TABLE OF CONTENTS.

"I know what you would say, pa," interrupted Mrs. Asbury, in a deprecating tone. "But it isn't fair to judge so soon. It's a trying situation for a young clergyman. If it was our Gardner, now, we should want people to remember that it isn't easy to stand up before strangers and preach one's first sermon."

"I shan't be a minister, ma; I've made up my mind on that." Joe looked at his sister, who generally was not backward in expressing an opinion. Now she only said, as though speaking to herself, "I wonder what Marion would say."

The family had just returned from morning service, where the new pastor for the first time had met the people. Aunt Thankful, as she was called, had taken off her bonnet and shawl, folding the latter carefully in the creases; now, with a peremptory wave of her hand to enjoin silence, she said,—

"There's either sorrer or there's sin behind him. I'm inclined to think it's sorrer. It's Scripter, you know, to let charity have its perfect work."

The door-bell at this moment ringing, Aunt Thankful, who was passing Sunday with her friends, seized her bonnet and shawl and left the room. Annie started for the door, to answer the summons, while Joe opened his library book and began to read.

The sound of a manly but nervous step in the chamber above called forth a sigh from Mr. Asbury, followed by the words,—

"I'm dreadfully afraid, wife, we've made a mistake."

"Don't look so melancholy, pa," urged Annie, returning, "or Mr. Angus will think we are talking of him. He asked what time we dined, and said he would like to go to his chamber for a few minutes."

While he paces back and forth in the apartment assigned him, I will explain that the parish to which Mr. Asbury belonged had lost their pastor by death six months before the opening of our story; that a succession of candidates had been heard, discussed, and dismissed; that the people, wearied out by their own criticisms, were beginning to scatter; that at length they conceived the idea of sending a Committee on an exploring tour, which Committee, going to hear a city preacher, heard in his place a young man lately graduated from the divinity school; that they were so impressed with his heartiness in his work they requested an introduction and invited him to add one more to the number of competing candidates; that he politely but firmly declined, not believing, this the proper method of obtaining a clergyman that, after making inquiries of his Professors and others, and receiving instructions to go forward from the church at home, the Committee did proceed to call the Rev. Mr. Angus to be their pastor; that, after several weeks of earnest prayer for guidance, he did accept their call, the public services of his ordination to take place the week following his first sermon.

His arrival in the town, which I shall call Grantbury, late on Saturday evening, had given the family little opportunity for forming an opinion of the new pastor; that he was tall and vigorous in frame, with a countenance sad rather than smiling, eyes looking far away, a sweet, musical voice with a sad note running through it, was all that they knew of him until they took their seats in church directly in front of the pulpit. The sermon was on Christ's invitation to the weary and heavy laden to come to him for rest. In the most graphic language he depicted the condition of these poor, sad, weary sufferers, bearing their heavy burden of sin and sorrow, longing to be rid of it, but knowing not how to throw it off, groaning in secret places, with an abiding dread of what the future might bring to them. He brought tears to many eyes unused to weep, by the vividness with which he portrayed the soul in darkness, but longing for the light, empty, void of faith in God or man, shut up in a prison of gloomy thought and forebodings, every day verging toward the frightful chasm of despair.

Listening to the preacher's voice trembling with pathos, no one could doubt that he well understood by personal experience the condition of those to whom our blessed Lord extended this gracious invitation. Every eye was fixed on his, every heart followed him; but when, turning from the weary and heavy laden, he pointed to the One who could deliver them from all their wretchedness, the note of sadness still lingered. Instead of the triumphant ring of victory from the freed soul, the tone of peace and rest from those delivered from their heavy load, there was an unexplained want of harmony between the manner and voice of the speaker and the subject of which he was treating. A general restlessness among the audience proved their disappointment.

The sermon closed with a passionate appeal to all present to accept Christ's offer of pardon, peace, and rest. The people rose to receive the benediction, half wondering at the sadness which oppressed them. Under other circumstances they would have crowded around the new pastor, offering their hands in token of their welcome. They had been prepared to receive him with enthusiasm. The weeks of suspense during which they were waiting his reply to their call had deepened their anxiety to obtain the services of one so highly recommended, but a weight had fallen on their spirits, and they silently left the church, a few casting glances back to the pulpit, where sat a figure prone and abject, the face buried in the hands.

So it happened that only the Committee who had heard him in the city waited to speak to him, and at length accompanied him, almost in silence, to the house of Mr. Asbury, where he was to remain until after his ordination.

[CHAPTER II.]

THE NEW PASTOR.

IN the mean time, in the spacious chamber assigned to the clergyman, a terrible conflict was raging. Possessed of the keenest susceptibilities, with a morbid sense of his own unworthiness, he was, alas, too well aware of the impression left upon his hearers by his morning's discourse.

"God forgive me!" he ejaculated, his hands pressed to his head. "Deliver me from this terrible burden. Make known to me thy will. Thou knowest my heart. I thought I heard thy voice. Show me the way in which I should walk. How can I, laden with sorrow, stand in God's stead and preach the gospel of salvation? Make haste to help me, O Lord! All my trust is in thee."

A light tap at his door disturbed his meditations. He presented to Annie a face so pallid and suffering that she started back, exclaiming,—

"You are ill, Mr. Angus: let me call mother."

"Oh no! I am not ill,—I mean not much. Certainly, I have a headache."

"I came to say that dinner is ready. Mother will give you something for your head."

"Thank you. I will be down-stairs directly."

He turned to his washstand and dashed cold water on his burning forehead, then, crushing back the wretched doubts and fears which had oppressed him, he presented himself in the parlor.

His pallid countenance confirmed Annie's statement of his illness. Mrs. Asbury, with true motherly kindness, ordered a cup of coffee with out milk or sugar, but postponed an examination of the case until a more fitting opportunity.

Seated opposite Mr. Angus at the table was fairy little figure, introduced to him as "Our baby Ethel." She had large gray eyes shaded and deepened by long, black lashes. Raising her eyes timidly at first, she glanced at the stranger, gave a little start at the expression which beamed in his face, then her whole countenance—eyes, cheeks, and lips—grew radiant and, to the utter astonishment of all present, the shy, timid little one, whose caresses were so daintily given, so highly prized, exclaimed,—

"I love you!"

"Why, Ethel!" began her father. "Why, Baby!" repeated the mother; but Annie, catching a glimpse of intense, yearning love in the face of the clergyman, wondered in silence.

After dinner, one look of entreaty brought the little miss to the clergyman,—no longer a stranger,—when, to the undisguised astonishment of her parents, she allowed herself to be folded in his arms, her long flaxen curls floating over his breast. Nestling close to his side, with her eyes uplifted to his, she remained, quietly listening to the conversation which followed, rewarded occasionally by a smile so sweet, so full of tender yearning, that not only the child's but the mother's heart was wholly won.

Mr. Asbury had asked some questions concerning Mr. Angus's mission work in the city, and then said to his wife,—

"Marion will like to hear about this: she loves such work."

"She is a real missionary herself," urged Annie.

"I love Marion," lisped the child. "She is my Marion."

"Is she your daughter, Mr. Asbury?"

"Not exactly," laughing, "though she is as near as a daughter. She is the daughter of Mrs. Asbury's cousin, now deceased. Indeed she has lost both her parents, and we have adopted her. She calls us uncle and aunt."

"I want Marion to come home quick, pa." Then, turning again to look in the face above her, Ethel said, "I'll let my Marion love you too."

"A great piece of condescension on Ethel's part, Mr. Angus," added the mother, laughing heartily. "The little puss is extremely jealous in her affection for Marion, and scarce allows her cousin out of her sight for a moment when she is at home."

"Does your niece not live at home, then?"

"Oh, no, sir. She teaches music in Madame La Vergnes's Institute in New York; but, as her classes only occupy six hours a day, she has abundant time for her poor people."

"It is against my wish," urged her uncle, "that she should stay away from home for so many months in a year."

"But not contrary to your consent, pa," explained Annie. "You told her you wouldn't forbid it. So, Mr. Angus," she added, blushing at her own earnestness, "you musn't think our Marion naughty or obstinate. It was her duty she said, and so she went."

"Ethel, I fear you will tire Mr. Angus, sitting in his lap so long."

He pressed her tightly in his arms and waited to hear what she would say.

"He's skeezing me, ma. I guess he isn't tired. Are you?" putting her hand softly on his cheek.

He took the small hand in his, held it for a moment, asked, "At what time does your Sunday school commence?" put her hand to his lips as he said, rising, "We are friends from this time, Ethel. Good by for an hour or two," and left the room.

"I like him ever so much," exclaimed Annie. "Aren't you glad now, pa, that he has come to be our minister?"

Perhaps Mr. Asbury would have answered still more warmly could he have followed the pastor to his chamber and listened to the cry which went up from a full heart.

"Is this a ray of light from thy throne, O my heavenly Father? May I not accept it as an answer to prayer for help,—as a token of thy loving care? O God, I bless thee!"

Making his way from his chamber, he saw Ethel sitting on the lower stair waiting for him.

"You may kiss me if you want to," she said, putting up her rosy lips.

He caught her in his arms, kissed her again, the mother coming forward just in time to hear him say, "God bless you, precious child!"

How warm his heart felt with this new glow. With his whole soul he received the loving confidence of this little one as a token of divine favor. God had accepted him and would bless his work among these people.

Arriving at the chapel, the superintendent of the school came forward to meet him, with the request that, in the place of the usual exercises, he would address them. But Mr. Angus requested to be allowed to watch the workings of the school consenting, however, to talk to them at the end.

"Is this your usual number?" he inquired, glancing over the room.

"Yes sir, about the average."

"Are they punctual in their attendance,—teachers and scholars?"

"No, sir; that is one great drawback to success."

"Do these children not go to church? I saw few children there."

"No, sir; they seldom go."

Declining a seat on the platform, Mr. Angus drew an arm-chair near the Bible class and waited for the superintendent to call the school to order. The gong sounded, but the noise did not decrease. The second time, with the aid of the teachers, the loud whispering abated, when, in a low voice, impossible to be heard at the farther end of the room, the superintendent offered prayer. A hymn was given out, and all looked around for the lady who usually played the melodeon. She was absent, and at last, just as the singing was to be omitted, Annie Asbury came forward blushing, and said, "I will try to play."

Mr. Angus was afflicted with a keen ear for discords. I can only say that during the singing he was agonized. Before the closing exercises he had made up his mind that here at least there was work for the pastor. The apathy was alarming. With few exceptions, the teachers hurried through the lesson, accepting without reproof the too evidently manufactured excuses in place of a well-learned lesson; then shutting the book, he or she became totally oblivious of all that was passing, some even leaving the class to talk with another teacher.

That was a face thoroughly in earnest which confronted the school when the superintendent announced that "Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor, will address you."

In a full, impressive voice the clergyman began.

"Boys and girls,—yes, and teachers too,—we are strangers to-day, but we shall not continue so. I have a good memory for names and faces. I intend to know you all, every one. I have come here to be one of you, to love you, and I hope to be loved in return. My business is to lead every one in this room to the arms of the blessed Saviour, and I ask you all to help me. As many as are willing, I ask to come after school and give me your hand in token of your acceptance of this contract. Until we meet again next Sunday, I ask you to consider seriously a few questions. You can give your answers in writing if you please. I shall like that best; or you may come to me,—not in classes, but individually, and answer them.

"First. What do I come to Sunday school for,—to please God, or to please my parents, or to please myself?"

"Second. Does my coming just as I have been used to coming please God,—does it please my parents,—does it please me?"

"Third. If I neither please God, my parents, nor myself, in what way can I change my actions to do so?"

"Now, with the permission of your superintendent, I will ask you to rise and join me in one verse.

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

"Remember God is here: let us not mock Him; now begin." His voice was a deep, rich baritone, which resounded through the chapel, carrying the scholars and teachers with him. At the close, he stood with his hand extended toward a little girl near him. Boys and girls pressed forward, each one giving his own name, until only the teachers remained. To these, as they gathered around him, he said,—

"Will it be too much for me to ask that each one of you will ponder the questions I gave you? The work of a Sunday-school teacher may be wearisome and unpleasant, or it may be glorious, most blessed. It is God's own work; and He is a good paymaster."

Annie persuaded her brother to wait for Mr. Angus, but hesitated about joining him when she saw how sad he looked. With a frankness which was her peculiar charm she said, timidly,—

"We waited to walk home with you, but perhaps you would rather go alone."

"Thank you, yes." Then, rousing himself, he added, "You are very kind. I shall be glad of your company."

It was true that in the excitement of the past hour his own personal grief had been absorbed in the sorrow he felt at finding the Sunday school in such a low condition. He began to realize that this was the keynote by which he must judge of the spiritual state of the church. Then doubts of his fitness for the work assailed him, and he was appalled with the reflection that it was too late now to recede. It was at this minute that Annie met him. He would have given much to be alone, to fight his battle unobserved; but no, it was better that he should not dwell on such painful, unavailing thoughts.

Annie glanced at him occasionally, as with knitted brows he hurried forward, but did not speak until he was about to turn the wrong way.

"This is our street, Mr. Angus," she said.

"Pardon me, Annie, I am usually quick at finding my way, but—I am thinking about your Sunday school. Were the children more inattentive to-day than usual?"

"No, sir. Marion goes wild about it. She thinks everything in it is horrid. I heard her talking to the superintendent; she told him the mode of teaching, the want of order, the singing, were all as bad as could be; but Marion is a singer, you know."

"How long has this gentleman been superintendent?"

"Only a few weeks. They tried one and another, but nobody would take it. Marion said Mr. Molton only accepted because he was too good-natured to say 'I won't,' as the others did."

At the close of the evening service the congregation were not a little astonished by the request to remain in their seats for a few minutes after the benediction had been pronounced, nor was the astonishment abated when the young pastor elect began to address them. It was as well for them to know it now as any time. He never made any unnecessary preliminary remarks; he made a fierce dash at any subject and done with it.

Every eye was fixed on him when he began.

"Owing to my peculiar views as to the dignity of the office of an ambassador of Christ, I declined to come among you as a candidate for your favor. I knew nothing of the state of your church and society. I had no experience to guide me, except that derived from my mission work among the poorest of the poor,—among those so eager for the bread of life that it was a glorious privilege to break it for them. I find your church large in numbers; I—yes I must say it—I am appalled, I am young. It is not yet too late for you to relieve me from the responsibilities which may prove too much for me."

His head sank on his breast as a murmur, "No! no! We want you," ran through the audience. His voice trembled with emotion as, after a brief pause, he spoke again. "God's will be done; there is a great work to do here. We must begin with the Sunday school. The help of every father and mother and child is necessary. Above all, we must earnestly besiege the throne of grace for divine help. Brethren and sisters, pray for each other and pray for your pastor, for his guidance; that he may be holy, humble, earnest, and hopeful in his work of winning souls for the Master."

[CHAPTER III.]

THE HOME FOR THE SICK.

