He took her hand with a strong and reassuring pressure.

"Oh," she exclaimed with a slight shudder, "how can the sun shine? The birds, too, are singing as if there were no death and sorrow in the world."

"Only a perfect faith, Miss Amy, can enable us, who do know there is death and sorrow, to follow their example."

"It's all a black mystery to me," she replied, turning away.

"So it was to me once."

An old colored man, the husband of the negress who had assisted Haldane in his watch, now appeared and announced breakfast.

It was a comparatively silent meal, little Bertha doing most of the talking. Amy would not have touched a mouthful had it not been for Haldane's persuasion.

As soon as Bertha had finished, she said to Haldane:

"Amy told me that you did papa ever so much good last evening: now I want to see him right away."

"Does she not know?" asked Haldane in a low tone.

Amy shook her head. "It's too awful. What can I tell her?" she faltered.

"It is indeed inexpressibly sad, but I think I can tell the child without its seeming awful to her, and yet tell her the truth," he replied. "Shall I try to explain?"

"Yes, and let me listen, too, if you can rob the event of any of its unutterable horror."

"Will Bertie come and listen to me if I will tell her about papa?"

The child climbed into his lap at once, and turned her large blue eyes up to his in perfect faith.

"Don't you remember that papa spoke last night of leaving you; but said you would surely meet again?"

At this the child's lip began to quiver, and she said: "But papa always comes and kisses me good-by before he goes away."

"Perhaps he did, Bertie, when you were asleep in your crib last night."

"Oh yes, now I'm sure he did if he's gone away, 'cause I 'member he once woke me up kissing me good-by."

"I think he kissed you very softly, and so you didn't wake. Our dear Saviour, Jesus, came last night, and papa went away with him. But he loves you just as much as ever, and he isn't sick any more, and you will surely see him again."

"Do you think he will bring me something nice when he comes?"

"When you see him again he will have for you, Bertie, more beautiful things than you ever saw before in all your life, but it may be a long time before you see him."

The child slipped down from his knees quite satisfied and full of pleasant anticipation, and went back to her play on the piazza.

"Do you believe all that?" asked Amy, looking as if Bertha had been told a fairy tale.

"I do, indeed. I have told the child what I regard as the highest form of the truth, though expressed in simple language. Miss Amy, I know that your father was ever kind to you. Did he ever turn coldly away from any earnest appeal of yours?"

"Never, never," cried the girl, with a rush of tears.

"And can you believe that his Heavenly Father turned from his touching appeal last night? Christ said to those who were trusting in him, 'I will come again and receive you unto myself; that where I am there ye may be also.' As long as your father was conscious, he was clinging to that divine hand that has never failed one true believer in all these centuries. Surely, Miss Amy, your own reason tells you that the poor helpless form that we must bury today is not your father. The genial spirit, the mind that was a power out in the world, the soul with its noble and intense affections and aspirations—these made the man that was your father. Therefore I say with truth that the man, the imperishable part, has gone away with him who loved humanity, and who has prepared a better place for us than this earth can ever be under the most favoring circumstances. You can understand that the body is but the changing, perishing shadow.

"When you compare the poor, disease-shattered house in yonder room, with the regal spirit that dwelt within it, when you compare that prostrate form—which, like a fallen tree in the forest, is yielding to the universal law of change—with the strong, active, intelligent man that was your father, do not your very senses assure you that your father has gone away, and, as I told Bertha, you will surely see him again? It may seem to you that what I said about the good-by kiss was but a fiction to soothe the child, but in my belief it was not. Though we know with certainty so little of the detail of the life beyond, we have two good grounds on which to base reasonable conjecture. We know of God's love; we know your father's love; now what would be natural in view of these two facts? I think we can manage to keep Bertha from seeing that which is no longer her father, and thus every memory of him will be pleasant. We will leave intact the impression which he himself made when he acted consciously, for this which now remains is not himself at all."

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Orton; but Haldane saw that Amy had grasped at his words as one might try to catch a rope that was being lowered to him in some otherwise hopeless abyss.

"I feared that such might be the end," said the doctor, gloomily, on learning from Haldane the events of the night; "it frequently is in constitutions like his." Then he went up and saw Mrs. Poland.

The lady's condition gave him much anxiety, but he kept it to himself until they were alone. After leaving quieting medicines for her with Amy, and breaking utterly down in trying to say a few words of comfort to the fatherless girl, he motioned to Haldane to follow him.

"Come with me to the city," he said, "and we will arrange for such disposal of the remains as is best."

Having informed Amy of the nature of his errand, and promising to telegraph Mrs. Arnot, Haldane accompanied the physician to the business part of town.

"You have been a godsend to them," said the kind-hearted old doctor, blowing his nose furiously. "This case comes a little nearer home than any that has yet occurred; but then the bottom is just falling out of everything, and it looks as if we would all go before we have a frost. It seems to me, though, that I can stand anything rather than see Amy go. She is engaged to a nephew of mine—as fine a fellow as there is in town, if I do say it, and I love the girl as if she were my own child. My nephew is travelling in Europe now, and I doubt if he knows the danger hanging over the girl. If anything happens to her it will about kill him, for he idolizes her, and well he may. I'm dreadfully anxious about them all. I fear most for Mrs. Poland's mind. She's a New England lady, as I suppose you know—wonderfully gifted woman, too much brain power for that fragile body of hers. Well, perhaps you did not understand all that was said last night; but Mrs. Poland has always been a great reader, and she has been carried away by the materialistic philosophy that's in fashion nowadays. Queer, isn't it? and she two-thirds spirit herself. Her husband and my best friend was as genial and whole-souled a man as ever lived, fond of a good dinner, fond of a joke, and fond of his family to idolatry. His wife had unbounded influence over him, or otherwise he might have been a little fast; but he always laughed at what he called her 'Yankee notions,' and said he would not accept her philosophy until she became a little more material herself. Poland was a square, successful business man, but I fear he did not lay up much. He was too open-hearted and free-handed—a typical Southerner I suppose you would say at the North, that is, those of you who don't think of us as all slave-drivers and slave-traders. I expect the North and South will have to have a good, square, stand-up fight before they understand each other."

"God forbid!" ejaculated Haldane.

"Well, I don't think you and I will ever quarrel. You may call us what you please if you will take care of Poland's family."

"I have already learned to have a very thorough respect both for your head and heart, Doctor Orton."

"I'm considerably worse than they average down here. But as I was telling you, Mrs. Poland was a New England woman, and to humor her her husband employed such white servants as could be got in the city, and poor trash they were most of the time. When the fever appeared they left instantly. Poland bought the old colored people who are there with the place, and gave them their freedom, and only they have stood by them. What they would have done last night if you had not come, God only knows. Poor Amy, poor Amy!" sighed the old doctor tempestuously; "she's the prettiest and pluckiest little girl in the city. She's half frightened out of her wits, I can see that, and yet nothing but force could get her away. For my nephew's sake and her own I tried hard to induce her to go, but she stands her ground like a soldier. What is best now I hardly know. Mrs. Poland is so utterly prostrated that it might cost her life to move her. Besides, they have all been so terribly exposed to the disease that they might be taken with it on the journey, and to have them go wandering off the Lord knows where at this chaotic time looks to me about as bad as staying where they are, and I can look after them. But we'll see, we'll see." And in like manner the sorely troubled old gentleman talked rapidly on, till they reached the undertaker's, seemingly finding a relief in thus unburdening his heart to one of whose sympathy he felt sure, and who might thus be led to feel a deeper interest in the objects of his charge.

Even at that time of general disaster Haldane's abundant funds enabled him to secure prompt attention. It was decided that Mr. Poland's remains should be placed in a receiving vault until such time as they could be removed to the family burying-ground in another city, and before the day closed everything had been attended to in the manner which refined Christian feeling would dictate.

Before parting with Haldane, Doctor Orton had given him careful directions what to do in case he recognized symptoms of the fever in any of the family or himself. "Keep Amy and Bertha with their mother all you can," he said; "anything to rouse the poor woman from that stony despair into which she seems to have fallen."

