As one looked at her fair young face—her sunny curls and regular classic features—either sparkling with animation or melting with tenderness, they wondered not that she was the pet of home, and generally beloved, for with such beauty and such gentle witcheries she could not fail to win hearts.

"Mamma," she said, after her mother had kissed her, "Why has papa don away? I 'ove my papa ever so much, and I asked him, before he went away, if he 'oved oo and Eddie and Allie, and he taid he did, and that he 'oved me, his 'ittle sunbeam, too, and ett he has don and left us all. I am so sorry papa has don."

As Mamie said this the tears began to glisten in her eyes, and then sparkling for a moment, in their blue settings, ran in pearly drops down over her cheeks. Her mother snatched her closely to her to quiet her sobbings; but, in a moment or two, was weeping in sympathy with her child.

"My darling," she said, "papa has gone away to find another home for us all, and after awhile he will come back for us, then my little Mamie will be her papa's sunbeam again."

"But, mamma, I don't want to go, I dust want to 'top where we are now, for Eddie was saying, yesterday, that papa was in Tanada, and that he was coming over after us. And he taid, mamma that Tanada was so cold we would not have any petty flowers there, and I don't want to leave all my petty flowers. I dust want to stay here in our nice home."

"Eddie should not talk so to his little sister," said her mother, "and I do not think we will find Canada much colder than this country. God will take care of us there, Mamie, if we are good and pray to Him, and He will also take care of papa if we ask Him to do so."

"Will He, mamma?" said Mamie, "den I will ask Him."

She knelt down, and clasping her tiny hands looked heavenward with sweet trustfulness as she murmured: "Dod bless my papa, and take care of him." And then she added—the thought seeming to come intuitively to her mind. "O, Dod, don't let my papa drink, taus den he is tross to my dear mamma and to Eddie and Allie; and he don't 'ove mamma den. Dust let him come home nice.—Amen."

Her mother was strangely moved at her child's prayer and murmured, Amen. And as the little innocent knelt there, a perfect picture of seraphic beauty, purity, innocence and faith, the thought of the poet came to her mind—

"O man, could thou in spirit kneel beside that little child; As fondly pray, as purely feel, with heart as undefiled; That moment would encircle thee with light and love divine, Thy soul might rest on Deity, and heaven itself be thine."

And she prayed that God might ever keep her as innocent and pure.



CHAPTER X.

ALL IN CANADA.

Time seemed to creep along very slowly for the next two days to Ruth Ashton. She sent Eddie to the Post Office, and when he came without a letter she was terribly disappointed. She exclaimed: "Oh, I am afraid he has broken his promise and is drinking again; for he certainly would have written if he were not!"

If those Christians and respectable members of society, who favor the drinking usages and oppose with all the power of their intellect the passing of a law to do away with its sale, only experienced for one short day the agony which wrung the heart of that sensitive, loving woman, that experience would do what the tongue of the most eloquent pleader would utterly fail to accomplish; that is, turn them to hate the traffic as they hate the father of evil.

Her mind was preyed upon by doubt, fear, terrible anxiety. "If he were drinking, in a strange country, what would become of him? She remembered he had considerable money with him; also, when he was intoxicated he always became reckless, and would be almost certain to display it, and thus, probably, tempt some hard character to rob or murder him.

"Oh, my Father, protect him!" she exclaimed in her anguish, as she knelt before Him who was her only help and consolation in such times of trouble.

The next morning Eddie was again sent for a letter, and as he came with one in his hand, the mother grasped it impulsively. But, a moment after, thinking her action might appear strange to Eddie, she kissed him affectionately, and said: "Excuse your mamma; my boy, I was so anxious to read papa's letter that I forgot myself."

The reader has already been made acquainted with the contents of that letter, and when Ruth had read it her worse fears were not allayed—rather, confirmed.

She wrote to him immediately—not expressing her fears, but filling her letter with words of love and confidence, thinking that by thus doing it would influence him, at least to some extent, to endeavor to prove to her that her confidence had not been misplaced.

She did not hear from him again for more than two weeks, though either she or the children wrote him several letters in the meantime. The agony she endured during that period I will allow the reader to imagine.

At length Eddie brought home the letter, the contents of which I have given in a former chapter. It relieved her heart of a great burden. In fact, she felt some compunctions of conscience—she thought she must have judged him wrongfully, for it hardly seemed possible to her that a stranger to her husband would have engaged him, if he had presented himself immediately after a long continued debauch.

That night, as she knelt by her bedside, she thanked God for His loving-kindness to her, in her hour of great trial. But, after she had retired and began to think over what the letter contained, she found that while, on the whole, its contents gave her great cause for thankfulness, yet, that it made her feel inexpressibly sad— sad, because she would have again to part with tried and true friends and go among strangers.

Never in her life had she been the recipient of more gentle attentions and delicate expressions of kindness than since she had resided in Rochester. True, some of her neighbors were more curious in regard to her affairs than she thought was consistent with good breeding, and sometimes they made inquiries which she did not wish to answer, but which she did not know how to evade without giving offence. However, this trait of a certain class of her American friends—and which, by-the-bye, has furnished a fund for humorists the world over—was more than redeemed by their genuine kindness and willingness to help upon every possible occasion. And some, she thought, were noble examples of what men and women are when in them natural goodness is joined with intelligence and culture; for they seemed to divine her wants like a quick-witted person will catch at a hint, and any service rendered was so delicately tendered that it almost left the impression upon the mind of the recipient that a favor had been granted in its acceptance. In fact, she had been favorably impressed with her acquaintances in Rochester from the first, and now she was about to leave, their kindly attentions endeared them to her so as to make it very hard for her to separate from them; for, day after day, they vied with each other in doing everything which kindness could suggest to prepare her for her anticipated journey.

And Ruth herself was employing every moment, for she never doubted her husband would have a permanent engagement. She had clothes to provide for the children, and her own wardrobe to replenish, so that all might be well prepared to go among strangers.

Eddie and Allie, also, had their own sorrows and trials. At first they said they would not leave their old home. Child-like, they thought Rochester was the only place in the wide, wide world where they could live and find pleasure; and as they had but dim recollections of England, and all the persons, objects, and scenes which they loved, and around which their memories lingered, were centred there, it is not surprising it was the dearest spot on earth to them, nor that it seemed very hard to leave their school and school-mates, their trees and flowers, and the many and varied objects which had been familiar to them for so many years.

"I do wish mamma would coax father not to move among strangers, especially when it is a cold country like Canada he is going to. I declare, it is too bad to leave everything we like behind, and go among those we won't care for, and who will not care for us."

As Eddie spoke, the tears began to glimmer in his eyes, for he certainly thought their lot was a hard one.

Allie agreed to use all her powers of persuasion to prevail upon their mother to influence their father not to take them from Rochester.

It was at one of these little indignation meetings they had given expression to the speeches which had been reported to their mother by Mamie. This called forth a remonstrance from her, and she pointed out to them how selfish and sinful it was to talk as they had been doing. This had the desired effect, and they promised not to murmur again, and the promise was kept; for they truly loved their mother, and would not do anything which they thought would grieve her.

"I tell you, Allie," said Eddie, one day, "it won't be so bad after all; for if we are lonesome, when we are not helping father and mother, you can be working in your flower garden, and I can help you; and if the fishing is as good as father thinks it is, won't I enjoy it? I tell you it will be jolly, and if I catch some big ones I will be able to write back and tell Harry Wilson and Jim Williams about it."

The eyes of Eddie sparkled with animation as he was looking forward and by anticipation enjoying these pleasures—forgetting, for the time being, the hardships which a short period before had stirred up such rebellious feelings; and then they settled into a more thoughtful expression as he continued: "Father says there is a good high school there, and I will, if I can, be the best in my class there, as I have been here."

"Well," said Allie, "I think we were naughty to speak as we did, and we caused mamma to grieve. She says God knows what is best, and that we should be satisfied to leave everything in His hands. I am sure I shall enjoy myself helping mamma and attending to my flower garden; for I know you will help me to make the beds, and we will also make a nice tiny one for Mamie, too. O! won't that be splendid?"

"I hope," continued Eddie, "that father will keep from drink there. I am sure mamma thinks he has been drinking since he has been away, and she is almost grieving herself to death about it. Oh, I don't see how it is that he don't leave whiskey alone!"

"I do wish he would," said Allie; "for sometimes, when I see mamma looking so sad, I go to my room and cry, and, Eddie, I often pray to God to keep papa from drink. Do you think He will hear and answer me, Eddie?"

"I guess He will," said Eddie. "Mamma says so, and she knows. I always say my prayers, Allie, but I don't do much more praying. I think you girls are better than we boys, anyway."

"I don't know," replied his sister; "I think I am bad enough, and I pray to God to make me better. I think the girls quarrel just as much the boys, and though they may not swear and talk so roughly, yet I think they speak far more spitefully."

"I never thought so," said Eddie.

