lijil
 
 /
 
 GETTING ALONG: 
 
 o0k of Illustrations, 
 
 "KNOW THYSELF," 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 JAMES C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 BOSTON: Pim.UPis, SAMPSON & CO. 
 
 CINCINNATI : H. W. DERBY-. 
 
 1855.
 
 ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 
 J . C . D E B B Y , 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 THOMAS B. SMITH, 
 
 STEREOTYPFR A ELECTROTYPER. 
 
 216 William Street.
 
 GETTING ALONG, 
 
 i. 
 
 BUT here is Susan Dillon on our hands still, and in 
 some way she must be taken to the beach. 
 
 Very respectably she shall go, in the Baldwin carriage 
 even. 
 
 But what is the child thinking of? 
 
 The caravan of yesterday ? No. The fact that last 
 night Mr. Baldwin called her " my daughter "? No in- 
 deed. 
 
 Without betraying herself as the listener of that con- 
 versation between Isidore and David which went on in 
 the library, it became at length possible for her to name 
 the name of Stella Cammon. She could ask David if 
 the lady about whom he rallied his sister at the break- 
 fast table was her Stella. And was she then remember- 
 ing what Mr. Falcon had promised, that he would him- 
 self go with her message to Miss Stella, because there was 
 not time for her to go that morning, for the carriage was 
 already waiting to convey them to Harlem, and Susan 
 was not to return to St. John's ? In spite of all the 
 friendly opposition they made, Susan had decided that 
 on that day she would return to the beach. It was 
 somewhat extraordinary, or at least noticeable, that 
 David, some time after he learned her decision, changed 
 
 fe
 
 4 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 his mind about going to pay his respects to his father's 
 old friend, and at the last moment followed the rest of 
 the family into the carriage. 
 
 Yes Susan was, above all things, thinking of what 
 she had heard of Stella Gammon was drawing pictures 
 of Stella for herself, and enduing her with every form 
 and glory of human beauty ; for had not David praised 
 that beauty ? and had not Isidore denied its existence ? 
 
 But the child was thinking of other things beside . . . 
 Of Mr. Falcon's promise, that he should speedily come 
 down to tell her about Stella, and of the quickness and 
 eagerness with which Clarence had said that he would 
 come too. And of other things. Of the gifts she was 
 conveying in the basket that was stowed away under the 
 coachman's box the nice things for her father, and her- 
 self, and for the house ; but especially, among thuso 
 things, of the volume David gave her the very book 
 from which he read those poems to her in the garden 
 yesterday. 
 
 She was glad that she was going home. Who is it 
 that asks why ? Perhaps it was because of the instinct- 
 ive conviction that home was the best place for her. It 
 may have been the fear that made her shrink and trem- 
 ble so when David's eyes were on her. Must he not 
 know how she had thought of him ? It may have been 
 Mr. Baldwin's constant " Susy," or that more rare and 
 remarkable " my daughter," which excited and troubled 
 her, and she wished to be beyond the sound of the words. 
 
 But then, oh busy, childish brain ! there were still 
 other things to think of scores of them. The Har- 
 lem visit was immediately at hand ; and she must needs 
 trouble herself vastly about that. What a grand, stiff, 
 overwhelming air it was Isidore assumed now ! and how 
 Susan troubled herself thinking of it, and of what the 
 probable end would be ; for Isidore was so different from
 
 ST. JOHN'S AX HARLEM. 5 
 
 the folks at Harlem, and then the contrast between the 
 cottage and the Hall ! 
 
 Their going from St. John's had been regulated by 
 the hour at which they would probably arrive at Har- 
 lem. The bell rung for twelve o'clock as they drove 
 through the village ; and, to her great joy, Susan saw 
 the children of the school running down the street, and 
 Mrs. Chilton just going in at her gate. 
 
 This was the morning of the green-note tribulation. 
 
 What Susan exactly anticipated from the visit it had 
 been difficult to tell ; but she erred greatly when she 
 anticipated trepidation in the heart, or embarrassment in 
 the eyes of Mrs. Chilton. It was a heart that had grown 
 in the atmosphere of fashionable life they were eyes 
 which had seen the utmost display of those wonders; and 
 it was not likely that such an arrival or interview as this 
 at hand would disconcert her. 
 
 She was equal to the occasion, to speak in popular lan- 
 guage. She received the guests precisely as she would 
 have done twenty years ago, when it was hers to reign 
 and rule. They understood, each and all of them under- 
 stood, Isidore in somewhat of consternation, that the re- 
 lation between Mr. Baldwin, the self-made, and herself, 
 ffas precisely the same, now in her poverty, that it had 
 been in the days of her wealth. Her charm of manner 
 contrived to throw an illusion over those humble rooms, 
 and her poorly-clad, but graceful, patrician self. The 
 old-time's conscious power was again in her faded face 
 in her speech, in her gesture. Isidore was not here to 
 bestow patronage or to exhibit the grace of condescen- 
 sion, but to learn of an apt teacher, of one who was strik- 
 ingly alive to her advantages. Her son and daughter 
 were with her, but she was the centre of the group. What 
 smiles she had, as if, for all the world, Miss Scroggs had 
 never seen the light, and a green note had never been
 
 6 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 written, uor a dirty boy been found to bear it ! What 
 grace she had ! as if the palm of empire were still hers, 
 and her conduct the creed of the faithful ! What speech 
 was hers ! No necessity for resignation did it recognize 
 no cause for lamentation ; in this first interview no- 
 thing appeared butOthe perfect grace of a thoroughly cul- 
 tivated woman of the worldj) the lofty dignity, or rather 
 the haughty pride, of one whose place was high among 
 the social dignitaries of the land, whose favor was life, 
 and more than life, to all aspiring wealth outside the 
 magic circle. 
 
 It was she who made the impression on her visitors 
 that day, and perfectly she understood it perfectly she 
 understood herself and them. And the result of the 
 visit was, that the party from St. John's re-entered the 
 carriage and continued on their way to the beach, with 
 such opinions as would inevitably be deepened and con- 
 firmed into enthusiasm, when they were thought over and 
 talked about. 
 
 What he had seen and heard warmed up old Ishmael's 
 heart, roused his pity, and led him on to make a generous 
 resolution. Isidore, too, was charmed with young Chil- 
 ton, and expressed some interest in the pale young lady. 
 who seemed to be in such feeble health. As for David, 
 he contented himself with reclining in his corner of the 
 carriage and watching the delight of Susan's face as she 
 listened to all these amiable things that were said of her 
 friends in Harlem. The visit she had held so much in 
 dread had ended in rejoicing, and now she looked back 
 upon it and saw nothing of its tribulation as a rare day 
 of festival it would remain in memory.
 
 IF YOU HAD A CHILDHOOD. 
 
 II. 
 
 OUR little Susan must go up and report herself to Mr. 
 Leighton. It is but three days . . . it is an age ! 
 
 As she goes about the cabin, opening the doors and 
 windows, so that the fresh, warm sunlight may come in, 
 thinking of all she has seen and heard in these past days, 
 again and again comes up before her mind the student 
 in the mill. He will have so many questions to ask about 
 her visit . . . and what shall she tell him ? There is so 
 much to tell ! 
 
 Think of your return home from your first visit to 
 " the city," my own dear, next-door, country neighbor ! 
 . . . But perhaps you had no old student who, you knew, 
 was waiting for your coining, at least anticipated it, in 
 the topmost chamber of an old red mill ! Ah, but there 
 was some blessed old soul that you loved or feared, per- 
 haps both, to whom you must unbosom yourself, on whom 
 you must throw the burden of all your experience. 
 
 Mr. Leighton would be sure to question her in such 
 strange ways ! She could not prepare her answers in ad- 
 vance. He would not be content with hearing of the 
 sights that she had seen about the Hall, and the gar- 
 dens, and the caravan if he only would ! but he would 
 not. She shrunk from appearing before that tribunal. 
 
 And so she lingered and delayed. 
 
 Down on the lowly door-step she seated herself, and 
 looked around upon the barrenness of the coast, and out 
 upon the sea. The sound of the dashing waves filled her 
 with melancholy 
 
 Reader, had you a childhood ? . . .(jThere have then, 
 certainly, been days, hot Saturday afternoons, blessings on 
 their memory ! when you toiled over hills, and waste 
 places of dead level, for the sake of losing yourself in
 
 8 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 the greenness of the dark forest, where the treasures of 
 moss, and mandrakes, and sorrel were. You and your 
 little friend, may heaven bless you both, if your little 
 friend is still among the living, and you unbereft, wan- 
 dering in the lonely woods, have followed the winding of 
 the stream, where, along its humble pathway through the 
 woods, it bore its burden of fallen leaves ; and in your 
 wanderings you have come at length upon an opening 
 where the trees were cut away, or had fallen, or for some 
 reason were not, and you noticed there, surely your young 
 eyes did, how the majestic heavens found their reflection 
 even in that tiniest of brooklets. You followed it on, 
 do I not know you did, still on, through new shades, and 
 more dense, until finally you came, you and that little 
 friend, with her hands full of flowers and her bosom of 
 the green, moist wood moss, until you came suddenly 
 upon a horror of stagnation a place were the bright 
 waters were impeded in their progress, choked by leaves 
 and stones, by some unnatural obstruction, turned aside 
 and spread out in a marsh ! and with a shuddering fore- 
 boding of foul worms, and snakes, and toads, you went 
 hastily away. Do I not know ? Have not I also been 
 getting along also, all this while, do you think, oh reader $ 
 
 Was such stagnation, was such death as this before 
 our Susan ? Some such imagining was floating through 
 her fancy. Some such question as this she asked herself, 
 as, sitting in the silence, the crowds of city streets, the 
 many and varied voices she had heard, passed through her 
 mind. (Monotonous roar of ocean, where was now thy 
 music ? She had heard tlie roar of carriage-wheel.", the 
 clash of human voices ! and the music of life was in them. 
 [Give to a child a drum, will not the roll that he beats out- 
 BOund all the music of nature to him ?/ 
 
 The soft, bewildering beauty of the gardens belonging 
 to the Hall, the green and scrupulously-kept lawn and
 
 HOME WHEUE THE HEART IS NOT. 9 
 
 all the greenness here was in the little place of graves 
 oh ! how lonely, how desolate it looked ! 
 
 She had taken her books from the place where she kept 
 them. She opened them again, and tried to fix her 
 thoughts upon their pages. But the pages were blank 
 before her eyes. She had brought out another book with 
 these, the volume of poems David gave her. Aloud she 
 repeated those which he had read for her. For the rest 
 she did not care. And thus the afternoon passed away, 
 and no visit was made to the Mill. 
 
 Mr. Leighton learned that she had arrived that day. 
 He saw the carriage as it passed up from the cabin along 
 the road to St. John's. And all that afternoon he waited 
 impatiently for Susan to come and report herself to him ; 
 but at night he smiled at his surprise anjl impatience, 
 and repeated before he slept some one among the many 
 articles of his faith concerning woman. 
 
 At night old Walter returned home. Susan went down 
 and met him at the water's edge. Here was a listener 
 to whom she might talk and not fear, of the three days 
 of grace and glory she had spent away from him. He 
 would ask her no searching questions, and would very 
 likely fall asleep before she was half through the won- 
 drous story. To him Susan talked till dark, and by that 
 time both had taken supper, and both were ready for 
 sleep. 
 
 III. 
 
 BUT at ten o'clock the next morning Susan went up to 
 the Mill. 
 
 Mr. Leighton saw her as she came. He stood and 
 watched her from the round window of his tower. Susan 
 saw him perhaps he was looking for her and expecting 
 her. Half in doubt she went slowly on ; and when she 
 
 1*
 
 10 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 arrived at the mill-door and the stair-case, she stood there 
 irresolute. But he had no such design as to descend and 
 meet her she listened, but there came no sound of his 
 footfall. 
 
 Nay, even when she went up the stairs, and knocked at 
 his door, he kept her waiting longer than a moment long 
 enough for her to wonder why, after she had filled her 
 father's pipe for him, and brushed his best clothes, and 
 spread them out on his bed for him when he should be 
 ready to dress for Sunday, why, after she had told him 
 that she would go up if she might to see Mr. Leighton, 
 and he had said, " GrO," why she went and changed her 
 dress, and boots, and put on that new bonnet. It was 
 these fine things that so much confused her that coarse, 
 black straw bonnet, and decent muslin dress ! why the 
 Queen of Sheba, when she went to visit Solomon, was not 
 more thoroughly aware of all her grand apparelling than 
 our poor Susan. 
 
 He at length did open the door, and the magnificent 
 apparition did not attempt to speak ; she merely held up . 
 her books before him. 
 
 " Well ! well ! my dear !" 
 
 So he greeted her and taking her books out of her 
 hands, he crossed the room and deposited them on the 
 table ; then returning, took up his cap. 
 
 " I have missed you. See^ Susan, was there ever worse 
 confusion ? No ! no ! I 'm not going to let you in here. 
 It is not a fit place for you on account of the dust !" 
 
 He would never have thought of that, said Susan to 
 herself, if I had not been so foolish as to come up dressed 
 iu this style. 
 
 " We will go to the beach and enjoy the breeze," con- 
 tinued he. " Have you really a lesson to recite ?" 
 
 The idea seemed to please him, and Susan perceiving
 
 THE QUESTION REPEATED. 11 
 
 that, began to feel a little less uncomfortable in her gar- 
 ments of civilization. 
 
 " Are you glad to get back home again ?" asked he, as 
 they went down the stairs. 
 
 What should she say, if not yes to that ? 
 
 Actually at the moment she was glad, because the be- 
 lief seemed to give him satisfaction. 
 
 He had, doubtless, been lonely during her absence 
 she said he must have been. She argued concerning 
 him as if solitude were not his main object in coming to 
 this barren and waste place. 
 
 " But, child, are you not going to tell me what you 
 think of life now ?" 
 
 That was his first question as they walked together 
 along the beach in the sunshine. 
 
 Once or twice, as we know, during the past days, 
 Susan had looked upon herself as admirably prepared to 
 answer a question like that should he ask it again she 
 should find no difficulty in replying. Had he asked it, 
 as Mr. Falcon did, while she was amidst the excitements 
 of the city's sounds and shows, she had found no more 
 difficulty in answering the one man, than the other ; but 
 here she knew nothing, she could say nothing. Nothing 
 to the purpose at least ; speak she did, but with more 
 despair even than she felt at his first asking when she 
 came back from Harlem ; she said : 
 
 " What do I know of it, Mr. Leighton ?" 
 
 I'rue, indeed, what did she know of it ? 
 
 li But you will tell me, at least, what you have been 
 doing ?" 
 
 She made but a confused story -of it but for the 
 answers his questions themselves afforded her, it had 
 been still worse. 
 
 " It is beautiful," said he more than once, with a sad
 
 12 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 earnestness, sufficiently convincing ; " it," whatever that 
 might signify, must be beautiful. 
 
 " But then," said he gravely, " if you like those things, 
 and companionship so much, this monotonous quiet will 
 be past endurance." 
 
 He had a cordial response to that suggestion iu Susan's 
 silence. 
 
 She must needs betray herself to the last degree, how- 
 ever, when he said : 
 
 " But you can escape from it," he exclaimed. 
 
 " How, Mr. Leighton ?" she asked too quickly, too 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Get married !" he responded dryly. 
 
 Was there no saint or angel near her to help her, that 
 she should " grow scarlet and grow pale," and look away, 
 and seek^to hide her face from the man who was reading 
 every page of her heart, every sentence of it, as a man may 
 read a child's book of fables, all whose meaning he compre- 
 hends, while the poor infant sees only the pretty pictures, 
 and the curious print h 
 
 " That is the way girls do, you know. They are tired 
 of living at home. No great wonder they are tired of 
 old things, old people as well, and long for new or else 
 they are poor, and afraid of the future ; and everybody 
 gets married, you know, (ft 's a sort of disgrace not to 
 be married. It is the way of the world, and you are not 
 going to set up yourself in opposition to that, are you, 
 Susan ?" 
 
 So ! he had discovered the Chough t hidden deep in 
 her heart, at which, since she first understood it, she had 
 hardly dared look again. But to have it dragged into a 
 light like this ! There was nothing for her to say. Her 
 secret thought was hers no longer. And he" continued, 
 with a cold, firm, unpitying voice : 
 
 " David Baldwin, I should judge, is a fine fellow !
 
 THE DIFFERENCE IN PATHS. 13 
 
 What do you think of him? . . . What do vm know 
 about life ? . . . a good deal I should say. You are 
 like poor Eve driven from Paradise, with a knowledge 
 of good and evil that is, to say the least, rather astound- 
 ing. You know quite enough about life for one of your 
 years, I should say. And here you are, actually envying 
 Miss Baldwin her place ! Be content. Do you know 
 yourself so little as to suppose that you could go dawd- 
 ling through life in a round of gaudy, tawdry pleasures ? 
 Did you ever hear of Icarus ? If you are willing to fly 
 on waxen wings . . . why " the notion seemed to him 
 too absurd to carry out into further speech. 
 
 Here he had been comparing that divinely-beautiful 
 life to a prison life ; that life which was perfect liberty to 
 perfect folly ! This, as he meant it should, stirred the 
 child up to answer ; she had no wish to fly, she said. 
 Only there was a difference in paths. 
 
 " Fifteen years," he answered, ;c as good as thrown 
 away. Nothing come of them. I will not believe that ! 
 It is not yourself, it is something else less true and good 
 that has the heart-ache on account of other people's 
 trumpery. It is not you who are crying for velvets and 
 satins, good dinners, and flattery and lovers. It is quite 
 another person. You, in reality, scorn all these things. 
 That 's the reason you are unhappy ; because this some- 
 thing, which is not you, is presuming to torment you 
 with such foolish, tiresome reflections . . . Because you 
 certainly know that your position is one of ten thousand. 
 You are not really going to be so foolish as to slight or 
 misconstrue your privileges . . . No doubt you can do 
 so if you have set your heart that way, and you will find 
 plenty of company on that road. It is all true, as John 
 Milton said, ' There be delights, there be recreations, and 
 jolly pastimes that will fetch the day about from sun to 
 sun, and rock the tedious year as in a delightful dream,'
 
 14 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 but was it for these things, think you, that you were born ? 
 (\7ere you carried through infancy, guarded through 
 childhood, are you growing up into womanhood, for the 
 amusement you may getj} for sports and eating ?" 
 
 Leighton's eyes bent upon Susan. She stood trem- 
 bling she said not a word. She was afraid of him, but 
 more afraid of herself. And he, perceiving this, made 
 good his opportunity. 
 
 " I claim you for other purposes for better things." 
 
 " What things ?" said a low, faint voice. 
 
 " The service of Truth. Come up above the crowd." 
 
 He paused now for her answer. It burst passionately 
 from her. 
 
 " Oh, if I had but Nep ! even a dog ! but to be alone 
 as I am !" 
 
 With this flash the cloud closed again, and became 
 dark as before. 
 
 " Alone !" Leighton slowly repeated the word, and 
 his voice changed ; so changed, that the commotion in 
 the child's heart was stilled, hearing it. 
 
 " Alone. That is a word whose meaning you do not 
 know. Speak it not think it not. You are not alone. 
 You cannot be. Heaven and earth are full of friends 
 for you. Is not your eye single ? can you not see the 
 angels all around you?" 
 
 " No," said Susan, : ' it 's not true, Mr. Leighton. I 
 have no one. I can't cheat myself, and think I have. 
 Where would be the sense if I could ?" 
 
 " Let alone the sense. Common sense is mischievous 
 and time-serving. You are but a child. There are some 
 things in the world beside what you have seen within a 
 day or two. The reason why you are unhappy is, that 
 you have nothing to engage your attention. I mean, 
 none of those things that absorb the attention of girls of 
 your age. You are where you are ; so, of course, that
 
 SALT WATER. 15 
 
 cannot be helped. You must make the best of things as 
 they are. You have wakened a little too suddenly you 
 are somewhat confused." Mr. Leighton spoke cheer- 
 fully ; but it was a different sort of cheerfulness from 
 that which Mr. Falcon diffused around him, wheresoever 
 he went, like an atmosphere. There was more than a 
 drop of bitterness in it. 
 
 " Your eyes," said he, "are yet too weak for the broad 
 light. It hurts them, as it does the eyes of the un- 
 fledged bird. The old familiar things which should be 
 so precious to you, look strange, small, quaint, mean. 
 You would sell them cheaply. You are disposed to 
 underrate them. Behold that mighty and restless ele- 
 ment before you, teeming with wonders, exhaustless in 
 capacity and riches this shining beach these innumer- 
 able grains of sand ! Can you discern these things ? 
 Do you see them ? Do you know how many secret doors 
 are here, which some eye must yet detect, and some hand 
 certainly open ? Have you nothing to do with these mys- 
 teries and discoveries? A little way from here is a large, 
 showy house, that any one can see and understand a 
 clown or an idiot, just as well as you ; it is full of splen- 
 did decorations, and that is the house for my little Susan ! 
 Why, what can my little Susan be thinking of? You 
 have not burrowed in the earth so long as to have be- 
 come blind as a bat. You must not play at cheating 
 yourself it is dangerous sport. You are not to dream 
 of the delights of sloth. Did you ever dream of the 
 mirage of the desert, how it lures, and misleads, and dis- 
 appoints the thirsty traveller ? There are living foun- 
 tains in your way. Be wise, and drink of them, Susan." 
 
 " Saltwater !" exclaimed Susan, "and I hate it." 
 
 " You still look back with longing " 
 
 " Yes, with longing. It is the truth. I will go home, 
 Mr. Leighton. I shall only vex you, if I stay. I am
 
 
 16 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 too foolish for you to talk with. You are laughing at 
 me ; but I have told you the truth. I would be glad to 
 be rid of myself, but I cannot. I will rid you of it, 
 though." 
 
 " Stay !" The voice was so authoritative and so calm, 
 that Susan could not resist it. " I know you better than 
 you know yourself," he continued. " I understand you 
 better. If you go away, it will sometime be a bitter 
 grief for you to think of. Do not disappoint me . . . 
 Yet I will not compel you. Go, if you will not stay." 
 
 Susan went back, and took her former place among 
 the rocks beside him. 
 
 " If you know, tell me,'' she said. 
 
 " You are like neither Mary nor Minerva," said he. 
 " You are not wise, and you are not meek and lowly. 
 But you are less unlike either of these prototypes than 
 the most of women, who squander life, and all its precious 
 things, as if they were put here for no other earthly pur- 
 pose. You have fallen into a terrible error. / 1 will tell 
 you, for you should know, how girls are trained in that 
 system of things which has somehow attracted your curi- 
 ous admiration. You shall see what a phosphorescent 
 light it is that has gleamed out of a rotten state of 
 things, to cheat you, poor little one. They are, the un- 
 fortunate creatures, sent to school sl;ut up in hot houses 
 while they are infants, that they may be put of the way. 
 And they continue at school when they are older, be- 
 cause they must be educated. What they get is called 
 education. They study everything in the course of ton 
 or twelve years they get a shadow of all sorts of sciences 
 that ever were heard of and are finally turned out on 
 the world ' finished,' brimfull of irreverence, and an inso- 
 lent belief in their qualifications to take the conduct of 
 their life into their own hands. Then they get married, 
 on account of a good voice for singing, or a pretty face,
 
 WHAT SHALL DELIVER YOU ? 17 
 
 or the fortune they may have from their honest 1 , hard- 
 working father, or some such thing ;(_but not more than 
 one woman out of ten thousand for a pure, good love's 
 sake.^) The next thing you~~hear of the ninety-nine hun- 
 dred, they are sending another race of unfortunate little 
 children into the hot-houses which did such rare work 
 for their fathers and mothers. If you knew more of such 
 things, you would believe what I say, that, among the 
 women brought up after this fashion, some of them are 
 as badly off in one respect as inebriates. They hajtpen 
 to be immortal beings, and their dissatisfaction with the 
 things they have drawn into their souls to furnish it 
 must show itself they cannot get rid of their craving for 
 something better. They sometimes find out precisely 
 what it is they want; but, in one case of ten thousand, 
 they have not even then the needful courage or strength 
 to apply the remedy. This is the life, of fine show and 
 real misery, that you would choose. This is what you 
 covet. You ! oh, woman ! child ! what shall deliver 
 you ? are you not a whit better than these ? Is it 
 actually nothing that you have grown up here in solitude, 
 shielded by these rocks from the fortune that has at last 
 discovered how to tempt you, whose worthless gifts you 
 covet?)' 
 
 Susan thought of Isidore, and recalled what she had 
 heard of Stella Gammon. Cold and unbelieving, she 
 stood reflecting on his words. 
 
 " I am no better off than the others." 
 
 " Very well," said Mr. Leighton. His voice was cold 
 she must explain herself, and she hastened to do it. 
 
 " These rocks are not as beautiful as gardens full of 
 flowers, and groves of trees. I do not think I am so 
 very rich." 
 
 ' Perhaps not," quietly responded the teacher of this 
 refractory pupil. The poor hope that had taken up its
 
 18 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 sling wherewith to break the gigantic theory of Leigh- 
 ton, stood with nerveless purpose. He bent now to 
 expostulate. 
 
 " But make the best use of what riches you have. 
 Why, because you have only your own store, should you 
 despise it ? That is all that any person has. It is not 
 position, nor circumstance, (Jeast of all is -it gold or 
 silver Jit is the man who rules the world, and appoints 
 destiny. An infant cannot manage a sword ; all warriors 
 were once helpless, in their infancy. Make the best use 
 of what good you have. I do not say it is the best 
 good in the world ; but I say it is the best for you. It is 
 quite as much as you know what to do with, apparently. 
 I should like you once to see that there is not the pro- 
 foundest wisdom in a body's throwing himself against a 
 wall and dashing his brains out in the hope of forcing 
 his way through it. You covet those Baldwin advan- 
 tages. Now listen to me. Ask yourself why you covet 
 them, and see if you can think of an answer that you can 
 give me without shame. You are quite as well off as 
 any soul in that house. Your means are few and cheap ; 
 theirs elaborate, costly. It is quite worth your while to 
 make an experiment. I wish I could have prevented 
 your envy of Miss Isidore. I wish you had proved your- 
 self incapable of that. I wish I could have kept you 
 from falling in love with David.> But perhaps it is well 
 that you should have the experience, since you are as 
 you are.'' 
 
 The Theory of the man was evidently pursuing the Hope 
 with a sardonic leer. Leighton's intellect was in search 
 of phenomena. No gentle emotion bade him spare the 
 child. 
 
 To Susan, trembling, seeking to hide her glowing face, 
 and the tears that rolled hotly down her cheeks / this was 
 terrible. It was showing her to herself with a sneer.
 
 WHOSE WAS T1IE VICTORY. 19 
 
 It was compelling a child to be a woman ; a lonely- 
 hearted, dreaming child, to become a solitary, scornful, 
 doubting woman. For, in laying bare the secret of her 
 heart, he compelled her to some sort of action she 
 could not calmly endure that dissection of his sharp, 
 pitiless eyes. She must defy or yield to him. Persist 
 in disbelieving him, or submit to his guidance. 
 
 She could not command words expressive of rapture or 
 thanksgiving wherewith to reply. Her heart had been 
 wounded ; it ached and bled, for life was there. It was 
 no doubt a healthful operation, this blood-letting; but 
 not the most delightsome. It was a circumcision of 
 soul for which she was not prepared. It was recognition, 
 after some sort, but not such as she could appreciate. 
 He called on her to crucify imagination he was for 
 hurling into instant darkness all the fair fictions in which 
 she had delighted. 
 
 " May I go and get my book?" she said at length. 
 
 Leighton bowed, and Susan started off towards the mill. 
 
 " I will come and recite to-morrow," said she, turning 
 back, after she had gone on alone a few paces. 
 
 Again he bowed, and she went on, alone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 SUSAN went home. She returned into her chamber. 
 The night passed away ; the morning broke. ''Day found 
 her where the night had left her faint with watching the 
 hopes that had been slain. 
 
 Yet, early in the day, she was again in the topmost 
 room in the round tower, reciting to her tutor. Before 
 him she stood ; not in yesterday's agitation, but with com- 
 posure. Unto him were known all her thoughts. Gone 
 was her shrinking dread. He should teach her what to
 
 20 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 do with all those thoughts he had searched her mind 
 and heart he should pay a price for that knowledge. 
 This, in substance, if not in form, was the conclusion at 
 which Susan had arrived ; the conclusion that encouraged 
 her to go up to her recitation, that fortified her to 
 endure his scrutiny. 
 
 When he gave back the books to her. the recitation 
 being over, he took Susan's hand, as she received the 
 book, in his,%nd looked into her face. Not with the 
 look of yesterday ; but with less severity. He had re- 
 lented somewhat. Yet, she inquired still in vain for 
 anything like pity there. He did not think she stood in 
 need of pit}'. The fact that she had come up to this 
 recitation, that she had thus recited, proved to him that 
 whatever else she might need, his pity would not be 
 demanded. 
 
 il You thought me cruel yesterday/' said he; " do you 
 still ?" 
 
 Susan made no answer. He dropped her hand ; it did 
 not fall nerveless to her side, but helped its mate in hold- 
 ing the heavy books. This movement did not escape Mr. 
 Leighton. With a rapid, perplexed motion, he passed 
 his hand across his forehead. 
 
 " I intended kindly," he said. " You are not still 
 thinking that you are unhappy, are you, Su.sm V" 
 
 She was not sufficiently in doubt to tliink about it 
 she knew. He read that in her ingenuous face. 
 
 " Whatever you may think," said he, again, " be assured 
 of this, you do not know what it is to be unhappy. You 
 are wide awake. Why give yourself over to the influence 
 of nightmare ? Oh ! living soul, take care ! You are 
 trifling terribly." 
 
 So caught and wrapped was she in the Same of glance 
 and utterance, that she had no strength for speech, no 
 word to say.
 
 TO-DAY AND YESTERDAY. 21 
 
 " I have driven it out of your head, I see," he said, in 
 a softened tone. " Something you were going to say, what 
 is it?" 
 
 Somewhat hurried was the question she asked : 
 
 " Am I what I was when you found me here, Mr. 
 Leighton? tell me truly." 
 
 He did not answer, but sat gazing at the child. Under 
 the survey she became impatient. 
 
 " Truly tell me truly." 
 
 " You have had some royal guests to entertain since 
 then," said he. " There have been angels at your tent- 
 door, and you have not, I believe, inhospitably turned 
 them away. You know, perhaps better than I, if they 
 have done any good thing for you in turn. You are older 
 by a few weeks as we count time. Yes and changed 
 somewhat, but not altogether from the original I found. 
 But you have taken a fancy to ornament, which I should 
 not care to see cultivated. Savage women, do you know 
 it ? are fond of beads and ornaments of tin and pewter, 
 and gay ribbons^ 
 
 " Am I a savage woman ?" 
 
 " I apprehend that you are in quite as , much danger 
 on account of the fire-water as the gewgaws." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Mr. Leighton." 
 
 " You are trying to persuade yourself that I surely 
 cannot mean that your head and heart are having a con- 
 flict whereas that is exactly my idea. Yesterday, but 
 not to-day, it surely cannot be true of you to-day, you 
 were thinking of nothing but the people at St. John's, 
 and of all their glory. Had the opportunity been yours, 
 you would have put on Miss Isidore's chains, and for a 
 little while you would have carried them as a charm. 
 But the gilt would have worn off, the gold become dim. 
 You would have tried to break the chains. How you 
 would hnte the slight but powerful, the petty shining chain
 
 22 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 that bound you down to custom, and compelled you to 
 feign worship of sham ! You are no more fit to pass into 
 that sphere, and walk its round, than Hercules was fit for 
 spinning. The 'ghost of a linen decency' would never 
 terrify you into the attitude of an impostor. As to the 
 fire-water temptation, you have not shown in your recita- 
 tion to-day that you are proof against it. If I allowed 
 you to have your own way, you would destroy yourself 
 my books would be your sepulchre. The sun wants you 
 out of doors. Dost thou know thyself, oh thou of little 
 faith ?" 
 
 " I thought I did." 
 
 " No doubt so does a butterfly when it hangs wrapped 
 in its chrysalis. You know nothing: you should_be hap- 
 py on account of that. You are in great danger of taking 
 your own standard for that of every other person. Keep 
 off that treadmill." 
 
 Still gentler was his voice, sadder his countenance, as 
 he continued after a brief pause : " Do you remember the 
 story of Pygmalion ? No woman in the world whom he 
 could love. Not one that answered to the pure, brave 
 spirit of which he dreamed ; for whom he looked with a 
 hope and longing that was ever disappointed among the 
 women of the world. How he brought out from the depths 
 of his own soul an idea that he clothed in form so pure 
 that it was worthy of his reverence so beautiful that it 
 evoked the love he had longed to lavish on some human 
 heart. And how the kind goddess, pitying the poor es- 
 tate of the image-maker, gave his work the ' breath of 
 life.' Do you remember?" 
 
 " I remember, Mr. Leighton. 
 
 " And what of it you say. ^'Well I know what it is 
 that the young love. Repose is death to them. Activity 
 wins them to friendship, binds them to love. Well I know, 
 resolution, repose, achievements . . . could they but dis-
 
 THE STONE UNSEALED. 23 
 
 cern the issue towards which these alluring incitements 
 tend ! . . . Strife . . . pursuit . . . victory ! the heart 
 of youth springs forward eagerly at the mention of these 
 words . . . You start in life with precious recollec- 
 tions for guardians ... I came here to labor, to find 
 rest and strength I found something beside these . . . 
 A stone in which a divine life was hidden. I saw and 
 understood it and loved it. I thought it blessed because 
 it was so bound and sealed. I would not have brought it 
 into a more common human life I should not have de- 
 sired that it might in this way be given to itself. I saw 
 tenderness, truth, and strength in the hidden life . . . 
 Unsolicited the stone is touched, the life awakens to a 
 confused perception of itself. It perceives, though it does 
 not understand its vitality. It knows not what to do 
 with such an abundance I love it not the less for this, 
 but the more and I am troubled for it the more. Do 
 you know why I love the life ? Because it is a true 
 one. Look things in the face, Susan. See them as 
 they are. Never, never throw the mantle of your char- 
 ities over any deformity of truth that you may thereby 
 respect and love it. There are high and great prin- 
 ciples always waiting for your love . . . There are 
 tender, true, brave souls " again, as in the last few 
 minutes he had done frequently, he paused he seemed 
 to be saying these things as if in spite of himself. 
 The truth within him was greater than the man, she 
 would compel him to lend her his voice ; " men and wo- 
 men on this earth, wheat growing with the tares in the 
 same wide field. When you seek, you will no doubt find 
 them. Love them. You will love them all the more, I 
 think, if they are receiving the jeers of the faithless and 
 wicked. Join hands with them, and strive, as they are 
 striving, to achieve in yourself and in others a true life. 
 I hope for you none the less that you have been dream-
 
 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 ing. You but fell into the prevailing error, and showed 
 the fearful contagion of corrupt taste. But is it not out 
 of reason that you should choose tinsel in place of gold ? 
 admire the raiment rather than the life ? I hope for 
 you none the less that in your youth you pine for love. 
 You need not pine for the loving there 's love every- 
 where. Continue to believe all the blessed things that 
 are said of truth, and purity, and beauty ; for all things 
 are possible with these. Dream on dream on, Susan ; 
 but dream wisely. Dream that the reverent and heroic 
 soul will arrive at its milleiiium yet that there will yet 
 be a rising in the valley of dry bones. Remember that 
 I promised it, if ever you feel inclined to doubt about it. 
 Then, if your hand has become palsied, it will feel the 
 life-blood quickening and nerving it again. If your faith 
 is dead, it will come to life again. Remember the dead 
 ... all hail to you of the livingJM 
 
 He kissed her on her forehead. 
 
 " When I am gone, little one," he said, " remember 
 these words ; and never forget your mother. Promise 
 me. Be like her." 
 
 Susan promised him; looking out 'on the great ocean, 
 beholding in the distance a ship going out to sea, she 
 promised. 
 
 Large drops of rain, from clouds whose gathering she 
 had not observed, dashed against the window ; warned 
 by this token of storm, Susan arose to go. 
 
 ' : Indeed it is time that I should return to my work," 
 said Mr. Leighton, turning to his desk. 
 
 Slowly Susan moved towards the door, went out, and 
 descended. But when she had reached the outer door 
 of the mill, she remembered her books, and went back for 
 them. Mr. Leighton did not hear her coming; but when 
 she stood again upon the threshold, he looked up sudden-
 
 THE VEIL LIFTKD. 25 
 
 ly. She had broken upon the solitude of a man in tears. 
 She got her books, and went out without speaking he 
 did not call her back. 
 
 V. 
 
 MR. LEIGHTON was undoubtedly a very wise man. 
 Susan Dillon did not question the wonders of his wisdom. 
 She did her best to follow after his counsel to under- 
 stand it in the first place, and then to obey it. But to 
 all the influence of his teaching a counter influence was 
 steadily opposing itself. 
 
 There was for her thought a new epoch, beginning with 
 that drive to St. John's, when David Baldwin had doffed 
 the magnificence of the accomplished man of the world, 
 to assume the unpretending manner of the kind friend. 
 So went her apprehension. 
 
 Inhabitants of volcanic regions date from the last 
 eruption ; dwellers among mountains from the last 
 " slide." Souls also from the convulsions which have 
 shaken them dawnings of light meteoric displays the 
 baptism of fire the eclipse. 
 
 Mr. Leighton's warnings availed nothing. Studiously 
 Susan gave herself to her tasks. But she found that 
 voice in every line, that face in every thought. /-Love 
 tore asunder the raiment in which he had wrapped proph- 
 ecy, and she saw within the radiant form more beau- 
 tiful than Adonis and she fell down and worshipped. 
 
 It was the love of a child, though her childhood had 
 passed away. It was not passion it was something 
 holier, nobler. She would have died for him could 
 have been led on, step by step, to even that sacrifice, 
 had events so guided. She would have toiled, have suf- 
 fered for him ; but her love did not define itself. She 
 
 VOL. II. 2
 
 26 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 anticipated nothing. She was conscious of it, but not 
 greatly hopeful for it not hopeful at all, indeed had 
 no prophecies for it. She built up no personal future 
 with that love for the corner-stone. It was merely the 
 exhaustive, deep love of a child^J 
 
 Bear with her, and wreak not the vengeance of a smil- 
 ing scepticism on me, as a writer of incredibilities, read- 
 er. For you also have known, if you had any childhood 
 into what woman's face shall I look, expectant of 
 denial ? have also known something, in less or large de- 
 gree, of this. There is more of idol-worship than God- 
 worship in the heart of youth, account for it as you will, 
 by natural depravity of the heart, or fault of education? 
 A fact it is ; nothing worth to the life student, it is true, 
 if it be not worth everything worth nothing, if not 
 worth everything, to those who hold, of all on earth, the 
 most responsible of offices, the father and the mother of 
 a household. 
 
 God, afar in his heaven, throned an unmeasured height 
 about the skies, was to be loved ; and Susan had heard 
 of Him, and knew well the requirement. The Bible, her 
 own mother's Bible, from which she used to read to her 
 children those wonder-tales about the patriarchs and the 
 prophets, this Book was lying on the table where it had 
 lain for years, and sometimes, but not often, Susan 
 opened it and read aloud to her father when he had 
 leisure to listen, and was not too much wearied. But 
 since the mother was gone, the life seemed also to have 
 vanished from the volume the light of faith did not 
 shine brightly from her heart upon those pages when the 
 light of her love was withdrawn. Because her mother's 
 reverent voice found once loving utterance for those 
 sacred stories, they had been, in her lifetime, full of light, 
 and life, and beauty. But He whose name was on the 
 volume's every page, was now become to all purposes a
 
 THE LOVE OF A CHILD'S HEART. 27 
 
 dead god to Susan. She found him no more in His 
 book, than in those ancient fables which she had so often 
 read. He was afar on His throne, governing His world, 
 He or Jove' or some great Power. What had He to 
 do with her, or she with Him ? 
 
 Let no reverentjspirit lift its eyes in amazement at 
 this portrayal, as if I were carelessly recording the ex- 
 perience of an exceptional character to no earthly good 
 or purpose. I am making mention of a fact in human 
 experience, around which will cluster few are the thought- 
 ful sentient readers of whom this much may not be said 
 memories which make the saddest, strangest memories 
 of the world's heart. 
 
 The time had come when all the heathen gods, who 
 had long been her nearest and best friends, and the God 
 of all gods, must alike give place for this other whom she 
 had found worthy of a throne and her worship ! . . . 
 She found him everywhere. Omnipresence she gave 
 him ; and omniscience also, when his eyes were upon her. 
 
 From the depths of clouds that unknown world 
 which he inhabited, for a great mystery enshrouded him 
 in that domain to which he was raised so high above 
 her his eyes fell on her and discerned her thoughts. 
 She heard his voice in the roar of waters, a mightier 
 tone than every other. The sunlight had his smile, the 
 darkness his composure ; day his brightness night his 
 glory. Never could she be alone again, for he was in 
 the world. 
 
 The adoring Christian soul, the utmost development 
 of the pure, loving, human heart, will best understand, 
 because it only can comprehend this fact of Susan Dillon's 
 history. The soul that nowhere in life, or history, or 
 nature, can discover barrenness or darkness, because it 
 beholds the ineffable Light filling all in all, will be most 
 tender and compassionate of this child who has halted
 
 28 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 on the outermost verge of essential Being. He, seeing 
 how her soul is satisfied with the atom of glory and joy 
 that has come to her, will perceive and know that the re- 
 sources, which are never exhausted, must have a better 
 good in store for her, the instant that she shall say, " it 
 is not enough" " more life and fuller" ! He, calm in 
 his deep faith, will not even pause or descend to question, 
 shall not this deeply-loving life ' come up higher,' not 
 transferring, but developing its love, until by human 
 steps it shall ascend and behold at last in very truth the 
 glory of the Father ? He will not ask, for the deep 
 things of a Christian's faith are simple facts of knowl- 
 edge. He knows, cannot avoid knowing, Susan Dillon's 
 destiny. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE Baldwin visit at Harlem was a vast theme for 
 Mrs. Chilton's contemplation ; and not less vast for her 
 son Horace. 
 
 There were dreams of " family compacts" of success 
 in ambitious enterprises of a new leadership in society 
 in short, of resurrection from the death of life in Har- 
 lem. These were dreams not to be told, but to be 
 evolved after another manner. 
 
 From the hour of that visit the mother and the son 
 came into new relations with each other. They might 
 be a longer or a shorter time, according to their quickiirss 
 of perception, in coming into a clear understanding of 
 this unity, but the unity was a fact they were hence- 
 forth one in their aim and hope. 
 
 The undisguised interest Mr. Baldwin took in Horace, 
 the cordial questioning he unceremoniously made in re- 
 gard to her son's architectural taste and inclination, 
 aroused the mother's attention, awakened her interest,
 
 FAMILY EXPECTATIONS. 29 
 
 and resolve. His mother's reception of the guests, her 
 bearing towards them, his perception of her as the mere, 
 fine, high-bred, fashionable lady, (it was the first time in 
 his life that he had seen her in relation with people who 
 were moving in the circles where she once had moved,) 
 aroused the son's pity, his respect. She should be de- 
 livered from Harlem and obscurity she should take the 
 place for which nature and culture had designed her. 
 
 With these new thoughts, bearing thus towards each 
 other, it was not probable that words would always be 
 found wanting to express them. There were hints at a 
 removal to St. John's long reflections on the feasibility jp 
 and propriety of the plan and then discussions as to the 
 way in which it could best be carried out. There were, 
 besides, mutual hints that Leah's school must be aban- 
 doned, and other speculations as to the future. Mrs. 
 Chilton and Horace came, by reason of the^e thoughts, 
 gradually into open communication of them. Wot of them 
 in their whole bearing the whither to which they led 
 neither of them had sought out in speculations, to the last 
 result ; but they were more slow in unfolding their de- 
 sires and convictions to Leah. Somehow, whenever a 
 true life is thrown among false ones, it must, though its 
 law be kindness, though its course be unobtrusive, so re- 
 buke those falsities as. though they perceive it not as a 
 rebuke, to make them uncomfortable ; the lives, whatever 
 be their external relation, cannot in an inward manner 
 coalesce^ So was it in this family. This quiet continu- 
 ance in well-doing they could not take as evidence of stu- 
 pid incapacity to recognize the goods of this world. Leah 
 was, on the contrary, day by day laboring for them. But, 
 she was laboring in the faith of those who remember that, 
 though you may buy two of them for a farthing, not a 
 sparrow can fall unnoticed to the ground. And this it 
 was that passed beyond their comprehension, and shut
 
 30 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 them up to her. She never could so knock at the door 
 of their hearts that they would open to her. Never would 
 they so open to her that she could come in and break the 
 bread of life which sustained her soul with them. 
 
 Horace Chilton had never dreamed great dreams, he 
 had never formed vast projects, he had not great has our 
 mistake been if we have conveyed any such impression 
 heretofore he had not the requisite power of conception 
 nor the needful energy of will. Though he penetrated 
 into the mazes of his mother's unspoken hopes and plans 
 with what he chose to deceive himself by calling scorn, 
 he nevertheless reflected much upon the new thoughts 
 they gave him. For, though he had not suspected it, his 
 ambition was an ambition that would at any instant have 
 relinquished its aspirations for the assurance of worldly 
 fortune. He knew not that this was true of himself, be- 
 cause he could not understand how very far beyond self, 
 thought of self or hope of self, the aspiration of the true 
 artist goes. It was this incapacity that had occasioned 
 his entire misconception of himself so long. What he 
 wanted was fame, not the perfections which ensure it. He 
 wanted fortune, ease, luxury, gay company, high living 
 more. But how could he nerve himself so far as to wear 
 body and brain to shreds in working for these things ? 
 Had he no faculty for speculation ? Had he not the cour- 
 age to risk time and eternity, I mean Life, (not blood and 
 bone, however,) by a leap for riches ? Horace Chilton 
 had much of grace and personal beauty. He had seen 
 his mother coming into new relations, to him at least, 
 gracefully as a queen ; he wondered no longer at her long 
 repining; he shared her discontent. How could he ef- 
 fect her deliverance and his own ? Was there more than 
 one way for a youth like him ? 
 
 By degrees, and not by slow degrees, he came to regard
 
 HE THAT RUNS MAY READ. 31 
 
 the chosen profession, the profession to which he had 
 fancied that his genius had predestined him, in a second- 
 ary light, but as, possibly, the amusement of his future 
 years . . . not as the labor of life the sacred altar for 
 the holiest sacrifices. Leah must give up her school. By 
 the effect produced on his own mind, and on his mother's, 
 he understood how such an occupation, pursued by her, 
 would forever mar the family's best interests. And he had 
 resolved upon a method by which it would be possible for 
 her to suspend all labor. These were the costly tools his 
 father gave him ! a mine he could not work treasure as 
 good as buried. We have already heard his first reflec- 
 tions on this point. 
 
 Mr. Baldwin, during his visit, had spoken, or rather 
 had remotely alluded and Horace had since interpreted 
 it into plain speech so had his mother to the interest 
 he felt in the young man's success, and had said some- 
 thing of a friend of his who was an engineer in St. John's. 
 In such close connection had he spoken of these things, 
 that Horace, without hesitation, had proceeded to build 
 his plans on this foundation ; which, we do not assert, 
 would have been either disgraceful or marvellous, had not 
 his plan for the erection of the superstructure been utter- 
 ly mendacious. 
 
 From these processes of argument, however, in the 
 brain of a youth, these known and unknown processes, 
 the reader will be quite assured of one thing, that Hor- 
 ace Chilton, wherever he goes, will be sure to get along 
 in life beyond all peradventure. 
 
 That Leah was prepared to join in plotting for these 
 ends, we hardly need deny. That she was blind to the 
 uew spirit infused into the house with that visit from St. 
 John's, would argue far more dullness on her part than I 
 am willing to admit. That she was quiescently patient
 
 32 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 with it all, that it did not make her heart sink in shame, 
 and rise in indignation, who will believe ? 
 
 Too pure to enter into, she was sure to discern so 
 much as this, that a new element was infused into the 
 family mind. She did observe, she could not fail to 
 reason about, the new unity, harmony I did not say, that 
 prevailed between Horace and their mother. 
 
 She was then hardly surprised when Horace, one 
 night, not long after the momentous visit, said to her : 
 
 " When does your term end, Leah ?" 
 
 " Next Wednesday," she told him. 
 
 " I am glad of that. You '11 not open it again this 
 summer," said he, as if that of course were her plan, and 
 a settled point in everybody's mind. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered. 
 
 " But mother and I think that you should have a rest. 
 It will be time enough for you to take the school again 
 in the fall, if you are bent on it." 
 
 " That would be foolish. I had better keep on, than 
 have the school broken up and scattered." 
 
 " Now, Leah, don't be foolish. Show a little grati- 
 tude ; but for me you would never have had the school, 
 and I think we have tormented mother long enough. Let 
 your rival have the benefit of the youngsters this season." 
 
 " I had rather not." 
 
 " Why had you rather not ?" asked Horace impatiently. 
 " When you come to the profit of the thing, why it 's 
 such a mere trifle that that really it is not worth 
 mentioning." 
 
 Horace hesitated saying this. He had not quite for- 
 gotten the substantial help that " mere trifle " of which 
 he spoke so contemptuously so cruelly, because he said 
 it to her had proved. From her no answer came to 
 this remark ; and he was obliged, presently, to go on, that 
 the uncomfortable silence might be broken.
 
 THE SCHOOL TEACHER IN THE WAY. 33 
 
 " Do you agree to it ? You are not going to be so 
 foolish, certainly, as to fight against your own interests ! 
 Recollect. I am a medical man ! and I say tha.you need 
 rest. You are getting languid, and pale, and faded. 
 Your violent headaches are a warning; take care of 
 yourself in time. Look at Miss Scroggs, and take 
 warning." 
 
 " Horace, don't speak so of that woman ; laugh at me 
 if you must. I have no feeling about that, but the 
 Scroggs wore herself out taking care of her old grand- 
 father who died this morning. Her shadowy face and 
 body tell a story for her that should make you respect 
 her at least. As for myself," she continued with less 
 spirit, and the momentary flush fading from her cheek, 
 " I am not afraid of my looks my work is not hard 
 enough to make any decided change in them. I had 
 rather go on with the school." 
 
 " Then, really, I don't see any other way for you than 
 to give a little larger scope to your self-denial," said 
 Horace, speaking lightly. " For how are you going to 
 manage mother and I ? We are dead set against any 
 more schooling this summer ; now don't be cross about 
 it, there 's a dear, but tell me what you honestly think 
 about it?" 
 
 " Why you know what I think, Horace." 
 
 " Have you forgotten the heat in that shed of a school- 
 room, last summer ?" he asked. , 
 
 " No but you remember we had another door and 
 window opened this spring." 
 
 " Well ; we won't talk about it. It is not worth an 
 argument. There is no necessity for the school this 
 summer, and that argument. I 'm sure, is direct, and ap- 
 peals to your common sense. You are not going to kill 
 yourself. That is the conclusion we have come at. Two 
 against one you will make a bad job of it." 
 
 2*
 
 34 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 ' How shall we manage ? how shall we get on then ?" 
 asked Leah. ^ 
 
 " You are so set in your ways, I think I '11 not tell 
 you just now. We will talk no more about it to-night." 
 
 And no more would he talk about it. Not that he 
 was annoyed; if she inferred that, it was because he 
 wished her to do so; he felt ashamed to lay before her 
 the expedient to which he was about to resort ; the dis- 
 posal of those precious tools. How instantly she would 
 reject the plan on her own behalf, how much she would 
 oppose it on theirs, he well knew. His sister was not so 
 ambitious to get on ... That infant-school teaching 
 was a small business, it is true, when compared with the 
 government of a nation, or the great achievement of an 
 artist but it was a work worthy of a seraph, compared 
 with the occupation to which her brother was beginning 
 to aspire. 
 
 Never until now had Leah suspected the power, or the 
 purpose, of her brother, but now she said, <; I had rather 
 know your plan than be thinking that you could have 
 any in view that you would not be glad to let me share." 
 
 This approach to the truth was not calculated to make 
 Horace more communicative, but the reverse. He had 
 placed himself in a position from which, when the awk- 
 wardness of its novelty, and some faint confused sus- 
 picions of its impregnability were gone, he would obtain 
 a clearer vision than he now had, and be less troubled 
 with doubts of himself. Very soon those doubts would 
 all be turned over to her charge on that meek scape- 
 goat he would be sure to fling all blame of ill-success, 
 if ill-success should attend him he could henceforth 
 make no confidant of her he had no hope, no aspiration 
 that he would not shrink from unveiling to her . . . How 
 lonely they left her to go on the way of life ! Into what 
 solitude the loving heart was driven.
 
 FALCON'S DISCOVERY. 35 
 
 VII. 
 
 IN due time, and it was not a long time after Susan's 
 return home, Mr. Falcon and Clarence Baldwin made 
 their proposed visit to the beach. 
 
 We may best understand it, and its results, from the 
 following letter, which Mr. Falcon wrote to a friend on 
 his return : , 
 
 " DEAR JACOBUS, I have seen Mark Leighton. You 
 will be about as much startled at this intelligence as if I 
 had somewhere encountered an attache from ' the undis- 
 covered country.' I came home bent on despatching 
 this fact to you by telegraph ; but as I drew out the 
 paper for the purpose of jotting down the facts it 
 seemed to me that I should, in so doing, only occasion a 
 tumult of unnecessary excitement. And besides, he is 
 not, as you might infer, alive for me, or for you. The 
 man is dead, sir, dead to us, I say. I grieve at this it 
 makes me melancholy. But I must state it in plain 
 words, or you would be posting down here, and if you 
 came you would not see Mark Leighton. 
 
 " I was at the sea-beach with my young charge of 
 whom more in a future paragraph, therefore keep your 
 eyes open, do, dear Momus ! to the end of this lucubra- 
 tion ; and it happened, in the course of the afternoon, 
 that I strolled along the sand^ beach and came upon a 
 man. 
 
 " A lofty, commanding person, thin, almost to ghastli- 
 ness, from incessant energy of thought : head bent for- 
 ward, hands clasped behind him, striding on as if to a 
 martial tune. You see ; you. remember. I followed 
 in his steps, not carelessly, not thoughtlessly ; you 
 know I could not walk in Mark Leighton's steps ignorant- 
 ly. He evidently did not hear me approaching. He
 
 36 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 was lost in thought, sir you understand again. I did 
 not wait till I could see his face before I decided that this 
 was he. Some time ago, looking into some old school- 
 books he had given the fisherman's daughter to study, I 
 learned his whereabouts . . . What is time ? The 
 quarter of a century has gone since we were young men to- 
 gether but I was as aware of him, walking in his shadow, 
 as though we had parted but an hour before. 
 
 " And as I drew nearer to him, I said, ' five and 
 twenty years.' I endeavored to give my voice its old 
 tone but its elasticity was gone, it stubbornly main- 
 tained its long-established harshness. ' We parted, sir,' 
 said he, looking up, recognizing me, completing my sen- 
 tence, and striding on. ' Are you so implacable, Mark 
 Leighton ?' I asked. At this he halted, turned and faced 
 me then, ' Go your way, Falcon,' he said and of course 
 I obeyed him. 
 
 " And that is the amount of it. To him I am only 
 the fanatic beside myself with delusions ; an unsuccessful 
 rival ; and, in some sort, an enemy. 
 
 " But is he the happier man on account of his caution, 
 and superior skill, and wonderful knowledge that has 
 prevented him from all the cheats of fancy ? He is not 
 a happy man. His wisdom has not given him any better 
 consolations in life than I had drawn from my mistakes 
 and ' follies.' Every harsh point of his character, that 
 momentary glance was as convincing as daily intercourse 
 would make it, every harsh point stands out in a inure 
 bold relief. And yet, unbeliever as he is in human na- 
 ture, this little daughter of the fisherman is learning of 
 him and from his old school books, day by day. Think 
 of that ! that is Mark Leighton. This metaphysician, 
 transformed, by only a slight variation, from what we 
 knew him, would have been a character for history; a 
 theme for the age. But he had, above all men I ever
 
 THE GOLD MINE. 37 
 
 knew, with the exception of myself, the faculty of fight- 
 ing against his own interests. Not a perfect man in, 
 perhaps, any sense ; he has disdained evil ; but he has 
 not fought against it. He has stood aloof from personal 
 contact with it ; but, before his manly dignity, pride, and 
 sense of honor compelled him to do this, the fortress al- 
 ready was taken ; a spy had crept into it, and now, I 
 am sure of it, he stands not towards God in the attitude 
 of rebellion, nor in that of a penitent ; he calmly ignores 
 the possibility of being either. If he were more actively 
 rebellious, our literature would have a greater name, 
 whether for good or ill, greater I moan in the sense of 
 world-wide prominence, than it can now boast of. If 
 he were a Christian, the religious world would have an 
 apostle terribly efficient in its camp. But, as I say, he 
 is neither, and therefore, as I believe, a disappointed 
 man, not knowing how he has missed of the position 
 which manifestly he set out to obtain. 
 
 " So much for him. He has beaten the dust, and I 
 the air ; yet, even shorn of all its beautiful delusions, my 
 part is the better one-the buds of hope, even if they are 
 nipped before blossoming, prove something the}", or 
 their successors, will some time expand, without danger 
 of frostsJ) But away with such old worn-out themes as 
 Leightou and you and I. I had something to say to you 
 about the fisherman's daughter. 
 
 " Buy a tract of land, old friend, set your laborers at 
 work on the unpromising field. If they light upon a gold 
 mine, the poor earth will be sure to get a mighty deal of 
 credit, and interest, and affection. If your affections can 
 at this day be indeed in the least magnetized, so as to 
 become of the earth earthy. This child, Susan, has 
 much sweetness of manner, lovely eyes, a fine brow, and 
 a strong character. The people among whom I am 
 thrown might, or they might not, under circumstances
 
 38 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 other than the present, take a special interest in her. 
 But as the facts are, she is the gold mine. 
 
 " I told you that I was for the present living in the 
 family of Mr. Baldwin, and a recklessly-dissipated family 
 it is. The father, and this poor fellow, Clarence, are 
 hardly a make-weight for the senseless career of the other 
 son, and the daughter. I told you, besides, of our first 
 visit to the beach. That event, looked at through the 
 light of the present, was wonderful. If I am not mis- 
 taken, Clarence's passion, or whatever you may call it, 
 for Susan will prove his perfect cure. When her name 
 is mentioned to him. as now it is continually, it is proved 
 beyond all question newly proved by every new experi- 
 ment to be the magnet that draws out other thoughts, 
 all other thoughts and affairs, mentioned directly or 
 merely 'suggested, into fuller, more perfect connection. 
 This experimenting daily proves more successful. It 
 fascinates me wonderfully. We take her name for the 
 point, and go on, chiefly occupying ourselves with draw- 
 ing out his recollections of the past and what has been, 
 until the application of this magic wakener of thought, 
 more difficult recollections of the recent, as well as of 
 the distant past. For to establish his memory anew in 
 its natural strength and coherence, is, as I have before 
 told you, the essential thing. That accomplished, all is 
 done. What hosts of men we have known, oh, Momus ! 
 who stood quite as much in need of the operation of this 
 miracle of love as he ! 
 
 " It would, of course, be impossible for you to detect 
 in Susan's face the beauty that he sees there, or to find 
 in her voice the melody that he discovers. But the mu- 
 sic and the beauty are both there, doubtless. They only 
 need the discernment. 
 
 " It is hoped that some arrangement will be made 
 soon, which will allow the daily, the constant intercourse
 
 JACOBUS INTERROGATED. 39 
 
 of Clarence and Susan. They must grow into each 
 other ; their life must become incorporate, one, or we 
 fail. It is not possible that Dillon, the fisherman, could 
 be persuaded to make his residence in the Hall ; but we 
 build up a hope that something may be effected, accord- 
 ing to our need, out of the fact that, last winter, the old man 
 suffered severely from a rheumatic attack. So we go, help- 
 ed on our way by each other's infirmities ! If all we hope 
 is given us, the last ten fruitless years- no, I will not call 
 them fruitless (they have wrought their result in myself, 
 if not elsewhere), but they have not proved greatly yield- 
 ing will be crowned to me. To have brought this 
 youth to life, is, you will allow, a god-like work such, 
 certainly, as needed the direction and aid of Grod himself, 
 for which I have not ceased to pray. 
 
 " Jacobus, what art thou doing ? Gird up thyself 
 now, like a man, and answer me these three things. Art 
 thou regretful that thou didst never take unto thyself a 
 wife ? . . . For I have seen a woman who has made me 
 long for a home . . . Should a man marry in his boy- 
 hood ? or will it do to venture when the ways are set 
 that they cannot be moved ? There is a light fall of 
 snow on my head, which no spring will remove, but my 
 heart is warm beneath. Snow keeps warm the roots of 
 living things in winter. And, man, are you prosperous 
 and happy ? Farewell, Jacobus. You will never ask me 
 again if I have seen Mark Leighton. You will never 
 speculate more about the disappearance of his wife. It 
 was the setting of a great hope to behold him ; for I had 
 hoped, in spite of myself, through all these years, for, I 
 know not what. 
 
 Thine, FALCON."
 
 40 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THIS visit, of which Falcon writes, was more mo- 
 mentous than she guessed to Susan : every way more mo- 
 mentous. 
 
 In the first place, the actual results that followed Mr. 
 Falcon's observations on Clarence in this re union which 
 were duly reported to Mr. Baldwin; for with a more 
 manifest significance than before, the old man now habitu- 
 ally pronounced Susan his daughter ; and taking Falcon 
 into counsel, they went into a solemnly-deliberate consult- 
 ation as to the best ways and means to be pursued in 
 order to secure the result at which they were now aim- 
 ing. 
 
 And then Mr. Falcon had told Susan that he had seen 
 Stella Cammon; and he brought down the message that 
 the beach was soon to have another visitor, who had not 
 looked upon the ocean since she was a child. That intel- 
 ligence caused Susan to be joyful ; and her joy made her 
 forget herself, and drew her out, and together with her 
 pitying regard, led her into long, gay conversations with 
 poor Clarence, who listened to her, as indeed he might, 
 as to an angel bringing glad tidings of great joy to him. 
 For her mind was projecting itself into, through, the dark- 
 ness of his mind. 
 
 And then, moreover oh, moreover ! when the visit 
 was over, and they were gone, there was something, some 
 one, besides these, of whom Susan could but think. In 
 her hands she held a package which David Baldwin sent 
 to her. She to whom the garden flowers seemed so pre- 
 cious, did she rejoice in this bit of a white parcel more 
 than in the rose-tree, and t!he pots of fragrant heliotrope, 
 and gorgeous fuscias, that Clarence brought home with 
 him in the carriage for her ?
 
 THE NOTE OF PROMISE. 41 
 
 Was not their beauty before her eyes, and their fra- 
 grance floating around her ? . . . but they only served 
 to heighten the delicious dream into which the few words 
 of David's note had carried her ! Again, and again, and 
 again, she read it and when she knew it all by heart, she 
 laid it in her bosom. Yet how often she drew it forth 
 again, just to look at the beautiful white perfumed paper 
 the elegant writing the crest on the seal his initials 
 stamped upon the page, making it doubly his and her 
 own ! had he not given it to her ? 
 
 There was nothing in the note it only began with 
 " Dear Susan," and contained a few words of common- 
 place. He asked her if she were not coming up to make 
 another visit at the Hall, and said something about driving 
 down that he might have a sail with her some day that 
 was all ; but little as it was, enchantment lurked in the 
 words ; from out them grew rare visions she did go up 
 and visit at the Hall again . . . and to the beach 
 came he. 
 
 And she built a bark, the dreaming child, such as never 
 stood upon the docks, nor in the brain of a ship-builder, 
 and she hung above it shining sails, and out upon the 
 shining sea they went together, she and David Baldwin 
 the sea was calm, motionless, and glowing in the sunlight, 
 and yet oh, mystery ! a breeze swept swift and strong 
 above the deep, and filled the sails ; and the light bark 
 danced along the water far out upon the sea, and the shore 
 faded away its bleak and barren line was lost to sight ; 
 and there, alone beside him, she sailed afar into the 
 sunlit eternity of love. And, without a book, he read 
 there lovely poems to her in this her own world of the 
 sea, as there in his world of the stately garden once. 
 And she forgot that she was poor she wondered not if 
 she were fair he was all in all the beauty, and the wis- 
 dom, and the glory of the world.
 
 42 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Bur the summer will slip away from us, while in this 
 vagrant way we stroll about ; and our little household 
 at the Elms will get quite beyond our sight, if we are not 
 speedily mindful of them. 
 
 Our Stella has not yet received her summons to the 
 country ; for Violet and her baby continue to receive the 
 hospitalities of the lady of the Elms. 
 
 On gorgeous wings, and full of song, the summer 
 hours are fleeting over the young mother ; and Miss 
 Watson, watchful and observant, has beheld the renewal, 
 the sweet miracle of spring in that young life, over which 
 a cruel frost had fallen. 
 
 It was Violet's first summer in the country That it 
 should be spent under Miss Watson's auspices, was it not 
 somewhat remarkable? That the wise woman should 
 have been able to enter so thoroughly into the joy of 
 Violet, this was not strange ; but that she should sympa- 
 thize with her in it that her investigations should all 
 have been suspended, and by the same cause, in the same 
 yielding to the enthusiasm of her guest, was, perhaps, 
 not quite what we might have looked for. Yet this was 
 true. The innocent joy that welled up, unrestrained, 
 from the heart before her eyes, the reviving strength and 
 spirits of Violet, proved irresistibly infectious ; it was 
 better to sit in the arbor built in the shade of the wood, 
 and read the wife's face while it bent over one of Silsey's 
 letters, than to pore over all philosophies, from the mos't 
 " positive " to the most subtle of all moonshiney em- 
 bodiments. Miss Watson, though she did not lose 
 thought of Stella, was in no haste to make a change of 
 guests. The Sabbath quiet of a peaceful, happy heart 
 she was in no haste to be rid of, for the sake of contact
 
 OUR VIOLET IN THE WOODS. 43 
 
 with the restlessness of Stella Caramon. The delicious 
 spell was subduing to the spirit, as that soft blue haze 
 which subdued the hard, abrupt outlines of the distant 
 hills, making the landscape harmonize with the sun's 
 steadfast radiance ; she was in no haste to forego the rest 
 of Violet's presence the repose was sweet to her. 
 
 And who can tell how full, to overflowing, was the cup 
 of which Violet here drank ? 
 
 Song burst from her lips, by joyous, irresistible impul- 
 sion ; she must give utterance to the gladness of her heart. 
 
