CHAPTER IV.

SOME PEOPLE WHO WERE FALSE FRIENDS.

Did a woman ever start out, I wonder, with the spirit of turmoil and

unrest about her, that she did not find helpers? Especially if she be

one of a large congregation she comes in contact with some heedless

ones--some malicious ones--some who are led into mischief by their

undisciplined tongues--some who have personal grievances. And there

are always some people in every community who stand all ready to be

led by the last brain with which they come in contact; or, if not

that, they are sure to think exactly as Dr. Jones and Judge Tinker

and Prof. Bolus do, without reason as to why or wherefore. This class

is very easily managed. A little care, a judicious repetition of a

sentence which fell from the doctor's or the judge's or the

professor's lips, and which might have meant anything or _nothing_,

by the slightest possible changes of emphasis, can be made to mean a

little or a great deal. It wasn't slow work either--not half so slow

as it would have been to attempt the building up of someone's

reputation; by reason of the law of gravitation the natural tendency

is downward, so prevalent in human nature, and by reason of the

intense delight which that wise and wily helper, Satan, has in a

_fuss_ of any sort. Do Mrs. Dr. Matthews the justice of understanding

that she didn't in the least comprehend what she was about; that is,

not the magnitude of it. She only knew that she had been stung,

either by her conscience or else by Dr. Selmser. She chose to think

it was Dr. Selmser, and she felt like repaying him for it. He should

be made to understand that people wouldn't bear everything; that he

must just learn to be a little more careful about what he said and

did. "Take heed what ye do; let the fear of the Lord be upon you."

Yes, _she_ heard the text, and was thinking of her party all the

time. Did she think that certain things which occurred in her

parlours on that evening were not in accordance with the text? Then

did she think to blot out the text by showing her ability to stir up

a commotion? What _do_ such people think, anyway?

There came a day when even Mrs. Dr. Matthews herself stood aghast

over what had been done, and didn't more than half recognise her hand

in the matter, so many helpers she had found--non-temperance men, men

of antagonistic political views, men who winced at the narrowness of

the line drawn by their pastor--a line that shut out the very breath

of dishonesty from the true Church of Christ--men and women who were

honest and earnest and _petty_--who were not called on enough, or

bowed to enough, or consulted enough, or ten thousand other

pettinesses, too small or too _mean_ to be advanced as excuses, and

so were hidden behind the general and vague one that, on the whole,

Dr. Selmser didn't seem to "draw;" the "young people" thought him

severe or solemn or _something_; his sermons were not "just the

thing--did not quite come up to the standard," whatever that may

mean.

So the ball grew--grew so large that one day it rolled toward the

parsonage in the shape of a letter, carefully phrased, conciliatory,

soothing--meant to be; "every confidence in his integrity and

kindness of heart and good intentions," and every other virtue under

the sun. But, well, the fact was the "young people" did not feel

quite satisfied, and they felt that, on the whole, by and by, toward

spring, perhaps, or when he had had time to look around him and

determine what to do, a _change_ would be for the best, both, for

himself and for the cause. Indeed, they were persuaded that he

himself needed a change--his nervous system imperatively demanded it.

Let me tell you what particular day that letter found its way to the

parsonage: a rainy, dreary day in the early winter, when the ground

had not deliberately frozen over, and things generally settled down

to good solid winter weather, but in that muddy slushy, transition

state of weather when nothing anywhere seems settled save clouds, dun

and dreary, drooping low over a dreary earth; came when the minister

was struggling hard with a nervous headache and sleeplessness and

anxiety over a sick child; came when every nerve was drawn to its

highest tension, and the slightest touch might snap the main cord. It

didn't snap, however. He read that long, wise, carefully-written,

_sympathetic_ letter through twice, without the outward movement of a

muscle, only a flush of red rising to his forehead, and then

receding, leaving him very pale. Then he called his wife.

"Mattie, see here, have you time to read this? Wait! Have you nerve

for it? It will not help you. It is not good news nor encouraging

news, and it comes at a hard time; and yet I don't know. We can bear

any news, can't we, now that Johnnie is really better?"

With this introduction she read the letter, and the keen, clear gray

eye seemed to grow stronger as she read.

"Well," she said, "it is not such _very_ bad news; nothing, at least,

but what you ministers ought to be used to. We can go. There is work

in the world yet, I suppose."

"Work in the Lord's vineyard, Mattie, for _us_, if he wants us. If

not, why then there is rest."

Shall I tell you about that breaking up? about how the ties of love,

and friendship, and sympathy were severed? You do not think that the

whole church spoke through that letter? Bless you, no. Even Mrs. Dr.

Matthews cried about it, and said it was a perfect shame, and _she_

didn't know what the officers meant. For her part, she thought they

would never have such another pastor as Dr. Selmser. And I may as

well tell you, in passing, that she did what she could to cripple the

usefulness of the next one by comparing him day and night, in season

and out of season, with "dear Dr. Selmser." There are worse people in

the world than Mrs. Dr. Matthews.

Did he stay all winter and look about him and decide what to do? You

know better than that. He sent his resignation in the very next

Sabbath; and some of those letter-writers were hurt, and thought he

had more Christian principle than that; and thought that ministers,

of all men, should not be so hasty in their acts. It showed a bad

spirit.

_They_ went home after that--Dr. Selmser and his wife--to _her_

mother's home. So many people have _her_ mother's home to go to.

Blessed mothers! He was so glad to get to her. He needed change and

rest, and the letter-writers had spoken truthfully. Did he take cold

in packing and travelling? Was he overworked? Were the seeds of the

disease running riot in his system during that early fall? Were they

helped along any by that letter? Who shall tell? We know this much:

he took to his bed, and he was no longer pale or quiet; the flush of

fever and the unrest of delirium were upon him. He rolled and tossed

and muttered; and it was always of his work, of his cares, of his

responsibilities--never of _rest_; and yet rest was coming to him on

swift wing. The Lord of the vineyard knoweth when his reapers have

need of soft, cool days of glory, to follow weeks of service.

Rapidly they come to him; but the river must be crossed first, and

first there must be a severing of earth-ties, a breaking of cords

stronger than life. Never mind, the King knows about this, too; and

it must be, and _is_, and _shall be_, well. The rest came--all that

we on this side knew of it--a pulseless heart, a shrouded form, lips

of ice, forehead of snow, hush and silence. Just the other side of

the filmy veil which we call "Time," what was the appearance of it

there? He knows, and has known these many years. And, thank God, the

wife of his love knows now, but we do not. "Eye hath not seen, nor

ear heard, neither hath entered into the heart, the things that are

prepared" for them.

What said the elegant modern church, that during the process of this

change was undergoing a candidating siege? Why, they met in decorous

assemblage, and passed resolutions, and had them printed, and draped

the pulpit in mourning, and sent a delegation of the church to the

funeral, with knots of the finest _crêpe_ streaming from their

shoulders; and, on the Sabbath following, the quartette choir sang

the funeral dirge in such a way as to melt almost the entire audience

to tears. And then they went home, some of them, and remarked that

the candidate who occupied their pulpit that morning had an

exceedingly awkward way of managing his handkerchief, and didn't give

out notices well. They didn't believe he would "draw" the "young

people."

Now, what of all this story of one Sabbath day? Is it overdrawn? Do

you say there are no such people as have been described? I beg your

pardon, there _are_. It is _not_ a story; it is a truthful repetition

of Sabbath conversations. Would that such Sabbath desecrations were

rare. They are not. You will remember that out of a congregation of

five hundred I have not given you a description of a dozen people.

The difficulty is that a dozen people can and _do_ set in commotion

large bodies of humanity, and bring about results of which they

themselves do not dream.

About that minister: If he sunk under such a common matter as having

certain ones in a church disaffected with him, it shows a weak mind,

do you say? He should have expected trials, and disappointments, and

coldness, and disaffection. "The servant is not greater than his

lord." All true; he had preached that doctrine to himself for twenty

years, and earnestly strove to live by it. I do not say that he sunk

under the humiliation; only, don't you remember the fable of the last

straw that broke the camel's back? What I _do_ say is, that he had

borne hundreds and thousands of "straws." Also, remember it was _the

Lord_ who called him from work. Assuredly he did not call himself. I

think the master said: "Let him come; it is enough; and we need him

here."

Then what about the unfinished work that he left? What about the

midnight prayer over that sermon, the wrestling for a sign of fruit?

Was it in vain? There is fruit that you and I do not see, oftentimes.

Do you remember the young man, Dwight Brower, and the Sabbath

afternoon communion that he had with himself? Not with himself alone;

the world, the flesh, and the devil were in full strength before him;

and not _them_ only--the angel of the covenant was there beside him.

There was a conflict--the world and the devil were vanquished. Dwight

Brower's name was on the church-roll, but his heart had been with the

world. He came over that day, distinctly, firmly, strongly, to the

Lord's side. He weighed the solemn words, "Take heed what ye do; let

the fear of the Lord be upon you." They sounded to him as they never

had before. He resolved then and there that they should mean to him

what they never had before, that they should mean to him what they

evidently did to his pastor.