"Well, they do. Why, just yesterday, Sarah Stewart, because I got ahead of her in our spelling class, twitted me about father's drinking, and said 'a girl who had an old drunkard for a father need not put on such airs.' And, Eddie, I did not say anything to her to make her speak so, only teacher put me up because I knew my lesson better."

"If a boy, had twitted me like that I would have knocked him down." And he clenched his teeth and doubled up his fist as he spoke, which left no doubt in the mind of his sister that he would have tried his best to have done as he said.

"Well, Eddie, that would have been wicked; it would have grieved mamma, and, besides, it would have brought you to the level of the one who insulted you. I was very angry at first, and almost felt like slapping her, but then I thought how low it would be. When I cried, the other girls, who heard what she said, shamed her. I stopped them, for I pitied her. I would pity any girl, Eddie, who could do so low a thing, and every night since then I have prayed for her."

"You are a good little puss," said Eddie, as he kissed her.

"Not very good," she answered, "for I am sometimes quick-tempered and hateful, but I do try to be good."

Richard Ashton gave good satisfaction, and was hired for a year with a salary that exceeded his expectations. He rented a suitable house, filling up in every respect the promises made in his letter. Then, getting leave of absence for a week, he came over for his wife and family.

He found a purchaser for his property in his next door neighbor, who paid half down and gave him his note for the remainder, which would expire a year from date.

He could not, try how he would, keep from feeling sad at leaving his American home and many friends: for Richard was himself again, and now saw, in its true light, his former foolishness. In his heart he sincerely liked the Americans, and left them with regret.

The hearts of Ruth and her children were almost too full for utterance, and when the time of parting came they did not attempt to give expression to their sorrow in words. They parted with many regrets from the dear old home that had sheltered them so long, and that would be hallowed in their memory forever more; and from the many friends who had treated them so kindly, some of whom they would never meet again. In a few days they were kindly welcomed and settled in their new home.



CHAPTER XI.

AUNT DEBIE AND HER FRIENDS.

"Did I not tell thee, Phoebe, that I was sartan there was going to be a death, and like enough more than one? Does thee not remember I told thee that on the first day, just before William Gurney died? And thee sees now that what I said has come troo, for both William and Annie have died since."

"Yes," said the person addressed as Phoebe, "thee then said thee had warning of death and knoo some one was going to die, and that thee thought there was going to be more than one. I remember just as plainly as if thee had said it not more'n a minute ago."

"I thought thee'd mind it," said the first speaker, and there was an accent of triumph in the tone of her voice as she spoke.

"I have known thee to tell before of things that jest happened as thee said they would. Why, thee told there was going to be a death just before Martha Foxe's child died; and whenever thee has told me that such was to be the case, I ain't never known it to fail. Tell us, Aunt Debie, how thee is able to foretell things as thee does."

"Well, Phoebe, there is more ways than one that I get warnings. If in the night I hear three loud raps, one after the other, I am then sartan there is goen to be a death; and if there is more than three then I knows there is goen to be more'n one death. If the raps are loud and sharp, then I know the death or deaths are to be right away; but if they be kind of easy like, I then know it will be quite a while. Now, I hearn three raps last night. I was awakened about one o'clock. I knoo it was one, 'cause I had the rheumatiz so bad I couldn't sleep, and so I got up and went to the fire to keep warm. I thought I would put my horn to my ear, and I jest caught the faintest sound of the roosters crowin'; so when I hearn that I knoo what time it was. Jest a little after that I went back to bed, and I hadn't been there more'n a minute of two before I hearn a rap, and then, in a little, I hearn another, and then another; they sounded far away like, and awfully solemn. Is it not strange that I can hear these things, when I cannot hear anything else?"

"Yes," said Phoebe, "it is strange; but God's ways are mysterious to us, and past finding out."

"Well," continued Aunt Debie, "I am sartan there is goen to be another death; for I never hear these things but some of our friends die."

"Oh," said Phoebe, solemnly, "I wonder who will be called for this time."

"God knows best," remarked Debie, "and he ain't going to do wrong; we must larn to trust Him."

"And then," she continued, "I have another way of knowing when there is to be trouble, sickness, and death. If I dream of a person walking through a corn or wheat field, I am then sartan there is going to be trouble or sickness; if they are cutting the wheat, or plucking the ears of corn, it is then sure to be followed by a death. I suppose God reveals these things to me by figures, the same as He did to Simon Peter in the long ago; for ain't we all jest like wheat waiting for the sickle, or like corn waiting till the time comes to be plucked by the Death Angel? I suppose my heavenly Father reveals more to me than He does to others, 'cause He, in His wisdom, has taken so much from me. He has left me here a poor old woman, deaf, blind, and lame. I can't see the faces of my friends through these poor sightless eyes, nor the beauties of the fields and sky, nor the blossoms and fruit of the trees, nor the flowers in the garden; neither can I hear the sweet music of the birds, nor even the prattle of the dear little children who come and kiss me, and let me play with their curls, save through this horn. He only knows"—and Aunt Debie looked up as she spoke—"how I long sometimes to see them. But, Father, Thou knowest what is best: 'Though Thou slayest me, yet will I trust in Thee.'"

This conversation occurred in Mrs. Gurney's parlor; for both Mr. and Mrs. Gurney were originally Quakers, but, settling in Bayton in their early married life, they joined another body, though they ever retained a profound respect for the Church of their childhood. In fact a great many of their relatives, and a very large circle of friends in the surrounding country, belonged to that body; and, as they are a people who are especially noted for their social qualities and for their warm attachment to kinsfolk and friends, the Gurneys very frequently received visits from them.

The conversation, part of which I have given to my readers, took place upon one of these visits. One of the parties present on this occasion deserves more than a passing notice, as she was an uncommon character.

Deborah Donaldson, or, as she was always called, "Aunt Debie," was, "after the strictest sect of her religion," a Quaker, and she never quite forgave James and Martha Gurney for leaving the Church of their fathers. She had been a widow for more than thirty years, her husband having been killed by the falling of a limb from a tree which he was chopping down, and she had been blind and deaf for the greater part of that time.

She had been a woman of very great energy, and there were some who hinted that she was the controlling member of the matrimonial firm when the now lamented Donaldson was living. Whether there was any truth or not in that report it is not for the writer to say, but she was certainly a woman of great force of character—a living embodiment of the Scripture maxim, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might." And even now, in extreme old age— for she was more than four score—though in many ways she manifested she had entered her second childhood, she yet retained a great deal of her original energy. As I have illustrated, though she possessed genuine piety, it was so mingled with superstition as to leave it difficult to decide which exerted the controlling influence.

If any of my readers have associated to any extent with the people in the rural districts, especially those of American or Dutch-American descent, they, no doubt, have observed that a great many of the older and more illiterate ones among them are very superstitious, being implicit believers in signs, charms, apparitions, etc.; and most of them, also, entertain the opinion that the moon exerts an occult influence over many things of vital importance to the residents of this mundane sphere; and no power that could be brought to bear could induce some of them to plant corn, make soap, kill pigs, or perform many other important duties in certain phases of the moon, for they would be positive if they did it would result in dire disaster.

There are also sounds and signs which are looked upon as warnings of coming woe; for instance: three knocks in the still hours of the night are considered a "death call," and when heard by them they expect soon to learn of the decease of a friend. Dreams are the certain presages of coming events—of prosperity and happiness, of sorrow, disease, and death.

Now, Aunt Debie and her friends were firm believers in these things, and the former was looked upon as one who was favored with receiving more signs, seeing more visions, and dreaming more dreams, than any person in that section of country. She was also viewed by her friends as an oracle, in interpreting these signs; and she, having no doubt in regard to her own endowments, accepted in perfect faith their eulogium of her power in this respect.

Another present at the time to which we refer was a sister of Aunt Debie's, some ten years younger than herself, Phoebe Barrett by name. She was attended by her husband, whom she addressed as Enoch. He certainly was not the predominant spirit of the family; for he was so quiet and unobtrusive as to scarcely ever utter a word, except it might be to make a remark in regard to the weather or answer a question. There was also a young Quakeress by the name of Rachel Stebbins, a distant relative of the others, and they were all related to Mr. and Mrs. Gurney.

"Did thee have any peculiar dreams lately, Aunt Debie?" asked Rachel Stebbins. "I had a perfectly awful one the other night."

"Doo tell. What was it, Rachel?" said Aunt Debie.

"I dreamt," continued Rachel, "that I was standing by an open grave; and it appeared to me, jest before they lowered the coffin into it, they took the lid off from the coffin, and in it was the corpse of a young girl, white as chalk, but she appeared as if she must have been very pretty when she was living. There were orange blossoms on her bosom and also in her hair. The features 'peared familiar, but I could not, for the life of me, make out who she was, nor can I yet, though I see her ghastly face ever before me, and think I shall thus see it until the day I die. And what 'pears to me as singular is, that I saw every one that is here now there, and a great many more of our relatives and friends, and all were weeping as if she were some one very near and dear to them. Now, what does thee make of that dream?"

