Dr. Van Anden made no sort of reply, if Sadie could judge from his face; he seemed to have grown weary of the whole subject; he leaned back in his carriage, and let the reins fall loosely and carelessly. His next proceeding was most astounding; coolly possessing himself of one of the small gloved hands that lay idly in Sadie's lap, he said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone: "Sadie, would you allow me to put my arm around you?"

In an instant the indignant blood surged in waves over Sadie's face; the hand was angrily withdrawn, and the graceful form drawn to an erect hight, and it is impossible to describe the freezing tone of astonished indignation in which she ejaculated, "Dr. Van Anden!"

"Just what I expected," returned that gentleman in a composed manner, bestowing a look of entire satisfaction upon his irate companion. "And yet, Sadie, I hope you will pardon my obtuseness, but I positively can not see why, if it is proper and courteous, and all that sort of thing, I, who am a friend of ten years' standing, should not enjoy the same privilege which you accord to Fred Kenmore, to whom you were introduced last week, and with whom I heard you say you danced five times."

Sadie looked confused and annoyed, but finally she laughed; for she had the good sense to see the folly of doing any thing else under existing circumstances.

"That is the point which puzzles me at present," continued the Doctor, in a kind, grave tone. "I do not understand how young ladies of refinement can permit, under certain circumstances, and often from comparative strangers, attentions which, under other circumstances, they repel with becoming indignation. Won't you consider the apparent inconsistency a little? It is the only suggestion which I wish to offer on the question at present. When you have settled that other important matter, this thing will present itself to your clear-seeing eyes in other and more startling aspects. Meantime, this is the house at which I must call. Will you hold my horses, Miss Sadie, while I dispatch matters within?"



CHAPTER XXVI.

CONFUSION—CROSS-BEARING—CONSEQUENCE.

But the autumn days were not all bright, and glowing, and glorious. One morning it rained—not a soft, silent, and warm rain, but a gusty, windy, turbulent one; a rain that drove into windows ever so slightly raised, and hurled itself angrily into your face whenever you ventured to open a door. It was a day in which fires didn't like to burn, but smoldered, and sizzled, and smoked; and people went around shivering, their shoulders shrugged up under little dingy, unbecoming shawls, and the clouds were low, and gray, and heavy—and every thing and every body seemed generally out of sorts.

Ester was no exception; the toothache had kept her awake during the night, and one cheek was puffy and stiff in the morning, and one tooth still snarled threateningly whenever the slightest whisper of a draught came to it. The high-toned, exalted views of life and duty which had held possession of her during the past few weeks seemed suddenly to have deserted her. In short, her body had gained that mortifying ascendency over the soul which it will sometimes accomplish, and all her hopes, and aims, and enthusiasms seemed blotted out. Things in the kitchen were uncomfortable. Maggie had seized on this occasion for having the mumps, and acting upon the advice of her sympathizing mistress, had pinned a hot flannel around her face and gone to bed. The same unselfish counsel had been given to Ester, but she had just grace enough left to refuse to desert the camp, when dinner must be in readiness for twenty-four people in spite of nerves and teeth. Just here, however, the supply failed her, and she worked in ominous gloom.

Julia had been pressed into service, and was stoning raisins, or eating them, a close observer would have found it difficult to discover which. She was certainly rasping the nerves of her sister in a variety of those endless ways by which a thoughtless, restless, questioning child can almost distract a troubled brain. Ester endured with what patience she could the ceaseless drafts upon her, and worked at the interminable cookies with commendable zeal. Alfred came with a bang and a whistle, and held open the side door while he talked. In rushed the spiteful wind, and all the teeth in sympathy with the aching one set up an immediate growl.

"Mother, I don't see any. Why, where is mother?" questioned Alfred; and was answered with an emphatic

"Shut that door!"

"Well, but," said Alfred, "I want mother. I say, Ester, will you give me a cookie?"

