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1 2 3

WITHOUT A HOME.

EDWTAED P. ROE,

AUTHOR OF

• BARRTBRS BURNED AWAY,' 'OPENING A CHESTNUT BURR,' 'SUCCESS
WITH SMALL FRUITS," ETC., ETC.

Soronto :

ROSE PUBLISHING COMPANY

1883.

PBlNTBD AND BOUND
BY

HUNTER. ROSE & CO.,

TORONTO.

PREFACE.

jj^WILL say but a few words in regard to the story con-
(^ tained in this volume. It was announced two years ago,
but I found that I could not complete it satisfactorily. In its
present form it has been almost wholly re-cast, and much
broadened in its scope. It touches upon several modern and
very difficult problems. I have not in the remotest degree at-
tempted to solve them, but rather have sought to direct atten-
tion to them. In our society public opinion is exceedingly
powerful It is the torrent that sweeps away obstructing evils.
The cleansing tide is composed originally of many rills and
streamlets, and it is my hope that this volume may add a little
to that which at least is irresistible.

I can say with sincerity that I have made my studies care-
fully and patiently, and when dealing with practical phases of
city life I have evolved very little from my own inner conscious-
ness. I have visited scores of typical tenements ; I have sat
day after day on the bench with the police judges, and have
visited the station-houses repeatedly. There are few large retail
shops that I have not entered many times, and I have conversed
with both the employers and employ^. It is a shameful fact
that, in the face of a plain statute forbidding the barbarous re-
gulation, saleswomen are still compelled to stand continuously
in many of the stores. On the intensely hot day when our mur-
dered President was brought from Washington to the seaside,

PREFACE.

I found many girls standing wearily and uselessly because of
this inhuman rule. There was no provision for their occasional
rest. Not for a thousand dollars would I have incurred the
risk and torture of standing through that sultry day. There
are plenty of shops in the city which are now managed on the
principles of humanity, and such patronage should be given to
these and withdrawn from the others as would teach the pro-
prietors that women are entitled to a little of the consideration
that is so justly associated with the work of the'Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Mr. Bergh deserves praise
for protecting even a cat from cruelty : but all the cats in the
city unitedly could not suffer as much as the slight growing girl
who must stand during a long hot day. I trust the reader will
note carefully the Appendix at the close of this book.

It will soon be discovered that the modern opium or morphia
habit has a larje place in this volume. While I have tried to
avoid the style of a medical treatise, which would be poor taste
in d work of fiction, I have carefully consulted the best medical
works and authorities on the subject, and I have conversed with
many opium slaves in all stages of the habit. I am sure I am
right in fearin g that in the morphia hunger and consumption
one of the greatest evils of the future is looming darkly above
the horizon of society. Warnings against this poison of body
and soul cannot be too solemn nor too strong.

So many have aided me in the collection of my material that
any mention of names may appear almost invidious ; but as the
reader will naturally think that the varied phases of the opium
habit are remote from my experience, I will say that I have
been guided in my words by trustworthy physicians like Drs.
E. P. Fowler, of New York ; Louis Seaman, chief of staff at
the Charity Hospital ; Wm. H. Vail, and many others. I have
also read such parts of my MS. as touched on this subject to Dr.
H. K. Kane, the author of two works on the morphia habit.

PREFACE.

I can truly say that I have bestowed more labour on this
book than upon any which have preceded it ; for the favour ac-
corded me by the public imposes the strongest obligation to be
conscientious in my work.

CONTENTS.

fHAPTElU

II.

III.

IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIIT.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.

PA«jr,

One Girl's Ideal of Life 9

Weakness 15

ConEdential 22

' Pitiless Waves. ' 2(i

The Rudiments of a Man 3C

Roger Discovers a New Type 44

Comparisons &0

Changes 64

Neither boy nor man 03

A Council 71

AShadow.... 76

Viewless Fetters 84

A Scene Beneath the Hemlocks 02

The Old Mansion UVi

* Welcome Home.' 110

Belle and Mildred 118

Belle Launches Herself 126

* I Believe in You.' 137

Belle Jars the " System." 147

Several Quiet Forces at Work 167

'He's a Man.' 165

Skilled Labour 173

The Old Astronomer 178

Roger Reappears ..». 1 85

The Dark Shadow of Coming Events l!>4

Waxing and Waning Manhood 1*00

VIU

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

CONTENTS.

PAOR

A Slave 207

New York's Humanity 212

The Beatitude! of Opium 220

The Secret Vice Revealed 227

An Opium Maniac's Christmas 238

A Black Conspiracy 251

Mildred in a Prison Cell 260

'A Wise Judge' 271

' I am so Perplexed ' 286

A Woman's Heart 293

Strong Temptation 302

No • Dark Corners ' 312

' Home Sweet Home ' ■ 321

Neighbours 329

Glints of Sunshine 340

Hopes Given and Slain 346

Belle is Murdered 365

The Final Consolations of Opium 359

Mother and Son 366

A Fatal Error 374

Light at Eventide 382

* Good Angel of God * 393

Home 402

Apfendix 416

WITHOUT A HOME.

-•♦♦-

CHAPTEU I.

ONE girl's ideal OF LIFE.

^T was an attractive picture that Martin Jocelyn looked
upon throuiih the open doorway of his parhjur. His
daughter Belle had invited half a score of her school-
mates to spend the evening, and a few privileged brothers had
been permitted to come also. The young people wf re natur-
ally selecting those dances which had some of tiie characteris-
tics of a romp, for they were at an age when motion means en-
joyment

Miss Belle, eager and mettlesome, stood waiting for music
that could scarcely be lighter or more devoid of moral quality
than her own immature heart. Life, at that time, had for her
but one great desideratum — fun ; and with her especial favour-
ites about her, with a careful selection of * nice brothers,' can-
vassed with many pros and cons over neglected French exercises,
she had the promise of plenty of it for a long evening, and
her dark eyes glowed and cheeks flamed at the prospect. Im-
patiently tapping the fl jor with her foot, she looked toward
her sister, who was seated at the piano.

Mildred Jocelyn knew that all were waiting for her ; she in-
stinctively felt the impatience she did not 8ee,and yet could not
resist listening to some ^oneyed nonsense that her ' friend ' was
saying. Ostensibly, Vinton Arnold was at her side to turn
the leaves of the music, but in reality to feast his eyes on
beauty which daily bound him in stronger chains of fascina-
tion. Her head drooped under his words, but only as the
flowers bend under the dew and rain that give them life. His
passing compliment was a trifle, but it seemed like the delicate
touch to which the subtle electric current responds. From a

,-. -di'

• il

WITHOUT A HOME.

credulous, joyous heart a crimson tide welled up into her face
and neck ; she could not repress a smile, though she bowed her
head in girlish shame to hide it. Then, as if the light, gay
music before her had become the natural expression of her
mood, she struck into it with a brilliancy aud life that gave
even Belle content.

Arnold saw the pleasure his remark had given, and surmised
the reason why the effect was so much greater than the appar-
ent cause. For a moment an answering gluw lighted up his
pale face, and then, as if remembering something, he sighed
deeply ; but in the merry life which now filled the apartments
a sigh stood littie chance of recognition.

The sigh of the master of the house, however, was so deep
and his face so clouded with care and anxiety as he turned from
it all, that his wife, who at that moment met him, was com-
pelled to note that something was amiss.

* Martin, what is it ? ' she asked.

ifle looked for a moment into her troubled blue eyes, and
noted how fair, delicate, and girlish ^he stiil appeared in her
evening dress. He knew also that tHe delicacy and refinement
of feature were but the reflex of her nature, and, for the first
time in his life, he wished that she were a strong, coarse wo-
man.

* No matter, Nan, to-night. Se^^ that the youngsters have a
good time,' and he passed hastily out.

* He's worrying about those stupid business matters again.'
bhe said, and the thought seemed to give much relief.

Business matters were masculine, and she was essentially
feminine. Her world was as far removed from finance as her
lace from the iron in which her husband dealt.

A little boy of four year of age and a little girl of six,
whose tiny form was draped in such gossamer-like fabrics that
she seemed more fairy-like than human, were pulling at her
dress, eager to enter the mirth-resounding parlours, but afraid
to leave her sheltering wing. Mrs. Jocelyn watched the scene
from the doorway, where her husband had stood, without his
sigh. Her motherly heart sympathized with Belle's abound-
ing life and fun, and her maternal pride was assured by the
budding promise of a beauty which would shine pre eminent
when the schocl-girl should become a belle in very truth.

,i#i^'H»?:;

ONE GIRLS IDEAL OF LIFE.

m, was com-

:sters have a

But her eyes rested on Mildred with wistful tenderness.
Her own experience enabled her to interpret her daughter's
manner, and to understand the ebb and flow of feeling whose
cr.UKe, as yet, waa scarcely recognised by the young girl.

The geniality of Mrs. Jocelyn's smile might well assure
Vinton Arnold that she welcomed his presence at her daugh-
ter's side, and yet, for some reason, the frank, cordial g^^eting
in the lady's eyes and manner made him sigh a^^ain. He evi-
dently harboured a memory or a thought that did not accord
with the scene or the occasion. Whatever it was it did not
prevent him from enjoying to the utmost the pleasure he ever
found in the presence of Mildred. In contrast with Belle she
had her mother's fairness and delicacy of feature, and her blue
eyes were not designed to express the exultation and pride of
one of society's flattered favourites^ Indeed it was already evi-
dent that a glance from Arnold was worth more than the
world's homaq;e. And yet it was comically pathetic — as it
eve:: is — to see how the girl tried to hide the * abundance of
her heart.'

* Millie is myself right over again,' though! Mrs. Jocelyn ;
* hardly into society before in a fair way to be out of it. Beaux
in general have few attractions for her. Belle, howcver, will
lead the young men a chase. If I'm any judge Mr. Arnold's
symptoms are becoming serious. He's just the one of all the
world for Millie, and could give her the hom^ which her style
of beauty requires — a home in which not a comBH>n or coarse
thing would be visible, but all as dainty as herself. How I
would like to furnish her house ! But Martin always thinks
he is so poor.'

Mrs. Jocelyn soou left the parlour to complete her arrange-
ments for an elegant little supper, and she complacently felt
that, whatever might be the tribulations of the great iron firm
down town, her small domain was serenv") with present happi-
ness and bright witii promise.

While the vigorous appetites of the growing boys and girls
were disposing of the supper, Arnold and Mildred rather neg-
lected their plates, finding ambrosia in each other's eyes,
words and even intonations. Now that they had the desert-
ed parlour to themselves, Mildred seemed under leas constraint.

.|r***4-*jS&^,

1 i

-parsasacE

2235SS!33

WITHOUT A HOME.

* It was very nice of you/ she said, * to come and help me
entertain Belle's friends, especially when they are all so
young.'

' Yes,' he replied. * I am a happy monument of self-sacri-
fice.'

* But not a brazen one,' she added quickly.

* No, nor a bronze one either,' he said, and a sudden gloom
gathered in his large dark eyes.

Slie had always admired the pallor of his face. * It set off
his superb brown eyes and heavy mustache so finely,' she was
accustomed to say. But this evening for some reason she
wiihed that there was a little more bronzi on his cheek and
decision in his manner. His aristocratic pallor was a trifle
too great, and he seemed a little frail to satisfy even her ideal
of manhood.

* She said, in gentle s)licitude, * You do not look well this
sprit. g. I fear you are not very strong.'

He glanced at her quickly, but in hbr kindly blue eyes and
in every line of her lovely face he saw only friendly regard —
perhaps more, for her features were not designed for disguise.
After a moment he replied, with a quiet bitterness which both
pained and mystified her,

* You are right. I am not strong.'

^ But the summer is near,' she resumed earnestly. * You
will soon go to the country, and will bring back this fall bronze
in plenty, and the strength of bronze. Mother says we shall
go to Saratoga. That is one of your favourite haunts, I believe,
so I shall have the pleasure, perhaps, of drinking * your very
good health' some bright morning before breakfast. Which is
your favourite spring ? '

* I do not know. I will de^^lde K.fter I have learned your
choice.'

' That's an amiable weakness. I think I shall like Sara-
toga. The great hotels contain all one wants for amuseuent.
Then everything about town is so nice, pretty, and sociable.
The shops, als", are fine. Too often we have spent our sum-
mers in places tliat were a trifle dreary. Mountains oppress
me with a sense of littleness, and th^ir wildness frightens me.
The ocean is worse still. The moment I am alone with it,
such a lonely, desolate feeling creeps over me — oh, I can't ttll

ONE girl's ideal OF LIFE.

of self-sacri-

^k well this

you ! I fear you think I am silly and frivolous. You think
I ought to be inspired by the si.Pggy raountaii s and wild
waves and all that. Well, you may think so— I won't tell
fibs. I don't think mother is frivol'»us, and she feels as I do.
We are from the South, and like things that are warm,
bright, and sociable. The ocean always seemed to me so
large and cold and pitiless — to care so little for those in its
power.'

* In that respect it's like the world, or rather the people
init— '

* Oh, no, no ! * she interrupted eagerly ; * it is to the world
of people I am glad to escape from these solitudes of nature.
As I said, the latter, with their vastness, power, and, worse
than all, their indifference, oppress me, and make me shiver
with a vague dread. I once saw a ship beaten to pieces by the
waves in a storm. It was on the coast near where we were
spending the summer. Some of the people on the vessel were
drowned, and their cries ring in my ears to this day. Oh, it
was piteous to see them reaching out their hands, but the great
merciless waves would not stop a moment, even when a little
time would have givei the life-boats a chance to save the poor
creatures. The breakers just struck and pounded the ship un-
til it broke into pieces, and then tossed the lifeless body and
broken wood on the shore as if one were of no more value than
the other. I can't think of it without shuddering, and I've
hated the sea ever since, and never wish to go near it again.'

* You have unconsciously described this Christian city,* 8;iid
Arnold, with a short laugh.

* What a cynic you are to-night ! You condemn all the
world, and find fault even with yourself — a rare thing in
cynics, I imagine. As a rule they are right, and the universe

wrong.

' I have not found any fault with you,' he said, in a tone
that caused her long eyelashes to veil the pleasure she could
not wholly conceal.

* I hope the self-constraint imposed by your courtesy is not
too severe for comfort. I also understand trie little fiction of
excepting present company. But I cann )t help remembering
that I am a wee bit of the world and very worldly ; that is, I
am very foud of the world and all its pretty follies. I like

1 1

WITHOUT A HOME.

nice peoplo much better than savage mountains and heartless
waves.'

' And yet vou are not what I should call a society girl, Miss
Millie.'

* I'm glad you think so. I've no wish to win that character.
Fashionable society seems to me like the sea, as restless and
unreasoning, always on the go, and yet never going anywhere.
I know lots of girls who go here and there and do this and
that with the monotony with which the waves roll in and out.
Half the time they act contrary to their wishes and feelings,
but they imagine it the thing to do, and they do it till they
are tired and bored half to death.'

* What, then, is your ideal of life ? *

Her head drooped a little lower, and the tell-tale colour would
come as she replied hesitatingly, and with a slight deprecatory
laugh.

* Well, I caa't say I've thought it out very definitely. Plenty
of real friends seem to me better than the world's stare, even
though there's a trace of admiration in it. Then, again, you
men so monopolize the world that there is not much left for us
poor women to do ; but I have imagined that to create a lovely
home, and to gather in it all the beauty within one's reach, and
just the people one liked best, would be a very congenial life-
work for Rome women. That is what mother is doing for us,
and she seems very happy and contented — much more so than
those ladies who seek their pleasures beyond their homes. You
see I use my eyes, Mr. Arnold, even if I am not antiquated
enough to be wise.'

His look had grown so wistful and intent that she could not
meet it, but averted her face as she spoke. Suddenly he sprang
up, and took her hand with a pressure all too strong for the
' friend ' she called him, as he said,

' Miss Millie, you are one of a thousand. Good-night.'
For a few moments she sat where he lefc her. What did he
mean 1 Had she revealed her heart too plainly ? His manner
surely had been unmistakable, and no woman could have doubt-
ed the language of his t yes.

* But some constraint,' she sighed, ' ties his tongue.'

The more she thought it over, however — and what young
girl does not live over such interviews a hundred times — the

nd heartless

WEAKNESS.

more convinced she became that her favourite among the many
who sought her favour gave as much to her as she to him ; and
she was shrewd enough to understand that the nearer two
people exchange evenly in these matters the better it is for
both. Her lr.3t thought that night was, ' To make a home for
him would be happiness indeed. How much life promises
me I'

CHAPTER II.

WEAKNESS.

'INTON ARNOLD'S walk down Fifth Avenue was so
rapid as to indicate strong perturbation. At last he
entered a large house of square, heavy architecture, a
creature evidently of solid wealth in the earlier days of the
thoroughfare's history. There was something in his step as
he crossed the marble hall to the hat-rack and then up the
stairway that caused his mother to pass quickly from her set-
ting-room that she might intercept him. After a moment's
scrutiny she said, in a low, hard tone,

* You have spent the evening with Miss Jocelyn again.'
He made no reply.

' Are you a man of honour 1 *

His pallid face crimsoned instantly, and his hands clenched
with repressed feeling, but he still remained silent. Neither
did he appear to have the power to meet his mother's cold,
penetrating glance.

* It would seem/ she resumed, in the same quiet, incisive,
tone, * that my former suggestions have been unheeded. I
fear that I must speak more plainly. You will please come
with me for a few moments.'

With evident reluctance he followed her to a small apart-
ment, furnished riclily, but with the taste and elegance of a
past generation. Tie had become very pale again, but his face
wore the impress of pain and irresolution rather than of sullen
defiance or of manly independence. The hardness of the gold

I ; I

S^'^ * I

WITHOUl A BOME.

that had been accumulating in the family for generations had
seemingly permeated the mother's heart, for the expression of
her son's face softened neither her tone nor manner. And yet
not for a moment could she be made to think of herself as
cruel, or even stern. She was simply firm and sensible in the
performance of her duty. She was but maintaining the tradi-
tional policy of the family, and was conscious that society
would thoroughly approve of her course. Chief of all, she
sincerely believed that she was promoting her son's welfare,
but she had not Mrs. Jocelyn's gentle ways of manifesting
solicitude.

After a moment of oppressive silence, she began,

* Perhaps I can best present this issue in its true light by
again asking. Are you a man of honour 1 '

* Is it dishonourable,' answered her son irritably, * to love
a pure, good girl 1 '

' No,' said his mother, in the same quiet, measured voice ;
* but it may be very great folly and a useless waste. Tt is dis-
honourable, however, to inspire false hopes in a girl's heart, no
matter who she 12. It is weak and dishonourable to hover
around a pretty face like a poor moth that singes its wings.'

In sudden, passionate appeal, he exclaimed, ' If I can win
Miss Jocelyn, why cannot 1 marry her 1 She is as good as she
is beautiful. If you knew her as I do you would be proud to
call her your daughter. They live very prettily, even ele-
gantly—'

By a simple, deprecatory gesture, Mrs. Arnold made her son
feel that it wns useless to add another word.

* Vinton,' she said, ' a little reason in these macters is better
than an indefinite amount of sentimental nonsense. You are
old enough to be swayed by reason, and not to fume and fret
after the impossible like a child. Neither your father nor I
have acted hastily in this matter. It was a great trial to dis-
cover that you had allowed your fancy to become entangled
below the circle in which it is your privilege to move, and I
am thankful that my other children have been more consider-
ate. In a quiet, unobtrusive way we have taken pains to learn
all about the Jocelyne. They are comparative strangers in the
city. Mr. Jocelyn is merely a junior partner in a large iron
firm, and from all your father says I fear he has lived too ele-

.. immm m m-M .

WEAKNESS.

'gantly for his means. That matter will soon be tested, how-
ever, for his firm is in trouble and will probably have to
suspend. With your health, and in the face of the fierce com-
petition in this city, are you able to marry and support a
penniless girl 1 If, on the contrary, you propose to support a
wife on the property that now belongs to your father and my-
self, our wishes should have some weight I tell you frankly
that our means, though large, are not sufficient to make you
all independent and maintain the style to which you have
been accustomed. With your frail health and need of exemp-
tion from care and toil, you must marry wealth. Your father
is well satisfied that whoever allies himself to this Jocelyn
family may soon have them all on his hands to support. We
decline the risk of burdening ourselves with these unknown,
uncongenial people. Is there anything unreasonable in that 1
Because you are fascinated by a pretty face, of which there are
thousands in this city, must we be forced into intimate associa-
tions with people that are wholly distasteful to us ? This
would be a poor return for having shielded you so carefully
through years of ill-health and feebleness.*

The young man's h jad drooped lower and lower as his mo-
ther spoke, and his wnole air was one of utter despondency.
She waited for his reply, but ^or a few moments he did not
apeak. Suddenly he looked up, with a reckless, characteristic
laugh, and said,

* The Spartans were right in destroying the feeble children.
Since I am under such obligations, I cannot resist your logic,
and I admit that it would be poor taste on my part to ask you
to support for me a wife not of your choosing.*

* *' Good taste " at least should have prevented such a re-
mark. You can choose for yourself from a score of fine girlc of
your own station in rank and wealth.'

* Pardon me, but I would rather not inflict my weakness on
any of the score.*

' But you would inflict it on one weak in social position and
without any means of support*

* She is the one girl that I have met with who seemed both
gentle eiiid strong, and whose tastes harmonize with my own.
But you don't know her, and never will You have only
learned external facts about the Jocelyns, and out of your

WITHOUT A BOME.

prejudices have created a family of underbred people that does
not exist. Their crime of comparative poverty I cannot dis-
pute. I have not made the prudential inquiries which yon
and father have gone into so carefully. But your logic is in-
exorable. As you suggest, I could not earn enough myself to
provide a wife with hairpins. The slight considerations of
happiness, and the fact that Miss Jocelyn might aid me in be-
coming something more than a shadow among men, are not to
be urged against the solid reasons you have named.'

' Young people always give a tragic aspect to these cnide
passing fancies. I have known " blighted happiness " to bud
and blossom again so often that you must pardon me if I act
rather on the ground of experience and good sense. An un-
suitable alliance may bring brief gratification and pleasure, but
never happiess, never lasting and solid content.'

' Well, mother, I am not strong enough to argue with you,
either in the abstract or as to these **wise saws " which so man-
gle my wretched self,' and with the air of one exhausted and
defeated he languidly went to his room.

Mrs. Arnold frowned as she muttered, * He makes no pro-
mise to cease visiting the girl.' After a moment she added,
even more bitterly, * I doubt whether he could keep such a
promise ; therefore my will must supply his lack of decision ; '
and she certainly appeared capable of making good this de-
ficiency in several human atoms.

If she could have imparted some of her firmness and resolu«
tion to Martin Jocelyn, they would have been among the most
useful gifts a man ever received. As the stanchness of a ship
is tested by the storm, so a crisis in his experience was ap-
proaching which would test hi^ courage, his fortitude, and the
general soundness of his manhood. Alas ! the test would
find him wanting. That night, for the first time in his life,
he came home with a step a little unsteady. Innocent Mrs.
Jocelyn did not note that anything was amiss. She was busy
putting her home into its usual pretty order after the breezy,
gusty evening always occasioned by one of Belle's informal com-
panies. She observed that her husband had recovered more
than his wonted cheerfulness, and seemed indeed as gay as Belle
herself. Lounging on a sofa, he laughed at his wife and petted
her more than usual, assuring her that her step was as light

WEAKNESS.

and that she still looked as young and pretty as any of the
girls who had tripped through the parlours that evening.

The trusting, happy wife grew so rosy with pleasure, and her
tread was so elastic from maternal pride and exultation at the
prospects of her daughters that his compliments seemed scarcely
exaggerated.

* Never fear, Nan,' he said,^in a gush of feeling ; ' I'll take
care of you, whatever happens,' and the glad smile she turned
upon him proved that she no more doubted his words than her

I own existence.

They were emineiitly proper words for a husband to address
to his wife, but the circumstances under which they were
uttered made them maudlin sentiment rather than & manly
pledge. As spoken, they were so ominous that the loving
woman might well have trembled and lost her girlish flush.
But even through the lurid hopes and vague prospects created
by dangerous stimulants, Mr. Jocelyn saw, dimly, the spectre
of comins; trouble, and he added,

* But, Nan, we must economise — we really must.'
'Foolish man ! ' laughed his wife; 'always preaching econ-
omy, but never practising it .'

' Would to God I had millions to lavish on you I ' he ex-
claimed, with tears of mti'.wkish feeling and honest affection
mingled as they never should in a true man's eyes.

' Lavish your love, Martin,' replied his wife, ' and I'll be
content.'

That night she laid her head upon her pillow without mis-
believing,

Mrs. Jocelyn was the daughter of a southern planter, and in
her early home had been accustomed to a condition of chronic
financial embarrassment and easy-going, careless abundance.
The war had swept away her father and brothers with the
last remnant of the mortgaged property.

Young Jocelyn's antecedents had been somewhat similar,
and they had married much as the birds pair, without know-
ing very definitely where or how the home nest wouM be con-
structed. He, however, had secured a good education, and
was endowed with fair business capacities. He was thus en-
abled for a brief time before the war, to provide a comfortable
support in a Southern city, for his wife and little daughter

WITHOUT A HOME.

Mildred, and the fact that he was a gentleman by birth and
breeding gave hira better social advantages than mere wealtli
could have obtained. At the beginning of the struggle he wu.s
given a commission in the Confederate army, but with the ex-
ception of a few slight scratches and many hardships escape<l
unharmed. After the conflict was over, the ex-oflfict^r came to
the north, against which he had so bravely and zealously
fought, and was pleased to find that there was no prejudice
worth naming against him on this account. His good record
enabled him to obtain a position in a large iron warehouse,
and in consideration of his ability to control a certain amount
of Southern trade he was eventually given an interest in the
business. This apparent advancement induced him to believe
that he might safely rent, in one of the many cross-streets up
town, the pretty home in which we find him. The fact that
their expenses had always a little more than kept pace with
their income did not trouble Mrs. Jocelyn, for she had been
accustomed to an annual deficit from childhood. S«)me way
had always been provided, and she had a sort of blind faith
that some way always would be. Mr. Jocelyn also had fallen
into soldier-like ways, and after being so free with Confede-
rate scrip, with difficulty learned the value of paper money
of a different dolour.

Moreover, in addition to a certain lack of foresight and fru-
gal prudence, bred by army life and Southern open-hearted-
ness, he cherished a secret habit which rendered a wise, stead-
ily maintained policy of thrift well-nigh impossible. About
two years before the opening of our story he had been the vic-
tim of a painful disease, the evil effects of which did not
speedily pass away. For several weeks of this period, to quiet
the pain, he was given morphia powders ; their effects were so
agreeable that they were not discontinued after the physician
ceased to prescribe them. The subtle stimulant not only ban-
ished the lingering traces of suffering, but enabled hira to re-
sume the routine of business with comparative ease much
sooner than he had expected. Thus he gradually drifted into
the habitual use of morphia, taking it as a panacea for every
ill. Had he a toothache, a rheumatic or neuralgic twinge, the
drug quieted the pain. Was he despondent from any cause,
or annoyed at some untoward event, a small white powder

WEAKNESS.

►aper money

joon brought hopefulness and serenity. When emergencies
)cciirre(l whic)i promised to tax Ins mental and physical power,
)pium appeared to give a clearness and elasticity of mind, and
bodily vigour that Tvas almost magical, and he availed himself
)f the deceptive potency more and more often.

The morbid craving which the drug inevitably engenders at
last demanded a daily supply. For months he employed it in
moderate quantities, using it as thousands use quinine, wine,
)r other stimulants, without giving much thought to the mat-
ter, sincerely intending, however, to shake off the habit as
soon as he felt a little stronger and was more tree from business
litres. Still, as the employment of the stimulant grew into a
labit, he became somewhat ashamed of it, and maintained his
indulgence with increasing secrecy — a characteristic rarely ab-
sent from this vice.

Thus it can be understood that his mind had ceased to pos-
sess the natural poise which would enable him to manage his
iffairs in accordance with some wisely matured system of ex-
jnditure. In times of depression he would demand the most
rigid economy, and again he would seem careless and indiffer-
jnt and preoccupied. This financial vacillation was precisely
Iwhat his wife had been accustomed to in her early home, and
lehe thoughtlessly took her way without much regard to it.
I He also had little power of saying No to his gentle wife, and
an appealing look from her blue eyes would settle every ques-
tion of economy the wrong way. Next year they would be
I more prudent ; at present, however, there were some things
that it would be very nice to have or to do.

But, alas, Mrs. Jocelyn had decided that, for Mildred's
sake, the coming summer must be spent at Saratoga. In vain
her husband had told her that he did not see how it was pos-
sible. She would reply,

* Now, Martin, be reasonable. You know Mr. Arnold
spends his summers there. Would you spoil Millie's chances
of making one of the best matches in the cityi '

He would shrug his shoulders and wonder where the money
was to come from. Meanwhile he knew that his partners were
anxious. They had been strong, and had endured the evil
times for ^ears without wavering, but now were compelled ta

WITHOUT A HOME.

obtain a credit more and more extended, in the hope of tiding]
themselves over the long period of depression.

The increasing business stagnation occasioned a deepening
anxiety to her husband and a larger rosort to his sustaining
stimulant. Wliile he had no sense of danger worth naming,
he grew somewhat worried by his dependence on the drug,
and it was his honest purpose to gradually abandon it as soon
as the financial pressure lifted and he could breathe freely in
the safety of renewed commercial prosperity. Thus the weeks
and months slipped by, finding him more completely involved
in the films of an evil web, and more intent than ever upua
hiding the fact from every one, especially his wife and children.

He had returned on the evening of Belle's company, with
fears for the worst. The scene in his nretty and happy home,
in contrast with the bitter experiences that might be near at
hand, so oppressed him with ibreboding and trouble that he
went out and weakly sought temporary respite and courage in
a larger amount of morphia than he had ever yet taken.

While off his guard from the resulting exaltation, he met a
business acquaintance and was led by him to indulge in wine
also, with the results already narrated.

CHAPTER III.

JWiL not rei

CONPIDENTIAL.

JOCELYN awoke with a shiver. He did I
remember that he had been dreaming, but a dull
^^^^ pain in his head and a foreboding of heart had at last
80 asserted themselves as to banish the unconsciousness of
sleep. His pioEpects had even a more sombre hue than thei
CO Id gray of the morning. All the false prismatic colours of
th e previous evening had faded, and no serene, steady light
h ad taken their place. The forced elation was followed — as
is ever the case — by a deeper despondency. The face of his|
sleeping wife was to peaceful, so expicEEive of her utter iin-

CONFIDENTIAL.

consciousness of impending;; disaster, that ho could not endure
its sight. Hti felt himself to be in no condition to meet her
waking eyes and explain the cause of his fears. A sense of
shame that he had been so weak the evening before also op-
pressed him, and he yielded to the impulse to gain a day be-
fore meeting her trusting or questioning gaze. Something
might occur whicli would give a better aspect to hit affairs,*
and, at any rate, if the worst must come, he would iexi)lain
with better grace in the evening than in his present metuhed
moud, that would prove too sharp a contrast with hp recent
gaiety.

He therefore dressed silently and hastily, and left a note
saying that a business engagement required his early depart-
ure. * She will have at least one more serene day before the
storm,' he muttered.

' Now wasn't that kind and thoughtful of papa to let us all
sleep late after the company ! ' said Mrs. Jocelyn to Mildred.
* He went away, too, without his breakfast ;' aad in her gentle
solicitude she scarcely ate any herself.

But weakly hiding trouble for a day was not kindness. The
wife and daughter, who should have helped to take in sail in
preparation for the threatened storm, were left unconscious of
its approach. They might have noticed that Mr. Jocelyn had
been more than usually anxious throughout the spring, but
they knew so little of business and its risks, that they did not
realize their danger. ' Men always worry about their affairs/
said Mrs. Jocelyn. ' It's a way they have.'

Mr. Arnold's visits and manner were much more congenial
topics, and as a result of the entire confidence existing between
mother and daughter, they dwelt at length on these subjects.

' Mamma,' said Mildred, ' you must not breathe of it to a
soul — not even to papa yet. It would hurt me cruelly to have
it Icnown that I think so much of one who has not spoken
plainly — that is, in words. I should be blind indeed if I did
not understand' the language of his eyes, his tones, and manner.
And yet, and yet — mamma, it isn't wrong for me to love — to
think so much of him before he speaks, is it 1 Dearly as I —
well, not for the world would I seem or even be more forward
than a girl should. I fear his people are too proud and rich to
recognise us ; and — and — he says so little abc^iit them. I oaiK

WITHOUT A HOME.

({

never talk to him or any one without making many references
to you and papa. I have thought that he even avoided speak-
ing of his family.'

' We have not yet been made aquainted with Mr. and Mrs.
Arnold/ said Mrs. Jocelyn, meditatively. * It is true we attend
the same church, and it was there that Vinton saw you, and
was led to seek an introduction. I'm sure we have not angled
j^r him in any indelicate way. You met him in the mission
ip^cO and in other ways, as did the other young ladies of the
^mjjVf^ He seemed to single you out, and asked permission
to call. ' He has been very gentlemanly, but you equally have
been tho self-respecting lady. I do not think you have once
overstepped the line of a proper reserve. It isn't your nature
to do such a thing, if I do say it. She is a silly girl who ever
does, for uien don't like it, and I don't biame them. Your
father was a great hunter in the South, Millie, and he has
often said since that I was the shyest game he over fuUowed.
But,' she added, with a low, sweet laugh, ' how I did want to
be caught ! I can see now,' she continued, with a dreamy look
back into the past, 'that it was just the way to be caught, fur
if I had turned in pursuit of him he would have run away in
good earnest. There are some girls who have set their caps
for your handsome Mr. Arnold, who don't know this. I am
glad to say, however, that you take the course you do, not be-
cause you know better, but because you are better — because you
have not lost in city life the shy, pure nature of the wild flowers
that were your early playmates. Vinton Arnold is the man to
discover and appreciate this truth, and you have lost nothing
' y compelling him to seek you in your own home, or by being
so reserved when abroad.'

While her mother's words greatly reassured Mildred, her fair
face still retained its look of anxious perplexity.

* I have rarely met Mrs. Arnold and her daughters,' she said ;
* but even in a passing moment, it seemed as if they tried to
inform me by their manner that I did not belong to their world.
Perhaps they were only oblivious — I don't know.'

• I think that is all,' said Mrs. Jocelyn, musingly. ' We havd
attended their church only since we came up town. They oit
on the farther side, in a veiy expensive pew, while papa thinks
^e can afford only a side seat near the door. It is evident that

\J..^

CONFIDENTIAL.

they are proud people, but in the matter of birth and good-
breeding, my dear, I am sure we are their equals. Even when
poorer than we are now, we were welcomed to the best society
of the South. Have no fears, darling. When they come to
[know you they will be as proud of you I as am.'

* Oh, mother, what a sweet prophetess you are 1 The life you
I suggest is so beautiful, and I do not think I could live without
beauty. He is so handsome and refined, and his taste is so
I perfect that every association he awalons is refined and cul-
tured. It seems as if my — as if he might take out of my fu-
ture all that is hard and coarse — all that I shrink from even in
thought. But, mamma, I wish he were somewhat stronger.
His hands are almost as white and small as mine; and then
[sometimes he is so ve^y pale.'

' Well, Millie, we can't have everything. City life and lux-
lury are hard on young men. It would be better for them if
|tliey tramped the woods more with a gun, as your father did.
here was a time when papa could walk his thirty miles a day
ind ride fifty. But manly qualities may be those of the mind
is well as of nuscle. I gather from what Mr. Arnold says
that his heaUh never has been very good ; but you are the one
)f all the world to pet him and take care of him. Most of
the fashionable girls of his set would want to go here and
[here all the time, and would wear him out with their restless-
ness. You would be happier at home.'
' Indeed I would, mamma. Home and heaven are worda
lat are to me near akin,'

' I'm glad you are in such a fair way to win the home, but
lot heaven I trust for a long time yet Let us think of the
lome first. While I would not for the world wish you to do
thing which the strictest womanly delicacy did not permit,
iere are some things we can do that are very proper indeed,
[r. Arnold has an eye for beauty as well as yourself, and he
accustomed to see ladies well dressed. He noticed your toi-
jt last night as well as your face, and his big brown eyes in-
armed me that he thought it very pretty. I intend that you
jiall appear as well rs the very best of them at Saratoga, and
lat we cannot afford in escpensive fabrics we must make up
skill and taste. Luckily, men don't know much about the
3t of material They see the general effect only. A lady is
B

HM4!!*«'mki.:

WITHOUT A HOME.

to them a finished picture, and 'hey never think of inventory,
ing the frame, canvas, and colours, as a woman does. For
quarter of the money I'll make you appear better than his
sisters, so get your things, and we'll begin shopping at once,
for such nice work requires time.'

They were soon in the temples of fashion on Broadway,
bent upon carrying out their guileless conspiracy. Neverthe-
less their seemingly innocent and harmless action was wretched
folly. They did not know that it raised one more barrier be-
tween them and all they sought and hoped, for they were
spending the little money that might have saved them from
sudden and utter poverty.

CHAPTER IV.

■I I

* PITILESS WAVES.'

DEEPER shadow than that of the night fell upon I
Mildred Jocelyn's home after the return of her
father. Feeling that there should be no moio blind
drifting toward he knew not what, he had employed all the]
means within his power to inform himself of the firm's pros-
pects, and learned that there was almost a certainty of speedy I
failure. He was so depressed and gloomy when he sat dowD
to dinner that his wife had not the heart to tell him of her]
schemes to secure his daughter's happiness, or of the gossamer-
like fabrics she had bought, out of which she hoped to con-
struct a web that would more surely entangle Mr. Arnold.l
Even her sanguine spirit was chilled and filled with misgivingsl
by her husband's manner. Mildred, too, was speedily made toj
feelthatonly a very serious cause could banish her father's wonted!
good-humour and render him so siient. Belle and the little
ones maintained the light talk which usually enlivened thel
moal, but a sad constraint rested on the others. At last Mr.l
Jocelyn said, abruptly, * Fanny, 1 wish to see you alone,' andl

PITILESS WAVES.*

she followed him to their room with a face that grew pale with
a vague dread. What could have happened 'i

* Fanny/ he said sadly, ' our firm is in trouble. I have
hoped and have tried to believe that we would pull through,
but now that I have looked at the matter squarely, I see no
chance for us, and from the words and bearing of my partners,
1 imagine they have about given up hope themselves.'

' Oh, come, Mp.rtin, look on the bright side. You always
take such gloomy views of things. They'll pull through, never
fear ; and if they don't, you will soon obtain a better position.
A man of your ability, should be at the head of a firm. You
would make money, no matter what the times were.'

* Unfortunately, Fanny, your sanguine hopes and absurd
opinion of my abilities do not change in the least the hard
facts in the case. If the firm fails, 1 am out of emyloyment,
and hundreds of as good — yea, better men than I, are looking
vainly for almost any kind of work. The thought that we
have laid up nothing in all these years cuts me to the very

I quick. One thing is now certain. Not a dollar must be spent,
hereafter, except for food, and that of the least costly kind,
until I see our way more clearly.'

* Can't we go to Saratoga 1 ' faltered Mrs. Jocelyn.
' Certainly not. If all were well I should have had to bor-

Irow money and anticipate my income in order to spend even a
few weeks there, unless you went to a cheap boarding-house.
If things turn out as I fear, I could not borrow a dollar. I
scarcely see how we are to live anywhere, much less at a Sara-
toga hotel. Fanny, can't you understand my situation 1 Sup-
Ipose my income stops, how much ahead have we to live
ipon 1 '

Mrs. Jocelyn sank into a chair and sobbed, * Oh that I had
mown this before ! See there I '

The bed was covered with dress goods, and the airy noth-

|ings that enhance a girl's beauty. The husband understood

Iheir meaning too well, and he muttered something like an

)ath. At last he said, in a hard tone, ' Well, after buying all

this frippery, how much money have you left 1 '

' Oh, Martin,' sobbed his wife, ' don't speak to me in that

me. Indeed I did not know we were in real danger. You

teemed in such good spirits last evening, and Mr. Arnold

'J^»r»'^!iiAe:

(

1 ' r

;
A-

1 \

■ *

^ 4

I 1

Without a home.

showed so much feeling for Millie, that my heart has been as
light as a feather all day. I wouldn't have bought these
things if I had only known — if I had realized it all.'

Mr. Jocelyn now uttered an unmistakable auathema on his
folly.

* The money you had this moraing is gone, then f
*Yes.'

* How much has been charged ? '

* Don't ask me.'

He was so angry — with himself more than his wife — and
so cast down that he could not trust himself to speak again.
With a gesture, more expressive than any words, he turned
on his heel and left the room and the house. For hours he
walked the streets in the wretched turmoil of a sensitive, yet
weak nature. He was not one who could calmly meet an
emergency and manfully do his best, suffering patiently mean-
while the ills that could not be averted. He could lead a cav-
alry charge into any kind of danger, but he coifld not stand
still under fire. The temptation to repeat his folly of the pre-
vious evening was very strong, but it had cost him so dearly
that he swore a great oatb. that at least he would not touch
liquor again ; but he could not refrain from lifting himself in
some degree out of his deep dejection, by a recourse to the
stimulant upon which he had so long been dependent. At
last, jaded and sober indeed, he returned to a home whose
very beauty and comfort now became the chief means of his
torture.

In the mean time Mildred and her mother sat by the pretty
fabrics that had the bright hues of their morning hopes, and
they looked at each other with tears and dismay. If the silk
and lawn should turn into crape, i^ would seem so in accord-
ance with their feelings as scarcely to excite surprise. Each
queried vainly, ''/hat now will be the future ? * The golden
prospect of the day had become dark and chaotic, and in strong
reaction a vague sense of impending disaster so oppressed
them that they scarcely spoke. Deep in Mildred's h<)art, how-
ever, born of woman's trust, was the sustaining hope that her
friend, Vinton Arnold, would be true to her whatever might
happen. Poor Mrs. Jocelyn's best hope was, that the finan-
cial .lorm would blow over without fulfilling their fears.

'PITILESS WAVES.'

She had often known her father to be called half-desperate, and
then there was patched up some kind of an arrangement
which enabled them to go on again in their old way. Still,
even with her unbusinesslike habits of thought and meagre
knowledge of the world, she could not see how they could
maintain themselves if her husband's income should suddenly
cease, and he be unable to find a like position.
She longed for his return, but when he came he gave her no

I comfort.

' Don't speak to me,' he said ; * I can tell you nothing that

I you do not already know. The events of the next few weeks
will make all plain enough.'

The logic of events did convince even Mrs. Jocelyn that
making no provision for a ' rainy day ' is sad policy. The
storm did not blow over although it blew steadily and strongly.
The firm soon failed, but Mr. Jocelyn received a small sum
out of the assets, which prevented immediate want. Mild-

I red's course promised to justify Arnold's belief that she could

[be strong as well as gentle, for she insisted that every article
obtained on credit should be taken back to the shops. Her

I mother shrank from the task, so she went herself and plainly
stated their circumstances. It was a bitter experience for the
poor child — far more painful than she had anticipated. She
couM not believe that the affable people who waited on her so
smilingly a few days before would appear so different; but
even those who were most inclined to be harsh, and to feel
aggrieved at their small loss in cutting the material returned,

I were softened as she said gently, and almost humbly,

* Since we could not pay for it we felt that it would be more

Ihonourable to bring it back in as jj;ood condition as when re-
ceived.* In every instance, however, in which the goods had
been paid for, she found that she could effect no exchange for

Ithe money, except at such reduced rates that she might as

I well give them away.

Even Mrs. Jocelyn saw the need of immediate changes.
>ne of their two servants was dismissed. Belle pouted over
the rigid economy, now enforced all too late. Mildred cried
)ver it in secret, but made heroic efforts to be cheerful in the
)resence of her father and mother ; but each day, with deeper

■>■>■>-■» i*

: J

WITHOUT A HOME.

chill at heart, she asked herself a thousand times, * Why does
not Mr. Arnold come to see me 1 '

Vinton Arnold lyas in even greater distress. Not only had
he to endure the pain of a repressed affection, but also a gall-
ing and humiliating sense of unmanly weakness. He, of
course, learned of the failure, and his father soon after took
pains to say significantly that one of the .nembers of ihe iron
firm had told him that Mr. Jocelyn had nothing to fall back
upon. Therefore Arnold know that the girl he loved must be
in sore trouble. And yet, how could he go to her 1 What
could he say or do that would not make him appear con-
temptible in her eyes 1 But to remain away in her hour of
misfortune seemed such a manifestation of heartless indiffer-
ence, such a mean example of the world's tendency to pass by
on the other side, that ho grew haggard and ghost-like in his
self-reproach and self-contempt. At last his parents began to
insist that his health required a change of air, and suggested
a mountain resort or a trip abroad, and he was conscious
of no po^er to resist the quiet will with which any plan
decided upon would oe carried out. He felt that he must see
Mildred once more, although what he would say to her he
could not tell. While there had been no conscious and defi-
nite purpose on the part of his parents, they nevertheless had
trained him to helplessness in mind and body. His will was
as relaxed as his muscles. Instead of wise, patient effort to
develop a feeble constitution, and to educate his mind by sys-
tematic courses of study, he had been treated as an exotic all
his davs. And yet it had been care without tenderness, or
much'manifestation of affection. Not a thing had been done
to develop self-respect or self-reliance. Even more than most
girls, he was made to feel himself dependent on his parents.
He had studied but little ; he had read much, but in a desul-
tory way. Of business and of men's prompt, keen ways he
was lamentably ignorant for one of his years, and the con*
sciousness of this made him shrink from the companionship of
his own sex, and begat a reticence whose chief cause was tim-
idity. His parents' wealth had been nothing but a curse, and
they would learn eventually that while they could shield his
person from the roughnesses of the world they could not pro-
tect his mind and heart from those experiences which ever de*

'PITILESS WAVES.'

land manly strength and principle. As a result of their
mostly system, there were few more pitiable objects in the city
t.han Vinton Arnold as he stole under the cover of night to
risit the girl who was hoping — though more faintly after every
lay of waiting — that she might find in him sustaining strength
land love in her misfortunes.

But when she saw his white haggard face and nervous, timid
[manner, she was almost shocked, and exclaimed, with impul-
Isive sympathy, ' Mr. Arnold, you have been ill. I have done
jyou wrong.*

He did not quite understand her, and was indiscreet, enough
|to repeat, * You have done me wrong, Miss Millie ? '

Pardon me. Perhaps you do not know that we are in deep

(trouble. My father's firm has failed, and we shall have to give

lup our home. Indeed, I hardly know what we shall do.

When in trouble, one's thoughts naturally turn to one*l» friends,

I thought perhaps you would come to see me,' and two tears

[that she could not repress stood in her eyes.

Oh, that I were a man!' groaned Arnold, mentally; and
Inever had human cruelty inflicted a keener pang than did
jMildred's sorrowful fa j and the gentle reproach implied iu
Iher words.

I — I have been very ill,' he said, hesitatingly. *Mig8
[Millie,' he added, impulsively, ' you can never know how deep-
[ly I feel for you.'

She lifted her eyes questiouins^ly to his face, and its expres-
Ision was again unmistakable. For a moment she lost control
of her overburdened heart, and bowing her face in her hands
Igave way to the strong tide of her feelings. * Oh ! ' she s. 'bed,
yl have been so anxious and fearful about the future. People
have come here out of curiosity, and others have acted as if
I they did not care what became of us, if they only obtained the
imoney we owed them. I did not think that those who were
80 smiling and friendly a short time since could be so harsh and
liiidifTerent. A thousand times I have thought of that poor
Isliip that I saw the waves beat to pieces, and it has seemed as
lif it might be our fate. I suppose I am morbid, and that some
[way will be provided, but some way is not a way.'

Instead of coming to her side and promising all that his heart
Iprompted, the miserable constraint of his position led him to

WITHOUT A HOME.

turn from grief that he was no longer able to witness. He went
to the window, and bowing his head against the sash, looked
out into the darkness.

She regarded him with wonder ns she slowly wiped her
eyes.

* Mr. Arnold,' she faltered, * I hope you will forgive me for
my weakness, and also for inflicting our troubles on you.'

He turned and came slowly towards her. She saw that ho
trembled and almost tottered as he walked, and that his face
had become ashen. The hand he gave her seemed like ice to
her warm, throbbing palm. But never could she forget his
expression— -the blending of self-contempt, pitiable weakness,
and dejection.

' Miss Mildred,' he said, slowly, ' there is no use of disguises.
We had better both recognise the truth at once. At least it
will be better for you, for then you may find a friend more
worthy of the name. Can you not see what I am — a broken
reed ? The vine could better sustain a falling tree than I the
one I loved, even though, like the vine, my heart clung to that
one as its sole support. You suffer ; I am in torment. You
are sad ; I despair. You associate strength and help with
manhood, and you are right. You do not know that the
weakest thing in the world is a weak, helpless man. I am
only strong to suffer. I can do nothing ; I am nothing. It
would be impossible for me to explain how helpless and de-
pendent I am — you could not understand it. My whole heart
went out to you, for you seemed both gentle and strong. The
hope would grow in my soul that you might be merciful to me
when you came to know me as I am. Good-bye, Millie
Jocelyn. You will find a friend strong and helpful as well as
kind. As for me^ my best hope is to die.' He bowed his head
upon the hand he did not venture to kiss, and then almost fled
from the house.

Mildred was too much overcome by surprise and feeling to
make any attempt to detain him. He had the same as ac-
knowledged his love for her, but never in her wildest fancy
dreamed of so dreary and sad a revelation.

Mrs. Jocelyn, perplexed by Mr. Arnold's sudden departure,
came in hastily, and Mildred told her, with many tear, all that

PITILESS WAVES.

had been said. Even her mother's gentle nature could not pre-
Ivent harsh consideration of the young man.

* So he could do nothing better than get up this little melo-
I drama, and then hasten back to his elegant home/ she said,
1 with a darkening frown.

Mildred shook her head and said, musingly, * I understand
I him better than you do, mamma, and I pity him from the
I depths of my heart'

I ♦ I think it's all plain enough,* said Mrs. Jocelyn, in a tone
I that was hard and unnatural in her. * His rich parents tell
him that he must not think of marrying a poor girl, and he is
I the most dutiful of sons.*

'You did not hear his words, mamma — you did not see him.
Oh, if he should die 1 He looked like death itself,' and she
I gave way to such an agony of grief that her mother was
alarmed on her behalf, and wept, entreated, and soothed by
tnrus until at last the poor child crept away with throbbing
temples to a long night of pain and sleeplessness. The wound
was one that she must hide in her own heart ; her pallor and
I languor for several days proved how deep it had been.

But the truth that he loved her — the belief that he could
never give to another what he had given to her — had a secret
and sustaining power. Hope is a hardy plant in the hearts of
the young. Though the future was dark, it still had its possi-
bilities of good. Womanlike, she thought more of his trouble
than of her own, and that which most depressed her was the
fear that his health might give way utterly. * I can bear any-
thing better than his death,' she said to herself a thousand
times.

She made no tragic promises of constancy, nor did she in-
dulge in very much sentimental dreaming. She simply recog-
nised the truth that she loved him — that her whole woman s
heart yearned in tenderness over him as one that was crippled
and helpless. She saw that he was unable to stand alone and
act for himself, and with a sensitive pride all her own she
I shrank from even the thought of forcing herself on the proud,
I rich family that had forbidden the alliance. Moreover, she
was a good-hearted Christian girl, and perceived clearly that
I it was no time for her to mope or droop. Even on the miser-
able day which followed the interview that so sorely wounded

WITHOUT A HOME.

her, she made pathetic attempts to be chrertul and helpful,
and as time passed she rallied slowly into strength and
patience.

The father's apparent efforts to keep up under his misfortune
were also a great incentive to earnest effort on her part More
than once she said in substance to her mother, ' Papa is so often
hopeful, serene, and even cheerful, that we ought to try and
show a like spirit. Even when despondency does master him,
and he becomes sad and irritable, he makes so brave an effort
that he soon overcomes his wretched mood and quietly looks
on the brighter side. We /Ught to' follow his example.* It
would have been infinitely better had he followed theirs, and
found in prayer, faith, and manly courage the serenity and
fortitude that were but the brief deceptive and dangerous effects
of a fatal poison.

It was decided that the family should spend the summer at
some quiet farm-house where the board would be very inex-
pensive, and that Mr. Jocelyn, in the mean time, should remain
in the city in order to avail himself of any opening that he
might discover.

After a day or two of search in the country, he found a
place that he thought would answer, and the family prepared
as quickly as possible for what seemed to them like a journey
to Siberia.

Mildred's farewell to her own private apartment was full of
touching pathos. This room was the outward expression not
merely of a refined taste, but of some of the deepest feelings
and characteristics of her nature. In its furniture and adorn-
ment it was as dainty as her own delicate beauty. She had
been allowed to fit it up as she wished, and had lavished upon
it the greater part of her spending rnoney. She had also be-
stowed upon it much thought, and the skilful work of her own
hands had eked out to a marvellous extent the limited sums
that her father had been able to give her. The result was a
prettiness and light airy grace which did not suggest the rest-
ing-place of an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl, but of one in
whom the spiritual and the love of the beautiful were the ruling
forces of life.

It is surprising how character impresses itself on one's sur-
roundings. Mrs. Arnold's elegant home was a correct expres*

* PITILESS WAVES.*

iion of herself. Stately, formal, slightly rigi<l, decitledly cold,

It suggested to the visitor that he would receive the courtesy

lo which his social position entitled him, and nothing more. It

^as the result or' an exact and logical mind, and could no more

inbend into a little comfortable disorder than the lady herself.

>he bestowed upon its costly appointments the scrupulous care

rhich she gave to her children, and her manner was much the

Isame in each instance. She was justly called a strong charac-

Iter, but she made herself felt after the fashion of an artist

Iwith his hammer and chisel. Carved work is cold and rigid

|at best

Mildred had not as yet impressed people as a strong charac-
Iter. On the contrary, she had seemed peculiarly gentle and
■yielding. Vinton Arnold, however, in his deep need had in-
Istiiictively half guessed the truth, for her influence was like
Ithat of a warm day in spring, undemonstrative, not self-assert-
ling, but most powerful. The tongue-tied could speak in her
ipresence ; the diffident found in her a kindly sympathy which
[gave confidence ; men were peculiarly drawn toward her be-
Icause she was so essentially womanly without being silly.
jAlthough as sprightly and fond of fun as most young girls of
her age, they recognised that she was perfectly truthful and
loyal to all that men — even bad men— m st honour in a wo-
man. They always had a good time in her society, and yet
felt the better and purer of it. Life blossomed and grew
bright about her from some innate influence that she exerted
unconsciously. After all there was no mystery about it. She
had her faults like others, but at heart she was genuinely good
and unselfish. The gentle mother had taught her woman's
best graces of speech and manner; nature had endowed her
I with beauty, and to that the world always renders homage.

There are thousands of very pretty girls who have no love
Ifor beauty save their own, which they do their best to spoil
by self-homage. To Mildred, on the contrary, the beautiful
was as essential as her daily food, and she excelled in all the
dainty handicrafts by which women can make a home attract-
live. Therefore her own little sanctum had developed like
an exquisite flower, and had become, as we have said, an ex-
mression of herself. An auctioneer, in dismantling her apart-
ment, would not have found much more to sell than if be

WITHOUT A HOME.

had pulled a rose to pieces, but left intact it was as full of
beauty and fragrance as the flower itself. And yet her own
hands must destroy it, and in a brief time she must exchange its
airy loveliness for a bare room in a farm-house. After that the
future was as vague as it was clouded. The pretty trifles were
taken down and packed away, with tears, as if she were laying
them in graves.

CHAPTER V.

THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN.

OTHER, I hain't no unison with it at all,' said
Farmer At wood, leaning on the breakfast-table and
holding aloft a knife and fork — formidable imple-
ments in his hands, but now unemployed through perturbation
of mind. ' J hain't no unison with it — this havin' fine city
folks right in the family. 'Twill be pretty nigh as bad as visit-
ing one's rich relations. I had a week of that once, but, thank
the Lord, I hain't been so afflicted since. I've seen 'em up at
the hotel and riding by too often not to know 'em. They are
half conceit and half fine fv^athers, and that doesn't leave many
qualities as are suited to u ". rm-house. Roger and me will
have to be — what was it that lecturin' professor called it —
'* deodorized" every mornin' after feedin' and cleanin' the
critters. We'll have to put on our go-to-meetin's, instead of
sittin' down in our shirt-sleeves comfortable like. I hain't no
unison with it, and it's been a-growing on me ever since that
city chap persuaded you into baing cook and chambermaid for
his family.' And Farmer At wood's knife and fork came down
into the dish of ham with an onslaught that would have ap-
palled a Jew.

' The governor is right, mother,* said the young man refer-
red to as Roger. ' We shall all be in straight-jackets for the
summer.'

THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN.

The speaker could not have been much more than twenty
years old, although in form he appeared a full-grown man.
As he stood wiping his hands on a towel that hung in a corner
of the large kitchen, which, except on state occasions, also
served as dining and sitting room, it might be noted that he
was above medium height, broad-shouldered, and strongly
built When he crossed the room his coarse working dress
could not disguise the fact that he had a fine figure and an easy
bearing of the rustic, rough-and-ready style. He had been
out in the tall, dew-drenched grass, and therefore had tucked
the lower part of his trousers into his boot tops, and like his
father had dispensed with his coat in the warm June morning.
As he drew a chair noisily across the floor, and sat down at the
table, it was evident that he had a good though undeveloped
face. His upper lip was deeply shadowed by a coming event,
to which he looked forward with no little pride, and his well-
tanned cheeks could not hide a faint glow of youthful colour.
One felt at a glance that his varying expressions could scarcely
fail to reveal all that the young man was now or could ever
become, for bis face suggested a nature peculiarly frank and
rather matter-of-fact, or at least una wakened. The traits of care-
less good-nature and self-confidence were now most apparent He
had always been regarded as a clever boy at home, and his rus-
tic gallantry was well received by the farmers' daught^ei's iu
the neighbourhood. What better proofs that he was about
right could a young fellow ask 1 He was on such good terms
with himself and the world, that even the event which his fa-
ther so deprecated did not not much disturb his easy-going
assurance. He doubted, in his thoughts, whether the city girls
would ' turn up their noses' at him, and if they did, they might,
for all that he cared, for there were plenty of rural beauties
with whom he could console himself. But, like his father, he
felt that the careless undress and freedom of their farm life
would be criticised by the new-comers. He proposed, however,
to make as little change as possible in his habits and dress, and
to teach the Jocelyns that country people had ' as good a right
to their ways as city people had to theirs.* Therefore the
threatened invasion did not in the least prevent him from
making havoc in the substantial breakfast that Mrs. At wood
and her daughter Susan had put on the table in a haphazard

WITHOUT A HOME.

manner, taking it from the adjacent stove as fast as it was
ready. A stolid-looking hired man sat opposite to Roger, and
shovelled in his food with his knife, with a monotonous assid-
uity that suggested a labourer tilling a coal-bin. He seemed
oblivious to everything save the breakfast, and with the excep-
tion of heaping his plate froih time to time, he was ignored by
the family.

The men folk were quite well along with their meal before
Mrs. Atwood and Susan, flushed with their labours about the
stove, were ready to sit down. They were accustomed to hear
the farmer grumble, and, having carried tht x point, were in no
haste to reply or to tight over a battle that had been won
already. Koger led to a slight resumption of hostilities, how-
ever, by a disposition —well-nigh universal in brothers — to
tease.

* Sue,' he said, * will soon be wanting to get some feathers
like those of the fine birds that will light in our door-yard this
evening.*

* That's it,' snarled the farmer ; * What little you make will
soon be on your backs or streamin' away in ribbons.'

* Well,' said Mrs. Atwood a little sharply, * it's quite proper
that we should have something on our backs, and if we earn the
money to put it there ourselves, I don't see why you should
complain ; as for ribbons. Sue has as good a right to 'em as
Koger to a span-new buggy that ain't good for anything but
taking girls out in.'

' What made you have the seat so narrow, Roger ? ' asked
Sue ; ' you couldn't squeeze three people in to save your life.'

' I'm content with one girl at a time, replied Roger, with a
complacent shrug.

' And the same girl only one time, too, from what I hear.
You've taken out all there are in Forestville, haven't you 1 *

* Haven't got quite around yet. And then some prudent
mothers do think the seat a trifle narrow, and the ones I'd like
to take out most can't go. But there's plenty that can.'

* And one is as good as another,' added his sister, malici-
ously, ' if she will only talk nonsense, and let you hold her
from falling out when you whisk over the thank-e-ma'ams.'

< I didn't have to go from home to learn that most girls
talk nonsense,' laughed Roger. * By the way, how did you
learn about the thank-e-ma'ams ? I didn't teach you,'

TBE KUDIMENTS OF A MAN.

< No, indeed ! Sisters may fall out for all that brothers

care.'

' That depends on whose sisters they are, said Foger,
rising. ' I now perceive that mine has been well taken care of.'

' You think other young men have your pert ways,' retorted
Sue, reddening. * My friends have manners.'

* Oh, I see. They let you fall out, and then politely pick
you up.*

' Come, you are both in danger of falling out now,' said the
mother reprovingly.

Koger went off whistling to his work, and the hired man
lumbered after him.

' Father,' said Mrs. At woo 1, * who'll go down to the river
for the trunks 1 '

* Well, I s'pose I'll have to,' grumbled Mr. Atwood. * Roger
don't want to, and Jotham can do more work in the cornfield
than me.'

* I'm glad you're so sensible. Riding down to the river and
back will be a good bit easier than hoeing corn all day. The
stage will be along about five, I guess, and I'll get supper fur
'em in the sittin'-room, so that you can eat in your shirt-
sleeves, if that will quiet your mind. '

With the aspect (»f a November day Mr. Atwood got out
the great farm waggon and jogged down to the landing on the
Hudson, which was so distant as to insure his absence for
several hours.

It was a busy day for Mrs. Atwood and Susan. Fresh bread
and cake were to be baked, and the room * tidied up ' at once.
A pitcher that had lost its handle was filled with old-fashioned
roses that persisted in blooming in a grass-choked flower-bed.
This was placed in a room designed for Mrs. Jocelyn and the
children, while the one flower vase, left unbroken from the
days of Roger's boyish carelessness, adorned the smaller apart-
ment that Mildred and Belle were tr* occupy, and this was about
the only element of elegance or beauty that Susan was able to
impart to the bare little room. Even to the country girl, to
whom the term ' decorative art ' was but a vague phrase, the
place seemed meagre and hard in its outlines, and she in-
stinctively felt that it would appear far more so to its occu«
pants.

WITHOUT A HOME.

* But it is the best we can afford/ she sighed ; ' and at the
prices they'll pay us they shouldn't complain.'

Still the day was full of pleasurable excitement and antici-
pation to the young girl. She was aware that her mother's
tasks and her own would be greatly increased, but on the other
hand the monotony of the farm-house life would be broken,
and in the more distant future she saw a vista of new gowns, a
jaunty winter hat with a feather, and other like conditions of
unalloyed happiness. Susan had dwelt thus far in one of life's
secluded valleys, and if she lost much because her horizon was
narrow she was shielded from far more. Her fresh, full face
had a certain pleasant, wholesome aspect, like the fields about
her home in June, as she bustled about preparing for the * city
folks ' whom he^ ifather so dreaded.

Roger's buggy was not yet paid for. It was the one great
extravagance that Mr. At wood had permitted for raany a year.
As usual, his wife had led him into it, he growling and protest-
ing, but unable to resist her peculiar persistency. Roger was
approaching man's estate, and something must be done to sig-
nalize so momentous an event. A light buggy was the goal of
ambition to the young men in the vicinity, and Roger felt that
he could never be a man without one. He also recognised it
as the best means of securing a wife to his mind, for courting
on a moonlit, shadowy road was far more satisfactory than in
the bosom of the young woman's family. Not that he was
bent on matrimony, but rather on several years of agreeable pre-
paration for it, proposing to make tentative acquaintances, both
numerous and miscellaneous.

In his impatience to secure this four-wheeled compendium
of happiness he had mortgaged his future, and had promised
his father to plant and cultivate larger areas. The shrewd
farmer therefore had no prospect of being out of pocket, for
the young man was keeping his word. The acres of the corn-
field were nearly double those of the previous year, and on
them Roger spent the long hot day in vigorous labour in pre-
ference to the easy task of going to the river for the luggage.
Dusty and weary, but in excellent spirits over the large space
that he and the hired man had ' hilled up,' he went whistling
home through the long shadows of the June evening. The
farii-waggon stood in the door-yard piled with trunks. The

THE BUDIUEKtS Of A MAN.

iw gowns, a

Ifront entrance of the house — rarely used by the family — was
)pen, and as he came up the lane a young girl emerged from it,
land leaned for a few moments against the outer pillar of the
[little porch, unconscious of the picture she made. A climbing
Irose was in bloom just over her head, and her cheeks, flushed
Iwith heat and fatigue, vied with them in colour. She had ex-
■changed her travelling dress for one of light muslin, and en-
Itwined in her hair a few buds from the bush that covered the
Iporch. If Roger was not gifted with a vivid imagination
Ihe nevertheless saw things very accurately, and before he
■reached the head of the lane admitted to himself that the old
J' front steps ' had never been so graced before. He had seen
(many a rustic beauty ptanding there when his sister had com*
)any, but the city girl impressed him with a difference which
|he then could not understand. He was inclined to resent this
jundefined superiority, and he muttered, ' Father's right They
[are birds of too fine a feather for our nest.'

He had to pass near her in order to reach the kitchen door,

|or else make a detour which his pride would not permit. In-

leed, the youth plodded leisurely along with his hoe on his

shoulder, and scrupled not to scrutinize the vision on the porch

Iwith the most matter-of-fact minuteness.

' What makes her so *' down in the mouth " ) ' he queried.
[< She doesn't fancy us barbarians, I suppose, and Forestville to
ler is a howling wilderness. Like enough she'll take me for
in Indian.'
Mildred's eyes were fixed on a great shaggy mountain in the
rest, that was all the more dark and forbidding in its own
leep shadow. She did not see it, however, for her mind was
Iwelling on gloomier shadows than the mountain cast.

As he passed he caught her attention, and stepping toward
lim a little impatiently, she said,
' I suppose you belong to the premises 1 '
He made an awkward attempt at a bow, and said stiffly,
I'm one of the Atwood chattels.'

The answer was not such as she expected, and she gave aim
scrutinizing glance. * Surely, if I have ever seen a labourer,
)e's one,' she thought, as with woman's quickness she inven-
)ried his coarse, weather-stained straw hat, blue cotton shirt
BFoased by suspenders mended with strings, shapeless trousers^

4£

WITHOUT A HOME.

once black, bat now of the colour of the dusty cornfield, and
shoes such as she had never seen on the avenue. Even if
Soger's face had not been discoloured by perspiration and
browned by exposure, its contrast with the visage that memory
kept before her but too constantly would not have been pleas-
ing. Nothing in his appearance deterred her from saying
briefly, ' I wish you would briup; those trunks to our rooms.
We have already waited for them some little time, and Mr.
Atwood sr/id that his man would attend to them when he came
borne from his work.'

' That's all right, but I'm not his man,' and with another
stiff bow he passed on.

* Roger,' called Mrs. Atwood from the kitchen door, * where's
J otham ^ '

* Bringing home the cows.'

* The ladies want their trunks,' continued his mother, in
a sharp, worried tone. ' I wish you men-folks would see to
'em right away. Why couldn't you quit work a little earlier
tonight r

Roger made no reply, but proceeded deliberately to help
himself to a wash-basin and water.

* Look here, Roger,' said his mother, in a tone she seldom
used, ' if those trunks are not where they belong in ten min-
utes, Susan and I'll take 'em up ourselves.'

* That would be a pretty story to ^o out,' added his sister.
' Little use your buggy would be to you then, for no nice girl
would ride with you.'

* Gome, come, what's the use of such a bother ! ' said the
young man irritably. * Mother knows that I'd carry the
trunks up on Bald-Top before I'd let her touch them. That's
tb^ way it will always be with these city people, I suppose.
Everybody must jump and run the moment they speak.
Father's right, and we'll have to give up our free-and-easy
life and become porters and waiting-maids.'

' I've heard enough of that talk,' said Mrs. Atwood ^uipha-
tically. * Your father's been like a drizzling north-easter all
day. Now I give you men-folks warning. If you want any
supper you must wake up and give me something better than
grumbling. I'm too hot and tired now to argue over some-
thing that's been settled once for all'

THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN.

hen he came

The * warning * had the desired effect, for Mrs. Atwood was
the recognised head of the coraniissary department, and, as
such, could touch the secret springs of motives that are rarely
resisted.

The open kitchen windows were so near that Mildred could
not help overhearing this family jar, and it added greatly to
her depression. She felt that they had not only lost their own
home, but were also banishing the home feeling from another
family. She did but scant justice to Mrs. Atwood's abundant
supper, and went to her room at last with that most disagree-
able of all impr Hsions — the sense of being an intruder.

The tired children were soon at rest, for their timo of sleep-
less trouble was far distant. Belle's pretty head drooped also
with the roses over the porch as the late twilight deepened.
To her and the little people the day had been rich in novelty,
and the country was a wonderland of many and of varied de
lights. In the eyes of children the Garden of Eden survives
from age to age. Alas ! the tendency lo leave it survives also,
and to those who remain, regions of beauty and mystery too
often become angular farms and acres.

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred still more clearly illustrated the
truth that the same world wears a different aspect as the con-
ditions of life vary. They were going out into the wilderness.
The river was a shining pathway, whose beauty was a mock-
ery, for it led away from all that they loved best. The farm-
house was a place of exile, and its occupants a strange, un-
couth people with whom they felt that they would have noth-
ing in common. Mrs. Jocelyn merely looked forward to weeks
I of weary waiting until she could again rejoin her husband, to
whom in his despondency her heart clung with a remorseful
I tenderness. She now almost wished that they had lived on
bread and water, and so had provided against this evil day of
I long separation and dreary uncertainty. Now that she could
no longer rest in her old belief that there would be * some way ' /
of tiding over every financial crisis, she became a prey to fore-
bodings equally vague that there might be no way. That her
\ husband could spend day after day seeking employment, offer-
ing, too, to take positions far inferior to the one he had lost,
was a truth that at first bewildered and then disheartened her

WITHOXTT A HOME.

beyond measure. She ielt that they must, iudeed, have fal-
len on evil times when his services went a-begging.

To Mildred the present was dark, and the future most un-
promising; but deep in her heart nestled the sustaining
thought that she was not unloved, nor forgotten. The will uf
others, not his own, kept her lover from her side. His weak-
nesses were of a nature that awakened her pity rather than
contempt. If he had been a Hercules physically, and a Bacon
intellectually, but conceited, domineering, untruthful, and the
male flirt genus — from such weaknesses she would have shrunk
with intense repugnance. Her friends thought her peculiarly
gentle in disposition. They did not know — and she herself
might rarely recognise the truth — that she was also strong ;
her strength on its human side consisted in a simple, unswerv-
ing fidelity to her womanly nature and sense of right ; on the
Divine side, God's word was to her a verity. She daily said
* Our Father ' as a little child. Has the world yet discovered
a purer or loftier philosophy f

CHAPTER VI.

KOGER DISCOVERS A NEtV TYPfe.

'OUNG Atwood rose with a very definite purpose on the
following morning. For his mother's sake he would be
civil to their boarders, but nothing more. He would
learn just what they had a right to expect in view of their
business relations, and having performed all that was * nomi-
nated in the bond,' would treat them with such an off-hand
independence that they would soon become aware that he,
Koger Atwood, w&s an entity that could exist without their
admiring approval. He meant that they should learn that the
country was quite as large as the city, and that the rural pe-
culiarities of Forestville were as legitimate as those which he
associated with them, and especially with the young lady who
had mistaken him for tho hired man. Therefore after his

ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE.

rooming walk in the barn-yard he stalked to the house with
the same manner and toilet as on tlie previous day.

But there were no haughty citizens to be toned down.
They were all sleeping late from the fatigues of their journey,
and Mrs. Atwood said she would give the * men-folks their
breakfast at the usual hour, because a hungry man aad a cross
bear were nigh of kin.'

The meal at first was a comparatively silent one, but Roger
noted with a contemptuous glance that his sister's hair was
arranged move neatly than he had seen it since the previous
Sunday, and that her calico dress, collar and cuffs were scru-
pulously clean.

' Expecting company ? ' he asked malicioualy.

She understood him and flushed resentfully. < If you wish
to go around looking like a scarecrow, that's no reason why I
should,' she said. * The corn is too large for the crows to pull
now, 60 if I were you I would touch myself up a little. I
don't wonder that Miss ^ocelyn mistook you for Jotham.'

' It's well,* retorted Roger with some irritation, * that your
Miss Jocelyn has no grown bit-others here or you would come
down to breakfast in kid gloves. I suppose, however, that
I they have insisted on a tidy and respectful waitress. Will
you please inform me, mother, what my regulation costume
must be when my services are required 1 Jotham and I
should have a suit of livery, with two more brass^ buttons on
I my coat to show that I belong to the family.'

' I think that a little more of the manner and appearance of
la gentleman would show your relationship better than any
I amount of brass,' remarked his mother quietly.

Roger was almost through his breakfast, and so, at no great
lloss, could assume the injured part. Therefore with a dignity
Iwhich was somewhat in marked contrast with his rather un-
Ikempt appearance, he arose and stalked off to the cornfield

lagain.

' Umph,* remarked Mr. Atwood sententiously, as he rose and

»llowed his son. Tiiis apparently vague utterance had for his

'ife a definite and extended meaning. She looked annoyed

md flurried, and was in no mood for the labours of preparing

second breakfast

WITHOUT A HOME.

'The men-folks had better not rile me up too much.' she
said to her daughter. * If your father had said No ! out and
out, I wouldn't have brought strangers into his home. But
he kinder wanted me to have their money without the bother
of having them around. Now one thii^ is settled — he must
either help me make it pleasant for the3e people, or else tell
them to leave this very day.'

* And how about Roger 1 ' asked Susan, still under the influ-
ence of pique.

* Oh, Roger is young and foolish. He's a-growing yet,' and
the mother's severe aspect relaxed. He was her only boy.

Mr. Atwood, brought face to face with the alternative pre-
sented by his practical wife, succumbedf with tolerable grace.
In truth, having had his grumble out, he was not so very
averse to the arrangement. He was much like old Gruff,
their watch-dog, that was a redoubtable growler, but had
never been known to bite any one. He therefore installed
himself as his wife's out-of-door ally and assistant commissary,
proposing also to take the boarders out to drive if they would
pay enough to make it worth the while. As for Roger, he
resolved to remain a farmer and revolve in his old orbit.

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred were listless and depressed, and
time hung heavily on their hands. They were in that condi-
tion of waiting and uncertainty which renders cheerful or
systematic occupation well-nigh impossible. They daily hoped
that a letter would come assuring them that Mr. Jocelyn had
secured a position that would change all their future for the
better, but the letters received recorded futile efforts only, and
often despondency ; but occasionally there would come a letter
so full of vague, sanguine hopes that first produced elation and
then perplexity that nothing came of them. His wife found
his dejection contagious. If she had been with him she would
have made strenuous efforts to cheer and inspirit, but without
an unselfish woman's strongest motive for action she brooded
and drooped. Belle's irrepressible vivacity and the children's
wild delight over the wonders of the fields and farm-yard
jarred upon her sore heart painfully. She patiently tried to
take care of them, but in thought and feeling she could not
enter into their life as had been her custom. Belle was too
young and giddy for responsibility, and Mildred had many a

BOOER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE,

weary chase after the little explorers. In spite of his clearly
defined policy of indifiereDce, Rogf. "jund himself watching
her on such occasions with a growing interest. It was evident
to him that she did not in the slightest degree resent !*is daily
declaration of independence ; indeed, he saw that she scarcely
gave him any thoughts whatever — that he was to her no more
than heavy-footed Jotham.'

'She does not evan consider me worth snubbing/ he
thought, with much dissatisfaction, about a week subsequent
to their arrival.

In vain, after the labours of the day, he dressed in his best
suit and sported a flaming necktie ; in vain he dashed away
in his buggy, and, a little later, dashed by again with a rural
belle at his side. He found himself unable to impress the city
girl as he desired, or to awaken in her a sense of his import-
ance. And yet he already began to feel, in a vague way, thai
she was not so distant to him, as distant /rom him.

Belle soon formed his acquaintance, asking innumerable
questions and not a few favours, ar.d she found him more
good-natured than she had been led to expect. At last, to her
great delight, he took her with him in his waggon to the post-
office. The lively girl interested and ami:b6d him, but he felt
himself immeasurably older than she. With a tendency com-
mon to very young men, he was more interested in the elder
sister, who in character and maturity that comes from experi-
ence was certainly far beyond him, Belle he understood, but
Mildred was a mystery, and she had also the advantage of
being a verv bp»u»,irjl one.

As time passed and no definite assurances came from
her father, the young girl was conscious of a growing dis-
satisfaction with the idle, weary waiting to which she and
her mother were condemned. She felt that it might have h^en
better for them all to have remained in the city, in spite of
the summer heat, than thus to be separated. She believed that
she might have found something to do which would have aided
in their support, and she understood more clearly than her
mother, tha( their slender means were diminishing fast. That
she could do anything at a country farm-house to assist her
father seemed very doubtful, but she felt the necessity of em-
ployment more strongly each day, not only for the sake of the

WITHOUT A HOME.

money it might bring, but also as an antidote to a growing
tendency to brood over her deep disappointment. She soon
began to recognise that such self-indulgence would unfit her
for a struggle th>».t might be extended and severe, and was not
long in coming to the conclusion that she must make the best,
of her life as it was and would be. Days and weeks had
slipped by and had seen her looking regretfully back at the
past, which was receding like the shores of a loved country to
an exile. Since the prospect of returning to it was so slight,
it would be best to turn her thoughts and such faint hope as
she could cherish toward the vague and unpromising future.
At any rate she must so occupy herself as to have no time for
morbid self-communings.

Her first resource was the homely life and interests of those
with whom she dweit. Thus far she had regarded them as
uncongenial strangers, and had contented herself with mere
politeness toward them. In her sad preoccupation she had
taken little note of their characters or domestic life, and her
mother had kept herself even more secluded. Indeed the
poor lady felt that it was hardly right to smile in view of her
husband's absence and misfortune, and she often chided Belle
for her levity ; but Belle's life was like an over-full fountain in
spring time, and could not be repressed.

In her deep abstraction Mildred had seen, but had scarcely
noted, certain changes in the farm house that would have in-
terested and pleased her had her mind b^en at .rest. Almost
unconsciously she had revealed her love of that which is pretty
and inviting ; therefore Susan, not content with being neat,
was inclined to brighten her costume by an occasional ribbon,
and to suggest comparisons between her fresh and youthful
bloom and an opening flower that she would fasten in her hair
as the summer day declined. So far from resenting this imi-
tation of her own habits and tastes, Mildred at last recognised
the* young girl's awakening perceptions of womanly grace with
much satisfaction. Even poor MrSc Atwood exhibited a ten-
dency to emerge from her chronic and rather forlorn condition
of household drudge. For years she had known and thought
of little else save sordid work, early and late. The income
from the small farm permitted no extra help except on rare
ppcasions, and then was obtained under protpst fpom her h|is-

ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE.

16 income

I band, who parted with a dollar as he would with a refractory
tooth. His strong and persistent will had impressed itself on
his family, and their home life had been meagre and uninvit*
ing ; the freedom and ease that he and Roeer were so loath to
lose, consisting chiefly in careless dress and a disregard of the
little refinements and courtesies of life.

It was with some self-reproach that Mildred admitted that
for nearly a month she had practically ignored these people,
and that she was becoming selfish in her trouble ; and yet,
not so mu-^h from a sense of duty, as from a kindling zest in
life, she began to take an interest in them and their ways.
She was still far too young for her spirit to lose its spring,
even under a continuous weight of misfortune. Her nature
was not morbid, but sunny and wholesome, and when with the
children and Belle, unexpected smiles would brighten her face
like glints of sunshine here and there on a cloudy day. Deep
as had been her wounds, she found that there were moments
when she half forgot their pain, and an instinct of self-preser-
vation taught her that it would be best to forget them as far
as possible.

When the thought of trying to refine the somewhat rude
household in which she dwelt occurred to her, she discovered
that the work was already well begun, for the chief condition
of success was present — the disposition to do as she would like.
The Atwoods soon surmised that the family was in trouble of
some kind, and were able to distinguish between pride of caste
and a sorrowful preoccupation. It was scarcely in Mrs. Joce-
lyn or Mildred's nature to speak otherwise than gently and
kindly, and so without trying they disarmed their hosts and
won their sympathy. Notwithstanding their dejection and
las&itude, they maintained the habits of their lives, and unwit-
tingly gave Mrs. Atwood api her daughter a vague impression
that neatness, attractiveness, and order were as essential as
good morals.

At first Roger had dressed more roughly than ever, in order
to assert his right to his old ways, but as Mildred did not pro-
test even by a glance, he next took pains to show her that he
had ' good «lothes * if he chose to wear them. This fact she
also accepted without the faintest interest, and so at last he was
ri^ther nonplus8e4. ^P ^^ i^ot accustomed to being poliU ty

WITHOUT A HOME.

ignored, and since he felt a growing interest in this new type
of a girl, he had an increasing desire to make her aware of his
existence. * Hang it all,' he would mutter, ' Tm no more to
her than Jotham and the other farm animals. What can a fel-
low do to make her look at him as if she saw him. She's very
kind and polite and all that ; she'd as soon hurt the brindlo
cow as me, but this fact is not very flattering. However, I'll
find you out, my lady, and you too shall learn that the one
whom you now regard as an object merely, has a will and a
way of his own.'

Therefore it may be guessed that, in Roger, Mildred might
discover more docility and plastic readiness than she desired.
Only old Mr. Atwood and Jotham seemed incorrigible mate-
rial ; but she did not despair even of them, and resolved to set
about reclaiming this family from barbarism at once.

CHAPTER VII.

COMPARISONS.

*^^RS. ATWOOD,* said Mildred, one Saturday evening,
jll^ylL * I'll go with you to church to-morrow, if you'll let
^%$^ me. Belle has been once, and it will be my turn to-
morrow.'

' Oh, certainly, miss ; you will go with Roger in the buggy,
Is'pose, like Miss fiellc.'

' If you please, I would rather go with you.'

* Really, miss, the roads have been muddy of late, and the
waggon isn't very nice.'

' I would rather go with you,' pleaded Mildred, with an ap-
peal in her blue eyes that few resisted.

* Father,' said Mrs. Atwood, as soon as her husband came in,
* Miss Jocelyn wishes to go with us to meeting to-morrow.
Can't you or Roger tidy up the waggon a bit.1 'Tain't fit for
her to ride in.'

COMPARISONS.

' There 'tis again — more time spent in fixing up and fussing
than in looking after the main chance. You are all gettin' too
tine for plain farmin' people.'

' 1 don't see why plain farmigg people need enjoy mud more'n
rther folks. You ought to be ashamed to ask your wife and
Juughter to ride in such ^ waggon.'

* I don't know why I should be more ashamed to-morrow
than on any other Sunday, and you was never ashamed before.
Your boarders don't seem inclined to take any rides and pav
for them, so I don't see why I should fix up any more'n usual.
Anyhow, it'*s too late now ; Jotham's gone home, I'm too tired,
and Roger's dressed to go out. Why can't she go with
Roger r

' She says she'd ftither go with us, and if you men-folks let
hor ride in that waggon I hope the minister will give you a
Bcorching sermon '--and she turned towards her son, who,
dre88ed in his rui-al finery, was finishing an early supper. To
her surprise, he, frofn whom she expected no aid, gave her a
significant nod, and put his finger on his lips. He had already
decided upon one bold stratagem, in the hope of opening Mil-
dred's eyes, and if this failed, bis mother's words suggested
another line of policy.

' Sue,' he said, with affected carelessness, ' I may bring Amelia
Stone to spend part of the evening with you.'

'Amelia Stone isn't my style, if the young men do say she's
the prettiest girl in town.'

' If you don't treat her well she'll think you're jealous,' said
Roger, and with this artful stroke he departed to carry out
his experinfient. ' I'll teach my city lady that I'm not a clod-
hopper that other girls won't look at,' he thought, as he drove
away.

Everything went according to his mind, for Amelia broke an
engagement in order to come with him, and was very friendly.
The young fellow thought that Mildred must see that he was
iLot a person to be politely ignored, when so handsome a girl
was flattering in her favours. Susan would not be thought
jealous for the world, and so was rather effusive over Miss
Stone; she also imbibed the idea that it might be a good
chance to make Mildred aware that they knew some nice,
stylish people; therefore, as the rural beauty mourted the

WITHOUT A HOME.

Bteps of the porch, she introduced her to Mildred and Belle.
Boeer meanwhile stood near, and critically compared the two
girls. They certainly represented two very different types,
and he might have hrought a sqgre of his acquaintances tliat
would have been more to Mildred's taste than the florid beauty
whose confidence was boldness, and who had inventoried her
own pronounced charms more often than had any of her ad-
mirers. One girl was a lily, with a character like a delicate,
elusive fragrance ; the other a tulip, very striking, especially
at a distance. The one no more asserted herself than did the
summer evening ; the manner of the other the same as button-
holed all present, and demanded*attention. Her restless black
eyes openly sought admiration, and would speedily sparkle
with anger and malice should their requeiSt be unrewarded.
Boger was quick enough to feel Mildred's superiority, although
he coiiid scarcely account for it, and he soon experienced so
strong a revulsion of feeling towards his unconscious ally, that
he would have taken her home again with a sense of relief.

* If Miss Jocelyn thinks that's the style of girl that takes
with me, I might as well have remained a scarecrow. Amelia
Stone seems loud as a brass band beside her,' acd his gallant-
ries perceptibly diminished.

True to her nature, Amelia assumed toward him what she
imagined were very pretty airs of proprietorship. Roger
knew well that ner manner would have been the same toward
the youth with whom, from a sudden caprice, she had broken
her engagement for the evening. Her habitual coquetry
nevertheless unwittingly carried out his original programme
with a success that made him grind his teeth with rage, for he
supposed that Mildred would gain the idea that they were con-
genial spirits drawn together by strong affinities.

And she, half divining his vexation, shrewdly increased it
by pretending to associate him with the transparent coquette,
while at the same time manifesting disapproval of her by a
fine reserve. Amelia felt herself scanned quietly, coldly, and
half curiously, as if she belonged to some strange and hitherto
unknown type, and her vivacious egotism began to fail her.
She was much relieved therefore when Mildred excused her-
self and went to her room, for careless, light-hearted, and
001916 what ^iddy Belle imposed no restraint I(oger, however,

COMPARISONS.

did not recover himself, for he saw that he had made a false
step in his effort to win recognition from Mildred, and he
waited impatiently until his companion should suggest re-
turning. This she soon did, and they rode toward her home
with a mutual sense of dissatisfaction. At last Amelia broke
out, ' I think she's absurdly proud ! '

• Who 1 ' Roger asked demurely.

' You know who well enough. I thank my stars we have
no city folks putting on airs around our house. I suppose you
think her perfection. You looked as if you did.'

' I'm not acquainted with her,' he said quietly.

' Not acquainted ! Darsn't you -speak to her high mighti-
ness then ? '

< Oh, yes, I can speak to her when there is occasion, but
that does not make one acquainted. I don't understand her.'

' I do, perfectly. She thinks herself a wonderful deal bet>
ter than you or me.'

' Perhaps she is,' he admitted.

' Well ! that's a nice speech to make to^m^ / I was a fool to
brei.k my engagement and go with you.' '

' All right,' responded Roger, with satirical good-nature, as
he assisted her to alight ; ' we'll both know better next time.'

She would not speak to him again, but he escorted her to
her door, and bowed in parting with mocking politeness. In-
stead of inviting him in, as was her custom, she closed the
door with a sharpness that spoke volumes.

'I don't believe ^iss Jocelyn ever banged a door like that
in her life,' he muttered with a smile as he hastened home-
ward.

Hearing unusual sounds in the farm-yard before retiring,
Mildred peeped out from under her curtain. The moonlight
revealed that Roger was washing the waggon with a vigour that
made her laugh, and she thought, 'After what I have seen this
evening, I think I can civilijse him.'

WITHOUT A HOME.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHANGES.

-«-»

|5> ENT upon carrying out her project of introducing among
the Atwoods a more gracious and genial family life,
and lured by the fresh coolnesaof the summer morning,
Mildred left her room earlier than usual. Mrs. Atwcod, whose
one indulger ^ -^as a longer sleep on the day of rest, came
down not very long after and began bustling about the kitchen.
Hitherto their meals had been served to the Jocelyns in the
sitting-room, the farmer and his family eating as before in the
kitchen. Mildred felt that they had no right to impose this
extra labour on Mrs. Atwood, especially on the Sabbath, and
she also thought it would do her mother good to be roused
from the listless apathy into which she was sinking. These
were her chief motives, but she knew that at no other place
could people be taught the refinements of life more effectual-
ly than at the table, and it was her plan to bring about the
changes she desired, without appearing to be the conscious
causa

* Mrs. Atwood,' she said, * why can we not all take our
breakfast together in the sitting-room this morning ? I have
noticed that your hired man is absent on Shindays ' — her zeal
for reform would not induce her to sit down with Jotham—
' and I can see no reason why you should have the task to-day
of preparing two meala Of course, if this is not agreeable to
you let there be no change, but do not put yourself to the extra
i/ouble on our account.'

* Well, now, miss, you are very kind, and to tell you the
truth, I was thinking of this very thing, but we don't wish to
intrude.'

' Intrude, Mrs. Atwood I ' exclaimed Mildred, assuming sur-
prise. * 1 don't understand you, and shall now feel hurt if w:
do not take our meals together to-day.'

* It's very good of you to think of us, and Susan and me will
have a more restful day.

CHANGES.

le conscious

Mildred gave her one of her rare smiles, which Mrs. At wood
iid ' lighted the old kitchen like a ray of sunshine,' and then
rent to prepare her mother and sister for the change. Belle
ras pleased, as she ever was with novelty.

' Millie,' she cried, * you shall sit next to that great ani-
lal, Jobham, and if you don't take care he'll eat you up un-
kwares.'

' Jotham is not here to-day, and I'll have him fed in the
dtchen hereafter.'

< Have you become mistress of the farm-house 1 Has Roger

lade proposals ) Won't it be fun to hear Mr. Atwood grum-

)le ! There is nothing I enjoy more than to hear him grumble

tnd old Gruff growl. They must be chips off the same

)lock.'

Mrs. Jocelyn shrank from seeing and speaking to anyone,
)ut was much too unselfish to impose extra tasks on Mrs.
Ltwood.

Susan soon came down to assist her mother, and was de-
lighted at the prospect of taking her meals in the sitting-room,
feeling that it was a decided social promotion. Moreover, like
til young girls, she longed for companionship, and believed
bhat Mildred would now be more approachable.

By and Sy Roger came from the barn-yard in his working-
clothes, and seeing no preparations for breakfast in the kitchen,
exclaimed,

* So we heathen must sit down to the second table to-day.'

' Yes, if you wish. Susan and me are going to take our
)reakfast in the sitting-room with Mrs. Jocelyn and her
family.'

' Am I not invited 1 ' he asked a littU anxiously.

' There's no need of any invitation. You have as much
right there as I have, only I would not come in looking like
that.'

' They won't like it — this new arriangement.'

' It seems to me that you have grown very considerate of
rhat they like/ put in Susan.

' Miss Jocelyn proposed it herself,' Mrs. Atwood said, ' and
If you and father would fix up a little and come in quietly and
laturally it would save a deal of trouble. If I can't get a little
test on Sunday I'll wear out.'

WITHOUT A HOME.

Koger waited to hear no more, and went hastily to his
room.

Mr. Atwood was more intractable. He distinguished the
Sabbath from the rest of the week, by making the most of his
larger leisure to grumble.

*' I'm in no state to sit down with those people/ he growled,
after the change and the reasons for it had been explained to
kim.

' I'm glad you feel so/ his wife replied ; ' but your old
clothes have not yet grown fast to you ; you can soon fix your-
self up, and you might as well dress before breakfast as
after it'

He was perverse, however, and would make no greater con-
cession to the unwelcome innovation than to put en his coat.
Mildred smiled mentally when she saw him lowering at the
head of the table, but an icicle could no more continue freezing
in the ?uu, than he maintain his surly mood beforo her genial,
quiet greeting. It suggested courtesy so irresistibly, and yet
so unobtrusively, that he already repented bis lack of it. Still,
not for the world would he have made anyone aware of his
compunctions. Mrs. Atwood and Susan had their doubts about
Boger, fearing that he would rebel absolutely and compel a
return to their former habits. They were all scarcely seated,
however, before he appeared, a little flushed from his hasty
toilet and the thought of meeting one who had been cold and
disapproving toward the belle of Forestville, but Mildred said
< good morning ' so affably and naturally, that he was made quite
at ease, and Mrs. Jocelyn, who had seemed unapproachable,
smiled upon him so kindly that he was inclined to believe her
almost as pretty as her daughter. As for Belle and the child*
ren, he already felt well acquainted with them. Mrs. Atwood
and Susan looked at each other significantly, for Roger was |
dressed in his best and disposed to do his best Mildred saw I
the glance, and felt that the young fellow deserved some re-
ward, so she began talking to him in such a matter-of-course
way that before he was aware he was responding with a free-
dom that surprised all the family, and none more than himself.
Mildred was compelled to admit that the ' young barbarian,'
as she had characterized him in her thoughts, possessed, in the
item of intelligence, much good raw material He not only

CHjINOES.

had ideas, but also the power of expressing them with freshness
and vivracity. She did not give herself sufficient credit for the
effects that pleased her, or understand that it was her good
breeding and good will that banished his tongue-tied embar-
rassment. The most powerful influences are usually the most
subtle, and Roger found, as had Vinton Arnold and others,
that for some cause Mildred evoked the best there was in
him.

Poor Mrs. Jocelyn did not have very much to say. Her
depression was too deep to be thrown off appreciably, but she
replied to Mrs. Atwood's remarks with her wonted gentleness.
Belle's spirits 3oon passed all bounds, and one of her wild sal-
lies provoked a grim smile even from Mr. Atwood, and she ex-
ulted over the fact all day. In brief, the ice seemed quite
broken between the family and the * boarders.'

The old farmer could scarcely believe his eyes when he went
out to harness the horses to the three-seated waggon, for it was
neat and clean, with buffalo robes spread over the seats.
* Well,* he ejaculated, * what's a-coming over this family, any-
way 1 I'm about all that's left of the old rusty times, and
rusty enough I fee!, with everybody and everything so fixed
up. I s'pose I'll have to stand it Sundays, and the day'U be
harder to git through than ever. To-morrow I'll be back in
the kitchen a^ain, and can eat my victuals without Miss Joce-
lyn looking on and saying to herself, " He ain't nice ; he don't
look pretty ; " and then ashowin' me by the most delicate lit-
tle ways how I ought to perform. She's got Roger under her
thumb or he wouldn't have cleaned up this waggon in the mid-
dle of the night, for all I know, but I'm too old and set to be
made over by a girl.'

Thus grumbling and mumbling to himself, Mr. Atwood
prepared to take his family to the white, tree-shadowed meet-
inghouse, at which he seldom failed to appe.^r, for the not very
devotional reason, that it helped him to get through the day.
Like the crab-apple tree in the orchard, ho was a child of the
soil, and savoured too much of his source.

Roger was a great advance, and while possessing his father's
shrewdness, hard common-sense and disposition to hit the
world between the eyes if it displeased him, his nature was
ready at slight incentive, to throw cH all coaioiness and vul-

WITHOUT A HOME.

garity. Tlie greater number of forceful American citizens are
recruited from the ranks of just such young men, strong, com-
paratively poor, somewhat rude in mind and person at the
start, but of such good material that they are capable of a fine
finish.

Roger had grown naturally, and healthily, thus far. He
had surpassed the average boy on the play-ground, and had
fallen slightly below him in the school-house, but more from
indifference and self-assurance than lack of ability. Even his
father's narrow thrift could not complain of his work when
he would work, but while a little fellow he was inclined to in^
dependence, and persisted in having a goodiy share of his
time for the boyish sports in their season, and tor all the books
of travel and adventure he could lay his hands upon. In
spite of scoldings and whippings he had sturdily iield his own,
and at last his father had aiscovered that he could be led much
better than driven, and that by getting him interested, and by
making little agreements, like that concerning the buprgy, he
could always get the best of the bargain, for the youth would
then work with a will and carry out his verbal contracts in a
large, good-natured way. Therefore Mildred's belief that he
was good raw material for her humanizing little experiment
had a better foundation than she knew. Indeed, without in
the least intending it, k^he might awaken a spirit that would
assert itself in ways as yet undreamed of by either of them.
The causes which start men upon their careers are often seem-
ingly the most slight and casual. Mildred meant nothing
more than to find a brief and kindly-natured pastime in soft-
ening the hard lines and in rounding the sharp angles of the
Atwood family, and Hoger merely came in for his share of her
attention. Flesh and spirit, however, are not wood and stone,
and she might learn in deep surprise that her light aesthetic
touches, while producing pleasing changes in externals, had
also awakened some of ,the (profoundest motives and forces
that give shape and colour to life.

In smiling ignorance o' such possibilities, she said to him as
she came out on the porch dressed for church, ' You have given
your mother and me also a pleasant surprise, and we shall en-
joy our ride to church far more, not only because the waggon
is nice and clean, but ^because of your thoughtfulness for our

CHANGES.

;izen8 are

pleasure. The waggon looked so inviting from our windows,
that I have induced my mother to go and to take the children.
I think they will keep still. We will sit near the door, and I
can take them out if they get tired.'

' Yuu gave me a pleasant surprise also/ he said, flushing
deeply.

' J r with a questioning glance.

