ALL'S FOR THE BEST. 

BY

T. S. ARTHUR. 

PHILADELPHIA:

1869. 

CONTENTS. 

 I. FAITH AND PATIENCE. II. IS HE A CHRISTIAN? III. "RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. " IV. NOT AS A CHILD. V. ANGELS IN THE HEART. VI. CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED. VII. GOOD GROUND. VIII. GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH. IX. WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE? X. THE NURSERY MAID. XI. MY FATHER. XII. THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 

ALL'S FOR THE BEST. 

I. 

FAITH AND PATIENCE. 

"_I HAVE_ no faith in anything, " said a poor doubter, who had trustedin human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored to walk bythe lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by the light ofdivine truth, and so lost his way in the world. He was fifty years old!What a sad confession for a man thus far on the journey of life. "Nofaith in anything. "

"You have faith in God, Mr. Fanshaw, " replied the gentleman to whom theremark was made. 

"In God? I don't know him. " And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in abewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. "People talka great deal about God, and their knowledge of him, " he added, but notirreverently. "I think there is often more of pious cant in all thisthan of living experience. You speak about faith in God. What is theground of your faith?"

"We have internal sight, as well as external sight. "

There was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face. 

"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes. "

"How?"

"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with theeyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his bodily eyes. "

"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins, " said Mr. Fanshaw, hiscountenance brightening a little. 

"In part, " was replied. "That he can see the building in his mind, establishes the fact of internal sight. "

"Admitted; and what then?"

"Admitted, and we pass into a new world--the world of spirit. "

Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly. 

"I don't believe in spirits, " he answered. 

"You believe in your own spirit. "

"I don't know that I have any spirit. "

"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body, " said Mr. Wilkins. 

"I can't say as to that. "

"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?"

"Yes. "

"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region ofsimple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul. "

"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't wishto cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground of yourfaith in God. "

"Convictions, " answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man. Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are likeimages on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. Thefirst are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; thelatter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily experienceand careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith in God;--it isan inwrought conviction. First I had the child's sweet faith transfusedinto my soul with a mother's love, and unshadowed by a single doubt. Then, on growing older, as I read the Bible, which I believe to beGod's word, I saw that its precepts were divine, and so the child'sfaith was succeeded by rational sight. Afterwards, as I floated offinto the world, and met with storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; withbaffling winds and adverse currents; with perils and disappointments, faith wavered sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark andthreatening, my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the stormpassed, and the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed, with a freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost. I have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from beingengulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them over, weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took theirplace--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for myloss, would not have been ventured. 

"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence--always proving the divineannouncement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered. ' Is there notground for faith here? If the word of God stand in agreement withreason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my convictions areclear, to disbelieve is impossible. "

"We started differently, " replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully. "Thatsweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was never mine. "

"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason andexperience, " said Mr. Wilkins. 

"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope inthe future. All before me is dark. "

"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read yourexperiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall uponyour way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith inanything. You spoke without due reflection. "

"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In whatcan I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be inruins--burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned mymoney to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in myneed. The bank in which I hold stock may break--the ship in which Ihave an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure ofnothing. "

"Not even of the love of your child?"

A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughtertwelve years old. 

"Dear Alice!" he murmured, in a softer voice. "Yes, I am sure of that. There is no room for doubt. She loves me. "

"One thing in which to have faith, " said Mr. Wilkins. "Not in a housewhich cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank, which mayfail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea--but in love! Areyou afraid to have that love tried? If you were sick or in misfortune, would it grow dim, or perish? Nay, would it not be intensified?

"I think, Mr. Fanshaw, " continued his friend, "that you have not testedyour faith by higher and better things--by things real and substantial. "

"What is more real than a house, or a ship, or a bill of exchange?"asked Mr. Fanshaw. 

"Imperishable love--incorruptible integrity--unflinching honor, " wasreplied. 

"Do these exist?" Mr. Fanshaw looked incredulous. 

"We know that they exist. You know that they exist. History, observation, experience, reason, all come to the proof. We doubt but inthe face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things thanwealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not serenestand happiest whose life rests on these as a house upon its foundations?You cannot shake such a man. You cannot throw him down. Wealth may go, and friends drop away like withering autumn leaves, but he stands fast, with the light of heaven upon his brow. He has faith in virtue--he hastrust in God--he knows that all will come out right in the end, andthat he will be a wiser and better man for the trial that tested hisprinciples--for the storms that toughened, but did not break the fibresof his soul. "

"You lift me into a new region of thought, " said Mr. Fanshaw, "A dimlight is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation notperceived before. "

"Will you call with me on an old friend?" asked Mr. Wilkins. 

"Who?"

"A poor man. Once rich. "

"He might feel my visit as an intrusion. "

"No. "

"What reduced him to poverty?"

"A friend, in whom he put unlimited faith, deceived and ruined him. "

"Ah!"

"And he has never been able to recover himself. "

"What is his state of mind?"

"You shall judge for yourself. "

In poor lodgings they found a man far past the prime of life. He was infeeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go out andattend to business. His wife was dead, and his children absent. Of allthis Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His surprise was real, whenhe saw, instead of a sad-looking, disappointed and suffering person, acheerful old man, whose face warmed up on their entrance, as ifsunshine were melting over it. Conversation turned in the direction Mr. Wilkins desired it to take, and the question soon came, naturally, fromMr. Fanshaw--

"And pray, sir, how were you sustained amid these losses, and trials, and sorrows?"

"Through faith and patience, " was the smiling answer. "Faith in God andthe right, and patience to wait. "

"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who robbedyou of an estate holds and enjoys it still; while you are in poverty. He is eating your children's bread. "

"Do you envy his enjoyment?" asked the old man. 

Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and answered with an emphasis--"No!"

"I am happier than he is, " said the old man. "And as for his eating mychildren's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but theirs issweet. " He reached for a letter that lay on a table near him, andopening it, said--"This is from my son in the West. He writes:--'DearFather--All is going well with me. I enclose you fifty dollars. In amonth I am to be married, and it is all arranged that dear Alice and Ishall go East just to see you, and take you back home with us. How niceand comfortable we will make you! And you shall never leave us!'"

The old man's voice broke down on the last sentence, and his eyesfilled with tears. But he soon recovered himself, saying--

"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such dangerthat through fear of his being led astray, I was often in greatdistress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment; and yousee the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I not richer insuch love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his love, I possesseda million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it would all come outright. I had faith, and I tried to be patient. It is coming out right. "

"But the wrong that has been done, " said Mr. Fanshaw. "The injusticethat exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful enjoymentof your goods, while you are in want. "

"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He neverdwells in security; but is always armed, and on the watch. As for me, it has so turned out that I have never lacked for food and raiment. "

"Still, there is the abstract wrong, the evil triumphing over thegood, " said Mr. Fanshaw. 

"How do you reconcile that with your faith in Providence?"

"What I see clearly, as to myself, " was replied, "fully justifies theways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune? Clearlythe gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came to me inthe guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my faith inhim. I waited patiently until he revealed himself in tender mercy;until the hand to which I clung in the dark valley led me up to thesunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the deepsatisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed me, Ileave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He will notfind, in ill-gotten gain, a blessing. It will not make his bed soft;nor his food sweet to the taste. A just and righteous God will troublehis peace, and make another's possessions the burden of his life. "

"But that will not benefit you, " said Mr. Fanshaw. "His suffering willnot make good your loss. "

"My loss is made good already. I have no complaint against Providence. My compensation is a hundredfold. For dross I have gold. I and mineneeded the discipline of misfortune, and it came through the perfidy ofa friend. That false friend, selfish and grasping--seeing in money thegreatest good--was permitted to consummate his evil design. That hisevil will punish him, I am sure; and in the pain of his punishment, hemay be led to reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, itwill tear his vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon asecond theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will beturned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is, thatthe discipline may lead to repentance and a better life. "

"Your faith and patience, " said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old man'shand in parting, "rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you for havingopened to my mind a new region of thought--for having made some thingsclear that have always been dark. I am sure that our meeting to-day isnot a simple accident. I have been led here, and for a good purpose. "

As Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Wilkins left the poor man's lodgings, the formersaid--

"I know the false wretch who ruined your friend. "

"Ah!"

"Yes. And he is a miserable man. The fox is indeed tearing his vitals. I understand his case now. He must make restitution. I know how toapproach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not sufferwrong to the end. "

"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?" asked MrWilkins. "Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and disaster, the hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever out of evileduces good, ever through loss in some lower degree of life brings gainto a higher degree? Consider how, in an unpremeditated way, you arebrought into contact with a stranger, and how his life and experiencetouching yours, give out a spark that lights a candle in your soul toillumine chambers where scarcely a ray had shone before; and this notalone for your benefit. It seems as if you were to be made aninstrument of good not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If youcan effect restitution in any degree, the benefit will be mutual. "

"I can and I will effect it, " replied Mr. Fanshaw. And he did!

II. 

IS HE A CHRISTIAN?

"_IS_ he a Christian?"

The question reached my ear as I sat conversing with a friend, and Ipaused in the sentence I was uttering, to note the answer. 

"Oh, yes; he is a Christian, " was replied. 

"I am rejoiced to hear you say so. I was not aware of it before, " saidthe other. 

"Yes; he has passed from death unto life. Last week, in the joy of hisnew birth, he united himself to the church, and is now in fellowshipwith the saints. "

"What a blessed change!"

"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the greatcompany of those who have washed their robes, and made them white inthe blood of the Lamb. There is joy in heaven on his account. "

"Of whom are they speaking?" I asked, turning to my friend. 

"Of Fletcher Gray, I believe, " was replied. 

"Few men stood more in need of Christian graces, " said I. "If he is, indeed, numbered with the saints, there is cause for rejoicing. "

"By their fruits ye shall know them, " responded my friend. "I willbelieve his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit ingood living. If he have truly passed from death unto life, as they say, he will work the works of righteousness. A sweet fountain will not sendforth bitter waters. "

My friend but expressed my own sentiments in this, and all like cases. I have learned to put small trust in "profession;" to look past theSunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate religiousquality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must be genuinelove of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God; for neighborlylove is the ground in which that higher and purer love takes root. Itis all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal thing. Love is an activeprinciple, and, according to its quality, works. If the love beheavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to the neighbor; but, ifinfernal, in acts of selfishness that disregard the neighbor. 

"I will observe this Mr. Gray, " said I, as I walked homeward from thecompany, "and see whether the report touching him be true. If he is, indeed, a 'Christian, ' as they affirm, the Christian graces of meeknessand charity will blossom in his life, and make all the air around himfragrant. "

Opportunity soon came. Fletcher Gray was a store-keeper, and his lifein the world was, consequently, open to the observation of all men. Hewas likewise a husband and a father. His relations were, therefore, ofa character to give, daily, a test of his true quality. 

It was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray undercircumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of amerchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the priceof certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched himnarrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of hiscountenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober, almost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even toplaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities graduallydisappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood thereunchanged--unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character. Therewas nothing of the "yea, yea, " and "nay, nay, " spirit in hisbargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage intrade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five percent. Over cost was asked for a certain article, he still endeavored toprocure it at a lower figure than was named by the seller, and finallycrowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as he did, that themerchant had a large stock on hand, and could not well afford to holdit over. 

"He's a sharper!" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray leftthe store. 

"He's a Christian, they say, " was my quiet remark. 

"A Christian!"

"Yes; don't you know that he has become religious, and joined thechurch?"

"You're joking!"

"Not a word of it. Didn't you observe his subdued, meek aspect, when hecame in?"

"Why, yes; now that you refer to it, I do remember a certainpeculiarity about him. Become pious! Joined the church! Well, I'msorry!"

"For what?"

"Sorry for the injury he will do to a good cause. The religion thatmakes a man a better husband, father, man of business, lawyer, doctor, or preacher, I reverence, for it is genuine, as the lives of those whoaccept it do testify. But your hypocritical pretenders I scorn andexecrate. "

"It is, perhaps, almost too strong language, this, as applied to Mr. Gray, " said I. 

"What is a hypocrite?" asked the merchant. 

"A man who puts on the semblance of Christian virtues which he does notpossess. "

"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A trueChristian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in theprice of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order that hemight secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even the live andlet live principle in that. No--no, sir. If he has joined the church, my word for it, there is a black sheep in the fold; or, I might say, without abuse of language, a wolf therein disguised in sheep'sclothing. "

"Give the man time, " said I. "Old habits of life are strong, you know. In a little while, I trust that he will see clearer, and regulate hislife from perceptions of higher truths. "

"I thought his heart was changed, " answered the merchant, with someirony in his tones. "That he had been made a new creature. "

I did not care to discuss that point with him, and so merely answered, "The beginnings of spiritual life are as the beginnings of naturallife. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through theperiods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the strongman ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed for thebattle. If Mr. Gray is in the first effort to lead a Christian life, that is something. He will grow wiser and better in time, I hope. "

"There is vast room for improvement, " said the merchant. "In my eyes heis, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the sakeof the world and the church both, that his new associates will makesomething better out of him. "

I went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meetingwith Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a billof goods some months previously. He had called to collect a portion ofthe amount which remained unpaid. The mechanic was not ready for him. 

"I am sorry, Mr. Gray, " he began, with some hesitation of manner. 

"Sorry for what?" sharply interrupted Mr. Gray. 

"Sorry that I have not the money to settle your bill. I have beendisappointed----"

"I don't want that old story. You promised to be ready for me to-day, didn't you?" And Mr. Gray knit his brows, and looked angry andimperative. 

"Yes, I promised. But----"

"Then keep your promise. No man has a right to break his word. Promisesare sacred things, and should be kept religiously. "

"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been nofailure in mine to you, " answered the poor mechanic. 

"It is of no use to plead other men's failings in justification of yourown. You said the bill should be settled to-day, and I calculated uponit. Now, of all things in the world, I hate trifling. I shall not callagain, sir!"

"If you were to call forty times, and I hadn't the money to settle youraccount, you would call in vain, " said the mechanic, showingconsiderable disturbance of mind. 

"You needn't add insult to wrong. " Mr. Gray's countenance reddened, andhe looked angry. 

"If there is insult in the case it is on your part, not mine, " retortedthe mechanic, with more feeling. "I am not a digger of gold out of theearth, nor a coiner of money. I must be paid for my work before I canpay the bills I owe. It was not enough that I told you of the failureof my customers to meet their engagements----"

"You've no business to have such customers, " broke in Mr. Gray. "Noright to take my goods and sell them to men who are not honest enoughto pay their bills. "

"One of them is your own son, " replied the mechanic, goaded beyondendurance. "His bill is equal to half of yours. I have sent for theamount a great many times, but still he puts me off with excuses. Iwill send it to you next time. "

This was thrusting home with a sharp sword, and the vanquished Mr. Grayretreated from the battle-field, bearing a painful wound. 

"That wasn't right in me, I know, " said the mechanic, as Gray left hisshop. "I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too closely. Iam but human. "

"He is a hard, exacting, money-loving man, " was my remark. 

"They tell me he has become a Christian, " said the mechanic. "Has gotreligion--been converted. Is that so?"

"It is commonly reported; but I think common report must be in error. St. Paul gives patience, forbearance, long-suffering, meekness, brotherly kindness, and charity as some of the Christian graces. I donot see them in this man. Therefore, common report must be in error. "

"I have paid him a good many hundreds of dollars since I opened my shophere, " said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt. "If Iam a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I get alittle behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for don't pay upas they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't just square withMr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me, and talked just as youheard him to-day. He got his money, every dollar of it; and he will gethis money now. I did think, knowing that he had joined the church andmade a profession of religion, that he would bear a little patientlywith me this time. That, as he had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, ofhis sins towards heaven, he would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah, well! These things make us very sceptical about the honesty of men whocall themselves religious. My experience with 'professors' has not beenvery encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy forgain as other men. We outside people of the world get to be verysharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality thanwe, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue, wejudge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very closely. If he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager after moneyas before, we do not put much faith in his profession, and are very aptto class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine talk about faith, and heavenly love, and being washed from all sin, excite in us contemptrather than respect. We ask for good works, and are never satisfiedwith anything else. By their fruits ye shall know them. "

On the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him whenhe entered. I noticed that all the lines of his face were drawn down, and that the whole aspect and bearing of the man were solemn anddevotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes cast tothe floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew in frontof him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During theservices I heard his voice in the singing; and through the sermon, hemaintained the most fixed attention. It was communion Sabbath; and heremained, after the congregation was dismissed, to join in the holiestact of worship. 

"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?" I asked myself, as I walkedhomeward. "Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by piousacts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a day'smarch nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in thecommonest offices of neighborly love?"

It so happened, that I had many opportunities for observing Mr. Gray, who, after joining the church, became an active worker in some of thepublic and prominent charities of the day. He contributed liberally inmany cases, and gave a good deal of time to the prosecution ofbenevolent enterprises, in which men of some position were concerned. But, when I saw him dispute with a poor gardener who had laid the sodsin his yard, about fifty cents, take sixpence off of a weary strawberrywoman, or chaffer with his boot-black over an extra shilling, I couldnot think that it was genuine love for his fellow-men that prompted hisostentatious charities. 

In no instance did I find any better estimation of him in businesscircles; for his religion did not chasten the ardor of his selfish loveof advantage in trade; nor make him more generous, nor more inclined tohelp or befriend the weak and the needy. Twice I saw his action in thecase of unhappy debtors, who had not been successful in business. Ineach case, his claim was among the smallest; but he said more unkindthings, and was the hardest to satisfy, of any man among the creditors. He assumed dishonest intention at the outset, and made that a plea forthe most rigid exaction; covering his own hard selfishness withoffensive cant about mercantile honor, Christian integrity, andreligious observance of business contracts. He was the only man amongall the creditors, who made his church membership a prominentthing--few of them were even church-goers--and the only man who did notreadily make concessions to the poor, down-trodden debtors. 

"Is he a Christian?" I asked, as I walked home in some depression ofspirits, from the last of these meetings. And I could but answerNo--for to be a Christian is to be Christ-like. 

"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them. " This isthe divine standard. "Ye must be born again, " leaves to us no latitudeof interpretation. There must be a death of the old, natural, selfishloves, and a new birth of spiritual affections. As a man feels, so willhe act. If the affections that rule his heart be divine affections, hewill be a lover of others, and a seeker of their good. He will not be ahard, harsh, exacting man in natural things, but kind, forbearing, thoughtful of others, and yielding. In all his dealings with men, hisactions will be governed by the heavenly laws of justice and judgment. He will regard the good of his neighbor equally with his own. It is inthe world where Christian graces reveal themselves, if they exist atall. Religion is not a mere Sunday affair, but the regulator of a man'sconduct among his fellow-men. Unless it does this, it is a falsereligion, and he who depends upon it for the enjoyment of heavenlyfelicities in the next life, will find himself in miserable error. Heaven cannot be earned by mere acts of piety, for heaven is thecomplement of all divine affections in the human soul; and a man mustcome into these--must be born into them--while on earth, or he cannever find an eternal home among the angels of God. Heaven is notgained by doing, but by living. 

III. 

"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. "

"_HAVE_ you noticed Miss Harvey's diamonds?" said a friend, directingmy attention, as she spoke, to a young lady who stood at the lower endof the room. I looked towards Miss Harvey, and as I did so, my eyesreceived the sparkle of her gems. 

"Brilliant as dew-drops in the morning sunbeams, " I remarked. 

