"I think I shall return with father and mother. They will go home day after to-morrow."

He did not raise his eyes, nor appear in the least anxious to detain her, but merely said:

"Where are they this evening?"

"At Mrs. Norton's. They went to tea. I felt too ill to accompany them."

"Are you very ill, Mabel?"

"I feel far from well, and yet it does not seem to be from physical indisposition. It is something deeper."

"True, my poor wife, we have become estranged; and what has caused it?"

She looked thoughtfully at him a moment, but no answer came from her lips.

"I think we had better part awhile. It will do us both good."

She started, scarce expecting such a remark from him.

"Then my presence has, indeed, become irksome to you?" Her tone and manner implied more than she cared to display.

"You know better than that, Mabel; but I-we both are sadly out of harmony; perhaps have exhausted each other. Let us part, and each find ourselves. We shall be brighter and happier when we come together, Mabel; shall we not?" and he laid his hand tenderly on her head.

O, why cannot two at least see things in their true light? Why was it that she remained so blind to the real state of affairs? Either ignorance or wilfulness kept her from the light, and coldly bidding him good night, she left the room.

The next day was indeed gloomy. Mabel's parents had become acquainted, not with the facts, but with a distorted view of the case, and in their eyes she was a greatly abused woman. It was no longer any use for her husband to exert himself for their happiness, the poison of prejudice had entered their minds, and tinctured every thought.

It was a painful parting. Misconception on one side, and deep suffering with pride, upon the other. No lighting of the eyes, no pressure of the hand, no warm good-bye, to keep his heart alive while she was away.

He stood, after the cars had left, deeply pondering the strange affair, until the crowd jostled him, and brought him back to the external world, with its toil, its sounds of mirth, and its varied forms of life.

What a break in his usual peaceful life; what a void he found in his soul when he entered the silent home. There was no lingering atmosphere of love about the rooms; everything was put away out of sight. The order was painful, and he left to seek companionship if not sympathy.



CHAPTER X.



"What is it like, Dawn?"

"Like a great Soul that has absorbed a million lives into its own, and cannot rest, it is so full of joy and sadness," and she fixed her gaze more intently on the foam-crested waves.

It was the first time she had seen the ocean, and her father's keen enjoyment watching her enraptured, wondering gaze, afforded Miss Vernon another source of pleasure, aside from the wide expanse of beauty, which stretched from shore to horizon.

The three, according to Mr. Wyman's promise, had come to enjoy the pleasures and beauties of the seaside for a few weeks, as well as to see the different phases of human character which were daily thronging there.

It was intensely interesting to Miss Vernon to watch the child's eager interest in this glorious display of nature, and her strange insight into the character of the people with whom they were in daily contact.

There was one faint, gentle girl, about twenty years of age, who walked every evening alone, and whom Miss Vernon watched with great interest.

"I like her, too," said Dawn, coming close to her teacher one evening, as she walked up and down on the beach.

"Who? and how do you know I like her."

"Why, the lady there, walking in front of us. I feel you like her."

"I am glad you do, Dawn. And now tell me why you love her."

"I love her because she is white."

"You mean that she is pure. I think she is."

"Yes. I mean that and something else."

"What?"

"In one of my lessons, you told me, that some objects were white, because they absorbed none of the rays, but reflected all."

"You must explain your singular application-or in plain words, tell me how she reflects all, and takes none."

"Why, because she don't take the life from people, but gives to them."

"You know just what I mean-she throws it back to themselves purified by her light." And the child's face was not her own, another's shone through it.

"Very good, Dawn, I hope we shall sometime know this pure young lady, and receive a brightness from her," said Miss Vernon, talking more to herself than the strange child who was dancing at that moment in time to the waves.

"According to your scientific symbol, I suppose we shall see some black people here before we go," she said laughingly to the child.

"Yes, there are plenty of those everywhere. They take all the light, and give none out. But see, Miss Vernon, the lady is sitting on a rock and weeping, may I go to her?"

"Would it not be an intrusion?"

"Yes, sometimes, but not now. May I go? Papa would let me, I think."

"You must ask him. I had rather not give you such a liberty."

"Then I will," and she flew at the top of her speed to the bank where he was sitting.

"May I go and see that lady out on the rock, papa?"

"Why? Do you know her?"

No, but I must go," and as she spoke Dawn's eyes had that strange look which betokened an inner vision.

"Yes, daughter, go," was his answer, and she bounded from his side, and was close to the weeping stranger, in an instant.

Her father watched her with the deepest interest, and almost wished himself within hearing.

She did not approach the stranger quietly, but with one bound sprang and threw her arms around her neck, saying in a voice deeper and stronger than her own:

"Pearl, I am here. Weep no more!"

The young girl thrilled, but not with terror, for to her such things were of frequent occurrence. Yet the proof to her now of the presence of the unseen was of such a positive nature, more tangible than she had felt for months, that all her accumulated doubts gave way, and the pure waters of faith flowed over her soul.

Here, among strangers, where none knew her name, or her grief, had the voice of her loved one spoken. Why should she doubt? Why should thousands, who have every day a similar experience?

She rose from her position, and taking the hand of the child, which thrilled strangely to her touch, walked towards the house.

"Do you love the sea?" she asked of the little stranger.

"O, ever so much. I mean to ask papa to live here forever," and she looked enthusiastically towards the receding waves.

"Do you live here?" asked Dawn.

"No; my home is far away. I come here to rest."

"Was that what made you weep? Was you weary?"

"Yes, dear. My soul is very weary at times."

"Is the sea weary when it moans?" and she looked wonderingly over the wide expanse of changing waves.

"I think it is; but I must leave you now; I see your friends are looking for you."

But Dawn would not let her pass on. She held her hand tighter, and said:

"This is my papa, and this is my teacher."

"I hope my child has not annoyed you, Miss," said Mr. Wyman, as he gazed on the face of the beautiful stranger before them.

"Far from it, sir. She has comforted me. Children, under ordinary circumstances, are ever welcome, but when they bring proof-"

She stopped, fearful that she might not be understood.

"I comprehend it, Miss. I saw another life than her own in her eyes, else I should not have permitted her to have gone to you."

"I thank you both," said the gentle girl, and bowing gracefully, she went towards the house.

"Is she not white, Miss Vernon?" asked Dawn, exultingly, when the stranger was out of hearing.

Yes, she is beautiful and pure."

"I hope she was comforted, for her face has a look of sorrow, deeper than we often see on one so young," remarked Mr. Wyman, who had been enlightened by Miss Vernon on Dawn's strange application of soul-science.

"Yes, she was, papa. Some one in the air made me speak and call her name. It's 'Pearl'; is n't it pretty? O, see those clouds, papa," she cried, with thrilling ecstasy; "I hope they will look just like that when I die."

"You are weary now, darling; we must go in," said her father, watching with jealous eyes the snow-white and crimson clouds which lay on the horizon, just above the foaming waves.

"There are some people here from L—," said Miss Vernon, as she and Mr. Wyman sat together on the piazza the next morning, watching the changing sea.

"Ah, who are they; any of our friends?"

"I have never seen them at your house. Two ladies,—a Mrs. Foster and sister. Do you know them?"

"I know that there are such people in L—. When did they arrive? I have not seen them."

"Last evening; but you do not look particularly pleased. Will they disturb you?"

"I do not mean they shall, although they are busybodies, and know every one's affairs better than their own."

"So I judged by their conversation last evening, which I could not but overhear, as they talked so loud, their room being next to mine, and their door open."

"Of whom were they speaking?"

"Of a Mr. and Mrs. Deane. I think I have heard you allude to them."

"I have; nice good people too. As usual, I suppose they were charging them with all sorts of foibles and misdemeanors."

"I heard one of them assert that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had parted, and that she had gone to live with her parents."

"It cannot be! Howard Deane is too just and honorable for anything of that nature; but if they have, there are good reasons for it. I think I will write him this very morning, and urge him to come and bring his wife to this beautiful spot for a few days. Will you lend me your folio, Florence? Mine is up two flights of stairs, and I would really like to be waited on this morning."

She flew to her room, and returned and placed it before him, and then went in search of Dawn.

Selecting a delicate sheet from its orderly arranged contents he commenced,—

"My Dear Friend Howard.

