CHAPTER XX.

LETTERS FROM THE PASTOR.

"HOW true it is," said Marion, as, after she had taken Mrs. Douglass

to her home, she was seated in her own parlor,—"how true that the

sins of the parents are visited on the children! God's threatenings

are as faithful as his promises. I cannot be thankful enough that

I have had a pious ancestry, and that their prayers may be answered

in blessings on their descendants. How little that father realized

that, in allowing his son and daughter the indulgence of every

caprice, they were sowing seed which would spring up to their own

sorrow and shame! How little even Mrs. Cheriton realizes that she is

pursuing the same evil course with her boy, and that from being her

idol he will become her tyrant! I promised Mrs. Douglass that I would

be a friend to the youthful mother; indeed she urged that Mr. Angus

had advised her to confide her story to me, and had been confident

that I would not forsake her. I will try to keep my promise."

Mr. Angus sailed early in June, and, except a notice in the papers of

the safe arrival of the steamship in Liverpool, no news from him had

been received. Mrs. Asbury wrote Marion that her long-promised visit

would be paid the last week in the month, and that she expected her

niece to return with her to Grantbury. At the close was the following

hurried postscript:—

"I have opened my letter to add that Mr. Asbury has just received

a brief communication from our dear pastor. He is well, preached on

Sunday in London, both morning and afternoon, sent affectionate

regards to all friends including you and Ethel, of course."

Marion read the message with a heightened color. Her heart rebelled

against being remembered in this general way; then, reading again,

was pleased to see that this was only her aunt's rendering of his

message. She fell into a revery concerning the absent one. "He told

me I was the only confidant he ever had. In aunty's last letter she

narrated exactly what he told her in regard to the triumphant death

of a friend. She has no idea that I knew his sister, nor of the

painful events of his early life. I will not betray his confidence;

and yet it will be a trial to me to keep anything of interest to

myself from my dear, kind aunty. I wonder whether he will write me,

and when."

She was interrupted by James, who brought the morning paper.

"Nothing else?" she asked, in a tone of disappointment.

"Nothing at all."

Looking at her watch, she saw there would not be time to read the

news before the carriage was due. She folded it in an abstract

manner, walked to the rack to put it in, when she saw the end of

a letter protruding from a newspaper inside. As this was not the

place for letters, she took it out, and found to her surprise

it was unsealed, and—"Yes, it is," she said aloud, "it is

postmarked London."

Mr. Angus began by asking,—

Am I intruding too much on your kindness by sending you a few lines

at so early a date? If so, forgive me, and remember that though I am

in my native land, standing on the spot where my fathers stood, yet I

am a stranger. I feel lonely to-night, and would gladly transport

myself back to my adopted country. We had a prosperous voyage,—

prosperous so far as it could be to one who was being removed farther

and farther from home and home friends. How much would I give to have

my little Ethel in my arms, and hear her sweet voice whispering in

my ear, "I love you!"

You will turn from my page, I fear, disgusted with my home-sickness,

and I will tell you of other things.

I have been occupied with business in London, but start to-morrow

for Doncaster, and from that place shall proceed to Leyden. There is

a post-office in Leyden. If I should find there a letter directed to

me, it would make me very happy.

I write Mr. Asbury by this same steamer, and shall send my messages

direct to them.

May God bless you, my dear Miss Howard, and reward you for all your

kindness to me and mine, is the sincere prayer of your friend,

HAROLD ANGUS.

There was one person only to whom Marion spoke of the relief which

had come to the Grantbury pastor, and this was to Mary Falkner. This

young girl, in the midst of her own suffering, never forgot to pray

that God would lead him into the light. It was Marion's precious

privilege to change these prayers to praise for mercies already

bestowed.

It was during a visit made to the Home, and when the conversation had

reverted to friends in Grantbury, that Mary inquired who was

preaching there. "Mother goes every Sunday to church," she went on,

"and says she enjoys it. She told me word had come across the water

from the pastor, that he was safe on land the other side."

Marion laughed at the curious phraseology of the widow, and then

said, "Your prayers for him have been answered, Mary. He is no longer

weighed down by sad memories. I will report to you what he told Aunt

Asbury."

The cripple clasped her hands, while a fervent expression of joy

stole over her face.

"God be praised!" she ejaculated. "He will be far more useful in his

work now. He can 'rejoice with those who do rejoice, as well as weep

with those who weep.'"

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

GRANTBURY AND THE FIRST CHURCH.

GRANTBURY is a manufacturing town. It has six churches, of the

different denominations. The largest and most flourishing church

was the one over which Mr. Angus was settled as pastor. A branch

of this church had gone off some years before and had built a chapel

near one of the factories, hoping to bring in many of the employés,

who were neglectful of public worship. This had not been as

successful as had been hoped; the clergyman was so poorly supported

that he left, and of late the effort of the Christian workers had

been concentrated on the Sunday school. The usual attendance here

was about one hundred.

Two years before the commencement of our story, an unusual excitement

prevailed in the town, caused by the proposition of a few speculators

to build a new railroad direct to the principal cities east and west

of them, thus connecting them with the great thoroughfares.

The capitalists who owned most of the stock in the branch railroad

which connected them three times in a day with the next town at first

opposed the new project; but Mr. Asbury, with a wider and more

far-reaching view of the results, advocated it both by public

speeches and offers of money.

As he was a large land-owner, and the railroad would have to pass

through one of his most valuable farms, it was argued by those

wishing the new road, that he must be advocating it for the good

of the public against his private interests. So, indeed, he was.

The new road was chartered, and in time in working order.

A compromise to purchase from the owners of the branch road twelve

miles which came in their direct route satisfied all parties;

so that, when, the new, tasteful depot with the long baggage-room

replaced the forlorn little station with shed attached, there was

a general burst of enthusiasm.

The two years following this made a marvelous change in the old,

quiet village. Mr. Asbury had given a beautiful site for the new

depot, on conditions which had been complied with. The grass land

belonging to his largest farm had been laid out in squares, with

a park in the centre, and sold for house lots. The buildings put up

there according to the terms of sale, must not be less than a

stipulated cost; and thus a pretty village was growing up in this

part of the town.

Mr. Angus's church was half a mile from the station, and quite near

Mr. Asbury's dwelling house. The stimulus in all branches of business

had been so great since the new railroad had been built that the main

street had been widened, and set out with shade trees at the border

of the flagged sidewalks.

Nor was the prosperity confined to the vicinity of the depot.

The increased demand for vegetables, milk, etc., from the new-comers

made the land too valuable for the farmers to cultivate grass and

corn for their own use. Large fields with southern exposures were

planted with early and late vegetables and small fruits, which found

a ready sale at their own new market.

This was the condition of the town when Mr. Angus became the pastor

of the First Church. During the nine months following his

ordination, the church building had become so crowded that a

suggestion of enlarging by transepts had been made. It was an

old-fashioned edifice, with unnecessarily roomy slips, white walls,

high pulpit, and poor ventilation. Mr. Asbury was opposed to

enlarging, but did not consider it time to give his reasons.

At a meeting of the trustees directly after Mr. Angus went abroad,

it was proposed that the work of enlarging be entered upon

immediately, and finished by the time of the pastor's return.

Some money was subscribed; but when the paper was passed to

Mr. Asbury, he refused to sign any thing. As a large subscription

had been hoped for, this refusal threw a damper on the undertaking;

but a committee was appointed to report in one week, and the meeting

adjourned.

During this very week a fire broke out in carpenter's shop filled

with combustible matter. The flames carried sparks and half-burned

sticks to several houses in the vicinity, and among them to the

building belonging to the First Church. The committee met, and all

the male members with them, not to report on the cost of the proposed

alterations, but to consult what was to be done in this sudden and

terrible emergency.

The old sturdy farmers were near despair, but supposed they must do

something to repair the temple of the Lord, and were thankful that

the walls, being of brick, were still standing.

Others had a plan that a new town hall, just finished, should be

hired, and public worship held there till such time as they were able

to recover from the effects of the terrible calamity which had

overtaken them.

Mr. Asbury and a few friends belonging to the wealthy portion of the

church remained silent listeners to the views of the older brethren.

At length, after an hour spent in lamentations over the calamity, and

propositions which were considered impracticable, the moderator

of the meeting remarked,—

"We have talked an hour to no purpose. Will some one make a

proposition as to a place of worship for us next Sunday?"

After a momentary pause, Mr. Asbury quietly rose from his seat

with an open paper in his hand. There was not the least trace of

excitement in his manner, as he said, "I have here a letter, which I

will read. It is from the trustees of the Methodist Episcopal Church

in our town, and is addressed to me.

"MR. EDWARD ASBURY:

"Dear Sir, At a meeting of our board of trustees the day following

the burning of your church edifice, a resolve was unanimously voted

that we deeply sympathize in your loss of your house of worship, and

that we tender to you the free use of our church building till such

time as you may repair your edifice or otherwise provide for

yourselves.

"With fraternal love and good-will,

"Very respectfully

"MOSES HUNT.

"By order of trustees of Methodist Episcopal Church, Grantbury."

A motion to accept this friendly offer was at once passed, and then

Mr. Asbury rose again and said,—

"I have a proposition to make; but, first, I ask you to listen to a

few facts. I have made a careful investigation into the state of our

church building, the walls of which are still standing. It is

fifty-eight years old; the beams are rotten. It ought to be a source

of gratitude that we have escaped a greater calamity by reason of the

falling in of the walls, from the cellar being unventilated.

It cannot be repaired. This is the opinion of the best experts I have

been able to obtain. I propose, then, that we sell it as it stands,

to some gentlemen who offer five thousand dollars for the site.

They intend, if they obtain it, to put up a large hotel."

"It's a good offer."

"Take it."

"I object."

"We must have the land to build again."

"We need a hotel for summer residents."

"We can worship in the town hall."

"Or disband altogether," grumbled a man who never contributed a

penny.