"Only less brilliant, " was my friend's response to this. "Only lessbrilliant. Nothing holds the sunlight in its bosom so perfectly as adrop of dew. --Next, the diamond. I am told that the pin, now flashingback the light, as it rises and falls with the swell and subsidence ofher bosom, cost just one thousand dollars. The public, you know, arevery apt to find out the money-value of fine jewelry. "

"Miss Harvey is beautiful, " said I, "and could afford to depend less onthe foreign aid of ornament. "

"If she had dazzled us with that splendid pin alone, " returned myfriend, "we might never have been tempted to look beneath the jewel, far down into the wearer's heart. But, diamond earrings, and a diamondbracelet, added--we know their value to be just twelve hundred dollars;the public is specially inquisitive--suggest some weakness orperversion of feeling, and we become eagle-eyed. But for the blaze oflight with which Miss Harvey has surrounded herself, I, for one, shouldnot have been led to observe her closely. There is no object in naturewhich has not its own peculiar signification; which does not correspondto some quality, affection, or attribute of the mind. This is true ofgems; and it is but natural, that we should look for those qualities inthe wearer of them to which the gems correspond. "

I admitted the proposition, and my friend went on. 

"Gold is the most precious of all metals, and it must, therefore, correspond to the most precious attribute, or quality of the mind. Whatis that attribute?--and what is that quality?"

"Love, " said I, after a pause, "Love is the most precious attribute ofthe mind--goodness the highest quality. "

"Then, it is no mere fancy to say that gold corresponds to love, orgoodness. It is pure, and ductile, and warm in color, like love; whilesilver is harder, and white and shining, like truth. Gold and silver innature are, then, as goodness and truth in the human soul. In one wefind the riches of this world, in the other divine riches. And if goldand silver correspond to precious things of the mind, so must brilliantjewels. The diamond! How wonderful is its affection for light--takingin the rays eagerly, dissolving them, and sending them forth again togladden the eyes in rich prismatic beauty! And to what mental qualitymust the diamond correspond? As it loves the sun's rays, in which areheat and light--must it not correspond to the affection of things goodand true?--heat being of love, and light of truth or wisdom? The wearerof diamonds, then, should have in her heart the heavenly affection towhich they correspond. She should be loving and wise. "

"It will not do to make an estimate in this way, " said I. "The measureis too exacting. "

"I will admit that. But we cannot help thinking of the quality when welook upon its sign. With a beautiful face, when first seen, do we notalways associate a beautiful soul? And when a lady adorns herself withthe most beautiful and costly things in nature, how can we helplooking, to see whether they correspond to things in her mind! For one, I cannot; and so, almost involuntarily, I keep turning my eyes uponMiss Harvey, and looking for signs of her quality. "

"And how do you read the lady?" I inquired. 

My friend shook his head. 

"The observation is not favorable. "

"Not favorable, " he replied. "No, not favorable. She thinks of herjewels--she is vain of them. "

"The temptation is great, " I said. 

"The fact of so loading herself with costly jewels, is in itselfindicative of vanity--"

A third party joining us at this moment, we dropped the subject of MissHarvey. But, enough had been said to make me observe her closely duringthe evening. 

The opening line of Moore's charming lyric, "Rich and rare were the gems she wore, "

kept chiming in my thoughts, whenever I glanced towards her, and sawthe glitter of her diamonds. Yet, past the gems my vision now went, andI searched the fair girl's countenance for the sparkle of other andricher jewels. Did I find them? We shall see. 

"Helen, " I heard a lady say to Miss Harvey, "is not that Mary Gardiner?"

"I believe so, " was her indifferent answer. 

"Have you spoken to her this evening?"

"No, aunt. "

"Why?"

"Mary Gardiner and I were never very congenial. We have not been throwntogether for some time; and now, I do not care to renew theacquaintance. "

I obtained a single glance of the young lady's face. It was proud andhaughty in expression, and her eyes had in them a cold glitter thatawoke in me a feeling of repulsion. 

"I wish you were congenial, " the lady said, speaking partly to herself. 

"We are not, aunt, " was Miss Harvey's reply; and she assumed the air ofone who felt herself far superior to another with whom she had beenbrought into comparison. 

"The gems do not correspond, I fear, " said I to myself, as I moved toanother part of the room. "But who is Miss Gardiner?"

In the next moment, I was introduced to the young lady whose name wasin my thought. The face into which I looked was of that fine oval whichalways pleases the eye, even where the countenance itself does notlight up well with the changes of thought. But, in this case, a pair ofcalm, deep, living eyes, and lips of shape most exquisitely delicateand feminine--giving warrant of a beautiful soul--caused the face ofMiss Gardiner to hold the vision as by a spell. Low and very musicalwas her voice, and there was a discrimination in her words, that liftedwhatever she said above the common-place, even though the subjects wereof the hour. 

I do not remember how long it was after my introduction to MissGardiner, before I discovered that her only ornament was a small, exquisitely cut cameo breast-pin, set in a circlet of pearls. There wasno obtrusive glitter about this. It lay more like an emblem than ajewel against her bosom. It never drew your attention from her face, nor dimmed, by contrast, the radiance of her soul-lit eyes. I wascharmed, from the beginning, with this young lady. Her thoughts werereal gems, rich and rare, and when she spoke there was the flash ofdiamonds in her sentences; not the flash of mere brilliant sayings, like the gleaming of a polished sword, but of living truths, that litup with their own pure radiance every mind that received them. 

Two or three times during the evening, Miss Harvey, radiant in herdiamonds--they cost twenty-two hundred dollars--the price would intrudeitself--and Miss Gardiner, almost guiltless of foreign ornament, werethrown into immediate contact. But Miss Gardiner was not recognized bythe haughty wearer of gems. It was the old farce of pretence, seeking, by borrowed attractions, to outshine the imperishable radiance oftruth. I looked on, and read the lesson her conduct gave, and wonderedthat any were deceived into even a transient admiration. "Rich and rarewere the gems she wore, " but they had in them no significance asapplied to the wearer. It was Miss Gardiner who had the real gems, beautiful as charity, and pure as eternal truth; and she wore them witha simple grace, that charmed every beholder who had eyes clear enoughfrom earthy dust and smoke to see them. 

I never meet Miss Harvey, that I do not think of the pure and heavenlythings of the mind to which diamonds correspond, nor without seeingsome new evidence that she wears no priceless jewels in her soul. 

IV. 

NOT AS A CHILD. 

"_I DO_ not know how that may be, " said the mother, lifting her head, and looking through almost blinding tears, into the face of her friend. "The poet may be right, and, "Not as a child shall I again behold him, but the thought brings no comfort. I have lost my child, and my heartlooks eagerly forward to a reunion with him in heaven; to the blessedhour when I shall again hold him in my arms. "

"As a babe?"

"Oh, yes. As a darling babe, pure, and beautiful as a cherub. "

"But would you have him linger in babyhood forever?" asked the friend. 

The mother did not reply. 

"Did you expect him always to remain a child here? Would perpetualinfancy have satisfied your maternal heart? Had you not already begunto look forward to the period when intellectual manhood would come withits crowning honors?"

"It is true, " sighed the mother. 

"As it would have been here, so will it be there. Here, the growth ofhis body would have been parallel, if I may so speak, with the growthof his mind. The natural and the visible would have developed inharmony with the spiritual and the invisible. Your child would havegrown to manhood intellectually, as well as bodily. And you would nothave had it otherwise. Growth--development--the going on to perfection, are the laws of life; and more emphatically so as appertaining to thelife of the human soul. That life, in all its high activities, burnsstill in the soul of your lost darling, and he will grow, in the worldof angelic spirits to which our Father has removed him, up to the fullstature of an angel, a glorified form of intelligence and wisdom. Hecannot linger in feeble babyhood; in the innocence of simple ignorance;but must advance with the heavenly cycles of changing and renewingstates. "

"And this is all the comfort you bring to my yearning heart?" said themother. "My darling, if all you say be true, is lost to me forever. "

"He was not yours, but God's. " The friend spoke softly, yet with a firmutterance. 

"He was mine to love, " replied the bereaved one. 

"And your love would confer upon its precious object the richestblessings. Dear friend! Lift your thoughts a little way above theclouds that sorrow has gathered around your heart, and let perceptioncome into an atmosphere radiant with light from the Sun of Truth. Thinkof your child as destined to become, in the better world to which Godhas removed him, a wise and loving angel. Picture to your imaginationthe higher happiness, springing from higher capacities and higher uses, which must crown the angelic life. Doing this, and loving your lostdarling, I know that you cannot ask for him a perpetual babyhood inheaven. "

"I will ask nothing for him but what 'Our Father' pleaseth to give, "said the mother, in calmer tones. "My love is selfish, I know. I calledthat babe mine--mine in the broadest sense--yet he was God's, as everyother creature is his--one of the stones in his living temple--one ofthe members of his kingdom. It does not comfort me in my great sorrowto think that, as a child, I shall not again behold him, but rays ofnew light are streaming into my mind, and I see things in new aspectsand new relations. Out of this deep affliction good will arise. "

"Just as certainly, " added the friend, "as that the Sun shines and thedew falls. It will be better for you, and better for the child. To bothwill come a resurrection into higher and purer life. "

V. 

ANGELS IN THE HEART. 

_THE_ heart is full of guest-chambers that are never empty; and as theheart is the seat of life, these guests are continually acting upon thelife, either for good or evil, according to their quality. As theguests are, so our states of life--tranquil and happy, if good;disturbed and miserable, if evil. 

We may choose our own guests, if we are wise. None can open the doorand come in, unless we give consent; always provided that we keep watchand ward. If we leave wide open the doors of our houses, or neglect tofasten them in the night season, thieves and robbers will enter anddespoil us at will. So if we leave the heart, unguarded, enemies willcome in. But if we open the door only to good affections--which areguests--then we shall dwell in peace and safety. We have all opened thedoor for enemies; or let them enter through unguarded portals. They arein all the heart's guest-chambers. They possess the very citadel oflife; and the measure of their possession is the measure of ourunhappiness. 

Markland was an unhappy man; and yet of this world's goods, after whichhe had striven, he had an abundance. Wealth, honor among men, luxury;these were presented to his mind as things most to be desired, and hereached after them with an ardor that broke down all impediments. Success answered to effort, with almost unerring certainty. So he wasfull of wealth and honors. But, for all this, Markland was unhappy. There were enemies in the house of his life; troublesome guests in theguest-chambers of his heart, who were forever disturbing, if notwounding him, with their strifes and discords. Some of these he hadadmitted, himself holding open the door; others had come in by stealthwhile the entrance was all unguarded. 

Envy was one of these guests, and she gave him no peace. He could notbear that another should stand above him in anything. A certain pew inthe church he attended was regarded as most desirable. He must havethat pew at any cost. So when the annual choice of pews was sold atauction, he overbid all contestants, and secured its occupancy. For allthe preceding year, he had failed to enjoy the Sabbath services, because another family had a pew regarded as better situated than his;and now he enjoyed these services as little, through annoyance athaving given so large a price for the right of choice, that peoplesmiled when they heard the sum named. He had paid too dear for theprivilege, and this fact took away enjoyment. 

Envy tormented him in a hundred different ways. He could not enjoy hisfriend's exquisite statuary, or paintings, because of a secretintimation in his heart that his friend was honored above him in theirpossession. Twice he had sold almost palatial residences, because theirarchitectural attractions were thrown into the shade by dwellings oflater construction. Thousands of dollars each year this troublesomeguest cost him; and yet she would never let him be at ease. At everyfeast of life she dashed his cup with bitterness, and robbed thechoicest viands of their zest. He did not enjoy the fame of an author, an orator, an artist, a man of science, a general, or of any who heldthe world's admiring gaze--for while they stood in the sunlight, hefelt cast in the shade. So the guest Envy, warmed and nourished in hisheart, proved a tormentor. She gave him neither rest nor peace. 

Detraction, twin-sister of Envy, was all the while pointing out defectsin friends and neighbors. He saw their faults and hard peculiarities;but rarely their good qualities. Then Doubt and Distrust crept inthrough the unguarded door, and soon after their entrance Marklandbegan to think uneasily of the future; to fear lest the foundations ofworldly prosperity were not sure. These troublesome guests were busiestin the night season, haunting his mind with strange pictures ofdisasters, and with suggestions touching the arbitrary power of God, whom he feared when the thought of him was present, but did not love. "Whom He will He setteth up, and whom He will He casteth down. " Doubtand Distrust revived this warning in his memory, and seeing that itgave his heart a throb of pain, they set it close to his eyes, so that, for a time, he could see nothing else. Thus, night after night, theseguests troubled his peace, often driving slumber from his eyelids untilthe late morning watches. If there had been in his heart that truefaith in God which believes in him as doing all things well, Doubt andDistrust might never have gained an entrance. But he had trusted inhimself; had believed himself equal to the task of creating his ownprosperity--had been, in common phrase, the architect of his ownfortunes. And now just as he was pluming himself on success, in creptDoubt and Distrust with their alarming suggestions, and he was unableto cast them out. 

Affections, whether evil or good, are social in their character, andobey social laws. They do not like to dwell alone, and therefore seekcongenial friendships. They draw to themselves companions of likequality, and are not satisfied until they rule a man as to all thepowers of his mind. 

In the case of Markland, Envy made room for her twin-sister, Detraction; Ill-will, Jealousy, Unkindness, and a teeming brood oftheir malevolent kindred crowded into his heart, possessing itschambers, ere a warning reached him of their approach. Is there rest orpeace for a man with such guests in his bosom?

Doubt and Distrust only heralded the coming of Fear, Anxiety, Solicitude, Suspicion, Despondency, Foreboding. Markland had only toopen his eyes and look around him, to see, on every hand, the unsightlywrecks of palaces once as fair to the eye as that which he had raisedwith such labor and forethought, and as he contemplated these, Doubt, Distrust, and their companions, filled his mind with alarming thoughts, and so oppressed him with a sense of insecurity that, at times, he sawthe advancing shadows of misfortune on his path. 

Thus it was with Markland at fifty. He had all good as to the externalsof life, yet was he a miserable man, and, worse than all, he felthimself growing more and more unhappy as the years increased. Was thereno remedy for this? None, while his heart was so filled with evilaffections, which are always tormentors. He did not see this. Thoughhis guests disturbed and afflicted him, he called them friends, andgave them entertainments of the best his house afforded. 

Sometimes Pity came to the door of his heart and asked for admission, but he sent Unkindness to double bar it against her. Generosityknocked, but Avarice stood sentinel. Envy was forever refusing to letGood-will, Appreciation, Approval, Delight, come in. Detraction wouldgive no countenance to Virtue and Excellence. Doubt made deadly assaultupon Faith, and Trust, and Hope, whenever they drew near, whileIll-will stood ever on the alert to drive off Charity, Loving-kindnessand Neighborly regard. Unhappy man! Fiends possessed him, and he knewit not. 

It so happened on a time, that Markland, while standing in one of hiswell-filled ware-houses, saw a child enter and come towards him in atimid, hesitating manner. 

"A beggar! Drive her away, " said Unkindness and Suspicion, botharousing themselves. 

Markland was already lifting his hand to wave her back, whenCompassion, who had just then found an old way into his heart, hiddenfor a long time by rank weeds and brambles, said, in soft and pityingtones:

"She is such a little child!"

"A thieving beggar!" cried Unkindness and Suspicion, angrily. 

"A weak little child, " pleaded Compassion. "Don't be hard with her. Speak kindly. "

Compassion prevailed. Her voice had awakened into life some old andlong sleeping memories. Markland was himself, for a moment, a child, full of pity, tenderness and loving-kindness. Compassion had alreadyuncovered the far away past, and the sweetness of its young blossomswas reviving old delights. 

"Well, little one, what is wanted?"

Markland hardly knew his own voice, it was so gentle and inviting. 

How the pale, pure face of the child warmed and brightened! Gratefullywith trust and hope in her eyes, she looked up to the merchant. Therewas no answer on her lips, for this unexpected kindness had choked thecoming utterance. Rebuff, threat, anger, had met her so often, thatsoft words almost surprised her into tears. 

"Well, what can I do for you?"

Compassion held open the door through which she gained an entrance, andalready Good-will, Kindness and Satisfaction had come in. 

"Mother is sick, " said the child. 

"A lying vagrant!" exclaimed Suspicion, jarring the merchant's inwardear. 

"There is truth in her face, " said Compassion, pleading, and, at thesame time, she unveiled an image, sharply cut in the past of Markland'slife--an image of his own beloved, but long sainted mother, pale andwasted, on her dying bed. 

"Give this to your mother, " he said, hastily, taking a coin from hispocket. There was more of human kindness in his voice than it hadexpressed for many years. 

"God bless you, sir, " the child dropped her grateful eyes from hisface, as she took the coin, bending with an involuntary reverentmotion. Then, as she slowly passed to the warehouse door, she turnedtwo or three times, to look on the man who, alone, of the many to whomshe had made solicitation that day, had answered her in kindness. 

"So much for the encouragement of vagrancy, " said Suspicion. 

"Played on by the art of a cunning child, " said Pride. 

Markland began to feel ashamed of his momentary weakness. But, he wasnot now, wholly, at the mercy of the guests who had so long tormentedhim. Compassion, Good-will and Kindness were now his guests also; andthey had other and pleasanter suggestions for his mind. The child's"God bless you, sir, " they repeated over and over again, softening theyoung voice, and giving it increasing power to awaken tender and lovingstates which had formed themselves in earlier and purer years. Tranquility, so long absent from his soul, came in, now, through theentrance made by Compassion. 

Markland went back into his counting-room, almost wondering at thepeace he felt. Taking up a newspaper, he read of a rare specimen ofstatuary just received from Italy, the property of a well-knownmerchant. Envy did not move quickly enough. The old love of beauty andnature, which envy, detraction, greed of gain, and their blear-eyedcompanions, had kept in thrall, was already in a freer state; and foundin good-will, kindness and tranquility, congenial friends. 

So, love of art and beauty ruled his mind in spite of envy, andMarkland found real pleasure in the ideal given him by the descriptionhe read. It was, almost, a new sensation. 

A friend came in, and spoke in praise of one who had performed agenerous deed. There was an instant motion among the guests inMarkland's heart, the evil inciting to envy and detraction, the good toapproval and emulation. Tranquility moved to the door through which shehad come in, as if to depart; but Good-will, Kindness and Approbation, drew her back, and held, with her, possession of the mind they soughtto rule. Envy and Detraction were shorn, for the time, of their power. 

Wondering, as he lay on his bed that night, over the strange peace thatpervaded his mind--a peace such as he had not known for manyyears--Markland fell asleep; and in his sleep there came to him a dreamof the human heart and its guest-chamber; and what we have faintlysuggested, was made visible to him in living personation. 

He saw how evil affections, when permitted to dwell therein, became itsenemies and tormentors; and how, just in the degree that kind and goodaffections gained entrance, there was peace, tranquility andsatisfaction. 

"I have looked into my own heart, " he said, on awaking. 

The incident of the child, and the dream that followed, were, inProvidence, sent for Markland's instruction. And they were not sent invain. Ever after he set watch and ward at the doors of his heart. Evilguests, already in possession, were difficult to cast out; but, heinvited the good to come in, opening the way by kind and noble acts, done in the face of opposing selfishness. Thus he went on, peopling theguest-chamber with sweet beatitudes, until angels instead of demonsfilled his house of life. 

VI. 

CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED. 

"_TRIPPED_ again!"

"Who?"

"Brantley. "

"Poor fellow! He has a hard time of it. Is he all the way down?"

