CHAPTER I.

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: IMPROVEMENTS HAD BEEN MADE IN THE GREENHOUSE

AS WELL AS THE COTTAGE.]

PROFILES

BY

PANSY (MRS. G. R. ALDEN)

AND

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON

[Illustration]

BOSTON

D. LOTHROP COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1888,

BY

D. LOTHROP COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

——————

CLEAN HANDS _"Pansy"_—_Mrs. G. R. Alden_

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CIRCULATING DECIMALS " " "

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

FISHING FOR PHIL " " "

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

OUR CHURCH CHOIR " " "

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

HIS FRIEND _Mrs. C. M. Livingston_

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

"MY AUNT KATHERINE" " " "

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS " " "

JUANA'S MASTER " " "

TEN BUSHELS " " "

MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS " " "

THE DOCTOR'S STORY _"Pansy"_—_Mrs. G. R. Alden_

PROFILES

—————

CLEAN HANDS.

———

CHAPTER I.

"AND I hope, Elsie, you will be careful, all the while you are gone,

not to soil your hands."

They stood together in the hall, Elsie Burton and her pastor; he had

held out his hand to bid her good-by, and added these words which

brought a puzzled look to her eyes, and a rich glow of color to her

cheeks.

What could Dr. Falconer mean? Elsie glanced swiftly down at her

delicate, gracefully shaped hands, and then back to his face; he was

not laughing; although there was a smile on his face, it was backed by

an earnest gleam in his eyes that meant business. It was not probable

that he was trying to rally her a little on the exquisite care which

she took of those same hands, always managing to keep them in a state

of dainty cleanliness, with the shapely nails of just the right length.

No, that was simply absurd! In the first place, all respectable people

took as good care of their hands as circumstances would admit, of

course; and, in the second place, Dr. Falconer was not the man to rally

people in regard to personal habits; he was too intensely in earnest

for that, unless, indeed, there was some important end to be gained.

Could he possibly mean to refer to the fact that she took out her

handkerchief, and carefully rubbed her hand, last Sabbath, after Teddy

Reilly had held it! But there was certainly excuse for that; poor

little Teddy's hand was so exceedingly dirty that it left its stain on

the fair skin, and it was unnecessary, and therefore foolish, to draw

on her delicate kid gloves over the brown marks, when a few passes of

her handkerchief would efface them! She had waited until little Teddy

was fairly out of sight; she would not have wounded his loving heart,

nor indeed have missed the caressing from his dirty hand, for a great

deal. Dr. Falconer certainly could not mean that.

She decided for frankness, as Elsie Burton was very apt to do. "Dr.

Falconer, I don't in the least understand you; all people are careful

of their hands, not to soil them more than is necessary in getting

through this dirty world." The sentence closed with a little laugh, but

the great bright eyes, fixed questioningly on his face, showed that

Elsie was honestly in pursuit of light.

"Do you think so?" he said, and his voice was grave. "On the contrary,

I think people are almost more careless of their hands than of any

other organ which they possess. And hands soil readily, and are not

easy to cleanse. Let me bring you a little book I have been reading;

the marked passages in it will show you what I mean, and how I came to

suggest my caution to you. I must not detain you longer, or you may

miss your train. I have to call at the depot this morning, and I will

give you the book there. I hope you will have a happy visit, and be the

means of doing an incalculable amount of good."

"Oh! I shall not have much opportunity for doing either good or evil,

Dr. Falconer; I am not going to be gone long enough. You know I have

but a week's vacation."

"And you think a week not long enough to accomplish much! I see I shall

have to mark another passage in my little book. Be sure to read the

marked portion."

And then he was gone, and Elsie Burton went hurriedly about the final

preparations for her journey. "Clean hands!" she repeated with a

curious smile, as, having given the final touches to her brown hair,

she applied the sweet-smelling soap lavishly, making a fine white foam

in which to lave them. "I wonder what Dr. Falconer is aiming at! If he

had told me to guard my tongue, I should have understood him without

difficulty; but if there is anything about me that gets taken care of,

I'm sure it is my hands." Whereupon she gave them an extra dash of

fresh water.

Fairly seated in the East-bound express, shawl-strap and hand-satchel

tucked away behind their proper lattice, herself by no means tucked

into the corner, but spread out as luxuriously as a young lady of

eighteen or so knows how to arrange, Elsie Burton had leisure to draw a

long breath of satisfaction and look about her. The last few days had

been so full of the bustle of preparation, combined with the closing

hours of school, that she had had little leisure for anything. Now for

the long-promised holiday week at Uncle Leonard's. Elsie Burton had few

fittings from the home nest to remember. Indeed I may say that she was

one of those fortunate young ladies who had never, until that time,

been on the cars without either mother or father. A sweet, sheltered,

happy life she had led, and a sweet, bright girl was she. Occasionally

a little restless flutter had shown the mother-bird that her nestling

longed to try her wings alone; hence this visit, promised and planned.

And Elsie, curled comfortably in her seat, with the seat before her

turned to receive her lunch basket and any stray apples or papers that

she might purchase, felt that she was a little school girl no longer,

but in the last half-hour had blossomed into a young lady.

"Take care of yourself, daughter," had been her father's last tenderly

spoken message, a little anxious look about the eyes telling her that

this business of trying one's wings was not so pleasant for the old

birds as for those who wire experimenting; Dr. Falconer had added, with

a meaning smile, "And remember the hands." This latter message lingered

with her. She meant to take care of herself, to be so wise and prudent

that both father and mother would be delighted with her. And of course

she meant to take care of her hands! But the hint half-vexed her; she

did not understand it, and felt for the little book which she had

dropped into her pocket but a few minutes before. What a tiny book it

was! Paper-covered too, but daintily illuminated; looking, indeed, as

though it had been gotten up for choice moments.

"I wonder," said our young lady to herself, "if this bit of a volume

can be a dissertation on the care of hands?" She laughed a little as

she said it, and stopped to fasten the fourth button of her dark, neat,

exquisitely-fitting kid gloves; her hands certainly looked well in

them. She could not endure ill-shaped gloves, and as for wearing ripped

ones, she never did it; nor, truth to tell, did she like to wear mended

ones. It would have been a pleasure to her, on the discovery of the

first rip, to have consigned the offending gloves to the waste bag,

but this was by no means the teaching of her mother; so the shapely

hands were sometimes marred—in the estimation of their owner—by mended

gloves, albeit the mending was very neat. Dr. Falconer could hardly

have meant that. Now she began to look for the marked passages. Marked

passages? Why, the little book was full of them!

Could her pastor have expected her to spend the hours of her first

journey alone in reading them all? Ah, no; here was one, marked in

different colored ink, and on the upper margin of the page was her

own name, "Elsie." This, then, was the portion meant for her. (Not

a lengthy passage; she could accomplish so much with a fair hope

of remembering it.) And she read, "It may seem an odd idea, but a

simple glance at one's hand, with the recollection, this hand is not

mine; it has been given to Jesus, and it must be kept for Jesus,' may

sometimes turn the scale in a doubtful matter, and be a safeguard from

certain temptations. With that thought fresh in your mind, as you

look at your hand, can you let it take up things, which, to say the

least, are not 'for Jesus'? Things which evidently cannot be used, as

they most certainly are not used, either for Him or by Him. Can you

deliberately hold in it books of a kind which you know perfectly well,

by sadly-repeated experience, lead you farther from, instead of nearer

to Him? . . . Books which you would not care to read at all, if your

heart were burning within you at the coming of His feet? Next time any

temptation of this sort approaches you just look at your hand."

Elsie Burton paused in her reading and looked down at her hand, a

singular expression on her face. Given to Christ! Certainly it was true

of her; she had given herself to Him and promised to be His disciple;

yet never until this moment had occurred to her that even her hands

actually belonged to this Master. What a strange idea! How singular it

would be for one to stop and think whether her hands were doing what He

would have them? Yet, why not? If they really were given to Him, what

more reasonable than that they should be kept for His service?

Would that make any difference with the work of her hands, she

wondered, supposing she had thought of them in this light before? Such

dainty care as she had taken of them! Had she possibly soiled them in

His sight? There were other marked bits in this strange little book,

her name attached; she read on: "Danger and temptation to let the hands

move at other impulses is every bit as great to those who have nothing

else to do but to render service: and who think they are doing nothing

else. Take one practical instance—our letter writing. Have we not been

tempted (and fallen before the temptation), according to our various

dispositions, to let the hand that holds the pen move at the impulse to

write an unkind thought of another; or to say a clever and sarcastic

thing, which will make our point more telling; or to let out a grumble

or a suspicion; or to let the pen run away with us into flippant words?"

The rich color on Elsie's cheek was deepening every moment. This was

certainly narrow ground. She felt herself jostled against. "Clever

and sarcastic things" were so natural to her pen that they almost

seemed to write themselves. What a ridiculous report she had given of

Ned Holden's failure in geometry. How skillfully she had turned into

ridicule his mortified attempts to recover himself. She had imagined

her cousins, Carrie and Ben, laughing immoderately over the whole

thing. Well, what harm? Her account of it would never reach poor Ned's

ears: she would not have given it for anything had there been the

least fear, but—what good did it accomplish? Had she written it with

a purpose? Yes, she had; her purpose had been to give a few minutes'

fun to her cousins. Anything wrong about that? Yet the truthful girl

admitted to herself almost immediately that it was fun at the expense

of certain fine feelings which she had jarred. Was she inclined to be

so sympathetic with failures as she would be if it were not such fun to

write them up? What a caricature she had made of Ned as he stood there

on the platform, his face aglow, the eyes of a hundred girls leveled

at him! She laughed again as she remembered how funny her picture was;

but then she sighed. Soiled hands. Was it possible that she had soiled

hers that day? Did Dr. Falconer mean such things? Did he know about

the letter and the caricature? She felt her face grow hot over the

possibility; she would not have him know it for anything! Here again

was a revelation. Why not? And if not Dr. Falconer, surely not the Lord

Jesus! Yet He knew.

There really was not much comfort in thinking about it. But Elsie

decided that these things must be thought about and decided another

time. If it really was wrong to repeat in a ludicrous way the ludicrous

things that the boys, and sometimes the girls, and sometimes the

professors were doing, why, then she must give it up; but it was great

fun. Another marked sentence—her name again: "Perhaps one hardly needs

to say that kept hands will be very gentle hands. Quick, angry motions

of the heart will sometimes force themselves into expression by the

hand, though the tongue may be restrained. The very way in which we

close a door, or lay down a book, may be a victory or a defeat."

At this point Elsie closed the little book and laid it down with no

gentle hand. She was vexed with it. What nonsense was this! The idea

that when one banged the door a little with nobody around to see, and

not meaning anything in particular, only a general vexation, one had

dishonored Christ! That was straining a point! Just as if people could

keep from doing those little things! And just as though they did any

hurt! The little book was fanatical; she didn't like it at all.

What sent her back, just then, to her little class in Sabbath-school?

seven or eight of the babies under her care. What verse was that which

she had taught them only last Sabbath? "Who shall ascend into the hill

of the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place?" That was the

question she had asked. How had she taught them to answer? She seemed

to see the sixteen little hands raised, while eight little voices

repeated: "He that hath clean hands and a pure heart." Whose fanaticism

was this? What had she herself taught those little ones that "clean

hands" meant? Had she really meant that they, those babes in Christ,

must carefully watch their small hands, lest they slam the door in

anger or throw the book, and that she, Elsie Burton, eighteen years old

and for four years a Christian, could do any of these trifles without

soiling hers? It was illogical, certainly.

Yet, can I make you understand, I wonder, what a ferment all these

little things set Miss Elsie into? They seemed so new to her; so

unexpected. She was a bright young Christian; she desired in general,

to honor her Master. Yet, like many another, she had selected great

ways in which to honor Him, and, occasionally, at least, looked about

for something large to do in His service, forgetting, or ignoring, many

small daily opportunities. She liked her own way royally well, did this

young lady; and when on occasion older wills in authority crossed hers,

she submitted indeed; it would be unladylike to do otherwise, and Elsie

Burton did not like to be unladylike; but she frowned and banged the

door; yes, she did, a little, a very little, occasionally, and threw

her books on the table with determination, and wrote sarcastic letters

to her special friend, and grumbled occasionally to mamma. All these

things she had rather looked upon as her perquisites; little personal

rewards for submitting. In what a different way did the tiny book talk

about them all!

She sat very still and thought it over. "It reaches too far," she told

herself, catching her breath. "It would make perfectly awful work of

living! Just think! One couldn't—oh dear! one couldn't do anything,

without looking at it to see if it were just exactly the right thing to

do. According to that doctrine, I don't belong to myself at all. Such

fanaticism!"

"Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God

in your bodies and your spirits, which are His." Who whispered that

verse to her? It was not in the offending little book. Whose fanaticism

was this?

Meantime the car had been filling up. Her luxurious turned seat had

been unceremoniously returned, while she was too busy with her book

even to frown. There come next a man with a child in his arms, and

leading one by the hand; a commonly-dressed, jaded man; he looked

about him right and left for a seat; vain hope; Elsie's was the only

unoccupied one in the car. "May I sit here?" he asked meekly and

prepared to seat himself, taking the other child on his knee, her small

hand which was not of the cleanest coming in dangerous contact with

Elsie's faultless bronze travelling suit. She saw it and twitched the

skirt of her dress, not gently, away from the disagreeable member,

muttering low as she did so, that the seat was "not intended for four

persons."

"Perhaps one hardly need to say that the kept hands will be very gentle

hands." She did not repeat the words, but they repeated themselves to

her, in a way that startled. Once more she looked down at her hands.

Was He actually dishonored by that quick, irritable movement? The face

of the man beside her looked troubled; he had seen the movement and had

reached forth and clasped the offending little hand in his own rough

one. He looked very careworn, and the smaller of the children, who was

but a baby, began to utter wailing cries which he vainly tried to hush.

Hopeless little cries they were; they went, someway, to Elsie's heart.

She was sorry her hand had been so un-Christ-like in its movement. How

could she atone for it? She reached forth for her lunch basket, and

drawing therefrom a rosy-cheeked apple presented it to the little girl.

The small soiled hand grasped after it eagerly, and the father smiled

and leaned forward to admonish the child to thank the giver. "They both

look very tired," Elsie said, gently; "travelling is hard for children."

The man drew a heavy sigh. "It is hard for them," he said. "They miss

their mother; they don't know what to make of it, and I don't know how

to do for them as she would. I buried her last Tuesday."

CHAPTER II.

A DISMAYED exclamation from Elsie; then she added, "Poor little

things!" in a tone that conveyed much to the sad father's heart.

"You may well say that," he said, getting out his handkerchief hastily,

to wipe the great tears that would gather in his eyes. "Two babies, you

may say, with no one but a blundering father to do for them! I'm bound

to do the very best I can, but what's a man worth when it comes to such

work as that! And them crying for their mother every little while! This

one," touching the head of the older child with gentle hand, "couldn't

get herself to go to sleep, no how, last night. I patted her, and

coaxed her for an hour; but she said she 'wanted mamma too bad for

anything.'"

There were tears in Elsie's eyes now, and she reached for the soiled

little hand and gathered it tenderly into her gloved one. For the rest

of that journey the motherless child had a friend. The baby slept

on his father's shoulder; and Elsie devoted herself to making the

five-year-old happy. Among other womanly offices, she took the child

forward to the water-cooler, and by dint of patient use of handkerchief

and some of her own sweet-scented soap, she made the small hands rosy

with cleanliness. This was so that she could have a delicately tinted

card from the lady's pocket. An illuminated card, with an outline

picture of two hands clasped; the one a small, childish hand, the other

large and firm, suggestive of strength and protection. There were words

underneath, and the child demanded that they be read. It was one of

Elsie's class cards, and the verse: "Who shall ascend into the Hill of

the Lord, and who shall stand in His holy place? He that hath clean

hands and a pure heart."

"It means, who shall go to live with Jesus in heaven?" explained Elsie.

The little girl looked gravely down at her small pink hands. "My hands

are clean," she said, reflectively. "I guess I can go, mamma went. It

was Jesus who took her."

Elsie's eyes dimmed again as she answered the child gently, "Yes, and

He wants you; wants you to keep your hands clean, so you can go. Not

simply clean with water, you know, but clean from every wrong and

naughty thing."

The grave-eyed child considered. "I slap Johnnie, sometimes," she said,

sadly, "when he's cross."

"Oh! And that soils your hands with the kind of soil that water will

not wash away. Look at the picture; that little hand is clasped in a

strong one; the picture is to make you think of Jesus' hand; He holds

it out for you to put yours in it, so He can keep it safe from getting

soiled."

