealed by the precious blood of the Redeemer.

From that day, the setting of life's sun to Mrs. Bruce was slow, sure, but glorious.

"One more charge, Roland," said the mother, after an hour's converse; "be faithful to Effie; I need scarcely tell you that; but she is a delicate flower, and must be tenderly cherished, Roland; and after I am gone, in my top drawer, tied with a black ribbon, you will see a package; it is for you, Roland: I can trust you with your mother's history."

Elsie Gibson had been absent for months from the neighborhood, but one evening suddenly she appeared at the cottage. She seemed much agitated on hearing how ill Mrs. Bruce was, and asked to see her.

Conducted to the dying chamber, and standing by the bedside, she took the pale withered hand that lay upon the bed-clothes, and said:

"Mary Bruce, this is a solemn hour; I trust that you are at peace with God."

"Blessed be my Saviour's name! I am; I have no fears for the future, no anxiety for the present; death is swallowed up in victory."

"Is there any message that you would send to any of your Scotch friends, Mary? I may go to Scotland ere long. Is there anything upon your mind, Mary?"

"There is no one near, Elsie, is there?" anxiously inquired the invalid.

"There is no one, Mary; we are all alone."

"If you ever see my brother or any of my relations, give my love, and tell them how happy were my dying moments--and now, Elsie, you knew my husband in former days--do you know that sometimes I have felt that he was not dead. He was so singular, sometimes I thought he was deranged; he became so gloomy in latter years, that I have thought perhaps he is not dead; we never heard of it certainly, and then the supplies which I received so long must have come from him."

"If he were alive, would you send him any message?"

"I should like to tell him that I freely forgive any unkindness which he showed to me. He had sore trials to rend his heart, and so had I, Elsie. If he is alive, and has forsaken his family, I forgive him that too; because, if he is, I believe that it was done in an hour of great depression, perhaps insanity."

Elsie listened earnestly to these words; a faint smile passed over her face, as she replied:

"I ken something o' your story, Mary; it was a sad one; very much like the song o' 'Auld Robin Gray;' but your sorrows are amaist owre, Mary; and on the ither side, a' will be plain and clear."

A few more days, and the ministering angel called for the faithful mother, and bore her peacefully, happily, over the swellings of Jordan, to the bosom of the Redeemer whom she loved.

Roland stood in the presence of the dead with solemn, tender dignity; for he felt that no common loss was his in parting with such a friend and counsellor in life's trials and sorrows; but his hopes of reunion were so strong, so bright, that time appeared but as a little span, at the end of which he should again meet the spirit of that sainted parent.

Effie was not so strong--poor, timid, loving child! It seemed to her as if life would weep itself away in the first burst of anguish that filled the chamber of the dead.

Aunt Matilda undertook the expenses of the widow's funeral, and the family at the Hall joined the humble procession.

Elsie Gibson was a sincere mourner, and made many mysterious remarks which none could explain.

About a week after the funeral, Roland and Effie bent their steps to the village grave-yard. When they came in sight of the grave, what was their surprise! to see Elsie and a man wrapped up in a heavy cloak, in earnest conversation. He stood with his handkerchief to his face, as though deeply affected; but as soon as Elsie perceived the approach of the two, she hurried away with her mysterious companion.

They were both surprised, and wondered who it could be thus interested in their mother. They were paying their last visit ere disposing of the furniture at the cottage.

Aunt Matilda had offered Effie a home, where she was to make herself useful with her needle. Roland was preparing to obey his mother's request of seeking an education. All was ready for his departure, and Madeline sent for him to come up to the cemetery in the evening. When reaching his mother's grave, there sat Madeline on the humble mound, at the head of which was placed a simple head-stone of white marble, with his mother's name and age inscribed, with the sweet words, "Asleep in Jesus."

"Is this your work, Madeline?" asked the boy.

"Yes, Roland; it was the last thing that I could do for you; you have been a faithful friend to me, and it is a small return."

"I cannot tell you, Madeline, how grateful I am for this act of kindness; it was a trial to me to think that my mother must lie in the grave without any sign to mark the place of her burial."

"When do you leave us, Roland?"

"Just as soon as my little stock at the cottage is disposed of; it is of very little value, but after all our debts are paid, what is left is for Effie, I can take care of myself. I shall be all alone in the great world, Maddy, but it will be a comfort to know that you, my little friend, will not forget me."

Madeline's eyes filled with tears. "That cannot be, Roland; all that I know of anything that is good and holy began with you; when I first knew you, I scarcely knew the difference between right and wrong."

"There is one thing I want you to promise, Maddy, and that is to read your Bible morning and evening, praying for God to help you to understand what you read."

"That is a small request, Roland, and I promise that I will let nothing interfere with the duty."

"May our Father bless you, Maddy, and have you always in his holy keeping. I shall never cease to pray for you."

"Where are you going, Roland?"

"To college, Maddy, where I hope to gain a classical education. My mother charged me to strive for that, and with my eyes fixed upon heaven, I hope to succeed."

"Have you any money, Roland?"

The boy smiled as he replied, "In the bank of Heaven, Maddy."

"What do you mean by that, Roland?"

"I mean that there are promises made to God's children--dear mother has always told me that God's word can never fail--so his bank can never break, Maddy."

"I shall miss you, Roland, when my naughty fits come. I shall want you to show me how to conquer myself."

"You must not lean on any human arm; there is one strong arm, Maddy; the one that conquered sin, Satan and death."

"That is Jesus, Roland. I wish that my faith in him was just like yours."

"Pray, Maddy, that he would give you faith; he is the author and finisher of our faith. Do you remember any of the little songs that I have taught you, Maddy?"

