The dinner was as uncomfortable a meal as the breakfast had been,

though Mrs. Laver now put on gaiety of manner, in a spirit of defiance

to her husband. She took pleasure in talking to her child of the

delights of the coming treat, the band that would play on the deck

of the steamer, and all the mirth and fun there would be amongst the

company there.

Annie was too young to understand or to care much about such things;

she was rather frightened at the idea of going amongst strangers, and

looking up with her arch innocent eyes into her father's face, she

lisped out, "Daddy come too!"

Martin shook his head, and replied, as he stroked the soft hair of

his child, "No, Annie, father is not going in the steamer, father is

stopping behind."

"Then Annie 'top too!" cried the little one, thrusting her small hand

into that of her parent.

"You little goose, do you mean that you will not go with me, and have

all the fun?" asked Ann, in an angry tone, which certainly had not the

effect of making the child desire to do so.

"No, Annie 'top with Daddy!" repeated the little one, beginning to cry

at the idea of being taken away.

"Oh! I'm sure I don't want you, you'd be only a plague; there's nothing

so tiresome as having children dangling about one in a steamer; one's

always afraid of the stupid brats falling overboard," cried Ann, with

a passionate jerk. "It's time I was off," she said, rising from the

table; "your father will have had enough of your company, I guess,

before I come back in the evening."

But here Mrs. Laver was wrong. Never had the invalid more enjoyed

a walk than he did the quiet stroll which he took into Kensington

Gardens on that warm afternoon, to give his pale little girl fresh

air. How pleasant felt the breeze on his cheek, how bright were the

rays of sunshine that streamed here and there through the trees, what

a thankful heart was lifted up to God from him who so lately had left

a sick-bed, as he sat quietly on the green grass, with his darling

playing at his feet!

Annie's simple prattle was to her father's ear sweeter than any music,

and scarcely disturbed the holy thoughts which were passing through his

mind.

"Much as I delight in my child, should I be willing that she should

remain always what she is now, small, weak, and knowing little? I look

for growth in her young frame, and if from month to month she never

grew taller, I should know that some disease must be stunting my child.

So we are told in the Scripture to 'grow in grace,' * every passing

month should leave us more earnest, devout, and humble. If our religion

be not a growing one, it is a stunted one, nay, we have reason to fear

lest it be dead altogether. Faith, true living faith, must expand into

holiness, as the bud opens into the flower, and the dawn brightens into

the day!"

* 2 Peter iii. 18.

Annie and her father were very happy together; and when Martin slowly

walked homewards, holding the hand of the little prattler who trotted

by his side, it seemed to him that but for one trial, he would be one

of the happiest men upon earth. But the remembrance of his wife was

to Martin like a heavy black cloud in an otherwise brilliant sky.

Silently, he prayed for Ann as he walked, though little knowing how

much at that moment she needed his prayers.

Scanty as was the evening meal, Annie made it a very merry one. No

butter had been left from the breakfast, so she played at spreading the

dry bread with her spoon, and when her father cut it into pieces, and

called them soldiers, the child ate it as contentedly as if it had been

iced-cake. Then a few empty reels to play with, made the little one

perfectly happy; and while she rolled them backwards and forwards on

the floor, Martin could quietly enjoy the pleasure of reading.

First, he read his Bible, then a book which had been lent to him by the

chaplain of the hospital which he had recently quitted. It contained

the Memoir of a missionary's wife, * who had laboured amongst the

Jews in the Turkish province of Moldavia. Martin felt particularly

interested in the account given of Nahum, a convert, as conveyed in

such passages as these, which I extract from the published letters of

the lady:—

"I wish I could bring before you an aged man, highly esteemed among the

Jews, and also by the Rabbis, a respectable shopkeeper, a good Hebrew

scholar . . . He is of an acute and philosophical turn of mind, and was

a bitter opposer of Christianity. Fancy this man brought to the feet of

Jesus, and you will see our most interesting Rabbi Nahum . . . He says

that in hours of need he has prayed in the name of Christ, and is now

praying for strength to confess Christ openly; but he says Abraham was

praised because he was willing to give up his one child; but he would

need to be nine times as strong as Abraham to give up his nine. He

desires the prayers of Christ's people."

* Memoir and Letters of Mrs. Edwards.

"Poor fellow! Poor fellow!" murmured Martin, pausing for a moment in

his reading. "His was a hard test of faith indeed; but could he not

take his children with him?" And the father glanced fondly at his

Annie, before he went on with his book.

Some way farther on in the volume, he again found mention of Nahum.

"His mind seems more and more decided; he speaks now of baptism, though

still indirectly. He acknowledges that faith should trust all things to

the Lord, that He is able to do all things for us. But who can withhold

sympathy from the father of nine children, when taking a step which

probably will involve them all in ruin.

"I feel for him from the bottom of my soul!" exclaimed Martin.

After reading several more pages in the volume, Martin came to the

account of the baptism of Nahum with three of his children, after

bitter opposition from his unconverted wife.

"She would not eat nor drink, she abused and upbraided him," but she

could not hold him back from his purpose of openly confessing his

Saviour. Martin eagerly read the account of Nahum's first meeting with

his wife, after the decisive step had been taken, and her passionate

exclamations of sorrow for her three baptised children.

"I hear not—I hear not! I die—I die! I will kill them, then I will die!

And indeed," wrote the missionary's wife, "she threw herself on the

balcony ready to die. We feared more for the old man. Twenty-five years

have they lived together, true, faithful, attached. After she went, his

anguish was fearful."

"Anguish, indeed!" exclaimed Martin. "When I think of this poor Jew's

heavy cross, I take shame to myself for shrinking from taking up mine,

which is so much lighter. I daresay that he had other troubles to bear

besides the fierce opposition of his wife."

Martin read on as follows:—

"The dear old man determined on Monday to open his shop, his own shop,

in a street where there are none but Jews. He did so, it almost cost

him his life. Upwards of a thousand Jews assembled, stones were thrown,

and all manner of abuse heaped on him."

"And I," thought Martin, with self-reproach "have deemed it a sacrifice

merely to close my shop upon Sundays, to run the risk of a little loss,

of having, maybe, one meal less in the day, or a more threadbare coat

on my back! What a small—what a paltry sacrifice seems mine by the side

of that of this brave old man, with a thousand of his old neighbours

and countrymen baiting him, yelling at him, trying to stone, so fierce

against him, that I see that it is written a little farther on, 'could

they have gotten him they would have minced him into shreds!'—Ah! I am

glad that the Germans were able to protect him a little."

In Mrs. Edwards' next letter, Martin read more of the dangers of Nahum

and his Christian children, who had taken refuge under the missionary's

protection.

"The Jews collected in vast multitudes, the uproar became great, the

police could not keep peace. Our house had been beset with Jews all day

looking over the paling, beating any of the lads whom they found in

the streets, throwing stones into the court, &c. At length, at night

I was awakened by loud noises at the gate; they were trying to break

in. Nahum and his children were sleeping in a little room near the

gate; their object certainly was to beat or to murder him, and carry

off the children . . . A boy on horseback was sent to the Consul for

assistance . . . Meantime several Germans had encountered the Jews, and

driven them back."

"This poor Nahum seems to have led the life of a hunted hare," observed

Martin; "but the worst of all must have been the division between him

and his wife. Ah! There seems to be something more about her on the

very next page."

He read on—

"His poor wife held out ten days, begging for a divorce, which he would

not grant. At length, both she and her eldest son came at night to our

house with the young child, and there they all are now. They are very

anxious to be baptised."

"Anxious to be baptised!" exclaimed Martin, joyfully, half-closing the

book. "Then the tie between man and wife held fast after all the hard

strain upon it, and when she could not drag him back from the Lord, her

husband drew her towards the Saviour! Here are Christian and Christiana

in that far-away place, Moldavia!"

Martin went on with his reading again.

"Ah! I see that the missionary wisely refused to baptise the wife till

she should shew that she really desired to be Christ's, and not merely

to please her husband. But Nahum had won the victory; his home was to

be a Christian home."

Here is something more about him in a letter from the lady farther on

in the book:—

"In the old man we have exceeding great joy; he reads each morning the

Scriptures with his family, expounds and prays."

"That story of Nahum, the converted Jew, seems as if it were just

written for me," cried Martin, laying down the volume on the table.

"Here am I, an Englishman, in a Christian land, half-afraid to say to

my neighbours, 'I will close my shop on Sundays, because I will honour

the law of God,' lest they should, perchance, laugh at me for being 'a

Saint.' There was Nahum, openly confessing his faith at the risk of

losing both property and life! Here am I, grieved and discouraged by a

few hasty words from poor Ann; there was Nahum standing firm against

the persuasions, the anger, the despair, of his wife, though he dearly

loved her! A poor kind of Christian must I be! I fear but a coward at

heart, and ill-fitted to bear the burden and heat of the day. God help

me, and give me more grace and more courage, and then, perhaps, He will

one day give to me, as to faithful Nahum, more cause to rejoice over a

converted and loving wife!"

CHAPTER V.

