"I suppose it is because I am so wicked," Esther said, hesitatingly,

"but I am afraid I never can feel as you do about God's will. Perhaps

it is his will that I shall go through terrible troubles. It frightens

me, and I can't want to have his will done."

"Is there anybody whom you dearly love," said Mrs. Lyman, "in whom you

have unbounded confidence, feeling sure that he will always do right?"

"No, there is nobody," Esther answered sadly; then flushing a little as

she realized the confession she had made, added,—

"I did have somebody once—my darling mother—but she is gone. She always

did right."

"How did you feel about her plans for you? Were you fearful she would

always be inventing something wherewith to torture you?"

"My dear, lovely mother! No, indeed. She was always thinking of my

happiness."

"And yet she was obliged to thwart your own plans and wishes often, I

presume. Did you rebel?"

"O, no I was always obedient to my mother. I loved her so, I would not

have grieved or displeased her for the world."

"There it is, my dear!—the whole secret. When once we love God with all

the heart, it is sweet to do or suffer his will."

"But I never have thought of God in that way. He seems majestic and

glorious, but I think I fear him more than I love him. I cannot realize

that he loves me either."

"It will help you greatly, my dear, to take the Bible and Concordance

and go through the words 'Love' and 'Father;' then you may see and

'believe the love that God hath for us.' He has tried very hard—has

written it plainly all through the Book to make us understand that he

is truly our Father. Call it mother love if that makes it plainer to

you: think that he feels toward you as your mother did; Father, as God

uses it, stands for father and mother both. It is the tenderness of

mother joined to the protecting care and greater strength of father."

"I must go now, the carriage has come," Esther said, rising hastily,

"but I shall never forget your talk. I am sure it will do me good. I

came here to-day with the flowers because Dr. Foster preached about

giving a cup of cold water for Christ's sake, to some of his children;

and I couldn't think of anybody to carry one to but some of these old

ladies; I didn't think I was going to have my reward so soon. It was

so nice to find you; you seem like my own dear grandma who died when I

was a little child. I am coming often to see you; may I?" And the sweet

face smiled up into hers.

"Yes, indeed, my dear, and I thank you with all my heart for coming. No

cup of cold water could have refreshed me more than this visit, if I

had been famishing for some,—and these roses!—" taking a long breath of

them as she spoke,—"each one is a separate blessing."

As the carriage rattled over the city streets in the dusk Esther's aunt

and cousin, fresh from shopping, discussed laces and silks while she

leaned back and thought of Mrs. Lyman, her heart thrilling with the new

thought that God loved her as her mother loved her.

At last her Cousin Sophy said:—

"What are you dreaming about, Esther? Where have you been all this

while?"

Esther started as the cold, fault-finding tones broke in on her reverie

and said evasively, "I went to the 'Old Lady's Home,' you know."

"Been there all this time?—Impossible! Will you never be like other

people?"

Miss Sophy Ward had passed her first youth and was growing sharp and

severe, especially toward girls who were guilty of being nineteen. She

took it upon herself to keep strict watch over every thought, word and

deed of her young cousin who had lived with them since the death of her

mother. Esther dreaded the lecture that she knew was forthcoming, so

she began eagerly to try to divert attention from herself.

"O, Cousin Sophy! you have no idea what a lovely old lady I found

there." Not even the curl that distorted Miss Sophy's lip just then

prevented her from going on.

"She looks as I should imagine an angel might,—I always thought if

I made pictures of angels they should be dear old grandmas, and not

girls. Her hair is like fine white silk, and waves beautifully. Her

eyes are hazel, and they are not old eyes a bit—they are bright

and clear. She wore a dove-colored dress, and a soft white mull

handkerchief about her neck. And do you know, she is Mrs. Agnew's

mother; you remember we saw, Mr. Agnew's death in the paper a few

months ago."

This last piece of information had the desired effect, for mother and

daughter indulged in a bit of gossip concerning it, but Miss Sophy

presently returned to the charge.

"It is perfectly incomprehensible," she went on, "what you find in a

company of poverty-stricken old women to interest you. But then, your

mother always had just such tastes; never so happy as when she was

poking about in some alley or hovel, among miserable people."

If the light had not faded, Cousin Sophy might have seen Esther's cheek

pale and flush, and her lips press closely together to keep herself

from saying what she should not. But she did not see it; she went on

and on in an exasperating manner. Her mother added a word occasionally

by way of endorsement and emphasis, and poor Esther had the grace to

keep silence, half-wishing that she were an old woman, too, so that she

could live where Mrs. Lyman did.

In her uncle's luxurious home there was everything to make life

desirable—everything but love and peace. When either mother or daughter

was in ill humor Esther was the escape valve. They lectured her on

behavior, dress, and the Christian virtues. They criticised all she

said and did and thought, and judged her without mercy.

During the last few months, however, it had begun to dawn upon them

that the girl was grown up, and possessed decided tastes and opinions

of her own. She was becoming a person of more importance, too, because

of very pointed attentions bestowed upon her by Mr. Clifford Langdon.

He was the son of one of the oldest families—handsome, agreeable,

literary, rich. If they sought the world over, where could be found a

more desirable husband for Esther? He might have captivated the girl's

fancy, perhaps, if she had not heard her aunt and cousin ring the

changes on his name until she almost wearied of it. In their eyes he

was a paragon. They exhorted her to do this, and not to do that, as Mr.

Langdon had very fastidious tastes, and they openly expressed their

astonishment that so incomparable a person should do her the honor to

notice her.

All this naturally had the effect of causing a girl like Esther to

avoid him and to declare that it was a matter of indifference to her

what Mr. Langdon thought. She wished for no more critics.

That gentleman was as much in love with Esther as he ever could be

with anybody besides himself. Since first he had been conscious of

existence, he had never forgotten himself long enough to be absorbed in

anything or anybody. His own pleasure was the chief end of his life.

Yet he had no vices; his narrow, cold nature did not tempt him in the

direction that larger natures are tempted. The world called him a fine,

moral young man. They did not know he was selfish, domineering and

conceited; his nearest friends would scarcely admit it to themselves.

He enjoyed ruling over anything; he took pleasure in his many pets

when a boy, chiefly for the sake of training and ordering about a

parrot, or dog, or pony; and a tyrannical master he made. As a man, he

retained the characteristic. At this time he had just returned from a

four years' course of study in Europe, his education completed, and his

self-conceit intolerable. He felt competent to sit in judgment upon

the creations of genius in art and literature or in anything under

the sun, as well as to direct, advise, suggest and control the mental

food of all the young ladies of his acquaintance. He at once became

an oracle among them. The book he approved was largely read, and the

book he condemned was shunned. Whoever differed in opinion from him he

considered devoid of fine taste. Solomon must have had this young man

in mind when he wrote, "Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there

is more hope of a fool than of him."

When Mr. Langdon met Esther, he pronounced her a "fine creature," and

declared he would like the training of her, much as he would have

spoken of Frisk, his black colt. He was not aware that he needed to

be put in training himself and taught by Mr. Ruskin how to reverence

womanhood.

That she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing

her. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did

not hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.

It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone

in the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was

smarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily

that there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much

whether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love,

home, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.

Ether was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her,

as he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh

for a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her,

and that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since

her mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and

good he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then

she found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to

him, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet,

at least. Of course she must marry somebody—an orphan girl like her.

Perhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him

had changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from

what she had thought it would be when that time should come in which

somebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave

and true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It

frightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be,

nor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to

books and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if

she refused him, and—and—he said he loved her. What should she say to

him, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What

could she say? "O, mother! What would you have me say?"

She made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light

glancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and

serious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr.

Langdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately.

Her hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he

attributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so

sure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or,

indeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be

his wife—when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never

come into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants

entered into!