"No!" answered Ester, with energy. "Did you hear me tell you to shut that door this instant?"

"Well now, don't bite a fellow." And Alfred looked curiously at his sister. Meantime the door closed with a heavy bang. "Mother, say, mother," he continued, as his mother emerged from the pantry, "I don't see any thing of that hammer. I've looked every-where. Mother, can't I have one of Ester's cookies? I'm awful hungry."

"Why, I guess so, if you are really suffering. Try again for the hammer, my boy; don't let a poor little hammer get the better of you."

"Well," said Alfred, "I won't," meaning that it should answer the latter part of the sentence; and seizing a cookie he bestowed a triumphant look upon Ester and a loving one upon his mother, and vanished amid a renewal of the whistle and bang.

This little scene did not serve to help Ester; she rolled away vigorously at the dough, but felt some way disturbed and outraged, and finally gave vent to her feeling in a peremptory order.

"Julia, don't eat another raisin; you've made away with about half of them now."

Julia looked aggrieved. "Mother lets me eat raisins when I pick them over for her," was her defense; to which she received no other reply than—

"Keep your elbows off the table."

Then there was silence and industry for some minutes. Presently Julia recovered her composure, and commenced with—

"Say, Ester, what makes you prick little holes all over your biscuits?"

"To make them rise better."

"Does every thing rise better after it is pricked?"

Sadie was paring apples at the end table, and interposed at this point—

"If you find that to be the case, Julia, you must be very careful after this, or we shall have Ester pricking you when you don't 'rise' in time for breakfast in the morning."

Julia suspected that she was being made a dupe of, and appealed to her older sister:

"Honestly, Ester, do you prick them so they will rise better?"

"Of course. I told you so, didn't I?"

"Well, but why does that help them any? Can't they get up unless you make holes in them, and what is all the reason for it?"

Now, these were not easy questions to answer, especially to a girl with the toothache, and Ester's answer was not much to the point.

"Julia, I declare you are enough to distract one. If you ask any more questions I shall certainly send you up stairs out of the way."

Her scientific investigations thus nipped in the bud, Julia returned again to silence and raisins, until the vigorous beating of some eggs roused anew the spirit of inquiry. She leaned eagerly forward with a—

"Say, Ester, please tell me why the whites all foam and get thick when you stir them, just like beautiful white soapsuds." And she rested her elbow, covered with its blue sleeve, plump into the platter containing the beaten yolks. You must remember Ester's face-ache, but even then I regret to say that this disaster culminated in a decided box on the ear for poor Julia, and in her being sent weeping up stairs. Sadie looked up with a wicked laugh in her bright eyes, and said, demurely:

"You didn't keep your promise, Ester, and let me live in peace, so I needn't keep mine and I consider you pretty well out of the spasm which has lasted for so many days."

"Sadie, I am really ashamed of you." This was Mrs. Ried's grave, reproving voice; and she added, kindly: "Ester, poor child, I wish you would wrap your face up in something warm and lie down awhile. I am afraid you are suffering a great deal."

Poor Ester! It had been a hard day. Late in the afternoon, as she stood at the table, and cut the bread, and cake, and cheese, and cold meat for tea; when the sun had made a rift in the clouds, and was peeping in for good-night; when the throbbing nerves had grown quiet once more, she looked back upon this weary day in shame and pain. How very little her noble resolves, and efforts, and advances had been worth after all. How far back she seemed to have gone in that one day—not strength enough to bear even the little crosses that befell in an ordinarily quiet life! How she had lost the so-lately-gained influence over Alfred and Julia by a few cross words! How much reason she had given Sadie to think that her attempts at following the Master were, after all, only spasmodic and visionary! But Ester had been to that little clothes-press up stairs in search of help and forgiveness, and now she clearly saw there was something to do besides mourn over her failures. It was hard to do it, too. Ester's spirit was proud, and it was very humbling to confess herself in the wrong. She hesitated and shrank from the work, until she finally grew ashamed of herself for that; and at last, without turning her head from her work, or giving her resolve time to falter, she called to the twins, who were occupying seats in one of the dining-room windows, and talking low and soberly to each other:

"Children, come here a moment, will you?"