Darkness and Night.

THE day wore away, twilight came on, Annie grew tired of her play, her

eyelids were heavy, she almost dropped asleep in her father's arms, as

he carried her gently upstairs, and put her to bed.

Martin was vexed, but not alarmed at the prolonged absence of his wife;

he knew that Ann would be unwilling to quit a party of pleasure early,

and he was thankful that his little nestling was peacefully asleep in

her cot, instead of being kept awake to a late hour in the midst of

bustle and noise.

It was not till twilight had given place to night, and storm and rain

had come on, that Martin became uneasy and restless. Many times he

went to the outer door, and looked anxiously up the street, where

the gas-lamps were throwing their yellow light on the brown, wet,

glistening pavement. Few passed the shop on that rough night, save the

policeman on his beat; even the public-house on the opposite side of

the way looked empty and dark.

At last there was the rattle of a cab over the paved road. Martin did

not expect his wife to come in such a conveyance and was surprised when

the horse was suddenly pulled up, as the voice of Mrs. Batten called

out from the window:

"Here! This is the place, the tobacconist's shop."

Then, catching sight of Martin standing at his door, Mrs. Batten called

to him in a more subdued tone of distress—

"Oh! Mr. Laver, for mercy's sake come and help her. Gently, gently, we

shall hardly be able to get her out of the cab."

"What has happened?" exclaimed Martin, scarcely able to utter the

question, Mrs. Batten's tone had sent such a chill of dread to his

heart, as he threw open the door of the cab.

"Steamers racing—boiler burst—she is frightfully scalded; we took her

to a chemist's, where her hurts were dressed, but she moaned and prayed

to be taken home. I thought she'd have died on the road."

Martin heard very few of the words of his neighbour, his whole

attention was anxiously given to his miserable wife. Fearfully

disfigured, her swollen features half-covered by bandages, Ann's

husband would hardly have recognised her as the same flaunting woman

who some hours before had quitted his home.

It was a difficult task, even with the aid of Mrs. Batten and the

driver, to lift Mrs. Laver out of the cab, and, still more so, to carry

her up the narrow staircase. Every touch caused agony, and the unhappy

woman swooned as soon as she was laid upon the bed.

"She ought to have been taken to the Infirmary, I said she ought,"

cried Mrs. Batten; "but she would hear of no place but home."

Little Annie, roused from peaceful sleep, started up from her pillow,

startled at the sound of voices in the room, and still more so at the

strange and fearful-looking figure stretched on the bed so close to her

crib.

"What's that?" cried the child in terror, pointing at her insensible

mother.

"Hush! My lamb, lie down," whispered Martin. "Mother's come back from

Greenwich, you must make no noise to disturb her."

Even in that hour of distress Martin thanked God from his heart that

his child had not shared the fate of her parent.

Mrs. Batten hurried off in the cab for a doctor, whose arrival was

anxiously awaited by Martin. When the medical man had come and examined

the patient, he pronounced Mrs. Laver to be in a critical state. She

was in great pain of body and anguish of mind, and passed the rest of

that night in fearful misery. At an early hour of the morning, Martin,

at Ann's own desire, sent an urgent message to Mr. Vale, the clergyman

of the parish, to ask him to come and see his sick wife.

"Laver!" repeated Mr. Vale, when the message was delivered by Mrs.

Batten. "Surely that is the name on the tobacconist's shop in John

Street."

"The very same," said the fishmonger's wife. "I used always to see

with regret that shop open when I passed it on Sundays," observed the

clergyman, who had once entered it when on his way to church, in order

to expostulate with Mrs. Laver both on her Sabbath-breaking, and on the

character of some of the ballads exposed in her window. "Last Sunday,

however, I noticed that, for the first time, the shutters were up. I

suppose that both Laver and his wife had gone on this unfortunate party

of pleasure."

"No, sir, not he," replied Mrs. Batten, frankly. "I wish that none of

us had had more to do with the matter than Martin Laver. He had words

with his wife, she told me herself, poor soul, about that same closing

of the shop; he was determined to give up all selling and buying upon

Sundays, and mighty angry was she at what she called his folly; but

maybe he was the wiser of the two after all."

Poor Mrs. Laver, moaning on her sick-bed, had good cause to come to

the same conclusion. What had she procured with those Sunday earnings

which she had reserved for the Sunday treat? A few hours of boisterous

pleasure, to be followed by many weeks of pain! And sickness drew

poverty after it; for Martin's time was necessarily so much taken up

with nursing his wife, and attending to their child, that business was

much neglected, while illness brought many expenses. Ann Laver had to

pay a very dear price indeed for her frolic down the river, undertaken

against the will of her husband.

But this, it may be said, was quite accidental; Ann might have broken

the Fourth Commandment every Sunday in her life, and yet have been

never the worse.

No, never believe that, my reader, all money unlawfully earned may be

called Satan's loan, and at one time or other, a fearful amount of

interest has to be paid for every farthing thus borrowed. "Lightly

won—lightly gone," says the proverb, but this expresses but half of the

truth. Ill-gotten money not only seems to slip through the fingers, but

it leaves a brand on the soul, and a fearful debt on the conscience. An

account is kept, and all must be paid for in this world, in the next,

or in BOTH! *

* Christ has paid all debts of His saints.

Let not only the godless rich, but the godless poor—the thief, the

Sabbath-breaker, the wretched earner of the wages of sin—pause and

reflect on this awful sentence, written in God's holy Book—"Your gold

and silver is cankered, and the rust of them shall be a witness against

you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. Ye have heaped treasure

together for the last days!" †

† James v. 3.

CHAPTER VI.

A Way Opened.

THE next six weeks were for Martin, weeks of sore trial. His wife's

sufferings brought on her an attack of low fever; his night's rest was

broken, his strength exhausted by watching, his business was failing

at the very time when comforts were most urgently needed. Martin

locked his sorrow in his own heart, and let not a word escape that

could distress his suffering wife. He strengthened himself in the

Lord, comforting himself with the words of Scripture, "If ye endure

chastening, God dealeth with you as sons" . . . thus dealing with His

children that they may be "partakers of His holiness." *

* Heb. xii. 7-10.

The visits of Mr. Vale were likewise a great comfort to Martin Laver,

especially as they seemed to have a softening effect upon Ann. She was

often, indeed, irritable and complaining; the pain which she had to

endure well accounted for that, but she would at least listen to the

truth, and never again did she venture to taunt her husband with being

a saint.

At the end of six weeks Ann was sufficiently recovered to be able to

come again into her shop, and even to take her place behind the counter

for a short time, while Martin went to make some necessary purchase.

"Things seem little changed here," said Ann to herself, as she glanced

around. "There are the pipes which I tied up myself with a bit of old

ribbon, the ballads too in their place, not a soul seems to have bought

them. I fear that business has been terribly slack, and my poor Martin

looks ill too; he has never had a chance of getting up his strength.

He must have had a hard time of it while I was keeping my bed. Oh!

Mrs. Batten," cried Ann, as the portly figure of the fishmonger's wife

appeared at the door of the shop, "you see I'm again at my post."

"Glad of it, mighty glad of it!" said Mrs. Batten, coming up to the

counter, but with little of gladness upon her good-humoured face. "I'm

afraid you've been hard put to it," she added, lowering her voice, "or

your good man would not have had his umbrella and greatcoat in pawn."

"In pawn!" exclaimed Ann, with a startled look; for she had little idea

of the extent of the difficulties which Martin had had to encounter.

"Are you sure that he has them in pawn?"

"As sure as that my name is Betsy Batten. I saw him coming out of

the shop, and asked him about it, just as he was turning into the

chemist's, next door, to pay a precious long bill."

Ann bit her lip, and silently turned away to busy herself with sorting

cigars. Here was a startling confirmation of a fear which had often

crossed her mind during her illness, that her husband's business was

not thriving, and that, unless matters mended, ruin might soon stare

them both in the face.

The tobacconist's wife said nothing more on the subject, though it was

never out of her thoughts, until she and Martin were at their quiet

evening meal, with little Annie sitting, as usual, upon her father's

knee.

"Martin, you're a-hiding something from me," said Ann, abruptly,

looking full at her husband. "Don't think I'm afraid to hear truth; I'd

rather know it right out at once, and so be prepared for the worst.

We'll be bankrupt before the winter sets in."

"No, not so bad as that," replied Martin, calmly; "but now that you

are—thank God!—so much stronger, it is better that you should know

all. There should never be a secret between man and wife. Ann, I can't

get on with this business; it is to me a losing concern; I don't make

enough to pay rent and cover expenses."

"And they have been so heavy, so heavy of late!" sighed Ann.

"It is a relief to me to find that Mason, our neighbour round the

corner, is willing to take the whole concern off our hands at

Michaelmas, if you and I agree in thinking that it is better to give

up the business before we are entangled in debt. If this arrangement

be settled, we shall then be clear of the world, though," added Laver,

with a melancholy smile. "We shall have little enough left, I fear,

with which to begin life again."