"How?" said the child, looking puzzled. "Where is He? Why doesn't He

hold His hand out to me?"

"He does, darling; you cannot see it, nor feel it, because He has not

given you the kind of eyes yet with which to see Him; but if you give

your hand to Him, and then ask Him every day to keep it from doing

wrong things, and make it clean, He will; and by and by He will take

you up to Heaven, where mamma is, and where you can see Him, and feel

the touch of His hand."

Such sweet, serious eyes as that child had! She looked down at her

small unmothered hand, in such a grave, considering way, as seemed

almost too much for Elsie to bear; and at last she said, "I will do it;

I mean to go to mamma." And the shadow of a smile was on her face—a

serious little face, old beyond its years. Elsie did not wonder that

the father wiped great tears away; but he grasped her hand heartily and

said, "God bless you, ma'am, for showing the little girl how to smile.

She hasn't smiled since—" and the sentence was left unfinished.

There was no time for further words. The car bell was ringing, and the

dinner gong of the eating house was clattering, and the car was in a

bustle of preparation to depart. Elsie gathered her wraps and packages,

secured the little book which had told her strange truths, made tender

by the practical commentary on them drawn from her new acquaintances,

then shook hands with the little girl, bending to kiss her and whisper,

"Remember."

"I will," the child said.

"And I will," murmured Elsie. "I must surely take the counsel which I

have given her; else how could I bear to meet the child when we both

see Him face to face?"

"Hurrah! here you are. I was afraid you did not come, after all. I

left Carrie consumed with anxiety lest you had missed the train, or

something."

It was Cousin Ben, face and voice full, of eager welcome. He seized

upon Elsie's belongings as he spoke, managing shawl-strap and bag and

bundles with the air of one long used to business; called for checks,

and gave rapid, business-like orders to a porter in waiting, talking to

Elsie incessantly all the time—at least, so it seemed to her.

"Now, shall we take a carriage or a sleigh? We have both at your

service, you see; and the wheeling is so abominable that there is but

one thing worse, which is the sleighing. The fact is, we have neither

wheeling nor sleighing just now. Whichever way you take, you will be

sure to wish you had chosen the other."

"Why can't we walk?" Elsie asked, laughing at his description and his

volubility.

"Walk! A young lady, just arrived from a fatiguing journey of three

hours' duration, walking up from the depot! I'm afraid Carrie will

faint. Still, in all sincerity, it is much the better way, if one

only thinks so. Do you honestly vote for it? Sensible young lady—the

first one I have met this winter. Halloo, porter! That scamp has gone

already, I declare! He will be back here, ready to earn another fifty

cents, before we get started. I wanted to palm off some of these

dry goods on him. O, no, not at all," as Elsie tried to offer her

assistance; "they are not heavy, only slippery. This wretched little

box is such a nuisance. I found it at the express office, and I wish I

had left it there. Ah, well, now, if you insist, you may carry the box.

It is small, you see, but slippery; seems to have an affinity for the

pavement. I've landed it there once, already."

The small, compact box, neatly wrapped in paper, was transferred from

Ben's crowded arms to Elsie's empty ones. Then the walk commenced.

A bright sunny day, the air just keen enough to be exhilarating,

and the business street down which their road lay was aglow with

holiday trappings. A walk was certainly not an unattractive thing.

Yet there was a cloud on Elsie's face; and if her gay cousin had been

watching her, he would have discovered that she bestowed suspicious

glances on the innocent-looking box which she carried. It was not its

weight that disturbed her; that was a mere trifle. What then? She

watched her opportunity, when Ben was busy re-arranging his load, and

unceremoniously applied her nose to the box. Faugh! It was as she

suspected. Here was she, Elsie Burton, who hated the sight and smell

and very name of the vile weed tobacco, actually carrying a box of

cigars through the street! She could have dropped them into the muddy

carriage drive, across which they were just picking their way, with a

good grace.

"I wonder if Ben smokes!" This was her indignant mental query. "I

declare, if that boy has gone and spoiled himself in such a hateful

way, I shall drop him." There were certain phases of moral courage

in which Elsie was by no means lacking. She was entirely willing

to express then and there, to her handsome young cousin, her utter

and intense abhorrence of everything pertaining to tobacco; and the

probabilities are strong that her very manner of doing so would have

outwitted any good which she desired to accomplish; that is, if she

really wished to accomplish anything beyond expressing her indignation.

Something quieted her just then. The memory of certain words: "Can

you let it take up things which, to say the very least, are not 'for

Jesus'?" Suppose people really did govern their lives by such rules as

that? Suppose Ben did. Would he be carrying home cigars to smoke? What

a thing it was that he had been the one to lead her unwittingly into

this first soiling of her hands! Almost before she realized that she

was doing so, she spoke her thoughts aloud: "Oh, Ben! You have made me

soil my hands."

Her cousin turned to her quickly, his face expressive of concern. "I

beg ten thousand pardons! Was I such a stupid dolt as to give you a

soiled paper to carry? What is it? Are your gloves ruined?" But he

looked in vain for soil; the delicate bronze gloves were as delicate as

before she touched the box, and the neat manilla wrapping was guiltless

of a stain.

Elsie laughed a little. "I was thinking aloud," she said. "I did not

mean my gloves, but my hands. Ben, I don't like the soil of cigars."

"Are they so very offensive to you?" This with a puzzled air. "It isn't

possible that you get their odor at this distance!"

"O, Ben! You know you are not stupid. Why do you pretend that you don't

understand me to mean moral soil?"

"Upon my word, I never thought of such a thing!" And Ben stared at his

cousin in genuine astonishment. "Isn't that straining a point, my wise

little cousin?"

"Is it? Suppose I believe that my hands should do nothing to help along

anything that is wrong in the world, could I, in that case, handle

cigars much?"

"That depends. Are cigars wicked?"

Elsie flashed a pair of keen eyes on him. "Are cigars good?"

He laughed good-naturedly. "Why, no; I haven't been in the habit of

attaching any moral character to them whatever."

"Very well; then why do you pretend that I am talking about their moral

character? The question is, do I believe that it is wrong to spend

money for cigars, and to spoil one's breath, and poison the air that

belongs to other people with their vile odors? In that case, I must be

consistent with my belief, and not let my hands help along that which I

consider mischievous."

"Pitch them into the gutter if you want to," he said, good-humoredly.

"You see they are not mine; I promised to bring them up for Hal; so I

can afford to be generous."

"Does Hal smoke?"

"Like a furnace. I won't tell him, though, that you helped the matter

along. I'll appear to have carried the offending box every step of the

way myself."

But Elsie did not smile. "If I were Emmeline," she began, then stopped.

"What then? Supposing I can stretch my credulity enough to imagine

anything so preposterous."

"Never mind; perhaps I ought not to say it."

"But it will do no harm for me to guess it. In the light of your last

sharp remarks, I fancy you were going to say: If I were Emmeline I

would not marry a cigar smoker.'"

"It is true," Elsie said, laughing a little, "I wouldn't."

"Really? Are you serious about this thing? Do you honestly think there

is anything so very wicked about smoking a cigar now and then?"

"What a way to put it! As if a thing must be 'so very wrong' in order

to be—not right. As to the 'now and then'—Oh, if you needed a lecture,

Ben, I think I could give it; I've thought a great deal about the

matter; but just now I was looking at it from such a simple platform

that it doesn't need argument. Hal, you know, is a Christian, and he

professes to govern all his life by one rule, as a servant who belongs

body and purse to Christ. How very easy it would be for him to decide

whether he ought to spend his money on cigars!"

Ben, I regret to say, was guilty of the ungentlemanly act of whistling.

A low whistle, instantly suppressed, but it expressed his views. "How

many Christians do you suppose govern themselves by any such rules?"

"The question has nothing whatever to do with the argument," Elsie

said; "but I'll answer it. Very few, I think. Does that annihilate the

rule?"

"How fortunate it is for me that we are just at the door," Ben

answered, gayly. "Give me the box of cigars, quick; and don't convert

Emmeline to your way of thinking, or we shall have no wedding to

attend."

I do not know whether, had Elsie known all the temptations and

embarrassments to beset her on that very next day, she would have been

able to make so emphatic a resolution as the one with which she left

the car. A shopping excursion was in order for the morning. Cousin

Carrie had a dozen trifles which must be bought that day, and it suited

Ben to attend them gallantly all the morning. Now shopping was not a

trial to Elsie; it had all the charm of novelty for her, for hitherto

her busy young life had known comparatively little of it. On this

particular morning the circumstances were particularly agreeable. She

had no grave responsibilities, but was merely an interested looker-on,

ready to give bits of advice as occasion offered; while nestled away in

her pretty porte-monnaie were two shining gold pieces which her father

had given her that morning to spend as she pleased. Oh, the charming

things that a girl of eighteen may please to buy! Cousin Carrie was a

helpful companion in that direction. She had wide-open eyes, and dealt

in superlatives:

"Oh, Elsie! Do look at this lovely shade in kids. Aren't they perfectly

exquisite? Just your number, too, and, match your new hat exactly.

Really, Elsie, you ought to have a pair of those. I never saw a more

perfect match."

Elsie looked interested but doubtful. "I have just bought new gloves,"

she said, "and they match nicely, I think."

"Oh, they do; they are charming. But these are that lovely, peculiar

shade which one so rarely finds in kid—just the tint of your long

plume. Oh, I do think they are too lovely for anything!"

"They are expensive."

"Oh, I don't think so. Only two and a quarter. You can't get really

good kid for less than that, and poor gloves are not worth buying.

Besides, they have the Foster fastenings. Now I really dote on Foster

fastenings."

Elsie was being persuaded. They did look as though they would fit her

shapely hand so well, and they really were a remarkable match. What

if she had just bought a pair? Gloves would keep and would be always

needed. Mamma approved of good gloves, and papa had told her to spend

the gold pieces just as she pleased.

"Well," she said, a slight hesitation still in her voice, "I think

I'll—" and she glanced down at her hands.

"Next time any temptation of this sort approaches you, just look at

your hand." It was to Elsie as though the words were written on the

back of her glove, so distinctly did she seem to see them. A temptation

of what sort? Was this box of gloves in the list? "Can you let it take

up things, which, to say the least, are not for Jesus?" Were the gloves

for Him? The question startled her, seemed a little irreverent, yet she

was a clear-brained girl and knew what the query meant.

Was she buying them because she felt that she needed them to complete

a neat and tasteful toilet? If—it was a sufficiently startling thought

to make the color run into her cheeks, yet she thought it—if the Lord

Jesus Christ stood there in the flesh, occupying the space at her side

now filled by Cousin Ben, would she spend two dollars and a quarter for

an unneeded pair of gloves? Should the hand belonging to Him do aught

that His glance would not approve?

She was ready to finish her sentence. "I think I will not take them,

Carrie. I have gloves enough for the present, and the styles may

change, before I need them."

"What nonsense! These are in the very latest shade. I never saw any

quite like them before. I wish they would match anything of mine and

would buy them in a moment, although Auntie gave me a full box of

gloves at Christmas. How many pairs have you, Elsie?"

This question amused Ben wonderfully. "An official report, if you

please," he said, his eyes twinkling with laughter. "How many

handkerchiefs have you, and how many ribbons and how many ruffles? Do

you young ladies keep an inventory for each other's special benefit?"

Elsie laughed, but Carrie turned from her coldly. She set her heart on

managing the glove matter, and it was ignominious to fail.

CHAPTER III.

THIS is but a faint specimen of the ways in which temptation assailed

the fair hands in whose stewardship two gold pieces had been placed. It

seemed to Elsie a curious coincidence that the first temptation should

have to do with a covering for those hands. But for that she might not

have gotten through so well.

It was wonderful, the number of articles that Carrie found which she

was sure her Cousin Elsie needed and ought to purchase; delicate

laces of a peculiarly rare and choice pattern that might not be found

again; soft, fluffy ruches particularly becoming to Elsie's face; fine

handkerchiefs, delicately embroidered, sold at a bargain; a peculiar

perfume, the like of which had never been smelled before; even scented

soaps joined hands with Elsie's companions that day and tried to

beguile her; yet she stood firm.

It was a curious experience. Could she have divested herself of

personal feeling, and looked on as an outsider, she would have enjoyed

the study. There was absolutely nothing presented which stood the test.

His hands, they must make no purchase save such as would please their

Master.

"I cannot think what is the matter with you!" Carrie said, watching her

cousin curiously. "You used to be ready enough to buy pretty things.

I've seen at least a hundred and fifty articles this morning that I

should have bought if I had as much spending money as you have. Papa

keeps me dreadfully close these days; everything has to be saved for

Emmeline. I tell papa just to wait until I get engaged, and I'll be

revenged. It can't be that you are saving up for that, Elsie; you are

not out of school yet."

Through it all Ben watched with amused face, not helping his cousin in

the least; on the contrary, he made several wise suggestions as to the

utility of some of the temptations.

"It is worse than cigars, isn't it?" he queried at last, his wicked

eyes dancing mischievously. Elsie felt that he was amusing himself at

her expense—turning her scruples into ridicule. Would it not be better

to lay aside her new ideas, and change the current of his thoughts by

disposing of the spending money that seemed to be the cause of so much

trouble? Wasn't it a sort of "casting pearls before—" and here she

paused; partly because she did not like to apply the simile, and partly

because her brain was too keen to admit of such reasoning. If Ben chose

to be led into sin through her conscientious effort to do right, he

must bear the blame of it.

But she was to be tried in a way that was harder to bear. Carrie,

positively vexed because she could not persuade her cousin into buying,

at the jewel counter, a lovely little charm for her chain, turned from

her and spoke to Ben in a very poor undertone: "I don't understand

Elsie. I'm afraid she is growing penurious, and that is really a more

hateful fault in a girl than in a boy. She used to be so free and

generous with her money."

"Perhaps Uncle Wells keeps her close," was Ben's hateful suggestion.

"He is well off, to be sure, but he may not be growing liberal as he

grows older."

Dear! You should have seen the flush on Elsie's face then! The idea of

that upstart of a boy daring to speak so about her dear father! He was

not rich either, and everybody knew he denied himself to have the more

to give to others. For a moment Elsie wondered whether she did not hate

her Cousin Ben—just a little!

Also, she felt just like dashing out in some wild expenditure that

would show her cousins how indifferent she could be to money when she

chose. What should she buy? There was plenty of opportunity. Just next

door in the plate-glass window stood temptations enough. Grapes, out of

season, large; white, luscious. They were marked fifty cents! Suppose

she should buy a bunch for herself, and one each for Carrie and Ben,

and two or three bunches to take home to Aunt Carrie? Beside them was a

silver-papered box of choice bonbons, marked one dollar; she might add

that and a bouquet of rare flowers. Would not these expenditures show

that she knew how to use money and had it to use?

Her hand was on the door-knob. She was burning with the desire to slip

in next door and make her purchases while Carrie studied over shades

of ribbons. Suddenly she withdrew the hand quickly, as though it had

come in contact with something that repelled it. "Clean hands!" To

what base uses was she about to put hers! Why did she want to buy the

fancy bonbons and the fruits and flowers out of season? As a tribute of

love? Her honest heart told her that it was rather a tribute of anger!

Did her father's reputation rest on such slight ground that it could

be injured by the ignorant chatter of a silly boy, or be built up by

a daughter's ill-humored extravagance? Very much astonished with, and

ashamed of, herself, Elsie turned away, and stood quite still for a

moment, eyes and head drooping. After that, she was better prepared for

the rest of the hour, even though the cousins chose next a way of being

cousinly that was almost unendurable. Ben actually bought some of the

great white grapes, and forced a few on her, though she felt as though

it would take but one to choke her. The truth is, fair Elsie, during

that and several following days, took lessons in the fact that Satan

makes sharp battle for every power of our being; and that the cross is

still waiting to be borne; the only reason that we feel its weight so

little being the fact that we have fallen into the habit of slipping

quietly around it, instead of boldly taking it up.

The curtains were drawn and the gas was lighted in the cosy back

parlor. Without the rain was steadily falling, and there was a rush

of wind every few minutes against the casement, which sharpened the

contrast between the dreary outside and the brightness of the home

scene within.

Over the family there had come the sort of lull which follows special

days of eager life and keen excitement. There had been the whirl of

preparation for, and then the excitement of participation in, wedding

festivities, and then the bustle of departure. Emmeline and Hal were

made one, and had gone away together, Elsie taking note, with much

inward disgust, that the groom actually smoked a cigar at the depot,

while waiting for the belated train.