IN one of the main avenues in a large city stands a spacious building enclosed in garden. The edifice and its ornamental surroundings occupy an entire square. Lofty trees and low shrubs, parterres of flowers, picturesque arbors with rustic seats, gravelled walks winding in and out among the blossoms, prove to the passer-by that this is truly what the name indicates,—a "Home for the Sick."

A Russian nobleman, after a thorough examination of the building itself, its lofty ceilings and thorough ventilation, its conveniences for heating and cooking, its laundry department, its beautiful, sunny wards, with the well-trained nurses moving quietly from cot to cot for the relief of the sufferers, was asked,—

"What do you think of our hospital?"

With a burst of enthusiasm he exclaimed, "It isn't a hospital, it is a palace where the king receives his guests and takes care of them."

At this moment a carriage is drawn up before the principal entrance and a young woman is assisted to alight. Presently two men approach with a chair, in which she is seated, a young lady who has accompanied her walking by her side.

This is not her first visit to the hospital. For months together she lay prostrate, struggling for life, going away at last, not strong, certainly, but with a prospect of perfect recovery. Now she knew she had come home to die. Yes, it was home in the truest and sweetest sense of the word, for here she had been born of the Spirit. Old things had passed away and all things had become new. Here she had joined herself to the people of God, confessing Jesus Christ to be her only hope for pardon and peace. She no longer shuddered at the approach of the grim messenger; she was ready to welcome him whenever her Saviour called her to his immediate presence.

She was placed in her old bed, endeared by so many precious memories, where she could see the setting sun, and by his resplendent glories be reminded of the Sun of Righteousness in whose effulgent beams her soul would bask for ever and ever.

Oh, no! there was no terror in the thought of death; the language of her heart was, "Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly."

As she lay reposing on her spotless couch, her cheek rivalling the whiteness of her pillow, she clasped her hands, exclaiming,—

"How good God is! Think of my being allowed to come home, to have my own bed! You were so thoughtful, dear friend, to ask for that favor. This room has been like heaven to me. I am afraid I ought not to be so happy."

She glanced wistfully in her companion's face, who understood the appeal and answered, warmly,

"God has forgiven the past, dear. We are told to 'forget the things that are behind, and press forward.' You have given that burden to the Saviour; don't take it back again: it shows distrust of His loving care for those you have committed to Him."

"If I could only know before I die that he is safe—I mean that he has accepted Christ,—I would ask no more. Poverty, even want, I do not care for. Poverty brought me here, where I found my precious, waiting Saviour; but oh, if I could know that in his wanderings God's spirit has led him into the truth, how I would praise His name to all eternity!"

An expression of holy rapture beamed from every feature. Her friend gazed with glistening eyes. Softly laying her hand on the head of the dying girl, she repeated the words, "who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." Rising, she pressed her lips to the forehead of the sufferer, whispered, "I shall come again tomorrow," and left the room.

In the morning Stella found herself so much refreshed by sleep that when the chaplain came into the ward she requested the privilege of having private communion administered to her.

This gentleman, Rev. Mr. Owen, was not a stranger to her. It was his faithful words which had cut so deep into her heart that for weeks her soul writhed with self-inflicted torture. It was a sermon he preached one Sunday when she was in the chapel which brought her to the feet of Jesus, clothed and in her right mind. The text was this, "If ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." How quickly the gracious promise had been fulfilled in her case! Her heart, which had hardened to flint while cherishing anger toward one whom she believed had injured her, grew tender and loving under the softening influence of the spirit of forgiveness. No sooner did she cast away the vile serpent which had coiled itself so closely around her vitals as to crush out every vestige of affection, than the dove of peace flew down and nestled in her bosom.

To the chaplain Stella had related some facts in the history of her early life, with a mere hint at some events which had blasted her happiness. Only to the loved and trusted friend of her own age, one who had secured a place for her in this happy home, and brought her hither, had she confessed that her own temper, jealousy, and distrust had greatly aggravated her sufferings. Mr. Owen knew enough to understand that, whatever the past had been, she was now repentant, that she had listened to the invitation, "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden," and that Jesus Christ had given her rest.

In an interview with the chaplain preparatory to her receiving the precious memorials of Christ's love, she once more announced her faith in Christ as her only hope for a poor sinner like herself, and her belief that He would answer her prayers for one long lost to her, that, if he were still living, he would be brought to love her Saviour, and to forgive her, as she had, from the heart, forgiven him.

The effect of this service was so refreshing that for several days she was quite free from the extreme suffering for breath which had so exhausted her. According to her request, her friend, in one of her daily calls, had brought her paper and pens, and, bolstered up in bed, she spent nearly an hour every day in writing.

The end came at last unexpectedly. She was sitting nearly upright listening to the last chapters in the Revelation, when, with a wave of her hand to stop the reading, she repeated in a full voice the words just read: "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away."

She paused, raised her eyes, a bright smile illumined her face; she pointed upward, then with a little gasp her spirit fled away to the Saviour in whom she trusted.

Waiting only to ask permission from the superintendent to pay all necessary expenses, and to learn when the funeral services would be attended, her friend gazed for the last time on the marble countenance, so peaceful in its calm repose, then, taking from the nurse a package directed to her care, passed quietly from the room.

[CHAPTER IV.]

ETHEL AND HER PASTOR.

NOW that the ordination services had passed, the young clergyman girded himself up for his work among his people. It was his chosen work, and, could he have blotted a few pages from the book of his past life, he would have gone forward with hope as well as with courage. During the few days preceding the ordination, he humbled himself before God, asking help of the Divine Spirit to search out whatever was wrong in his heart and help him to overcome in whatever tempted him. Still there was a kind of bewilderment in his mind, a kind of waiting to see whether his Father in heaven, who knew every event of his life, might not interpose even yet and by his providence send him back to his work among the poor in the city.

During these days the influence of the sweet child Ethel did much to quiet him and inspire him to more confidence in gaining the affection of his people. She used to fix her eyes so wistfully on his, as she sat opposite him at table, watching and waiting for the smile which now and then flitted across his features,—a smile not soon forgotten, so entirely did it change the whole expression of his countenance. At his bidding she would come and nestle herself in his arms, never obtruding herself on his notice, but quietly submitting to having her hand held tenderly and occasionally put to his lips.

Her brother Joe, or Gardner, as his mother called him, was rather a saucy boy, the only son, and of course a great pet. When he thought Mr. Angus was out of the house, he would march up and down the long hall singing,

Our pastor is a rare, rare man,

He sings so fine you cannot tell,

His smile is bright as bright can be,

But then he only smiles for Ethel.

"Look here, I'll tell you a secret," he said to Annie. "My poetry will be the making of me. I have succeeded so well in my first effort I intend to publish a book of poems, and I shall dedicate it to the Rev. Harold Angus, who first inspired my muse. Isn't that the way they put it? I shall have, let me see, how many copies printed for private use, one for mother, Marion, and you,"—counting on his fingers—"one for Mr. Angus and Ethel, five, and I'll keep one for myself."

Annie laughed heartily, as she said, "If the rest is as fine as your first verse, no doubt there will be a great sale. I'm so glad Mr. Angus is to live here."

"Only for the present. He said he wouldn't ask more, and then he whispered baby to plead for him. Wasn't it funny how seriously the little puss took it? When she found there was even a possibility of his going away, she walked right up to pa and said,"—

"'Do you want your little girl to go way off?'"

"'No, puss, what do you mean?'"

"'Why, you know if Mr. Angus goes I shall have to go. He can't go alone, and he hasn't any little girl but me.'"

"'In that case,' pa said, 'the matter is soon settled; pa can't spare his baby any way.'"

In a few weeks the Sunday school was completely reorganized. Every teacher was obliged to be present at the teachers' meeting on Saturday afternoon, to be promptly in her or his place every Sunday; or, if unable to do so, to send a substitute. A Bible class for adults had been formed, taught by the pastor, and this soon outgrew the accommodations in the Sunday-school room, and had to adjourn into the church.

Here more than anywhere else Mr. Angus felt at home. If it were a mistake for one with a past like his to stand up in God's place, it certainly was right for him to help others to study God's word, and so to study it that the effect on their lives might be for the honor of Christ.

Honestly and truly, he did try to throw off the burden which often weighed his spirits to the earth, and yet there were hours when the agony of his mind was almost more than he could bear, when he could only cry,—

"Dear Lord, Thou knowest all. Put Thine almighty arm around me. Hear my prayers and grant me relief. Visit not, O Lord, upon others the chastening for my deserts. Save me, and I will praise Thy name for ever and ever."

Day by day he buried himself in study or in visits among his people, Joe frequently conveying him to the outskirts of the parish in his father's buggy.

One afternoon he had been alone to a distant part of the town, and was returning, when he stopped at a small thread and needle store to purchase a pair of gloves. Behind the counter was a young girl who attracted his attention by a peculiarly merry expression. The color deepened in her cheeks as she took down box after box, searching for the right number, and at last she asked him to excuse her ignorance, as she was only a new hand.

"This pair seems to be very elastic," she said, striving in vain to control the muscles of her face, which, in spite of her efforts, dimpled and beamed in the most mirth-provoking manner. She stretched the kid across the back of the glove, and held it out to him, when he put out his hand for her to measure it. He could scarcely help noticing that the fingers of the shop girl were beautifully tapering, and that her one ring, though not a diamond, was large and costly.

Just as he was paying for the gloves, a woman, fat and rosy, came bustling in, exclaiming, as she saw what was passing,—

"Well, I never did! Why, Miss—"

She checked herself suddenly, warned by a glance from the young lady.

The clergyman had scarcely reached the street when he heard the

woman's voice saying,—

"That's the new parson. Folks like him, mostly, though they do say he's kind o' stiff and proud."

The reflections caused by these words were not pleasant. It was possible that when his thoughts were dwelling on his own painful experience his manner might be reticent. "If they consider me proud," was his reflection, "how little they know me! Why, I would exchange gladly with those rough boys playing ball yonder, if by doing so I would get rid of these harrowing memories. Well, I owe my thanks to the woman, though I suppose she scarcely intended that I should hear her criticisms."

Then he began to wonder who the shop girl could be. She was so evidently out of place there; and what caused her mirth? Alone as he was, he laughed heartily as he recalled the dimpled curves around that arch mouth, and wondered whether there had been any reason personal to himself which brought these dimples into such full play.

Letting himself into the house by his night-key, he went directly to his chamber, where he remained until summoned by the bell to the tea-table. Ethel, at sound of his step, rushed to the door to meet him, her voice ringing joyously as she exclaimed,—

"My Marion has come! I'll show her to you."

Pulling him eagerly forward, she brought him face to face again with—the shop girl; stood for an instant gazing at them, then, in the fulness of her content, and wishing to give one grand proof of her love, she added,—

"I'll let you kiss her if you want to."

A burst of laughter followed, during which Mr. Angus had time to catch the little girl in his arms and whisper something in her ear, Marion, meanwhile, growing very rosy as she waited for a formal introduction from her uncle.

"My niece, Miss Howard, Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor."

The gentleman cordially extended his hand. Their eyes met and they both laughed.

After they were seated at the table, Marion, who was sitting next her uncle and opposite the clergyman, with a merry glance in his direction, explained:—

"I have met Mr. Angus before."

"Where did you meet him? In the city?"

"I had the pleasure of purchasing a pair of gloves from the store where Miss Howard is employed. I have tried on the gloves since," he added, glancing archly in her blushing face, "and I assure you they fit extremely well."

Marion threw back her head and laughed heartily, and as mirth is more contagious than any fever, all present joined in the mirth, though there were loud calls for an explanation.

"It is only," she said, "that I called on my way from the depot to see Mary Falkner, and as her mother was very busy, I offered to sit by Mary's bed while she finished her washing. Some one came into the shop. Mrs. Falkner was in the clothes-yard, and did not hear, and I at last went forward, supposing, of course, that I should be called on for a spool of thread or a paper of pins.

"I am sorry, sir, that I could not serve you better, but under the circumstances I did as well as I knew how. But I am forgetting my errand to you. I charged you too much for the gloves, and Mrs. Falkner trusted me with the change to be returned, which I now make over to you"; passing twenty-five cents in silver across the table.

"I shall take an early opportunity to show my appreciation of Mrs. Falkner's fair dealing," responded Mr. Angus, smiling, as he put the silver in his pocket. But with an instant change in his tone, "Who is this Mary Falkner? Does she belong to my charge?"

"Yes, sir; she is a poor cripple; so patient and cheerful, that it is a lesson to see her. It almost brings tears to my eyes to hear her talk of God's mercy to her, and how He inclines the hearts of people to supply her wants. Why, even the coming of customers to the store for a few pennies' worth of thread is a subject for thankfulness."

"She is, indeed, to be envied. I regret that I have not seen her. Such calls are needed by a pastor for his own good."

Marion's beaming face bore witness to her approbation of this sentiment, as she remarked,—

"There is no place in the parish where a visit from you would be more prized than in poor Mary's chamber."

Dear little Ethel, how hard it was for her, during the few days of Marion's visit, to divide her favors equally between her two friends. By this time the friendship between her and her pastor had become very close. In a small locker under his bookcase were some of her choicest toys, brought hither from time to time; and with these she would amuse herself so quietly that he almost forgot her presence. During his study hours he often rose from his books and paced the floor while he arranged the topics of his sermons. One glance showed her he was busy, and she scarcely moved. Sometimes he seated himself in a large chair for the same purpose, when the little one, watching every movement, obeyed the motion of his hand, and with her favorite dolly in her arms, silently crept to his lap, sitting so quiet that she often fell asleep.

Once her father, coming unexpectedly from his office to the house, inquired for her, and was told she was with Mr. Angus in his study. The child heard his voice, and putting her little fat hand on her mouth to keep herself quiet, went softly from the room.

"I'm afraid you will disturb Mr. Angus," her father said. "What do you do in there?"

"I keep stiller than a mouse, 'cause they nibble cheese and I don't, and I make sermons with Mr. Angus."

"Make sermons, eh?" laughing; "well, you'd better come with me and make the horse go."

Now if she obeyed Marion's invitation for a walk with her, she watched anxiously for any marks of disapprobation from her other friend, nor was she quite satisfied until she had made it clear to him that she loved him just the same, but that her Marion was only going to be with her a little while, and would feel badly if she did not go for a walk.

To her cousin she also explained why she did not as heretofore devote herself entirely to her society.

"I have to take care of him, you know, because he has nobody but me. He doesn't look as sorry as he did. It always makes me cry to see tears roll down his cheeks."

"Cry!" repeated Marion, quite shocked.

"Yes; when we're praying to Jesus to make us good, he says we must always tell Jesus when we have been naughty, and He will forgive us right off."

[CHAPTER V.]

A HAPPY CHRISTIAN.

