Ingleside;

by Madeline Leslie

[Illustration: MARION AND THE CRIPPLED BOY. Page 207]

"I saw that bill drop from your hand, sir." Marion laughed till all her dimples came into play. "But you can't have it," she insisted, as she saw his look of disappointment at being found out. "You've forfeited the right to it, and I shall add it to my fund for Neddy."

"Pretty sharp practice that," he grumbled, looking intensely relieved. "Well, good-day to you."

The next time Marion went to the hospital a singular circumstance occurred,—a circumstance which unravelled for her quite a mystery.

She inquired for Neddy Carter, and was allowed to proceed at once to the convalescent ward. The boy was sitting in a low chair, which he had learned to wheel about with great rapidity. As soon as he saw her, his face brightened, and before he could reach her side he shouted,—

"Miss Howard! Miss Howard! Mr. Regy's been here!"

"And he's such a funny man," said one of the older boys.

"I wish I had seen him," was Marion's answer. "What did he come for?"

"To see me. He was awful cross at first, and scolded me for getting under the wheel like sixty; but I know him, and he's real good for all that; and I like him; and when I told him I didn't get under the wheel on purpose he gave me this," pulling a silver dollar from his pocket. "Will you please take it to help buy my wooden legs?"

"No, indeed; those will be ready when the doctor says you can wear them."

"Mr. Regy says I'm to be a printer," continued the boy, fixing his large brown eyes on hers; "and I'm to go to school at the Five Points, and learn to read and spell, and by-and-by, he says, there's no knowing but I may be a great man, and print newspapers."

Marion started. This was Mr. Lambert's plan. Had he told Mr. Regy of it?

"How does Mr. Regy look?" This inquiry was addressed to one of the nurses, who was passing.

"Very oddly," she replied, laughing. "He's about fifty or sixty years old, very gray hair, which he wears long, floating over his shoulders."

Marion laughed too as she said, "I've often heard of him, but I never saw him."

Mr. Lambert was over sixty; but his hair, naturally light, had not turned gray, and was cut short to his head.

"He stoops a little," added the nurse, "and makes frightful faces. Some of the little ones were afraid of him, but before he went away he coaxed them to sit in his lap and put their hands in his pockets, where they found nuts and raisins and candy in abundance. A lady came in to see a little cripple, and as she passed him surrounded by a group of them, Neddy's chair rolled as close as he could get it, she remarked, smiling, 'It's a blessed work, sir.'"

"Mr. Regy had not seen her before, and he started to his feet, looking very angry.

"'Troublesome little brats!' he shouted, pushing them away."

"Just like Mr. Lambert," was Marion's reflection. "How very strange there should be two such men!"

Just then she noticed that several of the boys were putting their heads together, whispering and gesturing as they looked toward her. Presently one came forward, and asked, timidly,—

"Will you please sing us a tune, Miss Howard?"

"How do you know I can sing?" she asked, with one of her brightest smiles.

"I heard you at the mission Sunday school. I'm Maurice Long, what used to be sent to the back seat for being allus in mischief."

Maurice looked anything but humble, as he confessed his faults.

"Why, Maurice!" exclaimed Marion, holding out her hand. "You have grown so much I did not know you,—and you are so pale, too."

"Yes, miss. Me and another boy got into a fight, and I had my head smashed in, and the p'lice brought me here. I'm going out next week."

"O Maurice!"

Marion was interrupted by several voices shouting, "He'd fight agin, ma'am. He'd oughter. It was ter save a feller littler than him. Hurrah for Maurice!"

"How was it, Nurse? I want to hear the story."

"Maurice had a chance to earn a dime carrying a bundle for a gentleman from the cars. A little fellow came along, leading a poor, half-starved dog of which he seemed very fond. Just then a big bully of a boy met them, and began to tease the dog. When his owner timidly begged to be let alone, the bully flew at him, and then Maurice thought it time to interfere. He caught the bully by the hair, and would not let go till he was terribly bruised. A policeman came up and arrested both the boys, just as Maurice fainted from loss of blood. The gentleman had seen the whole fight from beginning to end, and he followed the bully to the court-room and gave his testimony, and called Maurice a hero."

"And a good fighter, too," added Maurice, who had stood by, listening to all with a kind of proud humility.

"I am glad you were not fighting to defend your own rights," said Marion, approvingly. "But who was the gentleman?"

"He gave his name as Lambert," said the nurse. "There is a very curious sequel to the story," she added, in a low tone, as they turned away.

"Mr. Lambert came here twice before Maurice was well enough to know him, and showed a good deal of anxiety till he was out of danger, growling to himself that he ought to have stopped the fight earlier. He gave the doctor some money for Maurice when he goes away; but the boy knows nothing of that yet. When Mr. Lambert saw Maurice he scolded him well; said a street fighter was a mean fellow and ought to be arrested, and hoped he should never hear of his street brawls again.

"His voice was so loud that some of the little ones began to cry, but Maurice spoke up rather saucily,—

"I'd fight for you, sir, to-morrow, if you was hit. I know you're jolly, for all your scolding.'"

"Well," said Marion, laughing heartily, "what did Mr. Lambert say to that?"

"Not a word that we could understand. He went away with his handkerchief to his face, but when he reached the street he shook all over with laughter."

"Shall I sing for the children now?"

"They will be delighted to hear you."

Standing in the midst of the ward, with the little ones pressing to her side, Marion sang the sweet melody set to the words,—

"Will you come where the sweet-briar grows,

Where the heath flower blossoms around?

Will you come where the hyacinth blows,

And the daisy just peeps from the ground?

There's a bower by the side of yon lake,

'Tis the chosen abode of the rose;

Where the wings of the linnet awake

The leaves from their calm repose."

Every word was distinctly enunciated, and the children, with bated breath and sparkling eyes, proved their appreciation by calling out, "More! Please, Miss Howard, sing more." Smiling, she gave them the mocking-bird, which was followed by shouts of applause.

[CHAPTER XVIII.]

A MYSTERY SOLVED.

MISS HOWARD was leaving the hospital when she met the doctor in charge, who invited her to his private parlor, as he wished to consult her in regard to her protégé Neddy Carter.

"I suppose you are acquainted with Mr. Regy,' he said. "He knew your wishes about the boy."

"I know him well by report," she answered, "but I have never seen him."

"Indeed! He is certainly the most eccentric individual I ever met. Benevolent and tender-hearted to an extreme, he seems to me like a man who has learned to mistrust humanity so generally that he hides every evidence of weakness as carefully as though it were a crime. Why, the good deeds that man does almost defy belief."

"I can easily credit your statement, doctor. In my visits to my poor friends, I am constantly hearing of him. I have known of his paying rent for a widow who had a sick daughter, month after month, and at the same time providing her with medicines and food. Yet he would talk to her about her untidyness till he made her cry; and then he would go away grumbling that all he could say did no good."

"I heard some facts concerning his eccentricities from a gentleman who owns the place next his in the country," continued the doctor, "which, if they had not come to me from the best authority I would not credit; but my friend vouches for the facts.

"Near them lives a woman whose husband was killed on the railroad. She has two young children, is pleasing in appearance, but wanting in force. They had always lived in comfort, on the wages her husband earned. When he was killed, she seemed crushed with grief. The neighbors made up a purse for her, and Mr. Regy, who had given generously, was requested to carry it to her. He learned that she owned her small cottage, to which a barn was attached, but had no money. He found she had no idea of earning her own living, but when he proposed that the children be sent to the asylum, and she go out to work in a mill or family, she cried herself into hysterics, calling him a cruel, hard-hearted brute for proposing it, wished he would go away and never come again.

"This is all my friend learned from Mr. Regy, who denounced her as ungrateful, unnatural as a mother, a pest to society. Her neighbors supposed, of course, he gave her up; but he never did, for a day. He went and berated her till he quite roused her into action; and finally she said she had been brought up on a farm, and knew how to make butter and cheese.

"'What good will that do you?' he asked her, with a sneer. 'Where are your cows, to make butter from?'"

"It was some time before she learned what a true friend he was; but two excellent milkers found their way to her barn, and, in time, pans and a churn. Then she complained that she was sure she never could sell her butter and pot-cheese and cried a whole day at the scolding he gave her. To make a long story short, he sold all her butter and cheese for her at the highest price, taking the basket on his own arm, and carrying it to the houses of the regular customers. A lady on Forty-Second Street told my friend that he brought butter there regularly every week for more than a year. She supposed it was from his own farm; and she has a pile of his receipts signed M. Regy. Once she remonstrated in person with him for his high prices, when he flew into such a rage that she never dared approach the subject again."

"Very, very strange," remarked Marion. "I have a friend who is extremely odd and uncouth in manner, but is always doing kindnesses for the poor. His name is Lambert. In many respects your description of Mr. Regy would answer for both."

"Do you refer to Mr. M. R. Lambert, a rich old bachelor? Why, I always thought him the most sarcastic, sour, crusty, old man in my acquaintance."

"Only in manner, doctor. He possesses the milk of human kindness in an uncommon degree. He is a second Mr. Regy. I am confident that any sum of money I would consent to ask him for in behalf of my protégés would not be refused; and all the time he would be grumbling that it was good money thrown away on a thankless class of vagrants."

"What is Mr. Lambert's full address," inquired the doctor, rising in an excited manner.

"M. R. Lambert are his initials. I have scores of his cards."

"Regy is, I believe, his middle name, and he uses it for a nom de plume. It can scarcely be credited that there would be two so similar in their eccentricities. I am almost sure of it."

"Then he must disguise himself: Mr. Lambert's hair is short, and only beginning to turn gray."

"A gray wig is easy to procure. What can be his motive?"

"It is difficult to conceive, Doctor. I have sometimes imagined that Mr. Lambert had a motive in so constantly visiting the poorer classes; but it is only a suspicion. I feel sure, if it were true, it would do honor to the kindness of the man. I told him the story of Neddy Carter's injury. He entered into it with great interest,-said he would get him a place in a printing-office and was almost angry that any one else had thought of purchasing artificial legs for the boy."

"Just what I wished to tell you from Mr. Regy. They are one and the same. Mr. Regy I shall continue to call him. See, here is the address he gave me."

"M. REGY, P.O. BOX 1009."

On her way home, Marion's thoughts were absorbed in trying to solve the motives which could govern such a man as Mr. Lambert, and induce him to figure in so many different characters; for the more she reflected the more she felt assured that he and Mr. Regy were the same. It might be that some early disappointment had thus twisted and gnarled a naturally lovely character. It might be that some one he had once loved and trusted had betrayed his confidence, and thus rendered him suspicious of all mankind. She resolved to watch him closely, and to endeavor to lighten his burden, whatever it might be.

Approaching her own door, she perceived a carriage standing there. With her thoughts still on the discovery she had made, she ran up the steps and encountered Eugene Cheriton struggling in the arms of James, who had been told to take him back to his mother in the parlor.

The boy readily yielded to her wish, and went upstairs with her, where she was both surprised and pleased to find not only Mrs. Cheriton but Mrs. Douglass awaiting her arrival.

The latter lady seemed to have taken out a new lease of life, since her return to the city. She acknowledged that she liked New York, and should leave it with reluctance.

"I hope you do not intend to leave it," urged Marion.

The lady glanced anxiously at her daughter before she answered. "Necessity may compel us to do so."

Mrs. Cheriton's countenance had no reflection of her mother's anxiety. She sat as usual, with her handsome head thrown a little back, her large, black eyes lustrous as ever, her lips wreathed in the same set smile; but there seemed no soul in her face. She appeared to have wrapped herself in a veil, which, in Marion's presence, had never been lifted for one instant.

Eugene, beautiful and restless as ever, ran here and there unrestrained, demanding the reason for this or that, preventing so effectually any attempt at conversation that Marion, who wished for an opportunity to talk with Mrs. Douglass, at last persuaded her to remain for the day, insisting that she herself had no engagements which would interfere with the pleasure of such a visit.

"While you are taking your siesta," she urged, "I can go to my pupils; and then we will have quiet chat, or drive in the park, as you prefer."

"This is just the opportunity I have long desired," remarked Mrs. Douglass, as after an hour's rest she had partaken of a nice lunch, and was seated in Marion's most comfortable chair. "I want to tell you some facts in my early life which will account for my being here in America."

"I shall feel honored by your confidence," returned Marion, gazing with affection into the still beautiful face, so like and yet unlike her daughter's. "Let me bring my crocheting, and we can be as cosey as we please."

"I told Mr. Angus some things about our history. He may have repeated them to you."

"Not a word, dear lady," bending over her work to conceal the rosy hue which colored her cheeks at the mention of his name.

"I told him, that, although Juliette and myself are living alone, we are neither of us widows,—at least we are not knowingly such,—but let me go back to early days.

"My father was an Englishman, and in his thirty-first year was sent to Spain as minister from the court of England. He was stationed at Madrid, where he met my mother, daughter of a nobleman in that city. The liking between them was mutual, and ended in marriage after an acquaintance of a few months. I have heard it said that seldom had a couple so distinguished for beauty, and every charm which makes life desirable, been witnessed in our proud old city.