"Come and spend a few days in this loveliest of—"

At this point a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and another placed over his eyes.

"I am here;" said a well-known voice, "so throw aside pen and paper. We will commence in a better way."

"Why? when? where did you come from, and how came you to select this place?"

"I came this morning; arrived ten minutes ago from L—. Did not 'select' this place; the place drew me here. Now I have answered all your interrogatories, may I ask you how long you have been here, and why you did not let me know you were coming?"

"Two days only. I should have told you, but did not suppose you could leave for a moment, knowing the pressure of your business. But how is your wife? She is here of course?"

His averted face did not reveal the look of pain which passed over it, as he replied:

"She is not well, and went home with her mother."

"So you was lonely and betook yourself to this scene of life to pass the hours away. You could not have chosen a better place. I hope the period of your stay here is not limited to a few days."

"Instead of that it is indefinite."

The tone of his voice was too sad to be mistaken, and Mr. Wyman began to think that there might be some truth in the rumor which Florence had heard.

He glanced at Mr. Deane's face, and read all he had failed to see when he first met him.

"I hope nothing has occurred to mar your pleasure while here; at least nothing but what the waves will wash away?"

"The sea is a good place for the soul-weary, as well as for the light of heart. I cannot, however, leave my burden here. I am, indeed, very sad, Hugh. Are you much engaged? If not, we will take a walk together," he said, in tones which plainly implied a need of a companion like Mr. Wyman.

"I have nothing to do, now you have arrived and saved me the laborious effort of writing to you."

"Then you wished me here?"

"I did. My thoughts went out to you this morning. I felt that you needed a change."

"I do indeed;" and they walked together for awhile, then sat beneath the shade of a tree, whose long outstretched branches seemed to wave benedictions on their heads.

"I need change, but human sympathy most. Mabel has gone from me. It is not a corporal separation only, but one of soul and heart."

"Mabel gone! Is it, indeed, true? But the separation cannot last; she will surely return to your love and protection. Howard, I am glad you are h; ere. Some unseen power must have brought you to this place, where you can unburden your grief, and take better and clearer views of the case."

"Then you think she will come again to me?"

"Certainly; and you will both be stronger for the temporary separation."

"I could bear it better were I not so sensitive to the opinion of the world."

"You must rise above that. There is no growth to him who, seeking the new, fears to lose his grasp on the old. These backward glances retard the pilgrim on his way. Do what you feel to be right, and care for no man's words or opinions."

"I wish I had your strength, Hugh."

"I think you were sent here to me to be strengthened. God's hand is in the cloud as well as the sunshine, and I know He will work good from the seeming evil that encompasses you."

"Your words cause me at least to hope."

"This separation will work good for both of you."

"I felt myself, when I found my love doubted and my truthfulness questioned, that it would be best for us."

"Then you favored it?"

"I did."

"I am glad it was so. You will each have an opportunity to know yourselves, and how much you are to each other. When together, words take the place of thoughts, while absence ever kindles the flame of holy love, and by its light we see our own short-comings, and our companion's virtues. Were I you, I should look on this as one of the greatest opportunities of my life to test my heart's true feelings towards one whose affection had grown cold, or rather whose understanding had become clouded; for I doubt not her heart is as warm as when you led her to the altar. Like yonder receding wave, her love will return to you again, while to her restless soul you must be as firm as this rocky coast."

"Woman's love," he continued, "is stronger, mightier than man's. It is no argument against their devotion that they are changeable. So is this ocean. Each hour a different hue comes upon its surface, but the depth is there. Thus is woman's soul full of varied emotions; the surface play is sometimes dark, at others reflecting the blue of the heavens above. Yes, they are deeper, higher than ourselves, and every day's experience attests to the fact of their superior delicacy and nicer perceptions. Their keen insight into daily matters, their quick sense of everything pertaining to religious and social life, are to me proofs of their fine qualities."

"But their inconsistency at times wars with your assertions."

"No; it is sterner stuff that reasons most; they are nicer in their perceptions, and feel instinctively their way into questions over which we work and solve alone by long reasoning."

"I believe it is so."

"Then you have advanced one step. We cannot appreciate woman too highly. That many do foolish things is no proof that many are not wise and good, bearing crosses day after day which would make you and I ready to lie down and die-they ever do great things, either good or bad, and men, I hope, will some day place her image next to his maker's, and look upon it as to him the holiest and highest on earth-the best gift of God."

"Why, Hugh, you are wild upon this subject."

"I am awake, and hope I shall never slumber."

"Your words have given me rest, and stirred my best emotions. I will write to Mabel to-night. But yesterday and I felt that all women were as fickle as these waters. I am changed, and your remarks have caused me to think differently.

"I have not changed your mind, I have only brought some of your better feelings to the surface."

"And what is that but change?"

"It may be, that it is. Do you not see that something mightier than yourself brought you here, where your morbid feelings will pass away,—though I do not wonder that you felt as you did, neither can I blame you. The human soul has many sides, and turns slowly to the light."

"If I had your penetration, I could bear the discords of life."

"We must learn not only to bear them, but to gather wisdom from their teachings. If we cannot grow under to-day's trial, we surely cannot under to-morrow's."

"I begin to feel that we shall both be better for this estrangement."

"You will, and come together, on a higher plane. Married people live in such close relations that each becomes absorbed by the other, and then having nothing fresh to give, what was once attraction becomes repulsion. I see these things so plainly myself that the criticism, and may be, censure of a multitude, jealous of personal freedom, affects me no more than the passing breeze. I know that if I stand upon a mount and behold a beautiful scene beyond, that it is there, although the people below may declare with positiveness that it is not. A man knows nothing of the value of his wife who sees not other women and learns their thoughts."

"True. I have felt for a long time that I needed a fresh mind with which to hold converse, and my seeking one, although accidental, has brought about this state of things."

"And that person?"

"Was Miss Evans."

"I remember; and the evening, I asked you to call and leave the magazine. Little did I think of such a result, which I should regret, perhaps, did I not fully believe that all things are ordered and arranged for our best good. Long and prayerfully I have studied this question, so vital and so closely allied to our best interests. I could not gleam even a ray of truth did I not live above the crowd and fearlessly pursue my own way. I see no escape from our thraldom, but through soul expanse, and this is produced only through soul liberty. I loved my Alice most when I was learning her through others; I am still learning and loving her each day, through my child and our friend Miss Vernon. With all our laws, we have and ever have had haunts of vice. Will the emancipation of soul increase their number? I think not. If men and women can be brought together on loftier planes we shall not have these excresences. The sexes need to be purely blended; they will approach each other, and it is for society to say how. Block up harmless social avenues and we shall have broad roads to destruction. I know husbands and wives who are consuming, instead of refreshing each other's lives. Yes, Howard, this is your great opportunity to take your position and draw your wife up to it. Life will be a new thing to you, and all of us who can accept these truths. Our present forms and ceremonies hold us apart, and there is scarcely a ripple of spontaneity upon life's surface. The highest hours, and those most productive of good, are when two souls converse and reflect each other's innermost states."



CHAPTER XI.



It was not by words that they knew each other, but when their eyes met each felt that the other had passed some ordeal which made their souls akin.

The stranger to whom Miss Vernon had been so drawn, met her on the beach the next morning, and asked her to walk with her.

"I would like to tell you," she said, "of my strange experience last night; perhaps these things are not new to you," and she went on in a confiding tone at Miss Vernon's visible look of deep interest;—

"I was weeping, as you may have noticed, when your strange and lovely pupil came to me,—weeping for the loss of one to whom I was betrothed. No mortal save myself knew the name which he gave me on the day of our engagement. It was 'Pearl.' My own name is Edith Weston. Judge of my emotion and surprise, when that child-a total stranger-came and spake my name in his exact tones. I have had other tests of spirit presences as clear and as positive, but none that ever thrilled me like this. Do you wonder that I already love that child with a strange, deep yearning?"

"I do not. I have myself had proof through her that our dear departed linger around, and are cognizant of our sorrows as well as our joys."

"Perhaps you too have loved."

"Yes; but not like yourself. My mother's love is the only love I have known."

"And you are an orphan like myself?"

"I am."

"That is what drew us together. And may I know your name?"

"Florence Vernon. And I was attracted to you the first time I saw you."

