Only a crisp fifty-dollar bill! Katie had never seen so much money at once before. How beautiful it looked; how much it represented of comfort and luxury; how many things it would buy that she knew were wanted by her mother and the boys! She deposited her treasure carefully at the bottom of a little pearl box which had been her mother's, and was the only really pretty thing which she possessed, and then went downstairs to lie on the sofa, think about and plan for spending it.

Where had Katie suddenly got so much money? and why did she so earnestly desire to keep the possession of it a secret? She thought the answer to the latter question lay in her desire to surprise her mother, and was not at all conscious of another feeling that lay as yet quite dormant and unaroused. As to the former, that is easily answered. After cutting off the buttons of an old vest, just as the little girl was preparing to cut it in smaller pieces, the pocket opened, and out fluttered a crumpled paper, which on being opened proved to be a fifty-dollar bill. Some careless gentleman, no one could tell whom, no one could tell when, had stuffed it into the pocket and forgotten all about it. Strange that the vest should have gone through all the vicissitudes common to old clothes, worn possibly by a beggar, condemned to a dust-heap, fished out, sorted, sold, packed, sold again, and transported to the factory, passing through a dozen hands, to any one of whose owners the money would have been so useful, and there it had lain unnoticed till it fluttered out into the very hands of Katie Robertson, who needed it so much.

What castles in the air the little girl built as she lay there in the twilight!—dresses and bonnets for her mother; new suits for each of the boys; a new tea-set, with table-cloth and napkins. Never in the world did a fifty-dollar bill buy half so much in reality as this one did in imagination; which, by the way, is a very pleasant way of spending money, since it does not at all diminish the amount, which may be all spent over and over again in a variety of ways. But strangely enough, while everything needed by the others, even to a new ribbon to tie round pussy's neck, was remembered, Katie's catalogue of articles to be bought contained nothing in the world for herself.



CHAPTER VII.

STRIFE AND VICTORY.

No thought had as yet suggested itself to Katie concerning her right to the money which had thus come into her possession, and as she lay there planning the things she was going to get with it, she enjoyed to the full the dignity of ownership. How glad her mother would be when there was a decent water-pail in the house, plates enough of one kind to go round, and a table-cloth that was not nearly all darns! Then her mother should have a new shawl and bonnet, and each of the boys a straw hat and a bright necktie, and she would have something to put in the plate every Sunday in church, and to add to the missionary collection of the Sunday-school class. Perhaps, even, she could give something toward a present that the girls were talking of giving to Miss Eunice.

But just then an idea, so painful that at first she turned away from it, struck her, and a question that she did not want to answer suggested itself to her mind. Had she a right to keep the money? Was it really hers? Of course it was, said inclination; whose else could it be? She had found it, no one else; if she had not picked it up it would have gone in with the rags to be boiled and ground up into paper again, or it might have been swept away among the dust and waste paper, and no one been the better or wiser. "Findings is keepings" was a familiar school-boy proverb; was it the right principle or not?

Katie tried to persuade herself that it was. Nevertheless, she was glad that, as she supposed, no one had seen her find the bill, and that her mother as yet knew nothing about the finding. Also, she did not plan out any more ways of spending the money.

Katie was so silent all teatime that her brothers continually rallied her upon her preoccupation, and her mother, fearing she must be sick, sent her to bed very early. To this the little girl did not object, as she wanted to be alone to think over the question that was so perplexing her brain.

Before getting into bed, our young friend opened her drawer, took out the box, gazed lovingly at the bill for a time, then put it away, and knelt to say her evening prayer. What was the matter to-night? For almost the first time since she had known what prayer really was, she could not pray. Her thoughts would not be controlled; they kept wandering away to the finding of that bill. She wondered whether any one had seen her find it, what use she should put it to, and if it were really hers after all. She knew it was wrong to think of other things at such a solemn moment, and felt guilty and condemned. Her conscience troubled her; it seemed as though God were angry with her. So far the finding of the money had not been a very happy event for its finder. It often happens that secular things, the things we are interested in in our daily lives, will come in between us and our prayers, and we cannot get rid of them. Young Christians especially are greatly troubled in this way, and have many weary fights in the attempt to control their thoughts. They have an idea that prayer is such a sacred thing, and God is so holy, that they must only talk to him about religion, and use pretty much the same words which they hear in church, and when they cannot do this, they either fall into the habit of saying such words formally without in the least thinking of their meaning, or else they are wretched and self-condemned because of what are called "distractions in prayer." But there is a more excellent way, even to take all the things that really interest us directly to "our Father which art in heaven," and tell him all about them. He encourages us to do so when he says, "casting all your care upon him," and "in everything by prayer and supplication make your requests known unto God." If we are really his children we may be sure that nothing is too small to interest him which rightfully interests us, and if it is not a right interest there is no surer way of finding that out, and gaining the victory over it, than by bringing it to the light of his Holy Spirit and asking him for strength to dispose of it as we ought.

Had Katie thus taken the money which she had found directly to the Lord, she would soon have understood all her duty concerning it. Her desire would have been only to do his will, and she would have gone to sleep as peacefully as a little child who trusts its mother to manage for it just as she sees to be for the best. But this she did not dare to do, partly because she had not yet learned to understand how God "careth" for his children in all little things, and partly because down at the bottom of her heart she was not quite ready to do his will—that is, she hoped that it would be right for her to keep the money, and hoped this so strongly that she could not look fairly on the other side of the question. Nearly all night—or it seemed so to a little girl who was generally asleep by the time her head touched the pillow—she lay tossing from side to side, troubled by a dozen different sides of the question. And when she did get to sleep it was to dream confused dreams of thieves being taken to prison, and of being one of them herself.

As soon as it was light, for the long days had come now, the tired little girl sprang from her bed, and dressed herself, in a very unhappy frame of mind. She must decide very soon now, and she began to see more and more clearly that that money did not belong to her, but to the owner of the vest in which she had found it. To be sure, she could not now find the original owner, but Mr. Mountjoy certainly owned it, because he had bought the rags. It was one thing, however, to see this, and quite another to decide to give up to him who had so much the little that was so much to her. All the pleasant planning must go with it; all the things she had desired for her mother and the boys. She was sure she had not been selfish; it was not for herself she wanted money at all. From force of habit she opened her Bible and read the first words she saw, which were these: "Thou desirest truth in the inward parts." And again the words flashed upon her: "Thou God seest me."

What did God see? Did he see "truth in the inward part" of her heart? Was she prepared in all her ways to acknowledge him? his right to her and all that was hers?

Then she knelt down and did what she ought to have done the first thing—told him, who understands and pities us "like as a father pitieth his children," all about it, and asked him to forgive, to pity, and to direct her. And now it all came to her, for God always keeps his word, and he has promised to give his Holy Spirit to them that ask him, and further that that blessed Spirit when he comes shall "guide us unto all truth."

Whoever was the owner of that bill, she was not. It belonged to God primarily, but he had given the disposal of it into the hands of him who owned the rags. If she kept it, at least without telling him that she had found it, she would be a thief! There was but one right way for her, and that was to take it at once to him, tell him where she had found it, and leave him to do as he thought best. To her mind there was little doubt what he would do. People did not generally give away their money, especially such large sums as fifty dollars seemed to her. All her air-castles must fall to the dust, and the house must go on with the old things as before.

Nevertheless, it was with a sense of absolute relief that Katie folded that bill away in her little purse, and dropped it far down into her pocket. If the "eyes of the Lord were in every place," they saw it there, and they saw, too, into her heart, and saw there that the purpose of doing his will had, by his grace, triumphed over her own desires, and that was enough to make her once more the happy, bright Katie Robertson.

She was almost late at the mill this morning; had only just time to get to her place as the short whistle sounded, and of course there was no time to speak to Mr. Mountjoy. She commenced her work at once, and continued it very diligently, never once looking around at the other girls, so full was she of her own thoughts. Thus she did not see the significant looks which Bertie cast at her from time to time, nor the signs which she made to some of the other girls who, in their turn, became curious and significant, and lost several pennies in fines, because they could not help asking each other what was the matter.

