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7JV PRESS. 
 
 By the Author of this volume, 
 
 OUT IN THE WORLD. 
 
 Price. SI. 26. 
 
LIGHT ON SHADOWED PATHS. 
 
 BY 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 Author of " Ten Nights in a Bar Room," " Steps towards Heaven," 
 " What Can Woman Do," " Golden Grains," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 CARLETOJV, PUBLISHER, 413 BROADWAY. 
 MDCCCLXIV. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
 
 GEO. W. CARLETON\ 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the Southern District of 
 New York 
 
LSH 
 
 Wfr/Aj 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. IF I COULD KNOW. ... 7 
 
 II. BLUE SKY SOMEWHEEE 17 
 
 III. LIGHT IN THE EVENING. ... 26 
 
 IV. HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. . . 35 
 V. IT IS WELL WITH THEM. ... 40 
 
 VI. IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. . . .48 
 
 VII. HE CAME IN MEECY 58 
 
 VIII. ONE DAY AT A TIME. ... . .71 
 
 IX. THE ANGEL-SISTEE. .... 82 
 
 X. OUE DAILY BEEAD. . ... 93 
 
 XI. ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE 101 
 
 XII. MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FOETY. . . 112 
 
 XIII. A DAY S EXPERIENCE 123 
 
 XIV. JUST BEYOND 133 
 
 XV. MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. . . .142 
 
 XVI. THE HELPING HAND. . 148 
 
 XVII. COMING DOWN. 157 
 
 XVIII. THE POET S LESSON 173 
 
 M119132 
 
Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 XIX. UP HIGHER 185 
 
 XX. WAS IT A MISFORTUNE ? . . . 197 
 
 XXI. THE DEACON S DREAM 206 
 
 XXII. WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? . 216 
 
 XXIII. IN THE HEREAFTER 226 
 
 XXIV. SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE ANGELS. 242 
 XXV. THE WINE OF LIFE 248 
 
 XXVI. A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. . . 255 
 
 XXVII. OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. . . . 271 
 
 XXVIII. A SPUR IN THE SIDE. . . . 284 
 
 XXIX. A NEW WORK AND A NEW LIFE. . . 295 
 
 XXX. CARE-WORN. . V ; . . . 310 
 
 XXXI. SERVICE, NOT LOVE. . . , . 325 
 
 XXXII. A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. . . 334 
 
 XXXIII. SABLES. - . 341 
 
LIGHT ON SHADOWED PATHS, 
 
 i. 
 
 IF I COULD KNOW. 
 
 ERMANN leaned back wearily from his 
 study table, sighed, and sat in reverie 
 for a long time. 
 
 " If I could only know that fruit 
 would come of all this thought and ef 
 fort," he said, breaking at length into 
 the pause with speech. " If I could 
 only know that the seed I am trying to 
 scatter would fall into good ground." 
 
 He was silent again. Then a page in his Book of 
 Memory was turned by an unseen hand, and he read 
 from it this passage : "In the morning sow thy seed, 
 and in the evening withhold not thine hand ; for thou 
 knowest not whether will prosper, either this or that, or 
 whether they both shall be alike good." 
 
 He sighed once more, but the sigh was fainter. Then 
 he bent to his work, writing slowly and with an intent- 
 
KNOW. 
 
 ness of thought that crowded the blood on his brain. 
 These, among other sentences, came into existence : 
 
 " Of what did she die ? The physician s certificate 
 has it 4 congestion of the brain. But there be those 
 who know better those who, living in closer proxim 
 ity, understand the case differently. Was the physician 
 deceived ? Possibly. Nay, certainly, for all his post 
 mortem examination. True, there was congestion of 
 the brain, which, morbidly excited, took blood faster 
 than it was able to use and return it ; and this was the 
 proximate" cause of death enough for the profession ; 
 but the real cause lay far away behind that, unrevealed 
 to the eye of science. Of what, then, did she die ? 
 Simply of starvation ! Nay, do not look incredulous, 
 nor reject the assertion. It is true sadly, sorrowfully 
 true ! She died, as thousands die daily around us, of 
 starvation. 
 
 " You reject this, and with indignation. You knew 
 her socially and intimately, were with her frequently 
 during her last illness, and know that she took food 
 daily, and in sufficient quantities to sustain life. But, 
 for all this, our sweet friend died of starvation. There 
 are those who live not by bread alone, who must have 
 heart food or they can not live. Why are the cheeks 
 of so many wives pale and wasted ? The family physi 
 cian, at fault, will look serious, and hint at organic de- 
 
IP I COULD KNOW. 9 
 
 rangement. He will recommend change of scene, ex 
 ercise in the open air, more nutritious food all merely 
 professional, and not touching the case. If he could 
 prescribe love ! 
 
 " I saw, long ago, that she was failing. At first there 
 crept over her pure face the thinnest veil of shadows. 
 Something dreamy and pensive came into her eyes. 
 She had a strange, earnest way of looking at her hus 
 band tender, loving, but questioning. If she sat near 
 him, or stood by his side, she leaned a little, as if drawn 
 by an invisible attraction. I noticed, on his part, a cold 
 irresponsive manner a self-conciousness that held him 
 away from all just perception of her states of feeling. 
 His thoughts were busy in a world where she was not 
 present. All the while she was asking for love, and 
 looking for its signs in tenderly spoken words, in fond 
 caresses, in kisses not coldly given, but burning with 
 heart-fires. All the while she was hungering, and he 
 kept back the full supply of food. 
 
 u Was he enstranged from her ? Had love already 
 died ? Had she failed to reach his ideal of a wife ? 
 Not so. He loved her as such self-absorbed men love 
 their wives ; was proud of her ; looked into no woman s 
 face and thought it sweeter than hers. She was mak 
 ing all his life pleasant, and he felt and acknowledged it 
 
 with himself. But he was undemonstrative, as they 
 1* 
 
10 IF I COULD KNOW. 
 
 say did not express what he felt. Ah, that word un 
 demonstrative, how often is it made to excuse mere in 
 difference, or downright cold-heartedness ! In fact, he 
 was not worthy of such a wife, for he could not com 
 prehend her nature, or, it may be, would not so rise out 
 of his mere selfishness as to get a clearer vision. Be 
 that as it may, he starved her by withholding the food 
 her spirit craved with a never-dying hunger ; and she 
 paled and faded in his sight, wasting to ghostliness, and 
 receding, until she passed the vale through which none 
 return passed, as many wives pass, year by year, 
 killed by the same disease. 
 
 " O man, consider and be wise, ere the days of dark 
 ness come, when it will be too late ! Is there a pale 
 face in your home ? Do loving eyes look at you in wist 
 ful sadness from sunken orbits ? Are you in daily fear 
 that a blast falling down suddenly will sweep to the 
 other side the spirit-like form which, once absent from 
 your dwelling, will leave all its chambers desolate ? So 
 far the physician has failed. Medicine does not reach 
 the disease. Sea-bathing, mountain air, mineral springs 
 
 all have been tried, and still the white face grows 
 whiter, the shrinking form more and more attenuate, the 
 eyes sadder, the spirits more depressed. You have done 
 and are still doing all in human power to save her. No 
 
 something yet remains ! Try loving words and deeds. 
 
IF I COULD KNOW. 11 
 
 Lay your hand, as of old, tenderly on her head, smooth 
 the hair with soft caresses ; look down, with the look 
 that blessed her years ago, into her dimming eyes, and 
 let them take a new lustre from your own ; tell her that 
 you love her, for this will do her good ; she is hunger 
 ing for the words has hungered for them, oh so long 
 and so wearily ! until faint with waiting. Give her the 
 food for lack of which she has been dying daily for 
 years. O man ! again I say be wise, ere the days of 
 darkness come, when it will be too late." 
 
 Hermann paused, laid down his pen, and leaned back 
 from the table. 
 
 " If I could have said all that was in my thought ; 
 but language is so inadequate ! The ideas that throng 
 my mind lose half their clearness when I attempt to ex 
 press them. Ah, if I knew that even this poor work 
 would not die that it would save one life failing for 
 lack of love." 
 
 Another leaf in his Book of Memory was turned by 
 an unseen hand, and on it was written : " Cast thy bread 
 upon the waters ; for thou shalt find it after many days." 
 
 " Let it go forth," he said, in a more cheerful voice, 
 rising from the table. " If the seed is good it will fall 
 into good ground somewhere. Man soweth, but with 
 God is the increase." 
 
 It went forth ; and, like all good seed cast from the 
 
12 IF I COULD KNOW. 
 
 sower s hand, fell by the wayside, on stony places, 
 among thorns, and also into good ground. God knew 
 of the increase, if Hermann did not. It was a part of 
 his discipline to have faith and patience. 
 
 A month or a year have passed. It matters not. 
 Truth never dies ; never loses its vitalizing force. Sit 
 ting alone, with a troubled countenance, was a man 
 scarcely yet touching the meridian of life. A period 
 ical which had engaged his attention lay half-closed on 
 the table beside him. The trouble in his face was 
 mingled with surprise, as though he had just received a 
 painful revelation. 
 
 " Starved to death ! " There was a shiver in his 
 voice. " Is that indeed possible ? " 
 
 Even as he said this, the door opened and a woman 
 came in, with almost noiseless feet gliding slowly across 
 the apartment. Her face had the exhaustion and pallor 
 that long sickness leaves behind, and was veiled by a 
 touching sadness. She did not look toward the man 
 but his eyes followed her as she moved about the room 
 with an expression of deep and yearning interest. Af 
 ter obtaining what she sought, the woman still with 
 out seeming to be conscious of the man s presence 
 retired to the door through which she had entered, and 
 was passing out, when the man, speaking with suppress 
 ed feeling, said, 
 
IP I COULD KNOW. 13 
 
 " Florence ! " 
 
 There was evidence of surprise in the woman s man 
 ner as she paused and half-turned herself, now for the 
 first time looking at him. 
 
 " Florence, you are very pale to-night." The voice 
 was not steady. 
 
 What a strange, startled look came into the woman s 
 face ! 
 
 " Come ! " He spoke tenderly, and held forth one 
 hand in invitation. " Come, dear ! " 
 
 The woman moved away from the door, crossing the 
 room toward him, her eyes fixed searchingly on his 
 countenance. There was a shade of doubt in her man 
 ner. 
 
 " Sit down." He moved a chair close to the one he 
 occupied, but a little in front, so that he could look at 
 her directly, and, taking her hand as she approached, 
 drew her down into it. Still holding her hand after she 
 was seated, and still gazing at her with eyes full of in 
 terest, he said : 
 
 " Are you not so well to-night, Florence ? You look 
 unusually pale." 
 
 Her cheeks found, on the instant, unwonted color. 
 Her eyes shone with the flushing of tears. There was 
 a motion of her lips, but no words parted them. 
 
 " It hurts me, darling, to see you drooping about in 
 
14 IF I COULD KNOW. 
 
 this sad, weary way. Can nothing be done? Have 
 you pain to night ? " 
 
 The tenderness of voice was genuine. The man s 
 heart was stirring from a long, doll sleep and it was 
 time. 
 
 " I have no pain." She bent forward quickly and 
 hid her face against him, catching her breath and hold 
 ing back a sob that was leaping past her throat. 
 
 With a touch that sent a thrill of joy along every 
 awakening nerve, the man laid his hand upon her head, 
 smoothing back the hair with soft caresses, then stoop 
 ing over, he kissed her. 
 
 " What does this mean, Harvey ? " The woman 
 lifted herself all trembling, and drawing back, looked 
 in a wild, eager way into her husband s face. 
 
 " What can it mean, Florence, but love ? Are you 
 not my pure, true-hearted wife ? Oh that I could bring 
 back the old light to your eyes, the old health to your 
 cheeks, the old gladness to your heart ! What can I do, 
 Florence ? " 
 
 " Love me as of old," she answered, passionately, 
 flinging herself on his bosom. " Oh, my husband ! I 
 am starving for lack of love." 
 
 " Not starving, Florence ! Oh, my wife ! how can 
 you say this when you are the most precious thing I 
 have in this world ? When the fear of losing you for 
 ever haunts me day and night ? " 
 
IF I COULD KNOW. 15 
 
 She raised herself again. As her face became visible 
 her husband saw that it was almost radiant. The lost 
 sweetness and beauty were restored. 
 
 " Am I awake or dreaming ? " she said. 
 
 " You are awake, dear wide awake, after a long 
 nightmare," was answered. 
 
 " Perhaps I may sleep again." Her voice fell. 
 
 " Not if in my power to hold you away from enchant 
 ed ground. I may have seemed cold on the outside, 
 Florence, but my heart was warm. It carries no image 
 but yours. Trust me, for the future." 
 
 u Our lives, Harvey, touch the outside of things," 
 she answered; "and if that be cold, how can we help 
 feeling the chill ? If there is no tenderness in the eyes 
 and voice, if loving speech is withheld, how can we be 
 sure that love is in the heart ? There may be rain 
 enough in the clouds, but if it fall not on the thirsty 
 flowers they will perish. Don t forget this, Harvey ; 
 and if you love me say the sweet words often, that my 
 soul may have assurances and joy." 
 
 If Hermann could have looked on this scene he would 
 have known what kind of harvests ripened from seed 
 he was scattering in doubt and hope broadcast 
 among the people, wearied often, and sometimes faint 
 ing. But he could not know. And it was as well. 
 Self-discipline and strife with doubt were needed for 
 
16 
 
 IF I COULD KNOW. 
 
 the perfecting of his life. The unrest, born of vague 
 questionings as to use and duty, gave vitality to thought, 
 quickened his mind for higher efforts, and held him to 
 work that needed to be done. And it was a good work 
 if such fruit as we have seen crowned many of its har 
 vests. Faint not, Hermann ! " In the morning sow 
 thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thy hand ; 
 for thou knowest not whether will prosper, either this 
 or that, or whether they both shall be alike good." 
 
BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 
 
 IT 
 
 II. 
 
 BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 
 
 T was the remark of a child, consoling 
 himself for the loss of a promised pleas 
 ure on a rainy afternoon, that there was 
 " blue sky somewhere." And the sap 
 phire heavens, flooded with sunshine, on 
 the next day made his faith a verity. 
 
 The lesson is for you, and for all of us, 
 reader ; and we need it quite as much as 
 the boy who sat looking out of the win 
 dow upon a leaden sky and the fast-falling rain, and 
 trying to find comfort in the thought that, far above the 
 cloud and storm, the sun was shining in his undimmed 
 splendor. 
 
 " Into each life some rain must fall," says the poet- 
 teacher ; and in the days that come " dark and dreary " 
 we are apt to feel, in spite of experience and reason, 
 that the brightness has passed from our lives forever. 
 But it is not so. Like travelers we rise, now upon 
 
18 BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 
 
 mountain heights, and now descend into deeply shaded 
 valleys ; pass through open savannas, down upon which 
 the golden sunbeams fall ; and anon are buried in dense 
 forests, that seem stretching their interminable vistas to 
 the very end of our journey. We encounter all aspects 
 of the heavens ; have our mornings, our noondays, our 
 evenings, and our nights with only the stars for guid 
 ance ; our wild, contending storms, and our sunny, 
 tranquil atmospheres. Has it not been so with you, 
 reader ? And yet, when the sun goes down, or hides 
 his face in mantling clouds, does not your heart grow 
 faint, and your faith in " blue sky somewhere " become 
 feeble as the rays of an expiring lamp ? The very 
 children are our teachers ! 
 
 Between our inner and our outer worlds there is 
 something more than simple analogy ; the relation bears 
 the higher one of correspondence, even to minutest 
 things ; so that nature, with all its infinite varieties of 
 aspects and changes, representing interior aspects and 
 changes, becomes our instructor. Our true poets rise 
 into a perception of this, and give us lessons of wisdom 
 that sink deeply into the heart, and become to us as 
 lights in dim places, strength in weariness, and confi 
 dence in last results when the mind is trembling in 
 doubt and fear. Not mere words in rhythmic order are 
 the poet s, when he says : 
 
BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 19 
 
 " Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
 Into each life some rain must fall, 
 
 Some days must be dark and dreary." 
 
 " If Icould only believe that the clouds would pass 
 away that sunny days would come again I might 
 weep less," was the language of one who sat in the 
 darkness of sorrow and disappointment, as a friend and 
 consoler offered her the poet s lesson, that she might 
 take it into her heart. " But I can see no rift in the 
 clouds ; no line of light along the dark horizon ; no 
 abatement of the fast-falling rain." 
 
 44 We are sure that the rain will cease ; that behind 
 the clouds the sun is shining. We have the fullest con 
 fidence in returning sunbeams ; and why ? Because 
 we know that clouds are merely earthly exhalations ; 
 that they do not rise high in the heavens that they 
 can never reach the sun, whose beams shine ever on 
 with undiminished splendor, and have power to disperse 
 the densest vapors that ever drew their curtains before 
 his radiant face. Now the world of mind, like the world 
 of nature, has its sun, as the poet has so beautifully 
 intimated. Thought sees by its light, and the heart is 
 refreshed and beautified with flowers and verdure by its 
 warmth. But at times this sun is hidden by clouds, 
 and there are shadows in the mind and rain upon the 
 
20 BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 
 
 heart. The days are dark and dreary. Why ? Whence 
 are these clouds ? Let visible things become our teach 
 
 ers." 
 
 The countenance of the listener grew attentive, and 
 the friend went on : 
 
 " They go up from the natural earth, as clouds go up 
 from the earth of our minds ; and even while we sit in 
 sorrow for the beams that have faded from our paths, 
 the sun is dissolving these clouds in rain for refreshment 
 and fruitful ness. Our hearts are watered in the days 
 of sorrow, that they may bear good fruit when the sun 
 shine comes again." 
 
 " If it ever comes." The despondent soul could not 
 look beyond the clouds. 
 
 " Have you heard of Mrs. Elford s trouble ? " asked 
 the friend. 
 
 "No." There was a quick flash of interest in the 
 mournful face. " What of her ? " 
 
 " Her husband is dead." 
 
 " Oh no ! " The lady clasped her hands in sudden 
 surprise and pain at this intelligence. 
 
 u The news came yesterday. He died on the Pacific 
 coast." 
 
 " Captain Elford?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh dear ! that is trouble ! And he has left her 
 poor, without doubt." 
 
BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 21 
 
 " I fear as much." 
 
 44 Have you seen her ? " 
 
 44 Yes, I called this morning." 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 44 Entirely prostrated by the blow." 
 
 44 Poor Margaret ! " The tone of sympathy was 
 genuine. 4t I must go to her in this affliction. I must 
 try to speak some word of comfort." 
 
 44 She needs all the support her friends can give. It 
 is her hour of darkness, and she is sorrowing as one 
 without hope. The sun has withdrawn himself behind 
 thick clouds, which are pouring down heavy rain upon 
 her life. Yes, go to her by all means, and tell her that, 
 though her sky is dark to-day, and filled with cloud 
 and storm, that the sun of God s love is still shining as 
 brightly as ever, and will, in the good time of Him who 
 is all-merciful, send down his beams upon her heart 
 again." 
 
 It was an old and dear friend who had passed under 
 the cloud of sorrow, and the doubting and despondent 
 one, already half-forgetting her own pain, was ponder 
 ing over words of consolation. 
 
 44 God is really nearer to us in affliction," she said, 
 as she sat holding the nerveless hand of Mrs. Elford, 
 " than at any other time, though He may seem farthest 
 off; for His infinite, divine pity, is moved with the ten- 
 
22 BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 
 
 derest compassion for the griefs of His children. 
 Though His face may be hidden from us, it is not the 
 less a smiling face." 
 
 A sob and a long tremulous sigh were the only an 
 swer. 
 
 " Into each life some rain must fall, 
 
 Some days must be dark and dreary." 
 
 Yet no response came. The words of the comforter 
 seemed as if spoken to shut ears. Not so, however. 
 They entered, and like seed when first cast into the 
 ground, gave no life-sign of their presence. But mem 
 ory held them for the time of fructification. 
 
 And now it happened to the despondent and griev 
 ing one, who had refused to be comforted, yet tried to 
 speak in consolation to another heart, that light seemed 
 to come around her. She did not see the sun, nor even 
 a rift in the clouds with azure in the far distance. But 
 it was not so dark in the chambers of her soul. The 
 pressure on her spirit that seemed at one time as if it 
 would close her life in suffocation, was not so great. 
 She could breathe deeper, and with even a sense of re 
 lief and satisfaction. 
 
 " My poor friend ! " she said, many times, as she 
 thought of Mrs. Elford. And as her desire to bring 
 relief to another heart grew stronger and stronger, her 
 own consciousness of suffering diminished. In the mag 
 nitude of another s sorrow, hers seemed to grow less. 
 
BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 2& 
 
 Almost daily she visited her afflicted friend, into 
 whose sad face a little light would come on her appear 
 ance ; and though it faded instantly, the sign of pleasure 
 at seeing a welcome countenance was too palpable for 
 any mistake as to its origin. She had really been helped 
 and comforted, though she knew it not ; and the face 
 of the comforter was therefore welcome. 
 
 When next her own friendly visitor called, she was 
 not sitting in idleness, brooding over the irrevocable 
 past ; but really forgetful of the past in present thought 
 of home duties with which her hands were busy. 
 
 " How is it with you to-day ? " said the friend, as she 
 took her hand. " But I need scarcely ask, for the 
 cheerful tone of your countenance tells me that light is 
 breaking through the clouds." 
 
 " I have been too busy to think dark thoughts this 
 morning," was the answer ; and even as this was said 
 the lips which had arched with a feeble smile fell back 
 into a sadder outline. 
 
 " Busy in what ? " 
 
 " In the duties of my home. I m afraid that, under 
 the pressure of pain, I grew selfish, loving to nurse de 
 spondent states, and growing forgetful of the comfort 
 and happiness of those around me. And now I am 
 trying to make amends." 
 
 " And in the first right effort comes a more peaceful 
 state." 
 
24 BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. 
 
 11 Perhaps so." 
 
 " Don t speak doubtfully. Say yes." 
 
 " I am not so much depressed in mind as I have 
 been." 
 
 " And if you keep on in this path of duty the weight 
 which has been bearing you down will grow less and 
 less burdensome ; the clouds that mantle your sky thin 
 ner and thinner, until light breaks through, and dis 
 perses them altogether. There are only some dark days 
 in our lives, and the sun must and will penetrate the 
 gloomy vapors, and reveal his smiling countenance. If 
 these days are prolonged it is our own fault. But how 
 is Mrs. Elford ? I have not seen her for some time." 
 
 " More cheerful," was the answer. 
 
 " That is gratifying." 
 
 " She received a few days since a long and satisfac 
 tory letter if I may use the the word satisfactory in 
 such a connection about her husband, who had the 
 most careful attendance and every comfort during his 
 last illness. Unexpectedly, this letter brought her the 
 intelligence that Captain Elford left property to the 
 value of nearly fifteen thousand dollars, the result of 
 some trading adventures on the coast." 
 
 " Then she is not left destitute ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Already there is a break in the clouds, showing a 
 clear blue sky above them." 
 
BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE. S5 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 u And the days must come for her as well as for you, 
 and for all whose sky has become dark and threatening, 
 when the broad, bright sunbeams will flood the whole 
 horizon again. Let us not give away to weak distrust, 
 or a paralyzing despondency, when the rainy days come : 
 but keep hands and thought busy with useful work, hav 
 ing faith in the law that governs the world of mind as 
 well as the world of nature, and live in hope of to 
 morrow s sunshine. What is the lesson past experience 
 teaches ? Is- it not the same in regard to the inner as 
 to the outer world ? There have been times of cloud 
 and rain, and times of sunshine. There have been de 
 clining days, even to evening and solemn night ; and 
 mornings coming in beauty and joy. Even the seasons 
 are represented in our varying states of mind, as the 
 years progress toward a completion of their earthy cycle. 
 And all these changes are for the sake of fruit the 
 fruit of righteousness. Let us be mindful, my friend, 
 of the lesson, and not keep too much out of the sun 
 shine ; lest, when we come to make up our sheaves in 
 the harvest-time, there be found only husk instead of 
 grain." 
 
LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 
 
 III. 
 LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 
 
 HE days grow darker and drearier as 
 we get older." This came from one of 
 two friends, whose years had fallen 
 into the "yellow leaf." 
 
 "But, there shall be light at eve 
 ning," said the other, in a cheery 
 voice. 
 
 " Not unless the order of nature be 
 reversed, Mr. Fairfax," was replied. " When the sun 
 sets, day goes out in darkness." 
 
 " And yet, for all this, friend Ascot, there will be 
 light at evening. Not half so dark as feared, will the 
 shadows fall ; and, quickly, shall the east grow radiant 
 again. Has it not ahvays been so ? Have we not al 
 ways found light at evening, instead of the famed Egyp 
 tian blackness. Take your own experience. Think 
 back over the dark days through which you have passed 
 
LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 27 
 
 and to the close of which you looked with a shudder. 
 Did not light come at evening ? The sun broke through 
 lifting clouds ; or, day came suddenly in the east a 
 purer, calmer day than any you had ever known." 
 
 " I often wish that I could see with your eyes, Mr. 
 Fairfax," replied the friend. " But my natural temper 
 ament is different. I am apt to look on the gloomy side 
 of things ; to turn my back to the light." 
 
 " Of course, if we turn ourselves from the light, we 
 cannot receive its blessing. And yet, sitting down, of 
 our own choice, among shadows, we complain that the 
 days grow darker and drearier as we get older." 
 
 The door of the room where the two old men were 
 sitting opened, and a young woman entered with a tray 
 in her hand, on which were two saucers of ripe straw 
 berries. She set them down on a table, saying, with a 
 smile : 
 
 " They are just from the garden. I thought you 
 would enjoy them." 
 
 " Light in the evening ! " Mr. Fairfax looked at his 
 friend, as the young woman went out. Dropping his 
 eyes to the floor, Mr. Ascot mused for a little while, then 
 said, partly speaking to himself: 
 
 " Yes, it is lighter than I anticipated. I thought 
 this day, in the days of my life, would go down in the 
 very blackness of darkness. I was angry with my way- 
 
20 LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 
 
 ward son, when he took him a wife, because I fancied 
 he had stooped in marriage. He had never been much 
 comfort to me before that time, and I gave up all hope 
 in him for the future. But there was a good providence 
 in the event, which I did not then see. Even while I 
 was drawing around me the curtains of doubt and 
 gloom, her hand was moving among the overhanging 
 clouds, and bearing some of their heaviest folds aside. 
 To my son she proved a good angel. He loved her, and 
 she was worthy of his love. You know that he died. 
 I did not, at first, feel like receiving the widow home. 
 There were no children, and I said to myself, She is 
 nothing to me now. Why should I take up the burden 
 of her support ? Let her go back among her friends. 
 Partly to satisfy public sentiment, and partly because 
 her pure and loving nature had begun to influence me, 
 I took her home. It was the closing of a day of sor 
 row and disappointment, and yet I say it thankfully, at 
 the evening time there was light. No daughter could 
 be more loving or more thoughtful of every comfort. 
 What should I do without her? " 
 
 " Yet only a little while ago you complained that, as 
 years increased, the days grew darker," said Mr. Fair 
 fax. 
 
 " And so I find them." Mr. Ascot s countenance, 
 which had brightened while he spoke of his daughter- 
 
LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 29 
 
 in-law, fell again. * There may be a little gleam here 
 and there a struggling of light, in feeble rays, through 
 broken spaces but, I see over all things a steadily in 
 creasing gloom." 
 
 " From whence does it come, my friend ? This 
 gloom is an effect. Do you see the cause ? " 
 
 " The causes are manifold. Everywhere disappoint 
 ment tracks my path. The full promise of spring has 
 never come in the summer-time, nor the promise of sum 
 mer at fruit gathering. Always, realization falls below 
 the hope. So it has ever been with me, my friend ; un 
 til now I have lost all confidence in the future ; have 
 ceased to look for any good. 
 
 " And yet," said Mr. Fairfax, " even while you are 
 thus complaining, good gifts are showered upon you in 
 rich abundance." 
 
 " I should like to see them," answered Mr. Ascot, 
 half amused, yet with a flavor of irony in his voice. 
 
 " Sometimes there is obscurity of vision. The ob 
 jects exist, but we do not perceive them. I think it is 
 so in your case." 
 
 " Ah ? " with a faint, incredulous smile. 
 
 " Take your natural life," said Mr. Fairfax. " What 
 is lacking to your enjoyment ? " 
 
 " O dear ! almost every thing," was impulsively an 
 swered. 
 
30 LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 
 
 " What ? Is there lack of pleasant food, or refresh 
 ing drink, or soft and warm clothing, for the body ? 
 Have you not all things in liberal abundance ? Is any 
 thing desired for comfort absent from your dwelling ? 
 or, does an enemy threaten to despoil you ? " 
 
 Mr. Ascot shook his head. " I have nothing to com- 
 
 O 
 
 plain of in this respect. " But " He paused, 
 
 grew thoughtful, and remained silent. 
 
 " Yet, for all this, your heart is troubled. There is 
 on your mind a weight of dissatisfaction you feel a 
 constant yearning after something not clearly seen ; 
 the nature of which is not clearly apprehended. Your 
 days are not sunshiny, and you feel, as the evening draws 
 on, that it will go down in clouds." 
 
 " Yes. You state the case exactly." 
 
 " And still I say," Mr. Fairfax spoke cheerily again, 
 " that there will be light in the evening. Always, even 
 in the most external events of your life, when the period 
 of trial, or sorrow, or misfortune closed when the 
 day s dreaded termination came light poured in from 
 the west through rending clouds, on the day of a new 
 and higher state, broke in the purpling east. The in 
 stance to which you a little while ago referred is but ona 
 of hundreds that stand recorded in your memory, if you 
 will open the book and read. But, for you and for me, 
 my friend, there is a day going down, toward the eve- 
 
LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 31 
 
 ning of which thought cannot fail often to look forward. 
 Shall there be light then ? Will the last setting of our 
 sun leave us in darkness ; or shall it be only the herald 
 of a day-spring from on high ? " 
 
 " You have touched the key note of a depressing 
 theme," was answered. " Some men turn from the 
 idea of death stoically, and some with indifference, while 
 others contemplate the event serenely, and see in it only 
 a brief passage to heaven. Not so with me. The thought 
 of this last time comes always in gloom. I turn from 
 it in depression sometimes with a shudder." 
 
 " And yet you are a church-member." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And have, I think, tried earnestly to keep the 
 divine law." 
 
 " As far as I understand the commands of God, I 
 have tried to live up to them. The time was when I 
 did not give much heed to this law ; but, for many 
 years past, I have not wilfully gone counter to its clear 
 enunciations." 
 
 "If ye love me, keep my commandments. If ye 
 continue in my Word, then are ye my disciples indeed. 
 What more than this ? " The friend spoke in a low, 
 impressive voice. " If we obey the divine law, sincere 
 ly ; that is, because it is the divine law, and not because 
 we may have wordly gain as nominal Christians, we 
 
32 LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 
 
 need have no fear of the last time. Death will come 
 as a gentle spirit, and taking us by the hand, lead us 
 through the valley. There will be light at evening, 
 though the declining clay be veiled with clouds." 
 
 Sooner than either of the friends had imagined, this 
 prophecy was closed. A year had not passed, when 
 Mr. Fairfax learned, one day, that Mr. Ascot was sick. 
 He found the daughter-in-law in tears. 
 
 44 Not seriously ill, I trust," he said. 
 
 " We have very little hope of him," was answered in 
 a voice choked by sobs. " He seems to be failing rapidly." 
 
 " I am pained to hear this," said Mr. Fairfax. 
 " How long has he been sick ? " 
 
 " For some months I had thought him failing ; but 
 he made no complaint. Three weeks ago he became 
 suddenly ill, and has been rapidly going down ever 
 since." 
 
 " What about his state of mind ? " 
 
 " He is very calm." 
 
 Mr. Fairfax went up to the sick chamber. On the 
 face of his old friend he saw death written ; not in fear 
 ful lines, but in radiant characters. A smile broke 
 over the pale features, lighting them up as if a curtain 
 had just been drawn aside, admitting the sunshine. The 
 hands of the two old men were laid within each other, 
 and tightened. 
 
LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 33 
 
 " I did not, until now, hear of your illness," said Mr. 
 Fairfax, " or I would have seen you before." 
 
 " It has been severe, breaking me down rapidly," 
 w^s feebly answered. Then, after a brief pause, he add 
 ed " The evening about which we talked, one day 
 not long ago, has come." 
 
 " That evening which comes, soon or late to all." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And is there light ? " 
 
 " There is light, my friend. For a little while it 
 seemed as if the day would go down in blackness ; but 
 angel hands soon commenced folding back the cloudy 
 curtains that shut away the sun-illumined sky, and now, 
 instead of darkness, there is light. Instead of sun-set, 
 it is sun-rising. Even as I trembled at the approaching 
 shadow, a sweet voice cried to me, Lo, the morning 
 breaketh ! " 
 
 " And all fear is gone ? " 
 
 " What is there to fear ? " feebly answered the sick 
 man. " God is just and merciful. He knows what we 
 are ; how much we have been tempted ; and how sin 
 cerely we have tried to keep His law. He is a discern- 
 er of the thoughts and intentions. Our purpose to do 
 right, even though *we have often failed of right action, 
 will be the witness in our favor. Here, confidently, I 
 rest my case, and tranquilly await my Lord s decision." 
 2* 
 
34 LIGHT IN THE EVENING. 
 
 " Actions are really good only in the degree that they 
 have the inspiration of a good purpose," said Mr. Fair 
 fax. " Only such actions find favor with God. So, 
 resting in confidence on your will to do right, you look 
 for the joyful words Well done ! : 
 
 Mr. Ascot closed his eyes and lay still for some time. 
 The look of heavenly peace did not fade from his coun 
 tenance. Presently the eyes opened again, but their 
 expression was new. They saw, but not the fixed and 
 circumscribed objects in the death chamber. There had 
 been granted a clearer vision mortal investures were 
 folded away. The lips moved, as the face grew bright. 
 Mr. Fairfax bent to hear : 
 
 " It shall come to pass that at evening time 
 it shall be light." 
 
 " God s promise fulfilled," whispered Mr. Fairfax. 
 " The evening has come, and it is light ! " 
 
 44 Light light!" Faint as a sigh the response 
 came, in the last motion of dying lips. 
 
 The night and the morning had met, day breaking in 
 beauty on a human soul. In the evening time there 
 was light. 
 
HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 
 
 IV. 
 
 HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 
 
 F she could only get sleep, sound refresh 
 ing sleep. What would I not give for 
 power to confer this blessing on my 
 child ! You must give her anodynes." 
 The doctor shook his head. 
 " Nature is taking care of this," he 
 answered. " There come many periods 
 of unconsciousness in every twenty-four 
 hours. She has little snatches of slum 
 ber, bv which the nerves are tranquilized and the body 
 refreshed ; and these are better for her than the heavy 
 sleep of opium. Believe me that I am not indifferent 
 to the case. No no my heart is in it. Were she my 
 own child, she could hardly dwell more in my thoughts, 
 nor tax in any higher degree my skill." 
 
 The doctor went away, and the mother returned tc 
 her place by the bedside of her sick child. 
 
3G " HE G1VETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 
 
 -Care never failed hand never wearied. Still love 
 was bound in service. It could reach so far, and no 
 farther. At the utmost limit of use it stood in tears 
 over its own weakness, sighing " What would I not give 
 to my beloved ! " 
 
 " It is so hard to- see her suffer ; to know that she has 
 not one hour of rest from pain one night of peaceful 
 sleep," said the mother to a friend, and the friend an 
 swered : 
 
 " It cannot last long. Soon there must come. a sleep 
 that will medicine all pain." 
 
 " You will kill me if you talk so ! " A pang went 
 through the mother s heart. " I cannot give up my 
 precious child. I cannot I will not see her die ! " 
 
 A low cry of suffering came from the next room 
 where the sick girl lay, and in a moment afterwards 
 mother and friend were at the bedside. 
 
 " Where is the pain darling ? " was the mother s 
 anxious question. 
 
 A hand moved feebly, as if to touch the region of 
 pain. 
 
 " Is it in your side ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Let me raise you higher on the pillow. There. 
 Do you feel better now ? " 
 
 But the forehead was not smooth, nor the mouth 
 
" HE GIVETH HIS BEHOVED SLEEP." 37 
 
 placid. This change had wrought no ease, as the moth 
 er saw. 
 
 As they sat, bending towards her, the mother clasped 
 her hands, and in half-despairing tones, said : 
 
 " Lord, give her sleep ! " 
 
 There was a pause a kind of hush the penetra 
 tion of a new sphere. Gradually, the countenance of 
 the sick girl changed. The lines and indentations of 
 her forehead, that it hurt you to look upon, smoothed 
 themselves out ; the lips softened ; the lashes drooped, 
 and lay without quivering, on her cheeks. How still 
 the chamber grew ! 
 
 " She is going to sleep," said the mother, whispering 
 at the ear of her friend. " Do you think God heard 
 me just now, and sent the rest and peace I asked for ? " 
 
 " He is good nay, goodness itself. His love for 
 Mary is tenderer than even your love." 
 
 They drew back from the sleeper, noiselesssly, drop 
 ping the window curtains, that darkness might rest on 
 her eyelids and weigh them down more surely. 
 
 " It can hardly be tenderer than mine. But, do you 
 think God heard my prayer ? " said the mother. 
 
 " You have prayed, many times that she might have 
 sleep ? " 
 
 " O yes." 
 
 " But never perhaps, in the same spirit that moved 
 you just now. You felt helpless and despairing." 
 
38 " HE GIVETH JUS BELOVED SLEEP." 
 
 44 Yes." 
 
 " Willing to abandon all, so that your precious one 
 might be at peace. You cried out 4 Lord, give her 
 sleep ! And, in that moment, you loosened your clasp 
 ing arms. He has sent her sleep if not in answer to 
 your prayer, in answer, it may be, to your state 
 broken, at last, by suffering, into submission." 
 
 44 Into submission ! " There was a thrill of fear and 
 pain in the mother s voice. " Submission to what ? " 
 
 44 His ways are not as our ways, dear friend ! But 
 they are always in mercy and loving kindness. And 
 they will be so now. Could he have sent a greater 
 blessing to this dear one than the sleep which now rests 
 upon her like heaven s benediction ! " 
 
 The mother did not answer, but sat in statue-like still 
 ness, for a minute. Then rising, she drew back the 
 window-curtain to let in the light again. Her manner 
 was deliberate, yet under repression, as if she were 
 holding down some struggling impulse. From the win 
 dow she crossed to the bed, her friend, who had risen 
 with her, moving at her side. Both stood, for a short 
 space, looking down at the sleeper. .Jler countenance 
 was even more placid than when they gazed upon it a 
 little while before softer and more infantile in its ex 
 pression of repose. 
 
 44 She sleeps sweetly," said the friend, in a whisper. 
 
"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 39 
 
 " Dear child ! " was breathed in response. 
 
 " What would we give to our beloved ? " resumed 
 the friend, " Wealth, and beauty, and all delight. 
 But He giveth his beloved sleep. Your prayer is an 
 swered." 
 
 A wild paroxysm, and then a calmer state. Angels 
 of consolation were present with the angels of resur 
 rection ; and while the latter were opening the gates of 
 life, the former were giving peace. 
 
 " You would not awaken her from this sleep," said 
 the friend, as they stood looking down afterwards upon 
 the pure white vesture of clay, which the soul had put 
 off for a body made of spiritual substance imperishable 
 and immortal ; stood looking down at the pure white 
 vesture, lying in the perfume of bursting flowers, thrown 
 over it by loving hands. 
 
 " He giveth his beloved sleep." This was the moth 
 er s answer, as she looked through tears, into the face 
 of her friend. The angels of Consolation had not been 
 with her in vain. 
 
40 
 
 IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 
 
 V. 
 
 IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 
 
 , HE lifted her sad, patient eyes to the 
 speaker s face, and gazed at her stead- 
 
 ay- 
 
 " When we say death, the angels 
 understand resurrection." 
 
 Still no remark, but an earnest, 
 questioning look. 
 
 " There is no death, in the sense 
 you and I have understood the word. 
 Does the worm really die, or only rise, through a won 
 derful transformation, into a higher state of being ? Is 
 it death, or only resurrection into a new life ? And has 
 the soul of man feebler vitality than the life-spark of a 
 stupid grub ? when its earthly state is completed, shall it 
 not rise in a new and more beautiful body, made of spirit 
 ual substances, and with a new development of powers, 
 infinitely transcending all mortal endowments ? " 
 
IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 41 
 
 > 
 
 And still, there was no answer : but a few rays of 
 light came into the sad eyes. 
 
 " Paul tells us that the invisible things of the other 
 world may be understood by the things that appear 
 in this. Let us take the birth of a lovely aeriel being sim 
 ultaneously with the apparent death of a repulsive worm, 
 as a type of the soul s resurrection. The worm did not 
 really die, but its life put on in a new birth, higher 
 beauty of form, and developed higher instincts. Before 
 it was all of the earth, earthy ; in its transformation, it 
 became changed into a creature of more etherial sub 
 stance, fitted to enjoy the heaven of sunshine, air, and 
 flowers. If it is so with the worm in its death, what 
 may we not hope and believe for man ? " 
 
 " Oh, my sister," said the sad-eyed listener, speak 
 ing for the first time, and in a voice that was mourn 
 ful as the sound of falling tears : " if I could but 
 comprehend this if I could only see anything but the 
 grave s impenetrable darkness, and my babes lying there 
 dead, I would feel like a new being. But I saw all 
 beauty, sweetness, and love go out of their dear faces, 
 and their soft flesh put on marble coldness. They were 
 dead dead ! I thought my breath would stop when 
 the close coffin lids shut over them : and I have felt 
 the weight of earth that covers them, lying ever since their 
 burial upon my heart. Dead dead ! The breath 
 
42 IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 
 
 went out of them, and they were gone gone for 
 ever ! " 
 
 " It was a resurrection, dear Agnes ! " replied the sis 
 ter, who had come in her love, from a distant home, to 
 speak words of consolation in a time of sorrow, " A re 
 surrection of their souls, clothed in forms of immortal 
 beauty. When they ceased to breathe in this natural 
 world, their lungs expanded with the air of a spiritual 
 world, and their hearts, bounding with love, sent the 
 currents of a heavenly vitality through all their veins. 
 Look past the grave : past the shadows and darkness : 
 past the cold dead clay. Your children are yet alive. 
 What you saw buried, was only their cast-off earthly 
 garments. They have garments now of spiritual sub 
 stance, that cannot be soiled by evil, nor marred by 
 sickness." 
 
 " If I could only be sure of this, sister," answered 
 the bereaved one. 
 
 " From whence came the tender love that filled your 
 heart, sister ? Was it born of yourself? No. God 
 gave it when he gave you those children. He sent this 
 love for them into the world for their protection. It was 
 his love, not yours ; only yours as the children were 
 yours. Can you believe this ? " 
 
 The mourner was silent. 
 
 " From whence have you life ? " 
 
IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 43 
 
 " It is God s gift." 
 
 " Yes. We have no life in ourselves ; else would we be 
 gods. If, therefore, life is God s gift, so are all good af 
 fections ; and as a consequence that tenderest of all af 
 fections, a mother s love for her children. Now if 
 mother-love is from God, will it not go with the child 
 ren he takes from earth to heaven ? And will he not 
 give them into the care of angels ? I can believe noth 
 ing else." 
 
 " It is a beautiful thought," said the sister, her sad 
 eyes growing more luminous. " Oh, if it were to me 
 an unquestioned truth ! " 
 
 " Let your mind dwell upon it. Picture to yourself 
 angelic homes, filled with the beauty, and grace, 
 and happiness of childhood. Homes, into which there 
 is the birth of a child simultaneously with the death of 
 a child on earth. Think of your babes in one of those 
 homes, lying on the breast of an angel, into whose heart 
 God has given a fulness of mother-love as far above 
 yours as are her celestial capacities." 
 
 Was that a smile winning its way over the face of 
 sorrow ? It was something so far removed from pain or 
 grief, that it looked like a smile. 
 
 " If I were only certain that it was so with them ! " 
 she said, with an almost fluttering eagerness. 
 
 " Is it not a more rational thought than yours ? More 
 
44: IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 
 
 rational than to think of so much beauty and sweetness, 
 buried up in the earth ? It was the loveliness of their 
 souls that gave such exquisite grace to their bodies ; 
 their innocence that ensphered them with love, and 
 made every motion, look, and tone so full of all win 
 ning attractions. This did not, and could not die. It 
 was not flesh, but spirit. The soul merely laid off its 
 robes of clay, to put on garments such as the angels 
 wear." 
 
 " And you fully believe this, my sister ? " 
 u As undoubtingly as I believe In my existence. Did 
 not the Lord say of little children, Their angels do al 
 ways behold the face of my father ? Take this as 
 you will, and is it not an assurance to us, that children 
 are under the especial care of angels ? Not their bo 
 dies only, but in a more intimate degree, their immortal 
 spirits, which are of infinitely more value than their 
 bodies. Can this care and love cease when the clayey 
 vesture is laid off forever ? " No ! For then, these 
 loving angels their angels can have them more 
 entirely as their own, and draw nearer to them, because 
 all earthly and perverting influences are removed from 
 their souls." 
 
 " Dear children ! " said the sister, clasping her hands 
 together, and looking upward with eyes full of light. 
 " Dear, dear children ! May it indeed be thus with you ! 
 
IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 45 
 
 May you be in your Father s house, cared for by His 
 angels." 
 
 "Doubt not for an instant," was replied to this 
 " not for a single instant ! It is well with them ; better 
 even than your imagination, made fruitful by love, 
 could portray. Does not the word Heaven include, in 
 one thought, all perfection, all beauty, all felicity? 
 Your babes are in. Heaven. What more could you de 
 sire for them ? " 
 
 * In Heaven ; in Heaven ! " The sister closed her 
 eyes, and sat very still, trying to bridge the dark gulf 
 of death, and walk over it in thought. She made the 
 passage, and saw her babes on the other side. The 
 grieving arch of her lips lost its clear outline in a smile 
 that covered it like opening flowers. 
 
 " Yes, in Heaven, Agnes, where our mother went 
 years ago." 
 
 " Dear mother ! If she should know them as mine ! 
 Do you think that possible, sister ? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Oh, if I could believe that ! " said the mourner. 
 
 " You may believe, dear sister, that God will let our 
 mother know your babes, if in that knowledge would 
 come to her any increase of happiness." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure it would make her happier," was an 
 swered, with a new-born enthusiasm. " How the 
 
46 rr is WELL WITH THEM. 
 
 thought warms my heart ! Oh, sister ! I feel that it 
 must be as you say. That my lost ones are in a heav 
 enly home." 
 
 " It is just as true, love, as that you and I are in an 
 earthly home. There are two worlds ; this natural world, 
 and the spiritual world. Here, all forms are of natural 
 substance there, all forms are of spiritual substance. 
 That world is the world of causes ; this world the world 
 of effects ; and as all effects correspond with their causes, 
 we may, with the clearest reason infer, that such things 
 as exist here in a natural manner, exist in that world in 
 a spiritual manner. If there are trees and flowers here 
 
 green fields and shining rivers habitations cities 
 
 garments and the like, made of natural substances ; 
 is it any stretch of probabilit} 1 - to conclude that all such 
 things exist in the other world, but made of spiritual 
 substances ? Can we form any idea of a world without 
 them ? I cannot. We have permitted all ideas of the 
 spiritual world to float through our minds in shapes in 
 definite, and this because in the word spirit \ve thought 
 of something unsubstantial, like a breath of wind. But, 
 really, our spirits are the only things substantial that we 
 possess. Our bodies are frail, changing, and finite. In 
 a few years they will cease to exist, and be absorbed 
 wholly into elemental nature ; but our souls are imper 
 ishable and eternal. And must not the world in which 
 
IT IS WELL WITH THEM. 4" 
 
 they are to live forever, be real and substantial ? It is 
 harder to doubt than to believe this. Agnes, my sister 
 there is a bridge of light across the river of death. 
 Pass over it, in your thought, and stand securely on the 
 other side. There are your babes ; and let an assur 
 ance that it is well with them drive all the shadows 
 from your soul, that peace may come in with sunshine." 
 
 And peace did come into the heart of the sorrowing 
 one. Not in vain had been the sister s words of conso 
 lation. They covered up, as it were, from the mourn 
 er s eyes, the graves of her children, and showed her 
 their forms, clothed in garments of such beauty as mor 
 tal eyes had never seen. They were no longer dead, 
 but alive. The marble effigies, livid with signs of dis 
 solution, and ghastly to behold, which she had lately 
 remembered as all of her babes that love could cling to, 
 faded from vision, and in heavenly homes, with love, 
 and life, and all of beauty around them, she saw the 
 darlings of her soul. 
 
 It was well with them, and she believed it. 
 
48 
 
 IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 
 
 EAREST mother," so she wrote, " how 
 my heart is aching to see you ! Three 
 years three long, long years ! What 
 an age it. seems ! In the Fall, Henry 
 said that I should visit you in the 
 Spring ; and now the maple leaves are 
 out, and golden buttercups spangle the 
 green fields, but he does not speak of 
 it. I wonder if he has forgotten ? 
 How could he forget? Last evening I had it on my 
 tongue to say that Spring was here, and did begin the 
 sentence, but he interrupted me with a_complaint about 
 something wrong in our housekeeping matters, and I 
 had no heart to touch the subject again. If things go 
 wrong, and worry him, while I am here and trying to 
 do my best, they would become intolerable . during my 
 absence. It is plain that I am not to see my dear old 
 
IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 49 
 
 home this Spring. Henry cannot spare rne. Well, 
 well ; no doubt all is for the best. But, I am a weak 
 child instead of a strong woman ; a weak child, longing 
 for my mother. 
 
 " Henry is kind I love him, dear mother ! Yes, I 
 love my husband, oh so tenderly and so truly ! I try to 
 be a good wife ; I try to enter into all his plans ; to 
 help him in everything. But, his heart is set on this 
 world more than mine. He lives only for what is ex 
 ternal, while my thought is all the while receding all 
 the while dwelling among things unseen. I am not as 
 strong as .1 was last Spring, nor so stout. I looked over 
 some of my dresses, laid by a year ago, and find that 
 they will have to be taken in before I can wear them. 
 I was surprised at this, for I haven t been sick only a 
 little drooping. My appetite was poor all winter, and 
 is no better now. I try to eat, in order to keep up my 
 strength, but have to force nearly every mouthful. 
 
 " Don t mind the stains on this page, mother ; I can t 
 keep my tears back while I write for thinking how only 
 my poor written words will go to you how, only, 
 from this sheet I can look up into your dear, dear face, 
 and not feast my living eyes upon you, nor clasp your 
 neck, nor feel your kisses on my lips. Three years 
 such long years ! Mother ! oh, mother I what ails 
 me ? " 
 
50 IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 
 
 The pen dropped from nerveless fingers, and the 
 writer s pale, gentle face, wet with tears, was laid upon the 
 blotted sheet before her. Down stairs, in the rooni just 
 beneath, sat Henry Willis, her husband, with busy brain. 
 He was a strong, earnest man, whose heart was in his 
 work. For three or four years he had been all absorb 
 ed in laying the foundation on which to build a temple 
 dedicated to fortune ; and now, the walls beginning to 
 rise, he could think of little beyond the plans and pro 
 gress of this temple. It was not designed to be very 
 imposing or spacious, for his ideal was not grand ; but 
 such as it was, it had even while yet only shadowed 
 forth, became the dwelling place of almost every 
 thought. 
 