"I cannot tell you how glad I am to experience these proofs of human ties. It is a pleasure to me to think that wherever we go we shall meet some one who loves us. I am a dependent character, as you no doubt have perceived. I need the assurance and support of stronger minds even when I see my own way clear. Some there are who can see and go forth. I need to be led."

"I hope you are fortunate enough to have some stronger mind about you. We are not all alike, and the vine nature must have something upon which it may cling and find support, or otherwise it will trail in the dust."

"I am not thus fortunate. I have no one on whom to lean, or to whom I can look for guidance. Shall you remain long here?" she asked, fearing she had spoken too freely of herself.

"We shall stay until we have received all that this atmosphere and these scenes can supply us with. It will then be our duty to go."

"I like that. I must go away very soon to join my aunt who is obliged to remain among the mountains, as the sea air does not agree with her. But look, Miss Vernon, here comes Mr. Wyman and another gentleman!" and she seemed greatly disappointed at the interruption.

"Miss Weston, Mr. Deane," said Florence, introducing them, and the next instant she watched with earnest gaze the look of admiration which he gave the timid girl. It was not a bold or intrusive look, but such an one as a man might have bestowed were he suddenly ushered into the presence of his highest conception of female worth and loveliness.

Every line of his features betokened the keenest admiration, while her glance was far over the sea. Hugh saw the look, too, and was glad.

Miss Vernon trembled, she knew not why. She wished that he had not come to the sea-shore, and that the beautiful stranger was all her own.

The four walked together on the beach, until the heat of the day, and then Miss Weston withdrew.

"The finest face I ever saw," said Mr. Deane, watching her figure till she was out of sight, "and as lovely in soul as in form and features, I perceive." Then turning to Miss Vernon, he said:

"I see you harmonize. I am really glad it is so, for you can help each other very much."

Mr. Deane dropped the conversation, and assumed an air of abstraction, his gaze fixed on the blue waves-his thoughts none knew where.

Hugh and Florence walked to the house and seated themselves in the shade, within view of the sea. Then he told her in his clear, brief way, of what had transpired between Mr. Deane and his wife, with the remark that it was far better she should be informed of the true state of affairs, and thus be guarded against the evil of false reports.

"I saw your look of concern when he met Miss Weston-"

She looked wonderingly in his face.

"You feared for him, and her then. That was natural. I see beyond, and that no harm will come from any attachment that may arise. I hope to see them often together."

"Mr. Wyman, if I did not know you, I should sometimes fear your doctrines."

"I have no doctrines."

"Well, theories then."

"No theories either. I follow nature, and leave her to perfect all things. Sometimes you think I am not sufficiently active; that I sit an idle looker on.

"What! do you know my every thought-everything that passes through my mind?" she asked, a a little agitated.

"Nearly all, or rather that which goes with your states of progression."

She was vexed a little, but as the lesser ever turns to the greater, the earth to the sun for light,—so she, despite difference of temperament and mental expansion, was inclined to rest on his judgment.

"This pure girl will give him a deeper faith in woman, unconsciously to herself, and he will become a better man; therefore fear not when you see them together, that he will lose his love for his wife. Yes, she will do him good, as you, Florence, are every day benefiting me."

"Do I? Do I make you better?" she asked in a quick, nervous way; and her soul flooded her soft, brown eyes.

"You do, Florence, and make me stronger every day; while your deepening womanhood is my daily enjoyment. You give me an opportunity to know myself, and that there are many holy relations between men and women beside the conjugal."

Mrs. Foster lost no time in informing the people of L—of the movements of Mr. Deane. She well knew there were persons who would circulate the report, and that it would finally reach his wife, even though she was several miles away. The report was, that Mr. Deane had brought a young lady to the sea-shore, and was seen walking with her every day and evening, and that they both were greatly enamoured with each other.

Strange to say, Mrs. Deane, weary and sad, left her parents and returned to her home just before her husband's letter reached its destination, and just in time to hear the narration of his strange conduct.

Howard gone, no one knew where, save from the vague and scandalous report of a few busy tongues; no letter telling where he was, and her soul sank, and all its good resolves faded away. When she left her parents that morning, she fully resolved to meet him with all the love of her heart, for she had found that love beneath the rubbish of doubt and jealousy that had for a time concealed it. It was not strange, therefore, that all the fond trust died out when she realized that he had gone, and the bitter waters returned stronger and deeper over her hope.

Shall we ever reach a world where we shall not have to plod through so much doubt and misgiving, and where our real feelings will be better understood?

"He will surely come back soon," she said again and again to herself, while the veil of uncertainty hung black before her troubled vision. Every day she listened for his footsteps, till heart-sick and weary she returned to her parents, and told them all her grief and all her fears.

An hour later they handed her his letter, received an hour after her departure, and which her father had carried every day in his pocket and forgotten to re-mail to her.

While every one in L—was rehearsing the great wrong which, in their estimation, Mr. Deane had done his wife, she was eagerly absorbing every word of his warm-hearted letter, which he wrote on the day of his conversation with Mr. Wyman. Could she have received it before she returned again to her old home, how different would she and her parents have felt towards him. It was only for them she cared now. In vain she argued and tried to reinstate him in their good graces; but words failed, and she felt that time and circumstance alone were able to reconcile them.

She longed to go to him, but he had not asked her, and only said at the close:

"I shall return when I feel that we are ready to love each other as in the past. Not that I do not love you, Mabel, but I want all the richness of your affection, unclouded by distrust. We have been much to each other; we shall yet be more. When I clasp you to my heart again, all your fears will vanish. Be content to bear this separation awhile, for 'tis working good for us both."

She read it over a score of times, felt the truthfulness of his words, but could not realize how it was possible for the separation to benefit them. To her the days seemed almost without end. To him they were fraught with pleasure, saddened they might be a little with a thought of the events so lately experienced, but gladdened by the sunshine of new scenes, inspirited with new and holy emotions. It was well for her weak faith that Mrs. Deane did not see him that very evening walking with Miss Weston upon the sea-shore, engaged in close conversation. She would have questioned how it was possible that under such conditions his love for herself was growing more intense; not thinking, in her shallow philosophy, that the contrast of two lives exhibits more fully the beauties of each, and that it was by this rule she was growing in his affections.

"We must wait awhile for our friends, Miss Weston; I see they are in the rear," and he spread his shawl upon a rock, motioning her to be seated, close by the foam-white waves.

Mr. Wyman and Florence soon came along. They had forgotten the presence of every one. Nothing engaged their attention but the lovely scene before them, while the moon's light silvered the rippling surface of the waters. Their communion was not of words as they all sat together that lovely summer eve. Soul met soul, and was hushed and awed in the presence of so much that was entrancing, and when they separated each was better for the deep enjoyment they had mutually experienced.

"I may seem strange," remarked Miss Weston to her new friend, Miss Vernon, the next morning, as they sat looking at the sea, so changed in its aspect from that of the evening before, "that I should in the company of comparative strangers, feel so little reserve. I know my aunt would chide me severely, but I have not felt so happy for many years. It may be that the influence of the ocean is so hallowed and peaceful that our souls live their truer lives, but I have never before opened my heart so fully to strangers. I wonder if I have overstepped any of the lines of propriety?"

"I might have thought so once, but I see and feel differently now. I think the soul knows its kin, and that it is not a matter of years but of states which causes it to unfold."

"I am glad you feel so. I seemed so strange to myself, ever conservative, now so open and free. I do not feel towards any of the others here as I do towards you and your friends. I regret that I have not a few days more to enjoy you all," she said quite sadly, "as my aunt has written for me to come to her the last of this week."

Miss Vernon could not help thinking how much more this fair being had to impart to her aunt, for this season of rest and enjoyment. "I wonder if the time will ever come," she often asked herself, "when we can go when and where we gravitate, and not be forced mechanically."

"I wish people could follow their natural attractions once in a while, at least," said Miss Edith, and she fixed her fair blue eyes on the sea.

Florence started; for it seemed as though she had read her thoughts.

"I suppose these limitations and restrictions are for our good, else they would not be," replied Miss Vernon.

"And the desire to shake them off is natural, if not right; is it not?"