Altogether the clamor following this proposition prevented any

further remarks from Mr. Asbury, if he had wished to make any, and he

sat down with a smile on his face.

Several groups were at once formed, and loud, excited voices were

heard discussing this unexpected proposal; some were for accepting,

others positively refused to quit the old spot dedicated by their

fathers to the worship of God. At length the moderator, with a loud

rap on the table, called the meeting to order, and inquired whether

any gentleman had anything further to say before the proposal was put

to vote.

Mr. Asbury rose again, this time with a little flush on his face,

as he remarked, "I am not in the habit, as you, my friends, are

aware, of speaking of myself; but I would like to say that I have the

welfare of this parish greatly at heart. We are blessed with a good

pastor,—a live, working man. I believe he will be more useful in

the future than he has been in the past; that he is a growing man.

I believe that he will return to us with greatly improved health and

spirits, and enter on his work again with new hope and confidence of

success. I want to show him that we appreciate him by building him

a new church large enough to accommodate all the new families who

wish to join us. When a proposition was made at our last meeting

to enlarge our old building, I did not subscribe, because I knew the

work would cost more in the end than to begin a new one. I have had

some sad experience, as many of you know" (smiling), "as to the cost

of repairing old buildings. Now that the fire has rendered that

undertaking impracticable, I propose to your board of trustees

to accept a lot of land on the rising ground, half-way between this

and the new depot, which I freely tender to them."

Shouts of "Yes," "We will," etc., were checked by a wave of

Mr. Asbury's hand, as he added,—

"Wait a little: I have not done yet; there are conditions. I wish

to say that a subscription paper has already been started for a new

edifice costing not less than twenty thousand dollars, and the sum of

fourteen thousand eight hundred dollars, including five thousand for

our old church building, already subscribed, on condition that the

whole amount be raised, and no mortgage ever be allowed upon it."

Profound silence followed this speech, which was like a bombshell

thrown into an unprotected house; then a few whispers were heard,—

"Five thousand and more to raise. Where will it come from?"

"'T would have cost ten to repair, and 't would have been an old

building after all."

At last, Mr. Rand, an aged, white-haired farmer, stood up.

"I'm an old man," he said, "and not long for this world; but I hope

to live to see the new church built on that 'ere spot yonder, which,

in my opinion, is the pootiest place for a church in the hull town,—

yes, and to worship God in it, too. I'm not rich, and I'm not poor.

I've got nigh upon two thousand dollars in the savings bank, laid up

for a wet day. My children are all married and settled on farms of

their own; so I sha'n't do any of 'em wrong if I add my name to

Mr. Asbury's paper," holding out his hand for it. "There," he said,

deliberately taking off the glasses he had put on to write,—

"there's fifteen thousand three hundred subscribed on the above-named

conditions. If necessary, I'll add another five hundred; and I'm sure

my old woman will say so, too."

"After this noble example," rejoined the moderator, more moved by the

old man's words than he liked to show, "I'll put down my name for the

same sum as he did."

Smaller sums were at once added, so that when the meeting adjourned,

after the appointment of a building committee, only one thousand more

was necessary to make up the entire amount. This was to be obtained

by personal solicitation from the families of those not represented

at the meeting, and a committee of ladies was requested to take this

work in hand.

CHAPTER II.

VISIT TO INGLESIDE.

THE architect employed by the building committee had submitted a plan

for the new church,—Gothic, high spire, and stained-glass windows.

It was accepted, the foundation laid, the walls, which were to be of

native stone, raised to the height of seven feet, when a letter was

received from Mr. Angus, enclosing a slip cut from a London

newspaper.

"A very innocent-looking paragraph," exclaimed Mr. Asbury to his

wife. "But what a stir it will make in the parish!"

It was the announcement of an urgent call given to the Rev. Harold

Angus, of New York City, United States of America, to settle over the

—Church, —Street, London, at a salary of one thousand pounds.

In addition to the printed paragraph, Mr. Angus had written,—

DEAR FRIENDS,—

Mail going out. Only time to say that the call alluded to, and the

enclosed slip, in which it was announced, came to hand by

the same mail, and was wholly unexpected. Fearing you might see it

copied into a New York paper, I forward it, and will write more at

length by next steamer.

H. ANGUS.

Before the close of the day in which the letter was received, few

belonging to the First Church were ignorant of its contents.

Mr. Asbury was right. The news created a great excitement, not only

in their own parish, but throughout the town. A meeting of the voters

in the First Church was called to express their opinions in regard to

the subject of the paragraph.

After the opening exercises, Mr. Asbury stated the object of the

meeting. Mr. Rand then started to his feet, and with a quick glance

around the room, said, in a loud voice,—

"I'm as deaf as a post, from a cold I got down on my medder, and I

can't hear a word you say; but my wife, she's heerd that some folks

't other side of the water are trying to get our pastor away from us,

and she told me to come here and vote it right down. It's a shame,

anyway, for Christians to be a-pulling and a-tearing of one another.

We've got the first right to Mr. Angus, and I vote that we hold on

to him, and let them get a minister nearer home. That's all I've got

to say. If it's more salary than we pay him, I guess I can help make

up the difference between what they'll give and what we do."

A hearty laugh followed this speech, and, as Mr. Rand had expressed

in brief the wishes of all present, the meeting soon adjourned, after

a unanimous vote "to hold on to their pastor," and make the question

of salary satisfactory to him.

One of his neighbors having screamed this result into Mr. Rand's ear,

he mounted his farm-wagon with a significant nod of his head.

"All right!" he shouted, at the top of his voice. "I darsn't go home

till I knew the parish would hold on to him. My old woman would—you

know." His voice was lost in the distance.

Perhaps if the good farmer had known the contents of a letter which

at this very hour was being carried by wind and steam across the

Atlantic he would have been still more jubilant as he sat eating his

supper of cold corned beef and greens, and telling his wife, between

the mouthfuls, the news he had learned at the meeting.

Mrs. Asbury made her visit to Marion at the time she had promised,

taking Ethel with her. Of course all the Grantbury news was

rehearsed, in the course of which the pastor's name was frequently

mentioned. Ethel, meanwhile, had succeeded in coaxing Gypsy, a pet

spaniel belonging to Mrs. Mitchell, to allow herself to be dressed in

one of her dolly's cloaks.

"Now," she said, "we are going to sail on a voyage to Europe, to see

Mr. Angus. You must sit very still, doggy, because it's Sunday.

I shall teach you a hymn by and by,"—

"'I must not play on Sunday.'"

"When we get to Europe, I shall let you go with me to Ingleside,

you know. There is a pretty garden at Ingleside, with an arbor all

covered with grape vines. If you are good till we get there,—

sit still, Gypsy,—oh, how naughty you are to pull off your nice

cloak!"

By this time Gypsy thought she ought to be released, and jumped from

the sofa, where Ethel had placed her, at which the little girl burst

into a merry laugh.

"What is she talking about?" asked Marion, in a low tone.

"Where is Ingleside, Ethel?" inquired her mother.

"Why, don't you know? It is Mr. Angus's home, where his grandfather

used to live. When he was a little boy, his mamma let him go there

sometimes; and he had hens and little goats to play with. We talk

about it when we are taking a walk, you know."

"What a pretty name Ingleside is," remarked Marion, without raising

her eyes from her work. She was making a fine dress for Frances,

Ethel's favorite doll, and of course the excitement of this was what

made her cheeks look so rosy.

During Ethel's visits Marion invited Geenie Cheriton to take a drive

with them and pass the rest of the day with the little girl. They all

gave a sigh of relief, however, when James started with him for his

home, and Mrs. Asbury said,—

"I wonder how Mrs. Douglass can endure that child's noise. It is such

a pity that he should be ruined by indulgence."

"I wouldn't be that boy's nurse for a fortune," exclaimed Hepsey,

who was putting up the toys Geenie had pulled about. "They'll have

a time with him if he lives."

Mr. Lambert called during Mrs. Asbury's visit, and was introduced

to the guests. He seemed greatly attracted by Ethel, who fixed her

large violet eyes seriously upon him. He succeeded at last in coaxing

her to his side, when they had quite an animated conversation.

Before they parted he gave her a beautiful little charm, whist he

unhooked from his watch-chain.

This was the first time Marion had seen him since her discovery that

Mr. Regy, of whom she had heard so much, was only the double of her

old friend. She longed to ask him about it, but would not before

strangers. She contented herself with inquiries about Neddy Carter,

who was soon to be admitted to the mission school.

Only two days after Mrs. Asbury's return to Grantbury,

Marion received a thick letter with a foreign postmark,—Leyden,

Yorkshire. She retired quickly to her own chamber, and sat down with

blooming cheeks to its perusal.

I have no intention of copying the letter, but will say that, after

giving her an account of his visit to his home,—a visit which

almost overwhelmed him with its painful memories,—and visiting the

graves of father, mother, and brother as they lay side by side under

the old yew-trees, he took the cars for Ingleside, his father's

ancestral home in Leyden. He told her he found only an old servant,

a retainer of the family, who received him as one from the dead.

His grandfather had four children born here,—one son and three

daughters. When he died, in Harold's twelfth year, his property was

divided equally between them, except Ingleside, which was always

to be kept in the family, and after the death of his daughters

to revert to his oldest grandson.

Estelle Angus, for whom Stella was named, made a will and left her

namesake her heir. Mary and Sarah died without making a will, and the

property came to Harold, as the nearest of kin. It was not a great

fortune that he found awaiting him, Mr. Angus told Marion, but, with

the money left in the bank by his father, it was sufficient to enable

him to carry out some cherished plans.

One of these plans was to build a pretty home on a certain knoll

in Grantbury (the very one Mr. Asbury had given to the church), to be

called Ingleside; but there was one word from her which must come

before the new Ingleside could be built.

Then followed certain statements in regard to a diagnosis recently

made of his heart, which conveyed to the young lady a pretty accurate

idea of what the word must be, in order that the English cottage be

erected.