 Henry Willis had not forgotten his promise to let his 
 wife visit her mother. All through the winter it had 
 been remembered, if not spoken of, but with diminishing 
 pleasure as the Spring approached. Now, he did not 
 see that he could possibly let her go. Such absence 
 would abridge his comfort materially ; and beside, the 
 expense troubled him. To fit her out with proper cloth 
 ing for the visit, and pay the cost of travel, would not 
 take less than one hundred dollars ; and there were so 
 many things he could do with this sum of money. 
 
 " I wonder she can think of going, when she knows 
 what it will cost." So he was talking to himself in the 
 
IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 51 
 
 room below, while she sat writing, as we have seen, 
 above. " I work too hard for my money to throw it 
 away after this fashion. I wish she took more interest 
 in things ; was as earnest to get ahead as I am. I don t 
 understand her. It s as my father said before me 
 4 Women are riddles. O, well ! I must only make the 
 best of it. Esther never crosses me in anything, and 
 if I scold, never says a hard word back. I sometimes wish 
 that she was sharper than she is, even if she was sharp 
 on me sometimes. As to going home this Spring, I don t 
 see that it is possible. There is too much to do, and I 
 can t spare the money. She s said nothing about it, and 
 I guess don t intend to. Maybe she s waiting for me to 
 speak ; or, maybe, she sees just how it is, and has con 
 cluded in her mind that it won t pay. Of course I 
 shall make no allusion to the subject, if she doesn t. I 
 don t understand this way some people have of looking 
 back, and hankering after old places and former things. 
 I look straight ahead, and build my hopes in the future. 
 The past has little in it that I love or care for while the 
 future is full of becoming pleasures. Ah, well ! We re 
 not all formed alike. It takes every kind to make a 
 world." 
 
 How little did Henry Willis comprehend the woman 
 he had taken to be his wife. Her gentleness, her 
 sweetness, her tenderness had won him ; but he was 
 
52 IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 
 
 too much in the world, and a man of the world, to com 
 prehend the wants of such a nature. His inner life re 
 flected only external things it was dark on the inter 
 nal side. 
 
 There followed a kind of interregnum in the thought 
 of Mr. Willis a brief confusion as he ceased speak 
 ing. Then he found himself listening, with pauses of 
 the breath listening upwards. He knew that his 
 wife was in the room above. How very still it was ! 
 He could not hear a sound not a footfall, or a move 
 ment of any kind. A weight of concern dropped sud 
 denly on his feelings. Rising, he went up stairs, op 
 pressed with a vague uneasiness. 
 
 " Esther ! " he called, on opening the door of his 
 wife s room, and seeing her at a small writing table, 
 with her face bowed down and hidden. She did not 
 stir nor answer. " Esther ! " There was alarm in his 
 voice now, as he crossed the floor quickly. " Esther ! " 
 he repeated, as he laid his hand on her. But there came 
 no response. He tried to raise her head, but it sunk 
 down from his imperfect hold ; not, however, before he 
 had seen her face, that was pale and death-like. Hte 
 heart gave a wild bound of fear as he caught her in his 
 arms, and carried her to the bed. 
 
 It was only a fainting fit ; yet, not until long after 
 the physician s arrival, did the weary soul take up its 
 
IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. . 53 
 
 burden of mortal life again, and then only with a feeble 
 effort. 
 
 To the husband s anxious inquiry " What does it 
 mean, doctor ? " this, at first scarcely comprehended, 
 answer was given : " There is some unsuppled want in 
 her life, Mr. Willis. I have seen it for a long time. 
 There are natnres which cannot live on bread alone, 
 and her s, I think, is one of them. If you can discover 
 and supply this want, well ; if not, she will go on 
 drooping and failing. A little while, and the grass will 
 be green above her." 
 
 The physician understood, in part, the case, and this 
 was his prescription better than lancet or drug, than 
 pill or powder. 
 
 Alone with his half unconscious wife, and the doctor s 
 at first not clearly understood warning in his mind, Mr. 
 Willis passed the night that followed sleepless. He 
 was wiser before the day dawned, for every word of 
 that unfinished letter, over which the poor wife s heart 
 and strength gave way, had been written down in his 
 brain. It was read, and then the blotted pages laid care 
 fully out of sight. But what a revelation it proved ! 
 
 " If I had known of this ! " How many times, in 
 the long, sleepless hours of that night did Henry Willis 
 thus give voice to his concern, and all the while light 
 came stealing into his mind with the gradual increase of 
 
54 IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS, 
 
 breaking day. u Natures that cannot live on bread 
 alone." Strange words when spoken by the doctor ; 
 but now full of meaning. 
 
 Back into the heart of this man, who had, for a few 
 years, lost himself amid the attraction of mere sensuous 
 things, came old ideals of life old tendernesses old 
 appreciations old loves. 
 
 " I have been too hard, and coarse, and cold, for this 
 purer nature," he said, with brimming eyes, as he bent 
 over the low breathing sleeper, and looked at her almost 
 spiritual face. " And now, if I would keep her, I must 
 be soft, and gentle, and warm. Drifting, drifting, drift 
 ing away, and I saw it not ! The angel of my home, 
 with wings half raised to depart, and I dwelling in con 
 scious safety ! " 
 
 He shuddered as he realized the danger that im 
 pended. 
 
 The day had broken, and now the morning sunbeams 
 were looking in through the half-drawn curtains that 
 shaded the windows of Mrs. Willis s bed-room. Mr. 
 Willis, worn out with the night s watching, had laid his 
 head upon a pillow, and was asleep. In the long rest 
 of exhausted nature the wife had gathered up a portion 
 of strength, and when the sunbeams awoke her, she 
 looked around in bewilderment of mind. Partly rising 
 on one arm, she saw her husband s face close beside her, 
 
IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 55 
 
 on the very pillow which had supported her own head. 
 He sat in a chair, with his clothes on, and was asleep. 
 
 " Henry ! " She called his name, putting her hand 
 on him as she spoke. Her voice and touch aroused the 
 sleeper. 
 
 " How are you, darling? " He was wide awake in a 
 moment, looking at her with tender, yet troubled eyes, 
 
 " I m very well. What has been the matter, Henry ? 
 Why are you sitting here with your clothes on ? Have 
 I been sick ? " Mrs. Willis, with whom memory was 
 becoming active, looked from her husband s face to the 
 table where she had been writing. 
 
 " You had a fainting spell, dear," was answered, and 
 as Mr. Willis said this, he pressed his wife gently back 
 upon the pillow from which she had arisen. " I never 
 dreamed you were getting so weak. But I see it all 
 now. We strong, rough men, don t comprehend every 
 thing." 
 
 A soft smile went faintly over the pale face of Mrs. 
 Willis, giving it a sad and touching beauty. Her silk 
 en lashes fell trembling down on her cheeks. Her wan 
 lips quivered. Now the doctor s admonition came in 
 full force to her husband, and all it meant was appre 
 hended. He felt that to lose her, would be to lose that 
 which made life really precious. The old true love, 
 that had in it no worklliness that was so full of sweet- 
 
56 IF I HAD KNOWN OF THIS. 
 
 ness that saw its object as an embodiment of purity 
 and grace was revived in his heart, and he wondered 
 how it could ever have failed. 
 
 " As soon as you are strong enough, Esther, to bear 
 the journey, you must make that visit to your mother. 
 If I had known " The husband checked himself, 
 for this was betraying the fact that he had read her un- 
 unfinished letter. 
 
 u I arn strong enough, Henry." Her eyes flashed 
 open, and he saw rainbows in the tears that gemmed her 
 lashes. 
 
 " You want to see your mother very much ? " 
 
 " Oh, Henry ! " The wet lids quivered and closed. 
 " Three years is a long, long time, Henry," she mur 
 mured, with her eyes still closed. 
 
 " I know it is darling. But I was so absorbed in my 
 work so lost in business and plans that I did not 
 enter as I should have done, into your feelings. But I 
 see it all now. You shall go home at once, and every 
 year, if your heart desires it. 
 
 What light, and warmth, and beauty, came into the 
 pale, wasted countenance ! 
 
 " You are very good, Henry ; and it will be selfish 
 in me to leave you, even for a short time ; but I am 
 not so strong as I was, dear. Somehow, I am giving 
 way both outwardly and inwardly. For the whole of 
 
IF I HAD KNOWN OF TIIIS. 57 
 
 last year, I have pined to see my old home to lay my 
 head against my mother, and to feel her arms around 
 me. I could not help it, dear, though I tried hard. 
 You are good and kind ; I love you with my whole 
 heart ; and I ought not to feel as I have felt." 
 
 The eyes of Mrs. Willis were full of love as she 
 looked up into her husband s face. 
 
 " If I had only known of this ! And I might have 
 known," was the self-condemning answer. 
 
 In less than a week Mrs. Willis was in her mother s 
 arms. Her husband stood by, comprehending in a 
 slight degree, through recently obtained perceptions, 
 something of her ineffable joy. She was passing away 
 from him, but he had drawn her back. 
 
 Thenceforth, food, other than natural bread, was 
 given for the sustenance of a life whose wants reached 
 far above the things that perish in the using. 
 
58 
 
 HE CAME IN MERCY. 
 
 VII. 
 
 HE CAME IN MERCY 
 
 LM Grove," nestling against the side of 
 a long range of picturesque hills, that 
 smiled down upon the fruitfulest of val 
 leys, was a thing of beauty in the land 
 scape. Its owner, Martin Lyle, a mer 
 chant in one of our Atlantic cities, had 
 spent a third of his fortune in the pur 
 chase and improvement of Elm Grove, 
 and he had made it an earthly Paradise. 
 Taste, pride, and love of nature had, in turn, stimulated 
 his thoughts and moved his hand in the work of adorn 
 ment, until beauty covered all things like a garment. 
 Business became a secondary interest in his mind ; love 
 of gain burned feebly ; trade was irksome ; the city an 
 offence. And so Martin Lyle withdrew from active 
 business life, and retired with his family to Elm Grove. 
 But from the day of this change in the order of his 
 
HE CAME IN MERCY. 59 
 
 x 
 
 life, a dimly obscuring veil seemed to fall on every thing 
 around him. Elm Grove lost beauty in his eyes. Mr. 
 Lyle moved through his gardens and groves, his lawns 
 and summer-houses, and tried to force enjoyment ; but 
 in this very effort interest failed. He was resting for 
 happiness in the excellence of outward, instead of in 
 ward life ; and having touched the outward at nearly all 
 desirable points, weariness was beginning to weigh upon 
 his spirit. 
 
 Mr. Lyle was one of that large class of persons who 
 live only for themselves and families. Outside of his 
 own little world, he had few interests. He was a useful 
 man so long as he engaged actively in business ; for 
 then, in the ardor of self-service, he became the servant 
 of good to others through the common benefits that flow 
 from trade. But when he retired from business, with 
 the end of simply enjoying himself, he became a arone 
 in society. An idler, for the most part, suffering the 
 idler s penalty of weariness and unrest. 
 
 As Mr. Lyle regarded life, so it was regarded by his 
 family. They did not consider themselves as members 
 of the common body in the degree involving mutual 
 service. To receive and to enjoy included their whole 
 philosophy. The use of such talents and skill as they 
 possessed in the work of good to others, was a thought 
 which had never come into their minds. Wealth had 
 
60 . HE CAME IN MERCY. 
 
 given them superiority and immunity ; so believing and 
 so acting, the possession of wealth was hurtful hurt 
 ful to their souls, and therefore destructive of happi 
 ness. 
 
 Daily, through all the luxuriant summer, from hun 
 dreds of lips fell the words, " How beautiful ! " And 
 in hundreds of hearts a pulse of envy beat, as eyes 
 dwelt in admiration on Elm Grove and its magnificent 
 surroundings. But with each rising and falling day of 
 that fruitful summer, hearts grew more and more shad 
 owed in Elm Grove. It had not fulfilled the enticing 
 promise that lured its owner away from the city and its 
 bustling marts. 
 
 But separated as Mr. Lyle was from business, no 
 thought of going back found place for a moment. 
 Relieved from that perpetual tension of mind which 
 always accompanies trade, he experienced a kind of 
 negative enjoyment in his comparative idleness, not to 
 be willingly exchanged for the old state. 
 
 Before removing permanently to his elegant country 
 home, Mr. Lyle had, during several years of carefully 
 planned culture, made everything so perfect that little 
 remained to be accomplished. Fruition was now to 
 come. But it was inadequate strangely in defect of 
 anticipation. He had little to do, for all was done ; 
 and it is in doing that we find real pleasure, not in the 
 contemplation of what is done. 
 
HE CAME IN MERCY. 61 
 
 One day, after the fields had given their harvests to 
 the reapers ; after the trees had bestowed their fruit, 
 and the vines their clusters, in the late, still autumn 
 time, when the heart grows pensive or sad, as we look 
 on decaying nature, Mr. Lyle sat dreamily gazing forth 
 upon the landscape. He was alone, and had been alone 
 for some time. There was a deeper shadow than usual 
 on his feelings J we say deeper, meaning to convey the 
 impression that he rested now under a shadow all the 
 while. A step approached, but he did not seem to ob 
 serve the presence of any one. A hand was laid upon 
 his shoulder. He turned, slightly starting, and said : 
 
 " Oh, it s you, Harriet ? " 
 
 " You are sober, dear. What are you thinking 
 about ? " Mrs. Lyle sat down by her husband, and 
 looked at him earnestly. 
 
 " I feel sober," was the reply. 
 
 " What is there to shadow your feelings ? " 
 
 Mr. Lyle shook his head, and murmured, in a half 
 absent way : " Nothing." 
 
 " What have you been thinking about ? " Mrs. Lyle 
 repeating her first question. 
 
 " About many things that I do not see clearly," he 
 answered. " I m afraid, Harriet, that I have not under 
 stood life. What more have I desired than this ? " 
 and he swept his hand and eyes around the meadows 
 
62 HE CAME IN MERCY. 
 
 and woodlands that lay within the compass of Elm 
 Grove. " And yet, since I have tried to enjoy it fully, 
 I seem not to have enjoyed it at all." 
 
 There was in the tone and expression of her husband 
 something that made a low fear creep through the heart 
 of Mrs. Lyle. She knew that he had not been happy 
 since his withdrawal from business, and idle life at Elm 
 Grove ; but no utterance like this ha d before given 
 voice to a disquiet spirit. What answer could she make ? 
 None came to her lips, and so she sat in silence, gazing 
 upon his shadowed face, and into his strangely altered 
 eyes. 
 
 " I put my heart in this." And again he swept his 
 hand towards the scenery that surrounded them. " I 
 planned for years our paradise, into which no evil thing 
 was to intrude. I was to sit down among its beauties, 
 no man being my peer in happiness. But there was an 
 error somewhere in my calculation. It has not come 
 out as I expected. Ah, me ! I do not understand my 
 self ! " And laying his head down in his hands, he 
 clasped his temples and sighed heavily. 
 
 Ah, how many there are who, like our retired mer 
 chant, find life a mystery how many who, like him, 
 in summing up the result towards which they have 
 been looking with hopeful anticipations, find that there 
 has been an error in the calculation ! 
 
HE CAME IN MERCY. 63 
 
 Mrs. Lyle sat down beside her husband, strangely 
 questioning in her mind as to the state into which he 
 had fallen, and unable to meet it by a single rightly 
 spoken word. She drew her hands within one of his 
 arms, and leaned her face against him. A great sha 
 dow fell upon her ; a low shudder of fear, as though an 
 invisible danger were approaching, crept through her 
 heart. 
 
 " What more could I have asked ? " Mr. Lyle gave 
 voice to his thoughts again. " I have made of Elm 
 Grove all that I designed all that fancy pictured. 
 It is perfect ; and yet, day by day enjoyment wanes." 
 
 But his wife had no medicine for his sick soul. Like 
 him, she had lived only in the outer world ; had built 
 only on the foundations of natural life. 
 
 From that period Mr. Lyle fell into a listless, dreamy 
 state. For hours every day he would sit alone ; and if 
 intruded upon, show signs of impatience. All interest 
 in Elm Grove departed ; yet he resisted every effort of 
 his wife and daughters to gain his consent to a removal. 
 The winter that followed was one of new and painful 
 experiences to the family. Trouble came in too appal 
 ling shapes. In withdrawing from business, Mr. Lyle 
 had left four-fifths of his capital in the firm, besides re 
 taining an interest. Through bad debts and failing 
 speculations, it happened that the entire capital was lost. 
 
64 HE CAME IN MERCY. 
 
 The balance sheet and account of stock taken in Janu 
 ary, revealed a startling fact. The house was bankrupt ! 
 The announcement of this disaster, coming as it did up 
 on a morbid and depressed condition of mind, swept 
 away the already wavering reason, and Mr. Lyle float 
 ed helplessly down the stream of life. 
 
 It is difficult to imagine a deeper despair than that 
 into which Mrs. Lyle and her two daughters were 
 suddenly plunged. They had not been -educated, in 
 any thing, for a trial like this. In the darkness that 
 surrounded them, no path was visible ; no light appeared. 
 For a little while they sat down with folded hands, help 
 less and hopeless. 
 
 But love is a vital thing ; and love soon stirred the 
 thought of Mrs. Lyle. One suggestion after another 
 came ; and, as her soul sat listening in the silence and 
 darkness in which it dwelt, she heard voices never 
 heard before, and a speech full of new and inspiring ut 
 terances. She had likewise, faint glimpses of an inner 
 world, and of ends and deeds in life based on higher 
 principles. Love made living a sense of duty. In her 
 hour of extremest weakness, strength was born born 
 of God s spirit as it moved over the face of the great 
 deep in her soul. 
 
 The form of Mr. Lyle s insanity was an impassive, 
 almost lifeless condition of mind. There were no lurid 
 
HE GAME IN MERCY. 65 
 
 gleams of blind passion, or exhibition of a strong will 
 in a wrong direction. He was harmless, and yielding 
 almost implictly to his wife. He was not, therefore, re 
 moved to an asylum. 
 
 The wreck of misfortune was complete. Elm Grove 
 passed into other hands, and the family came back to 
 the city ; but how different their position from that oc 
 cupied a little while before. Then only the question 
 of how to enjoy life occupied their thoughts ; now it 
 was the question of sustaining life. 
 
 Where an earnest purpose to do exists, ways and 
 means usually appear, though not always in the direc 
 tion anticipated. Not only did light come to the mother 
 in darkness, but to her two daughters, Grace and Har 
 riet, also. They had minds and hands ; and as by these 
 others did useful service in the world, through which 
 sustenance of life came, might not they do useful service 
 also ? The question was not long in gaining an affirma 
 tive answer. Their father s helplessness, and their 
 mother s years, were an ever present motive. Love 
 moved them to action, and ere a twelvemonth passed 
 from the time they went forth shuddering into the 
 world from their Eden at Elm Grove, they were bring 
 ing in full sheaves from their fields of labor, and laying 
 them, in tears of hope and thankfulness, on the thresh 
 ing floojr of home. 
 
66 HE CAME IN MERCY. 
 
 A new sphere of life was gradually developed from a 
 new order of life in the stricken, but closer bound fam 
 ily. The light which had shone in upon them, when all 
 was dark, and the voices with new utterances which 
 had come to them in the silence of their despair, contin 
 ued to shine with increasing brightness, and to speak in a 
 more emphatic language. They saw into a new world 
 of thought and motive, and understood life from higher 
 principles. Existence had gained a new signification. 
 
 How tenderly, how devotedly, how yearningly did 
 they minister to that beloved one, who had been strick 
 en in the prime of manhood. All they had lost of 
 worldly good and worldly possession, was as nothing to 
 their loss of his clear reason and loving consciousness ; 
 and with the care and tenderness of a mother seeking 
 to touch the springs of thought in her infant, did they 
 seek to awaken in his mind the orderly activities of a 
 conscious soul. And their loving care did not lie fruit 
 less. Oh, with what thrills of genuine pleasure did 
 they hail the first signs of returning reason ! How toil 
 grew light, and self-denial easy, as they saw scale 
 after scale drop away from his eyes, and his vision grow 
 clearer and clearer. 
 
 There was a new element in the life of this family upon 
 which rested their higher development. Misfortune is a 
 
HE CAME IN MERCY. 67 
 
 wise teacher ; but unless God is acknowledged in mis 
 fortune, and the soul accepts the wisdom that comes 
 from God, the teaching but little avails. It availed 
 here, because the new element of religious trust found 
 an abiding place with Mrs. Lyle, and passed by spiritual 
 transfusion to the hearts of her daughters. There had 
 been loss and gain ; but, in adjusting the account, how 
 largely proved the gain. 
 
 One day, it was nearly two years from the time when 
 darkness fell upon them so suddenly, Mrs. Lyle entered 
 a room where Grace, her oldest daughter, sat alone. 
 She held a note in her hand, and also a newspaper. 
 Grace looked up with a quiet smile on her womanly 
 face. 
 
 " This is from Henry Lardner," said Mrs. Lyle, hold 
 ing out the note. 
 
 Instantly a warm flush mantled the daughter s brow. 
 
 " He is worthy, my child, and I cannot answer nay." 
 Mrs* Lyle bent down and kissed her, and then received 
 the hidden face on her bosom. 
 
 " A sad thing has happened," said Mrs. Lyle, a little 
 while afterward. " A very sad thing." 
 
 " What ? " A shadow fell over the glowing counte 
 nance of Grace. 
 
 Mrs. Lyle opened the newspaper in her hand and 
 read : 
 
68 HJS CAME IN MRCY. 
 
 " Theodore Flemming was arrested at his home last 
 evening, charged with participation in a system of gigan 
 tic frauds against the customs revenue. The proofs of 
 his complicity are ample. He has only been married a 
 few months to the daughter of a prominent citizen. The 
 circumstance has deeply shocked our community. " 
 
 Mrs. Lyle looked up as she finished reading. The 
 countenance of Grace was deadly pale. 
 
 44 My daughter! " she said, dropping the paper and 
 drawing an arm around Grace ; 44 Theodore Flemming 
 is nothing to you ! " 
 
 44 Nothing, mother," was calmly answered. 44 Noth 
 ing now. When misfortune fell upon my life, he turned 
 away coldly, and made his promise false. Oh, thank 
 God for misfortune ! " 
 
 44 Yes, thank God, my child ! His ways are in the 
 dark ; they are past finding out ; but His steps are sure. 
 He comes to us ever in mercy, leading us by ways that 
 we know not." 
 
 The door opened, and the placid face of a man looked 
 in. It was the face of Mr. Lyle, in which the light of 
 reason shone not with the strong light as of old, but 
 steady and full of promise. 
 
 44 Have you heard the news about Flemming ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 44 1 was just reading it to Grace," replied Mrs. Lyle. 
 
HE CAME IN MERCY. 69 
 
 For a few moments he looked curiously and half in 
 doubt at Grace. Then crossing the room, and laying 
 his hand upon her head, uttered these words : 
 
 " We shall see it all clear enough by and by, darling. 
 God is good, and will make it plain. It seems to be 
 coming out right, as mother said it would come," glanc 
 ing with a look of loving confidence towards his -wife. 
 " I thought it would have killed me, when the blow 
 came. Ah well, dear ! Never mind. There s some 
 thing good in store for us." 
 
 And there was, in a truer, higher, and more heavenly 
 life, into which, by daily duties, they entered more and 
 more. They had gone down, as into the valley and 
 shadow of death ; and now, rising on the other side, 
 were already ascending the mountains, in whose far- 
 reaching summits angels have their dwelling places. 
 Yes, God in his providence had come to them in mer 
 cy ; and while removing the foundations on which their 
 house was builded, and letting the fair structure fall 
 into hopeless ruin, was spreading beneath them His 
 everlasting arms. He cast down that he might raise 
 them up again ; He wounded to heal ; shadowed their 
 natural lives, that he might open to them the windows 
 of Heaven, and flood their souls with the marvelous 
 radiance of the upper world. 
 
 Wealth never came back to them, nor did the mind 
 
70 HE CAME IN MERCY. 
 
 of Mr. Lyle gather up its full strength again. But 
 sweet peace dwelt with them, as in patience and loving 
 self-devotion they builded new dwelling-places for the 
 soul, against which earthly storms might beat in vain, 
 for they w.ere founded on a rock. 
 
ONE DAY AT A TIME. 
 
 71 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ONE DAY AT A TIME. 
 
 NE neighbor dropped in upon another. 
 * " Are you sick, Mrs. Carson ? " ask 
 ed the visitor, on meeting a pale, 
 troubled face. 
 
 " Sick at heart, Mary," was an 
 swered, gloomily. Not even the ghost 
 of a smile became visible. 
 
 " Is that all ? " The visitor s coun 
 tenance brightened. 
 
 Mrs. Carson looked half surprised and half offended. 
 " I don t know any worse sickness," -she said, rather 
 fretfully. 
 
 " That depends on the origin and nature of the dis 
 ease," replied the friend. " There is a heart-sickness, 
 which is unto death ; but I take it that yours is of a 
 milder type, having its origin among life s petty annoy- 
 
72 ONE DAY AT A TIME. 
 
 ances, or it may be in its more sober disappointments ; 
 in tilings common to us all, yet borne in so many differ 
 ent ways." 
 
 Mrs. Carson sighed heavily. There was a leaden 
 weight on her bosom. Reason assented to her visitor s 
 suggestions, but oppressed feeling held her in painful 
 bondage. 
 
 " What troubles you to-day ? Why are you so much 
 cast down ? " asked the visitor. " But this may be an 
 intrusion." 
 
 Mrs. Carson did not answer immediately. Her 
 dreary eyes rested on the floor ; her hands lay idly in 
 her lap ; she was the picture of despondency. At 
 length, she said : 
 
 44 Owing to changes in business, my husband must 
 give up his situation. A dissolution in the firm throws 
 him out. To-morrow he leaves his place, with no pros 
 pect of another. What are we to do ? We ve saved 
 nothing. How could we, on so light an income." 
 
 44 I m sorry to hear that," answered the lady. " Very 
 sorry." 
 
 " Could anything be more gloomy or discouraging ? 
 Can you wonder that I am in trouble ? " 
 
 44 1 do not w r onder that you are concerned about the 
 future, Mrs. Carson. That is a natural result. But I 
 cannot see, in the event, any reason why you should 
 
ONE DAY AT A TIME. 74 
 
 sit down with folded hands, and make yourself miser 
 able. Mr. Carson is, of course, troubled." 
 
 " You may well say that. He took scarcely a mouth 
 ful of breakfast this morning." 
 
 " On him rests the heaviest part of this burden. He 
 must provide and maintain a home for his wife and chil 
 dren. I sympathize with him from my heart." 
 
 " It s seeing him so cast down that makes me so 
 wretched," said Mrs. Carson. " If he were cheerful 
 and hopeful, I could take heart." 
 
 " Perhaps, in thought, he is saying the same thing of 
 you." 
 
 A flash of surprise came into Mrs. Carson s face. 
 The suggestion of her friend went home. 
 
 " When did he tell you of this ? " 
 
 " Last night. I saw that something was troubling 
 him, and urged him to say what it was. Then he told 
 me." 
 
 " How did you receive the announcement ? " 
 
 Mrs. Carson was silent. 
 
 " Bravely, as a wife should, when she sees trouble 
 approaching her husband, or in weakness and tears ? " 
 
 " In weakness and tears. I make you this confes 
 sion." 
 
 " Did that help him any ? Did that make his trouble 
 lighter?" 
 
 4 
 
74 ONE DAY AT A TIME. 
 
 " No, no, my friend. While telling me of the change, 
 he mingled hopeful words in his sentences. But after 
 wards he sat silent and gloomy through all the eve 
 ning." 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " Cried myself almost sick." 
 
 " And sat opposite to him, at breakfast time this 
 morning, with a rueful visage. No wonder he had no 
 appetite." 
 
 " No wonder," said Mrs. Carson, repeating the words 
 to herself. " That was not well, at least." 
 
 " And should not be repeated." 
 
 " It shall not be repeated, Mary. Poor man ! He 
 has enough to bear, without the dead weight of my des 
 pondency." 
 
 " I m glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Carson. Now 
 you are coming towards the right way of thinking. 
 We have only to-day, and in every to-day we shall find 
 the elements of peace, if we will search for them ; and 
 the elements of disquietude as well. To accept the one, 
 and reject the other, is to be wise. Last evening you 
 cast aside your husband s hopeful words, and drew 
 around both his heart and yours a pall of despondency. 
 This morning your state was unchanged, and you let 
 him go forth for the day doubly weighted. My friend, 
 this was not well. Now, I pray you, limit thought and 
 
ONE DAY AT A TIME. 75 
 
 duty, as far as in you lies, to this one day which, in 
 God s providence, is yours. You have a pleasant home, 
 children, a husband. There is not a single external ele 
 ment, in all appertaining to your to-day, that is not fa 
 vorable to peace of mind. When to-morrow becomes 
 to-day, will the change be marked ? I think not. You 
 will still, I trust, have your home, food, raiment, your 
 children and your husband, and God s promise to those 
 who do their duty in singleness of heart. What if your 
 husband s hands are idle for a short time ? What if the 
 way, looking weeks or months in advance, does not seem 
 clear ? Your to-day is all bright, if you will but have 
 it so. The sun shines, the heart beats, God s provi 
 dence is not hindered. You may be in peace, if you 
 will do your best to secure peace." 
 
 The friend departed, leaving Mrs. Carson in a better 
 frame of mind, and with her thoughts flowing in the 
 right direction. " One day at a time. One day at a 
 time," she said to herself, as her hands took hold upon 
 the duties of the hour. " Ah ! if we could so live, how 
 tranquil all might be. Even in this feeble effort, my 
 heart has a calmer beat. I did not believe in the possi 
 bility of a change such as I feel. One day at a time ! " 
 
 She lingered on the suggestion, drawing out more and 
 more distinctly many of the things it involved, and see 
 ing more and more clearly, how it lay at the basis of all 
 right living and true enjoyment. 
 
76 ONE DAY AT A TIME. 
 
 Relieved, in a great measure, from its burden of de 
 spondency, the mind of Mrs. Carson lifted itself into a 
 region of clearer light, and became busy with ways and 
 means adapted to the change which had taken place in 
 their circumstances. Instead of remaining with folded 
 hands, in terror of approaching ills, or dwelling in vague 
 apprehensions, she let hope gain entrance ; and hope 
 had good words to say. 
 
 Slowly, in the dimly closing twilight, a man walked, 
 with eyes upon the pavement walks with bowed head 
 and stooping shoulders ; he was bending under a heavy 
 weight. One week ago, the same man walked in the 
 twilight, with head erect, and quickly falling footsteps, 
 almost impatient to reach his home. Then, he looked 
 for a smiling welcome and loving words ; now, as thought 
 reached forward, he saw only clouds and tears. His 
 heart was cheerful then, but heavy now. Suddenly, 
 his path had been crossed by a mountain range that 
 looked impassable. For himself, he might gird his loins, 
 and bravely move to the ascent ; but, she who must 
 walk by his side through smiling landscapes, or amid 
 toilsome acclivities, had sunk down, overcome by weak 
 terrors ; and with this added, how was he to ad 
 vance ? Brave enough to face the mountain, with its 
 sky-reaching cliffs and snowy summits, if his way must 
 be over its barrier, and strong enough to support his 
 
ONE DAY AT A TIME. 77 
 
 companion, if she put forth what strength was given, he 
 was not able to carry her as a dead weight. And this 
 it was that bowed his head and saddened his spirit, as he 
 lingered, with slow steps, in the falling shadows, and 
 dreaded the arrival at home. 
 
 Mr. Carson s hand rested for some moments on the 
 door, before he found heart to push it open. Night had 
 fallen without ; but a darker night seemed waiting for 
 him within a night, the blackness of which no lamp 
 rays could penetrate. Usually, he shut the door after 
 him with a quick, strong hand, that announced his en 
 trance in echoes from the farthest chambers, and made 
 the stairs musical with the patter of little feet ; now it 
 was closed so noislessly, that only the alert ears of Mrs. 
 Carson noted his coming. 
 
 " There s your father," she said to three little ones 
 who had gathered about the centre table, under a gas 
 lamp, one with her doll, and two with picture books, 
 and then there was a scampering down stairs, and a 
 jangling of young voices, sweet, if discordant. The 
 mother heard only the sound of kisses in response. The 
 father s voice, lately so full of glad welcomes, as he 
 opened his arms for his babies, was silent now. What 
 a change ! And yet so far as every external element 
 of happiness was concerned, no new condition existed. 
 There was no evil in the present. Food and raiment, 
 
78 ONE DAY AT A TIME. 
 
 light and warmth, health all that they could appropri 
 ate was in equal abundance now as before. It was the 
 shadow of some imagined evil in the future, which 
 might never come, that shut the sunlight from their 
 hearts which might never come, or, coming, change 
 to good in the day of its advent. 
 
 Mr. Carson entered the room where his wife sat, bear 
 ing one child in his arms, while two clung to him, in 
 laughing efforts to impede his progress. The old wel 
 coming smile was on her face, not so bright nor so hap 
 py, but fuller of tenderness. How like a flash its re 
 flected rays drank up the shadows from his eyes and 
 brow. He could not help stooping over and kissing her 
 with unwonted fervor. She felt it, in a sweet thrill, 
 down to her heart. They were drawing closer together. 
 
 " You have changed since morning," said Mr. Car 
 son, soon after, as the children resumed their toys and 
 picture books, laying his hand on his wife s head as he 
 spoke, and looking into her calm eyes almost wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Havel?" 
 
 " Yes. What has brought this change ? " 
 
 " Right thinking, perhaps." 
 
 " What have been your thoughts ? 
 
 " To-day is ours, and only to-day. 
 
 " Only to-day," said Mr. Carson echoing the words 
 of his wife. 
 
ONE DAY AT A TIME. 79 
 
 " Is it wise to throw aside the good things of to-day, 
 because in doubt as to the future ? To shut our win 
 dows, and refuse to let to-day s sunshine enter our 
 dwellings, because there are signs of a storm to-mor 
 row ? " 
 
 " No, it is not wise," answered the husband. 
 
 " So I have thought, and so thinking, I have been 
 striving to keep myself in the present, and amid the du 
 ties and blessings that crowd the passing hours. All is 
 well with us to-day all has been well with us so far 
 in life ; and if changes and trials are to come, will not 
 strength as we need be given ? " 
 
 " Surely it will, dear wife ! " said Mr. Carson. " I 
 cannot express the feeling of relief your language gives. 
 Yes, yes. Let us take, in all our to-days, the good 
 things God has provided. Hitherto they have been in 
 full measure. If diminished from this time, as to what 
 is external and material, may we not have an increase 
 of our internal pleasures ? I do not think we have been 
 a great deal happier since a better income enabled us to 
 rent this larger house, and to possess costlier furniture." 
 
 " Just the conclusion of my own mind," answered the 
 wife. ;t I know we were as happy sometimes I have 
 thought, happier in that cosy little house where the 
 first six years of our wedded lives were spent. And 
 now that you have alluded to this humble condition, I 
 
80 ONE DAY AT A TIME. 
 
 will say what further has been in my thoughts. Let us 
 go back to the same condition, and thus reduce our ex 
 penses to the old rate. In a smaller house, I can get 
 along well enough with a single servant, and not have 
 to work any harder than I do now. This will be acting 
 right in the present doing to-day what seemeth best 
 and I think we shall find the way before us growing 
 smooth to our feet, though it look so rough and so thorny 
 in prospective." 
 
 " Comforter ! consoler ! strengthener ! " said Mr. 
 Carson, giving way to a gush of feeling. His voice was 
 half-choked and his eyes glistened. " One hour ago, I 
 was wretched. Now I am hopeful, resigned, peaceful. 
 The high mountain across my path, that seemed impass 
 able, has sunk to a little hill. When our feet begin the 
 ascent, we shall not find the way so very difficult ; and 
 strength will come in the hour of need." 
 
 And it came as he had prophesied. The lesson and 
 the experience of that day and evening to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Carson were so full of instruction, that they could not 
 be forgotten. In present right thinking and acting in 
 taking each day as it came, and accepting the good it had 
 to offer they found tranquility of mind ; but, in all 
 variations from this rule of life in all weak yielding?? 
 to doubt and fear in all helpless breedings over com 
 ing ill they were led into darkness, self-torments, 
 
ONE DAY AT A TIME. 1 
 
 wretchedness. One day at a time taking and using 
 the good it had to offer, and bearing patiently its ills 
 this was the better life they sought to live ; and though, 
 for some years afterwards, their way in the world was 
 through obscure places, where the humbler move, they 
 found as sweet flowers to give the air perfume, and as 
 soft and green a turf for their feet, as had ever delight 
 ed them in more prosperous seasons. 
 
82 
 
 THE ANGEL-SISTER. 
 
 7W 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE ANGEL-SISTER. 
 
 LMOST a woman ! " says Mrs. Way- 
 land glancing after her daughter, who 
 
 WaS ^ eavm S tne room - And then she 
 sighed ; and her eyes looked dreamily 
 inward ; and she sat very still, like 
 one asleep. 
 
 Almost a woman ! Yes ; Lucy s 
 slender form had sprung up rapidly in 
 the past year, and her limbs and bust 
 had rounded into beautiful symmetry. 
 
 What was in the mother s thoughts that she sighed ? 
 Did she fear for the woman s life of her darling ? Had 
 her own experiences been so sad that she could not look 
 with sunny hope into the future of her child ? Not 
 that. The sigh had another meaning. Always she 
 saw, moving beside Lucy, another form, growing as she 
 grew, and reaching with her toward the sweet ripeness 
 
THE ANGEL -SISTER. 83 
 
 
 
 of womanhood ; and the sigh was for that form, be 
 cause to all but herself it was invisible. Just five 
 years before that form of a twin-sister vanished from 
 her home and was seen not there again. 
 
 " If Mary had not died ! " Ah, did she ever look 
 at Lucy that these words came not to shadow her feel 
 ings ? " If Mary had not died," followed like a spectre, 
 the sentence : " Almost a woman ! " 
 
 " What a loss to poor Lucy ! " So ran her thoughts 
 as she sat very still, like one asleep under the pressure 
 of feeling. " Mary would have been every thing to 
 her. Sister, companion, friend, counsellor, comforter. 
 Now she must go forth in life alone. No sister to stand 
 by her side and make her strength double in trial ; for 
 that she will have in full measure. It comes to all." 
 
 " How differently she would have developed," went 
 on the mother, in her thoughts, " If Mary had not died ! 
 There was just enough of dissimilarity in their charac 
 ters to give life, action x and harmony to both. Mary 
 was quieter and graver ; she would have matured fast 
 er ; all the better for Lucy. Ah, it was a loss that 
 must ever be felt as irreparable. Why do such things 
 happen ? It is of Providence, they say, and for the 
 best. I can not see it." And Mrs. Wayland sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 " Dear, angel Mary ! " she went on. " How the 
 
84 THE ANGEL-SIoTER. 
 
 light faded when your life went out ! How the music 
 ceased when your voice grew silent ! I can never see it 
 to be right ; never, never. Poor Lucy ! I wonder 
 sometimes that she can be so gay of heart. If she com 
 prehended her loss as I comprehend it, she would hard 
 ly smile again. The time will come when her heart 
 will cry out in its loneliness, pain, or sorrow, Oh my 
 sister ! Why were you taken from me ? 
 
 As she thus mused and murmured, the Angel of 
 Sleep laid her soft touch on the mother s heavy eyelids, 
 and her spirit went away into the land of dreams. It 
 was with her now as of old. Side by side walked her 
 twin children through the sunny chambers of her home, 
 and their blending voices made music for her heart all 
 the day long. Swiftly the years went by. Up from 
 blossomy girlhood they passed to ripe young woman 
 hood ; and then came young wooers to win them away 
 from her, and bear them off to other homes. Mary 
 went first, and to a far distance. A thousand miles 
 were stretched between them. Then Lucy laid her 
 hand, lovingly and trustingly, into the hand of one who 
 promised to make all her life rich with blessing. She 
 did not, like Mary, go afar off, but kept near her old 
 home. 
 
 The years came and went, bringing their burdens of 
 care and their lessons of disappointment. Lucy had a 
 
THE ANGEL-SISTER. 85 
 
 large share of these, and under the burdens she bent 
 wearily and often in pain. 
 
 " If Mary were only here ! If I could listen to her 
 voice ! If I could lean my head upon her as of old ! " 
 
 How often she said this sadly and tearfully. But 
 Mary was far away sighing over her own depressing 
 cares, or fainting amidst her trials. Nor, if distance 
 had been removed, would the presence of Mary have 
 given either strength or comfort, for she stood in need 
 of both for herself. They might have wept together, 
 and there would have been a sad pleasure in this ; but 
 in suffering both had grown selfish, and asked, but had 
 nothing to give. 
 
 Then a deeper trouble came to Lucy. Death stole 
 silently into her home at evening after the sun went 
 down, and when the morning broke one whose life-pulses 
 had taken their beat from her own was not. Bowing 
 down her head, she refused to be comforted. 
 
 " Oh, if Mary were only here ! " said the mother, as 
 she went, almost in despair, from the chamber where 
 Lucy sat in marble-like stillness. " If Mary were only 
 here ! Her voice would find its way to her heart ; her 
 words would come to her in consolation." 
 
 A letter was placed in her hands. It was from Mary. 
 She opened it and read : 
 
 " Dear Mother, Baby is dead, and my heart is broken ! Will you 
 not come to me ? " 
 
86 THE ANGEL SISTER. 
 
 44 Only a dream ! " said a soft, low voice, musically. 
 
 The mother looked up and saw before her a woman, 
 whose calm face and loving eyes made her think of the 
 eyes and face of an angel. A deep peace fell upon her 
 spirit. 
 
 " Only a dream of what might have been, if Mary 
 were not in heaven ! " 
 
 A thrill of pleasure ran through the heart of Mrs. 
 Way land, and she lifted her soul in thankfulness. 
 " Baby is dead, and my heart is broken ! " No, no. 
 That piercing cry would never come from her lips. 
 
 And now the old life goes on, but with a change that, 
 while it is wonderful, excites no feeling of wonder in 
 the mind of Mrs. Wayland. In thought she had al 
 ways seen the dead twin-sister moving beside the living 
 twin-sister, like a shadowy phantom. Now she was 
 near her like a living presence, full of life and tender 
 love, yet visible to no mortal eyes but the mother s. 
 Sleeping or waking, she was always near to Lucy, but 
 nearest in sleep, and most watchful. Her influence 
 over her was almost inperceptible, but certain as the in 
 fluence of dew and sunshine upon the earth. Mrs. 
 Wayland noted it from day to day in pious thankful 
 ness. 
 
 " God has not separated them," she said, " but made 
 of one a guardian angel to the other. How passion and 
 
THE ANGEL-SISTER. 87 
 
 selfishness, after darkening the fair horizon of her mind 
 for a little season, pass away like threatening clouds 
 under the influence of right thoughts and gentle affec 
 tions, which glide into her mind and heart from the soul 
 of her angel-sister ! Dear Mary ! Oh if I could take 
 you into my arms ! If I could hold you to my bosom, 
 what infinite joy would be mine ! When Lucy weeps, 
 what loving sympathy softens all your heavenly counte 
 nance, and how closely you draw near her ! When she 
 is tempted, your lips approach her ears with words of 
 strength and assurance. I see daily the wonder-working 
 power of your presence over her. Not dead and ab 
 sent ! Oh no. But living and present ; present in 
 greater power, and for higher good, than is possible in 
 any mortal nearness." 
 
 V 
 
 And so life went on from day to day, and from year 
 to year, the angel-sister always intimately present, and 
 visible only to the mother s eyes. Then Lucy went 
 out from her home a bride, and in the years that fol 
 lowed came trials and sorrows such as had never sha 
 dowed her heart even dimly in imagination ; such trials 
 and sorrows as come to all in some degree. Yet never, in 
 all these years, was Mary afar off, but always intimate 
 ly near ; with aid in trial, strength in weakness, and 
 comfort when the heart was bowed down, and the eyes 
 wet with tears. It was wonderful to see how, like the 
 
88 THE ANGEL-SISTER. 
 
 influence of some magic spell, the presence of Mary, 
 unseen and unknown, would change the thoughts and 
 feelings of Lucy, and bring her mind from darkness in 
 to light. Often at these times Lucy would lift her eyes 
 upward, and murmur some words from the Book of 
 books, the memory of which her angel-sister had un 
 covered. 
 
 Once, overcome with weariness, Lucy had fallen 
 asleep with her baby in her arms. Mary was always 
 most watchful over her, as we have said, in sleep. So 
 now she drew closer, and her eyes did not wander a 
 moment from the faces of the babe and its mother. 
 Soon there came a shade of concern in the calm face of 
 the angel-watcher, as if danger were approaching ; but 
 she did not look up nor around. Now, with a feeling 
 of terror, Mrs. Wayland saw a hideous serpent come 
 stealing in through the open door. She could not move 
 nor cry out, but sat powerless, as in a frightful night 
 mare. Gradually it approached the unconscious sleep 
 ers, its head erect and its venomous eyes glaring in fiery 
 eagerness. Then the guardian s lips bent down to 
 the ears of Lucy and awakened her with a dream. She 
 sprang up with a cry, clasping, as she did so, her baby 
 to her bosom. The danger was past. She did not 
 even know that there had been danger, for the serpent, 
 the instant she moved, glanced from the room like light 
 ning. 
 
THE ANGEL-SISTER. 89 
 
 At another time Lucy was riding with her husband 
 along a road that lay upon the brink of a precipice. 
 The slightest fbrgetfulness or want of care in driving 
 might prove fatal. Just as they were approaching a 
 narrow point where the wheels must come within a few 
 inches of the unguarded edge, Mrs. Wayland noticed a 
 dark, shadowy form close to Lucy s husband, whisper 
 ing in his ear, and gaining his attention. His hand, in 
 forgetfulness, let the reins fall loose, and the carriage 
 wavered from the arrowy line in which it had been mov 
 ing. But the angel saw the fiend, who fled at a glance 
 from her glittering eyes, and, on his guard again- in an 
 instant, the driver passed the dangerous place in safety. 
 
 " Thank God for such wonderful care ! " said Mrs. 
 Wayland, in her heart. Thus Lucy was protected 
 through the mediation of her sister, as well as strength 
 ened and comforted. 
 
 At last the trouble of all troubles for a mother s heart 
 came. A little one, that had become as a part of her 
 life, came down with its tender feet to the brink of 
 Death s river. Was there no eye to pity, and no hand 
 to save ? Lucy was wild with fear and anguish, and in 
 the bitterness of her suffering prayed for the life of her 
 child. In all these hours of pain the angel-sister stood 
 bending over her now with a hand on her throbbing 
 temples, now with her head drawn lovingly against her 
 
90 THE ANGEL-SISTER. 
 
 bosom, and now breathing into her ears precious truths 
 for consolation. That all this was not in vain the mother 
 saw ; for calmer states would supervene, and periods of 
 deep tranquillity follow upon wild excitement. 
 
 At last the shadowy curtain fell on the brief drama 
 of that young child s life, and for a time Lucy refused 
 to be comforted, shutting her ears to all the words of 
 healing that friends, seen and unseen, could offer. She 
 called God cruel for taking her babe. 
 
 The day which dawned on that night of sorrow, 
 when the baby went up to heaven, passed heavily away, 
 and still the stricken mother turned herself from all 
 who tried to lift her thoughts toward the eternal man 
 sions. Darkness fell upon nature again, and in the still 
 ness that followed, Lucy slept. Mrs. Wayland, to 
 whose eyes the form of Mary was always visible, now 
 saw her weaving a dream for the inner eyes of the 
 sleeper. It was to her as a representation. First ap 
 peared to the sorrowing mother a green bank, dotted 
 over with flowers. Around the foot a pleasant stream 
 twined its clear waters like a silver cord. Next appeared 
 children on the bank with garlands of flowers, sporting 
 with each other. They were the happiest children she 
 had ever looked upon. As she gazed she heard music, 
 and the words of singers : 
 
 " He leadeth them beside still \vaters." 
 
THE ANGEL-SISTER. 91 
 
 " And this is heaven ! " said the mother, in her 
 dream. 
 
 " Yes," said a beautiful maiden, in shining white 
 garments, coming to her side. " This is heaven ; and 
 these are the little ones whom the loving Father of us 
 all has translated from a world of sorrow and pain to 
 this world of blessedness." 
 
 " I have lost a child ! " The sorrowing mother spoke 
 eagerly. " A little while ago I looked my last on his 
 dying face. Oh, is my child here ? My precious 
 child ! " 
 
 " Come," said the maiden. The scene changed. 
 They were in a beautiful apartment, the halls of which 
 were of gold and all precious stones, that shone re- 
 splendently. Soft, silvery curtains, floating in the per 
 fumed air, hung over and around a bed of downy soft 
 ness. Sitting by this bed, and bending over it in an 
 attitude of loving care, bent another maiden of won 
 drous beauty. The mother drew near. A babe was 
 lying on the bed ; her own lost darling ; she knew him 
 at a glance ! 
 
 " You have come for him ? " said the maiden, look 
 ing up into the mother s face. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " I can not part with my 
 baby. I must have him back again." 
 
 An expression of regret dimmed the angel brightness 
 
92 THE ANGEL-SISTER. 
 
 of the maiden s countenance. But she bent over the 
 child, and lifting him gently, laid her lips upon his fore 
 head with a kiss of the tenderest love. Then placing 
 him in the mother s arms, she said, 
 
 " Take him back to sorrow, to suffering, and to pain. 
 But oh, guard him from the evil that will gather around 
 his way in life, and see that through no fault of yours 
 he miss the way to these heavenly mansions." 
 
 The mother clasped her baby to her heart in a wild 
 pressure of joy, and then handing him back, said, 
 
 "No no no! That is too fearful to think of! 
 Thanks to God he is safe safe ! " 
 
 And Lucy awoke. 
 
 " Yes, thank God he is safe ! " -trembled on her lips 
 as consciousness grew clear. 
 
 " Mother, dear ! " It was the soft, girlish voice of 
 Lucy. Mrs. Wayland started from her dream, and 
 looked at her in bewilderment for some moments. 
 
 u You have been asleep," said Lucy. 
 
 " Yes, love ; but I am .awake now." 
 
 She meant more than her words conveyed to Lucy, 
 as the reader may believe. " If Mary had not died ! " 
 never again parted her lips in murmuring rebellion 
 against that wise and good Providence without which 
 not a sparrow falls. 
 
OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 X. 
 
 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 EAR little Charley ! His thought 
 seems always to rise above the visible 
 and tangible. He is my teacher, often, 
 in that wisdom which is not of this 
 world. He sat very still in his chair, 
 this morning, after family worship. I 
 looked at his sober countenance, and 
 wondered what could be passing in his 
 busy little brain. 
 
 " Mother ! " He was by my side, gazing up into my 
 face. 
 