"Natural, no doubt, and pleasant, if we could have the desire granted; but duty is greater than desire, and circumstances may at times impel us to the performance of the one rather than favor us with the gratification of the other. What I mean is, that it is our duty sometimes to take a part in scenes in which our hearts cannot fully sympathize."

"And yet you say you are attracted heart and mind to Mr. Wyman and his daughter. Is it not possible that, notwithstanding this, your duty calls you elsewhere,—that some other soul may be in need of your presence?"

"You have questioned me very close, Miss Weston, but I will answer you promptly: I know of no one who needs me, else I should certainly go. Remember this,—in following our attractions we should never lose sight of our duties. They should go hand in hand."

"Very true. I feel that my aunt needs me, and I will go at once; this very day. I have lost a part of my restless self, and gained the repose I so much needed, since I have been here; and I am indebted to you and your friends for the exchange. Now I will go where duty calls."

"You have decided right, and I have no doubt you will be amply remunerated for the seeming sacrifice you are making of the few days of happiness you would have had in longer remaining here, had not the summons come for you to leave."

"I do not doubt it; and yet Miss Vernon, I need your atmosphere. How I wish our lives could mingle for awhile."

"If there ever comes a time when no earthly tie binds you, when duty will permit you to follow this attraction, come and live with us, and remain as long as you wish."

"With you?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "Can I? Is Mr. Wyman willing?"

"He has authorized me to invite you."

"But would it be right? Will it certainly be agreeable to him?"

"Most assuredly. We all love you, and as for Mr. Wyman, he never invites those to his home in whom he has no interest. So come. I know you will."

"Thank him, for me," warmly responded Miss Weston, "and I trust the time will arrive when I can more practically demonstrate how much I thank you all for your kindness."

The morning was spent by Miss Weston in packing her trunk, and making ready for her departure, much to the surprise of Mr. Wyman, and to the disappointment of Mr. Deane, who had hoped for a longer enjoyment of hours of communion with one so rich in goodness and innocence of heart.

In her atmosphere all his hardness seemed to pass away. She was balm to his troubled soul; light to his darkened vision. She would go that day, and life, busy life, close over the fresh, happy hours, and perchance never again before his vision would come that fair young face.

He asked permission to ride with her to the station, and see to her baggage and tickets. It was cheerfully granted, and in a moment all was over. The train came, stopped but a second, then moved on, and was soon hid from sight by a sharp curve. Then his past life came over this little break, this brief respite, and he felt that he, too, was ready to go and kindle anew the waning flame upon his domestic hearth.

Dawn, to the surprise of her father, was greatly delighted when she found Miss Weston was going.

"She is wanted there; some one in the air told me," she said, and clapped her hands in glee.

Her departure made quite a break in the little party, and when Mr. Deane made ready to go the next day, Florence and Mr. Wyman both felt that their own stay was about over.

Judge of their surprise two days after, to receive a note from Miss Weston, saying that her aunt had been seized with paralysis of the brain the day she arrived, and would not recover.

Every test of this nature strengthened Mr. Wyman in the belief in his daughter's vision, and he felt that there could be no safer light placed in his path for him to follow; a light which no more interferes with man's individuality or reasoning powers than the falling of the rays of the sun upon the earth.

The cry of the multitude is, that mediumship and impressibility detract from individual life, lessens the whole tone of manhood, and transforms the subject to a mere machine. Such conclusions are far from correct. Our whole being is enriched, and made stronger and fuller by true impressibility. Are we in any degree depleted if we for a time become messengers to bear from friend to friend, words of love, cheer and encouragement? Are we mere machines, because we obey the promptings of the unseen and go where sorrow sits with bowed head, or want and misery wait for relief? If so, we are in good service, and have the consciousness of knowing, that, being thus the instruments of God's will, we cannot be otherwise than dear to him.

All matter is mediumistic. Life is tributary, one phase to another, and soul to soul speaks suggestively.

The ocean has its fullness from tributary streams which flow to its bed.

Lives alone are great that are willing to be fed.



CHAPTER XII.



Summer's soft foliage changed to gold and red, and the distant hill-tops rested their brown summits against blue and sapphire skies. A soft mist lay over the scene, almost entrancing, to the soul, while the senses seemed wrapped in that dream-cloud which borders the waking and sleeping worlds.

Seven times had the cyprus turned to a golden flame, beside the grave of fair Alice.

Seven times had the pines nodded over the snow-white bed, under which lay her sacred dust.

Seven years had gone by with their lights and shadows, since he laid her form beneath the green sod-and wept as only those have wept, whose light has gone out from their dwelling.

Rich and full had these years been in their strange experiences, while firm as a rock had grown his faith in the unseen whose love and guardianship is round us as the atmosphere is about the earth. It was a fact to him and not sentiment alone, that, though his Alice had passed on to a higher existence, her life was more clearly than ever blended with his own. Like warp and woof, their souls seemed woven, and he would sooner have doubted his material existence, than question her daily presence.

The days grew richer in glory, till one by one, the dry leaves withered and fell to the ground, as even our brightest hopes must sometimes fade and fall. The sky was darker and more lowery. The air lost its balmy softness, and was harsh and chilly, till no sign of foliage was seen,—nought but the leafless branches stretching their bare arms towards the sky. The meadows were brown and cheerless. The silvery brooks trilled out no merry song. Life grew hushed and still without, while more joyous became the tones of happy hearts within pleasant homes. Fires blazed on the hearth-stones, and charity went abroad, to administer to those whom Christ has said, "Ye have always with you." Cities were gay with life, and people went to and fro from homes of plenty, with quick, earnest steps, as though life was a continuous chain of golden links.

The thoughtful walked amid all these lively scenes, and wondered if the gay plumage covered only happy breasts.

The gay passed on, and thought only of joy and their own pleasures, dreaming not that saddened lives had an existence near at hand.

Afar from all this life and gaiety, stood a low, brown cottage in a barren spot, upon the brow of a hill. No trees sheltered it, giving that air of protection which ever sends delight to the beholder. No indication of taste or culture met the sight; naught but a bare existence, and every-day toil to sustain it, impressed the passer-by.

One day when the wind blew loud and bleak, and the snow fell fast, a young girl looked from that cottage window, upon the scene before her, with that abstraction which one feels when all hope has withered, and every fresh impulse of a young heart has been chilled.

She scarcely realized that the afternoon was fast wearing away, until the entrance of one, who, in a sharp, shrill voice, thus addressed her: "Well, Margaret Thorne, I hope you have looked out of that ere winder long 'nough for one day. I've been inter this room fifty times at least, and you hav n't stirred an inch. Now go and get supper, milk the cows, and feed the pigs; and mind, don't forget to fodder that young heifer in the new stall-and look here, you lazy thing, this stocking won't grow any unless it's in your hands, so when supper's over, mind you go to work on 't."

Margaret went quickly to her duties, glad to escape from the sound of that voice, and be alone with her own thoughts.

This was but a portion of her daily life of drudgery. The old house was no home to her, now that her dear mother was laid in the little church-yard. She could just remember her. It was years before, when, a little child, she used to hear a sweet voice singing her to sleep every night. The remembrance of that, and of the bright smile which greeted her each morning, was all that made her life endurable. She had no present-no future. It was this bright recollection on which she was pensively meditating that stormy afternoon.

Margaret's mother, Mary Lee, had married when very young, a man greatly her inferior. She was one of those gentle, timid beings, who can not endure, and brave their way through a cold world, much less a daily contact with a nature so crude and repulsive as that of her husband's. She longed to live for her child's sake, but the rough waves of life beat rudely against her bark-it parted its hold, the cold sea swept over it, and earth, so far as human sight went, knew her no more.

One balmy spring day, when the blue skies seemed wedded to the emerald hills, they laid her form away, and little Margaret had lost a mother's earthly protection.

In less than a year after that sweet face went out of the home, another came to take her place; a woman in form and feature, but in nature a tyrant, harsh and cruel.

For little Margaret she had no love, nought but bitter words; while her father, growing more silent and morose each day, and finding his home a scene of contest, absented himself, and passed most of his leisure hours with more congenial companions in the village.

Margaret grew to womanhood with but a limited education; indeed, a very meagre one, such only as she could obtain from an irregular attendance at the village school, in summer when the farm work was lightest, and in winter, a day now and then when the bleak weather and the rough, almost impassable roads allowed her to reach the place which was to her far more pleasant than any other on earth.