By this time Marion, by certain unwelcome symptoms, which had forced

themselves on her notice was aware of the strength of her own

attachment for her pastor, and, being naturally frank and outspoken,

she wrote the word (a very short one), which, could he have known it,

would have set good Farmer Rand's mind at rest in regard "to holding

on" to his pastor.

In a note added to his letter, immediately following the receipt of

the call from the London church, Mr. Angus added:—

"I have just forwarded to Mr. Asbury an invitation to settle in our

great metropolis. Would you prefer to live in England? Of course I

could not give the parish an idea of what my answer will be till

I hear from you. Am I presumptuous? You first taught me to be

hopeful. Am I too daring to hope now?"

Early one morning soon after this, Mrs. Douglass sent Marion a note,

requesting her to call at her earliest convenience.

On entering the house where Mrs. Douglass had rooms, Marion met

in the hall a dashing young man, dressed in the height of the

fashion, with a lighted cigar in his hand. She would have passed him

without notice, but for a bold stare, which sent the indignant blood

to her cheeks.

The knock at Mrs. Douglass's door was for a minute unanswered;

then Mrs. Cheriton opened it, her eyes still flashing defiance,

her head thrown back, but looking more brilliantly beautiful than the

visitor had ever seen her.

Mrs. Douglass had evidently been under some strong excitement:

her eyes were red with crying, and her hands trembled.

Eugene came forward with a rush to meet the lady. He was dressed for

a walk and insisted that Marion should accompany him.

"I am on my way to my music scholars," explained the visitor, taking

the little fellow in her arms. "Some time you shall go with me."

"I'm going to walk with you," said his mother haughtily.

"How can I aid you, dear friend?" asked Marion, when the outer door

had shut upon the others.

"Did you meet a gentleman as you came in?"

"I did. I can guess that he is Mr. Cheriton."

"Oh, no! no! Would that he were here. Juliette is so young: she does

not consider; she is—I am pained to say so—she is imprudent.

Arthur has no right to leave her unprotected. She wrung her hands

in great distress, her eyes full of tears.

"Who is he?"

"His name is Alford. Juliette accompanied one of our fellow-boarders

to the theatre, and was introduced to him there. He has been here

every day since. She has just promised, in my presence, and contrary

to my wishes, to go to the theatre with him to-night. I am powerless

to prevent it. What must I, what can I do?"

"Alford," repeated Marion. "Do you know his Christian name?"

"There is his card,—C. W. Alford, New York City."

"A very indefinite address. Will you let me take it? I will make

inquiries concerning his character. I am sorry to say I was not

favorably impressed with his appearance."

"But Juliette has a husband. Whatever his moral character may be,

she must not receive attentions from him. If the poor child has

a father living—" A burst of tears interrupted her.

"She has a heavenly Father," urged Marion, deeply moved. "He will

never lose sight of her for a moment. His eye sees her when

no earthly eye can follow her, and His arm can protect her from harm.

Dear Mrs. Douglass, don't weep so. Let us ask His guidance."

Seldom had the young Christian poured forth such earnest petitions

for help as now. Realizing, as she did, the impulsive passion of the

young wife, the excuses she would make to her conscience,—that her

husband had forsaken her,—the impossibility of earthly effort

to restrain her, Marion called upon God to appear for them in their

trouble, to touch the heart of the young mother, to put barriers

in her path to ruin, to fill her soul with purer joys.

Feeling as she did at that moment, perhaps as never before,

how sheltered and protected her own life had been, how brightly the

future was opening before her own path, her tears gushed forth afresh

at the thought of the dangers threatening this beautiful, unprotected

child-wife. She prayed too that the absent husband might be brought

to a sense of his wrong-doing in forsaking her whom he had sworn

to cherish, and return to them with new purposes and new resolves.

Nor did she forget the absent father, so long unknown to those

connected with him by the closest ties. She prayed that if he were

still an inhabitant of earth, God, who knew all things, would lead

him back to them, to be their comfort and joy.

"O Miss Howard!" cried the afflicted mother, clasping her hands,

"what a blessing that we can go to our heavenly Father and tell him

all our sorrows! I have an assurance that He will answer; that He

will in some way protect my dear, deluded child. It may be by my

death. I would willingly give up my life, could I be assured of her

safety. It may be that He will touch Arthur's heart, and bring him

home to his family. I would submit to any privation, any

inconvenience, to have him, her lawful protector, with her."

"Or," added Marion, "He may restore to you the husband you have

so long mourned. A father would be a great blessing to Juliette now."

"A Christian father," murmured the lady, raising her eyes to heaven.

"Every day my prayer for him is, Lord, if he is living, lead him to

Thyself."

After a short silence, the lady added, "I thank God I can say with

truth that, since the hour my husband left me, believing I was lost

to virtue, I have always maintained the strictest reserve toward all

of the opposite sex. I was young, and often called handsome.

I believe my husband had been proud of my beauty. I could play the

piano and guitar as an accompaniment to my voice; but I only played

for my parents and most intimate friends. I have always tried

to impress upon Juliette, both by example and precept, that a wife

so unfortunately situated must be doubly guarded in her conduct.

Character is a plant which must be kept in good soil, free from

blights and mildew. It must be watched and tended with care. It is

too sacred to be trifled with."

Mrs. Douglass wept as she talked, and Marion, desirous of soothing

her, said,—

"Mrs. Cheriton's love for Eugene is a great preservative."

"Yes, that is true," sighing. "Poor boy! He needs a father's

restraining hand."

"We have asked our heavenly Father to preserve them both from all

evil, and I believe He will," rejoined the visitor, hopefully.

God did answer the prayers so earnestly offered, but in a way

entirely unlooked for.

CHAPTER III.

WITHOUT CHRIST.

MRS. CHERITON did not return from her walk for an hour after Marion

left. She came in looking so brilliantly beautiful that it made her

mother's heart ache. Her eyes always shone like stars, and the rich

color crimsoned her cheeks when she was excited either by joy or

anger. Eugene, too, seemed overflowing with spirits. His hands were

full of toys and sweetmeats, given him, he said, by the nice

gentleman. When he threw off his cap, his grandmother noticed that

his hair was wet with perspiration, and told her daughter he ought

not to sit in the draught; but she retorted with some indifferent

reply. Finding she could not induce the child to move, nor to give up

the colored candies he was eagerly devouring, with a sigh the

grandmother left the room.

During the rest of the day, the young mother went about with a smile

on her lips, quite absorbed in thoughts of a pleasant nature.

Toward night her boy coughed two or three times; but she, usually so

ready to take alarm, laughed at her mother's suggestion that he must

have taken cold.

At an early hour Mr. Alford called to accompany her to the theatre,

and poured out such a torrent of flattery at her beauty as quite

turned her head.

Scarcely bidding her mother good by, she went gayly down the stairs,

little imagining what her return would be.

The clock was just striking twelve when, in turning the corner of the

street, the house she called home came into view. At this hour it was

usually dark. Now the hall and her mother's room were brilliantly

lighted. Just at this moment a carriage dashed up to the door.

"What does it mean?" she cried, in a startled voice, trying to pull

her hand from her companion's arm.

"When can I see you again?"

The insinuating tone was lost on her, for with a sudden fear she had

released herself and flown away. Bounding up the stairs, she stopped

one instant to gaze into the lighted room. On her mother's lap lay

Geenie, struggling for breath. Before them stood the doctor, with a

spoonful of medicine in his hand,—just brought by his servant,—

which he was vainly trying to force down the child's throat. One of

the servants was bringing through another door a foot-tub filled with

boiling water, while another was pulling the blanket from the bed.

All this the mother took in at one glance, then sprang forward with

a loud shriek and threw herself on her knees before her boy.

"Mamma, help Geenie! Make the bad man go away! Geenie can't breathe!"

"It's the croup," gasped her mother, in reply to her agonized gaze

into the child's face, darkened and convulsed with this struggle for

breath.

"It is a case of life and death," added the physician, in a solemn

voice. "If you love your brother, persuade him to take this

medicine."

"My brother! He's my boy, my own, my precious child!"

Her voice rose to a shriek, as she saw that his features became more

convulsed. She cried, she wrung her hands, calling continually,

"Eugene, my pet, my darling! I won't give you up! You sha'n't die!"

"He will die, and very soon, if you do not control yourself. You must

be calm."

Addressing one of the servants, who had just returned with the

prescription, he ordered Eugene's head to be held, while he forced

down the medicine. Then turning to Mrs. Douglass, he said, "Madam,

will you try to bring your daughter to reason? Every moment of delay

makes the boy's situation more dangerous. With the aid of the

servants, I wish to use the steam."

He really pitied the child-mother, as he saw her fixed gaze in her

son's convulsed face; but he knew that unless vigorous measures were

used, a short time would end the struggle. Taking Eugene in his own

arms, he directed the girl to wrap the boy in the large blanket and

hold him over the boiling water. The other girl was to furnish

a fresh supply.

Mrs. Douglass tried to persuade her daughter to leave the room;

but she would not. She sank into a chair and watched every movement

which took place. She seemed suddenly to be turned into an automaton,

only that those wondrous eyes flashed so continuously they seemed to

light up the room.

In half an hour the medicine began to take effect, the terrible

sound, never to be forgotten, grew less harsh. The doctor, with his

coat off, worked like a hero. It was evident that the steam produced

relief in breathing. More and more heavily drooped the child's head,

his eyelids closed, the terrible heaving of his breast was more

natural. The doctor put his hand under the blanket, found the pulse,

and nodded approval. Without awakening the boy, he put a small

powder on his tongue and sat down to watch.

Another hour passed. Mrs. Douglass had quietly retired to the next

room. Eugene slept still. He had been removed to the sofa. The doctor

still waited. The struggle for life had been so great, he did not

like to leave his patient till assured that he would have no return

of the frightful convulsions. He was a father too, and aside from his

desire as a physician to control the disease, he was interested

in the unusual circumstances of the patient. At home, he had a

daughter growing up, now in her seventeenth year, who looked more fit

to be a mother than this passionate girl, who at one moment gave free

vent to her frenzied agony, and the next controlled herself so

wonderfully that she had sat for hours scarcely daring to breathe.