Bertie had not exactly told the story as she knew it, but had insinuated to one and another that she knew something that nobody else knew about Katie Robertson; that, if she chose to tell all she knew, people would not think her such a saint; that, for her part, she did not believe in saints; when people pretended to be very religious they were sure to be dishonest, etc. etc. She made such a mystery of her news that the girls to whom she had made her half-confidence were worked up to a great state of excitement, and the others were devoured with curiosity to know what it could all be about.

But Katie worked quietly on. She had plenty of opportunity to change her determination had she desired to do so, and indeed the temptation to keep the money herself and say nothing about it presented itself again and again to her mind. But now she knew it to be a temptation, and she was strong to resist, because she had committed herself to One who was mighty and his strength was made perfect in her weakness.

As soon as the noon-bell rang and the work-people all poured along the corridors and out at the open doors, Katie knocked at the office door and was told to "Come in!" by Mr. James, who happened to be alone inside. Without a word the girl walked up to his desk and laid the bill down beside him.

The young man started, stared, and finally said:—

"Where did you get this?"

"I found it in the rags, sir."

"When?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Why did you bring it to me?"

"Because I think if it belongs to anybody it does to you, it was found among your rags."

"Why did you not bring it to me at once?"

"Because—because I didn't think at first, and I wanted it so much."

"Did you?" said he, gravely. "You know the Bible says: 'Thou shalt not covet'?"

Katie started; had she been breaking one of the commandments, after all? Not the one about stealing, of which she had thought, but another.

"I didn't mean to do that," said she, in a low voice, "but we do want things so much—mother, I mean. We are so poor."

"Are you?" said the young man, in a sympathizing tone. "Well, you are an honest little girl to bring it to me at all. A great many would not have done so, and I should have known nothing about it. Didn't you think of that?"

"Yes, sir; but God knew it, and that made all the difference. Besides, I don't think I was quite honest; if I had been, I should have come to you the first minute, and not thought about keeping it at all."

"Then you did have a little struggle about it?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I hardly slept all night. I didn't know what to do at first, and then I didn't want to do it."

"But God gave you the victory," said the young man, reverently.

"I understand all about that, and how sweet it is to be helped by him," Katie added.

"Now," continued he, "I think he sent you that fifty-dollar bill himself; first to try you, and then that you might help your mother to buy all those things that you and she are so much in need of. It isn't mine, for when I pay two cents a pound for old rags I do not buy fifty dollar bills. Take it, and be just as happy with it as a thankful heart can make you. Good-morning; I must hurry home to dinner."[1]

A gladder little girl than Katie Robertson it would be hard to find. The love of money is said to be the root of all evil, and so money itself sometimes is, but that is according to how it is gotten and how used.

This bill would have been a root of bitter evil to the girl had she kept it, in spite of an enlightened conscience, which told her to give it up; and it would have been a root of evil to the young man, had he taken it, as by the letter of the law he had an undoubted right to do, when he knew the little girl needed it so much more than he did. As it was, it was a seed of joy to both of them. Mr. James went home full of the joy which is so like to Christ's joy, in having been kind to another at his own expense; and Katie's heart could hardly hold the glad thankfulness, both to him and to her heavenly Father, that filled it to overflowing, and that was all the gladder because it was rooted in an approving conscience, at peace with itself and at peace with God.

The precious piece of paper was displayed to the wondering mother and brothers at the dinner-table that day. The story, or so much of it as Katie could bring herself to relate, was told, and all enjoyed in anticipation the comforts it was able to procure; but the best thing it accomplished was to teach its finder where to go in time of perplexity and temptation and in whose strength to be "more than conqueror."

——- [Footnote 1: 1 This whole occurrence is a positive fact.]



CHAPTER VIII.

TEMPLES.

It was a lovely June Sunday. The seats of Squantown Sunday-school were even more crowded than usual; the girls' side looking like a flower-bed in its variety and brilliancy of color. Bertie Sanderson was there in her new silk,—a brilliant cardinal,—looking strangely unsuitable to the season; Gretchen, the German, in her woolen petticoat and jacket, which she had not been long enough in the country to discard for summer attire; the other girls in spring suits, and Katie Robertson in a lovely pale-blue lawn and a white straw hat trimmed with the same color. It was the prettiest costume the little girl had ever possessed, and as it was all bought with her own earnings she may be pardoned for being very much pleased with it. And yet it was as simple and inexpensive a summer outfit as any one could have, and certainly was not fitted to excite the hateful thoughts to which it was giving rise in Bertie's mind—Bertie, clad in her unsuitable finery! This finery had not been the success that Bertie expected. To be sure, it was a silk dress, and the brightest color she could procure, but it had been made by the Squantown dressmaker, and entirely lacked the fit and finish of Etta Mountjoy's dresses, besides being in direct contrast to the delicate, harmonious colors which the latter wore—a contrast which her admirer and would-be imitator was quick to perceive when her own brilliant coloring had been selected and it was too late to change. The disappointment made her cross, and inclined her still more to look for flaws in Katie, whom she began to hate as natures not sanctified by the grace of God are apt to hate those who are trying to do his will, and are thus a constant rebuke to them.

"Just look at her finery," said Bertie to her nearest neighbor, as Katie entered, looking as fresh and sweet as a June rose, "and her mother so poor. I could tell a story about how she got it that would make Miss Etta open her eyes, and Miss Eunice, too, for all she makes such a pet of the saint."

"What in the world do you mean?" said the other; but Bertie shook her head and looked mysterious, of course thus exciting the curiosity of the other tenfold.

"Do tell me," she said.

"We know what we do know, don't we?" said Bertie, provokingly, appealing to Gretchen, who nodded, but did not speak.

"Now, you're real mean," said the other, one Amelia Porter by name. "I know something I won't tell you, that's all."

Just then the bell tapped for silence, and the rest of the conversation was carried on in whispers, the only part which was heard being Amelia's astonished "Stole it? You don't say so! I never would have thought of such a thing."

But Katie did not hear. She was not thinking about her dress at all. The lesson was to her a very interesting one—the oft-repeated story of the tongues of fire that came down upon the early church, symbolizing the mighty power of the Holy Spirit to enkindle divine emotions, enthusiasm, and praise, and to make human tongues as flames of fire.

Miss Etta explained (for she had taken pains to study it up) how, in the early, times one Sunday in June was observed in commemoration of this descent of the Holy Ghost, and how, on that day, the new Christians, who of course were originally heathen, having been at first subjected to a long course of training, were baptized. They were called catechumens, because they were catechised or questioned, and candidates because they wore long white robes, candidus being the Latin word for white, and by degrees the day came to be called Whitsunday. Furthermore, Miss Etta told all about the Whitsuntide festivals of old English times in the days of the corrupt church, when festivities of the most riotous kind took place on the two days following Sunday; and the girls left the school, if not impressed by the holy teachings of the lessons, very full of a certain knowledge of that kind which St. Paul says "puffeth up," and prepared to pass a brilliant examination on the history and customs of Whitsuntide.

Very different was the pastor's sermon of that morning, which several of our girls remembered all their lives. Its text was:—

"Ye are the temples of the Holy Ghost."

And the speaker showed first what the temples of old times were; not places of meeting, as our churches to a great extent are, but dwelling-places, homes where God, or rather "the gods," were supposed to live. This idea was the one used as an illustration by St. Paul in the text, which means that God has made all human hearts to be his home and dwelling-place, and that if we will let him, not barring the doors with sin and filling up the inside with other things, he will live there always; or, as our Lord Jesus says: "If any man will open unto me, I will come in unto him and will sup with him;" and in another place, "will abide with him." Then he explained so that the youngest of his audience could understand what are the sins that bar the door against our blessed Saviour, and how we set up idols upon the altars of God's temple, by worshiping dress, vanity, pride, revenge, worldliness, and our own way, and showed how nobody can really worship God and have him abiding in his holy temple who yields obedience to anything or cares for anything more than his will. He said it was an awful thing to defile the temple of God by such things as drinking, smoking, and swearing, or even by evil thoughts and dishonest intentions, by selfish motives and unkindness in word or deed.