The long day at length came to an end. Haldane of necessity had been much away, and he welcomed the cool and quiet evening; and yet he knew that with the shadow of night, though so grateful after the glare and heat to which he had been subjected, the fatal pestilence approached the nearer, as if to strike a deadlier blow. As the pioneer forefathers of the city had shut their doors and windows at nightfall, lest their savage and lurking foes should send a fatal arrow from some dusky covert, so now again, with the close of the day, all doors and windows must be shut against a more subtle and remorseless enemy, whose viewless shafts sped with a surer aim in darkness.

Amy had spent much of the day in unburdening her heart in a long letter to her cousin Laura, in which in her own vivid way she portrayed the part Haldane had acted toward them. She had also written to her distant and unconscious lover, and feeling that it might be the last time, she had poured out to him a passion that was as intense and yet as pure as the transparent flame that we sometimes see issuing from the heart of the hard-wood maple, as we sit brooding over our winter fire.

"Come and sit with us, and as one of us," she had said to Haldane, and so they had all gathered at the bedside of the widow, who had scarcely strength to do more than fix her dark, wistful eyes on one and another of the group. She was so bewildered and overwhelmed with her loss that her mind had partially suspended its action. She saw and heard everything; she remembered it all afterward; but now the very weight of the blow had so stunned her that she was mercifully saved from the agony of full consciousness.

Little Bertha climbed upon Haldane's lap and pleaded for a story.

"Yes, Bertie," he said, "and I think I know a story that you would like. You remember I told you that your papa had gone away with Jesus; would you not like to hear a story about this good friend of your papa's?"

"Yes, yes, I would. Do you know much about him?"

"Quite a good deal, for he's my friend too. I know one true story about him that I often like to think of. Listen, and I will tell it to you. Jesus is the God who made us, and he lives 'way up above the sky.' But he not only made us, Bertie, but he also loves us, and in order to show us how he loves us he is always coming to this world to do us good; and once he came and lived here just like a man, so that we might all be sure that he cared for us and wanted to make us good and happy. Well, at that time when he lived here in this world as a man he had some true friends who loved him and believed in him. At a certain time they were all staying on the shore of a sea, and one evening Jesus told his friends to take a little boat and go over to the other side of the sea, and he would meet them there. Then Jesus, who wanted to be alone, went up the side of the mountain that rose from the water's edge. Then night came and it began to grow darker and darker, and at last it was so dark that the friends of Jesus that were in the boat could only see a very little way. Then a moaning, sighing wind began to rise, and the poor men in the boat saw that a storm was coming, and they pulled hard with their oars in hopes of getting over on the other side before the storm became very bad; but by the time they reached the very middle of the sea, the wind began to blow furiously, just as you have seen it blow when the trees bent 'way over toward the ground, and some perhaps were broken down. A strong wind at sea makes the water rise up in waves, and these waves began to beat against the boat, and before very long some of the highest ones would dash into it. The men pulled with their oars with all their might, but it was of no use; the wind was right against them, and though they did their best hour after hour, they still could get no nearer the shore. How sad and full of danger was their condition! the dark, dark night was above and around them, the dark, angry waves dashing by and over them, the cold, black depths of water beneath them, and no sound in their ears but the wild, rushing storm. What do you think became of them?"

"I'm afraid they were drowned," said Bertha, looking up with eyes that were full of fear and trouble.

"Have you forgotten Jesus?"

"But he's 'way off on the side of the mountain."

"He is never so far from his friends but that he can see them and know all about them. He saw these friends in the boat, for Jesus can see in the darkness as well as in the light; and when the night grew darkest, and the waves were highest, and his friends most weary and discouraged, he came to them so that they might know that he could save them, when they felt they could not save themselves. And he came as no other help could have come—walking over the very waves that threatened to swallow up his friends; and when he was near to them he called out, 'Be of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.' Then he went right up to the boat and stepped into it among his friends. Oh! what a happy change his coming made, for the winds ceased, the waves went down, and in a very little while the boat reached the sea-shore. The bright sun rose up, the darkness fled away, and the friends of Jesus were safe. They have been safe ever since. Nothing can harm Jesus' friends. He takes care of them from day to day, from year to year, and from age to age. Whenever they are in trouble or pain or danger he comes to them as he did to his friends in the boat, and he brings them safely through it all. Don't you think he is a good friend to have?"

"Isn't I too little to be his friend?"

"No, indeed; no one ever loved little children as he does. He used to take them in his arms and bless them, and he said, 'Suffer them to come to me'; and where he lives he has everything beautiful to make little children happy."

"And you say papa is with him?"

"Yes, papa is with him."

"Why can't we all go to him now?"

"As soon as he is ready for us he will come for us."

"I wish he was ready for mamma, Amy, and me now, and then we could all be together. It's so lonely without papa. Oh! I'm so tired," she added after a few moments, and a little later her head dropped against Haldane's breast, and she was asleep.

"Mr. Haldane," said Amy in a low, agitated voice, "have you embodied your faith in that story to Bertha?"

"Yes, Miss Amy."

"Why do you think"—and she hesitated. "How do you know," she began again, "that any such Being as Jesus exists and comes to any one's help?"

"Granting that the story I have told you is true, how did his disciples know that he came to their help? Did not the hushed winds prove it? Did not the quieted waters prove it? Did not his presence with them assure them of it? By equal proof I know that he can and will come to the aid of those who look to him for aid. I have passed through darker nights and wilder storms than ever lowered over the Sea of Galilee, and I know by simple, practical, happy experience that Jesus Christ, through his all-pervading Spirit, has come to me in my utter extremity again and again, and that I have the same as felt his rescuing hand. Not that my trials and temptations have been greater than those of many others, but I have been weaker than others, and I have often been conscious of his sustaining power when otherwise I would have sunk beneath my burden. This is not a theory, Miss Amy, nor the infatuation of a few ignorant people. It is the downright experience of multitudes in every walk of life, and, on merely scientific grounds, is worth as much as any other experience. This story of Jesus gains the sympathy of little Bertha; it also commands the reverent belief of the most gifted and cultivated minds in the world."

"Oh, that I could believe all this; but there is so much mystery, so much that is dark." Then she glanced at her mother, who had turned away her face and seemed to be sleeping, and she asked: "If Christ is so strong to help and save, why is he not strong to prevent evil? Why is there a cry of agony going up from this stricken city? Why must father die who was everything to us? Why must mother suffer so? Why am I so shadowed by an awful fear? Life means so much to me. I love it," she continued in low yet passionate tones. "I love the song of birds, the breath of flowers, the sunlight, and every beautiful thing. I love sensation. I am not one who finds a tame and tranquil pleasure in the things I like or in the friends I love. My joys thrill every nerve and fibre of my being. I cling to them, I cannot give them up. A few days ago life was as full of rich promise to me as our tropical spring. It is still, though I will never cease to feel the pain of this great sorrow, and yet this horrible pit of death, corruption, and nothingness yawns at my very feet. Mr. Haldane," she said in a still lower and more shuddering tone, "I have a terrible presentiment that I shall perish with this loathsome disease. I may seem to you, who are so quiet and brave, very weak and cowardly; but I shrink from death with a dread which you cannot understand and which no language can express. It is repugnant to every instinct of my being, and I can think of it only with unutterable loathing. If I were old and feeble, if I had tasted all the joys of life, I might submit, but not now, not now. I feel with father that it is fiendish cruelty to give one such an intense love of life and then wrench it away; and, passionately as I love life, there is one far more dear. There is that in your nature which has so won my confidence that I can reveal to you my whole heart. Mr. Haldane, I love one who is like you, manly and noble, and dearly as I prize life, I think I could give it away in slow torture for his sake, if required. How often my heart has thrilled to see his eyes kindle with his foolish admiration, the infatuation of love which makes its object beautiful at least to the lover. And now to think that he does not know what I suffer and fear, to think that I may never see him again, to think that when he returns I may be a hideous mass of corruption that he cannot even approach. Out upon the phrases 'beneficent nature,' and 'natural law.' Laws which permit such things are must unnatural, and to endow one with such a love of life, such boundless capabilities of enjoying life, and then at the supreme moment when the loss will be most bitterly felt to snatch it away, looks to me more like the work of devilish ingenuity than of a 'beneficent nature.' I feel with father, it is fiendish cruelty."

