"What are you thinking about, Lottie, that you are smiling so sweetly?" asked her room-mate, Bel Parton.

"In truth, it was a sweet thought," said Lottie, her laugh awakening sudden echoes in the still house, and sounding as oddly as a bird's song at night. "I'm glad Frank Hemstead doesn't know. If he did, I should appall instead of fascinating him."

"I think your plot against him is very wrong,—wicked, indeed. He is such a sincere, good young man, that I like it less and less. I couldn't do such a thing."

"Still you can look on and enjoy the fun, and that is all you have to do. Poor Bel, you are always in need of an M. D.'s or a D. D.'s care. I have forsworn both."

So spoke Lottie in the arrogance of her perfect health and abounding beauty, and then (such are the seeming contradictions of character) she knelt and appeared as a white-robed saint at her devotions. But the parrot-like prayer that she hastily mumbled was of no possible value to any one. She had continued the habit from childhood, and it was mainly habit. The other motive was something like the feeling of a careless Catholic, who crosses himself, though he cannot explain what good it does him.

A moment later she might have been taken as a model of sleeping innocence.

This world is evidently sadly out of joint. We all know of the most gentle, lovely, unselfish spirits, beautiful to Heaven's eye, that are enshrined in painfully plain caskets. In the instance of Lottie Marsden, the casket was of nature's most exquisite workmanship, but it held a tarnished jewel.

It was with some misgivings that Hemstead looked forward to meeting his "cousin," on the following morning. Would she be as radiantly beautiful, as piquant, and withal as kindly and frank as on the previous evening? Even his limited experience of the world had shown him that in the matter-of-fact and searching light of the morning many of the illusions of the night vanish. He had noted with no little surprise that ladies seemingly young and blooming had come down to breakfast looking ten years older; so he had said to himself, "She dazzled me last night. I shall see her as she is to-day."

Being an early riser he entered the cheerful breakfast-room considerably before the others, and in a moment was entranced by the view from the windows.

The severe north-east storm had expended itself during the night, and its fine, sharp crystals had changed into snowflakes. As an angry man after many hard cutting words relents somewhat and speaks calmly if still coldly, so nature, that had been stingingly severe the evening before, was now quietly letting fall a few final hints of the harsh mood that was passing away. Even while he looked, the sun broke through a rift over the eastern mountains, and lighted up the landscape as with genial smiles. It shone, not on an ordinary and prosaic world, but rather on one that had been touched by magic during the night and transformed into the wonder-land of dreams.

The trees that in the dusk of the previous night had writhed and groaned and struck their frozen branches together, gesticulating like despairing anguish, now stood serene, and decked more daintily than June would robe them. Whiter even than the pink-tinged blossoms of May, was the soft wet snow that incased every twig, limb, and spray. The more he looked, the more the beauty and the wonder of the scene grew upon him. The sun was dispersing the clouds and adding the element of splendor to that of beauty. It became one of the supreme moments of his life, and in the vanishing beauty of an earthly scene he received an earnest of the perfect world beyond.

"With the exception of the broad dark river," he thought, "this might be the Millennial morn, and nature standing decked in her spotless ascension robes, waiting in breathless expectancy."

But his musings were unexpectedly interrupted, for just at this moment Lottie Marsden put her hand lightly on his arm and said, "Cousin Frank—pardon me—Mr. Hemstead, what is the matter? You look as rapt as if you saw a vision."

He turned and seemed as startled as if he had, for standing by him and looking inquiringly into his face was a being that, with her brilliant eyes and exquisitely clear and delicate complexion, seemed as beautiful, and at the same time as frail and ready to vanish, as the snow-wreaths without.

She saw the strong admiration and almost wonder depicted on his open face, though she seemed so innocently oblivious of it, and for a moment left him under the spell, then said, "Are you so resentful at my desertion last evening that you won't speak to me?"

"Look there," he replied, and he pointed to the fairy-land without.

Lottie's wonder and delight were almost equal to his own, for she had never witnessed such a scene before.

"I am so glad I came!" she said. "We see nothing like this in the city. Look at those snowy mountains. How vast and white they are!"

"And look at that little tree with its red berries gleaming against the snowy foil. They look like those rulsy ear-rings against the whiteness of your neck."

She looked at him quickly and humorously, asking, "Where did you learn the art of complimenting?"

"I had no thought of trivial compliment in the presence of a scene like this," he answered gravely; "I was awed by the beauty I saw, and it seemed as if the Great Artist must be near. I wished to call your attention to the truth that, like all His work, the least thing is perfect. That little tree with its red berries is beautiful as well as the mountain. I now am glad too that you came, though I dreaded any one's coming before, and the necessity of returning to common-place life. But suddenly, and as silently as one of those snow-flakes, you appear, and I am startled to find you in keeping with the scene, instead of an intrusion."

"And do I seem to you like a snow-flake—as pure and as cold?" she asked, bending upon him her brilliant eyes.

"Not as cold, I trust, and if you were as pure you would not be human. But your beauty seemed to me as marvellous as that of the scene I had been wondering at. I am not versed in society's disguises, Miss Marsden, and can better express my thoughts than hide them. You know you are very beautiful. Why should I not say so as well as involuntarily express the fact in my face as I did a moment ago, and as every one does, I suppose, who meets you. There is nothing brought to your attention more often, and more pressed upon you. It must be so. Does not your beauty cause you much anxiety?"

"What a funny question!" laughed Lottie. "Your frankness is certainly as transparent as those snow-crystals there. I cannot say that it does. Why should it, even granting that it exists independently of your disordered imagination?"

"It exposes you to a temptation very hard to resist. Such beauty as yours should be but the reflex of character. I once saw, in an art gallery of New York, a marble face so white, pure, and sweet, that it has ever remained in my memory as an emblem of spiritual beauty. Suppose every one that came in should touch that face, and some with coarse and grimy fingers, what a smutched and tawdry look it would soon have. You cannot help the admiring glances, flattering words, and the homage that ever waits on beauty, any more than the marble face the soiling touch of any Vandal hand; but you can prevent your soul from being stained and smirched with vanity and pride."

"I never had any one to talk to me in this way," said Lottie, looking demurely down. "Perhaps I should have been better if I had. I fear you think me very vain and conceited."

"I should think it very strange if you were not somewhat vain. And yet you do not act as if you were."

"Supposing I am vain. What difference does it make, if no one knows it?" she asked abruptly.

"There are two who always will know it."

"Who?"

"God and yourself. And by and by all masks must be dropped, and all the world see us as we are."

"Do you believe that?" she asked, a little startled at the thought.

"I know it," he replied, in a tone of quiet confidence that carries more conviction than loud assertion. "Moreover, your beauty involves a heavy burden of responsibility."

"Really, Mr. Hemstead, if you keep on you will prove beauty a great misfortune, whether I possess it or not."

"Far from it."

"Granting for sake of argument your premise, how am I burdened with responsibility?"

"Would it not almost break your heart, if your honorable father were misappropriating money intrusted to his care?"

"Don't suggest such a thing."

"Only for the sake of illustration. Suppose he had the qualities and position which led a great many to place their means in his hands; would that not increase his responsibility?"

"Yes, if he accepted such trusts."

"Are there not more valuable possessions than dollars, stocks, and bonds? Every one is more or less fascinated, drawn, and won by beauty, and to the beautiful the most sacred thoughts and feelings of the heart are continually intrusted. History and biography show that beautiful women, if true, gentle, and unselfish, have great power with their own sex, and almost unbounded influence over men. Your power, therefore, is subtle, penetrating, and reaches the inner life, the very warp and woof of character. If a beautiful statue can ennoble and refine, a beautiful woman can accomplish infinitely more. She can be a constant inspiration, a suggestion of the perfect life beyond and an earnest of it. All power brings responsibility, even that which a man achieves or buys; but surely, if one receives Heaven's most exquisite gifts, bestowed as directly as this marvellous beauty without, and so is made pre-eminent in power and influence, she is under a double responsibility to use that power for good. That a woman can take the royal gift of her own beauty, a divine heritage, one of the most suggestive relics of Eden still left among us, and daily sacrifice it on the poorest and meanest of altars—her own vanity—is to me hard to understand. It is scarcely respectable heathenism. But to use her beauty as a lure is far worse. Do we condemn wreckers, who place false, misleading lights upon a dangerous coast? What is every grace of a coquette, but a false light, leading often to more sad and hopeless wreck?"

No man had ever told Lottie more plainly that she was beautiful, than Hemstead, and yet she disliked his compliments wofully. Her face fairly grew pale under his words. Had he learned of her plot? Had he read her thoughts, and been informed of her past life? Did quiet satire and denunciation lurk under this seeming frankness? She was for the moment perplexed and troubled. Worse still, he compelled her to see these things in a new light, and her conscience echoed his words.

But her first impulse was to learn whether he was speaking generally, or pointedly at her; so she asked, in some little trepidation, "Has any naughty girl tried to treat you badly, that you speak so strongly?"

He laughed outright at this question. "No one has had a chance," he said; "and I do not think there are many who would take it. Moreover, I imagine that one of your proud belles would not even condescend to flirt with a poor awkward fellow like me. But I am not a croaking philosopher, and look on the bright side of the world. It has always treated me quite as well as I deserved. I often think the world is not so bad as described, and that it would be better, if it had a chance."

"Have you seen much of it, Mr. Hemstead?"

"I cannot say that I have. I have read and thought about it far more than I have seen. On account of my limited means and student life, my excursions have been few and far between. I have already proved to you what an awkward stranger I am to society. But in thought and fancy I have been a great rambler, and like to picture to myself all kinds of scenes, past and present, and to analyze all kinds of character."

"I hope you won't analyze mine," she said, looking at him rather distrustfully. "I should not like to be dissected before I was dead."

"I wish all were as able to endure analysis as yourself, Miss Marsden. In any case, you have no reason to fear a severe critic in me."

"Why not?"

"Because you have been so lenient towards me. I have received more kindness from you, a stranger, than from my own kindred."

"You are very grateful."

"Shakespeare declares ingratitude a 'marble-hearted fiend.'"

"You evidently are not 'marble-hearted.'"

