CHAPTER VIII.

THE JOURNEY'S END.

"Yes, he's a minister," Ester repeated, even more decidedly, as, being seated in the swift-moving train, directly behind the old lady and the young gentleman who had become the subject of her thoughts, she found leisure to observe him more closely. Mr. Newton was absorbed in the Tribune; so she gave her undivided attention to the two, and could hear snatches of the conversation which passed between them, as well as note the courteous care with which he brought her a cup of water and attended to all her simple wants. During the stopping of the train at a station, their talk became distinct.

"And I haven't seen my boy, don't you think, in ten years," the old lady was saying. "Won't he be glad though, to see his mother once more? And he's got children—two of them; one is named after me, Sabrina. It's an awful homely name, I think, don't you? But then, you see, it was grandma's."

"And that makes all the difference in the world," her companion answered. "So the old home is broken up, and you are going to make a new one."

"Yes; and I'll show you every thing I've got to remember my old garden by."

With eager, trembling fingers, she untied the string which held down the cover of her basket, and, rummaging within, brought to light a withered bouquet of the very commonest and, perhaps, the very homeliest flowers that grew, if there are any homely flowers.

"There," she said, holding it tenderly, and speaking with quivering lip and trembling voice. "I picked 'em the very last thing I did, out in my own little garden patch by the backdoor. Oh, times and times I've sat and weeded and dug around them, with him sitting on the stoop and reading out loud to me. I thought all about just how it was while I was picking these. I didn't stay no longer, and I didn't go back to the house after that. I couldn't; I just pulled my sun-bonnet over my eyes, and went across lots to where I was going to get my breakfast"

Ester felt very sorry for the poor homeless, friendless old woman—felt as though she would have been willing to do a good deal just then to make her comfortable; yet it must be confessed that that awkward bunch of faded flowers, arranged without the slightest regard to colors, looked rather ridiculous; and she felt surprised, and not a little puzzled, to see actual tears standing in the eyes of her companion as he handled the bouquet with gentle care.

"Well," he said, after a moment of quiet, "you are not leaving your best friend after all. Does it comfort your heart very much to remember that, in all your partings and trials, you are never called upon to bid Jesus good-by?"

"What a way he has of bringing that subject into every conversation," commented Ester, who was now sure that he was a minister. Someway Ester had fallen into a way of thinking that every one who spoke freely concerning these matters must be either a fanatic or a minister.

"Oh, that's about all the comfort I've got left." This answer came forth from a full heart, and eyes brimming with tears. "And I don't s'pose I need any other, if I've got Jesus left I oughtn't to need any thing else; but sometimes I get impatient—it seems to me I've been here long enough, and it's time I got home."

"How is it with the boy who is expecting you; has he this same friend?"

The gray head was slowly and sorrowfully shaken. "Oh, I'm afraid he don't know nothing about Him."

"Ah! then you have work to do; you can't be spared to rest yet. I presume the Master is waiting for you to lead that son to himself."

"I mean to, I mean to, sir," she said earnestly, "but sometimes I think maybe my coffin could do it better than I; but God knows—and I'm trying to be patient."

Then the train whirred on again, and Ester missed the rest; but one sentence thrilled her—"Maybe my coffin could do it better than I." How earnestly she spoke, as if she were willing to die at once, if by that she could save her son. How earnest they both were, anyway—the wrinkled, homely, ignorant old woman and the cultivated, courtly gentleman. Ester was ill at ease—conscience was arousing her to unwonted thought. These two were different from her She was a Christian—at least she supposed so, hoped so; but she was not like them. There was a very decided difference. Were they right, and was she all wrong? wasn't she a Christian after all? and at this thought she actually shivered. She was not willing to give up her title, weak though it might be.

"Oh, well!" she decided, after a little, "she is an old woman, almost through with life. Of course she looks at everything through a different aspect from what a young girl like me naturally would; and as for him, ministers always are different from other people, of course."

Foolish Ester! Did she suppose that ministers have a private Bible of their own, with rules of life set down therein for them, quite different from those written for her! And as for the old woman, almost through with life, how near might Ester be to the edge of her own life at that very moment! When the train stopped again the two were still talking.

"I just hope my boy will look like you," the old lady said suddenly, fixing admiring eyes on the tall form that stood beside her, patiently waiting for the cup from which she was drinking the tea which he had procured for her.

Ester followed the glance of her eye, and laughed softly at the extreme improbability of her hope being realized, while he answered gravely:

"I hope he will be a noble boy, and love his mother as she deserves; then it will matter very little who he looks like."

While the cup was being returned there was a bit of toilet making going on; the gray hair was smoothed back under the plain cap, and the faded, twisted shawl rearranged and carefully pinned. Meantime her thoughts seemed troubled, and she looked up anxiously into the face of her comforter as he again took his seat beside her.

"I'm just thinking I'm such a homely old thing, and New York is such a grand place, I've heard them say. I do hope he won't be ashamed of his mother."

"No danger," was the hearty answer; "he'll think you are the most beautiful woman he has seen in ten years."

There is no way to describe the happy look which shone in the faded blue eyes at this answer; and she laughed a softly, pleased laugh as she said:

"Maybe he'll be like the man I read about the other day. Some mean, old scamp told him how homely his mother was; and he said, says he, 'Yes, she's a homely woman, sure enough; but oh she's such a beautiful mother!' What ever will I do when I get in New York," she added quickly, seized with a sudden anxiety. "Just as like as not, now, he never got a bit of my letter, and won't be there to get me!"

"Do you know where your son lives?"

"Oh, yes, I've got it on a piece of paper, the street and the number; but bless your heart, I shouldn't know whether to go up, or down, or across."

Just the shadow of a smile flitted over her friend's face as the thought of the poor old lady, trying to make her way through the city came to him. Then he hastened to reassure her.

"Then we are all right, whether he meets you or not; we can take a carriage and drive there. I will see you safe at home before I leave you."

This crowning act of kindness brought the tears.

"I don't know why you are so good to me," she said simply, "unless you are the friend I prayed for to help me through this journey. If you are, it's all right; God will see that you are paid for it."

And before Ester had done wondering over the singular quaintness of this last remark there was a sudden triumphant shriek from the engine, and a tremendous din, made up of a confusion of more sounds than she had ever heard in her life before; then all was hurry and bustle around her, and she suddenly awakened to the fact that as soon as they had crossed the ferry she would actually be in New York. Even then she bethought herself to take a curious parting look at the oddly matched couple who were carefully making their way through the crowd, and wonder if she would ever see them again.

The next hour was made up of bewilderment to Ester. She had a confused remembrance afterward of floating across a silver river in a palace; of reaching a place where everybody screamed instead of talked, and where all the bells were ringing for fire, or something else. She looked eagerly about for her uncle, and saw at least fifty men who resembled him, as she saw him last, about ten years ago. She fumbled nervously for his address in her pocket-book, and gave Mr. Newton a recipe for making mince pies instead; finally she found herself tumbled in among cushions and driving right into carriages and carts and people, who all got themselves mysteriously out of the way; down streets that she thought must surely be the ones that the bells were ringing for, as they were all ablaze. It had been arranged that Ester's escort should see her safely set down at her uncle's door, as she had been unable to state the precise time of her arrival; and besides, as she was an entire stranger to her uncle's family, they could not determine any convenient plan for meeting each other at the depot. So Ester was whirled through the streets at a dizzying rate, and, with eyes and ears filled with bewildering sights and sounds, was finally deposited before a great building, aglow with gas and gleaming with marble. Mr. Newton rang the bell, and Ester, making confused adieus to him, was meantime ushered into a hall looking not unlike Judge Warren's best parlor. A sense of awe, not unmixed with loneliness and almost terror, stole over her as the man who opened the door stood waiting, after a civil—"Whom do you wish to see, and what name shall I send up?"

"Whom did she wish to see, and what was her name, anyway. Could this be her uncle's house? Did she want to see any of them?" She felt half afraid of them all. Suddenly the dignity and grandeur seemed to melt into gentleness before her, as the tiniest of little women appeared and a bright, young voice broke into hearty welcome:

"Is this really my cousin Ester? And so you have come! How perfectly splendid. Where is Mr. Newton? Gone? Why, John, you ought to have smuggled him in to dinner. We are so much obliged to him for taking care of you. John, send those trunks up to my room. You'll room with me, Ester, won't you? Mother thought I ought to put you in solitary state in a spare chamber, but I couldn't. You see I have been so many years waiting for you, that now I want you every bit of the time."

All this while she was giving her loving little pats and kisses, on their way up stairs, whither she at once carried the traveler. Such a perfect gem of a room as that was into which she was ushered. Ester's love of beauty seemed likely to be fully gratified; she cast one eager glance around her, took in all the charming little details in a second of time, and then gave her undivided attention to this wonderful person before her who certainly was, in veritable flesh and blood, the much-dreamed over, much-longed for Cousin Abbie. A hundred times had Ester painted her portrait—tall and dark and grand, with a perfectly regal form and queenly air, hair black as midnight, coiled in heavy masses around her head, eyes blacker if possible than her hair. As to dress, it was very difficult to determine; sometimes it was velvet and diamonds, or, if the season would not possibly admit of that, then a rich, dark silk, never, by any chance, a material lighter than silk. This had been her picture. Now she could not suppress a laugh as she noted the contrast between it and the original. She was even two inches shorter than Ester herself, with a manner much more like a fairy's than a queen's; instead of heavy coils of black hair, there were little rings of brown curls clustering around a fair, pale forehead, and continually peeping over into the bluest of eyes; then her dress was the softest and quietest of muslins, with a pale-blue tint. Ester's softly laugh chimed merrily; she turned quickly.