He closed his sermon in these words:—

"My hearers, every one of you is a temple of the Holy Ghost, built and fashioned with exquisite skill, for his own chosen dwelling-place. See to it that ye defile not this temple, and if it be in any wise already defiled, from without or within, at once seek the double cleansing, which flows from the Cross on Calvary, that thus your sacred temple may be washed whiter than snow. Dethrone the idol Self which has so long usurped the place of God upon its altar, and let him rule alone. And remember that every other human soul is likewise a sacred temple, no matter how defiled and degraded it has become by yielding itself willingly to the dominion of sin. Strive to do all that in you lies, by kind, persuasive words, by example and effort, to cleanse the degraded and polluted temples, and so do all in your power to exalt the dominion and worship of God in all the human souls which he has made."

The impression made by this sermon upon its hearers was in accord with the character and religious development of each.

James Mountjoy resolved to be more active and energetic in all efforts to improve the condition of his work-people, to raise the fallen, to reclaim the sinful, to set a better example and raise a higher standard of moral excellence, that the human temples over whom he had influence might be better fitted for the abiding presence of their heavenly Guest. Some of the more thoughtful of his boys resolved that smoking, drinking, and swearing should no longer, even in a slight degree, defile the "temples" entrusted to their keeping.

Eunice Mountjoy made a more entire consecration of herself than ever before to God's service, praying that there might be no hidden idols in her temple; that self and self-seeking might be forever cast out, even as our Lord cast out the money-changers and traffickers from the temple at Jerusalem; that God's will in all things might be hers, and that she might devote not a part only, but all her time, all her faculties, all her influence to his service in doing good to others, and thus "worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness."

Katie Robertson felt that she had understood some things to-day as never before. What but the presence of the Holy Spirit in her heart had enabled her to see the right and strengthened her to do it, and thus come off victorious over temptation? She remembered how the Holy Ghost is symbolized by a pure white dove, and she longed that her temple should also be a soft, white nest full of pure desires and kindly thoughts, and that nothing she might do or say in her daily life, among her companions or at home, should grieve that blessed heavenly inhabitant.

Even Bertie Sanderson had been struck with the sermon. If her heart was indeed a temple of the Holy Ghost, how was she defiling it? Envy, hatred, and malice were allowed to run riot there; love of dress and vanity were the idols enthroned on the altar; pride, disobedience, irreverence, contempt of rightful authority, idleness, and unfaithfulness were barring the door and keeping the loving Saviour, who stood knocking there, from coming into his own.

Bertie felt uncomfortable; the Holy Spirit was speaking to her, and she could not help but hear. But to hear and to obey are two very different things. The girl knew that she could unbar the closed door of her heart if she chose. One earnest, sincere prayer would bring the omnipotent aid of the Spirit to cast out the evil things and cleanse the defilement. But she did not want them cast out; she loved them too well. It would be all very well to have Christ's love, pity, forgiveness, and protection, and to be sure of heaven when she died; but to be a Christian—a saint she would have called it—now, to give up the things that most interested her, and live a life of self-denial and obedience,—she had no idea of doing any such thing. So, to drown the voice that she could not help hearing but did not mean to obey, she went off on a Sunday afternoon's excursion with some of the boys and girls, received a sharp reprimand from her father for so doing, and went back to her work on Monday morning more rebellious, more hardened, more idle, more malicious than before.

The blessed Holy Spirit is always longing to have us come to Christ and walk in his holy and happy ways. He watches for an opportunity to speak to us, and does speak, again and again, inclining us to give up sin and choose holiness, offering us, if we will do so, all the help we need. But he will not force us to obey his gentle call. If we will not listen and obey, he lets us go off on our self-chosen path, ceases to speak audibly to us, and patiently waits for another and more propitious season. Bertie Sanderson, that June Sunday, greatly "grieved the Spirit."

But not so did Etta Mountjoy. This young lady, ever since that first Wednesday when she attended her sister's tea-party, had thought more seriously than she had ever thought before. The duty of being a Christian had come home to her during Eunice's talk and prayer, and at the same time she had felt that she was not, and had never tried to be, one. She had seen this still more clearly during the subsequent meetings, from which her duty to her own class would not permit her to be absent. Dishonesty and hypocrisy were not Etta's vices; she could not pretend to be what she was not, and yet she could not shake off the impression that she ought to give herself to Christ and openly confess his name. She tried to put the subject out of her thoughts; but still, as she listened, day by day, she grew more and more dissatisfied with herself, her own character, her aims in life. The preparation of her Sunday-school lessons became a dreaded task, for it was impossible to minutely consider the shells of sacred things and not at the same time take cognizance of the spiritual kernels which they envelop, and these spiritual realities made her uncomfortable and more and more dissatisfied with herself.

This Sunday's sermon had gone to the very quick of Etta's conscience, painting as with a finger of light what she ought to be and what she was. God had made her for his own temple and dwelling-place; made her fair, outside and within; endowed her with intellectual and spiritual gifts, and with wealth, station, and influence, giving her opportunities for culture and usefulness far greater than most of those who surrounded her. It was not chance or accident, but God, who had given her all this, and he demanded, as he had a right to demand, in return, her love, her obedience, her service. Had she given him these? Never once in her whole life. She had set up upon his altar in the midst of his beautiful temple the idol of self-pleasing, and never in her whole seventeen years had she acted from any other motive than to please herself. It was sacrilege, it was idolatry, it was dishonesty; and so were all the actions which had come from such a corrupt source.

Etta was too clear-headed to suppose that any sudden change of practice, which it was in her power to commence now, would make any difference. She might obey mechanically, but she could not make herself love, and she did not love, God. His service was a weariness, prayer a formality, the Bible a dull, uninteresting book. She did love a light, gay, frivolous life; she saw no attractiveness in one of self-denial and holy living.

She went directly to her room on reaching home, refused to go down to dinner, sat behind the shaded blinds, and thought till thought became insupportable; and then, having come to one settled determination, put on her hat, covered her tear-stained face with a veil, and walked down the hill to the parsonage, and rang the bell with a nervous jerk. Whatever Etta did she did with a will; she made no halfway decisions.

The servant who admitted "Miss Etta" showed her into the pastor's study, where after a time he joined her, looking a little surprised at receiving such a visitor on Sunday afternoon. Etta's peculiarities, however, were well known, and he concluded she had some new project in her head, in which she desired his assistance and, as usual, could not wait a moment to put it into execution. He was rather surprised by the tear-swollen eyes and the resolute expression of face, and after courteously welcoming his visitor, waited somewhat impatiently to hear what she had to say.

"I came," said the girl, with her usual directness, "to ask you to give my Sunday-school class to some one else."

"Tired of holding your hand to the plow, and beginning to look back already, eh?" he said.

"No, sir, it isn't that; but I am not fit to teach any class; certainly not such a one as this. I don't myself know what those girls ought to learn; besides, I'm not a fit character for them to imitate."

"Not a fit character? What can you mean?"

So far Etta had spoken quite steadily, but now there came a tremor into her voice, a mist before her eyes, and a choking sensation in her throat, that would not let her speak.

He waited a few moments, then said gently: "Try to tell me about it, and I will help you if I can."

Encouraged by something fatherly in the clergyman's voice, the girl at last found courage to commence her story; and having broken the ice, her words came fluently enough, as she tried to make him understand how utterly self-seeking and godless her life and character were; how the temple that should be God's was barred against him, and filled with idols and idolatry.

"This must be the Holy Spirit's teachings," said he, gravely; "for, so far as I know, you are no worse or more careless than most girls of your age."

But this thought was no comfort to her thoroughly aroused conscience, nor did the minister suppose it would be. He continued:

"Now that you see how bad things are, you are going to change them, are you not? You will open the barred doors that our blessed Lord wants to enter, and let him henceforth be your one object of worship and obedience, will you not?"

"How can I?" said the astonished girl. "I can't make myself like things."

