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Title: All's For the Best

Author: T. S. Arthur

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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
trusted in human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored
to walk by the lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by
the light of divine 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. "No faith in anything."

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

"In God? I don't know him." And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in a
bewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. "People
talk a great deal about God, and their knowledge of him," he added,
but not irreverently. "I think there is often more of pious cant in
all this than of living experience. You speak about faith in God.
What is the ground 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
the eyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his
bodily eyes."

"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins," said Mr. Fanshaw, his
countenance 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 of
simple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul."

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

"Convictions," answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man.
Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like
images on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The
first are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the
latter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily
experience and careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith
in God;--it is an inwrought conviction. First I had the child's
sweet faith transfused into 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 be God's word, I saw that its precepts
were divine, and so the child's faith was succeeded by rational
sight. Afterwards, as I floated off into the world, and met with
storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with baffling winds and
adverse currents; with perils and disappointments, faith wavered
sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and threatening,
my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm passed, 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 being
engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them
over, weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their
place--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my
loss, would not have been ventured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not even of the love of your child?"

A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter
twelve 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
house which cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank,
which may fail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea--but
in love! Are you 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
tested your 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," was
replied.

"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
in the face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things
than wealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not
serenest and 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 has trust in God--he knows that all will come
out right in the end, and that he will be a wiser and better man for
the trial that tested his principles--for the storms that toughened,
but did not break the fibres of his soul."

"You lift me into a new region of thought," said Mr. Fanshaw, "A dim
light is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation not
perceived 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
in feeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go
out and attend to business. His wife was dead, and his children
absent. Of all this Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His
surprise was real, when he saw, instead of a sad-looking,
disappointed and suffering person, a cheerful old man, whose face
warmed up on their entrance, as if sunshine were melting over it.
Conversation turned in the direction Mr. Wilkins desired it to take,
and the question soon came, naturally, from Mr. 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
and the right, and patience to wait."

"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who
robbed you 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
my children's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but
theirs is sweet." He reached for a letter that lay on a table near
him, and opening it, said--"This is from my son in the West. He
writes:--'Dear Father--All is going well with me. I enclose you
fifty dollars. In a month I am to be married, and it is all arranged
that dear Alice and I shall go East just to see you, and take you
back home with us. How nice and comfortable we will make you! And
you shall never leave us!'"

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

"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such
danger that through fear of his being led astray, I was often in
great distress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment;
and you see the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I
not richer in such love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his
love, I possessed a million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it
would all come out right. 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 injustice
that exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful
enjoyment of your goods, while you are in want."

"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He never
dwells 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 the
good," said Mr. Fanshaw.

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

"What I see clearly, as to myself," was replied, "fully justifies
the ways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune?
Clearly the gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came
to me in the guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my
faith in him. 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 the sunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the
deep satisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed
me, I leave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He
will not find, 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 trouble his peace, and make another's possessions the burden of
his life."

"But that will not benefit you," said Mr. Fanshaw. "His suffering
will not 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 mine needed the discipline of misfortune, and it came through
the perfidy of a friend. That false friend, selfish and
grasping--seeing in money the greatest good--was permitted to
consummate his evil design. That his evil will punish him, I am
sure; and in the pain of his punishment, he may be led to
reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, it will tear his
vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon a second
theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will be
turned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is,
that the discipline may lead to repentance and a better life."

"Your faith and patience," said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old
man's hand in parting, "rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you
for having opened to my mind a new region of thought--for having
made some things clear that have always been dark. I am sure that
our meeting to-day is not 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
former said--

"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 to approach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not
suffer wrong to the end."

"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?" asked
Mr Wilkins. "Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and
disaster, the hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever
out of evil educes good, ever through loss in some lower degree of
life brings gain to a higher degree? Consider how, in an
unpremeditated way, you are brought into contact with a stranger,
and how his life and experience touching yours, give out a spark
that lights a candle in your soul to illumine chambers where
scarcely a ray had shone before; and this not alone for your
benefit. It seems as if you were to be made an instrument of good
not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If you can 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 I
paused 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,"
said the other.

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

"What a blessed change!"

"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the great
company of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in
the 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 will
believe his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit in
good 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 send forth 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 the Sunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate
religious quality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must
be genuine love of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God;
for neighborly love is the ground in which that higher and purer
love takes root. It is all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal
thing. Love is an active principle, and, according to its quality,
works. If the love be heavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to
the neighbor; but, if infernal, in acts of selfishness that
disregard the neighbor.

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

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

It was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray under
circumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of a
merchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the
price of certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched him
narrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of his
countenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober,
almost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even to
plaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities gradually
disappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood there
unchanged--unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character.
There was nothing of the "yea, yea," and "nay, nay," spirit in his
bargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage in
trade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five
per cent. over cost was asked for a certain article, he still
endeavored to procure it at a lower figure than was named by the
seller, and finally crowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as
he did, that the merchant had a large stock on hand, and could not
well afford to hold it over.

"He's a sharper!" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray left
the 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 the
church?"

"You're joking!"

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

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

"For what?"

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

"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
not possess."

"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A
true Christian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in
the price of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order
that he might secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even
the live and let 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's clothing."

"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 his life from perceptions of higher truths."

"I thought his heart was changed," answered the merchant, with some
irony 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 natural
life. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through the
periods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the
strong man ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed
for the battle. 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
he is, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the
sake of the world and the church both, that his new associates will
make something better out of him."

I went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meeting
with Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a
bill of goods some months previously. He had called to collect a
portion of the 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 been
disappointed----"

"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
and imperative.

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

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

"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been
no failure in mine to you," answered the poor mechanic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That wasn't right in me, I know," said the mechanic, as Gray left
his shop. "I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too
closely. I am 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
got religion--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 do not 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
shop here," said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt.
"If I am a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I
get a little behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for
don't pay up as they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't
just square with Mr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me,
and talked just as you heard him to-day. He got his money, every
dollar of it; and he will get his money now. I did think, knowing
that he had joined the church and made a profession of religion,
that he would bear a little patiently with me this time. That, as he
had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, of his sins towards heaven, he
would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah, well! These things make us
very sceptical about the honesty of men who call themselves
religious. My experience with 'professors' has not been very
encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy for gain
as other men. We outside people of the world get to be very
sharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality
than we, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue,
we judge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very
closely. If he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager
after money as before, we do not put much faith in his profession,
and are very apt to class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine
talk about faith, and heavenly love, and being washed from all sin,
excite in us contempt rather than respect. We ask for good works,
and are never satisfied with anything else. By their fruits ye shall
know them."

On the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him
when he 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
and devotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes
cast to the floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew
in front of him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During
the services I heard his voice in the singing; and through the
sermon, he maintained the most fixed attention. It was communion
Sabbath; and he remained, after the congregation was dismissed, to
join in the holiest act of worship.

"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?" I asked myself, as I walked
homeward. "Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by
pious acts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a
day's march nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in the
commonest 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 the public and prominent charities of the day. He contributed
liberally in many cases, and gave a good deal of time to the
prosecution of benevolent enterprises, in which men of some position
were concerned. But, when I saw him dispute with a poor gardener who
had laid the sods in his yard, about fifty cents, take sixpence off
of a weary strawberry woman, or chaffer with his boot-black over an
extra shilling, I could not think that it was genuine love for his
fellow-men that prompted his ostentatious charities.

In no instance did I find any better estimation of him in business
circles; for his religion did not chasten the ardor of his selfish
love of advantage in trade; nor make him more generous, nor more
inclined to help or befriend the weak and the needy. Twice I saw his
action in the case of unhappy debtors, who had not been successful
in business. In each case, his claim was among the smallest; but he
said more unkind things, and was the hardest to satisfy, of any man
among the creditors. He assumed dishonest intention at the outset,
and made that a plea for the most rigid exaction; covering his own
hard selfishness with offensive cant about mercantile honor,
Christian integrity, and religious observance of business contracts.
He was the only man among all the creditors, who made his church
membership a prominent thing--few of them were even
church-goers--and the only man who did not readily make concessions
to the poor, down-trodden debtors.

"Is he a Christian?" I asked, as I walked home in some depression of
spirits, from the last of these meetings. And I could but answer
No--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
is the divine standard. "Ye must be born again," leaves to us no
latitude of interpretation. There must be a death of the old,
natural, selfish loves, and a new birth of spiritual affections. As
a man feels, so will he act. If the affections that rule his heart
be divine affections, he will be a lover of others, and a seeker of
their good. He will not be a hard, harsh, exacting man in natural
things, but kind, forbearing, thoughtful of others, and yielding. In
all his dealings with men, his actions 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 in the world where
Christian graces reveal themselves, if they exist at all. Religion
is not a mere Sunday affair, but the regulator of a man's conduct
among his fellow-men. Unless it does this, it is a false religion,
and he who depends upon it for the enjoyment of heavenly felicities
in the next life, will find himself in miserable error. Heaven
cannot be earned by mere acts of piety, for heaven is the complement
of all divine affections in the human soul; and a man must come into
these--must be born into them--while on earth, or he can never find
an eternal home among the angels of God. Heaven is not gained by
doing, but by living.






III.

"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."





"_HAVE_ you noticed Miss Harvey's diamonds?" said a friend,
directing my attention, as she spoke, to a young lady who stood at
the lower end of the room. I looked towards Miss Harvey, and as I
did so, my eyes received 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 less
brilliant. Nothing holds the sunlight in its bosom so perfectly as a
drop of dew.--Next, the diamond. I am told that the pin, now
flashing back the light, as it rises and falls with the swell and
subsidence of her bosom, cost just one thousand dollars. The public,
you know, are very apt to find out the money-value of fine jewelry."

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

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

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

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

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

"I will admit that. But we cannot help thinking of the quality when
we look upon its sign. With a beautiful face, when first seen, do we
not always associate a beautiful soul? And when a lady adorns
herself with the most beautiful and costly things in nature, how can
we help looking, to see whether they correspond to things in her
mind! For one, I cannot; and so, almost involuntarily, I keep
turning my eyes upon Miss 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 her
jewels--she is vain of them."

"The temptation is great," I said.

