CHAPTER XXX.

FELLOW-HEIRS OF THE GRACE OF LIFE

"This is a trial," said Roland; "business calls me to New York, and it will never do for me to be running down daily to Woodcliff; I should be half of my time on the road. In the busy season, I shall have to content myself coming every other day, unless we take boarding in the city."

"Do you desire it, Roland? your wishes shall guide me, although I should be sorry to leave dear Woodcliff; life is so very different in that gay metropolis."

"I think that we had better remain here; we will go to the city for a few weeks in the winter, that Annot may see some of the lions that we have to show her."

Still the child of Providence, Roland rose step by step, until we find him occupying posts of honor and trust, a self-made man, such as thrive best in America. Life was very charming at Woodcliff; but Madeline felt that it was time to furnish her young charge with some useful pursuits, so one morning after breakfast she summoned her to her sitting-room.

"Well, Annot, now you have run about like a wild bird for a few weeks, suppose that we arrange some plans for improvement, dear; that is what Uncle Malcolm wishes, you know."

"An' that is just what I desire, Madeline."

"I have written to one of the best teachers of music in Boston, and, as it is but a few hours' ride, he can come twice a week to give you lessons, and you will have abundant time for practice; then I am going to ask your help in the Sunday-school, and will give you ten families among the factory people to visit."

"Thank ye, dear Madeline; I hae always led a busy life, and I wad na be happy in a state o' idleness."

The neighborhood around Woodcliff was rapidly increasing; the factories had brought many new families, both of the working classes and their employers; and the healthy, pleasant climate, the vicinity of the sea, and the beauties of fine scenery, had attracted also many summer residents, who were building picturesque cottages all around in the pleasant lanes, on the hill-tops, and some nearer to the sea-shore, where there was now a prospect of good bathing. Consequently, the Sunday-school and the congregation rapidly multiplied. Madeline began to think that it was time to think about her favorite plan in earnest; there must really be a church at Woodcliff.

It was a very happy household that dwelt beneath its roof; but there must be something to disturb its quiet, for, to Madeline's surprise, Lavinia wrote to say that Lucy and she were coming on a visit to Woodcliff. A slight shade of annoyance passed over the face of the young lady as she wondered what would bring Lavinia, after her conduct at the time of her marriage; but Madeline was a Christian and a lady, and sent an acknowledgment of the letter, with the information that a room was ready for their reception. They arrived--Lavinia, the same vain and frivolous girl; Lucy, the same gentle, pious friend. A handsome wardrobe, with every variety of fashionable folly, was intended to impress Annot Lindsay, but it failed signally; for it simply excited her wonder, and offended her pure and lady-like taste. Remarks were never made upon the subject except by Lavinia herself, and Annot generally contrived to introduce some more profitable conversation.

We will sit down with the family at a breakfast scene. Always attired with the neat simplicity of a lady, Madeline had not yet learned to appear before her husband with dishevelled hair, untidy costume, or any neglect of ladylike habits; and yet she was busier now than when Aunt Matilda expressed the fear that such might be the case; for, in her leisure moments, she still scribbled privately for the news-boys; but she had learned to live by system, thanks to the master of the family.

"Roland, will you want the horses to-day?" asked the wife.

"I think not; do you wish to ride, Madeline?"

"Yes; I have a visit to pay; I have never returned Mrs. De Coursey's call."

"I think that I shall have to refuse my wife the use of the horses to-day."

Madeline changed countenance--to be refused! and before Aunt Matilda and Lavinia, it was really too bad. She began to tap her little foot under the table, and to play impatiently with her spoon.

"Why can I not have the horses, if you are not going to use them, Roland?"

"I do not wish my wife to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs. De Coursey; she is not a proper associate for a pure-minded lady."

"Why, what is the matter with Mrs. De Coursey? for my part, I think that she is charming; so sweet in her manners, so generous in her charities!"

"Have you ever seen her ride with her husband, Madeline?"

"I cannot say that I have," was the reply.

"Have you not seen her riding repeatedly with that infamous George Sinclair, Madeline?"

"I think I have, but he is her cousin; is he not?"

"Perhaps so; but in the absence of her husband, she is much too free with gentlemen generally."

"And so you really refuse me the horses, Roland?"

"Do not let us talk about it now, my love; after breakfast, I will explain my reasons more fully."