 " Well, dear ? " 
 
 " What kind of bread is daily bread ? " 
 
 " Bread," I answered, " means all kinds of nourish 
 ing food that give life to our bodies." 
 
 " Then why do we pray for it every morning ? Our 
 
1 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 bread, and meat, and sugar, and coffee, are all in the 
 house before we pray." Charley looked puzzled. 
 
 " True, dear," I said ; " but in thus praying, we ac 
 knowledge our dependence on God, who is the Giver of 
 all good. It is his rain and sunshine that make the 
 fields fruitful." 
 
 " Don t it mean something else, mother ? Isn t there 
 some other kind of bread ? " 
 
 I looked down into dear Charley s eyes. There was 
 a holy mystery in their crystalline, yet unfathomable 
 depths. Something else ? Another kind of bread ? 
 O yes ; it did mean something else. There was anoth 
 er kind of bread. But I did not always think of this. 
 
 " We have souls as well as bodies," said I. A flush 
 of interest went over his face. He leaned up closer to 
 me. I saw deeper down into the mystery of his eyes ; 
 yet were they still unfathomable. 
 
 " There is a life of the soul, or spirit, as well as a life 
 of the body." I saw that he comprehended me. " And 
 to feed these two lives, there must be two kinds of food 
 natural food and spiritual food; food for the body 
 and food for the soul." 
 
 " Is that the bread of heaven we read about in the 
 Bible ? " asked Charley. 
 
 " Yes, dear ; the food on which angels live." 
 
 " And will God give us angels food, when we ask 
 
OUR DAILY BREAD. 95 
 
 for our daily bread ? " His eyes brightened, and a sun 
 beam shone out from his soul through the transparent 
 tissues of his face. 
 
 " The Lord has said : Ask, and it shall be given you," 
 was the reply that came, spontaneously, to my lips. He 
 sat very still and quiet for several minutes ; then shut 
 his eyes, while a look of heavenly trust and sweetness 
 pervaded his face. His lips moved ; I bent my ear to 
 listen, and the words fell from them like incense 
 
 " Give us this day our daily bread." 
 
 I would have caught and hugged him to my heart ; 
 but dared not distiirb the holy state of innocent faith 
 in God. I did what was better ; offered up the same 
 prayer, and in the same spirit thinking of food for the 
 soul, instead of food for the body angels food. 
 
 On that morning I had risen with a heavy pressure 
 over my left eye, and a dim sense of floating in my 
 brain the two well-known precursors of a sick head 
 ache, and consequent day of nervous irritation, disabil 
 ity and trial. Much more did I stand in need of spirit 
 ual than of natural food ; of the bread that endureth 
 unto eternal life, than of the bread that perisheth in the 
 using. Never before, with so clear a comprehension of 
 its higher meaning, had I asked for daily bread ; for that 
 spiritual food, by the nourishing power of which I was 
 to have strength to do my duty. 
 
06 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 I kissed my darling boy with a tenderer kiss than 1 
 had left there for a long time, and arose to take up my 
 burden of care and work for the day. I needed all 
 that higher strength for which I had prayed. 
 
 There are days in our life, in which it seems that 
 everything gets at cross purposes ; and this was one of 
 them for me. My sick headache increased with its slow 
 but steady accumulations of pain, rendering me more 
 fitted for bed than for the duties that were before me. 
 
 " I don t want to go to school." The words smote on 
 my ear, and sent a throb to my sensitive brain ; for I 
 understood too well the trouble that was at hand. My 
 little daughter Mary fell, sometimes, into perverse hu 
 mors ; and this morning the evil spirits of resistance and 
 disobedience had found a way of entrance into her heart. 
 Her " I don t want to go to school," meant that she 
 didn t intend going, unless forced to do so. Nothing 
 short of actual punishment had usually prevailed with 
 her on these occasions. For a few moments an impulse 
 of anger blinded me. It was on my lips to say, in a 
 sternly commanding voice 
 
 "Well, you ll have to go, Miss!" But I checked 
 the words. A thought of Charley, and the daily bread 
 for which we had prayed, flashed through my mind, and 
 I lifted my heart to God with a new repetition of my 
 want, clothed in ideas of higher signification. I asked 
 
OUR DAILY BREAD. 97 
 
 for spiritual strength in my time of trial ; for all that I 
 needed to give me power for right action. What a calm 
 fell instantly on my spirit. The hard, passionate state 
 passed ; and I felt tender and loving toward my self- 
 willed child. Taking her by the hand, I said, in a low, 
 quiet voice 
 
 " Mary, dear." 
 
 She lifted her eyes to mine with a sudden glance of 
 inquiry. The petulance and resistance were already be 
 ginning to die around her mouth. I sat down, still 
 holding her by the hand. 
 
 " Put your fingers there, dear." And I laid them 
 against my left temple. 
 
 " Press hard, dear." 
 
 She pressed her small hand against the throbbing ar 
 tery that lies there close upon the surface. 
 
 " Do you feel it beat ?" 
 
 Yes, mother." 
 
 " Every pulse, my child, that lifts itself against your 
 finger, is for me a stroke of pain." 
 
 " O, mother." Pity and sympathy were in her gen 
 tle face. 
 
 " I have a sick headache to-day." 
 
 " I m so sorry." And she kissed me lovingly. I re 
 turned the kiss, and then said 
 5 
 
98 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 " Get ready for school, dear, as quietly as possible ; 
 and be a good little girl. Every noise or trouble dis 
 turbs me this morning, and makes my head ache worse." 
 
 She kissed me again, repeating, " I m so sorry ; " 
 and then got ready for school, and went off without a 
 murmur. 
 
 " Give us this day our daily bread," came almost tear 
 fully from my heart, in a thankful acknowledgment for 
 strength received, and in prayer for coming needs. 
 Ill-natured complaints, and irritating neglects from 
 domestics, came next in my round of trials. Dear Char 
 ley was by my side, a sweet reminder of duty. The 
 prayer for daily bread went up from my heart ; and the 
 answer came in strength to do and say the right. I was 
 able to possess my soul in peace. 
 
 Something went wrong with my husband. He came 
 home at dinner-time with a frown on his face. He 
 scarcely looked at me when he came in, and hardly spoke 
 to the children. I had been at some pains to prepare 
 him a favorite dish ; and knew that it was nicer than 
 usual. But he eat of it without a remark, and pushed 
 his plate from him after he had finished, with an air of 
 indifference that hurt and annoyed me. I was on the 
 point of saying something that would, I doubt not, have 
 provoked a wounding answer, when a glance at Char- 
 
OUR DAILY BREAD. 99 
 
 ley s face, and a thought of my morning s experiences, 
 kept back the words. 
 
 " He wants other food than that," I said within my 
 self, " for his nourishment and sustenance to-day ; the 
 daily bread of which dear Charley spoke." 
 
 How instantly did all my feelings change toward him. 
 The selfish annoyance and hardness went out of my 
 heart. I said 
 
 " Lord, give him the daily bread for which his soul 
 is hungering ; the strength he needs in trial." 
 
 His eyes turned, as if moved by some sudden impulse, 
 to my face. 
 
 " You look pale," he said, kindly. " Are you not 
 well?" 
 
 " Not very well. This is one of my sick headache 
 days." I had to speak low to keep my voice steady. 
 Tears were coming into my eyes ; aifcl I could not hold 
 them back. 
 
 My husband glanced at his empty plate, and then to 
 the dish from which he had helped himself in silence. 
 I knew what was in his thoughts. JJJ S better man had 
 
 O 
 
 been restored. 
 
 " You should not have done this," he said. " But 
 you are always so thoughtful." 
 
 He arose from the table ; came round to where I sat, 
 
100 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 and laying his hand over my hot temples, drew my head 
 back against his bosom, and kissed me. I shut my eyes 
 to hold in the tears ; but they ran down over my cheeks, 
 and I felt my lips quivering. But I was happy. Oh, 
 very happy ; and in thankfulness of heart sent up the 
 prayer " Lord, evermore give us this bread." 
 
ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 101 
 
 XL 
 
 ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 HERE are men who always come to 
 you in sunshine ; and there are men 
 whose presence you feel as a shadow. 
 It is ever so, meet them when and 
 where you will at home, in the 
 street, on Change, in the store, office, 
 or counting-room there is ever the 
 radiant sunshine or the projected sha 
 dow. 
 
 As men are, so, in the main, will you find their 
 homes. The man who turns his face always to the 
 light brings his warm and genial sphere into his home- 
 circle ; while the man whose back is to the sun never 
 enters the door of his dwelling without throwing a 
 shadow over the household. 
 
 My Uncle Florian was a man whose spirit seemed to 
 know perpetual sunshine. I never saw a cloud in his 
 
102 ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 face ; I never knew his coming to shadow the heart of 
 even a little child. Dear Uncle Florian ! What a rare 
 pleasure it was when, leave obtained, I turned my steps 
 lightly from the shadowed house where my early years 
 were spent, and came, for a brief season, into the bright 
 ness of thy beloved presence ! 
 
 "Ah! Hattie dear, is this you?" Memory will 
 never lose the echo of his pleasant voice as he greeted 
 my coming ; nor do I feel the pressure of his hand 
 lighter now upon my head than it was thirty years ago, 
 when it buried itself among the golden curls of child 
 hood. 
 
 My aunt was not so cheerful in spirit as Uncle Flo 
 rian. She was more inclined to look upon the dark side 
 of things, and to prophecy evil instead of good. But 
 Uncle Florian never permitted the clouds to darken the 
 whole sweep of her horizon. If he could not always 
 scatter the leaden mass of vapor he would break it into 
 rifts, and let in, here and there, broad strips of sun 
 shine. 
 
 Children are always children thoughtless, given to 
 fits of passion, disobedient in little things, inclined to 
 selfishness. I give the picture s shadowed side. My 
 cousins were no exception. Children are not born 
 angels ; they come to us in the natural plane of life, 
 and receive by inheritance natural inclinations, which 
 
ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 103 
 
 unhappily, ever show a downward proclivity. But the 
 germs of angelic life are in the inmost of their being, 
 and the wise parent gives loving yet earnest heed to the 
 insemination of these, which is done by the awakening 
 of gentle, tender, unselfish affections, and the storing up 
 of good and true principles in the mind. 
 
 My cousins were like other children ; and their moth 
 er, like too many mothers, weakly indulgent at times, 
 and passionate, unreasonable, and exacting at other 
 times. Ill health the curse of American mothers 
 made her often fretful, and dimmed her vision when she 
 looked out upon life. 
 
 I remember one June day that I spent, as a great 
 privilege, at Uncle Florian s. I did not ask of my fath 
 er the privilege, for I feared his universal u No." But 
 after he had gone forth, I enticed, with childish art, 
 my weak, unhappy mother into consent. Quietly, al 
 most demurely, fearing to show any exuberant feelings, 
 I stole out from my shadowed home ; and when once 
 fairly beyond the gate, and across the road into the 
 green fields, I flew over the intervening distance with 
 the tremulous joy of an uncaged bird. 
 
 " Ah, Hattie, dear ! " It was the kind voice of Un 
 cle Florian. I met him at the gate, surrounded by my 
 cousins. He laid his hand upon my head as usual, and 
 stooped to receive my kiss. 
 
104 ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 " How are father and mother ? " 
 
 " Well, I thank you." 
 
 Ah, but it was not well with them. Why, in my 
 childish ignorance, I knew not. But, somehow, my 
 father always came to us in shadow. His presence 
 hushed the sports of his children. Our home rarely 
 knew the blessing of cheerful sunshine. 
 
 " Take good care of Hattie, dears," said Uncle Flor- 
 ian, with a beaming countenance, as he turned from the 
 gate ; "and make this day in her life s calendar a gold 
 en one. 
 
 And it was a golden one, as were all the days I ever 
 spent at Uncle Florian s. Yet was not the day all 
 cloudless. It was more shadowed, perhaps, than any 
 day I had ever spent with my cousins, who were, as I 
 have said, like other children, given to fits of passion, 
 and swayed by the sudden impulse of selfish feelings. 
 Several times Aubry, the oldest of my cousins, who 
 seemed for awhile possessed with a teasing spirit, wor 
 ried his gentle sister Marion into tears, and sadly marred 
 our pleasure. He would not go away and find his own 
 enjoyment, but kept with us nearly all the morning, for 
 no other reason, it seemed, than to gratify an unamiable 
 temper. 
 
 At dinner-time Uncle Florian had gone to the city, 
 and would not return until towards evening Marion 
 
ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 105 
 
 complained bitterly of Aubry s conduct, and my aunt 
 scolded sharply. The boy did not receive his mother s 
 intemperately spoken reproof in a very good spirit, and 
 was sent from the table in consequence of a disrespect 
 ful word dropped thoughtlessly from his lips a word 
 repented as soon as uttered, and which a wiser reproof 
 on his mother s part would not have provoked. 
 
 I tasted no more food after Aubry was sent from the 
 table. 
 
 " Your father shall hear of this ! " said my aunt 
 sternly, as Aubry left the room. 
 
 My cousin did not trouble us again during the re 
 mainder of the day. I met him several times, but he 
 did not look cheerful. His own thoughts were, I saw, 
 punishing him severely. A restless spirit kept him 
 wandering about, and doing all kinds of out of the way 
 things. Now you would see him turning the grindstone 
 vigorously, though no one held axe or knife-blade upon 
 the swiftly revolving periphery : now he was on the top 
 of a hay-mow ; now climbing the long, straight pole 
 that bore up the painted bird-box, to see if the twitter 
 ing swallow had laid an egg ; and now lying upon the 
 grass in restless indolence. 
 
 Crash ! What is that ? The boy had found his way 
 out upon the branch of one of his father s choice plum 
 trees, which had only this year come into bearing, and 
 5* 
 
106 ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 was laden with its first offerings of half-ripe fruit. His 
 weight proved too heavy for the slender limb, and now, 
 torn from his hold upon the tree, it lay in ruin upon 
 the ground. 
 
 Aubry was unhurt. In falling he had alighted upon 
 his feet. But if his body had escaped without harm, 
 not so his mind ; for he comprehended in an instant the 
 extent of injury sustained by his father s favorite tree 
 a tree to which two years of careful attention had 
 been given, and to the ripening of whose choicely fla 
 vored fruit that father had looked with so much 
 pleasure. The shape of the tree was also a matter of 
 pride with Uncle Florian. He had pruned it for two 
 seasons with a careful attention to symmetry as well as 
 fruit-bearing, and I had more than once heard him 
 speak of its almost perfect form. 
 
 Tears were in the eyes of my cousin Aubry as we 
 came up to where he stood gazing sadly upon the brok 
 en limb. My aunt had heard the crash and fall, and 
 came running out from the house with a frightened air. 
 The moment she comprehended the nature of what had 
 occurred she struck her hands together passionately, and 
 stung the already suffering mind of the boy with sharp, 
 reproving words. Aubry made no answer. The pain 
 he felt was too severe to find much accession from this 
 cause ; though any added pang was cruelty, no matter 
 from what source it came. 
 
ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 107 
 
 " If it had been any other tree," said Aubry. I was 
 sitting by his side, trying to comfort him, an hour after 
 the accident. " If it had been any other tree I would 
 not have cared so much. But father valued this one so 
 highly. It was his favorite tree. 
 
 " He will not be angry." I was thinking how very 
 angry my own father would have been under like cir 
 cumstances, and how severely he would have punished 
 my brother had he been guilty of a similar fault. " He 
 is always so cheerful always so ready to forgive." 
 
 " It isn t that, cousin Hattie it isn t that," answered 
 the boy, in a troubled voice. " It is not his anger I 
 fear." 
 
 " What, then, have you to fear? " I inquired. 
 
 " His sorrow, cousin. Ah, Hattie ! that is worse 
 than his anger. He took so much pride in this tree ; 
 and now it is ruined forever ! " 
 
 " Only a single limb is broken. The tree is not de 
 stroyed. There is much fruit on it still," I said trying to 
 comfort him. 
 
 44 It s beauty is gone," replied Aubry. " That beau 
 ty which father produced by such careful pruning. No, 
 Hattie ; there is no bright side to the picture. All is 
 dark." 
 
 It was in vain ; we could not comfort the unhappy 
 boy, who spent the rest of the day alone, brooding over 
 the event which had so troubled his peace. 
 
108 ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 " There s your father," I heard my aunt say, a little 
 before sundown. She was speaking to Aubry, and her 
 voice had in it neither encouragement nor comfort. 
 The breaking of the tree had excited her anger, and 
 she still felt something of unkindness. I looked from 
 the window and saw Uncle Florian alighting from his 
 horse. His face was turned towards us his kind, 
 good face, that always looked as if the sun were shining 
 upon it. Aubry arose he had been sitting by a table, 
 with a dejected air, his head resting upon his hand 
 and went out hastily to meet his father. 
 
 " I hope," said my aunt, " that he will give him a good 
 scolding ; he richly deserves it. What business had he 
 to climb into that tree, and out upon so slender a 
 limb ? " 
 
 I felt an almost breathless interest in the meeting be 
 tween my cousin and Uncle Florian. I had never seen 
 that mild face clouded, but I was sure it would be cloud 
 ed now. How could it help being? ,His countenance 
 as he stood with his hand resting upon the neck of his 
 horse, was still turned towards us, and I could see every 
 varying expression. My breathing was nearly suspend 
 ed as I saw Aubry reach his father and look up into 
 his face. A little while he talked to him, while Uncle 
 Florian listened attentively. Every instant I expected 
 to see the cloud, but it came not to dim the light of 
 
ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 109 
 
 cheerful kindness in that almost angelic countenance. 
 While Aubry yet talked, earnestly, to his father, one of 
 the farm hands came out from the stable and took the 
 horse. Then the two father and son came towards 
 the house ; and as the former commenced speaking, in 
 answer to the communication which he had received, I 
 noticed that he laid his hand upon the shoulder of Au 
 bry in an affectionate way, and drew him close to his 
 side. They passed near the broken plum tree, but nei 
 ther looked at it. I think Uncle Florian avoided a 
 sight which, just then, could hardly have been without 
 an unpleasant shock to his feelings. 
 
 Now, as ever, dear Uncle Florian came in sunshine ; 
 and it was warm enough and bright enough to chase 
 away coldness and shadow even from the heart and 
 brow of my aunt, who could not forgive the offence of 
 her boy. 
 
 For every one my good uncle had a smile or a pleas 
 ant word. If in degree there was a difference, it was 
 in favor of Aubry, who seemed held to his father s side by 
 some irresistible attraction. Instead of separating be 
 tween him and his father, I think that little unpleasant 
 event drew them nearer together, and bound their hearts 
 closer by the magic tie of love. 
 
 As I turned my face homeward that evening I felt 
 that I had turned it away from the sunshine ; and so it 
 
110 ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 was. A trifling fault of one of my brothers had been 
 visited by excessive punishment, given in anger, and 
 there was gloom in the household and not only gloom, 
 but alienation, the germ of separation. 
 
 We were sitting, the next morning, at our late, silent, 
 moody breakfast silent and moody after rebuking 
 words from my father, who seemed only half satisfied 
 with the punishment already meted out to my brother 
 when the door opened, and a cheerful voice sent a 
 chord of pleasant music vibrating through the room, 
 and a face that always came in sunshine scattered, with 
 its golden beams, the clouds which curtained all our 
 feelings. Smiles warmed over the sober face of my 
 mother, and light sparkled in her eyes, while the whole 
 aspect of my father s countenance underwent a change. 
 
 " Ah, Harry ! " Uncle Florian spoke to my brother, 
 who was in disgrace for a fault light in every way com 
 pared to the fault of Aubry on the day previous, " how 
 finely you are growing ! Really, you are the hand 
 somest boy in the neighborhood." 
 
 "If he were only as good as he is good looking," 
 said my mother. 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! " replied Uncle Florian, half aside, to 
 my mother. " Never say that to a boy s face." Then 
 aloud and cheerfully, " I ll stand sponsor for Harry, and 
 put his good conduct against his good looks any day." 
 What a grateful expression my brother cast upon him. 
 
ALWAYS IN SUNSHINE. Ill 
 
 For each and all Uncle Florian had a kind word, and 
 upon each and all fell the warm sunlight of his cheer 
 ful spirit. When he left us, after his brief visit, we 
 were all happier. Even my father s brows were less 
 contracted, and his voice was kinder when he spoke ; 
 and as for my mother, her heart was warmer and her 
 countenance brighter through all the day that followed. 
 
 Blessings on Uncle Florian, and all men who, like 
 him, come to us in sunshine ! They carry their own 
 heaven with them, and give to every one they meet a 
 glimpse of its sweet beatitudes. Ever more ready to 
 praise than blame to see good rather than evil to 
 find the sunny instead of the cloudy side they are 
 like the angels of whom it has been said, that when 
 they come to a man they search only for what is good 
 in him, that they may warm the celestial seed into germ 
 ination, knowing that if the forces of life are directed 
 into the good seed the evil must lie dormant. Long 
 years since he w r ent to his rest his days declining, 
 like the last warm days of the later autumn, and his 
 western sky radiant with the passing glories of a spirit 
 that always clothed itself in sunbeams. 
 
MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 
 
 XII. 
 MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 
 
 HE case of Mrs. Goldsmith was a sad 
 )N- one. I did not see the remedy. She 
 was forty, and not so happy as at 
 thirty-five. At thirty, her face, though 
 beginning to look at times dreamy and 
 discontented, was for the most part 
 bright with anticipation. Her three 
 children, all daughters, were unfolding 
 from bud to fragrant blossom, and her 
 life rested in their lives. 
 
 Since the completion of her thirty-fifth year one of her 
 children had died the youngest and most tenderly loved 
 because the youngest. Ah ! for a woman like Mrs. Gold 
 smith, who had bailt only on an earthly foundation, who 
 had loved herself intensely in her children, this was in 
 deed an affliction. She bowed her head, and refused to be 
 comforted. The unrelieved black that gathered ill fu 
 nereal gloom around her person was a fitting emblem of 
 
MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 113 
 
 the darkness that enshrouded her spirit. But troubles 
 and sorrows do not always come alone. Her oldest 
 daughter formed an attachment that did not meet her 
 parents approbation ; and failing to gain their consent, 
 or even the smallest approval of her choice, took the 
 desperate and almost always unwise course of marrying 
 against their remonstrances, threats, and commands. 
 From the day she left her father s house she had been 
 an alien therefrom ; and two long years had passed with 
 out a reconciliation. 
 
 So at forty Mrs. Goldsmith had cause of mental suf 
 fering and heart-disquietude ; but the suffering and dis 
 quietude were in excess of legitimate causes. The 
 home of Mrs. Goldsmith was luxurious. So far as her 
 external life was concerned, or rather, so far as in the 
 use of money she could arrange the externals of her life, 
 she had all the means of happiness ; but these, in her 
 case were wholly inadequate. Nay, instead of giving 
 that repose of mind which freedom from worldly anxi 
 eties is supposed to confer, they only add to her dissatis 
 faction. Their possession brought no sense of responsi 
 bility, but induced a feeling of superiority to others. 
 She must always be ministered to, never minister. Her 
 comforts, feelings, tastes, habits, desires, and convenien 
 ces must be regarded by her domestics and by all from 
 whom she required service in any thing ; while to their 
 
114 MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 
 
 feelings, tastes, habits, and conveniences no regard was 
 ever paid. Pier position of luxurious ease had made 
 her, as it does so many in like situations, intensely sel 
 fish and this very selfishness was a cause of her mis 
 erable disquietude. 
 
 Mortified pride was another source of unhappiness in 
 the case of Mrs. Goldsmith. To think that her daugh 
 ter should humiliate the family by marrying beneath 
 their condition ! Death, fearful as the visitation had 
 been, was a light affliction compared with this, and dis 
 turbed not half so profoundly. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Goldsmith ! At forty, as I have said, her 
 case was a sad one, and I did not see the remedy. Hu 
 man efforts to bring her mind back into the sunshine 
 were of no avail. She brooded over her sorrow and her 
 humiliation, admitting no cheerful guests into her heart. 
 Mortification at her daughter s discreditable marriage, 
 added to a morbid grief half affected, half real 
 that succeeded the first strong outgush of maternal an 
 guish, caused an entire withdrawal of herself from soci 
 ety, and shut her up in the shadowy retirement of her 
 own chamber for a greater portion of the time. 
 
 No interest for others could be awakened in the mind 
 of Mrs. Goldsmith. What was the outside world to 
 her ? Human sympathy was barred from her heart. 
 She felt herself to be of finer quality than the mass of 
 
MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 115 
 
 people around her ; and in her sorrow and stricken pride 
 she held herself coldly aloof. 
 
 If Mrs. Goldsmith had taken interest in any employ 
 ment had gone down, with a true woman s care and 
 thought, into her household, and wrought out therein 
 the highest possible comfort for its inmates then would 
 she have found seasons of calmness and peace. But in 
 stead of this, neglect and indifference produced constant 
 irregularities ; and sharp, angry, or injudicious reproof 
 and complainings alienated domestics, and made the 
 home of Mrs. Goldsmith so unlike a true home that it 
 scarcely deserved the name. 
 
 And so life at forty was proving a failure to one whose 
 promise at twenty appeared bright as a cloudless day in 
 June. I called one evening to see her husband a man 
 of large business operations, whose sober, abstracted face 
 did not indicate a peaceful mind. Care drew tightly on 
 the muscles about his lips, wrinkled his forehead. ;ind fix 
 ed his eyes in an absent kind of gaze, as if he were look 
 ing away from the present into some far beyond. It 
 was not often that visitors saw Mrs. Goldsmith. I was 
 privileged. She did not retire from the family circle on 
 my entrance. A fleeting smile lit up her pale face as I 
 came in ; but it faded quickly, leaving a weary, desolate 
 look in her eyes and about her mouth. Her conversa 
 tion was as dreary as her face. 
 
116 MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 
 
 Domestic troubles the worthlessness of servants 
 the daily and hourly vexations to which the family were 
 subjected poor health depression of spirits these 
 were the topics dwelt upon during the hour I staid. I 
 tried several times to get her mind away from them 
 to interest her in other people or other themes ; but, like 
 a strained spring, it came always back to its common ad 
 justment. 
 
 " The case of Mrs. Goldsmith is hopeless," I said to 
 myself on retiring. "What are wealth and luxury 
 worth if their possessors can use them to no better ad 
 vantage than this ? Inaction produces stagnation, and 
 stagnation breeds sickly forms of life. The mind of 
 Mrs. Goldsmith is a stagnant pool. Miasma hangs over 
 the surface like a cold vapor, and in the sluggish waters 
 below monstrous creatures are taking shape and vitality. 
 Storm and flood were better than this ! Let the pool be 
 swept in ruin away, so that even the tiniest stream re 
 main, singing, as its pure waters flow on and on, its hap 
 py song, chording sweetly with every wind-note that 
 kisses the flower-heads bending above ! Yes, yes ; this 
 were better far." 
 
 A year afterward, in a distant city, I read of Mr. 
 Goldsmith s sudden death ; and letters received from 
 home soon afterward gave me the information that he 
 died a bankrupt. " His widow is left without a dollar," 
 was the language of my correspondent. 
 
MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 117 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Goldsmith ! " said I, looking up from my 
 letter, and recalling her image as last seen. " Here is 
 trouble indeed ! trouble that you can not sit down and 
 brood over trouble that will give no permission for an 
 elegant retirement from the world trouble that neith 
 er pride nor a selfish love of ease can nurture. Ah ! is 
 there any strength left for an ordeal like this ? Will 
 gold be found in the crucible after the fire has reached 
 its intensest heat ? " 
 
 After an absence of three years I returned. In my 
 own absorbing duties in my own trials, sufferings, 
 and life-discipline Mrs. Goldsmith was forgotten, or 
 only remembered at times with a vague impersonality. 
 She was of the great outside world of men and women 
 who do not touch the chords of an individual life, nor 
 awaken a sympathetic interest. 
 
 I was sitting in one of the parlors of an old and val 
 ued friend when a young lady, who had rung at the 
 door and been admitted by the servant, came in. My 
 friend said, in a kind, familiar voice, but without intro 
 ducing her, 
 
 44 Oh, Margaret ! " 
 
 " Miss Annie is at home ? " There was a low, pleas 
 ant tone in the speaker s voice. 
 
 " Yes. Walk into the back parlor. She ll be with 
 you in a moment." 
 
118 MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 
 
 The young lady passed through the folding-doors, and 
 we were alone again. 
 
 " There s something familiar in her face," said I, look 
 ing inquiringly at my friend. 
 
 " Anna s music-teacher ; a Miss Goldsmith." 
 
 " Not the daughter of Robert Goldsmith, who died a 
 few years ago ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What of her mother ? " I asked, with a suddenly- 
 quickened interest. " Is she living ? 
 
 Oh yes." 
 
 " Where, and how ? " 
 
 " With her daughter." 
 
 " Whom she cast off in anger on account of her mar 
 riage with a young man regarded as beneath her ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 u What of him ? " I inquired. 
 
 " He s an estimable person, I believe, and holds a re 
 sponsible position in one of our large mercantile houses." 
 
 " What a blow to pride ! I wonder how Mrs. Gold 
 smith s present state compares with her condition of 
 mind when she stood in the higher ranks ? " 
 
 But my friend could not answer the question. She 
 had not known Mrs. Goldsmith in the days of her pros 
 perity, and only knew of her now through her daugh 
 ter, who came twice a week to give music lessons. 
 
MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 119 
 
 Next morning I called upon my old acquaintance, 
 now in adversity. Nearly ten minutes passed after send 
 ing up my card before she made her appearance. I be 
 gan to have misgivings as to the state in which I should 
 find her. 
 
 A rustling of garments on the stairs the pleasant 
 pattering of little feet the music of a child s question 
 ing voice and then Mrs. Goldsmith entered, leading a 
 golden-haired little girl of some three summers by the 
 hand. One glance into her pale, calm, humanized face 
 told the story of suffering and triumph. She had been 
 down among the seething waters of sorrow and adversi 
 ty, but had risen above them in the strength of a no 
 bler and purer love than had burned in her heart in the 
 days of wealth and luxurious ease. 
 
 " It was kind in you to call," she said as she stood 
 holding my hand and looking at me with a gratified ex 
 pression on her face. 
 
 " I am grieved," I said, using the common form of 
 expression, " to find that since my absence from the city 
 sad changes have met you." 
 
 She smiled faintly as she answered, " God s ways are 
 not as our ways." 
 
 " But His ways are always best," I said, quickly. 
 
 " Always always," she replied, the smile growing 
 sweeter about her mouth. 
 
120 MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 
 
 " Though our feet turn to them unwillingly," I re 
 marked. 
 
 " Very unwillingly, as in my case." 
 
 We were seated. The sunny-haired child was in her 
 arms, her head laid back, and her eyes turne.d lovingly 
 upward. Mrs. Goldsmith looked down upon the sweet 
 face, and left a kiss upon it. 
 
 " Your grand-daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes, and she s a darling little girl ! " Her arms, on 
 which the child lay, felt the loving impulse that was in 
 her heart, and drew the form close against her breast. 
 I noticed the movement, and said, in my thought, " Yes ; 
 His ways are best always always." 
 
 44 There has been much lost," she said, in the earnest 
 talk that followed " much lost, and much gained ; 
 and the gain is greater than the loss. Oh, into what a 
 blind, selfish, sinful state had I fallen when that sterner 
 visitation and discipline came, and I sunk for a time in 
 utter despair. Then I became conscious that a struggle 
 for very life had come, and that not only for myself, but 
 for another also a struggle in which victory would be 
 reached only in the degree that I had in myself the ele 
 ments of strength. In the wreck of my husband s es 
 tate every thing was lost. Our elegant home and luxu 
 rious furniture receded from possession, fading away, in 
 our bewilderment and grief, like a dissolving view, or 
 
MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 121 
 
 the passing of scenery in a play. My first distinct im 
 pression was like that of a man in the midst of over 
 whelming waters, and I began reaching about fearfully, 
 in my thought, for a way of safety and escape. Then 
 the despised and contemned one he from whom we 
 had turned ourselves away in bitter scorn came and 
 spoke such kind, true, tender, and manly words, that 
 my rebuked and smitten heart bowed itself before him 
 in something of reverence. I saw in what loving trust 
 and confidence my daughter leaned upon him, secure 
 and steadfast, while against me and my other child the 
 floods swept fiercely, and it seemed as if no power could 
 save us. 
 
 " Ah ! Sir, God led us down into a deep, dark, fright- 
 fid valley, only that he might show us the way to a 
 mountain of love, rising heavenward, beyond. I could 
 not go in through the door opened for us in such a man 
 ly, Christian spirit, and sit down in idleness, with fold 
 ed hands. The generous conduct of my daughter s 
 husband inspired me with a desire to return benefit for 
 benefit, and though here, under the law of filial love, I 
 try daily to let gratitude express itself in service ; and 
 so, in useful employments, I find a new life in which 
 peace dwells. Margaret will not be idle and dependent. 
 It is not the wish of her excellent brother-in-law that 
 6 
 
122 MRS. GOLDSMITH AT FORTY. 
 
 she should teach ; but duty has led her into the right 
 way, and she is cheerful and happy." 
 
 " Not in the external things of this life," I said, as 
 she paused, " can the heart find rest." 
 
 " Nor without them," she replied. u We must make 
 them the ministers of useful service ; must dwell in 
 them, as life dwells in true forms, directing and controll 
 ing them for those good uses they were intended to 
 serve." 
 
 " Then," said I, " they will be as Aaron s rod in the 
 hand a staff for support ; and not as Aaron s rod on 
 the ground a stinging serpent." 
 
A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 123 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 don t know about that," said Mr. Denni- 
 son, as he lifted his eyes from the page 
 he was reading, and remained for some 
 time in a thoughtful position. " I don t 
 know about that," and he looked upon 
 the page again as he repeated the sen 
 tence, and read aloud : "A man who 
 undertakes to make universal life serve 
 him will always be aggrieved. It is 
 more blessed to give than to receive ; and the man 
 who, with loving zeal, goes out into life, giving 
 his own soul to things about him, finds life easy, 
 and rich, and full, and strong, while nobody else 
 does." 
 
 Mr. Dennison, after puzzling himself for a little while 
 over the suggestions which were born of the precept 
 
124 A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 given above, dismissed the subject, and let the easier 
 current of his thoughts flow on in its usual direction. 
 
 Out into the world Mr. Dennison passed, and for 
 another day, entered into his work. He was an earnest 
 man and a strong man, usually pressing to the accom 
 plishment of. his will, with a resolute purpose that swept 
 aside all feebler resistances. But strong and earnest 
 men are apt to come in contact with men as strong and 
 earnest as themselves, and through these are repressed 
 by limitations. None are permitted to work to the full 
 accomplishment of their ends. Other interests are per 
 petually antagonizing them. And so it happens that 
 those who undertake to make universal life serve them, 
 are perpetually aggrieved. 
 
 Take a single day in the experience of Mr. Denni 
 son. He was in position at an early business hour, all 
 on the alert as usual. A man came into his store. He 
 had been expecting him. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Henry," said he with a courte 
 ous smile. 
 
 Mr. Henry returned the salutation, but in slight em 
 barrassment. 
 
 " I ve only brought you three hundred dollars," said 
 the latter. 
 
 " Ah ! I m sorry for that." And the light went out 
 of Mr. Dennison s face. " I fully counted on si* hun 
 dred." 
 
A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 125 
 
 " Not with more confidence than I counted on mak 
 ing up the sum. Here is all I can raise." And Mr. 
 Henry placed a check in the hand of Mr. Dennison, 
 who received it in a cold and ungracious manner. 
 
 " How soon can you make up the balance ? " asked 
 the latter, in a tone very different from that in which 
 he had greeted his visitor a few moments before. 
 
 " I will endeavor to do so this week," said Mr. Hen 
 ry, in a depressed voice. 
 
 There followed an unpleasant silence. Then Mr. 
 Henry said " good morning," and retired. 
 
 Mr. Dennison had received three hundred dollars of 
 a sum due him by a fellow merchant, and the promise 
 of three hundred more in a week. He was in no fear 
 of losing the balance due ; but having expected to re 
 ceive the full sum on that morning, he experienced a 
 feeling of disappointment that led him to deal unkindly 
 -with a man who was already suffering because unable 
 to keep his engagement. 
 
 A state of mind far from agreeable was the conse 
 quence of this incident. There were two causes of dis 
 quietude : a failure to receive an expected sum of mon 
 ey, which he purposed using to advantage, and a con 
 sciousness that he had wounded the feelings of a man 
 to whom kind consideration should have been extended. 
 There was an element of pleasure in that incident, but 
 
126 A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Mr. Dennison had failed to extract it. If he could so 
 far have forgotten himself as to feel pity for his neigh 
 bor s troubled state of mind, and met his declared ina 
 bility to fulfill an engagement with cheerful acquiescence, 
 that self-denial would have been followed by an interior 
 satisfaction strongly in contrast with the disquietude 
 that actually came. 
 
 Mr. Dennison was not made stronger for the day s as 
 saults upon his peace of mind by this opening incident. 
 He was fully committed to self-service, and his soul cried 
 into the world, " Give ! Give ! " with an undying ea 
 gerness. The day was to be his own, and every act for 
 himself. Not a pulse beat in harmony with the com 
 mon pulse ; not a thought embraced his neighbor. 
 
 " I ve closed that bargain," said a man, who entered 
 Mr. Dennison s store soon after Mr. Kent s departure. 
 
 " You have ! " There was surprise in Mr. Denni 
 son s voice, and a falling of his countenance. 
 
 " Yes ; you held your lot too firmly. I was certain, 
 as I told you yesterday, that I could do better with Ray- 
 nor." 
 
 " I might have receded. Why didn t you come to 
 me before closing with Raynor ? " said Mr. Dennison. 
 
 " You were decided about the matter when I was here 
 last." 
 
 " True ; but I wished to sell, and if I had supposed, 
 
A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 127 
 
 for an instant, that Raynor would have given away," 
 Mr. Dennison checked himself, and tried to rally and as 
 sume an air of indifference. But his disappointment 
 was too great. The lot of ground which he had failed 
 to sell, was one that he was desirous of exchanging for 
 money, and for which, at any time during the past two 
 years, he would have sold for twenty per cent, less than 
 the price just asked of a man who wanted it for a par 
 ticular purpose. In his eagerness to get the highest pos 
 sible price, Mr. Dennison had overreached himself, and 
 chagrin was added to his disappointment. 
 
 "I m sorry." remarked his visitor, with a shade of 
 regret in his voice. " Your lot would have suited me 
 better ; but the price at which I bought was a consider 
 ation." 
 
 " What are you to pay Raynor ? " asked Mr. Denni 
 son. 
 
 " Two thousand three hundred dollars." 
 
 " Mine is the most desirable for your purpose." 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " You shall have it for the same." 
 
 But the man shook his head, saying ; " The trans 
 action is closed. I have agreed to take Mr. Raynor s 
 lot." 
 
 " But I want you to have my lot. It will answer 
 your purpose a great deal better than Raynor s. Take 
 it for two thousand two hundred dollars." 
 
128 
 
 A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Mr. Dennison, in his eagerness to dispose of his prop 
 erty, was losing sight of honor. 
 
 " Sir," answered his visitor, with some sternness of 
 manner, " I never forfeit my word." 
 
 " Why do you say that ? " Mr. Dennison colored. 
 
 " I told you the transaction was closed ; that I had 
 agreed to take Raynor s lot." 
 
 " Oh, so you did ! Excuse me. I did not rightly 
 consider your word." 
 
 Mr. Dennison s face wore a sober aspect after the vis 
 itor had retired. The incident had hurt him consider 
 ably hurt his self-esteem as well as his cupidity. In 
 attempting to get the utmost farthing possible in a trans 
 action with his neighbor, he had lost the sale of proper 
 ty on which he was yearly sinking interest and taxes ; 
 and lost also his own self-respect and the good opinion 
 of this neighbor. These were not circumstances favor 
 able to mental tranquility. 
 
 In the ordinary business transactions of the day, 
 many things occurred to fret and chafe the mind of Mr. 
 Dennison. Scarcely anything came out just right. 
 Not a sale was made in which the satisfaction arising 
 from a consideration of the profit, was not marred by 
 regret that the benefit to himself was not larger. In 
 fact, results were all the while falling below desires. 
 Nearly every thought and act were limited to the nar- 
 
A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 129 
 
 row circumference of his own little world of self. He 
 demanded service of every thing and every body, and 
 every thing and every body that served him, did so with 
 stint and reluctance. 
 
 And so it happened in Mr. Dennison s case, as it 
 happens with such men, that results in life were always 
 inadequate. Nothing came out just right ; nothing ac 
 complished gave the hoped-for tranquillity and satisfac 
 tion. Self-seeking cursed itself perpetually. 
 
 Mr. Dennison sat, towards mid-day, revolving some 
 scheme of profit in his mind, when a lad came in and 
 handed him a letter. He broke the seal and read : 
 
 ** DEAR SIB lam anxious to get my son Charles, who "will hand 
 you this, into some business "where he can earn a few dollars weekly. 
 My circumstances, I regret to say, are greatly reduced, rendering some 
 employment on the part of my boy necessary. Will you do for me what 
 you can? Very respectfully, MARGARET WISTAR." 
 
 The reading of this letter threw something of a chill 
 over the feelings of Mr. Dennison. Mrs. Wistar was 
 the widow of an old friend, with whom he had once 
 been on terms of close intimacy ; he could not, there 
 fore, treat her application with entire indifference ; but 
 how was he to turn aside from busy self-service to serve 
 another ? The application seemed altogether out of 
 place. Twice he read the letter over, and then, in 
 
130 A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 forced consideration for the lad, looked coldly upon him, 
 and said : 
 
 " You are Mrs. Wistar s son ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." The boy felt the merchant s repellant 
 sphere like a hand pushing him away 
 
 " What can you do ? " 
 
 u I could stand in a store, sir, or run of errands. 
 I m willing to do anything, sir." 
 
 " Hum m. I don t know of any place. It s been 
 a bad season just now. But, tell your mother that I ll 
 bear it in mind, and see what can be done." 
 
 The boy shrunk away, feeling but little encouraged 
 by Mr. Dennison s coldly uttered promise. He was 
 scarcely twenty paces from the merchant s desk, when 
 his mother s letter was carelessly thrown aside. 
 
 But Mr. Dennison could not, as carelessly, put aside 
 the thought of Mrs. Wistar. Old incidents and rela 
 tions connected with the former life, revived in his 
 memory, rebuking indifference, and compelling him to 
 regard her application as having something of a blind 
 ing force. 
 
 " I can t do anything for the boy," he said, half- 
 fretfully, to himself, trying to get away from convictions 
 of duty. But these convictions were not to be set aside, 
 and they kept haunting him until thought turned from 
 his own affairs, and he gave a brief interval of precious 
 
A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 131 
 
 time to the lad. In that brief interval the right sug 
 gestion came. 
 
 " I will see about it at once," said Mr. Dennison, 
 taking up his hat and going out. There was a pleasant 
 exhilaration in his thoughts. He was successful. In 
 less than an hour from the time Charles Wistar left his 
 store, feeling that no good would come from the appli 
 cation, his mother received an answer to her letter, con 
 veying the gratifying intelligence that an excellent place 
 had been secured for her son. 
 
 On the evening of that day, Mr. Dennison sat mus 
 ing, as was his wont, over the day s results. He was 
 in a more satisfied state of mind than usual, and, strange 
 as it seemed to him, on tracing this feeling to its source 
 it was not connected with any good accomplished for 
 himself, but came from the good deed done for Mrs. 
 Wistar. He had gained liberally in more than one 
 transaction ; had reached certain desirable ends ; yet, 
 in all that was of self, a certain disquietude and dissat 
 isfaction were connected while his thoughts of the 
 widow and her son gave an unalloyed pleasure. 
 
 As he mused over the day s doings, a note was 
 placed in his hands. 
 
 * DEAR SIR Your prompt kindness has touched my heart. I did 
 not say how pressing was my extremity. But that you may know the 
 great service you have rendered, I will declare the truth. If Charles 
 
132 A DAY S EXPERIENCE. 
 
 had not obtained employment, I should have been forced to break up my 
 little family. But the bond is not yet loosened, thank God ! May 
 heaven bless you, as it will ! 
 
 Gratefully, 
 
 MARGARET WISTAR." 
 
 A little while afterwards, Mr. Dennison took up the 
 volume from which he had read a few sentences in the 
 morning, and the same passages met his eyes. He let 
 them come into his thoughts again : " Some men go 
 around saying to things, Why don t you serve me ? 
 Why don t you please me ? They are forever com 
 plaining that nothing helps them, and that everything 
 is against them. A man that undertakes to make uni- 
 
 o 
 
 versal life serve him, will always be aggrieved. It is 
 more blessed to give than to receive ; and the man that 
 with loving zeal goes out into life, giving his soul to 
 things about him, finds life easy, and rich, and full, and 
 strong, while nobody else does." 
 
 Did he say, as in the morning, " I don t know about 
 that ? " Not so ; but, with a dawning perception of a 
 great truth, spoke thus with himself: " Life s best 
 philosophy is doubtless embodied here. I must ponder 
 these things. In what I have gained for self to-day, no 
 true pleasure has been born ; while that one good deed 
 fills my heart with a glow of satisfaction." 
 
JUST BEYOND. 
 
 138 
 
 XIV. 
 
 JUST BEYOND. 
 
 >E heard, or dreamed, this story of 
 two lost children, a boy and a girl. 
 They had gone for an afternoon s 
 berrying in the fields and woods, 
 and after filling their baskets, 
 started for home. But the sky 
 had become heavily overcast with 
 clouds, so that they couldn t tell 
 the east from the west ; and as they had wandered away 
 from old beaten paths, and familiar localities, the effort 
 to reach their home ere nightfall proved fruitless. With 
 blank, pale face, and lips trembling with fear, the young 
 est, a boy, looked up to his companion, as the evening 
 shadows began to creep down among the thick leaved 
 branches of the trees, and sa*id, 
 
 " Oh, sister Edie ! Are we lost ? " 
 
134 JUST BEYOND. 
 
 Edie did not answer ; but the boy saw the paleness 
 of his own face reflected in her s. 
 
 " This is the way, I think." 
 
 She did not feel the confidence which she sought to 
 throw into her voice ; but she was one year older than 
 her brother, and must, therefore, act for both. She felt 
 the flutter of his hand, as it clung to her s tightly. 
 
 But the little opening among the trees toward which 
 she hurried, terminated, at the end of a hundred yards, 
 in a dense mass of underwood, through which she did 
 not venture to go. 
 
 " Are we lost, sister? " again asked the other child. 
 
 " It can t be far from home, Willie. We ll soon find 
 our way out of the woods. Don t cry ! " 
 
 A sob, and then a wail of fear cut the still air. 
 
 " Don t cry. We ll soon be home." 
 
 How bravely Edie tried to speak, even while her own 
 heart was sinking. The boy hid his face against her, 
 weeping and shuddering. He had heard about children 
 being lost in the woods, and terror overcame him. 
 
 Half forgetting herself, in pity for her affrighted and 
 almost helpless brother, Edie grew brave and strong, in 
 stead of cowardly and weak. 
 
 " Crying don t do any good, Willie," she spoke in a 
 firm tone ; u and we ll never get home if we stand 
 still." 
 
JUST BEYOND. 135 
 
 She moved back the way she had come through the 
 opening among the trees, holding Willie by the hand. 
 
 " This is the way. I know it now." She spoke with 
 more confidence than she felt. Cattle tracks were seen, 
 and she followed them down into deep ravines, along 
 hillside, across narrow clearing, and then into a dense 
 wood, where she lost them in the darkness of coming 
 night and stood still trembling. 
 
 Willie s cries broke out again. He was in despair. 
 
 " Hark ! " said Edie. 
 
 The two children listened. 
 
 " What did you hear, Edie ? 
 
 The child s voice was unnatural and choking. 
 
 " Listen I That s a dog, Willie ! That s our Lion." 
 
 " I don t hear any dog, Edie." 
 
 " But I do ! Come ! This is the way ! " and Edie 
 pulled Willie after her, through brush and briar, has 
 tening in the direction from which, to her ears, had 
 seemed to come the barking of a dog. Their hands and 
 faces were scratched and their clothes torn their 
 limbs ached with fatigue still they kept on, until the 
 edge of the woods was reached, and they saw a wide 
 field stretching beyond. 
 
 " It s only a little way now," said Edie, in a brave, 
 confiding voice. 
 
 " But Fm so tired ! " moaned Willie, dragging back, 
 " and mv foot hurts me." 
 
136 JUST BEYOND. 
 
 Hark ! That s it again. That s Lion ! " 
 " I don t hear any dog," answered Willie. 
 " But I do. Now, walk on briskly. Come, Willie." 
 Thus urged, the child kept on by the side of his sfs- 
 ter, until half across the field ; but, his chafed and 
 smarting feet, his aching limbs, and his burden of fear 
 were too much for endurance, and he stood still again, 
 
 i O 
 
 crying sadly. 
 
 " Our house is just beyond the hill, over the field, 
 Willie. I heard Lion. Now do come along. It s get 
 ting so dark that we ll be lost, if we don t hurry." 
 
 " We re lost, now ! " sobbed Willie. " dear ! O 
 dear ! " and he cried more distressingly. 
 
 " Listen ! " said Edie. 
 
 Her brother ceased crying. 
 
 " What do you hear ? " 
 
 " That was Lion, barking." 
 
 " I don t hear him." 
 
 " There ! I hear it again. It s Lion. Come ! Let s 
 hurry across the field." 
 
 Thus urged, faint-hearted little Willie took courage 
 again, and moved onward with his sister, though always 
 a step behind. They were nearly across the field, when 
 both stumbled over a sudden rise in the ground, and 
 then fell forward into a ditch. Edie scrambled quickly 
 to her feet, but Willie lay in helpless despair amid the 
 
JUST BSYOND. 137 
 
 water and mire. It took all the brave little girl s 
 strength to drag him out, and over to the other side of 
 the ditch, on to the firm dry ground. Here he lay 
 down in utter abandonment, crying in a low, tremulous 
 wail. Unmindful of her own condition, Edie took off 
 Willie s shoes and poured out the water ; then put 
 them on again, and wiped, with handfuls of grass and 
 leaves, the mud from his clothes, speaking all the while 
 comforting and hopeful words. After a time, she per 
 suaded him to walk forward again. 
 
 Over the field, into the skirting woods, and across the 
 hill, beyond which Edie was certain their home lay ; 
 and yet, no human habitation came in sight. The chil 
 dren stood still and hearkened. In the hush of the 
 gloomy woods, strange low sounds crept into their ears, 
 and undefined terrors oppressed them. Haunting fears 
 of wild beasts, or of savage men who delighted in cru 
 elty and murder they had read of such things in 
 books crowded upon their hearts. The courage and 
 self-reliance which had, until now, sustained Edie, were 
 about giving way, when Willie hid his face in her dress, 
 and she felt the weight of his body leaning heavily 
 against her, and its tremors running along her nerves. 
 So, more for his sake than her own, she aroused herself, 
 and with hopeful utterance, moved forward again, draw 
 ing him lagging, weary and sore-footed after her. 
 
