"Who, then, could it be?" said Edith, a little startled herself now,

and she explained the mystery of the garden.

He was as nonplussed as herself, but, scratching his bushy head, he

said, with a canny look, "I wud be glad if Hannibal's 'spook,' as he

ca's it, would eoom doon and hoe a bit for me," and Edith was so

cheered and refreshed that she could even join him in the laugh.

They sent her away enveloped in the fragrance of strawberries and

roses from the little basket she carried. But the more grateful aroma

of human sympathy seemed to create a buoyant atmosphere around her;

and she passed back through the village strengthened and armed against

the cold or scornful looks of those who, knowing her to be "wounded,"

had not even the grace to pass by indifferently "on the other side."

CHAPTER XXV

A HORROR OF GREAT DARKNESS

By the time Edith reached home the transient strength and transient

brightening of the skies seemed to pass away. Her mother was no better

and the poor girl saw too plainly the grisly spectres, care, want, and

shame upon her hearth, to fear any good fairy that left such traces as

she saw in her garden. But the mystery troubled her; she longed to

know who it was. As she mused upon it on her way home, Arden Lacey

suddenly occurred to her, and there was a glimmer of a smile and a

faint increase of color on her pale face. But she did not suggest her

suspicion to Hannibal, when he eagerly asked if it were Malcom.

"No, strange to say, it was not," said Edith. "Who could it have

been?"

Hannibal's face fell, and he looked very solemn. "Sumpen awful's gwine

to happen, Miss Edie," he said, in a sepulchral tone.

Edith broke into a sudden reckless laugh, and said, "I think something

awful is happening about as fast as it can. But never mind, Hannibal,

we'll watch to-night, and perhaps he will come again."

"Oh, Miss Edie, I'se hope you'll 'scuse me. I couldn't watch for a

spook to save my life. I'se gwine to bed as soon as it's dark, and

cover up my head till mornin'."

"Very well," said Edith, quietly. "I'm going to sit up with mother to-night, and if it comes again, I'll see it."

"De good Lord keep you safe, Miss Edie," said Hannibal, tremblingly.

"You'se know I'd die for you in a minit; but I'se couldn't wateh for a

spook nohow," and Hannibal crept away, looking as if the very worst

had now befallen them.

Edith was too weary and sad even to smile at the absurd superstition

of her old servant, for with her practical, positive nature she could

scarcely understand how even the most ignorant could harbor such

delusions. She said to Laura, "Let me sleep till nine o'clock, and

then I will watch till morning."

Laura did not waken her till ten.

After Edith had shaken off her lethargy, she said, "Why, Laura, you

look ready to faint!"

With a despairing little cry, Laura threw herself on the floor, and

buried her face in her sister's lap, sobbing:

"I am ready to faint--body and soul. Oh, Edie, Edie, what shall we do?

Oh, that I were sure death was an eternal sleep, as some say! How

gladly I would close my eyes to-night and never wish to open them

again! My heart is ashes, and my hope is dead. And yet I am afraid to

die, and more afraid to live. Ever since--Zell--went--the future has

been--a terror to me. Edith," she continued, after a moment, in a low

voice, that trembled and was full of dread, "Zell has not written--the

silence of the grave seems to have swallowed her. _He has not married

her!_" and an agony of grief convulsed Laura's slight frame.

Edith's eyes grew hard and tearless, and she said sternly, "It were

better the grave had swallowed her than such a gulf of infamy."

Laura suddenly became still, her sobs ceasing. Slowly she raised such

a white, terror-stricken face, that Edith was startled. She had never

seen her elder sister, once so stately and proud, then so apathetic,

moved like this.

"Edith," she said, in an awed whisper, "what is there before us?

Zell's, flight, like a flash of lightning, has revealed to me where we

stand, and ever since I have brooded over our situation, till it seems

as if I shall go mad. There's an awful gulf before us, and every day

we are being pushed nearer to it;" and Laura's large blue eyes were

dilated with horror, as if she saw it.

"Mother is going to die," she continued, in a tone that chilled

Edith's soul. "Our money will soon be gone; we then shall be driven

away even from this poor shelter, out upon the streets--to New York,

or somewhere. Edith, Oh, Edith, don't you see the gulf? What else is

before us?"

"Honest work is before me," said Edith, almost fiercely. "I will

compel the world to give me a place entitled at least to respect."

Laura shook her head despairingly. "You may struggle back and up to

where you are safe. You are good and strong. But there are so many

poor girls in the world like me, who are not good and strong!

Everything seems to combine to push a helpless, friendless woman

toward that gulf. Poor rash, impulsive Zell saw it, and could not

endure the slow, remorseless pressure, as one might be driven over a

precipice, and one she loved seemed to stand ready to break the fall.

I understand her stony, reckless face now."

"Oh, Laura, hush!" said Edith, desperately.

"I must speak," she went on, in the same low voice, so full of dread,

"or my brain will burst. I have thought and thought, and seen that

awful gulf grow nearer and nearer, till at times it seemed as if I

should shriek with terror. For two nights I have not slept. Oh! why

were we not taught something better than dressing and dancing, and

those hollow, superficial accomplishments that only mock us now? Why

were not my mind and body developed into something like strength? I

would gladly turn to the coarsest drudgery, if I could only be safe.

But after what has happened no good people will have anything to do

with us, and I am a feeble, helpless creature, that can only shrink

and tremble as I am pushed nearer and nearer."

Edith seemed turning into stone, herself paralyzed by Laura's despair.

After a moment Laura continued, with a perceptible shudder in her

voice:

"There is no one to break my fall. Oh, that I was not afraid to die!

That seems the only resource to such as I, If I could just end it all

by becoming nothing--"

"Laura, Laura," cried Edith, starting up, "cease your wild mad words.

You are sick and morbid. You are more delirious than mother is. We can

get work; there are good people who will take care of us."

"I have seen nothing that looks like it," said Laura, in the same

despairing tone. "I have read of just such things, and I see how it

all must end."

"Yes, that's just it," said Edith, impatiently. "You have read so many

wild, unnatural stories of life that you are ready to believe anything

that is horrible. Listen: I have over four hundred dollars in the

bank."

"How did you get it?" asked Laura, quickly.

"I have followed mother's suggestion, and mortgaged the place."

Laura sank into a chair, and became so deathly white that Edith

thought she would faint. At last she gasped:

"Don't you see? Even you in your strength can't help yourself. You are

being pushed on, too. You said you would not follow mother's advice

again, because it always led to trouble. You said, again and again,

you would not mortgage the place, and yet you have done it. Now it's

all clear. That mortgage will be foreclosed, and then we shall be

turned out, and then--" and she covered her face with her hands.

"Don't you see," she said, in a muffled tone, "the great black hand

reaching out of the darkness and pushing us down and nearer? Oh, that

I wasn't afraid to die!"

Edith was startled. Even her positive, healthful nature began to yield

to the contagion of Laura's morbid despair. She felt that she must

break the spell and be alone. By a strong effort she tried to speak in

her natural tone and with confidence. She tried to comfort the

desperate woman by endearing epithets, as if she were a child. She

spoke of those simple restoratives which are so often and vainly

prescribed for mortal wounds, sleep and rest.

"Go to bed, poor child," she urged. "All will look differently in the

sunlight to-morrow."

But Laura scarcely seemed to heed her. With weak, uncertain steps she

drew near the bed, and turned the light on her mother's thin, flushed

face, and stood, with clasped hands, looking wistfully at her.

"Yes, my dear," muttered Mrs. Allen in her delirium, "both your father

and myself would give our full approval to your marriage with Mr.

Goulden." The poor woman made watching doubly hard to her daughters,

since she kept recalling to them the happy past in all its minutiae.

Laura turned to Edith with a smile that was inexpressibly sad, and

said, "What a mockery it all is! There seems nothing real in this

world but pain and danger. Oh, that I was not afraid to die!"

"Laura, Laura! go to your rest," exclaimed Edith, "or you will lose

your reason. Come;" and she half carried the poor creature to her

room. "Now, leave the door ajar," she said, "for if mother is worse I

will call you."

Edith sat down to her weary task as a watcher, and never before, in

all the sad preceding weeks, had her heart been so heavy, and so

prophetic of evil, Laura's words kept repeating themselves to her, and

mingling with those of her mother's delirium, thus strangely blending

the past and the present. Could it be true that they were helpless in

the hands of a cruel, remorseless fate, that was pushing them down?

Could it be true that all her struggles and courage would be in vain,

and that each day was only bringing them nearer to the desperation of

utter want? She could not disguise from herself that Laura's dreadful

words had a show of reason, and that, perhaps, the mortgage she had

given that day meant that they would soon be without home or shelter

in the great, pitiless world. But, with set teeth and white face, she

muttered:

"Death first."

Then, with a startled expression, she anxiously asked herself: "Was

that what Laura meant when she kept saying, 'Oh, if I wasn't afraid to

die!'" She went to her sister's door and listened. Laura's movements

within seemed to satisfy her, and she returned to the sick-room and

sat down again. Putting her hand upon her heart, she murmured:

"I am completely unnerved to-night. I don't understand myself;" and

she looked almost as pale and despairing as Laura.

She was, in truth, in the midst of that "horror of great darkness"

that comes to so many struggling souls in a world upon which the

shadow of sin rests so heavily.

CHAPTER XXYI

FRIEND AND SAVIOUR

Knowing of no other source of help than an earthly one, her thoughts

reverted to the old Scotch people whom she had recently visited. Their

sunlighted garden, and happy, homely life, their simple faith, seemed

the best antidote for her present morbid tendencies.

"If the worst comes to the worst, I think they would take us in for a

little while, till some way opened," she thought. "Oh that I had their

belief in a better life! Then it wouldn't seem so dreadful to suffer

in this one. Why have I never read the 'Gude Book,' as they call it?

But I never seemed to understand it; still, I must say, that I never

really tried to. Perhaps God is angry with us, and is punishing us for

so forgetting Him. I would rather think that than to feel so forgotten

and lost sight of. It seems as if God didn't see or care. It seems as

if I could cling to the harshest father in the world, if he would only

protect and help me. A God of wrath, that I have heard clergymen

preach of, is not so dreadful to me as a God who forgets, and leaves

His creatures to struggle alone. Our minister was so cold and

philosophical, and presented a God that seemed so far off, that I felt

there could never be anything between Him and me. He talked about a

holy, infinite Being, who dwelt alone in unapproachable majesty; and I

want some one to stoop down and love and help poor little me. He

talked about a religion of purity and good works, and love to our

fellow-men. I don't know how to work for myself, much less for others,

and it seems as if nearly all my fellow-creatures hated and scorned

me, and I am afraid of them; so I don't see what chance there is for

such as we. If we had only remained rich, and lived on the avenue,

such a religion wouldn't be so hard. It seems strange that the Bible

should teach him and old Malcom so differently. But I suppose he is

wiser, and understands it better. Perhaps it's the flowers that teach

Malcom, for he always seems drawing lessons from them."

Then came the impulse to get the Bible and read it for herself. "The

impulse!" whence did it come?

When Edith felt so orphaned and alone, forgotten even of God, then the

Divine Father was nearest his child. When, in her bitter extremity, at

this lonely midnight hour she realized her need and helplessness as

never before, her great Elder Brother was waiting beside her.

The impulse was divine. The Spirit of God was leading her as He is

seeking to lead so many. It only remained for her to follow these

gentle impulses, not to be pushed into the black gulf that despairing

Laura dreaded, but to be led into the deep peace of a loving faith.

She went down into the parlor to get the Bible that in her hands had

revealed the falseness and baseness of Gus Elliot, and the thought

flashed through her mind like a good omen, "This book stood between me

and evil once before." She took it to the light and rapidly turned its

pages, trying to find some clew, some place of hope, for she was sadly

unfamiliar with it.

Was it her trembling fingers alone that turned the pages? No; He who

inspired the guide she consulted guided her, for soon her eyes fell

upon the sentence--

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give

you rest."

The words came with such vivid power and meaning that she was

startled, and looked around as if some one had spoken to her. They so

perfectly met her need that it seemed they must be addressed directly

to her.