Ann covered her eyes with her hand, and moaned aloud in her bitterness

of spirit. "There's no use in going on longer, struggling to get a

livelihood here," she murmured. "My father is dead, my brothers won't

help us; I'm sure don't know which way to look."

"Upwards!" said Martin, hopefully.

The word had scarcely escaped his lips when a tap was heard at the

door, and on Martin's rising and opening it, the now familiar form of

Mr. Vale, the rector, entered the parlour. Even little Annie had always

a smile with which to welcome the kindly old man, who used to pat her

on the head, and give her his cane to play with.

"I ask pardon for interrupting you at your meal," said the clergyman,

motioning to Martin and his wife to resume their seats, while he took

that which was instantly placed for him by Ann. "I thought, Laver, that

you might be the man to help me out of a little difficulty in which I

unexpectedly find myself now. My Scripture reader, John Hallam—you know

him?—came to me an hour ago to inform me that he had just received a

telegram from Wales. His father, who lives in a farm there, has been

taken dangerously ill, and Hallam is wanted at home. Now, it so happens

that at this time there is a particular press of work in our parish,

and my curate is absent on leave. It has occurred to my mind that you

might take my Scripture reader's place for a week, or longer, if his

return be delayed. What do you say to the suggestion?"

Martin and his wife exchanged glances; it seemed as if a door had been

unexpectedly opened before them.

"There is no kind of work which I should like better, sir," said Laver,

"were I only fit to undertake it. But you see, sir, I've no experience,

and I should but disappoint you and wrong the people, by attempting to

do that which I could not perform well."

"I know enough of your character, Laver," observed the rector, "to feel

sure that your heart would be in the work, and this is one of the first

of qualifications. Besides, it appears to me that you have studied your

Bible, and love it. It would be a real relief to my mind if I could

have one in whom I could put confidence to take Hallam's place, if but

for a week."

"There could be no harm at least in trying me for a week, sir," said

Laver, deeply gratified at having been chosen by Mr. Vale to fill, even

for a short period, such a responsible office.

Martin little guessed at that time, that the engagement for a week

was to last through many years. The father of Hallam died, leaving to

him, as his eldest son, the management of his farm and the care of his

widow. But Mr. Vale, in the meantime, had found Martin Laver so zealous

and useful, so diligent in his work, and so judicious in his way of

performing it, that the clergyman was glad to retain him in the office

of Scripture reader.

Martin had now entered upon the happiest as well as the most useful

portion of his life. It was his delight, as well as his duty, to

visit the widows in their affliction, support the weak, comfort the

sorrowful, and direct sinners to the Saviour. It was given to the

humble labourer to win many souls from darkness into light.

But perhaps Martin's deepest source of happiness was to be found in

his own home. Annie grew up to be all that a father's heart could

desire—his helper in all good works. Mrs. Laver also learned to realise

the blessedness of living the life, as well as of holding the faith, of

a saint. She learned that whom the Lord pardons and saves, He purifies

also, and that faith and obedience are closely linked together in this

world, as in Heaven holiness and happiness will both be made perfect

together.

A CONQUEROR

OR,

A CHRISTIAN IN LIFE'S STRUGGLE.

CHAPTER I.

A Storm Down Below.

"WHAT—she says that she saw the silver paper knife in my box! It's a

false slander—it's a burning shame! I defy her to say so again!"

These exclamations were uttered by Miriam Macbean in a voice almost

hoarse with passion, as she turned suddenly round, and with sparkling

eyes and clenched fist, faced the fellow-servant who had, as she

thought, accused her of purloining the property of her mistress.

Caroline cowered under the tempest of anger which she had brought upon

herself, for Miriam looked ready to strike as well as to storm. The

young maid was almost foaming with fury, for Miriam regarded her own

spotless character as something more precious than life; it had never

been so much as breathed on before, and her naturally fiery temper was

all in a blaze in a moment.

"Miriam, there is no use in being so angry," said her mistress, Mrs.

Mellor, with quiet dignity of manner. "No one wishes to accuse you

unjustly, or to believe anything against you. I merely asked Caroline

if she knew what had become of the silver knife which, as you are

both well aware, usually lies on the drawing-room table. I had missed

it to-day from its place. Caroline has hunted for it in vain, but

mentioned that she had seen something like it in your box, and—"

"Search my box—turn it upside down—I don't care—I'm not afraid of any

investigation," cried Miriam, with ungovernable rage. "Let her—let that

viper bring down the box, and there's the key."

Miriam pushed it rudely towards the lady. "You shall see yourself, and

judge for yourself; I'll not stir a step from this spot until this

matter is sifted to the bottom!"

"Go and bring down the box, Caroline," said Mrs. Mellor, perplexed and

annoyed at the scene before her.

Caroline was only too glad to escape for a few minutes from the

presence of the furious girl, and muttered to herself as she ascended

the stairs, that she wished that she had bitten her tongue off before

she had said a word about seeing that knife in Miriam's box.

Mrs. Mellor, feeling very uncomfortable, took her seat on a chair in

the kitchen, leaning her arm on the dresser, while awaiting Caroline's

return.

"I am glad," she thought to herself, "that Miriam has a few minutes in

which to let her passion cool down."

But Miriam looked as if her passion were only glowing to more intense

heat, as she stood with her arms a-kimbo, her eyes glaring, her cheeks

flushed scarlet, and on her face an expression of defiance which nearly

bordered on insolence.

"Open it—open it—turn everything out, I insist on a thorough search!"

she cried fiercely, as Caroline, trembling, brought in the box. "I

shouldn't care a straw if all the world were to see what's in it!"

And with her teeth rigidly set, the young maid watched the movements of

her mistress, as Mrs. Mellor put the key into the lock, turned it, and

then raised the lid.

"I am sure that I do not doubt your honesty, Miriam; had you not

insisted yourself—" began the lady, as she lightly turned over a few of

the neatly packed linens and books which the box contained.

She did not finish her sentence, for at the moment that she uttered the

last word her hand touched a paper cutter of white metal which lay near

the top of the box, and Caroline exclaimed—"That's the thing that I

saw!"

"This is certainly not my paper knife, though something like it, I

own," said the lady, annoyed at the mistake which her housemaid had

made.

"Certainly it is not," muttered Miriam. "It was the parting gift of

my soldier-brother before he sailed from England—and there's about as

much silver in it as there is truth in her!" And she turned a withering

glance on Caroline, who appeared extremely confused.

"I've not a notion what has become of the knife. I've never touched it

since I dusted it yesterday," said the young housemaid.

Mrs. Mellor saw that a fierce storm of words was beginning again

between her two servants, and was determined, if possible, to put a

stop to this, at least for a time.

"Caroline," she said, "I hear the house-door opened, your master has

just come in, go and ask him from me whether he has ordered the fish

for dinner."

As soon as Caroline had quitted the kitchen, the lady said, turning to

Miriam, "I can permit no high words, no quarrelling in my house; I hope

that you and Caroline will make up—"

Miriam had so completely lost self-control that she interrupted her

mistress. "I'll not stop under the same roof with her—I'll not stop in

any place where I've been suspected of stealing! I hope you'll suit

yourself, ma'am, I give you warning!" cried Miriam, with passionate

emotion, the hot tears rising to her eyes.

"I should be sorry to part with you, Miriam; you have given much

satisfaction to your master and me; I do not suspect you in the least,"

said the lady.

But Miriam only muttered, "I'll not stop, I'll not stop!"

"You had better consult your friends before you take any foolish step,

which you might bitterly regret," observed Mrs. Mellor.

"I've no friends in London, or anywhere else, only my soldier-brother

who has lately returned from Abyssinia," said Miriam; "he is the only

relation whom I have now left in the world."

"Go and consult with him then," said her mistress; "you are much too

angry at present to be able to judge for yourself."

And the lady quitted the kitchen, thinking to herself as she did so,

"What a valuable servant Miriam would be, if she could only control

that terrible temper! When there is nothing to ruffle her, no one could

perform her duties better, but an affair like this serves to show how

much of the tiger-cat spirit is within her."

CHAPTER II.

The Twins.

"ANYTHING the matter down in the lower regions, my dear? You look

annoyed," said the mild, placid little husband of Mrs. Mellor, as his

lady entered the drawing-room in which he was resting himself after his

walk.

"Oh! We've had a tempest in a teapot!" replied Mrs. Mellor. "Miriam is

in one of her tempers."

"I thought that I heard loud voices as I came into the house," said the

quiet, easy-going master, as he laid down on the table a new magazine

which he had been reading as he walked.

The attention of Mrs. Mellor was attracted by the shine of the paper

cutter which was placed between the leaves as a marker.

"Why, there's the very silver knife which has caused all this storm!"

cried the lady. "I never dreamed of your having taken it out of the

room."

"I wanted it to cut the leaves of my book. Is any harm done?" asked her

husband.

"I'm afraid that that paper knife has lost me one of the most honest,

most industrious, most steady girls that I ever had in my service,"

replied Mrs. Mellor, who was really vexed at what had occurred.

"However, it may not be too late to set matters right," she added; and

after hastily ringing the bell, she quitted the room.