"What did thee eat before thee went to bed, Rachel?" asked Mr. Gurney, who came into the room while she was relating her dream. He was by nature inclined to be reserved, but yet possessed a fund of quiet humor, and he delighted to quiz Aunt Debie and her Quaker friends in respect to their superstitious fancies. But Aunt Debie could not look upon this levity with any degree of allowance, in fact, she viewed it as little else than profanity. "Did thee eat mince pie, dough nuts, or plum cake? If thee did, thee must be more careful in thy diet, or thee may dream something even more terrible the next time."

Rachel Stebbins repeated to Aunt Debie what Mr. Gurney had said, which so roused the old lady that she said to him, with considerable asperity in the tone of her voice:

"I know thee always laughs at these things, James; but thee may be convinced some day in a manner that thee will not like, and then thee will be sorry that thee made so light of it."

And then addressing Rachel, she said, in answer to her question: "Well, Rachel, when I dream of a death I always expects to hear of a wedding. I have never known it to fail. And thee will see that some friend of ours will be getting married soon, and then thee will wonder how strangely contrary these kinds of dreams is. Why, before Jonas Head was married to Prudence Leggit, I seed him laid out in his shroud as plainly as I used to see thee; and a short time after that I hearn that he was married. Now, thee just watch if this dream don't end in the same way."

"But, Debie," said Phoebe, "thee was telling me the other day about dreaming of Charles Dalton walking through the cornfield. Will thee tell it to us now?"

This was a request that would yield a great amount of satisfaction to Aunt Debie, for she was always delighted to be asked to relate her dreams and the warnings she received of coming woe. Phoebe, of course, was well aware of this, and it was partially because of it that she asked the question; but the strongest motive power that moved her was that she herself was a strong believer in the supernatural. And though men will not acknowledge it, or rarely do so, nevertheless all are more or less influenced by a certain undefined and shadowy belief in the supernatural, even in this grosser shape; and I believe most have a desire, though mixed with a strange dread, to listen to its relation.

"Well," began Aunt Debie, responding to Phoebe's request, "I dreamt I saw before me a field of waving corn. It was nearly ready to cut, and the wind moaned through it, as it bent and shook before it, and the tassels glinted in the moonlight like ghosts keeping watch. And then there seemed to be something gliding through the corn; at first it was nothing but a shadow, but after a little it 'peared more plain, and at last I could see the features—it was the face of Charles Dalton. And then way down at the other end of the field I could see men, though not very plain, but just like shadows, and they were cutting the corn. I tell thee there is going to be some terrible trouble come to him ere long, and before many years he will die."

Just after Phoebe had asked the question, Ruth Ashton came in and was introduced to the company, with the exception of Aunt Debie, Mrs. Gurney explaining that the latter was blind and deaf, and telling Mrs. Ashton she would introduce her to the old lady when she had finished relating and explaining her dream.

Mrs. Ashton had been invited to spend the afternoon with them, and had accepted the invitation.

After Aunt Debie had finished relating her dream and giving her interpretations of its meaning, Mr. Gurney moved his chair over near her and asked: "Were you talking and thinking of Charles Dalton, and of his unfortunate drinking habits, also of his being nearly drowned, before you went to bed the night you dreamed that dream?"

"Ye-s," said Aunt Debie, "I—was." She made the admission very reluctantly; for she immediately saw the inference Mr. Gurney wished to draw.

"And did thee not eat plum cake and cheese just before retiring?" He knew the old lady was very partial to the edibles he mentioned, and suspected that because she had yielded to her weakness she had been disturbed by dreams.

"Well," he said, "thee ate the cheese and plum cake, and these indigestibles caused thee to dream; and thee believes that to dream of persons walking in a cornfield and plucking ears of corn is a sign of disease and death. You were talking of Charles Dalton and of his unfortunate drinking habits, also of his being nearly drowned lately. Now, what is more natural than that you should dream of him of whom you were thinking just before you went to sleep, and that your sleeping thoughts should be influenced by your waking ones, and by your opinions in regard to such dreams?"

"Thee can always explain things to suit thine own notion, James Gurney. Does thee not believe that God can give warnings now the same as He did in the days of old? Did He not give warnings to Samuel of Eli's coming trouble? Likewise of Saul's? And to Nathan of David's? And is there not many other places in the Bible where it speaks of warnings given? Now let me ask, Is not God 'the same yesterday, today, and forever,' and, if so, can He not do as well now as He did then? I wonder at thee, James Gurney!"—and the old lady raised her voice as she uttered the last sentence.

Mr. Gurney thought it better not to argue the point, so he put his mouth to her horn and said: "Thee and I had better not argue any further, Aunt Debie. Thee always gets the better of me anyway. But were not Judge McGullett and Sheriff Bottlesby with Charles Dalton, and were they not the ones who furnished him with the liquor that intoxicated him?"

"Yes, they were," said the old lady. But we will leave the remainder of her reply to another chapter.



CHAPTER XII.

A WORTHY SHERIFF AND JUDGE—DR. DALTON.

Aunt Debie continued: "They were out shooting on the marsh, and the jedge and the sheriff had whiskey with them, of which I guess they drank as much as he did, but it 'pears they was able to stand it better, for they did not get drunk. I think it is a disgrace to this county to have a drunken jedge and sheriff. The idea of the judge setting on the bench and trying men for breaking the law! And yet he will intice other men to drink that which will fit them to commit the crime which, if they come before him, he will punish them for doing. And the sheriff will take them to jail when they are condemned by the jedge, though he helped to prepare them for the evil work they did."

"I agree with you, Aunt Debie," said Mrs. Gurney, speaking for the first time. "These two men being allowed to hold such high positions is not only a disgrace to this county but also to Canada. Men who hold offices of trust and grave responsibility should be patterns to the community, and above reproach. Especially should this be the case with a judge. He should be a man not only of the highest legal talent, and with a broad, judicial mind, but also of a pure and lofty character. How ever they came to appoint a man with the loose habits of Judge McGullett to the position is a mystery to me."

"Why, my dear," said Mr. Gurney, "it was given him because he worked for his party. He has ever been a man of low instincts and loose habits, though he was considered what is called a smart lawyer. In my opinion this did not qualify him for his position as judge. A man may be cunning, and so is a fox. He may have the qualities which enable him to browbeat a witness, and so has a bully. He may have great volubility, and so has a Billingsgate fishwife. He may even have considerable legal acumen, and yet be narrow and coarse. A man to be a judge, as you just remarked, should be of a broad, judicial mind, able to look at a case in all its bearings, to sift evidence, balance probabilities, and, being above prejudice and every outward influence, should decide a case on its merits. And I believe with you and Aunt Debie, that he should be as far above anything that is coarse or impure in his private life as above suspicion in his public capacity. But I look upon our present judge as the farthest remove from this; he was a good party hack, and, to the shame of the government in power when he was appointed be it said, he was rewarded for his unscrupulousness by being elevated to the bench of our county.

"In regard to Sheriff Bottlesby, he is a man who is almost beneath contempt; he has neither the brains, dignity, nor character to fit him for such a position. He cunningly worked to pack a caucus to secure the choice of our present member as a candidate to the local legislature, with the understanding, no doubt, if his efforts were crowned with success, that he should receive his reward. By low cunning, and resorting to means that no honorable man could employ, he succeeded. The last occupant of the position was found to be too old, and therefore asked to retire; and Bottlesby was rewarded for his faithfulness by getting the vacant position, though his predecessor was infinitely his superior in every respect.

"The fact is, everything that is pure and good in the government of our country is being dragged through the mire of party politics. If a measure is brought forward, I am afraid the question is not, Will this be for the best interest of society or the country? but, Will it help or hurt the party? If a public position of great responsibility becomes vacant, they do not appoint the man who is best qualified to fill it, but the one who has done the most for his party. And in some instances when they have not places for those who have been their subservient tools, they make them by removing, on some trivial pretext, those who are the occupants of the position, utterly regardless of the fact that it may cause misery to the ones removed and their families. If this evil is allowed to grow unchecked, our country will ere long be cursed with a system similar to that introduced into the United States by Burr and Jackson, and forcibly expressed by the words of an unscrupulous politician, 'To the victor belongs the spoil.'"

Mr. Gurney became quite excited while he was making this speech, for it was a subject upon which he had often thought, and with a great deal of solicitude. In fact, it was about the only topic which could have inspired him to speak with so much bitterness, and it was also the only time any of his friends had seen him so animated since his great bereavement. He was a man too broad in his views to make principle subservient to party. He had a party, and believed that it was necessary in the government of a country that such should exist; but he would not be a mere tool and follow his leaders, even though he could not endorse their policy. He said he would not vote for a man whom he believed was unprincipled, even if his party, through the caucus system, did make him their standard-bearer. He was strongly of the opinion that men who were not pure in private life should not be entrusted to conduct public affairs; and if the party to which he gave allegiance chose such a man as their candidate, he would not so violate his conscience as to give him his support, for he would not trample his honor and principle in the dust for any party.

As Mr. Gurney has given to my readers some idea of Judge McGullett and Sheriff Bottlesby, I will give a sketch of Charles Dalton, the one whose name had been associated with those two worthies.

