JUANA'S MASTER.

———

A PICTURESQUE object it was, this old Spanish-looking house, in the

City of Mexico, with turrets and towers and balconies, set amid tall

trees and clambering vines. The hot breath of the summer afternoon had

sent most of the inhabitants to search out cool, dark retreats, and

lose the sense of languor in sleep. Even the leaves and the flowers

were drowsy, and universal silence settled upon all things, broken only

by the plashing of fountains and the sleepy little songs of birds.

In an upper balcony of the old house a young wife sat, her head

resting on one hand, her eyes fastened on the distant mountains

just discernible through a soft haze. She was not building pretty

air-castles, nor absorbed in the dreamy, wondrous beauty of the scene

before her; nor when she bowed her head on the railing, did her eyes

close in happy forgetfulness.

"Sleep seldom visits sorrow," and this sad heart was breathing out sobs

and moans.

Juana Valerie, descended from both Mexican and Spanish ancestors, was,

with the exception of an old aunt, the last of the family, which, in

its day, had been one of much note. Left an orphan at an early age,

her only remaining relative—feeble in both mind and body—found it no

easy task to bring the fiery, frisky little mortal under any great

degree of control. As she grew older her positive nature and keen

mind outgeneraled both teachers and aunt. When she chose to spend the

livelong day frolicking in the grounds, or clambering trees, instead of

poring over dull books, she did so, always being able by means of ready

wit and winning ways to escape punishment. However, as the years went

on, she contrived to secure a fair share of education, absorbing it, it

must be; surely it was not accomplished by hard study.

Juana's parents had been staunch Roman Catholics, and while they lived

she was trained in the strict observance of the rules of that church.

Whether it was that the little maiden was a born rebel, or that from

some honest-hearted ancestor she had inherited a hatred of shams, it

turned out that at a very early age she began to throw off the shackles

the Church of Rome binds about its victims. The Confessional had always

been to her childish mind a dread and horror, and as she grew to

girlhood she stoutly refused to go to it. The aunt and the old priest

scolded and threatened, which had the effect only to drive her from the

church entirely. Then they persecuted and warned, holding up to her

view the awful fate of an apostate soul. They tried to hedge her in on

this side and that, but she shook her willful little head, and leaping

over all inclosures, ran free as the wind. No threats or persuasions

availing to bring her under control, she was deemed incorrigible, and

the anathema of the Church pronounced against her. This did not bring

the least shadow upon her spirit, however; a strange intuition seemed

to make this young girl aware that truth in its purity was not there,

and that a mere man had no power to pronounce either blessing or curse

upon her.

She was not unloving to her old aunt, nor did she intend to be

undutiful, but she did purpose always and everywhere to have her own

way; so the feeble old lady settled down to the inevitable, and Juana

came and went free as a bird. Hitherto, her flowers and her pets had

absorbed her, but now she was awakening to the fact that a whole bright

world of pleasure lay all about, beckoning her to its revelries. So she

drifted in with the giddy throng, and was flattered and followed and

smiled upon to her heart's content.

In one of the gay assemblies she met Paul Everett, a young American.

At first glance each became immediately fascinated by the other, and

subsequent interviews served to deepen the enchantment. As Juana

could speak not a word of English, and the young stranger but very

little Spanish, it would seem that the attachment could not make

rapid progress; but love has a mystic language of its own, and is

independent of clumsy words. The reasons for this irresistible and

mutual attraction were quite as good as many lovers can plead. He was

carried captive by flashing dark eyes, raven hair, and the graceful

form gleaming in crimson and gold, flitting through the dance like some

gay tropical bird. She, in turn, fondly believed that the tall blonde

young man, with locks and mustache of golden hue, with eyes of heavenly

blue, and, above all, in faultless attire, was nothing short of a

demi-god. On such slender basis they built fair hopes, and were ready

to promise everything, and more, that lay in mortal's power to bestow.

The business that drew Paul Everett to Mexico was the same in which

he had been engaged the last five years. His indulgent friends termed

it "sowing wild oats," though he himself professed to be gathering

material for some literary work. In this line he had much taste, and

fair talents, and might have succeeded if only it had been possible for

him to engage in any pursuit with earnestness and enthusiasm; or if he

had known any other rule of life than self-indulgence.

The wooing was short; they were soon married, and Paul for a time

exceedingly enjoyed the little idyll he was living. The situation

was most novel and delightful. The flowery land, its blue skies and

balmy air suited his poetical temperament. The old castle and grounds

were picturesque and spacious, and he was master of them, or would

be on the death of the old aunt; besides, did he not possess the

entire adoration of the most charming and unique little creature that

ever breathed? Paul had a mania for the unique, and one of Juana's

greatest attractions to him was that she was unlike all the rest of

womankind; of whom, as he assured himself, he was heartily weary, but

this sparkling, piquant winning sprite—ah! She was as far beyond and

above all other women as wine was above water— and that distance was

immeasurable to Paul's taste.

He enjoyed teaching Juana to speak English. Her musical voice

stammering out pretty broken words in his own language, was a pleasant

thing to hear. She was not content with simply speaking it. Should

she be the wife of an American and not be able to read his language?

So under his tuition, she set about the study of it with much more

industry than suited her husband's indolent temperament. These were

halcyon days; seldom were a young couple more united. Their views of

life and their aims were the same. The world was a gay garden, and

they two were butterflies, disporting themselves in the warm sunshine

and draining every drop of sweetness from every flower in their path.

Innocent enough flowers they were at first; the delight in each other's

society in rambling, riding, boating, and resting under the shadows of

broad spreading trees, or, from a lofty balcony enjoying the panorama

the summer evening spread before them; the fair city at their feet, its

spires and minarets gleaming in the moonlight, and distant mountains

piled in soft masses against the crystal sky.

When Juana added to the witchery of the scene by singing sweet Spanish

airs to the music of the guitar, the young husband half believed he had

attained heaven and the society of the angels.

When these simple delights ceased to charm, there was the outside world

which they had come near to forgetting while in this ecstatic trance.

So they plunged into every amusement the gay wicked city offered, and

"gave their hearts to folly." They lived in a whirl of pleasure, and

Juana felt that now there was nothing more to ask for in life. To be

the chosen bride of such a man, and to take her fill of amusement,

to dress and dance and sing the days and nights away—was ever cup of

happiness so strangely full as hers?

If some stray breeze had whispered in her ear that she had tied her

happiness to a slender thread, that the day would come when all these

things would be to her as chaff, and that if her husband should weary

of her, he would fling her aside as he did the rose he plucked in the

morning, after breathing its sweetness a moment—then Juana would never

have believed such a false whisperer.

Paul Everett tired of everything sooner or later. His restless, fickle

nature demanded constant change and new sensations. So, after the first

novelty of his new mode of life had worn off, he began to return to

his old habits of roving, making only short absences at first, but

gradually to extend them till weeks grew into months.

Juana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from

the whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and

conscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter

somewhat into the experience of another one who "laid hold on folly,"

and found it "vanity and vexation of spirit." Of late an unaccountable

feeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal

over her. A voice seemed often to ask her, "If this was all of life,

to frolic away a few brief days and die, and then—what? Could it be

that death was the end?" One evening during her husband's absence,

she walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone

gateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer

meeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and

wished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so

that she might find out what it was that made them seem so different

from all others.

"Those people are happy, Ria," she said to the maid; "they look as if

they had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was."

And Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what

she had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and

betook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from

the little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender

airs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something

better and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the

first dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good,

seeking for its God.

These feelings did not pass away with the next morning's sunlight. She

felt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This

could not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for

when he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed

her, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine

affection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the

trouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes.

But Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature,

was only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the

dignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.

There was a fascination to Juana in watching the small company of

worshipers go to and from the chapel. One evening, as the melody of

their hymns floated up to her, she became possessed of a desire to come

nearer to the heavenly sounds. So, enveloping her head and shoulders

in a large veil, she glided softly forth into the moonlight alone;

her husband was down in the city and would not return until late. She

was glad to go alone, though for some reason that she did not herself

understand. She stole silently along, and stood under the shadow of

the trees where she could observe without being seen. Now their heads

were bowed in prayer. In the earnest petitions from one and another she

often caught the name "God." She had never heard it in English. If they

had spoken the word in her own language, though, no distinct idea would

have been conveyed to her; only a dim, shadowy something that she had

heard of long ago.