That was twenty years ago. There were modern churches even then.

Dwight Brower has been a power in the land since then. Not one, but

scores--aye, hundreds--aye, thousands of souls has the Lord given him

as seals to his ministry; and he is working now. Once I visited where

he preached. I heard a lady say to him, "That was a wonderful sermon

that you gave us to-day. To begin with, it is a wonderful text. I

never before realized that the Lord was actually _watching_ all our

ways."

He turned toward her with a smile, and said: "It was Dr. Selmser who

preached to-day. He has been gone twenty years, and he is preaching

yet."

"And I heard a voice saying unto me, Write Blessed are the dead who

die in the Lord: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their

labors; and their works do follow them."

Does it seem to you a pity that he could not have known--could not

have had one glimpse of the fruit of his work? How do you know what

view of waving harvests being garnered in the Lord calls him to look

down upon from the heights of Pisgah? "When I awake with thy likeness

I shall be satisfied." Be sure the Lord has satisfied him.

Meantime that modern church is still very modern indeed, and at this

present time its pulpit is vacant--they are candidating!

NEW NERVES.

"Margaret, do stop that horrid screeching! You make my head fairly

snap." The music suddenly ceased. The sharp voice came from the

pantry, and belonged to Margaret's mother, Mrs. Murray. She stood

before her moulding board weighing out chopped raisins, currants,

flour, butter, and all the other ingredients that go to make a

fruit-cake. The deep-cut frown between her eyes, the worried

expression, and the tightly-shut lips told their own story.

The singer stood at the kitchen-table washing the breakfast

dishes--a pretty picture, with her sixteen years just blossoming

into pink cheeks and bright eyes--a trim and dainty figure even in

her simple dark print and white apron. She looked so happy and

caroled forth her song so gaily, while she wiped the delicate china

cups on the soft towel. If her mother could but have seen her, would

she so rudely have jarred the bright spirit? And this was Margaret.

She, too, could frown; now the straight black brows drew themselves

together in an ugly way on the white forehead, the cheeks took a

deeper pink, and the bright eyes had a snap in them. She flung the

cups on the table in place of the almost loving touches she had

bestowed upon them. The clatter went on, and at last a luckless cup

reeled, and rolled to the very edge of the table, and--off it went!

shivering into many fragments. This brought Mrs. Murray to the pantry

door.

"Well, I never saw anything like you for carelessness," she said in a

high-keyed voice.

"There goes another of that set! You were vexed, or that wouldn't

have happened. I heard how you slammed about after I spoke to you.

Now pick up the pieces and go away. I will wash them myself."

Every nerve in the girl's body fairly quivered. Her mother had

touched her on a tender point. She had been drilled by her

music-teacher for a long time on the high notes of a difficult piece

of music, and she had just succeeded in trilling it out to her own

satisfaction and delight, when she was startled by her mother's

voice. Poor Margaret! She had a hot temper, and when the severe

reprimand for her carelessness was added, she felt so angry and

disgraced that she would have said many a word to repent of, but

happily she could not control her voice to speak. Every time she

attempted it, a choking sob stood right in the doorway, and would not

let the wicked words out.

Mrs. Murray was a pattern housekeeper, a model of neatness.

Everything in her house shone, from the parlour windows to the

kitchen stove. Her cake was always light, her bread sweet. No table

could compare with hers for delicious variety. Her housekeeping was a

fine art, before which everything else was made to bow. Her parlour

was made most attractive in all its appointments, and everything that

goes to make a pleasant home was lavishly supplied by her husband;

yet a more uncomfortable family it would be hard to find.

The parlour was kept closed and dark, except on rare occasion. Flies,

and dust, and mud were Mrs. Murray's avowed enemies. To overcome them

was the chief end of her life; to this end she tortured her husband,

and son, and daughters. Summer and winter she diligently pursued

them, and many a tempest was evolved in that house from a source no

greater than a muddy foot-print, or stray fly or two, for in summer

the house was enclosed in wire screens, and heedless people were for

ever leaving them open.

Economy, too, another most desirable virtue, was in this home made to

appear almost a vice. She would not let the sunshine in, lest it

would fade the carpet. She made her room dingy and unpleasant in the

evening, to save gas. She would not make a fire in the parlour in the

winter, because it wasted coal. She would not open it in summer

because dust ruined the furniture. To make matters worse, Mrs. Murray

was a woman made principally of nerves. She was a constitutional

fretter. It must be said in her justification that she came of a

nervous race. There are different kinds of nervous people; this

family did not belong to that limp class who start with affright at

every noise, or faint at sight of a spider. Their nerves were too

tightly drawn, and like a delicate stringed instrument, when a rude

touch came, snap! went a string, making all life's music into discord

as far as they were concerned. The discord usually expressed itself

in scolding. It is a real luxury for the time, to the wicked nerves

to give somebody a sound beating. Mrs. Murray's mother and

grandmother and great-grandmother had made a practice of scolding

their children, their servants, and their husbands, when necessary,

and it never seemed to occur to her that there was any other way to

manage affairs.

Another antic those naughty nerves often indulged in, was nervous

headache; when anything specially annoying took place, they met in

convention in the top of the poor head, and held an indignation

meeting; at such times Mrs. Murray was obliged to retreat to her own

room. The increasing frequency of these attacks furnished her with an

excellent reason for withdrawing herself from society almost

entirely. She was not strong enough to entertain company. She was not

strong enough even to attend church habitually. Her strength must all

be given to her house and her table, for she was one of those

housekeepers who consider economy out of place here; the cakes and

pies and knick-knacks were counted a necessity, as well as more

substantial food. Don't say Mr. Murray should not have chosen such a

wife. He did not. This gloomy, fault-finding woman, bore no

resemblance to the sweet, bright girl, he married. It had all come

about so gradually that neither realized the great change.

Ralph, the only son, a fine, tall young man, just out of his teens,

had lately been taken into his father's firm. He was noble and true,

though in a little danger on account of his fondness for company,

which, not being gratified at home, was taking him away from its safe

boundaries to clubs, and questionable company and amusements, much

more than pleased his father; but Ralph declared he must have some

pleasure--"didn't want to mope in his room alone after being hard at

work all day. As for home, there was nothing there, not even a good

place to read--gas at the top of the wall in the dingy old

dining-room, and the girls always out--or out of humour; he could do

no better." Mr. Murray was uneasy: "Their home was sort of dismal;

what was the matter?" The two daughters, just coming up to womanhood,

also missed many of the pleasant surroundings and sweet sympathy that

other girls seemed to have in their homes. With all her toil and

doing, Mrs. Murray was letting her children slip, as it were, through

her fingers. The house was well furnished, but there was no room

bright and warm, with music and books and papers, where they gathered

in the evening and strengthened the home ties.

No servant could long please Mrs. Murray, so the comers and goers to

that kitchen for many years were numerous. Now she had hit upon a new

plan. She could carry out some good old-fashioned notions she had

about training girls in domestic matters. She would do her own work

with such assistance as her daughters could give her out of school

hours, calling in such help as they needed. But the project did not

work well: the girls were always hurried; their school duties left

very little time for anything else, so their household tasks were not

always well or cheerfully performed, especially Margaret's. Her love

for music amounted to a passion, and she grudged the time for

practice; then their inexperience tried her mother's patience sadly,

and brought the inevitable scoldings, and made Margaret's irritable

nerves flash up to meet her mother's. But that Saturday morning that

we began to tell about, it was such a very exasperating one all

around. One thing after another happened to make things go wrong,

till it fairly seemed as if some evil genius had affairs under

control. The door opened and a sweet round face, framed by a sweeping

cap, appeared. A graceful young girl armed with broom and dustpan

stepped lightly across the kitchen, deposited her broom in the

corner, and proceeded to empty the contents of the pan in the fire.

"Florence," spoke her mother sharply, "what do you mean by putting

dust in the fire when you see this kettle of stewed cranberries on

the stove?"

Florence started guiltily, spilling some of the dust on the stove in

her agitation.

"There! now see what you have done! You two make more work than you

do; and just see how you have stood the broom in the corner, instead

of hanging it up, as I have told you a hundred times to do. It is

more trouble to teach you than it is to do things myself. I wonder if

you have just got through sweeping; such slow poking works, I could

have done it twice over by this time. I don't see why I should be so

tormented; other people have girls that amount to something." Mrs.

Murray, down in her heart, believed there were no girls in all the

kingdom like hers. Florence was accustomed to this sort of talk, and

yet it hurt her sensitive, affectionate nature every time. The blue

eyes took on no indignant light; instead, they filled with tears,

which irritated her mother still more, and she said, with increased

sharpness:

"There, go away. You are made of too fine stuff for common purposes;

getting so touchy that not a word can be said to you."