"Who was it that said these words, and what right had he to say them?"

she queried eagerly, and keeping her finger on the passage as if it

might be a clew out of some fatal labyrinth, she turned the leaves

backward and read more of Him with the breathless interest that some

poor burdened soul might have felt eighteen centuries ago in listening

to a rumor of the great Prophet who had suddenly appeared with signs

and wonders in Palestine. Then she turned and read again and again the

sweet words that first arrested her attention. They seemed more

luminous and hope-inspiring every moment, as their significance dawned

upon her like the coming of day after night.

Her clear, positive mind could never take a vague, dubious impression

of anything, and with a long-drawn breath she said, with the emphasis

of perfect conviction:

"If He were a mere man, as I have been taught to believe, He had no

right to say these words. It would be a bitter, wicked mockery for man

or angel to speak them. Oh, can it be that it was God Himself in human

guise? I could trust such a God."

With glowing cheeks and parted lips, she resumed her reading, and in

her eyes was the growing light of a great hope.

The upper room of that poor little cottage was becoming a grand and

sacred place. Heaven, that honors the deathless soul above all

localities, was near. The God who was not in the vast and gold-incrusted temple on Mount Moriah sat in humble guise at "Jacob's

well," and said to one of His poor guilty creatures: "I that speak

unto thee am He." Cathedral domes and cross-tipped spires indicated

the Divine presence on every hand in superstitious Rome, but it would

seem that He was near only to a poor monk creeping up Pilate's

staircase. Though the wealth of the world should combine to build a

colossal church, filling it with every sacred emblem and symbol, and

causing its fretted roof to resound with unceasing choral service, it

would not be such a claim upon the great Father's heart as a weak,

pitiful cry to Him from the least of His children. Though Edith knew

it not, that Presence without which all temples are vain had come to

her as freely, as closely, as truly as when it entered the cottage at

Bethany, and Mary "sat at Jesus' feet and heard His word." Even to

her, in this night of trouble, in this stony wilderness of care and

fear, as to God's trembling servant of old, a ladder of light was let

down from heaven, and on it her faith would climb up to the peace and

rest that are above, and therefore undisturbed by the storms that rage

on earth.

But it is God's way to make us free through truth. Christ, when on

earth, did not deal with men's souls as with their bodies. The latter

He touched into instantaneous cure; to the former He appealed with

patient instruction and entreaty, revealing Himself by word and deed,

and saying: In view of what I prove myself to be will you trust me?

Will you follow me?

In words which, though spoken so long ago, are still the living

utterances of the Spirit to every seeking soul, He was now speaking to

Edith, and she listened with the wonder and hope that might have

stirred the heart of some sorrowing maiden like herself, when His

voice was accompanied by the musical chime of waves breaking on the

shores of Galilee, or the rustle of winds through the gray olive

leaves.

Edith came to the source of all truth with a mind as fresh and

unprejudiced as that of one who saw and heard Jesus for the first

time, as, in his mission journeys, he entered some little town of the

Holy Land. She had never thought much about Him, and had no strong

preconceived opinions. She was almost utterly ignorant of the creeds

and symbols of men, and Christ was not to her, as He is to so many,

the embodiment of a system and the incarnation of a doctrine--a vague,

half-realized truth. When she thought of Him at all, it had been as a

great, good man, the most famous religious teacher in the past, whose

life had nobly "adorned a tale and pointed a moral." But this would

not answer anymore. "What could a man, dead and buried centuries ago,

do for me now?" she asked, bitterly.

"I want one who can with right speak these words--

"'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give

you rest.'"

And as, with finger still clinging to this passage, she read of

miracle and parable, now trembling almost under the "Sermon on the

Mount," now tearful under the tender story of the prodigal, the

feeling came in upon her soul like the rising tide, "This was not mere

man."

Then, with an awe she had never felt before, she followed him to

Gethsemane, to the High Priest's palace, to Pilate's judgment-hall,

and thence to Golgotha, and it seemed to her one long "Via Dolorosa."

With white lips she murmured, with the centurion, "Truly this man was

the Son of God."

She was reading the wonderful story for the first time in its true

connection, and the Spirit of God was her guide and teacher. When she

came to Mary "weeping without at the sepulchre," her own eyes were

streaming, and it seemed as if she were weeping there herself.

But when Jesus said, in a tone perhaps never heard before or since in

this world, "Mary," it seemed that to herself He was speaking, and her

heart responded, "Rabboni--Master."

She started up and paced the little room, thrilling with excitement.

"How blind I have been!" she exclaimed--"how utterly blind! Here I

have been struggling alone all these weary weeks, with scarcely hope

for this world and none for the next, when I might have had _such_ a

friend and helper all the time. Can I be deceived? Can this sweet way

of light out of our thick darkness be a delusion?"

She went to where her little Bible lay open at the passage, "Come unto

me," and bowing her head upon it, pleaded as simply and sincerely as

the Syro-Phoenician mother pleaded for her child in the very presence

of the human Saviour--

"O Jesus, I am heavily laden. I labor under burdens greater than I can

bear. Divine Saviour, help me."

In answer she expected some vague exaltation of soul, of an exquisite

sense of peace, as the burden was rolled away.

There was nothing of the kind, but only an impulse to go to Laura. She

was deeply disappointed. She seemed to have climbed such a lofty

height that she might almost look into heaven and confirm her faith

forever, and only a simple earthly duty was revealed to her. Her

excited mind, that had been expanding with the divinest mysteries, was

reacting into quietness, and the impression was so strong that she

must go to Laura, that she thought her sister had been calling her,

and she, in her intense preoccupation, had heard her as in a dream.

Still keeping the little Bible in her hand, she went to Laura's room.

Through the partially open door she saw, with a sudden chill of fear,

that the bed had not been slept in. Pushing the door open, she looked

eagerly around with a strange dread growing upon her. Laura was

writing at a table with her back toward the entrance. There was a

strong odor of laudanum in the room, and a horrible thought blanched

Edith's cheek. Stealing with noiseless tread across the intervening

space, with hand pressed upon her heart to still its wild throbbings,

she looked over her sister's shoulder, and followed the tracings of

her pen with dilating eyes.

"Mother, Edith, farewell! When you read these sad words I shall be

dead. I fear death--I cannot tell you how I fear it, but I fear more

that dreadful gulf which daily grows nearer. I must die. There is no

other resource for a poor, weak woman like me. If I were only strong--if I had only been taught something--but I am helpless. Do not be too

hard upon poor little Zell. Her eyes were blinded by a false love; she

did not see the black gulf as I see it. If God cares for what such

poor forlorn creatures as I do, may He forgive. I have thought till my

brain reels. I have tried to pray, but hardly knew what I was praying

to. I don't understand God--He is far off. The world scorns us. There

is none to help. There is no other remedy save the drug at my side,

which will soon bring sleep which I hope will be dreamless. Farewell!

"Your poor, trembling, despairing LAURA."

Every sentence was written with a sigh that seemed as if it might be

the last that the burdened soul could, give, and every line was

blotted with tears. Edith saw that the poor, thin face was pinched and

wan with misery, and that the pallor of death had already blanched

even her lips, and, with a shudder of horror, her eyes fell on a phial

of laudanum at Laura's left hand, from which she was partially turned

away, in the act of writing.

With an ecstatic thrill of joy, she now understood how her prayer had

been answered. How could there have been rest--how could there have

been peace--if this awful tragedy had been consummated?

With one devout, grateful glance upward, she silently took away the

fatal drug, and laid her Bible down in its place.

Laura finished her letter, leaned back, and murmured a long,

trembling, "Farewell!" that was like a low, mournful vibration of an

Aeolian harp, when the night-breeze breathes upon it. Then she pressed

her right hand over her eyes, shuddered, and tremblingly put out her

left for that which would end all. But, instead of the phial which she

had placed there but a little before, her hand rested upon a book.

Startled, she opened her eyes, and saw not the dreaded poison, but in

golden letters that seemed luminous to her dazzled sight:

HOLY BIBLE.

Though all had lasted but a brief moment, Edith's power of self-control was gone. Dashing the bottle on the floor, where it broke into

many fragments, she threw herself on her sister's neck and sobbed:

"O Laura, Laura! your hand is on a better remedy. It has saved me--it

can save you. It has shown me the Friend we need. He sent me to you;"

and she clung to her sister in a rapture of joy, murmuring, with every

breath:

"Thanks, thanks, eternal gratitude! I see how my prayer is answered

now."

Laura, in her shattered condition, was too bewildered and feeble to do

more than cling to Edith, with a blessed sense of being rescued from

some great peril. A horrid spell seemed broken, and for some reason,

she knew not why, life and hope were still possible. A torrent of

tears seemed to relieve her of the dreadful oppression that had so

long rested on her, and at last she faltered:

"Who is this strange friend?"

"His name is Jesus--Saviour," said Edith, in a low, reverential tone.

"I don't quite understand," said Laura, hesitatingly. "I can only

cling to you till I know Him."

"He knows you, Laura, and loves you. He has never forgotten us. It was

we who forgot Him. He sent me to you, just in time. Now put your hand

on this book, and promise me you will never think of such an awful

thing again."

"I promise," said Laura, solemnly; "not if I am in my right mind. I

don't understand myself. You seem to have awakened me from a fearful

dream. I will do just what you tell me to."

"Oh, Laura, let us both try to do just what our Divine Friend tells us

to do."

"Perhaps, through you, I shall learn to know Him. I can only cling to

you to-night," said Laura, wearily, "I am so tired," and her eyes

drooped as she spoke.

With a sense of security came a strong reaction in her overtaxed

nature. Edith helped her to bed as if she were a child, and soon she

was sleeping as peacefully as one.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE MYSTERY SOLVED

Edith resumed her watching in her mother's room. The invalid was still

dwelling on the past, and her delirium appeared to Edith a true emblem

of her old, unreal life. Indeed, it seemed to her that she had never

lived before. A quiet but divine exaltation filled her soul. She did

not care to read any more, but just sat still and thought, and her

spiritual light grew clearer and clearer.

Her faith was very simple, her knowledge very slight. She was scarcely

in advance of a Hebrew maiden who might have been one of the mournful

procession passing out of the gates of Nain, when a Stranger, unknown

before, revealed Himself by turning death into life, sorrow into joy.

The eye of her faith was fastened on the distinct, living, loving

personality of our human yet Divine Friend, who no longer seemed afar

off, but as near as to that other burdened one who touched the hem of

His garment.

"He does not change, the Bible says," she thought. "He cannot change.

Therefore He will help me, just as surely as He did the poor,

suffering people among whom He lived."

It was but three o'clock, and yet the eastern sky was pale with dawn.

At length her attention was gained by a faint but oft-repeated sound.

It seemed to come from the direction of the garden, and at once the

mystery that so oppressed poor Hannibal occurred to her. She rose, and

passed back to her own room, which overlooked the garden, and, through

the lattice, in the faint morning twilight, saw a tall, dusky figure,

that looked much too substantial to be any such shadowy being as the

old negro surmised, and the strokes of his hoe were too vigorous and

noisy for ghostly gardening.

"It must be Arden Lacey," thought Edith, "but I will put this matter

beyond all doubt. I don't like this night work, either; though for

different reasons than those of poor Hannibal. We have suffered enough

from scandal already, and henceforth all connected with my life shall

be as open as the day. Then, if the world believes evil of me, it will

be because it likes it best."

These thoughts passed through her mind while she hastily threw off her

wrapper and dressed. Cautiously opening the back-door, she looked

again. The nearer view and clearer light revealed to her Arden Lacey.

She did not fear him, and at once determined to question him as to the

motive of his action. He was but a little way off, and was tying up a

grape-vine that had been neglected, his back being toward her. Edith

had great physical courage and firmness naturally, and it seemed that

on this morning she could fear nothing, in the strength of her new-born enthusiasm.

With noiseless step she reached his side, and asked, almost sternly:

"Who are you, sir; and what does this action mean?"

Arden started violently, trembled like the leaves in the morning wind,

and turned slowly toward her, feeling more guilty and alarmed than if

he had been playing the part of a burglar, instead of acting as her

good genius.