It was her hands which done the heaviest and hardest work of the family. No word of cheer or praise ever passed her mother's lips. All this, and it was no wonder her life was crushed out, that her step had no lightness, and her eye none of the vivacity of youth. The out-door work, such as caring for the cattle, was, at last added to her other burdens; yet all this she would have done willingly, could her soul have received something which she felt she so much needed-the light and blessing of love. She was deeply impressed with this when she entered other homes on errands, and she longed for the warmth of affection she saw manifested in every look and word of their happy inmates. Yet her poor, crushed nature dared not rise and assert its rights. She had been oppressed so long, that the mind had lost all native elasticity, and one whose sympathies were alive would have looked on her as a blighted bud-a poor uncared for flower, by life's road-side.

It was quite dark when she finished her milking, and went to give the young heifer her hay. She loved this animal more than any living thing beside the old house dog, and as she patted her soft hide, the creature turned on her eyes which seemed full of love, as if to show to her that there is some light in the darkest hour, something compensatory in the lowliest form of labor. Margaret lingered beside the animal, and thought how much better she loved her than she did her present mother. "I love you, Bessie," she said, as the creature stretched forth her head to scent the warm milk in the pail. "I 've a good mind to, Bessie; you want some, don't you?" and without stopping to think of the consequences, she turned some of the contents of the pail into Bessie's trough.

"Margaret Thorne! I wonder if you don't know when it's dark. It's high time your work was done!" screamed her mother at the top of her voice. She seized her pails and ran to the house, making all possible haste to strain and set the milk away. But Mrs. Thorne took it from her hands, saying, "Go and 'tend to the supper. I'll do this myself."

"There ain't as much as there ought to be inter two quarts," said her mother, returning and looking the girl squarely in the eye. "What does this mean? I'd like to know."

Margaret was awe-struck. She dared not tell her that she had given some to Bessie, and yet she could not tell an untruth. One struggle, and she answered: "I gave some to Bessie," letting fall a dish in her fright. It broke into atoms.

"Careless jade you! Break my dishes and steal my milk; giving it without my leave to a dumb beast. There, take that," and she gave her a sharp blow on the face.

It was not the blow that made the poor girl's blood tinge her cheeks, but the sense of degradation; the low life she was living, in daily contact with one so overbearing, coarse, and rude.

She did not weep, but one might have known by those suppressed sobs, that the heart's love was being sapped, all its feelings outraged.

At that moment her father came in, and finding supper delayed, commenced scolding in a loud voice.

"I tell ye what, woman, I won't work and provide, to be treated in this ere way. D' ye hear?" and he came close to Margaret and looked into her face.

"Yes, sir. I was late to-night."

"Yer allus late, somehow. Why don't yer stir round and be lively like other gals, and be more cheery like?"

His poor, rough nature was beginning to feel the need of a better life.

"Let her work as I have, and she'll be thankful to have a roof over her head, let alone the things I make her," broke in Mrs. Thorne. "When I was a gal, I had to work for my bread and butter." Having thus relieved her mind, she flew busily about, and the supper was soon ready, to which they sat down, but not as to a homelike repast. Such a thing was not known in that house.

The evening, as usual, passed in a dull routine of drudgery, and Margaret was, as she had been hundreds of times before, glad to reach its close and retire to her room.

Thus wore the winter slowly away, and the days so full of labor, unrelieved by pleasure of any kind, were fast undermining the health and spirits of the sad girl.

When spring came, her step was slower and her cheek paler, but there was no eye of love to mark those changes, and her labors were not lessened. At length her strength gave way, and a slow fever coursed through her veins as the result of over-taxation. The languor it produced was almost insupportable, and she longed for the green woods, and the pure air, and a sight of running waters.

Mrs. Thorne saw that something must be done, and finally consented that Margaret might take a little recreation in the manner she had proposed, accompanying her consent with the remark that she thought it a very idle way of spending one's time.

Margaret's constant companion in her rambles was the faithful dog Trot, who highly enjoyed this new phase of life, and with him at her side she had nothing to fear.

The change brought new life to her wasted system, and as she conned over the beauties around, watched the sparkle of the running brooks, and listened to the songs of the free birds, she wished that her life was as free and beautiful.

One day while trimming a wreath of oak leaves, she thought she heard footsteps, and the low growl of Trot, before she had time to turn her head, confirmed her impression that some one was approaching.

She turned, and encountered the gaze of a stranger, who said in a deep, pleasant voice:

"I have lost my way, I believe. Is this Wilton Grove, Miss?"

"It is," she answered, not daring to raise her eyes.

"Thank you. I was not quite sure, yet I thought I followed the direction," said the stranger, and gracefully bowing, departed.

In all her life so bright and manly a face had never crossed her path. And that voice-it seemed to answer to something down deep in her soul. It kindled a fire which was almost extinct, and that fire was hope. Perhaps she would some day see people just like him, live with them, and be young and happy.

Old Trot seemed to share her new-found pleasure, and looked knowingly into her face, as much as to say, "There are some folks in the world worth looking at."

She went home that night to dream of other forms and faces than those she had been so long accustomed to, and slept more sound than she had for many months.

Weeks passed away, and the bloom came back to Margaret's cheek, a new life was in her eye, for the voice of love had spoken to her heart, and the blood leaped till the color of her face vied with that of the roses.

The young man whom she met that day in the grove, often found his way to that spot, not by mistake but by inclination, attracted by the fair face of Margaret. Again and again he came, till his glowing words kindled the flame of hope to love, and it became a source of greatest pleasure to him to watch her dreamy eyes glow with brightness under his repeated vows of constancy.

Clarence Bowen was the only son of a city merchant of great wealth, acquired by his own indefatigable industry. His son had inherited none of his father's zeal for business, and after repeated efforts to make him what nature had never intended he should be, he sent him to study law at the college in D—, a thriving town a few miles from Margaret's home. It was while there, and in an hour when weary with study, he wandered away to the spot where he accidentally met her. His nature being not of the highest order, he did not hesitate to poison her mind with flattering words, until at length he won her heart, not as a pearl of great price, a treasure for himself, but as a bauble, which he might cast aside when its charm had departed.

Sad indeed was the day to her in which he told her she could never be his wife. Pity her, ye who in happy homes have kind friends to guide your hearts into peace, and refresh your souls with a true and perfect love. Have charity, and raise not hand nor voice against one who, had her life been cast in as pleasant places as yours, would not have trusted so fondly in a broken reed, or listened so confidingly to the siren voice of the tempter. She had pined for a warm heart and a faithful love. She had trusted and been betrayed. You owe her your pity, not your condemnation.

"Did you say you were not going to marry me, Clarence?" and asking this, she cast her eyes to the ground, and sobbed like a child.

"No, girl; you ought to have known I could not. I have no money but that which my father supplies me with to pay my board and expenses. I have nothing to support—"

She looked so pale he dared not say more.

"Go on," she at length said, pressing her hand closer to her heart, lest its strong beating might too plainly betray her feelings.

"And even could I support you, my father would disown me were I to take such a step."

"Then you never loved me, Clarence. You only sought your own pleasure and—and my—my ruin?"

She broke down. Life had nothing now for her but shame and sorrow. Alas, the world has no pity for its children.

Hard indeed must have been his heart, had it not relented then. He went and placed his hand upon her head, saying,

"I would marry you, Margaret, if I had money enough," and just that moment he meant it.

She looked up through her tears to him, and seeing the expression which accompanied his words, mistook it for real sorrow at parting from her, and answered in a hopeful, bright voice,—

"I can work ever so hard, and we might be married privately if you chose, as no one knows us, and go away. You don't know how hard I can work, Clarence."

"And then, sometime we might become rich," she continued, without looking at his face, "and I would study, too, and improve myself. Then we could return to your parents and be forgiven. They surely could not blame us for loving each other. You will not forsake me, will you, Clarence?"

He bowed his head. She thought he wept, and she continued her words of cheer till he could bear it no longer.

She laid her bursting head upon his bosom saying, "I will go away from here to-day, Clarence, and be no burden to you, till you can support us both."

He nerved himself for the desperate emergency, and shook her off as though she was poison, saying, in cold, measured words, not to be this time misunderstood,—

"No, it cannot be; don't deceive yourself; you can never be my wife," and then he left her.