"A year after their marriage a son was born, who was named Henreich, for my maternal grandfather. Three years later I appeared on the scene. As no other children followed, and we were the only grandchildren on the mother's side, you can easily imagine that our wishes, whims, and caprices ruled the entire household.

"Henreich, beautiful, bold, wilful, and unrestrained, became at last a terror to both parents and servants. To me only was he loving and gentle; but even when in a fury of rage, he would yield to my entreaties and tears. I need not say that he was my idol. I loved him as sister never loved brother before. What I suffered when, unable longer to endure the anxieties and terror which his bold daring continually occasioned my parents, he was sent to England to be educated, I have no words to describe.

"It could scarcely be expected that a high-spirited lad, accustomed to have his own way, would yield at once to authority; at least Henreich did not, and soon fell into such disgrace that he was expelled from the school. My uncle, to whose care he had been committed, wrote, resigning the charge. He reproached my father in the most unmeasured terms for neglecting to restrain the boy's temper, which had led him in an ungovernable fit of fury to attempt the life of one of his teachers, after which he fled, and nothing could be heard from him. Father went to England at once. I never knew what occurred there, but when he came home he said Henreich was dead to us, and forbade that his name ever be mentioned.

"You will see later why I dwell so long on these sad events. I mourned over my brother, and, not being allowed to speak of him, I brooded over his troubles until at last I forgot that he had been to blame for them. I even came to regard him as a hero, who had been unjustly treated.

"All the fond pride which would have been cherished for both of us was now lavished on me. I scarcely had a wish but it was gratified. With the exception of my trouble at the separation from my brother, I scarcely knew the meaning of the word, till in my fourteenth year I accompanied my parents to England, and they left me to finish my education.

"I was now in the same country where Henreich had been, but I never, except on one occasion, heard his name mentioned. I asked my uncle Douglass if he knew where my brother was, and was answered, with a terrible frown,—

"'No, I do not. He may be dead, for all I care.'

"I never inquired again.

"I was in England two years, and returned to Spain 'finished,' as my graduation from school with high honors was called. It was then I entered on a course of gayety, such as I had never even imagined. Though very young, my hand was asked frequently in marriage; but my heart was never touched till one evening, at a gay assembly, I met a young American, with whom I danced nearly all night. Only the third time we met he told me he loved me, and asked me to be his wife. I confessed that I returned his affection, and sent him to my father.

"But now, for the first time in my life, I met opposition. My father and mother, foolishly fond and proud of their only child, considered it quite beneath me to marry an untitled foreigner. They talked as though royalty itself might be honored by an alliance with me. This opposition naturally fixed my determination to marry the man of my choice, notwithstanding all obstacles. I instantly invested him with the whole catalogue of virtues and when, added to these, sadness on his part proved his undying attachment, I made a martyr of him,—a martyr dying for my love.

"Under these circumstances I gave my parents no rest. My lover offered letters to prove that he was worthy; and at length, worn out by my entreaties and my evident loss of bloom, father did secretly write to a friend in London, requesting him to ascertain from Mr. Post, banker in that city, in regard to his position and prospects.

"This it was easy to do through correspondents from the London Banking House, and the result was so satisfactory, both as to character and wealth, that my friend was allowed to renew his visits, which speedily terminated in my betrothal. I have often thought since, that, had my parents allowed the acquaintance to proceed at first without opposition, all would have ended differently; for as the intimacy advanced, even before our marriage, I discovered certain traits which greatly annoyed me.

"I had been accustomed to the expression of admiration, and enjoyed it; but I was faithful and true to my lover. He considered the looks and tones of flattery an insult both to me and to him. He constantly urged our immediate union; but to this my parents would not consent, except on one condition. Until I was twenty-one, my home must be with them. On my eighteenth birthday, with the reluctant consent of all my relatives, I became a wife. For a month or two I was very happy. I found my husband intelligent, with a cultivated mind, and a kind heart. We were alone in a villa belonging to my grandfather, and proved so sufficient for mutual happiness that I returned home with great regret. Oh, that we had never returned!"

Marion had been so absorbed in the recital that she had failed to notice the increasing pallor of the narrator. Struck with the intense sadness of the last tone, she started to find her visitor sinking back in her chair, her lips blanched, her hands trembling.

Throwing aside her work, she ran to her chamber for cologne, with which she bathed the forehead and hands of the lady, then rang for James to bring her a cup of fresh coffee.

She insisted that Mrs. Douglass should rest before she continued her interesting story; but the lady, with a sigh, urged,—

"I may never have so favorable an opportunity to finish. My sad tale is nearly ended, and I shall be greatly relieved when I have told my only American friend my folly and my punishment; so resume your work, and let me end the recital as briefly as possible."

[CHAPTER XIX.]

TEARS OF REPENTANCE.

I HAD only been in Madrid a few weeks before I found that my husband was jealous, unreasonably jealous. He was so exacting that he demanded all my attention. If I conversed with my old acquaintances, young or old, of either sex, he made a scene. My father remonstrated, and they came to open fight, my husband declaring that he would have no interference with his wife. To avoid quarrelling I gave up society, and even at my father's table became constrained in manner, scarcely daring to speak lest I should meet the reproachful eyes of my husband fixed upon me. Finding that even this reticence did not satisfy him, I went to the other extreme, talked and laughed—yes, and flirted too,—with any one. This went on for more than a year. I need not say that we were both wretched; for, strange as it was, I still loved my husband, in memory of the few weeks of unalloyed happiness after our marriage. I think he loved me, too, though he had greatly changed,—grown cold and sarcastic.

"I was driving out one afternoon in company with a servant, when I met a traveller, alone and on foot, who started at my approach, gazed fixedly in my face as we slowly passed, and then ran after the carriage. I was in delicate health, and his sudden reappearance greatly startled me. In his excitement he did not notice my fright; but, speaking a few words in English, he forced me to alight and join him at a distance. It was Henreich, my brother, my long-lost idol, shattered and destroyed. The fiercest passions lighted his magnificent eyes. He asked for father, and cursed both him and his own bad luck that our parents still lived. When I hurriedly told him I was married, he was so angry he would have struck me. He asked for money, saying, repeatedly,—

"'I must have money. I will have my portion of the estate. By fair means or foul, I will have what I want.'"

"I could not get away from him till I had given him my purse and every jewel I had about me, and had promised to meet him at night in a retired part of our grounds,—I thought I could steal away unobserved.

"Perhaps I could have done so but for the servant, who was afterwards discovered to be a spy my husband had set upon me, who told him of the strange meeting as soon as we returned home. He had never heard my brother's name, and must have wondered at my conduct.

"I went instantly to my chamber, where Mr.— soon joined me, coming to the couch where I lay, and gazing in my face with such marks of agony as I could not account for.

"At that moment my love came upon me with all its fervor. I put up my arms and drew him down to me, and wept on his shoulder. I kissed him repeatedly, and did not notice at the time that my caresses were not returned. I was so exhausted by what had passed that I fell asleep. I woke, shouting,—

"Henreich! O Henreich, go away! Why did you come back?'

"'Who is Henreich?' My husband's voice was so stern, so unnatural, that it frightened me. In one instant I realized that if I said, 'He is my brother,' he would not believe in the existence of one of whom he had never heard. Indeed, my father often spoke of me as his only child. If he did believe me, Henreich would be discovered, and my father's name disgraced; for, from what I had seen, I was sure his life had become wholly corrupt. These thoughts flashed through my mind, as my husband stood with blanched face and eyes protruding looking into mine. Would that I had explained all to him! I am sure love for me was struggling in his breast with the contempt he imagined I deserved; but I did not explain. I resolved that I would give all the money I could raise to my brother, and send him away; that when he was out of reach I would tell my husband the whole story, under a promise from him of secrecy.'"

Mrs. Douglass hid her face in her hands, unable to proceed.

Tears were trickling down Marion's cheeks.

"Perhaps I am doing wrong to tell you all this, Miss Howard. You blame me for my want of frankness, but not half so much as I deserve, and you will see that I have been terribly punished. I stole from the house at the hour I had promised to meet my brother, with a large sum of money in my hand, and a letter in which I told him it was the last time I would help him. I begged him to go away, and begin a life of honesty and virtue I signed myself your affectionate sister.

"My husband was watching, and saw me go out. He followed, heard the sound of excited voices, saw Henreich take me in his arms, and, as he thought, strain me to his breast. Alas! it was a ruffian who held me, while he tried to force me to yield to him my betrothal ring, a superb diamond. He succeeded in wrenching it from my finger. How I regained the house I never knew. I found myself in my own room on a couch, with my maid bending over me. I was told afterward that one swoon had succeeded another, physicians had been summoned, and remedies administered. At the sound of my voice mother came forward with our attending physician. Another spasm came on. Two days later I lay hovering between life and death, and my little babe lay beside me, the very image of Henreich as he was when I first remembered him.

"I was too sick at first to notice the absence of my husband. I learned later that he saw me fall in trying to reach the house, caught me in his arms, and laid me on the couch. He summoned my own maid, who saw him seize a few papers from the drawer and go out into the darkness. From that day to this I have never seen him. All these years, if he has lived through them, he has believed me to be a guilty thing, not worthy even of his contempt. All these years his child has never heard her father's name, and he whose heart was always touched with the sorrows of a child has never heard the sacred name of father from his child's lips. Too late I learned to love him with an intense affection, which, if it had been cherished earlier, would have led me to overlook faults of manner and roughness of speech which, perhaps, after all, were put on to disguise deep feeling.

"Only once in all these long, weary years have I heard from him. Our beautiful babe was two months old when my father received a letter, stating that a sum of money had been placed in the hands of trustees, who were named, for the benefit of my child, if living. He said that he considered the marriage tie broken, and that he should never trouble me again.

"He was right: believing of me what he did, he could not do otherwise. I honor him for it,—but I must hurry to a close.

"Henreich did not succeed in escaping the vigilance of persons who were in search of him. He had hoped to secure enough from me to reach a foreign land and chide justice. When his arrest was made public, the servant who had been with me on my first meeting Henreich confessed, with bitter tears, that she had told my husband that which caused him to watch me on that dreadful night. She said his agony of grief at what he called the certainty of my unfaithfulness frightened her, and she ran away, repenting that she had told him.

"Henreich's arrest and death, though under an assumed name, threw my mother into a fever, from which she never recovered. Two years later, father married a Spanish widow, with several sons and daughters. The eldest son was ten years older than Juliette, and was being educated in France and Germany. He returned to his home when she was only a few months over fourteen, became enamoured of her beauty, and a secret engagement took place. When I learned of it I refused my consent; but the infatuated child followed the example of her mother, and would not yield her own wishes. His mother agreed with me; but my father said there was no blood relation between them, and if they would wait till she was of proper age there was no objection.

"This half-consent was enough for Arthur Cheriton. He took Juliette out for a drive one day. When they returned they were man and wife. After living together a year, he found her unformed in mind and wilful in temper. He went to England on the plea that after obtaining a situation he would send for her.

"Eugene was just one month old when his father left home. We have never seen him since. A small fortune from my father at his death, together with the income from the sum my husband settled on us, has sufficed for our maintenance. It will support Juliette and her boy in comfort; but it is for her I fear. She has many of poor Henreich's traits, and her beauty attracts many admirers. My prayer is that the heavy afflictions which have separated us from those we love may wean her from earth as they have the mother; that she may find in the exercise of the duties of a Christian life the solace nothing else can give.

"One word more and I have done. Once a year we have heard from Arthur, whom I have always kept advised of our place of residence. I have reason to suppose he is in America, perhaps in New York. This was what led me to say that we might be compelled to leave the city. Juliette has lost all her love for him, and insists that she will never recognize the tie which binds them together. As long as I live, I shall go with her where she goes; but I know death may claim me at any time,—and then what will become of my child?"

"Was your husband's name Douglass, too?"

"I took my father's name when he cast me off."

[CHAPTER XX.]

LETTERS FROM THE PASTOR.

"HOW true it is," said Marion, as, after she had taken Mrs. Douglass to her home, she was seated in her own parlor,—"how true that the sins of the parents are visited on the children! God's threatenings are as faithful as his promises. I cannot be thankful enough that I have had a pious ancestry, and that their prayers may be answered in blessings on their descendants. How little that father realized that, in allowing his son and daughter the indulgence of every caprice, they were sowing seed which would spring up to their own sorrow and shame! How little even Mrs. Cheriton realizes that she is pursuing the same evil course with her boy, and that from being her idol he will become her tyrant! I promised Mrs. Douglass that I would be a friend to the youthful mother; indeed she urged that Mr. Angus had advised her to confide her story to me, and had been confident that I would not forsake her. I will try to keep my promise."

Mr. Angus sailed early in June, and, except a notice in the papers of the safe arrival of the steamship in Liverpool, no news from him had been received. Mrs. Asbury wrote Marion that her long-promised visit would be paid the last week in the month, and that she expected her niece to return with her to Grantbury. At the close was the following hurried postscript:—

"I have opened my letter to add that Mr. Asbury has just received a brief communication from our dear pastor. He is well, preached on Sunday in London, both morning and afternoon, sent affectionate regards to all friends including you and Ethel, of course."

