Ingleside;

by Madeline Leslie

[Illustration: SHE FELL ON HER KNEES. Page 169.]

"Home as quickly as possible."

Once in her own chamber, she locked the door and, not waiting to remove her hat, tore off the envelope; and there, written in a feeble hand, was the address,—"Harold Angus, formerly of Doncaster, Yorkshire, England."

She fell on her knees, and thanked God. A strange calm stole over her, as she began to realize that it was her privilege to lift the heavy burden from one whom she so greatly respected, so admired for his many noble qualities.

She summoned James, and sent him off to the telegraph office with this message:—

REV. HAROLD ANGUS, Grantbury, Conn.

Please take the afternoon train, 2:50, for this city. A carriage

will meet you at the station.

MARION HOWARD.

[CHAPTER XV.]

A SAD STORY.

To describe the scene which followed, I will quote from the words of an eminent author.

"Have you ever watched the sun rise upon a landscape that has been, but a few moments before, a world of gray and black shadows? Have you seen the rosy flush of dawn creeping in lines of tender light across the hills, and shining down into the valleys?" If you have seen this beauteous birth of day, and felt its full significance of life renewed, then your imagination can fancy the dawn of the new and perfect joy with which the young pastor received the intelligence contained in the letters.

"I have come at your call," he had said, as he entered her parlor, where she met him with outstretched hands. Looking full into his face she saw there the change of which Annie had written. His eyes shone with a quiet courage, more touching than the wildest despair. It was as though he had said, "My Father has sent me a cross. I will bear it manfully, looking to Him for strength."

Marion had been for hours planning how she would break the news to the pastor. All was forgotten now. Her voice rang with joy, as she said,—

"I have news for you,—good news. I knew your Stella. She gave me this for you. Only this morning I first knew the address."

She put the precious parcel in his hands, adding, "When you have read it, I will come back and tell you of her happy death. Please touch the bell when you are ready."

It was more than an hour before the signal was given. When she re-entered the parlor his face bore the marks of deep emotion; but the new light I have described at the beginning of my chapter was shining from it.

"Have you read this?" he asked, leading her to a seat, and taking one beside her,—"No, I do not mean that,—did she tell you?"

"When I first found her, she talked of one who had blighted her life. She never named you. I had no idea she alluded to a brother. After she went to the Home she became a humble Christian, loving and tender to every one."

He was struggling hard to control his emotion, but presently said: "How wonderful that, when you were tending her and ministering to her wants like a sister, I was within a hundred feet of her, crying and praying God so to soften her heart that she might accept His forgiving love! How wonderful that my Father, in His wisdom, has withheld this," holding up the letters, "till by His grace He enabled me to say from the heart, 'Thy will be done'!"

"And gave me the privilege of restoring to you the last token of her affection."

As she spoke, Marion's tears flowed fast. "Will you thank Him for me?"

As they knelt, he poured from a full heart words of praise and thanksgiving. He consecrated his life and all its powers anew to the service of the Saviour. He asked that through these events, so mysterious, bringing to him, after the lapse of so many years, the knowledge of his sister's acceptance of Christ as her Saviour, they might both be more trustful, resting all their cares upon Him who had done all things well.

Again and again Mr. Angus asked for reminiscences of his sister. Again and again Marion related in detail the account of their first meeting,—Stella's despair when first told she could not live, her removal to the blessed Home, the sermon on forgiveness from the chaplain, the arrow of the Spirit which sent it home to her heart, the sweet and abiding peace which followed when she gave up her burden of sin and sorrow to Christ.

"Where is her grave?" he asked, concealing his face.

"In Greenwood. I will take you there in the morning, and you will want to see Dr. B- at the Home."

"In what words can I thank you, Miss Howard? You not only befriended a poor orphan while living, but provided a place for her in that lovely home for the dead."

"It was a precious privilege, Mr. Angus."

Seizing her hand for a moment, he dropped it suddenly and walked away to the window.

"Tea is served," announced James, opening the door.