Now those who tarried behind had reached a stormy Saturday evening,

with nothing to do but lounge amid the easy chairs and rest and visit.

Somewhat to their astonishment, they found this dull work. The reaction

from so much excitement was upon them, and many a yawn was hastily

covered so that the others might not suspect.

"Somebody read something," proclaimed Ben at last. "We are all too

indolent to talk—let some fellow who knows how talk for us. Who will

volunteer?"

"Elsie must read," said Carrie. "Papa says she is the best reader in

the set. I've been sulky over that remark ever since he made it, so of

course I will not."

Some gay talk followed this statement, but at last they settled down to

listen. Elsie, by no means unwilling to be appointed reader, for, like

most persons who are accustomed to reading aloud and who like to do it,

she hated to listen.

The book selected was a recent publication by a popular author. It

opened well, and in a very few minutes the listless company was giving

absorbed attention.

A half-hour passed, and then a dismayed, "Oh! Dear! Who is coming to

disturb us!" from Carrie, mingled with the sound of talking in the hall.

A moment more, and the relieved exclamation, "It's only Freem!" greeted

a newcomer.

"Freem," or Mr. Freeman Vance, was a gentleman who was much at home

with the young people of the house, and, during her visit Elsie had met

him several times. He was older than the cousins, having passed beyond

the age in which he was spoken of as "one of the boys." Carrie called

him a "full-fledged young man," but admitted that he was "nicer" than

most of them.

He dropped readily into an easy chair, drawn up near the grate,

murmured that this was delightful, and that it was a wretched night

outside, then begged that the reading might go on; there was nothing

that he enjoyed better than listening to a good reader.

There was a heightened color on Elsie's cheeks, but it was not brought

there by the implied compliment. She knew that she was a fairly good

reader. To-night, however, she was giving only partial attention to the

book. With by far the keener portion of her brain she was carrying on

an argument somewhat after this fashion: "I don't know about this book.

There are some queer expressions in it; I doubt whether papa would

approve. I wonder if that sentence is really intended as a covert sneer

at religion? I don't believe I like to hear the Bible quoted in just

this manner. Mamma wouldn't call that girl prudish; she would think she

showed a proper degree of self-respect."

You are to understand that these mental comments did not all rush

forward at one time and demand attention, but presented themselves at

intervals during the reading. Yet the doubt in Elsie's mind about the

book grew so rapidly that, just as Freeman Vance was announced, she

had almost resolved to declare boldly her objections and decline to

read. But his coming had made this a doubly difficult thing to do. Poor

Elsie felt instinctively that she stood alone; she was breathing an

atmosphere so unlike the one in which she had been reared that it would

be almost impossible to make her audience understand her scruples. She

shrank from trying. "What mattered a few pages of a book?" she told her

conscience. She need not admire the book; certainly there was no danger

that she should. Once through with this disagreeable evening, and she

need never look into it again.

So the reading continued. And the mental arguments continued, also, for

to the reader's wide-open eyes the sentiments expressed did not grow

less objectionable. It was not that they were pronounced in their form;

there was neither downright mockery of things sacred nor downright

ridicule of things pure. It was simply like many a book which is being

read in parlors; full of delicately-served, sugar-coated poisons. And

it was commended, too, in a general way, by some of the very newspapers

that might have been expected to stand guard over its intrusion into

Christian homes.

It was charmingly written. The pale hero was so fascinating in his

manner that, when he languidly quoted a moral lie and gracefully

propped it with arguments, you, being eighteen and guileless, could not

help admiring him a little.

Yet did Elsie read under protest. "Mamma" appeared before her

frequently, with keen eyes and clear brain, and swept away a filmy

web which would hide a falsehood from less cultured minds. "Papa's"

strong logic came often to mind to overthrow some subtle reasoning. Dr.

Falconer's very last sermon loomed up before her once, text and all, to

refute utterly a hint which the pale hero put forth.

If Freeman Vance had not appeared on the scene the book would certainly

have been laid aside; but how utterly foolish would her position appear

to him! He would call her a prude, as she had heard him call a young

lady who had been the subject of conversation the other day. She knew

just how his lip curled when he said it. Not that she cared for Freeman

Vance's opinion, she told herself; but, then, nobody liked to be talked

about. As she reached this conclusion she turned another leaf. The

interesting hero was in the midst of a statement given with as much

energy as he ever used, and, by way of emphasizing his point, he used

an unmitigated oath.

"Can you deliberately hold in your hand books of a kind which you know

perfectly well lead you farther from instead of nearer to Him?"

The quotation came to the reader suddenly, with almost as much force as

though it had been spoken by an audible voice. She made an instant's

pause—the oath unread—and looked down at her fair hands. They were

being soiled! There was no question in her heart about it. With a

sudden, impulsive movement, she spread open her hands with a repellent

gesture, as though she recoiled from the thing touched, and the book

fell to the floor. Freeman Vance sprang to return it and Carrie gave a

nervous start.

"Why, Elsie Burton, what is the matter? You made me drop six stitches

off my hook."

"Is there a ghost on that page?" queried Ben, mischief in his voice.

"No," said Elsie, her courage and her color rising. "I think it is a

serpent. Thank you, Mr. Vance; I don't want the thing again. I have had

quite too much of it. You must all excuse me from farther reading of

that book. I am not in sympathy with the morals or the manners of its

characters. I am ashamed that I have allowed myself to read it so long."

"I'll venture that it is another case of 'soiled hands,'" Ben said,

nothing but amusement in his voice.

His cousin turned toward him with flashing eyes. "Yes," she said, "it

is."

CHAPTER IV.

THEN began a babel of tongues. The book was "elegant!" "Charming!"

Everybody said it was the best one from that popular writer's pen. The

"critics were just raving over it." "Certainly it was written in a most

fascinating manner."

These were some of the statements which Elsie seemed to be expected to

answer. She had very little to say. The truth was, she felt painfully

conscious of the fact that many of her arguments would sound to this

company like an unknown tongue. What did they know of loyalty to the

Master who owned her, heart and hands? What wild fanaticism would they

think it, if she said that she felt herself to have dishonored Christ,

in having lent her hands and her voice to the book which she had just

dropped?

Yet she said this, speaking steadily, albeit with glowing cheeks. She

felt it to be the least that she could do, as His witness, to speak

the simple truth, and bear the storm of words, the incredulity, the

laughter, the raillery; and the almost more disagreeable attempt to be

patient with her, as with an ignorant child, fresh from country life

and country ideas.

"Oh, well!" said Carrie, at last. "We might as well save our breath,

as to coax her after she has made up her mind. You always were an

obstinate child, you know, Elsie, my dear. Ben, suppose you read."

"Not I," said Ben, with emphasis. "It is my brains, instead of my

hands, that I am afraid of; I never had the proper amount to bear me

out in reading aloud. Vance, will you volunteer?"

An expressive shrug of shapely shoulders was the young man's only

reply, but it seemed to be considered decisive.

"Then we must give it up," Carrie said, great vexation in her voice.

"What shall we do? I'm too dull to talk. Oh, I'll tell you, let's have

a game. Freem Vance, I owe you a grudge for beating me, the last time

we played. Get the cards, Ben, and I'll see if I cannot redeem my

reputation in that line."

Ben laughed good-humoredly, but made no attempt to obey.

"You are dull to-night, Carrie, duller than usual, that's a fact, if

you have any idea that our fair cousin will let her hands go so far

astray as to dabble with cards."

"Well, I should like to know why not. There is no irreligion about

them, certainly, poor little innocent things! Elsie, you will play a

game with us, won't you?"

"Thank you," Elsie said, trying to make her voice sound natural; "I

never play cards."

"Oh, that's of no consequence! You can easily learn. Ben, you could

teach her in five minutes, so she could play with you, couldn't you?"

"Doubt it exceedingly. There is an insurmountable objection, I fancy.

Unless I am mistaken, she will decline to be taught."

"No, she won't; we can't make up a set without her, and she will not be

so disagreeable as to refuse. Come, Elsie, you will be accommodating,

won't you?"

Poor Elsie felt like nothing so much as bursting into tears, and

running away, but she stood her ground bravely.

"I am sorry to appear unaccommodating, Carrie, but Ben is right; I

cannot play cards any better than I can read that book."

"What is the matter with cards?" There was a sneering tone to Carrie's

voice; perhaps it was well for Elsie that such was the case. Sneers

were apt to give her courage.

She choked back the tears, and tried to answer lightly: "They are

innocent enough, I suppose; it is the rough handling that the poor

things get to which I object."

"That is begging the question. Our professor of rhetoric says people

always do that when they are unable to prove their statements. I am

tired of hints and sanctimonious flings. Everything is wicked nowadays.

You used to have as much life in you as anybody; if there is any reason

for such pokiness, I should like to hear it. Why won't you play cards?"

"The prisoner will stand and answer to the solemn charge preferred

against her."

This from Ben. His sister's manner was so dictatorial that he was

ashamed of her, and was inclined, in a rollicking way, to aid Elsie.

She glanced toward him, smiling, then turned to Carrie.

"Why, Caroline, my dear, you surely do not need the ordinary arguments

against card-playing quoted to you! Everybody who has given any thought

to the subject understands them, and it wouldn't make them any plainer

or more forceful to quote them. For myself, I am sure I need only give

you one. My father and mother do not approve of the amusement."

Ben gave a curious little laugh at this point. "No more do ours, eh,

Carrie?" he said.

"Nonsense!" returned that young lady sharply. "I'm sure papa said

only the other night that times were changed since he was young, and

lived in the country. A great many people who live in little country

towns get narrow views of things, breathe them in the atmosphere which

surrounds them; but that is no reason they should hold to them when

they get a chance to see the world. I don't know what you mean, Ben;

I'm sure papa has never forbidden us to play cards. I am going to have

a game—I know that; and if Elsie won't play, I'll call Mary down. She

will like the fun of joining us."

"Mary" was the fourteen-year-old sister who was tolerated only

occasionally among the older young people.

As Carrie arose to summon her, Mr. Freeman Vance spoke the first

sentence he seemed to have considered himself called upon to utter

since the conversation commenced.

"At the same time, Miss Carrie, suppose you secure little Belle to take

my place. I do not feel equal to cards this evening."

Whereupon Ben burst into hearty laughter. "Amusement under

difficulties, upon my word!" he said, as soon as he could speak. "What

shall be done with them, Carrie?"

"Oh, well!" Carrie said, returning to her seat with an offended air.

"Since you are all disposed to be so very accommodating, you may

entertain yourselves. I'm sure I shall make no farther attempt. It is

the first time I ever knew you, Freem Vance, to decline cards. You are

playing a new game to-night, I should think."

Whereunto this embarrassing and ill-humored conversation would have

grown, I cannot tell you; for at that point occurred an interruption,

in the shape of a summons for Ben.

His father desired to see him at once, in the library, on a matter of

business.

And no sooner had he, with a little good-humored grumbling, departed,

than Carrie unceremoniously left the room by another door, and the two

guests were alone together.

I am aware that I have had to present Miss Carrie to you in a very

unfavorable light. As a rule, she was good-humored and ladylike, and,

being a year or two older than Elsie, was in the habit of being looked

up to by her. But, being a young woman without a settled purpose of

life or a guiding motive for speech or action, she was left, more or

less, at the mercy of the passing mood; and the excitements of the past

few days had served to unsettle her nerves to an unusual degree.

Left to themselves, an embarrassing silence followed. Elsie did not

know how to commence a conversation with this cultured man of the

world; especially, after the experiences of the last hour.

It was he who finally led the way:

"Would you mind giving me some of your objections to card-playing for

amusement? I think I am not well posted as you suppose your cousin to

be."

There was neither banter nor sarcasm in his voice; instead, he seemed

to be in earnest. But Elsie, full of sparkling logic for the boys and

girls, was unused to arguing with a gentleman, and hesitated.

"Don't they become snares to some young men, and lead them into

temptation and misery sometimes?" she said at last.

He seemed surprised at the answer, and waited a moment before he said,

"I think they do; but it does not seem to me that your cousin Ben is

tempted in that direction."

"I was not thinking of him at all. If any person came to mind it

was little Teddy Reilly, my Sabbath-school boy, whose father is a

professional gambler, and who lives in an atmosphere of impurity. I

want to keep my hands so clean from all such things that there shall

never be the possibility of his associating me with them. And the world

is full of Teddy Reillys; we may meet them when we do not know it, and

influence them when we are not thinking of such a thing. Besides, I

have two little brothers. I don't want them ever to find in gambling

saloons anything that will remind them of home and home pleasures."

"I am answered," he said, smiling; but there was nothing unpleasant in

the smile.

After a little, he spoke again, still in the same gentle tone: "Would

it be disagreeable to you to tell me what you meant, a little while

ago, about the book, and what Ben's reference to 'clean hands' had to

do with it?"

This question caused the color to deepen on Elsie's cheeks. Such things

were harder to explain; she doubted his ability to understand.

"It began with Dr. Falconer, my pastor," she replied, hesitatingly. "He

said, when he bade me good-by, that he hoped I would be careful not

to soil my hands. Then he lent me a little book of Miss Havergal's,

and I read it on the cars. There were marked passages in it, about

hands having been given to Christ and being kept for His service. One

sentence is, 'Can you let your hands take up things which, to say the

least, are not for Jesus? Can you deliberately hold in it books of

a kind which you know perfectly well lead you farther from, instead

of nearer to, Him?' I thought of that all the time I was reading the

book; and at last, when it came to a direct profanation of His name, I

dropped it. I wish I had done so before."

"It is narrow ground," said Freeman Vance.

"Yes, it is. I am amazed to see how it hedges one in. One of my

Sabbath-school verses is, 'He that hath clean hands and a pure heart.'

I have been very careful to teach the children what the words mean, and

that has made them plainer to myself, I think. At home, with my father

and mother, the way is plain enough, and bright and pleasant, but in

this atmosphere things are hard. I think I need mamma to-night."

Her lip was quivering. With the quotation of the Bible verse, Freeman

Vance had shaded his face with his hand. He made no response to her

words, and she struggled silently for composure.

At last he spoke again; a quiet voice, but it revealed a good deal of

suppressed feeling.

"Cards are a great temptation to me. I am very fond of them, and, like

you, I need my mother, and can never have her any more."

"Oh!" said Elsie, and the sympathy she put into that word must be

imagined, not described. "You need Jesus, Mr. Vance. If you give your

hands to Him, He will keep them and you."

There were footsteps in the hall. Carrie, ashamed apparently of her ill

humor and rudeness, had returned in a better mood. But there was no

more conversation. Freeman Vance arose almost immediately, saying that

he had but waited to bid her good-night.

"You have made an enemy of poor Freem," Carrie said, trying to laugh,

as the outer door closed after him. "He thinks an evening without cards

is a dreadful bore. People do say that he plays for something besides

amusement. But he has so much money that I suppose he thinks it no

harm to throw away some of it if he wants to. They say he never keeps

any that he wins. It seems a pity, though, to have him play with those

fellows. I always keep him at cards just as late as I can, so that he

will not be tempted to go to the saloons."

But Elsie had no answer for this phase of virtuous self-abnegation.

She was sore-hearted and disappointed. The world was not the beautiful

thing she had thought it. The shelter of home and mother were treasures

to be prized. The atmosphere of home was something to look forward to

with longing. The week was gone; she was glad of it. On Monday she was

going home. But—and here was the place for tears—she had disappointed

herself. She was not going back with hands as clean as she had hoped.

They were stained. His hands? Yes, but not kept always sheltered in His

grasp. And her lips had spoken few words for Him.

Here was this young man, Freeman Vance, in danger, it seemed, and

motherless; and she had met him every day for a week, several times a

day, indeed, and to-night's stammering sentence had been the first that

she had ever spoken to him of Christ. What a servant was she?

It was evening, and it was raining; and in the back parlor there was a

fire in the grate, throwing its bright gleams of light over the room

and playing gayly with the pictures on the walls.

Two easy chairs were drawn near to the grate, that their occupants

might the better enjoy the play of firelight and shadow. In one of them

sat Elsie Burton. A trifle over a year older than when you saw her

last. Not changed much, unless the brightness on her face has toned

into something softer, something which, while it belongs still to the

freshness of girlhood, hints of the coming woman.

The parlor is not the same in which you last saw her. It is her

father's own.

Elsie graduated a few weeks ago, just a little past nineteen; but she

preferred to spend the following months in the quiet of her own home,

though Cousin Carrie eagerly urged the delights of the great city upon

her.