"Though possibly a fiend. Thank you."

"I wish there were no worse to fear."

"You need not have occasion to fear any."

"Well, I can't say that I do very much. Perhaps it would be better for me if I did."

"Why so?"

"Then I should be more afraid to do wrong. Miss Parton cannot do wrong with any comfort at all."

"Well, that would be a queer religion which consisted only in being afraid of the devil and his imps."

"What is religion? I am foolish in asking such a question however, for I suppose it would take you a year to answer it, and they will all be down to breakfast in a few moments."

"O, no, I can answer it in a sentence. True religion is worshipping God in love and faith, and obeying Him."

"Is that all?" exclaimed Lottie, in unfeigned astonishment.

"That is a great deal."

"Perhaps it is. You theologians have a way of preaching awfully long and difficult sermons from simple texts. But I never got as simple an idea of religion as that from our minister."

"I fear you think I have been preaching for the last half-hour. Perhaps I can best apologize for my long homilies this morning by explaining. When an artist is in his best mood, he wishes to be at his easel. The same is true of every one who does something con amore. When I saw the transfigured world this morning, it was like a glimpse into heaven, and—"

"And a naughty little sinner came in just at that moment, and got the benefit of your mood," interrupted Lottie. "Well, I have listened to your sermon and understand it, and that is more than I can say of many I have heard. It certainly was pointed, and seemed pointed at me, and I have heard it said that it is proof of a good sermon for each one to go away feeling that he has been distinctly preached at. But permit me as a friend, Mr. Hemstead, to suggest that this will not answer in our day. I fear, from my little foretaste, that people will not be able to sit comfortably under your homilies, and unless you intend to preach out in the back-woods, you must modify your style."

"That is where I do intend to preach. At least upon the frontiers of our great West."

"O, how dismal!" she exclaimed. "And can you, a young, and I suppose an ambitious man, look forward to being buried alive, as it were, in those remote regions?"

"I assure you I do not propose to be buried alive at the West, or spiritually smothered, as you hinted, in a fashionable church at the East. I think the extreme West, where states and society are forming with such marvellous rapidity, is just the place for a young, and certainly for an ambitious man. Is it nothing to have a part in founding and shaping an empire?"

"You admit that you are ambitious, then."

"Yes."

"Is that right?"

"I think so."

"Our minister inveighs against ambition, as if it were one of the deadly sins."

"He means the ambition that is all for self. That is as wrong and contemptible as the beauty that is miserable without a looking-glass. An ardent desire to obtain my Divine Master's approval, and to be worthy of it—to be successful in serving a noble cause—cannot be wrong."

She looked at his earnest face and eyes, that seemed to glow with hidden fire, almost wistfully; and said with a tinge of sadness, "You will feel very differently I fear, twenty years hence. Enthusiasm is a rare thing in the city, and I imagine it is soon quenched everywhere."

"So it is; it needs constant rekindling."

Just then Mrs. Marchmont and Mr. Dimmerly appeared, and soon after they all sat down to a late breakfast.



CHAPTER VI.

A SLEIGH-RIDE AND SOMETHING MORE.



Lottie assumed an unusual degree of gayety during the early part of the meal, but her flow of spirits seemed unequal, and to flag towards the last. She had sudden fits of abstraction, during which her jetty eyebrows contracted into unwonted frowns.

Her practical joke did not promise so well as on the evening before. That unexpected half-hour's talk had shown some actions in a new light. She did not mind doing wicked things that had a spice of hardihood and venturesomeness in them. But to do what had been made to appear mean and dishonorable was another thing, and she was provoked enough at Hemstead for having unconsciously given that aspect to her action and character, and still more annoyed and perplexed that her conscience should so positively side with him. Thus it will be seen that her conscience was unawakened, rather than seared and deadened.

As she came to know Hemstead better, she found that he was different from what she had expected. The conventional idea of a theological student had dwelt in her mind; and she had expected to find a rather narrow and spiritually conceited man, full of the clerical mannerisms which she had often heard laughed at. But she saw that Hemstead's awkwardness would wear away, through familiarity with society, and that, when at ease, he was simple and manly in manner. She also perceived that this seclusion from the world, which was the cause of his diffidence, had been employed in training and richly storing his mind. Moreover, to one so accustomed to the insincerity of society, his perfect frankness of speech and manner was a novelty, interesting, if not always pleasing. She read his thoughts as she would an open page, and saw that he esteemed her as a true, sincere girl, kind and womanly, and that he had for her the strongest respect. She feared that when he discovered her true self he would scorn her to loathing. Not that she cared, except that her pride would be hurt. But as she was more proud than vain, she feared this honest man's verdict.

But soon her old reckless self triumphed. "Of course what I am doing will seem awful to him," she thought. "I knew that before I commenced. He shall not preach me out of my fun in one half-hour. If I could make him love me in spite of what I am, it would be the greater triumph. After all, I am only acting as all the girls in my set do when they get a chance. It's not as bad as he makes out."

Still that was an eventful half-hour, when they looked out upon a transfigured world together; and while she saw nature in her rarest and purest beauty, she had also been given a glimpse into the more beautiful world of truth, where God dwells.

But, as the morning advanced, good impulses and better feelings and thoughts vanished, even as the snow-wreaths were dropping from branch and spray, leaving them as bare as before. By the time the sleigh drove up to the door she was as bent as ever upon victimizing the "Western giant," as the conspirators had named him. She was her old, decided, resolute self; all the more resolute because facing, to her, a new hindrance,—her own conscience, which Hemstead had unwittingly awakened; and it said to its uncomfortable possessor some rather severe things that day.

If Lottie were Bel Parton, she would have been in a miserably undecided state. But it was her nature to carry out what she had begun, if for no other reason than that she had begun it, and she was not one to give up a frolic at anyone's scolding,—even her own.

As she tripped down the broad stairs in a rich cloak trimmed with fur, she reminded Hemstead of some rare tropical bird, and De Forrest indulged in many notes of admiration. Lottie received these as a matter of course, but looked at the student with genuine interest. His expression seemed to satisfy her, for she turned away to hide a smile that meant mischief.

It was quietly arranged that Hemstead should sit beside her, and he felicitated himself over their artifice as if it were rare good fortune.

Though the sun and the rising breeze had shaken off the clustering snow to a great extent, the evergreens still bent beneath their beautiful burdens, some straight cedars reminding one of vigorous age, where snowy hair and beard alone suggest the flight of years.

Though the face of nature was so white, it was not the face of death. There was a sense of movement and life which was in accord with their own spirits and rapid motion. Snow-birds fluttered and twittered in weedy thickets by the way-side, breakfasting on the seeds that fell like black specks upon the snow. The bright sunlight had lured the red squirrels from their moss-lined nests in hollow trees, and their barking was sometimes heard above the chime of the bells.

"There goes a parson crow," cried Addie Marchmont. "How black and solemn he looks against the snow!"

"Why are crows called parsons, Mr. Hemstead?" asked Lottie, as a child might.

"Indeed, I don't know. For as good a reason, I suppose, as that some girls are called witches."

She gave him a quick, keen look, and said, "I hope you mean nothing personal."

"I should never charge you with being a witch, Miss Marsden, but I might with witchery."

"A distinction without a difference," she said, seeking to lead him on.

"He means," explained De Forrest, "that you might be bewitching if you chose."

"Hush, Julian, you leave no room for the imagination," said Lottie, frowningly.

"Look at that farm-yard, Miss Marsden," said Hemstead. "The occupants seem as glad that the storm is over as we are. What pictures of placid content those ruminating cows are under that sunny shed. See the pranks of that colt which the boy is trying to lead to water. I wish I were on his back, with the prairie before me."

"Indeed, are you so anxious to escape present company?"

"Now I didn't say that. But we have passed by, and I fear you did not see the pretty rural picture to which I called your attention. Were I an artist I would know where to make a sketch to-day."

"I think you will find that Miss Marsdeo's taste differs very widely from yours," said De Forrest; "that is, if you give us to understand that you would seek your themes in a barn-yard, and set your easel upon a muck-heap. Though your pictures might not rank high they would still be very rank."

Even Lottie joined slightly in the general and not complimentary laugh at Hemstead which followed this thrust, but he, with heightened color, said, "You cannot criticise my picture, Mr. De Forrest, for it does not exist. Therefore I must conclude that your satire is directed against my choice of place and subjects."

"Yes, as with the offence of Denmark's king, they 'smell to heaven.'"

"I appeal to you, Miss Marsden, was not the scent of hay and the breath of the cattle as we caught them passing, sweet and wholesome?"

"I cannot deny that they were."

"You have judicial fairness and shall be umpire in this question. And now, Mr. De Forrest, there is a celebrated and greatly admired picture in a certain gallery, representing a scene from the Roman Saturnalia. You do not object to that, with its classic accessories, as a work of art?"

"Not at all."

"And yet it portrays a corruption that does in truth 'offend heaven.' Your muck-heap, which did not enter my thought at all, and would not have been in my picture, could I paint one, would have been wholesome in comparison. Have I made a point, Judge Marsden?"

"I think you have."

"Finally, Mr. De Forrest, what are we to do with the fact that some of the greatest painters in the world have employed their brushes upon just such scenes as these, which perhaps offend your nose and taste more than they do heaven, and that pictures such as that farm-yard would suggest adorn the best galleries of Europe?"

"What artists of note have painted barn-yard scenes?" asked De Forrest, in some confusion.

"Well, there is Herring, the famous English artist, for one."

"'Herring' indeed. You are evidently telling a fish Story," said De Forrest, contemptuously.

"No, he is not," said Lottie. "Herring is a famous painter, I am told, and we have some engravings of his works."

"And I have read somewhere," continued Hemstead, "that his painting of an English farm-yard is the most celebrated of his works. Moreover, Judge Marsden, I must ask of you another decision as to the evidence in this case. I affirm that I did not call your attention to the farm-yard itself, but to its occupants. Is not that true?"

"I cannot deny that it is."

"We all know that many eminent artists have made the painting of animals a specialty, and among them are such world-renowned names as Landseer and Rosa Bonheur. Moreover, in the numerous pictures of the Nativity we often find the homely details of the stable introduced. One of Rubens' paintings of this sacred and favorite subject, which hangs in the gallery of the Louvre, represents two oxen feeding at a rack."