"No; but it is the Holy Ghost who desires to come into his holy temple, and where he comes he brings healing, cleansing, and regenerating power. What we have to do is to let him do his work, not hindering him by our self-will and disobedience, not even trying to feel as we think we ought to feel."

"But I am not worthy to have him come to me. For seventeen years I have been sinning against him and grieving him. Even if I were made right all at once, I could not undo all that."

"But Jesus can," he said solemnly. "Have you forgotten the cross, and all that it means? Have you forgotten that he died to bear the penalty of sin, and that for his sake the worst sinners can be forgiven? We are none of us worthy to come to him, or, which is the same thing, to have him come to us; but he is the 'propitiation, sacrifice, and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world'; it is not what you can do or be, but what he has done and is. Believe that he loves you, and died for you, and is your Saviour, and you cannot help loving and trusting him and letting his Spirit do with you as he will."

Was that all? So simple, so easy, and yet an hour ago it had seemed so impossible to be a Christian. She did not speak for some minutes; then she said:—

"Have I nothing at all to do?"

"A great deal by-and-by; only one thing to-day."

"And that is?"

"To be sure that you are in earnest, that you are thoroughly ashamed of, and sorry for, the past, really anxious to be delivered from sin and made holy, and resolutely determined obediently to follow where God leads the way."

"I believe I am in earnest," said she, simply. "Won't you pray for me, sir?"

"Yes, indeed, my child," said the minister, laying his hand on her head. "God bless you, and make you very happy in his love, and useful in his service."

"You will provide a teacher for my class?" said Etta, as somewhat later she rose to take her leave.

"Why, no; unless you are really tired of it. I think you had better go on as you have commenced."

"I am not fit to be a Sunday-school teacher."

"I am not fit to be a minister; but God, in his providence, has seen fit to make me one, and so I trust him to give me the strength and wisdom I need. If you will do the same, you will become a very successful and efficient Sunday-school teacher; and this is a good way in which to consecrate your talents and opportunities to his service. Now, good-by; I must prepare for the evening service. Whenever you want help, advice, or sympathy, be sure you come to me."

Etta went home in a new world of thought and feeling. She seemed to herself scarcely to be the same girl; but in fact she was not thinking particularly about herself. God's love in desiring to save sinners, Christ's love in dying for them, the love of the Holy Spirit in being willing to come and abide with them, filled all her soul, and she was not trying to love this triune God, but loving him with all her might, because she could not help doing so. How strange it is that we go on from year to year, trying to be better, trying to feel right, trying to make ourselves holy, instead of just opening the door of the temple of our heart and believing that Jesus Christ loves us, and because he loves us will make us all that he wants us to be.



CHAPTER IX.

UNDER A CLOUD.

Meanwhile there were some changes at the mill. Katie Robertson had been promoted to the folding-room, which was on the lower floor, and where the work was not so heavy, though the payment was much better. She now received seventy-five cents for a regular day's work, and might often have made a dollar if her mother would have allowed her to work a half or quarter day extra. This promotion came soon after the occurrence of the fifty-dollar bill, which, no doubt, had something to do with the higher place in Mr. James's estimation, which the little girl held in consequence. He took occasion to inquire of Miss Peters concerning her work, and heard such a good account of her industry, capability, and faithfulness that he felt sure she might be trusted with pleasanter occupation and that which needed greater skill.

To enable our young readers who have never seen the process of paper-making to understand the change in our heroine's surroundings, we will tell them in a few words how paper is made.

As, of course, is universally known, rags, straw, old rope, poplar pith, etc., are the materials used. The best writing-paper is made of linen rags, which are for the most part imported from Germany. For ordinary writing and printing paper cotton rags are used, while straw and hemp, and even wool, go largely into the construction of manilla and wrapping paper. The linen rags and the woolen ones are generally sorted out in the places where they are gathered, at which time the others are all packed into bales, when, after passing through various hands, they are brought to the different paper-mills. Here the bales are hoisted to the top loft of the building, where they are broken and their contents turned over and over and subjected to a fanning process which removes a large part of the dust. They are then passed through slides down into the rag-room, where, as we have seen, they are sorted, cut in pieces, and the buttons taken off. They are cut again, in the next room to which they are carried, by a revolving cylinder whose surface is covered with short, sharp knives, acting on each other much like the blades of scissors. From here they are passed into the interior of a long, horizontal, copper boiler containing a solution of soda and some other chemical substances, and boiled for several days, at the end of which time, the dirt being thoroughly loosened, the boiling mass is passed through a long slide into vats, through which a constant stream of water is flowing, and so thoroughly washed that it becomes as white as snow and looks like raw, white cotton. It is then taken into another room, packed into a "Jordan engine," and ground into an almost impalpable pulp. This pulp is passed into other vats thoroughly mixed with water, blueing, and some other substances calculated to give it a hard finish, and then conveyed by pipes to the drying-room, where it is distributed over the surface of fine wire netting stretched on cylinders and looking much like "skim milk." It is now passed from cylinder to cylinder, dropping the water with which it is mixed as it goes, and gradually taking, more and more, the consistency of paper. At one stage—if it is to be writing-paper, which was chiefly manufactured at Squantown Mills—a certain amount of glue is poured upon it by means of little tubes which are over the cylinders, and this gradually becomes pressed into the fibre, giving the paper the shining surface to which we are accustomed. This is called sizing. At another stage the wire netting is changed for a blanket which passes over the cylinders and keeps the weak, wet paper from friction, as well as from any chance of breaking. Steam is now introduced into the cylinders, and the drying process goes on so rapidly that, at the end of the long room, the pulp issues from between the two last cylinders in sheets of firm, dry, white paper, which are cut off in lengths by stationary knives, and caught and laid in place by two boys or girls who sit at a table just below. So complete and perfect is the machinery that, in addition to the two boys, only one man is needed in the room, and he only to watch lest either of the machines gets out of order, or lest the paper should accidentally break.

It is quite fascinating to watch the thin pulp as it gradually becomes strong paper, and Katie one day overheard a gentleman visitor, to whom Mr. James was explaining the process, say something that she never forgot:—

"It makes me think of God's way of dealing with human souls. He takes them, polluted and sinful, from the gutters and the slums of life, cuts and fashions them till they are in a condition to be used; then washes out their stains by his precious blood, grinds, moulds, dissolves, and manipulates them, till they come out pure, innocent, white paper, on which he can write just what he pleases."

"Yes," said Mr. James. "I have often thought out that analogy, but you have not yet seen the whole process. No saint is completed till he has gone through the polishing and finishing of his life and character. You will see how we polish and finish our paper in the next room."

In the next room were great steel rollers, at each of which two women were employed, as this work was generally considered too hard and steady, as well as too particular, for the girls and boys. One of these women places a sheet of paper between the rollers at the top; the engine turns them, carrying the paper round and round between them, and the other woman takes it out at the bottom, beautifully polished by the pressure.

It is then carried in great piles to the ruling-machines, which stand at the other end of the room, and there other girls and women act as "feeders" and "tenders." The sheets are carried under upright, stationary pens, filled with blue or red ink, and ruled first on one side and then on the other, the machine never letting go of the sheets till the ruling is perfectly dry.

The paper is now finished, but it must be prepared for being taken away and sold; so great piles of it are placed on barrows, and it is carried by the "lift" down to the lowest room of all, called the "folding-room," and this is a very gay, busy scene.

Multitudes of girls are at work here, and everything is so clean that no checked aprons or mob-caps are needed. Some of them count out the paper, first into quires, and then into reams and half-reams. Others fold the sheets with an evenness and rapidity that only long practice can give; others, again, stamp each sheet in the corner with a die; and still others fold the reams—after they have been pressed together—into the pretty, colored wrappers prepared for them, sealing them with wax, and putting the packages, two together, into heavy brown papers, which are closed with the label peculiar to the special brand of paper.

There was plenty of work for everybody, and there was, moreover, a variety, and Katie felt very much elated at her promotion when she first came into the gay, pleasant folding-room.