"I presume so. When he begins to fall, he usually gets to the bottom ofthe ladder. "

It was true; Brantley had tripped again; and was down. He had beenclimbing bravely for three or four years, and was well up the ladder ofprosperity, when in his eagerness to make two rundles of the ladder ata step instead of one, he missed his footing and fell to the bottom. Myfirst knowledge of the fact came through the conversation justrecorded. From all I could hear, Brantley's failure was a serious one. I knew him to be honorable and conscientious, and to have a great dealof sensitive pride. 

A few days afterwards, while passing the pleasant home where Brantleyhad been residing, I saw a bill up, giving notice that the house wasfor sale. A few days later I met him on the street. He did not see me. His eyes were on the pavement; he looked pale and careworn; he walkedslowly, and was in deep thought. 

"He is of tougher material than most men, if the heart is not all takenout of him, " I said in speaking of him to a mutual friend. 

"And he _is_ of tougher material, " was answered, "that is, of finermaterial. Brantley is not one of your common men. "

"Still, there must be something wrong about him. Some defect ofjudgment. He is a good climber; but not sure-footed. Or, it may be thatbeyond a certain height his head grows dizzy. "

"If one gets too eager in any pursuit, he is almost sure to make falsesteps. I think Brantley became too eager. The steadily wideningprospect as he went up, up, up, caused his pulses to move at a quickerrate. "

"Too eager, and less scrupulous, " I suggested. 

"His honor is unstained, " said the friend, with some warmth. 

"In the degree that a man grows eager in pursuit, he is apt to growblind to things collateral, and less concerned about the principlesinvolved. "

"In some cases that may be true, but is hardly probable in the case ofBrantley. I do not believe that he has swerved from integrity inanything. "

"It is my belief, " I answered, "that if he had not swerved, he wouldnot have fallen. I may be wrong, but cannot help the impression. "

"Brantley is an honest man. I will maintain that in the face of everyone, " was replied. 

"Honest as the world regards honesty. But there are higher than legalstandards. What A and B may consider fair, C may regard asquestionable. He has his own standard; and if he falls below that inhis dealings with men, he departs from his integrity. "

"I have nothing to say for Brantley under that view of the subject, "said the friend. "If he has special standards of morality, and does notlive up to them, the matter is between himself and his own conscience. We, on the outside, are not his judges. "

It so happened that I met Brantley a short time afterwards. Thecircumstances were favorable, and our interview unreserved. He had soldhis house, and a large part of the handsome furniture it contained, andwas living in a humbler dwelling. I referred to his changed condition, and spoke of it with regret. 

"There is no gratuitous evil, " he remarked. "I have long been satisfiedon that head. If we lose on one hand, we gain on another. And myexperience in life leads me to this conclusion, that the loss isgenerally in lower things, and the gain in higher. "

I looked into his face, yet bearing the marks of recent trial andsuffering, and saw in it the morning dawn. 

"Has it been so with you?" I asked. 

"Yes; and it has always been so, " he answered, without hesitation. "Itis painful to be under the surgeon's knife, " he added. "We shrink back, shivering, at the sight of his instruments. The flesh is agonized. Butwhen all is over, and the greedy tumor, or wasting cancer, that wasthreatening life, is gone, we rejoice and are glad. "

He sighed, and looked sober for a little while, as thought went back, and memory gave too vivid a realization of what had been, and thenresumed:

"I can see now, that what seemed to me, and is still regarded by othersas a great misfortune, was the best thing that could have taken place. I have lost, but I have gained; and the gain is greater than the loss. It has always been so. Out of every trouble or disaster that hasbefallen me in life, I have come with a deep conviction that my feetstumbled because they were turning into paths that would lead my soulastray. However much I may love myself and the world, however much Imay seek my own, below all and above all is the conviction that time isfleeting, and life here but as a span, that if I compass the wholeworld, and lose my own soul, I have made a fearful exchange. There area great many things regarded by business men as allowable. They are socommon in trade, that scarcely one man in a score questions theirmorality; so common, that I have often found myself drifting into theirpractice, and abandoning for a time the higher principles in whoseguidance there alone is safety. Misfortune seems to have dogged mysteps; but in this pause of my life--in this state of calmness--I cansee that misfortune is my good; for, not until my feet were turninginto ways that lead to death, did I stumble and fall. "

"Are you not too hard in self-judgment?" I said. 

"No, " he answered. "The case stands just here. You know, I presume, theimmediate cause of my recent failure in business. "

"A sudden decline in stocks. "

The color deepened on his cheeks. 

"Yes; that is the cause. Now, years ago, I settled it clearly with myown conscience that stock speculation was wrong; that it was onlyanother name for gambling, in which, instead of rendering service tothe community, your gains were, in nearly all cases, measured byanother's loss. Departing from this just principle of action, I wastempted to invest a large sum of money in a rising stock, that I wassure would continue to advance until it reached a point where, inselling I could realize a net gain of ten thousand dollars. I was doingwell. I was putting by from two to three thousand dollars every year, and was in a fair way to get rich. But, as money began to accumulate, Igrew more and more eager in its acquirement, and less concerned aboutthe principles underlying every action, until I passed into a temporarystate of moral blindness. I was less scrupulous about securing largeadvantages in trade, and would take the lion's share, if opportunityoffered, without a moment's hesitation. So, not content with doing wellin a safe path, I must step aside, and try my strength at climbing morerapidly, even though danger threatened on the left and on the right;even though I dragged others down in my hot and perilous scrambleupwards. I lost my footing--I stumbled--I fell, crashing down to thevery bottom of the hill, half way up which I had gone so safely ere thegreedy fiend took possession of me. "

"And have not been really hurt by the fall, " I remarked. 

"I have suffered pain--terrible pain; for I am of a sensitive nature, "he replied. "But in the convulsions of agony, nothing but the outsideshell of a false life has been torn away. The real man is unharmed. Andnow that the bitter disappointment and sadness that attend humiliationare over, I can say that my gain is greater than my loss. I wouldrather grope in the vale of poverty all my life, and keep my conscienceclean, than stand high up among the mountains of prosperity with ataint thereon. 

"God knows best, " he added, after a pause, speaking in a more subduedtone. "And I recognize the hand of His good providence in this wreck ofmy worldly hopes. To gain riches at the sacrifice of just principles isto gather up dirt and throw away goodly pearls. "

"How is it with your family?" I asked. "They must feel the changeseverely. "

"They did feel it. But the pain is over with them also. Poor weak humannature! My girls were active and industrious at home, and diligent atschool, while my circumstances were limited. But, as money grew moreplentiful, and I gave them a larger house to live in, and richerclothes to wear, they wearied of their useful employments, andneglected their studies. Pride grew apace, and vanity walked hand inhand with pride. They were less considerate of one another, and lessloving to their parents. If I attempted to restrain their fondness fordress, or check their extravagance, they grew sullen, or used unfiliallanguage. Like their father, they could not bear prosperity. But all ischanged now. Misfortune has restored them to a better state of mind. They emulate each other in service at home; their minds dwell on usefulthings; they are tender of their mother and considerate of theirfather. Home is a sweeter place to us all than it has been for a longtime. "

"And so what the world calls misfortune has proved a blessing. "

"Yes. In permitting my feet to stumble; in letting me fall from theheight I had obtained, God dealt with me and mine in infinite love. Wegive false names to things. We call that good which only representsgood, which is of the heart and life, and not in external possessions. He has taken from me the effigy that He may give me the good itself. "

"If all men could find like you, " I said, "a sweet kernel at the centreof misfortune's bitter nut. "

"All men may find it if they will, " he answered, "for the sweet kernelis there. "

How few find it! Nay, reader, if you say this, your observation is atfault. God's providences with men are not like blind chances, but fullof wisdom and love. In the darkness of sorrow and adversity a lightshines on the path that was not illumined before. When the sun ofworldly prosperity goes down, a thousand stars are set in thefirmament. In the stillness that follows, God speaks to the soul and isheard. 

VII. 

INTO GOOD GROUND. 

"_WHAT_ did you think of the sermon, Mr. Braxton?" said one churchmember to another, as the two men passed from the vestibule of St. Mark's out into the lofty portico. 

Mr. Braxton gave a slight shrug, perceived by his companion as a signof disapproval. They moved along, side by side, down the broad steps tothe pavement, closely pressed by the retiring audience. 

"Strong meat, " said the first speaker, as they got free of the crowdand commenced moving down the street. 

"Too strong for my stomach, " replied Mr. Braxton. "Something must havegone wrong with our minister when he sat down to write that discourse. "

"Indigestion, perhaps. "

"Or neuralgia, " said Mr. Braxton. 

"He was in no amiable mood--that much is certain. Why, he setnine-tenths of us over on the left hand side, among the goats, asremorselessly as if he were an avenging Nemesis. He actually made meshudder. "

"That kind of literal application of texts to the living men and womenin a congregation is not only in bad taste, but presumptuous andblasphemous. What right has a clergyman to sit in judgment on me, forinstance? To give forced constructions to parables and vaguegeneralities in Scripture, about the actual meaning of which divines inall ages have differed; and, pointing his finger to me or to you, say--'The case is yours, sir!' I cannot sit patiently under many moresuch sermons. "

Mr. Braxton evidently spoke from a disturbed state of mind. Somethingin the discourse had struck at the foundations of self-love andself-complacency. 

"Into one ear, and out at the other. So it is with me, in cases likethis, " answered Mr. Braxton's companion, in a changed and lighter tone. "If a preacher chooses to be savage; to write from dyspeptic orneuralgic states; to send his congregation, unshrived, to the netherregions--why, I shrug my shoulders and let it pass. Most likely, on thenext Sunday, he will be full of consideration for tender consciences, and grandly shut the gate he threw open so widely on the last occasion. It would never answer, you know, to take these things to heart--neverin the world. We'd always be getting into hot water. Clergymen havetheir moods, like other people. It doesn't answer to forget this. Goodmorning, Mr. Braxton. Our ways part here. "

"Good morning, " was replied, and the men separated. 

But, try as Mr. Braxton would to set his minister's closely applieddoctrine from Scripture to the account of dyspepsia or neuralgia, hewas unable to push from his mind certain convictions wrought therein bythe peculiar manner in which some positions had been argued andsustained. The subject taken by the minister, was that striking pictureof the judgment given in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, from thethirty-first verse to the close of the chapter, beginning: "When theSon of Man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and before him shall begathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as ashepherd divideth his sheep from the goats. " The passage concludes:"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteousinto life eternal. "

Now, although Mr. Braxton had complained of the literal application ofthis text, that term was hardly admissible, for the preacher waived theidea of a last general judgment, as involved in the letter ofScripture, and declared his belief in a spiritual signification aslying beneath the letter, and applicable to the inner life of everysingle individual at the period of departure from this world; adding, in this connection, briefly: "But do not understand me as in any degreewaiving the strictness of judgment to which every soul will have tosubmit. It will not be limited by his acts, but go down to his ends oflife--to his motives and his quality--and the sentence will really be ajudgment upon what he _is_, not upon what he has _done_; although, taking the barest literal sense, only actions are regarded. "

In opening and illustrating his text, he said, farther: "As the word ofGod, according to its own declarations, is spirit and life--treats, infact, by virtue of divine and Scriptural origin, of divine andspiritual things, must we not go beneath the merely obvious and naturalmeaning, if we would get to its true significance? Is there not ahunger of the soul as well as of the body? May we not be spirituallyathirst, and strangers?--naked, sick, and in prison? This being so, canwe confidently look for the invitation, 'Come, ye blessed of my Father, if our regard for the neighbor have not reached beyond his bodily life?If we have never considered his spiritual wants and sufferings, andministered thereto according to our ability? Just in the degree thatthe soul is more precious than the body, is the degree of ourresponsibility under this more interior signification of Scripture. Themere natural acts of feeding the hungry and giving water to thethirsty, of visiting the sick, and those who lie in prison, of clothingthe naked and entertaining strangers, will not save us in our last day, if we have neglected the higher duties involved in the divineadmonition. Nor will even the supply of spiritual nourishment to hungryand thirsty souls be accounted to us for righteousness. We must find ahigher meaning still in the text. Are we not, each one of us, starvingfor heavenly food?--spiritually exhausted with thirst?--naked, sick, inprison? Are we eating, daily, of the bread of life?--drinking at thewells of God's truth?--putting on the garments ofrighteousness?--finding balm for our sick souls in Gilead?--breakingthe bonds of evil?--turning from strange lands, and coming back to ourfather's house. If not, I warn you, men and brethren, that you are notin the right way;--that, taking the significance of God's word, whichis truth itself, there is no reasonable ground of hope for yoursalvation. "

It was not with Mr. Braxton as with his friend. He could not letconsiderations like these enter one ear and go out at the other. Fromearliest childhood he had received careful instruction. Parents, teachers and preachers, had all shared in the work of storing his mindwith the precepts of religion, and now, in manhood, his consciencerested on these and upon the states wrought therefrom in theimpressible substance of his mind. Try as he would, he found the effortto push aside early convictions and early impressions a simpleimpossibility; and, notwithstanding these had been laid on thefoundation of a far more literal interpretation of Scripture than theone to which he had just been listening, his maturer reason acceptedthe preacher's clear application of the law; and conscience, like anangel, went down into his heart, and troubled the waters which had beenat peace. 

Mr. Braxton was a man of thrift. He had started in life with a purpose, and that purpose he was steadily attaining. To the god of this world heoffered daily sacrifice; and in his heart really desired no higher goodthan seemed attainable through outward things. Wealth, position, honor, among men--these bounded his real aspirations. But prior things in hismind were continually reaching down and affecting his present states. He could not forget that life was short, and earthly possessions andhonors but the things of a day. That as he brought nothing into thisworld, so he could take nothing out. That, without a religious life, hemust not hope for heaven. In order to get free from the disturbinginfluence of these prior things, and to lay the foundations of a futurehope, Mr. Braxton became a church member, and, so far as all Sabbathobservances were concerned, a devout worshiper. Thus he made a trucewith conscience, and conscience having gained so much, accepted for aperiod the truce, and left Mr. Braxton in good odor with himself. 

A man who goes regularly to church, and reads his Bible, cannot fail tohave questions and controversies about truths, duties, and therequirements of religion. The barest literal interpretation ofScripture will, in most cases, oppose the action of self-love; and hewill not fail to see in the law of spiritual life a requirement whollyin opposition to the law of natural life. In the very breadth of thisliteral requirement, however, he finds a way of escape from literalobservance. To give to all who ask; to lend to all who would borrow; toyield the cloak when the coat is taken forcibly; to turn the left cheekwhen the right is smitten--all this is to him so evidently but a figureof speech, that he does not find it very hard to satisfy conscience. Setting these passages aside, as not to be taken in the sense of theletter, he does not find it very difficult to dispose of others thatcome nearer to the obvious duties of man to man--such, for instance, asthat in the illustration of which, by the preacher, Mr. Braxton'sself-complacency had been so much disturbed. He had never done much inthe way of feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothingthe naked, or visiting the sick and in prison--never done anything ofset purpose, in fact. If people were hungry, it was mostly their ownfault, and to feed them would be to encourage idleness and vice. Allthe other items in the catalogue were as easily disposed of; and so theliteral duties involved might have been set forth in the mostimpassioned eloquence, Sabbath after Sabbath, without much disturbingthe fine equipose of Mr. Braxton. Alas for his peace of mind!--thepreacher of truth had gone past the dead letter, and revealed itsspirit and its life. Suddenly he felt himself removed, as it were, toan almost impossible distance from the heaven into which, as he hadcomplacently flattered himself, he should enter by the door of mereritual observances, when the sad hour came for giving up the delightfulthings of this pleasant world. No wonder that Mr. Braxton wasdisturbed--no wonder that, in his first convictions touching those moreinterior truths, which made visible the sandy foundations whereon hewas building his eternal hopes, he should regard the application ofdoctrine as personal and even literal. 

It was not so easy a thing to set aside the duty of ministering to thehungry, sick, and naked human souls around him, thousands of whom, forlack of spiritual nourishment, medicine and clothing, were in danger ofperishing eternally. And the preacher in dwelling upon this great dutyof all Christian men and women, had used emphatic language. 

"I give you, " he said, "God's judgment of the case--not my own. 'Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these, ye did itnot unto me. And these shall go away;' where? 'To everlastingpunishment!' Who shall go thus, in the last day, from thiscongregation?"

As Mr. Braxton sat alone on the evening of that Sabbath, troubled bythe new thoughts which came flowing into his mind, the full impressionof this scene in church came back upon him. There was an almostbreathless pause. Men leaned forward in their pews; the low, almostwhispered, tones of the minister were heard with thrilling distinctnessin even the remotest parts of the house. 

"Who?" he repeated, and the stillness grew more profound. Then, slowly, impressively, almost sadly, he said:

"I cannot hide the truth. As God's ambassador, I must give the message;and it is this: If you, my brother, are not ministering to the wants ofthe hungry and thirsty, the stranger, the sick and in prison, you areof those who will have to go away. "

And the minister shut the Book, and sat down. If, as we have intimated, the preacher had limited Christian duty to bodily needs, Mr. Braxtonwould not have been much exercised in mind. 

He had found an easy way to dispose of these merely literalinterpretations of Scripture. Now, his life was brought to the judgmentof a more interior law, as expounded that day. It was in vain that heendeavored to reject the law; for the more he tried to do this, theclearer it was seen in the light of perceptive truth. 

"God help me, if this be so!" he exclaimed, in a moment of more perfectrealization of what was meant in the Divine Word. "Who shall stand inthe judgment?"

For awhile he endeavored to turn himself away from convictions thatwere grounding themselves deeper and deeper every moment, --to shut hiseyes in wilful blindness, and refuse to see in the purer light whichhad fallen around him. But this effort only brought his mind intoseverer conflict, and consciously removed him to an almost fataldistance from the paths leading upward to the mountains of peace. 

"This is the way, walk ye in it. " A clear voice rose above the noise ofstrife in his soul, and his soul grew calm and listened. He no longerwrought at the fruitless task of rejecting the higher truths which wereillustrating his mind, but let them flow in, and by virtue thereofexamined the state of his inner life. Now it was that his eyes were ina degree opened, so that he could apprehend the profounder meanings ofScripture. The parables were flooded with new light. He understood, ashe had never understood before, why the guest, unclothed with a weddinggarment, was cast out from the feast; and why the door was shut uponthe virgins who had no oil in their lamps. He had always regarded theseparables as involving a hidden meaning--as intended to convey spiritualinstruction under literal forms--but, now, they spoke in a languagethat applied itself to his inward state, and warned him that without amarriage garment, woven in the loom of interior life, where motivesrule, he could never be the King's guest; warned him that without thelight of divine truth in his understanding, and the oil of love to Godand the neighbor in his heart, the door of the kingdom would be shutagainst him. Ritual observances were, to these, but outward forms, dryhusks, except when truly representative of that worship in the soulwhich subordinates natural affections to what is spiritual and divine. 

At last the seed fell into good ground. Mr. Braxton had been a"way-side" hearer; but, ere the good seed had time to germinate, fowlscame and devoured it. He had been a "stony-ground" hearer, receivingthe truth with gladness, but having no root in himself. He had been asthe ground choked with thorns, suffering the cares of this world andthe deceitfulness of riches to choke and hinder the growth of heavenlylife. Now, into good ground the seed had at last fallen; and though theevil one tried to snatch it away, its hidden life, moving to theearth's quick invitation, was already giving prophetic signs of thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold, in the harvest time. 