"Come, Julian, hand over your sword. It won't do for you or any one to sit in judgment on such painters as Mr. Hemstead has named. You are fairly beaten. I shall admire barn-yards in future, through thick and thin."

"That is hardly a fair conclusion from any testimony of mine," said Hemstead. "A barn-yard may be all that Mr. De Forrest says of it, but I am sure you will always find pleasure in seeing a fine frolicsome horse or a group of patient cattle. The homely accessories may, and sometimes may not, add to the picture."

"How do you come to know so much about pictures? Theology has nothing to do with art."

"I dissent from Judge Marsden's decision now, most emphatically," replied Hemstead. "Is not true art fidelity to nature?"

"Yes, so it is claimed."

"And where does nature come from? God is the Divine Artist, and is furnishing themes for all other artists. God is the author of landscapes, mountains, rivers, of scenes like that we saw this morning, or of a fine face and a noble form, as truly as of a chapter in the Bible. He manifests Himself in these things. Now fine paintings, statuary, and music bring out the hidden meanings of nature, and therefore more clearly God's thought. Theology, or knowledge concerning our Creator, is a science to which everything can minister, and surely the appreciation of the beautiful should be learned in connection with the Author of all beauty."

"I never thought of God in that light before," said Lottie. "He has always seemed like one watching to catch me at something wrong. Our solemn old Sunday-school teacher used to say to us children just before we went home, 'Now during the week whenever you are tempted to do anything wrong, remember the text, "Thou, God, seest me."' When wasn't I tempted to do wrong? and I had for a long time the uncomfortable feeling that two great eyes were always staring at me. But this isn't sleigh-riding chit-chat," and she broke into a merry little trill from a favorite opera.

Hemstead, with his strong love of the beautiful, could not help watching her with deepening interest. The rapid motion, the music of the bells, the novel scenery of the sun-lighted, glittering world around her, and, chief of all, her own abounding health and animal life, combined to quicken her excitable nature into the keenest enjoyment. From her red lips came ripples of laughter, trills from operas, sallies of fun, that kept the entire party from the thought of heaviness, and to honest-minded Hemstead were the evidences of a happy, innocent heart.

With secret exultation she saw how rapidly and unconsciously the unwary student was passing under the spell of her beauty and witchery.

One must have been cursed with a sluggish, half-dead body and a torpid soul, had he not responded to the influences under which our gay party spent the next few hours. Innumerable snow-flakes had carried down from the air every particle of impurity, and left it sweet and wholesome enough to seem the elixir of immortal youth. It was so tempered also, that it only braced and stimulated. The raw, pinching coldness of the previous day was gone. The sun, undimmed by a cloud, shone genially, and eaves facing the south were dripping, the drops falling like glittering gems.

Now and then a breeze would career down upon them, and, catching the light snow from the adjacent fence, would cast it into their faces as a mischievous school-boy might.

"Stop that!" cried Lottie to one of these sportive zephyrs. "De you call that a gust of wind? I declare it was a viewless sprite, or a party of snow elves, playing their mad pranks upon us."

"I prefer fairies less cold and ethereal," said De Forrest, with a meaning look at the speaker.

"What do you prefer, Mr. Hemstead?" she asked. "But where we people of the world speak of fairies, sprites, and nymphs, I suppose you permit yourself to think only of angels."

"Were it so," he replied, "I should still be of the same mind as Mr. De Forrest, and be glad that you are not an angel."

"Why so?"

"You might use your wings and leave us."

"Were I one, I would not leave you after that speech. But see how far I am from it. I weigh one hundred and fifteen pounds."

"I wish you were no farther off than that."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not our weight in avoirdupois that drags us down. But I am not going to preach any more to-day. Listen to the bells—how they echo from the hill-side!"

"Yes, Julian, listen to Bel," said Lottie to De Forrest, who was about to speak. "I'm talking to Mr. Hemstead. See those snow-crystals on my muff. How can you account for so many odd and beautiful shapes?"

"To me all the countless forms in nature," said Hemstead, "prove an infinite mind gratifying itself. They are expressions of creative thought."

"Nonsense! God doesn't bother with such little things as these."

"We do not know what seems small or great to Him. The microscope reveals as much in one direction as the telescope in another, and the common house-fly seems in size midway in animal life."

"And do you believe that the Divine hand is employed in forming such trifles as these?"

"The Divine will is. But these trifles make the avalanche and the winter's protection for next year's harvest."

"What is that?" asked Harcourt from the front seat, where he was driving.

"Do you know," cried Lottie, "that Mr Hemstead thinks everything we see, even to nature's smallest trifles, an 'expression of the Divine creative thought.'"

"Is that scene such an expression?" asked Harcourt, with a sneering laugh, in which the others joined.

By the road-side there was a small hovel, at the door of which a half-fed, ill-conditioned pig was squealing. When they were just opposite, a slatternly, carroty-headed woman opened the door, and raised her foot to drive the clamorous beast away. Altogether, it was as squalid and repulsive a picture as could well be imagined.

"Yes," replied Lottie, looking into his face with twinkling eyes, "was that sweet pastoral scene an expression of creative thought?"

"The woman certainly was not," he answered, reddening. "A thought may be greatly perverted."

"Whatever moral qualities may be asserted of her manners, costume, and character," said Harcourt, "she is not to blame for the cast of her features and the color of her hair. I scarcely know of an artist who would express any such thought, unless he wished to satirize humanity."

"You can call up before you the portrait of some beautiful woman, can you not, Mr. Harcourt?"

"Let me assist you," cried De Forrest, pulling from his inner pocket a photograph of Lottie.

"Hush, Julian. I'm sorry you do not appreciate this grave argument more; I'll take that picture from you, if you don't behave better."

"Well, I have a picture before me now, that satisfies me fully," said Mr. Harcourt, turning to Lottie with a smiling bow.

"Now, suppose that you had painted just such a likeness and finished it. Suppose I should come afterwards, and, without destroying your picture utterly, should blend with those features the forbidding aspect of the woman we have just seen, would you not say that your thought was greatly perverted?"

"I should think I would."

"Well, Mother Eve was the true expression of the Divine Artist's creative thought, and the woman we saw was the perversion of it. You can trace no evil thing to the source of all good. Perfection is not the author of imperfection."

"Who does the perverting, then?" asked Lottie.

"Evil."

"I don't think it fair that one face and form should be perverted into hideousness, and mother left with something of the first perfection."

"Evil is never fair, Miss Marsden."

"But is it only evil? I have heard plain children told, when resenting their ugliness, that it was wicked, for they were just as God made them."

"Can you think of a better way to make a young girl hate God than to tell her that?"

"But suppose it's true."

"I am sure it is not. Just the opposite is true. The ugly and deformed are as evil has marred them, and not as God has made them. By seeking the Divine Artist's aid more than humanity's first perfection can be regained. It is possible for even that wretched creature we saw to attain an outward loveliness exceeding that of any woman now living."

"That passes beyond the limit of my imagination," said Harcourt.

"Absurd!" muttered De Forrest.

"I fear you are not orthodox," said Bel.

"That means you do not agree with me. But please do not think that because I am a minister you must talk upon subjects that are rather grave and deep for a sleighing party."

"That's right, Cousin Frank," said Addie. "Dr. Beams will want you to preach for him next Sunday. I advise you to reserve your thunder till that occasion, when you may come out as strong as you please."

"'Chinese thunder' at best," whispered Harcourt to Addie; but all heard him.

Hemstead bit his lip and said nothing, but Lottie spoke up quickly: "No matter about the 'thunder,' Mr. Harcourt. That is only noise under any circumstances. But suppose there is the lightning of truth in what Mr. Hemstead says?"

"And suppose there is not?" he replied, with a shrug.

Hemstead gave Lottie a quick, pleased look, which Bel and De Forrest smilingly noted, and the conversation changed to lighter topics.

As they were passing through a small hamlet some miles back from the river, a bare-headed man came running out from a country store and beckoned them to stop, saying: "We're going to give our dominie a donation party to-night. Perhaps Mrs. Marehmont will do suthin' for us, or likely you'll all like to drive over and help the young folks enjoy themselves."

"Capital!" cried Lottie; "I've always wanted to attend a country donation. Do you think we can come, Addie?"

"O, certainly, if you wish, but I fear you won't enjoy it. You will not meet any of our 'set' there."

"I don't wish to meet them. I want to meet the other 'set' and have a frolic."

"It will be moonlight, and we will have the drive, which will be the best part of it, you will find," said Harcourt. "Yes, we will come."

"Them folks thinks that they's made of different flesh and blood from the other 'set,' as they call us, and that pretty young woman wants to come as she would go to a menagerie," muttered the man as he went back to the store. "No matter, let 'em come, they will help us make up the salary."

"Of course, Mr. Hemstead, you will enter upon this expedition with great zeal, as it will be to the advantage of one of your fraternity."

"I think, with Mr. Harcourt, that the ride will be the best part of it."

"O, for shame! Can it be true that two of even your trade can never agree?"

"Long ages of controversy prove that," said Harcourt.

"I think your profession has done more to keep the world in hot water than ours, Mr. Harcourt."

"We at least agree among ourselves."

"All the worse, perhaps, for the world."

"That's rather severe if you refer to the proverb, 'When rogues fall out, honest men get their dues,'" said Lottie.

"I supposed we were talking in jest; I was."

"You evidently belong to the church militant, since you strike back so hard even in jest," said Harcourt. "Very well, since you are so able to take care of yourself I shall have no compunctions in regard to your fate."

Hemstead did not understand this remark, but the others did, and significant glances were exchanged. He turned inquiringly to Lottie, feeling that in a certain sense he had an ally in her, but she seemed looking away abstractedly as if she had not heeded the remark. She was too quick to be caught easily, and the conviction grew upon him that while the others from his calling and difference in views and tastes had a natural aversion, she was inclined to be friendly. And yet she puzzled him not a little at times, as now for instance, when she turned and said, "I suppose there are a great many nice young men at your seminary."