"Now have you found something to laugh at in me already?" she said gleefully.

"Why," said Ester, forgetting to be startled over the idea that she should laugh at Cousin Abbie, "I'm only laughing to think how totally different you are from your picture."

"From my picture!"

"Yes, the one which I had drawn of you in my own mind. I thought you were tall, and had black hair, and dressed in silks, like a grand lady."

Abbie laughed again.

"Don't condemn me to silks in such weather as this, at least," she said gaily. "Mother thinks I am barbarous to summon friends to the city in August; but the circumstances are such that it could not well be avoided. So put on your coolest dress, and be as comfortable as possible."

This question of how she should appear on this first evening had been one of Ester's puzzles; it would hardly do to don her blue silk at once, and she had almost decided to choose the black one; but Abbie's laugh and shrug of the shoulder had settled the question of silks. So now she stood in confused indecision before her open trunk.

Abbie came to the rescue.

"Shall I help you?" she said, coming forward "I'll not ring for Maggie to-night, but be waiting maid myself. Suppose I hang up some of these dresses? And which shall I leave for you? This looks the coolest," and she held up to Ester's view the pink and white muslin which did duty as an afternoon dress at home.

"Well," said Ester, with a relieved smile, "I'll take that."

And she thought within her heart: "They are not so grand after all."

Presently they went down to dinner, and in view of the splendor of the dining-room, and sparkle of gas and the glitter of silver, she changed her mind again and thought them very grand indeed.

Her uncle's greeting was very cordial; and though Ester found it impossible to realize that her Aunt Helen was actually three years older than her own mother, or indeed that she was a middle-aged lady at all, so very bright and gay and altogether unsuitable did her attire appear; yet on the whole she enjoyed the first two hours of her visit very much, and surprised and delighted herself at the ease with which she slipped into the many new ways which she saw around her. Only once did she find herself very much confused; to her great astonishment and dismay she was served with a glass of wine. Now Ester, among the stanch temperance friends with whom she had hitherto passed her life, had met with no such trial of her temperance principles, which she supposed were sound and strong; yet here she was at her uncle's table, sitting near her aunt, who was contentedly sipping from her glass. Would it be proper, under the circumstances, to refuse? Yet would it be proper to do violence to her sense of right?

Ester had no pledge to break, except the pledge with her own conscience; and it is most sadly true that that sort of pledge does not seem to be so very binding in the estimation of some people. So Ester sat and toyed with hers, and came to the very unwarrantable conclusion that what her uncle offered for her entertainment it must be proper for her to take! Do Ester's good sense the justice of understanding that she didn't believe any such thing; that she knew it was her own conscience by which she was to be judged, not her uncle's; that such smooth-sounding arguments honestly meant that whatever her uncle offered for her entertainment she had not the moral courage to refuse. So she raised the dainty wine-glass to her lips, and never once bethought herself to look at Abbie and notice how the color mounted and deepened on her face, nor how her glass remained untouched beside her plate. On the whole Ester was glad when all the bewildering ceremony of the dinner was concluded, and she, on the strength of her being wearied with her journey, was permitted to retire with Abbie to their room.



CHAPTER IX.

COUSIN ABBIE.

"Now I have you all to myself," that young lady said, with a happy smile, as she turned the key on the retreating Maggie and wheeled an ottoman to Ester's side. "Where shall we commence? I have so very much to say and hear; I want to know all about Aunt Laura, and Sadie, and the twins. Oh, Ester, you have a little brother; aren't you so glad he is a little boy?"

"Why, I don't know," Ester said, hesitatingly; then more decidedly, "No; I am always thinking how glad I should be if he were a young man, old enough to go out with me, and be company for me."

"I know that is pleasant; but there are very serious drawbacks. Now, there's our Ralph, it is very pleasant to have him for company; and yet—Well, Ester, he isn't a Christian, and it seems all the time to me that he is walking on quicksands. I am in one continual tremble for him, and I wish so often that he was just a little boy, no older than your brother Alfred; then I could learn his tastes, and indeed mold them in a measure by having him with me a great deal, and it does seem to me that I could make religion appear such a pleasant thing to him, that he couldn't help seeking Jesus for himself. Don't you enjoy teaching Alfred?"

Poor, puzzled Ester! With what a matter-of-course air her cousin asked this question. Could she possibly tell her that she sometimes never gave Alfred a thought from one week's end to another, and that she never in her life thought of teaching him a single thing.

"I am not his teacher," she said at length "I have no time for any such thing; he goes to school, you know, and mother helps him."

"Well," said Abbie, with a thoughtful air, "I don't quite mean teaching, either; at least not lessons and things of that sort, though I think I should enjoy having him depend on me in all his needs; but I was thinking more especially of winning him to Jesus; it seems so much easier to do it while one is young. Perhaps he is a Christian now; is he?"

Ester merely shook her head in answer. She could not look in those earnest blue eyes and say that she had never, by word or act, asked him to come to Jesus.

"Well, that is what I mean; you have so much more chance than I, it seems to me. Oh, my heart is so heavy for Ralph! I am all alone. Ester, do you know that neither my mother nor my father are Christians, and our home influence is—; well, is not what a young man needs. He is very—gay they call it. There are his friends here in the city, and his friends in college,—none of them the style of people that I like him to be with,—and only poor little me to stem the tide of worldliness all around him. There is one thing in particular that troubles me—he is, or rather he is not—," and here poor Abbie stopped, and a little silence followed. After a moment she spoke again: "Oh, Ester, you will learn what I mean without my telling you; it is something in which I greatly need your help. I depend upon you; I have looked forward to your coming, on his account as well as on my own. I know it will be better for him."

Ester longed to ask what the "something" was, and what was expected of her; but the pained look on Abbie's face deterred her, and she contented herself by saying:

"Where is he now?"

"In college; coming next week. I long, on his account, to have a home of my own. I believe I can show him a style of life which will appear better to him than the one he is leading now."

This led to a long talk on the coming wedding.

"Mother is very much disturbed that it should occur in August," Abbie said; "and of course it is not pleasant as it would be later; but the trouble is, Mr. Foster is obliged to go abroad in September."

"Who is Mr. Foster? Can't you be married if he isn't here?"

"Not very well," Abbie said, with a bright little laugh. "You see he is the one who has asked me to marry him."

"Why! is he?" and Ester laughed at her former question; then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, she asked: "Is he a minister?"

"Oh dear no, he is only a merchant."

"Is he a—a Christian?" was her next query, and so utterly unused was she to conversation on this subject, that she actually stammered over the simple sentence.

Such a bright, earnest face as was turned toward her at this question!

"Ester," said Abbie quickly, "I couldn't marry a man who was not a Christian."

"Why," Ester asked, startled a little at the energy of her tone, "do you think it is wrong?"

"Perhaps not for every one. I think one's own carefully enlightened conscience should prayerfully decide the question; but it would be wrong for me. I am too weak; it would hinder my own growth in grace. I feel that I need all the human helps I can get. Yes, Mr. Foster is an earnest Christian."

"Do you suppose," said Ester, growing metaphysical, "that if Mr. Foster were not a Christian you would marry him?"

A little shiver quivered through Abbie's frame as she answered:

"I hope I should have strength to do what I thought right; and I believe I should."

"Yes, you think so now," persisted Ester, "because there is no danger of any such trial; but I tell you I don't believe, if you were brought to the test, that you would do any such thing."

Abbie's tone in reply was very humble.

"Perhaps not—I might miserably fail; and yet, Ester, He has said, 'My grace is sufficient for thee.'"

Then, after a little silence, the bright look returned to her face as she added:

"I am very glad that I am not to be tried in that furnace; and do you know, Ester, I never believed in making myself a martyr to what might have been, or even what may be in the future; 'sufficient unto the day' is my motto. If it should ever be my duty to burn at the stake, I believe I should go to my Savior and plead for the 'sufficient grace;' but as long as I have no such known trial before me, I don't know why I should be asking for what I do not need, or grow unhappy over improbabilities, though I do pray every day to be prepared for whatever the future has for me."

Then the talk drifted back again to the various details connected with the wedding, until suddenly Abbie came to her feet with a spring.

"Why, Ester!" she exclaimed penitently, "What a thoughtless wretch I am! Here have I been chattering you fairly into midnight, without a thought of your tired body and brain. This session must adjourn immediately. Shall you and I have prayers together to-night? Will it seem homelike to you? Can you play I am Sadie for just a little while?"

"I should like it," Ester answered faintly.

"Shall I read, as you are so weary?" and, without waiting for a reply, she unclasped the lids of her little Bible. "Are you reading the Bible by course? Where do you like best to read, for devotional reading I mean?"

"I don't know that I have any choice?" Ester's voice was fainter still.

"Haven't you? I have my special verses that I turn to in my various needs. Where are you and Sadie reading?"

"No where," said Ester desperately.

Abbie's face expressed only innocent surprise

"Don't you read together? You are roommates, aren't you? Now I always thought it would be so delightful to have a nice little time, like family worship, in one's own room."

"Sadie doesn't care anything about these things, she isn't a Christian," Ester said at length.