"Why don't you answer?" she asked, in still more decided tones. "By

what right are you doing this work?"

Edith had lost faith in men. She knew little of Arden, and the thought

flashed through her mind, "This may be some new plot against us."

Therefore her manner was stern and almost threatening.

Poor Aden was startled out of all self-control, Edith's coming was so

sudden and unexpected, and her pale face was so spirit-like, that for

a moment he scarcely knew whether the constant object of his thoughts

was really before him, or whether his strong imagination was only

mocking him.

Edith mistook his agitation and hesitancy as evidences of guilt, and

he so far recovered himself as to recognize her suspicions.

"I will be answered. You shall speak the truth," she said,

imperiously. "By what right are you doing this work?"

Then his own proud, passionate spirit flamed up, and looking her

unblenchingly in the face, he replied:

"The right of my great love for you. Can I not serve my idol?"

An expression of deep pain and repulsion came out upon Edith's face,

and he saw it. The avowal of his love was so abrupt--indeed it was

almost stern; and, coming thus from quite a stranger, who had little

place even in her thoughts, it was so exceedingly painful that it was

like a blow. And yet she hardly knew how to answer him, for she saw in

his open, manly face, his respectful manner, that he meant no evil,

however he might err through ignorance or feeling.

He seemed to wait for her to speak again, and his face, from being

like the eastern sky, became very pale. From recent experience, and

the teachings of the Patient One, Edith's heart was very tender toward

anything that looked like suffering, and though she deemed Arden's

feeling but the infatuation of a rude and ill-regulated mind, she

could not be harsh, now that all suspicion of evil designs was

banished. Therefore she said quietly, and almost kindly:

"You have done wrong, Mr. Lacey. Remember I have no father or brother

to protect me. The world is too ready to take up evil reports, and

your strange action might be misunderstood. All transactions with me

must be like the sunlight."

With an expression of almost anguish, Arden bowed his head before her,

and groaned:

"Forgive me; I did not think."

"I am sure you meant no harm," said Edith, with real kindness now in

her tone. "You would not knowingly make the way harder for a poor girl

that has too much already to struggle against. And now, good-by. I

shall trust to your sense of honor, assured that you will treat me as

you would wish your own sister dealt with;" and she vanished, leaving

Arden so overwhelmed with contending emotions that he could scarcely

make his way home.

An hour later Edith heard Hannibal's step downstairs, and she at once

joined him. The old man had aged in a night, and his face had a more

worn and hopeless look than had yet rested upon it. He trembled at the

rustle of her dress, and called:

"Miss Edie, am dat you?"

"Yes, you foolish old fellow. I have seen your spook, and ordered it

not to come here again unless I send you for it."

"Oh, Miss Edie!" gasped Hannibal.

"It's Arden Lacey."

Hannibal collapsed. He seemed to drop out of the realm of the

supernatural to the solid ground of fact with a heavy thump.

He sank into a chair, regarding her first with a blank, vacant face,

which gradually became illumined with a knowing grin. In a low,

chuckling voice, he said:

"I jes declar to you I'se struck all of a heap. I jes done see whar de

possum is dis minute. What an ole black fool I was, sure 'nuff. I

tho't he'se de mos 'bligin man I eber seed afore," and he told her how

Arden had served her in her illness.

She was divided between amusement and annoyance, the latter

predominating. Hannibal concluded impressively:

"Miss Edie, it must be lub. Nothin' else dan dat which so limbered up

my ole jints could get any livin' man ober as much ground as he hoed

dat night."

"Hush, Hannibal," said Edith, with dignity; "and remember that this is

a secret between ourselves. Moreover, I wish you never to ask Mr.

Lacey to do anything for us if it can possibly be helped, and never

without my knowledge."

"You knows well, Miss Edie, dat you'se only to speak and it's done,"

said Hannibal, deprecatingly.

She gave him such a gentle, grateful look that the old man was almost

ready to get down on his knees before her. Putting her hand on his

shoulder, she said:

"What a good, faithful, old friend you are! You don't know how much I

love you, Hannibal;" and she returned to her mother.

Hannibal rolled up his eyes and clasped his hands, as if before his

patron saint, saying, under his breath:

"De idee of her lubing ole black Hannibal! I could die dis blessed

minute," which was his way of saying, "_Nunc dimittis_."

Laura slept quietly till late in the afternoon, and wakened as if to a

new and better life. Her manner was almost child-like. She had lost

all confidence in herself, and seemed to wish to be controlled by

Edith in all things, as a little child might be. But she was very

feeble.

As the morning advanced Edith grew exceedingly weary. Reaction from

her strong excitement seemed to bear her down in a weakness and

lethargy that she could not resist, and by ten o'clock she felt that

she must have some relief. It came from an unexpected source, for

Hannibal appeared with a face of portentous solemnity, saying that

Mrs. Lacey was downstairs, and that she wished to know if she could do

something to help.

The mother's quick eye saw that something had deeply moved and was

troubling her son. Indeed, for some time past, she had seen that into

his unreal world had come a reality that was a source of both pain and

pleasure, of fear and hope. While she followed him every hour of the

day with an unutterable sympathy, she silently left him to open his

heart to her in his own time and manner. But her tender, wistful

manner told Arden that he was understood, and he preferred this tacit

sympathy to any spoken words. But this morning the evidence of his

mental distress was so apparent that she went to him, placed her hands

upon his shoulders, and with her grave, earnest eyes looking straight

into his, asked:

"Arden, what can I do for you?"

"Mother," he said, in a low tone, "there are sickness and deep trouble

at our neighbors'. Will you go to them again?"

"Yes, my son," she replied, simply, "as soon as I can get ready."

So she arranged matters to stay if needed, and thus in Edith's

extremity she appeared. In view of Arden's words, Edith hardly knew

how to receive her or what to do. But when she saw the plain, grave

woman sitting before her in the simple dignity of patient sorrow, her

course seemed clear. She instinctively felt that she could trust this

offered friendliness, and that she needed it.

"I have heard that your mother has been sick as well as yourself,"

Mrs. Lacey said kindly but quietly. "You look very worn and weary,

Miss Allen; and if I, as a neighbor, can watch in your place for a

while, I think you can trust me to do so."

Tears sprang into Edith's eyes, and she said, with sudden color coming

into her pale face, "You take noble revenge for the treatment you have

received from us, and I gratefully submit to it. I must confess I have

reached the limit of my endurance; my sister is ill also, and yet

mother needs constant attention."

"Then I am very glad I came, and I have left things at home so I can

stay," and she laid aside her wraps with the air of one who sees a

duty plainly and intends to perform it. Edith gave her the doctor's

instructions a little incoherently in her utter exhaustion, but the

experienced matron understood all, and said:

"I think I know just what to do. Sleep till you are well rested."

Edith went to her room, and, with her face where the sweet June air

could breathe directly upon it through the open window, sleep came

with a welcome and refreshing balm that she had never known before.

Her last thought was, "He will take care of me and mine."

She had left the door leading into the sick-room open, and Mrs. Lacey

stepped in once and looked at her. The happy, trustful thought with

which she had closed her eyes had left a faint smile upon her face,

and given it a sweet spiritual beauty.

"She seems very different from what I supposed," murmured Mrs. Lacey.

"She is very different from what people are imagining her. Perhaps

Arden, poor boy, is nearer right than all of us. Oh, I hope she is

good, whether he ever marries her or not, for this love will be the

saving or ruining of him."

When Edith awoke it was dark, and she started up in dismay, for she

had meant to sleep but an hour or two. Having hastily smoothed her

hair, she went to the sick-room, and found Laura reclining on the

sofa, and talking in the most friendly manner to Mrs. Lacey. Her

mother's delirium continued, though it was more quiet, with snatches

of sleep intervening, but she noticed no one as yet. Mrs. Lacey sat

calmly in her chair, her sad, patient face making the very ideal of a

watcher, and yet in spite of her plain exterior there was a

refinement, an air of self-respect, that would impress the most casual

observer. As soon as Laura saw Edith she rose as quickly as her

feebleness permitted, and threw her arms around her sister, and there

was an embrace whose warmth and meaning none but themselves, and the

pitying eye of Him who saved, could understand. Then Edith turned and

said, earnestly:

"Truly, Mrs. Lacey, I did not intend to trespass on your kindness in

this manner. I hope you will forgive me."

"Nature knew what was best for you, Miss Allen, and have not incommoded

me at all. I made my plans to stay till nine o'clock, and then Arden

will come for me."

"Miss Edie," said Hannibal, in his loud whisper, "I'se got some supper

for you down here."

Why did Edith go to her room and make a little better toilet before

going down? She hardly thought herself. It was probably a feminine

instinct. As she took her last sip of tea there was a timid knock at

the door. "I will see him a moment," she decided.

Hannibal, with a gravity that made poor Edith smile in her thoughts,

admitted Arden Lacey. He was diffident but not awkward, and the color

deepened in his face, then left it very pale, as he saw Edith was

present. Her pale cheek also took the faintest tinge of pink, but she

rose quietly, and said:

"Please be seated, Mr. Lacey. I will tell your mother you are here."

Then, as Hannibal disappeared, she added earnestly, "I do appreciate

your mother's kindness, and--yours also. At the same time, too deep a

sense of obligation is painful; you must not do so much for us. Please

do not misunderstand me."

Arden had something of his mother's quiet dignity, as he rose and held

out to Edith a letter, saying:

"Will you please read that--you need not answer it--and then perhaps

you will understand me better."

Edith hesitated, and was reluctant.

"I may be doing wrong," continued he, earnestly and with rising color.

"I am not versed in the world's ways; but is it not my right to

explain the rash words I uttered this morning? My good name is dear to

me also. Few care for it, but I would not have it utterly blurred in

your eyes. We may be strangers after you have read it, if you choose,

but I entreat you to read it."

"You will not feel hurt if I afterward return it to you?" asked Edith,

timidly.

"You may do with it what you please."

She then took the letter, and a moment later Mrs. Lacey appeared, and

said:

"I will sit up to-morrow night, with your permission."

Edith took her hand, and replied, "Mrs. Lacey, you burden me with

kindness."

"It is not my wish to burden, but to relieve you, Miss Allen. I think

I can safely say, from our slight acquaintance, that in the case of

sickness or trouble at a neighbor's, you would not spare yourself. We

cease to be human when we leave the too heavily burdened to struggle

alone."

Edith's eyes grew moist, and she said, simply, "I cannot refuse

kindness offered in that spirit, and may God bless you for it. Good-night."

Arden's only parting was a grave, silent bow.

Edith was soon alone again, watching by her mother. With some natural

curiosity, she opened the letter that was written by one so different

from any man that she had ever known before. Its opening, at least,

was reassuring.

"MISS EDITH ALLEN--You need not fear that I shall offend again by

either writing or speaking such rash words as those which so deeply

pained you this morning. They would not have been spoken then, perhaps

never, had I not been startled out of my self-control--had I not seen

that you suspected me of evil. I was very unwise, and I sincerely ask

your pardon. But I meant no wrong, and as you referred to my sister, I

can say, before God, that I would shield you as I would shield her.

"I know little of the conventionalities of the world. I live but a

hermit's life in it, and my letter may seem to you very foolish and

romantic, still I know that my motives are not ignoble, and with this

consciousness I venture.

"Reverencing and honoring you as I do, I cannot bear that you should

think too meanly of me. The world regards me as a sullen, stolid,

bearish creature, but I have almost ceased to care for its opinion. I

have received from it nothing but coldness and scorn, and I pay my

debt in like coin. But perhaps you can imagine why I cannot endure

that you should regard me in like manner. I would not have you think

my nature a stony, sterile place, when something tells me that it is

like a garden that needs only sunlight of some kind. My life has been

blighted by the wrong of another, who should have been my best helper.