The other occupant of an easy chair I presume you would also recognize,

though he, I think, is more changed than Elsie; but you would like

the change. I don't remember whether I told you that Freeman Vance

was a handsome man. A year ago, if you are a careful student of human

nature, you would have been a little troubled over the face. Handsome

dark eyes, but with an unrest about them that made you not sure of his

future. Handsome, quiet mouth, but with a look of strength about it, or

of firmness; and to be firm in a wrong direction means obstinacy—means

danger. And about the whole man there had been a certain something

which told you that he thought himself master of himself; and when a

man thinks that, wise people know that he is a slave.

But he was changed. What is the change which comes into these handsome,

manly faces, when their owners give themselves over, body and soul,

into the keeping of the King? Is it a stamp of the King's signet ring?

Is it a hint of the coming fulfillment—"We shall be like Him when we

shall see Him as He is"? Whatever it is, you saw it plainly on Freeman

Vance's face.

"It is singular that it rains." This was what he was saying.

"Why?" The word mellowed into a happy little laugh. The laugh said:

"Let it rain, and let the wind sigh and moan among the leafless

branches; I don't care in the least; the night, and the darkness, and

the sighing are as nothing to me; they are all 'without,' and I am

hedged in, and sheltered, and safe, and happy."

"It rained, that night, you know. I remember just how the drops sounded

on the window-pane, and how the wind moaned, and shook the trees

angrily because it could not get in at you. It seemed to know that it

would never be able to touch you, and to know, also, that in a few

minutes I would have to come out to it in the darkness and be whirled

whither it would."

"What a dreadful picture!" Still there was content in the voice. "I

remember the night, and the rain, and the wind; but I did not think

you noticed it, or cared whether it touched me or not. Carrie said I

offended you that evening."

"Poor Carrie! It is difficult to conceive of a young lady making less

of life than she is doing."

"How is it with Ben? He is getting on well, is he not?"

"Splendidly! The dear fellow! I saw him last night. Some memory of old

times came over us, and he spoke of that very evening; said he should

have reason to remember it forever; though it was words spoken on the

first day of your coming, during the walk up from the depot, he said,

which set him to thinking."

"No one ever acted less as though he were thinking! I was sure that he

was simply amused with me, as a little country dunce. Many a time he

helped to make it hard for me."

"I presume so; trying the temper of the steel. Ben is developing well.

He is the chief dependence of the young men's meeting in his church;

and he has a great deal of influence over the boys younger than

himself. Fenton tells me that he has about broken up the card-parties

which used to be so fashionable in that set; not by any aggressive

measures, you know—just a steady, quiet influence.

"'Clean hands,' he said to me last night. 'That is my motto, Freem.'

And there were tears in the dear fellow's eyes. You did good work in

the field during that one week, little Elsie. Went into the enemy's

ranks and captured right and left."

"I remember," said Elsie, when the laughter and the blushing over

part of this sentence had subsided—"I remember I cried that night,

because I felt that I had spent such a useless week, and, after all

my resolutions, was coming home with soiled hands and stained heart.

God was very good to own my feeble, blundering attempts. Poor Carrie

thought I cried because I had offended you."

"Poor Carrie!" repeated Arr. Vance, laughing a little. Then both of

them sighed. The year that was past had not improved Cousin Carrie.

"Does Ben know—" began Elsie, then stopped. Mr. Vance seemed able to

understand half sentences.

"Ben does not know anything, except where I am gone for vacation; but

I think he suspects a great deal and keeps his own counsel. I do not

visit often at your uncle's, now, for reasons that you may possibly

surmise."

Just a moment of silence, during which both watched the play of the

firelight.

Then Freeman Vance bent toward the other easy chair, which was lower

than his.

"I have something to show you, Elsie, and something to tell you. Will

you let me see if this fits?"

Then the firelight flashed about a cluster of small, pure diamonds,

quaintly set.

"It was my mother's ring, Elsie, and there is something to tell you

about it—something strange, which will make you feel more than ever

that God plans all our ways for us.

"When my mother gave it to me, a boy of twenty, she said: 'It is for

your wife, Freeman, with a mother's blessing. And, my son, promise me

this: the girl on whose finger you place it must have clean hands and a

pure heart. Will you be careful of that, my boy?' I promised it on my

knees, by my mother's dying bed.

"You may judge now something of the thrill it gave me to hear you quote

those words.

"I have carried the ring on my watch-guard, hidden from sight, for five

years.

"Now it has found its rightful owner, and, my darling, I know I have

obeyed my mother's words."

CIRCULATING DECIMALS.

———

CHAPTER I.

THE Sabbath-school library of the Penn Avenue Church was really in a

disgraceful condition. For years it had been let alone, until it had

finally put itself into that state of dilapidation which let alone

things can so skillfully assume. Covers were sadly torn, corners

curled, fly-leaves gone, in many cases the first dozen or twenty pages

of the book missing, to say nothing of great gaps in the middle of the

story or history. Some books had almost every leaf defaced by those

irritating scribblers, who are never safe creatures with a lead pencil

in their hands. Many of the books were missing, having been swallowed

in that mysterious vortex which ingulfs lost things, no person living

being able to give a lucid account of their departure. And, to crown

all, according to the statement of Mrs. Marshall Powers, who knew most

things, "Not more than half the books were fit for a Sabbath-school

library in the first place."

Who needs a photograph of a disabled library? Alas, the ghastly

remains lie around so profusely that there is no need for more than

a word to recall the very bend of their limp covers—those of them

which have covers left. Such was, and had been, the condition of the

Penn Avenue library for many a month. It had been long since a book

had been spoken of by the bright girls and boys who belonged to its

Sabbath-school without a contemptuous curling of upper lips. Spasms of

interest had been from time to time awakened, and much talk had been

wasted in repeating the patent fact—"We certainly ought to do something

about our library," the main difficulty being that the effort went no

farther than talk; and the day came when a suggestion of this sort

would set the aforesaid lips to curling in derisive incredulity. They

believed—those boys and girls—that the Penn Avenue library was dead.

Such, however, was not the case. One summer morning it revived. The

young ladies' society took hold of it with interest; they would have a

fair and festival forthwith; they would spare no pains and no expense

to make the matter a grand success, and secure the means for a new and

complete library, which should at once be the admiration and the envy

of every other church in town.

Do you need to be told how that society hummed and buzzed after that?

Meetings were held each week, sometimes twice a week. Committees were

formed, and dashed hither and thither through the crowded streets.

Worsted, and canvas, and embroidery silk, and ribbon, and beads, and

lace came to the front, and became matters of even more importance than

usual. The air was full of them, parlors were full of them, tongues

were full of them; go where you would, you were destined to hear about

"a lovely rose-colored tidy in a new stitch," or "an elegant afghan,"

the materials for which were to cost twenty dollars, or a "magnificent

Bible cushion" that was all a mass of raised silk embroidery that would

take "days and days of close work to finish"; or of some other of the

endless pieces of fancy work getting ready for the fair. Neither was

the festival part neglected. The city was districted, the streets were

canvassed, miles of energetic walking were accomplished, and the result

was cake—black cake, white cake, brown cake, chocolate, delicate,

cream, cocoanut, sponge, and, to crown all, the "loveliest great mound

of angels' food that was ever made in this town!" So one enthusiastic

miss reported. Think of a company of rational beings, meeting and

eating up a loaf or two of angels' food, for the purpose of securing a

Sabbath-school library! Cakes were not all! Jellies, pickles, chickens,

ham, tongue—oh! What not? If you had looked into the receiving room of

the Penn Avenue Church, on the afternoon of the eventful evening, you

would have almost supposed that the dear people were making ready to

give a Christmas dinner to this great, cold, homeless outside world,

so bountiful were the provisions. But they were not; they were only

preparing to eat their way into a Sunday-school library for the use of

their own boys and girls.

But let no novice suppose for a moment that the afternoon of this day

had been reached in peace. If I should undertake to give you a history

of one third of the troubles through which the self-sacrificing leaders

walked, my story would be far too long. Did not Helen Brooks say that

Sallie Stuart's pincushion was a "dowdy-looking thing," and should not

be on her table; that Sallie did not know how to do fancy work anyway,

and never ought to have tried? Did not Alice Jenkins say that Stella

Somebody had marked her sofa pillow "ridiculously high;" that it was

really a disgrace to a church to charge such exorbitant prices? And did

not both Sallie and Stella hear of these things, by that mysterious

process which is rife in all society, and which nobody understands,

and did they not both withdraw in affront, declaring that they would

have nothing more to do with the Penn Avenue fair, nor the Penn Avenue

Sabbath-school? This is only a hint of the miasm of which the air was

full.

But one story I must tell you: an "ower true tale" it is. If any of

the Penn Avenue people read this, I ask their pardon for making it

public, but it should be recorded as a matter of history. It was all

about a doll. A great, beautiful waxen doll, direct from Paris, having

wonderful real hair, and wonderful eyes that looked as though they must

be real, and rosy parted lips, and teeth that gleamed like pearls. This

doll was a special grant of grace to the young ladies' society. Mrs.

Archer, just returned from a European tour, had brought it home for

the very purpose to which she now dedicated it, namely, the library

of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school. Think of the number of children in

that Sabbath-school whose very arms would quiver with the desire to

clasp such a treasure as their own! Assuredly there were fifty fathers

in the congregation who would think nothing of investing a dollar for

the possibility of securing it for the darling at home. Nothing easier

than to sell fifty tickets, at a dollar each, and let the child whose

fortunate number corresponded with the number on the inside of the

Parisian lady's Parisian slipper carry off the prize in triumph, while

the forty-nine other children held their breaths and controlled their

sobs as best they could.

Now all this proved to be very correct reasoning. Hot buckwheat cakes

on a frosty morning never disappeared faster than those fifty tickets

were exchanged for shining silver spheres or crisp national currency.

With great satisfaction did the committee count out its fifty dollars

for the treasury of the Lord, mourning over but one thing: "We might

have had seventy-five or a hundred tickets just as well as fifty."

Still, it was not all smooth sailing. Murmurs long and deep began to

be heard, and presently they waxed loud enough to claim attention.

There were those among some of the fathers and mothers in Israel who

succeeded in making it understood that they had conscientious scruples

against gambling, even for religious purposes. They declared that

this thing ought not to be, and therefore must not be. Triumphant

were the answers: "The tickets are all sold; what are you going to do

about it?" But the conscientious element was in earnest. Something

ought to, and therefore something could, be done about it; the money

could be refunded, the tickets destroyed, the Parisian lady valued

at a reasonable price and set up for sale, if they would, but never

raffled for. Great was the consternation—loud were the voices. Give

back the fifty dollars! Guess they would, hard as they had worked for

it! Great need in being so squeamish! They had heard of people who

strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel. They believed, if the truth

could be told, the trouble started with somebody who was disappointed

because his little girl did not get a ticket. They were not going to

give up the doll, not they. Did people suppose they would do all the

work, and then be dictated to by a few narrow-minded men and women?

The strife ran high; it threatened to rend in pieces the young ladies'

society. There were those who would do nothing if the Parisian lady

was insulted; there were those who would do nothing if the raffle was

permitted. Into the midst of the turmoil came the Sabbath to make what

lull it could. The offending lady was carried home on Saturday by one

of her allies, and securely locked in the "spare chamber" to spend the

Sabbath in repose. Alas, and alas! The day was warm, the windows of the

spare room fronted the south; the blinds had been thrown wide-open, the

evening before, to catch the last rays of light for a special object,

and by some strange mismanagement had not been closed again. The

blue-eyed lady in her arm-chair directly in front of the window, looked

her loveliest all day; and all day the sunbeams hovered around her,

and wooed her, and kissed her, and caressed her, never realizing the

fierce heat of their love; and on Monday morning, when the determined

committee went to remove my lady to her throne in the church parlor,

behold, her delicate complexion was seamed and soiled; what had been

red cheeks were simply long faded streaks, extending in irregular

lines to her neck; her eyelashes were gone, her nose was gone, her

lovely lips were washed out, and she was, in short, a ruined wreck of

her former self! There was no raffling at that fair. The money was

returned, the doll was patched up, and packed up, and sent to a little

niece of one of the committee—the disappointed auntie having bought my

lady for a trifle—mid apparent calm succeeded the angry threatenings.

Yet, despite all their efforts at composure, the young ladies could

not get away from the miserable feeling that the trouble was in some

way due to the opposition; and cold looks, and sarcastic speeches, and

discomfort and distrust had it very much their own way among certain of

the workers.

Well, the fair was held. Tidies, and tidies, and tidies! The number and

variety seemed endless.

"Tidies to right of us, tithes to left of us, tidies before us, tidies

behind us, tumbled and tangled," paraphrased a young man who caught

his sleeve button in one of the meshes and drew a small avalanche of

them to the floor. Another, looking on hopelessly at the mass, asked

what sort of carpets they would make. And another, turning from them

to the pincushions, wanted to know if some of those things were not

large enough for bolsters. All this aside, of course. Sales were

brisk, apparently, and yet many articles were unsold. The trifles, the

small keepsakes, the pretty nothings found ready purchasers; but the

pieces that represented miles of silk embroidery, and hours of toil,

and were to bring large returns, were still the property of the young

ladies when the evening was over. It was over at last, and weary bodies

and excited brains sat down to count the spoils. There was a bill to

pay at the fancy store for materials; there was a bill to pay at the

confectioner's; there was a bill to pay for dishes rented, and broken,

and otherwise injured; there was a bill to pay for cream—where do all

the little bills come from which swarm round a distracted treasurer

at such a time? Unexpected expenses, and enough fancy work on hand to

stock a modest store! The bills were paid, and the wearied soldiers

went into camp for repairs—mental and moral; and there was deposited

with the treasurer of the library fund the sum of twenty-two dollars

and sixteen cents!

After that there was a lull in the Penn Avenue Church.

CHAPTER II.

THE next spasm that seized them started in the choir. They would give

an entertainment, musical and literary. No such gross and material

things as food for the body should intrude. Committee meetings were

again the order of the day. It was soon found that even in preparing

for "a feast of reason and a flow of soul," differences of opinion

would arise. Should it be the cantata of Queen Esther, or the operetta

of the Milkmaid, or something lighter than either, say, the Dance of

the Fairies? There were those who thought a series of tableaux would

be better than any of these, and there were those who thought there

was talent enough in the Penn Avenue Church to get up a genuine play,

instead of one of these milk-and-water affairs. At last, after some

plain speaking, and a few heart-burnings, it was decided that the

cantata of Esther should have the right of way, the casting vote in

its favor being made because there was a young man visiting at the

Judsons' who had just graduated from the theological seminary, and

would make a "magnificent Haman." Then began rehearsals. Music was to

be interspersed between the various scenes, and certain sopranos were

asked to prepare choice selections, such as: "I think only of thee,

love," and "My heart's dearest treasure," and "Ever thine own, love,"

and a few other of those gems which we hear screamed out by seraphic

voices to large and appreciative audiences. I have never heard it

explained why so much of our popular music should be wedded to words

which the performer would blush to repeat in prose to an audience of

more than one; but the fact, I suppose, is indisputable.

Oh, those rehearsals! Why are they attended with so many trials? Does

Satan make special arrangements to be present at all efforts of this

kind? And, if so, why? Does his superior genius recognize in these

gatherings fruitful soil for the developments dear to his heart, I

wonder?

Miss Minnie Coleman was general-in-chief of this particular

entertainment, and she dropped a limp heap among the cushions one

evening and recounted her trials to sympathetic ears: "Such a time,

mamma! You never saw anything like it. It really is enough to

discourage one with any attempt at doing good! Who do you suppose

wants to be Vashti? That ridiculous little Kate Burns! She says she

knows more than half of the part already, because she helped them get

this up in the Vesey Street social; the idea! Everything she did was

to prompt at one of the rehearsals! She is too dumpy for a queen; and

she has a simpering little voice. Oh! It would be just too ridiculous

for anything, and yet she is bent on it; she has talked with each one

of the committee separately, and hinted that we ought to propose her.

Then there's that Jennie Harmon, vexed because she hasn't been chosen

for Esther. She makes all manner of fun of Essie (whom everybody says

is just the one for the part), and I'm really afraid Essie will hear

of it, and refuse to act; the girls are so hateful, mamma, you haven't

an idea! They get so excited about things that don't go just as they

want them; they burst right out with whatever is in their minds. Three

of the committee went home crying to-night just because of things that

they had overheard said; and I'd cry, too, if I were not so provoked.