Haldane bowed his head among Bertha's curls to hide the tears that would come at this desperate cry of distress; but Amy's eyes were hard and dry, and had the agonized look which might have been their expression had she been enduring physical torture.

"Miss Amy," he said brokenly after a moment, "you forget that your father said, 'If this life is all, it is fiendishly cruel to tear us from that which we have learned to love so dearly,' and I agree with him. But this life is not all; the belief that human life ends at death is revolting to reason, conscience, and every sense of justice. If this were true the basest villain could escape all the consequences of his evil in a moment, and you who are so innocent, so exquisite in your spiritual organization, so brave and noble that you can face this awful fear in your devotion to those you love—you by ceasing to breathe merely would sink to precisely the same level and be no different from the lifeless clay of the villain. Such monstrous injustice is impossible; it outrages every instinct of justice, every particle of reason that I have.

"Miss Amy, don't you see that you are like the disciples in the boat out in the midst of the sea? The night is dark above you, the storm is wild around you, the waves are dashing over you, the little boat is frail, and there are such cold, dark depths beneath it. But we can't help these things. We can't explain the awful mystery of evil and suffering; sooner or later every human life becomes enveloped in darkness, storm, and danger. That wave-tossed boat in the midst of the sea is an emblem of the commonest human experience. On the wide sea of life, numberless little barks are at this moment at the point of foundering. Few are so richly freighted as yours, but the same unknown depths are beneath each. But, Miss Amy, I pray you remember the whole of this suggestive Bible story. Those imperilled disciples were watched by a loving, powerful friend. He came to their aid, making the very waves that threatened to engulf the pathway of his rescuing love. He saved those old-time friends. They are living to-day, they will live forever. I can't explain the dark and terrible things of which this world is full, I cannot explain the awful mystery of evil in any of its forms. I know the pestilence is all around us; I know it seems to threaten your precious, beautiful life. I recognize the fact, as I also remember the fact of the darkness and storm around the little boat. But I also know with absolute certainty that there is one who can come to your rescue, whose province it is to give life, deathless life, life more rich and full of thrilling happiness than you have ever dreamed of, even with your vivid imagination."

"How, how can you know this? What proof can you give me?" she asked; and no poor creature, whose life was indeed at stake, ever bent forward more eagerly to catch the sentence of life or death, than did Amy Poland the coming answer.

"I know it," he replied more calmly, "on the strongest possible grounds of evidence—my own experience, the experience of Mrs. Arnot, who is sincerity itself, and the experience of multitudes of others. Believers in Jesus Christ have been verifying his promises in every age, and in every possible emergency and condition of life, and if their testimony is refused, human consciousness is no longer a basis of knowledge. No one ever had a better friend than Mrs. Arnot has been to me; she has been the means of saving me from disgrace, shame, and everything that was base, and I love her with a gratitude that is beyond words, and yet I am not so conscious of her practical help and friendship as that of the Divine Man who has been my patient unwavering friend in my long, hard struggle."

Under his words, the hard, dry despair of Amy had given way to gentler feelings, which found expression in low, piteous sobbing.

"Oh, when will he come to me?" she asked, "for I cannot doubt after such words."

"When you most need him, Miss Amy. It is your privilege to ask his comforting and sustaining presence now; but he will come when he sees that you most need him."

"If ever poor creatures needed such a friend as you have described, we need him now," faltered Mrs. Poland, turning her face toward them and then they knew that she had heard all.

Amy sprang to her embrace, exclaiming, "Mother, is it possible that we can find such a friend in our extremity?"

"Amy, I am bewildered, I am overwhelmed."

Haldane carried little Bertha to her crib and covered her with an afghan. Then coming to the lady's side he took her hand and said gently, and yet with that quiet firmness which does much to produce conviction: "Mrs. Poland, before leaving your husband to his quiet sleep we read words which Jesus Christ once spoke to a despairing, grief-stricken woman. Take them now as if spoken to you. 'Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.' As your husband said to you, you will all surely meet again."

Then he lifted her hand to his lips in a caress that was full of sympathy and respect, and silently left the room.



CHAPTER LII

A MAN VERSUS A CONNOISSEUR

Amy's sad presentiment was almost verified. She was very ill, and for hours of painful uncertainty Haldane watched over her and administered the remedies which Dr. Orton left; and indeed the doctor himself was never absent very long, for his heart was bound up in the girl. At last, after a wavering poise, the scale turned in favor of life, and she began to slowly revive.

Poor Mrs. Poland was so weak that she could not raise her head or hand, but, with her wistful, pathetic eyes, followed every motion, for she insisted on having Amy in the same room with herself. Aunt Saba, the old negress, to whom Mr. Poland had given her freedom, continued a faithful assistant. Bound to her mistress by the stronger chain of gratitude and affection, she served with fidelity in every way possible to her; and she and her husband were so old and humble that death seemingly had forgotten them.

Before Amy was stricken down with the fever the look of unutterable dread and anxiety that was so painful to witness passed away, and gave place to an expression of quiet serenity.

"I need no further argument," she had said to Haldane; "Christ has come across the waves of my trouble. I am as sure of it as I am sure that you came to my aid. I do not know whether mother or Bertha or I will survive, but I believe that God's love is as great as his power, and that in some way and at some time all will come out for the best. I have written to my friend abroad and to Auntie Arnot all about it, and now I am simply waiting. O, Mr. Haldane, I am so happy to tell you," she had added, "that I think mother is accepting the same faith, slowly and in accordance with her nature, but surely nevertheless. I am like father, quick and intense in my feelings. I feel that which is false or that which is true, rather than reason it out as mother does."

Aunt Saba and her husband managed to take care of Bertha and keep her mind occupied; but before Amy's convalescence had proceeded very far the little girl was suddenly prostrated by a most violent attack of the disease, and she withered before the hot fever like a fragile flower in a simoom. Haldane went hastily for Dr. Orton, but he gave scarcely a hope from the first.

During the night following the day on which she had been stricken down a strange event occurred. [Footnote: It is stated on high medical authority that "all patients suffer more during thunder-showers," and an instance is given of a physician who was suffering from this fever, and who was killed as instantly, by vivid flash and loud report, as if he had been struck by the lightning.] The sultry heat had been followed by a tropical thunder-storm, which had gathered in the darkness, and often gave to the midnight a momentary and brighter glare than that of the previous noon. The child would start as the flashes grew more intense, for they seemed to distress her very much.

As Haldane was lifting her to give her a drink he said:

"Perhaps Bertie will see papa very soon."

Hearing the word "papa," the child forgot her pain for a moment and smiled. At that instant there was a blinding flash of lightning, and the appalling thunder-peal followed without any interval.

Both Mrs. Poland and Amy gave a faint and involuntary cry of alarm, but Haldane's eyes were fixed on the little smiling face that he held so near to his own. The smile did not fade. The old, perplexed expression of pain did not come back, and after a moment he said quietly and very gently:

"Bertie is with her father;" and he lifted her up and carried her to her mother, and then to Amy, that they might see the beautiful and smiling expression of the child's face.

But their eyes were so blinded by tears that they could scarcely see the face from which all trace of suffering had been banished almost as truly as from the innocent spirit.

Having laid her back in the crib, and arranged the little form as if sleeping, he carried the crib, with Aunt Saba's help, to the room where Mr. Poland had died. Then he told the old negress to return and remain with her mistress, and that he would watch over the body till morning.

That quiet watch by the pure little child, with a trace of heaven's own beauty on her face, was to Haldane like the watch of the shepherds on the hillside near Bethlehem. At times, in the deep hush that followed the storm, he was almost sure that he heard, faint and far away, angelic minstrelsy and song.