Marion read the message with a heightened color. Her heart rebelled against being remembered in this general way; then, reading again, was pleased to see that this was only her aunt's rendering of his message. She fell into a revery concerning the absent one. "He told me I was the only confidant he ever had. In aunty's last letter she narrated exactly what he told her in regard to the triumphant death of a friend. She has no idea that I knew his sister, nor of the painful events of his early life. I will not betray his confidence; and yet it will be a trial to me to keep anything of interest to myself from my dear, kind aunty. I wonder whether he will write me, and when."

She was interrupted by James, who brought the morning paper.

"Nothing else?" she asked, in a tone of disappointment.

"Nothing at all."

Looking at her watch, she saw there would not be time to read the news before the carriage was due. She folded it in an abstract manner, walked to the rack to put it in, when she saw the end of a letter protruding from a newspaper inside. As this was not the place for letters, she took it out, and found to her surprise it was unsealed, and—"Yes, it is," she said aloud, "it is postmarked London."

Mr. Angus began by asking,—

Am I intruding too much on your kindness by sending you a few lines

at so early a date? If so, forgive me, and remember that though I am

in my native land, standing on the spot where my fathers stood, yet I

am a stranger. I feel lonely to-night, and would gladly transport

myself back to my adopted country. We had a prosperous voyage,—

prosperous so far as it could be to one who was being removed farther

and farther from home and home friends. How much would I give to have

my little Ethel in my arms, and hear her sweet voice whispering in

my ear, "I love you!"

You will turn from my page, I fear, disgusted with my home-sickness,

and I will tell you of other things.

I have been occupied with business in London, but start to-morrow

for Doncaster, and from that place shall proceed to Leyden. There is

a post-office in Leyden. If I should find there a letter directed to

me, it would make me very happy.

I write Mr. Asbury by this same steamer, and shall send my messages

direct to them.

May God bless you, my dear Miss Howard, and reward you for all your

kindness to me and mine, is the sincere prayer of your friend,

HAROLD ANGUS.

There was one person only to whom Marion spoke of the relief which had come to the Grantbury pastor, and this was to Mary Falkner. This young girl, in the midst of her own suffering, never forgot to pray that God would lead him into the light. It was Marion's precious privilege to change these prayers to praise for mercies already bestowed.

It was during a visit made to the Home, and when the conversation had reverted to friends in Grantbury, that Mary inquired who was preaching there. "Mother goes every Sunday to church," she went on, "and says she enjoys it. She told me word had come across the water from the pastor, that he was safe on land the other side."

Marion laughed at the curious phraseology of the widow, and then said, "Your prayers for him have been answered, Mary. He is no longer weighed down by sad memories. I will report to you what he told Aunt Asbury."

The cripple clasped her hands, while a fervent expression of joy stole over her face.

"God be praised!" she ejaculated. "He will be far more useful in his work now. He can 'rejoice with those who do rejoice, as well as weep with those who weep.'"

PART II.

[CHAPTER I.]

GRANTBURY AND THE FIRST CHURCH.

GRANTBURY is a manufacturing town. It has six churches, of the different denominations. The largest and most flourishing church was the one over which Mr. Angus was settled as pastor. A branch of this church had gone off some years before and had built a chapel near one of the factories, hoping to bring in many of the employés, who were neglectful of public worship. This had not been as successful as had been hoped; the clergyman was so poorly supported that he left, and of late the effort of the Christian workers had been concentrated on the Sunday school. The usual attendance here was about one hundred.

Two years before the commencement of our story, an unusual excitement prevailed in the town, caused by the proposition of a few speculators to build a new railroad direct to the principal cities east and west of them, thus connecting them with the great thoroughfares. The capitalists who owned most of the stock in the branch railroad which connected them three times in a day with the next town at first opposed the new project; but Mr. Asbury, with a wider and more far-reaching view of the results, advocated it both by public speeches and offers of money.

As he was a large land-owner, and the railroad would have to pass through one of his most valuable farms, it was argued by those wishing the new road, that he must be advocating it for the good of the public against his private interests. So, indeed, he was. The new road was chartered, and in time in working order. A compromise to purchase from the owners of the branch road twelve miles which came in their direct route satisfied all parties; so that, when, the new, tasteful depot with the long baggage-room replaced the forlorn little station with shed attached, there was a general burst of enthusiasm.

The two years following this made a marvelous change in the old, quiet village. Mr. Asbury had given a beautiful site for the new depot, on conditions which had been complied with. The grass land belonging to his largest farm had been laid out in squares, with a park in the centre, and sold for house lots. The buildings put up there according to the terms of sale, must not be less than a stipulated cost; and thus a pretty village was growing up in this part of the town.

Mr. Angus's church was half a mile from the station, and quite near Mr. Asbury's dwelling house. The stimulus in all branches of business had been so great since the new railroad had been built that the main street had been widened, and set out with shade trees at the border of the flagged sidewalks.

Nor was the prosperity confined to the vicinity of the depot. The increased demand for vegetables, milk, etc., from the new-comers made the land too valuable for the farmers to cultivate grass and corn for their own use. Large fields with southern exposures were planted with early and late vegetables and small fruits, which found a ready sale at their own new market.

This was the condition of the town when Mr. Angus became the pastor of the First Church. During the nine months following his ordination, the church building had become so crowded that a suggestion of enlarging by transepts had been made. It was an old-fashioned edifice, with unnecessarily roomy slips, white walls, high pulpit, and poor ventilation. Mr. Asbury was opposed to enlarging, but did not consider it time to give his reasons.

At a meeting of the trustees directly after Mr. Angus went abroad, it was proposed that the work of enlarging be entered upon immediately, and finished by the time of the pastor's return. Some money was subscribed; but when the paper was passed to Mr. Asbury, he refused to sign any thing. As a large subscription had been hoped for, this refusal threw a damper on the undertaking; but a committee was appointed to report in one week, and the meeting adjourned.

During this very week a fire broke out in carpenter's shop filled with combustible matter. The flames carried sparks and half-burned sticks to several houses in the vicinity, and among them to the building belonging to the First Church. The committee met, and all the male members with them, not to report on the cost of the proposed alterations, but to consult what was to be done in this sudden and terrible emergency.

The old sturdy farmers were near despair, but supposed they must do something to repair the temple of the Lord, and were thankful that the walls, being of brick, were still standing.

Others had a plan that a new town hall, just finished, should be hired, and public worship held there till such time as they were able to recover from the effects of the terrible calamity which had overtaken them.

Mr. Asbury and a few friends belonging to the wealthy portion of the church remained silent listeners to the views of the older brethren. At length, after an hour spent in lamentations over the calamity, and propositions which were considered impracticable, the moderator of the meeting remarked,—

"We have talked an hour to no purpose. Will some one make a proposition as to a place of worship for us next Sunday?"

After a momentary pause, Mr. Asbury quietly rose from his seat with an open paper in his hand. There was not the least trace of excitement in his manner, as he said, "I have here a letter, which I will read. It is from the trustees of the Methodist Episcopal Church in our town, and is addressed to me.

"MR. EDWARD ASBURY:

"Dear Sir,

"At a meeting of our board of trustees the day following

the burning of your church edifice, a resolve was unanimously voted

that we deeply sympathize in your loss of your house of worship, and

that we tender to you the free use of our church building till such

time as you may repair your edifice or otherwise provide for

yourselves.

"With fraternal love and good-will,

"Very respectfully

"MOSES HUNT.

"By order of trustees of Methodist Episcopal Church, Grantbury."

A motion to accept this friendly offer was at once passed, and then Mr. Asbury rose again and said,—

"I have a proposition to make; but, first, I ask you to listen to a few facts. I have made a careful investigation into the state of our church building, the walls of which are still standing. It is fifty-eight years old; the beams are rotten. It ought to be a source of gratitude that we have escaped a greater calamity by reason of the falling in of the walls, from the cellar being unventilated. It cannot be repaired. This is the opinion of the best experts I have been able to obtain. I propose, then, that we sell it as it stands, to some gentlemen who offer five thousand dollars for the site. They intend, if they obtain it, to put up a large hotel."

"It's a good offer."

"Take it."

"I object."

"We must have the land to build again."

"We need a hotel for summer residents."

"We can worship in the town hall."

"Or disband altogether," grumbled a man who never contributed a penny.

Altogether the clamor following this proposition prevented any further remarks from Mr. Asbury, if he had wished to make any, and he sat down with a smile on his face.

Several groups were at once formed, and loud, excited voices were heard discussing this unexpected proposal; some were for accepting, others positively refused to quit the old spot dedicated by their fathers to the worship of God. At length the moderator, with a loud rap on the table, called the meeting to order, and inquired whether any gentleman had anything further to say before the proposal was put to vote.

Mr. Asbury rose again, this time with a little flush on his face, as he remarked, "I am not in the habit, as you, my friends, are aware, of speaking of myself; but I would like to say that I have the welfare of this parish greatly at heart. We are blessed with a good pastor,—a live, working man. I believe he will be more useful in the future than he has been in the past; that he is a growing man. I believe that he will return to us with greatly improved health and spirits, and enter on his work again with new hope and confidence of success. I want to show him that we appreciate him by building him a new church large enough to accommodate all the new families who wish to join us. When a proposition was made at our last meeting to enlarge our old building, I did not subscribe, because I knew the work would cost more in the end than to begin a new one. I have had some sad experience, as many of you know" (smiling), "as to the cost of repairing old buildings. Now that the fire has rendered that undertaking impracticable, I propose to your board of trustees to accept a lot of land on the rising ground, half-way between this and the new depot, which I freely tender to them."

Shouts of "Yes," "We will," etc., were checked by a wave of Mr. Asbury's hand, as he added,—

"Wait a little: I have not done yet; there are conditions. I wish to say that a subscription paper has already been started for a new edifice costing not less than twenty thousand dollars, and the sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred dollars, including five thousand for our old church building, already subscribed, on condition that the whole amount be raised, and no mortgage ever be allowed upon it."

Profound silence followed this speech, which was like a bombshell thrown into an unprotected house; then a few whispers were heard,—

"Five thousand and more to raise. Where will it come from?"

"'T would have cost ten to repair, and 't would have been an old building after all."

At last, Mr. Rand, an aged, white-haired farmer, stood up.

"I'm an old man," he said, "and not long for this world; but I hope to live to see the new church built on that 'ere spot yonder, which, in my opinion, is the pootiest place for a church in the hull town,—yes, and to worship God in it, too. I'm not rich, and I'm not poor. I've got nigh upon two thousand dollars in the savings bank, laid up for a wet day. My children are all married and settled on farms of their own; so I sha'n't do any of 'em wrong if I add my name to Mr. Asbury's paper," holding out his hand for it. "There," he said, deliberately taking off the glasses he had put on to write,—"there's fifteen thousand three hundred subscribed on the above-named conditions. If necessary, I'll add another five hundred; and I'm sure my old woman will say so, too."

"After this noble example," rejoined the moderator, more moved by the old man's words than he liked to show, "I'll put down my name for the same sum as he did."

Smaller sums were at once added, so that when the meeting adjourned, after the appointment of a building committee, only one thousand more was necessary to make up the entire amount. This was to be obtained by personal solicitation from the families of those not represented at the meeting, and a committee of ladies was requested to take this work in hand.

[CHAPTER II.]

VISIT TO INGLESIDE.

THE architect employed by the building committee had submitted a plan for the new church,—Gothic, high spire, and stained-glass windows. It was accepted, the foundation laid, the walls, which were to be of native stone, raised to the height of seven feet, when a letter was received from Mr. Angus, enclosing a slip cut from a London newspaper.

"A very innocent-looking paragraph," exclaimed Mr. Asbury to his wife. "But what a stir it will make in the parish!"

It was the announcement of an urgent call given to the Rev. Harold Angus, of New York City, United States of America, to settle over the —Church, —Street, London, at a salary of one thousand pounds.

In addition to the printed paragraph, Mr. Angus had written,—

DEAR FRIENDS,—

Mail going out. Only time to say that the call alluded to, and the

enclosed slip, in which it was announced, came to hand by

the same mail, and was wholly unexpected. Fearing you might see it

copied into a New York paper, I forward it, and will write more at

length by next steamer.

H. ANGUS.

Before the close of the day in which the letter was received, few belonging to the First Church were ignorant of its contents. Mr. Asbury was right. The news created a great excitement, not only in their own parish, but throughout the town. A meeting of the voters in the First Church was called to express their opinions in regard to the subject of the paragraph.

After the opening exercises, Mr. Asbury stated the object of the meeting. Mr. Rand then started to his feet, and with a quick glance around the room, said, in a loud voice,—

"I'm as deaf as a post, from a cold I got down on my medder, and I can't hear a word you say; but my wife, she's heerd that some folks 't other side of the water are trying to get our pastor away from us, and she told me to come here and vote it right down. It's a shame, anyway, for Christians to be a-pulling and a-tearing of one another. We've got the first right to Mr. Angus, and I vote that we hold on to him, and let them get a minister nearer home. That's all I've got to say. If it's more salary than we pay him, I guess I can help make up the difference between what they'll give and what we do."