The two had been very shy of Ester since the morning's trials, and were at that moment sympathizing with each other in a manner uncomplimentary to her. However, they slid down from their perch and slowly answered her call.

Ester glanced up as they entered the storeroom, and then went on cutting her cheese, but speaking in low, gentle tones:

"I want to tell you two how sorry I am that I spoke so crossly and unkindly to you this morning. It was very wrong in me. I thought I never should displease Jesus so again, but I did, you see; and now I am very sorry indeed, and I want you to forgive me."

Alfred looked aghast. This was an Ester that he had never seen before, and he didn't know what to say. He wriggled the toes of his boots together, and looked down at them in puzzled wonder. At last he faltered out:

"I didn't know your cheek ached till mother told me, or else I'd have shut the door right straight. I'd ought to, any how, cheek or no cheek."

This last in a lower tone, and more looking down at his boots. It was new work for Alfred, this voluntarily owning himself in the wrong.

Julia burst forth eagerly. "And I was very careless and naughty to keep putting my elbows on the table after you had told me not to, and I am ever so sorry that I made you such a lot of trouble."

"Well, then," said Ester, "we'll all forgive each other, shall we, and begin over again? And, children, I want you to understand that I am trying to please Jesus; and when I fail it is because of my own wicked heart, not because there is any need of it if I tried harder; and I want you to know how anxious I am that you should love this same Jesus now while you are young, and get him to help you."

Their mother called the children at this moment, and Ester dismissed them each with a kiss. There was a little rustle in the flour-room, and Sadie, whom nobody knew was down stairs, emerged therefrom with suspiciously red eyes but a laughing face, and approached her sister.

"Ester," said she, "I'm positively afraid that you are growing into a saint, and I know that I'm a sinner. I consider myself mistaken about the spasm—it is evidently a settled disease."

While the bell tolled for evening service Ester stood in the front doorway, and looked doubtfully up and down the damp pavements and muddy streets, and felt of her stiff cheek. How much she seemed to need the rest and help of God's house to-night; and yet—

Julia's little hand stole softly into hers. "We've been talking about what you said you wanted us to do, Alfred and I have. We've talked about it a good deal lately. We most wish so, too."

Ere Ester could reply other than by an eager grasp of the small hand, Dr. Douglass came out. His horses and carriage were in waiting.

"Miss Ried," he said, pausing irresolutely with his foot on the carriage step, and finally turning back, "I am going to drive down to church this evening, as I have a call to make afterward. Will you not ride down with me; it is unpleasant walking?"

Ester's grave face brightened. "I'm so glad," she answered eagerly. "I did want to go to church to-night, and I was afraid it would be imprudent on account of my tooth."

Alfred and Julia sat right before them in church; and Ester watched them with a prayerful, and yet a sad heart What right had she to expect an answer to her petitions when her life had been working against them all that day? And yet the blood of Christ was all-powerful, and there was always his righteousness to plead; and she bent her head in renewed supplications for these two, "And it shall come to pass, that before they call I will answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear."

Into one of the breathless stillnesses that came, while beating hearts were waiting for the requests that they hoped would be made, broke Julia's low, trembling, yet singularly clear voice:

"Please pray for me."

There was a little choking in Alfred's throat, and a good deal of shuffling done with his boots. It was so much more of a struggle for the sturdy boy than the gentle little girl; but he stood manfully on his feet at last, and his words, though few, were fraught with as much meaning as any which had been spoken there that evening, for they were distinct and decided:

"Me, too."



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE TIME TO SLEEP

Life went swiftly and busily on. With the close of December the blessed daily meetings closed, rather they closed with the first week of the new year, which the church kept as a sort of jubilee week in honor of the glorious things that had been done for them.