It does seem too bad when we are working for benevolence, and trying

our best to make a little money, to have people go and spoil things

in this way. (Jessie Morrison is fretting, too; she doesn't like her

part; says her mother thinks the dress is unbecoming. 'What of it?' I

asked her, somebody had to wear it, and it might as well be she as any

one; well, she said her mother did not think it was exactly a proper

dress to appear in, in public. So absurd!) I am just tired of the whole

thing. I told Fannie to-night I would give anything if we were safely

out of it all, and if I once get through I shall wash my hands of all

benevolent enterprises in the future. Fannie was a poor one to talk to,

though; she is so vexed because she hasn't been asked to sing a solo

that she could tear everything to pieces. I'm sure I hope those library

books, if we ever get them, will do a great deal of good; they ought

to, such a world of trouble as they have made."

Ah, well, they lived through it. It is surprising how many trials we do

succeed in pushing through and coming out alive on the other side!

The cantata argued and frowned and sparred and grumbled its way into

perfection. The large hall was engaged for two evenings, because a

complete rehearsal at the hall was a necessity. The town was duly

placarded, inviting the public to the unique entertainment gotten up

by the energetic young people of the Penn Avenue Church. The usual

number of street jokes floated through the air, about the "Penn Avenue

Theatre," or the "religious opera," sent afloat by that large class of

irreligious young men who inhabit every town and city, and who seem to

know by instinct just what is appropriate to a religious body, and just

what is not. When the church and the world start out to walk hand in

hand, it is a curious thing that it is always the world that sees the

inconsistencies, and laughs, and always the church that is blind.

The modern Queen Esther did hear of the trouble, and, unlike her great

namesake, faltered and pouted and would have nothing to do with the

affair, so at a late hour a new queen had to be hastily chosen, who

marred the occasion by forgetting some of her parts; and this is only

a hint of the sea of trials which encompassed the executive committee

that evening. Still, as I said, they lived, and came to the hour when

they sat down to count their gains. From this exercise they rose

up sadder and wiser girls. The costumes had been so unique, and so

rich, and were of such brilliant colors that, being available for the

occasion only, many things had to be bought, and the bills sent to the

treasurer. The purchases did not seem many nor heavy, as they were

bought by different people, at different times, but they counted up so

mercilessly when the figures were set in those inexorable rows! Then

the charge for the hall was simply enormous. The poor committee looked

at each other and said this a dozen times during the counting up; the

idea of charging as much for the use of the hall for the rehearsal as

they did for the regular evening! Who would have imagined such a thing!

Then the bills of the piano lenders were more than they had supposed

possible, and the printer's bill was another ruinous item. Will it not

be easily credited by the great army of the initiated that nineteen

dollars and two cents gave the sum of the net proceeds of all these

weeks of outlay! Actually nineteen dollars and two cents! "There!" said

the treasurer, tossing down her pencil with a determined air, "I shall

not add that column again! I've begun at the top, and in the middle,

and added the fives and the nines separately, and done everything I can

think of, and it comes every time to that miserable little nineteen

dollars and two cents! Let's take the nineteen dollars to pay for the

shoe leather we've worn-out, and hand in the two cents to the library

committee, and then go and drown ourselves."

They laughed, as girls will, at almost anything, if somebody will only

lead off. But when they reached home they, every one of them, cried.

Poor things! My heart aches for them. There is no class of workers more

utterly to be pitied than those who struggle and toil, making bricks

often times without straw, and who find at the close that, some way,

the bricks seem not to have been worth the cost.

It was months afterward, winter indeed, before the library association

gasped again. Then up rose the women, the respectable, middle-aged,

matronly women. The library must be replenished, money must be

raised. It would not do to set girls at it; girls always got into

trouble, they were so sensitive, so quick to take offence, so lacking

in self-control. They—the matrons—would do this thing speedily and

quietly. They would have an oyster supper on a large scale, make

preparation for a great many guests, furnish oysters in every possible

style, and with them such coffee as only they could make, to say

nothing of the inevitable cake and cream, and side dishes, for those

who did not relish oysters. So they went to work, quietly, skillfully,

expeditiously. Baking, broiling, frying, stewing! What tales could

not the kitchens and pantries have told during those days! They got

through to the weary end, not without heart-burnings and a few tears,

and much pressure of lips lest they speak unadvisedly, and occasional

home confidences not flattering to their fellow workers, and I protest

that in this age of the world, with Satan so manifestly at the helm as

he is, it is not possible to get up a church fair, festival, opera, or

what not, without these, but the matrons were as they had promised to

be, on the whole, discreet, forbearing, and silent; no open breaches

came.

The evening of the supper came. Dark!—was it ever darker? Rain!—not a

fitful dash with gleams of moonlight between. Just a steady, pelting,

pitiless rain, mud at every crossing, pools of water at some. Warm—so

warm that, to the average oyster eater, the very thought of one of

those bivalves was disgusting. A few damp yet resolute people stood

around in the corners of the great room, and steadily ate large dishes

of oysters, double dishes, some of them, and the minister, the one who

perhaps could afford it least, ushered in from the dark outer world, in

the course of the evening, seven wet, hungry newsboys, and gave them

such a supper as they will tell of twenty years hence, and paid the

bills! Meantime the cooked oysters in huge quantities were sent out to

the deserving poor, and the uncooked ones were forgotten and left in

the warm room all night, and by morning were not fit for the deserving

poor, or any other poor! In the early forenoon of the next day, while

the rain was thus falling drearily, a few draggled and discouraged

females wended their way homeward, laden with soup tureens, cooking

utensils, and a loaf each of cake! And this was the outcome of Penn

Avenue's third effort!

Now you are not to suppose that this church was poor. It was not

wealthy in the sense that some city churches are, which need only

to mention a want to have it supplied from a full treasury; but its

members, the great majority of them, lived in comfortable, and some

of them in elegant homes; none of them ever arranged for himself to

have a supper brought in by his friends, and eaten by his friends,

and paid for by his friends, in order to help him through with the

current expenses of the year. Not one of them had ever been known to

solicit articles for a fancy fair in order to help pair house rent, or

even pew rent. All of them were in the habit of putting their hands in

their pockets and furnishing the money with which to meet all these

reasonable needs. Why, then, did they resort to such pitiable devices

to replenish their church library? Is there any person who can give a

satisfactory answer to that question?

I want also to be understood about those young ladies. They were by no

means working for self-gratification; they were honest in their desire

to raise money for the cause; neither were they of a more quarrelsome

disposition than others of their age and position. The simple fact

was, that the unusual surroundings, the endless rehearsals, the

posing in characters strange to them, the curious costumes which made

them feel unlike themselves, the need for haste, and undue exertion,

the necessity for planning for so many contingencies, the sense of

responsibility, the consciousness of criticism freely offered, the

possibility of failure, all these strained heavily on young nerves

unused to great strains, and produced the highly wrought condition

of nervous irritability which made molehills loom up like mountains,

and made the things that would on ordinary occasions have raised a

merry laugh start the quick tears instead. I take the bold ground

that misunderstandings, and heart-burnings, and coldnesses, sometimes

far-reaching in their influences and results, are almost necessary

accompaniments to work of this character; there are notable exceptions,

but exceptions emphasize rules. Really now, how many church festivals,

fairs, concerts, cantatas, Christmas dramas, and what not, have you

watched closely from their inception to their close, without hearing of

a jar which did more or less harm?

What does this prove? I am not proposing to prove anything by it, I am

only stating certain facts. Also, I am advocating the cause of the Penn

Avenue Church; it was like unto other churches.

CHAPTER III.

IF you please, now, go back with me to the early summer in which the

first spasm of interest in regard to the library took hold of the young

people. The new superintendent, unwittingly, perhaps, set the ball to

rolling, by remarking that the library had been closed and locked by

vote of the executive committee of the school, until such time as there

were found to be any books worth giving out. Then, among those who had

looked at each other and shaken their heads in disapproval of such a

state of things, were the young ladies in Mrs. Jones's class,—ten of

them. They occupied the corner down by the door, between the door and

the east window; a corner that was cold in winter and warm in summer;

a corner that other classes shunned. Perhaps that will give you a hint

in regard to Mrs. Jones's class. They were young ladies belonging to

a certain clique. None of them wealthy, none of them even well-to-do,

in the sense which you probably mean by that term. They represented

comfortable homes, where the fathers worked hard, daily, for daily

needs, where the mothers took their share of daily burdens, where the

daughters did what they could to help lighten the burdens of both.

For instance, one was a sewing girl, and went every day among the fine

houses on the fashionable streets to do plain sewing. Another was a

milliner's apprentice, and in the busy season worked over bonnets

from seven o'clock of a Monday morning often until twelve o'clock

of a Saturday night. The fact was, she knew some of the Penn Avenue

Sabbath-school teachers who had their bonnets sent home in the gray

dawn of the Sabbath morning, because they must have them for that day's

worship. Another managed the entire culinary and kitchen department

for a large family, in order that the mother might sit all day, and

sew (on the many garments which were brought to her, to cut and fit,

and repair and make). Still another was clerk in a fancy store, and

knew much about the pretty things that less busy girls than she were

fond of making. Two were teachers in the graded school and spent

their Saturdays in helping with the family ironing, to relieve an

over-burdened mother. Workers they were, every one; not a drone in the

hive. By common consent they were almost entirely counted out of the

"fancy department," as they had named the young ladies' society. They

had not time for fancy work, neither did they move in the same circle

with the fancy workers. Oh, they attended the same church, and were on

friendly enough terms with the young people, at least with those whom

they knew sufficiently to exchange bows when they met on the street;

they met nowhere else save in church. I am sure you know all about

those subtle, oftentimes mysterious, yet plainly defined, society

distinctions. They are to be found in every village, however small, as

well as in our largest cities.

This corner class looked at each other and shook their heads with the

rest, but they did one thing more. Sarah Potter said, "Girls, let us do

something. Mrs. Jones, let us have a Sabbath-school library."

"Well," said Mrs. Jones, briskly, heartily, "I'm agreed. Let us, by all

means." Then they laughed a little. Mrs. Jones was a tailoress, and

worked hard all day, and every day, and was devoted to her ten young

ladies.

But Sarah Potter had more to say: "Oh, now I mean it. It is high time

something was done. Let us meet to-morrow evening at Jennie's and talk

it over."

Now Jennie was one of the ten, and all meetings to discuss ways and

means were always held at her house. In fact it was the settled place

of meeting for anything connected with this class. It had been two

years since Jennie had met with them elsewhere than in her own room.

Yet the class was always counted as numbering ten. One glance at her

pale, bright face would have told you the story. She never left her

room, nor her bed, and looked forward now to but one way of leaving

that spot, which would be when they carried her out into the world once

more, in her coffin! Yet Jennie was the strong bond of union in that

class. "She is the class soul!" affirmed Mrs. Jones in her strong and

somewhat quaint language, and the one to whom she spoke understood, and

did not controvert it.

Workers are very apt to move promptly in whatever line they take up.

The next evening the ten met in Jennie's room. She was eager to receive

them, ready to further their plans to the best of her powers. But had

they any plans? "Sarah began it," they said, "she must tell us what she

wants."

"I want a new library; and I say, let's get one, somehow."

"Very well, I'll be secretary and put that down. So much decided. 'A

library somehow.'" Hannah Wood wrote the sentence in large letters, the

others gleeful meanwhile. "Now, Sarah, proceed. We are all ready for

the plans."

"I haven't any plans; only that the thing must be done. It has been

talked long enough. Yes, I have plans. Look at the Woman's Board; see

how much money they are raising with ten cents a month. Why couldn't we

draw up pledges for ten cents a month and get signers? There are ten of

us to work; ten cents a month from everybody that we can wheedle into

giving it. A regular decimal performance."

"Circulating decimals at that," laughed her sister. "Think how we shall

have to circulate through this town to get signers!"

"Jennie, you must be our treasurer; we'll report to you once a month.

Mrs. Jones, won't that be nice?"

The subject was fairly opened for discussion, and vigorously was it

discussed. Before the evening closed, each of the ten had a copy of the

pledge written in a fair round hand. "We, the undersigned, do pledge

ourselves to give ten cents each month at the call of a person holding

this paper, for the benefit of the Penn Avenue Sabbath-school Library

Fund, until such time as we shall ourselves erase our name from this

paper."

"And it will be one while before you get a chance to do that,"

affirmed Sarah Potter, reading the pledge with grave satisfaction. "If

ever our church gets into another muddle over a library, I shall be

disappointed."

This was the beginning. The girls pocketed their papers, kissed

Jennie, and went home. Thereafter, steady, silent work was done with

these pledges. The thing created scarcely a ripple on the surface

of the church society. The sum asked for was so small; it was so

easy to change your mind and erase your name at any time; it was so

improbable that those girls would call for so small a sum many months

in succession; it was so much easier to comply than to refuse; people

laughed and said one to another: "Do you know what those girls in Mrs.

Jones's class are trying to do? Poor things, they want books badly. I

hope they won't be old and gray before a new library is bought, but I

am afraid they will at that rate. Oh, yes, I put down my name! It is a

whim that will blow over very soon, and it is just a trifle anyway."

Very few members of the fancy department even heard of the plan; they

were busy making pincushions for the fair, and did not often meet the

other class. But the original scheme widened. The ten met one evening

at Jennie's call in her room; she had a plan.

"I've been thinking all the week, girls, and praying over it. Don't you

believe we could each give an evening a week to the library?"

"Oh, dear, yes, two of them if there was money in it! I'm becoming

interested and mercenary." This from Sarah Potter.

"Well, why don't you each go into business?"

"Why don't we what!" unbounded amazement in tone and manner.

"Go into business," repeated Jennie. Then she laughed. "I've been

thinking, and I find there is some one thing that each of you can do,

and do well; why not get up an evening class, one evening a week, and

give the result to the library fund?"

"Bless your dear heart! What an idea! There isn't a thing in life that

I know how to do!"

"Yes, there is. Don't you know, Trudie, that you make better cake for

the festivals than any of the fancy cooks? People always say so, and I

know two girls this minute who would be delighted to learn. I believe

you could have a large class."

"To learn to make cake! What an idea!"

"It is a good one, isn't it, girls? I'll tell you, Trudie; I was

praying about our library this very morning, and I asked the Heavenly

Father to give me an idea; and just then the Emmons girls came in; they

expect company, and they were dreading all the work there would be to

look after; Sadie said if it were not for cake she wouldn't mind, but

she never had success, and it gave her the blues to think of having to

attend to it. Just then it flashed over me this whole plan, and I knew

it was an answer to my prayer."

"Oh, Jennie, Jennie! Cake making and praying are too far apart to get

mixed in that way. Do you really think God attends to such things?"

Then it was time for Mrs. Jones. "Why, dear, me!" she said. "Don't you

know your Bible? 'Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye

do, do all to the glory of God.' If he is to be glorified by our work,

it is likely he knows a good deal about it."

"You can't glorify God by making cake!"

"Can't? Then I should like to know what business you have spending your

time making it. There's the direction."

"If you can turn cake into library books, Trudie, I should say the way

was plain." This from Mary Brooks. Then Nettie Brooks: "Come, Trudie,

take your cake and move out of the way. This is a splendid notion, but

what in the world can I do? I know how to sell fancy goods, and sort

colors, and bear all manner of impudence from ladies who tumble them

over, but I have no colors to sell."

"O Nettie, I thought of you! Look at your lovely handwriting. Think of

that winter when you took lessons to help the writing teacher pay her

board, and said you did not know what in the world you learned for. It

may be that God had you do it for just this time; and, don't you think,

I know three scholars for you. I've had ever so many calls to-day."

"Put her down," said Hannah gravely. "She'll get scholars; Jennie has

prayed it all out for her. I know what I can do; I can teach decimal

fractions; I've been at it all day, and I think I could teach them to a

post. But the question is, where is the post?"

"Mr. Nelson is willing to send his chore boy to an evening class, if

one is started; and Mrs. Silverton is willing to send both the Brewster

boys."

"I shall teach an evening school; and teach decimal fractions, and

circulating decimals at that. Every scholar shall circulate around a

new Sabbath-school library before another year. I begin to see floods

of daylight."

Do you think this scheme came to naught? Not in a single instance.

During the long winter evenings, the cake classes, and the soup

classes, and the writing classes, and the dress-cutting classes and the

arithmetic classes, were busy and enthusiastic.

"I suppose Jennie prayed them all there," said Sarah Potter,

thoughtfully, when after a night of heavy rain they met to compare

notes, and found that all could report progress. It grew to be their

working motto, "Jennie prayed us through." They worked carefully; if

Jennie was praying, the work must match the prayer.