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

A third party joining us at this moment, we dropped the subject of
Miss Harvey. But, enough had been said to make me observe her
closely during the 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 saw
the glitter of her diamonds. Yet, past the gems my vision now went,
and I searched the fair girl's countenance for the sparkle of other
and richer 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
thrown together for some time; and now, I do not care to renew the
acquaintance."

I obtained a single glance of the young lady's face. It was proud
and haughty in expression, and her eyes had in them a cold glitter
that awoke 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
of one who felt herself far superior to another with whom she had
been brought into comparison.

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

In the next moment, I was introduced to the young lady whose name
was in my thought. The face into which I looked was of that fine
oval which always pleases the eye, even where the countenance itself
does not light up well with the changes of thought. But, in this
case, a pair of calm, deep, living eyes, and lips of shape most
exquisitely delicate and feminine--giving warrant of a beautiful
soul--caused the face of Miss Gardiner to hold the vision as by a
spell. Low and very musical was her voice, and there was a
discrimination in her words, that lifted whatever she said above the
common-place, even though the subjects were of the hour.

I do not remember how long it was after my introduction to Miss
Gardiner, before I discovered that her only ornament was a small,
exquisitely cut cameo breast-pin, set in a circlet of pearls. There
was no obtrusive glitter about this. It lay more like an emblem than
a jewel against her bosom. It never drew your attention from her
face, nor dimmed, by contrast, the radiance of her soul-lit eyes. I
was charmed, from the beginning, with this young lady. Her thoughts
were real gems, rich and rare, and when she spoke there was the
flash of diamonds in her sentences; not the flash of mere brilliant
sayings, like the gleaming of a polished sword, but of living
truths, that lit up with their own pure radiance every mind that
received them.

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

I never meet Miss Harvey, that I do not think of the pure and
heavenly things of the mind to which diamonds correspond, nor
without seeing some 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 heart looks eagerly forward to a reunion with him in
heaven; to the blessed hour 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 perpetual
infancy have satisfied your maternal heart? Had you not already
begun to look forward to the period when intellectual manhood would
come with its crowning honors?"

"It is true," sighed the mother.

"As it would have been here, so will it be there. Here, the growth
of his body would have been parallel, if I may so speak, with the
growth of his mind. The natural and the visible would have developed
in harmony with the spiritual and the invisible. Your child would
have grown to manhood intellectually, as well as bodily. And you
would not have had it otherwise. Growth--development--the going on
to perfection, are the laws of life; and more emphatically so as
appertaining to the life of the human soul. That life, in all its
high activities, burns still in the soul of your lost darling, and
he will grow, in the world of angelic spirits to which our Father
has removed him, up to the full stature of an angel, a glorified
form of intelligence and wisdom. He cannot linger in feeble
babyhood; in the innocence of simple ignorance; but must advance
with the heavenly cycles of changing and renewing states."

"And this is all the comfort you bring to my yearning heart?" said
the mother. "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
firm utterance.

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

"And your love would confer upon its precious object the richest
blessings. Dear friend! Lift your thoughts a little way above the
clouds that sorrow has gathered around your heart, and let
perception come into an atmosphere radiant with light from the Sun
of Truth. Think of your child as destined to become, in the better
world to which God has removed him, a wise and loving angel. Picture
to your imagination the higher happiness, springing from higher
capacities and higher uses, which must crown the angelic life. Doing
this, and loving your lost darling, I know that you cannot ask for
him a perpetual babyhood in heaven."

"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
called that babe mine--mine in the broadest sense--yet he was God's,
as every other creature is his--one of the stones in his living
temple--one of the members of his kingdom. It does not comfort me in
my great sorrow to think that, as a child, I shall not again behold
him, but rays of new light are streaming into my mind, and I see
things in new aspects and new relations. Out of this deep affliction
good will arise."

"Just as certainly," added the friend, "as that the Sun shines and
the dew falls. It will be better for you, and better for the child.
To both will 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
the heart is the seat of life, these guests are continually acting
upon the life, either for good or evil, according to their quality.
As the guests 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 door
and come in, unless we give consent; always provided that we keep
watch and ward. If we leave wide open the doors of our houses, or
neglect to fasten them in the night season, thieves and robbers will
enter and despoil us at will. So if we leave the heart, unguarded,
enemies will come in. But if we open the door only to good
affections--which are guests--then we shall dwell in peace and
safety. We have all opened the door for enemies; or let them enter
through unguarded portals. They are in all the heart's
guest-chambers. They possess the very citadel of life; and the
measure of their possession is the measure of our unhappiness.

Markland was an unhappy man; and yet of this world's goods, after
which he had striven, he had an abundance. Wealth, honor among men,
luxury; these were presented to his mind as things most to be
desired, and he reached after them with an ardor that broke down all
impediments. Success answered to effort, with almost unerring
certainty. So he was full of wealth and honors. But, for all this,
Markland was unhappy. There were enemies in the house of his life;
troublesome guests in the guest-chambers of his heart, who were
forever disturbing, if not wounding him, with their strifes and
discords. Some of these he had admitted, himself holding open the
door; others had come in by stealth while the entrance was all
unguarded.

Envy was one of these guests, and she gave him no peace. He could
not bear that another should stand above him in anything. A certain
pew in the church he attended was regarded as most desirable. He
must have that pew at any cost. So when the annual choice of pews
was sold at auction, he overbid all contestants, and secured its
occupancy. For all the 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 at having given so large a price for the
right of choice, that people smiled when they heard the sum named.
He had paid too dear for the privilege, and this fact took away
enjoyment.

Envy tormented him in a hundred different ways. He could not enjoy
his friend's exquisite statuary, or paintings, because of a secret
intimation in his heart that his friend was honored above him in
their possession. Twice he had sold almost palatial residences,
because their architectural attractions were thrown into the shade
by dwellings of later construction. Thousands of dollars each year
this troublesome guest cost him; and yet she would never let him be
at ease. At every feast of life she dashed his cup with bitterness,
and robbed the choicest 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 held the world's admiring gaze--for while
they stood in the sunlight, he felt cast in the shade. So the guest
Envy, warmed and nourished in his heart, proved a tormentor. She
gave him neither rest nor peace.

Detraction, twin-sister of Envy, was all the while pointing out
defects in friends and neighbors. He saw their faults and hard
peculiaries; but rarely their good qualities. Then Doubt and
Distrust crept in through the unguarded door, and soon after their
entrance Markland began to think uneasily of the future; to fear
lest the foundations of worldly prosperity were not sure. These
troublesome guests were busiest in the night season, haunting his
mind with strange pictures of disasters, 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." Doubt and Distrust revived this
warning in his memory, and seeing that it gave 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, these guests troubled his
peace, often driving slumber from his eyelids until the late morning
watches. If there had been in his heart that true faith in God which
believes in him as doing all things well, Doubt and Distrust might
never have gained an entrance. But he had trusted in himself; had
believed himself equal to the task of creating his own
prosperity--had been, in common phrase, the architect of his own
fortunes. And now just as he was pluming himself on success, in
crept Doubt and Distrust with their alarming suggestions, and he was
unable to cast them out.

Affections, whether evil or good, are social in their character, and
obey social laws. They do not like to dwell alone, and therefore
seek congenial friendships. They draw to themselves companions of
like quality, and are not satisfied until they rule a man as to all
the powers of his mind.

In the case of Markland, Envy made room for her twin-sister,
Detraction; Ill-will, Jealousy, Unkindness, and a teeming brood of
their malevolent kindred crowded into his heart, possessing its
chambers, ere a warning reached him of their approach. Is there rest
or peace 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 to
open his eyes and look around him, to see, on every hand, the
unsightly wrecks of palaces once as fair to the eye as that which he
had raised with 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 saw the advancing shadows of misfortune on his
path.

Thus it was with Markland at fifty. He had all good as to the
externals of life, yet was he a miserable man, and, worse than all,
he felt himself growing more and more unhappy as the years
increased. Was there no remedy for this? None, while his heart was
so filled with evil affections, which are always tormentors. He did
not see this. Though his guests disturbed and afflicted him, he
called them friends, and gave 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.
Generosity knocked, but Avarice stood sentinel. Envy was forever
refusing to let Good-will, Appreciation, Approval, Delight, come in.
Detraction would give no countenance to Virtue and Excellence. Doubt
made deadly assault upon Faith, and Trust, and Hope, whenever they
drew near, while Ill-will stood ever on the alert to drive off
Charity, Loving-kindness and Neighborly regard. Unhappy man! Fiends
possessed him, and he knew it not.

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

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

Markland was already lifting his hand to wave her back, when
Compassion, who had just then found an old way into his heart,
hidden for a long time by rank weeds and brambles, said, in soft and
pitying tones:

"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 and
long sleeping memories. Markland was himself, for a moment, a child,
full of pity, tenderness and loving-kindness. Compassion had already
uncovered the far away past, and the sweetness of its young blossoms
was 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!
Gratefully with trust and hope in her eyes, she looked up to the
merchant. There was no answer on her lips, for this unexpected
kindness had choked the coming utterance. Rebuff, threat, anger, had
met her so often, that soft words almost surprised her into tears.

"Well, what can I do for you?"

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

"Mother is sick," said the child.

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

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

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

"God bless you, sir," the child dropped her grateful eyes from his
face, as she took the coin, bending with an involuntary reverent
motion. Then, as she slowly passed to the warehouse door, she turned
two or three times, to look on the man who, alone, of the many to
whom she 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
was not now, wholly, at the mercy of the guests who had so long
tormented him. Compassion, Good-will and Kindness were now his
guests also; and they had other and pleasanter suggestions for his
mind. The child's "God bless you, sir," they repeated over and over
again, softening the young voice, and giving it increasing power to
awaken tender and loving states which had formed themselves in
earlier and purer years. Tranquility, so long absent from his soul,
came in, now, through the entrance made by Compassion.

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

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

A friend came in, and spoke in praise of one who had performed a
generous deed. There was an instant motion among the guests in
Markland's heart, the evil inciting to envy and detraction, the good
to approval and emulation. Tranquility moved to the door through
which she had come in, as if to depart; but Good-will, Kindness and
Approbation, drew her back, and held, with her, possession of the
mind they sought to 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
that pervaded his mind--a peace such as he had not known for many
years--Markland fell asleep; and in his sleep there came to him a
dream of the human heart and its guest-chamber; and what we have
faintly suggested, was made visible to him in living personation.