Roland looked deeply pained, Madeline angry and mortified, Lavinia Raymond contemptuous, and Aunt Matilda utterly surprised. It was the first ripple on the matrimonial surface.

The meal passed in silence--husband and wife were thoroughly uncomfortable. After Madeline had washed her silver and glass, as was her custom, she proceeded, with a dejected step, to her favorite room.

Roland followed--she was sitting in silence before her secretary, leaning her head on her hand, while she could not conceal the tears that were stealing through her fingers.

"My dearest wife," said the young man, "have I pained you?" and he seated himself by her, winding his arm around her waist, and kissing away the tears, as they fell drop by drop from her eyes.

She did not answer; conscience was busily at work, for she felt that she had been wrong.

"Can you not trust me, love? would I refuse you any thing which I know was for your real good? but when the honor of my pure and noble wife is concerned, then I must be the husband, Madeline. Do you know that Mrs. De Coursey is not visited, even in New York, by any of the really pure and good?"

"I did not know it, Roland, but I wish that you had refused me when alone; it was so mortifying to be treated just like a----child!" and she sobbed out the latter word, and threw herself upon his bosom; "and then to see the look of triumph and contempt in Lavinia's face, and surprise and pain on Aunt Matilda's."

"What need you care, my love, for the opinions of the world, if you only know that you are right? It is right to avoid the society of the impure, and it is right to be guided by your husband--is it not, dear?"

Madeline turned her eyes full upon Roland's noble face, so full of sorrow, and tender feeling. He had fully conquered; and she wound her arms around his neck, as she whispered,

"Forgive me, dear Roland, you are always right--this is just some of the leaven of my old hateful pride."

"And you the same sweet, ingenuous wife--do you think that I will ever allow any thing to approach you, Madeline, that can even breathe upon your reputation, or your happiness? now, darling--be comforted;" and he kissed again and again the half-smiling, tearful face.

Madeline began to laugh, a little hysterically, at first, but at last the showers passed away, and she was herself again.

Opening her secretary, she took out a draft of a church, which she had brought from England, a copy of the pretty Gothic building at Parkhurst.

"I want to ask your advice, Roland, about this church; you won't refuse me dear, will you?"

"It is very pretty, Madeline; but I think that we must have something added that is a little more useful."

"O, yes! it wants a Sunday-school--we cannot have that in a building like this, without spoiling the proportions."

"We can have a building by itself of the same style, and then, you know, that there must be a parsonage."

"Yes, that is fixed--no church without a house for the minister; I think the time has come to set about building--but it will cost a great deal of money."

"I will give a thousand, Madeline, out of my own means--I mean from my practice."

"Can we not give two thousand, Roland?"

"I think so, but we must be careful, dear, not to go beyond our ability, though our means are abundant; now, darling, come sit by me a moment," and Roland drew the young wife by his side upon the sofa, while he said softly,

"Do you not sometimes regret your loss of liberty, Madeline? just tell me, darling, truly."

"Never, Roland, in the depths of my heart--there may he ripples of the old pride disturbing the surface of my happiness; but the quiet ocean of love cannot be ruffled by these little passing winds," and she kissed her husband fondly; then rising said, "wait a minute, I must get my bonnet and mantle, for I have some purchases to make to-day."

Returning soon, every trace of sadness had vanished, and with the old arch look of mischief in her face, she entered saying, with a mock reverence of profound obeisance,

"'Most potent, grave and reverend signior! My very noble and approved good master,' If I have in aught offended your lordship, I most humbly beg your gracious pardon-- The very head and front of my offending is in this; That wilful woman like, I, like a fractious child, Have sought to have my way, and not my lord's. But now I lay down the weapons of my rebellion, And Desdemona-like, bow to my lord Othello, And say just love me well, my lord, and I am happy."

and as she concluded, placing her hand gracefully upon her heart, she made another mocking obeisance; the long, drooping eyelashes hiding the gleams of mischief that lurked in ambush. While she spoke these words with such a winning grace, Roland looked and listened with admiring gaze. It was the bewitching child of the sea-shore, and the wild woods yet, that stood before him, with her bright look of mischief gleaming from her deep blue eyes, and dimpling her expressive mouth. He kissed the glowing cheek with fondest love, as he replied,

"Well done! my love, where did you get that fine speech?"

"An imitation of Shakspeare, my lord; I was just seized with a fit of mischief, and thought that I would be sweet Desdemona--have I succeeded, Roland?"