The loud voices which her husband had heard from the kitchen were

sounding louder than ever. Mrs. Mellor had rung the bell rather

sharply, but it was not till she had more than once called out the name

of Miriam, that Miriam appeared up the kitchen stairs.

"Miriam, the paper knife is found; your master had it," said the lady

in a mild voice, intended to soothe the feelings of the maid. "All is

right now, all is cleared up; I've no wish that you and I should part

because Caroline made a mistake."

"All's not right," said Miriam with petulance; "hurt feelings can't be

plaistered up with a word. I can't stop in this house with Caroline.

I'm going to tell my brother, ma'am, that I've given you warning."

And the ill-tempered girl, turning her back on her mistress, hurried

upstairs to put on her bonnet and shawl.

"What a sad pity it is that Miriam, a good girl in other respects, lets

herself be so conquered by her temper," thought Mrs. Mellor, as, with

just displeasure, she returned to the sitting-room in which she had

left her husband.

The lady would have thought it sadder still, had Miriam been long

enough in her service for her to have known all the noble qualities

possessed by this ill-tempered girl. Miriam had as high a sense of

honour as could have been hers had she been born and bred a lady. Her

lips were never stained with untruth, she never did a mean or deceitful

thing. Had Miriam found the door of her mistress's store-room open,

there would not have been in it one spoonful of tea or one lump of

sugar the less. Had Miriam discovered the contents of a purse scattered

over the carpet, Mrs. Mellor's gold would have been as safe in Miriam's

care as if locked up in an iron box. There was no wretched purloining

of trifles, no picking or stealing with Miriam; her conduct was as

upright when no mortal was near to watch it, as if she had known that

her actions were witnessed by all the world.

For Miriam Macbean lived in the fear and love of God. Religion with

her was no empty name. With all the straightforward earnestness of her

nature, she had given herself to the service of her Heavenly Master.

When, at her confirmation, in answer to the question whether she would

take upon herself the vow made for her at her baptism, she had uttered

the solemn words "I Do," that answer came from the bottom of her heart,

and with a fervent prayer that God would help her to keep her vow.

Miriam had never forgotten that day, and had often repeated that prayer.

And Miriam was not only of a conscientious spirit, she had a warm

affectionate heart. She and her twin brother Hamil had at an early age

been left orphans, and almost alone in the world. Never, perhaps, had

brother and sister loved each other more fondly than did the young

Macbeans. Often would Miriam recall the days of her childhood, when the

twins lived in a country home. There was a brook which flowed near the

cottage in which they had dwelt, and often, when fording this brook,

Hamil would carry Miriam with tottering footsteps across the water, to

save her from wetting her feet. The boy, who was strong and hearty,

would never allow that the weight of his dear little sister could tire

him.

A slight incident which had occurred when the children were scarcely

ten years of age, had shown how warmly Miriam returned the affection of

her twin brother. Hamil, when searching a hedge for blackberries, had

chanced to be bitten by a viper. The boy's cry of terror and pain had

brought Miriam in alarm to his side. Child as she was, her little foot

was in an instant stamped upon the head of the snake that had wounded

her brother; her love seemed to take away fear, and catching up a large

stone, she actually succeeded in killing the reptile.

Then, seeing the small mark of the serpent's bite in Hamil's bleeding

hand, the brave child, without a moment's hesitation, drew it to her

lips, and with all her might proceeded, as she said, "to suck out the

poison."

A farmer who happened to be not far from the spot, and who had seen

what had happened, came up just as Miriam, panting and excited when all

the danger was over, was embracing her young brother with a violent

burst of tears.

"Well done, my brave little maiden!" exclaimed the farmer, clapping her

on the shoulder. "But you did not stop to think that you might have

been sucking poison in while trying to suck it out."

"It didn't need thinking!" cried the child through her tears. "I'd much

rather have lost my life than my brother!"

Happily neither of the children suffered from the effects of the venom;

but Hamil never forgot the proof of affection given to him by his

sister.

The tie which united the hearts of the twins did not become weaker by

the lapse of years, and parting was a sore trial to both when Miriam

entered her first place, and Hamil enlisted as a soldier.

Most of the young maid's spare moments were given to writing to her

absent brother, and when he was on his campaign in Abyssinia, a letter

with the African post-mark on it, filled her with keen delight. The

letter would be read over and over again, and then hoarded amongst her

treasures.

When victory crowned the British arms, when Magdala fell, Miriam was

as proud of her hero brother as if the whole success of the war had

depended on the prowess of his single arm. She was almost wild with

joy when she heard that Hamill was ordered home, and that, after their

painful separation, she should see her twin brother once more.

Great joys and great sorrows are often closely linked together;

sometimes when we are feeling for the sweet ripe fruit, we unexpectedly

find the serpent. Miriam had some difficulty in getting leave to go and

see her brother, who was stationed for a short time at Greenwich after

his arrival from Abyssinia. Miriam's impatience was so great that she

almost threw up her place, because she had to wait for two or three

days before obtaining this leave.

At last, with a heart bounding with joy, Miriam set out on her little

journey in company with Mrs. Smith, a soldier's wife, who was going to

her husband at Woolwich. Fast went the train, but not fast enough to

suit the impatience of Miriam. Short was the journey, but to the eager

girl every mile seemed to swell into ten.

Woolwich was reached, and Miriam with her companion was soon hurrying

up one of the streets.

"How fast you walk, my dear," observed Mrs. Smith with a smile; "you

must remember that I'm not quite so young as you are. I'll get my

husband to find out your brother and bring him to our meeting-place at

the baker's; for, eager as you are, I suppose that you'll hardly rush

right into the barracks to see him."

Miriam laughed—how merry and blithe was her laugh—and slackened her

pace a little.

As they turned the corner of a street, Mrs. Smith spoke again, but in a

lower tone, to her young companion.

"We had better cross over to the other side of the road; don't you see

that soldier in front of us can't walk straight, I'm sure that the

fellow is drunk."

Miriam did not appear to have heard what was said, and when Mrs. Smith

put her hand upon the girl's arm to draw her across the road, to her

surprise she felt that the arm was nervously trembling! Looking into

Miriam's face, Mrs. Smith saw that she had suddenly turned very pale,

and that her eyes were fixed with intense emotion upon the form of the

soldier in front, though his back was turned towards them.

"Come, I say, he's in liquor," repeated Mrs. Smith in a whisper, "let's

go to the other side of the way."

At that moment the soldier chanced to turn round: it had not been

needful for Miriam to see that face—that flushed face: she had already

recognised her darling brother in the half-intoxicated man whom her

companion had been afraid to pass!

Hamil was not so far gone in drinking as not to recognise Miriam; the

sudden meeting half-sobered him, and he gave her a loud, much too loud

a greeting. But the red face, the thick utterance, the unsteady gait,

the noisy mirth, all cut like a knife into the heart of poor Miriam.

She had never thought, till that day, that she could be ashamed of her

brother.

She would have given anything that Mrs. Smith had not seen him, that he

had not turned round, but gone on his way. The words, "I'm sure that

he's drunk," seemed to haunt her, ringing in her ears all the rest of

the day, and breaking her rest at night, after she had returned from

her miserable visit to Woolwich. Wretchedness made Miriam's naturally

warm temper very irritable indeed on that evening.

Caroline wondered what could have come over her, and Mrs. Mellor

determined that she would not soon again give her young servant an

afternoon's leave.

After a sleepless, wretched night, poor Miriam rose before daybreak,

and wrote a letter to her brother. A very touching letter it was, and

blotted with her tears. There was not a word of reproach in it, but

much sorrow and more love, and gentle tender counsel, such as a pious

mother might have given to her son. No stranger who might have chanced

to see "Miriam in one of her tempers," would have believed that that

girl with flashing dark eyes and unbridled tongue could ever have

written such a letter.

With sickening suspense Miriam awaited her brother's reply. At that

time her soul was almost constantly wrestling in prayer. Whether she

were employed in dusting the room, or preparing the meal by the kitchen

fire, or at the wash-tub, Miriam was silently lifting up her heart in

an agony of entreaty for her twin brother.

The answer to her letter came before long. Miriam's heart was in a

flutter as she tore the envelope open, then she could scarcely read the

lines before her, because of the thankful tears which flowed before

she had read the letter half through. Hamil was quite as much ashamed

of his conduct as his sister had been, and the young soldier had the

manliness to own it. He had been led away by evil company, he had

not had the strength to resist the temptations which beset a man in

barracks, but he promised to struggle against what he confessed to be

his besetting weakness, a taste for ardent spirits. Hamil asked his

sister to pray for him; he would, he wrote, follow her good advice, and

"watch and pray" for himself. He trusted that he would never again give

his darling Miriam cause to blush for her brother.

A great weight was lifted from the heart of Miriam; Hamil seemed dearer

than ever. Again the sister could go on her way rejoicing in hope.

To Miriam's great satisfaction, Hamil was soon afterwards removed to

barracks in London.