FROM the first Marion had been agreeably impressed with Mr. Angus; though after hearing from Aunt Thankful of his first sermon and his cry for help after the evening service, agreed with her aged friend that he must have known real sorrow; sorrow from the effects of which he could not all at once rally. After hearing his prayers, it seemed to her impossible to believe that his sorrow was caused by any act of his own. If so, she was certain that it had been heartily repented of. The scene so innocently referred to by Ethel took hold of her imagination. In the solitude of his chamber he knelt, his little pet by his side, her hand held fast in his, while tears ran down his cheeks, as he implored forgiveness for past offences. Do what she would, she could not shake off the memories of this scene.

Marion was young in years, only twenty-three her next birthday; but her life had been an eventful one. Blessed with Christian parents, her opening mind eagerly imbibed the practical truths of the Bible. Jesus Christ was embraced as her Saviour from sin in this life, and from the punishment of sin in the life to come. God was to her a tender, loving Father, to whom she might go at any hour, with the same freedom as she approached her earthly father. She realized in an unusual manner His watchful providence, guiding and guarding her at every step of her young life. When at the age of seventeen she was bereft of both her earthly parents, she accepted in all their fulness the promises of God to the fatherless ones, and never had these gracious promises failed.

Her education being incomplete, her guardian' sent her to New York City to the care of her father's sister, an amiable but thoroughly worldly woman. Mrs. Williamson considered her duty accomplished when she had seen her niece arrayed in the most becoming mourning attire, had entered her at a fashionable institution, and introduced her to her own select circle.

But these surroundings, so unlike the quiet refinement of her own sweet home, instead of weaning the young orphan from the pure pleasures of a Christian life, left her with such a yearning for the society of those who sympathized in her dearest joys that she resolved to spend more time than ever in communion with her Saviour. Happy indeed are those who, losing Christian companionship, are driven for comfort to Christ himself. His love can so fill the soul thus depending on Him as to compensate for the loss of every earthly solace.

Marion was allowed to choose her own church, and at once joined a Bible class, where her hunger for instruction so animated her classmates and so encouraged her teacher that the most happy results followed.

During the hours in the day devoted to secular studies Marion worked with all her might. She knew it to be right to do her very best, and even with the branches of exact science, which were irksome, she conquered her reluctance and soon made her mark as a scholar of unusual ability.

Music was, however, her specialty. It was passion with her, and even before her parents' death, her skill as a pianist as well as her power with her voice distinguished her.

"How plainly I can see a Father's hand leading me all the way through!" she used to say. "He gave me the ability to sing, and when the right time came He allowed me the privilege of using my voice for the comfort of others."

She alluded to the fact of being invited by a gentleman connected with her Sunday school to sing for the patients at the "Home for the Sick." In connection with this first visit she used to say,—

"Never did I know such real happiness as when I found myself able to comfort those poor, weary ones, Christ's own sufferers. When one woman, taking my hand, thanked me with moistened eyes for the words of cheer, it was an impulse I could scarcely resist to fall on my knees and thank her for letting me sing for her. 'You have lighted the path to the grave. I'm not afraid now,' gasped one whose wings were plumed for her flight.

"Oh!" exclaimed Marion, clasping her hands to her breast as she recalled the scene. "Who am I, that I should be so blessed?"

During the summer months Mr. Williamson usually travelled with his family or passed the time at some fashionable resort, and it was his earnest wish that Marion should accompany them.

But after a week spent at a gay hotel she told her uncle she found it unendurable; and insisted on going alone, if he could not find an escort for her, to visit her Aunt Asbury. She arrived when the whole family were watching the fading away of a young life. Helen, the oldest daughter, about whom so many hopes had clustered, the light of the home, the pride of parents and friends, had received a summons to leave all that had hitherto been so dear and enter on the unknown,—the infinite. Shuddering with fear, she turned to her parents for help, but they could only weep and wring their hands. At length their clergyman was summoned, and from this hour his visits were frequent. The knitted brow had given way to a calm seriousness, as with trembling lips she said, "I do believe Christ is my Saviour, and that He will lead me safely home."

Her parents, too, if not really submissive, were trying to say, "Thy will be done."

The coming of Marion at such a crisis was indeed a blessing. Her very first words as she sat down by the bedside, after offering and receiving a loving embrace, lit up the face of the dying girl with a ray of Heaven's own light.

"O Helen, how I wish I could change places with you! Going home to Christ, to be with Him forever, to see the dear saints who have gone before, to talk to them of what Jesus has done for you, to sing with them the new song, 'Worthy the Lamb,' to sit down by the beloved John, to see Peter and hear him repeat the story of his grief at the denial of his Lord, to talk with Moses and Joseph and Samuel, to think that you will be forever free from the struggles with sin, that you will be holy as He is holy. Dear Helen, you are indeed to be envied."

"Yes, I can thank God now." Helen's smile was radiant.

Tears were streaming down Mrs. Asbury's cheeks, but wholly unconscious of them, the lady rose and kissed Marion, saying softly,—

"Thank God you have come! Your visit will do us all good."

Mr. Asbury had not known much of his niece, though he was one of her guardians. He watched her closely, trying to account for the change in his household. Every day rendered it more certain that a grim messenger was hovering about, waiting for an opportunity to enter, but his approach was no longer dreaded. The chamber where the patient sufferer lay seemed the brightest in the house. Marion, who had constituted herself chief nurse, went in and came out with a smile. Her voice was often heard singing there, not sad, pensive strains, but notes with a ring of triumph. The names of our blessed Lord, Jesus, Immanuel, Saviour, were constantly repeated, and dwelt on lovingly. The very words seemed to give strength, even in the lingering echoes.

On one occasion, Mr. Asbury, too anxious to remain long absent from the house, quietly entered the chamber just as Marion began a familiar hymn. He had often heard it before, but never with such a thrill as now. Even the dying girl was joining in the singing.

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds

In a believer's ear,

It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,

And drives away his fear.

"It makes the wounded spirit whole,

And calms the troubled breast;

'Tis manna to the hungry soul,

And to the weary, rest.

"Weak is the effort of my heart,

And cold my warmest thought;

But when I see Thee as Thou art,

I'll praise Thee as I ought.

"Till then I would Thy love proclaim

With every fleeting breath;

And may the music of Thy name

Refresh my soul in death."

Gazing into that rapt face, so elevated above all the pains and sorrows of earth, the father could not doubt that the prayer in these last lines was answered. The soul was refreshed, invigorated, and made infinitely blessed by the music of that precious name. A prayer rose to Heaven from one hitherto unused to prayer, "Breathe, O Lord, into my soul such love for Thee as may fill my heart with peace and joy when I go down to the dark valley."

The end came at last, suddenly, though long looked for. The messenger was not unwelcome. He was greeted with a smile so sweet, so rapt, that all gazed in wonder. Calmly the dying girl put her hand in his, while Marion in a clear voice repeated the inspired words, "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE MUSIC TEACHER.

THE triumphant death of the eldest daughter was followed by marked religious improvement in the family. Both Mr. and Mrs. Asbury publicly confessed their faith in Christ. The family altar was erected with this inscription, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

Marion, too, received a new impetus in her chosen work,—the work of a soul-winner.

"I want to be a missionary," was her reply to her uncle, when he was urging her to remain permanently in his family. "I have already begun to make many projects for the poor in New York City."

"But, Marion, you are too young, too attractive, to go alone among the poor."

"Don't say too attractive, uncle. I want to be as attractive as possible. Understand me," she added, laughing, with a visible heightening of color, "I want to be loved and trusted; and I thank God that I am—am not repulsive in appearance. Too young I certainly am to go alone; and that is why I have kept dear old Hepsey. Aunty thinks me obstinate, incorrigible, because I don't dismiss the poor old creature, as she calls her, and have a fashionable French maid. Dear aunty! I'm afraid she would think me a fit subject for the lunatic asylum if she knew where Hepsey and I go."

"I'm afraid, Marion, that I shall have to agree with Mrs. Williamson that you are a little wilful. Put yourself in my place, and ask yourself whether it would be right for me to consent to your going into those infected regions in New York. You might catch small-pox, or cholera, or something dreadful."

She caught his arm, and gave it a loving squeeze, then with an arch glance in his face, exclaimed, "You ought to praise me for telling you all this. I have never told Uncle nor Aunt Williamson. But seriously, uncle, I haven't a particle of fear. The sanitary arrangements in a city like New York are excellent. I love life too well, and I have too great a work in it to put myself in danger. Besides, I have the earnest approval of dear Helen. I talked with her more freely than I ever did with any one, and she, standing on the border land between this life and the next, with Heaven's own light on her, said,—

"'Go on, Marion. Yours is a blessed work. God will protect you in it.' Oh, how that benediction has encouraged me!"

What could Mr. Asbury answer to such pleading?

And so Marion had gone on, from step to step, till Mr. Williamson was fain to resign his ward to other and firmer hands. Her aunt, having exhausted all the adjectives in her denunciations, and having informed her thousand and one friends that her niece was a bigoted fanatic, who, if permitted, would convert their house into an asylum for paupers, coolly turned her back upon her, entirely ignoring her existence.

In consequence of all this, Marion's twenty-first birthday found her in apartments of her own, with Hepsey for her confidential adviser; not satisfied, as her aunt explained, with a life of luxurious refinement, such as befitted her wealth and position in society, but actually engaged as music teacher in Madame La Vergne's institute.

This last step, indeed, had been earnestly protested against by her Uncle Asbury, and she was obliged to bring all her powers of coaxing, arguing, and pleading to bear upon him before he would yield a reluctant consent.

"These young girls are just entering life," was her concluding plea, "without either chart or compass to guide them. They will by and by exert a powerful influence either for good or evil. In no other way can I so readily gain an influence over them. If I can win only one of them to higher aims in life, will it not be worth the effort?"

Even Mrs. Asbury expostulated with her niece. "You are free," she urged, "to go into any society you please, and you surely can find young ladies quite as much in need of good influences as those connected with Madame La Vergne's school. You will, when too late, perhaps, find it very irksome to be confined to certain hours."

"Now aunty, dear, don't you turn against me. I have thought so much of this plan, and my conscience approves, but I want your approval also. Well, I may as well confess it; there are certain reasons why I want to influence these particular girls, two of whom are in danger. They were my pets when I was their schoolmate, and think I have already gained their confidence."

"After all that is said," resumed Mr. Asbury "you have power to do as you please. You are absolutely your own mistress, with an independent fortune, but—"

Marion drew up her queenly form and for an instant looked seriously displeased, but quickly recovering herself, said, "I'm sure, uncle, you do not mean to hurt me. You and aunty are all I have who really and truly love me, so if you positively refuse your consent to my devoting a few hours in a day to an employment which is congenial to me, with the hope of being useful to two motherless girls, I will relinquish my project."

Mr. and Mrs. Asbury glanced at each other as Marion quietly left the room, when with a laugh the gentleman said,—

"What a way the girl has of carrying all before her. She must try her plan, I suppose. I wonder who those two girls are."

And Marion did try it. How well she succeeded in her efforts for their good will be revealed in the pages of our book. Her life was a busy one. Often, when she retired to rest, both body and brain were weary, and yet she was very happy. In her own home she tended her flowers and fed her birds with a song on her lips. She met her friends with a smile so sweet, joyous, and free from care that they envied her. Naturally, she was overflowing with fun; indeed, her vivacity, her quickness at repartee, made her the life of any circle, and her company, while she resided with her uncle, was sought by the young of both sexes.

It was not her intention to exclude herself wholly from society, but she was resolute in her determination not to become a slave to fashion, the degrading effects of such slavery having, even at her age, been forced on her notice.

"I never saw any one who enjoyed life more than Miss Howard," was the remark of an old gentleman, after watching her at a musical party. She was surrounded by a group of young people to whom she was relating a story, the arch expression on her face bringing into play all her dimples. Gradually one and another, some advanced in life, drew nearer, eager to share in the enjoyment. Perceiving this, Marion skilfully drew her story to a close, and engaged others in conversation, asking questions, and showing herself so anxious to please that a half-hour passed most delightfully.

"Singular being," muttered Mr. Lambert, an irascible old man who had been introduced to her. "Not a word of scandal, thirty-five minutes, and no gossip. Pshaw! Fact, no talk about religion either. A strange fanatic that."

Stranger still, perhaps, that the old man persistently lingered in the neighborhood of Miss Howard, leaning forward to catch every word, drinking in the musical ripple of laughter, which Marion's friends used to call one of her greatest charms, watching the pure, fresh countenance, the merry, earnest eyes, until the ice about his heart began to thaw. When they parted, to no one's surprise more than to his own, he extended his hand, and gave hers a warm pressure as he said,—

"I am glad that I have met one who has no trouble."

"I am an orphan," responded Marion, tears suddenly dimming her eyes, "but I have a dear Father who is so very good to me."

"You do love life then, even though your parents have left you."

There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice which made her pity him.

"Oh, yes; I am very happy to be alive. There is so much to be done. I envy nothing so much as the leisure hours some do not know what to do with. Yes, it is good to live."

"What can you find to employ other people's leisure beside your own?"

She gave one quick, earnest glance into his face, paused a moment, and then answered,—

"I try to make others happy."

She was turning away when he caught her hand, and with a strange twitching around his mouth, said,—

"You seem to be in earnest. I, who doubt every one, find it hard to doubt you. If you mean that you try to help the poor, you will find it a thankless task. It doesn't pay." There was intense bitterness in his tone.

"But, my dear sir, that is because you go to the wrong paymaster. He has promised that even a cup of cold water given for His sake shall receive its reward."

"Poor man! Doubting every one, endured only for the sake of your money; how I pity you," was Marion's reflection, as she drove swiftly with Hepsey beside her. "I wish I could give you a lesson in true happiness. I'll try!"

[CHAPTER VII.]

GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENTS.

ALL this had occurred long before our first introduction to the young lady. She still continued to give lessons in music at Madame La Vergne's school, but received no compensation except in the case of three wealthy pupils. The amount received from these three just defrayed the expense for tuition, etc., for two misses she was educating. One of these, Annie Leman, gave promise of great proficiency in music.

Marion had speedy occasion to remember her resolution with regard to Mr. Lambert. She was making some visits in a street crowded with tenement houses, and had for the moment become separated from Hepsey. With a basket on her arm she was trying to make her way up a crazy flight of stairs when she heard a quick step behind her.

"You have caused me a pretty race," shouted a man's voice, which she instantly recalled as belonging to her irascible friend. "Good for heart complaint, very!" putting his hand upon his breast and breathing quickly. Possessing himself of her basket, he lifted the cover, and said with a sneer, "Just as I supposed; tea and sugared dainties—ought to be arrested—idiotic—pests to society—humbug—sentiment and nonsense!" He was muttering away, when he caught her look of pity, which rendered him furious.

"How dare you come here?" he shouted. "You, who claim to belong to decent society. You, a chit of a girl, alone and unprotected in such a region of filth and pollution."

Marion's cheeks flushed with anger, and she was going to retort in a like strain, but something in his appearance checked her.