Counting time by her mother's calendar, Florence had been a long time

doing a little, but her nature was different from her mother's, all

her movements were gentle. She had been reverently following her

mother's directions. Her untiring patience ferreted dust out of every

little corner where it had lodged in the furniture; she had mounted

the step-ladder and dusted the pictures, had cleaned and polished all

the little ornaments. True, she lingered a moment over a book of

engravings, and to kiss a little statuette of "Prayer," but she

thought she had done it all so nicely, and a little word of praise

would have made her so happy. It was hard, when she had done her

best, to have only fault-findings.

At a very critical stage of affairs in the pastry-making, Nettie

Blynn knocked at the side door. She only wanted to see Maggie just a

minute about the Christmas entertainment. Maggie set down a

half-beaten dish of eggs and ran. The minute lengthened into many

more, and the girls talked and talked, as girls will, forgetting all

about time. When Margaret returned to the kitchen she found her

mother in a perfect fever of haste, and poor Florence trying to go

two or three ways at once.

"Now, Margaret," her mother began, "I might just as well depend upon

the wind as you! drop everything and run the minute you are called.

That is just as much sense as Nettie Blynn has, running to the

neighbours Saturday morning, and staying like that, when I have so

much to do. You don't seem to care whether you help me or not."

"Why, mother, how could I help it?" Margaret answered with spirit. "I

didn't ask her to come, and I couldn't tell her to go away. Saturday

morning is as good as any other time to her; she doesn't have to work

all day Saturday, and how should she know that I do?"

Just here the front door-bell gave a malicious ting-a-ling. Mrs.

Allan, an old friend who lived several miles out of town, had just a

few minutes before train time; she was sure there was no one in the

world she wanted to see so much as Mrs. Murray, and Mrs. Murray was

just as sure that she herself wanted to see nobody just then, but

there was no help for it. She washed the dough from her hands, and

saying to Margaret, as she hurriedly left the kitchen:

"Finish that pie, and watch the fire; don't let that cake burn, nor

the cranberries."

Alas! for Margaret. She became so absorbed in rolling the upper crust

of the mince pie, and in trying to cut a beautiful pine-tree on it,

that she forgot all about the fire, and the cake, and the

cranberries. An odour, not savoury, came from the stove. Margaret

rushed out, but it was too late; the cranberries sent up a dense

black smoke, and were burned fast to the new porcelain kettle, and,

horrors! on opening the oven door, the fruit-cake was a sight to

behold--as black as a hat, and an ominous-looking valley in the

centre of it!

"Flo! go tell mother to come here quick!" screamed Margaret.

"Everything has gone to destruction."

Any housekeeper can well imagine what a person, who did not hold firm

rule over nerve and tongue would say under such aggravations.

Although her mother's words stung like scorpions, Margaret did not

attempt to excuse herself this time, for she felt keenly that she had

been guilty of great neglect, and she would have told her mother so

if the bitter words had not made her hard and sullen. The longer her

mother talked, the less she felt that she cared for the consequences

of her fault. This Saturday's work was unusual, not only because

Christmas was near at hand, but an old aunt of Mrs. Murray's was

coming from Philadelphia to make a visit. She had not visited her

niece in many years. She also used to be a model housekeeper, and

Mrs. Murray was anxious that everything should appear to the best

advantage. At last the toil and strife of that day was over, the work

was all done up and the girls sought their own room.

"Maggie," said Florence, "what do you suppose Aunt Deborah will

bring us for Christmas presents?" Florence braided her golden locks

as she talked, her face cheerful as usual. The trials of that day had

left no mark on her sunny face. Not so with Maggie; the frown was

still on her forehead, and she flung herself on the lounge in a

despairing sort of way as she answered, "I'm sure I don't know nor

care either, whether I ever get another present in my life."

"Why, Maggie! What's the matter?"

"The matter is that I am tired of this awful life. I work, work, and

be scolded all the time. I wish Aunt Deborah was in Jericho, or

anybody else that is coming to make more work for us. I could stand

the work, though, but I can't stand scolding all the time. Mother

hasn't said a pleasant word to me to-day."

"Sh--h!" said Florence. "Mother is sick and nervous. Don't you think

if--if you wouldn't provoke mother so much it would be better? And

then maybe"--Florence was almost afraid to speak her next

thought--"don't you think you answer back a good deal sometimes?"

"There! you just hush up," said Margaret. "I guess you needn't set up

for a lecturer, too; two years younger than I am, you are taking a

good deal upon yourself, I should say. I'm nervous, too. Young folks

are called cross, but older ones always called nervous, when they are

cross. I wish I could go off somewhere. I'd go anywhere to get away

from home, for it's just dreadful. Mother don't care for me one bit.

She don't scold anybody else as she does me. When I go over to Mrs.

Blynn's it just makes me sick. Nettie and her mother are just like

two sisters. They sit under the drop-light with their fancy-work and

talk, or Nettie plays her new pieces over for her mother. I could

play as well as Nettie if I had time to practice, but mother don't

seem to care anything at all about my music. We might keep a girl

like other people. Father is able to. I think it is too bad."

"Oh, don't Mag! Don't say any more," said Florence. "It makes me

shiver to hear you talk so. You know what it says about honouring

parents. I'm sure something dreadful will happen to you. You will

drop right down dead, maybe, or just think how you would feel if

mother should die after you've talked so. Oh, Maggie," she said

timidly, "if you only were a Christian, now, how it would help you."

"Pho," said Margaret. "Mother is a Christian and it don't help her

one bit."

Then Margaret put her head down on the arm of the lounge and cried.

She had wanted to cry all day, but there was no time.

The door stood partly open between Mrs. Murray's room and that of her

daughters. That ruined fruitcake had accomplished its work, the

severe nervous headache had come and obliged her to go up to her room

and lie down, while the girls supposed her to be still in the

dining-room; so the talk came floating in to her while she lay on her

bed pressing her aching temples. What a revelation was this! Was it

possible that she was the person meant? One daughter blaming her, and

the other excusing her. She almost forgot about her head in this new

pain. The first feeling was one of indignation and wounded pride, but

conscience told her it was all true, that she was a cross, fretful

mother, that she had not made her home a happy one, that she had been

selfish and unsympathetic and her children were getting estranged

from her. But the last few words touched her most of all. "Her

religion did not help her." Sure enough it did not, any more than a

pagan's, and she had brought dishonour on Christ. The veil had

suddenly fallen from her eyes. She excused herself from tea on plea

of a headache, telling each one who came softly to the door asking to

minister to her, that she wanted nothing but quiet. She wanted to

face this dreadful revelation all alone, and yet there came no high

resolve that hereafter everything should be different. She lay there

disconsolate, discouraged--a mere heap, it seemed to herself, weak,

purposeless, a soul who had made a failure of life, with no power to

alter it. If she might but slip out of the world entirely; it was all

turned to ashes. How small and mean her ambitions all seemed now. She

had given years of drudgery and this was the result: made her family

miserable.

Mrs. Murray was one of those who keep the inner sanctuary of their

hearts shut and barred, lest some foolish tenderness should find

expression; it was there, though, and those dreadful words her dear

eldest daughter had spoken were to her like the stab of a knife. Like

most nervous persons, her feelings were intense. Such condemnation,

remorse, and utter despair as took hold of her: it could not be

called repentance, for that has "A purpose of heart and endeavour

after new obedience." She was in the Slough of Despond. The twilight

had deepened into darkness, when sounds indicated an arrival.

"Aunt Deborah has come," Florence whispered at the door. "You lie

still, mother, and Mag and I can do everything just as nicely."

But "mother" hastily arose and met her visitor as calmly as if she

had not spent the last three hours in a tempest.

Aunt Deborah Hathaway was a dear old saint. Her name should have been

"Peace," for that word was written all over her, from the unruffled

brow and calm eyes, to the soft folds of her dove-coloured cashmere.

"Tell me all about your life, my dear," she said to Mrs. Murray, when

they were seated alone the next morning--all the rest of the family

in church.

"My life has turned out to be a failure," said Mrs. Murray, sadly.

"And what is strange, I have only just now found it out."

Then drawn on by the loving sympathy expressed, she unburdened her

heart to Aunt Deborah, keeping back nothing. "But then, what am I

telling all this to you for? Nobody can help me. I have at times

realised that I was growing very irritable, and was ashamed of it.

Then I would resolve that I would not do so any more, but my resolves

are like ropes of sand. I get started and can't stop. I think if

human beings were like sewing-machines, and when they get out of

order, could have some skilful hand just put a drop of oil here and

there, and loosen the tension or something, it would be so good. But

things do annoy me so, sometimes it seems as if Satan himself planned

things out to vex me.

"I make no doubt," said Aunt Deborah, "but that Satan is busy enough,

but sometimes I think he gets more set down to his account than

rightfully belongs. He couldn't accomplish half he does with us if we

didn't help him. We put ourselves in such a condition that it is

easy for him to carry us captive. But you said 'nobody could help

you.' Now I believe I can help you. I came very near being

shipwrecked once myself on these very rocks you have struck. It will

never do to give up, and go to groaning when we get into trouble.