"Oh, dear! isn't she?" What a very sad and troubled tone it was in which Abbie spoke. "Then you know something of my anxiety; and yet it is different. She is younger than you, and you can have her so much under your influence. At least it seems different to me. How prone we are to consider our own anxieties peculiarly trying."

Ester never remembered giving a half hour's anxious thought to this which was supposed to be an anxiety with her in all her life; but she did not say so, and Abbie continued: "Who is your particular Christian friend, then?"

What an exceedingly trying and troublesome talk this was to Ester! What was she to say?

Clearly nothing but the truth.

"Abbie, I haven't a friend in the world."

"You poor, dear child; then we are situated very much alike after all—though I have dear friends outside of my own family; but what a heavy responsibility you must feel in your large household, and you the only Christian. Do you shrink from responsibility of that kind, Ester? Does it seem, sometimes, as if it would almost rush you?"

"Oh, there are some Christians in the family," Ester answered, preferring to avoid the last part of the sentence; "but then—"

"They are half way Christians, perhaps. I understand how that is; it really seems sadder to me than even thoughtless neglect."

Be it recorded that Ester's conscience pricked her. This supposition on Abbie's part was not true. Dr. Van Anden, for instance, always had seemed to her most horribly and fanatically in earnest. But in what rank should she place this young, and beautiful, and wealthy city lady? Surely, she could not be a fanatic?

Ester was troubled.

"Well," said Abbie, "suppose I read you some of my sweet verses. Do you know I always feel a temptation to read in John? There is so much in that book about Jesus, and John seemed to love him so."

Ester almost laughed. What an exceedingly queer idea—a temptation to read in any part of the Bible. What a strange girl her cousin was.

Now the reading began.

"This is my verse when I am discouraged—'Wait on the Lord; be of good courage and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.' Isn't that reassuring. And then these two. Oh, Ester, these are wonderful! 'I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins; return unto me; for I have redeemed thee.' 'Sing, O ye heavens; for the Lord hath done it; shout, ye lower parts of the earth; break forth in singing, ye mountains, O forest, and every tree therein; for the Lord hath redeemed Jacob, and glorified himself in Israel.' And in that glorious old prophet's book is my jubilant verse—'And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.'"

"Now, Ester, you are very tired, aren't you? and I keep dipping into my treasure like a thoughtless, selfish girl as I am. You and I will have some precious readings out of this book, shall we not? Now I'll read you my sweet good-night Psalm. Don't you think the Psalms are wonderful, Ester?"

And without waiting for reply the low-toned, musical voice read on through that marvel of simplicity and grandeur, the 121st Psalm: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper, the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore."

"Ester, will you pray?" questioned her cousin, as the reading ceased, and she softly closed her tiny book.

Ester gave her head a nervous, hurried shake.

"Then shall I? or, dear Ester, would you prefer to be alone?"

"No," said Ester; "I should like to hear you?" And so they knelt, and Abbie's simple, earnest, tender prayer Ester carried with her for many a day.

After both heads were resting on their pillows, and quiet reigned in the room, Ester's eyes were wide open. Her Cousin Abbie had astonished her; she was totally unlike the Cousin Abbie of her dreams in every particular; in nothing more so than the strangely childlike matter-of-course way in which she talked about this matter of religion. Ester had never in her life heard any one talk like that, except, perhaps, that minister who had spoken to her in the depot. His religion seemed not unlike Abbie's. Thinking of him, she suddenly addressed Abbie again.

"There was a minister in the depot to-day, and he spoke to me;" then the entire story of the man with his tract, and the girl with blue ribbons, and the old lady, and the young minister, and bits of the conversation, were gone over for Abbie's benefit.

And Abbie listened, and commented, and enjoyed every word of it, until the little clock on the mantel spoke in silver tones, and said, one, two. Then Abbie grew penitent again.

"Positively, Ester, I won't speak again: you will be sleepy all day to-morrow, and you needn't think I shall give you a chance even to wink. Good-night."

"Good-night," repeated Ester; but she still kept her eyes wide open. Her journey, and her arrival, and Abbie, and the newness and strangeness of everything around her, had banished all thought of sleep. So she went over in detail everything which had occurred that day but persistently her thoughts returned to the question which had so startled her, coming from the lips of a stranger, and to the singleness of heart which seemed to possess her Cousin Abbie.

"Was she a fellow-pilgrim after all?" she queried. If so, what caused the difference between Abbie and herself. It was but a few hours since she first beheld her cousin; and yet she distinctly felt the difference between them in that matter. "We are as unlike," thought Ester, turning restlessly on her pillow. "Well, as unlike as two people can be."

What would Abbie say could she know that it was actually months since Ester had read as much connectedly in her Bible as she had heard read that evening? Yes, Ester had gone backward, even as far as that! Farther! What would Abbie say to the fact that there were many, many prayerless days in her life? Not very many, perhaps, in which she had not used a form of prayer; but their names were legion in which she had risen from her knees unhelped and unrefreshed; in which she knew that she had not prayed a single one of the sentences which she had been repeating. And just at this point she was stunned with a sudden thought—a thought which too often escapes us all. She would not for the world, it seemed to her, have made known to Abbie just how matters stood with her; and yet, and yet—Christ knew it all. She lay very still, and breathed heavily. It came to her with all the thrill of an entirely new idea.

Then that unwearied and ever-watchful Satan came to her aid.

"Oh, well," said he, "your Cousin Abbie's surroundings are very different from yours. Give you all the time which she has at her disposal, and I dare say you would be quite as familiar with your Bible as she is with hers. What does she know about the petty vexations and temptations, and bewildering, ever-pressing duties which every hour of every day beset your path? The circumstances are very different. Her life is in the sunshine, yours in the shadow. Besides, you do not know her; it is easy enough to talk; very easy to read a chapter in the Bible; but after all there are other things quite as important, and it is more than likely that your cousin is not quite perfect yet."

Ester did not know that this was the soothing lullaby of the old Serpent. Well for her if she had, and had answered it with that solemn, all-powerful "Get thee behind me, Satan." But she gave her own poor brain the benefit of every thought; and having thus lulled, and patted, and coaxed her half-roused and startled conscience into quiet rest again, she turned on her pillow and went to sleep.



CHAPTER X.

ESTER'S MINISTER.

Ester was dreaming that the old lady on the cars had become a fairy, and that her voice sounded like a silver bell, when she suddenly opened her eyes, and found that it was either the voice of the marble clock on the mantel, or of her Cousin Abbie, who was bending over her.

"Do you feel able to get up to breakfast, Ester dear, or had you rather lie and rest?"

"Breakfast!" echoed Ester, in a sleepy bewilderment, raising herself on one elbow, and gazing at her cousin.

"Yes, breakfast!"—this with a merry laugh "Did you suppose that people in New York lived without such inconveniences?"

Oh! to be sure, she was in New York, and Ester repeated the laugh—it had sounded so queerly to hear any one talk to her about getting up to breakfast; it had not seemed possible that that meal could be prepared without her assistance.

"Yes, certainly, I'll get up at once. Have I kept you waiting, Abbie?"

"Oh no, not at all; generally we breakfast at nine, but mother gave orders last night to delay until half-past nine this morning."

Ester turned to the little clock in great amazement; it was actually ten minutes to nine! What an idea! She never remembered sleeping so late in her life before. Why, at home the work in the dining-room and kitchen must all be done by this time, and Sadie was probably making beds. Poor Sadie! What a time she would have! "She will learn a little about life while I am away," thought Ester complacently, as she stood before the mirror, and pinned the dainty frill on her new pink cambric wrapper, which Sadie's deft fingers had fashioned for her.

Ester had declined the assistance of Maggie—feeling that though she knew perfectly well how to make her own toilet, she did not know how to receive assistance in the matter.

"Now I will leave you for a little," Abbie said, taking up her tiny Bible.

"Ester, where is your Bible? I suppose you have it with you?"

Ester looked annoyed.

"I don't believe I have," she said hurriedly. "I packed in such haste, you see, and I don't remember putting it in at all."

"Oh, I am sorry—you will miss it so much! Do you have a thousand little private marks in your Bible that nobody else understands? I have a great habit of reading in that way. Well, I'll bring you one from the library that you may mark just as much as you please."

Ester sat herself down, with a very complacent air, beside the open window, with the Bible which had just been brought her, in her lap. Clearly she had been left alone that she might have opportunity for private devotion, and she liked the idea very much; to be sure, she had not been in the habit of reading in the Bible in the morning, but that, she told herself, was simply because she never had time hardly to breathe in the mornings at home; there she had beefsteak to cook, and breakfast rolls to attend to, she said disdainfully, as if beefsteak and breakfast rolls were the most contemptible articles in the world, entirely beneath the notice of a rational being; but now she was in a very different atmosphere; and at nine o'clock of a summer morning was attired in a very becoming pink wrapper, finished with the whitest of frills; and sat at her window, a young lady of elegant leisure, waiting for the breakfast-bell. Of course she could read a chapter in the Bible now, and should enjoy it quite as much as Abbie did. She had never learned that happy little habit of having a much-used, much-worn, much-loved Bible for her own personal and private use; full of pencil marks and sacred meanings, grown dear from association, and teeming with memories of precious communings. She had one, of course—a nice, proper-looking Bible—and if it chanced to be convenient when she was ready to read, she used it; if not, she took Sadie's, or picked up Julia's from under the table, or the old one on a shelf in the corner, with one cover and part of Revelation missing—it mattered not one whit to her which—for there were no pencil marks, and no leaves turned down, and no special verses to find. She thought the idea of marking certain verses an excellent one, and deciding to commence doing so at once, cast about her for a pencil. There was one on the round table, by the other window; but there were also many other things. Abbie's watch lay ticking softly in its marble and velvet bed, and had to be examined and sighed over; and Abbie's diamond pin in the jewel-case also demanded attention—then there were some blue and gold volumes to be peeped at, and Longfellow received more than a peep; then, most witching of all, "Say and Seal," in two volumes—the very books Sadie had borrowed once, and returned, before Ester had a chance to discover how Faith managed about the ring. Longfellow and the Bible slid on the table together, and "Say and Seal" was eagerly seized upon, just to be glanced over, and the glances continued until there pealed a bell through the house; and, with a start, and a confused sense of having neglected her opportunities, this Christian young lady followed her cousin down stairs, to meet all the temptations and bewilderments of a new day, unstrengthened by communion with either her Bible or her Savior.