Why was there good ground in the mind of Mr. Braxton? Good ground, eventhough he was wedded to external life; a self-seeker; a lover of theworld? In the answer to this question lies a most important truth forall to whom God has committed the care of children. Unless good groundis formed, as it was in his case, by early instruction; by storing upin the memory truths from the Bible, and states of good affection; byweaving into the web and woof of the forming mind precepts ofreligion--there is small hope for the future. If these are not made apart of the forming life, things opposite will be received, anddetermine spiritual capabilities. Influx of life into the soul must bethrough prior things; as the twig is bent, the tree is inclined; as thechild's memory and consciousness is stored, so will the man develop andprogress. Take heart, then, doubting parent; if you have in allfaithfulness, woven precious truths, and tender, pious, unselfishstates into the texture of your child's mind--though the fruit is notyet seen, depend on it, that the treasured remains of good and truethings are there, and will not be lost. 

VIII. 

GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH. 

_OF_ all the fallacies accepted by men as truths, there is none morewidely prevalent, nor more fatal to happiness, than that which assumesthe measure of possession to be the measure of enjoyment. All over theworld, the strife for accumulation goes on; every one seeking toincrease his flocks and herds--his lands and houses--or his gold andmerchandise--and ever in the weary, restless, unsatisfied present, tightening with one hand the grasp on worldly goods, and reaching outfor new accessions with the other. 

In dispensation, not in possession, lies the secret of enjoyment; afact which nature illustrates in a thousand ways, and to which everyman's experience gives affirmation. "Very good doctrine for the idleand thriftless, " said Mr. Henry Steel, a gentleman of large wealth, inanswer to a friend, who had advanced the truth we have expressed above. 

"As good doctrine for them as for you, " was replied. "Possession mustcome before dispensation. It is not the receiver but the dispenser whogets the higher blessing. "

The rich man shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly annoyed, asone upon whom a distasteful theme was intruded. 

"I hear that kind of talk every Sunday, " he said, almost impatiently. "But I know what it is worth. Preaching is as much a business asanything else; and this cant about its being more blessed to give thanto receive is a part of the capital in trade of your men of black coatsand white neck-ties. I understand it all, Mr. Erwin. "

"You talk lighter than is your wont on so grave a theme, " answered thefriend. "What you speak of as 'cant, ' and the preacher's 'capital intrade'--'it is more blessed to give than to receive, are the recordedwords of him who never spake as man spake. If his words, must they notbe true?"

"Perhaps I did speak lightly, " was returned. "But indeed, Mr. Erwin, Icannot help feeling that in all these efforts to make rich men believethat their only way to happiness is through a distribution of theirestates, a large element of covetousness exists. "

"That may be. But, to-day you are worth over a quarter of million ofdollars. I remember when fifty thousand, all told, limited the extentof your possessions, and I think you were happier than I find youto-day. How was it, my friend?"

"As to that, " was unhesitatingly replied, "I had more true enjoyment inlife when I was simply a clerk with a salary of four hundred dollars ayear, than I have known at any time since. "

"A remarkable confession, " said the friend. 

"Yet true, nevertheless. "

"In all these years of strife with fortune--in all these years ofunremitted gain--has there been any great and worthy end in your mind?Any purpose beyond the acquirement of wealth?"

Mr. Steel's brows contracted. He looked at his friend for a moment likeone half surprised, and then glanced thoughtfully down at the floor. 

"Gain, and only gain, " said Mr. Erwin. "Not your history alone, normine alone. It is the history of millions. Gathering, gathering, butnever of free choice, dispensing. Still, under Providence, thedispensation goes on; and what we hoard, in due time anotherdistributes. Men accumulate gold like water in great reservoirs;accumulate it for themselves, and refuse to lay conduits. Often theypour in their gold until the banks fail under excessive pressure, andthe rich treasure escapes to flow back among the people. Often secretconduits are laid, and refreshing and fertilizing currents, unknown tothe selfish owner, flow steadily out, while he toils with renewed andanxious labors to keep the repository full. Oftener, the great magazineof accumulated gold and silver, which he never found time to enjoy, isrifled by others at his death. He was the toiler and theaccumulator--the slave who only produced. Miners, pearl-divers, gold-washers are we, my friend; but what we gather we fail to possessin that true sense of possession which involves delight andsatisfaction. For us the toil, for others the benefit. "

"A flattering picture certainly!" was responded by Mr. Steel, with themanner of one on whose mind an unpleasant conviction was forcing itself. 

"Is it not true to the life? Death holds out to us his unwelcome hand, and we must leave all. The key of our treasure-house is given, toanother. "

"Yet, is he not bound by our will?" said Mr. Steel. "As we haveordered, must not he dispense?"

"Why not dispense with our own hands, and with our own eyes see thefruit thereof? Why not, in some small measure, at least prove if it beindeed, more blessed to give than to receive? Let us talk plainly toeach other--we are friends. I know that in your will is a bequest offive thousand dollars to a certain charitable institution, that, evenin its limited way, is doing much good. I speak now of only this singleitem. In my will, following your example and suggestion, is a similarbequest of one thousand dollars. You are forty-five and I amforty-seven. How long do we expect to live?"

"Life is uncertain. "

"Yet often prolonged to sixty, seventy, or even eighty years. Takesixty-five as the mean. Not for twenty years, then, will thisinstitution receive the benefit of your good intention. It costs, Ithink, about fifty dollars a year to support each orphan child. Only asmall number can be taken, for want of liberal means. Applicants arerefused admission almost every day. Three hundred dollars, the intereston five thousand, at six per cent. , would pay for six children. Takefive years as the average time each would remain in the institution, and we have thirty poor, neglected little ones, taken from the street, and educated for usefulness. Thirty human souls rescued, it may be, from hell, and saved, finally, in heaven. And all this good might beaccomplished before your eyes. You might, if you chose, see it inprogress, and comprehending its great significance, experience a degreeof pleasure, such as fills the hearts of angels. I have made up my mindwhat to do. "

"What?"

"Erase the item of one thousand dollars from my will. "

"What then?"

"Call it two thousand, and invest it at once for the use of thischarity. No, twenty years shall stand between my purpose and itsexecution. I will have the satisfaction of knowing that good is done inmy lifetime. In this case, at least, I will be my own dispenser. "

Love of money was a strong element in the heart of Mr. Steel. Thericher he grew, the more absorbing became his desire for riches. It wascomparatively an easy thing to write out charitable bequests in awill--to give money for good uses when no longer able to holdpossession thereof; but to lessen his valued treasure by takinganything therefrom for others in the present time, was a thing the verysuggestion of which startled into life a host of opposing reasons. Hedid not respond immediately, although his heart moved him to utterance. The force of his friend's argument was, however, conclusive. He saw thewhole subject in a new light. After a brief but hard struggle withhimself, he answered:

"And I shall follow in your footsteps, my friend. I never thought ofthe lost time you mention, of the thirty children unblessed by the goodact I purposed doing. Can I leave them to vice, to suffering, to crime, and yet be innocent? Will not their souls be required at my hands, nowthat God shows me their condition? I feel the pressure of aresponsibility scarcely thought of an hour ago. You have turned thecurrent of my thoughts in a new direction. "

"And what is better still, " answered Mr. Erwin, "your purposes also. "

"My purposes also, " was the reply. 

A week afterwards the friends met again. 

"Ah, " said Mr. Erwin, as he took the hand of Mr. Steel, "I see a newlight in your face. Something has taken off from your heart that dead, dull weight of which you complained when I was last here. I don't knowwhen I have seen so cheerful an expression on your countenance. "

"Perhaps your eyes were dull before. " Mr. Steel's smile was soall-pervading that it lit up every old wrinkle and care-line in hisface. 

"I was at the school yesterday, " said Mr. Erwin, in a meaning way. 

"Were you?" The light lay stronger on the speaker's countenance. 

"Yes. A little while after you were there. "

Mr. Steel took a deep breath, as if his heart had commenced beatingmore rapidly. 

"I have not seen a happier man than the superintendent for a score ofweeks. If you had invested the ten thousand dollars for his individualbenefit, he could not have been half so well pleased. "

"He seems like an excellent man, and one whose heart is in his work, "said Mr. Steel. 

"He had, already, taken in ten poor little boys and girls on thestrength of your liberal donation. Ten children lifted out of want andsuffering, and placed under Christian guardianship! Just think of it. My heart gave a leap for joy when he told me. It was well done, myfriend--well done!"

"And what of your good purpose, Mr. Erwin?" asked the other. 

"Two little girls--babes almost, " replied Mr. Erwin, in a lower voice, that almost trembled with feeling, "were brought to me. As I looked atthem, the superintendent said: 'I heard of them two days ago. Theirwretched mother had just died, and, in dying, had given them to avicious companion. Hunger, cold, debasement, suffering, crime, were inthe way before them; and but for your timely aid, I should have had nopower to intervene. But, you gave the means of rescue, and here theyare, innocent as yet, and out of danger from the wolf. ' In all my life, my friend, there has not been given a moment of sincerer pleasure. "

For some time Mr. Steel sat musing. 

"This is a new experience, " he said, at length. "Something outside ofthe common order of things. I have made hundreds of investments in mytime, but none that paid me down so large an interest. A poorspeculation it seemed. You almost dragged me into it; but, I see thatit will yield unfailing dividends of pleasure. "

"We have turned a leaf in the book of life, " his friend made answer, "and on the new page which now lies before us, we find it written, thatin wise dispensation, not in mere getting and hoarding, lies the secretof happiness. The lake must have an outlet, and give forth its crystalwaters in full measure, if it would keep them pure and wholesome, or, as the Dead Sea, it will be full of bitterness, and hold no life in itsbosom. "

IX. 

WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?

"_WHO_ is that young lady?"

A slender girl, just above the medium height, stood a moment at theparlor door, and then withdrew. Her complexion was fair, but colorless;her eyes so dark, that you were in doubt, on the first glance, whetherthey were brown or blue. Away from her forehead and temples, thechestnut hair was put far back, giving to her finely-cut and regularfeatures an intellectual cast. Her motions were easy, yet with an airof reserve and dignity. 

The question was asked by a visitor who had called a little whilebefore. 

"My seamstress, " answered Mrs. Wykoff. 

"Oh!" The manner of her visitor changed. How the whole character of thewoman was expressed in the tone with which she made that simpleejaculation! Only a seamstress! "Oh! I thought it some relative orfriend of the family. "

"No. "

"She is a peculiar-looking girl, " said Mrs. Lowe, the visitor. 

"Do you think so? In what respect?"

"If she were in a different sphere of life, I would say that she hadthe style of a lady. "

"She's a true, good girl, " answered Mrs. Wykoff, "and I feel muchinterested in her. A few years ago her father was in excellentcircumstances. "

"Ah!" With a slight manifestation of interest. 

"Yes, and she's been well educated. "

"And has ridden in her own carriage, no doubt. It's the story oftwo-thirds of your sewing girls. " Mrs. Lowe laughed in anunsympathetic, contemptuous way. 

"I happen to know that it is true in Mary Carson's case, " said Mrs. Wykoff. 

"Mary Carson. Is that her name?"

"Yes. "

"Passing from her antecedents, as the phrase now is, which are neitherhere nor there, " said Mrs. Lowe, with a coldness, or rather coarsenessof manner, that shocked the higher tone of Mrs. Wykoff's feelings, "what is she as a seamstress? Can she fit children?--little girls likemy Angela and Grace?"

"I have never been so well suited in my life, " replied Mrs. Wykoff. "Let me show you a delaine for Anna which she finished yesterday. "

Mrs. Wykoff left the room, and returned in a few minutes with a child'sdress in her hand. The ladies examined the work on this dress withpractised eyes, and agreed that it was of unusual excellence. 

"And she fits as well as she sews?" said Mrs. Lowe. 

"Yes. Nothing could fit more beautifully than the dresses she has madefor my children. "

"How soon will you be done with her?"

"She will be through with my work in a day or two. "

"Is she engaged anywhere else?"

"I will ask her, if you desire it. "

"Do so, if you please. "

"Would you like to see her?"

"It's of no consequence. Say that I will engage her for a couple ofweeks. What are her terms?"

"Seventy-five cents a day. "

"So much? I've never paid over sixty-two-and-a-half. "

"She's worth the difference. I'd rather pay her a dollar a day thangive some women I've had, fifty cents. She works faithfully in allthings. "

"I'll take your word for that, Mrs. Wykoff. Please ask her if she cancome to me next week; and if so, on what day?"

Mrs. Wykoff left the room. 

"Will Monday suit you?" she asked, on returning. 

"Yes; that will do. "

"Miss Carson says that she will be at your service on Monday. "

"Very well. Tell her to report herself bright and early on that day. Ishall be all ready for her. "

"Hadn't you better see her, while you are here?" asked Mrs. Wykoff. 

"Oh, no. Not at all necessary. It will be time enough on Monday. Yourendorsement of her is all-sufficient. "

Mrs. Lowe, who had only been making a formal call, now arose, and witha courteous good morning, retired. From the parlor, Mrs. Wykoffreturned to the room occupied by Miss Carson. 

"You look pale this morning, Mary, " said the lady as she came in, "I'mafraid you are not as well as usual. "

The seamstress lifted herself in a tired way, and took a long breath, at the same time holding one hand tightly against her left side. Hereyes looked very bright, as they rested, with a sober expression, onMrs. Wykoff. But she did not reply. 

"Have you severe pain there, Mary?" The voice was very kind; almostmotherly. 

"Not very severe. But it aches in a dull way. "

"Hadn't you better lie down for a little while?"

"Oh, no--thank you, Mrs. Wykoff. " And a smile flitted over the girl'ssweet, sad face; a smile that was meant to say--"How absurd to think ofsuch a thing!" She was there to work, not to be treated as an invalid. Stooping over the garment, she went on with her sewing. Mrs. Wykofflooked at her very earnestly, and saw that her lips were growingcolorless; that she moved them in a nervous way, and swallowed everynow and then. 

"Come, child, " she said, in a firm tone, as she took Miss Carson by thearm. "Put aside your work, and lie down on that sofa. You are sick. "

She did not resist; but only said---

"Not sick, ma'am--only a little faint. "

As her head went heavily down upon the pillow, Mrs. Wykoff saw asparkle of tears along the line of her closely shut eyelids. 

"Now don't stir from there until I come back, " said the kind lady, andleft the room. In a little while she returned, with a small waiter inher hand, containing a goblet of wine sangaree and a biscuit. 

"Take this, Mary. It will do you good. "

The eyes which had not been unclosed since Mrs. Wykoff went out, wereall wet as Mary Carson opened them. 

"Oh, you are so kind!" There was gratitude in her voice. Rising, shetook the wine, and drank of it like one athirst. Then taking it fromher lips, she sat, as if noting her sensations. 

"It seems to put life into me, " she said, with a pulse of cheerfulnessin her tones. 

"Now eat this biscuit, " and Mrs. Wykoff held the waiter near. 

The wine drank and the biscuit eaten, a complete change in Miss Carsonwas visible. The whiteness around her mouth gave place to a ruddiertint; her face no longer wore an exhausted air; the glassy lustre ofher eyes was gone. 

"I feel like myself again, " she said, as she left the sofa, and resumedher sewing chair. 

"How is your side now?" asked Mrs. Wykoff. 

"Easier. I scarcely perceive the pain. "

"Hadn't you better lie still a while longer?"

"No, ma'am. I am all right now. A weak spell came over me. I didn'tsleep much last night, and that left me exhausted this morning, andwithout any appetite. "

"What kept you awake?"

"This dull pain in my side for a part of the time. Then I coughed agood deal; and then I became wakeful and nervous. "

"Does this often occur, Mary?"

"Well--yes, ma'am--pretty often of late. "

"How often?"

"Two or three times a week. "

"Can you trace it to any cause?"

"Not certainly. "

"To cold?"

"No, ma'am. "

"Fatigue?"

"More that than anything else, I think. "

"And you didn't eat any breakfast this morning?"

"I drank a cup of coffee. "

"But took no solid food?"

"I couldn't have swallowed it, ma'am. "

"And it's now twelve o'clock, " said Mrs. Wykoff; drawing out her watch. "Mary! Mary! This will not do. I don't wonder you were faint just now. "

Miss Carson bent to her work and made no answer. Mrs. Wykoff satregarding her for some time with a look of human interest, and thenwent out. 

A little before two o'clock there was a tap at the door, and the waitercame in, bearing a tray. There was a nicely-cooked chop, toast, andsome tea, with fruit and a custard. 

"Mrs. Wykoff said, when she went out, that dinner would be late to-day, and that you were not well, and mustn't be kept waiting, " remarked theservant, as he drew a small table towards the centre of the room, andcovered it with a white napkin. 

He came just in time. The stimulating effect of the wine had subsided, and Miss Carson was beginning to grow faint again, for lack of food. 

It was after three o'clock when Mrs. Wykoff came home, and half pastthree before the regular dinner for the family was served. She lookedin, a moment, upon the seamstress, saying as she did so--

"You've had your dinner, Mary?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, and I'm much obliged, " answered Miss Carson, a brightsmile playing over her face. The timely meal had put new life into her. 

"I knew you couldn't wait until we were ready, " said the kind-hearted, thoughtful woman, "and so told Ellen to cook you a chop, and make you acup of tea. Did you have enough?"

"Oh yes, ma'am. More than enough. "

"You feel better than you did this morning?"

"A great deal better, I'm like another person. "

"You must never go without food so long again, Mary. It is littlebetter than suicide for one in your state of health. "

Mrs. Wykoff retired, and the seamstress went on with her work. 

At the usual hour, Mary Carson appeared on the next morning. Living atsome distance from Mrs. Wykoff's, she did not come until afterbreakfast. The excellent lady had thought over the incident of the daybefore, and was satisfied that, from lack of nutritious food at theright time, Mary's vital forces were steadily wasting, and that shewould, in a very little while, destroy herself. 

"I will talk with her seriously about this matter, " she said. "A wordof admonition may save her. "

"You look a great deal better this morning, " she remarked, as sheentered the room where Mary was sewing. 

"I haven't felt better for a long time, " was the cheerful answer. 

"Did you sleep well last night?"

"Very well. "

"Any cough?"

"Not of any consequence, ma'am. "

"How was the pain in your side?"

"It troubled me a little when I first went to bed, but soon passed off. "

"Did you feel the old exhaustion on waking?"

"I always feel weak in the morning; but it was nothing, this morning, to what it has been. "

"How was your appetite?"

"Better. I eat an egg and a piece of toast, and they tasted good. Usually my stomach loathes food in the morning. "

"Has this been the case long?"

"For a long time, ma'am. "

Mrs. Wykoff mused for a little while, and then asked--

"How do you account for the difference this morning?"

Miss Carson's pale face became slightly flushed, and her eyes fell awayfrom the questioning gaze of Mrs. Wykoff. 

"There is a cause for it, and it is of importance that you should knowthe cause. Has it been suggested to your mind?"

"Yes, ma'am. To me the cause is quite apparent. "

They looked at each other for a few moments in silence. 

"My interest in you prompts these questions, Mary, " said Mrs. Wykoff. "Speak to me freely, if you will, as to a friend. What made thedifference?"

"I think the difference is mainly due to your kindness yesterday. --Tothe glass of wine and biscuit when I was faint, and to the early andgood dinner, when exhausted nature was crying for food. I believe, Mrs. Wykoff"--and Mary's eyes glistened--"that if you had not thought of mewhen you did, I should not be here to-day. "

"Are you serious, Mary?"