What you want is to get out of it. To help you in the best way, you

must give me an old woman's privilege, and let me speak my mind

freely. I think I know the secret of the trouble. Your nerves are

sick--people used to think that meant hysterics, but they know better

now. You are overworking these sick nerves. The first thing to be

done is for you to get relief from everything that tries you, as far

as you can. Treat yourself like an invalid, as you are. Then change

your way of life entirely: go out a good deal in the air, read, and

talk, and sing, and play on the piano--you used to be a good player,

I remember. Let the housework and the sewing be done by somebody

else, except what you can do without a strain upon yourself. Then I

should be a little careful about my dress, to have it becoming and

all that, and I would invite in a little company once in a while, and

go out in a sociable way a little, and try to make my home just the

brightest, cheeriest place in all the world. Economy is good in its

place, but I believe Satan is even at the bottom of that sometimes,

when we drive our boys and girls out from home by saving coal and

gas, and shutting the sun out of our houses--they like brightness as

well as the birds do. You see you can't tell me anything new on this.

I made all these mistakes myself once."

"But Aunt Deborah," said Mrs. Murray, "I am surprised. I thought you

used to be such a strict Christian."

"Used to be such a strict Pharisee, you mean," Aunt Deborah answered;

"used to imagine religion consisted in wearing the ugliest garment I

could put on, combing my hair straight back in a hard knot, being 'a

keeper at home,' and making things generally uncomfortable for

everybody. Now I think a Christian is one who loves and obeys his

Lord. I know I love Him and I am trying to obey Him, but I believe if

there is one place on the earth He loves next to the gates of Zion,

it is a happy home, and that He smiles upon us in all our innocent

efforts to make it so.

"You were surprised that I did not say right off, 'Pray over your

troubles,' weren't you? No, no! I believe we have got to take

everything out of our way that hinders us before we come and ask him

to do some great thing for us. You must lay aside the 'weight,' and

the temptations to the 'sin that doth so easily beset us,' then He

will do his part. It isn't his way to do for us what we can do. Now

if you load yourself down with burdens that He did not ask you to

carry, I don't believe you will have the same grace given you to

overcome that a poverty-stricken mother of a large family has given

to her; grace is bestowed according to our need."

"Yes," said Mrs. Murray, "it is all true. But suppose I do all these

things that you suggest. I can't expect to be entirely free from all

provocations to anger while I live in this world. What is there in

all this that will help me to control my temper? I declare to you,

Aunt Deborah, I cannot do it. I have no hope that I can ever be

different. I know myself so well."

"Praise the Lord that you know that," said the old lady. "He says,

'In me is thy help found.' Not a soul of us comes to him for help

till we have made this discovery, 'I cannot do it.' When your watch

is out of order you do not expect it to right itself; you take it to

the watchmaker. Now lay your heart down before Jesus, and say, Lord

won't you fix it for me? As you trust the watchmaker, trust Him."

"I want to be made over new," said Mrs. Murray sadly, "but oh, have I

faith enough for such a great work? I am too unworthy, too far away

from Him to expect it."

"Well, He is worthy. Don't you know good old Faber says:

"'Pining souls, come nearer Jesus;

Come, but come not doubting thus:

Come with faith that trusts more freely

His great tenderness for us.'"

And Mrs. Murray came. The promise, "Ask and it shall be given you,"

was verified to her. When the sun of that Sabbath set, the dove of

peace sang in the tired woman's heart. She had the secret of victory.

Her brow was almost as placid as Aunt Deborah's.

Monday morning brought the usual work and bustle, "Mary," said Aunt

Deborah, "Satan is twice as active Monday morning as other days;

perhaps he thinks we get the start of him on the Sabbath. Forewarned

is forearmed. Here is my rule when provoked: To shut my lips tight

and lock them till a pleasant word feels like coming."

"Yes, Aunt Deborah, Christ helping me, I shall make an entire

revolution in this household." And she looked bright and courageous

as she had not in years.

"To begin, then: Go out of this kitchen and come when you are

called," said Aunt Deborah, briskly.

There was much work accomplished that day. A valuable servant was

soon secured and installed in the kitchen; then Mrs. Murray went in

and out the stores. No one in all the busy throng was more

enthusiastic than she, as with joyful eagerness she selected some

little gift for each, adding to her purchases a little stock of

evergreens and flowers to brighten up with on the morrow, for this

coming Christmas was to be no common one. Aunt Deborah engaged in the

business of tying and festooning evergreens with all the gusto of a

girl; the two made the parlour into a bower of beauty. When the short

winter day drew to its close, the whole was pronounced complete, and

Mrs. Murray went to her room to dress. She was strongly tempted to

put on the same old gray dress she had worn all winter, and brush her

hair straight back as usual; but self and ease should not be

consulted, so she shook out her still handsome locks and arranged

them in the style her husband used to admire, in loose waves about

her forehead; then she donned a neatly fitting black dress, with lace

cuffs and collar, fastened with a bright ribbon. When she went down

to the parlour, Aunt Deborah looked over and then under her

spectacles.

"Child," she said, as she surveyed her, "it does matter how you

look."

Father, son, and daughters, all came in together to-night.

"Girls," said Ralph, advancing first into the dining-room and getting

a peep into the back parlour, "is this our house? Everything is

trimmed up, and there sits a lady by the fire."

Wreaths festooned the archway between the parlours, there were vases

of flowers, and hanging-baskets of trailing vines, and a canary in a

gilded cage, a bright fire in the grate lighting it up cheerily; Aunt

Deborah smiling and knitting on one side, "mother" on the other.

Florence rushed up to her, showering kisses upon her, while her

father looked on with shining eyes.

"Who knew our mother was such a pretty woman? Where's her equal in

this whole city?" said Ralph.

That glad Christmas was the harbinger of many happy years to the

Murrays. The back parlour was that day, by the thankful mother,

consecrated to the comfort of the family--thenceforth light, warmth,

and beauty reigned in that room. There they gathered evenings, under

the drop-light about the round table, with books and work, and talk

and music. Father, too, suddenly discovered that there was a lull in

business, and that cheerful chimney-corners were more attractive than

ledgers. Ralph and the girls brought their young friends there. What

was strangest of all, the nervous headaches almost entirely

disappeared; even the high notes of a song, or the jingling of

piano-keys, failed to bring them back. The crowning climax of the

whole was this: there was positively no scolding in that house. The

evil spirit had been exorcised, and that mother was given the victory

day by day. Peace was in her heart and on her brow.

She was so changed in the eyes of her children that she seemed almost

an object of adoration. Not the last drop in her cup of joy were the

many little ways in which they showed their keen appreciation of the

change in her.

One night, after all had retired, conscience knocked at Margaret's

door. She tried to sleep, but her visitor persisted. Margaret was

face to face with all her hard, impertinent words and ways toward her

mother.

"Flo," she said, "a miracle has come to mother, or she's getting to

be an angel, or something," but "Flo" was fast asleep; then she

tossed and turned, again. Then came a tap on mother's door. Mrs.

Murray came quickly.

"Mother," said Margaret, throwing her arms about her, and hiding her

face in her mother's neck, "I have been a wicked girl. Forgive me,

dear precious mother."

Blessed words! Margaret was soon sleeping quietly, but her mother's

heart was so full, her joy so great, that she lay thinking of the

gift that He had sent her at that Christmas time.

"Peace on earth," had been literally fulfilled to her.

WHERE HE SPENT CHRISTMAS.

"Oh, mother, I will get back before it snows much, and I shall not

mind if a few flakes of snow do light on me. Please do not object to

my going, a walk is just what I'm longing for;" and Edna Winters drew

on her gloves and stepped from the door of her home, a low-roofed

farm-house on the hill, which, in its gray old age, seemed a part of

the hill itself.

It was not the beauty of the afternoon that tempted Edna out, for the

leaden sky almost met the gray hills; and all wore the same sober

hue, sky, hills, house, and leafless trees. The wind howled fiercely

through the group of pine-trees in the yard, that seemed but deep

shadows on the general grayness, and occasional flakes of snow were

already flying about. Father Winters looked through the front window

after his daughter, and shook his head, saying:

"Mother, there's a great storm brewing, if I'm not mistaken. The

child ought not to have gone."

Then the mother came and anxiously inspected the sky, although she

only said:

"Oh well, she is young, and don't mind the weather like us old folks.

I was only twenty years old myself, once, and I remember just how

tired I used to get cooped up in the house so much; besides, she

wanted to go to the post-office. To-morrow is Christmas, you know,

and the office will not be open but an hour or two."

Mr. Winters was growing old, and the rheumatism was keeping him a

prisoner just now, so he came back to the fire and his newspaper.

The little city wherein was the post-office lay a little over two

miles away, and Edna often walked in and out for the mere pleasure of

it. Even on this dismal day she tripped lightly along, humming a glad

measure, stopping a moment in the edge of the pine woods to gather a

few squaw-berries and a bit of moss; then, casting a glance at the

threatening sky, hurried on her way. Before she reached the town the

snow was falling thick and fast, and was blown by the wind into

little mounds almost as soon as it came down. She was fairly blown

inside the door of the post-office, feathery flakes adorning her from

head to foot.

