Ingleside;

by Madeline Leslie

[Illustration: "WHO SENT THAT?" HE ASKS. Page 366]

"There is an answer required to the note."

As soon as he was alone he tore open the envelope, took out the half-sheet on which Marion had copied a beautiful extract from Schiller, laid it without reading on his knee, and then, slowly adjusting his glasses on his forehead, began to read.

"After all," he said to himself, "I needn't have dreaded it so much. I was unnecessarily alarmed. I thought she meant to bring another sledgehammer to bear on my conscience. Yes, I'll go and see our mutual friend. I wonder who it is."

He took up the other paper and read,—

Dear Friend,—

I came across these "words of strength" from our favorite

Schiller's poems, and thought of you while reading them.

That they may prove real words of strength to you is the earnest

prayer of an attached friend.

MARION HOWARD.

"There are three lessons I would write,

Three words as with a burning pen,

In tracings of eternal light,

Upon the hearts of men.

"Have hope. Though clouds environ now,

And gladness hides her face in scorn,

Put thou the shadow from thy brow,

No night but hath its morn.

"Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven—

The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth—

Know this: God rules the hosts of heaven,

The inhabitants of earth.

"Have love. Not love alone for one,

But man as man thy brother call,

And scatter, like the circling sun,

Thy charities on all.

"Thus 'grave these lessons on thy soul,

Hope, Faith, and Love; and thou shalt find

Strength when life's surges rudest roll,

Light when thou else were blind."

Notwithstanding the twisted and gnarled branches of this old oak, there was a time, years back, when it was a straight and vigorous young sapling. It was beautiful to behold, and gave promise of becoming a lofty, stalwart tree, under which many might find refreshing shelter. On this thrifty sapling grew an ugly wart, called by some horticulturists jealousy. At first it might have been removed without injury to the tree, but it was not. It grew and grew, diffusing it: poison through all the cellular tissues, until it became deformed, disfigured, and unsightly.

Strange, but true, this process of degeneration had been going on in the character of Mr. Lambert, until, at the time we first knew him, there was only one trait left of his original nature. This was a peculiar, unquenchable tenderness of feeling toward the poor and distressed. Suspicious as he had become of all around him, ever toward the very ones he was trying to save from their own thriftlessness or crime, this one trail urged him on to give relief; and in this way kept alive one of the healthiest avenues to real goodness, even though his charities were often accompanied by a torrent of reproach.

It was this trait, so congenial to Marion Howard, which drew her to him and led her to suppose he was actuated by love to his Divine Master. In this she was mistaken. In his inmost soul Mr. Lambert accused God of having dealt hardly with him, more hardly than he deserved. He had been wounded in the house of his friends. When his heart had been most vulnerable, there it had been pierced. He had never forgiven nor forgotten the blow. Sometimes, when the recollection of all he had been made to suffer came upon him, he hated himself that he did not revenge himself on all mankind. "I owe no man anything," was one of his favorite mottoes; but after he became acquainted with Marion Howard he did not take much comfort from it. How closely after their first meeting he had watched her! How he longed to find her halting! But no, her motions were too transparent. She had genuine love to God as her Father, to Christ as her Saviour, and it was from this love her kindness to all around her sprang. This he had been forced to acknowledge when analyzing her character. It unsettled him and made him more irritable. Sometimes, when he found himself softened under her influence, he would recall all the injuries heaped on him,—injuries that had blasted his happiness forever.

In his early days he had been a ripe scholar, a graduate from one of our best colleges. He had read on many subjects, and among others on the subject of Christianity. He had read in the Old and New Testaments, but his heart remained cold in the midst of sacred fire.

At times in his life he had taken pleasure in railing and ranting against everything sacred. In connection with the holiest Bible teachings he had used the words "bigotry" and "humbuggery" and "cant," till he almost convinced himself that what he said was true. Almost, but not quite. There was still a spark of truth left in him, if only it could be ignited. He had been thinking of these questions when he called on Marion and asked whether she believed in churches, dogmas, etc. Her words, the earnestness, the assurance she expressed that the Gospel of Christ was indeed good news to men, that in order to live a good life we must believe on Him and follow His example, came home to his heart. He could not shake off the fear that he had been mistaken. He lost his sleep, and at last became so nervous and unsettled, so irritable and unmanageable, that his valet insisted he should summon a physician.

This was his state when Marion came to his bedside. After she left he called for pen and ink, and wrote out, as well as he could recall it, every word of her prayer. This he put in his pocketbook and read over many times in a day, never without tears. The gracious Spirit of God was near, watching, waiting to be gracious.

How many times in the course of the few days following he put Marion's character to the severest test! He applied the touchstones of love, charity, and good-will, and found she answered to them all. Yes, her life was a good one, even judged from his standpoint. She did not act from a desire for the praise of men, but from a genuine love to Christ, and a desire, in her humble manner, to do good to those around her. Her note found his heart more tender than it had been for years, more amenable to good influences. He was not likely to refuse any request she might make, even to the half of his kingdom. He sent her word that he would be ready to accompany her at the time appointed.

On Sunday morning the weather was so extremely sultry that Marion doubted the expediency of taking an invalid to a hot, unventilated attic where the air must necessarily be vitiated. Indeed, she was herself oppressed with such debility and general lassitude as disinclined her for any exertion. But Sunday was one of her busiest days. She had a Bible class in the morning with her own servants and those living with Mrs. Mitchell, church at eleven, and her mission school in the afternoon, to which she usually devoted two hours. Then church in the evening. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell being in the country, she felt that the Bible class was more than ever important to their servants.

It had been her intention to call for Mr. Lambert in her carriage on her way home after the mission school, but, considering the intense heat had just resolved to postpone her visit to Neddy Carter till another Sunday, when she heard the welcome sound of distant thunder.

Before it was time to start for church, the heavy shower had cleared the air and revived her drooping energies.

Neddy Carter's home was only a few blocks from the Five Points mission. Miss Howard's carriage was no novel sight in that vicinity, but, notwithstanding, a group of boys and girls gathered around, gazing with open mouths as the old gentleman alighted —and followed the lady slowly up the steps.

Nothing could have happened more favorably for her project. The room was full, as not only the little ones, but their fathers and mothers, drawn to the room by the singing, had crowded in, filling up even the open door. From an adjoining tenement Miss Howard procured a chair for Mr. Lambert, which she placed in the passage, and an unpainted stool for herself. An opening hymn had been sung, and then the children united in repeating with the young teacher the Lord's Prayer.

Peeping through a space formed by a man's uplifted arm, Mr. Lambert could see the crippled boy seated in his wheeled chair, in front of group of wondering children. His back was toward the door, but the spectator could easily imagine the expression of fervor there would be in his soft brown eyes, the sweet serenity of the brow as he talked to them on the subjects he held most dear.

"You said I might tell about Jesus being born in a stable to-day," began one little boy, raising his hand.

"You may tell it now," Neddy said, in a cheerful voice.

Questions and answers followed, showing that many present had been told of the love of Jesus Christ, even for the most sinful; and then the little missionary, wholly unconscious that others beside the inmates of the neighboring tenement houses were present, with a little wave of the hand to command silence, began,—

"I'm going to tell you the story our teacher told us at the mission school to-day, and then we will sing our favorite hymn.