138 JUST BEYOND. 
 
 It was night now moonless and starless night, and 
 very dark. But in a little while the children came to 
 an open road, cut with wagon-tracks. Then they took 
 heart and walked on more quickly. 
 
 " We shall soon be home now," said brave, hopeful 
 Edie. 
 
 " But you don t hear Lion any more," answered fear 
 ful, doubting Willie. 
 
 " Maybe he isn t barking ; you know he does nt bark 
 all the while." That was for Willie s encouragement. 
 His suggestion had shaken her confidence. 
 
 A weary half mile, and then Willie would go no far 
 ther. Fatigue and hopelessness had driven away the 
 terrors with which darkness had at first oppressed him. 
 It was all in vain that Edie coaxed, persuaded, prom 
 ised, even scolded in simulated anger. He sat down on 
 the roadside at the foot of a steep hill, and would not 
 stir. 
 
 " I know it s just over the hill, Willie. Now do 
 come a little further. 
 
 " You ve kept saying that all the while," answered 
 the boy, fretfully, " and I don t believe it any more." 
 
 And yet Edie was right this time. Home lay just 
 beyond. One more effort one more difficulty sub 
 dued another weary hill ascended, and they would be 
 in their father s house. But, Willie s faith, hope, en- 
 
JUST BEYOND. 139 
 
 durance were all gone. No argument could move him, 
 and no suggestion revive his dead confidence ; even 
 while Edie wrought with him he went fast asleep. 
 Then it was that the sister s brave heart sunk down de 
 spairingly ; that her cheeks, dry until now, reflected the 
 star-light from great falling tears ; that her sobs, long 
 held back for Willie s sake, shook themselves free, and 
 went forth in dissonant moans upon the air. Sitting 
 down upon the roadside, with the woman s instinctive 
 self-devotion still ruling in her young breast, Edie drew 
 the head of her unconscious brother into her lap, and 
 leaning her wet face down upon his, wept herself into 
 oblivion. 
 
 Yet, just beyond, home awaited them ! One more ef 
 fort, and its gleaming windows would have gladdened 
 their eyes. And, for lack of this, they went to sleep, 
 as lost children, out in the cold night, exposed to harms. 
 As the story goes heard or dreamed, which it does 
 not signify a neighbor, returning late that way, found 
 them on the roadside, and bore them in his stout arms 
 home, where, when their senses woke with the awaken 
 ing morning, they found themselves in safety. 
 
 Just beyond ! Ah, how many, like these children, 
 sit down despairing on the wayside, in some gloomy val 
 ley, with the goal for which they are striving over the 
 next hill of difficulty, and just beyond. Fainting so- 
 
140 JUST BEYOND. 
 
 journer in the ways of life, never give up your confi 
 dence. If the night falls, and the path is lost, still keep 
 a brave heart. Walk onward, warily, because of the 
 darkness, yet ever onward the good you seek ; or, 
 mayhap, a higher and more permanent good is beyond 
 just beyond for all you know, and about rewarding 
 your toilsome efforts. The world is not all wilderness. 
 Night ever gives way to morning. If there are steep 
 and weary hills, there are also level plains and pleasant 
 valleys. If in the forest, press on in courage and pa 
 tience you will find the open clearing. If the moun 
 tain looks rugged and high, and you are faint and weary, 
 do not sit down in despair at the foot, but gird up your 
 loins and pass to the other side. It may be the last 
 mountain for many a mile, and smiling meadows may 
 lie beyond. If you are lost in a bewildering maze of 
 events which your dull eyes cannot read, still look up 
 ward and beyond, pressing forward, though your feet 
 are sore and your tired limbs ache. 
 
 Just beyond ! Just beyond ! For lack of this faith, 
 how many fall in their tracks, going to sleep, with no 
 stout arms to lift them, as the slumbering children were 
 lifted and borne forward to their home. 
 
 Never despair ! If your motives are right if, in the 
 midst of errors, and even evils of life into which an 
 evil heart may, when off your guard, have betrayed 
 you, you are still conscious of good and true purposes 
 
JUST BEYOND. 141 
 
 toward all men ; if your aspirations are for the better 
 things of heaven, do not despair, though you cannot see 
 a star in the clouded heavens, and no tracks on the 
 ground show that feet have ever passed that way before. 
 It happens to every one, at some period in his life, that 
 he must go into the wilderness alone, and walk in per 
 sonal experience, where none, but the Incarnate God, 
 has walked before. But, God knows the way, and if 
 you look to him and press onward, He will surely bring 
 you out in safety. Oh, do not then despair ; no matter 
 how dark the night, how bewildered the way, how high 
 the mountain, walk forward home may be just be 
 yond at the time you are in sorest doubt. 
 
 To all, whether in lowest or highest things, let the ad 
 monition come. Never faint, never falter, never aban 
 don yourself to weak fears. In difficulty, in doubt, in 
 danger, ever be on the alert, hopeful and on-pressing ; 
 success, accomplishment, home, are beyond, and to gain 
 you must move forward they must lie just beyond. 
 Picture to your mind those lost children asleep in the 
 valley, while just over the next hill top their home- 
 lights stream from every inviting window ; and if you 
 are tempted to give up, like them, arouse yourself, and 
 climb the difficult mountain that lies across your way. 
 It may bring you to all you have striven for through 
 vears. 
 
142 
 
 MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. 
 
 XV. 
 
 MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. 
 
 ORE blessed to give than to re 
 ceive." 
 
 It was the low, half-questioning 
 voice of a child, whose thoughts 
 went out into audible expression. 
 " More blessed to give ? " she re 
 peated. " More blessed ? " 
 
 And then she was silent again. 
 She had been reading, and this divine truth falling into 
 the rich, tender soil of her young mind, had already be 
 gun to germinate. 
 
 " Mother ; " the child was now standing by her 
 mother, and looking into her face, " Is it more blessed 
 to give than to receive ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, far more blessed." 
 
 " What does it mean by being more blessed ? " in 
 quired the child. 
 
MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. 143 
 
 " It means, that giving will make us happier than re 
 ceiving." 
 
 " Then you and father will be happier to-morrow, 
 than the rest of us ; for you will make all the presents." 
 
 " Don t you intend making any presents, my love ? " 
 asked the mother. 
 
 " I never thought of that," answered the child. And 
 then her countenance took on a more serious aspect. 
 
 " It is hardly fair that we should be happiest of all," 
 said the mother. 
 
 " You are best of all, and should be happiest of all," 
 replied little Ernestine, quickly. 
 
 The mother could not help kissing her child. She 
 said, as she did so, 
 
 " We are happy in our children ; and whatever in 
 creases their happiness, increases ours." 
 
 Ernestine looked down to the floor, and mused for 
 some moments. The good seed was quickening into 
 life. 
 
 " I have nothing to give." She looked up as she 
 spoke, and there was a touch of regret in her voice. 
 
 " Think." It was all the mother said. 
 
 The child thought for some time. 
 
 " There is half a dollar hi rny saving s bank. But 
 you know I m going to buy a little sola for my baby- 
 house." 
 
144 MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. 
 
 The door of the sitting-room opened, and a child came 
 in with some coarse aprons and napkins which her moth 
 er had been making for the mother of Ernestine. Her 
 clothes were poor, and not warm enough for the season, 
 and she had on her head the wreck of an old bonnet 
 that let in the wind at a dozen places. A few words 
 passed between her and the lady, and then she went, 
 with quiet steps, from the room. The eyes of Ernes 
 tine were fixed upon this child intently, while she re 
 mained ; they followed her from the room, and rested 
 upon the door some time after she had withdrawn. Her 
 mother, who had become interested in the work brought 
 home by the little girl, said nothing more to Ernestine, 
 at the time, and so her thoughts were free to run their 
 own way. 
 
 The evening which closed in that day, was the eve 
 ning before Christmas. 
 
 " Where is Ernestine ? " 
 
 It was the child s father who made the inquiry. He 
 had returned home from his office a little earlier than 
 usual, and before the twilight had given place to dark 
 ness. 
 
 " She was here a few minutes ago," replied the moth 
 er, and she lifted her voice, and called, " Ernestine ! " 
 
 But there was no answer. 
 
 ct Ernestine ! Ernestine ! " 
 
MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. 145 
 
 Still no reply came. 
 
 " I wonder where she can be ? " 
 
 While the question was yet on her lips, the street 
 door opened, and the child came in, with hushed, glid 
 ing footsteps. She had a small package in her hands, 
 which, on seeing her father and mother, she made an ef 
 fort to conceal. 
 
 " Ah ! Here is our pet ! " said the father. " Why, 
 darling, where have you been ? " 
 
 There came a warm flush into the little one s face ; 
 and something of confusion showed itself in her man 
 ner. 
 
 " I know all about it," spoke up the mother, gaily. 
 
 " No you don t ! " And Ernestine s face took on a 
 serious aspect. 
 
 " Yes. It s the sofa for the baby-house." 
 
 " No." The flush came back to the child s fair brow. 
 
 Almost a minute of silence passed. It was a picture 
 for a painter, that group. The child stood, half timid, 
 half-irresolutely, with her eyes upon the floor, and her 
 hands behind her, endeavoring to conceal the package 
 she held ; her parents looking at her in loving wonder. 
 Slowly, at length, a hand came forward 
 
 " What is it, darling?" The mother s voice had in 
 it a slight flutter, for something of the truth was dawn 
 ing in her mind. 
 
 7 
 
146 MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. 
 
 " It isn t the sofa," said Ernestine. 
 
 Her mother took the package, and opened it. It con 
 tained a netted hood, coarse, but warm. 
 
 " Who is this for ? " 
 
 " I bought it for Mary Allen." 
 
 " Her Christmas gift ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " It was very kind, and very thoughtful in you, dear," 
 said the mother, speaking calmly, though with an effort. 
 And she stooped down and kissed the lips of her child. 
 " God bless you ! " was spoken in her heart, though the 
 benediction came not forth into words. 
 
 " Who is Mary Allen ? " asked the father. 
 
 " The child of a poor woman who has done some 
 plain sewing for me. She needs a warm hood, and Er 
 nestine s Christmas gift will be a timely one, I am sure." 
 
 What a loving look was cast by the father upon his 
 child. How his heart stirred within him. 
 
 " I wonder if Mary Allen doesn t need a pair of warm 
 stockings, and stout shoes as well ? " he said, looking 
 down into the face of Ernestine. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Father ; I know she does ! " The child 
 spoke eagerly, and with a hopeful expression in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " You shall add them to your gift, to-morrow," said 
 the father. 
 
MORE BLESSED TO GIVE. 147 
 
 " I shall be so happy ! " And Ernestine clapped her 
 little hands together in the fervor of her delight. 
 
 " It is more blessed to give than to receive." The 
 mother s voice, full of meaning for the ears of Ernes 
 tine, trembled as she uttered these words, which were 
 radiant with light. But the child felt their meaning 
 still deeper, as she stood at her window on the next day, 
 which was Christmas a day of icy coldness and 
 saw Mary Allen go past, wearing a comfortable hood 
 in place of the old, thin bonnet, and having warm stock 
 ings, and new shoes upon her feet. Ernestine received 
 many beautiful gifts on that day, and she was very hap 
 py ; but her joy in giving was deeper, purer, and more 
 abiding, than her joy in receiving. 
 
118 
 
 THE HELPING HAND. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE HELPING HAND. 
 
 OT even a word of recognition ! " The 
 speaker was a woman. Over her gen 
 tle face had fallen a shadow of disap 
 pointment. She was sitting at a table, 
 in a plainly furnished room, with books, 
 magazines, and writing materials before 
 her. In her hand was a literary re 
 view, the last page of which she had 
 just turned. 
 
 " Not even a word of recognition ! " she repeated, in 
 a tone of discouragement. " Every book but mine no 
 ticed ; mine, into which my heart went with such a lov 
 ing interest. I am hurt, and can not help it ! " 
 
 She laid her cheek upon her hand, and sat, sober- 
 faced, for a long time. Then arousing, with a sigh, she 
 turned to the table, and shutting her portfolio, mur 
 mured, 
 
THE HELPING HAND. 149 
 
 " Yes, it may be so. Only a few possess distinguish 
 ing literary ability ; only a few have power to command 
 the public attention and move the public heart. I am 
 not, it seems, of the number. Ah, well ! It is of no 
 use striving with the inevitable. I must step aside, and 
 give place to men and women of higher endowments." 
 
 She arose, and began walking, with slow, even steps, 
 the floor of her room. After a while she resumed her 
 place at the writing table. She had just seated herself 
 when a servant came in and handed her two magazines 
 and a letter. She glanced at the letter, and not recog 
 nizing it as from any known correspondent, deferred 
 breaking the seal until she had looked into the maga 
 zines, which ought to contain notices of her book. Her 
 hand was nervous as she cut the leaves of the first one 
 opened ; and her eyes went, hurriedly, from page to 
 page. Then she became motionless and intent. There 
 was recognition here ! Twice she read the notice of 
 her book; then leaned back in her chair, with wet 
 lashes quivering on her crimson cheeks. 
 
 " Feeble, commonplace, and harmless. We may com 
 mend the volume to parents as a safe one to introduce 
 among children." 
 
 That was the recognition. 
 
 " Feeble and commonplace." The tears which had 
 wet her lashes swelled now to a flood and ran over her 
 
150 THE HELPING HAND. 
 
 cheeks. She was hurt to the quick. Earnestly, 
 thoughtfully, and with true and delicate perceptions of 
 mental and moral states, had she written, thinking more 
 of the good to be done than of the fame to be acquired. 
 She had intruded her consciousness, with a clear seeing 
 vision, into the actual of human life, and held a mirror 
 up to nature. But the critic, dipping in here and there, 
 and scanning this page and that, out of all just connec 
 tion, saw only commonplace things and trite moral sen 
 timents. No brilliant passages arrested him ; no gor 
 geous cloud-castles of thought which the sun of reason 
 dissolves into airy nothings ; no ambitious paradings of 
 sounding and unusual words meant to conceal meagre 
 thoughts ; no, nothing of these were found : and so, 
 without taking time to comprehend the author, her 
 book was thrown aside with the easy utterance of " fee 
 ble, commonplace, and harmless," and thought of no 
 more. 
 
 Nearly ten minutes went by, and then the other mag 
 azine was opened. 
 
 " Writes carelessly at times " a little more atten 
 tion to style would give greater acceptability to her 
 works" "nothing very brilliant or striking; but a 
 deal of human nature and solid sense " " will do good 
 in her day, but scarcely be heard of in the next gene 
 ration : books of this class do not live." 
 
THE HELPING HAND. 151 
 
 There were some flashings of indignant feeling from 
 the no longer wet eyes ; lips curled proudly and a little 
 defiantly. Our author was but human. The simple 
 love of doing good was not strong enough to bear her 
 calmly through an experience like this. 
 
 " A lady wishes to see you," said the servant, open 
 ing the door again. 
 
 " Who is it ? " was inquired. 
 
 The servant gave her a card, on which she read the 
 name of a friend. 
 
 "Say that I will be down in a moment." 
 
 The servant withdrew, and she made a few trifling 
 but hurried changes in her toilet. 
 
 " I fear my visit may be an intrusion on your time," 
 said the friend, as they stood with warmly clasped hands ; 
 " but I felt constrained to call this morning." 
 
 " No visit from you can ever be an intrusion," was 
 replied. Light was breaking through the face over 
 which clouds lay a moment before. 
 
 " I have just finished your new book," went on the 
 visitor. u As I turned the last page I felt a strong de 
 sire to tell you how much good it had done me. My 
 mind was in darkness as to a great principle of life when 
 I commenced reading. This principle you illustrated in 
 so clear a manner that 1 now see it as in noonday light. 
 I thank you, my sister, for true words distinctly spoken 
 
152 THE HELPING HAND. 
 
 thank you not only in my own name, but in the 
 name of thousands to whom they will come in blessing. 
 God has given you the power to move hearts, and, what 
 is still better, the will to move them for good." 
 
 Dry eyes were wet again. 
 
 " There can be no higher praise than this ! " was 
 modestly answered. " Whatever power I possess is, as 
 you have said, God s gift ; and I pray ever that He will 
 show me how best to use it in His work. I am not very 
 strong of wing ; I cannot, eagle-like, dwell above the 
 mountains. At best I am a home-bird, singing undei 
 the eaves, or cooing at the windows." 
 
 " The birds we love and cherish," said the friend. 
 " But why do I see tears on cheeks that should be ra 
 diant with smiles ? " 
 
 " The heart is weak. It is not always satisfied with 
 the simple doing of good. To do good is so easy, so un- 
 imposing, so unattractive, and commonplace. The world 
 admires the brilliant and the aspiring ; will stand gazing 
 at the eagle as he rises toward the sun, all indifferent to 
 the robin, the thrush, or the dove. The imposing and 
 the difficult extort admiration, while a simple good deed 
 is often misjudged as pharisaical, and earnest admoni 
 tion to do right sneered at as cant." 
 
 " Dear friend, I can not bear this from you," answer 
 ed the visitor. " Why in so strange a state ? You are 
 not envious of the eao;le ? " 
 
THE HELPING HAND. 153 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! Not envious, I trust." 
 
 What then ? " 
 
 " I am human, and human nature is weak. We can 
 not, unmoved, hear our work depreciated." 
 
 " Has yours been depreciated ?" 
 
 u Yes. This book, which has helped you, meets with 
 no favor from critics. One passes it as of no account, 
 not so much as announcing its publication, while anoth 
 er calls it dull and harmless. I should not care for this, 
 I know. But the heart is weak. Such things hurt and 
 discourage me. I feel as if I had no true power." 
 
 " And yet you have power to move the heart and en 
 lighten the understanding, as thousands can testify. 
 You need not care for a superficial or prejudiced critic, 
 if you can speak to the people, and stir the common 
 pulse. Your work is with and for the people. You 
 comprehend their daily life-trials, and are gifted with 
 ability to speak to them understandingly. Your work 
 is not to amuse, nor to extort admiration, but to help. 
 You do not write from a poor selfish desire to get praise 
 and fame, but to do good good in all degrees of life, 
 from the highest to the lowest. And few, my friend, 
 have been more successful. I would rather have your 
 sheaves in my garner on that day when the Lord of the 
 Harvest shall come, than the sheaves of any worker that 
 I know in your field of labor. I say this sincerely, and 
 7* 
 
154 THE HELPING HAND. 
 
 may it give you comfort and strength ! Don t, as Em- 
 merson says, think, in your work, of its acceptability, 
 but of its excellence. Do it always earnestly and well, 
 according to the gifts by which you are endowed of 
 God, and He will take care that no hand obstruct its 
 course. Just so sure as it is vital with the power of 
 helping your brother or your sister in weakness, or of 
 lighting them in a dark way, will He make your voice 
 heard." 
 
 " I thank you for such strong words of encourage 
 ment," said our desponding one, as the calm dignity of 
 conscious strength and purity of motive came back into 
 her face ; " and thank you, especially, for that last sug 
 gestion. Emerson has struck the right key has given 
 the true philosophy. I have been thinking more of the 
 acceptability of my work than of its excellence ; more 
 of what might be said of it than of what it was. 
 Thanks, again, for this helping hand in a moment of 
 weakness ! I shall be stronger, I trust, in the future." 
 
 Alone, after this friend had departed, and stronger 
 than before she came, the criticism that stung so sharp 
 ly was read again. 
 
 " Writes carelessly at times. That is a fault," she 
 said, " and should be corrected. A little more atten 
 tion to style would give greater acceptability to her 
 works. Then it is my duty to give it more attention ; 
 
THE HELPING HAND. 155 
 
 and I will endeavor, and feel obliged and not hurt by 
 the suggestion. Nothing very brilliant or striking, but 
 a deal of human nature and solid sense. Why, that is 
 a positive compliment ! I read it as a sneer before ; but 
 now it has a tone of sincerity and good-will. Will do 
 good in her day, but scarcely be heard of in the next 
 generation ; books of this class do not live. 
 
 The closing sentence touched the quick again. Not 
 heard of in the next generation ! No permanent life in 
 such books ! It was hard to accept of that judgment. 
 
 " But what," she asked herself, as right thoughts took 
 their right position in her mind, " have I to do with the 
 next generation ? My work is in the present, and if I 
 can do good in my day, the effect will not only go to the 
 next generation, but to all generations. As to the life 
 of my work, if there be in it a heavenly vitality it will 
 not soon die." 
 
 The letter which had accompanied the magazines, and 
 which had been forgotten, now looked up from the ta 
 ble and claimed attention. The seal was broken : 
 
 " DEAR LADY, Forgive this freedom ; but my heart is so full of 
 thankfulness that I am constrained to write. Your last book has been 
 to me a saviour and a consoler. Oh, in what a midnight of passion and 
 error was my soul groping, when light came to me through you, and I 
 saw a gulf at my feet ! Back, back, back I moved, shuddering ! And 
 now I am on firm ground, with reason clear and conscience in her place. 
 How clearly, yet how tenderly and lovingly, did you demonstrate a 
 truth, which, had it come to me in almost any other way, I would have 
 
156 THE HELPING HAND. 
 
 rejected. But as a gentle, wise, and considerate sister you approached 
 me, and laying your hand on my arm, said Come and let us reason to 
 gether. Yon first won my confidence, then beguiled my interest, and 
 then told me the truth in such calm, direct, and earnest words that I 
 was convinced, warned, and saved. God bless you, my sister I You 
 will never know the good you are doing until it is revealed in the world 
 to come. Go on go on, in Heaven s name ! The heart of a stranger 
 blesses you, and says, faint not, fail not." 
 
 Tears flooded the lady s face again ; but there was 
 no bitterness in them now. The helper was helped in 
 her hour of weakness, and strengthened against the 
 enemies of her peace enemies, we mean, who were 
 lurking in her own bosom, and exciting pride, ambition, 
 and love of fame, so that they might act as hindrances. 
 Stronger, calmer, and in a nobler spirit even than be 
 fore, she turned to her work again, and gave to it that 
 living vitality by which it had power to overcome evil 
 and establish good. Neglect and cold unappreciative 
 criticism had made her comprehend her own weakness, 
 and been the means of opening her mind more interiorly, 
 so that it could receive a higher influx of light. She 
 was stronger and wiser from self- conquest, and thence 
 able to infuse more of wisdom and human love in all 
 that came from her hand. 
 
COMING DOWN. 
 
 157 
 
 XVII. 
 
 COMING DOWN. 
 
 HE " Country Parson," in one of his 
 essays, has brought into view the 
 difference between " giving up " and 
 " coming down," an essay which may 
 be specially commended to a class of 
 over-ambitious people, who aiming too 
 high, lose heart by failure, and give 
 up all aspiring efforts, instead of grace 
 fully coming down to the level of their 
 ability, and on that plane doing earnest work in the 
 world. 
 
 A case in point is that of a friend. He was, when 
 quite a young man, overweeningly ambitious. As a 
 boy at school, he sought to be first among his compan 
 ions head in the class, and leader in the play ground. 
 But as his range of intellect fell below that of certain 
 
158 COMING DOWN. 
 
 other boys, who, if not ambitious to stand higher than 
 the rest, still towered above them by virtue of natural 
 growth, he was continually in the experience of humili 
 ations, and full of jealousies. It was a common thing 
 for him to retire from the playground, because another 
 boy was selected to a post of honor which he desired to 
 fill, thus giving up and sulking, instead of coming down 
 to the place assigned him by general consent, and filling 
 it for his own pleasure and the gratification of his 
 schoolmates. It was also a common thing for him to 
 lose temper, pout, and grow sullen, if rivalled in an ad 
 vance position in the class through superior scholarship 
 in another boy. From this cause he gave much annoy 
 ance to the teachers, and involved himself in unpleasant 
 discipline, and often in severe punishments. 
 
 Such was my friend at school. In selecting a pur 
 suit in life, this weakness of character came in as a de 
 termining element. He must, in some way, stand out 
 from, and above the common mass. He must be distin 
 guished in the eyes of his fellows. His father, a care 
 ful, plodding man of trade, who had always managed 
 to lay up something every year, was desirous that his 
 son should, on leaving school, enter his store, and quali 
 fy himself to take part in a well established and sure 
 business, that would ultimately fall entirely into his 
 hands, but Asa Grant that was my friend s name 
 
COMING DOWN. 159 
 
 shrunk back from such an absorption of himself into 
 the undistinguishable mass of common men. His was a 
 higher ambition. 
 
 There was trouble at home about this choice of occu 
 pation. Old Mr. Grant was a plain, blunt man of the 
 world, of limited education, but shrewd. He looked 
 straight through pretension, and read the characters of 
 most men as easily as he could read the pages of a book. 
 Of his son s calibre he knew sufficient to be well con 
 vinced that, as a professional man, he could never rise 
 above respectable mediocrity ; and the worldly, or rather, 
 money-advantages appertaining to that position in law, 
 medicine or theology, were so much below what he 
 could promise his son in a prosecution of the business 
 he had founded, that he was insensible to all arguments 
 on the side against which he had arrayed himself. 
 
 But Mrs. Grant, the mother of Asa, who in marry 
 ing, had gone down a little so thought her family of 
 proud good-for-nothings, and so felt she was entirely 
 on her son s side. She was an ambitious mother, and 
 encouraged her boy in his aspirations. Law and medicine 
 were both discussed. Slow and toilsome ways to dis 
 tinction. Asa looked along the dreary vista that open 
 ed in advance of him, as he soberly debated a choice be 
 tween these two professions, and at times his heart 
 would fail. No wonder that he hesitated. There was 
 
160 COMING DOWN. 
 
 no royal road to eminence for him. He must win the 
 goal, if at all, like an Olympian racer, through strength 
 and speed. 
 
 My friend did not lack conceit. He rated his intel 
 lectual powers at a high average. No modest doubts 
 were likely to hold him back from a contest in any are 
 na. His decision was bending in favor of law, influ 
 enced by certain triumphs in a debating club, because, 
 as a lawyer, he would get more distinctly in range of 
 the public eye than as a physician, when an event oc 
 curred that changed the whole direction of his thoughts. 
 This event was a " revival " in the church to which his 
 parents belonged. Drawn into the sphere of this, and 
 making, in consequence, certain new acquaintances 
 among clergymen and young men piously inclined, the 
 leading impulses of his mind opened the way for a new 
 influx of ideas. The pulpit was to become his arena. 
 
 So my friend elected to study for the ministry. Af 
 ter sundry contests with his father on the subject, in 
 which his mother was uniformly on his side, the old 
 gentleman yielded a reluctant consent, and Asa went 
 for a couple of years to a theological seminary. Here 
 our ways separated, and we met, afterwards, only at un- 
 frequent interval, though, by letter, we often held com 
 munication. Notwithstanding the weak side of Grant s 
 character, he had many good qualities, and I was sin- 
 
COMING DOWN. 161 
 
 cerely attached to him. After leaving college, he was 
 invited to fill a pulpit in a small town of New Jersey. 
 In a letter received from him at this time, and while de 
 bating whether to accept or decline the invitation, he 
 said : " I can t think of burying myself in a little coun 
 try village, among boorish and illiterate people. I have 
 talents and aspirations for something better." My an 
 swer to this sentence was : " The work that comes to 
 your hand, do with all your might. If I understand it, 
 the souls of boorish and illiterate people, as you call 
 them, are quite as precious in God s eyes as the souls of 
 the most refined and educated. Bear in mind, my 
 friend, that you have entered upon His work, and do 
 not hesitate about going to any part of the field His 
 providence may indicate." He replied from the parish 
 which had given him his first call, informing me that he 
 had concluded to accept, and giving as his chief reason 
 the pulpit practice he would gain. 
 
 He remained two years in this place, seeking, during 
 the time, all available opportunities to exchange with 
 other ministers, in order to get before as many congre 
 gations as possible, and thus acquire something beyond 
 a local reputation. He also wrote for the various peri 
 odicals of his church, generally signing his name to his 
 articles, or in some way indicating their authorship. I 
 often received copies of these articles, marked for my 
 
162 COMING DOWN. 
 
 special attention. They were tolerably well written, but 
 only from the memory. I could rarely find a trace of 
 original thought. At the end of two years, and after 
 the event of preaching three unsuccessful trial sermons 
 before a New York congregation that was seeking for a 
 minister, my friend resigned his pulpit, and came home 
 to his father s to recreate, and also to work for a call 
 from some better parish than the one under the bushel 
 of which he had been hiding his light. Rather than 
 " come down " to the level of humbler duties that fitted 
 his tastes, he was willing to " give up," at least for a 
 while. 
 
 A year of unsatisfying idleness was followed by the 
 acceptance of another call from a country parish. " I 
 am going to bury myself again." So he wrote on leav 
 ing for his new home. This sentence tells the story of 
 his state. Here he preached, and wrote for the church 
 periodicals, and aspired to a more notable position for 
 two or three years, when a party in the congregation, that 
 saw through him, became strong enough to induce a 
 resignation. Half disgusted with his profession, my 
 friend went home, and spent another period of fretful 
 inaction. What particularly galled him was the fact 
 that ministers, far his inferior in every way, according as 
 he estimated them were selected for the most desira 
 ble places, while he, to use his own language, was " left 
 out in the cold." 
 
COMING DOWN. 163 
 
 Ten years afterwards I met my friend again. Dur 
 ing this interval of time I had nearly lost sight of him, 
 our paths in life having taken a strong divergence. 
 Stepping from a railroad car at a watering station, near 
 a village in central New York, I met Grant on the 
 platform. The meeting was one of genuine pleasure on 
 both sides. I had only left the car in order to stretch 
 my limbs and get a few drafts of pure air, while the en 
 gineer supplied himself with water ; but my friend in 
 sisted that I should give him a day or two, for the sake 
 of 4 auld lang syne," and as my journey was for health, 
 not business, I yielded on short debate. A drive of 
 half an hour, through pleasant country lanes, in my 
 friend s carriage, brought me to a snug cottage, just 
 outside of a thrifty looking village, into which I was 
 ushered, and presented to Mrs. Grant, whom I had nev- 
 er seen before. My friend had been married seven 
 years. His wife impressed me, at the first glance, as a 
 woman of character and cultivation. Her eyes were 
 large and serious, and rested on my face, as she offered 
 her hand, with a look of searching inquiry. I noticed 
 this peculiarity the look of inquiry, almost suspicious 
 and it gave me a feeling of discomfort. It was so 
 much taken from the cordial welcome of my friend. 
 Apart from this, my impression of Mrs. Grant was fa 
 vorable, and I was soon aware that she was a woman 
 of more than common intelligence. 
 
164 COMING DOWN. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when I arrived. Tea 
 was served early, and after tea we went to my friend s 
 study, his wife, who had become interested in our con 
 versation, accompanying us. It was natural that I 
 should inquire as to my friend s life and prospects. 
 This was a subject nearest his heart, as quickly appeared. 
 
 "I am simply buried in this place," was his response, 
 in a dissatisfied voice. 
 
 I noticed a movement in his wife, and glancing to 
 wards her, saw that she was looking regretfully, almost 
 sadly, at her husband. 
 
 " How large is your congregation ? " I asked. 
 
 " Not above three hundred average attendance," he 
 replied, in a depreciating tone. " A congregation of 
 three hundred poorly educated people, in an out-of-the- 
 way country town, is a settlement, after some twelve or 
 fourteen years in the ministry, wholly outside of my 
 poorest anticipations. I looked for something higher, as 
 you well know. For a wider sphere an arena worthy 
 of myself." 
 
 I noticed a shadow falling over his wife s face as he 
 thus talked. Not venturing a response, my friend con 
 tinued : 
 
 " I am about discouraged. Men of half my ability 
 pardon this seeming egotism ; but every man knows, 
 or ought to know, the range of his capacity as com- 
 
COMING DOWN. 165 
 
 pared with that of others are preferred before me, 
 and selected by city congregations that I could serve 
 with double their effectiveness. There is something 
 wrong in all this ; management and underhand work, I 
 must conclude. Forgive my reference to an unpleas 
 ant subject, but I am feeling sore just now. A parish 
 in Albany was vacant, and I was invited to spend a few 
 weeks there and preach, in order that the people might 
 have an opportunity of seeing and hearing me. I went 
 as desired, and preached four times. I never had a 
 more attentive and sympathetic audience - never was 
 more in freedom never liked a people in their social 
 relations, as far as I came in contact with them, half so 
 well as I liked the people of that parish. I could un 
 derstand them, and they could understand me. Two 
 months have passed since my visit, and during all that 
 time I daily looked for a call. Imagine my disappoint 
 ment my chagrin on opening our church paper 
 yesterday, to find announced the call to this very con 
 gregation of a third-rate man, brother to one of the 
 most influential members. I am disgusted at all this ! 
 It doesn t suit me. The right man should be in the 
 right place. He is not in the right place, and I am not 
 in mine. After thirteen years of unappreciated and 
 nearly fruitless labor in the ministry, I have about 
 reached the conclusion that it is time to abandon the 
 field." 
 
166 COMING DOWN. 
 
 I saw the shadow falling more heavily over his wife s 
 face ; saw moisture gathering in her large eyes, that 
 were dwelling upon him. 
 
 " Three hundred souls," I remarked, in the silence 
 that followed his concluding sentence, speaking deliber 
 ately, and with an impressiveness of manner that corres 
 ponded with my feelings, " are precious fruits, if you 
 can garner them in the harvest time." 
 
 A light flashed over Mrs. Grant s countenance, and 
 she gave me a single grateful look, that was a revelation 
 of her state ; then rising, at the call of a child, she 
 left the study. Her husband regarded me in evident 
 surprise, and some perplexity of thought. He had not 
 anticipated such a response. 
 
 " Three hundred souls, committed to your care by 
 God, make your position one of high responsibility," I 
 resumed, as his wife closed the door, and we were alone. 
 " Shall I speak out freely of what is now in my 
 thought ? or will you regard the plain speech of an old 
 friend as intrusive ? " 
 
 " Hold nothing back. I know your heart." There 
 was a low thrill in his voice, as if from the presence of 
 sudden pain, or dread. Evidently, my language had 
 formed the basis in his mind of some startling convic 
 tions. 
 
 " I see that time and experience have not changed 
 you in one particular," I said. 
 
COMING DOWN. 167 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " As a young man you were ambitious. * 
 
 " I was, and I am." 
 
 " Ambitious for what ? " 
 
 " To excel," he replied. " To be first in whatever 
 I undertake." 
 
 " For the sake of excellence or use ? " I queried. 
 
 " For the sake of use, I hope." But his voice drop 
 ped from its tone of confidence. 
 
 I did not resume immediately, that he might have 
 time to look inward, in self-examination. 
 
 " Let me suggest a query," I said, after a brief si 
 lence. 
 
 " Say on." He shrunk a little in his arm-chair, as if 
 bracing himself for a painful thrust. 
 
 " Perhaps we had better change the subject, and talk 
 pleasantly of old times." 
 
 " No no," he replied, firmly. " Say on. You 
 have opened a window in my thoughts, through which 
 a few rays of light are streaming. Perhaps you can 
 give me more light. At any rate, I wish to hear." 
 
 I then said : 
 
 " Has it never occurred to you, that an humbler esti 
 mate of your abilities than the one you have maintained, 
 might be nearer the truth ? That, in fact, you have 
 always soared, in thought, too high ; and that, to be 
 
168 COMING DOWN. 
 
 really useful, according to the range of your ability, you 
 must come down to your work in a lower sphere ? " 
 
 It was painful to see the effect of this, striking as it 
 did at his very self-hood at the very life-impulses of 
 his whole character. His face grew very pale ; his lips 
 fell slowly apart ; his eyes rounded into an almost fright 
 ened stare. 
 
 " It will not do," I continued, " for God s minister to 
 act over his school-boy weaknesses ; to refuse to spell be 
 cause another has got above him in the class to give 
 up because he must go down." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, that he might 
 conceal from me the emotions he could not repress. I 
 saw that a low quiver was running through his frame. 
 
 " God forbid that I should say ^his, my friend, to 
 hurt ! I speak from my high regard from my yearn 
 ing wish to serve. I meet you, in a great crisis of 
 your life, at a point where two ways open before you, 
 and I am concerned that you take the right way. I 
 find you with three hundred souls in charge, yet com 
 plaining that you have not scope and verge enough. 
 The Lord of the vineyard may possibly know best ; 
 and I think you will be happier if you diligently work 
 the field where He has placed you ; if you come down 
 to a sphere lower than your ambition has desired, and, 
 doing your duty, leave all the rest to Him. 
 
COMING DOWN. 169 
 
 For the space of several minutes he sat with his face 
 still hidden. I was in doubt whether I had helped or 
 offended him. But I had gone as far as I thought pru 
 dent, and so awaited his response. It came. With 
 drawing his hands from his face, that was still pale, but 
 now wearing a subdued aspect, he said : 
 
 " What a revelation of myself you have given ! In 
 all these dissatisfied, unprofitable years, I have been 
 striving for a position ; seeking for the praise of men ; 
 contending for honors instead of bringing my life 
 down into my work with the sole end of doing good. 
 You have hurt me in a tender place you have 
 revealed my nakedness but you are the truest friend 
 of my life, and even in this moment of bitter suf 
 fering I offer thanks. Three hundred souls to care for ; 
 three hundred souls to lead heavenward and yet 
 impatient for a wider sphere ! If not faithful with 
 three hundred, shall I be trusted with thousands ? " 
 
 The study door opened quietly, and his wife came in. 
 My friend ceased speaking. 
 
 44 Am I intruding?" Mrs. Grant paused a few 
 steps from the door. 
 
 " Not at all," was my answer, rising to make room 
 for her. 
 
 But her eyes were on her husband s countenance. 
 She saw in it a great change. It was for him to say 
 
 whether her presence were acceptable or not. 
 
 8 
 
170 COMING DOWN. 
 
 " Sit down, Margaret." He spoke kindly, yet very 
 soberly. I noticed that her face was full of eager ques 
 tionings, and that she looked on him with a most ten 
 der yet anxious concern. 
 
 " I shall not leave here, Margaret." I saw her coun 
 tenance lighten. 
 
 " I shall not abandon my work because it lies out of 
 the sphere of general observation, and does not reward 
 me with the praises of men. God helping me, I will 
 come down to it in a spirit of self-denial and self-devo 
 tion, justly accordant with the office I have assumed." 
 
 It was as if a gleam of sunshine had been flung 
 across the face of Mrs. Grant. I saw her eyes glisten. 
 
 " Go up to it, rather," I said, " on the stairway of 
 . spiritual ascent up, interiorly, to higher planes of life 
 and usefulness. The coming down of which you speak 
 is only a descent on the external and worldly side, in 
 order that you may rise on the inner and spiritual side 
 to mountain hights that reach upward into heaven." 
 
 Mrs. Grant turned and looked at me while I spoke 
 with a glad and grateful expression. I noticed that she 
 had little to say, and that when she did speak her words 
 were guarded, lest her husband s sensitive pride should 
 in any way be hurt, and thus obscurity of mind follow. 
 She saw the true way opening before him, and trembled 
 in fear of some obstruction that might turn him aside 
 
COMING DOWN. 171 
 
 ere sufficient progress wore made to show him the bet 
 ter country through which he was journeying. 
 
 As we sat at breakfast on the next morning, I spoke 
 of leaving in the afternoon. My friend would not hear 
 to it ; and his wife, who had received me with almost a 
 suspicous scrutiny, joined warmly in her husband s plea, 
 that I would remain at least another day. 
 
 "Not yet," she said, on the following afternoon, as I 
 sat alone with her, and, in a pause of the conversation, 
 referred to the succeeding day as that of my departure. 
 " Remain a little longer with us. You are the truest 
 friend my husband has known, for you have helped him 
 to an understanding of himself. The thought of his 
 giving up because dissatisfied with the sphere of labor in 
 which God s providence has placed him, instead of com 
 ing right down with earnestness into his work, pained 
 me beyond expression. I could not help him with my 
 woman s reasonings ; and my perceptions did not pene 
 trate his thoughts. He could not see as I saw, nor feel 
 as I felt ; and I knew that he was drifting away from 
 safe anchorage. God sent you in the right time, and 
 put right words in your mouth. Stay yet a little long 
 er, and speak other words, each of which shall be as a 
 nail in a sure place." 
 
 My visit was prolonged for nearly a week. On leav 
 ing my friend he said, as he held my hand with a tight 
 grip: 
 
172 COMING DOWN. 
 
 I will be no longer as a school-boy, pouting and 
 giving up because I cannot be head ; but a man, doing 
 the best I can wherever I am." 
 
 " And thus," I answered, " you will grow wiser, bet 
 ter, and stronger every day, and, like water, find by an 
 unfailing law, the level of your ability." 
 
 In the years that followed my friend went up to a 
 higher place, both externally and internally. A weak 
 ambition had hindered a just development of his powers. 
 But in coming down to the work in hand, and entering 
 into it with a patient effort to do it well, he naturally 
 grew wiser and stronger, and, in due time, was called 
 to richer and broader fields where he now labors. In 
 " going down" he had not " given up," and here lay 
 the secret of his right development. 
 
THE POET S LESSON. 
 
 173 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE POET S LESSON. 
 
 HO does not, at times, grow 
 weary over his work? Who is 
 not often discouraged at the small 
 return of fruit that appears as the 
 result of his labor ? The preach 
 er, the poet and the novelist, scat 
 ter the seeds of truth to the right 
 hand and to the left over the 
 plowed field and by the barren wayside and then go 
 on their ways. The seed may strike its living roots into 
 the inviting soil, and send up green blades to flutter in 
 the sunshine ; and there may come sweet blossoms, with 
 fruits and grain yet, the preacher and the poet may 
 never hear of the golden harvests that crowned their 
 labor with blessings. They would be more than human, 
 were they not often discouraged ; did not often faint by 
 the way ; sighed not, often, for a wider and clearer re 
 sponse. 
 
THE POET S LESSON. 
 
 So it was with Adrian, the poet and teacher of life- 
 lessons, whose voice found echoes in thousands and thou 
 sands of hearts all over the length and breadth of the 
 land. So it was, with him, as he sat alone on New 
 Year s Eve, listening now to the shrill whistle of the 
 blast without, and now to its sobbings and meanings, as 
 it lingered along the shaggy eaves, and among the gables 
 and towering chimneys. 
 
 Adrian was sadder than usual on this wintry New 
 Year s Eve. The hand of some unkindly spirit had 
 found its way to his heart strings and swept them with 
 discordant pulsations. 
 
 " Is not my work lighter than vanity ? " Thus he 
 spoke with himself, moodily and despondingly. " What 
 are the airy rhymes of a poet, or the light tissues of 
 fable, romance and story, that are woven by his pen ? 
 Does not the wind bear them up and away as if they 
 were gossamer ? A blast of the angry tempest, and 
 where are they ? The statesman wields a nation s des 
 tiny. He sets his mark upon the age, and history points 
 back to him through a thousand generations. The mer 
 chant brings together the very ends of the earth, and 
 unites empires by bonds of mutual benefits. Look at 
 the engineer, the builder, the sublime astronomer, the 
 noble historian ! Alas ! Am I not the weakest, the 
 poorest, the meanest in the world ? Let me die, and 
 make no sign." 
 
THE POET S LESSON. 175 
 
 Unhappy Adrian ! What false spirit hast thou ad 
 mitted into the guest-chamber of reason ? It has not 
 always been so with thee. Not many days have passed 
 since a deep and pure delight was given thee in thy 
 work a delight passing the comprehension of many. 
 
 The evening waned, and Adrian, having wearied him 
 self with unhappy thoughts and feelings, sunk quietly 
 away into sleep. Blessed sleep ! How opportunely it 
 conies, with its veil of oblivion. Blessed sleep ! Is 
 there a dweller upon the earth who has not uttered 
 these words in fervent thankfulness many, many times ? 
 Sleep changes the progressive order of our lives. Voli 
 tion ceases, and with volition the fret and fever of ex 
 istence. As the action of all voluntary muscle in the 
 body ceases, so ceases the action of all the voluntary 
 faculties of the mind. Come we then, of course, more 
 directly under heavenly guardianship, and heavenly in 
 fluence. How sweetly is the spirit tranquilized ! No 
 matter how violently may have raged the storms of pas 
 sion ere nature claimed her hours of sleep, the morning 
 surely comes to us in calmness and peace. 
 
 Adrian slept ; and there came dreams to his sleep. 
 One dream was after this wise : 
 
 He was walking across a barren field, along a narrow 
 path that led him at last to the door of a poor laborer s 
 cottage. It was near the close of day. In the door of 
 
176 THE POST S LESSON. 
 
 the cottage sat a woman, and two children stood by her, 
 listening attentively while she read. They did not ap 
 pear to notice Adrian, though he drew so close to them 
 that he could hear every word that fell from the wo 
 man s lips. Suddenly his heart leaped with a strange 
 delight. The words to which she was giving voice were 
 his own words. He had written them many years be 
 fore, earnestly desiring that they might find their way 
 into children s hearts, and bear with them a blessing. 
 
 The mother read on, and the children leaned towards 
 her. Adrain saw that the pure lessons he had given 
 were sinking into their young minds. 
 
 " I will be like that good man," said one of the chil 
 dren, as his mother ceased reading. 
 
 " And I will try to be like the sweet young lady, his 
 daughter," said the other. 
 
 " Such good examples, my children, are for our imi 
 tation," answered the mother. " We are poor, but we 
 may all have the riches about which we are told in the 
 story riches of love and wisdom from our Father in 
 Heaven. Possessing these, we can do much good to 
 others as we pass through life ; and to do good, my chil 
 dren, is to be happy." 
 
 Like one of those dissolving views that charm while they 
 delude the senses, changed this humble scene into one of 
 external grace and beauty. Adrian was in the luxuri- 
 
THE POET S LESSON. 177 
 
 ous apartment of a lady grown life-weary through idle 
 ness. She lay, half reclined, on a sofa, her countenance 
 wearing a fretful aspect. As before, his presence seem 
 ed not observed. Sighs parted her lips sad words 
 were uttered her restless body was constantly chang 
 ing its positions. 
 
 " Oh, I am wretched,! " she murmured. " Existence 
 is a tiresome burden. It were better to die and be at 
 rest, than live this aimless, miserable life." 
 
 Even while she spoke, a beautiful young maiden came 
 gliding into the room. She held an open book in her 
 hand. With a winning smile, she said 
 
 44 Oh, Aunt, I have found something that you will be 
 charmed to hear. Let me read it to you." 
 
 14 No, child " and the lady put up her hands. " I 
 am in no mood for reading." 
 
 But the sweet girl would take no denial. Drawing 
 an ottoman to the lady s feet, she sat down and read. 
 How familiar was the language which fell from her lips ! 
 Adrian listened. It was a simple allegory that the 
 maiden read ; yet the truth it illustrated could not fail, 
 if it reached any mind, to awaken aspirations towards 
 goodness. And he had composed that allegory years 
 gone by composed, and sent it forth on its mission. 
 
 At first, the lady was restless ; and it was plain that 
 she repressed her impatience only by an effort. But all 
 
178 
 
 at once she became quiet, and leaned her head in a lis 
 tening attitude ; nor did she move until the reading was 
 over then the whole aspect of her face was changed. 
 It was no longer depressed, nor fretful, but had about it 
 a calmness and elevation that was pleasant to look upon. 
 
 " I knew that it would stir your soul with better feel 
 ings, Aunt," said the maiden. 
 
 " And it has done so," was the earnestly spoken re 
 ply. " If I could only rest in the teachings of that 
 charming little story could only, as the sweet lady 
 therein described, forget myself in loving others life 
 would put on a new charm. Thanks to the author for 
 his lesson of wisdom ! Do you know his name, my 
 child ?" 
 
 Adrian held his breath. He knew that his own name 
 would come in music from the maiden s lips, and it did 
 come, sending through every fibre of his spirit a thrill 
 of exquisite pleasure. 
 
 " May God bless him for the good he has done ! " 
 said the lady, warmly. " And may God help me to 
 profit well by the lesson I have now received." 
 
 " Will you go with me to-day on a visit to old Mrs. 
 Armour ? " asked the maiden, pressing to immediate 
 action the good impulses that were stirring in the heart 
 of the lady. 
 
 " To-day ? " There was an air of reluctance about 
 the speaker. 
 
THE POET S LESSON. 179 
 
 "Yes, to-day, Aunt. Remember the lady in the 
 story, and her motto Let no good impulse wait un 
 til to-morrow. Mrs. Armour will be so glad to see 
 you." 
 
 Thus urged the lady consented. And so the story 
 of Adrain brought a double blessing, and he had his re 
 ward. 
 
 Faded this scene like the other ; and now a low wail 
 of grief penetrated his ears. Looking up, he saw a wo 
 man heavily draped in the garments of mourning. She 
 sat by a table on which lay some books. In her hand 
 she held the miniature of her child ; and Adrian knew 
 that it was her child, and that it had passed upwards to 
 dwell with angels. Tears blinded the grieving mother s 
 eyes, as she tried to look upon the pictured face of her 
 departed. Friend after friend came into the room, and 
 sought to comfort the mourner ; but she turned from 
 them, and wept on. Their words had in them no touch 
 of healing. And so they left her alone in her sorrow. 
 All grief spends itself, sobbing away into silence, like 
 the departing tempest. The lady grew calm at length ; 
 and thought began to reach out from the darkness 
 wherein it was shrouded, to find something upon which 
 it could rest and gain support in this hour of bitter trial. 
 Now her hand moved upon the books that lay upon the 
 table ; now it rested upon a volume in blue and gold ; 
 
180 THE POET S LESSON. 
 
 and now a page was opened before her, and her eyes 
 fell upon words that instantly fixed her attention. The 
 book was one of Adrian s he knew it at a glance. 
 
 The lady read, and a gradual change was soon appar 
 ent. The almost hopeless anguish of her countenance 
 softened away into resignation and her eyes, so stony 
 in their expression a little while before, were growing 
 tender, meek, and patient. Closing the book, at length, 
 she lifted her gaze upwards and said, in a subdued 
 voice 
 
 " Father, I thank thee for these words of comfort and 
 hope, that must have been written for me. Upon the 
 darkness of my sorrow light has broken. A veil has 
 been drawn aside, and I see that in love thou hast vis 
 ited me for only in love are thy dealings with the 
 children of men. By thy inspiration has the poet spok 
 en ; and I take his words as messages from thee. Thy 
 hand is near me in this grief, and thy arm is extended 
 to support me. Light has come through the heavily 
 curtained windows, and I see thy Providence as in noon 
 day light." 
 
 There was a pause. The lady s eyes fell to the book, 
 and she read on again. 
 
 " Thanks, Poet and Comforter ! Thy mission is 
 high and noble," she said, closing the book at length. 
 " May Heaven s choicest blessings be showered upon 
 thy heart." 
 
181 
 
 And this scene changed also. Adrian was now in 
 the street, moving along with the promiscuous crowd. 
 Two young men went by him. They were in conver 
 sation. Something impelled him to follow ; and, as he 
 did so, he heard all that passed between them. One, 
 the youngest, seemed bent on doing something, from the 
 consummation of which his older companion was trying 
 to dissuade him. But, though he urged many strong 
 considerations, the boy for he was only a boy, in fact 
 swerved not a hair from his purpose. 
 
 " Leave me," he said, with all the firmness he could 
 assume. " Leave me, I say ! " 
 
 " No, Edward, my friend, I cannot leave you," an 
 swered the elder companion. " You are wrong to put 
 yourself in the way of temptation." 
 