Soon they broke out into song again:

"Come, happy souls, approach your God

With new melodious songs."

Although Juana could converse in simple broken words in English, she

could comprehend scarcely nothing of what she now heard; and yet the

music thrilled and animated her. How joyful these faces and voices

were, and yet subdued and tender, and they sang about "God"—that same

name! Still she lingered as if fascinated until the closing hymn, that

lullaby for trusting souls in all ages:

"Glory to thee, my God, this night,

For all the blessings of the light:

Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,

Beneath thine own almighty wings."

And still they sang that same name—"God." If only the poor heart

standing there in the shadows could know about the "Almighty wings!"

Juana did not forget the sound of the new name she had heard—that Being

to whom those people prayed and sang praises, and read about in their

Bible. If she could but read English and have one of their Bibles, then

she should know all about Him! Oh! If somebody would tell her about Him.

"If those English people know about God, why should not Paul?" she

mused, as they sat together one afternoon.

Paul was reclining in a hammock, the smoke of a cigar curling far above

his head, absorbed in a French novel.

When Juana broke the silence by asking him if he owned a Bible, he

answered with a frown, "Of course not."

"Paul, could you tell me about God?" Juana ventured again.

"Very easily," said Paul, puffing out a whiff of smoke. "There is no

God. So you see you needn't bother your pretty head any more about that

question."

He did not see the startled, disappointed look in Juana's face as he

settled himself again to his book with an air that said he was not to

be further disturbed. Paul's word, ordinarily, was law to Juana, but

in this case she was not satisfied. She could not believe there was no

God. She knew there must be one, and that not by reasoning it out. A

greater than human reason had taught her. If now she could but find out

about Him! She had not looked into a Spanish Bible since she was a very

little child, but she could not go to that for help. She distrusted

everything that the Church of Rome had to do with. "But if a Spanish

Bible tells Catholics about their religion, why should not an English

Bible teach the Protestant religion?" she reasoned. She resolved to

have one, if possible, and when Juana resolved, her strong will left no

stone unturned toward accomplishment.

A day or two after, as her husband was making preparations for another

journey, Juana preferred her request:

"There is one thing I do much want. Will you not please get it for

me, dear Paul, before you go? I do so want it! And that is an English

Bible."

"Pray, what in the world would you do with that?" Paul asked, in much

astonishment. "You cannot read English."

"Ah! Shall I not read it soon if I study much? I can try to read the

stories in it, and it will help make the time to fly, so you will soon

come back to me," she added coaxingly.

Paul was willing enough that other people should have what they

wanted if it did not interfere with his pleasure. So as he went about

attending to various purchases for himself, he remembered Juana's

request, and was at not a little pains to obtain for her a copy of the

Bible. "Every one to his taste," he remarked to himself as he looked it

over. "I think I could find fables that would prove more entertaining

to me than this one."

During her husband's stay at home Juana had much of the time been

carrying on an inward struggle. She had endeavored to quiet her unrest

by plunging into reckless dissipation, but the still small voice

followed her even to the midnight revel. And often, when she had filled

all her waking hours with busy trifles—purposely to crowd out these

intrusive thoughts—she would wake as by a flash, her spirit filled

with a strange dread, and then, in the still solemn hour the eternal

would speak to the mortal, who, shrinking away in conscious guilt, felt

that there were just two things in the universe; herself, and an awful

presence who searched her through.

When left again to her lonely life, Juana gave herself with unceasing

application to the study of English, so that she might read her new

Bible. She could already spell out texts made up of simple words, and

form a tolerably clear conception of their meaning. If she was going

to read a book, she must of course begin at the beginning and read it

through; so she plunged boldly into the great volume. As well might one

essay to cross the ocean in a tiny sail-boat, as for this dark-minded

girl to get any available knowledge from such a deep; the unbeliever

would say, and truly, the undertaking would have been hopeless had it

not been a wonderful Book, with a wonderful Teacher.

She labored through the first chapter of Genesis with that great name

in almost every verse. Never was tale more fascinating than this one.

It was read in a poor blundering way; but the truth had been gleaned

that God made the world and all it contains. No doubt as to the truth

of it entered her mind for a moment. Day after day she spelled her

way through succeeding chapters. It was all new and wonderful, but

disappointing. It was not what she craved: something that would remove

the strange heaviness that weighed upon her. On the contrary she

gathered that all the world had gone astray from God and were under

his wrath and curse, and that agreed with what she had conceived. God

to be; a stern, awful being, holding a sword over the heads of his

creatures. The more she read the greater grew the mystery. "I cannot

make it out," she said, almost despairingly, "it is all confusion;"

then, with the superstition of her race, resolved, "I will put the book

of God under my pillow; I will see if some good may not come to me

from it while I sleep." Perchance there might be sweeter sleep if the

"book of God" oftener pillowed troubled heads. Finally she abandoned

the project of reading the Bible through, and puzzled out bits here and

there, hoping to chance upon something that she could understand.

"All have sinned and come short of the glory of God," she read, then

sadly murmured, "Yes, I know that; the very first of the book tells it,

and that is what I am, a sinner. I have a bad heart, oh! so bad. But

how shall I make it good I know not." And just here Juana discovered

the old remedy that many burdened souls resort to. She would propitiate

Heaven with good works. So she gave money freely and liberally whenever

a hand was stretched out, and tried to be amiable and lovely, and made

a solemn vow to perfectly keep all the commandments. The result was

the usual one that comes to a sinner trying to justify himself by the

law. Every dormant evil in the poor girl's heart awoke and clamored.

Satan worried and buffeted at every turn, and, growing irritable and

impatient she declared, "What should I want of a book that makes me so

unhappy? It must be bad, for since I know it I am not so good as once I

was."

After that the book was not opened for days, but rested in the bottom

of Juana's trunk, "under much clothes, so that I could not see it,"

she said, and she herself wandered up and down like a lost spirit, out

of heart with everything within and about her. Then, to fill up the

wretched, lonely days with something, she again brought out her Bible

and plunged into the laborious task more earnestly than before.

Gracious and kind as He ever is, the Lord was teaching this one poor

little scholar as if she were the only soul in the universe. After

Juana had thoroughly learned that she was a sinner, this blessed truth

flashed up at her one day as she was toiling through a verse: "Christ

Jesus came into the world to save sinners." She went through it again,

eagerly, with dilating eyes and suspended breath. "Ah! What is this!"

she exclaimed. "This is news indeed! Christ Jesus: Who can he be? He

saves sinners! And that is me."

At last she found the key. And now how intently she searched out that

name, drinking in the truth, as one dying of thirst would seize a cup

of cold water. Little by little she got it all—the old, old story; the

birth in Bethlehem, the lowly, lovely life in Nazareth, the cross, the

death, the tomb, the resurrection, the ascension, and, at last, the

gracious invitation—

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

rest."

"Oh! I want rest," she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her

first prayer, "I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!" Without

even realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart

before Him. "I know not how long I did talk to Him," she told some one

afterward; "a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could

not stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I

feel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window

I say, 'O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees

so grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory

before.' Then something say, 'It is wrong for you to be so happy When

you are such a sinner,' so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I

cannot; I can only sing for joy."

Secure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her

husband's return, eager to tell him the good news.

"Paul is very wise," she told herself, "he will not have so hard a time

to understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear

book that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his

soul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be."

In a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting.

He was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to

have such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to

minister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited

maiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head

meekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle

hand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple

of discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice.

Why would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the

embodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?

"My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks

and frowns have grace and favor in them," was the honest feeling of

this deluded soul.

It was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when

she first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for

him, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and

triumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but

as she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he

grew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince

him, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, "Do, dear Paul, read

about the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all

true," he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.

Juana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it

to her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.

The young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen

her hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than

his own.

He waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and

promises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet

his perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little

puzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved

to treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by

little in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her

new whims.

To please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre,

and spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl's

conscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown

into a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts

in our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of

any church, or inquire of wise theologians "what she must give up" if

she became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned

to Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the

way was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny

blossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control

his child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that

Christ and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges

heart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and

delight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had

left her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By

a law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at

the same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world

cannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded

Christian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet

experience.

Paul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of

loving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures,

he rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the

hitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his

astonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could,

that her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and

theaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to

delight her?

What wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a

doll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and

asserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought

contrary from his!

"What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?" he demanded.