He was the only son of Aunt Debie's youngest sister. This sister had not married a Quaker, and in this respect differed from the rest of the family. Her husband was, however, a farmer in very comfortable circumstances, and was chosen, because of his superior intelligence, as reeve of the township in which he resided; but he had become a poor, besotted victim of strong drink, and driving home from Bayton one night, while in a helpless state of intoxication, he was thrown from his buggy, being so injured by the fall as never to recover consciousness, and died the following day. He left his wife and only child—a son, three years old— ample means.

Mrs. Dalton, much to the surprise of the Mrs. Grundys of the neighborhood, never married again, but seemed to devote her life to her son, whom she loved with a passionate tenderness. He, from a very early age, manifested that he was a child of quick parts: he seemed to master in a short time, with consummate ease, lessons that would tax the brains of others for hours; and he had a prodigious memory. He was also a general favorite, because of his chivalrous character and amiable disposition. In fact, this last element of character was his weakness, for he was so amiable as to sometimes be persuaded to enter into engagements against the dictates of his better judgment.

When he reached the age necessary for him to decide as to his future course of action, he chose medicine for his profession. He first took an Arts course in Toronto University, and then entered one of the Medical Schools of that city, in both institutions taking front rank as a student.

He had, previous to his entering the Medical School, neither smoked nor drank, and even when there, though he was almost alone in this respect, his companions found it impossible to tempt him. His mother had suffered so much from drink that she had taught him to shrink from even a glass that contained it as he would from a rattlesnake. But visiting one day at an old friend of his mother's, who was at that time residing in Toronto, a glass of wine was placed before him; and as all the rest drank, he, through fear of being laughed at for being singular, drank too. He would, no doubt, have passed through the ordeal unscathed, had not the eldest daughter of his host, a handsome young girl of eighteen, said to him, when she saw he hesitated, "Take a glass, Charley; it will do you good, and cannot possibly do you any harm."

Now, he had conceived a warm attachment for her, and had every reason to believe that his attentions were not distasteful to her; so, when she made the remark, he no longer hesitated, but took the fatal first glass. As he and a companion were on their way home from Mr. Fulton's to their boarding-house, the companion said: "Come, Charley, let us go into Frank's and take a glass of ale;" and, since he had taken the wine, it strangely presented itself to his consciousness as a reason why he should not refuse to take the beer. Thus Satan leads us on by first tempting us to transgress, then making our first sin an argument to sweep away all objections in regard to committing others. Dalton took the ale; and the enemy having broken down the barriers of his temperance principles, it was not long ere he had full possession of the citadel. In fact, in a short time after he had taken his first glass, he and several of his fellow-students had, what they termed, "a regular spree."

His mother, fortunately for her, did not live to hear of her son's sad fall; for, as she was sitting in her easy chair one day, she was suddenly seized with a pain near her heart, asked to be assisted to bed, and before the doctor could arrive she was dead.

"Died of heart disease," said the doctor; and then he added: "There is no doubt it resulted from her husband's death. She has never recovered from the shock; and though she has lived for years, she might have dropped off at any moment if she had been the least excited."

But she received her call home while sitting in her chair reading the 14th chapter of St. John's Gospel; asked to be carried to her bed, and, after being propped up by pillows, she said to her attendant, "Elizabeth, I think I am dying; tell Charley my last thoughts were of him." And then, looking heavenward, she murmured, "God bless and guard my own dear boy," and in another moment she was dead. But "the silver cord was loosed" as if by seraph fingers, and "the golden bowl was broken" so gently that she scarcely felt the stroke of the Death Angel. They laid her to rest while yet in her prime by the side of the husband of her youth.

The son was sadly stricken by his mother's death, for he had a very strong affection for her; and for a long time after his return to the Medical College—in fact, until he had taken his diploma—he remained perfectly sober; but in the banquet that he and the rest of his class held to celebrate that event he again fell, and ere he left was so intoxicated he had to be helped to his lodgings. From that period he seemed to lose all power of resistance and almost all sense of shame.

He had been engaged to Mary Fulton, the young woman who, in her innocence, first tempted him to drink, and who now bitterly repented of her thoughtlessness; for she was a true woman, and loved him with all the strength of her deep, sensitive nature. He, after taking his medical degree, had started to practice in Orchardton, a small and lovely village not far from Bayton, and would have done exceedingly well had it not been for his drinking propensities.

It was about a year after he had begun to practice that he met with the adventure of which Aunt Debie and her friends were speaking.

"God was merciful when He removed poor Rebecca before she had a chance to hear of her boy's shameful conduct," said Aunt Debie. "'Pears to me that the words of Scripter is come troo in his case— 'The sins of the parent has to be borne by the children to the third and fourth generation.'"

Aunt Debie endeavored to quote from memory, and so she is to be excused if she did not render it according to the letter.

"I believe with thee, Aunt Debie," said Mrs. Gurney. "It was a blessed thing for Rebecca she died thinking her boy was pure; if she had known how it was—and if she had lived a little longer she would have been sure to have found out—it would have broken her heart. Then she would have gone down to her grave in sorrow, and Charles would have had his mother's death to answer for."

"I believe," said Mr. Gurney, breaking in rather abruptly, "that a tendency to drink is transmitted from father to son—that, in fact, it is a disease, and in this respect is similar to consumption or insanity. Because I take this view of the case, I have a great deal of sympathy with Charley Dalton. I am determined to do all I can to save the boy. I heard from a lady friend the other day who is very intimate with Mary Fulton, and she said that the latter was experiencing deep grief because of Charley's utter fall; for she holds herself partially responsible, because she, in her innocence and thoughtlessness, tempted him to take his first glass of wine. Her friends have been endeavoring to influence her to break the engagement, but she resolutely refuses to do so. She says she will never marry him while he continues to drink as he does, but breaking off the engagement will be the last report, and she declares she will never marry another."

"Well," said Phoebe, "I don't wonder she feels bad; 'pears to me I should feel bad, too, if I had coaxed the man I thought more of than any one else to drink, and then he went to the bad after it."

"Thee must not be too severe in thy thoughts of poor Mary," said Mrs. Gurney, "but when thee feels like censuring her, just remember that she has been accustomed to see wine on her father's table ever since she was a girl. It is the custom which should be condemned, and not poor, foolish innocents like Mary Fulton."



CHAPTER XIII.

RUTH ASHTON'S INTRODUCTION TO AUNT DEBIE RUTH'S DILEMMA.

As there was a lull in the conversation which we reported in the last chapter, after Mrs. Gurney had finished speaking, she thought it would be a favorable opportunity to introduce Mrs. Ashton to Aunt Debie; so she spoke to the former, and they walked over to the old lady's chair. Mrs. Gurney then took Mrs. Ashton's hand and placed it in the old lady's, saying, as she did so: "Aunt Debie, this is Mrs. Ashton, of whom thee has heard us speak!"

"Happy to meet with thee, I am sure." said Aunt Debie.

"What is thy fust name?"

"Ruth," answered Mrs. Ashton.

"That is a good Script'al name. May thee, like thy namesake, be worthy of the Lord's blessing."

"What is thy husband's name?"

"Richard," answered Mrs. Ashton.

"And how many children has thee got?"

"We have three, a boy and two girls," and then, as if in anticipation of the old lady's next question, she added: "Their names are Edward, Alice Maud, and Mary; Edward is fourteen, Alice Maud is twelve, and Mary is four, she is our baby."

"Thee had a long rest between thy second and third," remarked Aunt Debie. "Did thee lose any?"

Ruth Ashton's face flushed slightly, for Aunt Debie was like a new revelation to her; she had never met anyone like her before, but she good-naturedly answered "No" to her question.

Mrs. Gurney now told Ruth she had better leave the old lady, for she was very inquisitive, and added, by way of explanation: "She has been blind and deaf so long that she seems to have forgotten that some of her questions are hardly in keeping with good manners;" and, she continued, "in her youth, where she was raised, the habits and customs were not as they are here at the present. Then, as she cannot see nor hear, she is naturally more inquisitive."

Mrs. Ashton, who began to be alarmed, would gladly have left the old lady; but, as the latter held her by the hand, she thought it would be rude to hastily withdraw.

"It is a blessing thee has not had to pass through that sore trial," she said. "I lost a little babe more than sixty years ago, and I see its sweet little face now just as plainly as if it were only yesterday that it was taken from me; and often in my dreams it comes to me, and again I hear it prattle and crow as it did in the days of the long, long ago. But God was good to me in taking it away; for, while all the rest of my children are now getting old and gray, in my memory that sweet little babe is ever young. James and Sarah have had a harder trial. If God in His mercy, wisdom, and love, had seen it was for the better to have taken their children when they were young, it would not have been so hard for them to bear; but when they were let to grow up and then taken, leaving them alone in their age, the stroke is very hard indeed. But they—thank God—know where to go for consolation, and have learned to say: 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'" And then, addressing Ruth, she said: "Thee ought to be very thankful that God hath not made thee to pass through this fire."