The new year opened in joy for Ester; many things were different. The honest, straightforward little Julia carried all her earnestness of purpose into this new life which had possessed her soul; and the sturdy brother had naturally too decided a nature to do any thing half-way, so Ester was sure of this young sister and brother. Besides, there was a new order of things between her mother and herself; each had discovered that the other was bound on the same journey, and that there were delightful resting-places by the way.

For herself, she was slowly but surely gaining. Little crosses that she stooped and resolutely took up grew to be less and less, until they, some of them, merged into positive pleasures. There were many things that cast rays of joy all about her path; but there was still one heavy abiding sorrow. Sadie went giddily and gleefully on her downward way. If she perchance seemed to have a serious thought at night it vanished with the next morning's sunshine, and day by day Ester realized more fully how many tares the enemy had sown while she was sleeping. Sometimes the burden grew almost too heavy to be borne, and again she would take heart of grace and bravely renew her efforts and her prayers. It was about this time that she began to recognize a new feeling. She was not sick exactly, and yet not quite well. She discovered, considerably to her surprise, that she was falling into the habit of sitting down on a stair to rest ere she had reached the top of the first flight; also, that she was sometimes obliged to stay her sweeping and clasp her hands suddenly over a strange beating in her heart. But she laughed at her mother's anxious face, and pronounced herself quite well, quite well, only perhaps a little tired.

Meantime all sorts of plans for usefulness ran riot in her brain. She could not go away on a mission because her mission had come to her. For a wonder she realized that her mother needed her. She took up bravely and eagerly, so far as she could see it, the work that lay around her; but her restless heart craved more, more. She must do something outside of this narrow circle for the Master. One evening her enthusiasm, which had been fed for several days on a new scheme that was afloat in the town, reached its hight. Ester remembered afterward every little incident connected with that evening—just how cozy the little family sitting-room looked, with her for its only occupant; just how brightly the coals glowed in the open grate; just what a brilliant color they flashed over the crimson cushioned rocker, which she had vacated when she heard Dr. Van Anden's step in the hall, and went to speak to him. She was engaged in writing a letter to Abbie, full of eager schemes and busy, bright work. "I am astonished that I ever thought there was nothing worth living for;" so she wrote. "Why life isn't half long enough for the things that I want to do. This new idea just fills me with delight. I am so eager to get to work—" Thus far when she heard that step, and springing up went with eagerness to the door.

"Doctor, are you in haste? Haven't you just five minutes for me?"

"Ten," answered the Doctor promptly, stepping into the bright little room.

In her haste, not even waiting to offer him a seat, Ester plunged at once into her subject.

"Aren't you the chairman of that committee to secure teachers for the evening school?"

"I am."

"Have you all the help you want?"

"Not by any means. Volunteers for such a self-denying employment as teaching factory girls are not easy to find."

"Well, Doctor, do you think—would you be willing to propose my name as one of the teachers? I should so like to be counted among them."

Instead of the prompt thanks which she expected, to her dismay Dr. Van Anden's face looked grave and troubled. Finally he slowly shook his head with a troubled—

"I don't think I can, Ester."

Such an amazed, grieved, hurt look as swept over Ester's face.

"It is no matter," she said at last, speaking with an effort. "Of course I know little of teaching, and perhaps could do no good; but I thought if help was scarce you might—well, never mind."

And here the Doctor interposed. "It is not that, Ester," with the troubled look deepening on his face. "I assure you we would be glad of your help, but," and he broke off abruptly, and commenced a sudden pacing up and down the room. Then stopped before her with these mysterious words: "I don't know how to tell you, Ester."

Ester's look now was one of annoyance, and she spoke quickly.

"Why, Doctor, you need tell me nothing. I am not a child to have the truth sugar-coated. If my help is not needed, that is sufficient."