That breakfast, in all its details, was a most bewitching affair. Ester felt that she could never enjoy that meal again, at a table that was not small and round, and covered with damask nor drink coffee that had not first flowed gracefully down from a silver urn. As for Aunt Helen, she could have dispensed with her; she even caught herself drawing unfavorable comparisons between her and the patient, hardworking mother far away.

"Where is Uncle Ralph?" she asked suddenly, becoming conscious that there were only three, when last evening there were four.

"Gone down town some hours ago," Abbie answered. "He is a business-man, you know, and can not keep such late hours."

"But does he go without breakfast?"

"No—takes it at seven, instead of nine, like our lazy selves."

"He used to breakfast at a restaurant down town, like other business-men," further explained Aunt Helen, observing the bewildered look of this novice in city-life. "But it is one of Abbie's recent whims that she can make him more comfortable at home, so they rehearse the interesting scene of breakfast by gas-light every morning."

Abbie's clear laugh rang out merrily at this.

"My dear mother, don't, I beg of you, insult the sun in that manner! Ester, fancy gas-light at seven o'clock on an August morning!"

"Do you get down stairs at seven o'clock?" was Ester's only reply.

"Yes, at six, or, at most, half-past. You see, if I am to make father as comfortable at home as he would be at a restaurant, I must flutter around a little."

"Burns her cheeks and her fingers over the stove," continued Aunt Helen in a disgusted tone, "in order that her father may have burnt toast prepared by her hands."

"You've blundered in one item, mother," was Abbie's good-humored reply. "My toast is never burnt, and only this morning father pronounced it perfect."

"Oh, she is developing!" answered Mrs. Ried, with a curious mixture of annoyance and amusement in look and tone. "If Mr. Foster fails in business soon, as I presume he will, judging from his present rate of proceeding, we shall find her advertising for the position of first-class cook in a small family."

If Abbie felt wounded or vexed over this thrust at Mr. Foster, it showed itself only by a slight deepening of the pink on her cheek, as she answered in the brightest of tones: "If I do, mother, and you engage me, I'll promise you that the eggs shall not be boiled as hard as these are."

All this impressed two thoughts on Ester's mind—one, that Abbie, for some great reason unknown to, and unimagined by herself, actually of her own free will, arose early every morning, and busied herself over preparations for her father's breakfast; the other, that Abbie's mother said some disagreeable things to her, in a disagreeable way—a way that would exceedingly provoke her, and that she wouldn't endure, she said to herself, with energy.

These two thoughts so impressed themselves, that when she and Abbie were alone again, they led her to ask two questions:

"Why do you get breakfast at home for your father, Abbie? Is it necessary?"

"No; only I like it, and he likes it. You see, he has very little time to spend at home, and I like that little to be homelike; besides, Ester, it is my one hour of opportunity with my father. I almost never see him alone at any other time, and I am constantly praying that the Spirit will make use of some little word or act of mine to lead him to the cross."

There was no reply to be made to this, so Ester turned to the other question:

"What does your mother mean by her reference to Mr. Foster?"

"She thinks some of his schemes of benevolence are on too large a scale to be prudent. But he is a very prudent man, and doesn't seem to think so at all."

"Doesn't it annoy you to have her speak in that manner about him?"

The ever-ready color flushed into Abbie's cheeks again, and, after a moment's hesitation, she answered gently: "I think it would, Ester, if she were not my own mother, you know."

Another rebuke. Ester felt vexed anyway. This new strange cousin of hers was going to prove painfully good.

But her first day in New York, despite the strangeness of everything, was full of delight to her. They did not go out, as Ester was supposed to be wearied from her journey, though, in reality, she never felt better; and she reveled all day in a sense of freedom—of doing exactly what she pleased, and indeed of doing nothing; this last was an experience so new and strange to her, that it seemed delightful. Ester's round of home duties had been so constant and pressing, the rebound was extreme; it seemed to her that she could never bake any more pies and cakes in that great oven, and she actually shuddered over the thought that, if she were at home, she would probably be engaged in ironing, while Maggie did the heavier work.

She went to fanning most vigorously as this occurred to her, and sank back among the luxurious cushions of Abbie's easy chair, as if exhausted; then she pitied herself most industriously, and envied Abbie more than ever, and gave no thought at all to mother and Sadie, who were working so much harder than usual, in order that she might sit here at ease. At last she decided to dismiss every one of these uncomfortable thoughts, to forget that she had ever spent an hour of her life in a miserable, hot kitchen, but to give herself entirely and unreservedly to the charmed life, which stretched out before her for three beautiful weeks. "Three weeks is quite a little time, after all," she told herself hopefully. "Three weeks ago I hadn't the least idea of being here; and who knows what may happen in the next three weeks? Ah! sure enough, Ester, who knows?"

"When am I to see Mr. Foster?" she inquired of Abbie as they came up together from the dining-room after lunch.

"Why, you will see him to-night, if you are not too tired to go out with me. I was going to ask about that."

"I'm ready for anything; don't feel as if I ever experienced the meaning of that word," said Ester briskly, rejoiced at the prospect of going anywhere.

"Well, then, I shall carry you off to our Thursday evening prayer-meeting—it's just our meeting, you see—we teachers in the mission—there are fifty of us, and we do have the most delightful times. It is like a family—rather a large family, perhaps you think—but it doesn't seem so when we come on Sabbath, from the great congregation, and gather in our dear little chapel—we seem like a company of brothers and sisters, shutting ourselves in at home, to talk and pray together for a little, before we go out into the world again. Is Thursday your regular prayer-meeting evening, Ester?"

Now it would have been very difficult for Ester to tell when her regular prayer-meeting evening was, as it was so long ago that she grew out of the habit of regularly attending, that now she scarcely ever gave it a thought. But she had sufficient conscience left to be ashamed of this state of things, and to understand that Abbie referred to the church prayer-meeting, so she answered simply—"No; Wednesday."

"That is our church prayer-meeting night. I missed it last evening because I wanted to welcome you. And Tuesday is our Bible-class night."

"Do you give three evenings a week to religious meetings, Abbie?"

"Yes," said Abbie with softly glee; "isn't it splendid? I appreciate my privileges, I assure you; so many people could not do it."

"And so many people would not" Ester thought.

So they were not in to dinner with the family, but took theirs an hour earlier; and with David, whom Abbie called her body-guard, for escort, made their way to Abbie's dear little chapel, which proved to be a good-sized church, very prettily finished and furnished.

That meeting, from first to last, was a succession of surprises to Ester, commencing with the leader, and being announced to Abbie in undertone:

"Your minister is the very man who spoke to me yesterday in the depot."

Abbie nodded and smiled her surprise at this information; and Ester looked about her. Presently another whisper:

"Why, Abbie, there is the blue-ribboned girl I told you about, sitting in the third seat from the front."

"That," said Abbie, looking and whispering back, "is Fanny Ames; one of our teachers."

Presently Ester set to work to select Mr. Foster from the rows of young men who were rapidly filling the front seats in the left aisle.

"I believe that one in glasses and brown kids is he," she said to herself, regarding him curiously; and as if to reward her penetration he rose suddenly and came over, book in hand, to the seat directly in front of where they were sitting.

"Good evening, Abbie," was his greeting. "We want to sing this hymn, and have not the tune. Can you lead it without the notes?"

"Why, yes," answered Abbie slowly, and with a little hesitation. "That is, if you will help me."

"We'll all help," he said, smiling and returning to his seat.

"Yes, I'm sure that is he," commented Ester. Then the meeting commenced; it was a novel one. One person at least had never attended any just like it. Instead of the chapter of proper length, which Ester thought all ministers selected for public reading, this reader read just three verses, and he did not even rise from his seat to do it, nor use the pulpit Bible, but read from a bit of a book which he took from his pocket. Then the man in spectacles started a hymn, which Ester judged was the one which had no notes attached from the prompt manner in which Abbie took up the very first word.

"Now," said the leader briskly, "before we pray let us have requests." And almost before he had concluded the sentence a young man responded.

"Remember, especially, a boy in my class, who seems disposed to turn every serious word into ridicule."

"What a queer subject for prayer," Ester thought.

"Remember my little brother, who is thinking earnestly of those things," another gentleman said, speaking quickly, as if he realized that he must hasten or lose his chance.

"Pray for every one of my class. I want them all." And at this Esther actually started, for the petition came from the lips of the blue-ribboned Fanny in the corner. A lady actually taking part in a prayer-meeting when gentlemen were present! How very improper. She glanced around her nervously, but no one else seemed in the least surprised or disturbed; and indeed another young lady immediately followed her with a similar request.