"I am more thankful than I can find words to express," said Ruth, as the tears streamed from her eyes, as they also did from the eyes of every person in the room, for, they were all strangely moved by Aunt Debie's pathos.

"But thee has had thine own troubles, has thee not?" and Aunt Debie asked the question significantly, as if she referred to a particular trouble.

Mrs. Gurney now saw what she feared was coming, and she told Ruth it would be prudent to withdraw, quietly, but as quickly as possible.

Mrs. Gurney was secretly condemning herself for what she now felt was to say the least, imprudence; for in a conversation she had had with Aunt Debie she gave her an outline of the life of Richard and Ruth Ashton, and she was now sure that the old lady was about to refer to it. In fact, she had unfolded to her, almost in full, the benevolent schemes they had formed for the purpose of reforming Richard Ashton.

Ruth, in answer to Aunt Debie's question, replied: "Yes, I have had to pass through troubles. I suppose," she added, "God has seen that it was better for me that I should have my share, the same as others. It would not do for any of us to be basking always in the sunlight and experiencing nothing but pleasure; so God takes us down in the shadow and brings sorrow upon us, that we can more fully sympathize with our suffering fellow-creatures, and also be made riper for heaven."

Ruth now gently withdrew her hand, and, bending down, said: "Please excuse me, Aunt Debie, Mrs. Gurney has called me into the conservatory."

"'Pears to me Martha is in a hurry to get thee away"—and she spoke with some asperity of tone. "But I was going to say that I heard thee has passed through particular trouble—that thy husband had been a drinker, and that he had brought thee and thy children to poverty. This must have caused thee much sufferin'; and the wust of it is, if a man becomes a drinker, though he does break off he is almost sartan to begin again. He never abused thee and thy children, did he, Ruth?"

Ruth's pale face flushed red as she quickly withdrew. She did not know what to say in the way of reply, and therefore left the room as speedily as possible; but though she did, the tones of Aunt Debie's voice fell distinctly upon her ear as, in her innocence, she garrulously gave expression to her fears as to the woe that was yet to come. "I pity the poor thing," she said; "for thee jest mind if he does not take to drink again, such men scarcely ever fail to do so. He will likely drink himself to death, and then she will be a widow and her children orphans in a strange land. God help the poor thing!'"

Mrs. Gurney closed the door to shut out the sound, but Ruth had heard the ominous words, and they made her feel wretched. She was not angry with Aunt Debie, for she was broad enough to understand, after Mrs. Gurney's explanation, that what would be inquisitive rudeness in another was to be excused in her because of her early environments and her latter afflictions. The major portion of her life had been passed in a primitive community, where, though its inhabitants were as pure as they were simple and unsophisticated, they had no conception of that fine sense of delicacy which is the product of higher culture, and keeps one from prying into the affairs of others. She was, in fact, an exaggerated specimen of those primitive times, for her afflictions had preserved her from the influences which had wrought such a transformation on those around her. Indeed, if she, at the time of which we are writing, could have had her hearing and her sight restored, the world would have appeared as strange to her as it did to Rip Van Winkle after his twenty years' sleep.

But though, as we have intimated, Ruth Ashton could, at least to some extent, excuse the old lady, when she understood the circumstances, this did not keep what she said from exerting such an influence upon her, for the time being, as to entirely destroy all peace of mind, and to cause the former to wish she had not accepted Mrs. Gurney's invitation.

In a short time after her interview with Aunt Debie, Enoch broke his long silence by giving expression to the opinion that "it was time to go hum." The female members of the party acquiescing, they quietly departed. And as her husband called on his way home from the shop to escort her, Ruth, shortly after, bade her kind host and hostess good-night.

Her first association with the rural inhabitants of Canada was not of the most pleasing character, but yet they possessed characteristics she could not help admiring; for, while there was an entire absence of that delicate sensibility which would have kept them from so rudely endeavoring to satisfy their curiosity, there was exhibited, in the short time she was in their company, so much shrewdness, common sense, and, added to this, such an inherent hatred of shams, of vice and villany, and such a love for the true, the pure, and the good, that she formed an opinion in regard to them a narrower person, under the circumstances, would be incapable of doing.

That night she slept but little, and the little she did was broken, fitful, and disturbed by hideous dreams, in which her husband and children, Aunt Debie, and herself, were all mixed up in horrible confusion; and when awake she found the couplet of the poet Campbell running through her mind—

"The sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before"

the association of ideas in her mind quite involuntarily, as far as her will-power was concerned, linking this creation of the poet with Aunt Debie's ominous utterances. She finally quietly left the side of her sleeping husband, and knelt before the Lord in prayer; and then, returning to bed, soon fell into a peaceful slumber.



CHAPTER XIV.

A HAPPY HOME.

Richard Ashton had now settled down to business as vigorously and keenly as in the days of the past, and he seemed not to have lost any of his faculties by what he had passed through. And yet, physically, a great change had come over him in the last few years. He had aged very fast, his thick, wavy hair had lost its glossy blackness, and was now shaded with grey and white. The hand was not so steady as in the days of the past; the step had not so firm a tread.

Ruth saw this with loving apprehension, and while thanking God that He had influenced her husband so that he was as of old in his love and kindness to her and their children, and that they had again a happy home, she prayed he might be kept from temptation; for she was afraid, if he fell again, he would not be long with them, as he was only now a wreck of his former self.

And Ruth herself, though time had dealt more kindly with her than with her husband, knew that the care and anxiety of the last ten years had, to a serious extent, undermined her constitution and made her prematurely old. She was now much more easily fatigued than of yore, and there were those certain indications of time's ravages, "busy wrinkles," forming around her eyes, though her fair complexion was favorable to her.

She was sitting at the window one beautiful summer evening, listening to the carolling of a bird which was perched upon the bough of a tree that shaded the house, and little Mamie was playing at her feet, when Allie, who was in the parlor practising on the piano, struck up with her full-toned soprano voice:

"Darling, I am growing old Silver threads among the gold Shine upon my brow to-day; Life is passing fast away."

"Why, my mamma, dear, oo have silver threads among the gold," said Mamie. "See dare," and she pointed to the shining silver threads that were glimmering in the sunlight amid her mother's golden hair. "I heard Eddie say to Allie that oo had."

Allie, hearing her little sister's remarks, came out and kissed her affectionately; then, sitting upon her mother's lap, she lovingly entwined her right arm round her neck, while she caressed and smoothed her hair with her left hand, and said:

"Yes, mamma, dear, there are now a great many 'silver threads among the gold,' and yet I don't think my own dear mamma is growing old at all." And then, as the white tears glistened in her dark eyes, she continued: "I hope my darling mamma's life is not passing fast away, for Eddie was saying last night that he was sure there never was another mother so patient, loving and good as you are;" and she kissed her again and again.

Ruth returned her child's caresses and said: "I am sure, Allie darling, I am very happy to know my children love me so fondly; but if God saw fit to take me, He would care for my motherless children. He has promised to be a 'Father to the fatherless;' but tell Eliza to hasten up tea, for here comes your pa."

The conference between mother and daughter was suddenly broken up by the husband and father's return to his tea. He was in high spirits, and having brought home a beautiful gros grain silk dress as a present to Ruth, he claimed a kiss as a bounty. He said to her: "I want you to congratulate me, dear, for Mr. Gurney has been so well pleased with me that he has raised my salary; so it will be the same as what I received when in Rochester, and as our living is much cheaper here, I consider it fully equal to a hundred dollars a year more. I am sure, dear, you find the people equally as considerate and kind as you did in your other home. Do you not?"

"Yes, dear, I have every cause to be thankful." She could truly thus speak; for, with the exception of the interview with Aunt Debie, her intercourse with her neighbors had been of the most pleasing character. They could not, in fact, do otherwise than treat Ruth Ashton with considerate kindness, as her amiable disposition drew all hearts to her, and her intelligent culture caused even the comparatively ignorant to respect her; for they instinctively realized she was a lady.

"I am sure, Richard, dear," she said, "that wherever you and our children are, if we are enjoying health and comparative prosperity, I cannot but feel contented. I should be very ungrateful, indeed, if I did not do so. Have we not every reason to be thankful? We are living in this delightful home, and is it not like Mount Zion, beautiful for situation?" As she spoke she drew aside the curtain, and looked out upon the flowers and gravelled walks which, sweeping in a circle, enclosed a closely-cropped lawn, with flower-beds on either side of and bordering them, and through an opening they could see the broad river that gradually widened until it entered the bay, which was dotted here and there with white sails, and away in the dim distance they could just discern the blue waters of the wide-sweeping Ontario. And, as she opened the window the breeze came fresh from the bay, catching, as it came, the fragrance of the clover and flowers, which had an exhilarating effect upon those who inhaled its fragrance. In fact, her words were emphasized by the silent but poetic eloquence of the surroundings.