Angels pity her. Heaven have mercy on her who sank prostrate with grief that bright day on the green lap of earth. One heart-piercing cry went up for help and mercy from above, and hope and love went out of that heart, perhaps forever.

Faster and faster flew the betrayer, as though he would elude a pursuer from whom he could not escape. But he could not close his ears to that pleading voice, nor his eyes to that agonized look. Aye, erring mortal, that sound will pierce your soul till some reparation, some pure, unselfish deed, washes the sin away.

"Why, Clarence, you look as pale as a ghost; what on earth has happened to you!" exclaimed his college chums, as he walked breathless and weary into the house.

"I am sick," he answered, and went by himself to evade further questions, which he knew would rend his soul with anguish. He early repaired to his room, but found no rest, and finding himself unable to attend to his studies the next day, obtained leave of absence.



CHAPTER XIII.



How long Margaret laid there, she never knew, but when she came to consciousness she found herself in her own room, and her father bending over her, with a look she had never seen on his face before,—one of deep anxiety for her.

"All this ere comes from letting her go out in the air every day," were the first words which broke the silence, and conveyed to her senses that any one beside her father was in the room.

All the recollection of her misery came over her then. She had forgotten all, save that her father looked with eyes of love upon her. The shrill voice broke the heavenly spell, and Magdalen knelt again in prayer at the Saviour's feet.

She closed her eyes as though she would shut out the sorrow from her soul, while a look of deep pain settled on her features which her father mistook for physical suffering. There was something in her pale face then, that reminded him of her dear, dead mother. It touched the long buried love which had lain in his uncultured nature many years, and he drew his sleeve roughly across his eyes to wipe away the tears which would come, despite the searching glance of his wife, who looked upon any demonstration of that kind as so much loss to herself.

He thought Margaret would surely die. It must be some terrible disease that caused her to look so white, and made her breathing so low and still, and he resolved to go for a physician.

His decision met with little favor from Mrs. Thorne, who fretted continually about the extra work and expense of a sick person, interspersing her growls with the remark which seemed stereotyped for the occasion:

"A nice job I've got on my hands for the summer."

"Come, I 'll have no more grumbling to-night. How long the poor girl laid in the woods nobody knows. May-be she fainted and fell, and them ere faintin' spells is dreadful dangerous, and I'm going for the doctor, if it takes the farm to pay for 't."

When Caleb Thorne spoke like that, his wife well knew that words of her own were of little avail, and she wisely concluded to keep silent.

Margaret might have remained as she had fallen, faint and uncared for in the woods, for a long time, had not the faithful dog, who instinctively knew that something was wrong, ran furiously to the house, and by strange motions and piteous pleading moans attracted the attention of Mr. Thorne from his work. Trot would not act as he did without cause. Caleb knew that, so he left his work and followed the dog, who ran speedily towards the woods, momentarily looking back to be sure that his master was close at hand, until he reached the spot where Margaret laid.

He thought her lifeless, and raising her from the ground, bore her home, while a heavier burden at his heart kept his eyes blinded, his steps slow, and his walk uneven.

When the physician arrived, he saw, at a glance, that some great trouble rested, like a dense cloud, on the girl's mind. Her restless manner and desire to remain silent, showed plainly that some great anguish was working its sorrow within, and silently he prayed to heaven, that the young heart might find that relief which no art or skill of his could impart. He could only allay the fever into which her blood was thrown, and as he went out, left his orders, saying, he would call again on the morrow.

"She's as well able to work as I am, this blessed minit," impetuously exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, who could ill brook the state of affairs.

"If looks tell anything, her pale face aint no match for yourn in health, Huldah," remarked Caleb, as he glanced somewhat reproachingly at the full, red features of his wife.

"A white face aint allus a sign of sickness; here I might be next to death, and my face be getting redder and redder at every pain,—but then who cares for me? No one, as I knows on."

She turned and found she might have left her last words unspoken, for Caleb had gone to milk the cows, and she was alone.

It was no sudden thought. Every hour since the day they found her in the woods insensible, she had busily matured her plans. Those words,—"You can never be my wife," made life to her of no moment, save to find a spot of obscurity in which to conceal her shame, and spare her old father the grief she knew it must bring him.

She must leave her home, none but strangers must know of her sorrow; and when health returned and she went about her daily toils, a short time prior to the crisis of her grief, she deeply thought upon where she might turn her weary steps. She had heard of a factory in N—, a town twenty miles distant, where girls earned a great deal of money. She would go there and work until-O, the pain, the anguish of her heart, as the terrible truth came close and closer every day upon her. And then she would go. Where? No mother's love to help her, no right granted her to bring another life into being. How keenly upbraiding came to her at that moment the great truth, a truth which cannot be too deeply impressed upon every human mind, that no child should be ushered into this world without due preparation on the part of its parents for its mental, moral and physical well-being. Let pity drop a tear, for sad indeed was her lot.

One day she gathered what little clothing she possessed, and made up a small parcel preparatory to her departure, and as her only time of escape would be in the night, she carefully concealed it, and went about her work in her usual, silent manner.

One moonlight night when all was still, she took her little bundle and went softly down stairs. Noiselessly she trod across the kitchen floor, pulled the bolt, lifted the latch, and stood outside. For an instant she paused. A rush of feelings came over her, a feeling of regret, for it was hard even for her to break away from familiar scenes, and leave the roof that had sheltered her; but it would not do to linger long, for Trot might bark and arouse her father. Then she could not bear the thought that she should never see the faithful old dog again; and almost decided to go to him, but the thought had scarcely entered her mind ere her old companion was at her side. His keen sense of hearing had caught the sound of her movements, though to her they had seemed noiseless, and he had come from his kennel and stood at her side, looking up in her face as though he knew all her plans.

Her courage almost forsook her as he stood there, wagging his tail and eyeing her so closely. She feared that he would follow her, and thought she must go back to her room and make a new start; but now she was out of the house, and, perhaps she could not escape another time without disturbing her parents. This thought nerved her to carry out her resolve, and she walked rapidly away. One look at the old house, as her step was on the hill which would soon hide it from her view. One more look at old Trot, then she waved her hand for him to go back, and swiftly walked as though borne by some unseen power. The grey light of morning touched the eastern hills just as she lost sight of her native village.

New scenes were before her, and from them she gathered fresh inspiration. The houses scattered along the roadside, from which persons were just coming forth to labor, gave her new feelings and enlivened her way, until at length something like fear that she might be recognized and sent back came upon her; but her fears were groundless, and she passed on and soon came to a deep, wooded road, closely hedged on either side by tall trees, whose spreading branches seemed to her like protecting arms. There she could walk slower, and breathe more free, and for the first time for many days her mind relaxed its tension.

She was plodding along, musing upon the past and trying to discern some outline of her future, when the sound of steps following her caused the blood to leap to her face. Looking around she beheld Trot, and ordered him back; but words were of no avail; he had scented her footsteps thus far, and seemed determined to follow her to her journey's end.

"Poor fellow," she said, patting his head, "I would not send you back if I had a home for you," and she tried again to induce him to return, but he only gave a sigh, or sort of moan, as though imploring her to keep him with her.

She could no more bid him depart. Was he not her only friend, and did he not love her as none other did? So she patted him again and said,—

"Perhaps God will provide for us both. Come on, dear, old brave fellow," and then the faithful animal's eyes lit up with almost human gratitude, and he ran on joyfully before her.

The tall trees waved their branches in the morning breeze, and their music touched her soul, and attuned it to sweeter harmony than it had known for years. The flame of hope began to kindle anew. There might be some one, after all, who would pity her, who would not wholly condemn her; while the music of the tall pines seemed like angel voices, saying: "Yes, love her, pity her, and all on whom the blight of sorrow falls."

She loved the music of the singing trees, and was grieved when the road turned off towards a hill, and she was obliged to part with the protection and seclusion which they afforded her. But taking fresh courage from the guide-board, which indicated her approach to N—, she travelled bravely on. She had provided herself with provisions for a single day only, and had scarcely dared to take even that from the plenty of her father's home. Reaching a sheltered spot by the roadside, and feeling faint and weary, she sat down and shared her food with her dog.

