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. 4

MARION FORSYTH

OR,

UNSPOTTED FROM THE WORL

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MARION FORSYTH.

Frontispiece^ Pa^e 8

1 ]}.

III

" -» (

ARION f ORSYTH

OR,

UNSPOTTED FROM THE WORLD.

ANNIE S. SWAN,

AUTHOR OF "ALDERSYDE," " CARLOWRIE," ETC

NEIV EDITION

t,"

TORONTO, CANADA

WILLIAM BRIGGS

EDINBURGH and LONDON
OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER

1880

CONTENTS.

i ■
. 'I =

CHAf

I. ON THE THRESHOLD,
II. INTO THE LIGHT, .
in. GATHERING CLOUDS,
IV. SUNDERED, .
V. FOR HIS SAKE,

fAGB
7

24
35
43

otiicni JPii ^ .

ALL THINE, 50

FAITH, 52

LONGINGS, 54

FROM THE DEPTHS, 56

UNREST, 58

I\ESr, •.•••••••• sQ

THANKSGIVING, 60

WAITING, 62

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by William Briggs,
Book Steward of the Methodist Book and Publishing House,
Toronto, at the Department of Agricillture.

MARION FORSYTH;

OR,

^nspothir from tin Morltr,

t^^

CHAPTER I.

0n the Thresholds

"Travelling on the pathway,
Where holiest feet have trod,
Groping amid the shadows.
For the broader light of God."

N the pleasant drawing-room of a west-
end mansion, on a grey October even-
ing, a young girl sat with her slippered
feet on the fender and her eyes
dreamily fixed on the dancing flames.
Her figure was the perfection of girlish
grace • and her face pure, sweet, and refined. It was
lit by a pair of lovely grey eyes, shaded by long

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I '

MARION FORSYTH.

, ■

II ..<'

eyelashes, and the broad low brow was crowned by a
wealth of golden brown hair. Everything about her
betokened almost boundless wealth.

She need not have had a care, and yet the deep
eyes were strangely shadowed, the sweet face full of
anxiety and unrest. What did it mean ?

Her white hands were folded upon the pages of an
open book, which she had read till the light failed.
Was it a volume of poetry, or brilliant essays, or the
latest production of the first novelist of the day?
None of these. It was the Book of Books, which
contains the story, old, yet ever new ; and this was
not the first time by any means it had stirred the
heart of Marion Forsyth, and filled it with a vague
unrest. Presently she sat up, stirred the fire to a
brighter blaze, and bent her head low over the book.
" That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith ; that
ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able
to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth,
and length, and depth, and height, and to know the
love of Christ which passeth knowledge ; that ye
might be filled with all the fulness of God."

On these words Marion Forsyth had pondered

ON TIIK TIIKKSIIOLI).

'is'

many times, and each time the lon^injr to know and
feel their deepest, most precious mean in <^ ^rcw more
intense. She had ^rropcd loncj after the h'^ht, and was
still seekinj^, seekin^^. Would peace nei^er come?
She had none to guide her faltering feet in the strait
and narrow way. She was the child of a wealthy and
indulgent father, moving in a gay and fashionable
circle, in which religion was seldom mentioned, and
regarded as a gloomy thing, suitable for old people
and sick-beds. A feeling almost of despair crept over
the girl's heart, and she put her hands before her face
to keep back the dropping tears.

" Lord, help or I perish ! " she whispered very low.
Even as the words were uttered the door opened, and
there came the rustle of a silken robe in the quiet room.
The intruder was a lady, young and very beautiful,
bearing sufficient resemblance to Marion Forsyth to
proclaim that they were sisters. " Marion, it is half-past
six," she exclaimed. " Do you forget we dine at
seven, and Douglas will be here in a quarter of an
hour? I shall tell him you dreamed of him so long,
and would have been dreaming still, if I had not
roused you. It is an engrossing thing to have a

MARION FORSYTH.

l! '

lover, 7na c/icre ; I congratulate myself upon being
fancy free."

Marion blushed slightly and rose. As she passed
the table she laid her Bible down, and in a moment
her sister's hand had closed over it. I wish I could
describe to you the expression which came upon
Janie Forsyth's face when she read its title. It was
almost comical in its intensity of incredulous amaze-
ment.

" Marion, dear, are you ill ? " To her frivolous
mind that question expressed the only possible
explanation.

" Why should reading the Bible be considered a sure
sign of failing health, Janie?" asked her sister with
a faint smile. Miss Forsyth shrugged her dainty
shoulders, and turned to admire the sweep of her
train.

"You grow more eccentric every day, Marion.
Not content with toiling at soup-kitchens and charity
bazaars, and visiting poor people in places it makes
me shudder even to think of, you take to reading the
Bible in the drawing-room. We shall have you
abjuring our harmless amusements next ; and then

ON THE 'IIIRESIIOLD.

it will be told in Gath that the belle of the season has
become converted."

'* I only wish it could be said of me with truth now,
Janie," said Marion Forsyth, in tones of almost pain-
ful longing. " To be able to say I am a saved sinner
is an honour I court far above the one you have
given me."

Miss Forsyth drew herself up, and stared at her
sister in blank amazement.

** I don't know what has come to you, Marion," she
said sharply, for those dulcet tones could be very
sharp sometimes. " I am growing tired of such cant.
Let me advise you not to let papa hear you talk
like that. And what do you suppose Mr. Gilroy
would say to such sentiments ? "

The last words w^ent straight as an arrow to the
mark, and Marion answering nothing, quitted the
room and went upstairs to dress. Her heart was
very heavy, for she knew that in her strivings after a
higher and better life she could not depend for help
or guidance on the man whose promised wife she was.
Nay, more, she guessed that from him would come
the most strenuous opposition. Douglas Gilroy was

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MARION FORSYTH.

essentially a man of the world, devoting the time he
could spare from an extensive business to the frivolous
amusements r>{ the society to which his position gave
him entrance. Marion Forsyth had been his promised
wife for a year, and she loved him as much as such
women love, unselfishly and devotedly, caring for him
above all else on earth. Ho was worthy her choice,
so they said. Handsome, agreeable, rich, and generous,
what more could woman's heart desire ? Ah ! these
things could not satisfy Marion Forsyth. She had
begun of late to miss something in her life. When
she had first felt the craving for the one thing need-
ful, she had gone in her womanly pride and confi-
dence to her promised husband, and he had laughed
at her, and teased her, and called her " little saint."
Douglas Gilroy did not dream that these few banter-
ing contemptuous words had severed one link
in the chain, had lowered him in the eyes of the
woman who loved him, and had closed the well-
springs of her confidence to him for ever.