 How she starts up the echoes from the heart of her 
 audience doing what, mayhap, you, oh famous singer, 
 cannot do; for nothing but the voice of actual song can 
 do it, inspiring every listening bird to echo, making how 
 divine a chaos ! How they chatter, and laugh, and weep 
 in that chorus ! their hearts are so full, their joy is so 
 exultant and intense, it must laugh, it must weep itself 
 out into hearing and sight. Does your triumph, fair 
 lady, compare with this ? Does the exultant sense of 
 your achievement take the place, usurping all the 
 manifold sweet satisfactions of a responding sympa- 
 thy? . . . Sympathy! has it not vanished from parlor as 
 from church ? When the fire comes down again upon 
 the altar, and, in its divine contagion, spreads among the 
 congregation, it will stop not there, even to the melting 
 away of the icy pillars on which our social temple stands 
 it shall spread and convey itself. Oh, flame, that shall 
 be mightier than the strength of him who drew down the 
 walls and roof upon the heads of the mocking and scoffing 
 people oh, power and indignation mightier than Sam- 
 son's, assert thyself, and come ! the singers in the wood 
 are waiting, the prisoners and captives wait their thous- 
 and years of ransom come ! they wait to echo the song 
 upon their lips, with hearts to these many ages waiting 
 for deliverance come !
 
 44 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 The baby's eyes grow bluer, heavenlier every day; 
 and health smiles in the face that, verily, to the mother's 
 eye, is the face of an angel. It reddens in the cheek and 
 lip fills out the small, wan face ; the soft, brown hair 
 has a sunny glow upon it, the strengthening voice a 
 merrier sound. She lies upon the long, soft, shining 
 grass, and makes astronomical observations with a rever- 
 ent wonder that tells the story of her origin, without the 
 aid of any preacher. The " Conflict of Ages " might well 
 suspend, and the ages learn a lesson from that infant's 
 upturned eyes. She creeps among the beds of flowers, 
 for Miss Watson has a garden which she cultivates 
 assiduously while she is in the country, and on her knees, 
 among these blossoms, Viola might put a botanist to 
 shame. The caterpillar, and the beetle, and the spinning 
 spider, too not one of them escapes her investigation. 
 Why, what a very naturalist the baby is ! . . . Oh, Viola, 
 fair flower in the garden of Nature, be ever reverent, be- 
 lieving, wondering, as now, and what frost of earth could 
 blight thee ? what summer heat could smite thec ? what 
 hate could compass, or what sin betray thee ? 
 
 Silsey, in his letters which are so frequent, that Vio- 
 let has long since been compelled to forego all specula- 
 tions on the point, and, without any troublesome sense 
 of presumption, she looks for them every forty-eight 
 hours Silsey, in these letters, is also at the Elms, and 
 Violet believes herself imparadiscd. 
 
 It is early in the morning. There was a gale last 
 night, and Miss Watson has a deal of work to do, tying 
 up the prostrate sweet-peas and morning-glories. Violet 
 sits on the door-step of the cottage, and sorts the flowers. 
 She is to make a bouquet of white rose-buds for Miss 
 Watson for this afternoon is the funeral of a neigh- 
 bor's child, and Miss Watson is never unmindful of any
 
 VIOLET'S LOOK INTO THE FUTURE. 45 
 
 occasion of domestic joy or sorrow in the families around 
 her. 
 
 More than one tear has fallen on those buds since 
 Violet gathered them often she pauses in her work and 
 looks from them to the little one close by her side, and 
 thinks she thinks more and more sadly. If Viola 
 were not there . . . if it were all horrible silence around 
 her in place of the slender sweet voice that is learning her 
 name, and repeats it over and over, knowing, with a 
 child's deep intuition, since the sound was first uttered 
 in her ear, that it is of all names the most dear and 
 blessed she shall ever learn to speak. If somebody hi 
 her place were arranging those white buds for another 
 little child if she were sitting in a darkened room be- 
 side a little bed where Viola was lying, blind and deaf 
 even to her mother . . . cold, ' dead.' 
 
 Violet quite drops the flowers from her hands, as she 
 persists in thinking of these things, and now she catches 
 up the child, and holds her in her arms, and folds her 
 to her bosom, as if there were no power that could take 
 her away. 
 
 Miss Watson coming towards the house beholds and 
 interprets the sudden act she sees the weeping mother, 
 and says quietly to herself, in the peacefulness of her 
 conviction, " blessed be nothing," and she turns away 
 that Violet may not have the sense of witnesses in this 
 betrayal of her love and her weakness. 
 
 Poor, loving Violet, pure-hearted, tender mother, it is 
 indeed the penalty ; but ask her, oh thou wise one, if she 
 would be without the fear born out of all life's truest, 
 deepest forms, if she would be without even such fear, 
 if to escape it she must forego the love that makes it ! 
 
 In the midst of this outburst of feeling comes happily 
 the mail carrier, and leaves at the gate the letter for 
 which Violet looks this morning. She hears his voice
 
 46 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 speaking to Miss "Watson, and she " makes an effort," 
 and the light cloud breaks and vanishes before the bright- 
 ness of the sun, which in these days is shining on her 
 heart. But Miss Watson does not couie, and by-and-byc 
 Violet begins to wonder at it not suspecting that her 
 hostess is merely waiting till there shall be no chance of 
 surprising her in tears and that Miss Watson's low and 
 musical voice was pitched at that high key in which she 
 just now spoke to the carrier-boy, solely to the end that 
 Violet might emerge from her momentary depression. 
 
 And so Violet illustrates, even in this way, as all 
 nature does all spirit, her own free will, and at the same 
 time Miss Watson's providential management, for rising 
 at length she goes with Viola in her anus, in search of 
 Miss Watson, and the letter. Of the latter she is over- 
 quick to catch a glimpse as it lies on the frame-work of 
 the climbing rose, where the lady but now laid it. But 
 Violet does not immediately speak of it and the lady 
 allows it to remain there until she has finished her morn- 
 ing gardening, and then, suddenly, she adverts to the letter 
 as though it had been for a time forgotten. All thia 
 while, however, she has been watchful, and even stu- 
 diously so, of the control that Violet has been exerting over 
 herself, and the manner of discipline with which she has 
 exercised herself pn account of her recent weakness ; un- 
 mindful or ignorant of the fact, that when she was weak 
 then she was strong in a true apostolic sense. 
 
 If Viola were sleeping now in the cradle which Miss 
 Watson had borrowed for the occasion of this visit to 
 the Elms, her mother would delay until the baby wakened 
 before she opened this letter. But now she has Vola, 
 wakeful, in her arms, and Miss Watson says, " I have to 
 go down the hill for a moment ; when I come back, you 
 shall tell me all the gossip our friend has written you;" 
 and at that, Violet, feeling very grateful indeed, -goes
 
 THE SECURITV. 47 
 
 back to the door-step and reads the letter aloud to her 
 child. What letters are they which he writes to her ! 
 They are an ever-recurring wonder to Silsey's wife. 
 Every sweet and beautiful thought he has, and there 
 seems to be no end to them, he gives her. And she 
 can understand them all. There is nothing to puzzle her 
 in all this prodigal display of beauty ; yet she ever reads 
 with trembling growing ever more conscious that what 
 he gives her is a gift free as it is rare ; she can make 
 no claim upon him in the hour when he suspends his 
 gifts . . . she can make no demand none such as Miss 
 Watson might make, or any other woman who equalled 
 him in any other capacity beside that of loving. She 
 trembled while she drank this rich and teeming cup. 
 What secured it to her? What assured her that it 
 should never, while yet they both lived on this earth, be 
 dashed away from her lips ? Had she no surety in the 
 mere fact that she was such an one as, in the reception of 
 the great joy, ever looked to heaven in a grateful 
 acknowledgment? That she never took into her heart, 
 or hands, one of the gifts of life without an instant 
 thankfulness that recognized the Giver ? Was there no 
 surety in this that the human love enfolding her would 
 never droop unclasped, and leave her alone ? Had she 
 any need of other surety of her power to bind him to 
 faithfulness, than her attitude towards Heaven gaye? 
 
 There was then no waning of the star, no lessening of 
 the joy, thought Miss Watson, as she, coming up the hill, 
 heard the voice of the young mother which had broke 
 from its low reading of those loving words into a melodi- 
 ous song . . . the spell had still duration the charm 
 efficience. 
 
 " And what have you to give me from that budget ?" 
 she asked, approaching Violet through the house, for she
 
 48 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 had returned home by a path which brought her unseen 
 to the cottage. 
 
 " Silsey is coming down it may be to-day !" answered 
 Violet, and after a momentary hesitation she extended 
 the letter to Miss Walton. " You can read it," she said, 
 "there is nothing in particular no news." 
 
 " Read me such passages here and there as you will. I 
 am too tired," was the answer for Miss Watson had per- 
 ceived the reluctance with which Violet, in spite of her- 
 self, made the offer. " Silsey always refreshes me he 
 gives great thoughts." 
 
 But there were no great thoughts, nothing in fact but 
 the most beautiful and tender sentiment, in this letter, 
 or in anything that Silsey wrote his wife. Sometimes 
 in a paragraph he would propose some problem for Miss 
 Watson's solution ; and it was pleasant to note on such 
 occasions the not very ingenious rapidity with which his 
 wife read the message. As if it were all plain as the al- 
 phabet to her mind, when she really understood not one 
 word of it. And yet she was free to confess as much as 
 this to herself, and to her listener, the moment after. 
 
 And now, when Miss Watson would not take the letter, 
 and looking through the pages the wife saw nothing that 
 she might detect, as of any worth separate from the rest, 
 she began at the beginning and read the whole aloud. 
 With trembling voice, and low, she read. How heard 
 that listener ? Did not her heart beat more quickly, for 
 she knew that she was standing in the very sanctuary of 
 love? The grand hymn, not less grand because sung so 
 lowlily, this resonant hymn she heard was the very strain 
 that she in her own youth had sung. She had labored 
 since then among the worldly, and argued among debaters, 
 but, so well she remembered that hymn, she could have 
 sung it through without a solitary false note that day. 
 
 Not a word said she when Violet folded up the let
 
 STELLA BY THE SEA. 49 
 
 ter, and bent her fair young face down nearer to her 
 child's. 
 
 From her who trod with awed spirit and hesitating 
 step along this sacred path of life, pausing oft, and look- 
 ing with uneasy eye upon the path by which she came, 
 and that which spread before her, we will go back to the 
 sea, and to another life, that strives, also according to its 
 nature, for the freedom that, though unwittingly, was like- 
 wise Violet Silsey's highest aim and need. 
 
 X. 
 
 " WHAT sort of people are you down here ? I always 
 thought that the old mill deserved a ghost, Susan, but I 
 never supposed I should dash my brains out ingloriously, 
 trying to get a glimpse of it. Come, come, Susan, leave 
 your dough ! one would think you had a regiment on 
 hand to feast, by the way you work. I assure you I 'm 
 no gourmand. Come out, and tell me what monster it is 
 you have caged up in our old play-house . . . Ah me ! 
 what a place for play it was, though !" 
 
 This was the voice of the rare vision that had burst 
 upon Susan the day after Mr. Falcon's visit. She had 
 come down with Miss Judith Mar from St. John's, and 
 had prevailed upon Miss Judith to return to town without 
 her, promising that she herself would follow her thither 
 on the following Monday it was now Saturday. 
 
 Susan, who was at work in the kitchen, hearing the 
 laughing voice, for Stella had set out an hour before for 
 a long stroll by herself, came out to the door-step. 
 
 " You've been up to the mill, Stella !" she exclaimed, 
 in evident consternation, remembering the aversion that 
 Mr. Leighton had, in more ways than one, manifested to 
 receiving company. " What did you see ';" 
 
 vrv.. IT 3
 
 50 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 "Nothing an inch before my eyes. I contrived to 
 climb up the stairway it 's darker than it used to be, 
 Susan . . . but I went on, thinking I should come to the 
 light at length. The door stood open, I missed a step and 
 fell in, head first, making an oriental obeisance. I broke 
 my neck doing it, as you see, which proves that this style 
 of genuflection is n % ot natural to me." 
 
 " Your forehead is bleeding ! You have hurt yourself!" 
 said Susan, alarmed, for as Stella removed the handker- 
 chief from her forehead, she saw that it was stained with 
 blood. 
 
 " Yes ; the orientalism does n't agree with me. I never 
 was good at bowing before images. But the adventure 
 was really worth something. And you see it is only a 
 scratch." 
 
 She repeated the assurance, Susan looked so anxious, 
 and, for another reason thau the oozing blood, so troubled. 
 
 " Did you see " 
 
 " Him ? Yes ! verily, verily." 
 
 " Did he speak to you ? Did you go in ? What did 
 he say ? Wait till I get something for that cut, and then 
 
 tell me." "ioAVS*. 
 
 " He bade me, the -noDgomm did, bathe it in cold 
 
 water, and I would prevent discoloration." 
 
 While they were applying the remedy, Stella said : 
 
 " Why did you not toll me about Bluebeard ?" 
 
 " I did not send you to the mill," said Susan. :< How 
 
 did I know you would go ?" 
 
 " What ! well if you had not been so worried about 
 
 that sweet-cake, which is burning at this blessed moment 
 
 in the stove, I believe run and sec, for this breeze is 
 
 likely to make me as voracious as a thorough-bred fish." 
 When Susan came back the next minute, her face 
 
 glowing with the haste she had made, Stella said, with a 
 
 graver face and accent :
 
 THE OLD TIME. 51 
 
 {l Where should I have gone, if not there ? It is one 
 of the holiest places in the world to me. And so is this 
 house and you are one of my best friends. You know 
 why. Your blessed mother, and poor dear Tom, and 
 you, and this beach, make the brightest and happiest of 
 my childish recollections. Have you time to sit here 
 without stirring again for half an hour ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then tell me, you have not half told me yet, tell 
 me about your mother and Tom. And Susan, let me 
 sleep in Tom's own room while I stay. I loved him 
 dearly, Susan. Not like you, maybe, but he was just 
 as dear to me as you. I used to think of him so much 
 how you used to deck me out with those shell orna- 
 ments ! He called me a queen then ... I remembered 
 him when I grew older, and went to school. I thought 
 how he was growing up to be a great, strong, manly fel- 
 low, and so handsome, so different . . . dear me ! oh 
 you don't know how often, when I have been lonely, and 
 home-sick, and forlorn, I have thought of you all !" 
 
 Not once while she spoke thus did Susan look up into 
 Stella's face. The voice was sad music, and Susan's 
 tears fell fast hearing what the voice said. Stella shed 
 no tear, but less power of self-restraint, less control of 
 her emotions, would have seen her in passionate weeping 
 swayed only by such emotion as rent and tossed her 
 heart at this moment. 
 
 Susan did not immediately reply to these questions 
 and words. Stella understood the silence, and did not . 
 hasten her. 
 
 But at length Susan went through the whole story 
 of her losses, and from the first word to the last Stella 
 listened, and frequent tears told how the story came to 
 her . . . Still reverie and retrospection were not her 
 chief faculty this day, and soon far other thoughts, which
 
 52 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 concerned the living present, thronged upon her, and ere 
 long these found a witness for themselves. 
 
 " You know the tenant of the mill ; for he called me 
 Susan. Be thought it was you. I must go up there by 
 broader daylight." 
 
 " If he will let you." said Susan. 
 
 " Is there any doubt about that ? That will be de- 
 lightful ! What is the man, a scholar ? It was such a 
 treat to look into his den ; the books and the dust and 
 he such a strange looking person." 
 
 " Did he say anything ?" asked Susan, not a little 
 curious, since Stella would talk about him, to know how 
 he would appear to her. 
 
 " Yes he asked me where I was going, and where I 
 came from. And of course I satisfied his curiosity." 
 
 " What did you say ? do tell me." 
 
 " I told him that I came from a very respectable 
 place, but that I was not so clear about where I was 
 going. It seemed to me from the evidences, that I was 
 on the verge of Pluto's dominion-4fbr he was smoking 
 like a vojcano and there he sat, immovable, till I had 
 picked myself up^ Then he condescended to come down 
 from his throne and examine my poor abused forehead 
 by the light of his pipe. I wish you could have heard 
 him recommend the cold-water application. He laughed 
 in my face, and I laughed in his. Don't look so horror- 
 struck . . . He was very curious to learn if I came from 
 Susan. He will be down to discover. Wait and see. 
 What did you call him ?" 
 
 " Mr. Leighton," said Susan, who had not before men- 
 tioned his name. 
 
 " But tell me about him." 
 
 All that Susan had to tell was briefly said but the 
 story was interrupted by her father's coming home. 
 
 Stella's spirits were unflagging. She played chess
 
 LONGING. 53 
 
 with Dillon, repeated poetry^ told anecdotes, and sang 
 songs, and kept the old man from dozing long after his 
 usual hour of retiring. 
 
 " Is not your Mr. Falcon the kindest man, that ever 
 lived ?" she asked Susan, when she kissed her good-night. 
 
 " He is, indeed," answered Susan. 
 
 " How happy you are with your father. Do you think 
 Aunt Judith would make a good wife for Mr. Falcon ? 
 we should have some one at the head of our house then. 
 A great thing it must be to have a father !" 
 
 " Yes," said Susan thoughtfully, as if the fact had not 
 occurred to her before, " it is . . . " 
 
 " Everything goes on after such a fashion, where there 
 are only women. Indeed, I have sometimes found my- 
 self driven to such an extremity that I rejoiced in the 
 chances that threw me in among the branches of a certain 
 family of Trees that I know of, when they were tossed 
 about in a regular gale. But good-night. Go to bed 
 what a time we will have to-morrow !" 
 
 " I wish," said Susan, halting yet longer and looking 
 seriously, with pity too, at Stella, who was laying aside 
 her ornaments, " I wish your father had lived, Stella " 
 
 " Dear child, don't speak of it," said Stella quickly. 
 
 " Why, don't you ?" Susan lingered yet longer to ask. 
 
 " I ! well, no matter, Susan. You know well enough 
 
 . . how would you manage to do without your father ?" 
 
 ' ; I have always had mine, though. I could not 
 live" 
 
 " Yes, you could," said Stella, interrupting her. " You 
 could live if you were deaf, and dumb, and blind, and 
 idiotic to boot people often do. I 've seen some such 
 very respectable people they were too. Oh, you know 
 nothing about what folks can do, and be, and bear, and 
 still live on. There, go to bed, and see if you can dream 
 any worse dreams than I shall about Bluebeard."
 
 54 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 XI. 
 
 YES she would do that. 
 
 She thought of it while lying wakeful on her bed, smil- 
 ing joyously to herself, even as on the wakeful last night 
 she had also smiled. What great things had happened 
 in the last two days? David's note, and now Stella's 
 actual self ! She would open her heart to Stella. Stella 
 must know that David Baldwin had written to her and 
 what he had written she must likewise know. Stella had 
 seen him she surely must have something to say about 
 such a man. 
 
 Still revolving this determination, with the first moment 
 of opportunity the next morning, Susan showed the note. 
 
 When Stella opened it, and glanced at the signature 
 before noticing the contents, she looked up at Susan with 
 a quick, curious glance. " He writes a very pretty hand," 
 she said ; and then rapidly, so rapidly as to make it ap- 
 pear almost carelessly, she read the note, and returned 
 it ... "Shall we go and hunt up Mr. Leighton ?" 
 
 " He will not want us in his study." said Susan, not 
 vexed at the reception her confiding mood had met, be- 
 cause it was impossible that she should be vexed with 
 anything that her guest could say or do but disappointed 
 and wondering. 
 
 " Well, we can walk along the beach, and we may meet 
 him. Your father told me, for I asked him about it, that 
 you would be going to recite to him." 
 
 " It is Sunday I never recite Sundays," said Susan ; 
 " and he won't want us," she continued, more decidedly, 
 but blushing that she should be speaking with so much 
 spirit to Stella Cammon, before whom, in spite of child- 
 hood's dear, familiar recollections, she stood in awe as in 
 a queenly presence.
 
 THE TEIAL. 55 
 
 " He will not want us," she said -nevertheless when 
 Stella, laughing, vanished from the house, and went wan- 
 dering along the strand, she made haste to join her. 
 
 At length, after an hour's promenade, Susan's flushed 
 face betokened to Stella, who turned to show her the 
 shells she had been gathering from the sand, that what 
 she hoped was really at hand, and then she heard the 
 sound of Leighton's voice. 
 
 " Don't go, stand here and let him come to you," urged 
 Stella ; " he will do so if he thinks you do not hear. 
 And he ought to come and inquire after my broken 
 head." 
 
 Her prophecy was a true one. In a few minutes Mr. 
 Leighton came towards them. 
 
 " We will have a little sport with Bluebeard," whis- 
 pered Stella as he came, and stooping down, she caught a 
 pebble from the sand, and slung it far out amid the waves. 
 The next second another went whizzing past, sped by a 
 more powerful hand, far out beyond the distance hers had 
 made. Again she essayed, and again, hurled by a stronger 
 hand, went far beyond a larger pebble still. Without a 
 word Stella made a third and greater trial, more success- 
 ful in result than either that had been made before, and 
 as she did so she turned her flushed face in triumph 
 towards her rival. 
 
 " Sufficient for the day," said he. 
 
 " Because it is Sunday, or, you will not contend with 
 me, sir ?" asked Stella in a deferential tone, and yet be- 
 traying more dignity and pride in her voice than Susan 
 had noticed before. 
 
 " Oh, no, neither because of the day nor the sex. I 
 have very nearly put my arm out of joint, and am quite 
 willing that you should bear off the honor." 
 
 " I should have chosen to fight the fight out." 
 
 Then with the utmost gravity Mr. Leighton sped an-
 
 56 GETTING ALONCi. 
 
 other pebble after those which had gone before, but less 
 vigorously he would give her a fresh victory. 
 
 <: Soften my defeat," said he, turning from the sea to 
 Stella, " by saying that you were not much hurt last 
 night." 
 
 She lifted the braided hair from her forehead and 
 showed him the discolored circle hidden by it. ; ' I plead 
 guilty I entered the forbidden closet," she said. 
 
 Leigbton smiled at the allusion. He was in the pres- 
 ence of beauty was he beyond its influence ? he per- 
 ceived, did he feel it ? 
 
 " If you were shut up in a round tower like that, and 
 condemned to solitary confinement, how would you like 
 it ?" asked he. 
 
 " Of all things, sir ; I should like nothing so well." 
 
 " With no one to praise and flatter you ?" 
 
 Susan understood well the grave and penetrating look 
 he fixed on Stella, and remembering how those glances 
 had ever affected herself, she looked to see how Stella 
 would meet them she could not quite see, could not at 
 all understand that they fell like arrows against a helmet 
 of steel. 
 
 " There would be no one to praise or flatter you in 
 such a place as that. Impossible!" 
 
 " That may be the very reason." 
 
 " Ah ? ... I believe you." 
 
 " Do you indeed, sir ?" 
 
 " You are not indignant because of my words you do 
 not resent them ?" 
 
 " Am I not indignant, sir ?" 
 
 "Are you?" 
 
 " So indignant that I will not prove it to you." 
 
 " I believe that, on the bare assertion. This is Miss 
 Stella, of whom you have told me," said Mr. Leighton, 
 turning to Susan, "(young lady, were you brought up
 
 DEVICE FOR A BANNEK. 57 
 
 in a boarding-school, or in bar-nicks?!? There was an 
 amusing contrast in the gravity of tone with which he 
 addressed Stella, the deference of his bearing, and the 
 interest and surprise that hid itself, but hardly, in the 
 depths of his eyes. 
 
 " In barracks," answered Stella. 
 
 " So I supposed. Waked up in the morning at the 
 sound of the trumpet, and falling asleep amid strains of 
 martial music. And you are regularly enlisted. Have 
 bravely committed yourself to the fortunes of war, be- 
 yond a doubt. What banner may be floating over your 
 tent-door?" 
 
 " ' I am not solicitous for an elysium painted on a shield 
 which others may see me brandish in the contest; but I 
 desire to bear upon my shoulders a real, not a painted 
 weight, of which I may feel the pressure, but which may 
 be imperceptible to others.' I bow to the sage who said 
 that . . . find me a device, sir I would have a banner of 
 my own." 
 
 " The red cross of the crusader might befit," said Mr. 
 Leighton; the tone of each speaker's voice had greatly 
 changed in their last words. 
 
 " Can I work out my salvation thus ? Last year I 
 would have taken the black veil if 1 could have done so. 
 Would that have been salvation ?" 
 
 Here again was she pouring out her soul in another 
 stranger's ear, or rather here was she again exposing the 
 deep unquiet of her soul. She was not one, as the reader 
 very clearly perceives, to go into the silence of uncom- 
 municable thought, and there work out, in fear and trem- 
 bling, the problem of salvation. Once risen in spirit 
 above conventionalities, this question of her life was not 
 to work out its answer in silence and secrecy. Every 
 strong life with which she came in contact must give her 
 such aid as was in its power.
 
 58 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 From her questioning of Mr. Leigh ton, the reader 
 likewise, and rightly, will infer that Stella was not alto- 
 gether satisfied with the counsel of the nun, nor with that 
 of Miss Watson. She looked at Mr. Leighton would 
 he understand the meaning of this sudden burst of con- 
 fidence ? 
 
 Yes, he did understand it he knew what to make of it, 
 but his response to it was delayed. 
 
 " Years, and heaven and earth have taught you nothing 
 to say," she demanded ; sorrowful was the voice. " Do 
 you not know what it is I am seeking?" 
 
 "Who are you?" he demanded; but the words were 
 gently said. 
 
 " An orphan girl Stella, if you like the name." 
 
 " And are you in great trouble, that you come to me ?" 
 
 " No. Every thing is before me that is before any woman. 
 I am not rich, it is true, but neither am I poor. I am 
 not the fashion, but I have position, and some influence, 
 I dare say. (If I had replied to you that I was brought 
 up in a boarding-school, would you not have despised me 
 just on account of that 1 So I said I was brought up in 
 barracks. But I should have said in a convent.^) 
 
 Mr. Leighton seemed lost in thought. As long as she 
 spoke his eyes were fixed upon Stella, but as soon as she 
 was silent he turned partly away, and stepped forward 
 from the place where he stood, as if to shake off some 
 spell. 
 
 And then, for the chrysalis was broken, and there would 
 be no rest again till the life within it had come fairly 
 forth, she went on : 
 
 " I told you I thought last year of going into a con- 
 vent to remain. Perhaps you supposed that was jest 
 ... I meant it. I wanted to do something. I 'm not 
 content to dwell in decencies forever. (I 'm not content 
 to fill a place merely because I happen to be in it ; to
 
 DRINK YE, ALL. 59 
 
 turn on a pivot through one little circle all my days., 
 Now, if I am merely tempted by the devil I would like 
 to know it ... But, sir, if it is the Spirit of Christ's 
 teaching that occasions this unrest, and compels me to re- 
 fuse a dead faith because there is such a thing as a living 
 one, can your experience decide ? I know you think it- 
 strange that I should speak in this way, unless you listen 
 as one soul should to the voice of another." 
 
 At last he spoke and how he spoke ! Never but 
 once before that day had Susan heard that voice. 
 
 " I do not think it strange. I do forget that you are 
 young, and I am old. I can accommodate myself to the 
 pressure of your need. You need no apology ; you need 
 far more. AVhat do you mean by a dead faith ?" 
 
 " Faith in churches, and creeds, and symbols !" 
 
 " Yet you would have bound yourself irrevocably to 
 them. You would have tortured an expansive nature, 
 that was desigued to grow." 
 
 " I had not then the knowledge that they are not life ; 
 or rather, against my knowledge the most potent in- 
 fluences arrayed themselves. They were life, I had been 
 taught or I had been left to deduce as much from all 
 that was taught me and if they were life, I should cer- 
 tainly have it in abounding fulness. If prayer to saints 
 is the thing, I should have a shrine for every word, a 
 saint for every thought. But was not my God thus 
 divided infiuitesimally ? Could I ever lift myself up in 
 any measure towards him, as all in all ? There were gal- 
 leries, rising tier above tier, heaven high, filled with saints, 
 and I could not get above the topmost range. I must 
 sweep them away, if I would lookup to Him . . . If, when 
 Christ gave his blood, and said, ' Drink ye all of it,' he 
 meant to infuse into our veins of heart and of brain his 
 own life to make us one with him, workers as he worked 
 then, having received it, I want the opportunity and
 
 60 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 sphere which the reception supposes. I am not willing 
 to halt in the city for purposes of dancing, and feasting, 
 and compliment, while He goes up into the mountain 
 bearing His cross. I would choose to be slain with Him. 
 I would choose to be crucified." 
 
 " Is there no vast spiritual pride in this aspiration ?" 
 
 He was sounding her depth, and her answer pleased 
 him, when she said impetuously : 
 
 " Is every longing that proves life an inch deeper than 
 beasts might suspect or fathom, to be charged with pride, 
 sir?" 
 
 And he answered, again interrogatively, " Is there no 
 crucifixion implied in the bending to necessity ? Is there 
 no sacrifice in that concentration of anguish reserved to 
 an awakened spirit, in the conviction that His Spirit 
 must be for a time bound, and withheld from action ?" 
 
 " I cannot understand these things so, sir," said Stella, 
 her voice echoing the mildness of his, or subdued by it 
 from its passionate tone. ' ; The desire to work implies 
 the capacity and the field, does it not ? I am persuaded 
 that there are labors in which I may exhaust my life. 
 And life was given us for cultivation and exhaustion of 
 its present resources, was it not? I am certain that I 
 can render some other service than " 
 
 " Than that of Obedience ? Are you so sure ? The 
 very Christ you seek to serve WAS Obedience. He was 
 not an assenting, but an obedient man.' 1 
 
 " Yes obedient to the penalties of His mission. What 
 loyal worker is not ? Have you no more to say ?" 
 
 " What would you, young lady ?" 
 
 " Serve Him." 
 
 " Wait, then, till He calls you." 
 
 Has He not called ?" 
 
 " Then He has showed you the way, to walk in it." 
 
 " Is not this His voice that will not let me rest ? The
 
 THE SOCXD OF VOICES. (51 
 
 very voice that sent messengers for the dumb beast, be- 
 cause He had need of him." 
 
 " Follow, then, the messenger. Why do you not ? 
 What stranger by the wayside has a right to interfere ? 
 None but yourself can hear the voice. The voices that 
 come from heaven to chosen souls are but thunderings to 
 the baser sort surrounding them. They only hear the 
 report of the electric communication. We cannot inter- 
 pret such things for each other. Be not jash in your 
 interpretations. I believe that you are sincere, since you 
 actually thought of removing all that makes life beauti- 
 ful to youth, for His sake, which is certainly the last 
 thing that would be demanded of you." 
 
 " And you have nothing more to say to me, sir ?" said 
 Stella, half turning from him. 
 
 " Nothing unless " This word arrested her step, as, 
 in silence, she was about to go away. 
 
 " Unless you have some special gift a predominating 
 tendency to some one kind of labor. If you have, my 
 counsel is. use it in the way that will tend farthest to 
 bring honor on woman as woman. The Christ you claim 
 was born of woman." 
 
 " And Him I would preach." 
 
 " And do you not recollect, that since the world has 
 stood, that gospel has been preached in deeds more effi- 
 ciently, more honestly and fearlessly, than in words? 
 Study, reflect, endure. You are yet young for other 
 service than this. Perhaps in this life you will never be 
 sufficiently matured for any other service. You would 
 probably do more harm than good at this time, if you 
 found a sphere of activity. You are too inexperienced 
 to become an outlaw to any purpose. You would be 
 snared in the first trap that was set for you Bear the 
 cross of submission till you are strong to bear a heavier. 
 Do not doubt that it will then be found wanting."
 
 62 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Such as it is, I thank you for your word. I will do 
 what I can with it. Good morning, sir." 
 
 " That is what a woman calls seeking for light," 
 thought Leigh ton, as he stood watching the departing 
 figures of Stella and Susan. " She is a brave, strange 
 girl but so far wrong that there will be no getting her 
 in the right way again. (She is as dogmatic as the veriest 
 pedagogue that ever wielded a birch rody A tragic 
 element in her composition, too. A very pretty specimen 
 of lava sent up by some raging volcano of circumstance, 
 no doubt Fine stuff for a convent ! Too honest for a 
 tragedian too honorable for a fashionist ; too spiritual 
 for a mobocracy they would trample on her in the very 
 first victory to which she led them triumphant, in their 
 brutish capacity of oversight. Unfit for use unfit for 
 disuse ; incapable of receiving the calm of the sage, and 
 the joy of the worldling there is no hope for her. She 
 was born under an adverse star, that girl, and her doom 
 is an eternal frustration. Poor child how beautiful she 
 is, she speaks like a queen, and looks like one, every ges- 
 ture speaks for her." 
 
 Susan followed Stella as she turned away, and walked 
 down side by side home with her to the cabin. 
 
 As they went, Stella did not once speak, nor in any 
 way paid heed to the child, until they had come to the 
 cabin, when, entering first, and leading the way into 
 Tom's room, she said, but in soliloquy as it seemed : 
 
 " That is the utmost a man can be induced to say. I 
 mistook him. He looked like a person who has thought 
 and experimented a good deal, but he does not under- 
 stand inc. ' Wait !' He does not know the age . . . 
 Susan,- 1 want to lie down here in the shade and rest ; sit 
 where I can see you." 
 
 Poor Susan, troubled and astonished by all that she 
 had heard, sat down and folded her hands. A Sabbath
 
 THE NEW ARRIVAL. 63 
 
 peace was in her posture, but no such peace was shining 
 in her face. Into the secret of the disquieted questioner 
 before her, she could not enter. She was moving in 
 another circle was the inhabitant of another sphere 
 yet was she not proof against the disquiet indeed it in- 
 fected her. She felt ill at ease in Stella's presence 
 troubled, not confiding but fearful. Her guest, from 
 being the day's glory and delight, became its unrest and 
 its shadow. 
 
 " You are to forget all that I have said to-day," said 
 Stella softly, at length, laying her hand on Susan's head, 
 for she was not at a loss to understand the thoughtful- 
 ness and silence into which Susan had fallen. " We are 
 recommended to try the spirits, and Mr. Leighton looked 
 so spiritual that I could not help it. I never should 
 think of talking in such a strain to your Mr. Falcon, if I 
 had a thousand opportunities ... Of course we make 
 all the opportunities we have ... I never could make 
 one for such a talk with him. Mr. Falcon is a different 
 man, and a very good man. If his name happened to 
 be William, everybody would call him Bill. That means 
 he is a popular man. I know very well I have made a 
 great fool of myself this morning. Any woman is a fool 
 who thinks that she can be helped out of such a strait as 
 I felt myself in an hour ago. No one can help us no 
 woman at all events, and no man . . . except it may be, 
 Susan, God knows what would become of us if we lost 
 
 our faith in that the man Jesus Who is that ? 
 
 Is not that Mr. Falcon's voice? ..." 
 
 Lifting herself from the bed on which she had thrown 
 herself, Stella listened, and Susan listened, but heard 
 nothing ; but to satisfy her guest she went to the cabin- 
 door, and saw Falcon coming up the beach on horseback, 
 her father walking by his side.
 
 64 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 XII. 
 
 JOHN FALCON was not so much amazed when informed 
 of the guest in the cabin as he might have been, had he 
 not heard before he left St. John's, that Stella Gammon 
 had gone down to Dillon's. 
 
 If I stated here in the beginning of this chapter, which 
 shall be a brief one, that the desire to see her again had 
 quite as much to do with the visit, as its other and 
 secondary purpose, to examine Dillon on the subject of 
 removal to St. John's, I should not have wandered hope- 
 lessly from the real truth of the case. 
 
 And to all of them it was a blessed Sabbath-day. /For 
 Falcon brought down with him for every one a blessing 
 they were receptive of the joy that flowed like a river 
 peacefully through his nature ; a broad sunny meadow, 
 was that nature with the long grass where insects might 
 chirrup and sport, where the humblest of field flowers 
 looked up to the sun, where berries ripened, where great 
 trees cast their shadows for the nature was peace ; it 
 had its own inherent joy, the joy which is inevitably 
 communicative whensoever a receptive life goes wander- 
 ing through the meadow ; the winds of heaven, and the 
 sunlight, and heat, have free course there ; whosoever will 
 may see it. breathe it, and rejoice in it and know it is 
 the peace that passes understanding ; the joy that i.^ 
 secure because independent of all the world can give or 
 take awayy 
 
 A blessed day they made of it. For them the sun 
 shone in his glory, and lighted up the waves, and made 
 the beach sand sparkle; at the tent-door an angel had 
 gone in and found a welcome and refreshment. 
 
 Mr. Falcon was the last person who could draw from 
 Stella an involuntary burst of feeling such as Mr.
 
 A NEW STUDY. 65 
 
 Leighton had listened to. He bore about with him no 
 mark of painful study. One could not discern from his 
 manner or speech, that life was a theme that vexed him. 
 His attitude was that of a manly worker, who saw before 
 him tasks to be done, and he did not spare himself, or 
 turn the labor over to another. 
 
 When he spoke of the work in which he had been en- 
 gaged during the last week, and narrated some touching 
 experience of which he had learned in his explorations 
 among the emigrants, he spoke from his heart his hu- 
 manity explained itself in the pathos of his voice, and in 
 the words of his narration. High praise he had for the 
 Sisters of Mercy whom he had encountered in his labors. 
 
 Much he lauded their perseverance and courage, and 
 his eyes while he spoke these things were fixed on Stella. 
 With a well-bred show of interest, intended to hint at a 
 concealed indifference which she was far from feeling, 
 Stella listened. And, as if to avoid the appearance of 
 actual rudeness, compelled herself to speak occasionally. 
 But under all this exterior a soul was listening to his 
 speaking, as if for life or death. 
 
 No room for doubting had she here. It was an en- 
 franchised soul that spoke, and she, in bondage, listened. 
 
 Never, as he had said, would she make an opportunity 
 to speak to him as she had done to others. Whether he 
 had been born into, or grown into the condition which 
 now was his, unmistakably his, she did not question now 
 and here. An awed sense of the fact that she was in 
 the presence of no distorted life, of no fragment of a life, 
 held her fast. She could not escape it. No broad, 
 world-comprehending system of belief, like this which his 
 bearing and his words indicated, had she ever met before. 
 She shrunk back within herself, silenced conscious, in 
 the pride with which she veiled the weakness of her 
 wavering faith and hope, that it was but an emotional
 
 66 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 pride that had constrained her heretofore in so many 
 ways and times to exhibit it. In her smiling face, and 
 gay words, a passing careless eye would have detected 
 nothing more than dead lives often evidence. The ex- 
 uberant health, and apparently unflagging flow of cheer- 
 ful spirits, seemed ample provision for defence against 
 the dismal dreams of hypochondria. And truly were so : 
 her trouble was not the darkness of a vision, but the ap- 
 parent inscrutableness of a palpable confusion, a visible 
 disorder. In the gay dance of life she had fallen up 
 against startling realities. Who could explain them ? 
 This man would answer with a smile would answer, 
 would smile she felt assured of this but at the same 
 time there was in her soul a deep conviction of another 
 truth of which, till now, she had not caught sight since she 
 was a child, and frolicked on the beach since as a young 
 maiden giving over her heart so fondly and confidingly to 
 the nun who taught her, she had gone trusting all she 
 met, pouring out the wine of life upon a soil where weeds 
 grew so abundant that a serpent found in their inidst a 
 hiding-place, and made a nest for habitation. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 AND yet when he was gone, Stella, excited beyond the 
 possibility of sleep, arose from her bed after midnight, 
 and, seated in^the quiet of Tom's chamber, wrote a letter 
 full of disquietude, one long interrogatory to Miss Wat- 
 son. And with it she went out noiselessly into the 
 moonlight. 
 
 (The beach glistened like a vast bed of silver in the 
 light solemn was the roar of the sea the night was 
 full of awful peace along the waves spread a movable 
 path of light, the reflection of the moon, a broad highway 
 meet for spirits^
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MEETING. 67 
 
 Here, on the solitary beach, with bared head she 
 walked, the wind tossing her hair at will, and night, and 
 circumstance, and time, were in that hour as nothing to 
 her. 
 
 Leighton in his study, he had not yet retired, saw her. 
 He had thought of her all day. 
 
 He had not been quite unmoved by the words she had 
 spoken to him on that Sabbath day. Though disposed 
 to regard her disquiet as but another evidence of the 
 restlessness and imperfection of the female character, 
 yet above and beyond this he felt a decided interest in 
 her. He could not prevent his sympathies from extend- 
 ing towards her. She had appealed to him so directly 
 that, though she had to his mind conclusively proved 
 her ignorance of the things of which she spoke, she 
 had roused him as he had not been roused for years, 
 though thrown by the occupation of his professor- 
 ship so continually among young, inquiring minds. His 
 sympathies reached towards her feebly, but certainly. 
 Vivid was the recollection she had served to call up. of 
 the struggle through which in his own youth he had 
 passed. How he had finally conquered, he well knew. 
 This recollection inspired him with a gentler pity than 
 he had felt for her before. 
 
 When he saw her walking alone on the sand he went 
 out. 
 
 Stella saw him as he came from the mill she was ad- 
 vancing towards him and she neither stood still in inde- 
 cision, nor turned back from the path, but steadily went 
 forward. 
 
 ' I thought I gave you an opiate this morning," when 
 he came near, he said. 
 
 " Some drugs stimulate me." she answered ; " opium 
 never tranquillizes me. Your opiate, sir, failed of its 
 proper effect."
 
 68 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Then it was either an under, or an over dose ; which, 
 I wonder ?" 
 
 " You think the latter, from my being here at this 
 hour ; the house was so close I could not sleep." 
 
 " I have been thinking of what you said about the 
 convent . . . did you actually think of making a nun of 
 yourself? or was it, as I suppose, a figure of speech 
 merely implying the desperate and dangerous strait of 
 doubt through which you were passing ?" 
 
 " I meant it just as I said," answered Stella. 
 
 " And if you wanted a church now, you would cleave 
 to Rome is not that it ?'* 
 
 " Yes, it is so. I want something else. I have 
 climbed on in my way, as I told you, disputed at every 
 step I took. I have gone up through the church, using 
 altar, and saints' niches, and the gorgeous windows with 
 the martyrs painted on them, for stepping-stones, and 
 even the crucifix why was the spiritual cross made into 
 such a human perversion as a crucifix ? And at last, when 
 I have come to the roof ... I look down beneath, and 
 see" 
 
 " It is a dizzy pinnacle," said Mr. Leighton ; " awfully 
 fearful for an unbalanced adventurer ; what do you see ?" 
 
 " The homes of the city in inextricable confusion far 
 below. Up, above, what I thought was heaven when I 
 was a child but the spiritual heavens are not there. If 
 I fall down among these homes, even if I were not dashed 
 in pieces, I should die I should lose my life. I think 
 the slumbering listener who might have heard the apostle 
 preaching, but went to sleep rather, and fell from the 
 window to the ground, and was taken up for dead, and 
 only recovered by a miracle, means something. 
 
 " Yes, certainly,' 1 answered Mr. Leigliton. 
 
 " You would not, for the sake of giving a person a 
 mere quiet life, you would not, would you, shut him up
 
 THE LAW OF GROWTH. O 
 
 out of the light and air ? Is it not better to grow ? Is 
 it so important that a person should cleave to the faith 
 in which he has been educated, whether it answers the 
 purpose of his soul or not ? Does not nature assure us 
 that the law of growth is a vital law ? The caterpillar 
 and acorn assure me. I long for growth, this tangled 
 undergrowth hinders me this damp darkness is full of 
 poison. I must grow." 
 
 " Assuredly you must," he said quietly. 
 
 " But these great trees in the forest, with their branch- 
 es twined and crossed far above me, seem to warn me 
 that they will not let me through. They will compel 
 me, then, to an obstinate pushing in some other direction. 
 They will make a deformity of me. Why should I confess ? 
 I have no faith in the virtue of a priest's absolution : or 
 why should I pray to saints ? bead-telling, and all the 
 rest of it ? I believe nothing in it. I was born for no 
 such service." 
 
 " No I perceive that you are intensely Protestant." 
 
 " And is it not plain to you that I cannot stand still 
 where I am ? I must either go back, and, with the ut- 
 most devotion, entire submission, give myself up to that 
 Church, work for it, live for it, die for it, be absorbed in 
 it ... know nothing but the Church, desire nothing but 
 its interests . . . love nothing except according to its 
 dictates or, I must leave it utterly and forever. I have 
 tried to look that large liberty in the face, but it awes 
 me I I almost fear it. It is a new country to me, 
 sir, and I know not what is in it." 
 
 " It is the ideal land of youth. Go not in thereat. 
 You are of a temperament that needs the limitations of 
 the actual, the positive. Better for you to remain in the 
 transept than climb up in the manner you have described. 
 All that is required of you is manifestly this conformity, 
 merely conformity."
 
 70 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " To what ?" asked Stella. 
 
 <( To what you know." 
 
 " I know nothing." 
 
 " That the Church has, in all ages, afforded protection 
 and peace to those who sought shelter of her." 
 
 " Sir ?" 
 
 " You know this, do you not ? The catechism taught 
 it you, and your experience has proved it to be true. 
 You evidently know nothing of the land that lies beyond 
 the borders of the Church. Now, why be so unwise as to 
 resign what you have ascertained for you cannot tell 
 what . . . Neither can I." 
 
 He paused Stella was silent. She pondered his 
 words, and at last rousing herself and looking up at him, 
 she said, almost triumphantly : 
 
 " Yes ! I can tell you, sir. And you, if you would, 
 could you not tell me ? But it matters not I see I shall 
 not " she hesitated " get much good of you," she con- 
 cluded with a sigh. 
 
 " Tell me," said he, in spite of himself, deeply inter- 
 ested in her words, " have you striven to retain the faith 
 in which you were brought up ? Since you began to 
 doubt its validity, have you ever striven to conquer such 
 doubts ?" 
 
 <; Oh, it seems to me, sir, you should not ask me that. 
 It has cost me so much since I left that road beaten by 
 the passage of ages." 
 
 " You have renounced it altogether, then ? You will 
 not return ?" 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 Mr. Leighton hesitated. " Women," said he, at length, 
 speaking slowly, " women renouncing the fancies of faith 
 hardly know what they do. And you, who seem full of 
 poetic, passional impulses it seems to me . . . your 
 renunciation would be incredible if I could persuade my-
 
 THE MAJESTY OF TRUTH. 71 
 
 self that you are fully aware of it. You go to a priest 
 and confess your faults, he counsels you, and in a great 
 name absolves you from the penalty. What can be more 
 consoling ?" Did the impatient gesture of the listening 
 girl escape the speaker's eyes ? . . . " You offer up your 
 prayers before the shrines of saints your heart ascends 
 to the abode which your imagination has prepared for 
 them. You behold them, in their celestial glory, inter- 
 ceding for you, and those you love, with Him who is 
 above all. What can be more beautiful ? You purchase 
 heaven by your good works. It is yours a safe invest- 
 ment you can count on the payment with certainty. 
 You are, besides, encircled by guardian angels. Consider 
 whether all this enchanting order of things is to be lightly 
 set aside, ignored, for the sake of coarse, barren, meagre 
 fact ! for the things you see and handle ! Allowing that 
 the circle engirdling heaven and earth, thronged with 
 beautiful imaginings, be nothing more than the creation 
 of the brain, what an immense renunciation is it you ex- 
 act of yourself of a woman !" 
 
 " Sir ... is there not sufficient splendor for what 
 do you take me ? is there not sufficient attraction and 
 majesty in simple fact to satisfy a soul ? If I suspect 
 the validity of a theory, is it not as good as lost to me ? 
 If I question the veracity of a thought, does it console 
 me that it is adorned, and has for centuries been adorned, 
 with unquestioned beauty ? Is a woman, necessarily, so 
 dependent on outward show of beauty that, having it as- 
 sured, she can quietly submit to inward and essential cor- 
 ruptions ? I hold that the power which enchains the soul 
 is that which lies in the heart of truth. And in no shape 
 it may choose can it disguise itself beyond the detection 
 of the eye that seeks and loves it." 
 
 " You make little of the heritage to which you were 
 born," said Mr. Leigh ton, but her answer pleased him ;
 
 72 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 the very honesty of her speech roused his involuntary re- 
 spect. She was a woman, but after another type than 
 that against which all the sentiment of his nature spoke 
 out in bitter scorn. He fancied that this girlhood bore 
 no faint resemblance to another that long ago converted 
 him for a brief season to a warm-blooded humanity. 
 " But," he continued, " you have narrowed and restricted 
 your faculties to that contemplation, when it is, in fact, 
 but one feature in a vast and complicated system. It is 
 a stumbling-block in your way. Do you honestly desire 
 that I should remove it ?'' 
 
 " Go on :" in this charge was a full warrant. 
 
 " You have stranded on the shoal of the unconditioned 
 which has wrecked, or rather, I should say, proved the 
 great hinderance to the free working of many a mind. 
 The Church is the embodiment of an idea the idea that 
 involves the Infinite and the Absolute. You have lost 
 yourself in a maze where you may wander forever in a 
 vague consciousness of miserable mistaking why ? be- 
 cause you are beyond the ken of actual knowledge in that 
 dominion where you are. You have tormented yourself 
 with abstractions which were none the less fatal to your 
 inward peace, and the harmonious development of your 
 nature, but the more fatal, on the contrary, because of 
 their sensuous arrayment. Symbols have disturbed your 
 peace, because you were sufficiently thoughtful of them 
 to seek for the mystery they personated. You have 
 iguorantly worshipped, and that you can do no longer. 
 In that fact I see the proof that worship is no longer 
 possible with you. Worship as the Church has it, I mean. 
 Drop the idea of the Church then, altogether." Stella 
 started in surprise but in the next moment the passing 
 likeness of his counsel to that given by Sister Theresa 
 disappeared. " Drop that idea, and all that is contained 
 in it ; come back from the dominion of dreams into the
 
 MATTER AND SPIRIT. 73 
 
 actual world. Seek no longer for infallible truth, content 
 yourself with seeking to know that which can be known 
 which is all. Your possessions will then satisfy you 
 for they will have substance." 
 
 The hour and the speaker may, full as much as his 
 words, have conspired to shake the soul of the listener to 
 whom these things were thus proposed. 
 
 " What will they be ?" she asked in great hope. Was 
 he not preaching deliverance to the captive ? What was 
 the truth this wise man was advancing that roused her, 
 and made her hope to shine from the dark eyes full of 
 pleading and of wonder, turned toward him ? Into what 
 fair new kingdom would he convey her, where she would 
 be free from what she felt had bound her quite too long ? 
 
 <; The amazing glories of this material world the 
 laws that govern all being the science of nature. Study 
 these. One might venture to predict that this knowl- 
 edge, fairly ascertained, would lead you into possession 
 of large liberty, and enduring joy, since you can possess 
 these things if you know them ; since no fate can compel 
 your renunciation, or affect your right. Vex your 
 righteous soul no longer with thoughts which are of no 
 value since they have for you no ascertained result. 
 Your own mind is the interpreter, for you, of the universe. 
 The world is yours because you know it; or, it may be 
 yours because it is possible for you to know it ... But 
 you require to act you need to labor and that, if I 
 mistake not, you desire to do. Seek, theu. and you shall 
 find; knock, it shall be opened to you; ask, you shall re- 
 coive. The requisition, you perceive, is incessant. Your 
 energies are called upon. / The poverty of sloth is beyond 
 the reach of charities.) Occupy your field, and cultivate 
 it, and you shall fiudit ere long white with harvests ; but, 
 you must lift up your eyes to see them, and stretch forth 
 your hand to gather them into your granary. If you 
 
 VOL. II. 4
 
 74 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 arc willing to forsake a splendid, pompous dream for mere 
 fact, an intangibility for a positive possession, there is 
 nothing in the way. And you actually resign no- 
 thing. For you enter on an inheritance that is compre- 
 hensive of all things the moment you enter the dominion 
 of reality." 
 
 Here he paused and to himself he said, " She can 
 receive this. She has energy of thought, and of will. 
 She will grasp at it. But it will be curious to observe 
 the use she will make of the truth. I think she is, in 
 fact, sufficient for these things. That she can forego the 
 pictorial heavens for the substantial earth. But it mat- 
 ters not. She will doubtless have a struggle before she 
 delivers herself, if she does ever, from the delusion of her 
 besetting sin." 
 
 Stella roused herself from the reflections his words had 
 occasioned. The agitation of her face betrayed the dis- 
 turbance of her soul. She tried to speak, but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 " Are you able to receive it ?" 
 
 " It leaves me very poor." 
 
 " It finds you so perhaps, it will not leave you thus. 
 Consider what your possessions really were." 
 
 " But, if I thought them worth much." 
 
 " You did not think them so ; were you not struggling 
 to be clear of them? I have merely indicated the way 
 'in which this was possible." 
 
 " Ah, but it seems to me the most childish superstition 
 were better than this." 
 
 " To fall down before images ?" she hesitated, and evaded^ 
 
 " Not before images, but the idea an abstraction, if 
 you call it so that is more satisfactory than the husk 
 that contains it. I do not complain of the idea, sir, 
 but the substitution that it finds, and for which it is 
 mistaken."
 
 THE IDEA. 75 
 
 ' Then I have nothing for you clearly. I mistook 
 you." 
 
 " No, not altogether." 
 
 " You will perceive then, perhaps, that some fault 
 must pertain to the idea, some imperfection ; and an 
 idea to be adored should certainly be peerless in perfec- 
 tions ; it must, I say, be in some way faulty, have a flaw, 
 or such vast, cumbrous, ungainly machinery as you feel 
 compelled to set aside, could not have emanated from it, 
 and taken the place of it." 
 
 " But it did not emanate from the idea." 
 
 " Whence then did it come ?" 
 
 " It grew out of ignorance and incapacity to receive a 
 pure idea and then pride came in, and sustained the 
 substitution." 
 
 " Then clearly the idea, as you term it, is in fault is 
 insufficient, and more than that, it is dangerous ; it leads 
 into the veriest foolishness of thought and act. It is 
 deadly error ; because it sustains itself at such an enor- 
 mous abnegation of right and duty. An idea that could by 
 any unfortunate measure so conceal itself, or be so con- 
 cealed, as to delude its victim by a presentation of what 
 was not it, but separated by a heaven-wide distance 
 from it, is certainly not an idea that you would care to 
 sustain, or adore. Deliverance from its dominion and 
 subtlety was what I understood you to be seeking. But, 
 if you prefer it to the deliverance of course it is all 
 right and proper . . . There is no wrong if you cannot 
 estimate it." 
 
 " No " said Stella, clinging to her thought with the 
 grasp of a drowning person ; while she spoke with solemn 
 deliberation. " You do not, I think, understand me. I 
 cannot live without the idea, but I want it to be taken 
 out from the place where I find it. I protest against the 
 dress they give it. And after all, it may be well to have
 
 76 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 been brought into such connection with it as I have 
 been, as something you said just now intimated to me; 
 but, I shall not have any peace until I get rid of all 
 these questions and disputes. And, if I see the idea, 
 it may perhaps be as well for me to remain where I am. 
 I shall not pray to the saints, nor put faith in things of 
 superstition. But I thank you for what you have said, 
 though it does seem terrible; why, it is impossible to 
 think of giving up all I have believed in since I knew 
 anything ! But then," she added quickly, " you will 
 perhaps say I have never known anything. Believed, 
 then, if you like the word better.'' 
 
 " Still," said Mr. Leighton, " it were altogether bet- 
 ter, even as physicians recommend a change of air and 
 scene to invalids, it were better for you to quite cease 
 thinking of these matters. Go into another country 
 you greatly need the change. Take up the book of facts 
 and things, and get knowledge. Study into the relation 
 of things, learn the harmony of the sciences. Grow in 
 reality ; a steady tree, that strikes its branches far into 
 the light, and its roots deep into the earth, is better than 
 a sickly plant, that spindles into the shadowy air, and is 
 itself more a vision than a substance. Stop talking about 
 the Church, and stop thinking of it also. It were far 
 better for you." 
 
 " But, it seems to me, it is not the Church, but God, 
 of whom that would deprive me," said Stella, in a sub- 
 dued tone. " It is He whom I sought, and do seek." 
 
 " And there we are again. If you go into the do- 
 minion of the absolute, you must be propelled by means 
 of material machinery, which you will find inevitably fails 
 of its purpose. The powers you have are adapted to the 
 grasp of the conditioned. You are happy only when you 
 put them to their proper uses ; you are wretched, you are 
 disappointed at every turn, when you put them to a ser-
 
 THE DEMANDS OF SCIENCE. 77 
 
 vice they were not designed to serve. The crying folly 
 of the world is the use to which it compels the imple- 
 ments in its hands ignorant foregoing of the vast patri- 
 mony in its hands for for what tell me what is given in 
 exchange ?" 
 
 " Peace," said Stella, after some hesitation. 
 
 " Which, in such connection, is another name for sloth." 
 said Mr. Leighton. " Still, if you call it peace, and be- 
 lieve in it, it is sufficient for you. But you desired 
 activity ; you wanted this morning some work to do. No 
 branch of scientific inquiry are you excluded from the 
 diligent student will have no time for entertaining ques- 
 tions of unimportant moment; he will, of all things, 
 shrink from bondage to one idea. Listen to that, and 
 believe it ... You are thinking now of the needful re- 
 straints of the Church. Is there not an all-sufficient 
 security against temptations to carnal sins in the pure 
 truths which are the centre of natural facts, and the sum 
 of science ? What mind, besotted by any sort of evil, 
 can nerve itself to such seeking as is rewarded with dis- 
 covery ? The restraints of the Church are good in their 
 place, but they are bonds for childhood, when compared 
 with the rebukes and demands of science. The Church 
 is the conscience of the churchist heaven and earth of 
 the whole man. , If you would have unity within your- 
 self, if you would have harmony, let me tell you you 
 shall have it, but not by any creed, nor for any code's 
 sake." 
 
 " I am ignorant, I know, in all these things," answered 
 Stella. " I know nothing about science. I have not 
 studied far, or much ; but, tell me, is that the only reason, 
 the true reason, why it would seem such a desolate, bar- 
 ren world if I left out of it the Idea of a Creator, who re- 
 vealed himself once in Jesus Christ ? Is that the reason 
 why I should feel weak and helpless if I had not His ex-
 
 78 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 ample ? Would life have such grand and awful signifi- 
 cance if I did not see Him everywhere present and active ? 
 if I had not His inscrutable wisdom, to which I might 
 refer all the dark things that trouble my understanding ? 
 You have done me good. I will obey your teaching so 
 far as this : I will emerge from the dotage of clmrchism ; 
 I will study as a human being should ; I will try to read 
 with my own eyes some of these great mysteries. But 
 what you call the ' Absolute,' the ' Unconditioned,' the 
 Infinite, you must leave me. God in Christ must re- 
 main. I cannot go on without that pass-word. I should 
 distrust the paths that opened to me without it. This, 
 if it is the result, the first-fruit of an erroneous education, 
 I cannot do without. Take away everything else the 
 whole dominion of angels, I can spare them and all the 
 beautiful imaginings of poets, and those of religionists 
 also I do not need them, I believe; they have not done 
 much except to confuse me and clog the action of my in- 
 tellect. But I cannot do without the Supreme and 
 Eternal Idea, and its revelation in creation and redemp- 
 tion." 
 
 " Nor would I have you. I merely sought to relieve" 
 you of a mistake. Receive the idea, then, as you can, if 
 it stands not a gigantic impediment in the door of your 
 mind, keeping out the sunlight and the air." 
 
 41 Nay," she said, " it brings the sunlight and the air ; 
 if it has not, it will." A long pause followed this word. 
 At length Leigh ton said : 
 
 " You promise me, then, that you will strike now into 
 a new path, and make much of your life while its vigor 
 and freshness remain ?" 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " And you will be fearless in your renunciations ?" 
 
 " I will give up all but my life." 
 
 "'Peace be within thy walls, and plenteousness within
 
 DAYBREAK ON THE .COAST. 79 
 
 thy palaces.' But, recollect, a beggar's notion of abun- 
 dance differs from a prince's. Away with discontent and 
 pining ! The world is yours, if you will take it. Vex 
 yourself no longer it is the sense of wrong-doing that 
 makes the misery of discontent. The unexplained, un- 
 examined consciousness of infamous deserving, that stings 
 the heart of the envious. Go no more to man or woman 
 for strength, or counsel, or wisdom. Your need has its 
 answer and supply, if you will take it no one can dis- 
 cover it for you, or give it to you. And what I have 
 now said to you is in itself of no manner of use, excepting 
 as it can suggest to you the real law of your being. I 
 do not know it, nor do you ; but some word that I have 
 said, if you will think upon it, will suggest all that you 
 most need. If," he added, " if you were my child, I 
 could do no more for you you are as independent of me 
 as I of you. " 
 
 He said no more ; and when he was done, Stella only 
 answered : 
 
 " I thank you." 
 
 Until daybreak she remained there on the beach, rest- 
 less as the ever-moving waves, walking up and down the 
 sand, thinking over all that she had heard striving with 
 herself, and making daring resolutions recalling to mind 
 the fact, and now and then staying herself upon it, that 
 this man had not, in all he said, in all his exhortation, 
 startling as his words at first had seemed, not once had 
 he proposed a thought that appeared now as an obstruc- 
 tion to the fulfilment of her desire to labor in, amongst, 
 and for her fellows. Indeed, the very fact that he would 
 narrow her sphere, and curb her thoughts, seemed to 
 necessitate all activity of charities, to call her to exer- 
 tion in whatever avenue of social life she chose to enter. 
 
 By daybreak she had come to some new conclusions ; 
 the long meditation in that solemn solitude had done her
 
 80 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 good it bad at least delivered her from one idea and given 
 her instead, many. 
 
 She waited here for morning, alone. Shortly after he 
 had spoken the woVds last recorded, Mr. Leighton left her 
 and went his way ; but not to slumber, nor to work at 
 his desk, nor to indulge in quiet contemplation. 
 
 Had Susan gone up to the mill that morning before 
 she set out with her friend for Harlem, where Stella was 
 to take the St. John's stage, she would have found no 
 entrance. Yet Mr. Leighton was there, and wakeful, and 
 in his heart a thought was throbbing. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 WE left the family of Mr. Tree in a sad condition in 
 regard to worldly fortunes. No event occurred to prevent 
 the progress of the tide that now bore down upon them. 
 Credit and reputation were gone. Not only the inven- 
 tory was completed, but the sale of the household goods 
 took effect, for Mr. Tree was determined that nothing 
 should be reserved or kept back for the comfort of a 
 household so dishonored, from the claims of the office 
 which Mortimer Maurice had despoiled. 
 
 A little house was taken for the family in an obscure 
 quarter of St. John's ; and Will began his writing, and 
 Lucia her own peculiar work. The motive which im- 
 pelled her was indeed quite different from that which had 
 induced her to labor before the fall of the family ; but 
 it was a not less holy motive. Instead of aiding Vane, 
 which had been her purpose, she had now her father's 
 and mother's comfort in view. The artist could not be 
 strengthened in his purpose, nor aided in his foreign aim, 
 by any help of hers ; the sphere of her effort might be 
 lowlier, but it was holier than before.
 
 THE TREES AGAIN. 81 
 
 And still she thought of Vane, of the struggles he had 
 made, of the difficulties he had met, which could not 
 baffle him. Sometimes these thoughts were not wholly 
 free from envy ; but thinking of his career she gained 
 strength also. What was to hinder her following in that 
 same career ? He. himself, esteemed her pictures of 
 some worth ! 
 
 True to his first impulse, Will has Rosa's child in his 
 support she lives in the house with them. But Morti- 
 mer Maurice and his wife are in more pestilential quar- 
 ters, left to their own fate, it would seem, and no one can 
 tell what will become of them. But there is a heart that 
 bleeds for them, and an eye that is mindful. 
 
 Mr. Tree, at home, assists Will in the writing he has 
 from the office of the law partners, whose clerk and stu- 
 dent he is ; and Will himself works day and night, and 
 is happy. As yet, there has been no fresh explosion in 
 the household. Mrs. Tree is faithful to her vows in as 
 far as this, she shares her husband's fortunes still ; but 
 she pines for " sympathy" which no one has the time to 
 extend ; and she is afflicted overmuch with neuralgia, and 
 so with her the days " drag their weary length along;" 
 and for her eye the " slime of the serpent is over them 
 all." Newport and Saratoga are beyond her reach, and 
 she shuts herself up in her room and laments ; for no 
 breath of the air more fresh than any sea-breeze ever was, 
 and more reviving, floats along the scorching desert of 
 her being, and not a drop of the water, whose constant 
 flow, and purity, and brightness, communicate the health 
 no mineral water gives, not a solitary drop of this water, 
 I say, falls, or shall ever fall, on her parched tongue. 
 
 Pucelli, the Italian, of whom Lucia had received her 
 first instructions in drawing, was himself a wretched 
 daubist, but he had in his gallery a collection of admir- 
 able paintings; and upon his table the student, who 
 4*
 
 82 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 sought to learn the art of engraving, or of drawing, or 
 painting, found all the requisite aids. And in Pucelli 
 he found a theorist and master, who understood the rules 
 of art sufficiently to impart them to young students. 
 Though in practice he was execrable, in precept he was 
 thoroughly prepared and disposed to communicate to 
 others of his knowledge, for what he called a reasonable 
 consideration. 
 
 He bore about him all the outward marks of prosperi- 
 ty. The embroidery of his velvet cap was untarnished 
 his dressing-gown was that of the exquisite his mous- 
 tache was curled his person redolent of sweetest per- 
 fumes. He was the most prosperous of quacks, the most 
 successful of impositions. He had begun his career as an 
 artist had been a portrait painter, a landscape painter, 
 and an historic painter, but had failed, and well-nigh 
 starved in each capacity, until he set up for a teacher, 
 and, by plodding and patience, came into possession of 
 one picture after another ; then he turned showman 
 made a fortune by his exhibitions and had now settled 
 down in his present capacity ; and his school was making 
 a noise, and acquiring a reputation. 
 
 To this school went Lucia Tree, with the purpose, for 
 this was the privilege of all who had been pupils, of mak- 
 ing a copy of a picture. Having entered on this study 
 with zeal and determination, she would pause at no half 
 achievement. 
 
 But, as yet, she had met with slight encouragement in 
 her vocation. She was young, and unskillful ; and the 
 works she sought to do were the trifles that grew without 
 an effort from the hands of those accustomed to such 
 labors. Those looking for workmen would ask for swift 
 hands, that could throw off results almost spontaneously 
 who were known as designers ; and Lucia's work was 
 slow, and she had acquired no reputation !
 
 THE ARTISTS IN THE GALLERY. 83 
 
 One day, when she went into Pucelli's, to look at the 
 picture which she had resolved on attempting for, after 
 many fruitless endeavors in other directions, it had be- 
 come apparent to her that she must acquire some reputa- 
 tion before her labor would meet with adequate reward, 
 as she stood before the painting, Vane, who had gone 
 into the room before her, making a slow circuit of the 
 gallery, at length approached her. 
 