Haldane's unusually healthful and vigorous constitution had thus far resisted the infection, but after returning from the sad duty of laying little Bertha's remains by those of her father, he felt the peculiar languor which is so often the precursor of the chill and subsequent fever. Although he had scarcely hoped to escape an attack, he had never before realized how disastrous it would be to the very ones he had come to serve. Who was there to take care of him? Mrs. Poland was almost helpless from nervous prostration. Amy required absolute quiet to prevent the more fatal relapse, which is almost certain to follow exertion made too early in convalescence. He knew that if he were in the house she would make the attempt to do something for him, and he also knew it would be at the risk of her life. Old Aunt Saba was worn out in her attendance on Bertha, Amy, and Mrs. Poland. Her husband, and a stranger who had been at last secured to assist him, were required in the household duties.

He took his decision promptly, for he felt that he had but brief time in which to act. Going to Mrs. Poland's room, he said to her and Amy:

"I am glad to find you both so brave and doing as well as you are on this sad, sad day. I do not think you will take the disease, Mrs. Poland; and you, Miss Amy, only need perfect quiet in order to get well. Please remember, as a great favor to me, how vitally important is the tranquillity of mind and body that I am ever preaching to you, and don't do that which fatigues you in the slightest degree, till conscious of your old strength. And now I am going away for a little while. This is a time when every man should be at his post of duty. I am needed elsewhere, for I know of a case that requires immediate attention. Please do not remonstrate," he said, as they began to urge that he should take some rest; "my mission here has ended for the present and my duty is elsewhere. We won't say good-by, for I shall not be far away;" and although he was almost faint from weakness, his bearing was so decided and strong, and he appeared so bent on departure, that they felt that it would hardly be in good taste to say anything more.

"We are almost beginning to feel that Mr. Haldane belongs to us," said Amy to her mother afterward, "and forget that he may be prompted by as strong a sense of duty to others."

As Haldane was leaving the house Dr. Orton drove to the door. Before he could alight the young man climbed into his buggy with almost desperate haste.

"Drive toward the city," he said so decisively that the doctor obeyed.

"What's the matter, Haldane? Speak, man; you look sick."

"Take me to the city hospital. I am sick."

"I shall take you right back to Mrs. Poland's," said the doctor, pulling up.

Haldane laid his hands on the reins, and then explained his fears and the motive for his action.

"God bless you, old fellow; but you are right. Any effort now would cost Amy her life, and she would make it if you were there. But you are not going to the hospital."

Dr. Orton's intimate acquaintance with the city enabled him to place Haldane in a comfortable room near his own house, where he could give constant supervision to his case. He also procured a good nurse, whose sole duty was to take care of the young man. To the anxious questioning of Mrs. Poland and Amy from time to time, the doctor maintained the fiction, saying that Haldane was watching a very important case under his care; "and you know his way," added the old gentleman, rubbing his hands, as if he were enjoying something internally, "he won't leave a case till I say it's safe, even to visit you, of whom he speaks every chance he gets;" and thus the two ladies in their feeble state were saved all anxiety.

They at length learned of the merciful ruse that had been played upon them by the appearance of their friend at their door in Dr. Orton's buggy. As the old physician helped his patient, who was still rather weak, up the steps, he said with his hearty laugh:

"Haldane has watched over that case, that he and I told you of, long enough. We now turn the case over to you, Miss Amy. But all he requires is good living, and I'll trust to you for that. He's a trump, if he is a Yankee. But drat him, I thought he'd spoil the joke by dying, at one time."

The sentiments that people like Mrs. Poland and her daughter, Mrs. Arnot, and Laura, would naturally entertain toward one who had served them as Haldane had done, and at such risk to himself, can be better imagined than portrayed. They looked and felt infinitely more than they were ever permitted to say, for any expression of obligation was evidently painful to him.

He speedily gained his old vigor, and before the autumn frosts put an end to the epidemic, was able to render Dr. Orton much valuable assistance.

Amy became more truly his sister than ever his own had been to him. Her quick intuition soon discovered his secret—even the changing expression of his eyes at the mention of Laura's name would have revealed it to her—but he would not let her speak on the subject. "She belongs to another," he said, "and although to me she is the most beautiful and attractive woman in the world, it must be my lifelong effort not to think of her."

His parting from Mrs. Poland and Amy tested his self-control severely. In accordance with her impulsive nature, Amy put her arms about his neck as she said brokenly:

"You were indeed God's messenger to us, and you brought us life. As father said, we shall all meet again."

On his return, Mrs. Arnot's greeting was that of a mother; but there were traces of constraint in Laura's manner. When she first met him she took his hand in a strong, warm pressure, and said, with tears in her eyes:

"Mr. Haldane, I thank you for your kindness to Amy and auntie as sincerely as if it had all been rendered to me alone."

But after this first expression of natural feeling, Haldane was almost tempted to believe that she shunned meeting his eyes, avoided speaking to him, and even tried to escape from his society, by taking Mr. Beaumont's arm and strolling off to some other apartment, when he was calling on Mrs. Arnot. And yet if this were true, he was also made to feel that it resulted from no lack of friendliness or esteem on her part.

"She fears that my old-time passion may revive, and she would teach me to put a watch at the entrance of its sepulchre," he at length concluded; "she little thinks that my love, so far from being dead, is a chained giant that costs me hourly vigilance to hold in lifelong imprisonment."

But Laura understood him much better than he did her. Her manner was the result of a straightforward effort to be honest. Of her own free will, and without even the slightest effort on the part of her uncle and aunt to incline her toward the wealthy and distinguished Mr. Beaumont, she had accepted all his attentions, and had accepted the man himself. In the world's estimation she would not have the slightest ground to find fault with him, for, from the first, both in conduct and manner, he had been irreproachable.

When the telegram which announced Mr. Poland's death was received, he tried to comfort her by words that were so peculiarly elegant and sombre, that, in spite of Laura's wishes to think otherwise, they struck her like an elegiac address that had been carefully prearranged and studied; and when the tidings of poor little Bertha's death came, it would occur to Laura that Mr. Beaumont had thought his first little address so perfect that he could do no better than to repeat it, as one might use an appropriate burial service on all occasions. He meant to be kind and considerate. He was "ready to do anything in his power," as he often said. But what was in his power? As telegrams and letters came, telling of death, of desperate illness, and uncertain life, of death again, of manly help, of woman-like self-sacrifice in the same man, her heart began to beat in quick, short, passionate throbs. Bat it would seem that nothing could ever disturb the even rhythm of Beaumont's pulse. He tried to show his sympathy by turning his mind to all that was mournful and sombre in art and literature. One day he brought to her from New York what he declared to be the finest arrangement of dirge music for the piano extant, and she quite surprised him by declaring with sudden passion that she could not and would not play a note of it.

In her deep sorrow and deeper anxiety, in her strange and miserable unrest, which had its hidden root in a cause not yet understood, she turned to him again and again for sympathy, and he gave her abundant opportunity to seek it, for Laura was the most beautiful object he had ever seen; and therefore, to feast his eye and gratify his ear, he spent much of his time with her; so much, indeed, that she often grew drearily weary of him. But no matter when or how often she would look into his face for quick, heartfelt appreciation, she saw with instinctive certainty that, more than lover, more than friend, and eventually, more than husband, he was, and ever would be, a connoisseur. When she smiled he was admiring her, when she wept he was also admiring her. Whatever she did or said was constantly being looked at and studied from an aesthetic standpoint by this man, whose fastidious taste she had thus far satisfied. More than once she had found herself asking: "Suppose I should lose my beauty, what would he do?" and the instinctive answer of her heart was: "He would honorably try to keep all his pledges, but would look the other way."

Before she was aware of it, she had begun to compare her affianced with Haldane, and she found that the one was like a goblet of sweet, rich wine, that was already nearly exhausted and cloying to her taste; the other was like a mountain spring, whose waters are pure, ever new, unfailing, prodigally abundant, inspiring yet slaking thirst.