Mr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied

that he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so

delightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to

suit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had

not tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.

He was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary

society—to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and

demerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely

from their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made

her recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he

criticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much

taste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture

on style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not

escape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the

sweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it,

or her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she

must begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.

Esther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious

three words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing,

somebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even

though her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it.

And, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their

spirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr.

Langdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant

consciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will

to his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's

entertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go

anywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.

They were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and

music for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for

the mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed

used to amuse her, now, they mortified her.

There was yet another more important subject on which they differed.

Since the day of her first visit, Esther had gone often to see Mrs.

Lyman, and it was impossible to come into close contact with her sweet

spirit and strong faith without having the religious life quickened

and strengthened; so Mr. Langdon's views jarred her more than they

would have done a few months previous when she was a formal, worldly

Christian. He pronounced many of Esther's opinions to be "mere cant."

Some of the hymns she loved were "in very bad taste," "perfect trash,"

while the convictions of her tender conscience were "superstitions."

He assured her that the time would come when, as her mind became more

expanded and her tastes elevated, she would appreciate his criticisms.

This was too much, even though it were well seasoned with honeyed

words, and Esther's indignant protest warned Mr. Langdon not to be

too urgent in this direction. There was a limit even to meekness and

forbearance.

It was Christmas morning, and Esther was in the conservatory. Her uncle

had given her permission to take as many flowers for her own use as she

pleased. He well knew they would go to brighten some dreary home this

Christmas Day. While she worked she was thinking—going back over the

year somewhat. It had not been a happy year to her. She was obliged to

confess to herself that she had never been more harassed and worried

in her life. A shadow fell on her face as she meditated that when once

Christmas is well gone, Spring is not far distant. Then she must be

married. This home was not such a happy one that she need mourn to

leave it, but she dreaded that new home more. Her troubled thoughts and

troubled face did not accord with the beauty and fragrance about her,

and neither brightened when Mr. Langdon was announced. He came in where

she was at once, saying he was in haste.

"We have arranged a sleigh-ride for to-day," he said, after greeting

her. "It was quite impromptu, because we were uncertain about the snow.

We are going fifteen miles in the country, to Mr. Clayton's father's,

where we are invited to dine. How soon can you get ready, Esther?"

"Oh! I cannot go. You know I told you, Mr. Langdon, that I had an

engagement this morning at the 'Old Ladies' Home.'"

Mr. Langdon's lip curled. "Engagement! Surely you can postpone that."

"Surely I cannot. Patrick has gone to got me some greens, and I am

going to trim their rooms a little and make a bouquet for each of them.

They would be disappointed if I did not come—and so should I. They have

looked forward to Christmas for weeks. They are old and poor and have

so few pleasures, how can I deprive them of this when they have set

their hearts on it?"

"As if nobody could attend to that nonsense but you! Send a servant

with the flowers."

"But that wouldn't do at all. It's I they want more than anything. You

see, there are very few people who appreciate me. Those old ladies do.

I read to them and sing to them, and they think I am an angel just

dropped down from Heaven. So you will be good and excuse me this time,

and let me give you this as a Christmas token," and she tried to fasten

a small white chrysanthemum in his coat.

But Mr. Langdon stepped back and said, with much sharpness of tone,

"Esther, it is impossible that you are in earnest. I certainly shall

not excuse you, if you are. Of course you will go with me. Go quickly

and make ready. I shall call for you in an hour."

Esther reached up and clipped a spray of smilax before she spoke, which

she did in a slow, resolute way. "Mr. Langdon, I am quite in earnest; I

cannot go. I have made a promise, and I must keep it."

He had never seen Esther assume so much dignity before. She certainly

did mean what she said. He was angry enough to go without her, but

that would cause him some embarrassment; so he would condescend to

persuasion, but this was done in such a manner as to be more offensive

than some people's commands.

"My little girl," he said, smiling derisively, "what new airs have you

taken on? They do not become you in the least. What has come over you?

Is she trying to be a strong-minded female, or is she doing penance

or works of supererogation? Come, now, have done with this nonsense,

and say you will be ready, my pretty one," and he put his finger under

her chin, as one would do to a child, adding, "Look up here, and let

us have no tantrums? Some day I must get a bit and bridle for you, my

beauty; you are growing spirited."

Esther could never remember feeling more outraged at anything than at

this speech. It was a new and repulsive glimpse of his character.

Mr. Langdon had an opportunity to see her in a new character then. She

drew herself up, and said coldly: "Such language is very distasteful to

me, and I wish to hear no more of it. Please understand distinctly that

I am not going, so it will not be necessary for you to detain yourself

further."

He thought his ears must have deceived him, that she should dare to

assert herself thus, when he supposed he had her under such good

control!

He grew white with anger; so angry: that he forgot himself, and said

between his teeth,—

"I command you to go."

"You have no right to command me," Esther said calmly.

Then growing desperate, and resolved not to be baffled, he drew out his

watch, saying:—

"I will give you three minutes to decide. Once for all: I warn you; you

would better repent your decision. If a pack of old women are to be put

before me, we shall see. You may take the consequences if you refuse."

Then he turned and walked up and down the short space, while Esther

went on clipping flowers. Her fingers trembled, and her hands were

nerveless, but the steady clip, clip, of the shears came to the ears of

the man who was waiting.

The time was up; he walked toward Esther, and looked at her. She laid

another flower in the basket, and said in a low tone, without looking

at him, "I shall not go," and then he strode away without another word;

and Esther gathered up her flowers and started on her mission.

How very much hung upon her keeping her promise she could not have

imagined. She had arranged with Mrs. Lyman to sit with her after she

had gone the rounds, and she carried a book to read her some Christmas

poems. So after flitting about among the rooms, pinning a bit of the

evergreen here, and a vine there, and dispensing flowers and kind

wishes to all, she knocked at Mrs. Lyman's door. It was opened by a

nurse who told her that the old lady had met with an accident. While

going down-stairs that morning she had slipped and fallen, and could

see no one.

Hearing a voice she loved, Mrs. Lyman said, "Is it Miss Harlowe? Let

her come in."

She was in bed, pale with suffering, and a surgeon was setting her

broken ankle. Esther came softly to her side, slipped her hand

into hers, and stood still, watching the operation. It was like an

anæsthetic in its soothing effect upon the patient— this fresh young

face, with hair and eyes like Margaret's, the perfume of the flowers

filling the room, and the warm little hand in hers.

Esther watched the surgeon's fingers curiously. How swift and cool

their movements!—no uncertainty or clumsiness. A lady sorting

embroidery silks could not work more delicately. As he put the

finishing touches to his task Esther almost forgot there was any pain

connected with it, and found herself wondering if he did not enjoy

what he could do so deftly and neatly. Then for the first time she

let her gaze rest upon his face. He was a young man—she had thought

surgeons were always old or elderly. It was a strong, pure face, with

wavy dark hair falling carelessly over the broad forehead. It was but

a few seconds, but girls can think much in that time. She decided that

hair was much more becoming worn so than plastered down in a precise

manner, as she was accustomed to see it. He was surely not in the least

like the young men of her acquaintance. Sire tried to fancy him arrayed

in swallow-tail coat, light kids and slippers, dancing, and talking

nonsense at an evening party. He could never be one of that sort, she

was sure. He was too grave and earnest to be a trifler. When he had

finished his work, he lifted a pair of clear, penetrating eyes to hers,

and they surveyed each other an instant; then the doctor bowed, and

Esther turned and, bending down, whispered a few words to Mrs. Lyman,

left her flowers on the pillow, and a kiss on the worn cheek, and

glided away. She made one or two more calls that she had left till the

last, and was passing through the hall to go home, when a nurse met her

and asked her to come in and sing to old Mrs. Moore. She had been very

ill for many days, and they hoped the singing might quiet her nervous

restlessness, and soothe her to sleep. Esther went willingly; she loved

to sing, and loved to help others. But here was that eagle-eyed doctor

to spoil it. She wished he would go, but he did not.