 When she entered the room no one was visible, and 
 she thought herself alone ; and, before he came to her, 
 she was so surrounded by her own thoughts, that, had the 
 room been crowded with people, she would have been 
 quite as unconscious as now of Vane. The greatness of 
 what she had undertaken seemed to-day as for the first 
 time before her ; the chances of success appeared never 
 before so doubtful, her power never so weak. Repeated 
 failures, and return of her unpretending work upon her 
 hands, had disheartened her ; the expenses that would be 
 incurred by the necessary outlay, in order that the larger 
 work, which, perhaps, would prove a total failure, might 
 be commenced, was not a good foundation for very sub- 
 stantial hopes. She could only make way against these 
 disheartening reflections by the force of the moral obli- 
 gations, sense of which had energized her for effort in 
 the beginning. She could not leave Will to struggle 
 alone. She could not disappoint her father, after all her 
 boastful defiance of fortune. She must make new trials, 
 and be brave and constant in her efforts. And here she 
 thought of Vane. 
 
 And just here came his voice. Impulsively, Lucia 
 turned as she heard it the voice was so near, and she 
 was so surprised ; another moment's reflection would have 
 led her to draw her veil, and leave him to interpret the 
 act, rather than he should see how disturbed she was and 
 had been.
 
 84 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 The reflection was an instant too late. Vane had 
 seen, and was struck by what he saw; and, after a few 
 words of more formal address, he observed, " I received 
 the parcel of drawings you returned me, Miss Tree." 
 
 " I had no safe place for them, as I said in the note," 
 replied Lucia. " We have moved from our old home 
 since I saw you." 
 
 " And I have been very nearly moved too," said Vane ; 
 " but I have put off Italy now for another year's consid- 
 eration." 
 
 " How could you do it ?" asked Lucia quickly ; but 
 the sudden and strange light that flitted over her face, 
 which was not a smile, and which certainly was not gloom 
 and disappointment, did not escape him ; he heard what 
 it said more truly than he did hear her words, and not 
 one of them escaped him. 
 
 " Oh," said he pleasantly, " I had a young friend, an 
 artist, too, whom I wanted to have in sight a little long- 
 er; and then, besides, I am in no such desperate haste 
 for Italy, after all. Thdre is no danger that my enthu- 
 siasm will not still be at a white heat, even if I wait a 
 year or two longer. But I have put a limit on my am- 
 bition. I have done painting houses, and taken to can- 
 vas. And I have a quiet little room, two or three feet 
 square, with a good sky-light ; and there I daub away 
 you should see me !" 
 
 Unless he wad blind as a bat, he read in Lucia's face, 
 from which every particle of disturbance had vanished, 
 that she would like very well to comply with that duty 
 he spoke of. 
 
 "Where are you living now ?" he asked. 
 
 Lucia told him. 
 
 " That is a long way apart for two artists to -live," 
 said he ; " but your brother is with you still ?" 
 
 When Lucia replied, he said :
 
 DISCOURAGEMENTS. 85 
 
 " No one is to see my picture until I return from Italy, 
 if ever I go." 
 
 But you will go !" 
 
 " I 'm not so sure of it. Maybe I can find at home 
 all that Italy would give me. Perhaps. If you will 
 come down some day with your brother to my room, I 
 can show you what I have been doing." 
 
 " Oh yes we will come. I long to see it so." 
 
 " Do you ? I like to hear you say that. But you are 
 an artist as well as I ; what are you doing at present ?" 
 
 The self-depreciative word on Lucia's lips was not 
 uttered. His self reliant buoyancy of spirit had in some 
 manner sufficiently communicated itself to her to make 
 her hopeful and strong again and the sympathy which 
 laborers seek she sought of him. 
 
 " I am trying to work," said she. 
 
 " And how do you make out ?" he asked, frankly and 
 instantly. 
 
 " Not well. Nobody seems to think me a very great 
 genius. I have tried shop-men, book-men, and every- 
 body, it seems to me." 
 
 " That is the way of it," said Vane, half laughing, yet 
 there was a softening shadow in his eyes ; " but you are 
 not to give it up with trying. You must do what you 
 set out to do, you know," and he rapidly named several 
 shop-men had she tried all these ? 
 
 Yes and they had nothing for her to illustrate no- 
 body wanted designs for anything. 
 
 " If I should go home with you, would you show me 
 what you have done," he asked. 
 
 " I would be so glad to show you," she answered. 
 
 " Then I thank you for that. But why are you stand- 
 ing here before this picture ?" 
 
 No hesitation made Lucia in replying : 
 
 " I did not know what else to do and I was afraid to
 
 86 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 stop working for fear I might lose some chance and so 
 I thought I would make a copy of this, and then perhaps 
 some one would see it and buy it, or else give me some 
 other work to do." 
 
 " But it would take you months to paint that picture." 
 
 " I know that. But that would be better than I 
 know not what to do." 
 
 " Oh well, we will never be quite so foolish as that. I 
 know some good fellows. But perhaps you had rather 
 fight your own way than be helped along ? I had an offer 
 of a patron myself to-day. But I did not think much 
 of it. When I want a patron I will hunt up a man whose 
 house needs a new coat of paint when it comes to art, 
 I must be let alone. But you must see the difference 
 between a patron and the offer of an artist to help his 
 fellow." 
 
 " I shall be glad of help," said Lucia. " I am try- 
 ing to work for a living it is very different with me 
 from what it is with you." 
 
 " Is it ? But it is a good fortune we both have, is n't 
 it ? only you must not spoil it by troubling yourself 
 about three or four yards of canvas yet awhile. I know 
 about your sketches. See ! I have a poem this minute 
 that I have to illustrate for a magazine listen, and I 
 will read it to you tell me how many good points there 
 are in it for sketches, and we will see if we can agree 
 about it." 
 
 It was a poem of some length, and very striking in its 
 scenery. Lucia listened. breathlessly while Vane read it; 
 when he finished it she told him the pictures that might 
 be drawn from it, and the points best fitted for illustration. 
 He listened attentively ; when she had spoken, he said : 
 
 " Upon my word you shall do the work, then ! 1 
 looked the thing over, and could make nothing of it 
 you have seen through it in a moment. You will do
 
 THE COMPACT. 87 
 
 better with allegory than I. Make the sketches if you 
 will, and you can come down with your brother, and we 
 will have a talk about it and I will show you the pic- 
 ture. If you do the work why it is yours of course. 
 Don't say a word you are the only friend I have here 
 and the only artist that I have any patience with." 
 
 Lucia folded the paper, and retained it the manner 
 of her doing it said all for her ; but she seemed to think 
 there was need for a formal expression of what was in 
 her mind, and she tried to say it that she was grateful 
 to him for his kindness, that she accepted it as she would 
 have wished him to do had she attempted to aid him 
 that there was a reason why she must labor, as he doubt- 
 less knew, and other words, which he heard, and connect- 
 ed, and understood, not, however, because they were so 
 clearly spoken that he could not avoid it. 
 
 " That is all right,' 1 said he, extending his hand, which 
 she accepted instantly as a token of their friendly com- 
 pact. " You make me think of my mother. You will 
 see her in the picture I have painted. I know how well 
 pleased she would be to know I had such a friend as you. 
 Sometimes I think that you are better than Italy for me. 
 Do you know why ? Because you give me what I was al- 
 ways thinking to find in Italy. To be sure I was think- 
 ing of galleries of pictures, and the great works of artists, 
 and I don't suppose you will ever do anything quite as 
 great ; and I have seen you so few times I am afraid you 
 will call me very bold, but I cannot help thinking of 
 you; you have done me a great deal of good, without 
 knowing it, I suppose ; I hope what I say don't offend 
 you. You may think me strange to talk so to you 
 but I do not say it because I am an artist, or think I 
 am, and so presume to talk bold things to young ladies 
 that other gentlemen would not dream of saying. I hope 
 you understand me."
 
 88 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Yes," said Lucia, quite as earnestly as he had spoken, 
 " I think I do." 
 
 " And then you know why I am not in such a hurry 
 about Italy. I think if I had gone there a year ago, as 
 I thought of doing, I should not have seen nearly as 
 much as I should if I went now, or a year from now. It 
 seems-to me as if I had grown every way since I saw you. 
 Does that sound strange can you understand?" 
 
 " Yes, I understand, I think but it sounds strange. 
 Willie sometimes says things like it not the same, of 
 course, for he 's not an artist, and never thinks of Italy ; 
 but he says what comes to the same thing, and it makes 
 me happy to hear you say so, for I did not dare think 
 I was of so much use in the world." 
 
 " So you see," said Vane, " the little I can do for you 
 with those fellows, the printers and shop-keepers, isn't 
 much when compared with what you give me. So many 
 new ideas, and all that." 
 
 "(Ideas ! I never have any! it is Stella Gammon 
 that has the ideas ! oh dear, no ! I never had an ideavj} 
 
 " Sometimes folks give to others what they don't have 
 for themselves, you know. Well, we '11 never quarrel 
 about that. You say William never thinks of going to 
 Italy, but you do I am sure." 
 
 " I ! no, I never did ! I go to Italy ! Dear me, I was 
 going to say I shduld be glad if I was quite s$e that I 
 should always stay at home." 
 
 " But maybe some day you '11 be tired of staying at 
 home; or something or other may turn up, who knows? 
 so that you can go to Italy as well as such crowds of 
 stupid and vulgar people as do go every year. Who 
 knows, now ? I think it would be the country for you ; 
 yet it makes not so much difference, after all you will 
 have the best country in the world with you wherever 
 you go."
 
 WORK AND PAY. 89 
 
 " Oh, I cannot tell what you are talking about," said 
 Lucia, perplexed, and earnest. ! ' It is not always the best 
 country. No, I assure you !" 
 
 " Is it not ? It would take you a great while to make 
 me believe that. You must not try to prove it to me . . . 
 Do you not know, it is not what folks think they see 
 that makes a beautiful country? it 's what they feel. And 
 that is the very reason that there are happy people and un- 
 happy people everywhere. My friend, the artist I spoke 
 to you about, would be happy in Labrador or Guinea, 
 as well as in Italy. Enough sight better oif than some 
 people that put up in the neighborhood of St. Peter's in 
 Rome, or than some others in Florence, who live there in 
 splendor, (fie carries the most beautiful scenery in the 
 world about with him in his heartland whatever he 
 paints is sure to have a glory around it, every whit as 
 good as the old masters painted over the heads of the 
 Virgin and the apostles. He is a wonderful fellow, my 
 friend the artist." 
 
 " Who is he?" asked Lucia; wondering on account of 
 that artist. 
 
 " You shall see him, some day. I promise to intro- 
 duce him to you, when you get a reputation of your 
 own." 
 
 Lucia shrunk back from the thought, abashed and by 
 no means. so well pleased as she might have been. 
 
 "What? you do not want a reputation ?" exclaimed 
 Vane, apparently surprised, but in heart well pleased. 
 " You will be sure to get it then. You will have to 
 quit work before you begin." 
 
 " I think there is not so much danger ... all I want 
 is work that pays." 
 
 " Oh, what a base motive," said Vane ; but he laughed 
 when he said it, and evidently had no idea of turning on 
 his heel contemptuously, leaving her to herself after such
 
 00 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 an acknowledgment. " Don't you know that genius and 
 poverty go hand and hand, and^fame pronounces tho 
 marriage service ?'^~ 
 
 " That's a sure sign that I shall not be married by 
 fame, for I have n't the genius ; and besides, I am going 
 to make a fortune." 
 
 " Oh, what will my friend the artist think of you ? I 
 am greatly afraid you will never be presented !" 
 
 At this Lucia, whose eyes had been riveted to the pic- 
 ture before her, looked quickly towards Vane, as if about 
 to expostulate ; as if she would utter some sort of defence 
 that should bolster up what good opinion he might have of 
 her but as she looked, she knew there was no need that 
 she should say it ; they understood each other ; and so 
 she merely remarked : 
 
 " I must go home and begin this work. I thank you 
 so much for it." 
 
 " And I was going your way," said Vane, following 
 her. " But you must promise me one thing ; there are 
 heaps of work to do, and you will very soon have more 
 than you want. I wish that you would promise me one 
 thing." 
 
 " What is it, Mr. Vane ?" 
 
 " That you will never put on a sober face, and work 
 yourself to death, as if there was nothing else to be 
 thought of. There is time enough for a good deal of 
 work, and a great deal of play ^besides and more than 
 that, there 's some missionary work you ought to do, being 
 woman. The moment you show a sign that looks as if 
 you intended to go out of the world in a hurry, I shall 
 raise such a hue and cry, that it will be more than 
 you can do to find a line of work or a pencil to draw 
 with. QVill you promise to have a little regard for your 
 duty to your neighbor, and live, for his sake, as long as 
 you can ?"--
 
 VANE'S FRIEND, THE ARTIST. 91 
 
 " Of course I will promise ; how can I help it, Mr. 
 Vane," said Lucia, laughing. 
 
 " Oh, you might help it," said Vane, in a more serious 
 tone. " People make a virtue of forgetting promises ex- 
 torted from them ; besides, they never hold in law, I be- 
 lieve. It would make precious little difference what I 
 said about you, six months from now ; but I shall stay 
 and see it out. You will have a reputation, because, as 
 I said before, you cannot help it. You will have to work 
 if you want pay ; and if you work, why all the rest is just 
 a natural consequence. Then you will be ambitious, I 
 am afraid you will want to make a fortune for every- 
 body you ever heard of. And that is the reason that I 
 fear. (L could bear to see some women go into the harness. 
 it is a good place for them, but I had rather not see 
 you go." 
 
 " It will be a great deal better for me, though, Mr. 
 Vane. I will not overwork myself, I promise you !" 
 
 " But the difficulty is, people never know when they 
 overwork themselves till the mischief is done." 
 
 " I can ask my neighbor to tell me, then," said Lucia. 
 
 " But will you believe him ?" asked Vane 
 
 " Yes, I promise that, too." 
 
 " Well now, my friend, the artist ! I introduce you to 
 yourself this moment. What I said in the beginning I 
 repeat, I know of only one artist : yourself, and, God 
 bless you ! I think you know what it means to be a friend. 
 Is this your house ? is your father in ?" 
 
 When Lucia told him that he was usually in at that 
 hour, Vane paused' a moment longer, revolving his 
 thought in his mind, and looking at it with his keen 
 sight. Then he spoke out in his manly way : 
 
 " It is a serious thing for me to form a friendly com- 
 pact with any one. I do it in solemn earnestness. I 
 suppose you feel the same about it ? If you will show
 
 5>.-5 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 me in to your father, I should like to tell him what we 
 have been talking about. He might think it strange 
 and I know how men feel about such things. I want 
 him to know how I came to be a house-painter, and maybe 
 he would like to come down and see my picture some 
 day ; I would be glad to have all your family see it ; but 
 I have not shown it to any person yet. If your father 
 is willing, I could come, sometimes, and tell you what 
 I am doing, and see how you get along. We might help 
 each other very much. It would be pleasant for me. I 
 never had a secret in my life. It would harm us if we 
 made this a secret. I would rather say to you this min- 
 ute, good-bye forever. Do you think your father would 
 understand me ?" 
 
 " Come in," said Lucia, " we will see. I think that 
 you can make him understand. I am sure I understand 
 you." 
 
 " You of course do but men are different and you 
 are an artist besides, and a woman. Of course you would 
 understand." 
 
 " Don't call me names," said Lucia, leading the way 
 into the house. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Irj'the twilight of the day on which they looked for 
 him, came Silsey to the Elms. 
 
 Violet had hushed her baby to sleep, and was sitting 
 by her side, watchful and expectant. Miss Watson, 
 meanwhile, contemplated the heavenly bodies as they ap- 
 peared one after another in the darkening sky. Her 
 face was sad and thoughtful her whole attitude was sig- 
 nificant of greatly-depressed spirits. She was not calm 
 there was not such composure in her mind as her face 
 indicated ; the least noise startled her. The messenger
 
 SILSEV'S ARRIVAL. 93 
 
 who, during the last week, had come down to her, night 
 by night, who had conveyed with him back to St. John's 
 the papers over which she had labored, hour after hour, 
 and sometimes until day-break, had not yet come. She 
 was anxious and fearful, in spite of all her effort to rise 
 above anxiety and fear. 
 
 At this hour Silsey came. 
 
 Before the baby fell asleep, Violet had drawn the 
 cradle towards the window, and so placed herself that 
 she could not fail to see the approach of whoever came 
 up to the Elms, and when Silsey appeared above the brow 
 of the hill, and advanced along the winding-path that 
 led through beds of flowers, she had flown from her place 
 by the cradle-side, to meet him. 
 
 Miss Watson, seeing Violet's swift flight, and compre- 
 hending it, rose also and went to the door. 
 
 Are you asking how Silsey came, and why ? 
 
 Behold him. 
 
 Violet stands near while he looks down into the cradle 
 depths upon the pearl that lies there. Violet sees the 
 tear that falls upon the baby's face, and glistens ou it like 
 a diamond . . . Diamonds on pearls ! treasure on treas- 
 ure ! was ever treasure like hers ? 
 
 Violet observes, how can she help observing it, that 
 Silsey's eyes follow her wherever she goes, that he smiles 
 on her as he did when his smile first won her heart it 
 is the self-same smile ! she whispers to herself, in a voice 
 that trembles with joy. But she sees more. That he 
 is jaded and worn with toil, that he is pale, that he 
 stoops as he used not to do, that his eyes are larger and 
 brighter than they ever were before ; and her heart sinks 
 and flutters. Could all this change have taken place in 
 the short time of their separation ? was it possible that 
 it could have been going on before that time, and she not 
 know it ? But she smiles again, and is comforted and
 
 94 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 believing, when Miss Watson says it is because he has 
 pined for his children ; that the country is as good for 
 him, and will serve him as kind a turn as it has them ; 
 and her house, small though it is, shall give him room ; 
 that Violet must not yet go back to the city, but she shall 
 return with him when he returns ; and so, explaining her 
 own argument, she claims them both for her guests. 
 
 And more . . . hear him. 
 
 He tells her no ear but hers to hear oh, joy and 
 glory of that solitude ! that he never knew how dear she 
 was to him till she deserted him, so long for it has 
 seemed a long and weary time since she went away and 
 that he thanks God for the air, and light, and quiet, which 
 have wrought such blessed change in her and their child ! 
 That he has heard her voice singing in his heart during 
 all their absence ! He says this, not in wild and extrav- 
 agant language, nor in cold and careless words, but his 
 arm is round her while they walk the garden paths, by 
 moonlight; in simple, sincere words he says it, such words 
 as a man uses when he thinks earnestly and nobly in his 
 solitude. And in the same mood Violet listens, rever- 
 ent, humble, and believing. 
 
 But what answer does she make to all his speaking ? 
 Mild and simple speech it is no passion declaims there. 
 They are common words, such as are used to express the 
 commonest thoughts, but intense feeling is in them, to 
 his hearing. She comes to-night too near him for clear 
 and calm inspection he cannot hold her at a distance to 
 dissect and study. Hereafter it may be that he will go 
 among his books &nd take to pieces the truths he is feel- 
 ing now, and, by unlearning, distinguish and portray 
 them but he cannot, while he hears her voice and notes 
 the manner of her reliance, he cannot now do such ma- 
 chine work as this. 
 
 Violet does not prattle these simple things she talks
 
 THE REUNION. 95 
 
 of are life to her and with his soul he listens. He does 
 not tire of her. Yet she moves timidly in her utterance, 
 as though she had not yet lost the dread and fear of pit- 
 falls and stumbling. As though apprehensive, in less 
 degree perhaps than she ever was before, but still appre- 
 hensive, that his proud head would suddenly lift itself 
 from its bent, attentive posture, and say in that language 
 she would be so quick to understand, that he had heard 
 enough ; that she wearied him. 
 
 She tells him how the time has gone ; of the dark 
 woods with paths, where she and Miss Watson have spent 
 so many mornings of the wild flowers, and the sunsets, 
 of the sail on the river . . . and of the baby that died 
 yesterday and was buried to-day. And, with a saddened 
 and faltering voice, she told him beside of the fearful 
 thought that so distressed her this morning about little 
 Viola. And how his letter had come and put the fear to 
 flight and there her voice faltered in the narration, and 
 Silsey comforted her ! 
 
 Later in the evening they gathered in the parlor, Miss 
 Watson and her two guests ; and these three nearly filled 
 it. Ajar stood the door of the bed-chamber, in which 
 lay the sleeping baby in her cradle, and near that door 
 the mother sat. In a corner of the room, upon a little 
 table every article of furniture in the room was of the 
 smallest and simplest description (Miss Watson did not 
 live by bread alone), stood a lamp shaded ; it cast a soft- 
 ened light through the room, filled far more brightly with 
 the pleasant talk. Silsey and Miss Watson seemed in 
 their best mood to-night they uttered no word that 
 soared or sounded above or beneath the reach of Violet. 
 Neither had any new discovery or thought to offer about 
 passional catalysis, or any other wonderful phenomena. 
 Violet might have joined with them in the conversation,
 
 96 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 but she preferred instead to sit where her eyes bent full 
 on Silsey's noble profile, and how she looked ! how she 
 listened ! Looked and listened . . . looked and listened 
 . . . listened . . . till she began to dream, and at 
 length when she looked up again, bewildered and lost, 
 there stood Silsey with both hands pressed, as if in bless- 
 ing, on her head. She had fallen asleep while she looked 
 and listened. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 BUT the next morning ! If it had not been for that 
 next morning! . . . 
 
 It seemed so strange that Miss Watson and Silsey 
 should have so very much to say to each other in the 
 garden that their argument should be so long continued 
 and that the hostess should engage in it so seriously, 
 with so much earnestness. 
 
 And yet, that was a painful blush with which Violet 
 acknowledged it, it might possibly be proved that their 
 capacity for friendship was quite beyond her power of 
 apprehension ; why could she not ever rise above a pal- 
 try fear that some other being in this world could be 
 loved by him beside herself? . . . Would she, if she 
 could, behold him fettered by so wouk a bund ? Was it 
 not possible for her to rise to their level ? Was she not 
 aware that she could not answer to more than the neces- 
 sities of his heart that his intellect needed human com- 
 panions, fellow-students ? Violet asked herself these 
 questions, and she struggled to achieve her freedom from 
 the dominion of doubts and fears to emerge into ca- 
 pacity for deeper trust and holier confidence. 
 
 But it is a hard task that she has set herself. She, in 
 her own way, has her appointed struggle, her possible 
 achievement. She must conquer. So wisely she sits
 
 OF ROYAL LINEAGE. 97 
 
 and argues. And her heart is still greater in its re- 
 sources and capacities than her intellect in its arguments, 
 for she is ready to forgive whatever there may be for her 
 to forgive everything except the questioning against 
 her, which shames her. That is a sin ; she feels it to be 
 so, and the consciousness makes it so ; but there is no 
 confession, and the guilt and its concealment make gloom 
 in her heart this bright morning. 
 
 Unmindful of the glory of the early day, they are 
 walking under another sky than that which spreads above 
 Violet and her child the mother who, seated on the 
 door-step, watches the trees that lift their graceful 
 branches, and sway through the delicious dance, proudly 
 shrinking from the wind's embraces, tossed about in a 
 bewildering excitement, and the river flowing on in the 
 brightness of its morning glory, and the blue sky, beyond 
 which is heaven ! They feel a breath from another 
 sphere flowing through their souls. Of royal lineage 
 are this man and woman ; but they have been crowned 
 with mortal crowning! and the sovereignty is not quite 
 their own and the government each feels upon the 
 shoulder is not quite established they are not the abso- 
 lute masters of their own riches. Was ever being on 
 this earth save ONE, who, exalted above every ideal per- 
 fection, passes the range of all human apprehension ? 
 
 They are not united to-day ; but they do not dispute 
 they do not contradict each other. It is not cold 
 courtesy, nor human cowardice, that prevents them, since 
 they are at variance this morning. They are too cour- 
 ageous for hot and angry disputation too reverent for 
 swift denial of each other's word. They are wise ; they 
 know how really slow is the progress of impatient souls, 
 how much the mind that is eager and swift to grasp has 
 to unlearn and unloose. They have learned the utility 
 
 VOL. n. 5
 
 98 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 of toleration the profound wisdom underlying the in- 
 junction, " Slow to speak, swift to hear." 
 
 " As the facts go, nevertheless, he is neither pure nor 
 guiltless," Silsey is saying. '' He is a criminal. I do 
 not mean merely according to the common law, though 
 that regards him with abhorrence. He will perhaps 
 manage to evade the penalty of his transgression. His 
 legal innocence, if I understand you, you do not seek to 
 maintain." 
 
 " No I do not question the authenticity of the facts 
 Herder's enemies bring up against him. They may be 
 true; though I believe them not. But actual criminality, 
 you are certainly aware, depends on something beside 
 the commission of acts. Guilt involves act. It is not 
 act that involves guilt, though the consequences in two 
 supposed cases be the same. Want of the faculty of dis- 
 tinguishing between causes occasions the difficulty of 
 legislation; and a consideration of this fact alone exempts 
 multitudes of judges and jurymen from occupying, in the 
 criminal calendar, the most prominent places. Herder 
 ought to have found in you, not an apologist, not a de- 
 fender, but an aid and champion. As for me, I cannot 
 join this hue and cry against him." 
 
 " Your sympathies are for some reason elicited." 
 
 " More than my sympathies. I have seen already, in 
 the public prints, all that you can tell me, so far as fact 
 goes. But is there not evidence impalpable, compared 
 with the defmiteness of facts, yet not lc.<s real which, 
 indeed, goes beyond fact, at least such as the gaping mul- 
 titude have received ?" 
 
 " Yes, too much, I fear. It is hateful to believe such 
 'baseness possible of human nature." 
 
 " And why believe it?" urged Miss Watson. 
 
 " I cannot resist my convictions." 
 
 " Yet you say that public opinion has greatly changed
 
 THE PUBLIC OPINION 99 
 
 in the course of the trial the ' facts' then which are 
 brought to light must have produced the change, and are 
 you able to resist their conclusions ?" 
 
 " I do not attribute the change in the public senti- 
 ment so much to new evidence, or to the evidence of 
 facts newly arranged and presented ; but to, and solely 
 to, the effect produced by a series of papers which have 
 appeared in the Daily Bulletin. In some respects they 
 are masterly productions they have kept pace with the 
 trial and the public mind has, to a very considerable 
 extent, been drawn in to think with them*. The writer, 
 whoever he may be, is firmly persuaded, at least, of one 
 thing, the entire innocence of the prisoner." 
 
 " And does the writer make himself absurd in his de- 
 fence ?" 
 
 " Very far to the contrary." 
 
 " And yet if he be all wrong in his conclusions he 
 must be in his premises. He cannot argue his way log- 
 ically and arrive at a just issue, having started from a 
 ground known as false ground." 
 
 " He does not prove himself absurd, but you surely 
 perceive that this fact says nothing for the correctness of 
 his view. There is a sort of sublimity in a sophism that 
 succeeds in controlling a man's mind. The public de- 
 tects nowhere in these papers the conscious face of the 
 personal friend who is moving heaven aud earth to save 
 the man he is defending. His arguments are not those 
 of friendship, they have the guise of impartial justice. 
 The writer has taken in hand the cause of a man who 
 but for him would have been universally condemned, 
 proved guilty, and if he does not save him in the end, it 
 will be a remarkable fact ... I said the public detected 
 only the voice of justice in these papers, but I " . . . 
 he paused.
 
 100 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " You think otherwise," said Miss Watson ..." do 
 you suspect the source ?" 
 
 " I do. They have their origin in a heart which is 
 warmed by steadfast intellectual fire to an intensity of 
 heat of which mere emotional affections are not sus- 
 ceptible. I assure you this is true ... It is the very 
 magnitude of the writer's delusion that distresses me, be- 
 cause I know that, whatever the result may be with the 
 prisoner, with the pleading friend the case is a hopeless 
 one." 
 
 " Why, Silsey ?" 
 
 " It must have sank so low from its high altitude be- 
 fore it could grasp the object it seeks to save. A spirit 
 so mendacious ought not to disturb even to the extent of a 
 hair's-breadth, the vibration of a spirit so celestial as per- 
 vades that defender." 
 
 " Silsey, you should be aware that when one man 
 stands out thus in defence of another, not because he has 
 legal ability, and is sure of pay, but for the sake of truth 
 and justice opposing, single-handed, a crowd of fanatical 
 enemies, that the fact makes a special claim on you, and 
 such as you. You should pay better heed, than your 
 careless denial implies, to the vindication of this solitary 
 voice. To whom is the defence imputed ?" 
 
 " I have not heard any satisfactory report. Yet I have 
 myself not felt at a loss. You will do a great injustice 
 to the community, Miss Watson, if you succeed in the 
 acquittal of this man Herder. Even his wife and chil- 
 dfen would allow that." 
 
 *' I shall have done a sacred duty, you mean. His wife 
 and children I have seen. You, are mistaken to them 
 he is not guilty he is innocent and suffering," said Mi^s 
 Watson, so composedly and so firmly that Silsey well un- 
 derstood that he neither could say anything to the point, 
 nor indeed should attempt to say anything further about
 
 A SPECIAL PLEADER. 101 
 
 it. She was persuaded beyond the reach of argument of 
 the innocence of him she was defending. Nothing could 
 disturb her convictions. She set at defiance all proof 
 of his guilt, and had only scorn, or rather commiseration 
 for the condemning multitude. 
 
 In her defence she was betraying, it might be, more of 
 magnanimity than insight, in relation to the man she had 
 loved in her youth whose false spirit had developed 
 with years, so far as to now entitle him to a place among 
 criminals but she was doing the needful work in a de- 
 termined, resolute, powerful way, that was in itself the 
 earnest of victory. 
 
 " The examination of witnesses ceased last night," said 
 Silsey. " Had you heard of it ?" 
 
 " The reporter came down. Have you seen this 
 morning's paper ?" 
 
 " Yes and the town is like a pendulum swinging to 
 and fro, in consequence." 
 
 " It will have its quietus in the extra that was issued, 
 I suppose, this evening." 
 
 " Do you imagine that it will reach the mind of the 
 Judge ?" 
 
 a It may not do that. But there may be a verdict 
 rendered outside of the Court-House that will appeal to 
 the government. I am not concerned as to the result. I 
 have seen my way so clearly through this case, that I 
 have anticipated every point that has occurred. My 
 articles have been written, for the most part, before the 
 reporter came down to me. And I have had to make 
 very few. and those slight, emendations. What does that 
 prove to you ? For I was quite ignorant of the proceed- 
 ings of a court-room." 
 
 " It proves that the loving heart is full of inspiration. 
 That its instincts are direct ; but not that its judgments 
 are right altogether. The individual soul accepts such
 
 102 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 truth as directty appeals to its wants, and modifies it for 
 practical use. This accounts for the everlasting modifi- 
 cations of thought. It is 3 r our necessity to believe in 
 this roan's innocence. Why, I do not ask. His guilt 
 may be as apparent as the sun to other minds, but the 
 fact is shrouded in thick darkness to you. To accept 
 the general verdict in this instance, therefore, is what you 
 will not do, no such thing should be required of you. 
 I see that plainly. The love of most human beings de- 
 generates into passion. It, in your case, puts the very 
 idea to shame." 
 
 Miss Watson offered in no manner a denial to this. 
 She listened without disturbance to it. She was defend- 
 ing one whom she had loved, when he was fallen into 
 dire misfortune, for she believed the needed weapon to 
 be in her hands. She had never regarded the fact as a 
 secret, though it was such, and when Silsey had pene- 
 trated it there was no reason, discoverable to her, why 
 she should deny, or seek to hide, the truth. 
 
 Had Silsey, in what he said, given the slightest evi- 
 dence of a suspicion that he had gone too far, in charging 
 home this love, and its blinding influence upon her, he 
 might have received a different answer. But Miss Wat- 
 son, knowing, and valuing, his sincerity as a possession 
 on which she might rely, and the more confidently, that 
 he did not hesitate and temporize in expressing his con- 
 viction, said : 
 
 " It is idle to attempt to persuade each other. When 
 are you going to thank me on account of all the good 
 things I have done for Violet and the baby ?" 
 
 " I have already done it so many times, that words fail 
 me," was Silsey's answer. 
 
 " But all this while you are leaving her alone, and 
 there is little Viola beseeching you to come and have a 
 better talk than we have had."
 
 MISS WATSON'S FAILURE. 103 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Miss WATSON did not accompany Silsey into the 
 house. In the garden paths she walked, thinking of Her- 
 der's doom, which Silsey had pronounced inevitable. 
 Inevitable, for even if Herder were acquitted, such men 
 as Violet's husband would never acquiesce in the decision. 
 Honorable men would refuse to acknowledge his honor, 
 or accept his exculpation. 
 
 With the resolute bearing which grieved and rending 
 hearts sometimes assume in homes where the light of a 
 dear life is going out, smiling down the gloom, and, with 
 cheerful words, talking it down when the voice were 
 more meet for a groan's utterance, and the eyes readier 
 for tears, with this nieiu and mood she stood up for the 
 defence of one whom the whole, world had deserted. Oh, 
 what a labor of love it had been, the unresting, valiant 
 endeavor to bear this life triumphantly away from the 
 infamy of an adverse verdict ! And she had failed .' . . 
 the law might set him free, but in the minds of men this 
 man was a felon forever. 
 
 In vain had she exercised all her gifts of utterance, 
 heaping authority on wisdom for a barrier of defence ! 
 In vain has she unveiled the life known to her only in its 
 best years, happily, fortunately for her it was so, in order 
 to establish the plea of insanity which she urged. 
 
 In vain had she, even as Silsey said, moved heaven 
 and earth for him. She had taken up her pen, even as 
 he had said, to write down law and justice ! 
 
 And now, why had she labored thus ? For his sake ? 
 because Herder so well understood the secret that makes 
 life and freedom a blessing ? . . . Because it was her 
 inevitable, and unconquerable impulse. Because she was 
 a woman and had loved, and her soul's faith in Herder
 
 104 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 was not so shaken that her impulse could be other than 
 to lift her hand and save, if that might be, the life that 
 had been precious in her sight once above all other lives 
 and still, for her youth's sake, was precious. 
 
 Anil for even more than this. 
 
 Before going down to the Elms with Violet, Miss 
 Watson had sought out Herder's wife, lost sight of in 
 their many years of separation. She had come to St. 
 John's to remain there during the impending trial of her 
 husband, who was accused of the commission of several 
 large forgeries and her son was with her. 
 
 Herder himself, Miss Watson had not seen since the 
 week before his marriage, and she did not seek, nor 
 did she desire to see him now. But when the impov- 
 erished condition of his family came to her knowledge, 
 she knew her path and work. 
 
 With her own eyes she had seen the poverty ; and the 
 instincts of her heart taught her, for her ear heard no 
 complaint, the desperate condition of the house. She 
 learned its needs. As an angel of compassion she stood 
 on that hearth-stone and listened to the brief story which 
 the wife had to tell. 
 
 Herder, as Miss Watson had told Stella, had married 
 her friend in the house of her friends was she wounded. 
 There was no painful and intensive recollection of this 
 fact in her interview, at this time, with the woman who 
 nad supplanted her. It would have been difficult, under 
 other circumstances, for these two women to recognize 
 each other but not now. Nor was it difficult for the 
 maiden to pity, and for the wife to trust. 
 
 Together they discussed the sorrow that brought them 
 together; and when Herder's wife laid bare her faith in 
 him, her love, and grief, and dread, and called her son, 
 that the guest might see in him what she did see, an al- 
 most too perfect image of his father's beautiful and buoy-
 
 STELLA'S BURDEN. 105 
 
 ant youth, there was meaning in the clear, firm voice, 
 that rung long after in the heart of the mother and son, 
 and in the words it uttered : 
 
 " Fear not all will be well." 
 
 Miss Watson recalled that deliberate injunction and 
 promise she had uttered, while walking in her garden now 
 alone, and turning her eyes toward the cottage and survey- 
 ing its humble dimensions, she said, and the words had 
 with her the sanctity of an oath : 
 
 " It is a little place, but large enough. If Silsey's 
 prophecy be true, my home here must take in a larger 
 family and Heaven help us all. Herder's noble boy 
 had no degenerate father." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 EARLY on the Monday morning, according to the 
 promise given to Miss Mar, Stella set out on her return 
 to St. John's. Susan accompanied her as far as Har- 
 lem. 
 
 Stella was going back to the city where the Baldwins 
 lived. There were many reflections associated with that 
 thought, sufficient to induce the silence with which Susan 
 trudged along the rough three miles by her companion's 
 side. 
 
 Stella, too, went burdened with thoughts many and 
 strange ; and had for herself hardly a word to say. 
 Many a question lingered for utterance on her lip ; but 
 whenever she thought to speak them, and looked with 
 that intent to Susan's sad and quiet face, something 
 stayed her. In vain she endeavored to rouse herself for 
 the child's sake, and divert whatever thoughts those might 
 be which brought so many shadows to that honest, in- 
 genuous face ; but each effort that she made to do so 
 5*
 
 1 06 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 failed, for her own mind was all absorbed in another 
 train of thought than Susan could appreciate or under- 
 stand. 
 
 She was going back to St. John's, and she was eager 
 to be there she was going to test the validity of Mr. 
 Leightoo's theory, the value of his instructions. She was 
 going back to labor among books to get wisdom and 
 she was eager to-be at once where the work might com- 
 mence. 
 
 Her restless and longing spirit beheld some light 
 eliminating from Mr. Leighton's dark words, for dark 
 they had on their first hearing seemed to her. Instructed 
 by this man, who was himself so hard a student, she was 
 ambitious now to work in the same direction as that in 
 which he was working. In that hour of dawn she had 
 taken a survey of her acquired possessions ; how small 
 they were, how few ! That magic word, Knowledge, did 
 indeed seem to her capacious of Being she wondered at 
 herself that it had been possible to remain so long 
 blinded. How strange that, without his assistance, she 
 had not even long ago dropped the enfeebling and per- 
 plexing difficulty that had held her in bondage while she 
 sought its solution ! 
 
 Open thy triple gates, oh Wisdom ! give this pleading 
 girl to come in. She will surrender, oh Knowledge ! for 
 thy sake all thou could'st require. Give, oh Keeper of 
 the gates, give to her what thou canst and let her exhaust 
 life in thy service, if nothing less will satisfy her ! 
 
 Stella and Susan did not, however, arrive at Harlem 
 without having interchanged many a word. For at length, 
 in the heat of her reflections, one question after another 
 in regard to Mr. Leightou, calculated to draw from Susan 
 whatever she might have ascertained in regard to his life 
 beyond the beach, found utterance of Stella Gammon.
 
 SUSAN'S DISCOVERY. 107 
 
 But the all that Susan knew concerning him was little, 
 and of no moment, when compared with the far-reaching 
 curiosity he had inspired in her guest. It was nothing to 
 be told that he had come to the beach early in the sum- 
 mer, and that he read and wrote most of his time that 
 he had been rarely out at sea with her father that he 
 was a very wise man, and sometimes very odd. Whence 
 had he come ? whither would he go when he went from 
 the beach ? He seemed like a man who was accustomed 
 to solitude, not one who had left wife, and children, 
 and all other ties behind for a brief season of lonely labor. 
 Had he a wife ? Susan could not tell. She thought 
 not. Of course she could not tell of course she thought 
 not and yet it vexed Stella to hear that answer, though 
 she had anticipated it for neither could she tell. She 
 also thought not, and felt vexed beside, that she should 
 have thought anything about it As little satisfaction 
 did she derive from every other question that she asked 
 and Susan failed to answer, and finally the unpromising 
 theme was dropped, and some less troublesome, more 
 definite interrogations passed between them, and they 
 drew near to Harlem, and the office, where the stage was 
 already waiting for its passengers. 
 
 After the hurried departure, iu which many words which 
 each had meant to say to the other were forgotten, Susan 
 walked down the street on the side where stood the drug- 
 shop in which Horace Chiltou spent the greater part of 
 his time. But as she went slowly by, looking towards the 
 counter, and then towards the desk, where he was usually 
 occupied, she saw only the little man, Hopper, and with 
 a quicker step she went down towards the cottage : ar- 
 rived there, she was also disappointed : the house was 
 locked, not a sound or token of life was there for ear or 
 eye.
 
 108 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 She sat down in the portico to rest and wait, and there 
 Susan remained until towards the middle of the afternoon, 
 when an old man, Mrs. Chilton's next-door neighbor, who 
 had gone into his garden to work, seeing the young girl 
 sitting there, came and leaned against the fence, and tak- 
 ing a deliberate survey of Susan, said, drawing his stump 
 of a pipe from his mouth, and wiping his face with his 
 shirt-sleeve : 
 
 " Who be you waiting for, little gal ? The school- 
 ma'am F 
 
 Susan answered in the affirmative, and he responded : 
 
 " You 've got a time yet afore you, then, I 'm feared. 
 They be all gone up to St. John's, the folks is ; and Mrs. 
 Chilton, she telled me if any one came, to say they 'd be 
 back by night not afore. Will you come and play with 
 my little gals till then, hey ?" 
 
 The old man laid his hand behind his ear while Susan 
 answered, and declined his invitation, and then rising, 
 she forthwith set out on her homeward way. 
 
 She was going back alone to the beach while all the 
 world seemed to have gone up to St. John':?. I must 
 make record of it, for Susan was in all these discontented 
 moments but storing up wrath against wrath that home- 
 ward walk was not a pleasant one to her. It was long, 
 and dull, and tedious never seemed the way so rough 
 before; often she sat down to rest by the road-side, but 
 she found no rest ; the sun. that shot down fierce and 
 burning rays upon her, gave only light to those happy and 
 fortunate ones who had gone to the city ... in place of 
 the sullen, monotonous, hoarse roar ot ocean, they were 
 within hearing of the unending noise of life. Her walk 
 was lonely, but if it had been lonelier, if she had gone with- 
 out those spirits that attended her, it had been quite as 
 well for Susan. 
 
 As she drew near the strand, instead of taking the
 
 NOT THERE. 109 
 
 path that led directly to the cabin, Susan chose another, 
 which led her beyond the mill, so that returning homeward 
 airaiti she could not avoid passing by the old red tower. 
 
 What was the wilful impulse that led her thither ? 
 Susan did not pause at any point of her progress to ask 
 herself this question. But when her feet struck into 
 the path that would lead her to him, she went on more 
 swiftly than she had gone before. 
 
 Whatever her motive had been, if motive she had, 
 blank disappointment awaited Susan. 
 
 When she went up to the round room, Mr. Leighton 
 was not there. 
 
 No response followed her knock, which was again and 
 again repeated. No absorbed gaze was lifted towards her 
 when at length she opened the door. No face laden with 
 evidences of long-continued toil and laborious thought, 
 looked up to welcome her. He was not there. Nor else- 
 where would she find him, though she sought. The sink- 
 ing heart of Susan Dillon knew this as her eyes glanced 
 round the room. 
 
 There stood the old pine-table beneath the window ; 
 but the writing-desk was gone. The pebbles and the 
 shells were on the shelf; but all those books were gone ! 
 The trunk stood in the middle of the floor strapped, and 
 ready for removal he had himself already departed. 
 
 Poor Susan, comprehending too much, yet so little, of 
 all this, stood gazing around her, half weeping, trembling, 
 desolate. 
 
 Slowly she moved across the room, stepping lightly as 
 if walking through a place of sepulture. She looked 
 over her childhood's treasures one by one slowly took 
 up the shells and stones they were all there except the 
 few specimens that she had given him one day. Those 
 were removed, and in their place were some old coins he 
 had promised her. T said the books were gone, but in
 
 110 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 the corner of the room, under the shelf, there was a pile 
 of volumes which Susan had not, in her first glance around 
 the room, observed. She stooped and lifted the upper- 
 most volume, and through her tears she saw her name 
 written in his own hand on the title-page. She laid it 
 down again, and for a moment stood with her face buried 
 in her hands, her head bent on her breast, trembling and 
 desolate ; the very world seemed falling into chaos the 
 earth rending before her. 
 
 To the chair where he had sat, which still stood before 
 the table, she groped her way, like one in the dark; there 
 she sat down and there on the table before her was a 
 letter he had written to her. He was gone, then ; never 
 more would he return. 
 
 By the waning light of that day's sun she read : 
 
 " DEAR CHILD, DEAR SUSAN : 
 
 " I find that the most difficult task yet remains unper- 
 formed. 
 
 " It has not been easy or pleasant for me to bestir 
 myself in preparation for departure from the coast. Less 
 easy have I found it to say a parting word to you. You 
 will think I have gone away suddenly; but it is not so. 
 I have looked this departure in the face day after day, 
 and felt it drawing nearer and now I must go. 
 
 " I could not leave this pleasant spot without speaking 
 a last word to you ; yet I should not say the last word, 
 for I hope that I shall often speak to you again. What 
 shall I say to you ? What were best I hardly know at 
 this moment ; a word of counsel is, perhaps, what you 
 will value most when I am gone. 
 
 " Uppermost in your miud at this time, I suppose, 
 is the singular exhibition at which you, unfortunately, 
 were present yesterday. Unfortunately, I repeat I 
 would not have had you there. But, as you were there,
 
 THE PROFESSOR'S LETTER. HI 
 
 regrets are vain. You heard some very foolish conversa- 
 tion. Yet, for you are not so wise as you will be, Susan, 
 one day it may, perhaps, work to your advantage, the 
 hearing that you gave. For I observed well how you 
 listened. 
 
 " If ever you are tempted to think and speak as she 
 did yesterday, remember that I warned you against it. 
 That young girl has wild notions in her head, which will 
 occasion her great trouble. Her character is stormy. 
 It would evince prudence on your part were you to keep 
 out of her way until she has become a wiser person. 
 Let her alone ; she will learn nothing of you and you, 
 certainly, can learn nothing of her. Have nothing to do 
 with her, I repeat. 
 
 " I have selected these books the Psalms, and Greek . 
 Testament, the Dictionaries, and the best of the few vol- 
 umes of History I happened to bring with me. Leave 
 them in this room. I shall wish to think of you as a 
 student in this chamber. ^Seek knowledge ; it is a divine 
 thirst happy are you if you feel i I have observed 
 that you do not greatly thirst you want friends and 
 sympathy. But now, while you are left here alone with 
 your father, let me urge upon you the duty of studying 
 these books; there is strength in them they will make 
 you strong. 
 
 " You are young to be living thus by yourself; but 
 you will not always be alone ; prepare your mind for the 
 change get some good furniture in there, and mark it 
 with your name, so that it shall not be taken away from 
 you. 
 
 " May you be prosperous ! I think you deserve this 
 from my lips. Now, deport yourself as you should do ; I 
 need not again tell you how I have already told you so 
 many times. If we meet again, I shall look to see a wo- 
 man . . . And never believe that your attainments, how
 
 112 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 far so ever they may raise you above all whom you know 
 no matter what position you hold by virtue of them 
 never for a moment fancy, while you retain the capacity 
 to go on, that you should be satisfied with what you have 
 wrought and gained. The moment that you do so, you 
 are a slave to yourself. 
 
 " Think sometimes of the old man to whom you have, 
 without suspecting it, rendered some good service. He 
 can but wish you well. Glad would he be in any way to 
 aid you. But he rejoices to think that you can aid 
 yourself. Whatever he may have striven to impart to 
 you, remember this. He is old he has had experience ; 
 you are young, and without it. He must have learned 
 some things in those many years which you, in your few 
 years, could not have learned. But he is not infallible. 
 He has learned in the old mill that he may have been 
 mistaken sometimes. So you must trust to your own 
 judgment ; but be ready always to correct your mistakes 
 when you discover them. Be contented. I Hope not too 
 much of life, neither give it frowns andTiard words. 
 And keep your heart whole. Let no one rob you of it 
 give it not away to one, or you will be sure to repent ; 
 there are many who need it keep it for them)) 
 
 " Be strong be of good cheer. I bear you in mind 
 I think of you, my young sister. Be all that your good 
 father could wish, and I can ask no more you should 
 desire no more. That is a high aim and now act up to 
 it. And so, farewell." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Now the reader is not for a moment to suppose that, 
 profound as Susan Dillon's reverence and gratitude for 
 Mr. Leighton was, deep as was her disappointment on
 
 TREASURE IN THE NET. 113 
 
 account of his departure, that she accepted all he said in 
 this letter for truth. In special manner did she take ex- 
 ception to his criticism on Stella Gammon. It seemed 
 strange to her, when she contrasted the slighting way in 
 which he spoke of her with the interview that yesterday 
 took place between them. Stella's passionate outbreak 
 had appealed to him not in vain at that time ; but he 
 seemed here attempting to deny that before Susan or 
 before himself, it may be. His cold gravity at that time 
 seemed less frigid and forbidding, even in that contrast, 
 which it might seem would the rather heighten it. Her 
 brightness had, certainly, softened his gloom had found 
 some rent in his nature by which it swept into the mys- 
 tery, resistless. Even when he stood as the avenger, 
 hovering over her like a fate, the cloud that panoplied 
 him had lightened a glow, like broad, bright bands of 
 sunlight, had spread beneath its surface. 
 
 His word of warning came too late to Susan. The 
 net that had floated long upon the waves, was now drawn 
 down out of sight. And Susan felt that the treasure for 
 which she had watched long, was coming in. She was 
 alive, and that which vitalizes being was not withheld 
 from her. Her little skiff, THE WORLD, was filling rap- 
 idly. David Baldwin standing at the helm, and Stella, 
 Falcon, Leighton, all on board. 
 
 But though, as far as Stella was concerned, Susan re- 
 jected Mr. Leighton's counsel, the studies for which the 
 past weeks had prepared the way, were not neglected by 
 her. She entered upon them with ardent purpose and 
 hope, aware of all the distance that she must go in solitude 
 before she could presume to think of naming herself in 
 the same breath with those others. 
 
 In the mornings, and during the long afternoons when 
 her father was away from home, Susan, in the round
 
 114 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 room that had been her play-house, stayed and studied. 
 Even in the evenings the work of study went on ; if 
 alone, she read and if her father was at home, aloud to 
 him. But her thoughts did not all seek satisfaction in 
 those pages. Many of them ran inland to St. John's in 
 quest of other nourishment. There was no one near to 
 warn Susan, and she began to dream again, and to re- 
 member that word " daughter" and her dream, like a 
 golden cloud lifting above the sun that has vanished be- 
 neath the horizon, shone over the head of one who has 
 long been removed from our sight of whom we must 
 presently go in search, if haply we may find him. 
 
 Susan's dreaming was too active to take merely such 
 form as this. She kept no journal ; but with Mr. 
 Leighton's letter lying open before her for a form, and 
 David Baldwin's note beside it for an apology, many were 
 the letters which she wrote these men. Letters that had, 
 however, no destination save that given by the winds of 
 heaven on which the scattered fragments were flung. 
 Mysterious themes were they on which Susan held this 
 imaginary discourse. Neither of her correspondents, in 
 any case, whatever the topic might be, were allowed to 
 agree with her. Partly to amuse herself, and partly to 
 express thoughts, opinions, and emotions which distracted 
 her, and which must have a vent, and partly in the en- 
 deavor of a soul seeking to know itself, to discern truth 
 by looking at it in the contrasted lights of confiding 
 faith, and uncompromising unbelief, she did this. It 
 was a strange occupation, and one, it may be thought, 
 more natural to a mind like Stella Oammon's than one 
 like Susan Dillon's if Susan's aspiration, her solitude, 
 and her recollections, be not borne in mind. It was far 
 from a worthless occupation. If it fostered certain 
 tendencies of mind and heart which Mr. Leighton would 
 have nipped in the bud, at least it did so openly. The
 
 THE HUSBANDMAN. 115 
 
 occupation so far engrossed the moments not given to 
 study, and household labor, that she had no time for in- 
 dulgence in morbid grief, and no chance for deceiving 
 her own soul. 
 
 Not a solitary effort did Susan make after advance- 
 ment, that had hot a dire^ reference to David Baldwin. 
 She knew his moods, knew them better than many sworn 
 friends, to whom his evcry-day life was known far more 
 intimately than it could ^mp oe to her. She would 
 come into his circle and tlje of Stella Gammon for at 
 length, she dreamed, it would be her fate to come not 
 like a bit of drift-wood, but lustrous with adornments 
 bought by her own labor. Alas for her, say you ? For 
 many a day, life went on so ^ith Susan. 
 
 XX. 
 
 / 
 
 MR. DE LISLE LAYARD had not mistaken the quality 
 
 of the soil in which he planted the seed, for whose re- 
 turn and harvest he was well content to wait. 
 
 With what anxious expectation Miss Mar hung her 
 hope upon the promise he held out to her on the night 
 of their -conversation, when, returning from the con- 
 fessional where she had revealed her heart's fear for an- 
 other, she listened to his astonishing words. 
 
 Since then De Lisle had entered on the duties of his 
 professorship, and, for a time, necessarily engrossed by 
 them, he did not recur to the theme which filled, and con- 
 tinued to fill, the good lady's mind and heart, even to 
 overflowing. 
 
 When Stella went home from, her brief visit to the 
 beach and turned her dressing-room into a studio, shut 
 herself out from society, and did not refuse the good 
 books supplied by Father Francis, which Miss Mar con-
 
 110 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 trived to bring in unobserved among the other volumes 
 which were being gathered, together in that corner of the 
 house. Aunt Judith rejoiced in this token of what .she 
 believed to be going on in Stella's heart. All study, ac- 
 cording to her notion, must ultimately lead, if indirectly 
 even, to one inevitable climax. She believed that the 
 blessing had even now comHn answer to her prayers, 
 and shortly would prese^ i|Mlf in its own proper form. 
 And De Lisle Layard, ll^^^R listened to her reports, 
 was greatly afraid that the*|^wers had been answered. 
 
 He was not a man to rest in an uncertainty, and, diffi- 
 cult as access to Stella seemed now to have become, 
 though, almost daily, he met her in Miss Mar's parlor, 
 he was bent on an invesuffation of the phenomena on 
 which Aunt Judith's rejoicing hopes were founded. 
 
 For himself, he hardly credited the notion that, because 
 Stella warded off inquiry and evaded questioning, she had 
 become profoundly settled in her opinions. He did not 
 quite agree that, because she was putting off the world 
 in one sense, she was putting on the Church in another. 
 He had an inquiring mind, as I said, and his investigations 
 would be sure to go deeper than Mrs. Mar's, waylaid ami 
 beset as they were by her hopes, would do. 
 
 His mind, in the day's varied labor, had received the 
 needed stimulus and before he went up into Johu's 
 street, it was still further quickened by an interview with 
 David Baldwin, on which a word of comment must here 
 be said. 
 
 Disgusted himself with the sort of life he had led thus 
 far, and attracted irresistibly towards Layard by various 
 causes, among which, and perhaps chief, was the novelty 
 of such censorship as the professor had seen fit to exer- 
 cise in his regard, for no other hand had ever laid hold of 
 him so fearlessly to strip him of the disguises of custom 
 and fashion, David did not now wait to be sought of
 
 LAYARD AND BALDWIN. 117 
 
 Layard. He was iustead the seeker, as Layavd had cal- 
 culated and many were the hours which the young men 4 
 spent together and with perfect freedom they made use 
 of one another. 
 
 Baldwin was fond of an argument ; he had thoughts to 
 dispose of problems to solve. Layard surpassed him in 
 quickness and subtlety ofWthought, but David was more 
 than Layard's peer in dep|||of_refiectiou, in purity of in- 
 tellect, and in warmth ot^^art. In festive scenes, in 
 market-places, in theatres^and churches, they were 
 together, discoursing life's various phases. Here was a 
 novel exhibition. One youth tempting another to a 
 noble life, to honorable exertion, to a resolute divorce 
 from a career of folly ! Luring him, by arguments which 
 he well kneAV how to urge, Troin ignoble, indolent ease, 
 to noble labor. It was a marvel to see, this guiding . . . 
 It was a rare process by which this man beguiled him- 
 self in striving to get on in his career. He had insight, 
 and knew that he should not be disappointed in his 
 endeavors to awaken Baldwin to a purer morality than 
 that which was observable in him. The virtues of the 
 heir of St. John's Hall in active operation, would have 
 served him, as his degradation, which, though he may 
 never have suspected the possibility himself he would 
 in another case not have scrupled to use, would have 
 altogether failed to do. Layard's nature disposed him to 
 asceticism ; he had no affections no sympathies, none at 
 least that could ever successfully interpose in any work that 
 he attempted which had for end advancement in station, 
 and possession of power. He aspired to rule men ho 
 wanted their fealty, not their love yet he had the faculty 
 of winning their love ; and that he did not, so mistake 
 the means of power as to esteem the faculty a very little 
 thing, the effort he made- in David Baldwin's behalf 
 afforded an ample witness. Men rule by virtue of the
 
 118 GETTING ALOXG. 
 
 excellences as well as of the vices and frailties of the 
 governed, and no one had studied further into this fact 
 than Mr. De Lisle Layard. 
 
 Calculating, immovable, his life even now in its be- 
 ginning of career, was like a river-course, slow-moving on 
 its outer verges, but swift-rushing in its central current. 
 From boyhood his purpose had been clearly ascertained : 
 the attainment of an exaltai place among the marked 
 men of his time. And the Churph, undeniably, even as 
 he knew, was the place ror him. He had a perfect 
 mastery of the forces in himself. And the achievement 
 was not a great one it was such an one as a cold and 
 selfish nature, if it have a resolute purpose in view and in 
 store, can ever readily accomplish ; he could, as well, 
 time granted, work outwardly and with the many, as he 
 had done inwardly with one. He was eloquent, and full 
 of specious argument, and grace of utterance, and clear- 
 eyed to see things in their true and direct bearings. He 
 could lead others and forego the vain gratification of 
 being known as their leader. What might he not achieve, 
 this man thus capable ? 
 
 People who are bound to get along in life are, for the 
 most part, never at a loss for stepping-stones the brooks, 
 rivers, oceans of difficulty, are never impassible be- 
 spattered garments and occasional loss of life are nothing 
 in the way of warning. Who sees the soil in the hurry ? 
 Who ,Ue.ar^ the groan in the rush? Therefore, on with 
 the tubular bridges, hollow as self, and astounding as 
 sin on with the bridges of suspension | let them he hung 
 to the height of Haaman's impulse ! are not we the 
 People of the nineteenth century, and heaven and earth 
 know, do they not ? that we were made for ' getting on." 
 Solely and only, oh, men and women, and little children, 
 for getting along ! So let us up and at work ! Make 
 bridges of each other ! push along ! . . . Leap for life,
 
 THE SAINT. 119 
 
 and if you drop not down into the midst of irrecoverable 
 death . . . the way is surely open ! And there, do you 
 see her not ? do you hear her not ? there waiting for you 
 stands the Mother of Abominations, beautiful in her red 
 garments, beckoning to you on and on ! Oh, does she 
 hear you panting in your desperate haste ? Is it for this 
 that she stands smiling, while this most Christian century 
 runs straight into her arms ? 
 
 But how came we here ? let us go back to De Lisle 
 Layard ; it is but a step from these reflections back to him. 
 
 There was hardly such panting haste, such impatient 
 desperation, in his style of getting on. He was too self- 
 possessed the self he had a thing without positive life, 
 and therefore not difficult to manage, was in his control. 
 He worked it by wires, as a girl does the wonderful eyes 
 of her waxen doll. He said to himself, " I, De Lisle 
 Layard, have something to do, and here I find my mate- 
 rial." (Had Miss Mar and David Baldwin never seen 
 the light, his meditation had been the same "he would 
 have found " here," that is, in his immediate vicinity, 
 the material he needed.) " This man I will serve by 
 waking him up, and he shall pay me back with interest. 
 And this good old lady shall have me for her spiritual 
 child . . . And I will be the leader of an host." 
 
 Now, men who have strong passions, with the worse 
 tendency instead of the better in active force, oftentimes 
 propose to themselves baser measures, and proceed by 
 baser means to carry them into force. They act according 
 to their nature and their light. Layard did precisely 
 the same thing. But whereas they were proud sinners 
 of the worst sort, he bade fair to come out a saint of the 
 very best. 
 
 The notorious thief repented of his sin rapacity or 
 hunger made him beside himself, but when he saw his
 
 120 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 crime he acknowledged the transgression. But iu that 
 same hour when the promise of Paradise fell on his ear, 
 stood in the same presence the stout-hearted High Priest, 
 strong in his law and order, spleiidid in his purple gar- 
 ments, so filling in his magnificence all conceivable space, 
 how do you suppose that he should find room for repent- 
 ance ? 
 
 It's not to be supposed that De Lisle Layard viewed his 
 condition and prospects in precisely the same light with 
 us. He had his house to build he meant not to defraud, 
 to take usury, to extort. But then what a nuisance is a 
 mortgage on a house ! It was highly probable that an 
 incumbrance would not rest long on his. 
 
 In his friendship for David Baldwin he had purposely 
 led the conversation in a direction far remote from topics 
 which would seem of most importance to a man of fash- 
 ion and large expectations. His sole aim seemed to be 
 to direct a fine mind to the most manly enterprises. And 
 David Baldwin could not be unaware of, nor Indifferent 
 to this aiming. By degrees Layard so far won the inter- 
 est and respect of David as to ensure his operation in 
 the rendering of any needful service, that could be suggest- 
 ed to him in regard to the professor and his personal af- 
 fairs. Layard was certain of his helpmate. Even the op- 
 position he met when he prepared a way for the .suspi- 
 cion of his Romish proclivities in Baldwin's mind, the 
 - struggle which he perceived, the struggle of doubt, un- 
 certainty, alarm, and determination, assured him of the 
 safe deposit of one portion of the rock upon which his 
 fortunes were to stand While as yet far removed from 
 this point now attained, he had reckoned securely upon 
 it, he had counted also on the impetus which should suc- 
 ceed a removal of that resting-place. 
 
 It was on the day of which we began to speak, when
 
 THE CONVERT. 121 
 
 the long parenthesis interrupted, that the two friends had 
 arrived at this point. 
 
 Deliberately Layard had led Baldwin to a discovery 
 of the fact of his change of creed and plan of life ; and 
 in spite of the fact that his forbodeings and fears had all 
 pointed towards this very result, David was greatly as- 
 tonished thereat. He would not believe the words he 
 heard, until they had been reiterated in his hearing, and 
 even then he went laughing away, assuming a great 
 strength in his incredulity. Layard had looked even for 
 some such demonstration as this on Baldwin's part he 
 anticipated surprise, unbelief, and some little displeasure, 
 it might be. But he anticipated also a relenting, a pity- 
 ing relenting. He looked for a serious re-consideration 
 of his case, and thereafter, all that he should need. 
 
 There was another thought connected indirectly with 
 these another aim in view, to which De Lisle Layard 
 had of late given large room, and liberty, and a deal of 
 speculative consideration. 
 
 Well he remembered Stella Gammon of old, in the 
 years when he had been much to her ; those years of child- 
 hood, when the mystery that enshrouded herself had 
 troubled her ; when, longing for love, before she had spok- 
 en her love for him, she had told him her want, and won- 
 dered aloud, in his hearing and envied all children 
 their mothers not excepting in that envy of longing and 
 love even Lucia Tree having a mother such as she had ! 
 He had in those days consoled the orphan child, or at- 
 tempted to do so. The memory of those days was now 
 with the man. He followed the bent of her questioning, 
 grieving infancy, and beheld, before him, an enterprise. 
 Could not Miss Mar tell him all that he wished to know ? 
 who were her parents ? where had they lived ? where 
 died ? Could she not, would she not tell him ? It was 
 merely, of course, to add some new joy to the life of Stella 
 
 VOL. II. 6
 
 122 GFTTING ALONG. 
 
 Gammon that he sought to discover. Not long ago an 
 unguarded word had dropped from Aunt Judith that 
 convinced him that Stella's parents, so far as she knew, 
 were jet living. Even that word, slight as it was, boldly 
 and broadly as he interpreted it, the poor, inadvertently 
 dropped syllable, gave him all the knowledge he had of 
 the nature of Miss Mar's private conviction. But soon, 
 for that was his intention, he would arrive at the truth 
 in its entire relation. 
 
 The occasion of the visit which he went now to make 
 in John's street had been prepared between Layard and 
 Miss Judith. She had absented herself from the house, 
 that he might have the conversation with Stella which he 
 besought, in obedience to the wish that he would do so 
 which he had previously roused in that good lady's heart. 
 She went from the house before he entered it, hoping for 
 all kinds of reconciliation of difficulties which she could 
 not understand, but which sorely perplexed and tried 
 her. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 HE would wait in the parlor till Miss Mar's re- 
 turn, he said to the maid who admitted him ; and, ac- 
 cordingly, there he waited, not for Miss Mar, but for 
 Stella, until she came down from her study in the twilight. 
 
 His presence in the house was briefly explained. In- 
 deed, it had become so frequent, that it needed uo ex- 
 planation. And Stella would have left the room again 
 presently, after a few courteous words befitting her place 
 and his in Miss Judith's house, had he not called her 
 attention to an old book he held in his hand a child's 
 book, which he found on the table one from which they 
 had read together in years long gone.
 
 . THE PICTURE BOOK. 123 
 
 She had already turned towards the door, but he spoke 
 as if unobservant of this indeed, it was his pleasure con- 
 stantly to ignore every personal slight whatsoever of 
 which Stella was guilty. 
 
 His words arrested her steps, and she retraced them, 
 more curious to know what he had to say about the old 
 book than she herself was aware. For had she suspected 
 the extent of the curiosity, she would have placed herself 
 at once, in fear, where it might not be answered ; that is, 
 beyond the sound of Layard's voice. For, during the 
 last few days, Stella had, according to her own belief, 
 been progressing rapidly in the subjugation of the self 
 that the world had fashioned was returning to the prim- 
 itive self from which the new growth, of which she enter- 
 tained high hope, was to spring. Whatever was emo- 
 tional within her she was endeavoring to subdue; to be 
 rid of her human, and rise to her spiritual self. She 
 mistook the curiosity she now actually felt for the simple 
 desire to test herself, and that indifferentism towards which 
 she was aiming. 
 
 The old book of which he spoke she received from 
 Layard's hands he rising to give it her. Within his 
 soul, De Lisle smiled to see the cold attention with 
 which she turned the leaves. And when her eyes fell on 
 the fly-leaf, where, in her own childish hand, she had 
 testified that her " dear friend, De Lisle " had given the 
 book, oh, then, he smiled to see the smile that flitted 
 over her handsome face, and the look, half pity, half 
 scorn, of that old self, with which she gave it back to him. 
 
 " How long it was," she said, musing. 
 
 " It made me almost sad thinking of it, as I sat here," 
 returned he. ' I could not help going back to the old 
 times; and it seems as though I had been living them 
 all over again. Do you remember the day when I gave 
 you this book ?"
 
 124 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 No, she did not remember. 
 
 " I had purchased it on acconnt of the pictures not 
 because I believed their import in those days. The re- 
 sponsibility is yours that I have accepted the Church of 
 Rome for my mother at this day." 
 
 " You have accepted it ?" said Stella, betrayed into an 
 impulsive utterance of her surprise. 
 
 " With all my heart," said he. " You have given me 
 a mother." 
 
 " Never !" was on Stella Gammon's lip ; he read it in 
 her eyes, but she said not the word. With her the 
 Church was a vanished difficulty, and she duly recalled 
 herself to a consistent holding of this fact. De Lisle 
 could not quite interpret this apparent indifference. If 
 she were a Protestant, why not evince some compunction 
 that her influence had led him into the error from which 
 she had escaped ? But she showed no such contrition, 
 and no dismay, in view of the fact he had stated. 
 