"Admirably--now, what have you to ask, my darling? I know that there must be something behind this pretty acting."

"Why, just this--to show that we are all right again, just take me this morning to the store, and this evening to the hill above Glendale; I want to show you a fine site for our church."

"My plans were all different for to-day; but you must carry me where you please, Desdemona."

"That's noble, my lord Othello; now as soon as you can get the carriage, I am ready."

In a little while the carriage drove up, and Lavinia was utterly surprised to see Madeline, with beaming eyes and glowing cheek, handed in by her husband.

Kissing her hand to those on the piazza, she drove off in high spirits, and Lavinia said,

"Madeline lets that man lead her just where he pleases; I am astonished that a girl of her spirit should be so tame--refuse her own horses! I should like to see the man that could do that by me."

"It is mutual leading, Lavinia," replied Lucy. "I never saw a more perfect union."

They rode happily along, their intercourse the dearer for the gentle agitation that had disturbed it--but let young married persons beware that they stir not these ripples too often, for they may raise tempests at last.

Lengthening their ride, they remained away for two hours, and Madeline was happy in having her husband at home all day. After an early tea, another pleasant ride to Glendale, closed the day.

Arrived at the spot, Madeline led her husband to the top of a hill, commanding a fine view of the whole country. On the brow of this eminence stood a grove of fine old forest trees, that looked as if they had grown there on purpose to shade the pretty church; on the slope of the hill, facing the south, was an extensive lawn descending gradually to a babbling stream, bordered on either side by wild shrubbery, and fine old trees, dipping their branches into the winding creek; pretty vines hung in graceful festoons among the branches, forming charming resting-places for the strollers on the banks of this rural stream.

To the left was one broad rolling hill, rising in gentle swells, until it was lost in the distant outlines of misty blue hills.

This one eminence was partly covered with fine forest trees, crowning it to the very top; and on the slopes at the foot of the hill were pretty rural cottages, surrounded by shade trees, cultivated fields, and thick clumps of woods. From one broad opening, peeps out the dearest little miniature home, so like a bird's nest of love; as far as eye could reach, for miles the country was one beautiful garden of gentle hills and dales, and extensive woodlands; adding the picturesque feature of a dark stone bridge over a neighboring stream. The whole landscape was dotted with fine farms, gentlemen's country-seats, and quiet rural homes; and bounding this whole charming picture, on every side, were ranges of low hills, fading away in the distance in tints of misty blue.

Viewed at sunset, it was a picture never to be forgotten--the whole landscape was flooded in a halo of glory; the deep crimson of the setting sun illumined the sky, and hung his veil of splendor over every hill; gradually it changed to deeper hues, then to rich purple and gold, tinging the trees with the reflected glow of sunlight; slowly the hues faded, until the landscape was enveloped in the sombre drapery of solemn evening.

"What a place for thought and study, Roland! This must be the site for our church; we will call it Calvary; it shall be Gothic, with a Sunday-school, and parsonage to correspond; we must have a good minister; I have set my heart on George Stanley, he has been just ordained; write to him, Roland; he might as well come down at once; and if he becomes interested, he can help us to collect the funds, for it will cost a large sum of money. The house must be Glendale Parsonage, and I think Helen will be the lady; don't you, Roland?"

"I have no doubt of it; they are constantly engaged in the same good works, and seem just suited to each other; he so strong and self-reliant, she so gentle and dependent."

Madeline had passed a happy day; and, on their return, Lavinia and Lucy were walking on the piazza. There was something so tender in the manner of the young husband, as he lifted her from the carriage, and so confiding in the deep blue eyes of the wife, that Lavinia was full of wonder.

"I wonder how long the honeymoon will last," said Lavinia, as she observed the perfect reconciliation of the married pair.

"I think for life, Lavinia," was Lucy's reply; "there are depths of love and earnest piety in both characters; and such links are not easily broken."

"For my part, I don't believe in such romantic notions, Lucy; give me a handsome house and carriage, plenty of servants, and a long purse of money, with a comfortable, easy husband, who will let me take my path, and he choose his, and that is all that I care for."

Madeline and her husband, seated in the library, were looking over some accounts connected with their charities; and, after an hour devoted to business, she took her seat on a low ottoman at Roland's feet; and leaning her head upon his knee, occasionally she looked up in his face, with the true love of a wife shining in her expressive eyes, while he laid his hand caressingly upon the soft brown hair.