What a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes,

filled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering

tongue in pretty, crooked words, said: "The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is

my Master," and Juana's tongue lingered lovingly over the word—she had

lately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her—"I fear, oh!

very much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here,"

and both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.

Paul's answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending

with—"I am your master! You are to obey me and none other." And then he

stooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would

be terrible to her: "If you do not, I will cast you off!"

It was not will-power, nor strength of purpose—inherited from any

ancestor, either Spanish or Mexican—but grace divine, that enabled

Juana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift

her soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him,

come what would.

When Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any

other time. He hated "religionists," and was determined not to have

the wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism.

Moreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down.

He would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible

reading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting

to be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his

displeasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands,

threats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved

to leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted

absence, loneliness would bring her to terms.

"I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly

obedient," Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory

and beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching

him disappear through the great gateway—gone and she alone in her

sorrow. "What if he never came up that flower 'broidered path again?

Her Paul was firm, he would not relent." (The poor, blind child did not

know that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)

Martyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall

say which is most heroic—to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the

heart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the

slow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?

Weary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away,

but the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not

fail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour

her friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart;

so that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received

many letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for

his return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for

him but deny or displease "the dear Christ Jesus." "He do make me happy

even in my sorrow," she wrote. This was more than the vain man could

bear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!

Paul's next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in

the heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country

for years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on

herself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to

him to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted

to hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither

should she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to

this cruel decision more easily from just having received news that

Juana's old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the

church, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy

from the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain

himself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be

burdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.

For weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As

strength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her

anguish, "I can never, never live without him."

She did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a

wild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her

husband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find

him, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change.

She could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her

small property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary

journey arrived—a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed

the cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The

search proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious.

Faint and ready to perish—did some one speak her name? "Child, come

unto me, I will give you rest." And then Juana's heart leaped, and she

answered quickly, "Master." Then were her eyes opened, and she knew

that the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting

up in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought

forgiveness, he showed the "vividness of His mercy," and gave her not

only comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself

and her husband at his feet with, "Thy will be done."

In loving submission she asked now, "What wilt Thou have me to do?"

And for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism

and idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but

what could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very

little money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold

itself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the

door stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear.

Juana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in

she followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman's

missionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different

subjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low

tones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then,

the faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a

good place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and

then, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that.

After prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about

Mexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and

fine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them.

She listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her

commission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid

tones, said, "Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little

word for her?" It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never

was appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to "send help now,

for they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all."

Then, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat.

But the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would,

persuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of

so many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting

everything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion.

The eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she

described her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women

to their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as

this young stranger were hidden away there.

The fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church,

and the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts

turned warmly to the "land of the sun," as this young wife, a miracle

of God's grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken,

eager words, pleaded with tears for "my dear Mexico."

Gladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by

this means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached

and moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.

The Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her

native country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good

news, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work

for Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with

treasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and

loving farewells of hosts of God's people.

To-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells

the glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she

works her prayer goes up that Paul may become "a new creature in Christ

Jesus," and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work

by her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that

the Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a

saint.

Patiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she

has come to "the valley of blessing," to rest and peace, and the song

she loves best to sing, is—

"Emptied, that He might fill me,

As forth to His labor I go,

Broken, that so unhindered

His life through me might flow."

TEN BUSHELS.

———

MRS. LYMAN was in the kitchen superintending dinner. She was but a

young housekeeper, so there was a certain amount of anxiety connected

with making even a kettle of soup. She stirred and tasted and put in

another shake of pepper and another pinch of salt, and said to her maid

of all work, who stood by watching the process:

"I do wish I had an onion to put in it; soup is not very good without

an onion flavor."

The remark was made more to herself than to Barbara, whose knowledge of

English was somewhat limited. If it had not been, and if she had known

the way and it had not been too late, she might have gone down town and

bought some onions. As those obstacles were all in the way, the soup

must needs go without.

When the six o'clock dinner was spread in the very prettiest dining

room that can be imagined, the table glittering in its new silver, and

the soup smoking in the tureen, the master of the house—a young man who

had only enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the head of his own table

for a couple of months—took it all in, as his own tastes were capable

of doing. The savory odors, the cheery room, the careful attention to

every detail of comfort and beauty, and then the slight figure opposite

him, an embodiment of dignity and grace—he found nothing lacking in it

all.

"This soup is not quite perfect," the young wife said, as she began to

serve it, "I had no onions to put in it. I wish you would order some

when you go down town to-morrow, Philip; they are nice just now for

boiling, too."

This young couple had compared views on Browning and Ruskin, but not on

onions. They had long ago discussed poetry, philosophies, and art, as

well as architecture and house furnishings, and they had found hitherto

that their tastes were in most delightful accord. Mrs. Lyman was not

prepared, therefore, for the frown that contracted her husband's

handsome brows as he ejaculated:

"Onions! Don't mention them. Excuse me from that purchase, please.

They are abominable; not fit for human beings to eat. They ought to be

banished from every respectable table."

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Lyman answered, with rising color, "but

all do not agree in such a sweeping denunciation. Many of the best

physicians consider them most nutritious and healthful."

"Well, at all events, I shall not have my house polluted with the

vile things. If there is anything that reminds one of a third-rate

boarding-house, it is to get a whiff of onions the moment you enter the

front door. It is vulgar and low. I can't see how any one of refined

tastes can touch them. I hope you are not an onion eater, Nettie,

because if you are, I fear you will have to abstain; I cannot abide

them."

Now Mrs. Annette Heyward Lyman was exceedingly fond of onions. She was

not of the sort to declare that she was "passionately fond of them,"

but she did think a nice dish of boiled onions, pretty white ones,

swimming in hot milk and butter, was just the thing to go with—stewed

chicken, say. Then, she enjoyed thin slices of raw onions cut into

vinegar; and crisp, green-topped young ones, dipped in salt and eaten

with bread and butter, were just delicious. And yet, if Philip had

mildly hinted that he had a special aversion for that vegetable, she

would have declared, "I will eat no onions while the world standeth."

But to attack them in this sharp way, to declare them vulgar, and,

above all, to dictate to her what she should or should not eat, as if

he were her master, and to say "my house!" it was too much, and she

answered in an icy tone that "she must beg leave to differ; to her mind

the onion was a most delicious vegetable, and she must reserve for

herself the right of choice in this and in other matters."

Their first quarrel! And all about an onion! What cares Satan whether

it be an apple or an onion, so that he spoil the Edens?

There were many more words quite as pungent as onions, and then

there fell a silence between them that was not broken after Barbara

had lighted the gas in the parlor, and drawn the table under the

drop-light, and they were seated with books and newspapers. There was

no reading done, but much ugly thinking. One line of it ran after this

fashion:

"Strange that so delicate, refined a nature should have a taste for

that vile, flagrant, odious onion!" A wretched discovery, that his

wife should be fond of that for which he had always felt disgust! And

evidently she did not mean to give them up, not even for his sake. Was

she selfish and proud and obstinate and—and high-tempered? Had he been

mistaken in her character and her regard for him?

The wife meantime was recalling an opinion long ago expressed by a

friend, who said that Philip Lyman possessed a domineering spirit and

was bound to rule all connected with him. She, herself, had never

believed it, but this looked like it—wishing her to give up whatever

he did not fancy, and hinting that she would be obliged to. Indeed! He

would find that she did not drive well; no, indeed. If her husband had

observed the glowing cheeks and flashing eyes just then he would have

been justified in concluding that she was "high-tempered."

And now came a break in this uncomfortable state of things in the shape

of Mr. John Lyman, on a business trip; "could only spend the night with

his brother. He was sorry to spoil their evening together." He would

have been sorrier had he known they had not spoken for just two hours.

Annette soon retired, leaving the brothers to talk over home affairs

while she went to her room to indulge in the luxury of grief. How

dark it all looked. Philip was changing. Perhaps he was sorry they

were married. He had the same as said she was vulgar and coarse. He

was fastidious; she could never please him; they would have dreadful

quarrels, for she could not submit to be ordered. And now the tears

that had been stored up all these bright years fell in most surprising

showers, until sleep had got the better of them.

The morning was a hurrying time; the brother must get down town for the

early train. A hasty good-by with averted eyes, and Philip was gone.

As he lunched near his office, two miles away, he would not be at home

again until night.