He could not comprehend, skilled as he was in controlling disease,

the torture which that poor girl was undergoing from an accusing

conscience. She saw herself at last as in a mirror,—wilful, proud

of her outward charms, undutiful to her long-suffering,

self-sacrificing mother,—her best friend,—idolizing her boy,

but blind to his faults, and not restraining her own temper that she

might teach him self-control. Then her thoughts reverted to her

absent husband, and conscience, resolved to be heard at last,

set before her a catalogue of her offences toward him,—wilful

neglect of his wishes, too evident want of affection, etc., which had

at last weaned him from her and sent him far away. "Where is he now?"

It seemed to her that this question was screamed in her ears.

"You drove him wild with your taunts and neglect."

At length she remembered the events of the previous night. How long

ago that seemed! The whispers of flattery that had sounded

so sweetly in her ears, how she loathed them now! How she loathed

herself, that they could have pleased her! She seemed to herself

to have been suddenly snatched away from the very brink of a

precipice, and to be frantically seizing some sure support which

would prevent her from falling back into the dreadful abyss. Oh, how

dark it looked! And yet how eagerly only last night she had rushed

toward it!

"Oh, my boy! my boy! If you die your mother is justly punished."

Mrs. Cheriton had not lived nineteen years with her mother without

understanding that this dearest friend was of late governed by

different principles from those which controlled her in earlier life.

She acknowledged in this dark hour that when all other help had

failed, the poor widow, bearing alone her heavy burden of grief and

self-reproach, had found comfort and solace in the truths contained

in the sacred book hitherto so little prized. God was no longer

to her an angry judge, but a tender, loving father, whose heart

yearned over her. Jesus Christ was her sympathizing Saviour, who had

voluntarily come to earth, suffered poverty, temptation, and

ignominy, that he might know how to succor his children in like

sorrow. Many, many times Mrs. Douglass had endeavored to impress

these blessed teachings on her daughter; but they only seemed to her

like idle tales. Of late, since her acquaintance with Marion Howard,

she had been urged to trust in the kind care of One whose eye of love

was always watching her; but these faithful words, instead of drawing

her heart toward the friend who uttered them, had led her to treat

Marion with cold contempt.

As is frequently the case with persons in the near prospect of death,

the events of the past life flash like lightning through the mind, so

in Juliette's agony, circumstances connected with her childhood,

youth, and brief married life rushed to her memory with a force and

vividness which well nigh overwhelmed her. As she afterward described

it, "I seemed to be living my life over again: I was wooed and won.

I tasted the purest joy of all when my child was placed in my arms.

I sinned and was punished. I went on sinning and repenting. I went

headlong into the arms of a destroyer, when a hand was stretched out

and saved me. I can never make myself believe that all this occurred

in only five hours."

At last the physician, who had for some time been dozing in his

chair, rose quietly, and, coming toward the rigid figure, said,

encouragingly,—

"He is sleeping quietly now. Be careful that he does not get a chill.

I will be in again at nine."

She gazed in his face, scarcely understanding his words, looking so

bewildered that he mechanically placed his fingers on her pulse.

Her hand was like ice.

"He, your child, is better. I am quite hopeful now. You have

controlled yourself admirably."

"Do you mean that he will not die? That God will not punish me

by taking him away?"

"Yes, my poor child. I mean that I hope God in mercy intends to spare

him to you. He is given to you afresh, to train up to a good and

useful life."

What a change came over that young face, on which despair had been

stamped! The hard eyes softened, the lips quivered, the crimson tide

came rushing back, painting cheeks and brow; the whole countenance

grew luminous, as with quickened breath the child-mother clasped

her hands, exclaiming,—

"Oh, how I will love Him! He is so good, and I have been so bad."

Forgetful of the physician's presence, or of anything, except that

the God, whom she had not loved, had dealt with her in such infinite

mercy, she fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

"Lord, help me! Save me!" she cried. "I have tried living without Thy

help. I was all but lost. Do help, dear Lord."

These words, so different from what he expected under the

circumstances, seemed too sacred for a stranger's ears, and the kind

physician silently took his leave, wiping his eyes as he went down

the stairs, then walked quickly to his home in the gray dawn of

a new day.

CHAPTER IV.

WITH CHRIST.

MRS. CHERITON'S trials had only begun. Eugene's croup was followed

by congestion of the lungs, the attack assuming from the first

alarming symptoms. He would not bear his mother out of his sight

for a moment. Indeed the result of her injudicious fondness showed

itself during these sad weeks in a manner which would have been

a warning to any one. Though she deprived herself of sleep, and

almost of food, in order to be always at hand to minister to his

wants, he showed no gratitude. He exacted everything as a right, and,

if there was the slightest opposition to his wishes, he screamed with

passion, often exclaiming, "I hate you. Go away, bad mamma."

He would not take medicine from her, shrieking, "You tell lies.

You told me it was good and it wasn't. I'll let Miss Howard give it

to me: she never tells lies."

From Marion, too, he would submit to any treatment, even to the

blisters upon his chest. "It will hurt you, Geenie," she said,

"but if you don't have it on for a few minutes that dreadful pain

will come back. Be a good boy, and I will tell you a nice story about

Gypsy."

"Will you bring Gypsy to see me?"

"Yes, I will."

In addition to Eugene's sickness, the doctor's services were in daily

requisition for Mrs. Douglass, who had never risen from her bed since

the night of her grandson's seizure. The agony of mind she had

suffered on account of her daughter, followed so speedily by Eugene's

dangerous illness, proved too much for a frame enfeebled by disease.

Violent pain in the head was succeeded by nervous chills, until

Dr. Danforth became alarmed for her life.

Under these circumstances Marion proved her real friendship

by spending as much time as possible with the patient sufferer,

and thus was at hand when poor Juliette, driven to her wits' end

by the insubordination of her darling, was unable to control him.

As the young mother had not spoken of the events of that

never-to-be-forgotten night, neither Mrs. Douglass nor Marion

could account for the entire change in her manners and appearance.

They supposed her fright at the sudden illness of her boy had for the

time driven all other thoughts from her mind. Indeed, Mrs. Douglass,

with many tears, thanked God that in his wonder-working providence

he had taken any means to prevent a career of gayety which must have

ended in her ruin. It would have been an immense relief to her could

she have known that a card with the name "C. W. Alford" had been sent

to her daughter the day following Eugene's attack, that the question

written with pencil underneath his name, "When can I see you?"

had been hastily answered with one word, "Never."

Yes, her Father in heaven, more ready to grant our requests

than we are to ask them, had indeed answered the Christian mother's

prayers, though as yet she knew it not.

Through all these anxious, weary days and nights, in the midst of

her duties,—and they were onerous,—Mrs. Cheriton was supported

by the thought, "God will help me: he has promised to help those

who ask him."

In after-days she used to say, "I seemed to be living in a dream.

Whenever the thought of Mr. Alford came into my mind, or the

recollection of his vague suggestions recurred to me, I shivered,

while my cheeks burned like fire. Then the conduct of Geenie,

ungovernable and unloving, continually reminded me of another

precipice from which I had been drawn back.

"On the other hand, I wondered at myself, at the sweet peace which

at times filled my soul. How good God has been to me! How kind,

how loving, how tender! Sometimes when Geenie slept I found time

to read a few verses in the Bible. I found verses written expressly

for me: 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth

them that fear him.' 'For he knoweth our frame, he remembereth that

we are dust.' I could scarcely believe that these precious words were

in God's own book. I put in a mark and read them again and again."

But it was impossible for such a radical change to take place

in Mrs. Cheriton without the fact becoming visible to those

about her. Even before her mother noticed anything, the servants

talked about it.

"She must believe he is going to die," one girl said to another,

"else she wouldn't speak so kindly, and thank me as she does."

The first thing indicating a change noticed by her mother was

one morning, when the chamber-girl, having put everything in order,

had left the room, Juliette came from the adjoining chamber with

a smile on her face. Approaching the bed, she kissed her mother,

saying, softly,—

"Geenie is asleep. If you like, I'll read to you," laying her hand

on the Bible as she spoke.

"Thank you, dear. That would indeed be a pleasure."

"Where shall I read? But here is your mark in St. John's Gospel."

In a low, and, to her mother, inexpressibly sweet voice, she read

the last words of Christ to his disciples, frequently pausing

as she read, as though applying the precious words to her own case.

Mrs. Douglass lay with her eyes fixed on the pale countenance of the

reader, wondering what made her so beautiful. The rich bloom had

gone, the dark eyes no longer flashed; but never had there been such

a serene smile wreathing the lips. It seemed to indicate an inward

peace.

At last, Juliette, raising her eyes from the book met her mother's

gaze fixed intently on her.

"Can I do anything more for you, dear?" she said, rising and leaning

over the bed.

"O Juliette! If you could, if you would, pray: we need help so much."

There was a momentary struggle in the breast of the young convert,

and then, throwing herself on her knees by the bed, she hid her face

in her hands and poured out from a thankful heart prayer for Christ's

presence, such as he had promised his disciples, and praise for the

blessed hope of acceptance and pardon. With the simplicity of a child

who has scarcely learned the language of prayer, but whose soul

is fully alive to the value of the blessings to be asked for,

she plead for wisdom equal to every emergency, grace for every trial

her Father in his love might see fit to send. She prayed for her dear

mother, so weak and suffering, for her boy, not yet out of danger,

that He who loved them better than any earthly love would do for them

according to his will. "But, oh, dear Jesus, who loves little

children," she cried, clasping her hands, "if he must die, and it is

Thy blessed will, prepare my boy, my poor, neglected child,

for heaven. Let him not suffer eternally for his mother's sinful

neglect of Thy commands."