"One word, Miss Howard. Will you listen to my story? I want you to read my sister's letters. If you will listen to me first, you will then understand the cause she had to consider me her enemy."

"I should consider it a sacred privilege."

"My good Hepsey, Miss Prime, Mr. Angus," she added, advancing to the table, where Hepsey sat. "Mr. Angus is my Grantbury pastor, Ethel's friend," she explained, as they took their seats.

After grace had been said, the conversation turned naturally to the family of Mr. Asbury, and especially to Ethel.

After a while Mr. Angus asked,—

"Have you heard from Mrs. Douglass of late?"

"Yes, she has revived in a wonderful manner. I intend to visit her as soon as my doctor removes the embargo he has placed on me. He has the lowest opinion of my prudence, and imagines me incapable of caution."

"And he is right," insisted Hepsey, laughing. "Once you begin your visits, there is no knowing when they will end, until you are brought up again by some other contagious disease."

"I am engaged this evening, James, if any one calls," remarked Marion, as they rose from the table and returned to the parlor. "Now, Mr. Angus I want to introduce you to my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, who have kindly made a home for me."

The conversation for a few moments was of a general character, and then Mrs. Mitchell said,—

"We should be happy to entertain you to-night, Mr. Angus. James will show you to your room, when you wish to retire. I will not say good-by, as I shall see you at the breakfast-table."

It was evidently a relief that the restraint of others' presence was removed. The pastor wanted time to realize his new situation,—freed from the harrowing reminiscences which had so long oppressed him,—and especially he wanted to narrate to the dear friend who had done so much for him and his sister the actual experiences she now only surmised. He sat quietly following with his eyes her movements as she placed a screen on the gas-shade, moved a vase of flowers to the table, folded a newspaper, and performed those little acts of womanly refinement which make the delight and comfort of a home.

"May I tell you now," he said, softly, as she seated herself opposite him; "and will you be charitable toward the faults of a wayward youth, as you have been to the failings of the man?"

Her bright smile encouraged him, and he dashed into his story at once.

"I was born in Doncaster, Yorkshire, twenty-nine years ago. Two years later I had a sister Stella. When I was ten and Stella eight, my mother died, leaving behind her an infant boy, whom father named Wilson, for his maternal grandfather. A sister of my father came to keep house, and care for the baby. I might have helped her, but I fear I made her hard task harder. Stella was naturally wilful, strong in her likes and dislikes, capable of the warmest affections. She took little Will, as we always called him, to her heart, and made an idol of him.

"Father never seemed the same after mother's death. I can remember him sitting, his arms folded, lost in his own thoughts and memories of the past.

"I grew up with little restraint. To do myself justice, I pitied father so much that I often went away and wept. I loved Will too; but Stella was jealous if I separated him from her, and I gradually let him alone, except as I wanted to tease her.

"Occasionally, when I was too abusive, she appealed to father; otherwise she took Will and shut herself in a room with him, where I could not get at her.

"In my thirteenth year father woke to the face that I needed a master. He sent me to a military school, and promised that if I would do my best he would purchase a commission for me in the army. I did fairly well in my studies, and went home in my uniform, carrying a prize for good conduct. As I recall my actions at that time, I must have been a great nuisance. Stella told me frankly that she wished I would go back to school and never return. Aunt Sarah was almost beside herself, settling disputes between us. Poor little Will used to scream and run away when I went near him, at which I did not wonder, for he was taught to consider me an enemy.

"Father was more feeble than ever, and passed much of his time in his chamber. I might have been a comfort to him, but I was not.

"It was nearly three years before I was allowed to go home again. Aunt Sarah told me that Stella persuaded father to keep me away. I had grown in that time from a boy to a man. My military drill had made me strong and vigorous. I was fond of athletic games, and my companions thought I excelled in them. I could hunt and row all day long without fatigue, and was never so happy as when excited by competition in study or in athletic exercise.