Though her brother was now so much nearer to her, Miriam was but

seldom able to see him. She was too upright a girl to spend on her

own gratification without leave, the time which belonged to her

mistress. Miriam was by far too honest and conscientious to entertain

even a brother without her employer's knowledge, and still less at

her employer's expense. Miriam was a Christian girl, and in this

behaved like a Christian. An occasional meeting with Hamil on a Sunday

afternoon, when they would walk to church together, was all that the

sister could venture to expect, but this was enough to make her whole

life brighter. Miriam looked forward through all the week to her happy

hour upon Sunday.

Matters had thus gone on quietly for some little time, when the

unfortunate affair of the silver knife occasioned the scene related

in the first chapter. From childhood, Miriam had had a hot impatient

temper, and though she had often regretted it, she had never striven

against it with all her heart and soul, as against an enemy that was

drawing her into serious sin. It was natural to her, Miriam would say,

and this wretched excuse served in some measure to quiet her conscience.

Miriam saw other people selfish and mean, dishonest and untruthful; she

knew that her fellow-servant's standard of duty was very much lower

than her own. Miriam did not realise that she, with all her scrupulous

honesty and piety, was bringing disgrace on her religion by a temper

quite unworthy of a follower of Him who was meek and lowly; nay, that

her conduct was actually a stumbling-block in the way of Caroline, who

almost dreaded and disliked, while she could not help in most things

respecting her.

"It's all very fine Miriam's pretending to be better than other folk!"

exclaimed Caroline, when Miriam, as has been related, left the kitchen

to obey her mistress's call. "But her praying, her Bible-reading, and

church-going, don't prevent her from flying out like a fury. I wouldn't

have her temper for the world! For all her strict notions, I take it

that I'm as much of a Christian as she!"

CHAPTER III.

In Peril.

MIRIAM, excited and angry still, went up to her little attic to prepare

for her walk, carrying up with her the box which Caroline had brought

down. With Miriam the storm had not yet blown over.

"For Caroline, indeed, to talk about seeing anything in my box!" she

muttered, as she put down her burden on the floor with a heavy bang.

"She knows well enough that I'd no more stoop to do the mean things

that she does, than I'd go begging barefoot about the streets! And to

think of mistress listening for a moment to the backbiting sneak! I'm

glad that I gave her warning! I'd rather be a galley-slave, I would,

than stop in a place where I am not trusted."

Miriam's mind was like a piece of water that has been violently

disturbed, and which can reflect nothing distinctly; every image is

distorted and confused. But even before she had quitted the house,

reason had begun to resume its quiet power, and Miriam to have a

suspicion that her own conduct in the affair had not been altogether

either sensible or right.

"I wonder if Hamil will think that I have done a foolish thing," said

Miriam to herself, as she went out into the street, where the freshness

of the air served to help in cooling her temper.

"He was vexed when he heard of my leaving my last place, just because

I had quarrelled with the nurse. I shall only have a four months'

character now, and, after all, four mouths was hardly a long enough

time for mistress to know me so well as to listen to nothing against

me. I wish that I had kept my temper better, but I can't help flaring

up when any one touches my character. I am so much afraid that Hamil

will be vexed. He is so quiet and calm and wise himself, he has such a

beautiful temper; I never knew him fly into a passion in all his life!

He knows I have been a peppery little thing from my childhood, only I

never was angry with him, oh! No—I never could be angry with him!"

Tender thoughts of her brother still further calmed the spirit of

Miriam; the troubled waters were becoming quiet as a mirror again, and

the excited mind could once more reflect. Miriam began now to think

that she had come on a useless errand, for it was likely enough that

she might not be able to have a word with her brother, who did not

expect in the least to see her at such a time, and who would probably

be engaged in performing military duty. Besides this, Miriam was by

far too modest and well-conducted a girl to go to the barracks alone,

without any proper protection. How was she to let her brother know that

she was waiting to see him, and wishing to ask his advice?

"I do believe that I shall have to go back again just as wise as I

came. I've been acting the part of a foolish, ill-tempered child,"

thought Miriam, as she slackened her pace, walking up Albany Street

towards the barracks. Here, however, Miriam was mistaken, for the

thought had scarcely crossed her mind, when her glance fell on a tall

form in uniform that she knew well, on the opposite side of the street.

"Oh! This is fortunate indeed," exclaimed Miriam, "to think that Hamil

should be the first soldier whom I should meet!"

She had little time for self-gratulation, however, for as she spoke

Hamil turned aside from the pavement, and disappeared within the door

of a public-house.

Miriam had been heated by exercise and excitement, but now she turned

suddenly cold. The terror which had struck her two months before when

she had looked at that same dear form staggering under the influence

of drink, came over her again, and almost overpowered her. Was her

brother, the brave noble-hearted brother, whom she so fondly loved, he

of whom she had been so proud, was he yielding again to that deadly

vice, which would sink him lower than the brutes!

Miriam's anxiety for Hamil's safety during the campaign in Abyssinia

had been light and easy to be borne compared with what she felt

now; for had not her brother owned that a taste for drinking was

his besetting weakness, and to what must that taste, if indulged,

inevitably lead in the end? To shame, disease, and misery, condemnation

before God, things a thousandfold worse than death! Hamil was entering

on the steep downward incline, and what a precipice lay before him!

The full extent of her brother's peril flashed on the mind of Miriam,

and every other feeling yielded to the one desire to save him, as she

quickened her steps almost to a run.

The modest young maiden had never crossed the threshold of a

public-house, nor had she even thought of doing so before; Miriam had

a natural shrinking from going amongst strangers, and into a place

where it would be unseemly for her to appear—and yet, to the no small

surprise of Hamil, as he stood at the bar with a glass of gin in his

hand, he heard a voice nervously pronounce his name, and, turning,

beheld his twin at his side!

"You here!" exclaimed the soldier, almost dropping the glass in his

amazement.

"I must speak with you—it is on a matter of importance—I am leaving

my place," said Miriam, so breathless with excitement, that she could

hardly bring out the words.

Hamil's first impulse was to toss off the liquor for which he had paid,

before leaving the bar, but he changed his intention, put down the

untasted glass, and followed his sister out of the place. The soldier

was annoyed that Miriam, even for one minute, should have been seen

within those doors.

"What brought you here? What had you to say to me?" Hamil asked, with a

little approach to impatience in his manner; had he possessed less fine

a temper, he would have been angry.

"Oh! Hamil—how could you, after all that you promised—" began Miriam,

but she could not, from emotion, go on. All that had led her to seek

her brother on the present occasion, her own affairs, her loss of

place, her quarrel with Caroline, seemed to have entirely escaped from

her mind. She had room there now for but one thought, that of the

temptation and danger of Hamil.

The soldier could very well imagine what was passing through the brain

of his sister. He felt humbled and disgusted with himself, for when

he had entered that public-house, Hamil knew that he was breaking

through many an earnest resolution made to himself, as well as the

promise made to his sister. The twins walked on for some little way in

silence, then, as if by tacit consent, they took the first turn into

the Regent's Park.

Entering the enclosure, Hamil and Miriam went over the grass to a quiet

seat, where they could converse together undisturbed and unheeded by

any one. Neither of the Macbeans uttered another word until they had

reached this seat, and sat down upon it; each was busy with bitter

thoughts which it would be difficult and painful to put into language.

Miriam, indeed, was beginning to turn her thoughts into prayer, and

when once she was able to do this, half their bitterness was taken away.

CHAPTER IV.

The Struggle.

"I KNOW all that you will say, Miriam," began Hamil, who was the first

to break silence, looking down gloomily at the dusty grass before him.

"You don't suppose that I've not often thought of my promise, and tried

to keep it too. I had not so much as entered a public since I received

your letter, till a few days ago, and then two of my comrades, jovial

fellows, laughed me out of my resolutions, and got me to stand treat."

"And so the door was opened to the enemy," suggested Miriam, sadly;

"you did not find it easy to close it again."

"I'll not deny it, I took more than was good for me, and I was near

getting into a scrape at the time. But the worst of it is," continued

Hamil more rapidly, kicking up the dust with the heel of his boot, "the

worst of it is, that now the thirst and the longing is awakened again,

and it seems as if I could not resist them! I do not want to disgrace

myself, nor to vex you, Miriam, but I hardly am my own master in this.

No one knows, but those who have felt it, the difficulties which beset

a man who would get rid of a taste for spirits."

"Hamil, you are a soldier, a brave, noble soldier, one who never, in

the field, was daunted or kept back by difficulties," said Miriam,

pressing the arm of her brother. "Remember the fearful mountain passes

through which you went with the army in Abyssinia. Of what long weary

marches you have told me, when you had to struggle up heights, through

stony, almost impassable defiles, till your breath failed, and your

muscles were strained, and you felt that your limbs could scarcely

support your weight. But difficulties did not turn you back then. You

were the Queen's faithful soldier and were willing to serve her to the

death."

"I could not have held back then," observed Hamil.