A hearty laugh followed this speech, and, as Mr. Rand had expressed in brief the wishes of all present, the meeting soon adjourned, after a unanimous vote "to hold on to their pastor," and make the question of salary satisfactory to him.

One of his neighbors having screamed this result into Mr. Rand's ear, he mounted his farm-wagon with a significant nod of his head.

"All right!" he shouted, at the top of his voice. "I darsn't go home till I knew the parish would hold on to him. My old woman would—you know." His voice was lost in the distance.

Perhaps if the good farmer had known the contents of a letter which at this very hour was being carried by wind and steam across the Atlantic he would have been still more jubilant as he sat eating his supper of cold corned beef and greens, and telling his wife, between the mouthfuls, the news he had learned at the meeting.

Mrs. Asbury made her visit to Marion at the time she had promised, taking Ethel with her. Of course all the Grantbury news was rehearsed, in the course of which the pastor's name was frequently mentioned. Ethel, meanwhile, had succeeded in coaxing Gypsy, a pet spaniel belonging to Mrs. Mitchell, to allow herself to be dressed in one of her dolly's cloaks.

"Now," she said, "we are going to sail on a voyage to Europe, to see Mr. Angus. You must sit very still, doggy, because it's Sunday. I shall teach you a hymn by and by,"—

"'I must not play on Sunday.'"

"When we get to Europe, I shall let you go with me to Ingleside, you know. There is a pretty garden at Ingleside, with an arbor all covered with grape vines. If you are good till we get there,—sit still, Gypsy,—oh, how naughty you are to pull off your nice cloak!"

By this time Gypsy thought she ought to be released, and jumped from the sofa, where Ethel had placed her, at which the little girl burst into a merry laugh.

"What is she talking about?" asked Marion, in a low tone.

"Where is Ingleside, Ethel?" inquired her mother.

"Why, don't you know? It is Mr. Angus's home, where his grandfather used to live. When he was a little boy, his mamma let him go there sometimes; and he had hens and little goats to play with. We talk about it when we are taking a walk, you know."

"What a pretty name Ingleside is," remarked Marion, without raising her eyes from her work. She was making a fine dress for Frances, Ethel's favorite doll, and of course the excitement of this was what made her cheeks look so rosy.

During Ethel's visits Marion invited Geenie Cheriton to take a drive with them and pass the rest of the day with the little girl. They all gave a sigh of relief, however, when James started with him for his home, and Mrs. Asbury said,—

"I wonder how Mrs. Douglass can endure that child's noise. It is such a pity that he should be ruined by indulgence."

"I wouldn't be that boy's nurse for a fortune," exclaimed Hepsey, who was putting up the toys Geenie had pulled about. "They'll have a time with him if he lives."

Mr. Lambert called during Mrs. Asbury's visit, and was introduced to the guests. He seemed greatly attracted by Ethel, who fixed her large violet eyes seriously upon him. He succeeded at last in coaxing her to his side, when they had quite an animated conversation. Before they parted he gave her a beautiful little charm, whist he unhooked from his watch-chain.

This was the first time Marion had seen him since her discovery that Mr. Regy, of whom she had heard so much, was only the double of her old friend. She longed to ask him about it, but would not before strangers. She contented herself with inquiries about Neddy Carter, who was soon to be admitted to the mission school.

Only two days after Mrs. Asbury's return to Grantbury, Marion received a thick letter with a foreign postmark,—Leyden, Yorkshire. She retired quickly to her own chamber, and sat down with blooming cheeks to its perusal.

I have no intention of copying the letter, but will say that, after giving her an account of his visit to his home,—a visit which almost overwhelmed him with its painful memories,—and visiting the graves of father, mother, and brother as they lay side by side under the old yew-trees, he took the cars for Ingleside, his father's ancestral home in Leyden. He told her he found only an old servant, a retainer of the family, who received him as one from the dead. His grandfather had four children born here,—one son and three daughters. When he died, in Harold's twelfth year, his property was divided equally between them, except Ingleside, which was always to be kept in the family, and after the death of his daughters to revert to his oldest grandson.

Estelle Angus, for whom Stella was named, made a will and left her namesake her heir. Mary and Sarah died without making a will, and the property came to Harold, as the nearest of kin. It was not a great fortune that he found awaiting him, Mr. Angus told Marion, but, with the money left in the bank by his father, it was sufficient to enable him to carry out some cherished plans.

One of these plans was to build a pretty home on a certain knoll in Grantbury (the very one Mr. Asbury had given to the church), to be called Ingleside; but there was one word from her which must come before the new Ingleside could be built.

Then followed certain statements in regard to a diagnosis recently made of his heart, which conveyed to the young lady a pretty accurate idea of what the word must be, in order that the English cottage be erected.

By this time Marion, by certain unwelcome symptoms, which had forced themselves on her notice was aware of the strength of her own attachment for her pastor, and, being naturally frank and outspoken, she wrote the word (a very short one), which, could he have known it, would have set good Farmer Rand's mind at rest in regard "to holding on" to his pastor.

In a note added to his letter, immediately following the receipt of the call from the London church, Mr. Angus added:—

"I have just forwarded to Mr. Asbury an invitation to settle in our

great metropolis. Would you prefer to live in England? Of course I

could not give the parish an idea of what my answer will be till

I hear from you. Am I presumptuous? You first taught me to be

hopeful. Am I too daring to hope now?"

Early one morning soon after this, Mrs. Douglass sent Marion a note, requesting her to call at her earliest convenience.

On entering the house where Mrs. Douglass had rooms, Marion met in the hall a dashing young man, dressed in the height of the fashion, with a lighted cigar in his hand. She would have passed him without notice, but for a bold stare, which sent the indignant blood to her cheeks.

The knock at Mrs. Douglass's door was for a minute unanswered; then Mrs. Cheriton opened it, her eyes still flashing defiance, her head thrown back, but looking more brilliantly beautiful than the visitor had ever seen her.

Mrs. Douglass had evidently been under some strong excitement: her eyes were red with crying, and her hands trembled.

Eugene came forward with a rush to meet the lady. He was dressed for a walk and insisted that Marion should accompany him.

"I am on my way to my music scholars," explained the visitor, taking the little fellow in her arms. "Some time you shall go with me."

"I'm going to walk with you," said his mother haughtily.

"How can I aid you, dear friend?" asked Marion, when the outer door had shut upon the others.

"Did you meet a gentleman as you came in?"

"I did. I can guess that he is Mr. Cheriton."

"Oh, no! no! Would that he were here. Juliette is so young: she does not consider; she is—I am pained to say so—she is imprudent. Arthur has no right to leave her unprotected. She wrung her hands in great distress, her eyes full of tears.

"Who is he?"

"His name is Alford. Juliette accompanied one of our fellow-boarders to the theatre, and was introduced to him there. He has been here every day since. She has just promised, in my presence, and contrary to my wishes, to go to the theatre with him to-night. I am powerless to prevent it. What must I, what can I do?"

"Alford," repeated Marion. "Do you know his Christian name?"

"There is his card,—C. W. Alford, New York City."

"A very indefinite address. Will you let me take it? I will make inquiries concerning his character. I am sorry to say I was not favorably impressed with his appearance."

"But Juliette has a husband. Whatever his moral character may be, she must not receive attentions from him. If the poor child has a father living—" A burst of tears interrupted her.

"She has a heavenly Father," urged Marion, deeply moved. "He will never lose sight of her for a moment. His eye sees her when no earthly eye can follow her, and His arm can protect her from harm. Dear Mrs. Douglass, don't weep so. Let us ask His guidance."

Seldom had the young Christian poured forth such earnest petitions for help as now. Realizing, as she did, the impulsive passion of the young wife, the excuses she would make to her conscience,—that her husband had forsaken her,—the impossibility of earthly effort to restrain her, Marion called upon God to appear for them in their trouble, to touch the heart of the young mother, to put barriers in her path to ruin, to fill her soul with purer joys.

Feeling as she did at that moment, perhaps as never before, how sheltered and protected her own life had been, how brightly the future was opening before her own path, her tears gushed forth afresh at the thought of the dangers threatening this beautiful, unprotected child-wife. She prayed too that the absent husband might be brought to a sense of his wrong-doing in forsaking her whom he had sworn to cherish, and return to them with new purposes and new resolves. Nor did she forget the absent father, so long unknown to those connected with him by the closest ties. She prayed that if he were still an inhabitant of earth, God, who knew all things, would lead him back to them, to be their comfort and joy.

"O Miss Howard!" cried the afflicted mother, clasping her hands, "what a blessing that we can go to our heavenly Father and tell him all our sorrows! I have an assurance that He will answer; that He will in some way protect my dear, deluded child. It may be by my death. I would willingly give up my life, could I be assured of her safety. It may be that He will touch Arthur's heart, and bring him home to his family. I would submit to any privation, any inconvenience, to have him, her lawful protector, with her."

"Or," added Marion, "He may restore to you the husband you have so long mourned. A father would be a great blessing to Juliette now."

"A Christian father," murmured the lady, raising her eyes to heaven. "Every day my prayer for him is, Lord, if he is living, lead him to Thyself."

After a short silence, the lady added, "I thank God I can say with truth that, since the hour my husband left me, believing I was lost to virtue, I have always maintained the strictest reserve toward all of the opposite sex. I was young, and often called handsome. I believe my husband had been proud of my beauty. I could play the piano and guitar as an accompaniment to my voice; but I only played for my parents and most intimate friends. I have always tried to impress upon Juliette, both by example and precept, that a wife so unfortunately situated must be doubly guarded in her conduct. Character is a plant which must be kept in good soil, free from blights and mildew. It must be watched and tended with care. It is too sacred to be trifled with."

Mrs. Douglass wept as she talked, and Marion, desirous of soothing her, said,—

"Mrs. Cheriton's love for Eugene is a great preservative."

"Yes, that is true," sighing. "Poor boy! He needs a father's restraining hand."

"We have asked our heavenly Father to preserve them both from all evil, and I believe He will," rejoined the visitor, hopefully.

God did answer the prayers so earnestly offered, but in a way entirely unlooked for.

[CHAPTER III.]

WITHOUT CHRIST.

MRS. CHERITON did not return from her walk for an hour after Marion left. She came in looking so brilliantly beautiful that it made her mother's heart ache. Her eyes always shone like stars, and the rich color crimsoned her cheeks when she was excited either by joy or anger. Eugene, too, seemed overflowing with spirits. His hands were full of toys and sweetmeats, given him, he said, by the nice gentleman. When he threw off his cap, his grandmother noticed that his hair was wet with perspiration, and told her daughter he ought not to sit in the draught; but she retorted with some indifferent reply. Finding she could not induce the child to move, nor to give up the colored candies he was eagerly devouring, with a sigh the grandmother left the room.

During the rest of the day, the young mother went about with a smile on her lips, quite absorbed in thoughts of a pleasant nature. Toward night her boy coughed two or three times; but she, usually so ready to take alarm, laughed at her mother's suggestion that he must have taken cold.

At an early hour Mr. Alford called to accompany her to the theatre, and poured out such a torrent of flattery at her beauty as quite turned her head.

Scarcely bidding her mother good by, she went gayly down the stairs, little imagining what her return would be.

The clock was just striking twelve when, in turning the corner of the street, the house she called home came into view. At this hour it was usually dark. Now the hall and her mother's room were brilliantly lighted. Just at this moment a carriage dashed up to the door.

"What does it mean?" she cried, in a startled voice, trying to pull her hand from her companion's arm.

"When can I see you again?"

The insinuating tone was lost on her, for with a sudden fear she had released herself and flown away. Bounding up the stairs, she stopped one instant to gaze into the lighted room. On her mother's lap lay Geenie, struggling for breath. Before them stood the doctor, with a spoonful of medicine in his hand,—just brought by his servant,—which he was vainly trying to force down the child's throat. One of the servants was bringing through another door a foot-tub filled with boiling water, while another was pulling the blanket from the bed.

All this the mother took in at one glance, then sprang forward with a loud shriek and threw herself on her knees before her boy.

"Mamma, help Geenie! Make the bad man go away! Geenie can't breathe!"

"It's the croup," gasped her mother, in reply to her agonized gaze into the child's face, darkened and convulsed with this struggle for breath.

"It is a case of life and death," added the physician, in a solemn voice. "If you love your brother, persuade him to take this medicine."

"My brother! He's my boy, my own, my precious child!"

Her voice rose to a shriek, as she saw that his features became more convulsed. She cried, she wrung her hands, calling continually, "Eugene, my pet, my darling! I won't give you up! You sha'n't die!"

"He will die, and very soon, if you do not control yourself. You must be calm."

Addressing one of the servants, who had just returned with the prescription, he ordered Eugene's head to be held, while he forced down the medicine. Then turning to Mrs. Douglass, he said, "Madam, will you try to bring your daughter to reason? Every moment of delay makes the boy's situation more dangerous. With the aid of the servants, I wish to use the steam."