 ' ; I remember," he said, in a softened tone, " as if it 
 were a thing of yesterday. I came in you were in this 
 very room. It was winter. You sat by the fire there 
 on the hearth, in the brownest study that any rosy- 
 cheeked little girl ever had, looking into so bright a 
 blaze as that. I was half-frozen, for there was a dread- 
 ful storm ; and I ran in so suddenly, you had no warning. 
 Ah, we were not so hedged in by conventionalities in 
 those days as we are now ! You were glad that I camo 
 that day, for you smiled ; and, when Stella Gammon 
 smiled, it was because she thought she had good reason. 
 Do you remember ?" 
 
 That she did remember he needed not that she should 
 say. That she was so far back in that past as to lose a 
 sense of the speaker of the present, he knew. And Layard 
 went on, making good use of her abstraction, knowing
 
 A CHILD'S EXCUSE. 125 
 
 what word would recall her to the present time, place, 
 and opportunity. 
 
 " But you had not been happy before I came. You 
 had wept, and the doll, for whom I made the cradle and 
 bedstead, lay neglected on the floor beside you. Its face 
 was wet with your tears. And by-and-bye you told me 
 what it was that troubled you you were lonely a chance 
 word of some play-mate had taught you how much alone 
 you were. I did not seem so much a brother to you now, 
 nor Miss Mar so much a mother, as once. You were 
 an orphan, you were 'saying to yourself; and dreadful it 
 seemed to you no wonder ! . . . But when we looked 
 at this book, we forgot all that no common virtue was 
 in its pages and you forgot all that troubled you. See, 
 I colored the pictures do you remember, with the colors 
 and gum water which you brought ? Oh, well those old 
 times are dead and buried ... In view of all that you 
 have done for me, I long to be thought of as your friend 
 again. I say your coldness has disturbed and grieved 
 me. I have often felt, since my return, that ordinary 
 self-respect demanded that I should say little to you. I 
 do not wish to inflict myself on any one pardon me that 
 this little book has made me to offend. I can only give 
 a child's excuse, I could n't help it." 
 
 In the moment that De Lisle spoke of her desolate 
 childhood, a change had come over his listener. He had 
 opened a sealed fountain that must give forth waters sweet 
 and bitter. He might have reproached himself with cause 
 for that distress he occasioned, but it was easier for him 
 to apologize for a breach of etiquette which was of no 
 moment to either of them, as he well knew. Passing by 
 the story without the slightest reference to it, though the 
 arrow was lodged in her heart, and they both knew it, she 
 said: 
 
 " Have you become a Bomanist, De Lisle ?"
 
 126 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 t I have. And you ! oh, be assured, it is much to owe 
 this great recovery to you ! You have been an instrument 
 used for this event." 
 
 At this she merely bowed. She had no joy or sorrow 
 to express. No denial of the faith, which he had looked 
 for confidently, nor any well-feigned faith on account of his 
 return to the stronghold. 
 
 There was no room for his consolations or arguments. 
 She said nothing to which he might reply ; gave him no 
 assurance on which he might proceed. But his purpose 
 was accomplished he knew that she was beyond the 
 sphere in which his labors would proceed. And he was 
 startled, unprepared for her, when she said, in a voice so 
 firm, so resolute, that its meaning and impulse passed his 
 understanding. 
 
 " Now, De Lisle Layard, tell me why you have re- 
 curred to those events so long passed and forgotten, at 
 least by me ?" 
 
 " Pardon me, if I have pained you," said he, in hasty 
 apology. 
 
 " No it 's not that I want," returned Stella. You 
 meant something by it, of course ; but I do not quite see 
 what. What was the necessity for recalling a child's 
 grief to a woman's memory, when the cause of that grief, 
 though not the suffering itself, remains ? Justify your 
 words, if you can. Perhaps you have made some dis- 
 covery, or in some way have ascertained " 
 
 <: I would to Heaven I could make answer according to 
 your desire !" exclaimed Layard and in earnest he said 
 it. He would like well to arrive at the solution of that 
 mystery. 
 
 "I am, perhaps, not conscious of a desire in that di- 
 rection. You have adverted to what you were not bidden, 
 with premeditation probably. But it matters not," said 
 Stella, carelessly.
 
 NOTHING MORE TO FEAR. 127 
 
 " That is the very theory I have been maintaining." 
 said Layard. " Strong must be the affections which 
 centre in that excellent lady to whom I also am so much 
 indebted. Her beautiful character is lustrous with rare 
 excellences. To have been under her guardianship leaves 
 one nothing to regret. Parental duties may, in fact, be 
 performed by another to the " 
 
 " You speak well," said Stella coldly 
 
 " And truly," he was swift to say. 
 
 " Could you speak well, and not truly ?" replied Stella, 
 fixing her eyes on him but not a ray of suspicion 
 beamed from them. That, if anywhere, was darkling 
 and intensifying in her heart, beyond his ken. 
 
 ' Very possibly if it were given me to deceive you," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Are you going into the Church, De Lisle ?" She 
 could not prevent the question. 
 
 " I desire to do so." 
 
 " Then you will, of course, as there are no obstruc- 
 tions." 
 
 " I trust there are none I believe there are none ex- 
 cept such as I may find in my own will. Our wills are 
 stubborn powers to deal with," said De Lisle, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 Here the conversation ended. Stella rang for lights 
 and when they were brought, she sat down to Miss Mar's 
 embroidery, endeavoring to say to herself, " I was free 
 before now. This is no occasion for particular elation. 
 I have nothing to do with an abstraction like the Church. 
 Protestant and Romanist are but names things are of a 
 different description." But, in spite of herself, she was 
 aware of rejoicing when persuaded, as she now felt, that 
 she was indeed free from him. 
 
 And when, without recurring to these trains of thought, 
 Layard presently withdrew, before Miss Mar's return,
 
 128 (SETTING ALONG. 
 
 and Stella laid down the work and went up to her books, 
 she consigned herself to them anew, with an enthusiasm 
 and earnestness she had not before felt, for until now, in 
 spite of herself, the act had seemed compulsory, resorted 
 to in self-defence. 
 
 There was nothing more to fear. Layard would go 
 into the Church become a priest . . . but what had she 
 to do with him, or with churches? So had she been 
 held a captive to these thoughts, that it was difficult for 
 her to accept and enjoy her freedom from them. 
 
 But with all this rejoicing in a new sense of liberty, 
 there still remained the thought which he had wakened. 
 A thought it was which never had slept soundly in her 
 brain or heart. It had roused to trouble her many 
 times since her childhood, and more than once she had 
 sought an exposition of the mystery; but on that subject, 
 to every hint or question, Miss Mar was deaf and dumb ; 
 not since her childhood had it been wakened thus ruth- 
 lessly by another. And now that she thought of it, the 
 suspicion was aroused that there was something back of 
 Layard's words, impelling them ; it might even be that 
 he had learned recently, or that he had always known, 
 something of her father or her mother. She wished that 
 she had asked him at a time when the question would 
 have come most naturally, if he had anything to say to 
 her of them. 
 
 The doubt was in a hot bed of hope. It was forced 
 up it grew. Once she took up her pen to ask him the 
 question ; but again it was laid aside When she should 
 see Layard to-morrow, she would plainly put the question. 
 But this determination she in turn also dropped in vexa- 
 tion, that these things and Layard himself, through them, 
 had stiir*so much power to trouble her. She would rise 
 above them and she returned to the book she was 
 reading.
 
 NATIVE AIR. 129 
 
 But ... as to what he had said about Miss Mar, that 
 began to come in between her and the page she saw it 
 plainer than she saw the print. Miss Judith had done 
 everything for her, that she allowed ; but it was not true 
 that she had been father and mother to her. Grateful 
 for her protection and care was Stella, but even the 
 nun in the convent, Theresa, she said to herself, had 
 awakened deeper affections, and had dealt towards her 
 more lovingly, more maternally, than the good and pious 
 householder in John's street. 
 
 When Stella ceased thinking of these things, which 
 was not till she fell asleep, she had finally resolved on 
 discovering whether, as she believed, Layard had meant 
 this question he had now aroused again, to come to her, 
 as it had come, or merely as the freshener of the old- 
 time recollections. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 IF the visit of the Baldwins to Harlem was of little 
 moment, save as provocative of speculation in the minds 
 of Mrs. Chilton and her son, and of interest in their temp- 
 oral fortunes in the brain of old Ishmael, the return visit to 
 the Hall was not destined to terminate so fruitlessly. 
 
 So did it revive the drooping spirits of Mrs. Chilton 
 so far-reaching were the majiifold satisfactions it gave 
 birth to, that she went home in a frame of mind such 
 as might naturally be attributed to the leader of a 
 triumphal procession. She had breathed her native air 
 again; such perfumed air as. floats along the colon- 
 nade, and through the drawing-rooms and grapery of 
 the great house of St John's her feet have trodden 
 the luxury of carpets brought from the looms of eastern 
 lands her eyes have feasted on the damask draped 
 6*
 
 130 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 windows, and the costly trifles everywhere apparent 
 she has sat at a table of feasting once more, waited on 
 like a lady. And after all this exaltation, poor creature 
 falling into ruins, she goes not back repining and envi- 
 ous to the miserable cottage with worn-out reminiscences, 
 but triumphant, ns I said. 
 
 For the cottage was soon to lose its occupants and 
 the cottage knew it, or it might have known it the 
 Chilton's were going to St. John's to live ; and the cot- 
 tage bore on its face, what the inmates, two of them at 
 least, bore on their hearts an inscription which in the last 
 case would probably be sooner regarded by eyes invisible, 
 than in the former by eyes human, " This House for Sale." 
 
 It had been entirely arranged on the visit. Mr. Bald- 
 win had a vacant house, which he desired to have occu- 
 pied. Would his old friend relieve him of the care of 
 the place ? And he had a friend, an engineer, who at 
 that time wanted a young man in his office to learn en- 
 gineering. If Horace, his old friend's son, had chosen 
 architecture for his profession, the best foundation that 
 could be laid for his studies was a knowledge of engi- 
 neering . . . There was no resistance to be offered to 
 cogent arguments like these. And if there had been, 
 who was to offer them '. Horace regarded his fortune as 
 ma<Je already, and sat chatting with Isidore as if assured 
 of the fact. Mrs. Chilton had arrived at the gate of her 
 New Jerusalem, and she entered in with all the dignity 
 her joy allowed . . . 
 
 And to Leah's eyes, also, the prospect was passing fair. 
 For her mother's sake, and for the sake of Horace, she 
 rejoiced in the brightening prospects, not for the ease, 
 nor for the splendor or the fashion, but because the way 
 was opened for Horace at last, and now his genius would 
 show itself as it should cramped, cast down, no longer ! 
 what castle-building was there !
 
 THE STO1UI ALONG THE COAST. 131 
 
 Before leaving St. John's, Mr. Baldwin "drove with 
 them to the house he spoke of, which was not far from 
 his own. It had been left on his hands by the recent 
 tenant, his debtor to a large amount, furnished from top 
 to bottom ; and in its present condition he offered it to 
 Mrs. Chilton, rent free for five years, until Horace should 
 be in a situation to make whatever other arrangements 
 they might deem proper. 
 
 Had not this family occasion to go home triumphant ? 
 Did they not make haste to escape from the land of bond- 
 age ? And are we not glad to escape from Harlem 
 \\fllh them, and leave the poor village to its miserable 
 fate? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 WE reverse not that picture, but return to another. 
 
 One afternoon, not long after the removal, our Susan, 
 who had duly participated in its excitements, and borne 
 alone all sorrows and regrets pertaining to it, went up to 
 the mill from the boat-house, having seen her father off 
 in his boat. He was going seven miles up the beach, to 
 visit an old neighbor, who was ill. 
 
 In the round room she remained, until it became so 
 dark up there, and the wind beat so violently against the 
 old walls, that, fearful of a storm, she went down the 
 stairs to the door. 
 
 There a terrific sight met Susan Dillon's eyes. The 
 heavens were hidden by clouds. Piled up, mountain-like, 
 above crag, and peak, and deep ravine, gray, leaden, white, 
 and black, were those great clouds massive, threaten- 
 ing, and terrible. The sea, even to her eyes, was one 
 great horror, lashed into tumult and fury by the winds, 
 which roared, and fought, and conquered, and fell, re- 
 treated, advanced ; and their crash was the roar of battle.
 
 132 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 In a moifientary exultation, for her spirit was caught 
 and borne forward by the fury of the scene, Susan stood 
 on the rock, watching the motion of the waves their 
 conquests and overthrow. But there caine a thought 
 that gave terrors in place of delight to her soul. Her 
 father, the old man, where was he ? Like a fiery flash, 
 the thought shot through her heart. If he were out at 
 sea, and alone, in a storm like that ! 
 
 She ran to the cabin, in her fear and hope. He had 
 foreseen the storm, it might be, and had made haste to 
 come in to land before it broke . . . He was not there. 
 From the house she went back to the point where he w*s 
 accustomed to moor his boats. He might have gone into 
 the boat-house to rest, after the fatigue of rowing in such 
 a storm among such waves. He was not there. There, 
 while the darkness deepened, and the winds raved on, she 
 waited. But there she could not see could command 
 no view of the way by which, if he were coming, his 
 progress would be made. And once more she ascended 
 the cliff. The wind whirled round and round her ; it 
 dashed against her in such fury as made it impossible for 
 her to brave it long; and she crept in among the rocks, 
 and, clinging to them, kept her look-out toward the west. 
 So quick was her trained sight, so strained its vision to its 
 utmost now, that she could have detected a bird at a dis- 
 tance which would have rendered a- ship in full sail in- 
 visible to a less, anxious eye, even in a light best calcu- 
 lated for such observation. 
 
 There, in such anxiety, she waited what seemed an in- 
 terminable time. At last she started up yes! it was 
 he he was coming in his boat, riding over those fierce 
 waves she saw him and he was alone. 
 
 And now the child's anxiety took a new shape. The 
 rain fell fast in large and heavy drops the rocks were 
 no protection from it in a moment her garments were
 
 THE CALM AFTER THE STORM. 133 
 
 drenched by the rain. But fixed as by fascination her 
 eyes on the distance and nearer, and nearer, yet how 
 far off still ! the boat came. No longer a wavering speck, 
 now seen and now lost to sight. No longer a shapeless 
 point ; no longer a bird on wing but the boat and the 
 oarsman clearer and clearer. An old man toiling with 
 the oar, and battling with the element ! So many 
 years it had known him, was there no pity for the gray- 
 haired fisherman, that the waves which had been his home 
 and his love so long, should sport so madly with him 
 should thus strive with him ? He had grown gray among 
 those waves they had served him according to the desife 
 of his heart, but now what were they doing to the old 
 man ? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 SHE looked up into the face of the blue sky and not 
 a cloud was there. 
 
 Whither had fled the terrific darkness on which she 
 gazed but now ? Dazzling with the light of the setting 
 sun spread the immeasurable vault of heaven. The 
 storm-birds flitted to and fro, rejoicing. The havoc was 
 over in which they had exulted; the great deep reflected 
 all that upper brightness, and tranquil was the beating 
 of its mighty pulse. 
 
 Susan crept out from the place of shelter but she 
 could not thus emerge from the dominion of her hideous 
 dream, if indeed the storm of the past hours were a 
 dream ; her clothes and the pools among the rocks told 
 her that it was not. She stood up, leaning for support 
 against the slippery rocks; but when she tried to move, 
 she tottered like one drunken. A moment of intensely 
 agonizing effort, in which she strove to realize herself, 
 passed. She sat down where she had lain, and looked
 
 134 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 out upon the sea. Slowly came the thought back to 
 her. 
 
 She had been a watcher through a storm . . . She 
 had been in the mill, and left it on account of the dark- 
 ness . . . but at what moment of the watch had she 
 yielded her post, and failed in her duty ? 
 
 Slowly, point by point, she retraced the time that had 
 elapsed after leaving the mill until horror had pressed 
 down her eyelids . . . But what was it ? the fury of 
 the storm ? the terror of the breaking waves the driving 
 rain ? Was it the horror of such fear as this ? . . . had 
 she slept ? No ! when the boat the boat came nearer, 
 and nearer, and nearer, and went down before her eyes, 
 suddenly, without a remedy, while she could almost count 
 the strokes of his oar . . . then ! 
 
 Floated now upon the cruel waves, in the dazzling light 
 of that evening's sun, a broken oar ! 
 
 From the post where she had stationed herself, Susan 
 crept back . . . she went down among the rocks she 
 went back with the faltering step of decrepit age, to the 
 cabin, and there sat down alone. 
 
 How long a time went on she could not know. She 
 had lost the sense of time. She was waiting for some 
 one to come. She was in expectation ; but not of her father. 
 
 And at length there came, breaking upon her torpor, a 
 tread of feet a knocking at the outer door and, through 
 the darkness, for evening had set in, an advance. Look- 
 ing up, Susan saw the young son of the fisherman whom 
 her father had been to visit that day. 
 
 He came in as if in haste, anxious, without waiting to 
 be bidden ; and sitting down upon a bench opposite to 
 Susan, he made his unskilful way through a talk about 
 her last spring's fever, and the recent storm, to the theme 
 which weighed upon his mind.
 
 SAM'S PERPLEXITY. 135 
 
 " Have you seen him since he came home V" said he, 
 never taking his eyes from Susan. 
 
 " I have seen him yes, Sam," answered she, 
 
 " Then the old man 's safe !" exclaimed the boy, unable 
 to conceal the relief he felt now that his suspense was 
 over. 
 
 Then did Susan tell him of the watch that she had 
 kept of the tossed and struggling boat of the last 
 glimpse she caught of it -and how it had gone down in 
 the distance amidst those raging waves before her sight. 
 Briefly she told him her words were few and discon- 
 nected, but they told plainly her meaning; she need en- 
 tertain no doubts concerning them and while she spoke 
 Sam looked at her as if he could not believe either his 
 ears or eyes. 
 
 l - What did you do after that?" asked he. 
 
 " I came home when I woke." 
 
 " Woke ! you did n't go to sleep there in the storm !" 
 
 Sam's fear and suspicions gave him courage. He went 
 up to Susan laid his hand on her arm. 
 
 " Why, you 're soaking wet !" he exclaimed. <: It '11 
 kill you. You 're ravin' distracted, Susan no, you aint, 
 but you 've lost your senses. Look a-here ! oh, Lord ! 
 what am I to do with you, and the night here too ! Oh ! 
 . . . oh ! what a night's work ! See here, Susan," 
 grasping her arm yet more firmly in his perplexity and 
 distress, " what '11 I do ? If you '11 let me help you up 
 to our house, I 've got niy boat " Susan drew back with 
 a shudder. 
 
 " Oh, no, Sam, I can't," she said, faintly. 
 
 " You 're sick, Miss Susan, or you 're going to be. If I 
 could find somebody, or do something I '11 have to go, 
 I guess, for mother. Oh, dear ! Miss Susan, I can't tell 
 what to do, can you ?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Susan ; but in so faint a tone, that
 
 130 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 Sam did not hear her ; the poor fellow dropped her arm 
 from his grasp, threw himself into a chair, and despairing- 
 ly thrust his hand through his bushy locks, and looked at 
 Susan. 
 
 " I wish your mother were here, Sam." Susan roused 
 herself to say. " If you could make up a fire and 
 inaybe you 'd run for somebody somewhere. I 'm not 
 afraid to stay alone. I 'm used to it don't mind 
 me, Sam." 
 
 Delighted that there was anything he could do, Sam 
 bustled about and built a fire, and was ready in a few 
 minutes to set out for his mother. Bat as he took up his 
 lantern he turned back again from the door 
 
 " It seems dreadful strange to leave you so. Blast 
 me, Susan, if I can do it !" 
 
 " Oh, yes, if you please," said Susan ; but she spoke 
 as in a dream her eyes were closed, and she did not open 
 them. 
 
 " No, I can't," said Sam, resolutely putting down the 
 lantern again. - ; Not till you go to bed first. I '11 help 
 you in, and be off like a streak." 
 
 The wisdom of this proposition awkwardly urged, and 
 hardly above the boy's breath, seemed to make an im- 
 pression on Susan. She tried to rise in compliance with 
 his suggestion, but could not, and the young sailor in des- 
 peration, caught her in his arms. 
 
 " Here, you 're going to tumble over," cried he. and lie 
 carried her in his arms, now insensible, to her bed. 
 
 And then, instead of going away in search of other 
 help, until morning he was laboring, at his wit's end, to 
 revive and strengthen Susan. But his utmost success 
 was to rouse her to consciousness for a moment ; she would 
 constantly sink again into insensibility, and he dared not 
 leave her. 
 
 With the day-dawn his courage revived and he started
 
 FATHERLESS. 137 
 
 for home. Never was a swifter voyage made than his. 
 In an hour after he left Susan's side, long before sun- 
 rise, five boats, filled with fishermen, to whom intelligence 
 of old Walter's loss had been communicated, were mov- 
 ing rapidly over the sea to the lonely beach where Dillon's 
 solitary cabin stood. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 NOTHING of all this knew Susan. She saw not the 
 breaking day waited not for the rising sun. Saw not 
 the flashing of the swiftly-plied oars, saw not the sad faces 
 of the old seamen as they came to shore, drew their boats 
 inland, and walked slowly, with heavy hearts, up to the 
 cabin-door. Neither heard she the softest tread within 
 the house, nor the pitying face of the tender hearted wo- 
 man who bent over her ; heard not the smothered words 
 she spoke to those waiting without to learn how it went 
 on with poor Susan ; knew not the gentle sympathy with 
 which her name passed from lip to lip among those weather- 
 beaten men. 
 
 Unconsciou^of all living things, all mortal joys and loss- 
 es, Susan lay, worn out with the violence of her exposure 
 and the extremity of her grief; the faint pulse and heart- 
 beat told how languidly the springs of life were moving. 
 
 Towards noon the sea was alive with boats, the shore 
 with men, for the news of Dillon's loss had spread far 
 along the coast, and he was as a patriarch among the fish- 
 ermen, the oldest of them all, and too the most venerated 
 by mate and boy. And while these were gathering, Sam 
 ;rode down from St. John's in the coachman's box of Mr. 
 Baldwin's carriage, for to St. John's he went at his moth- 
 er's instigation, to summon Ishmael to the beach. 
 
 Falcon and the family physician came with Mr. Bald- 
 win. Of all this, of the sorrow of Ishmael's heart, and
 
 138 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 those other thoughts and expectations which, in spite of 
 himself, would intrude upon the mind of Dillon's old 
 friend, even in such an hour as this of Mr. Falcon's 
 pity and unspoken sympathy of the physician's presence 
 and counsel, nothing of all this knew Susan; and no sense 
 had she now of her loss, which should change the drift 
 of all her future and the prospect of all her past. 
 
 In this unconsciousness was she borne away. Not 
 knowing whither she went, she was taken from her father's 
 house, and in the carriage borne up to her new home, 
 that, when she wakened, as Mr. Baldwin urged, and the 
 physician counselled, she might be beyond the sight and 
 sound of the sea. In the shadow of night she was taken 
 into the Hall, and up to the chamber which was hence- 
 forth to bear her name. 
 
 /Darkness is around her, and the fragrance of flowers, 
 ami security and beauty she knows it not. All night a 
 watcher sits beside her bed, and soothes her when she 
 stirs, gives answer to her wandering thoughts when she 
 utters them ; and the morning comes again, the noon, the 
 night; another, and another, and another day, and she 
 sees not the glory, understands not the pain that is in 
 them, and will be in them when she wakes again to life, 
 if ever again she wakes. ^ 
 
 Your wish is granted, Susan : you are here, and at 
 Home ! 
 
 When you awake, if you waken, will you wonder and 
 remember your wish ? and ask, <: Oh life, is it thus thou 
 fulfillest the dreaming delight, the unconscious prayers 
 of youth IIs all the joy of Day brought forth from the 
 Night of anguish?') 
 
 Isidore sits in her boudoir, and at intervals thinks of 
 Susan. Horace Chilton presently is coming to drive out 
 with her and she has just sealed her answer to the first 
 letter written by the Colonel since he left St. John's
 
 MOURNING WITH THE MOURNER. 139 
 
 for he had received his orders, and was now on his way 
 to a distant post. Poor Susan ! Isidore thinks in these 
 intervals what a dreadful blow for her ! But the fisher- 
 man was poor and old, and his strength was failing him ; 
 he could do nothing for his child if events had taken 
 a natural course, he must ere long have given up tlie 
 ghost, and left Susan desolate. She will now live at the 
 Hall, and be educated, and have a very different fate 
 from what she would have had but for this shocking 
 accident. It will be a very good thing besides she con- 
 tinues to think, for Horace has not yet come a very 
 fortunate thing for Clarence, especially if I should hap- 
 pen to go away in haste he will have a sister ; and 
 father really talks quite pathetically about his daughter 
 Susan. I wonder if he realty means that . . . And just 
 here Isidore's meditation is broken by the arrival of 
 Horace Chilton, who in the short time that has elapsed 
 since the removal from Harlem to St. John's, and the 
 departure of the Colonel, has proved himself a much 
 more valuable aid to Isidore than to the Engineer, who 
 was so greatly in need of a hand in his office. 
 
 Deeply troubled with the thought of Susan's new 
 calamity, and wondering how she would bear it, and deter- 
 mining to make her recovery and its phases matter of 
 special contemplation when the proper time should come, 
 David Baldwin absented himself from his club on the 
 day after Susan's arrival at the Hall ; and in place of all 
 gayer sports drove Layard quietly into the country after 
 his favorite pony. And during the drive he talked, not 
 very profoundly, but with more than usual feeling, of 
 Layard's prospects in as far as he felt at liberty to do so, 
 and he came back from his drive quite persuaded that 
 Layard, the good fellow, the fine fellow, was bent on self- 
 destruction would make a wreck of his fine abilities and 
 prospects, but bound by promises, pledged in his heart,
 
 140 . GETTING ALONG. 
 
 to help him on in his career by every means within his 
 reach. 
 
 Up in the hall, near the door of Susan's chamber, stood 
 Clarence Baldwin, to whom Mr. Falcon had communi- 
 cated the nature of the strange night arrival. There, 
 beside that door, he had stationed himself and there all 
 day he watched and waited ; and not far away in the same 
 hall was Mr. Falcon, his attention fixed, as it would seem, 
 on the book open before him . . . but, it was not so, not a 
 gesture or motion of Clarence escaped him. He observed 
 the settled sadness of the young face, its unchanging alert- 
 ness of expression. Why he stood there, Clarence well 
 understood. Susy was within that chamber was ill 
 suffering she had lost her father. These facts Mr. 
 Falcon had communicated to him, and so vivid was the 
 impression they had made, that there seemed to be no 
 possibility of their passing away again. He lost not the 
 thought while he stood there, not even for a moment. 
 
 No person that came from the chamber passed un- 
 noticed, no one entered it unchallenged by him. And 
 when in reply to his questions, he was told, " she sleeps 
 sweetly," " she is quiet," " she will be better soon ;" he 
 smiled, and still maintained his watch. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 WHEN Vane and Lucia Tree went into the unpretend- 
 ing tenement now occupied by the fallen family, passing 
 through the street door immediately into the small room 
 where Mr. Tree sat copying the papers Will had brought 
 home from the office, they did not meet the most encour- 
 aging, most welcome of glances from the bleared and 
 weary eyes which for a moment lifted in salutation, and 
 then drooped to their work again.
 
 THE DUX. 141 
 
 Apparently unobservant of the uncourtcous reception, 
 or in reality pre-occupied with what he had himself to say 
 and do, Vane advanced towards the table and Mr. Tree, 
 with an open but respectful address. 
 
 " A dun J confound the fellow !" muttered Tree, and 
 there was quite as much in his look as in his thought, as 
 he glanced towards the youth. 
 
 " Can't pay you to-day, sir. I have n't a copper by me. 
 Call again sir," said he, never looking up ; doggedly and 
 angrily he spoke ; as if he had been already worried down 
 by a pack of creditors, and felt now disposed to turn and 
 face them. 
 
 " Pay, sir ! your credit is of the best if you really owe 
 me anything. I keep no ledger in my desk or my head." 
 
 Tree looked up now, leaning back in his chair his 
 features contracted grimly as if he would smile, but had 
 forgotten how. He laid down his pen, and pushing his 
 scanty gray locks from his forehead, said, in his old sub- 
 dued, downcast way : 
 
 " Well, Vane, excuse me you have a-debt against me. 
 It is fortunate that you do not want it to-day, for I sit 
 down, will you? Lucia, is that you? bring a chair for 
 Mr. Vane. How are you getting on now-a-days, sir ?" 
 brightening up with the last words. 
 
 " I have left off my trade, sir, and taken to canvas 
 painting," said Vane, answering the question promptly, 
 as if he considered it a genuine^ friendly inquiry, demand- 
 ing a reply, and not a mere formal civility. 
 
 "Glad to hear it," said Mr. Tree, stiffly; but he 
 qualified the remark, " if you don't starve on it." 
 
 " That is the very point on which I would like your 
 
 candid opinion, sir," said Vane, entering on the subject 
 
 with his customary frankness and hearty earnestness 
 
 continuing to stand, though Lucia had brought the chair 
 
 her father ordered for him.
 
 142 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 Tree looked at Vane as if in a bewildered and rather 
 uncomfortable mood of mind ; he took up his pen and 
 laid it down again, and moved about restlessly in his 
 chair at last he said : 
 
 " I 'm no judge of fine arts I have no opinions." 
 
 " But you will come and see my work, I hope," said 
 Vane. " I would be glad to have you come down with 
 your daughter, if you find time, to look at it." 
 
 Tree looked at his daughter still more bewildered ; he 
 could not understand what the youug fellow wanted,- nor 
 what he was talking about. He was, for himself, a fallen 
 man there was nothing to be had of him ; he could not 
 advance the fortunes of this young man in any way, and, 
 as he said, he was no judge of the fine arts. 
 
 " Sit down," said he, for he could think of nothing else 
 to say. 
 
 But Vane, with a courteous gesture, declined the re- 
 peated invitations ; and, still standing, went on speaking 
 rapidly. 
 
 " I hardly dare think how you'll take it, sir; but what 
 I came for was to ask you if you 'd any objections to my 
 being a friend of your family ?" 
 
 " What ?" said Tree. In the very directness with which 
 Vane made known his business there was, of itself, suffi- 
 cient to bewilder a man so unaccustomed to anything like 
 open dealing with his fellows. 
 
 " Your daughter " a light seemed here to illuminate 
 the old man, for he suddenly grew very red in the face, 
 and looked hurriedly at Lucia, taking up his pen again. 
 
 " Your daughter," continued Vane, who for a moment 
 hesitated when he observed the disturbance his words oc- 
 casioned in the listener, " likes paintings, and she told 
 me that she had a mind to be an artist. I was so for- 
 tunate as to have some work on hand that was given me 
 to do, and I have passed it over to her ; she will do it
 
 MB. TREE'S ADVICE. 143 
 
 better than I, for she has more time, and more taste, too, 
 I think, for such things. I have no friends among artists 
 in this city I want none ; but I would like to have 
 friends here in this house, sir. I can help your daughter 
 along, and she can help me. Perhaps you would think 
 it an objection because I had a trade, and worked at it 
 throughout St. John's. Some men would. If that is 
 your only objection but I feel ashamed to talk about it, 
 the trade and I have been such good friends, and I shall 
 take to it again if I cannot do better I was not brought 
 up with any idea of such a pursuit. But it became my 
 duty to take care of myself, and I always meant to be 
 an artist : thus I learned to be a house-painter. Pro- 
 fessor Layard, at the college, can tell you about it, sir, 
 how it happened." 
 
 Here he paused ; but Mr. Tree sat looking at him, 
 apparently never contemplating the possibility of a re- 
 sponse. 
 
 " Your daughter," therefore continued Vane, hurried- 
 ly returning to that point, to him the most important, 
 that Tree might understand what was asked of him ; 
 " your daughter and I could help each other on in our 
 work. We can see each other's faults, and point them 
 out. If you are willing it " 
 
 It what ?" 
 
 " I should say you were my benefactor, sir. I have 
 had already an offer of patronage, but that I do not want. 
 But I have no home. I would like to be able to think 
 of some place in this city as a house holding friends of 
 mine." 
 
 " Humph," said Mr. Tree, with a bitter smile ; and 
 for a moment he was silent. " Take my advice," he re- 
 sumed, "and keep to your work, and have as few thoughts 
 in your head about anything further as you can get along 
 with. What ! cheat yourself in the beginning with fine
 
 144 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 notions about friends they are no 'better in civilized 
 countries than among savages; if you get into trouble, 
 your friends will rob you of what the law- leaves. As for 
 a home Vane, I 'in an old man, but I never saw one 
 yet." 
 
 'Sir, I had a home once, for I had a mother ! and ic 
 is the memory of her that compels me to believe that I 
 shall yet find another. May I, then, sometimes come 
 here to rest, and not be looked at as an intruder ? May I 
 think of your house, sir, as a summer-house in a garden, 
 where I may sit down among my neighbors, and find re- 
 freshment ?" 
 
 " You may come, if you think it will be any comfort," 
 said Mr. Tree, heavily. " I certainly respect you very 
 highly, and if I declined your visits you might think 
 otherwise ; of course, come but what you will find, that 
 is your own look out ; I guarantee nothing, sir. We are 
 poor and in disrepute, and, for a rising young man, not 
 the most available people I should say." 
 
 "Pardon me," said Vane, now dropping into the chair 
 that stood waiting for him. " You should say nothing 
 of the kind. You make me happy by allowing me to 
 come, and to think of you all. I shall be helped on won- 
 derfully in my work now." 
 
 " But I told you before," said Tree, again mistaking 
 the speaker, " I 'm no judge of the fine arts. 5 ' 
 
 " Oh I meant not that it makes a man cheerfuller to 
 have a friend and a home in tlie mind. I could never 
 get on at all without them. (You know how much swifter 
 and better the hand works when the heart is happy, 
 sir ?" 
 
 Poor Mr. Tree knew nothing of the sort ; he may, in 
 
 his long dolorous striving and unhappy career, have had 
 some remote suspicion of the existence of some such 
 truth as this, but no experimental knowledge.
 
 NOT BY BREAD ALOI?E. 145 
 
 He did not reply, but Lucia did. " Oh yes, that is 
 so true, Mr. Vane." 
 
 Her sweet and sincere voice seemed to revive the 
 father's heart ; he appeared to get a fairer glimpse into 
 the world where these young people were abiding, when 
 he looked at it through his daughter's eyes, than he 
 could by the painter's speech. And he said : 
 
 " And you expect to make a good artist, I suppose 
 to make a great deal of money and fame ?" 
 
 For an instant Vane's face was slightly shadowed, but 
 he spoke out sincerely and well : 
 
 <; Oh that I cannot tell but I mean to be a faithful 
 man, sir." 
 
 " Of course you will be rich and famous ; there 's- 
 nothing to hinder you that I can see." 
 
 Vane hesitated evidently Lucia's father did not un- 
 derstand him. Then he spoke valiantly it came forth 
 art from his hands must receive all precedence and 
 honor, and this old man listening must see that neither 
 fame nor money were the ends he sought. 
 
 " But that would not please me so well, Mr. Tree, as 
 other things," he paused a second, glanced at Lucia in 
 that bright face he read a perfect understanding and ap- 
 proval but only doubt in the old man's. " I should con- 
 sider fame disgrace, if I got it without fairly earning it 
 and I hardly believe I shall ever do anything that I 
 think great and find other people agree about it with me. 
 I should be ashamed to make money by my work be- 
 cause it was the fashion, or for some other reason as poor 
 as that. I can paint portraits. I have done so some- 
 times, but that was when I was a foolish, ignorant fellow, 
 or I could not have been so profane in handling my pen- 
 cils. I could make a good living by painting portraits 
 but I can do better work than that, and I am content to 
 
 VOL. II, 7
 
 146 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 be poor, and to work alone a long time rather than get 
 rich in that way." 
 
 This was so far out of Mr. Tree's way of looking at 
 things, so diverse from his philosophy, that he could not 
 at all appreciate it. And yet far wrong as he believed 
 the speaker to be, a suspicion floated intangible, and not 
 to be arrested as yet and fairly surveyed, floated through 
 his mind that this voice and presence was wise, as it was 
 beyond question happy. 
 
 " It certainly is true," said Lucia, speaking in a low 
 and earnest voice, as if in the strength of a deliberate 
 conviction ; ' it certainly is true," she repeated, " fortune 
 and fame are not the thing but to do with your might 
 what your hands find to do." 
 
 " And enjoy in your heart whatever is lovely or of 
 good report," added Vane. 
 
 " Young people," said Mr. Tree in a hopeless sort of 
 way, looking from Vane to his daughter as though ho 
 despaired of understanding them, " you may be all right, 
 and I may be all wrong. I dare say it must be so 
 but, really you both seem to be looking at this world 
 in a very, very peculiar sort of way. It never appeared 
 to me exactly like like what you seem to think it is. 
 I, for my part, have found it a hard, rubbing world, and 
 full of toil and trouble." 
 
 " And so it is. sir," replied Vane. " And everybody 
 ought to be in earnest but not in earnest to eat each 
 other up. There is room enough, sir, for us all, and 
 work enough for us all to do, and the earth can be made 
 to produce so much that none shall die of hunger. But 
 we make sucli a selfish, cold-blooded business of labor ! 
 (I never could see, sir, why, when the sun shines in the 
 world, and makes a fair place of it, we should not have a 
 sun shining in our hearts, making better beauty there. 11 *" 
 
 " What sun ?" asked Tree almost sternly. So real
 
 VANE'S SUCCESS AND FAILUKE. 147 
 
 seemed this possession of joy in the young painter's 
 heart, he felt as if defrauded in his strange inability to 
 understand it. 
 
 " The sun of Peace," said Vane. " It can make even 
 a better world within us than we see around us." 
 
 What perfect acquiescence in all this he was advancing 
 shone from Lucia's face ! what blank dismay was in the 
 old man's visage ! Somehow he had listened to preach- 
 ing for more than half a century, but the gospel had 
 never come to him in this form before never before 
 had it appealed to him as pertaining to the hourly life of 
 men the guide of thought and aspiration the perfect 
 satisfaction the fulness of joy ; the philosophy of life 
 of which all other philosophies are the lower and marred 
 forms. 
 
 " I do not know," said Tree, thoughtfully and sadly. 
 " Perhaps you are right I hope you are I hope the 
 policy is one that won't run out before you are half 
 through with your life. I never saw a young man of 
 talent and spirit before but believed that the way to get 
 on in this world was to work like the devil. I never saw 
 one that was ambitious, but he gave himself up to work, 
 and thought of nothing else but work you think of 
 everything else it appears. I hope you will succeed," he 
 concluded, doubtingly. 
 
 " And if I do not succeed, as you call it," said Yane, 
 cheerfully, " you must never think that I have failed. I 
 will do my best here in this life, if I can ; but I know I 
 shall do far better hereafter. A thousand things may 
 prevent me here, but nothing can prevent me there. 
 This life is not everything to me. The old patriarchs 
 were honest; they confessed that they were strangers 
 and pilgrims on the earth, and wisely sought a better 
 country. And in that respect we can have no more 
 trustworthy guides than those Hebrews. But that does
 
 148 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 not binder our making a happy journey of it, and we 
 shall then be in all the better condition for our arrival." 
 
 " A.h," said Tree, despondingly, shaking his head, and 
 balancing his pen on his finger, " that is the voice of 
 youth and strength and faith that has not been broken 
 and courage that bids fair to hold out a long way. 
 Look at me, sir I don't know that I had such singular 
 thoughts as you seem to have about the business of life, 
 but I will venture to say that I started out as determined 
 to make much of myself, and do well, and succeed, as any 
 young man that ever lived ; but now I am old, and worn 
 out. and tired of all things, and unfit for enjoyment, and 
 have failed in everything." 
 
 Vane was silent; he would not insult a spirit so 
 lamenting, by consolations which it could not certainly 
 not as yet receive. 
 
 The old man again took up his pen, which he had 
 dropped in the agitation of his speech, and Vane's eyes 
 fell on the heap of papers lying before him ; and, rising 
 quickly, he said : 
 
 " I have intruded too long, sir; if you will promise to 
 bring your daughter down to my room, I will show the 
 picture." 
 
 With a relieved look at the prospect of being left 
 alone again, Mr. Tree gave the promise, asked Vane's 
 address; and the young man, with another word to 
 Lucia, departed. 
 
 * 
 
 When her father was alone, long after both Lucia and 
 Vane had left him, he sat in the same position before his 
 table as that in which they found him, bowed over the 
 many papers, doing a machine's work; but no mechanic 
 was he, for faster than his unflagging hand his brain 
 worked. Vane's words ran to and fro among the princi- 
 ples of thought and action that were confronting them,
 
 GLIMMERINGS OF LIGHT. 149 
 
 accusing them, unmasking, entreating them ; and the ray 
 of light along which moved those words grew broader 
 and brighter ; and though he said to himself, " Vane talks 
 like a boy, as he is he will find a different sort of world 
 to work in than he thinks," close upon these words fol- 
 lowed the answering argument, " What has he been 
 doing these eight years but labor among men, working 
 for his daily bread ; and he speaks like one who speaks 
 from knowledge and large experience." 
 
 Contrasting his barren career, its continually recurring 
 waste places, its great distresses, its abiding troubles, and 
 its few and paltry satisfactions looking back on a lost 
 half century, that had brought forth no pleasant nor any 
 rich return; contrasting his life with even the few years of 
 Vane's his strange ambition and content with simple 
 things an ambition that spanned the gulf of death, and 
 looked into eternity, and found there, in that dark un- 
 known, opportunity and realization simple things, that 
 found an answer to every demand in the daily life, con- 
 trasting these facts of Vane's life with those of his own, 
 how rich, how glorious, how inexplicable they seemed ! 
 Was it a wonder that the man could not forget them, 
 could not evade their questionings, could not restrain the 
 tears that dropped upon the paper at which, in the even- 
 ing of life, he toiled, a tired, disappointed man, for 
 bread ? 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 ONCE at the Elms, and once again in their uncomfort- 
 able city lodgings, Violet Silsey read the letter which 
 Lucia Tree wrote to her after the event of the last chap- 
 ter. Tke letter reached the Elms the very day that Sil- 
 sey and his wife were to return to St. John's. 
 
 When, in the dismal back room with the look-out on
 
 150 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 dead walls, Violet read the letter once more ; it brought 
 back the fresh country, and all its rare delights, and 
 something beside, that seemed like an inspiration to the 
 heart of Violet. 
 
 Lucia told her in that letter of all that had befallen 
 her father's family, and how she had gone to work in 
 earnest, and the^bjessed thing it was to feel of some use 
 in the world.; The first time that she read it, a wish, 
 that seemed the very wildest of all wishes, crossed Violet's 
 mind ; but now, as, with grave face, in the silent and 
 darkened room, she pores over it again, it has grown into 
 an eager hope, and her heart says, though it trembles, 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 Silsey has gone into the street the baby sleeps. 
 With a flushed face, for her resolution seems so strange, 
 BO over-bold, Violet writes a word to Lucia tells her 
 she is home again asks if she will come to her, for she 
 has some urgent business to talk about with Lucia. 
 
 And she folds the note but scarcely has she done so, 
 when a low familiar rap on the door startles her, and be- 
 fore she rises, the door opens, and a voice says quickly, 
 " Violet, Violet ! are you there !" and Lucia Tree stands 
 before her. 
 
 So much at heart Violet has the subject of the note 
 that the salutations are hardly exchanged between them 
 when she gives it into Lucia's hands. 
 
 u Answer that Lucia, at your earliest convenience," 
 blushing, she says : 
 
 <: I knew all the while you wanted me," and the strong 
 sweet voice conveys strength to the heart of the hearer. 
 " I told Will you did. Oh, Violet, you should see little 
 Rose ! But now tell me the business, and then we will 
 talk about everything." 
 
 And Violet tells Lucia all; keeps nothing back. 
 Lucia's industry makes her ashamed. She, too, would find
 
 COMING TO THE POINT. 151 
 
 something to do ... why should she not ? She would 
 help Silsey in his support of the little household, so that 
 he might not be embarrassed in making his experiments. 
 Experiments cost so much money ; and so that he might 
 have more time for study, and no need to think of her 
 and Viola. If it might be, she would gladly take upon 
 herself the whole burden of the support. It is not 
 heavy she is sure it would not be, if she could only 
 learn how to bear it ; then Silsey could push on in his 
 career, and work out the problems which he studies oh, 
 if she might only do this and it perhaps . . . some- 
 time might happen that she and Silsey together would 
 buy a little place in the country like the Elms ; with tear- 
 ful eyes Violet looks straight at Lucia what has Lucia 
 to advise ? 
 
 " Mrs. Violet Silsey," she says, " listen to me, and 
 stop talking. Are you so fearfully poor ! Is there any 
 danger of your starving, do you think ?" 
 
 " No not that, but " 
 
 " That is all ! Don't go on talking in that way and 
 never think of it again as long as you live. You want 
 to be a strong-minded woman, Violet, but you will fail ; 
 do not try it. Why, you will have all that fresh color 
 worn off your cheeks in less than a month if you begin 
 to think in that way. Where is your common sense ?" 
 
 " There was sense in your doing it, Lucia," expostu- 
 lated Violet, quite taken aback. 
 
 " Yes indeed, for I have n't a husband to take care of 
 me who endowed me with all his wordly goods. Now, if 
 Mr. Silsey were sick, or anything of that sort " 
 
 " But, Lucia, he does look sick and old as if he were 
 wearing out," faltered Violet. 
 
 " Nonsense ! that is sheer slander. Mr. Silsey never 
 looked so well in his life. I met him in the street as I 
 came down."
 
 152 <;I:TTIXG ALONG. 
 
 " Do you really think so, Lucia ?" 
 
 " To be sure I do. Now, Violet, think sensibly. If 
 you go to learn a trade, you know you have declared, 
 times without number, that you are no genius, and of 
 course you ought to know about it, if you try to learn 
 a trade, dress-making, or anything like that, and go out 
 to sew, or sew in a shop, or fill the house up with work, 
 who 's going to take care of the baby ! Oh, behave your- 
 self, and let your home alone ! a blessed little place it 
 is why, do you not know it ?" 
 
 " I never thought of being a dress maker. I can't sew 
 without getting so tired ! but I thought I might do some- 
 thing, though I am sure I don't know what as you say, 
 I have n't any genius." 
 
 " I never said such a thing in my life." 
 
 " Oh, well, I know it all the same ! But do you really 
 think, Lucia, that I had better not do anything ? you 
 mean what you said ?" 
 
 :i What is the child talking about? Did you ever 
 find me saying anything I thought untrue, Violet 
 Silsey? But . . . you used to write beautiful poetry, 
 Violet ..." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Violet; so hastily she said it, and so 
 deeply she blushed, that no other proof was needed of 
 what had been in her mind all these moments. 
 
 " Then you deceived me you did not write the verses 
 I used to think were yours." 
 
 " Oh yes, Lucia. I did." 
 
 " You did ! thank you for relieving me of that horrible 
 suspicion. Do you write any now?" 
 
 " No not very often. Who is that Mr. Vane you 
 wrote about, Lucia ?" 
 
 " No matter about him just now, if you please, Violet 
 keep to the point. Bring me your portfolio if you have 
 kept one in your terrible destitution. Be quick and
 
 STELLA AT HOME. 153 
 
 show me your poems, Violet, such as you have left. 
 Poets are born to be poor, I believe. I know one who 
 writes poetry in colors on canvas, and \Yill says lie was 
 born to be poor as a church rat, and he seems to have 
 a reverence for the appointed fate These are the 
 poems ? I suppose I have placed myself in a charm- 
 ing predicament ; but let me warn you against one 
 thing, Violet ; do not buy your place in the country on 
 the strength of handing over these scraps of paper to 
 me, do you hear ? And now tell me of everything that 
 you saw, and did, and felt, in the country and I shall 
 think I have been there myself, instead of being baked 
 in a brick oven here in town. Sing me a song, my poet, 
 about yourself and Viola in the woods with the birds." 
 
 That the song was sung let no one doubt, because I do 
 not here record it. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 WE have long lost sight of the convent and the royal 
 spirit within its walls, the godly Sister Theresa. 
 
 She has pursued, since we last saw her, the " even tenor 
 of her way ; ;j but not entirely at peace. No longer sought 
 by her former pupil, who has found, she dreams, her sphere, 
 and it excludes all human teachers she has wondered at 
 it and been troubled thereat. 
 
 Miss Mar and Father Francis have held another con- 
 versation, having Stella for the theme, and the Father, 
 recollecting the nun's influence over her when she was a 
 pupil in the convent, gives to the nun some ghostly coun- 
 sel which she, for her part, gladly heeds, and in accord- 
 ance with the suggestion, we find Theresa seeking Stella 
 in her home. 
 
 To the door of the chamber where the student seems 
 7*
 
 154 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 bent on exhausting her life in pursuit of knowledge, Miss 
 Mar conducts this saintly and beloved visitor, and open- 
 ing the door in response to the knocking, Stella beholds 
 the nun. 
 
 " My child !" is the exclamation that escapes her lips. 
 Word so gentle, spoken so tenderly, Stella's heart opens 
 wide to receive it. " My child !'' who else has ever called 
 her so ? from whom beside could she endure to hear that 
 word ? Wide opens Stella Gammon's heart to receive 
 her. Too glad for smiles, joy trembles like tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Oh, mother, you have been so long away !" 
 
 " Nay still in the convent, my daughter. Only there. 
 Is it not you who have forgotten me ? And I must come 
 seeking Stella for very fear's sake. I feared yes, I did 
 fear the world had won her. But in truth, this looks not 
 like it," said the nun, glancing about her from the com- 
 fortable study-chair to which Stella led her, and from 
 the books that crowded the place, and the papers on the 
 table, to the face bright with another spirit from any she 
 had ever seen there, now turned towards her. 
 
 " The world !" repeated Stella, slowly ; " did you in- 
 deed believe it ?" 
 
 " How should I know ? I feared." 
 
 " But now you do not fear ?" 
 
 " Not now," said the nun, in a voice less placid, less 
 subdued, but not less loving than that which spoke the 
 preceding words. 
 
 " Do you fear anything ?" asked Stella, for the voice 
 seemed to call forth the question. 
 
 " I would not have you perish for a false ambition's 
 
 11 1 shall not, mother. Ambition ! I have none." 
 " But what has wrought this change ? I though not 
 this of you . . . May I " she took from the table a vol-
 
 A MAN'S VOICE. 155 
 
 ume, but her eyes did not turn to scan its contents, nor 
 did they glauce at its title until Stella's consent came. 
 
 " There is nothing that I would hide from your dear 
 eyes ... I learned the lesson that serves me so well 
 down by the sea, mother. You need not caution me now, 
 nor fear for me. I shall never go into a convent." 
 
 " The sea taught it you ? ^Nature is a blessed, holy- 
 hearted friend.^ You have then been down to the sea, 
 child ?" 
 
 " And heard the waves roar as when I was indeed a 
 child, and seen them battle, and break, and fly in confu- 
 sion ; and watched the clouds, and walked on the sand ; 
 and heard a man's voice speaking wise things to me it 
 would have rejoiced you to hear them. He gave me 
 knowledge such as neither the Church nor the world ever 
 gave." 
 
 " A man's voice, Stella ? He gave you to freedom, 
 that man ?" 
 
 " Yes that freedom, the way for which you prepared. 
 See, if you will behold him ! I failed in making a good 
 drawing, still 'tis not unlike him. This is he. I want 
 you to look at it. Is it not the face of a wise man ? no 
 overgrown boy or over-fed collegiate ; see." 
 
 In her hands took the nun that portrait. " And this 
 is lie ?" she said. (t The man that taught you." 
 
 She put back her veil still further from her face as she 
 spoke, that she might the better look at the rude sketch. 
 
 " An old man how old -he looks, 1 ' she said. 
 
 <( Oh no, not old ; but worn, tired, gray with much 
 thinking. I have a little friend who is going to make a 
 painting of it she has promised me. I shall describe 
 him to her ; when it is done you shall see it, if it satis- 
 fies me." 
 
 " And wherefore have it done ? does not this sketch 
 satisfy you ?"
 
 156 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Oh, this ? it is merely an outline I want a portrait 
 to hang on my wall." 
 
 '' And he was kind to you ? He gave you freedom, you 
 say ? That is a great gift . . . Was that his posture, 
 that bent, thoughtful attitude ? I judge so it is so pe- 
 culiar, as the whole expression is. What was he doing 
 there by the sea, where you found him ?" 
 
 " He was a student, and living a little while in an old 
 mill. He had his books with him, and wrote a great deal, 
 I believe." 
 
 " But it seems strange, does it not, dear Stella, that he 
 should have thought of advising you as I conclude he 
 did ; you, so young and full of spirits, to shut yourself 
 up in the way that he was doing. Did he seem so very 
 happy in his isolation ? Was that the reason that he 
 urged you on the same course ?" 
 
 Stella did not at once reply. But her confidence in 
 the nun triumphed over her momentary hesitation. " I 
 asked him to advise me, and he did," she said. 
 
 " As a brother might do." 
 
 " In even a better way. As if he had been my father. 
 He wished me to be free . . . And I am." 
 
 " Glad am I to hear that, dear child. To hear it from 
 your lips !" 
 
 " You do not blame me, then. You have no more to 
 say about the Church ?" 
 
 " Nothing, dear child." 
 
 " Mr. Layard will go into the Church, you know ?" 
 
 " Yes and that also is good." 
 
 " You are not well you are pale, dear mother ! Oh, 
 I wish that you were free !" 
 
 " My daughter, there is no living thing more free than 
 I. Am I pale ? I am not ill." 
 
 " But the school tires you. I know it must. Oh, if 
 we you and I could go away into some solitude and
 
 WHAT SHALL THE END BE? 157 
 
 live together, I believe I should grow better and so 
 would you. This convent is not your place and this 
 city is not mine." 
 
 " Are you not well ?" quickly asked the nun. 
 
 " Oh, yes . . . yes . . . Look around you does 
 not this room assure you of it ?" 
 
 " Truly yes. Like activity, which nothing but per- 
 fect health would allow . . . But what, Stella, what is 
 to be the end of all this ?" 
 
 " I shall expect to be very wise some time I shall 
 have knowledge," said Stella, lightly, yet not with perfect 
 freedom. There was something constrained, something 
 wanting in that smile. 
 
 " Is knowledge everything?" the nun asked seriously. 
 
 " Yes surely," was the instant and firm response. 
 
 " What, then, is to become of those who are dead, if 
 not to know is to be dead ? Come with me, child ; I will 
 lead you out to see what is, and what is done under 
 heaven to a confessional wjiere God alone will hear what 
 your heart shall sa}\" 
 
 Stella started, hearing that great name. She repeated 
 it after the nun, as if something forgotten were recalled. 
 She half stood up, then resolutely sat again. 
 
 The nun comprehended the indecision of the movement 
 and its decision also. 
 
 "Did he teach you this?" she said, with sad earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 " He taught me to seek knowledge." 
 
 " Where, and how ? of God through all sights, and 
 thoughts, and feelings ? Is there knowledge more excel- 
 lent than this ? any beside this worth the name?" 
 
 " He taught me to ascertain that which can be' 
 known." 
 
 The nun reflected a moment it was apparent that 
 what Stella had said deeply troxibled her.
 
 158 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " He is a wise man," she said. " I will help you to 
 obey his bidding, and him in his teaching. Get your 
 bonnet, and walk with me once more. In the fresh air 
 we shall think morte freely. Come, my child come, 
 Stella. 
 
 Her soft hands, as she spoke, smoothed the shining hair 
 of the half-averted head that but now had fondly leaned 
 upon her bosom. 
 
 " You did not tell me your new teacher's name," she 
 said. " I ought to know, since he has taken my pupil 
 away from me." 
 
 " Away from you !" the warm, impulsive heart was 
 stirred again, and to its depths. She threw her arms 
 around the nun's neck and kissed her. 
 
 " I saw his name written in one of Susan's books 
 Mark Leighton that was the name I called him ; 
 Leighton." 
 
 " Mark Leighton," slowly the nun repeated. " 'Tis a 
 good name, a noble name. It belongs to a learned pro- 
 fessor, did you not know it ? He deserves a place at 
 the head of the first college in the land but he will 
 never have it." 
 
 A thought flashed bright and warm through Stella 
 Gammon's mind. Under pretence of making ready for 
 the walk, she turned quickly away from tbe inquiring 
 gaze of Sister Theresa. 
 
 Was not the college of St. John's about to lose its 
 president? . . . 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 DOWN the street, beyond the pale of civilization, the 
 veiled women went together. Quite beyond the splendid 
 shops, and the market places wherefsouls and principles 
 are the very cheapest things on sale,) through the mag-
 
 THE HEART OF ST. JOHN'S. 159 
 
 nificent portals that led down to the depths of stagnant 
 degradation. 
 
 It was a shadowy, sweet day; bright at rare intervals 
 with sunshine. The sky was beautiful with clouds that 
 floated like great mountainous islands, half hid in snows, 
 through vast blue seas of space. 
 
 The streets were full of people. Lounging men, with 
 nerves that shook as if with palsy and idle laborers; 
 gaudy ladies in full dre.ss and ragged beggars ; men 
 and women, the offscouring of heathendom (there in the 
 heart of St. John's!) scavengers and cartmen drays 
 and chariots servants in livery, and foul fiends in dis- 
 guise solemn-visaged, magnificent in bearing, furbelowed 
 with finery, bestial in the truth that shone out lurid and 
 fearful through inefficient imitations of decency and virtue. 
 
 Without a shudder these veiled women, the nun and 
 Stella, went. Their eyes had become accustomed to 
 euch scenes as these ; and more startiugly, though not 
 more faithfully, must they present themselves, if they 
 would be appreciated. Something of this truth, also, the 
 elder woman understood, or she would not have led her 
 companion in that path that day. 
 
 Oh the foul, foul air, floating through those narrow, 
 unsafe streets ! The ruin of those decaying buildings, 
 tottering from their foundations apparently about to 
 bury the more awful human ruins that within them 
 sought a shelter, in the dark finality of their fate ! 
 Wrath and strife, hunger, nakedness, disease, profanity 
 the brood of Hell was there. Little children that were 
 born, the mark was visible upon them, spite of golden 
 hair, red cheeks, and childhood's eyes, imps of Satan, to 
 do his evil work. 
 
 Young womanhood with infancy upon her breast, borne 
 in maternal arms, as you were borne in the enfolding 
 love of your own mother, reader. But what young
 
 160 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 womanhood, what infancy was this ! Oh desecrated 
 temples which to the Holy Ghost might have been con- 
 secrated, for so, surely so, the Builder meant oh in- 
 fancy ! " Heir of the Universe," what has brought you 
 here to breathe this air, to live this death, to tread 
 through this " perpetual desolation'' ! 
 
 Men in the prime of life, bloated, decrepit the fires 
 of passion raging in their breasts their scathing tokens 
 on every limb and lineament old men tottering about, 
 reeking with oaths, hoary with iniquity, what, who are 
 these ? Pilgrims of the Holy Place, the New Jerusa- 
 lem ? sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty ? 
 
 You start back in a blushing consternation, you that 
 " live delicately," and wear the raiment of princes for 
 whither have I led you ? only to the city's heart, only to 
 this avenue through which its life-blood passes. The 
 lisping courtier by your side, who this day unrebuked 
 smiles his oaths in your hearing, and sips daintily the 
 bright cup of corruptions in which he has dissolved the 
 Pearl of Price, you that go hand in hand with him along 
 the " slippery places" of the great proud city, shining in 
 the splendor of your apparelling, no soul to save in your 
 keeping, no throbbing, aching, pitying, holy heart, in 
 your hollow breast, no true thought in your brain, will 
 you, lady, and will he go with these women in the paths 
 they walk to-day ? 
 
 Through these streets and lanes, the nun led Stella 
 Gammon. 
 
 At length they came to a square bit of ground that 
 once had been enclosed, but the fence had fallen into 
 ruin, and no token was left of the grass that in other 
 years had flourished there. Around this square were 
 blocks of houses built of brick ; these, also, were in a 
 dilapidated condition they spoke fearful things concern 
 ing the life that swarmed within them.
 
 THE KEEPING OF A HOLY DAY. 161 
 
 In the square, evidently to the nun's surprise as well as 
 Stella's, a large company of people had gathered together ; 
 they were listening to a speaker who stood slightly ele- 
 vated above the crowd ; he was preaching to them. Up to 
 the verge of this human sea, the two women approached, 
 and with the rest they stood to listen ; and Stella rec- 
 ognized the speaker's face it was the face of Mr. 
 Falcon. 
 
 As they drew near he was closing the book from which 
 Jie had been reading ; looking about him with a friendly, 
 yet commanding glance, he began to speak, in a voice 
 that penetrated through every portion of the assembly. 
 
 " Men and women, brothers and sisters, little children, 
 all of you, good friends, I called this meeting here at 
 this time, that you and I might celebrate, down here, a 
 day which many Christians keep in remembrance of the 
 death of Jesus Christ, the Righteous. That we might 
 think upon him, and get some good by the thinking . . . 
 We have our Fourth of July and a great day we make 
 of it, with our speeches, and cannon, and bonfires, and 
 whiskey. We keep that day in remembrance of our na- 
 tional struggle for liberty ; in honor of the men who 
 fought for us. This day we ought to keep with a few 
 more smiles, and a few more tears, and a great many 
 more thoughts than we give to other days, in memory of 
 the man who died for us. For us, I say. Do you think 
 those men who fought for American independence fought 
 only for the few people who were in the country at that 
 time ? I tell you they fought for us ; for you Irish, and 
 German, and English people, and we Americans, for 
 . everybody who should live in this great wide country in 
 all future time. They fought for all nations, and all 
 time to make the country great and free, so that whoso- 
 ever should come into it after they were dead and gone, 
 should be also free, and have as good a chance of be-
 
 162 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 coming great, I mean wise and happy by that, as they 
 had after the battles were all fought, and the land was 
 full of peace and liberty. Just so we speak of the death 
 of Jesus Christ : it was for us. as well as for those Jews 
 and Gentiles who were His neighbors and friends and ene- 
 mies in Judea, and round about there. So, though we 
 have no cannon-firing, rum-drinking, speech-making, and 
 general glorification to-day, let us have some praying 
 some quiet joy and thankfulness and a great deal more 
 loving than we have had in the days along back. But 
 do any of you- ask, " why ?" again. I have read to you 
 from the Scriptures that Jesus Christ died that we might 
 live. Now that means something. And you do not get 
 all the meaning at first hearing the words. You know 
 not what it means unless you think about it. So let us 
 think about it. 
 
 " What amazing good thing was in this man's dying 
 for us, that the Scriptures should be full of it ? What 
 need was there of His dying ? Men hated Him do you 
 know what that means, for-wicked men to hate a good man? 
 
 " They hated Him so bitterly, that unless He went away, 
 beyond their reach, they would be sure to kill Him. 
 They knew how to murder in those days as well as now. 
 They were used to such things. Now, if He had desired 
 to escape from those people He could have done so. But 
 He stayed, and He was crucified. He let those hard- 
 hearted men who hated Him, and those insulting women 
 and children, they all had a hand in it, He let them kill 
 him. Why ? He had a lesson to teach them, which they 
 would never learn unless He put it into such a shape as 
 they could not help seeing and learning. He loved 
 them and by them, I mean us, and everybody that 
 lives, or ever did live, so well, so greatly, so much be- 
 yond any love you feel for the dearest of your little chil- 
 dren, you mothers and fathers here, that He was willing
 
 FALCON'S SERMON. 163 
 
 to die. But how was His death going to help them ? He 
 died to save them. Prom what could His death save them ? 
 He died that we might live, the good book says. Now, 
 what is it to live ? Listen, this is eternal life, to know the 
 only living and true God, and Jesus Christ, whom He 
 has sent . . . Therefore Christ died that we might 
 know him. Are you living all of you ? then you know 
 him. Now think of this a moment. Perhaps some of 
 you are wondering how it can all be. 
 
 " Do you know the Lord Jesus Christ ? then you 
 serve Him ! Do you serve Him ? then of course you love 
 Him ! Do you love Him whom you have not seen ? 
 then you love all around you whom you have seen ! Oh, 
 think of this ! think of it every one of you. Do you love 
 all around you? then you are kind, you are patient, you 
 help each other in all good works you are alive but if 
 you do none of these things you are dead ! dead ! And 
 who, who can bring the dead back to life ! Can any 
 of you do it ? Oh, my friends, hear again the word of 
 Jesus Christ. I am the Way, and the Truth, and the 
 Life ! . . . He who is Life can make you alive, and there 
 is none other that can do it. He said so himself, and 
 did any one, did ever one of you find out that He said 
 anything but the truth ? Now, my dear brothers and 
 sisters, just let me ask you, do you think that you are alive ? 
 God knows I hope that some among you are. And I 
 believe that some of you are. But I know that some 
 others of you are dead. I have seen angry looks in your 
 faces you speak bitter words to each other ; is it not so ? 
 is there no drinking, no contending, no fighting, no swear- 
 ing, no lying, no stealing going on down here ? Do you 
 all love each other ? are you all trying to help each other 
 by kind words, and friendly acts ? You men, brothers ! 
 are you working in order to secure comfortable homes 
 for your wives and little children, who are going to be
 
 164 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 men and women some day ? Are you laying up money 
 from your earnings to educate the children ? You 
 women sisters, are you making your homes comfortable 
 for your husbands and those little ones ? Do you teach 
 your children to fear God, and to do good ? Boys and 
 girls, what are you all doing? What is to become of 
 you ? That is what I want you all to think of on this 
 day. What are you all doing ? where are you all going ? 
 
 " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
 heart, and thy neighbor as thyself. Do you hear that ? 
 If you obeyed it. my friends, would you be in such a 
 plight as you are in now 1 dressed in rags living by 
 beggary, or theft, or some worse thing ? Think of it, 
 this book says you. are God's temple, you are God's 
 building! Now tell me, is there a man, woman, or child 
 here, who would go into God's temple to pollute it ? 
 And are you willing that any evil thing should come into 
 your heart, which God is willing to own for his temple ? 
 Wouldn't you wonder at the thief who could rob the 
 house of God, or the man who could commit murder 
 there ? And will you let in evil thoughts to your hearts 
 to rob them of all that is good and precious in them 
 and to commit murder there ? Yes, I say it again, to 
 commit murder there. Have you, mothers ever had a 
 sweet thought in your heart, a precious and beautiful 
 hope, and did you give way to any temptation to sin, so 
 that the hope all at once disappeared, and you could 
 think the sweet thought no more ? Then you have been 
 guilty of murder. Yes ! I declare it, though no blood is 
 on your hands, and no man seeks to imprison you. You 
 have committed murder. 
 