Just then Eddie came in, bringing a fine string of fish. He had been angling in a stream which flowed into the river, a little more than a mile from the town, and had succeeded in capturing some really fine trout. His father, as he looked at them, said they were "speckled beauties," and they were; for, after counting them and finding there were nineteen, the scales were brought in, when they were found to weigh ten pounds.

Eddie's eyes sparkled with triumph. He enjoyed his success all the more because his father had indulged in a little good-natured banter as he was starting away, asking him if he should send out a cart to bring home what he would catch. He now felt he could turn the laugh against his father.

But who has ever yet caught a fine string of fish without being proud of his success? Even my reader, who may have reached life's summit, and is now on the steep decline, if he ever has indulged in the "gentle art," so beautifully delineated by quaint old Izaac Walton, will, I think, acknowledge that even yet he feels somewhat elated when he is so fortunate as to bring home a nice basket of the "speckled beauties," thus manifesting to all that his hand has not lost its cunning; but his feelings are cold when compared to the joy that animates the youthful heart under similar circumstances.

Let any gentleman who may read these pages go back, in memory, to the sunny days of boyhood, when he returned home with a "fine string"—the result of a day's fishing—how enthusiastically he entered into the description of the manner in which the big ones were captured. And then, with a tinge of regret in the tones, how graphically he related the escape of some monster of the stream, which, probably, carried away the hook and part of the line. If you can remember such episodes in your life, now, alas! in the long ago—and if you cannot the author sincerely pities you—then you can have some idea of the triumph of Eddie Ashton upon the evening in question. He had fished on several occasions in the river and bay, both with rod and with trolling line, and had been moderately successful, catching some fine pike and bass—larger indeed than he had ever seen before, even in the fish-market in the city; but their capture did not animate him with pride like this day's catch. He had often read of trout-fishing, and had longed to participate in its exciting pleasures, thinking how delighted he should be if he were ever so fortunate as to bring home even a few; but never in his wildest dreams did he anticipate anything like what he had now actually realized. That night he sat down and wrote to Jim Williams, telling him of his success, and then asking him if he thought Canada was such a slow place to live in after all.

As the Ashton family gathered round the tea board in their neat cosy dining-room that beautiful summer evening they presented a picture of true happiness. They had still many things left which they had purchased in the days of their opulence. The silver tea set was shining upon the board as brightly now as it did fifteen years before. The table was spread with a snow-white cloth—one that had been brought from over the sea. The silver spoons and china tea set were also mementos of the dear old home land. The fare was simple but ample, and there was so much of kindly mirth and genial wit that each one was happy.

Richard Ashton had not lost his fine sense of humor, and he dearly loved to enjoy a joke with his wife and children, though he never indulged in witticisms that would wound the feelings of the most sensitive person; he was too much of a gentleman to thus torture others.

If a person could have been present that night, without restraining their innocent mirth, and participated in the joy of that happy family, he would never have dreamed that less than one short year before there had been a dark cloud of sorrow lowering over them, shutting out all the sunlight from their view.

"Our business has been developing very rapidly lately," said Mr. Ashton; "there has not been a period during the time in which Mr. Gurney has been in business that the sales have equalled this month. And this is the reason, I suppose, he has raised my salary sooner than he promised. I think I have no cause to be discouraged with the result."

The dark eyes of Richard Ashton flashed pleasure as he thus spoke, and the eyes of his wife and children caught and reflected back the light.

"Pa," said Allie, "my music teacher spoke very kindly to-day, and said I had made much more advancement than any of his pupils. He also said if I only had the opportunity I would be much above mediocrity as a musician. I do wish, papa, that an opening might occur. Ella Fair has been to Toronto for a year taking lessons from one who is considered among the best teachers in Canada, and yet my teacher told me to-day that neither her touch nor her execution of difficult parts could be compared to my own."

"I am afraid," said her father, "that Mr. Stevens is praising you so much that he will make you vain. You must remember you are only a little girl as yet, and have to finish your studies at the High School. I think there is too much superficiality in the education of the young in this country, especially in the education of young girls. There seems to be a desire for what is named the accomplishments, while even the rudiments of an English education are to a great extent neglected.

"Why, the young lady of whom you were speaking bought the material for a silk dress from me to-day, and she undertook to make up the bill, but failed to do so. I am certain I should have had no difficulty in reckoning it when I was a mere child, eight years of age; and though she appeared to be so estimable young lady, her English was execrable and her slang phrases offensive to cultivated ears. I concluded if she had only been thoroughly taught in one of our common schools, she would have appeared to much better advantage.

"I hope, Allie, you will not become so entirely absorbed in your music as to neglect those primary studies, which certainly are of much greater importance. Pastry is all very well for dessert; it is, however, a very poor substitute for bread.

"But be diligent with your studies, dear, and then we will probably, some day, see if something cannot be done. If you will play a piece for me I shall be happy to listen to you after tea."

"I tay, papa," said little Mamie, "I'se going to have a foochoo," and she shook her head in coquettish consequence, till the curls fell over her eyes and nearly hid them from view.

"A foochoo? What is that, little sunbeam? Is it a Chinese doll, or a doggie, or what is it?"

Of course, by this time, the whole family had joined in a good-natured laugh at little Mamie's expense.

"No, no, papa, a foochoo—a pant dat will have a petty fower, I mean. Mrs. Gurney was here, and she taid she ood div me a foochoo in a petty 'ittle pot, and dat den I ood have my own fowers, and tood water and tend 'em all myself."

"Oh, it is a fuchsia that she is to give you! Well, I am sure papa is glad that his little sunbeam is to have a pretty plant to tend; and if she smiles as sweetly at it as she does at her papa, it will be a very naughty plant indeed if it does not soon have a great many beautiful flowers."

"Do you know, papa," said Mrs. Ashton, "that your little daughter has learned another hymn to sing for you, and she would like to sing it to you before you return to the store, if it will not detain you too long."

"Is that so?" said Mr. Aston. "Then, by all means, papa must hear it."

"I 'earned it from Allie," said Mamie, "and she has been teaching me this 'ong, 'ong time; but dey told me I was not to 'et papa know till I had dot it dood."

"Well, Allie," said her father, "you come and give me your piece, and then I will hear my little Mamie."

Allie sat down at the piano and played Thalberg's "Home, Sweet Home," and as she rendered it its sweet pathos went to the heart of her father, and he paid her the highest compliment possible; for when she had finished she found him with his head turned away to hide his emotion.

It had brought back the dear old home of his boyhood, and the dear ones who had made it so happy, but who had long, long ago gone to the home above; and then his thoughts came back to his present happy home, and he thought of the dear inmates who had been so true to him when he had been so untrue to himself. The piece was, in his estimation, the sweetest, the most thrilling, the most delicately and tenderly touching of anything to which he had ever listened.

"It is certainly very fine, my darling," he said, as he stooped and kissed Allie. "I never had music exercise such a power over me; it was almost painful in its thrilling ecstasy."

The fine dark eyes of Allie glowed with happiness as she listened to the commendation of her father. Praise from any other lips would be but as "sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal" when compared with his; for her love for him, under every circumstance, through evil as well as good report, was so great that she would have died for him; and his praise of her singing filled her with inexpressible joy.

"Now, little sunbeam," said Mr. Ashton, "I will hear you sing your piece. Come, Allie, and play for her, for I must soon return to the shop."

Allie again took her place at the piano and played the prelude, and then started little Mamie, who sang:

"I am so glad that my Father in heaven Tells of His love in the Book He has given. Wonderful things in the Bible I see, But this is the dearest—that Jesus loves me.

"I am so glad that Jesus loves me— Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me; I am so glad that Jesus loves me— Jesus loves even me."

There was something in the singing of his little prattler which filled Richard Ashton with strange awe. As she lisped out "I am so glad," with note as clear as the carolling of a lark, the look of seraphic rapture which overspread her face evinced that she had entered into the spirit of the piece and that her little heart was glad. As he looked into the face of his wife he saw, intuitively, her thoughts were as his, and he whispered to her: "Ruth, dear, she seems too fair, too sweet, too good for earth; I am sometimes afraid that God will take her from us."

Mrs. Ashton made no reply; her heart was too full for speech. But as he looked at Allie he saw she had caught his whispered words, and—it seemed almost in unconscious harmony with her thoughts— her fingers struck the keys and her lips warbled forth in sweetest pathos the simple but tenderly touching words:

"Strange, we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown! Strange, that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone! Strange, that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake the white down in the air!

"Then scatter seeds of kindness," etc.

They each of them kissed the little one who was to them so dear.

"My little girl sang that beautifully," said her father, "but she must not sing too much; I am afraid, if she does, she will injure her voice."

"Call Eddie," he said; and Mamie ran out for him, for he had gone out immediately after supper to exhibit his catch to the son of a neighbor. Mamie met him, and told him that his father was waiting to have prayer.

It was now the custom of Richard Ashton to gather his wife and children around him at the family altar, both morning and evening, to sing a hymn and read a portion of Scripture; and then to supplicate the Father in heaven for His benediction upon the little group that were there assembled.