But she soon saw whither such comparisons were leading her, and recognized her danger and her duty. She had plighted her faith to another, and he had given her no good reason to break that faith. Laura had a conscience, and she as resolutely set to work to shut out Haldane from her heart, as he, poor man, had tried to exclude her image, and from very much the same cause. But the heart is a wayward organ and is often at sword's-point with both will and conscience, and frequently, in spite of all that she could do, it would array Haldane on the one side and Beaumont on the other, and so it would eventually come to be, the man who loved her, versus the connoisseur who admired her, but whose absorbing passion for himself left no place for any other strong feeling.



CHAPTER LIII

EXIT OF LAURA'S FIRST KNIGHT

Haldane was given but little time for quiet study, for, before the year closed, tidings came from his mother, who was then in Italy, that she was ill and wished to see him. Poor Mrs. Haldane had at last begun to understand her son's character better, and to realize that he would retrieve the past. She also reproached herself that she had not been more sympathetic and helpful to him, and was not a little jealous that he should have found better and more appreciative friends than herself. And, at last, when she was taken ill, she longed to see him, and he lost not a moment in reaching her side.

Her illness, however, did not prove very serious, and she improved rapidly after a young gentleman appeared who was so refined in his manners, so considerate and deferential in his bearing toward her that she could scarcely believe that he was the same with the wild, wretched youth who had been in jail, and, what was almost as bad, who had worked in a mill.

Haldane made the most of his opportunities in seeing what was beautiful in nature and art while in the old world, but his thoughts turned with increasing frequency to his own land—not only because it contained the friends he loved so well, but also because events were now rapidly culminating for that great struggle between the two jarring sections that will eventually form a better and closer union on the basis of a mutual respect, and a better and truer knowledge of each other.

When Mrs. Haldane saw that her son was determined to take part in the conflict, he began to seem to her more like his old unreasonable self. She feebly remonstrated as a matter of course, and proved to her own satisfaction that it was utter folly for a young man who had the enjoyment of such large wealth as her son to risk the loss of everything in the hardships and dangers of war. He was as kind and considerate as possible, but she saw from the old and well-remembered expression of his eyes that he would carry out his own will nevertheless, and therefore she and his sisters reluctantly returned with him.

Having safely installed them in their old home, and proved by the aid of Dr. Marks and some other leading citizens of his native city that they had no further occasion to seclude themselves from the world, he returned to Hillaton to aid in organizing a regiment that was being recruited there, and in which Mr. Ivison had assured him of a commission. By means of the acquaintances he had made through his old mission class, he was able to secure enlistments rapidly, and although much of the material that he brought in was unpromising in its first appearance, he seemed to have the faculty of transforming the slouching dilapidated fellows into soldiers, and it passed into general remark that "Haldane's company was the roughest to start with and the best disciplined and most soldierly of them all when ordered to the seat of war."

The colonelcy of the regiment was given to Mr. Beaumont, not only on account of his position, but also because of his large liberality in fitting it out. He took a vast interest in the aesthetic features of its equipment, style of uniform, and like matters, and he did most excellent service in insisting on neatness, good care of weapons, and a soldier-like bearing from the first.

While active in this work he rose again in Laura's esteem, for he seemed more manly and energetic than he had shown himself to be before; and what was still more in his favor, he had less time for the indulgence of his taste as a connoisseur with her fair but often weary face as the object of contemplation.

She, with many others, visited the drill-ground almost daily, and when she saw the tall and graceful form of Mr. Beaumont issuing from the colonel's tent, when she saw him mount his superb white horse, which he managed with perfect skill, when she saw the sun glinting on his elegant sword and gold epaulets, and heard his sonorous orders to the men, she almost felt that all Hillaton was right, and that she had reason to be proud of him, and to be as happy as the envious belles of the city deemed her to be. But in spite of herself, her eyes would wander from the central figure to plain Captain Haldane, who, ignoring the admiring throng, was giving his whole attention to his duty.

Before she was aware, the thought began to creep into her mind, however, that to one man these scenes were military pageants, and to the other they meant stern and uncompromising war.

This impression had speedy confirmation, for one evening when both Mr. Beaumont and Haldane happened to be present, Mrs. Arnot remarked in effect that her heart misgive her when she looked into the future, and that the prospect of a bloody war between people of one race and faith was simply horrible.

"It will not be very bloody," remarked Mr. Beaumont, lightly. "After things have gone about so far the politicians on both sides will step in and patch up a compromise. Our policy at the North is to make an imposing demonstration. This will have the effect of bringing the fire-eaters to their senses, and if this won't answer we must get enough men together to walk right over the South, and end the nonsense at once. I have travelled through the South, and know that it can be done."

"Pardon me, colonel," said Haldane, "but since we are not on the drill-ground I have a right to differ with you. I anticipate a very bloody, and, perhaps, a long war. I have not seen so much of the South, but I have seen something of its people. The greatest heroism I ever saw manifested in my life was by a young Southern girl, and if such are their women we shall find the men foemen abundantly worthy of our steel. We shall indeed have to literally walk over them, that is, such of us as are left and able to walk. I agree with Mrs. Arnot, and I tremble for the future of my country."

Mr. Beaumont forgot himself for once so far as to say, "Oh, if you find such cause for trembling—" but Laura's indignant face checked further utterance.

"I propose to do my duty," said Haldane, with a quiet smile, though a quick flush showed that he felt the slur, "and it will be your duty, Colonel, to see that I do."

"You have taught us that the word duty means a great deal to you, Egbert," said Mrs. Arnot, and then the matter dropped. But the animus of each man had been quite clearly revealed, and the question would rise in Laura's mind, "Does not the one belittle the occasion because little himself?" Although she dreaded the coming war inexpressibly, she took Haldane's view of it. His tribute to her cousin Amy also touched a very tender chord.

On the ground of having secured so many recruits Mr. Ivison urged that Haldane should have the rank of major, but at that time those things were controlled largely by political influence and favoritism, and there were still not a few in Hillaton who both thought and spoke of the young man's past record as a good reason why he should not have any rank at all. He quietly took what was given him and asked for nothing more.

All now know that Mr. Beaumont's view was not correct, and as the conflict thickened and deepened that elegant gentleman became more and more disgusted. Not that he lacked personal courage, but, as he often remarked, it was the "horrid style of living" that he could not endure. He could not find an aesthetic element in the blinding dust or unfathomable mud of Virginia.

As was usually the case, there was in the regiment a soldier gifted with the power and taste for letter-writing, and he kept the local papers quite well posted concerning affairs in the regiment. One item concerning Beaumont will indicate the condition of his mind. After describing the "awful" nature of the roads and weather, the writer added, "The Colonel looks as if in a chronic state of disgust."

Suddenly the regiment was ordered to the far Southwest. This was more than Beaumont could endure, for in his view life in that region would be a burden under any circumstances. He coolly thought the matter over, and concluded that he would rather go home, marry Laura, and take a tour in Europe, and promptly executed the first part of his plan by resigning on account of ill-health. He had a bad cold, it is true, which had chiefly gone to his head and made him very uncomfortable, and so inflamed his nose that the examining physician misjudged the exemplary gentleman, recommending that his resignation be accepted, more from the fear that his habits were bad than from any other cause. But by the time he reached Hillaton his nose was itself again, and he as elegant as ever. The political major had long since disappeared, and so Haldane started for his distant field of duty as lieutenant-colonel.

The regimental letter-writer chronicled this promotion in the Hillaton "Courier" with evident satisfaction.

"Lieut.-Col. Haldane," he wrote, "is respected by all and liked by the majority. He keeps us rigidly to our duty, but is kind and considerate nevertheless. He is the most useful officer I ever heard of. Now he is chaplain and again he is surgeon. He coaxes the money away from the men and sends it home to their families, otherwise much of it would be lost in gambling. Many a mother and wife in Hillaton hears from the absent oftener because the Colonel urges the boys to write, and writes for those who are unable. To give you a sample of the man I will tell you what I saw not long ago. The roads were horrible as usual, and some of the men were getting played out on the march. The first thing I knew a sick man was on the Major's horse (he was Major then), and he was trudging along in the mud with the rest of us, and carrying the muskets of three other men who were badly used up. [Footnote: I cannot refrain here from paying a tribute to my old schoolmate and friend, Major James Cromwell, of the 124th New York Volunteers, whom I have seen plodding along in the mud in a November storm, a sick soldier riding his horse, while he carried the accoutrements of other men who were giving out from exhaustion. Major Cromwell was killed while leading a charge at the battle of Gettysburg. ] We want the people of Hillaton to understand, that if any of us get back we won't hear anything more against Haldane. Nice, pretty fellows, who don't like to get their boots muddy, as our ex-Colonel, for instance, may be more to their taste, but they ain't to ours."