"Girls," she said to them one night, "I've been thinking. Hannah, you

dear child, Bud says he begins to understand how to divide; he thought

he would never know. He said the carrying business bothered him always,

until last night you made it as plain as day. Can't you teach him how

to carry himself over bodily into the service of the Lord?"

Said Hannah, with amused voice, but tearful eyes, "O you blessed little

fraction! I'll try! I truly will."

"We must all try hard," Jennie said. "It is God's chance for us each.

It grows on me. The library will come; I feel sure of that, but so much

else will come if we teach for His glory. O girls, it is blessed to

work for Him! I cannot do it, and over again, but I am glad to say over

and over again, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' I can only

lie and wait, but I pray for the workers."

"Ah," said Hannah, "foolish child! She doesn't see that she is the hub,

and we nothing but the spokes in the wheel!"

They went home strengthened. There was more to do than merely to secure

a Sabbath-school library; and there was more done.

It was about this time that the fancy department counted over its

nineteen dollars and two cents, and wept!

Well, the winter hasted away; spring came and passed, and the workers

worked steadily, quietly on. Almost anything that takes a year to do

is done quietly. The mere surface talkers always get through talking,

early in the year, and conclude that because they are tired of the

subject it has, therefore, dropped. Very few people even took time

to notice the regularity with which their pledge was presented to

them and their ten cents claimed. Those who noticed it said, with a

patronizing, and somewhat pitying, smile: "So you are not tired of

that little effort of yours yet, eh? It reminds me of the old fable of

the bird trying to carry away the sand on the seashore. Well, every

little helps, and I am sure every effort is commendable. Our library is

certainly a disgrace." This class, having encouraged (?) the workers,

calmly shouldered the "disgrace," and went on their way thinking no

more about it. And the ten-cent pieces accumulated. New names were

constantly added. Most of Nettie Brooks's customers in the fancy store

signed to please her, she was so accommodating they all liked her.

The high school girls signed because Miss Wood was interested in it,

and all the scholars liked Miss Wood. And a whole army of people signed

because poor Jennie, lying always on her white bed, was pleased to have

them, and it was "very little to do for one so afflicted."

This same Jennie, as the days went by, and the little iron bank

in which she kept her money grew full, and must needs be emptied

again, had another plan, which involved taking the minister into

confidence. So one day, a little before the spring opened, he came

and sat by Jennie's couch, and they talked long together. And at the

next meeting of the "Decimals," which by tacit consent had come to be

considered their pet name, he was present; and there was more talking,

and the minister's wife and the minister's mother were received

into confidence. Not long thereafter came an express package to the

minister's door—books; but nobody thought anything of that, ministers

were always buying books. There was a certain upper room in the

parsonage, clean and sunny, and destitute of furniture, save shelves

and chairs. The shelves had been crowded with newspapers, but one day

they gathered themselves into systematic bundles and took their silent

way to the attic; they had been superseded. The shelves were dusted

and treated to a row of new books in tasteful bindings. Thereafter

the "Decimals" spent many leisure moments in the upper room of the

parsonage, admiring books. People wondered, occasionally, why "those

girls in Mrs. Jones's class were running to the parsonage so much."

Mrs. Marshall Powers explained the mystery by saying she supposed the

pastor and his wife were trying to get an influence over girls of that

class. The pastor heard it and laughed, and said to his wife that the

fact was girls of that class were getting a great influence over him;

he wished they were multiplied in every church in a tenfold ratio.

And the days passed, and more express packages came; and on one or

two occasions certain packages went back again, for the committee on

selection was very choice, and very cautious.

CHAPTER IV.

THERE came a day toward the close of summer when the Penn Avenue Church

called a congregational meeting.

The object thereof was to discuss—not a Sabbath-school library,

their hopes in that direction had sunk below zero. Neither the fancy

department nor the choir would venture a pincushion or a song. Not a

matron could be coaxed to offer suggestion. Nobody dare say "cake" or

"oysters" aloud. The subject under discussion was a new carpet for the

church parlor. One was sadly needed; indeed, no more church socials

could be held until the parlor was re-furnished, because no matron

could be found who would preside as hostess.

It was voted to secure means for a carpet forthwith. Then did the

chairman of the library committee delight the hearts of the carpet

committee by announcing that they had unanimously voted to place the

funds raised toward a new library in the hands of the carpet committee

to use at their discretion, inasmuch as there was no present prospect

of a library, and the amount raised would be such a trifle compared

with what would have been needed for that purpose.

Then arose a cloud that presaged a storm. The funds were raised for the

purpose of securing a library. What right had this committee to vote

them away? Could they not be placed in the bank until such time as the

needed amount was secured, and then used for their legitimate purpose?

Tongues were numerous now, and waxed eloquent; differences of opinion

were marked, and were urged with energy. The cloud, at first, no bigger

than a man's hand, bade fair to spread over all the congregation, and

involve them in a party squall.

Then up rose the pastor; the long weeks of silent action were over;

the time for speech-making had come. It was true that the funds under

discussion had been raised toward the purchase of a new library; it

was also true that without a general vote to that effect the committee

would not be justified in turning those funds into another channel. At

this point the belligerents who desired a new carpet, and meant to have

it at once, looked disgusted and the belligerents who desired a new

library, and meant to have one sometime, if they could get it, looked

complacently defiant, and affirmed with nodding heads that they should

never, no, never, vote away that sum of money for any other purpose

under the sun! But the pastor had more to say; also he had something to

do. The congregational meeting was held in the Sabbath-school room, and

just behind the pastor was the great handsome library case, closed and

unoccupied for many a day; for, to the honor of the Penn Avenue church,

be it written, they had not left the old library to lie in dust on the

shelves, but had selected, and mended, and re-covered, such of the

books as were deemed worthy of being missionaries, and freighted them

to a Western Sabbath-school.

That was accomplished during the pincushion and tidy fever, when

expectation ran high over the immediate prospect of re-peopling those

library shelves; but, as you are aware, the hopes centered on fairs

and festivals had been vain, and the library shelves were vacant and

dust-covered. So thought every person in that church that afternoon

save ten.

"I have something to show you," said the pastor, and, as if by magic,

those handsome doors swung open, revealing rows upon rows of books

unmistakably new, handsomely bound, delightfully large, many of them.

Tier upon tier they rose. It took but little arithmetic for those

familiar with the library case to discover that there must certainly be

more than three hundred books.

"Three hundred and forty-five!" said the pastor, reading the

mathematical calculations all over the room. "Handsomely bound," and he

took one in his hand; "duly marked and numbered," and he opened to the

fly-leaf and read: "'Penn Avenue Sabbath-School Library. No. 7.'"

What did it mean? Where did they come from? How were they obtained?

Nobody spoke, yet these sentences seemed to float all over the room, so

distinctly were they written on the sea of eager faces.

"I can tell you about them," said the pastor. "Yes, they are new, every

one of them, and they are ours if we vote to accept them. I have very

little doubt but that we will accept them, for they were bought by

our own money which we had deliberately and in sound mind dedicated

to that purpose." He further explained that the money was procured by

a system of decimal notation not so thoroughly understood as it ought

to be; it had long been known that ten times one were ten, but the

power of the number ten divided into tenths, and circulating freely and

repeating themselves after the peculiar manner of decimals, was not

generally understood or appreciated. We were indebted to the rising

generation for many things, and not the least among them, in this

church hereafter, would, he thought, be the exposition of the power of

circulating decimals.

Had the pastor suddenly become insane? What in the world was he talking

about! The opposing forces forgot their opposition and were lost in a

common curiosity. Why were people looking over to those girls in Mrs.

Jones's class? What had they to do with it?

Hark! The pastor was speaking again. He had forgotten certain

statements that he was to make. One was, that these books were not

evolved from cake and pickles, nor yet from tidies and slippers; but

were the representatives of the value of systematic offerings, and

systematic work done by individuals and individually devoted to this

cause. Another was a request that, for reasons which would be better

understood in the future than they now were, the library be named

the "Jennie Stuart Library." And still another was the announcement

that, as the library pledges held good until the signers erased their

own names, the collectors would still continue their duties, hoping,

by this means, to render any future leanness of library shelves an

impossibility in Penn Avenue Church.

Light was beginning to dawn, albeit it was still much obscured by

fog. The "Jennie Stuart Library." She was one of Mrs. Jones's girls.

Decimals—one, two, three—well, there were just ten of them; it had not

been noticed before. But how could they have secured such a library as

that? Could it be possible that that little ten-cent affair of theirs

had grown to such dimensions!

I suppose it is needless to tell you that the threatened storm blew

over, and smiles and congratulatory speeches ruled the hour. The

decimal class received a vote of thanks, which overwhelmed them with

blushes; their suggestions were adopted by a unanimous vote. Penn

Avenue rose to the acknowledgment of the fact that the only proper way

to manage a Sabbath-school library was to have a standing committee to

supply and add new books, in monthly installments.

Of course the opposition to the appropriation for the new carpet was

withdrawn, and gracefully, too. Everybody was willing to have a new

carpet.

Everybody shook hands with everybody, and congratulated themselves

and the world generally, and said, "Who would have thought that such

trifling subscriptions would amount to anything!" And "they were sure

those girls deserved a great deal of credit;" and "who were they,

anyway?"

It is true that Mrs. Marshall Powers said it was a queer way to manage

business! And there ought to have been a committee of selection. She

was sure she hoped the books were worth reading! But even she was

almost satisfied when she had examined them.

And so, at last, Penn Avenue Church had a new library.

"We have lost our motive power," said the girls, laughing a little, as

they met together in the evening to talk things over.

"I'm afraid," said one, "it will be humdrum work now. It was such fun

to ask people for their ten cents and see some of them look bored, and

some look like martyrs, suffering, in order that we might learn the

folly that was in us."

"Yes," said another, "now that it is all out, and the glorification has

begun, I shall grow tired and ashamed of collecting money. There will

be so much said, and so many questions to answer. I'm almost sorry we

promised to continue."

"Oh, you wretches!" said Mrs. Jones. "What is the use in being sorry

about anything, when Susy Perkins has learned to make cake and keep

her temper in the bargain; and Alice Burns can make her own dresses,

and means to work for something besides her own self hereafter; and

poor Bud is going to join the church to-morrow, and be a minister for

anything you know? The library is the very least of it, you ungrateful

creatures!"

The girls laughed again, but with tender notes in the laughter. "Oh! We

know it," they said with shining eyes; "that part of it is lovely, and

we are glad to go on. But we are afraid the library business will grow

commonplace after this. We must ask Jennie to give us something that

will lift it up."

Dear, thoughtless girls! Even then was preparing that which would

forever lift the Penn Avenue Library above the commonplace!

It was only the next afternoon that they were summoned, the class and

their teacher and the pastors to Jennie's room to meet a guest whose

presence has power to hush all other interests. The "King of Terrors"

he has been named; but there was no shadow of terror anywhere about

that room, least of all on the peaceful face of the one who lay on her

white couch, with a spray of late blossoming roses in her hand. Yet

they had gathered to say good-by.

The circle was to be broken; the central figure, as they loved to call

her, had been called. They were very still; there was no sound of

weeping in the room. Tears would have seemed out of place in view of

the shining of that face on the couch.

"Girls," she said, breaking the hush; she was not looking at them; her

eyes were resting on a heavy gold band which encircled her finger.

"Girls, I have been thinking—" the same simple words with which she had

been wont to preface her sweet and helpful thoughts to them during all

the days gone by. It struck them like a knell. Was it possible that

this might be the last time? "I have not been sure about this ring

until to-day. There was a time when I thought to take it into the grave

with me; but why should my poor worn-out body be decked with a ring? It

will not need it in the resurrection morning; I will not let this ring

lie in the dust and wait. I will leave it to work, while I go away to

rest. Girls, some of you knew Kent Pierson? You did, Nannie? Yes, and

you all know he is in Africa to-day, working for Christ. But you did

not know that I was to go out to him, did you? When he put this ring

on my finger I thought I would surely be well enough to go in another

year. But I am going to Heaven instead, and I have been thinking that

our ring should do some of my work for Africa. Will you take it, girls,

and change it into books for the library? Books about the needs of the

heathen? and the work of the missionaries, and tell all the boys and

girls who read them that those books are Kent Pierson's voice, calling

them to service?"

The tears came then, and low sobbing. Not from fair Jennie; her eyes

were bright and her face smiling. "Don't cry," she said gently, "you

need not; for me, you know, all the bitterness is passed. I am too near

home to cry. I suppose it will be hard for Kent for a little while, but

then, it will soon be over, and Heaven is as near to Africa as it is to

you."

They kissed her silently that day—their voices were not to be

trusted—and went out softly, as from the guest chamber of the royal

palace. Nearer they were to the invisible presence than they had known.

That very night, "or ever she was aware," Jennie saw the "shining of

His face." No noise, or sound of wings, or rush of music, at least so

far as those left behind can tell:

"They watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

"Their very hopes belied their fears,

Their fears their hopes belied.

They thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died."

The plain gold band was exchanged for books, and it came to pass

that an upper shelf in the Penn Avenue library was cleared and held

as sacred ground for those five books. Never had books been more

carefully chosen than these, and as the pastor marked them, "The Kent

Pierson Library, presented by Jennie Stuart, gone to Heaven," he almost

wondered whether there hovered over him angel witnesses to see whether

his part of the commission were well done.

"It lies around us like a cloud,

The world we cannot see."

One of the five, the first in the row, was that wonderful record of a

consecrated life, "Crowned in Palm-Land"; and the pastor, as he read

the sweet, and simple, and unutterably pathetic story of that life of

love and service, and finally of that lonely death, with not a human

eye to watch the last triumph of faith as the feet touched the valley

of the shadow, felt that such a book would do faithful work for Jennie

and for Africa.

Barely five days after Jennie had been laid to rest in the hillside

Cemetery that consecrated book began its work for foreign missions, the

story of which can only be told when we all meet where they will never

say foreign missions any more, because the foreigners will have become

fellow-citizens.

"There are ten of us still," said the girls, looking through tears at

the consecrated upper shelf. "Jennie is working with us."

And they felt, every one, that the Penn Avenue library had received its

"lifting up."

FISHING FOR PHIL.

———

CHAPTER I.

SHE, Daisy, knelt upstairs in front of the window, looking down on the

snowy street. A pretty picture she made, framed in the frosty window,

her fresh young breath making fancy shapes of the frost-work.

A brown head, crowned with masses of hair of that peculiar shade of

brown which makes you think when you look at it on a cloudy day, that

the sun is certainly shining somewhere and rippling those waves of hair

with gold.

It was not banged; it was not even frizzed. Daisy's mother belonged to

that class, of which there are a few rare specimens still extant, who

liked neither style, and Daisy herself belonged to that possibly still

rarer class of girls, who liked above all things to dress to please her

mother. There had been an attempt to make the brown hair lie in smooth

and glossy bands, but Nature had been too much for the owner. The hair

escaped, and waved and frizzed itself to that inimitable way which is

so very pretty and becoming, and of which all the hair-pin efforts are

such exasperating imitations.

Brown eyes under the hair, large, bright, sweet, sad or grave,

according to the mood of the wearer. Eyes which changed with the

changing expression, and seemed to do much of the speaking. For the

rest, you may imagine her.

There was a clear complexion; there was a sweet mouth and rosy cheeks.

There are a great many such girls, and yet they lack the something

which, shining in Daisy's face, made the looker want to turn and look

again, and half smile, in sympathy with the charm lingering there.

What is it? Who shall describe it? I fancy it is one of the ways in

which the soul looks out from its prison-house of clay. Yet who will

undertake to describe a soul?

She was looking down and smiling at, and bowing to Phil on the street

below, while he tarried in the frosty air to execute a series of bows,

extravagant in their burlesque of profound respect; also he was at

intervals tossing up delicate balls of the soft snow, which it amused

him to see her dodge, though the glass protected her from their touch.

"Throw up the sash," he shouted, "and crown your hair with ermine!"

But she shook her head merrily, albeit there was a wistful look in her

eye, and she would have liked nothing better than to have gone down,

coated and mittened, and had a snow-frolic in the street.

Had it been some friendly back-yard, instead of one of the public

thoroughfares, or had they been seven and ten, instead of seventeen and

twenty, she would have gone in a minute.

And then she gave one of those flitting sighs to her happy past, which

is all that a happy girl of seventeen ever troubles herself about her

past.