"Now," said the leader, "let us pray." And that prayer was so strange in its sounding to Ester. It did not commence by reminding God that he was the maker and ruler of the universe, or that he was omnipotent and omnipresent and eternal, or any of the solemn forms of prayer to which her ears were used, but simply: "Oh, dear Savior, receive these petitions which we bring. Turn to thyself the heart of the lad who ridicules the efforts of his teacher; lead the little brother into the strait and narrow way; gather that entire class into thy heart of love"—and thus for each separate request a separate petition; and as the meeting progressed it grew more strange every moment to Ester. Each one seemed to have a word that he was eager to utter; and the prayers, while very brief, were so pointed as to be almost startling. They sang, too, a great deal, only a verse at a time, and whenever they seemed to feel like it. Her amazement reached its hight when she felt a little rustle beside her, and turned in time to see the eager light in Abbie's eyes as she said:

"One of my class has decided for Christ."

"Good news," responded the leader. "Don't let us forget this item of thanksgiving when we pray."

As for Ester she was almost inclined not to believe her ears. Had her cousin Abbie actually "spoken in meeting?" She was about to sink into a reverie over this, but hadn't time, for at this point the leader arose.

"I am sorry," said he, "to cut the thread that binds us, but the hour is gone. Another week will soon pass, though, and, God willing, we shall take up the story—sing." And a soft, sweet chant stole through the room: "Let my prayer be set forth before thee as incense; and the lifting of my hands as evening sacrifice." Then the little company moved with a quiet cheerfulness toward the door.

"Have you enjoyed the evening?" Abbie asked in an eager tone, as they passed down the aisle.

"Why, yes, I believe so; only it was rather queer."

"Queer, was it? How?"

"Oh, I'll tell you when we get home. Your minister is exactly behind us, Abbie, and I guess he wants to speak with you."

There was a bright flush on Abbie's face, and a little sparkle in her eye, as she turned and gave her hand to the minister, and then said in a demure and softly tone: "Cousin Ester, let me make you acquainted with my friend, Mr. Foster."



CHAPTER XI.

THE NEW BOARDER.

"I don't know what to decide, really," Mrs. Ried said thoughtfully, standing, with an irresolute air, beside the pantry door. "Sadie, hadn't I better make these pies?"

"Is that the momentous question which you can't decide, mother?"

Mrs. Ried laughed. "Not quite; it is about the new boarder. We have room enough for another certainly, and seven dollars a week is quite an item just now. If Ester were at home, I shouldn't hesitate."

"Mother, if I weren't the meekest and most enduring of mortals, I should be hopelessly vexed by this time at the constancy with which your thoughts turn to Ester; it is positively insulting, as if I were not doing remarkably. Do you put anything else in apple-pies? I never mean to have one, by the way, in my house. I think they're horrid; crust—apples—nutmeg—little lumps of butter all over it. Is there anything else, mother, before I put the top on?"

"Sometimes I sweeten mine a little," Mrs. Ried answered demurely.

"Oh, sure enough; it was that new boarder that took all thoughts of sweetness out of me. How much sugar, mother? Do let him come. We are such a stupid family now, it is time we had a new element in it; besides, you know I broke the largest platter yesterday, and his seven dollars will help buy another. I wish he was anything but a doctor, though; one ingredient of that kind is enough in a family, especially of the stamp which we have at present."

"Sadie," said Mrs. Ried gravely and reprovingly; "I never knew a young man for whom I have a greater respect than I have for Dr. Van Anden."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Sadie, with equal gravity; "I have an immense respect for him I assure you, and so I have for the President, and I feel about as intimate with the one as the other. I hope Dr. Douglass will be delightfully wild and wicked. How will Dr. Van Anden enjoy the idea of a rival?"

"I spoke of it to him yesterday. I told him we would't give the matter another thought if it would be in any way unpleasant to him. I thought we owed him that consideration in return for all his kindness to us; but he assured me that it could make not the slightest difference to him."

"Do let him come, then. I believe I need another bed to make; I'm growing thin for want of exercise, and, by the way, that suggests an item in his favor; being a doctor, he will be out all night occasionally, perhaps, and the bed won't need making so often. Mother, I do believe I didn't put a speck of soda in that cake I made this morning. What will that do to it? or, more properly speaking, what will it not do, inasmuch as it is not there to do? As for Ester, I shall consider it a personal insult if you refer to her again, when I am so magnificently filling her place."

And this much enduring mother laughed and groaned at nearly the same time. Poor Ester never forgot the soda, nor indeed anything else, in her life; but then Sadie was so overflowing with sparkle and good humor.

Finally the question was decided, and the new boarder came, and was duly installed in the family; and thence commenced a new era in Sadie's life. Merry clerks and schoolboys she counted among her acquaintances by the score. Grave, dignified, slightly taciturn men of the Dr. Van Anden stamp she numbered also among her friends; but never one quite like Dr. Douglass. This easy, graceful, courteous gentleman, who seemed always to have just the right thing to say or do, at just the right moment; who was neither wild nor sober; who seemed the furthest possible remove from wicked, yet who was never by any chance disagreeably good. His acquaintance with Sadie progressed rapidly. A new element had come to mix in with her life. The golden days wherein the two sisters had been much together, wherein the Christian sister might have planted much seed for the Master in Sadie's bright young heart, had all gone by. Perchance that sleeping Christian, nestled so cosily among the cushions in Cousin Abbie's morning-room, might have been startled and aroused, could she have realized that days like those would never come back to her; that being misspent they had passed away; that a new worker had come to drop seed into the unoccupied heart; that never again would Sadie be as fresh, and as guileless, and as easily won, as in those days which she had let slip in idle, aye, worse than idle, slumber.

Sadie sealed and directed a letter to Ester and ran with it down stairs. Dr. Douglass stood in the doorway, hat in hand.

"Shall I have the pleasure of being your carrier?" he said courteously.

"Do you suppose you are to be trusted?" Sadie questioned, as she quietly deposited the letter in his hat.

"That depends in a great measure on whether you repose trust in me. The world is safer in general than we are inclined to think it. Who lives in that little birdsnest of a cottage just across the way?"

"A dear old gentleman, Mr. Vane," Sadie answered, her voice taking a tender tone, as it always did when any chance word reminded her of Florence. "That is he standing in the gateway. Doesn't he look like a grand old patriarch?"

As they looked Dr. Van Anden drove suddenly from around the corner, and reined in his horses in front of the opposite gateway. They could hear his words distinctly.

"Mr. Vane, let me advise you to avoid this evening breeze; it is blowing up strongly from the river."

"Is Dr. Van Anden the old gentleman's nurse, or guardian, or what?" questioned Sadie's companion.

"Physician," was her brief reply. Then, after a moment, she laughed mischievously. "You don't like Dr. Van Anden, Dr. Douglass?"

"I! Oh, yes, I like him; the trouble is, he doesn't like me, for which he is not to blame, to be sure. Probably he can not help it. I have in some way succeeded in gaining his ill-will. Why do you think I am not one of his admirers?"

"Oh," answered this rude and lawless girl, "I thought it would be very natural for you to be slightly jealous of him, professionally, you know."

If her object was to embarrass or annoy Dr. Douglass, apparently she did not gain her point. He laughed good humoredly as he replied:

"Professionally, he is certainly worthy of envy; I regard him as a very skillful physician, Miss Ried."

Ere Sadie could reply the horses were stopped before the door, and Dr. Van Anden addressed her:

"Sadie, do you want to take a ride?"

Now, although Sadie had no special interest in, or friendship for, Dr. Van Anden, she did exceedingly like his horses, and cultivated their acquaintance whenever she had an opportunity. So within five minutes after this invitation was received she was skimming over the road in a high state of glee. Sadie marked that night afterward as the last one in which she rode after those black ponies for many a day. The Doctor seemed more at leisure than usual, and in a much more talkative mood; so it was quite a merry ride, until he broke a moment's silence by an abrupt question:

"Sadie, haven't your mother and you always considered me a sincere friend to your family?"

Sadie's reply was prompt and to the point.

"Certainly, Dr. Van Anden; I assure you I have as much respect for, and confidence in, you as I should have had for my grandfather, if I had ever known him."

"That being the case," continued the Doctor, gravely, "you will give me credit for sincerity and earnestness in what I am about to say. I want to give you a word of warning concerning Dr. Douglass. He is not a man whom I can respect; not a man with whom I should like to see my sister on terms of friendship. I have known him well and long, Sadie; therefore I speak."

Sadie Ried was never fretful, never petulant, and very rarely angry; but when she was, it was a genuine case of unrestrained rage, and woe to the individual who fell a victim to her blazing eyes and sarcastic tongue. To-night Dr. Van Anden was that victim. What right had he to arraign her before him, and say with whom she should, or should not, associate, as if he were indeed her very grandfather! What business had he to think that she was too friendly with Dr. Douglass!

With the usual honesty belonging to very angry people, it had not once occurred to her that Dr. Van Anden had said and done none of these things. When she felt that her voice was sufficiently steady, she spoke:

"I am happy to be able to reassure you, Dr. Van Anden, you are very kind—extremely so; but as yet I really feel myself in no danger from Dr. Douglass' fascinations, however remarkable they may be. My mother and I enjoy excellent health at present, so you need have no anxiety as regards our choice of physicians, although it is but natural that you should feel nervous, perhaps; but you will pardon me for saying that I consider your interference with my affairs unwarrantable and uncalled for."