'Yes. You have brought about a pleasant change, and
made breakfast something more than eating. Yuu have made
me feel that I might be less nigh of kin to Jotham than I
feared.'

' I shall imitate your frankness,' she replied, laughing. * You
are not so nigh of kin to him as I feared.'

' I have not forgotten that you thought me identical with
him,' he could not forbear saying.

' I did not mean to hurt your feelings/ she answered, with
deepening colour.

' Oh, you were not to blame in the least,' he said, good-
naturedly. ' I deserved it'

' You must remember, too,' she continued, deprecatingly,
' that I am a city girl, and not acquainted with country ways,
and so have charity.' Then she added, earnestly, * We do not
want to put a constraint on your family life, or make home
seem less homelike to you all.'

Mrs. Jocelyn with Belle and the children were descending
the stairs. *I misunderstood you, Miss Jocelyn,' said Roger,
with a penitent look, and he strode hastily away.

'I've disarmed hinfi,' thought Mildred, with a half smile.
She had, a little too completely.

Belie claimed her old place with Roger, and their ligLt wag-
gon was soon lost in the windings of the road.

'Millie,' whispered Belle, as the former joined her at
church, ' what could you have said to Roger to make him
fiffervesce so remarkably ) I had to remind him that it was
Sunday half a dozen times.

" What a great boy he k ! ' answered Mildred.

' The idea of my teaching him sobriety seemed to amuse
him amazingly.'

' And no wonder. You are both giddy children.'

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Until to-day, when you have turned his head, he has been
very aged in manner. Please let him alone hereafter ; he is
my property.'

' Keep him wholly,' and the amused look did not pats from
Mildred's face until service began.

Dinner was even a greater success than breakfast. Mrs.
Jocelyn had become better acquainted with Mrs. At wood dur-
ing the drive, and they were beginning to exchange house-
keeping opinions with considerable freedom, each feeling that
she could learn from the other. Fearing justly that a long
period of poverty might be before them, Mrs. Jocelyn was
awakening to the need of acquiring some of Mrs. Atwood's
power of making a little go a great way, and the thought of
thus becoming able to do something to assist her absent hus-
band gave her more animation than she had yet shown in her
exile. Mildred venturad to fill her vase with some hardy
flowers that persisted in blooming under neglect, and to place
it on the table, and she was greatly amused to see its effect on
Roger and Mr. Atwood. The latter stared at it and then at
his wife.

' Will any one take some of the flowers ) ' he asked at last,
in ponderous pleasantry.'

* I think we all had better take some, father,' said Roger. ' 1
would not have believed that so little a thing could have made
so great a diflerence.'

* Well, what is the difference 1 *

* I don't know as I can express it, but it suggests that a
great deal might be enjoyed that one could not put in his
mouth or his pocket.'

* Mr. Roger, cried Belle, ' you are coming on famousl> . I
didn't know that you were inclined, hitherto, to put everything
you liked in your mouth or pocket. What escapes some peo-
ple may have had.'

' I never said I liked you,' retorted the youth, with a touch
of the broad repartee with which he was accustomed to hold
his own among the girls in the country.

' No, but if I saw that you liked some one else I might be
alarmed' — and she looked mischievously toward Mildred.

For reasons inexplicable to himself, he fell into a suddeD
confusion at this sally.

CHANGES.

With a warning glance at the incorrigible Belle, whose vital
elements were frolic and nonsense, Mildred began talking to
Mr. Atwood about the great hotel a few miles distant.

• Would you like to go there 1 ' asked Roger after a little.

< No,' she said ; * I have not the slightest wish to go there.'
Indeed there was nothing that she shrank from more than the
chance of meeting those who had known her in the city.

Later in the day Susan said to her mother, with much satis-
faction, ' She's not stuck up at all, and we might have found
it out before. I can't go back to the kitchen and live in our
old haphazard way. I can see now .hat it wasn't nice at all.'

' We'll see,' said the politic Mrs. Atwood. * We mustn't
drive father too fast.'

Roger felt that at last he was getting acquainted, and he
but looked forward to the long summer evenings with much
hope. But nothing happened as he expected, for Mildred was
silent and preoccupied at supper, and Mis. Jocelyn appeared
to have relapsed into her old depression.

Instead of going out in his buggy to spend the evening with
one of his many favourites, as had been his custom, he took a
book and sat down under a tree near the porch, so that he
might join Mildred if slie gave him any encouragement to do
80. Belle found him taciturn and far removed from his gay
mood of the morning, and so at last left him in peace.

Sue was entertaining a rural admirer in the parlour, which
was rarely used except on such momentous occasions, and all
was propitious for a quiet talk with the object of his kindling
interest. His heart beat quickly as he saw her appear on the
porch with her hat and shawl, but instead of noticing him she
went rapidly by with bowed head and climbed an eminence
near the house, from whence there was an extended view to
tlie southward. He felt, as well as saw, that she wished to be
alone, that he was not in her thoughts, that she was still as
distant from him as he had ever imagined her to be. The
shadows deepened, the evening grew dusky, the stars came out,
and yet she did not return. For a long time he could see her
outline as she sat on the hill top, and then it faded. He knew
she was in trouble, and found a vague pleasure in watching
with her, in remaining within call should she be frightened,
knowing, how^ever, that there was little danger of this in quiet

WITHOUT A HOME.

Forestville. Still, the illusion that he was in some sense her
protector pleased hi;n in his sentimental mood, and in after
years be often recalled this first faint foreshadowing of bis
lot.

Could he have seen the poor girl, when at last, conscious of
solitude and darkness, she gave way to the passionate grief
that, for her mother's sake, she had so long repressed, he
would have felt that she was distant indeed- -far removed by
experiences, of which he as yet knew nothing. She had been
gazing southward, towakd the city in which her father was
vainly seeking a foothold on the steep incline up which the un-
fortunate must struggle, and in fancy she saw him lonely, de-
jected, and deprived of the family life of which ha was so fond.
Her sympathy for him was as deep as her trong affection.
But in spite of her will her thoughts would recur to the beau-
tiful dream which had been shattered at that distant city.
Not a word had she heard from Arnold since leaving it, and
her heart so misgave her concerning the future that she t\\T°iVf
herself on the sod, sobbing bitterly, and almost wishing that
she were beneath it and at rest. In the deep abstraction of
her grief she had scarcely noted the lapse of time, nor where
she was, and the moon had risen when she again glided by
Koger, her step and bearing suggesting lassitude and dejection.

Soon after he entered the sitting-room, where he found his
mother with a troubled look on her face. ' Roger,' she said,

* I feel sorry for these people. When I went up stairs a while
ago I heard Mrs. Jocelyn crying in her room, and coming
down with the lamp I met the young lady on the stairs, and
her eyes were very red. It's certain they are in deep trouble.
What can it be I It's queer Mr. Jocelyn doesn't come to see
them. I hope they are all right'

* Mother,' he burst out impetuously, ' they are all right — she
is, anyway,' and he went abruptly to his room.

* Well,' remarked the bewildered woman sententiously,

* there never were such goings on in the old house before.'

An event momentous to her had indeed taken place — Roger's
boyish days were over.

NEITHER BOY NOR MAN.

CHAPTER IX.

NEITHER BOT NOR HAN.

I HE two foAowirig woeks passed uneventfully at the farm-
house, but silent forces were at work that were as quiet
and effective as those of Nature, who makes her vital
changes without ever being observed in ^^e act In respect to
the domestic arrangements Mrs. Atwood effected a sensible
compromise. She gave the men -folk an early breakfast in
the kitchen, so that they might go to their work as usual, aud
her boarders were thus not compelled to rise at an unaccus-
tomed !iour. She and Susan afterward sat down with them,
and Mr. Atwood and Roger joined them at dinner and supper.
On the Monday following the scenes described in the last
chapter, Mildred and Mrs. Jocelyn were listless and unable to
recover even the semblance of cheerfulness, for a letter from
Mr. Jocelyn informed them that he was making very little
headway, and that some agencies which he accepted yielded
but a scanty income. Mildred chafed more bitterly than ever
over her position of idle waiting, and even grew irritable un-
der it. More than once Roger heard her speak to Belle and
the children with a sharpness and impatience which proved her
not angelic This did not greatly disturb him, for bo neither
' wanted to be an angel,' nor wished to have much to do with
uncomfortable perfection. A human, spirited girl was quite
to his taste, and he was quick-witted enough to see that un-
rest and anxiety were the causes of her temper. Poor Mrs.
Jocelyn was too gentle for irritation, and only grew more de-
spondent than ever at hope deferred.

' Millie,' she said, * 1 have dreadful forebodings, and can
never forgive myself that I did not think night and day how
to save instead of how to spend. W'.at should we do if we
had no money at all 1 '

' fielle and I must go to work,' said Mildred, with a reso-
lute face, 'and it's a shame we are not at work oow.'

WITHOUT A HOME.

* What can you do when your father can do so little t '

* Other people live ; so can we. I can't stand this wretched
waiting and separation much longer/ and she wrote as much
to her father. In the hope of obtaining a response favorable
to her wishes she became more cheerful.

One morning she fuund Mr. and Mrs. Atwood preparing to
go to the nearest market town with butter, eggs, and other
farm produce. She readily obtained permission to accompany
them, and made some mysterious purchases. From this time
onward Roger observed that she was much in her room, and
that she went out more for exercise than from the motive of
getting through with the weary, idle hours. Fur some reason
she also gained such an influence over thoughtless Belle that
the latter took tolerably good care of little Fred and Minnie,
as the children were familiarly called. While she maintained
toward him her polite and friendly manner, he saw that he
was forgotten, and that it had not entered her mind that he
could ever do anything for her or be anything more to her
than at the present time. But every hour she gained a
stronger hold upon his sympathy, and occasionally, when she
thought herself unobserved, he saw a troubled and almost
fearful look come into her eyes, as if something were present
to her imagination that inspired the strongest dread. At such
times he was mastered by impulses of self-sacrifice that would
have seemed very absurd if put into plain words. He kept
his thoughts, however, to himself, and with an instinctive
reticence sought to disguise even from his mother, the feel-
ings that were so new, and so full of delicious pain. That he
was becoming quite different from the careless, self-satisfied
yming fellow that he had been hitherto, was apparent to ail,
and after his outburst on Sunday evening his mother half
guessed the cause. But he misled her to some extent, and
Susan altogether, by saying, * Vve had a falling-out with
Acbelia Stone.'

' Well, she's the last girl in the world that I'd mope about
if I were a man,' was his sister's emphatic reply.

* You're not a man ; besides I'm not moping. I'm only cut-
tine my wisdom teeth. I want to do something in the world,
and I'm thinking about it.'

NEITHER BOY NOR MAN.

' Hti's a-growing/ said his mother with a smile, and on this
theory she usually explained all of her son's vagaries.

He still further misled his unsophisticated sister by making
no special effort to seek Mildred's society. After one or two
rather futile attempts he saw that he would alienate the sad-
hearted girl by obtrusive advances, and he contented himself
by trying to understand her, in the hope that at some future
time lie might learn to approach her more acceptably. The
tlioughf that she would soon leave' the farm-house depressed
him greatly.

During this period he was under the influence of neither
apathy nor dejection. On the contrary, his mind was surging
with half-formed plans, crude purposes, and ambitious dreams.
His liorizon lifted from the farm and Forestville until the'^^e
seemed space for a notable career. His soul kindled at the
thought of winning a position that would raise him to Mil-
dred'a side. So far from fearing to burn his ships, and strike
out unsupported, the impulse grew strongly to make the at-
tempt at any cost. He was sure that his father would not lis-
ten to the project, and that he would be wholly unaided, but
not many days passed before the thought of such obstacles
ceased to influence him. ' Til take my way through the world,
and cut my own swath,' he muttered a hundred times as he
swung the scythe under the Ju^y sun.

Moreover, he had a growing belief in his power to climb the
heights of success. His favourite books of travel and adventure
that he had devoured in boyhood made almost anything seem
possible, and the various biographies the vilage library furnished,
revealed grand careers in the face of enormous obstacles. His
mind was awaking like a young giant eager for achievement.
Even after the toil of long, hot days he took up his M scliool-
books in th ; solitude of his room, and found that he could review
them with the ease that he would read a story. ' I've got some
brains as well as muscle,' he would mutter, exultantly. ' The
time shall come when Mildred Jocelyn won't mistake me for
Jotham.'

Poor Mr. Atwood would have been in consternation had he
known what was passing in his son's mind ; and Mildred even
less pleased, for after all it was she who had inspired the

WITHOUT A HOME.

thoughts which were transforming him from a simple country
youth into an ambitious, venturesome man.

He knew of but one way to please her, but he made the
most of that, and worked quietly but assiduously whenever he
could without exciting his father's opposition. After the day's
tasks were over the time was his own. He began by cutting
all the weeds and grass in the door-yard and around the house.
Palings that had disappeared from the fence were replaced,
and all were whitewashed.

Mrs. Atwood and Suaan were greatly pleased at the changes,
but thought it politic not to say much about them ; one even-
ing, however, his father began to banter him, remarking that
Roger must be intending to * bring home a wife some fine
morning/ The young fellow reddened resentfully, and
brusquely retorted that they * had lived in their old slovenly
way long enough. People might well think they were going
to the bad.'

This practical view somewhat reconv*,iled his father to the
new ideas, and suggested that Roger was not so daft as he
feared. A little time after he was led to believe his son to be
shrewder than himself. Needing some money, he took a note
to the bank with much misgiving, but was agreeably surprised
when one of the officers said affably, * I think we can accom-
modate you, Mr. Atwood. I was by your place the other day,
and it is so improved that I scarcely knew it. Thrift and
credit go together.'

But Mildred doubted whether thrift and policy were tht
only motives which had led to Roger's unwonted action, and
believed rather that he had awakened to a perception of thej
value and attractiveness of those things which hitherto he had
not appreciated.

Toward evening Mildred started out for a walk, but uttered
an exclamation of surprise as the flower-borders were bright
with verbenas, heliotrope, geraniums, and other bedding plant&
Roger's buggy stood near, containing two large empty boxei,
as he was ju'^t raking the beds smooth once more in order to
finish his task.

' Why, Mr. Atwood !' she cried, * it has long seemed to maj
that a good fairy was at work around this house, but this is
master-stroke.'

NEITHER BOY NOE MAN.

< If you are pleased, I am well repaid/ he replied, the coloar
deepening on his sunburnt cheeks.

' If I am pleased 1 ' she repeated in surprise, and with a
faint answering colour. ' Why, all will be pleased, especially
yuur mother and Susan.

' No doubt, but I thought these would look more like what
you had been accustomed to.'

' Really, Mr. Atwood, I hope you have not put yourself to
all this trouble on my account.'

' I have not put myself to any trouble. But you are in
trouble, Miss Jocelyn, and perhaps these flowers may enliven
you a little.'

' I did not expect such kindness, such thoughtfulness. I do
not see that I am entitled to so much consideration,' she said
hesitatingly, at the same time fixing on him a penetrating
glanci^

Although he was much embarrassed, his clear black eyes
met hers without wavering, and he asked, after a moment,
• Could you not accept it, if it were given freely 1 *

' I scarcely understand you,' she replied in some perplexity.

< Nor do I understand you, Miss Jocelyn. I wish I did, for
then I might do more for you.*

•No, Mr. Atwood,' she answered gravely, *you do not un-
derstand me. Experience has made me immeasurably older
than you are.'

'Very possibly,' he admittei, with a short, embarrassed
laugh. * My former self assurance and complacency are all
gone.'

'Self-reliance and self-restraint are better than self-assur-
ance,' she remarked with a smile.

< Miss Jocelyn,' he began, with something like impetuosity,
' I would give all the world if I could become your friend.
You could do so much for me.'

' Mr. Atwood,' said Mildred, with ar laugh that was mixed
with annoyance, *yt>a are imposed upon by your fancy, and
are iaiagining absurd things, I fear. But you are good-hearted
and I shall be a little frank with you. We are in trouble.
Business reverses have overtaken my father, and we are poor,
and may be much poorer. I may be a working woman the rest

WITHOUT A HOME.

of my days ; so, for Heaven's sake, do not make a heroine out
of me. That would be too cruel a satire on my prosaic lot'

* You do not understand me at all, and perhaps I scarcely
understand myself. If you think my head it filled with senti-
mental nonsense, time will prove you are mistaken. I have a
will of my own, I can assure you, and a way of seeing what is
to be seen. I have seen a great deal since I've known you.
A new and larger world has been revealed to me, and I mean
to do something in it worthy of a man. I can never go on
with my old life, and I will not,' he continued, almost passion-
ately. * I was an animal. I was a conceited fool. I'm very
crude and unformed now, and may seem to you vt^y ridiculous;
but crudity is not absurdity, undeveloped strength .'s not weak-
ness. An awakening mind may hn very awkward, but give me
time and you will not be ashamed of my friendship.'

* Mr. Atwood, I'm sure I wish you twice the success you
crave in life, and I've no reason to think you overrate your
power to achieve it ; but you greatly overrate me. It would
be no condescension on my part to give my friendship ; and no
doubt if you attain much of the success you covet, you will be
ready enough to forget my existence. What induces you to
think that a simple girl like me can help you 1 It seems to me
that you are vague and visionary, which perhaps is natural,
since you say you are just awakening/ she concluded with a
little smiling sarcasm.

' You are unjust both to yourself and me,' he replied firmly,
* and I think I can prove it. If I shall ever have any power in
the world it will be in seeing clearly what is before me. I
have seldom been away from this country town, and yet as
soon as I saw you with a mind free from prejudice, I recog-
nized your superiority. I brought the belle of Forestvillo and
placed her by your side, and I could think of nothing but
brazen instruments until I left her loudness at her fathers
door. I wcnld not go near her again, if there were not
another woman in the world. I saw at a glance that she was
darthenware beside you.'

Mildred now could not forbear laughing openly. * If you
lose your illusions so rapidly,' she said, ' my turn will come
soon, and I shall be china beside some fine specimen of
majolica.'

NEITHER BOY NOR MAN.

< You may laugh at me, but you will one day find I am sin*
cere, and not altogether a fool.'

' Oh, I'm rea<Iy to admit that even now. But you are alto-
gether mistaken in thinking I can help you. Indeed 1 can
scarcely see how I can help myself. It is a very poor proof of
your keen discernment to associate me with your kindling
ambition.'

' Then why had you the power to kindle It 1 Why do I
think my best thoughts in your presence ) Why do I speak
to you now as I never dreamed I could speak ? You are giv-
ing purpose and direction to my life, whether you wish it or
not, whether you care or not. You may always be indifferent
to the fact, still it was your hand that wakened me. I admit
I'm rather dazed as yet. You may think that I'm talking to
you with the frankness — perhaps the rashness — of a boy, since
you are " immeasurably older," but the time is not very dis-
tant when I shall take my course with the strength and reso-
lution of a man.'

' I should be sorry to be the very innocent cause of leading
you into thorny paths. I truly think you will find more bappi*
ness here in your quiet country life.'

His only answer was an inpatient gesture.

* Perhaps,' she resumed, * if you knew more of the world
you would fear it more. I'm sure I fear it, and with good rea-
son.'

* I do not fear the world at all,' he replied. ' I would
fear to lose your esteem and respect far more, and distant as
you are from me, I shall yet win them both.

' Mr. Atwood, I have as much vanity as most girls, but you
make me blush. You are indeed dazed, for you appear to take
me for a melodramic heroine.'

' Pardon me, I do not I've been to the theatre occasionally,
You are not like the heroines of the novels I've read, and I
suppose I've read too many of them.'

' 1 fear you have,' she remarked dryly. * Pray, then, what
am I like 1 '

' And I may seem to you a hero of the dime style ; but
wait, don't decide yet What are you like ? You are ex-
ceedingly fond of all that are pretty and refined, so much bo that

WITHOUT A HOME.

you tried to intioduce a little grace into our meagre, angular
farm-house life-—*

'Thanks for your aid/ interrupted Mildred, laughing. <I
' I must admit that you have good eyes.'

* You shrink/ he resumed, ' from all that's ugly, vulgar, or
coarse in life. You are an unhappy exile in our plain home.'

* All which goes to prove what an ordinary and unheroic
nature I have. You will soar far heyond me, Mr. Atwood, fur
you have portrayed a very weak character — one that is in luve
^ith the niceties of life, with mere prettiness.'

< You are still laughing at me, but I'm in earnest ; and if
you mean what you say, you understand yourself less than yoa
do me. Why will you not go to the hotel occasionally 1 i3e-
cause with all your gentleness you are too proud to run tiie
slightest risk of patronage and pity from those who knew
you in your more fortunate days. Why do you remain in
your little hot room so much of the time 1 I don't know ; but i
if you will permit a guess, you are working. Every day you
erow less content to sit still in helpless weakness. You are
far braver than I, for I do not fear the world in the least ; but
no matter how much you feared it, you would do your best to
the last, and never yield to anything in it thai was low, base or j
mean. Oh, you are very gentle, very delicate, and you will
be misunderstood ; but you have the strongest strength there i
is — a kind of strength that will carry you through everything,!
though it cost you dear.'

* And what :.iay that be 1 ' 8h<3 asked, looking at him now in |
genuine wonder.

* I can't explain exactly what I mean. It is something 1 1
have seen in mother, plain and simple as she is. It's a kind
of enduring steadfastn&^s ; it's a patient faithfulness. I should
know just where to find mother, and just what to expect from
her under all possible circumstances. I should never expt^ct
to see you very different fiom what you are, no matter wbatj
happened.'

* Mr. Atwood, what has put all this into your head ) Thisj
seems very^strange^language from you.'

* It is not so strange as it seems. It comes from the gift on I
which I base my hope of success in life. I see clearly and
vividly what is before me, and draw my conclusiooa If I see

..^

A COUNCIL.

the antlers of a stag above some bushes, it is not necessary to
see the whole animal to know that he is there, and what kind
of a creature he is. I'm not a scholar, Miss Jocelyn, but you
must not think that I do not know anything because I work
in the corn or hayfield all day. We have Ions winters up
here, and I've studied some and read a great deal more. There
I are few books in the village library that I have not read more
or less thoroughly, and some of them many times. Because I
I was a careless, conceited fellow a few weeks since, it does not
[follow that I'm an ignoramus.'

Mildred was decidedly puzzled. She could not account for
{the change in him; and she did not like to think of that to
which his words and feelings pointed. He asked for friend-
ship, but she strongly doubted whether such a placid regard
would long satisfy him. Her chief impulse was to escape, for
the bare thought of words of love from him or any one except
Vintou Arnold was intensely repugnant. As she glanced
around, seeking in what direction she might take her flight,
she saw a gentleman coming rapidly toward the house. After
a second's hesitation she rushed toward him, crying < Papa,
pepa, you are welcome ! '

CHAPTER X.

A COUNCIL.

OGrER saw Miss Jocelyn rush into the arms of a tall,
florid gentleman, whose dark eyes grew moist at the
almost passionate warmth of his daughter's greeting.
ITo Mildred her father's unexpected coming was thrice wel-
Icome, for in addition to her peculiarly strong affection for him,
Ihis presence ended an interview not at all agreeable, and pro-
Imised relief from further unwelcome attentions on the part of
iRoger. Almost in the moment of meeting, she resolved to
Ipersuade him that his family would be happier with him in
Ithe city. This had been her feeling from the first, but now

WITHOUT A HOME.

she was wholly bent on leaving the farm-house ; for with her
larger experience and womanly intuition she read in Roger's
frank and still half-boyish face the foreshadowing of an unwel-
come regard which she understood better than he did.

While his manner for a few weeks past, and especially his
words during their recent interview, made it clear that he was
not the rough, awkward rustic she had first imagined him to
be, he still eaeraed very crude and angular. In spite of her
love for Vinton Arnold, which had not abated in the least, he
had ceased to be her ideal man. Nevertheless, his refined
elegance, his quiet self-restraint, his knowledge of the niceties
and proprieties of the world to which she felt she belonged by
right, did combine to produce an ideal in her mind of which
she was but half conscious, and beside which Roger appeared
in a repulsive light. She shrank with instinctive distaste
from his very strength and vehemence, and feared that she
would never be safe from interviews like the one just described,
and from awkward, half-concealed gallantries. Even the
flowers he had set out became odious, for they represented a
sentiment the very thought of which inspired aversion.

Mildred, therefore, was heartily glad that Roger did not j
wait to be introduced to her father, and that he kept himself I
aloof from the reunited family during the evening. She also
was pleased that they were not joined by the Atwoods at the
supper-table. That this considerate delicacy was due to the
• young barbaria^i's ' suggestion she did not dream, but gave
good-hearted but not very sensitive Mrs. Atwood all the credit |
As for poor Roger, his quick insight, his power to guess some-
thing of people's thoughts and feelings from the expression of I
their faces, brought but little present comfort or promise for]
the future.

' I made a bad impression at the start,' he muttered, ' and I
it will be long before she loses it, if she ever does. She
shrinks from me as from something coarse and rough. She
feels that I don't belong to her world at all. In fact her fa-
ther's fine bearing, his erect, elegant carriage make me feel as |
if I were but a country lout in very truth.*

The reception given to Mr. Jocelyn satisfied Mrs. Atwood
thoroughly that his prolonged absence did not result from anyj
alienatioa from his family. They overwhelmed him witb

A COUNCIL.

caresses, and either Fred or Minnie could scarcely be kept out
of his arms a moment.

* Nan,' he said to his wife, * I almost made a vow that I
would not come here until I had secured a position that would
give you all the comforts of life, if not at once its luxuries ;
but such positions are occupied, and when one becomes vacant
they are filled by relatives of the firm, or by those who have
stronger claims than I can present. Still my friends are work-
i- ^ for me, and I have the prospect of employment where the
compensation will be small at first, but if I can draw a con-
siderable Southern trade it will be increased rapidly.'

And yet he sighed while revealing this hopeful outlook, and
Mildred noticed that he sighed more than once during the
evening, in spite of the torrent of affectionate welcome which
almost swept him away.

After Belle and the younger children were sleeping, the hus-
band and wife with Mildred talked late over their prospects.
Mr. Jocelyn suggested that they should remain in the country,
and even that they should rent a small cottage in Forestville
or elsewhere, but his gentle wife soon proved that on somr oc-
casions she could be decided.

' No, Martin/ she said, with the qaiet emphasis which re-
veals a purpose not to be combated, ' one thing is settled —
there must be no more separation. I have suffered too much
during these last few weeks ever to listen again to such an ar-
rangement Now that you are with us once more, I learn that
the ache in my heart was caused not so much by losses and
the prospect of poverty as by loneliness, and the feeling that
you were left to struggle by yourself. It's my place to be with
you, and I am willing to live anywhere and in any way. I
can see that I might have aided you in providing against this
evil tirna, but it seems now that I thought only of what we
wanted for each day as it came, and the trouble was that we
all got just what we wanted. Here is the result. Oh, I've
thought it over through long sleepless nights till my heart
ached with pain that I hope none of you will ever know. But
to sit idly here and wait while you are trying to retrieve my
folly is a greater punishment than I can endure. Give me
something to do which will be of help to you, and I will do it
gladly, even though it be in two attic rooms.'
£

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Marama'r right,' added Mildred earnestly. * Papa, you
must find a place for us in New York — a place within our
means. Let us begin life right this time, and I believe God
will bless and prosper us. It won't be many days before Belle
and I will find something to do.'

Mr. Jucelyn sighed more deeply than ever, and, indeed, ap-
peared so overcome for a few moments that he could not speak.

* Papa,' exclaimed Mildred, * would it not be infinitely more
bitter to s aU to eat the bread of charity 1 I shall pretend
to 1 > riatui al heroism, nor say 1 like toil and povert)^ On
thii vniita T, I think I shrink from such things more than
mos; ,U C.o But I don't propose to sit down and wring my
hands. I ca, . out them to a better use. We must just ])ut
away all talk of pride and sentiment, and remember only our
poverty and self-respect. As Christian and sensible people
we are bou:id to accept of our life and make the best of it.
You an«l mother both know how much this change has cost
me,' «:he concluded, with a few half-stitied sobs, ' and if I am
willing to enter on a cheerful, patient effort to make the best
of life as it is, I think all the rest might, too> If we give way
to despondency we are lost. Let us be together again, and
pull together as one.'

* The idea of Nan and the children coming back to the city
in August 1 ' said Mr. Jocelyn dejectedly. * You don't either
of you realize what you are talking about. We would have to
go into a tenement-house.'

* Martin, I do realize it,' replied his wife earnestly, * The
country is doing me no good — indeed I'm failing in health.
Nothing does us good when we are unhappy and anxious.
Find me two rooms in a tenement-house if we cannot afford
more, and let us be together as soon as possible.'

* VVell,' said Mr. Jocelyn, after a long breath, * with such a
wife and such children to work for, a man ought to be able to
do great things ; but it's much the same as it was in the army
— if one lost his place in the ranks he was hustled about in
everybody's way, and if weak and disabled he was left to his
fate. The world goes right on and over you if you don't stand
aside. I know you've suffered. Nan, and you know that if I
had my wish you would never have a care or a pain ; but God
knows I've suffered too. After you all were gone and my du*

A COUNCIL.

ties to my former partners ceased, I began to learn from ex-
perience how difficult it is in these cursed times to get a foot-
hold, and I became almost sleepless from anxiety. Then set
in that villainous neuralgia, which always strikes a man when
he's down, and for a week or more it seemed that I would al-
I most lose my reason.'

' Oh, Martin, Martin ! ' his wife exclaimed reproachfully,
{' and you did not let us know 1 '

' Why should II It would only have added to your burden,
land would not have helped me. I was glad you knew uoth-
ling about it.'

This is another proof that we must be together,' said his
[wife, her eyes filling with tears. * How did ^u come to get
I better.*

' Oil, the doctor gave me something that ir de ; sleep, and
|I seldom have neuralgia now.'

' Come, papa,' cried Mildred, as she put h ^ prms around
his neck and leaned her face against his, * '^here are thousands
f^orse otf than we are, and thousands mot r;/e retrieved far
foT&Q disasters. Now take courage ; we'll all stand by you,
ind we'll all help you. We will one day have a prettier home
than ever, and it will be all our own, so that no one can drive
IS from it ; ' and with hope springing up in her heart she tried
bo inspire hope and courage in theirs.

' Oh Millie,' he said, taking her on his lap, ' when you coax
ind pet one you are irresistible. We will begin again, and
rin back all and more than we have lost.'

Then, partly to amuse her father and mother, but more
Ifur the purpose of hastening their departure, Mildred told
[rhem of Roger's peculiar mood, and her conscience smote her a
little as she caricatured rather than characterised the youth.
VIrs. Jocelyn, in her kindliness, took his part, and said, ' Mil-
lie, you are satirical and unjust. I'm sure he's a well-mean-
[ng young man.'

'The dear little mother ! 'cried Mildred, laughing ; * when she
^an't think of any thing else good to say of a person, she assures
18 that he is " well-meaning." Life may bring me many mis-
fortunes, but I shall never marry what mamma calls ' a well-
leaning man." *

WITHOUT A HOME.

* But, Millie, I'm sure he's been very good and kind to us all,
and he's kind to his mother and sister, and he seems steady — '

* Well, mamma, admitting it all, what follows )' asked Mil-
dred.

* It follows that we had better go away,' said Mrs. Jocelyn,
with her low, sweet laugh, that had been rarely heard of late ;
' but I don't like you to be unjust to the young fellow. After
all, he's not so very much to blame, Millie,' she added with a
little nod. ' If I were he, I fear I might be in the same fix.'

' Oh, papa, now we must go ; for if mamma's sympathies are
once aroused in behalf of this "steady, well-meaning young
man" — there 1 I will talk no more nonsense tonight, althoiigli
I often find nonsense a sort of life-preserver that keeps ine
from sinking. I admit, mamma, that I have been unjust to
Mr. Atwood. He's far more clever than I ever imagined him
to be, but he is so different' — she finished the sentence with
a little repellent gesture that her mother well understood.

CHAPTER XI.

A SHADOW. r

^JRS. ATWOOD,' said Mildred the next morning, 'I

jJBSgft^ want to thank you for your kindness in giving us

^^^^^^ our supper alone with papa the first evening of his

arrival ; but you need not put yourself to any extra trouble to

day.'

* Roger is the one to thank,' replied Mrs. Atwood. ' He's
grown so different, so considerate like, that I scarcely Vnow
him any more than I do the old place, he's so fixed up. He says
he's going to paint the house after the summer work slacks oif.
I don't see what's come over him, but I like the change very
much.'

Mildred flushed slightly, but said with some constraint,
* Please thank him then from papa and mamma, but do not

A SilADOW.

let us make you furlner t. ouble. We sliall nil return to the
city soon, and then you will have easier timei every way.'

* I'm very sorry to hear that, Miss Jocelyn, for we shall miss
you all very much. You've done us good in more ways than
one.'

Roger did not appear at breakfast. ' A young horse strayed
from the pasture, and Roger is out looking for him,' his
mother explained when Mrs. Jocelyn asked after him.

Although not a member of any church, Mr. Jocelyn had
great respect for his wife and daughter's faith, and accom-
panied them to service that morning very readily. Roger ap-
peared in time to take Belle, as usual, but she found him so
taciturn and preoccupied that she whispered to Mildred,
' You've spoiled him for me. He sits staring like an owl in the
sunlight, and seeing just about as much. You ouj;ht to be
ashamed of yourself to make him so glum. I intend to have
a dozen beaux, and to keep thcin all jolly.'

Mildred was obliged to admit to herself that the young fel-
low was very undemonstrative at dinner, and that he did not
exhibit the rusticity that she half hoped to see. She gained
the impression that he was observing her father very closely,
and that no remark of his escaped him. ' He has the eyes of
a lynx,' she thought, with a frown. Still, apart from a certain
annoyance at his deep interest in her and all relating to her, she
was rather pleased at the impression which such a man as her
father must make on one so unsophisticated. Mr. Jocelyn was
a finished man of the world, and his large experience left its
impress on all that he said and did. Although a little
courtly in manner, he was so kindly and frank in nature that
his superiority was not at all oppressive, and with true South-
ern honlwmmie he made the farmer's family quite at ease, lead-
ing them to speak freely of their rural affairs. Susan soon
80 lost all sense of restraint that she began to banter her
brother.

' You must have had a very afflicting time in making up
with Amelia Stone to have stayed out so late,' she remarked
aoUo voce.

* I've not seen Amelia Stone since the evening she was here,*
lie answered dryly.

WITHOUT A HOMK.

' Indeed I what other charmer then tied you to her apron-
strings so tightly 1 You are very fickle.'

' Now you've hit it/ he answered, with a slight blush. < I
was so undecided that I drove by every door, and was nut
tied at all.'

Belle ' made eyes ' at Mildred, as much as to say, ' It's you
who are distracting him.'

' Next time,' Sue continued; ' I think it would be well to
make up your mind before Sunday morning.'

' My mind is made up,' replied Roger — Belle looked at Mil-
dred with an expression of horror, to her intense annoyance —
* I shall trouble nu one,' he added, quietly.

Belle now gave such a great sigh of relief that he turned upon
her too swift a glance to leave time for disguise. He smiled
a little bitterly, and then b^gan talking in an off-hand way
to Mr. Jocelyn about the hotel a few miles distant, saying that
it had filled up very rapidly of late. As they rose from the
table he remarked, hesitatingly, * My horse and wajfgon are
at your service this afternoon or evening if you would like to
take a drive.

Mr. Jocelyn was about to accept, but Mildred trod signifi-
cantly on his foot. Therefore he thanked Roger cordially, and
said he would spend a quiet day with his family.

* I don't wish to be under the slightest obligation to him/
explained Mildred when they were alone ; ' and Belle,' she
warned, * you must stop your nonsense at once. I won't en-
dure another trace of it.'

* Oh, indeed ! I didn't know you were so touchy about him,'
cried the girl. * Is it for his sake or your own that you are so
careful 1 You're stupid not to let him amuse you, since you've
spoiled him for me.'

Her sister made no reply, but gave the giddy child a glance
that quieted her at once. When Mildred was aroused her
power over others was difficult to explain, for, gentle as she
W8«, her will at times seemed irresistible.

xloger did not need to be told in so many words that his
overtures of ' friendship' had been practically declined. Her
tones, her polite, but distant manner revealed the truth clearly.
He was sorely wounded, but, so far from being disheartened,
his purpose to win her recognition was only intensified,

A SHADOW.

' I can at least compel her respect and prove myself her
equal,' he thought, and instead of lounging or sleeping away
th(f Hfternoon, as had been his custom, he took a book and read
gteiulily for several hours. At last he left his room to aid his
father in the evening labours of the farm yard, and in doing so
wuuld have to pass near Mr. Joceyln, who, with his family,
wiis seated under a wide-spreading tree. The gentleman evi-
(lenlly was in a very genial mood ; iio was caressing his chil-
(IrtMi, H!itt4T:ng his wife and Mildred, and rallying Belle after her
own frolicsome humour. Roger thought, as he looked at them
a few moments through the kitchen window, that he had nevor
seen a happier family, and with a sigh wished that it was his
privilege to join the^. without being thou'^ht an intruder.
Mildred's reserve, however, formed an impassable barrier, and
he was hastening by with downcast eyes, when, to his surprise
and the young girl's evident astonishment, Mr. Jocelyn arose
and said, ' Ah, Mr. Atwood, we're glad to see you. Won't you
join our little party 9 I want to thank you again for offering
me your horse and carriage, but I assure you that a quiet hour
like this with one's family after long separation is happiness
enouf^h. Still, as a Southern man, I appreciate courtesy, and
am always ready to respond to it in like spirit. Moreover, it
gives me peculiar pleasure to see a Northern man developing
traits which, if they were general, would make the two great
sections of our land one in truth as well as in name.'

Roger gave Mildred a quick, questioning glance, and saw
that she was regarding her father with much perplexity.

* Mr. Jocelyn,' he said quietly, ' the little courtesy of which
you speak has cost me nothing, and if it had it would not be
worth the words you bestow upon it.*

' I do not think of the act itself so much as the spirit, the
disposition it indicates,' resumed Mr. Jocelyn in a manner
that was courtly and pronounced, but otherwise natural and
quiet f lOugh. * I do not judge superficially, but look past
apparent trifles to the character they suggest. Moreover, my
wife informs me that you have been very polite to her, and
very kind to Belle and the children, whom you havo 'ften
taken out to drive wi^thout any compensation whatuver. Since
you will not make a business matter of such thingr., X wish to

WITHOUT A HOME.

repay you in the coin which gentlemen can always receive-
that of friendly acknowledgments/

* Then please consider mo amply repaid,' and with a smile
and a bow he was about to retire.

'Do not hasten away, sir/ Mr. Jocelyn began again.
' On this day of rest your duties cannot be pressing. I want
to assure you further of the pleasure I have in finding a young
man who, so far from being rendered v^allous and material by
hard and rather homely work, is alive to all refining influences.
The changes in this place for the better since I was here, and
those pretty flowers yonder all prove that you have an eye for
the beautiful as well as the practical. My daughter Mildred
also informs me that you are cherishing hopes and ambitions
that will eventually enlarge your sphere of life and take you
out into the ajreat world.*

Hitherto lioger's eyes had been fixed keenly and unwaver-
ingly on Mr. Jocelyn's urbane countenance, as if he would de-
tect the cause of such unlocked for words, but at the mention
of Mildred's name his brow and even neck was suffused. ' Slie
must have spoken of me kindly,' he thought, * or her father
would not be so friendly.' But when a swift glance around
revealed that Mrs. Jocelyn was looking at her husband in per-
plexity, that Mildred was not even trying to conceal her vexa-
tion and amazement, and that Belle had stuffed her handker-
chief into her mouth to p vent laughter, a spark of anger
glittered in his eyes. His first thought was that Mr. Jocelyn
was indulging in unexpected irony at his expense, and the
ready youth whose social habits had inured him to much ch.if
fing was able to reply, although a little stifHy and awkwardly,
' I suppose most young men have ambitious hopes of doing
something in the world, and yet that does not prevent mine
from seeming absurd. At any rate, it's clear that I had better
reveal them hereafter by deeds rather than words,' and with
a very slight bow he strode away, but not so quickly that lie
failed to hear Mildred's voice in the exclamation, ' Oh, paj»:i!
how could you,' and then followed a paroxysm of laughter
from Belle.

Roger was deeply incensed, for he believe<l that Mr. Jocelyn
and Belle were deliberately ridiculing him. That Mildred had
repeated his conversation was evident, but her manner showed

A SHADOW.

that she did not expect his words to be used against him so
openly, and that she had no part in the cruel sport. The worst he
cuiild charge against her was exclusive pride ; and he did Mrs.
Jocelyn the justice to see that she was pained by the whole
atfair. His face grew rigid as he finished his work and he
muttered, ' They shall see that my pride is equal to theirs ; 1
won't go out of my way a hair's breadth for them,' and he
walked in to supper as if he were at home and had an absolute
right to be there. He had been at the table but a few mo-
ments, however, before the aspect of the Jocelyn family began
to puzzle him exceedingly. Belle appeared as if she had been
trying : Mrs. Jocelyn looked perplexed and worried, and in
Mildred's eyes there were anxiety and trouble. Mr. Jocelyn had
not lo&t his serenity in the least, but his aspect now was grave,
[and his manner more courtly than ever. He did not seem in-
dined to say very much, however, an(i had an abstracted,
hheaniy look as if his thoughts were far away. When he did
peak, Roger thought that Mildred looked apprehensive, as if
I tearing that he might again say something embarrassing, but
jliis words were quiet aiid measured, betrayinL-: no excitement.
Tlie expression of his face, however, seemed unnatural to
iKof^er's close yet furtive pcrutiny. An hour before his eyes
had been bright and diluted, and his countenance full of
animation ; now all the light and cheerfulness were fading, and
the man seemed to grow older and graver by momenta Was
|tlie (iufsky pallor stealing across his features caused by the sha-
dows of evening ? Roger thought not, but a resentful glance
|lVom Mildrjd warned him to curb his curiosity.

He was curious, but not in a vulgar or pryins; way, and his
langer was all gone. Ha was sure that something was amiss
pith Mr. Jocelyn, and that his family also was disturbed and
tnxious. There had been none of the incoherencv and excite-
Iment of a man who had drank too much, but only a slight ex-
jjj^eraiion of the genial traits manifested at the dinner-table
^'•liowed by a tiuietude a!id abstraction that were not natural.
r lliere is something wrong about him,' he said to himself as he
hse from the table ; * ho lacks balance, or he'?, not well. 1
lialf helieve that the time will come when that young girl will
l>e tiie stay and support of the whole family. You cannot pre-
vent niy friendliness, Miss Jocelyn, any more than you can

WITHOUT A HOME.

stop the sun from shining, and some day it will melt all your |
reserve and coldness.* He took his volume of history out on
the sward near the porch, resolving to see the end of the do- i
mestic drama.

He did not turn many leaves, but he sat with the book inj
his lap until long after nightfall. The domestic drama appar-
ently bad a very prosaic ending. Mr. Jocelyn and his fainilji
returned for a time to their seats under the tree, but all except
the little children were apparently under some constraint, rhei
latter soon grew sleepy, and Mrs. Jocelyn took them in to bed.
Belle was not long in following them, darting an ireful glaticej
at Roger in passing, to which he responded by a rather mocking
smile. * We were having a lovely time till you came, you olJ|
marplot,' she muttered under her breath.

Mr. Jocelyn grew more and more quiet until his head sank]
on his breast, and it was with difficulty that Mildred arouseii
him sufliciently to urge his retir'.ng. At last he took hid
daughter's arm and entered the house as if in a dream. Thci
young girl's face was downcast and averted. As they passedl
between the youth and the still glowing west they cast a taintl
shadow npon him. Though by no means imaginative, htj
noted the shadow and thought about it. It seemed that ill
still rested on hibi after they were gone, and that it nii^lit|
never pass away.

Soon all were sleeping, and mother and daughter were a1o^^|

' Mamma,' said Mildred, in a low, troubled tone, ' it seemedl
to me that papa acted very strangely this afternoon and eveD*!
ing. Can he be well 1 '

' Oh, Millie,' cried the loving anxious wife, ' I fear he is notl
well at all ; and no wonder, when we think of the long straiil
he has been under. Haven't you noticed that his appetite ii|
very poor ? tonight he scarcely ai a mouthful. He has ja«i
been trying to keep up ever since he came, and this afteriiooil
he made an unusual effort ; reaction of course followed, aixi 4
last he was so weary and troubled that he could not hide irii|
feelings from us.'

* I suppose you take the right view,' said Mildred hesita
ingly, ' but papa has not seemed the same this afternoooti as
other times when tired and worried. His gaiety was a litth
extrftvagant, ^nd so it mi^ht naturally be if it were furce'

A SHADOW.

But I can't understand his speaking to young Mr. Atwood as
he flid. Papa never showed such a lack of tact or delicacy be-
fore. I woiild not da**e tell him things if he spoke of them
afterward so inopportunely. I felt as if I could sink into the
ground.'

Well, Millie, your father is very kind-hearted, and, like all
I Southern men, very sensitive to kindnei^s and courtesy. I
suppose he thought that you and Belle had not treated Roger
well, and that he ought to make amends. The real explana-
Ition is that he is overstrained and unhappy, and so cannot act
llike himself.'

' I do hope he is not going to be ill,' faltered Mildred.
I* Such a dtrange lethar«;y came over him after you left us. Oh,
the day is ending horribly, and it leaves a weight of forebod-
ling on my mind. I wish we could get-away to-morrow, for I
Ifeel that Roger Atwood is watching us, and that nothing es-
Icapes liim. I know that papa's manner seemed strange to him
las well ns to us, and I almost hate him for his obtrusive and
[prying interest. Why can't he see that he's nothing to us,
|nor we to him, and let us alone ?

She often recalled these words in after years.

The wife went to her room and found that her husband was

Bleeping quietly. Returning, she said, more cheerily, ' I think

papa will be like himself after a good night's sleep, and there's

jvery promise now that he'll get it ; so don't look on the dark

t^ide, Millie, nor worry about that youns; man. He don't mean

Ito be obtrusive, and 1 must say that I think he behaves very

|well considering. With troubles like ours, why think of such

transient annoyance ? If I only knew just how I could help

i^our fatlier I would not think about much else.'

It would have been well indeed if she could have known,

for she would have taken from his pocketbook a small syringe

uid a hottle of Migendie's solution of morphia ; she would

liave entreated him upon her knees, she would have bound

\\m by the strongest oaths to die rather than to use it again.

The secret of all that was peculiar and unnatural in his con-

luct can be explained by the fact that early in the afternoon

16 went apart for a moment, and with a little innocent looking

instrument he injected into his arm the amount ')f the fatal

Irug which he believed he could enjoy without betraying him-

Uelf,

.S4

WITHOUT A HOME.

CHAPTER XII.

VIEWLESS FETTERS.

LT HOUGH Mr. Jocelyn had retired so early and slept
jl;^ heavily until an hour that at the farm-house was late,
the reader knows that his sleep was not the natural
repose which brings freshness and elasticity. His wife and
Mildred, however, did not know this, and his languor, con-
tinued drowsiness and depression, which even much elfort
could not disguise, confirmed their dread of an impending iii-
ness. He saw their anxie'y, and took advantage of their f^ars
to hide his weakness.

'Yes,' he sighed, in response to their f]rentle solicitude as lie
pushed away his almost untasted breakfa? !, ' I suppose my
health has been impaired by worry of mind and the heat in
town. I'm better, though, than I have been. I don't see how
you are going to endure the city.'

They both assured him, however, that they would not even
consider any other arrangement except tlsat already agreed
upon, and urged that he should return to town that very day,
his wife adding that i'lst as soon as he had secured rooms
within their mean^ %u«i would join him and prepare them for
the family.

' Oh, Nan,* he again said dejectedly, ' it's a cruel fate which
compels me to take you to a tenement house in August.'

' It would be far more cruel to leave me here,' his wife
answered earnestly. * I could bo happy anywhere if you were
your old natural self once more. Millie and I can both see
that struggling alone and brooding by yourself over your
troubles is not good for you,* and her gentle but determined
purpose carried the day.

Mr. Jocelyn was then directed to a somewhat distant field,
where he found Roger, who readily agreed to take him to tlio
steamboat landing in the afternoon. Lifting his eyes from liis
work a f *w moments afterward, the youn^ man saw that b'*

a severe st

VIEWLESS FETTERS.

visitor, instead of returning to the house, had sat down under
a clump of trees and had buried his face in his hands.

' There's a screw loose abuut that man/ he muttered. ' He's
too uneven. Yesterday at dinner he was the most perfect
gentleman ever I saw ; in the afternoon he had a fit of pom-
pous Ikilarity and condescension ; tlien came abstraction, as if
his mind had stepped out fur a time ; and now, after twelve
hours of sleep, instead of feeling like a lark, he looks as though
he might attend his own funeral before night, and walks as if
his feet were lead. He mopes there under the trees when he
has but a few more hours with his family. If I had such a
wife and such a daughter as he has, I'd cut a swath for them,
no matter what stood in the way.'

But lloger's censure was slight compared with that which
Mr. Jocelyn visited upon himself; and in order to understand
his feelings and conduct, it will be necessary to relate some
experiences which occurred after the departure of his family to
the country. Throughout the entire winter he had been under
a severe strain of business anxiety, and then had come the cti.l-
miiiating scenes of failure, loss of income, and enforced and
unhappy separation. His natural depression had been so ii:-
creased by the meagre prospect of finding employment which
would yield his family an adequate support, that even his in-
creased and more frequent indulgence in his morphia powd ts
failed to give sufficient hopefulness and courage, while ct U\f
same time they began to produce some serious disorders in his
system. There is a class of diseases which rarely fails tc t-
tack when the system is reduced and enfeebled, and neuralgia
began to bind across his forehead a daily press ire of pain that
at last became intolerable. Ordinary ren^ lies not giving
speedy relief, his physician injected into hih trm a few drops
of the solution of morphia. Thus far he had never used the
drug in solution hypodermicaily, and he Wits much surprised
by the agreeable effects of a very much smaller quantity than
he had been accustomed to use on any o e occasion, and nis
morphia hunger — already firmly established — immediately sug-
gested thai the little syringe might become a far more potent
agent than the powders. Therefore he induced the physician
to give him an order for the instrument, and to explain more
fully the methods of its use, saying that attacks of neuralgia

'€^---

WITHOUT A HOME.

were generally rather obstinate in hiu case, and that he had
neither the time nor the means to seek his services very often.

The physician's lew words of warning made but slight im-
pression upon the infatuated man at tiie time. Mr. Jocelyn
remembered only that he had an intolerable pain in his head
and a heavy weight upon his heart. Many a time during the
long civil war he had smilingly led charges wherein the chances |
of death were greater than those of life, but neither then nor |
since had he ever displayed any great aptitude for quiet endur-
ance and self-control. Now every day was precious, and he
felt he could not give himself up to pain and patient waiting
until the disease could be conquered in a slow, legitimate way,
when by a wound no more than a pin prick he could cbtaiQ
courage, happiness, and profpects illimitable.

Having obtained the syringe and a vial of the solution of {
morphia, he injected into his arm a much larger quantity than
the physician would have dreamed of employing. Not only
did the unendurable anguish pass away within a fevir brief mo-
ments, but the world was transfigured ; life's grim outlook be-
came full of the richest promise, and discouragement and dread |
vanished utterly. So far from fearing that he could not pro-
vide for his family, h«^ was sure that he could win fortliemj
abundance and luxury. A dozen avenues to fortune opened |
before hinj, and he felt that his only task was to choose, believ-
ing that in some indefinite yet easily '.iscerned way he would
achieve more than falls to the lot of most men to accomplish.
Instead of a long sleepless night like those which had preceded,
his waking dreams ended in quiet and equally pleasant visions
— then oblivion, which did not pass away uutil the morning sun
was shining. But with the new day came a new access of pain
and gloora, and the aid of the magic little instrument was in-
voked once more. Again within a few moments the potent!
drug produced a tranquil elysium and a transformed world of |
gra;.d possibilities. With a vigour which seemed boundless,
ALd h ^es which repeated disappointments could not dampen,
he .'>ni.nufcd his quest for employment until in the declining |
djv/ 1 is spiritn and energy ebbed as strangely as they had risen
i the morning, and after another night of dreams and stupor
hi awoke in torture. The powerful stimulant enabled him to
re^ at the experieLces cf the previous day, and for two or]

VtEWLESS FETTERS.

three weeks he lived in the fatal but fascinating opium para-

Idise, gradually increasing the amount of morphia that his sys-

Item, (lulled by habit, demanded. In the meantime, by the lav-

[ish use of quinine he gradually banished his neuralgia with its

iLieriJant pain.

It is well known to those familiar with the character of
)))ium that its effects are greatly enhanced at first by any de*
:'u\fd change in the method ot its use ; also that its most power-
and immediate influences can be produced solely by the
i)V|)<)<u rmic needle, since by means of it the stimulant is intro-
liiced at once into the system. When taken in powders, the
;l()w, the serenity, and exaltation come on more slowly, and
lore gradually pass away, causing alternations of moods far
less noticeable than those produced by immediate injection of
the jxjison.

Duiiiig the period of unnatural exaltation that has been d>
|criht'd he had accepted agencies which promised thousands if
lie CDuhl sell millions of dollars' worth of goods, and after the
|ubtle morphia had infused itself through his system nothing
seined easier ; but dreams are not realities, and after grand
bopes unfulfilled, and futile efforts, he would sink into despon-
lency irum which nothing could lift him save the little syringe
Ihat he carried hidden next to his heart. As its magic never
liled him, he went on for a time, blind to the consequences.
Lt last he began to grow more alarmed than ever before at the
scendaiicy of the drug and his dependence upon it, but when
^e tried to discontinue its use he found that he had been liv-
ig so lung under the influence of a powerful stimulant that
without it he sank like a stone. Then came the usual compro-
lise of all weak souls— he would gradually decrease the
Imouiit and then the frequency of its use ; but as is generally
p case, he put off the beginning of sturdy self denial until the
lorrow, and almost every day he poisoned his system with
fiat which also poisoned and demoralized his soul. He dimly
iw his danger, but did not realize it. With the fatuity of all
elf-indulgent natures he thought the day would come when,
fith better prospects and health rene'.ved, he would throw
^ay the spell which bound him and become a free man, but
iy after day passed and he did not ; his appetite began to
&g and his energy also ; he would sit dreaming for hours

Wrmo.'JT A HOME.

when he might have been at work. At best his tigencies would
give him but a acPiity revenue, although pushe^i with extraor.
dinary skill and vigour. As it was, they yielded him little
more than personal support^ and he began to entertain the
hope that if he could only obtain regular employment he could
then resume his old regular habits. Therefore he had agreed
to accept a position which was little more than a foothold, and
yet if he would go to work with a determined and patient in-
dustry he might, by means of it, win more than he had lost.

Could he do this 1 Tue Sunday he had just spent with his
family had awakened him as never before to a sense of his boo'l
dage. Even with the society of those he loved to enliven and|
sustain he had felt that he could not get through the day with-
out the help of atimulant upon which he had grown so depen-
dent. While at church it was not the clergyman's voice he I
heard, but a low yet imperious and incessant cry for oi»iunj.|
A'o he rode home, smilitsg upon his wife and children, and look-
ing at the beautiful and diversified country, between them audi
the landscape he ev'er saw a little brass instrument gauged at
four or five times the amount that the physician had at first
inserted in his arm. At the dinner table he had spoken cour-
teously and well on many subjects, and yet ever uppermost iaj
his mind was one constant thought — opium. The little diabol
ical thing itself seemed alive in his pocket, and made its faintl
yet potent solicitation against his heart. At last he had niiit-l
tered, *I will just take a little of the cursed stuff, and thenlj
must begin to break myself in dead earnest.*

The reader knows what followed. Moreover, he was ledtol
fear that the alternations of moods caused by injections ofl
morphia would be so great that they could not fail to excit«|
remark. Although the new day brought every motive wliicli
can influence a man, Mr. Jocelyn found the path to freedoul
80 steep and difficult that the ascenC seemed well-nigh impossif
ble. His muscles were relaxed, his whole frame so wear}' andj
limp that he even dreaded the effort required to return to m
house were his family was waiting for him. But the physiiil
oppression was nothing to that which weighed upon his miiuij
The sense of misery and discouragement was paralyzing, andi
he wfis fairly appalled by his lack of energy. The means oil
escaping from his wretchedness and dejection — from the liorri*!

VIEWLESS FETTERS.

ble lassitude of body and soul — could be grasped in a moment
and the temptation to use them and become within a few mi-
nutes a strong, sanguine, courageous man was almost irresisti-
ble ; but he knew well that such an abrupt change friin the
heavy, dull-eyed condition in which they had seen him at the
breakfast table could not fail to arouse suspicion ; and should
they once discern his crime — for crime he now regarded it — he
feared his self-respect would be so destroyed that he would
never have the pride and strength for the struggle now clearly
foreseen ; therefore, with the instinct of self-preservation, and
from the impulse of all his native and long-fostered Suutliern
pritle, he resolved that they must never know his degradation.

Could he break his chain 1 The coming pages of this book
will reveal his struggle and its termination. Alas ! it is no
fancy sketch, but a record of human experience that is becom-
ing sadly frequent. The opium hunger had grown upon Mr.
Jocelyn by its almost constant use for nearly two years.
During weeks of pain he had almost lived upon the drug, satu-
ratin<; his system with it. It had come to him like an angel of
light, lifting him on buoyant pinions out of suffering and des-
pondency, but the light was fading from the wings and brow of
this strong spirit, and it was already seen to be an angel of
darkness.

Mr. Jocelyn, however, had no thought of despair; he was
only surprised, humiliated, and somewhat alarmed; he was
satisfied that he must drift no longer, and in perfect sincerity
resolved to make the most of his brief separation from his
family, hoping that with a physician's advice ho could speedily
overcome his morbid craving and distressing need. He left
the farm-house with the resolution that he would never touch
the drug again, believing that before a week expired the horri-
ble depression, both mental and physical, would so far pass
away as to excite no further suspicion.

For an hour he rode at Roger's side, rigid, taciturn, and pale ;
for except when heated by exercise his wonted ruddy colour was
passing away from the effects of the poison. Roger drove
around to the large hotel, which was not much out of their way,
and said, '♦ Mr. Jocelyn, will you please take the lines a few
moments 1 I have an * errand here, but it won't keep me
long. "

WrinOUT A HOME.

Having transacted his business he stood in the olBce door
watching a young man who sauntered toward him. The Rtran-
ger was almost as tall as himself, but much slighter. While hii
carriage was easy and graceful, it was marked by an air of
lassitude and weariness, and his step lacked firmness. A lieavy
mustache relieved his face from efifeminacy, but his large, dark
eyes were dull and apathetic. Suddenly they lighted u[) with
recognition ; he hesitated, and then hastily advanced toward
Mr. Jocelyn, but his steps were speedily checked, for the
moment the gentleman recognised him he bowed very ct)l(llj
and turned haughtily away. 1 he young man flushed deeply,
stood still a moment in irresolution, and then with a swili
glance into Roger's interested face turned and quickly disap-
peared. Before Roger could resume his place in the waggon the j
proprietor of the hotel came out and called him back ; some-
thing had been forgotten.

This interruption was fatal to Mr. Jocelyn's good resolutions. |
Vinton Arnold, who had won his daughter's affection, but who
seemingly had not the manhood to be faithful in her adversity,
was the one whom he had repulsed, and the thought of his
wealth and luxury, while he was on his way to seek a home in
a tenement for his be&utiful child, so maddened him that he
drove recklessly to an adjacent shed, which shielded him from
observation, snatched out his fatal syringe, and in a moment |
the poison was diffusing itself through all his system. He in
returned again before Roger, who had been detained some mo- 1
ments, reappear*^^, but now his heavy eyes were bright aw
fiery, and his wongue unloosed.

* Did ycu see that young man to whom I refused to speak I
he asked as they drove away.

*Ye8.'

*"Well, he's a white-livered scoundrel. He's a type ofyourl
Northern gentleman. A Southern man would starve ratb^
than act so pusillanimously. Of course I'm not going to talit
of family secrets, or say anything not befitting a high toned
gentleman, but I taught that snob how a man of honour regardi
his cowardice and cold-bloodedness. He was one of our fair-
weather friends, who promptly disappeared when the sicjl
clooded. Here he is, dawdling around a high-priced liotoi,!
while I'm on my way to seek rooms in a tenement for those t«|

VIEWLESS FETTERS.

whom he is not worthy to speak ; but the time shall come, and
gpi'cdily, too, when even on the base plane of money — the sole
claim of his proud family for consideration — we shall meet him
and scorn him as his superiorj. I have plans, business pros-
l„.ct.s — ' and he launched forth into such a vugue, wild state-
ment of his proj(»cts that Roger looked at him in silent amuze-
inent, half doubting his sanity.

In iiis haste Mr. Jocelyn had not carefully gauged his syringe,
and tlie over amount of morphia thrown into his system so
Htimuhited him that his wurds appeared exceedingly irrational
to the young man, .vhose judgment was bailed on unusual
siirewdness and common-sense. He was greatly puzzled by the
sudden change in his companion. It was evident that he had
not ))een drinking, for his breath was untainted and his utter-
an*e was natural. But his face was flushed, and ho seemed
{Missessed by a strange, unbalanced mental exaltation which led
liini to speak as no sensible man ought in any circumstances,
and certainly not to a stranger. Roger therefore interrupted
him, saying, ' I shall respect your confidence, Mr. Jocelyn,
aiid will never repeat what you have said. Please let me sug-
gest, however, that it would be wise not to speak so frankly to
others, since they might take advantage of you. '

' Please let me assure you,' resumet^ Mr. Jocelyn, with the
most impressive dignity, ' that I am a man of the world, and
that I have seen a great deal of the world. I can read men as
you would read a book. If you were not trustworthy 1 would
know it at a glance. Did you not see how I treated that
young jackanapes 1 His wealth and elegance did not impose
upon me in the least. You are trustworthy. You have a
large, aspiring mind, and yet you know your station ; you
would not dream of presuming. What does it signify that we
I are poor for the moment 1 True Southern blood is in our
veins, and I have a dozen plans for securing large wealth.
When that day comes I shall remember those who basely
I turned their backs on us in our brief obscurity; ' and thus he
[ramhled on, while Roger listened coldly and in silence.

' There is method in his madness,' he said to himself, ' he
lis not so daft but that he hints broadly I roust keei) my sta-
tion an I not bo " presuming." His pr jud daughter hints as

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Sdences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREH

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716)872-4503

>^>"

WITHOUT A HOME.

much still more plainly. Well, we'll see whose dreams find
the larger fulfilment — his or mine.'

By the time they reacned the landing the sun was low in the
west, and his companion had become comparatively silent,
dreamy and abstracted. Half an hour later Roger went on
board of the boat with some solicitude to see how he was far-
ing. Mr. Jocelyn started out of what appeared a deep reverie
as Roger addressed him, and said, after a moment's thought,
* Please say to my family that you left me well, and safely on
my way,' and with a quiet and rather distant bow he resumed
his absorbing thoughts.

The steamer moved away, but instead of returning directly |
home Roger went back to the hotel. Even amid the hallucin-
ations of opium the father had too much instinctive delicacy I
to mention Mildred's name or to make any reference to
Arnold's intentions ; but the quick-witted fellow gained the
impression that the elegant young stranger had been a welcome
and favoured suitor in the past better days, and he had a I
consuming wish to see and study the kind of man that he sur-
mised had been pleasing to Mildred. As he rode along, pity I
for the girl took the place of resentment. * Not our plain little
farm-house, but the fashionable hotel, is the place where she
would feel the most at Jiome,* he thought. 'And yet she is
going to a tenement-house I There, too, shi^'ll stay, I fear, forj
all that her father will ever do for her. If he's not off his bal-j
ance, I never saw a man that was.'

CHAPTER XITI.

A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS.

OGER sat out on the dusky piazza of the hotel, looki
ing into the large parlour through open windows whicli|
came to the floor, bent on making the most of suc^
glimpses as he could obtain of the world to which he felt tli
Mildred belonged by right. He saw clearly that she wou

A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS.

appear well and at home amid such surroundings. A young
and elegantly dressed woman crossed the wide apart.ment, and
he muttered, * Your carriage is very fine and fashionable, no
doubt, but Miss Jocelyn would have added grace and nature
to your regulation gait. ' He watched the groups at the card-
tables with a curious interest, aud the bobbing heads of gossi-
ping dowagers and matrons; he compared the remarkable
' make up, ' as he phrased it, of some of them with the unre-
deemed plainness of his mother's Sunday gown. * Neither the
one nor the other is in good taste, ' he thought. * Mrs. Jocelyn
dresses as I intend my mother shall some day. ' He coolly
criticised a score or more of young men and women who were
chatting, promenading, flitting through the open windows out
upon the piazza and back again into the light, as a small stringed
orchestra struck into a lively galop or the latest waltz. He
saw a general mustering of the younger guests, even down to
the boys aud girls, for the Lancers, and followed one and
another that caught his eye through the mazy intricacies, mak-
ing little gestures of disgust at those who seemed outre and pe«
culiar in manner and appearance, and regarding with the clo-
sest observation such as exhibited a happy mean between a
certain rusticity and awkwardness with which he was well
acquainted, and a conventional artificiality which was to him
all the more unnatural and absurd because his perception was
not dulled by familiarity with society's passing whims.

The young stranger whom Mr. Jocelyn hgr! repulsed, and
who was the real object of his quest, did not appear among the
pleasure-seekers, nor could he discover him on the piazza, in
the billiard-room, nor in other places of resort. At last in
much disappointment he returned to his seat, from which he
commanded a view of the parlour ; and scarcely had he done so
before the one he sought mounted the steps near him as if
returning from a stroll in the hotel grounds, threw away a
cigar, and entered an open window with the same graceful,
listless saunter witnessed in the afternoon. He crossed the wide
apartment with as much ease and nonchalance as if it had been
empty, and sat down on a sofa by a somewhat stout and very
[elegantly apparelled gentlewoman.

Koger never thought of accounting for ihe intensity of his
linterest in this stranger — the young rarely analyze their feel-

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WiTHOttT A HOME!.

ings — but, obedient to an impulse to learn this man's power to
win the favour of one so unapproachable by himself, he scanned
with keenest scrutiny everything in his apparance and manner,
and sought eagerly to gauge his character.

He felt instinctively that the ' cold-blooded snob, ' as Mr.
Jocelyn had characterized him, was of the very opposite type
from himself. His graceful saunter, which, nevertheless, pos-
sessed a certain quiet dignity, suggested a burdensome leisure
and an utter lack of purpose to go anywhere or do anything.
He dropped on the sofa rather than sat down. The lady at
his side spoke rather decidedly to him, and he answered briefly
without even looking at her. By and by she spoke again,
more energetically ; he then slowly arose, approached a young
woman sitting near, who, in response to something he said,
sprang up with alacrity, and they glided away in the waltz
with an ease and grace scarcely equalled by the others upon
the floor. After a few moments they circled around very near
Roger's post of observation, and he was able to scan both the
features and expression of the man whom he left inclined to
hate. But he was disarmed and perplexed, for the stranger
showed no more pleasure or animation than would a fallen leaf
that was swept here and there by varying eddies of wind. He
kept time and step with perfect accuracy, but evidently from
such complete familiarity with the form that he gave it not a
thought. He danced as easily as a bird flies, avoiding the
others without appearing to notice them. No colour came from
the exercise, no light kindled in his face. His expression was
not blas^ or cynical, but weary and dejected ; the melancholy
in his large brown eyes was all the more stricking from contrast
with the music, the lighted room, and an amusement suggest*
ing gaiety. Pale, utterly unresponsive to the brilliant and
mirthful scenes, he glided ghost- like here and there, and before
very long seated his companion by the elderly woman whose
urgency had led to his automaton-like performance. Then with
a slight bow he passed through a window near and disappeared.
The two ladies spoke together for a few moments and seemed
annoyed, and Roger now noted such a resemblance between
them as to suggest that they were mother and daughter.

He had seen sufficient to satisfy him, and he went away
muttering, * There isn't enough of him to hate ; he's but the

A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS.

shadow of a man. She fancy him ! I couldn't have believed
it; I can't account for it, unless he's very gifted in mind or
very different wlien with her. This must be true, and he would
be a mummy indeed if she couldn't wake hira up.'

Roger rode home, however, ill at ease. * He hasn't forgotten
her if he has given her up on account of her poverty, ' he
thought. ' He could see as well as I that there was no one
there who could compare with her ; but he mopes instead of
trying to win her. If he can dance, why can't he work ] I've
no reason to complain, however, and I thank my stars that I
have muscle and a will. In the mean time I shall come up here
and study your tricks of manner, my elegant nonentity. I
believe in force. Force moves the world and carries a man
through it ; but I now see that it should be well-managed and
wellmaimered force. Miss Jocelyn compares me with you,
and I seem to her uncouth, unfinished, and crude in the extreme.
Litheness and grace need not take an atom from my strength,
and the time shall come when I will not fear comparisons. I'll
will her yet with your own weapons. '

Although it was rather late before he reached home, he found
his mother, Mrs. Jocelyn, and Mildred waiting for him in the
sitting room.

' What kept you so V Mrs. Atwood exclaimed.

* I stopped a while at the hotel on my return, ' he replied.

' Did my husband send any message ) ' Mrs. Jocolyn asked,
with a solicitude she could not disguise.

' He told me to say that I had left him well, and safely on
his way to the city. '

' Did — did he seem well when you left him t ' the anxious
wife persisted.

* Quite as well as he did yesterday, I think, ' was the reply.
' Mr. Atwood, ' said Mildred, in a tone that startled him

a little, and he saw she was looking at him as if she would read
his thoughts, 'did my father truly appear well when you
parted from him ] '

Roger's eyes fell before hers, but he replied firmly, * I left
him sitting quietly on the steamboat's deck, and when I asked
him if he had any message for his family, he said the words I
have just repeated. He seemed naturally depressed at leaving

r-i

WITHOUT A HOME.

you all. If he were not well he did not say anything abou^
it ; * and with a bow he passed up to his room.,

* Mother, ' said Mildred, when they were alone, * was it mere
diffidence, or why was it, that he could not look mo in the
eyes ? I wonder if he is concealing anything. It was in the
afternoon and evening that papa was unlike himself yesterday.
I wish I really knew whether or not that young man is hiding
anything, for I have an impression that he is. '

' Oh, it was diffidence, Millie. He would have no motive in
hiding the truth from us. I can see that he is both fascinated
by you and afraid of you — poor fellow I '

* A few weeks in the cornfield and a few smiles from the girls
hereabouts will banish all his nonsense concerning me. I don't
give him a thought except that his absurd feelings annoy nie.
Oh, mamma, you understand me. What he would like to offer
is such a grotesque parody on that which I hoped for, on what
I imagined I possessed, that it makes me sick. Oh, oh ! ' she
sobbed, ' I must give it all up. Mr. Arnold acts as if I were
dead ; and practically I am to him, although he may sigh and
mope a little, perhaps. There, I'm wronging him ; I know I
wrong him. How can I forget his white, death-like face and
look of mortal pain. Oh that he had this young fellow's
muscle and courage ! I do not care for his money ; I would
be content with him in one bare room. But as it is I fear, I
fear ; * and the poor child buried her face in her mother's lap,
and cried away some of her weight of foreboding.

* Millie, darling, ' faltered her mother, *■ God knows I'd
shield your heart with my own if I could, but I don't know
how to help you. You are too much like me. Your love is
your life, and you can't stop loving just because it would be
wise and thrifty to do so. I think of you almost as much as I
do of Martin, and I daily pray the merciful Saviour, who was
*' tempted in all points like as we are," to sustain and comfort
you. I don't see how I can help you in any other way, for my
own heart shows me just how you suffer.*

* There, little mother, ' said Mildred, raising her head and
wiping her eyes, ' I've had my cry, and feel the better for it.
I'm going to help you and papa and be brave. I'm glad I'm like
you. I'm glad I'm a true Southern girl, and that I can love
as you loved ; and I would despise myself if I could invest my

A SCEKE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS.

heart and reinvest it like so much stock. Such a woman is
cold-blooded and unnatural, and you are the dearest little
mo her and wife that ever breathed. '

' Oh, Millie, Millie, if I had only foreseen ana guarded
against this evil day ! '

'Come, dear mamma, don't always bo blaming yourself for
what you did not foresee. You are eager to do your best now,
and that is all God or man can ask of us. These clouds will
pss away some time, and then the sunshine will be all the
briyhter. '

The next few days of waiting: and uncertainty were a severer
ordeal to Mrs. Joc»'lyn and Mildred than ever. Mr. Jocelyn,
bent on gaining time, kept putting them off. His new duties
upon which he had entered, he wrote, left him only the even-
ing hours for his quest of rooms, and he had not succeeded iu
finding any that were suitable. Thus they expected some-
thing definite by every mail, but each day brought renewed
disappointment. At last Mildred wrote that she would come
down herself if he did not decide upon something at once.

The morning after this letter was dispatched the young
girl took her work out under some wide-boughed hemlocks
that stood beside the quiet country road, along which a farmer
occasionally jogged to the village beyond, but which at that
hour was usually quite deserted. Fred and Minnie were with
her, and amused themselves by building little log huts with
the dry sticks thickly scattered around.

Roger had been very unobtrusive since her father's depar-
ture, and she half consciously gave him credit for this when
she thought about him at all, which was but seldom. He had
imagined that she had grown less distant and reserved, and
once or twice, when he had shown some little kindness to the
children, she had smiled upon him. He was a hunter of no
mean repute in that region, and was famous for his skill in
following shy and scarce game. He had resolved to bring the
principles of his woodcraft to bear upon Mildred, and to make
his future approaches so cautiously as not to alarm her in the
least ; therefore he won the children's favour more thoroughly
than ever, but not in an officious way. Ho found Belle mop-
ing the evening after her father's departure, and he gave her a
swift drive in his buggy, which little attention completely dis-

^jm>amm^.

WITHOUT A HOME.

armed the warm-hearted girl and became the basis of a fast-
ripening friendship.

' You need not put on such distant airs/ she had said to
Mildred ; * he never mentions your name any more.' But when
he asked Mrs. Jocelyn to take a drive with him she had de-
clined very kindly, for she feared that he might speak to he:
of her daughter in an embarrassing way. Over Belle, Mildred
had little control in such matters, but as far as she and her
mother were concerned she determined that he should have
no encouragement whatever; for, although he made no
further efforts either to shun or obtain her society, and had
become quite as reserved as herself, he unconsciously, yet
very clearly, revealed his state of mind to her womanly in-
tuition.

* There is one thing queer about Roger Atwood,* said Belle,
joining her sister under the hemlocks ; * he now scarcely ever
speaks of himself. I suppose he thinks I would be silly enough
to go and tell everything as you did.'

' What do you talk about then 1 ' asked Mildred, with a
half smile.

* Oh, you are a little curious, are you ? perhaps a little jeal-
ous too, that he was so very easily cured of his admiration for
you. If it were any secret, I wouldn't tell you. We talk about
what we see, and it seems to me he sees everything. If a bird
flies across the road he will point out its peculiarities, and he
knows so much about the trees and bushes and wild flowers
and the little creatures in the woods, how they live, and all
that. He says that a man's a fool that doesn't see all that's
going on around him. Sometimes he makes me ache from
laughing over his funny descriptions of the queer characters
that live about here. But what interests me most are his ac-
counts of the people at the hotel. Oh. I do wish mother would
let me go there with him some evening ! He is there nearly
every night, and it's as good as a play to hear him take ofi" the
afl'ected, snobbish ones. He has caught the English drawl and
the " yeh know" of some young fellows to perfection.'

' He is a queer fellow,' mused Mildred. * I wonder what he
goes there for ? '

* Oh, Roger Atwood is no fool, I can tell you. He knows
country society to perfection, and he would not be long in un-
derstanding Fifth Avenue noodledom just as well'

A SCENE BENEAtH THE HEMLOCKS.

Mildred looked up with a sudden access of interest, and
then became silent and abstracted.

' Since the children are quiet here,' continued Belle, * I'll gn
back to the house and finish a story in which the hero and
heroine are sentimental geese and blind as bats. They misun-
derstand each other so foolishly that I'd like to bob their empty
heads together,' and away she went, humming . gay song, with
as little thought for the morrow as the birds in the fields
around her.

While Roger paused a moment to wipe the perspiration from
his brow, the rustling of the grain ceased, and he heard the
footfalls of a horse in the adjacent road. With a start he saw
riding by the strangtT who had been the object of his con-
tinueil scrutiny at the hotel. The young man restrained to a
walk the rather restless horse he bestrode, and seemed musing
deeply under the shadow of a broad-brimmed Panama hat. Ho
took no notice of Roger, and passing slowly on entered the
shadow of the hemlocks, when an exclamation caused him to
raise his head. A second later he sprang from his horse, threw
the bridle over the limb of a tree, and seized Mildred's hand
with an eagerness which proved that she had indeed the power
to * wake him up.'

Roger was too distant to see just how she greeted her un-
looked-for friend of other days, but thought she appeared so
startled that she leaned against a tree for support. He saw,
however, that the * ghost of a man* was now flesh and blood
in his earnestness, and that he retained her hand in both of hia
own while speaking rapidly. Before very lonsr, however, the
horse became so impatient that he suddenly jerked his bridle
loose, wheeled, and came galloping up the road toward Roger,
who, after a moment's hesitation, cleared the low stone wall at
a bound and stood in the road awaiting him. Mildred's com-
panion made a gesture of annoyance, and then said with a
shrug • Jjet the beast go. I'm well content to remain here.*
When they saw Roger's purpose, however, they stood watching
for the outcome of his effort.

As Arnold — for he it was — saw the horse, with broken and
flying reins, thundering apparenlly right upon the motionless
form of a man, he exclaimed, ' By Jove ! but that's a brave
fellow.'

100

WITHOUT A HOME.

The vicious bruto soon seemed so nearly upon the rash youth
that Mil.lrod ^ave a slight scream of terror, but a second later
she saw him spring lightly aside, catch one of the flying rt'i?is,
hold on for a few yards, half drai^ged, half running, and then
the animal yielded to a master. A cloud of dust obscured tliem
momentarily ; then the country-bred athlete vaulted li^^'htly
into the saddle and came trotting sharply toward them, riding
like a centaur. She was enraged at herself that her face shoiihj
grow scarlet under his brief glance from one to the other, but
without a word he sprang lightly down and began to fasten the
horse securely to a tree — an act scarcely necessary, for the ani-
mal appeared completely subdued.

* By Jove ! my man, that was neatly done,' said Arnold.
*Here is a bank-note for your trouble.'

* The fact that I have caught your horse does not prove me
a hostler,' lioger replied, brusquely, without looking at the
speaker.

Arnold now recognised the young man whom he had seen
witL Mr. Jocelyn, and also at the hotel several times subse-
quently. He had learned his name, and therefore began, ' Oh,
I beg pardon ; this is Mr. Atwood ; ' but before he could say
more a covered barouche came rapidly down the hill from the
opposite direction, turned with the angle of the road, and passed
into the shade of the hemlocks. Arnold bad become very pale
the moment he saw it, and in its occupant Roger recognised the
woman whom he had seen at the hotel, and whom he had learned
to be the mother of the listless dancer. A brief glance showed
him that Mildred knew her also. The lady sharply ordered her
coachman to stop, and after a brief but freezing look into
Mildred's hot face, she said, in a meaning tone, ' Vinton, I will
esteem it a favour if you will accompany me on ray drive.'

* I will join yoa presently,' he said, irresolutely.

' I will wait politely, then, until you hav ^ concluded your
interview,' the gentlewoman remarked, leaning back in her
carriage.

Her look, tone and action stung Mildred to the very quick.
Gentle and retiring usually, she was capable of a very decided
and even an aggressive course under great provocation. For a
moment her warm Southern blood boiled at Mrs. Arnold's im-
plication that she was so eager to capture her wealthy son that

A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS.

101

rove nie

it was not prudent to leave them alone together a moment. With
decision and the dignity of conscious innocence, she said,
'(lood morning, Mr. Arnold ;' then taking little Minnie's hand
and calling Fred, she led the way toward the house. It hap-
pened that the only path of egress led her by the carriage, and
the manner in which its occupant ignored her presence was so
intolerable in its injustice that slie paused, and fixing her clear,
indignant eyes on the flushed, proud face before her, asked, in
tones never forgotten by those who heard them, ' Mrs. Arnold,
wherein have I wrongeil you or yours 1 '

Tile lady was silent and a little embarrassed.

' I know, and you might know,' Mildred continued, 'if you
chose, that you cannot charge me with one unwomanly act, but
yonr look and ruanner towards me are both unwomanly and
unchristian. You insult me in my poverty and misfortune.
Without the shadow of right or reason, you cruelly wound one
who was wounded already ;' and she was about to pass on.

' Mother, as you are a woman, do not let her go without a
word of respect and kindness,' cried her son, in a hoarse, stifled
voice.

' Miss Jocelyn,' began Mrs. Arnold, in a constrained tone, * I
mean you no disrespect. Nevertheless — *

' Nevertheless ! ' exclaimed Arnold, wrought to frenzy.
* Great God ! are you going to qualify that grudging sen-
tence ] ' He struck his hand to his forehead, reeled, and fell
prone upon the earth. In a moment Mildred knelt beside him,
and Roger saw that she loved him with her whole strong, wo-
manly soul.

' Bring water, bring brandy ; mother will give it to you,* she
said to him in a low voice, and he dashed off to obey.

Mrs. Arnold hastily descended from the carriage and felt her
son's pulse with much solicitude. ' He has only fainted/ she
said. < He is apt to have such attacks when overwrought. It's
a part of his disease. Miss Jocelyn, you see he is a reed that
must be supported, not leaned upon,' she added, looking straight
into the young girl's troubled eyes. * I mean you kindness as
truly as I mean kindness to him. He will soon be better. He
has often been in this condition ever since he was a child. With
this knowledge you will understand me better. Thomas' — to
the coachman — ' lift him into the carriage. He will soon re-

102

WITHOUT A HOME.

gain

vive,' she continued to Mildred, ' and at the hotel he shall have
the best of care. Relieve me, I feel for you both, but I kiiow
what is right and best.'

The coachman did as ho was directed, and they drove rapidly
away.

Mildred put hi^r hand to her side, and then, with pale and
downcast face, led the wondering children towards the hoiiHf.
Hhe soon met Roger returning, and running like a deer.

'They have taken him away,' she said brietty, without look-
ing up. * Please care for his horse and accept my thanks;'
and then she hastened to her room, and did not appear a
t'lat day.

He complied with her request, then went back to his work,
and the grain fell as if the reaper were Death himself.

The next morning Mildred left her seclusion, and her as
pect was pale and resolute, but no reference was made to the
events uppermost in the minds of those aware of them. Kveii
the children and Belle had been so cautioned that they were
reticent. In the evening, however, as Roger was raking the
flower-beds over to prevent the weeds from starting, Mildred
came out, and joining him said, a little bitterly, ' Well, what
did your microscopic vision reveal to you yesterday morning I'

* A brave, proud girl, for whom I have the deepest respect,'
he replied, looking directly into her eyes.

' Was that all 1 '
*No, indeed.*

* Well, what else 1 ' she persisted, in a tone quite unlike her
usual accent.

' I saw the merest shadow of a man and the ghost of a wo-
man who must weigh nearly two hundred.'

She flushed hotly as she said, * You pride yourself on your
keen perceptions, but the truth is you are blind,' and she was
turning angrily away when he answered, * Time will show how
blind I am,' and then he went on quietly with his work.

' Oh, how 1 detest that man ! ' she muttered, as she went
up to her favourite haunt on the hilltop looking toward the
south. * Why did he, of all others, have to be present with
his prying eyes at the odious scene 1 He must know now how j
I feel toward Vinton Arnold, and yet he has so little sense
and delicacy that he expresses contempt for him to my face.

THE OLD MANSION.

103

Brute strength may bo his i«Ieal of manhood, but it's not mine ;
and he knows so little of women that he thinks I ought to
despise one who is simply unfortunate, and through no fault
of his own. Poor, poor Vinton ! Brief as were the moments
before we were interrupted, he had time to assure me that life
had become a burden bec.iuse of our separation, and yet he
said tliat he had no right to see me, no right to send me a li'ie,
no right to add his weakness to my other misfortunes. Time
shall at least show one thing — that I can be patient and true.
That proud, cold woman has no control ^over me, and as long
as he is faithful I shall be.'

CHAPTER XIV.

THE OLD MANSION.

ILDRED'S letter to her father brought a request that
■Wjl. ^^® should join him at once, and choose between two
^(^^ sets of rooms of which she had the refusal. She
insisted upon going, for she was eager to leave a place that
had become hateful to her. She greatly wished to hear of
Arnold's welfare before her departure, but would not make
any effort to do so.

To her surprise, however, Roger handed her a note the fol-
lowing morning. She knew the handwriting well, and asked,
' How do you happen to have this, Mr. Atwood 1 '

' I supposed you would wish to hear from your friend, and
so went up to the hotel. As soon as Mr. Arnold saw me, he
asked me to give you that letter.'

Mildred bit her lip. Was it an officious or a friendly act ?
She was beginning to doubt whether she had fully gauged the
character of this young farmer, but of one thing she was in-
stinctively certain^ — his motive was personal, and sprung from
I an interest in her, which was now more repugnant than ever.
Whether this instance was an obtrusive meddling in her affairs,
I or an act well meant but unwarranted by their relations, shq

104

WITHOUT A HOME.

could not tell. However it might be, she wished the letter had
come by any other hands than his.

She gravely thanked him, and added, * Mr. Atwood, please
dc not feel called upon to do anything further for me unless
requested.*

He grew pale and his lips tightened, for her words and
manner huro him. His act had been in tru!;h very generou«
{^,nd self effacing, but he merely bowed in seeming aqiiiescence,
and turned away.

Arnold's letter ran as follows :

* The memory of that scene yesterday will oppress me for-
ever. Nothing could have happened that would more clearly!
convince you that I am unworthy of your thought. And yetj
it will be a life-long agony to know that I am unworthy. When
I tell you that I love and honour you rtbove all other women,
it is but a poor compensation, I fear, for all that I have made j
you suffer. My mother has kindly (?) informed me that she
told you how feeble I am, and I proved her words true. I feel j
that the best service T can render you is to say. Forget me
wholly ; and yet you can never know v/hat such words cost me.
/shall never forget, unless death is forgetting. If I had the
strength to be of any help to you at all, I would break away
at once and take the consequences ; but I have been an invalid |
all my life, and why I still continue to live I scarcely know.
If, however, there should ever be a time when nne so v;eakaj|
I am can aid you, give me this one shadowy hopa that you wilij
come to me.

* Vinton Arnold.'
This was Mildred's reply :

* It is not in my nature to forget, therefore I cannot. It ii|
not my wish to forget, therefore I will not. You will find iiie|
ever the same.

' Mildred Jocelyn.'

Roger would have taken her reply to the hotel that very!
night, so great was her power over him, but for his sake, »]
well as her own, she wished to teach him once for all tbir
their ways were apart. She dreaded from what he had

THE OLD MANSION.

105

that he would follow her to ttie city and renew the unwelcome
association of his life with hers. Therefore she engaged
heavy, blundering Jotham to deliver the note, giving him a
dollar from her slender purse as a reward. He lost the note
where it was never found, and stolidly concealed the fact lest
he should lose the dollar. The little characteristic missive fell
to the earth somewhere like a seed that drops into an un-
kindly soil and perishes. Roger only knew that stupid Jotham
bad been preferred as her messenger. She made no secret of
the fact, but gave the note to the labourer when he came in to
his nooning the following day. She knew Roger was watch-
ipg her from the front porch, and as she turned towards him
she saw she had wounded him so deeply that she had some
compunctious; but he avoided meeting her, nor did she find &
chance to speak to him again. When, an. hour later, she was
ready to depart with Mr. Atwood for the distant landing,
Roger was not to be found. Her conscience smote her a little,
but slie felt that it would be the best for him in the future,
and would probably end all of his nonsense about leaving
home and winning fame out in the world. She had a warm,
genuine, good- will for Mrs. Atwood and Susan, and even for
poor, grumbling Mr. Atwood, at whose meagre, shrivelled li\e
she often wondered ; and it would be a source of much pain to
her if she became even the blameless cause of Roger'? leaving
home in the absurd hope of eventually becoming great and
rich, and then appearing to her in her poverty, like a prince
in a fairy lore. 'Nothing but the most vigorous snubbing
will bring him to his senses,' shf^ thought, and she now
believed that he would soon subside into his old life, and be
none the >» '>rse for the summer's episode. Therefore, after
embracing her mother again and agp.in in her room, she bade
Mrs. Atwood and Susan good-by very kindly, and they saw
her depart with genuine regret. For Roger there was noth-
ing more than the quiet remark to Mrs. Atwood, ' Please say
goc'-by for me to your son.*

Belle and the children accompanied her to the landing, and

I were in great glee over the long drive. Mildred's spirits rose

also. She had learned most emphatically that she was not

doaJ to her lover, and she thought her words, brief as they

I were, would cheer and sustain him and suggest hope for the

! I ■

:; i 'r' '
Si K

I'M

i-^mmm.

•#

loo

WITHOUT A HOME.

future. Although she was a little sorry for Roger, she was
glad to think that his dark, searching eyes would no longer
follow her, nor ahe ^te compelled from day to day to recognise
a curbed but ever-present and uuwelcome regard^ His feeling
to'vard her seemed like something pent up, yet growing, and
she was alwaj^s fearing it might burst forth. In his mastery
of the horse he had shown himself so strong and fearless that,
iiot sure of his self-restraint, she dreaded lest in some un-
guarded moment he might vehemently plead for her love. The
very thought of thi& made her shudder and shrink, and the
belief that she would probably never see him again gave de-
cided relief.

Chief of all, she was glad that her weary waiting and un-
certainty were over. She was now on her way to seek inde-
pendence and a home. However humble the latter, it would
be a place from which could be excluded all strange andpry-^j
ing looks. When together and alone again, their sorrors
and weaknesses could be hidden or seen only with the eyes of
love.

The ten days or more that had elapsed since Mr. Jocelyn's
departure had made him doubtful whether he could hide his
weakness or overcome it very readily. He believed he was
gaining ground since he was able to reduce the amount of
morphia taken, but in order to keep up he had to employ the
stimulant more frequently. By this method he hoped n*^ver
80 to lose self-control as to excite suspicion, and also gradually
to wean himself from tue drug altogether. Of the two he
would rather meet Mildred than his wife ; the latter must be
kept in ignorance, since to destroy her absolute trust was to
be destroyed. Mildred would more quickly suspect his fault
than would her mother, and if he oould hide his failing from
her he surely could from his wife, unti' complete mastery left
nothing to be concealed. That day of liberty always seemed
but a little in advance. He surely had the will and the strength
to give up a mere drug.

On the morning of Mildred's arrival, having lifted himself
out of his chronic dejuction by the lever of opium, he went to|
meet her with the genuine gladness of a proud, loving father,'
asserting itself like a ray cf June light struggling whrougM
ooxious vapours. She was delighted to find him apparently!

THE OLD MANSION.

107

so well. His walk and the heat had brought colour to his
face, the drug had bestowed animation and confidence, while
his heart gave an honest, loving welcome without the aid of
any stimulant. They rode up-town together as happily and
hopefully as if the nearly empty car were their own carriage,
and they were seeking a home in ^ifth Avenue instead of a
tenement-house ; but the hope and happiness of one was based
on youth, lov^, faith, courage and inexperience, and of the
other on a lurid cloud that would darken steadily except as
renewed gleams were shot through it by a light that was in-
fernal. Any kindly man or woman would have smiled appre-
ciatively to see the handsome father and beautiful daughter
apparently as absorbed in each other's plans and interests as
a young couple seeking the home in which their future life
ffould centre.

' Millie,' said Mr. Jocelyn, * I fear the place to which I shall
at first take you may shock you a little. It's an old Revolu-
tionary mansion, grey and rather dilapidated, but it reminded
me of some of our residences in the South ; and, although per-
haps no better — perhaps not so good — it is still qui e unlike
the stereotyped tenemnnt-house abomination prevailing in this
city. This ancient abode of colonial wealth took my fancy.
It suggested our own changed fortunes by its fal' to its pre-
sent uses. And yet the carving around and above the doors
and windows, much of which still remains, and the lofty ceil-
ings all remind one of past days that can never return to the
poor house, but which we must bring back as soon as possible.'

Her father's opium-tinged description caught Mildred's
fancy also, but when she saw the building her heart sank
at the prospect. To her a tenement-house was as yet a vague,
untested reality, and the one before her was indeed old and
dilapidated, grey and haggard with more than a century's ago.

' It makes me think of an old, dying moss-draped white oak
standing in the midst of trees of younger and diflferent growth,'
said Mr. Jocelyn, as he and Mildred scanned the gable-end of
the house.

Then they entered by two or three stone steps a narrow
passage, ascended a forlorn woode i stairway, covered overhead
by a few boards nailed lengthwise, and so reached a small
landing, where once had been a stately porch or wide veranda.

i* '

^immt-

108

WITHOUT A HOME.

looking no doubt over a broad sweep of lawn and the shining
river.

A quaint brass knocker which gentlemen — long since dust-
had approached wearing lacod three-cornered hats, velvet short-
clothes, and silver buckles, and upon which they had rapped
announcement of their social claims, still hung on the rest from
which they had lifted it. It was not often used at present,
for people entered without knocking, and the wide hall within
was in a sense but a continuation of the street ; also the wind-
ing stairway, with its ancient rail, which started out on one
side and wound up to another square hallway. To each of these
open spaces the several families had equal rights.

The lower had originally extended the whole depth of the
building to a rear doorway, equally old-fashioned but less
elaborately ornamented, but now a partition crossed the raised
circle on the ceiling from which had once hung an ancient chan-
delabrum. Upon each hallway opened four suites of two roomg
each, and thus the old mansion usually sheltered twelve fami-
lies in stead of one. The doors were high, and surmounted by
quaint and worm-eaten carved work.

These halls seemed very dark and close to Mildred, whc had
just come out of the sunlight and from the country, but they
were cool and spacious. They were shown by the janitor to a
room over twenty feet square on the second story, whose former
occupants had left the souvenir of unlimited dirt. * They was
dissipated, and we don't let sich stay in the buildinV said the
man.

Mildred drew a long breath. Could the whole domestic
life of the family be carried on in those two rooms ? * I never |
realized how thousands of people live,' she sighed.

' It will only be for a little while, Millie,' whispered her |
father.

The young girl shrank and shivered even in the summtfl
morning at the ordeal of crowded life, with only intervening
doorways and thin partitions between all sorts of unknoTOJ
neighbours.

* Suppose, papa, we look at the other rooms of which yoa]
have the refusal,' she faltered.

Even in his false buoyancy he could not suppress a sigh as j
he saw that Mildred, in spite of her determination to makt

THE OLD MANSION.

109

the best of everything, had not imagined what a tenement-
house was. * We will be back in an hour or more,' he whis-
pered to the janitor, for he believed the other rooms would
appear still more repulsive.

And so they did, for when Mildred had climbed up three
stairways in a five-story, narrow house, which even at that
hour was filled with a babel of sounds, the old mansion seemed
a refuge, and when she had glanced around the narrow room
and two dark closets of bedrooms, she shuddered and said,
* Papa, can we really afford nothing better 1 '

* Honestly, Millie, we cannot for the present. My income
is exceedingly small, although it will soon be increased, no
doubt. But if we pay too much for rooms we shall have no-
thing to live upon while waiting for better times. Thcbe rooms
are fourteen dollars a month. Those in the old mansion are
only eight, and the two rooms there give more chance for com-
fort than do these three.'

' Oh, yes, yes,* cried Mildred, * 1 could not live here at all
Let us go back.'

While returning, her father showed her apartments in other
tenements for which rents of ten to sixteen dollars were
charged, and she saw that she would not obtain any more in
space and light than for half the money in the old house,
which had been built when that part of the island was open
country.

* Forgive me, papa,' she said, smiling, * that I shivered a
little at the first plunge. We will go to the old house and
stay there until we can do better. It was once evidently a
beautiful home, and I believe that within it we can make^ a
happy home, if we will. These other tenements were never
homes, and I don't see how they ever could be. They are
angular, patent, human packing-boxes, which mock at the very
idea of home coziness and privacy.

Next to a quiet way of earning money, Mildred coveted se-
chision beyond everything else. There was one deep hope that
fed iier life. Her father would work his way up into affluence,
and she again could w« Icome Vinton Arnold to hv.r own par-
lour. Happiness would bring him better health, and the time
wouM come when he could choose and act as his heart dictated.
With woman's pathetic fortitude and patience she would hope
and wait for that day.

^L^r .^*-i*m»

110

WITHOUT A HOME.

Therefore the rooms in the old mansion were taken. A
stout, cheery English woman, who with her plump, red arms
was fighting life's battle for herself and a brood of little ones,
was engaged to clean up and prepare for the furniture. Mil.
dred was eager to get settled, and her father, having ordered
such household goods as they required to be sent from their
place of storage the following day, repaired to his place of
business.

' Now, miss,' said sensible Mrs. Wheaton, * I don't vant lo
do any more than yer vants done, but hif I was you I'd give
hall these 'ere vails a coat hof lime. Vitevash is 'olesome, yer
'now, and sweetens heverything ; hit'll kind o' take haway
the nasty taste those drunken people left.'

* Please whitewash, then, and use plenty of lime. If you can
sweeten these rooms, do so by all means, but I fear that result
is beyond your brush or any other.'

* You've seen better days, miss, and I 'ave meself ; but yer
mustn't be down arted, yer know. See'ow the sunshine comes
in, and ven hit falls hon a carpet, a little furniture and yer hown
people, these 'ere rooms vill soon grow 'omelike, and yer'U
come back to 'em hafter yer day's vork's hover gladly henougb.
I s'pose yer'll vork, since you've come hamong people who
must vork hearly and late.'

* Yes, indeed, we'll work — that is all we ask for.'