Then her sobs became so violent that she was obliged to rise hastily

and leave the room.

Mrs. Douglass closed her eyes, while she murmured the inspired words,

"Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen

Thy salvation."

"I asked God, and He has heard my prayers. She has learned to pray.

That was not her first prayer. O my Saviour, help me to thank Thee

as I ought."

When Dr. Danforth made his next visit, he found Mrs. Douglass

bolstered up in bed, Hepsey, who had for a day or two supplied

Marion's place, arranging her still abundant hair. They were engaged

in animated conversation when he entered. He had become deeply

interested in the strangers, having never forgotten the scenes

of the night of his introduction to them. To no one had he ever

mentioned the young mother's prayer, the burden of which was help

for herself from some great danger, not for relief and returning

health to her child.

"You are better," he said, cheerfully, after having counted her

pulse.

"Yes, Doctor, I have had a restorative."

"Wine? I wish you had taken it sooner."

"No, Doctor. I have heard my daughter pray." The mother's face beamed

with joy.

"What is so great a beautifier as happiness?" was the doctor's

thought. "She looks ten years younger." He spoke seriously, but with

the greatest tenderness, saying,—

"I have heard her pray, and I think her prayers have been answered.

She has borne the trials of these sad weeks with a sweet submission

and patience I have seldom seen surpassed."

"God has given her grace according to her day."

"Yes. He has indeed fulfilled His promise to the widow and orphan."

"My daughter is not a widow, Doctor," murmured the patient, her

cheeks flushing. "You have been such a kind friend, I may confide

so much of our story to you. Juliette was married at the early age

of fourteen, and her child was born within the year. Geenie was only

a few weeks old when his father left home for England, ostensibly

to obtain a situation where he might support his family in the

luxuries to which they had been accustomed. We hear from him

occasionally, but have never seen him since."

"Unnatural monster!" cried the doctor, indignantly. He thought

of his own little girl, and wondered how she would endure such

a living trial,—she to whom the loss of a pet dog had been the

greatest grief she had known.

It was a minute or two before he could rally sufficiently to remark,

"Eugene is better too. I am sorry to say my patient will soon be

dismissing me."

"We have so few friends in America, we cannot give up your visits

without regret, Doctor. But it is selfish for us to keep you longer

than is necessary, when so many need you."

"Is a physician to have no friends, then?" queried the doctor,

assuming a gruff voice. "You will find it hard, madam, to get rid

of me." Then, with an emphatic shrug of his shoulders, he went away,

and drove nearly a mile out of his course, while he was wondering

what kind of a man Mr. Cheriton could be who would forsake a wife

like Juliette.

In another respect the young mother showed that she had taken God's

word as the rule of her life. This was in the management of her

child. Formerly, when herself provoked at his rudeness or impatient

at his exactions, she had dealt him a sudden blow, which, however,

always seemed to rouse his combativeness to such a degree that it

required much skill to soothe him. She usually had to buy him off

from the exhibition of temper by confectionery or some new toys.

Now, feeling her own weakness, she daily sought strength from God.

She had noticed, too, how easily Mr. Angus and Marion had made him

obey, not by blows or threats, but by a firm and gentle kindness,

which won his confidence. It was her aim to imitate this method.

As soon as he was able to sit up, Eugene felt rather than understood

that his mother would no longer submit to be struck in the face

or called "bad mamma" when his wishes were crossed. She talked

to him, explained that he must obey, that Jesus Christ loved good

children, and that she would teach him to pray, and ask this best

Friend to help him be good.

There is a sacredness in religious teachings which always arrests

the attention of a child. No stories are so much delighted in

as the stories of Joseph and Samuel and Daniel, and particularly

the story of our dear Saviour. Over and over again these stories

may be repeated; yet the little one never tires, but will ask

new questions concerning the wonderful characters.

Juliette had thus a double incentive to read her Bible. She wished

to find in the sacred pages strength for daily duties; and she also

read for the instruction of her boy.

Marion came in one day and found Geenie dressed in a wrapper, sitting

in his mother's lap. In her hand she held the Good Book, and they

were talking eagerly of the story she had read. Marion wrote

afterwards, in her letter to Mr. Angus, that she seldom had seen

a prettier picture,—the beauty of both so softened by the subjects

on which they were talking.

Marion bent over and pressed her lips to the fair forehead of the

young mother, and Eugene made them laugh by imitating her example.

"She's nicer than she was," he exclaimed, patting her cheek.

"She doesn't tell lies any more. She tells me when the medicine

is going to taste badly,—but I take it all the same."

After talking for a few minutes with Mrs. Douglass, Marion hurried

away, saying to herself,—

"What a glorious change! What a purifier and refiner Christianity is!

How Mr. Angus will rejoice that Juliette has accepted her Saviour!"

Before I close this chapter I must tell the reader that Marion showed

Mr. Alford's card to Mr. Lambert the very day Mrs. Douglass had given

it to her, only asking whether he knew the man. He did not, but soon

found a man of his description was a frequenter of gambling-saloons

and other disreputable places of resort, that the name Alford was one

of several aliases, and that he was a man wholly unfit to be trusted.

To neither Mrs. Douglass nor her daughter did she repeat this

information, the change in Juliette rendering it unnecessary.

CHAPTER V.

HOME IN THE STABLE LOFT.

"THIS is only a stable, Miss Marion."

"The place must be here, Hepsey: the number three hundred and sixty

is plainly marked."

The young lady reverted to her paper again.

"'Esther Cole, three hundred sixty.' Three hundred fifty-eight,

the last house is marked. I must inquire."

One of the hostlers came forward to the door of the stable.

"Do you want a carriage, lady?"

"I am looking for a number which ought to be here."

"Is it a tenement house you're after, ma'am?"

"Yes, and a family by the name of Cole."

"It's aloft their house is. Walk right through ma'am, to the ladder

beyont."

"Thank you," replied Marion, giving him a smile which quite won him.

"How very clear your floor is! I was never in a stable before. Look,

Hepsey! See how nicely the carriages are covered; and really there is

quite a pretty parlor,—and such a row of whips hanging up."

"That room is for ladies and gentlemen to wait while their horses are

harnessed, ma'am." The hostler was doing the honors in his best

style. They had now reached the ladder, as he called it by which they

were to ascend to the room "aloft," and he said, "It's a poor place,

ma'am, for a lady the likes of yees."

"It's a heathenish place," retorted Hepsey "Not fit for Christians to

live in. Are you sure, young man, that the steps are safe?"

He laughed merrily, exhibiting a row of even white teeth.

"If it's afraid ye are, ma'am," he explained, looking at Marion,

"sure I'll bring 'em all down to yees,—every mother's son of 'em."

"Oh, no, indeed! We will go up. Many thanks for your courtesy."

Her face was all dimpled with smiles as she prepared to mount

the steps, while the hostler walked away, saying to himself,—

"A rale lady that is. The man that owns her must be a happy one."

At the top of the steps a door opened into a large room rudely

partitioned off from the hayloft and smelling strongly of the fumes

from the stable below. Seven people called this room their home,—

father, mother, grandmother, and four children of different ages

under eight years. Unlike many who live in more spacious apartments,

their hearts were larger than their home, and they had recently

welcomed a poor waif thrown upon the cold charities of the world.

Esther Sims was an orphan who had been connected with the mission

Sunday and sewing schools in which Miss Howard was interested.

This lady had never considered her very intelligent, but she had

a pretty face, with childish features, and an appealing glance in her

deep, gray eyes which made her many friends. Marion had lost sight

of her for more than a year, and only the day before her visit to the

stable learned her sad story.

Not being very happy in the family where one of the mission-school

teachers had placed her, she was easily persuaded to leave it for

employment in a cigar factory. There she formed the acquaintance of

a young fellow by the name of Cole, and soon after was married

to him. If she had taken to heart the instructions of her faithful

teacher, she would have distrusted the principles of a man whose

first act in connection with her was deceit.

As they were both infants in the eye of the law, Esther being but

sixteen, and her husband to be but eighteen, the clergyman refused

to perform the ceremony unless one of the parents, was present and

wished it. Leaving her sitting on the steps to the house, he hurried

off, and soon returned with a woman who said she was his mother, and

who declared her willingness for her bye to be married.

They were married, and young Cole took his wife home to a house where

he had lodgings, where they had many a laugh about the ease with

which he had found a mother in his emergency, he having given the

woman twenty-five cents to personate such an individual.

Esther's character was so yielding that she got along for a few

months without much trouble. She never knew what her husband's

business was, and often wondered why it kept him so long into the

night. At last he began to abuse her, and grew so irritable that she

begged to be taken back to her old place in the cigar factory, where,

at least, she had kept herself from starving. Now young Cole had been

arrested for burglary, tried, and sentenced to prison for three

years, and Esther, innocent, ignorant even of his ever having

committed crime, was suspected of being connected with the plot.

Even Hepsey, who tried to harden her heart against pity, having been

so often deceived, was affected by the utter abandonment to grief

of the young girl. She was sitting on a bed of straw, with a child

of her sister-in-law across her lap, her head fallen forward on her

breast, her tears falling on the sleeping babe's face, seemingly

unconscious of the presence of any one.

"She's just gone daft with her trouble, poor thing," explained the

woman, as she saw the eyes of her visitors fastened on the

child-wife.

It was difficult to rouse her from her grief. When addressed,

she looked up frightened, supposing officers had come to take her

to jail. Then, recognizing Miss Howard's kind face, she asked,

piteously,—

"Will they keep me in prison long?"

Mrs. Cole took the babe from her arms, explaining, "I thought maybe

't would divert her thoughts," and then went on to say that Jo, her

husband's brother, had always been a bad boy. He had no business

to deceive a young girl, and get married when he had no home.

That Esther was steady and honest, and was never up to knowing

his wicked goings-on. Then she touched her head and pointed to the

poor girl in a significant manner. "As to the robbery, she's as

innocent of it as a babe unborn."