"A great many years ago there was a rich man. He had two sons. One was good and one was bad. I guess it was the youngest that was bad. He didn't like to work. The other helped his father on the big farm. Teacher said he thought the good one went around and told the servants what to do, and was not afraid to work himself. They had cows and calves and sheep, and all kinds of animals, I guess.

"By and by the lazy one said he was tired of staying at home. He wanted to travel, and he asked his father to give him his part of the money and let him go. His father said yes. So the father and the good son went on together for a great many years. They were pretty happy, but not very. Can you guess why?"

"Maybe the father was a sorrering for the boy who had quit his home," murmured a mother in the farthest corner of the room.

"That's a good guess. Yes, that was the reason he wasn't happy. He loved his boy and he didn't like to have him away."

"Why didn't he get a letter writ?" questioned a man who was holding a child on each knee.

"I don't know," answered Neddy. "I'm sorry I didn't ask teacher that. P'r'aps he didn't know where to send the letter. But now I'm going to tell you about the bad son. He had a whole bagful of money, and he thought it would last him forever. So he kept buying things and spending his money till one day he put his hand in his bag and it was all gone, every bit. He was hungry, but he had not a penny to buy food. He didn't dare to kneel down, as we do, and say, 'Our Father, give us this day our daily bread,' because he had been awfully wicked, getting drunk and lying and swearing, and doing everything bad. You can't guess, any of you, what he did at last. Why, he was that hungry he had to hire out to a farmer who kept pigs, and he watched his chance when nobody was looking, to steal some of the pigs' food. Before this he used to wear gay clothes, now he was all in rags. One day he sat down on a stump of a tree. He was awful homesick. He was tired of being so bad. He thought about his old home, and how kind his father used to be, and what good things he had to eat, He remembered how the men working on the farm had enough to eat. All at once he began to cry, 'I wish I was home. I'm awfully lonely way off here, and nobody speaks a kind word to me. Nobody gives me even the pigs' food. I'm ragged, too, and filthy. Oh, what a fool I was to leave my dear old home!'"

"He cried and sobbed, but nobody pitied him."

"Say, Neddy, did he die among the pigs?" asked a big girl, putting a finger in her eye to keep the tears back.

"I'm coming to the good part now. After he'd been crying a good while, and feeling real sorry he had been so wicked, he thought he heard a voice asking,—

"'Why don't you go home?'"

"'Oh, father wouldn't have me back!'"

"'Yes, he would. He loves you still.'"

"'Loves me! Can it be true? Then I'll go right off.' So he got up off the stump and started. Teacher didn't say how far it was, but at last he came to a place where he could see his home. His heart beat dreadfully. 'Will he take me in? Will he?' Now I'm going to tell you the very words he told himself he would say to his father. Teacher made us all learn them, 'cause she said every one of us could say them to God, our Heavenly Father.

"'And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, the father saw him, and had compassion unto him, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.

"'But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him, and put ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.'"

"Is that 'ere a true story? You don't say he took him right back again? Whew! I guess he was glad he went home."

"There's only one thing more," added Neddy, when the astonishment had somewhat subsided. "Teacher said that the good father in the story means God. Everybody who wanders away from being good, is like the bad son. Just as quick as we are sorry and ask Him to forgive us, He will. She said that we must remember that He is ready just as quick as we say we're sorry.

"Now we'll sing, and then the school is done. You must all begin with me,—

"I am so glad that our Father in heaven

Tells of His love in the book He has given,

Wonderful things in the Bible I see,

This is the dearest, that Jesus loves me.

"Though I forget Him and wander away,

Still He doth love me wherever I stray

Back to His dear loving arms would I flee,

When I remember that Jesus loves me.

"Oh, if there's only one song I can sing,

When in His beauty I see the great King,

This shall my song in eternity be,

Oh, what a wonder that Jesus loves me."

During the whole exercises, Marion had been aware that her companion was deeply affected. She had refrained from looking at him, but now, as the school was breaking up, she asked,—

"Shall we stop and speak to him?"

"No, no! I must get home. I'm too ill to be here."

She had ordered the carriage to be back in an hour, and was glad to see that it was at the door. They were seated in it and driving off before the crowd came tumbling down the stairs.

Mr. Lambert sank back in his seat, looking so pale that his companion was really alarmed. She said nothing, however, but fanned him continually till they reached his own door. She herself alighted and rang the bell for the valet to assist his master, who muttered to himself,—

"Whatever he's been up to, he looks like death."

[CHAPTER XI.]

MANY BLESSINGS.

THERE could scarcely be a greater contrast in two characters among Miss Howard's associates than Mr. Lambert and Esther Sims, or Esther Cole, as she asked Hepsey to call her for the present. Poor to the extent that, when she left the home in the stable loft, she had not a penny in the world and not a garment fit to wear to her new service, unlearned and ignorant in worldly wisdom, she yet seemed to absorb into her heart as governing motives to her life such sweet and restful views of God as her Father and Jesus as her Saviour as caused her young mistress to exclaim, "Thou and hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes."

With a childlike frankness so peculiar to her, she confided to Miss Howard her increasing trust that God would answer her prayers for her husband's conversion.

"In that case you would return to him, I suppose." Marion wished to test her feelings as a wife.

A pretty pink flush flew all over Esther's face as she lifted her eyes wistfully to the lady's.

"God will take care of me," she said. "I am sure He will. It is of him I'm thinking. Now that he is away from bad people and can't get rum, it is such a nice time for him to become good. When he comes out of prison, if God wants me to go back to him, He will let me know it. Sometimes," she added, in a timid voice, "I think He will, because I promised for better, for worse, you know."

"Would you live with him if he were to beat you and abuse you as he did before?"

"Yes, ma'am, if I were sure God meant it so. I can never be as miserable again as I was before."

"Why can't you?"

"Because I have a friend now who would be close by me always."

"You mean Jesus Christ."

"Yes, ma'am. Even if he did get—get out of his mind with drink, and treat me unkindly, I would tell Jesus, and He would help me to forgive. If I never answered back and always tried to have a smile and the best home I could make for him, perhaps he might try to be better. Oh, I should be too happy!"

She clasped her hands to her breast, and looked so like an innocent child in her perfect trust that Marion shed tears of delight.

During the first week in September, Marion went to the Home for the Sick, to see Mary Falkner, who, with the aid of a cane, was able to walk the length of the ward.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she exclaimed. "The doctors say, with the exception of a limp in my gait, I shall be as well able to walk as any one. They are all so kind to me. Who knows but I shall be able to do some church work in your parish?"

"If you are able we will give you enough to do," answered Marion, blushing.

On her way out the superintendent met her and asked her to step to the parlor for a moment. He took from his pocket a letter recently received, and handed it to her with an arch smile. Though he did not know, he suspected the truth of a rumor he had heard concerning her.