In the dressing-room the maid waited impatiently
for her mistress, wondering to see her so indifferent
about what she should wear, and how she should look.

ON THE THRESHOLD.

2 he
lous
^ave
lised
such

him
loice,
:rous,
these
i had
A^hen
need-
confi-
hed

aint."
anter-
hnk

)f the
well-

iently
fferent
I look.

" Anything, anything, Lizzie," said the young lady
listlessly, in answer to the girl's question. " I don't
mind what I wear."

" Are you quite well, Miss Marion ? "

"Yes," answered her mistress, then a momentary
light sprang to her eyes, for on the dressing-table
lay an exquisite bouquet of half-blown buds, and it
did not need the note beside them to tell her whence
they came. While the maid brushed and braided
her hair she conned the loving tender words, forgetting
for a moment the burden on her mind. Surelv never
had girl been loved so devotedly, so tenderly and
truly before. Not a day passed without bringing
some evidence of his unceasing thought of her.

But for one thing she would have been the happiest
woman in the world.

Tardy though she had been, she was dressed in
time, and went down to the drawing-room to find her
lover and her sister in close conversation. They were
talking of her she felt sure, and there was evident con-
straint in the greeting Douglas Gilroy gave her. Upon
her sister's entrance. Miss Forsyth discreetly left the
room. There was a few minutes' constrained silence.

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MARION FORSYTH.

i-r

" Are you vexed with me about anything, Douglas,"
Marion asked timidlv.

" Not vexed exactly, but worried and annoyed by
what Janie has just told me," said Douglas Gilroy,
looking down gravely from his tall height into the
sweet serious face of his betrothed. " It is not true,
Marion ? " he said inquiringly.

"What? Ask me a plain question, Douglas, and
I shall answer it truly," she said simply.

" That you are bent on being converted, bent on
giving up your sweet young life to gloomy religion ?"

" There must be no concealment between us,
Douglas," she said with quivering lip ; " it is true that
I cannot, will not, rest till I have found peace with
God."

Douglas Gilroy bit his lip to keep back somethint^
which sprang to them. But his brow darkened, and
there was nothing but stern displeasure in those eyes
which Marion Forsyth had been wont to see look
upon her only in tenderness.

" I thought you had forgotten or laid aside those
unhealthy morbid ideas," he said in a hard cold voice.
" If you love me try to banish them for ever."

ON THE THRESHOLD.

glas/'

id by
filroy,
:o the
t true,

ls, and

snt on
■ion ? "
sn us,
xe that
e with

lething
id, and
se eyes
ke look

She turned and hid her face on the hand which
rested on her chair.

** Douglas, Douglas, don't look at me with those
eyes. I do love you ; but I dare not, dare not set
you, as I fear I have done hitherto, in the place of
God/'

The door opens to admit some of her father's guests,
and the painful scene was at an end. The dinner
passed, the evening was spent pleasantly in the draw-
ing-room ; but never once again did Douglas Gilroy
approach his betrothed. The guests noted it of course,
and attributed it to a lover's quarrel. It lay deeper than
that, for the happiness of two lives was trembling in
the balance. What wonder that while Marion played
for their guests her fingers trembled on the keys, and
her eyes grew dim and shadowed with a mist of tears.

The clouds were gathering round her life, and in the
distance she saw the approach of an ordeal which as
yet her woman's heart dared not face.

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voice.

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CHAPTER II.

into th^ tight

** A kind of sacredness

Seemed hallowing the place —
For Christ Himself was there.'*

j^HE was dying, the doctor had just told
her, and she was at peace. Nay, more,
her face Ghone with a strange, deep
gladness, for were not the pain and
weariness, the dreary days and drearier
nights, to be quenched soon in the light
and joy which are beyond ? She was very young ;
her feet had just touched the threshold of woman-
hood ; life might have been sweet to her, yet it was
only a burden she was unutterably thankful to lay
down. She was one of those whom we speak and
write of compassionately as the " very poor." During

her brief nineteen years she had endured hunger, and
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INTO THE LIGHT.

homelessness, and lovelessness ; and had grown old
before her time. Her mother had died in giving her
birth ; her father, in his intervals of freedom from
jail, was the terror of her life; she had neither brother
nor sister, nor other kindred in the world. Could life
be very sweet to her ? From her earliest years she
had earned her own scanty livelihood ; she had
picked up a knowledge of sewing from a friendly
neighbour, and in her later years had earned a few
shillings making coarse shirts for a warehouse in the
city. With failing health, the work had been
badly done, and after several complaints from her
employers it was taken from her. It did not matter
to them that they took the bread from the girl's
mouth — they could not afford to pay for any but the
best work. In her extremity, when sin or death
stared, her in the face, Marion Forsyth, bent upon her
errands of mercy in that dark squalid place, found
her and saved her. Out of the liberal allowance of
pocket-money Mr. Forsyth bestowed upon his
daughters, Marion paid the rent of the girl's room,
put a few comforts in it, paid a woman to look after
her, and kept her in everything. Then when the

.-.'I

MARION FORSYTH.

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doctor told the kind-hearted young lady his patient
had not many days to live, she opened her Bible
tremblingly, and tried to point her to the hope for
eternity. Yes, she did it, even while her own soul
was seeking a blessing ; and more, she led the dying
girl home to her Saviour. Do you think such a thing
impossible ? It is not. I have known instances of it,
and I believe many a one out of his or her own experi-
ence could tell the same story. Then in her turn
Marion Forsyth was taught of her poor ignorant sister
— poor and ignorant compared with her ; but oh, how
much richer in her bright and perfect trust in the
Friend of sinners.

Marion Forsyth came nearly every day to that
wretched little court, and was the very sunshine of
the sick room while she stayed. One afternoon
towards the end of October she wended her way as
usual up the narrow lane, uttering a pleasant good-
afternoon to the slatternly women at the doors, or
pausing to pat some dirty-faced urchin on the head.
She was known in Blinder's Court now, and reverenced.
The roughest among them would not have harmed a
hair of her head. She was not one of those (Christians,

ill

:ient
Mble
5 for

soul
lying
thing

of it,
cperi-

turn

sister

I, how

n the

INTO THE LIGHT.

shall I call them ?) who come with their noses in the
air and their skirts drawn tightly round them, as if to
save them from contamination, and who gingerly offer
a tract to a fellow-creature starving, perhaps, for a
mouthful of bread.