He really pitied the child-mother, as he saw her fixed gaze in her son's convulsed face; but he knew that unless vigorous measures were used, a short time would end the struggle. Taking Eugene in his own arms, he directed the girl to wrap the boy in the large blanket and hold him over the boiling water. The other girl was to furnish a fresh supply.

Mrs. Douglass tried to persuade her daughter to leave the room; but she would not. She sank into a chair and watched every movement which took place. She seemed suddenly to be turned into an automaton, only that those wondrous eyes flashed so continuously they seemed to light up the room.

In half an hour the medicine began to take effect, the terrible sound, never to be forgotten, grew less harsh. The doctor, with his coat off, worked like a hero. It was evident that the steam produced relief in breathing. More and more heavily drooped the child's head, his eyelids closed, the terrible heaving of his breast was more natural. The doctor put his hand under the blanket, found the pulse, and nodded approval. Without awakening the boy, he put a small powder on his tongue and sat down to watch.

Another hour passed. Mrs. Douglass had quietly retired to the next room. Eugene slept still. He had been removed to the sofa. The doctor still waited. The struggle for life had been so great, he did not like to leave his patient till assured that he would have no return of the frightful convulsions. He was a father too, and aside from his desire as a physician to control the disease, he was interested in the unusual circumstances of the patient. At home, he had a daughter growing up, now in her seventeenth year, who looked more fit to be a mother than this passionate girl, who at one moment gave free vent to her frenzied agony, and the next controlled herself so wonderfully that she had sat for hours scarcely daring to breathe.

He could not comprehend, skilled as he was in controlling disease, the torture which that poor girl was undergoing from an accusing conscience. She saw herself at last as in a mirror,—wilful, proud of her outward charms, undutiful to her long-suffering, self-sacrificing mother,—her best friend,—idolizing her boy, but blind to his faults, and not restraining her own temper that she might teach him self-control. Then her thoughts reverted to her absent husband, and conscience, resolved to be heard at last, set before her a catalogue of her offences toward him,—wilful neglect of his wishes, too evident want of affection, etc., which had at last weaned him from her and sent him far away. "Where is he now?" It seemed to her that this question was screamed in her ears. "You drove him wild with your taunts and neglect."

At length she remembered the events of the previous night. How long ago that seemed! The whispers of flattery that had sounded so sweetly in her ears, how she loathed them now! How she loathed herself, that they could have pleased her! She seemed to herself to have been suddenly snatched away from the very brink of a precipice, and to be frantically seizing some sure support which would prevent her from falling back into the dreadful abyss. Oh, how dark it looked! And yet how eagerly only last night she had rushed toward it!

"Oh, my boy! my boy! If you die your mother is justly punished."

Mrs. Cheriton had not lived nineteen years with her mother without understanding that this dearest friend was of late governed by different principles from those which controlled her in earlier life. She acknowledged in this dark hour that when all other help had failed, the poor widow, bearing alone her heavy burden of grief and self-reproach, had found comfort and solace in the truths contained in the sacred book hitherto so little prized. God was no longer to her an angry judge, but a tender, loving father, whose heart yearned over her. Jesus Christ was her sympathizing Saviour, who had voluntarily come to earth, suffered poverty, temptation, and ignominy, that he might know how to succor his children in like sorrow. Many, many times Mrs. Douglass had endeavored to impress these blessed teachings on her daughter; but they only seemed to her like idle tales. Of late, since her acquaintance with Marion Howard, she had been urged to trust in the kind care of One whose eye of love was always watching her; but these faithful words, instead of drawing her heart toward the friend who uttered them, had led her to treat Marion with cold contempt.

As is frequently the case with persons in the near prospect of death, the events of the past life flash like lightning through the mind, so in Juliette's agony, circumstances connected with her childhood, youth, and brief married life rushed to her memory with a force and vividness which well nigh overwhelmed her. As she afterward described it, "I seemed to be living my life over again: I was wooed and won. I tasted the purest joy of all when my child was placed in my arms. I sinned and was punished. I went on sinning and repenting. I went headlong into the arms of a destroyer, when a hand was stretched out and saved me. I can never make myself believe that all this occurred in only five hours."

At last the physician, who had for some time been dozing in his chair, rose quietly, and, coming toward the rigid figure, said, encouragingly,—

"He is sleeping quietly now. Be careful that he does not get a chill. I will be in again at nine."

She gazed in his face, scarcely understanding his words, looking so bewildered that he mechanically placed his fingers on her pulse. Her hand was like ice.

"He, your child, is better. I am quite hopeful now. You have controlled yourself admirably."

"Do you mean that he will not die? That God will not punish me by taking him away?"

"Yes, my poor child. I mean that I hope God in mercy intends to spare him to you. He is given to you afresh, to train up to a good and useful life."

What a change came over that young face, on which despair had been stamped! The hard eyes softened, the lips quivered, the crimson tide came rushing back, painting cheeks and brow; the whole countenance grew luminous, as with quickened breath the child-mother clasped her hands, exclaiming,—

"Oh, how I will love Him! He is so good, and I have been so bad."

Forgetful of the physician's presence, or of anything, except that the God, whom she had not loved, had dealt with her in such infinite mercy, she fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

"Lord, help me! Save me!" she cried. "I have tried living without Thy help. I was all but lost. Do help, dear Lord."

These words, so different from what he expected under the circumstances, seemed too sacred for a stranger's ears, and the kind physician silently took his leave, wiping his eyes as he went down the stairs, then walked quickly to his home in the gray dawn of a new day.

[CHAPTER IV.]

WITH CHRIST.

MRS. CHERITON'S trials had only begun. Eugene's croup was followed by congestion of the lungs, the attack assuming from the first alarming symptoms. He would not bear his mother out of his sight for a moment. Indeed the result of her injudicious fondness showed itself during these sad weeks in a manner which would have been a warning to any one. Though she deprived herself of sleep, and almost of food, in order to be always at hand to minister to his wants, he showed no gratitude. He exacted everything as a right, and, if there was the slightest opposition to his wishes, he screamed with passion, often exclaiming, "I hate you. Go away, bad mamma." He would not take medicine from her, shrieking, "You tell lies. You told me it was good and it wasn't. I'll let Miss Howard give it to me: she never tells lies."

From Marion, too, he would submit to any treatment, even to the blisters upon his chest. "It will hurt you, Geenie," she said, "but if you don't have it on for a few minutes that dreadful pain will come back. Be a good boy, and I will tell you a nice story about Gypsy."

"Will you bring Gypsy to see me?"

"Yes, I will."

In addition to Eugene's sickness, the doctor's services were in daily requisition for Mrs. Douglass, who had never risen from her bed since the night of her grandson's seizure. The agony of mind she had suffered on account of her daughter, followed so speedily by Eugene's dangerous illness, proved too much for a frame enfeebled by disease. Violent pain in the head was succeeded by nervous chills, until Dr. Danforth became alarmed for her life.

Under these circumstances Marion proved her real friendship by spending as much time as possible with the patient sufferer, and thus was at hand when poor Juliette, driven to her wits' end by the insubordination of her darling, was unable to control him.

As the young mother had not spoken of the events of that never-to-be-forgotten night, neither Mrs. Douglass nor Marion could account for the entire change in her manners and appearance. They supposed her fright at the sudden illness of her boy had for the time driven all other thoughts from her mind. Indeed, Mrs. Douglass, with many tears, thanked God that in his wonder-working providence he had taken any means to prevent a career of gayety which must have ended in her ruin. It would have been an immense relief to her could she have known that a card with the name "C. W. Alford" had been sent to her daughter the day following Eugene's attack, that the question written with pencil underneath his name, "When can I see you?" had been hastily answered with one word, "Never."

Yes, her Father in heaven, more ready to grant our requests than we are to ask them, had indeed answered the Christian mother's prayers, though as yet she knew it not.

Through all these anxious, weary days and nights, in the midst of her duties,—and they were onerous,—Mrs. Cheriton was supported by the thought, "God will help me: he has promised to help those who ask him."

In after-days she used to say, "I seemed to be living in a dream. Whenever the thought of Mr. Alford came into my mind, or the recollection of his vague suggestions recurred to me, I shivered, while my cheeks burned like fire. Then the conduct of Geenie, ungovernable and unloving, continually reminded me of another precipice from which I had been drawn back.

"On the other hand, I wondered at myself, at the sweet peace which at times filled my soul. How good God has been to me! How kind, how loving, how tender! Sometimes when Geenie slept I found time to read a few verses in the Bible. I found verses written expressly for me: 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.' 'For he knoweth our frame, he remembereth that we are dust.' I could scarcely believe that these precious words were in God's own book. I put in a mark and read them again and again."

But it was impossible for such a radical change to take place in Mrs. Cheriton without the fact becoming visible to those about her. Even before her mother noticed anything, the servants talked about it.

"She must believe he is going to die," one girl said to another, "else she wouldn't speak so kindly, and thank me as she does."

The first thing indicating a change noticed by her mother was one morning, when the chamber-girl, having put everything in order, had left the room, Juliette came from the adjoining chamber with a smile on her face. Approaching the bed, she kissed her mother, saying, softly,—

"Geenie is asleep. If you like, I'll read to you," laying her hand on the Bible as she spoke.

"Thank you, dear. That would indeed be a pleasure."

"Where shall I read? But here is your mark in St. John's Gospel."

In a low, and, to her mother, inexpressibly sweet voice, she read the last words of Christ to his disciples, frequently pausing as she read, as though applying the precious words to her own case.

Mrs. Douglass lay with her eyes fixed on the pale countenance of the reader, wondering what made her so beautiful. The rich bloom had gone, the dark eyes no longer flashed; but never had there been such a serene smile wreathing the lips. It seemed to indicate an inward peace.

At last, Juliette, raising her eyes from the book met her mother's gaze fixed intently on her.

"Can I do anything more for you, dear?" she said, rising and leaning over the bed.

"O Juliette! If you could, if you would, pray: we need help so much."

There was a momentary struggle in the breast of the young convert, and then, throwing herself on her knees by the bed, she hid her face in her hands and poured out from a thankful heart prayer for Christ's presence, such as he had promised his disciples, and praise for the blessed hope of acceptance and pardon. With the simplicity of a child who has scarcely learned the language of prayer, but whose soul is fully alive to the value of the blessings to be asked for, she plead for wisdom equal to every emergency, grace for every trial her Father in his love might see fit to send. She prayed for her dear mother, so weak and suffering, for her boy, not yet out of danger, that He who loved them better than any earthly love would do for them according to his will. "But, oh, dear Jesus, who loves little children," she cried, clasping her hands, "if he must die, and it is Thy blessed will, prepare my boy, my poor, neglected child, for heaven. Let him not suffer eternally for his mother's sinful neglect of Thy commands."

Then her sobs became so violent that she was obliged to rise hastily and leave the room.

Mrs. Douglass closed her eyes, while she murmured the inspired words, "Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation."

"I asked God, and He has heard my prayers. She has learned to pray. That was not her first prayer. O my Saviour, help me to thank Thee as I ought."

When Dr. Danforth made his next visit, he found Mrs. Douglass bolstered up in bed, Hepsey, who had for a day or two supplied Marion's place, arranging her still abundant hair. They were engaged in animated conversation when he entered. He had become deeply interested in the strangers, having never forgotten the scenes of the night of his introduction to them. To no one had he ever mentioned the young mother's prayer, the burden of which was help for herself from some great danger, not for relief and returning health to her child.

"You are better," he said, cheerfully, after having counted her pulse.

"Yes, Doctor, I have had a restorative."

"Wine? I wish you had taken it sooner."

"No, Doctor. I have heard my daughter pray." The mother's face beamed with joy.

"What is so great a beautifier as happiness?" was the doctor's thought. "She looks ten years younger." He spoke seriously, but with the greatest tenderness, saying,—

"I have heard her pray, and I think her prayers have been answered. She has borne the trials of these sad weeks with a sweet submission and patience I have seldom seen surpassed."

"God has given her grace according to her day."

"Yes. He has indeed fulfilled His promise to the widow and orphan."

"My daughter is not a widow, Doctor," murmured the patient, her cheeks flushing. "You have been such a kind friend, I may confide so much of our story to you. Juliette was married at the early age of fourteen, and her child was born within the year. Geenie was only a few weeks old when his father left home for England, ostensibly to obtain a situation where he might support his family in the luxuries to which they had been accustomed. We hear from him occasionally, but have never seen him since."

"Unnatural monster!" cried the doctor, indignantly. He thought of his own little girl, and wondered how she would endure such a living trial,—she to whom the loss of a pet dog had been the greatest grief she had known.

It was a minute or two before he could rally sufficiently to remark, "Eugene is better too. I am sorry to say my patient will soon be dismissing me."

"We have so few friends in America, we cannot give up your visits without regret, Doctor. But it is selfish for us to keep you longer than is necessary, when so many need you."