There was a tall old rocker by the bed, where they motioned her to sit,

but she took her place at the back of the chair and folded her hands

over its top. Standing so, the doctor could not see her face. He could

hear, though, and to that he gave himself. Resting his head on his

hand, he closed his eyes and let the sweet melody flow over him.

Almost as soon as the pure, soft tones met her ear the patient ceased

her restless tossing, and listened eagerly to catch the words, which

were articulated so plainly that not one was lost. They were simple

words, just suited to the simple-minded old woman, and peculiarly

soothing because they brought to mind the prayer of childhood. Neither

was she the only one who felt the spell of the humble little song as it

floated through the still room:—

"Now I lay me down to sleep,

As the shadows softly creep,

As the bird, with folded wing,

On some tiny bough doth swing;

As the flowers, wet with dew,

Bow themselves in slumber, too,

In the stillness, awful, deep,

Now I lay me down to sleep.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,

Friends and kindred 'round me weep;

But I know no want or fear,

For no darkness, Lord, is here;

All my way is lit by thee,

Through the shade thou leadest me.

Knowing that the Lord will keep,

May I lay me down to sleep."

Refreshed and calmed, the old lady folded her, hands and said, "'Now

I lay me down to sleep.' Oh if I only had somebody to pray with me, I

believe I could go to sleep."

There was silence a moment, and one looked at another. Who could pray?

Not the doctor, surely; that was not considered to be in his line; but

Dr. Evarts knelt down, and, in a few simple, tender words, besought a

blessing on the aged mother whose journey was almost done. Here was

another evidence, Esther thought, that this young man was different

from any she had ever known. She thought about it as she walked home,

and sighed as she remembered Mr. Langdon and the angry look on his face

as he left her that morning.

Esther had promised Mrs. Lyman that she would come again to see her on

the morrow. She was free from pain, and welcomed her visitor eagerly.

"I have such great news to tell you, my dear, that I could scarcely

wait. You know it is a whole fortnight now since you were here. Such

a wonderful thing has happened! I am not a poor, lonely old woman any

longer, Esther. I have a dear boy to care for me. The young physician

you found attending me yesterday is my nephew. I was sorry I felt too

sick to introduce you. He is Paul Evarts, and he is my dear sister's

only son. His mother was left a widow, and they went to England to live

when Paul was but a boy. My sister died a few years ago, and we lost

sight of Paul. I thought he had forgotten his old auntie, but he had

not. He came almost purposely to look me up. He thinks of remaining

and going into practice in his native city. If he does he will take a

house, and I shall be his housekeeper. Now, what do you think of that,

my dear?"

"It's beautiful!" said Esther. "Just beautiful! Why, it's a book acted

out. I am so very glad."

"And the queer part of it all," said Mrs. Lyman, "is that after he had

been here a few days I must needs go and break my ankle, as if to test

his skill as a surgeon. There is no loss, though, without some gain.

Perhaps you will take pity on me and come oftener to see me because of

my affliction. But you must sing the song now, and read the poem that I

was cheated out of yesterday."

After that they had a long talk. Esther's girl friends were never

taken into such close confidence as Mrs. Lyman, and, if girls would

but believe it, a wise, sweet-spirited, youthful-hearted old lady is a

valuable friend for a girl to have. Who should know the dangers of the

way so well as those who have just passed over it?

"Your face has a shadow on it this morning, dear child," Mrs. Lyman

said presently; "I like to feel that everybody is happy when I am so

happy."

Esther wanted counsel and comfort sorely, so she told her troubles.

"Did I do wrong? Ought I to have gone with Mr. Langdon, do you think?"

she asked.

"Perhaps the wrong is further back than that. Did you wish to go, but

thought it your duty to come here because you had promised?"

"To tell the truth, I preferred coming here to taking a long ride,"

Esther said, laughing and flushing. "I enjoy bringing flowers here so

much; perhaps I was selfish, and then, I did want to keep my promise."

"Can it be that hearts have changed since I was a girl?" the old lady

said archly. "What would have tempted me to stay at home when Eleazer

asked me to go with him—anywhere? A long ride in the country! Why, that

would have been blessed. Are you sure you care for this young man in

the right way, dear—if I may ask you a plain question?"

"Why, I don't know," Esther said, stammeringly. "I suppose I do. I try

to."

"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Lyman, "can you really think of

marrying a person for whom you entertain such a vague uncertain

affection?"

"Why, that's the trouble," said Esther. "I don't really want to marry

anybody ever. I wish I could be let alone, and not be perplexed about

these things, and yet it is very pleasant to have people fond of you,

and not feel alone as I do."

"You poor little bud of a girl," Mrs. Lyman said, putting her arms

about her, "you should not have been disturbed for a long time yet;

you needed a mother to shield you; but you ought to be told that when

the one God intends for you crosses your path you will not find it

necessary to try to love him. You will, instead, have to pray God to

keep you from making him an idol, and where he is, there you will wish

to be. Marriage may be the highest state of earthly happiness, and it

may be the bitterest bondage. Take care, dear child, how you take vows

upon you that your soul revolts from. I believe much of the misery

of this life is God's protest against the profanation of this holy

ordinance."

It became evident, as the days went by, that Mr. Langdon was hopelessly

offended. He did not come to the house or write. Esther was both glad

and troubled. Relieved of his constant supervision and criticisms

she drew a long breath, and knew, as she had not before, that

whatever heart she might possess was not in his keeping. She lived in

constant dread that he would return to her after he had punished her

sufficiently. And yet his remaining away brought her into trouble with

her aunt and cousin; they were already questioning and harassing her

beyond endurance. At last, when her aunt wrote Mr. Langdon demanding

an explanation, he sent a brief note, saying the engagement between

himself and Miss Marlowe was at an end. If she wished for reasons he

would refer her to her niece.

Then the storm burst in all its fury. The tongues of mother and

daughter were let loose upon her. "Now you shall tell me just what you

have done," declared her aunt. "I will not have a gentleman like Mr.

Langdon insulted in my own house."

When the story was told, the case was no better for Esther. The rage

and disappointment of aunt and cousin knew no bounds.

"Esther, you are a fool!" said her aunt.

"She's a contemptible little minx!" said Miss Sophy. "And I would shut

her up and feed her on bread and water until she apologizes."

"I shall never do that," said Esther firmly. "I told him some time

before that I should be occupied on Christmas morning, and he had no

right to try to force me to alter my plans. The apology must come from

him. I have done no wrong."

"Just hear the stupid little simpleton! He apologize to her! The idea!

To think she should dare to go contrary to his wishes, and run the risk

of losing him, and all for the sake of amusing a few old women!"

"Do you know," Sophy said, turning fiercely to Esther, "what you have

done? Or haven't you brains enough to take it in? Mr. Langdon will be

the richest man in the city when his father dies, and you have lost

him, probably."

"I don't care for money," Esther said dreamily, her eyes out of the

window, following a fleecy cloud that was sailing by, and thinking what

she dare not speak, that it was far better to be able to pray as that

young doctor did, than to have great riches.

"You don't care for money!" screamed her aunt. "Indeed! You will find

out whether you care for it when you are left alone in the world

without a penny, as you probably will be. Go to your room, do! And stay

there out of my sight. You are too exasperating to be tolerated."

