A FAMILY PARTY.
The light and warmth of Mr. Alden's hospitable home, with the rippling laughter of children's merry voices, seemed to Roland in delightful contrast with the raw, cold December evening without, as well as with the depressing influence of the miserable apartment they had just left. The father's return was greeted with joyous shouts from the little ones, and Roland was speedily included in the warm welcome. A bounteously spread tea-table, with its pretty pot of ferns in the centre, was awaiting Mr. Alden's arrival, and looked inviting enough to a young man who had been out in the chill air during most of the afternoon. The happy children's faces, the delicate and sweet-looking little mother, the freedom and unaffected gladness of the family life, strongly impressed Roland, and vividly recalled the associations of his own childhood. Grace, the helpful, eldest daughter, had, Roland thought, the sweetest, purest, sunniest face he had ever seen. The clear, frank eyes, with the light of a happy heart sparkling through their peaceful blue, the smile so sweet and sincere, the sunny, golden hair, and silvery, gleeful laugh, so childlike in its ring, fascinated him like a spell. No wonder, he thought, that the shadows cleared from Mr. Alden's thoughtful brow as soon as he crossed his own threshold. Yet, much of the family sunshine there was a reflection from Mr. Alden's own spirit. And, however the shadows of the world without might sometimes weigh on his own heart, he never allowed them to sadden his children, if he could help it. He was fond of exhorting his people to keep their children's childhood as happy as they could, without letting them grow selfish and heartless. And he would often quote Victor Hugo's expressive lines:
"Grief is a fruit God will not let grow
On boughs too feeble to sustain its weight."
"Cultivate sympathy in your children," he would say, "but not so as to burden them prematurely"; and what he preached he practised. Meal-times were, for the children's sake, always bright and cheerful. Mr. Alden had the precious gift of humor, and it served him in good stead to balance a nature acutely sensitive to the pain, the ills and the discords of human life. He seldom failed to catch and bring home some little quaint or amusing experience, which, told as he could tell it, would provoke the good-natured laughter in which he believed, as one of the safety-valves of our nature. Frank, his eldest boy, Roland's first acquaintance in the family, inherited his father's tendency to see the humorous side of things, without, as yet, his counterbalancing depth of feeling; and so it often happened that the father and son together would set the little ones in a small uproar of laughter, which Mrs. Alden's love of propriety would often constrain her to try to keep in some sort of check. But it was no wonder that these children enjoyed their father's presence at meals, and missed it when he was absent.
After tea, the whole party adjourned to the parlor, which was purposely kept not too fine for the frequent incursions of the children. The younger ones rapidly improved their acquaintance with Roland, gathering close about him, reciting to him some of their pet rhymes, and examining him as to his acquaintance with their favorite stories. Fortunately he had read Grimm and Hans Andersen, and knew most of the stories that they had heard, over and over, from their father and Grace, who had caught up his knack of telling a story so as to be an acceptable substitute when "father" was too busy. Roland and they were en rapport at once on the strength of his familiar acquaintance with "The Little Match Girl," "The Snow Maiden," "The Ugly Duckling," and "Prudent Elsie."
"Grace may be sorry they ever heard that," declared Frank, "for now she hears nothing but 'Prudent Elsie!' whenever she calls them back to put on their mufflers or overshoes."
"Oh, I don't mind!" said Grace, laughing. "I think "Prudent Elsie" a very nice name, isn't it, father, dear?"
Her father drew her close to him as she sat on the arm of his chair, with one hand resting caressingly on his shoulder.
"'Simple Susan' would suit you better, my dear; but 'what's in a name?'" he said, looking smilingly up into her bright face. "'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!'"
"Come now, John," interposed Mrs. Alden, looking up from the little sock she was busily knitting; "I can't have you passing on to your daughter any of your old fine speeches to me."
"Infringing on your copyright, little mother?" he playfully returned, glancing fondly at the wife, who, Roland thought, must at Grace's age have looked a good deal like what she did, now.
Half an hour passed so quickly that Roland scarcely realized it. He was just beginning to fear that he might be inflicting his presence too long on the family circle, when Mr. Alden said:
"Now, Gracie, go to the piano! and you, youngsters, get your hymn-books. Mr. Graeme will excuse us, I know, if we go on with our little evening service." Then turning to Roland, he added: "We always have it at this hour, before the children grow sleepy."
Grace sat down at the piano, and in a clear young voice led the little choir, who had clustered around her, each eager to take part in the singing. Mr. Alden followed the hymn with a brief reading, and very simple prayer; and then the younger portion of the family said "Good-night," in due form. Roland, to whom these simple vespers had brought back vivid recollections from his own childhood, now thought it was time for him, also, to say "good-night" and take his departure.
"I will walk part of your way with you," said Mr. Alden. "I want to see Blanchard about what it is best to do for that poor young woman. He will be back by this time, I think. I hope he will advise her going to the hospital, where she will have proper care. She seems to have no one belonging to her but that poor child."
They walked together to Dr. Blanchard's, which was not very far from Roland's own quarters. Before they parted, Mr. Alden took down the young man's address. Then, holding his hand kindly, he said, "I should be glad to have you for a member of a certain little society for social reform, that I have lately started on a broadly Christian basis."
Roland hesitated a little. "I mustn't allow you to misconceive my position," he said. "I am not what you would call a Christian; that is, I cannot at present see my way to accept what is called orthodox Christianity."
"Never mind that just now," said Mr. Alden. "And don't suppose that I can't appreciate honest difficulties of belief. But this society of mine is purposely made wider than Church lines. It is meant to include any one who loves the Christian ideal, and is willing to promote the practical influence of the Christian spirit in this selfish world. From what I have seen of you, I think you are one of that number."
The tone was kind, sympathetic, appreciative—something between that of a father and of an elder brother. Roland's responsive heart was touched.
"If you will take me in on that understanding, you can count on my willing service!" he said.
And with a cordial leave taking, they parted, Mr Alden taking his way to Dr Blanchard's house, Roland walking off to his lodging at his usual rapid pace. He had hours of work before him, and must be at it. When he reached the house in which he boarded, he let himself in with his latch-key, and bounded lightly up the stairs to his own apartment. It was not a large room, and certainly not luxurious, and its confusion of books and papers would have been the despair of any tidy housekeeper. Books, pamphlets, newspapers, were piled on shelves, tables and chairs, in a manner that to any eye but Roland's would have seemed hopeless confusion. Volumes of philosophy and poetry, ancient and modern, were scattered among piles of blue-books and reports of all kinds. On his writing-table, amidst loose sheets of manuscript and newspaper clippings, lay a well worn Bible, Thoreau's "Walden," Carlyle's "Sartor Resartus," Whittier's and Browning's poems, Emerson's Essays, and Henry George's "Progress and Poverty." Evidently the occupant of the room had somewhat varied tastes. And, while Roland is industriously looking over his clippings, sorting his manuscripts, and making a fair copy of his rough draft of a leader for the first number of The Brotherhood, let us take a retrospective glance over the history of the young man himself.