 " Don t fear for me. I know myself," was returned, 
 with considerable impatience of manner. 
 
 " I do fear for you. You do not know yourself nor 
 the almost irresistible influence which a number of per 
 sons, all consenting to a single act, have over individu 
 als who come within their sphere." 
 
 " It is in vain ; and now good night. Let us part 
 here. I will see you to-morrow morning. Good 
 night ! " 
 
 And the determined boy sought to escape from his 
 friend ; but the friend loved him too truly to suffer him 
 
182 THE POET S LESSON. 
 
 to go, alone, into paths where a false step might prove 
 his ruin. Laying hold upon his arm, he said, in a tone 
 full of interest and persuasion 
 
 " Edward, let me repeat to you something which I 
 read in a book to-day. It arrested my attention at the 
 time, and now comes up in my thoughts with singular 
 vividness." 
 
 " To-morrow, I will hear it," said the young man, 
 petulantly. 
 
 " No, you must hear it to-night Listen ! " 
 
 And then Adrian heard this faithful friend repeat, 
 with singular truth to style and language, a little com 
 posed life-history, which years before he had written and 
 cast forth upon human minds as bread is cast upon the 
 waters. In writing this life-history, he had come into 
 a most vivid perception of the power of evil entice 
 ments over minds of a certain temperament, and had, 
 with a wonderful truth to nature, drawn character, in 
 cident, action, and consequence, in their relation and 
 progression. So startling and life-like were the scenes 
 presented, and so painful the final result, that, when the 
 last sentence fell from the monitor s lips, his young friend 
 turned on him a pallid face. There was a pause, and 
 silence, for some moments. 
 
 " Come ! " said the friend, gently. 
 
 " Saved ! Saved ! " Almost sobbed the now sub- 
 
THE POET S LESSON. 183 
 
 dued, repentant boy, as he grasped the arm of his com 
 panion, 
 
 Adrian awoke ! The wintry wind still moaned and 
 wailed without, but it had no power to sadden the poet s 
 heart ; for he heard music in its tones. This dream was 
 to him a revelation of the truth. He knew that in his 
 work were good seeds ; and now he felt assured that if 
 good seeds were scattered upon human hearts, some of 
 them must fall upon good ground, and bring forth fruit 
 in the harvest time. 
 
 " To inspire the heart with noble and virtuous im 
 pulses ; to send rays of comfort into souls darkened by 
 sorrow ; to help the weak ; give sight to the blind wan 
 derer in the mazes of error, and to hold back the steps 
 from sin are not these great deeds ? " , 
 
 And Adrian s heart began to swell with joy as he 
 talked thus with himself; for a deeper insight had been 
 given, and a clearer perception of truth vouchsafed. 
 
 Poet, novelist, preacher ! The lesson is yours. 
 Weary not over your tasks ; faint not under your bur 
 dens ; permit no shadows from the wing of doubt to 
 dim the clear eye of faith. But work on in your high 
 calling, sending abroad on every passing breeze the 
 winged germs that shall fall upon good ground in 
 thronged cities, distant hamlets, and solitary homes. 
 Be diligent and faithful, and the Lord of the harvest 
 
184 THE POET S LESSON. 
 
 will make your words fruitful. They shall go forth in 
 light, in comfort, in strength, in blessing ; and thousands 
 upon thousands will thank God that you have lived and 
 spoken. You will never know a hundredth part of the 
 good you have done ; but all will be written in the re 
 cords of eternity. 
 
UP HIGHER. 
 
 185 
 
 XIX. 
 
 UP HIGHER. 
 
 OWN again ! " I heard remarked, in a 
 half pitying, half complaining way. 
 " Martin ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he s tripped again." 
 " So I heard this morning. 
 " Tripped, and gone down with a 
 heavy fall ; so heavy that I doubt if he 
 recover himself again." 
 " I m sorry for Martin," said the other. " He has 
 always impressed me as a well-meaning man." 
 
 " Yes, well-meaning enough ; but something more 
 than well-meaning is required for success in this world. * 
 " A spice of cunning and shrewdness, not to speak of 
 roguery." 
 
 " Shrewdness is required, and forethought, and a num 
 ber of other qualities not possessed, I think, in a high 
 degree by Martin. As to the cunning and roguery, 
 
188 UP HIGHER. 
 
 they may succeed for a time, but they always outwit 
 themselves in the end." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! Be the cause what it may, I pity 
 him. He s tried hard enough to keep up. No man 
 could have been more faithful to business, so far as the 
 devotion of his time and his active attention were con 
 cerned. He deserved a better fate/ 
 
 " How will his affairs settle ? " 
 
 " Not particularly well, I hear." 
 
 " Does he show a fair hand ? " 
 
 " Oh yes." The answer was without hesitation. 
 
 " I might have known that from what I know of the 
 man." 
 
 " I don t believe Martin would hold any thing back. 
 He has always impressed me as a man who would pay 
 to the uttermost farthing. Poor fellow ! I m sorry the 
 fortunes of war are against him, and that he has gone 
 down in the heat of battle, un victorious." 
 
 " Yes, gone down, gone down, unvictorious," was re 
 sponded, in a tone of pity. 
 
 It was the first intimation I had of Martin s failure 
 in business, and I was pained to hear of his misfortune. 
 I knew him very well, and held him, as a friend, in 
 high personal regard. The testimony which had been 
 borne in favor of his integrity was in agreement with 
 mv own estimate of his character. 
 
UP HIGHER. 187 
 
 Intelligence of this failure soon spread through all the 
 business circles in which Martin was known, and for 
 two or three days almost every other person you met 
 had something to say about it. The ordinary way of 
 referring to the subject was in the words, " Poor Mar 
 tin, I hear, has gone down again." And not a few re 
 sponded, " He s reached the bottom of the hill this 
 time." Some pitied ; some blamed ; and some spoke 
 harshly and angrily the latter were of those who had 
 lost by the failure. I felt grieved for Martin. It was 
 a sad ordeal for a man of right feelings to pass through. 
 
 I did not meet him, except casually in the street, for 
 some time after his failure. But passing his store one 
 day, and seeing it closed, as a sign that he had given up 
 business, I felt that, as one who had known him with 
 some personal intimacy, I should not hold myself aloof 
 in this his day of trouble. So I called at his house one 
 evening. When I grasped his hand and looked into 
 his face, I saw that he had not come through this trial 
 without great suffering. He had the appearance of a 
 man who had come recently from a bed of sickness. 
 
 " How are you, my friend ? " I asked, as we sat 
 down together. 
 
 " As well as could be hoped for," he replied, a feeble 
 smile touching his lips with a ray of light. 
 
 " Cast down, but not forsaken." 
 
188 UP HIGHER. 
 
 " Not forsaken, I trust," he answered, in a firmer 
 voice. 
 
 " Tliis is one of the troubles that is hard to bear," 
 said I. 
 
 " Yes ; but, as in all other troubles, our strength is as 
 our day." 
 
 " I am pleased to hear you say that," I remarked. 
 
 " I should be sorry, indeed, if I could not say it," he 
 answered, still gaining steadiness of manner. " We 
 look forward to great trials with a shuddering sense of 
 fear, because we are conscious only of the feeble power 
 of endurance that may be called our own. But when 
 the trial comes, and we go down amidst the rushing wa 
 ters, in fear and shuddering lest they overwhelm us, we 
 find an arm to lean upon that is unseen but full of 
 strength." 
 
 44 And so your strength has been as your day ? " said I. 
 
 " Yes ; or I should have perished among the floods. 
 That I sit here, and talk with you as a man to his friend, 
 clothed and in my right mind, makes the fact evident." 
 
 " Could you not have prevented this disaster ? " I 
 asked, during our conversation. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, with such confidence in his voice 
 that I said, with some earnestness, 
 
 " Then why did you not use the means ? " 
 
 " Simply because I could not satisfy myself that they 
 
UP HIGHER. 189 
 
 were the right means. You shall hear and judge for 
 yourself. 
 
 " Two months ago one of my customers, to whom I 
 had sold rather more freely than my judgment after 
 wards approved, failed. It was only a few days before 
 the notes which I had received in payment came due. 
 These notes had been discounted, and I had, of course, 
 to take care of them. In doing this the means held in 
 reserve for maturing payments were exhausted for the 
 time, and I was thrown upon the street as a borrower, 
 on most disadvantageous terms. Another loss, follow 
 ing quickly on this one, alarmed and bewildered me. 
 Twice before had I failed in business, and now this 
 dreaded ordeal, more painful than death in my imagina 
 tion, looked me in the face again, and I grew faint with 
 heart-sickness. I looked eagerly this way and that. 
 Caught at one expedient and another ; dropping each in 
 turn as of little promise, or as indefensible on the score 
 of honest dealing. 
 
 " While sitting at my desk one day, searching about 
 in my thought for a way of escape from the difficulties 
 that environed me like a steadily approaching wall of 
 fire, a real estate agent with whom 1 was well acquaint 
 ed, came in, and said to me, in a confidential way, 
 
 " * I know where some money is to be gained, Mr, 
 Martin. 
 
190 UP HIGHER. 
 
 " Money is a very desirable thing, I answered. 
 
 " And not always to be picked up in the street, 
 said he. 
 
 " 4 Not so far as my experience is concerned. 
 
 " Or mine either. Well, as I was saying, he went 
 on, 4 1 know where some money is to be made. Would 
 you like to join me in making it ? I answered yes, 
 without hesitation ; for, of all things, money was what 
 I then most wanted ; and asked for a statement of the 
 ways and means required. 
 
 " l In the first place, said he, can you raise three or 
 four thousand dollars within a week ? 
 
 " I said yes, if the amount was only needed tempora 
 rily; if for permanent investment, no. 
 
 " It will only be needed temporarily, he answered, 
 as bait for taking a big fish. And he smiled in a way 
 that did not strike me as pleasant. 
 
 " Explain yourself fully, I now said, and he went 
 on. 
 
 " There is a piece of wild land in the interior of this 
 State, which has been owned for years by two elderly 
 maiden sisters, who, long ago, were sick of paying taxes 
 on property that yielded no income. The tract includes 
 nearly two thousand acres, and was bought originally at 
 one dollar and a half an acre. It can be had to-day for 
 three dollars an acre. I know the parties who own it, 
 
UP HIGHER. 191 
 
 and they are now, as they have been for years, anxious 
 to turn this property into money, which can be invested 
 and insure an annual interest. They are advancing in 
 life, and prefer a present certainty to large hopes in the 
 future. I have known of the existence of this property 
 for some time, and have had itching fingers toward it, 
 because I felt satisfied from its location that it must con 
 tain valuable mineral desposits coal or iron. Per 
 haps both. Last week I ran up into the region where 
 it was situated, and getting a skilled man in the neigh 
 borhood, spent two days in a careful examination of the 
 entire tract. The result more than confirmed my ex 
 pectation. Coal crops out in many places, specimens of 
 which I brought away. It proves, on testing, to be of 
 superior quality. Moreover, a railroad is now in the 
 course of construction, which w^ill pass within three 
 miles of the land. Why, Mr. Martin, this whole tract 
 could be sold for a hundred thousand dollars in an hour, 
 if its value was known in the market as I know it. 
 Now, what I require to gain possession is the money. 
 But unfortunately I am poor. I know twenty men who 
 would clutch at the opportunity of joining me in the 
 purchase, and put down the cash at a word ; but I m 
 afraid to trust them with my secret. And this is why I 
 come to you. If you can furnish the means required, 
 one half of the land is yours. I have already seen the 
 
192 UP HIGHER. 
 
 old ladies, and they are ready to sell the property for 
 six thousand dollars ; one half cash, and the balance in 
 six or twelve months payments. The thing must be 
 done quickly, or they may get an inkling of the truth. 
 What do you say, Mr. Martin ? You can sell out your 
 interest in a week for fifty thousand dollars ! 
 
 " Now this man was not a scheming visionary, who 
 got rich on paper twenty times a year, but a cool, 
 shrewd person, who understood entirely what he was 
 about. If he had spent two days on the property re 
 ferred to, in company with an expert, the report he 
 made as to coal desposits might be fully relied upon. 
 Here, then, was a way of escape made plain to me. I 
 had but to raise the sum of three thousand dollars, 
 which my credit would enable me to do, and hold my 
 portion of this land until we could make its value 
 known. I was on the point of thanking him for the of 
 fer of a share in so promising an enterprise, and saying 
 that I would go in with him of course, when this ques 
 tion came into my mind : Is it right to take advantage 
 of the ignorance of these old ladies, and get possession 
 of their property at a mere tithe of its real worth ? 
 The question disturbed me considerably, and I endeav 
 ored to put it out of my mind. But it kept repeating 
 itself, and growing more and more intrusive every mo 
 ment. 
 
UP HIGHER. 193 
 
 " What do you say ? asked the man, breaking in 
 upon my long, hesitating silence. 
 
 " In one hour I will give you an answer, said I. 
 
 " This would afford me time to look at the subject on 
 all sides. The temptation, under the dreadful pressure 
 of my circumstances, was very great. In either of the 
 previous ordeals through which I passed I would have 
 yielded with scarcely a struggle. But I could not see, 
 now, that a way of escape like this was defensible in 
 any clear aspect of Christian morality. It was taking 
 advantage of my better information to obtain valuable 
 property for a most trifling consideration. Would this 
 be in harmony with the Golden Rule ? Would there 
 be justice and judgment in the act ? Was it a deed 
 that any good conscience could bear onward to the clos 
 ing of life, and not feel its pressure as a burden grow 
 ing heavier and heavier ? As I dwelt on the subject 
 my mind grew excited and eager. On the one hand 
 was inevitable ruin my affairs were so near a crisis 
 that hope had given way ; on the other, a fortune as 
 large as I had ever asked for lay within my reach, and 
 I had only to put forth my hand and take it only to 
 put forth my hand and save myself from disaster and 
 iny creditors from loss. Then came the additional argu 
 ment that my refusal to accept the advantage would not 
 prevent the old ladies from losing this property. Some 
 
194 UP HIGHER. 
 
 other person would be found to take my place in fur 
 nishing the cash required, and so the land would pass to 
 new owners. But this did not satisfy me. It was the 
 old false argument in favor of appropriating another s 
 goods because they were doomed to be stolen by some 
 body. 
 
 " In an hour my tempter returned. 
 
 " What s the word, Mr. Martin ? he asked, looking 
 at me so confidently that I saw he was in no doubt 
 about my acceptance of his proposal. I had settled the 
 question, after a severe struggle, and was prepared to 
 answer without hesitation. 
 
 " 4 The thing seems promising enough, said I ; 4 but 
 I have concluded against becoming a party in the trans 
 action. 
 
 " Why not ? he asked, looking disappointed. 
 
 " 4 Plainly, was my answer, 4 because it hasn t a fair 
 look. Advantage will be taken of another s ignorance. 
 
 " The man s face betrayed an instant angry move 
 ment of his feelings, and he muttered something in an 
 undertone, in which my ears seemed to detect the words, 
 Stupid fool I 
 
 " 4 And you are really in earnest ? said he, scarcely 
 seeking to hide a look of contempt that was rising to his 
 face. 
 
 " I am, was my firm answer. 
 
UP HIGHER. 195 
 
 4 
 
 " Good-morning ! 
 
 " He threw the words at me with an impatient im- 
 
 % 
 
 pulse, and left me on the instant." 
 
 " Did he find a less scrupulous individual to join 
 him ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes ; and what is more, the purchase of the land 
 was made, and it has since been sold to a company for 
 some fabulous sum two or three hundred thousand 
 dollars, I believe." 
 
 " Half of which would have been yours ? " said I. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, without change of tone or man 
 ner. 
 
 " And instead of being away down in this low, dim 
 valley, you would now be on the sunny heights of pros 
 perity ? " 
 
 He looked at me for a little while without answering. 
 
 " Have you, at any time, regretted that decision ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Not for a single instant," he replied. " After the 
 temptation was over, and my mind was able to rise into 
 a clearer region, I saw the transaction in such a hid 
 eous aspect that I almost shuddered in thinking of mv 
 escape. Ah ! Sir, there are greater evils than poverty, 
 and higher good than riches. With that sin upon my 
 conscience I would have gone down into regions of 
 doubt and darkness, and mayhap lost my way, never to 
 
196 UP HIGHEK. 
 
 find it again. It is better, far better, I think, to walk 
 in the right way, even if it be with naked feet, than to 
 tread on soft velvet in passing along the road that leads 
 to destruction at last." 
 
 " Better ? Yes, a thousand times better ! " said I 
 with ardor. " This fall, then this going down 
 again, as the common saying is can not, in one sense, 
 be called a misfortune, but a trial in which there might 
 come a death of something evil and selfish in your soul, 
 and thence a new birth of higher and more heavenly 
 principles. You were brought into a strong temptation, 
 in which good gained a victory over evil ; and you are 
 a truer man for the fierce struggle and conquest." 
 
 " I know not how that may be," he answered. " I 
 only know that I have a clear conscience ; that in the 
 fire through which I have been required to pass I have 
 not let truth or justice go to the flames." 
 
 How think you, reader ? Had that man gone down 
 lower or up higher ? What would you have done un 
 der circumstances of like trial ? Would you have 
 clutched eagerly at the golden opportunity which came 
 with such tempting smiles ; or, like Martin, risked the 
 fire ? If you are a man looking heavenward and 
 doubtless this is so let the question come home ; it 
 may give you a new consciousness of your own state. 
 In the mirror of his scrupulous action you may see a re 
 flection of yourself. 
 
WAS IT A MISFORTUNE? 
 
 197 
 
 XX. 
 
 WAS IT A MISFORTUNE. 
 
 MPOSSIBLE ! " exclaimed Morris Hes- 
 ton, starting up from his desk. " Impos 
 sible ! " he repeated, his face growing 
 very pale. 
 
 " It is too true," was the answer 
 made by a gentleman, who had come 
 hurriedly into the store of Mr. Heston. 
 " I have the news from a reliable source." 
 
 " Failed ! " 
 
 " Yes ; and failed badly. It is alleged that not ten 
 cents in the dollar can possibly be realized. I hope he 
 doesn t owe you much." 
 
 " Not a great deal," was answered, evasively, though 
 with ill-concealed anxiety ; " yet enough to sweep away 
 nearly all my profits on the year s business, should the 
 loss be total. Is he on your books ? " 
 
198 WAS IT A MISFORTUNE? 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " To a large amount ? " 
 
 " Three thousand dollars." 
 
 " I thought him sound to the core. The reports in 
 regard to his standing have always been A No. 1." 
 
 " He has been engaged, it is said, in some land spec 
 ulations, which have turned out disastrously. The old 
 story of the dog and the shadow. Well, we must ex 
 pect such things, and meet them with as much philoso 
 phy as can be summoned to our aid. Good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 And the man went out as hurriedly as he had come 
 in. As he left the store, Mr.Heston turned, with a dis 
 turbed manner, to his ledger, and threw over the leaves 
 nervously. Pausing at an account, he footed it up rap 
 idly. The pencilled figures showed the sum of four 
 thousand eight hundred and sixty-one dollars. There 
 was a credit by bills receivable of four thousand dollars ; 
 three thousand five hundred of which had been dis 
 counted, and would mature in less than a month. 
 
 Morris Heston was a young man, who had been in 
 business only about two years. The capital on which 
 he commenced, was less than two thousand dollars ; and 
 the whole of this he had saved from his salary. He 
 was active, industrious and intelligent, and on the road, 
 many predicted, to fortune. But in one thing he was 
 
WAS IT A MISFORTUNE? 199 
 
 indiscreet ; and that was, in selling too largely to a 
 single customer. No wonder that he started and 
 turned pale on hearing bad news from this customer ; 
 for loss here was equivalent to ruin. Already, the re 
 lation between receipts and payments were so close, 
 that any serious deficiency in the one, or increase in the 
 other, would prove a source of embarrassment ; and to 
 have between three and four thousand dollars of dis 
 counted bills come back upon him in four weeks, would 
 certainly cause him to stop payment. 
 
 We need not picture the troubled events that followed, 
 too surely, the confirmed intelligence of this failure of a 
 distant customer. Heston was too weak to bear th^ 
 pressure that came upon him, and so was forced to giva 
 way. A few of his creditors, who had faith in his in 
 tegrity and ability, would cheerfully have reduced their 
 claims, and given him ample time on the balance ; but 
 the majority, who had no personal interest in him, and 
 looked only to themselves, acted upon the common adage 
 current in such cases, that the " first loss is the best 
 loss," and swept everything, leaving the unhappy, mor 
 tified and dispirited young man without a dollar on 
 which to begin the world again nay, even worse than 
 this, leaving him several thousand dollars in debt ; for, 
 in throwing his stock into auction, and forcing collec 
 tions, serious losses were inevitable. 
 
200 WAS IT A MISFORTUNE? 
 
 Troubles rarely come alone. Another, and to our 
 young friend, a sadder disaster followed. He was 
 under engagement of marriage, and the time of its cel 
 ebration had been fixed. From the ^noment rumor 
 rilled the air with reports of his heavy losses and dan 
 ger of failure he thought he could perceive a change in 
 the manner of his betrothed. He tried to think this 
 only imagination ; but the change seemed daily to grow 
 more and more apparent. At last it became necessary 
 for him to tell her of his misfortune, and the blight 
 which had come over his worldly prospects. He still 
 had faith in her; still tried to deceive himself notwith 
 standing the recent change in her manner. 
 
 She listened with a coldness of exterior that chilled 
 him to the heart ; then gave a few tears ; and then sat 
 in irresponsive silence. 
 
 Stung by this apparent want of sympathy, and be 
 wildered by the conviction that a new and heavier mis 
 fortune was about to cloud the sky of his life, the young 
 man started up, and standing before the embarrassed girl, 
 said, with much agitation of tone and manner 
 
 " Agnes ! how am I to understand this ? Are you, 
 too, only a summer friend ? " 
 
 Scarcely had the words passed from his lips, ere she 
 started to her feet, and glided without a word of answer 
 from the room. 
 
WAS IT A MISFORTUNE ? 201 
 
 For the space of nearly ten minutes, Heston walked 
 the floor of the apartment in which he had been left 
 alone, every moment expecting the return of his be 
 trothed, but she came not back. At the end of this pe 
 riod he left the house, in so wretched a state of mind, 
 that, for a brief season, he meditated self-destruction. 
 But wiser thoughts restored him to better feelings. 
 
 Once more he called to see the yet enthroned idol of 
 his affections ; but she refused to meet him, and the idol 
 was cast down and broken into fragments at his feet. 
 It was but gilded clay, and not fine gold, as he had vain 
 ly believed. 
 
 The effect of this double misfortune was altogether 
 paralyzing. Heston fell into a state of gloomy inaction. 
 Friends urged him to look the world bravely in the face 
 once more, and begin again, with a stout heart, the bat 
 tle of life. But he answered 
 
 "No I have been mocked once. Let that suffice. 
 I will not run the risk of another such disaster. 
 
 " She is unworthy of a thought," said one, alluding 
 to the maiden who had proved so meanly false to her 
 vows ; " and a thousand times unworthy of regret by so 
 true a heart as yours." 
 
 " It is easy to say all that," was answered, in a tone 
 of bitterness, " but the heart that once loves, loves on 
 9* 
 
202 WAS IT A MISFORTUNE? 
 
 forever loves, even though the object of affection be 
 proved unworthy." 
 
 u Mere poet s talk ! " said the friend. " True love is 
 only based on the perception of qualities. You never 
 truly loved this girl ; and time will prove my words. 
 Let her image pass from your thoughts like breath from 
 the face of a mirror. Fling her memory to the winds." 
 
 Little effect had this upon the mind of Heston. He 
 held himself aloof from friends, and remained for nearly 
 twelve mouths a kind of social recluse, brooding over 
 the misfortunes which had so early in life made his sky 
 sunless. As a clerk on a moderate salary, he went 
 through his monotonous round of duties, all interest in 
 the future seeming to have died out of his heart. 
 
 At the end of a year there was a gay wedding in the 
 city ; gay and imposing enough to create a flutter in 
 certain circles. A young merchant, who had started 
 in business at the same time with Heston, and being 
 more successful, had tried another venture in life, even 
 the doubtful one of Leading to the altar a maiden who 
 had been false to her first lover, turning heartlessly from 
 him when the sunshine left his path. 
 
 This had the effect to stir into new life the almost 
 dormant energies of our young friend. From that time 
 he walked abroad with a firmer tread, and a counte 
 nance more elevated. If his old light-heartedness did 
 
WAS IT A MISFORTUNE ? 203 
 
 not return, he showed a cheerful aspect, and something 
 like a genial side to his character. The true man in 
 him was moving with a new vitality, and throwing off 
 the dead husks of feeling which closed around him close 
 ly as cerements. 
 
 Ere another year had gone by, an offer to commence 
 business again or rather, to become a partner in an 
 old established house was accepted, and he started in 
 the world once more, moving with a steadier step, and 
 with a surer prospect. And he loved again loved as 
 deeply, and far more wisely loved one, whose light 
 of love for him was an undying flame, that no waters 
 of misfortune could ever quench. 
 
 Morris Heston was all right with the world again ; 
 and wiser and happier for the brief but desolating storm 
 which had so sadly marred the beautiful garden of his 
 young life. Prosperity crowned his business efforts, 
 and love made his home a Paradise. 
 
 Now and then he met on the street, or in social par 
 ties, her who had played him so falsely in his darker 
 hours ; never without an almost audibly breathed utter 
 ance of thanks for the misfortune which had proved her 
 quality. She was growing yearly into a bold, flaunting, 
 heartless woman of the world ; her once beautiful face 
 changing steadily, until, to eyes unveiled by sensuality, it 
 wore a most repellant aspect. To her husband s side, 
 
20-4 WAS IT A MISFORTUNE ? 
 
 she was rarely seen to move, on social occasions, with 
 an unconscious instinct, as if it was always pleasant to 
 be near him ; but plainly preferred any man s company 
 to his. 
 
 " Thank God for misfortune ! " said Heston, almost 
 speaking aloud, on one occasion, as he saw her turn 
 from her husband with scarcely concealed disgust, and 
 crown another man with a wreath of smiles. " To me 
 it came a blessing in disguise." 
 
 It was scarcely a month later, when the husband of 
 this weak, vain, unprincipled woman, returned from 
 his business one evening to find his home\ desolate, his 
 love hopelessly wrecked, and his baby worse than moth 
 erless. His wife had abandoned all her sacred duties, 
 and throwing love, honor, virtue, to the mocking winds, 
 cast her Jot with that of a false wretch who lured her 
 from the true path, only to fling her aside after a brief 
 season as a worthless thing. 
 
 " Thank God for misfortune ! " exclaimed Mr. Hes 
 ton, in the silence of his swelling heart, when intelli 
 gence of this sad event reached his ears. It came to 
 him, first from the lips of his own true wife, who had 
 grown daily dearer to him since the blessed hour when 
 she had given hand and heart together. " Misfortune ? 
 Oh, no!" he said. "It was not misfortune but 
 blessing ! The sun was shining still in the sky ; only a 
 few clouds had hid from me his loving face." 
 
WAS IT A MISFORTUNE? 205 
 
 Almost tearfully did Morris Heston gather his little 
 children into his arms that evening, looking from them 
 to their mother with such loving glances, that hall-won 
 dering, and half-joyful, the happy spouse felt a new de 
 light swelling in her heart, that gave a new beauty to 
 her pure countenance. 
 
 " I bless God, dear Mary ! " said the young man, as 
 she came to his side, drawn by the magnetism of his 
 love, " that you are my wife ! My true, loving, faith 
 ful wife, and the mother of my precious babes." 
 
 Very softly that happy wife and mother laid her lips 
 upon the forehead of her husband, the touch thrilling 
 him to the inmost of his spirit. 
 
 Was it misfortune that clouded our young friend s 
 life ? No no. Not misfortune, in the darker sense 
 the seeming evil was only a blessing disguised. And 
 so, to the right-thinking, the right-feeling, the true- 
 hearted, will all the darker dispensations of life prove 
 themselves blessings. Let us be patient, hopeful, trust 
 ing, when the sky is shadowed, nor tremble at the 
 storm that seems desolating the earth. The cloudy tem 
 pest is only a transient condition of nature ; there is 
 above all, the perpetual sunshine. 
 
 To the right-minded there are no misfortunes. 
 
206 
 
 THE DEACON S DREAM. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE DEACON S DREAM. 
 
 HERE had always been a pious vein 
 about Deacon Elwood. It showed 
 itself in him when a mere boy. He 
 would play at prayer meeting, if he 
 could get the little ones to join him, 
 while other lads amused themselves 
 with ball or some such worldly pas 
 time. Not that he was less selfish, 
 or more self-denying than his compan 
 ions. But his fancy led him in this direction, or, per 
 haps, something more deeply ingrained. It might have 
 been that this pious vein of which we have spoken 
 not in any lightness, but to indicate a peculiarity was 
 an intimation of the after life-use for which, in the 
 great complex of uses, he was best fitted by nature. 
 Be this as it may, young Elwood always showed a 
 
207 
 
 leaning toward the church, and, at an early age, became 
 a member. And it must be said, on his behalf, that, as 
 a young man, he maintained a good character. No one 
 could point to lapses from virtue or integrity, nor even 
 to the follies that so often throw a shade over young 
 men s lives. Fathers pointed him out to their sons as 
 an example. 
 
 There was a time when El wood thought seriousty of 
 becoming a minister ; and if his father, a money-loving 
 and money-making man, had favored the inclination, he 
 would have been a preacher instead of a trader. But 
 old Mr. Elwood had rather a poor opinion of the pulpit 
 viewed from a worldly point, and as a profession 
 and there was enough of the inherited love of money in 
 his son to make him clear sighted as to his father s argu 
 ment on the subject. So his first love was abandoned 
 for a second and more ardent love. 
 
 Still he remained a church-loving man, uniting him 
 self with his brethren in the faith at an early period in 
 life, and standing always in an advanced position. He 
 led in prayer-meetings and other assemblages, and 
 took an active interest in all religious matters. While 
 still a young man, he was chosen to fill the office of dea 
 con. It was a day of pleasing self-congratulation, when 
 news of the appointment reached him. He felt it as a 
 compliment, and yet not an undeserved one. His am- 
 
208 THE DEACON S DREAM. 
 
 bition had looked this way, and it was gratified. " Dea 
 con El wood." It had a pleasant sound in his ears, 
 " Deacon Elwood." How often it was repeated in his 
 mind for months after the honor crowned his brows 
 " Deacon Elwood." How many times, as he held pen 
 in hand, did these two words drop down upon white pa 
 per, and lie there in his own clear chirography, a pleas 
 ant thing to look upon. 
 
 In all church matters the deacon was formal, pious, 
 observant and active. With him resided a controlling 
 power in most of the temporalities, as they were called. 
 He was the minister s nearest friend and adviser, and 
 that individual had learned the propriety of humoring 
 him, where no principle of action was involved. In 
 time, Deacon Elwood came to consider himself as not only 
 a pillar in the church, but as equal to a dozen ordinary 
 pillars. He could not see how it was possible, without 
 his active care and watchfulness, for the congregation 
 to be held together. As to his fitness for heaven, that 
 was not a question in the deacon s mind. It had been 
 settled long ago. If he was not a fair subject for heav 
 en, the world was to be pitied. If he didn t pass through 
 the pearly gates in the last time, who, then, would be 
 saved ? 
 
 But we must come to the deacon s dream. A certain 
 minister, sojourning, had been asked to occupy, for a 
 
THE DEACON S DREAM. 209 
 
 single time, the pulpit in our deacon s church. Now, it 
 matters not how well a minister may preach, we are 
 very apt to grow inattentive to his positions and argu 
 ments, however fairly assumed and lucidly presented, if 
 we listen to him Sabbath after Sabbath for a long time. 
 His words do not come to us with the same clearness of 
 meaning that they did in the beginning, when a certain 
 newness in the man made us hang more earnestly upon 
 what he said. The peculiarities of style that pleased 
 us at first, and even quickened our interest, have come 
 to be felt as tiresome mannerisms. We take his in 
 struction as wide generalities, but rarely understand 
 them in any direct application to our own lives. 
 
 This had come to be very much the case with our 
 deacon s minister at least so far as the deacon was 
 concerned. As to doctrine, he felt himself quite as 
 well posted as the minister ; and as to sermonizing, 
 which related mainly to the admonition of sinners, and 
 reproofs of believers for their backslidings and neglect 
 of duties, he had no concern in them, and quite as often 
 spent the church hour in dreaming over his business, as 
 in meditating points of theology. 
 
 But a new minister was to fill the pulpit, and Dea 
 con Elwood went to church on that fair Sabbath, with 
 ears quickened for hearing. The sermon was not wha f 
 is called doctrinal, but practical, and went a little deep- 
 
210 THE DEACON S DREAM. 
 
 er down into a consideration of the life of professors 
 than is usual. Professors being generally regarded as 
 on the safe side, our ministers give their most serious at 
 tention to sinners, and try to get them over on to solid 
 ground. On this occasion, however, the saints got a 
 pretty thorough consideration of their case, and it was 
 not, in all respects, flattering to their self-complacency. 
 There were a few sentences that rather disturbed our 
 good deacon s composure, and he took them home with 
 him. Let us consider them as well. The minister said : 
 "It is not piety that saves a man ; there must be 
 charitity as well. It isn t love to God alone that opens 
 heaven ; there must be genuine love of the neighbor ; 
 Sabbath worship, church ordinances, tithes, mint and 
 cummin, will avail nothing to the soul s salvation, 
 if the weightier matters of the law are neglected. 
 Nay, they will be rather as millstones about the 
 neck, to sink your souls to perdition. What are 
 these weightier matters of the law ? They are jus 
 tice and judgment, not external forms of worship. 
 They belong almost entirely to your lives in busi 
 ness and among men, and but remotely, so to speak, 
 to your specifically religious lives. And it is by your 
 states as to the every day life, rather than by your 
 states as to the Sunday life, that you will be judged in 
 the last time. And I solemnly warn you, as God s 
 
THE DEACON S DREAM. 211 
 
 messenger, to see to it, that the oil of true neighborly 
 love be in your lamps and vessels, when the cry is heard, 
 4 Behold the bridegroom cometh ! 
 
 44 Let your thought, my dear Christian friends, go 
 forward for a few years to some of you it may only 
 be a few days to that time when the eyes of these 
 natural and perishing bodies shall close in darkness, and 
 the inner eyes of the spirit shall open upon the world 
 of eternal verities. When God s angels shall come to 
 you, and looking down through all disguises, explore 
 you as to the quality of your lives as to your love, as 
 well as your faith. What, my friend," and it seemed 
 to Deacon Elwood as if the preacher looked right at him, 
 as he leaned forward over the pulpit, and spoke in a low, 
 thrilling voice, " do the angels find in the hidden inte 
 riors of your life ? Love of the neighbor and love of 
 God? or their dark opposites, love of the world and 
 love of self? Do not turn away from the question. It 
 concerns you deeply to know the truth. What affec 
 tions do most rule in your minds ? Take the six days 
 of each week, and from the record of these days an 
 swer the question, and, as you value your soul s eternal 
 happiness, answer it faithfully. Heaven is a state of 
 mutual love a state in which no angel seeks his own 
 good and happiness, but the good and happiness of oth 
 ers. Are you a godly man ? Your brethren say yes ; 
 
212 THE DEACON S DREAM. 
 
 but to be godly is to be God-like. And God is ever 
 seeking to bless others. How is it with you, taking 
 this standard ? I press the question. How is it with 
 you, my friend ? Are you angel-like and God-like ? 
 If not, your external devotion to the church, your good 
 name among the brethren, your pious observances and 
 well-ordered prayers, will help you nothing in that last 
 time when the Lord comes to make up his jewels." 
 
 It seemed to Deacon Elwood, as the minister leaned 
 over the pulpit, speaking in a low, penetrating voice, 
 which met no obstruction in the hushed room, that he 
 was speaking to him alone. He had never felt so 
 strangely impressed by a sermon in all his life. One 
 thought, in particular, haunted him : it was that of be 
 ing examined by the pure angels after death, in regard 
 to the quality of his life. He did not feel altogether 
 satisfied as to the condition in which they would find 
 his more interior affections. The deacon s Sunday din 
 ner was always a good one, and, as his appetite was not 
 very greatly disturbed by the sermon, strongly as some 
 portions of it had taken hold of his thoughts, he did 
 not spare the " creature comforts." After dinner, the 
 Sunday nap succeeded as usual, and in that temporary 
 oblivion as to outward things, came a dream that, while 
 it lasted, proved a most agonizing ordeal to the deacon. 
 We will relate it in his own words : 
 
THE DEACON S DREAM. 213 
 
 " I thought," said he, " that my hour had come. 
 But I was tranquil. I had been a church member for 
 a great many years, and had been a servant of the 
 church for nearly the whole of that period. God s 
 grace was my ark f safety. I trusted in my Redeem 
 er. And so, peacefully, I laid myself down and slept, 
 trusting to awake in His righteousness. 
 
 " Consciousness came back again, though after how 
 long a period I could not tell. But this I .knew I 
 had passed from the natural to the spiritual world. I 
 lay as one half awakened, or as in a trance, with thought 
 clear, yet with no power of motion. Close by my head 
 sat two angels. I did not see them, but I heard them 
 talking together. They were the angels appointed to 
 attend on my entrance into the spiritual w r orld. The 
 state of my soul was the subject of their conversation. 
 I was soon alive with interest in regard to their judg 
 ment. Nothing of what I had done in the world, or 
 thought, or said nothing as to the doctrines I had be 
 lieved was referred to, or considered. It was the 
 state of my affections, or of my * life s love, as they 
 called it. They looked into my spirit, searching for 
 neighborly love. A low chill went creeping through 
 my bosom, as I heard a sweet, sad voice murmur 
 
 " 4 There is only love of the world here. 
 
 " And I knew that it was so ; for then I saw mvself 
 
214 THE DEACON S DREAM. 
 
 as I had never seen myself before. All my life had 
 been one ever out-reaching desire for the things of this 
 world for its wealth, its natural blessings, and even 
 its honors. All through the six days of each week I 
 had sought my own worldly good ; and on the Sabbath 
 that crowned the week, sought, in pious acts, to secure 
 my own salvation. My neighbor had not been in all my 
 thoughts* 
 
 o 
 
 " 4 Only love of the world, I heard sighed back by 
 the companion-angel, instead of neighborly love. 
 
 " And if there is only love of the world, said the 
 angel who had first spoken, there can be no love of 
 God ; for if a man love not his brother whom he hath 
 seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen ? 
 
 " Only love of self and love of the world, sighed 
 the second angel ; and heaven is a state of love to God 
 and the neighbor. We must depart from him, and let 
 the evil spirits approach who are in a state similar to his 
 own. I thought to have borne this newly-risen soul 
 in joy upwards to the presence of God ; but we must 
 leave it to its own. 
 
 " And then I heard them departing. Oh, what an 
 guish of soul was mine ! Thus had I wakened to eter 
 nal verities. The angels who had been appointed to re 
 ceive my soul, and bear it heavenward, found in it no 
 heavenly life, and they had left me to the companion- 
 
THE DEACON S DREAM. 215 
 
 ship of devils ! Now I felt a dark shadow stealing 
 over me. The evil spirits were approaching, and in the 
 horror of the moment I started from sleep." 
 
 A thoughtful man was Deacon Elwood for a long 
 time after that alarming vision. Dreams are of various 
 kinds fantastic, for the most part yet sometimes of 
 Providence, and significative. The deacon was never 
 
 in doubt as to the character of his dream. It was the 
 
 
 
 most telling sermon ever addressed to him, and most 
 fruitful in genuine good. He looked down deeper into 
 his heart after that, than he had ever looked before, and 
 understood how gross had been the naturalism in which 
 he had lived, even while self-congratulant on the score 
 of spiritual-mindedness. When the angels appointed to 
 receive his spirit, as it rises into the eternal world at 
 death, examine him as to his quality, may they find that 
 true love of God and the neighbor which alone makes 
 heaven. 
 
216 
 
 WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE ? 
 
 WO men met on the public highway, 
 stopped, clasped hands, and looked at 
 each other for some moments, without 
 speaking. The face of one of them 
 was worn, exhausted, and shaded by 
 trouble ; that of the other calm, ele 
 vated, and full of sympathetic life. 
 
 " I thought you were triple guard 
 ed," said the calm-faced man. 
 
 " And I was," replied the other. " Human pru 
 dence could do no more. I saw where other men were 
 weak or foolish, and took warning. I never acted from 
 impulse ; never let a too eager desire for gain betray me 
 into unsafe lines of business. I built on solid founda 
 tions. And yet, for all this, I am little else than a beg 
 gar to-day. It is hard, Mr. Melville ! And I feel a 
 
WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? 217 
 
 sense of wrong. What have I done, to be thus pun 
 ished ? I can show a fair record. No man can ever 
 say that I ever overreached him in business ; nor any 
 poor man that I have withheld his wages, or oppressed 
 him in any thing. I have been just and honorable in 
 my dealings, which cannot be said of many who still 
 count their wealth by tens of thousands. Talk of Prov 
 idence ruling for good in the world ! I am not able to 
 see it clearly." 
 
 " But you will see it," answered the one w r ho had been 
 addressed as Mr. Melville. " The dust and smoke of 
 falling and consuming fortune, have blinded your eyes." 
 
 " I shall never see the justice that lies in an almost 
 wanton destruction of my house, while my neighbor s, 
 every brick of which is cemented to its fellows by some 
 wrong deed, stands scatheless." 
 
 " You state your view of the case broadly, Mr. An 
 drews." 
 
 " Yet with exact truth," was answered. 
 
 " A year hence, and, in re-stating the case, you will 
 omit the term wanton." 
 
 " No sir ! That is wanton which looks to no good 
 end." 
 
 " If good is not regarded, then evil must be the in 
 spiring motive," said Mr. Melville. " And so, in refer- 
 10 
 
218 WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE ? 
 
 ring your misfortune to Providence, you charge God 
 with evil." 
 
 " I leave you, as a clergyman, to settle that point," 
 replied Mr. Andrews, with signs of impatience. " I am 
 unable to see beyond the circle in which I stand. Six 
 months ago, I was in the enjoyment of a handsome 
 property, honestly acquired, through years of patient la 
 bor in a useful calling. To-day I stand stripped of eve 
 rything. If not a sparrow falls unnoted to the ground 
 if the very hairs of our head are numbered all 
 this must have reached me through the permissions, if 
 not the ordinations, of Proridence. So you read the 
 event, I am sure." 
 
 " So I read it, Mr. Andrews." 
 
 " And God is good and just ? " 
 
 " Essentially good and just." 
 
 " Expound the riddle then." 
 
 " I may give you the clue by which to expound it for 
 3 r ourself. Undoubting convictions only come to us as 
 the result of experience. After we have lived through 
 our disciplinary states, we rise to higher spiritual eleva 
 tions, thus gaining a clearer atmosphere, and a wider 
 range of vision. Now, you are feeling around you with 
 uncertain hands, in the obscurity of a deep and narrow 
 valley ; but out of this hindering state, you will surely 
 rise, and see the broad fields rich with an eternal ver- 
 
WOULD TOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? 219 
 
 Jure that your stronger hands ma} 7 reap, and mountains 
 bathed in heaven s own sunlight, to whose summits you 
 will have strength to climb. The clue I offer is in this 
 proposition, the truth of which is as clear to me as sun 
 light : The purposes of God, in all His Providential 
 dealings with man, have regard to his spiritual well be 
 ing, and look to his eternal happiness in heaven ; and to 
 this end, all natural events are made subservient. If 
 continued worldly prosperity will best aid in the implan 
 tation of germs of spiritual life, and stimulate their 
 growth, then worldly misfortunes will not come ; but if 
 sorrows, troubles, or losses are needed, these, in tender 
 mercy, will be sent. So far as my observation goes, the 
 sunshine of worldly prosperity is not favorable to the 
 growth of a divine life in the human soul. It dries the 
 seed, and burns up the tender shooting plants ; or so 
 stimulates the growth of noxious weeds, that they spring 
 up with a rank vitality and choke the heavenly ver 
 dure." 
 
 Mr. Andrews bent his head and listened. There was 
 a pause, but he did not answer. 
 
 " I will not press the subject now," said the clergy 
 man. " Take the clue I have given, and by means 
 thereof search for the higher truths to which it will 
 lead. God regards eternal ends. Fix that in your 
 thought. Dwell upon it. Try to understand the im- 
 
220 WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? 
 
 mortal, the eternal interests it involves ; and, in the ef 
 fort, light will descend into your mind. God is our fa 
 ther, and, as a father, will never permit pain to reach us 
 except as a warning against soul-destroying evils, even 
 as pain of body warns us of the encroachments of dis 
 eases that would destroy its life." 
 
 The two men parted. Mr. Andrews took with him 
 the clue his minister had given. At first he could not 
 hold it steadily. It would drop from his hand and seem 
 lost. But, conscious that he was in a wilderness, out of 
 which no blind reasonings of his own could extricate 
 him, he would grapple after the clue, and, when found 
 again, hold it with a firmer grasp. 
 
 " Eternal ends." Often he found himself repeating 
 the words, while thought lifted itself now upward into 
 purer regions, or went searching down into his heart, 
 turning over motives and purposes, and discovering in 
 many lurking places hidden things of selfishness that 
 could not stand unabashed in the pure light of Chris 
 tian truth. He had been for years building his house 
 upon the sands, and now he began to see how uncertain 
 were the foundations. 
 
 A year afterwards. Let us see how the discipline of 
 misfortune has wrought with Mr. Andrews. Let us 
 see whether he has kept hold of the clue, and whether 
 it has led him out of the bewildering ma/.e in which he 
 
WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? 221 
 
 found himself. The time is evening. He is Girting, 
 with his eyes on a book. The apartment is small, plain 
 ly furnished, but neat. A woman comes in, with a 
 work-basket in her hand, and placing it on a table, sits 
 down near him. He lifts Ms eyes and looks at her a 
 moment or two, with a gentle smile of welcome on his 
 lips, and then drops them again on the page before him. 
 The face of the woman is peaceful, and yet, in her eyes, 
 and around her lips, you can see the signs of past suffer 
 ing. A little while, and then both look up and listen. 
 A few moments, and the door is opened. 
 
 " Mr. Melville ! " The voices that greet the minister 
 are full of welcome. 
 
 " I was thinking of you but an instant ago," fell from 
 the lips of Mr. Andrews. 
 
 " Our thoughts often go before us, and announce our 
 coming," is answered. 
 
 A pleasant exhilaration of mind follows. Mr. An 
 drews is smiling and cheerful, and his wife leans and lis 
 tens with consenting interest as her husband and the 
 minister fall into conversation. 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Melville, during the progress of 
 this conversation, " that you kept firm hold of the clue 
 I gave months ago, and that it has enabled you to find 
 the way out of labyrinthine doubt into sunny regions." 
 
 " I see things very differently to day," was answered. 
 
222 WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? 
 
 " Consider my question closely. Would you have it 
 otherwise than it is ? " 
 
 " Otherwise ? " 
 
 " Strike, in your thought, the balance of loss and 
 gain. Are you better off, or worse off, than you were 
 a year ago ! " 
 
 Mr. Andrews dropped his eyes, and began pondering 
 the question. He understood the higher meanings that 
 were in Mr. Melville s mind. 
 
 " How are your mental states ? " 
 
 " More peaceful ! " 
 
 " And your heart ? " 
 
 " No_t so wedded to the things of this world, which 
 are forever changing, alluring, disappointing." 
 
 " Things more satisfying are yours. Truths, the full 
 acknowledgment of which lifts you into regions of an 
 gelic thought, and the life of which introduces you into 
 angelic companionship. You are happier than you 
 
 ?5 9 
 
 " I am in greater tranquillity. Life has deeper satis 
 factions. And I can see farther beyond. Accumulated 
 wealth, w r ith an ever-growing desire to make larger and 
 still larger accumulations, walled me around, and shut 
 away from my vision the world of richer beauty I now 
 see, and towards which I am trying to walk." 
 
 " In striking the balance, then, the larger figures are 
 on the side of gain." 
 
WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE 223 
 
 " Yes, if the things of the spirit are of more value 
 than the things of sense." 
 
 " And they are. So far outside of all comparison 
 are worldly riches and spiritual riches, that between 
 them we can hardly say there is a relation of values. 
 
 " * Wisdom divine ! Who tells the price 
 Of wisdom s costly merchandise ? 
 Wisdom to silver we prefer, 
 And gold is dross compared to her. 
 
 No external change ; no robbery ; no commercial disas 
 ter can touch this wealth. It is ours in spite of all that 
 men can do. God, in his Providence, does not suffer it 
 to be wasted ; but all his dealings with the children of 
 men are to the end that it may be stored up in their 
 minds for use ; and in using it they have undying felici 
 ties. But returning to my question Would you have 
 it otherwise than it is ? Would you take back the for 
 tune that dropped from your possession a year ago, if, 
 with that fortune, your old mental and moral states 
 must also be restored ? " 
 
 For a little while Mr. Andrews leaned his head in 
 thought. Then looking up, he pronounced an emphat 
 ic 
 
 "No." 
 
 " God knows best," said the minister. Too wise to 
 err, too good to be unkind, all his Providences are in 
 
224 WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE? 
 
 love. It is our misjudgment that questions their origin 
 and ends. We set our hearts on natural things that 
 perish in the using that almost always disturb or cre 
 ate inordinate desires, which grow more clamorous with 
 every gain. But God s regard for these never goes be 
 yond their service of a more interior life ; and he per 
 mits their enjoyment, or not, as giving or withholding 
 may serve the higher ends. Would He be good, and 
 Avise, and merciful were this not so ? Who does not 
 blame the weak parent who indulges the natural incli 
 nations of his children, to the destruction of those un 
 selfish and noble qualities that give to matured life the 
 beauty and strength of a well disciplined manhood ? 
 Shall God be more foolish in dealing with His children 
 during their probationary minority in this world ? If 
 we call evil good, He will not. You say No/ you 
 would not have it otherwise than it is. In what marked 
 respect is it better with you than it was before ? " 
 
 " Briefly, in this : I was a church member. I desired 
 to live as a Christian man. I looked to heaven as my 
 eternal dwelling place after life s fitful fever. But, in 
 teriorly, I was selfish and worldly minded. All my 
 thoughts revolved around myself. In my eager pursuit 
 of riches, imagination toyed with possession and built 
 grand castles for poor natural life to dwell in. It was 
 self self self. There was rarely a thought of stew- 
 
WOULD YOU HAVE IT OTHERWISE ? 225 
 
 ardship. For me the sun shone, the grass grew, the 
 landscape spread itself in beauty. I became colder and 
 colder toward our common humanity ; and from living 
 the bad precept, 4 every man for himself, began con 
 firming it as a right axiom. Thus it was with me when 
 a good Providence removed the worldly blessings that I 
 was using to the destruction of my soul ; for, if to the 
 end of life, I had so kept on, turning myself away from 
 humanity and from God, could I have risen, at death, 
 into heaven ? I fear not ! " 
 
 " So the discipline which was so bitter at first, gives 
 sweetness now ? " 
 
 " Yes. And though poorer than a year ago, I am 
 richer in the more perfect enjoyment of what things I 
 have, and my future is luminous with brighter hopes." 
 