"Is a physician to have no friends, then?" queried the doctor, assuming a gruff voice. "You will find it hard, madam, to get rid of me." Then, with an emphatic shrug of his shoulders, he went away, and drove nearly a mile out of his course, while he was wondering what kind of a man Mr. Cheriton could be who would forsake a wife like Juliette.

In another respect the young mother showed that she had taken God's word as the rule of her life. This was in the management of her child. Formerly, when herself provoked at his rudeness or impatient at his exactions, she had dealt him a sudden blow, which, however, always seemed to rouse his combativeness to such a degree that it required much skill to soothe him. She usually had to buy him off from the exhibition of temper by confectionery or some new toys. Now, feeling her own weakness, she daily sought strength from God. She had noticed, too, how easily Mr. Angus and Marion had made him obey, not by blows or threats, but by a firm and gentle kindness, which won his confidence. It was her aim to imitate this method.

As soon as he was able to sit up, Eugene felt rather than understood that his mother would no longer submit to be struck in the face or called "bad mamma" when his wishes were crossed. She talked to him, explained that he must obey, that Jesus Christ loved good children, and that she would teach him to pray, and ask this best Friend to help him be good.

There is a sacredness in religious teachings which always arrests the attention of a child. No stories are so much delighted in as the stories of Joseph and Samuel and Daniel, and particularly the story of our dear Saviour. Over and over again these stories may be repeated; yet the little one never tires, but will ask new questions concerning the wonderful characters.

Juliette had thus a double incentive to read her Bible. She wished to find in the sacred pages strength for daily duties; and she also read for the instruction of her boy.

Marion came in one day and found Geenie dressed in a wrapper, sitting in his mother's lap. In her hand she held the Good Book, and they were talking eagerly of the story she had read. Marion wrote afterwards, in her letter to Mr. Angus, that she seldom had seen a prettier picture,—the beauty of both so softened by the subjects on which they were talking.

Marion bent over and pressed her lips to the fair forehead of the young mother, and Eugene made them laugh by imitating her example.

"She's nicer than she was," he exclaimed, patting her cheek. "She doesn't tell lies any more. She tells me when the medicine is going to taste badly,—but I take it all the same."

After talking for a few minutes with Mrs. Douglass, Marion hurried away, saying to herself,—

"What a glorious change! What a purifier and refiner Christianity is! How Mr. Angus will rejoice that Juliette has accepted her Saviour!"

Before I close this chapter I must tell the reader that Marion showed Mr. Alford's card to Mr. Lambert the very day Mrs. Douglass had given it to her, only asking whether he knew the man. He did not, but soon found a man of his description was a frequenter of gambling-saloons and other disreputable places of resort, that the name Alford was one of several aliases, and that he was a man wholly unfit to be trusted.

To neither Mrs. Douglass nor her daughter did she repeat this information, the change in Juliette rendering it unnecessary.

[CHAPTER V.]

HOME IN THE STABLE LOFT.

"THIS is only a stable, Miss Marion."

"The place must be here, Hepsey: the number three hundred and sixty is plainly marked."

The young lady reverted to her paper again.

"'Esther Cole, three hundred sixty.' Three hundred fifty-eight, the last house is marked. I must inquire."

One of the hostlers came forward to the door of the stable.

"Do you want a carriage, lady?"

"I am looking for a number which ought to be here."

"Is it a tenement house you're after, ma'am?"

"Yes, and a family by the name of Cole."

"It's aloft their house is. Walk right through ma'am, to the ladder beyont."

"Thank you," replied Marion, giving him a smile which quite won him. "How very clear your floor is! I was never in a stable before. Look, Hepsey! See how nicely the carriages are covered; and really there is quite a pretty parlor,—and such a row of whips hanging up."

"That room is for ladies and gentlemen to wait while their horses are harnessed, ma'am." The hostler was doing the honors in his best style. They had now reached the ladder, as he called it by which they were to ascend to the room "aloft," and he said, "It's a poor place, ma'am, for a lady the likes of yees."

"It's a heathenish place," retorted Hepsey "Not fit for Christians to live in. Are you sure, young man, that the steps are safe?"

He laughed merrily, exhibiting a row of even white teeth.

"If it's afraid ye are, ma'am," he explained, looking at Marion, "sure I'll bring 'em all down to yees,—every mother's son of 'em."

"Oh, no, indeed! We will go up. Many thanks for your courtesy."

Her face was all dimpled with smiles as she prepared to mount the steps, while the hostler walked away, saying to himself,—

"A rale lady that is. The man that owns her must be a happy one."

At the top of the steps a door opened into a large room rudely partitioned off from the hayloft and smelling strongly of the fumes from the stable below. Seven people called this room their home,—father, mother, grandmother, and four children of different ages under eight years. Unlike many who live in more spacious apartments, their hearts were larger than their home, and they had recently welcomed a poor waif thrown upon the cold charities of the world.

Esther Sims was an orphan who had been connected with the mission Sunday and sewing schools in which Miss Howard was interested. This lady had never considered her very intelligent, but she had a pretty face, with childish features, and an appealing glance in her deep, gray eyes which made her many friends. Marion had lost sight of her for more than a year, and only the day before her visit to the stable learned her sad story.

Not being very happy in the family where one of the mission-school teachers had placed her, she was easily persuaded to leave it for employment in a cigar factory. There she formed the acquaintance of a young fellow by the name of Cole, and soon after was married to him. If she had taken to heart the instructions of her faithful teacher, she would have distrusted the principles of a man whose first act in connection with her was deceit.

As they were both infants in the eye of the law, Esther being but sixteen, and her husband to be but eighteen, the clergyman refused to perform the ceremony unless one of the parents, was present and wished it. Leaving her sitting on the steps to the house, he hurried off, and soon returned with a woman who said she was his mother, and who declared her willingness for her bye to be married.

They were married, and young Cole took his wife home to a house where he had lodgings, where they had many a laugh about the ease with which he had found a mother in his emergency, he having given the woman twenty-five cents to personate such an individual.

Esther's character was so yielding that she got along for a few months without much trouble. She never knew what her husband's business was, and often wondered why it kept him so long into the night. At last he began to abuse her, and grew so irritable that she begged to be taken back to her old place in the cigar factory, where, at least, she had kept herself from starving. Now young Cole had been arrested for burglary, tried, and sentenced to prison for three years, and Esther, innocent, ignorant even of his ever having committed crime, was suspected of being connected with the plot.

Even Hepsey, who tried to harden her heart against pity, having been so often deceived, was affected by the utter abandonment to grief of the young girl. She was sitting on a bed of straw, with a child of her sister-in-law across her lap, her head fallen forward on her breast, her tears falling on the sleeping babe's face, seemingly unconscious of the presence of any one.

"She's just gone daft with her trouble, poor thing," explained the woman, as she saw the eyes of her visitors fastened on the child-wife.

It was difficult to rouse her from her grief. When addressed, she looked up frightened, supposing officers had come to take her to jail. Then, recognizing Miss Howard's kind face, she asked, piteously,—

"Will they keep me in prison long?"

Mrs. Cole took the babe from her arms, explaining, "I thought maybe 't would divert her thoughts," and then went on to say that Jo, her husband's brother, had always been a bad boy. He had no business to deceive a young girl, and get married when he had no home. That Esther was steady and honest, and was never up to knowing his wicked goings-on. Then she touched her head and pointed to the poor girl in a significant manner. "As to the robbery, she's as innocent of it as a babe unborn."

No one could doubt it who witnessed the appealing glance in those wondering eyes; at least Miss Howard did not, but she could not at once decide what course to pursue to clear the child from the suspicion of crime. Having ascertained that Mrs. Cole was willing to keep her for a few days, Miss Howard put a sum of money into her hands, and, promising to do what she could, took her leave.

"She's no more guilty than I am," exclaimed Hepsey, indignantly. "That woman thinks she isn't bright, but it's only because she's been cowed down and abused till she darsn't say her soul is her own. I remember her when she was as tidy and spry as the best of 'em."

"Why, Hepsey, where did you ever see her?"

"At the sewing school, ma'am, where I used to go in yer place while yer was in Grantbury; and Esther Sims, as they called her then, was the most respectful and the best behaved of the whole class."

"Hepsey, do you think she could be trained by kindness to be a good servant?" Marion's voice was abrupt in her earnestness.

"Indeed I do, ma'am. To be sure, it would take time, but it would be a deed o' mercy, and like as not be the saving of her soul."

"Well, my dear, good Hepsey, you have helped me through a great many difficulties. If we can get the poor child away from her surroundings, you shall have the chance to try and save her."

Hepsey was startled. This was rather beyond what she had thought of. Presently she asked, abruptly,—

"What will she do with her thief of a husband?"

"She must be made absolutely free from him, of course. I will take advice about it."

"I suppose you're thinking of yer own home in the country, ma'am, and that is where I'm to train her," added Hepsey, with a sly glance into her young mistress's face.

A rosy blush was the only reply.

While Marion was hesitating to whom she should apply for advice in regard to poor Esther, Mr. Mitchell came home. He assured her that by the laws of the State the husband's incarceration in prison rendered the wife free from the marriage tie. He also comforted her by saying, that even if Esther were arrested, unless some one appeared against her, the case could not be carried on. Marion, however, with the recollection of the child's look of terror at the very thought of being arrested, was determined to prevent it if possible.

Suddenly recalling to mind Mr. Lambert's promise to aid her in her works of charity, she sent James to his house to request him to call at his earliest convenience.

When he came, which was almost immediately she was struck with a change in his appearance; and inquired, anxiously,—

"Are you ill, sir?"

"What makes you ask that? I'm in rollicking health and spirits."

She doubted it, however, for even while talking with her he seemed to fall into fits of revery.

"What a fool she was to marry so young!' he said, with a sneer; "but, as you say, that can't be helped now. My advice is, let him go to—anywhere that will keep him out of her way. But what is to be done with the child?"

"I think Hepsey means to take her," replied Marion, showing all her dimples. "I hope she can be got off without going to court."

"Hepsey, hem! Well, never fear. I'll see the judge and settle that. If he won't believe my word, I'll make him go to the stable, mount the ladder, and see for himself."

He leaned back in his chair, laughing heartily but Marion noticed that there was no ring of mirth in his laugh.

Suddenly she said, "O Mr. Lambert! Are you acquainted with Mr. Regy? I hear of him everywhere among the poor, and I long to see him."

"Better not," he grumbled. "Take my word for it, he is a good-for-nothing fellow. I know him well."

"You must be prejudiced, Mr. Lambert. His heart is just as warm as yours; indeed, in many things he must be like you: he delights to relieve suffering and he delights to—to—what shall I call it?"

"Call it abuse; that's the right name. He's a hard-shelled old sinner. He tries to salve his conscience by giving away what he don't want. Keep clear of him, as you would of the plague. Now I must be going, or I sha'n't see that judge."

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE SIMPLE PRAYER.

THE very next day he called again.

"It's all right," he said. "The girl is free to go where she chooses. Now I want to ask you a question. Where do you go to church?"

"I attend -Church. Dr. M- is my pastor."

"But you're not a member."

"Oh, yes! I have been for a great many years."

His countenance expressed real disappointment. "I could have sworn you didn't believe in such humbug."

"O Mr. Lambert, don't say so!" Marion'! eyes filled with tears. She had always supposed that he was a Christian and a member of some church.

"I've never seen any cant about you. In fact, I took it for granted that you were a good, common-sense girl. Why, all that nonsense about joining a church and taking an oath that you believe such and such doctrines has exploded long ago!"

"Don't you believe any doctrines?"

"I believe this: that it's the life we must look to. Why, I've seen men,—and women too,—who swallowed the whole creed, covers and all, stiff and straitlaced, thought it a sin to smile, but who wouldn't give a penny to a poor man to save his soul. I'm sick of this talk about doctrine. Give me the life,—that's what I look at."

"But how shall we know how to live unless we study God's Word? We have exact directions there,—and these are what I call doctrines. I am sure you believe that Jesus Christ came to set us an example of a perfect life."

"I'll allow that for the sake of argument."

"Did He ever sin?"

"Not that I ever heard of, but I don't know much about it."

"Can you name any other man who ever lived without sin?"

"Perhaps not. I always said the world was up side down. But what does that prove? I don't know what you are driving at."

"Then the claim of Jesus Christ himself, that He was the Son of God, in a peculiar sense,—that no man can come to the Father except through Him,—is a claim we must acknowledge."

"I don't know anything about that. You are taking too much for granted."

"Why, if any other man should claim to be divine, saying, in plain terms, 'I and my Father are one,' he would be seized and punished for blasphemy. It would be monstrous, presumptuous in the last degree. The fact that Jesus Christ claimed that he was one with the Father, the fact that he was a sinless being, and could not therefore be such a wicked impostor, that he proved his assertion by his life, his teachings, and his power to work miracles, is the great central truth on which Christianity is based. If you read your Bible prayerfully, as I earnestly hope you do, you must concede so much."

Mr. Lambert twirled his glove, looked grave, and then said, "Well, what of that?"

"How do you suppose the world came to be upside down, Mr. Lambert?"