My friends, you won't save souls in that way. Don't
think it.

Such dealing with the poor is worse than useless ;
it hardens. They want some one to go into their
homes, and sit down with them, among their dirt, and
misery, and hopelessness, and talk to them ; ay, even
as the Master talked with the publicans and sinners.
That was Marion Forsyth's way, and she had done
more good in Blinder's Court than if she had distri-
buted a million tracts. I do not say that tracts are
not instruments for good ; but I do say that to offer
one to a starving man, who perhaps cannot read it, is
folly.

Marion Forsyth carried her basket with her. It

contained grapes, and jelly, and a bunch of flowers

for the sick girl. The woman watching by the bed

heard the young lady's foot on the stair, and came to

the door with her finger on her lip.

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MARION FORSYTH.

" She's slcepin', ma'am, a wee bit blink ; it's God-
sent, for she's suffered sair a' day."

Marion nodded, and silently followed the woman
into the room, and setting her basket on the table, sat
down by the bedside to wait her awakening. The
pale face on the pillow was drawn, and haggard, and
wasted to the last degree. Her breath came in short
quick gasps, and she would start every minute or so,
as if haunted by some unpleasant dream.

" Has the doctor been, Mrs. Scott ? " asked Marion
in a whisper.

Light as it was it awoke the sleeper, and she opened
her eyes. She smiled at the sight of the sweet face
by her pillow, and tried to hold out her hand ; but
the strength was not sufficient even for so slight an
effort.

" How are you to-day, Jessie ? "

" Weak, weak," she whispered back. " Slippin' fast
awa' hame. Eh, Miss Mar'n, but the rest'll be sweet
an' soun' the nicht."

" To-night, Jessie ? "

"Ay, He thinks I've suffered eneuch, sae He's
comin' the nicht. Jist read that bonnie bit. Miss

INTO THE LIGHT.

iod-

man
:, sat
The
, and
short
)r so,

arion

pened

face

but

ht an

n' fast
sweet

He's

Miss

Mar'n, aboot nae mair pain ; eh, but I h'ke it, it's the
best bit o' the Bible."

Marion Forsyth opened her Bible and read slowly
and distinctly the beautiful verses in the twenty-first
chapter of Revelation, which are so fraught with
promise and consolation to every suffering heart on
earth.

"Eh, Miss Mar'n, I'll belookin'for ye on the shinin'
shore," said the dying girl drowsily. " Ye'll mcbbe get
a braw welcome hame, but nane'll be truer than mine."

Suddenly Marion Forsyth's head went down upon
the coverlet, and a cry escaped her lips.

"Jessie, Jessie, teach me the way! Give me some
of your faith ! I cannot see nor feel, it is all dark."

A great wonderment came on the girl's face, and
she stretched out one feeble hand till it touched the
bowed head.

" Lord, mak the dark place licht," she whispered.
" Show her Thysel, even as I see Thee. She's Thy
ain an' disna ken it. She wants tae ken. Gie her
the peace that I hae, for Jesus' sake."

At that moment the doctor entered, and Marion
rose and shook hands with him quietly ; though he

' :

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MARION FORSYTH.

wondered what was the meaning of the )ok on her
face. He glanced at his patient, touced her pulse,
and shook his head.

"Dinna be fear'd tae tell me, doctor," said she,
smiling ; " it'll be the best news ye ever tell, if ye say
I'm gaun hame."

" It won't be long now, Jessie," he said with an
answering smile. " This takes the sting from what is
so often the doctor's painful duty."

He did not stay, for his help could avail nothing
now. He went from her to the bedside of a rich old
man, who would have given half his fortune for another
day of life. He was not ready to die, and his mind
wandered so that he could not fix it upon anything
for a minute at a time. Is it wise to leave salvation
till the last days, my friends ? Is it sa/e ?

Marion Forsyth took off her bonnet and sat down
again by the bed. Janie knew where she was. They
would guess why she stayed so long. Jessie dozed
again, and Marion watched by her pillow, feeling with
a strange awe that there was another watcher with her
— Him who has said, " I will never leave thee nor for-
sake thee."

INTO THE LIGHT.

1 her

pulse,

I she,
^e say

ith an
/hat is

othing

ich old

Ltiother

; mind

ything

Ivation

For twenty minutes there was perfect stillness in
the room, broken only by the irregular breathing of
the sleeper, and the ticking of Marion's watch on the
table. Suddenly Jessie turned and stretched out her
hands. No word escaped her lips, bu her eyes were
eloquent, her whole face radiant with the light of the
coming heaven. With a last effort she turned her
eyes on Marion's face, and pointed upward. That was
the end ; but it seemed to Marion that as the glad
soul passed through the gates, they stood ajar a
moment, and the light streamed do vn into the room.
It entered her soul, and created a strange sense of joy
and peace unutterable. She bent her head on her
hands and prayed — only these words —

" My Lord and my God."

Ay, He was hers. The dark place was made light, as
the dying girl had prayed, and Marion Forsyth saw
the King in His beauty, the chief of ten thousand and
altogether lovely.

" Dear Lord, the shadows flee,
And now I surely know
That Thou hast died for me."

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CHAPTER III.

Gathcririff Gluuds.

** A shadow comelh up
And lieth darkly on the heait,
And blended lives drift far apart."

NE morning early in December Janie
Forsyth came dancing into the break-
fast-room with an open letter in her
hand.

Marion was standing at the fire ; Mr.
Forsyth had not yet left his dressing-
room.

" Marion, here is a card for Mrs. Robertson's calico
ball at Broadhurst, on Christmas eve," she cried
gaily. * Isn't it delightful ? All the world will be
there ! "

Marion Forsyth did not look particularly elated

over the invitation. The gay season was commencing,
24

. !. .

GATHKRINC. ( I.OUDS.

and with it her trials. She had never cared much for
the crowded assemblies in which her sister's heart
rejoiced, and now she had other things to cnj^ross her
attention, other work to do.