No one could doubt it who witnessed the appealing glance in those

wondering eyes; at least Miss Howard did not, but she could not

at once decide what course to pursue to clear the child from the

suspicion of crime. Having ascertained that Mrs. Cole was willing

to keep her for a few days, Miss Howard put a sum of money into her

hands, and, promising to do what she could, took her leave.

"She's no more guilty than I am," exclaimed Hepsey, indignantly.

"That woman thinks she isn't bright, but it's only because she's been

cowed down and abused till she darsn't say her soul is her own.

I remember her when she was as tidy and spry as the best of 'em."

"Why, Hepsey, where did you ever see her?"

"At the sewing school, ma'am, where I used to go in yer place while

yer was in Grantbury; and Esther Sims, as they called her then,

was the most respectful and the best behaved of the whole class."

"Hepsey, do you think she could be trained by kindness to be a good

servant?" Marion's voice was abrupt in her earnestness.

"Indeed I do, ma'am. To be sure, it would take time, but it would be

a deed o' mercy, and like as not be the saving of her soul."

"Well, my dear, good Hepsey, you have helped me through a great many

difficulties. If we can get the poor child away from her

surroundings, you shall have the chance to try and save her."

Hepsey was startled. This was rather beyond what she had thought of.

Presently she asked, abruptly,—

"What will she do with her thief of a husband?"

"She must be made absolutely free from him, of course. I will take

advice about it."

"I suppose you're thinking of yer own home in the country, ma'am, and

that is where I'm to train her," added Hepsey, with a sly glance into

her young mistress's face.

A rosy blush was the only reply.

While Marion was hesitating to whom she should apply for advice

in regard to poor Esther, Mr. Mitchell came home. He assured her

that by the laws of the State the husband's incarceration in prison

rendered the wife free from the marriage tie. He also comforted her

by saying, that even if Esther were arrested, unless some one

appeared against her, the case could not be carried on. Marion,

however, with the recollection of the child's look of terror at the

very thought of being arrested, was determined to prevent it

if possible.

Suddenly recalling to mind Mr. Lambert's promise to aid her

in her works of charity, she sent James to his house to request him

to call at his earliest convenience.

When he came, which was almost immediately she was struck with

a change in his appearance; and inquired, anxiously,—

"Are you ill, sir?"

"What makes you ask that? I'm in rollicking health and spirits."

She doubted it, however, for even while talking with her he seemed

to fall into fits of revery.

"What a fool she was to marry so young!' he said, with a sneer;

"but, as you say, that can't be helped now. My advice is, let him go

to—anywhere that will keep him out of her way. But what is to be

done with the child?"

"I think Hepsey means to take her," replied Marion, showing all her

dimples. "I hope she can be got off without going to court."

"Hepsey, hem! Well, never fear. I'll see the judge and settle

that. If he won't believe my word, I'll make him go to the stable,

mount the ladder, and see for himself."

He leaned back in his chair, laughing heartily but Marion noticed

that there was no ring of mirth in his laugh.

Suddenly she said, "O Mr. Lambert! Are you acquainted with Mr. Regy?

I hear of him everywhere among the poor, and I long to see him."

"Better not," he grumbled. "Take my word for it, he is

a good-for-nothing fellow. I know him well."

"You must be prejudiced, Mr. Lambert. His heart is just as warm as

yours; indeed, in many things he must be like you: he delights to

relieve suffering and he delights to—to—what shall I call it?"

"Call it abuse; that's the right name. He's a hard-shelled

old sinner. He tries to salve his conscience by giving away what he

don't want. Keep clear of him, as you would of the plague. Now I must

be going, or I sha'n't see that judge."

CHAPTER VI.

THE SIMPLE PRAYER,

THE very next day he called again.

"It's all right," he said. "The girl is free to go where she chooses.

Now I want to ask you a question. Where do you go to church?"

"I attend -Church. Dr. M- is my pastor."

"But you're not a member."

"Oh, yes! I have been for a great many years."

His countenance expressed real disappointment. "I could have sworn

you didn't believe in such humbug."

"O Mr. Lambert, don't say so!" Marion'! eyes filled with tears.

She had always supposed that he was a Christian and a member

of some church.

"I've never seen any cant about you. In fact, I took it for granted

that you were a good, common-sense girl. Why, all that nonsense

about joining a church and taking an oath that you believe such and

such doctrines has exploded long ago!"

"Don't you believe any doctrines?"

"I believe this: that it's the life we must look to. Why, I've seen

men,—and women too,—who swallowed the whole creed, covers and all,

stiff and straitlaced, thought it a sin to smile, but who wouldn't

give a penny to a poor man to save his soul. I'm sick of this talk

about doctrine. Give me the life,—that's what I look at."

"But how shall we know how to live unless we study God's Word?

We have exact directions there,—and these are what I call doctrines.

I am sure you believe that Jesus Christ came to set us an example

of a perfect life."

"I'll allow that for the sake of argument."

"Did He ever sin?"

"Not that I ever heard of, but I don't know much about it."

"Can you name any other man who ever lived without sin?"

"Perhaps not. I always said the world was up side down. But what does

that prove? I don't know what you are driving at."

"Then the claim of Jesus Christ himself, that He was the Son of God,

in a peculiar sense,—that no man can come to the Father except

through Him,—is a claim we must acknowledge."

"I don't know anything about that. You are taking too much

for granted."

"Why, if any other man should claim to be divine, saying, in plain

terms, 'I and my Father are one,' he would be seized and punished

for blasphemy. It would be monstrous, presumptuous in the last

degree. The fact that Jesus Christ claimed that he was one with the

Father, the fact that he was a sinless being, and could not therefore

be such a wicked impostor, that he proved his assertion by his life,

his teachings, and his power to work miracles, is the great central

truth on which Christianity is based. If you read your Bible

prayerfully, as I earnestly hope you do, you must concede so much."

Mr. Lambert twirled his glove, looked grave, and then said, "Well,

what of that?"

"How do you suppose the world came to be upside down, Mr. Lambert?"

"Can't say. Can vouch for the fact, though. Everything and everybody

is helter-skelter."

"Including Mr. Regy, I suppose."

"Yes; he is as bad as any of them."

"And needs a power out of himself to put him right."

"That's true."

"This power we have in our blessed Saviour. He came to save us from

sin and from all its dismal consequences."

"Well, admit that too, for the sake of argument."

"Now, my dear friend," urged Marion, seizing his arm and gazing

wistfully in his face, "believing so much, as I am sure you do, you

have the very root and foundation of the Christian doctrine. A good

life must and will grow out of such a belief. Jesus Christ, who was

rich, became poor for our sakes. He sacrificed ease, comfort, home on

earth, and all that makes life dear. I say nothing of the glories of

heaven, the worship of myriads of holy beings, which He willingly

exchanged for disgrace, ignominy, and death. I am only speaking now

of Him in His human nature. He loved us to that extent He was

willing to do and bear all this for us, to make us happy here and

hereafter. We must acknowledge ourselves degraded indeed, if we are

not willing to do something to show our appreciation of such love.

What does He ask of us? Only that we return His love, and cherish

kindly feelings toward each other. Love God, and our neighbor as

ourselves. This is the life you so rightly urge that we must live.

It flows naturally from the doctrine. Any other motives than love to

God and to our fellows fail of power to help us live this life.

"You see I have not said a word about the theories that man,

in different stages of the world, has built on these fundamental

truths. There always has been and always will be different ways

of explaining God's truth; but speculation is outside of fundamental

truth. Man a sinner, Christ a Saviour, is enough for me. Any man,

woman, or child, really desirous of showing his love to Christ,

can find rules in God's Word to guide him in every emergency."

"About joining a certain church, for instance." There was

an ill-concealed sneer in Mr. Lambert's voice.

"Yes, we have the example of companies of disciples gathering

themselves together to recount what God had done for them.

Our Saviour himself honored and showed His approbation of these

gatherings by being present with them. The most affecting of all His

dying messages to His disciples was that they should eat bread

as a symbol of his body broken, and drink wine as a symbol of His

blood shed for them. This was to be a continual reminder of what He

had done. I can say from my own experience, that this communing

with Christ in His sacrifice brings Him nearer to me not only

as a Saviour but as a friend, or elder brother, than anything else

could do."

"I don't see any Christianity in one soul de-crying another, and

calling each other hard names."

"I don't see any Christianity in one man stealing his neighbor's

coat, or his property of any kind. One act is as much Christian

as the other. If the disciples of Christ would only live up to the

example He set for us, one man would never decry or call his neighbor

hard names merely because they differ on non-essentials.

"People's likes and dislikes are as wide apart as their countenances.

Because one man has blue eyes, he needn't decry a man who has black.

All that is required of him is that he shall use aright the eyes God

has given him. One man is so constituted that in his worship of God

he prefers liturgy and certain prescribed forms. This mode, which we

call Episcopalian, helps his fervor, and the very forms assist him to

keep his mind from wandering.

"Others find these written prayers, etc., irksome and monotonous:

they like more stir and bustle; such become Methodists. God never

expected or intended that we should all be patterned in the same

mould. Social intercourse would be very tame if we were. Mr. Regy,

for instance, has his own method of relieving the poor, and I have

mine," she added, smiling.

"Mr. Regy is an old humbug," growled Mr. Lambert. "I'm always ashamed

when I've been in his society. He's the most provoking man

I'm acquainted with."

"And yet he is in a fair way to attain a high position: 'He that

humbleth himself shall be exalted.'"

Mr. Lambert's face crimsoned, and he muttered some unintelligible

words. He caught up his hat and cane in a hurry, when she said,

tenderly,—

"May I say something to you, my dear friend?"

"Humph! That's cool! Here you've been driving into me with hammer and

tongs, and now you ask very meekly, may I say something to you?'

Well, say on; a few hits more or less won't kill me."