"I am, indeed, ma'am. I should have got over my faint spell in themorning, even without the wine and biscuit, and worked on untildinner-time; but I wouldn't have been able to eat anything. It almostalways happens, when I go so long without food, that my appetite failsaltogether, and by the time night comes, I sink down in an exhaustedstate, from which nature finds it hard to rally. It has been so anumber of times. The week before I came here, I was sewing for a lady, and worked from eight o'clock in the morning until four in theafternoon, without food passing my lips. As I had been unable to eatanything at breakfast-time, I grew very faint, and when called todinner, was unable to swallow a mouthful. When I got home in theevening I was feverish and exhausted, and coughed nearly all night. Itwas three or four days before I was well enough to go out again. "

"Has this happened, in any instance, while you were sewing for me?"asked Mrs. Wykoff. 

Miss Carson dropped her face, and turned it partly aside; her mannerwas slightly disturbed. 

"Don't hesitate about answering my question, Mary. If it has happened, say so. I am not always as thoughtful as I should be. "

"It happened once. "

"When?"

"Last week. "

"Oh! I remember that you were not able to come for two days. Now, tellme, Mary, without reservation, exactly how it was. "

"I never blamed you for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. You didn't think; andI'd rather not say anything about it. If I'd been as well as usual onthat day, it wouldn't have happened. "

"You'd passed a sleepless night?" said Mrs. Wykoff. 

"Yes, ma'am. "

"The consequence of fatigue and exhaustion?"

"Perhaps that was the reason. "

"And couldn't eat any breakfast?"

"I drank a cup of coffee. "

"Very well. After that you came here to work. Now, tell me exactly whatoccurred, and how you felt all day. Don't keep back anything on accountof my feelings. I want the exact truth. It will be of use to me, and toothers also, I think. "

Thus urged, Miss Carson replied--

"I'll tell you just as it was. I came later than usual. The walk islong, and I felt so weak that I couldn't hurry. I thought you looked alittle serious when I came in, and concluded that it was in consequenceof my being late. The air and walk gave me an appetite, and if I hadtaken some food then, it would have done me good. I thought, as I stoodat the door, waiting to be let in, that I would ask for a cracker or apiece of bread and butter; but, when I met you, and saw how sober youlooked, my heart failed me. "

"Why, Mary!" said Mrs. Wykoff. "How wrong it was in you!"

"May be it was, ma'am; but I couldn't help it. I'm foolish sometimes;and it's hard for us to be anything else than what we are, as my AuntHannah used to say. Well, I sat down to my work with the dull pain inmy side, and the sick feeling that always comes at such times, andworked on hour after hour. You looked in once or twice during themorning to see how I was getting on, and to ask about the trimming fora dress I was making. Then you went out shopping, and did not get homeuntil half past two o'clock. For two hours there had been a gnawing atmy stomach, and I was faint for something to eat. Twice I got up toring the bell, and ask for a lunch; but, I felt backward about takingthe liberty. When, at three o'clock, I was called to dinner, noappetite remained. I put food into my mouth, but it had no sweetness, and the little I forced myself to swallow, lay undigested. You werevery much occupied, and did not notice me particularly. I dragged on, as best I could, through the afternoon, feeling, sometimes, as if Iwould drop from my chair. You had tea later than usual. It was nearlyseven o'clock when I put up my work and went down. You said somethingin a kind, but absent tone, about my looking pale, and asked if I wouldhave a second cup of tea. I believe I forced myself to eat a slice ofbread half as large as my hand. I thought I should never reach homethat night, for the weakness that came upon me. I got to bed as soon aspossible, but was too tired to sleep until after twelve o'clock, when acoughing spell seized me, which brought on the pain in my side. It wasnear daylight when I dropped off; and then I slept so heavily for twohours that I was all wet with perspiration when I awoke. On trying torise, my head swam so that I had to lie down again, and it was late inthe day before I could even sit up in bed. Towards evening, I was ableto drink a cup of tea and eat a small piece of toast and then I feltwonderfully better. I slept well that night, and was still better inthe morning, but did not think it safe to venture out upon a day'swork; so I rested and got all the strength I could. On the third day, Iwas as well as ever again. "

Mrs. Wykoff drew a long sigh as Miss Carson stopped speaking and bentdown over her sewing. For some time, she remained without speaking. 

"Life is too precious a thing to be wasted in this way, " said the lady, at length, speaking partly to herself, and partly to the seamstress. "We are too thoughtless, I must own; but you are not blameless. It isscarcely possible for us to understand just how the case stands withone in your position, and duty to yourself demands that you should makeit known. There is not one lady in ten, I am sure, who would not bepleased rather than annoyed, to have you do so. "

Miss Carson did not answer. 

"Do you doubt?" asked Mrs. Wykoff. 

"For one of my disposition, " was replied, "the life of a seamstressdoes not take off the keen edge of a natural reserve--or, to speak morecorrectly sensitiveness. I dislike to break in upon another's householdarrangements, or in any way to obtrude myself. My rule is, to adaptmyself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not disturb anythingby my presence. "

"Even though your life be in jeopardy?" said Mrs. Wykoff. 

"Oh! it's not so bad as that. "

"But it is, Mary! Let me ask a few more questions. I am growinginterested in the subject, as reaching beyond you personally. How manyfamilies do you work for?"

After thinking for a little while, and naming quite a number of ladies, she replied--

"Not less than twenty. "

"And to many of these, you go for only a day or two at a time?"

"Yes. "

"Passing from family to family, and adapting yourself to their varioushome arrangements?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"Getting your dinner at one o'clock to-day, and at three or fourto-morrow?"

Miss Carson nodded assent. 

"Taking it now, warm and well served, with the family, and on the nextoccasion, cold and tasteless by yourself, after the family has dined. "

Another assenting inclination of the head. 

"One day set to work in an orderly, well ventilated room, and on thenext cooped up with children in a small apartment, the air of which islittle less than poison to your weak lungs. "

"These differences must always occur, Mrs. Wykoff, " replied MissCarson, in a quiet uncomplaining voice. "How could it be otherwise? Nohouse-keeper is going to alter her family arrangements for theaccommodation of a sewing-girl. The seamstress must adapt herself tothem, and do it as gracefully as possible. "

"Even at the risk of her life?"

"She will find it easier to decline working in families where the orderof things bears too heavily upon her, than to attempt any change. Ihave been obliged to do this in one or two instances. "

"There is something wrong here, Mary, " said Mrs. Wykoff, withincreasing sobriety of manner. "Something very wrong, and as I look itsteadily in the face, I feel both surprise and trouble; for, after whatyou have just said, I do not see clearly how it is to be remedied. Onething is certain, if you, as a class, accept, without remonstrance, thehurt you suffer, there will be no change. People are indifferent andthoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any regard forothers--especially if they stand, socially, on a plane below them. "

"We cannot apply the remedy, " answered Miss Carson. 

"I am not so sure of that. "

"Just look at it for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. It is admitted, that, forthe preservation of health, orderly habits are necessary; and that foodshould be taken at regular intervals. Suppose that, at home, my habitis to eat breakfast at seven, dinner at one, and supper at six. To-day, such is the order of my meals; but to-morrow, I leave home at half pastsix, and sit down, on an empty stomach to sew until eight, before I amcalled to breakfast. After that, I work until two o'clock, when I getmy dinner; and at seven drink tea. On the day after that, may be, on myarrival at another house where a day's cutting and fitting is wanted, Ifind the breakfast awaiting me at seven; this suits very well--but notanother mouthful of food passes my lips until after three o'clock, andmay be, then, I have such an inward trembling and exhaustion, that Icannot eat. On the day following, the order is again changed. So itgoes on. The difference in food, too, is often as great. At somehouses, everything is of good quality, well cooked, and in consequence, of easy digestion; while at others, sour or heavy bread, greasycooking, and like kitchen abominations, if I must so call them, disorder instead of giving sustenance to a frail body like mine. Theseamstress who should attempt a change of these things for her ownspecial benefit, would soon find herself in hot water. Think a moment. Suppose, in going into a family for one or two days, or a week, Ishould begin by a request to have my meals served at certainhours--seven, one and six, for instance--how would it be received ineight out of ten families?"

"Something would depend, " said Mrs. Wykoff, "on the way in which it wasdone. If there was a formal stipulation, or a cold demand, I do notthink the response would be a favorable one. But, I am satisfied that, in your case, with the signs of poor health on your countenance, themild request to be considered as far as practicable, would, in almostevery instance, receive a kind return. "

"Perhaps so. But, it would make trouble--if no where else, withservants, who never like to do anything out of the common order. I havebeen living around long enough to understand how such things operate;and generally think it wisest to take what comes and make the best ofit. "

"Say, rather, the worst of it, Mary. To my thinking, you are making theworst of it. "

But, Mrs. Wykoff did not inspire her seamstress with any purpose to actin the line of her suggestions. Her organization was of too sensitive acharacter to accept the shocks and repulses that she knew would attend, in some quarters, any such intrusion of her individual wants. Even withall the risks upon her, she preferred to suffer whatever might come, rather than ask for consideration. During the two or three days thatshe remained with Mrs. Wykoff, that excellent lady watched her, andministered to her actual wants, with all the tender solicitude of amother; and when she left, tried to impress upon her mind the duty ofasking, wherever she might be, for such consideration as her healthrequired. 

The Monday morning on which Mary Carson was to appear "bright andearly" at the dwelling of Mrs. Lowe, came round, but it was far frombeing a bright morning. An easterly storm had set in during the night;the rain was falling fast, and the wind driving gustily. A chillinesscrept through the frame of Miss Carson as she arose from her bed, soonafter the dull light began to creep in drearily through the half closedshutters of her room. The air, even within her chamber, felt cold, damp, and penetrating. From her window a steeple clock was visible. Sheglanced at the face, and saw that it was nearly seven. 

"So late as that!" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, and commenceddressing herself in a hurried, nervous way. By the time she was readyto leave her room, she was exhausted by her own excited haste. 

"Mary, " said a kind voice, calling to her as she was moving downstairs, "you are not going out this morning. "

"Oh, yes, ma'am, " she answered, in a cheerful voice. "I have anengagement for to-day. "

"But the storm is too severe. It's raining and blowing dreadfully. Waitan hour or two until it holds up a little. "

"Oh dear, no, Mrs. Grant! I can't stop for a trifle of rain. "

"It's no trifle of rain this morning, let me tell you, Mary. You'll getdrenched to the skin. Now don't go out, child!"

"I must indeed, Mrs. Grant. The lady expects me, and I cannotdisappoint her. " And Miss Carson kept on down stairs. 

"But you are not going without something on your stomach, Mary. Waitjust for a few minutes until I can get you a cup of tea. The water isboiling. "

Mary did not wait. It was already past the time when she was expectedat Mrs. Lowe's; and besides feeling a little uncomfortable on thataccount, she had a slight sense of nausea, with its attendant aversionto food. So, breaking away from Mrs. Grant's concerned importunities, she went forth into the cold driving storm. It so happened, that shehad to go for nearly the entire distance of six or seven blocks, almostin the teeth of the wind, which blew a gale, drenching her clothes inspite of all efforts to protect herself by means of an umbrella. Herfeet and ankles were wet by the time she reached Mrs. Lowe's, and thelower parts of her dress and under-clothing saturated to a depth of tenor twelve inches. 

"I expected you half an hour ago, " said the lady, in a coldly politeway, as Miss Carson entered her presence. 

"The morning was dark and I overslept myself, " was the only reply. 

Mrs. Lowe did not remark upon the condition of Mary's clothing andfeet. That was a matter of no concern to her. It was a seamstress, nota human being, that was before her--a machine, not thing of sensation. So she conducted her to a room in the third story, fronting east, against the cloudy and misty windows of which the wind and rain weredriving. There was a damp, chilly feeling in the air of this room. Mrs. Lowe had a knit shawl drawn around her shoulders; but Mary, afterremoving her bonnet and cloak, had no external protection for her chestbeyond the closely fitting body of her merino dress. Her feet and handsfelt very cold, and she had that low shuddering, experienced when oneis inwardly chilled. 

Mrs. Lowe was ready for her seamstress. There were the materials tomake half a dozen dresses for Angela and Grace, and one of the littleMisses was called immediately, and the work of selecting and cutting abody pattern commenced, Mrs. Lowe herself superintending the operation, and embarrassing Mary at the start with her many suggestions. Nearly anhour had been spent in this way, when the breakfast bell rang. It wasafter eight o'clock. Without saying anything to Mary, Mrs. Lowe and thechild they had been fitting, went down stairs. This hour had been oneof nervous excitement to Mary Carson. Her cheeks were hot--burning asif a fire shone upon them--but her cold hands, and wet, colder feet, sent the blood in every returning circle, robbed of warmth to thedisturbed heart. 

It was past nine o'clock when a servant called Mary to breakfast. Asshe arose from her chair, she felt a sharp stitch in her left side; sosharp, that she caught her breath in half inspirations, two or threetimes, before venturing on a full inflation of the lungs. She was, atthe same time, conscious of an uncomfortable tightness across thechest. The nausea, and loathing of food, which had given place soonafter her arrival at Mrs. Lowe's to a natural craving of the stomachfor food, had returned again, and she felt, as she went down stairs, that unless something to tempt the appetite were set before her, shecould not take a mouthful. There was nothing to tempt the appetite. Thetable at which the family had eaten remained just as they had leftit--soiled plates and scraps of broken bread and meat; partly emptiedcups and saucers; dirty knives and forks, spread about inconfusion. --Amid all this, a clean plate had been set for theseamstress; and Mrs. Lowe awaited her, cold and dignified, at the headof the table. 

"Coffee or tea, Miss Carson?"

"Coffee. "

It was a lukewarm decoction of spent coffee grounds, flavored with tin, and sweetened to nauseousness. Mary took a mouthful and swallowedit--put the cup again to her lips; but they resolutely refused tounclose and admit another drop. So she sat the cup down. 

"Help yourself to some of the meat. " And Mrs. Lowe pushed the dish, which, nearly three-quarters of an hour before had come upon the tablebearing a smoking sirloin, across to the seamstress. Now, lying besidethe bone, and cemented to the dish by a stratum of chilled gravy, wasthe fat, stringy end of the steak. The sight of it was enough for MissCarson; and she declined the offered delicacy. 

"There's bread. " She took a slice from a fresh baker's loaf; and spreadit with some oily-looking butter that remained on one of the butterplates. It was slightly sour. By forcing herself, she swallowed two orthree mouthfuls. But the remonstrating palate would accept no more. 

"Isn't the coffee good?" asked Mrs. Lowe, with a sharp quality in hervoice, seeing that Miss Carson did not venture upon a second mouthful. 

"I have very little appetite this morning, " was answered, with aneffort to smile and look cheerful. 

"Perhaps you'd rather have tea. Shall I give you a cup?" And Mrs. Lowelaid her hand on the teapot. 

"You may, if you please. " Mary felt an inward weakness that she knewwas occasioned by lack of food, and so accepted the offer of tea, inthe hope that it might prove more palatable than the coffee. It had themerit of being hot, and not of decidedly offensive flavor; but it waslittle more in strength than sweetened water, whitened with milk. Shedrank off the cup, and then left the table, going, with her still wetfeet and skirts to the sewing-room. 

"Rather a dainty young lady, " she heard Mrs. Lowe remark to the waiter, as she left the room. 

The stitch in Mary's side caught her again, as she went up stairs, andalmost took her breath away; and it was some time after she resumed herwork, before she could bear her body up straight on the left side. 

In her damp feet and skirts, on a chilly and rainy October day, MaryCarson sat working until nearly three o'clock, without rest orrefreshment of any kind; and when at last called to dinner, thedisordered condition of the table, and the cold, unpalatable food setbefore her, extinguished, instead of stimulating her sickly appetite. She made a feint of eating, to avoid attracting attention, and thenreturned to the sewing-room, the air of which, as she re-entered, seemed colder than that of the hall and dining-room. 

The stitch in her side was not so bad during the afternoon; but thedull pain was heavier, and accompanied by a sickening sensation. Still, she worked on, cutting, fitting and sewing with a patience andindustry, that, considering her actual condition, was surprising. Mrs. Lowe was in and out of the room frequently, overlooking the work, andmarking its progress. Beyond the producing power of her seamstress, shehad no thought of that individual. It did not come within the range ofher questionings whether she were well or ill--weak orstrong--exhausted by prolonged labor, or in the full possession ofbodily vigor. To her, she was simply an agent through which a certainservice was obtained; and beyond that service, she was nothing. Theextent of her consideration was limited by the progressive creation ofdresses for her children. As that went on, her thought dwelt with MissCarson; but penetrated no deeper. She might be human; might have anindividual life full of wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities;might be conscious of bodily or mental suffering--but, if so, it was ina region so remote from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that nointelligence thereof reached her. 

At six o'clock, Mary put up her work, and, taking her bonnet and shawl, went down stairs, intending to return home. 

"You're not going?" said Mrs. Lowe, meeting her on the way. She spokein some surprise. 

"Yes, ma'am. I'm not very well, and wish to get home. "

"What time is it?" Mrs. Lowe drew out her watch. "Only six o'clock. Ithink you're going rather early. It was late when you came thismorning, you know. "

"Excuse me, if you please, " said Miss Carson, as she moved on. "I amnot very well to-night. To-morrow I will make it up. "

Mrs. Lowe muttered something that was not heard by the seamstress, whokept on down stairs, and left the house. 

The rain was still falling and the wind blowing. Mary's feet were quitewet again by the time she reached home. 

"How are you, child?" asked Mrs. Grant, in kind concern, as Mary camein. 

"Not very well, " was answered. 

"Oh! I'm sorry! Have you taken cold?"

"I'm afraid that I have. "

"I said it was wrong in you to go out this morning. Did you get verywet?"

"Yes. "

Mrs. Grant looked down at Mary's feet. "Are they damp?"

"A little. "

"Come right into the sitting-room. I've had a fire made up on purposefor you. " And the considerate Mrs. Grant hurried Mary into the smallback room, and taking off her cloak and bonnet, placed her in a chairbefore the fire. Then, as she drew off one of her shoes, and claspedthe foot in her hand, she exclaimed--

"Soaking wet, as I live!" Then added, after removing, with kindofficiousness, the other shoe--"Hold both feet to the fire, while I runup and get you a pair of dry stockings. Don't take off the wet onesuntil I come back. "

In a few minutes Mrs. Grant returned with the dry stockings and atowel. She bared one of the damp feet, and dried and heated itthoroughly--then warmed one of the stockings and drew it on. 

"It feels so good, " said Mary, faintly, yet with a tone of satisfaction. 

Then the other foot was dried, warmed, and covered. On completing thiswelcome service, Mrs. Grant looked more steadily into Mary's face, andsaw that her cheeks were flushed unnaturally, and that her eyes shonewith an unusual lustre. She also noticed, that in breathing there wasan effort. 

"You got very wet this morning, " said Mrs. Grant. 

"Yes. The wind blew right in my face all the way. An umbrella washardly of any use. "

"You dried yourself on getting to Mrs. Lowe's?"

Mary shook her head. 

"What?"

"There was no fire in the room. "

"Why, Mary!"

"I had no change of clothing, and there was no fire in the room. Whatcould I do?"

"You could have gone down into the kitchen, if nowhere else, and driedyour feet. "

"It would have been better if I had done so; but you know how hard itis for me to intrude myself or give trouble. "

"Give trouble! How strangely you do act, sometimes! Isn't life worth alittle trouble to save? Mrs. Lowe should have seen to this. Didn't shenotice your condition?"

"I think not. "

"Well, it's hard to say who deserves most censure, you or she. Suchtrifling with health and life is a crime. What's the matter?" Sheobserved Mary start as if from sudden pain. 

"I have suffered all day, with an occasional sharp stitch in myside--it caught me just then. "

Mrs. Grant observed her more closely; while doing so, Mary coughed twoor three times. The cough was tight and had a wheezing sound. 