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

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

The incident of the child, and the dream that followed, were, in
Providence, sent for Markland's instruction. And they were not sent
in vain. Ever after he set watch and ward at the doors of his heart.
Evil guests, already in possession, were difficult to cast out; but,
he invited 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 the guest-chamber with sweet beatitudes, until angels
instead of demons filled 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
of the ladder."

It was true; Brantley had tripped again; and was down. He had been
climbing bravely for three or four years, and was well up the ladder
of prosperity, when in his eagerness to make two rundles of the
ladder at a step instead of one, he missed his footing and fell to
the bottom. My first knowledge of the fact came through the
conversation just recorded. 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 deal of sensitive pride.

A few days afterwards, while passing the pleasant home where
Brantley had been residing, I saw a bill up, giving notice that the
house was for 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 walked slowly, and was in deep thought.

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

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

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

"If one gets too eager in any pursuit, he is almost sure to make
false steps. I think Brantley became too eager. The steadily
widening prospect as he went up, up, up, caused his pulses to move
at a quicker rate."

"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 grow
blind to things collateral, and less concerned about the principles
involved."

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

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

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

"Honest as the world regards honesty. But there are higher than
legal standards. What A and B may consider fair, C may regard as
questionable. He has his own standard; and if he falls below that in
his 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
not live 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. The
circumstances were favorable, and our interview unreserved. He had
sold his house, and a large part of the handsome furniture it
contained, and was 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
satisfied on that head. If we lose on one hand, we gain on another.
And my experience in life leads me to this conclusion, that the loss
is generally in lower things, and the gain in higher."

I looked into his face, yet bearing the marks of recent trial and
suffering, 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.
"It is painful to be under the surgeon's knife," he added. "We
shrink back, shivering, at the sight of his instruments. The flesh
is agonized. But when all is over, and the greedy tumor, or wasting
cancer, that was threatening 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
then resumed:

"I can see now, that what seemed to me, and is still regarded by
others as 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 has befallen me in life, I have come with a deep
conviction that my feet stumbled because they were turning into
paths that would lead my soul astray. However much I may love myself
and the world, however much I may seek my own, below all and above
all is the conviction that time is fleeting, and life here but as a
span, that if I compass the whole world, and lose my own soul, I
have made a fearful exchange. There are a great many things regarded
by business men as allowable. They are so common in trade, that
scarcely one man in a score questions their morality; so common,
that I have often found myself drifting into their practice, and
abandoning for a time the higher principles in whose guidance there
alone is safety. Misfortune seems to have dogged my steps; but in
this pause of my life--in this state of calmness--I can see that
misfortune is my good; for, not until my feet were turning into 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,
the immediate 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
my own conscience that stock speculation was wrong; that it was only
another name for gambling, in which, instead of rendering service to
the community, your gains were, in nearly all cases, measured by
another's loss. Departing from this just principle of action, I was
tempted to invest a large sum of money in a rising stock, that I was
sure would continue to advance until it reached a point where, in
selling I could realize a net gain of ten thousand dollars. I was
doing well. 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, I grew more and more eager in its acquirement, and
less concerned about the principles underlying every action, until I
passed into a temporary state of moral blindness. I was less
scrupulous about securing large advantages in trade, and would take
the lion's share, if opportunity offered, without a moment's
hesitation. So, not content with doing well in a safe path, I must
step aside, and try my strength at climbing more rapidly, even
though danger threatened on the left and on the right; even though I
dragged others down in my hot and perilous scramble upwards. I lost
my footing--I stumbled--I fell, crashing down to the very bottom of
the hill, half way up which I had gone so safely ere the greedy
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 outside shell of a false life has been torn away. The real man
is unharmed. And now that the bitter disappointment and sadness that
attend humiliation are over, I can say that my gain is greater than
my loss. I would rather grope in the vale of poverty all my life,
and keep my conscience clean, than stand high up among the mountains
of prosperity with a taint thereon.

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

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

"They did feel it. But the pain is over with them also. Poor weak
human nature! My girls were active and industrious at home, and
diligent at school, while my circumstances were limited. But, as
money grew more plentiful, and I gave them a larger house to live
in, and richer clothes to wear, they wearied of their useful
employments, and neglected their studies. Pride grew apace, and
vanity walked hand in hand with pride. They were less considerate of
one another, and less loving to their parents. If I attempted to
restrain their fondness for dress, or check their extravagance, they
grew sullen, or used unfilial language. Like their father, they
could not bear prosperity. But all is changed now. Misfortune has
restored them to a better state of mind. They emulate each other in
service at home; their minds dwell on useful things; they are tender
of their mother and considerate of their father. Home is a sweeter
place to us all than it has been for a long time."

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

"Yes. In permitting my feet to stumble; in letting me fall from the
height I had obtained, God dealt with me and mine in infinite love.
We give false names to things. We call that good which only
represents good, 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
centre of misfortune's bitter nut."

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

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






VII.

INTO GOOD GROUND.





"_WHAT_ did you think of the sermon, Mr. Braxton?" said one church
member 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
sign of disapproval. They moved along, side by side, down the broad
steps to the pavement, closely pressed by the retiring audience.

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

"Too strong for my stomach," replied Mr. Braxton. "Something must
have gone 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 set
nine-tenths of us over on the left hand side, among the goats, as
remorselessly as if he were an avenging Nemesis. He actually made me
shudder."

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

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

"Into one ear, and out at the other. So it is with me, in cases like
this," answered Mr. Braxton's companion, in a changed and lighter
tone. "If a preacher chooses to be savage; to write from dyspeptic
or neuralgic states; to send his congregation, unshrived, to the
nether regions--why, I shrug my shoulders and let it pass. Most
likely, on the next 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--never in the world. We'd always be
getting into hot water. Clergymen have their moods, like other
people. It doesn't answer to forget this. Good morning, 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 applied
doctrine from Scripture to the account of dyspepsia or neuralgia, he
was unable to push from his mind certain convictions wrought therein
by the peculiar manner in which some positions had been argued and
sustained. The subject taken by the minister, was that striking
picture of the judgment given in the twenty-fifth chapter of
Matthew, from the thirty-first verse to the close of the chapter,
beginning: "When the Son 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 be gathered all nations: and he shall
separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep
from the goats." The passage concludes: "And these shall go away
into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal."

Now, although Mr. Braxton had complained of the literal application
of this text, that term was hardly admissible, for the preacher
waived the idea of a last general judgment, as involved in the
letter of Scripture, and declared his belief in a spiritual
signification as lying beneath the letter, and applicable to the
inner life of every single individual at the period of departure
from this world; adding, in this connection, briefly: "But do not
understand me as in any degree waiving the strictness of judgment to
which every soul will have to submit. It will not be limited by his
acts, but go down to his ends of life--to his motives and his
quality--and the sentence will really be a judgment 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
of God, according to its own declarations, is spirit and
life--treats, in fact, by virtue of divine and Scriptural origin, of
divine and spiritual things, must we not go beneath the merely
obvious and natural meaning, if we would get to its true
significance? Is there not a hunger of the soul as well as of the
body? May we not be spiritually athirst, and strangers?--naked,
sick, and in prison? This being so, can we 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, and ministered
thereto according to our ability? Just in the degree that the soul
is more precious than the body, is the degree of our responsibility
under this more interior signification of Scripture. The mere
natural acts of feeding the hungry and giving water to the thirsty,
of visiting the sick, and those who lie in prison, of clothing the
naked and entertaining strangers, will not save us in our last day,
if we have neglected the higher duties involved in the divine
admonition. Nor will even the supply of spiritual nourishment to
hungry and thirsty souls be accounted to us for righteousness. We
must find a higher meaning still in the text. Are we not, each one
of us, starving for heavenly food?--spiritually exhausted with
thirst?--naked, sick, in prison? Are we eating, daily, of the bread
of life?--drinking at the wells of God's truth?--putting on the
garments of righteousness?--finding balm for our sick souls in 
Gilead?--breaking the bonds of evil?--turning from strange lands, and
coming back to our father's house. If not, I warn you, men and
brethren, that you are not in the right way;--that, taking the
significance of God's word, which is truth itself, there is no
reasonable ground of hope for your salvation."

It was not with Mr. Braxton as with his friend. He could not let
considerations like these enter one ear and go out at the other.
From earliest childhood he had received careful instruction.
Parents, teachers and preachers, had all shared in the work of
storing his mind with the precepts of religion, and now, in manhood,
his conscience rested on these and upon the states wrought therefrom
in the impressible substance of his mind. Try as he would, he found
the effort to push aside early convictions and early impressions a
simple impossibility; and, notwithstanding these had been laid on
the foundation of a far more literal interpretation of Scripture
than the one to which he had just been listening, his maturer reason
accepted the preacher's clear application of the law; and
conscience, like an angel, went down into his heart, and troubled
the waters which had been at 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 he offered daily sacrifice; and in his heart really
desired no higher good than seemed attainable through outward
things. Wealth, position, honor, among men--these bounded his real
aspirations. But prior things in his mind were continually reaching
down and affecting his present states. He could not forget that life
was short, and earthly possessions and honors but the things of a
day. That as he brought nothing into this world, so he could take
nothing out. That, without a religious life, he must not hope for
heaven. In order to get free from the disturbing influence of these
prior things, and to lay the foundations of a future hope, Mr.
Braxton became a church member, and, so far as all Sabbath
observances were concerned, a devout worshiper. Thus he made a truce
with conscience, and conscience having gained so much, accepted for
a period the truce, and left Mr. Braxton in good odor with himself.

A man who goes regularly to church, and reads his Bible, cannot fail
to have questions and controversies about truths, duties, and the
requirements of religion. The barest literal interpretation of
Scripture will, in most cases, oppose the action of self-love; and
he will not fail to see in the law of spiritual life a requirement
wholly in opposition to the law of natural life. In the very breadth
of this literal requirement, however, he finds a way of escape from
literal observance. To give to all who ask; to lend to all who would
borrow; to yield the cloak when the coat is taken forcibly; to turn
the left cheek when the right is smitten--all this is to him so
evidently but a figure of 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 the letter, he does not find it very difficult
to dispose of others that come nearer to the obvious duties of man
to man--such, for instance, as that in the illustration of which, by
the preacher, Mr. Braxton's self-complacency had been so much
disturbed. He had never done much in the way of feeding the hungry,
giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, or visiting the
sick and in prison--never done anything of set purpose, in fact. If
people were hungry, it was mostly their own fault, and to feed them
would be to encourage idleness and vice. All the other items in the
catalogue were as easily disposed of; and so the literal duties
involved might have been set forth in the most impassioned
eloquence, Sabbath after Sabbath, without much disturbing the fine
equipose of Mr. Braxton. Alas for his peace of mind!--the preacher
of truth had gone past the dead letter, and revealed its spirit and
its life. Suddenly he felt himself removed, as it were, to an almost
impossible distance from the heaven into which, as he had
complacently flattered himself, he should enter by the door of mere
ritual observances, when the sad hour came for giving up the
delightful things of this pleasant world. No wonder that Mr. Braxton
was disturbed--no wonder that, in his first convictions touching
those more interior truths, which made visible the sandy foundations
whereon he was building his eternal hopes, he should regard the
application of doctrine as personal and even literal.