Mr. Hugh Monteith had also come to the post-office. He had merely

stepped across the street from his banking-house, and stood waiting

for the afternoon mail to be distributed. He turned his head

carelessly as the door opened to admit Edna. She took off the veil

that enveloped her head, shook and brushed herself, and walked over

to the stove. Then Mr. Monteith's inner consciousness told him that

there was the very face he had been in search of for years. Then he

did what was not found in his code of etiquette--he stared, although

he did retreat behind a pillar while doing so. He took in the whole

picture. The face, of that pure, clear tint that belongs only to a

certain type of brown eyes and hair, the hair gathered into a coil

at the back of the head, except one or two loose curls that strayed

down from it, the eyes sweet and serious. Mr. Monteith dealt many

hours of the day with dollars and cents, notes and bills; still, he

knew poetry when he saw it, and that golden-brown curl was to him a

bit of a poem. Then her dress was peculiar; his fastidious taste

pronounced it perfect for the occasion: walking-dress of soft, dark

brown, glinted by a lighter shade of the same colour; a jaunty brown

jacket of substantial cloth, a little brown hat, with a brown and

white wing perked on one side of it; no colour, except a soft pink

that the cold air had laid on the cheeks with delicate skill. His

quick eye noted too, the neat glove, the well-fitting little boot

poised on the hearth of the stove. She looked like a little brown

thrush about to spread its wings; but she did not fly, she walked

over to the delivery and received a package of letters and papers,

asking in low, clear tones, "Is the Eastern mail in?" The voice was

in keeping with eyes, and hair, and dress--pure, refined, cultured.

Mr. Monteith's resolution was quickly made; he secured his mail and

followed Edna. "Who could she be? He supposed he knew all the young

ladies in town, but where did this revelation of loveliness drop

from?" He turned corner after corner as she did, not caring where he

went, only so that he kept her in view. To his astonishment he soon

found himself in the open country. It was not a day that he would

have chosen for a pleasure-walk in the country: the snow eddied and

whirled, and almost blinded him; but if he lost his face, his ideal

realised, should he ever find it again? There was no choice, so on he

strode, congratulating himself that he happened to have on an

overcoat and heavy boots.

The little brown-clad figure ahead of him sped briskly on, and faster

and faster came the snow. Things were beginning to look serious;

the wind roared and howled through the pine woods, blowing the snow

into drifts in the road. Mr. Monteith had a new motive for his

journey now. He must protect this young girl in her lonely way; it

was out of the question to leave her in such a desolate place and a

storm raging. He quickened his steps; she might need assistance.

A feeling of despair was beginning to creep over Edna. What if she

should sink down in this lonely place unable to go on. She had left

the main road a few minutes before, and this one by the pine woods

was not much travelled. It was probable that nobody would find her.

In dismay she turned and looked behind her, but no sooner did she see

a man rapidly coming towards her than a mortal fear took possession

of her, and she started forward with new impetus; on and on she ran

as fleetly as a deer. Mr. Monteith ran too at the top of his speed,

wondering, inly, if she really were of the earth, and if she had not

some means of locomotion that he did not possess. He must reach her

at all events.

Edna at last paused in dismay before an immense drift that lay

directly across the road. She would have plunged in, but Mr. Monteith

was at her side and said pleasantly, "If you will allow me to go on

first, I think I can tread a path for you."

Edna looked up quickly, somewhat reassured by the manly tones, and

the grey eyes that looked into hers were true eyes; a little child

might have known that.

"Before we go on let me introduce myself," and Mr. Monteith drew out

a card and handed it to Edna.

When Edna read "Hugh Monteith & Co., Bankers," all her fear left her.

The name of Monteith had long been a familiar one to her; she

remembered hearing her father speak of having a little business with

that bank.

"Well, I am Edna Winters," said Edna simply. "My father is Samuel

Winters, and we live a little more than half a mile from here."

"Then we are acquainted, I am sure, for your father is one of our

depositors. Now let me break a road through this barricade, if

possible," and Mr. Monteith dashed bravely into it; but as well as he

could see through the blinding storm, the drift reached a long

distance ahead. It would be a work of time to tread it down, and the

cold wind cut like a knife.

There was a shorter way--this was no time for ceremony or trifling.

He came back to Edna's side saying, "It will be almost impossible to

do it. We must hasten on or perish in this storm. Trust me, this is

best"--and the tall form stooped and lifted Edna from her feet as if

she had been a feather, before she had time to realise his purpose,

then with long strides he waded into the sea of snow. Neither spoke,

but the girl that was borne along in the strong arms did a large

amount of thinking. Despite the danger and the gallantry of her

protector, she could not but feel a little provoked at being snatched

up in that style without her leave, as if she were a bale of cotton;

provoked, too, at herself for getting into such a predicament. If she

only had stayed at home as mother advised. Mother had always told her

she had feared something would happen to her going through those

woods by herself, and here it had come. Then the funny side presented

itself. She wanted to laugh but was afraid to. She stole a glance at

the face below her--a finely-cut face it was, but there was no smile

in the grave eyes; instead, an intense, earnest purpose. When they

came again to the ground where the snow lay on a level, Edna was put

again upon her feet, her hand drawn through Mr. Monteith's arm, and

the two plodded on. It was almost a silent journey; the snow coming

directly in their faces, and the wind fairly taking their breaths,

made it no time for formal talk. Wherever the drifts had thrown up a

barrier she was again lifted and borne through them, but not set down

again, for Edna's protector had discovered that she was almost

overcome by fatigue, try as she might to hide it; and when she said,

"Let me walk now if you please," he answered: "Miss Winters, you are

my prisoner until I place you at your father's, door."

She submitted with good grace, and began to feel some dawnings of

gratitude towards her deliverer.

Old Mr. Winters had walked back and forth from the fire to the window

for the last half-hour. "Why don't the child come," he said. "I'm

sure something has happened to her. If I could only go out and see,

but I should make poor headway, hobbling about in the drifts." He

could do nothing himself, so he fled to his unfailing refuge, asking

the God who rules the storms to protect his darling.

Mrs. Winters had said for the tenth time, "Why, father, I think she

wouldn't start back in this storm." Nevertheless she placed her

rocking-chair close by the window and looked down the road far more

than she sewed. Their anxiety reached its height when they saw a

stranger toiling up the hill bearing their daughter in his arms. The

door was opened long before they reached it, and Edna called out,

"I'm all right, mother."

"Why, it's Mr. Monteith, as sure as I live," said Edna's father.

"Yes, Mr. Winters," said Mr. Monteith, "I found a stray lamb of yours

on the highway, and brought it home."

"May God reward you," and Mr. Winters clasped his hand warmly. "I

have been very anxious. I did not see what was to become of her if

she was on her way in this terrible storm. How providential that you

happened to be going her way."

Mr. Monteith winced a little at this.

"You will stay with us to-night, of course," Mr. Winters said.

"Oh, no, indeed! Thank you! I must get back before dark. Will rest a

few minutes, though."

The Storm King was out in full force that day, for during those few

minutes huge banks piled themselves against windows and doors, and

the wind shrieked and moaned like a demon, shaking the house to its

foundations.

"Now," said Mr. Winters as his guest rose to go, "it is madness for

you to think of going home tonight, and I must insist that you stay.

I am disabled just now, or I would harness old Prince and get you

through."

Here Edna came in with her pleading eyes and, "Do stay; I know it is

not safe for you to go."

Motherly Mrs. Winters entreated also. How could he resist such

urgency, especially when it exactly fitted in with what he desired

above all things to do. He yielded, and was soon comfortably

established in the large old rocker by the fire. And now he enjoyed

the pleasure of a new experience. The stereotyped fashionable house

he knew all about, but this old house that looked small, and yet

stretched itself out into many cosy rooms; it was quaint, it was

unique, and so was the little household. It was like stepping into a

book, and that a book of poems. What was the charm of that low-browed

room he sat in? Could it be the broad fireplace, wherein blazed and

snapped a veritable back-log? Mr. Winters had stoves to warm the

house, but he insisted on keeping this fire to look at.

When they all gathered about the tea-table, his critical eye noted

many little points that a less refined man would not have thought of.

The fine white table-linen, delicate old-fashioned china, a piece or

two of highly polished silver, and the table not vulgarly loaded with

too great variety, yet everything delicious and abundant. Mr. and

Mrs. Winters, too, though unpretending, were persons of refinement

and intelligence. He was puzzled to understand how a young girl,

reared in so much seclusion, should possess such grace and culture as

did Edna. After tea, when she played and sang, his mystification

increased, for the bird-like voice and delicate touch were superior

to much that he heard among his city friends. It came out in the

course of conversation, however, that Edna had spent the last six

years in one of the finest schools in Boston--an inmate of her aunt's

family; and now she had come back to them to gladden the eyes of

those two, who almost set her up as an idol; come back, not spoiled,

taking up her daily little homely duties again with real zest.