The knowledge and university culture for which I thirsted were denied

me. And yet, believe me, only my mother's need--only the absolute

necessity that she and my sister should have a daily protector--kept

me from pushing out into the word, and trying to work my way unaided

to better things. Sacred duty has chained me down to a life that was

outwardly most sordid and unhappy. My best solace has been my mother's

love. But from varied, somewhat extensive, though perhaps not the

wisest kind of reading, I came to dwell in a brave, beautiful, but

shadowy world that I created out of books. I was becoming satisfied

with it, not knowing any other. The real world mocked and hurt me on

every side. It is so harsh and unjust that I hate it. I hate it

infinitely more as I see its disposition to wound you, who have been

so noble and heroic. In this dream of the past--in this unreal world

of my own fancy--I was living when you came that rainy night. As I

learned to know you somewhat, you seemed a beautiful revelation to me.

I did not think there was such a woman in existence. My shadows

vanished before you. With you living in the present, my dreams of the

past ceased. I could not prevent your image from entering my lonely,

empty heart, and taking its vacant throne, as if by divine right. How

could I? How can I drive you forth now, when my whole being is

enslaved?

"But forgive me. Though thought and feeling are beyond control,

outward action is not. I hope never to lose a mastering grasp on the

rein of deeds and words; and though I cannot understand how the

feeling I have frankly avowed can ever change, I will try never, by

look or sign, to pain you with it again.

"And yet, with a diffidence and fear equalled only by my sincerity and

earnestness, I would venture to ask one great favor. You said this

morning that you already had too much to struggle against. The future

has its possibilities of further trouble and danger.

"Will you not let me be your humble, faithful friend, serving you

loyally, devotedly, yet unobtrusively, and with all the delicate

regard for your position which I am capable of showing, assured that

I will gratefully accept any hints when I am wrong or presumptuous?

I would gladly serve you with your knowledge and consent. But serve

you I must. I vowed it the night I lifted your unconscious form from

the wharf, and gave you into Mrs. Groody's care. There need be no

reply. You have only to treat me not as an utter stranger when we next

meet. You have only to give me the joy of doing something for you when

opportunity offers.

"ARDEN LACEY."

Edith's eyes filled with tears before she finished this most

unexpected epistle. Though rather quaint and stately in its diction,

the passion of a true, strong nature so permeated it all, that the

coldest and shallowest would have been moved. And yet a half-smile

played upon her face at the same time, like sunlight on drops of rain.

"Thank heaven!" she said, "I know of one more true man in the world,

if he is a strange one. How different he is from what I thought! I

don't believe there's another in this place who could have written

such a letter. What would a New York society man, whose compliments

are as extravagant as meaningless, think of it? Truly he doesn't know

the world, and isn't like it. I supposed him an awkward, eccentric

young countryman, that, from his very verdancy, would be difficult to

manage, and he writes to me like a knight of olden time, only such

language seems Quixotic in our day. The foolish fellow, to idealize

poor, despised, faulty Edith Allen into one of the grand heroines of

his interminable romances, and that after seeing me hoe my garden like

a Dutch woman. If I wasn't so sad and he so earnest, I could laugh

till my sides ached. There never was a more matter-of-fact creature

than I am, and yet here am I enveloped in a halo of impossible virtues

and graces. If I were what he thinks me, I shouldn't know myself.

Well, well, I must treat him somewhat like a boy, for such he really

is, ignorant of himself and all the world. When he comes to know me

better, the Edith of his imagination will vanish like his other

shadows, and he will have another revelation that I am an ordinary,

flesh-and-blood girl."

With deepening color she continued: "So it was he who lifted me up

that night. Well, I am glad it was one who pitied me, and not some

coarse, unfeeling man. It seems strange how circumstances have brought

him who shuns and is shunned by all, into such a queer relationship to

me. But heaven forbid that I should give him lessons as to the

selfish, matter-of-fact world. He will outgrow his morbidness and

romantic chivalry with the certainty of years, and seeing more of me

will banish his absurd delusions in regard to me. I need his

friendship and help--indeed it seems as if they were sent to me. It

can do him no harm, and it may give me a chance to do him good. If any

man ever needed a sensible friend, he does."

Therefore Edith wrote him--

"It is very kind of you to offer friendship and help to one situated

like myself, and I gratefully grant what you rather oddly call 'a

favor.' At the same time, if you ever find such friendliness a pain or

trouble to you in any way, I shall in no degree blame you for

withdrawing it."

The "friendship" and "friendliness" were underscored, thus delicately

hinting that this must be the only relation.

"There," she said, "all his chains will now be of his own forging, and

I shall soon demolish the paragon he is dreaming over."

She laid both letters aside, and took down her Bible with a little

sigh of satisfaction.

"His lonely, empty heart," she murmured; "ah, that is the trouble with

all. He thinks to fill his with a vain dream of me, as others do with

as vain a dream of something else. I trust I have learned of One here

who can fill and satisfy mine;" and soon she was again deep in the

wondrous story, so old, so new, so all-absorbing to those from whose

spiritual eyes the scales of doubt and indifference have fallen. As

she read she saw, not truths about Jesus, but _Him_, and at His feet

her heart bowed in stronger faith and deeper love every moment.

She had not even thought whether she was a Christian or not. She had

not even once put her finger on her spiritual pulse, to gauge the

evidences of her faith. A system of theology would have been

unintelligible to her. She could not have defined one doctrine so as

to have satisfied a sound divine. She had not even read the greater

part of the Bible, but, in her bitter extremity, the Spirit of God,

employing the inspired guide, had brought her to Jesus, as the

troubled and sinful were brought to Him of old. He had given her rest.

He had helped her save her sister, and with childlike confidence she

was just looking, lovingly and trustingly, into His divine face, and

He was smiling away all her fear and pain. She seemed to feel sure

that her mother would get well, that Laura would grow stronger, that

they would all learn to know Him, and would be taken care of.

As she read this evening she came to that passage of exquisite pathos,

where the purest, holiest manhood said to "a woman of the city, which

was a sinner."

"Thy sins are forgiven. Go in peace."

Instantly her thoughts reverted to Zell, and she was deeply moved.

Could she be forgiven? Could she be saved? Was the God of the Bible--stern, afar off, as she had once imagined--more tender toward the

erring than even their own human kindred? Could it be possible that,

while she had been condemning, and almost hating Zell, Jesus had been

loving her?

The feeling overpowered her. Closing the book, she leaned her head

upon it, and, for the first time, sobbed and mourned for Zell with a

great, yearning pity.

Every such pitiful tear, the world over, is a prayer to God. It

mingles with those that flowed from His eyes as He wept over the

doomed city that would not receive Him. It mingles with that crimson

tide which flowed from His hands and feet when He prayed--

"Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."

CHAPTER XXVIII

EDITH TELLS THE OLD, OLD STORY

Mrs. Allen seemed better the next day, and Laura was able to watch

while Edith slept. After tea Mrs. Lacey appeared, with the same

subdued air of quiet self-respect and patient sorrow. She seemed to

have settled down into that mournful calm which hopes little and fears

little. She seemed to expect nothing better than to go forward, with,

such endurance as she might, into the deeper shadows of age, sickness,

and death. She vaguely hoped that God would have mercy upon her at

last, but how to love and trust Him she did not know. She hardly knew

that it was expected, or possible. She associated religion with going

to church, outward profession, and doing much good. The neighbors

spoke of her and the family as "very irreligious," and she had about

come to the conclusion that they were right. She never thought of

taking credit to herself for her devotion to her children and patience

with her husband. She loved the former, especially her son, with an

intensity that one could hardly reconcile with her grave and silent

ways. In regard to her husband, she tried to remember her first young

girlish dream--the manly ideal of character that her fond heart had

associated with the handsome young fellow who had singled her out

among the many envious maidens in her native village.

"I will try to be true to what I thought he was," she said, with

woman's pathetic constancy, "and be patient with what he is."

But the disappointment, as it slowly assumed dread certainty, broke

her heart.

Edith began to have a fellow-feeling for her. "We both have not only

our own burdens to carry, but the heavier burden of another," she

thought. "I wonder if she has ever gone to Him for the 'rest.' I fear

not, or she would not look so sad and hopeless."

Before they could go upstairs a hack from the hotel stopped at the

door, and Mrs. Groody bustled cheerily in. Laura at the same time came

down, saying that Mrs. Allen was asleep.

"Hannibal," said Edith, "you may sit on the stairs, and if she wakes,

or makes any sound, let me know," and she took a seat near the door in

order to hear.

"I've been worryin' about you every minute ever since I called, and

you was too sick to see me," said Mrs. Groody, "but I've been so busy

I couldn't get away. It takes an awful lot of work to get such a big

house to rights, and the women cleanin', and the servants are so

aggravating that I am just run off my legs lookin' after them. I don't

see why people can't do what they're told, when they're told."

"I wish I were able to help you," said Edith. "Your promise of work

has kept me up wonderfully. But before I half got my strength back

mother became very ill, and, had it not been for Mrs. Lacey, I don't

know what I should have done. It did seem as if she were sent here

yesterday, for I could not have kept up another hour."

"You poor child," said Mrs. Groody, in a tone and manner overflowing

with motherly kindness. "I just heard about it today from Arden, who

was bringin' something up to the hotel, so I said, 'I'll drop

everything to-night, and run down for a while.' So here I am, and now

what can I do for you?" concluded the warm-hearted woman, whose

invariable instinct was to put her sympathy into deeds.

"I told you that night," said Edith. "I think I could do a little

sewing or mending even now if I had it here at home. But your kindness

and remembrance do me more good than any words of mine can tell you. I

thought no one would ever speak to us again," she continued in a low

tone, and with rising color, "and I have had kind, helpful friends

sent to me already."

Wistful mother-love shone in Mrs. Lacey's large blue eyes, but Mrs.

Groody blew her nose like a trumpet, and said:

"Not speak to you, poor child! Though I ain't on very good terms with

the Lord, I ain't a Pharisee, and after what I saw of you that night,

I am proud to speak to you and do anything I can for you. It does seem

too bad that poor young things like you two should be so burdened. I

should think you had enough before without your mother gettin' sick. I

don't understand the Lord, nohow. Seems to me He might scatter His

afflictions as well as His favors a little more evenly, I've thought a

good deal about what you said that night, 'We're dealt with in

masses,' and poor bodies like you and me, and Mrs. Lacey there, that

is, 'the human atoms,' as you called 'em, are lost sight of."

Tears sprang into Edith's eyes, and she said, earnestly, "I am sorry I

ever said those words. They are not true. I should grieve very much if

my rash, desperate words did you harm after all your kindness to me. I

have learned better since I saw you, Mrs. Groody. We are not lost

sight of. It seems to me the trouble is we lose sight of Him."

"Well, well, child, I'm glad to hear you talk in that way," said Mrs.

Groody, despondently. "I'm dreadfully discouraged about it all. I know

I fell from grace, though, one awfully hot summer, when everything

went wrong, and I got on a regular rampage, and that's the reason

perhaps. A she-bear that had lost her cubs wasn't nothin' to me. But I

straightened things out at the hotel, though I came mighty near bein'

sick, but I never could get straight myself after it. I knowed I ought

to be more patient-I knowed it all the time. But human natur is human

natur, and woman natur is worse yet sometimes. And when you've got on

one hand a score to two of drinkin,' quarrelsome, thievin', and

abominably lazy servants to manage, and on the other two or three

hundred fastidious people to please, and elegantly dressed ladies who

can't manage their three or four servants at home, dawdlin' up to you

every hour in the day, say in' about the same as, Mrs. Groody,

everything ain't done in a minute--everything ain't just right. I'd

like to know where 'tis in this jumbled-up world--not where they're

housekeepers, I warrant you.

"Well, as I was telling you," continued Mrs. Groody, with a weary

sigh, "that summer was too much for me. I got to be a very dragon. I

hadn't time to read my Bible, or pray, or go to church, or scarcely

eat or sleep. I worked Sundays and week days alike, and I got to be a

sort of heathen, and I've been one ever since," and a gloom seemed to

gather on her naturally open, cheery face, as if she feared she might

never be anything else.

Mrs. Lacey gave a deep, responsive sigh, showing that her heavy heart

was akin to all other burdened souls. But direct, practical Edith said

simply and gently:

"In other words, you were laboring and heavy laden."

"Couldn't have been more so, and lived," was Mrs. Groody's emphatic

answer.