"Your help is exactly what we need, Ester, but your health is not sufficient for the work."

And now Ester laughed. "Why, Doctor, what an absurd idea In a week I shall be as well as ever. If that is all you may surely count me as one of your teachers."

The Doctor smiled faintly, and then asked: "Do you never feel any desire to know what may be the cause of this strange lassitude which is creeping over you, and the sudden flutterings of heart, accompanied by pain and faintness, which take you unawares?"

Ester's face paled a little, but she asked, quietly enough: "How do you know all this?"

"I am a physician, Ester. Do you think it is kindness to keep a friend in ignorance of what very nearly concerns him, simply to spare his feelings for a little?"

"Why, Dr. Van Anden, you do not think—you do not mean that—tell me exactly what you mean."

But the Doctor's answer was grave, anxious, absolute silence.

Perhaps the silence answered her—perhaps her own heart told the secret to her, for a sudden gray palor overspread her face. For an instant the room darkened and whirled around her, then she staggered as if she would have fallen, then she reached forward and caught hold of the little red rocker, and sank into it, and leaning both elbows on the writing-table before her, buried her face in her hands. Afterward Ester called to mind the strange whirl of thoughts which thrilled her brain at that time. Life in all the various phases that she had thought it would wear for her, all the endless plans that she had made, all the things that she had meant to do and be, came and stared her in the face. Nowhere in all her plannings crossed by that strange creature Death; someway she had never planned for that. Could it be possible that he was to come for her so soon, before any of these things were done? Was it possible that she must leave Sadie, bright, brilliant, unsafe Sadie, and go away where she could work for her no more? Then, like a picture spread before her, there came back that day in the cars, on her way to New York, the Christian stranger, who was not a stranger now, but her friend, and was it heaven—the earnest little old woman with her thoughtful face, and that strange sentence on her lips: "Maybe my coffin will do it better than I can." Well, maybe her coffin could do it for Sadie. Oh the blessed thought! Plans? YES, but perhaps God had plans too. What mattered hers compared to HIS? If he would that she should do her earthly work by lying down very soon in the unbroken calm of the "rest that remaineth," "what was that to her?" Presently she spoke without raising her head.

"Are you very certain of this thing, Doctor, and is it to come to me soon?"

"That last we can not tell, dear friend. You may be with us years yet, and it may be swift and sudden. I think it is worse than mistaken kindness, it is foolish wickedness, to treat a Christian woman like a little child. I wanted to tell you before the shock would be dangerous to you."

"I understand." When she spoke again it was in a more hesitating tone. "Does Dr. Douglass agree with you?" And the quick, pained way in which the Doctor answered showed her that he understood.

"Dr. Douglass will not let himself believe it."

Then a long silence fell between them. The Doctor kept his position, leaning against the mantel, but never for a moment allowed his eyes to turn away from that motionless figure before him. Only the loving, pitying Savior knew what was passing in that young heart.

At last she arose and came toward the Doctor, with a strange sweetness playing about her mouth, and a strange calm in her voice.

"Dr. Van Anden, I am so much obliged to you. Don't be afraid to leave me now. I think I need to be quite alone."

And the Doctor, feeling that all words were vain and useless, silently bowed, and softly let himself out of the room.

The first thing upon which Ester's eye alighted when she turned again to the table was the letter in which she had been writing those last words: "Why life isn't half long enough for the things that I want to do." Very quietly she picked up the letter and committed it to the glowing coals upon the grate. Her mood had changed. By degrees, very quietly and very gradually, as such bitter things do creep in upon a family, it grew to be an acknowledged fact that Ester was an invalid. Little by little her circle of duties narrowed, one by one her various plans were silently given up, the dear mother first, and then Sadie, and finally the children, grew into the habit of watching her footsteps, and saving her from the stairs, from the lifting, from every possible burden. Once in a long while, and then, as the weeks passed, more frequently, there would come a day in which she did not get down further than the little sitting-room, but was established amid pillows on the couch, "enjoying poor health," as she playfully phrased it.