But the poor girl was destined to meet with a very bitter disappointment. Perhaps the most severe trial of her life awaited her in that pleasant room. She had only been there a few days when she became aware that she was looked upon with suspicion. The superintendent watched her closely, and carefully verified the accounts she gave of her work. The girls with whom she tried to make acquaintance turned away, and either answered her in monosyllables or else declined speaking at all, and often when she came in suddenly before work had commenced two or three who were mysteriously whispering together would suddenly stop and look curiously and strangely at her. Once or twice she overheard some disconnected words, of which the following are specimens: "What was it really?"—"You don't say so!"—"Dishonesty!"—"I never should have thought it!"—"Are you sure?"—"Bertie Sanderson!"—"She saw it herself," etc. etc. Katie, having no key to these disjointed sentences, could make nothing of them, but she felt that she was what school boys call "sent to Coventry," and had not the least idea why.

The fact was that Bertie, whose jealous dislike was greatly increased by Katie's promotion, while she herself remained in the rag-room, had uttered her innuendoes to all who would listen to her, till it was pretty generally understood throughout the mill that Katie Robertson was a thief, who appeared in unbecoming finery bought with ill-gotten gains. The rumor never took sufficient definiteness of shape to reach the girl so that she could confute it and explain its origin. Of course, she was not likely to tell any one in the mill about the finding of the fifty-dollar bill and what had passed between Mr. James Mountjoy and herself, since it was largely to her own credit, nor had he ever thought of mentioning it, for a somewhat similar reason. So the report traveled from one mouth to another, losing nothing in its passage, and poor Katie was obliged to endure the general avoidance and reprobation as best she might. It was a hard trial and one in which she had no one to sympathize with her, for Mrs. Robertson's gloomy disposition inclined her children to keep from her anything that might add to her unhappiness, and somehow she did not feel like making confidants of the boys. But hard as the trial seemed in the passing, it was, in the end, good for our heroine, for it drove her to the only Friend who knew all about it, who knew that she was innocent of the charge, whatever it might be, and pitied and loved her, whoever else might cast her out. The things which drive us close to Him, no matter how hard they seem, are really blessings in disguise. Katie had now but one friend in the mill, a slight, pale girl, who stood by the folding-table next to herself. She had only just come to the mill, was intimate with no one, and, so far, had not heard the story, whatever it was, about Katie Robertson. Her name was Tessa. Her father, who had been a traveling organ-grinder, was taken sick and died very suddenly at Squantown. His little dark-eyed girl, who accompanied him, was left perfectly destitute and in a most desolate condition. She was at first taken care of in the poor-house, but as she grew older, and it was thought best that she should do something for her own support, Mr. Mountjoy had been appealed to, and had given her a place in the mill. Not in the rag-room, however, for she had such a delicate constitution that it was supposed she never could stand the dust. Her work consisted in pasting the fancy paper over the edges of little "pads," intended for doctors' use in writing their prescriptions, and when she was tired she was allowed to have a seat. She could not make much, but what she did receive sufficed to pay for her room in the factory boarding-house, and Tessa was as happy as she could be without her father.

The Italian girl had conceived a strong admiration for our bright little Katie, and by degrees the two girls became great friends. Tessa's love was the silver lining to the cloud under whose shadow her companion lived.

But the heaviest part of the cloud was that the story reached Miss Etta. She had noticed the general avoidance of Katie by the other girls in her class, and was very much at a loss to account for it, for to her this scholar had always seemed the best and brightest of them all, and she could see no change in her reverent, attentive behavior, her carefully prepared lessons, and her evident understanding and enjoyment of the spiritual truths which they contained. This latter point she could appreciate better than before, and she often shrank in humility from attempting to teach Katie anything, feeling herself better fitted to be the pupil. But the girls evidently did not feel so. What could be the matter?

One day, when all had left the Sunday-school, except Bertie, she stopped her and asked her directly why neither she nor the other girls were willing to sit next to Katie Robertson, and why they all looked at her so significantly when she came in or went out.

Bertie flushed, whether with joy or shame it would have been hard to say, and at first would not answer; but on her teacher's insisting, said that she didn't want to tell tales, etc.

The young lady saw that nevertheless her scholar was running over with her secret and longing for an opportunity to divulge it, and, had she been a little older and more experienced, she would not have given her the opportunity. But Etta was very curious, and, moreover, thought she had a right to know all that concerned her Sunday scholars, so she waited until her patience was rewarded by the whole story—that is, the version of it that Bertie's vindictive fancy chose to give.

She learned that Katie had been seen by two of the girls in the mill to steal a large sum of money, which she had appropriated to the use of herself and family; that by degrees one after another had heard of it, and that of course honest girls who had their own way to make did not like to associate with a thief.

On being asked who the girls were that had seen the action, and why they had not at once given information concerning it, Bertie declined to give any answer to the first part of her question, and professed entire ignorance concerning the latter; only she said: "All the girls knew, and of course couldn't associate with a sly thief, especially when she gave herself the airs of a saint."

Etta was very much troubled. She could not believe such a story of her best pupil, and yet how could she contradict it? Without names and particulars she did not know how to set about investigating the truth; nor did she like to ask any one's advice, and thus cast suspicion upon the child.



CHAPTER X.

NOVEL-READING.

"What makes you so tired to-day, Tessa?" said Katie, one morning when the "rules" allowed the girls to speak.

"I don't know; I always do feel so in the mornings. It's awfully hard to get up. Don't you find it so?"

"I did at first, but I am getting used to it now. By the time I am dressed I am wide-awake and fit for anything. I don't see why you should feel so; I am afraid you're sick."

"Oh, no; only stupid and sleepy; I'll wake up by-and-by," and Tessa drew from her pocket a thin, square volume which was tightly rolled up. The noon-whistles sounded just then, and Katie saw her companion curl herself up on a box in the corner and at once lose herself in her book.

She still sat there when her friend returned, rosy and refreshed after her warm dinner and two brisk walks, and, as there were still a few moments before work must be resumed, the latter walked across the room and playfully took the book from the other's hand.

"Don't! oh, please, don't!" said Tessa. "Time's most up, and I must know what became of Sir Reginald!"

"You must eat your lunch. Look, here it lies untasted beside you. Tessa, you will certainly be sick if you go on in this way."

But Tessa did not listen; she had again firmly grasped the book, and was greedily devouring its contents quite dead to outside things, till, the bell ringing, Katie jogged her shoulder, and she walked slowly across to the table where both girls worked, her eyes still upon her book. There she set it up, still open, against a pile of packages of paper, and all the afternoon kept casting furtive glances at it, often letting her work drop and her hands hang idle, while she followed the fortunes of the fascinating Sir Reginald.

Katie was in an agony; she loved Tessa, and did not want her to get into trouble, as she would certainly do if her proceedings should be observed by the overseer. Besides, was it honest thus to use time paid for by an employer?

But she had no chance to speak to her companion, for as usual she finished her work and went home, and whether her companion received a reprimand from the overseer for not having completed her daily task she did not know. Probably she did not, for it was an understood thing that Tessa was not so strong as the other girls, and therefore so much must not be expected of her.

The next day it was the same thing. Tessa looked tired out before the day's work began, and well she might, for she had sat up nearly all night to dispose of Sir Reginald, and now "The Fair Barmaid" had taken his place. Again the girl went without the uninviting lunch she had brought from her boarding-house, and again, as before, the fascinating novel divided her attention with her work. This afternoon she was detected by the overseer, who spoke a few words of reprimand and ordered her to put the book away, which she did unwillingly and with heightened color. It came out again, however, the moment the closing-bell rang; and, to make up for lost time, was assiduously read during the homeward walk, and took the place of both supper and sleep till almost daylight the next morning.

Poor Tessa! she had inherited from her ancestry that love of romance and adventure which, in their own sunny land, makes the Italians rival the Orientals in their love of hearing and telling stories. The more thrilling these stories are, the fuller of passion and crime, the better they seem to suit the tastes of these fervid and excitable natures. And she was alone; there was no one to counsel her, no one to love her, no one even to talk to in the long evenings she must of necessity spend in her bare room at the factory boarding-house, hot and stifling in summer, cold and bare in winter. She had been taught to read at the poor-house school and a stray dime novel happening to fall in her way, her imagination, waiting for something on which to feed itself, seized upon the unhealthful food, and gratified taste quickly ripened into insatiable appetite. The girl read everything she could lay hold of, and there is always plenty of such literature close at hand and ready to be devoured. Novels at five cents apiece are sold by the million at country stores, railway-depots, and news-stations. Ephemeral in their nature, every one who owns them is ready to lend, give, or throw them away, and when books fail there are always quantities of "story-papers," full of the wildest, most improbable, and often vicious tales.