It was not so easy a thing to set aside the duty of ministering to
the hungry, sick, and naked human souls around him, thousands of
whom, for lack of spiritual nourishment, medicine and clothing, were
in danger of perishing eternally. And the preacher in dwelling upon
this great duty of 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 it
not unto me. And these shall go away;' where? 'To everlasting
punishment!' Who shall go thus, in the last day, from this
congregation?"

As Mr. Braxton sat alone on the evening of that Sabbath, troubled by
the new thoughts which came flowing into his mind, the full
impression of this scene in church came back upon him. There was an
almost breathless pause. Men leaned forward in their pews; the low,
almost whispered, tones of the minister were heard with thrilling
distinctness in 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 of the hungry and thirsty, the stranger, the sick and in
prison, you are of 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. Braxton would not have been much exercised in mind.

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

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

For awhile he endeavored to turn himself away from convictions that
were grounding themselves deeper and deeper every moment,--to shut
his eyes in wilful blindness, and refuse to see in the purer light
which had fallen around him. But this effort only brought his mind
into severer conflict, and consciously removed him to an almost
fatal distance 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
of strife in his soul, and his soul grew calm and listened. He no
longer wrought at the fruitless task of rejecting the higher truths
which were illustrating his mind, but let them flow in, and by
virtue thereof examined the state of his inner life. Now it was that
his eyes were in a degree opened, so that he could apprehend the
profounder meanings of Scripture. The parables were flooded with new
light. He understood, as he had never understood before, why the
guest, unclothed with a wedding garment, was cast out from the
feast; and why the door was shut upon the virgins who had no oil in
their lamps. He had always regarded these parables as involving a
hidden meaning--as intended to convey spiritual instruction under
literal forms--but, now, they spoke in a language that applied
itself to his inward state, and warned him that without a marriage
garment, woven in the loom of interior life, where motives rule, he
could never be the King's guest; warned him that without the light
of divine truth in his understanding, and the oil of love to God and
the neighbor in his heart, the door of the kingdom would be shut
against him. Ritual observances were, to these, but outward forms,
dry husks, except when truly representative of that worship in the
soul which 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,
fowls came and devoured it. He had been a "stony-ground" hearer,
receiving the truth with gladness, but having no root in himself. He
had been as the ground choked with thorns, suffering the cares of
this world and the deceitfulness of riches to choke and hinder the
growth of heavenly life. Now, into good ground the seed had at last
fallen; and though the evil one tried to snatch it away, its hidden
life, moving to the earth'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,
even though he was wedded to external life; a self-seeker; a lover
of the world? In the answer to this question lies a most important
truth for all to whom God has committed the care of children. Unless
good ground is formed, as it was in his case, by early instruction;
by storing up in the memory truths from the Bible, and states of
good affection; by weaving into the web and woof of the forming mind
precepts of religion--there is small hope for the future. If these
are not made a part of the forming life, things opposite will be
received, and determine spiritual capabilities. Influx of life into
the soul must be through prior things; as the twig is bent, the tree
is inclined; as the child's memory and consciousness is stored, so
will the man develop and progress. Take heart, then, doubting
parent; if you have in all faithfulness, woven precious truths, and
tender, pious, unselfish states into the texture of your child's
mind--though the fruit is not yet seen, depend on it, that the
treasured remains of good and true things 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 more
widely prevalent, nor more fatal to happiness, than that which
assumes the measure of possession to be the measure of enjoyment.
All over the world, the strife for accumulation goes on; every one
seeking to increase his flocks and herds--his lands and houses--or
his gold and merchandise--and ever in the weary, restless,
unsatisfied present, tightening with one hand the grasp on worldly
goods, and reaching out for new accessions with the other.

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

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

The rich man shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly annoyed, as
one 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 as anything else; and this cant about its being more
blessed to give than to receive is a part of the capital in trade of
your men of black coats and white neck-ties. I understand it all,
Mr. Erwin."

"You talk lighter than is your wont on so grave a theme," answered
the friend. "What you speak of as 'cant,' and the preacher's
'capital in trade'--'it is more blessed to give than to receive, are
the recorded words of him who never spake as man spake. If his
words, must they not be true?"

"Perhaps I did speak lightly," was returned. "But indeed, Mr. Erwin,
I cannot help feeling that in all these efforts to make rich men
believe that their only way to happiness is through a distribution
of their estates, a large element of covetousness exists."

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

"As to that," was unhesitatingly replied, "I had more true enjoyment
in life when I was simply a clerk with a salary of four hundred
dollars a year, 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 of
unremitted 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
like one half surprised, and then glanced thoughtfully down at the
floor.

"Gain, and only gain," said Mr. Erwin. "Not your history alone, nor
mine alone. It is the history of millions. Gathering, gathering, but
never of free choice, dispensing. Still, under Providence, the
dispensation goes on; and what we hoard, in due time another
distributes. Men accumulate gold like water in great reservoirs;
accumulate it for themselves, and refuse to lay conduits. Often they
pour in their gold until the banks fail under excessive pressure,
and the rich treasure escapes to flow back among the people. Often
secret conduits are laid, and refreshing and fertilizing currents,
unknown to the selfish owner, flow steadily out, while he toils with
renewed and anxious labors to keep the repository full. Oftener, the
great magazine of accumulated gold and silver, which he never found
time to enjoy, is rifled by others at his death. He was the toiler
and the accumulator--the slave who only produced. Miners,
pearl-divers, gold-washers are we, my friend; but what we gather we
fail to possess in that true sense of possession which involves
delight and satisfaction. For us the toil, for others the benefit."

"A flattering picture certainly!" was responded by Mr. Steel, with
the manner 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,
to another."

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

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

"Life is uncertain."

"Yet often prolonged to sixty, seventy, or even eighty years. Take
sixty-five as the mean. Not for twenty years, then, will this
institution receive the benefit of your good intention. It costs, I
think, about fifty dollars a year to support each orphan child. Only
a small number can be taken, for want of liberal means. Applicants
are refused admission almost every day. Three hundred dollars, the
interest on five thousand, at six per cent., would pay for six
children. Take five 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 be accomplished before your eyes. You might,
if you chose, see it in progress, and comprehending its great
significance, experience a degree of pleasure, such as fills the
hearts of angels. I have made up my mind what 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 this
charity. No, twenty years shall stand between my purpose and its
execution. I will have the satisfaction of knowing that good is done
in my 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. The
richer he grew, the more absorbing became his desire for riches. It
was comparatively an easy thing to write out charitable bequests in
a will--to give money for good uses when no longer able to hold
possession thereof; but to lessen his valued treasure by taking
anything therefrom for others in the present time, was a thing the
very suggestion of which startled into life a host of opposing
reasons. He did not respond immediately, although his heart moved
him to utterance. The force of his friend's argument was, however,
conclusive. He saw the whole subject in a new light. After a brief
but hard struggle with himself, he answered:

"And I shall follow in your footsteps, my friend. I never thought of
the lost time you mention, of the thirty children unblessed by the
good act 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, now that God shows me their condition? I feel the pressure
of a responsibility scarcely thought of an hour ago. You have turned
the current 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 new
light 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 know when I have seen so cheerful an expression on your
countenance."

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

"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 beating
more rapidly.

"I have not seen a happier man than the superintendent for a score
of weeks. If you had invested the ten thousand dollars for his
individual benefit, 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 the
strength of your liberal donation. Ten children lifted out of want
and suffering, and placed under Christian guardianship! Just think
of it. My heart gave a leap for joy when he told me. It was well
done, my friend--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 at them, the superintendent said: 'I heard of them two days
ago. Their wretched mother had just died, and, in dying, had given
them to a vicious companion. Hunger, cold, debasement, suffering,
crime, were in the way before them; and but for your timely aid, I
should have had no power to intervene. But, you gave the means of
rescue, and here they are, 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
of the common order of things. I have made hundreds of investments
in my time, but none that paid me down so large an interest. A poor
speculation it seemed. You almost dragged me into it; but, I see
that it 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,
that in wise dispensation, not in mere getting and hoarding, lies
the secret of happiness. The lake must have an outlet, and give
forth its crystal waters 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 its bosom."






IX.

WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?





"_WHO_ is that young lady?"

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

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

"My seamstress," answered Mrs. Wykoff.

"Oh!" The manner of her visitor changed. How the whole character of
the woman was expressed in the tone with which she made that simple
ejaculation! Only a seamstress! "Oh! I thought it some relative or
friend 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 had
the style of a lady."

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

"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 of
two-thirds of your sewing girls." Mrs. Lowe laughed in an
unsympathetic, 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
neither here nor there," said Mrs. Lowe, with a coldness, or rather
coarseness of manner, that shocked the higher tone of Mrs. Wykoff's
feelings, "what is she as a seamstress? Can she fit
children?--little girls like my 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's dress in her hand. The ladies examined the work on this
dress with practised 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
made for 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 of
weeks. 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 than
give some women I've had, fifty cents. She works faithfully in all
things."

"I'll take your word for that, Mrs. Wykoff. Please ask her if she
can come 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.
I shall 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.
Your endorsement of her is all-sufficient."

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

"You look pale this morning, Mary," said the lady as she came in,
"I'm afraid 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. Her eyes looked very bright, as they rested, with a sober
expression, on Mrs. Wykoff. But she did not reply.

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

"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's sweet, sad face; a smile that was meant to say--"How absurd
to think of such 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. Wykoff looked at her very earnestly, and saw that her
lips were growing colorless; that she moved them in a nervous way,
and swallowed every now and then.