* And hit's time I vas habout mine hinstead hof gossiping
'ere. Yer'll soon see how spick and span I'll make heverj-
thing.*

CHAPTER XV.

' WELCOME HOME.'

EILDRED felt that she had become a working- woman in
very truth as she cleaned the dingy closets, vindic-
tively prying into corners and crevices that had been
unmolested by generations of tenants, and the rich colour pro-
duced by summer heat and unwonted exertion deepened at the
thought^ * What would Vinton Arnold, what woi^H his iiiothef

WELCOME HOME.'

Ill

think if they saw me now ? The latter would undoubtedly
remark,' she murmured, in bitterness of spirit, 'that I had at
last found my true sphere, and was engaged in befitting tasks ;
but would I lose in his eyes 1 '

Indeed she would not, neither in his eyes nor those of any
other man capable of appreciating womanly grace. Genuine
beauty is a rare and wonderful gift, and like genius, triumphs
over adverse circumstances, and is often enhanced by them.
Even prosaic Mrs. Wheaton was compelled to pause from time
to time, to admire the slender, supple form whose perfect out-
lines were revealed by the stooping, twisting and reaching re-
quired by the nature of the labour. But the varying expres-
sions of her face, revealing a mind as active as the busy hands,
were a richer study. The impact of her brush was vigorous,
and with looks of aversion and disgust she would cleanse away
the grimy stains as if they were an essential part of the moral as
well as gross material life of the former occupants. To a refined
nature, association forms no slight element in the constitution
of a home ; and horrible conjectures concerning repulsive indi-
cations of the vulgar people who once kennelled where others
would live decently and purely are among the manifold miseries
of tenemeit life. In spite of all her will-power, Mildred shud-
dered, and shrank from even this remote contact with a phase
of humanity peculiarly revolting to her, and the protest of her
innate delicacy would often appear strongly upon her face.

' The worst of it is,' she muttered, * that soap and water
cannot blot out thoughts of the people who were here before us.*

But thoughts of other people, some of whom were very dear
to her, brought varying expressions, and once she smiled and
said to herself, * Roger Atwood now thinks, no doubt, that in
me he has seen another "ghost of a woman," weighing a little
less than "two hundred." Of all my little affairs of that
nature, his was the most preposterous and absurd. That one
human being should expect and seek from another what is so
impossible to give, produces a certain half-humorous irritation
that is indescribable.'

Stout Mrs. Wheaton's mind and fancy were not so busy as
her hands, and when twelve o'clock came she knew the hour,
although carrying no watch. She had interrupted Mildred's
mqsings fron^ tiii^e to time^ but had received rather abseut ^tG'

til. J

.***.*«*

112

WITHOUT A rOME.

plies, for the actual inception of a life of toil occasioned many
thoughts.

When, however, the practical woman remarked, ' I've a hin-
side 'int that it's time we took a bite together,' Mildred
awakened to an honest and hungry approval of the suggestion.

' I don't like to intrude upon you, Mrs. Wheaton,' she said.
'Isn't there some place near where I can go ? '

* Hindeed there is — right down to my room, hif ye're not
above my company. I can brew yer as good a cup o' tea has
hany cook in the land, and ve'll find somethin' nourishin' to go
vith hit.'

* Mrs. Wheaton, you are a genuine friend. I'm so glad you
were here and willing to help me, for you make me feel safer
and more hopeful. You seem brave and not afraid of being
poor, and I want to learn your courage. So far from being
above your company, I am very grateful for it, and I shall try
to repay your kindness with like neighbourly return when I can;
but when it comes to actual expense you must let me pay my
way. How is it you are so brave and cheery when, as you say,
you are alone with several children to support 1 '

* I'll tell yer vhile ve heat our dinner ; so lock the door and
come vith me.'

Mrs. Wheaton's room was plain indeed, but neat and home-
like. A variegated and much-patched carpet covered part of the
floor, which was bare around the ample cooking-stove, whereon
a wholesome dinner soon smoked with appetizing odours. Her
daughter, a young girl about twelve years of age, assisted in the
preparations, and then went to call the other children, who were
playing on the sidewalk.

* Ow is it I'm so brave and cheery ? ' Mrs. Wheaton at last
answered, with a sunshiny smile. ' I've a stout pair of harms,
I've a stout body, and I've a downright belief that the Lord
means veil by me and mine. I'm tryin' to do my best, and hit's
'is bizness to take care of the rest. Hand '£ 'as so far. I've been
a bit 'ungry meself now and then, but the children halways 'ad
enough. So I vork and trust, and lose no time and strength ha-
vorrying.'

The good woman's stout, cheery spirit an«l homely faith
were just the tonics that Mildred needed, and they were all
the more effective because combined with the exhilarating tea

'WELCOME HOME.'

113

faith
rere all
ting tea

and wiiolesome food. Therefore instead of a weary and de-
pressive day, in which body and spirit acted and reacted on
each other until the evening brought shadows deeper than
the night, her courage and cheerfulness grew with the hours of
sustained and healthful toil, and when her father appeared at
six o'clock her smile warmed his heart. At the cost of no
slight effort he had so reduced his doses of morphia that nei-
ther she nor any one could have detected anything unnatural
in his manner. He praised their work unstintedly and
thanked Mrs. Wheaton for her kindness with such warm
soutl. rn frankness that her eyes grew moist with gratification.
Indeed the rooms had grown so clean and wholesome that
Mr. Jocelyn said that they looked homelike already. Mrs.
Wheaton assured Mildred that if she would be content, she
could be made quite comfortable on a lounge in her large liv-
ing-room, and the young girl won her heart completely by
saying that she would rather stay with her than go to the
fifth Avenue Hotel.

Her father asked her to resume her travelling dress, and
then by a street car they soon reached a quiet restaurant near
Central Park, from whence the outlook was upon trees and
shrubbery. The people of New York are singularly fortunate
in their ability to reach, at slight expense of money and time,
many places where the air is pure, and the sense of beauty can
find abundant gratification. Mildred felt that only extreme
poverty could rob them in summer of many simple yet gen-
uine pleasures. When, after their frugal supper, she and her
father strolled through a path winding around a miniature
lake on which swans were floating, she believed that one of
her chief fears might be unfounded. * Papa,* she said * our
lives will not be meagre and colourless unless we make them
80. Every tree and shrub — indeed every leaf upon them and
every ripple on the water — seems beautiful to me this evening.
I do not fear working hard if we can often have these inex-
pensive pleasures. The thing in poverty that has most trou-
bled me was the fear that one's nature might become blunted,
callous, and unresponsive. A starved soul and heart seem to
me infinitely worse than a starved body. Thank God, this
beautiful place is as free to us now as ever, and I think we en-
joy it more than many of those people in yonder carriages.'

t^>mmm

114

WITHOUT A HOME.

'God bless you, Millie,* replied her father. 'We'll try to
do just as you suggest.* Nevertheless he sighed deeply. She
was free ; he was a slave. In the depths of the placid lake
the graceful swans, the pretty wooded shores were faithfully
reflected. In Mildred's clear blue eyes the truth of her words,
the goodness and sincerity of her heart were revealed with
equal certainty. His eyes were downcast and fixed on an
abyss which no soul has ever fathomed.

'Great God!' he murmured, *I must escape; I shall, I
will escape ;' but while Mildred stepped into a florist*8 shop to
buy a blooming plant for Mrs. Wheaton, he furtively took
from his pocket a small paper of white looking powder— just
the amount which experience had taught him he could take
and not betray himself. As a result she was delighted to find
him genial and wakeful until they parted rather late in tlioold
mansion wherein, she jestingly said, she proposed to build
their nest, like a barn swallow, the following day.

After a brief consultation with Mrs. Wheaton the next
morning, Mildred told her father to send for the rest of tlie
family at once, and that she would be ready for them. The
household goods arrived promptly from their place of storage,
and she was possibly happy while transforming the bare
rooms into a home that every hour grew more inviting. They
had retained, when giving up their house in the spring, more
furniture than was sufficient for the limited space they would

taste
their

now occupy, and Mildred had enough material and

from

to banish the impression of poverty almost wholly
two rooms.

* If we should put a crane in the fireplace,' Mr. Jocelyn
dreamingly mused, ' I could imagine that we were at my old
home in the South ; ' but she had said they could not afford
that amount of sentiment, and therefore a stove was obtained
of the same model that shrewd Mrs. Wheaton had found so
well adapted to varied uses.

After two busy days their task was well-nigh completed, and
Mildred slept in her own little room, which she was to share
with Belle, and her weariness, and the sense that the resting*
place was hers by honest right, brought dreamless and refresh-
ing sleep. For the sake of * auld lang syne,' her father kindled
^ ^re 01^ the hearth, and sat brooding oyer it, looking regret*

'WELCOME HOME.*

115

fully back into the past, and with distrustful eyes toward the
future. The dark commercial outlook filled that future with
mmy uncertain elements ; and yet alas ! he felt that he him-
self was becoming the chief element of uncertainty in the prob-
lem of tlieir coming life. There were times when he could dis-
tinguish between his real prospects and his vague opium dreams,
but this power of correct judgment was passing from him.|

There are a vast number of men and women who ought
never to take stimulants at all. They had better die than begin
to use them habitually, and even to touch thom is hazardous.
There is slumbering in their itures a predisposition toward
their excessive use which a slight indulgence may kindle into a
consuming, clamorous desire. Opium had apparently found
something peculiarly congenial in Mr. Jocelyn's temperament
and constitution, and at first it had rewarded him with expe-
riences more delightful than most of its votaries enjoy. But
it is not very long content to remain a servant, and in many
instances very speedily becomes the most terrible of masters.
He had already reached such an advanced stage of dependence
I upon it that its withdrawal would now leave him weak, helpless
and almost distracted for a time. As it was, npidly approaching
a point where his habits would become a terrible and uncon-
trollable disease, for which he would be morally responsible — a
responsibility, however, in which, before the bar of true justice,
the physician who first gave the drug without adequate caution
would deeply share. He felt his danger as he sat cowering over
the dying fire ; even with its warmth added to that of the sum-
mer night he shivered at his peril, but he did not appreciate it in
any proper sense. He resolved again, as he often had before,
that each day should witness increasing progress, then feeling
I that he must sleep he bared his arm and sent enough of Magen-
Idie's solution into his system to produce such rest as opium be-
blows.

To her surprise Mildred found the awakening of her father
la difficult task the following morning. The boat on which his
Iwife and children were to arrive was probably already at the
Iwharf, and she had thought he would be up with the sun to meet
Ithem, but he seemed oppressed with an untimely stupor. When
lat last he appeared he explained that the ^re on tl^e heartU ))£^4

310

WITHOUT A HOME.

induced a fit of brooding over the past and future, and that he
had sat up late.

* Here's a cup of coffee, papa,' she said briskly, * and it will
wake you up. Til have breakfast ready for you all by the time
you can return,, and I a*n so ea<:;er to see mamma that I could
fly to her.'

Mortified that he should even appear dilatory at such a time,
he hastened away, but he was far beyond such a mild stimulant
as coffee. Even now, when events were occurring which would
naturally sustain from their deep personal interest, he found
himself reduced to an almost complete dependence on an unnat*
ural support. Before sleeping he had appealed to his dread
master, and his first waking moments brought a renewed act of
homage. Opium was becoming his God, his religion. Already
it stood between him and his wife and children. It was
steadily undermining his character, and if not abandoned
would soon leave but the hollow semblance of a man.

As the steamboat arrived in the night, Mrs. Jocelyn had no
sense of disapointment at not being met, and through Mildred's
persistency it was still early when her husband appeared. His
greeting was so affectionate, and he appeared so well after bis
hasty walk, that the old glad, hopeful look came into her eyes.

* Well, Nan, we've come down to two rooms in very truth, and
in an old, old house, too, that will remind you of some of the
oldest in the South,' and he drew such a humorous and forlorn
picture of their future abode that his wife felt that he had in-
deed taken her at her word, and that they would scarcely have
a place to lay their heads, much less to live in any proper sense;
and when she stopped before the quaint and decrepit house

•without any front door ; when she followed her husband up
the forlorn stairway to what seemed a side entrance with its
most dismal outlook, she believed that the time for fortitude
had come, in bitter truth. The hall was dark to her sun-
blinded eyes, as it had been to Mildred's, yet not so dark hot
that she saw doors open and felt herself scanned with an un-
blushing curiosity by slattern-looking women, her near neigh-
bours, and the thought that they were so very near made her
shiver. As for Belle, she did not take pains to hide her dii-
gust. With a sinking heart and faltering courage the poor
gentlewoman mounted the winding stairs, but before she reached

WELCOME HOME.'

117

the top there was a rush from an open doorway, and Mildruc
clasped her in close embrace.

• Welcome home ! ' she cried, in her clear, sweet, girlish voice,
' }Iome, Millie ! what mockery that word is in this strange,

strange place I ' she half whispered, half sobbed in her daugh*
lor's ear.

' Courage, mamma. We promised papa we'd ask nothing
better than he could afford. Mildred murmured. < Don't let
him see tears — he has already put Fred down, and is burning
to welcome you to the best home he can offer.'

Had the rooms been cells only, with but a pallet of straw
upon the boards, Mrs. Jocelyn would have responded to that
appeal, and she stepped forward resolved to smile and appear
pleased with everything, no matter how stifled she might feel
for space, air, and light.

But when she crossed the threshold into the spacious, sun-
lighted room, and looked up at the high ceiling and across iu
wide area ; when she had glanced around and seen on every side
the results of the strong spells laid upon stout Mrs. Wheaton
by Mildred's domestic magic, and the dainty touches with
which the solid work had been supplemented, her face lighted
up with a sweet surprise.

' Oh, oh, how much better this is than you led me to ex-
pect! Is all this really ourst Can we aflord so large a
room 1 Here are the dear old things, too, with which I first
went to housekeeping.' Then stepping to her husband's side
she put her arm around his neck as she looked into his eyes
and said, ' Martin, this is home. Thank God, it is home-like
after all. With you and the children around me I can be
more than content — I can be very happy in this place. I
feared that we might bo too crowded, and that the children
might suffer.'

* Of course you didn't think of yourself, Nan. Millie's the
good fairy to thank for all this. The way she and another
female divinity have conjured in these rooms for the last three
days is a matter wholly beyond the masculine mind.'

' Father did a great deal, too, and did it much better than
you could expect from a man. But, come, I'm mistress of
this small fraction of the venerable mansion till after break-
fast, and then, mamma, I'll put the b&ton of nile in your

118

WITHOUT A HOME.

hands. I've burned my fingers and spoiled my complexion
over the stove, and I don't intend that a cold breakfast shall
be the result.'

* Millie/ cried Belle, rushing out of the second room, which
she had inspected in her lightning-like w&y before greeting

her sister, • our room is loveiy. i ou are a gem, an onyx,
a fickle, wild rose. It's all splendid — a perpetual picnic
place, to which we'll bring our own provisions and cook 'em
our own way. No boss Biddies in this establishment. It's
ever so much better than I expected after you once got here;
but as the hymn goes, "how dark and dismal is the way !"'

It was with difiiuulty that the children, wild over the nov-
elty of it all, could be settleed quietly at the table. It was the
family's first meal in a tenement-house. The father's eyes
grew moist as he looked around his board and said, deep in his
heart, ' Never did a sweeter, fairer group grace a table in this
house, although it has stood more than a century. If for their
sakes I cannot be a man — '

' Martin,' began his wife, her deliaate features flushing a
little, * before we partake of this our first meal I want you all
to join me in your hearts while I say from the depths of
mine, God bless our home.'

An hour later, as he went down town, Mr. Jocelyn finished
his sentence. ' If for the sake of such a wife and such children
I cannot stop, I'm damned ! '

CHAPTER XVI.

BELLE AND MILDRED.

|HE cosmopolitan bachelor, living in apartments, knowij
far more of Sanskrit than of a domestic woman's feelings j
as she explores the place she must call her home. It
may be a palace, or it may be but two rooms in a decaying i
tenement, but the same wistful, intent look will reveal oneoi
the deepest needs of her nature. Eve wept not so much for

BELLE AND MILDRED.

119

the loss of Eden as the loss of home — the familiar place
whose homeliest objects had become dear from association.
The restless woman who has no home hunger, no strong in-
stinct to make a place which shall be a refuge for herself and
those she loves, is not the woman God created. She is the
product of a sinister evolution ; she is akin to the birds that
will not build nests, but take possession of those already con-
structed, ousting the rightful occupants.

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred were unperverted ; they were
womanly in every fibre, and the interest with which they
planned, consulted, and dwelt upon each detail of their small
household economy is beyond my power to interpret. They
could have made the stateliest mansion in the city homelike ;
they did impart to their two poor rooms the essential elements
of a home. It was a place which no one could enter without
iovoluntary respect for the occupants, although aware of no-
thing concerning them except their poverty.

* Mrs. Atwood and Susan actually cried when we came to
go,' Mrs. Jocelyn remarked, as they were all busy together,
•and even old Mr. Atwood was wonderfully good for him. He
and Roger put a great many harvest apples and vegetables in
a large box, and Mrs. Atwood added a jar of her nice butter,
some eggs, and a pair of chickens. I told them that we must
begin lite again in a very humble way, and they just over-
flowed with sympathy and kindness, and I could scarcely in-
duce them to take any money for the last week we were there.
It was funny to see old Mr. Atwood ; he wanted the money
dreadfully — any one could see that, for a dollar is dear to his
I heart — but he also wanted to be generous, like his wife, and
to show his strong good will. They sent heaps of love to
you, Millie, and cordially invited us to visit them next summer ;
they also offered to board us again for just as little as they
could afford. Even Jotham appeared to have something on
his mind, for he was as helpful as an elephant, and stood
around, but at last went off muttering to himself.'
I ' Millie,' said Belle indignantly, ' I think you treated Roger
|8hamefully. After we returned fiom seeing you off, mamma
md I went mooning up to that hill of yours looking toward
|tbe south, bec.i.use you and papa were in that direction. Sud-
Idenly we came upon Roger sitting there with his face buried

1*1

y^i

'^11

120

WITHOUT A ilOMR

in his hands. " Are you ill 1 " mamma asked, as if his trouble
might have been a stomach ache. He started up and looked
white in the moonlight. " She was cruel," he said, passion-
ately; '1 only asked for friendship. I would have given my
life for her, but she treated Jotham better than she did me,
and she thinks I'm no better than he is — that I'm one of the
farm animals." " Mr. Atv/ood," mamma began, " she did not
mean to be cruel" — he interrupted her with an impatient
gesture. "The end hasn't come yet," he muttered and
stalked away.'

Mildred sat down with a little perplexed frown upon her
face. ' I'm sure I meant him only kindness,* she said, * why
will he be so absurd V

* You had a queer way of showing your kindness,' snapped
Belle.

* What would you have me do 1 Encourage him to leave
home, and all sorts of fcHy ?'

* You can't prevent his leaving home. Mark my words,
lle'll soon be in this city, and he'll make his way too. He'sj
good, deal more of a man than your lily-fingered Mr. Arnold,
and ^ he wants to be friendly to me and take me out some*
times, I won't have him snubbed. Of course all my old
frien(l%will out me dead.'

* Oh, if he will t^-ansfer his devotion to you, Belle, I'll be
as friendly as you wish.*

* No, you've spoiled him for me or Lay one else. He's fool |
enough to think there's not another girl in the world but Mil-
dred Jocelyn, and he'll get you if you don't look out, for he hal
the most resolute look that I ever saw in any one's eyes. The
day before we came away something happened that took awsy
my breath. A man brought a young horse which he said no
one could manage. Roger went out and looked into the beast's
eyes, and the vicious thing bit at him and struck at him with
his forefoot. Then as he tried to stroke his back he kicked upj
with both hind feet. Oh, he was a verv Satan of a horse, a
they had a rope around his head that would have held a ship.
Koger went and got what he called a curb-bit, and almost in»
twinkling he had slipped it on the horse, and without a mo-
ment's hesitation he sprang up on his bare back. The hora
then reared so that I thought he'd fall over backward «|

BELLE AND MILDRED.

121

Roger. Mamma fairly looked faint — it vivi right after din-
ner — Susan and the children were crying, his father and
mother, and even the owner of the horse was calling to him
to get off, but he merely pulled one rein sharply, and down
the horse came on his four feet again. Instead of looking
frightened he was coolly fastening the rope so as to have it
out of the way. After letting the ugly beast rear and plunge
and kick around in the road a few minute?, Koger turned
his head toward a stone wall that separated the road from
a large pasture field that was full of cows, and he went over
the fence with a flying leap, at which we all screamed and
shouted again. Then away they went round and round that
field, the cows, with their tails in the air, careering about also,
as much excited as we were. At last, when the horse found
he couldn't throw him, he laid down and rolled. Eoger was
off in a second, and then sat on the beast's head for a wV^ile so
he couldn't get up when he wanted to. At last he loO the
brute get up again, but he was no sooner on his feet than
Koger was on his back, and away they went again till tSe
horse was all in a foam, &nd Koger could guide him easily with
one hand. He then leaped him back into the road and* came
trotting quietly to the kitchen door. SpringiLg lightly down,
and with one arm over the panting horse's neck,.«he said
quietly, * Sue, bring me two or three lumps of sugar.' The
horse ate them out of his hand, and then followed him around
like a spaniel. His owner was perfectly carried away ; "Jeru-
salem !" he exclaimed, " I've never seen the beat of that." I
offered you twenty-five dollars if you would break him, and
I'll make it thirty if at the end of a month you'll trala him to
saddle and harness. He wasn't worth a rap till you took him
in hand." *' It's a bargain,"said Roger coolly,and then he whis-
pered to me, ♦*That will buy me a pile of books." * That's the
I kind of a man that I believe in,' concluded Belle, nodding
j her head emphatically, * and I want you to understand that
Roger At wood and I are very good friends."

Mildred meditatively bit her lip, and her cheeks had flushed
I with excitement at Belle's story, but she would make no com-
ment upon it in words. * What does he want with so many
[books X she asked, after a moment. ^

' You'll see before you are gray.*
H

' m

■■ I.

■^■msm'

122

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Indeed ! has he taken you into his confidence, also 1 '

* That*8 my affair. I believe in him, and so will you some
day. He already knows more Latin than you do.'

' That's not saying a great deal/ replied Mildred, with a
short, vexed laugh. * How came he to know Latin ? '

* He studied it at school as you did. The fact is, you are so
prejudiced you know nothing about him. He's strong and
brave, and he will do what he attempts.'

* He'll find that I am strong, too, in my way,' said Mildred
coldly. * He said something that hurt me more than I hurt
him, and all I ask of him is to leave me alone. I wish him
well, and all that, but we are not congenial. Complete success
in his wild ambition wouldn't make any difference. He ought
to remain at home and take care of his own people.'

* Well, I'm glad he is coming to New .York, and I hope for
my sake you'll treat him politely.'

* Oh, certainly for your sake, Belle. Let us all stick to that'

* Belle's a mere child,' said Mrs. Jocelyn, with her low laugh.
' I'm sixteen years old, I thank you ; that is, I will be soon;

and I know a real man from the ghost of one.'

fielle,' cried Mildred, in a tone she rarely used, 'I will
neither permit nor pardon any such allusions.'

* Gome girls,' expostulated their mother, * our nest is too
■mall for any disagreements, and we have a great deal too
much to do for such useless discussions. I am sorry with
Millie that Bogor is bent on leaving home, for I think his
parents need him, "^nd he could do well in the country. The
<Hty is too crowded already.'

* Very well, mamma, I'll be all smiles so long as ^e devotes
himself to Belle ; but he must stop there most emphatically.'

Thus with busjf tongues and busier hands they talked of the
pnst and the future while they unpacked and stowed away
tneir belongings with almost the same economy of space that
is practised on shipboard. Mrs. Wheaton was introduced,
and she at once became a fast ally of Mrs. Jocelyn as well as
of Mildred.

* I 'ope yer'U halways remember yer 'ave a neighbour that's
'aady and villing,' she said, as she curtesied herself out. ' Hit's
too bad,' she muttered, on her way back to her room, ' that
iba't 'ad to come down to this, for she's a born lady ; she's has

BELLE AND MILDRED.

123

ir that's
' Hit's
. *th»t

le's

much a lady as hany 'oo howned the 'ouse a 'undred years hago.'

Thus their life began in the old mansion, and from its hnm-
ble shelter they looked abroad to see what they could obtain
from the great indifferent world without.

< Belle and I must not be idle an hour longer than we can
help,' said Mildred resolutely, on the following day ; * and
the only thing is to find what it would be best to do. J am
going out to try to sell the work I did in the country, and see
if I cannot g^t orders for more of the same kind. My great
hope is thao I can work at home. I wish I knew enough to
be a teacher, but like all the rest I know a little of every thing,
and not much of anything. Fancy work will be my forte, if I
can only sell it. I ,do hope I won't meet any one I know,'
and heavily veiled she took her way with her dainty fabrics
toward the region of fashionable shops. Those, however,
who were willing to buy offered her so little that she was dis-
couraged, und she finally left the articles at a stoid whose pro-
prietor was willing to receive them on commission.

' You must not calculate on speedy sale,' the lady in charge
remarked. * People are very generally out of town yet, and
will be for some time. Your work is pretty, however, and
will sell, I think, later on, although in these hard times useful
articles are chiefly in demand.'

'Please do your best for me,' said Mildred appealingly,
'and please let me know what you think will sell. j,. am wil-
ling to do any kind of work I can that will bring the n..oney
we need.' After receiving some suggestions she bought more
material, and then sat down to work in the hope that the re-
turning citizens would purchase her articles so liberally that
she could do her share toward their general support.

She did not shrink from labour, but with the false pride
80 general she did shrink morbidly from meeting those who
knew her in the past, and from their learning where and how
she lived. She was wholly bent on seclusion until their for-
tunes were greatly mended, fondly hoping that her father
would rally such a constituency from his Southern acquaint-
ance that he would soon command a fine salary.

It was Mildred's belief that renewed prosperity would soon
''^'~ them to live in a way entitling them to recogni-

enable

hai ■^'lon in the society to which Arnold belonged. If this much

^i«»: '-^jtR'tftSSf

124

WITHOUT A HOME.

could be accomplished she felt that her own and her lover's
faithfulness would accomplish the rest They were both young,
and could afford to wait.

' The world brings changes for the better sometimes,' she
thought, as she plied her needle, *as well as for the worse;
and no matter what his proud mother thinks, I'm sure I
could take better care of him than she can. Whether they
know it or not, the course of his family toward him is one of
cold-blooded cruelty and repression. If he could live in a
genial, sunny atmosphere of freedom, afection and respect,
his manhood would assert itself, he would grow stronger, and
might do as much in his way as Roger Atwood ever can in
his. He has a fine mind and a brilliant imagination ; but
he is chilled, embittered, and fettered by being constantly
reminded of his weakness and dependence ; and now positive
unhappiness is added to his other misfortunes, although I
think my little note will do him no harm' — she dreamed that
it might be carried next to his heart instead of mouldering
where the faithless Jotham had dropped it. * I shall not
punish him for his family's harsh pride from which he suffers
even more than I do. Turn, turn, fortune's wheel ! We are
down now, but that only proves that we must soon come up
again. Being poor and living in a tenement isn't so dread-
ful as I feared, and we can stand it for a while. As stout
Mrs. Wheaton says, " There's vorse troubles bin the vorld."
Now that we know and have faced the worst we can turn our
hopes and thoughts towards the best'

Poor child ! It was well the future was veiled.

The mode of Belle's activity was a problem, but that incip J
lent young woman practically decided it herself. She was out- j
spok<)n in her preference.

* I don't want to work cooped up at home,' she said ' ]'<! I
go wild if I had to sit and stitch all day. School half kil!^
me, although there was always some excitement to be had in I
breaking the rules.'

* Naughty Belle ! ' cried her mother.

* Never naughty when you coax, mamma. I'd have beenij
saint if they'd only taken your tactics with me, but theydidnl
know enough, thank fortune, so I had my fun. If they ba^j
only looked at me as you do, and put me on my honour, aodl

BELLE AND MILDRF').

125

i ?•!

appealed to my better feelings and all that, and laughed with
me and at me now and then, I'd been fool enough to have
kept every rule. You always knew, mamma, just how to get
me right under your thumb, iu spite of myself

' I hope I may always keep you there, my darling, in spite of
this great evil world, out into which you wish to go. It is not
under my thumb. Belle, but under my protecting wing that I
wish to keep you.'

' Dear little mother,' faltered the warm-hearted girl, her
eyes filling with tears, ' don't you see I've grown to be too big a
chicken to be kept under your wing ? I must go out and pick
for myself, and bring home a nice morsel now and then for the
little mother, too. Yes, I admit that I want to go out into the
world. I want to be where everything is bright and moving.
It's my nature, and 'vhat's the use of fighting nature 1 I've no
more education than a kitten, but shop-girls are not expected
to know the dead languages, and I can talk my own fast enough.'

' Indeed you can ! ' cried Mfdred.

' But, Belle,' said her mother, who was strongly inclined to-
ward Mildred's idea of seclusion until fortune's wheel had
turnet., ' how will you like to have it known in after years
that you were a shop-girl 1

' Yes,' added Mildred, * you may have to wait on some
whom you invited to your little company last spring. I wish
you could find something to do that would be quiet and se-
cluded.'

' Oh, nonsense ! * cried Belle impatiently. * We can't hide

like bears that go into hollow trees and suck their paws for

half a dozen years, more or less' — Belle's zoological ideas were

startling rather than accurate — * I don't want to hide and

cower. Why should we 1 We've done nothing we need be

ashamed of. Father's been unfortunate ; so have hundredf

and thousands of other men in these hard times. Roger

showed me an estimate, cut from a newspaper, of how many

I had failed during the last two or three years — why it was an

1 array of men. We ain't alone in our troubles, and Roger said

I that those who cut old acquaintances because they had been

unfortunate were contemptible snobs, and the sooner they were

found out the better ; and I want to find out my score or two

I of very dear friends who have eaten ice-cream at our house. I

■i^^mmr^

126

WITHOUT A HOME.

hope I may have a chance to wait on 'em. Til do it with the
air of a |;rinces8/ she conchided, assuming a preternatural dig-
nity, * and if they put on airs I'll raise the price of the goods,
and tell them that since they are so much above other people
they ought to pay double price for everything. I don't believe
they'll all turn up their noses at me/ she added, after a mo-
ment, her face becoming wistful and gentle in its expression
as she recalled some favourites whose whispered confidences
and vows of eternal friendship seemed too recent to be mean-
ingless and empty.

The poor child would soon learn that, although school-girls
vows are rarely false, they are usually as fragile and transient
as harebells. She had dropped into a different world, and the
old one would fade like a receding star. She would soon find
that her only choice must be to make new associations and
friendships rvnd find new pleasures ; and this her mer-
curial frank, and fearless nature would incline her to do very
promptly.

With Mildred it was different. The old life was almost es-
sential to her, and it contained everything that her heart most
craved.

CHAPTER XVII.

BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF.

NLY the least of Belle's difficulties were past when she
obtained consent to stand behind a counter. With
her mother she made many a weary expedition througli
the hot streets, and was laughed at in some instances for even
imagining that empolyment could be obtained at the dullest sea-
son of the year. As soon as their errand was made known they
were met by a brief and often a curt negative. Mrs. Jocelyn
would soon have been discouraged, but Belle's black eyes only
snapped with irritation at their poor success. * Give up 1, she
cried. * No, not if I have to work for nothing to get a chancft

1 1

BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF.

12?

Giving np isn't my Rtyle, at least not till Fm tired of a thing ;
besides it's a luxury poor people can't indulge in.'

Mrs. Jocelyn felt that the necessity which compelled this
quest was a bitter one, and her heart daily grew sorer that she
had not resolutely saved part of every dollar earned by her
husband in the old prosperous times. As she saw the poor
young creature standing wearily, and often idly and listlessly,
the long summer days, as her woman's eye detected in the
faces of many the impress of the pain they tried to conceal but
could never forget, she half guessed that few labourers in the
grb.'\t city won their bread more hardly than these slender
girls, doomed in most instances never to know a vigorous and
perfected womanhood. ' Belle, my child, how can you stand
during these hot days) It's providentiid that we can't find
any place.'

< Well, mamma, I'm not very well up in the ways of Provi-
dence. I fear the dull season has more to do with it. Never-
theless I'm going to make a situation if I can't find one.'

She had in her mind a shop on Sixth Avenue, which g^r%,
the appearance of a certain ' go and life,' as she phrased it.

' There's a strong-willed, wide-awake man back of that estab-
lishment,' she had said to herself more than once, * and if I
could get at him I believe he'd give me work, but the hateful
old foreman stands in the way like a dragon.'

She and her mother had been curtly informed by this well-
dressed ' Dragon,' which parted its hair like a woman, that
' there was no use in bothering the proprietor : he never added
to his help in August — the idea was absurd.

One morning after Mrs. Jocelyn had about given up the hop«
of obtaining a place until the autumn trade revived — as far as
it would revive in those languid years — Belle started out alone,
heavily veiled, and with her purpose also veiled from her
mother and Mildred. She went straight to the shop on Sixth
Avenue that had taken her fancy, and walked up to the obnox-
ious foreman, without a trace of hesitation. ' I wish to sen Mr.
Schriven,' she said, in a quiet, decisive manner.

' He is very busy, madam, and does not like to be distu^be^*
1 will attend to anything you wish.'

'Thank you ; then please take me to the proprietor's offiof
I without delay.'

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1 il

■it^**im)i

H-}

128

WITHOUT A HOMB.

After a moment's hesitation the man complied. This veiled
presence had the appearance of a gentlewoman and was decided
in manner. Therefore he led the way to a umall private office,
and said ' a lady, sir, who insists on seeing you,' and then dis-
creetly closed the door and departed.

The man of business allowed his pen to glide to the end
of his sentence before turning to greet his visitor. Belle in the
mean time had advanced to a point from whence she could
look directly into his face, for, child though she was, she under-
stood th?t it was her difficult task first to obtain a hearing,
and then to disarm his anger at her intrusion. Aware, how-
ever, that she had nothing to lose and everything to gain by
the adventure, her natural fearlessness and quickness of tongue
carried her through. She had already guessed that an appeal
for employment, even the most pitiful, would meet with a flat,
prompt .efusal, therefore she had resolved on different tactics.

At last the man lifted his head in his quick, imperious way,
asking, as he turned toward her, ' What is your business with

me, madam 1

like your store very much/ Belle remarked quietly.
Mr. Schriven now really glanced at her, and he found her
brilliant black eyes and fair flushed face such pleasing objects
of contemplation, that he was content to look for a moment
while he puzzled a little over the unexpected apparition. He
then smiled satirically and said, < What follows from so momen-
tous a fact ? ' «

* It follows ♦hat I would rather be employed here than in
other stores that I do not like so well. My mother and I have
visited nearly every one, and I like yours best.*

* Well, this is cool. You and your mother were refused em-
ployment at this season at all the others, were you not ? '

* Yes, sir.'

' And my foreman declined your services here, also, did he
not r

* Yes, sir, but I was sure that if I saw you I would obtain
my wish. There's a life pnd a snap about this place that I
didn't see elsewhere, and therefore I knew a live man, and
not a machine, was back of it, and that if I could see and talk
with him he'd give me a chance.'

BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF.

129

'You are exceedingly flattering/ said the man, with another
latirical smile. ' Has it not occurred to you that your course
is just tinged with assurance 1 '

* Have 1 said or done anything unbecoming a lady f ' asked
Belle indignantly.

Mr. Schriven laughed good-naturedly, for Belle's snapping
eyes and brusque ways were beginning to interest him. ' Oh
I forgot that you American working-women are all ladies. I
am told that you speak of certain of your number as " scrub-
ladies " and " washer-lad ios." '

* You may call me a shop-girl, sir, as soon as I am in your
employ.*

* And why not now 1 '

' Because I'm not yet a shop-girl, and never have been one.
I've often bought goods with my mother in this very store,
and I come from as good blood as there is in the South. A few
months ago my social position was as good as yours, and now
that we have been unfortunate and I must work, I see no pre-
sumption in asking you to your face for honest work.'

* Not at all, my dear young lady,' resumed Mr. Schriven,
still maintaining his half-amused, half-ironical manner, ' but I
must inform you that I cannot afford to employ my social
equals as shop-girls.'

' When I enter your employ of my own free will,' responded
Belle promptly, ' I the same as promise to obey all the rules
and regulations of your establishment, and I'll do it too.
What's 'more, I'll sell so many goods in dull times and all
times that you can well afford to make a place for me if you
have none. One thing is certain — I'm going to get work, and
my work will repay those who employ me a hundred times.'

' Well, you are an odd fish,' Mr. Schriven ejaculated ; * I
beg your pardon, you are not yet in my employ — you are an
eccentric young lady, and a very young one too, to be making
your way in the world in this irresistible style. You mean
what you say, that if employed you will put on no airs and
conform to rules V

' I mean just what I say.'

Mr. Schriven fell into a foxy fit of musing, and there rose
before his mind the pale face and dragged, weary, listless look
of a girl now standing at the ribbon counter. < She'll break

ISO

WITHOUT A HOMB.

down when bard work begins affain/ be tbougbt; 'she's
giving way now witb nothing much to do. To he sure sht
has been here a long time, and has done her best and all that,
but her day is past, and here's plenty of young flesh and blood
to fill her place. This one is rather young, but she's smart
as a whip — she's full of metJe and is fresh and healthy look-
ing. It won't do to have pale girls around, for it gives cursed
busybodies a chance to rant about women standing all day.
(Out of the oorner of his eye he measured Belle from head
to foot.) She can stand, and stand it, too, for a long while.
She's compact and stout She's built right for the business.'
At last he said aloud, ' In case I should so far depart from
my usual custom and make a place for you, as you suggest,
what do you propose to charge for the services you rate ho
highly V

* What you choose to give.'

' Well,' was the laughing answer, ' there's method in your
madness. Take that pen and write what I dictate.'

Belle wrote a few sentences in a dashing, but sufficientlj
legible hand.

* You will have to practice a little, and aim at distinctness
and clearness. Thats more than style in business,' Mr.
Schriven continued deliberately, for the young creature was so
delightfully fresh and original that he began to ret^ard her as
an agreeable episode in the dull August day. * I'll make a
place for you, as you say, if you will come for three dollars a
weeks id comply with the rules. You are to do just as yea
are bid by those having charge of your department, and yoa
had better keep on their right side. You are not to come to
me again, remember, unless I send for you,' he concluded,
T/ith his characteristic smile ; an event that you must not look
forward to, for I assure you such interviews are rare in my
experience. Come next Monday, at seven, if you agree to
these conditions.'

* I agree, and I thank you,' the girl promptly answered,
her brilliant eyes glowing with triumph, for thoughts like
these were in her mind : ' How I can crow over mamma and
Millie, who said this very morning there was no use of try-
ing ! Won't it be delicious to hand papa enough money to

BELLE LAUNCHES HERfiELF.

181

pay the rent for a month I' No wonder the child's face was
radiant.

The thoughts of her employer were of quite a different cha-
racter. He gave her a look of hold admiration and said fa-
miliarly, ' By Jupiter, hut you are a daisy V

Belle's manner changed instantly. He caught a swift, in-
dignant flash in her dark eyes, and then she laid her hand on
the doorknob and said, with the utmost deference and dis-
tance of manner, 'I will try to attend to the duties of my sta-
tion in a way that will cause no complaint, Good morning,
sir.*

'Wait a moment,' and Mr. Schriven touched a bell, and im-
mediately the foreman appeared.

' Give this girl a place next Monday, at the ribbon counter,'
he said, in the quick staccato tones of one who is absolute and
saves time even in the utterance of words. * I also wish to see
you two hours hence.'

The man bowed, as if all were a matter of course, but when
he was alone with Belle he said sharply, ' You think you got
ahead of me.'

He would indeed have been the most malicious of dragons
had not Belle's smiling face and frank words disarmed him.

' 1 did not get ahead of you and you know it, but ^ou are
too much of a man to hold a grudge against a poor girl who
has her bread to earn. Now that I am under your charge I
promise that I'll do my best to please you.'

' Very well, then, we'll see. I'll have my eye on you, and
don't you forget it.'

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred laughed, sighed, and shook their
heads over Belle's humorous account of her morning's adven-
ture. They praised her motive, they congratulated her on her
success, but her mother said earnestly, * My dear little girl,
don't get bold and unwomanly. We had all better starve than
come to that It would wound me to the heart if your man-
ner should ever cause any oae to think of you otherwise than
M the pure-hearted, innocent girl that you are. But alas !
Belle, the world is too ready to think evil. You don't know it
yet at all.'

She knew it better than they thought There was one
phase of her interview with Mr. Schriven that she had not re-

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132

WITHOUT A HOME.

v^^ealed, well knowing thai; her gentle mother would be inexor-
able in her decision that the shop must not even be entered
again. The girl was rapidly acquiring a certain shrewd hardi-
hood. She was not given to sentiment, and was too young to
suffer deeply from regret for the past. Indeed she turned
buoyantly toward the future, while at the same time she recog-
nised that life had now become a keen battle among others in
like condition.

* I don't intend to starve,' she said to herself, • nor to bite
off my own nose because the world is not just what mother
and Millie think it ough*^^ to be. Papa would be inclined to
break that man's head if 1 told him what he said and how he
looked. But what would come of it 1 Papa would go to jail
and we into the street. Unless papa can get up in the world
again very fast, Millie and I will find that we have got to take
care of ourselves and hold our tongues. I hadn't been around
with mamma or\e day before I learned that much. Mamma
and Millie were never made to be working-women. They are
over-refined and high-toned, but I can't afford too much of that
kind of thing on three dollars a week. I'm a " shop lady "—
that's the kind of lady I'm to be — and I must come right
down to what secures success without any nonsense.'

In justice it should be said that Belle's practical acceptance
of the situation looked forward to no compromise with evil ; but
she had seen that she must come in contact with the world as
it existed, and that she must resolutely face the temptations
incideiit to her lot rather than vainly seek to escape from
them. Alas ! her young eyes had only caught a faint glimpse
of the influences that would assail her untrained, half-deve-
loped moral nature. Body and soul would be taxed to the ut-
most in the life upon which she was entering.

On the Sunday following Mr. Jocelyn slept so late that
none of the family went to church. Indeed, since their old
relations were broken up they scarcely knew where to go, and
Mildred no more felt that she could return to the fashionable
temple in which Mrs. Arnold worshipped than present herself
at the elegant mansion on Fifth Avenue. The family spent the
after part of the day in one of the most secluded nooks they
could find in Central Park, and Mildred often looked back upon
those hours as among the brightest in the shrouded past. Mr.

BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF.

133

Jocelyn gauged his essential stimulant so well that he was
geniality itself ; Belle was more exuberant than usual ; Fred
and Minnie rejoiced once more in flowers and trees and space
to run. Mrs. Jocelyn's low, sweet laugh was heard again and
again, for those who made her life were all around her, and
they seemed happier than they had been for many a long, weary
day, Fur a brief time at least, the sun shone brightly through
a rift in the clouds gathering around them. ^

Beyond the fact that Belle had found a place, little was said
to Mr. Jocelyn, for the subject seemed very painful to him,
and the young girl started off Monday morning in high spir-
its. The foreman met her in a curt, business-like way, and
assigned her to her place, saying that the girl in charge of
the goods would tell her about the marks, prices, etc. This
girl and her companions received Belle very coldly, nor did
they thaw out before her sunshine. As a matter both of duty
and interest the young woman upon whom the task devolved
explained all that was essential in a harsh, constrained voice,
and the others ignored the new comer during business hours.
Belle paid no attention to them, but gave her whole mind to
the details of her work, making rapid progress. * I'll have
time for them by and by,' she mnttered, ' and can manage
them all the belter when I know as much as they do.'

She saw, too, that the foreman had his eye upon her and her
companious, so she assumed the utmost humility and docility,
but persisted in being told and retold all she wished to know.
Since she observed that it was the foreman's eye and not good
will which constrained the cold, unsympathetic instruction re-
ceived, she made no scruple in taxing the giver to the utmost

When at last they went to the room in which they ate their
lunch, the girls treated her as if she were a leper ; but just to
spite them she continued as serene as a May morning, either
acting as if she did not see them or treating them as if they
were the most charming young women she had ever met She
saw with delight Ihat her course aggravated them and yet
gave no cause for complaint.

As soon as permitted she hastened home, and was glad to
lie down all the evening from sheer fatigue, but she made
light of her weariness, concealed the treatment she had re-
ceived from the girls, and the dejection it was beginning to

. 1,^ •

t M

134

WITHOUT A HOME.

ft 'Si

i,-!,*

occasion in spite of her courage ; she even made the little
home group laugh by her droll accounts of the day. Then
they all petted and praised and made so much of her that her
spirits rose to their usual height, and she said confidently, as
she went to a long night's rest, * Don't you worry, little
mother : I didn't expect to get broken into my work without a
backache.'

The next day it was just the same, but Belle knew now
what to charge for the ribbons, or, if she was not sure, the
others were obliged, under the eye of the inexorable foreman
— who for some reason gave this counter a great deal of atten-
tion — to tell her correctly, so she began to lie in wait for cus-
tomers. Some came to her of their own accord, and they
smiled back into her eager, smiling face.

In two or three instances her intent black eyes and manner
seemed to attract attention and arrest the steps of those who
had no intention of stopping. One case was so marked that
the alert foreman drew near to note the result. An elderly
lady, whose eye Belle had apparently caught by a look of such
vivacity and interest that the woman almost felt that she had
been spoken to, came to the girl, saying, ' Well, my child,
what have you that is pretty today )'

* Just what will please you, madam.'

* You please me, whether your ribbons wiM or not. It's
pleasant for a customer to be looked at as if l le were not a
nuisance,*' she added significantly, and in a tone that Belle's
companions, with their cold, impassive faces, could not fail to
bear. * You may pick out something nice for one of my little
granddaughters.'

Dimpling with smiles and pleasure, Belle obeyed. Feeling
that the eye of the arbiter of their fates was upon them, the
young women near might have been statues in their rigid
attitudes. Only the hot blood mounting to their faces be-
trayed their anger. There was evidently something wrong at
the ribbon counter — something repressed, a smouldering and
increasing indignation, a suggestion of rebellion. So the fore-
man evidently thought, from his frequent appearances ; so the
floor-walker clearly surmised, for with imperious glances and
words he held- each one sternly to her duty. Belle was smiling
and working in the midst of a gathering storm, and she wai

BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF.

135

becoming conscious of it So far from cowering, her indigna-
tion was fast rising, and there was an ominous glow kindling
in her dark eyes. Their seemingly unwarranted hostility and
jealousy were beginning to incense her. She believed she had
as much right there as they had, and she resolved to maintain
her right. Catching an ireful glance from the girl in charge of
the counter, she returned it with interest. Even this spark
came very near kindling the repressed fires into an open flame,
regardless of consequences. The bread of these girls was at
stake, but women pre not calculating when their feelings are
deeply disturbed.

At last, just as the wretched afternoon was ending, and pre-
parations to close was in progress, a pale, thin girl, with a
strange and rather reckless look, came in, and, sitting down
before Belle, fixed her gaunt eyes upon her.

' So you were heartless enough to take my place away from
me 1 ' she said slowly, after a moment.

' I don't know what you mean,' answered Belle indignantly.

' Yes, you do know what she means, you little black snake in
the grass,' whispered one of the girls in her ear while pretend-
ing to put a box upon the shelf.

Belle whirled upon he^: with such a vivid and instantaneous
flash of anger that the girl stepped back precipitately and
dropped the box.

Just at this moment Mr. Schriven, in the act of departure,
came out of his office and witnessed the whole scene. He
stopped and smiled broadly. The foreman had informed him
from time to time of the little ' comedy ' progressing at the
ribbon counter, and the two potentates felt quite indebted to
Belle for a sensation in the dullest of dull seasons, especially as
the girl's conduct was wholly in the line of their wishes, regu-
lations and interests. ' She's as plucky as a terrier,' the echo
of his chief had said, * and the time will come when she'll sell
I more goods than any two girls in the store. You made a ten-
I strike in effecting that exchange.'

It was rich sport for them to see her fiery spirit arousine
land yet defying the intense and ill-concealed hostility of
Iher companions — a hostility, too, that was extending beyond
Ue ribbon counter, and had been manifesting itself by whisper-
f% significant nods, and black looks toward the poor child all

: * 1 M\

f 11*

■mibmm^'

136

WITHOUT A HOME.

the afternoon ; bnt so far from shrinking before this concen-
tration of ill-will Belle had only grown more indignant, more
openly resentful, and unable to maintain her resolute and tan-
talizing serenity.

Feeling that it would compromise his dignity and authority
even to appear to notice what was going forward, Mr. Schriven
wrapped himsf>lf in his greatness and passed down the shop,
sweeping the excited group — that was restrained for tho mo-
ment by his presence — with a cold, nonchalant glance, from
which, however, nothing escaped. When in the street big
characteristic smile reappeared.

* By the Lord Harry 1 ' he muttered, * if she isn't the
gamiest bit of iiesh and blood that I've seen in a longtime!
She's worth looking after.'

Since his eye and restraining presence, however, were cow
absent from the store, there would have been no small tumult at
the ribbon counter had not Belle by her straightforward fear-
less manner brought things to a speedy issue. There were now
no customers in the. shop, and the discipline of the day was prac.
tically over, therefore the girl on whom Belle had turned so
passionately, having reached a safe distance, said outspokenly,
* I'll say it now, so all can hear, even if I lose my place for it.
You are a mean p'isinis's little black snake in the grass. We
all know how you got this girl oat of the place she's had for
years, and I want you to understand that if you stay you'll
have a hot time of it.'

* And I want you to understand that if I have a right to stay,
I will stay,' cried Belle, in a ringing voice. ' I'm not afraid of
you, nor a thousand like you. Either you're all cats to treat
a young girl as you treated me the last two days, or else
there's something that I don't understand. But I'm going to
understand it here and now. You hold your tongue, and let
this girl speak who says I've taken her place. She's the one
I'm to deal with. But first let me say how I got this place-I
asked for it. That's the whole story, and I didn't know that
I was taking it from any one else.'

Belle's courageous and truth-stamped manner began to ere- 1
ate a diversion in her favour, and all near listened with her to |
what the dismissed girl might say. The latter did not in the j
least respond to Belle's energy, but after a long, weary sigh si

'I BELIEVE IN TOU,*

137

began, without raising her head from her hand, as she sat
ing on the counter, * Whether you're right or wrong, I'm

lean-
ing on me couiii»er, ' vy ireLiier you re ngub or wrong, I'm too
badly 'ised up to quarrel with you or to answer in any such
ganpowdery fashion. I'm dead heat, but I thought I'd like
to come in and see you all once more, and my old place, and
who was standing in it You are at the beginning, my pert
one. If I was as young and strong as you I wouldn't come
and stand here.'

' How is your mother 1 ' asked the girl in charge of the
counter.

' She's dying, starving,' was the reply, in the same dreary,
apathetic tone, and black looks were again directed toward
Belle.

She heeded them not, Iiowever. For a moment her eyes
dilated with horror, then she sprang to the girl, and taking her
band exclaimed, * Good God I What do you mean 1 Let me
go home with you.'

The girl looked at her steadfastly, and then said, 'Yes,
come home with me. That's the best way to understand it
all'

' We'll bring your mother something by and by,' said two
or three of the girls as the poor creature rose slowly to follow
Belle, who was ready instantly, and whose course compelled
a suspension of judgment on the part of those even the most
prejudiced against her.

CHAPTER XVItL

*I BELIEVE IN YOU.*

'•Y^OME,* cried Belle impatiently, as they made their way
^^S5 down Sixth Avenue, which was crowded at that
■ hour ; ' why do you walk so slowly 1 If my mother
was as badly off as you say yours is, I'd fly to her.'

* No, you wouldn't, if you had scarcely eaten anything for
two days.*

138

WITHOUT A HOME.

*-, Sf'4

* What ! ' Belle exclaimed, stopping short and looking at
her companion to see if she were in earnest Something in
her expression caused the impulsive child to seize her hand
and drag her into a bakery near. Then snatching out her
little purse she thrust ic into the girl's hand and said, ' Here,
take all I have, and buy what you like best.'

But i'^stead of buying anything, the stranger looked wist-
fully into the excited and deeply sympathetic face, and said
slowly, * I don't believe you're bad after all.'

' Oh, I'm bad enough — bad as most girls of my age,' said the
innocent girl recklessly, * but I'm not bad enough to keep
back a penny if I knew any one was hungry. Stop look-
ing at me and buy what you like, or else let me do it. Take
home some of this jelly cake to your mother. That would
tempt my appetite if it ever needed any tempting. 1 half be-
lieve you are shamming all this, you act so queer.'

* Come with me,' said the girl, for the people in the store
were looking at them curiously. When in the street she con*
tinned, * You are not bad. What is your name 1 '

* Be'le Jocelyn.'

* My name is Clara Bute. I am hungry. Fm faint for food,
but may it choke me if I eat any before I take something home
to mother ! Cake is not what either of us need, although it made
me ravenous to see it. You haven't much money here, Belle,
and small as the sum is, I don't know when I can repay it.'

* Oh, stop that kind of talk,' cried Belle ; * you'll drive me
wild. Let us get what your mother does want and take it to
her without another word.'

They purchased bread and milk, a little tea, a bit of beef, a
bundle of kindling-wood, and then Belle's slender funds gave
out With these they turned into a side street and soon
reached a tall tenement.

, Oh,' sighed Clara, * how can I climb those dreadful stairs!
We live at the top.*

* Drink some of the milk,' said Belle kindly, ' and then let
me carry everything.'

' I guess I'll have to or I'll never get up at all.' Slowly and
painfully she mounted flight after flight, sitting down at last
and resting between each ascent. * I did'nt — ^realize — I was so
weak ' she panted.

*I BELIEVE IN YOU.*

139

' Tell me your room,' said Belle, * and I'll come back and
help you.'

♦ It's the last one — back — top floor. I've given out.'

Belle left her sitting on the stairs and soon reached the door,
which had been left slightly ajar for air, for the evening was
sultry. She pushed it open with her foot, since her hands
were so full, and with her eyes fixed on the articles she was
carrying so as to drop nothing, she crossed the small room to
a table and put them down before looking around.

* There's some — mistake,' said a very low, hollow voice.
Belle was almost transfixed by eyes as black as her own,

gleaming out of cavernous sockets and from the most emaciated
face she had ever seen. It seemed as if the dead were speaking
to her. At any rate, if the woman were not dead she soon
would be, and the thought flashed through Belle's mind that
she would be the cause of her death, since she had taken her
daughter's place and robbed them of sustenance. She who had
heen ready to face a whole sliopful of hostile people with un-
daunted eyes was seized with a remorseful panic, and ran sob-
bing down to Clara, crying, * Oh, do come — let me carry you ;'
and this she half did in her excitement. * Give your mother
something to make her better right away. Let me help you—
tell me what to do.'

Clara went to her mother and kissed her tenderly, whisper-
ing, 'Courage, momsy, I've got something nice for you.' Then
she turned ard said, * You are too excited. Belle. I'll do
every tiling, and make the little we have go a great way. You
would waste things. I know just what to do, only give me
time/ and she soaked some of the bread in the milk and be-
gan feeding her mother, who swallowed with great difficulty.

'I'll take no more — till — I see you — eat something,' gasped
the poor woman. * Who gave you all this 1 Who's that 1 '
pointing feebly at Belle.

' I'm the girl that took Clara's place,' Belle began, with a
fresh burst of sobs. * I didn't know I was doing it, and now
I'll never forgive myself.'

Clara looked at h<^r wonderingly as she explained : ' The
foreman said you asked Mr. Scriven tj make a place for you,
but I don't believe you meant that he should " sack" me to do
it. Why you are nothing but a great, warm-hearted child.

iLS

LI*,t^H|||M||W^

140

WITHOUT A HOME.

The girls said you were " knowing," and could " play as deep
a game as the next one," and that the foreman about the same
as owned it to them. It's all his doing and his master's.
They b<»th care more for a yard of ribbon than for a girl, body
and soul'

* Well,' said Belle, with bitter emphasis, * I'll never work
for them again — never, never.

* Don't say that,' resumed Clara, after coaxing her mother
to take a little more nourishment, and then sitting down to eat
something herself. ' If you are poor you must do the beet
you can. Now that I know you I'd rather you had my place
than any one else, for ' — she gave a swift glance at her mother's
closed eyes, and then whispered in Belle's ear — * I couldn't
keep it much longer. For the last few weeks it has seemed I'd
drop on the floor where you stood to-day, and every night I've
had harder work to climb these stairs. Oh, Lord ! I wish
mother and I could both stay here now till we're carried down
together feet foremost.'

* Don't talk that way,' pleaded Belle, beginning to cry again.
* We'll all do for you now, and you both will get better.'

* Who's " we all ? " Would you mind telling me a little
about who you are, and how you came to get my place 1 '

Belle's brief sketch of herself, her history, and how the re-
cent events had come about, was very simple, but strong and
original, and left no doubt in her listener's mind.

* My gracious ! ' Clara cried, as the room darkened, * your
folks '11 be wild about you. I've nothing to oflTer you but your
own, and I've kept you talking when you must have been tired
and hungry, but you are so full of life that you put a bit of
life in me. It's ages since I felt as you do, and I'll never feel
so again. Now run home with your mind at rest. You have
done us more good than you have harm, and you never meant
us any harm at all.'

* Indeed 1 did not,' cried Belle, * but I'm not through with
you yet. I'll bring Millie back with me and a lot of things,'
and she darted away.

The inmates of the two rooms at the Old Mansion were, in-
deed, anxious over Belle's prolonged absence. Her father had
gone to the shop. Mrs. Wheaton with her apron thrown over
her head, was on the sidewalk with Mildred, peering up

*I BELIEVE IN YOU.*

141

down through the dusk, when the half-breathless girl appeared.

Her story was soon told, and Mrs. Wheuton was taken into
their confidenc** From trembling apprehension on Belle's be-
half, kind Mrs. j jcelyn was soon deep in sympathy for the poor
woman and her daughter, and offered to go herself and look
after them, but Mildred and Mrs. Wheaton took the matter
into tlieir own hands, and Belle, after gulping down a hasty
supper, was eager to return as guide. Mr. Jocelyn, who had
returned from the closed store on a run, had so far recovered
from his panic concerning his child that he said he would
bring a physician from the dispensary, and, taking the number,
went to do his part for those who had become * neighbours
unto them.* A woman on the same floor offered to look after
Mrs. Wheaton's children for an hour or two, and the two sis-
ters and the stout English woman, carrying everything they
they could think of to mako the poor creatures comiortable,
and much that they could ill spare, started on their errand of
mercy. It never occurred to them that they were cnj^aged in
a charity or doing a good deed. They were simply following
the impulses of their hearts to help thost of whose sore need
they had just learned. Mildred panted a little under her load
before she reached the top of those long, dark stairs. * I
could never get to heaven this way,' muttered Belle, upon
whom the day of fatigue and excitement was b^.ginning to
tell. ' It's up, up, up, till you feel like pitching the man who
built these steps head first down 'em all. It's Belle, Clara,'
she said, after a brief knock at the door ; then entering, she
added, ' I told you I'd come back soon with help for you.*

' I'm sorry I've nothing to make a light with,' Clara an-
swered ; * the moon has been so bright of late that we did
without light, and then I got all out of money. We either
had to pay the rent or go into the street, unless some one
took us in. Besides, mother was too aick to be moved.'

•I've brought two candles,' said Mrs. Wheaton. *The're
heasier managed on a 'ot night,' and she soon had one burn-
ing on the table and another on the mantel. * I vant to see
vat's to be done,* she continued, ' because 1 must <;;\ve yer a
arty lift in a jiffey and be back to my children hagain.' Then
going to the sick woman she took her hand and felt her pulse.
''Owdo yer find yerself, mumT she asked.

FfW, . M

mm 1

"1 1

■ ** ,f

.-ii'-k.i- ■ ■'.'

\X %

Imf't^'Km

" ! ill

142

WITHOUT A HOME.

' Oh, I'm much — better — I shall — get well now,' the poor
soul gasped, under the strange hallucination of that disease
which, although incurable, over promises speedy health to its
victims.

* That's splendid ; that's the way to talk,' cried Belle, who
had been oppressed with the fear that the woman would die,
and that she in some sense would be to blame. ' Clara, this
is sister Millie that I told you about,' and that was all the
introduction the two girls ever had.

* Vy didn't yer send yer mother to a 'ospital ] ' Mra.
Wheaton asked, joining the girls at the table.

* Don't say "hospital" so mother can hear you. The ve^y
word would kill her now, for there's nothing on earth she
dreads more than that they'll separate us and send her to a hos-
pital. I've sometimes thought it would have been best, and then
it seemed it would kill her at once, she was so opposed to it.
That we might keep together and to buy her delicacies I've
parted with nearly everything in the room, as you see,' and it
was bare indeed. A bed from which the element of comfort
bad long since departed, two rickety chairs, a pine table, a
rusty stove, and a few dishes and cooking utensils were about
all there was left. With eyes slowly dilating, Mildred took in
the bleak truth, but said only a few gentle words and was very
busy. She lifted Mrs. Bute's head, while Clara gave her a
little bread soaked in wine, and then aided Mrs. W heaton in
making the room and bed a little more like what they should
be by means of the urticles they had brought. Clara wonder-
ingly saw that her ii'utle closet was stocked with supplies for
days to como. Her mother's preternaturally brilliant eyes fol-
lowed every movement, also, with a dumb but eager ques-
tioning. Tired Belle in the meantime had drawn a chair to
the table, and with her head resting on her arms had dropped
asleep in a moment.

* Why should your sister work in a store if you're not poor f
Clara asked Mildred. ' You can't be poor and spare all these
things.'

* Yes, we're poor, but not so poor as you are,* said Mildred
simply. ' Belle touched our hearts in your behalf, and we see
you need a little neighbourly help.'

* I BELIEVE IN YOU.*

143

< Well, I was never so mistaken in any one in my life/ Clara
exclaimed, looking at the sleeping girl, with a remorseful gush
of tears. * There isn't a had streak in her.'

At this moment the door opened, and two girls who had
been Clara's companions at the shop, appeared with a few
meagre parcels. Before asking them in she pulled them hack in
the hall and there were a few moments of eager whispering.
Then they all came in, and looked at Belle, and Clara stooped
down and kissed her lightly, at which the girl smiled and mur-
mured,* Dear little mother —always brooding over her chicks.'

' She thinks she's home,' explained Mildred, with moist eyes.

< This is her sister,' said Clara, ' and this lady is a friend of
theirs. I know they have rohhed themselves, they've brought
so much.

< Vun's honly to come to Hameriker ter be a lady,'chuckled
Mrs. Wheaton under her breath.

* We won't wake your sister,' said one of the girls. ' She's
tired, and no wonder. We haven't treated her right at the
store, but we wasn't to blame, for we did't know her at all.
Please tell her that we'll give her a different reception to-mor-
row,' and after another season of whispering in the hall they
departed, leaving the simple off'erings gleaned from their
poverty.

Mr. Jocelyn and the physician soon appeared, and after a
brief examination the latter called Mr. Jocelyn aside and
and said, * Her pulse indicates that she may die at any hour.
There is no use of trying to do anything, for the end has come.
It has probably been hastened by lack of proper food, but it
is too late now to give muph, for there is no power of assimi-
lation.'

' You had better tell the poor girl the truth then/ said Mr.
Jocelyn.

Clara was called, and heard the verdict with a short, convul-
sive sol: then was her weary, quiet self again. * I feared it was
80,' was all she said. She now became aware that Mildred
was beside her with an encircling and sustaining arm. * Don't/
she whispered ; ' don't be too kind or I'll break down utterly,
and I do not want to before mother. She don't know — she
never will believe she can die, and I don't want her to know.
I'll have time enough to cry after she's gone.'

144

WITHOUT A HOME.

* I feel I must stay vith yer to-night/ warm-hearted Mrs.
Wheaton began ; 'and if Miss Jocelyu villlook haftermy chil-
dren I vill.'

' No, Mrs. Wheaton/ said Mildred decidedly, * I'm going to
stay. You ought to be with your children. Don't tell Hellc,
papa, and take the poor child home. Clara and I can now du all
that can be done. Please don't say anything af^ainst it, for I
know I am right/ she pleaded earnestly in answer to her
father's look of remonstrance.

* Very well, then, I'll return and stay with you,' he said.
The physician's eyes dwelt on Mildred's pale face in strong

admiration, as he gave her a few directions. ' That's right,
Millie, make her well for mercy's sake, or I'll have the horrurs/
Belle whispered as she kissed her sister good-night.

Soon Clara and Mildred were alone, watching the gasping
fitful sleeper. 'After all that's been done — for me — to-night
I'll — surely get well,' she had murmured, and she closed her
eyes without an apparent doubt of recovery.

Mildred furtively explored the now dimly lighted room.

* Merciful Heaven,' she sighed, ' shall we ever come to
this? ' Clara's eyes were fixed on her mother's face with pa-
thetic intensity, watching the glimmer of that mysterious thing
we call life, that flickered wore and more faintly. The differ-
ence between the waste J form, with its feeble animation, and
what it must soon become would seem slight, but to the
daughter it would be wide indeed. Love could still answer
love, even though it was by a sign, a glance, a whisper only;
but when to the poor girl it would be said of her mother,
' She's gone,' dim and fading as the presence had been, mani-
fested chiefly by the burdens it imposed, its absence would
bring the depths of desolation and sorrow.

Going the poor creature evidently was, and whither 1 The
child she was leaving knew little of what was bright and plea-
sant in this world, and nothing of the next. ' Miss JocelyD,'
she began hesitatingly.

' Don't call me Miss Jocelyn ; I'm a working-girl like your-
self.'

* Millie, then, as Belle said V
•Yes.'

'I BEUEVE IN YOU.*

145

* Millie, do you believe in a heaven ? '

'What is it like r

' I don't know very well. It's described to us under every
gmnd and beautiful image the world affords. I think we'll
find it what we best need to make Us happy.'

M)li, then it would be rest for mother and me/ the girl
sighed wearily.

* It's surely rest, ' Mildred replied quickly, * for I reroem-
ber a place in the Bible where it says, *' There remaiueth a
rest for the people of God." '

' That's it,' said Clara with some bitterness ; ' its always
he people of God. What remains for such as we, who have
always been so busy fighting the wolf that we've thought little
of God or church 1 '

' You've been no poorer, Clara, than Christ was all His life,
and were He on earth now as He was once, I'd bring Him.
here to your room. He'd come too, for He lived among just
such people as we are, and never once refused to help them in
their troubles or their sins.'

* Once—once,' cried Clara with a gush of tears. * Where is
He now 1 '

' Here with us. I know it, for we need Him. Our need is
our strongest claim — one that He never refused. I have en-
treated Him in your behalf and your mother's, and do you
ask Him also to put heaven at the end of this dark and often
thorny path which most of us must tread in this world.'

'Oh, Millie, Millie, I'm as ignorant as a heathen. I did have
a Bible, but I sold even that to buy wine to save mother's life.
I might better have b«^en thinking of saving her soul. She's
too sick to be talked to now, but surely she ought to find at
least a heaven of rest. You could never understand the life
she's led. She hasn't lived — she's just been dragget) throucrh
the world. She was born in a tenement-house. "The little 'A3l\
she ever had was on sidewalks and in the gutters ; she's
scarcely ever seen the country. Almost before she knew ho v
to play she began to work. When she was only seventeen a
coarse, bad man married her. How it ever came about I never
could understand. I don't believe he knew anything more of
love than a pig ; for he lived like one and died like one, only

•^i

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146

WITHOUT A HOME.

he didn't die soon enough. It seems horrible that I should
speak in this way of my father, and yet why should I not,
when he was a horror to me ever since 1 can remember ? In-
stead of taking care of mother, she had to take care of him.
He'd take the pittance she had wrung from the washtub for
drink, and then come back to repay her for it with blows and
curses. I guess we must have lived in fifty tenements, for we
were always behind with the rent and so had to move here and
there, wherever we could get a place to put our heads in. Queer
places some of them were, I can tell you — mere rat-holep.
They served one purpose, though — they finished off the chil-
dren. To all mother's miseries and endless work was added
the anguish of child-bearing. They were miserable, puny, fret-
ful little imps, that were poisoned off" by the bad air in which
we lived, and our bad food— that is, when we had any — after
they had made all the trouble they could. I had the care of
most of them, and my lifb became a burden before I was
seven years old. I used to get so tired and faint that I was
half-glad when they died. At last, when mother became so
used up that she really couldn't work any more, father did for
us the one good act that I know anything about — he went off
on a big spree that finished him. Mother and I have clung
together ever sinca We've often been hungry, but we've never
been separated a night. What a long night is coming now, in
which the doctor says we will be parted ! ' and the poor girl
crouched on the floor]where her mother could not see her should
she open her eyes, and sobbed convulsively.

Mildred did not try to comfort her with words, but only with
caresses. Christ proved centuries ago that the sympathetic
touch is healing.

* Oh, Millie, I seem to feel the gentle stroke of your hand on
my heart as well as on my brow, and it makes the pain easier
to bear. It makes me feel as if the coarse, brutal life through
which I've come did not separate me from one so good and dif-
ferent as you are ; for though you may be poor, you are m
much of a lady as any I've ever waited on at the store. And
then to look at your father and to think oC mine. I learned to
hate men even when a child, for nearly all I ever knew either
abused me or tempted me ; but, Millie, you need not fear to
touch me. I never sold myself, though I've been faint

fiELLE JARS THE 'SYSTEM.*

147

hanger. I'm ignorant, and my heart's been full of bitterness,
b t I'm an honest girl*

' Poor, poor Clara ! ' said Mildred brokenly, * my heart aches
for you as I think of all you've suffered.'

The girl sprang up, seized the candle, and held it to Mildred's
face. ' My God,' she whispered, * you are crying over my trou-
bles.' Then she looked steadfastly into the tearful blue eyes
and beautiful face of her new friend for a moment, and said,

Millie, I'll believe any

you,'

faith youHl teach me, for / believe in

CHAPTER XIX.

BKLLE JARS THE 'SYSTEM.'

OME orthodox divines would have given Clara a version
of the story of life quite different from that which she
received from Mildred. Many divines, not orthodox,
would have made the divergence much wider. The poor girl,
so bruised in spirit and broken in heart was not ready for a
system of theology, or for the doctrine of evolution ; and if
any one had begun to teach tlie inherent nobleness and self-
correcting power of humanity, she would have shown him the
door, feeble as she was. I3ut when Mildred assured her that
if Christ were in the city, as He had been in Capernaum, He
would climb the steep, dark stairs to her attic room and say to
her, • Daughter, be of good comfort' — when she was told that
Holy Writ declared that He was the * same yesterday, to-
day, and forever ' — her heart became tender and contrite, and
therefore ready for a Presence that is still * seeking that which
was lost.'

Men may create philosophies, they may turn the Gospel it-
self into a cold abstraction, but the practical truth remains that
the Christ who saves, comforts, and lifts the intolerable burden
of sorrow or of sin, comes now as of old — comes as a living,
loving^ personal presence, human in sympathy, divine in power.
As Mildred had said, our need and our consciousness of it

■ ^M'

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148

WITHOUT A HOME.

form our strongest claim upon Him and the best preparation
for Him.

Clara was proving the truth of her words. Life could never
be to her again merely a bitter, sullen struggle foi bread. A
great hope was dawning, and though but a few lays yet quiv-
ered through the darkness, they were the earnest of a fuller
light.

Before midnight Mr. Jocelyn joined the watchers, and seated
himself unobtrusively in a dusky corner of the room. Clara
crouched on the floor beside her mother, her head resting on
the bed, and her hand clasping the thin fingers of the dying
woman. She insisted on doing everything the poor creature
required, which was but little, for it seemed that life would
waver out almost imperceptibly. Mildred sat at the foot of the
bed, where her father could see her pure profile in the gloom.
To his opium-kindled imagination it seemed to have a radiance
of its own, and to grow more and more luminous until, in iU
beauty and light, it became like the countenance of an accusing
angel ; then it began to recede until it appeared infinitely far
away. * Millie,* he called, in deep apprehension.

* What is it, papa ? ' she aske^d, springing to his side and
putting her hand on his shoulder.

' Oh ! ' he said shudderingly. *I had such a bad dream ! Yoo
seemed fading away from me, till I could no longer see your
face. It was so horribly real ! '

She came and sat beside him, and held his hand in both of
hers. * That's right,' he remarked ; * now my dreams will be
pleasant.'

* You didn't seem to be asleep, papa,' said the girl in some
surprise ; ' indeed, you seemed looking at me fixedly.'

' Then I must have been asleep with my eyes open,' he
answered, with a trace of embarrassment.

* Poor papa, you are tired, and it's very, very kind of you to
come and stay with me, but I wasn't afraid. Clara says it's a re-
spectable house, and the people, though very poor, are quiet
and well-behaved. Now that you have seen that we are safe,
please go home and rest,' and she coaxed until he complied,
more from fear that he would betray himself than from any
other motive.

BELLE JARS THE 'SYSTEM.'

149

In the deep hush that falls on even a great city before the
early life of the next day begins, Mrs. Bute opened her eyes
and called 'Clara!'

* Right here, momsy dear, holding your hand. '

' It's strange — I can't see you — I feel so much better, too—
sort of rested. It does — seem now — as if I — might get — a
little rest. Don't wake me — child — to give me — anything—
and rest yourself. '

She smiled faintly as she closed her eyes, and very soon
Clara could never wake her again. Mildred took the head of
the orphan into her lap, and the poor girl at last sobbed herself
to sleep.

We will not attempt to follow Mildred's thoughts as she
tried to keep up through the long hours. The murmured
words, ' I would watch more patiently over Vinton Arnold,
did not his proud mother stand between us,* suggests the cha-
racter of some of them. At last, when she was faint from
weariness, she heard steps coming up the stairs, and her mother
entered, followed by Mrs. Wheatou.

' My dear, brave child, this is too much for you. I'd rather
it had been myself a thousand times, ' Mrs. Jocelyn exclaimed.

' It's all right, mamma, but the sight of you and good Mrs.
Wheaton is more welcome than I can tell you, for I was getting
very lonely and tired.'

' I'll stay now hand tend to heverything,' sai4 Mi's. Wheaton,
with a stout, cheery kindness that could not be disguised, even
in her whisper ; but Clara awoke with a start and said, ' What
is it, momsy.'

Then she sprang up, and after a brief glance at her mother,
threw herself with a long, low cry on the lifeless form.

' Leave hall ter me,' said Mr& Wheaton decidedly, * and
take Miss Jocelyn 'ome, for this'U be too much for 'er."

' Ah, mamma dear,' sobbed Mildred, ' my heart would be
broken indeed if that were you.'

'Millie, if you love me,come home at once,' Mrs. Jocelyn urged.
It was quite light when they gained the street,and after reaching
home Mildred was given a warm cup of tea, and left to sleep until
late in the day. While she slept, however, there occurred some
rather stirring scenes.

i l Hit ■ {

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150

WITHOUT A HOME.

Belle, too, blept rather late, but a portentous gloom came
into her eyes when told that Mrs. Bute was dead. She did not
say very much, but her young face grew older and very reso-
lute while she hastily ate her breakfast. Then she carried
something nice to Clara, and found that Mrs. Wheaton had
left, a neighbour from the tall tenement having taken her
place

Boile looked at the bereaved girl with half-fearful eyes ag
if she expected reproaches, and when Clara kissed her in greet-
ing she said ' Don't,' so sharply as to* excite surprise.

' Belle,' said Clara gently, * mother's at rest.'

* That's more than I am,' muttered the girl. * Oh, Clara, I
didn't mean to bring all this trouble on you. That man just
caught me in a trap."

* Belle, Belle! why do you blame yourself for all this? It
would have come just the same, and probably just as soon,
and if it hadn't been for you I'd been alone, with no friends
and no hope.'

* Oh, don't talk to me !' Belle cried ; * your mother might
have been alive if I hadn't taken your place. I want to see
her.'

Claiu turned back the covering, and the young girl looked
at the dead face with a stern, frowning brow.

* Starved !' she muttered. * I understand why they all
looked so black at me now ; but why couldn't some one have
told me. He shall know the truth for once; he's more to
blame than I,' and she abruptly departed.

Very little later the foreman of the shop on Sixth Avenue
was astonished to see her passing hastily toward the private
office, regardless of the looks of surprise and interest turned to-
ward her on every side, for the events of the night had been
very generally whispered around.

* Mr. Schriven's engaged,' he said sharply. * What do yea
want ? Why are you not in your place ? '

*I am \n my place, but you are not. Stand aside, for I will
see Mr. Shriven at once.'

* I tell you some one is with him.*

* I don't care if the king's with him,' and darting on one side
she reached tHe oftice door, and knocked so sharply that the

BELLE JARS THE 'SYSTEM.'

151

ireful potentate within sprang up himself to see who the incon*
siderate intruder was.

< Oh, it's you/ he said, half inclined to laugh in spite of his
anger. ' I thought I said that, if I employed you, you were not
to come to ray office again unlet^s I sent for you ] '

' I'm not in your employ.'

* Indeed ! How's that 1 * he asked very sharply.

'That is just what I came to explain/ was the unflinching

reply.

' By -by,' remarked Mr. Schriven's visitor maliciously ; * I see
you are to be interviewed.'

' Very briefly, I assure you. Good morning. Now, miss, I
give you about one minute to transact your business with me,
then the cashier will pay you for two days' wc:k.'

' No, sir, he will not. Do you think I'd take money stained
with blood r

' What do you mean ? What kind of a girl are you any-
way?'

' I am an honest girl ; I believe in God and the devil — I be-
lieve in them both too well to have anything more to do with
you unless you can prove you didn't know any more than I did.
You think to frighten me with black looks, but I have just
come from a greater presence than yours — the presence of one
who'll soon be your master — Death, and death for which you
are responsible.'

' Good God ! what do you mean V

' What did you mean by turning off without a word a poor
girl- one who for years had done her best for you 1 What did
you mean by making a place for me in that way 1 Her mother
died last night — starved — and I'd have you know that I'd have
starved before I'd have taken her place had I known what I know
now. Go look at your work at the top of a tenement house !
There's more flesh on your arm than on that dead woman's body,
and the poor girl herself hadn't eaten anything for two days when
she came here last night. She'd have died, too, if sister Millie
hadn't stayed with her last night. I hope you didn't know any
more than I did. If you did you've got to settle with God and
the devil before you're through with this kind of business.*

The man was frightened, for he had meant no deliberate
I cruelty. He was only practising the sound political economy

152

wrrnouT a home.

of obtaining the most for the least, but in the words and stem
face of the child, be saw how his act must appear to a mind un-
warped by interest and unhardened by selfish years. Moreover
he could not bluster in the presence of death, and the thought
that his greed had caused it chilled his heart with a sudden dread.
He caught at the extenuation her words suggested, and said
gravely. 'You are right : I did not know. I would send
food from my own table rather than any one should go hungry.
I knew nothing about this girl, and no one has told me of ber
need until this moment. A man at the head of a great busi-
ness cannot look after details. The best he can do is to manage
his business on business nrinciples. To prove that I am sin-
cere, I'll take the girl bacK again at her old wages, although I
do not need her.'

The man lied in giving a false impression. It was true that
he did not single out individuals as objects of intentional
cruelty, but his system was hard and remorseless, and crushed
like the wheels of Juggernaut, and he purposely shut his eyes
to all questions and consequences save those of profit and loss.
When compelled to face, through Belle's eyes, an instance of
the practical outcome of his system, he shuddered and trem-
bled, tor the moment, and was inclined to ease his conscience
by a little ostentatious kindness, especially as the facts in the
case bade fair to become known. Men who, unlike Belle, have
little fear of God or the devil, do fear public opinion. The
girl interpreted him, however, after her own warm, guileless
heart, and in strong revulsion of feeling said, tearfully,
* Please forgive me, sir, for speaking as I have. I've done you
wrong, and I acknowledge it frankly, but I was almost be-
side myself. We didn't either of us mean them any harm.'

The man could not repress a smile at Belle's association of
herself with him in the guilt of the affair. In fact, he rather
liked the idea, for it made his own part seem quite venial after
all — an error of ignorance like that of the child's — so he said
kindly, * Indeed, we did not, and now we'll make amends.
You go and see what is needed and let me know, and to-mor-
row, if you wish, you can take your own place and not any
one's else. You are a smart, good-hearted girl, and by and by
I can give you better wages.'

BELLE JARS THE 'SYSTEM.'

153

' I did you wrong, sir/ repeated Belle remorsefully, ' and now
that you will *ake Clara back, I'd work for you almost for
nothing. When and where shall I comeT she added humbly ;
' I don't wish to seem rude any more.'

'Come to my house this evening,' and he gave her his
number.

* I beg your pardon for what I said. Good-by, sir,' and with
tearful eyes and downcast face she went to the street, withQub
a glance on either side.

The man sat for a few moments with a heavily contracting
brow. At last he stretched out his hand and sighed, * I'd give
all there is in<this store if my heart was like that girl's, but
here I am at this hour engaged in a transaction which is the
devil's own bargain, and with a firm that can't help itself be-
cause it is in my power. Hang it all ! business is business ;
I'll lose a cool thousand unless I carry it through as I've begun.'
He seized his pen and carried it through.

Belle, attended by her father, was not in the least abashed
by the elegance of Mr. Schriven's parlour, as he had rather
hoped she would be, but he was much impressed by Mr.
Jocelyn's fine appearance and courtly bearing. ' No wonder
the girl's course has been peculiar,' he thought.

Belle soon told her story in a straightforward manner. One
of her generous projects was to have a rather grand funerai^
with all the girls in the shop attending in a procession. * What
a child she is 1 ' thought Mr. Schriven, with difficulty suppress-
ing a laugh, but he proceeded very gravely to induce the girl
to take his own practical view.

' Id the first place, my child,' he said, * that woman died of
consumption — she didn't starve at all.'

' I think she died the sooner,' Belle faltered.

* Possibly. If so, she was the fooner out of her misery.
At any rate we are not to blame, since, »8 you said, wo didn't
know. Now a funeral, such as you suggest, would be very
costly, and would do no one any good. It would scarcely be
in good taste, for, considering the poor woman's circumstances,
it would be ostentatious.'

] Belle, Mr. Schriven is right,' said her father, in a tone of
quiet authority.

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154

WITHOUT A HOME.

' Let u9 rather consider the need of the daughter,' Mr.
Schriven resumed. ' You say she is worn and weak from
vatching and work. A quarter of the money that a funeral
wouli cost would give her two or three weeks in the country.
And now/ he concluded impressively — his conscience needed a
little soothing, and his purse was plethoric with the thousand
dollars wrung from those who had the misfortune to be in big
power — *I will pay her board at some quiet farm house for
three weeks, and then she'll come back fresh and strung to
her old place.'

Belle's eyes filled with tears of gladness. ' You are right,
sir, and you are very kind and generous. I know just the
place for her to go — the people we've been with all summer.
They are kind, and will du everything for her and take away
her strange feeling at once.'

The man was touched. The warm, reflected glow of the
girl's heart softened for a moment his own icy organ, and
his eyes grew moist momentarily. ' You are a good child,'
he said. * Here are forty dollars for your friend, for you've
been a friend to her indeed. Most girls would have let them
starve for all they cared. Now send the girl oflf to the conn-
try, and as soon as I can I'll raise your wages to five dollars.
I'd do it now, only the others would talk and say it wasn't
customary to pay beginners so highly.'

Belle almost danced home by her father's side, so great
was the rebound of her depressed feelings. Forty dollars!
How much that would do for poor Clara 1 Millie would help
her make up her mourning, and she would have nothing to
pay for but the material. She would write to Mrs. Atwood
that very night, and to Roger, telling him he must be kind
to Clara, and take her out to drive. Her heart fairly bub-
bled over with plans and projects for the girl whose 'pl^
she bad taken.'

The poor child had scarcely begun her letter to Mrs. At-
wood before her head drooped, and Mildred said, * Tell me
what to say. Belle, and I'll write it all. You've done your part
to day, and done it well.'

* liat's good of you, Millie. When I get sleepy it's no use
to try to do anything. I'd go to sleep if the house was on fira
But you won't write to Roger, I'm afraid.

BELLE JARS VHE 'SYSTEM.'

155

' No. If he must be written to, you mu&c do that.*

< Well, I will to-morrow. He'll do Clara more good than
all the rest'

Our story passes hastily over the scenes that followed. A
brief service was held over Mrs. Bute's remains by a city mis-
sionary, known to Mrs. Wheaton, who was present with Mrs.
Jocelyn, Belle, and Mildred. Three or four neighbours from
the tenement lent chairs and came in also. The girls at the
ribbon counter clubbed together and sent an anchor of white
flowers, and at the hour of the funeral they looked grave and
were quiet in manner, thus taking part in the solemnity in the
only way they could. In due time the city department, upon
which the duty involved, sent the ' dead waggon ;' the morsel
of human clay was returned to its kindred dust in ' Potter's
Field,' a public cemetery on Hart's Island, ^V which all are in-
terred who die in the city, and whose friends are unable to pay
for a grave or a burial plot. Clara, however, had not tho pain
of seeing her mother placed in the repulsive red box furnished
by the department, for Mr. Jocelyn sent a plain but tasteful
coffin, with the woman's age and name inscribed upon it.

Mrs. Wheaton went with the girl to the grave, and then
brought her to her own little nook in the old mansion, for Clara
had said she had no relatives that she knew anything about ex-
cept a few on her father's side, and she had rather go to a station-
house than to them. < Don't talk habout station 'ouses till you
can see vat I kin do for yer,' the good woman had said in her
hearty way, and she did play the good Samaritan so well,
and poured the ' oil and wine ' of kindness into the poor crea-
ture's wounds so effectually, that she began to change for the
I better daily.

Mildred redeemed Belle's promise, and between them all they
I soon fitted Clara for her trip to the country. By the time Mrs.
Atwood's reply reached Mildred, and Roger's hearty answer
Icame back in response to Belle's characteristic note, she was
Iready to go. ' There's a man's hand for you,' cried Belle ex-
ultantly as she exhibited Roger's bold chirographjr. * It's a
|hand that can be depended upon, strong and ready.'

Mildred smiled as she replied. * You're welcome to it, Belle.'

'You needn't smile so placidly,' she retorted, T?ith an
wus nod. * We are not tiirough with Roger Atwood yet,'

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166

WITHOUT A HOME.

Perhaps quotations from two letters written by Clara to
dred and Belle, and received a week later, will form a satis-
factory ending to this chapter.

* Dear Millie (ran the first) : I'm very sad and hapy. The
Countrys like heven. All are so kind. Even the dog dusen't
grole at me, and Mr. Roger says that's queer for he groles at
everybody. I feel so much better I don't know myself. I feel
like takin depe breths of air all the time and never tasted such
milk. Every glass puts life in ma If I can get work up here
I'll never go back to town and stand all day again. The girls
up here have a chance to live — they haven't any chance at all in
a store. The strongest will brake down and then they are good
for nothing. I wish Belle could do something else. I wish
thousands would go in the country and do work that would
make us look like Susan. Mrs. Atwood thinks she can iind
me a place with kind people, where I'll be tre^ed almost like
one of the family. Anyway I've had enough of s*^anding and
bad air and starving and I don't see why working in a farm-
house aint just as ladylike as waiting on folks with the floor-
walker awatchin you like a slave driver. Standing all day is
deth to most girls and about the hardest deth they can die. I
feel as if I could live to be a hundred up here.

* Millie, dear, I read the Bible you gave me and I pray for
you and Belle every night and morning and He answers. I
know it. I love you very much and I've good reason. Good
bye.

* Clara Bute.'

Her letter to Belle was more descriptive of her daily life, o( I
the kindness she received on every hand. One brief extract j
from it wil'i suffice :

* I've got well acquainted with Roger,' she wrote. * He'ij
easy to get acquainted with. Now I think of it, though btj
says little or nothing about himself but he leads me to talk]
and tell about you all in a way that surprises me. If his ifrl
terest was prying I'm sure I wouldn't have told him anytbiQ^I
I know well now it isn't. Does Millie know how he feels to-j
wards her ? I saw it all last night. I was telling him ab

'•ft' '41

SEVFUAL QUIET FOllCES AT WORK.

157

my past life, and how poor and forlorn we had been and how I
bad told Millie all about it and then how Millie had just treted
me as if I were as good aa she was. As I talked he became so
white I thought he'd faint. Suddenly he burst out despair-
ingly, " I hoped she was proud but she isn't — I could overcome
pride. But what can I do when I'm just detested) There,
I've made a fool of myself," he said savage like after a moment,
and he hurried away. For the last two days he's been so quiet
and looks so stern and sad that his family don't know what to
make of him, but I know what's the matter, and I feel sorry
for him, for he seems to me more like a man than any of the
young fellows I've seen in town. Don't tell Millie for I don't
want to even seem to meddle.'

But Belle had no gift of reticence, and she not only showed
her sister the letter, but overwhelmed her with reproaches for
her ' heartless treatment of Roger.' As a natural result Mildred
was only more irritated and prejudiced against the young man
than ever.

' You are all absurdly unreasonable,' she cried. ' What have
I ever done to make him turn white or red, or to *' burst out
despairin<;ly," and all that kind of sentimental nonsense 1 Be-
cause he is lackadaisical and is experiencing strange, vague
emotions, must I be afflicted in like manner ] Must I break
faith with one I do love and do violence to my own feelings,
just because this farmer wants me to 1 You know what's the
matter with him— Clara saw at a glance— and the course I'm
taking is the only way to cure him.'

■ I'f

CHAPTER XX.

SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK.

»lp)RECIPITOUS ascents and descents do not constitute the
IK greater part of life's journey. In the experience of
^^ very many they occur more or less^ frequently, but
they conduct to long intervals where the way is comparatively

■iMMUMi^^

158

WITHOUT A HOME.

level, although it may be flinty, rough, and hedged with thorni.
More often the upward trend or the deoline of our paths is so
light M not to be noticed aa we pa88 on, but at the end of
years we can know well whether we are gaining or losing.

The Jocelyns, in common with thousands of otherR, had
made a swift descent from a position of comparative afHuence
to one of real, though not repulsive, poverty. There was noth-
ing, however, in their fall that cast a shadow upon them in the
eyes of the world except as the unfortunate are always ' under
a cloud ' to the common heard that moves together in droves
only where the sunlight of prosperity falls. If Mr. Jocelyn
could regain his former position, or a better one, there had been
nothing in his brief obscurity that would prevent his wife and
daughters from stepping back into their old social place, with
all its privileges and opportunities.

The reader knows, however, that his prospects were becom-
ing more and more dubious — that each day added a rivet to the
chain that an evil habit was forging. His family did not even
suspect this, although the impression was growing upon them
that his health was becoming impaired. They were beginning
to accommodate themselves to life at its present level, and the
sense of its strangeness was passing slowly away. This was
especially true of Belle and the children, upon whom the past
had but a comparatively slight hold. Mildred, from her nature
and tastes, felt the change more keenly than any of the others,
and she could never forget that it raised a most formidable
barrier against her dearest hopes. Mrs. Jocelyn also suffered
greatly from the privations of her present lot, and her delicate
organization was scarcely equal to the tasks and burdens it im-
posed, As far as possible she sought to perform the domestic
duties that were more suited to the stout, red arms of those ac-
customed to such labours. It seemed essential that Mildred
and Belle should give their strength to supplementing their
father's small income, for a time at least, though all were living
in hope that this necessity would soon pass away. Poverty
had brought them a more sudden and complete loss of recogni-
tion than would have been possible in the South — a loss which
they would not have felt so greatly had they wealthy connec-
tions in town through whom they might have have retained, io
part at least, their old relations with people of their owq
station,

8£V£RAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK.

159

As it was, they found themselves almost wholly isolated.
Mrs. Jocelyndid not regret this so much for heiseif, since her
family was about all the society she craved ; moreover in her
girlhood she had been accustomed to rather remote plantation
life, with its long intervals of absence of society. Mr. Joce-
lyn'8 business took him out among men even more than he
relished, for his secret indulgence predisposed to solitude and
quiet. He was living most of the time in an unreal world,
and inevitable contact with his actual life and surroundings
brought him increasing distress.

With Belle and Mildred it was different. At their age so-
ciety and recreation were as essential as air and light. Many
are exceedingly uncharitable toward working-girls liecause they
are often found in places of resort that are, without doubt,
objectionable and dangerous. The fact is ignored that these
places &re sought from a natural and entirely wholesome desire
for change and enjoyment, which are as neddful to physical
and moral health as sunlight to a plant

Mildred began to brood and grow morbid in her monoto-
nous work and seclusion ; and irrepressible Belle, to whom
shop life was becoming an old, weary story, was looking
around for < pastures new.' Her nature was much too forceful
for anything like stagnation. The world is full of such na-
tures, and we cannot build a dike of * thou shalt nots' around
them ; for sooner or later they will overleap the barriers, and
as likely on the wrong side as on the i.':;^>\t Those who woulu
save and bless the world can accomplish far more by making
sale channels than by building embankments, since almost
as many are ruined by undue and unwise repression as by
equally unwise and idiotic indulgence.

For the first week or two Belle was glad to rest in the even-
ings from the intolerable weariness caused by standi g all day,
but the adaptivity of the human frame is wonderful, and man
at last becomes accustomed, and, in some sense, inured to that
which was torture at first. Belle was naturally strong and
vigorous, and her compact, healthful organism endured the
cruel demand made upon it far better than the majority of her
companions. Nature had endowed her with a very large appe-
tite for fun. For a time her employment, with its novelty,
new associations, and small excitements, furnished this, but

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160

WITHOUT A HOME.

now her dutips were fading into prosaic work,and the child was
looking round for something enlivening. Where in the great
city could she find it ? Before their poverty came there were
a pcore of pretty homes like her own in which she could visit
schoolmates; her church and Sabbath-school ties brought her
into relation with many of her own age; and either in her
own or the homes of her friends she took part in bretzy little
festivities that gave full and healthful scope to her buoyant
natura She was not over fastidious now, but when occasion-
allv she went home with some of her companions at the shop,
she returned dissatisfied. The small quartera in which the
girls lived rendered little confidential chats — so dear to girls-
impossible, and she was brought at once into close contact with
strange and often repulsive people. It seemed that the street
furnished the only privacy possible, except as she brought
girls to her own abode. Her mother and sister were very
considerate in this respect, and welcomed all of her ac-
quaintances who appeared like good, well-meaning girls ; and
Mildred would either give up her share of their little room
for the time, or else take part in their talk in such a genial
way as to make the visitors at home as far as they could bs
with one in whom they recognised their superior. Their
light talk and shop gossip were exceedingly tiresome to Mil-
dred, but she felt that Belle needed every safeguard within
their power to furnish. And this privilege of welcoming the
best companions her circumstances permitted was of great help
to Belle, and, for a time, prevented her restless spirit from
longing for something more decided in the way of amuse-
ment. Of necessity, however, anything so quiet could not
last ; but where could the girl find pteasurei more highly col-
oured] Occasionally she would coax or seed her father into
taking her out somewhere, but this occurred less and less fre-
quently, for she was made to feel that his health required
absolute rest when his business permitted it. If she had
had kind brothers the case would ha\ e been greatly si!npli-
fied, but thousands of working-girls have no brothers, no
male companions save those acquaintan( as that it is their good
or, more often, their evil fortune to muke.

To a certain extent this need of chengeand cheerfnl recre-
ation is supplied in connection with seme of the mission cba-

SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK.

161

pels, and the effort is good and most commendable as far as it
goes ; but as yet the family had formed no church relations.
Mildred, Belle, and occasionally Mrs. Jooelyn, had attended
Sabbath service in the neighbourhood. They shrank, how-
ever, 80 morbidly from recognition that they had no acquaint-
ances and had formed no ties. They had a prejudice against
mission chapels, and were not yet willing to identify them-
selves openly with their poor neighbours. As yet they had in-
curred no hostility on this account, for their kindly ways and
friendliness to poor Clara had won the good will and sympathy
of all in the old mansion. But the differences between the
Jocelyns and their neighbours were too great for any real as-
similation, and thus, as we have said, they were thrown mainly
on their own resources.

There is one amusement always open to working-girls if they
are at all attractive — the street flirtation. To their honour it
can be said that comparatively few of the entire number indulge
in this dangerous pastime from an improper motive, the
majority meaning no more harm or evil than their more fortu-
nate sisters who can enjoy the society of young men in well-ap-
pointed parlours. In most instances this street acquintance,
although unhedged by safe restrictions, is by no means indfs-
crimiuata The young men are brothers or friends of com-
panions, or they are employed in the same establishment, or
else reside in the neiQ;hbourhood so that usually something is
known of their characters and antecedents, and the desire to
become friendly is similar to that influencing the young
people of country neighbouhoods. Asa rule these young peo-
ple have few opportunities of meeting, save in the streets and
places of public resort The conditions of life in a great city,
however, differ too widely from those of a village or country
town, where every one is well known and public opinion is
quick and powerful in its restraints.

Mildred's dangers were quite different from those which as-
sailed Belle, and yet they were very grave ones. Her mind and
heart were preoccupied. She was protected from even the de-
sire of perilous associations and pleasures by the delicacy
and refinement of her nature and her Christian principle. She
shrank from social contact with the ruder world by which she
was now surrounded ; she felt and liyed like one in exile, aQ4

*ir' 7J

162

WITHOUT A HOME.

her hope was to return to her native land. In the mean time
she was growing pale, languid, morbid, and, occasionally, even
irritable, from the lack of proper exercise and change. She
was not discouraged as yet, but the day of deliverance seemed to
grow more distant. Her father apparently was declining in
energy and health, and his income was very small. She worked
\onff hours over her fancy work, but the prices paid for it at
the shops were so small that she felt with a growing despon-
dency it was but a precarious means of support. Their first
month in the old mansion was drawing to a close, and tliey
had been compelled to draw slightly on the small sum of ready
money still remaining after paying for their summer's board.
They still had a few articles in storage, having retained them
in hope of moving, at no dista.it time, into more commodious
quarters.