 " What man who loves his neighbor as he loves him- 
 self will not be kind and tender-hearted, patient and for- 
 giving? Not quick to take offence. Christ, your mas- 
 ter, bids you be slow to wrath. He went about doing
 
 THE SERMON. 105 
 
 good. He healed the sick and fed the hungry ; when 
 there was a multitude together, a far greater multitude 
 than is here to-day, and they had nothing to eat, He fed 
 them. A little basket, which any of you children could 
 carry on your arm, you would not believe that it could 
 hold enough for five thousand people ; but He could have 
 fed all the world from it, just as easy as that crowd 
 around him. Are any of you hungry and sick ? will you 
 be fed ? will you be well again ? and cannot He who did 
 all these great things do them again ? Try Him, and 
 see. He rose from the grave, to show us that He was 
 alive for evermore. We cannot see Him, it is-true, but 
 we can see His work ; lead holy lives, and you will see 
 in each other what a great and beautiful work it is. Let 
 the man or woman speak out who thinks that we cannot 
 love Christ Jesus ; who of you believes that He does nob 
 love us ?" 
 
 He paused, and looked around him no one answered, 
 but every eye was bent upon the speaker ; 'twas not be- 
 cause they did not hear, and were not following his 
 words, that no voice responded. And Mr. Falcon, per- 
 ceiving this, went on : 
 
 " Oh, God came down from heaven just for this, to be 
 our guide, to help to deliver ourselves from ourselves. 
 If any one of you are grieved on account of any evil or 
 unfortunate thing you have done, you may be sure you 
 can do better. Sure that Christ sees you, and is ready 
 to help you the very instant you ask Him. How can you 
 bring yourselves to Him ? You, fathers and mothers, 
 and boys and girls, do you ask how you can do that ? 
 Why, just in this way. Do what He has commanded 
 love and serve Him. And how are you to do that ? Love 
 your fellow-men and women, as I said be honest. There 
 are better things that you can be about, my sisters, than 
 hunting for fine clothes to put upon your bodies. Where-
 
 160 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 fore spend your thoughts and wishes on trash and rags ? 
 The Scriptures, which give the right name to everything, 
 and never make a mistake or a blunder, as we often do 
 when we do our very best, they call these bodies of ours 
 frames. Frames ? Well, now, hear me. I have noticed 
 in some of your shops a good many of these things, 
 frames, hanging up about the walls, and sometimes I 
 have stopped to look at the pictures inside of them. And 
 I tell you, the more gilt there is on the frames, the more 
 ornament and trumpery, the worse, when the picture is 
 not worth anything. Fine clothes are not going to save 
 you ; they will do you uo good. If your picture, and by 
 that I mean your heart, is a bad one, then it is none the 
 better for having on a fine frame. I tell you, look to the 
 picture ! Let it not be one I have seen too many such 
 down here, and in other places beside don't let it be one 
 that a good man's eye, or a pure, modest woman's eye, 
 would blush to look at, and be afraid to look at ... 
 Things are not going to stand still in this world ; they 
 never have, and they never will till all is finished. Time 
 keeps going on, and the world goes on, and people go on. 
 Somehow or other, for better or worse, everything is 
 getting along. But there will be a stop put to us all 
 after awhile; these hearts beating in our breasts will 
 run down and stop, and nothing can set them agoing 
 again. You cannot do it, nor I, nor any man. But 
 God can. And if we keep false time here, we shall keep 
 false time forever. These pictures will be finished be- 
 fore long. These souls of ours, I mean. They will all 
 be finished ; and what if the eye that cannot be deceived 
 looks at them at them, not at the poor frame we tried 
 to make so fine, and says, ' This picture, this soul, is 
 good for nothing but to be burned.' 
 
 " Oh, no ! let it not be that He shall say that to any 
 one of us. Put on Christ, aud do not iniud so much
 
 THE SEKMOX. 167 
 
 about the gay dress and pretty ribbon, the ear-rings and 
 finger-rings. Put on Christ, I say and by that I mean, 
 be like Him; be meek, be pure, be holy, for Christ was 
 all this and work, for He worked and hope, for He 
 hoped and remember that you are to live forever if you 
 are living now in peace, like good Christians. 
 
 " Root up, then oh, make haste about it ! root up 
 from the garden of your hearts all weeds of vice ; be 
 clean, be honest. Drink no more, curse no more. When 
 you speak the name of our dear Saviour, let it be in 
 solemn prayer to Him, for it grieves Him when you take 
 up that name in a passion, or in jest, and knock it about 
 amongst angry looks and words, or in your sport, like a 
 common foot-ball . . . Let us pray . . . But first, let 
 me say to you, fathers and mothers, and children, wheu 
 our prayer to God is ended, I will talk with those of you 
 who will remain about getting up a school here for the 
 boys and girls. Why should we not have our school, and 
 learn to read and write? but we will talk of that.". 
 
 Here Mr. Falcon ceased speaking to the people, and 
 lifting his face heavenward, he prayed. 
 
 The nun took Stella's arm in silence, and drew back a 
 few paces ; when the prayer was ended, they alone went 
 from the place. 
 
 In silence they returned iuto the street, where hourly 
 falls the seed that grows up into fruit as poisonous and 
 loathsome as that which, decaying, heap upon heap, lies 
 down there in the City's Heart, waiting the breaking of 
 the judgment cloud, or the patient working-hand of the 
 God-fearing Reformer. 
 
 " If he could make his work the fashion," said Stella, 
 as, for a moment, she stayed the nun's step, and significant- 
 ly pointed to the new lace-store which that morning was 
 opened, already thronged with fair purchasers who carried 
 iu their purses and upou their persons, tokens of the mad-
 
 168 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 ness of their folly as condemning as the thirty pieces of 
 the apostolic treasurer. This was the establishment to 
 which, in one column of his paper, an editor had that 
 day called, with all the graces of his rhetoric, (a preacher 
 be-pumng a millinery warehouse !) the attention of all 
 women ; while, in another column, he made to God and 
 the nation amende honorable, for treacherous betrayals 
 of his place, by commending a foreign critic's amazed de- 
 nunciation of the ruinous extravagance of the women of 
 America. 
 
 And they flitted in and out ; and the world went rush- 
 ing on ; for the churches were closed again, the crucifixion 
 celebrated. And the ministers preached, and the editors 
 preached, and here, in this thoroughfare, was the congre- 
 gation ! 
 
 And among them, for a moment, stood Stella Gammon, 
 gazing upon the crowd of faces, recognizing, here and 
 there, the countenances of those she knew, and thinking 
 of the other forms and faces she had that day beheld. 
 Shuddering, she, for an instant, closed her eyes; her 
 brain ached with the heaviness of the thought that press- 
 ed along it, leaving the ineffacable token of its progress. 
 And drawing nearer to the nun, she urged her on with" 
 quickening step, till they came to the door of the con- 
 vent, when she let fall the arm to which she clung, and 
 went her way alone without a word. She had no desire 
 to enter there and so escape all that she had seen that 
 day. She went on homeward, not thinking of the 
 <; finite" and " conditioned" so much, oh reader, as of the 
 Infinite and absolute for unto whom, beside this Uncon- 
 ditioned One, could she go, surrounded, stiffled, as she 
 was, by this death that she had looked upon ?
 
 LEIGHTON'S HOME, 169 
 
 XXX. 
 
 SUSAN was recovering from the exposure and anguish 
 of her night-watch, and never was the convalescence of an 
 invalid more eagerly looked for than hers had been. 
 Every member of the house had looked and longed for 
 it, and one among them had done more than look and 
 long. 
 
 During the first weeks of her residence at the Hall, 
 while she was yet slowly regaining her strength, Clarence 
 came to her one morning it was not his first visit, by 
 many, to her room he brought a letter to her. The au- 
 tumn sun was streaming through the large and elegantly- 
 draped window; the curtains were half-drawn, there 
 was a pleasant shadow in the room, and deep silence; 
 while without, there seemed only quiet and peace in the 
 world : no storms raging, none gathering ; but when she 
 looked on the inscription of the letter, a torrent of tears 
 burst from Susan's eyes ; in her soul there was a tempest. 
 
 It was from Mr. Leighton, and as follows : 
 
 " Exceedingly do I regret, dear Susan, that my de- 
 parture from the beach occurred so early in the season. 
 For one reason I deeply deplore that I did so. I would, 
 I should have been with you in the days that are gone. 
 How you have borne your sorrows I believe I know. But 
 at such a time I would have chosen to stand by you. 
 Sorely will you feel your loss. It will meet you often. 
 Your father was so strong a man, and you relied on him 
 so much. His integrity was not surpassed his virtue 
 was impregnable. A man more truly honest, honorable, 
 upright, I have not known. Be proud that such a man 
 was your father. His affections but of these I may not 
 speak. They were yours 
 
 VOL. ir. 8
 
 170 OETTING ALONG. 
 
 " But I know how well he loved you. I bear in mind 
 your present loneliness. You have gone to live, to learn 
 life with your father's friend, but that fact does not cover 
 your loss. 
 
 " Had I been with you at the beach I should have had 
 some words to say to you, which in effect would have been, 
 Come and live with me. My habitation is small, but 
 large enough for two it shall be j'ours. I should have 
 said, Come, and be my daughter. And what I must have 
 said then, I repeat now. But I know not that there is 
 a need for saying it. I cannot offer you what you lind 
 where you now are. But my home is at all times open 
 to you. You are free at any time to share whatever of 
 treasure it may have. 
 
 " I have no worldly riches with which to endow you 
 but you shall never want. This I know will not seem 
 to you a very brilliant prospect, but I would guide you 
 as a father should, and care for you. 
 
 "i^have been indulging in a sweet vision to-day. I 
 see you in this quiet .study, the table between us. My 
 little maiden is like genial sun-heat and fresh flowers in 
 the room, which, without her, is somewhat dismal and 
 chill. It is a presence that enlarges and hallows my 
 toil. Her voice breaks on the silence, and even when 
 the room is still, it seems full of melody. And I hear 
 the students saying among themselves, ' What ails tho 
 professor, he has grown so wise ?' and another -answers, 
 ' He is happy poor old fellow !' 
 
 " But I would in nothing deceive you, Susan. I would 
 neither enliven nor deaden the prospect. I should make 
 but a dull painter. I live in lodgings I have no house 
 my professorship is next to nothing ; but enough for 
 myself, and for you too, for long ago I renounced what 
 people call the luxuries of life. I can only invite you to 
 a poor man's table. The vessels that sail around the
 
 A HOUSE OF WORSHIP. 171 
 
 world collecting wonderful and valuable treasure, never 
 land their cargo at my door . . . Most of the windows 
 in my room are closed to make room for my shelves of 
 books my library, in short, is the sum of my riches ; 
 and these books you may share with me. But some- 
 times, for I must not slander my fortune, the sun shines 
 in upon my table from between the roofs of high brick 
 buildings we might coax violets to grow here, for they 
 love the shade . . . Six of .my hours every day are spent 
 in the college. In the evening, when I do not lecture, I 
 study. 
 
 " This is unlike the prospect before you, where you 
 now are. You understand the fact so well that I need 
 not draw the lines of difference. I mean you well, 
 Susan my best. But, if better things await you else- 
 where, receive them. I love you too well, I hope for 
 you too sincerely, to wish to bias or thwart your fortune. 
 Write to me." 
 
 And then followed his name and address. 
 
 When she had read this letter, which she did twice 
 over before she removed her eyes from the paper, forget- 
 ful of the presence of Clarence, Susan still sat thinking 
 over its contents, and saying to herself that she would 
 get Mr. Falcon to go for Stella Gammon that she might 
 advise with her about the letter : for Susan had by no 
 means come to a conclusion yet. 
 
 Her meditation was disturbed by the rustling of a paper. 
 Clarence was advancing towards her. In his hand he 
 held an oblong box, from which, when he had removed a 
 number of tissue wrappings, he drew forth a rosary, and 
 advancing towards Susan with ill-concealed delight, he 
 placed it round her neck ; and then, retreating a step, 
 he bent down upon the floor as a penitent petitioning be- 
 fore a shrine. 
 
 Incapable of understanding, or of guessing the mean-
 
 172 GETTING ALCWG. 
 
 ing of all this, Susan recoiled in consternation that was 
 plainly manifest. 
 
 " Oh no, Clarence, you must not," she said at length, 
 for he continued kneeling with closed eyes and uplifted 
 hands, and a confused recollection of the pictures of 
 savages bowing before idols in the book of travels Tom 
 gave her as his parting gift, occurred to her. 
 
 " You kneel," said he ; "I saw you." 
 
 " Yes to God," answered Susan, grieved and dis- 
 tresssed ; " but you, really Clarence, you must get up. 
 You must stand up like a man." 
 
 " Do only women kneel ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, to be sure ; I hope so," she replied quickly. 
 
 This seemed to assure him. He half rose, but not 
 wholly. 
 
 " Do you get what you pray for, Susy ?" 
 
 " I hope so oh I don't know. You must not talk 
 about it, Clarence ; and do please get up !" 
 
 But in spite of her distress, Clarence continued kneel- 
 ing, his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes closed, 
 praying evidently, as he understood it. 
 
 " When shall I get it ?" said he, looking up again. 
 
 " Oh, Clarence you are all wrong ! This is not tho 
 way. It may not come in a hundred years, and perhaps 
 never never, I should think with your kneeling down to 
 me!" 
 
 " I will tell you what I prayed for," he said, now 
 rising. " I prayed that David might never come back. 
 He said he should to morrow he has only gone off fish- 
 ing. I saw you in the colonnade with him yesterday. 
 What was it you were doing?" 
 
 Susan recalled that brief walk, and the conversation that 
 had then taken place between herself and David a pain- 
 ful blush appeared upon her pale face, which did not vanish 
 when she saw how eagerly Clarence waited for her answer.
 
 DAVID'S KISS. THE CHAIN. 173 
 
 " I was talking with him with your brother, Clar- 
 ence," she said. 
 
 "Yes, T know you were But what did you talk 
 about ?" he asked, with strange impetuosity. 
 
 " About you, mostly, Clarence." 
 
 " Yes, yes, but I saw him saw him do something be- 
 sides talk. I saw him ..." 
 
 " I am glad you did !" exclaimed Susan, with rather 
 desperate haste. " I 'in glad you saw him kiss me ; be- 
 cause now you will know how much David loves you, and 
 how wrong it was for you to speak so about him." 
 
 "What had it to do with me?" said Clarence, looking 
 at Susan much as though he suspected her of an attempt 
 to deceive him. 
 
 " You had all to do with it," answered Susan, quickly, 
 agitated and alarmed, for his mood was strange, and her 
 own thoughts seemed new and strange now as she thought 
 them, and she was full of fear. " He kissed me, because 
 because he said that you and I were to be such good 
 friends, and for nothing, nothing else." 
 
 " Is it so ? . . . You and I are going to do everything 
 together, did you know it ? they all say so. And I have 
 been talking to my father about it. You are to stay here 
 always with me ; you are never, never going away " 
 Susan started back, as if in rejection of the chain thus 
 exhibited she thought of Mr. Leighton's letter was 
 ready to fly to him. " There was never anybody in the 
 world till you came. And when I saw you," he continued, 
 speaking now in his usual gentle tone, and quiet manner, 
 " you know how it was. It was more here thanliere," 
 laying his hand rapidly on his heart and his head, " that 
 I felt you. But now I have everything. There is such 
 a crowd about me, and I love everything only I felt so 
 unhappy yes, I did ! about David. I was glad when he
 
 174 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 went. I hoped he never would come back . . . You 
 never kissed me, Susan." 
 
 " And I never kissed him. either," said Susan, warmly. 
 
 " Not him ? oh, yes, I remember. It was not your 
 fault, after all. And he only did it on my account, you 
 say. Because you and I were such good friends. Yes, 
 to be sure ! I did not know he was so fond of me. But 
 he is, you say and they all are, I suppose. But they 
 never tell me so they tell you. You are everybody. I 
 believe I have my prayer answered. Keep that for me," 
 he gave her the rosary which she had removed from her 
 neck and returned to him. " And when I want you to 
 wear it, you will, will you, Susy ? 
 
 How could she resist the pleading of that voice Susan 
 took the rosary. 
 
 " But when you pray," said she, " pray to God, Clar- 
 ence." 
 
 " I did with all my might. I prayed here, Susy," 
 with child-like eegerness and simplicity he laid his hand 
 on his forehead " and will you go to church with me 
 every day ?" 
 
 " Where, Clarence ?" 
 
 " Here." 
 
 " Clarence, tell me who you were praying to ?" 
 
 " You." he replied, promptly, as if surprised that she 
 did not already understand it. 
 
 " Hush do not say so ! I do not know a single thing 
 you thought. I cannot see into your mind I cannot 
 know what you think, unless you tell me. Don't say such 
 things?' pleaded Susan. 
 
 " Where is He ?" asked Clarence, as if disappointed, 
 and unbelieving. 
 
 " Here," Susan laid her hand upon her heart, her eyes 
 lifted toward heaven he was watchful only of the former 
 movement.
 
 THE GROWING MIND AND HEART. 175 
 
 " Yes, I know it!" he smiled, triumphant. 
 
 " And here, too," Susan laid her hand on his breast 
 he caught and held it " and there," she pointed with her 
 freed hand to the world without " everywhere !" 
 
 " Yes," said Clarence, gravely, bowing his assent, " I 
 know it. I will pray to Him." But he seemed now con- 
 firmed in his opinion rather than in the reception of any 
 new idea. 
 
 " Our Creator he is, you know ; He made us," said Susan. 
 
 ' : Yes, you He made you, you made me. You made 
 me here and here," pointing again rapidly from heart to 
 head. l - 1 felt not anything. I knew not anything till I 
 came to you. You made me. They all say so. I hear 
 them talking about it everybody." 
 
 " That makes me wretched it is so wicked for you 
 to talk such things," said Susan, not knowing what to say. 
 
 " Is it, Susy, wicked ?" 
 
 " Yes . . . and I am so very tired, Clarence." 
 
 " Are you ?" he started up. " Then I will go ... 
 But where shall I go, Susy ? I am all alone when I go 
 from here. There 's no one in the house . . ." 
 
 " Oh, yes down in the drawing-room you will find 
 them all there Isidore, your sister, and " 
 
 " Isidore there 's no one ! There was nobody in this 
 great house, as big as all the world, and nobody in it, till 
 you came. Don't scold me ; it 's true. I have them all 
 when you are there . . . But, oh ! it 's so so dark with- 
 out you, and cold _. . . I was dead !" said he, smiting his 
 breast, " but you came . . . What is it you have done, 
 Susy ? tell me," he laid his hand on Susan's arm, and 
 looked bewildered and doubting into her face. " Do I 
 look as I used to look ? I forget about it, myself I mean. 
 What was I ?" 
 
 " Oh, Clarence, I have done nothing," said Susan, with 
 difficulty speaking, so oppressed, and excited, and troubled
 
 176 GETTING ALONU. 
 
 was she ; " you were what you are always, Clarence, and 
 everybody loved you." 
 
 " Everybody !" he looked at her with so wise and bright 
 a glance as he repeated that word that her own eyes 
 drooped, as they might have done before the glance of 
 David : so joyously that the look went like a wound 
 through her heart. " Are you so tired, Susy ? Let me 
 get you a glass of wine. But do not send me away. Lie 
 down, and I will watch here while you sleep, and no one 
 shall disturb you. Do not make me go ; for then I begin 
 to wonder, and wonder, till I cannot tell whether I am I, 
 or there is any Susy in the house till I come up again, 
 and stand by your door, and somebody oomes to tell me 
 you are there. You said that everybody loves me, Susy ; 
 do you always speak the truth ? Do you love me ?" 
 
 And there he sat, and talked and talked, and the mo- 
 ments dragged " their slow length along," and it seemed 
 to Susan though she could but dimly suspect it. for the 
 fear did not take the form of a complete thought in her 
 mind, but, instead, haunted her with a vague sense and 
 foreboding of misery that, in proportion to the influx 
 of life into the brain of Clarence, there was an outgoing 
 of vitality from the blood that ran along her veins. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 A FEW hours later, with the twilight, Mr. Falcon came 
 into Susan's room ; he came with cheerful chat and sooth- 
 ing words, and an exhaustless store of them. Now it 
 may be thought that, for one so desolate as Susan, for 
 one so occupied with troubled reflections and doubts, and 
 indecisions, this peaceful and generous nature was the 
 one, of all others, into contact with which she should 
 come.
 
 THE CONSOLER'S OE THE ORPHAN. 177 
 
 And she did look and long for him, and for no other 
 person in the house. When Isidore came, she brought 
 no satisfaction with her ; she was so restless, so absorbed 
 in her own plans, and notions, and engagements ; she 
 knew so little what word to say, of all the words of wis- 
 dom that might fitly have been spoken there, that by no 
 chance did she ever fall upon the right one. Her con- 
 solations were not consoling. Her sympathies were mere 
 lifeless, parrotic speeches, repeated like a lesson so many 
 times a day. But she was a fine thing to look at, and 
 Susan's eyes never tired of that occupation, for Isidore's 
 magnificence was a ceaseless astonishment to her untu- 
 tored sight ; but when Isidore was gone again invaria- 
 bly it was so the eyes that had been so dazzled ached, 
 and the heart of the child turned back and looked at 
 itself, and was lonelier than before. No one beside Mr. 
 Falcon, there, could speak the words that young human 
 heart pined to hear. Mr. Baldwin was considerate in his 
 way ; he carried Susan about in his arms from one part 
 of the house to another, before she had strength to walk, 
 and he talked much to her, and kindly ; but the talk was 
 so often of Clarence, so rarely of anything beside ; and 
 frequently he said strange things, which she dared not, 
 would not understand how, when Isidore was married, 
 she, Susan, must be at the head of his house, and that 
 he must look up a husband for her, too ; and with such 
 words as these he always brought the name of Clarence 
 into close connection. And Clarence, before whom these 
 words were often said, evidently treasured them all in his 
 heart, and thought upon them much and long, Yet, 
 while his father spoke such words, the youth seemed to 
 listen not with his own ear the sound came to him 
 through Susan's heart. He did not receive and under- 
 stand it altogether joyously. Fears he did not com- 
 prehend, doubts he could not quite discover, came with 
 8*
 
 178 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 the words, and troubled him ; he saw no smiles in Susan's 
 face, such as would have folded those words of his father 
 in the glory of an ascertained assurance. He was rest- 
 less, unhappy ; and, as yet, he knew not why. 
 
 While Susan waited, and longed for Mr. Falcon, she 
 was like a house divided against itself. She listened for 
 his step in the hall, hoping, yet dreading, to hear it. She 
 shrunk from the thought of revealing to him all that had 
 passed through her mind since she last saw him. Not 
 that she was fearful of revealing it in speech ; but, if he 
 had Mr. Leighton's sight, he would not fail to discover 
 how much, and even wherefore, she was troubled that 
 she had undergone some evil change that David had 
 walked with her yesterday in the colonnade, and that 
 since then the world had been growing darker and colder 
 darker, colder even than it was on the night when she 
 watched a boat that struggled with the storm, and went 
 down before her eyes into the deep sea, with her father. 
 
 How was it possible that words, so kindly spoken as all 
 David's were to her, should only vex, and trouble, and 
 grieve her ? they had this sole result. Could he find 
 nothing but that theme, exhausted by the others, for the 
 burden of his speech ? whichever way she turned, must 
 it still be the image of Clarence that was forced upon her 
 sight ? 
 
 When Mr. Falcon came she would ask him, Susan said 
 to herself, if an opportunity presented, nay, whether there 
 were opportunity or not, she would ask him what that 
 great change which had taken place in Clarence since she 
 came to the Hall actually meant and portended. He 
 was 'certainly, as they all said, another being ; his list- 
 lessness an,d apathy were gone he was alive again he 
 had full possession of his reason how changed his bear- 
 ing and his conversation were ! 
 
 Everything around her, every event that happened
 
 THE LAST OUNCE. 179 
 
 there, however trivial, concerning the family or herself, 
 seemed now so portentous ; she was lost in a swift-rush- 
 ing current, and knew not whither she was bound; she 
 roused herself, but was powerless, as if a spell were upon 
 her she could not cry aloud for help. And yet help 
 was now so near, even within her call. She held Mr. 
 Leighton's letter in her hand could she not go to him ? 
 
 When Mr. Falcon came, these thoughts vanished like 
 phantoms ; a sense of security took their place when his 
 kindly face appeared again before her. Like a bird 
 caught out in a violent storm, she rushed into that genial 
 presence for shelter. Had he known the fear that pur- 
 sued her, how would he have folded her in his bosom 
 how effectually would he have soothed her ! 
 
 She did not tell him of the letter Mr. Leighton wrote 
 how it had come to her and what it was doiug for 
 her. The nearest approach she made to the discovery 
 of the fact was not to him significant ; he saw nothing in 
 the request she made that he would ask Stella Gammon 
 to come up to the Hall sometime to-morrow, and he 
 attached no peculiar significance to Susan's thanks, when 
 he assured her that Stella should have the message early 
 in the morning. 
 
 But, by-and-bye it happens, in their quiet twilight 
 talk, that Clarence comes to be the topic of their con- 
 versation ; and Susan is saying so naturally the question 
 drops from her lips, that the sound of it has a strange 
 tone to her, and a strange effect upon her, as if it had 
 been supernaturally uttered : 
 
 " Clarence is well again, Mr. Falcon." 
 
 " Yes, Susan, almost well ;" and he added, quick to 
 take advantage of the opportunity she gave him, " do 
 you know, Susan, the good fairy who has wrought the 
 change?" 
 
 Too honest was her heart for subterfuge. She chose
 
 180 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 rather to be silent than reply ; but he asked her again, 
 and then she answered : 
 
 " He says that I have done it, Mr. Falcon." 
 
 " Yes ! you are the fairy. You are his good angel. 
 You have reason to feel proud, Susan, or. at least, 
 thankful." 
 
 Susan answered nothing. She felt neither thankful nor 
 proud of what she had done, if anything she had done. 
 But, on the contrary, in view of what was imputed to her, 
 very miserable. 
 
 " But the work is not quite finished yet," said Mr. 
 Falcon. " You have not forgotten your books, I am sure 
 you were so fond of them. When you are strong 
 enough, you have but to say the word, and we three, Clar- 
 ence, and you and I, will walk into the library and go to 
 work. Clarence must begin at the beginning, and with 
 you to help him on, we shall make rapid progress. See, 
 now, what a work is before you ! And only think, Susan, 
 that it should have been given you to do what no phy- 
 sician on earth could have done ; so, at least, I firmly be- 
 lieve. It must be a great joy to you to be able to make 
 so many people happy. You have given a son to Mr. 
 Baldwin, and a brother to David, and a man to the world. 
 Why that thought alone should bring back the color to 
 your cheek, and make it brighter than it ever was. I 
 know not any one so worthy of congratulation as you." 
 
 What reply could Susan make ? Mr. Falcon was so 
 sincere in everything he said, he so evidently meaut what 
 he had spoken ; it never entered his heart to imagine that 
 she could feel any emotion but the liveliest joy in view 
 of all the change that had been wrought in Clarence ! 
 
 Her voice would not help her to speak out her trouble 
 she found not a word to say. Her fear now was that 
 she should not be able to so guard her sense of calamity 
 as to have no suspicion of its existence roused* in his
 
 SUSAN'S WORK. 181 
 
 mind ; that he would see how far she was from rejoicing 
 in her involuntary work ; how, in her heart, she wished 
 that she had never heard of St. John's, never come into 
 contact with Clarence, never seen one of these people ; 
 how even now she was proposing to her heart a flight from 
 the Hall and city, reckless of consequences ; eager only 
 to escape from the work she had yet to do. The pity she 
 had felt for Clarence was no longer pity was it dread ? 
 was it hate ? aversion ? what was it ? She dared not scan 
 too closely the features of that new impulse and feeling. 
 
 He called it her work ! Mr. Falcon said that none but 
 she could do it. That Clarence was growing into man- 
 hood, but the nourishment for the growth must be given 
 by her : she was his sunlight, his spring in the dry land, 
 his atmosphere ; but for her this goodly prospect of 
 growth would disappear the budding strength would 
 wither, the life be pent again. He showed how vast the 
 work was. That it was no mere work of time and sense, 
 for time and sense, eternity and spirit, were involved in 
 its issue. Her influence over him, Mr. Falcon said, reach- 
 ed further than a mother's over her child. The impulses 
 of Clarence were good, his nature kind ; she could give 
 a man to humanity, a good man to a noble future. 
 
 It was hers, hers alone, to direct him to foster in him 
 all that was best in his nature ; to open his eyes to life ; 
 to show him the good that could be done the way that 
 he might do it. Every word he spoke suggested to Susan's 
 mind a contrast what ideal man was he depicting ? it 
 was not a man like David ; and half-angrily, unbelieving, 
 disquieted, the child resisted and fought in her soul ; but 
 the speaker went on unaware, holding her in his firm 
 grasp as he showed the path by which, so his words said, 
 she was to go. 
 
 The quiet of the hour, the shadows in the room, the 
 silence of the listener, the greatness of the theme, as he
 
 182 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 regarded it, led him on ; resistless the tide of words went 
 forth, until the child lay as one buried beneath them. 
 
 Falcon limited his prophetic vision not to time, I said. 
 He showed Clarence to her, not the active and labori- 
 ous youth, but more than that : as a man triumphant, who 
 had fought the fight with the sure weapons she had given 
 him a man, bringing in a harvest of great deeds re- 
 joicing to the heavens ! 
 
 All was in her hands, again and again he repeated it. 
 He talked not to her as to a child. He had come pre- 
 pared to say these things as to a thinking audience. He 
 threw upon Susan the responsibilities of womanhood. 
 And with a two-fold purpose. To arouse her from her 
 grief, and despondency, and loneliness to quicken her 
 brain with a great idea, and her heart with a large ambi- 
 tion ; and for the sake of Clarence as well for he spoke 
 the simple truth ; with her, as he averred, did rest the fu- 
 ture manhood of this recovered youth. 
 
 And as she listened to him, Susan trembled with the 
 thought, with the irresolution, the shame of the irresolu- 
 tion, and the anguish that divided her heart. For, as he 
 spoke, Mr. Falcon's words were attended with an instant 
 conviction in her soul it was all truth that he said ; 
 before her was that for which she must live ! and should 
 she shrink from this work, leave it at the point where, for 
 the first time, it would become a work with her ? 
 
 Solemnly she asked herself this question while the 
 good man spoke ; and after he was gone, when she was 
 left alone, before her mind uprose the future which Mr. 
 Falcon painted, and more than his hands sketched her 
 eyes beheld, and she shrunk back, and tried to shut the 
 sight from her eyes ; but to herself, and the eternal spirits, 
 who watch conflicts like these, she said at length : " Yes 
 it must be so I must stay I must try." 
 
 Well Susan knew, making the promise, all it would
 
 ACCEPTATION OF WORK. 183 
 
 necessitate. Day after day she must conduct that mys- 
 terious labor, stifled, awed, and fearful what was it she 
 was doing ? and grow weak as he grew strong to compel 
 destiny give him of her life to complete his . . . she 
 could do it if he would only not love her. She who so 
 lived on love ! whose longing was for love ! if he would 
 not be content to sit hour after hour looking into her 
 face ; if he would not talk to her, and tell her that she 
 was everything to him, and that the house had no one be- 
 side her for him ; if he would not hold her hand, as if he 
 thus were making good his claim, and say with so plead- 
 ing a voice, " Do you see, Susy? Do you understand ?" 
 when his father would in some way advert to the thought 
 now constantly uppermost in his mind. But . . . she 
 was her own no longer. She never more could be. 
 
 Mr. Falcon had not spoken as if her work were ever, 
 while she lived, to have an end. Did she then belong to 
 Clarence ? What strange robbery was this against which 
 she dared not make complaint? why should the thought 
 of so poor, so worthless a thing as her own life trouble 
 her ? What could David, so splendid, so mighty, what 
 could he ever be to her ? He was only the brother of 
 Clarence he, like the rest, cared only for her because 
 Clarence, through her, was coming to life again. 
 
 But she would not hold fast to this unwelcome belief 
 though she remembered the strange fancies and speculation 
 into which Stella's visit had thrown her a few days after 
 she had come again to St. John's for a home . . . when, 
 David and Stella talked together to interest and beguile 
 the suffering child ; how the picture their beauty made 
 lingered in memory ! though this fact of their conversa- 
 tion, and these fancies that grew out of it, she remem- 
 bered, and said again, as often before, that David might 
 well love one like Stella Gammon ; still the fact and vision, 
 and the duty that sternly waited for her now, could not
 
 184 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 prevent the dream of the beach from also returning and 
 the golden gate of that dream had no bolt nor bar that 
 she should not go in but, having entered, she slept on a 
 bed of thorns. 
 
 And yet, the next morning as she rose, and for 
 the first time since her illness, dressed herself without 
 assistance, and went out into the hall, she was saying in 
 one form or another continually to herself, " If Stella 
 comes to-day, I '11 not ask a word about Mr. Leighton. 
 I must stay here and be useful, as Mr. Falcon said. 
 Stella shall know nothing of the letter." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 THAT was a marvellous influx of life in which the 
 Chilton's were now rejoicing ; and great was the change 
 it wrought in the household. It brought the hidden 
 nature of each member of it out into a new and bold 
 relief; you will hardly recognize these characters. A 
 richer, or at least a flashier, wine of life they have 
 drunken does it intoxicate them ? They are, the family, 
 and each member of it, maintaining new relations and 
 how? 
 
 Mrs. Chilton in St. John's is not Mrs. Ghilton in Har- 
 lem. She is at least ten years younger she is a little 
 anxious still, a little troubled about many things, but her 
 face is not so furrowed as it was she smiles oftener, she 
 is sailing through a smoother sea. 
 
 There are, it is true, even in the present circumstances 
 of the family, some points to which she will never be 
 quite reconciled, nor need she be, for the points must 
 have removal. Isidore Baldwin is rather more of a 
 stumbling-block in her way than Mrs. Chilton antici- 
 pated for the older lady is held by the younger in a
 
 MRS. CHILTONT AND THE OPPORTUNITY. 185 
 
 strange debt of obligation, on account of all the favor her 
 father has conferred, and the patronage she bestows is 
 galling to the nice sense, offensive to the good taste of 
 Mrs. Chilton. 
 
 Regularly on each succeeding Sunday, that good lady, 
 accompanied sometimes by Horace, not so often by Leah, 
 dines at the Hall, and that is indeed " the day of all the 
 seven," to her. Occasionally during these weekly visits, 
 she is subjected to vexations and mortifications, for which 
 she might continue to look, in all reason ; no one under- 
 stands this better than she, in her advances towards 
 society ; for she is in St. John's indeed, but yet not " in 
 society." . . . There will come a day she lives in the 
 belief, it is her day-dream and night-vision when these 
 Baldwins shall be proved the mere aids to her progress 
 towards the regions she seeks. For she will reign again 
 amidst this generation, she believes ay, verily, she shall, 
 through her son, or her daughter, why does she not say ? 
 For the simple reason that such substitution is not what 
 she craves. There, in her parlor at this moment, sits the 
 old gray-haired man who handed her to dinner when last 
 she dined at Ishmael's ; and he is babbling by the hour, 
 of, heaven knows what, and watchful of her with his 
 greedy eyes, and thinking that his great house in a 
 neighboring square might as well be thrown open again, 
 if this graceful and brilliant woman could be induced 
 to transfer herself thither. With courteous grace the 
 widow listens to the old man, and never seems 
 to weary, and she thinks to herself what she would 
 not have thought had that same poor old creature 
 descended her basement steps, and knocked at the ser- 
 vant's door, clad outwardly in such beggarly rags as 
 his spirit within put on when he was young, and wore 
 now, unchanged and unchangeable, in his soul's decrepi- 
 tude. He is a miserly, abhorrent old man ; but for all
 
 186 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 that, the wealthiest banker in St. John's : a portion of 
 these facts he himself tells IVIrs. Ghilton she sees with 
 her eyes the remainder : with the eyes so worn out and 
 useless, which yet can see these facts yes, even they 
 can see them. 
 
 So Mrs. Chilton was going in her own paths, and the 
 time she believed would come to an end when her son 
 alone of the house would be known in society. She her- 
 self, his mother would yet flash through the St. John's 
 drawing rooms in a great pomp of diamonds and brocade. 
 Her rooms once more would shine resplendent with gas 
 and magnificence would echo with the voices of rich 
 men, and well-dressed women. 
 
 The old man was a miser, it was said, but he had no 
 heirs, and certainly could not expect, at least could not 
 be expected, to live forever . . . Heaven help her, what 
 old man is she thinking of ? . . . Since the hour when 
 she began to think this woman has fallen . . . but she 
 surely has not come to this ? To what ? to the embrace 
 of palsy, corruption, and imbecility ! Peace, reader ! Do 
 you think her mind is on these things that such insane 
 bestiality as this possesses her ? it is the closed house in 
 the square, with the richly-ornamented frontage the 
 great windows, and the reported splendor hidden within ; 
 and what though an idiot guarded the portal ? Mrs. 
 (Jliilton was, assuredly, getting along. Will not society 
 receive her ? she will reign a marvel of grace ; oh 
 mothers, she will matronize your daughters, and rare 
 feasting you shall have, all you elect, at her glittering 
 and richly-laden table. 
 
 Side by side with her worked her son, and what 
 reverence and homage he had for this guest whose car- 
 riage was drawn up so often before their door ! llcspect 
 for age was certainly a new evolution from the character
 
 THE TOOL BOX. 187 
 
 of Horace : he had indeed become, in this respect, a 
 model youth ! 
 
 But his vision was one that eclipsed his mother's. 
 Horace surprised himself by the discovery within him- 
 self, since they came up to St. John's to live, of new ca- 
 pacities of whose existence he had not before suspected. 
 Not that his genius was unveiled more definitely before 
 his mind by the labors of the engineer's office. He had, 
 in the multitude of his distractions, no capacity for per- 
 ception of the revelations of genius, even had they been 
 made. 
 
 His vision was not of labor, and what without labor 
 is genius ? What is capacity, however great, in the 
 hands of a vain and idle being ? He hated the engi- 
 neer's office as he hated the pill and powder business . . . 
 But the difference was in the manifestation he found 
 compensation in infinite degree for the degradations of 
 labor in St. John's, and no complaint against friends or 
 fortune now escaped him. Mr. Baldwin, the father of 
 Isidore, had placed him in that situation Mr. Baldwin 
 talked encouragingly of his prospects and the engineer 
 was well satisfied with the young man's work, inasmuch 
 as the payment for his services was regularly advanced 
 by Mr. Baldwin, though unknown to Horace. He could 
 do no other wise than labor ; his patron was well pleased 
 with his success ; and Leah, ever watchful, ever hopeful 
 of good, built up from these signs and tokens the most 
 honorable future for Horace ; and anticipated, unhindered 
 by any distractions of doubt, a noble fulfilment of all his 
 boyish prophecies, and the fond hopes in which both she 
 and he found once delight together. Leah had not for a 
 long time looked into the tool-box, that sacred depository 
 in which their father's treasure was contained. Had she 
 done so she would have better understood how Horace 
 managed, out of the wages of his labor, to sustain the
 
 188 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 family so generously. One by one those precious tools 
 had vanished from the box, and were hidden safe from 
 sight again, in a pawnbroker's shop until now, when the 
 stock was nearly exhausted, Horace contemplated a 
 bargain for their actual sale, with no other thought or 
 feeling than had reference to the good bargain he could 
 make. But insignificant as they seemed to himself, 
 Horace was careful that Leah should not discover these 
 facts ; he could argue himself very readily into the belief 
 that he had done the right and proper thing; but he 
 knew that she could not be brought to see in that light. 
 There was no need for him to ask her counsel, he said 
 to himself in the first hesitating moments, when he 
 thought the matter over; he knew what her counsel 
 would be without asking ; and it was, especially since 
 she did not seem to be quite well, it was really so trifling 
 a matter that it was not worth while to trouble her. As 
 to his mother, this was, of cqurse, a subject with which 
 she had nothing to do. If there was nothing else in life 
 that he correctly understood and appreciated, Horace 
 did understand and appreciate his mother. It could not 
 be otherwise when he had discovered that she was re- 
 produced in him. 
 
 Horace was living in the very sphere that must in- 
 evitably deaden all his early sensibilities, every true and 
 generous feeling. Because they had no root they must 
 wither away. He seemed so adapted to the present, that 
 it was no longer surprising that he had been wretched in 
 the past. Everything now tended to induce a speedy 
 development of nature but it was not quite such as 
 Leah looked for nor such as he had anticipated. He 
 had pined for a sphere and opportunity . . . now that 
 these were granted, see what he made of them ! 
 
 The show of the world, into which, under Isidore's pat- 
 ronage, he immediately came for in Colonel Wheaton's
 
 TASTE AND INSPIRATION. 189 
 
 absence Horace could be of great use to Ler, his unex- 
 ceptionable person and address, the ease with which he 
 adapted himself to every circumstance of a life of show, 
 rendered him invaluable to her this show and seeming 
 dazzled, and enchanted, and allured him. He had, in- 
 deed, even thus found his sphere and occupation is any- 
 thing more than this needful in order that a human being 
 shall get on ? 
 
 Horace was no true artist ; nor ever would he be, in 
 spite of his boyhood's aspirations : he was proving, with 
 the first opportunity, that the outward and fictitious were 
 inexhaustible in glory and beauty to him. Not like 
 Vane could he discover the interior life through all this 
 seeming, the life which gives all worth to the outward 
 evidence. The permeating truth escaped him. That 
 which it did vitalize was worthless to him, for it ap- 
 peared and could only appear to his mind superficially : 
 he could not detect that which the true artist perceives 
 and acknowledges, as the helpmate, the deliverer of his 
 inspiration. 
 
 So was he prepared to throw himself into every al- 
 luring fancy ; and in some minds the allurements of 
 fancy are but the suggestions of vice. There was not an 
 invulnerable point in his character ; he held his princi- 
 ples with a loose rein ; the waves of temptation could 
 scarcely come in what light they might, fair as morning, 
 golden as noonday, resplendent as evening, black as 
 night could scarcely beat in vain against him. A slight 
 wall of defence enclosed his nature, and the very novelty 
 of his position it was, that now maintained it. He might 
 have passed through life in Harlem unallured by any of 
 the temptations, puerile or gross, which beset him there 
 but the city's fine show of evil was another thing ; and 
 doubtless, since this is true of all men and women, the 
 day and the hour would yet discover him in which his
 
 100 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 moral character should have its further, utmost test, and 
 should receive its seal. 
 
 Nay, what did that vacant tool-box testify ? One need 
 not become an obscene drunkard in order to make mani- 
 fest his baptism into evil. 
 
 He, too, was dreaming his dream ; it had already 
 changed from its original form, and was now not a dream, 
 but a desire and hope. The transition was gradual. 
 Not slow indeed, and still not sudden. Not so sudden 
 as to surprise him and alarm him out of it by its mani- 
 fest absurdity. Did Isidore not smile on him ? Did 
 she not prefer him, when she needed an escort or com- 
 panion, even before her own brother ? was he not her at- 
 tendant on the promenade, at concert, drawing-room, and 
 lecture ? When her fine steed bore her through the city 
 streets, and away on the country roads, who was her most 
 frequent companion ? who learned her songs ? who se- 
 lected her music ? who was called upon often as he to de- 
 cide on points of fashion, taste, and dress ? who, of all 
 her lovers ? 
 
 Isidore, as we well know in all this, was but making use 
 of the boy-genius ; he was to her a gifted sort of retainer 
 who might be exalted to serve her while the Colonel was 
 at a distance and an excellent servitor he proved upon 
 trial Poor Horace ! but who ever sees himself precisely 
 as his neighbors see him ? 
 
 To a mind like Horace Chilton's, a person like that of 
 Isidore must of necessity have singular attractions. The 
 very pretension of it dazzled him. He liked its show. 
 It answered for the real thing ; to him it was genuine. 
 But he did not admire and love it on account of its ap- 
 parent genuineness. He did not go so far that, in short, 
 was not needful for him for no high principle, in beauty 
 or elsewhere, was ever at stake with him. Earth had for 
 him no delight comparable with this basking in the sun-
 
 HORACE AND SUSAN. 1'Jl 
 
 shine this breathing in the perfume, and sipping the 
 honey cup of fashion. 
 
 Even to Susan Dillon's eye, the change that had come 
 over Horace since the day when she first met him, was 
 apparent ; and the recalled words of Mr. Leighton in that 
 very connection, could but make upon her mind an im- 
 pression disagreeable and abiding. 
 
 Isidore repeated his graceful and witty speeches to 
 amuse the child on those mornings when she spent a few 
 moments chatting in Susan's room. She was continually 
 referring to him as her attendant here and there ; and so 
 often was his name recalled, that it had been strange if 
 he had not been the frequent guest of Susan's thoughts. 
 She wondered if he were now at work as once he promised 
 himself. It must be so ; he seemed, for so she judged from 
 Isidore's words, so happy, and so well satisfied. 
 
 The first time of her descent to the library she was able 
 to ask these questions with her own eyes, if her voice did 
 not utter them. Horace came into the house from the 
 garden, sent by Isidore, who had assisted her father in 
 bringing Susan down the stairs. He was in no haste to 
 come he was not in a mood for mourning with one who 
 mourned. He was listless and unconcerned, and had evi- 
 dently well-nigh forgotten the fact of Susan's existence ; 
 he would, without reluctance, quite forget it. 
 
 It was a brief, unsatisfactory visit, and the more so to 
 Susan, because the change in Horace, and her inability 
 to talk with him, for he would not talk with her, left her 
 vexed and surprised at herself, on whom she was swift to 
 lay the whole blame of her dissatisfaction. Because she 
 was stupid, he could not say anything; but yet it was 
 not so once, when he talked on and on, and never cared 
 or knew whether she answered him or not. He was stiff, 
 distant, and repellant. He spoke to her of her father's 
 death but he so spoke of it that his words called up
 
 192 GETTING ALONG, 
 
 her answering words that might as well have come from 
 one who never knew a loss so did his presence and his 
 words restrain her. 
 
 He told her that Leah was not well, but not till Susan 
 said how pale she looked, and how tired, the day that she 
 came down to visit her not long ago ; he looked thought- 
 fully at Susan while she made this inquiry, and gave this 
 expression of her opinion about his sister's health ; and 
 Susan said, inwardly, observing him, " Poor fellow ! how 
 sadly he feels about it" but the thought had not escaped 
 her brain and touched her heart, when he disputed it, say- 
 ing, carelessly, " Oh, she will be well again in a day or 
 two," for he was thinking of Isidore in the garden, and 
 fretting against this momentary performance of the duty 
 to which the fair lady had bidden him. 
 
 It was as much a relief to Susan as to Horace, when 
 he did, after a few minutes' uninterested and meagre con- 
 versation, rise and take his leave. But Susan ought to 
 have known better than annoy him as she did. How 
 stupidly, how little to the purpose she had spoken ! 
 She ought not to have asked him what office he meant 
 when he spoke of the engineer's office she ought not to 
 have looked so disappointed when he gave her a vague idea 
 of his present occupations. She ought not to have said 
 how glad she was that he had come to St. John's, because 
 now he could find out how to make a good use of his 
 father's valuable tools, that were kept locked so safely 
 in the strong box, which he showed to her once, did he 
 remember ? She ought not, precious as every opportunity 
 to dwell upon the beach-life now seemed to her, and 
 eagerly as she seized on every chance to make utterance 
 of her love for all that she had lost in it, thus would she 
 atone confess retrieve for all the treacherous discon- 
 tent that she had felt, poor child ! she ought not to have 
 asked him if he recollected the ship and the church he
 
 LEAH. ll3 
 
 drew on the sand with the sharpened stick, the drawings 
 which, in the making, poor Span marred. Neither should 
 she have remembered the labors of the old time only a 
 few months back so well as to leave it possible for her 
 to ask if Leah would go on with her school again when 
 she grew stronger ? She should have said nothing that 
 she did say to this young gentleman genius she ought, 
 in fact, to have been anywhere rather than in the place 
 where she was to prove " such a deuce of a bore" to 
 Horace Chilton ; for such did he pronounce her, when 
 finally he made good his escape from her. Not, under- 
 stand, good reader, not that her questioning conveyed in 
 any, even the slightest degree, a reproach to the mind of 
 Horace for a voluntary fall, or for a neglect of the ad- 
 vantages whose absence he had often so bitterly deplored ; 
 but it was really too much of a tax on the time of a man 
 like him to sit there entertaining old Dillon's daughter. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 HORACE passed lightly over a most solemn fact when 
 he referred to the ill health of his sister. Indeed, he was 
 not aware of its nature, or the alarm for which there was 
 occasion. He was so hurried, so driven, absorbed, 
 distracted, he had no time for such discernment. He 
 did not see, he could not understand, these symptoms of 
 decaying life. He had, I say again, no time for a thought- 
 ful observation of them. <Did the lamp that was failing 
 and flickering know how nearly it was exhausted ?_ 
 
 Did it fail the faster, and flicker the more, because of 
 an evil, steady pressure on the atmosphere wherein it 
 burned, that failing lamp of life ? Did she, who would 
 willingly and gladly have striven till the extinguishment 
 that was coming had come, did she feel the heavier dis- 
 
 VOL. II. 9
 
 1J)4 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 appointment, and the deeper anguish, that was for him, 
 not for herself, because the loss was his, and only hers by 
 sympathy, which he could not appreciate or understand ? 
 
 She was spared this. She was left in her pleasant de- 
 lusion. It sometimes troubled her to know why affairs 
 went on as they did, and not otherwise, in the house ; but 
 still she was expectant only of the best good for Horace. 
 
 Well the facts of her brief history were told well they 
 were adjusted. 
 
 The quiet of the life that was drawing to a close was 
 marred by no doubt, no suspicion of her brother. Her 
 eyes saw only glory in his youth, and the promise of an 
 ever-brightening day. 
 
 In spite of the hardships encountered by her, Leah's 
 life had been a happy one. 
 
 The eye that delights in watching the conflicts of 
 passion that is clear and firm to behold the battle a 
 mighty nature wages between alluring evil and dissuad- 
 ing good would find, perhaps, no pleasure in following 
 a course so full of simple peace as hers. She had no 
 great and astounding temptations to combat. She was 
 open as childhood to all blessed influences. There wore 
 no dark corners of her heart to which the sun could bare- 
 ly penetrate. Every corridor stood open ; balmy breath 
 and shining sun had the freedom of the temple. 
 
 The experiences had been peaceful, but only because 
 she endured them with a peaceful heart. She had strug- 
 gled, but in meekness and purity, and with singleness of 
 purpose ; and her gentleness had carried her victorious 
 through all conflict. 
 
 Call it not defeat, or a frustration, kind heart, that she 
 should perish in her youth. That were to mistake death 
 and life. She had obtained her victory. Mourn not 
 that she should die, so little done. Do you think, in- 
 deed, that hers was a small achievement ? Was there no
 
 VIOLET'S SECRET. 195 
 
 depth of philosophy in the calmness of her submission? 
 Was there no triumph achieved when, ceasing to strive, 
 she was patient? She had striven while they would 
 allow, in labors of service, exhausting, but cheerfully ren- 
 dered for the household ; but when those human hands 
 prevented her, not in thoughtful love, and tender care, 
 and solemn fear, but in the very absurdity of pride and 
 vanity, from all further service, was it nothing that she 
 compelled her soul to submission, to quiet ? 
 
 Oh thou, who strivest in the wide paths of the world, 
 where crowds and tumults are, bethink thee if the victory 
 that crowns thy struggle shall avail thee as the humble 
 acquiescence of this heart ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 WE left Violet Silsey with an expectation in a small 
 whirl of excitement, which would certainly not abate one 
 jot until the result of Lucia's efforts in her behalf should 
 be determined. 
 
 Violet was not far wrong when she spoke of the change 
 in Silsey, which occasioned her so much anxiety. Her 
 eyes and her instincts were not at fault. In the battle 
 of thoughts and speculations he was growing old ; and he 
 was not happy. 
 
 He was troubled he was weary; he, too, thought 
 sometimes of a home in the quiet country, where ambi- 
 tion, or, rather, a sphere, for victorious struggle so he 
 put it, and rightly enough should allure him no longer 
 where the distractions of life should not vex him. For 
 he was ambitious and distracted. His purposes had met 
 with a life-long frustration ; at war with himself, he was 
 in conflict with the universe. He used means, and sought 
 ends ; but the means employed were such as never yet
 
 196 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 brought about the results which he, in spite of every sort 
 of denial, anticipated. If those results, commanding 
 position, and influence permanent, vast and glorious, wor- 
 thy the aspiration of a god, should be his, accident, not 
 himself, would confer them. A man, to achieve what he 
 sought and anticipated, must live for his purpose must 
 seek it with persistence, turning neither to the right 
 hand nor the left ; he must contract his greatness into 
 one blazing focus concentrate his manifold powers into 
 one predominating and most manifest power ; with ener- 
 gy he must direct and control himself self must never 
 control him. Silsey had not labored so he was too 
 universal a man ; you found him everywhere. He had 
 amassed immense stores of learning his resources were 
 vast; and to his own advantage, speaking in the language 
 of men, he could not control these forces. The people 
 do not make their presidents, and governors, and judges, 
 of such material. He was too great for fame too large 
 for office too impractical for any i: success " the world 
 seemed to have no place for him, and he wondered at 
 it. This was the most surprising thing of all. That he 
 should wonder that he should be disappointed that he 
 should not have anticipated the result that he should 
 sometimes look at Violet, and be astonished at himself 
 that such an one as she should occupy the place she held 
 in his home, his lodgings, rather, for it was not probable, 
 he said, that he should ever have a home and that, as 
 lie had assured her, that he should find in her, in her 
 alone, his summer-light, and beauty, and refreshment ! 
 
 But it was not a mystery it was the proper and need- 
 ful adjustment of circumstances and experiences for him. 
 Without that pure element of light in the dwelling with 
 him, what gloom had been there ! she was to his heart 
 what the hymns of childhood are to the memory of man 
 tender and sweet in their sanctity, tearful, but not bitterly
 
 SILSEY AND HIS WIFE. 197 
 
 so, in the weight of their recollection. She was his 
 summer-land and, as well, the bird that sang there, the 
 flower that blossomed there the brook that shone and 
 danced there. 
 
 Into the struggles which engaged him, Violet could 
 not enter, she could not go to him but he could come 
 to her. It made the blessedness of the fortune of each, 
 that this was so ... that she could not enter into all 
 his disquiets that he could enter into her rest. - 
 
 But the shadow of his trouble and gloom did overcast 
 her and sometimes did darken her heart with gloom. 
 Half the world would have told her, thoughtless or 
 thoughtful, that there was no occasion for her disquiet 
 that Silsey was yet in his prime, and never stronger, 
 never more vigorous that there was no dread of poverty 
 before his eyes no sinking of the heart when he looked 
 upon his helpless wife and child, thinking of their unpro- 
 vided future : the other half, in the spirit of amiable 
 assent, would have joined with her, abounding in the 
 consolations of dolorous acquiescence and commiseration, 
 and specified the ruin of the man tobacco ; and would 
 have set her on, no doubt, an exceedingly small tor- 
 mentor, to bark and snap and worry the good man out of 
 his weakness, or out of his life. 
 
 But it was the fact that Silsey was no longer vigorous 
 and strong, as he had been ; iior was tobacco the insid- 
 uous foe that accomplished his defeat. 
 
 Twenty-five found him with spent forces of nature and 
 fortune, at liberty to look about and within himself, as he 
 had never done since he dashed into life, and well-nigh 
 exhausted it. From twenty-five to thirty, he lived in a 
 desert ; thence, as he conceived, and in some respects 
 truly, he came forth a new man. and entered on the study 
 of the law . . . For a few years he continued in the 
 practice of the profession, but now, as we have seen, had
 
 198 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 abandoned it ... We will look at him and Violet 
 again. 
 
 It is now Saturday night, and Lucia Tree has for the 
 last half-hour been closeted with Violet Silsey . . . 
 Violet's week of anxiety is at an end . . . She sits in the 
 gathering darkness of her room but there is no gloom 
 there ; no noon-day sunshine ever made such brightness 
 as Violet sees now. She sits on the floor, by the cradle 
 side, and her head is bent down ; through the darkness 
 she looks on the baby's face, and beholds the glory around 
 it for all life is glorified to her now . . . That humble 
 room, with its cheap ornaments, is as full of life and 
 beauty as the heart of Violet can bear to see ; it is so full, 
 it could not receive more. 
 
 She thinks she will go to Silsey. But she does not 
 go ... If she should sing, perhaps he would come in to 
 her and sitting beside her there, the secret might some- 
 how come out, of itself; as it is, she knows not how it 
 will be told or how it can be. And so she tries to 
 sing no ! there is no such thing as that. The joy she 
 feels is too new it presses upon her so she is so awed 
 by it, so abashed, so confounded, that her voice trembles 
 even when she thinks of lifting it in song so she com- 
 passionates it, and lets it go. At one moment it is her 
 impulse to run and throw herself into his arms, and tell 
 him the marvellous thing that has happened but the next 
 she is so pent up and restrained, she has no power to 
 move. 
 
 The indecision is ended at length, for Silsey enters the 
 room he does not see the light : he does not apprehend 
 the glory that is there. 
 
 " How dark it is," he says. 
 
 And Violet who has so much to say, says nothing ; but 
 her heart cries out, " Dark ! it is heavenly bright !" 
 
 " If you will get me a light, Violet ; I 'm afraid to
 
 THE SECRET COMING OUT. 199 
 
 move for fear I shall upset you or the baby, or the 
 room ... I have a little work to do yet." 
 
 Now Violet speaks. Well she knows what that means 
 " a little work !" very likely some writing, or reading, or 
 thinking, that will keep him up long after midnight and 
 to night, this holy Saturday night, it shall not be. 
 
 " Come and sit down a little while, Silsey," she says ; 
 it is hardly entreaty but it is more certainly not 
 command. 
 
 " Is the baby sleeping ?" 
 
 " Yes, Silsey." 
 
 " Are you lonely, Violet?" 
 
 " No yes it don't make any difference ; come, Silsey, 
 sit down." 
 
 This is so unusual Violet so rarely persists in any 
 request that he seems disposed to disregard that Silsey 
 is surprised, and, yes, he is pleased also. 
 
 " Here is a chair by the cradle," she says rising, ad- 
 vancing, extending her hand through the darkness to 
 him ; in the darkness he takes it, and she leads him ! 
 
 " Don't work any more to-night. To-morrow is Sun- 
 day, and if you tire yourself so, you won't enjoy the rest." 
 
 " Rest," repeated Silsey, " a man at my time of life, 
 with a family to support, should be thinking of some- 
 thing besides rest/' Though he spoke lightly, or at- 
 tempted to do so, the heaviness of a sigh, and the reality 
 of anxiety, ran through the words. 
 
 " If I were wise, Silsey, like Miss Watson, you would 
 not be saying such things," said Violet, taking up the 
 words quickly, thinking they would help her on in what 
 she had to tell. " You would think then you had a help- 
 mate in me. I wish you had." 
 
 " Violet, you are very kind, but I cannot join with 
 you in the wish. Some people wish for things they have 
 already. Is n't that foolish ? You call me a wise man
 
 200 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 why do you not act as if you believed it ? I say I 
 have a helpmate ; now, if I am satisfied, why are not 
 you?" 
 
 " I like that," said Violet, quietly. 
 
 " And I mean it," said Silsey, as quietly. 
 
 "But did you ever read any of Miss Watson's books?" 
 she asks. 
 
 " Oh, yes; long before I read yours, Violet." 
 
 " Mine !" Violet laughs, but not with all her heart, 
 for her heart, as yet, is burdened with her secret, and 
 she stops short in the laugh. Would not this be a good 
 time to come out with the secret ? No not yet ! 
 
 "And did you t like them, Silsey?" 
 
 " There is a good deal in them. Rough prose it is. 
 Your book is poetry. That suits me better." 
 
 This speech is a beautiful riddle to Violet, and she 
 waits, and hesitates, as though she liked not to confess 
 how soon she had guessed it. That would not be respect- 
 ful. How easy it would be now to tell him all ; but 
 Violet thinks it anything but easy. She has a thousand 
 nameless fears that keep her from speaking her secret yet. 
 
 " But do you like Miss Watson the worse, Silsey, be- 
 cause she wrote books ?" 
 
 " Why, no, Violet ; I can't say that I do." 
 
 " And no better, either ?" 
 
 " No but she had an excuse." 
 
 " An excuse, did you say ? what is it that you mean ?" 
 
 " A reason for doing it, and an apology. She had 
 some good thoughts to say, and was poor. The apology 
 holds good, because, when she had told her thoughts once, 
 she did not go on repeating them like a parrot, but wise- 
 ly bound herself over to keep the silence. She is a wist; 
 woman. I like her, and her books, too. She is a good 
 woman besides, and I like her for that." 
 
 " I wish I were Miss Watson."
 
 BEATING THE BUSH. 201 
 
 " Then you would not be here. I would have no Vio- 
 let." 
 
 "Where would I be?" 
 
 " Up stairs, in the little hall room, alone, troubled and 
 sad." 
 
 " No. I should be here but this place would be so 
 different !" 
 
 " Because there would be no cradle here, and no old 
 man to bother you ?" 
 
 "No, no, Silsey you don't understand. I should 
 have you, and the baby, and the fame, and wisdom, alto- 
 gether." 
 
 " I should like you to tell me, Violet, how you think 
 that you and Miss Watson could live in one body togeth- 
 er ? I married one woman, and she is quite as much as 
 I can manage; what should I do with another, and she 
 so different ? Fame, Violet ? Was it your voice that 
 said that ?" 
 
 " But now, Silsey, what if I should actually write a 
 book ?" Violet's voice betrays a little anxiety. 
 
 Silsey laughs to hear that, as he has not laughed in her 
 hearing 'in many a long day. 
 
 " I should expect to see great, horrible eagle wings 
 growing out of a dove's breast," said he. " I should 
 fish for alligators and sharks in the river down by the 
 Elms, where we floated the paper-boats the other day. I 
 should expect bees to make honey out of what grows in 
 the hearts of bad men. I think I should want the world 
 to come to an end at once." 
 
 " Would it be so dreadful, Silsey ? asks Violet, half 
 fearful that he means what he is saying. 
 
 " It would be dreadfully unnatural." 
 
 " But I might make money by it." 
 
 " Oh, Violet !" The rebuke goes to her heart she 
 hastens on ; now he must understand her. 
 9*
 
 202 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " But what if I wrote something once, and never 
 thought of being paid for it wrote because I could not 
 help it and somebody found it out and somebody else 
 wanted the thing, to do good would you be angry, and 
 scold, if I let it go, and was paid, you know, Silsey ?" 
 
 He did not say. And therefore she continued hastily, 
 answering his silence, as she thought, " It is not too late, 
 Mr. Silsey. I can get it back ; I '11 return the money by 
 Lucia, and let her tell the man you don't like it. But I 
 am sure I meant no harm ... I knew you liked Miss 
 Watson ; and you knew she bought her place in the coun- 
 try with the money she made by her books, and so I 
 thought but it is such a very little sum, it will make no 
 difference. But still, Silsey, my name was not to be in, 
 and the man the editor I mean thought that was a 
 pity, he told Lucia ; but, of course, it 's not my name so 
 much as it is yours, and I would not have thought of 
 bothering you with folks talking about your wife. Lucia 
 was going to make some pictures to go along with it; but 
 I am glad I let you know first. I thought I would keep 
 my secret, but I could not; and I am glad of it ... 
 If you '11 go with me, I will take back the money to 
 Lucia, and she can see the editor in the morning, and 
 tell him and so it will be all right again." 
 
 Violet had risen ; she stood waiting for Silsey's words. 
 What said he to her ? 
 
 " Violet, get a light." 
 
 She 'started to obey him ; what was he going to do ? 
 She could guess nothing from his voice. Perhaps he 
 wanted to see well, in order to lecture her ; it might be 
 he was going to his study, to leave her in doubt till 
 morning; but, most likely, his next direction would be, 
 that she should put on her bonnet, and follow him, while 
 he led the way to the house where Lucia lived. 
 
 But for anything she was prepared, only he must not
 
 SPEAKING TO THE PURPOSE. 203 
 
 be angry with her. It was a high-handed thing that she 
 had done, but she was ready to repent and make amends ; 
 and she knew that there was time for the amends to be 
 made. Lucia had the poem in her hands, for the pur- 
 pose of preparing the sketches ; there would be no diffi- 
 culty about it, if Silsey would only make haste, and 
 speak out his thinking. 
 
 " Violet," he said, when the lamp was lighted and she 
 stood by the table, hesitating what she should do next, 
 until she saw how the light fell upon the baby's face, and 
 made haste to bring her veil to screen it, " Violet, sit 
 down again, and we will talk about this thing." 
 
 With a grave face Violet obeyed him, but she sat not 
 now by the cradle-side upon the floor, she took a chair, 
 and she rather straightened up herself. And Silsey ob- 
 served it all, and he tested this spirit ; but not that he had 
 any need to do so on her own behalf, not his. He de- 
 sired that she should know herself, that she should ex- 
 plain herself to him for her own soul's sake, that she 
 might understand her motives, and her hopes, the better, 
 by the vindication which she gave them, thinking that he 
 understood not. And then he said : 
 
 " Miss Watson's work cost her much toil and pain 
 yours nothing but delight, if I can perceive it. Yours 
 is better labor then not better for you, though, thai 
 hers for her. You could do nothing by drudgery. If a 
 bird has flown in at my window and cares to sing, shall I 
 hinder it ? You may sing, Violet ; but you shall not 
 work. I have no fear of your getting rich and proud 
 poets are not apt to do that, and it is very well for them ; 
 though some of them repeat the blunder of Esau. You 
 have not surprised me. I knew you were a poet long be- 
 fore ;" he paused a moment, and then, in the deep silence, 
 repeated a song that had often hushed Viola into slum- 
 ber. And what a sound it had from his lips ! " Oh,
 
 204 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 Silsey, how did you know?" exclaimed Violet, before he 
 had half finished the recitation. 
 
 " I knew," said he ; " it would be strange if. at this day, 
 I could say that I did not. I knew, because I understand 
 you, Violet, just as you do me." 
 
 / She thought his hand outstretched towards her she 
 thought his eyes said " come !" If she saw and read 
 amiss, at least the arms opened as she hastened towards 
 them ; if his eyes had no glances they, at least, had tears ; 
 she felt them : they ran down upon her face, they mingl- 
 ed with hers ; and she said, as the last lingering shadow 
 of a fear crept away from her heart, where it should find 
 no room more forever, " I would not be a wise woman 
 for the world. I am so happy." 
 
 And Silsey says, in his heart, " If Solomon were here 
 I woult 'nterrogate him if such wisdom as this is foolish- 
 ness." 
 
 But -tb his voice he says : " Violet, wisdom is not 
 merely in much learning it is in knowledge. Be satis- 
 fied in knowing the precious things you know." 
 