"I had no idea she was so stubborn," Mrs. Ward told her daughter, as

day after day passed, and Esther refused to send a humble confession

to Mr. Langdon. They constructed one themselves at last, ordering her

to copy it, but Esther was firm. She had nothing to confess, and she

would not, for any consideration, engage herself to him again. It was

delightful to be free again; if only they would not torment her she

could be almost happy. When she expressed something of this to them

they looked at each other aghast, as if here was proof that Esther was

a subject for a lunatic asylum.

The weeks that followed were dreary ones to Esther. She was kept on

bread and water, figuratively, if not literally, and ice-water at that.

It was curious how a house that is warmed And lighted until it fairly

glows can be rendered dark and chilly as a tomb to some of its inmates.

If the girl's life had been unpleasant before, it was wretched now.

Cold looks and sharp words were her portion, when she was not ignored

utterly, all the more so because Mr. Langdon had transferred his

affections to a Boston belle, visiting in the city, and was hopelessly

and forever lost to Esther.

It was not all dark, though. There were occasional visits to a snug

little house at the other end of the city, where dwelt a lovely,

white-haired old lady called by her devoted nephew, Aunt Katherine.

Mrs. Lyman insisted on a weekly visit from Esther, and sometimes she

was kept to cosy little suppers. It was a delightful place to visit,

and it was no wonder Esther liked it. She was warmly welcomed and

petted to her heart's content. There was usually a good, long talk with

her old friend first, then the doctor would come home, and bring out

a store of stories from his brain, of things in foreign lands, grave

and gay and instructive; he was a charming talker, and Esther was a

good questioner. Then he had great volumes of rare engravings of which

she never tired, and a microscope whereby she became wise about some

of nature's secrets. Her education was going on surprisingly, all the

more because one was entirely unaware that he was teaching, and the

other that she was being taught. Aunt Katherine watched the glowing

faces,—the golden head and the brown head bending together over one

book—and smiled. After they had sung numberless songs and hymns it was

time for Esther to go home. Of necessity, Dr. Evarts must accompany her

home, in a long walk across the city, which latter was not a necessity,

but which they much preferred to street cars, the walk being not at all

long to them.

As they thus walked and talked one winter night when the Christmas moon

shone solemnly down on a white world, and the songs of angels floated

on the clear air—heard only by those two—the breeze wafted back some of

the words. Their talk was all about themselves—how the precious gift of

each to the other began a year ago last Christmas. And they tried to

settle bewildering questions: Whether, if Esther had not insisted on

going to the "Old Ladies' Home" that morning she would be walking this

Christmas Eve with Paul, and suppose there had been no "Old Ladies'

Home," would they ever have met.

"And if your Aunt Katherine had not been there—" said Esther. "We owe

it all to her, after all."

"Your Aunt Katherine! Say my Aunt Katherine," Paul said, looking down

at her with shining eyes.

And Esther obediently repeated, "My Aunt Katherine." The old moon hid

herself behind a cloud just then, and neither she nor Paul saw the

lovely color that flushed the happy face.

In the spring when all things are made new, they two clasped hands and

began their new life together. Their wedding journey was not made to

some famous fashionable resort; they were of one mind in this, as in

everything else. They sought a quiet retreat where they might carry on

their intimacy with nature, and she rewarded them; she unsealed her

fountains and discovered to them her secret nooks and crannies, her

buds and blossoms and delicacies, as she does to no one but ardent

worshippers. They searched the woods and glens, climbed mountains and

wandered by streams, and walked and rode and talked and studied, with

not one hour of dullness. And then they went back to the little house

and lived their beautiful lives.

"Two to the world for the world's work's sake,

But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one."

And the world said, "Poor thing! She was jilted by that rich Mr.

Langdon, you know, and now she has had to take up with a poor young

doctor;" which shows just how much the world knows about Esther's

affairs, and ours.

When the years had gone away and Dr. Evarts' praises were in every

mouth, and he had become rich and celebrated, Miss Sophy Ward was fond

of speaking of "My cousin, Mrs. Dr. Evarts."

Aunt Katherine, too, had occasion for triumph and for heaping some

very hot "coals of fire," but she never thought of either. Mrs. Agnew

had lost her property, and the Agnew estate was sold to the highest

bidder, which was Dr. Evarts. Strange to say he was able to place Aunt

Katherine in her old room, with many of the dear familiar objects of

other days about her; while the wretched woman who had played her brief

part in this history, lived in a humble home not far off. She was

sick and poor and miserable. To her Mrs. Lyman ministered as if she

had received nothing but kindness at her hands. And Christ-like love

conquered in the end; it broke down the hard heart and brought her into

faith and peace.

When riches increased, Dr. Evarts obeyed the Scripture, "set not thy

heart upon them." They flowed out in all directions, blessing and

comforting others.

Every Christmas, he and Esther visited the "Old Ladies' Home," with

a bountiful thank-offering. Each recurring year they were wont to go

over every small detail of their meeting, and sometimes make little

confessions that were new to the other.

"It was here you stood to sing," the dignified doctor would remark, or,

"Was ever anything lovelier than when you stood there with those roses,

watching me set the broken bones?"

"And how you frightened me when you flashed your eyes on me so

suddenly."

"It is a good place," the doctor would say; "here we found each other,

and here began the love that has blessed our lives."

"And here I found my Aunt Katherine," Esther was fond of adding.

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

———

"WHY, Auntie! What a quantity of lunch you are putting up. You don't

expect me to take my Christmas dinner on the cars, do you?"

"Stranger things than that have come to pass, even though you should,"

Aunt Ruth said, tucking in another half-dozen biscuits. "Massachusetts

is a long way off, and Christmas is pretty near at hand. You'll have

sharp work to get through by Christmas, I'm thinking. The connections

will have to be very good, and no set-backs on the way. That don't

always happen in winter, you know. Trains will be behind time, or there

'll be a bridge down, or something. Then as you get on toward the East

there will be snow-storms—snow you up for a week, maybe—better stay

till after Christmas yet."

"Aunt Ruthie, don't! Please don't prophesy such terrible things; I

shall get on all right, I am sure. Good-by, dear own auntie!" And the

young girl wound her arms about the elder woman's neck, and laid her

brown head close to the gray one.

"Good-by, dearie!" Aunt Ruth said in broken tones. "The Lord bless you

and keep you—and see here, child, I'll tuck these two little books into

your basket, and some more biscuits, then if you should have to spend a

week on the way, you will have something to feed soul and body both."

A last loving look into Aunt Ruth's eyes, and Marian sprang into a

light wagon by Uncle Eli's side, and two ponies trotted off over

the smooth country road. The frosty air, the crackle of dry leaves

and twigs, the morning sun, the fragrant cedars, and the flutter of

gay-winged birds, made the heart of this girl, whose eye and ear were

open to all sweet influences of nature, sing for joy—the mere joy of

being—on this glorious morning. And truly a winter morning in the

poetical, picturesque southwest, with its balmy airs, green fields,

and gay birds, at Christmas time, can but seem to a New Englander the

presage of that morning when all things shall be made new.

Aunt Ruth watched them far down the road, then she went into the house

with a slow step and a heavy heart. She wiped away the tears as she

gathered up Marian's woody treasures that she had forgotten—lichens,

moss twigs, and purple berries. The house was empty and dull. The

bright young creature who had filled it with an atmosphere of warmth

and gladness was gone. How grim and desolate it seemed!

For two months Aunt Ruth had lived a charmed life. Marian, the daughter

of her favorite niece, whom she loved as her own child, had come from

her far city home for a brief visit—to honor one whom her mother prized

so highly. Her stay was protracted far beyond what duty required,

though. The girl enjoyed the free, unconventional life, the novel

experiences, and the almost idolatrous love bestowed upon her.