"I never heard them called' nice young men,'" he replied, looking at her keenly.

"O, I beg your pardon,—good, pious, devotional young men, I mean."

"All ought to be that; do you not think so?"

"Well, yes, I think so, since they are to become ministers."

"But not otherwise?"

"I didn't say that. There's a hint for you, Julian."

De Forrest's reply was a contemptuous shrug and laugh. It would be anything but agreeable to him to be thought "good, pious, and devotional,"—qualities not in demand at his club, nor insisted on by Lottie, and entirely repugnant to his tastes.

"Do they all intend to be missionaries as well as yourself?" she continued.

"O, no; some no doubt will take city churches, and marry wealthy wives."

"Would that be wrong?"

"I am not the judge. It's a matter of taste and conscience."

"Would you not marry a lady of wealth?"

"I would marry the woman I loved; that is, if I could get her."

"Well added," said De Forrest.

"Yes, sir, I agree with you. Every man had better add that."

"Indeed they had," said Lottie, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"There is always a chance for a man who will never take 'no' for an answer," said De Forrest with a light laugh.

"Do you think so?" she said, lifting her eyebrows questioningly. "I agree with Mr. Hemstead. It's a matter of taste and conscience."

"Do you intend to be a missionary, Mr. Hemstead?" asked Bel Parton.

"I hope so," he replied, quietly.

"Yes," said Lottie; "just think of it. He is going away out to the jumping-off place at the West, where he will have the border ruffians on one side and the scalping Indians on the other. You said you would marry the woman you loved, if you could. Do you think any real nice girl would go with you to such a horrible place?"

"I'm sure I don't know. If the one I want won't venture, I can go alone."

"Do you think she'll go?" asked Lottie, so innocently that the others had no slight task in controlling their faces.

"Who will go?" said Hemstead, quickly.

"The one whom you said you wanted to."

"Now I'm sure I did not mention any one," said Hemstead, blushing and laughing.

"Well, you did not exactly speak her name."

74 FROM JE&T TO EARNEST-

"No, I should think not, since I don't know it myself."

"How provoking!" pouted Lottie. "I thought we were going to have a nice little romance."

"It's a pity I've nothing to tell, in view of my sympathizing audience," he replied, with a glance at the gigglers on the other seats.

"But I have been told," said Lottie, "that in emergencies committees have been appointed to select wives for missionaries, and that there are excellent women who are willing to sacrifice themselves for the sake of the cause."

An explosion of laughter followed these words, but she looked at the others in innocent surprise.

"That's a funny speech for you to make so gravely," said Hemstead. "I fear you are quizzing me. Your missionary lore certainly exceeds mine in regard to the 'committees.' But there will be no emergency in my case, and I should be sorry to have any woman, excellent or otherwise, sacrifice herself for me."

"I have certainly heard so," said Lottie, positively.

"I fear you have heard more to the prejudice of missionaries and their works than in their favor," he said somewhat gravely."

"But I am willing to hear the other side," she whispered in his ear.

"Now I protest against that," said De Forrest.

"I'll give you the privilege of whispering to Bel," said Lottie, sweetly.

"O, thank you," replied De Forrest, with a shrug.

"You can also help me out," she continued, as the sleigh stopped at Mrs. Marchmont's door.

As he did so he whispered in her ear, "Capital, Lottie, you are a star actress, and always my bright particular star."

"Don't be sentimental, Julian," was her only response.

At this moment Lottie's brother Dan fired a snow-ball that carried off Mr. Hemstead's hat; at which all laughed, and expected to see the young theologian assume a look of offended dignity. He disappointed them by good-naturedly springing out after his hat, and was soon romping with the boy and Mrs. Marchmont's two younger children. This was too tempting to Lottie, who joined the frolic at once.

Hemstead laughingly allowed himself to be their victim, and skilfully threw great snow-balls so as just to miss them, while they pelted him till he was white, and, as if utterly defeated, he led them a breathless chase up and down the broad path. Their cries and laughter brought half the household to the doors and windows to watch the sport.

De Forrest ventured down from the piazza, with the thought that he could throw a spiteful ball or two at one he already disliked a little, as well as despised. But Hemstead immediately showed what a self-sacrificing victim he was to Lottie and the children by almost demolishing De Forrest with a huge snow-ball that stung his ear sharply, got down his neck, spoiling his collar, and necessitating such a toilet that he was late for dinner.

His plight took Lottie out of the field also, for she sank on the lower step of the piazza, her hand upon her side, helpless with laughter.

Hemstead retreated to a side door, where he shook himself after the manner of a polar bear, and escaped to his room.



CHAPTER VII.

ANOTHER SPELL THAN BEAUTY'S.



De Forrest tried to laugh at his discomfiture when he appeared at the dinner-table, but he was evidently annoyed and vexed with its author.

"It was very nice of you, Mr. Hemstead," said Lottie, "to permit youself to be pelted by us. You evidently did not think us worthy of your steel. But I fear you gave Julian a strong compliment."

"I only returned one of his."

"But he did not hit you."

"He meant to. We form our most correct judgment of people sometimes from what they intend, rather than what they do."

"Well, I thank you for my share of the sport."

"And I thank you for mine."

"What occasion have you to thank me, when I almost put your eyes out with snow?"

"You did not so blind them but that I could see a face aglow with exercise. That made a pleasing contrast to the cold white snow."

"Frank, Frank, you will make Lottie vain," said Mrs. Marchmont. "I did not know that complimenting was permitted to you."

"That is all right, sister," said Mr. Dimmerly. "That's where he shows his good blood and connection with an old family. He is gallant to the ladies. They can't get that out of him, even at a theological seminary."

Hemstead's blushing confusion increased the laugh at this speech.

"O, mother," exclaimed Addie, "we are all going on a frolic to-night. You know that poor, forlorn little minister at Scrub Oaks, who has six children, and gets but six hundred a year? Well, they are going to give him a donation to-night, so a dilapidated pillar of the church told us. We were invited to come, and Lottie wants to go."

"Very well, my dear, since you and our guests wish it."

"Now, auntie, that's very sweet of you to answer so," said Lottie. "I want to see the queer, awkward country people who go to such places. They amuse me vastly; don't they you, Mr. Hemstead?"

"They interest me."

"O, it wouldn't be proper for you to say 'amuse.'"

"Nor would it be exactly true."

"Why, Lottie," said Addie, "you know that ministers only think of people as a sad lot that must be saved."

"We'll help make a jolly lot there, to-night," said Lottie, with a swift glance at Hemstead's contracting brows. "Moreover, auntie, I want to see what a minister that lives on six hundred a year looks like. We give our pastor ten thousand."

"You need not go so far for that purpose, Miss Marsden," said Hemstead, quietly: "that is all I shall get."

"What!" she exclaimed, dropping her knife and fork.

"That, in all probability, will be my salary at first. It may be but five hundred."

"Is that all they pay you for going out among the border ruffians?"

"That is the average."

"I wouldn't go," she said indignantly,

"You may rest assured I would not, for the money."

"Frank will change his mind before spring," said his aunt; "or a year at least among the 'border ruffians,' as you call them, will cure him, and he will be glad to take a nice church at the East."

"What do you say to that, Mr. Hemstead?"

"Perhaps I would better answer by my actions," he replied.

"But I can see from the expression of your eyes and mouth a very plain answer to the contrary. Mr. Hemstead, you could be a very stubborn man if you chose."

"I hope I could be a very resolute one."

"Yes, so we explain ourselves when we will have our own way. I think Aunt Marchmont's suggestion a very good one."

"If we go to the donation we shall have to take something," said Bel.

"O, yes," exclaimed Addie; "I am told all sorts of queer things are brought. Let us take the oddest and most outlandish we can think of. Uncle, there is your old blue dresscoat; we will take that for the minister. Wouldn't he look comical preaching in it? And, mother, there is your funny low-necked satin dress that you wore when a young lady. I will take that for his wife."

"I understand everybody brings pies to a donation," said Harcourt. "I shall be more pious than any of them, and bring over fifty from town this afternoon. I will buy all the bake-shops out, in my zeal,—enough to give the parson and all his people the dyspepsia for a month."

"If he lives on six hundred, nothing could give him the dyspepsia save his own sermons, I imagine," said De Forrest. "My young lady friends have half filled one of my bureau drawers with smoking-caps. I have one with me, and will give it to the minister."

"You vain fellow," laughed Lottie. "I never gave you one."

"Rest assured, no minister—even were he a minister to the Court of St. James—should get it, if you had."

"What will you take, Mr. Hemstead?" asked Lottie, noting his grave face.

"I shall not go."

"Why not? You spoke as if you would, this morning."

"I cannot go under the circumstances."

"Why not?" asked Addie, rather sharply.

"Could we take such gifts to a gentleman and lady, Cousin Addie?"

"Well, I suppose not," she answered, reddening.

"I see no proof that this clergyman and his wife are not in the fact that they are compelled to live on six hundred a year. Besides, I have too much respect for the calling."

"Don't you see?" said De Forrest to Addie, in a loud whisper. "'Our craft is in danger.'"

"Your explanation is more crafty than true, Mr. De Forrest," said Hemstead, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Come," cried Lottie, "my party is not to be broken up. Mr. Hemstead, you need not look so serious or take the matter so much to heart. As you declared once before to-day, we were only 'talking in jest.' You cannot think we would willingly hurt the feelings of your brother clergyman. Surely, if you thought they were serious, it was good of you to stand up for him. We will all give money: that must be the thing the poor man needs most sorely."

"I will give twenty-five dollars if you will, Mr. Hemstead," said De Forrest, with a malicious twinkle in his eye.

"That's liberal of you, Julian. That's action in the right direction," said Lottie; and she turned to Hemstead, expecting a prompt response. But the moment she saw his face she surmised the truth and De Forrest's motive in making the offer, and what had appeared generous was now seen to be the reverse. But she determined that Julian should give the money, nevertheless. Still she did not at once interfere, but watched with no little curiosity, to see how Hemstead would extricate himself.