"Can't say. Can vouch for the fact, though. Everything and everybody is helter-skelter."

"Including Mr. Regy, I suppose."

"Yes; he is as bad as any of them."

"And needs a power out of himself to put him right."

"That's true."

"This power we have in our blessed Saviour. He came to save us from sin and from all its dismal consequences."

"Well, admit that too, for the sake of argument."

"Now, my dear friend," urged Marion, seizing his arm and gazing wistfully in his face, "believing so much, as I am sure you do, you have the very root and foundation of the Christian doctrine. A good life must and will grow out of such a belief. Jesus Christ, who was rich, became poor for our sakes. He sacrificed ease, comfort, home on earth, and all that makes life dear. I say nothing of the glories of heaven, the worship of myriads of holy beings, which He willingly exchanged for disgrace, ignominy, and death. I am only speaking now of Him in His human nature. He loved us to that extent He was willing to do and bear all this for us, to make us happy here and hereafter. We must acknowledge ourselves degraded indeed, if we are not willing to do something to show our appreciation of such love. What does He ask of us? Only that we return His love, and cherish kindly feelings toward each other. Love God, and our neighbor as ourselves. This is the life you so rightly urge that we must live. It flows naturally from the doctrine. Any other motives than love to God and to our fellows fail of power to help us live this life.

"You see I have not said a word about the theories that man, in different stages of the world, has built on these fundamental truths. There always has been and always will be different ways of explaining God's truth; but speculation is outside of fundamental truth. Man a sinner, Christ a Saviour, is enough for me. Any man, woman, or child, really desirous of showing his love to Christ, can find rules in God's Word to guide him in every emergency."

"About joining a certain church, for instance." There was an ill-concealed sneer in Mr. Lambert's voice.

"Yes, we have the example of companies of disciples gathering themselves together to recount what God had done for them. Our Saviour himself honored and showed His approbation of these gatherings by being present with them. The most affecting of all His dying messages to His disciples was that they should eat bread as a symbol of his body broken, and drink wine as a symbol of His blood shed for them. This was to be a continual reminder of what He had done. I can say from my own experience, that this communing with Christ in His sacrifice brings Him nearer to me not only as a Saviour but as a friend, or elder brother, than anything else could do."

"I don't see any Christianity in one soul de-crying another, and calling each other hard names."

"I don't see any Christianity in one man stealing his neighbor's coat, or his property of any kind. One act is as much Christian as the other. If the disciples of Christ would only live up to the example He set for us, one man would never decry or call his neighbor hard names merely because they differ on non-essentials.

"People's likes and dislikes are as wide apart as their countenances. Because one man has blue eyes, he needn't decry a man who has black. All that is required of him is that he shall use aright the eyes God has given him. One man is so constituted that in his worship of God he prefers liturgy and certain prescribed forms. This mode, which we call Episcopalian, helps his fervor, and the very forms assist him to keep his mind from wandering.

"Others find these written prayers, etc., irksome and monotonous: they like more stir and bustle; such become Methodists. God never expected or intended that we should all be patterned in the same mould. Social intercourse would be very tame if we were. Mr. Regy, for instance, has his own method of relieving the poor, and I have mine," she added, smiling.

"Mr. Regy is an old humbug," growled Mr. Lambert. "I'm always ashamed when I've been in his society. He's the most provoking man I'm acquainted with."

"And yet he is in a fair way to attain a high position: 'He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.'"

Mr. Lambert's face crimsoned, and he muttered some unintelligible words. He caught up his hat and cane in a hurry, when she said, tenderly,—

"May I say something to you, my dear friend?"

"Humph! That's cool! Here you've been driving into me with hammer and tongs, and now you ask very meekly, may I say something to you?' Well, say on; a few hits more or less won't kill me."

"It is only this, dear sir. When we accept Jesus Christ as our own personal Saviour, He will flood our souls with such peace and joy as we never before conceived. His love helps us to bear trials, to meet disappointment with true fortitude, to look forward without fear to the time when we shall walk through the dark valley. I shall pray daily that such love as this may fill your soul."

His face became so convulsed while she made this personal appeal that she was really alarmed. Putting a violent restraint on himself, he rallied and exclaimed in a light tone,—

"You were cut out for a theological professor I was not aware of this accomplishment." He would not notice the hand she held out to him, but with a gruff "Good day," left the room.

After his departure, Marion found herself so shaken that she could scarcely collect her thoughts. She went to her chamber, and with tears plead for her friend. "O God, show Thy self to him in the face of thy Son, Jesus Christ." This was the burden of her petitions.

Fortunately for her, this was the day of the week when the foreign mail came in. A letter from her dearest friend would restore her spirits. While she was waiting for it, thoughts of Mr. Lambert would intrude, and she was surprised that, knowing him so intimately as she had for some years, she was so little acquainted with his early life. "I wish I could comfort him as daughter would. Did he really disbelieve every thing, as he pretended?"

She at last put on her hat and, summoning Hepsey, went to call on Esther. She was recovering from her fright, and seemed relieved that she was freed from a bond which had proved such a burden to her.

"I advise her to go back to her old name again," explained Mrs. Cole. "Esther Sims she is to be from this time."

Miss Howard promised that Hepsey should accompany Esther to a clothing store, where suitable outfit would be provided for her, which she could pay for with her after-earnings.

"Am I to go into the cigar factory?" inquired Esther, with a shudder.

"Oh, no! You are to live with me. Hepsey has adopted you," laughing. "I can speak for her that she will be strict, but kind."

Esther looked up suddenly, as though she scarcely understood, but, seeing the bright smile on Miss Howard's face, her own grew radiant then, with a quick movement, she threw herself on her knees before the lady, while tears of joy ran down her cheeks.

"Poor child!" murmured Marion. "She has known so little the comfort of a home."

"Or having real friends to care for her," interrupted Hepsey, wiping her own eyes.

It was indeed a change in Esther's life, difficult for her, at least, to comprehend. For days after she went to live with her kind friends, she seemed to herself to be in a dream. Nothing made it seem so real as the prayers Mr. Mitchell offered when they all gathered around the family altar. As she told Hepsey afterward, she would go without food rather than to lose the opportunity of being present.

"Do you recollect a little prayer you taught us at the mission school, Miss Howard?"

This lady and Esther were sitting at their sewing when the child timidly asked the question. She was gradually becoming accustomed to kind words, losing the habit of starting, when suddenly addressed, as though she feared a blow.

Esther's hands trembled with eagerness as she asked the question.

"Do you mean the prayer which begins, 'Help me, dear Lord'?"

"Yes, ma'am." The child closed her eyes, bent her head forward just in the old way she had been taught, and repeated the whole prayer with a solemnity and fervor which deeply affected the hearer.

"Help me, dear Lord, this day, to be honest, faithful, and true toward my fellows, and above all to love Thee, blessed Saviour, with all my heart. Help me to remember that God sees all that I do, and hears all that I say, and that He is able to protect and guide all those who put their trust in Him. For Jesus Christ's sake, we ask this. Amen."

With a half-checked sob the child went on, gradually forgetting her timidity, and giving to her faithful teacher an insight into her poor, lonely, repressed life which was never forgotten.

"O Miss Howard! it frightens me to think how bad I was at the mission school. I used to whisper and set the girls to laughing, and waste my thread, and do so many naughty things. Miss Farnum ought to have put me out. But if she had," sighing, "I never should have learned that good prayer" (speaking with great awe) "and then what should I have done when I was in such trouble?

"I used to kneel in the corner and repeat it over and over till it seemed like I heard Jesus' voice say, 'I will, child.' Once when he"—she always alluded to her husband as he—"came home drunk, and beat me, I worried 'cause I couldn't get to my corner and kneel down. I did manage to sit up in bed and put my hands together as you told us, and I said it over and over in my heart. I thought, maybe as He knows all about us, He'd know how it hurt me to move, and wouldn't mind if I did cry and moan, 'cause I couldn't help it."

"My poor child. I am very glad you knew where to go for comfort. Did you ever try to form a prayer for yourself?"

"No, ma'am, not a prayer. I wasn't fit for it, you know; but when he was swearing and threatening to kill me,—not him, but rum,—I used to whisper, O God, pity me. Dear Jesus, take away the bad heart that makes him treat me so. Once after I had asked God to make him good and help me to be patient, he came and looked at me as I lay on the straw. He wasn't drunk then, and he said, 'I'm sorry for your sake you ever saw me, Esther.' His voice was real kind, like as though he pitied me. When he'd gone, I told Jesus about it. Was it naughty?" as she saw Miss Howard suddenly put her handkerchief to her eyes, "and I loved Jesus Christ so much that I forgot all the pain in my head and my side, so I fell asleep."

[CHAPTER VII.]

ESTHER'S FORGIVENESS.

NO one but a faithful Christian worker in Christ's vineyard can understand the encouragement such a revelation as that described in the last chapter is to those who have been for years sowing good seed and waiting for the harvest.

Esther, for years a member of the mission Sunday school,—light and frivolous, seemingly almost incapable of retaining any of the teachings repeated Sunday after Sunday in her hearing,—had been impressed by something in this simple prayer which the gracious spirit of God had fixed in her memory. It seemed to have been the "word in season," which had come back to her in her hours of deepest need, and proved to her in truth that God was really a loving Father watching over and pitying His sorrowing children.

Marion related the incident which had so deeply affected her to her friend in England adding, "I suppose I may learn from this a lesson of trust. We have the glorious privilege of sowing the seed in the hearts of these poor waifs. It is God's part, which He has promised to do, to help it to sink into the light soil and spring up to everlasting life.

"How many times I have heard people say, 'Such work does no good. The influences around these poor creatures are all against them. Once in seven days they repeat the command not to swear, not to steal, not to lie, and every hour of the other six days they hear the vilest oaths and are witness to a breach of every other command. If it were any truths but God's own truths, which He has promised to bless, we might well be discouraged; but in the case of Esther, when to human appearance all her surroundings were against her, one little seed of divine truth sank into her heart and bore such wonderful fruit that I take fresh courage and feel that I can labor with fresh diligence."

Never in all her acquaintance with Mrs. Douglass had our young friend enjoyed her visits there as now. The lady had recovered from her recent illness, and was able to take a short walk every day, supported by her daughter's arm. In Mrs. Cheriton's countenance there was an added beauty. Her eyes no longer flashed defiantly, as of old. Her head seemed to have forgotten its fashion of throwing itself back, as she haughtily refused any request which crossed her own inclinations. Upon her brow there was a sweet serenity that spoke to the observer of inward peace.

I have already spoken of the change in her treatment of her boy. Her resolutions made during that dreadful night were never forgotten. Conscience, once aroused, did not slumber again. She prayed earnestly that she might have help to command her own temper, and thus be able to teach Geenie to conquer his. The resemblance in many of her traits to her uncle Henreich, which has caused her mother hours of anxious forebodings, grew less and less every day. She saw that her daughter was making a great effort to correct her faults, and that in her government of her son she was kind but firm.

Formerly, as Marion went into their room, she was aware that her entrance had interrupted some unpleasant discussion. Mrs. Douglass would either be trembling with agitation or in tears while Mrs. Cheriton was flushed and defiant.

Now what a pleasing change! The two ladies sat at their work, regarding each other with the tender affection natural to the tie between them, while Eugene, sometimes boisterous indeed, was growing every day more willing to yield to authority.

One morning Marion called on her way to her pupils, who, by the way, were making their best efforts to show her they appreciated her self-denying efforts, as she had informed them she intended to resign her place in the school. She met Eugene, dressed for a walk, with a young companion from the house; and descending the stairs, found the ladies improving the time in reading an interesting book.

"I want you to tell Miss Howard about Geenie's prayer," remarked Mrs. Douglass to her daughter.

"I really hope," began Mrs. Cheriton, "that he understands what I have told him, that God sees us, though we can't see Him. Yesterday afternoon we were sitting here with the door open into the next room. I heard a noise like driving a nail, but supposed he was busy with his toys, and presently I heard his voice. We both listened and heard him say,—

"'God, don't look this way! Turn your eyes the other side. I'm very naughty, God. Don't see me! Look over there! I'm SO naughty, God, I don't want you to see.'"

"By this time I concluded it was best for me to see what the hammering meant. I went in and found him driving tacks into the trunk. He made no resistance when I took away the hammer, but looked ashamed when I said,—

"'O Geenie! How could you do so?'"

"You can imagine how he would have resisted once," added the boy's grandmother. "He would have kicked and screamed and tried to bite."

"I am thankful those days are past," murmured Marion, noticing the mother's flush of painful recollection caused by this allusion. "He will reward you for all the pains you take to control him."

"He has already," exclaimed the young mother, clasping her hands in her impulsive manner. "Geenie was never so affectionate as now. I do believe that he never loved me so well as when I had to punish him the other day. He hung around me, kissing me again and again. When he saw tears in my eyes, he took his own little handkerchief to wipe them away, saying repeatedly,—

"'Geenie will be good all the time, mamma. Geenie won't make mamma cry any more.'"