A long, unhappy day before Annette! She felt ten years older than

yesterday morning, when Philip had come all the way back from the gate

to put a rose in her hair. She wished she could see her mother; she

wished she could go off where Philip wouldn't find her in years; that

is, she thought she did. Oh! What a wretched world it was. Poor foolish

child! But she had only lived twenty little years.

Mr. Philip Lyman alone in his office, tried to settle himself to his

usual duties, but he felt ill at ease and uninterested. Finally he

threw down his pen, tipped back in his chair, and locked his fingers

together at the back of his head, a favorite thinking attitude. His

eyes wandered out the window, resting on white clouds sailing through

the sky. Perhaps the deep blue reminded him of Nettie's eyes, or the

wrapper she had worn that morning. However it was, he soon fell to

confessing to those soft clouds.

"What a consummate idiot! She thinks me a tyrant, and rude and selfish.

She ought to be vexed at me. As if I should make over her tastes, and

try to control her. I was rude and hateful and unkind. Contemptible!"

And with that he seized his hat and dashed down-stairs into the street.

He went straight to a market, bought a peck of onions and ordered them

sent home. An unpoetical peace offering, he reflected, but the most

appropriate for him under the circumstances. But stop, those were red

onions. This fact was brought to his consciousness by observing on the

sidewalk a basket of unusually fine white ones; and she had especially

wished white onions. Immediately he stepped in and bought a peck of

those.

As he walked along, filled with the peaceful consciousness of having

made some atonement, he spied a wagon filled to the top with clean

shiny-skinned, white onions. "They really look attractive," he said to

himself. Then there darted into his mind a new idea. What if he should

prove to Annette what a magnanimous, self-denying being he really was,

and take to eating the obnoxious things himself just to please her; be

a philosopher, a stoic, and will to like what he detested?

There must be no half-way work about this act of self-abnegation;

he would provide a generous supply. Now that he thought of it,

autumn was just the time to lay in a supply of vegetables. What had

he been thinking of, buying only a peck? Nov, how many was a good

quantity—enough to last all winter? That was a conundrum. He had dim

memories of ten bushels of this and that stored in his father's cellar.

True his father had a large family. But then, they should have a

great many visitors. The proprietor of the wagon stared when he heard

the order, but his business was to sell onions. If Philip Lyman was

complacent before, he was jubilant now in contemplation of his virtues.

He bounded up the stairs, resolving to go home at noon, surprise

Nettie, and "make up." He was a monster to have left her in such a cold

way. He was obliged to abandon that plan, though, having already lost

so much time.

Annette meantime had been aroused from her despondent mood by the first

installment of onions. Onions have healing properties, everybody knows.

They began to prove efficacious in this case. Philip wanted to show her

that he was sorry, she reasoned, and had taken this way to do it. It

was just as delicate and kind as if the onions had been flowers,—she

ignored the fact that they were red. While her spirits were being thus

soothed and comforted, the second peck of onions arrived. This was

perplexing. Why had he done that? Ah! These were white, and he had

recollected that she liked white ones. How thoughtful and good! How

unselfish and candid and noble to own himself wrong, and she—had been

foolish and wicked to get angry at nothing.

She was just beginning to feel that life was worth living, when another

man presented himself announcing that he had brought some onions.

Annette assured him there was some mistake, as they had sufficient

for a long time. But he affirmed most strenuously this was the spot,

producing the directions in her husband's handwriting. Then Annette

told him that she must countermand the order; that she positively

wished for no more onions.

"But ye see I got my pay for 'em," he answered, with a horrible grin,

whereupon the discomfited young woman retired into the house and the

triumphant onions went into the cellar.

Tramp, tramp, and roll, roll. Would he never have done? He seemed like

an arch fiend, sent to torment her. If she could but have known the

soliloquy he of the onions carried on as he went back and forth, and

that he took a malicious delight in getting the better of her, it might

have turned the tide of her rising wrath into a laugh. When a laugh

comes in, wrath goes out.

"That's jest the way with wimmin folks—headstrong! They think they know

a leetle the most about everything. The young feller likes onions, I

s'pose, and she don't, and she's 'tarmined he sha'n't have 'em. I'm

glad she's got a boss. She needs it."

By the time the tenth bushel was deposited all Annette's late estimates

and decisions had been reversed. Of all despicable acts this was the

climax—to send a whole load of those horrible things, as if to say,

"Grovelling creature, can't live without onions! Take them!" It was

just a simple exhibition of spite and sarcasm. She would never have

believed he could do so cruel a thing. Since she was a child she had

not been so angry. It was a lofty, scornful anger that did not vent

itself in tears. Besides, the tears were all used up.

Snatching her hat and mantle, she went out into the air to try to calm

herself. On and on she went out into the country, dreading to return.

Finding herself within half a mile of her cousin's house, she decided

to call in order to get away from her thoughts. It proved the right

place for that purpose. Little Harry had become suddenly ill, and the

distracted mother welcomed her gladly. The two worked over him all

the afternoon. As night came on Annette felt that it would be cruel

to leave until there was some ray of hope. So she wrote a note to her

husband, briefly and coldly explaining her absence. A passing boy

agreed to deliver it, but it never got beyond his own pocket.

Toward evening Barbara began to wonder what kept her mistress, and

decided to take matters into her own hands and get up a dinner. Seeing

the large bin of onions in the cellar, she said within herself, "This

is what she all time want; I will cook some!" During the process of

cooking she made many trips to the front door to watch for her lost

mistress. Each time she left all the doors open behind her, and so

thoroughly perfumed the whole house with the odor of the dinner.

In the city Paul had picked up an old college friend and persuaded him

to stay over a train and dine with him. As he ushered his friend into

the pretty house, with a pardonable pride, it was somewhat taken down

by the unmistakable odor that greeted him.

"Onions! As I live," he said to himself, "and Merwin is such a

fastidious fellow! However, wait till he sees Annette." So he went in

haste to bring her.

Upstairs and down and in the garden he searched. She was not to be

found. This was a new departure—to be away on his return. He told his

friend she had probably been detained—would be in presently.

Chagrined and mortified almost beyond his power to conceal, after

waiting an hour, he was obliged to invite his friend to a table

without a hostess. The first cover he removed disclosed a dozen huge

specimens of that obnoxious, ill-odored vegetable that had caused their

unhappiness. He forgot his heroic resolve and shut it with emphasis—not

to-night would he eat onions. It was unlike the delicate tact of his

wife to have ordered them cooked that night, while she was still

ignorant of what had passed in his mind.

Barbara was not yet perfect. The dinner both in cooking and serving

missed the supervision of the mistress. The host was ill at ease and

absent, and was not sorry that his guest soon bade him good-by.

And now Philip grew positively uneasy, and proved himself not a whit

behind a woman in the power to conjure up dire probabilities. Perhaps

she had slipped from that high bank where they sometimes walked along

the river! And he rushed out through the garden and over the fields

till he stood on the bank amidst the gathering shadows and peered

remorsefully into the dark waters. What if somebody had abducted her;

had brought word that he was ill and had carried her off! That thought

was maddening. Then he remembered her one relative in that vicinity—her

cousin.

No public conveyance went that way, and in hot haste, he started on

foot. His speed astonished himself. Breathless and panting, he arrived

and was about to ring, when, obeying an impulse, he stepped to the

side porch and looked through the vine-covered window. Yes; surely,

there was Annette! A little group near the open fire; she kneeling by

a low chair, her bright head bending over little Harry, who lay in his

mother's lap.

The first feeling was of relief and gratitude. She was safe. And then,

it was his turn. There came surging over him, like a hot breath from

a furnace, a wave of anger, and he strode away. His hasty glance had

not shown him the death-like pallor on the baby face, nor the anxious

expressions of the others. His conclusion was that the baby was being

made ready for bed, and the two were admiring his pretty pink toes.

On he went in the darkness, his resentment gathering force at every

step. Here she had deliberately planned to put him to torture. How

little she must care for him when she would allow him to spend a

whole night in anxiety. He had supposed her nature to be gentle and

forgiving, and here she had treasured up a few hasty words and was

intent on revenge. He had made concessions, and she had scorned them.

Alas! He had not the dimmest suspicion that those ten bushels of

concessions were just what widened the breach. He walked the floor for

hours, then flinging himself on a lounge, toward morning chopped into a

heavy sleep.