In their desirv^ for economy they also fell into the very common
error of buying bait fish and meat, and other articles of food
that were cheap and easily prepared, rather than nutritious, and
Belle was inclined to make her lunch on pastry and cake instead
of food. In teaching them a better way, Mrs. Wheaton proved
herself a very useful friend. * Vat yer vant is somethiok that
makes blood an' stands by von,' she said ; ' an' this 'ere salt,
dry stuff an' light baker's bread and tea and co£fee don't do this
hat halL They's good henough as relishes an' trimmins an'
roundins hoff, but they hain't got the nourishin' in 'em that
vorking people vants. Buy boat meal an' corn meal — make
good bread of yer hown. Buy good but cheap chunks of beef
an' mutton an' vegetables, an' make stews an' meat pies an'
rich soups, an' say yer prayers hag«inst hall trashy things as
hain't vorth the trouble of heatin'. Heggs, too, ven they're
plenty, hare first rate, an' milk is so much better than so much
tea an' coffee, heven if the milkman do spill it in the brook
an' pick it hout hagain before ve get it. Vorkin' hon tea an'
coffee is like keepin' the 'orse hagoin' on a vip instead of
boats.'

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred were sensible enough to take her
advice, and although Belle complained at first over the more
simple and wholesome diet, she soon felt so much the better
fpr it that she made no further trouble,

SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK.

163

As had been the case at the farm-house, Mildred at last
awakened to the evils of a depressed and sedentary life, and
felt that she must look around for objects of interest. She
began to spend more time with Mrs. Wheaton, and found con
siderable amusement in her homely common-sense. The good
woman was all the more companionable for the reason that
she never presumed on a coarse familiarity or indulged in a
prying interest. Mildred also aided the Wheaton children in
their lessons, and gave more time to her own little brother and
sister, taking them out to walk in the cool of the day, and
giving much thought, while she plied her needle, to various
little expedients that would keep them content to remain
a^ay from the street and the rude children that often made
the old house resound with boisterous sport. Mrs. Wheaton's
children were in the main well behaved, and there was much
visiting back and forth among the little people of the two
families, but here the line was drawn, and generally with very
good reason. After all, perhaps, the chief horror of tenement
life to a family like the .Tocelyns consisted in the fact that just
outside their door were hordes of prowling little savages ignor-
ant in the main of civilization, but prematurely enlightened as
to its rices. To prevent the inevitable contamination which
would result from indiscriminate association, and to interest
Fred and Minnie in their daily lessons, was the constant effort
of both Mildred and Mrs. Jocelyn. And yet, as at the farm-
house, Mildred's conscience began to reproach her for keeping
too much aloof from the people who dwelt with her in the old
mansion. It was not necessary to make companions of them
in order to do them some good, and in aiding them to bear
their burdens she might in part forget her own. Mrs. Whea-
ton's hearty kindness permeated the house like an atmosphere,
and from her Mildred learned the character and circumstances
of each family quite correctly. * I can get hon with 'em hall
hexcept a hold daft German on the top floor, oos a bit crazy
hover the 'evens, but don't stand much chance of hever gettin'
bup hinto 'em. You've hoften seen 'im a-lookin' at the stars
an' things on the roof. 'E 'alf starves 'is family to buy books
an' maps an' a telescope. 'E ates me cos I tried to talk religion
to 'm vonqe ven 'e vas sick, t^n' cos I told 'im 'e 'ad no bijjnesQ

■•|BWk»»

164

WITHOUT A HOME.

to take his death a' cold on the roof o' vinter nights ; an' 'veD
'e vonce gf'*« a giydge hagainst yer 'e never lets hup.*

Mildred had already become more interested in this old
man than in any other of her neighbours except Mrs. Whea*
ton, but had found him utterly unapproachable. Not un-
frequently she spent part of the hot evenings on the platform
built over the old hip-roof, and had invariably seen him there
on cloudless nights studying the t kies with a telescope that
appeared to be by no means a toy instrument ; but he always
took possession of the fai end of the platform, and was so
savage when anyone approached that even Belle was afraid of
him. His wife, ibr a wonder, was a slattern German, and
she spoke English very imperfectly. With her several small
children she lived in a chaotic way, keeping up a perpetual
whining and fault-finding, half under her breath from fear of
her irascible husband, that was like a ' continual dropping on a
very rainy day.' Every now and then, Mrs. VVheaton said,
he would suddenly emerge from his abstraction and break out
against her in a volley of harsh, guttural German oaths that
were * henough to make von's 'air riz.' Therefore it very natu-
rally happeiied that Mildred had become acquainted with all the
other families before she had even spoken to Mr. or Mrs. Ulpb.
On the other inmates of the mansion her influence soon began
to be felt ; for almost unconsciously she exercised her rare and
subtle power of introducing a finer element into the lives of
those who were growing sordid and material. She had pre-
sented sever il families with a small house-plant, and 8ug<i;ested
that they try to develop slips from others that she sedulously
tended in her own window. In two or three instances she
aided untidy and discouraged women to make their rooms more
attractive. The fact, also, that the Jocelyns had made their
two apartments, that were little if any better than the others,
so very inviting had much weight, and there sprang up quite
an emulation among some of the simple folk in making the
most of their limited resources.

'Instead of scolding your husbands for going out and perhaps
taking a glass too much, try and keep them home by making the
living-room homelike,' she had said on several occasions to com-
plaining wives, who had paved their way by their confidential
murmurings. ' Have soine extra dish that they like for sup

'he's a man/

165

per — they will spend more if they go out — then be a little smil-
ing and chatty, aud tell them to light their pipes and stay with
you, for you are a bit lonesome. If they will have their mug ot
beer, coax them to take it here at home. Try and put a few
shillings in the savings bank every week, and talk over little
plans of saving mora If you can only make your husbands feel
that they are getting ahead a little, it will have a great influ-
ence in steadying them and keeping them out of bad company.'

CHAPTER XXI.

* he's a man.'

RS. WHEATON, although she had the good taste to
ask few questions, was much puzzlad over the Joce-
lyns. Mr. Jocelyn's state of health seemed to her
very peculiar, and her shrewd unprejudiced mind was approach-
ing Roger's conclusion, that he was a little * off.' With an in-
sight common to sound, thrifty people, she saw that the out-
look for this family was dubious. She believed that the father
would become less and less of a reliance, that Mrs. Jocelyn was
too delicate to cope with a lower and grimmer phase of poverty
which she feared they could not escape. When alone she often
shook her head in foreboding over Belle's brilliant black eyes,
being aware from long experience among the poor how danger-
ous are such attractions, especially when possessed by an impul-
sive and unbalanced child. She even sighed more deeply and often
over Mildred, for she knew well that more truly than any of
the house-plants in the window the young girl who cared for
them was an exotic that might fade and die in the changed and
unfavourable conditions of her present and prospective life.
The little children, too, were losing the brown and ruddy hues
they had acquired on the Atwood farm, and very naturally
chafed over their many and unwonted restrictioui,.

Nor did the city missionary whom she had called in to attend
Mrs. Bute's funeral illumine the Jocelyn problem for the good

HHMUi^^)MHililff'

166

WITHOUT A HOME.

woman. He was an excellent man, hut lamentably deficient
in tact, been prone to exhort on the subject of religion in season,
and especially out of season, and in much the same way on all
occasions. Since the funeral he had called on two or three oc-
casions, and had mildly and rather vaguely harangued Mrn.
Jocelyn and Mildi'ed. Instead of echoing his pious plati-
tude with murmurs of assent and approval, they have been very
polite, and also very reticent and distant ; and Mr. Woolling—
that was his name — had said in confidence to Mrn. Wheaton
that ' they might be good people, but he feared * aey were not
yet altogether " in the light." They seemed a little cold to-
wards the good cause, and were not inclined to talk freely of
their spiritual experiences and relations. Probably*it was bc>
cause they were not altogether orthodox in their views.'

It would seem that this worthy person had taken literally the
promise of his Master, — * I will make you fishers of men,' for
he was quite content to be a fisher. Let us hope that occa-
sionally, as by a miracle, his lenient Master enabled him to
catch some well-disposed sinner ; but as a rule his mannerism,
his set phrases, his utter lack of magnetism and appreciation of
the various shades of character with which he was dealing,
repelled even those who respected his motive and mission. Sen-
sitive, sad-hearted women like Mrs. Jecelyn and Mildred could
no more open their hearts to him than to a benevolent and im-
personal board of trustees sitting around a green baize table.
That detestable class, however, who thrive on opening their
hearts and dilating on their spiritual experiences, could talk to
him, as he would say, in a * most edifying and godly manner/
and through him, in consequence, reap all the pecuniary advan-
tages v;ithin hie power to bestow.

It is not the blatant and plausible poor who suffer, but
those who hide their poverty, and will starve rather than trade on
their laith ; and too often Christian and charitable organization!!
prove they are not the * children of this world' by employing
agen&s so lacking in fitness for the work that a commercial
firm, following a like policy, would soon compaiis its own fail-
ure. The Church deserves slight progress to the degree that
it fails to send its best and most gifted men and women among
the poor and vicious. Mr. Woolling was a aincdre, well-mean-
ing man, but no more knew how to cat^h men with a Chriit-

HES A MAN.

167

like magnetism and guile than how to render one of Beeth-
oven's symphonies ; and he was so constituted that he could
never learn. It was an open question whether he did not do
more harm than good ; and those who employed him might
and ought to have known the fact.

Fortunately for the Jocelyns, there were other workers in
that part of the vineyard, and Mrs. Wheaton had said to her-
self more than once, * Yen my young lady comes 'ome she'll
git 'old of these 'ere people and make things better for 'em.'
One day, about the middle of September, there was a light
knock at the door of the large living-room that had been made
80 inviting. Mildred opened it and admitted a young woman,
who appeared not very much older than herself, and whom
ahe saw at a glance was of her own class in respect to refine-
ment and cultivation. Although entire strangers the eyes of
the two girls met in women's intuitive recognition.

'This is Miss Jocelyn, I think/ said the visitor in an accent
that to the poor girl sounded like her native tongue, so long
unheard.

• You are correct,' replied Mildred, with exploring eyes and
a quiet and distant manner. < Will you please be seated,' she
added after a moment, as the young lady evidently wished
to enter.

It was in the afternoon, and the room had its usual pretty
order at that hour. Fred and Minnie were seated by Mrs.
Jocelyn, who was giving them their daily lesson from an illus-
trated primer ; and they, with their mother, turned question-
ing eyes on the unexpected guest, who won their good-will
almost instantly by a sunshiny smile. Then turning to Mildred
she began, with a quiet, well-bred ease which made her visit
seem perfectly natural. ' We are now strangers, but I trust
we shall not remain such very long. Indeed, I am already
sure that you can help me very much.' (This asking help in-
stead of offering it was certainly adroit policy.) * I am a Chris-
tian worker in this district. My name is Alice Wetheridge.
I am well acquainted with Mrs. Wheaton, and the little she has
told me about you has made me wish to know you well ; and
I trust you will meet me with the spirit in which I come — that
of honest friendliness and respect. I shall be just as frank
with you as you wish, and I know you have just as much right

i I 1

wmk*-^^'Mf

168

WITHOUT A HOME.

to jour feelings and views as I have to mine. It is our plan
of work to co-work cordially, asking each one to choose her
own place and kind of effort. I have been around among some
of my families in this house, and, if you will permit me to say
it, I have seen your influence, and I think it is most Christian
and womanly. You can scarcely blame me, then, if I hupe to
find in you a congenial fellow- worker.'

These remarks contained no hint of poverty or inferiority,
and might have been made to Mildred in her old home. The
sweet, low voice in which they were spoken was soothing and
winning, while her visitor's gaze was direct and sincere.
Mildred smiled with a little answering friendliness as she said,
* Please do not expect much from me. I fear I shall disap-
point you.

' I shall not expect anything more than your own feelings
prompt and your own conscience can warrant. I and some
friends have classes at a mission chapel not far from here, and
all I ask at first is that you and Mrs. Jocelyn attend service at
the chapel, and see how you like us and how you like our
minister.'

* Is — is his name Mr. Woolling ] ' faltered Mildred.

A slight evanescent smile flitted across the visitor's face.
' No,' she said, < that is not his name. Our minister has just
returned from Europe, where he has taken a well-deserved
vacation. I, too, have only come to town within the last few
days, otherwise I do not think you would have escaped us so
long,' she concluded with a bright smile, but after a moment
she added earnestly, ' Please do not think that we will try to
force upon you associations that may not be pleasant We only
ask that you come and judge for yourselves.'

' What you ask is certainly reasonable,' said Mildred
thoughtfully, and with an inquiring glance at her mother.

* 1 agree with you, Millie,' her mother added with gentle
emphasis, for she had been observing her visitor closely; 'and
I think we both appreciate Miss Wetheridge's motive in call-
ing upon us, and can respond in like spirit.'

* I thank you,' was the cordial reply. * On this card is writ'
ten my address and where to find our chapel, the hours of ser-
vice, etc. Please ask for me next Sabbath aftcraoun, and I
will sit with you, so you won't feel strange, you know. After

'he's a MAIt'

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the service is over we will remain a few moments, and I will
introduce you to our minister. As I said at first, if you don't
like us or our ways you must not feel in tl>^ least trammelled.
However that may be, I trust you will -e. me come and see
you sometimes. It was my duty to call u ">n you because you
were in my district ; but now it will be a pleasure to which I
hope you will let me look forward.'

* You will be welcome,' said Mildred smilingly. * I can at
least promise that much.'

Miss Wetheridge had slipped off her glove while talking,
and in parting she gave a warm, friendly palm to those she
wished to win. She had intended only a smiling leave-taking
of the children, but thev looked so pretty, and were regarding
her with such an exr sf'^n of shy, pleased interest, that she
acted on her impulsd ar kissed them both. * I don't often
meet such kissable >ila.cn,' she said, with a bright flush,
'and I couldn't rep' ' t © temptation.'

The room seemed ghter the rest of the day for her visit.
If she had kissed t' ^^ children out of policy Mrs. Jocelyn would
have 'een resentft .j aware of the fact ; but they ivere ' kiss-
able ' children, and no one knew it better than the fond
mother, who was won completely by the spontaneity of the
act.

' Millie, I think Fd go to her church, even if Mr. Woollin^
were the minister,' she said, with her sweet laugh.

' Soft-hearted little mother !* cried Mildred gaily ; * if people
only knew it, you have one very vulnerable side. That was a
master-stroke on the part of Miss Wetheridge.'

' She didn't mean it as such, and if some good people had
kissed the children I'd have washed their faces as soon as they
had gone. The visit has done you good, too, Millie.'

' VVell, I admit it has. It was nice to see and hear one of
our own people, and to feel that we were not separated by an
impassable gulf. To tell the truth, I feel the need of something
outside of this old house. I am beginning to mope and brood.
I fear it will be some time before the way opens back to our
former life, and one grows sickly if one lives too long in the

As the evening grew shadowy, Mildred took the children out
for their walk, and prompted by considerable curiosity, she led
K

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i3:,

HmrnftliUf"'

170

WIXHOUT A HOME.

the way to Fifth Avenue, and passed the door on which was
inscribed the number printed on Miss Welheridge's car<l
The mansion was as stately and gave as much evidence of
wealth as Mrs. Arnold's home. . t this moment a handsome
carriage drew up to the sidewalk, and Mildred, turning blushed
vividly as she met the eyes of her new acquaintance, who, ac-
companied by a fashionably attired young man, had evidently
been out to drive. Mildred felt that she had no right to claim
recognition, for a young woman making mission calls in her
" district" and the same young lady on the Fifth Avenue with
her fianci, very probably might be, and often is, two very dis-
tinct persons. The girl was about to pass on with downcast
eyes and a hot face, feeling that her curiosity had been wuli
punished. But she had not taken three steps before a pleasant
voice said at her side, ' Miss Jocelyn, what have I done that
you won't speak to me ? This is my home, and I hope you
will come and see me some time."

Mildred looked at the speaker searchingly for a moment,
and then said in a low tone and with tearful eyes, ' May you
never exchange a home like this, Miss Wetheridge, for one
like mine.'

'Should it be my fortune to do so — and why may it notl
— I hope I may accept of my lot with your courage. Miss Joc-
elyn, and give to my humbler home the same impress of wom-
anly refinement that you have imparted to yours. Believe me,
I respected you and your mother thoroughly the moment I
crossed your threshold.'

* I will do whatever you wish me to do,' was her relevant,
although seemingly irrelevant, reply.

'That's a very big promise,' said Miss Wetheridge viva-
ciously ; 'we will shake hands to bind the compact,' and her
attendant raised his hat as politely as he would to any of bis
companion's friends.

Mildred went home with the feeling that the leaden mono-
tony of her life was broken. The hand of genuine Christian
sympathy, not charity or patronage, had been reached across
the chasm of her poverty, and by it she justly hoped that siie
might be led into new relations that would bring light and
colour into her shadowed experience.

'he's a man.*

171

With her mother and Belle she went to the chapel on the
following Sunday afternoon, and found her now friend on the
watch for them. The building was plain but substantial, and
the Audienco-room large and cheerful looking. Mr. Woolling
was, in truth, not the type of the tall, rugged-featured man
who sat on the platform pulpit, and Mildred, at first, was not
prepossessed in his favour, but as he rose and began to speak
she felt the magnetism of a large heart and brain ; and, when
he began to preach, she found herself yielding to the power of
manly Christian thought expressed in honest Saxon words de-
void of any trace of affectation, scholasticism, and set phrase*
ology. He spoke as any sensible, practical man would speak
concerning a subject in which he believed thoroughly and was
deeply interested, and he never once gave the impression that
he was " delivering a sermon " which was foreordained to be
delivered at that hour. It was a message rather than a ser-
mon, a sincere effort to make the people understand just what
God wished them to know concerning the truth under consid-
erati^jn, and especially what they were to do in view of it.
The young girl soon reached the conclusion that the religion
taught in this chapel was not something fashioned to suit the
world, but a controlling principle that brought the rich and
poor together in their obedience to Him whose perfect life will
ever be the law of the Christian Church. The attention of
even mercurial Belle was obtained and held, and at the close
of the address she whispered, ' Millie, that man talks right to
one, and not fifty miles over your head. I'll come here every
Sunday, if you will'

After the benediction the Rev. Mr. Wentworth came down
from the pulpit — not in a bustling, favour-currying style, but
with a grave, kindly manner — to speak to those who wished
to see him. When he at last reached Mildred, she felt him
looking at her in a way that proved he was not scattering his
friendly words like a handful of coin is thrown promiscuously
to the poor. He was giving thought to her character and
need ; he was exercising his invaluable but lamentably rare
gift of tact in judging how he should address these *' new peo-
ple" of whom Miss Wetheridge had spoken. His words were
few and simple, but he made Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred feel
that his interest in them was not official, but genuine, Chris-

ii 1

?'W

fei

172

WITHOUT A HOME.

tian and appreciative. Belle very naturally shrank into tlie
background. Her acquaintance with clergymen was not ex-
tensive, nur would it, I fear, ever have been increased by any
etf >rts of her own ; therefore it was with some trepidation that
she saw Mr. Wentworth giving her an occasional side glance
whilo talking to her mother. 8he was about to bow very for-
mally when introduced, but a smile broke over the man's rug-
ged features like a glow of sunshine, as he held out his liHrnl
and said, 'Mias Balle, I know you and I would be good friends
if we had a chance.'

The girl's impulsive nature responded as if touched by an
electric spark, and with her usual directness the words in her
mind were spoken. ' I like you already,' she said.

' The liking is mutual then,' was Mr. Wentworth's laugliing
reply ; * I'm coming to see you.*

' But, sir,' stammered the honest child, ' I'm not good like
my sister.'

The clergyman now laughed heartily. * All the more reason
I should come,' he said.

' Well, then, please come in the evening, for I wouldn't rvm
your visit for the world.'

' 1 certainly shall,' and he named an evening early in the
week ; * and now,' he resumed, * my friend Miss Wetheridge
here has informed me of the conditions on which you have vis-
ited our chapel. We propose to carry them out in good faith,
and not put any other constraint upon you beyond a cordial
invitation to cast your lot with us. It's a great thing to have
a church home. Y^ou need not feel that you must decide at
once, but come again and again, and perhaps by and by you
will have a home feeling hore.'

* I'm coming whether the rest do or not,' Belle remarked
emphatically, and Mr. Wentworth gave her a humorous look
which completed the conquest of her heart.

' Miss Wetheridge knows that my decision was already
made,' said Mildred quietly, with an intelligent glance to-
wards her friend ; * and if there is any very, very simple
work that I can do, I shall feel it a privilege to do the best
I can.'

She never forgot bis responsive look of honest friendliness
as he answered, ' The simplest work you do in that spirit will

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^^T ediica
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SKILLED LABOUR.

173

be blessed. Miss Wetheridgo, I hope, you will soon 6nd some
more people like Mrs. Jocelyn and her daughters. Ooodby
now for a short time/ and a moment later Mildred saw him
talking just as kindly, but differently, to a very shabby-look-
ing man.

Mr. Wentwortl) was also a ' fisher of men,' but he fished in-
telligently, and caught them.

Helle could hardly wait until she was in the street before
exclaiming, ' He isn't a bit like our old minister. Why — why
—he's a man.'

CHAPTER XXH.

SKILLED LABOUR.

ISS WETHERIDGE'S visit bade fair to occasion im-
portant changes for the better in Mildred's prospects.
From Mrs Wheaton the young lady had learned of
]ieT protegee's \onghonTa of ill-repaid toil. She was eager to
gain Mildred's confidence to an extent that would warrant
some good advice, and after another call early in the week
she induced the girl to come and see her and to open her heart
fully in the privacy thus secured. Of course there was one
secret jealousy guarded, and the reader can well understanc*
that Vinton Arnold's name was not mentioned, and the dis-
agreeable episode of Roger Atwood was not deemed worth
speaking of. He was now but a fast-fading memory, fo'" even
Belle rarely recalled him.

That the Jocelyns did not belong to the ordinary ranks of
the poor, and that Mildred was not a commonplace girl, was
apparent to Miss Wetheridge from the first ; and it was her
design to persuade her friend to abandon the overcrowded and
ill-paid divisions of labour for something more in accordance
with her cultivation and ability. Mildred soon proved that
her education was too general and superficial to admit of teach-
ing except in the primar\ department , and as the schools were
now in session it might, be many mor?thR before any opening

174

WITHOUT A HOME.

would occur. With a mingled sigh and laugh she said, * The
one thing I know how to do I shall probably never do — I could
make a home, and I could be perfectly happy in taking) care
of it'

* Pardon me ! ' cried Miss Wetheridge roguishly, * that seems
to me your inevitable fate, sooner or later. We are only coun-
selling together how best to fill up the interval. My friend
almost made me jeal.as by the way he talked about yuu the
other evening.*

A faint colour stole into Mildred's face. ' All that's past,
I fear,' she said with low, sad emphasis, ' and I would never
marry merely for the sake of a home. My future is that of a
working-woman unless papa can regain his former means.
Even then I would not like to live an idle life. So the ques-
tion is. What kind of work shall I do ) How can I du the
most for the family, for I am troubled about papa's health, and
mamma is not strong.'

Her warm-hearted friend's eyes grew moist as she looked in-
tently and understandingly into the clouded and beautiful face.
In one of her pretty impulses that often broke through her polite
restraint she exclaimed, ' Millie, you are a true woman. Please
pardon my familiarity, but I can't tell you how much you in-
terest me, how I respect you, and — and — how much I like
you.'

*Ng. can I tell you,' responded Mildred earnestly, 'how
much hope and comfort you have already brought me.'

* Come,' said Miss Wetheridge cheerily, * we will go down
to the rooms of the Young Women's Christian Association at
once. We may get light there. The thing for you to do is to
master thoroughly one or more of the higher forms of labour
that are as yet uncrowded. That is what I would do.'

While she was preparing for the street she observed Mild-
red's eyes resting wistfully on an upright piano that formed
part of the beautiful furniture of her private sanctum. * You
are recognising an old friend and would like to renew your ac-
quaintance,' she said smiLngly. * Won't you play while I am
changing my dress ? '

'Perhaps I can best thank you in that way,' answered
Mildred, availing herself of the permission with a pleasure she

SKILLED LABOUR.

175

could not disguise. ' I admit that the loss of my piano haa
been one of my greatest deprivations.' .

Miss Wetheridge's sleeping apartment opened into her sit-
ting room, and, with the door open, it was the same as if they
were still together. The promise oi thanks was well kept as
the exquisite notes of Mendelssohn's ' Hope ' and ' Consola-
tion ' tilled the rooms with music that is as simple Skud endur-
ing as the genuine feeling of a good heart.

' I now understand how truly you lost a friend and com-
panion in your piano,' said Miss Wetheridge, ' and I want you
to come over here and play whenever you feel like it, whether
I am at home or not.'

Mildred smiled, but made no reply. She could accept kind-
ness and help from one who gave them as did Miss Wetheridge,
but she was too proud and sensitive to enter upon an intimacy
that must of necessity be so one-sided in its favours and ad-
vantages, and she instinctively felt that such wide differences
in condition would lead to mutual embarrassments that her
enthusiastic friend could not foresee. It was becoming her
fixed resolve to accept of her lot, with all that it involved, and
no amount of encouragement could induce her to renew asso-
ciations that could be enjoyed now only by a certain phase of
charity, however the fact might be disguised.

Mildred at once became a member of the Young Women's
Association, and its library and reading room promised to be-
come a continued means of pleasure and help. From among
the several phases of skilled labour taught under the auspices
of the Association, she decided to choose the highest —that of
stenography — if her father thought he could support the fam-
ily without much help for a few months She was already very
rapid and correct in her penmanship, and if she could become
expert in taking short-hand notes she was assured that she
could find abundant and highly remunerative return for her
skill, and under circumstances, too, that would not involve
unpleasant publicity. She thought very favourably, also, of
the suggestion that she should join the bookkeeping class.
With her fine mental capacity and previous education. Miss
Wetheridge believed that Mildred could so far master these
two arts as to be sure of an independence, and her kind friend

•V •!•!

*Pi

I «

mmmM';^^&^-

176

WITHOUT A HOME.

proposed to use no little influence in finding opportunities for
their exercise.

Mildred, naturally, lost no time in explaining her prcjects
to her father, and it so happened that she spoke at a niomtnt
of peculiar exhilaration on his part. ' If it would give you
pleasure,' he said, * to learn these two accomplishnients, yon
may do so, of course, but I foresee no probability of you ever
putting them to use. I now have prospects/ etc. etc. .Soon
after he was in a deep sleep.

Belle vas in quite a flutter of excitement on the evening
named for Mr. Wentworth's visit, and the genial elergyman
would have laughed again could he have heard one df her
reasons for welcoming him. ' He is so deliciously lioniely,'
she said, ' I like to look at him.' He came at the hour ap-
pointed, and his visit was truly a ' spiritual * one, if enlivened
spirits, more hopeful hearts, and a richer belief in their Divine
Father's good-will towards them all were the legitimate result
of a spiritual visit. Mr. Jocelyn, in expectancy of the guest,
had carefully prepared himself in guilty secrecy, and a|>j>eared
unusually well, but he was the only one who sighed deeply
after the good man's departure. Kising from the depths of
his soul through his false exhilaration was a low, threatening
voice saying, ' That man is true ; you are a sham, and your
hollowness will become known.*

Indeed, Mr. Wentworth went away with a vague impression
that there was something unreal or unsound about Mr. Jocelyn,
and he began to share Mrs. Wheaton's painfull forebodinj,'s for
the family. Belle enjoyed the visit greatly, for the minister
was an apostle of a very sunny gospel, and she was then ready
for no other. Moreover, the healthful, unwarped man delighted
in the girl's frolicsome youth, and no more tried to repress her
vivacity than lie would the bubble and sjjarkle of a spring.
Indeed he was sensible enough to know that, as the spring
keeps pure by flowing and sparkling into the light, sc Iter na-
ture would stand a far better chance of remaining untainted if
given abundant yet innocent scope. His genial words had
weight with her, but her quick intuition of his sympathy, his
sense of humour, which was as genuine as her own, had far
more weipht, and their eyes rarely met without responsive
smUes. There was nothing trivial, however, in their interplay

SKILLED LABOUR.

177

of mirthfulness — nothing that would prevent the child from
coming to him should her heart become burdened with sin or
sorrow. She was assigned to Miss Wetheridge's class, and
goon became warmly attached to her teacher. Mildred, to her
great surprise, was asked to take a class of rude-looking, half-
grown boys. In answer to her look of dismay, Mr. Went worth
only said, smilingly, 'Try it ; trust my judgment; you can do
more with these boys than I can.'

' Were it not for my promise to Miss Wetheridge, I wouldn't
even dare to think of such a thing,' she replied; 'but I now feel
bound to attempt it, although I hope you will soon give me
some very, very little girls.'

• In complying, you show a high sense of honour, Miss Jocelyn.
I will relieve you after a time, if you wish me to ; ' and the
student of human nature walked away with a peculiar smile.
'When I was a harum-scarum boy,* he muttered, 'a girl with
such a face could almost make me worship her. I don't believe
boys have changed.'

She was shrewd enough not to let the class see that she was
afraid, and being only boys, they saw merely what was apparent
—that they had the prettiest teacher in the room. Her beauty
and refinement impressed them vaguely, yet powerfully ; the
incipient man within them yielded its involuntary homage, and
she appealed to their masculine traits as only a woman of tact
can, making them feel that it would be not only wrong but un-
gallant and unmannerly to take advantage of her. They all
speedily succumbed except one, whose rude home associations
and incorrigible disposition rendered futile her appeals. After
two or tliree Sabbaths the other boys became so incensed that
lie should disgrace the class that, after school, they lured him
into an alley-way and were administering a well-deserved casti-
gation, when Mildred, who was passing, rescued him. His fear
induced him to yield to her invitation to accomp'iny her home;
and htT kindness, to which he knew he was not entitled, com-
bined with the wholesome effect of the pummelling received
from the boys, led him to unite in making the class — once
known as 'the Incorrigibles'— the best behaved in the school.

Mildred found time between her lessons to aid her mother
and also to do a little fancy work, for which, through the aid

H I

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I a

\i I

^.-M^^am^'i^.

178

WITHOUT A HOME.

of Miss Wetheridge, she fomd private customers who were
willing to pay its worth.

Thus the month of October was passing rapidly and rather
hopefully away. They received letters from Clara Bute occa-
sionally, wherein she expressed herself well content with the
country and the situation Mrs. Atwood had obtained fur her.
' I'm getting as plump and rosy as Susan,' she wrote, < and I'm
not coming back to town. Going up and down those ttne-
ment stairs tired me more than all the work I do here. Still,
I work hard, I can tell you ; but it's all sorts of work, with
plenty of good air and good food to do it on. I'm treted bet-
ter than I ever was before — just like one of the family, and
there's a young farmer who takes me out to ride sometimes,
and he acts and talks like a man.'

Whether this attentive friend were Roger or a new acquaint-
ance ^he did not say. For some reason a reticence in regard
to the former characterized her letters.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THIS OLD ASTRONOMER.

NE Saturday night Mildred wab awakened from time to
time by the wailing of a child. The sounds came from
the rooms of the Ulphs, which were direcJy overhead,
and by morning she was convinced that there was a case of
serious illness in the German family. Led by her sympathies.
and also by the hope of thawing the reserve of the eccentric
old astronomer, she resolved to go and ask if she conld be of
any help.

In response to her light knock a shock-headed, unkempt
boy opened the door and revealed a state of chaos that might
well have driven mad any student of the heavenly bodies with
their orderly ways. There seemed to be one place for ever)-
thing — the middle of the floor — and about everything was in
this one place. In the midst of a desolation anything but pic-

THE OLD ASTRONOMER.

179

turesque, Mrs. Ulph sat before the fire with a little moaning
baby upon her lap.

' I heard your child crying in the night/ said Mildred
gently, ' and as we are neighbours I thought I would come up
and see if I could help you.'

The woman stared a moment and then asked, * you Miss
Schoslin 1 '

* Yes, and I hope you will let me do something, for I fear
you've been up all night and must be very tired.'

'I'm shust dead ; not vou vink of schleep haf I had all der
night He shust cry and cry, and vat I do I don't know. I
fear lie die. Der fader gone for der doctor, but he die 'fore
dey gets here. Schee, he getten gold now.'

Truly enough, the child's extremities were growing chill
indeed, and the pecuHar pinched look and ashen colour which
is 80 often the precursor of death was apparent.

• Let rne call my mother,' cried Mildred, in much alarm.
'She knows about children.'

Mrs. Jocelyn soon became convinced fiom the mother's
account that the child's disease was cholera infantum, and
some previous experience with her own children taught her
just what to do. Before very long th .^ little me gave evi-
dence of a change for the better. After tho cri.ics of danger
was past, and while her mother and Mrs. Ulpn were working
over the infant, Mildred began quietly io put Uie room into
something like order, and to dress the th^^r jiiildren that
were in various transition states betwtu •. lags und nakedness
As the German woman emerged from a «ymi-paralyzed con-
dition of alarm over her child she began vj talk and complain
as usual.

'It vas von shudgme' on der fader,' she said queruloufjiy.
' He care more for der schpots on der sun dan for his schilder.
For der last veek it's all peen schpots on der sun, netting put
schpots. Vat goot dey do us ? Dr.re's peen light to vork py,
put efry minit he scl op vork to run tc uer roof und see dem
schpots vot he says on der sun. He says dere ish — vat you
call him — pig virl a-rounds up dere dat vou Id plow all der beo-
ples otf tier earth in von vink, und ven I tells him dat he ish
von pig virl-a-round himself, runnin' und runnin', uud lettin'

': U

180

WITHOUT A HOME.

der vork schtand, den von of der schpots come outen on him
und I dink he plow my hed offen.'

By and by she began again : * If it ish not schpots it ish
someding else. Von year he feel vorse dan if I die ppgoge
vat you call a gomet did not gome ven he said it vould gome.
He near look his eyes outen for it, und he go efry luorninf;
'fore preakfast for der bapers to get void of dat goniet. I
dought ve all schtarve 'fore he got done mit dot gomet, and
ven he give oup all hope of him, he feel vorse dan he vould if
dis schild die. He vas so pad to me as if I eat der gomet oup,
und ve had not mooch elf^e to eat till he sure der gomet gone
to der djiy vU. It migh'j haf peen vorse if der gomet gome ,
vat he done den der goot Lord only know — he go olF mit it if
he gould. He tink notting of sittin' oup mit a gomet, ])ut he
get der schpots on him ven I ask to nurse der sch id in der
night.'

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred paid little attention to her plaints;
and the former, having douv^ what she could, returned to her
own family cares. Mildred took the little sick boy in lier arras,
saying that she would hold him while Mrs. Ulph prepardi
breakfast.

It was at this stage of affairs that the door opened, and the
pinched and grizzled visage of Mr. Ulph appeared, followeil
by the burly form of a German physician whom he liad in-
sisted on find" ig. The former stopped short and stared at
Mildred, in grim hesitation whether he should resent an in-
trusion or acknowledge a kindness. His wife explained
rapidly in German, with a deferential manner, but in a sub-
acidulous tone.

* I do not wish to intrude, but only to help as a neighbour
should,' Mildred began, during a lull between Mrs. I Iph'i
shrill notes. * I fear your little boy was very ill when f first
came — indeed my mother thought he was dying. She know?,
I think, for my little brother nearly died of an attack like
this.'

Beyond her explanation of Mildred's presence he seemingly
had given no heed to his wife's words, but now he starifd
and exclaimed, * Mein Gott ! Vat you say 1 Die ? ' and he
turned M'ith intense anxiety to the doctor, who without cere-
mony began to investigate the case, asking the mother qu*

THE OLD ASTRONOMER.

181

tions and receiving answers that Mildred did not understand.
The woman evidently claimed all the credit she deserved fur
her care of the patient in the night, and suggested that Mr.
Ulpli liad been very oblivious until the child seemed sinkings
for the old man grew excessively impatient during the ii>ter-
rogatioiis. As if unconscious of Mildred's ignorance of their
language, he said earnestly to her, ' I did not know — I vould
gif my life for der schild — der boor leedle poy — I no dink dat
he vas so sick,' and his eager words and manner convinced
Mihired that his wife misrepresented him, and that his inter-
est in the mystery of the comet's fate would be slight compared
with that which centred in his son.

Tlie plilegmatic physician continued his investigations with
true (ifrman thoroughness and deliberation. It was well that
the child's worst symptoms had been relieved before he came,
fur he seemed bent on having the whole history of the case
down tu the latest moment before he extended his heavy hand
to the aid of nature, and he questioned Mildred as minutely as
had Mrs. Ulph, while she, unlike the former, did not take any
credit to herself.

If the doctor was a little slow, he was sure, for he said some-
thing emphatically to the father, who in turn seized Mildred's
hand, exclaiming, with explosive energy, ' Gott pless you 1
Gott pless you ! '

• But it was mamma who did everything,' protested the young
girl.

• Yah, I know, I know ; but who prought mamma 1 Who
listen yen der boor leetle poy gry in der night ? Who gome
in der morning 1 Mine paby would haf ben ded if you haf not
gome. CJott pless you ; Gott pless your uioder. 1 vant to
dank her mooch.*

The grateful father had called down God's blessings so lavish-
ly that Mildred very naturally said, * You have more reason
to thank God than any one else, Mr. Ulph, tor no doubt it was
His blessing on our efforts that has made your child better.
The disease is such a dangerous one that the best human skill
is often in vain.'

The pliysician shrugged his shoulders and looked signifi-
cantly at Mr, Ulph, whose visage wrinkled into an odd
gnmace.

h ill

I'll i

182

WITHOUT A HOME.

* You may dink vat you please and say vat you please, Miss
Schoslin. Men dink different of dese dinks vrom vomaiis. I
haf a vay off saying Gott pless beoples ven I feels gouc do-
wards 'era, put I means 'em no harm. Vat you American beo-
ples soraodimes say— dank my schtars 1 Dat will do shust so
veil for me. It vas dis vay : der schild vas seek ; yo und your
moder gome, and you make gauses and dere are der evvects. I
perlieve in gause and evvect, and you vas a very goot gause.'

* Wo certainly would be very poor neighbours had we not
come and done all wo could, and with your permission
mother and I will help your wife to-day so she can get some
rest.'

* I dank you vrora mine heart. You make me dink off der
heafenly podies — you moke order put no noise. I vill do for
you vatefer you vish und be honest.'

Mildred now believed that she had gained the key to the
old German's character, and such a hold upon his feeUngsthat
he would eventually permit her to become his companion in
his star-gazing on the roof. Denied so much of the beauty she
craved on the earth, she believed that she could find in an in-
telligent study of the skies a pleasure that would prove an
antidote for the depressing circumstances of her lot. She
had often longed with intense curiosity to look through his
telescope, and to penetrate some of the bright mysteries that
glittered above her with such tantalizing suggestion. She
was adroit, however, and determined that the invitation should
come unsolicited from him, so that his suspicious and cynical
nature could give no sinister interpretation to her kindness.

The physician evidently shared in Mr. Ulph's estimate of
the mother of the child, for he explained to Mildred how the
remedies ho left should ba used. She and Mrs. Jocelyn acted
as nurse most of the day, and the patient improved steadily.
After her return from the chapel in the afternoon, INIildred
found the old German smoking his pipe in quite a placid raoo<l,
and she skilfully led him to talk on his favourite theme. He
soon became so interested and so confidential that he unlocked
a small, closet-like room and showed her his treasures— the
telescope and other instruments, Argelander's maps, and many
books written by the most eminent authorities.

'I haf gone mitout mine dinner many und many der day to pay

THE OLD ASTRONOMER.

183

dese. Mine pody schtays in ilis hole, in dis old house, put mit
dese vat I gather since ven I vas young, I go to heafen every
night. Ha ! ha ! ha ! dot Kngleesh voman on der virst vloor
dink she know a petter vay off going to heafen ; und she dalk
her reeleegious schargon to me, ven she know notting at all
put Viit der briests dell her. If dey dell her de moon von pis
green scheese she swar it ish so ; put dese dings dell der druf,
und der great laws vork on for efer no matter vat voolish beo-
ples perlieve. It vas all law und vorce, und it vould pe von pig
niu(hl!(' ill der heafens if it vas all vat der briests say.'

Mildred was in a dilemma, for she felt that she could not
be silent under his outspoken scepticism, and yet if she revealed
her mind she doubted whether there would bo any result ex-
cept the alienation of the man whose friendship she was bent
on securing. After a moment's hesitation she saw but one
honourable course, and so said firmly, ' Mr. Uipli I believe
you are an honest man, but I want you to think of me as an
honest girl, also. If I wanted to know about astronomy — and
I do want to know very much — I would come to you. If I
wanted to know about some other thit)g8 I would go to my min-
ister, I believe in law as truly as you do, but I believe that God
made the laws — that they are simply His will. If I respect your
unbelief, you must respect my faith — that is fair ; and I think
you are une who wouid deal fairly and do justice to all. Mrs.
Wheaton knows litt'e of astronomy and many other things
no doubt, but she has known how to be a very kind, good
neighbour to us, and her religion is mine.'

The old German stared at her a moment, then scratched his
head as he replied, half apologetically and half pityingly,
' You vas nottin put a leedle schild, put you haf a goot heart.
You vas honest, und you schands oop vor your vriends, und I
likes dot. You ma> perlieve all der vable you vish : und I
vill dells you more vables apout der schtars dat ish shust so
goot und shust so old.'

' But you will tell me the truth about them, too, won't you 1 *
pleaded Mildred, with a smile that would have thawed a colder
nature than Mr. Ulph's. * I want to learn a wee bit of what
you know. I have so little that is bright and pretty in my
life now that I just long to catch some glimpses of what you
6«« in the skieo. Perhaps I could help you by writing down

mi I

' i « >«» fa 'W' ^ llu M w

184

WITHOUT A HOME.

your observations. I would ask questions only when you said
I might/

* Veil, now, dot's a goot idea. Mine eyes vas getten old,
und you vas young, put it von't last ; you vas a youiij^'din;;,
und girls vas vlightly and vant — vat you call him ?— peaux
und vrolict ven der night vas goot and glear.'

*Try me,' said Mildred, with a little emphatic nod.

* Veil, you don't seem likes von silly girl, and I vill dry you;
put yoo moost pe very schteady and batient, und but down shust
vhat I say. Von leetle schlip, und I vas all vrong in my vigiirf>.
Von preadth off hair down here his oh— so vide oop dere. I'nd
now gome, I tells you about der schpots, — der sun schpots, and
with many odd gesticulations and contortions of his quaint vis-
age he described the terrific cyclones that were sweeping over
the surface of the sun at that time, and whose corresponding
perturbations in the astronomer's mind had so exaspeiated his
wife. She and the sick child were now sleeping, and tlie other
children, warned by the threatening finger of the father, played
quietly in a corner. It was an odd place to conjure up images
of whirling storms of fire so appallingly vast that the great
earth, if dropped into one of them, would be fused instantly
like a lump of ore in a blast furnace ; but the grotenque little
man was so earnest, so uncouth, yet forcible, in his suggestions
as he whirled his arms around to indicate the vast, restless
sweep of the unimaginable force working their wild will mil-
lions of miles away, that their truth and reality grew painfully
vivid CO the young girl, and she trembled and shuddered,
The roar of the wildest storm, he told her, and the bellowing
of mountainous waves combined, would be but a murmur com-
pared with the far-reaching thunder of a sun hurricane as it
swept along hundreds of times faster than clouds are ever
driven by an earthly tornado. There was nothing in her
nature which led her to share in his almost fierce delight in
the far away disturbances, and he suddenly stopped and said
kindly, ' Vy, I vrighten you mit sooch pig gom motions ? You
shust von leedle schild off a voman ; und I likes you pecause
you haf prain so you see und know what I say. You see him
too mooch, und so you dremble. Dot's goot. If you vas silly
you vould giggle. Der schpots ish a goot way offen, and vill
nefer virl you away ; und next dime I dells you
schmooth und britty/

something

ROGER REAPPEARS.

185

III said

'n olil,
-peaux

ryyou;

I'll bhusl

vigiirf?,

?. Und

lols, and

laint vis-
ing over

iponding

rated his

the other

T, played

ip images

the great
instantly

ique little

U'^estions

|t, restless
will mil-
painfully

Ihuddered.
bellowing
■raiir coin-
lane as it
Lire ever
.g in her
[deligbt in
and said
Insi ^'ou
ivi pecause
(U see him
|u vas silly
and vill

CHAPTER XXIV.

ROGER REAPPEARS.

[somethiDi

OGER ATWOOD had entered Mildred's mind as a part
of a grotesque dream, but he had no place in her wak-
ing thoughts. With Vinton Arnold, however, it was
very different, and scarcely an hour passed that she was not
wondering where he was, and again questioning his prolonged
silence. Often her heart beat quick as she imagined she
caught a glimpse of him in the street ; and it must be admitted
that she looked for him constantly, although she took pains
never to pass his residence. Could he be ill, or was he pa-
tiently waiting like herself, secure in her good faith ] She
longed to see him, even though unseen herself, and one Sunday
early in November she yielded to her strong desire to look
upon one in reality who had become an abiding presence in
her mind. She believed that from a certain part of the gallery
in the church they both had attended in former days she could
look down upon the Arnold pew. If he were not ill she felt
quite sure he would be in his old place.

It was almost with a sense of guilty intrusion that she cross-
ed the threshold of her old church-home and stole to the thinly
occupied gallery. She saw familiar faces, but shrank from
recognition in almost trembling apprehension, scarcely feeling
secure behind her thick veil. The place, once so familiar, now
seemed as strange as if it belonged to another world ; and in a
certain sense she felt that it was part of a world with which
she would never willingly identify herself again. It was a
place where fashion was supreme, and not the spirit of Christ,
not even the spiiit of a broad, honest, and earnest humanitj
The florid architecture, the high-priced and elegantly uphol-
stered pews, sparsely occupied by people who never wished jO
be crowded under any possible circumstances, and preferred
not to touch each other except in a rather distant and conv*?n-
tional way, the elaborately ritualistic service, and the cold,
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Photographic

Sdences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. M5M

(716) 872-4S03

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186

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superficial religious philosophy taught, were all as far removed
from the divine Son of Mary as the tinsel scenery of a stage
differs from a natural landscape. Mildred's deep and sorrow-
ful experience made its unreality painfully apparent and un<
satisfactory. She resolved, however, to try to give the sacred
words that would be uttered their true meaning ; anc*,, in fact,
her sincere devotion was like a simple flower blooming by the
edge of a glacier. She felt that the human love she brought
there and sought to gratify was pure and unselfish, and that in
no sense could it be a desecration of the place and hour. To a
nature like hers, her half-pitying love for one so unfortunate as
Vinton Aiiiold was almost as sacred as her faith, and therefore
she had no scruple in watching for his appearance.

Her quest was unrewarded, however, for no one entered the
pew except Mr. Arnold and one of his daughters. The absence
of Mrs. Arnold and the invalid son filled her with forebodings
and the memory of the past ; the influence of the place com-
bined with her fears were so depressing that by the time the
service ended her tears were falling fast behind her veil. \Vi»h
natural apprehension that her emotion might be observed sLe
looked hastily around, and, with a start, encountered the eyes
of Roger Atwood. Her tears seemed to freeze on her cheeks,
and she half shuddered in strong revulsion of feeling. She had
come to see the man she loved ; after months of patient wait*
ing she had at last so far yielded to the cravings of her heart as
to seek but a glimpse of one who fed her dearest earthly hope ;
but his place is vacant In his stead she finds, almost at her
side, one whom she hoped never to see again ; and she knew
he was oflering through his dark eyes a regard loathed in her
inmost soul. She was oppressed with a sudden, superstitious
fear that she could not escape him — that he was endowed with
such a remorseless will and persistance that by some strange
necessity she might yield in spite of herself. Belle's words,
*He'll win you yet ' seemed like a direful prophecy. How it
could ever be fulfilled she could not imagine ; but his mere
presence caused a flutter of fear, and the consciousness that she
was followed by a man pre-eminently gifted with that subtle
power before which most obstacles crumble made her shiver
with an undefined dread.

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187

She believed her veil had been no protection — that he had
seen her emotion and devined its cause, indeed that nothing
could escape his eyes. She also felt sure that he had come to
the city to carry out the projects which he had vaguely out-
lined to her, and that henceforth she could never be sure, when
away from home, that his searching eyes were not upon her.
However well-intentioned his motive might be, to her it would
be an odious -ystem of espionage. There was but one way in
which she could resent it — by a cold and steadily maintained
indifference, and she left the church without any sign of recog-
nition, feeling that her lowered veil should have taught him
that she was shunning observation, and that he had no right
to watch her. She went home not only greatly depressed, but
incensed, for it was the same to her as if she had been intruded
upon at a moment of sacred privacy, and coldly scrutinized
while she was giving way to feelings that she would hide from
all the world. That he could not know this, and that it was
no great breach of delicacy for a young man to sit in (he same
church with a lady of his acquaintance, and even to regard her
with sympathy, she did not consider. She was in no mood to
do him justice, and circumstances had imbued her mind with
intense prejudice. She was by no means perfect, nor above
yielding to very unjust prejudices when tempted to them by so
unwelcome an interest as that entertained by Roger Atwood.

^ What's the matter, Millie ? ' her mother asked, following
her into her room, where Belle was writing a letter to Clara
Bute.

Mildred concluded to tell all, for she feared Roger might
soon appear and occasion awkward explanations, so she said :
' 1 felt, this morning like having a glimpse of our old church
and life. I suppose it was very weak and foolish, and I was
well punished, for toward the end of the service I was thinking
over old times, and it all very naturally brought some tears. I
looked around, and who, of all others, should be watching me
but Roger Atwood.'

Belle sprang up, and clapped her hands with a ringing
laugh. ' That's capital I ' she cried. * Didn't I tell you Millie,
you couldn't escape him 1 You. might just as well give in first
as last.'

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* Belle/ said Mildred, in strong irritation, * that kind of talk
is unpardonable. I won't endure it ; and if such nonsense is
to be indulged in, Roger Atwood cannot come here. I shall
at least have one refuge, and will not be persecuted in my o\rn
home.'

* Bblle,' said Mrs. Jocelyn, gravely, * since Mildred feels as
she does, you must respect her feelings. It would be indelicate
and unwomanly to do otherwise.'

* There, Millie, 1 didn't mean anything,' Belle said, sooth-
.ingly. ' Besides, I want Roger to come and see us, for he can

be jolly good company if he has a mind to ; and I believe he
will come this afternoon or evening. For my sake you must
all treat him well, for I want some one to talk to once in a
while — some one that mamma will say is a "good, well-
meaning young man." The Atwoods have all been so kind
to us that we must treat him well. It would be mean not to
do so. No doubt he's all alone in the city, too, and wUl be
lonely.'

* There is no need of his being in the city at all,' Mildred
protested. ' I ve no patience with his leaving those who need
him so much.'

* Millie, you are unreasonable,' retorted Belle. 'Why
hasn't Roger Atwood as good a right to seek his fortune out
in the world as other young men ) Papa didn't stay on the old
plantation, although they all wanted him to.'

It was difficult to refute Belle's hard common sense, and her
sister could only protest, ' Well, he has no right to be stealthily
watching me, nor to persecute me with unwelcome attentions.'

* Leave it all to me, Millie,' said her mother gently. ' I
will manage it so that Belle can have his society occasionally,
and we show our good-will toward those who have been kind
to us. At the same time I think I can shield you from any-
thing disagreeable. You give to his feelings more importance
than they deserve.'

* I suppose T do,* Mildred replied musingly, * but he makes
upon me the queer impression that he will never leave me
alone — that I can never wholly shake him off, and that he will
appear like a ghost when I least expect it'

Belle smiled significantly. * There, you might as well speak
plainly as look in that way,' Mildred concluded irritably. ' I

nOGER REAPPEARS.

189

foresee how it will be, but must submit and endure as best I
can, I suppose.'

Belle's anticipation proved correct, for just as they were
about ready to start for the chapel Roger appeared, and was a
little awkward from diffidence and doubt as to his reception.
Mrs. Jocelyn's kindness and Belle's warm greeting somewhat
reassured him, and atoned for Mildred's rather constrained po-
liteness. While answering the many and natural questions
about those whom he had left in Forestville, he regained his
self-possession and was able to hold his own against Belle's
sallies. ' You have come to the city to stay ? ' she asked point-
blank.

' Yes,' he said briefly, and that was the only reference he
made to himself.

She soon began vivaciously, * You must go with us to church
and Sunday-school. Here you are, an innocent and unprotect-
ed youth in this great and wicked city, and w^e must get you
under good influences at once.'

' That is my wish,' he replied, looking her laughingly in the
face, ' and that is why I came to see you.*

* Mr. Wentworth's hair would rise at the idea of my teach-
ing theology or anything ; but 1*11 look after you, and if you
get any fast ways I'll make you sorry. No, I'm only a scholar.
Millie has a class of the worst boys in school, and if — ' A
warning glance here checked her.

'Well, then, can't I join your class V

'Oh, no, we are all girls, and you'll make us so bashful we
wouldn't dare say anything.'

' I think Mr. Atwood had better go with us to the chapel,
accepting the conditions on which we first attended/ suggested
Mrs. Jocelyn. ' If he is pleased, as we Were, he can then act
accordingly.

* Yes, come,' cried Belle, who had resumed at once her old
companionable and mirthful relations with Ro^er. ' I'll go
with you, so you won't feel strange or afraid. 1 want you to
understand,' she continued, as they passed down the quaint
old hallway, ' that we belong to the aristocracy. Since this is
the oldest house in town, we surely should be regarded as one
of the old families.'

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WITHOUT A HOME.

' By what magic were you able to make so inviting a home
in such >i place 1 ' he asked.

' Oh, that's Millie's work,' she replied.

' I might have known that/ he said, and a sudden shadow
crossed his face. Quickly as it passed away, she saw it.

* Yes,' she resumed in a low, earnest tone — for she had no
scruple in fanning the flame of his love, which she more ilian
half believed might yet be rewarded — * Millie is one of a mil-
lion. She will be our main dependence, I fear. She is so
strong and sensible.'

* Ts — is not Mr. Jocelyn well 1* he asked apprehensively.

* I fear he isn't well at all,' she answered with some despon-
dency. * He is sleeping now ; he always rests Sunday after-
noon, and we try to let him rest all we can. He sleeps, or
rather dozes, a great deal, and seems losing his strength and
energy/ and she spoke quite frankly concerning their plans,

-projects, and hopes.

* Yes,' said Roger, in low, sad emphasis, * your sister is in-
deed one in a million, and my chance of winning one friendly
thought from her also seems but one in a million. Belle, let
us understand each other from the start. I have come to the
city to stay, and I intend to succeed. I have an uncle in town
who has given me a chance, and he'll do more for me, I think.
He's peculiar, but he's shrewd and sensible, and when he is
convinced that I intend to carry out certain plans, he will aid
me. He is watching me now, and thinks I am here only from
a restless impulse to see the world ; by and by he will know
better. He has the obstinate Atwood blood, and if he takes a
notion to give me a chance to get a first-class educition, he
will see me through. I'm going to have one any way ; but of
course I'd rather be able to get it in five or six years than in
eight or ten years, as would be the case if I had to work my
own way. I am now employed in his commission store <lown
town, but I am studying every spare moment I can get, and
he knows it, he only thinks it won't last. But it will, and I
shall at least try to be one of the first lawyers in this city.
What's more, I shall work as few young men are willing to
work or can work, for I am strong, and— ^well, I have motives
to work that are not usual, perhaps. You see I am frank
with you as you have been with me. I would much like to

KOQER REAt>P£ARS.

191

come and see you and go out with you now and then ; and if
you and your — well, ycur family, should ever need any ser-
vice that it was in my power to render, I should like you all
to feel that I am not altogether unfit to give it, or to be your
associate.'

• You needn't talk that way,' said Belle ; you are up in the
world compared with us.'

* I mean every word I say. I respect your mother as I do
my own, for I have seen her beautiful life and beautiful face
for weeks and months. I never expect to see a more perfect
and genuine lady. I am not well versed in society's ways, but
1 assure you I would make every effort in my power to act as
she would think a young man ought to act.'

Tears of gratified feeling were in Belle's eyes, but she said
brusquely, * Not versed in society's ways ! Account, then, for
that fashionable suit of clothes you are wearing.'

' Tliey were not cut in Forestville,' he replied dryly.

' Roger,' she said impulsively, * I'm wonderfully glad you've
come to New York to live, for I was dying for a little society
and fun that mother and Millie wouldn't disapprove of. They
are so particular, you know, that I fairly ache from trying to
walk in the strait and narrow path which is so easy for them.
I want a lark. I must have a lark before long, or I'll explode.
When I come home, mamma often looks tired and sad, for this
life is wearing on her, and she is worrying in secret over papa's
health. Millie, too, is tired and downhearted in spite of her
trying to hide it. She won't go out anywhere because she says
there are no places where young girls can go unattended that
are within our means. I've got tired of the other shop girls.
A few of them are nice ; but more of them are stupid or coarse,
so I just sit around and mope, and go to bed early to get
through the time. Now is it natural for a young girl little
more than sixteen to live such a life ) '

* No, Belle, it is not, and yet I have seen enough of the city
during the week that I have been here to know that your
mother and sister are right in their restrictions.'

* Well, then, it's a burning shame that in a city called Chris-
tian a poor girl is not more safe outside of her own door than
if she were in a jungle. Do you mean to say that girls, situ-

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192

WITHOUT A HOME.

ated as Millie and I are, must remain cooped up in liitlo
rooms the year round when our work is over ? '

' The street is no place for you take recreation in after night-
fall ; and where else you can go unattended I'm sure I don't
know. If there is any place, I'll find out, for I intend to study
this city from top to bottom. A lawyer is bound to know life
as it is, above all things. But you needn't worry about this
question in the abstract any more. I'll see that you have a
good time occasionally. Your sister will not go with me, at
least not yet — perhaps never — but that is not my fault. I've
only one favour to ask of you. Belle, and I'll do many in re-
turn. Please never, by word, or even by look, make my pres-
ence offensive or obtrusive to Miss Mildred. If you will be
caieful I will not prove so great an affliction as she fears.'

* Koger At wood, do you read people's thoughts I '

' Oh, no, I only see what is to be seen, and draw my conclu-
sions,' he said, a little sadly.

* Well, then, if you can have the tact and delicay to follow
such good eyesight, you may fare better than you expect,' she
whispered at the chapel door.

He turned toward her with a quick flash, but she had
stepped forward into the crowd passing through the vestibule,

Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred followed half a block away, and
the former said to her daughter : * There they go, Millie,
chattering together like two children. You surely take this
affair too seriously. His sudden and boyish infatuation with
you was the most natural thing in the world. He had never
seen a girl like you before, and you awoke in him something
like manhood. Very young men are prone to fall in love with
women older than themselves, or those who seem older, and
speedily to fall out again. Martin has often said his first flame
is now a gray-headed lady, and yetfhe was suro at onetime he
he never could endure life without her.'

* 1 hope that you are right, mamma. It seems as if I ought
to laugh at the whole affair and good-naturedly show him his
folly, but for some reason I can't. He affects me very strange-
ly. While I feel a strong repulsion, I am beginning to fear
him — to become conscious of his intensity and the tenacity and
power of his will. I didn't understand him at first, and I

HOQEH REAPPEARS.

103

don't now, but if he were an ordinary, impulsive young fellow
he would not impress me as he does.'

' Dun't you think him true and good at heart 1 '

' I've no reason to think him otherwise. I can't explain to
you how I feel, nor do I understand it myself. He seems the
embodiment of a certain kind of force, and I always shrank
from mere force, whether \n nature or people.'

' I can tell you how it is, Millie. Quiet and gentle as you
seem, you have a tremendous will of your own, and very
strong-willed people don't get on well together.'

' Astute little mother ! Well explain it in any way that
pleases you, only keep your promise not to let him become the
bane of my life.'

' I am not at all sure but that Belle will soon usurp your
place in his regard, nor would I object, for I am very anxious
about the child. I know that her present life seems dull to
her, and the temptations of a city to a girl with a nature like
hers are legion. He can be a very useful friend to her, and he
seems to me manly and trustworthy. I am not often deceived
in my impressions of people, and he inspires me with confi-
dence, and has from the first. I never saw anything under-
hand in him at the farm.'

' Chant his praises to Belle, mamma, and she will greatly ap-
preciate this last proof of his superiority. To me he seems
like his clothes — a little too new. Still I admit that he can be
of very great service to Belle ; and if he will restrict his atten-
tions to her I will be as polite as either of you can wish. I
too, feel a very deep sympathy for Belle. She is little more
than a child, and yet her life is imposing upon her the mono-
tonous work of a middle-aged woman, and I fear the conse-
quences.'

' Well, Millie dear, we won't cross any bridges till we come
to them/

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194

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CHAPTER XXV.

THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS.

URING the sermon it must be admitted that Belle's
thoughts waudered from the text and its able devr^
lopment by Mr. Wentworth. In fact she was develop-
ing a little scheme of her own, and as the result, whispered at
the close of service, ' Mamma, Roger and I are going to take
a walk in the Park. Can't I ask him home to supper 1 This
is his first Sunday in town, and it will be so dismal — '

* Yes, child, go and have a good time.'

Within the next idve minutes radiant Belle was an uncoi-
scions embodiment of foreordination to Roger. He had had
no idea of going to the Park, but Belle had decreed he should
go, and as he smilingly accompanied her he certainly remaiDed
a very contented free agent.

It was a clear, bracing afternoon and evening, wherein were
blended the characteristics of both autumn and winter, and the
young people returned with glowing cheeks and quickened
pulses.

* Oh, Millie ! ' cried Belle,* *such a walk as I have had would
make you over new. I felt as if I were a hundred this morn-
ing, but now I feel just about sixteen — that was my last birth-
day, wasn't it, mamma ) '

Roth mother and sister smiled to see her sparkling eyes and
bubbling happiness ; and the latter thought, * For her sake I
must certainly either master or conceal my dislike for that
young fellow.'

Indeed, she herself appeared sadly in need of a little vigor-
ous exercise in the frosty air. The events of the day had been
exceedingly depressing ; despondency had taken the place of
the irritation and the hopes and fears that had alternated in
the morning hours ; but she unselfishly tried to disguise it,
and to aid her mother in preparing an inviting supper for Belle
and her guest.

cravings more i

THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS.

195

Mildred was obliged to admit to herself that Roger had very
little of the appearance and manner of an uncouth countryman.
There was a subtle, half-conscious homage for her mother in
his every look and word, and for herself a politeness almost as
distant and unobtrusive as her own Once, when a sigh escaped
her lis she was busy about the room, she looked apprehensively
at him, and, as she feared, encountered a glance from which
nothing could escape.

Suddenly the thought occurred to her : ' I will learn from
his microscopic eyes how papa appears to others not blinded by
love as we are ; for, in spite of all my efforts to look on the
hright side, I am exceedingly ill at ease about him. I fear he
\i failing faster than we think — we who see him daily, Mr.
Attwood has not seen him for months, and the least change
would be apparent to him.'

Immunity from business induced Mr. Jocclyn to gratify his
cravings more unstintedly on Sunday ; and as he was often
exceedingly irritable if disturbed when sleeping off the effects
otan extra indulgenee, they usually left him to wake of his
own accord. Unfortunately the walls of his apartment were
but curtains, and his loud breathings made it necessary to rouse
him. This Mrs. Jocelyn accomplished with some difficulty, but
did not mention the presence of Roger, fearing that in his half-
wakened condition he might make some remark which would
hurt the young man's feelings. She merely assisted him to
I arrange his disordered hair and dress, and then led the way to
tlie supper-table, he in the mean time protesting petulantly
that he wished no supper, but would rather have slept.

As he emerged from the curtained doorway, Mildred's eyes
were fastened on Roger's face, determined that nothing in its
expression should escape her. He at the moment was in the
midst of a laughing reply to one of Belle's funny speeches,
but he stopped instantly and turned pale as his eyes rested
OQ the visage of her father. Had that face then changed
80 greatly 1 Had disease made such havoc that this compara-
tive stranger is aghast and cannot conceal the truth that he is
I shocked ?

It was with sharp anguish that these queries flashed through
Mildred's mind, and, with her own perceptions sharpened and
quickened, she saw that her father had indeed changed very

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100

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groatly ; he had grown much thinner ; his complexion liaii an
unnatural, livid aspect ; his old serene, frank look was al>M m,
and a noticeable contraction in the pupils of his eyes gave an
odd, iinister aspect to his expression.

There were other changes that were even more painful to
witness. In former days he had been the embodiment otj^enial
Southern hospitality ; but now, although he made a visible
effort for self-control, his whole body seemed one diseased ir-
ritable nerve.

Roger almost instantly overcame his pained siirpi ise, yet
not so quickly but that it was observed by all, and even hy him
who had been the cause. * I am very sorry to learn you are
iuot in good health,' he was indiscreet enough to say as lie
offered his hand in greeting.

* From whom have you learned this ? ' demanded Mr. Joce-
lyn, looking angrily and suspiciously around. ' I assure yoo
that you are mistaken. I never was in better health, and I
am not pleased that any one should gossip about me.'

They sat down under a miserable constraint — Belle flushed
and indignant, Mildred no longer disguising her savlness, and
poor Mrs. Jocelyn with moist eyes making a painful attempt to
restore serenity so that Belle's happy day might not become
clouded. Roger tried to break the evil spell by giving hii j
impressions of the Park to Mrs. Jocelyn, but was interrupted |
by her husband, who had been watching the young man with
a perplexed, suspicious look, vainly trying to recall the name
of one whose face was familiar enough, remarking at but
very satirically, 'Has it ceased to be the style to introdaoi
people, especially at one's own table 1 I might appreciate tbii|
gentleman's conversation better if I knew his name.'

They all looked at each other in sudden dismay, for theyl
could not know that opium impairs memory as well as healtkl
and manhood. * Martin,' cried his wife, in a tone of shaijl
distress, 'You are ill, indeed. There is no use of trying t«|
disguise the truth any longer. What 1 don't you remembtrj
Roger Atwood, the son of the kind friends with whom wj
spent the summer ) ' and in spite of all effort tears blinded b(r|
eyes.

The wretched man's instinct of self-preservation was arous
He saw from the looks of all about him that he was betrayii

THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS.

197

hiniBelf— that he was wholly off his balance. While vividly
tnd painfully aware of his danger, his enfeebled will and
opium-clouded mind were impotent to steady and sustain him
or to direct his course. He had much of the terror and all the
sense of helplessness of a man who finds himself in deep water
and cannot swim. He trembled, the perspiration started
out on his brow, and his one impulse now was to bo alone
with his terrible master, that had become the sole source of his
gfinhlance of strength as well as of his real and fatal weakness.
' I— I fear I am ill,' he faltered. ' I'll go out and get a little
air/ and he was about to leave the room almost precipitately.

' Oh, Martin,* expostulated his wife, * don't go out — at least
not alone.'

Again he lost control of himself, and said savagely, ' I will.
Don't any one dare to follow me,' and he almost rushed away.

For a moment Mrs. Jocelyn tried to bear up from instinctive
politeness, but her lip quivered like that of a child ; then the
tide of her feeling swept her away, and she fled to the adjoin-
ing apartment. Mildred followed her at once, and Belle, with
a white, scared face, looked into Roger's eyes. He rose and
came directly to her and said, ' Belle, you know you can always
count on me. Your father is so ill that I think I had better
follow hira. I can do so unobserved."

•Oh, Roger — why — is — is papa losing his mind 1 '

His quick eye now noted that Fred and Minnie had become
1 10 impressed that something dreadful had happened that they
wpre about to make the occasion more painful by their out-
cries, and he turned smilingly to them, and with a few reassur-
ing words and promises soon quieted their fears. ' Be a brave
little woman. Belle,' he at last said to her. 'There is my ad-
jdress, and please promise to let me know if I can do anything
[for you and for— for Mrs. Jocelyn.'

'Don't go — please don't go yet,' Belle pleaded. * Papa's

' I and words to-night fill me with a strange fear as if some-
hing awful might happen.'

' Perhaps, if 1 follow your father I may prevent — *

* Oh, yes, go at once.'

He was intercepted at the door by the entrance of Mr.
Jocelyn, who had had ample time in the few brief minutes that

'' elapsed to fill his system with the subtle stimulant He

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til

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198

WITHOUT A HOME.

m..

now took Koger by the hand most cordially^ and said, ' Pardon
me, Mr. Atwood. My health has become somewhat impaired
of late, and I fear I have just had a rather bad turn ; but the
air has revived me, and the trouble now has passed. I insist
that you stay and spend the evening with us.'

* Oh, papa,' cried Belle, rushing into his arms, 'how you
frightened us ! Please go in my room, there, and comfort
mamma by telling her you are all well again.'

This he did so effectually that he soon led her out smiling
through her tears, for her confidsnce in him was the growth
and habit of years ; and anything he said to her seemed, for
the moment, true.

Mildred made great effort to be cheerful for her f-ither'g
sake, but the pallor did not pass from her face, nor the look
of deep anxiety from her eyes. The shadow of coming trouble
had fallen too heavily upon her, and that the marked exhibi-
tion of her father's failing powers should have occurred at this
time added to the impression that Roger Atwood was their
evil genius. She recalled the fact that he seemingly had been
the first exciting cause of her father's unnatural behaviour, and
now his reappearance was the occasion of the most c >nvincing
proof they had yet received that the one upon whom they all
depended was apparently failing in both mind and body.
Even now, while he was doing his best to reassure and render
his family happy, there was to. her perception an unreality in
his words and manner. She almost imagined, too, that be
feared to meet her eye and shunned doing so. Not in the re-
motest degree, however, did she suspect the cause of bi^j
suddenly varying moods and changed appearance, but regan
all as the result of his misfortunes; and the miserable pre- j
sentiment grew strong upon her that soon — alas! toosoou-j
she would be the slender reed on which they all would lean.

The night was clear and beautiful, and Roger and Belle went!
up to the platform built over the root Not long afterwtfd
there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Ulph appeared. 'Dtf
night vas goot,' he said to Mildred, * and I vill gif you von I
leedle glimpse off hefen if you vould like him.' .

The poor girl felt that she certainly needed a glimpse wj
something bright and reassuring, and wrapping herself wanniyj
she followed her quaint friend to the roof.

■ Pardon
mpaired

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1 was their
ly had been
iaviour,and

c >nvincing
lom they all

and body.

and Tender

unreality in
00, that be

ot in the re-

^ause of hi»^j
[but regarded

miserable pre- 1
1 toosoott-j
'ouldlean.
.a Belle went!
,2 afterward I
[eared. M

gif you vott

la glimpse fj
lerself warffllji

THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS.

199

Roger grew tacituru as ho watched the dim outline of her
form and her white, upturned face. She seemed as cold and
distant to him as the stars at which he gazed, and he thought
dejectedly, * The least of them have an interest for her greater
than I shall eyer be able to inspire.'

He overrated her interest in the stars on that occasion, how-
ever, for though she did her best to follow the old astronomer's
words, her heart was too sorrowful and preoccupied, and her
eyes too often blinded by tears, which once glittered so dis-
tinctly in the rays of a brilliant planet that he stopped in the
midst of a sentence and looked at her keenly.

' You vas not hahby; my leetle schild,' he said kindly. * Dere's
someding droubling you heart ; put you gan no see vay inter
der hefens drew dears do' dey vas glear as der lens of my

' I fear I shall have to see through tears very often, if I see
at all,' Mildred replied, with a low suppressed sob. * Forgive
me tonight. I do feel grateful that you are willing to show me
—but— I — I — well, I am troubled to-night about something,
and I can't control myself. To-morrow night I'll be braver,
and will help you. Please don't feel hurt if I leave you now.'
'Ab, mine leetle girl, learn vrom der schtars dot der great
laws moost be opeyed, and don't you vorry and vret ober vat
you gannot nnlp. Shust you go along quiet und easy like
Shupiter oup dere. Lots off dings vill dry to bull dis vay and
dot Vay outen der right orpit, put dond you mind 'em, und
chust go right sc^rait along und not care. You veels too mooch
apoutoder beoples.'

She might have reminded him that, if she had acted upon
this cold and selfish philosophy, his little child would now be
sleeping in a distant cemetery instead of in his warm crib, but
she only said, ' Good-night, Mr. Ulph ; I'll do better next
time,' and she hurried away. She felt that the sun and centre
of their family \ih was passing under a strange and lasting ec
lipse, and the result might be darkness — chaos.

200

WITHOUT A HOME.

CHAPTER XXVI.

WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD.

[^ OTH Belle and Roger saw that Mildred had not been
reassured by ?*ir. Jocelyn's return and manner ; and
as they thougiit it over they found it difficult to ac-
couno for his strangely varying moods. After a rather lame
efifort to chat cheeriW, Roger bade Belle good-night, and as-
sured her that she now bad a friend always within call.

His uncle's modest residence was in a side street and not
far away, but the young fellov7 walked for hours before apply-
ing his niglit-key to the door. V7hat he had seen and heard
that day touched his heart's core, and the influences that were
so rapidly developing hid manhood were greatly strengthened.
For Belle he now had a genuine liking and not a little respect.
He aa^v her foibles clearly, and understood that she was still
more a child than a woman, and so should not be judged by
the standards proper for those of mature age ; but he also sav
the foundations on which a noble womanhood might be built.
She inspired a sence of comradeship and honest friendliness
which would easily deepen into fraternal love, but Mrs. Joce-
lyn's surmise that ahe might some day touch that innermost
spring which controls the entire man had no true basis. Nor
would there hav* been any possibility of this had he never seen
Mildred. A true mifn — one governed by heart and mind, not
passion — meets many women whom he likes and admires ex-
ceedingly, but who can never quicken his pulse. On MiHred,
however-— although she coveted the gift so liutle— was be-
fitowed the power to touch the most hidden and powerful prin-
ciples of his being, to awaken and stimulate every faculty he
possessed. Her words echoed and le-eohoed in the recesses of
hid soul ; even her cold, distant glances were like rays of a
tropical sun to which his heart could oflfer no resistance; and
yet they were by no means enervating. Some natures would
have grown despondent over prospects seemingly so '

but lio^
feeling c
tion anc
purpose
terminat
A few
natured,
came, wi
him a lat
we find J
but Jet 80
an energy
tiofls take
when nati
ceming th
of the qui(
the farthes
their powe
and combii
from age tc
But in t
ment takes
the limitati
however sti
%er Atw
the world \
his tendenc
oW boyish i
accurate ohi
After Mil
pifiis in a of
^*) his unclel
g'e or alonel
gested that H
therefore byl
heved he co^
not unreasoi
«nce his ne|
we world, U
"D'i most bl

WAXING AI^D WAITING MANHOOD.

201

but Uoger was of a different typa His deep and unaccepted
feeling did not flow back upon his spirit, quenching it in dejec-
tion and despair, but it became a resistless tide back of his
purpose to win her recognition and respect at least, and his de-
termination tv» prove himself her peer.

A few months before, Roger seemingly had been a good-
natured, pleasure-loving country youth, who took life as it
came, with little thought for the morrow. Events had proved
him a latent and undeveloped force. In the material world
we find substances that apparently are inert and powerless,
but let some other substance be brought sufficiently near and
an energy is developed that seems like magic, and transforma-
tions take place that were regarded as supernatural in times
when nature's laws were little understood. If this be true con-
cerning that which is gross and material, how much more true
of the quick, informing spirit that can send out its thoughts to
the farthest star ! Strong souls-'-once wholly unconscious of
their power — at the touch of adequate motives pass into action
and combinations which change the character of the world
from age to age.

But in the spiritual as in the physical world, thi? develop-
ment takes place in accordance with natural law and vyithin
the limitations of each character. There is nothing strange^
however strange it may appear to those who not understand.
Roger Atwood was not a genius that would speedily dazzle
the world with bewildering coruscations. It would rather be
his tendency to grow silent and reserved with years, but his
old boyish alertness would not decline, nor his habit of shrewd,
accurate observation.

Af -er Mildred's departure from the country he carried out his
plf>as in a characteristic way. He wrote frankly and decidedly
to his uncle that he was coming to the city, and would strug«
gle or alone if he received no aid. At the same time he sug-
gested that he had a large acquaintance in his vicinity, and
therefore by judicious canvassing among the farmers he be-
lieved he could bring much patronage with him. This looked
not unreasonable to the shrewd commission merchant, and,
since his nephew was determined to make an excursion into
the world, he concluded it had better be done under the safest
and most business-Uke circumstances. He therefore wrote

202

WITHOUT A HOME.

to Roj^er that, if his parents were willing, he might secure
what trade he could in farm produce and make the trial.

At first Mr. and Mrs. At wood would not hear of the plan, and
the father openly declared that it was ^ those Jocelyn girls that
had unsettled the boy.'

* Father,' said Roger, a little defiantly and sarcastically,
' doesn't it strike you that I'm rather tall for a boy ? Did you
never hear of a small child, almost of age, choosing his own
course in life 1 '

* That is not the way to talk,' said his mother reprovingly.
< We both very naturally feel that it's hard, and hardly right,
too, for you to leave us just as we are getting old and need some
one to lean on,

* Do not believe, mother, that I* have not thought of that,'
was the eager reply ; < and if I have my way you and father,
and Susan too, shall be well provided for.'

* Thank you,' Mr. At wood snarled contemptuously. ' I'll get
what I can out of the old farm, and I don't expect any provis-
ion from an overgrown boy whose head is so turned by two city
girls that he must go dangling after them.'

Roger flushed hotly, and angry words rose to his lips, but
he restrained them by a visible effort After a moment he said
quietly, * You are my father, and may say what you please.
There is but one way of convincing you whether I am a boy or
a man, and I'll take it. You can keep me here till I'm twenty-
one if you will, but you'll be sorry. It will be so much loss to
me and no gain to you. I've often heard you say the Atwoods
never " drove well," and you found out years ago that a good
word went further with me than what you use d to call a " good
thrashing." If you let me have my way, now that I'm old
enough to choose for myself, I'll make your old age cozy and
comfortable. If you thwart me, as I said before, you'll be
sorry,' and he turned on his heel and left them.

Politic Mrs. Atwood had watched her son closely for weeks
and knew .that something was coming, but with woman's pa
tience she waited and was kind. No one would miss him so
much as she, and yet, mother-like, she now took sides against
her own heart. But she saw that her husband was in no mood
to listen to her at present, Jind nothing more was said that
day.

in the spring
gave a grudg
^Dgraciouj
porous, thoroi
house and pa
tnown before
a consideratio
changsd from
'lean see
8*78 and does
musing, 'and'
intuition was (
* man as Mild
»i«o true that t
wns already m
<ii8liked him. 1
^oger brougl
^«nt regretful f
cle, and the imj
I J«dy down in
%er frankly
•tone merely ta
''I'D askance, bJ
r^f .the market c
•rt'cle of butted
»mbuiou3 dreai

1!;:^.^ could L
'sceptical]

WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD.

203

In the evening Roger drove out in his carriage and returned
on horseback.

< There's the money you paid for the buggy, with interest/
he said to his father.

' You aren't gone yet,' was the growling answer.

' No matter. I shall not ride in it again , and you are not
the loser.'

Roger had a rugged side to his nature which his father's
course often called out, and Mrs. Atwood made her husband
feel, reluctant as he was to admit it, that he was taking the
wroDg course with his son. A letter also from his brother in
town led him to believe that Roger would probably come back
in the spring well content to remain at home ; so at last he
gave a grudging consent.

Uogracious as it was, the young man rewarded him by a vi-
l^orous, thorough completion of the fall work, by painting the
hoase and putting the place in better order than it had ever
known before ; meanwhile for his mother and sister he showed
a consideration and gentleness which proved that he was much
changed from his old self.

'lean see the hand of Mildred Jocelyn in everything he
says and does,' Susan remarked one day after a long tit of
musing, ' and yet I don't believe she cares a straw for him.' Her
intuition was correct ; it was Roger's ambition to become such
a man as Mildred must respect in spite of herself, and it was
also true that she was not merely indififerent, but for the rea-
sons already given — as far as she had reasons — she positively
disliked him.

Roger brought sufficient business from the country to pre-
vent regretful second thoughts in the mind of his thrifty un-
cle, and the impression was made that the young fellow might
steady down into a useful clerk ; but when as much was hinted
Hoger frankly told him that he regarded business as a stepping
stone merely to the study of the law. The old merchant eyed
him askance, but made no response. Occasionally the veteran
I of the market evinced a glimmer of enthusiasm over a prime
vticleof butter, but anything so intangible as a young man's
Nnbitious dreams was looked upon with a very cynical eye.
Still he could not be a part of New York life and remain
wholly sceptical in regard to the possibilitiei^ it offered to a

j ,• ?

204

WITHOUT A HOME.

young fellow of talent and large capacity for work. 1{«> was a
uhildleBS man, and if Roger had it in hioi to ' climb the ladder/
as he expressed it to himself, ' it might pay to give him the
chance.' But the power to climb would have to be proved al-
most to a demonstration. In the meantime Roger, well watch-
ed and much mistrusted, was but a clerk in his store near
Washington Market, and a student during all spare hours.

He had too much sense to attempt superficial work or to
seek to build his fortunes on the slight foundation of mere
smartness. It was his plan to continue in business for a year
or more and then enter the junior class of one of the city col-
leges. By making the most of every moment and with the aid
of a little private tutoring he believed he could do this, for he
was a natural mathematician, and would find in the classics his
chief difficulties. At any rate it was his fixed resolve not to
enter upon the study of the law proper until he had broadened
his mind by considerable general culture. Not only did his
ambition prompt to this, but he felt that if he developed nar-
rowly none would be so clearly aware of the fact as Mildred
Jocelyn. Although not a highly educated girl herself, he
knew she had a well-bred woman's nice perception of what con-
stituted a cultivated man ; he also knew that he had much
prejudice to overcome, and that he must strike at its very
root

In the meantime poor Mildred, unconscious of all save hi<
unwelcome regard, was seeking with almost desperate earnestness
to gain practicable knowledge of two humble arts, hoping to
be prepared for the time — now clearly foreseen and dreaded—
when her father might decline so far in mind and health as to
fail them utterly, and even become a heavy burden. She did
not dream that his disease was a drug, and although some of
his associates began to suspect as much, in spite of all his pre-
cautions, none felt called upon to suggest their suspicions to
his family.

Causes that work steadily will sooner or later reach their
legitimate results. The opium inertia grew inevitably upon
Mr. Jocelyn. He disappointed the expectations of his employ*
er to that degree that they felt that something was wrong,
and his appearance and manner often puzzled them not a little,

''O

WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD.

205

even ihoueh with all the cunning which the habit engenders ha
sought to hide his weakness.

One day, late in November, an unexpected incident brought
matters to a crisis. An experienced medical acquaintance
while making a call upon the firm, caught sight of Mr. Jocelyn
and his practised eye detected the trouble at once.

*That man is an opium-eater,' he said in a low tone, and his
explanation of the effects of the drug was a diagnosis of Mr.
Jocelyn's symptoms and appearance. The firm's sympathy
for a man seemingly in ]^oor health was transformed into dis-
gust and antipathy, since there is less popular toleration of
this weakness than of dt-inking habits. The very obscurity in
which the vice is involved makes it seem all the more unnatu-
ral and repulsive, and it must be admitted that the fullest
knowledge tends only to increase this horror and repugnance,
even though pity is awakeTied fur the wretched victim.

But. Mr. Jocelyn's employers had little knowledge of the
vice, and they were not in the least inclined to pity. They felt
that they had been imposed upon, and that too at a time when
all business men were very restless under useless expenditure.
It was the man's fault and not misfortune that he had failed
so signally in securin^^ trade from the South, and, while they
had paid him but a small salary, his illdi xcted and wavering
eflorts had involved them in considerable expense. Asking
the physician to remain, Mr. Jocelyn was sumn med to the
private office, and directly charged with the excessive and
habitual use of opium.

The poor man was at first greatly confused, and trembled as
in an ague fit, for his nerve power was already so shattered
that he had little self-control in an emergency. This, of course,
was confirmation of guilt in their eyes.

' Gentlemen you do me a great wrong,' he managed to say,
and hastily left the office. Having secreted himself from ob-
servation he snatched out his hypodermic syringe, and within
six minutes felt himself equal to any crisis. Boldly returning
to the office he denied the charge in the most explicit terms,
and with some show of lofty indignation. The physician who
was still present watched him closely, and noticed that the
cuif on his left hand was somewhat crumpled, as if it had been
recently pushed back. Without a word he seized Mr. Jocelyn's

20G

WITHOUT A HOME.

arm and pulled back his coat and shirt-sleeve, revealing a
bright red puncture just made, and many others of a remoter
date.

' There is no use of lying about such matters to me/ said
the physician. * How much morphia did you inject into your
arm since you left us ) '

* I am a victim of neuralgia,' Mr. Jocelyn began, without
any hesitation, * and the cruel and unreasonable charge here
made against me brought on an acute paroxysm, and there-
fore I—'

* Stop that nonsense,' interrupted the doctor, roughly,

* Don't you know that lying, when lying is of no use, is one of
the characteristic traits of an opium-eater 1 I am a physician,
and have seen too many cases to be deceived a moment. You
have all the symptoms of a confirmed morphia consumer,
and if you ever wish to break your chains you had better tell
doctors the truth and put yourself under the charge of one in
whom you have confidence.'

' Well, curse you I ' said Mr. Jocelyn savagely, * it was
through one of your damnable fraternity that I acquired what
you are pleased to call my chains, and now you come cruaking
to my employers, poisoning their minds against me.'

* Oh, as to poisoning;' remarked the physician sarcastically,

* I'll wager a thousand dollars that you have absorbed enough
morphia within the last twenty-four hourti to kill every one in
this ofiicd. At the rate you are going on, as far as I can judge
from appearances, you will soon poison yourself out of exis-
tence. No physician ever advised the destroying vice you are
practising, and no physician would take offence at your words
any more than at the half-demented ravings of a fever patient
You are in a very critical condition, sir, and unless you can
wake up to the truth and put forth more will power than most
men possess you will soon go to the bad.'

* I sincerely hope you will take this experienced physician's
advice,' said the senior member of the firm very coldly. ' At
any rate we can no longer permit you to jeopardise our inter-
ests by your folly and weakness. The cashier will settle with
you, and our relations end here and now.'

* You will bitterly repent of this injustice,' Mr. Jocelyn re-
plied haughtily. * You are discharging a man of unusual busi-

A SLAVE.

207

ness capacity — one whose acquaintance with the South is
well nigh universal, and whose combinations were on the eve
of securing enormous returns.'

' We will forego all these advantages. Good-morning, sir.
Did you ever see such effrontery 1 ' he continued, after Mr.
Jocelyn had departed with a lofty and contemptuous air.

' It's not effrontery — it's opium/ said the physician sadly.
< You should see the abject misery of the poor wretch after the
efifects of the drug have subsided.'

' I have no wish to see him again under any aspect, and
heartily thank you for unmasking him. We must look at once
into our offairs, and see how much mischief he has done. If
he wants the aid and respect of decent men, let him give up
this vile practice.'

' That's easier said than done,' the physician replied. * Very
few ever give it up who have gone as far as this man.'

CHAPTER XXVII.

A SLAVE.

I HE physician was right A more abject and pitiable
spectacle than Mr. Jocelyn could scarcely have been
found among the miserable unfortunates of a city noted
for its extremes in varied condition. Even in his false excite-
ment he was dimly aware that he was facing a dreadful emer-
gency, and, following an instinctive desire for solitude so char-
acteristic of those in his condition, he took a room in tui obscure
hotel and gave himself up to thoughts that grew more and
more painful as the unnatural dreams inspired by opium shaped
themselves gradually into accord with the actualities of his life.
For a month or two past he had been swept almost unre-
sistingly down the darkening and deepening current of his sin.
Whenever he made some feeble, vacilating effort to reduce
his allowance of the drug, he became so wretched, irritable,
and unnatural in manner that his family were full of perplexed

li4

208

WITHOUT A HOME.

wonder and solicitude. To hide his weakness from bis wife
was his supreme desire ; and yet, if he stopped — were this
possible — the whole wretched truth would be revealed. J'jich
day he had been tormented with the feeling that something
must be done, and yet nothing had been done. He had only
sunk deeper and deeper, as with the resistless force of gravi-
tation.

His vague hope, his baseless dream that something would
occur which would make reform easier or the future clearer,
had now been dissipated utterly, and every moment with more
terrible distinctness revealed to him the truth that he had lost
his manhood. The vice was already stamped on his face and
manner, so that an experienced eye could detect it at once ;
soon all would see the degrading brand. He who had once
been the soul of honour and truth, had lied that day again and
again, and the thought pierced him like a sword.

A few opium consumers can go on for years in comparative
tranquillity if they will avoid too great excess, and carefully
increase their daily allowance so as not to exhibit too marked
alternations of elation and depression. Now and then, persons
of peculiar constitution can maintain the practice a lon^ time
without great physical or moral deterioration ; but no Jiahltue
can stop without sufferings prolonged and more painful than
can be described. Sooner or later, even those natures which
offer the strongest resistance to the ravages of the poison suc-
cumb, and pass hopelessly to the same destruction. Mr. Joce-
lyn's sanguine, impulsive temperament had little capacity for
resistance to begin with, and he had during the last year used
the drug freely and constantly, thus making downward ad-
vances in months that in some instances require years of mode-
rate indulgence. Moreover, as with alcohol, many natures
nave an unusual and morbid craving for opium after once ac-
quiring the habit of its use. Their appetite demands it with
an imperiousness which will not be denied, even while in soul
they recoil and loathe the bondage. This was especially true
of Mr. Jocelyn. The vice in his case was wrecking a mind and
heart naturally noble and abounding in the best impulses. He
was conscious, too, of this demoralization, and suffered almost
as greatly, as would a true, pure tvonian, if, by some fatal noces-
gity, she were compelled to live a life of crime,

A SLA'E.

209

He had already begun to shrink from the companionship of
hig family. The play and voices of his little children jarred his
ghattered nerves almost beyond endurance ; and every look of
love ai.d act of trutt became stinging irritants instead of the
grateful incense that had once filled his home with perfume.
In bitter self-condemnation he saw that he was ceasing to be a
protector to his daughters, and that unless he could break the
dark, self-woven spells he would drag them down to the depths
of poverty, and then leave them exposed to the peculiar temp-
tations which, in a great city ever assail girls so young, beauti-
ful, and friendless. Mildred, he believed, would die rather
than sin ; but he often groaneid in spirit as he thought of Belle.

But the thought of his loving, trusting, patient wife was thu
most unendurable of all. He had loved her from the first as
his own soul, and her love and respect were absolutely essen-
tial to him, and yet he was beginning to recoil from her with a
strange and unnatural force. He felt that he had no right to
touch her while she remained so true and he was so false. He
dreaded her loving gaze more than a detective's cold, searching
eye. He had already deceived her in regard to the marks of
the hypodermic needle, assuring her that they were caused by
a slight impurity in his blood, and she never questioned any-
thing he said. He often lay awake through interminable nights
—the drug was fast losing its powder to produce quiet sleep-
trembling and cold with apprehension of the hour when she
would become aware that her husband was no longer a man
but the most degraded of slaves.

Could he go home now and reveal his degradation 1 Great
drops of cold perspiration drenched him at the bare thought.
The icy waters, the ooze and mud of the river seemed prefer-
able. He could not openly continue his vice in the presence
of his family, nor could he conceal it much longer, and the at-
tempt to stop the drug, even gradually, would transform him
almost into a demon of irritability and perhaps violence, so
irightful is the rebellion of the physical nature against the ab-
stinence essential to a final cure.

At last he matured and carried out the following plan : Re-
turning to the firm that had employed him, he told them of
ijis purpose to go South among his old acquaintances an<l begin
life anew, and of his belief that a sea voyage and change of

Ifii

, .,1

;•'

C j I
r-

210

WITHOUT A HOME.

scene would enable him to break the habit ; and he so worked
upon their sympathies that they promised to say nothing of
his weakness, nor let the past stand in his way if he would re-
deem himself.

Then fortifying his nerves carefully with morphia he went
home and broached the project to his wife and Mildred, plausi-
bly advancing the idea that the change might restore his fail-
ing health. To his relief they did not oppose his scheme, for
indeed they felt that something must be done speedily *o ar-
rest his decline ; and although the separation would be hard
for the wif? to endure, and would become a source of increased
anxiety for a time, it was much better than see him fail 8o
steadily before her eyes.

The only question now was to raise the money required ;
and to accomplish this they sold the hounehold effects still in
storage, and Mildred, without a word, disposed of the most of
her jewellery and brought the proceeds to her father ; for the
gold and gems worn in days that accorded with their lustre
were as nothing to her compared with her father's life and
health.

' I would turn my blood into gold if I could, father/ she
said, with swimming e^es, * if it would only make you well and
strong as you once wete.'

The man's hand so trembled that he could scarcely receive
the money. When by himself he groaned, * Oh, how awful
and deep will be the curse of God if J turn this money against
her by using it for the damnedest poison the devil ever brew-
ed I ' and he wrapped it up separately with a shudder.

A few days later, with many tears and clinging embraces,
they parted with him, his wife whispering in his ear at the
last moment, ' Martin my every breath will be a prayer for
your safety and health.'

Under the influence of the powerful emotions inspired by
the last interview he threw his hypodermic syringe and mor-
phia bottle overboard from the deck of the steamer, saying
with a desperate resolution which only an opium slave could
understand, * I'll break the habit for one week if I die for it/
and he sailed away into what seemed a region of unimaginable
horrors, dying ten thousand deaths in the indescribable anguish
of his mind and body. The winter storm that soon overtook

A SLAVE.

211

the ship waa magnified by his disordered intellect until its up-
roar was apnalling in the last degree. The people on the ves-
lel thouffht him demented, and for a few days the captain kept
him under a continuous guard, and considerably suppressed the
cause of his behaviour, that was soon revealed by requests for
opium that were sometimes pitiful pleadicss and again irri-
table demands. He soon passed into a condition approaching
collapse, vomiting incessantly, and insane in his wild restless-
ness. Indeed he might have died had not the captain, in much
doubt and anxiety, administered doses of laudanum which, in
his inexperience, were appalling in their amount.

At last, more dead than alive, with racking pains, shiverings
and exhaustion from prolonged insomnia, he was taken ashore
in a Southern city and a physician summoned, who, with a
promptness characteristic of the profession, administered a pre-
paration of morphia, and the old fatal spell was renewed at
once. The vitiated system that for days had been largely de-
prived of its support seized upon the drug again with a craving
as irresistible as the downward rush of a torrent. The man
could no more control his appetite than he could an Atlantic
tide. It overwhelmed his enervated will at once, and now that
morphine could be obtained he would have it at any and every
cost. Of course he seemingly improved rapidly under its in-
fluence, and cunningly disguising his condition from the phy-
sician, soon dismissed him and resumed his old habits. He
felt that it was impossible to endnre the horrors of total ab-
stinence, and, now, that he was no longer under the observa-
tion of his family, he again tried to satisfy his concience by
promising himself that he would gradually reduce the amount
used until he could discontinue it utterly — delusive hope, that
has mocked thousands like himself.

212

WITHOUT A HOME.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

NEW YORK'S HUMANITY.

|S^jf RS. JOCELYN drooped in her husband's absence, for
JjTOL every year had increased her sense of dependence. She
^^^^^^ felt somewhat like one who is drifting on a wreck. If
the sea would only remain calm, all might be well ; but the
sea never is at rest very long, and if storms, dangers, and emer-
gencies occurred, what would she do ?

Each day that passed without word from her husband grew
longer, and when at last a letter came it was vague and un-
satisfactory. He hoped he was better ; he hoped to find a foot-
hold ; and then came again several days of silence which were
almost as oppressive to Mildred as to herself.

Meanwhile their funds were failing fast, and they both felt
that they ought not to sell anything else for mere liviug ex-
penses. More critical emergencies might arise and find them
destitute. Jf Mr. Jocelyn should become seriously ill in the
South, they must be in a position to have him cared for and
brought home. Mildred, with extreme reluctance, was com-
pelled to face the necessity of giving up her studies so that she
might earn something at once She had about decided to re-
veal her troubles to Miss Wetheridge, when a hasty note from
her friend swept away all immediate chance of aid in that di-
rection. ' The gentleman to whom I was soon to be married/
she wrote, ' has not been strong for a year past, and a few days
since he was taken with a hemorrhage from his lungs. His
physician ordered him to go immediately to Nassau. In accord-
ance to our mutual wishes we were married quietly in the pre-
sence of a few relatives, and by the time this note reaches you
we shall be on our way to the South. My heart is burdened
with anxiety, and my hourly prayer is that God will spare the
life of one so dear to me. I wish I could see you before I sail,
but it is impossible. I have had to leave almost evcrythin;,'
undone. Write me often,*

NEW York's humanity.

213

This note threvir Mildred on her own resources. She felt that
Mr. VVentworth could do little for her beyond certify ing to her
character, for he was the pastor of a congregation of which a
large proportion were as poor as herself. There was naught to
do but go to work like the others in uncomplaining silence and
earn her bread.

One evening she learned from Belle that the increased trade,
incident to the approaching holiday season, had rendered more
help necessary, and that one large shop on Sixth Avenue had
already made known this need. When the doors opened the
following morning, Mildred was among the crowd of appli-
cants, and her appearance was so much in her favour that she
was engaged at once on a salary of six dollars a week. Only
immediate necessity could have induced her to take this step,
for she justly doubted her ability to e idure the strain of stand-
ing continuously. The shop, however, was full of girls as frai'.
looking as herself, and it was the only certainty of support
within her reach. Her mother cried bitterly over the step,
and she, also, could not hide a few tears, brave as she tried to
be ; but she said resolutely, ' I am no better than hundreds of
others, and if they can enduro it I can and will, for a while at
least'

The first day was one that she never forgot. The bright
sun and clear, bracing atmosphere brought out crowds of
shoppers, but the air of the store soon became vitiated, hot,
and lifeless. In this close, stifling place she was compelled
to stand, elbowed by other girls who were strangers to her,
and too busy or too indifferent to aid materially her inexperi-
enced efforts to learn her duties. She made blunders, for which
she was scolded ; she grew bewildered and faint, and when the
few moments of nooning came she could not eut the lunch her
mother had prepared. If she could only have had a cup of
strong coffet she might have gotten through the day ; but her
employers were much too thrifty to furnish any such luxuries,
iind Sue too tired, and the time allotted her much too brief to
permit its request.