"Come, child," she said, in a firm tone, as she took Miss Carson by
the arm. "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 a
sparkle of tears along the line of her closely shut eyelids.

"Now don't stir from there until I come back," said the kind lady,
and left the room. In a little while she returned, with a small
waiter in her 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,
were all wet as Mary Carson opened them.

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

"It seems to put life into me," she said, with a pulse of
cheerfulness in 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
Carson was visible. The whiteness around her mouth gave place to a
ruddier tint; her face no longer wore an exhausted air; the glassy
lustre of her eyes was gone.

"I feel like myself again," she said, as she left the sofa, and
resumed her 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't
sleep much last night, and that left me exhausted this morning, and
without any appetite."

"What kept you awake?"

"This dull pain in my side for a part of the time. Then I coughed a
good 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 sat
regarding her for some time with a look of human interest, and then
went out.

A little before two o'clock there was a tap at the door, and the
waiter came in, bearing a tray. There was a nicely-cooked chop,
toast, and some 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 the servant, as he drew a small table towards the centre of
the room, and covered 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 past
three before the regular dinner for the family was served. She
looked in, 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
bright smile 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 a cup 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 little
better 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
at some distance from Mrs. Wykoff's, she did not come until after
breakfast. The excellent lady had thought over the incident of the
day before, and was satisfied that, from lack of nutritious food at
the right time, Mary's vital forces were steadily wasting, and that
she would, in a very little while, destroy herself.

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

"You look a great deal better this morning," she remarked, as she
entered 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
away from the questioning gaze of Mrs. Wykoff.

"There is a cause for it, and it is of importance that you should
know the 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
the difference?"

"I think the difference is mainly due to your kindness
yesterday.--To the glass of wine and biscuit when I was faint, and
to the early and good dinner, when exhausted nature was crying for
food. I believe, Mrs. Wykoff"--and Mary's eyes glistened--"that if
you had not thought of me when 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 the
morning, even without the wine and biscuit, and worked on until
dinner-time; but I wouldn't have been able to eat anything. It
almost always happens, when I go so long without food, that my
appetite fails altogether, and by the time night comes, I sink down
in an exhausted state, from which nature finds it hard to rally. It
has been so a number 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 the afternoon, without food passing my lips. As I had
been unable to eat anything at breakfast-time, I grew very faint,
and when called to dinner, was unable to swallow a mouthful. When I
got home in the evening I was feverish and exhausted, and coughed
nearly all night. It was 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 manner
was 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,
tell me, Mary, without reservation, exactly how it was."

"I never blamed you for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. You didn't think; and
I'd rather not say anything about it. If I'd been as well as usual
on that 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
what occurred, and how you felt all day. Don't keep back anything on
account of my feelings. I want the exact truth. It will be of use to
me, and to others also, I think."

Thus urged, Miss Carson replied--

"I'll tell you just as it was. I came later than usual. The walk is
long, and I felt so weak that I couldn't hurry. I thought you looked
a little serious when I came in, and concluded that it was in
consequence of my being late. The air and walk gave me an appetite,
and if I had taken some food then, it would have done me good. I
thought, as I stood at the door, waiting to be let in, that I would
ask for a cracker or a piece of bread and butter; but, when I met
you, and saw how sober you looked, 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 Aunt Hannah used to say. Well, I sat down to my work with
the dull pain in my side, and the sick feeling that always comes at
such times, and worked on hour after hour. You looked in once or
twice during the morning to see how I was getting on, and to ask
about the trimming for a dress I was making. Then you went out
shopping, and did not get home until half past two o'clock. For two
hours there had been a gnawing at my stomach, and I was faint for
something to eat. Twice I got up to ring the bell, and ask for a
lunch; but, I felt backward about taking the liberty. When, at three
o'clock, I was called to dinner, no appetite remained. I put food
into my mouth, but it had no sweetness, and the little I forced
myself to swallow, lay undigested. You were very much occupied, and
did not notice me particularly. I dragged on, as best I could,
through the afternoon, feeling, sometimes, as if I would drop from
my chair. You had tea later than usual. It was nearly seven o'clock
when I put up my work and went down. You said something in a kind,
but absent tone, about my looking pale, and asked if I would have a
second cup of tea. I believe I forced myself to eat a slice of bread
half as large as my hand. I thought I should never reach home that
night, for the weakness that came upon me. I got to bed as soon as
possible, but was too tired to sleep until after twelve o'clock,
when a coughing spell seized me, which brought on the pain in my
side. It was near daylight when I dropped off; and then I slept so
heavily for two hours that I was all wet with perspiration when I
awoke. On trying to rise, my head swam so that I had to lie down
again, and it was late in the day before I could even sit up in bed.
Towards evening, I was able to drink a cup of tea and eat a small
piece of toast and then I felt wonderfully better. I slept well that
night, and was still better in the morning, but did not think it
safe to venture out upon a day's work; so I rested and got all the
strength I could. On the third day, I was as well as ever again."

Mrs. Wykoff drew a long sigh as Miss Carson stopped speaking and
bent down 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 is scarcely possible for us to understand just how the
case stands with one in your position, and duty to yourself demands
that you should make it known. There is not one lady in ten, I am
sure, who would not be pleased 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 seamstress
does not take off the keen edge of a natural reserve--or, to speak
more correctly sensitiveness. I dislike to break in upon another's
household arrangements, or in any way to obtrude myself. My rule is,
to adapt myself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not
disturb anything by 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 growing
interested in the subject, as reaching beyond you personally. How
many families 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
various home arrangements?"

"Yes, ma'am."

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

Miss Carson nodded assent.

"Taking it now, warm and well served, with the family, and on the
next occasion, 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 the
next cooped up with children in a small apartment, the air of which
is little less than poison to your weak lungs."

"These differences must always occur, Mrs. Wykoff," replied Miss
Carson, in a quiet uncomplaining voice. "How could it be otherwise?
No house-keeper is going to alter her family arrangements for the
accommodation of a sewing-girl. The seamstress must adapt herself to
them, 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
order of things bears too heavily upon her, than to attempt any
change. I have been obliged to do this in one or two instances."

"There is something wrong here, Mary," said Mrs. Wykoff, with
increasing sobriety of manner. "Something very wrong, and as I look
it steadily in the face, I feel both surprise and trouble; for,
after what you have just said, I do not see clearly how it is to be
remedied. One thing is certain, if you, as a class, accept, without
remonstrance, the hurt you suffer, there will be no change. People
are indifferent and thoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any
regard for others--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,
for the preservation of health, orderly habits are necessary; and
that food should be taken at regular intervals. Suppose that, at
home, my habit is 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 past six, and sit down, on an empty stomach to
sew until eight, before I am called to breakfast. After that, I work
until two o'clock, when I get my dinner; and at seven drink tea. On
the day after that, may be, on my arrival at another house where a
day's cutting and fitting is wanted, I find the breakfast awaiting
me at seven; this suits very well--but not another mouthful of food
passes my lips until after three o'clock, and may be, then, I have
such an inward trembling and exhaustion, that I cannot eat. On the
day following, the order is again changed. So it goes on. The
difference in food, too, is often as great. At some houses,
everything is of good quality, well cooked, and in consequence, of
easy digestion; while at others, sour or heavy bread, greasy
cooking, and like kitchen abominations, if I must so call them,
disorder instead of giving sustenance to a frail body like mine. The
seamstress who should attempt a change of these things for her own
special 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, I should begin by a request to have my meals served at certain
hours--seven, one and six, for instance--how would it be received in
eight out of ten families?"

"Something would depend," said Mrs. Wykoff, "on the way in which it
was done. If there was a formal stipulation, or a cold demand, I do
not think the response would be a favorable one. But, I am satisfied
that, in your case, with the signs of poor health on your
countenance, the mild request to be considered as far as
practicable, would, in almost every instance, receive a kind
return."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But the storm is too severe. It's raining and blowing dreadfully.
Wait an 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
get drenched to the skin. Now don't go out, child!"

"I must indeed, Mrs. Grant. The lady expects me, and I cannot
disappoint her." And Miss Carson kept on down stairs.

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

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

"I expected you half an hour ago," said the lady, in a coldly polite
way, 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 and
feet. That was a matter of no concern to her. It was a seamstress,
not a 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 were driving. There was a damp, chilly feeling in the
air of this room. Mrs. Lowe had a knit shawl drawn around her
shoulders; but Mary, after removing her bonnet and cloak, had no
external protection for her chest beyond the closely fitting body of
her merino dress. Her feet and hands felt very cold, and she had
that low shuddering, experienced when one is inwardly chilled.

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

It was past nine o'clock when a servant called Mary to breakfast. As
she arose from her chair, she felt a sharp stitch in her left side;
so sharp, that she caught her breath in half inspirations, two or
three times, before venturing on a full inflation of the lungs.
She was, at the same time, conscious of an uncomfortable tightness
across the chest. The nausea, and loathing of food, which had given
place soon after her arrival at Mrs. Lowe's to a natural craving of
the stomach for food, had returned again, and she felt, as she went
down stairs, that unless something to tempt the appetite were set
before her, she could not take a mouthful. There was nothing to
tempt the appetite. The table at which the family had eaten remained
just as they had left it--soiled plates and scraps of broken bread
and meat; partly emptied cups and saucers; dirty knives and forks,
spread about in confusion.--Amid all this, a clean plate had been
set for the seamstress; and Mrs. Lowe awaited her, cold and
dignified, at the head of 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
swallowed it--put the cup again to her lips; but they resolutely
refused to unclose 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
table bearing a smoking sirloin, across to the seamstress. Now,
lying beside the bone, and cemented to the dish by a stratum of
chilled gravy, was the fat, stringy end of the steak. The sight of
it was enough for Miss Carson; and she declined the offered
delicacy.