 " God s ways are not as our ways, 7 said Mr. Mel 
 ville. 
 
 " But they are the true ways, and lead to heavenly 
 felicities," was the peaceful answer. 
 
IN THE HEIIEAFTER. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 IN THE HEREAFTER. 
 
 " Not as a child shall we again behold her. 
 
 
 HALL I know him in Heaven ? 
 
 With what a yearning, almost pas 
 sionate desire to penetrate the secrets 
 of the world beyond, did Mrs. Hard 
 ing ask this question. The beautiful 
 had died, and left her soul desolate. 
 The light of her life had gone out, 
 and she sat in darkness. "Shall I 
 know my sweet boy in Heaven ? " 
 On the answer to this question, all hope in the future 
 seemed resting. 
 
 " He will grow up into the beauty and stature of a 
 man-angel," said one, in answer. " Unless God should 
 call you early, not as a child may you again behold 
 him." 
 
 " Not as a child ! " A flash of pain quivered sud- 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 227 
 
 denly among the shadows which lay darkly on Mrs. 
 Harding s face. " Oh, no, no, no ! I cannot believe 
 that ! My darling will wait for his mother. I must 
 find him as I lost him. God is not so cruel." 
 
 " She sat with lips parted, like one in fear. The 
 friend resumed 
 
 " He will grow in Heaven. Think, my dear friend 
 must it not be so ? As his tender soul receives know 
 ledge, will it not enlarge ? and the new body, of spiritual 
 and immortal substance, with which the soul clothes 
 itself, grow in corresponding stature ? In the laws of 
 our natural life, we see only a representation of the 
 laws of a higher and spiritual life. Turn away your 
 thoughts from grief, and let the light of reason pene 
 trate your mind. Into sorrow, an element of blinding 
 selfishness is almost sure to come. It is of ourselves, 
 and our loss, that we think. But we must rise, in a de 
 gree, superior to this state, before we can see and accept 
 the great truth, that, in God s eyes, all souls are equal, 
 and each soul destined for its own peculiar place, and 
 designed for its own peculiar work in the universe. 
 Heaven, into which your child has arisen, is not a 
 condition of aimless enjoyment, but of active service. 
 Use is the great celestial law, that, like gravitation, 
 holds everything in order and beautiful consistence. 
 As he grows and develops into an angel, the Master 
 
228 IN THE HEREAFTER. 
 
 Builder will lift him to the place he is designed to occu 
 py in the living temple of God. Accept it as a truth, 
 my dear friend, that, in dying young, and growing to 
 spiritual manhood in Heaven, he will be more truly 
 fitted for the place he is designed to fill through the 
 eternal ages." 
 
 Thought began to stir in the mind of the bereaved 
 one. She bent forward listening. 
 
 " A mother s love is the purest, and tenderest, and 
 most devoted of all loves," resumed the friend. Then 
 she added, dwelling with significant emphasis on the 
 words " in the beginning ." 
 
 " Always, and forever ! " was answered quickly al 
 most indignantly. 
 
 " A mother s love, with all of its unspeakable depths 
 and yearning tendernesses, is only God s love in her 
 heart, given for the protection and care of offspring. 
 It is seen in the evil, as well as in the good. Nay ! do 
 not hold up your hands in rejection ; but reflect ! Is 
 not the mother s love a different emotion in the hour 
 when she receives a feeble, helpless babe upon her 
 "bosom, from what it is when the boy goes forth to 
 school, or the man steps out into the world, to take his 
 place among men ? Her interest and affection do not 
 die ; but love is of a different quality. Why is this ? " 
 
 The mother looked bewildered. She did not answer. 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 229 
 
 44 Your mother loved you, when yon lay a helpless 
 babe in her arms, as fondly as you loved him who was 
 bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh. If that 
 love is, to-day, what it was twenty-five years ago, has 
 your response been adequate ? Have you done to it 
 no violence ? But, it is not the same ; and, therefore, 
 even though your heart turned from her, and rested in 
 a more passionate and absorbing love for a husband, and 
 in a tenderer than any filial love, upon^your own % child, 
 yet did not a shadow fall over her serene brow. Her 
 love had grown larger, and more unselfish. She had no 
 jealous pangs. Her own life, separating itself daily, 
 more and more from all hindering entanglements with 
 other lives, is growing more and more perfect in that 
 just individuality, which gives to each part its highest 
 relation of use to the whole." 
 
 " Her life is a saintly life," said the mourner. " All 
 women are not like my mother." 
 
 " Is not her life a true life ? " 
 
 44 Yes yes." 
 
 44 And, are not all lives that fall away from her saint 
 ly standard, just so far inadequate false lives ? " 
 
 44 It may be so." 
 
 44 Did your mother ever lose a babe ? " 
 
 44 Yes ; a little sister died in the opening of her third 
 summer. Your question brings back the memory of 
 that event with a strange vividness." 
 
30 . IN THE IIEREAFTEH. 
 
 " Did she grieve for her lost one ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, wildly. I was but a child at the time, yet 
 can I never forget the intensity of my mother s sor 
 row." 
 
 " It seemed to you excessive ? " 
 
 44 I own that it did. But, how could a child compre 
 hend a mother s feelings ? I see it differently now." 
 
 " It was like yours, a natural sorrow," said the friend, 
 44 and passed, in time, as yours will pass, giving place to 
 that purified love of the departed, which sees them as 
 goodly stones, builded into the temple of -the living God. 
 Natural loves are for this world only, and rest on per 
 sons and appearances ; but spiritual loves are based on 
 spiritual affinities, and have relation to interior likeness 
 es, assimilations and consanguinities." 
 
 44 And shall we not make up families in Heaven ? " 
 was asked, in a tone of surprise. 44 Will not my moth 
 er find there the child she lost so many years ago ? Is 
 not my father waiting for her ? and my brother, who 
 left her just as his manly tread passed bravely out into 
 the world ? " 
 
 44 If there be in you spiritual as well as natural con 
 sanguinities, yes. But of this, only God knows. Of 
 one thing we may be sure ; if we love what is true, and 
 do what is good, we shall pass, at death, into the com 
 pany of those who love and do similar truth and good, 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 231 
 
 and be supremely happy with them in performing the 
 Lord s work through the ages of eternity. And what 
 is true of us, will be true of all who lead good lives in 
 the sight of God. These natural loves, which are 
 given to us for blessing and safety in this world, termi 
 nate, I think, with the closing of natural life." 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! I will not believe it ! Such a 
 doctrine shocks me to the very centre of my being." 
 And the mother turned away from her friend, 
 
 " You must rise into a higher perception of the mean 
 ing of a single life before you can understand this mat 
 ter," said the friend. " In each life, there is a selfhood 
 peculiarly its own an individuality that makes the 
 quality of its thought and affection different from that 
 of all other lives existing or possible to exist. In a 
 word, no two human souls ever were, or ever can be, 
 identically the same. Born from the infinite source of 
 life, there must be infinite variety. But, as there exist 
 genera and species in the lower forms of nature, so do 
 these exist in the higher spiritual creation of human 
 souls. Every distinct individual of a species holds like 
 ness and relationship with its genera ; and, in like man 
 ner does every soul distinct in itself, hold a likeness and 
 relation to other souls, and act with them, for use, in 
 some organ or part of the grand man of Heaven. Each 
 is a centre of peculiar life and influence, yet reciprocal 
 
232 IN THE HEREAFTER. 
 
 in giving and receiving, and acting in just harmony 
 with the general law." 
 
 The mother did not answer, but thought was again 
 active. 
 
 " See," continued the friend, u how, as men advance 
 in years, and their minds grow into maturing vigor, 
 each one separates himself more and more from his 
 first natural relations, and etablishes a new relation for 
 himself, based on the organic peculiarities of his own 
 mind, as differing from all other minds. Will it be less 
 so in the case of those who pass from the world, to de 
 velop in Heaven ? " 
 
 " And so," said the mourner, looking with sad, dreary 
 eyes, into the face of her friend, " you have only this 
 consolation to offer, that my boy will grow up to angel 
 ic manhood in Heaven, and forget his mother ? " 
 
 The friend did not reply. " How is it possible," 
 such were her thoughts, " for me to lift her mind into a 
 perception of this truth, that each soul is destined for 
 some high and holy office, in the performance of which 
 the happiness received will be in proportion to the good 
 that is done ? " After a brief silence, she said, her 
 tones softening 
 
 " You love him very much ? " 
 
 Eyes swimming in tears, were the mother s answer. 
 
 " And desire his supremest happiness ? " 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 233 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " And that must come in Heaven, whither our good 
 Lord has translated him. I do not think, even now, 
 that you would take him back, were it in your power, 
 into this world of sorrow and pain." 
 
 tc I do not ask to receive him back. My love is not 
 so selfish as that. Oh, no, no ! Dear babe ! I give 
 him to the angels. But, may I not find him again ? 
 May I not once more take him into my arms ? That 
 is the question. Ah, my friend, your answers to this 
 question do not bring hope or consolation. They say 
 You have lost your babe forever ! " 
 
 " Have you not rather found him forever ? " said the 
 friend. 
 
 There was no answer, but a look of surprise. 
 
 " If he had lived, and grown up in this world, would 
 you not have lost your babe ? The baby would have 
 died in the boy ; the boy in the youth ; the youth in 
 the man. Now, love may hold the precious one for 
 ever to your heart. If you live here until fourscore, 
 you may, at any time, fold back the curtain of memory, 
 and look into the cradle where infancy smiles. Grief 
 will be lost in the passage of years, but a holy tender 
 ness, full of sweetness and tranquillity, will remain. Of 
 all your children, should the rest be spared, his memory 
 will be most precious. Looking down into my own 
 heart, I speak of what I do know." 
 
234 IN THE HEREAFTER. 
 
 " But, for all that, he will not remain a babe," said 
 the mother. " He will grow up into the stature of an 
 angel." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And cease to think of her who bore him." 
 
 " Just in the degree that you, in heavenly uses and 
 the delights springing therefrom, Avill forget, in the 
 cycles of eternity, your mother, and she the mother on 
 whose bosom she once lay in the helplessness of infancy. 
 God has work for all his children ; for you and for me ; 
 for your babe called early to heaven, as well as for my 
 babe who went there many years ago. Let us be glad 
 in heart, my friend, that we have been called to the 
 high office of increasing, even by one addition, the 
 heaven of angels. Picture to yourself a pure and wise 
 being, forever active in good deeds ; forever seeking to 
 impart happiness to others ; forever ministrant to tempt 
 ed and sorrowing ones here, or adding to the delights 
 of heaven, and then think : In my body that being 
 had life ! Does not the thought send a thrill of strange 
 gladness through your soul ? It does. I see it by the 
 clearer light in your eyes. I see it in the serener ex 
 pression of your face. Nay nay ! You would not 
 have your baby wait in helpless infancy, through the 
 long period that may pass ere your time of removal 
 come, in order that you may clasp him, as a baby, 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 235 
 
 again to your heart. A truer and a purer love desires 
 to see him a man-angel, nobly fulfilling the laws of an 
 gelic life." 
 
 " I will think of all this," said the mourner, speaking 
 more calmly. " You have led me up to a place from 
 which I have a wider range of vision. Some things as 
 sume different aspects and relations. I may have been 
 very selfish, very limited in my feelings. But, I pray 
 God to give me light and comfort in this deep sorrow. 
 I would be patient and submissive. Ah, yes ; It is a 
 high thought that you have given me. And shall I, 
 in the weakness of a mother s love, desire to hold my 
 boy back from his true life, rather than in its strength 
 to ask for him growth and development, even to the 
 stature and powers of eternal manhood in heaven ? 
 No no ! Let me rise above this weakness of sorrow, 
 and put on its strength." 
 
 By true thoughts we are lifted out of darkened states. 
 But, these states return again. Thought folds its wings, 
 letting us sink into the obscurity from which we had 
 arisen. But, we remember the higher regions, the 
 broader vision, and the serener atmosphere in which we 
 breathed, and, after awhile, uplift our wings, and try 
 once more to reach the upper air. We gain it. How 
 much clearer the sight than before ! What seemed ob 
 scure, or confused, in the first ascent, now stands forth 
 
236 IN THE HEREAFTER. 
 
 in well defined aspect. Accepting the lessons of truth, 
 even though in some violence to natural affection, we 
 do not recede into such deep obscurity, when we sink 
 to the level of actual states again ; but see clearer, and 
 rest on the truths we have seen. 
 
 So it was with our stricken mother, who, in the be 
 ginning of her sorrow, refused to be comforted. Her 
 friend had lifted her into a region of thought unattained 
 till now : had given her views never before suggested. 
 They did not afford her the assurance . for which her 
 soul was craving ; the comfort she asked ; but they 
 gave her glimpses of a broader plan in the creation of 
 human souls than she had ever conceived. 
 
 " Thy will, not mine be done," she murmured, lifting 
 her eyes upwards, as she pondered when alone, all that 
 her friend had spoken. And even as she said this, the 
 mantle of peace was gathered, by. angel hands, around 
 her soul. Still, love s deep yearning was not suppressed ; 
 and still the heart asked, " Shall I know him in heav 
 en ?" 
 
 That night, a dream held her through all the long 
 watches. She was sitting in sorrow by the empty cra 
 dle of her boy, when a stranger entered the room, and 
 said, " Come. You shall go to your lost one." No 
 awe oppressed her. Rising, with hope and joy in her 
 heart, she followed the stranger. They journeyed for 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 237 
 
 what seemed a long time, first passing through dark 
 forests and deep valleys ; and then through fair land 
 scapes, gradually ascending, widening and increasing in 
 beauty, until they reached a city so fair to look upon, 
 that its splendor oppressed her soul. The walls were 
 of precious stones, the gates of pearl, and the streets of 
 pure gold. As she moved along the crystalline pave 
 ments, she saw houses and palaces of wondrous design 
 and proportions, such as no mortal conception had ever 
 reached. Into one of the grandest of these she entered 
 with her guide, passing under vast porticos borne up by 
 jasper columns, and along halls and corridors that 
 stretched to interminable distances. 
 
 " Here," spoke the attendant, " first come all infants 
 who die in the world," and as he said this, the mother 
 found herself in a wide chamber, the air of which was 
 full of sweet odors, and tremulous with low music, to 
 which her heart leaped in tender responses. That odor 
 was from the breath of infants ; and the music that 
 filled the room was the harmonious mingling of baby 
 voices. As she entered, a beautiful maiden came to 
 meet her. Lovingly she held to her bosom the babe 
 that mother had lost a little while before. 
 
 * Oh, give him to me ! " cried the mother, eagerly 
 stretching out her hands. 
 
 " Will you take him back ? " said the maiden, as she 
 laid the baby in her arms. 
 
238 IN THE HEREAFTER. 
 
 " Mine ! mine ! " exclaimed the mother, in an ecstasy 
 of joy, as she clasped her lost one almost wildly to her 
 heart. 
 
 " And God s," answered the maiden, gently yet rev 
 erently. " You were chosen by Him to this great hon 
 or." 
 
 A new impulse stirred in the mother s heart. Love 
 lost nothing of its intensity, but was elevated. Selfish 
 affection died, and in her whole being she felt the mo 
 tions of a higher life. 
 
 " Shall I keep this babe all to myself," she said, in 
 her heart. " Shall I take him back to a world of pain 
 and trouble, when his presence here gives a new pulse 
 of joy to heaven ? No no ! That would be selfish 
 ness, not love. Chosen by God to this great honor ! 
 Oh, life, life I What a blessing, if only for this ! " 
 
 " You will not take him back," said the maiden, with 
 a smile of ineffable sweetness. 
 
 The mother laid the babe softly on the maiden s bo 
 som, kissed him, and turned away. As she did so, her 
 attendant led her out by an open door, and they passed 
 through palaces, fields, and groves. The time was 
 long and the distance great. Years seemed to elapse. 
 At last they came to a large building, grandly beautiful 
 in its architecture, and rising in the midst of a garden. 
 Entering, she found it to be a hall of instruction, in 
 which pupils with their teachers were assembled. 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 239 
 
 " Here," said the attendant, " youths, who have 
 grown up from infancy in heaven, are taught. The 
 mind does not change in its character by death. Trans 
 lation from the natural to the spiritual world cannot, in 
 itself, make any soul wiser. Instruction in spiritual 
 sciences and knowledges is as needful here, as instruc 
 tion in natural sciences and knowledges in the lower 
 world. For this reason, the young are taught in schools 
 by wise and loving instructors." 
 
 The mother stood in a wide hall, in which were many 
 groups of children, gathered around their teachers, and 
 listening to the words that fell from their lips with the 
 most earnest and pleased attention. Soon, all the 
 groups, or classes, arranged themselves, by a spontane 
 ous movement, into a single group, and one who was 
 chief of the instructors stood forth and said 
 
 " Our theme to-day has been Heavenly Happiness. 
 In what does it consist? " 
 
 A youth, tender in years, but with pure thought writ 
 ten on his white forehead, away from which the hair fell 
 back in luxuriant curls, arose amid his companions and 
 answered 
 
 " Heavenly happiness is the delight of use. " 
 
 " And what is the delight of use ? " asked the in 
 structor. 
 
 " That interior joy which always comes into the soul, 
 when good is done from a love of good." 
 
240 IN THE HEHEAFTER. 
 
 " Whence does it come ? " 
 
 44 From the Lord, who is the bestower of all good," 
 answered the youth. 
 
 Then it was given the mother to know, that he who 
 thus answered was her own son not now a babe, but 
 in the blossom of advancing years ; growing in intelli 
 gence and wisdom, towards the stature of an angel. 
 And he came to her, after the school had closed, and 
 tenderly looking at her said 
 
 44 Oh, life is a blessing ; and blessed are they through 
 whom God gives life." 
 
 There followed another long journey amid scenes of 
 ineffable beauty and grandeur, occupying a period that 
 would have been, in time, the aggregate of years. 
 Then was entered a temple where one taught, and the 
 words that fell from his lips were in sentences of wisdom, 
 such as only the wisest and best of angels had power to 
 utter. And they who hearkened, hung with rapt inter 
 est on his words. When the discourse was over, the 
 audience went out, talking together of what they had 
 heard, and the mother listened to their speech, and 
 knew as she listened, that the wise teacher of whom 
 they spake, was once a babe on her bosom. And as 
 this knowledge came, the teacher stood by her side. 
 The sweetness of his countenance filled her with un 
 speakable delight. It seemed as if heaven s own sun- 
 
IN THE HEREAFTER. 241 
 
 shine were falling into her soul. Bending, with a lov 
 ing grace, he said 
 
 " We are the children of God, when born into heav 
 en ; and in doing His work, receive the blessedness of 
 heaven. All souls are His yours, mine and for 
 each He has work that shall not fail in all the eternal 
 ages, work, in the doing of which perpetual joy is 
 born. Make yourself ready for this work in a patient, 
 trusting submission to His will, and in deeds of love to 
 His children. He will make up your jewels." 
 
 The vision passed, and it was morning. Those who 
 had looked upon the grieving mother s countenance 
 when the day went out in a darkness not so deep as 
 that which enshrouded her spirit, wondered at its calm 
 ness and elevation. But she spoke not of the vision, 
 though its influence rested upon her soul like a peace 
 ful benediction. 
 
 11 
 
242 
 
 SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE ANGELS. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE ANGELS. 
 
 j ITTLE Nellie Winter is dead ! " said 
 a neighbor, coming hurriedly into Mrs. 
 Grover s sitting room. There was a 
 look of grief in her face, and her eyes 
 were full of tears. 
 
 " Dead ! " and the work fell into 
 Mrs. Grover s lap. t; Dead ! Poor 
 Mary Winter ! it will break her heart. 
 That child was her idol." 
 " She was a dear little girl," said the neighbor. 
 " Too good to live in this world, I have often thought. 
 Did you never notice, Mrs. Grover, what a strange 
 sweetness played sometimes about her mouth." 
 " Yes, I have often observed, and spoken of it." 
 " And there was something very uncommon in the 
 way she looked out of her eyes. Some people s eyes 
 
SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE AXGELS. 243 
 
 look straight forward, some a little downward, and some 
 restlessly from side to side ; but Nellie s large, clear, 
 blue eyes seemed always looking upwards, and there 
 was an expression in them as if they had visions not re 
 vealed to grosser sight." 
 
 " Have you seen Mary ? " asked Mrs. Grover. 
 
 " No ; Aunty Granger came by our house just now, 
 and told me of Nellie s death. I must run back, and 
 put on my things, and go over immediately." 
 
 " Call for me," said Mrs. Grover. " I will get ready 
 and go with you. Poor Mary ! I dread to see her." 
 
 The neighbors parted, but were together again in less 
 than ten minutes, and on their way to visit a sister in 
 affliction. 
 
 " I wonder how she bears it ? What did Aunty 
 Granger say ? " 
 
 " Nothing, as to that. She merely brought me word, 
 and then hurried away. She said that Nellie died about 
 two hours ago, and that she had been helping to lay her 
 out." 
 
 " Well, I know how to feel for Mary," said the neigh 
 bor, in a sorrowful voice. " I ve lost children, and 
 know what a heart-breaking thing it is. Talking to one 
 does no good. They talked to me ministers, and 
 friends, and all ; but they might as well have talked to 
 the wind." 
 
244 SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE ANGELS. 
 
 " Mary Winter has a great deal of fortitude, and she 
 is a true Christian woman," remarked Mrs. Grover. 
 
 " I think her a little cold," was replied to this. 
 
 " May it not be that she has schooled her feelings into 
 submission ? " 
 
 " Perhaps so, I cannot tell. We are not all alike ; 
 but if Mary can bear this trouble calmly, she is made 
 of sterner stuff than common mortals. An eye pluck 
 ed out gives in tensest pain." 
 
 And so the two neighbors talked, until they came to 
 the door on which hung the sign of death, when they 
 were silent. A moment or two they paused on the 
 threshhold, and then passed in. The door opened di 
 rectly into Mrs. Winter s small parlor, or best room, 
 as she modestly called it. Gentle hands had already 
 done the work of preparation for the grave : and there 
 lay the pure body of the departed one, wrapped in 
 snowy garments. A few friends were in the room, and 
 all were standing near the body, gazing in silence upon 
 the dead face, that looked like an exquisite piece of 
 sculpture. There was no harsh or repellant aspect in 
 the countenance nothing that chilled you with a mor 
 tal coldness ; but only a look of Heavenly sweetness. 
 Death had done his work with a gentle hand. 
 
 From the little parlor, Mrs. Grover and her compan 
 ion went to the chamber where the stricken mother had 
 
SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE ANGELS. 245 
 
 retired. Their visit was not one of vulgar intrusion. 
 It was prompted by true womanly sympathy. The cur 
 tains were drawn, and the room in shadow, but not 
 darkened. Two neighbors were sitting with Mrs. Win 
 ter, and from the look on all their faces, it was evident 
 they had been conversing. The mother s eyes were 
 full of tears, but her countenance was rather elevated 
 than depressed. She reached her hand to the new com 
 ers, and even smiled faintly as she greeted them. 
 
 Mrs. Grover pressed the hand of Mrs. Winter, and 
 looked tenderly in her face, but did not venture a word ; 
 the neighbor who had accompanied her said, in a voice 
 broken with feeling, 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! this is very sad ; my heart aches for 
 you. Death is a terrible thing." 
 
 " It is hard for those who are left behind." Her 
 voice trembled, and tears fell over her cheeks ; yet did 
 not the smile around her lips fade wholly away. 
 
 " And it is hard, also, for those who go away," an 
 swered the neighbor, without reflection. " Oh, the 
 doubt and darkness, the uncertainty of that unknown 
 voyage into eternity, which every soul, small or great, 
 must take alone. I shudder to think of it." 
 
 " Not alone," said Mrs. Winter, impressively, " not 
 alone. God is too full of tender compassion for his chil 
 dren, to let one of them go unattended over the river 
 
246 SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE ANGELS. 
 
 of death. I knew that dear Nellie went away with the 
 angels, for I felt their holy presence in the last hour, 
 and when the eyes of my child looked their last look on 
 my face, I knew that they opened upon the inner world, 
 and rested serenely on the countenances of Heavenly 
 attendants." 
 
 Tears were running over the face of Mrs. Winter, as 
 she said this. Her pious faith, while it threw a shining 
 bridge over the abyss that lies between earth and Heav 
 en, and took away all painful thoughts of her child, did 
 not exclude from her heart the anguish of bereavement. 
 She was human. 
 
 u Went away with the angels," said the neighbor, as 
 if struck with the words. She spoke half to herself; 
 " Oh, if one could believe that." 
 
 " It is with me no matter of dim faith, but a confi 
 dent assurance," answered Mrs. Winter. " The spirit 
 ual world, into which we go on leaving this outer state 
 of being, is a world of real things, and peopled like 
 this ; for have not untold millions gone into it ? And 
 can I believe anything else than that, when one is pass 
 ing upward to the great company of angels, God com 
 missions some of them to receive the pure spirit, as it 
 emerges into their world ? It is easy for me to believe 
 this impossible to believe the opposite. Yes, yes, 
 dear Nellie went away with the angels, and is with them 
 
SHE WENT AWAY WITH THE ANGELS. 247 
 
 " I went there hoping to speak a comforting word to 
 Mary," said the neighbor, as she walked homeward, 
 " but, instead, the mourner has spoken comfort to my 
 own heart. Ah, Mrs. Grover, that thought of going 
 alone into the world beyond of my timid, shrinking 
 child s going alone, and meeting the terrors of death, 
 has haunted me like a spectre. But, Mary Winter s 
 confident assurance that Nellie went away attended by 
 angels, is already taking shape in my mind, and giving 
 to it a new balance ; I see dimly, yet it is true that it 
 must be so." 
 
 " It must be so of tender, innocent children," said 
 Mrs. Grover. " And if true of children, why not true 
 of every soul that rises into the spiritual world, which 
 is not a vast chimerian wildness, but a world of perfect 
 order and beauty. We think, as a general thing, too 
 sadly of death, and invest it with unreal terrors, when 
 at most it is a simple passage of the human soul into its 
 higher and more perfect sphere of life. The sadness 
 and fear should only have reference to an evil and cor 
 rupt heart, for the death is indeed a sad completion of 
 that portion of life in which the after condition is fixed 
 to eternity. But when little children, and good men 
 and women die, we need not weep at their change, for 
 they have only gone from us in company with angels." 
 
248 
 
 THE WINE OF LIFE. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE WINE OF LIFE. 
 
 IFE was getting to be a dull affair with 
 Mr. Clayton. He found it hard work 
 to fill the passing hours with even a 
 low degree of interest. While in busi 
 ness, the days came and went, each 
 with that measure of pleasant excite 
 ment which is always attendant on men- 
 all and bodily activity. But in one of 
 the series of mutations always attend 
 ant on human life, Mr. Clayton found himself ruled out 
 of business, and left, with a small competence, idle. 
 
 Thirty thousand dollars were paid to Mr. Clayton in 
 cash, as his share of profit. In less than a week after 
 wards he had received over half a dozen proposals to re- 
 enter business. Some from established firms in want of 
 capital, and some from ambitious young men, whose po 
 sition as salesmen in extensive establishments gave them, 
 
THE WINE OF LIFE. 249 
 
 as they supposed, large ability to control custom. But 
 to all of these Mr. Clayton turned an indifferent ear. 
 
 " A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," he 
 said to himself, as he looked calmly at his bank account. 
 " I ll put this beyond the reach of danger, and then 
 take mine ease." 
 
 Between two and three months of pleasant excite 
 ment were passed in the work of settling the basis of 
 his future income, a period of real enjoyment to our re 
 tired merchant. A new life seemed to flow through his 
 veins. The mill-horse routine of daily duties was 
 changed for a state of freedom to go out and come in at 
 his own good pleasure ; and Mr. Clayton often pitied 
 the old business acquaintances whom he met occasion 
 ally hurrying along the street, with shut, earnest lips 
 and care-contracted brows. He felt himself to them as 
 the freed courser in a wide and grassy meadow, to the 
 toiling beast, dragging wearily at his load. 
 
 But there came another state of mind. After com 
 pleting his investments, Mr. Clayton had nothing else 
 to do ; and soon, when morning broke, his thought be 
 gan to reach forward through the day with a vague 
 searching disquietude. For books he had little taste ; 
 for art less. Politics had no charm for one of his tem 
 perament. He voted with his party, more from habit 
 and prejudice than from reason and principle. This 
 
250 THE WINE OF LIFE. 
 
 done, he left matters of public interest to take care of 
 themselves at least, so far as he was concerned. 
 
 A year of leisure had been enjoyed, and life, as we 
 said in the beginning, was getting to be a dull affair 
 with Mr. Clayton. His mind, like a stagnant pool, was 
 beginning to breed unsightly and noxious things. He 
 was growing crotchetty, strangely self-willed, unreason 
 able, and ill-tempered at home, so that his wife and or 
 phan niece he had no children were having an un 
 comfortable time with him. Mr. Clayton was not phi 
 losopher enough to understand his own case. He did 
 not know that, even to evil men, states of tranquillity 
 and interior satisfaction come as the reward of useful 
 work ; nor that the good feel disquietude whenever they 
 fold their arms in voluntary idleness. It had not oc 
 curred to him that the mind was a beautiful and highly 
 complicated machine, that must .be kept in orderly mo 
 tion, or rust and damage ensue. No, Mr. Clayton was 
 a dull thinker. He lacked enthusiasm. From quick 
 moving thoughts the light of perception was not 
 evolved. 
 
 One day, after exhaling certain noxious things, bred 
 in the stagnant pools of his mind, arousing his wife to 
 anger, and hurting his dependent siece, so that she re 
 solved, and even threatened, to leave his house, Mr. 
 Clayton strayed forth, an aimless and an unhappy man, 
 
THE AVIXK OF LIFE. 251 
 
 to kill the hours until it should be time to return to din 
 ner. 
 
 The dinner bell did not ring for some minutes after 
 the arrival of Mr. Clayton at home. Taking up a 
 newspaper, he commenced running his eyes along the 
 col urns for something of interest. This paragraph ar 
 rested his attention. " The very thing that men need 
 in life is some satisfying and exalting element, that shall 
 give heroism and elevation to the affairs of daily life. 
 We live in the midst of vulgarities, little petty troubles, 
 a thousand mechanical things that have not much juice 
 in them. The greater part of our life is spent in con 
 tact with things that have little in themselves to reward 
 our sensibility. We must, therefore, have something in 
 the soul to make them glorious." 
 
 At almost any other time this would have been to Mr. 
 Clayton as if uttered in a dead language. He would 
 have perceived no meaning in it whatever. Now it 
 was a gleam of light. 
 
 " Heaven knows," he said, speaking to himself, and 
 with sufficient mental energy to stir his heart with 
 stronger pulses " Heaven knows that I want some 
 satisfying and exalting element to give heroism and ele 
 vation to the things of my daily life." 
 
 After dinner Mr. Clayton did not fall to sleep in his 
 chair now a common habit and doze away an hour 
 
252 THE WINE OF LIFE. 
 
 or two. His thoughts had been set in motion, and 
 kept on with sufficient velocity to overcome all inclina 
 tion to drowsiness. About four o clock word came to 
 him that a gentleman had called Mr. Walker, a per 
 son who had asked for him in the mornino-. 
 
 & 
 
 On meeting this gentleman, Mr. Clayton recognized 
 him as one often seen on the street in public places, but 
 never personally identified. 
 
 " I have come," he said, coming at once to the ob 
 ject of his visit, " to see if I cannot interest you in a 
 matter that every good citizen and Christian man should 
 have at heart. A few of us, painfully alive to the con 
 dition of a large number of little children in this part 
 of the city, who are abandoned or neglected by their 
 parents, and consequently growing up in ignorance and 
 vice, have determined to found an institution, if possible, 
 for their asylum and instruction. We have already pro 
 cured funds, rented a house, and employed a matron 
 and assistants. Twenty children, boys and girls, have 
 been taken from the street, and are now comfortably 
 clothed, fed and instructed. Now, what we want, Mr. 
 Clayton, is a man of leisure who will give a few hours 
 of each day to the supervision of this important charity. 
 I am engaged in business, and, however much my heart 
 may be in the thing, cannot assume so important a duty. 
 The same is true of others who are acting with me. 
 
THE WINE OF LIFE. 253 
 
 This morning a gentleman suggested your name, and I 
 have called to see if we cannot interest you in the 
 
 cause." 
 / 
 
 44 Suppose," said Mr. Walker, ere the response came, 
 " that you go round with me to our rooms, and see 
 what we are doing. They are in the neighborhood. 
 I m sure you will be interested." 
 
 44 1 will do so," answered Mr. Clayton, accepting the 
 opportunity to postpone a decision that he was not yet 
 prepared to make. He did not feel like saying no, and 
 was far from being inclined to say yes. 
 
 Mr. Clayton was, naturally, a kind-hearted man. 
 Enough was shown him at the asylum to touch his sym 
 pathies, awaken his interest, and give to his stimulated 
 mental powers the element of heroism. It took but 
 little persuasion on the part of three or four intelligent 
 citizens, who were present, and under engagement to 
 meet weekly at the rooms for conference, to lead Mr. 
 Clayton to accept the important office of daily visitor 
 and overseer of a nursery for human souls, abandoned 
 but for this refuge to the coils of the Wicked One. 
 
 There was no more weariness of mind after this no 
 more beatings about of thought, oppressed with its own 
 burden of inactivity no more sourness of spirit. Mr. 
 Clayton was a live man again, with all his powers active. 
 Under his thoughtful supervision, seconded by gentle 
 men of wealth and active benevolence, the institution 
 
254 THE WINE OF LIFE. 
 
 grew rapidly, and soon, from sheltering and training for 
 useful lives twenty little ones, gathered over one hun 
 dred within its protecting w r alls. 
 
 " We owe much of all this success in our plans to 
 you," said Mr. Walker, one day, while he sat with Mr. 
 Clayton reviewing the items in an annual report. " For 
 lack of one who could give to an asylum a daily super 
 intendence, and hold in charge its general interests, all 
 things were inefficient, and we had even talked of aban 
 doning a charity which it seemed impossible rightly to 
 sustain. But, we found you in the day of our despon 
 dency ; and under your diligent care, zeal for the cause 
 of humanity and self-devotion, have been able to effect 
 the ends which lay so near to our hearts. What hu 
 man arithmetic can give us the sum of good to flow 
 from this successful effort ! " 
 
 Idler and ease-taker man of wealth and leisure, 
 whose days drag heavily often, whose mind stagnates 
 and breathes unwholesome vapors, idler and ease- 
 taker, if, in reading of Mr. Clayton, your heart has not 
 responded with interest to his action if your own 
 mind does not feel a stimulus to like things say if it 
 is not clear, that Mr. Clayton was wiser and happier in 
 his good work, though it involved care and some sacri 
 fice, than in the droning round of efforts to kill the pass 
 ing time that marked his previous days ? 
 
A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 255 
 
 -/j 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 ORSE and worse." Mr. Hilton 
 spoke with ill-concealed displeas 
 ure, as he stepped from the church 
 door. " I ve never listened to 
 anything so dull and disconnected 
 ? as the sermon preached this morn- 
 
 ing-" 
 
 u Certainly our minister does 
 not improve," was the discourag 
 ing response. 
 
 u Improve ! Goodness ! I should think not." 
 " He gave us some excellent discourses in the begin 
 ning the best, in fact, ever preached in our church. 
 But for some cause, he s been running down for a year 
 past. In fact, he s not the man he was. I don t under 
 stand it." 
 
 *r 
 
 " I do, then," said Mr. Hilton, the parishioner who 
 
256 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 had opened the subject of complaint. " It lies just here 
 Mr. Orne has preached himself out. He s evidently 
 a man of limited range, with a few good sermons, the 
 utmost he can do. Having swept round his narrow 
 circle of ideas, he has nothing further to give, and so 
 goes plodding and stumbling along the way of prosy 
 mediocrity." 
 
 " It may be so," was answered. " But I have read 
 Mr. Orne differently. Every now and then, he flashes 
 up in a way that indicates mental power and originality. 
 Even in to-day s sermon, poor as it was, I noticed many 
 choice things, but to most hearers they were probably 
 lost through the deadness of utterance." 
 
 " They certainly were to me," returned Mr. Hilton. 
 
 " He does not seem to be at ease in his mind," re 
 marked the other. 
 
 " I know nothing as to that. If a minister, who is 
 supposed to dwell on the mountains of spiritual tranquil- 
 ity, is not at ease in his mind, who may hope to be ? " 
 
 " Ministers are but men, and of like passions with the 
 people." 
 
 " They are men, of course, and with like passions," 
 said Mr. Hilton, " yet are supposed to live above the 
 world, and to hold their passions under rule. Men 
 who set up to be ministers should practise as well as 
 preach, and show, by living example, the truth of doc- 
 
A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 257 
 
 trine. They must not only point to Heaven, but lead 
 the way." 
 
 " I m afraid," was replied, " that, as a general thing, 
 we are inclined to look for too great perfection in our 
 clergymen. To demand the highest Christian graces, 
 though, like ourselves, they are burdened with heredita 
 ry evil, and struggling in the bonds of temptation. We 
 have many excuses for our own shortcomings, but none 
 for theirs." 
 
 " I can accept no excuse for Mr. One s shortcomings 
 in the pulpit," returned Mr. Hilton. 
 
 " He has preached better. Contrast his trial sermon, 
 with the stupid harangues now given ; could anything 
 be in more painful contrast ? Either he has preached 
 himself out, or don t care how his Sunday services are 
 performed. In either case the fact is conclusive against 
 him, and marks his unfitness for this parish. We ought 
 to get rid of him. He does not suit us. He isn t the 
 man for the place." 
 
 The two men had arrived at a point where their ways 
 diverged, when they stopped long enough for Mr. Hil 
 ton to finish the last brief sentences, and then separated. 
 
 It was true as had been charged, that Mr. Orne s 
 sermon, on that Sabbath morning, was a very dull per 
 formance, and it was true, also, that for some time he 
 had been growing duller and heavier in the pulpit, only 
 
258 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 flashing up, occasionally, with his wonted fire. There 
 was, of course, a cause for all this. Let us see if we 
 can find it. Let us look in upon Mr. Hilton during the 
 six days preceding the Sabbath on which he made this 
 last unsatisfactory effort, and see if light can be found. 
 
 It was Monday morning, and there dwelt with Mr. 
 Orne. a troubled consciousness that his discourse on the 
 preceding day had been sadly below its theme, and that 
 he had neither watered his flock nor led them into green 
 pastures. 
 
 " I must do better," he said to himself, with an ef 
 fort to spur his mind into activity. " I must shake 
 off this incubus." And he went resolutely to his study, 
 where, after praying for light and strength, he sat down 
 with his books and memorandums, and searched for an 
 appropriate theme on which to write his next discourse. 
 But he found it impossible to fix his thoughts on any 
 subject long enough for a growth of ideas. Now he 
 considered this text and pondered that, but his mind 
 seemed as if dwelling in a closely sealed chamber, into 
 which no light penetrated. He might think out some 
 commonplaces, weak and trite, and throw them into 
 dull sentences. But there had heen enough of that. 
 He wished to do better. 
 
 At last thought began to play, with some activity, 
 around a certain passage of Scripture. A window 
 
A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 259 
 
 seemed opening in his mind ; rays of light streamed 
 through, and he had glimpses of azure sky, and a world 
 of beauty outside of his prison-house. Now his pulses 
 beat quicker, and with exhilarant life. The old pleasure 
 was coming back into his heart. He had passed to the 
 world of ideas. Already sentences of stately form, full 
 of thought, and glowing with heavenly ardor, were be 
 ginning to flow from his pen, when the door of his 
 study opened softly, and his wife came in. He looked 
 up at the intruder, as his eyes rested on her countenance, 
 the windows of his prison-house closed, and all his mind 
 was circumscribed and in darkness as before, for there 
 was trouble in her countenance. 
 
 " Mr. Folwell has called again," she said, in a tone 
 of discouragement that was infectious. 
 
 Mr. Orne experienced the sensation of a shock, fol 
 lowed by such a constriction of the chest that respira 
 tion became difficult. 
 
 " I shall have to see him, I suppose." And he shut 
 the portfolio that lay on his table, put aside his pen, and 
 rising, went down stairs, not with a quick, elastic step, 
 but lagging and reluctant. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Folwell." He tried to greet 
 his visitor cheerfully, but the effort failed. 
 
 " Good morning," was answered back, but in no gra 
 cious manner. 
 
ti jQ A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 " Take a chair." Mr. Folwell sat down. 
 
 " You ve called for that money." The voice failed a 
 little. 
 
 " Yes, sir," very decidedly spoke Mr. Folwell. 
 
 " Well, I m extremely sorry." The visitor s "brows 
 knitted* and his shut mouth grew harder. Mr. Orne 
 hesitated in his speech, faltered, and then kept on. 
 " But, indeed, sir, it is wholly out of my power to set 
 tle your bill to-day. I expected to receive the money 
 long before this, but have been sadly disappointed." 
 
 Mr. Folwell put on a severe aspect. 
 
 " Will you fix a time on which I may certainly cal 
 culate on receiving my money ? " 
 
 The minister had no resources beyond his small sala 
 ry, the last quarterly payment of which had now been de 
 ferred over six weeks, during a greater part of which 
 time he had been anxiously awaiting its receipt, in order 
 to liquidate certain bills contracted for supplies without 
 which his family would have suffered. Hurriedly 
 weighing the chances of receiving, within a few days, 
 the portion of salary due, and likewise determining to 
 see the treasurer and ask for it, if not forthcoming, a 
 thing he would avoid, if possible, Mr. Orne made an 
 swer : 
 
 " On Saturdav, at the latest, vou shall be paid." 
 
 r+ 
 
 " Very well, sir." Mr. Folwell arose, and buttoned 
 
A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 261 
 
 his coat to the last button with cold deliberation. " I 
 will call on Saturday." And he bowed with a formal, 
 impressive air, meant to say, " Don t forget your prom 
 ise, sir, for most assuredly I shall not." 
 
 The minister bowed, almost meekly, in return, and the 
 two men parted. 
 
 Back to his study crept Mr. Orne, stooping as though 
 his shoulders were burdened. He sat down to the table 
 again, opened his portfolio, lifted his pen, and com 
 menced reading over the few paragraphs he had written 
 on the next Sabbath s sermon. Twice, three times, he 
 read them ; but the sentences conveyed no living 
 thoughts to his mind. They opened not the door to a 
 world of ideas. He was in darkness and obscurity. 
 Resolutely did he seek to follow out one suggestive 
 word after another, recorded on the page before him ; 
 but just as he would seem to be ascending into the re 
 gion of light, the cares of this world would pull at his 
 garments, and drag him down into obscurity. He had 
 promised to pay Mr. Folwell on Saturday. Would he 
 be able to keep that promise? The intrusion of this 
 question acted like a chill to his rising mental ardor, and 
 sent it shivering back into torpor. 
 
 " It s of no use ! I can t do anything on my sermon 
 to-day," said the poor man, almost despairingly, as 
 he shut his portfolio, and bowed his head upon the ta 
 ble. 
 
262 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 After dwelling for some time on the embarrassing na 
 ture of his worldly affairs embarrassing in part, 
 through inadequacy of income ; but, chiefly, because 
 the payments on hi? salary were not made promptly 
 when due Mr. Orne resolved to see the treasurer of 
 the church, and advise him of his pressing needs. A 
 few words will make his case clear. On reaching; this 
 
 o 
 
 parish, after accepting a call, the expense of removal 
 had nearly exhausted Mr. Orne s slender purse, and as 
 no payment was made to him until the first quarter ex 
 pired, he was, at that time, in debt for things absolutely 
 needed in his family to amount of nearly half the mon 
 ey received. It seemed as if he could never make up 
 this deficiency. At the end of every succeeding quar 
 ter he found himself in debt, and obliged to pay away 
 nearly the whole of his slender income as soon as re 
 ceived. After a year or two, pewholders and subscri 
 bers to the fund for his support, gre\r careless in regard 
 to payments, and it often happened that two, three, four 
 and even six weeks elapsed, after Mr. Orne s salary was 
 due, before the money came into his hands. Whenever 
 this occurred, he would be worried by calls for settle 
 ments not in his power to make, and often hurt by the 
 unfeeling words that disappointed creditors are some 
 times wont to speak. He was a sensitive, honorable 
 man ; and debt brought his mind into bondage. He 
 
A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 263 
 
 could never meet a person whom he owed, and feel un 
 embarrassed. Since coming to this charge, he had lost 
 a portion of that manly freedom so dear to most minds, 
 and without which no clergyman can do justice, in 
 preaching, to himself or congregation. No wonder that 
 his people felt the inadequacy of his ministrations. 
 
 Acting on his purpose to see the treasurer, Mr. Orne 
 lost no time in calling on this individual, for he felt 
 that) having promised to pay Mr. Folwell on Saturday, 
 he would not be able to write a line on his sermon until 
 assured of having the means to keep his promise. 
 
 " You ve been expecting to see me," said the treasur 
 er, with a brief smile of welcome, as Mr. Orne entered 
 his store. The minister grasped tightly the hand of his 
 parishioner, forced an answering smile, but did not re 
 ply in words. The two men walked to the after part 
 of the store, away from clerks and customers. 
 
 " I m sorry to say, there isn t a cent in the treasury 
 yet." 
 
 " Mr. Orne tried not to betray any disappointment 
 tried to feel calm trid to bear up bravely. 
 
 " Will you receive anything during the week ? " he 
 asked, in a subdued voice. 
 
 " It is uncertain. I can t very well dun the people, 
 you know." 
 
 " I wouldn t have you do that," said Mr. Orne, hard 
 ly knowing what he replied. 
 
264 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 " Two or three of our subscribers are considerably in 
 arrears," remarked the treasurer, " and it s mostly their 
 fault that we re behind with your salary. There s Mr. 
 Hilton, for instance, who hasn t paid in one cent for 
 more than a year and he s well off if he, and some 
 others just like him, would make their accounts square, 
 like Christian men, I could pay you promptly at the 
 end of each quarter. It s all wrong. But, what are 
 we to do with such people, Mr. Orne ? I wish you d 
 show them up in a sermon." 
 
 " I ve promised a bill of twenty-five dollars on Satur 
 day," said the minister, going to the heart of the mat 
 ter. " Try and get me that sum, if possible. A minis 
 ter, above all other men, should keep his engagements, 
 for, if he does not, how can he preach of justice and 
 judgment to any good purpose ? " 
 
 " If the money comes in, Mr. Orne, you shall certain 
 ly have it ; but don t depend, too entirely, on receiving 
 it from me." 
 
 " If the money comes in ! Was that an assurance 
 strong enough to tranquilize the clergyman s mind ? 
 Could he return home, and get up a fine sermon for the 
 next Sabbath on so vague a promise of the means for 
 paying Mr. Fol well s debt on Saturday ? There are 
 men, who could have pushed even as disturbing an ele 
 ment as this aside, and risen above its influence into 
 
A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 265 
 
 the regions of pure thought, hut Mr. Orne was not of 
 this numher. He did not even look at texts, skeleton 
 sermons, or memorandums of subjects again that day. 
 
 Men of a highly sensitive organization, are apt, when 
 anything troubles them, to brood over it on going to 
 bed at night, and in a half sleeping half waking state, 
 lie for hours suffering a kind of mental torture that ex 
 haust both mind and body. Such a night succeeded to 
 this unsatisfactory Monday, and Mr. Orne wrestled with 
 haunting shadows through all its lonely watches. A 
 dull pain over his left eye, as he arose un refreshed from 
 his pillow on the next morning, gave warning of a lost 
 day and not only of a lost day, but of one doomed to 
 intense suffering from nervous headache, which did not 
 leave him until after succeeding midnight. 
 
 The day following one of these paroxysms of head 
 ache was always a day of exhaustion, in which rest and 
 quiet were essential ; and so Wednesday passed without 
 the first line being written on his sermon. On Thurs 
 day, a funeral at eleven o clock, five miles away, con 
 sumed his morning, and also his afternoon until three 
 o clock, when he arrived at home in no condition to 
 think or write with any degree of clearness or vigor. 
 
 On Friday, with a kind of desperate energy, the 
 minister sat down in his study, and endeavored to throw 
 his mind into a discourse, the subject of which had been 
 12 
 
266 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 chosen as he lay in the calm moments that follow sleep 
 when thought awakes with morning. But he had not 
 written long, with conscious feebleness, before his mind 
 perversely wandered aside, and imagination began to 
 picture the meeting with Mr. Folwell, on the next 
 morning. 
 
 " I must have this settled first," he said, at length, 
 pushing his manuscript aside. " Under such a weight 
 of doubt and uncertainty it is impossible to think clear 
 ly." And Mr. Orne took his hat and walked down to 
 see the treasurer. On seeing him approach, the treas 
 urer looked sober, and shook his head. 
 
 " Nothing in the treasury yet ? " Mr. Orne forced 
 a smile to his lips, and tried to look composed. 
 
 " Nothing," answered the treasurer. 
 
 " Any prospect for to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I m afraid not. Yesterday I saw Mr. Hilton, and 
 asked him outright for his subscription. He was half 
 offended, and said he had other use for his money just 
 now." 
 
 " I m sorry." 
 
 " So am I," said the treasurer. 
 
 " I don t know what I shall do. I promised Mr. 
 Folwell that he should have his money to-morrow, and 
 he ll be sure to call." 
 
 "It s too bad," said the treasurer, fretfully. "If 
 
267 
 
 subscribers and pewholders are not more prompt in pay 
 ing up their dues, I shall resign my office. I m willing 
 to keep the accounts, and disburse all moneys that come 
 into my hands ; but I can t act the part of a collector, 
 and go about hunting up delinquents." 
 
 Mr. Orne lingered for a little while, vainly hoping 
 that the treasurer would offer to advance the sum need 
 ed to make his promise good, and then went despondent 
 ly home again. For an hour he wrote on his sermon, 
 conscious all the while of giving forth common-place 
 truths, in which dwelt no sympathetic life. Then anx 
 ious care obstructed all influx of ideas, and he arose 
 and walked the floor of his study pondering the mor 
 row s trouble. 
 
 " I must keep my promise," he said, bitterly, almost 
 hopelessly. And so he went out to see if he could not 
 borrow the sum needed. Now there were many of his 
 parishioners who were able enough to lend, and many 
 both able and willing. But to none of these did he feel 
 free to go. So he applied to a single individual, who, 
 however willing, was not able to lend him twenty-five 
 dollars. This failure, on his first essay at borrowing, 
 sent him home mortified and discouraged, and to com 
 pelled work on the discourse that must be ready for the 
 next Sabbath. Night came, and it not one third done. 
 
 Saturday morning found the unhappy minister wholly 
 
268 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 unprepared to meet his surely coming creditor. He 
 went to his study after breakfast, but not to write on 
 his sermon. That was impossible. He was walking 
 the floor when his wife came in and said : 
 
 " Mr. Folwell is down stairs." 
 
 Sadly they looked into each other s eyes for a mo 
 ment, and then Mr. Orne left the room. 
 