The young man was much embarrassed. He had an innate horror of seeming niggardly, and the course he had taken made his position more delicate. But his simplicity and truthfulness came to his aid, and he said firmly, although with a crimson face, "I am sorry I cannot accept your generous proposition, but I will give in accordance with my ability. I can give only five dollars."

Mr. Dimmerly and Mrs. Marchmont looked annoyed, while Addie gave utterance to an audible titter. Bel laughed, and then looked as if she had done wrong.

But Lottie, with graceful tact, which was still only good acting, said: "And that, I am sure, is all that can be asked of Mr. Hemstead or of any one. But the poor man shall not lose the money, Julian, for I will supply Mr. Hemstead with what is lacking."

"Pardon me, Miss Marsden, I cannot take it."

"Not even for this needy minister with his six children?"

"I cannot sacrifice my self-respect for any one," he said. "Why cannot Mr. De Forrest give what he wishes without imposing a condition which leaves it doubtful whether he is to give at all?"

"O, yes, he is to give," said Lottie, promptly. "I take your offer, Julian. It's delightful to have such a genuine object of charity as a minister living on six hundred a year."

This was spoken very innocently, but was in reality a keen thrust at Hemstead, who had so recently stated his prospective income at that sum. That the others understood it as such was shown by their significant glances, as they rose from the table.

Hemstead could not discover from Lottie's face whether she meant a covert allusion to himself or not.

Harcourt drove over to town, promising to be back in time. The other young people said that the long drive had made them drowsy, and retired to their rooms for a nap. Hemstead went to the parlor and tried to read, but his thoughts wandered strangely. The beautiful face of Lottie Marsden haunted him, and the puzzling contradictions of her words and manner kept rising in his mind for solution. After a prolonged revery, he came to the conclusion: "I have left nothing ambiguous about myself. If she is friendly after this she knows just who and what I am. It's plain the others think me no addition to their company, and I'm almost sorry I accepted aunt's invitation. However, I can shorten the visit if I choose;" and he turned resolutely to his book.

Instead of donning her wrapper, as did Bel, Lottie sat down before the fire, and, as was often her custom, commenced half-talking to her friend and familiar, and half-thinking aloud to herself.

"Well, he is the frankest and most transparent man I ever saw. I have been acquainted with him but a few hours, and I feel that I know him better than I do Julian, with whom I have been intimate so many years."

"He's sincerely, honestly good, too," said Bel. "I think it's too bad, Lottie, that you all treat him so. It's really wicked."

"Yes," said Lottie, meditatively. "It's a good deal more wicked than I thought it would be."

"Then you will give it up."

"No indeed. I haven't said that."

"How can you do it, Lottie, when you know it is wrong?"

"I knew it was wrong when I commenced. I only know now that it is a little more wrong. Why should I give up my fun on that account? I might as well die for an old black sheep as a speckled lamb."

Bel yawned at the rather peculiar and tragic ending that Lottie suggested for herself, and was soon dozing on a lounge. But either a restless spirit of mischief, or a disturbed conscience, prevented Lottie from following her example.

It would at times seem true that, when engaged in something that conscience forbids, the very opposition incites and leads to the evil. The conflict between inclination and the sense of right creates a feverish unrest, in which one cannot settle down to ordinary pursuits and duties. If principle holds the reins, and the voice of conscience is clear and authoritative, the disturbed mental and moral state will end in the firm choice of duty, and consequent peace and rest. But if, as in the case of Lottie Marsden, impulse rules in the place of principle, and conscience is merely like a half-dreaded, reproachful face, this unrest is the very hour and opportunity for temptation. Some escape from self and solitude must be found; some immediate excitement must engross the thoughts; and the very phase of evil against which conscience is vainly protesting has at the same time the most dangerous fascination.

So Lottie escaped from her own self-reproaches as a naughty child runs away from a scolding, and was soon at the parlor entrance with a noiseless tread, a grace of motion, and a motive that suggested the lithe panther stealing on its prey. The door was ajar, and a hasty glance revealed that the object of her designs was alone. Her stealthy manner changed instantly, and she sauntered into the room with quiet indifference, humming an air from Faust.

"O, you are here!" she exclaimed, as if suddenly becoming aware of his presence. "Why do you not take a nap like the others? I hope you are not troubled by a bad conscience."

"What suggested a bad conscience, Miss Marsden?"

"Your sleeplessness."

"I am glad it was not your own. Why are you not taking a nap? I thought you started for one."

"So I did, but found I did not want it. But you are not a Yankee that you must answer my question with another. What are you reading? Won't you read it to me?"

"I would rather not read this book to you; but I will any other that you wish."

"You must learn human nature better, Mr. Hemstead. Don't you know that you have said just enough to make me wish that book and no other? What is it about?"

"I feel sure that it will have no interest for you. It is one of the latest infidel attacks upon the Bible."

"O, you are afraid to have me read it."

"Yes; but not for the reasons implied in your tone."

"Don't you see that you are taking the very course to awaken my curiosity, and to make me wish to hear just that book? If you had said, 'Certainly, I'll read it to you, but you won't like it, for it's only a dry, heavy book upon a heavy subject,' I would never have looked into it, but would have asked for something else."

"That would hardly be true, Miss Marsden. Though I regard it as an evil and dangerous book, it is exceedingly clever, and well written, and it is quite popular in some circles. I suppose it has been sent up to Aunt Marchmont with other new books of note."

"I must certainly read it, since you won't read it to me. Forbid a child to do a thing, you know, and you have given the strongest motive for doing just that thing."

"You are not a child, Miss Marsden."

"What am I, then?"

"I hardly know; but you are capable of realizing one's best ideal, almost."

"Almost! thank you."

"Perhaps my language is stronger than you realize. The woman who could answer to my ideal would be nearly perfect."

"And do you think such a paragon would go out among the border ruffians with you?"

"No, nor anywhere else with me. I was speaking of my ideal."

"You do not expect to marry your ideal, then?"

"I suppose love transfigures the one we love, and that this is the only way we can ever meet our ideal in this life. But sometimes we see one who it seems might approach even the ideal of our unbiased fancy."

"It is well that you admire these exquisite creatures at a distance," she said, dryly. "I can't see why men will always be so foolish as to think pretty women are good women. But if I am not a child why may I not read that book? You intimate that it will not shake my belief."

"I do not think it would,—at least I hope it would not."

"You are not sure."

"I'm sure it will not shake the Bible. Every age has teemed with infidel books. Yet God's Word stands to-day as strong and serene as that mountain yonder, to which the setting sun has given a crown of light."

"Your figure is pretty, but unfortunate. The sun is indeed 'setting,' and soon the mountain will lose its crown of light and vanish in darkness."

"But does it vanish," he asked quickly, "in the transient darkness, like a cloud tipped with light? Such a cloud is a fit emblem of this brilliant book, and of multitudes like it that have preceded, but which, like lurid vapors, have vanished from men's thought and memory. Even with my immature mind I can detect that this clever work is but an airy castle, soon to fall. What infidel book has ever gained or kept a lasting hold upon the popular heart? Let the darkness swallow up the mountain there. If we go where it is at midnight, we shall find it intact, and just as firm as when the sun is shining upon it. The searching light of every day, from year to year and age to age, will find it there just the same. The long night of moral darkness which culminated in the fifteenth century, though it hid the Bible, did not destroy it. Luther at last found and brought it out into the broad light of general study and criticism. For generations it has been assailed on every side, but it stands in the calm, unchanging strength that yonder mountain would maintain, were it surrounded by children shooting against it with arrows. Believe me, I do not fear for the Bible. If all the light of human knowledge were turned upon it in one burning focus, its intrinsic truth would only be revealed more clearly; and if superstition, as in the past, or infidelity, as was the case in France, creates temporary darkness, the moment that, in the light of returning reason, men look for the Bible, they find it like a great solemn mountain, that cannot be moved while the world lasts, just where God has placed it."

"Mr. Hemstead, don't you know that young gentlemen do not talk to young ladies as you do to me?"

"You know very well that I am not a society man."

"O, I'm not complaining. I rather like to be talked to as if I had some brains, and was not a doll. If you are so sure about the Bible, why do you fear to have me read arguments against it?"

"I am not so sure about you. If I should listen to a plausible story against you, without knowing you or giving you a fair hearing, I might come to be prejudiced,—to believe you very unworthy,—when the reverse would be true. So the minds of many, from reading books of this nature, and not giving the Bible a fair hearing, become poisoned and prejudiced."

"Then why do you read it?"

"For the same reason that would influence a physician to study a disease,—not that he may catch it, but that he may understand and know how to treat it. This book is a mental and moral disease, and I do not wish you to run the risk of catching it, though I do not think it would prove fatal if you did. Your own heart and experience would probably correct the error of your head. Such books as these won't answer in times of illness or deep trouble. We turn from them as instinctively and certainly as we do from noise, glare, and gayety."

The mountain without was now in the shadow. The early twilight of the December evening had darkened the wintry landscape; but the ruddy glow of the hickory fire revealed how beautiful Lottie's face could be, when composed into womanly truth and thoughtfulness.

"I have never had a serious sorrow or illness, and I wonder what I should do if I had?" she queried musingly, as these sombre events, which sooner or later must come into every life, rose up before her.

"I know well what you will do when they come, as come they will to us all," said Hemstead, gently. "As surely as you would cling to a strong arm were you sinking in deep waters, just so surely you will turn to the Bible, and to Him who said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'"

The truth, if given a hearing, is ever powerful,—the truths of our own sad experience,—the answering and remedial truth of God. Unexpectedly and unintentionally on her part, both these phases of truth had gained the ear of Lottie Marsden. The sorrowful and suffering days of the future threw back their shadows upon her, and her heart sank at their prospect; and with the certainty of intuition she recognized the answering truth, and felt that she would indeed be glad to cling to One who had the right and power to utter such tender, reassuring words as Hemstead had quoted.

Of all spells, that of truth is the strongest. Under it the impulsive girl buried her face in her hands and, with a quick sob, cried, "O that I were better!"

Then, springing up, she gave Hemstead a strange, earnest look through her tears, as if she would read his soul. But she saw only honest sympathy.

He was about to speak again, but she abruptly left the room.



CHAPTER VIII.

FINDING ONE'S LEVEL.