 And so Violet and Silsey kept their Saturday night ; 
 and the dark study did not for a moment draw the young 
 wife's lover from her side. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 WHEN Stella Gammon returned from her walk with 
 the nun, she found Lucia Tree walking about her room 
 restlessly, impatiently awaiting her return, for she had 
 merely dropped in at our John's street house to look at 
 Stella for a moment, and would have gone instantly away 
 again when she learned that her friend was out, but for 
 the curiosity excited by the piles of books, and the gen- 
 eral indications that diligent mental work was going on
 
 THE FINEST THING IN THE WORLD. 205 
 
 there. The changed room needed an explanation ; and, 
 though the afternoon was waning, still she lingered, mo- 
 mently expecting the return of her who could best give it. 
 
 Stella advances far into the room before she observes 
 that the place has already an inmate ; and Lucia has seen 
 the anxious and worn look of the face, that to her eyes 
 is the handsomest under the sun. 
 
 She does not wait to be perceived, but goes up to Stella, 
 with both hands extended it may have been Stella's sur- 
 prise that conduced to the warmth of her reception. She 
 certainly received her guest with open arms, and said, 
 not in her usual manner, but rapidly in a breath : 
 
 ' You are the very one of all others. Sit down. Will 
 told me not long ago what famous things you were doing 
 and by the way, I think Will is making a splendid fel- 
 low of himself. See, this is what I wanted of you. 
 What is your price ? I want a portrait from this draw- 
 ing. I wonder if your prices are ruinous ?" 
 
 Lucia frankly told them. She, beyond question, was 
 working for money. But she adds, " I never painted a 
 portrait. I cannot do it. Never but one." 
 
 " We will see about that some other time ;" replied 
 Stella, " this is only a copy you are to paint. I shall be 
 up every day to see what you are doing, and describe the 
 complexion, and hair, and eyes, and the expression of the* 
 face, and some other things. It is so grand a face you 
 will do it the more readily." 
 
 " But, Stella" 
 
 " Not a word you are to do it . . . And now tell me, 
 is all Will says of you true ? are you doing such great 
 things? are you very ambitious and proud, too ? Whose 
 mantle has fallen on you ? Is it not fine ? is it not the 
 finest thing in the world, Lucia, tell me, to have something 
 to do, something to think of when you get up, and when 
 you go to bed ? To be living for something ?"
 
 206 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " It is indeed ; but one would think I were doing some 
 great labor to hear me," said Lucia, checking herself in 
 the serious strain of the opening words. " It is only the 
 very small things I can do, Stella." 
 
 " Great or small, it makes no difference it's the some- 
 thing to be done. Sight to see it, will to do it; that 's 
 all. Who would have looked for a hero in this wild little 
 friend of mine, who seemed to have nothing more to do 
 on earth when she had grown up and could romp no 
 longer ? I shall believe, with Will, that you are the most 
 remarkable woman of your time. You never go gadding 
 about, sight-searching, now-a-days, I take it ; you work 
 from morning until night." 
 
 " Oh no, I don't but I must be gone," said Lucia, 
 starting up. " I have a long way to go yet. I told you 
 that I never came here, but I wished myself a thousand 
 miles off? dear me, I am wishing that same thing now. 
 This room will haunt me ; it is not nearly as pleasant as 
 it was, Stella, with all these books ; what have you been 
 doing to your room ? all these books, what do they 
 mean ?" 
 
 " I have been reading a little." 
 
 " A little ! is it that makes you so pale ? What are 
 you doing all the time ? How long it is since I saw 
 you ? You have not yet been down to our little home. 
 Of course, I do not expect that you ever will come there 
 nobody does ... no, you need not look at me in that 
 way. Not a soul comes near us. Of course I do not 
 expect you but yet we are not so miserably off as you 
 might think, Stella ... So you are going to be a learned 
 woman like Miss Watson ? do let mo get out while I 
 have the courage. Good-bye." 
 
 " Stay," said Stella, laying her hand on the arm of the 
 laughing girl. " You know you have been talking non- 
 sence. Where is Miss Watson ?"
 
 WHAT IS IT TO BE HAPPY. 207 
 
 " At her old lodgings. You might do worse than be 
 like her. How I hated that woman ! but I never hated 
 you, recollect. I was only afraid. She has done the 
 oddest thing !" 
 
 " What is it she has done ?" 
 
 " Made Violet Silsey fall in love with her !" 
 
 " Is that so odd ? What is Violet doing now ?" 
 
 " Growing beautiful and happy, and printing the sweet- 
 est poetry you ever read. And that 's what you will be 
 doing, I suppose." Lucia's face brightened, as though 
 she had made a true prophecy ; she turned from Stella 
 and looked at the laden table. " Did I not always tell 
 you?" 
 
 " What, pray ?" 
 
 " That you were remarkable." 
 
 " And do you really not know, Lucia, the remarkable 
 people are always drones in the hive ? What has be- 
 come of little Mr. Vane ?" 
 
 " He is at work," said Lucia. " Where is Layard ?" 
 
 " At the college." 
 
 " I wish you could see Violet Silsey she is the hap- 
 piest woman in the world." 
 
 " Then I should not see her, Lucia." 
 
 " Would you not ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I would but I should not ... It takes 
 very little to make some people happy, Lucia." 
 
 " Ay if they can only get at it." 
 
 " We ought, however, to be independent of circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " So we ought . . . if we could ! But I really must 
 go." 
 
 " Stay one moment, why does your Violet love Miss 
 Watson ?" 
 
 " I can but guess, my hearty." 
 
 " Guess aloud then, LucW
 
 208 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Because Mr. Silsey likes her so well." 
 
 " But, Lucia, it strikes me that is rather a singular 
 reason," said Stella. 
 
 " To be sure it is and such a triumph as it was when 
 I told Will ! It is because they are married, and just 
 because they are ! Do you see ? Say you do, or I shall 
 put you down with those filthy boarding-house people 
 who would rather die than own they understood it. 
 What have I said ! Good-bye now, in earnest.'' 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 LUCIA TREE had gone into Stella's room with some 
 thoughts that weighed heavily upon her, to ask counsel of 
 her friend. But she could find no utterance for them. 
 Stella's mind, in spite of all her efforts, betrayed its pre- 
 occupation, and so taking the sketch from which the por- 
 trait was to be made, with her, Lucia went down the 
 street till she came to the house in which her sister was 
 now living. Often she had passed by it since Rose went 
 down into that crowded, dusty, uncomfortable place ; but 
 never until now with the determination of entering in, 
 and discovering how life went on there. 
 
 She was going on a joyless mission to a ruined house- 
 hold ; solitary, and doubtful of the reception that awaited 
 her. She had not spoken to any one at home of her 
 purpose. She knew the opposition she would meet ; and 
 in her heart she was resolved on accomplishing the pur- 
 pose for which she was now here. 
 
 Without difficulty she found the room in which Rose 
 and her husband lodged. 
 
 Rose was alone in the cheerless apartment ; four bare 
 walls, defiled with filth, enclosed her an uncovered and 
 begrimed floor was undenHath her a broken ceiling
 
 THE SISTERS. 209 
 
 above. The furniture in the room was much too scant 
 for comfort, the bed was a loathsome heap. 
 
 They had taken the room furnished, evidently, and 
 here this wretched man and wife were dragging out their 
 miserable days in drunkenness and wrath. 
 
 When Lucia went into the room, having inquired her 
 way up into the third-story of the house, she found Rose 
 on her knees before the fire, kindling a few bits of wood 
 a battered tea-kettle stood on the hearth, ready filled with 
 water, waiting till the fire should be made. On the table 
 before one of the windows was the food for the approach- 
 ing supper. 
 
 Her eyes half blinded with smoke, Rose did not at 
 first recognize the figure that came in so quietly, and 
 glided rapidly towards her ; but the voice, the single ex- 
 clamation bursting from Lucia's lip, announced her, and 
 struggling to her knees, the wretched woman ran back to 
 the door, which Lucia had closed behind her, threw it 
 open again, and said in a low, angry tone : 
 
 " Go out . . . your are not wanted," 
 
 " But, Rose I came from home." 
 
 "Home! . . that's the reason," answered Rose, with 
 an elevated voice. " Go." 
 
 But Lucia, instead, advanced still farther into the 
 room, and took her stand resolutely by the table. 
 
 " I came to tell you about little Rose," said she. 
 
 " You mean you came to spy out the nakedness of the 
 land ! but I won't have you here. Go ! go, I say." 
 
 " No, Rose, I am not going. I shall stay till I have 
 told you," and Lucia thereupon sat down. 
 
 " Told me what, then ? be quick about it, Mortimer 
 will be home and a fine time you '11 have raising the 
 neighbors. You had best be quick about it ... I only 
 warn you." And Rose shut the door. " What about the 
 baby?" she asked, speaking more mildly, going up to Lucia.
 
 210 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Rose is growing beautiful, dear sister. She looks like 
 you." 
 
 " That is likely," said the mother, her eyes involunta- 
 rily moving toward the little glass that hung above the 
 table, but turning away again quickly from the haggard 
 presentation of herself she saw therein. 
 
 " She does, indeed, Rose ; mother says so. And Will 
 is so fond of her ! You would be surprised to see what 
 a grand nurse he makes. And father and mother are 
 pretty well. And you can see that I am . . . And now, 
 how are you, Rose ? Tell me, so that I can let them 
 know." 
 
 ' : I am well enough, thank you, as you can see as you 
 say. Now, if you have said all, you had better go." 
 
 Lucia rose from her chair as if responding to the sug- 
 gestion. But Rose had many things to say, of which the 
 moment before she had not thought. 
 
 " Does the baby talk any yet ?" she asked, quickly. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! she can call grandpapa as plainly as I can. 
 And father thinks so much of her ! and we all do. We 
 are keeping her for you, Rose. When you get a house, 
 Rose, and are a little better off, Will says " 
 
 " Oh, he wants to be rid of her !" 
 
 " Will ! why, Rose, how can you say it? if you knew 
 how hard he was working." 
 
 " Of course, all for my child, too !" 
 
 " No, I do not mean that," began Lucia, hastily, but a 
 glance at the wretched face before her checked her indig- 
 nation there was only room for pity in this place ; " dear 
 little Rose is the only pet he has his only amusement; 
 when he is home from the office, she is always on his knee, 
 or frisking about him. I don't know how he or any of 
 us would get along without her; but then she is yours, 
 you know and of course as soon as you are better 
 off"
 
 MUTUAL WRONG. 211 
 
 " Lucia Tree, do you know what you are talking 
 about ? 
 
 " Of course 1 do;" for the first time since the inter- 
 view the sisters stood side by side. 
 
 " Look about you look at me ! You know as well as 
 I that we shall never be one bit better off. It is an insult 
 to say anything about it. I consider it so." 
 
 " Oh, Rose, why do you say that ? You are young yet 
 just think how young ! Why, even father seems to be 
 growing younger and younger every day." 
 
 " He does ?" said Rose, shortly, and, as she would 
 have had it appear, without much interest in the informa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Yes and he really seems to enjoy work better than 
 ever." 
 
 It was hard to offer resistance to the kind voice and 
 looks of Lucia Tree. A nature like hers, joyous and pure, 
 demands, in its contact with others, the best that they can 
 give. In spite of her ungracious words and mood, Rose 
 seemed to have some sense of this. 
 
 " But father was getting old," Rose said, with a gentle 
 voice. " He was very gray and since he must be 
 grayer." 
 
 " Oh, no, I do not think so ! I tell him there is one 
 wrinkle less in his face every day of his life. I expect to 
 see him a young man again." 
 
 " Your father is a different man from mine, then," said 
 Rose, bitterly, after a momentary silence. 
 
 " No, no ! indeed ! he is the same to both our own 
 dear father, Rose." Lucia's arm had somehow found its 
 way around her sister's slender waist. Rose instinctively 
 recoiled from the embrace, yet she submitted to it. 
 
 " Then it is you who have made him different," said 
 she, surveying her young sister in serious meditation. 
 " It was not mother. It is her fault that he and the rest
 
 212 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 of us, I meau I, were no better. She never looked after 
 me. I did as I would I went away from home; I ran 
 away because it was no home." 
 
 " Oh, Rose that 's that 's dastardly !" yet there was 
 only sorrow in the voice that pronounced that word of 
 judgment. 
 
 " But it is true," persisted Rose. " I know I know 
 what you are, and Will ; but I know what I am, and 
 what she is, though there 's no use of our talking of it 
 that is true enough." 
 
 " I brought you a present, Rose," said Lucia, now speak- 
 ing quickly, and in some excitement making the best of a 
 uot very good opportunity, for she fancied that she had 
 seen in the last two or three minutes symptoms of relent- 
 ing in Rose the poor face was less rigidly set against 
 her its muscles were relaxed the eyes looked not 
 fierce, nor angry, nor sullen ; it was difficult, however, 
 for Lucia to interpret their expression quite to her sat- 
 isfaction. 
 
 As she spoke, she extended her hand : 
 
 " Some day, Rose, I am going to bring down some of 
 my work to show you I think you would like it. I ain 
 making money by it did you ever hear the like ?" 
 
 And Lucia burst into a laugh, which, however, was not 
 an infectious, communicable laugh, nor was it the most 
 merry and uncontrollable you ever heard. 
 
 " I want no presents," said Rose, putting back Lucia's 
 hand, without so much as glancing towards the proffered 
 gift. 
 
 " But I am getting very rich, I do assure you, Rose. 
 And I earned it myself, and you can have it better th:m 
 not ... do ! you make me very unhappy, Rose." 
 
 Lucia spoke in a suppressed, pleading voice. She 
 would not be put back but the elder sister still resisted 
 her.
 
 THE GIFT REJECTED. 213 
 
 " You are not offended, Rose ? . . . I did not mean to 
 vex you. I thought, being my sister, we must be alike. 
 And I know how glad I was, not long ago, when a friend 
 helped me to some work and now that I can help father 
 ... I am sure, Rose, being sisters, I thought we must 
 be alike and you would not be prouder than I was, but 
 just glad, you know." 
 
 " I never was like you," said Rose, shortly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think you were, only better looking ; and 
 you know more. Do you really want me to go, Rose ? I 
 am afraid that you have been sick. Oh, do let me help 
 you. Can't I do something now while I am here, or up 
 home for you ? . . . Do, dear Rose, say something, and 
 let us be friends. I am sure we ought to be. I am sure 
 I love you, Rose." 
 
 " You ?" Rose looked at Lucia, unbelieving. 
 
 " I ? why, yes. I am sure I do. And I think that 
 you and I can do a great deal for each other, if you will 
 only talk. But do not stand off, so far away. Come, 
 Rose, let me get up close to you, and talk." 
 
 " Talk, then," said Rose ; but she seemed as distant 
 as ever. 
 
 " And you will not be offended 1 ?" 
 
 " Where is the use 1 There is no getting rid of you." 
 
 " That sounds like Will," said Lucia, taking up the 
 ungracious words pleasantly. He says I have a burr- 
 sticking faculty," she added._ But Lucy used not Will's 
 words in- quite the connection he had used them. 
 
 " You want to know how we are getting on," said Rose; 
 for, having gone thus far, Lucia had for a moment hesi- 
 tated, uncertain how far, and in what direction, she might 
 venture. " You might see there is no need of asking. 
 It 's well enough, though. Mortimer has found something 
 to do. I cannot tell what. We have all we want ; so, I don't 
 mean to be hateful, but you can keep what you brought."
 
 214 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 Lucia was silent. Rose, after a momentary hesitation, 
 went on rather more graciously : 
 
 " If you have no need for it, let Will use it for the baby." 
 
 " But we do not need it, Rose indeed we do not." 
 
 "Nor I, Lucy." 
 
 " Ah, but you are proud now." 
 
 " This looks like it, truly," said Rose, glancing around 
 the room. 
 
 " Yes, it does. Standing out so against me, the only 
 sister you have, Rose, in the wide world." 
 
 " It would be better if I had no relatives," said Rose 
 bitterly. 
 
 " Oh, Rose, how can you say it ?" 
 
 " I don't mean for myself. It makes no difference to 
 me nothing does." She looked for a moment as if lost 
 in her hopelessness. " But for you to have such a rela- 
 tion." 
 
 " Come home with me," cried Lucia in her heart, but 
 she dared not speak the words aloud. 
 
 " It seems so strange to hear you, Rose," she said, 
 more kindly than reproachfully, though reproach was in 
 the voice. 
 
 " It must be pleasant !" exclaimed Rose. " You would 
 like all your friends to look in here, I suppose, and see 
 us as we are !" 
 
 " Outside our house I have but two friends in the 
 world. Yes I should be willing to have them come in, 
 if they could help us any." 
 
 " Do not use that word again," said Rose hastily. 
 
 " Why ? It is a pleasant word to me. What are 
 friends good for, if not for help ?" 
 
 " I am looking for Mortimer every moment. I think 
 you had better go, Lucia, unless you want to meet him." 
 Rose turned from Lucia to the hearth, and partly extin- 
 guished the fire, which was now blazing fiercely.
 
 IN THE ATTIC. 215 
 
 Lucia hesitated. 
 
 " Come again ; but you had better go now. I forgot 
 how late it was," said Rose anxiously. 
 
 " If you want me to go, Rose " 
 
 " Yes, yes you had better." 
 
 " I shall come again." 
 
 " Come, then, and tell me about the baby." 
 
 " And, Rose, you will try and feel happier will you, 
 for my sake ? I know things will go easier." As she 
 spoke, she kissed Rose once and again. 
 
 Rose did not refuse, but neither did she return the 
 fond salutation ; and Lucia went away with the rejected 
 gift, which was a small bank-note, not by any means 
 with the feeling of one who had been vanquished in an 
 enterprise. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 THERE were two great thoughts in Stella Gammon's 
 mind when the laughing Lucia left her. She kept them 
 there all night, and in the morning went up to see Miss 
 Watson in her lodgings. 
 
 " Let me go into her room," said she to the maid who 
 waited on the door; and, without more ceremony, she 
 followed the girl up the stairs to the tiny hall room in 
 the attic. 
 
 " Tell her I am in waiting here," she said, loud enough 
 to be heard by the inmate of the room, when the maid, 
 so bidden, opened the door. 
 
 Miss Watson heard the voice. 
 
 " Stella, come in," she said immediately. And so 
 Stella went in. 
 
 The lady was busily occupied with her writing. She 
 looked up as Stella entered, motioned her to sit down in 
 the chair from which she arose, betaking herself to the
 
 216 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 bedside for a seat ; and for ten succeeding minutes she 
 went on with her occupation, as if the intrusion had not 
 occurred. 
 
 Stella's eyes, meanwhile, glanced round the room, and 
 met but a barren prospect : uncovered walls, not quite as 
 white as snow, a common dressing-table, one of the com- 
 monest, to be minute, the chair referred to, a small 
 stand and chest of drawers, the bedstead and a trunk. 
 Not a flower, not a picture, not an ornament of any de- 
 scription. Was not this a nature that could appreciate 
 the refinements and graces of life ? Did her thoughts 
 soar too high for their observation ? Her garden at the 
 Elms seemed to speak better things of her, and her own 
 appearance and manner said better things of her. It was 
 evident that she could deny herself that to her inward 
 sense the serene joys of art were evermore revealed 
 were her refreshment and delight. 
 
 When she had finished her letter, she folded and sealed 
 it ; and, putting it aside, turned graciously towards Stella, 
 who, aware of the presence into which she had come, and 
 calmed and soothed by that presence, had ample time to 
 survey again the intent with which she had come hither, 
 and, also, to retreat from the position she had not yet be- 
 trayed, if such should be her pleasure. 
 
 When Miss Watson, turning toward her, said: 
 
 "How art thou?" She answered with the same sig- 
 nificance of tone : 
 
 " I came that thou should'st tell me." 
 
 " Thou look'st not well." 
 
 " I am not.' 
 
 " What ails thee ? What hast thou done to thyself?" 
 
 " I have been on a search." 
 
 " For what ?" 
 
 " Wisdom." 
 
 " And hast come back from a fruitless voyage ?"
 
 AFLOAT AGAIN. 217 
 
 "I have been trying to study," said Stella, suddenly 
 dropping the figure, and coming out with the fact. 
 
 " Very well I am glad of it." 
 
 " But just as I was in the midst of it " 
 
 "Midst of what ?" 
 
 " Study I am broken up, and all afloat again." 
 
 " Alas, poor child !" sighed Miss Watson, leaning 
 back in her chair ; and, lifting her eye-glass for a mo- 
 ment, she bent a look upon her guest. 
 
 '' I am going now to do one of two things," said Stella 
 quickly, not quite liking nor understanding the pitying 
 word and look of her listener. 
 
 But, having said this, she paused. Miss Watson was 
 silent, but attentive. Her silence embarrassed Stella ; 
 still she knew, that if she would profit by the wisdom of 
 her friend, she herself must be open as day. This was 
 the one thing required of whosoever would share the 
 riches of Miss Watson. 
 
 " I am either going to write a book, or I shall down 
 to teach a school among the heathen of this city. Which 
 shall I do ? if you can and will, tell me. I know you 
 can, but, perhaps, you are impatient that I should have 
 interrupted you to-day." 
 
 With a slight wave of her hand, Miss Watson dis- 
 pensed with a score of words with which she might have 
 re-assured the inquirer, and said : 
 
 " For which enterprise do you feel yourself best quali- 
 fied ? Do you know anything about school-teaching 
 what the business is when one comes to do it ?" 
 
 " I think so," said Stella. 
 
 Miss Watson shrugged her shoulders with signifi- 
 cance. " Pardon me I hardly think you do. /I have 
 had a little experience that way, under the most favora- 
 ble circumstances. It does not incline me to believe 
 that, under the worst auspices, you would " Stella 
 
 VOL. II. 10
 
 218 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 looked so grave, and listened in so much anxiety, that 
 Miss Watson broke suddenly off in the midst of her dis- 
 couraging words, and said in a livelier tone : 
 
 " Tell me now, honestly, what you mean what is your 
 motive ?" 
 
 " To be of use in the world," said Stella, in a broken 
 undertone, but her look was lofty and. determined. 
 
 " What were you going to write a book about?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Then whatever else you do, attempt not that, I be- 
 seech you ; if there is not something in you that will be 
 said, in spite of you, be dumb." 
 
 " But I tell you, Miss Watson, I must and will have 
 something to do. I have, since I saw you, been en- 
 deavoring to busy myself in books. I cannot do it : say 
 because I am so full ofi_woman's nervous impatience and 
 disquiet,} say what you will. I cannot, live a student. 
 For my brain's sake, and my soul's sake, I must have 
 active employment among human beings. I am not 
 learned, I do not expect ever to be, I do not care to be 
 murder will out ! I am standing here all the day idle." 
 
 " You cannot bear the confinement of study, I see you 
 cannot ; you have been making an exhausting experi- 
 ment," said Miss Watson, soothingly. "But I know, 
 moreover, that you could not live in the place of which 
 you are speaking. The air is poison, and the work, it 
 seems to me, not yours. This new fancy I will not call 
 it this project, I believe, has only appeared to you a 
 feasible one, because, in your present state of mind, some- 
 thing has attracted your attention towards it. You are 
 not so patient as a teacher amongst those people would 
 need to be. Such a work would require a different kind 
 of fortitude from yours." 
 
 <: I believe I am fit for nothing, then, but to be miser- 
 able," said Stella, sorrowfully. " But I know I am not
 
 NOT UNTO DEATH! 219 
 
 alone in my desire though it seems to me I am in every- 
 thing else. Everywhere people are at work, doing good 
 and great things. I know a gay young girl, full of fun 
 and frolic, who made a play-house of the world till a few 
 weeks ago. You would think a miracle had been per- 
 formed, if you knew what she is doing. She has gone to 
 work before me. 6he had no difficulty in finding out 
 what she should do. I don't think she ever had any 
 thought about it at all, while I, it seems to me, I have 
 always been running about seeking for some one to help 
 me and give me something to do." 
 
 " And is not the lesson you are to learn precisely this ? 
 Your friend's affections, the absolute necessity she was 
 under, settled the point for her at once. There was no 
 chance for vagueness of aim or effort. She perceived 
 what she could do, and proceeded to do it. I have known 
 a hundred such workers. There is one in the room 
 below at this moment. They are happy, for their work 
 is done in the natural way. But as for you you dis- 
 quiet yourself in vain. You are all wrong. I wish that 
 you might go off on a long voyage ; it would do you good." 
 
 ' : Is it so needful that one should be relieved of all 
 serious thought ?" 
 
 " Yes, if he has manifestly nothing to do with it and 
 can get nothing from it. Evidently he is not minding 
 his own business. It is above all things needful that one 
 should be in a healthful condition ; which you are not." 
 
 " Believe me notwithstanding, this sickness is not unto 
 death ! I know it is not !" exclaimed Stella, in a clearer, 
 more resolute tone than she had yet found during this 
 interview. 
 
 Miss "Watson was struck by it. 
 
 " It would be a case of suicide if it proved unto 
 death," said she. " But," she continued more cheerfully, 
 " my dear, what made you think of book-making ?"
 
 220 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 "Perhaps because I was driven to an extremity," re- 
 plied Stella, despondingly ; " and," she added, as if taking 
 vengeance on herself, " perhaps because I was ambitious." 
 
 " You ! of what? Praise? You cannot be so foolish. 
 WJjat is praise ? who can praise you ? would you take 
 complacence in your own works ? do you want rewards ? 
 would you not be debased, beyond hbpe of retrieval, if 
 you sought honor of men? . . . Would you put your 
 heart in a book to have it broken by a clown's whip, that 
 the people in the pit might laugh ? Reserve yourself. 
 Be persuaded that you were not made for that. The 
 school-teaching best befits you; and that seems an absurd, 
 ill-judged disposition of yourself. Woman alive ! for 
 alive you are beyond question, you were made for society. 
 And if you need that I should say it, for guiding it. If 
 the ' ehip of state ' needs wise heads and strong hearts to 
 roan and direct it. the gayer craft of society needs no less 
 a wise head, and generous heart, and courageous soul. It 
 is your very sphere ; you must marry, and take your place." 
 
 Miss Watson read a decided rejection of this counsel 
 in Stella's face, which grew proud and distant, like a 
 haughty spirit in retreat. 
 
 " You must stay and hear me out," she continued. 
 " You look as if you would be beyond call in a moment. 
 Come ! humble yourself, and sit down to an old woman's 
 preachment, and confess yourself, for a moment at least, 
 a miserable sinner. You are all that. When I tell you 
 to marry, I mean it; but I do not intend you should 
 advertise for a husband in the way that is decidedly com- 
 mon and unclean. You need not marry this week nor 
 the next. And you need not throw yourself away on a 
 young or an old roue for you would thus, as thousands 
 like yourself do, you would destroy what influence you 
 might have had, in the outset ; and because such immoral- 
 ity, respectable though the world may deem it, must, by
 
 OCCUPY ! 221 
 
 a law of nature, act evilly within, as well as without, you; 
 and you would deserve your fate if society cast you out 
 as unfit to be recognized among honorable people. 
 Marry a man you trust and love ; one who respects and 
 loves you in the sense that you receive whatsoever is of 
 good report, and love whatever commends itself to you as 
 pure and beautiful. Believe me, I am speaking what is 
 the best truth for you. Study as much as you will, and 
 with a view to being of use ... I will borrow Mr. 
 Silsey's microscope some day, and give you a new idea, per- 
 haps, in regard to that little, ill-understood word, USE. 
 If one may pretend or presume to comprehend you, I 
 believe you are honest in your wish to be of service. Let 
 people, let men and women, see that your mind is not a 
 whirligig that you have a purpose, that you have ascer- 
 tained it and that you* are brave enough to live for it. 
 That you have some depth of moral principle. That you 
 scrupulously regard the ten commandments. That your 
 children, if you have any, are yours, and that you regard 
 them as such eminently worthy your care and atten- 
 tion. That you are a wife and a mother, as well as a 
 leader in society, and a cultivated woman. That you are, 
 in short, a human being, with a heart in your keeping, and 
 a soul. If you take your place in this way, it is your 
 place ; if you fill it, you will find, 1 think, that your day- 
 duties will quite exhaust the strength to be found in 
 night slumbers. You will be living the life of a reason- 
 able creature. Enjoying as much as will be for your 
 good but not a whit more, if you know how to take it. 
 You have my advice. It goes a little further than my 
 former lecture, for I perceive you have gone a little 
 further yourself. If we should talk all day about it, I 
 could say nothing more, or better. I speak from observa- 
 tion and experience society has a place for you. Go 
 forward and occupy it."
 
 222 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 Many were the words of reply which passed through 
 Stella's mind, but she uttered none of them ; speechless 
 she remained while Miss Watson pursued her lecture. 
 
 The silence that followed the speaker's words was un- 
 broken by any word of hers. Presently, therefore, Miss 
 Watson approached her ; bending low, she kissed her, 
 whispering, " Go home and think of these things. I have 
 given you advice I would have taken had another given 
 it to me when I was of your age. I should, perhaps, 
 have been happier. Believe me I speak truth to you." 
 
 Without a word, Stella arose and went away. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 WHEN Lucia returned from her visit to Rose, she had 
 resolved to inform Will of the mission in which she was 
 engaged, and also of some of its h,opes, but not all of 
 them till he should be better prepared to receive them, 
 and enter into the work they would necessitate. 
 
 The opportunity that presented itself for this display 
 of confidence was not, however, employed for any such 
 purpose. Will stood on the door-step waiting for her 
 when she came home again, and was so occupied with his 
 own thoughts that he neither observed the lateness of the 
 hour, nor the unusual fact that Lucia had been out at 
 such a time alone. 
 
 He had been away into the woods with Wadsworth 
 Vane, as he proceeded to tell her, closely observant, at the 
 same time, of the manner of reception his information 
 met. They had wandered about among the fallen leaves, 
 and, he said, had talked for hours together ; and Vane 
 came back with him to the house to take leave of Lucia, 
 for he was going away that night.
 
 NEWS. 223 
 
 " Going where ?" asked Lucia, somewhat disturbed, as 
 Will perceived with secret satisfaction. 
 
 " Going home," he answered. 
 
 " He has no home." 
 
 " To the place where he was born, then." 
 
 And why, Will ?" 
 
 " Oh, he has an old flame of some sort out there," said 
 Will, carelessly. 
 
 " Did he tell you ?" 
 
 " As good as that." 
 
 "He never told me of it," said Lucia, trying her best 
 to appear no more than surprised. 
 
 " The fact is, Vane is an odd fellow," said Will. " Sim- 
 ple as he seems, you don't find him out in a minute." 
 
 " I never thought him simple," remarked Lucia. 
 
 " No. He is, in fact, quite too complex. Did you 
 know his father was alive ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Perhaps you knew, then, that Vane was going 
 away ?" 
 
 "No I did not." Will thinks he shall not under- 
 stand all that puzzles him quite so rapidly as he antici- 
 pated. 
 
 " The old man is in trouble, and Vane is going to see 
 about it," he continued. 
 
 Slowly Lucia looks around into Will's face, and she 
 smiles out the secret of her heart ^..not another word do 
 they exchange. Until she lies down on her bed Lucia 
 has forgotten Rose, and recurring at this time to the re- 
 cent visit she has made, she is glad to have it so. She 
 will go again to Rose before she makes her visit known 
 to Will ; and she falls asleep thinking of Vane.
 
 224 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 ROSE needed not to have been in such haste to relieve 
 herself of her sister's presence on account of the speedy 
 return of her husband, for he did not return home until 
 the evening was far advanced. 
 
 It was chiefly a dread of his coming that induced her 
 to send Lucia away but this was not the sole reason. 
 To Rose the presence of her young sister was distressing. 
 A reproach too keen and searching to her own false, wasted 
 life was given, unawares, by that faithful, buoyant, joyful 
 nature. 
 
 When the door closed behind Lucia, Rose sat down to 
 think upon the visit; she recalled her sister's words the 
 hope Lucia had drawn from the youth of Rose. But what 
 was that youth ? Her health long since was exhausted ; 
 feeble, wasted, and despairing, she had not the nerve, or 
 brain, or courage, for any manner of exertion such as could 
 be attended with any really good result. 
 
 Death, she said, and felt, was the only prospect for her. 
 Death, lingering or speedy, as the case might be. But 
 ... it might have been so different ! 
 
 To deaden, not to quicken thought, to deliver herself 
 from the tantalizing it might have been, and the horror 
 of the impossibility of it shall be, the unhappy woman 
 resorted, there was no other resource left for her, to the 
 opiate which had oftentimes given her relief, deliverance 
 from herself. 
 
 But it did not serve her thus in this extremity did not 
 deaden thought, but, instead, brought out the recollections 
 of former times and scenes into startling relief before her 
 eyes. She looked back to her wedding-day, and the youth 
 that went before; the years that followed after; and upon 
 the age that had prematurely fallen upon her, such age
 
 THE DESPERATE DISEASE. 225 
 
 as has no joy, no hope, no deliverance ; decrepitude of 
 heart and soul pertaining to it, infirmity of will belong- 
 ing to it its prospect desolation, dreariness and the 
 tortures of self-accusation and shame, because of the un- 
 holy, hopeless prospect. The past intolerable, because 
 of its guilt, the future on account of its nameless terrors 
 and despair. 
 
 She looked from herself, from the misery of her own 
 present, to the scene which Lucia had described in outline, 
 and which she filled into a perfect picture, aided by her 
 excited imagination. Her father, in spite of the disgrace 
 which through her had fallen on his age. growing younger 
 every day made happy by his children . . . happiness 
 in that home ! long she thought over the strange problem. 
 And of little Rose growing up under such guardianship 
 . . . She recalled Lucia's words, which had stirred up 
 her soul only to mako its misery more hopeless from con- 
 scious inability to follow out any suggestion that pointed 
 to future integrity of life. It is the awful anguish of this 
 hour, that while she sees a good that might be attained 
 by her own resolute endeavors, by an indefatigable per- 
 sistence in vigilant well-doing, she falls exhausted from 
 the excitement of the thought, unable to receive it, be- 
 cause already she has destroyed the faculties by which to 
 achieve, and has retained alone the faculty by which she 
 can perceive all that she has lost. 
 
 {The remembrances that rushed upon her soiled and de- 
 faced womanhood she could not endure. Bring to the 
 roused sense a heavier opiate deaden the thought that 
 lashes her soul with the stripes of remorse and shame ! 
 Soon, she knows, there will arrive an Eternity which has 
 no opiates . . . sleep and forgetfulness now, at any 
 price ! - 
 
 It is a heavy draught she quaffs in her desperation ; 
 and now the terrible memory is vanquished ; it lies dumb, 
 10*
 
 226 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 powerless. Slumber binds her senses. The body and 
 the mind repose. 
 
 And by-and-bye, as time went on, the fire went out upon 
 the hearth there was no light there. 
 
 Towards midnight Maurice, the husband of Rose, came 
 home. 
 
 He went up the dark stairway with unsteady step. He 
 knew his destination, and also when he came to it, but 
 little beside. Opening the door of the chamber he groped 
 forward to the mantel, took down the lamp, and lighted 
 it with a match. 
 
 As he did so, his eyes fell upon the chair where his 
 wife sat sleeping. 
 
 " Come, Rose, 1 ' he said, " I want my supper ; since you 
 are up yet, fly around I '11 take a good strong cup of 
 tea." 
 
 But Rose did not answer. 
 
 This hardly surprised him : he thought that she was 
 sleeping, and, in a louder voice, he said : 
 
 " Rose, a cup of tea, do you hear ? a cup of tea, Rose. 
 Come, stir yourself ! I want a cup of tea, a good strong 
 cup of tea." 
 
 He arose, crossed the hearth, and laid his hand on her 
 arm. but she never moved. He shook her gently, less 
 gently, roughly, passionately; but she slept on. He 
 listened to her breathing, and muttered drunkenly some- 
 thing about the monstrous injustice of a man beiug cursed 
 with a drunken wife ; and talked about the probability of 
 a divorce. 
 
 Placing the lamp upon the table, he drew the chair he 
 had occupied across the hearth, and sitting down in front 
 of his wife he began to talk to her. His own words led 
 him on. His own confused thoughts maddened him, as 
 did her placid slumber, the fire found its way into his 
 brain he was beside himself.
 
 THE DEED DONE. 227 
 
 He took her hands and held them in his, as in a vice, 
 but she stirred not ; he brought the lamp and held it in 
 her face, but neither the bright light, nor the heat which 
 scorched eye-lash and brow, moved her. Still she slept 
 that heavy sleep that was deep, almost, as the sleep of 
 death. 
 
 Then he arose, and walked in great excitement, mut- 
 turing, up and down the room. At the door of the 
 chamber he at last stood, watchful, listening, trying to 
 reflect, and to collect his thoughts. He walked about un- 
 steadily, yet with light and cautious tread. A thought is 
 lurking in his brain ; but he dare not call it out into full 
 light, and steadily survey it. At length of its own energy it 
 comes forth, and his brain is in a whirl and a blaze and 
 in the shadows of the chamber up and down flashes the 
 knife he has taken from the table, with which he now is 
 playing! . . . 
 
 There is blood on his hand on the knife ! 
 
 What is this ! the drooping head, the pale face, grow- 
 ing deathly white, the solitary, long drawn breath oh, 
 where is Rose, Maurice ? She has gone without a struggle 
 away, away oh, whither ? 
 
 What is this that has changed the poor room in an in- 
 stant ? It is an obscure and lonely place no longer. It 
 is a chamber of devils its walls open ! it fills all space 
 . . .it is the Universe it is eternity ! The braggart 
 awakened, alive to the deed he has wrought, may skulk 
 down, he does ! down the dark stair-way, into the dark 
 street, he may fly oh, does he not? through the city 
 streets, away om to the country highway to the world's 
 end ! but she is with him . . . sighing breath, and bleed- 
 ing breast, and deadly pallor of cheek are her image ! 
 she goes with him to the world's end, as she promised at 
 the altar ; more faithfully than any other that promise is 
 fulfilled. He flies, and she is the companion of his jour-
 
 228 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 ney. Wher? will he find the divorce of which he talked 
 but now ? Into what court will he go and plead her in- 
 fidelity ? Does she not cleave to him ? is she not ever 
 with him ? was ever faithfulness like this ? Through all 
 going out and coming in she is beside him ; her voice is 
 ever in his ear ; he sees no face but hers, it shines be- 
 tween his and all other faces ; and the mark of the bap- 
 tism of blood is upon her. 
 
 He makes no delivery of himself to justice, and jus- 
 tice never finds him . . . Does she not ? She opens for 
 him none of her prison-grates, puts no fetters on him. 
 There is no trial for him ... Is there not ? Is there 
 no prison save the heavy pile of mason-work, with its 
 grates and bars of iron ? What think you is this blue 
 vault of heaven, and the grass-grown earth of the world 
 to the eye and the sense of guilt ? Ever the sentence 
 of death is sounding in his ears. Upon his bed, in 
 dreams, in the helplessness of her slumber, Rose sleeps 
 beside him. The eyes of death are on him blood on 
 his hand death in his heart ! Where is his place on 
 earth ? Who will point it out for him ? who will main- 
 tain him in it ? who will assure it to him ? There is no 
 rest for Mortimer Maurice . . , a fugitive and a vaga- 
 bond he goes seeking his place of rest and shelter and 
 for evermore is seeking it ; and he shall never find it. 
 
 XL. 
 
 IN the parlor to which Stella bent her steps on her re- 
 turn home from Miss Watson's room, waited Mr. Falcon, 
 who had come with the message Susan, the night before, 
 had besought him to deliver he waited to deliver it in 
 person. 
 
 When he has made known the object of his call, Mr.
 
 THE SMOOTHING OF ROUGH PLACES. 229 
 
 Falcon seems in no haste to take himself away ; and yet, 
 when he came hither he had no other thing to say. But 
 time goes on, how it happens Stella would find it impossi- 
 ble to tell, and the street-preacher of yesterday is the 
 house-preacher of to-day, and he seems to be speaking to 
 more purpose than preacher has ever before spoken to 
 this listener. 
 
 He is making rough places smooth by his talk he pro- 
 pounds great mysteries in those simply-uttered words ; for 
 once Stella's eye is single, for it looks at truth through 
 his, and strangely is her spirit filled with light. This has 
 happened to her in less degree when she has been with 
 him before ; but now the light does not glimmer, it shines, 
 pervading all things, and resistless. She, Stella, mean- 
 while wonders at him, at herself, at the universe of 
 thoughts and things ; but she is fearful she is cautious ; 
 once to the speaker who had spoken thus she would have 
 poured out her heart with not the reservation of an in- 
 stinct, or an impulse. But Stella has grown weary, ever 
 since she came into his presence. She has, on the whole, 
 been so many times deceived, has received, after all her 
 seeking, so little good at the hands of others, that she is, 
 at the least, distrustful of herself and them. She be- 
 gins to believe, and this morning's experience has helped 
 to confirm the belief, that others can give her nothing. 
 And, as to herself ! 
 
 She will not, on any topic, speak out her mind, for 
 whither might the speaking lead ? She is reserved and 
 cautious and the more so, beyond doubt, because this is 
 the man under whom, last night, in lonely meditations, 
 she thought (remembering the words he had spoken to the 
 fallen and the falling, the desolate and forsaken, the hungry 
 and the naked) it would be a blessed privilege to labor. 
 
 She is prudent, quiet, philosophical, sententious. She 
 is ? So she believes. But the blood flows faster through
 
 230 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 her veins than through the veins of prudent reserve, or 
 a self-possessed quietude. And Mr. Falcon does not lis- 
 ten with attention so absorbed in what she says, that he 
 cannot interpret what her eyes are uttering, the confess- 
 ion of belief they constantly are making. And the good 
 man is not a little troubled by his observations. " She 
 is so much better than she knows," he thinks ; " but what 
 strange affectation is this that she should speak in this 
 way ? She would have me take her for a heathen. But 
 I know better." 
 
 And acting on his instinctive perception of the truth 
 as it is in Stella, he adapts his words to what he con- 
 ceives her need ; and the very manner in which she con- 
 ducts so much of argument as she chooses to advance, 
 persuades him of the ground on which he stands. 
 
 He lets her have her way, and she advances from the 
 monosyllabic position she at first maintained, and she 
 goes on, unconsciously, arguing with herself aloud, and 
 his words, now and then, come out like great flashes of 
 light, simple, few, full of illumination ; he supplies her 
 with weapons wherewith to persuade herself against her- 
 self, till the battle shall be quite fought out. Entangled 
 by the knottiest difficulties freed by a word that cuts 
 the cord asunder she is carried away in the conversa- 
 tion to a forgetfulness of everything except the weighty 
 facts involved in it, and the fight is fought out, until 
 there is nothing left of barrier, between her soul and his. 
 Herself, Falcon, and the Absolute, are alone in the 
 world together. 
 
 Hardly conscious of all this, Stella nevertheless at 
 length pauses in confusion, to think how far she has be- 
 trayed herself. But the confusion is merely momentary 
 from that, also, she is liberated ; and she says, retaining 
 now no remembrance whatever of the counsel she thaj. morn- 
 ing sought of Miss Watson, and the counsel she rejected :
 
 PLAIN SPEAKING. 231 
 
 " I heard your sermon yesterday, Mr. Falcon. Will 
 you engage me as a teacher for your school ?" 
 
 He was more deliberate in accepting this proposition, 
 than Stella had anticipated ; neither were his delibera- 
 tion, and the want of surprise with which he listened to 
 her demand or request, quite what Stella had expected. 
 
 " What are your qualifications ?" said he, seriously. 
 " The post will be a very difficult one to occupy and 
 maintain. It is needful that it be strongly held, without 
 the slightest wavering, or the whole enterprise in which 
 I purpose to embark will receive a shock which would be 
 most unfortunate, not to say ruinous." And he proceed- 
 ed, as coolly as if bargaining for a horse, to demand again 
 the special qualifications she had for the work. 
 
 Stella had not quite viewed herself in this light : she 
 was astonished by his words, and, for a moment, not al- 
 together pleased. Mr. Falcon saw that she was not, and 
 said, in the spirit of strict justice that possessed him : 
 
 " This is no time nor occasion for compliment. I 
 should not presume, in any other capacity, to speak thus 
 to you. But you will perceive that when we undertake to 
 be laborers in the Vineyard of Almighty God, we should 
 be prudent in all our operations, and do nothing hastily. 
 It is needful that whoever undertakes the school should 
 be strong, and full of hope able to endure fatigue, and 
 exposure ; and should be patient to the last degree. The 
 person must have natural gifts that fit him peculiarly for 
 the place ; no acquirements will so well serve as a natu- 
 ral fitness and adaptation to the place and service^ He 
 should have a sunny temper, a conciliatory and per- 
 suasive tongue-* and be sufficiently magnetic to attract, 
 and control, the hearts of children. And withal, he 
 should be so full of charities as to be able to cover up 
 any amount of sins in others from the observation of his 
 own proud thoughts. If I were a man of the world I
 
 232 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 should not speak such things to you if I regarded you 
 as a woman of the world, which you have not permitted 
 me to do, I should certainly have no occasion for such 
 speech. If any good result is to come of this enterprise, 
 the movers in it, you will allow, should clearly under- 
 stand each other. Surely I have not offended you." 
 
 " I trust that I am as able to hear as you to speak." 
 said Stella, with slow and serious utterance. And there 
 she paused but briefly : " I know that I could grow 
 into possession of all those requisites if I have them 
 not," she continued with hesitation. " I know not that 
 I have them. I think, at least, I am no coward. I can 
 learn patience. I shall be cheerful ... I believe I have 
 had trouble enough in striving to govern myself, to con- 
 duct my inward being, not to be very uncharitable towards 
 others." 
 
 " We are certainly friends for life," said Mr. Falcon - 
 but there he suddenly paused. " And I had almost said 
 companions," he went on gravely. " Why may we not 
 be companions ? Why should we not be 1 The unity 
 of hearts in a great purpose is the blessing of God, the 
 seal of his approval. Can I thus speak to you, and, fail- 
 ing to meet your acceptance, not drive you from the stand 
 you have barely taken. You are a true, courageous 
 spirit ; I need such to be with me night and day. Per- 
 haps I may also be helpful to you." 
 
 Astonished at this address, and hardly certain of the 
 speaker's meaning, yet strangely mindful at the moment 
 of Miss Watson's recent words, Stella looked her sur- 
 prise while Mr. Falcon spoke. But he had no fear that 
 he should not be ultimately understood ; the sudden 
 flush that came, and went, and was seen no more upon 
 the face turned towards him, assured him that all was 
 not uncertainty and doubt in her heart. She had re- 
 ceived a trifle more of illumination.
 
 WORTH CONSIDERATION ? 233 
 
 " It would ill become me here," he continued, " to say 
 a word that I would shrink from speaking before a world 
 of listening men and women ; a world of the wisest and 
 purest. For I bear in mind that I speak not for myself 
 only. I shall presently leave Mr. Baldwin's house his 
 son is rapidly recovering : your little friend Susan needs 
 no assistance in the work she has to do. I opened her 
 mind more fully on the subject last night than it has 
 been before she will come up to the point well and 
 nobly. It is my purpose to give my time and strength 
 to the work you refer to. I hold it to be in my steward- 
 ship. I would have you, indeed, for my companion and 
 helper. I am not speaking on the impulse of the mo- 
 ment ; nor would I have you for a moment suppose that 
 my inclination is a sudden one : it was not occasioned by 
 the spirit you have evinced this morning ; but I shall not 
 flatter you ... I thought often of you before this work 
 of evangelization unfolded itself to me as my work. I 
 wished that I might be daily with one like you, until I 
 came gradually even to wish, not for one like you, but 
 for yourself. I may be mistaken it is, perhaps, only a 
 fancy encouraged by the very greatness of my hope but 
 I cannot help believing that some other will than mine is 
 working in this business . . . else it would, indeed, seem 
 passing strange that I should look forward to such a 
 prospect. I have labored hitherto alone, and have had 
 pleasant dreams, which sometimes but not often trans- 
 formed themselves into real facts of Experience ; but this 
 dreaming may be even wilder than I acknowledge it to 
 be. Consider, Miss Gammon, if this subject is worth a 
 moment's consideration." 
 
 " Yes, a moment's," said Stella, with great delibera- 
 tion, looking frankly at the speaker ; but she had thought 
 out a sequel for the story of this day with the rapidity of 
 lightning, with the instantaneousness of an intuition.
 
 234 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 /One may plod on in search of truth for a lifetime, but the 
 aiscovery at last has not the seeming of a gradual opening. 
 An adventurous inland bird flitting above his ship told 
 the disheartened mariner of a New World at hand. 
 
 " Only a moment's ?" 
 
 Stella gravely bowed ; not a word came now at her 
 bidding, but in her heart there was confidence and calm- 
 ness her redemption had drawn nigh and, persuaded 
 of it beyond all further doubting, she was at peace. 
 
 " And can you decide thus suddenly ?" asked Falcon. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Here he paused he questioned her no further ; but 
 not in uncertainty and embarrassment was his voice 
 hushed his soul was still within him, and he could not 
 break the silence. 
 
 Long he paused, and he was not the first to speak ; 
 {there came a voice at length upon the stillness, low, but 
 firm, true and full of melody. 
 
 " What the Church is to Christ I will be to thee . . . 
 now lead me till I am free as God's angels.]' 
 
 Falcon did not throw himself upon his knees in grati- 
 tude before the speaker did not manifest a sense of 
 triumph as he listened to this voice; oppressed, overcome, 
 be seemed for a moment by Stella's words, for that in- 
 stant their relations, as the world would behold them, 
 were before his mind she seemed no mate for him, in 
 spite of her humility that morning she was of a nature 
 ,80 proud, her beauty was so peerless ; and what was he ? 
 but the mirror was withdrawn from his eyes ; he heard 
 only her voice and her last spoken words saw only that 
 her eyes were upon him, and that she had not spoken on 
 an impulse, surprised into such utterance as her life 
 would fail to maintain. And he said : 
 
 " You tempt me to speak proudly, but I dare not. I
 
 A CONQUEST. 235 
 
 dare only to hope that He whose bride the Church is 
 will make us both free indeed that the banner of His 
 love may be over us." 
 
 XL. 
 
 SUSAN was in the library, whither she had gone with 
 Clarence. 
 
 When he went up the staircase with his usual morning 
 offering of flowers for Susan, Clarence, to his great amaze- 
 ment, found her walking alone, unaided, in the hall. Be- 
 fore he could speak she said, for Susan had now, since 
 the last night's conversation with Mr. Falcon, in which 
 he seemed to have decided her destiny, no one on whom 
 she could rely but her own self : 
 
 " I am trying my strength. I can walk down to the 
 library I think, if you will help me, Clarence." 
 
 And so, with some joyous exclamations, to which Su- 
 san paid no heed, he went down the stairs with her, and 
 would fain have carried her in his arms, instead of mere- 
 ly extending the slight support which was all that Susan 
 received. 
 
 As if doubtful of herself, she made haste to explain 
 her intention as they entered the library. 
 
 " Mr. Falcon is going to teach us here, you and I. We 
 are going to school ; did you know it, Clarence ?" 
 
 Susan did not speak with the usual slowness of utter- 
 ance with which, hi speaking to him, it was needful to 
 enunciate thoughts ; but with nervous rapidity. This 
 might have been the reason why he was so long in an- 
 swering her ; the idea so suddenly advanced did not pre- 
 sent itself to his mind clearly and well. 
 
 But presently he said, with a glad voice, and a glance 
 which, bright though it was ; threw a shadow on the heart
 
 236 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 of the child but a momentary shadow only for she was 
 equal to the demand which herself, as well as others, was 
 now making on her life : 
 
 " You and I ! That is the best thing I ever heard, 
 Susy ! What books ?" 
 
 All books." 
 
 " We shall be a long while about it, then," he said, 
 now well assured. " It will be years forever. Do you 
 see ?" 
 
 With nothing less than an eternity was he satisfied, in 
 view of his and her connection. This fact appeared in 
 every variety of form of speech and act from him. Susan 
 saw; but she shut out the prospect quickly, and said, 
 "Yes, Clarence." 
 
 And he added, as if thinking his inmost thought aloud 
 in solitude, for when he had said it he looked at her 
 startled and abashed, before he completed his medita- 
 tion : 
 
 " If I thought that she would ever go away I would " 
 there he stopped. 
 
 His look frightened Susan ; it was wild and desperate, 
 and yet so sad and hopeless for the moment, that she, be- 
 holding, could not control the compassionating impulse 
 that led her to exclaim : 
 
 " Where could I go, Clarence?" And then his satisfac- 
 tion seemed so great at the picture of loneliness and help- 
 lessness her words presented, that she, half-indignant, 
 half-exultant, said, with a strong inward voice, to her 
 poor heart, (: But I have a home I can go to Mr. 
 Leighton;" and some little comfort she drew up from 
 that reflection, although in the same moment she rebuked 
 herself by the assurance that she should never go to him, 
 never while Clarence stood in need of her in such ways 
 as Mr. Falcon had pointed out. 
 
 Clarence now suddenly began to look upon himself as
 
 NO WASTE IN CREATION. 237 
 
 Susan's entertainer, for the hour at least ; and industri- 
 ously he set about the task, delightful to him, of amusing 
 her. He brought down from the library shelves volume 
 after volume, and did finally succeed in greatly interest- 
 ing her. And she forgot that she was Susan, and he 
 Clarence that this was the Hall library into which she 
 had but now come as into a prison cell that Mr. Leigh- 
 ton's letter was lying in her bosom, with a secret that no 
 soul should share with her, not even Stella Gammon, 
 whom Mr. Falcon was so long in bringing. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Now Lucia Tree had met with a loss. Bat she was 
 not yet aware of it she had so many other thoughts in 
 her mind but De Lisle Layard was aware of it, and so 
 was David Baldwin. They, however, were not cognizant 
 of the fact in the same sense that she was yet to be. On 
 the table, which was gradually being disburdened of its 
 medley of curious trifles from many foreign lands, which 
 have gone, we may here state for the gratification of 
 the curious reader, to enrich the convent parlor, and 
 Aunt Judith's mantel sacred as relics are they to Aunt 
 Judith .... on this table was lying at this moment, 
 while David and Layard are walking up the avenue, and 
 ascending the stone steps of the hall, a trifling scroll 
 which the latter picked up in the street last evening, and 
 over which his mind bent plotting all night long. How 
 true it is that there is no waste in creation ! that nothing 
 in the world is lost that a thing called into being is in 
 being forever ! From the " lost arts " which are living 
 ideas in the minds of their vanished originators forever 
 and 'ever, in one shape or another, to this scrap of paper 
 with a badly-executed face upon it, which Lucia dropped 
 last night when she went hurrying home from her inter- 
 view with Rose, there 's nothing lost, nor can be. .Ideas
 
 238 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 are eternal-j and scraps of paper made of rags and straw 
 may be also of eternal import. 
 
 A little while ago, Layard said to David, carelessly un- 
 rolling the drawing : 
 
 " Saw you ever face like that?" 
 
 David took the paper, held it in various light curi- 
 ously scanned it. 
 
 " The longer you look the less like is it. I thought at 
 first, but it is not so like him if I look longer I shall 
 not see it at all." 
 
 " See who?" said Layard, restraining his interest in 
 the answer that should be, so that it seemed the utmost 
 carelesness of questioning. 
 
 " The professor Leighton," said Baldwin. 
 
 " His face occurred to me at once," said Layard, well 
 satisfied with the answer . . . 
 
 " It is a little singular, that the men who have been pro- 
 posed as candidates for the presidency of the college are, not 
 one of them, popular. There is some serious objection 
 raised against them. Suppose we come forward with an 
 entirely new name, we should carry the election beyond a 
 question. And there is no man I know of who would in 
 time do such essential service to the college itself so 
 conduce to its growth and fair fame, as Professor Mark 
 Leighton. Do you remember with what enthusiasm the 
 students all regarded him ?" 
 
 Upon this the young men entered into an argument 
 and discussion, as to the actual qualifications of Leighton 
 for this office. They did not entirely agree about them, 
 for David had no purpose to serve, and consequently took 
 a more sober survey of the matter but Layard persisted 
 in maintaining the points first advanced, that as Leigh- 
 ton's qualifications for the position were beyond question, 
 so was the certainty of his election, if his name were 
 brought forward.
 
 TAKING AN OBSERVATION. 239 
 
 They had not dropped the discussion when they entered 
 the library where Susan and Clarence were ; they were 
 still speaking of it, and an eager listener they had in 
 the young girl who talked now so busily with Clarence, 
 when Stella Cammon was shown into the room by Mr. 
 Baldwin, who had detained Falcon in the hall, and back 
 to whom he went immediately for a special conversation 
 on the all-absorbing topic of the time with him at 
 least of Clarence, and the probabilities in reference to 
 Susan. 
 
 Does any one note the peculiar satisfaction of Mr. De 
 Lisle Layard's heart, which manifests itself in his genial 
 and abundant discourse ? does any eye observe the 
 rapidity of his glances how his eyes flash from David to 
 Stella, and from Stella back to David, until they abso- 
 lutely seem to impart their meaning to the heart of 
 David, to inform him with new" perceptions, new impulses, 
 new desires? 
 
 You may read admiration merely but you read that 
 with distinctness so that you think you cannot have erred 
 in this in the eyes of David Baldwin as he extends the 
 courtesy of the house towards this young and imposing 
 woman. You may read more in the face of Susan, if 
 you go beyond the timid joy that shines from her glowing 
 face. She thought in truth the last time that Stella 
 came, when Miss Baldwin was with her also, that Stella 
 was magnificent she does not look less so to the child's 
 eyes now and she wondered that day, and she is wonder- 
 ing again, if David, who speaks so much to her, and yet 
 whose conversation is so different from that addressed by 
 him to all other persons, so far as her observation has ex- 
 tended, and Susan's observation extends further and wider 
 than you might guess, she wondered then and wonders 
 now, if David does not think Stella Cammon " splendid," 
 and if he can help loving her ? For how can anybody help it?
 
 240 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 As to Clarence, he sees nothing but Susan. Stella 
 reigns, and Layard labors, but he knows nothing of it. 
 He has no world but his own. 
 
 In those few minutes two things have become settled 
 in Layard's mind two plans are prominent among his 
 multitude of plans. 
 
 And when, in good time his own time, deliberately 
 taken, for never yet was he in haste, when De Lisle Lay- 
 ard comes to speak again of the college and of Professor 
 Leighton, his eyes, it is true, are not fastened upon Stella, 
 but he sees the face, and knows the effort with which it 
 preserves its quiet, the force with which she controls her 
 voice from speech . . . The picture that he found last 
 night was drawn by her beyond a doubt . . . the dash- 
 ing and fearless lines had proclaimed it to be hers, as well 
 as the initials he read in the corner of the paper just un- 
 der the drawing. Now, wherefore had she drawn it ? 
 what motive had impelled her hand ? in what relation 
 stood she to that man ? 
 
 He had hoped that surprise would break her silence 
 where had she seen the man ? why had she made the pic- 
 ture of him ? wherefore did she keep these things a secret, 
 if they were a secret with her ? He could not answer 
 these questions. But he did ask a question on which, in 
 turn, Stella pondered long in her heart, though she an- 
 swered at ouce with quiet ease, that was only not careless 
 indifference Had she ever met with Mr. Leighton ? 
 
 " Oh yes." 
 
 " Not in St. John's ?" said Layard and David Baldwin 
 in Qne breath. 
 
 Stella hesitated and glanced at Susan, but the hesita- 
 tion was so brief, the glance so inadvertent, none but 
 Layard could have noticed it. But Susan seemed to un- 
 derstand the look, and gave assent to it.
 
 A LOOK WITHIN. 241 
 
 " At the beach," said Stella, " in the summer when I 
 was visiting Susan.'' 
 
 And they went on to talk of other things, the circle 
 being meantime enlarged by the entrance of Isidore and 
 Horace Chilton, and presently by the presence of Ishmael 
 and Mr. Falcon. 
 
 Half an hour passed swiftly away in gay conversation, 
 of which, in spite of herself, Stella Gammon was the soul 
 and spirit. Ishmael, in the corner of the room, near 
 Susan, watched her, and made up his mind that she, of 
 all the women in the city, was the wife for David for the 
 old man, since his thoughts had dwelt so much on the af- 
 fairs of his son Clarence, could hardly think at all off the 
 line matrimonial ; and thus do we account for it that, be- 
 fore the party broke up, he was leading Stella in a sort 
 of triumph through the conservatory and the garden, 
 himself captivated by her beauty, and won by the charm 
 of her manners and conversation. David, in unconscious 
 obedience to the will of some of those around him, was 
 pursuing the same vein of contemplation; and presently 
 he followed in his father's steps, joining him and Stella 
 in the garden, to Mr. Baldwin's great delight. 
 
 Then there was Mr. Falcon observant of these symp- 
 toms, and shrinking from them, though, be it observed, in 
 a manly and triumphant way, for he was doubtful, unbe- 
 lieving, when Isidore said, '-(How dare David trust him- 
 self in the hand of the greatest coquette in St. John's. 
 Mr. Falcon you had best go look after that susceptible 
 brother of mine." 
 
 And he was content to remain in the library, and sit 
 down by Susan's side and enter into chat with her, with 
 rather a grateful emotion rising toward De Lisle Layard 
 the while, who had said so opportunely : 
 
 <: Nay, Mr. Falcon. If David has a heart of flesh we 
 should bless the lady who can make the discovery. For 
 
 VOL. II. 11
 
 242 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 myself, I know the man, and I believe his heart is harder 
 than Pharaoh's." 
 
 At which Isidore turned to Horace Chilton, who stood 
 in her shadow : > 
 
 " Is she not peerless, Mr. Chilton ?" she asked, intend- 
 ing that he should aver she was in no way so. 
 
 "I know not but she might be, seen under other cir- 
 cumstances with other surroundings she has labored 
 under disadvantage here," was the courtly answer. Hor- 
 ace said it without blushing, and with an emphasis quite 
 unmistakable. 
 
 Isidore made no answer to the remark, but turned part- 
 ly away with a smile that pleased him. He actually 
 thought he had said the good thing in the ear already 
 poisoned by flatteries. Turning again towards Horace, 
 she laid her hands with careless familiarity on his arm, 
 and her eyes looked straight into his. 
 
 " We shall, some of us, go to the concert to-night. 
 Come and accompany us." That was his reward. As 
 he murmured his thanks in her hearing his eyes said still 
 more than his words, Could she see as well as hear ? 
 
 What though she did ? If she could so wrong as to 
 madden him, until, like the fallen Nebuchadnezzar, he 
 was brought to a sometime level with the beasts of the 
 field, there might be a hope for Horace. Hope that he 
 would rise from that bestial degradation to the life and 
 the doing of a man. But otherwise, elsewhere, was 
 there a hope for him ? that he would emerge ever from ' 
 the plane of this present ? from its enervations, and mis- 
 called refinements, which are but demoralizations ? 
 From hungering and thirsting after the crumbs of rich 
 men's tables, from the worship of grandeur, or what as- 
 sumes the name, from the shadow of the purple and fine 
 linen that waves through perfumed chambers, would he
 
 THE USE OF OBSTACLES. 243 
 
 ever turn, hopeless of good from them, to the fresh air 
 of heaven and communion with truth ? 
 
 It would seem as if insanity were in the question ? 
 * * * - * * 
 
 No man of energy can give himself to a purpose, good, 
 bad, or indifferent, and long be conscious of obstacles. 
 Barriers to be leaped, hedges, ditches, what not, marshes 
 to be spanned with one effort, mountains to be scaled, but 
 add to the zest with which the accomplished sportsman 
 dashes onward in pursuit of game. 
 
 Impediments come in good time to prove themselves 
 the helps and aids of striving men. They quicken the 
 action of the brain the faculties become more powerful to 
 endure, more ready to devise, more swift to execute, un- 
 der the ministry or discipline of obstacles. They serve, 
 moreover, in another way. Though they appear in threat- 
 ening form, impassable, disheartening, the daring hand 
 suddenly transforms them from hinderances to humblest 
 servitude. They not only awaken dormant, uniniagined 
 energies they themselves are made to serve. 
 
 We are led to these reflections in view of what De 
 Lisle Layard's course has been hitherto, not in considera- 
 tion of what it is to be. He seems to have rid himself 
 of obstacles altogether, with the rising of this new theme 
 of the college president. On this day, as he goes from 
 the Hall, he is thinking in the same direction with David 
 Baldwin and his father, but his thought outruns theirs, 
 and is freighted with weightier consequences. He has 
 observed the deep impression made to-day by Stella 
 Gammon's beauty, grace and spirit this girl shall serve 
 him yet. 
 
 If a man lives in the world who is her father, she shall 
 be thrown upon him nay, she shall throw herself upon 
 him, in the haste and passion of a heart which Aunt
 
 244 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 Judith has found it perfectly impossible to comprehend 
 or govern . . . 
 
 If there is any love of the beautiful in David Baldwin's 
 spirit if he has any sense, any appreciation of the fit- 
 ness of form and idea if he has an eye that can be en- 
 chanted, an ear that can be caught, a soul that can be 
 saved even to this extent does De Lisle Layard argue 
 that man shall follow him into the Church of Rome, and 
 bring back Stella with him. Poor Aunt Judith shall be re- 
 conciled ; he, the priestly Layard, sees a fair sky above him, 
 a smooth path before him. He shall not need to plod on 
 in obscurity without a fear he may resign the post he 
 holds he need count the cost no longer. 
 
 Clearly he perceives how it will be with David Bald- 
 win. He will be interested presently in the life of 
 another, as they are interested, when fairly aroused, who 
 have been sceptical in all their modes of thought where 
 human creatures were concerned; he will look presently, 
 as dreaming poets dare to do, on life, and love, and wo- 
 man. His brain will be wholly alive that rare gener- 
 osity and chivalry of nature which has so long been hid- 
 den, shall come forth. Stella shall discover him. Not 
 to herself, perhaps ; it may possibly, yet hardly, not be 
 that this will follow, but the rest Layard dares rely upon 
 as the inevitable result of the cause which has this day 
 operated. At least, this much is certain : one more liv- 
 ing man is in the world efficient, powerful ; and that 
 man loves De Lisle Layard. This much he eays is 
 true he has ascertained its certainty. 
 
 Assuredly, to-morrow Professor Leighton's name shall 
 be talked of in the college Miss Mar shall hear the 
 name of David Baldwin and the heir of St. John's Hall 
 shall not forget that Stella Gammon is a beauty, living 
 in the world, bearing a woman's heart within her breast.
 
 THE LETTER CARRIER. 245 
 
 XLI. 
 
 LUCIA had risen with the sun, and was diligently occu- 
 pied with her drawing for she must somewhere find the 
 time to make amends for the hours of the morning which 
 she intended to give to Rose when suddenly she dropped 
 her pencil, and began a distracting investigation of recol- 
 lections, which put Vane even, and his unlooked-for de- 
 parture, away from her mind, where it had abode all 
 night, and thus far into the day. But all this ransacking 
 of memory availed not in the least ; whether she took the 
 drawing Stella gave her away from Stella's room, and if 
 so, what had become of it, was precisely the. thing about 
 which she could come to no conclusion whatever. 
 
 But she was still endeavoring to do so, when she heard 
 a quick foot-fall in the quiet street. How suddenly she 
 lifted her head from the table, on which it was bent in 
 the midst of her distraction ! and she does precisely the 
 thing that the reader anticipates, extends the troubled 
 head beyond the window-sill, and looks down into the 
 street. 
 