"We are very happy, Roland," said the young wife, "and sometimes when I read of the discipline of God's children, I tremble lest it should be necessary to visit our nest of love."

"We must never forget, my wife, that we are but pilgrims, seeking another, that is, a heavenly country; let our great object be to glorify God, to love him supremely, and then we can trust him with all our future. Looking aloft! dear, always, through joy and through sorrow, that is the way to happiness and peace."

"How different, Roland, is the bond that unites us, from the cold and selfish world! no wonder that there are so many wretched marriages, when so few are founded upon the holy principles of the Gospel. Ah, how many, when days of indifference and neglect overtake them, sigh for a love that never existed!"

"If people would only study the epistles of the disciple whom Jesus loved, and form their heart unions from such high and holy sources, how different would be the loves and friendships of poor humanity!"

And thus holy was the heart communion of this true union.

"Do not forget, Roland, to write to Stanley to-morrow, and bring him down with you next week to see the field of labor; it will be such a privilege to have a church of our own."

"Now, dear, it is time for worship;" and Roland rang the bell which summoned his family to the library.

While he reverently read and expounded the Holy Scriptures, all listened with deep seriousness; Madeline always conducted the singing; and guests and servants felt the value of that banner of security thus daily spread over the family circle at Woodcliff. Even Lavinia was obliged, much against her will, to pay the homage of deep respect to the character of Roland Bruce.

The Eolian discoursed sweet music on that calm evening, as, arm in arm, Roland and Madeline stood near the open window.

Edmund's visits to Woodcliff were much more frequent; a piece of music for Annot, an hour's private talk with Roland, or a book for Madeline, all served as so many pleas for weekly visits; until, at last, Edmund was always expected on Saturday night, to return with Roland, on Monday, to the city.

Tired of the frivolity of fashionable life, his heart turned with delight to the home-circle of his friend, and he often wondered if he should ever be blessed with such a happy household.

Annot had learned to listen for his footstep, and to blush when his hand was upon the door-knob; always ready with some new music, or a plate of especially choice fruit. Edmund gradually found that the lovely Scotch lassie was necessary to his happiness; and the heads of the family did not discourage the intimacy, for Roland knew his worth; had watched his progress, and saw the gleams of spiritual life as they developed themselves in his young protégé.

Therefore, when Edmund invited Annot to a walk on the piazza, to a ramble on the sea-shore, or by the placid lake, to an evening ride in the quiet lanes, there was no opposition; it rather pleased both husband and wife to see the dawn of a virtuous attachment, so elevating to the character of a young man.

Lavinia brought her visit to a close, for the tranquil pleasures and useful pursuits at Woodcliff did not suit the worldly tastes of her vitiated heart.

Stanley and Helen accompanied Roland on his next Saturday's return.

A long talk in the library between Roland and his friend about the parish seemed to have ended harmoniously; for after an early tea, the four took a ride to Glendale, for it was but a mile from Woodcliff.

Stanley was enraptured with the beautiful view from the hill-top, and Helen more quietly enjoyed the scene.

"There, Mr. Stanley, will be a part of your parish," said Madeline, as she pointed to the numerous pleasant homes scattered in all directions from one to five or six miles distant; "many of these people go nowhere to church, and if we should plant one in their midst, I doubt not that we could soon raise a prosperous congregation; the good Bishop of our Diocese is very anxious for such an effort, for his family have a summer-cottage here; we have already about one hundred in regular attendance, and large numbers of summer residents could worship with us--we have a prosperous Sunday-school with twelve teachers, and a Parish school under the care of an excellent young person, Susan Grant."

Stanley listened with deep interest

"The call seems inviting, Mrs. Bruce, and nothing would please me more than a home amidst just such a people; what do you say, Helen?"

At this direct and sudden appeal she blushed deeply--for, as yet, only surmise had connected the two names.

"I think that it would suit you exactly, Mr. Stanley; this quiet, shady hill, looks so inviting to thought and study."

Madeline could not resist the temptation as she whispered,

"And you, dear Helen, for the pastor's good little wife."

The sweet face was suffused with blushes, as she replied,

"Would you advise it, Madeline?"

"By all means, my dear girl; Stanley is the very companion for you, my little lily."

This was all side-talk, while the gentlemen were engaged in conversation of a more practical character.