The letter read as follows:—

Dear Sir,—

In memory of God's goodness to my deceased sister and

to myself, while we were within the walls of the Home for the Sick,

and in gratitude for the faithful care to our bodies and our souls,

by pastor, chaplain, and nurses, I send you the enclosed check,

which I think you once told me was the sum necessary to found

a permanent bed in your blessed institution. That your labors may be

as useful in the future as they have been in the past is the sincere

prayer of a fellow-laborer in Christ's vineyard.

HAROLD ANGUS.

"The check was for five thousand dollars," added the gentleman. "It was an unexpected thank-offering, and we are very grateful for it."

Marion expressed her pleasure, adding that Mr. Angus had told her how much he owed to the faithful teachings he received while in the Home.

This seemed to our young friend to be a day to mark with a white stone, it was so full of blessings. When she reached home she found a letter from Mr. Lambert which overwhelmed her and sent her to her knees to thank God for answering her humble prayers.

It was characteristic of himself in its brevity.

"Kind and faithful Friend,—

"The prodigal has returned. The Father

met and embraced him. He has put off his tattered garments. He has

a new robe on him. His voice rings with a new song. In the better

words of another, this is the language of his heart,—

"'I cannot love thee as I would,

Yet pardon me, O Highest Good!

My life and all I call mine own

I lay before Thy mercy throne.

And if a thousand lives were mine,

O sweetest Lord, they should be Thine!

And scanty would the offering be,

So richly Thou hast loved me.'"

A few days later Marion went to Grantbury in answer to a summons from her uncle. The outside walls of the church were finished, with the exception of the spire. The men were at work on the dizzy height, and expected to finish it by the middle of September.

The frame to the new house was raised and nearly boarded in. Mrs. Asbury said people were beginning to take quite an interest in it. One lady asked her point-blank if the clergyman intended to bring home a wife from England, to which she returned a decided "No."

During her stay Marion made a hasty call at the thread and needle store to see the Widow Falkner. Mary had kept her mother informed of her condition, and also of the great kindness all the patients received, but she was delighted to see Miss Howard and learn particulars about her daughter.

Then Marion drove half a mile in another direction for a call on Farmer Rand's wife, who was still an invalid.

Seldom had her appearance created such an excitement. It was evident something pleasant had happened.

"Talk of an angel, etc.," said the farmer, with a grand flourish of his hand. "Sit down, miss. You're as welcome as roses in June. How are ye?"

"We've been thinking a sight about ye," added the gudewife. "We've had a letter. Maybe ye know it."

"S-sh-sh, wife," making a sound like what he would make to quiet his oxen; "wait a bit, I’ve something to say. Now, miss, did ye ever hear about our church meetin'?"

"Yes, indeed, I heard all the items in detail."

"Wall, then, 't won't be breaking no Scripter rule if I do tell that I was moved to draw a few hundreds out of the bank and gin 'em to the Lord. 'T isn't that I'm a speakin' of. That 'ere's only the text to my sarmon, you see. The good book says, The Lord loveth a cheerful giver,' and I will say for myself and my good woman that the Lord He helped us to give that 'ere money with as good a will as though we were spendin' on 't to build a new bedroom out on our south side, as we've been a plannin' to do for a score o' years. Speak for yourself, Lucy. Am I stating your opinions correct?"

"Yes, I was very glad you did it."

"Well, then," said the farmer, laughing as he flourished his hands again, "the first part o' my sermon is 'stablished, and I'll go on. Wife, give me that 'ere Bible, will ye? Now I stan' to it that God holds to His promises even when men aren't looking for Him to do it. Here it is, He that watereth shall be watered himself'; and here's another, 'The liberal soul shall be made fat.' Now look here. Out there on the very edge of my farm there's a piece o' ground o' no airthly value to me. There's nothin' but sorrel'll grow on 't. I'd ha' given it to any friend for the askin'. Wall, one day in come that prince of a man, 'Squire Asbury. I knew by the look o' his eye he meant business. 'Mr. Rand,' says he, 'I ain't no hand to circumvent' round matters; I go straight to the p'int.'"

"'Go ahead,' says I. 'I ain't no hand for circumventing, neither.'"

"'Mr. Rand,' says he, 'what will you take for that 'ere corner lot o' yourn that runs out towards the railroad track?'"

""''Squire Asbury,' says I, 'if you're in want o' that 'ere lot you're as welcome to it as the flowers in May. 'T ain't no vally to me at all.'"

"'No, no,' says he, laughin'. 'I'm a bargaining for the railroad, and they want to put up a freight depot there. The lot almost touches the rails. Set your price.'"

"'Oho!' says I, 'if that's the talk I calkerlate they're able to pay a little suthing. I'll agree to any price you'll name. Don't you say so, wife?'"

"'Yes, I will,' Lucy answered up, loud and prompt."

"'Squire Asbury kind o' laughed and repeated it over again. 'You both agree,' says he, 'to stick to the price I name, be it more or less?'"

"'Yes, we do.'"

"'Well, then, I want the lot just as it lies, sand and all, coming down to a p'int near the railroad, and a runnin' back one hundred feet to the rail fence put across where the land lies even, and I'll give you five hundred dollars for it.'"

"'Good land, 'Squire' says I, ''t ain't wuth it.'"

"'It's wuth every dollar of five hundred to the road,' says he; 'if they have to go a mile farther either way, they'll have to give six or eight. I'll have the deed drawn up ready for you and your wife to sign.'"

"'Squire Asbury,' says I as soon as I could catch my breath, 'I believe the Lord sent you here. When I give that five hundred to the Lord I never thought o' getting it back again, but you see here 't is, dollar for dollar, and more, too, for the pleasure o' giving my mite towards the Lord's new meeting-house was wuth the whole sum. Sure as you live, Lucy and I, we give thanks to God for lettin' of us have the privilege.'"

"'Yes, yes, I know that,' says he, and so he does. If ever a man was blessed in his basket and store it's that same 'Squire Asbury. His hand, as the Scripter says, 'is open to the wants o' the poor.'" He ended with one grand flourish.

Marion laughed heartily as she said, "I wish you'd preach that sermon to some of our rich men on Fifth Avenue who don't know the pleasure of giving. It is as practical a sermon as I ever heard."

"Now, wife, speak up, if you've anything to say."

"Husband and I have had a letter," Mrs. Rand said, opening the large family Bible and taking an envelope from between the leaves. "It has made us real cheery coming so far, and it has good news in it, too. The pastor is real friendly to think of us."

"The pastor," exclaimed Marion, in surprise. "Have you had a letter from Mr. Angus?"

The farmer evidently understood that he had had his turn, and that his wife now had the floor.

He did not speak, but he nodded his head and performed other pantomime in such a remarkable manner that Marion was made aware what news the letter contained before the wife gave it to her to read.

Yes, there it was in plain black and white. He told this aged pair that he was going to be married and settle down among them for life, he hoped. He quoted the words of Solomon, "A prudent wife is from the Lord," and he said, "I'm sure mine is a prudent one, a priceless treasure. That she is from the hands of my Father in heaven I am equally sure. You will agree with me when I tell you Miss Marion Howard, your particular friend, has agreed to cast in her lot with me."

Marion kept her eyes fastened on the letter long after she had finished it. She did not like her good friends to see how much these manly words had affected her. She folded the sheet carefully and passed it back, saying, "I am glad he has told you."