Laura read this letter with cheeks that reddened with shame and then grew very pale.

"Auntie," she said, showing it to Mrs. Arnot, "I cannot marry that man. I would rather die first."

"I do not wonder that you feel so," replied Mrs. Arnot emphatically. "With all his wealth and culture I neither would nor could marry him, and would tell him so. I have felt sure that you would come to this conclusion, but I wished your own heart and conscience to decide the matter."

But before Laura could say to Mr. Beaumont that which she felt she must, and yet which she dreaded, for his sake, to speak, a social earthquake took place in Hillaton.

Mr. Arnot was arrested! But for the promptness of his friends to give bail for his appearance, he would have been taken from his private office to prison as poor Haldane had been years before.

It would be wearisome to tell the long story of his financial distress, which he characteristically kept concealed from his wife. Experiences like his are only too common. With his passion for business he had extended it to the utmost limit of his capital. Then came a time of great depression and contraction. Prompted by a will that had never been thwarted, and a passion for routine which could endure no change, he made Herculean effort to keep everything moving on with mechanical regularity. His strong business foresight detected the coming change for the better in the business world, and with him it was only a question of bridging over the intervening gulf. He sank his own property in his effort to do this; then the property of his wife and Laura, which he held in trust. Then came the great temptation of his life. He was joint trustee of another very large property, and the co-executor was in Europe, and would be absent for years. In order to use some of the funds of this property it was necessary to have the signature of this gentleman. With the infatuation of those who dally with this kind of temptation, Mr. Arnot felt sure that he could soon make good all that he should use in his present emergency, and, therefore, forged the name of the co-trustee. The gentleman returned from Europe unexpectedly, and the crime was discovered and speedily proved.

It was now that Mrs. Arnot proved what a noble and womanly nature she possessed. Without palliating his fault, she ignored the whole scoffing, chattering world, and stood by her husband with as wifely devotion as if his crime had been misfortune, and he himself had been the affectionate considerate friend that she had believed he would be, when as a blushing maiden she had accepted the hand that had grown so hard, and cold, and heavy.

Mr. Beaumont was stunned and bewildered. At first he scarcely knew what to do, although his sagacious father and mother told him very plainly to break the engagement at once. But the trouble with Mr. Beaumont upon this occasion was that he was a man of honor, and for once he almost regretted the fact. But since he was, he believed that there was but one course open for him. Although Laura was now penniless, and the same almost as the daughter of a man who would soon be in State prison, he had promised to marry her. She must become the mistress of the ancient and aristocratic Beaumont mansion.

He braced himself, as had been his custom when a battle was in prospect, and went down to the beautiful villa which would be Laura's home but a few days longer.

As he entered, she saw that he was about to perform the one heroic act of his life, but she was cruel enough to prevent even that one, and so reduced his whole career to one consistently elegant and polished surface.

He had taken her hand, and was about to address her in the most appropriate language, and with all the dignity of self-sacrifice, when she interrupted him by saying briefly:

"Mr. Beaumont, please listen to me first. Before the most unexpected event occurred which has made so great a change in my fortunes, and I may add, in so many of my friends, I had decided to say to you in all sincerity and, kindness that I could not marry you. I could not give you that love which a wife ought to give to a husband. I now repeat my decision still more emphatically."

Mr. Beaumont was again stunned and bewildered. A woman declining to marry him!

"Can nothing change your decision?" he faltered, fearing that something might.

"Nothing," she coldly replied, and with an involuntary expression of contempt hovering around her flexible mouth.

"But what will you do?" he asked, prompted by not a little curiosity.

"Support myself by honest work," was her quiet but very decisive answer.

Mr. Beaumont now felt that there was nothing more to be done but to make a little elegant farewell address, and depart, and he would make it in spite of all that she could do.

The next thing she heard of him was that he had started on a tour of Europe, and, no doubt, in his old character of a connoisseur, whose judgment few dared to dispute.



CHAPTER LIV

ANOTHER KNIGHT APPEARS

The processes of law were at length complete, and Mr. Arnot found himself in a prison cell, with the prospect that years must elapse before he would receive a freedom that now was dreaded almost more than his forced seclusion. After his conviction he had been taken from Hillaton to a large prison of the State, in a distant city.

"I shall follow you, Thomas, as soon as I can complete such arrangements as are essential," Mrs. Arnot had said, "and will remain as near to you as I can. Indeed, it will be easier for Laura and me to commence our new life there than here."

The man had at last begun to realize the whole truth. True to his nature, he thought of himself first, and saw that his crime, like a great black hand, had dragged him down from his proud eminence of power and universal respect, away from his beloved business, and had shut him up in this narrow, stony sepulchre, for what better was his prison cell than a tomb to a man with his tireless mind? The same mind which like a giant had carried its huge burden every day, was still his; but now there was nothing for it to do. And yet it would act, for constant mental action had become a necessity from a lifetime of habit. Heretofore his vast business taxed every faculty to the utmost. He had to keep his eye on all the great markets of the world; he had to follow politicians, diplomats, and monarchs into their secret councils, and guess at their policy in order to shape his own business policy. His interests were so large and far-reaching that it had been necessary for him to take a glance over the world before he could properly direct his affairs from his private office. For years he had been commanding a small army of men, and with consummate skill and constant thought he had arrayed the industry of his army against the labors of like armies under the leadership of other men in competition with himself. His mind had learned to flash with increasing speed and accuracy to one and another of all these varied interests. But now the great fabric of business and wealth, which he had built by a lifetime of labor, had vanished like a dream, and nothing remained but the mind that had constructed it.

"Ah!" he groaned again and again, "why could not mind and memory perish also?"

But they remained, and were the only possessions left of his great wealth.

Then he began to think of his wife and Laura. He had beggared them, and, what was far worse, he had darkened their lives with the shadow of his own disgrace. Wholly innocent as they were, they must suffer untold wretchedness through his act. In his view he was the cause of the broken engagement between his niece and the wealthy Mr. Beaumont, and now he saw that there was nothing before the girl but a dreary effort to gain a livelihood by her own labor, and this effort rendered almost hopeless by the reflected shame of his crime.

His wife also was growing old and feeble. At last he realized he had a wife such as is given to but few men—a woman who was great enough to be tender and sympathetic through all the awful weeks that had elapsed since the discovery of his crime—a woman who could face what she saw before her and utter no words of repining or reproach.

He now saw how cold and hard and unappreciative he had been toward her in the days of his prosperity, and he cursed himself and his unutterable folly.

Thus his great powerful mind turned in vindictive rage against itself. Memory began to show him with mocking finger and bitter jibes where he might have acted more wisely in his business, more wisely in his social relations, and especially more wisely and humanely, to say the least, in his own home. It seemed to take a fiendish delight in telling him how everything might have been different, and how he, instead of brooding in a prison cell, might have been the most honored, useful, wealthy, and happy man in Hillaton.

Thus he was tortured until physical exhaustion brought him a brief respite of sleep. But the next day it was the same wretched round of bitter memories and vain but torturing activity of mind. Day after day passed and he grew haggard under his increasing mental distress. His mind was like a great driving wheel, upon which all the tremendous motive power is turned without cessation, but for which there is nothing to drive save the man himself, and seemingly it would drive him mad.

At last he said to himself, "I cannot endure this. For my own sake, for the sake of my wife and Laura, it were better that an utter blank should take the place of Thomas Arnot. I am, and ever shall be, only a burden to them. I am coming to be an intolerable burden to myself."

The thought of suicide, once entertained, grew rapidly in favor, and at last it became only a question how he could carry out his dark purpose. With this definite plan before him he grew calmer. At last he had something to do in the future, and terrible memory must suspend for a time its scorpion lash while he thought how best to carry out his plan.