She sighed again, though, and her face grew grave with a sweet, sad

gravity, born of something deeper than the desire for a snow-frolic;

and as she looked after the handsome young fellow, who had used up his

brief space of time in fun, and was now striding rapidly toward the

bank, to get there before the clock struck nine, she said aloud, and

wistfully:

"If I could only coax him to go with me! It might be a beginning of

something better. It would certainly be better than what he is doing

now. Mr. Easton is so interesting; I am almost certain he would enjoy

it if he could once form the habit of going."

Not all of this aloud. After the first slow, wistful sentence, she went

over the rest in her own thoughts, as she had done often and often

before, and advanced no farther toward a solution; for her face did not

clear as she arose and went about arranging the ribbons and laces in

her drawer.

There was need for anxious thought. At least, so it seemed to Daisy

Morris, Phil's cousin, and so it seemed to Aunt Mattie, Phil's mother.

Aunt and niece had spent hours already in serious talk over the

possibilities and dangers of this young man.

"He used to be such a good boy," would Aunt Mattie say, with a sigh,

and then hasten to correct herself: "Not but that he is a good boy

now, so devoted to his mother and sister, so careful of their comfort!

There isn't a better boy in the city in all such ways; but you know

what I mean. He used to go to church as regularly as I do, and to

Sabbath-school. I have a box full of reward cards which he received in

the school for perfect lessons when he was a little boy; and he used

to go to prayer meeting, too, and seemed to like to go; his father

would often remark on its being unusual in such a little fellow. But

he fell in with those unfortunate companions, and little by little the

change came. Why, he had stayed at home from church for five or six

successive weeks before I realized it! There always seemed to be a good

reason; and now he only goes occasionally of an evening, and as for

Sabbath-school, he seems to be disgusted with the very thought of it!

"Every Sabbath, he goes out for a walk, or sometimes a ride, with a

party of young men who are far from being of the sort that a mother

would choose for her son's companions, and he goes less and less to

church, even in the evenings.

"Since Mr. Easton has come here, I have tried very hard to induce Phil

to go to Sabbath-school. I thought if he would but go once into that

Bible class, he would be attracted; for Mr. Easton has such a winning

way with young men, and Phil is so intellectual, that he could not fail

to be pleased. We have done our best, Blanche and I, but he seems fully

resolved upon having nothing to do with Sunday-school in any form. I am

so disappointed! For I had really counted a great deal on Mr. Easton's

influence, but of course he can't do anything so long as Phil avoids

him. My dear, there is another thing on which I am counting now, and

that is your influence over Phil.

"If you can induce him to go to Sunday-school once, to please you, I

believe that a good deal would be accomplished. And you know boys will

often do for a young and pretty cousin what they will not even for a

mother."

This is only a general view of the numerous talks which had been held

on the same subject since Daisy Morris had come from her distant home

to visit Aunt Hattie Hurst.

Many particulars had been added from time to time, and Daisy's quick

eyes had seen some things of which she did not speak to either mother

or sister. She believed that her handsome young cousin was in more

danger than his own family realized. She know that the cigarettes which

he smoked grew daily more numerous, and she had once or twice detected

the odor of wine about him, and had been frightened over a certain gay

recklessness which was unlike his usual courtesy. She believed that,

while the restraints of a business life and the responsibility of

standing somewhat, at least, in his dead father's place, held him in

check during the week, the freedom of Sunday and the influence of his

chosen friends were dragging him downward faster than his mother knew.

She had tried hard to use her influence in the right direction; but

while she certainly had influence with him, it was not strong enough to

draw him to church or to the Sabbath-school.

Since Daisy had made acquaintance with the new pastor, Mr. Easton,

and joined his Bible Class, she had begun to share her aunt's almost

superstitious belief that if Phil could only be gotten under that man's

influence, great things would be accomplished.

But it was just that man's influence which he seemed determined to

avoid. Only the Sabbath before had Daisy spent the entire morning

coaxing and arguing, being gayly answered by her quick-witted cousin;

she alternately hopeful and fearful; but so earnest had been her effort

and her prayer, that hope had really predominated until she saw him

drive away from the door with one of his friends, just as she was

tying her ribbons in a flutter of haste to catch him and make one last

effort. After that she sat down in a little heap before her window and

cried, and told herself that it was of no use, she had done all she

could.

No wonder that on this Saturday morning she sighed when the young man

was gone. Last evening the odor of wine had been distinct about him,

and the wildness which his mother called good spirits, Daisy believed

meant danger in a more terrible form than the mother had even thought

of as yet.

A succession of low, rapid, impatient knocks sounded at her door, and

almost before she could answer, her Cousin Blanche flitted in.

A marked contrast to Daisy was this Cousin Blanche. Not that her hair

was not brown, and her cheeks rosy, and her whole face full of sparkle;

pretty she was, decidedly, if she had kept her hair out of her eyes,

which, when fully dressed, she never did. And there was a certain

pleasure in looking at her. She took life in all its forms, even its

forms of care such as touched her, with a sort of joyish abandon.

Yet I think if you understood girls, you would have looked at her

again, and sighed. There was such a chance to fade; you felt that

she would fade, perhaps, with the first storm. You could not find

what there was in Daisy's face that looked as though it might glow

even amidst the storm, and certainly shine serene and sweet after the

fierceness of storm was past.

She was in full flutter of excitement this morning, and caught at Daisy

and whirled her about the room until the child was breathless, and

her hair blown in waves into her wondering eyes, before there was an

explanation of her mood.

"Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have such good, splendid news for you! What do you

think Phil says?

"We've been talking with him, mamma and I, and he promised; he actually

promised! Daisy, do you hear?

"And when Philip Hurst promises anything, it is as good as done."

"What did he say?" This from Daisy, her cheeks like two blush roses,

and the shadow gone.

"Why, he said he would go to Sabbath-school with you to-morrow, and go

into Mr. Easton's class, and stay through the entire session, if we

would get you to do something for him."

CHAPTER II.

"OH, I'll do it!" said Daisy, with a happy little laugh, her eyes

shining, "I'm ready to do anything. I'll go down on Madison Square and

snowball with him if he says so."

"I told Phil you would do it, and it isn't such a very dreadful thing

to do, Daisy Morris. I know girls, plenty of them, who would jump at

the chance.

"He wants you to go to Dorrance Hall with him this evening. It will be

just lovely! I promised Harry I would go, and I wanted you along all

the time."

The smile and the brightness faded together, and the shadow returned.

Daisy's voice was low, almost tremulous. Her disappointment was great.

"Blanche dear, I don't go to the theatre, you know."'

"I know you don't, and no more do I—at least, not often; but this is a

special occasion; everybody goes. They say the characters are perfectly

wonderful! It isn't like these miserable travelling troupes generally.

Everything is first-class, and they say the principal actress is a

lovely woman. Besides, why, Daisy, I'm sure you will not hesitate.

Think of Phil's promise. You said you would do anything."

The tone was reproachful, and Daisy felt it.

"I meant anything that is right," she made answer, speaking low.

"Well, of course, I would not ask you to do anything wrong; at least,

mamma would not. I think you may trust her, if you cannot me. I tell

you this is very different from an ordinary theatre; everybody goes.

The same company was here last winter, and you ought to have seen the

crowded houses! The very best people in the city. Why, Mrs. Schuyler

Van Vorst went three nights in succession, and so did her husband, and

he is an officer in our church."

"Blanche, did Mr. Easton go?"

"Mr. Easton! What an idea! Of course not! Public opinion doesn't

exactly approve of ministers going to such places, though I am sure I

don't see why; and I think it is mean, too. If I were a minister, I

would not stand it. I think he has as good a right to go as anybody

else."

"So do I," declared Daisy significantly.

But Blanche made haste with her arguments:

"But I don't care, Daisy, whether you ever go to a theatre again

in your life—you needn't if you don't want to—if you will only go

to-night. Think how much is at stake.

"We have been coaxing Phil for so long, and mother is almost

discouraged. You said yourself last Sunday that you had given up all

hope of his going to Sabbath-school; and here the matter is in your own

hands. You can't think how delighted mamma is! She says she knows Mr.

Easton will fascinate him right away."

"How came Phil to make such a condition as that? He has asked me before

to go to a theatre, and he knew just what I thought."

"Oh, well; but you see, he feels like everybody else, that such a

theatre as this is an exception. He says it is the very fact that you

have never been, which makes him want to take you. He wants to see what

the effect of the scenery, and the costumes, and everything, would be

on one who sees it all for the first time. Then he says you have great

talent in the way of personating people in dialogue, and he wants

to see how it will affect you to hear it done in its perfection. He

said it would be as good as a play to watch your face, and he added

some very complimentary things about your eyes and cheeks, which you

will not mind since you are his cousin. Oh, Daisy Morris, I know

you will go! You would never be so cruel as to disappoint us. Mamma

began to plan at once about your dress. She hopes you will wear that

wine-colored silk, with plenty of white about it. That dress ought to

be trimmed with ermine for such occasions, Daisy. Oh, dear! mamma's

calling me."

Daisy was not sorry for this. Her brain was in a whirl. She needed to

be alone.

Ermine trimming suggested the handsome face that had been raised to

hers in petition to crown her hair with ermine. He knew she looked

pretty in red and white. She knew it herself. Her wine-colored dress

was lovely.

But she put it firmly from her thoughts. Here was a question to be

decided, with which it ought to have nothing to do.

Seventeen years spent in a city, and she had never attended a theatre.

It was by no means for lack of opportunity. It was because of what some

people called the narrowness of her environments.

It was at first because mother and father never went, and did not

approve. It was because, afterward, she adopted their views and

feelings, and did not desire to go.

Many had been her invitations, but here came her first great

temptation. Not for herself, but for this young cousin whom she

admired, whom she thought was in danger; for his mother, who was

troubled, and who looked to her for help. Ought she to yield her

scruples on this occasion? She need not change her view; she need never

go again. She could tell Phil frankly that she was going in order to

secure the fulfillment of his promise, and for no other reason.

While the question was still in chaos, came her Aunt Mattie, with

radiant face.

[Illustration: DAISY CANNOT DECIDE IN FAVOR OF THE THEATRE.]

"Our little girl has caught him in her snare," she said, kissing Daisy

tenderly. "The naughty boy declared to me only two months ago that he

could not think of any inducement strong enough to make him submit to

the boredom of an hour in Sunday-school; and here, for the sake of

witnessing the innocent delight of his pretty cousin over new sights

and sounds, he is willing to pledge himself. You must look your very

prettiest to-night, my dear."

"But, Aunt Mattie, you know what mamma and papa think about these

things; and how I have been brought up to feel."

Whereupon her Aunt Mattie kissed her again. "Yes, dear child, I know.

Your mother and I had the same bringing up, and we thought very much

alike; and your uncle was fully in sympathy with such views; but he

died before his children became of an age to modify them in the least;

and your father and mother have been blessed with one dear child

who imbibed their views so early that they have had no need to make

sacrifices on her account; but there is a great difference in children.

"Neither Blanche nor Phil thought as I do about these things, though I

brought them up. And, indeed, my views, as I said, have been somewhat

modified. I do not approve of the indiscriminate theatre any more than

I ever did, nor of frequent attendance. But occasionally, when there

is a strictly moral play, presented by artists of acknowledged worth,

I have found it necessary to let my children go; and I have, once or

twice, yielded to Phil's coaxing, and gone myself."

"Aunt Mattie, it is Saturday evening."

"I know, my dear, and that part I regret. I do not, by any means,

consider it the best preparation for the Sabbath; but the occasion,

you know, is exceptional. It is this evening, or not at all, for this

play; and I thought you would not mind making your little sacrifice for

Phil's sake, when there may be so much at stake."

After that, Daisy was glad at the coming of callers who took her aunt

to the parlor, and left her alone. She must think. What was her duty?

What would mamma and papa say? It was certainly an exceptional case;

she had never heard the line of argument which would have helped her

to answer her aunt and cousin. She, too, believed that Mr. Easton's

influence over her handsome and brilliant young cousin would be

invaluable, and she knew only too well how much he needed influencing.

Ought she not to help, when the way was plainly opened to her? This was

an exceptional play; she knew enough about the theatre to be sure of

it. She did not fear hearing or seeing what would cause her to blush.

Her pretty new dress was all ready to wear to some place demanding

a brilliant costume. Her aunt would be bitterly disappointed if she

failed her. Perhaps, just for this once, she ought to go.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she came to this decision; but she opened

the little box of delicate laces, and let herself think: "If I should

go, I wonder if this, or this, would look the prettiest?" She opened

her glove-box, and wondered whether she ought to get new kids.

Oh, there was her darling little hand-painted bouquet-holder. Phil

ought to get her some lovely flowers to wear in it to-night. She

wondered if he would think of it.

She reached down into the box for the pretty toy, and her hand

touched a little book in a plain gray paper cover. What was this? Oh,

she remembered; papa had brought it home on the evening before her

departure, and had said: "There is something for you to study at your

leisure, daughter. I don't know that you need it; but it is well for

every Christian to be prepared to give a reason for his opinions."

She had thanked him, and kissed him, and dropped the book into the box

she was packing, and had not thought of it since. There had been no

occasion to go to the bottom of this particular box before.

Now she drew it out, and felt startled and flushed over the title:

"Plain Talks About the Theatre." Could this be mere chance?

She hesitated but a moment, then closed the drawer and sat resolutely

down with the little gray book. Certainly, if ever she needed any plain

talk about the theatre, it was now. There was much to read; much that

was new and startling to this young girl.

The statements made there, coming from the honored minister whose name

she well knew, were such as to make the glow on her cheek something to

notice and remember. Still, they all had to do with the regular drama,

and not those occasional and exceptional plays such as were being

performed by a rare company in this little city. Could there not be

such things as exceptions, which even a Christian might be justified in

enjoying?

Wait; what was this? She bent her brown head lower over the page, and

read the keen, clear-cut sentences: "What if it be also true that

this dark programme of the theatre is padded here and there with the

so-called standard drama, to win the countenance and patronage of the

most respectable and decent! I do not need to be told that to some

extent it wins them. But neither do you need to be told, moral and

Christian men and women, of decent and cleanly homes, thus drawn to

see an exceptional play of high and chaste form and tone, that you are

quoted and paraded as friends and supporters of the establishment—an

establishment, three fourths or nine tenths of whose influence is

pernicious and poisonous. Your patronage goes to swell the receipts

of, and to give countenance to, the house whose common and most

characteristic features are an offense to purity, to religion and to

God."

The gray book dropped from her hands and slid to the floor. The young

girl put both hands up to her flushed forehead, and pushed back the

masses of hair. Then she spoke four words, fraught with intense and

far-reaching meaning, "I want to pray," and dropped upon her knees.

CHAPTER III.

DURING the afternoon, the handsome house in Lincoln Place was filled

with uncomfortable and disappointed people.

Daisy, the bright and generally-yielding cousin, was quiet and gentle,

but firm as a rock in her decision to attend no theatre, either on that

evening or any other. She had tried to present her arguments to Aunt

Mattie and to Blanche, but neither mother nor daughter was in the mood

to be reached by argument.

The former had silenced her young guest by coldly referring to the

tendency of the times, which led young people to fancy themselves wiser

than their elders, even in matters of morals and religion, and the

latter had only that unanswerable reply, 'Oh, fiddlesticks!' to make to

any form of argument.

Matters had not improved by the six o'clock dinner hour.

Daisy watched for and waylaid Phil in the hall, and dashed eagerly into

her subject without introduction:

"Oh, Phil, I am sorry; but I can't do what you want, because I don't

think it is right. I don't approve of any sort of theatre, and I

cannot, of course, attend one; yet you know I would do anything to

please you that I could."

But Phil had been cold, too, and had replied with dignity that he was

sorry he was supposed to desire to take her to improper places; that

she must, at least, give him the credit of not intending anything wrong.

And to her earnest attempts at explanation, had finally answered in his

usual tone of gayety that it was all right; of course, he did not want

to take her where she did not want to go, and that he had expected no

other answer to his invitation, which was what had made him so willing

to give the promise that Blanche had been ridiculous enough to claim.

Then they had gone in to dinner; and all through the dinner hour Phil

had been ceremoniously polite, and the other members of the family had

been noticeably silent. At last the mother broached the sore topic:

"My son, will you be willing to take your old mother for a companion

this evening? I suppose it is too late for you to make pleasanter

plans; and while you know it is not my custom to go out on Saturday

evening, yet there is no sacrifice I am not ready to make, and no place

where I am not ready to go, if it will give my boy any pleasure."

Then had Phil arched his eyebrows slightly, but answered promptly that

it would give him great pleasure to attend her, if she would really

like to go; but he hoped there would be no martyrs on his account,

as he was not absolutely dependent upon the theatre that evening for

occupation; or, for the matter of that, he could go alone.