"Have you coughed much?" she asked. 

"Not a great deal. But I'm very tight here, " laying her hand over herbreast. "I think, " she added, a few moments afterwards, "that I'll goup to my room and get to bed. I feel tired and sick. "

"Wait until I can get you some tea, " replied Mrs. Grant. "I'll bringdown a pillow, and you can lie here on the sofa. "

"Thank you, Mrs. Grant. You are so kind and thoughtful. " Miss Carson'svoice shook a little. The contrast between the day's selfishindifference of Mrs. Lowe, and the evening's motherly consideration ofMrs. Grant, touched her. "I will lie down here for a short time. Perhaps I shall feel better after getting some warm tea. I've beenchilly all day. "

The pillow and a shawl were brought, and Mrs. Grant covered Mary as shelay upon the sofa; then she went to the kitchen to hurry up tea. 

"Come, dear, " she said, half an hour afterwards, laying her hand uponthe now sleeping girl. A drowsy feeling had come over Mary, and she hadfallen into a heavy slumber soon after lying down. The easy touch ofMrs. Grant did not awaken her. So she called louder, and shook thesleeper more vigorously. At this, Mary started up, and looked around ina half-conscious, bewildered manner. Her cheeks were like scarlet. 

"Come, dear--tea is ready, " said Mrs. Grant. 

"Oh! Yes. " And Mary, not yet clearly awake, started to leave the roominstead of approaching the table. 

"Where are you going, child?" Mrs. Grant caught her arm. 

Mary stood still, looking at Mrs. Grant, in a confused way. 

"Tea is ready. " Mrs. Grant spoke slowly and with emphasis. 

"Oh! Ah! Yes. I was asleep. " Mary drew her hand across her eyes two orthree times, and then suffered Mrs. Grant to lead her to the table, where she sat down, leaning forward heavily upon one arm. 

"Take some of the toast, " said Mrs. Grant, after pouring a cup of tea. Mary helped herself, in a dull way, to a slice of toast, but did notattempt to eat. Mrs. Grant looked at her narrowly from across thetable, and noticed that her eyes, which had appeared large andglittering when she came home, were now lustreless, with the lidsdrooping heavily. 

"Can't you eat anything?" asked Mrs. Grant, in a voice that expressedconcern. 

Mary pushed her cup and plate away, and leaning back, wearily, in herchair, answered--

"Not just now. I'm completely worn out, and feel hot and oppressed. "

Mrs. Grant got up and came around to where Miss Carson was sitting. Asshe laid her hand upon her forehead, she said, a little anxiously, "Youhave considerable fever, Mary. "

"I shouldn't wonder. " And a sudden cough seized her as she spoke. Shecried out as the rapid concussions jarred her, and pressed one handagainst her side. 

"Oh dear! It seemed as if a knife were cutting through me, " she said, as the paroxysm subsided, and she leaned her head against Mrs. Grant. 

"Come, child, " and the kind woman drew upon one of her arms. "In bed isthe place for you now. "

They went up stairs, and Mary was soon undressed and in bed. As shetouched the cool sheets, she shivered for a moment, and then shrankdown under the clothes, shutting her eyes, and lying very still. 

"How do you feel now?" asked Mrs. Grant, who stood bending over her. 

Mary did not reply. 

"Does the pain in your side continue?"

"Yes, ma'am. " Her voice was dull. 

"And the tightness over your breast?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I want rest and sleep. "

Mrs. Grant stood for some time looking down upon Mary's red cheeks; redin clearly defined spots, that made the pale forehead whiter bycontrast. 

"Something more than sleep is wanted, I fear, " she said to herself, asshe passed from the chamber and went down stairs. In less than half anhour she returned. A moan reached her ears as she approached the roomwhere the sick girl lay. On entering, she found her sitting high up inbed; or, rather, reclining against the pillows, which she had adjustedagainst the head-board. Her face, which had lost much of its redness, was pinched and had a distressed look. Her eyes turned anxiously toMrs. Grant. 

"How are you now, Mary?"

"Oh, I'm sick! Very sick, Mrs. Grant. "

"Where? How, Mary?"

"Oh, dear!' I'm so distressed here!" laying her hand on her breast. "And every time I draw a breath, such a sharp pain runs through my sideinto my shoulder. Oh, dear! I feel very sick, Mrs. Grant. "

"Shall I send for a doctor?"

"I don't know, ma'am. " And Miss Carson threw her head from side toside, uneasily--almost impatiently; then cried out with pain, as shetook a deeper inspiration than usual. 

Mrs. Grant left the room, and going down stairs, despatched her servantfor a physician, who lived not far distant. 

"It is pleurisy, " said the doctor, on examining the case. --"And a verysevere attack, " he added, aside, to Mrs. Grant. 

Of the particulars of his treatment, we will not speak. He was of theexhaustive school, and took blood freely; striking at the inflammationthrough a reduction of the vital system. When he left his patient thatnight, she was free from pain, breathing feebly, and withoutconstriction of the chest. In the morning, he found her withconsiderable fever, and suffering from a return of the pleuritic pain. Her pulse was low and quick, and had a wiry thrill under the fingers. The doctor had taken blood very freely on the night before, andhesitated a little on the question of opening another vein, or havingrecourse to cups. As the lancet was at hand, and most easy of use, thevein was opened, and permitted to flow until there was a markedreduction of pain. After this, an anodyne diaphoretic was prescribed, and the doctor retired from the chamber with Mrs. Grant. He was muchmore particular, now, in his inquiries about his patient and theimmediate cause of her illness. On learning that she had been permittedto remain all day in a cold room, with wet feet and damp clothing, heshook his head soberly, and remarked, partly speaking to himself, thatdoctors were not of much use in suicide or murder cases. Then he asked, abruptly, and with considerable excitement of manner--

"In heaven's name! who permitted this think to be done? In what familydid it occur?"

"The lady for whom she worked yesterday is named Mrs. Lowe. "

"Mrs. Lowe!"

"Yes, sir. "

"And she permitted that delicate girl to sit in wet clothing, in a roomwithout fire, on a day like yesterday?"

"It is so, doctor. "

"Then I call Mrs. Lowe a murderer!" The doctor spoke with excess offeeling. 

"Do you think Mary so very ill, doctor?" asked Mrs. Grant. 

"I do, ma'am. "

"She is free from pain now. "

"So she was when I left her last night; and I expected to find hershowing marked improvement this morning. But, to my concern, I find herreally worse instead of better. "

"Worse, doctor? Not worse!"

"I say worse to you, Mrs. Grant, in order that you may know how muchdepends on careful attendance. Send for the medicine I have prescribedat once, and give it immediately. It will quiet her system and producesleep. If perspiration follows, we shall be on the right side. I willcall in again through the day. If the pain in her side returns, sendfor me. "

The pain did return, and the doctor was summoned. He feared to strikehis lancet again; but cupped freely over the right side, thus gainingfor the suffering girl a measure of relief. She lay, after this, in akind of stupor for some hours. On coming out of this, she no longer hadthe lancinating pain in her side with every expansion of the lungs;but, instead, a dull pain, attended by a cough and tightness of thechest. The cough was, at first, dry, unsatisfactory, and attended withanxiety. Then came a tough mucus, a little streaked with blood. Theexpectoration soon became freer, and assumed a brownish hue. A lowfever accompanied these bad symptoms. 

The case had become complicated with pneumonia, and assumed a verydangerous type. On the third day a consulting physician was called in. He noted all the symptoms carefully, and with a seriousness of mannerthat did not escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. Grant. He passed but fewwords with the attendant physician, and their exact meaning was veiledby medical terms; but Mrs. Grant understood enough to satisfy her thatlittle hope of a favorable issue was entertained. 

About the time this consultation over the case of Mary Carson was inprogress, it happened that Mrs. Wykoff received another visit from Mrs. Lowe. 

"I've called, " said the latter, speaking in the tone of one who feltannoyed, "to ask where that sewing girl you recommended to me lives?"

"Miss Carson. "

"Yes, I believe that is her name. "

"Didn't she come on Monday, according to appointment?"

"Oh, yes, she came. But I've seen nothing of her since. "

"Ah! Is that so? She may be sick. " The voice of Mrs. Wykoff dropped toa shade of seriousness. "Let me see--Monday--didn't it rain?--Yes, nowI remember; it was a dreadful day. Perhaps she took cold. She's verydelicate. Did she get wet in coming to your house?"

"I'm sure I don't know. " There was a slight indication of annoyance onthe part of Mrs. Lowe. 

"It was impossible, raining and blowing as it did, for her to escapewet feet, if not drenched clothing. Was there fire in the room whereshe worked?"

"Fire! No. We don't have grates or stoves in any of our rooms. "

"Oh; then there was a fire in the heater?"

"We never make fire in the heater before November, " answered Mrs. Lowe, with the manner of one who felt annoyed. 

Mrs. Wykoff mused for some moments. 

"Excuse me, " she said, "for asking such minute questions; but I knowMiss Carson's extreme delicacy, and I am fearful that she is sick, asthe result of a cold. Did you notice her when she came in on Mondaymorning?"

"Yes. I was standing in the hall when the servant admitted her. Shecame rather late. "

"Did she go immediately to the room where she was to work?"

"Yes. "

"You are sure she didn't go into the kitchen and dry her feet?"

"She went up stairs as soon as she came in. "

"Did you go up with her?"

"Yes. "

"Excuse me, Mrs. Lowe, " said Mrs. Wykoff, who saw that these questionswere chafing her visitor, "for pressing my inquiries so closely. I ammuch concerned at the fact of her absence from your house since Monday. Did she change any of her clothing, --take off her stockings, forstance, and put on dry ones?"

"Nothing of the kind. "

"But sat in her wet shoes and stockings all day!"

"I don't know that they were wet, Mrs. Wykoff, " said the lady, withcontracting brows. 

"Could you have walked six or seven squares in the face of Monday'sdriving storm, Mrs. Lowe, and escaped wet feet? Of course not. Yourstockings would have been wet half way to the knees, and your skirtsalso. "

There was a growing excitement about Mrs. Wykoff, united with an air ofso much seriousness, that Mrs. Lowe began to feel a pressure of alarm. Selfish, cold-hearted and indifferent to all in a social grade beneathher, this lady was not quite ready to stand up in the world's face asone without common humanity. The way in which Mrs. Wykoff waspresenting the case of Miss Carson on that stormy morning, did notreflect very creditably upon her; and the thought--"How would thissound, if told of me?"--did not leave her in the most comfortable frameof mind. 

"I hope she's not sick. I'm sure the thought of her being wet nevercrossed my mind. Why didn't she speak of it herself? She knew her owncondition, and that there was fire in the kitchen. I declare! somepeople act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible. " Mrs. Lowe spoke nowin a disturbed manner. 

"Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong innot doing so--very wrong, " said Mrs. Wykoff. "But she is shrinking andsensitive to a fault--afraid of giving trouble or intruding herself. _It is our place, I think, when strangers come into our houses, nomatter under what circumstances, to assume that they have a naturaldelicacy about asking for needed consideration, and to see that allthings due to them are tendered_. I cannot see that any exceptions tothis rule are admissible. To my thinking, it applies to a servant, aseamstress, or a guest, each in a just degree, with equal force. Notthat I am blameless in this thing. Far from it. But I acknowledge myfault whenever it is seen, and repenting, resolve to act more humanelyin the future. "

"Where does Miss Carson live?" asked Mrs. Lowe. "I came to make theinquiry. "

"As I feel rather troubled about her, " answered Mrs. Wykoff, "I will goto see her this afternoon. "

"I wish you would. What you have said makes me feel a littleuncomfortable. I hope there is nothing wrong; or, at least, that she isonly slightly indisposed. It was thoughtless in me. But I was so muchinterested in the work she was doing that I never once thought of herpersonally. "

"Did she come before breakfast?"

"Oh, yes. "

"Excuse me; but at what time did she get her breakfast?"

There was just a little shrinking in the manner of Mrs. Wykoff; as sheanswered--

"Towards nine o'clock. "

"Did she eat anything?"

"Well, no, not much in particular. I thought her a little dainty. Shetook coffee; but it didn't just appear to suit her appetite. Then Ioffered her tea, and she drank a cup. "

"But didn't take any solid food?"

"Very little. She struck me as a dainty Miss. "

"She is weak and delicate, Mrs. Lowe, as any one who looks into herface may see. Did you give her a lunch towards noon?"

"A lunch! Why no!" Mrs. Lowe elevated her brows. 

"How late was it when she took dinner?"

"Three o'clock. "

"Did she eat heartily?"

"I didn't notice her particularly. She was at the table for only a fewminutes. "

"I fear for the worst, " said Mrs. Wykoff. "If Mary Carson sat all dayon Monday in damp clothes, wet feet, and without taking a sufficientquantity of nourishing food, I wouldn't give much for her life. "

Mrs. Lowe gathered her shawl around her, and arose to depart. There wasa cloud on her face. 

"You will see Miss Carson to-day?" she said. 

"Oh, yes. "

"At what time do you think of going?"

"I shall not be able to leave home before late in the afternoon. "

"Say four o'clock. "

"Not earlier than half past four. "

Mrs. Lowe stood for some moments with the air of one who hesitatedabout doing something. 

"Will you call for me?" Her voice was slightly depressed. 

"Certainly. "

"What you have said troubles me. I'm sure I didn't mean to be unkind. It was thoughtlessness altogether. I hope she's not ill. "

"I'll leave home at half past four, " said Mrs. Wykoff. "It isn't overten minutes' walk to your house. "

"You'll find me all ready. Oh, dear!" and Mrs. Lowe drew a long, sighing breath. "I hope she didn't take cold at my house. I hopenothing serious will grow out of it. I wouldn't have anything of thiskind happen for the world. People are so uncharitable. If it should getout, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I'm sure the girl is agreat deal more to blame than I am. Why didn't she see to it that herfeet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her work?"

Mrs. Wykoff did not answer. Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments, waitingfor some exculpatory suggestion; but Mrs. Wykoff had none to offer. 

"Good morning. You'll find me all ready when you call. "

"Good morning. "

And the ladies parted. 

"Ah, Mrs. Lowe! How are you this morning?"

A street meeting, ten minutes later. 

"Right well. How are you?"

"Well as usual. I just called at your house. "

"Ah, indeed! Come, go back again. "

"No, thank you; I've several calls to make this morning. But, d' youknow, there's a strange story afloat about a certain lady of youracquaintance?"

"Of my acquaintance?"

"Yes; a lady with whom you are very, very intimate. "

"What is it?" There was a little anxiety mixed with the curious air ofMrs. Lowe. 

"Something about murdering a sewing-girl. "

"What?" Mrs. Lowe started as if she had received a blow; a frightenedlook came into her face. 

"But there isn't anything in it, of course, " said the friend, inconsiderable astonishment at the effect produced on Mrs. Lowe. 

"Tell me just what you have heard, " said the latter. "You mean me bythe lady of your intimate acquaintance. "

"Yes; the talk is about you. It came from doctor somebody; I don't knowwhom. He's attending the girl. "

"What is said? I wish to know. Don't keep back anything on account ofmy feelings. I shall know as to its truth or falsehood; and, true orfalse, it is better that I should stand fully advised. A seamstresscame to work for me on Monday--it was a stormy day, you know--took coldfrom wet feet, and is now very ill. That much I know. It might havehappened at your house, or your neighbors, without legitimate blamelying against either of you. Now, out of this simple fact, whatdreadful report is circulated to my injury? As I have just said, don'tkeep anything back. "

"The story, " replied the friend, "is that she walked for half a milebefore breakfast, in the face of that terrible north-east storm, andcame to you with feet soaking and skirts wet to the knees, and that youput her to work, in this condition, in a cold room, and suffered her tosit in her wet garments all day. That, in consequence, she went homesick, was attacked with pleurisy in the evening, which soon ran intoacute pneumonia, and that she is now dying. The doctor, who told myfriend, called it murder, and said, without hesitation, that you were amurderer. "

"Dying! Did he say that she was dying?"

"Yes, ma'am. The doctor said that you might as well have put a pistolball through her head. "

"Me!"

"Yes, you. Those were his words, as repeated by my friend. "

"Who is the friend to whom you refer?"

"Mrs. T----. "

"And, without a word of inquiry as to the degree of blame referable tome, she repeats this wholesale charge, to my injury? Verily, that isChristian charity!"

"I suggested caution on her part, and started to see you at once. Thenshe did sit in her wet clothing all day at your house?"

"I don't know whether she did or not, " replied Mrs. Lowe, fretfully. "She was of woman's age, and competent to take care of herself. If shecame in wet, she knew it; and there was fire in the house, at which shecould have dried herself. Even a half-witted person, starting from homeon a morning like that, and expecting to be absent all day, would haveprovided herself with dry stockings and slippers for a change. If thegirl dies from cold taken on that occasion, it must be set down tosuicide, not murder. I may have been thoughtless, but I am notresponsible. I'm sorry for her; but I cannot take blame to myself. Thesame thing might have happened in your house. "

"It might have happened in other houses than yours, Mrs. Lowe, I willadmit, " was replied. "But I do not think it would have happened inmine. I was once a seamstress myself and for nearly two years went outto work in families. What I experienced during those two years has mademe considerate towards all who come into my house in that capacity. Many who are compelled to earn a living with the needle, were once inbetter condition than now, and the change touches some of them rathersharply. In some families they are treated with a thoughtful kindness, in strong contrast with what they receive in other families. Ifsensitive and retiring, they learn to be very chary about asking foranything beyond what is conceded, and bear, rather than suggest orcomplain. "

"I've no patience with that kind of sensitiveness, " replied Mrs. Lowe;"it's simply ridiculous; and not only ridiculous, but wrong. Is everysewing-girl who comes into your house to be treated like an honoredguest?"

"We are in no danger of erring, Mrs. Lowe, " was answered, "on the sideof considerate kindness, even to sewing-women. They are human, and havewants, and weaknesses, and bodily conditions that as imperativelydemand a timely and just regard as those of the most honored guest whomay sojourn with us. And what is more, as I hold, we cannot omit ourduty either to the one or to the other, and be blameless. But I musthurry on. Good morning, Mrs. Lowe. "

"Good morning, " was coldly responded. And the two ladies parted. 

We advance the time a few hours. It is nearly sundown, and the slantbeams are coming in through the partly-raised blinds, and falling onthe bed, where, white, and panting for the shortcoming breath, liesMary Carson, a little raised by pillows against which her head restsmotionless. Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deepfringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair hasbeen smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual beautyin her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on one side ofthe bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing intently onthe sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies come in, noiselessly--Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers there to allbut Mary Carson, and she has passed too far on the journey homeward formortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little back from the bed, andthe two ladies stand in her place, leaning forward, with half-suspendedbreathing. The almost classic beauty of Miss Carson's face; theexquisite cutting of every feature; the purity of its tone--are all atonce so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that she gazes down, wonder andadmiration mingling with awe and self-accusation. 

There is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The whitelips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and allis still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows, closebeside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not of theearth. They fade, and life fades with them, going out as they recede. With the last pencil of sunbeams passes the soul of Mary Carson. 

"It is over!" The physician breathes deeply, and moves backwards fromthe bed. 

"Over with her, " he adds, like one impelled by crowding thoughts tountimely utterance. "The bills of mortality will say pneumonia--_itwere better written murder_. "

Call it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to itthat responsibility in such a case lies never at your door. 

X. 

THE NURSERY MAID. 

_I DID_ not feel in a very good humor either with myself or with Polly, my nursery maid. The fact is, Polly had displeased me; and I, whileunder the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked her with adegree of intemperance not exactly becoming in a Christian gentlewoman, or just to a well meaning, though not perfect domestic. 