The result of the night's meditation was a decision that the next

advance toward reconciliation must come from Annette herself. Just as

he was about starting for the office in the morning, Annette was driven

up to the door. They looked at each other in silence. He lingered a

moment to see if she had any explanations to offer, and she waited in

the hall hoping that possibly he had repented of the odious conduct

of yesterday and was willing to confess it. Silence is not always

"golden;" the proverb is misleading. If he had but asked, "Why did you

go away?" Or she had said some pleasant word! But, no; they passed each

other in grim silence.

Another day of gloom and despair for both. This unwonted strain, added

to the night's watching, brought upon Annette a nervous headache, so

that by the time of Philip's return she could not raise her head. It

was fortunate. But for this they might have gone on till happiness was

wrecked. Annette, with spirited little head erect, sailing through the

house, was to be considered somewhat differently from this one, her

head on a pillow, racked with pain. No mother could have cared for her

more tenderly and skillfully than Philip. Throwing his resentment to

the winds, he administered to her for hours until she fell into a quiet

sleep.

In the morning, with the pain all gone, explanations were in order. It

was hard to tell which was the more astonished as the misunderstandings

of each began to come out.

"And you did not go away to have revenge on me?" "And you did not send

home all those onions just to tease me?" were some of the questions

asked. Then the ludicrous side began to appear, and they laughed long

and merrily.

"Whatever shall we do with all those onions?" queried Annette when she

found her breath.

"We will make sweet fragrance to our names by means of them," said

Philip. "We will send gifts to the poor—always of onions. We will

become famous as philanthropists, and our eccentric charities will be

the theme of succeeding generations. But, Nettie, I wish you would make

a picture of some of those silvery-skinned onions. We will hang it up

in the dining room, and it shall teach us wholesome lessons that nobody

else can read but just us two. Shall teach me not to forget the 'small

sweet courtesies of life.'"

"And shall teach me," said Annette humbly, "'that anger dwells in the

bosom of fools.'"

"And that 'greater is he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh

a city,'" added Philip.

"My darling," he said, as their lips met in the kiss of reconciliation,

"let us never again misinterpret, misjudge, or lose faith in each

other, whatever comes."

MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS.

———

MISS RACHEL WHITTAKER, as the years went by, found herself sole

occupant of the old family homestead. Father and mother had lived

their long honored lives, finished their work, and entered into rest.

Brothers and sisters had one after another made for themselves new

homes and gone their different ways. Miss Rachel had passed safely

through the romances of youth and settled down to sober middle-aged

life. She had also resisted all persuasions of friends to sell the old

place and make her home with some one of the various families. "Because

there is no man in the case," said Miss Whittaker, with a slightly

contemptuous emphasis on the "man," "is no reason why I should not have

a home of my own."

So life went on in the old Whittaker mansion with the same zest and

order as if the household numbered a half-dozen, instead of a single

lone female and her servant. There was the same punctilious regard

to times and seasons. The house-cleaning paroxysm invariably came on

a certain day of the month, the Monday's wash flapped in the wind,

and the Saturday's baking sent forth spicy odors as regularly as they

had done for the last forty years. The cellar continued to be stocked

each autumn with "Mercers" and "Pink-eyes," with "Greenings" and

"Spitzenbergs," with "Golden Pippins" and "Pound Sweets." The closet

shelves contained their due amount of riches: rows of jars and glasses,

filled with peaches, pears, quinces and jellies. In short, everything

pertaining to good cheer was literally brimming over.

And Miss Rachel fed her chickens, counted her eggs, watered her plants

and pattered upstairs and down, or sat in her large, sunny room and

read her books and magazines, or clicked her knitting needles to the

ticking of the tall old clock. Or she gathered a few friends about her

for a social tea drinking, or, flung wide the doors of the old house

to a troop of nieces and nephews. It was not alone that Miss Whittaker

was fond of company, but it was pleasant to keep up the old customs. It

was a pitiful attempt to bring back, as far as possible, the old times.

It was easier when gay chatter and merry prattle filled the rooms, to

see the white-haired father and mother as of old in their arm-chairs

by the fireside. The most prosaic have a vein of sentiment somewhere.

Rachel Whittaker's took this form; she guarded with a reverence that

amounted to idolatry every object and principle belonging to those two.

Her father's old hat occupied the identical peg on which he himself

hung it the last time he went out; and mother's darning basket stood on

the little stand, with balls and thimble and glasses; the needle stuck

in the ball of blue yarn just where her own fingers placed it so long

ago. And so, housekeeping was something more than ministering to her

own wants or entertaining friends; it was having things go on as "they"

would like to see them go on.

This devoted daughter was careful, as well, to direct the family

benevolences into the well-worn channels in which they were accustomed

to run. The church subscription and the contributions to home and

foreign missions, and the various "Boards," were as faithfully attended

to as if good Squire Whittaker still sat at the head of his pew.

She even loved and perpetuated her father's prejudices, and was

too apt, like him, to have more sympathy for the unfortunate in

Booroboolagha, than for those at her own door. She was prone to set

all these down as "drunken" or "shiftless." However, she had not much

opportunity to cultivate the grace of charity in home work, as nearly

all the little community were well-to-do.

One of Miss Rachel's duties as a good housekeeper was to see that the

large stock of bedding, packed away in trunks and closets, was aired

at frequent intervals. It was more than abundant for the needs of a

large family—and the Whittaker family was a large one when gathered

in the old home at Thanksgiving and the holidays. One day in early

winter—"just the right sort of a day for airing bedclothes, so warm and

bright," Miss Rachel declared—the lines in the yard were filled with

blankets, quilts, comfortables, etc., and the piazza roofs were adorned

with feather beds and pillows.

Among the passers-by was Mrs. Barnes. She lived in the little gray,

weather-beaten house just under the hill. She was neither shiftless

nor drunken, yet she was pitifully poor, and was a widow as well,

with three little children. She could "dig," though to "beg" she was

ashamed, and managed by hard work and much pinching and stinting to

piece out a living. What a tempting sight was this goodly array to the

half-frozen woman!

Nobody knew but herself how hard she had tried to get enough bedding

together for the winter; how she had saved every old scrap and pieced

it up and eked out the cotton with newspapers that she had secured from

Miss Rachel; and yet, with all that, the old house was so open it was

going to be hard work to keep warm in the long, cold nights.

She stood and looked at those soft double blankets and thick

comfortables, and said to herself, "What a thing it must be, eh, to

have such lots of bedclothes; to pile on as many as you please and be

warm as toast all night! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—I

don't know how many blankets, double at that, and ever and ever so many

comfortables, besides quilts and spreads. And there she is with all

them warm things and nobody to keep warm but herself, and here I be,

with three little children and no warm things. Oh dear! Why couldn't

the two 'a' gone together, I should like to know." Then she brushed

away a tear with the corner of her shawl and went on her way.

Miss Whittaker sat near the side window and noticed that the Widow

Barnes stopped and looked over the fence. Somehow she didn't like to

see her standing there, her thin dress blowing in the wind, her faded

old shawl drawn close about her, and with such anxious-looking eyes

fixed on those blankets. But now the obnoxious figure in the old shawl

moved on, and Miss Rachel could once more give her undivided attention

to a very difficult piece of embroidery she was engaged in making for a

fair.

That very night winter began in earnest. The north wind and the frost

went out hand in hand. They built bridges over streams, made rocky

roads, and crept in here and there, unbidden and unwelcome. They

found their way to Miss Rachel's chamber, but she got a victory over

them by simply reaching out her hand and drawing over her self a soft

comfortable.

The same unmerciful couple visited the poor as well as the rich; they

crept into the cracks and crannies of the Widow Barnes' little house.

She awoke with chills creeping over her, and got up and hunted about

in the dark for something more to put over the two little girls in the

trundle-bed, who had once or twice sleepily called out "cold!" She

tucked her shawl and their old sacks about them, then snuggled little

Bessie close in her arms and "wished for the day."

The frost and the wind had their own way all through the following

day. It was a gloomy prospect for the night to Mrs. Barnes. She had

hoped before cold weather set in to manage in some way to get more

bedclothes. A fire all night was out of the question. As a forlorn

hope, she put on her hood and shawl and went towards night, up the

hill to Miss Whittaker's. Why, she scarcely knew. There was the least

glimmer of a prospect that she might get some plain sewing to do, or,

"Who knows," she told herself, "but that Miss Whittaker will say, 'Mis'

Barnes, here is an old comfortable; if you can make it useful, you

are welcome to it.' Oh! if she only would." And while the poor woman

struggled up the hill against the wind she was unconsciously concocting

a suitable reply to such a gracious proposition.