"But there were hours when I longed for home, for a mother's unexacting affection. I accompanied my classmates to their homes and witnessed the mother's pride in her boy, her lavish affection poured out on him, notwithstanding his faults. I realized that I should be better with the incentive of a mother's approbation to spur me on.

"I was fond of children too, and in my long, enforced absence, I came to idealize my little brother. I planned how I would win his confidence, and help him to a happier life than I had had.

"I was summoned home to father's death-bed. Dear father! When it was too late, he realized that he had allowed his grief to swallow up every other feeling. He—asked my forgiveness,—dear father!"

His choking voice interrupted the story for a few moments, and Marion's moistened eye; showed that her interest was intense. After pause, he went on,—

"Father had settled his worldly affairs before my return. His property was not large. It was equally divided between my sister, my brother and myself. Part of mine was to be spent in the purchase of a soldier's commission. He lived two days after I reached home. I am glad to remember that he forgave me all my waywardness and folly, commending me at the last to the care of my mother's God.

"This affliction drew Stella and myself together and for a few weeks we lived more peaceably than we ever had done; but she was still jealous of any interference with Will, so that my dreams of winning his love ended suddenly.

"I had my gun at home, and Will used to beg Stella to let him go with me. He was continually saying that he would be a soldier when he was a man. He used to look after me as I went out with my gun over my shoulder. I gratified him a few times firing at a mark, and then I allowed him from the window to see me load my gun.

"One morning,—oh, how vividly every circumstance comes back to my mind! even the fragrance of the white rose-bushes, and the pretty hedge all in bloom,—I was unusually aggravated by poor Stella's unreasoning jealousy, and I answered with some hard words. I reproached her with having made my life miserable. I told her I came home resolved to be loving and patient. I reminded her that we were orphans, and ought to love each other; and then, as she called me some undeserved names, I retorted angrily that I was the eldest, the proper guardian of the family, and that I would use my authority to take Will from her to prevent his being ruined.

"Will stood by me, and listened to all the talk. Then, as I angrily left the house, he ran after me and had to be carried back by force. I was frightened at the violence of his temper, and, to soothe him, said,—

"'If you'll go back, you may play soldier with my gun.' I had fired it off in the early morning, and left it standing behind the door.

"I soon repented of my anger, and was ready as usual to blame myself. I will be more patient, I said, over and over again. I had always trusted in my own strength, and of course had failed. I turned back and entered the house. Will was alone. Stella, not expecting me, had left him by himself, for a punishment. He looked guiltily in my face, and I said, Come, let's make up and be friends. I'll teach you to be a soldier.'

"I took the gun and playfully aimed it at him, knowing it was not loaded. Alas! alas! There was a loud report, and Will, my poor little Will, fell to the floor.

"My aunt and Stella rushed to the room and found me with the gun in my hand, dumb and immovable with horror. With a shriek I shall never forget, Stella caught Will in her arms; but when I approached she waved me off, calling me a murderer, and shouting again and again, 'I will never forgive you,—never! Never!'"

"Aunt Sarah helped move Will to a bed, sent for the doctor, and then, beckoning me into another room, shut the door, and said,—

"Harold, tell me truly. How did it happen?'"

"Somebody loaded the gun after I went out. I thought it was empty. I wish it had killed me, instead of my brother.' Six feet tall as I was, I laid my head on the table and sobbed like a child.

"'You must get away from here,' Aunt Sarah said, putting her hand softly on my head,—the first caress I had had for years. 'Stella is wild with anger. Will is dyin and she will say you murdered him.'"

"'Where shall I go?' I cried. 'I'm an outcast, like Cain; and yet the moment it happened loved my brother better than I ever did in my life.'"

"I was delirious with grief and remorse. I went from the house, and passed the night on mother's grave. I can recall little after that time, till found myself on board a vessel bound for the United States. Stella's letter will tell you what happened in the interim. What comfort the knowledge of those weeks would have been to me all these years, you can scarcely imagine. Will died of the wound inflicted by my hand, but not until he had confessed that he had loaded the gun while left alone. He called for me continually but poor Stella was, as she expresses it, possessed of a devil, and would not send for me. She continually denounced me as a murderer, and Aunt Sarah had to explain again and again how it had happened.