Polly had taken my sharp words without replying. They seemed to stunher. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath wereemptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless. Thenshe turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step. There wasan air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me a little. 

The thermometer of my feelings was gradually falling, though not yetreduced very far below fever-heat, when Polly stood again before me. Ared spot now burned on each cheek, and her eyes were steady as she letthem rest in mine. 

"Mrs. Wilkins, " said she, firmly, yet respectfully, "I am going toleave when my month is up. "

Now, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence. SoI answered, without hesitation or reflection, "Very well, Polly. If you wish to leave, I will look for another tofill your place. " And I drew myself up with an air of dignity. 

Polly retired as quickly as she came, and I was left alone with my notvery agreeable thoughts for companions. Polly had been in my family fornearly four years, in the capacity of nurse and chamber maid. She wascapable, faithful, kind in her disposition, and industrious. Thechildren were all attached to her, and her influence over them wasgood. I had often said to myself in view of Polly's excellentqualities, "She is a treasure!" And, always, the thought of losing herservices had been an unpleasant one. Of late, in some things, Polly hadfailed to give the satisfaction of former times. She was neither socheerful, nor so thoughtful, nor had she her usual patience with thechildren. "Her disposition is altering, " I said to myself, now andthen, in view of this change; "something has spoiled her. "

"You have indulged her too much, I suppose, " was the reason given by myhusband, whenever I ventured to introduce to his notice theshortcomings of Polly. "You are an expert at the business of spoilingdomestics. "

My good opinion of myself was generally flattered by this estimate ofthe case; and, as this good opinion strengthened, a feeling ofindignation against Polly for her ingratitude, as I was pleased to callit, found a lodging in my heart. 

And so the matter had gone on, from small beginnings, until a state ofdissatisfaction on the one part, and coldness on the other, had grownup between mistress and maid. I asked no questions of Polly, as to thechange in her manner, but made my own inferences, and took, forgranted, my own conclusions. I had spoiled her by indulgence--that wasclear. As a thing of course, this view was not very favorable to a justand patient estimate of her conduct, whenever it failed to meet myapproval. 

On the present occasion, she had neglected the performance of certainservices, in consequence of which I suffered some small inconvenience, and a great deal of annoyance. 

"I don't know what's come over you, Polly, " said I to her sharply. "Something has spoiled you outright; and I tell you now, once for all, that you'll have to mend your ways considerably, if you expect toremain much longer in this family. "

The language was hard enough, but the manner harder and more offensive. I had never spoken to her before with anything like the severity nowused. The result of this intemperance of speech on my part, the readerhas seen. Polly gave notice that she would leave, and I accepted thenotice. For a short time after the girl retired from my room, Imaintained a state of half indignant independence; but, as to beingsatisfied with myself, that was out of the question. I had lost mytemper, and, as is usual in such cases, had been harsh, and it mightbe, unjust. I was about to lose the services of a domestic, whose goodqualities so far overbalanced all defects and shortcomings, that Icould hardly hope to supply her place. How could the children give herup? This question came home with a most unpleasant suggestion ofconsequences. But, as the disturbance of my feelings went on subsiding, and thought grew clearer and clearer, that which most troubled me was asense of injustice towards Polly. The suggestion came stealing into mymind, that the something wrong about her might involve a great dealmore than I had, in a narrow reference of things to my own affairs, imagined. Polly was certainly changed; but, might not the change haveits origin in mental conflict or suffering, which entitled her to pityand consideration, instead of blame?

This was a new thought, which in no way tended to increase a feeling ofself-approval. 

"She is human, like the rest of us, " said I, as I sat talking over thematter with myself, "and every human heart has its portion ofbitterness. The weak must bear in weakness, as well as the strong instrength; and the light burden rests as painfully on the back thatbends in feebleness, as does the heavy one on Atlas-shoulders. We aretoo apt to regard those who serve us as mere working machines. Rarelydo we consider them as possessing like wants and weaknesses, likesympathies and yearnings with ourselves. Anything will do for them. Under any external circumstances, is their duty to be satisfied. "

I was wrong in this matter. Nothing was now clearer to me than this. But, how was I to get right? That was the puzzling question. I thought, and thought--looking at the difficulty first on this side, and then onthat. No way of escape presented itself, except through some open orimplied acknowledgment of wrong; that is, I must have some plain, kindtalk with Polly, to begin with, and thus show her, by an entire changeof manner, that I was conscious of having spoken to her in a way thatwas not met by my own self-approval. Pride was not slow in vindicatingher own position among the mental powers. She was not willing to see mehumble myself to a servant. Polly had given notice that she was goingto leave, and if I made concession, she would, at once conclude that Idid so meanly, from self-interest, because I wished to retain herservices. My naturally independent spirit revolted under this view ofthe case, but I marshalled some of the better forces of my mind, andtook the field bravely on the side of right and duty. For some time theconflict went on; then the better elements of my nature gained thevictory. 

When the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly. I saw, as sheentered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the firehad died out in her eyes. Her face was pale, and its expression sad, but enduring. 

"Polly, " said I, kindly, "sit down. I would like to have some talk withyou. "

The girl seemed taken by surprise. Her face warmed a little, and hereyes, which had been turned aside from mine, looked at me with a glanceof inquiry. 

"There, Polly"--and I pointed to a chair--"sit down. "

She obeyed, but with a weary, patient air, like one whose feelings werepainfully oppressed. 

"Polly, " said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, "has anythingtroubled you of late?"

Her face flushed and her eyes reddened. 

"If there has, Polly, and I can help you in any way, speak to me as afriend. You can trust me. "

I was not prepared for the sudden and strong emotion that instantlymanifested itself. Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed out, with a violence that startled me. I waited until she grew calm, andthen said, laying a hand kindly upon her as I spoke--

"Polly, you can talk to me as freely as if I were your mother. Speakplainly, and if I can advise you or aid you in any way, be sure that Iwill do it. "

"I don't think you can help me any, ma'am, unless it is to bear mytrouble more patiently, " she answered, in a subdued way. 

"Trouble, child! What trouble? Has anything gone wrong with you?"

The manner in which this inquiry was made, aroused her, and she saidquickly and with feeling:

"Wrong with _me_? O no, ma'am!"

"But you are in trouble, Polly. "

"Not for myself, ma'am--not for myself, " was her earnest reply. 

"For whom, then, Polly?"

The girl did not answer for some moments. Then with a long, deep sigh, she said:

"You never saw my brother Tom, ma'am. Oh, he was such a nice boy, and Iwas so fond of him! He had a hard place where he worked, and they paidhim so little that, poor fellow! if I hadn't spent half my wages onhim, he'd never have looked fit to be seen among folks. When he waseighteen he seemed to me perfect. He was so good and kind. But--" andthe girl's voice almost broke down--"somehow, he began to change afterthat. I think he fell into bad company. Oh, ma'am! It seemed as if itwould have killed me the first time I found that he had been drinking, and was not himself. I cried all night for two or three nights. When wemet again I tried to talk with Tom about it, but he wouldn't hear aword, and, for the first time in his life, got angry with his sister. 

"It has been going on from bad, to worse ever since, and I've almostgiven up hope. "

"He's several years younger than you are, Polly. "

"Yes, ma'am. He was only ten years old when our mother died. I am gladshe is dead now, what I've never said before. There were only two ofus--Tom and I; and I being nearly six years the oldest, felt like amother as well as a sister to him. I've never spent much on myself asyou know, and never had as good clothes as other girls with my wages. It took nearly everything for Tom. Oh, dear! What is to come of it all?It will kill me, I'm afraid. "

A few questions on my part brought out particulars in regard to Polly'sbrother that satisfy me of his great lapse from virtue and sobriety. Hewas now past twenty, and from all I could learn, was movingswift-footed along the road to destruction. 

There followed a dead silence for some time after all the story wastold. What could I say? The case was one in which it seemed that Icould offer neither advice nor consolation. But it was in my power toshow interest in the girl, and to let her feel that she had mysympathy. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, and a look of sorrowon her pale, thin face--I had not before re-marked the signs ofemaciation--that touched me deeply. 

"Polly, " said I, with as much kindness of tone as I could express, "itis the lot of all to have trouble, and each heart knows its ownbitterness. But on some the trouble falls with a weight that seemsimpossible to be borne. And this is your case. Yet it only seems to beso, for as our day is, so shall our strength be. If you cannot drawyour brother away from the dangerous paths in which he is walking, youcan pray for him, and the prayer of earnest love will bring your spiritso near to his spirit, that God may be able to influence him for goodthrough this presence of your spirit with his. "

Polly looked at me with a light flashing in her face, as if a new hopehad dawned upon her heart. 

"Oh, ma'am, " she said, "I have prayed, and do pray for him daily. Butthen I think God loves him better than I can love him, and needs noneof my prayer in the case. And so a chill falls over me, and everythinggrows dark and hopeless--for, of myself, I can do nothing. "

"Our prayers cannot change the purposes of God towards any one; but Godworks by means, and our prayers may be the means through which he canhelp another. "

"How? How? Oh, tell me how, Mrs. Wilkins?"

The girl spoke with great eagerness. 

I had an important truth to communicate, but how was I to make it clearto her simple mind? I thought for a moment, and then said--

"When we think of others, we see them. "

"In our minds?"

"Yes, Polly. We see them with the eyes of our minds, and are alsopresent with them as to our minds, or spirits. Have you hot noticedthat on some occasions you suddenly thought of a person, and that in alittle while afterwards that person came in?"

"Oh, yes, I've often noticed, and wondered why it should be so. "

"Well, the person in coming to see you, or in approaching the placewhere you were, thought of you so distinctly that she was present toyour mind, or spirit, and you saw her with the eyes of your mind. Ifthis be the right explanation, as I believe it is, then, if we thinkintently of others, and especially if we think with a strong affection, we are present with them so fully that they think of us, and see ourforms with the eyes of their spirits. And now, Polly, keeping this inmind, we may see how praying, in tender love for another, may enableGod to do him good; for you know that men and angels are co-workerswith God in all good. On the wings of our thought and love, angelicspirits, who are present with us in prayer, may pass with us to theobject of our tender interest and thus gaining audience, as it were, stir the heart with good impulses. And who can tell how effectual thismay be, if of daily act and long continuance?"

I paused to see if I was comprehended. Polly was listening intently, with her eyes upon the floor. She looked up, after a moment, hercountenance calmer than before, but bearing so hopeful an aspect that Iwas touched with wonder. 

"I will pray for him morning, noon, and night, " she said, "and if, bodily, I cannot be near him, my spirit shall be present with his manytimes each day. Oh, if I could but draw him back from the evil intowhich he has fallen!"

"A sister's loving prayer, and the memory of his mother in heaven, willprove, I trust, Polly, too potent for all his enemies. Take courage!"

In the silence that followed this last remark, Polly arose and stood asif there was something yet unsaid in her mind. I understood her, andmade the way plain for both of us. 

"If I had known of this before, it would have explained to me somethings that gave my mind an unfavorable impression. You have not beenlike yourself for some time past. "

"How could I, ma'am?" Polly's voice trembled and her eyes again filledwith tears. "I never meant to displease you; but----"

"All is explained, " said I, interrupting her. "I see just how it is;and if I have said a word that hurt you, I am sorry for it. No onecould have given better satisfaction in a family than you have given. "

"I have always tried to do right, " murmured the poor girl, sadly. 

"I know it, Polly. " My tones were encouraging. "And if you will forgetthe unkind way in which I spoke to you this morning, and let thingsremain as they were, it may be better for both of us. You are not fit, taking your state of mind as it now is, to go among strangers. "

Polly looked at me with gratitude and forgiveness in her wet eyes. There was a motion of reply about her lips, but she did not trustherself to speak. 

"Shall it be as it was, Polly?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am! I don't wish to leave you; and particularly, not now. I am not fit, as you say, to go among strangers. But you must bear withme a little; for I can't always keep my thoughts about me. "

When Polly retired from my room, I set myself to thinking over what hadhappened. The lesson went deeply into my heart. Poor girl! what a heavyburden rested upon her weak shoulders. No wonder that she bent underit! No wonder that she was changed! She was no subject for angryreproof; but for pity and forbearance. If she had come short inservice, or failed to enter upon her daily tasks with the oldcheerfulness, no blame could attach to her, for the defect was of forceand not of will. 

"Ah, " said I, as I pondered the matter, "how little inclined are we toconsider those who stand below us in the social scale, or to think ofthem as having like passions, like weaknesses, like hopes and fearswith ourselves. We deal with them too often as if they were mereworking machines, and grow impatient if they show signs of pain, weariness, or irritation. We are quick to blame and slow topraise--chary of kind words, but voluble in reproof--holding ourselvessuperior in station, but not always showing ourselves superior inthoughtfulness, self-control, and kind forbearance. Ah me! Life is alesson-book, and we turn a new page every day. "

XI. 

MY FATHER. 

_I HAVE_ a very early recollection of my father as a cheerful man, andof our home as a place full of the heart's warmest sunshine. But thefather of my childhood and the father of my more advanced years wore avery different exterior. He had grown silent, thoughtful, abstracted, but not morose. As his children sprang up around him, full of life andhope, he seemed to lose the buoyant spirits of his earlier manhood. Idid not observe this at the time, for I had not learned to observe andreflect. Life was a simple state of enjoyment. Trial had not quickenedmy perceptions, nor suffering taught me an unselfish regard for others. 

The home provided by my father was elegant--some would have called itluxurious. On our education and accomplishments no expense was spared. I had the best teachers--and, of course, the most expensive; with noneothers would I have been satisfied, for I had come naturally to regardmyself as on a social equality with the fashionable young friends whowere my companions, and who indulged the fashionable vice ofdepreciating everything that did not come up to a certain acknowledgedstandard. Yearly I went to Saratoga or Newport with my sisters, and ata cost which I now think of with amazement. Sometimes my mother wentwith us, but my father never. He was not able to leave his business. Business! How I came to dislike the word! It was always "business" whenwe asked him to go anywhere with us; "business" hurried him away fromhis hastily-eaten meals; "business" absorbed all his thoughts, androbbed us of our father. 

"I wish father would give up business, " I said to my mother one day, "and take some comfort of his life. Mr. Woodward has retired, and isnow living on his income. "

My mother looked at me strangely and sighed, but answered nothing. 

About this time my father showed some inclination to repress ourgrowing disposition to spend money extravagantly in dress. Nothing buthundred-dollar shawl would suit my ideas. Ada White had been presentedby her father with a hundred-dollar cashmere, and I did not mean to beput off with anything less. 

"Father, I want a hundred dollars, " said I to him one morning as he wasleaving the house, after eating his light breakfast. He had growndyspeptic, and had to be careful and sparing in his diet. 

"A hundred dollars!" He looked surprised; in fact, I noticed that myrequest made him start. "What do you want with so much money?"

"I have nothing seasonable to wear, " said I, very firmly; "and as Imust have a shawl, I might as well get a good one while I am about it. I saw one at Stewart's yesterday that is just the thing. Ada White'sfather gave her a shawl exactly like it, and you must let me have themoney to buy this one. It will last my lifetime. "

"A hundred dollars is a large price for a shawl, " said my father, inhis sober way. 

"Oh, dear, no!" was my emphatic answer; "a hundred dollars is a lowprice for a shawl. Jane Wharton's cost five hundred. "

"I'll think about it, " said my father, turning from me rather abruptly. 

When he came home at dinner-time, I was alone in the parlor, practicinga. New piece of music which my fashionable teacher had left me. He waspaid three dollars for every lesson. My father smiled as he laid ahundred-dollar bill on the keys of the piano. I started up, and kissinghim, said, with the ardor of a pleased girl--

"What a dear good father you are!"

The return was ample. He always seemed most pleased when he couldgratify some wish or supply some want of his children. Ah! if we hadbeen less selfish--less exacting!

It was hardly to be expected that my sisters would see me the possessorof a hundred-dollar shawl, and not desire a like addition to theirwardrobes. 

"I want a hundred dollars, " said my sister Jane, on the next morning, as my father was about leaving for his store. 

"Can't spare it to-day, my child, " I heard him answer, kindly, butfirmly. 

"Oh, but I must have it, " urged my sister. 

"I gave you twenty-five dollars only day before yesterday, " my fatherreplied to this. "What have you done with that?"

"Spent it for gloves and laces, " said Jane, in a light way, as if thesum were of the smallest possible consequence. 

"I am not made of money, child. " The tone of my father's voice struckme as unusually sober--almost sad. But Jane replied instantly, and withsomething of reproach and complaint in her tones--"I shouldn't thinkyou were, if you find it so hard to part with a hundred dollars. "

"I have a large payment to make to-day"--my father spoke with unusualdecision of manner--"and shall need every dollar that I can raise. "

"You gave sister a hundred dollars yesterday, " said Jane, almostpetulantly. 

Not a word of reply did my father make. I was looking at him, and sawan expression on his countenance that was new to me--an expression ofpain, mingled with fear. He turned away slowly, and in silence left thehouse. 

"Jane, " said my mother, addressing her from the stairway, on which shehad been standing, "how could you speak so to your father?"

"I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna, " repliedmy sister, in a very undutiful tone. "And what is more, Im going tohave one. "

"What reason did your father give for refusing your request to-day?"asked my mother. 

"Couldn't spare the money! Had a large payment to make! Only an excuse!"

"Stop, my child!" was the quick, firm remark, made with unusualfeeling. "Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who hasever been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you aresaying!"

My sister looked something abashed at this unexpected rebuke, when mymother took occasion to add, with an earnestness of manner that I couldnot help remarking as singular, "Your father is troubled about something. Business may not be going onto his satisfaction. Last night I awoke, and found him walking thefloor. To my questions he merely answered that he was wakeful. Hishealth is not so good as formerly, and his spirits are low. Don't, letme pray you, do anything to worry him. Say no more about this money, Jane; you will get it whenever it can be spared. "

I did not see my father again until tea-time. Occasionally, businessengagements pressed upon him so closely that he did not come home atthe usual hour for dining. He looked pale--weary--almost haggard. 

"Dear father, are you sick?" said I, laying a hand upon him, and gazingearnestly into his countenance. 

"I do not feel very well, " he replied, partly averting his face, as ifhe did not wish me to read its expression too closely. "I have had aweary day. "

"You must take more recreation, " said I. "This excessive devotion tobusiness is destroying your health. Why will you do it, father?"

He merely sighed as he passed onwards, and ascended to his own room. Attea-time I observed that his face was unusually sober. His silence wasnothing uncommon, and so that passed without remark from any one. 

On the next day Jane received the hundred dollars, which was spent fora shawl like mine. This brought the sunshine back to her face. Hermoody looks, I saw, disturbed my father. 

From this time, the hand which had ever been ready to supply all ourwants real or imaginary, opened less promptly at our demands. My fathertalked occasionally of retrenchment and economy when some of ourextravagant bills came in; but we paid little heed to his remarks onthis head. Where could we retrench? In what could we economize? Thevery idea was absurd. We had nothing that others moving in our circledid not have. Our house and furniture would hardly compare favorablywith the houses and furniture of many of our fashionable friends. Wedressed no better--indeed, not so well as dozens of our acquaintances. Retrenchment and economy! I remember laughing with my sisters at thewords, and wondering with them what could be coming over our father. Ina half-amused way, we enumerated the various items of imaginary reform, beginning at the annual summer recreations, and ending with ourmilliner's bills. In mock seriousness, we proposed to take the placesof cook, chambermaid, and waiter, and thus save these items of expensein the family. We had quite a merry time over our fancied reforms. 