"What character will you choose? I intend to
personate our Queen Mary. Talkinf^ of it to Mr.
Gilroy the other evening, he advised me to do it, and
said I would make an ideal queen. Your lover is an
adept in the art of compliment-paying, Marion."

Still Marion did not speak.

" What are you thinking of, Marion ? Can nothing
interest you ? "

*' Yes, I was wondering, Janie," said Marion, in a
low voice, " whether papa would be very angry if I
stayed at home from this ball."

" And why, pray, should you stay at home? Why,
it is the event of the year ! Not to have been at
Broadhurst on Christmas eve will be accounted little
short of a crime in our circle."

"I don't care for such things, Janie," pleaded
Marion.

" Marion, this religion is spoiling you utterly and
entirely. I wonder if you never pause to think how

MARION FORSYTH.

■II

very unbecoming it is for you to set up above the rest
of us as an example of holiness? Is it right, is it
respectful to our dear father, who, I am sure, is the
best one ever girls had ? "

Marion was bewildered. She had nothing to say
in answer to such arguments. She was a very yonng
Christian yet, only struggling to get her feet firmly
planted in the right way. Her sister ready of wit and
glib of tongue, could present things to her in so many
new j'ghts that she grew confused. The entrance of
Mr. Forsyth interrupted the conversation for a few
minutes. But Miss Forsyth was eager to have the
affair settled at once.

" Papa, only guess! Marion actually wants to return
Mrs. Robertson's invitation to the calico ball ! She
turns a deaf ear to my talking. Do settle the matter
for us."

Mr. Forsyth peeped over his newspaper into the
face of his younger daughter.

" Hey, what's this ? don't want to go to the great
ball ? Nonsense, nonsense ! You'll both go, of
course, though I suppose it will be another heavy bill
for me to pay. Never mind, never mind,'' added the

^\hb

GATHERING CLOUDS.

the

rreat

bill

the

indulgent father ; " if my girls look well I don't mind
what's to pay."

Jane glanced triumphantly at her sister, who bit
her lip, and held down her head. She was too timid
yet to appeal against her father's decision. After
breakfast she escaped upstairs to her own room for a
few quiet minutes. Against such odds how could she
keep herself unspotted from the world? Hitherto the
only cloud upon her life had been her mother's death;
all the rest had been like a summer sky. She was
not inured to trial, and this one looming in the dis-
tance seemed a very real and hard one to her. She
opened her beloved Bible for consolation, and as her
eye wandered listlessly over the pages they were
chained by these words : " In journeyings often, in
perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine
own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in
the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the
sea, in perils among false brethren ; in weariness and
painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst,
in fastings often, in cold and nakedness."

She was rebuked, and humbled, and made ashamed.
All these things Paul had gloried to endure for Christ's

MARION FORSYTH.

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111:.

sake, and s/ie shrank from and chafed under a fcv^
sharp words. She knelt down there and prayed very
earnestly for strength and patience to endure persecu-
tion, if need be, and not to endure only but glory in
suffering for Him who loved her with an everlasting
love. Then peace came, and she returned to the
drawing-room, her sweet face unclouded again, and
her eyes serene.

Miss Forsythi was looking over some new music
and merely glanced up when her sister entered the
room, not offering to speak. Though they were
sisters, and had never been apart in their lives, they
had nothing in common. The day passed, as other
days did : Miss Forsyth idling the hours away, wish-
ing for some talkative caller to come and beguile the
time ; while Marion took the car to the city to carry
the light of her presence into dark and cheerless
homes, and to come back strengthened and encour-
aged to go on in the Lord's work.

Janie was entertaining a caller when she reached
her hom^e again, and Mr. Forsyth had just returned,
the servant said. Hearing the visitor's name, and not
caring particularly to meet her, Marion ran upstairs,

'si'.!!

:arry
irless
:our-

iched
Irned,
not
Itairs,

GATHERING CLOUDS.

changed her dress, and came down to the library.
Her father was there leaning back in his easy chair
calculating the profits of a successful investment.

" Hallo, pussy ! come here and tell me why you
didn't want to go to the ball ? " he said in his genial
way when he saw her enter.

She went over to the rug and knelt down beside
him, clasping her hands on his knee.

" Papa, if you saw what I saw to-day, what I see
every day I go to the city, you would scarcely ask
me," she said, summoning all her courage to speak
out boldly for the Master. "It seems to me that
there is no time to dance and make merry when there
are so many souls and bodies perishing at our very
doors."

"There are work-houses and city missions, my
dear," said Mr. Forsyth, vaguely.

His daughter shook her head.

" Yes ; but if there were triple the number of such
institutions in Glasgow, papa, there would still be
needing ones."

" My little girl, I don't want you to grow morbid
and gloomy over such things; they are inevitable," he

i:ii-

>^-

III!

l!,..:..

11,':

MARION FORSYTH.

said. " Draw on me as often as you like for money to
give to them, but don't go so much among them till
all your young life is saddened and embittered.
Preserve your gaiety of heart, my love, and enjoy life
while you can."

*' Papa, I am very happy. I have found the secret
of true happiness. I am not morbid or gloomy, only
anxious to do what I can for Jesus. Dear papa, don't
hinder me, don't make me take part in all these
gaieties for which I have no inclination. I will be
a better daughter to you, God helping me, than I
have ever been ; but if you love me, let me please
myself in these things. It is a light matter to you ;
it is a great one to me."

The impassioned voice, the sweet shining eyes bent
so earnestly on his face, stirred some chord in his
heart, and brought back the memory of the dear, dead
wife, whose living image the kneeling girl was.

" Please yourself, my darling. Stay at home or go
as you will, nobody shall meddle witn you ; only don't
grow into a solemn, long-faced old woman all at once,
or I shall have to exercise my authority in another
way."

mr^

GATHERING CLOUDS.

She rose up, and laying her arms about his neck,
kissed him, and he felt a tear upon his cheek — thanks
more eloquent than a multitude of words.

**What will Gilroy say to your becoming a recluse,
eh?" he asked jocularly. Marion's heart sank. Not
yet had she faced this part of the question.

" I won't have you treating him badly, mind," ho
said, with a slight st.^rnness. "He hasn't been here so
often of late. If you have had a lover's quarrel, make
it up, in case I step in and do it for you."

" Papa, would it be a great disappointment to you
if I did not became Mr. Gilroy 's wife?" she said, not
knowing what prompted the question.