The afternoon crush of customers was greater even than that
which had crowed the counters in the morning, and she grew
more and more bewildered under the confused fire of questions
and orders. If any one had had the time or heart to look,

,: ! i]

S14

WITHOUT A HOME.

there would have been seen in her eyes the pathetic fearful
look of some timid creature of the woods when harried and
driven to bay by hounda.

Suddenly everything grew black before her eyes ; the piled
up goods, the chattering throng faded, and she sank to the
floor — there was no room for her to fall.

When she revived she found that she had been carried to
the cloak-room, in which the girls ate their lunch, and that a
woman was kneeling beside her applying restoratives. In a
few moments one of the managers looked in and asked, in an
ofiT-hand way, ' Fo'.v is she getting on 1 '

With the instinct of self-preservation Mildred sat up, and
pleaded, * Indeed, sir, Tm better. It was all so strange — the air
was close. I beg of you not to discharge m& I will learn
soon.'

' Oh, don't be so worried,' the man replied good-naturedly.
It's nothing new to have a girl faint on the first day. You'll
get used to it by aod by like the rest. Will you be well enough
to walk bom , or shall I have a carriage ordered.'

' Please don't get a caniage. It would frighten mamma terri-
bly, and she would not let me come back, and I must come, for
we need every penny I can earn.'

' Well, now, that's sensible, and you save the carriage hire
also. You're a fine-looking, plucky gii'l, and I'll give you a
pki^ at the lace counter, near the door, where the air is better
and the work lighter (and where her pretty face will do us no
harm)/ he added mentally.

* You are very kind, sir, and I can't tell how much I thank
you.'

* All right,' you'll get into training and do as well as the
best, so don't be discouraged,' and the man had the grace or
business thrift — ^probably a blending of both — to send her a
cup if coffee.

She was then left to rest, and go home when she felt like it.
As early as she dared without exciting her mother's suspicions,
she crept away, almost as the wounded slowly and painfully
leav^ a field of battle. Her temples still throbbed ; in all her
bod> there was a elight muscular tremor, or beating sens? tion,
and her step faltered from weakness.

NEW YORK S HUMANITY.

215

To hide the truth from her despondent mother was now her
chief hope and aim. Her fatigue she would not attempt to
disguise, for that would be unnatural. It was with difficulty
she climbed the one flight of stairs that led to their room, but
her wan face was «miling as she pushed open the door and
kissed her mother in greeting. Then throwing herself on the
lounge she cried gaily, ' Come little mother, give me an old
maid's panacea for every ill of life — a cup of strong tea.'

' Millie,' cried Mrs. Jocelyn, bending over her with moist
eyes, 'you look pale and gone like — '

' Oh no, mamma, I'm here — a good hundred and ten pounds
of me, more or less.'

' But how did you get through the day 1 *

' You will hardly believe it,' was the reassuring reply ;
' I've been promoted already from work that was hard and
coarse to the lace-counter, which is near the door, where one
can breathe a little pure air. If the goods were as second-hand
as the air they would not have a customer. But, come, mam-
ma deaf) I'm too tired to talk, and would rather eat, and espe-
cially drink. These surely are good symptoma'

' Millie, you are a soldier, as we used to say during the war/
said Mrs. Jocelyn, hastening the preparations for supper ; * but
you cannot deceive a mother's eyes. You are more exhausted
than you even realize yourself. Oh, I do wish there was some
other way. I'd give all the world if I had Mrs. Wheaton's
stout red arms, for I'd rather wash all day and half the night
than see you and Belle so burdened early in life.'

'I wouldn't have my beautiful mamma changed oven by one
gray hair,' was the very natural response.

Belle nearly rendered futile all of Mildred's efforts to hide
the worst from her mother ; for, after her duties were over,
she went eagerly to the shop where she expected to find her
sister. Having learned that Miss Jocelyn had fainted and had
gone home some time in the afternoon, she sped almost breath-
lessly after her, and burst into the room with the words, * Mil-
lie !MilUe I'

Fortunately Mrs. Jocelyn was busy over the stove at the
moment and did not see Mildred's strong cautionary gesture ;
bat Belle's perceptions were almost instantaneous, and with one
significant glance of her dark eyes she entered into the loving
conspiracy.

lit

'^HKi

BBBH

iiHBpP

216

WITHOUT A HOME.

* What is it, Belle 1 ' was Mrs. Jocelyn's anxious qiury.

* I'm wild to know how Millie has got on the first day, and
whether she has as big a fight on her hands as I had. It' she has,
I declare war, too, against all the powers and principalities—
not of the air, for there wasn't a breath of it in our store to-
day. We've had a crush, and I'm half dead from trying to do
two days' work in one. Ten minutes for lunch. Scores of
cross customers all wanting to be waited on at once, the floor-
walkers flying around like hens bereft of heads, which, after
all, are never of much use to either. In spito of all, here we
are mamma, ready for a cup of your good tea and other fixias.
Now, Millie, it's your turn. I've let oif enough steam to be
safe till after supper. Have you made cruel enemies tonlay,
from whom you desire my protection 1 '

* No, Belle,' said Mildred, laughing ; * I haven't your force
and brilliancy, and have made but a humdrum beginning. I
was so stupid at one counter that they transferred me to
another, and I'm glad of it, for laces are pretty, and taking care
of them wouldn't seem like drudgery at all. Best of all, it's
near the door, and every customer will give me a sustaining
breath.'

' Millie is standing it capitally for a beginner,' Belle re-
marked, with an air of a veteran, as Mildred eagerly drank her
cup of tea and asked for more. ' I was so tired the first night
that it seemed as if I could scarcely swallow a mouthful.'

Thus they carried out the little ruse, careful not to exagger-
ate, for Mrs. Jocelyn's intuitions were quick.

As it was she looked at her child with many misgivings,
but she tried for their sakes to be cheerful, and praised the
courage and spirit of both the <girls, assuring them that they
showed their true Southern blood, and that they reminded h.r
of their father wLen, during his brief visits, he talked over the
long, hard campaigns.

At last they were in the privacy of their own room, and Mil-
dred, as if she were the weaker and younger, buried her face
on her sister's shoulder and sobbed despairingly. ' Oh, BelK,
you aio the stronger. I fear I can't stand it at all. I've su^
fered more to-day than in all my life, and my feet and back
still ache— oh, I can't tell you.'

NEW YORK S HUMANITY.

217

The child soothed and comforted her, and said she had suf-
fered just the same at first, and often still she felt that if she
could not sit down for a few moments she would drop down ;
'but there, Millie,* she concluded with the best philosophy the
case admitted of, * you get used to it grcidually — you can get
used to anything/

' I don't believe I can,* was the dejected reply, * and yet I
must, if we would have shelter and bread.'

The next morning in spite of all effort, Mildred was too ill
and lame to rise, but she instructed Belle to assure her em-
ployer that she would come the following day.

Mrs. Jocelyn tried hard to persuade her not to go back at
all, and at last Mildred grew a little stern and said emphati-
cally, * Please say no more, mamma. We can afford none of
this weak nonsense. I must earn my bread, as do other girls,
and have no time to lose.*

The following day, fortunately, was so stormy that customers
were scattering, and Mildred had a chance to gain an idea of
her duties and to rest a little from time to time, for out of con-
sideration of the facts that she had been ill and was a begin-
ner, she was permitted to sit down occasionally. She was so
attractive in appearance, and had brought such an excellent
certificate of character, that the f roprietors were inclined to
be lenient, and smooth a little the harsh and thorny path of a
beginner.

And so the weary days dragged on, and she slowly acquired
the power to stand as did the others. There were days, how-
ever, which ended in a close approach to agony, from which
the nights brought but slight and temporary relief, for so great
was the pain in her feet and back that she would moan even in

It is a well-known fact that many would persist in living in
spite of all the tortures of the Inquisition. I wonder if the old-
time inquisitors and their * familiars' were ingenious enough to
compel delicate women to stand and talk all day, and some-
times part of the night %

In very truth, the poor girl was earning her bread by tor-
ture, and she soon found that she had many companions in
suffering, who, with woman's capacity for the patient endur-
ince of pain, made the best of their lot, often trying to forget
N

218

WITHOUT A HOME.

themselves in jests, laughter, and gossip, planning, meanwhilp,
in odd moments, for some snatch at the few pleasures that their
brief evenings permitted — pleasures, too often, in which Mil-
dred could or would take no part. While her gentleness and
courtesy to all gave no cause for hostility, her air of quiet
aloofness and her recognised superiority prevented her from
becoming a favourite, nor did the many admiring looks and
even open advances that she received from the young men in the
store, and occasionally from customers, add to her popularity.

As one lorg, exceedingly busy and weary day was drawing
to a close, however, she received a sharp reprimand. A gen-
tleman had agreed to meet his wife at the shop as he came up
town, in order that they might together make provision for
Christmas. The lady having nearly accomplished her round,
and having proved herself a liberal purchaser, she was natur-
ally accompanied toward the door by a very amiable foreman,
who was profuse in his thanks. Suddenly it occurred to her
that she would look at the laces, and she approached Mildred,
who, in a momentary respite, was leaning back against tha
shelves with closed eyes, weary beyond all words of description.

* Will you please wake that young woman up,' the lady re-
marked, a little sharply.

This the foreman did, in a way that brought what little
blood the poor girl had left into her face. The shopper sat
down on the plush seat before the counter, and was soon ab-
sorbed in the enticing wares, while her husband stood beside
her and stole sidelong glances at the weary but beautiful face
of the saleswoman.

'Jupiter Ammon,' he soliloquised mentally, *but she is
pretty. If that flush would only last, she'd be beautiful ; but
she's too pale and fagged for that— out to a ball last night, I
imagine. She don't even notice that a man's admiring her—
proof, indeed, that she must have danced till near morning, if not
worse. W^hat lives these girls lead, if half the stories are
true ! I'd like to see that one rested, fresh, and becomingly
dressed. She'd make a sensation in a Fifth Avenue drawing-
room if she had the sense to keep her mouth shut, and not
show her ignorance and under-breeding.'

But he was growing impatient, and at last said, ' Oh, come,
my dear, you've bought enough to break me already. We'll be
late for dinner. '

NEW YORK'S HUMANITY.

219

The lady rose relucta *ily, and remarked. *Well, I think
I'll come and look at these another day/ and they were bowed
out of the door.

' You must be more alert,' said the foreman, imperatively, to
Mildred. ' These people are among the best and wealthiest
in town.'

* I'll try,' WU8 the meek answer.

The gentleman had hardly reached the sidewalk, however,
before all his chivalry and indignation were aroused. Under
the press of Christmas times a drayman had overloaded his
cart, and the horse was protesting in his dumb way by refusing
to budge an inch ; meanwhile the owner proved himself scarcely
equal to the animal he drove by furious blows and curses,
which were made all the more reckless by his recent indulgence
in liquor.

The poor beast soon found many champions, and foremost
among them was the critic of the weary shop girl, who had
suffered more that day than the horse was capable of suffering
in his lifetime. The distinguished citizen, justly irate, I grant,
sent his wife home in their carriage, and declared that he would
neither eat nor sleep until he had see" the brute — the dray-
man, not the horse — arrested and locked up, and he kept his
word.

Much later, the wronged and tortured human creature of
whom he had surmised evil, and on whom he had bebtowed at
best only a little cynical admiration, crept home with steps
that faltered, burdened with a heaviness of heart and a weari-
ness of body which could be measured only by the pitiful eye
of Him wao carries the world's sins and sorrows.

The rescued horse munched his oats in stolid tranquillity ;
the woman raised to heaven her eyes, beneath which were
dark, dark linee, and murmured, * God, how long 1 '

220

WITHOUT A HOME.

CnAPTER XXIX.

THE BEATITUDES OP OPIUM.

T least once each week Roger took Belle to some even-
ing entertainment, selecting places that, wiiile inno-
cent, were in keeping with their years — full of
colour, life, and interest. The young girl improved at once,
as the result of this moderate gratification of a craving that
was as proper as it was natural. The sense of being restrict-
ed and arbitrarily shut away from the pleasures belonging to
her youth, no longer worked like a subtle and evil ferment in
her mind. The repressed and unhappy are in tenfold more
danger from temptation than those who feel they are having
their share of life's good. The stream that cannot fiow in the
sunshine seeks a subterannean channel, and in like manner
when circumstances or the inconsiderate will of others, impose
unrelenting restraint upon the exuberant spirit of youth, it
usually finds some hidden outlet which cannot bear the light.
Until Koger came, circumstances had restricted Belle within
such a narrow and colourless life, and she was growing very
discontented with her lot — a dangerous tendency. Through all
this long ordeal her mother and Mildred had retained her sym-
pathy, for she knew that they were not to blame, and that they
were right in protesting against all acquaintances and amuse-
ments which involved danger. Now that she and Roger occa-
sionally had a merry time together, and a confidential chat oa
Sunday, she accepted her long days of toil without complaint.
The wholesome and tonic infiuence of a few hours of positive
and unalloyed enjoyment in a busy or burdened life is properly
estimated by a very few. Multitudes would preach better, live
better, do more work and die much later, could they find some
innocent recreation to which they could often give themselves
up with something of the whole-hearted abandon of a child.

Belle now had pleasures to look forward to, or some bright
scene to live over again, and, were it not for her sympathy for

THE BEATITUDES OF OPIUM.

221

her sister and anxiety on htr father's behalf, her brow would
have been serene.

To Mildred, however, the days were growing darker and the
way more thorny. She was gaining only in the pow< ^ of en-
durance ; she was unconsciously developing the trait that bade
fair to become the key-note of her life — fidelity. It was her ab-
solute loyalty to her long-cherished love that prevented her
from accepting invitations to go Avith Belle and Roger.
Through all disguises she saw that the latter was a lover and
not a friend, and while she had learned to respect him much
more, she shrank from him none the less. True, therefore, to
her womanly instincts, and pathetically patient with a life full
of pain and weariness, she faltered on toward a future that
seemed to promise less and less. Koger did not need to be
told by Belle of Mildred's burdened life, although the young
girl did speak of it often with sad and indignant empha-
sis. ' Beautiful Millie, who would grace the finest house in the
city,' she said, ' is as much out of place in this life as if a
gazelle were made to do the work of a cart-horse. It's just
killing her.'

' It's not the work that's harming her so much as the accur-
sed brutality which permits more cruelty to white women than
was ever inflicted on black slaves. If the shopkeepers owned
these girls who serve their counters they would provide them
seats instantly, on the same principle that some of your South-
ern people, who had no humanity, cared well for their human
property ; but these fellows know that when a girl breaks down
they can take their pick from twenty applicants the next morn-
ing. If I could scalp a few of these women-murderers, I'd
sleep better lo-night. Oh, Belle, Bjlle, if you knew how it
hurts me to see such advantage taken of Miss Mildred ! I
sometimes walk the streets for hours chafing and raging about
it, and yet any expression of my sympathy would only add to
her distress.'

' Be patient, Roger. Millie is unlike many girls, and wants
only one lover. Now, I'd like half a dozen, more or less, gen-
erally more. She's too infatuated with that weakling, Vinton
Arnold to care for anyone else. And to think he hadn't sent
her one reassuring word since last summer ! There isn'st
enough of him to cast a shadow. Catch m^ moping after such a

111

222

WITHOUT A HOME.

dim outlino of a man ! But it's just like Millif. If heM
only vanish into thin air she might give liim up, and perhaps he
has.'

* No, he's in Europe, and has been there ever since he left
the hotel at Forrestville. I learned the fact the other day.
He's living in luxury and idleness, while the girl who loves
him is earning her bread in a way that's infernal in its
cruelty.'

* How did you find that out T ' Belle asked quickly.

' It was in no mean (»r underhand way, and no knowledge of
my inquirieb will ever reach him. I thought she'd like to
know, however, and you can tell her, but give her no hint of
the source of your information.'

* Who told you ? ' was Mildred's promp response to Belle's
news that night, while a sudden bloom in her pale face showed
how deeply the tidings interested her.

* No matter how I learned the fact,' replied Belle a little
brusquely ; 'it's true. He wouldn't lift his liti^e finger to keep
you from starving.*

* You wrong him,' cried Mildred passionately ; ' and I don't
wish you ever to speak of him again. I know who told you ;
It was Roger At wood, and I wish he would leave me and my
afiairs alone. He is singularly stupid and illbred to meddle in
such a matter.'

' He has not meddled,' retorted Belle indignantly, and wholly
off her guard ; * he thought that you would like to know tlie
truth, and he learned it in a way that left no trace. When
you are in the streets you are always looking for Mr. Arnold
(it*s a pity he wasn't doing a little looking too), an J now your
mind can be ai ease. He it»n't sick or dead ; he's entirely safe
and having a good time, faring sumptuously every day, while
you are dying by inches for little more than bread and a nook
in a tenement house. I don't care what you say, I detest such
a man.'

Mildred's overtaxed nerves gave way at Belle's harsh and
prosaic words, and throwing herself on her couch, she sobbed
so bitterly that the inconsiderate child, in deep compunction
coaxed and pleaded with her not * to take it so hard,' and
ended by crying in sympathy, almost as heartily as Mildred
herself. The latter was completely disarmed of her anger by

Hello's foeli

THE BEATITUDES 0? OPIUM.

223

n«H«i*.s foeling ; and, indeed, as she came to think it all over,
il ditl not seem so like desertion on Arnold's part, since he
might havt) written from Europe and the letter have failed to
reach her. That he should have been in New York all this
time and have made no effort to ilnd her would seem heartless
indeed. At any rate, with her rare fidelity and faith, she
would believe nothing against him without absolute proof.

But of Roger Atwood she thought resentfully. ' He reads my
very thoughts. He has seen me looking for Vinton half-un-
coDBciously when in the streets. He keeps himself in the back-
ground, and no doubt thinks himself very distant and con-
siderate ; but I scarcely turn in any direction but I see his
shadow or meet with some indication that he is watching and
waiting.

There was more truth in her words than she half-suspected.
His duties required that he should be down town very early in
the morning, but he was usually released in the afternoon, for
his uncle tacitly humoured his desire for study. Scarcely an
evening elapsed that the young man did not pass and repass
the shop in which Mildred was employed, for through the
lighted windows he could see the object of his thoughts unob-
served, and not infrequently he followed her as she wearily
returned homeward, and his heart ached with the impotent
djsire to lighten the burdens of her life.

It was Roger's hope that, eventually, Mildred, for her own
sake, could be persuaded to accompany Belle on some of their
pursuits of evening recreation, and he suggested that the latter
should persistently try to induce her to go, saying that her
health and success in the future required more change and
cheerfulnoss ; but Mildred always said ' No/ with a quiet em-
phasis which admitted of no argument.

In truth, when evening came she was too weary to go with
him or with any one else, and the first Sunday after her duties
at the shop began she could not be present at the chapel and
meet her class.

Mr. Wentworth called, fearing she was ilL She explained in
part, and he was quick to understand. His brow darkened in
such a frown that the poor girl grew frightened, and began :
'Indeed, Mr. Wentworth, do not judge me harshly, or think
that I let a trifle keep me—'

224

WITHOUT A HOME.

Then he awakened to her misapprehension, and coniiii;; di-
rectly to her side he took her hand, with a face so kind, so full
of deep, strong sympathy, that her eyes filled at once.

' My poor child,' he said, * could you imagine I was frowning
at you 1 — brave little soldier that you are, braver and stronger
in your way and place than I in mine. God bless you, no. I
felt savage to think that in this nineteenth century, and right
under the shadow of our church spires, this diabolical cruelty is
permitted to go on year after year. Oh, I know all about it,
Miss Mildred : you are not the first one by hundk-eds and hun-
dreda I wish I could give you more than sympathy, and that
some other way would open — we must find some other way
for you — but you have no idea how many are worse off in these
bad times than you are — worthy people who are willing to
work, but cannot got any. If it seems to you that I cannot do
very much for you, remember that there are scores who, for the
time, seem to have no resources at all. I trust you may sooo
hear such tidings from your father as will bring relief to both
body and mind. And now, my child, don't let a morbid con-
science add to your burdens. When you are as greatly in need
of rest as you were last Sunday, don't come to the chapel. I'll
take your class, or find a substitute.'

In a few minutes he was gone ; but they were not alune, for
he had made them conscious of One who is touched with the
feeling of our infirmities.

How was the absent husband and father fulfilling the hopes
that daily turned to him, but found no reward 1 He was liter-
ally writhing under chains that, to his hcrror, he could not
break. He had found on shipboard that the sudden and com-
plete abstinence from the dnig brought a torture of mind and
body that he could not endure, and now he was learning, in
sickening fear, that he could not gradually reduce his daily al-
lowance below a certain point without immediate sufferings be-
yond his fortitude to sustain.

The room in the Inquisition, whose circular walls, studded
with long, sharp spikes, and which gradually closed upon and
pierced the victim, had its spiritual counterpart in his present
condition. He was shut in on every side. If he made a push
for liberty by abstaining from the drug, he was met and driven
back by many nameless agonies. He seemed to recoil, inevit-

THE UEATITUDES OF OPIUM.

225

ably, liM from steel barbs. Meanwhilo the wuIIh were closing
in upon him. In order to prevent life from being a continuous
burden, in order to maintain even the semblance of strength
and manhood, so that he might have some chance of finding
employment, he had to increase the quantity of morphia daily ;
but each succeding indulgence brought nearer the hour when
the drug would produce pain — pain only, and death.

His quest of employment was naturally unsuccessful. The
South was impoverished. Weak from the wounds of war, and
the deeper enervation of a system that had poisoned her life for
generations, she had not yet begun to rally. There was not
enough business in the city for the slow and nerveless hands of
its citizens, therefore there was little prospect for a new-comer,
unless he had the capital and energy to create activity in the
midst of stagnation. A few were slightly imposed upon at first
by Mr. Jocelyn's exalted moods, and believed that he might do
great things if he were given the chance ; but they soon recog-
nised that he was unsound and visionary, broaching plans and
projects that varied widely with each succeding interview. The
greater number of his former friends and acquaintances were
scattered or dead, and those who remember'^d him had their
hands too full to do more than say a good word for him — say-
ing it, too, more and more faintly as they saw how broken and
untrustworthy he was. The story of his behaviour on the ship,
and correct surmises of the true cause of his manner and ap-
pearance, soon became current in business circles, and the half-
pitying, half-contemptuous manner of those with whom he came
in contact at last made it clear, even to his clouded mind, that
further effort would be utterly useless.

Meanwhile his habit now began to inflict a punishment that
often seemed beyond endurance. The increased quantities of
morphia with which he sought to sustain himself, combined
with his anxiety, remorse, and solicitude for his family and his
own future, filled the hours of darkness with one long night-
mare of horror. His half-sleeping visions were more vivid and
real than the scenes of day. From some harrowing illusion he
would start up with a groan or cry, only to relapse a few mo-
ments later into an apparent situation more appalling and
desperate.

22G

WITHOUT A HOME.

The earth would open and swallov; him in fathomless dark
ness; then he was on a ship caught in a maelstrom and whirled
down with a speed imaginable only by a mind as disordered
and morbid as his own. Panting, struggling, drenched with a
cold perspiration, he would struggle back into a brief and mis-
erable consciousness. With scarcely any respite his diseased
imagination would seize him again, and now the ship, with
tattered sails and broken masts, would be becalmed in the cen-
tre of a cyclone. All around him was the whirling tornado
from which the vessel had passed into awful silence and decep-
tive peace. Although viewless, a resistless volume was circling
around him, a revolving torrent of air that might at any second
make its existence known by wrenching the ship in some direc-
tion with such violence as to destroy it at once. When would
the awful suspense be over, and the cyclone, with a peal of
thunder, through the rigging, again lay its frenzied grasp on
the ill-fated ship ? In unspeakable dread he seemed to spring
from the deck in the hope of ending all, and would find himself
gasping on his couch, which vice had made a place of torture,
not rest.

But the visions which most shook his soul were those con-
nected with his wife and children. He saw them starving ; he
he saw them turned into the street, mocked and jibed at hy*
every passer-by. He saw them Ipcked up in prison ceils, un-
der the charge of jailors that were half brutes, half fiends ; he
saw Fred and Minnie carried off by an Italian padrone to a
den reeking with filth, and loud with oaths and obssenity.
With a hoarse shout of rage he would spring up to avert blows
that were bruising their little forms ; he saw his wife turn her
despairing eyes from heaven and curse the hour of their union ;
he saw Mildred, writhing and resisting, dragged from her home
by great dark hands that were claws rather than hands ; worse
than all, he saw Belle, dressed in colours that seemed woven
from stains of blood, stealing out under the cover of night with
eyes like livid coals.

Such are the beatific visions that opium bestows, having
once enchained its victims. Little wonder that, after spending
nights upon a poisoned rack, Mr. Jocelyn was in no condition
to meet his fellow men and win their confidence.

THE SECRET VICE REVEALED.

227

The dark thought crossed his mind more than once that ho
had better never return home — that, since he had lost his man-
hood, life had better go too ; but in these darkest and most
desperate moments the face of his wife would rise before him,
and from her white lips the cry, ' No ! no ! no 1 ' with such ag-
onized intensity that he was restrained.

Moreover, he had not given up hope altogether, and he de*
termined to return, and, unknown to his family, coniult his old
physician, who had inadvertently led him into this terrible
dilemma, and adjure him to undo his work. He might aid him
in concealing the truth from those whom, of all others, he would
hide his shame. This seemed his one last chance.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE SECRET VICE REVEALED.

N the day preceding Christmas, late in the afternoon,
Roger At wood boarded a steamer which had just ar-
rived from a Southern city. His uncle, the com-
mission merchant, was expecting a consignment of tropical
fruits, and as the young man stood among others waiting to
see the freight clerk, he overheard one of the vessel's officers
remark, ' His name is Jocelyn — so papers on his person in-
dicate — and he must be sent to a hospital as soon as possible.'

Advancing promptly to the speaker, Roger said, * I over-
heard your remark, sir, and think 1 know the gentleman to
whom you refer. If I am right, I will take him to his family
immediately.'

The ofRcer act-ed with such alacrity as to prove that he was
very glad to get the sick man off his hands, and Roger noted
the fact. A moment later he saw Martin Jocelyn, sadly
changed for the worse, and lying unconscious in a berth.

' 1 am right, I am very sorry to say,' Roger said, after a mo-
ment, with a long, deep breath. ' This will be a terrible shock
to his family.'

iSl

nI'I :

I -

228

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Do you think he is dying 1 ' the officer asked.

* 1 don't know. I will bring a physician and take Mr.
Jocelyn home on one condition — that our consignment of pro-
duce is delivered at once. I must be absent, and my em-
ployer's interests must not suffer in consequence. I am doing
you a favour, aud you must return it just as promptly.'

The freight clerk was summoned, and Roger assured tliathis
uncle's consignment should take the precedence as fast as it
could be reached. The young man then hastened to find the
nearest physician, stopping a moment at his place of business
to give a hurried explanation of his course. Mr. Atwood lis-
tened in silence, and nodded merely ; but, as Roger hastened
away, he muttered, * This mixing himself up with other people's
troubles isn't very shrewd ; but his making capital out of it so
that my consignment will all be aelivered to-night is— well,
we'll ctU it even. He's no fooL*

The physician was rather young and inexperienced, and he
pronounced Mr. Jocelyn's trouble to be congestion of the brain.
He agreed to go with Roger to the old mansion and do what
he could for the patient, although holding out slight hope of
recovery.

* She is learning to associate me with misfortune, and will
dread my presence as if I were a bird of ill-omen,' Roger
groaned mentally, as he recalled the several miserable occasions
which, in the mind of Mildred, were inseparably connected
with himself ; * but some day — some day^ if I have to strive for
a lifetime — she shall also learn that it is not I who bring the
trouble/

Christmas comes at the darkest and dreariest season of the
year, making short, cold days, and longer, colder nights the
holiday season, just as He, whose birth the day commemo-
rates, comes to human hearts in the darkest and coldest hours
of desolation. Even in the groat city there were few homes so
shadowed by poverty and sorrow that they were not brightened
by some indications of the hallowed time. The old mansion,
that once may have be^^n embowered in evergreens, was again
filled with the aromatic breath of the forest, for Roger had
commissioned a friend in the country to send so large a supply
to Belle that she was embarrassed with riches of hemlock, laurel,
and pine, which, although given away prodigally, left enough

THE SECRET VICE ftEVEALED.

229

to transform their rooms into the aspect of bowers. Since they
had not money for toys, they could make the Chrismas-tide a time
of wonder and delight to Fred and Minnie in this inexpensive
way, and Mildred, who would naturally shrink from the wild
mountain home of the evergreen boughs, found in weaving and
arranging them into tasteful decorations a pleasure alloyed by
only one thought — she was indebted for it to Roger Atwood,
the silent yec determined rival of the man she loved. Though
he buried his feeling in such profound silence, and hid all man-
ifestation so carefully that even her intuition cor Id not lay
hold of any one thing, and say, * This proves it,' she neverthe-
less felt the presence of his love, and sometimes thought she
felt it all the more because of its strong repression. It almost
vexed her that he made no advances, and gave her nothing to
resent, while all the time he was seeking her with the whole
force of his will, or at least waiting for some possibility of the
future. When Belle proposed that he should help decorate
their living-room, since they, at this season, had only the rem-
nants of evenings to give, and were wearied, too, almost beyond
the power for extra effort, she felt that for Belle's sake she
ought not to object, and that for her own sake she could not,
80 scrupulous had been the quiet, distant respect with v^hich
he had treated her. When he came he seemed to anticipate
her thoughts and to obey her wishes in the arrangement of the
greenery, even ' <)foie she spoke, so keen was his observation
and quick his syuipathy with her mind.

These very facts increased her prejudice and dislike. He
was too clever, too keen-sighted and appreciative. Had he
been indifferent toward her, and not so observant, she would
have soon learu^d to like him and enjoy his society, for he
had a bright, piquant way of talking, and was seldom at a loss
for words. In fact, he had plenty of ideas, and was fast gaining
more. One reason why Mildred shrank from him in strength
ening repulsion was because, in his absorbing interest and
his quick comprehension of her thought and feeling, he came
too near. Without intending it, and in spite of himself, he in-
truded on her woman's privacy ; for no matter how careful he
might be, or how guarded she was in words or manner, she
felt that he understood what was in her mind.

230

WITHOUT A HOME.

Roger was not long in guessing quite accurately how he
stood in her thoughts, and he was often much depressed. As
he had said to Clara Bute, he had a downright dislike to con-
tend against, and this might not change with his success. And
now it was his misfortune to become associated in her mind
with another painful event — perhaps a fatal one. She might
thank him sincerely for his kindness and the trouble he had
taken in her behalf, but all the same, deep in her heart, the
old aversion would be strengthened.

' That invertebrate, Arnold,' he muttered, ' represents to her
the old, happy life ; I, her present life, and it's my luck always
to appear when things are at their worst After to-night she will
shudder with apprehension whenever she sees me. What tot//
become of them if Mr. Jocelyn dies I '

Full of forebodings and distress at the shock aud sorrow
that was impending over those in whom he was so deeply in-
interested, he and the physician placed Mr. Jocelyn in a cov-
ered express waggon that was improvised into an ambulance,
and drove up town as rapidly as they dared.

In response to a low knock Mrs. Jocelyn opened the door,
and the white, troubled face of Boger announced evil tidings
before a word was spoken.

* My husband ! ' she gasped, sinking into a chair.

The young man knelt beside her and said, ' Mrs. Jocelyn,
his life may depend on your courage and fortitude.'

He had touched the right chord, and, after a momentary
and half-convulsive sob, she rose quietly, and said, ' Tell me
what to do — tell me the worst'

' I have brought him with me, and I have a physician also.
I found him on a steamer, by accident They were about to
send him to a hospital, but I was sure you would want him
brought home.'

* Oh, yes — God bless you — bring him, bring him quick.'
' Courage. Good nursing will prevent the worst'
Roger hastened back to the patient, stopping on the way

only long enough to ask Mrs. Wheaton to go to jMrs. Joce-
lyn's room instantly, and then, with the physician's aid, be
carried the unconscious man to his room, and laid him on
his bed.

THE SECRET VICE REVEALED.

231

* Oh, Martin ! Martin ! ' moaned the wife, ' how changed,
how changed ! Oh, God ! he's dying/

' I hope not, madam,' said the physician ; ' at any rate we
must all keep our self-possession and do our best. While
there is life there is hope.'

With dilated eyes, and almost fierce repression of all aid
from other hands, she took the clothing from the limp and
wasted form.

' He is dying,' she moaned ; ' see how unnatural his eyes are ;
the pupils are almost gone. Oh, God ! why did I let him go
from me when he was so illl '

' Would you not like Belle a^ \ Miss Mildred summoned at
once ? ' Roger asked.

' Yes, yes, they ought to be here now ; every moment iriiy
be precious, and he may become conscious.'

' At the same time I would like you to call on Dr. Benton in
Twenty-third street,' added the physician. ' He is a friend of
mine, and has had much experience. In so serious a case I
would like to consult him.'

Roger, while on his way to Dr. Benton's office, passed a
livery -stable with a coach standing just within the door, and
he at on^e resolved that the weary girls should not be ex-
hausted by flying home in terror-stricken haste. He took the
carriage, obtained the physician, and explained to him what
had happened while on the way to the shop in which Belle
was employed. It was Christmas eve, and the store was rtill
crowded with eleventh-hour purchasers, on whom the weary
child was waiting in a jaded, mechanical way. Her vacant
look and the dark lines under her eyes proved how exhausted
she was ; but at the sight of Roger a flash of light and plea-
sure came into her face, and then his expression caused it to
fade into extreme palor.

' What is it 1 ' she asked, turning from a garrulous customer.

' Don't be alarmed ; get your things an J. come with me. I
will make it all right with your employer,'

' Hclie,' he said, when they were by the carriage-door, * you
must be a brave woman to-night Your father is home, and
he is very ill Perhaps his life depends on quiet and freedom
from all excitement. Dr. Benton, an experienced physician,
is in the carriage, and will go with us. You must tell your
sister— I cannot'

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(■!

232

WITHOUT A HOME.

If Belle had been herself she would not have failed him ; but
after the long strain of the day, she became completely un-
nerved at his tidings, and sobbed almost hysterically. She
could not control herself sufficiently to enter the shop where
Mildred stood, unconscious of the approaching shadow, and so
the heavy task of breaking the news fell upon Roger. If
Belle, naturally so strong, was white and faint from the long,
toilsome day, how wan and ghost-like poo** Mildred will ap-
pear ! ' was his thought as he sprang to the sidewalk.

They were closing up, and the discipline of the shop was
over. Instead of pallor, there was an angry crimson in Mil-
dred's cheeks, and an indignant fire in her eyes. She evidently
was deeply incensed, and her companions apparently were as
greatly amused. When she saw Roger the crimson deepened
in her face, her brow knitted in strong vexation, and she went
on with her task of putting the goods under her charge in or-
der, as if she had not seen him ; but the thought flashed
throutrh her mind : ' Oh that he were to me what he is to
Belle! Then he might punish my insolent persecutor, but he's
the last one in the world to whom I can appeal. Oh, where is
papa 1 '

* Miss Jocelyn — *

* Don't you see you have another beau ] * whispered one of
her companions as she passed out. * You won't treat this one
with words and manner that are the same as a slap in the face,
for he's too good-looking.'

She paid no heed to the gibe, for the young man's tone was
significant, and she had lifted her eyes to his with eager ques-
tioning. His grave, sad face banished the flush from her in-
stantly.

* Miss Jocelyn,' Roger began again, in a low tone, 'you
have already learned to associate me with painful experiences.
I cannot help it. But t.his, my misfortune, is nothing; you
must nerve yourself for anxiety that will test even your
strength. Your father is home, and ill. I will not explain
further before strangers. Belle and a physician are awaiting
you in the carriage.'

How quiet and measured were his words ; but even in her
distress she was painfully conscious that the slight tremor in
Lid voice was the low vibration of a feeling whose re}

The SEOUEt VICE hevealed.

23JJ

intensity would sooner or later break forth. Beyond a momen-
tary shrinking from what seemed to her but well-mastered
vehemence, she gave him no thought in her overwhelming soli-
citude.

Scarcely a moment elapsed before she joined him at the door;
As he placed her in the carriage he said, ' Dr. Benton will ex-
plain to you what has happened.'

' Roger — ' sobbed Belle, but he sprang on the box with the
driver, and in a few moments they were at the door of the old
mansion.

' Dr. Benton/ said the young man, * will you please accom-
pany Miss Jocelyn 1 After the fatigue of the day and the
shock of this evening she will need your support,' and he saw
that she leaned heavily on the physician's arm.

Having dismissed the carriage, he found Belle leaning
against the side of the house, faint and trembling. The young
athlete lifted her in his arms and bore her steadily and easily
to the doorway, and then again up the winding stairway.
'Belle,' he whispered, * if you lose your father you shall at least
have a brother.'

She entwined her arm about his neck in mute acceptance of
the relationship. Her every breath was a low sob, and she
cuuld not tell him how his words reassured her, taking away,
in part, the almost overwhelming terror of being left unpro-
tected in the world.

' He is dying,' Mildred moaned ; * he is far, far away from
us, even now. Oh, if we could have but one look, one sign
of farewell ! '

Belle and Mrs. Jocelyn became almost helpless with grief,
for it did not seem possible to them that he could rally. ' Oh,
why did T let him go — why did I let him go ! ' was the wife's
remorseful and often-repeated words. ,

The elderly and experienced physician whom Roger had
brought ignored with professional indifference the grief-stricken
household, and was giving his whole mind to the study of the
case. After examining the pupils of Mr. Jooelyn's eyes, taking
his temperature and counting his pulse, he looked at his asso-
ciate and shook his head significantly. Roger, who stood in the
background, saw that Dr. Benton did not accept the young
physician's diagnosis. A moment later Dr. Benton bared

'! :l il

■i

234

WITHOUT A HOME.

the patient's arm and pointed to many small scars, some old
and scarcely visible, and others recent and slightly iniiamed.
The young practitioner then apparently understood him, fur he
said, ' This is both worse and better than I feared.'

* Worse, worse,' growled Dr. Benton.

* What do you mean ) ' asked Mrs. Jocelyn, more dead than
alive.

* Madam,' began Dr. Benton very gravely, ' have you never
seen your husband using a little instrument like this t ' and he
produced from his pocket a hypodermic syringe.

' * Never,' was the perplexed and troubled reply.

The physician smiled a little satirically, and remarked, in «a
low aside, *■ I hope the drug has not a£feoted the whole family.
It's next to impossible to get at the truth in these cases.'

< Do you think he will die ? ' was her agonized query.'

' ISo, madam, we can soon bring him around, I think, and in-
deed he would probably have come out of this excess unaided ;
but had better die than continue his excessive use of morphia.
I can scarcely conceive how you could have remained ignurant
of the habit.

Mildred bowed her head in her hands with a low, despair-
ing cry, for a flasli of lurid light now revealed and explained
what had been so strange and unaccountable. The terrible secret
was now revealed, as far as she was able to comprehend it — her
father was an opium inebriate, and this was but the stupor of
a debauch ! The thought of his death had been terrible, but
was not this worse ) She lifted her face in a swift glance at
Roger, and saw him looking at her with an expressioa that
was full of the strongest -sympathy, and something more. She
coldly averted her eyes, and a slow, deep flush of shame rose to
her tace. ' Never shall 1 endure a humiliation but he will wit-
ness it, and be a part of it,' was her bitter thought.

The physicians meanwhile changed their treatment, and were
busy with professional nonchalance. Mrs. Jocelyn was at tirst
too bewildered by their words and manner to do more than
look at them, with hands clasping and unclasping in nervous
apprehension, and with eyes full of deep and troubled per-
plexity. Then, as the truth grew clearer, that a reflection
had been made upon her own and her husband's truth, she rose
unsteadily to her feet, and said, with apathetic attempt at dig-

THE SECRET VICE REVEALED.

235

niiy, ' I scarcely understand you, and fear that you as little
understand my husband's condition. He never concealed any-
thing from me. He has been untortunate and in failing health
for months, and that is all I fear, from your cru and unjust
surmises, that you do not know what you are doing, and that
you are destroying his slender chances for life.'

* Do you wish to discharge us, then 1 ' was Dr. Benton's
brusque response. He was a man of unusual skill, but blunt
and unsympathetic, especially in cases wherein he suspacted
deception — an element almost inrieparable from the morphia
habit. The victim is almost invariably untruthful, and the
family not unfrequently hide the whole truth in the desire to
shield the disgraceful weakness. Dr. Benton was too familiar
with these facts to be easily moved, but when the sad-hearted
wife elapsed her hands and cried, in tones that would touch the
coldest heart, ' I wish him to live, for his death would be far
worse than ri.eath to us all,' the physician said kindly, * There,
there, Mrs Jocelyn, I have seen many cases like this. Your
husband will live, and will soon be able to speak to you, if you
then can induce him to leave morphia alone, he may become
as sound a man as ever.'

Mildred put.her arm around her mother and drew her into
her room, closing the door.

A few moments later Roger heard the wife's passionate pro-
test, • I do not believe it — I will never believe it.' Then Dr.
Benton said to him. * Here, young man, run to my house for
an electric battery.'

When he returned Mr. Jocelyn was coming slowly out of
his deep coma, and his appearance was changing rapidly for
the better. There was a deep, indignant flush on Mrs. Joce-
lyn's face, and she took Roger aside and said earnestly, * Never
believe the lies you have heard here to-night. I know that you
will never repeat them.'

' Never, Mrs. Jocelyn.'

But Mildred was pale and almost stony in her cold, calm as* .
pect ; her heart, in her desperation, was hard towards every one.
Bella had not comprehended the truth at all, having been too
much overwhelmed by her emotions to heed the earlier remarks
of the physicians, and Mildred had said to them significantly
and almost sternly, * There is no need of giving your diagnosis
any furth^ publicity,'

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236

WITHOUT A HOME.

Dr. Benion bail then looked at lier more attt'iitivily, and
muttered, * An unut^ual girl ; more's the pity.*

* Mr. Atwood,' Mildred began, a few moments after his en-
trance, ' we thank you for your aid in this painful emergency,
but we need trouble you no further. Papa is rallying fast. I
will thank you to infoim me of all the expense which you have
incurred in our behalf at your earliest convenience.'

'Mildred, 'interposed Mrs. Jocelyn, suddenly appearing
from beside her husbrnd's couch, the unwonted fire still burning
in her usually gentle eyes, ' I cannot permit Mr. Atwood to be
dismissed so coldly. He has been a true friend in the most
terrible emergency of our lives. I must have a strong, kind
hand to sustain me now that my husband, my life, has been
foully slandered in his own home.*

Bella, in even greater terror of being left alone, clung to his
arm, and said, ' He cannot leave us — he has made me a prom-
ise this night which will keep him here.'

With a troubled and depreciating look at Mildred, Roger
replied, 'I will not fail you, Mrs. Jocelyn, nor you. Belle; but
there is no further need of my intruding on your privacy. I
sh^U be within call all night.'

' He can stay in my room,' said Mrs. Wheaton who, although
aiding the physicians, could not help overhearing the conver-
sation.

' No, he shall stay here,' cried Belle passionately ; < I am so
unnerved that I am almost beside myself, and he quiets me and
makes me feel safer. Millie had no right to show her preju-
dice at such a time.'

Mildred, white and faint, sank into a chair by the table and
buried her face in her arms, leaving the young fellow in sore
perplexity as to ^hat course he ought to take. He believed the
physicians were right, and yet Mrs. Jocelyn had taken it for
granted that he shared her faith in her husband's truth, and he
knew she would banish him from her presence instantly should
he betray a doubt as to the correctness of her view. At the
same time the expression of his face had shown Mildred that
he understood her father's condition even better than herself.
It seemed impossible to perform the difficult and delicate part
required of him, but with love's loyalty he determined to do
li?hat he imagined the young girl would wish, and he said

THE SECRET VICE REVEALED.

2^7

firmly, ' Belle, I again a<3suro you that you can depend upon
my promise to the utmost Mrs. Jocolyn, my respect for you
is unbounded, and the privilege of serving you is the best re-
ward I crave. At the same time I feel that it is neither right
nor delicate for me to witness sorrows that are so sacred. My
part is to help, and not look on, and I can help just as well if
within call all the time. Belle,' he whispered, ' dear Belle, I
know you are unnerved by weeks of overwork as well as by
this great trouble, but be a brave little woman once more, and
all may soon be well,' and he was about to withdraw when Dr.
Benton appeared and said:

* Mrs. Jocelyn, your husband is now out of all immediate
danger, but everything depends upon his future treatment. I
wish this young man to remain a little longer, for you must
now decide upon what course you will take. We have been
called in an emergency. There is no need that I should re-
main any longer, for the physician who accompanied me here
is now amply c >mpetent to attend to the ca=*e. You have, how-
ever, expressed lack of confidence in ui, and m ly wish to send
for your own physician. If so, this youn^ man cm go for him
at once. I can prove to you in two minutes that I am correct,
and I intend to do so ; then my responsibility cases. Every-
thing depends on your intelligent and firm co operation with
whatever physician has charge of the case, and it is no kind-
ness to leave you under a delusion that does your luart more
credit than your head or eyes.'

He stepped bick through the curtained doorway, and re-
turned wilh her husband's vest, from an inner pocket of which
he took a hypodermic syringe, a bottle of Magendie's sjluiion,
and also another vial of the sulphate of morphia.

' I am an oM physician,' he resumed, * and know your lius-
band's symptoms as well as you know his face. His possession
of these articles should confirm my words. The alij^ht scars
upon his arms and elsewhere were made by this little instru-
ment, as I can show you if you will come and observe — '

His medical louic was interrupted by a low cry from the
stricken wife, and then she fainted dead away.

Mildred, on the contrary, stepped forward, with a pale, stern
face, and said, ' T will take charge of these,' and she carried
th'' {^.gents gf their rqjn tq her own room. Ir^st^iitly she r^r

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238

WITHOUT A IIOMLI.

turned, and assiHted Mrs. Wheaton in tho restoration of lier
mother.

To Belle, who had looked on dazed, trembling and be-
wildered, Roger whispered, * I shall be within call all night.'

CHAPTER XXXI.

AN OPIUM MANIACS CHRISTMAS.

I^ENEATH his brusque manner Dr. Benton masked a
kind heart when once its sympathies were touched.
He soon became satisfied that Mr. Jocelyn's family
were not trying to shield his patient, but were, on the contrary,
overwhelmed with dismay and shame at the truth which he had
made clear to them. He therefore set about helping them, in
his own prosaic but effecti «re way, and he did not leave them
until they were all as well and quiet as the dread circumstances
of the situation permitted. Opium slaves are subject to acci-
dents like that which had overtaken Mr. Jocelyn, who, through
heedlessness or while half unconscious, had taken a heavy over-
dose, or else had punctured a vein with his syringe. Not un-
frequently habitues carelessly, recklessly, and sometimes deli-
berately end their wretched lives in this manner. Dr. Benton
knew well that his patient was in no condition to enter upon
any radical curative treatment, and it was hi& plan to permit
the use of the drug for a few days, seeking meanwhile to restore
as far as possible his patient's shattered systrin, and then gain
the man's honest and hearty co-operation in the terrible ordeal
essential to health and freedom. If Mr. Jocelyn had not the
nerve and will-power to carry out his treatment — which he
much doubted — he would advise that he be induced to go to an
institution where the will of others could enforce the abstinence
required. He believed that Mr. Jocelyn would consent to this,
when convinced of his inability to endure the ordeal in his
own strength. Having explained his intentions and hopes to
Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred, he left them cast down indeed, bqt
not utterly devoid of hope.

AN OPIUM MANIACS CHRISTMAS.

239

It seemed to them that the husband and father must renounce
the fatal habit at once, in response to th( i.r appisals. They
could not understand that it was already beyond his power to
break his chains — that they must be broken by other hands, if
broken at all.

It may well be doubted if the light of Christmas day dawned
on a sadder household than that which was sheltered in the old
mansion. Worn and exhausted to the last degree, and yet
sleepless from ahxiety, grief and shame, the two women watched
beside the fitful, half-conscious man. At last he appeared to
throw off his stupor sufficiently to recognise his wife ; but it
was with a strange look, in which were blended fear, suspicion,
and shame. A cold perspiration broke out over his whole form,
for something in her expression, and especially in the aspect of
Mildred's face, seemed to indicate that they knew all, and his
own guilty fears and conscience made the surmise true for the
moment ; but the tender manner in which his wife wiped his
brow and kissed him were reassuring, and with his rallying
powers grew the hope that his weakness might yet be unknown
and successfully concealed until, oy his physician's aid, he had
thrown off the curse. Fearing above and beyond all things else
that his wife would learn his degradation, he slowly and fitfully
tried to mature plans of deception ; but his enfeebled mind
rallied so slowly that he felt for a time that silence and obser-
vation were his best allies. He would cautiously and suspi*
ciously feel his way, and having learned all that had transpired
since he remembered being on the steamer, he could then decide
more clearly how to shape his course. lie therefore affected to
regard his condition as the result of a severe illness, and mur-
mured that * quiet and home life would soon bring him round.'
Mildred kissed him also, and answered, ' We cannot think
otherwise, papa, for our love, our lives, and all are bound up
in you.'

The morning dragged heavily away, for all except the little
ones were under the impression that dark and woful days
were before them. Dr. Benton had not disguised the truth —
that the problem with which they had to deal was one of great
difficulty and much doubt. This prospect was depressing, but
that which weighed like lead upon their hearts, was the thought
vhat one who had ever been their ideal of honour and truth

? \

%...

240

WITHOUT A HOME.

had deceived them for months, and had steadily yielded to a
habit which he knew must destroy his family's honour and
leave them friendless, penniless, and disgraced. The weeks of
pain that Mildred had endured were not the result of a hard
nr-cessity, but of a vicious indulgence of a depraved appetite.
Not disease but sin had so darkened their lives and brought
them to a pass where even daily bread and shelter for the fu-
ture were doubtful questions.

A thousand times Mildred asked herself, * How can I go out
and face the world with my name blackened by this great cloud
of shame ? ' She felt as if she never wished to step into the
open light of day again, and the thought of Vinton Arnold
made her shudder. * There is now a great gulf between us,'
she moaned. ' The ti ath that my father is an opium slave can
never be hidden, and c'en were Vinton inclined to be faithful,
his family would regard me as a leper, and he will yield to their
abhorrence.'

The wound in both her own and her mother's heart was deep
indeed. Their confidence was shattered, their faith in human
goodness and honour destroyed. While they still hoped much,
they nevertheless harboured a desperate fear, and, at best, the
old serene trust could never return. Even if Mr. Jocelyn
could rally and reform, there would ever remain the knowledge
that he had once been weak and false, and might be again.
He would be one who must be watched, shielded and sus-
tained,and not one on whom they could lean in quiet faith. The
quaking earth which shatters into ruin the material home
brings but a slight disaster compared with the vice that destroys
a life- long trust in a huciband and father.

Mr. Jocelyn's nerves were much too weak and irritable to
endure his children's voices, and their innocence and uncorsci-
ousness of danger smote him with unendurable remorse ; they
were, therefore, sent to Mrs. Wheaton's room. There, too,
Belle met Roger, and was much reassured by his hopeful
words. She only half comprehended the truth concerning her
father, and now, feeling the worst was past, her mercurial na-
ture was fast regaining its cheerfulness. Slio «vas one who
might despair one day and be joyous the next.

Like her father, she had unlimited courage, and but little
fortitude. Although she did not know it, the outlook for her

AN OPIUM maniac's CHRISTMAS.

241

was more threatening than for any of the others, fur she could
not patiently submit to a slow, increasing pressure of poverty
and privation. As her father feared, she might be driven to
interpose the protest of a reckless life.

Mr. Jocelyn was greatly reassured when Dr. Benton called,
and treated him with much respect ; and when a liberal allow-
ance of morphia was injected into his arm, he became quite
cheerful, believing that not only his family but even the phys-
ician were unaware, as yet, of his weaknesa By neither sign
nor word did Dr. Benton indicate his knowledge, for it was
his design to rally his patient into the best possible condition,
and then induce him to yield himself up wholly to medical
skill, naturally believing that in his present enfeebled state he
would skrink from entering on the decisive and heroic treat-
ment required. Promising to call in the evening, he left Mr.
Jocelyn, apparently very much improved.

In the afternoon Mildred went to her room to seek a little
rest The physician thought he had given enough of the drug
to satisfy his patient until he returned, but he had not properly
gauged the morbid craving with which he waH trying to deal,
and as the day declined Mr. Jocelyn became very restless.
Finally, he said he felt so much better that he would rise and
dress himself, and, in spite of his wife's remonstrance, he per-
sisted in doing so. Although tottering from weakness, he said,
irritably, and almost imperiously, that he needed no help, and
wished to be alone. With sad foreboding his wife yielded, and
waited tremblingly for his next step, for he had become to her
an awful mystery

Her fears were fulfilled, for he soon lifted the curtain door
and looking at her in a strange, suspicious manner. ' I miss
some medicine from my vest pocket,' he said hesitatingly.

Her face crimsoned, and she found no words with which to

reply.

• Did you take it out 1 ' he demanded sharply.

' No,' she faltered.

His manner began to grow excited, and he looked like a
distorted image of his former self. Anger, suspicion fear, and
cunning were all blended in his face, but he so far mastered
himself as to assume a wheedling tone and manner as ho csime
t^>w.ird her and said, ' Nan, it was only a little tonic tlij\t \

!.W\^

< i.

242

WITHOUT A HOME.

found beneficial while in the South. You must know where
it is. Please give it to me.'

The poor woman was so overcome by her husband's appear-
ance and falsehood that she felt sick and faint, and knew not
what to say.

* Where is it 1 ' he demanded angrily, for he felt that unless
he had the support of the drug speedily, he would wholly lose
his self-control.

* Oh, Martin,' pleaded his wife, * wait till Dr. Benton comes ;
he will be here this evening.'

' Why this ado about nothing 1 I merely wish to take a little
tonic, and you look as if I p 'j- aed suicide.'

' Martin, Martin, it is suicide of body and soul. It is worse
than murder of me and your innocent children. Oh, xMartin,
my heart's true love, make me a Christmas gift that I will
prize next to Him from whom the day is named. Give me the
promise that you will never touch the vile poison again/
and she knelt before him and sought to take his hand.

For a moment he was overwhelmed. She evidently knew
all ! He sank into a chair, and trembled almost convulsively.
Then came the impulse — an almost inevitable effect of the
drug upon the moral nature— to lie about the habit, and to
strive to conceal it, even after an unclouded mind would see
that deception was impossible.

* Nan,' he began, as he grew a little quieter, * you take cruel
advantage of my weak nerves. You must see that I am greatly
reduced by illness, and I merely wish to take a little tonic as
any sane man would do, and you treat me to a scene of high
tragedy. Give me my medicine, and I know that I will soon
be much better.'

'Oh, my husband, has it really come to this? ' and the wretched
wife buried her lace in her arms, and leaned heavily on the
table.

He was growing desperate. Through excess he had already
reached a point where ordinary life became an unendurable
burden without the stimulant ; but facing a harrowing scene
like this was impossible. He felt that his appetite was like a
savage beast on which he held a weakening and relaxing grasp.
With the strange, double consciousness of the opium maniac,
he ^aw his wife in all her deep distress, and he had the remorse

AN OPIUM maniac's CHRISTMAS.

243

of a lost soul in view of her agony ; he was about certain that
she knew how he had wronged her and his children, and he
had all the shame and self-loathing of a proud, sensitive man ;
he knew that he was false to the sacred trusts of husband and
father, and that awful thing that we call a sense of guilt added
its deep depression.

While his wife sat leaning upon the table, her face hidden,
8he was the picture of despair ; and, in truth, she felt almost
as if she was turning into store. If her husband had been
brought home a mangled, mutilated man, as she often feared
he might be during the long years of the w ir, she would have
bent over him with a tenderness equalled only by the pride and
faith that had ever found in him their centre ; but this strange
apparition of a man with odd, sinister looking eyes, who alter-
nately threatened and cowered before her — this man, muti-
lated more horribly in the loss of truth and love, who was thus
openly and shamelessly lying — oh, was he the chivalric, noble
friend, who had been lover and husband for so many years !
The contrast was intolerable, and the sense of his falseness
stung her almost to madness. She did not yet know that
opium, like the corruption of the grave, blackens that which is
the fairest and whitest

For a few minutes Mr. Jocelyn debated with himself. Was
he strong enough to go out to the nearest drug-store 1 After
one or two turns up and down the room he found that he was
not. He might fall in utter collapse while on the way, and
yet his system, depleted by his recent excess, demanded the
drug with the intensity which he could not restrain much longer
without becoming wild and reckless. He therefore said to his
wife, in a dogged manner, ' Nan, I must have that medicine.'

The gentle creature was at last goaded into a burst of indig-
nation that for a few moments he was appalled, and trembled
before her. The fire in her blue eyes seemed to scorch away her
tears, and standins^ before him she said passionately, 'As you are
a man and a Southern gentleman, tell me the truth. I never con-
cealed a thought from you ; what have you been concealing from
us for weekg and months 1 I wronged you in that I did not
think and plan day and night how to save instead of how to
»p«nd, and I can never forgive myself, but my fault was not
<leliberate, not intentional. There was never s^ n^onfeqt \yhen

i ■

24 i

WITHOUT A HOME.

I tried to deceive you — never a moment when I ^ould not have
suffered hunger and cold that you and the children might be
warmed and fed. What is this tonic for which you are bar-
tering your health, your honour and ours, your children's
bread and blood ? Mildred sold her girlhood's gifts, the few
dear mementos of the old happy days, that you might have
the chance you craved. That money was as sacred as the
mercy of God. For weeks the poor child has earned her
bread, not by the sweat of her brow, but in agony of body
and uuhappiness of heart. If it were disease that had so cast
us down and shadowed our lives with fear, pain and poverty,
we would have submitted to God's will and watched over you
with a patient tenderness that would never have faltered or
murmured ; but it's no disease, it's not something that God
sent. It is that which crimsons our faces with shame/

He sat cowering and trembling before her, with his face
buried in his hands.

Jn a sudden revalsion of tenderness she sank again on her
knees before him, and pleaded in tones of tenderest pathos :
* Martin, I know all ; but I am ready to forgive all if you will be
true from this time forward. I knpw now the cause of all your
strange moods which we attributed to ill-health ; I know the
worst ; but if, in humble reliance upon God, you will win back
your manhood, the past evil days shall be blotted out, even as
God blots out our sins and remembers them no more against
We will sustain your every effort with sympathy and lov-

'i.

ing faith. We will smile at cold and hunger that you may
have time — Great God ! ' and she sprang to her feet, white,
faint, and panting.

Her husband had taken his hands from his face, and glared
at her like a famished wolf. In his desperate, unnatural vis-
age there was not a trace of manhood left.

* Give me the bottle of morphia you took from my pocket,'
he demanded, rising threateningly. * No words ; you might
as well read the Ten Commandments to an unchained tiger.
Give it to me, or there is no telling what may happen. You
talk as if I could stop by simply saying, coolly and quietly, I
will stop. Ten thousand devils ! haven't I suffered the tor-
ments of the damned in trying to stop I Was I not in hell for
1^ week when I could not get it ? Do you think I ask for it

AN OPIUM maniac's CHRISTMAS.

245

now as a child wants candy ? No, it's the drop of wakr that
will cool my tongue for a brief moment, and as you hope for
mercy or have a grain of mercy in your nature, give it to me
now, now, NOW I '

The poor wife tottered a step or two towards her daughter's
room, and fell swooning at the threshold. Mildred opened
the door, and her deep pallor showed that instead of sleeping
she had heard words that would leave scars on memory until
her dying day.

' The poison you demand is there,' she said brokenly, point-
ing to her bureau. ' After mamma's appeal I need not, can-
nut speak,' and she knelt beside her mother.

Her father rushed forward and seized the drug with the as-
pect of one who is famishing. Mildred shuddered, and would
not see more than she could help, but gave her whole thought
and effort to her mother^ who seemed wounded unto death.
After a few moments, to her unbounded surprise, her father
belt beside her and lifted her mother to a lounge, and with a
steady hand and a gentle, considerate manner, sought to aid
her restoration. His face was full of solicitude and anxiety —
indeed he looked almost the same as he might have looked
and acted a year ago, before he had ever imagined that such a
demon would possess him.

When at last Mrs. Jocelyn revived and recalled what had
occurred, she passed into a condition of almost hysterical grief,
for her nervous system was all unstrung. Mr. Jocelyn, mean-
while, attended upon her in a silent, gentle, self-possesed man-
ner that puzzled Mildred greatly, although she ascribed it to the
stimulant he had taken.

In a few minutes a strange smile flitted across his face, and
he disappeared within his own apartment. A little later, Mil-
dred returning from a momentary absence, saw him withdraw
his syringe from the arm of her half-conscious mother.

' What have you done 1 ' she asked sternly, and hastened to
his side.

Secreting the instrument as a miser would his gold, he an-
swered, with the same strange smile, 'She shall have a merry
Christmas yet ; I have just remembered the day. See how quiet
the is becoming ; see that beautiful flush stealing into her pale
^ce ; see the light dawning in her eye. Oh, I gauged the dose

240

WITHOUT A HOME.

with thb skill of the best of them ; and see, my liund is ar
steady as yours. I'm not a wreck yet, and all may still be
well. Come, this is Christmas night, and wo will keep it in goo<i
old Southern style. Where are Belle and the children ( Ah
here they are ! Where have you been Belle 1 '

In Mrs. Wheaton's room,' she replied looking at her father
in much surprise. ' I was trying to keep the children (juiet,
so that you, mamma, and Millie might have a little rest.'

*That was very kind and good of you, and you now see that I'm
much better ; so is mamma, and with your help and Mildred's
we shall have a merry Christmas night together after all.

' Papa is right.' Mrs. Jocelyn added with vivacity. * I c'o
feel much better,* and so strangely hopeful. Come here, Belle.
I've scarcely seen you and the children all day. Kiss me, dar-
lings. I believe the worst is now past, that papa will soon be
well, and that all our troubles will end in renewed prosperity
and happiness. I have been looking on the dark side, and it
was wrong in me to do so. 1 should have had more faith,
more hope, more thankfulness. 1 should bless God for that
sight — Fred and Minnie on their father's Knees as in old times.
Oh, what a strange bright, turn everything has taken.'

* Mamma, dear,' said Belle, who was kneeling and caressing
her, * can I not ask Eoger in to see ycu. He has looked like
a ghost all day from anxiety about you.'

* Oh, no, no,' gasped Mildred.

* Now Millie,' * began Mrs. Jocelyn in gentle effusion, ' you
carry your prejudice against Roger much too far. He has been
the world and all to Belle since he came to town. Belle was
like a prisoned bird, and he gave her air and room to Hj a lit-
tle, and always brought her back safe to the nest. Think of
his kindness last night (suddenly she put her hand to her brov
as if troubled by something half forgotten, but her serene smile
returned). Papa, thanks to Koger's kindness, is here, and he
might have been taken to a hospital. I now feel assured that
he will overcome all his troubles. What we need is cheerful-
ness — the absence of all that is depressing. Roger is lonely
away from his home and people, and he shall share our Christ-
mas cheer ; so, call him. Belle, and then you and Millie pre-
pare as nice a supper as you can ; * and the girl flew to make
good a prospect so in accordance with her nature.

AN OPIUM maniac's CHRISTMAS.

247

Mildred almoHt precipitately sought her room. A moment
later Roger was ushered in, and he could scarcely believe his eyes.
The unconscious man, whom he at this time on the previous day
believed dying, had his children on his lap, and was caressing
them with every mark of affection. Although he still appeared
to be very much of an invalid, and his complexion had a sallow
and unnatural hue, even in the lamplight, it was difficult to be-
lieve that twenty-four hours before he had appeared to be m
extremis. When he arose and greeted Roger with a courtesy
that was almost faultless, the young fellow was tempted to rub
bis eyes as if all were a dream. Mrs. Jocelyn, too, was full
of cheerfulness and hope, and made him sit beside her while
she thanked him with a cordiality and friendliness that seemed
even tinged with affection.'

'Where is Millie 1 ' Mrs. Jocelyn suddenly asked . *We
must be altogether on this happy occasion. Minnie, call her,
for I do not wish a moment of this long-deferred hour marred
or clouded,'

' Millie/ cried the child, opening the door, * mamma wants
you to come right away. We are having a lovely time.'

'Don't mind Millie's ways, said Mrs. Jocelyn, touching
Roger's arm and giving him a little confidential nod. ' You
both misunderstand each other.'

These words, with her manner, struck Roger as peculiar in
one who had ever seemed to him the embodiment of delicacy,
but he was too inexperienced to gauge them properly. When
he turned, however, to bow to Mildred, who entered and took
a seat in a distant corner, he was startled by her extreme pal-
lor, but acting on Mrs. Jocelyn's advice he tried to act as before,
resolving, nevertheless, that if his presence continued to be a
restraint on one for whom he was ever ready to sacrifice him-
self, he would speedily depart Belle was radiant in her reac-
tion from the long, miserable day, and, with a child's un-
consciousness, gave herself up to her happiness.

'Millie shall rest, as well as yourself, mamma, for she was
up all night, and I'll get supper and prove v/hat a housewife I
ana. Koger, if you do not swallow everything I prepare with-
out a wry face, and, indeed, without every appearance of rel-
ish, I shall predict for you the most miserable old bachelorhood
all your days.'

][

[•I

;

248

WITHOUT A HOME.

* I am afraid } ou will put Roger's gallantry to a very severe
test,' cried Mrs. Jocelyn gayly. ' Indeed, I fear we have not
very much for supper except the warmest good-will. Our
poverty now, however, will not last long, for 1 feel that I can
so manage hereafter as to make amends for all the past. I can
see that I am the one who has heen to blame ; but all that's
past, and with my clearer, fuller knowledge and larger oppor-
tunities I can do wonders.'

Roger was much struck by the peculiar smile with which
Mr. Jocelyn regarded his wife as she uttered these words.

* Lerome show you what Aunty Wheaton gave me dis morn-
in*, lisped Fred, pulling Roger up.

As he rose he caught a glimpse of Mildred's face, and saw
that she was regarding her mother and father in undisguised
horror. Something was evidently wrong — fearfully wrong.
There was a skeleton in that cheerful lighted room, and the
girl saw it plainly. Never would he forget her terrible ex-
pression. He trembled with apprehension as he stood over the
child's toy and tried to imagine what it was that had suddenly
filled the place with a nameless dread and foreboding. So
quick and strong was his sympathy for Mildred, so unmis-
takable had been the expression of the girl's face, that he was
sure something must soon occur which would explain her
fears.

He was right, for at this moment Dr. Benton knocked, en-
tered, and took the chair he had vacated. The physician
looked with some surprise at his patient and Mrs. Jocelyn's
flushed, smiling face. As he felt her pulse, her sleeve fell back,
and he saw che little ominous red scar, and then he understood
it all, and fixed a penetrating glance on the face of her hus-
band, who would not meet his eye.

* I have done you a wrong, Dr. Benton,' Mrs. Jocelyn began
volubly, * for we all are indebted to your skill that my husband
is so much better. This day, which promised to pass so sadly,
has a bright ending, thanks to your timely remedies. We are
once more a united household, and I can never thank our dear
young friend here, Mr. Atwood, enough that he discovered my
husband and brought him to us and to your able treatment.
Surely, Millie, your prejudice against him must vanish now,
for— '^

AM OPIUM MANIAC S CHAIRTMAS.

219

' Mother,' cried Mildred, ' if you have a grain of reason or
self control left, close your lips. Oh, what a mockeiy it
allisl'

When Belle took her astonished eyes from Mildred's face,
Eoger, who stood near the door, was gone.

' Vou had better follow your daughter's advice, Mrs. Jocelyn,'
said the physician quietly and soothingly,' you are a little fever-
ish, and I prescribe quiet. May I see you alone a moment or
two, Mr. J-Hjelyn 1 *

'Yes, here is my room,' adddd Mildred eagerly.

It was with the aspect of mingled fear and haughtiness that
Mr. Jocelyn followed Dr. Benton into the apartmert, and the
door was closed.

' Mother, you are ill,' said Mildred kneeling beside her. ' For
my sake, and for yours, pray keep quiet for a while.'

' 111 ! I never felt better in my life. It's all your unreason-
able prejudice, Millie.'

'I think so too,' cried Belle indignantly. * We were just
beginning to have a little sunshine, and you have foiled
everything.'

' I am the only one who knows the truth, and I shall take
the responsibility of directing our affairs for the next few hours.'
replied Mildred, rising, with a pale, impassive faca < Belle,
my course has nothing to do with Roger Atwood. I exceed-
ingly regret, however, that he has been present. Wait till you
hear what Dr. Benton says ; ' and there was something so re-
solute and almost stem in her manner that even Mrs. Jocelyn,
in her unnatural exaltation, yielded. Indeed, she was already
becoming drowsy from the effects of the narcotic.

' You are not yourself, mamma. I'll explain all to-morrow,'
the young girl added soothingly.

'Mr. Jocelyn,' said the physician, with quiet emphasis, * you
have injected morphia into your wife's arm.'

' I have not'

' My dear sir, I understand your case thoroughly, and so do
your wife and daughter, as far as they can understand my expla-
nations. Now, if you will cease your mad folly I can save
you, I think ; that is, if you will submit yourself absolutely to
my treatment'

stii'.' m

ill

260

WITHOUT A HOME

* You are talking riddles, sir. Our poverty does not warrant
any assumption on your part.'

' I know the insane and useless instinct of those in your con-
dition to hide their weakness ; but can you not control it, and
permit me as your friend and physician to help you ] I am
seeking your interests, not my own.'

' Curse you ! ' cried Mr. Jocelyn, in a burst of uncontrollable
anger, ' if you had been my friend you would have let me die,
but instead you have said things to my wife that have blasted
me forever in her eyes. If she had not known, I could have
made the effort you require ; but now I'm a lost man, damne»l
beyond remedy, and I'd rather see the devil himself than your
face again. These are my rooms, and I demand that you depart
and never appear here again '

The physician bowed coldly, and left the ill-fated family to
itself.

Mildred, who overheard her father's concluding wonls felt,
that it would be useless then to interpose. Indeed she was so
dispirited and exhausted that she could do no more than stag-
ger under the heavy burden that seemed crushing her very
sou).

She assisted her mother to retire, and the latter was soon
sleeping with a smile upon her lips. Mr. Jocelyn sat sullenly
apart, staring out into the bleak, stormy darkness, and Mil-
dred went to her room for the first time in her life without giv-
ing hin his good-night kiss. As she realized this truth, she
sank on her couch and sobbed so bitterly that Belle, who had
been meditating reproaches, looked at her with tearful wonder.
Suddenly Mildred arose in strong compunction, and rushed
back to her lather ; but he started up ,with such a desperate
look that she recoiled.

* Don't touch me,' he cried, * Put your lips to the gutter of
the streets, if you will, but not to such pitch and ^.oulness as I
have become.'

* Oh, papa, have mercy ! ' she pleaded.

* Mercy! ' he repeated, with a laugh that froze her blood,
* There is no mercy on earth nor in heaven,' and he waved her
away, and again turned his face to the outer darkness.

* Millie, oh, MilUe, what is the matter ? ' cried Belle, shocked
at her sister's horror-stricken face.

A BLACK CONSPIRACY.

251

< Oh, Belle, is there nny good God I '

' Millie, I'm bewildered. What does it all mean 1 The
evening that began so brightly seems ending in tragedy.'

* Yes, tragedy in bitter truth. Hope is murdered, life poi-
soned, hearts made to bleed from wounds that can never heal.
Belle, papa loves opium better than he does you or me, better
than his wife and little helpless children, better than heaven
and his own soul. Would to God I had never lived to see
this day ! '

CHAPTER XXXII.

A BLACK CONSPIRACY.

N the following morning Mrs. Jocelyn was ill and much
depressed from the reaction of the drug that had been
given without her knowledge, and after learning all
that had transpired she sank into an almost hopeless apathy.
Mildred also was unable to rise, and Belle wont to their respec-
tive employers and obtained a leave of absence for a day or two,
on the ground of illness in the family. Mrs. Wheaton now
proved herself a discreet and very helpful friend, showiin^ her
interest by kindly deeds and not by embarrassing questions,
ludeed she was so well aware of the nature of the affliction
that overwhelmed the family that she was possessed by the
most dismal forebodings as well as the deepest sympathy.

Mr. Jocelyn had departed at an early hour, leaving a note
wherein he stated that he might be absent some days seeking
employment in a neighbouring city. He had felt that it would
be impossible to meet his family immediately after the experi-
ences of the previous day. Indeed he had gone away with the
desperate resolve that he would break his habit or never re-
turn ; but alas for the resolves of an opium slave !

Time dragged heavily on, the family living undi^r a night-
mare of anxiety, fear, and honible conjectures. What might
he nut do 1 What new phase of the trage ly would hereafter
be developed ?

■ [if 1

ill'

i|^ 1

' l^K' aft'

i 11

' !1

252

WITHOUT A HOME.

Now that the busy season was over, the etrls found that they
could retain their position as saleswomen only by accepting what-
ever their employers chose to pay, and the thrifty shopkeepeis
satisfied their consciences with the thoughts that they cuuld
obtain scores of others at even lower prices. Mr. Schriven, in
the multiplicity of other interest, had almost forgotten Belle,
and she had become in his mind merely a part of the establish-
ment. Her dejected face and subdued manner excited some
remark among her companions when she again appeared, but
her explanation, ' Mother is ill,' quieted all curiosity.

For a few days Mildred looked as white and crushed as a
broken lily, and then the reserve strength and courage of the
girl began to reassert themselves. With a fortitude that wiis
as heroic as it was simple and unosteutatious, she resolutely
faced the truth and resolved to do each day's duty, leaving the
result in God's hands. ' We must not run in debt one penny,
she would often remark with compressed lips.

Although frequently unoccupied at the shop, she was never-
theless compelled to st^nd, and in spite of this cruel require-
ment she rallied slowly. Thanks, however, to her wise care-
fulness, she did gain steadily in her power to endure and to
fight the hard battle of life.

One of the saddest features of their trouble was the neces-
sity of reticence and of suffering in silence. Their proud, sen-
sitive spirits did not permit them to speak of their shame even
to Mrs. Wheatoii, and she respected their reserve. Indeed,
among themselves they shrank from mentioning the sorrow
that oppressed every waking moment and filled their dreams
with woful imagery.

During an absence of nearly two weeks Mr. Jocelyn occa-
lionally wrote a line, saying that he was as well as they could
expect, and that was all. Then he reappeared among them and
began leading a desultory kind of life, coming and going in an
aimless way, and giving but little account of himself. They
saw with a deeper depression that he had not improved much,
although apparently he had avoided any great excesses. Occa-
sionally he gave Mildred a little money, but how it was ob-
tained she did not know. It was well he was reticent, for had
she known that it was often part of a small loan from some
half-pitying friend of former days, and that it never wouM be

A BLACK CONSPIRACY.

2.>n

repaul, sho would not have used a penny of It. They were
simply compelled to rccogniso the nwfiil truth, that the hus-
band and father was apparently a confirmed opium inebriate.
For Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred it was simply a daily martyr-
dom, but in her companionship with Roger, Belle had much to
sustain, cheer, and even brighten her life.

He was in truth a loyal friend, and daily racked his brain
for opportunities to show her and Mrs. Jocelyn some reassuring
attention ; and his kindness and that of Mrs. Wheaton were
about the only glints of light upon their darkening way. Mil-
dred was polite and even kind in her manner toward the
young man, since for Belle's sake and her mother's she ''^It
that she must be so. His course, moreover, had compelled
her respect ; but nevertheless her shrinking aversion did not
diminish.

The current of time flowed sluggishly on, bringing only
changes for the worse for the Jocelyns. Fiarly spring had
come, but no spring-tide hope, and in its stead a bitter humilia-
tion. The pressure of poverty at last became so great that the
Jocelyns were in arrears for rent and were compelled to move.
In this painful ordeal Mrs. Wheaton was a tower of strength,
and managed almost everything for them, since no dependence
could be placed on Mr. Jocel} n. The reader's attention need
not be detained by a description of their new shelter — for it
could not be called a home. They had a living room and two
very small bedrooms, in a brick tenement wedged in among
others of like unredeemed angularity, and belonging to the
semi-respectable common place order. It was occupied by
stolid working people of various nationalities, and all engaged
in an honest scramble for bread, with time and thought for
little else.

Mr. Jocelyn was not one who could sin in a conservative,
prudent way. He seemed utterly unable to rally and be a man
in his own strength, £..id his remorse over his conduct was so
great that he sought a refuge in almost continuous excess.

No principles are better known than the influences of soil,
climate, darkness and light upon a growing plant. If the truth
could be appreciated that circumstances colour life and cha-
racter just as surely, marring, distorting, dwarfing, beautifying
and developing, according as they are friendly or adverse, the

:iy li

254

WITHOUT A HOME.

workers in the moral vineyard, instead of trying to obtain
fruit from sickly vines, whose roots grope in sterility, and
whose foliage is poisoned, would bring the richness of oppor-
tunity to the soil and purify the social atmosphere. Immature
Belle, in spite of all the influences for good from her mother,
hor sister, and Roger, could scarcely resiile where she did and
grow pure and womanly. She was daily compelled to see and
hear too much that was coarse, evil and debasing.

Mr. Jocelyn's condition was no longer a secret, and he often
in common with other confirmed habitues like himself, in-
creased the effects of opium by a free use of liquor. He there-
fore had practically ceased to be a protector to his daughters.
Fred and Minnie, in despite of all the broken-hearted and
failing mother could do, were becoming little street Arabs,
learning all too soon the evil of the world.

Since the revelation of her father's condition Mildred had
finally relinquished her class at the mission chapel. Her sen-
sitive spirit was so shadowed by his evil that she felt she would
be speechless before the children who might soon learn to
pssociate her name with a vice that would seem to them as
horrible as it was mjsterions. Bread and shelter she must
obtain, but she was too fear-haunted, too conscious of the
shame to which she was linked, to face the public on any
occasion not connected with her daily toil.

Mr. Wentworth in sadness recognised the barrier which
Mildred's pride was rearing between them, but he was too
wise and experienced to be obtrusively personal. He sought
earnestly, however, to guard the young girl against the moral
danger which so often results from discouragement and un-
happiness, and he entreated her not to part with her faith, her
clinginff trust to God.

' A clinging trust is, indeed, all that I have left,' she hid
replied so sadly that his eyes suddenly moistened ; * but the
waves of trouble seem strong and pitiless, and I sometimes
fear that my hands are grown numb and powerless. In plain
prose, I'm just plodding on — God knows whither. In my
weary, faltering way I am tryiiig to trnet Him,' she added,
after & brief silence, * and I always hope to ; but I am so tired,
Mr. Wentworth, so depressed, that I'm like the soldiers that
have hi>cn described to me as marching on with heavy eyes and

A BLACK CONSPIRACV.

255

heavy feet l>ecause they must. There is no use of my coming
t ) the chapel, for I haven't the heart to say a word of cheer to
any one, and hollow words would hurt me, while doing no good.'

* My dear child,' the clergyman had replied, in deep soli*
citude, * I fear you are dangerously morbid ; and yet I don't
know. This approach to apathy of which you speak may be
God's shield from thoughts that would be sharp arrow& I
can't help my honest sympathy, and I hope and trust that I
may soon be able to show in some helpful way — I mean in the
way of finding you more remunerative and less cruel work,'
ho added quickly, as he saw a faint flush rising in the young
girl's face. Then he concluded, gravely and eently, ' Miss
Mildred, I respect you— > respect even your pride ; but, in the
name of our common faith and the bond it implies, do not
carry it too far. Good-by'

Belle, because of her thorough liking and respect for Mr.
Wentworth, and even more for the reason that he had ob-
tained her promise to come, was rarely absent from her class,
and the hour spent at the chapel undoubtedly had a good and
restraining influence ; but over and against this one or two
hours in seven days were pitted the moral atmosphere of the
shop, the bold admiration and advances in the streets, which
were do longer unheeded and scarcely resented, and the de-
moralizing sights and sounds of a tenement-house. The odds
were too great for poor Belle. Like thousands of other girls,
she stood in peculiar need of sheltered home life, and charity
broad as heaven should be exercised toward those exposed as
she was.

As Mr. Jocelyn sank deeper in degradation, Mildred's mor-
bid impulsi to shrink, cower, and hide, in such poor shelter as
she had, gre ^ stronger, and at last she did little more than try
to sleep through the long dreary Sabbaths, that she might
have strength for the almost hopeless struggle of the week.

It is a sad and terrific characteristic of our Christian city,
that girls, young, beautitul, and unprotected like Mildred and
Belle, are the natural prey of remorseless huntsmen. Only a
resolute integrity, great prudence and care, can shield them ;
and these not from temptation and evil pursuit, but only from
the fall which such snares too often compass.

256

WITHOUT A HOME.

Of these truths Mildred had a terrible proof. A purer-
hearted girl than she never entered the maelstrom of city life ;
but those who looked upon her lovely face looked again, and
lingeringly, and there was one who had devoured her beauty
daily with wolfish eyes. In charge of the department of the
shop wherein she toiled, there was a man who had long since
parted with the faintest trace of principle or conscience. He
was plausible, fine-looking, after a certain half-feminine type
and apparently vigilant and faithful in his duties as floor-
walker ; but bis spotless linen concealed a heart that plotted
all the evil his hands dared to commit. To him Mildred had
possessed great attractions from the first ; and, with the confi-
dence bestowed by his power, and many questionable successes,
he made his first advances so openly that he received more than
one public and stinging rebuff. A desire for revenge, therefore,
had taken entire possession of him, and with a seipent's cold,
deadly patience he was waiting for a chance to uncoil ^^nd strike.
Notwithstanding his outward civility, Mildred never met the
expression of his eyes without a shudder.

From frank-tongued Belle, Koger had obtained some hints
of this man's earlier attentions, and of his present ill-concealed
dislike — a latent hostility which gave Mildred no little uneasi-
ness, since, by some pretext, he might cause her dismissal. She
knew too well that they were in such straits now that they
could not afford one hour's idleness. Roger, therefore, nursed
a bitter antipathy against the fellow.

One evening, late in March, the former was taking his usual
brief walk before sitting down to long hours of study. He was
at liberty to go whither he pleased, and not unnaturally his
steps, for the hundredth time, perhaps, passed the door through
which he could catch a glimpse of the young girl, who, with
apparent hopelessness, and yet with such pathetic patience,
was fighting a long battle with disheartening adversity. He
was later than usual, and the employes were beginning to leave.
Suddenly the obnoxious floor* walker appeared at the entrance
with a hurried and intent mauner. Then he paused a second
or two and concealed himself behind a showcase. Roger now
sa'w that his eyes were fixed on a girl that had just preceded
him> and who, after a furtive glance backward, hastened up the
avenue. Her pursuer — for such he evideiatly was — followed

A BLACK CONSPIRACY.

257

instantly, and yet sought to lose himself in the crowd so that
she could not detect him. Partly in the hope of learning somr-
thing to the disadvantage of one who might have it in his powc r
to injure Mildred, and partly from the motive of adding zefet
to an aimless walk, he followed the man.

The girl, with another quick glance over her shoulder, at
last turned down a side street, and was soon walking alone
where passengers were few and the street much in shadow ;
here her pursuer joined her, and she soon evinced violent agita-
tion, stopping suddenly with a gesture of indignant protest.
He said something, however, that subdued her speedily, and
they went on together for some little distance, the roan talking
rapidly, and then they turned into a long, dark passage that
led to some tenements in the rear of those fronting on the
street. About midway in this narrow alley a single gas-jet
burned, and under its light Roger saw them stop, and the girl
produce from beneath her waterproof cloak something white,that
appeared like pieces of wound lace. The man examined them,
made a memorandum, and then handed them back to the girl,
who hesitated to take them ; but his manner was so threaten-
ing and imperious that she again concealed them on her per-
son. As they came out together, Roger, with hat drawn over
his eyes, gave them a glance which fixed the malign features
of the man and the frightened, guilty visage of the girl on his
memory. They regarded him suspiciously, but, as he went on
without looking back, they evidently thought him a casual
passer-by.

' It's a piece of villainy,' Roger muttered, * but of what nature
I have no means of discovering, even were it any affair of mine.
I am satisfied of one thing, however — that man's a scoundrel ;
seemingly he has the girl in his power, and it looks as if she
had been stealing goods and he is compounding the felony with
her.'

If he had realized the depth of the fellow's villainy he would
not have gone back to his studies so quietly, for the one nearest
to his heart was its object The scene he had witnessed can
soon be explained. Goods at the lace counter had been missed
on more than one occasion, and it had been the hope of Mil-
dred's enemy that he might fasten the suspicion upon her. On
this evening, however, he had seen the girl in question secrete

258

WITHOUT A HOME.

two or three pieces as she was folding them up, and he believed
she had carried them away with her. Immediately on joining
her he had charged her with the theft, and in answer to her
denials threatened to have hrr searched before they parted.
Then in terror she admitted the fact, and was in a condition to
become his unwilling accomplice in the diabolical scheme sug-
gested by his discovery.

He had said to her, in effect, that he suspected another girl
— namely, Mildred Joc*»lyn — and that if she would place the
goods in the pocket of this girl's cloak on the following after-
noon he would by this act be enabled to extort a confession
from her also, as he had in the present case. He then promised
the girl in return for this service that he would make no com-
plaint against her, but would give her the chance to find another
situation, which she must do speedily, since he could no longer
permit her to remain in the em[>Ioy of the house for whom he
acted. She was extremely reluctant to enter into this scheme,
but, in her confusion, guilt and fear, made the evil promise,
finding from bitter experience that one sin, like an enemy
within the walls, opens the gate to many others. She tried to
satisfy such conscience as she had with the thought thai Mil-
dred was no better than herself, and that the worst which could
happen to the object of this sudden conspiracy was a quiet
warning to seek employment elsewhere. The man himself
promised as much, although he had no such mild measures in
It was his design to shame Mildred publicly, to break

view.

down her character, and render her desperate. He had learned
that she had no protector worthy of the name, and believed
that he could so adroitly play his part that he would appear
only as the vigilant and faithful servant of his employers.

Mildred, all unconscious of the pit dug beneath her feet, was
passing out the following evening into the dreary March stonn,
when the foreman touched her shoulder and said that one of
the proprietors wished to see her. In much surprise, and with
only the fear of one whose position meani daily bread for her-
self and those she loved better than self, she followed the man
to the private ofifice, where she found two of the firm, and they
looked grave and severe indeed.

' Miss Jocelyn,' began the elder, without any circumlocution,
' laces have been missed from your department, and suspicion
rests on you. I hope you can prove yourself innocent.'

A BLACK CONSPIRACY.

259

The charge was so awful aud unexpected that she sank, pale
and faint, into a chair, and the appearance of the terror-stricken
girl was taken as evidence of guilt. But she soon rallied
sufficiently to say, with great earnestness, * Indeed, sir, I am
innocent'

' Assertion is not proof. Of course you are willing, then, to
be searched 1 '

She, Mildred Jocelyn, searched for stolen goods ! Searched,
alone, in the presence of these dark-browed, frowning men !
The act, the indignity, seemed overwhelming. A hot crimson
flush mantled her face, and her womanhood rose in arms against
the insult.

' I do not fear being searched,' she said indignantly ; " but a
woman must perform the act.'

' Certainly,' said her employer ; * we do not propose any-
thing indecorous ; but first call an officer.'

They were convinced that they had found the culprit, and
were detennined to make such an example of her as would
deter all others in the shop from similar dishonesty.

Mildred was left to herself a few moments, faint and be-
wildered, a whirl of horrible thoughts passing through her
mind ; and then, conscious of innocence, she began to grow
calm, believing that the ordeal would soon be over. Neverthe-
less she had received a shock which left her weak and trembl-
ing, as she followed two of the most trusty women employed
in the shop to a private apartment, at whose door she saw a
bulky guardian of the law. The majority, unaware of what
had taken place, had departed ; but such as remained had lin-
gered, looking in wonder at the hasty appearance of the police-
man, and the intense curiosity had been heightened when they
uw him stationed near an entrance through which Mildred
was speedily led. They at once surmised the truth, and waited
for the result of the search in al;iiost breathless expectation.
The girl who had done Mildred so deep a wrong had hastened
Away among the first, and so was unaware of what was taking
place ; the chief conspirator, from an obscure part of the now
^\( lighted shop, watched with cruel eyes the working of his
plot.

200

WITHOUT A HOME,,

CHAPTER XXXIII.

MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL.

OT from any sense of guilt, but rather from tlie trembl-
ing apprehensiveness of one whoso spirit is already
half broken by undeserved misfortune, Mildred totter-
ed to a chair within the small apartment to which she had
been taken. With an appealing glance to the two women who
stood beside her she said, ' Oh, hasten to prove that I am in-
nocent ! My burden was already too heavy, and this is hor-
rible.'

* Miss Jocelyn,' replied the elder of the women, in a iratter-
of-fact tone, * it's our duty to search you thoroughly, and, if
innocent, you will not fear it. There will be nothing "horrible"
about iche affair at all, unless you have been stealing, and ir
seems to me that an honest girl would show more nerve.'

* Search me, then — search as thoroughly as you please/ cried
Mildred, with an indignant flush crimsoning her pale, wan
face. ' I'd sooner starve a thousand times than take a penny
that did not belong to me.'

Grimly and silently, and with a half-incredulous shrug, the
woman, whose mind had been ^.oisoned against Mildred, began
her search, first taking off the young girl's waterproof cloak.
* Why is the bottom of this side-pocket slit open 1 ' she asked
severely. ' What is this, away down between the lining and
the cloth ) ' and she drew out two piecefj of valuable lace.

Mildred looked at the ominous wares with dilated eyes,
for a moment was speechless with astonishment and terror.

' Your words and deeds are a trifle discordant,* began the
woman, in cold satire, * but your manner is more in keeping.'

' I know nothing about that lace,' Mildred exclaimed passion-
ately. * This is a plot against — '

* Oh, nonsense ! ' interrupted the woman harshly. ' Here,
officer,' she continued, opening the door, * take your prisoner.
These goods were found upon her person, concealed between

MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL.

261

the lining of her cloak,* and she showed him where the lace
had been discovered.

' A mighty clear case/ was the grinning reply ; ' still you
must be ready to testify to morrow, unless the girl pleads
guilty, which will be her best course.'

< What are you going to do with me 1 ' asked Mildred, in a
hoarse whisper.

'Oh, nothing uncommon, miss— only wh»t is always done
under such circum^-'^ances. We'll give you free lodgings to-
night, and time *j think a bit over your evil ways.'

One of the seniors of the firm, who had drawn near to the
door and had heard the result of the search, now said, with
much indignation, and in a tone that all present could hear,
'* Officer, remove your prisoner, and show no leniency. Let
the law take its full course, for we intend to stamp out all dis-
honesty from our establishment, most thoroughly.'

' Come,' said the policeman, roughly laying his hand on the
shoulder of the almost paralyzed girl.

• Where 1 ' she gasped.

' Why, to the station-house, of course,' he answered im-
patiently.

' Oh, you can't mean thaV

'Come, come, no nonsense, no airs. You knew well enough
that the station-house and jail were at the end of the road you
were travelling. People always get found out, sooner or later.
If you make me trouble in arresting you, it will go all the
harder with you.'

* Can't I — can't 1 send word to my friends 1 '

' No, indeed, not now. Your pals must ap[ e ir in court to-
morrow. *

She looked appealingly around, and on every face within the
circle of light saw only aversion and anger, while the cruel
mocking eyes of the man whose coarse advances she had so
Btingingly resented were almost fiendish in their exultation.

'It's of no use,' she muttered bitterly. ' It seems as if all
the world, and God Himself, were against me,' anl giving way
to a despairing apathy she followed the officer out of the store
-out into the glaring lamplight of the street, out int > the wild
March storm that swept her along toward prison. To her
morbid mind the sleet-laden gale seemed in league with all the

it"

M'^! '•

2C2

WITHOUT A HOME.

other malign influences that were hurrying her on to shame
and ruin.

* Hi, there ! Look where you are going,' thundered the
policeman to a passenger who was breasting the storm, with
his umberella pointed atan angle that threatened the officer's eye.

The umberella was thrown back, and then flew away on the
gale from the nerveless hands of Koger Atwood. Dumb and
paralyzed with wonder, he impeded their progress a moment
as he looked into Mildred's white face.

At last a time had rr ne when she welcomed his presence,
and she cried, '0 M<. Atwood, tell them at home — tell them
I'm innocent.'

' What does this ^ua^'e mean 1 ' he demanded, in a tone
that caused the ofiicer to gi^^^i his club tightly.

* It means that if you interfere by another word I'll arrest
you also. Move on, and mind your business.'

' Miss Jicelyn explain,' he said earnestly to her, without
budging an inch, and ;he comparatively few passers-by began
to gather around th'^m.

' You can have no communication with the prisoner on the
street,' said the arm of the law roughly ; *■ and if you don't get
out of my way you'll be sorry.'

* Please don't draw attention to me,' entreated Mildred hur-
riedly. * You can do nothing. I'm falsely accused — tell them
at home.' '

He passed swiftly on her side, and as he did so, whispered,

* You shall not be left alone a moment. I'll follow, and to-
morrow prove you innocent,' for, like a flash, the scene be had
witnessed the evening before came into his mind.

* Quit that,' warned the officer, * or I'll ' but the young

man was gone. He soon turned, however, and followed until
he saw Mildred led within the station-house door. The storm
was so severe as to master the curiosity of the incipient crowd,
and only a few street gamins followed his example. He was
wiiry now, and, having regained his self-control, he recognised
a task that would tax his best skill and tact.

Having watched until he saw the officer who had made the
arrest depart, he entered the station-house. To the sergeant
on duty behind the long desk he said, with much courtesy,

* I am a friend of Miss Jocelyn, a young woman recently

MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL.

2(J3

brought to this station. I wish to do nothinji; contrary to
your rules, but I would like to communicate with her and do
what I can for her comfort. Will you please explain to me
what privileges may be granted to the prisoner and to her
friends 1 '

' Well, this is a serious case, and the proof against her is al-
most positive. The stolen goods were found upon her person,
and her employers have charged that there be no leniency.'

* Her employers could not have wished her treated cruelly,
and if they did, you are not the man to carry out their wishes,'
Roger insinuated. ' All that her friends ask is kindness and
fair play within the limits of your rules. Moreover, her friends
have information which will show her to be innocent, and l«^t
me assure you that she is a lady by birth and breeding, -.-
though the family has been reduced to poverty. She haf iiu-
flupntial friends.'

His words evidently had weight with the sergeant, .. n«{
Roger's bearing was so gentlemanly that the official imagin i
that the young man himself might represent no mean ■ ^%r*'e
of social and political influenca

' Yes,' he said, ' I noticed that she wasn't one of the common
sort.*

'And you must have observed also that she was delicate
and frail-looking.'

' Yes, that, too, was apparent, and we have every disposition
to be humane towards prisoners. You can send her some sup-
per and bedding, and if you wish to write to her you can do
so, but must submit what you write to the captain of the pre-
cinct. I'm expecting him every minute.'

Roger wrote rapidly :

* Miss Jocelyn : Your friends fully believe in your inno-
cence, and I think I can say without doubt that they have the
means of proving it Much depends on your maintaining
strength and courage. Bedding will be sent to make you com-
fortable, and, for the sake of your mother and those you love
at home, I hope you will not refuse the supper that shall soon
be sent also. I have ever believed that you were the bravest
girl in the world, and now that so much depends on your for-
titude and nervo, I am sure you will second the efforts o(

i'X

m^n

2G4

WITHOUT A HOMB.

thoRo who are trying to aid you. With the strongest respect
and sympathy,

* Roger Atwood.'

The captain, who soon appeared, saw no objection to this
note, and promised that it should be sent to Mildred.

Koger then went to the nearest restaurant, and procured a
delicate and inviting supper, which, with a generous pot of
coffee, he carried so swiftly through the stotm that it was sent,
smoking hot to the cell in which Mildred was confined.

lie then hastened to a livery-stable, and having obtained a
carriage, was driven rapidly to the tenement in which the
Jocelyns had their rooms. Mr. Jocelyn, fortunately, was ab-
sent ; for Mildred's natural protector would only have made
matters far worse. If the guardians of the law had looked
upon the wrecked and fallen man they would have felt that the
daughter's alleged crime was already half explained. But a
visit from Mrs. Jocelyn would make a far different impression,
and he determined that she alone should accompany him to
the station house.

It would be useless to pain the reader with Mrs. Jocelyn's
distresR, «> nd for a time Koger thought the tidings would crush
the already stricken woman ; but in answer to his appeal she
soon rallied in defence of her child. At his request she as-
sumed, as far as possible, the garb of a lady — the appearance
and bearing of one was inseparable from her. It was with
much difficulty he persuaded the weeping and indignant Belle
to remm with the children, for he well knew she was far too
excitable to deal with the police. Having made every provis-
ion possible for Mildred's comfort, they soon reached the sta-
tion-house, and the sergeant in charge greeted them politely ;
but on learning their errand frowned, and said to Mrs. Joce*
lyn, * No, you can't see her till she is brought into court to-
morrow.'

In answer to the mother's appeals and Roger's expostula-
tions he remarked impatiently, ' Do you think I'm going to
disobey orders ? Either take my answer or wait till the cap*
tain comes in again.'