"And can you hold back now?" cried Miriam. "Oh! Hamil, remember what

our curate said to us before our confirmation; you and I can never

forget that sermon. He told us that we are all the enlisted soldiers or

Christ, with His weapons to bear, and His battles to fight, and that

for His sake we must all learn to 'endure hardness.' *

"Life is our one great campaign, sin is our great enemy, and the Lord

Christ Himself the Captain of our salvation. If we follow Him we must

expect to have to face some difficulties, if we follow Him we must

fight. Oh dear brother, after hearing that sermon, do you not recollect

how you and I went together to the wood in the hollow, and, under the

great beech-tree, prayed that we might indeed be Christ's faithful

soldiers and servants to the end of our lives?"

* 2 Tim. ii. 3.

Hamil heaved a deep sigh; sweet and holy was the remembrance of that

day in their early youth, when he and his twin sister had resolved

that, come what might, they would ever keep steady in the service of

Him who had Himself triumphed over Satan, and who could make them more

than conquerors by the strength of His Holy Spirit. The whole scene

came back on the soldier's mind; the golden sunlight streaming through

the boughs on the ground strewn with the brown fallen beech-mast, the

sound of a stream gurgling near, the hum of a bright insect on the wing

that had hovered around the twins where they sat on the mossy seat

afforded by the gnarled roots of the tree.

Hamil passed his hand across his eyes as he murmured, "Would I were now

what I was then!"

"You may be more, much more than you were then," cried Miriam. "You and

I were but as young untried recruits, who knew little of what might be

before us, but who were ready boldly to face an enemy, whenever one

might attack us. Now, you are as one bearing the burden and heat of the

day, you know your enemy—"

"A great deal too well," interrupted Hamil; "he has not only attacked,

but has got the better of me at last."

"Only for a time!" cried Miriam, eagerly. "Never despair, the struggle

is not yet over! You were, as one may say, a straggler from the ranks,

you were not on your guard, the enemy took you at disadvantage. He

struck you down for a moment, but you are up and at him again, you

won't give in, you'll fight to the end. Is it not written in the Bible,

'Resist the Devil, and he will flee from you?' * Wrestle against

temptation, and overcome it, dear brother, in the name and in the

strength of the Lord!"

* James iv. 7.

Miriam's eyes sparkled as she spoke, and, as Hamil looked on that

bright animated face raised so earnestly to his own, the voice of his

only sister roused his spirit like the call of a trumpet sounding to

arms.

"Ah! Miriam," cried the young soldier, "if I had you always beside me

to keep me up to the mark, I think that something might be made of me

yet. Come what may, you are always ready to rush to the rescue. It's

the old story of the viper again; I wish that you could stamp your foot

upon my enemy, intemperance, as you did on the venomous reptile."

"You must do that for yourself, or rather you must ask God to do it

for you, Hamil, struggling hard yourself all the time. There is such

comfort in that text which you and I learned together years ago; 'God

is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are

able, but will, with the temptation, also make a way to escape, that ye

may be able to bear it.'" *

* 1 Cor. x. 13.

"Victory over sin is certainly worth a struggle," said Hamil.

"It is worth the hardest, the longest struggle!" cried Miriam, who felt

that her words were making an impression on the mind of her brother.

"Oh! Hamil, was it not joy when, after all that you had suffered,

after all that you had done, you stood a conqueror in King Theodore's

fortress of Magdala! Was it not joy when you returned to old England to

receive such a welcome as is given to victors alone? But what is such

joy compared to that of the Christian soldier, one who has been enabled

to triumph over enemies without and within, the world, the flesh, and

the Devil, if, at life's close, he can say with St. Paul, 'I have

fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith;

henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the

Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me at that day.'" †

† 2 Tim. iv. 7, 8.

"Miriam, my sister, I thank God for sending you to me," said the

soldier, pressing the hand of his twin. "I was throwing down my

weapons, I was yielding to the foe, or rather, like a deserter, going

over to his side. I have been worse than a coward in the battle of

life. But from this hour, God helping me, I'll stick to my colours,

and follow my Leader! I'll never set my foot within the door of a

place where I know from experience that the enemy would have me at an

advantage. I'll pray not to be led into temptation, and I'll keep, as

far as I can do so, out of the way of temptation."

The heart of Miriam bounded with joy. She looked on the fine, manly,

bronzed countenance of her brother, with the expression of calm

resolution upon it, and felt how great, how glorious is the Christian's

struggle against besetting sin, when he engages in it, "strong in the

Lord, and in the power of His might." *

* Eph. vi. 10.

CHAPTER V.

A Brother to the Rescue.

"BUT now," said Hamil, "I want to know what brought you up to our

quarters when I so little expected to see you. I remember now that you

said something—I don't know exactly what—about leaving your place. I

thought that you were so comfortable in it," continued the soldier.

"When last we met on Sunday, you seemed pleased with your master,

mistress, wages, everything. I hoped that you would stay in that place

till my term of service should be over, and we could set up business

together in some snug little home of our own."

"You remember that I spoke to you about my fellow-servant," said Miriam.

"Yes, Caroline, I think, was her name. You described her as a poor,

ill-brought-up girl, who has never been taught that black's black, and

who has scarcely found out yet that she has such a thing as a soul. But

you were taking her in hand, Miriam, and had got her to read at least

one verse in the Bible every day, and to go to church now and then.

I'm not the only one," added the soldier with a smile, "whom a little

sister of mine watches over for good."

"I'm afraid that you'll not think me very good when you hear all my

story," said Miriam.

"Not another case of quarrelling, I hope!" cried Hamil.

"Well, you shall know all, and judge for yourself," said Miriam.

And she and her brother arose from their seat and recommenced walking,

as they went on with their conversation.

"Caroline and I had just finished our dinner," continued Miriam,

"when mistress's bell rang, and Caroline went up to answer it. She

was away for some time, hunting in every nook and corner, as I heard

afterwards, for a silver paper knife which mistress had missed from the

drawing-room table. I knew nothing, of course, to what she was about,

and was quietly washing up the dishes, when down came Caroline to the

kitchen, looking as red as your uniform, and, to my great surprise, who

should come with her but mistress. Mrs. Mellor looked grave and uneasy,

and told me of the loss of the paper cutter, keeping her eyes fixed on

my face as she spoke.

"'I have not been in the drawing-room, ma'am, since I helped to clean

it in the morning,' said I, 'but I remember that the silver knife was

then all right in its place.'

"Mistress seemed more uneasy than before, and then said, glancing first

at Caroline, then at me, that my fellow-servant thought—fancied that

she had seen that paper knife in my box when I had chanced to open it

in the forenoon, while we were up in the attic together."

"I say!" exclaimed Hamil, indignantly. "Did you tell her that you would

as soon have swallowed the knife as have stolen it?"

"Not exactly—though I said something like it—and I demanded that the

box should be instantly brought down, and thoroughly searched."

"Right, perfectly right!" cried Hamil Macbean.

"I called Caroline a viper, a sneak, and I don't remember what names

besides; I bade her go and fetch down the box; indeed, I scarcely knew

what I was saying, I was in such a thundering passion."

Hamil thought, "Wrong, quite wrong," but he made no observation aloud.

"So the box was brought down from the attic, and mistress opened—I

cannot say that she searched it. One of the first things on which her

eye fell was your gift; you remember my beautiful paper cutter, made in

the shape of a dagger?"

"Ah! Caroline must have mistaken it for the silver one!" cried Hamil.

"She owned that she had done so," said Miriam; "they are really a good

deal alike."

"Do you suppose," inquired Hamil, gravely, "that this Caroline had

actually herself taken the silver knife from the table?"

"No," replied Miriam, quickly; "to do her justice, she is not bad

enough for that. We soon found what had become of the knife. Master

had taken it to cut the leaves of some book that he was reading while

he was out walking. He chanced to return home in the midst of the

business, and everything was explained."

"And so the whole matter ended, I hope," said Hamil.

"No, I gave warning to mistress. She wanted me to stay, but I would

not. I can never speak to Caroline again, so how could I stop in that

house?"

"Why could you never speak a word to Caroline again?" inquired Hamil

Macbean. "There is at least one word which you should speak—you should

ask her pardon for calling her a viper."

"Ask her pardon!" repeated Miriam, indignantly. "Surely you are not

taking her part—the part of one who would have blackened the character

of your only sister!"

"Listen to me quietly, dear Miriam, for a minute, and, if you can do

so, answer me calmly. Did Caroline, or did she not, believe that she

had seen the silver knife in your box?"

"She must have known me well enough to be sure that I would have

scorned to touch it!" cried Miriam, evading the question.

"People readily believe what they wish to be true," observed Hamil.

"What do you mean? Why should Caroline wish me to be a thief?" asked

Miriam, abruptly, looking with surprise into the face of the soldier.

"By your own account, the knife was lost, had been searched for in

vain; suspicion must have lain on Caroline herself; she naturally

was only too glad to turn it on another, and you yourself own that

the paper cutter was like your own, which she had chanced to see in

your box. And you must take another thing into account, dear Miriam.