Tessa bought when she had any spare pennies, borrowed and begged when she had not; read by daylight, and twilight, and lamplight, sitting up as long as the miserable boarding-house lamps would hold out, and became so immersed in her world of romance as to become almost oblivious to outward things.

To do the little girl justice, she was too innocent to understand half the wickedness which in this way was brought before her notice, but none the less was she being gradually demoralized by this evil habit. Her appetite failed, she scarcely took any exercise, she became nervous and excitable to a degree, her work was neglected, and, worse still, she was becoming familiarized with ideas, suggestions, and thoughts that should never come within the comprehension of pure-minded girls. As to her work, she was fast losing all interest in, indeed all capacity for, that, and it was whispered among her superiors that but for her utterly friendless condition it would be expedient to supply her place in the mill with some more profitable work-woman.

"Miss Eunice," said Katie, at the next Wednesday afternoon meeting, "is it wicked to read novels?"

"What a wholesale question," said Miss Eunice. "It is not wicked exactly to do a great many things which it would be better on the whole to let alone—tipping one's chair up on two legs, for instance."

Katie blushed, righted her chair, and said: "I mean wrong; is it wrong to read novels?"

"Not all novels, certainly; that is, not all fiction. The best writers of our day throw their thoughts into that form, and our knowledge of history, philosophy, science, and character comes largely from this source. Our Saviour sanctified fiction by giving his highest and deepest lessons to his disciples in parables. If you mean that kind of novels, read in moderation, I should decidedly say no."

"She means dime novels," said one of the girls.

"Oh, 'Headless Horsemen' and 'Midnight Mysteries,' fascinating maidens carried off by desperate ruffians. I am thankful to say that I have no personal acquaintance with that sort of thing; but, girls, let me ask you a few questions. May I?"

"First, let all who read, or ever have read, what are called 'sensation stories' raise their hands."

A great many hands went up—more than the questioner liked to see.

"How many find such books help them in their work, make the factory seem pleasanter, and themselves more contented?"

Not a hand was raised, and the girl who had spoken before said:—

"I never can work half as well in the morning when I have been reading stories at night. I hate the sight of the factory, and wish I was a princess, or a splendidly dressed young lady with oceans of gold and jewels, like those in the books."

"Another question: Do books of this kind help you to pray, make the Bible more interesting, and incline you to loving service for the Saviour who has died that you might be saved?"

No one answered. The girls looked both surprised and shocked, and Miss Eunice continued:—

"On the contrary, I dare say many of you remember times when the thrilling interest of an exciting story has made you utterly forget your prayers, or at any rate has made church and Sunday-school and the homely duties of a Christian life seem tame and flat by comparison. Is it not so?"

Many bowed assent.

"Now for my last question: Would you be willing that your fathers and brothers or the young men of your acquaintance should read all of these books with you, every passage, and could you, without blushing, read them aloud to your pastor or to me?"

No answer.

"There is another aspect of the question," continued the teacher. "Your employers pay you a stipulated sum in return for a certain amount of work to be done in a certain amount of time. They have a right to expect you to give your best skill, your closest attention. Do you think it is quite honest either to use a part of that time in reading foolish, useless, or hurtful books, or to come to your work so exhausted and preoccupied by them as to be unfitted for performing your part of the contract?"

"I do not desire to coerce you, or even to bind your consciences by any promise, but I leave you to consider all I have said, and I think if you do so honestly and prayerfully you will come to the conclusion that for you who hope you have found your Saviour,—nay, I will say for all, inasmuch as you all ought to be Christians,—the reading of this kind of books and stories is among those works of the flesh and the devil which you are called to renounce."

Katie had got the answer she had asked for, and besides she was well furnished with arguments to bring to bear upon Tessa the first opportunity she should have of talking with her, and that, she determined, should be very soon.

When the girls and their escorts had gone home that evening, the two sisters lingered to talk a little over the question that had so interested their scholars. It was a new thing for them to have any common interest, and Eunice hailed it as a good omen that her sister should consult with her about anything. Etta had not yet confided to her elder sister her new hopes, purposes, and feelings. She was an independent girl, who had always thought and acted for herself, and there had never been anything like sisterly familiarity between the eldest and youngest of the Mountjoys. The distance between them was too great, and perhaps the elder, in filling the position of a mother to her little sister, had at first assumed a little too much of the authority of one. She had grown wiser now, and did not attempt to force the young girl's confidence; but she could not but be conscious of a change. There was an increased gentleness of manner and sweetness of tone, a thoughtful consideration of others, and deference to her own wishes which she had never seen before. Her continuing to attend the Wednesday meetings, and her serious attention when there, were good signs; so was Etta's voluntary attendance at the Sunday evening service, a thing that had never happened before, and Eunice began to hope that the solemn, earnest realities of life would yet become precious to her light-hearted, wayward sister.

This evening they talked over the novel grievance, and the temptations to which the mill-girls were exposed, and Etta proposed a plan for their benefit, which, when matured and digested, besides being supported by Mr. Mountjoy's purse and his son's executive ability, eventuated in the conversion of an unused loft in the mill into a library and reading-room for the girls and such of their brothers and friends as knew how to appreciate its benefits by behaving like gentlemen.

The books were chosen with great care, and were the best of their kind to be had—popular science, history, and biography, with a large, a very large, proportion of such fiction as had a tendency to elevate and instruct, while it interested, its readers. The books were not to be taken from the building, except upon rare occasions and under peculiar circumstances; but the reading-room, which was nicely carpeted, well warmed, and furnished with long tables and comfortable chairs, was open during the noon intermission and for two hours every evening, and good behavior was the only condition demanded for enjoying both its social and literary privileges. The library soon became a very popular institution, and the sale and consumption of sensational literature decreased proportionally.

Before separating for the night, Etta said: "Did you notice the girl who asked the question about novels?"

"Katie Robertson? Yes; I have had my eye on her for a long time. She seems the most promising subject of your class."

"So I have always thought; but I have had a terrible disappointment in her. No one would suppose it, but I have recently heard that she is a thief, and that to a large amount. The child, innocent as she looks, has actually stolen fifty dollars from our mill."

"That is absolutely impossible! I will not believe it. Who told you so, Etta?"

"One of the class. Bertie Sanderson. She was not at all willing to tell tales on her companion, but I questioned her and found it is as I say. She assures me that all the girls know about it, and that two of them—she did not give their names—saw the theft."

"Why did they not inform about it at once?"

"So I asked her; but she did not seem to know, and also declined giving the names of the two girls. That was a little more honorable than I gave Bertie credit for being."

"A little more deceitful, possibly," said Eunice, who had no high opinion of Bertie Sanderson; "yet, if she were herself one of these girls, she would, I suppose, have been glad to say so. Where do you suppose this child found fifty dollars to steal? Money is not kept loose around the mill, and the girls do not have access to the office. There is something we don't know about this, Etta. The subject ought to be investigated. Have you spoken to James?"

"No, I don't want to prejudice him against Katie, if she should be innocent; but I fear that is hardly possible, after what Bertie said."

"I should be more inclined to suspect Bertie herself. Where do you suppose she got that flashy silk dress she wears?"

"Isn't it horrid! I wonder those girls don't see how vulgar their cheap finery is."

"Perhaps they try to copy their teacher," ventured the elder sister, whose exquisitely neat style of dress was always remarkable for its plainness and simplicity when she came in contact with her Sunday scholars. But Etta was not yet sufficiently humbled to take reproof from that source, and she abruptly left the room. All the same, however, she thought and prayed a great deal upon the subject, and the next Sunday surprised her class by appearing before them without an unnecessary ribbon or ornament.