"It is only this, dear sir. When we accept Jesus Christ as our own

personal Saviour, He will flood our souls with such peace and joy

as we never before conceived. His love helps us to bear trials,

to meet disappointment with true fortitude, to look forward without

fear to the time when we shall walk through the dark valley. I shall

pray daily that such love as this may fill your soul."

His face became so convulsed while she made this personal appeal

that she was really alarmed. Putting a violent restraint on himself,

he rallied and exclaimed in a light tone,—

"You were cut out for a theological professor I was not aware of this

accomplishment." He would not notice the hand she held out to him,

but with a gruff "Good day," left the room.

After his departure, Marion found herself so shaken that she could

scarcely collect her thoughts. She went to her chamber, and with

tears plead for her friend. "O God, show Thy self to him in the face

of thy Son, Jesus Christ." This was the burden of her petitions.

Fortunately for her, this was the day of the week when the foreign

mail came in. A letter from her dearest friend would restore

her spirits. While she was waiting for it, thoughts of Mr Lambert

would intrude, and she was surprised that, knowing him so intimately

as she had for some years, she was so little acquainted with his

early life. "I wish I could comfort him as daughter would. Did he

really disbelieve every thing, as he pretended?"

She at last put on her hat and, summoning Hepsey, went to call

on Esther. She was recovering from her fright, and seemed relieved

that she was freed from a bond which had proved such a burden to her.

"I advise her to go back to her old name again," explained Mrs. Cole.

"Esther Sims she is to be from this time."

Miss Howard promised that Hepsey should accompany Esther to

a clothing store, where suitable outfit would be provided for her,

which she could pay for with her after-earnings.

"Am I to go into the cigar factory?" inquired Esther, with a shudder.

"Oh, no! You are to live with me. Hepsey has adopted you," laughing.

"I can speak for her that she will be strict, but kind."

Esther looked up suddenly, as though she scarcely understood, but,

seeing the bright smile on Miss Howard's face, her own grew radiant

then, with a quick movement, she threw herself on her knees before

the lady, while tears of joy ran down her cheeks.

"Poor child!" murmured Marion. "She has known so little the comfort

of a home."

"Or having real friends to care for her," interrupted Hepsey, wiping

her own eyes.

It was indeed a change in Esther's life, difficult for her, at least,

to comprehend. For days after she went to live with her kind friends,

she seemed to herself to be in a dream. Nothing made it seem so real

as the prayers Mr. Mitchell offered when they all gathered around the

family altar. As she told Hepsey afterward, she would go without food

rather than to lose the opportunity of being present.

"Do you recollect a little prayer you taught us at the mission

school, Miss Howard?"

This lady and Esther were sitting at their sewing when the child

timidly asked the question. She was gradually becoming accustomed

to kind words, losing the habit of starting, when suddenly addressed,

as though she feared a blow.

Esther's hands trembled with eagerness as she asked the question.

"Do you mean the prayer which begins, 'Help me, dear Lord'?"

"Yes, ma'am." The child closed her eyes, bent her head forward just

in the old way she had been taught, and repeated the whole prayer

with a solemnity and fervor which deeply affected the hearer.

"Help me, dear Lord, this day, to be honest, faithful, and true

toward my fellows, and above all to love Thee, blessed Saviour,

with all my heart. Help me to remember that God sees all that I do,

and hears all that I say, and that He is able to protect and guide

all those who put their trust in Him. For Jesus Christ's sake, we ask

this. Amen."

With a half-checked sob the child went on, gradually forgetting her

timidity, and giving to her faithful teacher an insight into her

poor, lonely, repressed life which was never forgotten.

"O Miss Howard! it frightens me to think how bad I was at the mission

school. I used to whisper and set the girls to laughing, and waste my

thread, and do so many naughty things. Miss Farnum ought to have put

me out. But if she had," sighing, "I never should have learned that

good prayer" (speaking with great awe) "and then what should I have

done when I was in such trouble?

"I used to kneel in the corner and repeat it over and over till it

seemed like I heard Jesus' voice say, 'I will, child.' Once when

he"—she always alluded to her husband as he—"came home drunk, and

beat me, I worried 'cause I couldn't get to my corner and kneel down.

I did manage to sit up in bed and put my hands together as you told

us, and I said it over and over in my heart. I thought, maybe as He

knows all about us, He'd know how it hurt me to move, and wouldn't

mind if I did cry and moan, 'cause I couldn't help it."

"My poor child. I am very glad you knew where to go for comfort.

Did you ever try to form a prayer for yourself?"

"No, ma'am, not a prayer. I wasn't fit for it, you know; but when he

was swearing and threatening to kill me,—not him, but rum,—I used

to whisper, O God, pity me. Dear Jesus, take away the bad heart that

makes him treat me so. Once after I had asked God to make him good

and help me to be patient, he came and looked at me as I lay on the

straw. He wasn't drunk then, and he said, 'I'm sorry for your sake

you ever saw me, Esther.' His voice was real kind, like as though

he pitied me. When he'd gone, I told Jesus about it. Was it

naughty?" as she saw Miss Howard suddenly put her handkerchief

to her eyes, "and I loved Jesus Christ so much that I forgot all

the pain in my head and my side, so I fell asleep."

CHAPTER VII.

ESTHER'S FORGIVENESS.

NO one but a faithful Christian worker in Christ's vineyard

can understand the encouragement such a revelation as that described

in the last chapter is to those who have been for years sowing

good seed and waiting for the harvest.

Esther, for years a member of the mission Sunday school,—light and

frivolous, seemingly almost incapable of retaining any of the

teachings repeated Sunday after Sunday in her hearing,—had been

impressed by something in this simple prayer which the gracious

spirit of God had fixed in her memory. It seemed to have been the

"word in season," which had come back to her in her hours of deepest

need, and proved to her in truth that God was really a loving Father

watching over and pitying His sorrowing children.

Marion related the incident which had so deeply affected her to her

friend in England adding, "I suppose I may learn from this a lesson

of trust. We have the glorious privilege of sowing the seed in the

hearts of these poor waifs. It is God's part, which He has promised

to do, to help it to sink into the light soil and spring up

to everlasting life.

"How many times I have heard people say, 'Such work does no good.

The influences around these poor creatures are all against them.

Once in seven days they repeat the command not to swear, not to

steal, not to lie, and every hour of the other six days they hear

the vilest oaths and are witness to a breach of every other command.

If it were any truths but God's own truths, which He has promised

to bless, we might well be discouraged; but in the case of Esther,

when to human appearance all her surroundings were against her,

one little seed of divine truth sank into her heart and bore such

wonderful fruit that I take fresh courage and feel that I can labor

with fresh diligence."

Never in all her acquaintance with Mrs. Douglass had our young friend

enjoyed her visits there as now. The lady had recovered from

her recent illness, and was able to take a short walk every day,

supported by her daughter's arm. In Mrs. Cheriton's countenance

there was an added beauty. Her eyes no longer flashed defiantly,

as of old. Her head seemed to have forgotten its fashion of throwing

itself back, as she haughtily refused any request which crossed her

own inclinations. Upon her brow there was a sweet serenity that spoke

to the observer of inward peace.

I have already spoken of the change in her treatment of her boy.

Her resolutions made during that dreadful night were never forgotten.

Conscience, once aroused, did not slumber again. She prayed earnestly

that she might have help to command her own temper, and thus be able

to teach Geenie to conquer his. The resemblance in many of her traits

to her uncle Henreich, which has caused her mother hours of anxious

forebodings, grew less and less every day. She saw that her daughter

was making a great effort to correct her faults, and that in

her government of her son she was kind but firm.

Formerly, as Marion went into their room, she was aware that her

entrance had interrupted some unpleasant discussion. Mrs. Douglass

would either be trembling with agitation or in tears while

Mrs. Cheriton was flushed and defiant.

Now what a pleasing change! The two ladies sat at their work,

regarding each other with the tender affection natural to the tie

between them, while Eugene, sometimes boisterous indeed, was growing

every day more willing to yield to authority.

One morning Marion called on her way to her pupils, who, by the way,

were making their best efforts to show her they appreciated her

self-denying efforts, as she had informed them she intended to resign

her place in the school. She met Eugene, dressed for a walk, with a

young companion from the house; and descending the stairs, found the

ladies improving the time in reading an interesting book.

"I want you to tell Miss Howard about Geenie's prayer," remarked

Mrs. Douglass to her daughter.

"I really hope," began Mrs. Cheriton, "that he understands what

I have told him, that God sees us, though we can't see Him. Yesterday

afternoon we were sitting here with the door open into the next room.

I heard a noise like driving a nail, but supposed he was busy with

his toys, and presently I heard his voice. We both listened and heard

him say,—

"'God, don't look this way! Turn your eyes the other side. I'm very

naughty, God. Don't see me! Look over there! I'm SO naughty, God,

I don't want you to see.'"

"By this time I concluded it was best for me to see what the

hammering meant. I went in and found him driving tacks into the

trunk. He made no resistance when I took away the hammer, but looked

ashamed when I said,—

"'O Geenie! How could you do so?'"

"You can imagine how he would have resisted once," added the boy's

grandmother. "He would have kicked and screamed and tried to bite."

"I am thankful those days are past," murmured Marion, noticing the

mother's flush of painful recollection caused by this allusion.

"He will reward you for all the pains you take to control him."

"He has already," exclaimed the young mother, clasping her hands

in her impulsive manner. "Geenie was never so affectionate as now.

I do believe that he never loved me so well as when I had to punish

him the other day. He hung around me, kissing me again and again.

When he saw tears in my eyes, he took his own little handkerchief

to wipe them away, saying repeatedly,—

"'Geenie will be good all the time, mamma. Geenie won't make mamma

cry any more.'"

Marion was sometimes very curious to know whether, with the many

obvious changes in Mrs Cheriton's character, her feelings of aversion

to her husband remained. She was well aware that many of the former

disagreements with the mother arose from the fact that Mrs. Douglass

urged Juliette to write kindly to her husband, from whom they had

heard within a few months. To be sure, he had not sent them any

intelligence, but in a newspaper accidentally falling under their

notice, they had seen his name and knew he was then in New Orleans.

If there was any return of affection on the wife's part, no one knew

it, for on this subject she maintained the most rigid reserve.

Indeed, Mrs. Cheriton could never be called a frank person. It was

only under the influence of very strong emotion that she gave

utterance to her deepest feelings. From the first, Marion had noticed

this trait, and wondered at it in one so young.

With another child-wife it was exactly the reverse. To her earliest

friends—Miss Howard and Hepsey—Esther laid bare all that was

in her childish and grateful heart.

Marion often came upon her, singing in a low musical voice, a refrain

from the hymn sung at family prayers, and when spoken to she had

a way of looking up with her large, deep-set eyes, and smiling,

as she said softly,—

"I'm so happy, ma'am. Everybody is so kind to me." And this was while

the great ridges on her slender body, caused by her husband's brutal

beatings, were still unhealed. In regard to this husband she did not

hesitate to speak, though at first with tears.

"Would it be wicked, ma'am, to let him think I belong to him now?"

She asked this one morning when she was braiding her young mistress's

abundant tresses and could keep her own face concealed.

"What do you mean?" Marion was startled and spoke in a sharp voice.

"I mean, ma'am, he's shut up now and can't get rum; and he was kind,

once; and wouldn't he feel better if he knew that I cared for him

a little?"

"You said you did not care for him; that you never wanted to see him

again. Would you go back to him? Would you submit to his ill

treatment, his profanity and abuse?"

Esther was silent, and glancing in the mirror, her mistress saw that

her eyes were full of tears. At last she said, in a tone of deep

sorrow,—

"I'm sorry God heard me say that. I was angry at the bad rum, and

I was afraid of being shut up in a cell with him. I—I asked Jesus

to put my naughty feelings away. I—I found the place in your

prayer-book, ma'am,—I mean the marrying place. It's solemn words,

ma'am; I didn't know that marrying was such a solemn thing. I was too

young, and I had no mother, and my mates thought it would be fun

to be married, and I didn't remember that I should have to stay

married whether I liked it or not and so when he praised me and said

he loved me best of all the girls in our court, though they all

wanted him, I said I'd go to the parson. I had no call, ma'am, to let

him say that bad woman was my mother. She was old Nan, the worst

woman among them all, but that is over now. I'd die before I'd do

so naughty again, but, ma'am, the minister asked me those solemn

words, and I said yes, so I've been thinking that," sighing heavily,

"'for better for worse, till death us do part,' means that I do

belong to him, ma'am and so I—" Her voice was stopped suddenly for

she fell on her knees, and with her head hidden in her arms, sobbed

without restraint.

Marion's own tears flowed. As she told the story afterward

to Mrs. Mitchell and Hepsey, "When I saw her in a perfect abandonment

of grief, sobbing her heart out at the recollection of the man

who had so abused his trust, I resolved that, if the law could

prevent it, she never should live with him again. But at the same

moment I felt for her such an increase of respect that folded her

in my arms and kissed her."

A few days after this Miss Howard was dressing to go out when Esther

came forward, blushing painfully, and holding out an awkwardly folded

paper, asked,—

"May I go out, ma'am, to put this into the box at the corner?"

The lady took the letter and glanced her eye over the address,

"Joseph Cole, Sing-Sing Prison, Auburn, New York State." The writing

was scarcely intelligible, but Marion was not thinking of that.

She could not endure the thought that Esther in her childish trust

might bind herself irrevocably to his future.

"His sister told me how to write that," murmured Esther, in a

hesitating tone. "'T isn't my place, ma'am, to ask you to give your

time to it; but if you'll please to read it, and say I may send it

to him, I shall be very happy."

This was what Marion wished to do. She seated herself instantly and

unfolded the paper, not yet sealed, Esther meanwhile ruffling the

edge of her apron as though her life depended on her doing it

quickly.

Marion had never perused a letter in which all the rules of grammar

and spelling were so wholly set at defiance; but seldom had she read

one which touched her heart more. It was very brief, but to the

point, and correcting the spelling, read as follows:—

Dear Jo,—

It's a good while now since you and me see each other.

I thought, maybe, you'd like to know that a dear, kind lady, as used

to teach me in the Mission, is giving me a home. I'm happy, or I

would be if I could forget where you are. I'm learning to pray, Jo;

and when I say my prayers I never forget that God can look right into

your cell and see you, though I can't; so I tell him all about you,

and ask him to make this the best time in your life, as it may be if

you will learn to love Him. You are not yet twenty years old, and

when you come out of prison you will be young enough to begin life

again. This is what I am praying for you all the time.

Your little wife, ESTHER.

"If she had left out the words 'your little wife,'" said Marion

to herself, "I would not have objected to her writing him for once."

Then glancing up, she saw Esther's eyes fixed upon her with a

mournfully earnest expression, and without another word went to her

desk, took out an envelope, enclosed the letter in it, copied the

address, and let it go. Afterward she confessed, "I believe at that

moment I felt far more unforgiving toward the prisoner than the

innocent victim of his brutality did."

CHAPTER VIII.

GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENTS.

ALL this time the building committee in Grantbury were pressing on

the work most vigorously. The edifice was unlike any other in the

town. It was of Gothic architecture. The walls were, as I have

mentioned of native stone, the windows high, narrow, with stained

glass. "They will have a cross on the spire," said one, "I'm sure

of it, and I'll tell you what it will end in, they'll all go

to Rome together."

The work proceeded so well, notwithstanding these prophecies, that it

was hoped it would be ready for occupation by Christmas. Mr. Angus's

taste was consulted during the entire progress.

The plan had been copied and sent to him for approval. All the

committee agreed that some suggestions made by him were a great

improvement on the original plan. In his last letter he had told them

he expected to sail for home the 17th of September, and this the

committee said would be in time to decide about frescoing and other

interior decorations. No member of the parish, outside of

Mr. Asbury's family, was aware that a new tie had been formed which

would strengthen his affection to the country and home of his

adoption. A few persons knew that a cellar was being dug on a

house-lot not two hundred feet from the new church, but these few

supposed Mr. Asbury was going to erect a house to rent, as he was

often seen directing the workmen. The fact was that "our church,"

with its rafters exposed to view, its spire towering every day nearer

to heaven, its ample porch of solid stone, absorbed all the interest

of the congregation.

Every week a letter came to the church or the Sunday school in which

the pastor spoke most hopefully of what they might together

accomplish for the cause of Christ. He told them what he had seen

in England and Scotland, among congregations he had visited,

of united effort. He reminded them, that if they so labored and

prayed, God would surely add His blessing, until there was not one in

the limits of the town who did not love Christ and try to serve Him.

To the Sunday-school children he wrote of schools in London and

Edinburgh, where all were wide awake with interest to gather in the

poor waifs who knew nothing of Jesus except His name, which they

heard mingled with the most dreadful oaths. He spoke of the reward

these workers received in their own hearts, and urged them to follow

so worthy an example. He mentioned at the close of this letter that

he had subscribed for one of the best English Sunday-school papers,

and offered it for a reward to the child who would bring into their

own Sunday school the greatest number of scholars. These must be from

families not connected with any other church.

For the first time in her life dear little Ethel had a secret, and it

was her own Marion who told her of it.

By and by, when the new house was done, she knew that her dear

Mr. Angus would bring Marion from the city and go there to live.

She knew that a beautiful conservatory was to be built on the south

side of the new house, and that Marion's flowers and birds would be

brought there. She knew that Hepsey and Esther and James would all be

in the pretty home at the new Ingleside, and that she could go to see

them as often as she pleased. She knew why it was that Marion came

from New York so often, and why papa spent so much time talking with

her about some large charts spread out on the dining-room table,

about an oriel window here, and a balcony there, and why they always

waited till she was in bed before they walked over to the spot where

the new house was being built.

One thing more connected with this wonderful secret she had been told

later, and this came near letting the whole thing out, which would

indeed have set the congregation connected with the First Church into

a blaze of excitement. Marion had promised that on a certain

occasion, not very far distant, she should go to New York with her

papa and mamma and Annie and Gardner, and stand up with Marion

as bridesmaid, while she promised to love Mr. Angus and take good can

of him as long as she lived.

It was something to be remembered, the wonder and delight of the

child as she came to understand all this. Her eyes grew darker, and

her whole face radiant, as she glanced slowly from one to another,

and her mamma added,—

"Yes, darling, cousin Marion is going to live in Grantbury and be

Mr. Angus's wife."

"And I'll be his wife, too," she exclaimed, with a little hop of

delight. "I'll promise to love him and take care of him. He can be

the broom to both of us."

"The broom!"

"Yes, mamma, you said that she would be the bride and he the broom."

"Groom, you mean, you precious pet," said Marion, catching the child

in her arms and hiding her burning cheeks in Ethel's neck.

Mamma thought this too good to keep from papa, and even threatened

Marion that she would acquaint Mr. Angus with the double honor

that awaited him; but the young lady's entreaties prevailed, and the

letter went off without the joke.

The rise of ground on which the new church was being built was in a

part of the town not yet much occupied by families. The road from the

old church, school-house, etc., to the depot wound gracefully around

the foot of the hill, and had been widened and improved within a

short time. It was about one quarter of a mile to the railroad

station, and an equal distance from the village, which had grown up

in what was once the centre. Prior to the existence of the railroad,

it was Mr. Asbury's most profitable grass land, and he now owned as

far as the depot on one side, and quite down to Shawsheen Lake on the

other. The elevated situation of the land, together with the

picturesque views it commanded, rendered it peculiarly eligible

for building lots. Speculators from the city had already made

favorable offers to the owner for the whole field, but, with the

exception of one hundred feet front by one hundred and fifty deep,

donated to the church, and a house-lot nearly four times the size,

next adjoining, Mr. Asbury refused to sell.