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

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

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

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

"You may, if you please." Mary felt an inward weakness that she knew
was occasioned by lack of food, and so accepted the offer of tea, in
the hope that it might prove more palatable than the coffee. It had
the merit of being hot, and not of decidedly offensive flavor; but
it was little more in strength than sweetened water, whitened with
milk. She drank off the cup, and then left the table, going, with
her still wet feet 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,
and almost took her breath away; and it was some time after she
resumed her work, 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, Mary
Carson sat working until nearly three o'clock, without rest or
refreshment of any kind; and when at last called to dinner, the
disordered condition of the table, and the cold, unpalatable food
set before her, extinguished, instead of stimulating her sickly
appetite. She made a feint of eating, to avoid attracting attention,
and then returned 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 the
dull pain was heavier, and accompanied by a sickening sensation.
Still, she worked on, cutting, fitting and sewing with a patience
and industry, that, considering her actual condition, was
surprising. Mrs. Lowe was in and out of the room frequently,
overlooking the work, and marking its progress. Beyond the producing
power of her seamstress, she had no thought of that individual. It
did not come within the range of her questionings whether she were
well or ill--weak or strong--exhausted by prolonged labor, or in
the full possession of bodily vigor. To her, she was simply an agent
through which a certain service was obtained; and beyond that
service, she was nothing. The extent of her consideration was
limited by the progressive creation of dresses for her children. As
that went on, her thought dwelt with Miss Carson; but penetrated no
deeper. She might be human; might have an individual life full of
wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities; might be conscious of
bodily or mental suffering--but, if so, it was in a region so remote
from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that no intelligence 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
spoke in 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.
I think you're going rather early. It was late when you came this
morning, you know."

"Excuse me, if you please," said Miss Carson, as she moved on. "I am
not very well to-night. To-morrow I will make it up."

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

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

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

"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 very
wet?"

"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
purpose for you." And the considerate Mrs. Grant hurried Mary into
the small back room, and taking off her cloak and bonnet, placed her
in a chair before the fire. Then, as she drew off one of her shoes,
and clasped the foot in her hand, she exclaimed--

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

In a few minutes Mrs. Grant returned with the dry stockings and a
towel. She bared one of the damp feet, and dried and heated it
thoroughly--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
this welcome service, Mrs. Grant looked more steadily into Mary's
face, and saw that her cheeks were flushed unnaturally, and that her
eyes shone with an unusual lustre. She also noticed, that in
breathing there was an effort.

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

"Yes. The wind blew right in my face all the way. An umbrella was
hardly 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.
What could I do?"

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

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

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

"I think not."

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

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

Mrs. Grant observed her more closely; while doing so, Mary coughed
two or 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
her breast. "I think," she added, a few moments afterwards, "that
I'll go up 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 bring
down a pillow, and you can lie here on the sofa."

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

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

"Come, dear," she said, half an hour afterwards, laying her hand
upon the now sleeping girl. A drowsy feeling had come over Mary, and
she had fallen into a heavy slumber soon after lying down. The easy
touch of Mrs. Grant did not awaken her. So she called louder, and
shook the sleeper more vigorously. At this, Mary started up, and
looked around in a 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
room instead 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
or three 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 not attempt to eat. Mrs. Grant looked at her narrowly from
across the table, and noticed that her eyes, which had appeared
large and glittering when she came home, were now lustreless, with
the lids drooping heavily.

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

Mary pushed her cup and plate away, and leaning back, wearily, in
her chair, 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.
As she laid her hand upon her forehead, she said, a little
anxiously, "You have considerable fever, Mary."

"I shouldn't wonder." And a sudden cough seized her as she spoke.
She cried out as the rapid concussions jarred her, and pressed one
hand against 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
is the place for you now."

They went up stairs, and Mary was soon undressed and in bed. As she
touched the cool sheets, she shivered for a moment, and then shrank
down 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;
red in clearly defined spots, that made the pale forehead whiter by
contrast.

"Something more than sleep is wanted, I fear," she said to herself,
as she passed from the chamber and went down stairs. In less than
half an hour she returned. A moan reached her ears as she approached
the room where the sick girl lay. On entering, she found her sitting
high up in bed; or, rather, reclining against the pillows, which she
had adjusted against the head-board. Her face, which had lost much
of its redness, was pinched and had a distressed look. Her eyes
turned anxiously to Mrs. 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
side into 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 to
side, uneasily--almost impatiently; then cried out with pain, as she
took a deeper inspiration than usual.

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

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

Of the particulars of his treatment, we will not speak. He was of
the exhaustive school, and took blood freely; striking at the
inflammation through a reduction of the vital system. When he left
his patient that night, she was free from pain, breathing feebly,
and without constriction of the chest. In the morning, he found her
with considerable 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, and hesitated a little on the question of opening
another vein, or having recourse to cups. As the lancet was at hand,
and most easy of use, the vein was opened, and permitted to flow
until there was a marked reduction of pain. After this, an anodyne
diaphoretic was prescribed, and the doctor retired from the chamber
with Mrs. Grant. He was much more particular, now, in his inquiries
about his patient and the immediate cause of her illness. On
learning that she had been permitted to remain all day in a cold
room, with wet feet and damp clothing, he shook his head soberly,
and remarked, partly speaking to himself, that doctors 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
family did 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
room without fire, on a day like yesterday?"

"It is so, doctor."

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

"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 her
showing marked improvement this morning. But, to my concern, I find
her really worse instead of better."

"Worse, doctor? Not worse!"

"I say worse to you, Mrs. Grant, in order that you may know how much
depends on careful attendance. Send for the medicine I have
prescribed at once, and give it immediately. It will quiet her
system and produce sleep. If perspiration follows, we shall be on
the right side. I will call in again through the day. If the pain in
her side returns, send for me."

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

The case had become complicated with pneumonia, and assumed a very
dangerous type. On the third day a consulting physician was called
in. He noted all the symptoms carefully, and with a seriousness of
manner that did not escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. Grant. He
passed but few words with the attendant physician, and their exact
meaning was veiled by medical terms; but Mrs. Grant understood
enough to satisfy her that little hope of a favorable issue was
entertained.

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

"I've called," said the latter, speaking in the tone of one who felt
annoyed, "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
to a shade of seriousness. "Let me see--Monday--didn't it
rain?--Yes, now I remember; it was a dreadful day. Perhaps she took
cold. She's very delicate. Did she get wet in coming to your house?"

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

"It was impossible, raining and blowing as it did, for her to escape
wet feet, if not drenched clothing. Was there fire in the room where
she 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 know
Miss Carson's extreme delicacy, and I am fearful that she is sick,
as the result of a cold. Did you notice her when she came in on
Monday morning?"

"Yes. I was standing in the hall when the servant admitted her. She
came 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
questions were chafing her visitor, "for pressing my inquiries so
closely. I am much concerned at the fact of her absence from your
house since Monday. Did she change any of her clothing,--take off
her stockings, for stance, 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, with
contracting brows.

"Could you have walked six or seven squares in the face of Monday's
driving storm, Mrs. Lowe, and escaped wet feet? Of course not. Your
stockings would have been wet half way to the knees, and your skirts
also."

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

"I hope she's not sick. I'm sure the thought of her being wet never
crossed my mind. Why didn't she speak of it herself? She knew her
own condition, and that there was fire in the kitchen. I declare!
some people act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible." Mrs. Lowe
spoke now in a disturbed manner.

"Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong
in not doing so--very wrong," said Mrs. Wykoff. "But she is
shrinking and sensitive to a fault--afraid of giving trouble or
intruding herself. _It is our place, I think, when strangers come
into our houses, no matter under what circumstances, to assume that
they have a natural delicacy about asking for needed consideration,
and to see that all things due to them are tendered_. I cannot see
that any exceptions to this rule are admissible. To my thinking, it
applies to a servant, a seamstress, or a guest, each in a just
degree, with equal force. Not that I am blameless in this thing. Far
from it. But I acknowledge my fault whenever it is seen, and
repenting, resolve to act more humanely in the future."

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

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

"I wish you would. What you have said makes me feel a little
uncomfortable. I hope there is nothing wrong; or, at least, that she
is only slightly indisposed. It was thoughtless in me. But I was so
much interested in the work she was doing that I never once thought
of her personally."

"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
she answered--

"Towards nine o'clock."

"Did she eat anything?"

"Well, no, not much in particular. I thought her a little dainty.
She took coffee; but it didn't just appear to suit her appetite.
Then I offered 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 her
face 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
few minutes."

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

Mrs. Lowe gathered her shawl around her, and arose to depart. There
was a 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 hesitated
about 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
over ten 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 hope
nothing serious will grow out of it. I wouldn't have anything of
this kind happen for the world. People are so uncharitable. If it
should get out, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I'm sure the
girl is a great deal more to blame than I am. Why didn't she see to
it that her feet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her
work?"

Mrs. Wykoff did not answer. Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments,
waiting for 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' you
know, there's a strange story afloat about a certain lady of your
acquaintance?"

"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
of Mrs. Lowe.

"Something about murdering a sewing-girl."

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

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

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

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

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

"The story," replied the friend, "is that she walked for half a mile
before breakfast, in the face of that terrible north-east storm, and
came to you with feet soaking and skirts wet to the knees, and that
you put her to work, in this condition, in a cold room, and suffered
her to sit in her wet garments all day. That, in consequence, she
went home sick, was attacked with pleurisy in the evening, which
soon ran into acute pneumonia, and that she is now dying. The
doctor, who told my friend, called it murder, and said, without
hesitation, that you were a murderer."

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

"Yes, ma'am. The doctor said that you might as well have put a
pistol ball 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
to me, she repeats this wholesale charge, to my injury? Verily, that
is Christian charity!"

"I suggested caution on her part, and started to see you at once.
Then she 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
she came in wet, she knew it; and there was fire in the house, at
which she could have dried herself. Even a half-witted person,
starting from home on a morning like that, and expecting to be
absent all day, would have provided herself with dry stockings and
slippers for a change. If the girl dies from cold taken on that
occasion, it must be set down to suicide, not murder. I may have
been thoughtless, but I am not responsible. I'm sorry for her; but I
cannot take blame to myself. The same thing might have happened in
your house."

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

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

"We are in no danger of erring, Mrs. Lowe," was answered, "on the
side of considerate kindness, even to sewing-women. They are human,
and have wants, and weaknesses, and bodily conditions that as
imperatively demand a timely and just regard as those of the most
honored guest who may sojourn with us. And what is more, as I hold,
we cannot omit our duty either to the one or to the other, and be
blameless. But I must hurry 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 slant
beams are coming in through the partly-raised blinds, and falling on
the bed, where, white, and panting for the shortcoming breath, lies
Mary Carson, a little raised by pillows against which her head rests
motionless. Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deep
fringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair
has been smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual
beauty in her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on
one side of the bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing
intently on the sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies
come in, noiselessly--Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers
there to all but Mary Carson, and she has passed too far on the
journey homeward for mortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little
back from the bed, and the two ladies stand in her place, leaning
forward, with half-suspended breathing. The almost classic beauty of
Miss Carson's face; the exquisite cutting of every feature; the
purity of its tone--are all at once so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that
she gazes down, wonder and admiration mingling with awe and
self-accusation.