Mr. Monteith found Mr. Winters most congenial company. He had read

extensively, and was keen in argument, throwing in a bit of poetry or

a witty story, as the case required. Edna brought her crotcheting and

made herself into a picture in one corner of the fireplace, her

changing, speaking face and piquant remarks lending interest to the

dullest subject.

"It is my opinion, Mr. Monteith," said Mr. Winters, as a fierce blast

dashed sheets of snow against the windows, "that, in all probability,

you will be obliged to spend your Christmas with us. If this storm

continues at this rate you will be a prisoner."

"For which I shall be most devoutly thankful," he answered.

"Well, our turkey is all ready, and we shall thank kind Providence

for sending you to us, snow-bound as we are."

Mr. Winters took down the old Bible and read "a portion with

judicious care," then a hymn and prayer, and the good-nights, and Mr.

Monteith was in the guest-chamber--a little white room under the

eaves, cold-looking in its purity but for the firelight glow. "The

name of that chamber was Peace," thought Mr. Monteith, as his

delighted eyes surveyed, it and with Bunyan's Pilgrim he felt that he

had reached "already the next door to heaven." It surely must be the

"chamber of peace," because "the window opened towards the

sunrising," and in the morning a glorious panorama spread itself

before him. Fences and all unsightly objects had disappeared. Just

one broad expanse of whiteness as far as the eye could reach. The

rough old hills, from foot to summit, wore a robe of unsullied

whiteness--the soft white garment rested lightly on roof and tree,

over all the rising sun shed rays of rosy light. It accorded well

with Mr. Monteith's spirit when he heard Mr. Winters singing--

"The New Jerusalem comes down.

Adorned With shining grace."

The host and his visitor launched into a tide of talk immediately

after breakfast. They had so many things in common to talk over that

there seemed to be no end. So occupied was Mr. Monteith with the

father that he seemed to bestow very little attention on the

daughter; on the contrary, no word or look of hers escaped him.

At one time the perilous walk of yesterday was the subject of

conversation, and Mr. Winters was again expressing his gratitude. "So

strange," he remarked, "that you should have been coming this way.

How did you happen to start out in such a storm?"

Mr. Monteith did not like to talk upon that subject; he murmured

something about "business," while a slight flush tinged his cheeks,

and at once asked Mr. Winters "what effect he supposed the resumption

of specie payment would have upon the state of the country," and the

unsuspecting old gentleman was ready to enter with avidity upon the

discussion of that subject.

The Christmas dinner duly disposed of, Edna opened the piano, and Mr.

Monteith delighted the old people by joining his exquisite tenor to

Edna's voice in some old hymns. Mr. Winters called for his

favourites, "St. Martins," "Golden Hill," "Exhortation," and listened

with tears in his eyes at their faithful rendering, even essaying to

put in a few notes of bass himself among the quavers of old St.

Martins.

Not until the shadows began to steal into the room did Mr. Monteith

take his departure, much to his own regret as well as that of his

entertainers, with many promises of future visits.

A few days after Christmas the stage-driver left at the door a small

box marked "Samuel Winters." The old gentleman put on his glasses and

opened it with much curiosity. Behold, there lay a lovely bouquet of

roses, carnations, and violets. He lifted it with care, and a card

marked "Hugh Monteith" fell from it. "That is odd," he said, with a

roguish look at Edna, "to send these things to me; they are pretty,

though, I declare," and he buried his face in a fragrant rose, then

involuntarily hummed--

"How sweet the breath beneath the hill.

Of Sharon's dewy rose."

Another prolonged inhalation and he called, "Mother, come here and

smell this pink; it's the very one that my mother used to border her

flowerbeds with when I was a boy." Then he gave the bouquet into

Edna's care while he went off, in imagination, into his mother's

garden, tied up the sweet peas and trained the morning-glories once

again. How each flower, like a dear human face, stood before him

looking into his eyes. The damask roses, the Johnny-jump-ups,

larkspur, bachelor-buttons, ragged ladies, marigolds, hollyhocks, and

a host of others that are out of fashion now. That bouquet furnished

him a pleasant reverie for an hour. It brought no less pleasure to

Edna. Their new friend had not forgotten them, and her intuitions

told her for whom the lovely blossoms were intended.

After that it grew to be quite a thing of course for Mr. Samuel

Winters to receive a box of flowers. He always pretended to

appropriate them to himself, much to Edna's glee, as he did the not

infrequent visits of Mr. Monteith to "The Pines," often remarking,

after a pleasant evening's discussion--

"That is an uncommon young man, coming so far to chat with me. He's

one among a thousand; the most of them haven't time nowadays to give

a civil word to an old man."

He had a deeper purpose in this than might have been supposed. There

were few things he did not think over as he sat looking into the

fire. What if this young man should unwittingly steal away his

darling's heart and then flit away to some other flower, and leave

this, his own treasure, with all the soul gone out of her life. He

believed Mr. Monteith to be an honourable man, but then he would

hedge this blossom of his about and guard it carefully. There should

be no opportunity for tender speech that meant nothing.

One day Edna was in town, passing through one of the busy streets.

Among the gay turnouts came one that caught her attention instantly:

a prancing span of grays before a light sleigh. Among the furs and

gay robes sat Mr. Monteith and a young lady, beautiful to Edna as a

dream. Even in the hurried glance she noted the pink and white

complexion, the blue eyes peeping through golden frizzes, set off by

a dark-blue velvet hat with a long white plume. Mr. Monteith raised

his hat and bowed low to Edna in pleased surprise. Edna went on with

a little pang at her heart; it might have been less had she known

that Miss Paulina Percival's invitation to ride came in this fashion:

Making it convenient to emerge from a store just as Mr. Monteith came

from the bank and was about to step into his sleigh, she engaged him

in conversation, then exclaimed:

"Oh, Mr. Monteith! What a lovely span of greys, they match

perfectly." Then with a pretty pout: "Naughty man, you never asked me

to try them."

"Suppose I ask you now," he said, and even while he spoke he said to

himself, "Edna Winters would never have done that."

Miss Percival needed no urging; she was soon seated in triumph by Mr.

Monteith's side, the envy of many another city belle.

That night Edna stood at the window of her little chamber, looking

out on the fair earth glittering like diamonds in the moonlight. She

was not often in the mood she found herself in tonight: restless,

gloomy, with no heart for anything. She began to take herself to task

for it. Why had the light suddenly gone out of everything and life to

seem flat and dull? She knew why. It was simply because she had seen

that bewitching-looking girl riding with Mr. Monteith. And what of

that? Was she foolish enough to believe that he cared for her, a

simple country girl, just because he had given her a few flowers and

called there. He probably considered these common attentions that he

offered to many others. Her cheeks burned at the remembrance of the

delight she had felt in his society. The last few weeks had been the

happiest she had ever known. No words of his would justify her,

either. She was vexed at herself. Here it had turned out that she was

just like any other silly girl, holding her heart in her hand, ready

to bestow it unasked. In her self-accusing spirit, she forgot that

looks and tones may speak volumes in the absence of words.

"Now, Edna Winters," she told herself, as she stared out on the white

hills, "you might as well look things in the face to-night and have

it done with. I shall probably spend a great part of my life on this

very hill, living on in just the way I did before I knew him. Why

not? That is the way Samantha Moore and Jane Williams have been doing

these ever so many years. They keep right on, and on, and on. Nothing

happens to them. There is no change in their lives. Why should there

be in mine? They clean house spring and fall, can fruit, go to town,

have the sewing society, and so on"--and Edna shuddered a little at

the picture she had sketched of her own future. These two were

neighbours, whose peaceful dwellings nestled among the hills before

her. Then she felt condemned as she heard floating up from the

sitting-room, the "wild, warbling strains" of Dundee, her dear old

father's voice, with just a little tremble in the tones. "How

thankful she ought to be for this blessed home of hers." The

stove-pipe came up from below and warmed her room. She came over to

it, and inclined her head to hear the words:

"Oh, God, our help in ages past

Our strength in years to come,

Our refuge from the stormy blast,

And our eternal borne."

Sure enough! God our "strength in years to come," even though they be

wearisome years. A little "stormy blast" had swept over her. She

would fly to her Refuge, and then the "eternal home." What if this

life was not just as we would have it, the next one will be; and Edna

"laid her down in peace and slept."

"Heigh ho!" said Mr. Winters one bright day, "whom have we here?" A

merry jingle of bells suddenly stopped and two gray horses and a

handsome sleigh stood in front of the gate. "Mr. Monteith, eh? He has

most likely come to take me out riding," he said, with a twinkle in

his eye.

"Miss Edna, will you ride?" Mr. Monteith asked when the greetings

were over. Edna's eyes sought her mother's for reply. It was not

every gentleman, be he ever so great and rich, that this primitive,

independent father and mother would entrust with their treasure,

their one ewe lamb.

"Yes. Edna might go, but he would be sure to bring her home before

dark?"