"I guess we shall be able to hold on to him now," rejoined Mr. Rand, trying to laugh. But as Marion rose to go his voice changed to the tenderness of a father. He raised his hand over her head and pronounced a blessing on her and on her chosen friend; then sat down suddenly, and blew his nose like a trumpet to conceal how much he was affected.

[CHAPTER XII.]

A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.

THESE were busy days with our young friend. In company with Hepsey she went to her old home and spent a week in looking over bedding and furniture preparatory to having it removed to Ingleside. Her father's place was let on a long lease, and she was well satisfied with the care taken of it.

Mr. Angus had written to beg her to consent that the wedding should take place immediately on his return, but she replied that the house would not be finished till some time later, and that it was necessary for her to complete her arrangements for her mission and her protégés among the poor before leaving New York.

Since the change in Mr. Lambert, the idea of giving the care of certain families to him had floated through her mind, but she feared he was too impulsive or would be too easily imposed upon if he undertook mission work. Annie Leman had promised to do all in her power, and had already proved both willingness and tact in the work.

On her return from the country, Marion found a note from Mr. Lambert requesting to see her on business. She suspected at once it was in relation to his will, about which he had already spoken to her. She sent James with an answer saying she would call on him at nine the next morning.

Later in the day she was pleasantly surprised by a call from Mrs. Cheriton and Eugene. They had advertised for and obtained a boarding-place in the country a few weeks before, but not being altogether pleased with the class of boarders they met there, had suddenly returned to the city the day before.

Mrs. Cheriton smilingly remarked that her mother seemed as pleased as a child to be back in her old rooms in New York; that she had taken her favorite seat near the window early in the morning, and had spent an hour or more watching the passers-by; that it was with difficulty they could persuade her to leave the window even for her meals.

Geenie gained great praise for his conduct during the visit. He amused himself with a book of pictures Hepsey brought him, and did not once touch any article in the room without liberty from his mother or Marion.

At a quarter to nine the next morning Mr. Lambert sent a carriage for Miss Howard, and on her reaching his house waited upon her to his library, a room adjoining his chamber. She had never seen this room before, and went around examining the pictures hanging over the well-filled bookcases.

He had evidently been writing. Papers covered his table, and his pen was still wet. As he took a seat near her, the visitor was startled at the marks of the agitation of mind through which he had recently passed. His cheeks seemed sunken and a circle round his eyes betokened want of sleep.

"I fear you are not strong enough for business yet," she remarked, anxiously.

"I'm all right," he answered. "I've had letters which have disappointed me—personal matters. By the way, I may tell you about them some time. To-day I want to talk about other things.

"Miss Howard, I want to confess Christ. I want to do just the very thing I once thought a humbug,—to join myself to God's people. I want the help of a faithful pastor to keep my heart right, and I want the counsel of fellow-Christians as to the best methods of working for the Master."

Marion's eyes filled with happy tears. "I'm so glad, so glad!" she murmured. "Will you allow me to bring Dr. M—, my pastor, to see you?"

"No, child, I'm a poor old prodigal. I want to go among the poor and do what I can there. You told me once about a mission chapel. That is my place. It may be I can have courage to do something there, to help men, who, like myself, have lived for years among the husks."

"Oh, how I wish you would go to our parish in the country! There is a great work to do there, and you ought to be where your daughter could look after you."

"That would be a great inducement, child. You are nearer to my heart than any other. I have no ties of kin,—at least I can learn of none. Another time I may tell you the nature of the disappointment to which I referred. You will pity the poor, lonely man, I'm sure."

His tone was so sad that it deeply moved her, and taking his hand she pressed her lips upon it.

"Don't do that, I can't bear it. I shall be unfit for the business if I allow my feelings to have sway. I have been jotting down a few items in connection with the disposal of my property. I have more money than I know what to do with. If that interloper had not stepped in, I would make you my heir, and you could scatter it round as you please. As it is, I have set aside a few thousands to educate our friend Neddy, and I want you to look after him if anything happens to me.

"What is the name of that girl-wife you told me about, whose husband is in prison? I want to give you a thousand for her own use. If she goes back to that scoundrel it must be so tied up that he can't get at it. Will you have the goodness to pass me that long paper, ruled with red ink? That's the one."

In selecting this paper from the others, Marion had to move several letters lying on top. As she did so her eyes fell on an open page, with the name Madrid in full view. "Madrid! Does he have letters from Madrid? That was Mrs. Douglass's native place."

Her heart almost stopped beating, as a sudden possibility flashed like lightning through her mind. She glanced back at Mr. Lambert. "Could he, oh, could he be the cruel, exacting man whose jealousy and distrust had rendered the life of her friend so miserable? No! Oh, no!" And yet the thought, once entertained, would not be banished. "What if he is? How can I find out? How would he bear it? What a happy future he might have! What shall I do? What can I say?"

Her habitual frankness came to her aid. She had mechanically given him the paper and sank back in her chair, while he was so occupied in glancing over the items that he had not noticed her wild stare of astonishment.

"Mr. Lambert—" She stopped; her heart seemed to rise up in her throat and choke her. "Mr. Lambert, did you ever live in Madrid? I saw the address on an open letter. I do not ask from mere curiosity."

"The most blissful and the most wretched days of my life were passed in that city."

"Mr. Lambert, something has happened to me. I—I can't think of business to-day. Will you excuse and trust me as though I were your own daughter? I want to tell you about a dear friend, the grandmother of the beautiful boy you have heard me speak about with such rapture. I promised to bring him to see you some day. That boy is a native of Madrid."

"What is the mother's name?"

"Cheriton, Mrs. Juliette Cheriton."

He shook his head thoughtfully. "I never heard the name." He laid down the paper with a little vexed and disappointed air, adding, "I haven't been in Madrid for more than eighteen years."

"It is Mrs. Cheriton's mother who is my special friend. She is one of the loveliest, most accomplished ladies I know, and such an earnest Christian, too."

"Is her name Cheriton?"

"Oh, no! Eugene's mother is her daughter. She calls herself Douglass."

"Douglass!" Mr. Lambert started forward, then sank back and looked as though he had been struck. Presently, with his hand on his heart, he said in a choking voice,—

"Tell me all you know. Don't spare me. This suspense is killing me."

"I will tell you all, though I can only suspect the truth. Mrs. Douglass, as my friend chooses to be called, told me this was not her wedded name. Just before her daughter's birth, painful family circumstances arose, which caused a separation between herself and her husband. She has never seen him since."

"Did she confide these circumstances to you?" The voice seemed to come from a tomb.

"Yes, she did, and it has been her life-long regret that she could not explain them to the one most interested."

"You are an innocent child. Mrs. Douglass, as she calls herself, was my wife. She has deceived you. I saw what I saw with my own eyes. She even gave up the ring I presented her on our betrothal."