Lottie met De Forrest on the stairs, and he was about to apologize for his long sleep, but she rushed by him like a summer gust. A moment later she burst into her room and startled indolent Bel out of her last luxurious doze by dropping into a chair by the fire and indulging in what girls call a "good cry."

"What is the matter?" asked Bel, anxiously.

Lottie's tears were the only answer.

"What has happened?" cried Bel, rising hastily. "Let me call auntie or Julian."

"If you call either you are no friend of mine," said Lottie, springing to the door, locking it, and taking the key.

"Why, Lottie, I don't understand—"

"There is no need that you should. Nothing is the matter—only I'm blue—I've been thinking of awful things. I was in one of my moods this afternoon, now I'm in one of my tenses."

"Unusually intense, I should think. I have not seen you so moved since Tom Wellesly threatened to blow out his brains for you."

"He hadn't any to blow out," snapped Lottie, "or he wouldn't have thought of doing it for such a girl as I am."

"Well," sighed Bel, who at times was one of Job's comforters, "I've heard he has never been the same since."

"I hope he has been wiser, then. How can men be such stupid owls as to fall in love with me! Can't they see I'm a wicked little heathen?"

"That is just the kind men like," sneered Bel, misanthropically. "You expect to captivate (and of course you will) this sincere and saintly young minister. He already thinks that you are by far the best of our party, and has some of the first symptoms that your victims usually manifest."

Lottie sprang up, dashed away her tears, and commenced restlessly pacing the room.

"Bother on the men," she exclaimed. "Why will they be so silly! The world's a perfect jumble, and we are all lunatics and fools, crying for what is not good for us, and turning our backs upon what is. I'm disgusted with everybody, and myself in particular. Now if this overgrown student makes a fool of himself, like the others, I shall lose faith in mankind, and I know there is nothing to hope from woman-kind."

"I should think you were having a mood and a tense at the same time this evening," said Bel, looking with some surprise at her friend. "What has stirred you up so? Have you and Julian had a quarrel?"

"We shall have plenty more, I foresee," said Lottie, seizing on the suggestion to hide the truth. Bel smiled satirically. All these harsh words were but the harmless lightnings of a summer gust that was passing away.

"It's only a lovers' tiff," she thought, "and now the billing and cooing are to come."

"O, well," said Bel, soothingly, "you and Julian will soon make up, and then you and all the world will change for the better."

"We have made up," said Lottie faintly, finding, like many another sinner in this line, that the first fib requires the second to cover it up.

"Well, well; get over your mood quickly, for the supper-bell will ring in a moment, and you are not ready to come down."

What emergency of life can obliterate from the mind of a pretty woman the necessity of a toilet? To Bel, Lottie seemed to come to her senses at once as she sped to her bureau and commenced brushing her rumpled hair. But the languid maiden was quite startled as Lottie wheeled suddenly upon her, declaring, while she brandished the hair-brush in the most tragic and impressive manner, "If that Hemstead makes a fool of himself he may, but he shall do it with his eyes open; I will not deceive him any more."

Thus conscience, that had been skirmishing all day, appeared to gain one point of advantage, and Lottie, having made this virtuous resolve, gained in mental serenity, while the mirror that reflected her fair face helped to bring back her complacency.

"Bel," said Lottie, as they were leaving their room, "not a whisper of all this to any one, as you value my friendship."

But before they reached the supper-room her resolution failed, as is often the case when one acts from impulse rather than principle. She found that she could not so lightly throw away Hemstead's good opinion. She had been admired, loved, and flattered to her heart's content, but the respect, esteem, and trust of a sincere, true man formed a new offering, and it was so attractive that she could not bring herself to turn from it at once. Then her strong pride cast its weight into the scale, and she thought: "He talks to me and treats me as if I were a woman of heart and mind, and I'm going down to show him I'm a wicked fool. I shall not do it, at least not now. Little fear but that the disagreeable truth will come out soon enough."

"But it is wrong to deceive him," whispered conscience.

"Suppose it is," answered the wayward will, "I am all wrong myself and always have been."

"You promised to show him your real self," still urged conscience.

"Well, I will, some other time."

With conscience thwarted and unsatisfied, serenity vanished again, and instead of being reckless and trivial at the table, as she intended, she was rather silent, and a trifle sullen, as one often is even when vexed with one's self.

Hemstead was expecting a subdued and thoughtful young lady to appear, whose pensive manner would indicate a nature softened and receptive. While her bearing was not what he anticipated, it was somewhat akin, and showed, he thought, that the truth was not without effect.

De Forrest was still more puzzled; but soon concluded that Lottie was provoked that he had slept so long instead of devoting himself to her. True, she had just come from the parlor, where he found Hemstead standing by the window, looking out into the gloom, but she had found him, no doubt, so heavy and stupid that she had rushed to her room in a fit of vexation. This theory was entirely reconcilable with his vanity, and therefore conclusive; and he tried to make amends by excessive gallantry, which only annoyed Lottie. This he ascribed to her resentment for his neglect, and only redoubled his unwelcome attentions.

While Hemstead's heart was in a tumult of joy and thankfulness that so early in his acquaintance, and so unexpectedly, he had been able to speak to her as he wished and with such seeming effectiveness, he had the good taste and tact to indicate by no words or sign that anything unusual had occurred between them. He sought to draw the others, and even De Forrest, into general conversation, so that Lottie might be left more to herself.

With a mingled smile and frown, she recognized his purpose, and with a reckless laugh in her own soul, thought; "He imagines I am near conversion, when I never felt so wicked before in my life."

But catching a glimpse of Bel's surprised face, and seeing that her abstraction was noted by the others, she speedily rallied, and assumed the manner that she had maintained throughout the day.

"It is so delightful to see his large gray eyes turn towards me wistfully and trustingly, that I cannot undeceive him yet"; and so conscience was dismissed, as history records has been often the case with some honest old counsellor in a foolish and reckless court.

The prospective sleigh-ride and donation party were the prominent themes, and they hastened through the meal that they might start early.

Upon this occasion De Forrest managed to get the seat by Lottie, in his eagerness to make amends, and Hemstead sat opposite with Bel. As far as he could gather in the uncertain moonlight, Hemstead thought that De Forrest's attentions were not particularly welcome, and, though he scarcely knew why, was glad. He would probably explain by saying that De Forrest was not worthy of her.

Lottie's periods of depression never lasted long, and again the frosty air and quick motion set her blood tingling with life. In order to escape De Forrest's whispered sentimentalities, she began to sing. Her naturally good voice had been somewhat injured by straining at difficult music, under superficial instruction, instead of thorough training for it, but within a moderate compass, and in simple music, was sweet and strong.

De Forrest was enthusiastic in his praise of selections that were beyond her abilities. Though most of the airs were unfamiliar to Hemstead, he was satisfied that they were incorrect, and certain that the music was not over good. Therefore he was silent. This piqued Lottie, for one of her purposes in the choice of what she sang was to impress him, from the barbarous West, with the idea of her superior culture. At last she said, "I fear you do not like operatic and classical music very much, Mr. Hemstead?"

"We do not often hear such music very perfectly rendered in our part of the West. There are airs from the opera that are very pretty"; and he suggested one that was simple.

The truth began to dawn on the quick-witted girl, but De Forrest said, patronizingly, "It requires a cultivated taste to appreciate such music as you were singing, Miss Lottie."

"It is not with the music probably, but my rendering of it, that Mr. Hemstead finds fault."

"Two of the airs were new to me, and the other I have heard but seldom," said Hemstead, evasively.

"How about that one?" asked De Forrest.

"Well, in sincerity then, I think Miss Marsden does herself injustice by attempting music that would tax the powers of a prima donna."

"The boor!" whispered De Forrest to Lottie.

After a moment she said firmly, "Mr. Hemstead has only said plainly what you thought, Julian."

"O Miss Lottie—" he began to protest.

"I'm not a fool," she continued, "so please don't waste your breath. You have heard all the star singers, and know how ridiculously far beneath them I fall, when I try to sing their music. I think you might have told me. It would have been truer kindness than your hollow applause. Why our teachers make us the laughing-stock of society, by keeping us upon these absurd attempts at music beyond us, to the exclusion of everything else, is something that I can't understand. My ear is not over nice, but I have always had a suspicion that I was executing, in the sense of murder, the difficult arias that the old weazen-faced Italian professor kept me at till brother Dan said, in truth, that I was turning into a screech-owl. But no one, save he and Mr. Hemstead, has been honest enough to tell me the truth. Thus, on many occasions, I have taxed the politeness of people to the utmost, no doubt, and been the cause of innumerable complimentary fibs, like those you have just been guilty of, Julian. Perhaps, Mr. Hemstead, you think a style of music like this more suited to my powers "; and she struck into a well-known plantation song.

"No," said he, laughing, "I think you do yourself still greater injustice."

"You probably think I cannot sing at all."

"On the contrary, I think you have an unusually good voice. I wish you would sing that air that you were humming when you came into the parlor this afternoon. I liked that, and imagine it is suited to your voice."

"What was it? O, I remember. An arr from Faust, that Marguerite sings at her spinning-wheel. I think I can give that pretty decently."

She sang it sweetly, with taste and some power. Hemstead's appreciation was hearty, and she knew it was sincere.

"Now that you have done me such good service," she said laughing, "and shown that mediocrity is my musical position, let us have some old-fashioned ballads, and all sing them together in sleigh-riding style."

"Pardon me, Miss Marsden, I assign you to mediocrity in nothing."

"O, no, not you; my own abilities place me there. But come, each one sing"; and she commenced a ballad, well known to the others, but not to him.

It sounded very well indeed, only Harcourt's bass was much too light for the other voices.

"Why don't you sing?" asked Lottie of Hemstead.

"I do not know the air or words."

"Shall we try Old Hundred?" asked De Forrest. "Ahem! The long metre doxology.

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

Addie and Harcourt joined in laughingly. Bel began with them, but stopped when she saw that Lottie did not sing.

"Do you believe that 'all blessings flow' from God?" asked Hemstead of De Forrest.

"I suppose so, according to Old Hundred," he said lightly.