It was finally decided, however, that the mother would accompany him,

and she made her young guest miserable with elaborate excuses for

leaving her alone. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not think

of such a thing, and the theatre was the last place where she cared

to go; but she desired above all things to help Phil to find always

his companionship at home, and dreaded above all things his seeking

doubtful acquaintances under the impulse of a sore feeling of repulse

from those whose society he had imagined he could command.

With a swelling heart, and eyes that wanted constantly to brim with

tears, did the young Daisy go through with the trials of the early

evening. She arranged the flowers in Blanche's frizzed hair, and the

bows of her sash, and buttoned her kids, and attended to all the little

details of that particular young lady's toilet; and folded her aunt's

shawl, and held her fan and gloves, and went herself to the door with

them, to see the carriage roll away, leaving her to solitude. After

that she cried, but not long.

Then she wrote a cheery letter to her mother, saying not a word of

theatre or loneliness. Then she read a little more in the gray book,

and went from that to her Bible, choosing words that matched the

thoughts of her heart, beginning, "Wherefore, come out from among them,

and be ye separate;" and from that she went to her knees.

Her face was peaceful when she at last began to prepare for rest; and

she even hummed a sweet, tender tune, breaking once into language:

"Father, I know that all my life

Is portioned out by thee;

And the trials that will surely come,

I do not fear to see.

But I ask thee for a present mind,

Intent on serving thee."

It proved the next morning that the week had been too much for Phil. He

did not come to breakfast, and sent word that he meant to rest until

afternoon.

From the lunch table, at noon, he was summoned to see some friends in

the parlor.

"There," said the mother, with an air and tone of general reproach,

"I was going to advise you, Blanche, to remain from Sabbath-school,

and try to entertain your brother this afternoon. Sabbath-schools and

everything else sink in importance compared with the effort to keep

a soul from going astray. Now those miserable fellows have come for

him, and he will be away with them all the afternoon. I knew there was

some special scheme for to-day, which made me doubly anxious that Phil

should be rescued from them; but it is too late now."

The tone and manner of the speaker made poor Daisy feel like a criminal

who had deliberately led her Cousin Phil to his ruin. Blanche had only

a sigh for answer. Presently she said:

"I shall stay at home, anyway, mamma, if Daisy will excuse me. My head

aches, and I don't feel like talking nor thinking."

"Oh! Daisy will excuse us, I think. She is quite an independent little

lady, I am sure, and able to go alone to Sabbath-school or elsewhere;

aren't you, dear?"

"Yes 'm," said Daisy bravely, "I shall not mind going alone, if you are

not able to go."

Then she went away in haste, lest the tears should fall. They had not

cared to have her stay: She would willingly have done so, if that

would have helped Phil; but she had lost her influence over him, and

disappointed mother and sister, and she felt as she set her brown

hat on her head, that she wanted to go home to her mother. She had

done right; of that she felt sure. But doing right was very hard work

sometimes, especially when one was away from one's mother.

Down-stairs she could hear Phil moving up and down the room, whistling

snatches of tune. He had not gone out yet, it seemed. Perhaps if she

hurried away, Blanche could coax him to stay and sing. She seized her

Bagster Bible, and ran hastily down-stairs. The whistler came to the

hall to meet her.

"What a ponderous book!" he said, in mock dismay. "Is it really

necessary to carry such a great Bible as that?"

"I like it," she said simply.

"Like to carry it, I suppose. You ought to have it expressed; but that

would not do for Sunday. I see that I shall have to go and carry it."

He was donning his overcoat with speed, and possessed himself of the

Bible before Daisy could recover from her surprise.

It was a long walk to the church, and the air was brisk and clear. The

sun shone brilliantly, and Phil was at his brightest; every trace of

ill humor seemed to have passed away. It was not until they neared the

church, that he referred to the events of the day before.

"So, Daisy, you wouldn't go to a theatre with me, even to save my soul,

which has seemed to trouble you so much?"

"Oh, Phil, I couldn't do wrong, you know, whatever the imaginary

motive; and I had no hope at all that my doing a wrong thing would help

you or any one in the least. I had to do as I did; I wish I could make

you understand that."

"Was it hard work?"

"What? To stay at home, do you mean?"

"Yes; did you really want to go?"

"It was hard to refuse you, and disappoint Aunt Mattie and Blanche.

Yes; I should have wanted to go, should have liked to go, if it had

seemed right. But you know I couldn't want to do anything that it was

made plain to me would dishonor Christ. I desire above all things to

please him; and he made it very plain to me, Phil."

Now they were at the church door, and she reached for her Bible.

"You are not going to invite me in, I suppose? You are tired of that

effort, and have given me up?"

"'You said you would not go," she answered, with a wistful smile. She

believed he was mocking her eagerness, and meant nothing else.

"I know I did; but isn't a bad promise better broken than kept? You

need not ask me again. There is no need. I am going to accept your

former invitations. Take me into your class, and introduce me to Mr.

Easton."

"Did he really go into the class?"

"Oh, Daisy, you darling, you don't mean it? And what did Mr. Easton

say? He liked him, didn't he? I knew he would."

"Oh, Daisy, how did you get him to go? I thought it was all over."

These were some of the exclamations and queries of the delighted mother

and sister, who had waited between alternate hope and fear, to see

whether Phil would really return with his cousin, or had joined his

Sunday friends elsewhere.

Before she could make other than the most general answers, he had come

down-stairs again, and joined the group in the back parlor.

"He is here to answer for himself," she said, with a smile, as he

leaned over his mother's chair.

"My dear boy," she said fondly, reaching up her hand to his, "you have

made your mother very happy. Do tell me that you mean to go again."

"Yes 'm, I mean to go again. I have joined the class, and promised to

be there regularly."

"Oh, Phil!" This from the mother, with tremulous lips.

"I knew Mr. Easton would fascinate you." This from Blanche, with a

pleased little laugh.

Her brother turned to her.

"No, Blanche; I must be honest. I liked him, and shall like him, I

think. But the decision of to-day was made before I saw him, and

reaches farther than to the Bible Class. I have determined to serve

God. I have gone on my knees, and asked him to make what he can of me.

"And the immediate reason for doing so is, because I have decided that

there is such a thing as genuine religion which satisfies, so that

the heart does not need the world in the shape of theatres or operas

or dancing-parties, or any such thing; and that one who unreservedly

gives herself to Him can resist all the lighter and safer forms of its

fascinations, if she suspects evil lurking in them—can resist them

steadily and gently, and remain calm under fire."

He paused for a moment, while the astonished group waited for what

might come next. Then he bent lower over his mother.

"Mamma dear, I honor your intentions, but believe it is a mistake. No

young man will ever be won to Christ by going with him to the theatre.

He understands them too well. And while I never asked you or my sister

to attend a place of amusement that was in itself objectionable, I knew

in my soul that I insulted your religion by asking you at all. They all

flourish under the rebel flag.

"Mamma, when our Daisy here refused to compromise one inch of the way,

I knew that my tower of defence was broken, and that I must own that

Christ had been sufficient for one soul, and could be for another."

By this time the tears were falling fast from his mother's eyes.

"My boy," she said, "it is what your father believed; but I have let

the mother in my heart come between me and Christ. I was so anxious for

you, that I thought I must yield even his honor to save you."

But Blanche, bewildered, and flushing red, declared this:

"I must say I don't see why a boy should coax a girl to do what he is

ashamed to have her do; and be all changed around because she refuses

to do it."

Yet there is many a boy who coaxes a girl to go where he wishes in his

soul she may have Christian firmness enough to refuse.

OUR CHURCH CHOIR.

———

CHAPTER I.

THERE was a time when our church had no choir, but gloried in the fact

that we had congregational singing. At least the conservative fathers

gloried in it; but the aggressive young people grumbled much.

And certainly the most gentle spirit might have found some occasion

for grumbling. If the thing had been named "congregational drawling"

instead of "singing," perhaps it would have been as correct. Our church

was large, and the leader, a dear old man who had led the singing from

time immemorial, until his ears had deafened and his voice cracked in

the service, was unable to keep the scattered elements of his army in

order. Sing as slow as he might, he always finished the line at least

two syllables in advance of old Auntie Barber, who sat in the southwest

corner back pew, and who had a chronic affection of the nose and throat

which caused her to pronounce her words somewhat after this fashion:

"Naow be the gospil banner

I-n'every lan-d'unfurl';

An' be the shout hosanner

Re-yeehoed raound the worl'."

Auntie Barber was fond of singing, and sang loud. Then there was Uncle

Charlie Bennett, who had a deep bass voice, and who always sang a note

below the key, making a distinct heavy monotone of growl, all on one

note, and who frequently paused in the middle of a line to clear his

throat with an "Ahem-h-e-m," then quickened his growl to catch up, and

come in triumphant on the last word.

This is only a hint of the peculiarities of our music.

The day came when our exasperated young people arose en masse and

declared it was not in human nature to endure such tortures longer.

No doubt this climax was hastened by the fact that the church had

received a thorough renovation—fresh carpets, fresh paint, modernized

pulpit, even a new minister. What better time to introduce a thorough

change in the music?

The modern element prevailed. A congregational meeting was held, in

which, after much discussion, and not without a sharp word or two, the

matter was put into the hands of a committee, every one of them young

people, without instructions, to perfect their plans and report them at

a called meeting.

The young people lost no time; in fact they had known just what they

wanted to do at least three weeks before the meeting was called. There

was a certain Theodore Pemberton in town, a clerk in one of the drug

stores, who was a perfectly elegant singer, and the way he sang:

"I wander alone, my love, to-night"

was enough to draw tears from the heart of a stone. Then, he was an

excellent leader. He actually drilled a chorus in Grandville to sing

one of the most difficult operas in the list, and they say that every

member of his chorus cried when they found he was coming away. And if

Grandville thought so highly of him, he must be superior.

It was the unanimous opinion of the young people that the immaculate

Theodore should be invited to take charge of the music in their church,

and be allowed to follow out his own ideas. Then they would have music

worth hearing.

This report was followed by much discussion. There were difficulties

which presented themselves to the minds of some. First and foremost,

money. Brother Hoarding did not consider it just the thing to pay

people for singing the praises of God. But then, Brother Hoarding

believed that everything connected with the church should be free as

air—always excepting the oil for the lamps, which was bought from his

store, and the wood for the stoves, which was chopped from his wood

lots. So, really, Brother Hoarding's opinion did not weigh as much as

it might. The truth is, Auntie Barber put in her weak word at this

point. "I always love to sing," she said; "and I always sang the air in

our choir when I was a girl, and nobody thought of paying for it. But

then, times is changed; and I ain't one of them that think it's a sin

to spend money paying folks for giving of their time and their talents

for the church. If this young man will spend his Saturday evenings in

teachin' folks how to sing better, why shouldn't he be paid for it? The

Lord's people ain't paupers!"

"Free-will offerings, Sister Barber," spoke up Brother Hoarding, in a

good, strong voice; "freewill offerings. That is what the church should

have."

"Well, I don't know. Why in the singin' any more than in kerosene and

wood and sich things?"

Auntie Barber couldn't sing; I will insist that she couldn't; but she

could reason, bless her! And her keen, clear eyes saw through the films

of selfishness and penuriousness wherever found. The committee of young

people looked over at her and smiled and nodded approvingly. They had

found an unexpected ally.

Here Deacon Turner put in a demur. He had no objection to a church

spending money for music, provided they had it to spend; but did the

brethren think that in their condition, with a larger salary to raise,

and the home mission collection not yet taken, and new books to pay

for, they ought to put in an extra bill for music?

Now, this argument might have had more weight, but for the fact that

Deacon Turner was in the mood to want all the money given to foreign

missions when the subject of home missions was broached, and he wanted

it given to the library, or the salary, or some other needy cause, when

the question of foreign missions was before them. Anything but the

matter in hand, was Deacon Turner's motto.

I have not time to give you all the pros and cons of that discussion;

but the result was a partial vote to invite Theodore Pemberton to take

charge of their music.

Great was the joy of the young people. So pleased were they with

Auntie Barber that they gave kindly answer to her somewhat timidly put

question:

"I suppose he is a good young man?"

"Oh, dear, yes! Judge Bourne said his habits were very correct, indeed;

noticeably so for a young man in his position. Those were Judge

Bourne's very words."

"Yes—but I meant—you know—I hope he is a Christian?"

"Well, as to that, I believe he is not a church member; but he respects

religion. Why, when he put his price so very low, he said it was

for the sake of the cause. 'We must work cheap for the cause, you

know,' he said, and he smiled very pleasantly. I am sure that sounds

Christian-like."

Auntie Barber sighed a little. She could not be certain from that

remark that the young man served the Lord.

"Besides," said little Miss Parker briskly, "it will be a help to him,

you know; he isn't very regular in his attendance at church; no young

men are, nowadays. I think it will be doing a good deed to put him in a

position where he will feel obliged to be in church."

Over this idea, Auntie Barber went home to think, and the triumphant

committee went to formally invite Mr. Pemberton.

The next Sabbath morning, it must be confessed that our church was

unusually full, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the choir

gallery, which was just back of the pulpit, and had for several years

been vacant. All the seats were filled now, with bright, expectant

faces. Mr. Pemberton believed in a chorus choir, and had been prodigal

in his invitations. All the pretty girls he knew had been cordially

asked to come and help sing.

Auntie Barber looked up at the rows of faces with a benignant smile.

"The young folks like it," she murmured, "and it ain't a bad looking

sight. They'll drown'd our voices, and that will be all right. I've

been most afraid this good while that I sung too loud, for I s'pose my

voice is getting old, but now I needn't be afraid of troubling anybody."

"You'll have to permit congregational singing," explained lively Miss

Parker to Mr. Pemberton, at their first rehearsal. "It was the only

ground on which the innovation was permitted, that the choir should

simply lead the congregation. It's in the charter, or the constitution,

or something; no, the man who gave the organ, fifty years or so ago,

stipulated that there should always be congregational singing."

"Oh, certainly," said the affable Mr. Pemberton; "we'll simply lead

the congregation; that is all in the world we propose to do; they may

sing to their heart's content." And he twinkled his handsome eyes, and

looked so good-naturedly about him, that the girls voted him "perfectly

delightful."

So now everything was in readiness, and the pastor was reading the hymn:

"All hail the power of Jesus' name;

Let angels prostrate fall;

Bring forth the royal diadem

And crown Him Lord of all."

"Coronation!" Auntie Barber's special favorite, and the tune to which

Uncle John Bennett always growled his heaviest bass. Old Deacon

Slocumb, the former leader, adjusted his spectacles, found the place

and meekly waited. He was about to sing the songs of Zion in a strange

land, or at least under strange circumstances; but he loved the

service, and struggled for a meek and quiet spirit.

And the song burst forth. Coronation indeed! Old Coronation was

hoary-haired when the tune was born. How it rolled and swelled in

triumph through the astonished church!

"All hail!" said the tenor in clear, full tones. "All hail!" repeated

the bass in voice of thunder. "All hail!" shrieked the soprano in full

volume, followed hard after by the alto, who would not be outdone; and

then the entire strength of the choir took up the words and shouted

and roared, "All hail the power!" Then, wonderful to relate, went back

to the "All hail" and did it over. About this time Auntie Barber had

reached, through much quavering, the last word of the second line, then

lifted her bewildered eyes to the choir and listened.

"I must have lost the place," she meekly said. Even yet, it had not

occurred to her that the choir could possibly be singing anything but

Coronation to those words!

As for Deacon Slocumb, he took off his spectacles, carefully wiped and

re-adjusted them, and was looking for his place again by the time the

choir reached the word "power." They finished the line in unison, then

went off into a whirl of ecstasy over the angels. "Let a-a-a angels—"

sang one part, "prostrate fall, FALL, FALL," thundered another part;

until Joe Slocumb, the Deacon's graceless son, looked about him and

grinned, and wondered where they were falling to!

Before this time Uncle Charlie's growl had been vanquished, and Deacon

Slocumb's book was closed; and dear Auntie Barber, although she kept

her book open and her meek eyes fixed on the page, knew that Coronation

had gone far beyond her reach.

The triumphant choir swept through to the close, and seated themselves

in smiling satisfaction.

"I'm sure we led the congregation," whispered Mr. Pemberton into the

ear of the first soprano. "They can't complain of our part of the

contract."

And that entire company let itself explode into a succession of

giggles, over the peculiar aptness of the text at that moment

announced: "He leadeth me by a way that I have not known."

"That's as true as preaching!" whispered the leader of the choir, and

then that ripple of laughter went again through the triumphant company.