"Mr. Lambert, you must be calm. She does not deserve such bitter scorn. You were deceived in one particular. You thought her an only child. She had a brother, a wild, reckless man, who afterward paid the penalty for his crimes. Mr. Douglass forbade all mention of his name, and frequently alluded to his daughter as his only child. It was this wicked, daring fellow who suddenly appeared to my friend, and almost drove her wild by demanding money or jewels from her. She agreed to see him once, and give him all she could raise, on condition he would never cross her path again. She did see him. He seized her and held her forcibly while he wrested from her finger the valuable ring you had given her. His cruelty nearly cost her her life. She was carried to her bed, fell into convulsions, during which her child was born. The resolve she had made to tell you the truth at whatever cost, even her father's displeasure, it was impossible for her to carry out. Before she was well enough to understand what had passed, her husband, deceived and betrayed by a servant, who with tears and groans confessed her guilt, was a witness to the meeting between herself and her brother. He believed her lost to him and to virtue. He himself carried her in his arms to her couch, when, overcome by her brother's cruelty, she fainted, but he never gave her an opportunity to explain the painful meeting. If he had—"

She was interrupted by a terrible groan from Mr. Lambert. He threw his arms up, then, with a gurgling sound in his throat, he sank back, insensible.

Marion flew to the door and screamed for the valet. She loosened the necktie, and began vigorously to chafe the cold hands, but it was some minutes before he revived.

"The doctor cautioned him to avoid all excitement," said the servant, with a reproachful glance at the visitor. "Ever since those foreign letters came he's been terribly took down."

Marion was bending over him, with her hand on his forehead, when he opened his eyes.

"Don't—leave—me," he gasped. Presently he spoke again. "Do you think God will forgive me?" The tone was so piteous she found it impossible to control her voice to answer. She bowed her head.

"Will you take a little hartshorn, sir?" asked the valet.

"Yes."

When it had been administered, he said, "Stay in the anteroom, Miss Howard may need you.—Pray for me," he added the moment they were alone.

"Yes, I will; but first I want to tell you that your wife, if Mrs. Douglass is indeed your wife, has loved you all these years. She blames herself that she did not insist that her father should tell you of her brother Henreich. I do not think there has been a day these last ten years that she has not prayed for your conversion."

His lip quivered like a grieved child, while great tears rolled down his pale cheeks. In a voice scarcely more than a whisper, he said,—

"Do you think it possible that she will forgive me?"

"She has forgiven you already."

There was a long silence after this. Mr. Lambert's countenance showed that a terrible struggle was going on in his breast. Marion could not look upon it, and covered her face, her cry going up to God for help and comfort to this poor man. At last, recalling his request, she fell on her knees, and in a low tone offered up her petitions in his behalf.

When she rose to her feet, she was startled at the awful pallor which had settled on his features. She put her fingers on his pulse, and to her terror found there was scarcely any beat.

"Go for the doctor as quickly as possible," she cried to the servant. "No, send some one. Don't leave me! He is very low."

Fortunately the physician was near at hand and was soon at the bedside. In a few words Marion related the wonderful story, that she had just made the discovery that Mrs. Douglass was Mr. Lambert's wife, which accounted for his alarming state of exhaustion.

For several hours it was doubtful whether Mr. Lambert would ever speak again. The physician told Marion that his case was a very critical one, but at length they were able to force down a tonic, and soon after he sank into slumber.

The room was darkened, every sound hushed, and the faithful valet sat alone to watch and wait by his master's bedside.

It was night when he awoke; the physician had been in and out several times, and ordered a few spoonsful of nourishment as soon as he awoke. This was given him and he tried to speak.

"Miss Howard."

"She is not here. She said she would be back early in the morning."

"I may not live till then. Take—a—pen—and—write. With my dying breath I ask her to forgive me.—I leave to her—all—that I have—in the—world,—with my dying—love and blessing. She, Miss—Howard, will—know who—I mean. Tell her not to let our daughter think too hard of her father. Fold—it and direct to Miss Howard."

Meanwhile Marion had returned home in such a state of excitement and fatigue that the physician, who took her there, sent her at once to bed, and ordered Hepsey to give her a powerful anodyne. When she woke, Mr. Lambert's servant had been to say that he wanted to see her as soon as she was able. Hepsey insisted that she should not go until she had eaten a hearty breakfast.

"I think you ought to consider what Mr. Angus would say," she urged, "and for his sake take a little care of your health."

"Hepsey, I feared last night that Mr. Lambert was dead, and, oh, Hepsey, it was what I had been telling him that made him fall into the swoon! You will not wonder that I was sick with fear when I tell you about it."

"I shall tell Mr. Angus that you've had enough of excitement for one life, and he'd better get you to the country as soon as he can."

[CHAPTER XIII.]

RECONCILIATION AND HAPPINESS.

THE carriage was already at the door, and Miss Howard drove hastily to Mr. Lambert's residence. She was informed that he was stronger, had taken more nourishment, and was again asleep. The valet came from the chamber where the sick man had been carried and gave her the sealed envelope; and with this in her hand she started for Mrs. Douglass's boarding-house, scarcely daring to read the words, lest she should unfit herself for the exciting scenes she must expect. After a cursory glance at the page she thrust it back into the envelope, and endeavored to form some plan by which she might best convey to her invalid friend the wonderful discovery she had made.

Early as it was, Mrs. Cheriton had taken her boy for a walk. Mrs. Douglass sat reading by the window. She greeted Miss Howard with a smile and then, noticing her flushed face, asked,-

"Are you well, dear?"

"Can you bear good news, Mrs. Douglass?"

"Good news seldom hurts any one."

"Have you ever thought that your husband might be living near you?"

"I know where he lives; I learned it by accident while in the country and found it impossible to remain away."

"And that explains your sudden return and your watching so constantly from the windows?" Marion's tone was full of wonder.

"I never told you his name. How did you find it out?"

Marion then related all that had passed, and ended with giving the paper which the sick man had dictated when he thought himself dying.

Mrs. Douglass's countenance expressed the deepest feeling, but she braced herself against giving way to her excitement.

"I have been praying earnestly that I might be prepared for this discovery, should it take place," she said. "I will go with you and assure him of my entire forgiveness. Juliette knows nothing of her father's desertion, and she need not be made acquainted with the discovery."

"Oh, Mrs. Douglass, I am sure he will never part with you again."

She shook her head, rose, and put on her bonnet and shawl.

Marion saw that, while she was making a great effort to appear calm, her hands trembled so much that she could not tie the bonnet-strings. Unobserved by the lady, she wrote with pencil on a piece of paper:—

Dear Mrs. Cheriton,—

I have taken your mother with me. Please remain

at home with Geenie till I call or send for you.

MARION.

This she left in plain sight on the table.

On their way little was spoken until they approached the door, when Marion said,—

"I hope the doctor will be there. I dare not take you to Mr. Lambert's room without his permission."

The servant who opened the door stared at the new-comer, and said to Miss Howard,—

"Mr. Lambert is too ill, ma'am, to see visitors."

"Yes, I know. This lady is going with me to the parlor to see the doctor."

She gave Mrs. Douglass her arm, and found from the manner the lady leaned against her that she could scarcely support herself.

The valet came at once. "Mr. Lambert is awake," he said, "and has been calling for you."

"I cannot leave this lady alone. Is the doctor here?"

"He's just going, miss. I hear him coming downstairs."

"Ask him to come here."