CHAPTER XI.

TESSA.

Katie Robertson remained in the mill that Saturday afternoon, although her work had long been completed, till the bell rang for five o'clock, that being the hour for the Saturday dismissal. Then she said to Tessa:—

"Come and take a walk with me. There's a full hour before tea, and I don't believe you've ever seen the Fawn's Leap. Have you?"

"No," said her companion, "I have never been anywhere in Squantown. They would not let us go, in the poor-house, and since I've been in the mill I've been too tired after work was over."

"Are you very tired now?"

"Not so very; I did not sleep much last night."

"Was it a very interesting story?" said the other, archly.

"Oh, yes," said Tessa, becoming at once very much excited; "she, Amanda, I mean, married the most elegant count, and he took her to his castle, and she had pearls and diamonds and silks and satins, and never had to do a thing all the rest of her life; and only think, Katie, she was a mill-girl in the beginning, just like us." The sentence finished with a sigh.

"Would you like a count to come and carry you off to a castle by-and-by, and give you all those things?"

"Oh, indeed, yes; when the light goes out, and I can't read any more I lie awake thinking about it, and wondering if such a count will ever come along. He might, you know, any day."

"Does that make the mill seem any pleasanter in the morning?"

"No! no! I hate the mill. It looks so rough and bare, and the girls all seem so common. I feel like crying to have to spend so many hours there."

"And then you can't do your work well. I know just how that feels. Miss Eunice says it isn't honest to do anything that will unfit us for the work we are paid for doing."

This was a new definition of dishonesty to Tessa, but she only said:—

"Who's Miss Eunice?"

"Oh, she's the teacher of the Bible-class; the nicest, most splendid lady in the Sunday-school, except, of course, Miss Etta. She's our teacher, you know, but she's so young she seems just like one of ourselves."

"Do you go to Sunday-school?" said Tessa opening her eyes. "I thought only little children went. Father said it was so in Italy."

"But everybody goes here. There's great big girls, quite young women, in Miss Eunice's class. Tessa," said Katie, struck with a sudden idea, "what do you do with yourself on Sundays?"

"I read," said the person addressed; "read all day long. I lie on the bed in my room, and forget how hot it is and how lonely, and then when it gets dark I remember beautiful Italy and cry."

"What a lonely life," said Katie, sympathetically. "Why don't you go to church?"

"We never went to church, my father and I. He said the church had ruined Italy, and he was not a Catholic any more."

"But we're not Catholics. Oh, I wish you would come to our church and our Sunday-school! It's just as nice!—there's Miss Etta, and Bertie and Gretchen and Cora, and two or three more, and on Wednesday Miss Eunice invites our class and hers to tea, and reads to us, and we have a society and work for missions and—oh, it's so nice!" said enthusiastic Katie.

"Do you go to Sunday-school just to have nice times?" and Tessa opened her black eyes very widely.

"No," said her friend, more soberly; "I think I go there to learn more about Jesus, and how to love him more and serve him better. Some of us hope to join the church soon."

Tessa asked some questions that led to a long talk which lasted till they had reached the Fawn's Leap, which was a beautiful little waterfall shooting down between two high rocks, from one of which to the other a fawn was reputed to have sprung. It was a very lovely spot, and the two girls threw themselves upon the grass to rest, while the Italian drew long inspirations of delight.

"It makes me think of home," she said; "the old home in Italy. We lived, my father and I, close to a waterfall just like this, among the mountains. After my mother died my father did not want to stay there, so he went to Naples and bought an organ, and we came to America in a big ship, and wandered about, and then"—her voice broke down then and she said: "Oh, Katie, I am so lonely! if I only had a home like yours, with people in it to talk to and to be kind to me, I should not want to read so many stories. I don't believe they are good for me." This was in reference to all Miss Eunice's talk about the evils of novel-reading as repeated by Katie.

A sudden thought struck the latter.

"Tessa," she said, "it must be awfully lonely at your boarding-house in the evenings and on Sundays. I wish you could come and live with me. I have no companions but the boys, and to have you would be just splendid."

"Do you think I could? Do you think your mother would let me? Oh, Katie, you can't really mean it!"

Katie had not taken her mother into consideration. Of course, she could not be sure of her approbation of such a plan, but she promised to ask, and went on planning how nice it would be—how the two girls could share Katie's room and bed; how they could go to the mill together. "And then," said she, "you could go to Sunday-school with me, Tessa."

But here Tessa drew back. She had no clothes, she said, fit to go to church in—only her working-dress and the straw hat which she wore every day to the mill.

"Go in that. Miss Eunice says God doesn't care what we wear when we go to church."

"But the girls do, and I care more about them."

This rather shocked Katie, but she did not see her way out of the difficulty, and mentally resolved to "ask mother": that way out of all difficulties which is first to suggest itself to a young girl's mind.

"There is the sun setting," said Tessa.—"It must be ever so late. I sha'n't get any supper; they never keep anything for us at our boarding-house."

"Oh, yes, you will! you are coming home with me; mother will have something ready for both of us. I told her where we were going, and she promised she would keep our supper for us, no matter how late it was. Besides, it will be a good chance to ask her about our plan."

So Tessa consented, nothing loth, and when she saw the fair, white cloth, with the clear glasses and bright, shining china, the delicate slices of white bread, the wild strawberries, and fresh brown gingerbread, and contrasted it with the bare table, the stoneware badly chipped, and the great piles of coarse provisions, into which the boarders dipped their own knives, she felt as though she had suddenly got into paradise.

Katie had told the home party about her Italian companion, and her apparent friendlessness, and all had taken such an interest in her that when the boys heard their sister ask and receive permission to bring her home to tea, and their mother's promise to make some soft gingerbread, they resolved to contribute their share toward the festival, and the strawberries, to gathering which they had devoted their afternoon holiday, were the result.

It was a very happy tea-party. Katie was in high spirits, her mother gentle and hospitable, the boys courteous and gentlemanly. Tessa had never been in such society before, and yet there was in her a native grace and refinement—due, perhaps, to the artistic atmosphere in which she was born—that prevented her from doing anything rude or awkward, or seeming at all out of place.

After tea the boys brought out the games, and the visitor showed herself quick to learn and eager to enjoy. The heavy, half-sorrowful look went out of her face, which became full of fun as her eyes sparkled and danced, and she pushed back her long black hair.

When the clock struck nine Mrs. Robertson said:—

"It is time for young folks who have to get up early to go to bed. The boys will see you home, dear; but perhaps you would like to stay and have prayers with us first."

"Oh, yes, I am sure she would," said Katie, seeing that her friend seemed not to know how to answer this proposition. So Eric handed his mother the books, and she first read a chapter in the Bible, and then kneeling down, with her little flock around her, read an evening prayer, commending them all to the love and protection of their heavenly Father. It all seemed very sweet to the visitor, who had never been present at such a service before. She could not probably have told how she felt, but a longing desire came over her to stay where everything seemed so near the gate of heaven, and she said impulsively:—

"Oh, Mrs. Robertson, if you would only keep me always!"

Then Katie said:—

"Mother, why can't Tessa live with us? There's plenty of room for her with me; and she has nobody belonging to her—nothing but a horrid room in the factory boarding-house, where nobody cares for her, and she has to read novels all the evening and all Sunday, and that makes her sick. It would be so nice to have her go to the mill with me every day, and to Sunday-school on Sunday—only she hasn't any clothes that are fit, and"—

"My dear, do stop to take your breath," said the astonished mother, "and let me get some idea of what you are talking about. Do I understand that you want Tessa to come and live here? I should much like to have her do so, my child, but you know—don't think me unkind, Tessa—that we are poor people, and find it hard to fill the four mouths that must be filled."

"Oh, I didn't mean that," said the girl, timidly, and turning crimson. "Of course, I wouldn't let you and Katie support me; but I could pay you my board, just as I do at the boarding-house. I suppose it would be more, but perhaps I could work harder and earn something extra, as some of the other girls do."

"How much do you pay now?"

"Two dollars and a half a week."