"Trust me; did I not bring her home before dark once?" he laughingly

asked. The two were soon tucked among the robes, skimming briskly

over the smooth, hard surface, which is just the next thing to

flying. They flew about the streets of the town a little while; met

Miss Paulina, who stared at Edna and said to a young lady by her

side: "Whoever can that be with Mr. Monteith?" Then their route

stretched many miles out into the quiet country. The journey was

long, but not tedious. It was beguiled by low-spoken words that kept

time to the slow, silvery chime of the bells--the old musical,

mysterious words that established a covenant between those two,

needing only the word from father and mother and minister to make

binding and never-ending.

Mr. Monteith was said, by belles of the town, to be destitute of a

heart--at least all their arts had not succeeded in finding it; even

Miss Percival, skilful as she was, had also failed, much to her

sorrow. To be sure, the heart was of small account to her, only so

that she might be mistress of the stately Monteith mansion, might

possess those gray ponies for her very own, and glitter in the silks

and jewels and laces that his money would buy. She had no heart

herself, because in her very shallow nature there was not room for

one. Paulina had failed thus far, but she was not discouraged. Mr.

Monteith's mother was old and feeble; she would die some day, then

"we shall see what we shall see"--then, of course, he would need

someone to preside over his home; and who so well fitted to adorn it

as she, the acknowledged beauty of the town?

When the time of birds and blossoms had come again, and picnics and

excursions were revived, Paulina said to her dearest friend:

"What do you think that delightful man has gotten up now? Mr.

Monteith, I mean. He is to have a little breakfast party in the

country--just a few of us, you know. We are to go in carriages. I

dare say you'll be invited, too. Isn't it a charming novelty? I

presume it is to an old uncle and aunt of his, you know," and the

butterfly girl tripped on without waiting for replies. Accordingly,

one balmy June morning, a merry company alighted at "The Pines," and

were ushered into a fairy-like room.

Green vines crept and twined along the white walls, drooping over

doors and windows, and trailing down the muslin curtains as if they

grew there. The flowers were not made into stiff bouquets, but here

and there was a handful of roses or sweet-scented violets. The old

fireplace lost itself in callas, ferns, and ivies, while the mantel

blossomed out into tube-roses and mosses. One of the recesses formed

by the large chimney was turned into a leafy bower, the bells of

white lilies fringing the green archway.

"Beautiful!" "Exquisite!" murmured the guests. "I verily believe we

have come to a wedding," said one.

In another moment Mr. Monteith and his bride stood in the niche under

the lilies, and the minister spoke the mystic words that declared

them "no more twain, but one."

Edna was not glittering in satin and jewels. Her dress was apparently

a soft white cloud floating about her, looped here and there with a

cluster of lilies of the valley. A wreath of the same flowers

fastened her veil; and the sweet face and luminous eyes that gleamed

through its folds seemed just another rare flower.

The formalities and congratulations all over, Mr. and Mrs. Monteith

passed down the walk under the spreading branches to their carriage.

The apple-blossoms showered fragrant blessings on them as they went

their way, and the bridegroom whispered: "Do you remember the first

time you and I came up this hill together?"

VIDA.

There was an audible rustle in the large congregation of St. Paul's

Church, well-bred people though they were, as their young minister

came up the aisle with his bride and seated her in the minister's

pew. They not only turned their heads, giving one slight glance,

seeing all without seeming to, as cultured people know how to do, but

they broke all rules in their code of good manners by a succession of

twistings of the neck. It was not easy to settle down content after

one short look at the beautiful being who glided by the minister's

side. Had he seated a veritable fairy in that pew the sensation could

scarcely have been greater. Her beauty was of that rare blonde

type--hair of spun gold, eyes of sapphire, and complexion fine and

delicate as a rose-leaf. She was youthful and richly dressed, the

dark-green velvet suit, white plumes and fine laces, well setting off

her marvellous beauty. Her eyes fairly drooped before the undisguised

admiration expressed in many faces.

The minister himself saw nothing of it at all. He was annoyed at

finding himself actually late, and his thoughts were intent on

getting to his place in the pulpit with all possible speed. It was

not one of his ambitions to be conspicuous; he was accustomed to slip

quietly into his place from the chapel door, and his apparently

triumphal march into his church on the first Sabbath of his return,

after all the people had assembled, as if to say, "Behold us now!"

was not to his taste nor of his planning; all this threw his thoughts

into a tumult unfitting him in part for his sacred duties.

At the close of service that day, the congregation did not discuss

the minister's sermon, they were absorbed in another subject: the

minister's wife. The opinions were various. Grave old deacons looked

askance at her in her regal beauty as they passed out, shook their

heads, and repeated to each other the familiar saying, that wise men

often make fools of themselves when they come to the business of

selecting a wife. One lady said she was "perfectly lovely;" another,

that she had "a great deal of style;" another, that "her dress must

have cost a penny, and she did not see for her part how a Christian

could find it in her conscience to dress like that."

"One would have thought," Mrs. Graves said, "that a man like Mr.

Eldred would have chosen a modest, sensible person for his wife, who

would be useful in the church, but then, that was the way, a minister

was just like any other man, money and a pretty face would cover up a

good many failings." Mrs. Graves was the mother of three sensible,

modest girls, who would have made capital ministers' wives. Why will

ministers be so shortsighted?

"But, mother," Tom Graves asked, "aren't you pretty fast? How do you

know but she is sensible and modest; you never heard her speak a

word?"

"Anybody with half an eye don't need to hear her speak to know all

about her."

"The idea of a minister's wife," said Mrs. Meggs, "with her hair

frizzed, and such a long trail for church!"

"She paints, I know she does!" said sallow Miss Pry. "There never was

such a complexion as that born on to a human being."

Those who did not say anything, who made it a rule never to speak

uncharitably of anyone, seemed well satisfied to have others to do it

for them, and looked and sighed their holy horror that their minister

should have shown so little discretion in choosing a wife. Just to

think of her leading the female prayer-meeting and being president of

the Missionary society, humph!

Ah! if there had been one dear "mother in Israel," with love enough

to bear this young thing in the arms of her faith to the mercy seat

and plead a blessing for her--with courage enough to try to win her

to see the blessedness of living a consecrated life, it might all

have been different.

When Thane Eldred first met Vida Irving he was immediately taken

captive. So fair a vision never crossed his path before; whatever of

enchantment might have been wanting in golden curls and blue eyes was

completed by a voice such as few possess, rich, sweet, and fine

compass; had she been poor it might have brought her a fortune. When

he heard her sing in such angelic strains the sweet hymns he loved,

he took it for granted that the words of fervent devotion but gave

voice to the feelings of her own heart. So fair a bit of clay, he

reasoned, must contain a soul of corresponding beauty, and he

forthwith invested her with all the charms of an angel. A slight

misgiving, it is true, sometimes crossed his mind as to whether she

could adapt herself easily to the difficult position of a pastor's

wife. She had the air of an empress, and the hauteur of her manner

was often so great as to gain her positive enemies, and yet the

deluded man, with blind eyes, reasoned, "I can mould her to what I

will when she is mine; it is the fault of a false education, I am

quite sure her heart is all right."

And why did the spoiled beauty condescend to smile upon one, who by

his very profession, if closely following in the footsteps of the

lowly Master, must needs abjure the vanities and enticements of this

world, and live a life of self-denying toil. Not a thought of that

kind had ever entered her pretty head. A minister in her estimation

was an orator, the idol of a wealthy people, and a gentleman of

elegant ease. There was a fascination about this dark-eyed young

minister; his graceful dignity and impassioned eloquence pleased her

fancy, so the sudden attachment was mutual.

Early left a widow, with a large fortune, Mrs. Irving devoted herself

to her idol, her only child, with unremitting devotion; nothing that

would add to her happiness or her attractions was neglected, and now

with her education completed, the fond mother looked about her,

seeking a brilliant alliance for this rare daughter, when lo! she

found the matter settled. Vida's own sweet will had been the ruling

power ever since she came into the world, and the mother was obliged

to submit to the inevitable with as good grace as she could command

under the circumstances.

A poor minister! who could have dreamed that the daughter would have

made such a choice. With this mother's views of life, and life

eternal, it is not to be wondered at that she felt bitter

disappointment. The prospect, though, was not wholly dark, he was

"handsome and talented," and that went far toward consolation; then,

too, he would probably be called in time to a large, important

church, and have D.D. at the end of his name, and it would sound well

to say "My son-in-law, Rev. Dr. Eldred, of Boston, or New York City,"

and to discourse of his brilliant preaching, his wealthy

parishioners, the calls he had declined, etc.

St. Paul's Church was situated in a small city of large manufacturing

interests, and while there were many families of wealth and position

in the church, there were also many who were obliged to toil hard and

practice the utmost economy in order to have any left to pay their

subscription with. Some of these looked with no kindly eyes on the

magnificent changes of toilet that Mrs. Eldred brought out Sabbath

after Sabbath; now a sealskin sacque, then an Indian shawl, and suits

innumerable of rich silks in all possible tints, suited to all

possible occasions.