"Dr. Danforth, this is my friend, Mr. Lambert's wife. Can she see him?"

"Go and tell him she is here. He is as impatient this morning as ever old Mr. Regy was."

The doctor tried to smile, but looked anxious.

"I thought you would never come," said the sick man in a petulant tone. "I might have died without ever asking her to forgive me."

"Would you like to see her now?"

"Would I?" He gave a scream which speedily brought the valet to his side.

"Get me up! Bring my clothes! Where is she? Don't let her go! I'll be ready in a minute."

The valet was thunderstruck, and looked at Miss Howard helplessly.

"Mr. Lambert," said Marion, in an authoritative tone, "if you don't lie down and be calm I'll take Mrs. Lambert away again. There, that is right!" as he assented like a penitent boy.

"You must be calm, for her sake. She is an invalid, and has been for years."

"Will you explain to her why I can't go to her? It's my place. Are you sure she'll forgive me?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Now," said Marion, addressing the valet, who stood in open-mouthed wonder, "you may go to the parlor and ask the doctor to assist Mrs. Lambert up the stairs."

The sick man quickly covered his face, and she heard him whispering a prayer for help. "For his sake and for your own, be as calm as possible," said Dr. Ross, leaving the lady at the door and motioning the servant to retire.

Marion only waited to see the long-deserted wife glide quickly to the bedside, and then she, too, left them alone. The meeting was too sacred for any eye but the omnipresent One to witness.

Marion Howard was blessed with an excellent constitution, but of late her keen sympathy with her friends, her frequent visits to her mission scholars, in connection with the arrangements she was making to leave, in addition to her own numerous cares, the purchase of her trousseau, etc., had taxed her strength to an unusual degree. Now that the wife was restored to her husband, Dr. Danforth insisted that she should go home and take some rest.

"I will, as soon as I have brought Mrs. Cheriton and her boy." She had scarcely finished her sentence before a sudden attack of dizziness made her clutch at a chair for support.

"You must return, and at once," he said. "I will do all that is necessary. I prophesy that this discovery will be the most effectual remedy for Mr. Lambert."

Marion found it most prudent to yield, and hastily leaving word that Mrs. Cheriton was to be sent for, she left the doctor to make all needed explanation for her sudden departure. The next morning, in consequence of a telegram from Dr. Ross, Mrs. Asbury made her appearance, and coolly remarked that she had come to stay till her niece was able to return with her.

On a bright October morning let us take a peep at Mr. Lambert and his now united family. They have left the grand house in the city to spend the autumn months on his farm in the country. To see our friend now we should not imagine him to have been so recently one of Dr. Danforth's sickest patients. His heart and his conscience at rest, his countenance grows daily more serene, while he declares he feels as young and fresh as he ever did. His wife, Mrs. Douglass no more, moves quietly about, keeping within sight of the husband from whom she has been so long separated. She is making a study of his character eccentricities and all, and has already gained such an influence over him that his eye turns naturally toward her for approval. Many times in a day he asks for and receives a full assurance of her entire forgiveness. Many hours are passed in recounting the events which have occurred since they last met, the keen disappointment he experienced when at last, unable longer to endure the suspense, he wrote a friend in Madrid for news of her, and learned that it was supposed she was deceased, and had been for many years.

The ring once wrested from her finger by her unnatural brother was restored to its old place, it having been taken from the prisoner just before his execution. As they looked at it and called to mind all the wonderful providences which after so many years had brought them together, their hearts were filled with new gratitude to their Heavenly Father, who had out of these afflictions led them to a knowledge of Himself.

Toward his beautiful daughter, Juliette Cheriton, Mr. Lambert exhibited a ludicrous respect, mingled with an unbounded admiration. He found it extremely difficult to convince himself that she in reality was his child. He watched her stealthily, blushing like a boy when caught doing so. On the subject of her husband he was at first reticent. It was, however, the occasion of reviving his old habit of grumbling when he heard a wish expressed that Mr. Cheriton would return, that there might be a complete union of the family. He rushed about the room growling,—

"He'd better not, the villain; I'd soon settle him. Let him stay away! I'll let him understand I don't intend to leave her a penny."

In the mean time he lavished every indulgence upon her. She had a pony carriage for her exclusive use. Her purse was kept filled to overflowing. If it had been possible to spoil her he would have done it. How often in these days her mother thanked God that her daughter had not been brought into such temptations to worldliness until she had learned to place her affections on objects higher and more enduring.

For his grandson Mr. Lambert felt such intense pride that he needed constant checks in order that the boy need not take advantage of the foolish fondness bestowed on him. If Mr. Lambert had never had a master before, he had one now, and as we enter the house this bright autumnal morning, a sight meets us which is proof of the fact.

A wide hall runs directly through the old-fashioned dwelling, and racing back and forth through this hall is our old friend, dressed as his double, Mr. Regy, his long white hair floating behind him, as he obeys the whip of his young driver, and canters, trots, or walks in obedience to the orders of his grandson.

"Get up, horse; go faster, grandpa!"

Geenie in his voyage of discovery has resurrected many old and once familiar objects, and among them Mr. Regy's dress.

"What's this? Who wears this?" he shouts, holding up the wig and beard to view.

Being obliged to confess that he has sometimes worn these singular articles, the boy demands that they be at once used by his horse; and the owner, never dreaming that it was possible to refuse, donned them, and with a pair of worsted reins round his body proceeded to jingle the bells, running and cantering, to the perfect delight of the young driver.

Well for all concerned it was that Mrs. Cheriton had learned from sad experience that if she wished her son to love and respect her she must enforce obedience to her own commands and to the commands of God. Mr. Lambert, though he often pleaded that the child's wishes, however unreasonable, might be gratified, and was once or twice detected in comforting him with confectionery under his disappointments, yet acknowledged that his daughter's discipline was necessary and must be maintained.

A most ludicrous scene had once taken place between Eugene and his grandfather, which those who saw it never forgot.

The boy had disobeyed, and his mother placed him in a room by himself to reflect upon his fault, for which he was to be punished. He was sitting soberly in the chair where she had placed him, when, hearing a sound from the adjoining room, he went in and found his grandfather weeping.

"What are you crying for, grandpa?" he asked, quickly.

"I don't want your mother to whip you, but she must; yes, it's right for her to do it."

"Don't cry, grandpa; I don't mind. She doesn't hurt me any; she only tickles me a little. 'T isn't nice for a big man like you to cry."

"Eugene, come here," called his mother, taking his hand to lead him back to his chair. She repeated what she had heard to her mother, saying,—

"I had as much as I could do to keep from showing my amusement. Father looking so penitent, and Eugene comforting him."

[CHAPTER XIV.]

CHRISTMAS DAY.

IT is Christmas day. The chimes in the spire of the new church are playing sweet melodies; and the Sunday-school children, whose gift the chimes have been, are gathering together from all quarters of the town to practise with their teachers the Christmas carols they are to sing.

This is the first service in the beautiful new church. It is to be publicly dedicated to the worship of God on the next Sabbath, but for weeks the workmen have put forth all their energies to have it ready for a service on Christmas day. The choir have been practising, too; and it is rumored new organist is expected, although his engagement does not commence till the first of January.