If Dr. Van Anden desired to reply to this insulting harangue, there was no opportunity, for at this moment they whirled around the corner and were at home.

Sadie flung aside her hat with an angry vehemence, and, seating herself at the piano, literally stormed the keys, while the Doctor re-entered his carriage and quietly proceeded to his evening round of calls.

What a whirlwind of rage there was in Sadie's heart! What earthly right had this man whom she detested to give her advice? Was she a child, to be commanded by any one? What right had any one to speak in that way of Dr. Douglass? He was a gentleman, certainly, much more of a one than Dr. Van Anden had shown himself to be—and she liked him; yes, and she would like him, in spite of a whole legion of envious doctors.

A light step crossed the hall and entered the parlor. Sadie merely raised her eyes long enough to be certain that Dr. Douglass stood beside her, and continued her playing. He leaned over the piano and listened.

"Had you a pleasant ride?" he asked, as the tone of the music lulled a little.

"Charming." Sadie's voice was full of emphasis and sarcasm.

"I judged, by the style of music which you were playing, that there must have been a hurricane."

"Nothing of the sort; only a little paternal advice."

"Indeed! Have you been taken into his kindly care? I congratulate you."

Sadie was still very angry, or she would never have been guilty of the shocking impropriety of her next remark. But it is a lamentable fact that people will say and do very strange things when they are angry—things of which they have occasion to repent in cooler moments.

Fixing her bright eyes full and searchingly on Dr. Douglass, she said abruptly:

"He was warning me against the impropriety of associating with your dangerous self."

A look as of sadness and deep pain crossed Dr. Douglass' face, and he thought aloud, rather than said: "Is that man determined I shall have no friends?"

Sadie was touched; she struck soft, sweet chords with a slow and gentle movement as she asked:

"What is your offense in his eyes, Dr. Douglass?"

Then, indeed, Dr. Douglass seemed embarrassed; maintaining, though, a sort of hesitating dignity as he attempted a reply.

"Why—I—he—I would rather not tell you, Miss Ried, it sounds badly." Then, with a little, slightly mournful laugh—"And that half admission sounds badly, too; worse than the simple truth, perhaps. Well, then, I had the misfortune to cross his path professionally, once; a little matter, a slight mistake, not worth repeating—neither would I repeat it if it were, in honor to him. He is a man of skill and since then has risen high; one would not suppose that he would give that little incident of the past a thought now; but he seems never to have forgiven me."

The music stopped entirely, and Sadie's great truthful eyes were fixed in horror on his face. "Is it possible," she said at length, "that that is all, and he can bear such determined ill-will toward you? and they call him an earnest Christian!"

At which remark Dr. Douglass laughed a low, quick laugh, as if he found it quite impossible to restrain his mirth, and then became instantly grave, and said:

"I beg your pardon."

"For what, Dr. Douglass; and why did you laugh?"

"For laughing; and I laughed because I could not restrain a feeling of amusement at your innocently connecting his unpleasant state of mind with his professions of Christianity."

"Should they not be connected?"

"Well, that depends upon how much importance you attach to them."

"Dr. Douglass, what do you mean?"

"Treason, I suspect, viewed from your standpoint; and therefore it would be much more proper for me not to talk about it."

"But I want you to talk about it. Do you mean to say that you have no faith in any one's religion?"

"How much have you?"

"Dr. Douglass, that is a very Yankee way of answering a question."

"I know; but it is the easiest way of reaching my point; so I repeat: How much faith have you in these Christian professions? or, in other words, how many professing Christians do you know who are particularly improved in your estimation by their professions?"

The old questioning of Sadie's own heart brought before her again! Oh, Christian sister, with whom so many years of her life had been spent, with whom she had been so closely connected, if she could but have turned to you, and remembering your earnest life, your honest endeavors toward the right, your earnest struggles with sin and self; the evident marks of the Lord Jesus all about you; and, remembering this, have quelled the tempter in human form, who stood waiting for a verdict, with a determined—"I have known one"—what might not have been gained for your side that night?



CHAPTER XII.

THREE PEOPLE.

As it was she hesitated, and thought—not of Ester, her life had not been such as to be counted for a moment—of her mother.

Well, Mrs. Ried's religion had been of a negative rather than of a positive sort, at least outwardly. She never spoke much of these matters, and Sadie positively did not know whether she ever prayed or not. How was she to decide whether the gentle, patient life was the outgrowth of religion in her heart, or whether it was a natural sweetness of disposition and tenderness of feeling?

Then there was Dr. Van Anden, an hour ago she would surely have said him, but now it was impossible; so as the silence, and the peculiar smile on Dr. Douglass' face, grew uncomfortable, she answered hurriedly: "I don't know many Christian people, Doctor." And then, more truthfully: "But I don't consider those with whom I am acquainted in any degree remarkable; yet at the same time I don't choose to set down the entire Christian world as a company of miserable hypocrites."

"Not at all," the Doctor answered quickly. "I assure you I have many friends among that class of people whom I respect and esteem; but since you have pressed me to continue this conversation I must frankly confess to you that my esteem is not based on the fact that they are called Christians. I—but, Miss Ried, this is entirely unlike, and beneath me, to interfere with and shake your innocent, trusting faith. I would not do it for the world."

Sadie interrupted him with an impatient shake of her head.

"Don't talk nonsense, Dr. Douglass, if you can help it. I don't feel innocent at all, just now at least, and I have no particular faith to shake; if I had I hope you would not consider it such a flimsy material as to be shaken by any thing which you have said as yet. I certainly have heard no arguments. Occasionally I think of these matters, and I have been surprised, and not a little puzzled, to note the strange inconsistency existing between the profession and practice of these people. If you have any explanation I should like to hear it; that is all."

Clearly this man must use at least the semblance of sense if he were going to continue the conversation. His answer was grave and guarded.

"I have offered no arguments, nor do I mean to. I was apologizing for having touched upon this matter at all. I am unfortunate in my belief, or rather disbelief; but it is no part of my intention to press it upon others. I incline to the opinion that there are some very good, nice, pleasant people in the world, whom the accidents of birth and education have taught to believe that they are aided in this goodness and pleasantness by a more than human power, and this belief rather helps than otherwise to mature their naturally sweet, pure lives. My explanation of their seeming inconsistencies is, that they have never realized the full moral force of the rules which they profess to follow. I divide the world into two distinct classes—the so-called Christian world, I mean. Those whom I have just named constitute one class, and the other is composed of unmitigated hypocrites. Now my friend, I have talked longer on this subject than I like, or than I ought. I beg you will forget all I have said, and give me some music to close the scene."

Sadie laughed, and ran her fingers lightly over the keys; but she asked:

"In which class do you place your brother in the profession, Doctor?"

Dr. Douglass drew his shoulder into a very slight though expressive shrug, as he answered.

"It is exceedingly proper, and also rather rare, for a physician to be eminent not only for skill but piety, and my brother practitioner is a wise and wary man, who—" and here he paused abruptly—"Miss Ried," he added after a moment, in an entirely changed tone: "Which of us is at fault to-night, you or myself, that I seem bent on making uncharitable remarks? I really did not imagine myself so totally depraved. And to be serious, I am very sorry that this style of conversation was ever commenced. I did not intend it. I do not believe in interfering with the beliefs, or controverting the opinions of others."

Apparently Sadie had recovered her good humor, for her laugh was as light and careless as usual when she made answer:

"Don't distress yourself unnecessarily, Dr. Douglass; you haven't done me the least harm. I assure you I don't believe a word you say, and I do you the honor of believing that you don't credit more than two-thirds of it yourself. Now I'm going to play you the stormiest piece of music you ever heard in your life." And the keys rattled and rang under her touch, and drew half a dozen loungers from the halls to the parlor, and effectually ended the conversation.

Three people belonging to that household held each a conversation with their own thoughts that night, which to finite eyes would have aided the right wonderfully had it been said before the assembled three, instead of in the quiet and privacy of their own rooms.

Sadie had calmed down, and, as a natural consequence, was somewhat ashamed of herself; and as she rolled up and pinned, and otherwise snugged her curls into order for the night, scolded herself after this fashion:

"Sadie Ried, you made a simpleton of yourself in that speech which you made to Dr. Van Anden to-night; because you think a man interferes with what doesn't concern him, is no reason why you should grow flushed and angry, and forget that you're a lady. You said some very rude and insulting words, and you know your poor dear mother would tell you so if she knew any thing about it, which she won't; that's one comfort; and besides you have probably offended those delightful black ponies, and it will be forever before they will take you another ride, and that's worse than all the rest. But who would think of Dr. Van Anden being such a man? I wish Dr. Douglass had gone to Europe before he told me—it was rather pleasant to believe in the extreme goodness of somebody. I wonder how much of that nonsense which Dr. Douglass talks he believes, any way? Perhaps he is half right; only I'm not going to think any such thing, because it would be wicked, and I'm good. And because"—in a graver tone, and with a little reverent touch of an old worn book which lay on her bureau—"this is my father's Bible, and he lived and died by its precepts."