So softly and silently and surely the shadow crept and crept, until when June brought roses and Abbie. Ester received her in her own room, propped up among the pillows in her bed. Gradually they grew accustomed to that also, as God in his infinite mercy has planned that human hearts shall grow used to the inevitable. They even told each other hopefully that the warm weather was what depressed her so much, and as the summer heat cooled into autumn she would grow stronger. And she had bright days in which she really seemed to grow strong, and which deceived every body save Dr. Van Anden and herself.

During one of those bright days Sadie came from school full of a new idea, and curled herself in front of Ester's couch to entertain her with it.

"Mr. Hammond's last," she said. "Such a curious idea, as like him as possible, and like nobody else. You know that our class will graduate in just two years from this time, and there are fourteen of us, an even number, which is lucky for Mr. Hammond. Well, we are each, don't you think, to write a letter, as sensible, honest, and piquant as we can make it, historic, sentimental, poetic, or otherwise, as we please, so that it be the honest exponent of our views. Then we are to make a grand exchange of letters among the class, and the young lady who receives my letter, for instance, is to keep it sealed, and under lock and key, until graduation day, when it is to be read before scholars, faculty, and trustees, and my full name announced as the signature; and all the rest of us are to perform in like manner."

"What is supposed to be the object?" queried Abbie.

"Precisely the point which oppressed us, until Mr. Hammond complimented us by announcing that it was for the purpose of discovering how many of us, after making use of our highest skill in that line, could write a letter that after two years we should be willing to acknowledge as ours."

Ester sat up flushed and eager. "That is a very nice idea," she said, brightly. "I'm so glad you told me of it. Sadie, I'll write you a letter for that day. I'll write it to-morrow, and you are to keep it sealed until the evening of that day on which you graduate. Then when you have come up to your room and are quite alone, you are to read it. Will you promise, Sadie?"

But Sadie only laughed merrily, and said "You are growing sentimental, Ester, as sure is the world. How can I make any such promise as that? I shall probably chatter to you like a magpie instead of reading any thing."

This young girl utterly ignored so far as was possible the fact of Ester's illness, never allowing it to be admitted in her presence that there were any fears as to the result. Ester had ceased trying to convince her, so now she only smiled quietly and repeated her petition.

"Will you promise, Sadie?"

"Oh yes, I'll promise to go to the mountains of the moon on foot and alone, across lots—any thing to amuse you. You're to be pitied, you see, until you get over this absurd habit of cuddling down among the pillows."

So a few days thereafter she received with much apparent glee the dainty sealed letter addressed to herself, and dropped it in her writing-desk, but ere she turned the key there dropped a tear or two on the shining lid.

Well, as the long, hot summer days grew longer and fiercer, the invalid drooped and drooped, and the home faces grew sadder. Yet there still came from time to time those rallying days, wherein Sadie confidently pronounced her to be improving rapidly. And so it came to pass that so sweet was the final message that the words of the wonderful old poem proved a Siting description of it all.

"They thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died."

Into the brightness of the September days there intruded one, wherein all the house was still, with that strange, solemn stillness that comes only to those homes where death has left a seal. From the doors floated the long crape signals, and in the great parlors were gathering those who had come to take their parting look at the white, quiet face. "ESTER RIED, aged 19," so the coffin-plate told them. Thus early had the story of her life been finished.

Only one arrangement had Ester made for this last scene in her life drama.

"I am going to preach my own funeral sermon," she had said pleasantly to Abbie one day. "I want every one to know what seemed to me the most important thing in life. And I want them to understand that when I came just to the end of my life it stood out the most important thing still—for Christians, I mean. My sermon is to be preached for them. No it isn't either; it applies equally to all. The last time I went to the city I found in a bookstore just the kind of sermon I want preached. I bought it. You will find the package in my upper bureau drawer, Abbie. I leave it to you to see that they are so arranged that every one who comes to look at me will be sure to see them."