The sleigh-bells jingle merrily, for the ground is covered with snow. Even now, an hour before service, several stalls in the neat row of horse-sheds are occupied. Now here comes Farmer Rand, smiling and nodding, and shouting his Christmas salutations to young and old, as he drives his old horse up the ascent, through the gate close to the nicely shovelled flagged walk to the front. The good farmer has a precious load to-day, and he is very careful of it. Yes, that is Lucy, his old woman, so wrapped up in shawls and buffalo-robes—with a hot brick in her great yellow muff, and another at her feet, which just now are cased in a pair of her husband's blue socks—that she finds it almost impossible to alight from the sleigh.

For weeks the good woman has been nursing her strength for this great and joyful occasion. For days she and her man have watched the signs of the weather, have even prayed that, if it was God's will, it might be so propitious as to make it safe for her to go up to the house of the Lord and join with His people in their anthems of praise to the new-born King.

Fortunately the sexton has recognized the farmer, and runs quickly to offer his services it helping her to the porch. One and another come forward to greet her and express their pleasure at seeing her here. The children, even, gather round her pew and say,—

"Merry Christmas, Miss Rand! How do you like the new church?"

Yes, on this natal day of the world's Redeemer every face looks joyful, every voice responds heartily to the kind wishes of his neighbor. It is evident that a great wave of love and good-will is flowing through all their hearts as they suddenly pause and listen to the children's joyous tones chanting the strains the angels sang, "Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth, good-will to men."

The service is to commence at eleven. The hand on the new and elegant clock, a gift from the Pastor, points to five minutes before eleven; the children have finished their practising and gone quietly to their seats at one end of the organ loft. The slips are all full. There is a hush. There comes the pastor and his bride, not a stranger, but known and loved by all. Pausing for an instant to show her into the pew, the first one selected in the house, he passes on up the aisle into the study at the side of the pulpit. Ethel, the only other occupant of the slip, causes a smile by her obsequious attentions to the bride. She takes a hymn-book from the rack, and, though unable to read a word, opens it and passes it, gets as near Marion as possible, and finally, with a burst of affection, seizes her hand.

And Marion, her beaming face radiant with happiness, stands up with the congregation, while the choir sing the famous old fugue,—

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

All seated on the ground,

The angel of the Lord came down,

And glory shone around."

Recalling all the goodness of the Lord to her during the last year, the answers to her prayers, the many friends, who, one year ago, were without Christ, now with Him, the happiness to which she may look forward with the chosen companion of her life, her heart swells with gratitude to the good Father who has directed her path in such mercy, and to the dear Saviour whose advent they are so joyously celebrating. She thanks God, and takes courage to go on laboring to bring those about her to a saving knowledge of His love.

Her husband, glancing at her from the pulpit, sees that her eyes are filled with tears, and he, too, thanks God, as he says to himself, "They are happy tears."

As long as we are the inhabitants of this earth, we must expect occasional clouds with our sunshine. Disappointments are the lot of mankind, and certainly neither Mr. Angus nor Miss Howard expected to be exempt from them. The plan from the first had been to have the wedding the week before Christmas, and a reception or housewarming at Ingleside the following Monday. But, from one cause and another, the new house was not finished, and this plan had to be postponed.

It was Marion's preference to defer the wedding till such time as the house was considered fit for occupation. Such a pressure was, however, brought to bear on her, that she yielded to the wishes of her friend. He brought so many arguments to prove that the plan he now proposed was even better than the original one, that the few weeks before entering on the duties of housekeeping would give her just the leisure necessary for the formation of some of their new plans, etc., that, with a hearty laugh, she replied,—

"I see that you intend to have your way, and as I believe that God intended the husband to be the head of the family, I suppose I may as well begin my obedience now. So on the week before Christmas the wedding shall be."

I am very sure if my reader had not seen Mr. Angus since I first introduced him he would not recognize him now. Then he was bowed down with grief, not only for himself, but for one whom he had every reason to suppose was cherishing as toward her brother such anger in her heart as would cut her off from Divine forgiveness. He was, or felt himself to be, alone in the world. He had no right to form a tie which would make another the sharer of such a burden as his. To be sure, he had brooded over that one scene in his past life until he had become morbid, and perhaps had not relief come to him he might have become unfit to preach the gospel of glad tidings to his fellow-men. When he walked, his eyes were cast down to the ground, while sighs were much more frequent with him than smiles.

Now how different. He walked erect, with elastic tread, his eyes met yours with a frank smile. One could scarcely be with him five minutes without being drawn to him by a certain magnetism. You felt that his heart was at rest, and more, you could not fail to be sure that he was grateful for God's goodness, that he was literally obeying the Divine injunction, "Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again, I say, rejoice."

Mr. and Mrs. Asbury cordially extended an invitation to the young couple to remain with them till spring. The gentleman even urged the necessity of having his niece close at hand until certain building plans, etc., were complete. But this needs explanation.

It was not probable that such grateful friends as Mr. and Mrs. Lambert would allow so grand an occasion as Miss Howard's marriage to take place without some act expressive of their deep affection and respect. Now that Mr. Lambert had a wife and daughter with whom he could consult, he spent much time in the discussion of what would be the most acceptable wedding present. Once, hearing the word "jewelry" from his daughter, he shouted,—

"Jewelry! Would she like diamonds? I'll buy up a case of them."

"I said I was sure she would not care for jewelry."

"What shall it be, then? Not that anything we can do will ever prove to her our sense of her goodness and faithfulness to us; but it must be something to show her that I value my family, owe to her my finding them."

One day, before she left the city, Marion accepted an urgent invitation to pass a day at the country home of her friends. She also was requested to bring Esther and Neddy Carter with her. During the day, the young lady, wholly unsuspicious of the object of the visit, frankly narrated her own and Mr. Angus's plans for the good of the town. Among other things, she said that there was no library for free circulation, adding, "One of my most-cherished plans is to build a neat and attractive house,

with two large rooms, one for a library of well-selected books, the other a reading-room for both secular and religious papers, and also some of the best magazines. But we can't do everything in one year."

Mrs. Lambert had suggested to her impulsive husband that it would be more delicate not to allude to the subject of a wedding gift, but here, he thought, is just the way to please her. He rushed from the room, motioning his wife to follow, and after sundry antics, such as would have better befitted Geenie's years, he drew a blank check, and with his fingers on his lips, held it up before his astonished companion.

"It's for the library," he said, putting his lips close to her ear.

She nodded approval with a cordial smile, but pointed to the blank space.

"Let her fill it up. Will ten thousand do? It must be nothing mean."

"Suppose we wait a little and try to ascertain the probable cost."

"No, I can't wait! I want it off my mind. If you don't want to see old Mr. Regy," with a comical grin, "you'll help me now."

She put her hand lovingly on his shoulder, which never failed to calm his impatience, and asked softly, "Why not, then, let her fill it up, as you suggested?"

"So I will!" He held the check toward her and motioned her to give it.

"No, my dear, generous husband, that pleasure belongs to you; I can see just how her eyes will sparkle and those pretty dimples begin to play."

