"Thank you for the suggestion. It is my wish to leave as soon as possible."
This was all the explanation he gave as to the change in his conduct, a change recognized by every one in the parish. His voice, his step, his manner, were cheerful even to buoyancy. His smile was more frequent, and had lost forever the sadness which formerly often accompanied it.
The very boys in the street watched and wondered. Formerly, when he passed the play-ground, he gazed at them, but in so serious a manner that they felt almost guilty; now it was very different. He stood one day at the entrance to a large field, given up to the use of the boys for base-ball, watching the game with great interest.
"No, that is not the way," he shouted at last, leaping at one bound over the high fence. "This was the way when I was a boy." He gave the ball a kick, which sent it to the farther corner of the field, and stood laughing at the loud cheers which rent the air, then saying,—
"Play fair, boys; cheating don't pay," he gave another leap and passed on, taking off his hat and waving it high in the air as they cheered again.
A supply for the pulpit was readily obtained from a theological school, and passage engaged in a Cunarder; but, as the reader may not understand the necessity which called him to leave Grantbury, I will take the liberty to insert here extracts from the letters in the recovered package.
These were now in the hands of Marion, and he was to receive them when he went to New York to take the steamer. It is unnecessary to say that the young lady, having listened to the story of the brother, devoted her first leisure to reading the confession of the sister.
The very first lines deeply moved her, recalling, as she did, Stella bolstered up in her bed at the Home as she wrote, her curtain drawn closely to shut out the sight of her companions.
The letter began:—
If I have a brother, and these words ever meet his eyes, let him read