"Yes, Roland, I remember them all; I shall get the music, and learn them perfectly now."

"Let us sing together our last song, Maddy," and Roland's rich voice, with Madeline's sweet, clear notes, joined in the dear old song,

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, In days o' lang syne! For auld lang syne, my Jo, For auld lang syne; We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne."

Maddy's voice trembled, and ere they reached the last verse she bowed her head and wept.

Roland put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the likeness which Madeline had brought from Boston for his mother.

"Here is the face of my kind little friend," said the boy, "I shall often talk to it when far away."

"I have nothing but the sea-weed and the shells to look at, Roland; but in my heart the memory of all the wise and precious things which you have taught me."

"It is time for me to go now, Maddy. Good-bye; I am sure that we shall meet again."

Madeline looked up with such a bright smile through her tears, and said.

"Remember, Roland, what I have always said, that you will come back to Woodcliff a great man; and I shall be so glad to see the upstarts around us bowing down to Roland Gordon Bruce, the son of poor widow Bruce. Good-bye, Roland; I shall never forget the lessons of Maple Lane School, or the happy days that we have spent together." Giving her hand to Roland, they exchanged a parting clasp, and Madeline turned to leave the cemetery.

Roland sat down upon his mother's grave, and watched the childish form until she was seen no more; then, bowing his head upon his hands, he could no longer restrain the silent tears that would chase each other down his cheeks.

"Thus fade my earthly friends," sighed the boy; "first my mother, then Madeline, this precious little friend, then Effie, my darling sister, next, and I shall be alone--a waif upon the wide, wide world; but no, not a waif while God lives and my Saviour reigns, for, blessed be his name! I can trust him still."

The little stock at the cottage was soon disposed of, and after all their mother's debts were paid, nothing remained but a few dollars, which Effie insisted Roland should take with him in his first encounter with the world. Effie was comfortably settled at Woodcliff, Roland stayed at old Peter's cabin a day or two, and Lucy and Lavinia had returned to Boston.

"A letter from papa, dear aunt," exclaimed Maddy; "he is in New York, and will be here to-night," and she was nearly wild with delight. "Won't I surprise him with a morning serenade on my harp!" and she had it brought into the room adjoining her father's, that she might awake him in the morning with her music.

There was no more composure for Madeline during the whole of that day--busy in her father's chamber, and in the library to see that all was prepared for his comfort, adding, as the last touch, some sweet flowers for both rooms. Madeline tried to settle herself to some employment, but all in vain, until she uncovered her harp; practising some of her best pieces, she spent the rest of the morning in preparing for her serenade. Evening at length arrived, and with it her dear father. Folded once more in his arms, Madeline was perfectly happy for the moments following his arrival.

The evening was spent in showing the beautiful things that Mr. Hamilton had brought for Madeline and her aunt; nor was Effie forgotten by the kind man.

"Something will arrive to-morrow, Maddy, that I could not bring with me, on account of its bulk; I know that it will please you best of all."

Handsome dresses, laces, gloves, and jewelry were lavished upon the idolized child.

Mr. Hamilton was a happy man, once more seated in the midst of his family--fatigued, he retired early to rest; and, rising early in the morning, stood at his window to enjoy the beauty of a magnificent sunrise. While quietly looking upon the scene, he thought that he heard the sound of very low, sweet music; for a moment, it ceased; and he thought that he must have been mistaken; but again it swelled out in deep rich chords of melody, accompanied by a charming voice--it seemed very near, certainly in the next room. Opening the door, what was his surprise to see Madeline, in her night-dress, seated at a harp, performing most delightfully, and singing a song of welcome for her father. He listened in delighted silence until the close, then exclaimed,

"Why, my daughter! what does all this mean? How in the world did you accomplish all this without my knowledge?"

"It was commenced in Boston, papa; and during your absence, I have applied myself diligently, determined to surprise you."

"Well, truly! I think that the fairies must have been very busy, Maddy, both with you and me."

"Why with you, dear papa? Have you been learning too, without my knowledge?"

"You will know to-day what I mean, dear; but really, you could have done nothing that could have pleased me better, than this pleasant surprise."

Mr. Hamilton seemed to be very frequently at the front door, watching evidently for an arrival; at length, Madeline's curiosity to know what was coming, was about to be satisfied, for a wagon turned into the avenue, bringing a very large and singularly-shaped packing-box.

It was brought into the house and soon opened, when, to Madeline's surprise, an elegant French harp appeared.

Throwing her arms around her father's neck she exclaimed,

"Thank you, dear, dear, papa; this is just what I wanted! How in the world did you know it?"

"Did I not tell you, Maddy, that the fairies must have been very busy? But, candidly, I have always intended that you should study my favorite instrument, and have brought you one of the finest that I could obtain in Paris."

"Is it not delightful that I have been taking lessons, papa? Now I can send away the old harp, and have my own."

For some weeks, Madeline was busily occupied with her beautiful instrument; but Mr. Hamilton was obliged to yield at last to the conviction, that he must part for a few years with his darling child, if she was ever to be properly educated for the sphere in which she was destined to move, for, under the weak guidance of Aunt Matilda, that could never be.

As soon as he could obtain the co-operation of good Aunt Clara, a suitable boarding-school was solicited, and, after due preparation, Madeline was sent from home, to remain until her education should be completed. It was a sore trial to both parent and child, and the parting nearly overcame the resolution of the father, who could scarcely endure the loneliness of Woodcliff without his darling. Poor Effie would also be very lonely, but Aunt Matilda was really kind at heart, and imposed nothing upon the young girl, but what she was fully competent to perform.