The end of the conference was that Stanley should enter at once upon his labors, and that active measures should be taken without delay towards the erection of a church. He preached on Sunday to quite a large congregation; and the manly, earnest character of his sermon, so full of the unction of a pure gospel, made a deep impression; Roland heard many saying as they left the school-room,

"I wish that we could have him for our minister."

Stanley soon came among them as their own pastor, and until his own home was ready he took up his abode at Woodcliff. The church was quickly planned, an architect and builders upon the spot, and under the energetic perseverance of Roland and Stanley, it went forward rapidly.

Daily did the character of Stephen Bruce's piety deepen; his mind would probably never regain its tone, for it had been shattered too long and powerfully for perfect restoration. He was very busy in riding daily to the church; for although of another sect, he was interested in all of Roland's plans, and reported daily progress, with all the simple-hearted pleasure of a child.

Susan Grant, the little girl for whom Roland stood as the youthful champion, was now an excellent young woman, and had charge of the parish school, while Philip acted as librarian for the reading-room; and the affectionate daughter had actually lightened her dear mother's cares, and brightened her happy home, not, however, by gathering diamonds, but by scattering seeds of knowledge. November was now approaching, and Madeline remembered her promise to Annot, that she should visit the city for a few weeks; accordingly, the three took up their abode at one of the best hotels. Visiting all the celebrated places in and around New York, Annot was pleased for awhile, but her chief delight was in the happy evenings that she and Edmund could now spend together.

At the end of six weeks, Annot came to Madeline with a pleading look upon her face--"Shall we return to Woodcliff, dear?"

"I am glad to hear you make the request, Annot, for I must be there by Christmas; and so you have seen enough of this great city, my dear, and love the quiet of the country yet?"

"Luve it, Madeline! I dinna ken how I could e'er be happy in a great city. Sic a bustle, an' sic a round o' folly, I ne'er could endure."

"And what, then, will you and Edmund do? You know his business is in New York."

Annot hung her pretty head, and blushed as she replied,

"There is nae positive bond between us, Madeline."

"Not that of devoted hearts, Annot?"

"I did na say that exactly; but it wud na be right to make an engagement o' that sort without Uncle Malcolm an' dear mother's consent."

"Have you ever written to them, dear, upon the subject?"

"Oh, yes, Madeline! I ne'er hae ony secrets frae them; they want us baith to wait until Edmund sees Uncle Malcolm. I hae been here noo quite a year. I canna gae hame alone. In the spring, Mrs. Norris, Jessie, an' Edmund, are all going to Europe, an' I shall accompany them."

"You have every prospect of happiness with Edmund Norris, but I don't know what Uncle Malcolm will say about parting with his darling niece."

"Is it na strange, Madeline, that I could feel willing to leave dear Uncle Malcolm, the guid friend o' a lifetime, an' my precious mother, who has luved me sae fondly, to come awa' wi' a stranger, that I hae only kenned intimately for one year? and yet I am willing; I could go ony where wi' Edmund, to the north or south pole. Does it na seem amaist a shame, Madeline, to say sae?" and Annot blushed rosy red, as she hung her head down bashfully.

"I know all about that, Annot--it is not strange, dear, for does not the Bible say, that a 'man shall leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh?' and it is just the same with the wife; so don't distress yourself, little dear; it is the ordering of our Father."

Christmas Eve at Woodcliff--what a bright, happy time! The parlors, library, dining and sitting rooms, are all dressed with evergreens, winter flowers and vases, in which the Scotch heather lifts its pretty purple flowers among brighter blossoms; and a table with a large white cover stands in the middle of the library, which has been most carefully locked for the last week.

In the back parlor stands a Christmas tree (on the top of which rests the Christmas angel), hung with numberless little gifts, and decorated with red holly berries, lady-apples, colored glass globes, and a profusion of variegated wax candles.

On a small table are spread piles of fancy covered books.

This has been the work of Madeline and Annot since their return from New York; interesting several families in the neighborhood, they have gathered together a large quantity of presents for the children of the Sunday-school.

They are determined to have a happy Christmas at Woodcliff. Early in the evening, the rooms are lit, and the ladies dressed. Madeline, in Roland's favorite brown silk, with lace collar, and sleeves, with no ornaments save a branch of ivy leaves and scarlet berries in her hair, and a handsome carbuncle set, that her husband had presented--Annot, in a pale blue dress, with a delicate lace frill around the neck and sleeves, and a few white camelias in her golden ringlets, that hung so gracefully around her shoulders.