The suicide about to take the risk of endless suffering is usually desirous that the intervening moments of his "taking off" should be as painless as possible, and Mr. Arnot began to think how he could make his exit momentary. But his more tranquil mood, the result of having some definite action before him, led to sleep, and the long night passed in unconsciousness, the weary body clogging the wheels of conscious thought.

The sun was shining when he awoke; but with returning consciousness came memory and pain, and the old cowardly desire to escape all the consequences of his sin by death. He vowed he would not live to see another day, and once more he commenced brooding over the one question, how he would die. As he took up this question where he had dropped it the previous night, the thought occurred to him what a long respite he had had from pain. Then like a flash of lightning came another thought:

"Suppose by my self-destroying act I pass into a condition of life in which there is no sleep, and memory can torture without cessation, without respite? True, I have tried to believe there is no future life, but am I sure of it? Here I can obtain a little rest. For hours I have been unconscious, through the weight of the body upon my spirit. How can I be sure that the spirit cannot exist separately and suffer just the same? I am not suffering now through my body, and have not been through all these terrible days. My body is here in this cell, inert and motionless, painless, while in my mind I am enduring the torments of the damned. The respite from suffering that I have had has come through the weariness of my body, and here I am planning to cast down the one barrier that perhaps saves me from an eternity of torturing thought and memory."

He was appalled at the bare possibility of such a future; reason told him that such a future was probable, and conscience told him that it was before him in veritable truth. He felt that wherever he carried memory and his present character he would be most miserable, whether it were in Dante's Inferno, Milton's Paradise, or the heaven or hell of the Bible.

There was no more thought of suicide. Indeed, he shrank from death with inexpressible dread.

Slowly his thoughts turned to his wife, the woman who had been so true to him, the one human being of all the world who now stood by him. She might help him in his desperate strait. She seemed to have a principle within her soul which sustained her, and which might sustain him. At any rate, he longed to see her once more, and ask her forgiveness in deep contrition for his base and lifelong failure to "love, honor, and cherish her," as he had promised at God's altar and before many witnesses.

The devoted wife came and patiently entered on her ministry of love and Christian faith, and out of the chaos of the fallen man of iron and stone there gradually emerged a new man, who first became in Christ's expressive words "a little child" in spiritual things, that he might grow naturally and in the symmetry of the enduring manhood which God designs to perfect in the coming ages.

Mrs. Arnot's sturdy integrity led her to give up everything to her husband's creditors, and she came to the city of her new abode wherein the prison was located almost penniless. But she brought letters from Dr. Barstow, Mr. Ivison, and other Christian people of Hillaton. These were presented at a church of the denomination to which she belonged, and all she asked was some employment by which she and Laura could support themselves. These letters secured confidence at once. There was no mystery—nothing concealed—and, although so shadowed by the disgrace of another, the bearing of the ladies inspired respect and won sympathy. A gentleman connected with the church gave Laura the position of saleswoman in his bookstore, and to Mrs. Arnot's little suburban cottage of only three rooms kind and interested ladies brought sewing and fancy-work. Thus they were provided for, as God's people ever are in some way.

Mrs. Arnot had written a long letter to Haldane before leaving Hillaton, giving a full account of their troubles, with one exception. At Laura's request she had not mentioned the broken engagement with Beaumont.

"If possible, I wish to see him myself before he knows," she had said. "At least, before any correspondence takes place between us, I wish to look into his eyes, and if I see the faintest trace of shrinking from me there, as I saw it in Mr. Beaumont's eyes, I will never marry him, truly as I love him."

Mrs. Arnot's face had lighted up with its old-time expression, as she said:

"Laura, don't you know Egbert Haldane better than that?"

"I can't help it," she had replied with a troubled brow; "the manner of nearly every one has changed so greatly that I must see him first."

Haldane did not receive Mrs. Arnot's first letter. He was at sea with his regiment, on his way to the far Southwest, when the events in which he would have been so deeply interested began to occur. After reaching his new scene of duty, there were constant alternations of march and battle. In the terrible campaign that followed, the men of the army he was acting with were decimated, and officers dropped out fast. In consequence, Haldane, who received but two slight wounds, that did not disable him, was promoted rapidly. The colonel of the regiment was killed soon after their arrival, and from the command of the regiment he rose, before the campaign was over, to command a brigade, and then a division; and he performed his duties so faithfully and ably that he was confirmed in this position.

Mrs. Arnot's first letter had followed him around for a time, and then was lost, like so many others in that time of dire confusion. Her second letter after long delay reached him, but it was very brief and hurried, and referred to troubles that he did not understand. From members of his old regiment, however, rumors reached him of some disaster to Mr. Arnot, and wrong-doing on his part, which had led to imprisonment.

Haldane was greatly shocked at the bare possibility of such events, and wrote a most sympathetic letter to Mrs. Arnot, which never reached her. She had received some of his previous letters, but not this one.

By the time the campaign was over one of Haldane's wounds began to trouble him very much, and his health seemed generally broken down from exposure and overexertion. As a leave of absence was offered him, he availed himself of it and took passage to New York.

Three or four letters from his mother had reached him, but that lady's causeless jealousy of Mrs. Arnot had grown to such proportions that she never mentioned her old friend's name.

The long days of the homeward voyage were passed by Haldane in vain conjecture. Of one thing he felt sure, and that was that Laura was by this time, or soon would be, Mrs. Beaumont; and now that the excitement of military service was over, the thought rested on him with a weight that was almost crushing.

One evening Mr. Growther was dozing as usual between his cat and dog, when some one lifted the latch and walked in without the ceremony of knocking.

"Look here, stranger, where's yer manners?" snarled the old gentleman. Then catching a glimpse of the well-remembered face, though now obscured by a tremendous beard, he started up, exclaiming,

"Lord a' massy! 'taint you, is it? And you compared yourself with that little, peaked-faced chap that's around just the same—you with shoulders as broad as them are, and two stars on 'em too!"

The old man nearly went beside himself with joy. He gave the cat and dog each a vigorous kick, and told them to "wake up and see if they could believe their eyes."

It was some time before Haldane could get him quieted down so as to answer all the questions that he was longing to put; but at last he drew out the story in full of Mr. Arnot's forgery and its consequences.

"Has Mr. Beaumont married Miss Romeyn?" at last he faltered.

"No; I reckon not," said Mr. Growther dryly.

"What do you mean?" asked Haldane sharply.

"Well, all I know is that he didn't marry her, and she ain't the kind of a girl to marry him, whether he would or no, and so they ain't married."

"The infernal scoundrel!" thundered Haldane, springing to his feet. "The—"

"Hold on!" cried Mr. Growther. "O Lord a' massy! I half believe he's got to swearin' down in the war. If he's backslid agin, nothin' but my little, peaked-faced chap will ever bring him around a nuther time."

Haldane was stalking up and down the room in strong excitement and quite oblivious of Mr. Growther's perplexity.

"The unutterable fool!" he exclaimed, "to part from such a woman as Laura Romeyn for any cause save death."

"Well, hang it all! if he's a fool that's his business. What on 'arth is the matter with you? I ain't used to havin' bombshells go off right under my nose as you be, and the way you are explodin' round kinder takes away my breath."

"Forgive me, my old friend; but I never had a shot strike quite as close as this. Poor girl! Poor girl! What a prospect she had a few months since. True enough, Beaumont was never a man to my taste; but a woman sees no faults in the man she loves; and he could have given her everything that her cultivated taste could wish for. Poor girl, she must be broken-hearted with all this trouble and disappointment."

"If I was you, I'd go and see if she was," said Mr. Growther, with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes. "I've heerd tell of hearts bein' mended in my day."

Haldane looked at him a moment, and, as he caught his old friend's meaning, he brought his hand down on the table with a force that made everything in the old kitchen ring again.

"O Lord a' massy!" ejaculated Mr. Growther, hopping half out of his chair.