 " I am hurt and grieved, Mr. Folwell " 
 
 A flush of angry impatience burned in the man s 
 countenance. 
 
 " I am hurt and grieved, sir ; but I am still without 
 a single dollar through which to make good even a part 
 of my promise," said the minister, helplessly. 
 
 Mr. Folwell tossed his head, and drew himself up in 
 a superior way, remarking : 
 
 " A promise should always be kept. At least, so we 
 men of the world think." 
 
 His tone was cutting. Mr. Orne shivered internally. 
 He felt humiliated in person and in office. 
 
 " You said I should have the money to-day," added 
 the creditor, taking a cruel pleasure in hurting the poor 
 sufferer, who stood helpless and in shame before him. 
 * 4 1 believed you on the word of a minister. And now 
 you tell me that I can t have it. We men of the world 
 hold our promise more sacred, but maybe we have too 
 nice a sense of honor." 
 
269 
 
 Mr. Orne did not answer. He was hurt too keenly 
 by these thrusts. 
 
 " When shall I call again ? " There was irony in 
 Mr. FolwelPs tones. 
 
 " I cannot fix another day," answered the minister, 
 speaking without any sign of resentment. " When I 
 receive the amount, I will bring it to you within half 
 an hour after it comes into my hands." 
 
 " The parish owes you." 
 
 " Yes. I would have starved rather than take your 
 goods without a prospect of paying for them. I saw 
 our treasurer yesterday, and expected to receive from 
 him the sum needed to make good my promise. He 
 had no funds. What am I to do ? " 
 
 " Preach to your people on common honesty ! " 
 
 Mr. Folwell flung the sentence rudely into Mr. Orne s 
 face, and then, as he turned away, said, in almost a 
 sneering voice : 
 
 " Good morning ! " 
 
 All the rest of that day, and until after eleven o clock 
 at night, the unhappy minister wrought at his sermon, 
 wearily and without heart ; and on the next morn 
 ing preached it in a dull, cold way to an unresponsive 
 audience, some of whom were growing tired of his poor 
 performances, and beginning to think, as we have seen, 
 that he was not the man for the place. And he was 
 
270 A POOR SERMON, AND WHY. 
 
 not. The people of that parish, too many of whom 
 were of the Mr. Hilton type, needed a man of differ 
 ent mettle. One who, taking the text given by Mr. 
 Folwell, would have startled their consciences by a ser 
 mon on common honesty. 
 
 There are a great many parishes in which the minis 
 ter, like Mr. Orne, seems to have preached himself out, 
 having lost vitality, range of thought, beauty and 
 strength ; and grown dull, self-absorbed, and almost in 
 different, who goes plodding and stumbling along the 
 way of prosy mediocrity. Take a hint my friend, if 
 you belong to one of these parishes, from the case of 
 Mr. Orne, and look a little more closely than you 
 have done into the pecuniary condition of your min 
 ister ; and if you are of the Mr. Hilton type, in the 
 name of religion and humanity, pay up your subscrip 
 tion before finding fault with his preaching ! Ministers 
 are but men, and if you lay upon them anxious cares 
 for food, and raiment, and humiliations in the face of 
 those who may take pleasure in wounding them, how 
 are they, thus weighted, to be swift and strong ? 
 
OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 
 
 271 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 
 
 HERE was one thing that old Griffin, 
 the usurer, loved better than money 
 one thing, and one only his daugh 
 ter. She was not beautiful, either in 
 form or features. Through neglect in 
 childhood, she had contracted a dis 
 ease of the spine, which left a sad 
 curvature. This obstructed free ner 
 vous action, and so the whole physical life became 
 dwarfed. Her face was weasoned, and her form diminu 
 tive. She stooped forward, bending to the right ; and 
 one shoulder stood above the other. Of course, her 
 movements were ungraceful. 
 
 For all this, everybody that knew Katy Griffin loved 
 her. The sweetness of her temper, the kindness of her 
 heart, the good will shown in benefits where it was fit- 
 
272 OLD tiRIFFIN, THE USURER. 
 
 ting to bestow them all these gave the impression of 
 a soul that lived nearer to heaven than to earth. 
 
 One day, the angels lifted this beautiful soul out of 
 its deformed earthly body, and bore it, clothed in an im- 
 mor^aj body of spiritual substance like their own, up 
 wards into heaven. There had been only slight warn 
 ing of the change. Katy had drooped a little, but with 
 out complaining. Then she went to sleep, like a tired 
 child, and the heart of the hard old man, her father 
 hard to the world, but soft to his child was stricken 
 with a sorrow beyond the power of healing. 
 
 The long cherished greed of money, which had grown 
 into second nature, was not diminished by this event. 
 Pain seemed to stimulate instead of weakening the pas 
 sion. Did Griffin exacted from the weak and necessi 
 tous who came to him in their extremity, the largest 
 discounts to which they would submit ; often taking 
 from poor men, forced by present needs to sell the notes 
 of hand received in payment for work, at the rate of 
 thirty, forty, or fifty per cent, per annum ! All day 
 long he sat in his office, like a great bloated spider, wait 
 ing for the flies that were sure to be entangled in his 
 web ; then he went back to his home, from which the 
 light had gone out, and sat there in darkness and grief. 
 
 With the money taken by the old usurer from needy 
 merchants, manufacturers and mechanics, he built a 
 
THE USURER. 273 
 
 splendid monument over the graye of his child. With 
 in the massive iron railing that enclosed this monument, 
 seats were placed ; late in the afternoon, after the day s 
 business was over, you would find old Mr. Griffin, when 
 the air was warm and the sky clear. Choicest flowers 
 bloomed around the monument. 
 
 " She loved flowers." This was his answer to a 
 stranger who, seeing him in the little enclosure one day, 
 entered and stood by his side, saying, as the old man 
 looked up : 
 
 " These flowers are very beautiful." 
 
 " She loved flowers." 
 
 " Your daughter," responded the stranger. 
 
 " Yes. She was never without them." 
 
 " You loved her very much," said the stranger. 
 
 " Loved her ! " said the old man. " Love seems too 
 common a word to express my feelings. Our language 
 wants a new term." 
 
 " Everybody loved her," returned the stranger. 
 
 " Did you know her ? " Mr. Griffin looked up at his 
 companion curiously. 
 
 " I know those who both knew and loved her. A 
 few times she has come in my way, and I felt her sphere 
 like that of some blessed one." 
 
 " O, sir, she was an angel on the earth ! " The old 
 man spoke with a tremor of enthusiasm. 
 12* 
 
274 OLD, GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 
 
 " And is now an angel in heaven." 
 
 " I believe it, sir. O, yes I believe that. If she 
 is not with the angels, and herself an angel, who shall 
 hope to enter the Kingdom of Heaven ? " 
 
 44 Which is a kingdom of love and use," said the 
 stranger. 
 
 * I don t know," replied Griffin, a dull shadow falling 
 on his face " I m no theologian, and don t pretend to 
 understand their phraseology. The talk of your pious 
 people is generally Greek to me." 
 
 " Did Katy love herself? " asked the stranger. 
 
 " She was the most unselfish being I ever knew," 
 promptly answered the father, with a flush of pride in 
 his face. 
 
 " Always doing good, as she had opportunity." 
 
 " Yes, always." 
 
 " Do you think she comes to you often, now that she 
 has laid off her earthly vesture ? " 
 
 46 1 am sure of it," was answered. " Though my 
 bodily eyes may be too dull to see her, yet love tells me 
 that she is near." 
 
 " And she looks into your heart knows what you 
 feel and think sees, by her more interior vision, away 
 down into the secret places of your life." 
 
 Old Griffin s countenance changed. It became more 
 thoughtful, and just a little troubled. 
 
OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 275 
 
 " In coming near to you now, she sees past all out 
 ward things. No feeling, no purpose, no quality of 
 mind is hidden," continued the stranger. " Have yon 
 thought of this ? " 
 
 The old man s head drooped upon his breast. His 
 eyes rested on the ground. He made no answer. 
 
 " Let me relate to you a little incident," said the 
 stranger. The old usurer raised his head. 
 
 " A poor, honest, hard-working mechanic had a sick 
 child, whom he loved very much. Your child was no 
 dearer to you than his child was to him. This poor me 
 chanic had other children, and it taxed all his efforts, 
 and took all his earnings to buy them plain food and 
 clothing. The sick child needed many things not in 
 the father s power to give. She needed to be taken out 
 into the pure air to have change, and cordials, and 
 luxuries his slender purse might not afford. 
 
 " I met your angel-minded daughter in the chamber 
 of this sick child, one day. She had brought some del 
 icacies to tempt her appetite, and a bunch of flowers to 
 refresh her senses. On Saturday, said the child, 
 warmth coming into her wan face, father is going with 
 me to the sea-shore. The doctor says it will do me so 
 much good. Father will take me down, and leave me 
 there for a week. I shall be so happy ! I never saw 
 the sea. How grand it must look. 
 
276 OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 
 
 " My heart went with the child in her journey to the 
 sea-shore. I knew that both body and mind would re 
 ceive a healthy influence. I wish you could have seen 
 the pleasure that shone in your Katy s face, as she saw 
 the joy of this poor sick child. I m so glad you are 
 going, she said, taking her little hand. 4 When you 
 come back I will see you, and you must tell me all 
 about the grand old ocean. 
 
 " Well, sir, Saturday came, but the sick child did not 
 see the ocean, nor get health from its cool and stimula 
 ting breezes. Why ? Let me tell you. Her father, as 
 I have said, was a poor man, who toiled hard for his 
 money. It so happened, that he was doing work for a 
 person who promised him pay as soon as the job was 
 completed. He had to buy material with which to do 
 the work, and for which he was to settle on receiving 
 payment. The work amounted to little over seventy 
 dollars, and the cost of the material was thirty-five. 
 When the job was done, instead of receiving cash, as he 
 had expected, the poor mechanic could only get a note 
 of hand payable in four months. This would not have 
 been a serious inconvenience, or loss, if the money could 
 have been obtained thereon at legal interest ; but there 
 was no person known to the mechanic who would dis 
 count the note at any fair rate. The promise to the sick 
 child*was made in expectation of receiving this money 
 when the work was done. 
 
OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 277 
 
 " Well, sir ! The poor mechanic brought this note 
 of hand to you. It was for seventy dollars, bear in 
 mind. Common interest for the four months it had to 
 run would be about one dollar and a half, counting in 
 the grace days ; but you cut off twenty dollars. I ll 
 give fifty or nothing, you said to the poor man. The 
 maker hardly ever pays his notes. Ten chances to one 
 . but I lose by it in the end. In fact, I d rather not have 
 his paper. And yet you were buying the same man s 
 paper every day, and considered it good. 
 
 " Only fifteen dollars of profit was left to the poor 
 man for two weeks of hard work. You took the rest I 
 Of course, the sick, failing, longing child did not get the 
 sea breezes. No no. And she died a month later. 
 I saw Katy standing, with tear filled eyes, looking upon 
 the pale corpse. She had brought flowers to lay in the 
 coffin. Of course, she knew nothing of your part in 
 the tragedy. The grieving father would not wound 
 her tender heart by even a hint at the miserable truth. 
 
 " But things are different now," continued the stran 
 ger. " Katy s inner eyes are opened. She does not 
 come to you in the outside world of veils and shadow 
 ing curtains of flesh ; but as soul comes to soul spirit 
 to spirit. If there is subterfuge in your mind, she sees 
 it. If hard, grasping selfishness, that would take from 
 a sick and dying child the very breath of life and coin 
 
278 
 
 it into gold she sees that also. Can she love these ? 
 Nay, can she love him who admits and cherishes them ? 
 Ah, sir ! If you would have this heavenly-minded child 
 near you, you must love what she loves. If you would 
 go to her when you die, you must set your heart on 
 higher and purer things than treasure that moth cor 
 rupts." 
 
 The old man was stunned. He sat, with eyes cast 
 down, still and statue-like. When he lifted his eyes, 
 the stranger was not near. He had departed, with 
 noiseless steps. 
 
 Next day a poor man came to the usurer. He had a 
 note of sixty dollars. 
 
 " How much shall I take ? " said the usurer to him 
 self, as he looked greedily at the signature. It was on 
 his lip to offer the poor man forty-five dollars for the 
 note. But, a thought of Katy kept the sentence back. 
 She seemed to be standing close beside him, observing 
 all that he was thinking and doing. 
 
 " This is for work," he said to the man, speaking, as 
 he felt, to two auditors one visible and the other in 
 visible. 
 
 " Yes, sir. It is for work." 
 
 " All for labor ? " 
 
 " No, sir. At least half for material." 
 
 " Was there a good profit on the work ? " 
 
OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 279 
 
 <{ No, sir. It hardly paid for day-labor." 
 
 " Ah ! Is that so ? " The usurer sat in a thought 
 ful way, holding the little piece of paper in his hand. 
 More palpably present seemed Katy. " Is that so ? " 
 he repeated. " Then the case is slightly altered. You 
 can t afford much discount." 
 
 -" Every dollar taken from that note," said the poor 
 man, " is so much lost from my hard earnings ; so much 
 bread taken from my children." 
 
 A brief struggle took place in the usurer s mind ; 
 then he filled up a check for fifty-eight dollars and sixty- 
 three cents. 
 
 " I ve charged only common interest," he said, as he 
 gave the check. 
 
 " It is very kind in you, sir, very kind ! " answered 
 the poor man with feeling. " They said you d take 
 the hide off ; but I knew it wasn t in the heart of one 
 so full of riches as you are to rob a poor man s children. 
 I ll put such slander back into the teeth of any one who 
 utters it again in my presence." And the man went 
 out. 
 
 " Was that right, Katy ? " Almost aloud the old 
 man said this, as if Katy were in bodily presence beside 
 him. He felt the warmth of her approving smile the 
 sweetness of a new emotion, born of an act which had 
 in it the germ of a higher and nobler life. Never be- 
 
280 
 
 fore had he denied the lust of gain ; never before con 
 ceded, except to his child, anything for another s good. 
 
 In all that day s business there was conflict. Greed 
 of gold prompted to the usual exactions ; but the ever- 
 recurring thought of Katy, with the impression of her 
 nearness, held him away from extortion, when the weak 
 and needy came to him. On large commercial paper 
 there were current u street rates " of discount, which, 
 though usurious, he made without scruple. But when 
 the artisan and the small manufacturer came, with their 
 sober faces and small notes, the conscious presence of 
 Katy restrained him. He dared not rob them as of old, 
 lest the pure spirit he so loved should see it and depart 
 from him. 
 
 And in the days that followed he could not go back 
 to the old hard ways of grinding the needy whenever 
 they were forced, through necessity, to seek his aid. 
 Always the hand of Katy seemed on his hand, holding 
 it back from cruel greed ; always she seemed close by 
 his side, observing his acts, and looking down into his 
 heart. In time, new thoughts stirred, and new ques 
 tions arose, in his mind. Glimpses of things higher 
 than the mere sensual and corporeal were given to his 
 unsealing eyes. He began to have a dim perception of 
 the truth, that gold was not a satisfying element. That 
 the more he gained the more he coveted. 
 
OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 281 
 
 One day, when the old passion for gain was strong 
 upon him, he lost his usual sense of Katy s presence, 
 and robbed a poor man, in pressing necessity, of twenty- 
 five dollars that being the excess of discount over 
 what was legal on a note of one hundred and twenty- 
 eight dollars. Scarcely had the man, with a sad, dis 
 couraged face, gone out from his office, when he became 
 distinctly conscious that Katy was by his side. She had 
 seen it all ! This was the thought that flashed into his 
 mind. Very still, he sat, oppressed with a feeling of 
 guilt and shame. He had done this mean and selfish 
 thing. Had taken the poor man s hard-earned profits, 
 and added them to his bursting coffers ; and angel-Katy 
 had seen it all ! 
 
 Pain and repentance were in his heart. Not so much 
 for the act as for the dreaded consequences. Would 
 not Katy go away from him in sorrow ; because he was 
 base, sordid and cruel ? 
 
 " I will end all this ! " he said, in a passion of fear, 
 lest he should lose his child. " Dear Katy ! do not 
 leave me do not go away. It was wrong all 
 wrong. I didn t reflect. It was the old bad way ; but 
 I will not go in it any more." 
 
 So he talked, almost crying, in a weak, quivering, 
 half childish manner, wringing his hands. 
 
 " I will send him the twenty-five dollars. He shall 
 
282 OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 
 
 have it all back again." He went on talking aloud. 
 And he opened his check book, filled up a check for the 
 sum mentioned, and enclosing it in an envelope, wrote 
 upon it the man s address. 
 
 "Here," he said* with a deep sigh of relief. "I ve 
 made restitution." And the old man felt easier in mind 
 after that. Katy, as it seemed to him, drew closer. He 
 almost felt her breath on his cheek her light arms 
 twining about his neck. 
 
 " Lay up treasure in heaven." Was that her voice ? 
 How palpably it struck on the sense of hearing, as if it 
 had come by an outer instead of by an inner way. The 
 old man started, half turning. What a flood of new 
 and better thoughts came rushing into his mind. 
 
 " Gold perisheth in the using ; but good abides for 
 ever. Every good deed is a coin laid up in the treasury 
 of heaven." 
 
 Somewhere, he had heard or read these sentences, 
 and they had fixed themselves in memory. Now, the 
 dust of years was swept off by some angel-hand, and 
 he saw them as distinctly as if they were but just re 
 corded. 
 
 So the work was going on in old Griffin s mind. 
 Slowly with small promise at the beginning under 
 many hindrances and obstructions. But, after awhile 
 a small channel for a new life-current was cut into the 
 
OLD GRIFFIN, THE USURER. 283 
 
 hard rock of nature and habit, and a healthy stream be 
 gan to flow therein with a perceptible current. At last 
 the usurer gave up his calling. He said, " I have 
 enough." Then there was a pause. His life seemed to 
 stand still. There was an aching void in his heart. 
 But, in a small silver thread, the new current flowed on, 
 and there was a gradual deepening and widening of its 
 channel. 
 
 Then his gold began to be a burden. He must use it 
 in some way. He felt this impulse growing stronger 
 and stronger. Katy s presence was still a palpable 
 thing. He never lost the thought of her. What will 
 she think ? How will it appear in her eyes ? Will she 
 love me better for this ? So, ever to the lost but pre 
 sent one, he kept turning and turning ; and this thought 
 of her gradually led him, after ceasing in what was 
 wrong, to the doing of good deeds. 
 
 Twenty years after Katy s death, the old man died. 
 Many wet eyes saw him coffined; and many voices, 
 burdened with feeling, were lifted in blessings on his 
 name. The spirit of his departed child had led his feet 
 heavenward, and we may have faith that, standing on 
 the threshold of the city of God, the pearly gate 
 opened, and he passed in to dwell in safety forever 
 
284 A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 
 
 HERE are men in whose side the spur 
 has to be driven. Without it, they 
 would never reach to half their possi 
 ble speed ; never accomplish anything 
 worthy of their powers. Some men, 
 like spirited horses, move freely to their 
 work, under the impulse of an ever 
 active will, while others suffer from the 
 inertia of a sluggish temperament. 
 There may be as much actual force in the latter as in 
 the former, but the spur must be felt ere the sleeping 
 energies will arouse themselves. 
 
 It is a sad necessity, this, for having a spur thrust 
 into the side, but there are a great many of us to whom 
 the world is indebted for a respectable amount of useful 
 work, who would have accomplished very little if we 
 had not felt the spur. People who look at our hurt 
 
A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 285 
 
 sides pity us, and think the case hard often say, that 
 the world treats us with injustice ; gets from us more 
 than it gives. But He that considereth the sparrows, 
 knoweth what is best. The smart is only for a season ; 
 but in the work done and the distance accomplished, 
 there is a delight that overpays all. 
 
 My excellent friend, Mr. Garland, Rector of St. 
 
 P s, presents a notable instance in point. He 
 
 has what is known to be a poor parish. The salary is 
 light, and the pay irregular as to times and amounts. 
 Mr. Garland s family consists of seven members him 
 self, wife, four little children, and a domestic. This is 
 the regular establishment for which provision has to be 
 made. It rarely happens, however, that a month goes 
 by without the addition of visitors from a distance 
 " Comers and stayers," as the old lady calls them, who 
 take possession of the " best room," and sojourn pleas 
 antly with the pastor and his family for indefinite peri 
 ods, shorter or longer, as inclination or convenience 
 prompts. The visiting element in my friend Mr. Gar 
 land s family, may be fairly set down as equal to the 
 permanent addition of one member ; so that he has 
 eight mouths to feed. 
 
 Now, it so happens, that Mr. Garland is not gifted 
 with economic intuitions. It is often said of him that 
 " he doesn t know the use of money." " That may be," 
 
286 A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 
 
 he remarked, good humoredly, when the saying was re 
 peated to him, " because I see so little of it." It is 
 true, however, that in the careful use of money his ed 
 ucation is defective. Were his salary doubled, I ques 
 tion whether he would be any better off at the year s 
 end than he is now. 
 
 A very uncomfortable life is that of the Rector, in 
 many of its features, as you can imagine, and yet, it has 
 its compensations and enjoyments, even under circum 
 stances of discipline that some men would call purgato 
 rial. In the matter of sermonizing, he is very unequal, 
 sometimes he will drone along in a discussion that is 
 pointless and lifeless, and sometimes he will send elec 
 tric thrills of thought and emotion through his congre 
 gation, and seem like one inspired. 
 
 " I don t wonder that he is dull," said a friend of the 
 pastor s, in answer to a complaining member, as they 
 walked home from church on one of the stupid Sundays, 
 as they were sometimes called. " The only wonder is 
 that he can preach at all. Give him a better salary, 
 and set him free from the perpetual dilnnings of butch 
 ers and grocers, and he ll preach for you as well as the 
 next. Can a man think and write with a dozen unpaid 
 bills lying on the table before him ? I trow not." 
 
 The complaining member was answered and silenced. 
 If his last half year s subscription to the church fund 
 
A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 287 
 
 had been paid, he might have had a word or two more 
 to say. But, under the circumstances, he offered no 
 further objection. 
 
 I enjoyed the Rector s society very much, and sought 
 it on all fitting occasions. He was educated, liberal in 
 sentiments, refined in character, genial as a companion, 
 and highly gifted ; but he was " weighted," as the 
 " country parson " would say, with a sluggishness of 
 temperament, that, when permitted to bear him down, 
 left half his powers of mind inactive. It was only 
 when the spur was in his side, that he sprung to his 
 work with an outlay of full strength. The smart 
 quickened his brain, and set all its fine machinery in 
 motion. I happened to know that, during the week 
 preceding the dull Sunday performance of which the 
 parishioner complained, Mr. Garland had enjoyed un 
 usual freedom from disturbing influences. The next 
 week he was not so favored, however. 
 
 Monday morning found the Rector in not a very com 
 fortable frame of mind. He knew that he had done 
 badly on the day before, and that the congregation had 
 gone home about as hungry for spiritual food as when they 
 came to worship and receive instruction, but was unable 
 to see how he could do better in future. Mind was dull 
 and dark there was no flashing of light through it 
 no palpitating consciousness of strength. It did not 
 
288 A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 
 
 seem to him that he could ever write another sermon. A 
 haunting sense of duty led him to search about, in a 
 half-dead and alive way, for a subject suited to the 
 state of his congregation. " I must do better on next 
 Sabbath," he said, in a miserable self-upbraiding spirit, 
 yet not rising out of his sluggish mental state. An 
 hour or two spent in the effort to fix upon a subject, 
 proved so fruitless,that he left his study, and was about 
 leaving the parsonage for a walk or a visit, when the 
 carrier met him at the door with a letter. It was from 
 the editor of a semi-religious and literary periodical, and 
 the contents were a brief reminder on the subject of an. 
 article he had promised ; said article being one of a se 
 ries for which he was to be paid. 
 
 The reception of this letter gave annoyance to Mr. 
 Garland, instead of pleasure. The articles to be writ 
 ten were on subjects that not only required research 
 and study, but mental effort, in the production, of no 
 ordinary kind. It was because he was known to have 
 ability for the work, that he had been selected. Two 
 of the articles had already been furnished, and they were 
 so able and exhaustive, that all who had read them 
 were looking with interest to his completion of the se 
 ries. This was the second reminder he had received, 
 nearly two months having gone by since his last article 
 made its appearance. Mr. Garland had gone back to 
 
A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 289 
 
 his study on receiving the letter. After reading it, he 
 sat down in a weak, almost helpless state of mind. 
 There was no consciousness of strength for the giant s 
 work demanded ; and he shrunk with an instinct of 
 weakness from the effort. Still, the work must be done 
 adequately or inadequately. He had undertaken its 
 performance, and his promise, .as to time, had already 
 been broken. More than this, the money that would 
 be forthcoming immediately on his transmission of the 
 article, was due to parties who had more than once 
 asked for payment. Here was incentive enough, you 
 will say. And yet, the powers of my friend, the Rector, 
 were not quickened into vigorous life. The spur was 
 needed the smarting side that would electrify the 
 brain. 
 
 For an hour longer the Rector occupied his study, 
 forcing himself to the task of gathering material for his 
 third article ; but he wrought coldly and sluggishly. 
 He could not get interested in his work. Pushing, at 
 last, his books and his papers aside, he was rising from 
 his study table, and saying to himself " It s of no 
 use ; I can t make anything out of this to-day." When 
 there came a knock at the door. He opened it, and 
 
 met an unwelcoihe face. 
 
 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Young ! " he said, trying to smile ; but 
 the muscles would not go beyond gravity. " Walk in." 
 13 
 
290 A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 
 
 Mr. Young walked in with a solid tread and a cold, 
 resolved manner. 
 
 " Take a chair, Mr. Young." 
 
 The visitor sat down ; and the Rector, with heighten 
 ing color, sat down, also. The two men looked at each 
 other ; one with a hard exacting expression, the other 
 with timidity, shame, and helplessness. 
 
 " You know, of course, why I am here," said the 
 former. 
 
 " I am sorry that there should exist a necessity for 
 your calling," returned the Rector. 
 
 " So am I," was the blunt response. The visitor was 
 drawing from his deep breast pocket, as he spoke, a 
 large pocket book. From this he selected, with deliber 
 ate movement, a bill, and handing it to the Rector, 
 said 
 
 " I trust, for your own sake, that you will settle my 
 account to-day. I have no wish to give you trouble, 
 Mr. Garland, but as I ve been put off, now, for over 
 three months, I ve made up my mind not to be bam 
 boozled any longer." 
 
 The heel was heavy that struck a spur into my friend s 
 side ; and the pain that followed was sharp, thrilling 
 alcmg every nerve. 
 
 " It is impossible to do anything to-day," was replied, 
 with a troubled air. " Impossible, Mr. Young." 
 
A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 291 
 
 The visitor s heavy brows contracted. 
 
 " Oh, very well," Mr. Young s countenance was 
 threatening. He thrust the pocket book into its place, 
 in an angry manner, and rose from his chair. 
 
 For a a few moments the Rector beat about in his 
 mind helplessly. Then he said 
 
 " The bill is twenty-five dollars." 
 
 " That is the amount, sir," answered the visitor. 
 
 " Can you wait, say ten days longer ? " 
 
 " What can you do in ten days ? " was asked in a 
 cold, incredulous tone. 
 
 " Pay your bill, I hope." 
 
 " You hope ! " The man shook his head. 
 
 " We are not certain of anything in this world," re 
 plied the Rector, regaining something of his lost dignity 
 of manner. " It is for us to use the best means in our 
 power ; the result is with God. I have an article to 
 write for a periodical, and will, on its completion and 
 delivery, receive twenty-five dollars. The moment that 
 sum comes into my hand, you shall have it. It will 
 take two or three days to complete the article ; and sev 
 eral days will elapse after sending it before I can re 
 ceive the money. I think that I may safely say, that 
 in ten days your bill will be settled." 
 
 " Oh, very well ! Take your ten days," said Mr. 
 Young, still with a rudeness of manner that hurt my 
 
292 A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 
 
 friend. " If the money is forthcoming then, well ; if 
 not, I know my remedy. Good morning, sir/ 
 
 As already remarked, the heel was heavy which 
 struck the spur into the Rector s side on this occasion, 
 and the accompanying pain sharp, thrilling along eveiy 
 nerve. He did not leave his study after his visitor re 
 tired, but sat down to his work, with every faculty 
 stretched to the proper tension. Before night-fall he 
 was well into the elaboration of his article, his mind 
 acting with a clearness and vigor that made composition 
 a delight. This was on Monday. By Wednesday 
 evening it was finished, and I then had the pleasure of 
 listening to his fine reading, with his soul alive in all 
 the sentences, of one of the most splendid magazine pa 
 pers he had yet given to the work for which he was a 
 favorite contributor. 
 
 After this brilliant effort, made under the spur, my 
 friend the Rector fell back into one of his sluggish 
 states of mind, and there was danger of another stupid 
 Sunday performance. He saw and felt this, but had 
 not resolution enough to arouse himself and compel ac 
 tivity. Friday found him droning over a dull discourse, 
 in which memory and not thought was present. On 
 Saturday morning he took up, heavily, the burden he 
 was trying to carry, and staggered along with it 
 in a halting manner. Another stroke of the spur was 
 
A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 293 
 
 needed, and the stroke was given. He had latent pow 
 er enough ; but it needed will and impuise. Once in 
 motion, mind acted with singular strength and beauty, 
 and so it acted now. The incident which gave impulse 
 on this occasion, came as a consequence of the apparently 
 inadequate support received in his office ; but was 
 dependent chiefly on his own lack of prudence and 
 forethought in worldly matters. It was effective, how 
 ever, and providentially permitted for a good end. A 
 new theme was suggested to his mind, and all alive 
 from sudden pain, he wrought upon it with vigor and 
 rapidity, bringing forth a suggestive and useful sermon, 
 equal to anything I had heard him deliver. 
 
 Mr. Garland understood his own case, and when I 
 referred to the wide difference between the two discour 
 ses given on consecutive Sabbaths, answered " It was 
 the spur, my friend. I am a sluggish animal, and reach 
 my best speed at the expense of pricked sides." 
 
 How many of us are like Mr. Garland, Rector of 
 
 St. P s. It were better if we could give to our 
 
 work, always, from a will impelled by love or duty, the 
 full measure of power with which God has endowed us. 
 Failing in this, it is better for the world, and better for 
 ourselves, that life should be quickened by pain, and all 
 our faculties thus stimulated to effort. Even though 
 moving under compulsion, there is more delight in high 
 
294 A SPUR IN THE SIDE. 
 
 mental activity than in droning half-work, or stupid 
 idleness. And so even the pricked sides, against which 
 we so often complain, are the result of merciful Provi 
 dence ; and better for us than the ease and freedom from 
 care, trouble and misfortunes, so ardently longed for, 
 but not given, lest they should curse our own lives, and 
 rob the world of its claim on our ability to serve the 
 common good. 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 295 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A NEW WORK AND A NEW LIFE. 
 
 H, dear ! Who can that be ? As to 
 seeing any one this morning, it is whol 
 ly out of the question ! " 
 
 Mrs. Crawford arose, and going to 
 the window, turned the venitian blind 
 so as to look downward, and ascertain, 
 if possible, who had rung the door 
 belh There was a lady on the step ; 
 but only a portion of a black silk dress 
 being visible, Mrs. Crawford could make out the caller s 
 identity. 
 
 " Mrs. Scofield," said the servant, a little while after 
 ward. 
 
 " Mrs. Scofield ! " In a tone of surprise, mingled 
 with fretfulness. 
 
 " Yes, ma am. She s in the parlor." 
 
 " 0, dear ! It s of no use, Bridget ; I can t see any 
 
296 A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFB. 
 
 body this morning. Tell her that I m not at all well, 
 and that she will have to excuse me." 
 
 The servant stood for a moment or two, in a hesita 
 ting way, as if waiting for the lady s mind to change. 
 
 " Tell her that I m very sorry ; but " 
 
 Mrs. Crawford checked herself. Considerations not 
 at first seen arose before her mind, and caused a change 
 in her purpose. 
 
 " Say that I ll be down in a few minutes." 
 
 The servant retired with this message. In a dull, 
 moody way, Mrs. Crawford went about effecting some 
 changes in her dress, which occupied nearly ten min 
 utes. 
 
 " I m sorry to have kept you waiting," she said to 
 her visitor, on entering the parlor. Her smile was 
 kind enough, for she really liked Mrs. Scofield. But it 
 soon faded out, giving place to an unhappy look. 
 
 "Are you not well? " asked Mrs, Scofield, noticing 
 her sober .aspect. 
 
 " I m miserable," was the emphatic response. " Mis 
 erable ! No other word so well expresses my con 
 dition," The dim ghost of a smile played about the 
 lips of Mrs. Crawford for an instant, and then vanished. 
 
 Mrs. Scofield waited for something more explicit. 
 
 " The fact is, taking my experience, life is a wretched 
 affair at best. I m disheartened," added Mrs. Crawford. 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 297 
 
 " Disheartened about what ? " asked the friend. 
 
 " Oh, about everything. All seems to be going 
 wrong." 
 
 " I m pained to hear you speak so, Mrs. Crawford. 
 What particular thing is going wrong with you ? " 
 
 " Well, there s the old standard trouble servants. 
 The bad ones torment, and the good ones leave you. I 
 had a cook w r ho was a perfect treasure. Meals always 
 ready in time and well served. But, of course, she 
 grew dissatisfied, though I humored and gave way to 
 her in almost everything. Last week she left me, and 
 we are now at the mercy of a raw Irish recruit, who 
 doesn t know how to boil a potato. I shall send her 
 flying to-morrow. With a husband as particular as 
 mine is, you can guess at the annoyance to which I am 
 subjected. Then again, my chambermaid is going 
 away. She gave me notice yesterday. If I was right 
 well, I wouldn t care so much. But, I m not as I used 
 to be neither so strong to endure in mind or body. 
 Little things, that didn t, in past times, disturb me at all, 
 now set my nerves all in a tremor." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Crawford ! She was the image of dis 
 tress. 
 
 " Everything about me," she resumed, " is getting 
 into disorder. My furniture is growing dingier day by 
 
 day, just for want of thorough rubbing and attention, 
 13* 
 
298 A NEW WORK; AND A NEW LIFE. 
 
 which you cannot get from servants, unless you stand 
 over them all the while. It makes my heart sick ! 
 And if you follow them up, and insist on having things 
 done your own way, they grumble or grow impertinent. 
 It s terrible to live in this way ! In fact, it s killing me 
 by inches. If I was one of your don t-care, easy-go- 
 lucky kind of people, who let things run at sixes and 
 sevens, and have a jolly time of it with life, for all, it 
 might be different. But I am not. I must have order 
 and neatness around me, or I m miserable ! " 
 
 Mrs. Scofield in the pause that followed this com 
 plaint, -said, with a certain sobriety of manner that was 
 just shaded with reproof: 
 
 " These things are annoying, of course, Mrs. Craw 
 ford : but, when we compare them with what thousands, 
 yea hundreds of thousands around us are now endur 
 ing, do they not fall into insignificance ? " 
 
 Mrs. Crawford did not reply, and the friend went on. 
 
 " I have seen things during the past week that so re 
 buke me for complaint of life s petty cares and annoy 
 ances, as to make my cheeks burn with shame, Have 
 you visited any of the hospitals ? " 
 
 " 0, no. My nerves would never stand that," quick 
 ly answered Mrs. Crawford. 
 
 " In the face of appealing pain and sickness, the 
 nerves grow strong," said Mrs. Scofield. " My own 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 29j 
 
 heart failed me as I crossed the threshold on my first 
 day s visit to the sick and wounded, and I was faint as 
 I entered the wards. But interest and sympathy soon 
 overcome weakness, and when I saw a pale, enduring 
 face brighter at a kind word, I felt twice repaid for the 
 effort it had cost me to go in. I have spent hours in 
 the hospitals every day since then, and I have called 
 this morning to ask you to go with me. There is some 
 thing for us all to do." 
 
 " Oh, but indeed, Mrs. Scofield, I am not strong 
 enough. What can I do ? " 
 
 " A hundred things, if your heart is but willing. 
 Come ! I cannot accept your no. Put on your bonnet 
 and shawl. If brave men fight for the protection of 
 our homes, it is the least that loyal women can do, to 
 care for them when sick or wounded. If you are not 
 strong, enough to bear the fatigue of a nurse in the 
 wards, you can at least provide something for a sick, ex 
 hausted man, whose very life depends on a quality of 
 nourishment not supplied by government. I appeal to 
 you in the name of our country, in the name of human 
 ity, and in the name of God ! " 
 
 The appeal was successful. Mrs. Crawford, under 
 the impulse excited, went with her friend to visit the 
 government hospital, in which were over a thousand 
 sick and wounded soldiers. Stretching away for hun- 
 
300 A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 
 
 dreds of feet beyond the entrance door, she saw a dou 
 ble row of beds, most of them occupied. Her first im 
 pulse was to stop and turn back. It seemed impossible 
 for her to go forward. How could she look this body 
 of suffering, much of it unto death, in the face ? Her 
 heart shivered, and stood still for a moment. 
 
 " Indeed, Mrs. Scofield " She caught the arm of 
 her friend, and drew back ; but the sentence remained 
 unfinished, for a pair of appealing eyes were resting on 
 hers, and holding her as by a sudden spell. Just to 
 the right of where she was standing, and a little in ad 
 vance, was a bed, on which a wounded soldier was ly 
 ing. He w T as but a stripling ; a boy scarcely in his 
 nineteenth year. 
 
 Naturally, Mrs. Crawford had a tender heart. With 
 the sentence unfinished on her lips, she moved to the 
 bed on which the boy was lying, and stooping ov^r him,, 
 laid her hand softly on his forehead. 
 
 " Are you very sick ? " she asked, uttering the first 
 question that came to her thought. 
 
 " I ve been wounded," replied the young soldier, try 
 ing to smile and look brave. But Mrs. Crawford no 
 ticed a quiver about his mouth. 
 
 "Wounded! Oh I m sorry! Not badly, I 
 hope." Mrs. Crawford sat down in a chair that stood 
 near the bedside. 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 301 
 
 " A ball struck rne in the hip, and shattered the bone. 
 I don t know that I shall ever get well." 
 
 The momentary weakness had departed, and the boy 
 spoke firmly, though a little sadly. 
 
 " Are you in much pain ? " asked Mrs. Crawford. 
 
 44 Not now, ma am." 
 
 " When were you wounded ? " 
 
 " I was in all the battles before Richmond. On the 
 third day I was struck and left lying on the field when 
 our army moved away. The rebels carried me to 
 Richmond, and put me in prison with a great many 
 other wounded men, numbers of whom died. I suffered 
 dreadfully. One of their doctors examined my wound, 
 and took out the ball. He said I d never get well. 
 Then they sent us back, under a flag of truce, and I 
 was brought here." 
 
 " How long was it from the time you were wounded 
 until you reached here ? " asked Mrs. Crawford. 
 
 " Over three weeks, ma am." 
 
 " And nothing done for you in all that time ? " 
 
 44 Not much, ma am. The doctors had their hands 
 full everywhere. In Richmond they had more than 
 they could do to attend to their own wounded. No one 
 seemed to care what we suffered, or whether we lived 
 or died. Poor wounded fellows some horribly man 
 gled were thrown down, anywhere, on the hard floor, 
 
302 A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 
 
 and not even straw given them to lie on. At least it 
 was so in our prison. A great many never saw the 
 face of a doctor, and died for want of attention. They 
 did all they could for us, when we got back within our 
 own lines ; but men get hardened after being for awhile 
 among the wounded. I was lifted about very roughly 
 sometimes, in being taken on and off the boat, and hurt 
 a great deal. But I m very comfortable here." 
 
 And as the soldier uttered his last sentence in a tone 
 of satisfaction, a smile played around his lips. 
 
 " To what regiment do you belong ? " asked the la- 
 
 dy. 
 
 " To the Massachusetts, Company B. I went 
 from Springfield." 
 
 " Have you friends there ? " 
 
 " Yes. My mother and sister live in Springfield." 
 
 " Do they know that you are wounded ? " 
 
 " If my name was in the paper they have seen it. 
 But I can t say whether it was published or not. * 
 
 " You haven t heard from them since the battle in 
 which you were hurt ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " How long have you been in this hospital ? " 
 
 " Only three days." 
 
 " And they don t know that you are here ? " 
 
 " No ma am. I m not strong enough to write yet." 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 803 
 
 " Shall I write for you ?" 
 
 The boy s face lit up gratitude beamed from his 
 eves. 
 
 " If ft would not be too much trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Crawford took a pencil and card from her pock 
 et, and wrote down the name of the soldier s mother. 
 
 " Shall I tell her all that you have told me ? Let 
 her know just how badly you are wounded ? " 
 
 The young soldier shut his eyes, and remained silent 
 for some moments. 
 
 " No, that would distress her too much," he said, with 
 a thoughtful air. " It will be bad enough for her to 
 know that I am wounded. Tell her, if you please, that 
 I am getting on very well here, and hope to be on my 
 feet again before a long time. Say that a ball passed 
 through my leg ; but don t speak of my shattered hip. 
 They ve taken out two pieces of bone since I came here, 
 and maybe I ll get all right. Anyhow, it won t do any 
 good to let her know the worst on the offstart." 
 
 " Perhaps she w r ill come on to see you? " said Mrs. 
 Crawford. 
 
 Tears sprung to the poor fellow s eyes ; but he wiped 
 them off quickly. He did not reply to the suggestion ; 
 but it was plain to see with what joy he would have 
 welcomed her. 
 
 " I will write the letter as soon as I go home. And 
 
304 A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 
 
 now, is there anything I can do to make you more com 
 fortable ; anything that I can get for you ? " 
 
 A wishful look came into the lad s eyes. It was his 
 only reply. Mrs. Crawford saw it, and half compre 
 hending its significance, said : 
 
 " Don t feel backward. If I can do anything for 
 you, the act will give me pleasure. How is your appe 
 tite ? " 
 
 " Not very good." 
 
 One hand was lying outside the bed covering. Mrs. 
 Crawford touched it. * 
 
 4C You have some fever," she said. 
 
 46 That s the reason, perhaps, why " 
 
 The sick lad checked himself, and a slight flush came 
 into his face. 
 
 " Speak out freely. Just think that I m your moth 
 er, and tell me what you want." All the heart of Mrs. 
 Crawford was going out toward the wounded boy. 
 
 " You re very good and kind, ma am," he answered, 
 4 and you won t think me foolish or unreasonable. 
 But, you see, a lady yesterday brought some grapes to 
 a poor, sick fellow, across there, and, as he ate them, I 
 longed so for just two or three that I almost cried. It 
 wasn t right I know. But, indeed, ma am, I couldn t 
 help it. And ever since I ve been longing for some 
 grapes. It s the fever, maybe." 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 205 
 
 " You shall have them ! " said Mrs. Crawford, rising 
 quickly ; and away she went, under the impulse of pity 
 and kindness, leaving the hospital without thinking of 
 her friend Mrs. Scofield, and hurrying oif to a fruit 
 store, where she bought a pound of juicy, hot-house 
 grapes. She was back again in less than half an hour. 
 
 " They will not hurt him ? " she said to the nurse in 
 charge of the bed on which the wounded soldier lay. 
 
 " You may give him half-a-dozen now," replied the 
 nurse. 
 
 " Oh, they are so good !" exclaimed the lad, as he 
 crushed the luscious fruit in his mouth, and swallowed 
 the refreshing juice. His eyes sparkled, and smiles ran 
 over his face. 
 
 u It was very kind of you, and I shall never forget it 
 as long as I live." His countenance beamed with pleas 
 ure and gratitude. 
 
 " Keep the rest for him," said Mrs. Crawford, hand 
 ing what remained of the grapes to the nurse in attend 
 ance on that part of the ward. For nearly an hour 
 longer she remained with the yonng soldier, listening to 
 his account of life in camp and on the battle-field, so 
 deeply interested that she scarcely noted the passage of 
 time. Then, promising to see him again on the next 
 day, she went home to write about him to his mother. 
 
 How different was Mrs. Crawford s state of mind on 
 
306 A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 
 
 reaching home, and entering the room where only a lit 
 tle while before she sat brooding miserably over life s 
 petty troubles. How mean and insignificant appears 
 these troubles now ! She felt rebuked and humiliated. 
 
 When Mr. Crawford left his wife in the morning, 
 she was in one of her fretful, gloomy, self-tormenting 
 states, which had led him to say, as he went out of the 
 breakfast-room : 
 
 " Don t wait dinner for me. I shall dine down town 
 to-day." 
 
 This was happening two or three times every week, 
 notwithstanding Mr. Crawford had long ago became 
 disgusted with eating-house fare. But he preferred the 
 restaurant to home, with its fretfulness and gloom. 
 
 Thought and feeling with Mrs. Crawford were all set 
 ting in a new current. Her sympathies were deeply ex 
 cited. During the brief period she remained in the hos 
 pital her eyes had taken in enough to stir human nature 
 to its profoundest depth. Chiefly she had given herself 
 to the boy-soldier, and let her first efforts expend them 
 selves for him, because the work came like ripe fruit 
 into her hand. But, even as she sat writing of him to 
 his mother, other countenances besides that of the lad, 
 and other cases that called for help in silent pleadings, 
 arose before her, and filled her heart with compassionate 
 desires. 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 3Q7 
 
 It was a little past six o clock when Mr. Crawford 
 came home. The thermometer of his feeling gradually 
 went down as he approached his pleasant dwelling 
 pleasant so far as all things external were concerned. 
 He remembered the gloomy face he had left in the morn 
 ing, and experience gave him no fair promise of finding 
 smiles instead of shadow. He opened the door quietly 
 and went in. His step along the hall was not strong and 
 confident, like that of a man within his own castle, and 
 glad to be there ; but in part restrained, and scarcely 
 arousing an echo. 
 
 "Is that you, Edward?" The voice came down 
 from the first landing. There was a quality of feeling 
 in the tones that made Mr. Crawford leap with surprise 
 and pleasure. He saw the old beauty in his wife s face ; 
 the old rippling light in her eyes ; the old, sweet tender 
 ness about her mouth and new-born love made the 
 offering of a kiss spontaneous. 
 
 " You cannot guess where I have been, Edward." 
 Mrs. Crawford had drawn her arm within her husband s. 
 The smile faded gently from her countenance, over 
 which a tender seriousness spread itself. 
 
 44 Where ? " He inquired with interest. 
 
 " To one of the hospitals." 
 
 " Why Helen ! " He might well look surprised. 
 
 " And I m going to-morrow again and every day." 
 
308 A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 
 
 Mrs. Crawford spoke with animation. " I saw a poor 
 wounded boy there, not over eighteen or nineteen, and 
 I ve been writing for him to his mother. His bright 
 eyes and almost girlish, but suffering face, were like a 
 spell on me when I went in, and sat down to talk with 
 him. His hands were hot, and his mouth feverish 
 poor boy ! his hip had been shattered by a ball and 
 when I asked him if there was anything I could get for 
 him, he said, hesitatingly, that he had been longing for 
 some grapes. I went out immediately, and bought him 
 some Black Hamburgs. Oh, if you could have seen 
 his eager, delighted face as he crushed them in his 
 mouth ! It repaid me a thousand fold." 
 
 Mr. Crawford quietly drew out his pocket-book, and 
 taking therefrom a roll of bank bills, said, with consid 
 erable feeling, as he handed them to his wife : 
 
 " As your heart prompts, so do, Helen. I am with 
 you in this noble duty. Give all your days to the work, 
 and let home take care of itself. We have surfeited 
 ourselves with the good things of this world, until they 
 have commenced palling on the taste. Now, let us find 
 a new life in gift and ministration." 
 
 And a new life w r as born in the heart of Mrs. Craw 
 ford. Daily she spent hours among the sick and 
 wounded, or in the preparation of things needed for 
 their restoration and comfort ; and though a witness of 
 
A NEW WORK, AND A NEW LIFE. 3Q9 
 
 suffering in terrible forms, and of almost daily deaths, 
 she yet maintained a calm and cheerful exterior, and 
 filled the home her fretful, dissatisfied spirit had once 
 overshadowed with gloom, with an all-pervading sun 
 shine. 
 
 It was remarkable how quickly all trouble with ser 
 vants came to an end. There was a new spirit in the 
 mistress, which pervaded every part of her household, 
 making duty and obedience a pleasure, and not a task. 
 Instead of perpetual hindrances, there soon became man 
 ifest a common desire to act with Mrs. Crawford in all 
 her cheerfully expressed wishes, leading to unity and 
 harmony, which are the hand-maidens of peace. 
 
olO 
 
 CARE-WORN. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 CARE-WORN. 
 
 OW pale and care-worn Mr. Emory 
 looks ! " remarked a lady to her hus 
 band, as the person to whom she refer 
 red crossed the room with an elegantly- 
 dressed young lady, his daughter, lean 
 ing on his arm. 
 
 " No wonder," Was replied. " Mr. 
 Emory has enough to make him look 
 pale and care-worn." 
 
 " Has anything happened in his family ? " The lady 
 turned curiously toward her husband. 
 " I believe not." 
 " What is wrong, then ? " 
 
 " Much ; as witness the troubled look that rests al 
 ways on his face when it is in repose. A peaceful mind 
 never records itself in such an expression. I am glad 
 to see him among us for a few days. He needs the 
 
CARE-WORN. 311 
 
 change and mental recreation needs them a great deal 
 more than nine out of ten who are here. But he can 
 not stay long enough to receive any permanent benefit. 
 Wife and daughters will remain ; he must speed back to 
 the city." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Business." 
 
 " Yes, that is the word with men. They worship 
 business with the blind devotion of idolaters. Every 
 thing is sacrificed to business." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 The husband s face was serious. His wife did not 
 answer the question. 
 
 " I will tell you. It is chiefly because men, in our 
 day, try to do more business than they are able to man 
 age. They are anxious to secure large returns in a 
 brief time." 
 
 u Men should be wiser and more prudent," was re 
 sponded. " Common sense should teach them a better 
 way." 
 
 " I grant you this. But there are influences at work 
 with almost every man that too frequently prove strong 
 er than prudence or common sense." 
 
 " What are they ? " 
 
 "Social pride." 
 
 " Has that any thing to do with Mr. Emory s care 
 worn face ? " 
 
312 CARE-WORN. 
 
 " Every thing. Mr. Emory possessed a business, ten 
 years ago, which, if rightly managed, would have made 
 him to-day an independent man in the world, instead of 
 one almost harrassed to death. It is the old story. 
 His family must occupy a certain position in society. 
 Thev must go with the fashionable crowd. There must 
 be a fine house and costly furniture ; dress and show ; 
 costly emulations. All these things require money. It 
 is easy to sink a few thousands of dollars every year in 
 home extravagances, and have nothing very satisfacto 
 ry to show for it at the end. Two thousand dollars a 
 year for ten years make the handsome sum of twenty 
 thousand dollars ; and I m very sure that, without the 
 abridgement of a single comfort or the removal of a sin 
 gle element of rational enjoyment, at least that large 
 amount of money could have been saved by the family 
 of Mr. Emory during the period mentioned. What 
 then?" 
 