"I resolved then and there to leave the money father left me for her use. I was reckless, and did not desire to live.

"As you will read in her letter, Stella says that she saw me at the funeral, and almost repented when she perceived how changed I was. I have not the slightest recollection of being there.

"I landed in Charleston, S. C., and made my way to Philadelphia, where I found the means of living while I pursued my studies. I gave up military life, and thought I should be content if I could fit myself for an editor of a paper. I was in an editor's office in New York, when I was seized with fever and carried to the Home for the Sick. I came away with new aims, and only longed to benefit some poor afflicted ones as I had been benefited there. You know the rest. I studied three years at the seminary, working among the poor meanwhile, and had just begun to preach when I was requested to supply the pulpit for a pastor who had been my most faithful adviser. I was called to Grantbury, and accepted the call. How nearly I retracted my acceptance, weighed down with a sense of my unfitness for the work, how I besought God with strong crying and tears to appear for me and let me know His will, no one but He knows.

"There are poor Stella's letters. I have blamed her, but not half so much as she blames herself."

Marion covered her face with her handkerchief. The story was sad indeed.

"Perhaps I have done wrong to tell you all this," he urged, rising and walking the room. "You are the only confident I ever had."

"No, no, not wrong. I thank you. If deal Stella could only have lived to tell you herself how fully she forgave you, how earnestly she longed for your forgiveness!"

"At first," added Mr. Angus, "I used to pity myself; but when I had received forgiveness of my heavenly Father, my pity was for her. I remembered that the unforgiving cannot receive forgiveness of God. I felt that my life was rendered desolate, but I was willing to receive that as a chastisement. My prayer was, 'Lord, let her forgive that she may be forgiven.' The idea of her suffering from poverty never occurred to me. Of late, when I have witnessed the happiness of home life,—fathers and mothers with their children growing up around them,—I have thought that, had my life been different, I might have been blessed with a paradise of a home."

"All the sadness is over now," murmured Marion, softly.

"Do you think a man with such a past as mine has a right to ask any one to share his future?"

What Marion might have answered had there not been a knock at the door, I cannot tell. James entered, and carried to his mistress a note on a salver.

"I told you I could see no one to-night."

"Yes, miss, but the messenger persists. He's from the Home for the Sick."

[CHAPTER XVI.]

STELLA'S CONFESSION.

MRS. ASBURY was sitting at work in her room when she heard the outer door open and a quick step on the stairs.

"Who can that be?" she asked, somewhat surprised.

"No one but Mr. Angus has a key, ma."

"He never steps like that, Annie. Open the door and see."

Before she could do so, the step came down again and Mr. Angus came into the sitting-room holding out his hand as he greeted them.

Both mother and daughter started up to meet him, and Ethel, hearing his voice, came running in, and stood for a moment gazing in wonder. In her childish way she gave expression to their thoughts.

"It's a new Mr. Angus."

"Yes, it is, darling," he said, catching her in his arms. "That other Mr. Angus has gone away, and I hope never to see him any more."

Turning to Mrs. Asbury, he said, "God has been very good to me, and sent me the best of news from an absent friend. I have long mourned her as dead; now I learn that she died in faith, trusting in the blood of Christ to wash away all her sins."

"I am truly glad for you," was her earnest reply.

"The intelligence I have received renders it necessary for me to go to England for a short time. I want to ask your husband's advice concerning arrangements for my pulpit during my absence."

"How long shall you be away?"

"Probably three months."

"You have six weeks' vacation. Why not include those, and get a supply for the rest?"

"Thank you for the suggestion. It is my wish to leave as soon as possible."

This was all the explanation he gave as to the change in his conduct, a change recognized by every one in the parish. His voice, his step, his manner, were cheerful even to buoyancy. His smile was more frequent, and had lost forever the sadness which formerly often accompanied it.