Caroline has not been able to live for months with you, without finding

out that your ideas of duty are very much higher than hers. She must

begin to suspect that if you are right, she must be wrong, and such

suspicion is very unpleasant. The life of every consistent Christian is

a rebuke to a godless world. I believe that this is the chief reason

why the world is so ready to hate him, so eager to pick holes in his

conduct. I daresay that it was a comfort to Caroline to think that you

were no better than herself."

"I am glad that she cannot now have that comfort of thinking me

dishonest," cried Miriam, who was half-amused, half-vexed, at the view

of the subject taken by Hamil.

"But she can, and, I fear, does think you violent and passionate,"

observed the soldier. "Caroline knows that, though you keep your hands

from picking and stealing, you certainly do not keep your tongue from

evil-speaking."

Miriam felt hurt at the observation; had any one but, her twin brother

made it, she would have been seriously angry.

She was silent for a minute, and then said, "You, who are so calm and

good-tempered yourself that nothing ever ruffles you, cannot understand

the difficulty of keeping down a quick, hot temper like mine."

"Ah! Miriam, Miriam, are you one to be daunted by difficulties?" cried

Hamil. "Remember the words which you spoke a few minutes ago; remember

all that you said about the struggle, the weapon, the victory. In the

campaign of life, woman as you may be, you are as much a soldier as

myself. If one enemy rushes upon me from the right hand, another lies

in ambush for you on the left. Your besetting sin may be—and certainly

is—very different from mine; but we have both the same need to stand on

our guard, the same need to watch and to pray."

Miriam thought to herself that giving way to temper was a little sin

compared to giving way to intemperance. Hamil seemed to read what was

passing through her mind.

"You are not tempted to intoxication from drink," he observed, "but you

are tempted to intoxication from anger. And while intoxicated from one

cause or the other, we are both led to do and to say things which we

may afterwards bitterly repent. Sister, the same Word of God which bids

us 'be sober,' and 'provide things honest in the sight of all men,'

bids us also learn of Him who was meek and lowly, and tells us that 'he

that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city.'" *

* Prov. xvi. 32.

"Certainly my temper did get the better of me to-day," said Miriam,

frankly, for she was of a candid and open disposition, and could not

deny that she had been violent towards Caroline, and insolent in her

manner towards Mrs. Mellor.

"Ay, let me repeat your own words in reference to myself," cried Hamil;

"the enemy took you at disadvantage, he struck you down for a moment,

but you won't give in, you're up and at him again."

"I don't see what you would have me do," said Miriam, looking

distressed.

"Return home, tell your mistress frankly that you know that you were

too hasty, that if she will overlook what has passed, you will be glad

to remain in your place."

"I should not like to do that, and yet—if it were not for Caroline,"

began Miriam, in a hesitating tone.

"Caroline is to be settled with too," said Hamil. "Go to her, tell her

that you are sorry that you gave way to anger (though you had enough to

provoke you to it, I own), offer to let bygones be bygones, and—"

"Never! I could not do that! I could never humble myself so!" exclaimed

Miriam.

"There is pride up in arms!" said Hamil. "Satan has not, perhaps, in

all his army, a more dangerous spirit than he. Stand on your guard—he's

upon you!"

"After all that has passed between us, I could not speak to Caroline!"

cried Miriam.

"Not if it were your clear duty to do so, not in obedience to your

Captain's command?"

"There are some things too hard for flesh and blood!" exclaimed Miriam.

Hamil said nothing in answer to this; he continued his walk in silence,

but bent his steps towards Albany Street, which he soon re-entered,

Miriam still by his side. He went on without speaking a word, till he

reached the public-house from which he had been a short time before

so hastily summoned by his sister. Hamil stood still before it, and

abruptly bade Miriam good-bye.

"Where are you going?" she inquired.

"Where I don't want you to follow me again," he said gloomily, almost

sternly. "I have a feverish thirst on me, Miriam; I know that I ought

to abstain; but there are some things too hard for flesh and blood, as

you told me a minute ago."

All that Hamil's words meant flashed upon Miriam Macbean; his danger

was, in some respects like, while yet so unlike, her own. Each had a

duty to perform, each had a sacrifice to make; Miriam had urged her

brother to the conflict, and now, like a coward, was flinching from it

herself.

"Oh! Hamil!" exclaimed the poor girl, in a faltering tone of entreaty,

"Go back to your quarters at once, and I will go back to my home. You

do your duty, and may God help me to do mine, pride shall not win the

victory over your sister."

A smile and a warm grasp of the hand were all that passed then between

the twins. Miriam turned and sped on her way; but ere she reached the

end of the street, she stopped and looked back with a throbbing heart.

She saw her brother's tall form as he strode onwards, far beyond that

perilous place which he was never to enter again; and the girl's spirit

rose in thanksgiving and prayer—prayer for herself, thanksgiving for

him.

CHAPTER VI.

Victory.

MIRIAM'S ring at the door of Mrs. Mellor's dwelling was answered by

Caroline. The girl looked pale, and her eyes were swollen as if with

crying.

"Caroline," said Miriam at once, for every moment of delay made the

effort of speaking more painful, "I am sorry for what passed this

afternoon between us."

"I'm sure that you are not more sorry than I am!" cried Caroline. "I

wish that silver knife had been at the bottom of the sea—I heartily

do—mistress is so displeased with me, and I never thought that I was

doing such mischief by speaking a word."

"Let us both forgive and forget," said Miriam, and she held out her

hand.

Poor Caroline shook it readily and heartily, she was surprised and

relieved at the thundercloud having so rapidly passed away. Caroline

was not of a proud or passionate temper herself and had cowered beneath

the tempest of anger which she had thoughtlessly raised.

Nothing had ever convinced Caroline so much of the power of religion as

Miriam's saying, as she did now, "I am sorry that I used such language

towards you."

Caroline knew Miriam's character well enough to feel assured that no

earthly motive would have brought her to humble herself thus to one who

had deeply offended her.

Miriam passed up the staircase quickly, her mind relieved of a heavy

burden. She had found the performance of duty less painful than she had

expected, and it was such a comfort to be again at peace with herself

and with all the world. The beautiful words of St. Paul recurred to

her mind with more force than they ever had done before: "let all

bitterness and wrath, and anger and clamour, and evil-speaking be

put away from you, with all malice. And be ye kind one to another,

tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for Christ's sake,

hath forgiven you." *

* Eph. iv. 31, 32.

On the landing-place, Miriam happened to meet her mistress. There was

still a grave expression of displeasure upon Mrs. Mellor's face, as she

thus addressed her young servant.

"Have you seen your brother, Miriam?"

On Miriam's replying that she had just done so, the lady continued, in

the same cold manner, "And what does he think of the hasty step which

you have taken in giving me warning?"

"He thinks it a foolish one, ma'am," replied Miriam, colouring up to

her eyes, and pressing the bannister tightly with her hand, for it was

hard to a proud spirit to make the humbling confession.

"Then perhaps you would wish to remain in my service still," said the

lady, "and I should be very willing to keep you, and overlook the burst

of temper into which you were betrayed in my presence, had I reason to

hope that such bursts would not again recur. But I cannot," continued

Mrs. Mellor, "have perpetual quarrelling in my kitchen; I cannot keep

two servants who will not live in harmony together, I must—and will

have my house an abode of peace, as every Christian home should be."

"Oh! Ma'am, if you would but try me," cried Miriam. "Caroline and I

have made up our quarrel, and I hope that it will be our last."

The face of Mrs. Mellor brightened. "If such be the case," said the

lady, "I will gladly try you again."

And never had Mrs. Mellor cause to regret having done so. It was not

that Miriam was never again tempted to give way to a temper naturally

violent; it was not that the hasty word would not rise to her tongue,

nor the angry blood to her cheek; evil habits and evil tempers are not

to be conquered without a struggle, sometimes long as well as severe.

But both Miriam and Hamil had learned to keep watch against besetting

sins, and knew where to look for help in their time of need; they both

pressed onwards where duty called them, as faithful soldiers of the

cross; and they hoped one day to join in the song of triumph which the

redeemed will raise: "thanks be to God which giveth us the victory

through our Lord Jesus Christ." *

* 1 Cor. xv. 57.

A LIGHT

OR,

A CHRISTIAN IN INFLUENCE.

CHAPTER I.

The Young Stepmother.

"THIS is most vexatious, most perplexing; I am sure that I scarcely

know which way to turn," exclaimed Mrs. Fairley, as she entered the

room in which her firstborn babe lay asleep in his cradle, trimmed with

muslin, blue ribbon, and lace.

The lady was very young, and looked even younger than she was. She had

but lately left the school-room when she had married Mr. Fairley, a

widower, and so had become stepmother to his two children, who were six

and seven years of age. Little suited was a lively girl, who had never

so much as paid a bill for herself, to undertake at once the care of a

house and family.

"Then I suppose that Dr. Blane thinks, ma'am, that Master Tom's rash is

something infectious; I felt sure that it was," said the nurse.