He looked so thin and wan and friendless. Suddenly the anger faded away and with a smile she held out her hand for the basket, saying playfully,—

"If you had waited a minute, you would have seen that I am not alone here; and I have good company while you are near to protect me."

"Nonsense!" His mouth twitched and she was sure his eyes twinkled at this unexpected retort. When finding herself mistress of the situation, she asked,—

"How dare you come here? It is very dangerous," pointing to the staircase, which Hepsey at this moment was trying to climb.

"Saw you—thought you—danger—better send police—not fit for one of your sex."

He turned off into one of the filthy rooms, and they heard him scolding the inmates as though he enjoyed it.

"What a brute!" muttered Hepsey; but Marion Only laughed, adding, "I'm not a bit afraid of him."

As they were leaving the court he came up out of a cellar and joined them.

"Delightful vicinity; very healthy, too!" pointing to a stagnant pool of filth in which a pig was wallowing. He shrugged his shoulders, chuckling with mirth.

"I see you enjoy it as much as we do, Mr. Lambert. It's so good for the spirits to see people enjoying themselves." A group of boys were playing marbles on the uneven pavement, and scarcely moved for them to pass.

"Get out of the path," he shouted, striking his cane right and left. "Don't you see you're in the way of your betters?"

"Oh, Mr. Lambert!" exclaimed Marion, "you have hurt that boy," as one of the lads put his hand to his head, sending after them a terrible oath.

"Pshaw! they're not tender—good for them—business to get out of the way." But when they were about to turn out of the street and parted company, they saw him hurrying back to the group, shaking his cane and shouting, "Wait! Wait!"

Curious to know what he would do, Marion went back to the head of the street, and saw the eccentric old man throw a handful of coins to the boys, as he could not get them to wait for another beating.

"What a disappointed life he must have had," she said to Hepsey, after walking in silence for some minutes. "I wonder whether he has any heart left."

"Not likely, miss," was the brief reply.

A few weeks later Marion was having quite a jubilee in her parlors. She had invited all the older classes in the mission school, and was entertaining them with a play called "Shadows." At the end of the back parlor was a wide door across which a white curtain was stretched, and the children sitting in the darkened rooms saw behind the curtain scenes which made them open both eyes and mouth in astonishment. A man was sitting in a chair in a doctor's office and the physician was examining him. First the outside of his head, then the inside, taking out with pincers, one tooth after another and putting them in again, taking from the patient's throat tumblers, plates, long-handled kitchen spoons, a hammer, and at last an umbrella, which had to be pulled and jerked, till the patient shrieked.

They were in the midst of all this when Marion heard a familiar voice muttering,—

"Fool's play,—miserable waste—time,—money,—better send them to the penitentiary at once."

Since their late interview Marion had thought much of the strange, lonely old man, and had nearly made up her mind that he only tried to disguise his real feelings by his outlandish manner. She gave him her hand cordially, as she said,—

"I did not invite you to my party, Mr. Lambert, but I am very glad you came. I was just needing some help. My doctor in there needs a new patient: come, I will introduce you to him."

"Patient, eh! Well, I need a doctor badly enough. What do you want me to do?"

"Only to have your head cut off, sir."

"Hem! modest request,—very civil, must say. My head is as 'valuable to me as—yours, for instance."

But he followed her to the hall, from which they could pass to the room in the rear.

"Your head will be restored in as good a condition as it is now," she explained, with an arch smile.

Presently the children saw the old gentleman take his seat in the chair, his long beard distinctly visible through the curtain.

"What do you complain of?" they heard the doctor ask.

"Liver!" shouted the patient. "Haven't slept a wink for ten years."

"Not liver, but conscience,—diseased conscience." This was Miss Howard's voice. "It needs reorganizing, sir. It affects the whole body, sir. I shall begin with the head and cut away all the diseased part until we come to soundness, sir."

"Is this the way you treat your patients? I'll not stand it. Cut off my head, indeed!"

"Absolute necessity, sir. If you wish to be cured, there must be no delay."

"Pretty sight for the public,—man minus head."

"My salve, sir, my famous Royal Recuperative Salve, known throughout the world, sir, will make your head grow again in a few hours, sir."

"Don't believe a word of such humbug; but cut away; something must be done."

The spectators held their breath as they saw the knife cut deep into the flesh, then heard the saw cracking the bone, and, presently, after a terrible groan, the head was severed from the body and thrown to the floor.

"Just in time, sir," exclaimed the doctor, cheerfully. "Disease checked in time; heart and lungs, and liver too, all right. Now for the salve!" They saw him rub the neck thoroughly with ointment from a box, and then the patient was carefully moved from the chair.

The children remained in their seats awestruck, but the gas was relit and Miss Howard came into the parlor looking particularly smiling. Wonder of wonders. It was scarcely fifteen minutes before the patient appeared, leaning on the arm of the doctor, his head erect and firm as ever.

"Miraculous cure," he muttered. "Yes, I'll write an account for your advertising paper. Head all right; little tenderness here, that's all," pointing to his throat.

"Then," said Dr. James, laughing heartily, as he took off his false mustache, "I will bid you good day, sir, and wish you joy of your new head."

Mr. Lambert threw himself into a chair and went off into convulsions of laughter.

"Outdoes the theatre by all odds. Hurrah for the Royal Recuperative Salve to cure diseased consciences! I'll take twenty bottles! Hurrah!"

In the mean time Marion took the children behind the curtain and explained to them the method by which these wonders were accomplished. She recalled James, to show them that he only passed his hand down by the side of the throat, when Hepsey, concealed from view, passed to him tumblers, umbrella, etc., all of which, in the shadow, seemed to come from the throat.

The decapitated head was made of pasteboard, cut to resemble an old man with a beard.

The apartments occupied by Marion were situated in a fashionable part of the city. Wishing to be entirely independent, and yet desirous of avoiding the publicity of a hotel, she had persuaded Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, friends of her parents, to hire this house next to a hotel and allow her the entire use of the second floor. Her meals being sent in from the table d'hôte, she could indulge her hospitality without burdening her friends, who were advanced in age. Besides Hepsey, she had a boy of sixteen years, whom she employed in various ways, accompanying her in stormy weather in her visits to the poor, going errands, etc. This boy, Jim, or, as she called him, James Kelly, was one of the first-fruits of her mission work, and, being an orphan like herself, she was deeply interested in his welfare.

At the death of her parents, their home in the country was rented, the furniture, with the exception of certain costly articles, pictures, etc., being allowed to remain in the house. These had been brought to the city, and now beautified her pleasant home. Marion had a passion for flowers, and at her own expense had built out from her parlor a small conservatory, which was filled with her favorite plants. One seldom saw her without a bud of some kind doing service for a brooch at her throat; and in her calls upon the sick, a few fresh-cut violets or a sweet rose-bud proved a great help in gaining the confidence she so earnestly sought.

Believing, as she did, that our social qualities were given us to be cultivated, our young friend gave frequent entertainments, always supported by the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell. To further her own plans she selected games, encouraged charades, improvised characters, occasionally taking part herself, on which occasions she abandoned herself to the enjoyment with the freshness of a child.

"I believe," she responded to a Christian friend, who was taking her to task for encouraging a taste for the theatrical,—"I believe that I have done more good by my charades than I could have hoped for in any other way. In one instance I have in mind, at a critical period for a young favorite, I persuaded her to come to a charade I got up especially for her; and I am satisfied the result was happy. She was in danger of giving way to evil influences; her conscience troubled her; she became very irritable. I had a little talk with her, took her with me to visit a poor family, who were indeed rich in faith, and then invited her to my entertainment. She came to me the second day after and, with a burst of joyful tears, threw herself into my arms, exclaiming,—

"'I'm so happy: the struggle is over. Oh, I can never tell you how I thank you!' She had given up the acquaintance of one who was leading her astray, who would have made her a wretched husband, who had denounced Christians as gloomy fanatics, who considered laughing a sin, etc. My party, mirthful and gay as it was, commended itself to her conscience; even the play itself conveyed to her excited mind a high moral sentiment, as I had intended. She went home, passed the night pacing the floor, while she asked help of God to decide aright. She is now an earnest, cheerful, Christian worker. Unsolicited, she left the fashionable church which she had been attending, and is my powerful alto singer at our mission."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

PLEASANT PROJECTS.

ON Ethel's fifth birthday she claimed the promise of her mother,—that she should sit up to family prayers. Except on Sunday night, when supper was served at an earlier hour than on other days, it was her habit to eat her simple meal of bread and milk and be in bed before the ringing of the supper-bell.

Sitting up for prayers was quite an era in her young life. No sooner was the meal concluded than she brought her low chair and placed it close to Mr. Angus. It was the custom to sing a hymn before reading the Scriptures, and the pastor held the book so that Ethel could look on the page with him. As he named the hymn he merely remarked, "It is pleasant to have all join in this social worship."

The child, considering herself included in this invitation, as indeed she was, began in a low timid tone to sing her own little hymn, but presently, becoming used to the sound of her voice, sang so loud as almost to drown the tones of the piano, upon which Annie was playing. Over and over again she repeated the words, "Jesus, come and make me good, good, Jesus come and make me good."

The tune as well as the words were improvised for the occasion, and did not in the least chord with the notes they were singing. Most of those present smiled, Gardner tittered behind his book and about Mr. Angus's mouth a suspicious twitching was noticed, but no one interfered with the child's evident enjoyment of the occasion.

"I'm quite sure," remarked Mr. Angus afterward, as he seated Ethel on his knee, "that Jesus will hear and answer your prayer. Would you like to learn a hymn to sing with us? Ask your sister to teach you one, and you can learn the tune also. You have a very good voice."

"A powerful one, certainly," added her father, laughing.

Mr. Angus early formed the acquaintance of Mary Falkner, the crippled girl. As Marion had told him, she was truly happy, though at times a great sufferer. In every event of her life she recognized a Father's loving, protecting hand, and was so truly thankful for every favor received that it was a privilege to bestow kindness.

On one occasion, when the pastor was sitting by her bedside, realizing, as afterward he insisted, that he was receiving rather than giving consolation, the door softly opened and Marion, unannounced, walked in. Perceiving the visitor, she was retiring when Mr. Angus rose to leave.

"Don't go, please," Mary said to Marion, "I was just intending to ask the pastor to pray."

Mr. Angus gave the sick girl his hand when his prayer was concluded saying, as he bent over-her, "Remember your promise to pray for me; pray that, whether led through a stony or a flowery path, I may have my Father's guidance as you have."

Marion drew near the bedside as the pastor left the room, and was not surprised at the enthusiasm manifested for him by the cripple.

"He is such a kind friend, so humble, so devout. His prayers raise me to heaven; and he is mindful of my earthly wants too. Look here," taking from an envelope a piece of silver, "he always leaves a token behind him, laying it on my pillow without a word,—sometimes a dollar, never less than half a dollar."

"I was sure," answered Marion, in a hearty voice, "that he would be a comfort to you. You like him so much, I have a great mind to ask you a question. Have you ever noticed any peculiarity in his prayers or in his manner?"

Tears gushed to Mary's eyes which no physical suffering could have forced from them, and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I could comfort him! And he says I have. He has a deep, abiding sorrow. It is living sorrow, too. It cannot be grief for the dead. Once he quite forgot that I was present, and he prayed; but it is too sacred to repeat. Oh, how my heart ached for him!"

Mary covered her face and wept.

"I wish he would unburden his heart to you, Mary. I'm sure you could comfort him. He is a puzzle to me. There is a weight on his spirits. I have seen an expression of agony come over his face when he thought himself unobserved. Well, we can pray God to appear for him. I have never spoken of him in this way before."

"Grief is too sacred to meddle with, at least such grief as his, Marion. I have told my Saviour about it."

When the young lady left the humble roof she repaired to the station near by to get her satchel, and found Mr. Angus just sending a telegram to the city. He advanced eagerly to meet her, holding out his hand.

"You are the very one to advise me," he said, his whole face beaming. "I am a poor physician, but I know something of medicine. I have learned about Mary's case, and I do not feel hopeless of her recovery. You live in the city of New York, and have probably heard of the Home for the Sick."

"Certainly I have. I often go there to visit my sick friends."

"Then you will agree with me that, if I can procure a place for her in that Christian home, she will have a fair chance for recovery."

"Strange I never thought of it before," murmured Marion, as though speaking to herself.

"Not at all strange. It did not occur to me till this morning, and I have just written a message to Dr. B-, the superintendent, asking to have a surgeon sent to examine the case. I have myself been an inmate of the Home, and have the most entire confidence in the care and skill she would receive."

"Will they send so far, Mr. Angus? I mean, will there not be great expense? Excuse me, but I would advise another plan. Mary is a great favorite of mine; indeed, I am under obligations to her. There is an eminent surgeon in the next town, whom I will take to see her this very day. If he gives us hope, I will go to the hospital at once on my return to the city. I only wish I had thought of it years ago."

A curious expression on Mr. Angus's face startled Marion, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, which was strangely familiar to her. It was as though he had said,—"You are taking the matter out of my hands with a vengeance."

Marion laughed aloud. "Don't think me officious in meddling with your plan," she urged. "I'm a teacher, you know, and accustomed to give orders."

"I shall at least claim the pleasure, Miss Howard, of bearing the expense necessary for placing her in the Home."

"I'll see about that." Marion gave one of those arch glances which brought her dimples into full play. When she smiled, it was like a child's face, pure and fresh, and sweet and loving. For one moment, as he gazed, Mr. Angus forgot his burden. There might yet be something bright for him in life. With a deep sigh he shouldered his burden again, and this time it seemed weightier than ever before.

They walked in silence for a time, the young lady puzzling herself to account for the strange associations connected with that peculiar expression on Mr. Angus's face which had so startled her. Somehow it was connected with the Home for the Sick. Rousing herself, and forgetting that his thoughts had not followed hers, she asked,—

"Is it long since you were an inmate?"

"Do you mean of the hospital?"

"Yes."

"It is five years this very month. It was there I was healed not only in the body, but the soul. Never did any poor mortal need a divine physician more than I did. Words cannot express my gratitude that a merciful Father directed me to that spot. The faithful chaplain found me weighed to the ground, and persuaded me to allow an Almighty Arm to be placed beneath me. Pardon me," he added, suddenly interrupting himself, "I did not remember that to a stranger this must be a wearisome story. I am not used to forget myself in this way."

He turned toward her a face drawn with pain, to meet eyes full of sympathy, and when she murmured softly the words, "I am not a stranger, I am a friend," his feelings almost overcame him.

"Thank you," he said, extending his hand, but instantly withdrawing it; then, controlling himself by a visible effort, went on, "I found my Saviour within those blessed walls, and was encouraged both by the pastor and chaplain to hope that, by consecrating my life to the service of my divine Master, I might be useful to some poor soul as burdened as myself."