The very boys in the street watched and wondered. Formerly, when he passed the play-ground, he gazed at them, but in so serious a manner that they felt almost guilty; now it was very different. He stood one day at the entrance to a large field, given up to the use of the boys for base-ball, watching the game with great interest.

"No, that is not the way," he shouted at last, leaping at one bound over the high fence. "This was the way when I was a boy." He gave the ball a kick, which sent it to the farther corner of the field, and stood laughing at the loud cheers which rent the air, then saying,—

"Play fair, boys; cheating don't pay," he gave another leap and passed on, taking off his hat and waving it high in the air as they cheered again.

A supply for the pulpit was readily obtained from a theological school, and passage engaged in a Cunarder; but, as the reader may not understand the necessity which called him to leave Grantbury, I will take the liberty to insert here extracts from the letters in the recovered package.

These were now in the hands of Marion, and he was to receive them when he went to New York to take the steamer. It is unnecessary to say that the young lady, having listened to the story of the brother, devoted her first leisure to reading the confession of the sister.

The very first lines deeply moved her, recalling, as she did, Stella bolstered up in her bed at the Home as she wrote, her curtain drawn closely to shut out the sight of her companions.

The letter began:—

If I have a brother, and these words ever meet his eyes, let him read

them as coming from one who has deeply sinned against him, but who

has also deeply repented.

Judge her as charitably as you can, my brother, even as I trust God

will judge me; and remember that my prayers have gone up to God

continually for you, and my loving thoughts reach far away across the

waters, where, if still among the living, I suppose you are now.

"How strange!" reflected Marion, "that when she wrote that her

brother was in an adjoining ward, and that one minute's walk would

have taken him to her side."

Later.—I had to lay aside my pen and rest, and now my hands tremble

with weakness; but justice to one who has never received justice at

my hands urges me to make my confession. Harold, I cannot remember

the time when I did not feel jealous of you. As a child, you were

loving in nature, winning your way without effort to every heart.

You were mother's pet and pride. Father could scarcely see a fault

in his big, brave, and beautiful boy. When Aunt Sarah came, all that

I could say to prejudice her against you had no effect. She loved and

trusted you. She said you would love me if I would let you. She said

few had so forgiving a nature. She tried to persuade me to be at

peace and allow Will, my idol, to love you. I will say that when we

used to walk into church, I was proud of you. All my companions

envied me and my brother. This made me hate you more than ever.

If you had been plain and unattractive, I think it would have been

different with me,—but perhaps not, for my heart was full of envy

and jealousy. Now you know the secret of all my conduct. I was

possessed with a devil and, instead of trying to cast him out,

I cherished him.

Harold, before you reached home to see father die he begged me

to love you as I loved Will. He gave Will into your special care.

He wrote you a loving letter, telling you his plans and wishes

for your future, that he left the care of Will's education and his

little property to you. If he died, it was to be yours. If you died,

Will was to inherit what you left. How I hated him for this! I had

a legacy from Aunt Mary which, with my share, would be enough for me,

he said. How I hated him for writing this! The breath had scarcely

left his body before I tore the paper to pieces. Will you forgive

me, brother?

Later.—I must hasten on, for my life is fast drawing to a close,

and I have that to tell you which will relieve you of a great sorrow,

—I mean in regard to the last dreadful scene at home. Tears stream

from my eyes as I remember your patience with me, your efforts to win

my sisterly love. Oh how one expression of yours has rung in my

memory!

"Sister Stella, why won't you let me love you? I will try to please

you, and we might be so happy?" Oh, why! why!

You asked Will to go to walk. He started, and I ran and forced him

back. To punish him, I shut him up in the room, forgetting that you

had placed your gun behind the door. In my insane terror I charged

you with murdering him, Harold. Before he died he confessed that he

had loaded it,—put in the very bullet that was to end his life.