Marion was sometimes very curious to know whether, with the many obvious changes in Mrs. Cheriton's character, her feelings of aversion to her husband remained. She was well aware that many of the former disagreements with the mother arose from the fact that Mrs. Douglass urged Juliette to write kindly to her husband, from whom they had heard within a few months. To be sure, he had not sent them any intelligence, but in a newspaper accidentally falling under their notice, they had seen his name and knew he was then in New Orleans. If there was any return of affection on the wife's part, no one knew it, for on this subject she maintained the most rigid reserve.

Indeed, Mrs. Cheriton could never be called a frank person. It was only under the influence of very strong emotion that she gave utterance to her deepest feelings. From the first, Marion had noticed this trait, and wondered at it in one so young.

With another child-wife it was exactly the reverse. To her earliest friends—Miss Howard and Hepsey—Esther laid bare all that was in her childish and grateful heart.

Marion often came upon her, singing in a low musical voice, a refrain from the hymn sung at family prayers, and when spoken to she had a way of looking up with her large, deep-set eyes, and smiling, as she said softly,—

"I'm so happy, ma'am. Everybody is so kind to me." And this was while the great ridges on her slender body, caused by her husband's brutal beatings, were still unhealed. In regard to this husband she did not hesitate to speak, though at first with tears.

"Would it be wicked, ma'am, to let him think I belong to him now?"

She asked this one morning when she was braiding her young mistress's abundant tresses and could keep her own face concealed.

"What do you mean?" Marion was startled and spoke in a sharp voice.

"I mean, ma'am, he's shut up now and can't get rum; and he was kind, once; and wouldn't he feel better if he knew that I cared for him a little?"

"You said you did not care for him; that you never wanted to see him again. Would you go back to him? Would you submit to his ill treatment, his profanity and abuse?"

Esther was silent, and glancing in the mirror, her mistress saw that her eyes were full of tears. At last she said, in a tone of deep sorrow,—

"I'm sorry God heard me say that. I was angry at the bad rum, and I was afraid of being shut up in a cell with him. I—I asked Jesus to put my naughty feelings away. I—I found the place in your prayer-book, ma'am,—I mean the marrying place. It's solemn words, ma'am; I didn't know that marrying was such a solemn thing. I was too young, and I had no mother, and my mates thought it would be fun to be married, and I didn't remember that I should have to stay married whether I liked it or not and so when he praised me and said he loved me best of all the girls in our court, though they all wanted him, I said I'd go to the parson. I had no call, ma'am, to let him say that bad woman was my mother. She was old Nan, the worst woman among them all, but that is over now. I'd die before I'd do so naughty again, but, ma'am, the minister asked me those solemn words, and I said yes, so I've been thinking that," sighing heavily, "'for better for worse, till death us do part,' means that I do belong to him, ma'am and so I—" Her voice was stopped suddenly for she fell on her knees, and with her head hidden in her arms, sobbed without restraint.

Marion's own tears flowed. As she told the story afterward to Mrs. Mitchell and Hepsey, "When I saw her in a perfect abandonment of grief, sobbing her heart out at the recollection of the man who had so abused his trust, I resolved that, if the law could prevent it, she never should live with him again. But at the same moment I felt for her such an increase of respect that folded her in my arms and kissed her."

A few days after this Miss Howard was dressing to go out when Esther came forward, blushing painfully, and holding out an awkwardly folded paper, asked,—

"May I go out, ma'am, to put this into the box at the corner?"

The lady took the letter and glanced her eye over the address, "Joseph Cole, Sing-Sing Prison, Auburn, New York State." The writing was scarcely intelligible, but Marion was not thinking of that. She could not endure the thought that Esther in her childish trust might bind herself irrevocably to his future.

"His sister told me how to write that," murmured Esther, in a hesitating tone. "'T isn't my place, ma'am, to ask you to give your time to it; but if you'll please to read it, and say I may send it to him, I shall be very happy."

This was what Marion wished to do. She seated herself instantly and unfolded the paper, not yet sealed, Esther meanwhile ruffling the edge of her apron as though her life depended on her doing it quickly.

Marion had never perused a letter in which all the rules of grammar and spelling were so wholly set at defiance; but seldom had she read one which touched her heart more. It was very brief, but to the point, and correcting the spelling, read as follows:—

Dear Jo,—

It's a good while now since you and me see each other.

I thought, maybe, you'd like to know that a dear, kind lady, as used

to teach me in the Mission, is giving me a home. I'm happy, or I

would be if I could forget where you are. I'm learning to pray, Jo;

and when I say my prayers I never forget that God can look right into

your cell and see you, though I can't; so I tell him all about you,

and ask him to make this the best time in your life, as it may be if

you will learn to love Him. You are not yet twenty years old, and

when you come out of prison you will be young enough to begin life

again. This is what I am praying for you all the time.

Your little wife, ESTHER.

"If she had left out the words 'your little wife,'" said Marion to herself, "I would not have objected to her writing him for once." Then glancing up, she saw Esther's eyes fixed upon her with a mournfully earnest expression, and without another word went to her desk, took out an envelope, enclosed the letter in it, copied the address, and let it go. Afterward she confessed, "I believe at that moment I felt far more unforgiving toward the prisoner than the innocent victim of his brutality did."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENTS.

ALL this time the building committee in Grantbury were pressing on the work most vigorously. The edifice was unlike any other in the town. It was of Gothic architecture. The walls were, as I have mentioned of native stone, the windows high, narrow, with stained glass. "They will have a cross on the spire," said one, "I'm sure of it, and I'll tell you what it will end in, they'll all go to Rome together."

The work proceeded so well, notwithstanding these prophecies, that it was hoped it would be ready for occupation by Christmas. Mr. Angus's taste was consulted during the entire progress.

The plan had been copied and sent to him for approval. All the committee agreed that some suggestions made by him were a great improvement on the original plan. In his last letter he had told them he expected to sail for home the 17th of September, and this the committee said would be in time to decide about frescoing and other interior decorations. No member of the parish, outside of Mr. Asbury's family, was aware that a new tie had been formed which would strengthen his affection to the country and home of his adoption. A few persons knew that a cellar was being dug on a house-lot not two hundred feet from the new church, but these few supposed Mr. Asbury was going to erect a house to rent, as he was often seen directing the workmen. The fact was that "our church," with its rafters exposed to view, its spire towering every day nearer to heaven, its ample porch of solid stone, absorbed all the interest of the congregation.

Every week a letter came to the church or the Sunday school in which the pastor spoke most hopefully of what they might together accomplish for the cause of Christ. He told them what he had seen in England and Scotland, among congregations he had visited, of united effort. He reminded them, that if they so labored and prayed, God would surely add His blessing, until there was not one in the limits of the town who did not love Christ and try to serve Him.

To the Sunday-school children he wrote of schools in London and Edinburgh, where all were wide awake with interest to gather in the poor waifs who knew nothing of Jesus except His name, which they heard mingled with the most dreadful oaths. He spoke of the reward these workers received in their own hearts, and urged them to follow so worthy an example. He mentioned at the close of this letter that he had subscribed for one of the best English Sunday-school papers, and offered it for a reward to the child who would bring into their own Sunday school the greatest number of scholars. These must be from families not connected with any other church.

For the first time in her life dear little Ethel had a secret, and it was her own Marion who told her of it.

By and by, when the new house was done, she knew that her dear Mr. Angus would bring Marion from the city and go there to live. She knew that a beautiful conservatory was to be built on the south side of the new house, and that Marion's flowers and birds would be brought there. She knew that Hepsey and Esther and James would all be in the pretty home at the new Ingleside, and that she could go to see them as often as she pleased. She knew why it was that Marion came from New York so often, and why papa spent so much time talking with her about some large charts spread out on the dining-room table, about an oriel window here, and a balcony there, and why they always waited till she was in bed before they walked over to the spot where the new house was being built.

One thing more connected with this wonderful secret she had been told later, and this came near letting the whole thing out, which would indeed have set the congregation connected with the First Church into a blaze of excitement. Marion had promised that on a certain occasion, not very far distant, she should go to New York with her papa and mamma and Annie and Gardner, and stand up with Marion as bridesmaid, while she promised to love Mr. Angus and take good can of him as long as she lived.

It was something to be remembered, the wonder and delight of the child as she came to understand all this. Her eyes grew darker, and her whole face radiant, as she glanced slowly from one to another, and her mamma added,—

"Yes, darling, cousin Marion is going to live in Grantbury and be Mr. Angus's wife."

"And I'll be his wife, too," she exclaimed, with a little hop of delight. "I'll promise to love him and take care of him. He can be the broom to both of us."

"The broom!"

"Yes, mamma, you said that she would be the bride and he the broom."

"Groom, you mean, you precious pet," said Marion, catching the child in her arms and hiding her burning cheeks in Ethel's neck.

Mamma thought this too good to keep from papa, and even threatened Marion that she would acquaint Mr. Angus with the double honor that awaited him; but the young lady's entreaties prevailed, and the letter went off without the joke.

The rise of ground on which the new church was being built was in a part of the town not yet much occupied by families. The road from the old church, school-house, etc., to the depot wound gracefully around the foot of the hill, and had been widened and improved within a short time. It was about one quarter of a mile to the railroad station, and an equal distance from the village, which had grown up in what was once the centre. Prior to the existence of the railroad, it was Mr. Asbury's most profitable grass land, and he now owned as far as the depot on one side, and quite down to Shawsheen Lake on the other. The elevated situation of the land, together with the picturesque views it commanded, rendered it peculiarly eligible for building lots. Speculators from the city had already made favorable offers to the owner for the whole field, but, with the exception of one hundred feet front by one hundred and fifty deep, donated to the church, and a house-lot nearly four times the size, next adjoining, Mr. Asbury refused to sell.

Mr. Angus's letters to Marion kept her informed of his visits to London, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, where he was studying into the best-approved methods of church work in reference to his own labors among his chosen people. He told her of sewing schools, not only for children, but for mothers, where they were taught to cut and make garments for boys and girls, given simple recipes for cooking, and taught in general how to make home happy. He narrated cases where, in consequence of these teachings, the husband had been won from the alehouse to the pleasures of his own fireside, where the savory soups the wives had learned to make had weaned them from liquor: and made them into peace-abiding citizens.

He wrote of libraries and reading-rooms established for the poor, and also of societies for social pleasures, amusement, etc., to which all were invited to contribute their share.

"I accompanied a friend," he wrote, "to one of these gatherings,

which reminded me of a description Annie Asbury gave me of one of

yours. The ball accommodated about five hundred, and was as full

as was comfortable. Fathers and mothers, and not a few grandparents,

were there, with youth not under fourteen. Entertainments for the

little ones are provided on separate occasions. I cannot describe

to you vividly enough the inspiration I derived from the scene,—

the smiling faces, the merry voices, the ring of real, healthy

enjoyment of the whole company. Surely I thought, to provide

healthful and innocent amusement for young and old is an important

part of church work. To stand still a moment and listen to the hum

and buzz of cheerful voices, with now and then a burst of laughter,

sent a glow of kindly interest for every one present through my whole

being.

"There were games and puzzles and comic readings with an occasional

tragedy, and singing from boys in chorus, and boys or girls in solos,

and a couple of street boys with bagpipes, until the allotted hour

to close arrived. Then I as a stranger from the far-off America,

was requested to make a brief address and close with prayer. When the

bell calling to order was rung, I was surprised to see how quickly

every one found a seat, waiting to hear what was said.

"I had just commenced to tell them about my home across the water,

when a small hand near me was raised, and a boy asked timidly,—

"'Tell us about the bears and Indians, mister.'"

"I had some difficulty in convincing them that in the United States

we had cities and towns, as they had, and that our bears were kept

in cages or pits, as theirs were. I told them I was very glad to be

with them when they were having such a merry time; and that I wanted

to join my thanks with theirs to the kind Christian ladies and

gentlemen who had provided such an entertainment for us.

"To the loving Father who watches over us all, to the sympathizing

Saviour who endured temptation and want that He might know how to

help us, to the gracious Spirit, who is ready to lead us into every

good way, I then committed them, and we separated.

"I forgot to tell you that I was persuaded in the course of the

evening to sing a comic song, which I learned while in New York.

Of course this 'brought down the house.' How would my dear little

Ethel have looked could she have seen me?"

In another letter he said:—

"I have conversed with many clergymen and other Christians of ripe

experience on this same subject of amusement. All classes of persons,

with rare exception of peculiar individuals, agree that some

relaxation is necessary to a healthful state of body and mind. If no

innocent and proper amusements are provided, young and old, rich and

poor, will seek entertainments for themselves, and too often these

will be the lowest class of theatres, shows, etc.

"Let Christian parents and teachers make it a part of the business

of education to provide suitably for this want of our nature, and

these objectionable, immoral places would have to be closed for want

of patronage. In the neighborhood of the church where was the

entertainment I have described, a low theatre of the worst

description had been abandoned, simply because the ground was

occupied in a worthier way. I am looking forward to inaugurating

some plan of this kind, and I confidently expect help from a merry

girl from whom I purchased my first pair of gloves in Grantbury."