"And the memory of it seems to have been a heavy burden on your

conscience ever since, though I think you judge yourself harshly,"

continued Edith.

"Not a bit," said Mrs. Groody sturdily, "I knowed better all the

time."

"Well, be that as it may, I feel that I know very little about these

things yet. I'm sure I want to be guided rightly. But what did our

Lord mean when He said, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy

laden, and I will give you rest'?"

Mrs. Groody gave Edith a sort of surprised and startled look. After a

moment she said, "Bless you, child, how plain you do put it! It's a

very plain text when you think of it, now, ain't it? I always tho't it

meant kind o' good, as all the Bible does."

"No, but He said them," urged Edith, earnestly. "It is a distinct,

plain invitation, and it must have a distinct, plain meaning. I have

learned to know that when you or Mrs. Lacey say a thing, you mean what

you say, and so it is with all who are sincere and true. Was He not

sincere and true? If so, these plain words must have a plain meaning.

He surely couldn't have meant them only for the few people who heard

His voice at that time."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Groody, musingly, while poor Mrs. Lacey

leaned forward with such an eager, hungry look in her poor, worn face,

that Edith's heart yearned over her. Laura came and sat on the floor

by her sister's chair, and leaning her elbow on Edith's knee, and her

face on her hand, looked up with the wistful, trustful, child-like

expression that had taken the place of her former stateliness and

subsequent apathy. Edith lost all thought of herself in her eagerness

to tell the others of the Friend and Helper she had come to know.

"He must be God, or else He had no right to say to a great, troubled,

sinning world, 'Come unto me.' The idea of a million people going at

once, with their sorrows and burdens, to one mere man, or an angel, or

any finite creature! And just think how many millions there are! If

the Bible is for all, this invitation is for all. He couldn't have

changed since then, could He? He can't be different in heaven from

what He was on earth?"

"No," said Mrs. Groody, quickly, "for the Bible says He is the same

yesterday, to-day, and forever.'"

"I never read in that place," said Edith, simply. "That makes it

clearer and stronger than ever. Please, don't think I am setting

myself up as a religious teacher. I know very little yet myself. I am

only seeking the light. But one thing is settled in my mind, and I

like to have one thing settled before I go on to anything else. This

one thing seems the foundation of everything else, and it appears as

if I could go on from it and learn all the rest. I am satisfied that

this Jesus is God, and that He said, 'Come unto me,' to poor, weak,

overburdened Edith Allen. I went to Him, just as people in trouble

used to, when He first spoke these words. And oh, how He has helped

me!" continued Edith, with tears in her eyes, but with the glad light

of a great hope again shining through them. "The world can never know

all that He has done for us, and I can't even think of Him without my

heart quivering with gratitude."

Laura had now buried her face in her sister's lap, and was trembling

like a leaf. Edith's words had a meaning to her that they could not

have for the others.

"And now," concluded Edith, "I was led to Him by these words, 'Come

unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you

rest.' I was in greater darkness than I had ever been in before. My

heart ached as if it would burst. Difficulty and danger seemed on

every side, and I saw no way out. I knew the world had only scorn for

us, and I was so bowed down with shame and discouragement that I

almost lost all hope. I had been to the village, and the people looked

and pointed at me, till I was ready to drop in the street. But I went

to Mr. McTrump's, and he and his wife were so kind to me, and

heartened me up a little; and they spoke about the 'Gude Book,' as

they call it, in such a way as made me think of it in my deep distress

and fear, as I sat alone watching with mother. So I found my neglected

Bible, and, in some way, I seemed guided to these words, 'Come unto

me'; and then, for two or three hours, I continued to read eagerly

about Him, till at last I felt that I could venture to go to Him. So,

I just bowed my head, on His own invitation; indeed, it seemed like a

tender call to a child that had been lost in the dark, and was afraid,

and I said, 'I am heavy laden, help me.' And how wonderfully He did

help me! He has been so good, so near, ever since. My weary, hopeless

heartache is gone. I don't know what is before us. I can't see the way

out of our troubles. I don't know what has become of our absent one,"

she said, in a low tone and with bowed head, "but I can leave all to

Him. He is God: He loves, and He can and will take care of us. So you

see I know very little about religion yet; just enough to trust and

keep close to Him; and I feel sure that in time He will teach me,

through the Bible, or in some way, all I ought to know."

"Bless the child, she's right, she's right," sobbed Mrs. Groody. "It

was just so at first. He came right among people, and called all sorts

to Him, and they came to Him just as they was, and stayed with Him,

and He cured, and helped, and taught 'em, till, from being the worst,

they became the best. That is the way that distressed, swearin', old

fisherman Peter became one of the greatest and best men that ever

lived; though it took a mighty lot of grace and patience to bring it

about. Now I think of it, I think he fell from grace worse than I did

that awfully hot summer. What an old fool I am! I've been readin' the

Bible all my life, and never understood it before."

"I think that if you had gone to Him that time when you were so

troubled and overburdened He would have helped you," said Edith,

gently.

"Yes, but there it is, you see," said Mrs. Groody, wiping her eyes and

shaking her head despondently; "I didn't go."

"But you are heavy laden now. I can see it. You can go now," said

Edith, earnestly.

"I'm afraid I've put it off too long," said Mrs. Groody, settling back

into something of her old gloom. "I'm afraid I've sinned away my

time."

With a strange blending of pathos and reproach in her tone, Edith

answered:

"Oh, how can YOU, with your big, kind heart, that yearned over a poor

unknown girl that dreadful night when you brought me home--how can you

think so poorly of your Saviour? Is your heart warmer--are your

sympathies larger than His? Why, He died for us, and, when dying,

prayed for those who crucified Him. Could you turn away a poor,

sorrowing, burdened creature that came pleading to you for help? You

know you couldn't. Learn from your own heart something of His. Listen,

I haven't told you all. It seems as if I never could tell all about

Him. But see how He feels about poor lost Zell, when I, her own

sister, was almost hating her," and, reaching her hand to the table,

she took her Bible and read Christ's words to "a woman of the city,

which was a sinner."

At this Mrs. Groody broke down completely, and with clasped hands and

streaming eyes, cried:

"I will go to Him; I will fear and doubt no more."

A trembling hand was now laid on Edith's shoulder, and, looking up,

she saw Mrs. Lacey standing by her side with a face so white, so

eager, so full of unutterable longing, that it might have made a

Christian artist's ideal of a soul famishing for the "Bread of Life."

In a low, timid, yet thrilling tone, she asked:

"Miss Allen, do you think He would receive such as me?"

"Yes, thus," cried Edith, as with a divine impulse and a great

yearning pity she sprang up and threw her arms around Mrs. Lacey.

Hope dawned in the poor worn face like the morning. Belief in God's

love and sympathy seemed to flow into her sad heart from the other

human heart that was pressed against it. The spiritual electric circle

was completed--Edith, with her hand of faith in God's, took the

trembling, groping hand of another and placed it there also.

Two great tears gathered in Mrs. Lacey's eyes, and she bowed her head

for a moment on Edith's shoulder, and murmured, "I'll try--I think I

may venture to Him."

Hannibal now appeared at the door, saying, rather huskily and

brokenly, considering his message:

"Miss Edie, you'se mudder's awake, an' 'd like some water."

"That's what we all have been wanting, 'water'--'the water of life,'"

said Mrs. Groody, wiping her eyes, "and never was my parched old heart

so refreshed before. I don't care how hot this summer is, or how

aggravatin' things are, I feel as if I'd be helped through it. And, my

dear, good-night. I come here to try to do you good, and you've done

me more good than I ever thought could happen again. I'm goin' to kiss

you--I can't help it. Good-by, and may the good Lord bless your sweet

face;" and Mrs. Groody, like one of old, climbed up into her chariot,

and "went on her way rejoicing."

In their close good-night embrace, Laura whispered, "I begin to

understand it a little now, Edie, but I think I see everything only

through your eyes, not my own."

"As old Malcom said to me the other day, so now I say to you, 'Ye'll

learn it a' soon.'"

Edith soon retired to rest also, and Mrs. Lacey sat at Mrs. Allen's

side, returning the sick woman's slights and scorn, somewhat as the

patient God returns ours, by watching over her.

Her eyes, no longer cast down with the pathetic discouragement of the

past, seemed looking far away upon some distant scene. She was

following in her thoughts the steps of the Magi from the East to

where, as yet far distant, the "Star of Bethlehem" glimmered with

promise and hope.

CHAPTER XXIX

HANNIBAL LEARNS HOW HIS HEART CAN BE WHITE

When Edith rose the next morning she found Laura only at her mother's

bedside. Mrs. Lacey had gone home quite early, saying that she would

soon come again. Mrs. Allen's delirium had passed away, leaving her

exceedingly weak, but the doctor said, at his morning call:

"With quiet and good nursing she will slowly regain her usual health."

After he was gone, Laura said: "Taking care of mother will now be my

work, Edie. I feel a good deal stronger. I'll doze in a chair during

the day, and I am a light sleeper at night, so I don't think we shall

need any more watchers. Poor Mrs. Lacey works hard at home, I am sure,

and I don't want to trespass on her kindness any longer. So if Mrs.

Groody sends you work you may give all your time to it."

And early after breakfast quite a bundle did come from the hotel, with

a scrawl from the housekeeper: "You may mend this linen, my dear, and

I'll send for it to-morrow night."

Edith's eyes sparkled at the sight of the work as they never had over

the costliest gifts of jewelry. Sitting down in the airy parlor, no

longer kept in state for possible callers, she put on her thimble,

and, with a courage and heroism greater than those of many a knight

drawing for the first time his ancestral sword, she took her needle

and joined the vast army of sewing-women. Lowly was the position and

work first assigned to her--only mending coarse linen. And yet it was

with a thrill of gratitude and joy, and a stronger hope than she had

yet experienced, that she sat down to the first real work for which

she would be paid, and in her exultation she brandished her little

needle at the spectres want and fear, as a soldier might his weapon.

Hannibal stood in the kitchen regarding her with moist eyes and

features that twitched nervously.

"Oh, Miss Edie, I neber tho't you'd come to dat."

"It's one of the best things I've come to yet," said Edith, cheerily.

"We shall be taken care of, Hannibal. Cheer up your faithful old

heart. Brighter days are coming."

But, for some reason, Hannibal didn't cheer up, and he stood looking

very wistfully at Edith. At last he commenced:

"It does my ole black heart good to hear you talk so, Miss Edie--"

"Why do you persist in calling your heart black? It's no such thing,"

interrupted Edith.

"Yes, 'tis, Miss Edie," said Hannibal, despondently, "I'se know 'tis.

I'se black outside, and I allers kinder feel dat I'se more black

inside. Neber felt jes right here yet, Miss Edie," said the old man,

laying his hand on his breast. "I come de nighest to't de toder day

when you said you lubbed me. Dat seemed to go down deep, but not quite

to whar de trouble stays all de time.

"But, Miss Edie," continued he in a whisper, "I'se hope you'll forgive

me, but I couldn't help listenin' to you last night. I neber heerd

such talk afore. It seemed to broke my ole black heart all up, and

made it feel like de big ribers down souf in de spring, when dey jes

oberflow eberyting. I says to myself, dat's de Friend Miss Edie say

she's gwine to tell me 'bout. And now, Miss Edie, would you mind

tellin' me little 'bout Him? Cause if He's your Friend, I'd t'ink a

heap of Him, too. Not dat I specs He's gwine to bodder wid dis ole

niggah, but den I'd jes like to hear 'bout Him a little."

Edith laid down her work, and turned her glorious dark eyes, brimming

over with sympathy, on the poor old fellow, as he stood in the doorway

fairly trembling with the excess of his feeling.

"Come and sit down here by me," she said.

"Oh, Miss Edie, I'se isn't--"

"No words--come."

Hannibal crouched down on a divan near.

"What makes you think He wouldn't bother with you?"

"Well, I'se don't know 'zactly, Miss Edie. I'se only Hannibal."

"Hannibal," said Edith, earnestly, "you are the best man I know in all

the world."

"Oh, Lor bless you, Miss Edie, how you talk! you'se jes done gone

crazy."