 He is standing on the door-step he has a letter in his 
 hand it is Vane ; and she speaks to him. 
 
 " I thought you were gone," she says so glad she is, 
 seeing that he is not gone. He hears, and answers : 
 
 " And so I am. I ran up with this note for you; but 
 when I arrived, I could not tell what to do with it. I 
 forgot the early hour shall I take it back to the post ? 
 It is only a good-bye to you." 
 
 The head was withdrawn without replying, and instant- 
 ly it seemed the work of magic the street-door was 
 unbolted. Vane, who waited, knowing she would come, 
 thrust the letter into Lucia's hands as the door opened, 
 and said hurriedly :
 
 246 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 <: Good-bye. I have said all in the note. I shall be 
 too late if I stay now. I did not think to see you, but I 
 aui very glad that it happened so very glad indeed, Lucia " 
 
 He caught her hand, and was gone. But she had the 
 letter she had seen him. With this rare morning 
 vision, Lucia went back to her chamber with his last 
 look and his letter. 
 
 " DEAR. LUCIA," said the letter : ' : I was so disappoint- 
 ed not to see you to-night ; I had something to say to 
 you at the very least, farewell. I felt disappointed 
 then, but now I find that there is, and was, a great deal 
 more in my mind to say than that solitary word. It is a 
 sad word, but I do not say it sadly. Farewell ! how 
 could you fare any otherwise ? If I had spoken it then, 
 I should have said very little beside; and so I am glad 
 you were away.- I may never see you again. You know 
 not how often I have said that to myself; and yet I can 
 add with the poet, ' 'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
 than never to have loved at all !'. We have been true 
 friends, Lucia have we not? We struck hearts over 
 our promises to help one another, and I believe in my soul 
 that we have kept the promise sacred. I have, at least, 
 nothing but thanks to offer you so much good you have 
 done me ! I believe I have not been living in a lowly little 
 room over a work-shop this summer not down here in the 
 midst of confusion, and sultriness, and dust, amongst 
 men of trade and toil. I think I have not been dining 
 at the rather shabby table of a fourth-rate boarding- 
 house. I have been travelling about, living in every 
 sunny land where beauty lives, from the land of the 
 Parisian to that of the Damascene. I have seen a sky 
 broader than stretches over the desert, and constellations 
 moving in magnificence, undiscovered by the most famous 
 of all the astronomers.
 
 LIVING ABROAD. 247 
 
 'J have walked in gardens where every flower grew in 
 more than common grace, and blossomed with far more 
 than ordinary glory. I have worked under the best sky- 
 light for an artist; the best models have been around 
 me. I have grown rich, and great, and lived in princely 
 state, doing all honor, Lucia, to my own renown. Do not 
 look so surprised. I will tell you how all this has happened, 
 and you will see how true it is that this is not fancy, nor 
 nonsense. I have found in my heart all this scenery and 
 splendor, and I never should have seen it but for you. 
 Have you not helped me, then ? If this is dreaming, I 
 would not exchange the faculty for the world of realities. 
 You have made impossible things possible to me. You 
 have shown me the path by which I might tread, with a 
 man's stride, into this realm. I have gone into it, and did 
 not find the dominion desolate and lonely with all its 
 beauty I fouijd life there. Your thoughts and my 
 thoughts have peopled the solitudes ; the temples had 
 more graceful spires, because we looked at them together ; 
 and they cleft the heavens. We were the friends of the 
 architects ; they told us more about their work than they 
 have told others. The gardens had fountains the water 
 that flashed in the sun was purer, it sparkled more brightly 
 than any I have seen elsewhere they seemed like the 
 spontaneous uplifting of the river of life . . . the trees 
 were laden with flowers of tropical regions and the birds 
 swept through the air as if descending from above, not 
 soaring from beneath. You have given me this region, 
 a fairy-land I had before I knew you, but not a holy land. 
 No thoughts, only vague longings ; no thoughts, pure as 
 angels, walked in that fairy-land no life was there no- 
 thing vital was in the earth or sky, or in any of the glory 
 with which I delighted to furnish it. You have made life 
 harmonious and self-consciousness a delight for me . . . 
 Have I done anything in turn for you who have wrought
 
 248 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 such precious results for me out of the raw materials you 
 found?" . . . Had he, reader, do you think? See the 
 sun is shining in the room in broad relief you behold the 
 youthful figure has he done anything for her ? But me- 
 thinks this sunny creature should not weep . . . nay 
 she is not weeping ; those bright tears have fallen, have 
 gathered but slowly she herself is not aware of them. 
 " But, Lucia, this seems almost idle talk. Idle it would 
 be had I nothing more to say had I no deeper obligation 
 to confess. I went into the woods to-day. William, 
 no doubt, has told you that we met there. I was trou- 
 bled. Did you know it ? I had heard evil news from 
 the house where I was born ; Professor Layard told me 
 that my father was very ill and dangerously so. My 
 first thought ... I will tell it you, that you may see 
 and believe what you have done my first thought was 
 hard and evil. Is it anything to me, I said, that my fa- 
 ther is dying ? Has be not, been dead to me these many 
 years? I know I am his only son his only living child, 
 but he sent me adrift, and I will not float back again . . . 
 And many other thoughts I had, and many arguments 
 about it ... It troubled me so much that I could not 
 endure my work-room, nor the sound of the city. I could 
 not endure anything near me I wanted to go away alone, 
 and be rid of myself. jBut myself went with me into the 
 woods. There was no enchantment, there no holy-land 
 nothing but dead fallen leaves, and a brook somewhat too 
 noisy, and some chattering birds, and nut-hunting sijuir- 
 rela. I know I could have built palaces of less rich ma- 
 terial, and made magnificent tapestries of inferior trees, 
 and a grayer sky ; but I had no skill to-day there were 
 no fairies, no princesses in the woods I only heard one 
 sound, and sometimes it had the tone of my mother's, 
 and sometimes the tone of your voice and it said to me,) 
 Your father is old, and poor, and dying old, poor, dv-
 
 LUCIA'S FOREIGN TRAVEL. 249 
 
 ing and I remembered that my mother had loved him. 
 The words rang in my ear with a changeless monotony. 
 I could not forget them I could not get away from them. 
 And so I am going. And it is you that send me ! Do 
 you wonder still ? Have I not seen you in your father's 
 house ? Know I not what you are doing there ? There 
 is something more beautiful than art, and you have shown 
 it me, and made me love it something there is, dear 
 Lucia, and you have taught me thus, more enticing than 
 Fame ; and I know that you have pleaded with her till 
 she has called and claimed me. And now I am going, as 
 Abraham did, not knowing whither. To the old village, 
 you say that is true. And not able to show to the peo- 
 ple who called me a proud, ungovernable, high handed 
 boy, any great result of my going. But what waits for 
 me there or when or how I shall come again, I know 
 not. It is an undiscovered country but I shall return. 
 If I come back to work at the old trade (for my father's 
 comfort is what I must look after, so you have bidden 
 me, and I have not been able yet to lay by much money), 
 will 3 r ou still have me for your friend, I wonder ? or will 
 you be proud, and beyond reach, and forgetful by that 
 time ? You cannot make me believe that I hardly think 
 that you would try ; you are so good and true, it will not 
 be pleasant for you to study to be false and evil. I go 
 sure of this, you '11 not forget your friend. 
 
 " Certainly, if I live, I shall come again, and, there- 
 fore, I only say farewell ; and yet, assuredly, how is this, 
 Lucia ? I do not leave you behind me. I carry my 
 palace, and the princess, and the fairest of all lands with 
 me ; having all things, even all things in the thought of 
 you . . . Do you not go with me ? 
 
 " W. VANE." 
 11*
 
 250 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 LUCIA had but entered on her dream. Rose had ended 
 hers. The dream of Rose began in selfish recklessness, 
 in evil passionateness, in wayward vanity, and we have 
 seen the end ; how Lucia's did begin we know but its 
 ending, if any end it "have, is not with us, or here. 
 
 But never fell such light upon her paper, as, in this early 
 morning, while she goes on with her work. Even the facts 
 of the condition of poor Rose look hopeful to her now : she 
 knows that though the house is small there is room in 
 it for her sister; and sho vows, that if striving with the 
 obdurate will of others can effect it, Rose shall come 
 home again. And she works faster and faster, and the 
 work that she does satisfies her ; she sings over it, sketch- 
 ing all the while far different pictures from those on 
 which her hands arc employed, and<\Vadsworth Vane is 
 the central figure of them all. 
 
 If she has done so much for him, all this that he has 
 said, and how shall she doubt it ? he has never spoken to 
 her but from the depths of an honest and a good heart 
 if she has done so much for him, what has he not done 
 for her ? What, without his encouragement and criti- 
 cism, would she have been ? but in other, and nameless, 
 and countless ways, he has served her ; she knows, sees, 
 feels it, and it is the joy of the thought that the debt is 
 not all hers, that he has written this letter to her, that 
 he is coming again ; it is this joy that lightens her 
 spirit that calms her heart even while it exalts her iu 
 beatitude, and she, too, waking, dreams and floats in the 
 sweet dream on golden wings under clouds that have 
 their " silver linings" turned all inside out, above a 
 golden sea. (They who arc happy inwardly can see no- 
 thing of darkness wherever their eyes rest they com-
 
 TUB EXPRESS MESSENGER. 251 
 
 municatc pervading light ; their wishes are transformed 
 into easy possibilities ; the energy of hope becomes the 
 energy of act by a most natural process. For true hap- 
 piness supposes faith as well as joy and faith, we all 
 know, is sufficient to move mountains.) 
 
 Therefore, when the hour which to herself she had ap- 
 pointed, came, guarding her purpose still from all ob- 
 servation, taking counsel only by her own holy hope, 
 Lucia left the house, and bent her steps towards Rose. 
 
 The hour approached noon. She had chosen that 
 hour, supposing that Mortimer Maurice would be away 
 at that time, if he went out in the day, and it was her 
 intention to discover whether he had gone of some one 
 of the lodgers in the house. 
 
 But all precaution, all effort on her part was, as we 
 already know, useless, vain. There was no Maurice in 
 the world henceforth, at least for Lucia's fear. She had 
 no need to look to him for further molestation, annoy- 
 ance, or frustration of any cause in which she might en- 
 gage. He had work of his own to-do. 
 
 As she went rapidly down the street, looking neither 
 to the right nor left, making her way less by sight than by 
 instinct, it seemed, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder 
 something obstructed her passage through the crowd . . . 
 Will stood for a second fronting her, the next instant he 
 had drawn her towards the wall of a building where they 
 were beyond the rush of feet. 
 
 " Ybu must go home," said he, in a hoarse undertone, 
 as if. fearful, even in the midst of the confusion of the 
 street, of being overheard. Lucia looked at him his face 
 was ashy pale, his eyes fixed wildly on her he gave her 
 no time to question. 
 
 " You must go home and tell father " 
 
 ' : Quick, Will ! what is it ?" she exclaimed aloud, in 
 fear.
 
 252 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " That Rose is dead and I am going to bring her 
 home." 
 
 Instead of speaking, or flying at his bidding, Lucia 
 leaned against the brick wall, and looked more like one 
 at death's door, than a fit messenger for an errand like 
 this. 
 
 " Fool !" exclaimed Will. " I might have known 
 better. What shall I do with you ? Lucia Lucia ! you 
 must bear up." 
 
 " Wait ... I will go ... in a minute ... It was 
 so sudden, Will." 
 
 Will seemed now to come to his senses, and he 
 beckoned to a cabman driving by, and leading Lucia 
 he would have carried her, but she seemed now strength- 
 ened wonderfully, he said : 
 
 " Can you do it if I go back can you tell father 
 and be ready when we come ?" 
 
 There was no need to ask scarcely a need that she 
 should answer Will, who saw this sudden change in her. 
 The shock was borne and overcome ; with a steady step 
 Lucia went forward, gave her address to the driver, bid- 
 ding him make all speed ; the man obeyed her. 
 
 In the same place where she had left him when she 
 went from the house but now, her father sits toiling with 
 his pen. He does not look up when Lucia enters; not 
 that he fails to hear her, but he recognizes the step, and 
 when she went away they had exchanged a little pleasant 
 talk he has no more time now to spare. 
 
 But his daughter comes up to his table, he must find 
 time to spare ; he must bring his labor to an end for to- 
 day : her hand falls less heavily upon his shoulder, she 
 arrests him more gently than she was arrested in the 
 street by Will. Mr. Tree looks up surprised at Lucia 
 on account of the interruption : his daughter and him- 
 self are on (excellent terms,jbut this, really is, to say the
 
 SUDDEN DEATH. 253 
 
 least, rather a novel experiment on her part, and he is 
 evidently not quite decided as to how he shall take the 
 familiarity. 
 
 No time is given for consideration of the point. With 
 terrible suddenness, say it in what form she will, 
 with what caution and tenderness, the truth is still the 
 truth, the fact the fact, with terrible suddenness it conies 
 to him his oldest child is dead his first-born child is 
 dead. And she is coming home they are even now on 
 the way, bringing her. 
 
 She cannot tell him how Rose died ; but last night 
 she saw her, Lucia says : she tells him boldly, with no 
 sign of hesitation ; she was going to her this morning, 
 when Will sent her back again with this intelligence. It 
 must have been a sudden death, he thinks and says, as he 
 stands in the middle of the room, and looks about him, 
 stunned by what he has heard striving in vain to collect 
 himself, while Lucia draws out his writing-table, and 
 gathers up the papers, and removes them to an inner 
 room, and is thoughtful to lay them away in a safe place. 
 /The wrinkles in the old man's face, which Lucia said 
 were disappearing one by one, are all back again, and 
 lie deeper in their furrows than before ; he stands droop- 
 ing, and pale, and inefficient, unequal to the emergency, 
 watchful of Lucia's every movement, and knowing in his 
 heart that an angel is with him in the room an angel 
 too that ministers to hirnj But it is nevertheless 
 Rose who is dead, his firsf-born child his unfortunate 
 Rose ... he remembers that he named her ; that of 
 all names borne by women he had chosen that, one of 
 the proudest, as the best for her. This thought runs 
 through his mind, drawing after it a crowd of recollec- 
 tions the bitter are weightier, more numerous, than the 
 sweet ; but somehow, it may be that he has grown too 
 weak, and old, and foolish, to bear a stern front now, as
 
 254 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 well as a heavy heart, he cannot bear up in wrath, or in 
 the callousness of pride ; he is broken his tears fall as 
 rain bursting from a thunder-cloud, and he rushes away 
 when the sound of many feet comes up the street, leav- 
 ing Lucia waiting for their approach, alone. 
 
 But he goes not to comfort his wife he does not re- 
 member no one in this house remembers it that she is 
 the mother of the dead. 
 
 Does she remember it ? She is lying on her bed sip- 
 ping the coffee, partaking the delicate food Lucia pre- 
 pared for her before she went into the street, for this is 
 her hour of breakfast when the noise of those many feet 
 falls on her ear ; drawing aside her curtain she looks out, 
 and is astonished at the crowd. It is strange that they 
 should stop here, directly before her door; what can 
 impede their progress ? But they are bearing something : 
 she looks out with a deeper curiosity, the people are so 
 quiet ; it is a crowd without disturbance, a singular sight 
 in a city street. She leans up against the window she 
 sees now clearer it is a body that they bear and what 
 is this ? Will ? can it be he who seems to direct all 
 these men? . . . They move on the relief the woman 
 feels as they do so, tells her how great her anxiety has 
 been. But what are they now doing ? They are halting 
 again the bearers have but changed their position, they 
 surely cannot oh, what is this ! again they are mov- 
 ing forward, but not beyond, they are entering within the 
 house ! 
 
 From the window she turns away. God pity her ! she 
 has but herself to rely on in a struggle and time like 
 this ! She stands in her room and listens listens 
 listens. That is Lucia's voice . . . That is Will now 
 speaking . . . how they walk about in the little room 
 below ! . . . now the crowd is going away ... it is still 
 in the house as death. As Death ! Will no one come
 
 SHE HAS HERSELF ! 255 
 
 and help her ? Who can help her ? what can man or 
 woman do for her ? 
 
 Why, they can lift the fallen body from the floor where 
 it has fallen . . . they can bring aromatic vinegar, and 
 every other restorative known of the healing art ; they 
 can rub the cold limbs till the blood runs freely in its 
 courses, and the eyes open, and the heart beats evenly, 
 keeping time to the tune of her life . . . but who shall 
 chase away the terror that has come to madden the brain, 
 that has cheated itself of life in its dread, and its love, 
 and its fear of shadows ? Who for her shall now smooth 
 the pillow, and arrange the bed, adorn the hair, and 
 make the person comely ? She robbed herself of life 
 who can dare to think of this maniacal substitution ? of 
 the kingdom into which, from the self-government of sloth 
 and selfishness, she comes as a servant and minister ? so 
 terribly active now, she who has been all these years so 
 passive, so monstrously passive. She, too, has sometimes 
 talked of a divorce and now she has it and what has 
 she beside ? Reader, she has, Herself ... Is it not in- 
 evitable that we should all, sooner or later, come into pos- 
 session of the good we most resolutely crave and seek ? 
 Did this woman ever, think you, know what it was she 
 sought ? and when she found, dost think that she was 
 satisfied ? For that self unto which she was given, was 
 Hell! 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 IN the public parlor of the convent, where all guests 
 are received, two women, the nun and Miss Mar, are talk- 
 ing over a very private affair together. 
 
 The superior and two or three persons beside are also 
 there, and the sound of other voices, and the presence of 
 those other persons, are a relief to Aunt Judith, who looks
 
 256 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 anxious and agitated, and who would be embarrassed if 
 she were alone with the nun. 
 
 Theresa has greatly the advantage, for she perceives 
 that Miss Mar is even now in doubt as to whether she is 
 quite right in looking on herself as wronged and injured 
 by the nun. The good woman is full of distress, and 
 perplexity, and consternation. She is no longer in doubt 
 as to how things go spiritually in the mind of Stella ; that 
 heretical young woman appears before her mind now rid 
 of all the delusions which Aunt Judith has contrived to 
 fasten upon her in the fondness and persistence of her 
 hope. 
 
 The rosary and crucifix hang on the wall in Stella's 
 chamber still the table with the sacred books of the 
 Church still stands beneath them ; Aunt Judith saw them 
 there this very morning. Stella has done nothing violent 
 in the way of repudiation : has said nothing cruel, or 
 sharp, or bitter, or blasphemous; Miss Mar cannot recall 
 a solitary word, for she as well as Stella has carefully 
 avoided the subject of the Church these many days ; but 
 the belief has been growing, strengthening, daily, that the 
 Church has lost a daughter. She refrains from asking 
 the dreadful question outright of her who alone could 
 answer it; she instead groans out her fear in Layard's 
 hearing, confesses to Father Francis, and comes now, in 
 the forlornness of her hope, to the nun, Theresa. 
 
 She calls to mind the teacher's influence, the hold that 
 she has ever had on Stella's affections, and in her trouble 
 is disposed to throw the blame of Stella's recreancy even 
 upon her. Why has she allowed it, she living in the 
 Church and for it, why has she permitted her pupil to go 
 go far astray ? 
 
 Miss Mar has vexed herself thinking of this point until 
 she could no longer endure her thoughts, and she has 
 come now in person to Theresa to make her complaint.
 
 THE GUARDIAN'S SETTLEMENT. 257 
 
 or at least her investigation . . . for complaint it did not 
 seem quite possible for her to make when she came into 
 actual contact with the nun. Not, at least, till she had 
 forgotten herself, and was carried away by her subject ; 
 not till, in view of the magnitude of Stella's offending 
 and danger, she lost all sense of the composure, the grand 
 quiet of the woman with whom she spoke. Then it was 
 that she said, in the height of her poor spiritual pride, 
 for the nun's tranquillity outraged her sense of duty to the 
 Church : 
 
 '' Weak as I am, it has been given me to do great 
 things for another. There is De Lisle Layard ready to 
 come into the Church to day, and to sacrifice all his pros- 
 pects to her interest, out of love for her. So powerful is 
 the Church she needs but the faithful service of her chil- 
 dren, and even the weakest can do mighty things for her." 
 
 " But then," said the nun, " you do not consider, Miss 
 Mar, you implicate yourself saying that. I do not deny 
 the truth you advance, but your application of it. If so 
 much power was in your hands, the blame of Stella's de- 
 reliction falls upon yourself," 
 
 Miss Mar did not immediately answer; she had to col- 
 lect herself, to acquire a little additional courage before 
 she said : 
 
 " It was not given me, but you. I had not the influ- 
 ence over her that you had. De Lisle is my witness that 
 I have not been unfaithful to my holy mother, but I could 
 do nothing with her." 
 
 " And I could not !" said the nun. 
 
 The tone in which she said it, so openly, and, so it 
 seemed to Aunt Judith, so carelessly, did not appease 
 the listener. 
 
 " I think you could," she said. 
 
 ' Pardon me, sister, you should not think at all about 
 it," responded the nun.
 
 258 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 But Miss Mar did not receive the rebuke. The nun's 
 words and manner slew outright what lingering hope she 
 had, that Stella was but wayward, that at heart she still 
 was true to her childhood's faith. 
 
 " I ought to think," she said, hastily. " I am bound 
 to think. I have brought her up, a poor foundling the 
 Church gave her to me, and I feel some responsibility. 
 I ought now to be able to give her back to the Church in 
 one way or another. I sent her here to school, her teacher 
 obtained the strongest hold on her affections; was herself 
 in the Church, what had I a right to expect a heretic ? 
 Even if she did not choose to become a sister of charity, 
 which I was not at all desirous that she should be, though 
 I would have offered no obstacle in her way; if she would 
 only take her proper place elsewhere I should be satis- 
 fied ; if she would appear in society and exhibit there the 
 beauty and holiness of the Church, I would be glad ; if 
 she married I would provide for her she is my child : I 
 have always looked upon her so. But what have I nurs- 
 ed ? a viper in my bosom she stings me !" 
 
 " Poor Stella !" sighed the nun, when Aunt Judith, in 
 much agitation, ceased speaking. " You are cruel, Miss 
 Mar." 
 
 " I have suffered more than I can inflict," she replied, 
 quickly. " It seems to me that you might understand it," 
 she continued, with more deference. " You know in 
 your own heart, what I feel." She paused ; the nun was 
 silent. Miss Mar looked at her, and saw that her eyes 
 were full of tears, but the calm face betrayed in no other 
 way the emotion to which Miss Mar's words had given 
 rise. All the good woman's wrath passed away before 
 those silent tears ; for a moment she could not speak, 
 but soon she went on again. " Forgive me you do ap- 
 preciate my distress," she said. " I have not told you 
 all I am in deadly fear of Mr. Falcon." The nun bent
 
 AUNT JUDITH'S ARGUMENT. 259 
 
 forward and listened more intently ; and, beguiled by the 
 tears she had seen too far to be easily roused to any new 
 suspicion, too much rejoicing in the belief that she had 
 found sympathy in her trouble at last, she did not see 
 that an inward smile had smoothed away the trouble in 
 the spirit of the nun. " I think that you will say there 
 is not a young lady in St. John's that will compare for 
 beauty, and grace, and dignity, with my Stella our 
 Stella," she corrected herself; and she read a decided 
 assent in the smile that half revealed itself in the face 
 of her to whom she appealed. " She is equal to any 
 place ; and, I may confide it to you, De Lisle tells me 
 that Mr. David Baldwin has quite lost his heart on her 
 account. I confess I am ambitious for her I want her 
 to do well ; there is nothing in the way. Why should 
 she throw herself away on a man like this Mr. Falcon ? 
 He is twenty years older than she a good man -no doubt ; 
 but a heretic, and poor. You say Mr. Baldwin is a her- 
 etic also, and that the only difference between the two 
 men is, that one is young and rich, and the other old and 
 not very well-to-do. That is differenoe enough for a 
 mother ; I assure you I have all a mother's feelings for 
 Stella Gammon whose child is she if not mine ? But 
 I inform you there are other points of difference between 
 the two." Here Miss Mar drew herself up and paused 
 a moment, looking steadfastly upon her listener, who, in 
 spite of herself, it must be confessed, was becoming a 
 very deepty-interested listener. 
 
 " David Baldwin is De Lisle Layard's particular friend. 
 De Lisle says that a great change is about to take place. 
 De Lisle confides in me as a son in his mother, and I in 
 you as a sister, for we are all interested together in Stel- 
 la's welfare. You wish her best good, I am sure ?" 
 
 The nun answered this interrogative with an almost 
 impatient gesture.
 
 260 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Layard's conversion has produced a good effect his 
 friend is thinking about these things. Mr. Baldwin has 
 many excellent points, and De Lisle informs me that his 
 talents are more than fair. If he becomes also a convert 
 to our dear mother, and confesses his allegiance to her, 
 would not the believing husband sanctify the wife ? and 
 other riches of this vain world would come into the holy 
 treasury ! Oh, think of these things make Stella think 
 of them ! I cannot endure that she should throw herself 
 away, and be lost on that Mr. Falcon ! Do think what 
 insane folly it is ! Don't let her do it !" 
 
 The nun's head bent upon her breast in deep thought- 
 fulness. Miss Mar followed up her entreaties : 
 
 " Do tell me that you '11 save her !" 
 
 " I ?" said the nun, looking up, speaking so solemnly, 
 so doubtingly, that Aunt Judith hesitated, even in the 
 midst of the importunate pleading she intended to renew. 
 
 " I know nothing of Mr. Falcon, nothing of Mr. Bald- 
 win. I know not what I could or should say." 
 
 Something Aunt Judith saw in the nun's p;ile face, 
 something she heard in her voice, that prevented the 
 words she was about to utter. She was afraid to speak 
 them she seemed to see herself in some new light that 
 startled her. Another moment, and the opportunity for 
 speaking them was gone, for the convent-bell rang, and 
 the nun instantly arose. 
 
 " I must go to my pupils," she said and nothing of 
 the relief she felt because of this necessity was apparent 
 in her countenance or voice; taking Miss Mar's hand in 
 parting, she, for the first time, sought a soothing word to 
 speak; "I will pray the Father that he may send (lie 
 Comforter to you," she said, softly, and glided away. 
 
 She did not go at once into the school-room, but first 
 ascended to the silence of her cell. But unconscious of 
 a purpose when she arrived there, as it seemed, for she
 
 THE DAILY SACRIFICE. 261 
 
 merely entered the room, gazed round upon it, for a mo- 
 ment looked out on the busy street, up into heaven, and 
 towards the garden where the dusty trees waved in the 
 dusty air, and then descended to the labor of the morn- 
 ing. If any change there was in her since her previous 
 descent, when summoned to receive her visitor, it was such 
 as a careless glancing eye would not detect; it appeared 
 in a deeper serenity and a loftier spiritual vision ; as one 
 who had been exalted might look in the joy of satisfied 
 faith. 
 
 But poor Miss Mar went home to find Mr. Falcon and 
 De Lisle Layard waiting in her parlor ... to sit down 
 with them as their hostess, and find herself beguiled away 
 from her distresses in the necessity there was for her en- 
 tertainment of the guests in the absence of Stella, who 
 had gone to comfort Lucia ; to hearken, wondering, in spite 
 of herself, to the' speech of the elder man, that so much 
 good should have come out of Nazareth. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 SUSAN having once received the thought that Mr. Fal- 
 con had brought before her, that with her, in all truth, 
 the life, more than the human life, even the mind of 
 Clarence, was intrusted, answered every expectation that 
 he had formed she aroused at once to other considera- 
 tions than those of her own sorrow and loss, to do with 
 vigilance that service unto which she had been called. 
 
 There was but one thing now against which she needed 
 to be guarded ; the exhaustion of her strength, which as 
 yet was, bodily, but weakness. Day after day she went 
 into the library with Clarence for study and recitation 
 day after day in the garden and the park, in the street 
 reading, talking, she was continually with him.
 
 262 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 Remarkable to witness were the changes through which 
 the recovered man now passed. Susan's name was less 
 and less rarely on his lips, she was not how the constant 
 unvarying burden of his speech, but it was not less evi- 
 dent that all his thoughts were drifting constantly towards 
 her; that she was, only more intelligibly, now the cen- 
 tre of his being; that his life was lived in reference to 
 her. 
 
 She was in bonds to him and the child knew and felt 
 it. She felt his gaze that ever was upon her she was 
 imprisoned all her freedom was gone the sense of loss, 
 the longing for recovery remained alone. 
 
 No one perceived this no one entered into the feeling 
 and distress of the child ; no one suspected anything like 
 a possibility of it. The house was full of other thoughts. 
 Falcon had his own Isidore had hers David his and 
 each found his absorbing; however surrounded and occu- 
 pied by outward things, they, one and all of them, had 
 their inner and unseen world to look after and govern. 
 
 Ishmael Baldwin stood nearest to Clarence and Susan, 
 he alone held them in constant survey and he had no 
 eye for seeing, no insight for detecting aught beyond the 
 surface of affairs. He knew the springs of his son's life 
 were in the life of Susan, and with assurance, and im- 
 patience too, he waited only because Mr. Falcon per- 
 sisted in the necessity of his waiting until the moment 
 should arrive when a promise or an oath should bind the 
 two together, beyond possibility of separation, at least in 
 life. 
 
 One day, in view of a confession of his own that he in- 
 tended soon to make, Falcon said to Susan : 
 
 " I think you do not often take a look at yourself that 
 is what I want you to do this morning. Do not smile; 
 I shall soon have no right to speak authoritatively as your 
 teacher."
 
 SUSAN'S CREATION. 263 
 
 In consternation Susan dropped the book into which 
 she was looking. What could he meau ? 
 
 " Not that I mean to bring a mirror in which you can 
 survey yourself," said Falcon, hastily. " You are much 
 changed since I first saw you you are quite putting on 
 the woman, getting tall and stately but that is not it ;" 
 he paused a moment, he was slightly embarrassed either 
 by Susan's gaze, or by what he had yet to say to her, or 
 by the thought of something he did not intend to say . . . 
 " But I want you to see what you are doing, nay, what 
 you have done. Do you ever think of Clarence 1 ?" he 
 did not pause for her to make reply he went on rapidly ; 
 he chose rather not to interpret the expression of the youth- 
 ful and ingenuous countenance before him. " I wanted 
 you to study with him. You know, but perhaps you 
 have not thought about it, how closely and diligently he 
 has studied how rapidly he has acquired knowledge 
 how remarkable his progress has been it is quite as 
 much as ever you can do to keep pace with him . . . 
 Has he ever spoken to you of his intentions ?" 
 
 There were two ways in which Susan might have 
 answered this question; Mr. Falcon had preferred to 
 hear another answer than she gave, for the information 
 contained in her reply was of a secondary importance to 
 him. Of course he knew that she was aware already of 
 this purpose of Clarence. 
 
 " He is going to study medicine." 
 
 t: Yes. You remember I told you that it was your 
 place to make a man of him you have accomplished 
 that" 
 
 " Oh, no, Mr. Falcon," said Susan quickly, shrinking 
 back, and within herself. Would they never have done 
 telling her these things 1 
 
 " Yes beyond all question. You, and you alone . . . 
 But I have noticed that you have applied yourself of
 
 264 , GETTING ALONG. 
 
 late quite too closely. You must take a vacation. I 
 shall soon be obliged to leave the Hall." 
 
 " But you are coming back again, Mr. Falcon ?" asked 
 Susan in eager haste, as if in great alarm. 
 
 " Not to teach you ..." he saw how her face fell 
 with that announcement, and continued soothingly, at the 
 same time humorously, " why, think of it, Susan, do I 
 look like a fit person to instruct a young lady in the 
 graces of civilized life ? I am as ignorant as a barbarian 
 in respect to those accomplishments which must be com- 
 municated to you, in some mysterious way or other, I 
 know not how. I could lay the foundation as well, per- 
 haps, as any other man, but for a beautiful superstructure, 
 some more skilful workman must be employed. Very 
 soon Clarence will be prepared for the High School, and 
 then for College, and so I shall have nothing to do, you 
 perceive. You would not have me remain here to idle 
 my time away, I am sure." 
 
 " You will come back then ?" said Susan, drawing 
 some sort of consolation from his words. 
 
 " Certainly. I shall live in St. John's." 
 
 " But not here, not in the Hall ?" 
 
 " I think not, Susan." 
 
 A long pause followed the utterance of these tidings. 
 Mr. Falcon spoke first to break it he liked not to look 
 at Susan, she seemed so deeply troubled this unuttered 
 tribulation, of which her face gave evidence, smote his 
 kind heart. 
 
 " What is Susan thinking of;"' said he. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " And has she not a word to say to me?" 
 
 ' No, Mr. Falcon." 
 
 " What ! when I am going away, it may be to morrow." 
 
 Susan looked at him, there was no need that she should 
 epcak.
 
 A DESPERATE CONFLICT. 265 
 
 " I aru disappointed, Susan." This lie said, because 
 he could not bear her silence her face grew paler and 
 paler, she breathed like one on the point of suffocation. 
 If she should speak, where could she find a place to stop 
 till she had told him how evil a thing life had become to 
 her that if he went away she must go too, or die ? 
 These things must not be said and Susan knew that 
 they must not be she could endure more easily than 
 speak her trouble ; and therefore, when he said that he 
 wasdisappointed, she merely shook her head in a beseech- 
 ing way, which he interpreted. 
 
 ' : Yes, but I am disappointed. I felt grieved that I 
 should leave you, though I knew I was not really leaving 
 you, and I expected to get some comfort from you and 
 here you compel me to go away without a particle Will 
 you not speak to me ?" 
 
 Involuntarily Falcon arose as he uttered these words. 
 He stepped hastily forward towards Susan, so strange a 
 struggle was that he saw going on within her. She was 
 as if in deadly conflict with an adversary that threatened 
 to triumph in her speedy and utter defeat. 
 
 She had raised herself upright from the drooping, 
 bowed position in which she listened to his words, her 
 hands, outspread towards him, but not, as he for an in- 
 stant supposed, beseeching help waved him away from 
 her as he approached, and he stock back at her bidding. 
 One or two ineffectual efforts she made to speak again 
 she strove and then loudly exclaimed : 
 
 " Mr. Falcon, I am very sorry that you should go.' 1 
 
 He sat down now beside her ; he, too, was deeply agi- 
 tated; not the word she had spoken, the simple regret, 
 but the struggle he had witnessed and the shock, the rent, 
 from which this word alone came forth, for a moment 
 overwhelmed him. But presently his voice came to him 
 many words he spoke If any one could soothe that 
 
 VOL. II. 12
 
 2G6 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 nature, after such a struggle, he could do it ; but, com- 
 prehending ill the nature of the struggle for he knew 
 that the news he had brought, alone, dissociated from all 
 other thoughts, could hardly have produced an effect, 
 occasioned a convulsion like that he could only talk in 
 the dark. Yet his words had the effect he was striving 
 to produce, or, the consciousness of self conquest in her 
 own soul brought calm after the storm ; and, though she 
 could not think with any force or clearness, but was con- 
 fused and well-nigh dumb at the thought of his remoVal, 
 so abiding a sense of protection and security she had felt 
 while he was living under that roof with her, so incredi- 
 ble it seemed that he should go away and leave her to her 
 fate, yet Susan sat and listened quietly to him, and made 
 no pleading that he should remain the strength for op- 
 position, conflict, or even entreaty, had left her. She 
 looked out on life, hopeless folding her arms upon her 
 breast watching the advance of her destiny, unresisting 
 and silent. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 SUSAN was now alone in the library. Mr. Falcon had 
 gone out, and left her smiling, for he had told her his 
 great secret; and, thinking of it, rejoicing in it,hc quite 
 forgot all things beside. He would take her down with 
 him that evening to John street, he said. Stella should 
 confirm what he had told. 
 
 It was early in the day, wanting yet some hours till 
 noon. Mr. Baldwin had come in from his morning drive. 
 He returned at an earlier hour than he was wont he had 
 cut short all his usual morning operations that day for 
 Mr. Falcon, last night, for the first time, agreed with him 
 that it would probably be a wise movement now to 
 acquaint Susan with the hopes of Clarence and his father.
 
 ISHMAEL'S GI; r. 267 
 
 The old man, on his return home, made his way at 
 once into the library, where he found Susan alone ; and, 
 in his own way, he proceeded to lay those hopes before 
 her. 
 
 "Susan," he said, "my daughter;" and he closed the 
 door behind him, and advanced towards the centre of the 
 room. Susan's face was turned away from him, and her 
 figure half hidden by the high back and obtruding arm 
 of the great library chair in which she sat; but he. had 
 caught sight of her mourning-dress, and with the same 
 glance perceived that she was alone. As he spoke, Su- 
 san rose from the chair. He did not understand the 
 movement that the word he had spoken rung in the ear 
 the knell of every hope. " Sit down, sit down, Susy ; I 
 want to talk with you; no, no I '11 sit here take your 
 chair. You have seen Mr. Falcon since breakfast, eh I 
 haven't you? Yes! so I thought. Then he has told 
 you that he has given Clarence over into your hands, 2iy 
 daughter, and I want to say something to you now it 's 
 my turn to speak. I want to give Clarence into your 
 hands, too ; and the boy is willing. Lord bless your 
 soul, Susan, he 's in 'em now don't you know it ?" 
 
 Mr. Baldwin did not expect an answer probably 
 thought that the occasion did not quite yet demand one. 
 He bent forward iii his chair, with his elbows resting on 
 the table, intently gazing at the child, for so he regarded 
 her and as his child especially. He continued : 
 
 " I was a thinking of this thing long ago, when I used 
 to visit you down at the beech. I perceived where my 
 great consolation was to come from, long before you could 
 have known anything about it. You 've done a splendid 
 piece of work, Susy, and, as Mr. Falcon and I have re- 
 marked a thousand times to each other, it is just such a 
 work as no one else could do. It would be a strange 
 thing if I was n't glad and proud to call you my daughter,
 
 268 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 and you '11 bear me witness, Susan, that I am glad and 
 proud. I want you to be my daughter in good earnest. 
 God knows, I would have been in any case. I was your 
 father's friend when we were children, and have been ever 
 since; and it was not merely the thought of what }-ou 
 had done for Clarence that made me feel tender towards 
 3'ou. If there hadn't been any Clarence, I should have 
 brought you home all the same. But I am not going to 
 deny that, on my son's account, I love you better than I 
 might have done. I think it's very likely, but we won't 
 argue about that. It may seem odd to you young folks 
 don't like old folks to be doing up this sort of business 
 for them, but I am a straight-forward man myself, and I 
 don't know but one way of doing a thing that must be 
 done It 's for Clarence, and for me, and for all of us " 
 Here Mr. Baldwin stopped and coughed a little, and 
 found the business rather more difficult to despatch than 
 he had contemplated, with Susan looking at him so 
 steadfastly, never for an instant removing her eyes; if 
 she had made the slightest gesture of arm, or foot, or 
 hand if she had looked down or away, or done anything 
 beside sit like an image carved from stone he could 
 have proceeded with still less circumlocution ; as it was, 
 he now came out with words abruptly : " It 's for Clar- 
 ence, I say, and me, and all of us he he loves you, 
 and you must know that already. It 's no news to you. 
 If he loves any other person about him, it is on your ac- 
 count he loved no one till you came ; and now you see 
 how kind he is to all how thoughtful he is. But you 
 are the one yet. We do not doubt that you love him, 
 too . . . perhaps as you would have done had he been a 
 brother of yours, and his mother was dead. He has had 
 no mother, Susan, and Isidore . . . ahem you know she 
 has not had the extraordinary faculty that you have shown 
 for getting on with him, and leading him. If his mother
 
 THE RECEPTION IT MET. 209 
 
 had lived, she would have done for him what you have. 
 But she would have been his mother and you are only, 
 as you now are you know, Susan ... a friend. And 
 there 's no knowing what might happen. He wants you 
 nearer ... he wants to marry you, Susy." 
 
 It was all out ! Mr. Baldwin drew himself away from 
 the table, and stood up, having said it, and turned from 
 Susan and began to walk the room. 
 
 Susan also arose, but she stood still. When Mr. 
 Baldwin, having reached the limit of the room, turned on 
 his heel and approached her again, she spoke, but not till 
 he had come very near so near, that her hand, lifted, 
 had fallen on his arm, and arrested his steps. He stood 
 still at her words : 
 
 " I cannot I cannot." 
 
 He did not read " I will not," in that voice ; it was 
 entreaty, not resistance, that gave to the words their 
 pathos. 
 
 Mr. Baldwin had not anticipated this; the only diffi- 
 culty for which he had looked was his own utterance; it 
 had not been an easy thing for him to deliver this ad- 
 dress; but now, his part performed, he was hardly- pa- 
 tient that the word should be spoken with so strange a 
 voice in his ear. 
 
 " It can't be," he said, " that you will forsake us 
 now. You cannot mean to desert Clarence ; he will be 
 ruined." There was surprise in his displeasure. 
 
 <: Oh, no ; I know he will not. I know he will not. 
 You can tell him that it is foolish. I am sure you can 
 prove it is so to him. And I I am so young." 
 
 Mr. Baldwin smiled; this distress was unfeigned he 
 knew unfeigned on Susan's part, as unlooked-for on 
 his; but he wilfully mis read it. It was the confusion of 
 a child who was too suddenly called to look upon herself 
 as arrived at the estate of woman the confusion of a
 
 270 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 girl hearing from another than a lover such words as he 
 had spoken. He became patient and considerate in his 
 language, in view of this, and more fatherly than ever in 
 his bearing. 
 
 " You are young, I know ; you must yet have masters, 
 and learn a great many things which you know nothing 
 about. I am going to have you learn music ; your voice 
 is sweeter than Isidore's, and we must have some one to 
 make melody in the Hall when she is gone. And I am 
 going to have you learn to paint and draw; there's a 
 young girl, a (friend of Miss Gammon, who is to teach 
 you Lucia Tree her name is ; and you are to go to the 
 riding-school next month, when it opens. And, besides, 
 we have to go on a great many journeys yet, you and I 
 together. I am going to take you Mr. Falcon and I 
 were talking about it only yesterday I am going to take 
 you to the village where your mother lived when she was 
 young; and Mr. Falcon is going with us, and we shall 
 visit about among your relatives. Besides all that, you 
 are to help me to plan our house on the beach, for I am 
 going to build one down there, or else repair the old one, 
 so that we can spend our summers, or a part of them 
 there. Getting married ! why you are not to think of 
 that for years to come ; only we all love you so much, 
 Susy, we want to make sure of you. I am thinking of 
 you as your own father would I want to make you 
 happy." 
 
 She said not now, " I cannot " she said not anything. 
 During this long speech she had been saying to herself, 
 " It makes no difference it makes no difference at all 
 what happens ; oh, if he would only stop speaking !" 
 
 But Mr. Baldwin fancied, while he drew all this pros- 
 pect of future years and pleasant occupations for Susan, 
 that he could see what went on in her mind, and he was 
 satisfied. So satisfied and confident, that, as if to make
 
 FLIGHT. 271 
 
 the whole thing even more clear to her, as if to show her 
 to herself as free and fortunate even beyond all telling, 
 he said : 
 
 " I am sure, Susy, that you will at least let me tell 
 my son that you love no one better than you love him." 
 
 That was a strange look to corue from Susan's eyes ; 
 his son ! but not David ! it was a glance that almost 
 made even Ishmael suspicious but of what 1 why, of 
 nothing clearly, he made answer to himself, when he 
 rapidly surveyed the suspicion, or the place that it had 
 darkened for a moment. 
 
 " I may tell him that much, may I ?" he repeated. 
 
 She must answer him ; but what could she say ? she 
 could do nothing better than fly away, and leave Mr. 
 Baldwin to think anything that he could or would. Not 
 what he would think, but how she might escape the ne- 
 cessity of speaking, was her thought. She moved for- 
 ward to the door ; but, as she went, her steps were stay- 
 ed, and yet the old man had not stirred. It was his 
 voice that arrested her. 
 
 " Why, Susan, you will not leave me in such a way as 
 that? Come back, my child; come, Susy, speak one 
 good, kind word, or I shall think it is not you." 
 
 " Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Baldwin do. You must 
 wait," she stayed to say. 
 
 There was a tone in that urgent voice that Ishmael 
 could not resist, but neither did he in the least enter into 
 its meaning. He let her have her way; and, a few 
 seconds later, had he searched for her throughout the 
 house or grounds, Ishmael would not have found her.
 
 272 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 IN Leah Chilton's chamber there is sleep and silence, 
 and, death I had almost said. The room is small, and 
 not the most cheerful, nor the most comfortable for an 
 invalid, but Leah has kept it since the approach of win- 
 ter, going into the rooms below but rarely ; she has grown 
 so feeble since the leaves fell in autumn. 
 
 Since that time she has been much alone has seen no 
 company Horace rarely finds a leisure evening now, and 
 she consequently sees but little of him ; and the banker 
 who lives in the closed house in the Square, spends so 
 much time in the drawing room with her mother, who 
 charitably does her best to amuse the hours that hang so 
 heavy on the hands of the lonely old man, that Mrs. Chil- 
 ton finds herself shut out in a great degree from the sick 
 room of her daughter. 
 
 But all Leah's wants, save those of love, are well sup- 
 plied. Mr. Baldwin is mindful of her. Mr. Falcon has 
 sent her pleasant books to read, and fresh flowers from 
 the Hall conservatory are often sent by Isidore through 
 Horace for his sister. Leah is content. But she is alone. 
 Susan Dillon now and then has cheered the room by her 
 presence ; and sad though the presence was, it was still 
 youth and life, and she brought with her an out-door 
 atmosphere. 
 
 But always from these visits Susan bore away with her 
 far more than she had taken to the sick and dying Leah. 
 Lessons richly fraught with wisdom, a new or a strength- 
 ened capacity of patience, and a more clear-eyed vision 
 for perception of the good gifts bestowed upon her. 
 
 She has come again into this chamber up without 
 warning or hiuderancc. And to-day the frosty air has 
 given no color to Susan's cheek ; she has come in with not
 
 LIFE IN T THE PRESENCE OF DEATH. 273 
 
 a word to say, and yet, to throw her burden on that wasted 
 life, that being racked with pain that lies on the uncur- 
 tained bed ! For Susan is desperate. She has come in 
 haste from Mr. Baldwin in the library. The Hall is full 
 of enemies she has come here for a friend ... So she 
 said to herself as she hurried through the street so she 
 was thinking when without ceremony she entered the 
 house, and moved on straight up to Leah's room. 
 
 But she has time to rest and think again before there 
 is a listener to hear her trouble. 
 
 She does sit beside the bed on which Leah lies sleep- 
 ing. She goes apart into a corner where Leah will not 
 see her, when she first awakens. Not only does she nqw 
 accuse herself for coming here to give vent to her com- 
 plaining ; the glance that she directed to the bed as she 
 went in was followed by a fearful conviction there will 
 soon be death here, and no Leah ; for to Susan's eyes the 
 face had never looked so wan and lifeless, and yet so full 
 of pain as now. 
 
 Noiselessly she threw aside her hood and shawl, and 
 bowed her head upon her knees, and lost herself, her own 
 grieved, desperate impulses and emotions, while listening 
 to the labored breath of Leah. And now all human 
 trouble stood back awed, voiceless, powerless to move, or 
 sway, or vex ; and the ticking clock upon the mantel siglied 
 as it bore on the burden of time yet longer for the sleeper. 
 
 That silence was better for Susan than any voice, than 
 any sympathy had been. It brought her to herself: it 
 compelled her to lay down the weapons of rebellion it 
 in a manner soothed her for presently all the past came 
 up and inet this present, and the meeting of the clouds 
 caused a heavy rain to fall. Without restraint, silently 
 and long, she wept no groan, no sob, no sigh escaped 
 her ; she gave no evidence but tears, and Leah could not 
 waken from hearing their fall. 
 12*
 
 274 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 At last the sleeper .stirred; she coughed in her slum- 
 ber, and wakened. In an instant Susan's head uplifted, 
 she could weep no longer : in that silence she hardly 
 dared to breathe . . . Leah was speaking. Susan bent 
 forward at the sound, supposing that her presence there 
 was known to Leah. Still she did not rise and tlie voice 
 had not called her ; it only murmured, and even in the 
 murmur there was exultation : 
 
 "Xo more fatigue, no more alarms, 
 Ko cares to break the long repose . . ." 
 
 And Susan hearing this looked towards the bed she 
 could not see her friend ; then she bent forward from the 
 foot-bench on which she was seated ; was there any need 
 of her ? 
 
 Leah had half risen, or was struggling to rise, but could 
 not; she sunk back on her pillows, exhausted even with 
 the slight effort she had made, and the feeble cough told 
 how much even that effort had cost her. 
 
 Beholding this, Susan went swiftly but quietly forward 
 to the bedside she raised Leah in her arms, as she had 
 been her constant nurse, whose place was there, shook up 
 the pillows, and said, composedly : 
 
 " Have n't I come in the right time ?" 
 
 Leah, who had submitted to all this soothing arrange- 
 ment in silence and quiet, could for a moment only express 
 her thanks by a pleased and loving smile. 
 
 " Sit down close beside me, Susy ; how glad I am to 
 see you. How did you happen to come at the very time 
 when I wanted you so much ?" 
 
 " I thought you would expect me," said Susan, stroking 
 Leah's wasted hands, and drawing nearer to the bedside 
 till her face was close by Leah's, and their kiss was on 
 each other's cheek. 
 
 " Have you been here long, Susy ?" whispered Leah.
 
 RECOVERY. 275 
 
 " While you were sleeping I came," answered Susan, in 
 the same suppressed voice. 
 
 " And what has troubled you so much, Susy, that you 
 have been crying, my darling ? Not for me, I hope ; it 
 was n't for me that you cried ? . . . Yet I almost hope 
 it was, because I could tell you what would make you 
 happy, and glad for me . . . Was it for me, Susy ?" 
 
 " Oh, Leah, you are so very ill. I did not think you 
 were so very ill," burst from Susan's lips, and fast her 
 tears fell now without control. Now, truly, it was be- 
 cause of Leah that she wept. 
 
 " But I shall be so infinitely jvell very soon," said 
 Leah, speaking with a stronger voice, gently smoothing 
 the hair back from Susan's temples while she spoke. 
 " Don't cry darling, I shall soon be so well !" 
 
 " Oh, will you, will you, Leah ; truly 1 is it so ?" 
 
 " The Great Physician says so would I not be foolish 
 if I doubted his word Susy ] Yes ! I shall be well and 
 strong again I can but smile thinking of it, even now, 
 when I lie here so helpless, and you think me so weak 
 and miserable." 
 
 What was it that she meant ? Leah read this question 
 in the face of Susan saw how her words had suspended 
 the falling tears and that a great hope and a great fear 
 were in conflict in the heart of her friend. 
 
 " Dear Susy," she said, " Heaven will not seem a 
 strange country to you long, so many of your dear old 
 friends there ! When I am gone you will know where I 
 ran, aud you will know, surely, that I am well. Look up 
 at me ! be strong !" 
 
 Susan had buried her face in the bed-clothes, and no 
 longer strove to control her grief when it had received 
 this dreadful warrant; and yet, at Leah's bidding, she 
 looked up ... and fain would she be strong. 
 
 " You do not understand it ... I am not going to die."
 
 276 t, KITING A1.U.VU. 
 
 Susan clashed the bauds outstretched towards her, 
 eagerly she listened ; what was this great mystery ? The 
 tender voice of Leah went on to unfold it. 
 
 "(This is worn out this body that you have called 
 nie it aches, there 's nothing left of it; it is so tired and 
 Avorthless too but I am strong. I can think even 
 faster than you can. I shall not be bound to this bed 
 long ; I shall be free, and young, and strong again. Are 
 you not glad to hear that, Susy ? come nearer to me. I 
 have such blessed thoughts such happy thoughts. I 
 wish that you would share them with me. Why not, 
 darling ? You must not think, though, Susy, that it is 
 because I am lying here and can do nothing, that I say 
 it. I thought it and believed it long before, nd it 
 made me happy then, when I was good for something in 
 the house. 
 
 " What, Leah ? what is it ?" began Susan eagerly, but 
 she added sadly, " it made you happy but I I am 
 different." 
 
 " But you are a human being, Susy. Now listen, for 
 I will tell you . . . Don't be thinking of yourself 
 you are nothing. God is all in all. Let him do what 
 he sees fit with you and do not stand out against him." 
 
 " I cannot understand you . . . Leah ! I wish I might 
 lie down there in your place . . . but no ! I would not 
 have you get up and take mine." 
 
 " What is it. Susy ? What troubles you, darling ?" 
 
 " Nothing . . . but I am so tired ... it makes no 
 difference . . . Don't mind me. But, Leah, I am glad 
 for you." 
 
 Gently the wasted arm of the dying girl enfolded her 
 friend, gently she drew the troubled young being towards 
 her, cheerily the faint voice strove to speak. 
 
 " Yes ! be glad for me and for yourself too, Susy. 
 Oh, it is a grand thing to live,, Let not your lie-art be
 
 THE MATERNAL WATC5I. 277 
 
 troubled. Doth not the Lor4 behold? Who art thou, 
 dear child, that art afraid of mortals who shall die. and 
 forgettest the Lord, tliy Maker ? Oh, be sure our Father 
 in Heaven is strong enough to give you all the strength 
 you need, if you only trust him. It seems so strange 
 that we should be so cowardly. Come ! promise me that 
 you will be strong strong in the Lord, and " 
 
 Leah was here interrupted in the midst of her injunc- 
 tion by the entrance of Mrs. Chilton. 
 
 It was no place for her and no hour. And some 
 sense of this fact the mother seemed to have, when she 
 took the place by the bedside which Susan had but now 
 occupied, and sought, in her own way, for a little time to 
 amuse her daughter. Not even near the borders of the 
 place to which Leah had led Susan, might she with her 
 worldling projects come. She might wear a solemn 
 countenance, and say some pious things, and soothe her 
 child with a delusive thought that she indeed was with 
 her in this going to the world of spirits, that the near tie 
 which bound them on earth was a true figure (not one 
 distorted, and wronged out of its purpose,) of heavenlier 
 union ; and all the comfort that the reality would have 
 given to Leah, she drew from this mock show of faith 
 and hope, by which her mother deluded herself and her 
 child. But there was nothing more in it than this ; the 
 one was already an accredited citizen of the kingdom of 
 heaven, in full possession of all its rights and immunities, 
 and the other was not was only a complacent self- 
 deceiver. A few minutes after Mrs. Chilton came into 
 the room, Susan went away, returning to the Hall. For 
 the last time she and Leah had spoken with each other.
 
 278 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 THAT same day Mr. Falcon had decided on still further 
 explanations than this that he had made Susan. 
 
 As he went out from the library, he was not altogether 
 satisfied with the result of his conversation with her; it 
 troubled him that she, in view of his departure from the 
 Hall, should be so troubled but he had left her more rec- 
 onciled to that event, as he believed, by the intelligence 
 imparted in regard to his future prospects to his mar- 
 riage and residence in St. John's. And he likewise be- 
 lieved that this news he had brought Susan was the best 
 preparation for the words Mr. Baldwin had yet to say. 
 
 As he passed up the hall to the portico, he heard his 
 name pronounced, and the rapid tread of feet that were 
 following him. Turning back he saw David, who, with 
 an agitated face, advanced and took his arm, and went on 
 down the avenue, drawing him, a resistless companion, 
 along with him. 
 
 ' ; What is this, Mr. Falcon, are you going to leave us 
 in very truth ?" he asked, as they passed in among the 
 fine old trees. 
 
 " In very truth," said Falcon. 
 
 " But why, sir ; is not this house large enough for half- 
 a-dozen persons ? We cannot spare you, sir." 
 
 Now was the kind heart that listened troubled. 
 
 Troubled more deeply than it had been in the library, 
 on account of Susan's unlooked-for distress. Because 
 this conversation on which they had now entered, had been 
 anticipated by him since yesterday, when Mr. Baldwin 
 hinted broadly, while talking of Clarence, of his son 
 David, and hia view of the prospects in regard to Stella 
 Gammon. Since that time Mr. Falcon had been walking 
 about in dire dismay, construing anew every act and 

 
 THE WINTRY WALK. 279 
 
 word of David during the last weeks. And his dismay 
 lias reached a crisis, now that David walks with him in 
 this solitary place with one word on his lip and one name, 
 and cannot speak it. Yet he is also relieved, his own in- 
 tegrity stands unimpeached before him ; he has wrought 
 no wrong or sin but his heart is grieved for David. 
 He remembers his own youth. 
 
 In reply to David's question if the Hall were too small 
 for him, he said : 
 
 " You will smile when you see the nut-shell into which 
 I shall put myself when I leave you." 
 
 ' But why do you go, sir ? We cannot keep house 
 without you," persisted David, determined to sift his sus- 
 picions thoroughly, if it should prove that there were no- 
 thing else to sift. 
 
 " Because your brother has now no need of me, and I 
 must go labor elsewhere. Time is not inine to waste." 
 
 And here Falcon paused, and perceiving that David 
 hesitated, and could not readily find words with which to 
 express himself, he gave the young man opportunity, by 
 proceeding from this point to lecture him as he had 
 never done in any wise before, on his opportunities and 
 duties; making mention, as he went on, qj the reasons 
 why he had hitherto refrained from such expression of 
 his mind, and the reasons also for the present preaching. 
 David listened to the end with some impatience, as the 
 speaker could but perceive ; but the impatience was not 
 felt on account of the words he spoke in his inmost 
 heart David this day recognized their truth and perti- 
 nence, but he had somewhat to learn that had little to do 
 with these things. Until it was learned these other con- 
 siderations were not for him. It was not of himself and 
 his duties that he desired to hear, of which he could hear, 
 while in his present mood, to any advantage. And while 
 Mr. Falcon went on, encouraged by the silence of his lis-
 
 280 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 tener, and his manifest attention, and preached the truth 
 with earnest words, David was meanwhile selecting other 
 words and condensing the meaning of the question he de- 
 signed to ask, into the smallest possible compass. 
 
 When, therefore, Mr. Falcon made an end of his speak- 
 ing, David said : 
 
 *' Before you go, sir, will you tell me if it is Miss Cam- 
 inon that takes you away from us ?" 
 
 They stopped in the walk with one impulse as he asked 
 this question. Falcon suddenly called back from the large 
 view he was but now taking of life, its capacities, and 
 greatness, and grandeur, looked upon the young man ; he 
 saw there more than he desired to see ; but silence were 
 wrongful here, let speech be painful and grievous as it 
 might. He did not trust himself to speak, but bowed. 
 Yes, it was she who had to do with his departure. 
 
 <; You are, then, going to marry her ?" David asked, in- 
 stantly. 
 
 " God willing,' 1 was the answer. 
 
 At this, David turned away into another path without 
 a word. Falcon's first impulse was to follow after him, 
 but as he started forward his heart asked him, What is 
 there that you can say to him ? Is not all said now that 
 you can say f and, as he turned back again towards the 
 house, his own youth came before him in all its storm 
 and anguish, when she whom he loved, loved again, and 
 not him, but another. 
 
 He was standing in that past reflecting, not in this 
 present irresolute, while he remained there in the aveuuo 
 in the place where David had left him. When he 
 emerged from it again the light that fell on the frost- 
 bound earth through the bare trees was paler than the 
 glow that warmed and enlivened the man's heart. His 
 own experience made him prophetic ; he wandered down 
 the avenue until, unawares, he was walking side by side
 
 LIFE IS SHOUT. 281 
 
 with David, the spirit of the man who was even then 
 wandering alone amid the leafless trees of December, 
 and was saying to that spirit what the man had not at that 
 hour endured to hear, " Out of weakness strength is per- 
 fected. From a present of sorrow and desolation a fu- 
 ture of joy and fulness shall come." 
 
 And even then the wanderer in the wood was listening, 
 but not intelligently, to the confusion of the pi-elude of 
 the Divine organist, to whose music his now speechless 
 voice should yet sing a new " psalm of life." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 IT was late in the afternoon when Susan returned to 
 the Hall. She went back calm and resolved; Leah's 
 words went with her, they were angels that strengthened 
 her. 
 
 She made such application as she could, at that time, 
 of the words. She said to herself, " I will think no more 
 about these things. I will let myself alone. Mr. Fal- 
 con may go away. They may do what they choose with 
 me. Leah says I am not my own, but God's. Thcn I 've 
 nothing to do with it; but " and here she made haste 
 to carry her resolution into practice, as David and Clar- 
 ence, and their father, came before her mind iu swift suc- 
 cession. " I am not my own," she said, again and again. 
 " I have nothing to do with it. It makes no difference 
 how miserable one is. People do not live forever. There 
 is Leah dying ! . . . My mother died when she was young 
 she was not so very old . . . and who can tell but I 
 way die young too ? But I have nothing to do with that 
 either, Leah says ... Of course it is not to be expected 
 that I should be happy. But happiness is nothing, and 
 misery is nothing. I shall soon understand it. I am
 
 282 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 nothing. For God is all in all. I will think no more 
 about it. I will do just as I 'm bid. No matter what ; 
 it is not iny fault it is no concern of mine. If God 
 does not look after me, of course I am not to look after 
 myself. I will be quiet. Whatever happens, happens 
 because it must. We have nothing to do with it;" and 
 she dressed herself, so thinking, and went down into the 
 drawing-room, and the evening wore away. 
 
 Wore, how slowly, away ! 
 
 Did Clarence read her thoughts ? When his graceful 
 figure came gliding through the room, bearing towards 
 her directly always it was so he leaned against her 
 chair, and began to tell her of something that had great- 
 ly interested him in his reading that day, and to ask her 
 opinion about it, and to move forward from his place till 
 he stood directly fronting her ; when he looked upon her 
 face, he ceased speaking his countenance fell 
 
 " Susy," he said, " I am wretched." 
 
 In momentary weakness Susan shaded her face with 
 her uplifted hand, 
 
 " And so are you," he added. And she did not 
 deny it. 
 
 " I can tjgll you why," he continued. 
 
 " Oh no ! do not !" Susan urged ; " bring the chess- 
 men, Clarence ; a game will do us good. I went out in 
 the street and it was so cold it makes me stupid." 
 
 " .No, Susy it is not that. Something worse. Your 
 heart is so cold ! You made me love you but you have 
 no love for me." 
 
 This he said with an indescribable mournfulness he 
 could in no other way account for the change in Susan's 
 manner towards him, than by the supposition that his 
 father had communicated his highest hope to her, and 
 that she was going to disappoint it. Any other person 
 in the house, even closely observant of Susan, could have
 
 THE NEW STRUGGLE. 283 
 
 detected nothing in her recent bearing towards him that 
 gave evidence of any new enlightenment in her mind or 
 any revolution in her heart concerning him but he who 
 was so watchful, so mindful of every variation in her 
 mood, was certain that his eyes and ears had not deceived 
 him in her heart she had rejected him . . . 
 
 " You made me alive ! but now you kill me !" he ex- 
 claimed after a momentary silence, speaking with a vehe- 
 ment passion, new and strange. 
 
 K Clarence ! bring the chess-men," burst from Susan. 
 " You talk like a cruel, wicked boy." 
 
 " No I am an unfortunate, miserable man." 
 
 '' We shall have no game to-night, then." 
 
 Clarence looked at Susan how strangely sweet her 
 voice was ! and lo, she was looking, smiling, up towards 
 him. He saw the smile, saw the flush on her face, that 
 was but now so pale ; he threw away his fear ; it made 
 him quite too wretched, and wretched he could not be 
 while she was smiling, blushing there before him. He 
 drew back from her, he came up again still nearer, he 
 bowed, till his face was near to hers not with a kiss, not 
 with embracing but to say what froze the smile and 
 the heart of the child. 
 
 " You will love me, Susy I only ask a little be not 
 so proud or I I " he drew himself up, and a terrible 
 energy impelled the low-spoken words "J.he last state 
 of the man will be worse than the first !" 
 
 " Sit here by me, Clarence wait ! I will bring the 
 chessboard ... I am not proud how could you say 
 that ? You are not kind to me, Clarence." 
 
 Susan went to bring the board, and Mr. Baldwin, who 
 had watched every gesture of his children from a dis- 
 tance, rubbed his hands in fatherly exultation, with a 
 whispered, " By George, Falcon ! we have done it !" 
 
 David also had joined the family in the drawing-room,
 
 284 GETTING ALONC. 
 
 and, as if his secret were known to every person there, he 
 exerted himself likewise, but even more desperately than 
 Susan was doing. He did not take refuge in quiet, but 
 in excitement he sang glees with Isidore and Horace 
 Chilton, talked much and brilliantly, and did his utmost 
 to persuade the house that he was the freest and happiest 
 of men. 
 
 When, late in the evening, De Lisle Layard came in 
 with the intelligence that Professor Leighton had accept- 
 ed the call to the presidential chair of the St. John's 
 College, and would probably arrive in town during the 
 evening, David made haste to escape away from the house 
 with him, and did not return again that night. 
 
 In town that night ! De Lisle Layard had said, That 
 Night ! 
 
 It was another thought than that with which Leah 
 had endeavored to inform the mind of Susan that the 
 child lay down upon her bed, and, exhausted by the 
 tempestuous day, and the still more tempestuous even- 
 ing, slept, without dream or motion, until daybreak. 
 
 Her deliverer had come ! 
 
 She might have gone to him ; she might so have 
 spared herself all this through whioh she had passed, 
 this conflict and dread, and the aversion to Clarence, or 
 at least her duty towards him with which she had 
 struggled in shame and sorrow. She is aware of that ; 
 she might have gone to live with Mr. Leighton but 
 when she asks herself the question, knowing all that has 
 come to pass, all that has been, and all that is required 
 of her now, Would you have done wisely or well to 
 have escaped it, Susan ? she answers " no." 
 
 But she will go now to him. She docs not believe all 
 that they tell her iu regard to Clarence she will not 
 think of what last night passed between them ; it is not 
 so needful that she should be ever in his. sight . . . that
 
 THE NEW DECISION. ^ 285 
 
 without her ruin would come again upon him He is 
 strong and studious ; he goes out amongst men ; what 
 thej- all tell her is not, it cannot be true. It makes no 
 difference that Mr. Baldwin has placed the event of her 
 marriage with him so far beyond the present : that it 
 lies in any future is sufficient that for a moment she 
 should be looked upon as the betrothed of Clarence is 
 more than she can bear. 
 
 She can well endure that David should hold to her the 
 relation that he does, and ever has that he should look 
 upon her as a child, and speak as to childhood when he 
 speaks to her she can endure to have him pity her to 
 know that her first thoughts of him were utter madness 
 but they must not, now or ever, marry her to Clarence. 
 What is all the splendor of the Hall ? what are all the 
 promises Mr. Baldwin makes ? The long journeyings ; 
 even that journey to the birth-place of her mother ! . . . 
 The new house on the beach, the accomplishments, and 
 society, and fine dress ^what is all the world at such a 
 price as this ? She can do anything but love Clarence^ 
 and understanding this so well, for often she has pon- 
 dered it in her heart, she has of her own self come to 
 understand her relation evermore to David. She can 
 pity Clarence ; or she could until all that necessity was 
 removed. She can admire him, can live with him, and 
 study with him, but never, never while the world stands, 
 can she love and marry him ! 
 