"Has not that hope been fulfilled, Mr. Angus? Has not Jesus Christ kept his gracious promise to you and given you rest? Pardon me, I am a missionary too. I have thought much of you, and prayed for you, as I do for all my friends. I have feared that—that you have not cast all your burden upon Him. You are trying to bear part of it alone. Sorrow or sin He has atoned for and has promised to take. Oh, do give it all up to Him! For your own sake, for the sake of those in your charge, I entreat you, try His love in all its fulness. It cannot, will not, fail you."

Her voice trembled in her eagerness. Suddenly catching a glimpse of his pallid countenance, she stopped short in her walk.

"You will forgive, you will understand me," she pleaded. "I for a moment forgot that I am too young to advise you."

"Miss Howard, even you will turn from me in despair when I ask, can these hands, which have shed the blood of a brother, ever be clean? Even you have seen the mark of Cain on my brow."

Startled as she was, Marion realized that in order to give comfort to this burdened soul, she must control herself. With a face blanched, and shaking voice, she repeated the gracious promise,—

"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' Such a promise holds good, even to the shedder of blood."

"Do not understand," he exclaimed, in great excitement, "that it was prompted by malice. It was an accident. I—But the scene is too ghastly to recall. To no mortal have I ever breathed the words before. Into the ears of a merciful God I pour my complaint day and night."

Into Marion's eyes came a strange light. The color surged back into her face. Memories of the past, forgotten for years, came rushing over her. She was wholly unaware that she had stopped again, that her eyes were fixed on his, that she was trying to read his very thoughts. It required a great effort to come back to present realities. "I must say something," was her reflection. "Oh, that I was sure! God grant I may be!"

"Mr. Angus," she began, her face beaming with a strange expression of hope and tenderness, "forgive me for saying it, you have grown morbid, brooding over your past. With all my heart I thank you for your confidence, which I consider as sacred as the grave. Let me say that I look forward confidently to the hour when the sorrow which has weighed you down to the dust will be driven away like the morning cloud. Pray for that time as though you believed God has power to help you. Have entire faith in His promise."

Before he could answer she had turned into side path and was presently lost to view.

[CHAPTER IX.]

THE DOCTOR'S DIAGNOSIS.

ON going to dinner, Marion was not much surprised to hear that the pastor had requested to be excused from the table on the plea of a headache. Mrs. Asbury was preparing tea and toast, which the servant stood waiting to take up on a tray. At this moment Ethel came running up, her face flushed, exclaiming,—

"Mamma, may I stay with Mr. Angus? He is sitting in the chair with his eyes shut, and he looks real sick."

"I'll carry the tray myself," said Mrs. Asbury, glancing at her husband. "No, Ethel, stay here till I come back."

"He is worse than usual," she explained presently, as she brought back the food untouched. "Ethel, dear, as soon as you have eaten, you may go to him. Strange what an influence she has,"—turning to the family. "He asked it as a favor, if I could spare her."

Mr. and Mrs. Asbury were so occupied with anxiety about Mr. Angus, whose strength seemed always on the point of giving way, that they did not notice Marion's abstraction. As they were rising from the silent meal, she asked,—

"Can I have the horse and buggy, uncle? I want to drive to N—. I am going for Dr. Moore to see Mary Falkner."

"Why not ask him to make a professional call on Mr. Angus?"

"You might propose it to him, but I doubt whether he would require a surgeon."

"That's so; but I mean to have a serious talk with him as soon as he recovers from this attack. It is wicked for him to neglect these warnings."

Annie eagerly offered to accompany Marion to N—; but she only desired to be alone to have time to recall fleeting memories, to reconcile coincidences, and decide how it was best for her to make her surmises known to Mr. Angus.

She had driven slowly over the four miles to N— before her final decision was reached. It would be cruel to hold out hopes which might prove fallacious. "No, I must go home, to make sure. Then, if it be as I hope and believe what a joy." Marion stopped, wholly unable to express in words the deep emotions which agitated her. All the time she was tying her horse to the post, she was saying to herself,—

"Did she mean murder? An accident is not murder."

It was with a real effort that she roused herself to tell the physician her errand. He had just returned from a long drive to visit a patient, and told her he would accompany her at once after eating his dinner, and return in the cars.

On the way Marion related all that she knew of Mary's case, and then described the arrangements at the Home for the Sick.

Her enthusiasm made him laugh. "I know all about that," he explained. "I was one of the staff of house surgeons there at one time, and I can say it is truly a home. Very few, even of the wealthiest, can command the care and skill which falls to the lot of the poorest patient there. I remember a wealthy lady coming with a valuable servant who had fractured her arm. When the patient was comfortably placed in bed she was leaving the room, when she met Dr. B-, the pastor and superintendent.

"'I want to recommend to your special attention the woman I have just brought here,' she began.”

"'Certainly, madam,' was his polite answer as he passed into the ward, 'certainly; all our patients have special attention. She shall be well cared for.'"

"I have taken many patients there," rejoined Marion, her eye kindling with pleasure. "I should say that if there were any favorites, they are the very sickest and poorest, and sometimes the most repulsive. But after all, the care of their bodies is only one part. They are led to think of the end of life, and in their enforced seclusion, with the most loving influences about them, they often, very often, come to better thoughts of their Maker, and go out with new hopes and new resolutions in regard to life."

Dr. Moore was introduced to the patient by Marion, who only said that he had called as her friend, to find out whether she could be relieved by treatment from her spasms of pain. He made a careful diagnosis of her case, after which he gave her some powders for temporary relief, bade her take courage, and returned to Marion, who was waiting in the buggy.

"I have been to the station, Doctor," she explained "and there is no train to N- for a couple of hours, so I will take you home. I see by your face that you have good news for me."

"Nonsense! A doctor's face goes for nothing. He has to train it to look expressionless, or he would soon get into trouble."

"You can't deceive me, Doctor. I know you are going to say she can be relieved."

"I will say more. She will always be lame, one limb being shorter than the other, but, with the help of a thick sole to her shoe, I don't see why she should not walk about with as little difficulty as you and I do."

Marion gave a cry of joy, clasping her hands. "O Doctor!" she exclaimed, "what a blessed profession yours is! If I were a man I would be a physician before any other calling. I do thank you so much. How soon may I take her to New York?"

"I've been thinking," he said, gayly, "of indulging myself with a trip to the city. How would it do for you to see Dr. B— and engage a bed for her, and leave me to take her there?"

"Will you, Doctor?" She gave him a glance brimful, overflowing with delight, and he answered,—

"Yes, I will do all that. I shall be glad of the opportunity to see the Home once more. Now Marion, I have earned a right to ask you a question. Why don't you get married?"

Marion threw back her head and laughed heartily. "Your question is so entirely unexpected, Doctor, that I shall have to think before I answer. Well, first, I am too busy to go about the country and select the right man. Second, I have formed such an elevated idea of the being whom I would be willing to see in that relation, that in case I had leisure I should be appalled at the difficulties in my path. Thirdly, I am just as happy now as I can be. I have my good old Hepsey and James Kelly, and all my poor people to take care of now. I'm sure I can't imagine what I should do, even with my ideal man." The laugh which followed was heart whole.

"Nevertheless," urged Dr. Moore, "describe this ideal man to me."

"His image is scarcely distinct enough for that. First of all, he must be a man who loves God and his neighbor as himself, as our Saviour has commanded."

"Humph! I don't know him, but go on."

"He must be both strong and tender, firm and gentle, courageous, kind, and courteous, capable of sympathy both in joy and grief. He must be humble in his opinion of himself." Here a sudden reflection checked her, and she added, softly, "Not too humble," then came to an abrupt pause.

"Appearance and manners," suggested the doctor, without glancing at her.

"Poor or rich is of no consequence; but he must have ability. Whatever his calling is, he must excel in it."

"Physician preferred, probably."

"Ye-es, or some kindred profession."

"Lawyer, eh?"

"No; oh, no, indeed, not a lawyer!"

"Minister to a foreign court, perhaps?"

"No, not connected with politics in any way."

"There is nothing left but a shoemaker, or a country parson. Merchants of every grade watch the bills in Congress with eagle eyes. But how does he look?"

"Like an athlete." Suddenly catching a twinkle in her companion's eye, Marion's cheeks and brow became suffused, and she burst out, "How ridiculous I have made myself! I never thought so much of my husband before in all my life."

"I'm well acquainted with him," said the doctor, demurely. "He's all right; even your parents would be satisfied with him."

"What can you mean, Doctor?" She was startled now. "Was there ever such a man?"

They had reached his home, and he quietly resigned the lines to her hand. Just as he stepped to the ground, he fixed an earnest eye on her as he said,—

"The portrait is excellent, even to the too humble."

"Doctor! Dr. Moore!" called out Marion, as with an arch smile he was turning away, "you haven't given me your bill. I shall go to-morrow to see Dr. B--, and will write you at once; A friend of Mary's is to bear all expenses of her recovery; and, Doctor, I haven't told you how very, very grateful I am to you."

"For approving your choice of a husband?"

"You know, Doctor, I was thinking of some thing very remote from an ideal man, whom it is very unlikely I shall ever see. I may tell Mary now, mayn't I?"

"Certainly. And in the pleasure you will have in telling her the good news, you will forgive an old friend of your father for making a careful diagnosis of your heart."

He gave her another quizzical glance and turned away.

"How absurd he is!" murmured the young lady. "How could I have been betrayed into such nonsense? I wonder whether he was in earnest, in saying he knew any one to whom the description would fit. He would be a wonder of goodness, and I—"

Here Marion astonished the faithful old horse, who was going on in his quiet jog, by a sudden jerk of the lines and a peremptory order to quicken his pace. On consulting her watch, she found it nearly five o'clock. She must call at the thread and needle store, give Mary the joyful hope recovery, and then hasten home.

To one who is always looking to her Father in heaven for the gifts which flow into her daily life it is not surprising, but only an increased reason for gratitude, when unlooked-for mercies are bestowed.

So it was with the poor cripple. As Marion cautiously conveyed to her the opinion of Dr. Moore that her suffering might be relieved, and in time perhaps she might be restored to active life and its duties, the quick gasp, the tightened clasp of her emaciated hands, the moistened eye raised in silent gratitude to God, were the only tokens of the fervent thankfulness which almost overcame her.

When Marion had explained the doctor's view of her case, she went on: "You must give your pastor the credit of the plan. He was just sending a telegram to the Home when I met him at the station, and—and"—she hesitated, surprised at herself for her reluctance to talk of Mr. Angus—"he offered to bear all the expense of having you conveyed to New York. But I speedily convinced him that I had the first claim to that privilege."

"How good God is, raising up friends for me on every side!"

"Good by, Mary, for the present. I shall expect to see you very soon in one of the nice beds at the Home for the Sick."

[CHAPTER X.]

A RAY OF HOPE.

THE family were all seated at the tea-table when Mr. Angus came in from the street. He apologized for being behind time by saying that a parishioner had sent for him, and it was a longer walk than he expected. His countenance bore marks of excitement, but he entered into conversation with the others, and seemed desirous of averting attention from himself.

After family prayer, which directly followed supper, he rose as though he was going to retire when Ethel caught his hand, saying,—

"My Marion is going to sing a hymn before I go to bed. Please stay and hear it."

Marion had already commenced, and, without noticing who was near her, went through the hymn.

"We give thee but thine own,

Whate'er the gift may be,

All that we have is Thine alone,

A trust, O Lord, from Thee.

"May we Thy bounties thus

As stewards true receive.

And gladly as Thou blessest us,

To Thee our first-fruits give.

"Oh hearts are bruised and dead,

And homes are bare and cold,

And lambs for whom the Shepherd bled

Are straying from the fold!

"To comfort and to bless,

To find a balm for woe,

To tend the lone and fatherless,

Is angels' work below.

"The captive to release,

To God the lost to bring,

To teach the way of life and peace,

It is a Christ-like thing.

"And we believe Thy word,

Though dim our faith may be,

Whate'er for Thine we do, O Lord,

We do it unto Thee."

"I propose an amendment, as the congressmen say," she urged, pleasantly, as she saw Mr. Angus. "Please stay and sing with us, and then I have some pleasant news for you."

He joined her instantly at the piano, though she saw that he did so reluctantly. She turned to the all-inspiring words,—

"All hail the power of Jesus' name!

Let angels prostrate fall."

From the tones of his voice, as one verse followed another, she could detect the change in his feelings. In the last stanza it was evident his religious fervor had triumphed over his sadness. The tones, rich and clear, thrilled Marion's heart strangely. Happening to meet his eye as she was closing the book, she saw there evidence of an elevation of soul, as though the sentiments of the hymn had roused him from his gloom.

"Thank you," was his low response.

"I expect to leave early in the morning," she said. "I shall go immediately to see Dr. B———. Dr. Moore is very hopeful in regard to Mary's cure, though she may always walk lame. She was very grateful that you had thought of sending her to the Home for the Sick."

"I am delighted, Miss Howard. You have indeed been an angel of mercy to the poor girl. She speaks of your thoughtful kindness as one of the chief blessings of her life."

"Isn't it fortunate that Dr. Moore was once house physician there? and he will convey her to the city himself. No, Mr. Angus," as he held out his purse, "we cannot permit you to have all the pleasure, though we gladly share with you. You have done your part in suggesting the possibility of her restoration, and she has a friend who will defray all expenses. By the way, if you can spare the time, she would be glad of a call from you before she leaves home."

"Duties never conflict, Miss Howard. If you were not so busy among your pupils, etc., I would express a wish that you would visit a distressed family I saw to-day. They are in deep waters, and need a kind friend of their own sex."

"Who are they?"

"Mother, daughter, and grandson,—one of the most beautiful boys I ever saw. The mother is ill, I fear on the verge of consumption. The daughter, whom I conclude is a widow, is too young and beautiful to be left to make her own way in the world. The boy, Eugene, won my heart at once, and under a sudden impulse I asked the mother to give him to me: I am fond of children."

"I can easily believe that," she said, with one of her smiles, which always made his heart so warm. "If I were not very good-natured I should reproach you with winning away Ethel's love from me. Isn't she a darling?"

For answer he bent down and pressed a kiss on the warm, red lips held up so temptingly to his. The child at this minute had come into the room to bid him and Marion good night; having done so, she danced away again, hugging Frances, her favorite dolly, in her arms.

"'Of such is the kingdom of heaven,'" murmured the pastor, his eye following her fairy-like figure; "and we are told that unless we are like them, we cannot be admitted to that glorious home."

After a pause he added, "Eugene interested me deeply, but not at all in the way Ethel does. He is as full of mischief as he can hold; nothing ethereal about him. He is earthly even in his beauty, while Ethel seems just fresh from heaven. Dear child! I have learned many a lesson from her."

"You have interested me deeply in your friends, Mr. Angus. I wish now I could stay another day at least, but I cannot."