Ten miles of her journey had been passed, and more rapidly than she could hope to continue, and she found that on a renewal of it, she must proceed more leisurely.

A sad, but interesting picture they made. She, with her young, fair face, touched by lines of grief; the once dreamy eyes, so soft, now full of nervous fire, and wild with restless fear. Her bonnet was thrown back from her shoulders, and the golden sun of morning touched her wavy hair, till it glowed and seemed like a halo of light about her pale brow.

When their little repast was over, she rested her head upon her hands, and from her soul went forth a prayer for guidance and protection,—more deep and earnest than words can portray.



CHAPTER XIV.



Morning broke in all its splendor over the little village she had left behind.

Dewy flowers, touched by the rising day, glittered in their beds of green, while mists, etherial as air, hung over the verdant meadows. Long lines of hills whose tops rested against the blue sky, mirrored their heads in the waters which flowed at their feet.

Beauty was on every hand. In whatever direction the eye turned, it beheld the smile of God, and all nature seemed a psalm of thanksgiving.

Caleb Thorne arose, and shaking off dull sleep, called Margaret to her morning duties, while his wife bustled about the house in her usual manner.

Neither looked on the lovely scene before them. If their eyes chanced to turn in its direction, their souls took no cognizance of all the wealth of beauty which was before them.

"What on earth keeps that gal up stairs so long," said Mrs. Thorne, "I'll call her and bring her down I guess,—Mar-ga-ret-Mar-ga-ret Thorne; it's most six o'clock-get up."

No sound; no footstep. She waited a full half hour, then Caleb returned from the barn, having milked the cows, a labor which he had performed since Margaret's illness.

"That gal ain't up yet," said his wife, as he came and placed the pails on the table.

His breath came fast, for he feared she might be ill, or dead, perhaps.

"Go and see what the matter is," he said to his wife. But as she was somewhat afraid to enter a room where all was so silent, she hesitated. At length she mounted the stairs very slowly, calling Margaret's name at each step. When she had reached the landing, she found the door wide open, but no Margaret was there, and the bed was undisturbed. Pale and trembling, she went down stairs.

"She's-she's gone!" were the words with which she met her husband's inquiring gaze. "Yes, gone; run away, I s'pose, in the night."

Mr. Thorne sank into the nearest seat, almost paralyzed with emotion and apprehension.

"Gone?" he repeated; it was a long time before he could take in her meaning. It came at last; not as some truths do with a flash, but it dropped like lead into his soul, down-down-to depths he knew not of. And she had gone, just when he was waking to realize a fraction of her worth; just as he was learning to look with a single spark of love on her young, fair face, growing every day so much like her dear, dead mother's.

He leaned his face upon his hands and wept. The fount of feeling long dried was touched, and his heart felt a tenderness it had never known before, for his child.

Through the dark atmosphere about his soul a ray of light broke in. Down through long years it crept, and seemed to carry him back to the time when his Mary was a bride.

There comes a moment to every soul, when its treasures are truly appreciated; when hearts God has given to love and bless us are rightly valued. Well is it for us if that moment comes while they are with us in the earthly form.

It seemed but yesterday when she was a bride, white in soul, as well as attire. How vividly the scene now stood before him, and he felt, as he then did, the beating of her young, trusting heart, which she gave into his keeping.

Down through all these years flowed the light of recollection, and brought to mind the morning when a tiny babe was placed beside its mother for him to love and cherish. Grief shook his soul to its foundations. Through his rough nature crept a tenderness he had not known for years, for those two treasures-one beneath the sod; the other,—where?

"I s'pose you did n't look to see if the door was onbolted, did you?" remarked his wife, wondering what made him so long silent.

"Come to think 'ont, 't was," he answered, like one awaking from a dream.

"Then, the ungrateful thing's gone; and I am glad, if she could n't be more thankful to us for her home."

"Yes,—Margaret's gone." His voice sounded far off, as though his soul was off in search of her.

"Margaret Thorne has run away!" went from mouth to mouth, and harsh comments, bitter words, flashed through the village a few days, and then all was still again.

Wild and fearful emotions rushed through the mind of Margaret, when, after a long, weary walk, she reached the town of N—, with old Trot at her side.

It was a small white house, apart from others, and far from the road, at which she applied for board, drawn thither by its quiet, home-like appearance, and a strange feeling within her mind which she had not fully learned to trust.

She felt that her weary feet could go no farther, as she walked up the path, bordered by flowers, and knocked timidly at the door.

It was opened by a woman of about forty years, whose pleasant face smiled upon her, as she invited her to enter.

Margaret took courage from the kind manner in which she was met, and at once made known her desire to obtain a boarding place, designing to work in the factory near at hand.

"I have no room at present for any one," she answered, "but if you are to work in the factory there are boarding houses built by the corporation, at which you can obtain accommodations. The first step, however, will be to call upon the overseer, and if you like I will go with you after you have rested."

Margaret was too grateful to reply in a satisfactory manner, but her face looked what her tongue could not speak.

Mrs. Armstrong glanced at the young girl, and thought how unfitted she seemed for such a place of labor. With her large experience, for many had wandered there before, burdened with heavy struggles, she quickly saw that grief, or want, perhaps both, had driven her from home, or shelter, whichever it might be.

She shrank as she thought of the rough influences to which she would be subjected, and though she knew she could not avert the fate of this wanderer, or any of those who came to her for love and sympathy, yet she inwardly resolved to befriend her, and do all that she could to aid one so young and innocent, through a cold world.

"I'll get you a cup of tea, and something to eat," she said, and hurried out of the room before Margaret could reply.

This was not the first one to whom her bounty had been given; not the first lonely stranger who had supped at her table.

Old Trot sat on the door-step during this time, his eyes riveted on the house, and his ears poised to catch every sound within.

When all was ready, Mrs. Armstrong called Margaret to partake of a good substantial meal, which her busy hands had so speedily prepared, and knowing that the young girl might feel diffident, seated her alone at the table, while she busied herself about the room.

How Margaret longed to share her meal with Trot. What was her surprise to see Mrs. Armstrong gather some scraps of meat and bones, and carry them to the hungry animal.

No wonder the girl thought her an angel; she rose from the table, her eyes too dim to see her newly-found friend, and her heart too full to thank her for all her kindness.

In a short time Mrs. Armstrong was in readiness to accompany her to the factory, and the two left the house, the former making the walk pleasant by her familiar conversation and the sympathy she manifested for the wanderer. Trot followed them, and, as if conscious that his young mistress had found a friend, occasionally ran on before, looking up in their faces, and leaping as if wild with joy.

After a short walk through the most retired part of the village, they reached the factory building and entered.

The noise was so great that Margaret thought she should be stunned, and put her hands upon her ears, to keep out the sound. She had never been in a factory before, and the thought of having to bear all that confusion, every day, sent a feeling to her heart somewhat akin to terror; but she must labor, and where else could she go?

The curious gaze of the girls, as they entered the weaving room, was most trying to her sensitive nature, and Margaret's face crimsoned, as she followed Mrs. Armstrong to the farthest part of the room, where Mr. Field, the overseer, was conversing with one of the operators.

He was a black-eyed, sharp-featured person, and there was something in his look which caused her to shudder, as Mrs. Armstrong made known her errand.

"Have you ever worked in a factory?" he asked, in a quick, impatient manner.

"No sir."

"A new hand, then," he said, with a little more suavity.

"We need another hand in the carding-room, so you may go there. I will show you the room."

He led the way, Margaret following, yet keeping close to her new friend.

The noise of the room was almost as great as that of the other, but it was sunnier, and the windows were adorned with some beautiful plants. The girls seemed more modest and less inclined to stare at visitors. Mr. Field was about to leave, when he suddenly turned to Margaret and inquired when she intended to commence.

"To-morrow, sir, if you are ready for me?"

"All right. Be on hand at the ringing of the bell."

"I had almost forgotten an important part of my errand," said Mrs. Armstrong, "and that is, a boarding place for this young lady."

"Ah, she wishes to board in the Corporation. Well, there is a place at Mrs. Crawford's. I think she has a spare room. Her house is on Elm Street, third block."

It was a relief to feel the fresh air again, and to be away from the noise and confusion of the factory. As soon as they had reached the street, Margaret inquired of Mrs. Armstrong, the way to Mrs. Crawford's.