They had no other resource, and sat down to weary waiting,
the mother weeping silently, and Roger, with sternly knit
brows, deep i^ thought.

MILDRED IN A PRISON (KhL

i>r»5

i<l

At last the captain returned, and the sergeant rose and said,
' Here's the mother of the girl who ,/as taken with stolen
goods on her person. She wishes to speak with you.'

' Well, what is it ? ' demanded the police-captain a little
iiarshiy, turning toward Mrs. Jocelyn ; but his manner softened
as he looked upon the thin, delicate features that had not yet
lost their old, sweet charm, and which now were eloquent with
a mother's unspeakable grief and solicituda * Don't be fright-
ened, madam,' he added, somewhat kindly, as he saw the poor
woman's ineffectual efforts to rise and speak. ' I'm human, and
Dot more hard-hearted than my duties require.'

At last Mrs. Jocelyn burst forth : ' If you have a heart at
all, sir, save mine from breaking. My child is innocent — it
will be proved to-morrow. A year ago we had a happy, beau-
tiful home, and my girl a father whom all men respected.
We've had misfortunes, that, thank God, falls to the lot of few,
but my child has kept herself spotless through them all. I
cau prove this. She is in prison to-night t'uough no fault of
hers. Oh, sir, in the name of mother love, can you keep me
from my child ) Can I not see her even for a moment, and say
to her one reassuring word 1 She may go mad from fear and
shame. She may die. Oh, sir, if you have the heart of a
man, let me see her, let me speak to her. You, or any one,
may be present, and see that I mean no harm.'

'There certainly has been some dreadful mistake,' Roger put
in hastily, as he saw the man was irresolute, and was regarding
the suppliant sympathetically. 'People who must command
your respect will be glad to testify that Miss Jocelyn's cha-
racter is such as to render impossible anything dishonourable
OQ her part.'

' Let me warn you,' said the officer keenly, ' that any such
negative testimony will have but little weight against the posi-
tive facts in the case.'

* Oh, let me see my child,' cried Mrs. Jocelyn, in tones of
such passionate pathos that his scruples gave way, and he said
to the sergeant , ' Let her see the girl ! I'd be a brute to
deDy her, even if it is against our rules. The doorman need
not stand near enough to embarrass them.'

As Mrs. Jocelyn eagerly descended to the cells in the base*
neut, the captain remarked to Koger, * The girl's friends will

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WITHOUT A HOME.

have to beaiir thnmselves if they clear her. The evidonce is
80 strong that she'll bo committed for further trial, without
donbt.*

' I think she'll be discharged to-morrow/ replied Roger
quietly. ' I thank you for your kindness to Mrs. Jocelyri.'

' Mere statements as to the girl's previous character will not
dear her/ resumed the captain emphatically. 'Yuu are a
relative, lovi)r, or something, I suppose. This poor woman
has knocked my routine methods a little out of gear. One
rarely sees a face like hers in a station-house. She evidently
comes of no common stock, and I'd like to hear that the charge
is all a mistake, as you claim ; but, young man, you can't meet
criminal charges with generalities. You've got to show that
she didn't steal that lace. I wish you success for the mother's
sake at least,' and he passed into his private room.

As Mildred was about to enter the station-house slu) had
looked back, hoping fur the first time in her life, that Roger
Atwood was near. The eager and reassuring wave of his
hand satisfied her that he would know the place of her im-
prisonment, and that he would do for her all within his power.
Again he had appeared in the hour of misfortune and bitter
humiliation. But iu spite of her heart, she now did justice to
his sturdy loyalty, and she was comforted and sustained by the
thought that not quite all the world was aeftinst her. She
also knew that he would relieve her mother and Belle from the
unendurable anxiety on account of her absence, and that he
would summon Mr. VVentworth to her aid. His promise to
prove her innocent had meant nothing to ner more than that
he would inform and rally all of her friends. That he could
know anything that would throw light on the evil mystery did
seem possible. She was then too miserable and depressed to
do much more than wait, in a sort of stunned torpor, fur what
might next occur.

Distress of mind, however, soon made her forget all this, as
her faculties slowly rallied from the shock they bad received,
and she began to realize that she was charged with a crime ot
which it might ue difiicult, perhaps impossible, to prove her
innocence. At best she feared she would always be so clouded
with suspicion that all would refuse to employ her, and that
)ier blighted life imd undeserved Bhiunei added to her father's

MILDRED tS A PRfSOK CELL.

207

character, would drag the family down to the lowest depths.
The consequences to thorn all, and especially to Belle, seemed
80 threatening and terrible that she wrung her hands and
moaned aloud.
At every sound she started up, nervous and morbidly ap-
rehensive. The grating of the key in the iron door had given
er a sense of relief and refuge. The massive bars that shut
her in also shut out the brutal and criminal which were asso*
ciated with a prison, in her mind ; the thoughts of whom had
filled her very soul with terror, when first arrested. As it was
early in the evening she happened to be the first prisoner, and
she prayed that there might be no others, for the possibility
that some foul, drunken man might be thrust into an adjoining
cell made her flesh creep. How many long, sleepless hours
must pato3 before morning could bring any hope of release !
And yet she dreaded the coming day unspeakably, for her path
to freedom lay through a police court, with all its horrible
publicity. Her name might get into the papers, and proud
Mrs. Arnold treasure up every scrap of such intelligence about
her. The tidings of her shame might be sent to her who had
been her friend as Miss VVetheridge, and even she would shrink
from one around whom clung such disgraceful associations.
Again and again she asked herself. How could the charge
against her be met? How could the family live without
her 1 What would become of them 1 Belle, alas, would
be rendered utterly reckless, because hopeless. The unhappy
prisoner was far beyond tears. Even her faith in God failed
oer, for, seemingly. He had left her the victim of cruel wrong
and unredeemed misfortune. With her hot, dry eyes buried in
her hands she sat motionless and despairing, and the moments
passed like hours.

At this crisis in her despair, Roger's note was handed to her,
and it was like the north star suddenly shining out on one who
is benighted and lost It again kindled hope, without wh ch
mind and body give way in fatal dejection. She kissed the mis-
sive passionately, murmuring, with eyes heavenward, * If he can
clear my name from dishonour, if he will rescue my loved ones
from the poverty and shame which are now threatening such
terrible evils, I will make any sacrifice that he can ask. I
will crush out my old vain love, if I die in the effort. My

t I

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WITHOUT A HOME.

heart shall not prove a traitor to those who are true and loyal
at such a time. He can save mamma, Belle, and the children
from hopeless poverty, and perhaps destruction. If he will,
and it is his wish, I'll give all there is left of my unhappy self.
I will be his loyal wife — would to God I could be his loving
wife ! Oh, would to God he had loved Belle instead of me !
I could be devotion itself as his sister. But surely I can banish
my old fond dream— which was never more than a dream—
when one so deserving, so faithful, is willing to give me his
strong, helpful hand. We are both very young ; it will be
years before — before — and, surely, in so long a time, I can con-
quer my infatuation for one who has left me all these dreary
months without a word. A woman's heart cannot be proof
against reason, gratitude, and the sacred duty owed to those
she loves best At any rate, mine shall not be, ana if he still
craves the loyalty and — and — yes, the love of one so shamed
and impoverished as I am, he shall have all — a//,' and her face
grew stem with her purpose of self mastery. She forced down
some of the food he sent, and drank the coffee. * I will be
brave,' she murmured, ' I will try to second his efforts to clear
my name, for death were better than shame. I shall, at least,
try to deserve his respect'

Then musingly she added, ' How can my friends have gained
any informa^on that would prove me innocent 1 Mother and
Belle cannot know anything definite, nor can Mr. Atwood.
He promised in that brief whisper when he passed me in the
street that he would prove it Can he have learned anything
in his strange vigilance ? It seems impossible. Alas, I fear
that their best hope is to show that I have hitherto borne a
good character, and yet if my present home and our poverty are
described, if — worse than alU— papa appears in the court-room,
I fear they will think the worst,' and something of her old
despair began to return when she heard approaching footsteps.
* Millie,' cried a loved and familiar voice. The key grated
in the lock, and in another moment she was sobbing on her
mother's breast, and her bruised heart healed by the unu ter-
able tenderness of a mother's love. It filled the dark cell with
the abounding, undoubting, unquestioning spirit of unselHsh
devotion, which was akin to the fragrance diffused from the
broken box of idabaster.

MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL.

269

When sufficiently calm, Mildred told her mother what had
happened, and she in turn whispered that Roger had strong
hopes that he could prove her innocence on the following day,
though how she did not know. ' And yet, Millie,' she con-
cluded, * for some reason he inspires me with confidence, for
while he feels so deeply, he is quiet and thoughtful about the
least thing. Notliing seems to escape his mind, and he says
he has some information of which he does not think it best to
speak at present He entreats you to take courage, and says
that if you will " keep up and be your brave, true self, gentle
and strong," you can do much to aid him. We will all stand
by you, and Mr. Wentworth will be with us.'

♦Where — where is papa?' faltered Mildred, with a slight
flush.

' I don't know,' responded the wife with a deep sob.

' Alas, mother, it's cruel to say it, out it will be best that he
should not appear at all Keep him away if possible. I hope
he may never know anything about it, unless you think this
terriblo result of his course may awaken him to a final struggle
to do right I would gladly suffer anything to save him.'

' No, Millie, he would not be his old self if he came into
court,' said her mother dejectedly, ' and his appearance and
manner might turn the scale ag&inst you. Our best hope
is to let Roger manage everything. And now, good-by, my
darling. God sustain you. Do not fear anything tonight
Roger says you are safe, and that his only dread is that you
may become nervously prostrated, and he relies on your help
tomorrow. I can't stay any longer. Oh, God, how glad I
would be if I could hold you in my arms all night ! Belle is
strongly excited, and says she will never believe a word against
you, nor will any of your true friends — alas ! I wish we had
more.'

'Time is up,' warned t^e doorman.

•Tell Mr. Atwood that I am deeply grateful for his aid, and
more grateful for his trust,' said Mildred.

•Courage, Millie; you can sustain me by keeping up your-
self. You will find us in the court-room waiting for you.*

With an embrace in whicli heart throbbed against heart they
separated, and the poor girl was comforted and more hopeful
in spite of herself, for while aho would shrink from Roger, hor

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270

WITHOUT A HOME.

confidence in his shrewdness and intelligence had made such
growth that she half believed he would find sonip Way of prov.
ing her innocent, although how he had obtained any evidence
in her favour she could not imagine. The bedding brought by
her mother transformed the cell-bunk into a comfortable couch,
and she laid down and tried to rest, so as to be ready to do
hei part, and her overtaxed nature soon brought something
like sleep. She was startled out of her half-consciousness by a
shrill cry, and sprang to her feet. There was a confused sound
of steps on the stairs, and then again the same wild cry tliat
almost made her heart stand still. A moment later two police-
men appeared, dragging a woman, who was resisting and shriek-
ing with demoniacd fury.

The sight was a horrible one. The faces of the great, stal-
wart men were reddened bv exertion, for the woman seemed
to possess supernatural strength, and their familiarity with
crime was not so great as to prevent strong expression ". of dis-
gust.

With no little difficulty they thrust her into a cell opposite
to the one in which Mildred was incarcerated, as one of the
men turned the key upon her he said roughly, ' stay there now,
you drunken she-devil till you are sober,' and breathing heav-
ily from their efforts they left the poor wretch to the care of
thejailen

Mildred shrank away . Not for the world would she encoun-
ter the woman's frenzied eyes. Then she stopped her ears,
that she might not hear the horrid din and shameful language,
which made the place* tenfold more revolting. The man in
charge of the cells sat dozing stolidly by the stove, some dis-
tance away. His repose was not to be disturbed by such fa-
miliar sounds.

At last the woman became quiet, and Mildred 'wreathed
more freely, until some mysterious sounds, suggesting that her
terrible neighbour was trying to open her door, awakened her
fears, for even the thought of her coming any nearer made her
tremble. She therefore sprang up and looked between the
iron bars. At first she was perplexed by what she saw, and
then her b3art stood still, for she soon made out that the wo-
man was hanging by the neck, from the hifheet bar of the

■^ A

'A WISE JUDGE.'

271

cell door. < Help/ Mildred shrieked ; ' quick if you would
save life.'

The man by the stove sprang up and rushed forward.
* There, see — oh be quick ! *

The jailer comprehended the situation at once, unlocked the
door, and cut the parts of her clothing which the woman had
improvised into a halter. She soon revived, and cursed him
fur his interferenca lie now watched her carefully, paying
no hoed to her horrible tongue, until the crazed stage of her
intoxication passed into stupor. To Mildred he said, reassur-
ingly, ' Don't be afraid ; you're as safe as if you were at
hame.*

' Home, home, home! ' moaned the poor girl. * Oh, what a
mockery that word has become ! My best hope may soon be
to tind one in heaven.'

CHAPTER XXXIV.

*A WISE JUDGE.'

HEN the interminable night would end Mildred could
r vf ^^^ guess, for no dawning was visible from her base-
^ ment cell. The woman opposite gradually became
stupid and silent Other prisoners were brought in from time
to time, but they were comparatively quiet. A young girl was
placed in a cell not far away, and her passionate weeping was
pitiful to hear. The other prisoners were generally intoxica-
ted or stolidly indifferent, and were soon making the night
hideous with their discordant respiration.

The place had become so terrible to Mildred that she even
welconr.ed the presence of the policeman who arrested her, and
who at last came to take her to the police court Must she
walk with him through the streets in the open light of day 1
She feared she would faint on what, in her weakness, would be
a long journey, and her heart gave a great throb of gratitude
^ slie saw Hoger awaiting her in the large general room, or

272

WITHOUT A HOME.

entrance, to the station-house. He came forward, eagerly
grasping her hand, and there was so much solicitude and sym-
pathy in his dark eyes that her tears began to gather, and
a fteiut colour to suffuse the pallor that at first had startled
him.

'Mr. Atwood,' she murmured, 'you are kindness itself, and
I hive not deserved it. Forgive me. I will not to fail you
to-di\y, for your respect sustains me, and I will not lose it.'

* I knew your brave spirit would second all our efforts,' he
said in like low tones, and with a bright grateful look. ' Here,
waiter — come Miss Jocelyn, it's by just such prosaic means that
soldiers sustain the fight. You'll dine at home.'

* Yes, hurry up,' added the officer ; ' we have no time now
for words or ceremony.'

She ate a few mouthfuls, and drank some coffee. ' I cannot
take any more now,' she said to Roger.

Oh, how plainly her womanly instinct divined his unbounti
ed loyalty ; and, with bitter protest at her weakness, she knew
wilh equal certainty that she shrank from his love with her oi 1
unconquerable repugnance.

She stepped into the coach, the policeman taking the opjio-
site seat

' Oh, God, how pale and wan she is ! This will kill hir/
Roger groaned, as he sprang up on the box with the driver.

It was so early that few were abroad, and yet Mildrcci would
not look up. How could she ever look up again ! The lead-
en clouds seemed to rest npon the i. . * rdes of the churches.
Churches ! and such scenes as she ha i itnessed, and such :&
wrong as hers were transpiring under the shadow of their
spires i

Roger had passed as sleepless a night as had fallen to Mil-
dred's lot, and bitterly he regretted that he had been able to
accomplish so little. Mr. Wentworth was out of town, and
would not be back for a day or two. Then he sought the
judge before whom Mildred would appear the following morn-
ing, and learned with dismay, that he, too, had gone to a neigh-
bauring city, and would return barely in time to open court at
tiie TV U..1 hour. He had hoped that, by telling his story be-
fore ind, the judge would adopt his plan of discover! nji the
t. This was still his hope, for, after long thought,

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'A WISE JUDGE.'

273

he determined not to employ counsel, fearing it would lead to
a prolongation of the case. His strong characteristic of self-
reliance led him to believe that he c )uld manage the affair best
alone, and he was confident from his own inexperience. The
rain had ceased, and for hours he paced the wet pavement near
the station-house, finding a kind of satisfaction in being as near
as possible to the one he loved, though utterly unable to say a
reassuring word.

Having learned that the prisoners might ride to court if the
means were provided, he had a carriage ready long before the
appointed time, and his presence did much to nerve Mildred
for the ordeal she so much dreaded.

On reaching the entranco at which the prisoners were admit-
ted, he sprang down to assist Mildred to alight ; but the oflicer
said gruffly, 'Stand back, young man; you must hue your
say in the court-room. You are a little too officious.'

'No, sir ; I'm only friendly.'

* Well, well, we have our rules,* and he led the trembling
girl within the stony portals, and she was locked up in what is
termed ' the box,' with the other female prisoners, who were
now arriving on foot.

This was, perhaps, the worst experience she hud yet endured,
and she longed for the [irivacy of her cell again. Never before
had she come in contact with such debased wrecks of humanity,
and she blushed for womanhood as she cowered in the farthest
corner and looked upon her companions — brucal women, with
every vice stamped on their bloated features. The majority
were habitual drunkards, filthy in person and foul of tongue.
True to their depraved instincts, they soon began to ridi ule
and revile one who, by contrast, proved how fallen ait de-
graded they were. And yet, not even from these did the gi. i re-
coil with such horroras from some brazen harpies who said words
in her ear that made her hide her face with shame. The officer
in charge saw that she was persecuted, and sternly interfered
in her behalf, but from their hiderjus presence and co' liujt she
could not escape.

By some affinity not yet wholly obliterated, the girl she had
heard weeping in the night shrank to her side, and her swol-
len eyes and forlorn appearance could not hide the fact that
she was very young, and might be very pretty. Mildred

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ft'* I

274

WITHOUT A HOME.

knew not what to say to her, but she took her hand and held it.
This silent expression of sympathy provoked another outburst
of grief, and the poor young creatuie sobbed on Mildred's
shoulder as if her heart were breaking. Mildred placed a sus-
taining arm around her, but her own sustaining truth and
purity she could not impart.

A partition only separated her from the ' box ' — which was
simply a large wooden pen with round iron bars facing the
corridor — to which the male prisoners were brought, one after
another, by the policeman who had arrested them. The arrival
of the judge was somewhat delayed, and may the reader never
listen to such language as profaned her ears during the long
hour and a half before the opening of the court.

Fortunately her turn came rather early, and she at last was
ushered to the doorway which looked upon the crowded court-
room, and her heart throbbed with hope as she ^singled out
her mother. Belle, Mrs. Wheaton, and Roger, from among long
lines of curious and repulsive faces. The former kissed their
hr.nds to her, and tried t;o give wan, reassuring smiles, which
their tearn belied. Roger merely bowed gravely, and then,
with an expresciion that was singularly alert and resolute, gave
his whole attention to all that was transpiring. After recog-
nising her friendfl, Mildred turned to iue judge, feeling that
she would discover her fate in his expression and manner.
Was he a kindly, sympathetic man, unhardened by the duties
of his office ! She could learn but little from his grave, im-
passive face. She soon feared that she had slight cause for
hope, for after what hsemcd to her as an absurdly brief, super-
ficial trial, she saw two of her companions of the * box ' sen-
tenced to three months' imprisonment. The decision, which to
her had such an awful import, was pronounced in an ofl'hand
manner, and in the matter-of-fact tone with which one would
dispose of ht^)v^ s.iid merchandise, and the floods of tears and
passionate i^pj^vjatobi^eiiiingly had no more effect on the arbiter
of their f&im -liiMi if h( htid been a stony image.

The next, ^risovie ■ w! o appeared before the bar received
very different tie ituient. He was a middle-aged man, and had
the appearance an was oiith* d in the garb of a gentleman.
With nerv ijsly tr, nbling hands and bowed head, he stood

'A WISE judge/

276

before the judge, who eyed him keenly, after reading the charge
of intoxication in the streets.

< Have you ever been arrested before 1 ' he asked.
' No, indeed, sir,' was the low, emphatic reply.

' Come up here ; I wish to speak with you.'

The officer in attendance took the half-comprehending man
by the elbow, and led him up within the bar before the long
desk running the whole width of the court-room, and behind
which the judge sat with his clerks and assistants.

< Now tell me all about it,' said the judge, and the man in a
few words told his story without any palliation. With a
gleam of hope Mildred saw the expression of the judge's face
change as he listened, and when at last he replied, in tones so
low that none could hear them save he to whom they were
addressed, she saw that look which wins all hearts — the benig-
nant aspect of one who might condemn for evil, but who would
rather win and save from evil. The man slowly lifted his
eyes to the speaker's face, and hope and courage began to show
themselves in his bearing. The judge brought his exhortation
to a practical conclusion, for he said, * Promise me, with God's
help, you will never touch the vile stuff again.'

The promise was evidently sincere and hearty. * Give me
your hand on it,' said his Honour.

The man started as if he could scarcely believe his ears, then
wrung the judge's hand, while his eyes moistened with grati-
tude. * You are at liberty. Good morning, sir ; ' and the man
turned and walked through the crowded court-room, with the
aspect of one to whom manhood had been restored.

Hope sprang up in Mildred's heart, for she now saw that
her fate was not in the hands of a stony-hearted slave of rou-
tine. She looked toward her relatives, and greeted their
tearful smiles with a wan glimmer of light on her own face,
and then she turned to watch the fortunes of the weeping girl
who followed next in order. She did not know the charge,
but guessed it only too well from the judge's face, as the officer
who had arrested her made his low explanation. She, too,
was summoned within the rail, and the judge began to ques-
tion her. At first she was too greatly overcome by her emo-
tions to answer. As she cowered, trembled, and sobbed, she
might have l>een regarded as the embodiment of that shame

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• :i'

' »

276

WITHOUT A HOME.

and remorse which overwhelms fallen womanhood before the
heart is hardened, and the face ma'l<^ brazan by years of vice.
Patiently and kindly the judge drew from her faltering lips
some pitiful story, and then he talked to her in low, impressive
tones, that seemed to go straight to her despairing sou]. A
kind, firm, protecting hand might then have led her back to a
life of virtue, for such had been her bitter foretastes of the
fruits of sin that surely she would have gladly turned from
them, could the chance have been given to her. The judge
mercifully remitted her punishment, and gave her freedom.
Who received her, as she turned her face toward the staring
♦Trong that intervened between her and the street J Home
large-hearted woman, bent on rescuing an erring sister ? Some
agent of one of the many costly charities of the city ? No, in
bitter shame, no. Only the vile madam who traded on the
price of her body and soul, and who, with vulture like eyes,
had watched the scjne. She only had stood ready to pay the
fine, if one had been imposed according to the letter of the
law. She only received the weak and friendless creature, from
whom she held as pledges all her small personal effects, and
to whom she promised immediato bheiter from the intolerable
stare that follows such victims of society. The girl's weak,
pretty face, and soft, white hands were but too true an index
to her infirm will and character, and, although liuttering
and reluctant, she again fell helple.s8 into the talons of the
harpy. If-^pless girl ! you will probably stand at this bar
again, and liill sentence will then be given against you. The
judge frowned heavily as he saw the result of his clemency, and
then, as if it were an old story, he turned to the next culprit.
Mildred had been much encouraged as she watched the issue
of the two cases just described; but as her eyes followed the
girl wistfully toward the door of freedom she encountered the
cold, malignant gaze of the man who had charge cf her de-
partment at the shop, and whom she instinctively felt was the
cause of her shameful and dangerous position. By hie side sat
the two women who had searclied her, and the leading foreman
of the store. Sick and faint from apprehension, she turned
imploringly toward Koger, who was regarding the floor-walker
witli such vindictive sternness that she felt the wretch's hour
oJ reckoning would soon come, whatever might be her fate.

A WISH .JUDOK.

277

This added to her trouble, for uhe feared that she was in vol v-
iog Koger in danger.

No time was given for thoughts on such side issues, for the
prisoner preceding her in the line was sentenced, after a trial
uf three minutes — a summary proceeding that was not hope-
inspiring.

The name of Mildred Jocelyn was now called, and there was
a murmur of expectant interest in the court-room, for she was
not by any means an ordinary prisoner in appearance, and
there were not a few present who knew something of the case.
The young girl was pushed before the bar and would gladly
have clung to it, in order to support her trembling form. But
while she could not infuse vigour into her overtaxed muscles,
her brave spirit rallied to meet the emergency, and she fixed
her eyes unwaveringly upon the judge, who now for the tirst
time noticed her attentively, and it did not escape her intense-
ly quickened perceptions that his eyes at onco grew kindly and
sympathetic. Sitting day after day, and year after year, in his
position, he had gained a wonderful insight into character, and
in Mildred's pure, sweet face he saw no evidence of guilt or of
criminal tendencies. Tt was, indeed, white with fear, and thin
from wearing toil and grief ; but this very pallor made it seem
only more spiritusl and free from earthliness, while every fea-
ture, and the unconscious grace of her attitude, bespoke high
breeding aud good blood.

First, the officer who arrested her told his story, and then
the elder of the two women who searched her was summoned
as the first witness. The judge looked grave, and he glanced
uneasily at the prisoner from time to time ; but the same clear,
steadfast eyes met his gaze, unsullied by a trace of guilt. Then
the second woman corroborated the story of her associate, and
the judge asked, ' Ho\(r came you to suspect the prisoner so
strongly as to search her ? ' and at this point the floor- walker
was summoned.

The vigilant magistrate did not fail to note the momentary
glance of aversion and horror which Mildred bestowed upon
this man, and then her eyes returned with so deep and pathetic
an appeal to his face that his heart responded, and his judg-
ment led him also to believe that there was error and perhaps
wrong in the prosecution. Still he was compelled to admit to

(' ' I

278

WITHOUT A HOMK.

himself that the case looked very dark for the girl, wh(» was
gaining so strong a hold on his sympathy.

' I must inform your Honour,' began the witness plausibly,
after having been sworn, * that laces had been missed from th»
department in which this girl was employed, and I was keenly
on the alert, as it was my duty to be. Some suspiciouR cir-
cumstances led me to think that the prisoner was the guilty
party, and the search proved my suspicions to be correct.'

' What were the suspicious circumstances 1 '

The man seemed at a loss for a moment. ' Well, your
Honour, she wenttothe cloak room yesterday afternoon,' he said.

' Do not all the girls go to the cloak-room occasionally 1 '

* Yes, but there was something in her face and manner that
fastened my suspicions upon her.'

' What evidence of guilt did you detect) '
' I can scarcely explain — nothing very tangible. The evi-
dence of guilt were found on her person, your Honour.'

* Yes, that much has been clearly shown.'

' And she was very reluctant to be searched, which would not
have been the case had she been conscious of innocence.'

The woman who searched her was now asked, ' Did she
shrink from a search in such a manner as to betoken guilt ]'

* I can't say that she did show any fear of being searched by
us,* was the reply. * She refused to be searched in the private
office of the firm.'

' That is, in the presence of men ? Quite naturally she did.'
Then to the floor-walker. * Have your relations with this girl
been entirely friendly 1 '

* I am glad to say I have no relations with her whatever.
My relations are the same that 1 hold to the other girls — merely
to see that they do their duty.'

* You are perfectly sure that you have never cherished any
ill-will toward her ) '

* So far from it, I was at first inclined to be friendly.'
' What do you mean by the term friendly.'

* Well, your Honour' (a little confusedly), * the term seems
plain enough.'

*And she did not reciprocate your friendship 1' was the
keen query.

*A WISK JUDGE.'

279

'After I came to know her better, I gave her no occasion to
reciprocate anything ; and, pardon roe, your Honour, I scarcely
nee what bearing these questions have on the plain facts of
the case.'

A slight frown was the only evidence that the judge had
noted the impertinent suggestion that he did not know his
business.

' Are you perfectly sure that you cherish no ill-will toward
the prisoner ) '

' 1 simply wish to do my duty by my employers. I eventu-
ally learned that her father was %\\ opium-eater and a sot, and
1 (ion't fancy that kind of people. That is my explanation,'
he concluded, with a large attempt at dignity, and in a tone
that he evidently meant all should hear.

' Her father is not on trial, and that information was un-
called for. Have you any further testimony ? ' the judge asked
coldly.

' No, sir,' and he stepped down amid a supressed hiss in the
court-room, for the spectators evidently shared in the antipathy
with which he had inspired the keen-eyed but impassive and
reticent magistrate, who now beckoned Mildred to step up
close to him, and she came to him as if he were her friend in-
stead of her judge. He was touched by her trust; and her
steadfast look of absolute confidence made him all the more
desirous of protecting her, if he could find any warrant for do-
ing so. She said to him unmistakably by her manner, * I put
myself in your hands.'

'My child,' the judge began serionsly, yet kindly, ' this is a
very grave charge that is brought against you, and if it is your
wish you can waive further trial before me at this stage of
proceedings, for unless you can prove yourself innocent at this
preliminary examination, your case must be heard before a
higher court Perhaps you bad better obtain counsel, and have
the whole matter referred at once to the grand jury.'

' I would rather be tried by you, sir,' Mildred replied, in a
vibrating voice full of deep, repressed feeling ; ' I am innocent.
It would be like death to me to remain longer under this
shameful charge. I have confidence in you. I know I am
guiltless. Please let me be tried now, noWf for I cannot endure
it any longer.*

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(716) 873-4S03

280

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Very well, then : * and he handed her a small, grimy Bible,
that, no doubt, had been kissed by scores of perjured lips. But
Mildred pressed hers reverently upon it, as she swore bo ' tell
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.'

After a few preliminary quercions as to age, etc., the justice
said, reassuringly, ' Now tell your story briefly and clearly.'

It was indeed a brief story, and it had the impress of truth ;
but his Honour looked very grave as he recognised how little
their was in it to refute the positive testimony already given.
* Have you witnesses ? ' he asked.

' My mother and sister are present, and — and — a young man
who thinks he knows something in my favour.'

* I will hear your mother first,' said the judge, believing that
in her he would find the^ chief source of character ; and when
the sad, refined gentlewoman stood beside her daughter, he was
all the more convinced that the girl ought to be innocent, and
that all his insight into character and its origin would be at
fault if she were not In low, eager tcaes, Mrs. Jocelyn spoke
briefly of their misfortunes, and testilied as to Mildred's con-
duct, * She has been an angel of patience and goodness in our
home,' she said, in conclusion ; ' and if this false charge succeeds
we shall be lost and ruined indeed. My daughter's pastor is
out of town, and in our p )verty we have few friends who could
be of any service. An old neighbour, Mrs. Wheaton, is present
and will confirm my words, if you wish ; but we would thank
ycur Honour if you will call Mr. Roger Atwood, who says he
h'is information that will aid my child.'

* Very well, madam,' responded the judge kindly, ' we will
hear Mr. Atwood.'

Roger was now sworn, while Mrs. Jocelyn returned to her
seat. In the young fellow's frank, honest face the judge found
an agreeable contrast with the ill-omened visage of the floor-
walker, whose good looks could not hide an evil nature.

* I must beg your Honour to listen to me with patience,'
Roger began in a low tone, ' for my testimony is peculiar, and
does not go far enough unless furthered by your Honour's skill
in cross-questioning;' and in eager tones, heard only by the
judge, he told what he had seen, and suggested his theory that
if the girl, whom he had followed two evenings before, could be

'A WISE JUDGE.'

281

examined previous to any communication with her accomplica,
she would probably admit the whole guilty plot.

The judge listened attentively, nodding approvingly, as
Roger finished, and said, * Leave me to manage this affair, I
wish you to go at once with an officer, point out this girl to
him, and bring her here. She must not have communication
with any one. Nor must anything be said to her relating to
the case by either you or the officer. Leave her wholly to
me.'

A subpoena was made out immediately and given to a police-
man, with a few whispered and emphatic injunctions, and
Roger was told to accompany him.

* This case is adjourned for the present. Tou may sit with
your mother within the railing,' he added kindly to Mildred.

The floor-walker had been watching the turn that the pro-
ceedings were taking with great uneasiness, and now was eager
to depart, in order to caution the girl that Roger was in pur-
suit of, against admitting the least knowledge of the affair ;
but the judge was too quick for him, and remarked that he
was not through with him yet, and requested that he and the
representative of the firm should remain. The two women
who had testified against Mildred were permitted to depart.
Then, as if dismissing the case from his mind, he proceeded to
dispose of the other prisoners.

Belle joined her sister, and greeted her with great effusive-
ness, looking ready to champion her against the world ; but
they at last quieted her, and waited with trembling impatience
and wonder for the outcome of Roger's mission.

The girl who had been led to wrong Mildred so greatly re-
turned to the shop that morning with many misgivings, which
were much increased when she learned what had transpired.
She also felt that her accomplice had dealt treacherously in
allowing such serious proceedings against M ildred, for he had
promised that she should be merely taxed with theft and
warned to seek employment elsewhere. * If he deceives in
one respect he will in another, and I'm not safe from arrest
either,' she said to herself, and she made so many blunders in
her guilty preoccupation that she excited the surprise of her
companions. As she was waiting on a customer she heard a
voice remark, ' That's the girl,' and looking up she grew
R

:j.VU 1

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282

WITHOUT A HOME.

faint and white as she saw, standing before her, a policeman,

who served his subpoena at once, saying, • You must go with

me immediatly.'

Frightened and irresolute, she stammered that she knew

nothing about the affair,

'Well, then, you must come and tell his Honour so.'

< Must I go r she appealed to one of the firm, who happened

to be near.

* Certainly,' he replied, examining the subpoena : * go and
tell all you know, or if you don't know anything, say so.'

* I don't see why I should be dragged into the case — ' she
began brazenly.

* There's the reason,' said the oflScer impatiently : ' that
subpoena has the power of bringing any man or woman in the
city.'

Seeing that resistance was useless, she sullenly accompanied
them to a street-car, and was soon in readiness to be called
upon for her testimony. Having disposed of the case then on
trial, Mildred was again summoned to the bar, and the unwil-
ling witness sent for. She only had time to cast a reproacliful
glance at the man whom, she feared, had betrayed her, and
who tried, by his manner, to caution her, when the judge de-
manded her attention, he having in the meantime noted the
fellow's tffort.

* Stand there,' he said, placing her so that her back was
toward the man who sought to signal silence. ' Officer, swear
her. Now,' he resumed severely, *any deviation from the
truth, and the whole truth, will be perjury, which, you know,
is a State-prison ofience. I can assure you most honestly that
it will be better for you, in all respects, to hide nothing, for
you will soon discover that I know something about this affair.'

After the preliminary questions, which were asked with im-
pressive solemnity, he demanded, ' Did you not leave the shop
on Tuesday evening, and pass up the Avenue to Street 1 '

* Yes, sir.*

* Did you not look back twice, to see if you were followed 1 '

* I may have looked back.'

* You don't deny it, then 1 *

*No, sir.' \

'A WISE JUDGE.'

283

' Did not Mr. Bissel, the floor- walker join you in Street,

before you had gone very far T

' Ye — yes, sir/ with a start.

' Did ha not say something that agitated you very much 1'

< He may have frightened me/ she faltered.

' Yes, he probably did ; but why 1 Did you not make a
8trong gesture of protest against what he said ? '

' Yes, sir,' with a troubled stare at the judge.

' Did you not go on with him very quietly and submissively,
after a moment or two 1 '

' Yes, sir,' and her face now was downcast, and she began to
tremble.

' Did you not enter a covered alley- way, that led to tenements
in the rear 1 '

' Yes, sir,' with increasing agitation.

' Well, what did you do there ? '

* Has he told on me, your Honour ) ' she gasped, with a
sudden flood of tears.

' What he has done is no concern of yours: You are under
oath to tell the whole truth. There was a single gas-jet burning
in the covered passage-way, was there not 1 '

' Yes, sir,' sobbing violently.

' Has Miss Mildred Jocelyn ever wronged you ? '

'N — no, sir, not that I know of.'

' Now tell me just what occurred under that gas-jet.'

' I'll tell your Honour the whole truth,' the girl burst out,
' if your Honour'll let me off this time. It's my first offence,
and we're poor, and I was driven to it by need, and he prom-
ised me that Miss Jocelyn wouldn't suffer anything worse than
a warning to find another place.'

Believing that her accomplice had betrayed her, she told the
whole story without any concealment, fully exonerating Mil-
dred. Although the judge maintained his stern, impassive
aspect throughout the scene, he hugely enjoyed the floor-walker's
dismay and confusion, and his tortured inability to warn the
girl to deny everything.

'Please your Honour, forgive me this time/ sobbed the
trembling witness in conclusion, * and I'll never do wrong
again.*

' I have no right or power to punish you,' replied the judge;

284

WITHOUT A HOME.

* it rests wholly with your employers whether they will prose-
cute you or not. Send that floor-walker here ' (to an officer).

' Well, sir, what have you to say to this testimony]' he asked
as the fellow shuffled forward, psde and irresolute. ' Eemem-
ber, you are still under oath.'

The wily villain, caught in his own trap, hesitated. He was
tempted to deny that the plot against Mildred was at his in-
stigation; but, like the girl, he saw that the judge had mys-
terious information on the subject, and he could not tell hove
far this knowledge went. If he entered on a series of denials
he might be confronted by another witness. The young man
who had been sent to identify the girl, and whose unexpected
presence had brought such disaster, might have been con:ealed
in the passage-way, and so have seen and heard all. With the
fear of an indictment for perjury before his eyes the fellow
began to whine.

* I was only trying to protect the interests of my employers.
I had suspected the Jocelyn girl — ' At this there arose from
the court-room a loud and general hiss, which the judge sup-
pressed, as he sternly interposed.

* We have nothing to do with your suspicions. Do you deny
the testimony 1 '

* No, sir ; but — *

* That's enough. No words; step down.' Then turning to
Mildred, he said kindly and courteously, * Miss Jocelyn, it
gives me pleasure to inform you that your innocence has been
clearly shown. I should also inform you that this man Bissel
has made himself liable to suit for damages, and I hope that you
will prosecute him. I am very sorry that you have been sub-
jected to so painful an ordeal. You are now at liberty.'

* I thank — oh, I thank and bless your Honour,' said Mildred
with such a depth of gratitude and gladness in her face that the
judge smiled to himself several times that day. It was like a
burst of June sunshine after a storm. While the witness was
admitting the facts which would prove her guiltless, Mildred
was scarcely less agitated than the wretched girl herself; but her
strong excitement showed itself not by tears, but rather in her
dilated eyes, nervously trembling form, and quickly throbbing
bosom. Now that the tension was over she sank on a bench
near, and covering her eyes, from which gushed a torrent of

*A WISE JUDOE.*

285

*oars, with her hands, murmured audibly, ' Thank God ! oh,
thank God 1 He has not deserted me after all.'

The judge now observed that Roger had buttonholed a
reporter, who had been dashing oS hieroglyphics that meant
a spicy paragraph the following day. Summoning the young
man, he said, as if the affair were of slight importance, * since
the girl has been proved innocent, and will have no further
relation to the case, I viould suggest that, out of deference to
friends and her own feelings, there be no mention of her name,"
and the news-gatherer good naturedly acceded to the request.

A new case was called, and new interests, hopes and fears
agitated the hearts of other groups, that had been drawn to
the judgment-seat by the misfortunes or crimes of those bound
to them by various ties.

Mrs. Jocelyn would not leave the place, which she had ao
dreaded, untU Roger could accompany them, and they chafed
at every moment of delay that prevented their pouring out
their thanks. But Mildred's heart was too full for words. She
fully understood how great a service he had rendered her. She
bitterly reproached herself for all her prejudice in the past, and
was in a mood for any self sacrifice that he would ask. Tears
of deep and mingled feeling fell fast, and she longed to escape
from the staring crowd. Not before such witnesses could she
speak and look the gratitude she felt.

With downcast eyes and quivering lips she followed her
mother — to whom Roger had given his arm — from the court-
room. A carriage stood at the door, into which Mrs. Jocelyn
was hurried before she could speak ; then turning so promptly
that there was no chance for exuberant Belle or the effervesc-
ing Mrs. Wheaton to utter a syllable, Roger seized Mildred's
hand, and said earnestly, ' Thanks for your aid, Miss Jocelyn.
I thought you were the bravest girl in the world, and you have
proved it,'

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286

WITHOUT A HOME.

CHAPTER XXXV.

' I AM SO PERPLEXED.

HE little group that Roger left on the sidewalk looked
after him in a dazed manner for a moment, and then
Belle exclaimed, a trifle indignantly, * Well, I declare,
if he hasn't thanked you, instead of you thanking him.'

Mildred sprang into the carriage, feeling that she must have
some refuge at once, and, burying her face on her mother's
shoulder, burst into another passion of tears.

' There, there,' said Mrs. Wheaton, as they were driven to-
ward their home ; ' the poor child's 'eart is too full for Iiaiiy
neat speeches now. Yen they meets hagain she'll thank liim
with heyes an' 'and, better than hany vords 'ere hon the street.
He vos too bright a chap to take his thanks in this 'ere public
place.'

To their surprise, Mildred raised her head, and replied, in
strong protest, 'You do him wrong, Mrs. Wheaton. He was
80 modest and manly that he wished to escape all thanks.
He has taken a noble revenge on me for all my stupid pie-
judice.'

* That's right,' cried ecstatic Belle. * Honest confession is good
for the soul. I'll admit that most men and women are made of
dust — street dust at that — but Roger Atwood is pure gold.'

Fortunately, Mr. Jocelyn was not at home when they re-
turned, and they had a chance to take a quiet breath after
their strong excitement. Mrs. Wheaton, with many hearty
congratulations and words of cheer, took her departure. Mrs.
Jocelyn was justly solicitous about Mildred, fearing that the
reaction from an ordeal that would tax the strongest might
bring utter prostration to her delicate and sensitive organism.
Mildred's manner soon threatened to realize her worst fears.
She had passed a sleepless night, and was faint from fatigue,
and yet, as the hours lapsed she grew more nervously restless.

* Millie,' she whispered, as she came to the bed on which
the girl was tossing restlessly, ' there's something on your mind.

'I AM so PERPLEXED.'

287

Mother's eyes arc quick in reading the face of her child. You
are thinking — you are debating something that won't let you
rest, when you need rest so much. Oh, Millie darling, my
heart was growing apathetic — it seemed almost dead in my
breast. I've suffered on account of your father, till it seemed
as if I couldn't suffer any more ; but your peril and your
troubled face teach me that it is not dead, and that my best
solace now is devotion to my children. What is it, Millie,
that you are turning over in your mind, which makes you look
80 desperately sad and fearful, and again — and then your ex-
pression frightens me — so determined as if you were medita-
ting some step, which, I fear, you ought not to take 1 Oh,
Millie, my child, the worst that I know about is bad enough,
God knows, but your face makes me dread that you may be
led by your troubles to do something which you would not
think of were you less morbid and overwrought. I may have
seemed to you a poor, weak woman in all of our troubles, but
mother's love is strong, if her mind and body are not.'

'Mamma, mamma, do not judge me or yourself so harshly.
You have always been my ideal, mamma, and I was thinking
of nothing worse than how to rescue you and the others from
your desperate straits. How can we go on living in this way,
your heart breaking, your poor, frail body overtaxed with coarse
labour, and Belle, Minnie, and Fred becoming contaminated
by our dreadful surroundings. The shock I've received has
awakened roe from my old apathy. I see that while I just
toiled for daily bread, and a little of it too, we were drifting
down, down. Papa grows worse and worsa Belle is in danger;
and what will become of Fred and Minnie if (^hey remain long
amid such scenes? Only yesterday morning I heard Fred
quarrelling with another little boy on the landing, and lisping
out oaths in his anger. Oh, mamma, we must ba able to look
forward to some escape from all this, or else you will soon give
way to despair, and the worst will come, ''^hcre seems to be
one way, mamma, in which I can help you.' And then she
hesitated, and a deep, burning flush crimsoned the face that
wai so pale before. 'Well,' she said, at last, in a kind of des-
peration, ' I might as well speak plainly, if I speak at all. It's
na secret to you how Roger Atwood feels toward me, and also,
mamma, you know my heart. While I could kiss his hand iu

■'if

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288

WITHOUT A HOME.

gratitude, while I would not shrink from any suflering fur liis
sake, to show how deeply I appreciate the priceless service he
has rendered me, still, mamma, mamma, I'm only a woman,
and am cursed with all the perversity of a woman's lieart. Oli,
what a loyal friend, what a devoted sister, I could be to him !
Mamma, can't you understand meV

* Yes, Millie,' sadly answered her mother.

' Well, mamma, I am so perplexed. It seems for his sake,
since we have become so poor and disgraced, that I ought tu
refuse his suit. To the world, and especially to his friends, it
will appear dreadfully selfish that we should link our wretched
fortunes to his, and so cloud his prospects and impede his pro-
gress. I can't tell you how I dread such criticism. And yet,
mamma, you know — no, mamma, even you cannot undcrstanci
how great would be my self-sacrifice, when to others it will
appear that I am only .too glad to cling to one who gives some
promise of better days. But the turning point has now come.
Hitherto my manner toward Mr. Atwood has been unmisti<k-
able, and he has understood me ; and were he obtuseness it-
self he could not fail to understand me. But after what has
happened I cannot treat him so any longer. It would be shame-
ful ingratitude. Indeed, in my cell last night I the same as
vowed that if he would prove me innocent — if he would save
you and Belle &nd the children, I would make any sacrifice he
would ask. If I feel this way he will know it, for he almost
reads my thoughts, he is so quick, and his feeling for me is so
deep. And yet, mamma, now that I have thought more I fear
that in sacrificing my own heart I am also sacrificing him.
His friends will think so, at least. He is so young, chivalric,
and unworldly that he may think it a noble thing to help us
fight out our battle ; but will he think so in coming years ?
Will he think so if the struggle is long and hard ) Will
he think so if we impede and retard him 1 Alas, will he
think so if he finds I can give him only gratitude and respect i
Oh, mamma, I am so perplexed. I don't want to wrong him ;
I can t see you suffer on hopelessly and helplessly, and there-
fore it seems I ought to give him the right to help us should
he seek for it, as I feel sure he will if I show any relentiog.
We could not be married for a long time ; but if we were en-
gaged he could do much to shield and to protect us all ; and
now, alas, we have no protector.'

I AM SO PERPLEXED.*

289

During this outpouring of her child's soul Mrs. Jocelyn was
much agitated, and wiped tear after tear from her eyes. The
impulse of her loyal, unworldly heart was first to take sides with
Mildred's faithfulness to her earliest love, but her reason con-
demned such a course so positively that she said all she could
against it. ' Millie,' she began, falteringly at first, ' I feel with
you and for you deeply. I know your rare quality of fidelity
—of constancy. You are an old-fashioned Southern girl in
tills respect. While I would not have you wrong your heart,
you must not blindly follow its impulses. It is often said that
women have no reason, thou^^h some are calculating enough,
Heaven knows. Surely, Millie, this is a case in which you
should take some counsel of your reason, your judgment ; and
believe me, darling, I speak more for your sake than ours. I
cannot bear to think of your settling down into a weary work-
ing-woman, with nothing to look forward to but daily drudg-
ery for daily bread.'

' I do not dread that so much, mamma — oh, nothing like so
much — as a long and perhaps a vain effort to love one who
has a sacred right to love as well as loyalty/

' Millie, you don't know how lonely and desolate your life
might become. Millie — forgive me for saying it — your old
love is utterly vain.'

' I know it, mamma,' said Mildred, with a low sob.

' Therefore, my darling, the sweetness and goodness of your
yo^ng life ought not to Ikb wasted on that which is vain and
empty. If Mr. Arnold were worthy of your affections he would
not have left you all this time without even a word. And,
Millie, we may as well face the truth : we never belonged to
the Arnolds' world, and it was wicked folly, for which I suffer
hourly remorse, that we ever tried to approach it. If, instead
of attempting to live like our rich neighbours, I had saved a
goodly portion of your father's income, all might have been so
different ; but I was never taught to save, and I was just blind
-blind.'

' Oh, mamma, mamma, don't talk that way ; I can't bear it.'

' I must prepare you Millie, darling, for what I clearly fore-
see. Your father is destroying himself, and I will not long
survive him. Oh, Millie, it's a terrible thing to love a weak
man as I love him. I love him so that his course is killing me.

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290

WITHOUT A HOME.

It cuuld not be otherwise, for I am much to blainr. I)uii'i
interrupt me ; I am speaking these bitter words for yom
ultimate good. Your life is before you — '

' Mamma, how can my life be before me if you die brukcn-
hearted Y '

' Because you are young. You know that it would add ton-
fold bitterness to my already overflowing cup if I saw no chame
for you, Belle, and the little ones. You may soon have to he
mother and sister both. I forewarn you, because, as Ilo^er
says, you are strong as well as gentle, and you must not just
drift helplessly toward we know not what. Oh, Millie, my
poor, crushed heart must have one consolation before it is at
rest. Roger is not, and never will be, a weak man. It is not
in his nature to give way to fatal habits, I, too, with a woman's
eye, have seen his deep, strong affection for you, and with a
mother's jealous love I have studied his character. He is a
voung giant, Millie, whom yuu unconsciously awoke to man-
hood. He comes of a sturdy, practical race, and unites to
their shrewdness a chivalric Southern heart and large brain.
He doesn't begin, to know, himself, how much of a man he is,
but the experience of life will fast develop him. You could
make him happy, and eventually add greatly to his success.
Let his friends say what they please at first. He has his own
career to make, and in his choice of you he has shown how
unerring and sound his instincts are, and you can prove them
80, and will, I think, when time has given your morbid and
unhappy heart its healthful tona Mrs. Wheaton has done
much work at his uncle's house, and Mrs. Atwood talks to her
quite freely. Mrs. Wheaton says they are wealthy, although
they live so plainly, and that Mr. Atwood, Roger's uncle, is
wonderfully taken with the young man, and means to give him
a chance to climb among the highest, if he continues to be so
steady and persevering. Of course you know that Roger will
never be anything else than steady. And Mrs. Wheaton also
says that Mr. Atwood will, no doubt, leave everything to him,
for he has no children.'

*I am sorry that you told me this,* sighed Mildred; 'it
would ha/e been hard enough at best, but 1 should feel almost
mercenary now.'

*I AM SO PERPLEXED.

291

*0h, Millie, you are too morbid and proud for anything/
expostulated Mrs. tlocolyn, in whom do misfortune or sorrow
could wholly blot out her old, mild passion for making good
matches for her daughters — good matches in the right sense of
the word — for she would look for worth, or what seemed worth
toiler, as well as the wealth that is too often considered solely.
She had sought to involve Vinton Arnold by innocent wiles,
and now, in pathetic revival of her old trait, she was even
more bent on providing for Mildred by Hecuring a man after
her own heart. Love for her daughter, far more than ambition,
was the mainspring of her motive, and surely her gentle
Rchemes were not deserving of a very harsh judgment. She
could not be blamed greatly for looking with wistful eyes on
the one'ray of light falling on her darkening path.

After a brief, troubled silence Mrs. Jocelyn resumed, with
pathos and pleading in her voice, ' Millie, darling, if this could
all he, it would brighten my last days.'

' There, there, mamma ; as far I ran carry out your wishes
it shall be. I had already the same as promised it and I
should be perverse indeed could I not do all — all in my power to
brighten your sad life. But, darling mamma, yon must promise
to live with me in return. A palace would be desolate if yoa
were not seated in the snuggest corner of the hearth.'

' Blessings on you, Millie. You will soon learn to return all
his affection. You are both young, and it will probably be
years before you can be married. In the meantime you will
have a protector and friend who will have the right to aid you.
You were slowly dying for want of air and change and hope.
You worked all day, and shut yourself up in this miserable
place at night, and it could not last ; as your affianced he can
take your part against the world, and protect Belle ; and during
the years while he is making his way upward, you will learn
to love him.'

' Set your mind to rest, mamma ; you have made duty plain.
I will do my best, and it now all rests with Roger.'

• Millie, you are a dear, good child,' said the mother brokenly,
and with smiles shining like light through her tears ; and after
a close embrace she went out, closing the door that the weary
girl might rest at last.

t \

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292

WITHOUT A HOME.

Wlien alone, Mildred turned her face to the wall and
breathed, like the lowest and saddest note of a wind-touched
harp, * Vinton, Viuton Arnold, farewell forever. I must look
for you no more —I must think of you no more. Oh, perveise
heart, bj st^ll !'

But a decision had been reached, and her perplexed mind
had at last found the rest of a fixed resolve. Then nature
asserted her ri^/ht, and she slept long and heavily. When she
awoke, the lamp was lighted in the one living room, from
which came tha sounds of an unsteady step and a thick, rough
voice. She trembled, for she knew that her father had come
home again intoxicated — an event that was becoming terribly
frequent of late. She felt too weak and nerveless to go out
and look upon their living disgrace, and lay still with long,
sighing breaths. ' Even Mr. Atwood will turn from us in dis*
gust, when he realizes papa's degradation,' she thought. - Alas!
can it be right to cloud his bright young life with such a
shameful stain ! Oh, if it were not selfish, 7 could wish to
die and escape from it all.'

At last the heavy, shuffling step passed into the adjoining
bedroom, and soon the wretched mau was in stupor. As Mil-
dred came out she saw Belle, who had returned from her work,
looking toward the room in which her father slept, with a low-
ering, reckless expression that made her sister shudder.

Mildred recalled evil thoughts by putting her arm around
the young girl's neck and kissing her between the eyes. ' Don't
look so, JBelle,' she whispered.

* Where is that to end \ ' Belle asked, in a strange, harsh voice,
pointing toward the room. * Millie, I can't stand this life much
longer.'

* Oh, Belle, don't forget there is a heaven beyond this life.'

A WOMAN S HEART.

293

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A WOMAN S HEART.

RS. JGCELYN aniQ her daughters were silent and
depressed during their meagre supper, for they never
could become accustomed to the terrible skeleton in
their household. When Mr. Jocelyn confined himself solely
to opium he was not so revolting, but common, beastly intoxi-
cation was unendurable. They felt that it was brutalizing his
very soul, and becoming a millstone around their necks which
must drag them down to some unknown abyss of infamy.
Mechanically they went through the motions of eating, the
mother and daughters forcing down the little food they could
afifo/d, and the children ravenously devouring all that was
given to them. As Mildred saw the mother trying to slip un-
noticed her almost untested supper from her plate to Fred's,
she laid a hand upon her arm and said,

' No, mamma ; remember you are to live,' she added in a
low whisper, and the poor creature tried to smile and was
submissive.

With a pathetic maintenance of their old-time habits, they
had scarcely cleared away the su jper-table, put the children to
rest, and made the poor little place as neat and inviting as
possible, when M>. Went worth appeared, folio 'ved by Roger.
Mildred had been ex^. acting the latter with trepidation. Belle
with impatience ; and the bard, lowering look on the face of
the young girl gave way to one of welcome and pleasure, for if
Belle's good moods were apt to be transient, so were her evil
ones, and the hearty, healthy spirits of the young fellow were
contagious. liildred was ereatly relieved to see Mr. Went-
worth, for while she had fully resolved to yield to Roger's suit,
her heart, despite her will, welcomed delay. She was also glad
that her pastor was present, for she could now show her strong
gratitude without fear of immediate and embarrassing results.

204

WITHOUT A HOME.

She was therefore more prompt even than Belle, and, taking
the young man's hand in both of her own, she said, with tears
in her eyes,

* Why didn't you let me thank you this morning 1 My gra-
titude has been growing every moment, and you must take it
all or I shall sink under it Mr. Wentworth, I should have
been in some horrible prison to-night, with my heart breaking
from sorrow and shame, if it were not for this kind, generous
friend, Mr. At wood. I long cherished an unreasoning preju-
dice against you, and showed it openly. You have taken a
strange revenge. No Southern gentleman could have acted
more nobly, and a Southern girl could not use stronger praise
than that'

Roger's hand, usually so strong and steady, trembled. These
words, warm from tlie heart of the girl who had hitherto been
no distant and unapproachable, almost took away his breath.
' Please don't,' he faltered. * Such gratitude — such words—
from you oppress me. I don't deserve such thanks. Any de-
cent man would have been glad to save one who was so good
and so wronged, and I shall always regard it as the luckiest
event of my life that I happened to be the one to aid you.
Oh, you don't know, you never can know what immense good
fortune it ^ras.' Then, as if fearing he might lose his self-
coi\trol, he broke hastily away to greet Mrs. Jocelyn, but Belie
caught him with the impulse of the warm-hearted sister she
had become, and throwing her arm around his neck exclaimed,
* I'm going to pay you with the best toia 1 have.' And she
kissed him again and again.

* Oh, Jupiter ! ' gasped the blushing youth. * B'.ess that
floor- walker and all his deviltry ! I shall let hiro off just a
little for this.'

* No, don't I'll give you another kias if you'll get f»ven with
him,' Belle whispered.

* It's a bargain/ he said in her ear, and Belle ratified the
compact immediately.

' Oh,' thought Mildred, in the depths of her heart, ' if it
were only Belle instead of me I '

Mrs. Jocelyn's greeting was scarcely less demonstrative than
Belle's, but there was a motherly tenderness in it that brought
tears into the young fellow's eyes. < Blessings on you, ray dear

A WOMAN S HEART.

295

good boy/ she murmured, ' and & mother's blessing will do you
DO harm.'

' Look here,' said Roger, brusquely, * if you don't let up on
a fellow I shall make a confounded fool of myself.' And his lip
quivered as if he were a boy in truth.

Mr. Wentworth, who in their strong feeling had been quite
ignored, at first looked on with smiling sympathy. Mildred
had given him the hand that Koger released, and holding it in
a warm clasp he did not speak at first, but watched a scene
that had for him the attractions of a real drama. He now did
not help Roger much by saying, in his hearty way, * That's
right ; lay it on strong ; be deserves all, and more. Miss Mil-
dred, I have been yellow with envy for the last two hours be-
cause I was absent. I would have eulogized you so in court
that the jud^e would have addressed you as Saint Mildred,
and yet it's but honest to say that you would have gone
to jai' hke many a saint before you, had not Roger got hold of
the facts which enabled the judge to prove you innocent. The
lavir is awfully matter-of-fact, and that lace on your person had
to be accounted for.*

* Yes, yes,' cried BeUe, * tell us everything. We've been
dying with curiosity all day, and you've been so mysterious
and important, and have put on such airs, that you quite
awed me. Seems to me that for a country boy you are blos-
soming fast.'

' It isn't necessary for a country boy to be a fool, especially
when he has eyes,' replied Roger, in an off-hand way. Mt's
all simple enough. I happened to be passing the store where
Miss Mildred — *

' Happened to be passing ! How often did you happen to
pass ? ' Belle interrupted, with a face full of mischief.

' You're not a judge, ma'am, and so can't cross-question,' he
answered, with a quick blush but a defiant little nod, ' and if
you were, no one is obliged to incriminate himself. I was merely
passing, and the movements of that scamp, Bissel, slightly
awakened my curiosity, and I followed him and the girl I
was exceedingly fortunate, and saw enough to eaable the judge
to draw from the girl the whole story. Now you see what a
simple, prosaic part I played. Miss Jocelyn, in keeping up so
bravely through scenes and experiences that were perfectly hor^

: m

296

WITHOUT A HOME.

rible to her, is the heroine of the piece. By Jove ! — beg your
pardon, Mr. Wentworth — it was as good as a play to see hovir
she looked her innocence into the heart and mind of the judge.
I saw the judicial frost in his eyes melting like two icicles on
the south side of a barn. Oh, the judge could see as far into
a millstone as the next man,' he continued, laughing, as if he
relished the memory hugely. * After those horrid old hags
were sent along so fast to where they belonged, he looked
when Miss Jocelyn appeared as if a whole picture gallery were
before him. He could keep up his official regulation manner,
but his eyes paid a certain pnsoner many compliments.'

* Roger, you've got the eyes of a lynx,' said Belle, and Mil-
dred was human enough to show the pleasure she felt at his
words.

* Nonsense,' replied the young fellow in sudden confusion
* Any one who has learned to hunt well gets a quick eye.

' 'The judge's eyes at least were not at all to blame,' added
Mr. Wentworth, laughing, and looking at Mildred so kindly
and admiringly that the colour which was stealing into her face
deepened rapidly. * Well, to come down to business. Roger
and I have been to see your employers, and we talked to
them rather strongly. While they insist that they were
misled and not to blame, they felt remorseful, and we struck
while they were in their regretful mood. They give you a
week's vacation, and send you twenty-five dollars as a small
compensation for what you have suffered.'

* I don't want it,' cried Mildred indignantly.

* Oh yes, you do ; besides it's only spoiling the Philistines.
They had already discharged that scoundrel Bissel, and they in-
tend prosecuting the girl. They apologize to you, and pro-
mise to raise your wages ; but I think I can obtain enough sew-
ing and fancy work to render it unnecessary for you to go back
unless you prefer it. I don't want to think of your being suh-
jected to that barbarous rule of standing any longer. I kujw
a lady on Fifth Avenue who is a host if she once becomes in-
terested in any one, and through her I think I can enlist
enough people to keep you busy. I feel sure she will be our
ally when she knows all.

' Oh, if I could only stay with mamma and work at home,
X should be so glad,' was the young girl's response.

A WOM.VNS HKART.

21)7

' Well, I must have one promise first, and your conscience
should lead you to make it honestly. You must give me your
word that you will not shut yourself up from light, air, and re-
creation. You must take a walk every day ; you must go out
with your sister and Koger, and have a good time as often as
possible. If I find you sewing and moping here all the time, I
shall feel hurt and despondent. Miss Millie the laws of health
are just as much God's laws as the Ten Commandments.

' I feel you are right,' she faltered. Then she covered her
face with her hands and sobbed, * But papa, papa. Mr. Went-
worth, since all know it now, you must know the truth that it
is worse than death to us. I feel as if I wanted to hide where
no one could ever see me again ; I fear we do Mr. Atwood a
wrong in permitting him to be so friendly.'

Koger towered up until he ' looked six feet six,' as Belle re-
marked afterward, and coming straight to the speaker, he took
her hand and said, ' Miss Jocelyn, when I'm ashamed to be
seen with you and fielle, I'll strike hands with Bissel in the
sneak-thieving line. J ask for no prouder distinction than to
be trusted by your mother and by you.'

' Roger has settled that question, and shown himself a sen-
sible fellow,' resumed Mr. Wentworth, with an emphatic and
approving nod. < Since you have spoken of a subject so
deeply painful I will speak plainly too. There are plenty of
people, I admit, who treat the families of wrong-doers as if their
unspeakable misfortune were their fault ; and in a certain
sense this tendency is wholesome, for it has a great restraining
influence on those tempted to give away to evil. But this ten-
dency should not be carried to cruel lengths by any one, and
there are those who are sufficiently just to discriminate and
feel the deepest sympathy — as I do. While it would be in bad
taste for you and Miss Belle to ignore this trouble, and flaunt
gayly in public places, it would be positively wicked to let
your trouble crush out health, life and hope. You are both
young, and you are sacredly bound to make the best and the
most of the existence that God has bestowed upon you. You
have as good a right to pure air and sunshine as I have, and i.a
good a right to respect while you maintain your present char-
acter. It would do your father no good, it would break your
mother's heart, if you followed your morbid impulses. It

fi '

298

WITHOUT A HOMt:.

cravii);^

would only add to your father's remorse. 1 f«ar his

for the poisons that are destroying him has beeome a iliseuHc,

and that it is morally impossible for him to refrain.'

* Do you think — would it be possible to put him into an in-
stitution/ Mildred faltered.

* Well, it would be expensive, and yet if he will go to one
and make an honest effort to be cured, perhaps the money
might be raised.'

* Oh,' cried Mildred, ' we'd starve almost, we'd work niglit
and day to give him a chance.'

* The money shall be raised,' said Roger quietly. * I've saved
nearly all my wages, and — '

* Oh, Mr. Atwood,' burst out Mildred impetuously, ' this
would be far better than saving me from prison. I would pay
you back every penny if I toiled all my life, and if papa could
be his old self once more we would soon regain all that we have
lost.' Then a sudden passion of sobs shook her slight form.
* Oh,' she gasped brokenly, * I could die — I could suffer any-
thing to save papa.'

' Mr. Wentworth,' said the wife, with a look in her large
tearless blue eyes which they never forgot, * we will live in one
room, we'll spend only enough for bare existence, if you'll help
us in this matter.' Then putting her arms around Roger's
neck she buried her face on his breast and murmured, ' You
are like a son to me, and all there is left of my poor crushed
heart clings to you. If I could see Martin the man he was, I
could die in peace.'

* He shall have the chance of the best and richest,' said
Roger brokenly. * I ask nothing better than io have a hand
in saving such a man as Mr. Jocelyn must have been.'

Then was Roger's hour and opportunity, and he might at
that time have bound Mildred to him by vows that the girl
would sooner perish than break. Indeed in her abounding
gratitude, and with every generous, unselfish chord in her soul
vibrating, even his eyes could have been deceived, and be
might easily have believed that he had won her heart. But
there was neither policy nor calculation in his young enthusi-
asm. His love truly prompted his heart, but it was a heart
abounding in good, unselfish impulses, if sufficient occasion
called them forth. He loved Mrs. Jocelyn and Belle scarcely

A woman's heart.

20!)

i«>8.s than hJB own moUii;r iui«l sist<T, aii«l yet with a diireri'ut
allection, ii more ideal regini. Thtjy appealed to his imagi-
nation ; their misfortunes made them saered in liis eyes, and
aroused all the knightly instincts which slumber in every
young, unperverted man. Chief of all, they belonged to Mil-
dred, the girl who had awakened his manhood, and to whom
he had felt, even when she was so cold and [)rejudiced, that
he owed his larger life and his power to win a place among
men. Now that she was so kind, now that she was willing to
be aided by him in her dearest hopes, he exulted, and life grew
rich in tasks for which the reward seemed boundless. The
hope would come to him, as Mildred rose to say good-by with
a look that he had never seen on any human face before, that
she might soon give him something warmer and better than
gratitude ; but if she could not soon, he would wait, and if she
never could return his love, he proposed to be none the less
loyal as a friend.

Indeed the young girl's expression puzzled him. The old
pride was all gone, and she gave him the impression of one
who is conquered and defenceless, and who is ready to yield
anything, everything to the victor. And this ill-de&ned im-
pression was singularly true, for she was in a passion of self-
sacritice. She felt tViat one who had been so generous and
self-forgetful had a right to al* that a true man could ask, and
that it would be base in her to refuse. The greater the sacri-
fice the more gladly she would make it, in order that she too
might prove that a Southern girl could not be surpassed in
noblesse oblige by a Northern man. She was in one of those
supreme moods in which men and women are swayed by one
dominant impulse, and all other considerations become insigni-
ficant. The fact that those she loved were looking on was no
restraint upon her feeling, and the sympathizing presence of
the clergyman added to it. Indeed her emotion was almost
religious. The man who had saved her from prison and from
shame — far more : the man who was ready to give all he had
to rescue her fallen father — was befcre her, and without a
B<HX)nd's hesitation she would have gone into a torture-chamber
for the sake of this generous friend. She wanted him to see
hu absolute power. She wanted him to know that he had car-
ried her prejudice, her dislike by storm, and had won the right

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300

WlTIIOCT A HOME.

to dictatu his terms. Becausti sho did nut luvu him slie was
BO frank in her abandon. If he had held her heart's luve she
would have been shy, were she under tenfold greater obli-
gations. She did not mean to be un maidenly — she was not so,
For her unconscious delicacy saved her — but she was at his
feet as truly as the ' devotee' is prostrate and helpless before
the car of Juggernaut. But Roger was no grim idol, and he
was too inexperienced, too modest to understand her. As lie
held her throbbing palm he looked a little wonderingly into iier
flushed face and tear-gemmed eyes that acknowledged him lord
and master without reserve ; then he smiled and said in a low,
half-humorous tone, *I won't be an ogre to you — you won't be
afraid of me any longer. Miss Mildred ? '

* No,' she replied impetuously ; * you are the truest and best
friend a woman ever had. Oh, I know it — I know it now.
After what you said about papa, I would despise myself if I
did not know it.'

She saw all his deep, long-repressed passion leap into his face
and eyes, and in spite of herself she recoiled from it as from a
blow. Ah, Mildred, your will is strong, your gratitude is
boundless, your generous enthusiasm had swept you away like
a tide, but your woman's heart is stronger and greater than
all, and he has seen this truth unmistakably. The passion died
out of his face like a flame that sinks down to the hidden,
smouldering fire that produced it He gave her hand a strong
pressure as he said quietly, * I am indeed your friend —never
doubt it ; ' then he turned away decidedly, and although his
leave-taking from Mrs. Jocelyn and Belle was afl'ectionate, they
felt rather than saw there was an inward struggle for self-
mastery, which made him, while quiet in manner, anxious to
get away.

Mr. Wentworth, who had been talking with Mrs. Jocelyn,
observed nothing of all this, and took his leave with assuranaes
that they would see him soon again.

Mildred stood irresolute, full of bitter self-reproach. She
took an impulsive step toward the door to call Roger back, but,
checking herself, said despairingly, * I can deceive neither him
nor myself. Oh, mamma, it is of no use.' And indeed she
felt that it would be impossible to carry out the scheme that
promised so much for those she loved. As the lightning flash

A WOMAN S llEAUT.

301

eclipses the sun at noonday, so all of her gratitude and self-
sacrificial enthusiasm now seemed but pale sickly sentiment
before that vivid flime of honest love — that divine fire which
consumes at touch every motive save the one for the sacred
union of two lives.

' I wish I could see such a man as Roger Atwood look at me
as he looked at you/ said Belle indignantly. ' J would not
send him away with a heartache.

' Would to Heaven it had been you, Belle ! ' replied Mildred
dejectedly. ' I can't help it — I'm made so, and none will know
it better than h .'

' Don't feel that way,' remonstrated Mrs. Jocelyu ; * time
and the thought of what Roger can do for us will work great
changes. You have years before you. If he will help us save
your father — '

' Oh, mamma, I could shed for him all the blood left in my
body.'

' Nonsense ! * cried the matter-of-fact Belle. * He doesn't want
your blood ; he only wants a sensible girl who will love him
as he deserves, and who will help him to help us all.'

Mildred made a despairing gesture and went to her room.
She soon reappeared with a quilt and a pillow, and, placing
them on the floor beside the low bed in which the children
slept, said, ' I'll stay here, and you take my place with Belle,
mamma. No,' she added resolutely, as her mother began to
remonstrate ; ' what I resolve upon I intend to do hereafter,
even to the least thing. You shall not go near the room where
papa is to-night.'

Throughout the evening, while lovo, duty, and generous sym-
pathy planned for his redemption ; throughout the long night,
while the sad-hearted wife prayed for success in their efforts,
the husband and father lay shrouded in the heavy, rayless dark-
ness of a drunken stupor.

i;>

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ij r

y I
II

302

WITHOUT A HOME.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

STRONG TEMPTATION.

1^7 ELL, I must admit that I have rarely been so touch-
ed and interested before,' said Mr. Wentworth, as he
and Roger walked homeward together ; ' and that is
saying much, for my calling brings human life before me in al«
most every aspect. Mildred Jocelyn is an unusual girl. Un-
til to day I thought her a trifle cold, and even incapable ot
very deep feeling. I thought pride — not a common pride, you
know, but the traditional and proverbial pride of a Southern
woman — her chief characteristic, but the girl was fairly vol-
canic with feeling to-night. I believe she would starve in very
truth to save her father, though, of course, we won't permit
any such folly as they are meditating, and I do not believe
there is any sacri6ce, not involving evil, at which she would
hesitate. She's a jewel, Atwood, and in winning her, as you
will, you will obtain a girl for whom a prince might well sue.
She's one of a thousand, and beneath all her wonted self con-
trol and reserve she has as true and passionate a heart as ever
beat in a woman's breast.'

* Good-night,' said Koger, a little abruptly. * I agree with
all you can say in regard to Miss Jocelyn's nobility, and I
shall not fail her, nor shall I make bargains or conditions in
my loyalty. The privilege of serving such a woman is enough.
I will see you again soon,' and he walked rapidly down the
street on which his uncle resided.

Roger and Mr. Wentworth had become very good friends,
and nie latter had been of much service to the young fellow
by guiding him in his reading and study. The clergyman
had shown his usual tact in dealing with Roger. Never once
had he lectured or talked religion at him, but he preached in*
terestingly, and out of the pulpit was the genial, natural,
hearty man that wins the respect and good-Will of all. His
interviews with Roger were froo from the fiuntest trac«' of ro-

8TUON0 TEMri'ATFON.

303

ligious aifectatiun, and he showed that friendly ap|>reciation
and spirit of coraradoship which yuung men like. Roger felt
that he was not dealing with an ecclesiastic, but with a man
who was as honest, earnest and successful in his way as he ever
hoped to be in his. He was therefore being drawn by motives
that best accorded with his disposition toward the Christian
faith — by a thorough respect for it, by seeing its practical value
as worked out in the useful busy life of one who made his
chapel a fruitful oasis in what would otherwise have been a
moral desert. In his genuine humanity and downright hon-
esty, in his care of people's bodies as . ell as souls, and tem-
poral as well as spiritual interests, the minister was a tower of
strength, and his influence for good over the ambitious youth,
now fast developing the character which would make or mar
him for life, was most excellent. While Roger spoke freely
to him of his general hopes and plans, and gave to him more
confidence than to any one else, there was one thing that, so
far as words were concerned, he hid from all the world — his
love for Mildred. The sagacious clergyman, however, at last
guessed the truth, but until to-night never made any reference
to it. He now smiled to think that the sad-hearted Jocelyns
might eventually find in Roger a cure for most of their trou-
bles, since he hoped that Mr. Jocelyn, if treated scientifically,
mi^ht be restored to manhood.

Mr. Ezra Atwood, Roger's uncle, sat in his small parlour far
beyond his usual hour for retiring, and occasionally he paced
the floor so impatiently as to show that his mind was deeply
perturbed. While his nephew studied books he had studied
his nephew, and in the process the fossilization of his heart had
been arrested, and the strong, steady youth had suggested
hopes of something like a filial relation to the childless man.
At first he had growled to himself, ' If the boy were only mine
I'd make a man of him,' and then gradually the idea of adopt-
ing him and making a man of him, in spite of the fact that he
was his nephew merely, had presented itself and slowly
gained full possession of his mind. Roger was capable, per-^
severing, and tremendously ambitious — qualities that were
after the old man's heart, and, after maintaining his shrewd
furtive observations for months, he at last muttered to himself,
* I'll do it, for he's got the At wood grit and giip, and more

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304

WITHOUT A HOME.

brainR tlian any of us. His father in shrewd and ohstinato
enough, but he's narrow, and hasn't breadth of mind to do
more than pinch and save what ho can scratch out of that
stony farm of his. I'm narrow, too. I can turn an honest
penny in my line with the sharpest in the market, and I'm con-
tent ; but this young fellow is a now departure in the family,
and if given a chance and kept from all nonsense he can clinih
to the top notch. There's no telling how high a lawyer
can get in this country if he has plenty of brains and a ready
tongue.'

Thus the old man's dominant trait, ambition, which he had
satisfied in becoming known as one of the most solid and
wealthy men of his calling, found in his nephew a new sphere
of development. In return for the great favours which he
proposed to confer, however, he felt that Roger should grate-
fully accept his wishes as absolute law. With the egotism and
confidence of many successful yet narrow men, he believed
himself perfectly capable of guiding the young fellow's career
in all respects, and had little expectation of any fortunate issue
unless he did direct in all essential and practical matters. Mr.
At'^ood worshipped common-sense and the shrewd individu-
ality of character which separates a man from his fellows, and
enables him to wrap himself in his own interests and pursuits
without babbling to others or being impeded by them. Influ-
enced by his wife, he was kind to the poor, and charitable in a
certain methodical way, but boasted to her that in his limited
circle he had no ' hangers-on,' as he termed them. He had an
instinctive antipathy to a class that he called * ne'er-do-weels,'
* have-beens,' and * unlucky devils,' and if their misfortunes
and lack of thrift resulted from causes like those destroying
Mr. Jocelyn he was sternly and contemptuously implacable
toward them. He was vexed that Koger should have bothered
himself with the sick man he had discovered on ship-board the
day before Christmas. * It was no affair of his,' he had grum-
bled ; but as the young fellow had been steady as a clock in
his business and studies after M. Jocelyn had recovered, he had
given no further thought to these friends, nor had it occiurett
to him that they were more than passing acquaintances. But
a letter from Roger's father, who had heard of Mr. Jocelyn's
ipondition and of his son's intimacy with the family, awakrnod

8TU0NU TEMPTATION.

3Uj

the conservative uncle's suspicions, and thut verv afternoon
the well-meanine but garrulous Mrs. Wheaton had told his
wife all about what she regarded ns brilliant porformancea on
the part of Roger at the police court. Mrs. At wood was a
kind-hearted woman, she had much of her husband's horror of
people who were not respectable after her strict ideal, and she
felt that she ought to warn him that Roger's friends were not
altogether desirable. Of course she was glad that Roger bad
been able to show that the young girl was innocent, but shop-
girls living in low tenements with a drunken father were not
Ht companions for their nephew and possible heir. Her hus-
band indorsed her views with the whole force of his strong, un-
sympathetic, and ambitious nature, and was now awaiting
Roger with the purpose of ' putting an end to such nonsense at
once.' The young man therefore was surprised to find, as he
entered the hallway, that his uncle was up at an hour late for
bini.

* I wish to see you,' was the prompt, brief greeting from
Mr. Atwood, who was uneasily tramping up and down the
small stiff parlour, which was so rarely used that it might
almost have been dispensed with as a part of the residence.
Roger came forward with some anxiety, for his uncle lowered
at him like a thunder-cloud.

'Sit there, where I can see your face,' was the next curt
direction. There was neither guilt nor fear in the frank
countenance that was turned full upon him. ' I'm a man of
few words,' he resumed more kindly, for Roger's expression
disarmed him somewhat ' Surely,' he thought, ' when the
boy gets a hint of what I can do for him, he'll not 6i^ the fool
to tangle himself up with people like the Jocelyns.'

' Where have you been to-night ? ' he asked bluntly. Roger
told him. 'Where were you last night and this morning 1'
Roger briefly narrated the whole story, concluding, ' It's the
first time I've been late to business, sir.'

The old man listened grimly, without interruption, and then
fiaid, 'Of course I'm glad you got the girl off, but it's bad
management to get mixed up in such scrapes. Perhaps a little
insight into court-room scenes will do you no harm since you
are to be a lawyer. Now that tho affair is over, however, I
wish you to drop ti,e.se Jocelyns. They are of no ailvantai^o {44

30G

WITHOUT A HOME.

you, and they belong to a class that is exceedingly disagreeable
to me. I suppose you know what kind of a man Mr. Jocelyn
is?' •

* Yes, sir ; but you do not know what kind of a woman Mrs.
Jocelyn is. She is — *

' She is Jocelyn's wife, isn't she ? '

'Certainly; but — '

' And the girl is his daughter. They live in a dowdy tene-
ment, and are as poor as crows.'

' Misfortune and wrong of others might make all this true of
us,' began the youth impetuously ; ' and yet if old friends
should turn their backs — '

* You are not an old friend,' his uncle agaia interrupted, in
his hard business-like tones. * They are merely accidental ac-
quaintances, who happened to board at your father's house last
summer. They haven't the ghost of a claim upon you. It
looks far more as if you were in love with the girl, and were
making a romantic fool of yourself*'

Koger's face grew very white, but he controlled himself, and
asked : * Uncle, have I ever treated you with disrespect ? '

* Certainly not ; why should you ! '

' With some right I may also ask why you treat me with
such disrespect 1 '

The old man opened his eyes, and was somewhat taken
aback by this unexpected question, and yet a moment's reflec-
tion showpd him that he had given cause for it. He also
misunderstood his nephew, and resumed, with a short concilia-
tory laus^, * I guess I'm the fool, to be imagining all this non-
sense. Of course you are too much cf an Atwood to entangle
yourself with such people and spoil your prospects for life.
Look here, Roger. I'll be frank with you, and then we'll
understand each other. You know I've neither chick no;
child, and I've turned a good big penny in business. When
you first came I thought you were a rattle-pated country boy
that wanted a lark in the city, and I took you more to keep
you out of mischief than any other cause. Well I've watched
you closely, and I was mistaken. YouVe got the stuff in you
to make a man, and I see no reason why you should not be at
the top of the heap before you reach my years, and I mean U
give you a chance. You've got a little soft placo in your ho.id

STllONG TEMl^ATION.

307

and heart, or you wouldn't be getting yourself mixed up in
other people's troubles. I tell you what it is, my boy, a man
who gets ahead in these times must strike right out for him-
self, and steer clear of all fouling with " ne'M>-do-weels," as if
they had a pestilence. Hook on to the lucky ones, the strong
ones, and they'll help you along. Now if you'll take this course
and follow ray advice right along, I'll give you a chance with
the first. You shall go to the best college in the land, next to
the law-school, and then money enough to enable you to strike
high. By the time you are thirty you can marry an heiress.
Bat no more Jocelyns and shop-girls who have been at station-
houses, if you please. The girl may have been innocent of
that offence ; but, plain man as I am, I don't like this style of
people at all, an '. I know human nature well enough to be
sure that they'll try to tie themselves ol to you if they can.'

Iloger was deeply moved, for he had no idea that his uncle
was cherishing such far-reaching plans in his behalf. While
he had little sympathy with the cold, selfish side of the pro-
gramme, his strong ambition responded powerfully to the
prospect held out to him. He knew that the hopes inspired
were not vain, for his uncle was a man whose deeds always
outstripped his words, and that his fortunes were practically
assured if he would follow the worldly-wise policy to which he
had listened. His ambition whispered,. * Mildred Jocelyn
does not love you, and never will. Even now, after you have
done so much for her, and her gratitude is boundless, her heart
shrinks from you. She may not be able to help it, but it is
true nevertheless. Why should you throw away such prospects
for the sake of one who loves another man, and who, until in a
time of desperate need, treated you with undisguised coldness
and dislike ? Besides, by yielding to your uncle's will you can
eventually do more for the family than if thrown on your own
resources.' It was indeed the great temptation of his life, and
he wavere<l.

'Uncle,' he said irresolutely, 'you have indeed opened a
very alluring prospect, and I am grateful that you think so
well of me, and that you are willing to do so much. Since
you have been so frank with me, I will be equally so with you,'
m<\ he told him i\\\ iibout liis vt'lationn with tho Joc(ilyns, and

308

WJTHOUT A HOME.

tried to make the shrewd old merchant understand that they
were not common people.

' They are the most dangerous people of all/ he interrupted
impatiently. * Having once been up in *he world, they think
they are still as good as anybody, and are wild to regain their
old position. If they had always been poor and commonplace,
they would not be so likely to presume. What you say about
the girl's not caring for you is sheer nonsense. She'd marry
you to-morrow if she could. The one idea of such people is
to get out of the slough into which they l^ave fallen, and
they'll marry out of it the first chance they get, and like enough
they'll do worse if they can't marry. I tell you they are the
most dangerous kind of people, and Southern at that. I've
learned all about them ; the father has gone to the devil tor
good and all, and, with your feeling and weakness toward them,
you'll never be safe a moment unless you drop them complete
ly and finally. Come, young man, let this aflair be the test
between us. I've worked hard for nearly a life-time, and have
a right to impose some conditions with what has been earned
by forty years of toil, early and late. I never speculated once.
Every dollar I had to spare I put in paying real estate and
governments, and, Roger, I'm worth to-day a good half mil-
lion. Ha, ha, ha ! people who look at the plain old man in
the plain little house don't know that he could afford a man-
sion on the Avenue better than most of them. This is be-
tween ourselves, but I want you to act with your ey :s o|)en.
If you are such a soft-headed fool as to let that girl, whom you
admit does not like you or care a rap for you personally, stand
between you and such prospects, then I'm mistaken in yon,
and the sooner I find it out the better. Come, now, I'll be
good-natured and liberal in the matter, for young men will be
a little addle-pated and romantic before they cut their wisdom
teeth. Through that English woman who works for your aunt
occasionally you can see to it that these people don't suffer,
but beyond that you must drop them once for all. What is
more, your father and mother take the same view that I do,
and your filial duty to them requirrjs what I ask. While we
naturally refuse to be mixed up with such people, we are seek-
ing chiefly to promote your welfare ; for the worst thini? that
oan happen to a young man starting in life is to have ii helpless

STUONG TKMPTATION.

30!)

lot of people hangiog on to him. So, come, give -no your
proinise — the promise of an Atwood — and it will be all right.'

Roger was not a self-sacrificing saint by any means. More-
over, he had inherited the Atwood characteristics sufficiently
to feel all the worldly force of his uncle's reasoning, and to be
tempted tremendously by his offers. They promised to realize
his wildest dreams, and to make the path to fame and wealth
a broad, easy track instead of a long, steep, thorny path, as he
had expected. He was virtually on the mountain-top, and had
been shown all the ' kingdoms of the world and the glory of
them.'

But against this brilliant background he saw the thin, pale
face of Mrs. Jocelyn, as she looked up to him with loving trust
and gratitude, and the motherly kiss that she had imprinted
on his cheek was a seal to his absolute taith. He felt the pres-
sure of Belle's arm about his neck, and remembered his promise
to give her a brother's regard and protection,. and justly he
feared if deserted now the impulsive, tempted girl would soon
meet shipwreck. She would lose faith in God and man. But
that which touched him most nearly were his words to Mildred
— words spoken even when she showed him most plainly that
her heart was not his, and probably never could be — ' I am
your friend : never doubt it.' How false he would seem to
them ; how false and selfish to his friend, the great-hearted
clergyman, who was like Christ himself in his devoted labours;
how false and base he would ever feel himself to be in his own
soul !

For a time there was a terrible conflict in his breast as he
paced the floor in long strides, with hands clenched and brow
heavily contracted. His uncle watched him curiously and with
displeased surprise, for that he could hesitate at all seemed to
the worldly man an evidence of fatal weakness.

Roger fought it out like a genuine Atwood, and was nearer
akin to his uncle than the old merchant would ever suspect.
His heart craved the kingdoms of the world unspeakably, but
he now realized that he must barter for them his honour, his
mauhood, and love. Thus far he had a right to love Mildred,
and it was not her fault she could not return it. But, poor
and shamed as she was, he knew that she would despise him
if he yielded now, even though he rose to be the foremost man

i:.

310

WITHOUT A LOME.

.sc

of the natiun. Not with any chivalric. uncalculating inipn
did he reach his conclusion, but by the slow, deliberate reason-
ing of a cool-headed, sturdy race that would hold to a course
with life-long tenacity, having once chosen it.

Turning to his uncle, he asked quietly, * What did you mean
by the promise of an Atwood ] '

* You ought to know. Our family, for generations, have
lived up among the granite hills of ForestviUe, and, although
poor, our promises, whether spoken or written, are like them.'

* I'm glad to hear you say that — I'm glad to be reminded of
it,' his nephew replied. ' Well, my promise has already been
given. I have promised that poor broken-hearted woman, Mrs.
Jocelyn, that I'd try to help her through her terrible misfor-
tunes. I've promised her daughter Belle that I'd give her a
biother's care and affection. I've promised the girl I love that
\ would at least be her friend, since I cannot be more, I'll
prove myself a true Atwood, worthy to sustain the family name
and honour by keeping my promises, and if I break them, you
yourself, deep in your heart, would despise me.'

For a moment the old merchant was nonplussed, so adroitly
and unexpectedly had Roger turned his words against him.
Then, like most men Ruddenly put in a false position, he grew
angry, and blurted out, * Nonsense ! It doesn't apply at all.
These artful women have come it over you — have entrapped
you.' The young man here made a strong gesture of protest
* Oh, don't try to deceive me,' his uncle proceeded, more loudly
and passionately ; ' I know the world. If I'd blindly made
promises to adventurers who woald compass my ruin, ought I
to keep them 1 If I find I've endorsed a forged check, ought
I not to stop its payment 1 In the name of your parents and
as your uncle, I protest against this folly, for I see well enough
where it will end. Moreover, I tell you plainly that you must
choose between re and my ofjfers, and that old sot of a Jocelyn
and his 8chemi:ig wife and daughters. If you can be carried
away by such absurdity, you are weaker tlian water, and the
sooner you learn by bitter experience the better, for you cer-
tainly belong to that class which only hard experience can
teach. But I'd like to see those brazen-faced creatures and
give them a piece of — '

STRON(J TEMPTATION.

311

'Stop!* thundered Roger; * bowure how you say another
word against those whom sorrow should render sacred. You
know less about them than about heaven. Do you forget that
I am of age 1 You made me an offer, and I thanked you for
it honestly and gratefully. What's more, I was base enough
to be tempted by it Oh, yes' — with a bitter laugh — "I was an
Atwood enough for that. If you had not coupled it with the
condition that I bhould, like a coward, desert helpless and un>
fortunate women to whom my word is given, I would have
fulfilled your best hope^ and ambitions, and have made your old
age glad with my grateful love and service. In your cold-
hearted worldliness you have overreached yourself, and you
wrong yourself more than me, even though I perish in the
streets. But I won't starve. Mark my words ; I'll place the
Atwood name where you can't, with all your money, and I
shall not make broken faith with those who trust me, th^
foundation of my fortunes.'

' Very well, then,* said his uncle, who had quieted down
into an anger of white heat ; * since you prefer those disrepu-
table strangers to your family, go to them. I wash my hands
of you, and shall write to your father to this efifect to-night.
I'm a prompt man, and don't dilly dally.*

' Mrs. Jocelyn and her daughters are no more disreputable
than you are, sir, and calling me " soft-hearted fool " doesn't
make me one. I know the duty I owe my pai'en j3, and shall
perform it I shall write to them also. They shall hear both
sides, and were your fortune multiplied a thousand times, I
won't sell my manhood for it. Am I to have shelter another '
night, or do you wash your hands of me here and now 1 '

* Oh, stay by all means, or you may find yourself in the same
cell in which your paragon spent last night,* replied his uncle,
whose rage now passed all bounds.

' Those words are brutal,' said Roger sternly, * and if you
are not ashamed of them after thinking them over, you are not
the man I took you to be,* and he stalked out of the room and
out of the house, slamming the door after him.

The old merchant sank into a chair, trembling with both an-
ger and chagrin, for he felt that he had been worsted in the
encounter. He did regret the words as soon as spoken, and a
certain rude sense of justice made him feel, even in his excite*

ill

312

WITHOUT A HOME.

meiit, limb, his uuphuw, although an egregious fool of cuuisc,
had been true to his sense of right and honour.

After a wretched night he found on the breakfast-table a
brief, cold note from Roger, saying that he would inform liim
in a day or two where to send his effects and such part of his
salary as remained unpaid. The old man frowned, and the At-
wood pride and obstinacy took possession of bin like evil
spirits. In grim reticence he resumed his old routine and life,
and again gave himself up to the mechanical accumulation and
saving of money.

-X

CHAPTER XXXV TIL

NO 'DARK CORNERS.'

*ROM his uncle's house Roger went to a small hotel and
obtained a room in which to spend a sleepless night.
After the excitement of anger passed, he recognised the
difficulties of his position. He was worse than friendless in
the great city, for when he sought employment and gave
an account of his antecedents, people would ask suspiciously
why he left his uncle. The reasons were of too delicate a na-
ture to be babbled about in business offices.

At first he was much depressed, and complained that ' luck
was dead again him.' Moreover he felt that he had responded
too harshly to his uncle, who, after all, was only trying to aid
him in his cold-blooded way. Nevertheless he, too, had hi.«
share of the Atwood pride and obstinacy, and he resolved
that the man who had called him a * soft-headed fool/ for
sacrificing himself to his sense of honour and duty, must apolo-
gize before there could be any reconciliation. His good sense
led him to make one wise resolution, and early in the morning
he carried it out by making a clean breast of it to Mr. Went-
worth. The good man listened with deep interest, and heart-
ened the young fellow wonderfully by clapping him on the
shoulder and saying, * You are made of the right stuff, Atwood,

NO 'DARK CORNERS.'

313

and although the material is yet a little raw and crude, experi-
ence and Christian principle will temper it in time into the
finest metal'

* Don't ascribe Christian principle to me,' growled IlDger,
'for Tm tempted to swear like a pirate.'

' Very likely, and not without some reason. I occasionally
feel a little that way myself, but I don't do it ; neither have
you.'

Roger stared. * You're not a bit like a minister,' he burst
out.

' Sorry to hear it.'

' That isn't what I mean. You are a man. Our dominie np
at Forestville was only a minister.'

' I have my share of human nature, Roger, and am glad of
it, for I know from experience just how you young fellows feel.
But it involves many a big fight. Christian principle doesn't
mean a cotton-and-wool nature, or a milk-and-water experi-
ence, to put it in a homely way. It's Christian principle that
makes Mildred Jocelyn, as you say, one of the bravest and best
girls in the wo "'1. She's worth more than all your uncle's
money, and you ueedn't be discouraged, for you'll win her yet.
A young fellow with your pluck can make his way unaided,
and thousands have done so without your motives or your
ability. I'll stand by you, for you are the kind of man that I
believe in. To make your course completely blameless, you
must write a long filial letter to your mother, explaining every-
thing ; and if you'll take my advice you will send something
like this to your uncle ; ' and sitting down he scratched off the
following words :

' On calmer reflection I perceive that your intentions toward
me were kindly and friendly. I should have remembered this
and the respect due to your years, and not have spoken so
harshly. For all that it was not right for me to say I apologize.
At the same time it is my undoubted right and unwavering pur-
pose to be guided by my own conscience. Our views of life
and duty vary so widely that it will be best for me to struggle
on alone, as I can. This, however, is no reason why we should
quarrel, or forget the ties of blood which unite us, or oui cha-
racters as gentlemen.'

iifl

314

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Such a note will put you right with your own conscience
and your people at home,' resumed Mr. Went worth, ' and
there's nothing like starting right'

Roger complied at once, for the clergyman's ' human nature'
had gained his unlimited confidence.

* Now I'm going out,' said his friend. * You stay and make
my study your own. There is paper, etc. I think I know of
a room that you can obtain for a small sum from a nice, quiet
family, and perhaps it will just suit you. I'll see ; but aon't
take it if you don't like it You'll stay and lunch with us, and
we'll drink to your success in generous cups of coffee that only
my wife knows how to make,' and he left Roger cheered, hope-
ful and resolute. What was better still, the young man was
starting right, as was well proved by the long, affectionate, yet
firm and manly letter written to his mother.

After a genial lunch, at which he was treated with a respect
and kindness which did him a world of good, he went with
Mr. Wentworth to see the room, and was well pleased with it,
and he added his future address to the note to hu uncle. He
then said,

* I keep my promise about Mr. Jocelyn, and the sooner that
man is put under treatment the better.'

* Why, Roger ! ' exclaimed his friend, * you can't do any-
thing now.'

* 1 can do just what I promised. I have a hundred dollars
in the bank, and there is about twenty-five still due me. With
the latter sum I can get along until I can find employment'

* Hold on, Roger ; it seems to me that your generosity is
getting the better of you now. Circumstances have greatly
changed since you made your promise.'

* I've not changed, and my promises don't change with cir-
cumstances. It may be some time before you can raise the
money, even if you can get it at all in these hard times, and
it's something that ought to be done at once.'

* Give me your hand again, old fellow. The world would
say we were a pair of fools, but we'll wait and see who's right.
Come to me at nine to-morrow morning.'

Mr. Wentworth had several things on hand that he meant to
do, but he dropped everything and started for the offices of
some lawyers whom he knew, determined to find a foot-

NO 'DARK CORNERS.'

315

hold at once for his plucky prote/^. Roger went to call on Mrs.
Jocelyn, feeling that he would like to get the matter relating
to her husband settled, so that ^le might give all his thought
and energy to the problem of making his way unaided. In re-
sponse to his knock a light step crossed the floor, and the door
was opened a little, revealing Mildred's face, then thrown open
hospitably. ' Oh, Mr. Atwood,* she exclaimed, * I am very
glai to see you. Forgive mo that I opened the door so sus-
piciously, but you have never lived in a tenement, and do not
know what awful neighbours are often prowling around. Be-
sides, I was alone, and that made me more timid. I am so
troubled about something, and perhaps you can help me, for
you seem to be able to help every one,' Mildred continued has-
tily, for she dreaded an embarrassing silence between them un-
speakably. ' I've been to see my employers in the hope they
would forgive that poor girl who put the lace in my cloak, and
they won't. They were polite and kind to me, and offered me
better wages if I would come back, but were relentless toward
the girl, saying they " meant to break up that kind of ^hing
once for all." Don't you think something might be done ) '

'If you failed there would be no use of my trying,' said
Roger, smiling. ' I think it was wonderfully good of you to
go on such an errand.'

' I've had some lessons in goodness lately,' she replied, with
a little friendly nod. * As 1 talked with those stern men, I
realized more than ever what an escape I've had, and I've
thanked you in my heart a thousand times.'

The young fellow looked as if he had been repaid a thousand
times, and wondered that he could have been so tempted by
his uncle's terms, for* it now seemed impossible that he could
ever do aught else than serve the sweet, sad girl who looked
into his eyes with the trust and friendliness which he sought
for so long in vain. His face became so expressive of his feelings
that she hurried on to speak of another matter weighing on her
mind.

* Mr. Atwood,' she said hesitatingly, * I have another trouble.
Vou looked so vindictively at that Mr. Bissel in the court-room
that I have feared you might do something that you might
afterward regret. I know how one with your honourable spirit
would feel toward such a wretch, but, believe me, he is beneath

810

WITHOUT \ HUME.

your notice. I should feel so badly if you got into any trouble
on my account. Indeed it seems that I couldn't stand it at
all,' and she said it with so much feeling that he was honestly
delighted. His spirits were rising fast, fur this frank, stront'
interest in his welfare, in contrast with her old constraint and
coldness, was sweet to him beyond all words.

With a mischievous and rather wicked look in his dark eyes,
he said, * You must leave that fellow to me. I'm not a saint
as you are.'

Mildred proved that eh** was not altogether a saint by in-
wardly relishing his spirit, for she never could overcome some
of the traits of her Southern blood ; but she said, honestly
and anxiously, ' I should feel very badly if you got into any
trouble.'

' That thought will make me prudent,' he replied gratefully.
' You would never feel kadly again about anything, if I had
my way.'