It was hard to say which was most delighted with the other. The younger

one painted scenes of the gay, busy world, that seemed to the elder,

hard-worked woman like the tales of Aladdin. Then she, in turn, in

quaint speech, seasoned with wit, poured into the young ears the

privations and romances of frontier life, as well as the love tales

of long ago, which were far more delightful than one could find in a

book, because they had been lived out before Aunt Ruth's eyes. She

knew whether the fine gold of the marriage day had become dim; what

they did, and how they lived, and so on to the very last chapter. With

graphic words she made them live again for her eager listener—a long

line of ancestors—sketching her characters with no mean skill, her

charitable nature hiding their faults behind their graces, so that they

were most fascinating as heroes and heroines. In short, Aunt Ruth was

to Marion a delightful old book, full of wisdom and strong sweetness.

And while Marian was to her aunt a revelation of grace and loveliness,

she was besides gifted with an active brain, and was the very soul of

truth and candor, so that she seemed to the New England woman like a

breath of air fresh from the old Massachusetts hills. Aunt Ruth always

disparaged the East in contrast with the West when she re-visited it,

and yet she loved its rocky hills with all her heart. At the same time,

anything or anybody of Eastern make or birth, was held up to Western

people as a model of all excellence.

"She is just wonderful," the old lady would declare, in confidential

chats with Uncle Eli. "There she has been brought up in a great city,

her folks are rich, and she has everything she wants, and yet she isn't

spoiled a mite. You might have thought she would have brought a trunk

full of novels to this out of the way place, and only us two old folks

here, but not a bit of it! She's devouring the old yellow books in the

bookcase as if her life depended on it. The other morning she got down

the 'History of the Reformation,' and there she sat the whole forenoon,

never stirred or looked up as I went in and out—so deep in her book.

In the afternoon, when I sat down to my mending, we had a great visit

over Luther. She told me things that I forgot years ago. His reasons

for getting a wife tickled her wonderfully. Forgot them, have you? I

had, too. They were: 'That he might please his father, spite the Pope,

and vex the devil.' Said she, 'I should have wanted him to have one

more reason, Auntie, if I had been his Katy—the only reason—because he

loved me.' She looked so sweet and pretty, I spoke right out before

I thought, and I said, 'Of course he would. How could anybody help

loving you, dearie?' You ought to 'a' seen her pretty blush, then;

exactly like my tea-rose in the window there. She's reading 'Paradise

Lost,' now. She knows the Catechism from beginning to end, and she

is up in the doctrines, and knows about missions. She's a regular

old-fashioned girl. Sarah Brewster wrote me that they didn't raise

such girls around Boston any more. She said they spent the whole time

dressing and going, and reading novels and embroidering, and that they

couldn't stand a June frost, physically or morally, that they hadn't

any piety nor anything else—nothing but pretty faces. Now, there's

Marian, she can walk three miles, and she took hold and helped me with

the baking and churning, and swept the whole house. Besides all that,

she's truly pious. She isn't going to make one of the strong-minded

kind, either—stiff, and hard, and high-stepping, and homely as a hedge

fence. She's as sweet as a rose, and as humble as a chipping-bird. I

never thought I should set such store by her, when I looked out of

the window that day she came, and saw her coming up the walk, sort o'

dancing along, with her big hat on, and her curls blowing about her

eyes. I said to myself, 'Yes, there she comes! A fine Boston lady, and

she will mince about and make fun of us with her saucy airs, and then

take herself off in two days, and I shall not be sorry, even if she is

my great-niece.' But here she has been, week after week, and don't want

to go home yet."

The first fifty miles of Marian's journey was unmarked by anything of

special interest. This brought her to the junction where she was to

change cars for the main line. But there, to her dismay, she discovered

that the train with which she was supposed to connect had been gone for

an hour, her own train being late. There was nothing to be done but

to wait at a forlorn little hotel for the next one, which would not

be until noon of the next day. It was of no use to feel provoked, or

to fret, so Marian set herself to bear it patiently. She walked about

the small village, and on into the country, made the acquaintance of

children gathering Christmas greens, and returned with her hands full

of evergreen and bitter-sweet berries.

The time did not hang so heavily as she had anticipated, although she

was heartily glad when the long train glided in, and she was once more

seated in the car, and on her homeward way. As it was to be a long

journey, she was not a little interested in her surroundings. So she

began to scrutinize her fellow-passengers, to measure, and classify,

and determine, by those few swift glances, their standing—mental,

social and moral—and whether they were agreeable, or selfish and

ill-natured. She reached her conclusions—unjust ones in some instances,

perhaps; and yet the intuitions of some fine natures are a little short

of divine. When she wearied of that, she brought out pencil and paper,

and scribbled a voluminous letter to Aunt Ruth. Having a talent for

sketching, she embellished her sheet here and there with portraits of

her fellow-travellers, "to cheer up Auntie," she told herself, albeit

the artist seemed to enjoy her work immensely, and to put a deal of

painstaking into it. There was a scornful big woman with a pug-nosed

dog, a laughing baby, a great pompous man asleep with his mouth open,

the sweet face of an old lady biding away under a deep bonnet, and at

last, with careful touches, the profile of a young man who sat just

ahead of her; a fine scholarly face, bent over a book.

That letter made two old people happy for more than one evening. What

if our cheery words went oftener to brighten lonely homes!

Stuart Lynde, a young lawyer returning from a business trip, who sat

just below, across the aisle, was not in the least interested in those

about him. They were simply a number of strangers with whom he had no

possible concern. He had not raised so much as an eyelid to discover

who sat before or behind him. He was absorbed in a book, and would have

been amazed had he known that an excellent portrait of himself had just

been executed and was about to travel back over the road he had come.

That which first attracted him from the fascinating pages was a ray of

golden light falling across his book; then he put it aside and gave

himself up to the enjoyment of the sunset, which was unusually fine.

Marian made a mental note of the fact that few watched the glorious

picture hung in the sky: three or four only besides herself; the old

lady, the young man, a tired-looking mother, and a plain farmer with

a "gospel face." As for the lap-dog woman, and the pompous man, they

never saw a sunset. "Eyes have they, but they see not," applies to more

than heathen idols. It is always so: God's best things are for the few;

the many do not throng into the inner temple; hearts are stony, ears

are dull, and "their eyes they have closed."

Those who did watch the first red bars steal into the blue of the

evening sky, and the blue change to the vast golden sea, with soft

violet clouds sailing over it, could scarcely repress exclamations of

delight. It was to some of them as if the end of their journey was

near—the end of all journeyings—and that rushing train was speeding on

straight to the golden glory shining before them, where they should

meet the King in his beauty at the gate of his temple, and be welcomed

in, to go no more out forever. The old lady and the tired mother and

the farmer wished from their souls it was. But Marian Chester and

Stuart Lynde, if the thought had occurred to them, would have said,

"No, no! Not yet. We want to test the world ourselves, even though you

old people say it is a rough and thorny road. We will find the roses.

We are not afraid."

It was not strange that as Marian watched the fading light she

unconsciously and softly sang,—

"'Day is dying in the west,

Heaven is touching earth with rest;

Wait and worship while the night

Sets her evening lamps alight—'"

Followed by Keble's sweet evening hymn,—

"'Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,

It is not night if Thou be near.'"

Hymn and song came one upon the other, but the refreshment was for none

but herself. Stuart Lynde caught once or twice a low, sweet strain, and

looked about him to see whence it came, but the din of the cars drowned

all but a stray, occasional note. Although he listened intently,

the music did not rise above a soft murmur. By turning slightly in

his seat, his eyes had the range of the car, and he was not long in

determining the probable singer, more by the attitude than directed

by any sounds. By the waning light he could see a slight figure in a

sealskin sacque, a small brown velvet cap resting on a coil of brown

hair. The face leaning on one hand was pressed close against the glass,

and while her eyes watched the fading colors in the sky, her lips

framed the words of song, as absently and unconsciously as if she had

forgotten that she were not leaning from her own chamber window. It was

a charming picture, and he enjoyed it.