 " Mr. Emory would have been just twenty thousand 
 dollars better off than he is to-day," said the lady. " So 
 much richer, but whether any the less a pale, care-worn 
 devotee of business is open to a doubt. This business, 
 it strikes me, is a kind of mental disease." 
 
 " Only in a few cases," was replied. " In Mr. Em 
 ory s case, as I happen to know, necessity, and not im 
 pulse, is the law of force. I saw him ten days ago, and 
 
CARE-WORN. 313 
 
 tlie interview left a painful impression on my mind. We 
 are personally intimate enough to talk freely together. 
 I said to him, 
 
 " ; Are you going to the sea-shore this year ? 
 
 " He shrugged his shoulders and smiled faintly. It 
 was the ghost of a smile, dying almost as soon as born. 
 Can t get away, even if I could afford it. 
 
 " Why can t you get away ? * I asked. 
 
 " He reached his hand for his bill-book, and opening 
 to the month of August, pointed to half a page of en 
 tries, which my practical eyes very well understood. 
 4 Foots six thousand and upward, said he, significantly. 
 
 " You have the funds in bank, or to come in during 
 the month, I remarked. 
 
 " Not five hundred in bank, he answered, looking 
 painfully concerned, nor a thousand beyond on which 
 any certain calculation is to be made. So you see I 
 shall have to be on hand all the time, just to work and 
 scheme in the direction of money-raising. Heaven only 
 knows how I am to get through ! As for business, I 
 might shut my store for a month and not be any the 
 worse off. 
 
 " 4 1 wish, from my heart, said I, speaking from a 
 kind impulse toward Mr. Emory, who is a true man, 
 * that you had twenty thousand dollars in bank. 
 
 " I should be the happiest man alive ! he answered, 
 14 
 
314 CARE-WORN. 
 
 with a sudden light flashing over his face. How quick 
 ly that light receded ! How sad the face its fleeting ra 
 diance left behind ! 
 
 " Now two thousand dollars a year for ten years, sav 
 ed in expenses which have not increased the happiness 
 of his family one iota, would have given to Mr. Emory 
 a large sum of money. With that in possession, I doubt 
 if his face would be so pale and care-worn as you see it 
 to-day. Visions of bankruptcy, of commercial dishon 
 ors, and of home desolations, the bare thought of which 
 almost drive men to madness, would not haunt his wak 
 ing reveries and midnight dreams. I see no reasonable 
 hope for a safe deliverance out of his troubles. As his 
 expenses went on eating into the life of his business, and 
 payments became, in consequence, hard to meet, Mr. 
 Emory increased his trade by forced means, not always 
 safe buying more largely, and selling to a wider range 
 of customers, with less of scruple in regard to their 
 standing, until he found himself in deep waters, and in 
 danger. Since that time I am afraid it is growing worse 
 with him instead of better. There is only one remedy, 
 if its application be not already too late." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " It is said that a knowledge of our disease is more 
 than half the cure. This means that in a removal of 
 discovered causes effects must cease. Mr. Emory s only 
 
CARE-WORN. 315 
 
 hope lies in a reduction of his home expenses. If these 
 go on, exhausting him more and more, ruin is inevita 
 ble." 
 
 " It will be a hard thing for his gay daughters to step 
 down from their advance position," said the wife. 
 
 u Better for them to step down than to fall down. 
 Down I am sure they will have to come, and that be 
 fore a very long time. We shall hardly find them here 
 in the next watering season. 
 
 A young lady, unobserved by the speakers, had been 
 sitting in a window recess close enough to hear every 
 word. She leaned and listened in an attitude of deep 
 interest, her face flushing and palling by turns. 
 
 " Isn t that one of Mr. Emory s daughters ? " said 
 the lady to her husband, as the person referred to arose 
 and crossed the long parlor. 
 
 " I believe so," was answered. 
 
 " It can t be possible that she heard your remarks about 
 her father ? " 
 
 " They were not meant for her ears ; but if they 
 have found their way there, well. I can not say that I 
 regret their utterance." 
 
 " I m sorry," said the lady. " Poor girl ! How 
 hurt and mortified she must be." 
 
 " All of her pain and mortification will be light in 
 comparison to what her father suffers daily and hourly," 
 
316 CARE-WORN. 
 
 was replied. " If she have any true love for him ; she 
 will now seek to lighten rather than increase his bur 
 dens." 
 
 The person of whom they spoke, Mr. Emory s second 
 daughter, after leaving the public parlor, fled up stairs 
 like one escaping from pursuit. On gaining her own 
 room, she shut and locked the door then sat down 
 with her hands across her breast, pale-cheeked and pant 
 ing. The aspect of her countenance was that of one 
 oppressed by sudden terror. 
 
 Agnes loved her father purely and tenderly. She 
 had not failed to observe the cloud which was gradually 
 settling upon his life, nor the pale, care-worn face that 
 looked in upon their home at the close of each recurring 
 day. As Mr. Emory never referred to his business in 
 the family circle, the true cause of this remained com 
 pletely hidden. Not the remotest suspicion thereof had, 
 up to this time, reached her apprehension. Suddenly a 
 veil was drawn aside, and she stood in pain and fear, 
 looking at the undisguised reality of her father s true 
 position. 
 
 What could Agnes Emory do? Young, inexperi 
 enced, inefficient, through defective education, she felt 
 her weakness, and for a time wept in conscious help 
 lessness. 
 
 " Agnes ! " It was her mother s voice. 
 
CARE-WORN. 317 
 
 The weeping girl endeavored to staunch her tears, 
 but in vain. Her face was flooded as she opened the 
 door. 
 
 " Why, Agnes, my child ! what has happened ? " 
 said Mrs. Emory, in surprise. 
 
 Agnes tried to answer, but sobs came in the place of 
 words. At length, as the turbulence of feeling began 
 to abate, she said, with tears still falling over her face, 
 
 " Won t you ask father to come here ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear. But why not tell me about your trou 
 ble first?" 
 
 " I ll tell you all about it. Oh, ask him to come, 
 mother ; and bring Emma and Alice." 
 
 In a few minutes Mr. Emory came hurriedly to Ag- 
 nes s room, followed by his wife and other daughters. 
 Already Agnes had been able to dry her tears ; but her 
 face was colorless. 
 
 Tenderly, almost pityingly, she looked up at her fath 
 er, and seizing one of his hands in both of hers, held it 
 tightly against her breast, saying, as she did so, 
 
 " Oh, father, if we had only known what was troub 
 ling you ! " 
 
 " Troubling me ! " answered Mr. Emory in astonish 
 ment, as he held Agnes a little way from him and gaz 
 ed at her wonderingly. 
 
 " Yes, father, you ve been troubled a long time. I ve 
 
318 CARE-WORN. 
 
 seen it, and we ve all seen it. You come home and sit 
 silent all the evening. You have grown pale and thin. 
 You look often so care-worn. And instead of helping 
 you, we have only laid heavier burdens on your shoul 
 ders." 
 
 " What does the girl mean ! " exclaimed Mrs. Em 
 ory, in a half-reproving voice. 
 
 " Come, sit down, dear, we must have all this ex 
 plained," said the father, leading Agnes to a chair, and 
 taking one beside her. " You say that I ve been trou 
 bled ? " 
 
 " Isn t it so, father ? " Agnes raised again her brim 
 ming eyes to her father s face. 
 
 " This is a world of trouble, my child, and all must 
 take a share," he answered evasively. 
 
 " Our share has been very light, and yours very 
 heavy," was the prompt reply ; " and now there must 
 be a change. We must take off some of the burdens 
 that weigh down your stooping shoulders. Oh, father ! 
 why did you not let us share them long and long ago ? 
 Did you doubt our willingness ? did you question our 
 love ? " 
 
 " I am bewildered, my child," said Mr. Emory, his 
 voice growing unsteady. " It is true that I am trou 
 bled that my burdens are Leavy; but from what 
 source have you received information in regard to them ? 
 Speak out plainly, Agnes." 
 
CARE-WORN. 319 
 
 And she did speak plainly, relating, almost word for 
 word, the conversation we have given. 
 
 " Is this all true, Edward ? " said Mrs. Emory, as 
 Agnes ceased speaking. Her voice was sad, but not 
 weak. She had drawn near to her husband, and now 
 stood with her hand resting firmly upon him. 
 
 " All true," was gloomily answered. 
 
 There fell upon the group of father, mother and 
 daughters, a deep silence, in which heart-beatings were 
 nearly audible. 
 
 " We have no right to be here," said the eldest daugh 
 ter breaking the silence. " Let us go home to day." 
 
 " In the next hour, if a train starts," responded Ag 
 nes. 
 
 " Why did you let us come ? Oh, father, it was so 
 wrong so wrong ! " 
 
 And the youngest of the group laid her face down, 
 weeping, on her father s shoulder. 
 
 " I meant to have spared you this," said the brave, 
 enduring man, with an irrepressible emotion. " I trust 
 ed that all would come out right. I struggled hard to 
 maintain myself, so that no shadow might darken my 
 home. But I fear that all has been in vain. The 
 weight lies too heavily upon me, and if not lightened in 
 some way I must sink." 
 
 " You shall not sink, father, if we can bear you up," 
 
820 CARE-WORN. 
 
 answered Agnes, bravely. " Let us go home to-day ; 
 and when we get home tell us everything about your 
 business, so that we can understand just what duty re 
 quires. I m sure we will all be of one heart and mind. 
 If we are living too expensively, let us go down lower 
 and take a humbler position. With what I heard just 
 now ringing in my ears, I shall not have a moment s 
 peace of mind until we retire from the public gaze." 
 
 " We are of one mind," said all. And with one mind 
 they acted, starting for the city on that very day. 
 
 The change that followed was thorough, reaching to 
 every department of their home life. In a brave and 
 self-denying spirit wife and daughters rallied to the res 
 cue. Watches, jewelry, surplus furniture, pictures, and 
 articles of simple ornament, were sold, and the money, 
 which reached the sum of nearly two thousand dollars, 
 returned to the business from which it should never have 
 been taken. Their large and handsome dwelling was 
 exchanged for a cheap and modest home. One ser 
 vant only was retained three had been required 
 and the cost of living, under a system of the most rigid 
 economy, reduced from between three and four thou 
 sand dollars a year to a ratio of about twelve hundred. 
 
 A new hope sprung to light in the heart of Mr. Em 
 ory. The money received for the sale of surplus furni 
 ture and articles of mere ornament came to his hand 
 
CARE-WORN. 321 
 
 just in time to save him from protest, and carried him 
 over a difficult place where he would inevitably have 
 fallen. He felt that his ship was lightened ; that she 
 was answering more steadily to the helm, and bearing 
 up to the wind. " Courage ! " he said to himself. " I 
 shall yet come out safely." 
 
 If the home to which Mr. Emory returned after each 
 day s hard battle was humbler, the face he brought was 
 not so care-worn. A cheerful light shone oftener in the 
 eyes that were always sad before. He did not sit silent 
 and withdrawn from the home circle as once, brooding 
 over the dark and doubtful future, but read and talked 
 through the evening hours with his wife and children, 
 giving and receiving strength. Had the daughters lost 
 more than was gained by the withdrawal from gay cir 
 cles, and denial of pride and social ambition ? Had duty 
 been all a burden ? Not so ; duty is never all a burden. 
 If it be sometimes hard and rough, there is always a 
 sweet kernel at the centre. They were, in their seclu 
 sion and patient service, happier than before, and grow 
 ing into a stronger, purer, and truer life. As for Mr. 
 Emory, an almost despairing struggle with fortune had 
 been changed for a hopeful one. Confidence took the 
 place of doubt. He began to feel, under the lighter 
 burdens that rested upon him, a more elastic and vigor 
 ous condition of mind. He was clearer-seeing and more 
 14* 
 
C22 CARE-WORN. 
 
 sagacious in business. There was a lifting up of the 
 darkness along the black horizon, and a promise of the 
 coming dawn. 
 
 " Father is very late to-night," said Agnes, looking 
 up at her mother, who entered the room where she sat 
 with some needle-work in her hands. It was the eve 
 ning of New Year s Day. 
 
 As she spoke, the father s well-known tread was heard 
 in the passage. 
 
 " Oh, there he is now ! " And Agnes laid aside her 
 work, moving to meet her father as he ascended the 
 stairs. 
 
 " How late you are ! " she said, as she bent forward 
 to receive the kiss that now almost always accompanied 
 his return. 
 
 " It is late," replied Mr. Emory ; " but I could not 
 leave the store until I had completed some calculations 
 I had in hand." His face was cheerful more cheer 
 ful than it had yet been ; radiant, in fact, with smiles. 
 
 " The work must have been satisfactory," said Mrs. 
 Emory, "judging from the pleasant state of mind in 
 which it has left you." 
 
 " It was satisfactory," replied Mr. Emory, with em 
 phasis. " For two or three days we have been taking 
 an account of stock, and to-day has been spent in clos 
 ing the account and getting at the result. I am happy 
 
CARE-WORN. 322 
 
 to say that it is more encouraging than was anticipated. 
 Six months ago bankruptcy stared me in the face, and I 
 saw no means of escape. Now I think the danger past. 
 If I had been left standing alone, I must have fallen ; 
 but, wife and children sustaining me, strength came in 
 the hour of exhaustion. All is safe now, I trust ; safe 
 for the present, and safe for the future. Our home is 
 not so large nor so luxurious as it was on last New 
 Year s Day ; but then it rested on a sandy foundation, 
 and the storm was gathering which, had it burst over us, 
 would have left all in ruins. Now, solid earth and rock 
 are beneath our house, and I do not shudder in fear of 
 the rising tempest. Is it not far better with us than 
 then ? Are we not happier, though humbler ? " 
 
 " Happier a thousand-fold ! " said Agnes, as she drew 
 an arm fondly around her father. " We speak of it to 
 each other every day, and wonder at our former blind 
 ness and folly. To see smiles in the care-worn face of 
 our father again to hear him speak cheerfully and 
 hopefully to know that we have helped to lift burdens 
 from his shoulders that were crushing him down these 
 are our rich reward ! " 
 
 "And mine in having such children ! " replied Mr. 
 Ernory, with feeling. u In every home, if rightly or 
 dered, lie all the elements of happiness ; and, thank 
 ! we hare found them at last. I was at fault in 
 
324 CARE-WORN. 
 
 not taking you long ago into my counsels. How much 
 of pain and peril might have been saved ! But the 
 night is past, and we bless the morning ! " 
 
 And so might the morning break in thousands of 
 homes over which shadows rest, if wives and daughters 
 were w r holly trusted, and made to comprehend the real 
 struggle with fortune in which husbands and fathers are 
 engaged. Thousands of pale, care-worn faces would 
 grow warm and cheerful ; and thousands of stooping 
 shoulders, lightened of crushing burdens, grow erect. 
 
 Wives and daughters, ponder these things ! Hus 
 bands and fathers, take them into your counsels ! 
 
325 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 SERVICE, NOT LOVE. 
 
 V 
 
 HAT of your new nurse, Ida ? " 
 was the inquiry of a lady friend. 
 The young mother s face changed 
 a little at the question. She was 
 of those who are called favorites 
 of fortune. Wealth gave her 
 ease, luxury and elegance, and al 
 so their almost invariable attend 
 ants, false ideas of life. Because 
 poorer people were obliged to be useful and industrious, 
 service of any kind was felt to have in it something de 
 grading. 
 
 " She does not give entire satisfaction," added the 
 friend, before Ida had time to reply. Her face had giv 
 en the answer. 
 
 " No, far from it." 
 " What is the fault ? " 
 
326 SERVICE, NOT LOVB. 
 
 " There s no heart in her," said the young mother. 
 
 " You mean that she doesn t seem to have any heart 
 in her work." 
 
 u Yes, that s just what I mean. She handles the ba 
 by as if he were a senseless doll instead of the dear, 
 sweet, precious thing that he is. She s as cold as an 
 icicle." 
 
 " Isn t she kind and careful with the baby ! " 
 
 " Yes, she s kind enough. I don t see that she neg 
 lects him ; but she does everything as if she were a ma 
 chine. So cold, so formal, so mechanical. It s mere 
 duty-work. There isn t a bit of heart in anything. I 
 can t understand it, Mrs. Nelson. How can she help 
 gushing over with love and tenderness ? I verily believe 
 her devoid of feeling. 
 
 " I can testify differently," said the lady friend. Ra 
 chel has feelings, and they are warm. It was from see 
 ing their exhibition, that I recommended her as nurse. 
 At home she has a baby-brother and I knew that with 
 him "she is lavish of her love." 
 
 Ida s countenance showed some perplexity. She did 
 not clearly comprehend the case. If Rachel had any 
 warmth of feeling whatever, why was it not called forth 
 by that loveliest babe her eyes had ever looked upon ? 
 
 " For all I have seen of her," she replied, " I should 
 say that she had no well springs of emotion in her na 
 ture." 
 

 SETRVICE, NOT LOVE. 327 
 
 " Such well springs are in all hearts, Ida," said the 
 friend. "But they do not flow at the touch of every 
 hand. Rachel has no personal interest in your baby. 
 She is a nurse for hire. A hard necessity, as she no 
 doubt considers it, forces her away from the care of an 
 infant around whom love has twined a thousand delicate 
 fibres that draw upon her heart ; and she is compelled 
 to give to your baby the care she yearns to lavish on the 
 darling at home. She will be faithful to her duty ; but 
 she has no love to spare. So I read the case, Ida. 
 Love is not bought nor sold. For hire you may get 
 hands, but not hearts." 
 
 This was, to Ida, altogether a new and very unsatis 
 factory statement of the case. That it involved the 
 truth, she could not help perceiving. 
 
 " The service," she answered, " in which there is no 
 heart must, in the nature of things, be defective at some 
 point. Duty work is always hard work, and the con 
 science which impels it must sometimes sleep." 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 Ida mused for some moments. 
 
 " And yet, Mrs. Nelson," she resumed, " I cannot but 
 feel, that, in so sweet a babe as mine, the very sphere 
 of his innocence must draw towards it a gush of tender 
 feeling, unless the heart is very cold and selfish. Love 
 should take the place of conscience." 
 
" Would it, think you, in your case, Ida ? " 
 
 " In my case ! I do not see your meaning. How in 
 my case ? " 
 
 " Can you think out of yourself? " 
 
 "How, out of myself?" 
 
 " Realize conditions in life wholly different from those 
 which actually exist." 
 
 44 In my own case ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 44 Perhaps I might, if the effort were made." 
 
 " Then, imagine such a change of circumstances as 
 would require you to separate yourself from Francis, 
 and become the nurse of another babe just as pure 
 and sweet ; but not your own." 
 
 " You shock me, Mrs. Nelson ! I can t imagine 
 such a thing," said Ida. 
 
 44 It is because you have imagined it, in a degree, 
 that you are shocked," was the friend s reply. ** Come 
 up, bravely, Ida, to a fuller realization of the condition 
 I have suggested. When you have done so, you will 
 be able to understand Rachel not before." 
 
 44 1 understood just now, that the babe she left at 
 home was only a brother." 
 
 44 True ; yet was it born into her love, and dwelt in 
 her heart with almost the fullness of delight that a 
 mother knows. Thought and affection will be ever re- 
 
SERVICE, NOT LOVE. 329 
 
 turning to the dearer babe she has left, even while the 
 head of your darling, in all its sweetness and innocence, 
 lies pillowed against her bosom. It is not that her 
 heart is cold, Ida. But it is scarcely large enough for 
 both these little ones. Now, go with me, in imagination. 
 Misfortune has come, like a blighting wind, and the 
 sheltering vine that shaded you from noontide heats is 
 leafless and dead. The walls of your palace have been 
 shaken to their foundations, and you go forth, weeping, 
 to seek, in the wide, \vide world, another and a poorer 
 home. Nay, worse than all this, he who has kept even 
 the summer airs from touching you too roughly, is taken 
 away, and you are alone with your babe alone, help 
 less and friendless. Such things have been, Ida ; and 
 such things will continue to be. Think, now, of leav 
 ing your own babe to the care of a sister, or a stranger, 
 while you, for hire, take another babe to your arms, 
 ministering to its wants, and giving it the tender ser 
 vices your heart is yearning to bestow upon your own. 
 How much heart, think you, Ida, would there be in 
 this work ? Duty might be well done the native 
 kindness of your disposition might compel attentions 
 but, if love were also demanded, the requirement would 
 be too great." 
 
 The friend ceased, and the young mother sat for some 
 time in sober thought. She realized most vividly 
 
830 SERVICE, NOT LOVE. 
 
 i 
 
 condition which had been pictured, and her heart shud 
 dered at the distinct impression. 
 
 " What then ? " she asked looking up, at length, 
 with a shadow of a new consciousness in her eyes. 
 
 " What then ? Many things are involved, Ida. We 
 must not hope to get heart-service for hire, nor forget 
 that love has its own world and its own precious things. 
 We have our own world of precious things, our own 
 idols, our own lares and penates, and so have others. 
 That self-giving heroism which we think so beautiful is 
 never bought nor sold, conies not through solicitation 
 nor hire, but springs up in the soul under the inspira 
 tion of free and noble impulses, and makes life glowing 
 and beautiful. Rachel is tender, and loving and true, 
 but you can command her only on the plane of your 
 agreement. She takes of you money, and pays you 
 back in formal service. She will be patient and duti 
 ful, but while her heart is with her baby brother, it 
 cannot be more than dutiful under its new relation. 
 Could your heart be more than this, Ida ? " 
 
 " I think not. I am sure not." Ida s thoughts were 
 busy with new suggestions. " I wish that I had known 
 of this before," she said, with manifest concern. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " I might have done some things differently. The 
 fact is, Mrs. Nelson, we are not so much inclined as we 
 
SERVICE, NOT LOVE. 331 
 
 should be to give our domestics, and persons in humble 
 circumstances, credit for the possession of like passions 
 with ourselves. Rachel has been with me over two 
 weeks, and only once during that time has she been 
 home." 
 
 " Only once ! " 
 
 " That is all." 
 
 " Efcs she not asked to go ? " 
 
 " Yes, several times ; but I could not spare her from 
 the baby." 
 
 There followed a silence of several moments. Mrs. 
 Nelson hesitated to utter the strong sentences that were 
 in her mind. Ida arose, and crossing the room, rang a 
 bell. To a servant who answered the call, she said : 
 
 1 want Rachel." 
 
 Rachel soon appeared with the baby in her arms. 
 Her manner was, as Ida had alleged, cold, almost me 
 chanical. There was a dreamy absence in her face, a 
 dull abstraction in her eyes. Seeing Mrs. Nelson, who 
 recognized and spoke to her kindly, a faint smile played 
 about her lips. But it faded quickly. 
 
 " Give me the baby," said the mother, holding out 
 her arms. The baby almost leaped to her loving breast, 
 and murmured, in softest tones, its pleasure. Rachel, 
 on relinquishing her charge, stood cold and passive. 
 
 " Would you like to go home for two or three hours, 
 Rachel ? " said Ida. 
 
382 SERVICE, NOT LOVE. 
 
 Her face lighted . instantly. The statue-like frame 
 seemed to quiver with feeling. 
 
 " O, yes, ma am, very much," she answered, in an 
 eager, fluttering voice. 
 
 " I think I can spare you, Rachel. Baby will be 
 good. Don t stay later than six o clock." 
 
 " Thank you, ma am." The girl turned quickly 
 away to hide the tears that were springing to her eyes ; 
 not, however, before they were seen by Ida and her 
 friend. 
 
 " Do you think her cold and unfeeling? an icicle ? " 
 said Mrs. Nelson. 
 
 Ida shook her head, as she answered : 
 
 " No, my friend, neither cold nor unfeeling, but with 
 a woman s heart beating, full-pulsed, in her bosom. 
 What a new world you have opened to me, Mrs. Nel 
 son ! I can hardly understand myself. It is plain to 
 me as noon-day, now, that love, before it gives itself to 
 an object, must find something of its own therein. It 
 is too free an element to be bought or sold. Our mon 
 ey will not acquire it." 
 
 " And for this reason, Ida, a mother s arms should 
 oftenest be around her babe ; a mother s bosom oftenest 
 pillow its head. No other heart can feel the love you 
 bear your infant no other heart comprehend its gra 
 cious sweetness. Loving it so tenderly, should you not 
 
SERVICE, NOT LOVE. 333 
 
 give yourself to your child, in all the fullness of your 
 life ; letting others share the precious charge only in the 
 degree that health and social obligations may require. 
 Should you not be its chief nurse ? and Rachel the as 
 sistant? The possession of wealth, and the ability 
 thence to pay for service, cannot absolve you of duty. 
 A true mother will be to her babe what no other living 
 mortal can ; for its life has sprung from her life, and 
 there is an interior communication between them, by 
 virtue of this consanguinity and likeness of soul, which 
 cannot possibly exist between the child and another. 
 Be much with your babe, then, Ida. If the nurse is 
 cold and unsympathetic, don t leave him, for any long 
 period, in so chilly an atmosphere : but into the garden 
 of his tender mind, now ready for planting, sow good 
 seeds with your own hands lest an enemy plant tares 
 and let him dwell much in the sunshine of your 
 love, so that these seeds may find a quick vitality." 
 
 " I thank you, my friend," said Ida. " You have 
 spoken plainly but truly. Your words have wrought 
 conviction. I cannot buy love for my babe ; and so 
 must keep him nearer to my own heart. Precious dar- 
 ling!" 
 
334 
 
 A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 NDREW LEE came home at evening 
 from the shop where he had worked 
 all day, tired, and out of spirits ; 
 came home to his wife, who was also 
 tired and out of spirits. 
 
 " A smiling wife, and a cheerful 
 home what a paradise it would 
 be ! " said Andrew to himself, as he 
 turned his eyes from the clouded face 
 of Mrs. Lee, and sat down, with knitted brows, and a 
 moody aspect. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by either. Mrs. Lee was 
 getting supper, and she moved about with a weary 
 step. 
 
 u Come," she said at last, with a side glance at her 
 husband. 
 
 There was invitation in the word only, none in the 
 voice of Mrs. Lee. 
 
A JUFT IN THE CLOUD. 335 
 
 Andrew arose and went to the table. He was tempt 
 ed to speak an angry word, but controlled himself, and 
 kept silence. He could find no fault with the chop, nor 
 the sweet home-made bread, nor the fragrant tea. They 
 would have cheered his inward man, if there had only 
 been a gleam of sunshine on the face of his wife. He 
 noticed that she did not eat. 
 
 " Are you not well, Mary ? " The words were on, 
 his lips, but he did not utter them, for the face of his 
 wife looked so repellant, that he feared an irritating re 
 ply. And so, in moody silence, the twain sat together 
 until Andrew had finished his supper. As he pushed 
 his chair back, his wife arose, and commenced clearing 
 off the table. 
 
 " This is purgatory ! " said Lee to himself, as he com 
 menced walking the floor of their little breakfast room, 
 with his hands thrust desperately away down into his 
 trousers pockets, and his chin almost touching his breast. 
 
 After removing all the dishes, and taking them into 
 the kitchen, Mrs. Lee spread a green cover on the table, 
 and placing a fresh-trimmed lamp thereon, went out, 
 and shut the door after her, leaving her husband alone 
 with his unpleasant feelings. He took a long deep 
 breath as she did so, paused in his walk, stood still for 
 some moments, and then drawing a paper from his pock 
 et, sat down by the table, opened the sheet, and com- 
 
336 A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 menced reading. Singularly enough the words upon 
 which his eyes rested were, " Praise your wife." They 
 rather tended to increase the disturbance of mind from 
 which he was suffering. 
 
 " I should like to find some occasion for praising 
 mine." How quickly his thoughts expressed that ill- 
 natured sentiment. But his eyes were on the page be 
 fore him, and he read on. 
 
 " Praise your wife, man ; for pity s sake, give her a 
 little encouragement ; it won t hurt her." 
 
 Andrew Lee raised his eyes from the paper, and mut 
 tered, " Oh, yes. That s all very well. Praise is 
 cheap enough. But praise her for what ? For being 
 sullen, and making your home the most disagreeable 
 place in the world ? " His eye fell again to the paper. 
 
 She has made your home comfortable, your hearth 
 bright and shining, your food agreeable ; for pity s sake, 
 tell her you thank her, if nothing more. She don t ex 
 pect it ; it will make her eyes open wider than they 
 have for ten years ; but it will do her good for all that ? 
 and you too." 
 
 It seemed to Andrew as if this sentence was written 
 just for him, and just for the occasion. It was the 
 complete answer to his question, " Praise her for what ? " 
 and he felt it also as a rebuke. He read no further, 
 for thought came too busy, and in a new direction. 
 
A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. 337 
 
 Memory was convicting him of injustice toward his 
 wife. She had always made his home as comfortable 
 for him as hands could make it, and had he offered 
 the light return of praise or commendation ? Had he 
 ever told her of the satisfaction he had known, or the 
 comfort experienced ? He was not able to recall the 
 time or the occasion. As he thought thus, Mrs. Lee came 
 in from the kitchen, and taking her work-basket from a 
 closet, placed it on the table, and sitting down, without 
 speaking, began to sew. Mr. Lee glanced almost stealth 
 ily at the work in her hands, and saw that it was the 
 bosom of a shirt, which she was stitching neatly. He 
 knew that it was for him that she was at work. 
 
 "Praise your wife." The words were before the 
 eyes of his mind, and he could not look away from 
 them. But he was not ready for this yet. He still 
 felt moody and unforgiving. The expression of his 
 wife s face he interpreted to mean ill-nature, and with 
 ill-nature, he had no patience. His eyes fell upon the 
 newspaper that lay spread out before him, and he read 
 the sentence : 
 
 " A kind, cheerful word, spoken in a gloomy home, 
 is like the rift in a cloud that lets the sunshine 
 through." 
 
 Lee struggled with himself a while longer. His own 
 
 ill-nature had to be conquered first ; his moody, accu- 
 15 
 
038 A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 sing spirit had to be subdued. But he was coming 
 right, and at last got right, as to will. Next came the 
 question as to how he should begin. He thought of 
 many things to say, yet feared to say them, lest his 
 wife should meet his advances with a cold rebuff. At 
 last, leaning towards her, and taking hold of the linen 
 bosom upon which she was at work, he said, in a voice 
 carefully modulated with kindness, 
 
 " You are doing that work very beautifully, Mary." 
 
 Mrs. Lee made no reply. But her husband did not 
 fail to observe that she lost, almost instantly, that rigid 
 erectness with which she had been sitting, nor that the 
 motion of her needle hand ceased. 
 
 " My shirts are better made, and whiter than those 
 of any other man in our shop," said Lee, encouraged to 
 go on. 
 
 " Are they ? " Mrs. Lee s voice was low, and had in 
 it a slight huskiness. She did not turn her face, but 
 her husband saw that she leaned a little towards him. 
 He had broken through the ice of reserve, and all was 
 easy now. His hand was among the clouds, and a few 
 feeble rays were already struggling through the rift it 
 had made. 
 
 " Yes Mary," he answered, softly ; 4< and I ve heard 
 it said more than once, what a good wife Andrew Lee 
 must have." 
 
A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. 339 
 
 Mrs. Lee turned her face towards her husband. 
 There was light in it, and light in her eye. But 
 there was something in the expression of the counte 
 nance that a little puzzled him. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " she asked, quite soberly. 
 
 " What a question ! " ejaculated Andrew Lee, start 
 ing up, and going around to the side of the table where 
 his wife was sitting. " What a question, Mary ! " he 
 repeated, as he stood before her. 
 
 44 Do you ? " It was all she said. 
 
 44 Yes, darling," was his warmly-spoken answer, and 
 he stooped down and kissed her. " How strange that 
 you should ask me such a question ! " 
 
 44 If you would only tell me so now and then, An 
 drew, it would do me good." And Mrs. Lee arose, and 
 leaning her face against the manly breast of her hus 
 band, stood and wept. 
 
 What a strong light broke in upon the mind of An 
 drew Lee. He had never given to his faithful wife even 
 the small reward of praise for all the loving interest she 
 had manifested daily, until doubt of his love had enter 
 ed her soul, and made the light around her thick dark 
 ness. No wonder that her face grew clouded, nor that 
 what he considered moodiness and ill-nature took pos 
 session of her spirit. 
 
 " You are good and true, Mary. My own dear wife. 
 
340 A RIFT IN THE CLOUD. 
 
 I am proud of you I love you and my first desire 
 is for your happiness. Oh, if I could always see your 
 face in sunshine, my home would be the dearest place 
 on earth." 
 
 " How precious to me are your words of love and 
 praise, Andrew," said Mrs. Lee smiling up through her 
 tears into his face. " With them in my ears, my heart 
 can never lie in shadow." 
 
 How easy had been the work for Andrew Lee. He 
 had swept his hand across the cloudy horizon of his 
 home, and now the bright sunshine was streaming down , 
 and flooding that home with joy and beauty. 
 
SABLES. 
 
 341 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 SABLES. 
 
 ANE ! " 
 
 The young lady thus addressed, slight 
 ly turned her head, but did not respond 
 in words. 
 
 " Did you hear me, Jane? " 
 " Certainly ; I m not hard of hear 
 ing," was answered, in a very undutiful 
 way, considering the relation which ex 
 isted between the two that of mother and daughter. 
 
 " I want my needle book. You will find it in the 
 tipper drawer of my bureau." 
 
 Instead of doing what her mother desired, Jane arose, 
 her manner showing great indifference, and crossing the 
 apartment, gave the bell a quick jerk. 
 
 " I didn t ask you to ring for Ellen," said Mrs. Dun- 
 lap, showing considerable irritation. " My request was 
 for you to get my needle book." 
 
842 SABLES. 
 
 And the vexed mother got up hastily, and went out 
 to do the little errand for herself. The servant a mo 
 ment after came in. 
 
 44 Did you ring, Miss Jane ? " 
 
 " Mother wants you, I believe." 
 
 " Where is she ? " 
 
 " Over in her room." 
 
 The young lady spoke in a very ungracious way. 
 
 Ellen, who had a weary, overtasked look, ascended 
 another flight of stairs, and met Mrs. Dunlap at the 
 door of her room. 
 
 " Did you want me, Ma am ? " 
 
 " No, Ellen ; " her tone was kind. 
 
 " I thought you rung for me ? " said the girl. 
 
 " It was a mistake, Ellen ; and I m sorry you were 
 brought all the way up here for nothing, tired as you 
 are." 
 
 The girl returned to her work, and Mrs. Dunlap to 
 the sitting-room. 
 
 " I don t know what you keep servants for, if you 
 don t make them wait on you," said Jane. 
 
 " When I want their services, I will call upon them," 
 replied the mother, with some severity of manner. 
 " And, hereafter, let it be understood that no servant is 
 to be called for me, unless I ask to have it done." 
 
 Jane tossed her head in a way so like contempt, that 
 
SABLES. 343 
 
 Mrs. Danlap was able, only by an effort, to keep back 
 words of angry reproof. But experience had taught 
 her that nothing of good for her vain, proud, self-willed 
 child, was to be gained in angry contention. And so, 
 with tears of sadness and vexation dimming her eyes, 
 she bent her head low over the work upon which she 
 was engaged. 
 
 Mr. Edwin Dunlap, the husband and father, was pres 
 ent, but during the occurrence of this little scene had 
 not spoken a word, nor seemed to heed what was pass 
 ing. The sofa upon which he sat stood at one end of 
 the room, and he was removed from the lights. Nei 
 ther his wife nor daughter noticed the depressed, ab 
 stracted manner which a close observer would have 
 marked as indicative of some unusual trouble. 
 
 " Father ! " The idle girl leaned back in the rock 
 ing chair that held her almost useless person, and turn 
 ed her head partly around towards the sofa on which 
 her father was sitting. 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 " Father ! Do you hear me ?" 
 
 " Yes ; what is it ? " The voice of Mr. Dunlap was 
 neither clear nor steady. 
 
 " Can t I have sables this winter ? I ve set my heart 
 on it. I saw a muff and tippet to-day, for two hundred 
 and fifty dollars, that are superb. Just what I want, 
 and must have." 
 
344 SABLES. 
 
 Mr. Dunlap did not reply, and so his daughter came 
 again to the charge. 
 
 " You say yes, of course. When shall I get them ? 
 To-morrow ? " 
 
 He was still silent. 
 
 " Very well. Silence gives consent. I ll call at the 
 store to-morrow morning, and get the money. I knew 
 you would let me have them. Oh, but they are ele 
 gant ! The handsomest set I have seen this season." 
 
 And the young lady rocked herself with an air of the 
 most perfect self-satisfaction. 
 
 But her father had not said a word. There was 
 Something in his manner that caused Mrs. Dunlap to let 
 her hands fall in her lap, and look towards him with an 
 expression of concern on her face. He had again re 
 lapsed into the state of abstraction from which the re 
 marks of his daughter had aroused him, and now sat 
 with his chin almost touching his breast. What was 
 the picture in his mind ? We will make an effort to re 
 produce it. 
 
 A small room, the floor covered with a poor quality 
 of striped carpet walls not even papered. A cherry- 
 breakfast table ; four Windsor chairs ; a pair of brass 
 candlesticks on the mantle-piece ; and figured paper 
 blinds at the windows. This is nearly a complete 
 schedule of the furniture. The inmates are himself 
 
SABLES. 345 
 
 and young wife. .He was just returned from his day s 
 work as porter in a large drug store. The leaves of 
 the cherry breakfast table are spread open, and the top 
 covered with a snowy table cloth, made white by the 
 hands of his wife. The same hands have prepared 
 their evening meal ; and though the tea service is scant 
 and plain, yet love and hope are smiling above their 
 humble board, as they sit together, and talk of the 
 coming future. 
 
 That was the picture ! But it faded soon, though 
 while it remained distinct, it was vivid as life itself. 
 Poor, industrious, frugal, self-reliant, Mr. Dunlap and 
 his wife had started in the world just twenty years be 
 fore. Step by step had they ascended the ladder of 
 fortune, until they stood high up among their fellows. 
 
 Like pictures in a kaleidoscope, life-scene after life- 
 scene came and went, each showing some marked 
 change in their external condition, until wealth and 
 luxury crowned their toil and self-denial. 
 
 Mr. Dunlap had been naturally proud of his success 
 in life ; and we will not wonder that, from the eminence 
 upon which he stood, he sometimes looked down with 
 feelings of self-confidence and self-congratulation. 
 
 But to-night self-confidence and self-reliance were 
 gone. He had built his fortune on what seemed an im 
 movable foundation. But it proved to be one of sand, 
 15* 
 
346 SABLES. 
 
 yielding with strange and frightful suddenness, and let 
 ting the beautiful edifice he had erected with such care 
 and labor, sink into hopeless ruin. 
 
 Sables, at two hundred and fifty dollars ! No wonder 
 the unhappy man, in whose mind the certainty of his 
 ruin, as a merchant, was gaining more palpable form 
 every moment, did not reply. And no wonder the in 
 dolence and pride of his indulged and spoiled child, in 
 truding at the moment, sent memory back to wipe the 
 dust from pictures of the long ago. 
 
 Was she better than they were? Better than the 
 faithful wife, her mother, who had walked in patient, 
 humble industry by his side in the Spring-time of life ? 
 Even in his deep trouble of mind, the thought disturbed, 
 and almost angered Mr. Dunlap. Not the incident of 
 this evening alone, so far as Jane was concerned, now 
 fretted him ; bnt many incidents which intruded them 
 selves like unwelcome guests, involving such false ideas 
 of life, and such miserable pride and vanity, that he 
 turned, half loathing, from the mental image of his 
 child. 
 
 " If riches come at a price like this, then wealth is a 
 curse instead of a blessing ! " 
 
 The thought seemed scarcely his own, as he gave it 
 involuntary mental utterance. Yet almost strange to 
 say, the fearful image of misfortune, which had glared 
 
SABLES. 347 
 
 in the face of Mr. Dunlap, lost some of its repulsive 
 features. 
 
 44 The stern discipline of misfortune, I have heard it 
 said, is always salutary." 
 
 How timely came the suggestion. It was an hour of 
 pain and darkness ; and yet the hand, as of an angel, 
 was among the clouds. 
 
 " Jane." It was the voice of Mrs. Dunlap, that 
 broke the silence of the apartment. 
 
 " Well, what s wanted ? " 
 
 Jane was awakened from a dream of vanity and tri 
 umph. She was, already, in imagination, wearing the 
 sables, and eclipsing certain young ladies whose pride 
 she wished to humble. They had only mink, or martin 
 at best, and she would hurt their eyes with sables. 
 
 " Jane, I wish you would go up to the large closet 
 in the third story passage, and bring me a small bundle, 
 tied with a piece of red cord, which lies on the top shelf." 
 
 44 I ll ring for Ellen, if you desire it ? " answered 
 Jane, without moving. 
 
 44 When I ask you to ring for a servant, you can do 
 so," said Mrs. Dunlap, with unconcealed displeasure. 
 
 44 1 don t know what you have servants for, if you 
 don t make them wait on you," retorted Jane sharply. 
 
 Mr. Dunlap turned his ear and listened. 
 
348 
 
 SABLES. 
 
 " I wish you to get me the bundle," said Mrs. Dun- 
 lap. She spoke firmly. 
 
 " If there were no servants in the house, it would be 
 fair enough to call on me to run up and down stairs," 
 replied Jane, in increasing ill-nature. " But, as it is, 
 you ask more than is reasonable ; I m not a waiter ! " 
 
 This was more than Mr. Dunlap could bear. For 
 weeks he had felt the storms of adverse circumstances 
 bearing upon him with a steadily increasing violence ; 
 and with all the coolness of a brave commander, he had 
 kept his eyes at the point of danger, and striven with 
 unwearied skill to pass the reefs and currents amidst 
 which his bark was struggling. But the events of that 
 day had shown him that skill, courage, and toil were of 
 no avail. The keel of his goodly vessel was already 
 jarring among the breakers, and there was no human 
 power that could save her from destruction. Our mer 
 chant was no coward. In his way up, he had striven 
 hard, but gained mental stamina in the struggle after 
 fortune. And now, when fortune w r as ebbing away 
 like a swiftly receding tide, he did not shudder like a 
 weakling. What if his ship were among the breakers ? 
 Life was yet safe. And something might yet be recov 
 ered after the hull went to pieces in the storm. And 
 so, he was already nerving himself for the worst. 
 
SABLES. 349 
 
 The last remark of his daughter was more, we have 
 said, than Mr. Dunlap could bear. It had not been his 
 intention to make known to his family, for a day or two 
 yet, the painful trials that too surely awaited them. 
 But this little scene excited a new train of thought, and 
 he determined to speak out with a plainness that would 
 leave no room for misapprehension*. And so he rose 
 from the sofa, and passed slowly towards the centre of 
 the room. Both Mrs. Dunlap and Jane looked up into 
 his face, and both half started with surprise at its pale 
 ness and strange expression. 
 
 " Sables ? Did I hear aright, Jane ? " Mr. Dunlap 
 looked at his daughter in a wild kind of way. There 
 was something in his voice that sent a shiver along her 
 nerves. 
 
 " Yes, Sables," she answered, trying to speak in a 
 firm and decided tone. 
 
 " You shall have them ; and they shall be dark as 
 midnight ! " 
 
 Oh, with what a startling tone of bitterness were the 
 words uttered. 
 
 The face of Jane grew pale, and the busy hands of 
 her mother fell motionless in her lap. 
 
 " Yes, you shall have sables ; but of another kind 
 than those about which you have been so vainly dream- 
 
350 SABLES. 
 
 ing. Sables for the heart not for the idle hands and 
 dainty shoulders." 
 
 Mr. Dunlap paused in his speech. Already he was 
 conscious of having betrayed himself too far of hav 
 ing commenced the announcement of approaching mis 
 fortune in a wrong and unmanly way. 
 
 " Oh, Edwin ! What does this mean ? " And the 
 faithful, loving, strong-hearted wife, who had walked 
 ever erect by his side, whether the sun shone or the rain 
 fell, sprung forward from her chair, and grasping his 
 arms, looked eagerly in his disturbed face. 
 
 Mr. Dunlap was a man of quick self-control. Only 
 a moment or two of resolute repression was required to 
 calm the turbulence of feeling which had been awak 
 ened. 
 
 " Sit down again," he said, in an even tone ; and, as 
 he spoke, he drew his wife towards the sofa from which 
 he had a few moments before arisen. " Jane," he add 
 ed, turning towards his bewildered daughter, over whose 
 white cheeks the tears were already beginning to fall, 
 " sit down by your mother ; I have something to say 
 that deeply concerns you both." 
 
 Then Mr. Dunlap took a chair, and drawing it in front 
 of the sofa, sat down. There was a brief struggle for 
 entire self-possession, and then the man was restored to 
 himself. 
 
SABLES. 351 
 
 " Margaret ! " There was a tenderness in the tones 
 
 ^ 
 of Mr. Dunlap s voice that stirred emotions long quiet 
 
 in the bosom of his wife. " Margaret, as I sat here to 
 night, a picture of our little home the first in which 
 we lived together came up from my memory, and 
 stood before my eyes, with the distinctness of life itself. 
 It looked poor and humble ; but, Margaret, there was a 
 sunny warmth in its atmosphere. We were happy 
 very happy in that little home. Have we been happier 
 
 " O 99 
 
 since r 
 
 Mrs. Dunlap leaned over towards her husband, and 
 looked with earnest inquiry into his face. His question 
 was strange his manner strange his expression 
 strange. 
 
 " Say, Margaret wife have we been happier 
 since ? " 
 
 " Happier ? What do you mean, Edwin ? Why do 
 you ask the question ? " 
 
 " Because I want it answered in your heart ! Think ! 
 Have we been happier since ? " 
 
 " We were very happy then, my husband." 
 
 " Though poor ! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Poor, and toilers for our daily bread. Unknown 
 unnoticed and yet happy ! " 
 
 " And what of it, my husband ? What of it ? " ask- 
 
352 SABLES. 
 
 ed Mrs. Dunlap, with a flushing face. "Speak out 
 plainly ! You frighten me by this strange mystery ! 
 
 Mr. Dunlap smiled. With him the bitterness of the 
 trial had already passed. He was now calm and self- 
 possessed. 
 
 " If we were happy once, though poor, can we not be 
 poor and happy again ? " 
 
 " Edwin ! Husband ! " Mrs. Dunlap s face turned 
 suddenly white. " If anything has gone wrong with 
 you, speak out plainly. Do you not know me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Margaret, I know you" Then, after a slight 
 pause : " Things have gone wrong. The storm that 
 swept so many ships upon a lee shore, and among the 
 breakers, did not spare mine. I strove hard to bring 
 her safely into porf, but strove in vain. She is even 
 now going rapidly to pieces, and we shall save scarcely 
 a timber from the wreck. 
 
 " My husband ! Has it come to this ! " And Mrs. 
 Dunlap laid her head, weeping, upon his breast. 
 
 " We have life, Margaret, unsullied hearts, and hope 
 still left. Courage ! " 
 
 " If you can bear up, Edwin, with the pressure of 
 this great calamity upon you, I have no cause of de 
 spondency. I did not think of myself, but you. Oh, 
 to have the hard accumulations of your life-time swept 
 away by a single wave ! It is terrible, dear husband ! 
 
SABLES. 353 
 
 Trust in me ; lean upon me ; ask of me all things, and 
 my heart will spring to meet your wishes. Oh, if you 
 can but endure the trial bravely, it will have few suffer 
 ings for me ! " 
 
 A wild tempest of weeping burst now from the 
 daughter. 
 
 " Jane ; " Mrs. Dunlap turned to her child. But 
 Jane, without replying, arose and went from the room. 
 A silence of some moments succeeded her departure. 
 Then, Mr. Dunlap said: 
 
 " The ordeal will be a sad one for our proud, indolent 
 child. My heart aches for her. But the discipline can 
 not fail of good result. We cannot save her from the 
 consequences of misfortune." 
 
 " We ought not to save her if we could," answered 
 the mother ; " for there are better qualities in her na 
 ture, which new relations in life may develope. Wealth 
 has been a snare to her feet, as it has been a snare to the 
 feet of thousands. She has grown up in an atmosphere 
 that has poisoned her blood. Hereafter, she will 
 breathe a pure air ; and I trust to its renovating influ 
 ences." 
 
 " Poor child ! " said Mr. Dunlap. " I spoke to her 
 in too great bitterness with too sharp irony. Alas ! 
 her sables will be darker than she dreamed." 
 
354 SABLES. 
 
 The mother s hopeful prophecy showed earlier signs 
 of fulfillment than she had anticipated. A short period 
 of time only had elapsed, after Jane had left the apart 
 ment, before she returned again. Her face was pale, 
 but not distressed ; her eyes were red with weeping, yet 
 were they not sad eyes, for the light of love was in 
 them. She paused a moment at the door, looking wist 
 fully at her parents, and then came forward with quick, 
 eager steps. 
 
 " Dear Father ! " she said, as she paused before them, 
 " let me stand, also, by your side in this day of trou 
 ble ! " 
 
 A thrill went through the frame of Mr. Dunlap, and 
 springing up, he caught Jane in his arms, and hugged 
 her to his heart almost wildly. Then holding her from 
 him, and looking into her face fondly, he said : 
 
 " If fortune left so precious a jewel in the bottom of 
 the cup she had drugged with bitterness, she gave bless 
 ing instead of cursing. Dear child ! Upon the dark 
 ness of misfortune, light has arisen." 
 
 And now the strong man wept like a woman. 
 
 " To-morrow " came ; but it did not bring the sables 
 for Jane Dunlap. No, not even for her heart ; for a 
 new light had arisen there a light so warm and radi 
 ant that it dispelled gloom from all the chambers of her 
 
SABLES^ 355 
 
 mind ; and not from hers alone, but from those of her 
 parents also. They were happier in misfortune, than 
 they had been in the sunshine of prosperity ; for that 
 only played over the delusive surface of their lives. 
 But now, the sun of love, breaking suddenly through 
 the rent clouds, made their hearts warm and^fruitful. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Charles Reade. 
 
 THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH ; OB, MAID, WIFE, AND WIDOW. 
 
 A magnificent historical novel. By the Author of " Peg Wof- 
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 The Orphens . Ivorr Papers. 
 
 A collection of exquisitely satirical and humorous military 
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 T. S. Arthur s New Works. 
 
 LIGHT ON SHADOWED PATHS. (Just published.) 1 2m. cl., $1.25 
 OUT IN THE WORLD. (In press.) .... do. 
 
 Stephen Massett. 
 
 DRIFTING ABOUT. By " Jeems Pipes," of Pipesville ; with 
 many comic illustrations I2mo. cloth, $1.25 
 
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 THE CULPRIT FAY. A faery poem ; tinted paper, cloth, 50 cts. 
 
 Mother Goose for Grown Folks. 
 
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 TACTICS ; OR, CUPID IN SHOULDER STRAPS. A vivacious and 
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 JSTOTES AND COMMENTS ON SHAKSPEARE. By the great Ameri 
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 New Sporting Work, 
 
 THE GAME FISH OF THE NORTH. An entertaining as well as 
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14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWS 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
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 Renewed books are subject to immediate rec 
 
 LD 21A-60m-10, 65 
 (F7763slO)476B 
 
 General Library . 
 University of California 
 Berkeley 
 
U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 M119132 
 
 55 
 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 

 
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