" Disappointment, eh ? " repeated Mr. Forsyth,
sharply. " I shouldn't like to be called upon to bear
it. Many a Glasgow man would give his right hand
to call Gilroy son-in-law, and many a daughter would
gladly step into your shoes, my lady. There are not
many Gilroys in the wor)-^ ; be careful how you treat
him."

Marion had heard enough and slipped from the

room.

Douglas Gilroy came that night to Rowan View, and

i a

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MARION FORSYTH.

Marion was left alone with him in the drawing-
room.

"Janie told me about the invitations, Marion," he
said, by-and-by. " What is my little girl going to
astonish the natives with ? "

She looked up and tried to meet his eyes bravely.

" I am not going, Douglas."

" Nonsense ! "

" It is true."

" May I ask why, Marion ? "

" Because, since I have found peace, I do not care
for such things, Douglas." She nerved herself to say,
" It is not that I think they are sinful in themselves,
but the time and thought they engross might be better
occupied."

'* Upon my word, this is too absurd. It is beyond
all suffrance."

Douglas Gilroy spoke angrily, as he felt, and strode
up and down the room — a sure sign of mental agi-
tation.

"Where are you going to place a limit to this
fanatical folly, Marion ? What will be the next act
in the comedy ? "

Hi!

mi-

GATHERING CLOUDS.

ng-

'he

r to

:ly.

care

p say,
elves,
etter

iyond

strode
a agi-

this
:t act

She loved him, and the sneering tone cut her like a
knife.

" Douglas ! can you give me any reason why you
should talk to me so unkindly ? " she asked with
quivering lip.

" Reason I why their name is legion ! We shall
have you the laughing-stock of our friends next.
Where is the harm in a dance or an evening party ?
What contamination can you get at the theatre when
such women as Siddons and Miss Terry are on the
stage ? Answer me these questions Marion."

" I do not presume to sit in judgment on others,
Douglas. It is for myself alone I claim a right to
decide."

" And supposing you were my wife, what then ? "

" My conscience would be my own still," she said,
falteringly.

" Which means that my wishes woiild have no
weight where they happened to clash with your
whims. Does your Bible not teach wifely duty as
part of its creed ? "

" Douglas ! Douglas ! "

The pleading cry smote him to the heart, for she

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MARION FORSYTH.

was very dear to him. He went to her and took her
in his stront^ arms, whispering words of impassioned
tenderness which in days gone by had been like
heavenly music to her heart.

The shadow had deepened, was deepening every
day. Would it deepen still till it made a great gulf
between them and sundered their hearts for ever ?

!<':i

CHAPTER IV.

** Life hath many a bitter moment,
Fraught with these heart-probing pains."

N the early spring-time the Forsyths
repaired to their coast residence at
Rothesay. Both girls were glad of the
change. Miss Forsyth was exhausted
with the winter's round of pleasure, and
Marion's tired eyes longed for the beauty
and peace of their country home. Oh, but it was
beautiful ! All the earth had sprung into a life of
exquisite freshness and promise. Trees and hedge-
rows wore their most exquisite hues, primrose and
anemone carpeted the glens and grew thickly on every
bank. Beneath the budding hedgerows heart's-ease
and crimson-tipped gowans awoke beneath the sun's

kiss, birds made their melody on every bough, and

35 C

. 1

Hiiii

!| ' . H

h-i

MARION FORSYTH.

the sunny river, ever beautiful, lapped the shore, and
spoke in Marion's heart like the voice of the great
Creator. The past winter had been an eventful one
for Marion Forsyth. Over rough and stony ground,
through ridicule and heart-probing taunts. His grace
had been sufficient for her, and she had been kept
from falling.

The younger Miss Forsyth and her eccentricities
was a never-failing subject for conversation among
those who knew or had known her in her " sensible "
days, and it was a matter of excited conjecture
whether or not her engagement with Douglas Gilroy
was likely to be ratified in the summer, as had been
arranged. Opinion was divided; none dared question
Mr. Gilroy, and only time would set all curiosity at
rest. He had not again spoken to his betrothed on
the subject on which they could never hope to agree.
He still came to Rowan View ; outsiders could detect
no change, but Marion knew the difference in his
manner. That a crisis was at hand she knew ; she
also guessed Mr. Gilroy only waited till they had left
the city with its prying eyes, and then he would speak.
She was right. One evening in the early days of May

K
U

SUNDERED.

the Steamer brought hfm a« , ^^

and after dinner he Zt^^TT *?,^°"^-^>'.
hour for hfni. How different u, • '°"" '^^'^ '"
the old ,over-hke approprL • ^ ^ vV^'"*^!,^ '^"^
fingers trembled as she Ir. ,, ^ " '^°"^'^'' her
-d that her heart wa, ah '" ''''''' ^"out her;

^^^ his arm in siirnT, ^i;;;^ "' ' "^ ^^^-ed'
through the shrubbery'; tho Z "''"'' '''''' '"«'=<=^
Far down among the^ef t Jlta ^^^^ ^'^ '--
where in summers gone thev hL "'"'■'>' ''^"'^'

hour. They walked the f ^^-.t '''''' "^"^ ^ '^^PP^'
^'•'-- seated themsef: "s • "^17 'm "^"^""^ ''"
nervously to play with the fringe of h. 7°". '''^'"

''This is the 8th of May •' si 1^'-
standing beside her and iookL T ^"^ '' ^''^y-
unfathomable eyes. ^ '''^" "P'^" her with

" n^''" '''.' ^"'""^'-^'I. almost in a whisper
Our wedding-day was fixed for theTl r r ,
Marion. Is it to be ? " ^ °^ J"'y

" I don't know."
"No more do I."
There was a brief silence
" We must have an explanation to-night, Marion,

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1
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MARION FORSYTH.

and come to a perfect understanding with each o^hcr.
Do you hear ? "

Ay, she heard.

" Do you still care for me ? "

She raised her eyes to his face in simple, wondering
surprise. Looking at her, he need not wait for an
answer. It was plainly written on her face.

" Will you be my wife, as you promised, on the 27th
of July ? " he asked. He had schooled himself to
these cold, business-like tones. He meant to have
the mastery, or give her up ; yet he loved her. Docs
the thing seem absurd ? It has its parallel around
you every day.

" We must understand each other, as you say,
Douglas," she said calmly. "\v ill you tell me exactly
what you will expect of me as your wife ? "

He waited a moment.