"It makes a body feel as if they hadn't a thing fit to wear, the way

Mrs. Eldred comes out in her silks and velvets," Mrs. Jenks, a

mechanic's wife, remarked to her neighbour. I wonder what she'd say

to wearing a black alpaca dress seven years running, for her best

dress! I declared, it made me feel as if there wa'n't any sort of use

scrimping and saving as we do, to pay fifteen dollars a year to

support the minister; I told John we better not pay but five next

year, and I'd put the other ten on my back. He's got a rich wife, he

don't need much salary now. Just to think of her fur sacque, and

great handsome shawl, and here I havn't had a new cloak this ten

years--have to wear my blanket shawl to church.

"Yes, I think's much!" answered Mrs. Myers, emphatically. "She's as

proud as Lucifer, too. Mr. Eldred shook hands with me real friendly

like last Sunday, and asked 'How is the little one?'--as he always

calls my Tommy--then he introduced me to her, and she turned her head

toward me, and looked at me from head to foot, exactly as if she was

saying to herself 'Dress, twenty-five cents a yard; shawl five

dollars, hat, two dollars;' then she gave me what she'd call a bow

may be, she swept her eyelashes down, and tilted her head back,

instead of forward, and I thought I saw the least mite of a curl on

her lip, (she's got a dreadful proud mouth, anyway;) she didn't offer

to put out her hand, not she! she was afraid I'd soil her white kids,

with something less than a dozen buttons on them."

"Well, it's too bad," Mrs. Jenks said, "and he such a good Christian

man as he is--wonder what he wanted to go and marry such a wife for,

anyhow; I don't believe he more than half approves of her himself,

now he sees how she goes on, but, poor man, he's got to make the best

of it now; I shall always think everything of him though, he was so

kind to us when Peter was sick."

Mrs. Eldred was not entirely ignorant of the duties expected from a

minister's wife, but she had resolved, as far as she was concerned,

to ignore them. Because she had married a minister was no sign that

she was to be subject to the whims of a whole parish; she could

consider herself bound by no rules that did not apply equally as well

to every other member of the church. Her mother had forewarned her,

and advised her to this course:

"A minister's wife, my dear," said the worldly-wise mother, "is

usually a slave. So just put your foot down in the beginning, and

don't wear yourself out. Enjoy yourself all you can. Poor child! it

is a dismal life at best that you have chosen for yourself, I fear."

Mrs. Eldred did not state her peculiar views to her husband, by any

means; she should just quietly carry out her plans, and he would

learn to submit in time. Mother said that was the way to manage a

husband.

It was Thursday night. The first bell for prayer-meeting was ringing

when Mr. Eldred came down from his study. His young wife sat under

the drop-light cosily established in a large easy-chair, absorbed in

the last number of Scribner. She was robed in a white flannel

wrapper, and her long, fair hair was unbound, lying in bright waves

about her shoulders. Mr. Eldred contemplated the pretty picture a

moment, then he said:

"You look comfortable, my dear: but do you know that is the first

bell for prayer meeting?"

"Oh, I am not going to meeting. I am perfectly delighted to have an

evening to myself once more, when that indefatigable people of yours

are engaged. I am actually worn out receiving calls," she said,

languidly.

Mr. Eldred was disappointed. He had thought more than once that day

how he should enjoy it; to have his dream realized, Vida walking with

him, to his own meeting, and sitting near, singing as none but she

could sing. A spice of vanity mingled with it too. How the people

would listen and admire! He felt annoyed and was about to protest,

but she looked so like an angel in her soft white dress that he had

not the heart to find fault. So he kissed her good-bye, and went his

way alone.

She accompanied him the next week; to be a disappointment, however.

Her voice joined not in the hymns of praise, she remarking at the

close of the meeting:--

"Do you think I could sing in all that discord? It is horrible; it

sets every nerve in my body on edge. People always sing that way in

prayer-meeting, every one trying to sing, though not knowing one note

from another. One old man by me sang five notes below the key; a

woman on the other side screamed out as many above; a girl before me

had a strong nasal twang. I should think you'd go distracted; and, by

the way, what a quantity of common people attend your church!"

Mr. Eldred looked into the fire and repeated half aloud, "The common

people heard Him gladly."

As the weeks went on, it became evident to him that he must abandon

the pleasant plans he had formed of companionship in his work. He

attended meetings alone, made calls alone, and grew weary of

apologizing for Vida.

She was willing to attire herself royally and make a round of

fashionable calls with him on the first families, but concerning

calls on the humbler of the flock she gaily remarked, that she did

not purpose turning city missionary. "When ladies called upon her,

she would return their calls, that is, if she wished to continue the

acquaintance; but as for running all about town hunting out obscure

people, that was out of the question."

There was a gay clique in the church who eagerly welcomed the

pastor's wife to their circle. They organised a literary society and

gave Shakespearian entertainments.

Mrs. Eldred's fine literary taste and musical abilities made her a

valuable acquisition. She soon became the centre about which it

revolved. Was there a difficult part to be rendered, or a queen of

beauty to be represented, Mrs. Eldred was sure to be chosen, and she

gave herself with enthusiasm to the absorbing fascination.

Mr. Eldred had united with them in the beginning, but when he

discovered that the members of the society were much more interested

in getting up costumes than they were in their own mental

improvement, and that the whole thing was degenerating into private

theatricals, he withdrew, and urged his wife to do the same, but no

amount of persuasion could move her in the least; her own will had

been her law too long. And this was the being he had thought to

mould! It was all so different from the picture he had sketched of

these first months of their married life, the picture of sunny, happy

days, flowing on with scarce a ripple. Instead, they held long heated

discussions that only served to widen the distance between them.

"I beg your pardon," Vida said, in sarcastic tones, during one of

these skirmishes, "but I think it would be much more to your profit

to attend the meetings of our society than to find fault with me. If

you would study Shakespeare more, it might freshen up your sermons

somewhat, and lift them from the commonplace. I cannot but think you

are degenerating. The first discourse I heard you preach was filled

with poetical fancies and literary allusions, and the language was

flowery and beautiful. Your preaching seems to have changed of late;

last Sabbath, for example, it was mere 'talk' without rhetoric or

eloquence; the most ignorant in the church could have understood

them. I thought you would receive a call soon to a wealthy church in

a large city, but you never will make a reputation if you preach in

this style."

Mrs. Eldred's angry passions were raised to a high pitch, or she

would not have spoken thus plainly.

The sorely tried spirit of the man who listened could not repress a

groan at the conclusion of this long tirade. He did not trust himself

to say one word, but went with a slow, heavy step, like one who had

received a mortal hurt, to his study. The irritation he might

otherwise have felt at such words, was lost in sorrow at the utter

lack of sympathy, and apparent ignorance of the spirit and aims of

the gospel.

He had been coming nearer to Christ the last few months, had received

a new baptism, and with it a new view of preaching the gospel. He

had, doubtless, spoken in an unknown tongue to scores of his hearers.

Now he turned the key on his elegant essays, and, asking the Lord for

a message, he was trying to tell it with no "great swelling words,"

but in humility and plainness of speech, holding up Christ, hiding

himself, intent only on saving souls.

Satan had told him before that the world and some Christians would

count his preaching "not deep;" now his own wife had repeated the

thought. He had been so happy in his work, and he longed to throw

himself into it with nothing to come between him and "This one thing

I do." But daily trials on account of one who should have been his

greatest helper, saddened him, so that much of his labour was

mechanical, and he carried a heavy burden. The anxiety was

continuous, for he was well aware that many busy tongues were

censuring her, while kindlier critics were grieved at her course.

At rare intervals she attended the ladies' meetings, but no

persuasions could induce her to take any part in them. She visited

those whom she fancied, and persistently refused to visit others;

thus he laboured under constant embarrassment, and was in a chronic

state of apology for her. And yet Mrs. Eldred could make herself the

most fascinating of beings. There were evenings when she chose to

shine at home. Then she would with artistic skill brighten the room,

and beguile her husband from his books, and the time would go on

wings, as they read and discussed a new book, and sung together their

old and new songs. At such times the careworn minister forgot that

any clouds obscured his sky.

One evening Mrs. Eldred entered her husband's study, resplendent in

white satin and diamonds, saying:--

"Thane, it is quite time you too were dressed."

"Dressed for what?" he said with an astonished air.

"Why, is it possible that you have forgotten that we have an

invitation to Mrs. Grantley's tonight?"

"I recall the invitation now, but I never gave it a second thought,

nor did I suppose that you had. Did you not notice from the wording

that it was to be a dancing party. I think there must be some mistake

about it, as I never was invited before our marriage to these

parties, nor have we been since; I cannot understand why they should

ask us now."

"Why, pray, should we not be invited? It is not necessary for you to

dance, of course. We shall be obliged to go, for I have accepted the

invitation," Mrs. Eldred replied, with a nothing-further-to-be-said

air.

"I am sorry you accepted an invitation for me, without consulting me,

but I cannot go," her husband answered gravely.