During the evening people dropped off at the different stations

along the way, until only the few through passengers remained, who

wearily counted the miles to the city where the sleeping coach should

be attached. They were doomed to disappointment, however, for even

while they were flying on at a high rate of speed, the train suddenly

came to a stand still. A broken engine and a delay of several hours,

was the word that quickly passed about. As if to add to the gloomy

state of things, a severe storm had set in. The violet clouds that

at sunset were lovely pictures, had grown into black, overhanging

monsters. The wind howled and blew with a force that threatened to

sweep all before it, and the rain fell in torrents. It was not a

thing to be desired—standing in the midst of what seemed a boundless

prairie, exposed to the fury of the storm, miles from any station, with

telegraph wires down. It was curious how this changed state of affairs

was met by different ones. Some who had been amiably dozing the last

few hours were now thoroughly wide awake, going out and in, slamming

doors and scolding the company because they did not provide engines

that could not break down; others fretted, or were pale with fright,

fearing lest the cars should be blown from the track, or there be a

collision.

Stuart Lynde wore a calm face; whether the calmness of stoicism, or of

trust, who could tell? The old lady, who had learned patience through a

long life of disappointments, was philosophical. "What can't be cured,

must be endured," she remarked to Marian as she took off her bonnet

and hung it up, brought out a hood in its place, and made other little

preparations to spend the night just where she sat. To herself, she

said, "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord,

only makest me to dwell in safety.'"

If only she had said those words aloud!

Marian, too, took a text for her pillow, curled herself up comfortably

in her seat, and went to sleep.

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee," makes a soft pillow.

Mr. Lynde resolved that he would not waste his time in sleep. It was

a good quiet time for thought. So he revolved in his mind the chief

points in an important law case, wishing he were entirely alone, so

that he might speak aloud the words of the plea, rushing to his brain,

which he expected to make on the morrow, or did expect to—probably this

miserable detention would spoil all his plans, at which he groaned

inwardly. He was scarcely aware that another process was going on in

his mind at the same time; that he was casting occasional glances

at the face of the sleeper nearly opposite, and comparing it with a

certain piece of statuary which was a favorite. Although strangers

were distasteful to him, he was fond of tracing different types of

faces, and this fair Grecian profile, outlined against the cushions,

with closed eyes and rounded cheek, was a pleasant study. The hand put

up to shade the face had slept at its post, and had fallen down and

folded itself over the other one across the chest. The childlike mouth

looked as if the lips had closed themselves on,—"I will trust." It was

a calm, sweet picture of innocent sleep, and Stuart Lynde found himself

thinking as he gazed, "If only a soul ever matched a fair face!"

If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the

cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a

girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular

that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one,

and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy

hair, and radiant with calm content.

The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a

sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone.

"Dear lamb," she murmured to herself, "she is taking a good sleep."

Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few

hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing

still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not

far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her

just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to

a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and

she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but

he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of

people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in

the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, "How are you

getting on, my dear?" There was a world of comfort in that "my dear."

Mr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep

himself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but

known her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if

closer scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely

head thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high,

fine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something.

Perhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in

a satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of

the idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond

of wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, "a face to trust;" she

composed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two

protectors.

When the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in

sheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had

not yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for

all concerned.

The fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady

had a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with

whom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted,

the men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was

moodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old

lady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket,

begged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, "for I'm sure

you must be all tuckered out by this time," she added sympathetically.

But this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her

that he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of

depriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the

journey.

She looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the

refusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved

that he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from

her stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she

told herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too;

wonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on

the way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained

at the hotel to keep it in good condition.

It went sorely against Marian's nature to enjoy her nice breakfast,

knowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share

with him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man

instead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now,

she would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might

get courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not

look so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as

she glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness,

too, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to

more humility.

Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed

eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by

the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her

wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her

fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little

hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none

of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after

having sat up all night in the cars.

But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first

fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever

seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable

world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come

out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as

it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent

eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener

slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were

inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and

even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an

analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in

Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had

never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were

those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to

be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a

"society girl," with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting.

It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under

these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before

them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would

probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end,

or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow

passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately

smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth

one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no

advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he

dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his

brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing

more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a

volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a

hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two

little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the

small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of

soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little

volume of "Daily Food" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the

year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," daintily

bound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt

Ruth's round cramped hand, "Marian Chester:" "The Lord bless thee and

keep thee." "Dear aunt Ruth," she murmured. "What would she say if she

knew where I am? And what will they think at home?" She just began to

realize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears

stood on her cheeks.

Mr. Lynde was returning from one of his visits to the engine, and was

just in time to catch, for an instant, the flash of that tear. A smile

was a hollow thing to him. His coat of mail was proof against a whole

battalion of the most bewitching; but a tear! He bowed in reverence

before a tear; and, acting on that impulse, paused, and before he had

given himself leave to speak was saying, "I beg your pardon, but can I

do anything for you?"

Poor Marian! It was so sudden, and she was so mortified to be caught

crying like a baby, that her tones were defiant and her answer curt:

"No, sir, I thank you, not anything."

When she raised her eyes he was gone. Then, her sense of desolation was

lost in vexation, that she had made herself an object of pity to him

and requited his attempt at kindness by what must have seemed extreme

rudeness.

The rained had ceased, but this was not an advantage in one way, for

the air at once became intensely cold, so making it more difficult to

repair damages, as washouts and bridges swept from swollen streams were

reported ahead. As if to bring dreariness to a culminating point, the

supply of coal was low and the cars were becoming chilly. Adversity

was apparently having a good effect upon Mr. Lynde; he was developing

under it, and waking up to some interest in humanity that was not in a

book. He was not in general a close observer of the dress of ladies,

but he knew the difference between a long sealskin cloak and an old

black cashmere shawl. Consequently he was very sure where the large,

soft lap robe he carried was most needed. Thereupon he took it over

to the old lady, and begged her with as much deference as if she had

been a duchess, to accept it. She demurred, but he insisted and folded

it about her as a son might have done, and the lines about his mouth

relaxed into sweetness as she showered her thanks upon him.

"Why did I not think to do that?" Marian said to herself, casting

regretful eyes on her own warm shawl. It was too late now, so she drew

it over herself and retired into her book.

Aunt Ruth spoke better than she knew when she talked of food for the

soul. Some darkened minds would call it "cant," but those who know the

secret of the Lord, know that as a few drops of stimulant revive a

fainting body, just as surely will a strong, comforting word from the

Scriptures send the lifeblood tingling again through a benumbed soul,

if that soul belong to Christ.

So when Marian read in her "Daily Food":—

"The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting

arms;"

"The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and

delivereth them;"

"The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord

shall cover him all the day long;"

"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou

shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."

Then her faith and courage returned, and her heart already sang songs

of deliverance.

Mr. Lynde had already done all that travellers usually do in such

emergencies. He had stood in the teeth of a keen wind and talked with

the brake man and engineer and conductor as to the extent of the

accident, and what the probabilities were of soon resuming the journey;

had stepped out and walked briskly up and down, and the old lady

remarked as he strode by, "He's a handsome young fellow; straight as an

arrow, and he walks with a kind o' spring, just like my Benjamin," and

Marian had given in response an amused smile.