"O! I shall go with you," said that kind lady, to the great relief of the young and timid girl, already worn and weary with fatigue and excitement.

"Thank you," in low, but sweet tones, came from her lips, and the two wended their way along, with Trot close behind.

They passed pleasant private dwellings, and then turned into a long and narrow street, with blocks of houses on either side. Margaret had supposed by the name, that the street must be very pretty, with rows of trees on each side. She was just learning that there are many misnomers in life, and that this was one.

The house in the third block was reached, and Mrs. Armstrong rapped with her parasol on the door. A red faced, but good-natured appearing woman answered the call.

"We have called to see if you have a spare room for a young lady who wishes board," said Mrs. Armstrong.

"We 've got a spare bed for a factory girl, if that's what you want," she replied, grinning, and eyeing Margaret from head to foot.

"But have you no room she can have by herself?"

"Bless your stars, no my lady. We don't take them kind o' boarders. There's plenty of places where genteel folks are taken, if they like to be starved out and out," and her face glowed with such genuine good nature, that her questioner felt that whatever else one might have to endure, they would at least have a sunny face to cheer them.

"This young woman can sleep with other folks, can't she?" inquired the good-natured woman, and her smile, not of sarcasm, but true goodness, though rough, saved Margaret's tears.

"If you have no other, she must," said Mrs. Armstrong, disappointedly, for she saw from the first, a native dignity and delicacy in Margaret which would shrink from the contact with others, and intended to have paid the extra price demanded for a room herself, if one could have been obtained.

At that moment, old Trot came in through the open door, and looked around, as though he did not like the appearance of things.

"That dog can't come," said the woman, losing for the first time her pleasant smile. "May-be he's your's though, madam?" she said apologetically.

"No, he's mine, and I must have him with me," broke in Margaret, "and I cannot-"

She stopped short, frightened at her own earnest words and manner.

"I think he will be better off with me," said Mrs. Armstrong; "I will keep him for you."

"I would n't care myself about the cur," said Mrs. Crawford, following them to the door, "but my boarders are so agin anything in the shape of a dog."

"Certainly; she could scarcely expect you to take him; and besides, I want him to watch my chickens and garden. I took a fancy to him the moment I first saw him."

Having thus made all satisfactory in regard to the dog, as far as Mrs. Crawford was concerned, they bade her good-day, and reached home just before dark.

"You are too kind," said Margaret to Mrs. Armstrong, who told her that she must remain all night with her, and then she could say no more, but broke down completely.

The kind woman took her at once to a neat little bed-room, and permitted Trot to lie on a mat close to the door of his mistress.

Weary and worn, she gladly went to bed. Sleep came at last, and the tired, intense state of her mind was lost in slumber. She dreamt that she was at her home again, and that she was going to marry Clarence. They were walking to the village church together, over the soft green meadows. The air was balmy and full of sweetness; the sunshine lay in golden bars at her feet, and her whole soul glowed with happiness, life, and love. The bells—her marriage bells—pealed out joyously on the air, while she turned to Clarence, saying, "I had a terrible dream; I thought you had deserted me." Another peal,—merry and full-then the meadows that were so warm and sunny, grew cold and wet; and a cloud came between her and the golden sun. The bell rolled forth another peal-it sounded like a knell-and she awoke.

The factory bell was ringing, calling the operatives to labor.

A sweet voice broke on her utter desolation just at that moment, saying:

"That is the first bell; you will have just time enough to dress and take your breakfast."

Mechanically she arose, dressed, and forcing back her hot tears, went below, to sit again at the table of one who ever remembered these words: "As ye have opportunity."



CHAPTER XV.



There comes to every one at times the inquiring thought, of what use is life? What will be the result of all this seemingly useless toil, these states of unrest, these earnest efforts of the soul unappreciated, these best endeavors misunderstood? Such questions flood the reason at times, and we are ready to lay down our life weapons, scarce caring how the busy scene goes on.

Then, through the parted clouds, the rays of truth illumine the mind again, and we take up the life-song once more, not as we laid it down, but with a richer melody, a fuller and sweeter strain. The soul feels new pinioned, and spreads its wings for loftier flights, rising, height after height, up and on to the fields of the infinite.

This questioning state is sure to come to the most earnest, truthful, and thoughtful worker. All along the pathway of life these weary, yet hopeful pilgrims, sit waiting for "light, more light."

In such a mood sat Miss Evans, at the close of one summer day, as the sun was going slowly to his fold of gold and crimson clouds. A sort of mental twilight had gathered over her, dimming the sharp lines of thought which gave her words at all times such force. All her best and most earnest endeavors seemed as nought. Words which she had spoken, warm with life, vital with her own enthusiasm, had become metamorphosed, till their real meaning was lost to her.

"Alas! we must remain a riddle to ourselves forever," she said, and her deep brown eyes, always warm with affection, now seemed cold, as she turned her thoughts inward to sound herself more thoroughly, and if possible detect any other than a desire for advancement.

How long she might have searched we cannot say, for just as her thoughts were most abstracted, Hugh came and sat down by her side, before she knew that any one had entered.

"Why, Hugh!" was her exclamation of surprise.

"You are not at home, I see."

He brought her back with those words.

"Really, I was away; but how glad I am to see you," and her glowing features endorsed the truth of her assertion.

"How far had you wandered?" he asked, his face full of glowing sympathy; "far enough to gather a new impetus for the soul?"

"I fear not. I was questioning my motives, and looking for my shortcomings."

"I fear I should have been absent much longer on such an errand," he said, and then dropping their badinage they resumed their true earnest relation to each other.

"Tell me, Hugh, you who have so often illumined my dark states, if all this contest is of any avail; if it is any use to put forth our words and have their meaning misinterpreted?"

"I question," she continued, "if we should project our thought until mankind is impelled by the actual need of something new, to seek it."

"Our thoughts and soul exchanges are not like the merchant's wares, to be held up for a bid. The soul is too grand and spontaneous a creation to be measured. Yes, we must often speak our deepest thoughts, even though they are cast away as nought, and trampled upon. There would be little richness or worth without this free offering, this giving of self for truth's sake, even though we know that we and our words may be spurned. You are cloudy to-day, my friend; you have been too long alone, and are consumed by your own thoughts."

"I am mentally exhausted, Hugh. I needed you to-day, for my soul has lost all vision. I know by my own experience, that we must speak when we are full, no matter who misapprehends or turns upon us. It is this fear that keeps too many from great and noble utterances. We forget that truth can clear itself, and that principles are not dependent upon persons. You have given me myself, as you ever do, when the mist of doubt hangs over me."

"Yes, we must give when there is no approving smile, no look of recognition; give when our giving makes us beggars, alone and friendless in the chill air of neglect."

"This is but your own life. I have but put it into words for you to-night."

"O, Hugh, you are ever on the mount, looking with calm, steady gaze over the dark mists. Your head rests in eternal sunshine, like the towering hill whose top is mantled with the golden light, even though its base is covered with fog. Shall we ever see the day when these inner, pivotal truths will be accepted?"

"We shall behold it in the lives of thousands. It matters not when, or where. Our part is to labor, to plant the seed, though it may not be our hands that garner the harvest."

"True. I was selfish and looking for grain."

"Not 'selfish.' The human soul seeks recognition, and finds it often a difficult task to wait for the presence of that human face which says in every line and feature, 'I know you; I feel your salient thoughts and motives.' A long time it takes us to learn to do without the approving smile of man, and go on our way with none but God and angels to sanction our efforts. I, too, have hours of darkness. All souls are at times tossed on heaving waters, that they may rise higher than their weary feet can climb."

"You have done me good to-day; but do not go," she said, seeing him rise to leave.

"I must; but first tell me if I can have your aid in a material matter, which I had nearly forgotten?"

"I am at your service."

"Well, then, I am going to have a party, which I suppose is the last thing you would have imagined of me."

"I should have thought of any thing else; but what has put such an idea into your head?"

"Some fairy, perhaps. I expect to get some life out of it, and the satisfaction of seeing my guests enjoying themselves. I shall bring together a strange medley,—counterparts, affinities, opposites, and every form of temperament which our little village affords, besides drawing on places largely remote from here. I must go now. Will you come and help us to-morrow?"