So on this day, amid the wilderness of flowers and vines and mosses that had possession of the rooms, ranged along the mantel, hanging in clusters on the walls, were beautifully illuminated texts—and these were some of the words that they spoke to those who silently gathered in the parlors:

"And that knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep."

"But wilt thou know, O vain man, that faith without works is dead?"

"What shall we do that we might work the works of God?"

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest."

"I must work the work of him that sent me while it is day: the night cometh when no man can work."

"Awake to righteousness and sin not."

"Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light."

"Redeeming the time, because the days are evil."

"Let us not sleep as do others, but let us watch, and be sober."

Chiming in with the thoughts of those who knew by whose direction the illuminated texts were hung, came the voice of the minister, reading:

"And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."

So it was that Ester Ried, lying quiet in her coffin, was reckoned among that number who "being dead, yet speaketh."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

AT LAST.

The busy, exciting, triumphant day was done. Sadie Ried was no longer a school-girl; she had graduated. And although a dress of the softest, purest white had been substituted for the blue silk, in which she had so long ago planned to appear, its simple folds had swept the platform of Music Hall in as triumphant a way as ever she had planned for the other. More so, for Sadie's wildest flights of fancy had never made her valedictorian of her class, yet that she certainly was. In some respects it had been a merry day—the long sealed letters had been opened and read by their respective holders that morning, and the young ladies had discovered, amid much laughter and many blushes, that they were ready to pronounce many of the expressions which they had carefully made only two years before, "ridiculously out of place" or "absurdly sentimental."

"Progress," said Mr. Hammond, turning for a moment to Sadie, after he had watched with an amused smile the varying play of expression on her speaking face, while she listened to the reading of her letter.

"You were not aware that you had improved so much in two years, now, were you?"

"I was not aware that I ever was such a simpleton!" was her half-provoked, half-amused reply.

To-night she loitered strangely in the parlors, in the halls, on the stairs, talking aimlessly with any one who would stop; it was growing late. Mrs. Ried and the children had long ago departed. Dr. Van Anden had not yet returned from his evening round of calls. Every body in and about the house was quiet, ere Sadie, with slow, reluctant steps, finally ascended the stairs and sought her room. Arrived there, she seemed in no haste to light the gas; moonlight was streaming into the room, and she put herself down in front of one of the low windows to enjoy it. But it gave her a view of the not far distant cemetery, and gleamed on a marble slab, the lettering of which she knew perfectly well was—"Ester, daughter of Alfred and Laura Ried, died Sept. 4, 18—, aged 19. Asleep in Jesus—Awake to everlasting life." And that reminded her, as she had no need to be reminded, of a letter with the seal unbroken, lying in her writing-desk—a letter which she had promised to read this evening—promised the one who wrote it for her, and over whose grave the moonlight was now wrapping its silver robe. Sadie felt strangely averse to reading that letter; in part, she could imagine its contents, and for the very reason that she was still "halting between two opinions," "almost persuaded," and still on that often fatal "almost" side, instead of the "altogether," did she wait and linger, and fritter away the evening as best she could, rather than face that solemn letter. Even when she turned resolutely from the window, and lighted the gas, and drew down the shade, she waited to put every thing tidy on her writing-table, and then, when she had finally turned the key in her writing-desk, to read over half a dozen old letters and bits of essays, and scraps of poetry, ere she reached down for that little white envelope, with her name traced by the dear familiar hand that wrote her name no more. At last the seal was broken, and Sadie read:

"My Darling Sister:

"I am sitting to-day in our little room—yours and mine. I have been taking in the picture of it; every thing about it is dear to me, from our father's face smiling down on me from the wall, to the little red rocker in which he sat and wrote, in which I sit now, and in which you will doubtless sit, when I have gone to him. I want to speak to you about that time. When you read this, I shall have been gone a long, long time, and the bitterness of the parting will all be past; you will be able to read calmly what I am writing. I will tell you a little of the struggle. For the first few moments after I knew that I was soon to die, my brain fairly reeled; It seemed to me that I could not. I had so much to live for, there was so much that I wanted to do; and most of all other things, I wanted to see you a Christian. I wanted to live for that, to work for it, to undo if I could some of the evil that I knew my miserable life had wrought in your heart. Then suddenly there came to me the thought that perhaps what my life could not do, my coffin would accomplish—perhaps that was to be God's way of calling you to himself perhaps he meant to answer my pleading in that way, to let my grave speak for me, as my crooked, marred, sinful living might never be able to do. My darling, then I was content; it came to me so suddenly as that almost the certainty that God meant to use me thus, and I love you so, and I long so to see you come to him, that I am more than willing to give up all that this life seemed to have for me, and go away, if by that you would be called to Christ.

"And Sadie, dear, you will know before you read this, how much I had to give up. You will know very soon all that Dr. Douglass and I looked forward to being to each other—but I give it up, give him up, more than willingly—joyfully—glad that my Father will accept the sacrifice, and make you his child. Oh, my darling, what a life I have lived before you! I do not wonder that, looking at me, you have grown into the habit of thinking that there is nothing in religion—you have looked at me, not at Jesus, and there has been no reflection of his beauty in me, as there should have been, and the result is not strange. Knowing this, I am the more thankful that God will forgive me, and use me as a means to bring you home at last. I speak confidently. I am sure, you see, that it will be; the burden, the fearful burden that I have carried about with me so long, has gone away. My Redeemer and yours has taken it from me. I shall see you in heaven. Father is there, and I am going, oh so fast, and mother will not be long behind, and Alfred and Julia have started on the journey, and you will start. Oh, I know it—we shall all be there! I told my Savior I was willing to do any thing, any thing, so my awful mockery of a Christian life, that I wore so long, might not be the means of your eternal death. And he has heard my prayer. I do not know when it will be; perhaps you will still be undecided when you sit in our room and read these words. Oh, I hope, I hope you will not waste two years more of your life, but if you do, if as you read these last lines that I shall ever write, the question is unsettled, I charge you by the memory of your sister, by the love you bear her not to wait another moment—not one. Oh, my darling, let me beg this at your hands; take it as my dying petition—renewed after two years of waiting. Come to Jesus now.

"That question settled, then let me give you one word of warning. Do not live as I have done—my life has been a failure—five years of stupid sleep, while the enemy waked and worked. Oh, God, forgive me! Sadie, never let that be your record. Let me give you a motto—'Press toward the mark.' The mark is high; don't look away from or forget it, as I did; don't be content with simply sauntering along, looking toward it now and then, but take in the full meaning of that earnest sentence, and live it—'Press toward the mark!'

"And now good-by. When you have finished reading this letter, do this last thing for me: If you are already a Christian, get down on your knees and renew your covenant; resolve anew to live and work, and suffer and die, for Christ. If you are not a Christian—Oh, I put my whole soul into this last request—I beg you kneel and give yourself up to Jesus. My darling, good-by until we meet in heaven.

"ESTER RIED."

The letter dropped from Sadie's nerveless fingers. She arose softly, and turned down the gas, and raised the shade—the moonlight still gleamed on the marble slab. Dr. Van Anden came with quick, firm tread up the street. She gave a little start as she recognized the step, and her thoughts went out after that other lonely Doctor, who was to have been her brother, and then back to the long, earnest letter and the words, "I give him up"—and she realized as only those can who know by experience, what a giving up that would be, how much her sister longed for her soul. And then, moved by a strong, firm resolve, Sadie knelt in the solemn moonlight, and the long, long struggle was ended. Father and sister were in heaven, but on earth, this night, their prayers were being answered.

"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."

THE END.