" Nothing unreasonable. I will expect you to make
a home where my friends will be welcome at all hours,
and that you will not for a punctilio refuse to accept
their hospitality. If I do not care to appear in my
box at the theatre without you, is that unreasonable ?
And if I do not choose that you should expose your-

*(\

behi
husj

SUNDERED.

licr.

iring
r an

27th

;lf to

have

Docs

round

say,
:actly

make
hours,
I accept

in my
Inable ?
your-

self to needless risk in the vilest places in the city, is
that unreasonable ? You shall have unlimited means
to give to the poor. You can head subscription lists
with what sum you please, go to whatever church you
may like best — that is all I e.xpcct of you.

She sat perfectly still.

" Do you know what you are asking me to give up
for you, Douglas ? " she asked, by-and-by, wondering
at her own calm.

*' I have weighed my words before they were
uttered, Marion, and I fail to see I am asking any-
thing which a reasonable woman cannot conscien-
tiously grant."

Again there was a silence.

" Marion ! " — his voice took all the old persuasive
tenderness — " my darling, why spoil both our lives?
Cannot my wife trust herself with me ? Am I such a
reprobate that, like Jeroboam, the son of Nebat, I
shall make Israel to sin ? "

A strange conflict was waging in the girl's mind.

" Be ye not unequally yoked together with un-
believers," said Paul; and yet again, "The unbelieving
husband is sanctified by the wife." All the woman

Hi ^

H ,i

, J

,Vi

Ik ' ' ■

MARION FORSYTH.

within her pled for him, for she loved him well.
Might she not by her walk and conversation make
him also see the beauty of holiness, and lead
him to his God ? Her heart thrilled at the thought ;
but again these words rose up before her like a chill
wind from the sea, " Ye may not do evil that good
may come."

She knew her own weakness ; how easily this man,
whose mental calibre was infinitely stronger than hers,
could influence her and mould her to his will. The
question to be decided now was simply — God or man.
She rose, shivering slightly, and lifted eyes full of pain
to his face.

" Douglas ! you believe in God, in Christ ; how can
you ask such hard things from me ? "

" What evidence have you that there is a God or a
Christ ? " asked Douglas Gilroy, abruptly.

He did not know what made him ask the question.

She looked at him as if she had not heard aright.

" Douglas ! what are you saying ? What did you
say?" she asked.

" I said what evidence have you of the existence of
God?"

1 1

SUNDERED.

veil.

lake

lead

ght;

chill

good

man,
I hers,
The
■ man.
f pain

w can

or a

ice

" Do you doubt it ? "

" I must doubt what I cannot prove."

In the greatness of her surprise she was for a
moment unable to speak. Careless, indifferent to
religion she had known him to be, but that he had
gone so far astray was a revelation to her. And in
two months* time she might have been the wife of a
man who denied the existence of his God !

" I suppose I have passed the rubicon now ? " he
said lightly. " I await your sentence. Is everything
at an end between us ? "

She bowed her head so low that he could not see
how wan her face grew, nor how her eyes were dim
with pain.

" I hope your Master will be to you what I would
have been, had you thought me worthy of you. For,
as I live, I loved you as man never loved woman
before, and would die to serve you. You are like the
rest of your sex, as fickle as the wind. I was a fool
to set so much store upon such a flimsy chance of
happiness."

So without one kindly look or word, without a
touch of the hand, or a farewell kiss, he left her. And

inH

MARION FORSYTH.

8i' , .;?

she crept away home. She entered the house with-
out being observed, and went upstairs to her own
room, locking the door behind her. Daylight was
gone now, but it was not dark in the room. The
window was open ; she moved mechanically to it and
knelt down, her hands clasped upon the sill. What a
plenitude of loveliness there was in a summer night !
Upon the placid water the young May moon had lit
a shimmering pathway, and above the grey peaks of
Arran many stars were shining. It is a curious thing
that in our moments of keenest pain our eyes are
quick to note the minutest detail of our surroundings.
She had been brave outside, but her courage failed
her here. Her conscience was at rest, but her heart
was like to break. Ah ! we women cannot give up
such things without a struggle. God knows what it
costs us. But there are no waters so deep, no storm
so wild but that we can hear, through the tumults,
the voice of Him who calmed the waves on Galilee,
'' P eace, be still r'

■<H»©;<

;!>

MARION FORSYTH.

Paoe 42.

1 .-. - iS^^^B

h
p-

jf.:^

CHAPTER V.

For ^is $alie,

" Take my life, and let it be,
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee ! "

Frances Ridley Havergal.

M AK E no comment on Marion Forsyth's
action at this crisis in her life. Perhaps
you cannot find it in your heart to justify
it ; but as the story happened, so it must
be told. She had counted the cost, faced
the case in all its bearings, and made
her decision. Mr. Forsyth was furious, Janie sur-
prised and scornful, and all the world wondered and
shrugged its shoulders over the girl's folly. Hard days
followed for her. She had to bear estrangement from
kindred, polite expressive regret and astonishment from
outside friends, and an aching void in her own heart,

which told her how it had been set on Douglas Gilroy.

H 1

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MARION FORSYTH.

Nobody guessed how the rupture had affected him ;
he was not one of those who wear their feelings on
their sleeves. The quietness and enforced idleness in
Rothesay became unbearable to Marion, and she
returned to Rowan View alone before the season was
half over. She must have work — something to keep
her from brooding over the past. In these days of
loneliness and heartache, Marion Forsyth drew very
near to the Master for whom the sacrifice had been
made. He bound up the aching heart, gave strength
to endure, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment
of praise for the spirit of heaviness.