"No I haven't. I never spoke in more sober earnest. You are faithful

and true, unselfish and patient, and abound in the best material of

which men are made. I admit," she added, with a twinkle in her eye,

"that one very common element of manhood, as I have observed it, is

dreadfully lacking, that is conceit. I wish I were as good as you are,

Hannibal."

"Oh, Miss Edie, don't talk dat way, you jes done discourages me. If

you'd only say, Hannibal, you'se sick, but I'se got a mighty powerful

medicine for you; if you'd only say, I know you isn't good; I know

your ole heart is black, but I know a way to make it white, I'd stoop

down and kiss de ground you walks on. Dere's sumpen wrong here, Miss

Edie," said he, laying his hand on his breast again, and shaking his

head, with a tear in the corner of each eye--"I tells you dere's

sumpen wrong. I don't know jes what 'tis. My heart's like a baby a-cryin' for it doesn't know what. Den it gits jes like a stun, as hard

and as heavy. I don't understan' my ole heart; I guess it's kinder

sick and wants a doctor, 'cause it don't work right. But dere's one

ting I does understan'. It 'pears dat it would be a good heaven 'nuff

if I'se could allers be waitin' on you alls. But Massa Allen's gone;

Miss Zell, poor chile, is gone; and I'se growin' ole, Miss Edie, I'se

growin' ole. De wool is white, de jints are stiff, and de feet tired.

Dey can't tote dis ole body roun' much longer. Where am I gwine, Miss

Edie? What's gwine to become of ole Hannibal? I'se was allers afeard

of de dark. If I could only find you in de toder world and wait on

you, dat's all I ask, but I'se afeard I'll get lost, it seems such a

big, empty place."

"Poor old Hannibal! Then you are 'heavy laden' too," said Edith,

gently.

"Indeed I is, Miss Edie; 'pears as if I couldn't stan' it anoder

minute. And when I heerd you talkin' about dat Friend last night, and

tellin' how good He was to people, and He seemed to do you such a heap

of good, I thought dat I would jes like to hear little 'bout Him."

"Wait till I get my Bible," said Edith.

"Bless you, Miss Edie, you'se needn't stop your work. You can jes tell

me any ting dat come into you'se head."

"Then I wouldn't be like Him, Hannibal. He used to stop and give the

kindest and most patient attention to every one that came to Him, and,

as far as I can make out, the poorer they were, the more sinful and

despised they seemed, the more attention He gave to them."

"Dat's mighty quar," said Hannibal, musingly; "not a bit like de big

folks dat I'se seen."

"I don't understand it all myself yet, Hannibal. But the Bible tells

me that He was God come down to earth to save the world. He says to

the lost and sinful--to all who are poor and needy--in brief, to the

heavy laden, 'Come unto me.' So I went to Him, Hannibal, and you can

go just as well."

The old man's eyes glistened, but he said, doubtfully, "Yes, but den

you'se Miss Edie, and I'se only black Hannibal. I wish we'd all lived

when He was here. I might have shine His boots, and done little tings

for Him, so He'd say, 'Poor ole Hannibal, you does as well as you

knows how. I'll 'member you, and you shan't go away in de dark.'"

Edith smiled and cried at the same time over the quaint pathos of the

simple creature's words, but she said, earnestly, "You need not go

away in the dark, for He said, 'I am the light of the world,' and if

you go to Him you will always be in the light."

"I'd go in a minute," said Hannibal, eagerly, "if I only know'd how,

and wasn't afeard." Then, as if a sudden thought struck him, he asked,

"Miss Edie, did He eber hab any ting to do wid a black man?"

Edith was so unfamiliar with the Bible that she could not recall any

distinct case, but she said, with the earnestness of such full belief

on her part, that it satisfied his child-like mind, "I am sure He did,

for all kinds of people--people that no one else would touch or look

at--came to Him, or He went to them, and spoke so kindly to them and

forgave all their sins."

"Bress Him, Miss Edie, dat kinder sounds like what I wants."

Edith thought a moment, and, with her quick, logical mind, sought to

construct a simple chain of truth that would bring to the trusting

nature she was trying to guide the perfect assurance that Jesus' love

and mercy embraced him as truly as herself.

They made a beautiful picture that moment; she with her hands, that

had dropped all earthly tasks for the sake of this divine work,

clasped in her lap, her lustrous eyes dewy with sympathy and feeling,

looking far away into the deep blue of the June sky, as if seeking

some heavenly inspiration; and quaint old Hannibal, leaning forward in

his eagerness, and gazing upon her, as if his life depended upon her

next utterances.

It was a picture of the Divine Artist's own creation. He had inspired

the faith in one and the questioning unrest in the other. He, with

Edith's lips, as ever by human lips, was teaching the way of life.

Glorious privilege, that our weak voices should be as the voice of

God, telling the lost and wandering where lies the way to life and

home! The angels leaned over the golden walls to watch that scene,

while many a proud pageant passed unheeded.

"Hannibal," said Edith, after her momentary abstraction, "God made

everything, didn't He?"

"Sartin."

"Then He made you, and you are one of His creatures, are you not?"

"Sartin I is, Miss Edie."

"Then see here what is in the Bible. Almost the last thing He said to

His followers before He went up into heaven, was, 'Go ye into all the

world and preach the gospel to every creature.' Gospel means 'good

news,' and the good news was, that God had come down from heaven and

become a man, so we wouldn't be afraid of Him, and that He would take

away their sins and save all who would let Him. Now, remember, He

didn't send His preachers to the white people, nor to the black

people, but to all the world, to every creature alike, and so He meant

you and me, Hannibal, and you as much as me. I am just as sure He will

receive you as that He received me."

"Dat's 'nuff, Miss Edie. Ole Hannibal can go too. And I'se a-gwine,

Miss Edie, I'se a-gwine right to Him. Dere's only one ting dat

troubles me yet. What is I gwine to do wid my ole black heart? I know

dere's sumpen wrong wid it. It's boddered me all my life."

"Oh, Hannibal," said Edith, eagerly, "I was reading something last

night that I think will just suit you, I thought I would read a little

in the Old Testament, and I turned to a place that I didn't understand

very well, but I came to these words, and they made me think of you,

for you are always talking about your 'old black heart.'" And she

read:

"I will give them one heart, and I will put a new spirit within you;

and I will take the stony heart out of their flesh and will give them

an heart of flesh."

To Hannibal the words seemed a revelation from heaven. Standing before

her, with streaming eyes, he said:

"Oh, Miss Edie, you'se been an angel of light to me. Dat was jes de

berry message I wanted. I knowed my ole heart was nothin' but a black

stun. De Lord couldn't do nothin' wid it but trow it away. But tanks

be to His name, He says He'll give me a new one--a heart of flesh. Now

I sees dat my heart can be white like yours, Miss Edie. Bress de Lord,

I'se a-gwine, I'se a-comin'," and Hannibal vanished into the kitchen,

feeling that he must be alone in the glad tumult of his emotions.

CHAPTER XXX

EDITH'S AND ARDEN'S FRIENDSHIP

As Edith laid aside her work for a frugal dinner at one o'clock, she

heard the sound of a hoe in her garden. The thought of Arden at once

recurred to her, but looking out she saw old Malcom. Throwing a

handkerchief over her head, she ran out to him, exclaiming:

"How good you are, Mr. McTrump, to come and help me when I know you

are so very busy at home!"

"Weel, nothin' to boast on," replied Malcom; "I tho't that if ye had

na one a-lookin' after the garden save Hannibal's 'spook,' ye'd have

but a ghaistly crop. But I'm a-thinkin' there's mair than a ghaist

been here."

"It was Arden Lacey," said Edith, frankly, but with deepening color.

Malcom, in telling his wife about it, said, "She looked like the rose-bush, a' in bloom, that she was a-stonnin' beside."

Edith, seeing the mischievous twinkle in her little friend's eye,

added hastily, "Both Mrs. Lacey and her son have been very kind to us

in our sickness and trouble, as well as yourself. But, Mr. McTrump,"

she continued, anxious to change the subject, also eager to speak on

the topic uppermost in her thoughts, "I think I am beginning to 'learn

it a',' as you said, about that good Friend who suffered for us that

we might not suffer. What you and your wife said to me the other day

led me to read the 'Gude Book' after I got home. I don't feel as I did

then. I think I can trust Him now."

Malcom dropped his hoe and came over into the path beside her.

"God be praised!" he said. "I gie je the right hond o' fellowship an'

welcome ye into the kirk o' the Lord. Ye noo belong to the household

o' faith, an' God's true Israel, an' may His gude Spirit guide ye into

all truth."

The little man spoke very earnestly, and with a certain dignity and

authority that his small stature and rude working-dress could not

diminish. A sudden feeling of solemnity and awe came over Edith, and

she felt as if she were crossing the mystic threshold and entering the

one true church consisting of all believers in Christ.

For a moment she reverently bowed her head, and a sweeter sense of

security came over her, as if she were no longer an outsider, but had

been received into the household.

Malcom, "a priest unto God" through his faith, officiated at the

simple ceremony. The birds sang the choral service. The wind-shaken

roses, blooming around her, with their sweet ordos, were the censers

and incense, and the sunlighted garden, the earliest sacred place of

Bible history, where the first fair woman worshipped, was the hallowed

ground of the initiatory rite.

"Why, Mr. McTrump, I feel almost as if I had joined the church," said

Edith, after a moment.

"An' sae ye ha' afore God, an' I hope ere long ye'll openly profess

yer faith before men."

"Do you think I ought?" said Edith, thoughtfully.

"Of coorse I do, but the Gude Book'll teach a' aboot it. Ye canna gang

far astray wi' that to guide ye."

"I would like to join the church that you belong to, Mr. McTrump, as

soon as I feel that I am ready, for it was you and your good wife that

turned my thoughts in the right direction. I was almost desperate with

trouble and shame when I came to you that afternoon, and it was your

speaking of the Bible and Jesus, and especially your kindness, that

made me feel that there might be some hope and help in God."

The old man's eyes became so moist that he turned away for a moment,

but recovering himself after a little, he said:

"See, noo, our homely deeds and words can be like the seeds we drop

into the mould. Look aroon once and see how green and grand the garden

is, and a' from the wee brown seeds we planted the spring. Sae would

the garden o' the Lord bloom and floorish if a' were droppin' a 'word

in season' and a bit o' kindness here and there. But if I stay here

an' preach to ye that need na preachin', these sins o' the garden, the

weeds, will grow apace. Go you an' look in yer strawberry-bed."

With an exclamation of delight, Edith pounced upon a fair-sized red

berry, the first she had picked from her own vines. Then glancing

around, she saw one and another showing its red cheek through the

green leaves, till with a little cry of exultation she said:

"Oh, Mr. McTrump, I'll get enough for mother and Laura."

"Aye, and enoof to moisten yer own red lips wi' too, I'm a-thinkin'.

There'll be na crop the year wourth speakin' of; but next June 'twill

puzzle ye to gither them. But ye a' can ha' a dainty saucer yoursels

the season, when ye're a mind to stoop for them."

Edith soon had the pleasure of seeing her mother and Laura enjoying

some, and, as Malcom said, there were plenty for her, and they tasted

like the ambrosia of the gods. Varied experiences had so thoroughly

engrossed her thoughts and time the past few days, that she had

scarcely looked toward her garden. But with the delicious flavor of

the strawberries lingering in her mouth, and with the consciousness

that she enjoyed picking them much more than sewing, the thought of

winning her bread by the culture of the ground grew in her favor.

"Oh, how much rather would I be out there with Malcom!" she sighed.

Glancing up from her work during the afternoon, she saw Arden Lacey on

his way to the village. There was a strange mingling of hope and fear

in his mind. His mother's manner had been such as to lead him to say

when alone with her after breakfast:

"I think your watching has done you good, mother, in stead of wearying

you too much, as I feared."

She had suddenly turned and placed both her hands on his shoulders,

saying:

"Arden, I hardly dare speak of it yet. It seems too good to be true,

but a hope is coming into my heart like the dawn after night. She's

worthy of your love, however it may result, and if I find true what

she told me last night I shall have reason to bless her name forever;

but I see only a glimmer of light yet, and I rejoice with fear and

trembling." And she told him what had occurred.