But our father was serious. Steadily he persisted in what seemed to usa growing penuriousness. Every demand for money seemed to give him apartial shock, and every dollar that came to us was parted withreluctantly. All this was something new; but we thought less than wefelt about it. Our father seemed to be getting into a very singularstate of mind. 

Summer came round--I shall never forget that summer--and we commencedmaking our annual preparations for Saratoga. Money was, of course, anindispensable prerequisite. I asked for fifty dollars. 

"For what purpose?" inquired my father. 

"I haven't a single dress fit to appear in away from home, " said I. 

"Where are you going?" he asked. 

I thought the question a strange one, and replied, a little curtly, "To Saratoga, of course. "

"Oh!" It seemed new to him. Then he repeated my words, in a questioningkind of a way, as if his mind were not altogether satisfied on thesubject. 

"To Saratoga?"

"Yes, sir. To Saratoga. We always go there. We shall close the seasonat Newport this year. "

"Who else is going?" My father's manner was strange. I had never seenhim just in the mood he then appeared to be. 

"Jane is going, of course; and so is Emily. And we are trying topersuade mother, also. She didn't go last year. Won't you spend a weekor two with us? Now do say yes. "

My father shook his head at this last proposal, and said, "No, child!"very decidedly. 

"Why?" I asked. 

"Because I have something of more importance to think about thanSaratoga and its fashionable follies. "

"Business! business!" said I, impatiently. "It is the Moloch, father, to which you sacrifice every social pleasure, every home delight, everygood! Already you have laid health and happiness upon the bloody altarsof this false god!"

A few quick flushes went over his pale face, and then its expressionbecame very sad. 

"Anna, " he said, after a brief silence, during which even myunpracticed eyes could see that an intense struggle was going on in hismind, "Anna, you will have to give up your visit to Saratoga this year. "

"Why, father!" It seemed as if my blood were instantly on fire. My facewas, of course, all in a glow. I was confounded, and, let me confessit, indignant; it seemed so like a tyrannical outrage. 

"It is simply as I say, my daughter. " He spoke without visibleexcitement. "I cannot afford the expense this season, and you will, therefore, all have to remain in the city. "

"That's impossible!" said I. "I couldn't live here through the summer. "

"_I_ manage to live!" There was a tone in my father's voice, as heuttered these simple words, partly to himself, that rebuked me. Yes, hedid manage to live, but _how_? Witness his pale face, wasted form, subdued aspect, brooding silence, and habitual abstraction of mind!

"_I_ manage to live!" I hear the rebuking words even now--the tones inwhich they were uttered are in my ears. Dear father! Kind, tender, indulgent, long-suffering, self-denying! Ah, how little were youunderstood by your thoughtless, selfish children!

"Let my sisters and mother go, " said I, a new regard for my fatherspringing up in my heart; "I will remain at home with you. "

"Thank you, dear child!" he answered, his voice suddenly veiled withfeeling. "But I cannot afford to let any one go this season. "

"The girls will be terribly disappointed. They have set their hearts ongoing, " said I. 

"I'm sorry, " he said. "But necessity knows no law. They will have tomake themselves as contented at home as possible. "

And he left me, and went away to his all-exacting "business. "

When I stated what he had said, my sisters were in a transport ofmingled anger and disappointment, and gave utterance to many unkindremarks against our good, indulgent father. As for my oldest sister, she declared that she would go in spite of him, and proposed ourvisiting the store of a well-known merchant, where we often madepurchases, and buying all we wanted, leaving directions to have thebill sent in. But I was now on my father's side, and resolutely opposedall suggestions of disobedience. His manner and words had touched me, causing some scales to drop from my vision, so that I could see in anew light, and perceive things in a new aspect. 

We waited past the usual time for my father's coming on that day, andthen dined without him. A good deal to our surprise he came home aboutfour o'clock, entering with an unusual quiet manner, and going up tohis own room without speaking to any one of the family. 

"Was that your father?" We were sitting together, still discussing thequestion of Saratoga and Newport. It was my mother who asked thequestion. We had heard the street door open and close, and had alsoheard footsteps along the passage and up the stairs. 

"It is too early for him to come home, " I answered. 

My mother looked at her watch, and remarked, as a shade of concernflitted over her face, "It certainly was your father. I cannot be mistaken in his step. Whatcan have brought him home so early? I hope he is not sick. " And shearose and went hastily from the room. I followed, for a sudden fearcame into my heart. 

"Edward! what ails you? Are you sick?" I heard my mother ask, in analarmed voice, as I came into her room. My father had laid himselfacross the bed, and his face was concealed by a pillow, into which itwas buried deeply. 

"Edward! Edward! Husband! What is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Oh, father! dear father!" I cried, adding my voice to my mother's, andbursting into tears. I grasped his hand; it was very cold. I leanedover, and, pressing down the pillow, touched his face. It was coldalso, and clammy with perspiration. 

"Send James for the doctor, instantly, " said my mother. 

"No, no--don't. " My father partially aroused himself at this, speakingin a thick, unnatural voice. 

"Go!" My mother repeated the injunction, and I flew down stairs withthe order for James, our waiter, to go in all haste for the familyphysician. When I returned, my mother, her face wet with tears, wasendeavoring to remove some of my father's outer garments. Together wetook off his coat, waistcoat and boots, he making no resistance, andappearing to be in partial stupor, as if under the influence of somedrug. We chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his face, that wore adeathly aspect, and used all the means in our power to rekindle thefailing spark of life. But he seemed to grow less and less conscious ofexternal things every moment. 

When the physician came, he had many questions to ask as to the causeof the state in which he found my father. But we could answer none ofthem. I watched his face intently, noting every varying expression, butsaw nothing to inspire confidence. He seemed both troubled andperplexed. Almost his first act was to bleed copiously. 

Twice, before the physician came, had my father been inquired for atthe door, a thing altogether unusual at that hour of the day. Indeed, his presence in the house at that hour was something which had notoccurred within a year. 

"A gentleman is in the parlor, and says that he must see Mr. W----, "said the waiter, speaking to me in a whisper, soon after thephysician's arrival. 

"Did you tell him that father was very ill, " said I. 

"Yes; but he says that he must see him, sick or well. "

"Go down and tell him that father is not in a state to be seen by anyone. "

The waiter returned in a few moments, and beckoned me to the chamberdoor. 

"The man says that he is not going to leave the house until he seesyour father. I wish you would go down to him. He acts so strangely. "

Without stopping to reflect, I left the apartment, and hurried down tothe parlor. I found a man walking the floor in a very excited manner. 

"I wish to see Mr. W. ----, " said he, abruptly, and in an imperative way. 

"He is very ill, sir, " I replied, "and cannot be seen. "

"I must see him, sick or well. " His manner was excited. 

"Impossible, sir. "

The door bell rang again at this moment, and with some violence. Ipaused, and stood listening until the servant answered the summons, while the man strode twice the full length of the parlor. 

"I wish to see Mr. W----. " It was the voice of a man. 

"He is sick, " the servant replied. 

"Give him my name--Mr. Walton--and say that I must see him for just amoment. " And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered theparlor. 

"Mr. Arnold!" he ejaculated, in evident surprise. 

"Humph! This a nice business!" remarked the first visitor, in a rudeway, entirely indifferent to my presence or feelings. "A nice business, I must confess!"

"Have you seen Mr. W. ----?" was inquired. 

"No. They say he's sick. "

There was an unconcealed doubt in the voice that uttered this. 

"Gentlemen, " said I, stung into indignant courage, "this is an outrage!What do you mean by it?"

"We wish to see your father, " said the last comer, his manner changing, and his voice respectful. 

"You have both been told, " was my firm reply, "that my father is tooill to be seen. "

"It isn't an hour, as I am told, since he left his store, " said thefirst visitor, "and I hardly think his illness has progressed sorapidly up to this time as to make an interview dangerous. We do notwish to be rude or uncourteous, Miss W----, but our business with yourfather is imperative, and we must see him. I, for one, do not intendleaving the house until I meet him face to face!"

"Will you walk up stairs?" I had the presence of mind and decision tosay, and I moved from the parlor into the passage. The men followed, and I led them up to the chamber where our distressed family weregathered around my father. As we entered the hushed apartment the menpressed forward somewhat eagerly, but their steps were suddenlyarrested. The sight was one to make its own impression. My father'sface, deathly in its hue, was turned towards the door, and from hisbared arm a stream of dark blood was flowing sluggishly. The physicianhad just opened a vein. 

"Come! This is no place for us, " I heard one of the men whisper to theother, and they withdrew as unceremoniously as they had entered. Scarcely had they gone ere the loud ringing of the door bell soundedthrough the house again. 

"What does all this mean!" whispered my distressed mother. 

"I cannot tell. Something is wrong, " was all that I could answer; and avague, terrible fear took possession of my heart. 

In the midst of our confusion, uncertainty and distress, my uncle, theonly relative of my mother, arrived, and from him we learned thecrushing fact that my father's paper had been that day dishonored atbank. In other words, that he had failed in business. 

The blow, long suspended over his head; and as I afterwards learned, long dreaded, and long averted by the most desperate expedients to savehimself from ruin, when it did fall, was too heavy for him. It crushedthe life out of his enfeebled system. That fearful night he died!

It is not my purpose to draw towards the survivors any sympathy, bypicturing the changes in their fortunes and modes of life that followedthis sad event. They have all endured much and suffered much. But howlight has it been to what my father must have endured and suffered inhis long struggle to sustain the thoughtless extravagance of hisfamily--to supply them with comforts and luxuries, none of which hecould himself enjoy! Ever before me is the image of his graduallywasting form, and pale, sober, anxious face. His voice, always mild, now comes to my ears, in memory, burdened with a most touching sadness. What could we have been thinking about? Oh, youth! how blindly selfishthou art! How unjust in thy thoughtlessness! What would I not give tohave my father back again! This daily toil for bread, those hours oflabor, prolonged often far into the night season--how cheerful would Ibe if they ministered to my father's comfort. Ah! if we had been lovingand just to him, we might have had him still. But we were neitherloving nor just. While he gathered with hard toil, we scattered. Dailywe saw him go forth hurried to his business, and nightly we saw himcome home exhausted; and we never put forth a hand to lighten hisburdens; but, to gratify our idle and vain pleasures, laid new onesupon his stooping shoulders, until, at last, the cruel weight crushedhim to the earth!

My father! Oh, my father! If grief and tearful repentance could haverestored you to our broken circle, long since you would have returnedto us. But tears and repentance are vain. The rest and peace ofeternity is yours!

XII. 

THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 

_IT_ has been said that no man can be a gentleman who is not aChristian. We take the converse of this proposition, and say that noman can be a Christian who is not a gentleman. 

There is something of a stir among the dry bones at this. A few eyeslook at it in a rebuking way. 

"Show me that in the Bible, " says one in confident negation of ourproposition. 

"Ah, well, friend, we will take your case in illustration of our theme. You call yourself a Christian?"

"By God's mercy I do. "

Answered with an assured manner, as if in no doubt as to your being aworthy bearer of that name. 

"You seem to question my state of acceptance. Who made you a judge?"

Softly, friend. We do not like that gleam in your eyes. Perhaps we hadbetter stop here. If you cannot bear the probe, let us put on thebandage again. 

"I am not afraid of the probe, sir. Go on. "

The name Christian includes all human perfection, does it not?

"Yes, and all God-like perfection in the human soul. "

So we understand it. Now the fundamental doctrine of Christian life isthis:--"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them. "

"Faith in Christ is fundamental, " you answer. 

Unless we believe in God, we cannot obey his precepts. Theunderstanding must first assent, before the divine life can be broughtinto a conformity with divine laws. But we are not assuming theologicground. It is the life to which we are looking. We said "Thefundamental doctrine of Christian _life_. "

"All doctrine has relation to life, and I contend for faith asfundamental. "

We won't argue that point, for the reason that it would lead us awayfrom the theme we are considering. We simply change the form of ourproposition, and call it a leading doctrine of Christian life. 

"So far I agree with you. "

Then the way before us is unobstructed again. You asked us to show youauthority in the Bible for saying that a man cannot be a Christian whois not a gentlemen. We point you to the Golden Rule. In that all lawsof etiquette, so called, are included. It is the code of good breedingcondensed to an axiom. Now it has so happened that our observation ofyou, friend objector, has been closer than may have been imagined. Wehave noted your outgoings and incomings on divers occasions; and we aresorry to say that you cannot be classed with the true gentleman. 

"Sir!"

Gently! Gently! If a man may be a Christian, and not a gentleman at thesame time, your case is not so bad. But to the testimony of fact. Letthese witness for or against you. Let your own deeds approve orcondemn. You are not afraid of judgment by the standard of your ownconduct?

"Of course not. "

And if we educe only well-remembered incidents, no offence will betaken. 

"Certainly not. "

We go back, then, and repeat the law of true gentlemanly conduct. "Asye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them. " You wereat Stockbridge last summer?

"Yes. "

And took supper at the hotel there, with a small company of strangers?

"Yes. "

There was a dish of fine strawberries on the table, among the first ofthe season. You are fond of strawberries. They are your favorite fruit;and, as their rich fragrance came to your nostrils, you felt eager totaste them. So you counted the guests at the table, and measured thedish of strawberries with your eyes. Then you looked from face to face, and saw that all were strangers. Appetite might be indulged, and no onewould know that it was _you_. The strawberries would certainly not goround, So you hurried down a cup of tea, and swallowed some toastquickly. Then you said to the waiter, "Bring me the strawberries. " Theywere brought and set before you. And now, were you simply just insecuring your share, if the number fell below a dozen berries? You weretaking care of yourself; but in doing so, were not others' rightsinvaded. We shall see. There were eight persons at the table, two ofthem children. The dish held but little over a quart; of these nearlyone-third were taken by you! Would a true gentleman have done that? Youhaven't thought of it since! We are sorry for you then. One of thechildren, who only got six berries, cried through half the evening fromdisappointment. And an invalid, whose blood would have gained life fromthe rich juice of the fruit, got none. 

"It was a little selfish, I admit. But I am so fond of strawberries;and at hotels, you know, every one must take care of himself. "

A true gentleman maintains his character under all circumstances, and aChristian, as a matter of course. A true gentleman defers to others. Hetakes so much pleasure in the enjoyment of others, that he denieshimself in order to secure their gratification. Can a Christian do lessand honor the name he bears?

"It wasn't right, I see. "

Was it gentlemanly?

"No. "

Christian?

"Perhaps not, strictly speaking. "

In the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity still, we fear, forall your profession. Christianity, as a system, must go deeper downinto the heart than that. But we have begun with you, friend, and wewill keep on. Perhaps you will see yourself a little differently by thetime we are through. A poor mechanic, who had done some trifling workat your house, called, recently, with his little bill of three dollarsand forty cents. You were talking with a customer, when this man cameinto your store and handed you his small account. You opened it with aslight frown on your brow. He had happened to come at a time when youfelt yourself too much engaged to heed this trifling matter. How almostrudely you thrust the coarse, soiled piece of paper on which he hadwritten his account back upon him, saying, "I can't attend to you now!"The poor man went out hurt and disappointed. Was that gentlemanlyconduct? No, sir! Was it Christian? Look at the formula of Christianlife. "As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them. "

"He should have waited until I was at leisure, " you answer. "When a manis engaged with a customer who buys at the rate of hundreds andthousands, he don't want paltry bills thrust into his face. He'll knowbetter next time. "

Have you settled the bill yet?

"No. He called day before yesterday, but couldn't give change for tendollars. "

Why haven't you sent him the trifling sum? He worked over half a day atyour house, and your family have been more comfortable for what he didthere ever since. He needs the money, for he is a poor man. 

You half smile in our face at the suggestion, and say, "Merchants arenot in the habit of troubling themselves to send all over the city topay the little paltry bills of mechanics. If money is worth having, itis worth sending or calling for. "

In thought, reverse your positions, and apply the rule for a Christiangentleman; remembering, at the same time, that God is no respecter ofpersons. In his eyes, the man's position is nothing--the quality of hislife, everything. 

A gentleman in _form_, according to the rules of good breeding, is onewho treats everybody with kindness; who thinks of others' needs, pleasures and conveniences; and subordinates his own needs, pleasuresand conveniences to theirs. He is mild, gentle, kind and courteous toall. A gentleman in _feeling_ does all this from a principle ofgood-will; the Christian from a _law of spiritual life_. Now, a man maybe a gentleman, in the common acceptation of the term, and yet not be aChristian; but we are very sure, that he cannot wave the gentleman andbe a Christian. 

You look at us more soberly. The truth of our words is taking hold ofconviction. Shall we go on?

Do you not, in all public places, study your own comfort andconvenience? You do not clearly understand the question! We'll make thematter plainer then:

Last evening you were at Concert Hall, with your wife and daughter. Youwent early, and secured good seats. Not three seats, simply, accordingto the needs of your party; but nearly five seats, for extra comfort. You managed it on the expansive principle. Well, the house was crowded. Compression and condensation went on all around you; but your partyheld its expanded position. A white-haired old man stood at the head ofyour seat, and looked down at the spaces between yourself, your wifeand daughter; and though you knew it, you kept your eyes another wayuntil he passed on. You were not going to be incommoded for any one. Then an old lady lingered there for a moment, and looked wistfullyalong the seat. Your daughter whispered, "Father, we can make room forher. " And you answered: "Let her find another seat; I don't wish to becrowded. " Thus repressing good impulses in your child, and teaching herto be selfish and unlady-like. The evening's entertainment began, andyou sat quite at ease, for an hour and a half, while many were standingin the aisles. Sir, there was not even the gentleman in form here; muchless the gentleman from naturally kind feelings. As to Christianprinciple, we will not take that into account. Do you remember what yousaid as you moved through the aisles to the door?

"No. "

A friend remarked that he had been obliged to stand all the evening, and you replied:

"We had it comfortable enough. I always manage that, in public places. "

He didn't understand all you meant; but, there is One who did. 

How was it in the same place only a few nights previously? You wentthere alone, and happened to be late. The house was well filled in theupper portion, but thinly occupied below the centre. Now you are boundto have the best place, under all circumstances, if it can be obtained. But all the best seats were well filled; and to crowd more into them, would be to diminish the comfort of all. No matter. You saw a littlespace in one of the desirable seats, and into it you passed, againstthe remonstrance of looks, and even half uttered objections. A lady byyour side, not in good health, was so crowded in consequence, and madeso uncomfortable, that she could not listen with any satisfaction tothe eloquent lecture she had come to hear. 

We need say no more about your gentlemanly conduct in public places. Enough has been suggested to give you our full meaning. 

Shall we go on? Do you call for other incidents in proof of ourassumption? Shall we follow you into other walks of life?

"No. "

Very well. And, now, to press the matter home: Do you, in the sight ofthat precept we have quoted, justify such conduct in a man who takesthe name of Christian? It was not gentlemanly, in any right sense ofthe word; and not being so, can it be Christian?

"Perhaps not. "

Assuredly not. And you may depend upon it, sir, that your profession, and faith, and church-going, and ordinance-observing, will not standyou in that day when the book of your life is opened in the presence ofGod. If there has been no genuine love of the neighbor--noself-abnegation--no self-denial for the good of others, all the restwill go for nothing, and you will pass over to abide forever withspirits of a like quality with your own. 

Who made us your judge? We judge no man! But only point to the law ofChristian life as given by God himself. If you wish to dwell with him, you must obey his laws; and obedience to these will make you nothingless than a Christian gentleman--that is, a gentleman in heart as wellas in appearance.