"Mr. Growther," said Haldane, starting up, "I came to have a very profound respect for your sagacity and wisdom years ago, but to-night you have surpassed Solomon himself. I shall take your most excellent advice at once and go and see."

"Not to-night—"

"Yes, I can yet catch the owl train to-night. Good-by for a short time."

"No wonder he took the rebs' works, if he went for 'em like that," chuckled Mr. Growther, as he composed himself after the excitement of the unexpected visit. "Now I know what made him look so long as if something was a-gnawin' at his heart; so I'm a-thinkin' there'll be two hearts mended."

Haldane reached the city in which Mrs. Arnot resided early in the morning, and as he had no clew to her residence, he felt that his best chance of hearing of her would be at the prison itself, for he knew well that she would seek either to see or learn of her husband's welfare almost daily. In answer to his inquiries, he was told that she would be sure to come to the prison at such an hour in the evening since that was her custom.

He must get through the day the best he could, and so strolled off to the business part of the city, where was located the leading hotel, and was followed by curious eyes and surmises. Major-generals were not in the habit of inquiring at the prison after convicts' wives.

As he passed a bookstore, it occurred to him that an exciting story would help kill time, and he sauntered in and commenced looking over the latest publications that were seductively arranged near the door.

"I'll go to breakfast now, Miss," said the junior clerk who swept the store.

"Thank you. Oh, go quickly," murmured Laura Romeyn to herself, as with breathless interest she watched the unconscious officer, waiting till he should look up and recognize her standing behind a counter. She was destined to have her wish in very truth, for when he saw her he would be so surely off his guard from surprise that she could see into the very depths of his heart.

Would he never look up? She put her hand to her side, for anticipation was so intense as to become a pain. She almost panted from excitement. This was the supreme moment of her life, but the very fact of his coming to this city promised well for the hope which fed her life.

"Ah, he is reading. The thought of some stranger holds him, while my intense thoughts and feelings no more affect him than if I were a thousand miles away. How strong and manly he looks! How well that uniform becomes him, though evidently worn and battle-stained! Ah! two stars upon his shoulder! Can it be that he has won such high rank? What will he think of poor me, selling books for bread? Egbert Haldane, beware! If you shrink from me now, even in the expression of your eye, I stand aloof from you forever."

The man thus standing on the brink of fate, read leisurely on, smiling at some quaint fancy of the author, who had gained his attention for a moment.

"Heigh ho!" he said at last," this stealing diversion from a book unbought is scarcely honest, so I will—"

The book dropped from his hands, and he passed his hands across his eyes as if to brush away a film. Then his face lighted up with all the noble and sympathetic feeling that Laura had ever wished or hoped to see, and he sprang impetuously toward her.

"Miss Romeyn," he exclaimed. "Oh, this is better than I hoped."

"Did you hope to find me earning my bread in this humble way?" she faltered, deliciously conscious that he was almost crushing her hand in a grasp that was all too friendly.

"I was hoping to find you—and Mrs. Arnot," he added with a sudden deepening of color. "I thought a long day must elapse before I could learn of your residence."

"Do you know all?" she asked, very gravely.

"Yes, Miss Romeyn," he replied with moistening eyes, "I know all. Perhaps my past experience enables me to sympathize with you more than others can. But be that as it may, I do give you the whole sympathy of my heart; and for this brave effort to win your own bread I respect and honor you more, if possible, than I did when you were in your beautiful home at Hillaton."

Laura's tears were now falling fast, but she was smiling nevertheless, and she said, hesitatingly:

"I do not consider myself such a deplorable object of sympathy; I have good health, a kind employer, enough to live upon, and a tolerably clear conscience. Of course I do feel deeply for auntie and uncle, and yet I think auntie is happier than she has been for many years. If all had remained as it was at Hillaton, the ice around uncle's heart would have grown harder and thicker to the end; now it is melting away, and auntie's thoughts reach so far beyond time and earth, that she is forgetting the painful present in thoughts of the future."

"I have often asked myself," exclaimed Haldane, "could God have made a nobler woman? Ah! Miss Laura, you do not know how much I owe to her."

"You have taught us that God can make noble men also."

"I have merely done my duty," he said, with a careless gesture. "When can I see Mrs. Arnot?"

"I can't go home till noon, but I think I can direct you to the house."

"Can I not stay and help you sell books? Then I can go home with you."

"A major-general behind the counter selling books would make a sensation in town, truly."

"If the people were of my way of thinking, Miss Laura Romeyn selling books would make a far greater sensation."

"Very few are of your way of thinking, Mr. Haldane."

"I am heartily glad of it," he ejaculated.

"Indeed!"

"Pardon me, Miss Romeyn" he said with a deep flush, "you do not understand what I mean." Then he burst out impetuously, "Miss Laura, I cannot school myself into patience. I have been in despair so many years that since I now dare to imagine that there is a bare chance for me, I cannot wait decorously for some fitting occasion. But if you can give me even the faintest hope I will be patience and devotion itself."

"Hope of what?" said Laura faintly, turning away her face.

"Oh, Miss Laura, I ask too much," he answered sadly.

"You have not asked anything very definitely, Mr. Haldane," she faltered.

"I ask for the privilege of trying to win you as my wife."

"Ah, Egbert," she cried, joyously, "you have stood the test; for if you had shrunk, even in your thoughts, from poor, penniless Laura Romeyn, with her uncle in yonder prison, you might have tried in vain to win me."

"God knows I did not shrink," he said eagerly, and reaching out his hand across the counter.

"I know it too," she said shyly.

"Laura, all that I am, or ever can be, goes with that hand."

She put her hand in his, and looking into his face with an expression which he had never seen before, she said:

"Egbert, I have loved you ever since you went, as a true knight, to the aid of cousin Amy."

And thus they plighted their faith to each other across the counter, and then he came around on her side.

We shall not attempt to portray the meeting between Mrs. Arnot and one whom she had learned to look upon as a son, and who loved her with an affection that had its basis in the deepest gratitude.

Our story is substantially ended. It only remains to be said that Haldane, by every means in his power, showed gentle and forbearing consideration for his mother's feelings, and thus she was eventually led to be reconciled to his choice, if not to approve of it.

"After all, it is just like Egbert," she said to her daughters, "and we will have to make the best of it."

Haldane's leave of absence passed all too quickly, and in parting he said to Laura:

"You think I have faced some rather difficult duties before, but there was never one that could compare with leaving you for the uncertainties of a soldier's life."

But he went nevertheless, and remained till the end of the war.

Not long after going to the front he was taken prisoner in a disastrous battle, but he found means of informing his old friend Dr. Orton of the fact. Although the doctor was a rebel to the backbone, he swore he would "break up the Confederacy" if Haldane was not released, and through his influence the young man was soon brought to his friend's hospitable home, where he found Amy installed as housekeeper. She was now Mrs. Orton, for her lover returned as soon as it was safe for him to do so after the end of the epidemic. He was now away in the army, and thus Haldane did not meet him at that time; but later in the conflict Colonel Orton in turn became a prisoner of war, and Haldane was able to return the kindness which he received on this occasion. Mrs. Poland resided with Amy, and they both were most happy to learn that they would eventually have a relative as well as friend in their captive, for never was a prisoner of war made more of than Haldane up to the time of his exchange.

Years have passed. The agony of the war has long been over. Not only peace but prosperity is once more prevailing throughout the land.

Mr. and Mrs. Arnot reside in their old home, but Mrs. Egbert Haldane is its mistress. Much effort was made to induce Mr. Growther to take up his abode there also, but he would not leave the quaint old kitchen, where he said "the little peaked-faced chap was sittin' beside him all the time."

At last he failed and was about to die. Looking up into Mrs. Arnot's face, he said:

"I don't think a bit better of myself. I'm twisted all out o' shape. But the little chap has taught me how the Good Father will receive me."

The wealthiest people of Hillaton are glad to obtain the services of Dr. Haldane, and to pay for them; they are glad to welcome him to their homes when his busy life permits him to come; but the proudest citizen must wait when Christ, in the person of the poorest and lowliest, sends word to this knightly man, "I am sick or in prison"; "I am naked or hungry."

THE END