* I believe you, Mr. Atwood, and I can't see why I did not
understand yon better before,' said Mildred, the words slipping
out almost before she knew it.

' I don't think you understand me yet,' he answered, very
gently.

She did not reply, but he saw her fingers trembling with
nervous apprehension as she tried to go on with her sewing ;
he also saw that she was growing very pale. Indeed she had
almost the sick, faint look of one who is about to submit to
some painful operation.

/Don't be frightened, Miss Mildred,' he remarked, after
watching her keenly for a moment or two. She looked up and
saw him smiling broadly at her. In an^er to her perplexed
look he continued quietly, ' I can tell you what has been the
matter between us, and what is the matter now — you are afraid
of me.'

' Mr. Atwood — ' faltered Mildred, and then words failed her,
and her pale face crimsoned.

* Don't you think it would be best for us to understand each
other, now that ^e are to be friends 1 ' he asked.

* Yes,' gasped the young girl faintly, fearing every moment
that he would lose his self control and pour out a vehement
declaration of his love. She was prepared to say, * Roger At-

NO 'DARK rOHNEUS.'

wuod, 1 am ready to luuku any sa«rific(; within my puwttr, tiiat
you can ask,' but at the same time fult that shu could enduru
hIow torture by fire better than nassiunate words of love, which
would simply bruise the heart that could make no response. If
he would only ask quietly, ' Mildred, will you be my wife
when the right time comes ? I'll be content with such love as
you can give ; ' she would have replied with the calmness of
an unalterable purpose, ' Yes, Koger, and I'll do my best,' be-
lieving that years of effort might be crowned with success.
But now, to have him plead passionately for what she could
no more bestow than if she were dead, gave her an indescrib-
able sense of fear, pain and repugnance ; and she cowered and
and shrank over the sewing which she could scarcely hold, so
great was her nervous apprehension.

Instead of the vehement declaration there came a low, mel-
low laugh, and she lifted her eyes and stared at him, her work
dropping from her hands.

Roger understood the situation so well, and was so thor-
oughly the master of it in his generous self control and kindly
intentions, that he should scarcely be blamed if he got out of
it such bitter-sweet enjoyment as he could, and he said, with
a twinkle in his eyes, * Miss Millie. I wasn't going to strike
you.'

'I don't understand you at all,' cried Mildred, with a
pathetically perplexed expression and starting tears, for the
nervous strain was becoming a little too prolonged.

Koger became grave at once, and with a quiet, gentle manner
he came to her side and took her hand. ' Will you be as
honest with me as I shall be with you 1 ' he asked.

Til try to be.'

* Well, then, I'll soon solve for you my poor little riddle.
Miss Mildred, you know that I have loved you ever since
you waked up an awkward, lazy, country fellow into the wish
to be a man.'

His words were plain enough now, surely, but she was no
longer frightened, for he spoke in such a kindly natural voice
that she looked him straight iu the eyes, with a delicate bloom
in her face, and replied,

*I didn't wish to mislead you, Mr. Atwood, and I wouldn't
trifle with you.'

318

WITHOUT A IIOMK.

' Vou haw heun iruih and honesty itHvlf.'

' No, I've not,' she unswerud impetuously ; ' 1 churiiihcd an
unreasoning prejudice against you, and — and— I disHked you,
thouffh why, I can't see now, and nobly you have triumpiied
over Doth prejudice and dislike.'

' It will ever be the proudest triumph of n,y life ; but, Miss
Mildred, you do not love me in the least, and I fear you never
will.'

* I am so sorry, so very sorry,' she faltered, with crimson
face and downcast eyes.

* I am, too ; but that which I want to say to you is, that
you are not to blame, and I don't blame you. I could not love
a girl simply because she wanted me to, were such a thing pos-
sible, and whv should I demand of you what I couldn't do my-
self? All I ask in the first place — don't you remember it in tiie
old front walk at home ? — was friendship. Let us go back to
that Let me become your simple, honest friend, and help
you in every way within my power. Don't let me frighten
you any more with the dread of high tragedy. Now you've
had all the declaration you ever need fear. I won't break
loose or explode under any provocation. I can't help my love,
and you must not punish me for it, nor make yourself miserable
about it, as if it were a powder magazine which a kind word
or look might touch oif. I want to put your heart to rest, for
you have enough to bear now. Heaven knows ; I want you
to feel safe with me — act free from fear and annoyance as Belle is.
I won't presume or be antimental.'

* Oh, my perverse, perverse heart ! ' wailed Mildred. ' I
could tear it out of my breast and throw it away in disgust.
I want to love — it would be a poor return for all that you are
and have done fur me — but it is of no use. I will not deceive
one so true as you are, by even a trace of falseness. You de-
serve the love of the best woman in the world, and some day
you'll find her — '

* I have found her,* he put in quietly.

* No. no. no !' she cried passionately ; 'but I am as nature
made me, and I can't seem to help myself. How strange it
ueems that I can say from the depths of my soul I could die for
you, and yet that I can't do just the one thing you deserve a

No 'UAKK COUNKUS.'

31!)

llioiiHttiiil timt'H ! Ifait, Kojjcr, I will 1>c the most «lcvott'iI 8ist«r
tliHt uvur a man had.'

' No,' ho saiil, smiling, ' that wuii't answer at all. That
wouldn't be hont'st, as far as I am concerned. Belle is my sis-
ter, but you can never be. I know you don't love me now,
and, OS I've said, perhaps you never can, but I'm too persis-
tent in my nature to give up the hope. Time may bring
changes, and I've got years of up hill work before I can think
ol marrying. Vou are in a self-sacrificing mood now. I saw
it in your eyes and manner last night — I see it now. Mihlred,
I could take a very great advantage of you if I chose.'

' Indeed you could. You don't know how generous vou are.
Vou have conquered me, overwhelmed me by your kmdness,
and I couldn't say No, to anything in your nature to ask.'

For a moment he looked sorely tempted, and then he said
brusquely, * I'll put a spoke in that wheel. I'd give all the
world for this little hand, but I won't take it until your heart
goes with it. Jjo there ! *

The young girl sighed deeply. * You are right,* she mur-
mured, ' when you give so much I can give so little.'

' That is not what I was thinking of. As a woman you have
sacred rights, and I would despise myself if I tried to buy you
with kindnesss, or take advantage of your gratitude. I'll ad-
mit, too, since we are to have no dark corners in this talk, that
I would rather be loved as I know you can love. I'd rather
have an honest friendship than a forced affection, even though
the force was only in the girl's will and wishes. I was read-
ing Maud MUller the other night, and no woman shall ever
say of her life's happiness, that but forme "it might have been.'"

' I don't think any woman could ever say that of you.'

' Mildred, you showed me your heart last night, and it has
a will stronger than your will, and it shall have its way.'

The girl again sighed. * Koger,' she said, ' one reason why
I so shrank from you in the past was that you read my
thoughts. You have more than a woman's intuition.'

* No,' he said, laughing a little grimly, ' I'm not a bit feisi-
nine in my nature. My explanation may seem absurd to you^
but it's true, I think. I am exceedingly fond of hunting, and
I so trained my eyes that if a leaf stirred or a bird moved a
wing I saw it. When you waked me up, and I determined to

r-»

320

WITHOUT A HOME.

seek my fortunes out in the world, 1 oarlied witli nn;, Lin-
same quickness of eye. I do not let much that is to be seen
escape me, and on a face like yours thoughts unusually leave
some trace/

* You didn't learn to be a gentleman in the best sense of the
word, in the woods,' she said with a smile.

* No, you and your mother taught me that, and I may add,
your father, for when I first saw him he had the perfection of
manners.' He might also have referred to Vinton Arnold,
whom he had studied so carefully, but he could not bring him-
self to speak of one whom in his heart he knew to be the cliief
barrier between them, for he was well a^are that it was Mil-
dred's involuntary fidelity to her first love that made his suit
so dubious. At his reference to her father Mildred's eyes had
filled at once, and he continued gently, ' We understand each
other now, do we not % You won't be afraid of me any more,
and will let me help you all to brighter days % '

She put both of her hands in his and said earnestly, ' No, I
will never be afraid of you again, but I only half understand
you yet, for I did not know that there was a man in the world
80 noblej so generous, so honest. You have banished every
trace of constraint, and I'll do everything you say.*

There was a look of almost boyish pleasure o.n his face as
she spoke, and in the imitation of the heroes of the intermin-
able old-time romances that one had formed the larger part of
his reading, he was about to raise her hand to his lips when
she snatched it away, and as if mastered by an impulse not
to be controlled, put her arms around his neck and kissed him,
then burst into tears with her head upon his shoulder.

He trembled a moment, and said in low tones, * God bless
you, Millie.' Then he gently placed her in her chair. * You
mustn't do that again,' he said gravely. * With you it was
but a grateful sisterly impulse, but if I were Samson I'd not
be strong enough — well, you understand me. I don't want
to give the lie to all I've said.'

' Oh, P.ogor, Roger, sobbed the girl, * I can do nothing for
you, and yet you have saved me from shame and are giving us
all hope and life.

* You aio responsible for all the good there is in me,' he
tried to say lightly, ' and I'll show you in coming years if you
have done nothing for me. Good bye now.

IIOMK SWKET IIOMi:!'

821

V¥ i

CHAPTER XXXIX.

i i

* H O ai E, S W E E E T HOME!'

H, Millie,' cried Mrs. Jocelyn, entering with the child-
ren and throwing herself into a chair, fatigued and
panting from her walk and climb of the stairs, * I've
so much to tell you. Oh, I'm so distressed and sorry. It
seems that evil has become our lot, and that we bring nothing
but evil to others. You, too, look as if you had been crying
as if your heart would break.'

* No, mamma, I feel much better — more at rest than I have
been for a long time. My tears have done me good.'

' Well, I'm sorry I must tell you something that will grieve
you dreadfully, but there's no help for it. It does seem when
things are going; wrong in one's life, there's no telling where
they'll stop. You know Mrs. Wheaton works for Roger's
aunt, Mrs Atwood. Well, she was there this morning, and
Mrs. Atwood talked dreadfully about us, and how we had in-
veigled her into the worst of folly. She told Mrs. Wheaton
that Mr. Atwood had intended to give Roger a splendid educa-
tion, and might have made him his heir, but that he demanded,
as his condition, that he should have nothing more to do with
sucli people as we were, and how Roger refused, and how after
a bitter quarrel the latter left the house at midnight. She
also said that his uncle would have nothing more to do with
him, and that his family at home would be almost equally
angry. Oh, I feel as if I could sink into the earth with shame
and worry. What shall we do 1 '

' Surely, mamma, there is some mistake. Roger was here
much of the afternoon, and h^" never said one word about it,'
Mildred answered, with a troubled face.

'It's just like him. He didn't want to pain you with the
news. What did he say ? ' she asked, with kindling interest,
and Mildred told her substantially all that had occurred.

1 ■:■

!:• t'

V m

322

WITHOUT A HOME.

'Well, Mildred,' said her mother emphatically, 'you will
be the queerest girl on the face of the earth if you can't lovo
him now, for he has given up everything for you. He might
have been richer than Vinton Arnold.'

* He must not give up anything,' said Mildred resolutely.
' There is reason in all things. He is little more than a boy in
years, and he has a boy's simplicity and unworldliness. I
won't let him sacrifice himself for me. He doesn't know what
he is doing. His aunt's estimate of such people as we have
become is correct, and I'll perish a thousand times before I'll
be the means of dragging down such a man as Roger Atwood.
If I knew where to find him I'd go and tell him so this mo-
ment'

That was a dreary hour in the poor little home, but worse
things were in store for them, for, as Mrs. Jocelyn said, when
things are going wrong there is a terrible logic about them,
and malign events follow each other with almost inevitable
sequence. All was wrong with the head of the family, and
terrible were the consequences to his helpless wife and children.
Mr. Jocelyn heard a rumour of Mildred's experience in the po-
lice court, and he went to the place thr.t day and obtained some
account of the affair. More clearly and awfully than ever be-
fore he comprehended the depths into which he had fallen.
He had not been appealed 'no — he had not even been told. He
did not stop to consider how good the reasons were for the
course his family had taken, but, blind with anger and despair,
he sought his only refuge from the hell within his breast, and
began drinking recklessly. By the time he reached the tene-
ment where he dwelt he was in a state of wild intoxication. A
man at the door called him a drunken beast, at which Jocelyn
grasped him by the throat and a fierce scufHe ensued. Soon
the whole populous dwelling was in an uproar, while the man
retreated, fighting, up the stairs, and his infuriated assailant
following with oaths and curses. Women and children were
screaming, and men and boys pouring out of tiieir rooms, some
jeoring and laughing, and others making timid and futile ef-
forts to appease and restrain the liquor-crazed man.

Suddenly a door opened, and a pale face looked out ; then a
slight girlish figure darted through the crowd and clasped Mr.
Jr*celyn. He looked down and recognized his daughter Mil

HOME SWEET HOME

»»

nsn

(Irod. Fur a moment he seemed a little sobered, and then the
demon within him reasserted itself. * Get out of my way ! ' he
shouted « ' I'll teach that infernal Yankee to insult a Southern
officer and gentleman. Let me go/ he said furiously, * or I'll
throw you down the stairway/ but Mildred clung to him with
her whole weight, and the men now from very shame rushed
in and overpowered him.

He was speedily thrust within his own doorway, and Mil-
dred turned the key after him and concealed it. Little recked
the neighbors, as they gradually subsided into quiet, that there
came a crash of crockery and a despairing cry from the
Jocelyns' room. They had witnessed such scenes before, and
were all too busy to run any risk of being summoned as wit-
nesses at a police court on the morrow. The man whom Mr.
Jocelyn had attacked said he would see the agent of the house
in the morning and have the Jocelyn family sent away at
once, because a nuisance, and all were content with this ar-
rangement.

Within that locked door a terrible scene would have been
enacted had it not been for Mildred's almost supernatural
courage, for her fatiier was little better than a wild beast.
In his mad rush forward he overturned the supper table, and
the evening meal lay in a heap upon the floor. The poor wife,
with a cry in which hope and her soul itself seemed to depart,
fell swooning on the children's bed, and the little ones fled to
the darkest corner of Mildred's room and cowered in speechless
fear. There was none to face him save the slight girl at whom
he glared as if he would annihilate her.

' Let me out ! ' he said savagely.

' No,' said the girl, meeting his frenzied gaze unwaveringly.
' not untU yon are sober.*

He rushed to the door, but could not open it Then turning
upon Mildred he said, * Give m'> the key — no words — or 1*11
teach you who is master.'

There were no words, but only such a look as is rarely ever
Been on a woman's face. He raised his hand to strike her, but
she did not shrink a hair's breadth. * Papa,' she said in a low,
concentrated tone, ' you called yourself a Southern gentleman.
I did not dream you could strike a woman, even when drunk.*

The effect of her words was magical. His hand sank to his

jl;

'!l.

324

WITHOUT A HOME.

side. Then he raiweJ it H.n<^ passed it over his hrovv as if iL
all were a horrid dream. Without a word he went with un-
steady step to his own room, and again Mildred locked the
door upon him.

Mrs. Jocelyn's swoon was long and death-like, and before
Mildred could restore her, Belle, returning from her work,
tried to enter, and finding the door locked called for admit-
tance. When she crossed the threshold and saw the supper
dishes broken and scattered on the floor ; when she saw lier
mother, looking as if dead, the little ones crying at her side,
and Mildred scarcely less pale than the broken hearted woman,
with a desperate look in her blue eyes, the young girl give a
long, low cry of despair, and covering her face with her hands
she sank into a chair murmuring, ' I can't endure this any
longer — I'd rather die. We are just going to rack and ruin.
Oh, I wish I could die, for I'm getting reckless — and — wicked.
Oh, oh, oh 1— '

* Belle come and help me,' said Mildred, in the hard, con-
strained tones of one who is maintaining self-control by the
utmost effort. Belle complied, but there was an expression
on her face that filled her sister's soul with dread.

It were well perhaps to veil the aa:ony endured in the
stricken household that night. The sufferings of such women
as Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred cannot be portrayed in words, and
the dark chaos that had come into poor Belle's tempted, de-
spairing, immature soul might well make her good angel weep.
With a nature craving sunshine and pleasure like the breath
of life, she felt herself being dragged hopelessly into darkness,
shame and abject poverty. The poor child was not deliberately
contemplating evil — she was scarcely capable of doing good
or evil deliberately— but a youth who had sought her once
before, and of whom she had long been shy, was again hover-
ing around her.

She was more wary now, yet bolder, and received his ad-
vances with a manner tinged with mocking coquetry. He was
profuse with promises, and she tried to believe them, but in
her heart she could not, and yet she did not repulse him with
that stern, brief decision which forms the viewless, impassable
wall that hedges virtue.

*HOME SWEET UOME.'

325

The sisters tried to remove the outward traces of their
wrecked heme, and mechanically restored such order as was
within their power, but in their secret souls they saw their
household gods overturned and trampled upon, and, with the
honour and manhood o£ their father, they felt that night as if
they had lost everything.

After they had quieted their mother and brought the poor
creature a brief oblivion, Mildred made a passionate appeal to
Belle to stand by her. The warm-hearted girl cried and
wrung her hands passionately, but all her trembling sister could
obtain frona her were the words,

' Millie, v/e are being dragged down I don't know where.*

Events followed rapidly. Before Mr. Jocelyn, sullen, nerve-
less, racked with headache and torturod with heartache, could
leave his room on the morrow, the agent of the tenement
served a notice on him to the effect that he must vacate his
rooms at once ; that the other tenants complained of him as a
nuisance ; and that he (the agent) would be content to lose the
rent for the few days that had elapsed since the last regular
payment if they would all go out at once. The angry reply
was that they would remove that day, and, without a word, he
left his family in suspense. In the course of the forenoon he
returned with a furniture van, and had so braced himself with
opium that he was able to assist effectively, yet morosely, in
the packing and removing of their fast-dwindling effects, for
everything not essential had been sold. His wife and daugh-
ter did not remonstrate — they were too dispirited for that—
but in dreary apathy did his bidding as far as their strength
permitted, feeling meanwhile that any change could scarcely be
for the worse.

Mildred almost felt that it was for the better, for their new
shelter was in a small rear tenement not far from the old roan-
sion, and was reached from the street by a long covered passage-
way. To her morbid fancy it suggested the hiding-place that
her heart craved. She now scarcely heeded the facts that the
place was anything but cleanly, and that their neighbours were
more unpromising in their appearance than those they had just
Iftft. Mrs. Jocelyn was so ill and weak that she ought not to
raise her hands, and Mildred felt that her strength was unequal
to the task of even arranging their household articles so as to

32G

WITHOUT A HOME.

make the poor little nook habitable. She therefore went for
their old stanch ally Mrs. Wheaton, who returned with her
and wrought such miracles as the wretched place permitted of.
In just foreboding she shook her head over the prospects of her
friends in such a neighbourhood, for her experienced eyes en-
abled her to g&uge very correctly the character of the people
who lived across the h.*Il and in the upper and lower stones.
They were chiefly ignorant and debased Irish families, and the
good woman's fears were not wholly due to race antipathy. In
the tenement from which they came, the people, although poor,
were in the main, stolid, quiet, and hardworking, but here on
every side were traces and hints, even at midday, of degraded
and vicious lives.

After Mrs. Wheaton had departed with many misgivings,
Mildred took her father aside, and told him plainly what
had occurred the evening befove. He sat with his face buried
in his hands, and listened without a word. Indeed, he was so
overwhelmed with shame and remorse that he was speechless.
* Papa, look at me,' she said at last.

Slowly he raised his bloodshot, fearful eyes to hers, and the
expression of his child's face made him tremble.

* Papa,' she said slowly, and her tones were both sad and
stern, 'you must never come home drunk again. Another
such scene might cost mamma her life. If you will take opium,
we cannot help it, but you must drink no more vile liquor. I
have now learned from bitter experience what the latter
means, and what it must lead to. I shall not fail in love and
duty to you, but I cannot permit mamma. Belle, and the chil-
dren, to be utterly destroyed. You may do some wild, reck-
less deed that would blast us all beyond remedy ; therefore, if
you have a particle of self-control left, let rum alone, or else we
must protect ourselves. We have endured it thus far, not
with patience and resignation, but in a sort of apathetic despair.
This apathy has been broken. Belle is becoming reckless ;
mamma is dying of a broken heart, and the little ones are
exposed to influences that threaten to blight their lives. There
must be some change for the better. *

Her words were not threatening, but were spoken with the
calmness of inexorable resolve, and he sat before her with an
ashen face, trembling like an aspen, for it was like the Day ol

'HOME SWEET HOME.'

327

Judgment to him. Then in gentler and pleading accents she
told him of their plan to place him under skilful treatment,
and besought him to yield himself up to the care of one who
had won much reputation in dealing with cases like his own ;
bub all the encouragement she could obtain were the words,
' I'll think of it.'

The memory of those fearful days on shipboard, when he
was without morphia, made him recoil with unspeakable dread
from a like ordeal again, but he promised earnestly that he
would ifidulge no more in liquor. With the cunning of an
opium maniac he understood his danger, knowing that further
scenes of violence would lead to his arrest and imprisonment.
Of his gentle wife he had no fears, but this frail, resolute girl
subdued him. He saw that he was driving a strong nature to
desperation — saw it with all the agony and remorse of a natur-
ally good father whose better nature was bound hand and foot
by depraved appetites. At this point the painful interview
ended, and Mildred went for Belle, who as yet had no know-
ledge of their change of abode.

As the two girls returned, in the dusk of evening, to the
long dark passageway that led to the tenement in which they
now had rooms, Mildred trembled with fear as she saw that
its entrance was surrounded and blocked by a group of rough-
looking young men and boys. Belle pushed boldly through
them, although they leered, laughed, and made coarse jests.
Mildred, followed shrinkingly, with downcast eyes. * We'll
tach 'em to be neighbourly,' were the last words she heard,
showing that the young ruffians had already obtained their cue
from their depraved and low-lived parents.

They looked forward to a dismal evening, but a loyal friend
came to their rescue. Roger, having arranged the room se-
lected for him by Mr. Wentworth, could not resist the temp-
tation to see those who were ever uppermost in his thoughts.
In dismay and anxiety he learned of their hasty removal and
something of the causes which led to it. From the janitor he
obtained their present address, and the appearance of his broad
shoulders and fearless face had a restraining influence on the
mischief-making propensities of the rowdies who kennelled in
tlie vicinity. The alien new-comers evidently were not friend-
less, and there was hesitation in the half formed measures for
their annoyance.

328

WrmOUT A HOME.

Roger remained an hour or two, aiding the girls in trying to
make the rooms more homelike, which, however, was rather a
hopeless task. Mr. Jocelyn, half-stupefied by opium, retreated
to one of the small dark closet bedrooms, and left the scene
unembarrassed by his presence. Roger remark ed emphati-
cally that the tenement was no place for them, but Mildred told
him that the rent had been p&id for a month in advance, and
that they must try to endure it, adding, ' The twenty-five dol-
lars that you and Mr. Wentworth obtained for me has been,
after all, a perfect Godsend.'

He was touched, and bound to her with bands of steel by
the perfect trust she now reposed in him, and he determined
to watch over her like an amiable dragon, making it his first
and constant thought how to rescue thein all from their
wretched condition. He was much surprised, horever, when
Mildred said to him, as he was preparing to leave, ' Mr. A',
wood there is something I wish to say to you. Will you let
me walk a block or two with you, and then bring me back

again

Roger tried to disguise his feelings by saying laughingly
that he would * walk to Spuyten Duy vil * with her, but addetl,
' You are too tired to go out at all to-night. I will call to-
morrow evening,* and he remonstrated so earnestly and kindly
that she yielded, promising to rest much of the following day.

' Oh, Millie,' said her mother, with a faint smile, ' it does
my heart good to see that there is some one who knows how
and has the will to take care of you.'

* Yes,' cried Belle, ' this place is a perfect hole. It's not fit
for nice girls to be seen in, and if Roger gives us a chance to
get out of it you had better take it as soon as possible. I give
you fair warning.'

* What do you mean. Belle 1 ' asked her mother.

Belle made no answer, but went to her closet bedroom with
a morose, sullen look on her face. The poor woman looked in
quiringly at Mildrtd, who said soothingly, • Don't worry, mam-
Belle is a little tired and discouraged to-night. SShe'll be

ma.

in a better mood in the morning.'

NEIGHBOURS

329

CHAPTER XL.

NEIGHBOURS.

KJn^ROMPTLY the following evening Roger appeared, and
^]S with flowing cheeks told his friends that Mr. Went-
'<^ worth had found hira employment in a lawyer's office,
which would enable him to pay his way and at the same time
give him much practical insight into his chosen profession.
Mildred looked at him wistfully, but her resolution was not
shaken, and they went out together, Roger saying, with a
smiling nod at Belle, Mt will be your turn to-morrow evening.'

' Roger,' said Mildred, ' I've much to say to you, and it
is of great importance that you should listen calmly and
sensibly.'

' All right,' he answered laughingly. ' You will find me
as quiet and impressible as the oysters over which we'll have
our talk, but only on this condition. You shall not fatigue
yourself by a word here in th^ str3et.' Nevertheless she felt
the phlegmatic creature's arm trembliug under her haikd. After
a moment they went on, in the same light way, * I want you
to understand I am not going to be a friend in name merely ;
I intend to assert my rights, and you had better learn from
the start that I am the most tremendously obstinate fellow in
the city.'

' But you must listen to reason.'

' Certainly ; so must you.*

' To begin with,' she resumed, ' I've had my supper, and so
don't need any more.'

' I haven't had mine, and am ravenous. The idea of talking
reason to a hungry man I I know of a nice quiet restaurant
which, at this hour, we'll have almost to ourselves. You
Burely won't be so unsocial as to let me eat alone.'

' Well, if I yield in trifles you must yield in matters that
are vital. Why did you not get your supper before 1 '

' Too busy ; and then, to be honest, I knew IM enjoy it a
hundredfold more with you. I'm a social animal'
U

330

WITHOUT A HOME.

Mildred sighed, for this good comradeship was making Iitr
dufcy very hard.

They soon reached the place in question, and Roger ordered
enough for four.

' You don't realize what you ore doing in any respect/ said
Mildred in srailing reproof.

* Wait half an hour before you settle that question,' he re-
plied with a confident nod. ' I'll soon prove to you what aa
unsentimental being I am.'

' Oh,' thought Mildred, ' how can I give up his friendahip
when he acts in this way 1 And yet I must He must be
shown just how he is wronging himself.' When the waiter had
departed she looked straight into his eyes with one of lier
steadfast glances, and said earnestly, * Koger, I appreciate your
generous kindness far more than any words can tell you, but
the time has come for me to act resolutely and finally. Sad
experience has taught me more within a year than most
MTomen learn in a lifetime. Mrs. Wheaton, who often works
for your aunt, has told us of the sacrifice you have made in our
behalf, and we cannot permit it. If not in years, I'm much
older than you in other respects, and you don't realize — '

Roger interrupted her by leaning back in his chair and
breaking out in an irrepressible laugh. * So you are going to
interfere in behalf of the small boy's interests 9 My venera-
ble friend, permit me to remind you that I am six feet high in
my stockings, and have lately reached the mature age of
twenty-one.*

* Roger,' replied Mildred, with a pained look on her face,
< I am in earnest, and have laid awake nearly all of two nights
thinking about it.'

* Millie, your oysters are getting cold. You don't know any-
thing about boys, much less about men. Don't you know I'll
be much more amiable after supper. It's the nature of the
male animal, and what's the use of going against nature 1 '

* Oh Roger, listen to me. I'm desperately in earnest. To
let you sacrifice such prospects as Mrs. Wheaton said your
uncle held out to you for our sakes oppresses me with guilt.
I can't eat anything — you don't realize — *

* Millie Jocelyn,' said Roger, his face becoming grave and gen*
tie, * I know what you are driving at. You might as well try

NEIOHBOURS.

nnt

to stop Spring from coming on. I'm going to be your honest,
faithful friend, so help me God ! Even if you left me now
and refused to speak to me again, I'd watch over you and
yours in every way I could, lt'3 my good destiny, and I
thank God for it, for I feel its making a man of me. I won't
deceive you in one iota, and I admit to my shame that my
worldly old uncle tempted me that night, especially .<.fter I
saw from your face just how you felt. Even then my hope
was that I could do more for you by yielding to his views
than if I stood out against them, but a little thought convinced
me that you would starve rather than take aid from one who
would not give open friendship and companionship, and you
would be right Oh, I exult in your pride, and respect you
for it. You are my ideal woman, Millie, and if my uncle
had owned this island, and had offered it all to me, I'd have
made a wretched bargain in giving up for it the privilege of
being here this evening, with the right to look you straight
in the eyes without shame. If I had yielded to him then, as
the devil tempted me to, I'd never have known another day of
self-respect or happiness. I'm building now on the rock of
honour and manhood, and you can't say anything that will
change my purpose. I know what I am about if I am only a
" boy ; " and Mr. Wentworth, who has been told all, approves
of my course. So eat your oysters, Millie, and submit to the
inevitable.'

' Oh Roger, Roger, what shall I say to you 1 '

' Look here, Millie; if you were in my place, would you de>
sert a brave, true girl in misfortune 9 No ; unlike me, you
would never have hesitated a moment.'

'But, Roger, as you «»ay you — you — saw in my face a truth
that absolved you — '

' What I saw in your face,' he said gravely, * is my misfor-
tune. It is not anything for which you are to blame in the
least. And, Millie, I'd rather have your friendship than any
other woman's love. I'm choosing my own course with my
eyes open, and, thank God, I've chosen rightly. I'd have been
the most miserable fellow in the whole city if I had chosen
otherwise. Now I'm happy. It's all right I've vowed to be
k brother to Belle, and to do all in my power for your sweet,
gontle mother, I've vowed to be your true friend in ^11 re«

f (

332

WITHOUT A HOME.

•pects, end if you protested till Doomsday it wouldn't make
any difference. I've written to my mother, and I know iicr
well enough to be sure that she will approve of my course. So
will my father by and by. He isn't bad at heart, but, like
uncle, a dollar is so large in his eyes that it hides the sun. lie
that as it may, I'm just as much of an Atwood as he is, and can
be just as obstinate in doing what I know to be right as he can
be in requiring a course that would spoil my life. M illie,there
never was a soldier in all the past, braver than you have shown
yourself to be, and you are a delicate girl that I could carry like
a child. Do you advise a young, strong-handed fellow to
play the coward, and desert the women I love and honour in
their sore need and danger 1 You have looked on only one
side of this question, and you must not think so meanly of me
as to even suggest anything of the kind again.'

' Roger, Roger, can you realize what you are saying 1 ' Mil-
dred faltered, a slow, painful flush crimsoning her face. ' How
can you honour those who are so disgraced 1 You don't know
what papa has become. The world will share your uncle's
views concerning us.'

' I do know all about your father, Millie, and I pity him from
the depths of my soul. He is the dark back ground which
brings out your absolute truth and puri^ 7. I do honour you and
Mrs. Jocelyn as I honour my own mother, and I intend to prove
myself worthy of your respect at least, for its loss would be fa-
tal to me. I even honour your rare fidelity, though it stands
so awfully in my way. Now, surely, we understand each other.
But, come, this is far too serious talk for a restaurant and the
supper-table, I am now going to give my whole soul to oysters,
and I adjure you by our bonds to do the same. Here's to our
friendship, Millie, and may I be choked the moment I'm false
to it I ' And he drained a generous cup of coffee.

' You won't listen to me, then,' she said, with a face wherein
perplexity, relief, and gratitude were blended.

' I won't listen to a word that will make me the most mtier-
able wretch in the world, and you won't get rid of me as long
as I live. So, there, you might as well submit to fate and eat
your oysters.'

; Her expression became very grave and resolute. * Roger,
■he said slowly, * I did not know there was so kind and true a
man in the worid. I will do anything that you can ask.'

NEIGHBOURS.

333

His eyes suddenly became infinitely wistful and tender, and
then he gave himself a little characteristic shake as he said,
rather brusquely, ' I accept your promise, and shall at once
tax it to the utmost with the request that you eat a jolly good
supper and call on me every time that I can aid you.'

Her glance in response warmed his soul, and then she gave
herself up to social friendliness in a Way which proved that a
great burden had been taken from her heart. On their way
home, however, she hinted her fears in regard to Belle, and
Roger understood her thoroughly. For the next few days he
watched the young girl, and soon satisfied himself as to the
character of th^ man who was pursuing her. His object now
was to obtain some ground for brotherly interference, and one
Saturday evening, while following Belle home, he saw a young
man join her and receive an undoubted welcome. He soon
became aware that matters were progressing fast and far, for
the young people wandered off into unfrequented streets, and
once, where the shadows were deepest, he saw Belle's atten*
dant steal his irm about her waist and kiss her. Belle's pro-
test was not very vigorous, and when at last they parted in
the passageway that led to Belle's home the kiss was repeated
aiui not resented at all.

Roger followed the young man, and said, ' You have just
parted from Miss Belle Jocelyn.'

' Well, that's my affair.'

' You will find yourself so greatly mistaken that you had
better answer my questions honestly. What are your inten-
tions toward her ? I have the right to ask.'

' None of your business.'

' Look here, young man, she has acknowledged me as her
brother, and as a brother I feel toward her. I've only a few
plain words to say. If your intentions are honourable I'll not
interfere, although I know all about you, and you are not my
style of man by any means. If your intentions are not honour-
able, and you do not cease your attentions, I'll break every
bono in your body — I swear it by the God who made me.'

*Go to the devil ! ' muttered the fellow.

' No, sir, nor shall I permit you to take one dear to me to
the devil, but I pledge my word to send you straight to him if
you harm Belle Jocelyn. Here, stop and look me in the eyes

334

WITHOUT A HOME.

under this lamp. You kissed her twice to-night Do you in-
tend to make her your wife ) '

There was no answer, but the sullen, half-frightened face
was an unmistakable response. * I understand you now/ said
Roger savagely, taking the fellow by the throat, ' and I'll send
you swiftly to perdition if you don't promise to let that girl
alone,' and his gleaming eyes and iron grasp awed the incipient
rou6 so completely that he quavered out :

* Oh, let go. If you feel the girl is your property, I'll let
her alone.'

Roger gave him a wrathful push which precipitated his limp
form into the gutter, and growled as he walked off, ' If you
value your life, keep your promise.'

An evening or two later Roger said to Belle, whom he had
taksn out for a stroll, 'I kept my word — I cowhided that fel-
low Bissel, who played such a dastardly part toward your sis-
ter. Of course I did not want to get myseii into trouble, or
give him any power over me, so I found out his haunts and
followed him. One night, as he was returning rather late
from a drinking saloon, I spoiled his good looks with a dozen
savage cuts. He was too confused to see who it was in the
dark, and to mislead him more thoroughly I said, with the last
blow, " Take that for lying and causing a poor girl to be sent
to prison." He thinks, no doubt, that some friend of the thief
was the one who punished him. What's more, he won't for-
get the lashing I gave him till his dying day, and if I mistake
not his smooth face will long bear my marks.'

Belle gave a languid approval, for she had missed her lover
for ihe last two evenings. * Belle,' he continued, gravely and
gently, * I was tempted to choke the life out of a fellow the
other night, and it was the life of one who kissed you twice.'

She dropped her hand from his arm, but he replaced it and
held it tightly as he resumed, 'I'm no make-believe brother,
you know. I'm just such a brother as I would be if I had been
born with you on a Southern plantation. Though the young
man was not co my mind, I told him that if his intentions were
honourable 1 would not inti»rfere, but I soon learned that he
was an out-and-o»it scoundrel, and I said words to him that
will make Jiim shijn you ^ he woqld dei^th. {Jelle, 1 wouW

NEIGHBOURS.

335

kill him as I used to club rattle-suakes in the country, if he
harmed a hair of your head, and he knows it.'

' You misjudge him utterly,' cried Belle in a passion, 'and
you have just driven away the one friend that I had in all the
world. I won't stand it. I'm not a baby, and I won't be
treated like one.'

Roger let her storm on without a word, but at last, when she
concluded, * I've no father worthy of the name, and so I'll take
care of myself,' he asked quietly.

' How about your mother. Belle 1 '

In strong revulsion the impulsive girl gave way to an equally
passionate outburst of grief. * Oh,' she cried, ' I wish I were
dead ! '

' Belle,' said Roger, very gently now, * if you listened to that
fellow you would soon make that wish in earnest. Now in
your heart y^u don't mean It at all. You don't love such a
man, and you know it. Why should you throw your youyg,
beautiful life into the gutter ? It is a mere reckless protest
against your unhappy life. Belle, you are not seventeen, and
you may live till you are seventy if you take care of your-
self. Think of the changes for the better that may come
in that time. They shall come too. I shall share with you
all my fortunes, and you have told me many a time that
I was sure to succeed. I pledge you my word that before
many years you shall have good honest men at your feet,' and
hs reasoned with her so sensibly, and petted and soothed her
80 kindly, that at last she clung to his arm as if it were a de-
fence indeed, and said, with tearful eyes, ' You are a brother
in the best sense of the word, and I wonder you have patience
with such a reckless, passionate fool as I am. I'm not fit for
you to speak to.'

• No, Belle, you are not bad at heart — far from it. You are
half desperate from your present misfortunes, and in your blind
impulse to escape you would make matters infinitely worse.
Be patient, dear. It's a long lane that has no turning, To one
so young as you are life promises very much, if it is not spoiled
at the beginning, and Mr. Wentworth would tell us that there
is a heaven beyond it all.'

The influence of this interview did not speedily pass from
her mind, and by her gentler and more patient bearing Mildred

336

WITHOUT A HOME.

was taught again how much she owed to one whom she had so
long repelled.

Mr. Wentworth succeeded in interesting the lady, to whom
he had referred, in Mildred, and a visit from the young girl
confirmed her good impressions. As a result, sufficient work
was found or made to give Mildred steady employment. Mr.
Jocelyn was comparatively quiet and much at home. Often
he was excessively irritable and aggravating in words and
manner, but no longer violent from bestial excess. He put off
the project of going to a curative institution, with the true
opium inertia and procrastination, and all efforts to lead him
to definite cl»on proved fruitless. His presence, however,
and his quiet, naughty ways, with Roger's frequent visits, did
much for a time to restrain the ill-disposed people around them,
'but the inevitable contact with so much depravity and coarse-
ness wae almost unendurable.

Poor Mrs Jocelyn was sinking under her sorrows. She did
not complain : she blamed herself with a growing morbidness
for the ruin of her husband and hard lot of her children, and
hope deferred was making her heart sick indeed. Her refined,
gentle nature recoiled with an indescribable repugnance from
her surroundings, and one day she received a shock from which
she never fully recovered.

Her husband was out, and Mildred had gone to deliver some
work. The children, whom she tried to keep with her, broke
away at last and left the door open. Before she could close it
a drunken woman stumbled in, and, sinking into a chair, she
let a bundle slip from her hands. It fell on the floor, unrolled,
and a dead infant lay before Mrs. Jocelyn's horrified gaze. Her
cries for help brought a stout, red-faced woman from across the
hallway, and she seemed to undei-stand what was such a fear-
ful mystery to Mrs. Jocelyn, for she took the unwelcome in-
truder by the shoulder and tried to get her out hastily, but the
inebriated wretch was beyond shame, fear, or prudence. Pull-
ing out of her pocket a roll of bills she exclaimed, in hideous
exultation,

* Faix, Poive had a big day's work. Three swell families on
the Avenue guv me all this to hurry the brat. Burry it ?
Divil a bit. It's makin' me fortin.* Cud we only git dead
babbies enough we'd all be rich, Bridget, but here's enoujjh to

NEIGHBOURS.

337

keep tbe pot bilin' for wakes to come, and guv uo a good sup
o' whiskey into the bargain. Here, take a drap/ she said, pul-
ling out a black bottle and holding it up -to Mrs. Jocelyn.
' What yer glowrin' so ghostlike for 1 Ah, let me alone, ye
ould hag,' she said angrily to the red-faced woman, who seemed
in great trepidation, and tried to put her hand over the drun-
ken creature's mouth.

Finding that words were of no avail, and that she could not
move the great inert mass under which Mrs. Jocelyn's chair
was creaking, the neighbour from across the way snatched the
money and retreated to her roouL This stratagem had the de-
sired effect, for the woman was not so intoxicated as to lose her
greed, and she followed as hastily as her unsteady steps per-
muted. A moment later the red-faced woman dashed in, seized
the dead child and its wrappings, and then shaking her huge
fist in Mrs. Jocelyn's face said, ' If yees ever spakes of what
yer've sane, I'll be the death of ye — by the Vargin I will ; so
mum's thft word, or it'll be worse for ya'

When Mildred returned she found her mother nervously
prostrated. * I've had a bad turn,' was her only explanation.
Her broken spirit was terrified by her awful neighbours, and
not for the world would she add another feather's weight to the
burdens under which they faltered by involving her family in
a prosecution of the vile impostor who had sickened her with
the exposure of a horrible trade. *^

* Mamma,' cried Mildred, in sharp distress, ' we must leave
this place. It's killing you.'

' I wish we could leave it, dear,' sighed the poor woman. ' I
think I'd be better anywhere else.'

* We shall leave it,' said the girl resolutely. * Let the rent
go. I had already about decided upon it, and now I'll go with
Mrs. Wheaton to-morrow and find rooms among more respec-
table people.

The events of the evening confirmed her purpose, for the
young roughs that rendezvoused nightly at the entrance of
the long passageway determined that they would no longer
submit to the ' uppish airs ' of the sisters, but ' tach 'em ' that

* ThiH character in not an imaj;inary one, and, on ample authority, T wah
told of an inHtance where the lar^e Huin of fiftv dollarn wan obtained from
xDuie kindly family by thiH deteut^ble method of impusition.

338

WITHOUT A HOME.

since they lived in the same houne they were no better than
the?T neighbours. Therefore, as Belle boldly brushed by them
as usual on her return from the shop, one young fellow, with
a wink to his comrades, followed her, and where the passage
was darkest put his arm around her waist and pressed upon
her cheek a resounding kiss. In response there came from the
entrance a roar of jeering laughter. But the young ruffian
found instantly to his sorrow that he had aroused a tigress.
Belle was strong and furious from the insult, and her plump
hand came down on the fellow's nose with a force that caused
the blood to flow copiously. After the quick impulse of anger
and seU'-defence passed she ran sobbing like a child to Mildred,
and declared she would not stay another day in the vile den.
Mildred was white with anger, and paced the room excitedly
for a few moments.

* Oh, God, that we had a father ! ' she gasped. ' There,
Belle, let us be patient,' she continued after a, few moments ;
' we can't contend with such wretches. I promise you that
this shall be your last day in this place. We ought to have
left before.'

Then, as the girls grew calmer, they resolved not to tell
either their father or Roger, fearing that they might become
embroiled in a dangerous and disgraceful quarrel involving
their presence in a police court. MUdred had given her mother
a sedative to quiet her trembling nerves, and she was sleeping
in one of the bedrooms, and so happily was not aware of
Belle's encounter.

Mr. Jocelyn soon came in, and, for the first time since Mil-
dred's warning, was a little the worse for liquor, but he had
the self-control to keep quiet, and after a few mouthfuls of sup-
per went to his room overcome by the stupor he had sought
After the children were sleeping the girls gladly welcomed
Roger, for he had become the chief source of light and hope
in their saddened lives.

* Come, girls,' he said at last, ' you need some oxygen. The
air is close and stifling in this den of a house, and outside the
evening is clear and bracing. Let's have a stroll.'

* We can't go far,' said Mildred, * for mamma is sleeping, and
I would not have her wake and be frightened for anything.'

NEIGBBOUBS.

339

* Well, we'll only go around a block or two. You'll feel the
stronger for it, and be in a better condition to move to-morrow/
for Mildred had told him of her purpose, and he had promised
to help them get settled on the following evening. When
they reached the end of the dark passageway they feared that
trouble was brewing, for a score of dark, coarse faces lowered
at them, and the fellow that Belle had punished glared at her
above his bandaged face. Paying no heed to them, however,
they took a brief, quick walk, and returned to find the entrance
blocked by an increasing number of dangerous-looking young
ruffians.

* Stand aside,' said Roger sternly.

A big fellow knocked off his hat in response, and received
instantly a blow in the eye which would have felled hicL were
he not sustained by the crowd, who now closed on the young
man.

' Run up the street and call for police,' he said to the girls,
but they were snatched back and held by some of the gang,
and hands placed over their mouths, yet not before they had
uttered two piercing cries .

Roger, after a brief, desperate struggle, got his back to the
wall and struck blows that were like those of a sledge hammer.
He was dealing, however, with some fairly-trained pugilists,
and was suffering severely, when a policeman rushed in, club-
bing right and left. The gang dispersed instantly, but two
were captured. The girls, half fainting from excitement and
terror, were conducted to their room by Roger, and then they
applied palliatives to the wounds of their knight, with a soli-
citude and affection which made the bruises welcome indeed to
the young fellow. They were in terror at the idea of his de-
parture, for the building was like a seething caldron. He re-
assured them by promising to remain until all was quiet, and
the police also informed them that the house would be under
surveillance until morning.

On the following day, with Mrs. Wheaton's aid, they found
rooms elsewhere, and Roger, after appearing as witness against
the rowdies that had been captured, and informing his em-
ployers of what had occurred, gave the remaining hours to the
efficient aid of his friendst

■

340

WITHOUT A HOME.

CHAPTER XLI.

GLINTS OF SUNSHINE.

'HEIR new rooms at first promised remarkably well.
They were on the grcund-floor of a large tenement that
fronted on a rather narrow street, and their neigh-
bours seemed quiet, well-disposed people. Mr. Wentworth
soon called and congratulated them on the change. Mrs.Whea-
ton frequently came to give Mrs. Jocelyn a ' eiping 'and,' as
she phrased it, but her eliminations did not extend to her work,
which was rounded out wi^^h the completeness of hearty good
will. Roger rarely missed an evening without giving an hour
or two to the girls, often taking them out to walk, with now
and then a cheap excursion on the river or a ramble in Central
Park. In the latter resort they usually spent part of Sunday
afternoon, going thither directly from the chapel. Mildred's
unhealthful morbidness was passing away. She had again taken
her old class, and her face was gaining a serenity which had
long been absent.

One of the great wishes of her heart now had good prospect
of being fulfilled, for her father had at last consented to go to
an institution wherein he could receive scientific treatment
suited to his case. The outlook was growing so hopeful that
even Mrs. Jocelyn was rallying into something like hopefulness
and courage, and her health was slowly improving. She was
one whose life was chiefiy sustained by her heart and the well-
being of those she loved.

Belle also was improving greatly. The memorable interview
with Roger, already described, had a lasting influence, and did
much to banish the giddiness of unthinking, ignorant girlhood,
and the recklessness arising from an unhappy lift. Now that
the world was brightening again, she brightened with it. Among
his new associates Roger found two or three fine, manly fel-
lows, who were grateful indeed for an introduction to the
handsome, lively girl, and scarcely a week passed during May

aUNT^ OF SUNSHINE.

311

and June that some inexpensive evening excursion was not en-
joyed, and thoroughly enjoyed too, even by Mildred.

One moonlit night in June they made up a little party for
an excursion on a steamer plying down the Bay. Belle had
had two attendants, and would have been just as well pleased
were there two or three more. As she once asserted, she could
have kept them ' all jolly.' During the earlier hours Roger had
been as merry and full of nonsense as Belle, but on their re-
turn he and Mildred had t&ken seats a little apart from the
others and drifted into some talk relating to one of his studies,
he in a simple, lucid manner explaining to her the latest theo-
ries on a disputed question. She surprised and pleased him
by saying, with a little pathetic accent in her voice,

' Oh, Koger, you are leaving me far, far behind.'

* What do you mean, Millie ? '

'Why you are climbing the peaks of knowledge at a great
pace, and what's to become of poor little me, that have no
chance to climb at all worth naming 1 You won't want a
friend who doesn't know anything, and can't understand what
you are thinking about.'

* I'll wait for you, Millie ; rest assured you shall never be
left alone.'

* No, that won't do at all,' she replied, and she was in ear-
nest now. * There is one thing wherein you will find me as
obstinate as an Atwood, and that is never to let our friendship
retard your progress or render your success doubtful, now that
you have struck out for yourself. Your relatives think that I
— that we will be a drag upon you, I have resolved that we
shall not be, and you know that I have a little will of my own,
as well as yourself. You must not wait for me in any sense of
the word, for you know how very proud I am, & ad all my pride
is staked on your success. It ought to have been dead long
ago, but it seems just as strong as ever.'

* And I'm proud of your pride. You are a soldier, Mildred,
and it isn't possible for you to say, " I surrender." '

* You are mistaken. When you saved me from prison, when
you gave nearly all you had that papa might have the chance
which I trust will restore hia manhood, I surrendered^ and no
one knew it better than you did.'

342

WITHOUT A HOME.

' Pardon me, Millie, the gates of the citadel were closed, and
ever have been. Even your will cannot open them — no, not
even your extravagant sense of gratitude for what it would be
my happiness to do in any case. That something which was
once prejudice, dislike, repulsion, has retreated into the depths
of your heart, and it won't yield — at least it hasn't yet. But,
Millie, I shall be very patient Just as truly as if you were a
daughter of a millionaire your heart shall guide your action.'

* You are a royal fellow, Roger,' she (altered. *If you were
not so genuinely honest, I would think you wonderfully shrewd
in your policy.'

* Well, perhaps the honest course is always the shrewdest in
the long run,' he replied laughingly, and with a deep gladness
in his tone, for her words gave a little encouragement. ' But
your charge that I am leaving you behind as I pursue my stud-
ies has a grain of truth in it as far as mere book learning goes.
In your goodness, Millie, and all that is most admirable, I shall
always follow afar off. Since I can't wait for you, as you say,
and you have so little time to read and study yourself, I am
going to recite my lessons to you — that is some of them, those
that would interest you — and by telling you about what I have
learned I will fix it all in my mind more thoroughly.'

Mildred was exceedingly pleased with the idea. ' I don't
see why this isn't possible to some extent,' she said gladly,
* and I can't tell you how much hope and comfort it gives me.
Oh, Roger, how good you are to me ! '

' That is like saying. How good I am to myself ! Let me
tell you, Millie, in all sincerity, that this plan promises as much
for me as for you. Your mind is so quick, and you look at
things so differently, that I often get new and better ideas of
the subject after talking it over with you. The country boy
that you woke up last summer was right in believing that you
could be an invaluable friend, for I can't tell you how much
richer life has become to me.'

' Roger, how I misu iderstood you I How blind and stupid
I was ! God was raising up for me the best friend a girl ever
had, and I acted so shamefully that anybody but you would have
been driven away.'

' You do yourself injustice, and I wouldn't let any one else
judge you so harshly.'

nUNTS OF SUNSHINE.

543

After reaching her home that nighfc, Mildred thought, * I do
believe mamma was right, and that an old-fashioned Southern
girl, such as she says that I am, can learn to love a second time.
Roger is so genuinely good and strong ! It rests me to be
with him, and he gives some of his own strength and courage.
To-night, for the first time since he told me everything so gently
and honestly, has anything been said of that which I can see is
in his mind all the time, and I brought on all that was said
myself. I can now read his thoughts better than he can read
mine, and it would be mean not to give him a little of the hope
and encouragement that he so richly deserves. It troubles me,
however, that my mind and heart are so tranquil when I'm
with him.'

' Millie,' cried Belle roguishly, * what did Roger say to you
to call out such sweet smiles and tenddr sighs V

The young girl started and flushed slightly. * We were
talking about astronomy,' she said brusquely.

' Well, I should think so, for the effects in your appearance
are heavenly. If he could have seen you as you have appeared
for the last ten minutes, he would be more desperately in love
than ever. Oh, Millie, you are so pretty that I am half in love
with you myself.'

'Non ense I you area giddy child. Tell me about your own
favourites, and whom of them you like best.'

' I like them all best. Do you think I'm going to be such a
little goose as to tie myself down to one ? These are but the
advance guard of scores. Still I shall always like these ones
best because they are kind to me now while I'm only a " shop*
lady." ' ,

* You mustn't flirt, Belle.' '

* I'm not flirting— only having a good time, and they know
it I'm not a bit sentimental — only jolly, you know. When
the right time comes, and I've had my fun, I'm going to take
my pick of the best.'

' Well, that's sensible. Belle, darling, are not Roger's
friends better than those underhanded fellows who could not
look mamma in the eyes ? '

* Oh, Millie,' said the impulsive girl with a rush of tears,
'don't speak of those horrid days. I was an ignorant, reckless
fool— I was almost beside myself with despair and unhappi*

l5 > '

'iiil Ml

844

WITHOUT A HOME.

ness ; I could kiss Roger's hands from gratitude. Look here,
Millie, if you don't marry him, I will, for there's no one that
can compare with him.'

' Come now, don't make me jealous.'

* I wish I could. I've a great mind to flirt with him a little,
just to wake up your old stupid heart. Still I think you are
coming on very well. Oh, Millie, how I could dance at yuur
wedding ! Solid as I am, my feet would scarcely touch the
floor.'

Mildred laughed and said softly, ' It would be a pity to deny
you so much pleasure, Belle.' Then she added resolutely, ' No
more talk about weddings if you please. For long, long years
Roger must give his whole mind to hie studies. His relatives
say thr i, we will hang helplessly upon him and spoil his life,
but we'll prove them mistaken. Belle, I'd work my fingers of!
to give him the chance that he'll make su much of, for I am as
proud of him as you are.'

< That's the way to talk,' exulted Belle. ' I see how it's all
coming out. He'll stand up head, as J told you, and I told you,
too, that he'd win you in spite of yourself.

* Well, we'll see,' was the half-smiling answer ; but sanguine
Belle had no doubt concerning the future, and soon her long
eyelashes drooped over her glowing cheeks in untroubled sleep.

' Oh, how good for us all is the sunlight of a little happiness
and hope I ' Mildred thought. ' Darling mamma is reviving,
Belle is blossoming like a blush rose, and I — well, thank God
for Roger Atwood's friendship. May I soon be able to thank
Him for his love.'

Ah, Mildred Jocelyn, you have still much to learn. A se-
cond love can grow up in the heart, but not readily in one like
yours.

Within a month from the time that Mr. Jocelyn entered a
curative institution, he returned to his family greatly changed
for the better. His manner towards his family wan full of re-
morseful tenderness, and he was eager to retrieve his fortunes.
They welcomed him with such a wealth of affection, they
cheered and sustained him in so many delicate and sympathetic
ways, that he wondered at the evil spell which had bound him
80 long and made him an alien among those so lovable and so
dearly beloved. He now felt sure that he would devote body

GLINTS OF SUNSHINE.

345

and soul to their welfare for the rest of his days, and he could
not understand why or how it was that he had been so besot-
ted. The intense suflferings during the earlier stage of his
treatment at the institution made him shrink with horror from
the bare thought of his old enslavement, and during the first
weeks after his return he did not dream that it was possible
that he could relapse, although he had been warned of his
danger. His former morbid craving was often fearfully strong,
but he fought it with a vindictive hatred, and his family, in
their deep gladness and inexperience, felt assured that husband
and father had been restored to them.

It seemed as if he could not thank Roger enough, and his
eyes grew eloquent with gratitude when the youns fellow's
name was mentioned, and whea they rested on his bright,
honefit face. Mr. Wentworth went out among his business
fric ids, and so interested one of them that a position was in a
certain sense made for the poor man, and although the salary
was small at first, the prospect for its increase was good if he
would maintain his abstinence and prove that he had not lost
his old fine business powers. This he bade so fair to do that
hope and confidence grew stronger every day, and they felt
that before very long they would be able to move into more
commodious quarters, situated in a better part of the city, for
by reason of the neglect of the streets and sewerage on the
part of the authorities, the localitj' in which they now were
was found to be both very disagreeable and unwholesome.
They would have removed at once, but they were eager to
repay Roger the money he had loaned them, although he pro-
tested against their course. Not realizing their danger, and in
the impulse of their pride and intogrity, they remained,
practising the closest economy.

Early in July, Roger obtained a vacation, and went home
on a visit) proposing to harden his muscles by aiding his father
through the harvest season. He was so helpful and so kind
and considerate that even grim, disappointed Mr. Atwood
was compelled to admit that his boy had become a man.
Mrs. Atwood tenderly and openly exulted over him, and,
obeying her impulse, she wrote a friendly letter to Mildred,
which made the young girl very happy.

340

WITHOUT A HOME.

Suian became more than reconciled to Roger's course, for he
promised that some day she should often come to the city and
have splendid times. Clara Bute had become the happy wife
of a well-to-do farmer, and she sent an urgent request to Belle
and Mildred to visit her. The latter would not leave her

{>arents, but Belle accepted gladly, and the gay, frolicsome girl
eft more than one mild heartache among the rural beaux that
vied with each other in their attentions.

CHAPTER XLII.

HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN.

I HE skies seemed serene and bright, with promise to all
for many happy days, but clouds were gathering be-
low the horizon, and, most unexpectedly to him, the
first bolt fell upon Roger. A day or two before his return to
the city he found at the village office a letter with a foreign
post-mark, addressed, in his care, to Miss Mildred Jocelyn.
He knew the handwriting instantly, and he looked at the mis-
sive as if it contained his death-warrant. It was from Vinton
Arnold. As he rode away, he was desperately tempted to de-
stroy the letter, and never breathe a word of its existence. He
hoped and half believed that Mildred was learning to love him,
and he was sure that if Arnold did not appear he would win
all that he craved. The letter, which he had touched as if it
contained nitro-glycerine, might slay every hope. Indeed
he believed that it would, for he understood Mildred better
than she understood herself. She believed that Arnold had
given her up. Her heart had become benumbed with its own
pain, and was sleeping after its long, weary waitine. He was
sure, however, that if not interfered with he could awaken it
at last to content and happiness. This letter, however, might
be the torch which would kindle the old love with tenfold in-
tensity. Long hours he fought his temptation like a gladiator,
for fine as had been Mildred's influence over him, he was still

HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN.

347

intensely human. At last he gained the victory, and went
home quiet, but more exhausted than he had ever been from a
long hot day's toil in the harvest-field. He had resolved to
keep absolute faith with Mildred, and haviug ouce reached a
decision he was not one to waver.

As his mother kissed him good*by she held him off a mo*
ment, then whispered, ' Roger, Miss Jooelyn has given you
something better than all your uncle's money. I am content
that it should be as it is.'

On the afternoon of the day of his arrival in the city he went
to meet his fate. Mrs. Jocelyn greeted him like the mother he
had just left, and Mildred's glad welcome maue him groan in-
*yar(lly. Never before had she appeared so beautiful to him —
never had her greeting been so tinged with her deepening
regard. And yet she looked inquiringly at him from time
to time, for he could not wholly disguise the fear tiiat chilled
his heart.

* Belle had a perfectly lovely time in the country,' said Mrs.
Jocelyn. ' She has told us all about your people, and what a
farmer you became. She said everybody was proud of you
up at Forestville, and well they might be, although they don't
know what we do. Oh, Roger, my dear boy, it does my heart
good to see you again. We have all missed you so much. Oh,
you'll never know — you never can know. Good-by now, for a
little while. I promised Mrs. Wheatcn that I'd bring tne
children over and spend the afternoon with her. 8L<^ m going
to show me about cutting some little clothes for Fred. What
V dear kind soul she is, with all her queer talk. God bless
you, my boy. You bring hope and happiness back with you.'

But the poor fellow was so conscious of his own coming
trouble that tears came into his eyes, and after Mrs. Jocelyn
had gone he looked at Mildred in a way that made her ask,
gently and anxiously,

•What is it, Roger 1'

After a moment's hesitation he said grimly, * Millie, it's
rough on a fellow when he must be his own executioner. There,
take it. It's the heaviest load I ever carried in my life,' and
he threw the letter into her lap.

After a moment's glance she trembled violently, and became
pale and red by turns, then buried her face in her hands.

I'f.

348

WITHOUT A HOME.

* I knew it would be so,' he said, doggedly. * I knew what
was the matter all along.'

She sprang up, letting the letter drop on the floor, and clung
to him. * Roger,' she cried, * I won't read the letter. I won't
touch it No one shall come between us —no one has the right.
Oh, it would be shameful after all — '

' Millie,' he said, almost sternly, replacing her in her chair,
' the writer of thi.t letter has the right to become between us
— he is between us, and there is no use of disguising the truth.
Come, Millie, I came here to play the man, and you must not
make it too hard for me. Read your letter.'

* I can't,' she said, again burying her burning face in her
hands, and giving way to a sudden passion of tears.

' No, not while I am here, of course. And yet I'd like to
know my fate, for the suspense is a little too much. I hope
he's written to tell you that he has married the daughter of the
Great Mogul, or some other rich nonentity,' he added, trying
to meet his disappointment with a faint attempt at humour ;
* but I'm a fool to hope anything. Good-by, and read your
letter in peace. I ought to have left it and gone away at once,
but, coniound it ! I couldn't A drowning man will blindly
catch at a straw.'

She looked at him, and saw that his face was white with pain
and fear.

* Roger,' she said, resolutely, ' I'll burn that letter without
opening it if you say so. I'll do anything you ask.'

He paced the room excitedly with clenched hands for a few
moments, but at last turned toward her and said quietly, ' Will
you do what I ask 1 '

* Yes, yes, indeed.'

* Then read your letter.'

She looked at him irresolutely a moment, then made a
little gesture of protest and snatched up the missive almost
vindictively.

After reading a few lines her face softened, and she said, in
accents of regret which she was too much off her guard to dis-
guise. ' Oh, ho never received my answer last summer.'

* Of course not,' growh d Roger. * You deserved that, for
you gave your note to that old blunderbuss Jotham, when I
would have carried it safely.'

HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN.

349

' Oh, Roger, I can't go on with this ; I am wronging you too
shamefully.'

* You would wrong me far more if you were not honest with
me at this time,' he said, almost harshly.

His words quieted and chilled her a little, and she replied,
sadly, * You are right, Roger. You don't want, nor should I
mock you with the mere semblance of what you give.'

* Read the letter,' was his impatient reply, ' or I shall go ai
once.'

She now turned to it resolutely, proposing to read it with an
impassive face, but, in spite of herself, he saw that every word
was like an electric touch upon her heart. As she finished, the
letter dropped from her hands, and she began crying so bit-
terly that he was disarmed, and forgot himself in her behalf.
* Don't cry so, Millie,' he pleaded. * I can't stand it. Come,
now ; I fought this battle out once before, and didn't think I
could be so accursedly weak again.'

* Roger, read that letter.'

* No,' he answered, savagely ; * I hate him — I could annihi-
late him ; but he shall never charge me with anything under-
handed. That letter was meant for your eyes only. Since it
must be, God grant that he proves worthy ; but his words
would sting me like adders.'

She sprang to him, and burying her face upon his shoulder,
sobbed, * Oh, Roger, I can't endure this. It's worse than any-
thing I've suffered yet.'

' Oh, what a brute I am ! ' he groaned. * His letter ought
to have brought you happiness, but your kind heart is break-
ing over my trouble, for I've acted like a passionate boy. Mil-
lie, dear Millie, I will be a brave, true man, and, as I promised
you, your heart shall decide alL From this time forth I am
your brother, your protector, and I shall protect you against
yourself as truly as against others. You are not to blame in
the least. How could I blame you for a love :hat took posses-
sion of your heart before you knew of my existence, and why
has not Millie Jocelyn as good a right to follow her heart as
any other girl in the land ? And you shall follow it It would
be dastardly mean in me to take advantage of your gratitude.
Come, now, wipe your eyes, and give a sister's kiss before I
go. It's all right.'

fll

'' 1

\ ' 11

« 1!

350

WITHOFT A HOME.

She yielded passively, for she was weak, nerveless, and ex-
hausted. He picked up the open letter, replaced it within the
envelope, and put it in her hand. ' It's yours,' he said, * by
the divine right of your love. When I coniiQ this evening,
don't let me see a trace of grief. I won't mope and be lacka-
daisical, I promise,* and smilingly he kissed her good-bye.

She sat for an hour almost without moving, and then
mechanically put the letter away and went on with her work.
She felt herself unequal to any more emotion at that time, and
after thinking the affair all over, determined to keep it to her-
self, for *'ae present at least. She knew well how bitterly her
father, mother, and Belle would resent the letter, and how
greatly it would disquiet them if they knew that h'^r old love
was not dead, and seemingly could not and would not die.
With the whole force of her resolute will she soughi to gain
an outward quietude, and succeeded so well that the family did
not suspect anything. She both longed for and dreaded
Roger's appearance, and when he came she looked at him so
kindly, so remorsefully, that she taxed his strength to the ut-
most ; but he held hie own manfully, and she was compelled
to admit that he had never appeared so gay or so brilliant be-
fore. For an hour he and Belle kept them all laughing over
their bright nonsense, and then suddenly he said, ' Vacation's
over ; I must begin work to-morrow,' and in a moment he was
gone.

* Millie,* cried Belle, *you ought to thank your starf, for
you have the finest fellow in the city,' and they all smiled } t
her so brightly that she fled to her room. There Belle found
her a little later with red eyes, and she remaiked bluntly,
* Well, you are a queer girl. I suppose you are crying for joy,
but that isn't my way.'

After her sister was asleep Mildred read and reread Arnold's
letter. At first she sighed and cried over it, and then lapsed
into a long deep reverie. • Hard as it is for Roger,'
she thought, • he is right — I am not to blame. I learned to
I'^ve Vinton Arnold, and permitted him to love mo before I
had ever seen Roger. I should have a heart of stone could I
resi&t his appeal in this letter. Here he says: 'You did
not answer my note last summer— I fear you have cast me off.
I cannot blame you. After insults from my mother and my

HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN.

351

own pitiful exhibitions of weakness, my reason tells me that you
have banishfHl all thoughts of me in anger and disgust. But,
Millie, my heart will not listen to reason, and cries out for you
night and day. My life has become an intolerable burden to me,
and never in all the past has there been a more unhappy exile
than I. The days pass like years, and the nights are worse. I am
worse dragged here and there for the benefit of my health — what
a miserable farce it is! For half the money I am spending here I
could live ^happily with you, and, sustained, by your love and
sympathy, I might do something befitting my man's estate. One
day, when I said as much to my mother, her face grew cold
and stern, and she replied that my views of life were as absurd
as those of a child ! I often wish I were dead, and were it
not for the thought of you I half fear that I might be tempted
to end my wretched existence. Of course my health suffers
from this constant unhappiness, repression, and humiliation.
The rumour has reached me that your father has become very
poor, and that he is in ill health. The little blood I have left
crimsons my face with shame that I am not at your side to
help and cheer you. But I fear I should be a burden to you,
as I am to every one else. My fainting turns — one of which
you saw — are becoming more frequent I've no hope nor cou-
rage to try to get well — I am just sinking under the burden of
my unhappy, unmanly life, and my best hope may soon be to
become unconscious and remain so forever. And yet I fully
believe that one kind word from you would inspire me with
the wish, the power to live. My mother is blind to everything
except her worldly maxims of life. She means to do her duty
by me, and is conscientious in her way, but she is killing me by
slow torture. If you would give me a little hope, if you would
wait— oh, pardon the selfishness of my request, the pitiable
weakness displayed in this appeal ! Yet, how can I help it ?
Who can sink into absolute despair without some faint strug-
gle — some effort to pscape. I have had the happiness of hea-
ven in your presence, and now I am as miserable as a lost soul.
You have only to say that there is no hope, and I will soon
cease to trouble you or any one much longer.'

' How can I tell him there is no hope 1 ' she murmured. ' It
would be murder— it would be killing soul and body. What's
more, I love him — God knows I love him. My heart just

f> ! ■

(52

WITHOUT A HOME.

yearns for him in boundless pity and sympathy, and I feel al-
most as if he were my crippled, helpless child as well as lover.
It would be cruel, selfish, and unwomanly to desert him be-
cause of his misfortune. I haven't the heart to do it. His
weakness and <iiufiering bind me to him. His appeal to me is
like the cry of the helpless to God, and how can I destroy his
one hope, his one chancel He needs me more than does Ro-
ger, who is strong, masterful and has a grand career before
him. In his varied activities, in the realization of his ambi-
tious hopes, he will overcome his present feelings, and become
my brother in very truth. He will marry some rich, splendid
girl like Miss Wetheridge by and by, and I shall be content in
lowly, quiet ministry to one whose life and all God has put into
my hands. His parents treat Vinton as if he were a child ;
but he has reached the age when he has the right to choose for
himself, and, if the worst comes to the worst, I could support
him myself. Feeling as I do now, and as I ever shall, now
that my heart has been revealed to me, I could not marry Ro-
ger. It would be wronging him and perjuring myself. He is
too grand, too strong a man not to see the facts in their true
light, and he will still remain the best friend a woman ever had.'
Then, with a furtive look at Belle to see that she was sleep-
ing soundly, she wrote : * Dear Vinton : My heart would in-
deed be callous and unwomanly did it not respond to your let-
ter, over which I have shed many tears. Take all the hope
{rou can from the truth that I love you, and can never cease to
ove you. You do yourself injustice. Your weakness and ill
health are misfort^ nes for which y on are not responsible. ISo
far from inspiring disgust, they awaken my sympathy and
deepen my affection. You do not know a woman's heart — at
least you do not know mine. In your constant love, your con-
tempt for heartless, fashionable life, and your wish to do a
man's part in the world, you are manly. You are correct also
in believing that if you lived in an atmosphere of respect and
affection you would so cha^gv") for the better that you would
not recognise yourself. For my sake as well as your own, try
to rally and make the most of your sojourn abroad. Fix your
mind steadily on some pursuits or studies that will be of use
to you in the future. Do not fear ; I shall wait It is not in
my nature to forget or change.' And with some reference to

HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN.

353

their misforiuneB, a repetition of her note which Jotham had
lost, and further reassuring words, she closed her letter.

'I am right,' she said ; * even Roger will say I am doing right.
I could not do otherwise.'

Having made a copy of the letter that she might show it to
Roger, she at last slept, in the small hours of the night. As
early as possible on the following day she mailed the letter,
with a prayer that it might not be too late.

A day or two later she sought a private interview with her
friend, and whispered, ' Roger, dear Roger, if you do not fail
me now you will prove yourself the best and bravest man in the
world. I am going to repose a trust in you that I cannot share
at present with any one else — not even my mother. It would
only make her unhappy ircw that she is reviving in our brighter
days. It might have a bad influence on papa, and it is our
duty to shield him in every way.*

She told him everything, made him read the copy of her
letter to Arnold. ' You are strong, Roger,' she said in conclu-
sion, * and it would kill him, and — and I love him. You know
now how it has all come about, and it does not seem in my
nature t« change. I have given you all I can — my absolute
trust and confidence. I've shown you my whole heart. Roger,
you won't fail me. I love you so dearly, I feel so deeply for
you, I am so very grateful, that I believe it would kill me if
this should harm you.'

He did not fail her, but even she never guessed the effort he
made.

' It's all right, Millie,' he said, with a deep breath, * and I'll
be a jolly bachelor for yon all my life.'

* You must not say that,' she protested. ' One of these days
I'll pick you out a far better wife than I could ever be.'

' No,' he replied decisively, ' that's the one thing I won't do
for you, if you picked out twenty score.'

He tried to be brave — he was brave ; but for weeks there-
after traces of suffering on his face cut her to the heart, and
she suffered with him as only a nature like hers was capable of
doing. Events were near which would tax his friendship to the
utmost

August was passing with its intense heat. The streets of the
locality wherein the Jocelyns lived were shamefully neglected

'!■ i

1^ I

'.if.

354

WITHOUT A HOME.

and the sewerage was bad. Mr. Jocelyn was one of the first to
suffer, and one day he was so ill from malarial neuralgia that he
faltered in the duties of his business.

' I can't afford to be ill,' he said to himself. *A. slight dose
of morphia will carry me through the day ; surely I've strength
of mind sufficient to take it once or twice as a medicine, and
then plenty of quinine will ward off a fever, and I can go on
with my work without any break or loss. Meanwhile I'll look
for rooms in a healthier locality.'

His conscience smote him, warned him, and yet it did not
seem possible that he could not take a little as a remedy, as did
other people. With the fatuity of a self-indulgent nature he
remembered its immediate relief from pain, and forgot the an-
guish it had caused. He no more proposed to renew the habit
than to destroy his life — he only proposed to tide himself over
an emergency.

The drug was taken, and to his horror he found that it was
the same as if he had kindled a conflagration among combusti-
bles ready for the match. His old craving asserted itself with
all its former force. His will was like a straw in the grasp of a
giant. He writhed and anathematized himself, but soon, with
the inevitableness of gravitation, went to another drug store
and was again enchained.

For a few days Mr. Jocelyn tried to conceal his condition
from his family, but their eyes were open now, and they
watched him at first with alarm, then with terror. They
pleaded with him ; his wife went down on her knees before
him ; but, with curses on himself, he broke away and rushed
forth, driven out into the wilderness of a homeless life like a
man possessed with a demon. In his intolerable shame and
remorse he wrote that he would not return until he had re-
gained his manhood. Alas ! that day would never come.

REI.T.E IS MURDERED.

055

CHAPTER XLIII.

BELLE IS MURDERED.

RS. WHEATON, Mr. Wentworth and Roger did what
the}* could for the afflicted family, and Roger spent
the greater part of several nights in a vain search for
the absent man, but he had hidden himself too securely, and
was drowning reason, conscif nee, his entire manhood, in one
long debauch. The young man grew more haggard than ever
in his deep sympathy for his friends, for they clung to him
with the feeling that he only could help them effectually. He
begged them to move elsewhere, since the odours of the place
were often sickening, but they all said No, for the husband and
father might return, and this now was their one hope concern-
ing him.

In the second fall of her husband Mrs. Jocelyn seemed to
have received her death-wound, for she failed visibly every
day.

One night Belle was taken with a severe chill, and then
fever and delirium followed. When Roger came the ensuing
evening, Mildred sobbed ou his shoulder.

' Oh, Roger, my heart is paralyzed with dread. The skies
you were making so bright for us have become black with ruin.
You are the only one who brings me any hope or comfort
Gome with me. Look at Belle there. She doesn't know any
of us. For the last hour her mind has wandered. Half the
time she is thanking yoa for all that you have done for us ;
then she calls for papa, or is away in the country. The doc-
tor has been here, and he looked very grave. He says it's alL
due to the bad sanitary condition of this part of the city, and
that there are other cases just like it, and that they are hard
to manage. Why didn't we move before 1 Oh, oh, oh ! ' and
she cried as if her heart would break.

' Don't grieve so, Millie,' Roger faltered. ' I never could
stand it to see tears in your eyes. Belle is young and vigorous,
she'll pull through.'

d50

WITHOUT A HOME.

* I hope so. Oh, what would we do if she should — but tlic
doctor H&jB the fever takes a stronger hold on persons uf full I
ha^'t like Belle, and now that I've made inquiries I find that
it has been fatal in several instances. We have been soj
troubled about papa that we thought of nothing else, and did
not realize our danger. There are two cases like Belle's across |
the way, and one in this house, and none of them are expected
to live.'

* Millie,* said Roger resolutely, * I won't even entertain tlio
thoo-^^ ^ oi Belle's dying. I'm going to stay with you every
5; « • ; antil she is out of danger. I can doze here in this chair,
44!! d 1 ould be sleepless with anxiety anywhere else. Vou
mu t let ^ ^ become a brother now in very truth.'

* No, Roger, we can't permit it. You might catch the fever.'
' Millie, I will stay. Do you think I could leave you to

meet this trouble alone ? I can relieve you in many ways,
and givo you and your mother a chance for a little rest. I^e-
sidep, wha^i is the fever to me ? ' he added with a touch of I
recKlessnesit which she understood too well.

' Roger,' idle said gravely, < think what your life and health
are to me. If you should fail me I would despair.'

* I won't fail you,' he replied, with a little confident nod.
'You will always find me on hand like a good-natured
dragon whenever you are in trouble. The first thing to do is
to send these children to the country, and out of this poisoned
air,' and he sat down at once and wrote to his mother and
Clara Wilson, Clara Bute who had been. Then, true to his
word, he watched with Mildred and Mrs. Jocelyn every night
Frequently his hand upon the brow of the delirious girl would
quiet her when nothing else could, and Mildred often saw his
tears falling fast on the unconscious face.

Mrs. Wilson answered his letter in person. * I couldn't j
wait a minute,' she said. * I went right over to Mrs. At wood's
and told her that no one could have the children but me, and
my husband says they can stav until you want them back. He |
is so good to me I Dear little Belle I ' she sobbed, bending over j
the Buffertr, Ho think that I once so misjudged you! A
better-hearted girl never breathed. As soon as she's able to
be moved you must bring her right to me, and I'll take care of
her till she's her old rosy, beautiful self. No, I'll come for

BELLE IS MURDERED.

357

her. I wish I could take her in my arms and carry her home
now.*

' She often speaks of yon,' faltered Mildred. * Indeed she
seems to be living her old life over again.'

The doctor looked graver every day, and at last held out no
hope. Late one night they saw that the crisis was near.
Belle was almost inanimate from weakness, and Mrs. Jocelyn,
Mildred, and Roger sat beside her in the large living room,
into which they had moved her bed, so that if possible she
might get a little air — air that was laden with vile, stifling
odours. At last the feeble tossingsof the poor sufferer ceased,
and she looked around intelligently. Her mother kissed her,
and said soothingly, ' Sleep, dear, and you'll ^oon be better.'

She shook her head, and continued to lo< . a- 'fin search of
some one, and then whispered,

* Where is papa 1 '

'You are not strong enough to see }...l. \tOw,' her mother
replied with pallid lips, while Mildred pu her hand to her
side from the intolerable pain in her hep ^

Belle lay still a few moments, and the> o.eathed low in their
suspense. Her mother kept her soothing touch upon her brow,
while Mildred held her hand. At last two great tears rolled
down the poor girl's face, and she said faintly, ' I remember
now.'

' Oh, Belle, darling, sleep,' murmured her mother, ' and you
will soon eet well'

Again she slowly shook her head. * Dear little mother,' she
whispered, * forgive naughty Belle for all her wild ways. You
were always patient with me. Pray God to forgive me, for I'm
going fast If He's like you — I won't fear Him.'

' Good-bye, Millie darling — best of sisters. You will have a
long — happy life — in spite of all.'

Mildred clung to her passionately, but at Belle's faint call for
Roger she knelt at the bedside and looked with streaming eyes
on the near approach of death.

' Roger,' Belle whispered, * lift me up. I want to die on your
breast — ^you saved me — you know. Take care Millie— mamma
—little ones. Don't wake them. Now — tell me some — thing
—comforting out of — the Bible.'

358

WITHOUT A HOME.

' " God is not willing that one of His little ones should per
ish/' ' said the young fellow brokenly, thankful that he could
recall the words.

* That's sweet — I'm — one of His — littlest ones. It's — getting
— very dark — Roger. I know — what it — means, bood-bye.
We'll — have — good — times — together — yet.'

Then came that absolute stillness which he understood too
well. He bowed his head upon the cold brow of the dead girl,
and wept as only strong men weep in their first great sorrow.
Mildred almost forgot her own grief in trying to lead him away
and to comfort him, but he clung convulsively to Belle's iifeletis
form. At last he broke almost frantically away.

* Koger, Koger! ' cried Mildred, ' where are you going 1 What
are you going to do 1'

* I don't know — I must have air or my heart will break — I'll
go mad. She's just been murdered — murdered I ' and he rushed
out.

After a little while he returned, and said, 'There, Millie, I'm
better. I won't give way again ; ' and he took her in Lis arras
and let her cry away some of the pain in her heart.

Mrs. Jocelyn still lay upon the sofa, white as marble, and
with dry, dilated eyes. She was far beyond tears.

On the day following Belle's death the Hon. —

sat

down to a sumptuous dinner in one of the most fashionable of
the Saratoga hotels. A costly bottle of wine added its ruddy
hue to his florid complexion. The waiters were obsequious,
the smiling nods of recognition from other distinguished guests
of the house were flattering, and as the difierent courses were
brought on, the man became the picture of corpulent compla-
cence : his aspect might have changed could he have luoked
upon the still form of the once frolicsome, beautiful girl — who
had been slain because he had failed so criminally in fidelity to
his oath of ofiSce. It would not have been a pleasant task for
him to estimate how much of the money that should have
brought cleanliness and health among the tenements of the
poor, was being worse than wasted on his own gross per-
sonality.

THE FJNAL CONSOLATIONS OF OPIUM.

350

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE FINAL CONSOLATIONS OF OriUlf.

I HE glowing September sun had rarely revealed a sadder
group than that which still watched beside poor Belle.
At last Roger looked at his watch and said,
< I will now go and see Mr. Wentworth, and bring Mrs.
Wheaton.'

♦ Very well, Roger,' Mildred replied ; * we leave everything
in your hands.'

* Millie, I can't bear to have Belle placed in one of the
crowded city cemeteries. Would you not be willing to have her
Bleep in our tree-shadowed gr'>,veyard at Forestville 1 We could
keep flowers on her grave there as long as we lived.'

' Oh, Roger, how kind of you to think of that ! It would be
such a comfort to us ! '

' I will take her there myself on the evenmg boat,' he said
decisively ; and he hastened away, feeling that he mubt act
promptly, for his aching head and limbs led him to fear thnt
Belle's fever was already in his veins. Mr. Wentworth over,
flowed with sympathy, and hastened to the afllicted family
with nourishing delicacies. Mrs. Wheaton soon followed, tear-
lul and regetiul.

' I didn't know,' she said ; * I've 'ad a sick child or I'd a
been hover before. Not 'earing from you I thought hall vas
veil, and there's the poor dear dead, an' I might 'ave done so
much for 'er.'

' No, Mrs. Wheaton, all was done that could be done in this
poisoned air. We feared you might catch the fever if you came,
and we knew you would come.'

' Hindeed I vould, if you hall 'ad the small-pox. Now I'm
going to do heverything,' and she fretted at every effort of the
exhausted watchers to help her.

Roeer telegraphed his father to meet him at the boat with
the vHlage hearse. The news spread fast, and the little com>

3G0

WITHOUT A HOME.

munity was soon deeply Btirred with sympathetic interest. Mrs.
Jocelyn was too weak to endure the journey, and Mildred would
not leave her. Therefore Mr. Wentworth held a simple, heart-
felt service over the one they all so loved, and Roger depart<>il
on his sad errand. He was eager to get away, add, if tho
thought of Belle had not been uppermost in all minds, it would
have been seen that he was far from well in spite of his almost
desperate efforts to hide his illness. His father found him oti
the boat delirious with fever. The old man's face was haggard
and drawn as he returned to Forestville with his two helpless
burdens, grieving far more for the one that was ill than for tlu;
one that was dead. * It's turning out just as brother Ezra said/
he growled : 'A man's a fool to mix himself up with otherpeo-
ple's troubles.' The interest in the village deepened into strong
excitement when it became known that Roger was ill with the
fever that had caused Belle's death, some timid ones fearin;;
that a pestilAuce would soon be raging in their midst. But the
great majority yielded to their good impulses, and Mrs. Atwood
was overwhelmed wiih offers of assistance. Several young
farmers to whom Belle had given a heartache a few weeks be-
fore volunteered to watch beside her until the funeral, and
there was a deeper ache in their hearts as they sat reverently
around the fair young speaker. The funeral was a memorable
one in Forestville, for the most callous heart was touched by
the pathos of the untimely death.

Meanwhile poor Roger was tossing in fever and muttering
constantly of his past life. The name, however, ufteneston his
lips was that of Millie Jocelyn.

Never before in all the troubled past did the poor ^rl so need
his sustaining love as on the night he left her. Mr. vVentworth
spent an hour with the sad mother and daughter after the
others had gone, and then sorrowfully departed, saying that he
had an engagement out of town, and that he would come again
immediately on his return. Mrs. Wheaton had gone home,
promising that she would come back in the evening and spend
the night with them, for she had a neighbour who would take
care of the children, and so at last the two stricken women
were left alone.

Mildred was bathing her mother's head and trying to com-
fort her when the dpor opei^$d| and a haggard, unkempt man

THE PINAL CONSOLATIONS OF OlMUM.

nfil

8tuu<I boAjrc them. For a second they looktMl at him in vagiu)
terror, tor h») stooil in a deep shadow, and then Mrs. Jouelyn
cried, * Martin ! Martin ! ' and tears came to ]ior relief at last.

He approached slowly and tremblingly. Mildred was about
to throw herself into his arms, but he pushed her away. His
manner began to fill them with a vague, horrible dread, for he
acted like the spectre of a man.

' Where are the children 1 ' he asked hoarsely.

' Wc have sent them to the country. Oh, papa, do be kind
and natural — you will kill mamma.'

* There is crape on the door-knob,' he faltered. ' Where's
Belle ? '

' Oh, oh, oh ! ' sobbed Mildred. ' Papa, papa, have mercy
on us. Can't you sustain and help us at sucn a time as this 1 '

' She is dead, then,' he whispered, and he sank into a chair
as if struck down.

* Yes, she is dead. You were the first one she asked for when
she came out of her fever.'

' Great God ! my punishment is greater than I can bear,' ho
groaned.

' Oh, Martin,' pleaded bis wife, * come to me,' and too weak
to rise from her couch she held out her arms to him.

He looked at her with a remorse and agony in his expres*
sion that was indescribable. * No, Nan,' he said, * I'm not fit
for you to touch now. I'm murdering you all,' and he went
hastily to his room and locked the door.

They waited, scarcely breathing in their deep apprehension.

In a few moments he came out, and his face was rigid and
desperate in its aspect. In spite of his repelling gesture Mil*
dred clasped him in her arms. The embrace seemed to torture
him. ^ Let me go ! ' he cried, breaking away. * I poison the
very air I breathe. You both are like angels of heaven and I
— God ! But the end has come,' and he rushed out into the
g%:thering darkness. Mrs. Jocelyn tried lo follow him, and fell
pro«trate with a despairing cry on the floor.

Mildred's first impulse was to restore her mother, without
seeking help, in the faint hope that her father wou'd return,
for she had learned what strange alternations of mood opfnm
produces ; but as the sense of his words grew clearer sh^; v^as
overpowered, and trembled so violently that she was cora\>«: ,ed
W

362

WITHOUT A HOME.

to call to her help a neighbour — a plain, good-hcartod woman
who lived on the same floor. When at last Mrs. Jocelyn re-
vived, she murmured piteously,

' Ob, Millie, why didn't you let me die t '

'Mamma,' pleaded the girl, 'how can you even think of leav-
ing me I '

' Millie, Millie darling, I fear I must My heart feels as
if it were bleeding internally. Millie' — and she grasped her
child's shoulder convulsively, ' Millie, look in his room — for —
his pistol.'

' Oh, mamma, mamma t '

* Look, look ! ' said her mother excitedly. ' I can't bear the
suspense.'

Thinking that her mother was a little hysterical, and that
composure would quiet her, Mildred went to the place where
her father had always kept hid cavalry revolver— the one me-
mento left of his old heroic army life. It wa» gone !

She almost sank to the ^oot in terror, nor did she dare re-
turn to her mother.

' Millie, Millie, quick ! ' came in a faint cry from the outer
room.

The poor girl rushed forw;:^rd and buried her face in her
mother's bosom, sobbing, ' Mamma, oh mamma, live for my
sake.'

* I knew it, I knew it,' sail the stricken wife, with a long
low cry. ' I saw it in his desperate face. Oh, Martin, Martin,
we will die together ! '

She clasped Mildred tightly, trembling convulsively a mo-
ment, and then her arms fell back, and she was as still as poor
Belle had been.

' Oh, mamma ! ' Mildred almost shrieked, but she was fur
beyond recall, and the luffering heart was at rest.

When the woman relumed with the cup of tea she had gone
to prepare for Mrs. Jocelyn, she found the young girl leaning
forwanl unconscious on the bosom of the dead mother.

When she revived it was only to moan anu wring her hands
in despair. Mrs. Wh^aton soon appeared, and bavins learned
what nad happened she threw hrr apron over her head and
rocked back and forth in her strong sympathetic grief, i^ut

THE PINAL CONSOLATIONS Of OPTUM.

SOS

her sood heart was nob L)n;;r content with tears, and she took
Mildred into her arms and said,

* I vill be a mother to you, and you shall never vant a 'ome
vile I 'ave von,' and the motherless girl clung to her in a way
that did the kind soul a power of good.

Before the evening was very far advanced a boy brought a
note to the door. Mildred seized it and asked,

* Who gave it to you I '

* I don't know — a man. He pointed to this door, and then
he went away very fast'

She tore it open, and read in horror : ' My darling wife, dear
beyond all words in these my final despairing moments. My
love for you and those left is the only trace of good remaining
in my heart. I die for your sakes. My continued existence
would be a curse, for I have lost my manhood. I am possessed
by a devil that I can't control. I cannot ask you to forgive
me. I can never iTorgive myself. Farewell. After I am gone,
brighter days will come to you all. Pity me if you can, forgive
me if you can, and remember me as I was before — ' And there
the terrible missive ended.

For an hour the girl lay moaning as if in mortal pain, and
then the physician who was summoned gave her a sedative
which made her sleep long and heavily. It was quite late in
the morning when she awoke, and the events that had trans-
pired first came to her like a horrid dream, and then grew into
terrible reality. But she was not left x> meet the emergency
alone, for Mrs. Wheaton and Clara Wilson watched beside her.
The latter, in her strong sympathy, had come to the city to take
Mildred and her mother to the country, and she said to Mrs.
Wheaton that she would now never leave her friend until she
was in the breezy farm-house.

After a natural outburst of grief, Mildred again proved that
Arnold's estimate of her was correct She was equal to even
this emergency, for she eventually grew quiet and resolute. ' I
must find papa,' she said.

* Shall I ? ' Mrs. Wilson asked Mrs. Wheaton significantly.

* Yes, Millie is more hof a soldier than hany hof us.'

* Well,' continued Mrs. Wilson, ' Mrs. Wheaton found this
in the morning paper: "An unknown mau committed suicide

i:ijf

' • ^

364

WITHOUT A HOME.

on the steps of No. 73

Street His remains have been

taken to the Morgue for identiiication." '

For a few moments Mildred so trembled and looked so
crushed that they feared for her exceedingly. * Poor papa ! '
she moaned, ' he was just insane from remorse and opium.

Seventy-three street ! Why, that was the house in which

we used to live. It was there that papa spent his first happy
years in this city, and it was there he went to die. Oh, how
dreadful, how inexpressibly sad it all is ! What shall we do ! '

* I^eave hall to me,' said Mrs. Wheaton. < Mrs. Wilson,
you stay 'ere with the poor dear, an' I'll hattend to hevery-
thing.'

Mildred was at last too overpowered to do more than lie on
the lounge, breathing in long tremulous sighs.

Mrs. Wheaton went at once to the Morgue and found that
the * unknown man ' was indeed Mr. Jocelyn, and yet he had
so changed, and a bullet- hole in his temple had given him such
a ghastly appearance, that it was difficult to realize that ho
was the handsome, courtly gentleman who had first brought
his beautiful daughter to the old mraision.

Mrs. Wheaton represented to the authorities that he was
very poor, that his daughter was an orphan and overcome with
grief, and that she now was the nearest friend of the afflicted
girl. Her statement was accepted, and then with her practical
good sense she attended to everything.

During her absence Mildred had sighed, * Oh, I do so wish
that Roger Atwood were here ! He gives me hope and cou-
rage when no one else can.'

' Milli>%' said Mrs. Wilson, tearfully, * for his sake you must
rally and be braver than you have ever been before. I think
his life now depends upon you. Ho has the fever, and in his
delirium he calls for you constantly.'

At first Mrs. Wilson thought the shock of her tidings would
be more disastrous to the poor girl, already so unnerved and
exhausted, than all the terrible events which had thus far
occurred. * I have brought bin nothing but suffering and
misfortune,' she cried. * He gave up everything for us, and
now we may cost him his life.'

' Millie, he is not dead, and you, if any one, can bring him
life.'

THE FINAL CONSOLATIONS OP OPIUM.

365

She had touched the right chord, for the young girl soon
became quiet and resolute. ' He never failed me/ she said in
a low voice, * and I won't fail him.'

* That is the right way to feel,' said Mrs. Wilson eagerly. * I
now think that everything depends on your courage and forti-
tude. Mrs. Wheaton and I have planned it all out. We'll go
to Forestville on the evening bo;vt, and take your father's and
mother's remains with us.'

Mrs. Wheaton learned from the undertaker connected with
Mr. Wentworth's chapel that the clergyman would not be back
until evening, and she told the former to tell their pastor all
that had occurred, and to ask him to keep the circumstances
of Mr. Jocelyn's death as quiet as possible.

The man was discreet and energetic, and they were all so
expeditious that the evening saw them with their sad freight
on the way t > Forestville, the keys of Mildred's rooms having
been left with the kind woman who had befriended her in the
sudden and awful emergency. Mrs. Wheaton parted from
Mildred as if she were her own child, and went mournfully
back to her busy, useful life. Mr. and Mrs. Jocelyn were
buried with a quiet, simple service beside poor Belle, and sen-
sible Mrs. Wilson soon inspired the good- hearted village peo-
ple with the purpose to spare the feelings of the stricken girl
in every possible way. Mildred caressed her little brother and
sister with the tenderness of a mother added to her sisterly
affection, and she was comforted to see how much they had
already improved in the pure country air. ' Oh, Clara,' she said,
' what a frieml you have been to me I God alone can repay you.'

* Millie,' Mr8. Wil&on earnestly replied, * I owe you a debt I
can never pay. I owe you and darling Belle happiness and
prosperity for this life, and my hope of the life to come. My
husband is strong and pros|)erous, and he says that I shall do all
that's in my heart for' you. Oh, Millie, he is so good to me,
and he cried over Belle like a child. I thought I loved him
before, but when I saw those tears I just worshipped him. He
has a n&an's heart like Roger.'

On the evening after the funeral Mildred went to aid in the
care of Roger, and Mrs. Atwood greete<l her with all the
warmth and tenderness tl'.at a dau-'htoi 'vouM have n^ceived.
Kven ^fr. Atwood drew his sleeve across his eyes as he said,

366

WITHOUT A HOME.

' If you'll help us save our boy, you'll find that rm not as
crabbed and crooked a stick as I seem/

Mildred was shocked and her heart chilled with fear at the
change in Roger, but her hand upon his brow and her voice did
more to quiet him than all the physician's remedies. She be-
came his almost tireless watcher, and she said hopefully that
the bracy autumn winds rustled around the farm-house like the
winss of ministering angels, and that they would bring life
and nealth to the fever-stricken man. They all wondered at
her endurance, for while she looked so frail she proved herself
BO strong. At last the crisis came, as it had in Belle's case, but
instead of waking to die he passed from delirium into a quiet
sleep, Mildred holding his hand, and when he opt^ned his eyes
with the clear glance of intelligence, they first looked upon her
dear face. ' Millie,' he whispered.

She put her fingers upon hei iips, smiled, and said. ' I won't
leave you if you will be good and do all I say. You never
failed me yet, Roger, and you must not now/

* I'll surely get well if you stay with me, Millie./ he answered
contentedly, and soon he slept again as quietly a& a child.

C!iAl:^ER XLV.

MOTHER AND SON.

UR story passes rapidly over the events of the ensuing
months. In his native mountain air, and under the
impulse of his strong, unbroken constitution, Roger re-
covered rapidly and steadily. As soon as he was strong enough
he went to the village cemetery, and leaning his head on Belle's
grave, sobbed until Mildred led him away. For a Itfng time
tears would come into his eyes whenever the names of Mrs.
J«)celyn and the young girl he lovod so fon<lly woro mentionofl
He and Mildred plaiiU'd ihe sacred placNi thick with rose^s an<i
spring'tlowerir g bulbs.

MOTHER AND SON.

367

Mildred resisted all entreaties to remain in the country, say-
ing that she was a city girl at heart, and that with Mr. Went-
worth's aid, she could easily earn her livelihood in town and
do much for Fred and Minnia Moreover she felt that she
could not be parted from Roger, for seemingly he had become
an inseparable part of her life. The experiences he had shared
with her were developing within him a strong and noble man-
hood, and he vowed that the young girl who had known so
much sorrow should have all the happiness that he could bring
to pass.

When Mrs. Wheaton learned of Mildred's purpose to return
to town she took more commodious apartments in the old man-
sion and set apart a room for the young eirl She also sold
most of her own things and took Mildred's furniture out of
storage, so that the place might seen^ familiar and homelike to
her friend.

When Roger had almost recovered his wonted health, Mrs.
Atwood told her husband that he must go with her to visit his
brother in town, for the worthy woman had a project on her
mind which she carried out with characteristic directness and
simplicity.

They surprised Mr. and Mrs. Ezra Atwood at breakfast, and
partook of the cheer offered them rather grimly and »iiontly.
After the meal was over, Roger's mother said, witl out any
circumlocution :

' Brother-in-law, I've come to have a plain honest V^^k vvitli
you, and if you're a true Atwood you'll listen to me. 1 w^ot
your wife and my husband to be present. We are nigh rx kin,
but we are forgetting ties which the Lor'^ hath ordained. E;.<%,
I believe you are a good man at heart, 1 b like my husband you
set too much store by things that perisii m the using. My boy
has taught me that there are better things in this world, and
we'll all soon be where we may look on money as a curse. You
have not spoken to my son since la' t spring, and youVe been
cold towards uq. I want you to k lOW the truth and realize
what you're doing — then if you go on in this way you must
settle it with your own conscience ; ' and with a homely pathos
all her own she told the whole story.

The uncle at first tried to be grim and obstinate, but he soon
broke down completely. * I'm glad you've come,' he said husk-

i^r)8

WITHOUT A HOME.

ily. ' My conBcieiicu hasn't given roe any peace fur months, and
1 wanted to give in — but you know that it's like drawing ar
eye-tooth for an Atwood to give in. I'm proud of the boy, and
he'll be a blessing to us all. He is a new departure in the
family ; he's got more brains than any of us — and with it all a
big, brave heart. He shall marry the girl if he wants to ; and
now that her old wretch of a father is dead, no harm net'd
come of it. But they're young ; they must wait until Roger k
educated up to the best of 'em. Well, now that I've given in,
there shall be no hdf-way work ; ' and he insisted on sending
for his lawyer and making his will in Roger's favour at once.