Up another flight of stairs, in his own room, Dr. Douglass lighted his cigar, fixed himself comfortably in his arm-chair, with his feet on the dressing-table, and, between the puffs, talked after this fashion:

"Sorry we ran into this miserable train of talk to-night; but that young witch leads a man on so. I'm glad she has a decided mind of her own; one feels less conscience-stricken. I'm what they call a skeptic myself, but after all, I don't quite like to see a lady become one. I shan't lead her astray. I wouldn't have said any thing to-night if it hadn't been for that miserable hypocrite of a Van Anden; the fellow must learn not to pitch into me if he wants to be let alone; but I doubt if he accomplished much this time. What a witch she is!" And Dr. Douglass removed his cigar long enough to give vent to a hearty laugh in remembrance of some of Sadie's remarks.

Just across the hall Dr. Van Anden sat before his table, one hand partly shading his eyes from the gaslight while he read. And the words which he read were these: "O let not the oppressed returned ashamed: let the poor and needy praise thy name. Arise, O God, plead thine own cause: remember how the foolish man reproacheth thee daily. Forget not the voice of thine enemies; the tumult of those that rise up against thee increaseth continually."

Something troubled the Doctor to-night; his usually grave face was tinged with sadness. Presently he arose and paced with slow measured tread up and down the room.

"I ought to have done it," he said at last. "I ought to have told her mother that he was in many ways an unsafe companion for Sadie, especially in this matter; he is a very cautious, guarded, fascinating skeptic—all the more fascinating because he will be careful not to shock her taste with any boldly-spoken errors. I should have warned them—how came I to shrink so miserably from my duty? What mattered it that they would be likely to ascribe a wrong motive to my caution? It was none the less my duty on that account." And the sad look deepened on his face as he marched slowly back and forth; but he was nearer a solution of his difficulties than was either of those others for at last he came over to his chair again, and sank before it on his knees.

Now, let us understand these three people each of them, in their separate ways, were making mistakes. Sadie had said that she was not going to believe any of the nonsense which Dr. Douglass talked; she honestly supposed that she was not influenced in the least. And yet she was mistaken; the poison had entered her soul. As the days passed on, she found herself more frequently caviling over the shortcomings of professing Christians; more quick to detect their mistakes and failures; more willing to admit the half-uttered thought that this entire matter might be a smooth-sounding fable. Sadie was the child of many prayers, and her father's much-used Bible lay on her dressing-table, speaking for him, now that his tongue was silent in the grave; so she did not quite yield to the enemy—but she was walking in the way of temptation—and the Christian tongues around her, which the grave had not silenced, yet remained as mute as though their lips were already sealed; and so the path in which Sadie walked grew daily broader and more dangerous.

Then there was Dr. Douglass—not by any means the worst man that the world can produce. He was, or fancied himself to be, a skeptic. Like many a young man, wise in his own conceit, he had no very distinct idea of what he was skeptical about, nor to what hights of illogical nonsense his own supposed views, carried out, would lead him; like many another, too, he had studied rhetoric, and logic, and mathematics, and medicine, thoroughly and well; he would have hesitated long, and studied hard, and pondered deeply, before he had ventured to dispute an established point in surgery. And yet, with the inconsistent folly of the age, he had absurdly set his seal to the falsity of the Bible, after giving it, at most, but a careless reading here and there, and without having ever once honestly made use of the means by which God has promised to enlighten the seekers after knowledge. And yet, his eyes being blinded, he did not realize how absurd and unreasonable, how utterly foolish, was his conduct. He thought himself sincere; he had no desire to lead Sadie astray from her early education, and, like most skeptical natures, he quite prided himself upon the care with which he guarded his peculiar views, although I could never see why that was being any other than miserably selfish or inconsistent; for it is saying, in effect, one of two things, either: "My belief is sacred to myself alone, and nobody else shall have the benefit of it, if I can help it;" or else: "I am very much ashamed of my position as a skeptic, and I shall keep it to myself as much as possible." Be that as it may, Dr. Douglass so thought, and was sincere in his intentions to do Sadie no harm; yet, as the days came and went, he was continually doing her injury. They were much in each other's society, and the subject which he meant should be avoided was constantly intruding. Both were so constantly on the alert, to see and hear the unwise, and inconsistent, and unchristian acts and words, and also, alas! there were so many to be seen and heard, that these two made rapid strides in the broad road.

Finally, there was Dr. Van Anden, carrying about with him a sad and heavy heart. He could but feel that he had shrunken from his duty, hidden behind that most miserable of all excuses: "What will people think?" If Dr. Douglass had had any title but that particular one prefixed to his name, he would not have hesitated to have advised Mrs. Ried concerning him; but how could he endure the suspicion that he was jealous of Dr. Douglass? Then, in trying to right the wrong, by warning Sadie, he was made to realize, as many a poor Christian has realized before him, that he was making the sacrifice too late, and in vain. There was yet another thing—Dr. Douglass' statements to Sadie had been colored with truth. Among his other honest mistakes was the belief that Dr. Van Anden was a hypocrite. They had clashed in former years. Dr. Douglass had been most in the wrong, though what man, unhelped by Christ, was ever known to believe this of himself? But there had been wrong also on the other side, hasty words spoken—words which rankled, and were rankling still, after the lapse of years. Dr. Van Anden had never said: "I should not have spoken thus; I am sorry." He had taught himself to believe that it would be an unnecessary humiliation for him to say this to a man who had so deeply wronged him!

But, to do our doctor justice, time had healed the wound with him; it was not personal enmity which prompted his warning, neither had he any idea of the injury which those sharp words of his were doing in the unsanctified heart. And when he dropped upon his knees that night he prayed earnestly for the conversion of Sadie and Dr. Douglass.

So these three lived their lives under that same roof, and guessed not what the end might be.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE STRANGE CHRISTIAN.

"Abbie," said Ester, wriggling herself around from before an open trunk, and letting a mass of collars and cuffs slide to the floor in her earnestness, "do you know I think you're the very strangest girl I ever knew in my life?"

"I'm sure I did not," Abbie answered gaily. "If it's a nice 'strange' do tell me about it. I like to be nice—ever so much."

"Well, but I am in earnest, Abbie; you certainly are. These very collars made me think of it. Oh dear me! they are all on the floor." And she reached after the shining, sliding things.

Abbie came and sat down beside her, presently, with a mass of puffy lace in her hands, which she was putting into shape.

"Suppose we have a little talk, all about myself," she said gently and seriously. "And please tell me, Ester, plainly and simply, what you mean by the term 'strange.' Do you know I have heard it so often that sometimes I fear I really am painfully unlike other people. You are just the one to enlighten me."

Ester laughed a little as she answered: "You are taking the matter very seriously. I did not mean any thing dreadful."

"Ah! but you are not to be excused in that way, my dear Ester. I look to you for information. Mother has made the remark a great many times, but it is generally connected in some way with religious topics, and mother, you know, is not a Christian; therefore I have thought that perhaps some things seemed strange to her which would not to—you, for instance. But since you have been here you have spoken your surprise concerning me several times, and looked it oftener; and to-day I find that even my stiff and glossy, and every way proper, collars and cuffs excite it. So do please tell me, ought I to be in a lunatic asylum somewhere instead of preparing to go to Europe?"

Now although Ester laughed again, at the mixture of comic and pathetic in Abbie's tone, yet something in the words had evidently embarrassed her. There was a little struggle in her mind, and then she came boldly forth with her honest thoughts.

"Well, the strangeness is connected with religious topics in my mind also; even though I am a professing Christian I do not understand you. I am an economist in dress, you know, Abbie. I don't care for these things in the least; but if I had the money as you have, there are a great many things which I should certainly have. You see there is no earthly sense in your economy, and yet you hesitate over expenses almost as much as I do."

There was a little gleam of mischief in Abbie's eyes as she answered: "Will you tell me, Ester, why you would take the trouble to get 'these things' if you do not care for them in the least?"

"Why because—because—they would be proper and befitting my station in life."

"Do I dress in a manner unbecoming to my station in life."

"No," said Ester promptly, admiring even then the crimson finishings of her cousin's morning-robe. "But then—Well, Abbie, do you think it is wicked to like nice things?"

"No," Abbie answered very gently; "but I think it is wrong to school ourselves into believing that we do not care for any thing of the kind; when, in reality, it is a higher, better motive which deters us from having many things. Forgive me, Ester, but I think you are unjust sometimes to your better self in this very way."

Ester gave a little start, and realized for the first time in her life that, truth-loving girl though she was, she had been practicing a pretty little deception of this kind, and actually palming it off on herself. In a moment, however, she returned to the charge.

"But, Abbie, did Aunt Helen really want you to have that pearl velvet we saw at Stewart's?"

"She really did."

"And you refused it?"

"And I refused it."

"Well, is that to be set down as a matter of religion, too?" This question was asked with very much of Ester's old sharpness of tone.

Abbie answered her with a look of amazement. "I think we don't understand each other," she said at length, with the gentlest of tones. "That dress, Ester, with all its belongings could not have cost less than seven hundred dollars. Could I, a follower of the meek and lowly Jesus, living in a world where so many of his poor are suffering, have been guilty of wearing such a dress as that? My dear, I don't think you sustain the charge against me thus far. I see now how these pretty little collar (and, by the way, Ester, you are crushing one of them against that green box) suggested the thought; but you surely do not consider it strange, when I have such an array of collars already, that I did not pay thirty dollars for that bit of a cobweb which we saw yesterday?"

"But Aunt Helen wanted you to."