Harold, can you forgive me when I say that I knew this when I saw you

at his funeral, and did not tell you? Yes, when I saw you so changed

that I scarcely recognized you, I kept his dying messages, which

would have relieved your sorrow. I charged you with being his

murderer, but no one believed me. Aunt Sarah did you justice. She

told every one you loved the boy, and that he loved you,—that it

was an accident. After Will confessed that he loaded the gun,

she repeated this to every one. You were pitied, and I, who so

idolized the boy, was looked on with suspicion. Even Aunt Sarah told

me that I had ruined Will by indulgence, or he would never have

touched the gun contrary to your orders. I hated her for saying it,

but I knew that what she said was true.

Later.—I am already relieved by my confession, and, as I feel

stronger this morning, I will write while I can. I shall commit this

to the care of a dear friend, who first led me to hope for pardon

through Christ. I can never tell any one how much she has been to me.

Beautiful, accomplished, and rich, she devotes herself and all she

has to the divine work of winning others to her Saviour.

Dear brother, I wish you could meet such a friend. If you have never

sought Christ let a sister's dying words prevail. His love is more

precious than all the world beside. If I, with all my load of guilt

can receive forgiveness, no one need despair. I told you I would

never forgive you. One day I heard a sermon from the young chaplain

of the Home, where I was staying. He repeated the words of our

Saviour, "If ye forgive not men their trespasses," etc., and

explained the wretched, despairing condition of those who cherish

a spirit of unforgiveness.

Every word applied to my case. The gracious spirit of God carried

home the truth to my heart, and helped me to accept his conditions

of mercy. The whole room seemed filled with light. Never had I

conceived such joy, such peace, as flowed in upon my soul.

From trying to invent excuses for my own base conduct, I saw myself

the vilest of the vile. I realize now that murder had been in my

heart,—murder of a brother. I love you now. I wonder at your

forbearance when I reproached you. How pityingly you used to gaze

on me! I seem to see your eyes now,—eyes like our mother's,

so sweet, so sad,—looking into mine as though you would say,

"Stella, I want to love you. Why can't we be at peace?" O Harold,

my brother, would that I could see you once more and ask your

forgiveness! Aunt Sarah often said that I had driven you from home

and friends. It is true. I grieve over it, and have asked God

to forgive me. I pray that we may meet in heaven: you will forgive me

there.

Before I close, I must tell you that immediately after Will's death

I went home with Aunt Sarah, and remained till she died. In the bank

where father left your money, you will find my share and Will's.

I have never drawn one pound. I could not, as I had made it over

to you. My legacy has sufficed. I want you to accept mine (Will's is

yours by right) from a sister who has learned not only to love but to

admire you. I found letters from your teachers in the military school

to father. They wrote of you in the highest terms. Father used to

read them over and over. I did not see them till after his death.

One favor I would like to ask. If you ever receive this, will you

repay the faithful friend I have mentioned the amount she has

expended for my lot in Greenwood,—she has promised to follow me

there,—and any other expense incurred for my sickness beyond the

$60 I leave in my purse?

Later.—The end is drawing near. I am not afraid: Christian friends

are about me. My own loved Marion will be here presently, and will

not leave me till Jesus, my Saviour calls me home. I have an

assurance this morning that my prayers for you will be answered.

We shall meet father and mother and all our loved ones in heaven.

Farewell, dear Harold, farewell!

Afternoon.—God has seen fit to keep me here a little longer. I have

not told you that I came to America two years ago,—after Aunt

Sarah's death. I was in a boarding house with an acquaintance from

home, and taught music when a sudden cold settled on my lungs.

Miss Howard heard me sing once at a party given by one of my pupils

and afterward called when she learned I was sick. She is a great

lover of music. She has been such a friend to me as I cannot

describe. This Home for the Sick has proved a paradise to many.

Thank God, who sent me here. Once more, brother, farewell! Meet me

in heaven.

STELLA ANGUS

[CHAPTER XVII.]

THE CRIPPLED BOY.