* I didn't come for any such purpose as this,' said Roger's
mother, wiping her eyes, while bis fMi>her could scarcely con-
ceal his exultation ; * but I felt that it was time for us to stop
living like heathen,' and after a visit of a very different natur«>
from the one tney had feared, the worthy couple returned to
Forestville well content with the results of their expedition.

Roger was jubilant over the news, and he hastened to impart
it to Mildred, who was spending the remaining weeks of her
sojourn in the country with her friend Mrs. Wilson.

'Millie,' he said, 'you shall never want again. My good
fortune would be nothing ^o me unless I shared it with yon.'

B\!t she disappointed him by saying, * No, Roger, you must
let me live the independent life that my nature requires,' and th«;
only concession that he could obtain from her was a promise
to receive his ai<l should any emergency require it.

Before Mildied's return a letter from Vinton Arnold was
forwarded to her at Forestville, and it must be admitted that
it gave her sad heart something like a thrill of happiness. It
was an eloquent and grateful outpouring of aii'ection, and was
full of assurances that she had now given him a chance for life
and happiness.

^Vh« n she told Roger, he looked very grim for a moniert'
and ther; by a> visible effort brightened up and said, 'It's all
right Milh .' After pacing the room for a few moments with
a c ii^ra 'ed brow, he continued, * Millie, you must grant me
one t> r ! r»fcl -you must not say anything to Arnold about me.'

* H\ ' can 1 sav ny thing then about myself? ' she answered.
' I wan him lo know tbac I owe everything to you, and I lunu'
to see U. 3 day when you will be the closest of t'rieiKls,'

MOTHKR AND SON.

36J)

' Well, that will be a good ways on. I roust see him first
and learn more about him ; and, v/ell, friends related as Arnold
will be to me are not common. I've too much of the old un-
tamed man in me to go readily into that kind of thing. I will
do anything in the world for you, but you must not expect
much more till I have a few gray hairs in my head. Come,
now, you must humour me a little in this affair ; you can say
generally that some friends were kind, and all that, without
much personal reference to me. If you should write as you
propose, he might be jealous, or — worse yet — write me a letter
of thanks. It may prevent complications, and will certainly
save ineso me confoundedly disagreeable experiences. After I've
seen him and get more used to it all, I may feel differently.'

' You certainly will, lioger. Your life will gradually become
so rich, full, and happy, that some day you will look back in
wonder at your present feelings.'

' Life will be full enough if work can make it so ; but you
must not expect me to outgrow this. It will strengthen with
my years. It's my nature as well as yours. But I foresee how
it will be,' he continued despondently ; < I shall inevitably be
pushed farther and farther into the background. In your happy
home life — '

Before he could utter another word Mildred was sobbing
passionately. 'Roger,' she cried, 'don't talk that way. I
can't bear it. If Vinton is jealous of you, if he fails in manly
appreciation of you, I will never marry him. Strong as my
love is for him, such a course would destroy it. There are
certain kinds of weakness that I can't and won't tolerate.'

lie was surprised and deeply touched, for her manner was
usually so quiet and well controlled that even he was at times
tempted to forget how strong and passionate was her nature
were the occasion suflicient to awaken it. ' There, Millie, I've
hurt your feelings,' he said remorsefully, ' Even I do not half
understand your good, kind heart. Well, you mudt have
patience with me. When the right time comes my deeds will
satisfy you, I think, though my words are now so unpromising.
But please don't deny me — don't say anything about me until
I give you permission. What h.is occurred betwoon us is sacivd
to me— it's our affair,'

I il

370

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Very well, if you so wish it ; but never even t^hink again
that you will ever b«> less to me than you are now.'

Nevertheless he went sadly away, saying to himself, ' She's
sincere, Heaven knows, but what I said will be true in spite of
her best intentions.'

The next day, after many farewells and an hour spent beside
Belle's grave, Roger returned to the city, far better prepared
for life's battle than when he first left his native village. Two
or three days later Mildred followed him, accompanied by
Mrs. Wilson, who was determined to see her safely settled iu
Mrs. Wheaton's care. Pain and pleasure were almost equally
blended in Mildred's experience as she looked upon the furni-
ture and the one or two pictures that had escaped their poverty
— all of which were so inseparable in their associations with
those who were gone, yet never absent long from memory.
But the pleasure soon got the better of the pain, for she did
not wish to forget. Mrs. Wheaton's welcome was so hearty as
to be almost overpowering, and when Roger appeared in the
evening with a beautiful picture for her walls she smiled as she
once thought she never could smile again. Mr. Wentworth
also called, and was tto kind and sympathetic that the youug
girl felt that she was far from being friendless. ' I so managed
it,' he whispered in parting, ' that there was little public re-
ference to your father's sad end. Now, Millie, turn your
thoughts toward the future. Let Roger make you happy.
Believe me, he's pure gold.'

* Juso what poor Belle said,' she thought sighingly after he
had gone. ' I must disappoint them all. But Roger will help
me out. He deserves a far better wife than poor shamed, half-
crushed Millie Jocelyn can ever make him, and he shall have
her, too, for he is much too young and strong not to get over
all this before many years elapse.'

Life soon passed into a peaceful, busy routine. Roger was
preparing himself for the junior class of college under the best
of tutors, and his evenings spent with Mildred, were usually
prefaced by a brisk walk in the frosty air. Then he either
read aloud to her or talked of what was Greek to good-natureil
Mrs. Wheaton, who sat knitting in a corner discreetly blind
and deaf Unknown to MiMred, he was able to aid licr very
^Hjoicntly, for he taxed Mrs, WcatwortU's ingenuity in the iri-

MOTHER AND SON.

371

vention of all kinds of delicate fancy work, and that good lady,
in the most business like manner, gave the orders to Mildred,
who thought that, considering the hard times, she was won-
derfully prosperous.

Twice during the winter she went with Roger to Forestvilie,
and she had her little brother and sister spend the Christmas
week with her. Tt was the brightest experience the little peo-
ple ever remembered, although, unnoted by them, Mildred with
sad memories that do not belong to childhood, often wiped
bitter tears from her eyes as she recalled the terrible events
of the preceding holiday Beason. She became an efficient ally
of Mr. Wentworth, and was almost as glad to aid him in re-
turn for his staunch friendship, as the cause he represented.

She and Vinton Arnold maintained quite a regular corres-
pondence, and the fact occasioned the young man more than
one stormy scene. His mother saw Mildred's letter before he
received it, and the effect of the missive upon him, in spite of
his efforts at concealment, were so marked that she at once
surmised the source from which it came. The fact that a few
words from Mildred had done more for the invalid than all the
expensive physicians and the many health resorts they had
visited would have led most mothers to query whether the se-
cret of good health had not been found. Mrs. Arnold, on
the contrary, was only angered and rendered more implacable
than ever against the girl. She wr^ce to her husband, how-
ever, to find out what he could about her family, believing that
the knowledge might be useful Mr. Arnold merely learned
the bare facts that the Jocelyns had become greatly impover-
ished, that they were living in low tenements, that the father
had become a wretched sot, and worse than all, that the girl
herself had been in a station-house, although he believed sh'^
was proved innocent of tl e charge against ner. He therefore
wrote to his wife that the correspondence must cease at once,
since it might involve the family in disgrace — certainly in dis-
graceful associations. He also wrote to his son to desist, un-
der the penalty of his heaviest displeasura With an expres-
sion of horror on her face, Mrs. Arnold showed this letter to
her son. Tn vain he tried to protest that not ono ovil thinjf
against Mildred coul<l he proved ; that she was innocence an«l
purity itself; that her misfortunes and the wron^ uf others)

ii-

372

WITHOUT A HOME.

were no reason for desertion on bis part His mother fur once
lost her frigid politeness. ' What 1 she almost sere iRied, ' do
you think we would ever let that horrid creature bear our
name 1 A woman who has been in a prison cell, and niixe<I
up with the vilest and lowest people in the city, should not
even be named in my presence.'

Her son gave her a strange, vindictive look. * You unnain-
ra) mother,' he muttered between his teeth, * thus to speak of
the girl to whom your son has given his best love, and who is
worthy of it ! ' and he turned on his heel and left her.

Mrs. Arnold became somewhat hysterical, and wrote homo
that she believed that Vinton was losing his mind. She soon
learned, however, that she would have no ground for suclf si
charge although her son was becoming greatly changed. 1 1 is
politeness to her was scrupulous to a nicety, but was unrelcnt
ing in its icy coldness. At the same time she knew that ho was
continuing the correspondence, and she saw, too, that he wan
making the most studied and careful effort to gain in physical
strength. One day she began to upbraid him bitterly for liis
disobedience, but he interrupted her by saying sternly.

* Madam, there is no child present. I treat you with respect.
I also demand respect.'

The proud, resolute woman admitted to herself that his
management was becoming a difficult and dubious problem,
and at last, discouraged and exasperated by the unwavering
steadfastness of his course and manner, she wrote that tliey
might as well return home, for * he was beyond her influence.'

Therefore, thri'l.ag with glad expectation, Arnold found
himself in his native city much sooner than he expected. He
had no very definite plans. If he could only become suffici-
ently well to earn his own livelihood the future would be com-
paratively clear. If this were impossible, his best hope was to
wait, secure in Mildred's faith, for the chances of the future,
believing that his father might relent if his mother would not.
For this event, however, the outlook was unpromising. Mr.
Arnold was incensed by his wife's fuller account of his son's
behaviour, and the proof she had obtained, in spite of his pre-
cautions, that he was in frequent correspondence with Mildred.
Mr. Arnold had since learned the circumstances of Mr. Joce-
l^ii's wretched death^ an() thi^t^ Afildr^d w^s but a sewing giil,

MOTHER AND SON.

373

living with an ignorant English woman in a dilapidatcil old
tenement, and his bitter revolt at the whole atl'air was quite
natural in view of his suT>erficial inquiries and knowledge.
Both he and his wife jur'iged from their proud and worldly
standpoint solely, and therefore on the day following Vinton's
arrival they summoned him to a private interview. At first
Mr. Arnold proposed to reason witn his son, but the cold, un-
Yielding face soon so irritated him that he became almost vio-
lent in his anger. Afler he and his mother had about ex-
hausted themselves, Vinton said quietly,

* Now that yuii have both lectured and threatened me as is
if I were a boy, I would like to ask one question. Have I ever
disgraced you yet 1 '

The husband and wife looked at each other, and were not a
little perplexed how to meet this passive resistance. In the
same low, incisive tones, Vinton continued : ** If you propose
to turn me into the streets for loving Miss Jocelyn, do so at
once, for I do love her, and I shall ever love her.'

* She shall not touch a penny of our money,' said Mrs. Ar-
nold, with an implacable look.

. * With me,' replied her son, with the same old vindictive
glance, ' it is not a question of pennies, but of life and death.
I feel toward Miss Jocelyn as I suppose my father once felt to-
ward you, although what heart you had to win I cannot under-
stand from your manner toward me. I have seen considerable
of society, but have never met a woman who could compare
with Mildred Jocelyn in all that constitutes a true lady. I shall
not waste any words concerning tlie virtues of her heart upon
such unsympathetic listeners, but I am at least a man in years,
and have the right to love her.

* Oh, certainly,' said Mrs. Arnold, angrily, * there is no law
which can prevent your disgracing yourself and us.'

' Nor is there any law nor gospel, madam, for your unnatu-
ral, unsympathetic course towanl your own flesh and blood.
Good-evening.*

' Now you see how strange and infatuated he has become,' she
said to her husband after her son's departure ; but the old mer-
chant shook his head in trouble and perplexity.

' We have been too hard upon him, I fear,' he said.

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374

WITHOtrr A HOME.

Mfyou weaken in this matter, I shall not/ she answered
decisively. * If he gives way to this folly, both I and my children
will disown all kith and kin.'

* Well, well,' he replied, impatiently, ' it will have to be so,
I suppose ; but, nevertheless, I believe we have been too hard
with him.'

CHAPTER XLVI.

A FATAL ERROR.

^HE next morning Arnold started out to visit the one
rarely absent from his thoughts. It was a lovely day
in the latter part of June, and his heart grew glad and
hopeful in spite of the discouraging conditions of his lot. All
the world could not prevent his loving Mil<^.red, nor destroy
her faith, and at some time and in some way they would attain
their happiness. These hopes were like the bright summgr
sun, and he walked with a firmer and more elastic tread than
he had ever known before.

When he reached the haggard old mansion his heart misgave
him. ' Can it be reality,' he asked himself, * that she has been
living in places like this 1 ' and the half<defined fear entered his
mind tha*j she might have changed somewhat with her fortunes,
and ml'.'ht no longer be in appearance the delicate, refined,
beautiful girl that he had left so long since. But his impatient
heart gave him no time for such imaginings, and he hastened to
gratify his intense denire to look upon her face.

In response to a low knock Mildred opened the door, and
found herself in the arms of her lover. Then he held her off
and looked at her earnestly. * Oh, Millie ! ' he excUimed, * you
have only grown more beautiful, more womanly, in these long,
weary years. Your face is the reflex of the letters on which I
have lived, and which gave me the power to live.'

Then in the excess of his joy he sank into a chair, and, put*
ting his hand upon his heart, looked very pale. She sprang
to his side in alarm. ' Don't worry, Millie,' he said, taking her

A FATAL ERROR.

375

«> a

I ff !

hand. * It's passing. I don't have them very often now. I'm
much better, thanks to you. Happiness rarely kills.'

It was well that Mrs. Wheaton and the children were out.
This scene would have been a great shock to the good woman,
for she was Roger's ally, heart and soul, and did not even
know of Arnold's existence. Since Arnold and Mildred were
so fortunate as to be alone, they talked frankly over their old
happy days, and as far as she could without breaking her pro-
mise to Roger, Mildred spoke of the deep sorrows which had
almost overwhelmed her during his absence.

' How my heart aches for you ! ' Arnold said. * I never real-
ized before what sad experiences you have passed through.
The part which I can't endure is that I have been of no help
to you. On the contrary, you reached out this little hand and
saved me. Everything has been just the opposite of what it
ought to have been, and even now in these surroundings you
are like a diamond in a dust-heap. Oh, how different it would
be if I had my way I ' and he in turn told her quite frankly
how he was situated.

' Vinton,' she said earnestly, * you must do all in your power
to grow strong and make a place for yourself in the world. As
you say, I cannot punish you for the pride and hostility of
your parents ; I don't think of them, and I could never take
any favours at their hands. As a man you have the right to
choose for yourself and can do so while maintaining the ut-
most courtesy and respect toward your family. * I don't feai
poverty — I'm used to it. The thing for you to do is to find
some honest work that won't tax you too greatly, and gain
strength in its performance.'

< Oh, Millie, how strong and true you are ! I will taVe your
advice in this as in all respects. But we will have to wait a
long time I fear. I have so little knowledge of business, and I
think my father, influenced by my mother, will thwart rather
than help me.'

' Very well, I can wait ' she answered smilingly. ' Indeed
I'd rather wait'

Now that her happiness seemed assured, however, she sighed
over Roger so often and remorsefully that at last Arnold
Baid,
' You have some trouble on your mind; Millie t '

'I m

576

WITHOUT A HOME.

' You must not expect to find me a light-heai'ted girl any
more,' she replied evasively.

' Well/ he said, as he clasped her closely in fareVell, ' my
every waking thought shall now he how hest to banish sighs
and bring smiles.'

That evening, while they were out for a walk, Mildred said
to Roger with a little tremor in her voice. * He's come.'

He gave her a swift look^^and then he turned as quickly away,
but his arm grew rigid under her hand.

' Don't fail me, Roger,' she pleaded.

* It's unexpected — 1 wasn't prepared,' he said, in a low tone,
and then he was silent. He felt her hand trembling ^o greatly
that he soon mastered himself for her sake. * It's all right,
Millie,' he said heartily. * Be just as happy as you can.'

* How can I be truly happy when you are not ? ' she
sighed.

* Bless your kind heart I do you think T am going to stand
off and lower at your happiness like a black cloud ? Do you
think I am going to droop, look forlorn, and deserted, and
heave great sighs in dark corners 1 By all the powers ! if I
were capable of such meanness toward you, I'd whip myself
worse than I did that fellow Bissel.'

* Do you think I'll feel for you any the less because you are
80 good and brave about it 1 '

' Oh, confound it ! ' he said impatiently, < you must not feel
too much. Spoiling your happiness won't do me any good ; it
would just make me savage.'

She leaned her head for a second against his shoulder and
said, ' Tm not a bit afraid of you, Roger.*

* There, Millie,' he said ouietly, * you always get the better
of the old Satan in me, but 1 sometimes feel as if [ could more
easilv tame a whole menagerie than my own nature. Come to
think of it, it's all turning out for the best. To-morrow I go
home on quite a long vacation. Father isn't very well this
summer, and I'm to take charge of the harvest for him.

' Isn't this plan a little sudden 1 ' she asked.

* Not more so than your news,' he replied grimly.

* Are you not willing to meet him yet 1 '

' Not quite. After a few weeks in the fields I shall come
back with the stoicism and appearauce of a wild Indian. Come,

A FATAL ERROR.

377

Millie, I said I wouldn't fail you, nor shall I. Leave it all to
me. I will explain to Mrs. Wheaton to-night, and to our other
friends when the right time comes, and I will make it appear
all right to them. If I justify vou, they should have nothing
to say. And now you have notning to do but accept your hap-
piness and make the most of it. I still request that you do not
speak of me to Arnold except in a casual way. When we meet
you can introduce me simply as a friend who was kind during
your troubles. Fll soon know after we meet whether we can
get on together, and if we can't it will save complications for
you as well as myself. You must let me serve you in my own
way, and I think my judgment will be better than yours in this
matter.'

She was silent for a few moments, and by the light of a lamp
he saw that her eyes were full of tears. * Boger ' she said soft-
ly after a while, * I sometimes think that my affection for you
is greater than my love for Vinton, but it is so different It
seems sometimes almost like my religion. Ton are a refuge
for me, no matter what happens.'

* Thank you, Millie, but I don't deserve such honour.'

Mrs. Wheaton could not be brought to look at the situation
as Roger did, and she accepted the fact of Vinton Arnold with
but a grim acquiescence, which was not mollified by the young
man's manner toward her. While meaning to be very kind
and polite, he was unconsciously patronizing. She belonged to
a class with which he had never had much to do, and in his
secret soul he chafed at her presence and her relations to
Mildred.

Mildred in one respect disappointed him also, for she would
take no aid from him, nor in any way deviate from her retired,
independent life. *Even if my feelings and prii|eiple8 werie
not involved,' she said, * good taste requires that I conform to
my circumstances.'

She would take such quiet walks with him as his strength per-
mitted, but would visit no places of public resort. In view of his
family's hostility to his course, Arnold did not so much regret
this, and so it came about that they spent many of their even-
ings on the platform over the roof, with the old German astron-
omer, star-gazing and oblivious, not far away.

I'
If

> %

378

WITHOUT A HOME.

While Mildred maintained her loyalty to her old friends,
and her resolute plainness and simplicity of life, she consider-
ately recognised that it was all so foreign to hei' lover's previous
experience that she could not expect him to feel as she did.
Moreover, his presence renewed her old love for the refined and
beautiful, and her heart, that had been sc sad and preoccupied,
awoke at last to the truth that she was out of her sphere — an
exile far from the world her nature craved. Arnold seemed an
inseparable part of that old world of beauty and elegance. His
every act and word brought it back, and it caused a deepening
regret that he was compelled to seek her in her present situa-
tion ; therefore she also began to share his ill-conceived wish
that she might soon escape. Honestly as she loved Mrs.
Wheftton, and would love her for all her kindness, the good
woman's talk and ways often jarred discordantly on her nerves.
Arnold soon discovered this fact, and it made him very impa-
tient over the prospect of a life long continued under its pres-
ent auspices. He was conscious of Mrs. Wheaton's latent
hostility, and he had not the tact to conciliate her, nor indeed
did he make very great effort to do so. Mildred was very
sorry for this, but did not blame him greatly, for she knew her
plain old friend could never be to him what she was to those
who had learned her goodness and worth in emergencies that
had levelled all external differences.

But in spite of the ingredients brought by these facts and the
memories of the past, Mildred found the cup of happiness
which Arnold pressed to her lips sweet indeed. She had been
exceediuglv sorrowful for a long time, and it is contrary to na-
ture that the young should cling to sorrow, however true and
constant they may be. Her love was a part of her happy girl-
hood, and now it seemed to have the power to bring back some
of her former girlish lightness of heart The prospects offered
by Arnold certainly had little to do with the returning tide of
giadnrBs which seemed bearing her from the dark, rugged shores
on which she had been nearly wrecked.

She had said to Arnold that she was willine to wait, that
she would rather wait, but she soon beean to feel differently.
Atnold infosod into her nature some of his own dreamy, ener-
vated spirit, and sometimes he would describe to her an imagi-
nary home so exactly to her taste that she would sigh deeply ;

A FATAL ERROR.

379

and one day she remonstrated, * Djn't tantalizd me with any
more such exquisite mirages. Let us rather think of the best
and quickest way to secure a real home, and let us be content
in it, however humble it must be.' But Arnold was far better
able to construct an imaginary palace than an ordinary cottage.
Although he seemed gaining steadily under the impulse of his
happi;nQ38, she often trembled to see how frail he was in body
and how untrained and impracticable in mind, lie was essen-
tially the product of wealth, luxury, and seclusion, and while
liis intentions mi^ht be the best, she was sometimes compelled
to doubt his ability to raike much head tray in the practicil,
indifferent world. Instead of baing discouraged, she only
thought, * No one cxn ever doubt the genuineness of my love.
B'jger is rich already, and he is certain to become eminent, an I
yet my love is more than all the world to me, and I so long
for a little nook of a home tha*^ I could call all my own, that I
woul 1 be willing to marry Vinton at once and support him
myself if his health required it I don't think I cm be like
other girls.'

Arnold's family were as deeply perplexed as they were in-
censed at his course. He would not leave the city for any
fashionable resort, and they well knew the rejison. Uis father
and mother hesitated in their departure, not knowing what
* folly,' as they termed it, he might be guilty of in their ab-
sence. They felt, that they must bring the matter to soma
issue, and yet how to do so pUzzled them greatly, for, as he
had said, he had done nothing as yet to disgrace them, and his
bearing toward them was as irreproachable as it was cold and
dignified.

At last, unknown to them, an elder brother undertook to
solve the problem. He was a thorough man of the world, and
his scrupulous compliance with the requirements of fashionable
society led his mother to regard him as a model of propriety.
In his private, hidden life he was as unscrupulous as the ultra
fashionable often are.

* Vinton,' he said one day, ' what a fool you are making of
yourself in this affair ! You have been brought up like a girl,
and you are more simple and innocent thin they average. I've
seen your charmer, and I aimit that she is a fine creature. As
far as looks go, you show as much judgment as any man in

380

WITHOUT A HOME.

town, but there your wits desert you. Girls in her position
are not nice as to terms when they can greatly better them-
selves. You have money enoueh to lodf;e her like a princess
compared with her presjnt condition. Verbum sat sapUnti.*

Vinton replied indignantly that he knew nothing about
Mildred.

' Oh, I know all about women/ was the confident reply ;
' have forgotten more than you ever knew.'

Nevertheless this thought, like an evil seed, sprang up into
a speedy but not rank growth. Arnold saw that his family
would regard his marriage as an outrage which they would re-
sent in every possible way, and that their hostility now was
but an ill-concealed, smouldering fire. The relation to him
would not be what his brother suggested, but as sacred and
binding as marriage. His unhealthful reading, his long years
abroad, and the radical weakness of his nature prepared him
to accept this solution as the easiest and best that circumstances
permitted of. Me justly doubted whether he would soon, if
ever, gain the power of being independent. He knew nothing
of business and hated its turmoil and distractions, and while
for Mildred's sake he would attempt anything and suffer any-
thing, he had all the unconquerable shrinking from a manful
push out into the world which a timid man feels at the prospect
of a battle. He had been systematically trained into weakness,
and he felt that men, when he came to compete with them,
would discover and take advantage of his defects. His cold,
haughty reticence was but disguised timidity. In Mildred's

{)re8ence he even showed the t^st side of his nature, and his
onely,.repressed life had always touched the tenderest chords
of her heart. If their love had been smiled upon from the first,
how different would have been his fate ! She would have
tenderly developed his dwarfed, crushed manhood, and the re-
sult woulii have been happiness for them both.

' Millie,' said Arnold, one starlight night, * do you care very
much for the world's opinions ? ' They were sitting on the
platform above the old mansion. The German astronomer,
after grumbling a while, at an obscuring haze, had gone down
stairs in disgust, an) left the lovers to themselves.

* No, Vinton, I never cared much f< r the world at any time,
and- now 1 have an almost morbid impulse to shrink from it

i'
li

A FATAL ERROn.

nsi

altogetber. rro like my duar mamnin. Home was h«r wot Id.
Poor, dear mamma ! ' and she buried lier face on his uhuulder
and shed tears that his presence robbed of diuch of their
bitterness.

' 1 not only do not care for the world/ he said impetuously,
' bit I hate it. I've been dragged through it, and have ever
fouud it a desert, stony place. My heart just aches for the
sweet quiet and seclusion of such a home as you could make,
Millifr As it is I have no home. A hollow iceberg could not
be more cold and joyless than my present abode. Neither have
you a home. It is only in stolen moments like these, liable to
interruption, that we can speak of what is in our hearts ; ' and
then, prompted by his foelings, longings, and the apparently
friendless condition of the girl whose head rested so trustingly
on his breast, he broached the scheme of life that had taken
possession of his imagination.

At first, in her faith and innocence she scarcely understood
him, but suddenly she raised her head, and looked at him with
startled eyes. * What 1 ' she said, in trembling alarm, ' no
marriage Y Mr. Wentworth and Roger Atwood not present ? '

' No minister could make our union more sacred than it wotild
be to me,' he faltered, * and as soon as my obdurate parents — '

She sprang to her feet, and exclaimed passionately, ' I'd
rather die tea thousand deaths than bring a blush of shame to
Roger Atwood's face.' Then she sank into her chair in an
uncontrollable outburst of grief. He pleaded with her but she
was deaf ; he tried to caress her, but^ although half unconscious
from her agony, she repulsed him. * Oh, oh,' she moaned, * is
this the sole reward of my fidelity ¥ '

' Millie, Millie,' he entreated, < you will kill me if you cannot
control yourself. I will do anything you say — submit to any
terms. Oh, pity me, or I shall die.'

' Leave me,' she said faintly.

* Never,' he cried ; ' I'd sooner crist myself down from this
height'

By visible and painful effort she at last grew calm enough to
say firmly,

* Mr. Arnold, I do pity you. Even at this moment I will try
to do you justice. My heart seems broken, and yet I fear you
will suffer more than I. My own womanhood would make

382

WITHOUT A HOME.

your words the f>ufl[icii>nt cause for our final fwporatiun, and had
1 not a friend in the worfd we cuuld never meet auain. But 1
have a friend— -a brother to whom I owe more than life, and
whom I love better than life. He would have made me rich if I
would have let him, but I loved you too well. Not for my hope
of heaven would I make him blush for me. I would have mar-
ried yon and lived in a single room in a tenement I would have
supported you with my own hands. The weaknesses for which
vou were not to blame drew my heart towards you ; but you
haye shown a defect in your character to-night which creates an
impassable gulf between us. In view of the wrong done you by
others I forgive you— I shall pray God to forgive you — but we
have fatally misunderstood each other. If you have any man-
hood at all — if you have the ordinary instincts of a gentleman —
you will respect the commands of an orphan girl, and leave me,
never to approach me again.'

Speechless— almost paralyzed in his despair — ^he tottered to
the steps and disappeared.

CHAPTER XLVIfc

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.

S Mrs.Wheaton crossed the hallway from a brief call on a
neighbour, Vinton Arnold passed her. She noted by
the light of the lamp in her hand that his pallor was
ghostlike, and she asked quickly :

* Vere is Miss Jocelyn 1 '

He paid no more heed to her than if he were a shadow of a
roan, and went by her with wavering, uncertain steps, without
a word. In sudden alarm she hastened to the roof, and found
Mildred kneeling by her chair, weeping and almost speechless
fr(»m grief. She took the girl in her arms, and said excitedly,
* Vat did he say to you 1 *

* Oh r sobbed Mildred, * my heart is broken at last. I feel
as mamma did when she said her heart was bleeding away. Mrs.

UOHT AT EVENTtDR

383

Whoaton, I shall stay with you now »8 lonx as I live, and it
seems as if it wouldn't be very long. Never sp»ak of him again
— never speak of it to a living soul. He rsked that which would
banish you and Roser — dear, brave, patient Roger — from my
side forever ; and I will never see his face again. Oh, oh ! I
wish I could die ! '

* Vm a plain woman/ Mrs. Wheaton said grimly, * but I took
the measure of 'im as soon as I clapped my heyes on 'im ; but
Millie, me darlin', you couldn't be so cruel as to break our 'earts
by dying for sich a man. You vould make th(.i vorld black for
us hall, yer know. Come, dear — come vith me. I'll take care
hof yer. I'm not fine like 'im that's ^ne, thank the Lord, but
I'll never ax ye to do aught that Mr.Ventvorth vouldn't bless ; '
and she half supported the exhausted, trembling girl to her
room, and there was tender and tireless in her ministrations.
In the early dawn, when at last Mildred slept fot an hour or
two, she wrote in a ha- legible scrawl to Roger: 'Come back.
Millie wants you.'

His presence in response was prompt indeed. On the second
morning after the events described, Mildred sat in her chair
leaning back with closed eyes. Mrs. Wheaton was away at
work, and her eldest daughter was watching the little brood
of children on the sidewalk. A. decided knock at the door caused
the young girl to start up with apprehension. She was so nerv-
ously prostrated that she trembled like a leaf. At last she sum-
moned courage and opened the door slightly, and when she saw
Roger's sunburnt, honest face, she welcomed him as if he were
a brother indeed.

He placed her gently in her chair again, and said, with a keen
look into her eyes, * How is this, Miflie 1 I left you happy and
even blooming, and now you appear more pale and broken than
ever before. You look as if you had been seriously ill. Oh,
l^Iillie, that couldn't be, and you not let me know,' and he
clasped her hand tightly as he spoke.

She buried her burninc; face on his shoulder, and said, in a
low, constrained tone, ' Roger, I've told Mr. Arnold this much
about you — I said I'd die ten thousand deaths rather than cause
you to blush for me.'

He started as if he had been shot * Great God ! ' he ex-
claimed, 'and did he ask you aught that would make you
blush ? '

884

WITHOUT A HOME.

Bitter tears were Mildred's only answer.

The young man's passion for a few moments was terrible,
but Mildred's pallid face soon calmed him. * You could not
harm him,' she said, sadly. * What is one blow more to a man
who is in torture Y I pity him from the depths of my soul, and
you must promise me to let him alone. Never for a moment did
I forget that you were my brother.'

In strong revulsion of feeling he bent one knee at her side
and pleaded, ' Oh, Millie, give me the right to protect you. I'll
wait for you till I'm gray. I'll take what love you can give me.
I'll be devotion itself.'

' Don't, Roger,' she said, wearily. ' I love yon too well to
listen. Such words only wound me. Oh, Roger, be patient witli
me. You don't understand, you never will understand. I do

five you the right to protect me ; but don't talk that way again,
just long for rest and peace. Roger, my friend, my brother,'
she said, lifting her eyes appealingly to his, and giving him both
of her hands,'' don't you see Y I can give you everything in this
way, but in the way you speak of — nothing. My heart is as
dead as poor Belle'&'
' Your wish shall be my law,' he said, gently.

* And you'll not harm Mr. Arnold 1 '
' Not if it will hurt you.'

* I never wish to see or hear from him again, and you'll never
have cause to fiear any one else.'

' Millie,' he said, sadly, * it is for you I fear most You look
so sad, pale, and broken-hearted. There isn't a sacrifice I
wouldn't mtke for you. Millie, you won't let this thing crush
you ? It would destroy me if you did. We will resume our old
quiet life, and you shall have lest of body and soul , ' and he
kept his word so well that before many months passed, her
mind regained sufficient tone and strength to enable her to en-
I gaffe in the simple duties of life with something like zest He
talked to her about many of his studies, he searched the stores
for the books which he thought would be to her taste, and took
her to see every beautiful work of art on exhibition. In spite
of her poverty, he daily made her life richer and fuller of all
that he knew to be congenial to her nature. While she gained
in serenity and in capability for quiet enjoyment, he was posi-
tively happy, for he believed that before many years passed she

LIGHT AT KVENTIDE.

3S5

would be ready to spend the rest of life at hit side. He mean-
time was pursuinff his studies with a vigour and suooess that
inspired his friends with the most sanguine hopes.

Vinton Arnold, on that terrible night when his false dream
of life was shattered, went through the streets as oppressed
with shame and despair aa if he were a lost spirit. As he was
slowly and weakly climbing the stairs his father called him to
the sitting-room, where he and his wife were in consultation,
feeling that matters must be brought to some kind of a set-
tlement As his son entered, the old gentleman smarted up,
exclaiming,

* Good Ood, my boy, what is the matter 1 '

* He's going to have one of his bad turns,' said his mother,
rising hastily.

' Hush, both of you,' he commanded sternly, and he sat down
near the door. Fixing a look of concentrated hatred on his
mother, he said slowly, * Madam, you are not willing that I
should marry Mildred Jocelyn.'

' And with very good reason,' she replied, a little confused
by his manner.

' Well, let it rejoice such heart as you have — I shall never
marry her.'

* What do you mean f '

' I mean never to speak to you again after this brief inter-
view. I am a lost man — lost beyond hope, and you are the
cause. If you had had a mother's heart my father would not
have been so obdurate. Since you would not let me marry her,
I was tempted by my love and the horrible life I lead in this
house to offer her a relation which would have been marriage to
me, but from which her proud, pure spirit recoiled, as I recoil
from you, and 1 shall never see her face again in this world or
in any world. Your wc'k is finished. You need not scheme
or threaten any more. While she is as good as an angel of hea-
ven, she is as proud as you are, and you have murdered my
hope — my souL Father, I have but one request to make to
you. Give me money enough to live anywhere except under
this roof. No, no more words to-night, unless you would have
me die in your presence with curses on my lip& I have reached
the utmost limit ; ' and he abruptly left the room.

386

WITHOUT A HOME.

Mrs. Arnold took refuge in hysterics, and her husband rang
violently for her maid, and then locked himself up in his lib-
rary, Inhere he walked the floor for many an hour. The next
morning he tried to make overtures to his son, but he found
the young man deaf and stony in his despair. ' It's too late,'
was all that he would say.

* Ob, let him alone,' protested his wife irritably, as her hus-
band came down looking sorely troubled ; ' Vinton will indulge
in hfgh tragedy for a few months, and then settle down to sen-
sible life,' and in the hope of this solution the old merchant
went gloomily to his busmess.

That day Vinton Arnold left his home, and it was years be-
fore he returned.

Two years or more passed away in quiet, toilsome days for
Mildred. She had gained serenity, and apparently had ac-
cepted her lot without repining. Indeed, thanks to Iioger'i>
unfaltering devotion, it was not a monotonous or a oad one.
He let her heart rest, hoping, trusting that some day it would
wake from its sleep. In compliance with her wish he was in
semblance a brother, and his attentions wore so quiet and
frank, his manner toward her so restful, th&^ even she half be-
lieved at times that his regard for her was passing into the
quiet and equable glow of fraternikl love. Such coveted illu-
sions could not be long maintained, however, for occasionally
when off his guard she would find him looking at her in a way
that revealed how much he repressed. She shed many bitter
teaia over what she termed his * obstinate love,' but an almost
morbid conviction had gained possession of her mind that un-
less she could return his affection in kind and degree she ought
not marry him.

M last she began to grow a little restless under her rather
aimless life, and one day she said to her pastor, Mr. Went-
worth, * I want a career — isn't that what you call it? I'm
tired of being a sewing-woman, and soon I shall be a wrinkled
spinnter. Isn't there something retirad and quiet which a girl
with no more brains and knowledge than I have can do ? '

• Yes,' he said gravely ; * make a home for Roger.'

She shook her head. * That is the only thing I can't do for
him,' she replied very sadly. ' God only knows how truly I
lo e him. I could give him my life, but not the heart of a

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.

ns7

wife. I have lust everything except truth to my womanly
nature. I must keep that. Moreover, I'm too good a friend
of Roger's to marry him. He deserves the strong first love of
a nohlA woman, and it will come to him some day. Bo you
think I could stand before you and God's altar, and promise
what is impossible 1 No, Mr. Wentworth, Roger has a strength
and force of character which will carry him past all this, and
when once he sees I have found a calling to which I can devote
all my energies, he will gradually become reconciled to the
truth, and finally accept a richer happiness than I could ever
brino;him.'

' You are an odd girl, Mildred, but perhaps you are right.
I've learned to have great faith in you. Well, I know of a
career which possibly may suit you. It would open an almost
iiuiitless field of usefulness,' and he told her of the Training
School for Nurses in connection with Bellevue Hospital.

The proposition took Mildred's fancy greatly, and it was
arranged that the} should visit the institution on the following
afternoon. Roger sighed when he heard of the project, but
only remarked patiently, ' Anything you wish, MiUie.'

* Dear old fellow,' she thought ; * he doesn't know I'm think-
ing of him more than myself.'

Mildred made her friend Clara Wilson and her brother and
(sister a long visit the following summer, and in the fall entered
on her duties, her zest greatly increased by the prospect of
being able before very long to earn enough to give Fred and
Minnie a good education. The first year of her training passed
uneventfully away, she bringing to her tasks genuine sympathy
for suffering, and unusual aptness and ability. Her own
sorrowful experience mu^^e her tender toward the v nfortunate
ones for whom she cared, and her words and manuer brought
balm and healing to many sad hearts that were far beyond the
skillof the hospital surgeons.

During the first half of the second year, in accordance with
the custom of thn school, she responded to calls from wealthy
families wherein there were cases of such serious illness as to
rt^quire the services of a trained nurse, and in each instance
she so won the confidence of the attending physician and the
affection of the family as to make them personal friend •>. Her
beautiful face often attracted to her not a little attention, but

588

WITHOUT A HOME.

she was found to be as unapproachable as a Sister of Charity.
Roger patiently waited, and filled the long months with un-
remitting toil.

One evening toward the latter part of the first six months
of her outside work, Mildred returned frou nursing a patient
back to health. She found the lady in charge of the institu-
tion in much tribulation. * Here is Mrs. Sheppard, from one
of the most influential families on Fifth Avenue, offering any-
thing for a nurse. Her brother is dying with consumption,
she says. He has a valet in attendance, but the physician in
charge says he needs a trained nurse, for he wants constant
watching. He is liable to die at any moment. We haven't
a nurse unemployed. - Do you feel too tired to go ? '

* Oh, no,' said Mildred. ' My patient improved so much
that for the last week I've almost been resting.'

• * And you think you can go 1 '
*CbH»inly.'

* I'll te^l Mrs. Sheppard then to send for you in a couple of
hours. That will give you time to get ready,'

Two hours later Mildred was driven rapidly by a coachman
in livery to a Mansion on Fifth Avenue, and she was speedily
ushered into the room where the patient lay. He was sleep-
ing at at the time, with curtains drawn and his face turned
away. Mildred only glanced at him sufficiently to see that he
was very much emaciated. A middle-a^ed lady, who intrn<
duced herself as Mrs. Sheppard, received her, saying, ' I'm so
glad yoii are here, for I am overcome with faJgue. Last night
he Tvas very restless and ill, and would h&?e no one near him
except myself. His valet is in the room just across the h<iil,
and will come at the slightest summons. Now while mv bro-
ther is sleeping I will rest at once. My room is here, opening
into this. Call me if there is need, and doc't mind if he ta'ks
strangely. Your room is there, just beyond t^iis one,' and with
a few directions, given with the air of extreme weariness,
she passed to her own apartment, and was soon sleeping |
soundly.

Mildred sat down in the dim room where the light fell uponl
her pure, sweet profile, which was made a little more distinct!
by the flickering of the cannel-coal fire, and beg<^n one cf thej
quiet watches to which she was becoming so accustomed. Her

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.

389

thoughts were very painfal at firsts for they seemed strangely
inclined to dwell on Vinton Arnold, Fros!i the time they parted
she had heard nothing of him, and since the brief explanation
that she had been compelled to give to Boger, his name had
not passed her lips. He bad been worse than dead to her, and
she wondered if be were dead. She had never cherished any
vindictive feelmgs toward him, and even now her eyes filled
with tears of commiseration for his wronged and wretched
life. Then by a conscious effort she turned her thoughts to
the friend who had never failed her. < Dear Roger,' she mur*
mured, * he didn't appear well the last time I saw him. fie
is beginning to look worn and thin. I know he is studying too
hard. Oh, I wish my heart were not so perverse, for he needs
some one to take care of him. He can't change ; he doesn't
get over it as I hoped he would/ and her eyes, bent on the
fire, grew dreamy and wistful.

Unkncwn to herself, she was watched by one who scarcely
dared to breathe lest what seemed a vision should vanish.
The dying man was Vinton Arnold. His married sister, over-
come by weariness and the stupor of sleep, had inadvertently
forgotten to mention his n£.me, and Milcked was under the im-
pression that the name of her patient was Sheppard. She had
never been within the Arnold mansion, nor was she specially
familiar with its exterior. Entering it hastily on a stormy
night, she had not received the faintest suggestion that it was
the home to which she and her mother had once dreamed she
might be welcomed.

When at last Arnold had awakened, he saw dimly, sitting
by the, fire, an unfamiliar form, which nevertheless suggested
the one never absent from his thoughts. Noiselessly he pushed
th9 lace curtain aside, and to his unspeakable wonder his eyes
seemed to rest on Mildred Jocelyn. ' She is dead,' he first
thought, * and it is her spirit Or can it be my reason that is
leaving me utterlj^^ and the visions of my tortured mind are
becoming more real than material things t Ob, see,' he mur-
mured * there are tears in her eyes. I could almost imagine that a
sood angel had taken her guise and was weeping over one so
lost and wrecked as I am. Now her lips move — she is speak-
ing softly to herself. Great God 1 can it be real 1 Or is my

390

WITHOUT A HOME.

end near, and lung-delayed mercy gives me this sweet vision
before I die ? '

His sombre and half-superstitious conjectures were almost
dispelled by a little characteristic act on Mildred's part — an act
that contained a suggestion of hope for Roger. In awakening
the stronger traits of manhood in the latter she had also evoked
an appreciation of beauty and a growing love for it. Mildred
was human enough not to regret that this developing sense
should find its fullest gratification in herself. Though su de-
tei mined to become a wrinkled spinster she found a secret and
increasing pleasure in the admiring glances that dwelt upon her
face and dainty figure, and this fact might have contained for
him, had he known it, a pleasing hint. It must be confessed
that she no longer wished to go into his presence without add-
ing a little graoe to her usually plain attire ; and now that she
was thinking 99 deeply of him she involuntarily raised her
hand to adjust her coquettish nurse's cap, which by some
feminine magic all her own she ever contrived to make a be-
coming head-dress rather than a badge of office.

Even to Vinton Arnold's perturbed and disordered mind the
act was so essentially feminine and natural, so remote from
ghostly weirdness, that he raised himself on his elbow and ex-
claimed, * Millie, Millie Jocelyn ! '

<Ah!' cried Mildred, starting from her chair and looking
fearfully toward the half-closed door of Mrs. Sheppard's room.
In her turn her heart beat quickly, with the sudden supersti-
tious fear which the strongest cannot control when we seem
close to the boundaries of the urseen world. ' It was his voice,'
she murmured.

' Millie, oh, Millie, ara you real, or is it a dream 1 '

She took two or three steps toward the bed, stopped, and
covered her face with her hands.

' Oh, speak,' he cried in i^ony. * I do not know whether I
am dreaming or awake, or whether I now see as if before me
the one ever in my thoughts. You hide your face from me,'
he groaned, sinking back despairingly. * You have come for a
a brief moment to show mc that I can never look upon your
faco again.'

Mildred thought swiftly. Her first impulse was to depart at
once, and then her womanly pity and sense of duty gained the

■T

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.

391

mastery. Vinton Arnold was now a dying man, and she but a
trained nurse. Perhaps God's hand was in their strange and
unexpected meeting, and it was His will that the threads of
two lives that had oeen bound so closely should not be severed
in fatal evil. Should she thwart His mercy t

*Mr. Arnold,' she said, in an agitated voice, 'This is a
strange and undreamt-of meeting. Let me quiet your mind,
however, by telling you how simple and matter-of-fact are the
causes which led to it. I am now a professional nurse from the
Training School connected with Bellevue Hospital, and your
sister, having sent to the School for assistance, obtained my
services as she might those of any of my associates. In view
— perhaps — it would be best for one of them to take my place.'

He was strongly moved, and listened panting and trembling
in his weakness. * Millie,' at last he faltered, * is there any God
at alii Is there any kind and merciful spirit in nature ? I£
so, you have been sent to me, for I am dying of remorse.
Since you bade me leave you I have suffered tortures, day and
night, that I cannot describe. I have oftdn been at the point
of taking my own life, but something held me back. Can it
be that it was for this hour ) Mildred, I am dying. The end
of a most unhappy life is very near. Is there no mercy in
your faith — no mercy in your strong, pure womanly heart 1 *

* Vinton,' she said gently, * I believe you are right. God
has sent me to you. I will not leave you until it is best.'

* Millie, Millie ' he pleaded, ' forgive me. I cannot believe in
God's forgiveness until you forgive me '

* I forgave you from the first, Vinton, because I knew there
was no cold-blooded evil in your mind, and I have long felt
that you were more sinned against than sinning. If I stay I
must impose one condition — there must be no words concerning
the past That is gone forever.'

' I know it, Mildred. I killed your love with my own hand,
but the blow was more fatal to me than to you.'

* Can you not rally and live 1 ' she asked tearfully.

' No,' he said with a deep breath. * Moreover I have no wish
to live. The dark shadow of my life will soon fall on you no
more, but the hope that I may breathe my last with you near
brings a deep content and peace., Coes anv one yet sasjpect
who you arel'

392

WITHOUT A HOME.

' No. I fear Mrs. Arnold will not think it best'
'1 have never spoken to Mrs. Arnold since that awful night,
and if she interferes now I will curse her with my last breath.
This is my one hope — my one gleam of light in the life she
has cursed — '

' Hush, oh hush I Unless my presence brings quietness I
cannot stay,' for at the name of his mother he became danger-
ously agitated. ' I will tell Mrs. Sheppard in the morning, and
I think she will arrange it so that I can do all in my power for
you.'

* No/ he replied, after a little thought, * I will tell her. She
is unlike my mother and other sisters, and has a good heart.
She has taken entire charge of me, but I was in such a hell of
suffering at the thought of dying without one word from you
that I was almost a maniac. I will be quiet now. Leave all
to me : I can make her understand.'

When Mrs. Sheppard entered, as the late dawn began to
mingle with the gaslight, she found her brother sleeping quiet-
ly, his hand clasping Mildred'a To her slight expression of
surprise the young girl returned a clear, steadfast look, and said
calmly, * When your brother awakes he has some explanations
to make. I am Mildred Jocelyn.'

The lady sank into a chair and looked at her earnestly. ' I
have longed wished to see you,' she murmured. * Vinton has
told me everything. I was so overcome with sleep and fatigue
last night that I neither told you his name nor asked yours.
Did you not suspect where you were 1 '

' Not until he awoke and recognised me.'

* Was he greatly agitated ? '

* Yes, at first. It was so unexpected that he thought me a
mere illusion of his own mind.'

* Miss Jocelyn, I believe God sent you to him.*
' So he thinks.'

* You won't leave him till— till. — It can't be long.'

* That depends upon you, Mrs. Sheppard. I am very very
sorry for him,' and tears came into her eyes.

Low as was the murmur of their voices, Arnold awoke and
glanced with troubled eyes from one to the other before it all
came back to him ; but hie sister brought quiet and rest by
saying gently, as she kissed him,

' Vinton, Miss Jocelyn shall not leave yon.'

•good anqel op god.*

393

CHAPTER XLVIIL

'GOOD ANGEL OP GOD/

HE young nurse soon became known through the house
simply as Miss Mildred. With the exception of Mrs.
Sheppard, the valet and the physician, no one entered
the sick-room except Mr. Arnold, and the old man often lin-
gered and hovered around like a remorseful ghost. He had
grown somewhat feeble, and no longer went to his business.
His son had tolerated his presence since he had come home to
die, but had little to say to him, for the bitterness of his heart
extended to the one who had yielded to his mother's hardness
and inveterate worldliness. In the secrecy of his heart the old
merchant admitted that he had been guilty of a fatal error,
and the consequences had been so terrible to his son that he
had daily grown more conscience-smitten ; but his wife had
gained such an asce?idency over bim in all social and dombstio
questions that beyond occasional protests he had let matters
drift until Vinton returne<^ from his long exile in Europe. The
hope that his son would get over what his wife ciuled ' an
absurd youthful folly ' was now rudely dispelled, and in bitter-
ness he reproached himself that he had not adopted a different
course.

From th« way he came in and looked at his son when he was
sleeping it was soon revealed to Mildred how he felt^ and she
pitied him also.

Mrs. Sheppard was a wealthy widow lady, and the eldest
daughter. She was for the present making her home under
the paternal roof. Unlike her mother, she had quick, strong
sympathies, which sorrows of her own had deepened. She had
assumed the care of her brother, and infused into her ministry
a tenderness which at last led the embittered heart to reveal
itself to her. She was therefore already prepared to be Mil-
dre<rs sincere ally in bringing a little light into the late evening-
tide of her brother's clouded day^

31)4

WITHOUT A HOME.

Most of the time she sat in her room with the door ajar,
leaving Vinton to the ministrations of his nurse. He required
far less care now, for lie seemed content to rest as one might
during a respite from torture ; his eyes would follow Mildred
with a pathetic longing when he was awake, and when she took
his hand and told him to sleep he would obey like a child : he
seemed better because so quiet, but he grew weaker daily. All
knew — and none better than himself — that life was slowly
ebbing. His father came in more frequently than ever, for his
son showed no restlessness at his presence now. At Mildred's
request Vinton even began to greet him with something like a
welcome, and the young girl did all in her power to make the
old gentleman feel at home, — sometimes she would place a
large easy-chair by the fire and ask him to sit with them ; he
was glad to comply, and ofLen looked wonderingly and ear-
nestly at the fair young nurse that was working such a trans-
formation in the patient : he once or twice tried to become better
acquainted with her, but ever found her gentle, deferential and
very reserved.

Twioe Mildred asked Vinton to let her send for Mr. Went-
worth, but he shook hit Iwui and said that she alone could do
him any good. 'Head the Bible to me when you feel hke it.
I'll listen to you, but my best hope is to sleep so quietly that I
shall have no dreams. If that cannot be, I'll remember that
you foreave me.'

* Suon words make me very sad,* she replied, on the latter
occasion, tears rushing into her eyes.

* I am not worthy that you should care so much,* he said.
' What am I but a flickering rush-light which your hand is
shielding that it may burn out quietly 9 '

* Vinton, you are wrong. The life which God has given you
cannot cease. X am not wise and learned, and I have an
almost unconquerable diffidence in speaking on these subjects,
except to children and the poor and ignorant But since you
won't aee any one else, I must speak. Tou say God sent me
to you, and I accept your belief, but He did not send me to
you merely to relieve physical pain and mental disquiet If a
man is stumbling toward an abyss of darkness, is it any great
kindness to hold a lamp so that his last steps may be easier 1
There is for each one of us a vital truth and a sacred duty, and

'aOOD ANOEL OF OOD.'

395

•<

in thutting your eyes to these and living in the present hour,
you show — pardon an honest friend for saying it — you show a
more fatal weakness than vou have yet manifested.'

' You are mistaken, Mildred/ he said bitterly. ' As far as I
am concerned, what truth is there for we to contemplate ex-
cept a wasted, unhappy life, wrecked and shamed beyond
remedy, beyond hope. I long ago lost what trace of manhood
I once had. Never dream that because you have forgiven me
I shall forgive myself. No, no,' he said, with a dark vindictive*
ness in his eyes, * there are three that I shall never forgive,
and I am on of them. As for dut^, the word is torment.
What can I do— who can scarcely raise my hand ? My day
is over, my chance has gone by forever. Don't interrupt me. I
know you would speak of the consolations of religion, but I'd
rather go the devil himself — if there is one — than to such a
Ood as my mother worships ; and she has always been a very
religious woman. The whole thing long since became a farce
to me at our church. It was just as much a part of the fash-
ionable world that blighted me as the rest of society's mum-
meries. You never went there after you had real trouble to
contend with. It was the last place that yon would think of
going to for comfort or help. The thought of you alone has
kept me from utter unbelief, and I would be glad to believe
that there is some kindly power in existence that watches over
such beings as you are, and that can reward your noble life ; but
as far as I am concerned it's all a mystery and a weariness.
You are near — ^you are merciful and kind. This is all the hea-
ven I expect It is far more than I deserve. Let me rest,
Mildred. It will be but a few more days. Then when you
close my eyes, may I sleep forever,' and he loaned back faint
and exhausted. He would not let her interrupt him, for he
seemed bent on settling the question as far as he was concerned,
and dismissing it final^.

She listened with fast-falling tears, and answered sighingly.
' Oh, I do wish you would see Mr. Wentworth. You are so
wrong — so fatally mistaken.'

* No,' he said firmly, ' I will see no one but you.*

' Oh, what shall I say to you 1 '

< Do not grieve so about me. You cannot change anything.
You cannot give me your strong, grand nature any more than

390

WITHOUT A HOME.

you can your beautiful life and perfect health. I could be*
come a Catholic and worship St. Mildred,' he added with
a smile, trying to banish her tears. * The only dut^ that I am
capable of is to try to make as little trouble as possible, and to
cease making it altogether soon. Go and rest, and I will too,
for I'm very tired.'

* No,' she said resolutely. * My mission to you must not end
so weakly, so uselessly. Will you do me a favour 1 '

' Yes; listen quietly and honestly ;' and she read the first
verses of the nineteenth chapter of St. John, ending with the
words, * Behold the man.'

* Vinton,' she said eagerly, * the truth to which I referred
was embodied truth, and your first sacred duty is to look to
Him and live. To the last conscious moment of life this will
remain your first and most sacred duty, and were you the
strongest man in the city you could not do more. It's not a
question of religions at all, or of what other people are or be-
lieve. The words I have read have brought you face to face
with this Divine Man, who came to seek and save that which
was lost. Never did a despairing human soul cry out to Him
in vain. He is as real as I am. His tender pity is infinitely
beyond mine. Far better and wiser would it be for you to
turn from me than from Him. Oh, merciful Christ, how the
world wrongs Thee ! ' and she buried her face in her hands and
sobbed bitterly.

* Millie, please don't,' he entreated. * I can't endure to see
you so grieved.'

* Forgive me — I am forgetting myself sadly ; but how can I
see you so hopeless, so despairing, when there is no more need
*of it than of your refusing what [ try to do for your comfort ?
There, rest now, but think of what I've said. I may have done
wrong to tire you so, but to minister to the body only when
the soul, the man within you, is in such infinite need seems but
a mockery. If you continue to wrong Him who should be the
one gieat hope of every human heart, you will sadden all my
days. My mission will be but a poor one indeed.'

He was very nuich exhausted, but he said gently, I will
think of it, and may the One you serve so faithfully bless you
for your divine pity. What you have said seems to make

'nOOD ANOEL OF OOD/

no7

everything difFerent ; you appear t«) have somt'thiii;; roiil nn<l
definite in your mind. Give nie your iiand and 1 will rent ;
then, mv good an^el, ttoch me your faith.'

This Mudred did almost wholly from Jod's own word. At
first it was hard for him to believe that there were any possi-
bilities for one like him, but at last he accepted the truth that
Ood is not willins that the least should perish. * The mystery
of life is something that the wisest cannot solve/ she said to
him, ' but the best hopes of the world have ever centred about
this Divine Friend. Burdened hearts have gone to Him in every
age and found rest. Oh, how often He has comforted me when
mine seemed breaking ! In response to a simple trust He gives
a hope, a life which I do not think can be found elsewhere, and
in the limitless future that which was all wrong here may be
made right and perfect'

* So this is your revenge, Millie. You come and bring me
this great hope.'

' i* No, God sent me.*

Mildred's mission to the sad-hearted Mrs. Sheppard was al-
most as sacred and useful as to her brother, and they had many
long talks which possessed all the deep interest which is
imparted by experiences that leave a lasting impress on memory.

Every day increased the bitter regret that short-sighted
worldliness had blighted one life and kept from others one
who had such rare powers of creating all that constitutes a
home.

To Roger Mildred had written almost daily, telling him
everything. Her letters were so frank and sincere that they
dispelled the uneasiness which first a>ok possession of his mind,
and they gradually disarmed him of his hostility to the dying
man. There is a point in noble souls beyond which enmity
falters and fails, and he felt that Mildred's course toward Ar-
nold was like the mercy of God. He reverenced the girl who
like an angel of mercy was bringing hope to a despairing souL

* Laura,' said old Mr. Arnold to Mr& Sheppard one evening as
she was sitting with him in his library, * this young nurse is a
continual surprise to me.'

* What do you mean, papa 1 '

* Well, she impresses me strangely. She has come to us as a
professional nurse, and yet I have never seen a more perfect

yoH

WITHOUT A UOMK.

gentlewoman. There is a aubtle grace and refinement about her
which is indescribable. No wonder Vinton has been made bet*
ter by her care. I wouldn't mind being sick myself if I could
have her about me. That girl has a history. How comes she in
such a position ) '

* I think her position a very exalted one/ said his daughter,
warmly. ' Think what an infinite blessing and comfort she has
been in our household.'

' True, true enough ; but I didn't expect any such person to
be sent to us.'

* I am perfectly ready to admit that this young girl is an un-
usual character, and have no doubt but that she has had a
history that would account for her influence. But you are in
error if you think these trained nurses are recruited from the
ranks of commonplace women. Many of them come from as
good families as uurs, and have all the instincts of a true lady.
They have a noble calling, and I envy them.'

' Well, you know more about it than I do, but I think this
Miss Mildred a rare type of woman. It's not her beautiful face,
for she has a charm, a winsomeness that is hard to define or
account for. She makes me think of some subtle perfume that
is even sweeter t;han the flower from which it is distilled. .Would
to God Vinton had met such a girl at first ! How different it
all might have been ! '

Mrs. Sheppard left the room so hastily as to excite her fa-
ther's surpnse.

One day Vinton said to Mildred, * How can I be truly for-
given unless I forgive ? I now see that I have wronged God's
love even more than my mother has wronged me, and in my
deep sratitude from the consciousness of God's forgiveness I
would like to forgive her and be reconciled before I die. To
my brother I will send a brief message — I can't see him aeain,
for the ordeal would be too painful. As for my father, I have
longed ceased to cherish enmity against him. He, like myself,
is, in a certain sense, a victim of our family pride.'

* Vinton,' Mildred replied, * I cannot tell you how glad I am
to hear you speak so. I have been waiting and hoping for this,
for it is proof that your feeling is not mere emotion and senti-
ment. You now propose to do something that is more than
manly — it is divine. God's greatest, dearest, most godlike pre-

'ciOOD ANCJEt OF (iOI).'

.ion

rogattve is to forgive, and man's noblest act is to forgive a great
wrong. Viotoo, you have now won my respect.'

8he never forgot his answering glance. * Millie/ he said,
softly, ' I can die happy now. I never expected more than
your pity.'

* If vou will do this, vour memory will become sweet and en-
noblea in my heart. Your action will show me how grandly
and swiftly Ood can develop one who has been wronged by
evil.'

' Ood bless you, my good angel. Ask my sister to send for
my father and mother at onoe. 1 feel a little stronger this
evening, and yet I think the beginning of my new life is very
n«ar.'

Mildred went into Mrs. Sheppard's room and told her of Vin-
ton's purpose. She looked at the youna girl for a moment with
eyes blinded by tears, and then clasped her in a close, passion-
ate embrace which was more eloquent than any words. * 0*1^
Mildred/ she said, with a low sob, * if you only could bitve
been my sister I ' Then she hastened to uurry out her bro-
ther's wishes.

The fire burned brightly in the grate, the softened lights ;4if-
fused a mild radiance through the room, and the old impres-
sion of doom was utterly absent when Vinton's parents en-
tered, lieither Mrs. Arnold nor her husband were quite able
to hide their surprise and embarrassment at the unexpected
summons, but Mr. Arnold went promptly to the bedside, and,
taking his son's hand, said, huskily, ' I'll come any time you
wish, my dear boy, be it night or day.'

Vinton gave as warm a pressure in answer as his feebleness
permitted, and then he said gravely : * I wish you and mother
to sit here close to me, for T must speak low, and mv words
must be brief. I have but a little fragment of life left to me,
and must hasten to perform the few duties yet within my
power.'

* Had not this young woman better retire ) ' suggested Mrs.
Arnold, glancing coldly at Mildred, who stood in the back-
ground, Mrs. Sheppard detaining her by a strong, warm clasp
of her hand.

" No,' said Vinton decisively, * she must remain. Were it
not for the influence of this Christian — not religious but Chris-

400

WITHOUT A HOME.

tian — girl, you would never have seen my face again, with my
consent. In showing me how Gk)d forgives the sinful, she has
taught me how to forgive. Mother, I never expected to for-
give you, but I do from my heart I am far beyond the world
and all worldly considerations. In the clear light of the end-
less life to which we are all hastening, I see as never before
how small, petty and unworthy are those unnatural principles
which blight human life at fashion's bidding. Mother, I wish
to do you justice. You tried to care for me in my childhood
and youth. You spared yourself no expense, no trouble — but
you could not seem to understand that what I needed was sym-
pathy and love — that my heart was always repressed and un-
happy. The human soul, however weak, is hot like an exotic
plant It should be tended by a hand that is as gentle as it is
firm and careful. I found one who combined gentleness with
strength ; stern, lofty principle with the most beautiful and
delicate womanhood ; and you know how I lost her. Could I
have followed the instincts of my heart my fate would have
been widely difieront But that is now all past. You did not
mean to wrong mo so terribly ; it was only because your own
life was all wrong that you wronged me. Your pride and pre-
judice prevented you from knowing the truth concerning the
girl I loved. Mother, I am dying, and my last earnest coun-
sel to you and father is that you will obey the words of the
loftiest and greatest — " Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly
in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'' If you can-
not do this, your livbs will be a more wretched failure than
mine has been. Bury your worldly pride in my grave, and
learn to be gentle and womanly, and may God forgive you as .
truly as I do.'

As he spoke — slowly and feebly, — the cold, proud woman
began to tremble and weep ; and when his words ceased she
sank on her knees at his bedside and sobbed, ' Oh, what have I
done ! Must I bear the remorse of having murdered my own
child r

* No, mother, you were blinded as I was. You will be for-
given as I have been. In the better home of heaven we'll find
uie secret of our true relationship which we missed here. Good-
bye now. I must hasten, for I am very weak.'

)

'GOOD ANGEL OF GOD.'

401

[

Mrs. Arnold rose, put her arms around her san and kissed
him, and her dauf^hter supported her from the room, Vinton's
eyes following her sorrowfully until she disappeared. Then he
said, ' Dear old father, come and sit close hcside me.'

He came, and bowed his head upon his son's hand.

' Millie/ he called feeblj to the young girl who stood by the
fire with her face buried in her hands. She came at once.
* God bless yon for those tears. They fall like dew into my
soul Millie, I feel as if — I don't know what it means — it
seems as if I might go to my rest now. The room is growing
dark, and I seem to see you more in my mind than with my
eyes. Millie, will you — can you so far forgive me as to take my
head upon your bosom and let me say my last words near your
heart V

* Great God 1 cried his father, starting up, * is he dying ? '

* Father, please be calm. Keep my hand. Let my end come
as I wish. Millie, Millie, won't you.'

Her experienced eyes saw that his death was indeed at hand
—that his life had but flickered up brightly once more beft re
oxpirinf^. Therefore she gratified his final wish, and took his
head upon her breast. ^

' RfiSt, rest at last,' he sighed.

* Father,' he said after a moment or two, ' look at this dear
girl who has saved my soul from death.' The old man lifted
his head and gazed upon the pure, sweet face at which he had
looked so often and questioningly before.

' Oh, Vinton, Vinton, God forgive me ! I see it alL Our in-
sane pride and prejudice kept a good angel from our home.'

* Yes, father, this is Mildred Jocelyn. Was I wrong to love
her?'

* Oh, blind, blind fool that I've been i ' the old man groaned.
' Don't grieve so, father. If you will listen to her words,

her mission to us all will be complete. She is fatherless. Be
kind to her after I am gone.'

The old man rose slowly and leaned his brow on Mildred's
head. ' My child,' he said brokenly, * all my love for Vinton
shall now go to you, and his portion shall be yours.'

' God bless you, father. Good- by now. Let me sleep, and
his eyes closed wearily.

402

WITHOUT A HOME.

' That's right, my boy ; you'll be better in the morning/ and
with feeble, faltering steps he left the room murmaring, * Oh,
that I had only known in time ! '

Mrs. Sheppard now entered and took his place.* For a little
time Vinton seemed to sleep. Then he opened his eyes and
looked slowly around. They kindled into loving i^cognition
as they rested on his sister, * Laura, your patience a.nd mercy
toward me has been rewarded,' he whispered. * Say to Mans-
field and my other brother and sisters what I told you. Be as
kind *o Mildred as you have been to me. ' Good-by.'

' Millie, Millie, good angel of God to me, farewell for a little
while.'

His eyes closed again, his breath came more and more slowly,
and at last it ceased. His sister put her hand over his heart.
His sad, thwarted life had ended on earth.

Mildred kissed him for the first time in her ministry, and
murmured, as she gently laid his head back upon the pillow,
* Thank God, it has not ended as I feared.'

CHAPTER XLIX.

HOME.

£ take up the thread of our story after the lapse of
several months. Mildred left the Arnold family

softened and full of regret. Even proud Mrs. Arnold
asked her forgiveness with many bitter tears, but beyond a
few little significant gifts they found it impossible to make the
one toward whom their hearts were now so tender take more
than the regular compensation that went toward.the support
of the institution to which she belonged. Mr. Arnold and
Mrs. Sheppard would not give her up, and o&ien came to see
her, and the old gentleman always made her premise that when
he became ill she would sake care of him ; and once he whis-
pered to her, * You won't take anything from me now, but in
my will I can remember my debt. All my wealth cannot pay
what I owe to you.'

UOME.

403

' Money has nothing to do with my relations to you/ she
replied gently.

'Vinton's portion belongs to you/ was the quiet reply.
* The poor boy so understood it, and I shall not break faith
with the dead.'

' Then his portion shall go toward relieving suffering in this
city/ was her answer.

* You can do what you please with it, for it shall be yours.'

While Mildred quietly performed her duties as head-nurse
in one of the wards during the last six mouths of the two
years of her sojourn at the Training School, some important
changes had occurred in Roger's circumstances. He had, more
than a year before, graduated second in his class at college, and
had given the impression that he would have been first had he
taken the full four year's course. His crotchety uncle, with
whom since the reconciliation he had resided, had died* and
after a few months his wife followed him, and Roger found
himself a wealthy man, but not a happy one. Beyond giving
his parents every comfort which they craved, and making his
sister Susan quite an heiress, he scarcely knew what to do
with the money. His uncle's home was not at all to his taste,
aud he soon left it, purchasing a moderate>sized but substantial
and elegant house m a part of the city that best suited his
convenience. Here he installed Mrs. Wheaton as housekeeper,
and, with the exception of his own suite of rooms and the
sleeping apartments, left all the rest unfurnished. After
placing himself in a position to offer hospitalities to his
country relatives, he determined that the parlors should remain
empty, as a mute reproach to Mildred.

One evening, a week before she graduated, he induced her
to go with him to ^Ase his house. 'It's not a home,' he whis-
pered ; * I merely stay here.' Then without giving time for
reply, he ushered her into the hall, which was simply but very
el^antly famished. Mildred had time only to 'note two or
three fine old engravings and a bronze figure, when Mrs.
Wheaton, bustling up from the basement, overwhelmed her
with hospitality. They first inspected her domains, and in
nei^uess and comfort found them all that could be desired.
'You see,' said the good woman, as she and Mildred were
hidden from view in a china closet, ' I could get hup quite a

404

WITHOUT A HOME.

frand dinner, bub I hain't much use fur these 'ere things, fur
e heats less and less hevery day. I'm troubled habout Mr.
Boger, fur he seems kinder low hin 'is spirits and discouraged
like. Most young men vould feel like lords hin 'is shoes, but
he's a-gettin' veary and listless-like. Yon day he vas so down
that I vanted 'im to see a doctor, but he smiled kinder strange
and said nothin'. He's a-gettin' thin and pale. Vat vould I
do hif he should get sick V '

Mildred turned in quick alarm and glanced at the young
man, who stood looking at the glowing kitchen-range, as if his
thoughts were little interested in the homely appliances for
his material comfort. His appearance confifmed Mrs. Wheat-
on's words, for his features were thinner than they had been
since he recovered from his illness, and there was a suggestion
of lassitude and dejection in his manner. She went directly to
him and said,

* Mrs. Wheaton tells me you are not well.'

He started, then threw off all depression, remarking lightly,
' Mrs. Wheaton is fidgety. She prepares enough food for four
men. I'm well — have been working rather late at night, that's
all.'

* Why do you, Roger ) ' she asked, in a voice full of solici-
tude.'

' If I don't feel sleepy there is no use of wasting time. But,
come, you have seen enough of the culinary department. Since
Mrs. Wheaton has charge of it you can know beforehand that
everything will be the best of its kind. I tbink I can show you
something in my sitting-room that will interest you more.'

Mrs. Wheaton preceded them, and Mildred took his arm in
a way that showed that he had not been able to banish her
anxiety on his behalf. ' Let me see your parlours,, Roger,' she
said when they again reached the hall. * 1 expect to find them
models of elegance.'

He threw open the door and revealed two bare rooms, the
brilliantly burning gas showing frescoes of unusual beauty, but
beyond these there was nothing to relieve their bleak empti-
ness. * I have no use for these rooms,' he remarked briefly,
closing the door. * Come with mo,' and he led her to the
apartment facing the street on the second floor. The gas was
burning diml^ , but when he had placed her where he wished

HOME.

405

her to stand, he suddenly turned it up, and before her, smiling
into her eyes from the wall, were three exquisitely finished oU
portraits — her father and mother and Belle, looking as she re-
membered them in their best and happiest days.

The effect upon her at first was almost overpowering. She
sank into a chair with heart far too full for words, and looked
until tears so blinded her eyes that she could see them no
longer.

* Roger,' she murmined, * it's almost the same as if you had
brought them back to life. Oh, Koger, God bless you-^you
have not banished papa ; you have made him look as he asked
us to remember him,' and her tender grief became uncontrol-
lable for a few moments.

'Don't cry so, Millie,' ho said gently. 'D<'>n't you see they
are smiling at you 1 Are the likenesses good 1 '

* They are life-like,' she answered after a little. * How cou?.'
you get them so perfect 1 '

* Belle and your mother gave me their pictures long ago, and
you remember that I once asked you for your father's likeness
when I was looking for him. There were some who could aid
me if they knew how he looked. Then you know my eye is
rather correct, and I spent a good deal of time with the artist .
Between us we reached these results, and it's a great happi-
uess to me that they please you.'

Her eyes were eloquent indeed as she said, in a low tone,
' What a loyal friend you are ! '

He shook his head so significantly that a sudden crimson
came into her face, and she was glad that Mrs. Wheaton was
busy in an adjoining room. ' Come,' he said, lightly, * you are
neglecting other friends; and turning, she saw fine photographs
of Mr. Wentworth, of Clara Walker, and Mrs. Wheaton, and
her little brother and sister ; also oil portraits of Roger's rela-
tives.

She went and stood before each one, and at last returned to
her own kindred, and her eyes began to fill again.

' How rich you are in these ! ' she at last said. ' I have
nothing but little pictures.'

' These are yours, Millie. When you are ready for them I
shall place them on your walls myself.'

40G

WITHOUT A HOME.

* Roger/ she said a little brupquely, dashing the tears out of
her eyes, * don't do or say any more kind things to night, or my
self-control will be all goes.'

* On the contraiy, I shall ask you to do me a kindness. Please
sit down on this low chair by the fire. Then I can add the last
and best picture of this family gallery.'

She dia so hesitatingly, and was provoked to iind that hex
colour would rise as he leaned his elbow on the mantel and
looked at her intently. She could not meet his eyes, for
there was a heart-hunger in them that seemed to touch her
very soul ^ Oh,' she thought, ' why doesn't he— why can't
he get over iti' and her^ears began to flow so fast that he
said lightly,

* That will do, Millie. I won't have that chair moved. Per-
haps you think an incipient lawyer has no imagination, but I
shall see you there to morrow night. Come away now from
this room of shadows. Your first visit to me has cost you so
many tears that you will not come again.' >> ' ^ '

* They are not bitter tears. It almost seems as if I had found
the treasure I had lost. So xar from being saddened, I'm hap-
pier than I've been since I lost them-*at least I would be if I
saw you looking better. Roger, you are growing thin ; ycu
don't act like your old self.'

* Well, I won't work late at night any longer if you don't
wish me to,' he replied evasively.

* Make me that promise,' she replied eagerly.
' Any promise, Millie.'

She wondered at the slight thrill with which her heart re-
sponded to his low, doep tones.

In the library she be<»ime a different girl. A strange buoy-
ancy gave animation to her eyes, and a delicate colour to her
face. She did not analyze hei feelings. Uer determini^tion
that Roger should have a pleasant evening seemed to her suf-
ficient to account for the shining eyes she saw reflected in a
mirror, and her sparkling words. She praised his selection of
authors, though adding, with a comical look, ' You are right
in thinking I don't know much about them. The binding
is just to my taste, whatever may be the contents of some
of these ponderous tomes. There are a good many empty
shelves, Roger.'

HOME.

407

' I dor't intend to buy books by the c&rt-Ioad/ he replied.
* A library should grow like the man who gathers it.'

* Roger/ she said suddenly, ' I think I see some fancy work
that I recognize. Yes, here is more.' Then she darted ^ack
into the sitting-room. In a moment she returned exclaiming^
' I believe the house is full of my work.'

' There is none of your work in the parlours, Millie.'
She ignored the implied reproach in words, but could not
wholly in manner. * So you and Mrs. Wentworth conspired
against me, and you got the better of me after all. You were
my magnificent patron. How could you look me in the face
all those months % How could you watch my busy fingers,
looking meanwhile so innocent and indifferent to my tasks t \
used to steal some hours from sleep to make you gifts for your
bachelor room. They were not ^ne enough for your lordship,
I suppose. Have you given them away 1 '

* They are in my room up-stairs. They are too sacred for use.'
' Whoever heard of such a sentlmentel brother ) ' she said,

turning abruptly away.

Mrs. Wheaton -^^s their companion now, and she soon gave
the final touches t) a delicate little supper, which with some
choice flowers she had placed on the table. It was her purpose
to wait upon them with the utmost respect and deference, but
Mildred drew her into a chair, vrith a look that repaid the good
soul a hundred times for all the past.

* Koger,' she said gayly, ' Mrs. Wheaton says you don't eat
much. You must make up for all the past this evening. I'm
going to help you, and don't you dare to leave anything.'

'Very well, I've made my will,' he said with a smiling nod.

* Oh, don't talk that way. How much shall I give the deli-
cate creature, Mrs. Wheaton 1 Look hero, Roger, you should
not take your meals in a library. You are living on books, and
are beginning to look like their half-starved authors.'

< You are right, Miss Millie. 'Alf the time ven I come to
take havay the thinks I find 'im readin', and th«4 wittles 'ardly
touched.'

|^< Men are such foolish, helpless things ! ' the young girl pro-
tested, shaking her head reprovingly at the offender.
, *■ I must have some company,' he replied.

408

WITHOUT A HOME.

* NoDseiiBe/ she cried, veiling her solicitude under a charming
petuUnce. * Roger, if you don't behave better you'll be a fit
■ubject for a hospital .'

*If I can be sent to yonr ward I would ask nothing better/
was his quick response.

Again she was provoked at her rising colour, for his dark
eyes glowed with an unmistakable meaning. She changed the
subject by saying, *How many pretty, beautiful and costly
things you have gathered in this room already ! How comes it
that you have been so fortunate in your selections V

* The reason is simple. I have tried to follow your taste.
We've been around a great deal together, and I've always made
a note of what you admired.'

' Flatterer,' she tried to say severely.

* I wasn't flattering — only explaining.'

' Oh dear 1 ' she thought, * this won't do at all. This home-
like house and his loneliness in it will make me ready for any
folly. Dear old fellow ! I wish he wasn't so set, or rather
I wi(>h I were old and wrinkled enough to keep house for him
now/ "

Conscious of a strange compassion and relenting, she hast-
ened her departure, first giving a wistful glance at the serene
laces of those so dear to her, and who seemed to say, * Millie,
we have found the home of which you dreamed. Why are not
jou with us i *

Although she had crown morbid in the conviction that she
«could not, and indeed ought not to marry Koeer, she walked
Ihome with him that night with an odd little unrest in her
jheart, and an unexpected discontent with the profession that
jheretofore had so fully satisfied her with its promises of inde-
]pendence and usefulness. Having spent an hour or two in
jher duties at the hospital, however, she laughed at herself as
•one does when the world regains its ordinary and prosaic hues
'; after an absorbing day-dream. Then the hurry and bustle of
the few days preceding her graduation almost wholly occupied
jher mind.

A large and brilliant company was present in the evening on
which she' received her diploma, for the Training School de-
servedly excite.d the interest of the best and most philanthropic
people in the city, Jt yaa ^Ires^y recognized as the means of

rming

le ft fit

tetter/

8 dark
ed the
costly
>mes it

' taste.
}made

home-
fbr any
rather
'or him

le hast-
serene
MUlie,
ire not

lat she
talked
in her
n that
inde-
bwo in
slfas
hues
jtle of
iupied

igon
>lde-
iropic
is of

HOME.

409

giving to women oae of the noblest and most useful careers in
which they can engage.

Mildred's fine appearance s'd excellent record drew to her
much attention, and many sought an introduction. Mr.Went-
worth beamed on her, and yrm eloquent on the credit she had
brought to him. Old Mr. Arnold and Mrs. Sheppard spoke to
her so kindly and gratefully that her eyes grew tearful. Mrs.
Wheaton looked on exultantly as the proudest and richest
sought the acqaintance of the girl who had so long been like
her own child.

But the first to reach and greet her after the formalities of
the evening were over was her old friend who had been Miss
Wetheridge. * We have just arrived from a long absence abroad/
she exclaimed, ' and I'm glad and thankful to say that my
husband's health is at last restored. For the first year or two
he was in such a critical condition that I grew selfish in my
absorption in his case, and I neglected you — I neglected every-
body and everything. Forgive me, Mildred. I have not yet
had time to ask your story from Mr. Went worth, but can see
from the way he looks at you that you've inflated him with
exultation, and now I shall wait to hear all from your own
lips,' and she made the girl promise to give her the first hour
she could spare.

In spite of all the claims upon her time and attention, Mil-
dred's eyes often sought Roger's face, and as often was greeted
with a brieht, smiling glance, for he had determined that no-
thing should mar her pleasure on this evening. Once, however,
when he thought himself unobserved, she saw a look of weari-
ness and dejection that smote her heart.

When the evening was quite well advanced she came to him
and said, * Won't you walk with me a little in this hall-way,
where we can be somewhat by ourselves ? It so happens that
I must go on duty in a few moments, and exchange this bright
scene for a dim hospital ward ; but I love my calling, Roger,
and never has it seemed so noble as on this evening while ust-
ening to the physician who addressed us. There is such a deep
satisfaction in relieving pain and rescuing life, or at least in
trying to do so ; and then one often has a chance to say words
that may bring lasting comfort. Although I am without a
home myself, you do not blame me that I am glad it is my

410

WITHOUT A HOME.

mission to aid in driving away shadows and fear from other
homes ? '

* I am homeless, too, Millie) '

* You ! in that beautiful house, with so many that you love
looking down upon you ) '

' Walls and furniture cannot make a home ; neither can
painted shadows of those far away. I say, Millie, how sick
must a fellow be in order to have a trained nurse ? '

She turned a swift, anxious glance upon him. * Roger, tell
me honestly,' she said, ' are you well ? '

* I don't know," he replied,i in a low tone ; * I fear I'll make
you ashamed of me. I didn't mean to be so weak, but I'm all
unstrung to-night I'm losing couraffe — losing zest in life. I
seem to have everything, and my fnends consider me one of
the luckiest of men. But all I have oppresses me and makes
me more lonely. When I was sbaring your sorrows and pov-
erty, I was tenfold happier than I «m now. I live in a place
haunted by ghosts, and everything in life appears illusive. I
feel t-o-night as if I were losing you. Your professional duties
will take you here and there, where I cannot see you very
often.'

* Koger, you trouble me greatly. You are not well at all,
8*^.d your extreme morbidness proves it.'

* I know it's very unmanly to cloud your bright evening, but
my depression has been growing so long and steadily that I
can't seem to control it any more. There, Millie, the Lady-
Superintendent is looking for you. Don'f- worry. You medicil
and scientific people know that it is notaing but a torpid liver.
Perhaps I may be ill enough to have a trained nurse. You see
I am playing a deep game,' and with an attempt at a hearty
laugh he said good-night, and she was compelled to hasten
away ; but it was with a burdened, anxious mind.

A few moments later she entered ou her duties in one of the
surgical wards, performing them accurately from habit, but
mechanically, for her thoughts were far absent It seemed to
her that she was failing one who had never failed her, and her
self-reproach and disquietude grew stronger every moment
* After all he has been to me, can I leave him to an unhappy
lifel' was the indefinite question that now presented itself.
At last, in a respite from her tasks, she sat down and thought
deeply.

i
1

HOME.

411

the
but

Id to
her

lent.

ight

•'

Roffer, having placed Mrs. Wheaton in a carriage, was about
to follow on foot, when Mr. Wentworth claimed his attention
for a tine. At last the majority of the guests had departed,
he sallied forth and walked listlessly in the frosty air that once
hid made his step so quick and elastic. He had not gone very
far before he heard the sound of galloping horses, then the
voices of women cryine for help. Turning back he saw a car-
riage coming towara him at furious speed. A sudden reckless-
ness was mingled with his impulse to save those in extreme
jperil, and he rushed from the sidewalk, sprang and caught with
his whole weight the headgear of the horse nearest to him.
His impetuous onset combined with his weight checked the
animal somewhat, and before the other horse could drag him
very far, a policeman came to his aid, dealing a stagering blow
behind the beast's ear with his club, then catching the rein.

Roger's right arm was so badly strained that it seemed to
fail him, and before he could get out of the way, the rearing
horse he was tryfaig to hold, struck him down and trampled
upon him. He was snatched out from under the iron-shod
hoofs by the fast gathering crowd, but found himself unable
to rise.

' Take me to Bellevue,' he said decisively.

The hospital was not far away, and yet before an ambulance
(COuld reach him he felt very faint

Mildred sat in her little room that was partitioned of! from
the ward. Her eyes were wide and earnest, but that which
she saw was not present to their vision.

Suddenly there were four sharp strokes of the bell from the
hospital gate, and she started slightly out of her reverie, for
the imperative summons indicated a surgical case which might
come under her care. There was something so absorbing in
the character of her thoughts, however, that she scarcely
heeded the fact that an ambulance dashed in, and that the form
of a man was lifted out and carried into the central office.
She saw all this obscurely from her window, but such scenes
had become too familiar to check a deep current of thought
When a few moments later, the male orderly connected with
the ward entered and said, * Miss Jocelyn, I've been down and
seen the books, and accordin' to my reckonin' we'll have that
case/ she sprang up with alacrity, and began assuring herself

412

WITHOUT A HOME.

that every applianco that might be needed was in readincu.
* I'm glad I must be busy,' she murmured, * for I'm so bewil-
dered by my thoughts and impulses ia Roger's behalf, that it's
well I must banish them until I can grow calm and learn what
is right.'.

The orderly was correct, and the ' case ' jusi brought in was
speedily carried up on the elevator and borne toward the ward
under her charge. With the celerity of well-trained hands
she had prepared everything and directed that her new charge
should be placed on a cot near her room. She then advanced
to learn the condition of the injured man. After a single
glance she sprane forward, crying.

* Oh, merciful Heaven 1 it's Roger I '

* Tou are acquainted with him then 1 ' asked the aui^geon
who h&d accompanied the ambulance, with much intwest.

* He's my brother — he's the best friend I have in the world.
Oh, be quick — here. Gently now. O God, grant his life !
Oh, oh, he*s unconscious ; his coat is soaked with blood— but
his heart is beating. lie will, oh, he will live ; will he not t '

* Oh, yes, I think so, but the case was so serious that I fol-
lowed. You had better summon the surgeon in charge of this
division, while I and the orderly restore him to consciousness
and prepare him for treatment.'

Before he ceased speaking Mildred was far on her way to
seek the additional aid.

When she returned Roger's rleeve bad been removed, reveal-
ing an ugly wound in the lower /-^H of his left arm, cut by the
cork of a horseshoe, made long and sharp because of the iciness
of the streets. A tourquinet had been applied to the upper
part of the arm to prevent further hemorrhage, and under the
administration of stimulants he was giving signs of returning
conscioiuiness.

The surgeon in charge of the division soon arrived, and every
effort of modern skill was made in the patient's behalf. Bottles
of hot water was placed around his chilled and blood-drained
form, and spirits were injected hydodermioally into his system.
The f«ir young nui'se stood a little in the background, tremb-
ling in her intense anxiety, and yet so trained and disciplined
that with the precision of a veteran she could obey the slightest
sign from the attendant surgeons. *He never failed me,' she

IIOMK.

41»

ipper

the

^ning

thought ; * and if loving care can save Iiis life he shall have it
Bight and day.*

At laal Roger knew her, and imiled contentedly ; then
doMd hii eyes in almost mortal wearinets and weakness. As
far as he was able to think at all, he scarcely cared whether
he lived or died, since Mildred was near him.

The physicians, after as thorough examination as was possible,
and doing everything in their power, left hiro with hopeful
words. The most serious features in the case were his loss of
blood and consequent great exhaustion. The*division surgeon
nid that the chief danger lay in renewed hemorrhage, and
should it occur he must be sent for at once, and then be left
the patient to Mildred's care, with directions as to stimulants
and nourisment.

Mildred would not let Roger speak, and he lay in a dreamy
half*waking condition of entire content. As she sat beside
him holding his hand, she was no longer in doubt ' My
** stupid old heart," as Belle called it, is awake at last,* she
thought. Oh, how awful would be my desolation if he should
die 1 Now 1 know what he is to me. I loved Vinton as a
girl. Oh, how gladly I'd take his place ! What could 1 not
sacrifice for him ! Now I know what he has suffered in his
loneliness. I linderstand him at last, I was hoping he would
get over it — ^^as if I could ever get over this I He said he was
losing his zest in life. Oh, what an intolerable burden would
his loss make of life to me ! O, God, spare him ; surely such
love as this cannot be given to two human souls to be poured
out like WBier on the rook of a pitiless fate.*

* Millie,' said Roeer faintly, * your hand seems alive, and its
pulsations send litUe thrills direct to my heart Were it not
for your hand I would think my body already dead.*

* Oh Roger,' she murmured, pressing her lips on his hand,
* Would to Ood I could put my blood into your veins. Roger,
dear beyond all words, don't fail me, now that I need vou as
never before. Don't speak, don't move. Just rest and gain.
Hush, hush. Oh be quiet ! I ^/on't leave you until you are
stronger, and I'll always l)e within call."

I'll mind, Millie. I was never more contented in my
life.'

414

WITHOUT A HOME.

Towards morning he seemed better and stronger, and she
left him a few moments to attend to some other duties. When
sh6 returned she saw to her horror that hemorrhage had
taken place, and that his arm was bleeding rapidly. She sprang
to his side, and with trained skill pressed her fingers on the
brachial artery, thus stopping further loss of blood instantly.
Then calling to the orderly, she told him to lose not a second
in summoning the surgeon.

Boger looked up into her terror-stricken face, and said quiet-
ly, < Millie, I'm not afraid to die. Indeed I half think it's best.
I couldn't go on in the old way much longer — *

* Hush, hush,' she whispered.

' No,' he said decisively, * my mission to you is finished. You
will be an angel of mercy all your days, but I find that after all
my ambitious dreams I'm but an ordinary man. You are strong-
, er, nobler than I am. You are a soldier that will never be de-
feated. You think to save my life by holding an artery, but
the wound that was killing me is in my heart. I don't blame
you, Millie — I'm weak — I'm talking at random — *

* Boger, Koger, I'm not a soldier. I am a weak, loving wo-
man. I love you with my whole heart and soul; and if you
should not recover you will blot the sun out of my sky. I now
know what you are to me. I knew it the moment I saw your
unconscious face. Roger, I love you now with a love like your
own — only it must be greater, stronger, deeper ; I love you
as a woman only can love. In mercy to me, rally and live—
live/'

He looked at her earnestly a moment, and then a glad smile
lighted up his face.

* I'll live now,' he said quietly. ' I should be dead indeed
did I not respond to that appeal.'

K The surgeon appeared speedily, and again took up and tied
the artery, giving stimulants liberally. Roger was soon sleep-
ing with a quietude and rest in his face that assured Mildred
that her words had brought balm and healing to a wound be-
yond the physician's skill, and that he would recover. And he
did gain hourly from the time she gave him the hope for
which he had so long and patiently waited. It must be ad-
mitted that ho played tho invalid somowhat, for he was extreme.

HOME.

415

be-
ll he
for
ad.
me.

ly reluctant to leave the hospital until the period of Mildred's
duties expired.

A few months later, with Mrs. Heartwold — the Miss V/eth-
eridge of former days — by her side, she was driven to Roger's
house — her home now. The parlours were no longer empty,
and she had fbrnished them with her own refined and delicate
taste. But not in the midst of their beauty and spaciousness
was she married. Mr. Wentworth stood beneath the portraits
of her kindred, and with their dear faces smiling upon her she
gave herself to Roger. Those she loved best stood around
her, and there was a peace and rest in her heart that was be-
yond joy.

When all were gone, Roger wheeled the low chair to its old
place beside the glowing fire, and said :

* Millie, at last we both have a home. See how Belle is
smiling at us.'

* Dear sister Belle,' Mildred murmured, * her words have
come true. She said, Roger, when I was fool enough to detest
you, that you ** would win me yet," and you have — all there is
of me,*

• Roger wont and stood before the young girl's smiling face,
saying earnestly:

'Dear little Be]iie> '* we shall have good times together yet," or
else the human heart with its purest love and deepest yearning
is a lie.'

Then turning, he took his wife in his arms and said, ' Millie
darling, we shall never be without a home again. Please Qod
it shall be here until we find the better home in Heaven.'

410.

WITUUUT A UOMK.

APPENDIX.

• ♦••

5/j/ HRISTIAN men and women of New York, you — not the

S^^ shopkeepers — are chiefly to blame for the barbarous
practice of compelling women, often but growing girls,
to stand from morning until evening, and often till laie in the
night. The supreme motive of the majority of the men who
enforce this inhuman regulation is to make money. Some are
kind>hearted enough to be very willini; that their saleswomen
should sit down if their customers would tolerate the practice,
and others are so humane that they grant the privil^e without
saying, By your leave, to their patrons.

There is no doubt where the main responsibility should be
placed in this case.

Were even the intoxicated drayman in charge of a shop,
when sober he would have sufficient sense not to take a course
that would drive from him the patronage of the ' best and
wealthiest people in town.' Upon no class could public opinion
make itself felt more completely and quickly than upon retail
merchants. If the people had the humanity to say. We Will
not buy a dime's worth at establishments that insist upon a
course that is at once so unnatural and cruel, the evil would be
remedied speedily. Employers declare that they maintain the
regulation oecause so many of their patrons require that the
saleswoman shall always be standing and ready to receive them.
It is difficult to accept this statement, bat the truth that the
shops wherein the rule of standing is most rigourously enforced
are as well patronised as others, is scarcely a less serious indict-
ment, and a^so a depressing proof of the strange apathy on the
question.

No laboured logic is needed to prove the inherent barbarity
of the practice. Let any man or woman — even the strongest
— try to star id as long as these frail, underfed girls are required
to be upon t heir feet, and they will have a demonstration that

APPENDIX.

417

rfl

can never be forgotten. In addition, consider the almost con-
tinual strain on the mind in explaining about the goods and in
recommending them, making out tickets of purch.ise correctly,
aware meanwhile that any errors will be charged against their
slender earnings, or more than made good by fines. What is
worse, the organs of speech are in almost constant exercise, and
all this in the midst of more or less confusion and conflicting
sounds. The clergyman, the lecturer, is exhausted after an
hour of speech. Why are not their thunders directed against
the inhumanity of compelling women to spend ten or twelve
hours of speech upon theii' feet ) The brutal drayman was ar-
rested because he was inflicting pain on a sentient being. Is not
awoman a sendent being? and is any one so ignorant of physiol-
ogy as not to have some comprehension of the evils which must
result in most cases from compelling women — often too young
to be mature— to stand, under the trying circumstances that
have been described %

An eminent physician in New York told me that ten out of
twelve must eventually lose their health ; and a proprietor of
one of the shops admitted to me that the girls did suffer this
irreparable loss, and that it would be better for them if they
were out to service.

The fact that cashiers who sit all day suffer more than those
who stand proves nothing against the wrong of the latter prac-
tice. It only shows that t^e imperative law of nature, espe-
cially for the young, is change, variety. Why not accept the
fact, and be as considerate of the rights of women as of horses,
dogs and oats f While making my investigations on this sub-
ject, 1 asked a gentleman who was in charge of one of the larg-
est retail shops in the city, on what principle he dealt with this
question. * On the principle of humanity,' he replied. *I have
studied hygienic science, and know that a woman can't stand
continuously except at the cost of serious ill-health.

Later I asked the proprietor if he did not think that his hu-
manity was also the best business policy, for the reason that
his employ^ were in a better condition to attend to their du-
ties.

' No,' ke said ; ' on strict business principles I would require
constant standing ; but this has no weight with me, in view of
the inhumanity of such a rule. If I had the room for it in the

418

WITHOUT A HOME.

' store, I'd give all my emplov^s a good slice of roast beef at
noon ; but I have not, and therefore give them plenty of time
for a good lunch.'

The manager of another establishment, which was furnished
with ample means of rest for the girls, said to me, ' A man that
compels a girl to stand all day, ought to be flogged.'

He also showed me a clean, comfortable place in the basement
in which the girls ate their lunchea It was supplied with a
large oooking-stora, with b woman in constant attendance.
Each girl had her own tea or coffee-pot, and time was given for
a substantial and wholesome meaL I would rather pay ten per
cent more for snoods at such shops than at others where women
are tr«atea as the cheapest kind of machines that are easily re-
placed when broken down.

Granting for the sake of argument, that customers may not
be waited on quite ho promptly, and the impression of a brisk
businoss may not be given if many of the girls are seated, these
' Are not sufficient reasons for inflicting toinnent on those who
earn their bread in shops. I do not and cannot believe, how-
ever, that the rule is to the advantage of either employer or
customer in the long run. It is not common sense that a girl,
wearied almost beyond endurance, and distracted by pain, can
give that pleasant, thoughtful attention to the purchaser which
she could bestow were she in a normal conditioD. At very
• slight expense the proprietors of large shops could give all their
f employes a generous plate of soup and a cup of good tea or
coffee. Many bring meagre and unwholesome lunches ; more
dine on cake, pastry, and confectionery. These ill taught girls
are just as prone to sin against their bodies as the better taught
children of the rich. If employers would give them something
substantial at mid-day, and furpish small bracket seats which
could be pulled out and pushed back within a second of time,
they would find their business sustained by a corps of comfort-
able, cheerful, healthful employ^ ; and such a humane, sensible
policy certainly ought to be sustained by all who have any sym-
pathy with Mr. Bergh.

The belief of many, that the majority of the girls are broken
down by dissipation, is as superficial as it is unjust. Un-
doubtedly, many do carry their evening recreation to an in-
jurious excess, and come place themselves in the way of temp-

umammmmmmim

APPENDIX.

419

■■

taiions which they have not the strength to resist ; but every
physician knows that some recreation, some relief from the
monotony of their hard life, is essential. Otherwise, they
would grow morbid in mind as well as enfeebled in body.
The crying shame is that there are so few places where these
girls can go from their croweded tenement homes and find
innocent entertainment. Their dissipations are scarcely more
questionable, though not so elegantly veneered, as those of the
fashionable, nor are the moral and physical effects much worse.
But comparatively few would go to places of ill-repute could
they fivd harmless amusements suited to their intelligence and
taste. After much* investigation, I am sat'sfied that in point
of morals the working-women of New York compare favourably
with any class in the world. To those who do not stand aloof
and surmise evil, but acquaint themselves with the facts, it is
a source of constant wonder that in their hard and often des*
perate struggle for bread they still maintain so high a standard.

Tenement life with scanty income involves many shadows
at best, but in the name of manhood I protest against taking
advantage of their need of bread to inflict years of pain and
premature death. We all are involved in this wrong to the
degree that we sustain establishments from which a girl is
discharged if she does not or cannot obey a rule which it would
be torture for us to keep.

I shall be glad, indeed, if these words hasten by one hour
the time when from the temple of human industry all traders
shall be driven out who thrive on the agonies of girls as frail
and impoverished as Mildred Jocelyn.

THE END.