Recalling the business which sent her home so soon, there was an earnestness in her voice, as she repeated, "Oh, no, I cannot stay!" that rather surprised her hearer. Meeting the questioning glance, it was as much as the impulsive girl could do to check herself from saying,—

"I go for your sake, to give you that which will restore peace to your heart."

"But I hope to be so successful in my business that I can come again soon. I will ask Aunt Asbury to visit them, if you wish."

"It is not a case of poverty,—at least I think not. The mother—she seems very young—needs sympathy and counsel; she would only take it from one she loved."

He seemed to be urging a duty upon her, though he did not so intend it; and Marion grew excited, wondering whether she ought to write Dr. B— about Mary, and postpone her other business for another day.

"I wish I knew which was my duty: I have set my heart on something. I ought not to have delayed it so long. I have been forgetful of a sacred charge, and I wish to atone for it as soon as possible."

She gazed wistfully in his face, longing to give him a ray of the hope she felt almost sure was in store for him,—almost, not quite. "If, after all, I am wrong, and he is not the one, it would be inexcusable in me to excite hopes only to crush them."

"Miss Howard," he began, unable to endure the sight of her distress, which by turns suffused her cheeks and blanched them, "can you not trust me to decide for you?"

"In almost any other case but this, I could. It would be cruel to tell you now." She stood one moment, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes fixed on the carpet; then, with a sudden change, she looked smiling in his face as she said,—

"Give me the exact direction to your protégé's, and I'll go to-morrow morning. I can write this evening to Dr. B—."

"Uncle Asbury," inquired Marion later in the evening, and when no one but her uncle and aunt were present, "have you ever mentioned before Mr. Angus that I have any other income than what I earn from teaching?"

"Not a word. He considers you suffering from extreme poverty, and quite worries himself over the time you lose during your visits to us. If you press me to tell you the whole truth, he is anxious lest your love for dress and jewels should involve you in serious pecuniary embarrassment. He considers that rich silk and point-lace collar, though extremely becoming, quite beyond your means."

"Nonsense! Now do be serious. I don't want anybody to know, and especially strangers like Mr. Angus, that—"

"You can, if you choose buy up half our congregation, to say nothing of the poor minister. No, I won't tell him that."

"Don't tease the child, pa," put in Mrs. Asbury, though laughing herself.

"It is from the clergyman especially you wish this important information kept," questioned the gentleman, his eye twinkling.

Marion looked really annoyed. "I see I must explain," she began. "There are some poor people I am going to help. He offered, from his salary, I suppose, to pay Mary's expenses to the city, etc. I told him a friend would supply the means, and I don't wish him to think I am the one."

"On the principle of the left hand hiding from the right, I suppose. Yes, I see." With a mischievous glance, he turned to his newspaper, and Marion, informing her aunt that she intended to make a call on a sick lady in the morning, and had postponed her return till afternoon, bade them good-night and retired to her chamber.

Passing Ethel's room, she found to her surprise that the child was still awake.

"Please come in a minute, Marion: I must get up again. I can't remember whether I have said my prayers. I feel prayers in here," putting her hand to her breast, "and I can't go to sleep."

"Well, darling, get up, and I'll kneel with you."

Ethel began with—

"Now I lay me down to sleep,"

followed with the Lord's Prayer, then began her own simple petitions.

"Bless me, dear God, and make me as good as Jesus wants me to be. Bless papa and mamma and Mr. Angus, and all those I love, and keep them all from sin and from crying. I thank you for giving me such a kind papa and mamma. I thank you for sparing them to me so long. I hope you will spare them as long as you think it is safe, but if you don't think it safe to-morrow or next day, thy will be done."

The little head was scarcely on the pillow, when Marion, much amused by the child's mode of expressing her submission, ran back to the parlor to repeat it. As she entered she heard Mr. Angus's voice asking permission to use the buggy at an early hour to go to a distant part of the town. Seeing her, he explained that, as she had been kind enough to delay her return to New York in order to visit this distressed family, he wished to make arrangements to take her there.

"It is in a part of the town with which I am least familiar," he added, "and I should find difficult to direct any one."

"I am sorry," said Marion, frankly. "I know your rule about your morning hours for study. I would delay my return longer, but it is impossible."

And it had seemed impossible ever since she had agreed to make the morning visit to his protégés.

"If he only knew," she said to herself again and again, "how much depends on my going home. I am confident that package is somewhere among my papers; and yet it is so strange that I have not seen it for years. I had forgotten entirely that I had it in possession. I did sympathize deeply with that poor, friendless girl, an orphan, as I had so lately become; but, with so many different protégés on hand,—so many orphans and others whom I have taken to that blessed Home,—she had passed entirely out of mind, until that peculiar smile of Mr. Angus and the expressive shrug of his shoulders brought her up before me. Let me think. When I left Uncle Williamson's, my letters, papers, etc., were all packed up and sent to my present home. Strange I haven't seen them. No, some were sent here."

She gave a scream of joy, and, running to the kitchen for a hand-lamp, called a servant to go with her to the attic, where a box marked with her name was stored.

At the breakfast-table, when Mrs. Asbury remonstrated against her niece's plans, while she looked so pale and haggard, no one present, and least of all the pastor, suspected that it was interest in his future which had kept her till midnight searching among her papers for what she could not find, that disappointment and bitter regret that she had not more carefully guarded so sacred a trust had caused her many tears.

To add to her embarrassment, Mr. Asbury, just as he rose from the table, approached her and said, "Marion, I fear it is your pecuniary situation which troubles you. Promise me that you will apply to me in any need."

"Why, pa!" began Annie in surprise; but she never finished her sentence. Marion, noticing that Mr. Angus was within hearing, gave her cousin a warning glance, coolly said to her uncle, "I promise," and then walked away.

[CHAPTER XI.]

AN APPEAL FOR SYMPATHY.

THE family to whom Mr. Angus wished to introduce Miss Howard lived in a small cottage in the outskirts of the town of N-.

On their way thither he repeated the impression they had made upon him,—that they had seen better days.

"I have been enough among the poor in New York," he said, warming, with the subject, "to be sure that these are not of the kind who would ask for assistance, even though they were suffering. I am eager to know how they will impress you."

He turned to look in her face, which seemed to be unusually thoughtful, but with a bright smile, she explained,—

"I was trying to reconcile irreconcilable facts. For instance, I know a gentleman in New York who has more leisure and money than he knows what to do with, and I was wondering why I should be so very busy and have so little time for work that I like best."

"I have solved worse puzzles than that, Miss Howard. Can you not imbue your friend with love for your favorite work? Gentlemen with too much leisure are not to be classed with the most favored beings."

"He is one of the most wretched men I know, sarcastic and cynical to such a degree that his society is shunned by every one; and yet I can't help pitying him. I believe that he has a passion for making himself appear worse than he is. I have taken a fancy," she added, with a hearty laugh, "to try some experiments on him."

"Of what nature?"

"Why, I have been told again and again that he has no heart. I am applying tests to find out the fact for myself; so far, that important organ seems to be in a state of ossification; but I am not discouraged."

"If I were your uncle, I should warn you that ossified hearts, when wakened from their torpor, sometimes become dangerously active,—I mean dangerous for their own happiness."

Marion's eyes twinkled with mirth. "I do not fear too much activity, I fear too little. But is not that the house?"

Mr. Angus had told her the child was beautiful; but this had by no means prepared her for the lovely, enchanting face which burst upon her as, advancing into the room, a boy of three or four years sprang out from an inner apartment.

"Oh, you darling little fellow!" she cried, catching him in her arms, and bestowing kiss after kiss upon him. So absorbed was Marion in delight and wonder that she did not notice the entrance of a young lady from a door in the opposite direction, until the voice of Mr. Angus saying, "Miss Howard, Mrs. Cheriton," roused her to present realities.

"Excuse me," she began, cheeks and chin dimpling with amusement. "I forgot that I was a stranger,—everything in my admiration for—." She interrupted herself to place the child on the floor; but he had no idea of being abandoned so suddenly. He clung tightly around her neck, his face sparkling with mischief.

"Genie, don't tease the lady." The mother's voice was soft, and she spoke with a pretty accent; but the boy paid not the slightest attention to his mother's mild suggestion. He clung to his new friend, occasionally holding himself off far enough to look in her face.

Catching a glimpse of Mr. Angus's tall form standing over near the door, his hat in his hand, keen appreciation of the scene stamped on every feature, Marion's color surged to her very brow. She whispered, "Go to the gentleman now, Genie," and put the boy to the floor.

"Will you take a drive with me, Eugene?"

This being soon arranged, Mr. Angus carried the child to the buggy, merely saying to Marion,—

"I will be back in half an hour."

Mrs. Cheriton looked so very youthful that it was hard for Marion to believe she could be the mother of Eugene. She was very beautiful, of the Southern type of beauty,—large, liquid eyes, regular features, abundant tresses of blue-black hair, which on the present occasion were wound gracefully around her head, arched eyebrows, and a pleasant smile when she addressed you. This tout ensemble the visitor took in at a glance, and all the time she was asking herself, "Shall I like her?"

After speaking for a moment of Eugene, Marion said,—

"Mr. Angus tells me your mother is very ill."

"Yes; and she has heard your voice. Will you go to her?"

"Gladly."

On the bed, but raised almost to a sitting posture, lay a lady. One glance proved her to be such. There was an air of refinement and culture about her which proved her to belong to the best-educated class of society.

She met Marion's sympathetic glance with an earnest gaze, as though she would read what manner of spirit she was of; then a beaming smile lighted her whole face, as she said softly,—

"You are very welcome, my dear."

"I felt then," said Marion afterwards to her aunt, "as though I could take her right into my heart of hearts." What she did at the moment to show what she felt was to bend over and press her lips to the pale cheek of the sufferer.

A few words of explanation as to her present visit,—of sorrow that it must be a hurried one,—and then Marion said,—

"I am sure you will not consider my question prompted by curiosity, if I ask, why are you here in this out-of-the-way part of the town?"

"Necessity compels it, my dear. I need perfect quiet."

"Would you prefer the city?"

"Greatly, in many respects, if I were well."

"You could have a physician near you there."

"No physician can avail me now,—at least such is my belief."

"Except the great Physician."

An expression of heavenly peace stole over the wan face. She held Marion's hand in a closer grasp, as she said fervently,—

"God be praised! He has applied healing balm. My sins, which were many, are forgiven. Oh, if you knew all, you would not wonder that I look forward with longing to the hour when he will call me home!"

"You would feel like a poor sailor I found just redeemed from the very depths of woe. He was singing from morning to night,"—

"'Love I much, I'm much forgiven; I'm a miracle of grace.'"

Marion's clear voice as she sang the lines rang through the room.

"Will you sing a hymn for me, Miss Howard?"

Without a moment's hesitation the young began one which was a favorite with herself.

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

His will is ever just;

Howe'er he orders now my cause,

I will be still and trust.

He is my God:

Though dark my road,

He holds me that I shall not fall,

Wherefore to him I leave it all.

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

He never will deceive.

He leads me by the proper path,

And so to him I cleave,

And take content

What he hath sen

His hand can turn my griefs away,

And patiently I wait his day.

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

Though I the cup must drink,

That bitter seems to my faint heart,

I will not fear nor shrink.

Tears pass away

With dawn of day;

Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,

And pain and sorrow all depart.

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

My Light, my Life is he,

Who cannot will me aught but good,—

I trust him utterly;

For well I know,

In joy or woe,

We soon shall see, as sunlight clear,

How faithful was our Guardian here.

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

Here will I take my stand,

Though sorrow, need, or death make earth

For me a desert land.

My Father's care

Is round me there;

He holds me, that I shall not fall,

And so to him I leave it all."

Before she had ended, the door softly opened and was left ajar.

Marion started at the sound of wheels. "There is Mr. Angus!" she exclaimed; "but I cannot go yet. I feel as though I had known you all my life. I have to go to New York to-day. I want you to go to the city. Why will you not come to me? I have room for all of you. Yes, that will be best. It will be next to having my mother with me. I can insure you a quiet room. Will you come?"

Mrs. Douglas closed her eyes; tears called forth by such kindness from a stranger, trickled through the eyelids. Striving for self-control she said,—

"Mr. Angus told me you were an angel of mercy. Never did any strangers in a strange land need friends more than we do. I have prayed night and day that my heavenly Father would raise up for my poor Juliette and Eugene Christian friends. He has answered my prayers. I will consider your proposal to go to New York, where board within our means can perhaps be obtained near you. For Juliette's sake I would be glad to be there."

"I regret so much that business of importance calls me home to-day, but I will find a place at once, if you will not accept my invitation. I am sure I can promise for Mr. Angus that he will be a good friend to you and attend to your removal."

"Mamma, I'm going home with Mr. Angus," shouted Genie, bursting into the outer room. "I'm tired of staying here."

"Miss Howard,"—the voice was so full of solemnity that Marion bent over the bed again to listen, her breath coming quickly,—"you do not seem like a stranger. Mr. Angus told me I might confide in you. If I had time and strength I would tell you the sad story of my past life. I was gay and thoughtless, living for this world alone. I have been justly punished. Some time, if God gives me strength, I would like to tell you my sad story. If, after you know all, you are willing to be a friend to the dear ones I leave behind, the only burden left me will be removed."

"I will gladly listen."

With moistened eyes she had just answered, when Mrs. Cheriton opened the bedroom door, saying, "Your husband has returned, madam, and asks whether you are ready."

Marion bent over the bed and kissed the sick lady, glad to hide her blushing cheeks caused by Mrs. Cheriton's blunder. Then saying,—

"Please explain that Mr. Angus is only my friend. I shall see you again before long," hastened to the door.

Eugene was still in the arms of the clergyman and it required much persuasion on the part of his mother to coax him to remain with her.

[CHAPTER XII.]

MARION'S SICKNESS.

THE drive back to town was a silent one, and not until they were within a short distance from home was a word spoken. Mr. Angus seemed absorbed in thought, and his companion, with the added care of the friends she had just left, was little inclined for conversation. A sigh from her at last caused the gentleman to ask,—

"Have I done wrong in bringing to your notice these strangers?"

"No, sir. No, indeed. What a dear old lady she is! And not very old either. Sorrow, I imagine, more than time, has aged her. Eugene is a perfect dream of boyish beauty."

"What of the young mother?"

Marion sighed again. "I don't know. I have been trying to decide. I have seen somebody whom she resembles. She does not attract me as her mother does."

"Eugene scarcely has a feature like hers."

"No, he is more like you than like her."

She had entirely forgotten her high praise of the boy's beauty; but a little twitching about the muscles of his mouth proved that he remembered and was far from displeased.

"Do you know," she asked quickly, as they drew up to the door of her uncle's house, "that I am going to take your new parishioners to New York? For some reason, Madam Douglass prefers being there, and I have promised for you that you will aid them in their removal."

"Pecuniarily, do you mean?"

"Certainly not. Only as a friend, in getting to the right train, etc.; but even that is not necessary: Uncle Asbury will attend to it."

"Just as you please, Miss Howard."