He was deeply moved, but not for the same cause as his mother. His

desire and devotion went no further than Edith. "Can she have read my

letter?" he thought, and he was consumed with anxiety for some

expression of her feeling toward him. Therefore he was glad that

business called him to the village that afternoon, but his steps were

slow as he approached the little cottage, and his eyes were upon it as

a pilgrim gazes at a shrine he long has sought. He envied Malcom

working in the garden, and felt that if he could work there every day,

it would be Adam's life before he fell. Then he caught a glimpse of

Edith sewing at the window, and he dropped his eyes instantly. He

would not be so afraid of a battery of a hundred guns as of that poor

sewing-girl (for such Edith now was), stitching away on Mrs. Groody's

coarse hotel linen. But Edith had noted his timid, wistful looks, and

calling Hannibal, said:

"Please give that note to Mr. Lacey. He is just passing toward the

village."

Hannibal, with the impressive dignity he had learned in olden times,

handed the missive to Arden, saying, "Miss Edie telled me to guv you

dis 'scription."

If Hannibal had been Hebe he could not have been a more welcome

messenger.

Arden could not help his hand trembling as he took the letter, but he

managed to say, "I hope Miss Allen is well."

"Her health am berry much disproved," and Hannibal retired with a

stately bow.

Arden quickened his steps, holding the missive in his hand. As soon as

he was out of sight, he opened and devoured Edith's words. The light

of a great joy dawned in his face, and made it look noble and

beautiful, as indeed almost every human face appears when the light of

a pure love falls upon it. Where most men would have murmured at the

meagre return for their affection, he felt himself immeasurably

rewarded and enriched, and it seemed as if he were walking on air the

rest of the day. With a face set like a flint, he resolved to be true

to the condition implied in the underscored word "friendship," and

never to whisper of love to her again. But a richer experience was

still in store for him. For, on his return, in the cool of the

evening, Edith was in the garden picking currants. She saw him coming,

and thought, "If he is ever to be a friend worth the name, I must

break the ice of his absurd diffidence and formality. And the sooner

he comes to know me as I am, the sooner he will find out that I am

like other people, and he will have a new 'revelation' that will cure

him of his infatuation. I would like him for a _friend_ very much, not

only because I need his help, but because one likes a little society

now and then, and he seems so well educated, if he is 'quar,' as

Hannibal says." So she startled poor Arden almost as much as if one

of his Shakespearean heroines had called him in audible voice, by

saying, as he came opposite her:

"Mr. Lacey, won't you come in a moment and tell me if it is time to

pick my currants, and whether you think I could sell them in the

village, or at the hotel?"

This address, so matter-of-fact in tone and character, seemed to him

like the June twilight, containing, in some subtle manner, the essence

of all that was beautiful and full of promise in his heart-history. He

bowed and went toward the little gate to comply with her request, as

Adam might if he had been created outside of Eden and Eve inside, and

she had looked over a flowering hedge in the purple twilight and told

him to come in. He was not going merely to look at currants and

consider their marketable condition; he was entering openly upon the

knightly service to which he had devoted himself. He was approaching

his idol, which was not a heathen stock or stone, but a sweet little

woman. In regard to the currants, he ventured dubiously--

"They might do for pies."

In regard to herself, his eyes said, in spite of his purpose to be

merely friendly, that she was too good for the gods of Mount Olympus.

He both amused and interested Edith, whose long familiarity with

society and lack of any such feeling as swayed him made her quite at

ease. With a twinkle in her eyes, she said:

"I have thought that perhaps Mrs. Groody could help me find sale for

them at the hotel."

"I am going there to-morrow, and I will ask her for you, if you wish,"

said Arden, timidly.

"Thank you," replied Edith. "I shall be very much obliged to you if

you will. You see, I wish to sell everything out of the garden that I

can find a market for."

She was rather astonished at the effect of this mercenary speech, for

there was a wonderful blending of sympathy and admiration in his face

as he said:

"I am frequently going to the hotel and village, and if you will let

me know what you have to dispose of, I can find out whether it is in

demand, and carry it to market for you." He could not help adding,

with a voice trembling with feeling, "Miss Allen, I am so glad you

permit me to be of some help to you."

"Oh, dear!" thought Edith, "how can I make him understand what I

really am?" She turned to him with an expression that was both

perplexed and quizzical, and said:

"Mr. Lacey, I very frankly and gratefully accept your delicately

offered friendship (emphasizing the last word), not only because of my

need, but of yours also. If any one needs a sensible friend, I think

you do. You truly must have lived a 'hermit's life in the world' to

have such strange ideas of people. Let me tell you as a perfect

certainty, that no such person exists as the Edith Allen that you have

imagined. She is no more a reality than your other shadows, and the

more you know of me, the sooner you will find it out. I am not in the

least like a heroine in a romance. I live on the most substantial food

rather than moonlight, and usually have an excellent appetite. I am

the most practical matter-of-fact creature in existence, and you will

find no one in this place more sharp on the question of dollars and

cents. Indeed, I am continually in a most mercenary frame of mind, and

this very moment here, in the romantic June twilight, if you ransacked

history, poetry, and all the fine arts, you could not tell me anything

half so beautiful, half so welcome, as how to make money in a fair,

honorable way."

"There," thought she, "that will be another 'revelation' to him. If he

don't jump over the garden fence in his haste to escape such a

monster, I shall be glad."

But Arden's face only grew more grave and gentle as he looked down

upon her, and he asked:

"Is it because you love the money itself, Miss Allen?"

"Well, no," said Edith, somewhat taken aback. "I can never earn enough

to make it worth while to do that. Misers love to count their money,"

she added, with a little pathetic accent in her voice, "and I fear

mine will go before I can count it."

"You wish me to think less of you, then, because you are bravely, and

without thought of sparing yourself, trying to earn money to provide

home-shelter and comfort for your feeble mother and sister. You wish

me to think you commonplace because you have the heroism to do any

kind of work, rather than be helpless and dependent. Pardon me, but

for such a 'practical, matter-of-fact' lady, I do not think your logic

is good."

Edith's vexation and perplexity only increased, and she said,

earnestly, "But I wish you to understand that I am only Edith Allen,

and as poor as poverty, nothing but a sewing girl, and only hoping to

arrive at the dignity of a gardener. The majority of the world thinks

I am not even fit to speak to," she added, in a low tone.

Arden bowed his head, as if in reverence before her, and then said,

firmly:

"And I wish you to understand that I am only Arden Lacey, with a sot

for a father, and the scorn, contempt, and hatred of all the world as

my heritage. I am a slipshod farmer. Our place is heavily mortgaged,

and will eventually be sold away from us. It grows more weeds now than

anything else; and it seems that nettles have been the principal crop

that I have reaped all my life. Thus, you see, I am poorer than

poverty, and am rich only in my mother, and, eventually, I hope," he

added timidly, "in the possession of your friendship, Miss Allen; I

shall try so sincerely and hard to deserve it."

With a frown, a laugh, and a shy look of sympathy at him, Edith said,

"I don't see but you have got to find out your mistake for yourself.

Time and facts cure many follies." But she found little encouragement

in his incredulous smile.

The next moment she turned upon him so sharply that he was startled.

"I am a business woman," she said, "and conduct my affairs on business

principles. You said, I think, you would help me find a market for the

produce of my place?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"As certainly you must take fifteen per cent commission on all sales."

"Oh, Miss Allen," commenced Arden, "I couldn't--"

"There," said she, decisively, "you haven't the first idea of

business. Not a thing can you touch unless you comply with my

conditions. There is no sentiment, I assure you, connected with

currants and cabbages."

"You may be certain, Miss Allen, that I would comply with any

condition," said Arden, with the air of one who is cornered, "but let

me suggest, since we are arranging this matter so strictly on business

grounds, that ten per cent is all I should take. That is the regular

commission, and is all I pay in sending produce to New York."

"Oh, I didn't know that," said the experienced and uncompromising

woman of business, innocently. "Do you think that would pay you for

your trouble?"

"I think it would," he replied, so demurely and yet with such a

twinkle in his blue eyes, that now looked very different with the

light of hope and happiness in them, that Edith turned away with a

laugh.

But she said, with assumed sharpness, "See that you keep your accounts

straight. I shall be a very dragon over your account-book."

Thus the ice was broken, and Edith and Arden became _friends_.

The future has now been quite clearly indicated to the reader, and,

lest my story should grow wearisome as a "twice-told tale," we pass

over several subsequent months with but a few words.

It was not a good fruit year, and Edith's place had been sadly

neglected previous to her possession. Therefore, though Arden

surprised himself in the sharp business traits he developed as Edith's

salesman, the results were not very large. But still they greatly

assisted her, and amounted to more than the earnings of her unskilled

hands from other sources. She insisted on doing everything on business

principles, and made Arden take his ten per cent, which was of real

help to him in this way: he gave all the money to his mother, saying,

"_I_ couldn't spend it to save my life." Mrs. Lacey had many uses

for every penny she could obtain.

Then Edith paid old Malcom by making up bouquets for sale at the

hotel, and arranging baskets of flowers for parties there and

elsewhere, and other lighter labors. Mrs. Groody continued to send her

work; and thus during the summer and early fall she managed to make

her garden and her labor provide for all family expenses, saving what

was left of the four hundred, after paying all debts, for winter need.

Moreover, she stored away in cellar and attic enough of the products

of the garden to be of great help also.

Mrs. Allen did recover her usual health, and also her usual modes of

thought and feeling. The mental and moral habits of a lifetime are not

readily changed. Often and earnestly did Edith talk with her mother,

but with few evidences of the result she longed to see.

Mrs. Allen's condition, in view of the truth, was the most hopeless

one of all. She saw only her preconceived ideas, and not the truth

itself. One day she said, with some irritation, to Edith, who was

pleading with her:

"Do you think I am a heathen? Of course, I believe the Bible. Of

course, I believe in Jesus Christ. I have been a member of the church

ever since I was sixteen."

Edith sighed, and thought, "Only He who can satisfy her need can

reveal it to her."

Poor Mrs. Allen! With the strange infatuation of a worldly mind, she

was turning to the world, and it alone, for hope and solace. Untaught

by the wretched experience of the past, she was led to enter upon a

new and similar scheme for the aggrandizement of her family, as will

be explained in another chapter.

Laura regained her strength somewhat, and was able to relieve Edith of

the care of her mother and the lighter duties of the house. Her faith

developed like that shy, delicate blossom called the "wind-flower,"

easily shaken, and yet with a certain hardiness and power to live and

thrive in sterile places.

Edith and Mrs. Lacey were eventually received into the church that

Malcom attended, and, after the simple service, they took dinner with

the old Scotchman and his wife. Malcom seemed hardly "in the body" all

day.

"My heart's a-bloom," he said, "wi' a' the sweet posies that God ever

made blush when he looked at them the first time, an' ye seem the

sweetest o' them a', Miss Edith. Ah, but the Crude Husbandman gathered

a fair blossom the day."

"Now, Mr. McTrump," said Edith, reproachfully, but with a face like

Malcom's posies, "you shouldn't give compliments on Sunday." For Arden

and Rose were present also, and Edith thought, "Such foolish words

will only increase his infatuation."

"Weel," said Malcom, scratching his head, in his perplexed effort at

apology, "I wud na mak ye vain, nor hurt yer conscience, but it kind

o' slippit out afore I could stop it."

In the laugh that followed Malcom's explanation Edith felt that

matters had not been helped much, and she adroitly turned the

conversation.

Public opinion, from being at first very bitter and scornful against

the Allens, gradually began to soften. One after another, as they

recognized Edith's patient, determined effort to do right, began to

give her the credit and the respect to which she was entitled. Little

acts and tokens of kindly feeling became more frequent, and were like

glints of sunlight on her shadowed path. But the great majority felt

that they could have no associations with such as the Allens, and

completely ignored them.