DURING Marion's call at the Home for the Sick in company with the pastor, they examined the record of patients, etc., and related to Dr. B— the singular circumstance of the brother and sister, natives of another country, being there at the same time, each longing to find the other, and remaining unknown. There were the names and dates fully recorded:—

"Men's Medical Ward, Harold Angus, New York, aged twenty-four. Disease, typhoid fever. Entered March 7, 18—. Discharged cured June 20, 18—. Address of friends, Mr. James Whitney, New York City."

"Women's Medical Ward, Stella Angus, Doncaster, England, aged twenty-two. Second admittance. Disease, consumption. Entered May 2, 18—. Died June 4, 18—. Place of burial, Greenwood. Address of friends, Miss Mary Angus, Leyden, England."

"I recollect perfectly," remarked Dr. B—, "that Stella, as we called her,—from Miss Howard introducing her by that name,—often spoke to the chaplain and to the nurses of one whom she had injured, and that she wished to atone for it. I never heard, Mr. Angus, that you mentioned her name."

"I never did. I supposed her to be in England. I can only believe that God, for His own wise purpose, kept the knowledge of her triumphant death from me till I could say, in regard to all His dealings, 'Thy will be done.'"

From the Home they drove at once to Greenwood. The lot was small and inexpensive, but it had been well cared for, and the grave, covered with myrtle, was green and beautiful.

Marion led the way to the spot and then retired to a distance, leaving the mourner alone with his sorrow. Not yet did she know how deeply Stella had injured her brother, and so she could not appreciate, as she did afterward, the abandonment of his grief as he fell on the grave, saying,—

"My sister! My sister! Is it thus we meet?"

Still, as she walked away, with bent head and fast-falling tears, she repeated to herself the familiar quotation,—

"To err is human, to forgive, divine."

At the head of the grave Marion had caused a simple stone to be erected, with merely these words,—

STELLA.

ASLEEP IN JESUS.

As they were turning to leave the sacred spot, he pointed to it, and tried to utter the words,—

"Thank you," but his voice choked.

Now, he in whom she had taken so deep an interest, whose happiness had for a time been so intimately interwoven with her own, had sailed for England. He had made a hasty call, on his return from Grantbury, and received from her the precious letters assuring him of his sister's affection. He had seemed ill at ease when she thanked him for allowing her to peruse them, pressed her hand warmly as he bade her farewell, took his hat from the table in the hall then suddenly threw it down again, exclaiming,—

"I cannot leave you without saying, if we never meet again, I shall die blessing you for your goodness to Stella and to me. Miss Howard, you have opened a new future before me. You—but I cannot,—I ought not to say more. Will you add one favor to the many I have received at your hands? Will you answer a letter from me? May I tell you of my visit to my native land, to the graves of my parents?"

He fixed his eyes full on hers, which at last fell before the ardor of his gaze, while she answered frankly,—

"Mr. Angus, for Stella's sake and for your own, I shall be very glad to hear from you. My time will be spent among my poor. If I find anything to interest you, I will certainly write in answer to yours."

Marion was practical rather than sentimental, and she plunged into the business of life as though nothing more than usual had occurred.

In one day, she visited Mary Falkner at the Home, gave music lessons to four pupils, went with Hepsey nearly a mile to inquire for one of her mission boys, and brought home for evening work one of the rolls from the mission chapel, in order to stencil an additional hymn upon it.

Still, wherever she went, however employed her thoughts were with a lonely traveller whom the waves were every hour carrying farther and farther away. While driving, with Hepsey by her side, through the thronged thoroughfares, or sitting at her own well-spread board, the question constantly recurred: "Why did he say, 'if we never meet again'? Does he not expect to return?" Then her pulse beat more warmly as she recalled the expression of his eye, and added, "I know he hoped we should meet again."

In the morning Mr. Lambert called, and found her leaning over the large table in the dining room, printing with the stencil plate the hymn, work which company had obliged her to postpone the previous evening.

He had scarcely taken his seat before he began to scold her.