There is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The white
lips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and
all is still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows,
close beside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not
of the earth. 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
from the bed.

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

Call it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to
it that 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,
while under the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked
her with a degree 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 stun
her. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath were
emptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless.
Then she turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step.
There was an air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me
a little.

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

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

Now, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence.
So I answered, without hesitation or reflection,

"Very well, Polly. If you wish to leave, I will look for another to
fill 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
not very agreeable thoughts for companions. Polly had been in my
family for nearly four years, in the capacity of nurse and chamber
maid. She was capable, faithful, kind in her disposition, and
industrious. The children were all attached to her, and her
influence over them was good. I had often said to myself in view of
Polly's excellent qualities, "She is a treasure!" And, always, the
thought of losing her services had been an unpleasant one. Of late,
in some things, Polly had failed to give the satisfaction of former
times. She was neither so cheerful, nor so thoughtful, nor had she
her usual patience with the children. "Her disposition is altering,"
I said to myself, now and then, in view of this change; "something
has spoiled her."

"You have indulged her too much, I suppose," was the reason given by
my husband, whenever I ventured to introduce to his notice the
shortcomings of Polly. "You are an expert at the business of
spoiling domestics."

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

And so the matter had gone on, from small beginnings, until a state
of dissatisfaction on the one part, and coldness on the other, had
grown up between mistress and maid. I asked no questions of Polly,
as to the change in her manner, but made my own inferences, and
took, for granted, my own conclusions. I had spoiled her by
indulgence--that was clear. As a thing of course, this view was not
very favorable to a just and patient estimate of her conduct,
whenever it failed to meet my approval.

On the present occasion, she had neglected the performance of
certain services, 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
to remain 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 now used. The result of this intemperance of speech on my
part, the reader has seen. Polly gave notice that she would leave,
and I accepted the notice. For a short time after the girl retired
from my room, I maintained a state of half indignant independence;
but, as to being satisfied with myself, that was out of the
question. I had lost my temper, and, as is usual in such cases, had
been harsh, and it might be, unjust. I was about to lose the
services of a domestic, whose good qualities so far overbalanced all
defects and shortcomings, that I could hardly hope to supply her
place. How could the children give her up? This question came home
with a most unpleasant suggestion of consequences. But, as the
disturbance of my feelings went on subsiding, and thought grew
clearer and clearer, that which most troubled me was a sense of
injustice towards Polly. The suggestion came stealing into my mind,
that the something wrong about her might involve a great deal more
than I had, in a narrow reference of things to my own affairs,
imagined. Polly was certainly changed; but, might not the change
have its origin in mental conflict or suffering, which entitled her
to pity and consideration, instead of blame?

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

"She is human, like the rest of us," said I, as I sat talking over
the matter with myself, "and every human heart has its portion of
bitterness. The weak must bear in weakness, as well as the strong in
strength; and the light burden rests as painfully on the back that
bends in feebleness, as does the heavy one on Atlas-shoulders. We
are too apt to regard those who serve us as mere working machines.
Rarely do we consider them as possessing like wants and weaknesses,
like sympathies 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 on that. No way of escape presented itself, except through
some open or implied acknowledgment of wrong; that is, I must have
some plain, kind talk with Polly, to begin with, and thus show her,
by an entire change of manner, that I was conscious of having spoken
to her in a way that was not met by my own self-approval. Pride was
not slow in vindicating her own position among the mental powers.
She was not willing to see me humble myself to a servant. Polly had
given notice that she was going to leave, and if I made concession,
she would, at once conclude that I did so meanly, from
self-interest, because I wished to retain her services. My naturally
independent spirit revolted under this view of the case, but I
marshalled some of the better forces of my mind, and took the field
bravely on the side of right and duty. For some time the conflict
went on; then the better elements of my nature gained the victory.

When the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly. I saw, as
she entered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the
fire had 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
with you."

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

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

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

"Polly," said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, "has
anything troubled 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
a friend. You can trust me."

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

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

"I don't think you can help me any, ma'am, unless it is to bear my
trouble 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 said
quickly 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 I was so fond of him! He had a hard place where he worked, and
they paid him so little that, poor fellow! if I hadn't spent half my
wages on him, he'd never have looked fit to be seen among folks.
When he was eighteen he seemed to me perfect. He was so good and
kind. But--" and the girl's voice almost broke down--"somehow, he
began to change after that. I think he fell into bad company. Oh,
ma'am! It seemed as if it would 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 we met again I tried to talk
with Tom about it, but he wouldn't hear a word, 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 almost
given 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
glad she is dead now, what I've never said before. There were only
two of us--Tom and I; and I being nearly six years the oldest, felt
like a mother as well as a sister to him. I've never spent much on
myself as you 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's brother that satisfy me of his great lapse from virtue and
sobriety. He was now past twenty, and from all I could learn, was
moving swift-footed along the road to destruction.

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

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

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

"Oh, ma'am," she said, "I have prayed, and do pray for him daily.
But then I think God loves him better than I can love him, and needs
none of my prayer in the case. And so a chill falls over me, and
everything grows dark and hopeless--for, of myself, I can do
nothing."

"Our prayers cannot change the purposes of God towards any one; but
God works by means, and our prayers may be the means through which
he can help 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
clear to 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 also
present with them as to our minds, or spirits. Have you hot noticed
that on some occasions you suddenly thought of a person, and that in
a little 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 place
where you were, thought of you so distinctly that she was present to
your mind, or spirit, and you saw her with the eyes of your mind. If
this be the right explanation, as I believe it is, then, if we think
intently 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 our forms with the eyes of their spirits. And now, Polly,
keeping this in mind, we may see how praying, in tender love for
another, may enable God to do him good; for you know that men and
angels are co-workers with God in all good. On the wings of our
thought and love, angelic spirits, who are present with us in
prayer, may pass with us to the object of our tender interest and
thus gaining audience, as it were, stir the heart with good
impulses. And who can tell how effectual this may 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, her
countenance calmer than before, but bearing so hopeful an aspect
that I was 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
many times each day. Oh, if I could but draw him back from the evil
into which he has fallen!"

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

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

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

"How could I, ma'am?" Polly's voice trembled and her eyes again
filled with 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 one
could 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
forget the unkind way in which I spoke to you this morning, and let
things remain 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 trust
herself 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 with me 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
had happened. The lesson went deeply into my heart. Poor girl! what
a heavy burden rested upon her weak shoulders. No wonder that she
bent under it! No wonder that she was changed! She was no subject
for angry reproof; but for pity and forbearance. If she had come
short in service, or failed to enter upon her daily tasks with the
old cheerfulness, no blame could attach to her, for the defect was
of force and not of will.

"Ah," said I, as I pondered the matter, "how little inclined are we
to consider those who stand below us in the social scale, or to
think of them as having like passions, like weaknesses, like hopes
and fears with ourselves. We deal with them too often as if they
were mere working machines, and grow impatient if they show signs of
pain, weariness, or irritation. We are quick to blame and slow to
praise--chary of kind words, but voluble in reproof--holding
ourselves superior in station, but not always showing ourselves
superior in thoughtfulness, self-control, and kind forbearance. Ah
me! Life is a lesson-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,
and of our home as a place full of the heart's warmest sunshine. But
the father of my childhood and the father of my more advanced years
wore a very different exterior. He had grown silent, thoughtful,
abstracted, but not morose. As his children sprang up around him,
full of life and hope, he seemed to lose the buoyant spirits of his
earlier manhood. I did not observe this at the time, for I had not
learned to observe and reflect. Life was a simple state of
enjoyment. Trial had not quickened my perceptions, nor suffering
taught me an unselfish regard for others.

The home provided by my father was elegant--some would have called
it luxurious. On our education and accomplishments no expense was
spared. I had the best teachers--and, of course, the most expensive;
with none others would I have been satisfied, for I had come
naturally to regard myself as on a social equality with the
fashionable young friends who were my companions, and who indulged
the fashionable vice of depreciating everything that did not come up
to a certain acknowledged standard. Yearly I went to Saratoga or
Newport with my sisters, and at a cost which I now think of with
amazement. Sometimes my mother went with 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" when we asked him to go anywhere
with us; "business" hurried him away from his hastily-eaten meals;
"business" absorbed all his thoughts, and robbed 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 is
now 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 our
growing disposition to spend money extravagantly in dress. Nothing
but hundred-dollar shawl would suit my ideas. Ada White had been
presented by her father with a hundred-dollar cashmere, and I did
not mean to be put off with anything less.

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

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

"I have nothing seasonable to wear," said I, very firmly; "and as I
must 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's father gave her a shawl exactly like it, and you must let me
have the money to buy this one. It will last my lifetime."

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

Oh, dear, no!" was my emphatic answer; "a hundred dollars is a low
price 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,
practicing a. new piece of music which my fashionable teacher had
left me. He was paid three dollars for every lesson. My father
smiled as he laid a hundred-dollar bill on the keys of the piano. I
started up, and kissing him, 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 could
gratify some wish or supply some want of his children. Ah! if we had
been less selfish--less exacting!

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

"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, but
firmly.

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

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

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

"I am not made of money, child." The tone of my father's voice
struck me as unusually sober--almost sad. But Jane replied
instantly, and with something of reproach and complaint in her
tones--"I shouldn't think you 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
unusual decision of manner--"and shall need every dollar that I can
raise."

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

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

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

"I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna,"
replied my sister, in a very undutiful tone. "And what is more, Im
going to have 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 unusual
feeling. "Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who
has ever been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you
are saying!"

My sister looked something abashed at this unexpected rebuke, when
my mother took occasion to add, with an earnestness of manner that I
could not help remarking as singular,

"Your father is troubled about something. Business may not be going
on to his satisfaction. Last night I awoke, and found him walking
the floor. To my questions he merely answered that he was wakeful.
His health is not so good as formerly, and his spirits are low.
Don't, let me 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, business
engagements pressed upon him so closely that he did not come home at
the usual hour for dining. He looked pale--weary--almost haggard.