In September her father and sister returned to the
city to find her busy and happy ; her sweet face
serene and unclouded, and her eyes without a shadow
in their depths. But she was treated with coldness
still. Mr. Forsyth did not seem able to forgive her
for inflicting such disappointment needlessly upon
him. He did not interfere with her in any way. She
was at liberty to go where and do what she pleased.
Neither of them expressed the least interest in her
proceedings. She was treated like a stranger in her
own home ; and was never included in their plans

FOR HIS SAKE.

the
face
[dow
Iness
her
ipon
She
.sed.
her
her
Hans

nor consulted on any subject. It was very hard ;
almost more than she could bear. But by the grace
of God she was enabled to continue steadfast in the
faith, and bear noble testimony for the Lord she had
elected to serve. She had been a dutiful daughter all
her life ; but now her tenderness, and thoughtfulness,
and loving, watchful care for her father's comfort, were
wonderful to see. No word of complaint or bitterness
escaped her gentle lips ; no glance of reproach was
ever seen upon her face. In her inmost heart Janie mar-
velled at her long-suffering, and secretly respected the
religion which was its mainspring. The servants
worshipped the younger daughter of the house, and in
many a city home her name was mentioned as they
might mention that of an angel. That was what the
world saw. But there were hours of fierce struggling ; of
hard, bitter rebellion, when her heart cried out for the
human love she had put away from her. There were
days whv.n the lamp of faith burned so dimly that
she was in despair. She could not always touch
God's hand through the gloom. He tried His child
to the utmost limit of her endurance. Apparently
indifferent and unobservant, Mr. Forsyth watched his

flhi'

it'll

I .i.

4«

MARION FORSYTH.

['■ i

daughter closely through the ensuing year, his heart
yearning over her unspeakably, even while his face
and voice were cold and stern. She had ever been
his dearest ; her mother's soul looked out upon him
from those gentle eyes. And in the silence of his
own cnamber the worldly man pondered often what
manner of religion this must be which could make
such a sensitive spirit brave to endure ridicule and
reviling, persecution and estrangement, and to keep
herself unspotted from the world.

Before the year closed, Miss Forsyth made a
brilliant marriage, and went forth to a home of her
own. It was Marion's hope that when she was left at
home alone with her father the barrier between them
might be swept away, and that she might become, as
in the old fond days, his "dear little daughter, the
sunshine of his heart." When the last guest was gone
upon the evening of the wedding-day, and father and
daughter were left together in the deserted drawing-
room, Marion stood in the window watching him
sitting by the fire, and longed to throw herself on his
breast, and to hear him call her his " little girl," as he
used to do.

FOR ins SAKE.

rone

and

ring-

him

his

His face was buried in his hands. She thought he
was overcome with the parting he had endured that
day, and it swept across her heart with a bitter pain
that he could have given her up without a pang. She
crept over to him, and knelt down by his chair, and
put her face on his arm.

" Papa, I am left," she sobbed ; " have you not a
word to say to me ? I am your daughter, too."

For answer he drew the drooping head close to his
breast ; and she felt his tears falling on h'.r hands.

" Can you forgive your old father, riy darling ? "
he said, brokenly ; but there was no need to ask.
" When you broke with Gilroy," he went on by-and-
by, " I was furious, and I swore I should make you
rue it. I was curious, too, to see how long this
religion would last — how it would befriend you when
everything else failed. I have watched you when you
thought I never saw. I have marvelled at your
angel patience, at the heroic endurance of what I
knew must have been a bitter trial to you. I have
seen it all, my darling, and I want to learn the
religion which makes such things easy to bear. 1 am
a poor, ignorant old man, hardened in the world's

MARION FORSYTH.

! ^j

I I

.,!' .'!!

ways ; but God will deal gently with me for your
sake. Teach me the way ; lead me to your Saviour
and help me to make a better use of the last days of
my life.

Surely " though weeping may endure for a night,
joy Cometh in the morning."

* « * 4» HI

In course of time Douglas Gilroy married a rich
and fashiotiable wife ; and to-day the world envies
him and calls him a happy man. The heart of man
is known only to himself and his God.

In Rowan View there abides a solitary woman,
whose name is sacred to many a heart in Glasgow —
the first freshness of her womanhood gone, her hair
streaked with grey, her face worn a little and sad, as
the faces of good women are, who have passed through
many sorrows.

Her life is simply a literal fulfilment of the

prayer —

" Take my life, and let it be,
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee ! "

Health, wealth, time and talents have all been sacri-
ficed in His service. The results of such perfect self-

j«.i 1 .

our
lOur
5 of

rich

nvies

man

FOR HIS SAKE.

abnegation, such almost superhuman working, may
not be estimated here. The day will reveal them.

This is not a fancy sketch ; it is truth. The vine-
yard is large, the labourers few. Are there any who,
for Christ's sake, are ready to work for Him with
earnestness and singleness of heart, keeping them-
selves unspotted from the world ?

" Blessed is that servant whom his Lord, when He
Cometh, shall find so doing."

•man,

:ow —
hair
.d, as
•ough

the

Isacri-
self-

!i!i

ALL THINE.

■^

My God, I do not know
What coming years may hold for me,
And what my future days may be,
Thou hast it so.

Some day now drawing near,
I may be called to bid farewell
To all that I have loved so well,
And lived for here.

Or there may be for me
Long years which hold a cross of pain,
And I may prove all hopes in vain
Unless of Thee.

I cannot hope to have ,
A life entirely free from care ;
Ah, no ! earth's burden I must bear
Down to the grave.

E^E'

ALL THINE.

I would not ask from Thee
That life should be a summer da)^ ;
That there should grow upon the way
No thorns for me.

But I would humbly pray
That I might labour on for Thee,
With gladness till the shadows flee
At break of day.

I could not bear to sit
With folded hands upon the field,
And yet, my Father, I must yield
If Thou seest fit.

I leave myself with Thee,
My life, my hope, my all, are Thine,
I would not seek to call them mine,
I love to be

All Thine. 'Tis passing sweet,
To feel Thee nearer every day,
Till all my cares and hopes I lay
At Thy dear feet.

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FAITH.

Lord give us faith, a perfect faith,

A patient trust in Thee,
When in tlie shadowed ways of life,

Thy light we cannot see.

Like children, Lord, we fain would be

Obeying Thy command ;
Knowing no evil can befall,

When we are in Thy hand.

Thou knowest what temptations sore,

V/hat sins beset ^is here.
And how the strait and narrow way

Seems harder year by year.

How restlessly we chafe and fret

Against Divinest will.
Even when the Saviour^s voice, in love

Is whispering, " Peace, be still."

FAITH.

We fain would leav» „

A r^A *^ ourselves with Ti,»

And cast on Thee o.,r -, "^®'

Tu- "Ur care

inou art our Fatho,- ui ,

A nw -I. ' ^^^ss^d thought

And w,lt our burden share.

Sogive us, Lord, abundantly.

A baptism from above
A chi.d-like confidence i^ Thee
A new day-spring of love. '
A humble, contrite heart to say

Thy way, not ours, is best
And at the la<!^ o i

To Thme own blessed rest

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LONGINGS.