A sad and troubled look stole over Abbie's face as she answered: "My mother, remember, dear Ester, does not realize that she is not her own, but has been bought with a price. You and I know and feel that we must give an account of our stewardship. Ester, do you see how people who ask God to help them in every little thing which they have to decide—in the least expenditure of money—can after that deliberately fritter it away?"

"Do you ask God's help in these matters?"

"Why, certainly—" with the wondering look in her eyes, which Ester had learned to know and dislike—"'Whatsoever therefore ye do'—you know."

"But, Abbie, going out shopping to buy—handkerchiefs, for instance; that seems to me a very small thing to pray about."

"Even the purchase of handkerchiefs may involve a question of conscience, my dear Ester, as you would realize if you had seen the wicked purchases that I have in that line; and some way I never can feel that any thing that has to do with me is of less importance than a tiny sparrow, and yet, you know, He looks after them."

"Abbie, do you mean to say that in every little thing that you buy you weigh the subject, and discuss the right and wrong of it?"

"I certainly do try to find out just exactly what is right, and then do it; and it seems to me there is no act in this world so small as to be neither right nor wrong."

"Then," said Ester, with an impatient twitch of her dress from under Abbie's rocker, "I don't see the use in being rich."

"Nobody is rich, Ester, only God; but I'm so glad sometimes that he has trusted me with so much of his wealth, that I feel like praying a prayer about that one thing—a thanksgiving. What else am I strange about, Ester?"

"Everything," with growing impatience. "I think it was as queer in you as possible not to go to the concert last evening with Uncle Ralph?"

"But, Ester, it was prayer-meeting evening."

"Well, suppose it was. There is prayer-meeting every week, and there isn't this particular singer very often, and Uncle Ralph was disappointed. I thought you believed in honoring your parents."

"You forget, dear Ester, that father said he was particularly anxious that I should do as I thought right, and that he should not have purchased the tickets if he had remembered the meeting. Father likes consistency."

"Well, that is just the point. I want to know if you call it inconsistent to leave your prayer meeting for just one evening, no matter for what reason?"

Abbie laughed in answer. "Do you know, Ester, you wouldn't make a good lawyer, you don't stick to the point. It isn't a great many reasons that might be suggested that we are talking about, it is simply a concert." Then more gravely—"I try to be very careful about this matter. So many detentions are constantly occurring in the city, that unless the line were very closely-drawn I should not get to prayer-meeting at all. There are occasions, of course, when I must be detained; but under ordinary circumstances it must be more than a concert that detains me."

"I don't believe in making religion such a very solemn matter as that all amounts to; it has a tendency to drive people away from it."

The look on Abbie's face, in answer to this testily spoken sentence, was a mixture of bewilderment and pain.

"I don't understand"—she said at length—"How is that a solemn matter? If we really expect to meet our Savior at a prayer-meeting, isn't it a delightful thought? I am very happy when I can go to the place of prayer."

Ester's voice savored decidedly of the one which she was wont to use in her very worst moods in that long dining-room at home.

"Of course I should have remembered that Mr. Foster would be at the prayer-meeting, and not at the concert; that was reason enough for your enjoyment."

The rich blood surged in waves over Abbie's face during this rude address; but she said not a single word in answer. After a little silence, she spoke in a voice that trembled with feeling.

"Ester, there is one thought in connection with this subject that troubles me very much. Do you really think, as you have intimated, that I am selfish, that I consult my own tastes and desires too much, and so do injury to the cause. For instance, do you think I prejudiced my father?"

What a sweet, humble, even tearful, face it was! And what a question to ask of Ester! What had developed this disagreeable state of mind save the confused upbraidings of her hitherto quiet conscience over the contrast between Cousin Abbie's life and hers.

Here, in the very face of her theories to the contrary, in very defiance to her belief in the folly, and fashion, and worldliness that prevailed in the city, in the very heart of this great city, set down in the midst of wealth and temptation, had she found this young lady, daughter of one of the merchant princes, the almost bride of one of the brightest stars in the New York galaxy on the eve of a brilliant departure for foreign shores, with a whirl of preparation and excitement about her enough to dizzy the brain of a dozen ordinary mortals, yet moving sweetly, brightly, quietly, through it all, and manifestly finding her highest source of enjoyment in the presence of, and daily communion with, her Savior.

All Ester's speculations concerning her had come to naught. She had planned the wardrobe of the bride, over and over again, for days before she saw her; and while she had prepared proper little lectures for her, on the folly and sinfulness of fashionable attire, had yet delighted in the prospect of the beauty and elegance around her. How had her prospects been blighted! Beauty there certainly was in everything, but it was the beauty of simplicity, not at all such a display of silks and velvets and jewels as Ester had planned. It certainly could not be wealth which made Abbie's life such a happy one, for she regulated her expenses with a care and forethought such as Ester had never even dreamed of. It could not be a life of ease, a freedom from annoyance, which kept her bright and sparkling, for it had only taken a week's sojourn in her Aunt Helen's home to discover to Ester the fact that all wealthy people were not necessarily amiable and delightful. Abbie was evidently rasped and thwarted in a hundred little ways, having a hundred little trials which she had never been called upon to endure. In short, Ester had discovered that the mere fact of living in a great city was not in itself calculated to make the Christian race more easy or more pleasant. She had begun to suspect that it might not even be quite so easy as it was in a quiet country home; and so one by one all her explanations of Abbie's peculiar character had become bubbles, and had vanished as bubbles do. What, then, sustained and guided her cousin? Clearly Ester was shut up to this one conclusion—it was an ever-abiding, all-pervading Christian faith and trust. But then had not she this same faith? And yet could any contrast be greater than was Abbie's life contrasted with hers?

There was no use in denying it, no use in lulling and coaxing her conscience any longer, it had been for one whole week in a new atmosphere; it had roused itself; it was not thoroughly awake as yet, but restless and nervous and on the alert—and would not be hushed back into its lethargic state.

This it was which made Ester the uncomfortable companion which she was this morning. She was not willing to be shaken and roused; she had been saying very unkind, rude things to Abbie, and now, instead of flouncing off in an uncontrollable fit of indignation, which course Ester could but think would be the most comfortable thing which could happen next, so far as she was concerned, Abbie sat still, with that look of meek inquiry on her face, humbly awaiting her verdict. How Ester wished she had never asked that last question! How ridiculous it would make her appear, after all that had been said, to admit that her cousin's life had been one continual reproach of her own; that concerning this very matter of the concert, she had heard Uncle Ralph remark that if all the world matched what they did with what they said, as well as Abbie did, he was not sure but he might be a Christian himself. Then suppose she should add that this very pointed remark had been made to her when they were on their way to the concert in question.

Altogether, Ester was disgusted and wished she could get back to where the conversation commenced, feeling certain now that she would leave a great many things unsaid.

I do not know how the conversation would have ended, whether Ester could have brought herself to the plain truth, and been led on and on to explain the unrest and dissatisfaction of her own heart, and thus have saved herself much of the sharp future in store for her; but one of those unfortunate interruptions which seem to finite eyes to be constantly occurring, now came to them. There was an unusual bang to the front door, the sound of strange footsteps in the hall, the echo of a strange voice floated up to her, and Abbie, with a sudden flinging of thimble and scissors, and an exclamation of "Ralph has come," vanished.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE LITTLE CARD.

Left to herself, Ester found her train of thought so thoroughly disagreeable that she hastened to rid herself of it, and seized upon the new comer to afford her a substitute.

This cousin, whom she had expected to influence for good, had at last arrived. Ester's interest in him had been very strong ever since that evening of her arrival, when she had been appealed to to use her influence on him—just in what way she hadn't an idea. Abbie had never spoken of it since, and seemed to have lost much of her eager desire that the cousins should meet. Ester mused about all this now; she wished she knew just in what way she was expected to be of benefit. Abbie was evidently troubled about him. Perhaps he was rough and awkward; school-boys often were, even those born in a city. Very much of Ralph's life had been spent away from home, she knew; and she had often heard that boys away from home influences grew rude and coarse oftentimes. Yes, that was undoubtedly it. Shy, too, he was of course; he was of about the age to be that. She could imagine just how he looked—he felt out of place in the grand mansion which he called home, but where he had passed so small a portion of his time. Probably he didn't know what to do with his hands, nor his feet; and just as likely as not he sat on the edge of his chair and ate with his knife—school was a horrid place for picking up all sorts of ill manners. Of course all these things must annoy Abbie very much, especially at this time when he must necessarily come so often in contact with that perfection of gentlemanliness, Mr. Foster. "I wish," thought Ester at this point, growing a little anxious, "I wish there was more than a week before the wedding; however I'll do my best. Abbie shall see I'm good for something. Although I do differ with her somewhat in her peculiar views, I believe I know how to conduct myself with ease, in almost any position, if I have been brought up in the country." And by the time the lunch-bell rang a girl more thoroughly satisfied with herself and her benevolent intentions, than was this same Ester, could hardly have been found. She stood before the glass smoothing the shining bands of hair, preparatory to tying a blue satin ribbon over them, when Abbie fluttered in.

"Forgive me, a great many times, for rushing off in the flutter I did, and leaving you behind, and staying away so long. You see I haven't seen Ralph in quite a little time, and I forgot everything else. Your hair doesn't need another bit of brushing, Ester, it's as smooth as velvet; they are all waiting for us in the dining-room, and I want to show you to Ralph." And before the blue satin ribbon was tied quite to her satisfaction, Ester was hurried to the dining-room, to take up her new role of guide and general assistant to the awkward youth.