Now he had come back again and settled himself down to endure, with

grim fortitude, what could not be cured; not with the same spirit,

though, as the old saint who sat just beyond him, for, she said, "It

'll all turn out for the best somehow, and we'll likely see it some

day." It would take long to convince him, though, that the important

case to which he was hurrying home could possibly be bettered by his

absence. But he tried to be a philosopher. He turned up his coat

collar, as men do when they are cold and seem to think they have made

all reasonable provisions for comfort, put his eyes on his book, and

tried to merge his thoughts into the author's; but when a man is

hungry, and ever so slightly cold, the circumstances are not favorable

for metaphysical research.

It was noon, and the time for those who had any dinner to eat it; so

Marian took down her lunch basket again. If only she had somebody to

enjoy it with her! She glanced about the car; the men had gone. The old

lady, thanks to the warmth of the lap robe, was enjoying a nice nap.

There was just one person on whom to exercise her benevolence.

She amused herself by laying together in a fresh napkin three or four

biscuits, some slices of chicken, and some cake; then, while she

thoughtfully put bits into her own mouth, debated the question with

herself after this fashion: I ought, I really ought to do it, but how

can I? I wish he would go out; I would slip it into his seat, and he

would think the ravens or something had been sent to feed him. If I

should carry this over there and he should decline it with a lofty

air, how could I endure such humiliation? To be sure, I did reply very

haughtily when he spoke to me, and whatever possessed me, I'm sure I

don't know.

The head at which she was casting furtive glances, went down at this

juncture, wearily down, on the seat before him, and the action decided

her.

Stuart Lynde thought he had, in that moment, dropped asleep, and was in

a blissful dream, for a soft voice just behind him, said, "Sir, I was

mistaken; I would like to ask a favor of you."

The head was erect in an instant, and he began,—

"I shall be most happy;" but when he saw this haughty lady changed

into a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner,

and heard her say, "Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I

have a great abundance?" then the fluent speech for which he was noted,

forsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then—they

looked squarely into each other's eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke

into a merry laugh.

The ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible.

After that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the

appetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been

entirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number

of biscuits.

"That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I

possess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth," Marian said,

while she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had

wakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It "quite

chirked her up," she said, "to hear something going on once more."

The two young people talked together some minutes before they

recollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should

have introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,—

"STUART LYNDE,

Attorney and Counsellor at Law."

And Marian said simply, "I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts."

It would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech

again, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were

endless—the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the

advantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes

finally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had

visited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary

prairie, miles from anywhere.

Mr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read

biographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets,

and yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of

fiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read "Jane Eyre,"

old as it was, nor "Romola," nor even the lighter novels that most

schoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen.

"No," she said, "I know almost nothing of them; my father has his

own ideas in regard to these things," and she said it reverently and

sweetly, as if "anything that my father wishes is good and right;" not;

"My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the

consequences—"

"His theory is that a taste for solid reading should first be formed,

and that whatever of fiction is indulged in, should be by the best

writers and quite simple. With the exception of a few books, rather

juvenile in character, I am to read my first novel this winter with

father. I read aloud to him a great deal, and he is my dictionary and

encyclopædia. We have most delightful times, and we read all sorts of

books. Perhaps, if one were to come down to my level in the line of

light reading, I might intelligently discuss the merits of some works,"

she said archly; "I know almost by heart 'Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales'

and the 'Tanglewood Tales;' as well as 'Alice in Wonderland,' and

'Water Babies,' and several other lovely stories."

Happy daughter! To read her first novel—some pure, noble work of his

choosing—with her father, instead of stealthily devouring a vile,

yellow-covered thing at midnight, when she should have been sleeping,

or secreting it under her desk at school, and snatching a guilty morsel

when she should have been studying.

The father's theory had been well carried out, and he must have been

delighted with results, for the girl could enjoy a scientific research,

or a simple story, one of which would have been voted dull, and the

other childish, by those reared on more highly seasoned mental food.

Then there was in her a cheery freshness, and a hearty enjoyment of

simple pleasures, in sharp contrast with many specimens of restless,

languid young ladyhood, interested in nothing on earth or under

it—nothing except themselves.

Mr. Lynde was charmed. Here was an anomaly, a rare study: a girl not

made up of artificialities, nor morbid sentimentalism.

The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings,

until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered

so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew

suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would

her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would

have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances,

of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew

utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she

had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face

reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly

silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and

reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go

back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but

it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and

her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk

upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies;

and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as

she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when

tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who

would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the

eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew

dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to

take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.

"And this is the extent of mine," Marian said, producing her little

books, "my Christmas present from a dear old auntie," and she gave them

into his hands, and received his volume of essays.

It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony,

this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating

conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and

disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she

told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she

do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to

talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt

acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old

friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain

in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was

indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and

she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point.

His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an

old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention

was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in

his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself

as to the comfort of old ladies.

During the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better.

Food was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the

train was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many

a jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at

all. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night

at their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged

to change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks

across the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her

shawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was

pleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains

among bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by

daylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this

late hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of

other travellers bound for the same train.

All hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars,

and the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o'clock. The Christmas morning

already begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as

they stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of

each a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning—"Within that

province far away."

"'In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago,'"

quoted Mr. Lynde.

Marian was surprised into saying: "How very singular! The same words

were running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to

ask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar

with that poem."

"Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:

"'The earth was still—but knew not why,

The world was listening—unawares.

How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world forever!

To that still moment none would heed,

Man's doom was linked, no more to sever,

In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago."

To Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of

something else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with

a stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was

positively enjoying it, had the effect to make her "good-night" seem

cold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she

vanished into the section assigned her.

It had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel

alone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and

accompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be

supposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the

uncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable

that he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian

had decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by

this time quite like a veteran traveller.

In the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They

had just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how

he could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired

gentleman bustled up with, "Ah, Marian, here you are!" bent and kissed

her cheek, saying in the same breath, "So glad you came this morning,

my dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col.

Winslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the

invitation for you, too." Marian's face put in a protest.

"Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people;

you will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting."

As soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde,

as one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him

a hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under

shaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian's hand under his arm and was moving

off.

One moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured

thanks, and she was gone.

To say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it.

Who was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most

reluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He

remembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps,

would join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking

forward to a day's travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it

had all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.

In his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the

imperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely

escaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He

realized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in

his possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it,

inasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize.

He brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his

side pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken

from the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he

enjoyed the fragrance, and partly—he knew not why. He laid it with the

books. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence

that, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon

he tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself

a fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that

manner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a

task. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between

him and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and

arranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain

to determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret

in her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their

conversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again

her attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when

she came to minister to his necessities. "Not one in a hundred would

have done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at

all, indeed," he told himself.

The thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not

obtained her address; "Massachusetts," that was all he knew.

He took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was

there: "Marian Chester." What a fair name it was; how it just suited

her. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or

where Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: "The Lord bless thee and

keep thee." It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his

heart re-echoing that prayer.

As for Marian, she found the last half of her journey dull in

comparison with the first, and she was dimly conscious why. The thought

sent bright flushes into her cheeks, but she did not sit down and

analyze and define it, or recall looks and tones and words. She shut

the door on that corner of her heart and locked it. She told herself

that it was a matter of perfect indifference to her who or what he was,

and yet when her uncle asked, "Who was the young man you introduced to

me, my dear?" and she produced his card, she was more than pleased to

hear Col. Winslow declare that he knew him well by reputation; that he

was one of the most brilliant young lawyers in the State, and, morally,

was without blemish.

In the busy months that followed, it was becoming a habit with Mr.