Miss Rachel had an excellent habit of employing her odds and ends of

time in reading. By means of it she kept up familiar acquaintance with

old authors.

To-night, after the lamps were lighted—and there were yet a few minutes

before tea—she took a dip into "Thomson's Seasons." She was just

reading:

"See, winter comes to rule the invested year,

Sullen and sad with all his rising train,

Vapors and clouds and storms."

* * * * * * *

"'Tis done! dread winter spreads his latest glooms,

And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year,—"

when the kitchen door opened and Mary admitted Mrs. Barnes. What a

heavenly place that room, with its warmth and brightness, seemed to

this other woman. Miss Rachel laid aside her book and gave kindly

attention to her poorer neighbor. They talked about the weather, how

very early the cold had come on, how sharp the wind had been all day,

and what an exceedingly cold night last night was.

"I put everything I could lay my hands on over us, and yet we shivered

in our beds," Mrs. Barnes said.

Then Miss Rachel suggested that the house was probably open, and gave

some valuable advice as to the best method of making doom and windows

weather-proof. "Stop up all the chinks, and I think you will be more

comfortable," she said; and then added that she was sorry she knew of

no work for her. It was very difficult to get anything to do in the

winter time. Had she not better try to put out her children and go into

some nice family herself? It would be a great deal better all round.

Mrs. Barnes got up hastily, then, and said she must go. She wanted

to say that if she could get work to do she could take care of her

children without help from anybody, but something choked her, so that

she could not speak. This was the horrible thing that was always

staring her in the face—to part with the children. Must she come to it,

just for want of a little help over this hard spot?

She pushed out into the cold and darkness, and went on her way, slowly

and heavily. "I most hope she'll be cold herself some time, just to see

how it feels," she murmured, half aloud, as she caught the last glimpse

of Miss Rachael's light, in the bend of the road. "Why couldn't she let

me have a couple of old comfortables and pay for it in work? I don't

want to beg, goodness knows, but I'll have to come to it, for all I

see."

Miss Whittaker was not so hard-hearted as she might seem. All the time

Mrs. Barnes was talking, she was engaged in consultation with herself

as to whether there was anything in the way of bedclothes that she

could possibly spare. She did not wish to commit herself, so she made

no promises, but she inwardly resolved that on the morrow she would

take a look to that end.

Accordingly, the next morning found her with her head in chests and

closets amid piles of blankets and the like. It was astonishing how

many beds one woman, who lived all alone, had to provide for.

That pile was for Sister Martha's bed, that for Elvira's, that for

Brother Ephraim's. Then, suppose they should all come at once and bring

a couple of children apiece; they never had yet, but then they might,

and if they did, at least six beds would need to be made ready; and if

the weather should prove to be very cold at the time, why, it would

take an enormous amount of covering, and it was always best to be ready

for emergencies. Then there were certain quilts that she would not part

with under any consideration, even though they were somewhat faded.

The "album" quilt contained precious association of all the Whittaker

family. The "wheel within a wheel" mother pieced and quilted; "the

birds in the air" she pieced herself, beginning at the early age of

four. As for common comfortables, it was needful to have a good many to

spread over feather beds and mattresses.

There! It was done. Miss Rachel had gone laboriously through them all,

and yet nothing had been found that was in any way suitable to bestow

upon the Widow Barnes.

Dinner time came now, and she put them all away with—"I will see about

it some other time." Ah, how many good things Satan hinders with that

salve to the conscience—"some other time"!

After the cold came the snow, pouring out from the sky one ceaseless,

silent stream for three days and nights. It piled itself in huge drifts

in roadways, hid the fences, and—most buried the little house in the

hollow. The widow occupied her time in shovelling snow before her

doors and windows, lest they should be buried entirely. Her thoughts,

meantime, were gloomy and sad. She knew about the God who hears the

young ravens when they cry, but she did not believe He would hear her,

and—like many more of his children—when trouble came, stopped her ears

to gracious promises and fell into sullen gloom.

Miss Whittaker was a prisoner, too, in her cheery rooms. She was

pleasantly employed, though; she knit bright socks for Martha's baby

boy, made up a store of mince pies and fruit cake, and read a new

book called "Snow Bound." In short, she was altogether comfortable

and happy, or would have been but for one thing. And that thing was

not snow; she liked that. What disturbed Miss Rachel's serenity

during those few days, was, that she could not shake off a feeling of

uneasiness with regard to the Widow Barnes. Her face, pale and worn,

kept coming up before her, and the words, "We shivered in our beds,"

sounded in her ears. Then all the texts in the Bible she had ever

read about the poor kept coming and going through her brain. She was

a diligent reader, and her memory was good. When she would fain have

entertained herself recalling the musical flow of—

"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,

And the winter winds are wearily sighing,"

she could think of nothing but—

"Blessed is he that considereth the poor, the Lord will deliver him

in time of trouble."

Or,—

"If any of you see a brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels

of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

She was not unmindful of the poor; she had helped Mrs. Barnes in

various little ways. Why must she feel so condemned? she asked herself

again and again.

With fair weather came the cold again; came stealing down upon the

sleeping world like a thief in the night. Miss Rachel was unusually

tired and slept very soundly, so that she did not waken even when the

fire on her hearth had died out, and the cold become so intense in her

room that the windows were frost covered, and the breath of the sleeper

went up in little clouds of smoke. She stirred uneasily several times,

and was just awake enough to know that she was cold, and not awake

enough to bestir herself and get more covering. For a few minutes she

lay in that half-waking state, thinking she ought, and would, and must

rouse up and get more blankets. Finally, she thought she had done so

and slept on.

Very soon after that she found herself far away from her own home,

trying to walk over a floor of solid ice. She gazed about her in

horror! The place was a large, deep pit, lighted by a lurid glare.

Whichever way she turned her eyes, she saw nothing but ice, icy floor

and icy walls, smooth and shining like glass. She clutched at them to

save her sliding steps, but there was nothing to hold to; her hands

slipped and she fell in a heap on the floor. She looked wildly above

her for a way of escape. At the top of the pit she saw pretty rooms,

with bright fires and happy-looking people sitting about sewing,

reading and chatting. She shrieked for help, but they only shook their

heads and went smilingly on with their occupations.

On one side she saw the Widow Barnes and her children. They sat amidst

piles of blankets, heaped all about them, and they were soft and fleecy

as her own had been. Oh! If she had but one to keep out this deathly

chill. She screamed out again in an agony of torture, begging that just

one blanket might be thrown down to her. But a mocking voice only came

back to her, and it said, "Stop up the chinks, and I think you'll be

comfortable."

In shivering terror she awoke, relieved beyond measure to find herself

at home in her own bed, and then there flashed over her mind the story

of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

Had the Widow Barnes been praying that she might never be warm again?

And must she go through life with her teeth chattering as they were

now? Mingling confusedly with the words of the old ballad, "Chatter,

chatter, chatter still," came a rush of Scripture texts, vivid and

startling as if a voice spoke them in her ears, and they were all about

the poor.

She was so thoroughly stiffened by cold and fear that she could

scarcely rise and go to the closet for the needed covering which on

this night she had forgotten to place by her bedside.

Miss Rachel had been accustomed to draw up and write out, at the

commencement of each year, a series of severe resolutions; the fact

that she never kept one half of them not abating their rigor in the

least. But never in calmest moments, with pen in hand and diary before

her, had any such earnest, self-denying resolves been made as were now

made by the woman who stood in night array in her closet, holding a

flickering lamp in one hand, and with the other taking down blankets

and comfortables and piling them on chairs.

That done, she took a bountiful supply for herself and went back to

bed. Her shivering soon ceased, and for the remainder of the night she

slept the sleep of the just.

As a matter of course, when the daylight streamed into her room, and

the red sun sent a slanting bar across her bed, Satan told Miss Rachel

that it was perfect foolishness to pay any attention to a dream, and

that it was simply improvident to go and give away that great pile of

bedding she had laid out; that a couple of old ragged quilts would

answer every purpose. He was obliged, however, to leave her in peace,

for when Miss Rachel shut her lips tight, and said, "I shall do it," in

that decisive way of hers, there was no need of further parley.