Standing in eager expectation near the window, they listened for the approach of their guests.

"I hear the carriage," said Madeline, for it had been sent to the station to bring the expected company.

Hastening out to the piazza, she welcomed her friends; Roland had brought out Edmund, with his mother and sister, and Helen Thornly.

"Well, this is beautiful, indeed!" said Roland, as he glanced around at the preparations. "I think we Scotch people lose a great deal in not making more of this joyous season; but really, Madeline, have not the fairies been at work?"

"No, dear, neither fairies nor angels have had anything to do with it, not even Santa Claus; human hands planned all."

"I know better, darling," whispered Roland; "a household angel has gathered these lovely flowers, and lit up this bright festival; my household angel, Madeline."

The ladies were soon disrobed, and ready to join the cheerful party in the dining-room, where a genuine Christmas dinner was prepared. After they had done full justice to the viands, Roland exclaimed, smiling,

"And what is to be done with this Christmas tree? are we going back to the days of childhood, Madeline?"

"You'll see after a while," was the arch reply, as the folding doors were closed between the rooms.

In a few minutes, the tramp of little feet on the piazza, and the buzz of children's voices, announced an arrival--ere they entered, the children, under the guidance of Philip and Susan Grant, sang a sweet Christmas carol.

They were then admitted into the front parlor, and strange to behold were the large staring eyes, and open mouths of the wondering children, who had never seen such grandeur before!

A sweet Christmas hymn, sung by ladies' voices, was heard in the room beyond, and when the door suddenly opened, and the sight of the splendid tree, illuminated from top to bottom, burst upon them, they could no longer restrain their expressions of delight. The girls clapped their hands, and the boys stamped their feet, as they exclaimed,

"Oh! goody gracious! I never saw anything like that!"

"Just see the heap of apples!" said one little girl.

"Just look at that pretty doll!" said another.

"Look at them ere glass things! I wonder what they are."

"There's a gun!" said a boy.

"And there's a top!" said another; "and such a heap of things!"

"And there's a whole pile of books!" said another.

"Look at the bags of sugar-plums!" said a fat little urchin. "Hurrah for the sugar-plums!" and the little fellow turned a summerset, and rolled over and over on the floor.

After considerable trouble, they were all reduced to order, and Roland held a hat, and gave each child a card with a number on it. Madeline took her stand by the tree; one by one she took down the gifts, and, calling out the number, each happy child came forward to receive the present. Each child had also a bag of sugar-plums and a book to take home, and a large slice of Christmas cake for present enjoyment.

"Now, dear children," said Madeline, "we sent for you this morning to wish you all a happy Christmas. This is the dear Saviour's birthday, when he came down to make children happy. He gave a Christmas gift to all, and that was himself. Now, because he was so full of love, the people who love Jesus want to do something like him, and so they give presents to their friends to show their love; each little gift that you have in your hands, my little ones, is a gift of love. Now, if any of you have a sick brother or sister, or little friend, who could not come to-day, don't eat all your sugar-plums or cake, but save some for them to show that you love them. The night that Jesus was born, the angels sang in the clouds over the plains of Judea; now let us sing our Christmas hymn," and Annot played, while Madeline led the singing, in which all joined.

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around," &c.

It was a happy company that hurried home that night through the sharp, frosty air, to tell about the wonderful tree, and the beautiful things at Woodcliff.

Which was the happier? the little children, as they went home with their pretty gifts, or the young mistress of Woodcliff, who hung the Christmas tree to make them happy?

"And now for Blue Beard's room," said Madeline, as she led the way to the library and unlocked the door.

A bell summoned the household; and as she uncovered the table with a bright, beaming face, Roland looked upon his young wife, and felt that he was indeed a proud and happy man.

"Now first, my lord and master, as a true and loyal wife," and Madeline spread out a beautiful wrapper made by her own hands, and, putting it on her husband, said--"Why it fits beautifully! it suits the library exactly; and here's a pair of the prettiest slippers, worked by Annot, and a cap and scarf for winter nights in the cars, by Aunt Matilda. Now aren't you a rich man, sir? make your prettiest bow to the lady of the house, sir."

As Roland obeyed the command in the most graceful manner, he whispered words that made Madeline's cheeks glow with innocent pleasure.

"A rich man, dearest! I do not envy the richest man in Christendom, Madeline."

"What did he say, Madeline?" said Edmund; "there must be none but public speeches to-night."