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

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

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

He merely sighed as he passed onwards, and ascended to his own room.
At tea-time I observed that his face was unusually sober. His
silence was nothing uncommon, and so that passed without remark from
any one.

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

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

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

Summer came round--I shall never forget that summer--and we
commenced making our annual preparations for Saratoga. Money was, of
course, an indispensable 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
questioning kind of a way, as if his mind were not altogether
satisfied on the subject.

"To Saratoga?"

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

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

"Jane is going, of course; and so is Emily. And we are trying to
persuade mother, also. She didn't go last year. Won't you spend a
week or 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 than
Saratoga and its fashionable follies."

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

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

"Anna," he said, after a brief silence, during which even my
unpracticed eyes could see that an intense struggle was going on in
his mind, "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
face was, of course, all in a glow. I was confounded, and, let me
confess it, indignant; it seemed so like a tyrannical outrage.

"It is simply as I say, my daughter." He spoke without visible
excitement. "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 he
uttered these simple words, partly to himself, that rebuked me. Yes,
he did 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
in which they were uttered are in my ears. Dear father! Kind,
tender, indulgent, long-suffering, self-denying! Ah, how little were
you understood by your thoughtless, selfish children!

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

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

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

"I'm sorry," he said. "But necessity knows no law. They will have to
make 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 of
mingled anger and disappointment, and gave utterance to many unkind
remarks against our good, indulgent father. As for my oldest sister,
she declared that she would go in spite of him, and proposed our
visiting the store of a well-known merchant, where we often made
purchases, and buying all we wanted, leaving directions to have the
bill sent in. But I was now on my father's side, and resolutely
opposed all suggestions of disobedience. His manner and words had
touched me, causing some scales to drop from my vision, so that I
could see in a new light, and perceive things in a new aspect.

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

"Was that your father?" We were sitting together, still discussing
the question of Saratoga and Newport. It was my mother who asked the
question. We had heard the street door open and close, and had also
heard 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 concern
flitted over her face,

"It certainly was your father. I cannot be mistaken in his step.
What can have brought him home so early? I hope he is not sick." And
she arose and went hastily from the room. I followed, for a sudden
fear came into my heart.

"Edward! what ails you? Are you sick?" I heard my mother ask, in an
alarmed voice, as I came into her room. My father had laid himself
across the bed, and his face was concealed by a pillow, into which
it was 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,
and bursting into tears. I grasped his hand; it was very cold. I
leaned over, and, pressing down the pillow, touched his face. It was
cold also, and clammy with perspiration.

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

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

"Go!" My mother repeated the injunction, and I flew down stairs with
the order for James, our waiter, to go in all haste for the family
physician. When I returned, my mother, her face wet with tears, was
endeavoring to remove some of my father's outer garments. Together
we took off his coat, waistcoat and boots, he making no resistance,
and appearing to be in partial stupor, as if under the influence of
some drug. We chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his face, that
wore a deathly aspect, and used all the means in our power to
rekindle the failing spark of life. But he seemed to grow less and
less conscious of external things every moment.

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

Twice, before the physician came, had my father been inquired for at
the door, a thing altogether unusual at that hour of the day.
Indeed, his presence in the house at that hour was something which
had not occurred 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 the
physician'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
any one."

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

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

Without stopping to reflect, I left the apartment, and hurried down
to the 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. I
paused, 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
a moment." And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered
the parlor.

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

"Humph! This a nice business!" remarked the first visitor, in a rude
way, 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 too
ill to be seen."

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

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

"Come! This is no place for us," I heard one of the men whisper to
the other, and they withdrew as unceremoniously as they had entered.
Scarcely had they gone ere the loud ringing of the door bell sounded
through 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 a vague, terrible fear took possession of my heart.

In the midst of our confusion, uncertainty and distress, my uncle,
the only relative of my mother, arrived, and from him we learned the
crushing fact that my father's paper had been that day dishonored at
bank. 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
save himself from ruin, when it did fall, was too heavy for him. It
crushed the life out of his enfeebled system. That fearful night he
died!

It is not my purpose to draw towards the survivors any sympathy, by
picturing the changes in their fortunes and modes of life that
followed this sad event. They have all endured much and suffered
much. But how light has it been to what my father must have endured
and suffered in his long struggle to sustain the thoughtless
extravagance of his family--to supply them with comforts and
luxuries, none of which he could himself enjoy! Ever before me is
the image of his gradually wasting 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 selfish thou art! How unjust
in thy thoughtlessness! What would I not give to have my father back
again! This daily toil for bread, those hours of labor, prolonged
often far into the night season--how cheerful would I be if they
ministered to my father's comfort. Ah! if we had been loving and
just to him, we might have had him still. But we were neither loving
nor just. While he gathered with hard toil, we scattered. Daily we
saw him go forth hurried to his business, and nightly we saw him
come home exhausted; and we never put forth a hand to lighten his
burdens; but, to gratify our idle and vain pleasures, laid new ones
upon his stooping shoulders, until, at last, the cruel weight
crushed him to the earth!

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






XII.

THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.





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

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

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

"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
a worthy 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
had better stop here. If you cannot bear the probe, let us put on
the bandage 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
is this:--"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. The
understanding must first assent, before the divine life can be
brought into a conformity with divine laws. But we are not assuming
theologic ground. It is the life to which we are looking. We said
"The fundamental doctrine of Christian _life_."

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

We won't argue that point, for the reason that it would lead us away
from the theme we are considering. We simply change the form of our
proposition, 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
you authority in the Bible for saying that a man cannot be a
Christian who is not a gentlemen. We point you to the Golden Rule.
In that all laws of etiquette, so called, are included. It is the
code of good breeding condensed to an axiom. Now it has so happened
that our observation of you, friend objector, has been closer than
may have been imagined. We have noted your outgoings and incomings
on divers occasions; and we are sorry 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
the same time, your case is not so bad. But to the testimony of
fact. Let these witness for or against you. Let your own deeds
approve or condemn. You are not afraid of judgment by the standard
of your own conduct?

"Of course not."

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

"Certainly not."

We go back, then, and repeat the law of true gentlemanly conduct.
"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them."
You were at 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
of the season. You are fond of strawberries. They are your favorite
fruit; and, as their rich fragrance came to your nostrils, you felt
eager to taste them. So you counted the guests at the table, and
measured the dish of strawberries with your eyes. Then you looked
from face to face, and saw that all were strangers. Appetite might
be indulged, and no one would know that it was _you_. The
strawberries would certainly not go round, So you hurried down a cup
of tea, and swallowed some toast quickly. Then you said to the
waiter, "Bring me the strawberries." They were brought and set
before you. And now, were you simply just in securing your share, if
the number fell below a dozen berries? You were taking care of
yourself; but in doing so, were not others' rights invaded. We shall
see. There were eight persons at the table, two of them children.
The dish held but little over a quart; of these nearly one-third
were taken by you! Would a true gentleman have done that? You
haven't thought of it since! We are sorry for you then. One of the
children, who only got six berries, cried through half the evening
from disappointment. And an invalid, whose blood would have gained
life from the 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 a Christian, as a matter of course. A true gentleman defers to
others. He takes so much pleasure in the enjoyment of others, that
he denies himself in order to secure their gratification. Can a
Christian do less and 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,
for all your profession. Christianity, as a system, must go deeper
down into the heart than that. But we have begun with you, friend,
and we will keep on. Perhaps you will see yourself a little
differently by the time we are through. A poor mechanic, who had
done some trifling work at your house, called, recently, with his
little bill of three dollars and forty cents. You were talking with
a customer, when this man came into your store and handed you his
small account. You opened it with a slight frown on your brow. He
had happened to come at a time when you felt yourself too much
engaged to heed this trifling matter. How almost rudely you thrust
the coarse, soiled piece of paper on which he had written his
account back upon him, saying, "I can't attend to you now!" The poor
man went out hurt and disappointed. Was that gentlemanly conduct?
No, sir! Was it Christian? Look at the formula of Christian life.
"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
man is engaged with a customer who buys at the rate of hundreds and
thousands, he don't want paltry bills thrust into his face. He'll
know better next time."

Have you settled the bill yet?

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

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

You half smile in our face at the suggestion, and say, "Merchants
are not in the habit of troubling themselves to send all over the
city to pay the little paltry bills of mechanics. If money is worth
having, it is worth sending or calling for."

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

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

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

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

Last evening you were at Concert Hall, with your wife and daughter.
You went early, and secured good seats. Not three seats, simply,
according to 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 party held its expanded position. A white-haired old
man stood at the head of your seat, and looked down at the spaces
between yourself, your wife and daughter; and though you knew it,
you kept your eyes another way until he passed on. You were not
going to be incommoded for any one. Then an old lady lingered there
for a moment, and looked wistfully along the seat. Your daughter
whispered, "Father, we can make room for her." And you answered:
"Let her find another seat; I don't wish to be crowded." Thus
repressing good impulses in your child, and teaching her to be
selfish and unlady-like. The evening's entertainment began, and you
sat quite at ease, for an hour and a half, while many were standing
in the aisles. Sir, there was not even the gentleman in form here;
much less the gentleman from naturally kind feelings. As to
Christian principle, we will not take that into account. Do you
remember what you said 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 went
there alone, and happened to be late. The house was well filled in
the upper portion, but thinly occupied below the centre. Now you are
bound to 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 little space in one of the desirable seats, and into it you
passed, against the remonstrance of looks, and even half uttered
objections. A lady by your side, not in good health, was so crowded
in consequence, and made so uncomfortable, that she could not listen
with any satisfaction to the 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 our
assumption? Shall we follow you into other walks of life?

"No."

Very well. And, now, to press the matter home: Do you, in the sight
of that precept we have quoted, justify such conduct in a man who
takes the name of Christian? It was not gentlemanly, in any right
sense of the 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 stand you in that day when the book of your life is opened
in the presence of God. If there has been no genuine love of the
neighbor--no self-abnegation--no self-denial for the good of others,
all the rest will go for nothing, and you will pass over to abide
forever with spirits of a like quality with your own.

Who made us your judge? We judge no man! But only point to the law
of Christian 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
nothing less than a Christian gentleman--that is, a gentleman in
heart as well as in appearance.
The Project Gutenberg Etext of All's For the Best
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