He had commenced family worship when they were married, but as his views changed he gradually desisted, and finally left off entirely. This caused Ruth great grief, for she had ever been a conscientious and consistent Christian. Since they came to Bayton she had prevailed upon him to resume the custom that was such a source of joy and comfort to them in the halcyon days of yore. He always held the service in the morning before breakfast and just after supper in the evening, as then all the children could be present.

When Eddie came his father took down the family Bible. They then sang an appropriate hymn, and, after reading a chapter, he carried them all to a throne of grace in prayer.

The Bible from which he read the lesson had been in the family for four generations, and in the family record there were the names of some who had been gathered to their fathers for over a hundred years. It had been left him by his mother, and almost her last words were spoken as she presented it to him. She said: "Take this, my son; it has been your mother's counsellor and guide through life, and when other friends failed her it was true. Go to it for counsel every day, my son; it will be better unto thee than thousands of gold and silver."

The son took it with a determination to guard it as a precious treasure, and to leave it as an heirloom to his children. He penned upon its flyleaf the beautiful words of the poet Morris, as they so explicitly expressed the incidents which were associated with his own experience:

"This Book is all that's left me now; Tears will unbidden start; With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past Here is our family tree, My mother's hand this Bible clasped, She dying gave it me."

After prayer he went to his shop thanking God in his heart for His mercy to him after all his lapses. And there was that glow of happiness reigning in his soul which he only knows who has a happy home.

Never were truer words penned than those of the poor wanderer, John Howard Payne:

"Be it ever so humble, There's no place like home."

If a man has hearts that love him there, he is better prepared to successfully meet and overcome life's difficulties and to endure buffetings from the outside world. It seems eminently felicitous that heaven should be called home; for the name is associated with the sweetest, purest, holiest joys that are experienced in this life. It raises our hopes, and fills us with a glorious expectancy, when we think of that place of rest as "home, sweet home."



CHAPTER XV.

MR. AND MRS. GURNEY'S SATISFACTION WITH ASHTON; MUTUAL CONGRATULATIONS.

The next summer and winter passed away and there was nothing transpired to cause sorrow to rest upon the home of Richard and Ruth Ashton. They and their children were winning golden opinions from all with whom they were associated; and as Mr. Gurney's business prospered under the management of the former, who proved himself to be reliable, Mr. Gurney felt very thankful that he had secured so good a man.

"I think, dear," he said to his wife one day, "we might have gone farther and fared worse. I did not dream that I would be so relieved from responsibility. Ashton is certainly one of the best business men I have ever met."

"True," interjected Mrs. Gurney, "I came to that conclusion from almost the first; and his courteous, gentlemanly demeanour makes him a general favorite."

"Yes," continued Mr. Gurney, "and then he is so clear-sighted, intelligent, and energetic; so conscientious in regard to what he owes to his employer that he takes just as much interest in the business as if it were his own."

"I am sure, James," his wife replied, "we were divinely directed; the clouds of our affliction were so dark they hid all the sunlight from our view; but yet we can now see, can we not, dear, that they were lined with silver?"

"Yes," he replied; "God's ways are not our ways."

"I hope," she said, "Mr. Ashton may continue as he has so far; but if he were again to fall a victim to his old habit I should not, even then, regret that we employed him."

"How is that, my dear?" queried Mr. Gurney.

"Why, because in so doing, James, we have kept him from sin for a considerable period of time, and enabled him to sustain in comparative comfort his wife and family. And then I esteem it a great privilege to be intimately acquainted with such a family. Mrs. Ashton is certainly one of the most estimable women with whom I have ever associated; and their children are, to my mind, models of what children should be—they are so bright and amiable, so gentle to each other, and so obedient to their parents. Besides, he has taken such an interest in your business, and has so won the confidence of the public by his engaging manners and what seems to be his intuitive insight into character; and his power to please has helped your business so."

"Yes, I think you are about right, dear. In fact, I know you are, as far as what you said applies to myself, for I am certain I would not have recuperated so soon had it not been that I was relieved from a great deal of care and worry by my confidence in him, while I have had enough to employ my mind to keep me from brooding sorrow. I am now confident the doctor gave me the best possible advice when he said, 'You had better not give up your business.'"

"I am certain, dear," his wife said, "that the course you adopted was the very best under the circumstances; but, as you just remarked, it would not have done to have tried if you had not had a foreman to relieve you from all worry."

"Well, my dear," he remarked, "if it has turned out well for all parties concerned, it is you who deserves the credit. I believe a woman's instinctive perception of character is keener and clearer than that of a man's. And the heart of a true woman always beats responsive to human woe. If charity depended entirely upon the sterner sex, there would be many hearts which have been made happy by the beneficent hand of charity still unrelieved, and many homes which are now happy would be filled with misery—their inmates almost shut out from hope and sinking in despair."

"Thee mustn't flatter so, or I'll get vain," she said playfully, at the same time going over to his chair and, kissing him lightly on the forehead. She always spoke the plain language when she wished to manifest her affection, for it was the language that both of them spoke in their childhood.

"I do not deserve any more credit than you do. You hesitated, in order that you might look at the matter from all sides, and view it in all its bearings; you wished to weigh it carefully in your mind, and not come to a conclusion from the impulse of the moment. You desired to do what was best for all concerned, and I have no doubt but you would have concluded to do just what you did."

"I might, or I might not," he said; "but thee seemed to conclude at once that he would be just the man for me; and then thee pitied him so that I think thee wanted to give him a chance under any circumstances."

"Well—yes, James, I will admit I did; but I must say that from the very first I liked him, and thought he would be, if he kept from drink, just the man for you. And I think you may be right in your estimate of women; for I have no doubt they have an intuitive perception of character that is, to a certain extent, lacking in men; this, in many instances at least, takes the place of reasoning with them. I also believe their hearts are more easily influenced by the appeals of want or sorrow, and that therefore they are more frequently found taking the initiative in matters that appeal largely to the heart. Their nature and their position alike fit them for this."

"Let me see, Sarah!" said Mr. Gurney, jocosely. "You are among those strong-minded women that believe in women being the equal of man in every respect, and should have the same rights as men."

"Now, James, thee knows better than that, and simply likes to tease. I believe that women should have the same rights as men, in their proper sphere; and I would like to see them have a right to vote on this temperance question, for if they had they would soon sweep the land clear of its most blighting curse; but except for this purpose I think the right place for woman to exert an influence is in the home circle: though, James, thee knows," she said, "that 'George Eliot' and Elizabeth Barrett Browning are, in their field, unexcelled—though I never think of the former without sorrow and shame—and there are a great many more whom I might mention. Then I often think, dear, there would be a much larger proportion of eminent women if they had the same chances as your sex; in their daily rounds of domestic duties they have not the same opportunities of development. I think it may be better that it is so; but yet, in making a comparison of the two sexes, we should not overlook this fact. Gray's lines—

'Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air'—

"I think, are even more applicable to the women than to the men. But I am talking too much. Does thee not feel tired, dear? If thee does not, I do; come, let's make ready for bed."

"Yes, dear, I do feel tired, for I have had rather a hard day; but I am very thankful I can now go to bed and sleep. If I was not so weary I would answer that long speech," he said, playfully: "Thee may expect a crushing reply at some other time."



CHAPTER XVI.

ASHTON RE-VISITS OLD SCENES.

A week or two after the conversation we recorded in the last chapter, Richard Ashton spoke to Mr. Gurney in regard to his contemplated journey to Rochester. He wished to go that he might settle his business with the man who had purchased his place.

Mr. Gurney was well aware that such a journey was contemplated, and he was sincerely sorry that such was the case.

Ashton, during the year that was passed, had never left the town for any purpose whatever, and had kept so strictly to his business as not to form any association with those who would be likely to lead him astray. Mr. Gurney, therefore, was not altogether satisfied that he would have strength enough to resist the temptations to which he would be exposed when he met his old associates in Rochester. He plainly told Ashton what his fear was, but the latter assured him he would pass through the ordeal and come out unscathed. So Mr. Gurney expressed the hope that he would bring his business to a successful issue, and return with improved health from his trip, and he then bade him a kindly good-bye.

But it was his wife who experienced the greatest anxiety. Ruth had from the beginning expressed her fears as to the result of the voyage. It seemed to her like courting temptation. She thought the business might have been settled through his solicitor without his going in person. But, as he seemed bent on the journey, she did not like to make many objections; she was afraid, by so doing, she would wound his feelings, for he would be certain to interpret the objections as inspired by her fears of his falling, and, strange to say, that, like a great many others in similar circumstances, he seemed to be very much hurt if anyone hinted to him that there was any danger of his drinking again.

She had, however, prevailed upon him to take Eddie along. She thought his presence would have a restraining influence upon his father, and she reasoned, if he should again fall, Eddie could, to some extent, take care of him.

The thought of this journey had so preyed upon her mind that it robbed her of her sleep; and now, as the time more nearly approached, her anxiety deepened into anguish which was all the more acute because she dare not make a confident of him from whom she kept no other secret. Only to Him from whom no thoughts are hidden, did she go and tell her anguish, and pray for strength to bear up under her great sorrow. She also prayed that God would protect him who was dearer to her than her own life.