Lynde to refresh himself with a look into one or other of the little

books he kept among his treasures. Even when most pressed by business

matters, he was sure to snatch a brief moment through the day or night

to glance at a verse. He did this at first because they belonged to

"the maiden," he called her in his thought; that old-fashioned sweet

word just fitted her, and seemed to single her out as above and beyond

all others. Then the words of Thomas à Kempis charmed him; he studied

that book for the quaint simplicity of its style, and wondered that he

had not before discovered such a gem. And, while he thought it childish

in him, he noted with not a little curiosity the text for each day in

the "Daily Food." When he went a journey, it amused even himself that

he always slipped the little books into some pocket, and they went

along.

One night at the close of a triumphant day, when he had come off victor

in a difficult case, and had been congratulated and complimented until

he was surfeited, he opened the small book to search out the text for

that day. To one conscious of having gloried not a little in the very

gratifying success of that day, it was almost startling to read—

"Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man

glory in his might; let not the rich man glory in his riches. Let

him that glorieth, glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth

me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgment and

righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, saith the

Lord."

Not since he was a boy at his mother's knee, had a word of Scripture

come into his heart with power such as this.

He knew he had gloried in his wisdom and power; had been proud of his

triumph, and proud of his spotless life and high morality, but now how

it all flashed upon him in an instant, that he was weak and foolish

and sinful before God. He could speak in many tongues, and understand

mysteries of science, but he did not know and understand the Lord. The

one thing in which it would be right to glory, he did not possess. When

a boy, he had the habit of prayer, but, as he grew toward manhood,

lost his faith by reading skeptical writers, so for many years he had

not spoken to God until he came into possession of these two precious

books, then, curiously enough, he had begun to pray one petition: "The

Lord bless her and keep her." But now, when the sense of the utter

worthlessness of all he attained, and God left out, was flashed upon

him, he cried, "Teach me to know and understand thee," and the first

answer to that prayer was to show him that he was blind and poor and in

need of all things. His eye fell upon words just then which told that

another soul, generations ago, had gone by the same road to find his

God, for Thomas à Kempis said:

"But if I abase and know myself to be nothing, if I renounce all

self-esteem and (as I am) account myself to be but dust; thy grace will

be favorable unto me, and thy light will be near unto my heart.

"And all self-esteem, how little soever, shall be swallowed up in the

deep valley of my nothingness, and perish everlastingly.

"There thou showest thyself unto me, what I am, what I have been, and

whither I am come; for I am nothing and I knew it not.

"And if I be left to myself, behold, I become nothing and all weakness.

"But if thou lookest upon me, I am made strong."

The light had entered the darkened soul. The Spirit used a few texts

of Scripture and the devout words of an old monk to teach him "that

all our righteousness is as filthy rags," and that "the blood of Jesus

Christ cleanseth us from all sin." The old miracle was repeated in

him. In silence and quiet the change went on. A proud, ambitious,

self-seeking man, learning to pray with that other saint:

"Grant me, O, most gracious and loving Jesus, to rest in thee above

all creatures:

"Above all health and beauty, above all glory and honor, above all

power and dignity, above all knowledge and subtlety, above all riches

and arts, above all joy and gladness, above all hope and promise, above

all desert and desire; above all gifts and presents that thou canst

give and impart unto us: above all joy and triumph that the mind of man

can receive and feel."

A year went away, and the stars of Christmas night glowed in the sky as

brightly as long ago, "when shepherds watched their flocks by night,"

and "the angel of the Lord came down." Mr. Lynde, as he walked and

thought—thought of that night, "within that province far away," to

which his destiny was now "linked" in a peculiar and tender relation.

He would not have been human not to have recalled that other night,

too, a year ago. So he walked the silent, moonlight streets, and

repeated softly—

"'In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago,'"

He might walk and walk miles, though, it would not bring that other one

who walked by his side then. He might not have sighed so heavily at

that thought if his vision could have compassed distance and known who

watched the stars with him.

That these two paths should ever cross again, would seem as impossible

as that two small ships adrift on the wide ocean should "speak" each

other.

The ingenuity and perseverance with which he had prosecuted the

search all these months was something remarkable. As Boston is the

metropolis of Massachusetts, he made business trips to Boston, and the

"business" was to walk the streets, haunt picture galleries, attend

lectures and concerts, always searching for one face. He read Boston

papers, especially the list of marriages and deaths. He took the

westward journey many times, hoping she might have repeated the visit

to Aunt Ruth. Once he ventured to send her a letter through the Boston

post-office, and it came back to himself.

"She knows where I am," he would tell his unreasoning self. "How easily

she could send me some little sign, but, such as she never would, even

though she cared."

All this time Marian was hidden away in a suburban town ten miles from

Boston, in her father's country home, though spending much time in the

city. Why did not one or the other of their good angels cause them to

turn their eyes in the right direction that day they almost brushed

against each other in the crowd?

Through the year she had stoically crushed out pleasant remembrances

of the brief acquaintance, never allowing the thought that possibly

they might meet again, and yet she always searched an audience with a

keener interest than had been her wont. It might just be possible, but

how preposterous, after all! He lived far away in a Western city. Why

should he come to Boston?

'Tis true, too, that on Christmas night she indulged herself in a bit

of dreaming, lingering purposely at her chamber window, looking out

on the white world until the clock in the steeple should chime out

twelve, feeling, unconsciously, that she was keeping an indefinable

tryst with some mythical being by so doing. She, too, went in memory

over the walk and the poem, recalled the excellent rendering of the few

lines recited, and then being dimly conscious that it would be the most

delightful thing in life to go on and on in an interminable walk, with

that one voice sounding always in her ears, she brought her reverie to

an abrupt ending, drew her curtains and shut out the witching moonbeams

with tantalizing memories,—like a sensible maiden that she was.

Mr. Lynde's book had been diligently studied by her, partly because

it was his, and for the reason that it was in rather a different line

from anything she had read. She did not at once comprehend its subtle

logic, and her ambition required that she should. Her well-trained mind

was not long in discovering that this book was not all gems and pearls,

as she had supposed when the fascinating rhetoric attracted her. There

were half-truths, skeptical suggestions, and flings at doctrines dear

to Christian hearts. It filled her with sorrow and surprise that such

high, beautiful thoughts should be so marred.

Did Mr. Lynde believe these things? From a remark he dropped, she

half-feared he did. From that time his name came into her daily prayer

as she asked that her little books might not be lost, but be seed that

should spring up and bear fruit.

It was not in a crowded assembly, nor on the city streets, nor on a

railroad train, that Mr. Lynde finally found his treasure. He was

returning from a trip in the Northwest, and near the end of a day's

travel was obliged to wait at a small town a few hours, in order to

take an express train. Finding the time hang heavily, he walked out and

turned his steps into a little foot path that led out into the country.

It was a perfect day. The clear sky, the tinted woods, the stream, the

"rare blue hills," made lovely pictures on all sides.

He had not the most remote idea that this noisy brook bounded Aunt

Ruth's farm, and that the next bend in the road would reveal a charming

picture that would make his pulses stand still with joy.

A narrow footbridge spanned the stream, and leaning over the railing,

intently watching the hurrying waters, her white dress fluttering in

the breeze, stood Marian. He knew her in an instant, and came forward,

his heart in his face. Marian looked up quickly, in a startled way, at

the sound of a footstep, and the joyful radiance that lighted her eyes

when he said, "At last I have found you," revealed the whole story.

There was scarcely need of question and answer.

And then? They sauntered along the bank of the winding stream, and

began a walk that did not end till life ended.

The express train went its way without the traveller, and they two came

up through the lengthening shadows to the old farmhouse, where Aunt

Ruth sat on the porch. They told the whole long story to her, and she

listened, with now a smile and then a tear, and when it was finished

she laid a hand on the head of each, and said sweetly and solemnly,

"Children, the Lord bless thee and keep thee!"