He flatly refused. "No," he said, laughing, "if I were to attempt it I should be old Regy again in a minute."

She sat down at his desk and wrote,—

Dear Friend,—

We have tried in vain to think of a gift for your

approaching marriage which will in any measure suitably express

to you our appreciation of your invaluable friendship.

Your remark just now in regard to a library and reading-room

has suggested the idea of giving to you funds sufficient for that

worthy object and letting you use them as you think proper.

JULIETTE D. LAMBERT.

M. R. LAMBERT.

She gave it to her husband to read and sign, enclosed the blank check, and carried it into the next room and gave it to Miss Howard.

With what astonishment and delight the young lady read it, the embraces and thanks which followed, I must leave my reader to imagine. In the midst of the excitement which followed, Mr. Lambert, who had chosen to remain behind, raced from one end of the room to the other, where he was found by Eugene holding on to his sides and making the most strenuous endeavors to restrain his laughter.

In consequence of this generous gift, a lot of land was purchased, not far from the public school, and the town at a public meeting, called for the purpose, added to the library lot a large field formerly used for pasturage. This was to be fitted up for all sorts of games and athletic sports.

Mr. Lambert and his family went to Grantbury, and insisted that the library building be two stories, the upper story to be finished off into a hall for concerts, school exhibitions, etc. The eccentric old gentleman was very angry when it was proposed to name this "Lambert Hall," in token of gratitude to the giver.

"I've nothing to do with it," he insisted. "Put it Howard Hall or Angus Hall, if you please. It's nothing to me, any way."

"Except that your name stands at the bottom of the check for the cost," replied Marion, with an arch glance in his face.

"Things have come to a pretty pass—wedding present—chose that rather than diamonds."

He was growling away in the genuine old style, when Geenie made them all laugh heartily by calling out,—

"Grandma, did you bring Mr. Regy's wig? He has come back again."

[CHAPTER XV.]

OUR INGLESIDE.

ESTHER COLE had received two letters, or rather notes, from her husband since the one she wrote him; but now months had passed without a word in answer to her regular weekly letter. Mr. Angus was greatly interested in the young wife who was so patiently enduring her trials, and insisted that she ought to be allowed to follow the dictates of her own conscience in regard to her connection with her husband.

Day after day Esther looked for a letter, but looked in vain. At length, pitying her too evident disappointment, Mr. Angus wrote to the chaplain of the prison, making inquiries in regard to the man. The letter, about which he had said nothing, was answered immediately, and contained a slip cut from an Auburn paper. Joseph Cole, with three of the worst prisoners, had escaped from their confinement early one dark night. They had nearly killed a watchman who ran to give notice, and had so far escaped justice.

The chaplain added that the criminals had been subsequently traced to New Orleans, where a gang of roughs had been seized for arson and murder. On the trial it was proved that the younger and apparently the most hardened had a number of aliases, but that his real name was Joseph Cole.

"My poor, trusting Esther!" exclaimed Marion to her husband, "this will end your faith in your husband's reformation. This will settle the question of your return to him."

But greatly to her surprise, and to the surprise of all Esther's friends, though she mourned so deeply over Joseph's sins that her cheeks grew colorless and her eyes looked into yours more wistfully than ever, she yet held fast to her belief that God had power to touch the hardest heart, and that in answer to her importunate prayers He would, in His own good time, lead him to penitence and a godly life.

"Whether he ever comes back to me or not is of little consequence, ma'am," she said, as Marion was trying to comfort her. "I don't think I shall live many years, but, oh, I do long for him to know how God can comfort people! What would I do now, ma'am, if I were without Christ, as I once was? If poor Joe only had Christ, he would be happier than he ever was in his life, even though he is in his cell."

The last was said with a piteous sob, which went to the listener's heart far more than the loudest wails.

And here we must leave our humble friend. We know that God did fill her heart with such thoughts of Himself, of His pitying tenderness toward all His creatures, that she was comforted under the bitterest sorrow a Christian can be called to endure,—the unworthiness of those we love. We leave her to the gracious sympathizing Saviour.

Glancing forward a few years, I am sure the reader will be pleased to learn that Neddy Carter is fulfilling the promise of his childhood. Meeting him in the street, one would never imagine that he is indebted to artificial supports for his ability to go from place to place, while his clear, brown eyes, looking you so straight in the face, his open brow, and abundant, wavy locks, interest the most casual observer.

If he were asked, "Who is the happiest youth in this great city?" he would, without hesitation, answer,—

"It would be hard to find a happier boy than I am since my mother goes with me regularly to church."

He is and will be for years to come a protégé of Mr. Lambert, who has given over a sum of money to proper guardians for the purpose of educating him.

The library building is finished, the shelves are lined with books selected by the pastor, who is the chairman of the library association, and a company of ladies and gentlemen appointed for the purpose. The hall above, forty feet by sixty, is fitted up with a curtain, foot-lights, etc., but can never be used except with the consent of Mrs. Marion Howard Angus. After many discussions, the name "Howard Hall" is conspicuous over the desk, but our old friend Marion is eager to assure every one who points to it that it is a memorial, not to herself, but to her father.

A very pleasant circumstance in connection with the library is that Mary Falkner, now confirmed in health and activity, was unanimously chosen librarian, with a salary large enough to support herself and her mother.

One more scene, and I have done.

Accompany me, dear reader, up this smoothly gravelled walk to the elegant mansion at the summit of Church Hill. Notice as you pass that luxurious vine winding itself so lovingly around the pillars. The slip from which it has grown was brought by Mr. Angus from the old Ingleside homestead.

Although it is June, the mornings are cool, and as we push open a French window and step in from the wide, uncovered piazza, we see an open fireplace, with a few embers smouldering away on the high brass and irons. There is an air of refinement and cosey, homelike comfort about the room that we would like to describe, but something of still greater interest attracts us.

Sitting on a low chair near the fire is a young girl, whom we soon recognize as the little Ethel we loved so dearly. As we have seen her so many times, she is still hovering over a cradle, but this time the occupant is a living, breathing, cooing, jumping, heart-winning baby.

At this moment the little one is sleeping. Ethel gazes lovingly at the fair countenance, the rosy lips moving in pleasant recollection of the sweets it has tasted, the long, curly lashes resting on the plump cheek, and acknowledges to herself that live babies are a great improvement on dolls.

Now voices are heard in the hall. Just as a lady and gentleman enter, a carryall drives to the door. The gentleman has on his arm sundry wraps, an afghan, a tiny cap being daintily held on his outstretched fingers. There is a new expression on his features, and we can scarcely believe that this tall athlete, this noble-looking man, with a smile on his lips, which looks as though it belonged there, is the same gentleman whom we first knew as Harold Angus.

But how shall I describe our Marion? The eyes are as bright, the dimples still in view, but the whole face is flooded with a new light. It is the mother love.

She takes little Stella from the cradle, uttering those soothing sounds which even the youngest babies so well understand, and dresses her for the ride, Ethel, meanwhile, looking on in wondering admiration.

They are going to the station to meet their dear friends, Dr. and Mrs. B-, from the Home for the Sick, and when they have driven around the town, intend to bring them home for a quiet Sunday.

And this is our Ingleside.