In their relations with the church, Edith and Mrs. Lacey found

increasing satisfaction. Many of its humble, and some of its more

influential, members treated them with much kindness and sympathy, and

they realized more and more that there are good, kind people in the

world, if you look in the right way and right places for them. The

Rev. Mr. Knox was a faithful preacher and pastor, and if his sermons

were a little dry and doctrinal at times, they were as sound and sweet

as a nut. Moreover, both Edith and Mrs. Lacey were sadly deficient in

the doctrines, neither having ever had any religious instruction, and

they listened with the grave, earnest interest of those desiring to be

taught.

Mrs. Groody reconnected herself with her old church "I want to go

where I can shout 'Glory!'" she said.

Rose but faintly sympathized with her mother's feelings. Her restless,

ambitious spirit turned longingly toward the world. Its attractions

she could understand, but not those of faith. Through her father's

evil habits, and Arden's poor farming, the pressure of poverty rested

heavier and heavier on the family, and she had about resolved to go to

New York and find employment in some store.

Arden rarely went to church, but read at home. He was somewhat

sceptical in regard to the Bible, not that he had ever carefully

examined either it or its evidences, but he had read much of the

prevalent semi-infidelity, and was a little conceited over his

independent thinking. Then, in a harsh, sweeping cynicism, he utterly

detested church people, calling them the "holy sect of the Pharisees."

"Bat they are not all such," his mother would say.

"Oh, no," he would reply; "there are some sincere ones, of course; but

I think they would be better out than in such a company of

hypocrites."

But as he saw Edith's sincerity, and learned of her purpose to unite

with the church, he kept these views more and more in the background;

but he had too much respect for her and his mother's faith to go with

them to what they regarded as a sacred place, from merely the personal

motive of being near Edith.

One day Mrs. Lacey and Edith walked down to the evening prayer-meeting. Arden, who had business in the village, was to call for them

at its close; as they were walking home, Edith suddenly asked him:

"Why don't you go to church?"

"I don't like the people I meet there."

"What have you against them?"

"Well, there is Mr. Hard. He is one of the 'lights and pillars'; and

he would have sold the house over your head if you had not paid him.

He can 'devour a widow's house' as well as they of olden time."

"That is not the question," said the practical Edith, earnestly. "What

have you to do with Mr. Hard, or he with you? Does he propose--is he

able to save you? The true question is, What have you got against

Jesus Christ?"

"Well, really, Miss Edith, I can have nothing against Him. Both

history and legend unite in presenting Him as one of the purest and

noblest of men. But pardon me if I say in all honesty that I cannot

quite accept your belief in regard to Him and the Bible in general. A

man can hardly be a man without exercising the right of independent

thought. I cannot take a book called the Bible for granted."

"But," asked, Edith keenly, "are you not taking other books for

granted? Answer me truly, Mr. Lacey, have you carefully and patiently

investigated this subject, not only on the side of your sceptical

writers, but on God's side also? He has plenty of facts, as well as

the infidels, and my rich, lasting, rational, spiritual experience is

as much a fact as that stone there, and a good deal higher and better

one, I think."

Arden was silent for some little time, and they could see in the

moonlight that his face was very grave and thoughtful. At last he

said, as if it had been wrung from him:

"Miss Allen, to be honest with you and myself, I have never given the

subject such a fair examination." After a moment he continued, "Even

if I became convinced that all were true, I might still remain at

home, for I could find far more advantage in reading books, or the

Bible itself, than from Mr. Knox's dry sermons."

"I think you are wrong," said Edith, gently but firmly. "Granting the

premise you admitted a moment ago, that Christ was one of the purest

and noblest of men, you surely, with your chivalric instincts, would

say that such a man ought to be imitated."

"Yes," said Arden, "and He denounced the Pharisees."

"And He worshipped with them also," said Edith, quickly. "He went to

the temple with the others. What was there to interest Him in the

dreary forlorn little synagogue at Nazareth? and yet He was there with

the regularity of the Sabbath. It was the best form of faith and

worship then existing, and He sustained it by every means in His

power, till He could give the people something better. Suppose all the

churches in this place were closed, not one in a hundred would or

could read the books you refer to. If your example were followed they

would be closed. As far as your example goes it tends to close them. I

have heard Mr. Knox say, that wherever Christian worship and the

Christian Sabbath are not observed, society rapidly deteriorates. Is

it not true?"

They had stopped at Edith's gate. Arden averted his face for a moment,

then turning toward Edith he gave her his hand, saying:

"Yes, it is true, and a true, faithful friend you have been to me to-night. I admit myself vanquished."

Edith gave his hand a cordial pressure, saying earnestly, "You are not

vanquished by the young ignorant girl, Edith Allen, but by the truth

that will yet vanquish the world."

After that Arden went regularly with them to church, and tried to give

sincere attention to the service, but his uncurbed fancy was wandering

to the ends of the earth most of the time; or his thoughts were

dwelling in rapt attention on Edith. She, after all, was the only

object of his faith and worship, though he had a growing intellectual

conviction that her faith was true.

And so the months passed into autumn, but with the nicest sense of

honor he refrained from word or deed that would remind Edith that he

was her lover. She became greatly attached to him, and he seemed

almost like a brother to her. She found increasing pleasure in his

society, for Arden, after the restraint of his diffidence was

banished, could talk well, and he opened to her the rich treasures of

his reading, and with almost a poet's fancy and power pictured to her

the storied past.

To both herself and Mrs. Lacey, life grew sunnier and sweeter. But

they each had a heavy burden on their hearts, which they daily brought

to the feet of the Compassionate One. They united in praying for Mrs.

Lacey's husband, and for Zell; and their strong faith and love would

take no denial. But, as Laura had said, the silence of the grave

seemed to have swallowed lost Zell.

CHAPTER XXXI

ZELL

"And the silence of the grave ought to swallow such as poor Zell had

become," is, perhaps, the thought of some. All reference to her and

her class should be suppressed.

We firmly say, No! If so, the New Testament must be suppressed. The

Divine Teacher spoke plainly both of the sin and the sinner. He had

scathing denunciation for the one, and compassion and mercy for the

other. Shall we enforce His teachings against all other forms of evil,

and not against this deadliest one of all--and that, too, in the

laxity and wide demoralization of our age, when temptation lurks on

every hand, and parents are often sleepless with just anxiety?

Evil is active, alluring, suggesting, insinuating itself when least

expected, and many influences are at work, with the full approval of

society, to poison forever all pure thoughts. And temptation is sure

to come at first as an angel of light.

There is no safety save in solemn words of warning, the wholesome

terror which knowledge inspires, the bracing of principle, and the

ennobling of Christian faith. There are too many incarnate fiends who

will take advantage of the innocence of ignorance.

Zell is not in her grave. She is sinning, but more sinned against. He

who said to one like her, of old, "Her sins, which are many, are

forgiven," loves her still, and Edith is praying for her. The grave

cannot close over her yet.

But as we look upon this long-lost one, as she reclines on a sofa in

Van Dam's luxurious apartments, as we see her temples throbbing with

pain, and that her cheeks are flushed and feverish, it would seem that

the grave might soon hide her from a contemptuous and vindictive

world.

Her head does ache sadly--it seems bursting with pain; but her heart

aches with a bitterer anguish. Zell had too fine a nature to sin

brutally and unfeelingly. Her betrayer's treachery wounded her more

deeply than he could understand. Even her first strong love for him

could not bridge the chasm of guilt to which he led her, and her

passionate nature and remorse often caused her to turn upon, him with

such scathing reproaches that even he, in his hardihood, trembled.

Knowing how proud and high-strung she was, he feared to reveal his

treachery in New York, a locality with which she was familiar; so he

said that very important business called him at once to Boston, a city

where he had few acquaintances. Zell reluctantly acquiesced in this

further journey.

They jaunted about in the North and West through the summer and

autumn, and now have but recently returned to New York.

With a wild terror she saw that his passion for her was waning.

Therefore, her reproaches and threats became at times almost terrific,

and again her servile entreaties were even more pitiable and dreadful,

in view of what a true wife's position and right ought to be. He,

wearying of her fierce and alternating moods, and selfishly thinking

of his own ease and comfort, as was ever the case, had resolved to

throw her off at the first opportunity.

But retribution for both was near. The smallpox was almost epidemic in

the city: Zell's silk had swept against a beggar's infected rags, and

fourteen days later appeared the fatal symptoms.

And truly she is weary and heart-sick this afternoon. She never

remembered feeling so ill. The thought of death appalled her. She

felt, as never before, that she wanted some one to love and take care

of her.

Van Dam entered, and said, rather roughly:

"What's the matter?"

"I'm sick," said Zell, faintly.

He muttered an oath.

She arose from the sofa and tottered to his easy-chair, knelt, and

clasped his knees.

"Guilliam," she pleaded, "I am very sick. I have a feeling that I

shall die. Won't you marry me? Won't you take care of your poor little

Zell, that loved you so well as to leave all for you? Perhaps I

sha'n't burden you much longer, but, if I do get well, I will be your

patient slave, if you will only marry me;" and the tears poured over

the hot, feverish cheeks, that they could not cool.

His only reply was to ask, with some irritation:

"How do you feel?"

"Oh, my head aches, my bones ache, every part of my body aches, but my

heart aches worst of all. You can ease that, Guilliam. In the name of

God's mercy, won't you?"

A sudden thought caused the coward's face to grow white with fear. "I

must have a doctor see you," was his only reply to her appeal, and he

passed hastily out.

Zell felt that a blow would have been better than his indifference,

and she crawled back to her couch. A little later, she was conscious

that a physician was feeling her pulse, and examining her symptoms.

After he was gone she had strength enough to take off her jewelry and

rings--all, save one solitaire diamond, that her father had given her.

The rest seemed to oppress her with their weight. She then threw

herself on the bed.

She was next conscious that some one was lifting her up. She roused

for a moment, and stared around. There were several strange faces.

"What do you want? What are you going to do with me?" she asked, in a

thick voice, and in vague terror.

"I am sorry, miss," said one of the men, in an official tone; "but you

have the smallpox, and we must take you to the hospital."

She gave one shriek of horror. A hand was placed over her mouth. She

murmured faintly:

"Guilliam--help!" and then, under the effects of disease and fear,

became partially unconscious; but her hand clenched, and with some

instinct hard to understand, remained so, over the diamond ring that

was her father's gift.

She was conscious of riding in something hard over the stony street,

for the jolting hurt her cruelly. She was conscious of the sound of

water, for she tried to throw herself into it, that it might cool her

fever. She was conscious of reaching some place, and then she felt as

if she had no rest for many days, and yet was not awake. But through

it all she kept her hand closed on her father's gift. At times it

seemed to her that some one was trying to take it off, but she

instinctively struggled and cried out, and the hand was withdrawn.

At last one night she seemed to wake and come to herself. She opened

her eyes and looked timidly around the dim ward. All was strange and

unaccountable. She feared that she was in another world. But as she

raised her hand to her head, as if to clear away the mist of

uncertainty, a sparkle from the diamond caught her eye. For a long

time she stared vacantly at it, with the weak, vague feeling that in

some sense it might be a clew. Its faint lustre was like the glimmer

of a star through a rift in the clouds to a lost traveller. Its

familiar light and position remind him of home, and by its ray he

guesses in what direction to move; so the crystallized light upon her

finger threw its faint glimmer into the past, and by its help Zell's

weak mind groped its way down from the hour it was given to the moment

when she became partially unconscious in Van Dam's apartments. But the

word smallpox was burned into her brain, and she surmised that she was

in a hospital.

At last a woman passed. Zell feebly called her.

"What do you want?" said a rather gruff voice.

"I want to write a letter."

"You can't. It's against the rules."

"I must," pleaded Zell. "Oh, as you are a woman, and hope in God's

mercy, don't refuse me."

"Can't break the rules," said the woman, and she was about to pass on.

"Stop!" said Zell, in a whisper. "See there," and she flashed the

diamond upon her. "I'll give you that if you'll promise before God to

send a letter for me. It would take you many months to earn the value

of that."

The woman was a part of the city government, so she acted

characteristically. She brought Zell writing materials and a bit of

candle, saying:

"Be quick!"

With her poor, stiff, diseased hand, Zell wrote: