Mr. Angus's letters to Marion kept her informed of his visits

to London, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, where he was studying into the

best-approved methods of church work in reference to his own labors

among his chosen people. He told her of sewing schools, not only for

children, but for mothers, where they were taught to cut and make

garments for boys and girls, given simple recipes for cooking, and

taught in general how to make home happy. He narrated cases where,

in consequence of these teachings, the husband had been won from the

alehouse to the pleasures of his own fireside, where the savory soups

the wives had learned to make had weaned them from liquor: and made

them into peace-abiding citizens.

He wrote of libraries and reading-rooms established for the poor, and

also of societies for social pleasures, amusement, etc., to which all

were invited to contribute their share.

"I accompanied a friend," he wrote, "to one of these gatherings,

which reminded me of a description Annie Asbury gave me of one of

yours. The ball accommodated about five hundred, and was as full

as was comfortable. Fathers and mothers, and not a few grandparents,

were there, with youth not under fourteen. Entertainments for the

little ones are provided on separate occasions. I cannot describe

to you vividly enough the inspiration I derived from the scene,—

the smiling faces, the merry voices, the ring of real, healthy

enjoyment of the whole company. Surely I thought, to provide

healthful and innocent amusement for young and old is an important

part of church work. To stand still a moment and listen to the hum

and buzz of cheerful voices, with now and then a burst of laughter,

sent a glow of kindly interest for every one present through my whole

being.

"There were games and puzzles and comic readings with an occasional

tragedy, and singing from boys in chorus, and boys or girls in solos,

and a couple of street boys with bagpipes, until the allotted hour

to close arrived. Then I as a stranger from the far-off America,

was requested to make a brief address and close with prayer. When the

bell calling to order was rung, I was surprised to see how quickly

every one found a seat, waiting to hear what was said.

"I had just commenced to tell them about my home across the water,

when a small hand near me was raised, and a boy asked timidly,—

"'Tell us about the bears and Indians, mister.'"

"I had some difficulty in convincing them that in the United States

we had cities and towns, as they had, and that our bears were kept

in cages or pits, as theirs were. I told them I was very glad to be

with them when they were having such a merry time; and that I wanted

to join my thanks with theirs to the kind Christian ladies and

gentlemen who had provided such an entertainment for us.

"To the loving Father who watches over us all, to the sympathizing

Saviour who endured temptation and want that He might know how to

help us, to the gracious Spirit, who is ready to lead us into every

good way, I then committed them, and we separated.

"I forgot to tell you that I was persuaded in the course of the

evening to sing a comic song, which I learned while in New York.

Of course this 'brought down the house.' How would my dear little

Ethel have looked could she have seen me?"

In another letter he said:—

"I have conversed with many clergymen and other Christians of ripe

experience on this same subject of amusement. All classes of persons,

with rare exception of peculiar individuals, agree that some

relaxation is necessary to a healthful state of body and mind. If no

innocent and proper amusements are provided, young and old, rich and

poor, will seek entertainments for themselves, and too often these

will be the lowest class of theatres, shows, etc.

"Let Christian parents and teachers make it a part of the business

of education to provide suitably for this want of our nature, and

these objectionable, immoral places would have to be closed for want

of patronage. In the neighborhood of the church where was the

entertainment I have described, a low theatre of the worst

description had been abandoned, simply because the ground was

occupied in a worthier way. I am looking forward to inaugurating

some plan of this kind, and I confidently expect help from a merry

girl from whom I purchased my first pair of gloves in Grantbury."

[Illustration: SHE WAS FINISHING A LETTER TO SEND BY THE STEAMER,

WHEN DR. ROSS WAS ANNOUNCED. Page 349]

CHAPTER IX.

TRUE FRIENDSHIP.

IT was a sultry August day. Most of Miss Howard's acquaintances

were out of the city. She had just returned from Grantbury, and was

finishing a letter to send by the steamer, when Dr. Ross was

announced.

"One minute, Doctor," pleaded Marion, sealing her letter and ringing

for James to take it to the post; "now I will have a glass

of lemonade for you in a trice."

"I met Hepsey," he said, "or I should not have known you were

at home."

"Your call is very opportune, sir," said Marion smiling, as she

added, "I want to ask about Annie Leman. Is she as good a teacher

as you expected?"

"Next to yourself, Miss Howard," bowing formally, "I do not know

her equal."

"Then you will add your influence to mine to secure for her

the position I am about to resign in Mrs. La Vergne's school?"

"With great pleasure, if you will promise for Miss Leman that she

will still teach my daughters. But why do you resign?"

Marion had more than once asked herself whether she were treating

her father's old friend with sufficient frankness in not telling him

of her engagement to Mr. Angus; and now his question gave her the

opportunity to do so; so with rosy cheeks she said,—

"I'm going to leave the city before long."

"Not permanently, I hope?"

"I am going to be married, Doctor."

"Wh-e-e-w-w!"

Marion laughed till all her dimples came into view.

"To whom, in the name of wonder?"

"To a clergyman, a country parson."

"Just like you. I might have known no other man would have dared

aspire. Well, tell me all about it. You'll ask me to the wedding,

of course. Is he presentable, in person, I mean?"

"You shall have a chance to judge for yourself, Doctor. I will tell

you one thing about him. He has recently declined a call to a large

church in London, with a generous salary, preferring to remain with

his country flock; and when they offered to make the support received

from them equal to the other rather than to lose him, he declined

that, too, insisting that there would be so many calls for money

in connection with church work that he preferred they would give that

way."

The Doctor laughed. "I see he has found out the method to gain your

confidence. Where is the parish? I shall expect an invitation

to visit you and hear your parson preach."

"When I have a home of my own, Doctor, you will always be welcome."

"Thank you. You are a good girl; and if you can say my old friend,

Dexter Howard, would approve this new arrangement, I must give my

consent. I wish you weren't going out of the city, though. What will

all your poor people do? By the way, I'm forgetting in my

astonishment at the news what I came for. Did you know Mr. Lambert

was sick, confined to his room?"

"I'm very sorry to hear it."

"That isn't the worst of it. He charges you with being the cause."

"Charges me? What have I done? I have not even seen him for weeks,

and supposed him out of the city."

"He has been in bed. He is hollow-eyed and nervous to a degree—

that is not particularly agreeable to his household, I imagine.

I can't make out whether the man is out of his mind, or what is the

matter with him. When he had berated you as much as I thought

prudent, I apologized in your name; was sure you had no intention,

and so forth; but he only grumbled the worse. He was sure you did

mean it; and if you saw him you would do it again. I couldn't make

out what you had done, except that he said you had hurt

his feelings."

"Oh, I know now!" exclaimed Marion, with a breath of relief. "I'm so

glad, so very glad!"

"Glad? He said you would be, but I indignantly denied it."

"May I go and see him, Doctor? Please let me."

"I don't believe he would admit you."

"Yes, he would. I must go, dear Doctor. So you may as well say yes."

The physician looked her keenly in the face, as though considering,

when she interrupted him by a burst of feeling, eyes moist, lips

tremulous, as she exclaimed,—

"I'm so glad! It's just what I've been praying for."

"Hem! Well, I hope you'll continue to be glad when you see him."

"Oh, Doctor, you've lived in New York a long time. Do you know

anything about his early history?"

A shake of the head was the only answer at first, then, after a

pause, "He is a native of this city, I think; and, by the way, one of

his most fidgety crotchets now is about making a will. Shall he make

a will? If he does, who shall he leave his money to? Is there a boy

by the name of Carter? Neddy Carter?"

"Yes, his feet were crushed and had to be amputated. Mr. Lambert has

been a generous friend to him, but the boy knows him only by the name

of Regy."

"Whew! you don't say that the eccentric individual known as Regy is

Mr. Lambert in disguise. Why, the manner in which the man abused him

this very morning was a caution."

"I feel quite sure they are the same," replied Marion, laughing.

Tho doctor lay back his head in perfect amazement. At last he said,

"Lambert and old Regy the same. It's the richest joke of the season.

What can be his motive? Did you ever hear of an adventure in Richmond

in which he figures prominently?

"No, sir."

"He was passing a few days there, when one morning early he signalled

to an omnibus to stop. Two or three vehicles were in the way, so that

when the driver was able to draw up toward the curbstone Regy stood

back twenty feet or so. He came on growling and stood outside,

berating the driver for not attending more promptly to his signal.

"I'll have you dismissed, you rascal,' he shouted, his arm upraised,

when he happened to notice the driver's face. It was drawn with pain.

Regy jumped up on the box without another word, learned that the

driver's wife lay dying at home, dismissed him at once, and drove the

omnibus himself all day. Then he found the house where the driver

lived. The wife was dead and the children mourning over her cold

body. Regy went to the office, got the driver off for a week,

paid the funeral expenses, and then secured a place for the man on a

farm, his oldest daughter keeping house.

"Those were exactly the facts, as I was told them by a gentleman

from Richmond."

"It was just like him," said Marion, with a merry laugh. "I wonder

what his motive is for disguising his real nature. Now, Doctor, warm

as it is, I must go to see him."

It was, however, with a quickened beat of the pulse that, after her

ring at the door-bell, she awaited admittance to the spacious,

old fashioned house.

The servant was a man who had been in Mr. Lambert's employ for many

years. He recognized Miss Howard, but was doubtful whether his master

would see any one.

"Tell him I have just heard of his sickness and am very anxious

to see him. Stay, wait a minute!" she cried, with a sudden resolve,

"say that I want to tell him a piece of news personal to myself."

Even when she sat in the parlor she heard the loud growling of the

master as the servant announced a guest.

It was several minutes before the man came back, with a troubled

countenance, to say that Mr. Lambert would see her. "I told him he'd

better not," he explained, "and that set him that he would.

He's very, very bad to-day, miss; perhaps you'd better say nothing

to cross him. I'll be close at hand if you want me."

For one instant her courage failed, then with an earnest lifting up

of her heart to God for help she ascended the stairs and passed into

the room.

Mr. Lambert had often surprised her with his eccentricities,

but never so much as now. He was lying dressed in a suit of

white duck, on a luxurious lounge, his face almost as colorless

as his dress, and altogether so changed that she felt a disposition

to scream. He held out his hand, saying in a most polished manner,

"You must excuse me, my friend, for not rising. I am quite reduced

by illness."

Trying not to show her surprise, Marion cordially seized his hand and

drew a chair close to his side.

"I'm so sorry I didn't know it before; I'm a very good nurse, and you

must let me try my skill on you."

His chin began to twitch with his efforts at self-control, so she

added at once, hoping to change the current of his thoughts,

"We've been such good friends that I know you will be glad to hear

some news about me from myself. I'm going to change my name soon."

Her cheeks, dyed with blushes, explained her meaning.

"Is it to that bow-legged donkey you've pledged yourself,"

he shouted, starting from his pillow. "If it is, I protest!"

"No, indeed, it is not he," she laughed, understanding to whom

he referred, as he had warned her against him. "My friend is a

clergyman, a real, working Christian. I must tell you how I first met

him."

She related the incident of selling him the gloves, at which he

laughed heartily, and when she went on to tell what Mr. Angus wished

to do for his people, he caught her hand and gave it a hearty shake,

saying, "He's the kind. I'll consent to that."

"You must treat me as you would a daughter," she said, putting her

hand on his forehead, "and tell me when you're tired of hearing me

talk. Don't you like to hear reading?"

"Sing," he said, "sing something lively."

She sang several secular songs, and then one beginning,

"Jesus, Thou art all compassion,"

which brought the tears to his eyes.

"Another," he said, briefly, when her voice ceased.

"Yes, Mr. Lambert, I'll sing a favorite hymn, which I am sure you

will like.

"'Lord, lead the way the Saviour went

By lane and cell obscure,

And let love's treasures still be spent,

Like His, upon the poor.

Like Him through scenes of deep distress,

Who bore the world's sad weight,

We, in their crowded loneliness,

Would seek the desolate.

"'For Thou hast placed us side by side

In this wide world of ill,

And that Thy followers may be tried,

The poor are with us still.

Mean are all offerings we can make,

But Thou hast taught us, Lord,

If given for the Saviour's sake,

They lose not their reward.'"

When she sang the last lines he suddenly covered his face, but while

she was hesitating how to begin a conversation on another subject,

he exclaimed, irritably,—

"It's no use trying to make one's self believe what he knows can't

be true."

"I am sure of that, dear friend."

"You, sure? Then how am I to blame for not believing?"

"Suppose I was stricken down with want. I was dying of hunger.

Just before me there is abundant supply of food, but I can't raise

myself to get it; my weakness has rendered me powerless. You come in,

and seeing my condition, point to the food. I can't see it, or I

can't reach it. 'Try,' you say. I try, but fall back. 'Ask me,

and I'll give it to you.' You kindly urge this upon me, but I refuse.

'No, I don't believe it's for me. That food is for somebody else';

and so I lie there and die for want of the food, stubbornly resisting

every motive you urge—that it is free to all, the only condition

being that I ask for it.

"That is a very weak illustration of what we, as sinners before God,

do continually. Christ has provided an abundant feast; we are

starving for want of that very food. He graciously invites us,

'Come without money and without price,' but we persist in saying,

'I know it can't be true, That food looks inviting, but it is not

for me.' Now comes in the gracious Spirit, with His soft, pleading

voice. He repeats Christ's words, 'I came not to call the righteous,

but sinners.' 'To Him give all the prophets witness, that through

His name whosoever believeth on Him shall receive remission of sins,'

—shall be welcomed to the feast; and by it be restored to life."

One hand covered Mr. Lambert's face, and through the fingers Marion

saw the tears trickling down.

"I'm tired, perhaps you've stayed long enough," he said softly.

She rose at once, gazed in his face, longing to comfort him.

"Stop a minute. Pray for a poor old sinner, who has never before had

a daughter to comfort him."

Her breath almost stopped. "Can I pray before him?" But before

he noticed her hesitation she was on her knees at his side. Like a

little child, running to his father whose arms were outstretched

to fold her in his embrace, so she ran to her Heavenly Father, and

told Him all her desires for this dear friend. She asked the Saviour

to reveal Himself to the poor, desolate heart, wearied with carrying

its burden alone. She pleaded with the gracious, waiting Spirit

to help him open his heart to this dearest and truest of friends;

that the Holy Spirit would take of the things of Christ, and show

them unto him; that, like the man dying of hunger, he might ask

for the food from the abundant supply before him, and be filled.

Poor Mr. Lambert! He wholly lost control, and, before she rose from

prayer, sobbed without restraint. As she took his hand to wish him

good by, he looked up into her face with such a pitiful expression

that it almost overcame her.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "do trust Him! He is waiting for you to say,

'Lord, I believe!'"

CHAPTER X.

NEDDY CARTER'S MISSION.

WHEN Neddy Carter was carried from the hospital, he was at once

admitted to one of the mission schools; but he begged so hard that

he might still make his home with his mother that he was permitted

to do so. He said nothing of his motives in preferring a bed on a

pile of straw to a comfortable cot in the mission house, but he had

a strong motive, which soon began to appear.

Unassisted and even unknown to his best friends, he gathered a few

little ones in his mother's garret, and then repeated to them the

instructions he had gained. Perhaps his pleasant blue eyes, gazing so

frankly into theirs, had made him a favorite before; or it might be

that the sight of him, wheeling about in his chair, enduring so

bravely the great trial that had come upon him gave him influence

over his companions. At any rate, he had influence and he used it

to win them to better paths.

Miss Howard learned something of this, and was so rejoiced at it that

she resolved to visit him in his home. She had never been there since

the day of Neddy's accident, when, with Hepsey's help, she had had

him conveyed in the ambulance to the hospital.

This visit occurred on the Sunday afternoon following her call on

Mr. Lambert, described in the last chapter. It so delighted her that

she longed for Mr. Lambert to know how the boy he had befriended

was using his influence for Christ.

On Thursday of the following week she called upon the sick man, and

found he was out for a drive. Sitting in his room, she wrote him

a hurried note, asking him to accompany her to see a mutual friend

on Sunday afternoon, enclosing in the note a piece of poetry she had

selected for him. She left the whole with the servant, requesting

an answer to be sent to her house.

Let us look upon Mr. Lambert as he enters his chamber, leaning upon

the arm of his valet. The note has been placed in plain view from his

lounging chair, and he notices it as soon as he has taken his seat.

"Who sent that?" he asks.

The tone is much softer than when Marion called last. Perhaps his

sickness has weakened him.

"Miss Howard called, sir, and finding you out, wrote her errand."

"Glad I was away." Even while uttering the words he felt that

they were untrue.

He took the note in his hands,—thin, bony hands, showing his

sickness. "Get me some gruel," he said, "I'm tired, and shall try

to sleep."

"Shall I say you cannot see any one?"

"How many times must I repeat that I see no one but the doctor?"

[Illustration: "WHO SENT THAT?" HE ASKS. Page 366]

"There is an answer required to the note."

As soon as he was alone he tore open the envelope, took out the

half-sheet on which Marion had copied a beautiful extract from

Schiller, laid it without reading on his knee, and then, slowly

adjusting his glasses on his forehead, began to read.

"After all," he said to himself, "I needn't have dreaded it so much.

I was unnecessarily alarmed. I thought she meant to bring another

sledgehammer to bear on my conscience. Yes, I'll go and see our

mutual friend. I wonder who it is."

He took up the other paper and read,—

Dear Friend,—

I came across these "words of strength" from our

favorite Schiller's poems, and thought of you while reading them.

That they may prove real words of strength to you is the earnest

prayer of an attached friend.

MARION HOWARD.

"There are three lessons I would write,

Three words as with a burning pen,

In tracings of eternal light,

Upon the hearts of men.

"Have hope. Though clouds environ now,

And gladness hides her face in scorn,

Put thou the shadow from thy brow,

No night but hath its morn.

"Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven—

The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth—

Know this: God rules the hosts of heaven,

The inhabitants of earth.

"Have love. Not love alone for one,

But man as man thy brother call,

And scatter, like the circling sun,

Thy charities on all.

"Thus 'grave these lessons on thy soul,

Hope, Faith, and Love; and thou shalt find

Strength when life's surges rudest roll,

Light when thou else were blind."

Notwithstanding the twisted and gnarled branches of this old oak,

there was a time, years back, when it was a straight and vigorous

young sapling. It was beautiful to behold, and gave promise

of becoming a lofty, stalwart tree, under which many might find

refreshing shelter. On this thrifty sapling grew an ugly wart,

called by some horticulturists jealousy. At first it might have been

removed without injury to the tree, but it was not. It grew and grew,

diffusing it: poison through all the cellular tissues, until it

became deformed, disfigured, and unsightly.

Strange, but true, this process of degeneration had been going on

in the character of Mr. Lambert, until, at the time we first knew

him, there was only one trait left of his original nature. This was

a peculiar, unquenchable tenderness of feeling toward the poor and

distressed. Suspicious as he had become of all around him,

ever toward the very ones he was trying to save from their own

thriftlessness or crime, this one trail urged him on to give relief;

and in this way kept alive one of the healthiest avenues to real

goodness, even though his charities were often accompanied by

a torrent of reproach.

It was this trait, so congenial to Marion Howard, which drew her

to him and led her to suppose he was actuated by love to his

Divine Master. In this she was mistaken. In his inmost soul

Mr. Lambert accused God of having dealt hardly with him, more hardly

than he deserved. He had been wounded in the house of his friends.

When his heart had been most vulnerable, there it had been pierced.

He had never forgiven nor forgotten the blow. Sometimes, when the

recollection of all he had been made to suffer came upon him,

he hated himself that he did not revenge himself on all mankind.

"I owe no man anything," was one of his favorite mottoes; but after

he became acquainted with Marion Howard he did not take much comfort

from it. How closely after their first meeting he had watched her!

How he longed to find her halting! But no, her motions were too

transparent. She had genuine love to God as her Father, to Christ

as her Saviour, and it was from this love her kindness to all around

her sprang. This he had been forced to acknowledge when analyzing

her character. It unsettled him and made him more irritable.

Sometimes, when he found himself softened under her influence,

he would recall all the injuries heaped on him,—injuries that

had blasted his happiness forever.

In his early days he had been a ripe scholar, a graduate from one

of our best colleges. He had read on many subjects, and among others

on the subject of Christianity. He had read in the Old and New

Testaments, but his heart remained cold in the midst of sacred fire.

At times in his life he had taken pleasure in railing and ranting

against everything sacred. In connection with the holiest Bible

teachings he had used the words "bigotry" and "humbuggery" and

"cant," till he almost convinced himself that what he said was true.

Almost, but not quite. There was still a spark of truth left in him,

if only it could be ignited. He had been thinking of these questions

when he called on Marion and asked whether she believed in churches,

dogmas, etc. Her words, the earnestness, the assurance she expressed

that the Gospel of Christ was indeed good news to men, that in order

to live a good life we must believe on Him and follow His example,

came home to his heart. He could not shake off the fear that he had

been mistaken. He lost his sleep, and at last became so nervous and

unsettled, so irritable and unmanageable, that his valet insisted

he should summon a physician.

This was his state when Marion came to his bedside. After she left

he called for pen and ink, and wrote out, as well as he could recall

it, every word of her prayer. This he put in his pocketbook and read

over many times in a day, never without tears. The gracious

Spirit of God was near, watching, waiting to be gracious.

How many times in the course of the few days following he put

Marion's character to the severest test! He applied the touchstones

of love, charity, and good-will, and found she answered to them all.

Yes, her life was a good one, even judged from his standpoint.

She did not act from a desire for the praise of men, but from

a genuine love to Christ, and a desire, in her humble manner, to do

good to those around her. Her note found his heart more tender than

it had been for years, more amenable to good influences. He was not

likely to refuse any request she might make, even to the half of his

kingdom. He sent her word that he would be ready to accompany her

at the time appointed.

On Sunday morning the weather was so extremely sultry that Marion

doubted the expediency of taking an invalid to a hot, unventilated

attic where the air must necessarily be vitiated. Indeed, she was

herself oppressed with such debility and general lassitude

as disinclined her for any exertion. But Sunday was one of her

busiest days. She had a Bible class in the morning with her own

servants and those living with Mrs Mitchell, church at eleven, and

her mission school in the afternoon, to which she usually devoted

two hours. Then church in the evening. Mr and Mrs. Mitchell being

in the country, she felt that the Bible class was more than ever

important to their servants.

It had been her intention to call for Mr. Lambert in her carriage

on her way home after the mission school, but, considering the

intense heat had just resolved to postpone her visit to Neddy Carter

till another Sunday, when she heard the welcome sound of distant

thunder.

Before it was time to start for church, the heavy shower had cleared

the air and revived her drooping energies.

Neddy Carter's home was only a few blocks from the Five Points

mission. Miss Howard's carriage was no novel sight in that vicinity,

but, notwithstanding, a group of boys and girls gathered around,

gazing with open mouths as the old gentleman alighted—and followed

the lady slowly up the steps.

Nothing could have happened more favorably for her project. The room

was full, as not only the little ones, but their fathers and mothers,

drawn to the room by the singing, had crowded in, filling up even

the open door. From an adjoining tenement Miss Howard procured

a chair for Mr. Lambert, which she placed in the passage, and

an unpainted stool for herself. An opening hymn had been sung,

and then the children united in repeating with the young teacher

the Lord's Prayer.

Peeping through a space formed by a man's uplifted arm, Mr. Lambert

could see the crippled boy seated in his wheeled chair, in front of

group of wondering children. His back was toward the door, but the

spectator could easily imagine the expression of fervor there would

be in his soft brown eyes, the sweet serenity of the brow as he

talked to them on the subjects he held most dear.

"You said I might tell about Jesus being born in a stable to-day,"

began one little boy, raising his hand.

"You may tell it now," Neddy said, in a cheerful voice.

Questions and answers followed, showing that many present had been

told of the love of Jesus Christ, even for the most sinful; and then

the little missionary, wholly unconscious that others beside the

inmates of the neighboring tenement houses were present, with a

little wave of the hand to command silence, began,—

"I'm going to tell you the story our teacher told us at the mission

school to-day, and then we will sing our favorite hymn.

"A great many years ago there was a rich man. He had two sons.

One was good and one was bad. I guess it was the youngest that

was bad. He didn't like to work. The other helped his father on the

big farm. Teacher said he thought the good one went around and told

the servants what to do, and was not afraid to work himself. They had

cows and calves and sheep, and all kinds of animals, I guess.

"By and by the lazy one said he was tired of staying at home.

He wanted to travel, and he asked his father to give him his part of

the money and let him go. His father said yes. So the father and

the good son went on together for a great many years. They were

pretty happy, but not very. Can you guess why?"

"Maybe the father was a sorrering for the boy who had quit his home,"

murmured a mother in the farthest corner of the room.

"That's a good guess. Yes, that was the reason he wasn't happy.

He loved his boy and he didn't like to have him away."

"Why didn't he get a letter writ?" questioned a man who was holding

a child on each knee.

"I don't know," answered Neddy. "I'm sorry I didn't ask teacher that.

P'r'aps he didn't know where to send the letter. But now I'm going

to tell you about the bad son. He had a whole bagful of money, and he

thought it would last him forever. So he kept buying things and

spending his money till one day he put his hand in his bag and it was

all gone, every bit. He was hungry, but he had not a penny to buy

food. He didn't dare to kneel down, as we do, and say, 'Our Father,

give us this day our daily bread,' because he had been awfully

wicked, getting drunk and lying and swearing, and doing everything

bad. You can't guess, any of you, what he did at last. Why, he was

that hungry he had to hire out to a farmer who kept pigs, and he

watched his chance when nobody was looking, to steal some of the

pigs' food. Before this he used to wear gay clothes, now he was all

in rags. One day he sat down on a stump of a tree. He was awful

homesick. He was tired of being so bad. He thought about his old

home, and how kind his father used to be, and what good things he had

to eat, He remembered how the men working on the farm had enough

to eat. All at once he began to cry, 'I wish I was home. I'm awfully

lonely way off here, and nobody speaks a kind word to me.

Nobody gives me even the pigs' food. I'm ragged, too, and filthy.

Oh, what a fool I was to leave my dear old home!'"

"He cried and sobbed, but nobody pitied him."

"Say, Neddy, did he die among the pigs?" asked a big girl, putting a

finger in her eye to keep the tears back.

"I'm coming to the good part now. After he'd been crying a good

while, and feeling real sorry he had been so wicked, he thought

he heard a voice asking,—

"'Why don't you go home?'"

"'Oh, father wouldn't have me back!'"

"'Yes, he would. He loves you still.'"

"'Loves me! Can it be true? Then I'll go right off.' So he got up off

the stump and started. Teacher didn't say how far it was, but at last

he came to a place where he could see his home. His heart beat

dreadfully. 'Will he take me in? Will he?' Now I'm going to tell you

the very words he told himself he would say to his father.

Teacher made us all learn them, 'cause she said every one of us could

say them to God, our Heavenly Father.

"'And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great

way off, the father saw him, and had compassion unto him, and ran,

and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him,

Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am

no more worthy to be called thy son.

"'But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and

put it on him, and put ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet.

And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be

merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and

is found.'"

"Is that 'ere a true story? You don't say he took him right back

again? Whew! I guess he was glad he went home."

"There's only one thing more," added Neddy, when the astonishment had

somewhat subsided. "Teacher said that the good father in the story

means God. Everybody who wanders away from being good, is like the

bad son. Just as quick as we are sorry and ask Him to forgive us,

He will. She said that we must remember that He is ready just as

quick as we say we're sorry.

"Now we'll sing, and then the school is done. You must all begin

with me,—

"I am so glad that our Father in heaven

Tells of His love in the book He has given,

Wonderful things in the Bible I see,

This is the dearest, that Jesus loves me.

"Though I forget Him and wander away,

Still He doth love me wherever I stray

Back to His dear loving arms would I flee,

When I remember that Jesus loves me.

"Oh, if there's only one song I can sing,

When in His beauty I see the great King,

This shall my song in eternity be,

Oh, what a wonder that Jesus loves me."

During the whole exercises, Marion had been aware that her companion

was deeply affected. She had refrained from looking at him, but now,

as the school was breaking up, she asked,—

"Shall we stop and speak to him?"

"No, no! I must get home. I'm too ill to be here."

She had ordered the carriage to be back in an hour, and was glad

to see that it was at the door. They were seated in it and driving

off before the crowd came tumbling down the stairs.

Mr. Lambert sank back in his seat, looking so pale that his companion

was really alarmed. She said nothing, however, but fanned him

continually till they reached his own door. She herself alighted and

rang the bell for the valet to assist his master, who muttered

to himself,—

"Whatever he's been up to, he looks like death."

CHAPTER XI.

MANY BLESSINGS.

THERE could scarcely be a greater contrast in two characters

among Miss Howard's associates than Mr. Lambert and Esther Sims,

or Esther Cole, as she asked Hepsey to call her for the present.

Poor to the extent that, when she left the home in the stable loft,

she had not a penny in the world and not a garment fit to wear to her

new service, unlearned and ignorant in worldly wisdom, she yet seemed

to absorb into her heart as governing motives to her life such sweet

and restful views of God as her Father and Jesus as her Saviour

as caused her young mistress to exclaim, "Thou and hast hid these

things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes."

With a childlike frankness so peculiar to her, she confided to Miss

Howard her increasing trust that God would answer her prayers for her

husband's conversion.

"In that case you would return to him, I suppose." Marion wished

to test her feelings as a wife.

A pretty pink flush flew all over Esther's face as she lifted

her eyes wistfully to the lady's.

"God will take care of me," she said. "I am sure He will. It is

of him I'm thinking. Now that he is away from bad people and

can't get rum, it is such a nice time for him to become good. When he

comes out of prison, if God wants me to go back to him, He will let

me know it. Sometimes," she added, in a timid voice, "I think He

will, because I promised for better, for worse, you know."

"Would you live with him if he were to beat you and abuse you as he

did before?"

"Yes, ma'am, if I were sure God meant it so. I can never be

as miserable again as I was before."

"Why can't you?"

"Because I have a friend now who would be close by me always."

"You mean Jesus Christ."

"Yes, ma'am. Even if he did get—get out of his mind with drink, and

treat me unkindly, I would tell Jesus, and He would help me

to forgive. If I never answered back and always tried to have a smile

and the best home I could make for him, perhaps he might try

to be better. Oh, I should be too happy!"

She clasped her hands to her breast, and looked so like an innocent

child in her perfect trust that Marion shed tears of delight.

During the first week in September, Marion went to the Home for

the Sick, to see Mary Falkner, who, with the aid of a cane, was able

to walk the length of the ward.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she exclaimed. "The doctors say, with the

exception of a limp in my gait, I shall be as well able to walk

as any one. They are all so kind to me. Who knows but I shall be able

to do some church work in your parish?"

"If you are able we will give you enough to do," answered Marion,

blushing.

On her way out the superintendent met her and asked her to step

to the parlor for a moment. He took from his pocket a letter recently

received, and handed it to her with an arch smile. Though he did not

know, he suspected the truth of a rumor he had heard concerning her.

The letter read as follows:—

Dear Sir,—

In memory of God's goodness to my deceased sister and

to myself, while we were within the walls of the Home for the Sick,

and in gratitude for the faithful care to our bodies and our souls,

by pastor, chaplain, and nurses, I send you the enclosed check,

which I think you once told me was the sum necessary to found

a permanent bed in your blessed institution. That your labors may be

as useful in the future as they have been in the past is the sincere

prayer of a fellow-laborer in Christ's vineyard.

HAROLD ANGUS.

"The check was for five thousand dollars," added the gentleman.

"It was an unexpected thank-offering, and we are very grateful

for it."

Marion expressed her pleasure, adding that Mr. Angus had told her

how much he owed to the faithful teachings he received while

in the Home.

This seemed to our young friend to be a day to mark with a

white stone, it was so full of blessings. When she reached home

she found a letter from Mr. Lambert which overwhelmed her and

sent her to her knees to thank God for answering her humble prayers.

It was characteristic of himself in its brevity.

"Kind and faithful Friend,—

"The prodigal has returned. The Father

met and embraced him. He has put off his tattered garments. He has

a new robe on him. His voice rings with a new song. In the better

words of another, this is the language of his heart,—

"'I cannot love thee as I would,

Yet pardon me, O Highest Good!

My life and all I call mine own

I lay before Thy mercy throne.

And if a thousand lives were mine,

O sweetest Lord, they should be Thine!

And scanty would the offering be,

So richly Thou hast loved me.'"

A few days later Marion went to Grantbury in answer to a summons

from her uncle. The outside walls of the church were finished,

with the exception of the spire. The men were at work on the dizzy

height, and expected to finish it by the middle of September.

The frame to the new house was raised and nearly boarded in.

Mrs. Asbury said people were beginning to take quite an interest

in it. One lady asked her point-blank if the clergyman intended

to bring home a wife from England, to which she returned a decided

"No."

During her stay Marion made a hasty call at the thread and needle

store to see the Widow Falkner. Mary had kept her mother informed

of her condition, and also of the great kindness all the patients

received, but she was delighted to see Miss Howard and learn

particulars about her daughter.

Then Marion drove half a mile in another direction for a call

on Farmer Rand's wife, who was still an invalid.

Seldom had her appearance created such an excitement. It was evident

something pleasant had happened.

"Talk of an angel, etc.," said the farmer, with a grand flourish

of his hand. "Sit down, miss. You're as welcome as roses in June.

How are ye?"

"We've been thinking a sight about ye," added the gudewife. "We've

had a letter. Maybe ye know it."

"S-sh-sh, wife," making a sound like what he would make to quiet

his oxen; "wait a bit, I’ve something to say. Now, miss, did ye

ever hear about our church meetin'?"

"Yes, indeed, I heard all the items in detail."

"Wall, then, 't won't be breaking no Scripter rule if I do tell that

I was moved to draw a few hundreds out of the bank and gin 'em to the

Lord. 'T isn't that I'm a speakin' of. That 'ere's only the text

to my sarmon, you see. The good book says, The Lord loveth a cheerful

giver,' and I will say for myself and my good woman that the Lord

He helped us to give that 'ere money with as good a will as though

we were spendin' on 't to build a new bedroom out on our south side,

as we've been a plannin' to do for a score o' years. Speak for

yourself, Lucy. Am I stating your opinions correct?"

"Yes, I was very glad you did it."

"Well, then," said the farmer, laughing as he flourished his hands

again, "the first part o' my sermon is 'stablished, and I'll go on.

Wife, give me that 'ere Bible, will ye? Now I stan' to it that God

holds to His promises even when men aren't looking for Him to do it.

Here it is, He that watereth shall be watered himself'; and here's

another, The liberal soul shall be made fat.' Now look here.

Out there on the very edge of my farm there's a piece o' ground o'

no airthly value to me. There's nothin' but sorrel'll grow on 't.

I'd ha' given it to any friend for the askin'. Wall, one day in come

that prince of a man, 'Squire Asbury. I knew by the look o' his eye

he meant business. 'Mr. Rand,' says he, 'I ain't no hand

to circumvent' round matters; I go straight to the p'int.'"

"'Go ahead,' says I. 'I ain't no hand for circumventing, neither.'"

"'Mr. Rand,' says he, 'what will you take for that 'ere corner lot o'

yourn that runs out towards the railroad track?'"

"''Squire Asbury,' says I, 'if you're in want o' that 'ere lot you're

as welcome to it as the flowers in May. 'T ain't no vally to me

at all.'"

"'No, no,' says he, laughin'. 'I'm a bargaining for the railroad,

and they want to put up a freight depot there. The lot almost touches

the rails. Set your price.'"

"'Oho!' says I, 'if that's the talk I calkerlate they're able to pay

a little suthing. I'll agree to any price you'll name. Don't you say

so, wife?'"

"'Yes, I will,' Lucy answered up, loud and prompt."

"'Squire Asbury kind o' laughed and repeated it over again. 'You both

agree,' says he, 'to stick to the price I name, be it more or less?'"

"'Yes, we do.'"

"'Well, then, I want the lot just as it lies, sand and all, coming

down to a p'int near the railroad, and a runnin' back one hundred

feet to the rail fence put across where the land lies even, and I'll

give you five hundred dollars for it.'"

"'Good land, 'Squire' says I, ''t ain't wuth it.'"

"'It's wuth every dollar of five hundred to the road,' says he;

'if they have to go a mile farther either way, they'll have to give

six or eight. I'll have the deed drawn up ready for you and your wife

to sign.'"

"'Squire Asbury,' says I as soon as I could catch my breath,

'I believe the Lord sent you here. When I give that five hundred

to the Lord I never thought o' getting it back again, but you see

here 't is, dollar for dollar, and more, too, for the pleasure o'

giving my mite towards the Lord's new meeting-house was wuth the

whole sum. Sure as you live, Lucy and I, we give thanks to God

for lettin' of us have the privilege.'"

"'Yes, yes, I know that,' says he, and so he does. If ever a man

was blessed in his basket and store it's that same 'Squire Asbury.

His hand, as the Scripter says, 'is open to the wants o' the poor.'"

He ended with one grand flourish.

Marion laughed heartily as she said, "I wish you'd preach that sermon

to some of our rich men on Fifth Avenue who don't know the pleasure

of giving. It is as practical a sermon as I ever heard."

"Now, wife, speak up, if you've anything to say."

"Husband and I have had a letter," Mrs. Rand said, opening the large

family Bible and taking an envelope from between the leaves. "It has

made us real cheery coming so far, and it has good news in it, too.

The pastor is real friendly to think of us."

"The pastor," exclaimed Marion, in surprise. "Have you had a letter

from Mr. Angus?"

The farmer evidently understood that he had had his turn, and that

his wife now had the floor.

He did not speak, but he nodded his head and performed other

pantomime in such a remarkable manner that Marion was made aware

what news the letter contained before the wife gave it to her

to read.

Yes, there it was in plain black and white. He told this aged pair

that he was going to be married and settle down among them for life,

he hoped. He quoted the words of Solomon, "A prudent wife is from

the Lord," and he said, "I'm sure mine is a prudent one, a priceless

treasure. That she is from the hands of my Father in heaven I am

equally sure. You will agree with me when I tell you Miss Marion

Howard, your particular friend, has agreed to cast in her lot

with me."

Marion kept her eyes fastened on the letter long after she had

finished it. She did not like her good friends to see how much these

manly words had affected her. She folded the sheet carefully and

passed it back, saying, "I am glad he has told you."

"I guess we shall be able to hold on to him now," rejoined Mr. Rand,

trying to laugh. But as Marion rose to go his voice changed to the

tenderness of a father. He raised his hand over her head and

pronounced a blessing on her and on her chosen friend; then sat down

suddenly, and blew his nose like a trumpet to conceal how much he

was affected.

CHAPTER XII.

A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.

THESE were busy days with our young friend. In company with Hepsey

she went to her old home and spent a week in looking over bedding and

furniture preparatory to having it removed to Ingleside. Her father's

place was let on a long lease, and she was well satisfied with the

care taken of it.

Mr. Angus had written to beg her to consent that the wedding should

take place immediately on his return, but she replied that the house

would not be finished till some time later, and that it was necessary

for her to complete her arrangements for her mission and her protégés

among the poor before leaving New York.

Since the change in Mr. Lambert, the idea of giving the care

of certain families to him had floated through her mind, but she

feared he was too impulsive or would be too easily imposed upon if he

undertook mission work. Annie Leman had promised to do all in her

power, and had already proved both willingness and tact in the work.

On her return from the country, Marion found a note from Mr. Lambert

requesting to see her on business. She suspected at once it was

in relation to his will, about which he had already spoken to her.

She sent James with an answer saying she would call on him at nine

the next morning.

Later in the day she was pleasantly surprised by a call

from Mrs. Cheriton and Eugene. They had advertised for and obtained

a boarding-place in the country a few weeks before, but not being

altogether pleased with the class of boarders they met there,

had suddenly returned to the city the day before.

Mrs. Cheriton smilingly remarked that her mother seemed as pleased

as a child to be back in her old rooms in New York; that she had

taken her favorite seat near the window early in the morning, and had

spent an hour or more watching the passers-by; that it was

with difficulty they could persuade her to leave the window even

for her meals.

Geenie gained great praise for his conduct during the visit.

He amused himself with a book of pictures Hepsey brought him, and

did not once touch any article in the room without liberty from his

mother or Marion.

At a quarter to nine the next morning Mr. Lambert sent a carriage

for Miss Howard, and on her reaching his house waited upon her to his

library, a room adjoining his chamber. She had never seen this room

before, and went around examining the pictures hanging over the

well-filled bookcases.

He had evidently been writing. Papers covered his table, and his pen

was still wet. As he took a seat near her, the visitor was startled

at the marks of the agitation of mind through which he had recently

passed. His cheeks seemed sunken and a circle round his eyes

betokened want of sleep.

"I fear you are not strong enough for business yet," she remarked,

anxiously.

"I'm all right," he answered. "I've had letters which have

disappointed me—personal matters. By the way, I may tell you

about them some time. To-day I want to talk about other things.

"Miss Howard, I want to confess Christ. I want to do just the

very thing I once thought a humbug,—to join myself to God's people.

I want the help of a faithful pastor to keep my heart right, and I

want the counsel of fellow-Christians as to the best methods

of working for the Master."

Marion's eyes filled with happy tears. "I'm so glad, so glad!"

she murmured. "Will you allow me to bring Dr. M—, my pastor,

to see you?"

"No, child, I'm a poor old prodigal. I want to go among the poor and

do what I can there. You told me once about a mission chapel. That is

my place. It may be I can have courage to do something there, to help

men, who, like myself, have lived for years among the husks."

"Oh, how I wish you would go to our parish in the country! There is

a great work to do there, and you ought to be where your daughter

could look after you."

"That would be a great inducement, child. You are nearer to my heart

than any other. I have no ties of kin,—at least I can learn of

none. Another time I may tell you the nature of the disappointment

to which I referred. You will pity the poor, lonely man, I'm sure."

His tone was so sad that it deeply moved her, and taking his hand

she pressed her lips upon it.

"Don't do that, I can't bear it. I shall be unfit for the business

if I allow my feelings to have sway. I have been jotting down

a few items in connection with the disposal of my property. I have

more money than I know what to do with. If that interloper had not

stepped in, I would make you my heir, and you could scatter it round

as you please. As it is, I have set aside a few thousands to educate

our friend Neddy, and I want you to look after him if anything

happens to me.

"What is the name of that girl-wife you told me about, whose husband

is in prison? I want to give you a thousand for her own use. If she

goes back to that scoundrel it must be so tied up that he can't get

at it. Will you have the goodness to pass me that long paper,

ruled with red ink? That's the one."

In selecting this paper from the others, Marion had to move several

letters lying on top. As she did so her eyes fell on an open page,

with the name Madrid in full view. "Madrid! Does he have letters from

Madrid? That was Mrs. Douglass's native place."

Her heart almost stopped beating, as a sudden possibility flashed

like lightning through her mind. She glanced back at Mr. Lambert.

"Could he, oh, could he be the cruel, exacting man whose jealousy and

distrust had rendered the life of her friend so miserable? No!

Oh, no!" And yet the thought, once entertained, would not be

banished. "What if he is? How can I find out? How would he bear it?

What a happy future he might have! What shall I do? What can I say?"

Her habitual frankness came to her aid. She had mechanically given

him the paper and sank back in her chair, while he was so occupied

in glancing over the items that he had not noticed her wild stare

of astonishment.

"Mr. Lambert—" She stopped; her heart seemed to rise up in her

throat and choke her. "Mr. Lambert, did you ever live in Madrid?

I saw the address on an open letter. I do not ask from mere

curiosity."

"The most blissful and the most wretched days of my life were passed

in that city."

"Mr. Lambert, something has happened to me. I—I can't think

of business to-day. Will you excuse and trust me as though I were

your own daughter? I want to tell you about a dear friend,

the grandmother of the beautiful boy you have heard me speak about

with such rapture. I promised to bring him to see you some day.

That boy is a native of Madrid."

"What is the mother's name?"

"Cheriton, Mrs. Juliette Cheriton."

He shook his head thoughtfully. "I never heard the name." He laid

down the paper with a little vexed and disappointed air, adding,

"I haven't been in Madrid for more than eighteen years."

"It is Mrs. Cheriton's mother who is my special friend. She is one

of the loveliest, most accomplished ladies I know, and such

an earnest Christian, too."

"Is her name Cheriton?"

"Oh, no! Eugene's mother is her daughter. She calls herself

Douglass."

"Douglass!" Mr. Lambert started forward, then sank back and looked

as though he had been struck. Presently, with his hand on his heart,

he said in a choking voice,—

"Tell me all you know. Don't spare me. This suspense is killing me."

"I will tell you all, though I can only suspect the truth.

Mrs. Douglass, as my friend chooses to be called, told me this

was not her wedded name. Just before her daughter's birth, painful

family circumstances arose, which caused a separation between herself

and her husband. She has never seen him since."

"Did she confide these circumstances to you?" The voice seemed

to come from a tomb.

"Yes, she did, and it has been her life-long regret that she

could not explain them to the one most interested."

"You are an innocent child. Mrs. Douglass, as she calls herself,

was my wife. She has deceived you. I saw what I saw with my own eyes.

She even gave up the ring I presented her on our betrothal."

"Mr. Lambert, you must be calm. She does not deserve such bitter

scorn. You were deceived in one particular. You thought her an only

child. She had a brother, a wild, reckless man, who afterward paid

the penalty for his crimes. Mr Douglass forbade all mention of his

name, and frequently alluded to his daughter as his only child.

It was this wicked, daring fellow who suddenly appeared to my friend,

and almost drove her wild by demanding money or jewels from her.

She agreed to see him once, and give him all she could raise,

on condition he would never cross her path again. She did see him.

He seized her and held her forcibly while he wrested from her finger

the valuable ring you had given her. His cruelty nearly cost her

her life. She was carried to her bed, fell into convulsions, during

which her child was born. The resolve she had made to tell you

the truth at whatever cost, even her father's displeasure, it was

impossible for her to carry out. Before she was well enough

to understand what had passed, her husband, deceived and betrayed

by a servant, who with tears and groans confessed her guilt, was a

witness to the meeting between herself and her brother. He believed

her lost to him and to virtue. He himself carried her in his arms

to her couch, when, overcome by her brother's cruelty, she fainted,

but he never gave her an opportunity to explain the painful meeting.

If he had—"

She was interrupted by a terrible groan from Mr. Lambert. He threw

his arms up, then, with a gurgling sound in his throat, he sank back,

insensible.

Marion flew to the door and screamed for the valet. She loosened

the necktie, and began vigorously to chafe the cold hands, but it was

some minutes before he revived.

"The doctor cautioned him to avoid all excitement," said the servant,

with a reproachful glance at the visitor. "Ever since those foreign

letters came he's been terribly took down."

Marion was bending over him, with her hand on his forehead, when he

opened his eyes.

"Don't—leave—me," he gasped. Presently he spoke again. "Do you

think God will forgive me?" The tone was so piteous she found

it impossible to control her voice to answer. She bowed her head.

"Will you take a little hartshorn, sir?" asked the valet.

"Yes."

When it had been administered, he said, "Stay in the anteroom,

Miss Howard may need you.—Pray for me," he added the moment

they were alone.

"Yes, I will; but first I want to tell you that your wife,

if Mrs. Douglass is indeed your wife, has loved you all these years.

She blames herself that she did not insist that her father should

tell you of her brother Henreich. I do not think there has been a day

these last ten years that she has not prayed for your conversion."

His lip quivered like a grieved child, while great tears rolled down

his pale cheeks. In a voice scarcely more than a whisper, he said,—

"Do you think it possible that she will forgive me?"

"She has forgiven you already."

There was a long silence after this. Mr. Lambert's countenance showed

that a terrible struggle was going on in his breast. Marion could not

look upon it, and covered her face, her cry going up to God for help

and comfort to this poor man. At last, recalling his request,

she fell on her knees, and in a low tone offered up her petitions

in his behalf.

When she rose to her feet, she was startled at the awful pallor which

had settled on his features. She put her fingers on his pulse, and

to her terror found there was scarcely any beat.

"Go for the doctor as quickly as possible," she cried to the servant.

"No, send some one. Don't leave me! He is very low."

Fortunately the physician was near at hand and was soon at the

bedside. In a few words Marion related the wonderful story, that she

had just made the discovery that Mrs. Douglass was Mr. Lambert's

wife, which accounted for his alarming state of exhaustion.

For several hours it was doubtful whether Mr. Lambert would ever

speak again. The physician told Marion that his case was a very

critical one, but at length they were able to force down a tonic,

and soon after he sank into slumber.

The room was darkened, every sound hushed, and the faithful valet sat

alone to watch and wait by his master's bedside.

It was night when he awoke; the physician had been in and out several

times, and ordered a few spoonsful of nourishment as soon as

he awoke. This was given him and he tried to speak.

"Miss Howard."

"She is not here. She said she would be back early in the morning."

"I may not live till then. Take—a—pen—and—write. With my dying

breath I ask her to forgive me.—I leave to her—all—that I have

—in the—world,—with my dying—love and blessing. She, Miss—

Howard, will—know who—I mean. Tell her not to let our daughter

think too hard of her father. Fold—it and direct to Miss Howard."

Meanwhile Marion had returned home in such a state of excitement and

fatigue that the physician, who took her there, sent her at once

to bed, and ordered Hepsey to give her a powerful anodyne. When she

woke, Mr. Lambert's servant had been to say that he wanted to see her

as soon as she was able. Hepsey insisted that she should not go until

she had eaten a hearty breakfast.

"I think you ought to consider what Mr. Angus would say," she urged,

"and for his sake take a little care of your health."

"Hepsey, I feared last night that Mr. Lambert was dead, and, oh,

Hepsey, it was what I had been telling him that made him fall into

the swoon! You will not wonder that I was sick with fear when I tell

you about it."

"I shall tell Mr. Angus that you've had enough of excitement for one

life, and he'd better get you to the country as soon as he can."

CHAPTER XIII.

RECONCILIATION AND HAPPINESS.

THE carriage was already at the door, and Miss Howard drove hastily

to Mr. Lambert's residence. She was informed that he was stronger,

had taken more nourishment, and was again asleep. The valet came

from the chamber where the sick man had been carried and gave her

the sealed envelope; and with this in her hand she started

for Mrs. Douglass's boarding-house, scarcely daring to read

the words, lest she should unfit herself for the exciting scenes

she must expect. After a cursory glance at the page she thrust it

back into the envelope, and endeavored to form some plan by which

she might best convey to her invalid friend the wonderful discovery

she had made.

Early as it was, Mrs. Cheriton had taken her boy for a walk.

Mrs. Douglass sat reading by the window. She greeted Miss Howard

with a smile and then, noticing her flushed face, asked,—

"Are you well, dear?"

"Can you bear good news, Mrs. Douglass?"

"Good news seldom hurts any one."

"Have you ever thought that your husband might be living near you?"

"I know where he lives; I learned it by accident while in the country

and found it impossible to remain away."

"And that explains your sudden return and your watching so constantly

from the windows?" Marion's tone was full of wonder.

"I never told you his name. How did you find it out?"

Marion then related all that had passed, and ended with giving the

paper which the sick man had dictated when he thought himself dying.

Mrs. Douglass's countenance expressed the deepest feeling, but she

braced herself against giving way to her excitement.

"I have been praying earnestly that I might be prepared for this

discovery, should it take place," she said. "I will go with you and

assure him of my entire forgiveness. Juliette knows nothing of her

father's desertion, and she need not be made acquainted with the

discovery."

"Oh, Mrs. Douglass, I am sure he will never part with you again."

She shook her head, rose, and put on her bonnet and shawl.

Marion saw that, while she was making a great effort to appear calm,

her hands trembled so much that she could not tie the bonnet-strings.

Unobserved by the lady, she wrote with pencil on a piece of paper:—

Dear Mrs. Cheriton,—

I have taken your mother with me. Please remain

at home with Geenie till I call or send for you.

MARION.

This she left in plain sight on the table.

On their way little was spoken until they approached the door, when

Marion said,—

"I hope the doctor will be there. I dare not take you to

Mr. Lambert's room without his permission."

The servant who opened the door stared at the new-comer, and said

to Miss Howard,—

"Mr. Lambert is too ill, ma'am, to see visitors."

"Yes, I know. This lady is going with me to the parlor to see

the doctor."

She gave Mrs. Douglass her arm, and found from the manner the lady

leaned against her that she could scarcely support herself.

The valet came at once. "Mr. Lambert is awake," he said, "and has

been calling for you."

"I cannot leave this lady alone. Is the doctor here?"

"He's just going, miss. I hear him coming downstairs."

"Ask him to come here."

"Dr. Danforth, this is my friend, Mr. Lambert's wife. Can she

see him?"

"Go and tell him she is here. He is as impatient this morning as ever

old Mr. Regy was."

The doctor tried to smile, but looked anxious.

"I thought you would never come," said the sick man in a petulant

tone. "I might have died without ever asking her to forgive me."

"Would you like to see her now?"

"Would I?" He gave a scream which speedily brought the valet to his

side.

"Get me up! Bring my clothes! Where is she? Don't let her go!

I'll be ready in a minute."

The valet was thunderstruck, and looked at Miss Howard helplessly.

"Mr. Lambert," said Marion, in an authoritative tone, "if you don't

lie down and be calm I'll take Mrs. Lambert away again. There, that

is right!" as he assented like a penitent boy.

"You must be calm, for her sake. She is an invalid, and has been

for years."

"Will you explain to her why I can't go to her? It's my place.

Are you sure she'll forgive me?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Now," said Marion, addressing the valet, who stood in open-mouthed

wonder, "you may go to the parlor and ask the doctor to assist

Mrs. Lambert up the stairs."

The sick man quickly covered his face, and she heard him whispering

a prayer for help. "For his sake and for your own, be as calm

as possible," said Dr. Ross, leaving the lady at the door and

motioning the servant to retire.

Marion only waited to see the long-deserted wife glide quickly to the

bedside, and then she, too, left them alone. The meeting was

too sacred for any eye but the omnipresent One to witness.

Marion Howard was blessed with an excellent constitution, but of late

her keen sympathy with her friends, her frequent visits to her

mission scholars, in connection with the arrangements she was making

to leave, in addition to her own numerous cares, the purchase of her

trousseau, etc., had taxed her strength to an unusual degree.

Now that the wife was restored to her husband, Dr. Danforth insisted

that she should go home and take some rest.

"I will, as soon as I have brought Mrs. Cheriton and her boy."

She had scarcely finished her sentence before a sudden attack

of dizziness made her clutch at a chair for support.

"You must return, and at once," he said. "I will do all that is

necessary. I prophesy that this discovery will be the most effectual

remedy for Mr. Lambert."

Marion found it most prudent to yield, and hastily leaving word

that Mrs. Cheriton was to be sent for, she left the doctor to make

all needed explanation for her sudden departure. The next morning,

in consequence of a telegram from Dr. Ross, Mrs. Asbury made her

appearance, and coolly remarked that she had come to stay till her

niece was able to return with her.

On a bright October morning let us take a peep at Mr. Lambert and

his now united family. They have left the grand house in the city

to spend the autumn months on his farm in the country. To see our

friend now we should not imagine him to have been so recently one of

Dr. Danforth's sickest patients. His heart and his conscience

at rest, his countenance grows daily more serene, while he declares

he feels as young and fresh as he ever did. His wife, Mrs. Douglass

no more, moves quietly about, keeping within sight of the husband

from whom she has been so long separated. She is making a study

of his character eccentricities and all, and has already gained such

an influence over him that his eye turns naturally toward her

for approval. Many times in a day he asks for and receives a full

assurance of her entire forgiveness. Many hours are passed

in recounting the events which have occurred since they last met,

the keen disappointment he experienced when at last, unable longer

to endure the suspense, he wrote a friend in Madrid for news of her,

and learned that it was supposed she was deceased, and had been

for many years.

The ring once wrested from her finger by her unnatural brother

was restored to its old place, it having been taken from the prisoner

just before his execution. As they looked at it and called to mind

all the wonderful providences which after so many years had brought

them together, their hearts were filled with new gratitude to their

Heavenly Father, who had out of these afflictions led them to a

knowledge of Himself.

Toward his beautiful daughter, Juliette Cheriton, Mr. Lambert

exhibited a ludicrous respect, mingled with an unbounded admiration.

He found it extremely difficult to convince himself that she

in reality was his child. He watched her stealthily, blushing like a

boy when caught doing so. On the subject of her husband he was

at first reticent. It was, however, the occasion of reviving his old

habit of grumbling when he heard a wish expressed that Mr. Cheriton

would return, that there might be a complete union of the family.

He rushed about the room growling,—

"He'd better not, the villain; I'd soon settle him. Let him

stay away! I'll let him understand I don't intend to leave her

a penny."

In the mean time he lavished every indulgence upon her. She had

a pony carriage for her exclusive use. Her purse was kept filled

to overflowing. If it had been possible to spoil her he would have

done it. How often in these days her mother thanked God that her

daughter had not been brought into such temptations to worldliness

until she had learned to place her affections on objects higher and

more enduring.

For his grandson Mr. Lambert felt such intense pride that he needed

constant checks in order that the boy need not take advantage of the

foolish fondness bestowed on him. If Mr. Lambert had never had

a master before, he had one now, and as we enter the house this

bright autumnal morning, a sight meets us which is proof of the fact.

A wide hall runs directly through the old-fashioned dwelling, and

racing back and forth through this hall is our old friend, dressed as

his double, Mr. Regy, his long white hair floating behind him, as he

obeys the whip of his young driver, and canters, trots, or walks

in obedience to the orders of his grandson.

"Get up, horse; go faster, grandpa!"

Geenie in his voyage of discovery has resurrected many old and once

familiar objects, and among them Mr. Regy's dress.

"What's this? Who wears this?" he shouts, holding up the wig and

beard to view.

Being obliged to confess that he has sometimes worn these singular

articles, the boy demands that they be at once used by his horse;

and the owner, never dreaming that it was possible to refuse, donned

them, and with a pair of worsted reins round his body proceeded

to jingle the bells, running and cantering, to the perfect delight

of the young driver.

Well for all concerned it was that Mrs. Cheriton had learned from sad

experience that if she wished her son to love and respect her

she must enforce obedience to her own commands and to the commands

of God. Mr. Lambert, though he often pleaded that the child's wishes,

however unreasonable, might be gratified, and was once or twice

detected in comforting him with confectionery under his

disappointments, yet acknowledged that his daughter's discipline

was necessary and must be maintained.

A most ludicrous scene had once taken place between Eugene and his

grandfather, which those who saw it never forgot.

The boy had disobeyed, and his mother placed him in a room by himself

to reflect upon his fault, for which he was to be punished. He was

sitting soberly in the chair where she had placed him, when, hearing

a sound from the adjoining room, he went in and found his grandfather

weeping.

"What are you crying for, grandpa?" he asked, quickly.

"I don't want your mother to whip you, but she must; yes, it's right

for her to do it."

"Don't cry, grandpa; I don't mind. She doesn't hurt me any; she only

tickles me a little. 'T isn't nice for a big man like you to cry."

"Eugene, come here," called his mother, taking his hand to lead him

back to his chair. She repeated what she had heard to her mother,

saying,—

"I had as much as I could do to keep from showing my amusement.

Father looking so penitent, and Eugene comforting him."

CHAPTER XIV.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

IT is Christmas day. The chimes in the spire of the new church

are playing sweet melodies; and the Sunday-school children,

whose gift the chimes have been, are gathering together

from all quarters of the town to practise with their teachers

the Christmas carols they are to sing.

This is the first service in the beautiful new church. It is

to be publicly dedicated to the worship of God on the next Sabbath,

but for weeks the workmen have put forth all their energies

to have it ready for a service on Christmas day. The choir have been

practising, too; and it is rumored new organist is expected, although

his engagement does not commence till the first of January.

The sleigh-bells jingle merrily, for the ground is covered with snow.

Even now, an hour before service, several stalls in the neat row

of horse-sheds are occupied. Now here comes Farmer Rand, smiling and

nodding, and shouting his Christmas salutations to young and old,

as he drives his old horse up the ascent, through the gate close to

the nicely shovelled flagged walk to the front. The good farmer has a

precious load to-day, and he is very careful of it. Yes, that is

Lucy, his old woman, so wrapped up in shawls and buffalo-robes—

with a hot brick in her great yellow muff, and another at her feet,

which just now are cased in a pair of her husband's blue socks—

that she finds it almost impossible to alight from the sleigh.

For weeks the good woman has been nursing her strength for this great

and joyful occasion. For days she and her man have watched the signs

of the weather, have even prayed that, if it was God's will, it might

be so propitious as to make it safe for her to go up to the house

of the Lord and join with His people in their anthems of praise

to the new-born King.

Fortunately the sexton has recognized the farmer, and runs quickly

to offer his services it helping her to the porch. One and another

come forward to greet her and express their pleasure at seeing her

here. The children, even, gather round her pew and say,—

"Merry Christmas, Miss Rand! How do you like the new church?"

Yes, on this natal day of the world's Redeemer every face looks

joyful, every voice responds heartily to the kind wishes of his

neighbor. It is evident that a great wave of love and good-will

is flowing through all their hearts as they suddenly pause and listen

to the children's joyous tones chanting the strains the angels sang,

"Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth, good-will to men."

The service is to commence at eleven. The hand on the new and elegant

clock, a gift from the Pastor, points to five minutes before eleven;

the children have finished their practising and gone quietly

to their seats at one end of the organ loft. The slips are all full.

There is a hush. There comes the pastor and his bride, not a

stranger, but known and loved by all. Pausing for an instant to show

her into the pew, the first one selected in the house, he passes on

up the aisle into the study at the side of the pulpit. Ethel, the

only other occupant of the slip, causes a smile by her obsequious

attentions to the bride. She takes a hymn-book from the rack, and,

though unable to read a word, opens it and passes it, gets as near

Marion as possible, and finally, with a burst of affection,

seizes her hand.

And Marion, her beaming face radiant with happiness, stands up

with the congregation, while the choir sing the famous old fugue,—

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,

All seated on the ground,

The angel of the Lord came down,

And glory shone around."

Recalling all the goodness of the Lord to her during the last year,

the answers to her prayers, the many friends, who, one year ago,

were without Christ, now with Him, the happiness to which she

may look forward with the chosen companion of her life, her heart

swells with gratitude to the good Father who has directed her path

in such mercy, and to the dear Saviour whose advent they are

so joyously celebrating. She thanks God, and takes courage to go

on laboring to bring those about her to a saving knowledge

of His love.

Her husband, glancing at her from the pulpit, sees that her eyes

are filled with tears, and he, too, thanks God, as he says

to himself, "They are happy tears."

As long as we are the inhabitants of this earth, we must expect

occasional clouds with our sunshine. Disappointments are the lot

of mankind, and certainly neither Mr. Angus nor Miss Howard expected

to be exempt from them. The plan from the first had been to have

the wedding the week before Christmas, and a reception or

housewarming at Ingleside the following Monday. But, from one cause

and another, the new house was not finished, and this plan had to

be postponed.

It was Marion's preference to defer the wedding till such time as

the house was considered fit for occupation. Such a pressure was,

however, brought to bear on her, that she yielded to the wishes

of her friend. He brought so many arguments to prove that the plan

he now proposed was even better than the original one, that the

few weeks before entering on the duties of housekeeping would give

her just the leisure necessary for the formation of some of their

new plans, etc., that, with a hearty laugh, she replied,—

"I see that you intend to have your way, and as I believe that God

intended the husband to be the head of the family, I suppose I may

as well begin my obedience now. So on the week before Christmas

the wedding shall be."

I am very sure if my reader had not seen Mr. Angus since I first

introduced him he would not recognize him now. Then he was bowed down

with grief, not only for himself, but for one whom he had

every reason to suppose was cherishing as toward her brother

such anger in her heart as would cut her off from Divine forgiveness.

He was, or felt himself to be, alone in the world. He had no right

to form a tie which would make another the sharer of such a burden

as his. To be sure, he had brooded over that one scene in his past

life until he had become morbid, and perhaps had not relief come

to him he might have become unfit to preach the gospel of glad

tidings to his fellow-men. When he walked, his eyes were cast down

to the ground, while sighs were much more frequent with him

than smiles.

Now how different. He walked erect, with elastic tread, his eyes met

yours with a frank smile. One could scarcely be with him

five minutes without being drawn to him by a certain magnetism.

You felt that his heart was at rest, and more, you could not fail

to be sure that he was grateful for God's goodness, that he

was literally obeying the Divine injunction, "Rejoice in the Lord

alway, and again, I say, rejoice."

Mr. and Mrs. Asbury cordially extended an invitation to the young

couple to remain with them till spring. The gentleman even urged

the necessity of having his niece close at hand until certain

building plans, etc., were complete. But this needs explanation.

It was not probable that such grateful friends as Mr. and Mrs.