"You ought to have a guardian," he began, in loud voice. "Pale as ashes,—taking work out of the printer's hands, too. Well, they may starve for all I care. World upside down, as usual."

"Will you please help me roll this?" asked Marion, turning an arch, smiling face full upon him. "It must be held very tight, or it will wrinkle. Mr. Lambert, why don't you help me in my mission school?"

"Help—mission school—insane idea—couldn't get any scholars—pretty teacher, indeed!" He grumbled away for some time to himself, and finally ended with a fit of laughter. "All nonsense,—throwing away money on bummers, stuff and nonsense—embryo thieves and murderers." He walked to the window, pretended to be examining the flowers in the conservatory, pulled out his purse and quickly concealed a bill in his hand just as Marion, who had finished her work, said, pleasantly,—

"You needn't try to deceive me with your grumbling: I found you out long ago. You would go a mile any time to carry food to the hungry, only you would want the privilege of scolding them afterwards."

The eccentric old gentleman hung his head, too much confused even to grumble at her.

"How guilty you look!" laughed Marion. "You took me in, once upon a time."

"Aye! aye! Frightened you well, that's some comfort."

"I don't think I was much frightened, though I confess I considered your manner rather rough. I recollect well that I pitied you for being so suspicious of everybody."

He sprang from the floor, shouting,—

"Suspicious, eh? Suspicious, is it? Pitied me, did you? If any one else had dared,—well, I'm an old fool, anyway."

He sat down and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, looking so pale and hurt that Marion pitied him more than ever. She drew a chair close to his side and said, soothingly,—

"Now that we understand each other, I want to tell you a story,—a true one. You know Hepsey and I go out sometimes to see our friends in the back alleys."

"Humph! Yes,—and bring home fevers, and all that."

"One day I heard a woman crying,—and true enough she had cause. Her boy had been crushed by a wheel which ran over his legs; and there he lay on a pile of straw, in a fainting fit. I tried to bring him to while Hepsey went for an ambulance, and we soon had him in the care of the doctor, on his way to the hospital. Hepsey and I followed with the mother. To make a long story short, the injury was so great that Neddy—that's his name—had both his legs amputated just above the knees, and he is well again. Now the question is, What can he do to earn his living? He's a dear, patient little fellow, and he has made friends of everybody at the hospital. One of the doctors has given me five dollars for—"

Mr. Lambert threw down his cane, and pulled out his purse again.

"No, I don't want money now, I want advice. He can't earn his living yet awhile; but what can he be fitted for?"

"I'll get him a place in a printing-office." In his excitement, Mr. Lambert forgot to grumble. His voice was natural and agreeable.

"Just the thing! But isn't he too young,—he's only nine?"

"That's a fault easily cured. He must be put into the Five Points Mission School till he's twelve,—learn to read and spell, and all that sort of thing. Where is he?"

"In the hospital. Will you go with me to see him?"

"Certainly not. Why should I go? I've nothing to do with it, any way. You wanted advice and I gave it,—that's all. Don't be nonsensical now," putting another bill stealthily on the table. "What did you say the fellow's name is?"

"Neddy Carter. He isn't strong enough to be carried to that old, tumble-down attic, and so I have engaged a friend to take him home with her till he can have his artificial legs made. That's what the doctor subscribed five dollars for."

"Wooden legs, eh! That's the plan, is it? Five dollars! Tell this doctor to mind his own business. I know a man—that is, he owes me—that is, he will owe me—a bill, and I'll get the legs out of him—see if I don't. I'll"—grumbling. "Well, I'm going. I don't find your story very entertaining. It's lucky I'm forgetful: shan't know anything about it to-morrow. Good-day, Miss Howard. Don't make a fool of yourself more than you can help."

He caught his cane and was crossing the room when he saw the bill he had first taken from his pocket and forgotten lying on the floor.

"Pretty way to use good money," he said, with a sneer, pointing to it. "With all your teaching business, you'll never get rich that way, Miss Howard."