It was nearly a year from the day in which they first landed in Bayton, when Richard Ashton was again bidding his wife and children an affectionate farewell, ere he departed on a journey to another land. It was undertaken under much more favorable auspices than when he started from Rochester to Canada; for in the first instance he was journeying to a strange land on an errand of doubtful success, while in the present instance he was going to a place with which he was familiar, where he would have old friends to bid him welcome, and kindly hearts to care for him. And yet, if possible, there was greater dread entertained by his wife now than there had been on the former occasion. Then he could scarcely make his position worse, and there was a possibility of his bettering it; now there was everything to lose and nothing to gain.

True, he had assured her she had nothing to fear. Just the night before he started he had said, as he lovingly threw his arms around her and drew her to him:—

"I know, Ruth, darling, you are suffering anxiety upon my account, and are fearing I shall not have strength to resist the temptation to which I shall be exposed; but you need not fear, little wife, I shall return as I leave you. I have made up my mind, God helping me, I will never drink again."

The tears started from Ruth's eyes as he spoke, and she threw her arms around his neck as she clung to him, sobbing as she did so. She spoke no word in denial of what he had stated concerning her fears in his behalf, but simply murmured: "God bless you, my darling; I know I am a poor, weak, foolish little thing to grieve so at parting from you; but oh, Richard, I am afraid something will happen you, and we are so happy now!"

He endeavoured to calm her by loving caresses. He was not at all surprised that his wife should be troubled with anxious fear. He inwardly resolved he would so acquit himself this time that she should ever after, in this as in other respects, repose the most perfect confidence in him.

As we said, on the morning in question he and Eddie kissed their loved ones good-bye and took the seven o'clock train for the place in which they had spent so many happy years.

The wife and mother, with her two children who had accompanied them to the station, looked at the receding train with tearful eyes.

It was a beautiful morning: the first beams of the slowly-rising sun, stealing gently above the eastern hills, scattered the mist of the morning and bathed the river and bay in its golden light. A robin, which was perched upon a maple growing not far from where Ruth and her children were standing, was singing its lay to the morning, and the atmosphere was balmy with the breath of flowers. It was a morning to charm the heart into joyousness, and yet the heart of Ruth Ashton was filled with unutterable woe. The thoughts which had borne so heavily upon her spirits for so long a period of time now came with redoubled force, and dark, dreadful forebodings and sorrowful memories assailed her soul and filled it with unspeakable anguish.

"Oh, my Father, help me to bear up!" she prayed. "Oh, why am I filled with dread, with this awful fear?"

Taking her children by the hand, she led them back to the house. They uttered no word, even little Mamie seeming to understand that her mother's heart was too full for words.



CHAPTER XVII.

MR. HOWE GIVES HIS VIEWS IN REGARD TO CANADA.

Richard Ashton found many in Rochester who were glad to see him again and extend to him a most cordial welcome. He soon had completed his business with Mr. Howe, the gentleman who had purchased his property, and was ready to return to Canada.

"I suppose you are able to exist in that country, Ashton," said Mr. Howe. "The climate must be somewhat healthy, or you and your boy would not be so hearty. But, from what I hear, I would not like to put in much of the time that may be allotted to me on this terrestrial sphere in a land where the thermometer so assiduously courts zero; and then the nature of the soil will keep it from ever amounting to much. The fact is, Ashton, the only hope for Canada is annexation to the United States."

When Mr. Howe made these remarks he threw himself back in his chair, elevated his feet on the back of another chair, took another chew of his honey dew, and, as he whittled a stick, consequentially shook his head, as much as to say, "I know what I am talking about."

"You are altogether mistaken, Mr. Howe, in almost everything about Canada, as most of your countrymen are."

"Well, I may be, but I would like to know in what particulars."

"Well, in the first place, in regard to the climate. I suppose you will be somewhat surprised when I inform you that it has not been so cold this winter where I reside as it has been in Rochester; for I have carefully noted what the thermometer registered in both places, and we had the advantage of you in this respect. As to the soil, there is no part of the world in which I have travelled, not even your much-lauded and far-famed Genesee, has better land than the country surrounding the town of Bayton, and I have been informed from the most reliable sources that the major portion of the land in Ontario is of a similar character."

"I want to know!" ejaculated Mr. Howe.

"And then we have the great North-West, that is just opening up, which they say has as fine land as the world possesses, and to an extent that is practically illimitable. This is settling rapidly, and will be in some future day the home of countless millions."

"I guess you are going to your imagination for your facts now, Ashton. Why, man, the thermometer often sinks to forty below zero. They'd freeze out; no white population can stand that."

"But, my dear fellow, they have stood it, and 'facts are stubborn things;' and you are well aware that at this present time the northern nations are the ones that lead the world in skill, enterprise, and deeds of daring. And then the atmosphere is so clear and dry that those who have resided there for years say they do not suffer from cold to the same extent as they did in countries where it was not nearly so cold but where the atmosphere was more humid."

"Well, all I can say is, they may stay and shiver there for all me. I wouldn't live there all my life if they'd give me the whole concern. No, no, not for Joseph!"

"I wouldn't trust you, sir, if you had the offer."

"You might."

"Then there is something else I wish to mention, and that is, our Common School system is not surpassed in the world; and for intelligent, healthy lads and lasses we will compare favorably with any country under the sun.

"The fact is, Mr. Howe, we like you as neighbors, but are too loyal to our Queen and mother land ever to want to be united by any closer ties."

"Well, then, if Canada is the Eden you paint it how is it the views of Canadian life and scenery are so wintry looking? Why, sir, in the show rooms of the artists in this city—and you will see the same in artists' rooms of England and even Europe—there are sketches of Canadian scenes, and almost invariably something wintry is suggested—men in great fur overcoats and caps, muffled up to the eyes, and with capouches that seemed capacious enough to carry a week's stock of provisions, and yet have spare room; the men generally having on snow-shoes and accompanied with Indians to wait on them, and dogs to drag their toboggans, while all around them are heaps of snow piled up on huge rocks, and overtopping and bearing down short scrubby pines and firs. If you have a good country I calculate that such pictures as these, no matter what may be their artistic merits, are poor advertisements, and will not get you many immigrants."

"I am well aware of this. But I suppose you know these scenes have been got up, for effect, in the studios of enterprising photographer; and though they may be very fair representations of some parts of our Dominion in the depth of winter, they represent the country, generally, about as faithfully as winter views from the main lumber woods, or even from Alaska, would represent the United States."

At that moment Eddie, who had been enjoying himself with some of his old friends, came in. He asked his father if he might go and spend the afternoon and evening with his old and very particular friend, Jim Williams; as there was yet two days ere the time expired upon which he had decided to return home, he gave Eddie permission to go and extend his visit until the next day.

Eddie, during that afternoon, accompanied by his friend, visited some of the old familiar places; they were dear to him, because they were associated in his mind with some of the happiest hours in his life; and he thought that, though in the land where it seemed to be his destiny to reside in the future there were many attractive spots which would, no doubt, in time be very dear to him, he would never forget his old home nor the scenes where he had played in childhood's happy hours.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BANQUET, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.

Richard Ashton had been invited by some of his friends to a supper at the Metropolitan Hotel, which had been specially got up for his benefit.

His first thought was that he would absolutely refuse to accept the invitation—he was afraid he might be tempted to drink; but as he concluded it would be considered ungracious on his part to refuse he decided to go, but only on the understanding if there was any toast-drinking he would be permitted to pledge them in pure cold water.

When the members of the committee who had been appointed to wait upon him heard his decision, they said they certainly could not object to his observing his own mind; that they had no desire to cause him to violate his principles; in fact, they gave it as their opinion that there would not be a person present who would not respect him the more for proving that he had the courage of his convictions.

Upon the night appointed he went to the banquet, and it passed off as such affairs usually do. Many very gracious and pleasant things were said of the guest of the evening in the eulogistic strains which generally characterize speeches made on such occasions. How much of what was said was sincere, and how much mere complimentary phraseology of the dental kind, I will allow those who are in the habit of attending such parties to decide.

The meeting at last ended, as all meetings on earth do. But this differed in one respect from the great majority of such gatherings—that is, those who attended it at least left the banqueting room sober; though, as the sequel will show, one of them was not so fortunate as to reach his lodgings in that condition.

"I will accompany you home, Ashton," said one who had taken a very active part in the entertainment.

"I am sure, Chappell, I should like very much to have your company, but I could not think of allowing you to put yourself to such trouble on my account; of course you are aware that I am well acquainted with the city."

"Oh, I am well aware of that, but you seem to forget that until we cross the bridge my way home lies in the same direction as your own; and then I can, after seeing you up the avenue, cross by the way of Alexander or Jefferson Street to my own lodgings."

"It is exceedingly kind of you, Chappell, to make the offer, and I shall be thankful for your company as far as the bridge, but I shall insist upon our separating there, as I will soon reach Reid's after that."