She sprang from the carriage without giving him an opportunity to help her, and ran into the house. His voice, so sad and cold, had hurt her. Seeing no one in the hall, she went in haste to her own room, to pack her satchel for her journey home, saying to herself meanwhile,—

"If he knew all that I do, and all that I can guess about his sad past, and how shamefully I have neglected my promise to that poor, dying girl, he would be justified in never speaking to me at all."

At the dinner-table Marion gave a description of Madam Douglass and Eugene, merely mentioning Mrs. Cheriton as the boy's mother; and easily won a promise from her aunt to go and see them. "I wish, aunty," she added, after the conversation had turned to another subject, "that you would notice whether Mrs. Cheriton resembles any one you know. Her eyes haunt me. I have tried in vain to account for the resemblance."

Once on the train, Marion acknowledged to herself the need of rest. With one hand to her throbbing temples, she took memorandum book and pencil from her pocket. Two visits to some very destitute families ought to be paid, and Hepsey must take her place for this time. She noted down the following words: "Board for three, not too far away. Home for the Sick. Letter to Dr. Moore. Search for lost package."

The carriage, with James on the box with the driver, met her at the station, as she had telegraphed him to do. Seizing a letter from Dr. B-, she read hastily, and, finding that Mary could be received at once on the recommendation of Dr. Moore, countermanded her order to be driven to the hospital, and said "Home." Here she only remained long enough to dash off a letter to Dr. Moore, enclosing the one from the superintendent, and then went to Mrs. Mitchell for advice about a boarding-place. Four or five were advertised as desirable situations; and Marion, putting by her anxiety to begin her search for the package, hurried off in the carriage to examine for herself. Two or three hours were consumed in going from one house to another, finding each that she visited more unsuitable than the one before it, and at last only engaged rooms conditionally, in a private family, recommended to her by a friend, whom she met near the door. Enclosing the street and number to her aunt, she requested that Madam Douglass might be informed of the place and price, and an answer returned at once.

Hepsey was just about starting on her mission when she caught a glimpse of her young mistress, and exclaimed, in great excitement,—

"You are ill, and have not told me. I must see you in bed before I go out."

It was indeed true that a terrible lassitude had been stealing over her ever since the excitement of the morning. For two nights she had scarcely slept, and since breakfast she had barely tasted food.

"A cup of tea will revive me," she said, trying with a smile to allay Hepsey's too evident anxiety.

Then feeling herself grow more languid, she said, aloud,—

"I can't give up now. I must find that package, I must, if I search all night."

The tea was brought and eagerly swallowed, but the temples still throbbed, and at last the young girl reluctantly acknowledged that she felt ill and must rest for a few hours.

Hepsey quietly laid off her bonnet and shawl, called James, and gave him the address of the poor she was going to visit, with directions as to procuring them food, etc., and then devoted herself to her young mistress.

An hour later Marion woke from the heavy sleep into which she had fallen with a shriek of distress. Her eyes were wide open, but she did not recognize the faithful nurse who was bending over her. A physician was instantly summoned, who found her in a high state of mental excitement.

"How long has this been coming on? I ought to have been called earlier," he said, in some irritation.

"She only returned from the country this afternoon," explained Hepsey.

He went back to the bedside, re-examined the pulse of his patient, listened to her incoherent mutterings, and then said gravely, "She has symptoms of a contagious fever. I have had a few cases already among the poor."

"James has just returned from an errand to one of her protégés, a mission boy. He had just been buried, and a flag was hung from the window to prevent people from entering."

"Well, if people will go round to these filthy haunts, they,—but it's no use to think of that now. I'll do my best to save her. I'll have a flag out here, unless you will promise that no one shall come in: perfect quiet is a necessity."

Hepsey promised, but the next morning, after a short absence from the room, she found a young lady sitting by the bed, bathing the hot temples of the sufferer.

"I have come to stay," she said softly, as she rose and beckoned Hepsey into the hall. "Mrs. Mitchell told me last night how ill she is, and I have come prepared to act as nurse. You will let me help you"; and the young girl gazed wistfully in Hepsey's face.

It was Annie Leman, a favorite protégé of Marion, whom she was educating for a music teacher, and, looking in her earnest face, Hepsey had not the heart to deny her request.

"We'll see what the doctor will say," she murmured, and then they both returned to the room.

What the doctor said at first sight of this girlish figure was, "I won't have her here." What he said after the second day was, "What could we do without her?"

And so the sun rose and set while in that quiet room the fever raged, for Marion had been in the full vigor of health, and the heated blood rushed rampant through her body. Sometimes she tried to spring from the bed, calling out,—

"I must find it," or "Here it is," and laughed aloud for joy. At other times she lay for hours in a heavy stupor, while rich and poor besieged the door with inquiries concerning her.

Among others who came was Dr. Moore. He had safely conveyed Mary Falkner to the Home for the Sick, where he learned from Dr. B— that Miss Howard was dangerously ill, and went at once to her house to learn who was her physician, when they came together to see her.

Marion woke suddenly, to find her old friend from N— bending over her. A momentary consciousness caused her to call him by name, and then, associating him at once with her friends in Grantbury, she said,—

"Tell him there is hope," then fell back into heavy sleep. Every morning came a bunch of cut flowers of the choicest varieties from Mr. Lambert, with a request to Mrs. Mitchell to be informed whether "any change had taken place in Miss Howard."

Day after day as it passed proved to all Marion's friends that the young girl who glided so noiselessly around the bed was possessed of a native skill just fitting her to take a part in the struggle between life and death going on in that chamber. She was never seen to sleep, and yet she never seemed weary. Not a movement of that prone figure escaped her notice, not an order or prescription of the physician was forgotten. When the doctor asked in wonder,—

"What sustains you?" her brief answer was, "Love, sir. Love and gratitude. She deserves from me all that I can give her."

Hepsey told Mrs. Asbury, who came from Grantbury to see her niece,—

"We have all cause to thank God for sending Miss Annie here. The doctor says, if our dear Marion lives through this dreadful time, it will be the loving care, which, with the blessing of God, has brought her through."

If Mr. Lambert believed what he was so fond of affirming, that the poor are a thankless set, who will steal your purse the minute your back is turned, his faith in this assurance might have been shaken by the genuine sorrow manifested during Miss Howard's illness.

One instance of affection and gratitude he was himself a witness of. He was approaching Miss Howard's door early one morning with a bunch of exquisite blossoms in his hand, carefully shielded from sun and wind by the tissue paper covering, when he saw a little girl approaching from the opposite direction. She had on a thin shawl, which she held out from her person as though shielding something precious. Curiosity prompted the gentleman to watch and see what she was going to do. He held back till she ran down the basement steps and timidly rang the bell of the lower door of Mr. Mitchell's house.

Cautiously he stepped forward, and saw her hold out one little pink.

"Will you please give the kind lady this?" she asked, in a pleading tone. "When I was down with fever, she brought me a beautiful bush all covered with flowers, and she told me how to water it, and put it in the sun. This flower came out last night. There are no more, or I would have brought them. She's been ever so good to mammy and me."

There were tears in her voice as she spoke, and the listener, grumbling under his breath at his own folly, put up his finger to prevent a tear from falling from his own eye.

"What's your name?" asked the woman at the door.

"Nanny Morse,—she'll know."

"Well, I'll see that she has it,—if it's only to hold in her poor, unconscious fingers," she added, as the child, after an earnest "Thank you, ma'am," turned away.

Mr. Lambert afterwards confessed that he felt like throwing his costly flowers into the street. He did not, however; he rang the bell, delivered them to James, the servant in waiting, received the sadly spoken message, "No change, sir," and then hurried away, muttering,—

"World upside down; just my luck; only girl in all the crowd worth that," snapping his finger; "and she going—"

He stopped suddenly at sight of the little flower-girl again.

She was talking to a disreputably dressed lad, who, with a rimless cap stuck on one side of his head, was evidently annoyed at the detention.

"Don't go, Jack. 'T would grieve her, even in heaven, if she knew you'd turn back to the bad after all she's done for yer."

"I'm hungry, and if I go home mammy'll beat me, sure."

"No, she won't, Jack,—not when I tell her about the kind lady. Come, go with me."

"Take this and buy a cake," exclaimed Mr. Lambert, thrusting some silver pieces into Nanny's hand.

Not waiting for any thanks, he strode off in the opposite direction, muttering, "Old fool! Just like you! Meddling, always meddling."

After using his handkerchief vigorously, he went on: "What business is it of mine, if she dies to-day? I don't care. Yes, that's a lie: you do care, you old sinner! You only say that because you're so hateful,—you know you care. You'll never see another like her. There!"

[CHAPTER XIII.]

ANNIE'S LETTER.

THE third week of Marion's sickness there came a crisis and hope. Yes, it was evident to all there was hope now, where fear had prevailed. The doctor's mouth, which had been so firm and rigid, relaxed; and there was a suspicion of a smile. Hepsey's eyes were less watery, James opened and shut the outer door in a jubilant manner, proud of being the one to say to the anxious inquirers,—

"The doctor begins to hope."

On Annie Leman's pale face had come beams of light, which made her beautiful. Scarcely conscious of her own action, she went forward to the physician, caught his hand and pressed it in both hers.

"How can I thank you sir," she said, softly.

"Pshaw, Miss Annie! She owes more to you than to me. We can both thank God. She has been so close to the open gates, I think she can tell us something of what is inside."

One Thursday morning, twenty-six days from the time she left Grantbury, Marion opened her eyes and the light of consciousness dawned in them.

For one instant there was a bewildered expression as she gazed at her faithful watcher, who sat by her side; then she smiled, and said faintly,—

"It's Annie."

"Yes, dear."

"How came I in bed? I remember I felt ill in the cars."

"You have been sick, but you are much better now. Take a spoonful of this, dear, and go to sleep again."

"Lie down by me, Annie, and I'll try to sleep. You look pale and tired."

Annie smoothed the pillow, changed Marion's position, and then lay down on the outside of the bed, as she had done so many times during the last weary weeks.

"Miss Howard's excellent constitution is doing wonders for her," remarked Dr. Ross, as, after the crisis, she seemed to make a leap into the arms of health. "No more drugs: Nature will do her own work now."

This was Marion's first experience of severe illness, and it was difficult to make her understand that for a time she must be economical of her newly gained energies.

"I feel so strong," she insisted, "that I ought to be waiting on Annie, instead of her waiting on me."

"Speaking of Miss Annie," said the doctor, "I have two little girls old enough to learn music. By-and-by, when you are well, I shall ask her to take them into her care."

"How do you know she is competent, Doctor? You ought to consult me," urged Marion, with her old beaming smile, as she saw that her favorite pupil had difficulty in controlling her gratitude at this unexpected offer.

"I'll test her capabilities now. Come, Miss Annie, into the parlor, and give me a piece offhand."

With many blushes she obeyed, and, seating herself at the piano, played from memory an accompaniment to a simple ballad, which she sang with so much sweetness that the physician was delighted.

"Teach my girls to play and sing like that," he exclaimed, "and your fortune is made. Teach them another accomplishment, too,—to play when they are asked, without excuses, as you did. I more than half expected you would say, 'I'm all out of practice, Doctor'; or, 'I'm far from strong.' Teach them all that, and you'll win the gratitude of one father."

Before Marion was able to drive out herself, she insisted that Annie should spend several hours every day in the open air. Indeed, she contrived so many errands which it was imperative must be attended to immediately that the young girl could not refuse.

She early learned that Mary Falkner came to the city soon after the place in the Home for the Sick had been secured for her, that Dr. Moore had seen her safely in the bed in her ward, and had afterward had a consultation visit on her own case with Dr. Ross.

She seemed to have forgotten all about her new protégés, Mrs. Douglass and Mrs. Cheriton; but one day, on looking over the cards left during her sickness, she found one which brought the crimson tide back to her pale cheeks.

It was a card with the name in print,—Harold Angus; and underneath, in a fine hand, was written Juliette Cheriton, with the street and number of her boarding-place.

"Oh, how much I have to do!" Marion said. "I forgot this lady entirely."

Annie wondered what caused the pained voice and firmly set lips of her friend, but she only said soothingly,—

"Don't worry, dear. Tell me if there is any thing I can do to help you."

Marion put her hand wearily to her head, and in answer to Annie's earnest remonstrance, pleading that she would think of nothing about business now, she only asked,—"How soon will the doctor be here?"

"Not for some hours yet. You will have time for a good nap."

"Please give me my pen and paper: I must write a few words, then I will try to rest; and, Annie dear, will you leave me alone a few minutes?"

The table was drawn nearer, materials for writing placed within reach, and Annie, after a wistful glance at her friend, left the chamber. If she could have looked back and seen the weary, tired, pained expression which came over her friend's face as she seized the pen, she might have doubted whether she was acting wisely to leave her.

The note was quickly written, indeed the words were dashed off with a fierce energy, as though she doubted her ability to finish, unless at once. It read thus:—

Mr. Harold Angus:—

Life is uncertain. I hope to live to restore to you a packet from one

whom I strongly suspect was dear to you. To find this package drove

me home from Grantbury, where I first heard that which connected you

in my thoughts with a young girl called Stella. I am not aware of its

contents, and can only say now that Stella died of consumption at the

Home for the Sick, loving and forgiving and blessing all those who

had been dear to her.

MARION HOWARD.

Having sealed this, and written the address, she added this direction: "If I should die, please deliver this at once;" then, enclosing the whole in a blank envelope, she touched her hand-bell and requested Annie to place it in her desk.

"I must rest my head now," she said; "but first, I want you to promise me that, in case anything should happen to me, you will forward any letters you may find in my desk. Don't look so frightened, dear. I shall try to get well, for I have a great deal to do, and life is so pleasant; but there are duties which I dared not defer."

At this moment James knocked at the door, and passed in a letter just delivered by the postman.

"It is Annie Asbury's handwriting," explained Marion, in a glad voice. "It will soothe me to sleep, perhaps. Annie is a dear child."

The letter read thus:-

DEAR MARION,—

Imagine me sitting by the east window, where I can

look out on the great elm-tree, and hear the robin-redbreasts as they

are calling their mates to join them in a morning song. I wish you

could see the grass. It looks greener than green, now that the sun

is touching it. I guess somebody else is feasting his eyes on the

emerald greensward (that's quoted), for I hear a curtain rolled up

and window-sash raised, so I am going to quit this highfalutin style,

and let my pen run on as it will; but, before I forget it, I must

tell you that ever since Mr. Angus ran up to town the day he called

to inquire for you there has been a change in him. Before that he had

one of his worst attacks of depression, or dyspepsia, as Aunt

Thankful calls them; but now he seems to have made up his mind not

to give way. I don't mean that he is cheerful, and I don't know as

I can explain what I do mean. You must see him, before you will

understand. Last night, after prayers, ma must have noticed something

different in him, for she went to him and held out her hand in that

kind way of hers.

"I thank you for your prayer," she said: "it has done me good."