"Just a little sweet flattery, Edmund; let me enjoy it," and she threw her head slightly back, smiling archly on the speaker.

Mr. Bruce was particularly pleased with his nice wrapper from Madeline, and beautiful Bible with fine large print, and gold spectacles, from Roland; Aunt Matilda with her handsome breastpin from Madeline, and pretty watch from Roland.

"Here's my offering, Madeline," said her husband, as he opened a small case, and produced an elegant watch and chatelaines; "your old watch is not so good as formerly, dear, and I have got the very best that New York could afford."

Madeline looked a world of thanks. Lastly, came the servants, who, one by one, advanced to receive their gifts from the hands of their beloved young mistress.

Aunt Matilda was rapidly losing her prejudices against Roland; but, not willing to allow herself conquered, she attributed her change of manner to the conviction that he really was of gentle birth at last. Without her consent, he was gaining daily complete ascendency even over her pride, yet she often wondered whether he were not more than he pretended. One evening, seated together in the familiarity of family intercourse, Aunt Matilda turned suddenly to Roland, and said--

"Are you sure, Roland, that you are not distantly connected with the ancient Bruce? I have often thought you must be; for you certainly could not have got your carriage and manners from the common classes. Bruce and Gordon are grand names; I think that you must have had noble relatives in some of the branches."

Roland smiled, as he replied--

"Can you not believe, Aunt Matilda, that God can choose a vessel of common clay, and, by his grace, endow it with high qualities, if he pleases? or must all your ideal great men be of the purest porcelain?"

"I cannot help thinking, Roland, that there must have been some porcelain among them, even though you may not know it, or care for it if you do."

"All I can boast, Aunt Matilda, in the way of pedigree, is that my ancestors, as far back as I can trace them, were a hardy race of plain Scotch farmers, shepherds, and mountaineers, among whom were always found faithful, earnest ministers of the Lord Jesus; their greatness consisting only in heroic deeds of calm and patient endurance in the cause of truth and holiness."

Madeline smiled archly, as she asked--

"Aunty, what great deeds have the noble Hamiltons ever achieved? I have never heard of any. I believe their grandeur consisted wholly in their birth, in spending lives of idleness, and wasting their fortunes--which, I believe, drove my grandfather to this country a poor man--and in passing away from the world without recording one of their names among those who wrought heroic deeds or benefited the human family. Is it not so, aunty?"

Aunt Matilda was silent for a moment, but, with a mortified expression, said, at last--

"You must allow that there is something in noble birth, Madeline."

"Not apart from goodness, aunty; for I have set up my husband against all such pretensions."

"Well, you need not be telling everybody about Roland's birth, anyhow."

"I certainly shall take no pains to conceal it, Aunt Matilda; I am too proud of Roland Bruce himself."

"And so am I, Madeline; but I am not going to tell everybody about his early days."

"Conquered at last!" said Madeline, laughing heartily, as Aunt Matilda left the room.

"She cannot let go her prejudices, Madeline; but she is a very kind-hearted aunt to both of us."

In the early spring, Annot returned to Scotland in company with the Norrises; she was sorely missed at Woodcliff, but warmly welcomed by Uncle Malcolm and Mrs. Lindsay, who could not but realize that she was greatly improved by her sojourn with Madeline. It was a sore trial to the good man to resign his beloved niece to any one, especially to one living in a foreign land; but, true to his noble character, seeking the happiness of those he loved, he said--

"Take her Edmund, she is yours; but ye maun leave her with us a year ere ye claim her hand, and visit us as often as ye can."

"I know the sacrifice, dear Mr. Graham, but you need not fear to trust your darling to me; we are all in all to each other, and, I trust, humbly desire to live for a better world."

"I canna separate young hearts, Edmund; I know the pang, and can ne'er inflict it on another."

A pleasant visit of a few months, daily increased Uncle Malcolm's respect for Edmund Norris, and he felt before he left Graham Hall, that in him he had found another dear son.

"I do not think that I shall always lead a city life, dear sir; our tastes are for the country, and as soon as it can be possible, that shall be our permanent home."

"Would that it could be in Scotland, Edmund; I should be so happy to have ye with me."

"That is a subject for future thought, dear sir; my mother's wishes must be consulted."

The young pair bade farewell with the sweet hope of meeting again; but O, how long! for one whole year! and what might not happen? How many hearts have asked the same sad question?