No sooner were the roads broken than she went in search of a man with

a sleigh. When all was ready, it was a sight to behold—at least to the

eyes of cold and hungry people. In the very bottom was a quantity of

dry wood, then came a layer of meat, potatoes, apples, flour. And this

was crowned by blankets and comfortables, more than enough for two beds

in the very coldest weather. "I'll see if I don't get the upper hand of

this mean, selfish spirit," Miss Rachel had ejaculated, as she stowed

an extra blanket on the load at the last minute.

The Widow Barnes was bending over her smoky old stove, trying to coax

some green knots to ignite, when the sleigh stopped in front of her

house. She had a dream, too, last night. It was about Heaven. That

happy place seemed to be filled with blankets and warm fires. But here,

behold, was Heaven come down to her door! She assured the man he had

come to the wrong place, but the note he handed her, with money to buy

a whole load of wood, settled the matter.

From that time forth Miss Rachel took it upon her, as a sacred trust,

to see to it that the Widow Barnes lacked for nothing. And, strange to

relate, her subscriptions to foreign missions, home missions, freedmen,

education, etc., have not been cut down a particle in consequence.

[Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S STORY.]

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

———

"I WANT to tell you a story, young man."

The speaker was the Rev. Joseph Mentor, D. D., a gray-haired,

keen-eyed, large-brained, sweet-faced, grand old Christian. He sat

in his own parlor, which was not a parlor, after all, but a sort of

study; lined with books on every hand, almost crowded with easy chairs;

convenient little writing-tables occupying cosy corners, with all the

appurtenances thereto lavishly furnished, coaxing the privileged guest

to write his letters, or arrange his neglected accounts, or read items

from the various journals of the day, at his elbow, as his taste might

dictate.

The present occupants of the room were three; the aforesaid Doctor,

leaning back at rest in his favorite study chair—his life had been

a long, grand one, and if ever disciple of the Master could afford

to rest on earth, the Rev. Joseph Mentor might have claimed the

privilege; yet his very rest was active; the Doctor's son, a young

man of twenty-five or so, now co-pastor, who had excused himself to

their guest, in the manner that one may treat guests who are almost as

much at home as they are themselves—on the plea that there were two

important letters to answer for the evening mail—and then had turned to

one of the writing-tables, leaving his father to entertain the young

man with a pale face and scholarly air, who sat in a half-dejected

attitude in the straight-backed, old-fashioned chair near the Doctor.

It was to him that the old gentleman had turned with the apparently

abrupt statement,—

"I want to tell you a story, young man?"

That the young man would be glad to hear any story that Doctor Mentor

might choose to honor him with, was evident from the flash of his eyes

and the instant look of interest that overspread his face.

Then the Doctor began: "About a month ago I attended the funeral of a

man in whom I have taken a deep interest all my life. He was an old

man, and a plain man all his long life; yet, though I have attended a

great many funerals in the last half-century, I don't think I ever saw

a greater uprising of the people to offer the last tribute of respect

and affection to a plain man in their midst. I want to tell you a

little about that man. Miller, his name was, Daniel Miller; he was

older than I, and in my young days I used to watch him from his pew in

the church. I liked his face, even then, before I knew him; a grave,

half-sad face, yet never gloomy—only a look of patient resignation to

the inevitable. A Christian man he was, one of the sterling sort. Talk

with anybody in that town about him, and they would pay almost instant

tribute to his sterling worth, and almost always close with, 'What a

pity that such a good man as he is should be so hard of hearing.'

"That was his trouble, and a great trouble it was. I suppose it was

the means of breaking in pieces a number of plans of his youth. Well,

the thought was written all over his patient, sad face: 'I am hard of

hearing and growing worse. It destroys my usefulness, it hinders my

work in every direction, it makes me appear unsocial and unsympathetic,

in short, it is a burden hard to be borne.' As I watched him, I could

see that this feeling grew upon him; grew with his infirmity, and that

progressed quite rapidly.

"You have no idea, I suppose, what a drawback it was to him on all

occasions. It got so that he didn't dare to open his lips in the prayer

meeting. He would look all around him, to see whether anybody was

speaking, but some of the members had a way of keeping their seats when

they talked, so he found that he couldn't tell by their position, and

once or twice he arose and began to pray when some one was talking; he

was a diffident man, and it embarrassed him dreadfully. Then he used to

say that he never knew whether what he had to offer was in a line with

what had been said, or was very wide of the mark; and if the minister

asked him to pray, he had to shout out the request, and sometimes poor

Mr. Miller couldn't hear it, and his wife would have to give his elbow

a nudge, and lean over and whisper to him loud enough for all the house

to hear, 'He wants you to lead in prayer.'

"It was a real embarrassment all around. People didn't wonder that he

gradually grew into the feeling that he couldn't take part very often

in religious meetings; though I never thought that was right; I always

believed that his prayers would be in a line with what the Lord wanted

to have said, and that he would be safe enough, whether he followed the

line of the others or not.

"So it went on, Daniel Miller growing deafer and deafer, and the

patient, sad look on his face deepening, and the feeling growing in his

heart that he wasn't of any use to the Church of Christ that he loved

with all his soul.

"One day somebody in that church had an inspiration. 'I tell you what

it is,' one of the members said, bringing down his doubled-up fist on

the seat before him for emphasis, 'I believe we ought to make Daniel

Miller our treasurer. That thing would suit him, and he is just the man

to do the work.'

"'But Daniel Miller is so deaf,' objected one. 'He grows worse and

worse; I notice that his wife always has to find the hymns for him, and

the place in the Bible, and point to the text.'

"'What if he is deaf?' said his champion; 'a man doesn't have to hear

in order to add money and keep accounts, and make out bills and send

them out, and keep everything straight. I believe it is work that he

could do, and I believe it would do him good; make him feel that he can

do something for the church, and that we have confidence in him. I tell

you what it is, brethren, I'm going to propose his name at our next

election.'

"Well, he was as good as his word, and sure enough, all the people

said 'Amen.' They did it with so much enthusiasm, and with such a look

on their faces that said, 'What a splendid idea! I wonder we never

thought of it before,' that there was quite an excitement, and Mrs.

Miller looked about her, and the tears began to gather in her eyes, and

she put her head down suddenly on the seat in front of her. She was a

grand, good woman—a helpmeet to her good husband in every sense of the

word.

"Well, Daniel Miller looked around with that meek, inquiring look on

his face, a little troubled, as much as to say, 'Are you having a good

time, brethren, or is there something going on in the Lord's house that

oughtn't to be; I'm jealous for his honor; I hope all is well.'

"The chairman got out of his chair of office and went down the aisle,

and bent over Mr. Miller, and said in a good, loud voice, 'You have

been elected our Church Treasurer by a unanimous vote.'

"You ought to have seen his face then; it was a picture. It flushed and

glowed, and his eyes grew dim, and his lips quivered, and it seemed for

a minute that he couldn't speak at all. Then he stammered out something

about not being fitted for the work—his infirmity being so great; he

wished he could do something, he would be glad to, if he could, but

maybe it was a risk to try it.

"Then the chairman put down his mouth to his ear again, and called out,

'We all stand ready to go your security, every one of us.'

"And then, sir, if you will believe it, that decorous assembly, made

up of a class of people who believed every one of them in doing things

decently and in order, just clapped their hands, and he understood it,

and he got out his handkerchief very suddenly. You never saw anything

work more like a charm than that arrangement did all around.

"Daniel Miller took hold of the work with a will, I tell you, and the

work was never better done. His 'infirmity,' as he always meekly called

it, was a positive advantage to him. There wasn't any use in trying

to tell him how the accounts stood, or explain away this or that; he

couldn't hear; it all had to be reduced to writing. And when a man sits

down in quiet to make a written account of anything that another man

is expected to fully understand, why he uses language carefully, don't

you see? You don't suppose they were foolish enough, when his year was

out to go and put in another treasurer, do you? Not a bit of it; the

machine was running too smoothly. They elected him again by as large a

vote as before.

"'It does my heart good,' one old lady said, 'to see Daniel Miller go

up for the collections on Sundays. He does it with such a glad look on

his face, as if he had found out something he could do for the church,

and do well.'

"He did it well, too; no mistakes. By and by he began to send out

little notes with his bills: 'We owe it to our pastor to pay his

quarter's salary on the day promised.' Well, sir, when the next

quarter's salary was paid the morning of the day: on which it was due,

without having been asked for or run after, that minister thought

the millennium was about to dawn! He hadn't been used to that sort

of thing. You never saw anything like the promptness with which pew

rents were paid in the church. If a man was twenty-four hours behind

time, he was almost sure to receive a call from Mr. Miller; no writing

notes this time. That man understood human nature well. Just imagine

a gentleman standing in his store or office, and trying to carry on a

conversation with Daniel Miller about not having paid his pew rent.