All the answer he made was to repeat these words,—

"God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."

As he stood with his eyes fixed full on hers, I saw a new light

in them, as though he had said to himself, "I'm going to take courage

and go ahead."

If he had seen you, and you had talked to him as you did to pa and ma

after dear Helen died, I should have expected to see just such a

look.

I suppose you know, dear, that those foreign people went away the

week after you did. Ma went with Mr. Angus and brought Eugene here.

He is so beautiful he almost took my breath away; but I am sorry

to say he is so far from good in Ethel's meaning of the word that she

considers it necessary to pray for him very often. Not a soul would

he obey but Mr. Angus. I laughed so much I had to go out of the room:

there was that boy with eyes flashing, defying everybody to make him

stop teasing the cat, and holding her up by the tail; and there was

Ethel perfectly dumb with astonishment, eyes wide open, pale cheeks,

and that little quiver of her lips she has when grieved. Mr. Angus

took in the situation at once and said,—

"Come to me, Eugene."

The boy did not stir.

If I were an artist I would try to sketch Mr. Angus's eyes, as he

fixed them on the defiant little fellow. There was power in them.

I think Ethel would be frightened into fits if he looked at her in

that way. Eugene endured it a minute and then ran, throwing his arms

around the neck of the conqueror, who looked lovingly enough then.

I only waited to see whether Ethel would be jealous; but the precious

child went up and held up her sweet lips to kiss Eugene and show him

she forgave him; then I ran to my room and had a hearty laugh all to

myself.

Mr. Angus told ma that Eugene was a Spanish Creole, and that it is

natural for him to be hot-blooded.

Ma said you wanted me to write a whole letter about Ethel,—all her

funny sayings and doings. I'm sorry now I didn't begin with these,

for I fear my letter will be too long.

First, she is a darling. Yesterday she came running in from the

garden, her hair all in a friz about her forehead, her cheeks of a

brilliant color.

"Oh, my!" she cried, throwing off her hat. "I'm all in a

sweatperation."

"A what?" repeated Gardner, trying not to laugh.

"A sweatperation. Isn't that right?" she asked quickly, as he burst

out laughing.

"It's perspiration, dear," I explained. She was a little mortified.

She has begun to learn the Commandments, and applies them to herself

and her dolls on all occasions.

Do you remember that habit she used to have of twirling a piece of

her dress or apron when she was talking? She made a clean dress look

so mussed, ma told her she mustn't do it.

A few days ago I heard her talking to her favorite doll, Frances.

"You have been a very naughty girl: you have broken the Commandments.

Don't deny it, Frances. I saw you do it."

"What has poor Frances done?" I asked.

"Mussed her nice dress all up, so she can't go to the party."

"It wasn't pretty for her to do it; but I don't think it was breaking

the Commandments, dear."

"Why, yes, it is, Annie, because I forbid her to do it."

"Oh! it comes under obedience, then."

"Yes, she is very naughty."

Two weeks ago Mr. Angus asked ma to let Ethel and I go on the lake

with him. Ma is afraid of the water, you know, and so she asked,

anxiously,—

"Are you used to rowing?"

He seemed very much amused as he said, "Yes, Mrs. Asbury."

Pa laughed as he explained, "Our pastor is a regular sailor, ma:

I'll trust him."

When we were getting into the boat I was a little afraid myself,

it tipped so; and there stood dear little Ethel shaking from head

to foot.

"Will it tip over?" she asked, as Mr. Angus lifted her carefully in.

"No, dear. I think God will take care of us." He looked very lovingly

at her as he put her down on the cross seat in the centre, while I

sat at one end and he at the other. There was not a sign of fear

after that. She sat up straight, looking at him, but not saying a

word till he asked,—

"Do you like it, Ethel?"

"Yes, sir."

The next day she was in his room, and he saw her take her five

dollies out of the locker and make them all kneel down by her doll's

bedstead. She was just going to kneel too, when he asked,—

"What are you doing, Ethel?"

She came right up to him and said, "Ma is going to take me to

New York when my Marion is well enough, and I'm going to ask God

to make the boat go softly."

"That's right," he told her; and then he heard her whisper a little

prayer.

He told ma that she seemed perfectly sure after this that the boat

would go softly, as she said. He often says, "She is a blessed

child." He never praises her, as so many do; but I know he thinks her

beautiful, from the way he spoke one day when a lady was comparing

her with another child. He said, "There can be no comparison.

For purity and sweetness of expression, she is beyond any child

I ever saw."

I must tell you one thing more about our pet, and then I think you

will credit me with four letters of common length.

You know we have always wondered that Ethel should remember so much

about her nurse Bridget, who died a year ago. She always seemed

troubled about her, and used to look up and say, "Can't you speak

to me out of heaven? Can't you just whisper a little?"

A few days ago she went into the kitchen and sat down very soberly.

"It's very bad," she began, "to have naughty legs go into heaven.

Naughty legs had better be cut off than to try to get into heaven."

Cook told ma, and we all thought she had heard somebody read about;

"If thy right hand offend thee," etc.; but she came to ma the same

day, sat down, and began to sigh.

She looked anxiously in ma's face as she said,—

"I suppose Bridget has told God by this time that I kicked her."

Ma says she was very much surprised, as she never knew Ethel to kick

any one; but she answered calmly,—

"If Bridget told God, she told him also that you didn't mean to."

"But I did mean to." She held her finger up to emphasize it, and

repeated, "I did mean to."

"Well, then, dear, she told him that you were sorry."

"Yes," sighing. "I'm sorry now. I wasn't sorry then, when she went

away."

"I'll tell you, darling, what you can do,"—ma saw she was really

troubled and conscience-stricken,—"you can kneel down and tell God

yourself that you are sorry. He will forgive you."

She knelt for some time by her little chair, whispering her prayer in

God's ear. Since that she has never mentioned Bridget's name.

She must have suffered all that time from the pricks of her tender

conscience. I'm sure I saw tears in Mr. Angus's eyes when ma told him

about it.

Good-by, dear Marion. The breakfast-bell is ringing, and I'm sure

Gardner is doing it, for it is done with a will. He's hungry,

I suppose. From

COUSIN ANNIE.

[CHAPTER XIV.]

THE LOST PACKAGE.

"DON'T wake her; I'll call again."

"I think, Doctor, she wished to see you specially."

"Yes, I do," called out Marion, awaking from a refreshing nap, with Annie's letter still in her hand. "Doctor, I'm almost well."

"Decidedly. Are you dismissing me?"

"No, indeed; but I want to ask you something."

She waited a moment, as though uncertain how to state her business. "Doctor, I have something on my mind that troubles me. I feel sure I should be well at once if it were decided."

"Is it a case of blasted affections, or—"

"Don't joke, Doctor: it's a serious affair. It's a breach of trust on my part, and I can't rest until I have done all in my power to remedy the injury."

"Why do you tell me this?" he asked, evidently startled. "Go to your lawyer, or—perhaps your clergymen would do better."

"Because you were my father's friend, and you are my friend. I only tell you now to get your consent to my doing what my conscience tells me is my duty."

"I can't give advice on such general information. I must know particulars."

"I will state a case. Suppose a very sick and dying girl confided to your care a letter or letters containing her last words to a dear friend, name unknown. Suppose that years passed and you never thought of the trust, and at last, when you had reason to suspect you had found the right person, the letters were lost. Suppose that this person was a dreadful sufferer for want of the words which are probably in those lost letters. What would you do, Dr. Ross?"

"I am very sorry for you, my dear child, if you are in such trouble as that. Can't you inform the person of the contents of the letters?"

"If I only knew what the contents are, and that he is the right one to receive them. Years had passed since she had heard from her friend, and she often said it would be a relief to know that he had repented and died. I inferred that he had done her some great wrong, and she had told him she never would forgive him. Before she died she did forgive him with all her heart, and with almost her last breath left him her love and her blessing."

"Tell the person that."

"How can I be sure he is the one, without the packet? It is enclosed in a business envelope, directed to me. It is very aggravating that I cannot recollect her name—but that I could find at the Home for the Sick. I knew her as Stella."

"Have you made a thorough search?"

"Oh, no! I have not thought of it for years. Just before I was taken sick, something occurred of a confidential nature, which led to a suspicion that he is the one I ought to give it to. I began to search at once for it among papers I sent to the country when I left Uncle Williamson's. I have not looked for it here. I cannot recollect seeing it for years. Now I want you to consent that I go to work in earnest. If I don't find it," sighing heavily, "what shall I do?"

"Let me think a minute." He rose and paced the floor, while she gazed at his knitted brows, clenching her hands in impatience for him to speak.

He came back to his seat, and counted her pulse.

"Well," he said, with a grave smile, as he glanced into her eager, wistful face, "if you feel pretty sure you have a clew to the right individual, ask him some leading questions. Has he ever heard of such a lady, naming her? If he is ignorant, or pretends to be, you are relieved from that responsibility. If he should prove to have known her, you can state the circumstance: of her sickness and death, and the messages she left for a dear friend."

"But, Doctor—"

"Yes, I know; and I am trying to choose between two evils. You are recovering from a dangerous illness, and are not fit for any excitement. On the other hand, it is possible that the worry of mind, while waiting for strength, will do you equal harm; so I will make a compromise. Your pulse is pretty steady. You may have as many papers as you please brought here, where Miss Annie can help you search, if you will promise to stop at once if you feel tired, take one of those sweet-tasting pills, and go to bed."

"Thank you, Doctor. I promise. Will you please ring the bell?"

He laughed as he complied. Then saying, "I wish you great success," left the room.

In ten minutes Marion was dressed and seated in an old-fashioned armchair, while within her reach was a drawer of papers, pamphlets, etc., etc. Annie Leman sat on a cricket near by, while James was bringing drawers and boxes from the storeroom.

Having explained what she wanted to find, the work proceeded in silence, occasional sighs from Marion being the only interruption. In less than two hours every paper had been handled and thrown back.

"Are you sure, James, that you have brought all?" The tone was sharp and decided.

"Yes, miss. Mrs. Mitchell came to the attic and told me which to take, and she says there are no more in the house."

"Take them all away, again."

She sank back and covered her face with her hands, but starting presently, she said,—

"I am not keeping my promise to the doctor, Annie. I must take one of those horrid pills, and go to bed. I want to sleep and forget everything."

The next day was so pleasant that Mrs. Mitchell proposed she should take a drive; but Marion had no heart for anything, unless, indeed, "I could go to the Home for the Sick and see Mary Falkner,—and I don't believe the doctor would let me do that. I could ask Dr. B— to examine the record too. If Stella's name was Angus, I—" she stopped suddenly on hearing the doctor's step.

He came in while they were discussing the subject, and ended it by saying she was to go and drive around the park for an hour.

He contrived to send every one from the room, and then asked,—

"What success?"

"None at all. I have no hope, now, and have made up my mind to be as patient as I can till I am well enough to see the one to whom I referred, and tell him what I know. I think he will forgive me, but I can never forgive myself."

After this, she went out every pleasant day for a week, and gained strength rapidly, notwithstanding her abiding regret in regard to the lost packet. Then came a few days of wet weather, when she was obliged to keep in-doors. She sent for her pupils, gave them lessons, and heard them sing and play. She sent for new music for Annie, and tried to interest herself in it. She purchased flowers and sent them to Mrs. Douglass, who, under the care of an experienced physician, was gaining strength daily. The first pleasant day she resolved to go to Grantbury, taking James with her. Annie Leman had returned to her aunt, and was giving lessons to her first pupils.

One morning she stood watching the cloud, which seemed to be blowing over, and said to herself, "To-morrow, if it clears up, I shall be off. What a relief it will be to tell him, and be forgiven for my neglect of so sacred a trust!"

She heard the bell ring, and then James's voice asking whether she would see Mr. Belknap.

"Certainly; ask him up at once." She advanced eagerly to the door to meet her father's aged friend, and her own legal adviser.

Marion's manner was always charming in its heartiness, but towards her aged friends there was almost a filial warmth, which made them feel that they were special favorites. She seated the white-haired old man in her most comfortable chair, putting an ottoman near him, where she could sit and look in his face.

"You have been near death, I hear," he said tenderly.

"Yes, sir; but all that time was lost to me. I was not conscious of danger."

"God has been good to you, my child. He has raised you up to new duties. You must be thankful for all His mercies."

"I must, indeed. I want to be better for this sickness, more helpful of others not so favored as I am, more humble and charitable."

"That's right, dear child. Ask for grace to improve each day's joys and sorrows, and you will get it."

He then talked to Marion of business, saying, "There are some papers which it will be necessary for you to sign."

He had made a long call, when the doctor came in, and, seeing Mr. Belknap, telegraphed to Marion to speak to him in the hall. When there he only said,—

"Tell your story to him: he's a good friend to you."

And she did tell him, relating the death scene in the hospital more in detail than she had done before. She told him also that she had accidentally met a person who was burdened with a heavy grief, whose name, as nearly as she could recollect, was the same. She had always called her friend by her first name, and the belief grew stronger and stronger in her mind that he was the one to whom her dying friend referred. An expression on the gentleman's face had first startled her and carried her back in mind to her friend, and the recollection of the letters left in her care.

He listened attentively, not saying a word till she had finished the recital.

"You say she died in the Home, in the year 18—."

"Yes, sir."

"And that he also was in the same Home for months,—that he told the chaplain his story, as she had told hers, probably."

"Yes, sir; but I didn't think"—she stopped abruptly, staring in his face, and then exclaimed, "Oh, if I could find that packet of letters! I begin to think he cannot be the one after all. Perhaps her friend has long been dead."

"Where did you keep the packet?"

"I must have put it where I considered it safe at the time; but her story was so vague,—and she never mentioned the relation in which this person stood to her. I fancied he might have been her lover. I was young, and thought I was to keep it till called for. I remember thinking as she was a foreigner it was not likely it would ever be delivered to any one. When I left Uncle Williamson's, I kept some papers here and sent the rest to Grantbury."

"Except the green box of deeds, etc., etc., we keep in our safe."

Marion started to her feet, exclaiming, "It is there! It is there! Let us go and get it."

She rang the bell, told James to have the carriage round as quickly as possible, hurried on her hat and sacque, looking so eager and hopeful that her old friend said, cautiously,—

"Don't be too sure, my child."

She turned to him, her whole face dimpled with smiles.

"I'm almost as sure," she said, "as though I had it in my hand."

In a few minutes she stood at the lawyer's table, while a clerk was sent for the green box. One minute more, papers tied with red tape, worth thousands of dollars, and nicely filed receipts were scattered over the table. Near the bottom lay the missing packet, which, with a scream of joy,—"That's it,"—she caught and held to her breast.

"I can't sign anything to-day," she answered, as the younger partner requested her to wait a few minutes. "If you will send the papers round, I'll do it: I'm too excited now."

She ran down the stairs, whispering over and over,—

"God has been very good to me"; then to the coachman,—