M'-

Aching heads are drooping
'Neath the burden of the years ;

Hearts are growing a-weary,
And eyes are dim with tears.

Souls sick of worldly pleasure,
Of worldly care and strife,

Full with unsatisfied longings
For a nobler and better life.

Feet tremble on the threshold
Where holiest steps have trod,

Groping amid the darkness
For the broader light of God.

And feeble hands uplifted
On God's wide altar stair,

Ask mutely for the blessing
Of the great all-Father's care.

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LONGINGS.

Weak, erring, faulty, and feeble,
Thou knowest us every one ;

Poor honour we give to our Master,
Yet Father, we are Thine own.

Stretch out Thy hand in the darkness.
And make Thy weak ones strong ;

Lifers burdens are so heavy,
The days so sad and long.

Give Thy sweet leaves of healing

To every toil-worn one ;
And when the shadows flee away,

Lead unto light Thine own.

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FROM THE DEPTHS.

Mi.^i

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FROM THE DEPTHS.

In this sad world of ours —
This dreary wilderness of care and pain,
This mystery, this turmoil of unrest,
This rough and stony pathway to the tomb,
Where many tears and blurring shadows fall —
How sweet, O Lord, to know that we are Thine :
That in Thy hand this mighty chaos lies ;
That thine the key of this great mystery —
We could not bear it else !

For as the years go by
One sorrow makes a strange, prepared way
For yet another ; one by one our joys
Are wrested from us ere we call them ours ;
And sweetest human ties are severed wide.
And sweetest human v.ares slip from our grasp ;
And dear home nests are robbed of all the birds.

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FROM THE DEPTHS. 57

And family trees are stripped of flower and leaf;
And many graves lie greenly side by side,
And oceans roll between some we hold dear ; —
Till with sad folded hands we sit and say,
How can God have it so ?
For human hearts will cry out for their Voves,
And human eyes seek dumbly for the smiles
Of angel faces gone.

S.) ']

God pity us !
Oh wrap us in the fulness of Thy love !
In infinite compassion lay Thy hand
Upon our hearts and make them very still,
And since the cross is Thine, oh help us bear
It very patiently, until that blessed morn
When all the shades of night shall flee away,
When we shall clasp again the loved and lost.
And every severed bond shall join again ;
Where in the light that circles round the throne
In all His beauty all shall see the King !

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UNREST.

There could not be
More blessed rest for weary heart or brain,
Than the hush'd beauty of this April eve —
Its whispering breeze, its shyly opening flowers,
Its twittering birds, its softly budding trees.
Its promise glad of summer days to come.

Yet I, who love all these with strong, deep love,
Look on them with unseeing eye to-night.
My restless spirit chafes amid deep rest,
And longs for rush of wild, free wind of Heav'n,
On lightning wings o'er some lone mountain peak ;
For voice of ocean, sounding through the night ;
For gleam of darkling billow tipped with foam ;
For an infinite something, grand and strong,
Wherein to hide this poor, weak, trembling self.
O Christ ! who stilled the waves on Galilee,
Lay kind, calm hands upon my aching brain.
In Thy great heart of love quench my unrest.
And guide my faltering feet straight home to Thee.

REST.

-4-

Out in the battlefield amid the strife,
Encompassed by doubts, distressed by fears,
Oft groping in dark hours through falling tears
For the deep " wherefore " of this earthly life.
In the sore heat and burden of the day,
We cannot always touch our Father's hand,
Nor lift our thought into the other land,
Nor feel that His is aye the better way.
Therefore for all I hold it still to be
A good and fitting thing to dwell apart
A little while, to rest the weary heart,
Among the hills or by the summer sea,
To let the earth-bound spirit soar above,
And read from nature's book that God is love.

THANKSGIVING.

I; I

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THANKSGIVING.

Here in the darkened room,
While on the hearth the fire is low,
And at my feet the moonbeams throw

Long shadows through the gloom.

I fain would quiet be.
To dream awhile of days long gone,
And count the mercies one by one

My God hath given to me.

I thank Thee, Lord, to-night
That health and strength have bless'd my days.
And smoothed for me life's rougher ways.

And made my labour light.

And I would thank Thee, too,
For that rich gift vouchsafed to me,
And that I can so plainly see

The work that I should do.

THANKSGIVING.

'S,

I thank Thee for my home,
For all its present happiness,
And for those precious memories

Which all to Thee are known ;

And for that other love,
Now of my life so sweet a part,
Which has so richly blessed my heart,

I raise my song above.

And though my tears fall fast,
I thank Thee, too, for that quiet grave,
And that the swell of sorrow's wave

Thy hand hath stilled at last

It is so sweet to know
That, safe within the city's gates.
On Thy fair shore our mother waits

The time that we snail go.

So it is sweet to me
To thank Thee, Lord, that thou hast given
So dear a link 'twixt earth and heaven

To bind my heart to Thee,

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WAITING.

,' .

Long seems the day,
To waiting ones upon a lonely shore,
When dear ones gone a little while before

Call us away.
Though every day rich blessings come and go,
Though life's grey by-paths are sometimes aglow
With the soft radiance of many a smile.
And though God's sun is shining yet awhile.

Still there will come,
When hearts grow sick and weary of the strife,
A great sad longing for a fuller life ;

A dearer home,
Where never shadows fall athwart the glow,
Where never cometb weariness nor woe.
Where never discords mar that sweetest song,
Where never sorrows touch that white robed throng.

It comes to me
So strong at times I could cry out in pain,
A longing, vast, unspeakable — but vain ;

That I can see.

For in my day I have m . *^

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And say again, ^"'

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WATTING.

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How sweet to leave a world where care oppressed,

And joys were few.
Then will there come, I wonder, on His face
A new, strange revelation of His grace ;
And will He straight make answer unto me,
" I loved thee and gave Myself for thee."

I do not know —
But this I know, that when His time shall come,
To call another weary pilgrim home.

That I shall go
To meet my Master yonder face to face,
To taste in full the riches of His grace,
To learn the meaning of this earthly life.
The wherefore of this toil, and care, and strife.

It may be late
Before I hear Him coming at the door,
Before He calls me to the farther shore ;

But I can wait.

For He will come.
To make the valley radiant with His smile.
He will say, " Daughter, come and rest awhile "

With Me at home.

ressed,

me.

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