 Yesterday she had put away these thoughts. She said 
 to herself, " God is all in all. If I am glad or grieved, 
 it 's all one to me. I am nothing !" But the instant 
 that she knew that Mr. Leighton was coming, that he 
 was even then approaching his new home, she was flying 
 out against fate in rebellion, resolving anew, passionately 
 declaiming in her heart against the demands that the peo- 
 ple around her would make of her she was her own
 
 286 . GETTING ALOXG. 
 
 she was Mr. Leigh ton's she would go anywhere, struggle 
 through any fate, rather than remain here, and suffer this. 
 She rose up in the morning, as a young soldier on the 
 morning of a battle ' This day shall see my victory." 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 AT the door of Miss Watson's chamber Stella Gam- 
 mon is again waiting for admittance. 
 
 Twice she has announced a guest to the ear of the in- 
 mate of the little hall-room, but still she waits permis- 
 sion to go in. 
 
 Miss Watson is not in a mood for visitors, apparently, 
 if one may judge from the silence she keeps, and the ab- 
 straction in which she continues to brood over some pa- 
 pers in her hand ; remaining in the position in which the 
 first knock found her, she has not an intention of grant- 
 ing admittance to the person who waits without. 
 
 But when Stella speaks, and calls to her, the lady's face 
 brightens perceptibly ; she has no objection to a guest 
 like' Stella. She cannot turn her away. She does not 
 merely say, " Come in," she drops her papers, and her- 
 self opens the door, and greets Stella with a kiss. 
 
 " And now," she says, not waiting for a presentation 
 of the cause, " what has kept you so long away ? You 
 have waited for a new plague-spot to appear discover it 
 to me, Miss Stella." 
 
 " Ah you do not speak. You have good news, then, 
 to tell me; you were never so slow in delivering yourself 
 when you had any trouble to tell." 
 
 " That is true," said Stella frankly, mastering the mo- 
 mentary embarrassment with which she met Miss Wat- 
 son's salutation. " I have followed your last advice to 
 the letter. But I want more counsel yet."
 
 MISS WATSON'S INTUITION. 287 
 
 "Ah, but you have now another counsellor !" 
 " Yes and still I need you, who are a woman." 
 " My dear, if you need a woman's counsel, you have 
 yourself. If you want a man's, you have his, whoever ho 
 may be. You must renounce all evil habits, and I 
 should call this an evil one. You must by no means con- 
 tinue to take counsel of the world. You have now a 
 little world of your own a universe of mind complete 
 and sufficient as your needs." 
 
 " I am nevertheless at a dead loss," said Stella quietly, 
 " and you must e'en help me. I cannot, by any discov- 
 erable means, make it known to Aunt Judith what I 
 think of matrimony. She will not see, hear, or believe. 
 She is deaf and blind." 
 " And dumb, too ?" 
 
 " Not dumb. By no means. I am pretty well in- 
 formed as to her opinion of the poor old man I shall call 
 my husband." 
 
 " Poor and old, is he ?" 
 " Has not Aunt Judith told you ?" 
 " It may be I have seen him." 
 " Oh ! in Mr. Silsey's room ?" 
 " Yes. I wish you joy with all my heart." 
 " Of the poor old man ? thank you, Miss Watson. It 
 is all your fault. If you had not counselled me in that 
 absurd way, no doubt I should have married a handsome 
 fashionable man of fortune, and taken the lead in another 
 manner than now seems probable." 
 " I know." 
 
 " Aunt Judith has been communicating the sad state 
 of things to you, Miss Watson ?" 
 
 "Dear child, intuitions serve as well as gossip. I am 
 going back into the country to-morrow ; do you still de- 
 sire to go with me ? ... No ! . . . I read that ; be not 
 at the trouble of explaining away your meaning."
 
 288 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " I heard that you were going. And I know the rea- 
 son why. You would not choose to have me come at 
 such a time. Miss Watson, do you know I think you are 
 the very noblest woman in the world ?" 
 
 " Oh, hush what perfect nonsense, Stella. If you 
 went down merely one pair of stairs in this house, you 
 would find a young creature that puts me to shame ; and 
 I do not suppose that you could go up or down any pair 
 of stairs, without finding a landing and a room with some 
 such inmate." 
 
 " I know very well what women are," said Stella, 
 manifestly intent on holding to her previous declara- 
 tion. 
 
 " Obviously you do not," said Miss Watson. 
 
 " At all events, I know to what you just now refer ; my 
 friend, Lucia, has told me all about it. If you had un- 
 dertaken to glorify her, I would have joined in with all 
 my heart. I know that Mr. Silsey has been, somehow or 
 other, encouraged by his wife, and helped on by her, too 
 a sort of angelic mission she has had, I suppose ; and I 
 know the stir he will soon be making among men of 
 science, upsetting their theories, proving himself the 
 veriest iconoclast in the world, and " 
 
 " Well, well, what if you do know all this, child ? I 
 can tell you far more. He never would have cdine to 
 any point or conclusion but for his wife. She has shown 
 him how to live iu the first place and a man must learn 
 that before he can act to much puqxiM!. A life delicate, 
 tender, and true, like that of his young wife, was needful 
 to evolve in his what was spccjally needful to all effective 
 working. She is the spirit of his spirit, the secret spring 
 to all his efficient labor. 'v 
 
 " But your wife and son, Miss Watfon, that poor, heart- 
 broken woman, for whom you have shown such heavenly 
 compassion "
 
 VOLUNTARY TRIBUTE. 289 
 
 " She is not heart-broken, Stella." 
 
 " And the boy you have to educate ; and there is a 
 mortgage on your farm, too. I wish I had a mint of 
 money-! You exerted yourself so many ways to save a 
 man from ruin when you believed him innocent. Do not 
 hinder me. I will speak I will say that the world 
 should know of it ; and I know very well what it is you 
 are now going to do. You have found all at once so 
 many new things to say and new books are to be writ- 
 ten ! no wonder you can speak when you can do so much. 
 I tell you I reverence you ; I am astonished when I think 
 of you. I cannot forgive myself that I have come to you 
 so many times " 
 
 " You never came but twice, Stella," broke in Miss 
 Watson, with her slow, rich voice. 
 
 " Bothering }'ou about my own difficulties and perplex- 
 ities," continued Stella, unmindful of the interruption. " I 
 do not know that any other, woman or man, would ven- 
 ture to say this much to you perhaps it is trespassing ; 
 but I desired that you should hear me say that I know 
 how noble and grand you are, and that I know why you 
 are going to live in the country, and why you set to work 
 again ; and if there is a desire in my heart, it is to be 
 like you. And Mr. Falcon thinks with me. If I have 
 no other purpose in life I have at least this, to be like you." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I suppose it would be ungracious to 
 put back all this glorification, but really it seems to me 
 something like like " Miss Watson's voice had a 
 tremulous, uncertain sound, now it was silent. 
 
 " Like what, Miss Watson ?" 
 
 " As though you were so happy, my dear, in your own 
 heart, that your joy must find some sort of expression, 
 and you put it off on to me. I forgive you, but I must 
 forget also in order to do that ; so pray do not revive a 
 sense of the injury by repetition." 
 
 VOL. n. 13
 
 290 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " Oh well, Miss Watson, be it as you will ; but I am 
 not so marvellously happy after all." 
 
 " Not ?" 
 
 " With Aunt Judith disappointed and I know not 
 how to reconcile her ; there 's a wall between us, I fancy, 
 wide enough for all the horsemen in the world to ride 
 abreast. Indeed there is a world between us, and I do 
 not know the route to take by which I may come back to 
 her again." 
 
 " Go home and tell her everything. You should have 
 done that long since ; surely she deserved your confi- 
 dence." 
 
 " I will go," said Stella, rising at once, " but I have 
 told her, many times, in such ways as you would think 
 that she, being a woman, might understand. May I 
 really go to visit you at the Elms, and " 
 
 " See my family, my wife and child, as you call them ? 
 Yes. Come whenever you will you shall have the in- 
 troduction to my son. You are going to marry an old 
 man, you say . . . Let me congratulate you, my dear, 
 though you slander the good man. And now, keep fast 
 hold of this truth, that inward Peace is worth more than 
 the whole of California." 
 
 " I have it safe. Miss Watson." 
 
 " Verily, my dear, I do believe you." 
 
 Stella went out joyous and free into the winter air. 
 Within remained Miss Watson, solitary with her thoughts, 
 fast bound to her obligations. A very fit and proper ob- 
 ject for the commiseration of all those who whirl through 
 the world in fast coaches, reducing the glory of God to 
 the sham of a panorama ! 
 
 She did not immediately return to her papers when 
 Stella was gone ; she lost herself in other meditations. 
 Her face had au unwonted sadness, as for a brief t 
 she gave way to her reflections. The pressing anxiety
 
 THE BATTLE BESUMED. 291 
 
 under which she had labored many months of the year 
 that was fast drawing to a close, was now gone the cause 
 at least had been removed. For Herder, whom she had 
 striven, mightily, to save from a life-long imprisonment, 
 there was no longer either hope or fear. The sentence 
 that had been pronounced against him was proved to be, 
 after repeated effort in his behalf, irrevocable. He was 
 a prisoner for life, this lover, the lover of her youth. 
 
 From the efforts she had made in vain to save him, 
 Miss Watson had now with unflagging courage turned to 
 a new enterprise and eadeavor. How much had she to 
 live for ! 
 
 Henceforth there was a shelter in her home for the 
 lives that had been bound up in Herder's. In her labor 
 and endeavor to save him that little farm, as Stella had 
 persisted but now in saying to her as if with the intent 
 that Miss Watson might for a moment look at her own 
 work through the admiring eyes of another the Elms 
 had been mortgaged ; and now for a life of self-denial 
 and of labor ! 
 
 She rose prepared for it. 
 
 Any fate she is able to endure. Her heart is rent, 
 her brain is taxed this is all true ; she looks the truth 
 in the face and turns away ; not from it but from any 
 gayer prospect ; she is a woman of few words, and hence- 
 forth there is to be, in her case, one long struggle that in- 
 volves life one great triumph which compasses eternity. 
 
 No wonder that Violet Silsey, whose eyes are opened to 
 see how warm a blood it is that makes Miss Watson's 
 pulse so strong, inspiring her intellect, flowing through 
 every thought as well as into every act ; no wonder Violet 
 has in her own way come to love this friend of Silsey, and 
 to question no more within herself about the marvellous 
 catalysis, the mystery of which she has come, inwardly, 
 to comprehend so well !
 
 292 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 L. 
 
 INSTEAD of returning home at once, Stella went far 
 down beyond the house in John street, even to the 
 convent. 
 
 In the same parlor where, not long ago, Miss Mar held 
 her consultation with the nun, the pupil, in whom so 
 many pious hopes had centred, waited for her teacher. 
 
 At length Theresa came. She came in haste. 
 
 " I can but stay a moment with you to day, "-she said, 
 hurriedly ; " the recess is nearly over ; if you have any 
 thing to say, my daughter, make no delay." 
 
 Never before had Stella seen the nun so agitated. She 
 wondered because of it she would still have wondered, 
 perhaps even more, had she known what those tidings 
 were which had stirred the woman's heart so deeply, even 
 to the disturbance of the spirit of the saint. 
 
 The nun no doubt anticipated other intelligence than 
 that which Stella brought for, not surprise alone, but 
 somewhat of disappointment also, was indicated in her 
 manner of listening to these words : 
 
 " I should have come to you before, dear mother, but I 
 was not so courageous as I should have been. I am 
 going to be married the precise time when, I cannot 
 tell but such is the fact." 
 
 " With De Lisle Layard ?" asked the nun evinc- 
 ing in her hasty utterance alone any surprise or feeling 
 whatever. 
 
 " Oh, no. He is going into the Church, you know. 
 He is to be a priest," said Stella, wondering at the ques- 
 tion of the nun. Surely she already was aware of the desti- 
 nation of De Lisle. 
 
 " True, I had forgotten . . . I am at a loss then. I " 
 
 Stella hastened to name the name of Falcon.
 
 THE NAME. 293 
 
 " The preacher we heard that day you remember ?" 
 she said, and waited anxiously for the reply. 
 
 " We have then truly lost you . . . But we have found 
 you in a fuller sense, a better sense, my daughter." 
 
 The nun spoke now with all her wonted composure, 
 and with a certain satisfaction which Stella was swift to 
 discern. 
 
 <; Mother," said Stella, " I have often called you by 
 that name did you think because I heard some others 
 do so ? . . . that was not the reason." 
 
 " You have indeed been my child." 
 
 " But, not only as those others ?" 
 
 " Not thus, my Stella no, not thus." The nun's 
 voice was full of tenderness so also were those eyes that 
 looked on Stella. 
 
 " I knew that I was dear to you," said the pupil 
 to her teacher, emboldened thus to speak yet further of 
 the sacred truth that lived in the holiest depth of her 
 heart. " I never could have given that name to any be- 
 side you, I think. I tried it with Aunt Judith, but it 
 was impossible. But when I called you so, I did not 
 feel in my heart that in reality I had no mother ; that I 
 had grown up somehow, well cared for, but still without 
 a mother. I did not feel so lonely and desolate as I 
 should have felt without you. And therefore, others may 
 wish me joy, but you . . . you must bless me. You 
 have been mother, and priest, and friend, to me. I could 
 not have loved any woman better than you. I cannot 
 imagine a face that would have been dearer. I owe so 
 much to you . . . remember, too, it was you who led me 
 where I heard this man proclaim the good news. Oh, 
 those strange human faces !" she paused, and bowed her 
 head upon her hands. When she looked up again, her 
 fair young face was glorious with the spirit beaming from 
 it. " It came to me, news of salvation, as it did to thoso
 
 294 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 others who heard it that day." She said, in a lower, 
 calmer tone, " I had as great a need to hear it. I was as 
 wretchedly heathen ... I am going to work with him . . . 
 Will you bless me to such a life as that, dear mother ?" 
 
 " I will ask the everlasting Father to smile on you, my 
 child," said the nun ; her voice was tremulous her soul 
 was stirred within her by the earnest speaking to which 
 she had listened. 
 
 " And I, I will praise Him forever, that he brought 
 me here to you when I was in want of all things hungry 
 and thirsty, my soul fainting within me," said Stella. 
 Her voice was not faltering but her face was very pale, 
 and she was trembling with emotion. 
 
 " Sit here, and tell me all. my daughter." 
 
 They had been standing while they spoke thus together, 
 but now Theresa drew Stella to a seat beside her. And 
 while Stella obeyed, and told her " all," the convent bell 
 rang twice in vain for the teacher. She heard nothing 
 but the voice that was sweeter than melody in her ear, 
 till a messenger appeared within the parlor door and 
 summoned her to the school-room. 
 
 From the convent Stella Gammon went home straight- 
 way to Miss Mar. This day must sec and hear the end 
 of her confession. 
 
 " Aunt Judith," she said, taking up the great piece of 
 tapestry on which Miss Mar had been at work during the 
 last month with unwearying industry ; for the needle of 
 the good lady had now a new purpose in its movements; 
 she was unscrupulous in her demands upon it that needle, 
 hers alone her hand alone of all the fair hands that 
 make gorgeous tapestries, should adorn the future church 
 of the future priest, De Lisle Layard. 
 
 " Aunt Judith," she said, taking up the work, and fix- 
 ing her eyes upon it, leaving Miss Mar meanwhile with 
 her unoccupied needle in her hand " Aunt Judith "
 
 MARKS ON THE CALENDAR. 205 
 
 a third time she began. To which repetition Miss Mar. 
 less impatient for the remainder of the sentence than for 
 the work, replied : 
 
 " Stella, what is it you are going to say ?" 
 
 " Did you ever keep a reckoning of the number of times 
 I have offended you?" Stella laughed while she spoke, 
 and Miss Mar did not observe her embarrassment. 
 
 " They are more in number than the sands of the sea 
 . . . What folly !" said Miss Mar. She said it with a 
 sigh, yet evidently with a feeling of relief. She had al- 
 most begun to fear that some terrible announcement, of 
 which she had of late continual foreboding, lay behind 
 this unnatural hesitation. 
 
 " But you always forget and forgave my offences, did 
 you not, dear aunt ? You rubbed them off the calendar 
 before they were fairly written out, did you not ?" 
 
 " If I did not, you did," answered Miss Mar, with a 
 gentle sigh, her face brightening perceptibly. 
 
 And for that reason I hope for that reason I be- 
 lieve, Aunt Judith, that you are not now going to be very 
 angry long. That soon you will be forgetting and for- 
 giving again. And I certainly shall wait expecting to 
 hear that you have rubbed off this last fearfully black 
 mark you have against me." 
 
 " Stella !" began Miss Mar, hurriedly, but with a glance 
 at her to whom she spoke ; she stopped abruptly, waiting 
 until she should have obtained a better control over 
 herself. "I certainly have nothing against you, Stella; 
 I trust I have not, Stella," she said, mildly, at last. 
 
 " But you must know, aunt ; have you nothing 1 are 
 you sure ?" 
 
 Aunt Judith was now silent again. 
 
 " Oh, aunt, is it so hard to forgive ?" 
 
 Miss Mar was strangely moved at the sound of this 
 voice true it came from out another sphere than that
 
 296 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 which she inhabited, and yet she heard it. This protest- 
 ant protested against the barrier there was between 
 them; this, at least, she could hear and perceive. But 
 still she seemed quite undecided as to how she should 
 receive the words this heretical young person had ways 
 of arguing to which Aunt Judith dared not listen she 
 had too many times adventured quite too far with her 
 many a tearful confession, many an act of penance had 
 Stella unwittingly occasioned poor Miss Mar. The good 
 lady now could do no other than suspect this violent beat- 
 ing of her own heart scarcely could' she restrain the ut- 
 terance it besought. In her silence she stretched forth 
 her hand, and made as if she would take the piece of 
 tapestry; but Stella did not observe the movement, or 
 would not ; she still retained it in her hold. 
 
 Coldly, then thinking of the wrongs the blessed 
 Mother, the Church, had sustained at this young, lawless 
 creature's hands, coldly, Miss Mar tried to say : 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive you." 
 
 " But you think you have, Aunt Judith," Stella an- 
 swered ; and, as with a remorseful thought, " I know that 
 I have disappointed you. My nature is such, after all 
 that you have done for me, I must have different ways of 
 thinking from you ; and then, most unfortunate ! I was 
 surprised into a promise of marriage with a man you do 
 not like !" 
 
 " I have no dislike for Mr. Falcon, I am sure," said the 
 poor lady, speaking now in great haste, and with unwonted 
 energy. She almost believed that there was still a chance 
 of hope for Stella. What did that word which her child 
 but now had used what did it signify? " Surprised, did 
 you say, Stella? were you surprised into the promise, 
 then ?" 
 
 " Yes, aunt, it was done suddenly . . . but since then, 
 solemnly. I am not held by vows alone, but "
 
 AUNT JUDITH'S DRIFT. 297 
 
 " How then ?" demanded Miss Mar. 
 
 " By my whole heart, aunt. And this I know to you, 
 my protector, I will say it, here in this house, where you 
 have sheltered me so many years " Stella paused she 
 spoke again, her voice sank to a lower, sweeter, sadder, 
 more confiding, earnest tone; Miss Mar listened to it 
 breathlessly, to the words with her best hearing. " When, 
 hereafter, in the heavens to which we are both looking 
 with faith and hope, when my mother shall ask you of the 
 child for whom you cared so well on earth, you will surely 
 have it in your power to say that you had compassion on 
 her when she was a woman, as well as tender care for her 
 while she was a child. I know that you will say to her, 
 She prayed to our Father in other words than I ; she 
 was not as wise in the wisdom of the world as I would 
 have had her ; but still I prayed for her, and had com- 
 passion on her. I loved her, and forgave her. I tried to 
 believe the best of her I gave her my blessing, and be- 
 'sought that she might live in the love of the truth . . . 
 Oh, aunt, shall it not be so ?" 
 
 The tapestry dropped from Stella's hand as she ceased 
 this pleading. 
 
 Miss Mar caught it in its descent to the floor ; and, as 
 she bent to do so, she brushed away a tear. 
 
 " Aunt, what do you say?" asked Stella, falling suddenly 
 down on her knees before the astonished woman. 
 
 " I shall give up my house and go into the convent," 
 said Miss Mar, gloomily. 
 
 " Will you be happy there ? . . . Yes ! I know you 
 will," cried Stella, full of faith, the prospect suddenly 
 brightening to her vision. 
 
 " Without you !" 
 
 Stella made no answer. She had not looked to hear a 
 word expressive of so much pure feeling as this from the 
 ritual laden soul, that plied her constant needle among 
 
 13*
 
 29S GETTING ALONG. 
 
 those gorgeous colors, living in them and her Church: 
 the words were uttered with a moan. 
 
 11 Without you ... I am like Rachael when her chil- 
 dren were not !" 
 
 " No, no ! aunt ; it is not so," exclaimed Stella, now 
 in a sort of desperation. I am not so lost to you. I am 
 alive, and here ; I shall live daily in your sight. Forever 
 mindful of you,- aunt . . . Forever grateful." 
 
 " Wait, Stella . . . Say no more about it not a 
 word. I will try to think of it ; I will, indeed. But 
 don't you must not hurry me." So saying, with many 
 falterings. she nervously threw aside her work, and left 
 the room. 
 
 LI. 
 
 No opportunity for resuming his conversation with Su- 
 san had occurred to Mr. Baldwin when they met at the 
 breakfast-table the next morning. 
 
 Ishmael was prepared to wait for her, to bring him her 
 answer provided she should manifest an intention that 
 way speedily ! For Ishmael was not patient of delay. 
 Last night, when he watched her in the drawing-room, he 
 laughed heartily at himself, remembering his morning 
 disturbance. What occasion had there been for so much 
 precaution, and so many arguments, as had made this lit- 
 tle affair remarkable ! The child sitting there, so quietly 
 playing chess with Clarence, had. doubtless, never another 
 thought in her head than to do as she was bidden ! 
 
 During the breakfast Susan was abstracted and dull, 
 did not hear distinctly, had nothing to say. Mr. Bald- 
 win observed, and told himself that this was her timidity, 
 a young girl's embarrassment natural enough, too, un- 
 der the circumstances. But she was diligently watch- 
 ful was not stupid nor dull, nor just now thoughtful of
 
 THE PRESIDENT. 290 
 
 herself; at least, not sufficiently so for embarrassment. 
 She was waiting for one event the departure of David 
 from the table, when she would follow close in his foot- 
 steps, and ask him about Mr. Leighton,whom, he had told 
 liis father Susan heard him he went last night to visit. 
 
 And precisely in accordance with the plan on which 
 she had resolved did Susan act. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Leighton ?" she asked David, hurry- 
 ing along before the others, as they all left the breakfast- 
 room, and walking on towards the colonnade, when he 
 made as though he were going into the library. He fol- 
 lowed her, in order to answer her question, and told her 
 the hotel where the president had passed the night. 
 
 "And he asked about you, Susan," David remarked, 
 in addition to the information she had sought. " He 
 will be up to the Hall to visit you to-day, I think." 
 
 Saying that, David left her, and went back into the 
 house. He had nothing more to say to her ; his mind 
 was filled that day with an image far different from that 
 of Susan. 
 
 It was yet quite early in the morning. Professor, or 
 President Leighton had gone into his parlor for a mo- 
 ment, to make some preparation previous to his proceed- 
 ing to the college, or to remain there until the hour ap- 
 pointed when the faculty were to wait upon him, to escort 
 him thither, when a servant, proceeding in advance of 
 Susan into his presence, announced that a young lady 
 waited without for admittance. 
 
 At Leighton's request Susan was shown in. She came 
 alone. 
 
 This is the same man, this is the same girl, that we 
 saw in the summer-time down by the sea. But both are 
 so much changed ! Susan has grown taller ; she looks 
 older, fairer; she is acquiring, in spite of griefs and
 
 300 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 cares, some good looks which belong to her ; they do cer- 
 tainly not come of her dress they have not been put on. 
 She has not the repose of manner which is sometimes the 
 grace of nature, oftener the perfection of cultivation ; but 
 she moves about with no such awkward consciousness of 
 herself and her awkwardness as we have sometimes seen 
 in the poor child. There is a certain attractiveness in her 
 reserve and bearing. Susan is herself, and that self is 
 clearly revealed though, in these respects of outward 
 show, now more clearly to others than to her own sense. 
 
 Mr. Leighton is not precisely the man that Susan 
 looked to see. He is younger ; he is in many respects 
 different. She knows now, when she sees him, what she 
 had anticipated: the tall figure, in the old cap, and stu- 
 dent's dress, and slippers, with a long pipe in his hand, 
 or a book, or half a ream of paper, looking absently 
 upon her abstracted, as if she had disturbed him in 
 thoughts and speculations which were worth a hundred 
 lives like hers. Talking to her as if all the while he 
 were talking to himself aloud, and she were only a sort 
 of illustration picked up and put into the discourse, half- 
 carelessly and half unconsciously. 
 
 She looked for such an one ; but him she did not see. 
 She perceived, instead, another man the same figure, the 
 same face, true ; but this was a man with a name the 
 president, just now, of the St. John's College a man 
 amongst hosts of men. his equals, but chosen above others 
 as their superior not a student, solitary, living in an old 
 red mill, apparently sustaining no relations with living 
 men and actual things. He was a well-dressed gentle- 
 man, vexed with no distracting question ; a milder, hap- 
 pier man ; at ease, quiet, and glad to see his old friend, 
 Susan Dillon. 
 
 He has time on his hands just now, to do what he will 
 with it.
 
 THE RISING TIDE. 301 
 
 Time to talk with Susan about her father to draw 
 from her willing, and, for his sake, unfaltering lips, the 
 story of the old man's fate. Time to question and to 
 listen in regard to all that she has done, felt, and seen, 
 since she came up to St. John's to live. But he says 
 nothing about the letter that she wrote, when she had 
 determined that she must not leave the Hall to go to 
 him for protection and a home. 
 
 Yet it is uppermost in Susan's mind, and she must 
 ask the question, Did he receive her letter ? 
 
 And when Mr. Leighton answers her, she is not satis- 
 fied to hear him say, though he says it in a manner that 
 no other man would do that he thinks her course the 
 wise one that he respects her for her choosing thus, 
 that he knows it must be so, even as he suspected from 
 the first, that she would of course be happier there with 
 the young people. She is not satisfied, though he says 
 it apparently nay, undoubtedly, in all good faith. In- 
 deed, for that very reason is she so dissatisfied. He must 
 not think that her own happiness has been secured by 
 remaining at the Hall that her own inclinations were at 
 all consulted when she declined his proffer of fatherly 
 protection. 
 
 Susan has quite forgotten Leah, and all that Leah said 
 yesterday to her. She has forgotten Clarence and all 
 that he asserts. She practically avows her disbelief, or 
 at least her rejection, of what they both have told her. 
 She shuts her eyes while speaking, that she may have 
 the student in the old cap, and calico dress, and the 
 frayed slippers, there before her, and not this man, who, 
 in spite of his words, seems like a stranger to her. In 
 deep silence Leighton listens to her words. 
 
 " Mr. Leighton, if you will only let me stay now, I will 
 stay always. Oh how I wish I had gone when you asked 
 me ! All would have been well. But I could not come.
 
 302 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 I told you why in the letter ; or I said something about 
 it. I knew you would understand. They needed me so 
 much, I thought. They said so : they say so yet. They 
 need me more and more as I do you ! I am not going 
 back to them. I need not ! need I ? You say that I 
 may stay with you. Do you, Mr. Leighton ? I will be 
 your daughter, as you said. I will not be a trouble to 
 you. I have learnt many things. I can " 
 
 Mr. Leighton took the hand of Susan and held it in 
 his gently, and as if to give her full assurance of his pro- 
 tection. 
 
 " But why is it so," he asked ? He did not say to 
 her " be calm," but these words that he did speak, had 
 the effect to make her so. QThe poor little tempest- 
 tossed skiff had come into a magnificent harbor. > 
 
 " Because . . . because ... I will tell you, Mr 
 Leighton, in a moment " and now she spoke out reso- 
 lutely, " because, sir, what they want me for, is Clarence." 
 
 " And you " 
 
 " No, I will not ! I said so yesterday. I said I could 
 not to Mr. Baldwin ; but he would not take that as an 
 answer. I must tell him again. I shall ! Just what I 
 tell you . . . He has been very kind to me they all 
 have. But I cannot do it " 
 
 " You cannot give yourself to Clarence, you mean, 
 Susan." 
 
 " That is what I mean, Mr. Leightou. I cannot do it." 
 
 With pitying and wise words did Mr. Leighton soothe 
 her, speaking on without an interruption till Susan again 
 became calm. He gave back her confidence to her 
 showed her that there was no cause for such desperate 
 emotion or alarm as she evinced. He would protect her. 
 Everybody would nay, what need ? she could protect 
 herself. Sure he was that no living man would choose 
 to wrong her, or disturb her. Least of all would her
 
 A REED IN THE WIND. 303 
 
 father's old friend, Mr. Baldwin and it could never be 
 that, having told him and his son all that was in her 
 heart, they would choose to grieve her longer. 
 
 And having soothed and quieted her, Mr. Leighton 
 went on, not hurriedly nor briefly, but deliberately and 
 fully, to show that what she had besought of him was 
 now, in this manner that she looked for, quite beyond his 
 power to bestow he could not take her as his child now 
 under his protection it was impossible. 
 
 " Susan," he said in conclusion, and he read her acqui- 
 escence in all that he had told her it was, she clearly 
 saw, too late for her to think of any other home than that 
 she had. " Susan, I know to whom I am speaking. I 
 am certain that you will go back to the Hall. Like a 
 true woman you will complete all that you have to do 
 there. You will say to Mr. Baldwin, that while you re- 
 main in his house you will be his child that hereafter, 
 perhaps in five years from now, you will talk with him 
 again about marrying with Clarence. Tell him this in 
 the hearing of Clarence, and if he is what I judge from 
 your description, you will need to say no more. He 
 himself will not only assent to your proposition, he will 
 see that it is entirely proper and just and will respect 
 you the more for the deliberation with which you choose 
 to consider so important an event . . . Do you hear me, 
 Susan ?" 
 
 " Five years ?" said Susan, clinging to Mr. Leighton's 
 hand. 
 
 Mr. Baldwin had talked of years in this connection, 
 as well as Mr. Leighton but when he spoke of them 
 they had made no impression at all upon her mind . . . 
 Untold hopes, hopes unmeasured, now grew out of the 
 five years which the president was recommending. 
 
 " Yes, five years ... It is not a long time for one so 
 young as you to ask."
 
 304 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 " You are going to live here in St. John's, Mr. 
 Leighton ..." said Susan, musingly ; involuntarily 
 she gave the hand, which he already held, more entirely 
 into his keeping and herself with it, into his guidance. 
 
 " Yes, Susan, I suppose so." 
 
 ' And Mr. Falcon, who has been our teacher, is going 
 away. I must have other teachers, he says !" Eagerly she 
 looked at Mr. Leighton for an answer to the question 
 which she thus asked, and only thus. 
 
 " Very well," said he slowly, understanding all that 
 her words were intended to convey. " I see how it will 
 be. I am nothing better in the eye of my little girl than 
 the dilapidated old fellow who went summering in a mill 
 with the rats. My little sister is back again on my 
 hands. And I cannot get rid of her. Well, well, I am 
 in debt to her more than she can tell or I she gave 
 me some bitter herbs that made me strong and whole 
 . . . what ! you have forgotten ? well, no matter ; I shall 
 pay the debt as I am able ... It would almost seem as 
 though I had come to St. John's to look after her, in- 
 stead of two or three hundred young men. And whether 
 the one fact or the other will prove the more momentous, 
 is more than I can tell, I suspect." 
 
 He took out his watch, so speaking, and looked at the 
 hour. 
 
 " It is time for me to go, if I am not to stay always," 
 said Susan, rising and moving from him. Instead of de- 
 taining her, after the manner of the former times, which 
 she evidently had in mind, recalled by the hint she con- 
 sidered he had given her, as he used to do, by looking at 
 his watch, Mr. Leighton likewise rose. 
 
 " I have yet some time before the hour of my engage- 
 ment," he said. He took her hand then and led her from 
 the room, and so they went down the stairs together. 
 
 " Why did you not treat me to a shower of tears to-
 
 THK MAGNET. 305 
 
 day ?" said he, as they went out into the street. " You 
 neither wept when you came in, nor when you told me of 
 your trouble, nor when I told you that I would be again 
 your teacher." 
 
 " I have no tears left, Mr. Leighton." 
 
 " I am right glad to hear it !" Nevertheless Leighton 
 did shudder hearing it. " What a strong-hearted woman 
 we shall have in our little Susan ! Those wild sea-breezes 
 gave strength to her as to all, I think, who have known 
 them. A sea-breeze is a capital house-cleaner, too ; it 
 makes a sure sweep of cob-webs; spiders, and the dead 
 flies that died in captivity, vanish before it. You and I 
 will go down to the beach some day again and think of 
 the dear friend we knew there. Indeed, I hope we shall 
 go often." 
 
 " Oh but, Mr. Leighton, if I had only never gone away 
 from the beach ! never for a moment ! If they had 
 never come down there not one of them !" 
 
 " There was no other way," he answered, soothingly. 
 " You could not help it, Susan." 
 
 How well he understood, how well he comforted her ! 
 He knew with what remorse she recalled the longing and 
 discontent which characterized the last year's residence 
 upon the beach he would bring to mind the recollec- 
 tion that her final departure from her old home, and all 
 the events preparatory to it, were not sought and volun- 
 tary, but ordained and inevitable. 
 
 Together they now went along the wintry streets. 
 With a joyous sense of safety, of security, against which 
 no evil possibility rose up in her mind with an availing 
 terror, Susan Dillon walked by Mr. Leighton's side ; and 
 the five years of which he had been speaking seemed in- 
 deed to cover all time, to fill all space ; without dread, 
 without presentiment, she went forward with him. 
 
 In their way toward the Hall was the garden next Pu- 
 celli's.
 
 306 
 
 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 LIL 
 
 IT was during the school hours, but it was a festival 
 day in the Church, and the scholars and their teacher 
 had a holiday. Theresa, the nun, went down into the 
 garden that was called, commonly, after Pucclli's name 
 not to see the sun rise, for the sun had long since risen. 
 
 It was a strange hour to choose, if she went out to 
 meditate ; the silence of her own chamber, or the quiet 
 of the vacant school-room, had better served such purpose. 
 
 She had chosen the garden, however. Probably be- 
 cause yesterday, when Stella left her, she said something 
 about being there herself at some such hour as this. 
 
 There is more color than usual in the nun's face. Long 
 years of self-control, habits of composure and reserve, 
 seem to serve her not as they should to-day. Before she 
 conies into the walk where Mr. Falcon and Stella are, she 
 has, for many moments, succeeded in avoiding them and 
 their observation she has delayed the meeting. But 
 now she is advancing. 
 
 And she has thrown aside her veil, for this walk is in 
 the shadow of the high stone-wall ; there are no strangers 
 near, she need not hide her face from the eyes of friends. 
 She moves slowly, it would almost seem feebly at first, 
 but when she sees that Stella has observed and recog- 
 nized her, and that she and her companion are coming 
 rapidly towards her, a strange, unlooked-for, unhoped-for 
 strength descends upon her ; her step is firm, her move- 
 ment stately; but her eyes, as she approaches, are not on 
 Stella they are fixed on Mr. Falcon. 
 
 " That is she," Stella is saying to him as they draw 
 near; but she looks not on him whom she addresses. 
 " More than a mother she has been to me. Saw you ever 
 a lovelier face?"
 
 THE OLD STORY READ ANEW. 307 
 
 " Never but one," answers Mr. Falcon, with a deeper 
 meaning than Stella Gammon may guess or fathom, though 
 in her woman heart she thinks that she understands it. 
 Outwardly, how calm he is ; inwardly, for one moment, 
 how disturbed, how confused, how at a loss as to what he 
 shall do. 
 
 In jest, Stella called him old he is not young but 
 his eyes are undimmed as in their "first youth," while 
 they look upon this nun. A new vision of his youth is 
 there before him. 
 
 He seems, in his own silent way, to be questioning her ; 
 and the nun not only hears him, but she answers as 
 silently. It is hardly needful that Stella should say be- 
 tween this man and woman, who for her sake are so well 
 content to be fast friends on the moment, mere formal 
 words of introduction ; the nun half smiles as she does 
 so, yet she retreats from the silent greeting, already 
 given, and speaks to the stranger as becomes a nun. 
 
 Therefore, she is not the love of Mr. Falcon's youth. 
 She remembers not that by-gone time ; she tells him that 
 he also has forgotten it. He is obedient to her will he 
 has forgotten it, he replies. And with no pang no long- 
 ing no regret. No poison lingers in the long-healed 
 wound, and not a scar is there to tell of it. He compre- 
 hends why she has come, daring to revive the remem- 
 brance of the past; and for this reason John Falcon loves 
 her anew, but not as once. Not as he loves the youthful 
 woman, resplendent in the glory of her youth and prom- 
 ise, by his side ; he never loved her so. 
 
 If there is a doubt in the man's heart, she, this nun, 
 would remove it : for this purpose she has come. If, in 
 taking the girl who was her pupil, unto himself, there is 
 one lingering regret in his pure mind, a solitary wish for 
 the unravelment of a mystery a dark mystery it might 
 have proved to a mind less full of light than his, she
 
 308 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 knows full well he shall be answered He shall never 
 think, he shall never need to wonder, how was this Stella 
 born ? She, the mother of his bride, is before them 
 and he knows all that she can say. 
 
 Falcon smiles to hear her, she who will be his bride, 
 and holier, his wife forevermore to hear her when she 
 calls this solitary woman, this nun renunciative of the 
 world, " Mother." He smiles graciously and gladly. But 
 he has few words to say, perhaps because she is a Catho- 
 lic, flits dimly across Stella's mind ; she wishes he would 
 forget that, and be a little more agreeable ! . . . She does 
 not know how busy they who walk beside her are with all 
 their thoughts how one has given her away but now, how 
 the other has received her as a doubly-consecrated gift ! 
 ' Does not guess that words crowd so fast for speech upon 
 nim that he cannot choose between them that whatever 
 he may say, it is not that which he would utter ; that if 
 he spoke the thought uppermost, she would listen to such 
 speech as this : " You do well, call her mother for she 
 is your mother !" This he must not say. Nevertheless, 
 
 in his heart Falcon is glad and thankful. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Along that shadowed walk two other forms are moving. 
 There is no reason why they should not be there. Yet it 
 is almost wonderful that there they should be walking. 
 
 We know, however, that wise as Mr. Leighton is, calm 
 as he is in all his acceptations of whatever the day brings 
 to him, whether loss of wife, bestowment of honors, or 
 the teaching of a child, fit as he may be to guide our 
 Susan through a crisis as with firm hand he has done this 
 day, she is at the present hour the best of all guides for 
 him ; of all St. John's could give him, were the city 
 searched through and through again. 
 
 For she leads him in this walk. They come up across 
 the garden. They enter the shadows at a point past which
 
 THE NUN'S INTERPRETATION. 309 
 
 Stella and the nun and Mr. Falcon have at this moment 
 moved. 
 
 " That is Stella, Mr. Leightou," Susan says her voice 
 is low, but not hushed ; its tone, clear and eager, must, 
 under any circumstances, arrest attention. And it needs 
 not that hour and occasion that a trumpet should sound 
 two names like these, names which stand for so much, in. 
 order to bring the two parties face to face. 
 
 The president, from whose side Susan rapidly advances, 
 stands like a statue fronting, in what mood none who look 
 on him, though they looked in calmer scrutiny than was 
 now with any of them possible fronting, what to him is 
 an inconceivable revelation a revelation as sudden as it 
 is inconceivable. 
 
 Stella has taken his hand, which in the first second of 
 their meeting, before he glanced at the nun, he proffered 
 to her. But she has let it fall again not offended, yet 
 greatly surprised. There seems no life in it for her, it 
 is motionless and heavy in her grasp. And she sees now, 
 but'not clearly, why it is so he beholds her no longer 
 that greeting was over before she imagined. And Stella's 
 eyes glance astonished from the student, who is now, she 
 knows, the president, and from him to the nun her teacher, 
 and back again ; and to and fro and cannot tell what this 
 all means, all this that has happened in a moment. But 
 now the nun is speaking . . . what is it she is saying . . . 
 
 " Give her your hand, Leigh ton." She alone is calm 
 this rocky, statue-like exterior of the President does not 
 seem like calmness but if it is, it is of another quality, 
 and has another source, than that of Theresa . . . The 
 president must have yet another moment before he can 
 collect himself . . . Stella finds herself alone there with 
 them in the shadowed walk. Mr. Falcon has gone out 
 of sight, and has taken Susan with him. 
 
 Looking from her father to her mother, Stella cannot
 
 310 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 tell what is the meaning of all this. She doubts, she 
 suspects but she is not enlightened, for Theresa speaks : 
 
 " Give her your hand, Leighton. You will find what 
 I have done for her. Complete the work, my friend." 
 
 " Alice ! ... it is impossible and yet could I mis- 
 take you !" 
 
 " I am Theresa." The voice was passionless, but in the 
 words was hidden an unfathomable depth of feeling. " I 
 am a nun. But she, there, beside you that is Stella 
 your daughter. Tell me, have I not given you the crown 
 to your honor ? You are more in debt to your daughter 
 than I can tell this day. Some day you may yourself 
 discover it. Search her brain and heart, I give you a 
 true woman for your child, Mark ; and so I have done. 
 < Hail and farewell !' " 
 
 " Alice ! ... go not." She had turned partly away, 
 as if indeed to go at once, but at Leighton's word she 
 paused again. 
 
 "Have you received your child?" she asked she 
 looked at Stella; all her love, the pent-up love of years 
 which had been ceaseless in its unsuspected guardianship, 
 beamed from her eyes. 
 
 " Stella," said Leighton he drew her within his arms 
 and folded her an instant in them ; then they unclasped 
 she stood free before him; but so Stella did not remain, 
 for she gave him her hand, and looked up proudly 
 through her tears. " She was always a mother to 
 ine . . . father,'' the last word, the name, burst from her 
 lips with a triumphant sound, the craving of a lifetime 
 was answered here. 
 
 " Alice, you had your way ; I mine. We will not 
 question one another in regard to it. But now I ask you, 
 as I would not in my youth, leave me not go not away 
 again." 
 
 " Say not thict to me, Leightou," said the nun " all
 
 FALCON AN HEIR. 311 
 
 now is over. Think nothing more of me. I have only 
 desired to enrich and beautify your life. Recall the past, 
 if you must do so. I need say no more. The cause that 
 was potent and availing to separate us then, remains ! 
 What then were all this expiation ?" 
 
 " Mother ! mother ! this must not be !" but the nun re- 
 treated before the hasty advance of Stella. 
 
 ' Touch me not,' was in her mein and gesture and in- 
 terpreting it, her child paused reverently, and said no 
 more. 
 
 " I have called you child and daughter," said Theresa, 
 observant and well pleased. " I have led you by the 
 light of such wisdom as was given me ; I can say and do 
 no further. I am not my own, nor am I even yours, 
 my child ; save as I always have been. Let us all make 
 haste, and go back to our labors. But . . . John 
 Falcon !" 
 
 Leighton started when he heard that name still more 
 was he amazed when, on the approach of Falcon, the nun 
 took his hand and said : 
 
 " Receive him, Mark Leighton. And whatever he asks, 
 for my sake bestow." 
 
 " Falcon, ask !" said Leighton, turning slowly towards 
 him. " I have grown suddenly so rich, man, ask largely 
 ask to-day. I may become covetous and selfish hereafter." 
 
 " If I ask all that you have, Mr. Leighton," began 
 Falcon. 
 
 The frank and hearty voice fell not on a deaf ear. 
 The President for the moment seemed verily to be lifted 
 out of himself. His heart in that moment was the heart 
 of a child. 
 
 " Not my coat, but my cloak also ! . . . What our 
 daughter ? Alice, is it our Stella that he asks ? Be it 
 so, John Falcon," he continued more gravely and not 
 without emotion t: old friend, this is sudden. Alice!
 
 312 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 she is gone ! . . . Well, Susan, little Susan, come here ; 
 \ve were walking along this dark walk together I believe 
 and you were somewhat troubled . . . Lift up your head, 
 child ! hope everything from life I bid you who have 
 hoped too little. Stella, come ! of what are you thinking, 
 my daughter ? Absolute or conditioned, my young war- 
 rior ? where are you, my child ?" 
 
 " In the world, Mr. Leighton." 
 
 " I am your father, Stella." 
 
 " Father, I am in the world," repeated Stella, hold- 
 ing fast his hand as the more child-like Susan did. 
 
 <: Well, tell me what this highway robbery means ? 
 This Falcon, this John here, what has he done for you ? 
 I prophesy you are nowhere in the vicinity of the place 
 where I left you." 
 
 " Father." 
 
 " Yes, that is a good beginning, niy child. Go on." 
 
 " He has shown me the way to the Infinite." 
 
 " No doubt he has and ^through what a wilderness 
 does it lie. Did he tell you that ?'' 
 
 Stella made no answer she had no need there was 
 greater need for silence in all those hearts and so Mr. 
 Leighton signified when he turned to Susan, and re- 
 marked : 
 
 " This path is a strange one for a winter day. Lead 
 on, Susan. I have heard* and read of worse guides than 
 you." 
 
 LIII. 
 
 THE five years of patient waiting, which Leightou 
 enjoined on Susan Dillon, have not yet worn away. But 
 they are vanishing rapidly. 
 
 Let us for the last time make a survey of tlic progress
 
 LAWS WRITTEN ON TABLES OF STONE. 313 
 
 of the several characters whose development the reader 
 has been tracing. 
 
 When Colonel Wheaton came back to St. John's for 
 his bride, he found Isidore Baldwin precisely where he 
 left her. Clad in her proprieties, in all ' linen decency,' 
 walking in the narrowest path of a strictest conformity ; 
 persevering in the show, steadfast in the maintenance of 
 all the circumstance, belonging to her place, nature, and 
 station. And he married her. 
 
 A long life is before them. Natures like theirs are 
 not readily exhausted. / Emotions do not tell on nerves 
 of iron, hearts of stone, and brains of brass.-\ Such 
 women and such men, whatever their dissipation may be, 
 are not dissipated rapidly. 
 
 They live long to give laws to society which other 
 people, who have brain and heart to sacrifice, die en- 
 deavoring to keep : laws that indeed are written in blood, 
 the blood of those who uphold and obey them, and never 
 dare to dream of overleaping them, or of infringing them 
 a hair's-breadth. These law reverencers die of suffoca- 
 tion, sometimes ; sometimes of a heart disease for which 
 there is no remedy but not often : it is more frequently 
 a, plague that carries them away the deadly miasma 
 that floats in the air, destroys them. 
 
 These law-givers, these autocrats of the republic, live 
 truly in the world, and are not of it but in no sacred 
 sense. You say that the refinement which they boast is 
 not refinement, but pure animalism you say again that 
 they are dead in a very essential respect, and you prove 
 it by adducing the divine laws of life ; you say Life can- 
 uot exist in that rarefied atmosphere. You say that ex- 
 clusion like theirs is exile that withdrawal is banish- 
 ment more fearful than has befallen those convicts of 
 Siberia. You say it is inevitable that they must, these 
 autocrats of the republic, far as they seem now, not from 
 
 VOL. n. 14
 
 314 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 the probability, but, the possibility that they must 
 some day know what they did when they exchanged for 
 cold reptilian blood, the warm blood of humanity. That 
 they must discern, not their mistake, or blunder, but 
 their loss and shame, when they discover what it was to 
 change the Image of God into the images of gods ex- 
 cluding the divine life, and thus removing far away the 
 thought or purpose of fealty, for even such a life as hea- 
 thenish idolaters might comprehend and worship. You 
 say this, reader ? Look around you then ! Behold, you 
 have no need to " girdle the globe" with a road for the 
 iron horse, that you may set out in search of Colonel 
 Wheaton and his wife, what if prototype and antitype 
 are all around you in this Christian land in this New 
 World of the Pilgrims ? I say it may so chance. 
 
 Miss Mar is a Sister of Charity, and an indefatigable 
 worker of tapestries, and clerical embroideries. She 
 never wearies bowing down before her graven images. 
 And day by day she prays, with less of hope, for the con- 
 version of Stella, (for whose worldly ease and comfort she 
 however has been careful to provide,) and, with more of 
 energy, for the spread of De Lisle Layard's influence. 
 
 And her prayers, it would almost seem, are answered. 
 If there is a rising man in the Church, it is De Lisle. 
 The eyes of his brethren in the Church, and of his fathers 
 in the faith, are upon him. Let no reader's heart harbor 
 a doubt concerning him, although he made no convert of 
 David Baldwin, and failed greatly, to his own thinking, 
 when he sought to find for his friend a place in Stella's 
 affections. Beyond question he will prosper . . . Will 
 grow great and powerful, unless, says experience, (who is 
 inclined to croak.) unless it happens with him as it some- 
 times does, (experience says not rarely,) with men of his 
 mind and habit ; that, grown secure at last in all his ways,
 
 THE TURNING OF THE WHEEL. 315 
 
 and confident in the confidence that his feet have not been 
 set in slippery places, his " vaulting ambition shall o'er- 
 leap itself." Such a calamity has as yet, we know, not 
 overtaken him, and it would hardly serve us here to affect 
 the gift of prophecy. 
 
 Leah Chilton lies in her grave in the St. John's ceme- 
 tery. An elaborate monument was long since erected as 
 her headstone ; but it cannot tell, nothing can tell, those 
 whose pride penned her epitaph, the quiet beauty, the 
 rare holiness, nay even, the greatness of her brief life and 
 history. rEpitaphs are not always falsehoods. ) The hero- 
 ism that m another sphere, where action would have been 
 demanded of her, not prevented and annulled, would 
 surely have shone out to the great wonder of such eyes 
 as can see. But not, no, never in any case, to those of 
 Horace Chilton or his mother. 
 
 Who are of the moving spirits in St. John's. The 
 long-closed house in the City Square is now again thrown 
 open. Its lights stream down the avenue. Glorious 
 with gas is that stone palace. 
 
 Mrs. Chilton's hope of years has its abundant realiza- 
 tion. The diamonds and" brocades are hers again. Her 
 table is resplendent with crystal, and gold, and silver. 
 Her fetes are an astonishment. 
 
 The imbecile banker dotes on his wife ... oh how 
 he dotes ! St. John's has rubbed its doubting eyes, and 
 recovered from its wonderment, and accepted a new 
 queen ; the wonder of a past generation is revived in 
 this. And more a marvel is she, standing amidst the 
 strange havoc and disruption of the present moment, 
 than in the first rising of her day : for though hardly the 
 quarter of a century has passed since then, the world 
 has grown very old in those few years. The children of 
 to-day may well look up to her, wanting a better model.
 
 316 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 and well may learn of her, and seek to be like her, mak- 
 ing to themselves a law and order which their uninstruct- 
 ed and yet longing eyes know not how they shall else- 
 where find. But will not the Herald of the Dawn come 
 to them, ere the Pay break, and show them a true woman- 
 hood ? and teach them, the new heirs of Freedom, that 
 the question of Slavery is one more profound than can 
 be answered by the proper adjustment of races, and the 
 scales of Shylock ? 
 
 Horace Chilton is ... Horace Chilton. The word 
 has no divine significance ! 
 
 No architect no engineer no workman not a son 
 but a curious sort of nondescript is he, of large growth 
 to be discerned by the naked eye, perhaps not yet too 
 common for such discernment in the observation of the 
 thoughtful. 
 
 Sometimes he is an artist. A few of his gems adorn 
 the walls of his mother's library, and the parlors of his 
 fashionable friends. He was even once persuaded to 
 send an anonymous contribution to the exhibition, which 
 the " unsuspecting" committee covered with laudation, 
 and wrote down first upon their catalogue of prizes. But 
 there were some critics, so unappreciative, sad clowns 
 they were, without taste or cultivation, as to laugh in 
 the face of the committee on account of their discern- 
 ment. 
 
 Sometimes Horace is a poet, and writes verses for his 
 friends, which lose their way, and fall into the hands of 
 editors, who greet him as the poet for whom the world 
 has looked so long. But, somehow, the universal greet- 
 ing is somewhat slow, considering how great a fact this 
 is, if fact it be. 
 
 He is, in short, an extraordinary geuius ; and, as such, 
 I can locate him nowhere. There is no discerning the
 
 THE RENEWED BRANCHES. 317 
 
 signs of bis times. (If he had died in Harlem, we might 
 have visited the grave of a blighted and unhappy genius, 
 and planted a violet there weeping, it may be, for the 
 hard fate of his aspiring youth . . . He is unmarried 
 yet; but does the reader think that his heart is broken ? 
 that he has vowed himself to eternal celibacy on ac- 
 count of Isidore ?" 
 
 Wordsworth Vane is again living in St. John's. He has 
 a home at last it is under the roof of Mr. Tree. Some- 
 times he and Lucia talk of Italy while they work, and 
 dream, and look on life and on each other, with the rev- 
 erent gaze of perfect faith and love, and of perpetual youth. 
 
 They certainly will go abroad. They must see Italy. 
 The desire grows upon them both ; and, when they go, 
 it will assuredly be together for -together they are al- 
 ways, They are one. But something besides sight- 
 seeing claims them yet "Will and little Hose ; and they 
 are, besides, in other bonds, the tenderest of love, to 
 their father, Mr. Tree. 
 
 /Roughly shaken in the wind of fortune has he been, to 
 speak in figure ; but there was strength in him that could 
 endure the shaking, and. indeed, with a sort of triumph 
 he has borne it. Many of his branches, the oldest, those 
 of which he boasted in his youth, have fallen from him ; 
 but soft green moss lies, close and warm, round the old 
 roots, and fresh boughs, covered with new verdure, have 
 come out into the warm air and sunlight, in the vicinity 
 of the broken crown and they all point, with arms up- 
 lifted, to the infinite heaven. Indeed, it has almost hap- 
 pened to him as it did in patriarchal times with Job. 
 
 Let no voice ask me if Lucia ever became famous, and 
 Will a shining light in his profession, and if Vane's pic- 
 tures are of the sort that sell. If I might, I would not 
 answer. Know ye, they had the Life. I keep no haber-
 
 318 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 dasher's shop. I know not what their raiment is, nor 
 where they buy it. 
 
 Miss Watson at the Elms has not yet exhausted her 
 thoughts : of the making of books, in very truth, there is 
 no end, as long ago was said. Her son is growing up 
 under her vigilant care ; his mother has long since gone 
 the way of all the living ; the mortgage that was on the 
 Elms lies there no longer the little property is free 
 again ; but young Herder has yet to be educated. There 
 is occasion, therefore, for Miss Watson's labor still. 
 
 Dr. Borg would fain aid this " extraordinary woman," 
 who has continued to grow more extraordinary in his 
 eyes since the days when she rebuked him for his trivial 
 criticism of the young world of his adoption not quite 
 sufficiently, to his mind, disguising its stalwart limbs in 
 the old world's cast-off finery ; he even would assist her 
 by his continual presence and sympathy, as she goes on 
 her journey of life. But looking in her son's face, Miss 
 Watson sees another image, which makes her smile 
 somewhat sadly, it is true yet who sees any weakness 
 and failing of a valiant-hearted purpose in that sadness? 
 as she kindly waives the advance and proffer. Borg is a 
 human being; and never did men or women look into her 
 face, or listen to her words, without in some manner re- 
 ceiving a better idea of the whole race, perhaps, them- 
 selves included, than they had before ; and, therefore, the 
 Doctor is always her friend and she remains forever his 
 astonishment. 
 
 The nun is a dweller in the kingdom of heaven but it 
 is on earth, and in the flesh. In a convent, in a palace, 
 in a hovel, it^were all the same dead or living, it were 
 all the same. 
 
 Leighton has his college and his cares his honors and
 
 A SABBATH PALM. 310 
 
 emoluments and, what -is better, some faitli in man, 
 some growing hope for woman. If any half-dead reader 
 recognizes in himself the symptoms of Leightou's disease, 
 let him go into the solitude of a sea-beaten mill, and, with- 
 out doubt, God will send an angel to minister unto him. 
 
 No more of Violet and Silsey. The sweet, fair proph- 
 ecy of all their future lies in the love that Violet came 
 finally to give Miss Watson. 
 
 And Stella Cammon, who was born again 
 
 Softly let us tread away. * * * 
 
 It was with Susan Dillon that this book begun ; with 
 her let it end. 
 
 Those five years of which Mr. Leighton spoke have, as 
 was stated above, not yet passed away. But Susan has 
 ceased thinking of the flight of time. 
 
 Not long ago, Clarence Baldwin was entered at the 
 college as a student. Susan daily shares his thoughts. 
 She is the leader of them still. 
 
 She, too, has been a student since we last looked upon 
 her. And to a better purpose than we hardly dared to 
 think. From many sources she has gathered strength 
 and wisdom. In the unpretending house where Stella 
 and Falcon carry forward their great design with patient 
 perseverance towards perfection of fulfilment, gradually, 
 but surely, as all great works are done, she has learned 
 many a lesson, and, chief among them all, that of acqui- 
 escence and submission demanding, however, as is sure- 
 ly her indefeasible right, of every day that passes, the 
 best gift it can bestow. And of the college president 
 such other lessons, the best that he can give, as furnish 
 her inind well. Her heart rests in a Sabbath calm. 
 What can it mean ? 
 
 She reads the letters David'writes her from abroad, 
 not as she reads the note he wrote her when she lived
 
 320 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 down in the lonely cabin on the wild and desolate sea- 
 beach, though there is vastly more affection now, speak- 
 ing through his words, than her eyes had dared to read 
 in those of that poor note. 
 
 She places no great estimate upon the utterances. 
 She knows he is a stranger in a strange and foreign laud 
 far from home ; well she knows how the heart in such 
 a case longs for and will find expression for itself, and 
 that it hardly heeds in its necessity what ear shall hear 
 the tale. This experience has'been hers as well as his. 
 
 Susan writes to him. They are the letters of an ex- 
 panding brain, and a well-controlled, warm, unselfish 
 heart. She writes almost nothing of herself he would 
 not have it so ; her letters, in this respect, do not satisfy, 
 they disappoint him. It is all of Clarence and his father, 
 and sometimes of Isidore, that she writes. It is chiefly 
 of Clarence, of his activity, his industry, of his noble 
 nature ; she takes pains to recall for David all that his 
 twin-brother says that will illustrate the various and fine 
 development his nature is now having. Of his good 
 deeds wrought, the spirit that pervades them ; of his im- 
 pulses, his ardor in the pursuits and aspirations of man- 
 hood of these things she writes much and eloquently. 
 
 By-and-bye, it happens, while he journeys on through 
 the old world, rich and glorious in the records, and the tro- 
 phies, and splendors of the past, the gorgeous day whose 
 sun has set, that he comes to look with anxiety and even 
 with impatience for the arrival of these letters which 
 breathe the breath of a new world and a new life upon 
 him. They are, each and all, to him strangely welcome ; 
 they are strangely prized ; he begins to question within 
 himself how do his letters go to them at home nay, to 
 search well his thought, how do they go to her, even to 
 Susan ? are they welcome ? are they prized ? Why is 
 he lingering on this magnificent ship of the Past that lies
 
 THE EMBARKATION. .321 
 
 in port and will sail forth never more to the conquest, 
 any whither, or at whatever call? Sea-birds flit about 
 the gallant masts, but their songs cannot lure that vessel 
 forth again ; the wind rattles among the cordage and 
 shakes the sails, but the Will is not in them, it does not 
 pace the decks, that the great craft should move forth 
 in state again and bear down on the Future. But this 
 youth, loitering on the deck, he sees the fluttering sails 
 he sees the swinging ropes unavailable forever the 
 wind embraces him he hears the songs of sea-birds ! 
 It may be with hesitation and reluctance, but he must 
 depart from your decks^iighty ship of the Past that liest 
 immovable in the harbor of the Present.- It may be 
 with doubt, and many a sighing regret, that he looks up 
 to the masts and sails which shall trace no more their 
 adventurous progress on the blue sky, or the unresting 
 sea. No more sleep, no more dreaming under the shadow 
 of those bleaching sails ! a craft that cuts the water in 
 its swift onward progress that leaves its broad track 
 on the sea while it spreads its great wings to the wind, 
 goes forth ; and with her he must go. 
 
 Softly fades from sight the vision of great glories that 
 are hastening to decay before him lies an new chaotic 
 world, a mighty heap of treasure, a wilderness of riches, 
 an unguessed capacity, an irresistible desire, an unimagin- 
 ed destiny. The Future beckons to him. With this 
 capacity, this desire, these riches, let him go into the 
 world and build let him sail into the Future and dis- 
 cover. 
 
 David returned to St. John's without warning. He 
 
 sent before him no harbinger of his approach. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was the day after Clarence had passed his examina- 
 tion preparatory to entering the college. He and Susan 
 
 14*
 
 322 GETTING ALONG. 
 
 had been passing through the ordeal anew all its anx- 
 iety and difficulty she had shared with him. The trial 
 had cost Clarence much he had in his work of prepa- 
 ration taxed both brain and body far beyond their 
 strength, even as it had been feared. But those who 
 watched him most narrowly, Mr. Falcon, and Mr. Leigh- 
 ton, and Susan, with whom they consulted, had deemed 
 it best that he should make the necessary exertion with- 
 out any further delay anxiety, indecision, they deemed 
 would prove still more trying and hurtful to him than 
 even such exhausting preparation as he would need to 
 make. He was lying on a sofa in the library, worn out 
 by those efforts. There was a pleasant dimness in the 
 room. Susan who could do anything like her ? had 
 arranged the curtains exactly to his satisfaction; his 
 eyes were closed, and she was reading to him. 
 
 While they talked together his eyes never were remov- 
 ed from her what wondrous beauty that face had in the 
 sight of Clarence ! And he was thinking, while she 
 spoke, and now while she read to him, of the time that 
 yet must pass before he should renew, or present again 
 his claim upon her heart ; never, for a moment, has she 
 withheld her intellect, but it is her heart of which he 
 thinks. He has, nevertheless, long since ceased speaking 
 to Susan of this his love proclaims itself no more in 
 passionate demonstration, but it works in every effort 
 it is the spring of his life. He is living through and for 
 her. 
 
 He doubts her no longer now : there is no barrier be- 
 tween herself and him. He has grown courageous and 
 confident how kind she is to him, how constantly near ! 
 always within call, always ready to sing with him, or to 
 read, or study, or walk with him, to listen to, or chat 
 with him. Neither he nor Mr. Baldwin has one linger- 
 ing doubt of what the end will be when those five years
 
 THE BATTLE FOUGHT. 323 
 
 are gone for which she stipulated, which she besought, in 
 the presence of both, of the hearts of the father and the 
 sou. 
 
 She is the abiding necessity of the life of Clarence. 
 He seems, in some marvellous way, to have entered, day 
 by day, more thoroughly into the affections of her nature 
 the movements of her intellect. He is quick to dis- 
 cern every change in her thoughts, to detect every varia- 
 tion in the movement of her heart. 
 
 This is marvellous to Susan, for in some measure she 
 can but be conscious of the fact, and curious in her ob- 
 servation of it. She seems, to her own self, bound in 
 ways beyond enumeration or understanding to him. She 
 can but submit to this strange form which the strange 
 fact has taken. 
 
 From leading him she in turn is led by him, though 
 he believes it not. 
 
 Her rebellious persistence in denying him the enter- 
 ance and dominion he has sought, is over ; but does Susan 
 love Clarence Baldwin ? 
 
 She never answers herself the question. Until David 
 comes again, she cannot answer it. She is perplexed, 
 uncertain. When she does ask that question, she seems 
 to be arraying herself against herself so bound up to- 
 gether do their two lives seem. All his ways of thinking, 
 all his plans of life she knows this is a country with 
 whose geography and zones she is thoroughly familiar. 
 
 But as to David Baldwin, him she knows not. Does 
 she long for his return 1 Does she ever think that he is 
 slow in coming ? She cannot tell about him she knows 
 nothing. But this much we may say for her, there is 
 neither despondency nor gloom in the character of Susan. 
 Her life flows peacefully. Her life, and not as once 
 confused and unbelieving words, are the comment on the 
 last words of Leah Chilton's exhortation.
 
 324 GETTING ALONG. v 
 
 And yet more. Susan Dillon in her new capacity is 
 the wonder of her friends. She more than fills the place 
 of Isidore the guests at the Hall remark upon the youth- 
 ful lady who is the mistress of the house the servants 
 marvel at her while they obey and love her ; young she 
 is, but how self-reliant--how reliable ! Self-reliant that 
 word needs qualifying in all respects save one, she is so ; 
 that self she does not know, when, at rare intervals, perhaps 
 not oftener than the coming in of a fresh letter from the 
 wanderer abroad, she asks herself about herself and the 
 twin brothers. 
 
 But we were in the library. 
 
 While she is reading now, and the dim room is filled 
 equally with sound and shadow fain would she read her 
 listener to sleep, he looks so pale and worn with his 
 recent labors in the midst of a word she suddenly stops 
 speaking. 
 
 Yet Clarence docs not slumber. Behold how wake- 
 ful he is ! even rising from his reclining attitude. He 
 was startled by that cry was it of joy ? It certainly was 
 not of surprise alone, that cry that burst from Susan he 
 sees there is a new kiss on her forehead. 
 
 And David, who has come, makes no great haste to 
 turn from this girl who stands transfigured in his sight 
 to greet his twin-brother. 
 
 No . . . for in his arms lies poor Susan Dillon, sense- 
 less ; and Clarence, who in alarm lifts up her drooping 
 head . . . sees what a smile is on those lips which cried 
 out so strangely but now. For a moment he turns away 
 It was joy that welcomed David. He knows it it was a 
 joy too exceeding great for Susan to bear. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Still further? . . . Susan's work was finished. No 
 
 ^ 
 
 after tenderness or care could renerve the spirit which 
 that day, in the blinding light that fell upon it, shrunk
 
 THE END, AND THE BEGINNING. 325 _ 
 
 aud from that hour withered from the world and life. 
 They thought it was the unceasing, studious labor into 
 which from this time, Clarence threw himself, in mighty 
 struggle with himself, that destroyed him, before his 
 collegiate course was half ended. Well for them that it 
 was possible so to account for the sudden break, the total 
 failure, the early death . . . Clarence died in Susan's 
 arms and she alone heard his last whispered word 
 it was the parting of a mother and her son. 
 But David was her consolation in that day. 
 
 THE END.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 NU PHOlMt HtNEWAtS 
 ^NOV 191988
 
 3 1158 01145 0250 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000 075 232 9
 
 ill 
 
 1 ' i I f ' ' ( T 1 1 1 1 
 
 i tit 
 
 iii II 
 
 I 
 
 S M 1 1 1 1 ] 
 
 III 
 
 Ilii 
 
 l!il! iilllililll