"He says that it is scarlatina in a very mild form, and that Jessy's

sore throat has been the same, though we never guessed what was the

matter with her," replied Mrs. Fairley. "My terror now is for the

babe—my little, fragile darling!" continued the young mother, gazing

with anxious love on the sleeping infant. "His brother and sister have

the malady slightly, but for a babe not five weeks old to take such a

complaint might be—I dare not think what it might be." And the eyes of

the lady filled with tears, for her baby was the very delight of her

heart.

"I suppose, ma'am, that you'll join master in London at once,"

suggested the nurse; "it would be a sad risk for baby to remain in this

house while the scarlet fever is in it."

"I feel as if we must go—and yet," said the poor young mistress,

pressing her brow with her hand, "I cannot bear to leave the other dear

children—above all, when they are not in health."

"Oh, ma'am, Miss Jessy is all right again; and as for Master Tom, he

will need nothing but a little care," observed Leah, the nurse.

"If I were but sure that he would have it, I should leave with an

easier mind," said the lady; "but I must take you to look after baby,

and I leave the two children with a girl whom I never saw till a few

days ago—a girl who has never been in service before. It seems so

strange—so unkind."

"Susan looks as steady a girl as ever I saw in my life, ma'am; she

comes out of a good nest too; her mother was highly respected, and kept

a school. Depend upon it, Susan will take good care of Master Tom and

his sister," observed Leah.

"I wish that I knew what to do," said the young mother, with an anxious

sigh, as she seated herself by the cradle. Before her marriage, Lucy

had never had to decide on any matter more important than the colour

of a dress, or the choice of an amusement. Now she found herself in

a position of serious responsibility as mistress and mother, with no

experience, no strength of will, no knowledge of character, to help

her. Mrs. Fairley wished to do her duty towards her husband's children;

kind and gentle she always had been to them both, but she dreaded

scarlet fever much for herself, and a great deal more for her baby, and

dared not remain at the risk of catching the disease from Jessy or her

brother.

"If I might be bold to speak, ma'am," said the nurse, "I'd say we'd

better be off by the afternoon's train, and none of us go nigh the

children. It's lucky they are on the upper floor, and that they

have not been with baby since Miss Jessy complained of her throat.

But scarlet fever is the most catching thing in the world, ma'am,

'specially after the rash has come out. Susan will look after the

others, but we must think of the baby. He's sickly, he is, poor

darling; a very little illness would make him go off like the snuff of

a candle."

Mrs. Fairley shuddered at the thought of danger to her child. She

hastily rose from her seat.

"You are right, quite right, nurse," she said; "we must leave this

house at once; you had better see to the packing directly. I will

speak to Susan myself, and give her the strictest orders, and tell

her—And, oh! I must write at once to put off the children's party

that we were to have had on Friday to keep Tommy's birthday. I must

send notes to the Hardys, the Lauries, the Wares. It will be a sad

disappointment to poor Tommy and Jessy not to have their young friends,

but I'll give them each a new five-shilling piece to make up for their

disappointment."

And so the young stepmother hurried away to write her notes, give her

orders, arrange what dresses she should take to London, send for a

conveyance, do the twenty little things which were needful to be done

before suddenly quitting her country home, things which might each be

trifles in themselves, but which required thought, and care, and time,

so became serious matters to Mr. Fairley's young wife.

"I am so vexed to leave Tommy and Jessy under the care of a new

nursery-maid, a mere girl!" repeated Mrs. Fairley, as she locked her

desk, after hurriedly writing off her notes. "What will the world say?

What will my husband say? It seems like deserting the children. But

neither of them can be called really ill, and they will have every

comfort which they can require; Dr. Blane is skilful and kind, and

certainly. If one can judge by face and manner, Susan is to be trusted,

yes, I hope, I think that she is to be trusted!"

And repeating this again and again to herself, to quiet her own

anxiety, young Mrs. Fairley went on with her preparations for her

sudden journey to London.

CHAPTER II.

Off to the Station.

"YES, she is going away, I told you that she was! There's Giles

carrying out the big black box, with the cords tied about it, to put it

up by the coachman!" exclaimed Tom Fairley in a tone of fierce passion,

as he stood on a chair by the window, grasping the bars with his hands,

and looking down on the carriage which was waiting at the door to take

his stepmother to the station.

Master Tom had been ordered to keep his bed during that day, but Tom

cared little for orders. He was a spoilt, passionate boy, whom his

gentle new mamma had never been able to manage. He loved Mrs. Fairley a

little perhaps, but he had never learned to obey her.

"Perhaps mamma is only going for a drive," said Jessy, a pale little

girl with large dark eyes, who was seated on a foot-stool nursing the

doll that had been her stepmother's gift.

"Going to take a drive with a big corded box, you stupid!" exclaimed

Tom. "I tell you she is going to London. Giles is bringing more

packages out—one—two—three—and there's a hamper besides! There's nursie

coming out with baby wrapped up in the large India shawl. She has got

into the carriage, and here comes mamma in her pink bonnet. She is

going to London without us—when she promised long ago to take us there

with her!"

"Mamma won't go without bidding us good-bye!" exclaimed Jessy, starting

up from her seat and running to the window with her doll in her arms.

She clambered up on the chair beside her brother, and flattening her

nose against the pane, glanced down as eagerly as Tom at the departure.

"She will go without bidding us good-bye, she's in the carriage, she'll

soon be off!" And Tom stamped so violently with his shoeless foot on

the chair, that he almost pushed off his sister.

The boy was only half-dressed, for he had lately escaped from his bed;

he had neither jacket on his back, nor shoes on his feet; his hair was

a wild mop round a face which looked as red as scarlet, but quite as

much from passion as from fever.

"She's cruel, she's very, very unkind!" cried Jessy. "Betsy told us

quite true, she doesn't care for us, not one pin, 'cause she is not our

own mamma!"

The last nursery-maid had done great wrong both to her mistress and

the children by trying to make the latter think that their stepmother

did not love them as if they were her own. More from folly than from a

wish to do mischief, Betsy had been sowing evil in the minds of those

committed to her care.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of

God." * But oh! How unblessed must they be who help to destroy peace

in families, whose tongues, like Satan's own darts, kindle malice,

distrust, and jealousy in the hearts of those around them! Well had it

been for the little Fairleys that Betsy had been dismissed from her

place.

* Matthew v. 9.

"Mamma is looking up at the window, she is kissing her hand!" cried

Tom. "But I won't kiss my hand to her," he sulkily added. "Why does she

go and leave us! There—she's driving away—away to the station!"

The boy jumped down from the chair, and flung himself on his chest

on the carpet, kicking with passion. He could not bear to watch the

carriage disappearing behind the trees.

"I'll never, never again believe that mamma loves me!" exclaimed Jessy,

bursting into tears as she got down more slowly.

"Oh I never say that, Miss Jessy!" cried the mild voice of Susan, who

had just entered the room. She was a bright, cheerful-looking girl of

sixteen, very neatly dressed, with hair smooth as satin beneath her

simple little white cap.

"I'll say what I choose," sobbed Jessy; "it was very unkind to go

without us, and never even to come to bid us good-bye."

"Mistress is as much vexed as you are about it," said Susan. "Yes,

indeed," she continued, without appearing to notice a volley of angry

kicks on the floor, by which Tom expressed his utter disbelief,

"mistress dared not come near you after the doctor had told her what

was the matter with you both, lest she should carry infection to the

baby."

"She cares for no one but the baby!" growled Tom. "It's unfair, it's

horridly unfair."

"Now, Master Tom, will you listen to reason?" said Susan, turning

towards the boy in a cheerful, good-humoured manner. "Suppose that you

had to decide whether your mamma should come and give you a good-bye

kiss, at the risk of carrying back illness to your own little brother,

would you ask her—would you wish her to come to you at such risk?"

"She did not want to come—she did not choose to come!" muttered Tom,

who was not inclined to listen to reason.

"She never thought about us at all," cried Jessy.

"Nay, Miss Jessy, I can answer for it that mistress has been thinking

a great deal about both of you," said the young maid. "She has been

giving me such particular directions about your comfort, and the tears

were in her eyes when she spoke of going to London and leaving you

behind."

"Were they?" asked Tom, in a softened tone. He raised himself to a

sitting posture on the floor, and looked up at Susan through the rough

tumbled hair which was hanging over his eyes.

Some people have an art of putting things in the brightest, fairest

light, of smoothing down angry tempers, and raising kindly feelings in

the hearts of others. Susan was one who had learned this art in the

school of the Gospel. She shewed so clearly that it was no unkindness

that had taken the young stepmother away, she made the children realise

so vividly what sad consequences would be likely to follow should their

baby brother take the infection of scarlet fever, that all the storm

of anger was lulled. When Susan gave to Jessy and her brother the two

bright crown pieces sent to them by Mrs. Fairley, even the words "How

kind!" came from the lips of the girl.

Susan had, however, a great deal of trouble in coaxing Tom to obey

the doctor's orders by returning to his crib. She had no authority to

punish, and it was very hard to persuade. Susan promised the boy to sit

beside him, and read to him, so that the time should not seem dull.

"I'm tired of every one of my books, they're so stupid," cried Tom.

"I've read Blue Beard ever so often, and I don't care for any of the

rest."