"You don't 'suppose so' at all, Julian. You know it, as we all do, however we may act," said Lottie, with emphasis.

"With such a belief, I—would at least treat Him with respect," said Hemstead, quietly. "I should be sorry to be under deep and continued obligations to One toward whom I failed in ordinary courtesy."

"I knew it was wrong," muttered Bel, "but—"

"I have no such belief," said Harcourt, "so your sharp homily does not apply to me."

"Where do your blessings come from?" asked Hemstead.

"Well, those I don't get out of my clients, from where this snow does,—the laws and forces of nature."

"Your faith is like the snow, I think,—very cold."

"If it's cold in winter, it's warm in summer," retorted he, flippantly; and Addie giggled approvingly, for the reason that it sounded flippant and smart.

They had now reached the hamlet of Scrub Oaks, in the centre of which was a small house that seemed bursting with light and noise. Whenever the door opened it appeared to fly open from a pressure within.

De Forrest acted as escort to the ladies, while Hemstead accompanied Harcourt in his effort to find a sheltered place for the horses. This pleased the young lawyer, and he said, good-naturedly, "Don't think, Mr. Hemstead, that I do not respect your honest convictions, and I meant no slur upon them. You take things too seriously."

"I suppose we all ought to make more allowance for what is said in mere sport and repartee," said Hemstead. "But what to you is law and force is to me a personal Friend. You know that there are some names—like those of mother and wife—that are too sacred for jest."

"Thus people misjudge and misunderstand each other, simply because they see things from different points of view," replied Harcourt. "De Forrest provokes me, however. He has no doubts worthy of the name, for he reads nothing save the sporting news and fashionable literature of the day, and yet he likes to give the impression that he is in with us, who read books and think."

"If you will only read fairly, Mr. Harcourt, I have no fears but that in time you will think rightly. An honest jury must hear both sides and have no prejudices."

The young men now sought the rest of the party, who had squeezed their way into the little parsonage. It was so replete with life and bustle that it appeared like a social bombshell, with effervescing human nature as an explosive material, and might burst into fragments at any moment.



CHAPTER IX.

"THE OTHER SET."



The minister and his wife were scarcely host and hostess on this occasion, as a self-appointed committee of ladies had taken upon themselves the duty; but, like all corporations, this committee had no soul and a very indefinite body. No one knew just who they were, or where to find them, and some of the members, in the bewilderment of unaccustomed official position and honors, seemed to have lost themselves, and bustled aimlessly all over the house. The more staid and practical sisters of the committee were down in the kitchen, breathlessly setting tables which were almost as speedily cleared by people whose appetites were as keen as the winter night without.

"I do declare," ejaculated Mrs. Gubling, as one devastating tableful rose lingeringly from the repast, and another flock began to gather in hungry expectancy at the door,—"I do declare, I'm near beat out. Is this a starvin' community? At this rate they'll eat up all there is in the house, and the minister and his wife and babies into the bargain."

"Well," said Mrs. Rhamm, conveying the last bit of corned beef, which had been reluctantly left upon the plate as "manners," to a rather capacious mouth, "if they would eat up some of the babies it wouldn't be so bad. I don't see why poor ministers will have so many babies."

"The Lord takes care of 'em. We don't," suggested Mrs. Gubling.

"We all do our part, I s'pose. The worst of it is that it makes it oncomfortable for a church to give a small salary."

"I wish our church was more uncomfortable then. It's a shame we give Mr. Dlimm only six hundred. But come, if we don't git another table set they'll eat us up."

"I'd like to see 'em," said Mrs. Rhamm, with a disdainful sniff.

"Well, you be a bit old and tough," chuckled Mrs. Gubling.

With the solace of this sally, which seemed true, if not true wit, these hard-featured mothers in Israel set about their tasks with the deftness that long experience gives.

At the time De Forrest conveyed the ladies into the hall, the upstairs members of the committee were buzzing around somewhere else, for there was no one to receive them. They were gradually hustled or carried into the parlor or main room, and here Hemstead and Harcourt found them in characteristic conditions. Addie's and De Forrest's elegant noses were decidedly retrousses; Bel appeared both disgusted and frightened; while Lottie's face wore an expression of intense and amused curiosity. She was seeing "the other set" to her heart's content, and all was as new and strange as if she had visited another land.

Harcourt joined Addie, and they began to whisper satirical criticisms on the remarks and manners of those around. Hemstead's interest mainly centred in watching Lottie, and in noting the effect of her contact with plain and uncultured people. He was glad he did not see the repulsion of a little mind and a narrow nature, as was the case with most of the others. Though it was evident that she had no sympathy with them, or for them, there was intelligent interest and wide-awake curiosity. While the others were incasing themselves in exclusive pride, she was eager to investigate and get en rapport with this new phase of humanity. But trammailed by her city ideas, she felt that she could not speak to any one without the formality of an introduction. But the ice was broken for her unexpectedly. Feeling her dress pulled, she turned and found a very stout old lady sitting near her, who asked in a loud whisper, "Been down to supper yet?"

"No," said Lottie, "I don't wish any."

"I do, but I'm afeard I won't get none. You see I'm big and clumsy anyway, and now I'm so lame with the rheumatiz that I kin hardly move."

"It's too bad," said Lottie, pathetically, but with a swift comical glance at the others.

"Yes, it's kinder orful to be so helpless," said the old woman, with a complacent sigh, delighted at having a sympathetic auditor. "I'm dreadfully afeard I won't git no supper. I'm like the withered man at the pool of Bethesdy. Whenever they are ready for another batch 'while I'm a-comin' another steppeth down before me.'"

"Well, you're not very much withered, that's one comfort to be thankful for," said Lottie.

"I'd like to be thankful for my supper, if I could only git a chance," persisted the old woman.

"You shall have a chance. When is the pool troubled? When shall we put you in?"

"There! now is the time," said her new acquaintance, dropping her affected and pious tone, and speaking with sharp eagerness. "See, one batch is comin' up, and 'nother is going down."

"Mr. Hemstead, will you assist me in escorting this old lady to the supper-table?"

Hemstead's face was aglow with approval, and he instantly complied, while the others, understanding Lottie better, were convulsed with laughter.

It was no easy thing for them unitedly to manage the hobbling mountain of flesh. When they came to the narrow stairway, matters were still more serious.

"You shall go first," whispered Lottie to Hemstead, "for if she should fall on me, good-by, Lottie Marsden."

Hemstead patiently, carefully, and with the utmost deference, assisted the helpless creature down the stairs.

"You're as polite to her as if she were a duchess," said Lottie, in a low tone.

"She is more than a duchess. She is a woman," he replied.

Lottie gave him a quick, pleased look, but said, "Such old-fashioned chivalry is out of date, Mr. Hemstead."

"He's right, miss," said the old woman, sharply. "I'm not Dutch."

Lottie dropped behind to hide her merriment at this speech, and Hemstead appeared, with his charge clinging to his arm, at the kitchen door, which her ample form nearly filled.

"My sakes alive! Auntie Lammer, how did you get down here?" said Mrs. Gubling. "We hain't ready for you yet."

"No matter," said Mrs. Lammer, "I thank the marcies I've got down safe, and I'm goin' to stay till I git my supper."

"Can I help you?" asked Lottie, glancing curiously around the room.

They looked with even more curiosity at her; and a strange contrast she made, in her rich and tasteful costume and rare beauty, with those plain, middle-aged, hard-working women, and the small, dingy room.

For a moment they stared at her without reply, then gave each other a few suggestive nudges; and Mrs. Rhamm was about to speak rather slightingly, when good-natured Mrs. Gubling said: "You are very kind, miss, but you don't look cut out for our work. Besides, my dear, it's an orful dangerous place down here. I'm afraid we'll git eat up ourselves before the evening is over. I'm sure you would be, if you stayed. I wouldn't mind taking a bite myself"; and the good woman and her assistants laughed heartily over this standing joke of the evening, while Auntie Lammer, seeing that Mrs. Gubling was the leading spirit of the supper-room, quivered in all her vast proportions with politic and propitious mirth.

All this was inexpressibly funny to Lottie, who had the keenest sense of the absurd, and with a sign to Hemstead she drew him away, saying, "This exceeds any play I ever saw. I didn't know people who were not acting could be so queer and comical."

"Well, Miss Lottie," he said, as they ascended the stairs, "I admit that humanity everywhere often has its ridiculous side, but I have been laughed at too much myself to enjoy laughing at others."

"And why should you be laughed at so much?"

"I suppose it is the fate of overgrown, awkward boys, who have a tendency to blurt out the truth on all occasions."

"Such a tendency as that will always make you trouble, I assure you."

"It hasn't with you, yet."

"Our acquaintance has been very brief."

"And yet I seem to know you so well! I would not have believed it possible in one short day."

"I think you are mistaken. But you have ceased to be n stranger to me. I have remarked before to-day, that I knew you better than some I have seen from childhood."

"I am happy to say that I wish to conceal nothing."

"Few can say that."

"O, I don't mean that I am better than other people, only that it's best to appear just what we are. People should be like coin, worth their face—"

"I was in search of you," interrupted De Forrest, as they stood talking a moment near the head of the stairs in the hall. "We did not know but that the sylph you escorted away had made a supper of Hemstead, with you as a relish. Have you seen enough of this bear-garden yet?"

"No, indeed," said Lottie; "I'm just beginning to enjoy myself."

From openly staring at and criticising the party from Mrs. Marchmont's, the young people began to grow aggressive, and, from class prejudices, were inclined to be hostile. There were whispered consultations, and finally one habitue of the store and tavern thought he could cover himself with glory by a trick, and at the same time secure a kiss from Lottie, the prettiest. The conspiracy was soon formed. A kissing game in one of the upper rooms was suspended for a moment, and one of the tall girls accompanied him down as if they were a delegation, and on the principle that in designs against a woman a female confederate is always helpful in disarming suspicion.

He approached Lottie with the best manners he could assume, and said, "We are having some games upstairs. Perhaps you would like to join us. We'd like to have you."

"Do come," added the tall girl; "they are real nice."

"Certainly," said Lottie, who was now ready for another adventure. "Come; let us all go."