'Money has been a little short with me lately,' he begins, 'and I

thought a few days' delay—'

"'What is it?' interrupts Daniel, with his hand to his ear. 'I'm hard

of hearing, you know; speak a little louder, please.'

"Do you suppose that man is going to yell out for the benefit of the

passers-by that he is a little short of money, and had deliberately

planned a few days' delay for his minister? The way it worked was

for him to scream out, 'You shall have the money at noon to-day, Mr.

Miller.' Very likely, he grumbled that he wouldn't get caught in that

trap again, and he didn't. People didn't enjoy calls from Daniel Miller

when they owed the church any money. I watched that thing with the

greatest interest. It grew all the time. It made a wonderful difference

in Daniel's life; he kept his head straighter, and walked faster on the

street. The church was large, and there was a good deal of business

to be transacted, and Daniel had no temptation to brood over his

infirmity. Then he knew just what was going on; just what the church

gave to Foreign Missions and Home Missions, and all benevolences. He

had no need any more to wonder painfully what was being done, and after

hesitating over it a good while make up his mind to ask somebody, and

feel sorry for them all the time to think they had got to answer him.

Instead, people had to come to him for information. Nothing could be

paid for, not a cent of money could be sent anywhere or done anything

with unless the thing passed through Daniel Miller's hands. And I tell

you the treasurer's reports of that church were curiosities; they were

managed with such exactness and clearness. He had a little witch of a

daughter, Nettie her name was, as pretty as a picture.

"Do you remember her, my son?"

"Yes, sir, distinctly," came promptly from the table where the son was

writing letters.

And the Doctor continued: "Her father made her his clerk almost as soon

as she could talk plainly, and began to train her up to business habits

and business terms; he took her with him a good deal. 'Daniel Miller's

ears' we used to call the bright little thing; and she was as bright

as a diamond. We used to notice that Daniel could hear her to the last

better than anybody else, even his wife. 'She's got a voice like an

angel,' he said to me once; 'I know by her that I shall be able to hear

the angels.' His hearing grew steadily worse. For a good many years he

was able to hear some of the sermon, the loud parts as he used to call

them, but by degrees, he lost the power of doing that. 'Did you hear?'

the minister would shout at him, after service, as he came up for the

collection. He would shake his head, but his eyes would look bright as

he answered, 'No, sir, not with my ears; but I've got it here.' And

he would lay his hand on his great, noble heart. It was true, too,

and he went out and lived it a great deal better than many who heard

everything. You must understand, young man, that I am covering a good

deal of ground with this long story. The years went by, and at each

election Daniel Miller was re-instated, until at last that congregation

would have laughed in the face of any man who had suggested a change.

'What should we do without Daniel Miller?' That is as near as they ever

came to mentioning the time when they might have to do without him; and

the time came when they said that in lowered tones and with a hint of

tears, for he was growing an old man and the church couldn't afford to

lose him.

"Bless you! I hope you don't think that keeping the finances of the

church straight was all the man did? It would take all night to tell

you half the things that grew out of it; and then it wouldn't be told;

it can't be. The Lord of the vineyard is the only one who has the whole

story. I told you, he took to writing little marginal readings on the

church bills and receipts. Well, is there any reason why marginal

readings on church bills can't be about other matters than money?

The 'words in season' that this deaf man spoke in this way, in quiet

hours, to one and another of the flock, and the fruit they bore, I know

something of, a good deal of, in fact; but, as I tell you, the Master

is the only one who has the entire record.

"One night he had a new idea, or rather, he worked out what was to him

an old idea. He went on Saturday evening to the parsonage with the

quarter's salary; he apologized for intruding on Saturday, but said he,

'According to date this money should be paid to-morrow morning, and of

course I couldn't do that, so I made bold to come to-night.'

"Well, he happened to be one of those men who never intrude on a

pastor, no matter what time they come; so his pastor told him he was

glad to see him, and would talk with him while he finished and put

up his sermon; but Daniel didn't seem to want to talk; he watched

that sermon with a curious, wistful air. At last he spoke, 'I've been

turning a ridiculous idea over in my mind for a long time; I don't

suppose it could be done, but I've thought sometimes that I would just

like to try an experiment, and read over one of your sermons before you

preached it, and see if I couldn't follow you from the pulpit better

after that.' It was a queer notion, but it took the pastor's fancy.

The fact was, he loved Daniel Miller so much that almost anything he

said took his fancy, and he handed over the sermon and told the old

gentleman to try it, by all means, he could have it as well as not. It

would have done your heart good to see Daniel Miller's radiant face the

next day. 'It worked, sir, it worked!' he said to the pastor, and he

rubbed his hands together like a gleeful boy; 'I could follow you right

along a good piece at a time.' If you'll believe it, that thing grew

into a regular custom; the pastor had a boy, a bright enough fellow,

who was always ready to scamper over to Daniel Miller's with the sermon

on Saturday nights as soon as the minister could spare it, and wait

while Daniel Miller went over it. Fact is, as the years went by, he was

more willing to do that than any other errand the father could get up,

and he and Nettie went over church accounts, and some other accounts

together, many a Saturday night. But I happen to know that that pastor

came to have a queer feeling that he couldn't preach a sermon until

Daniel Miller went over it! That might be in part because he discovered

that the old man had a way of going over it on his knees, and every

sentence he came to that seemed to him ought to do a certain person any

good, he would pray, 'Lord, bless that to John Watkins,' and so on, you

know. Little Nettie, she let that secret out to the boy one night; and

the minister came to feel that Daniel Miller was the associate pastor,

and was praying the sermon into the hearts of the people all the time

it was being preached. When a minister really feels that, he preaches

carefully, I believe.

"Well, sir, it was a wonderful life; and when it ended, as I tell you

it did a little more than a month ago, I never saw anything like the

demonstration; and I didn't wonder at it. Twenty-nine years they had

elected that man to office, and the Lord had elected him to a much

higher office here on earth; his little notes bore a big harvest; and

when the Lord called him to his seat in the Church triumphant, the

Church on earth looked around for some one on whom his mantle could

fall, and I tell you it seemed for a time impossible to do without him.

Why, I moderated the meeting for them when they met to try to fill his

place, and they just spent the first half-hour in tears and praying!

Such lives tell. 'Infirmity,' indeed! God grant us more men like Daniel

Miller."

"What became of Nettie and the boy? Did they get their accounts all

settled?" It was the first time the intent listener had interrupted

the old Doctor's vivid story. Indeed, it could not be called an

interruption, now, for the Doctor had paused, and let his thoughts run

back into the tender past. He roused himself with the question and

laughed a little:—

"How is it, my son?" he asked, looking over toward the writing-table.

"Have you and Nettie finished the accounts, or are they open yet?"

"We mean to keep them open, sir, until we join the 'Church

triumphant.'" The young man answered quickly, albeit his voice was

husky, and he brushed his hand hastily over dim eyes. Then he turned to

the guest.

"My father has given you a true picture of my father-in-law's fruitful

life; as good a picture as can be drawn on the moment; but it is as he

says: no one can tell the story in its fullness. I think we shall have

a wonderful account of it some day."

There was silence in the pleasant room for a few moments. Then the

guest turned to Dr. Mentor. "Thank you," he said brightly, "thank you

very much; they say that 'a word to the wise is sufficient,'" and he

stammered as he tried to speak; then he arose to go.

"Father," said the son, returning from seeing the guest to the door,

and stopping for a moment before his father, "do you think Frank Horton

in danger of becoming deaf? Or is it because he stammers, or just what

is the hidden purpose of the story?"

"Well," said the Doctor, "I told him that story because he is like

Moses, 'slow of speech and slow of tongue.' I think he caught the

lesson and will put it in practice. I am told that he is a very bright,

earnest Christian, but that he broods over his infirmity and is very

sad; you can see it in his countenance. There is a niche for him,

just where, perhaps, the infirmity will tell for God's glory. Look at

your father-in-law. I tell you there is a defect in most lives, an

'infirmity' of some sort, that grace must supplement. It is not for us

to fold our hands and say, 'What a pity!' but to help find the niche

where the marble fits. Mr. Horton is like Daniel Miller. He could not

be a good Sunday-school teacher, or elder, or minister, but he can do

something."