Lambert would allow so grand an occasion as Miss Howard's marriage

to take place without some act expressive of their deep affection and

respect. Now that Mr. Lambert had a wife and daughter with whom

he could consult, he spent much time in the discussion of what

would be the most acceptable wedding present. Once, hearing the word

"jewelry" from his daughter, he shouted,—

"Jewelry! Would she like diamonds? I'll buy up a case of them."

"I said I was sure she would not care for jewelry."

"What shall it be, then? Not that anything we can do will ever prove

to her our sense of her goodness and faithfulness to us; but it

must be something to show her that I value my family, owe to her

my finding them."

One day, before she left the city, Marion accepted an urgent

invitation to pass a day at the country home of her friends.

She also was requested to bring Esther and Neddy Carter with her.

During the day, the young lady, wholly unsuspicious of the object

of the visit, frankly narrated her own and Mr. Angus's plans

for the good of the town. Among other things, she said that there

was no library for free circulation, adding, "One of my

most-cherished plans is to build a neat and attractive house,

with two large rooms, one for a library of well-selected books,

the other a reading-room for both secular and religious papers,

and also some of the best magazines. But we can't do everything

in one year."

Mrs. Lambert had suggested to her impulsive husband that it would be

more delicate not to allude to the subject of a wedding gift,

but here, he thought, is just the way to please her. He rushed from

the room, motioning his wife to follow, and after sundry antics,

such as would have better befitted Geenie's years, he drew a blank

check, and with his fingers on his lips, held it up before his

astonished companion.

"It's for the library," he said, putting his lips close to her ear.

She nodded approval with a cordial smile, but pointed to the blank

space.

"Let her fill it up. Will ten thousand do? It must be nothing mean."

"Suppose we wait a little and try to ascertain the probable cost."

"No, I can't wait! I want it off my mind. If you don't want to see

old Mr. Regy," with a comical grin, "you'll help me now."

She put her hand lovingly on his shoulder, which never failed to calm

his impatience, and asked softly, "Why not, then, let her fill it up,

as you suggested?"

"So I will!" He held the check toward her and motioned her to give

it.

"No, my dear, generous husband, that pleasure belongs to you; I can

see just how her eyes will sparkle and those pretty dimples begin

to play."

He flatly refused. "No," he said, laughing, "if I were to attempt it

I should be old Regy again in a minute."

She sat down at his desk and wrote,—

Dear Friend,—

We have tried in vain to think of a gift for your

approaching marriage which will in any measure suitably express

to you our appreciation of your invaluable friendship.

Your remark just now in regard to a library and reading-room

has suggested the idea of giving to you funds sufficient for that

worthy object and letting you use them as you think proper.

JULIETTE D. LAMBERT.

M. R. LAMBERT.

She gave it to her husband to read and sign, enclosed the blank

check, and carried it into the next room and gave it to Miss Howard.

With what astonishment and delight the young lady read it,

the embraces and thanks which followed, I must leave my reader

to imagine. In the midst of the excitement which followed,

Mr. Lambert, who had chosen to remain behind, raced from one end

of the room to the other, where he was found by Eugene holding on

to his sides and making the most strenuous endeavors to restrain

his laughter.

In consequence of this generous gift, a lot of land was purchased,

not far from the public school, and the town at a public meeting,

called for the purpose, added to the library lot a large field

formerly used for pasturage. This was to be fitted up for all sorts

of games and athletic sports.

Mr. Lambert and his family went to Grantbury, and insisted that the

library building be two stories, the upper story to be finished off

into a hall for concerts, school exhibitions, etc. The eccentric old

gentleman was very angry when it was proposed to name this "Lambert

Hall," in token of gratitude to the giver.

"I've nothing to do with it," he insisted. "Put it Howard Hall or

Angus Hall, if you please. It's nothing to me, any way."

"Except that your name stands at the bottom of the check for the

cost," replied Marion, with an arch glance in his face.

"Things have come to a pretty pass—wedding present—chose that

rather than diamonds."

He was growling away in the genuine old style, when Geenie made them

all laugh heartily by calling out,—

"Grandma, did you bring Mr. Regy's wig? He has come back again."

CHAPTER XV.

OUR INGLESIDE.

ESTHER COLE had received two letters, or rather notes, from her

husband since the one she wrote him; but now months had passed

without a word in answer to her regular weekly letter. Mr. Angus was

greatly interested in the young wife who was so patiently enduring

her trials, and insisted that she ought to be allowed to follow

the dictates of her own conscience in regard to her connection with

her husband.

Day after day Esther looked for a letter, but looked in vain.

At length, pitying her too evident disappointment, Mr. Angus wrote

to the chaplain of the prison, making inquiries in regard to the man.

The letter, about which he had said nothing, was answered

immediately, and contained a slip cut from an Auburn paper.

Joseph Cole, with three of the worst prisoners, had escaped

from their confinement early one dark night. They had nearly killed

a watchman who ran to give notice, and had so far escaped justice.

The chaplain added that the criminals had been subsequently traced

to New Orleans, where a gang of roughs had been seized for arson and

murder. On the trial it was proved that the younger and apparently

the most hardened had a number of aliases, but that his real name

was Joseph Cole.

"My poor, trusting Esther!" exclaimed Marion to her husband, "this

will end your faith in your husband's reformation. This will settle

the question of your return to him."

But greatly to her surprise, and to the surprise of all Esther's

friends, though she mourned so deeply over Joseph's sins that her

cheeks grew colorless and her eyes looked into yours more wistfully

than ever, she yet held fast to her belief that God had power

to touch the hardest heart, and that in answer to her importunate

prayers He would, in His own good time, lead him to penitence and

a godly life.

"Whether he ever comes back to me or not is of little consequence,

ma'am," she said, as Marion was trying to comfort her. "I don't think

I shall live many years, but, oh, I do long for him to know how God

can comfort people! What would I do now, ma'am, if I were without

Christ, as I once was? If poor Joe only had Christ, he would be

happier than he ever was in his life, even though he is in his cell."

The last was said with a piteous sob, which went to the listener's

heart far more than the loudest wails.

And here we must leave our humble friend. We know that God did fill

her heart with such thoughts of Himself, of His pitying tenderness

toward all His creatures, that she was comforted under the bitterest

sorrow a Christian can be called to endure,—the unworthiness

of those we love. We leave her to the gracious sympathizing Saviour.

Glancing forward a few years, I am sure the reader will be pleased

to learn that Neddy Carter is fulfilling the promise of his

childhood. Meeting him in the street, one would never imagine that he

is indebted to artificial supports for his ability to go from place

to place, while his clear, brown eyes, looking you so straight in the

face, his open brow, and abundant, wavy locks, interest the most

casual observer.

If he were asked, "Who is the happiest youth in this great city?"

he would, without hesitation, answer,—

"It would be hard to find a happier boy than I am since my mother

goes with me regularly to church."

He is and will be for years to come a protégé of Mr. Lambert, who has

given over a sum of money to proper guardians for the purpose

of educating him.

The library building is finished, the shelves are lined with books

selected by the pastor, who is the chairman of the library

association, and a company of ladies and gentlemen appointed for the

purpose. The hall above, forty feet by sixty, is fitted up with

a curtain, foot-lights, etc., but can never be used except with the

consent of Mrs. Marion Howard Angus. After many discussions, the name

"Howard Hall" is conspicuous over the desk, but our old friend Marion

is eager to assure every one who points to it that it is a memorial,

not to herself, but to her father.

A very pleasant circumstance in connection with the library is that

Mary Falkner, now confirmed in health and activity, was unanimously

chosen librarian, with a salary large enough to support herself and

her mother.

One more scene, and I have done.

Accompany me, dear reader, up this smoothly gravelled walk to the

elegant mansion at the summit of Church Hill. Notice as you pass

that luxurious vine winding itself so lovingly around the pillars.

The slip from which it has grown was brought by Mr. Angus from the

old Ingleside homestead.

Although it is June, the mornings are cool, and as we push open

a French window and step in from the wide, uncovered piazza, we see

an open fireplace, with a few embers smouldering away on the high

brass and irons. There is an air of refinement and cosey, homelike

comfort about the room that we would like to describe, but something

of still greater interest attracts us.

Sitting on a low chair near the fire is a young girl, whom we soon

recognize as the little Ethel we loved so dearly. As we have seen her

so many times, she is still hovering over a cradle, but this time

the occupant is a living, breathing, cooing, jumping, heart-winning

baby.

At this moment the little one is sleeping. Ethel gazes lovingly

at the fair countenance, the rosy lips moving in pleasant

recollection of the sweets it has tasted, the long, curly lashes

resting on the plump cheek, and acknowledges to herself

that live babies are a great improvement on dolls.

Now voices are heard in the hall. Just as a lady and gentleman enter,

a carryall drives to the door. The gentleman has on his arm sundry

wraps, an afghan, a tiny cap being daintily held on his outstretched

fingers. There is a new expression on his features, and we can

scarcely believe that this tall athlete, this noble-looking man,

with a smile on his lips, which looks as though it belonged there,

is the same gentleman whom we first knew as Harold Angus.

But how shall I describe our Marion? The eyes are as bright,

the dimples still in view, but the whole face is flooded

with a new light. It is the mother love.

She takes little Stella from the cradle, uttering those soothing

sounds which even the youngest babies so well understand, and

dresses her for the ride, Ethel, meanwhile, looking on

in wondering admiration.

They are going to the station to meet their dear friends, Dr. and

Mrs. B-, from the Home for the Sick, and when they have driven

around the town, intend to bring them home for a quiet Sunday.

And this is our Ingleside.