"The others needn't come unless they want to," said the young man; for he didn't relish the lawyer's presence, whom he knew by reputation, nor the searching look of the tall stranger whom he did not know.

"Mr. Hemstead, you and Julian come," said Lottie, and as they ascended the stairs she studied this new specimen of Scrub Oaks, who was a loafer of the village as De Forrest was an idler of the town. They both belonged to the same genus, though the latter would have resented such a statement as the foulest insult.

The manners and the smart finery of her new acquaintance amused Lottie very much. When they reached the room, they found it full of whispering, giggling young people.

The tall girl, as instructed, said, "Now let us form a ring with our hands on this rope."

This having been done, she said, "Now, Mr. Shabb, you must go inside first"; and then, with a nudge to Lottie, she explained," He'll try to hit our hands with his, and if he hits your hands you will have to go inside the ring."

What else he would do, she left to be disclosed by action.

Then he of the flaming neck-tie and bulging cheek took his place with a twinkling eye that meant mischief. De Forrest and Hemstead declined to play, but the latter slipped forward and stood near Lottie. He was not sure, but dimly remembered seeing this game before, when it was not played so innocently as the tall girl had described.

The young rustic made extravagant but purposely vain efforts to strike the hands of others, and Lottie watched the scene with laughing curiosity. Suddenly he wheeled round and struck her hands sharply; and to her horrified surprise it seemed but a second later that his repulsive face was almost against her own. But something came between, and, starting back, she saw the baffled youth imprint a fervent kiss on the back of Hemstead's hand.

There was a loud laugh at him from those who had expected to laugh with him. He swaggered up to Hemstead, and said threateningly, "What do you mean?"

"What do YOU mean?" asked Lottie, confronting him with blazing eyes. "It is well this gentleman interposed. If you had succeeded in your insult I should have had you punished in a way that you would not soon forget."

"It's only part of the game," muttered he, abashed by her manner.

"Part of the game?"

"Yes," giggled the tall girl, faintly; "it's a kissing game."

"Did you know it was such?" asked Lottie, indignantly, of De Forrest and Hemstead.

"Indeed I did not," said De Forrest; "and if you say so I'll give this fellow the flogging, anyway."

"Come right out, and do it now," was the pert response.

"All I can say is, Miss Marsden," explained Hemstead, "that I suspected something wrong, and took means to prevent it. How these nice-looking girls can allow this fellow to kiss them is more than I can understand."

"No lady would," said Lottie, as she swept disdainfully out; and under the withering influence of these remarks kissing games languished the rest of the evening; only young children, and a few of the coarser-natured ones, participating. But soon the absurdity of the whole scene overcame Lottie, and she laughed till the tears stood in her eyes.

As they were slowly descending the stairs a faded little woman said, "I'm glad to see you enjoying yourself, Miss Marchmont. It was very kind of you and your party to come so far."

"I am not Miss Marchmont," said Lottie, "though I came with her."

"Well, as the minister's wife, I would like her and all her party to know of our grateful appreciation."

"You thank us beyond our deserts. But are you the minister's wife? I am glad to make your acquaintance"; and she held out her hand, which Mrs. Dlimm seemed glad to take.

At this moment there came the cry of an infant from one of the upper rooms.

"O, there goes my baby," said Mrs. Dlimm; "I thought I heard it before"; and she was about to hasten on.

"May I not go with you and see the baby?" asked Lottie.

What mother ever refused such a request? In a moment Lottie was in the one small room in which, on this portentous occasion, the three younger children were huddled, the others being old enough to take part in what, to them, was the greatest excitement of their lives, thus far.

Lottie looked curiously around, with the quick, appreciative eye by which ladies seem to gather accurately at a glance the effect of a costume and the style and character of an apartment and its occupants. But she politely, and from a certain innate interest, gave such attention to the baby as to win the mother's heart. It was but an ordinary baby, although the fattest and sturdiest member of a rather pinched household; but Lottie wonderingly saw that to the faded mother it was a cherub just from heaven.

Lottie could not understand it. A perfumed baby, in lace and muslin, might be a nice pet if the nurse were always within call; but the sole care of this chubby-cheeked Moloch, that would sacrifice its mother as unconsciously and complacently as the plant absorbs moisture, seemed almost as prosaic and dreadful as being devoured alive.

"Does no one help you take care of that child?" asked she.

"Well, my husband and the elder children help some."

"Haven't you a nurse for all these children?"

"No, indeed. It's as much as we can do to clothe and feed them."

"Don't you keep any servants at all?"

"Yes, we have a girl in the kitchen, but she's almost as much bother as she is worth."

"How do you get along?"

"I hardly know—somewhat as the birds do out of doors."

"Are you happy?"

"I've hardly time to think. I think I am, though,—happy as most people. Some days bright, some days cloudy, and now and then a storm. That's the way it is with all, I imagine. We all have our crosses, you know, but by and by all will come right."

"I should be cross enough with all your crosses."

"They might make you patient. The crossest people I know are those who shun all crosses."

"Now I think of it, I'm inclined to believe that's true," said Lottie, reflectively. Then she whispered, as she walked softly to the mother's side, "Baby is going to sleep, isn't it?"

With different expressions they both peered into the full-moon face, two features of which, the eyes, were becoming obliterated by the white, drooping lids. Lottie looked as if she were examining a zoological specimen. Mrs. Dlimm gazed with a smile of deep content and tenderness.

The undisturbed rest of the child upon her bosom was a type of her own mind at that moment. She was nature's child, God's child, and the babe was hers.

To the true and simple children of nature, who, without thought of self or the public eye, are quietly doing their duty in their own little niches, these moments of peace with strange thrills of joy are constantly coming. If this worn mother could look down upon the child, and her plain, pale face grow beautiful with spiritual light, how must the God who inspires all love—who is the source of tenderness—have regarded her?

The expression of this woman's face puzzled Lottie beyond measure. It was so incongruous, irreconcilable with the burdens, the weary cares, and ceaseless toil and anxiety of her lot. It was so out of keeping with the noisy throng and confused bustle that filled the house, and it dimly suggested to the proud belle a condition of mind before undreamt of in her philosophy.

Some new and curious thoughts stole into her heart as she watched the mother slowly rocking backward and forward, uttering a low, crooning lullaby,—the gentlest sound that ever falls on mortal ears. For some reason there came into her soul a sudden loathing of her own selfishness and callousness.

After the child had been laid in the cradle, she asked, "What did you mean when you said, 'It will all come right some day'?"

"Well, I suppose I meant that God's little children often get sorely perplexed with their cares and troubles in this world, but when we get home and sit down to rest and think it all over, it will then seem right."

"Home?"

"Yes, home in our Heavenly Father's house. That's the only real home we have. We only 'stop,' as the Irish say, here and there for a little while in this world."

"And do you think of heaven as a pleasant home and rest after what seems to me your very hard life?"

"Certainly. How do you think of it?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I have not thought much about it."

Before Mrs. Dlimm could reply, there came anything but a heavenly interruption. It was as if Moses and Aaron were within the cool and shadowy tabernacle, feasting on spiritual manna, and there came a delegation from the Hebrew camp, clamoring for the "leeks and onions of Egypt."

Though the congregation often said, "It's a pity Mrs. Dlimm is such a meek and quiet little woman," and though the self-appointed committee of ladies was so large, and the minister himself was downstairs, yet when the first real emergency of the evening arose, the upstairs members of the committee were helpless, and the best thing Mrs. Gubling, the leading spirit downstairs, could do, was to "slick up," as she said, and "go tell the parson's wife." But seeing Mr. Dlimm on the way, she beckoned him aside with a portentous nod. He, poor man, heard her tidings with dismay. He had fallen into the habit of taking all his difficulties either to the Lord or to his wife, and in this case he felt that both must come to his aid.

With Mrs. Gubling he at once hastened to the nursery, and entered rather abruptly.

Mrs. Dlimm raised her finger impressively, then pointed to the cradle.

"But, my dear—" began her husband, rather impatiently.

"Hush," said the wife, in a low tone; "whatever's the matter don't wake the baby, for then I can't do anything."

"Mrs. Dlimm," said Mrs. Gubling, "they've eat up about everything there is downstairs, 'cept me, and there's three tables yet It's such a fine night, and the sleighing's so good, that lots more have come than we expected. I don't know how much money they brought, but they hain't brought provisions enough."

"What shall we do?" asked Mr. Dlimm, nervously.

"If it takes the last penny we have in the world," said his wife, with grave dignity, "no one shall leave our house hungry. You must step over to the store, Mr. Dlimm, and buy enough to satisfy every one."

"I feel just as you do, my dear," he said, with the air of one who sees duty clearly, though it is far from being agree-able. "Just give me our poor little hoard from your bureau drawer, and I'll go at once."

Lottie witnessed the scene with mingled amusement and indignation, and then, her face aglow with a sudden put pose, sped away also.



CHAPTER X

HUMAN NATURE.



The dismal tidings from the lower regions, that the larder had been stripped and that scarcely even a pie remained, soon became an open secret, about which every one was whispering and commenting. The supperless wore a defrauded and injured air. The eyes of many who had not left so important a duty to the uncertainties of the future, but, like Auntie Lammer, had availed themselves of the first opportunity, now twinkled shrewdly and complacently. They had the comfortable consciousness of taking care of themselves. But the greater number were honestly indignant and ashamed that such a thing should have happened. This feeling of mortification was increased when the committee reported but a small sum of money handed in as yet. The majority were provoked at others, and a few at themselves, for having brought so little. As the situation became clearer, all began to act characteristically, some preparing to slink away and escape a disagreeable state of things, and others putting their heads together in the wish to remedy matters. Some giggled, and others looked solemn. Some tried to appear resigned, as if it were a dispensation of Providence, and others snarled about "them mean Joneses and Rhamms."

Lottie hastily summoned her party together, and told them of the dire emergency, as Mrs. Gubling had stated it.

"Now," said she, "if you gentlemen have got any wit worth the name, you must hit on some way of helping the parson out of his scrape, for I have taken a great interest in him, or rather his wife. She is the queerest little woman I ever saw. I shouldn't wonder if she were an angel in disguise."