"And you have only three dollars! Katie makes five."

"Yes, I know; she works fast. Perhaps I could if there was any use—anything to do it for. I didn't need any money. They gave me my clothes at the workhouse, and I bought books with the other half-dollar."

Both girls looked very beseechingly at Katie's mother, and Eric, who had taken a great fancy to the dark-haired girl, added his entreaties; but she said:—

"I can not answer you to-night; I must think about it and pray over it. I will let you know when I have made up my mind. Now you must go home, dear; Eric will go with you. Good-night, and God bless you."

Tessa felt the kiss that accompanied these words down to the bottom of her heart. No one had ever kissed her before, so far as she could remember, except her father, and she longed most ardently to be taken into this home.

Katie followed her to the door and whispered: "Tessa, I shall ask God to make mother decide the way we want her to. You ask him, too. You know it says in the Bible: 'If any two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them.'" But Tessa did not yet understand about "asking God." She only stared and bid her friend good-night.

The next morning as she sat rather disconsolately on the doorstep of the boarding-house, not knowing exactly what to do with herself, for in consequence of last night's visiting she had neglected to provide herself with a new book, Katie came by and greeted her brightly. She looked so sweet and fresh in her simple Sunday dress that it was not to be wondered at that Tessa, in her soiled mill-clothes, again refused to accompany her friend to Sunday-school.

"You shall have my library book, any way. I don't care to get another to-day, and mother says you are to come round this afternoon to get her answer."

The book was a pleasant story, and though it lacked the species of morbid excitement to which the girl had accustomed herself, it filled up the time agreeably, and gave her a glimpse of a higher, purer plane of life than any with which she was as yet familiar. Some precious truths concerning the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the happiness of serving him, were woven into it, and served as the indestructible seeds which were yet to ripen in the girl's spiritual life. At about four o'clock she put on her hat, and full of mingled anxiety and hope, made her way to the corner house which seemed to her so much like heaven.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Robertson had thought the matter over in every direction. She did not at first like the idea of increasing the home party, or of introducing into it any element that might prove discordant. She dreaded to have Katie or the boys come under any influence that might counteract the earnest, religious training she was endeavoring to give her children. But there seemed to be nothing vicious, or even common, about Tessa; she was sweet and well-mannered, and so friendless and forlorn that it would be a positive charity to take her in. Then, too, the girl had evidently had no religious teaching and was profoundly ignorant about spiritual things. Perhaps this was missionary work sent to her very hands. She might at least try it for a while. The board to be paid would make it possible to do so, and if the plan were not a success, or proved hurtful to her own children, to whom she owed her first duty, she could but send the girl back to her present lodgings.

So, when Tessa came she was told, to her great joy, that her request was granted, and she might commence her new life on Monday. A very serious motherly talk followed, and among other things the new boarder was obliged to promise never to introduce sensational literature into the house.

Mrs. Robertson agreed to take Tessa for two dollars a week, on condition that she would assist Katie with the housework before and after mill-hours. The half-dollar a week thus saved would soon procure a simple Sunday outfit, and enable her to accompany her friend to Sunday-school and church.

Katie, with some of the remains of her precious fifty dollars, insisted on advancing this; and on the first Sunday morning the young Italian, looking very pretty but rather shy, took her place in Miss Etta's class, and was at once enrolled among its members.

Mrs. Robertson never had cause to regret her kind-hearted decision. Tessa was devotedly attached to Katie, and followed, rather than led, her friend. She was shy with the boys at first, but soon came to show them the same sisterly feeling that their sister did. Her wit, quickness, and power of story-telling soon made her a valuable addition to the family circle, while the genial home influences and good fare so told upon herself that her extreme delicacy soon disappeared, and she became capable of as much work or endurance as Katie herself.



CHAPTER XII.

GRETCHEN.

German Gretchen was absent from the mill one morning. No one noticed it except Miss Peters, who marked her down for one less day's wages. The young girl, who had drifted into the manufacturing town, as so many do, in search of work, had never been a favorite or attracted particular attention. She was a fair work-woman, obeyed rules, and went her way to the boarding-house when night came; but she made no friends either there or at the mill, and it would scarcely have been noticed had she disappeared altogether. Somehow she had floated into Sunday-school, and been placed in the class which afterward became Etta Mountjoy's, but here her apparent stolidity made her perhaps the least interesting of all the girls. Perhaps this was in part owing to the fact that one is not likely to be very talkative in a strange language.

But Gretchen had a heart, although no one in Squantown had yet found, or cared to find, it. It was safe at home in the fatherland, where the house-mother and father had as much as they could do to put enough black bread to support life into the mouths of the five little children, too young to do as she had done, when she accompanied a neighbor's family, who were emigrating to seek their fortune in the New World. These neighbors had gone to the far West, and not caring to be burdened with a possibly unproductive member of their party, had left the little girl in the hands of a German employment agency, through which she had found her way to Squantown Mills.

Gretchen had many homesick hours when she would have given a great deal more than she possessed to be at home again sharing the poverty and hardships of the Old World, but she expressed her feelings to no one. Indeed, she knew no one to whom she could have expressed them. She did her day's work faithfully, receiving her regular payment of fifty cents, and occasionally a little more, which little she resolutely put away at the bottom of her box, to be sent home to her mother and the little ones when there should be a good opportunity.

But now Gretchen was absent from her work one, two, three, four days. It was Miss Peters's duty to report all absentees on Saturday night, and she did so after the hands had been paid off and gone home. The book-keeper noted the absence in his pages, asked if work was so pressing as to make the appointment of a substitute necessary or advisable, and being answered in the negative quite forgot to inform his employer of the girl's absence.

But when Sunday came, and Gretchen was absent from the place in the class which she had so regularly occupied, it was a different thing. Etta, among her other activities, had from the first been a good visitor of absentees. Indeed, when her scholars lived with their families, as in the case of Katie and one or two of the other girls, she had made more visits and laid down the law more than was quite agreeable in all cases. Now, with her newly awakened sense of responsibility toward the immortal souls placed under her charge, she had begun to watch over them as one who must give account of their souls. She had several times thought of looking up Gretchen, in order to become acquainted with her surroundings, etc., but had not yet put her design into execution, and now the girl's absence from the class gave her teacher the very opportunity she desired.

As soon as tea was over, in the long June twilight, Etta put on her hat, and walked down the hill upon which the grand house stood to the valley, in which was the long row of boarding-houses occupied by such of the mill-hands as had no homes in the place. It was stiflingly hot down here, though it had been cool and fresh on the high ground above, and the young lady, who had not often visited the purlieus of the mill, felt as though she could scarcely breathe, and did not wonder that men sat at the open windows in their shirtsleeves, and that tired-looking women seemed gasping for air. The bare wooden buildings, with their long rows of windows and doors all of the same pattern; the smooth, beaten yards, all just alike; the swarms of children making it seem anything but Sunday-like with their noise; the teeming population, which made the tenements resemble ant-hills, and seemed to forbid any idea of privacy, looked very dreadful to her.

On the other side of the street was a long row of brick cottages, each inhabited by two or more families, the distinctive sign of each being the family pig, kept, for greater convenience, in the front yard, from which odors, not the most choice in their nature, were constantly wafted across the way. In the doorways of most of these lounged Irishmen smoking and swearing, in some cases in a state of intoxication; for, although the rules of the mill concerning drinking were very strict, and no habitual drinker was ever knowingly engaged in it, it was impossible to prevent the men from depositing a part of the earnings received every Saturday night in the hands of one or two liquor-dealers whom the law licensed to sell death and ruin to their fellow-men.

How dreadful, thought the young lady, to be compelled to spend one's life in such wretched surroundings. Is it any wonder that the women become hopeless slatterns, and that the children grow up in vice and sin? How thankful I ought to be to the heavenly Father who has surrounded me with such different influences! how I wish I might do something to raise and elevate these, and give them a few of the blessings of which I have so many!

Etta Mountjoy had grown since that early June Sunday when she had visited her pastor in such sorrow and perplexity. She had read and seen and thought more and more of the wonderful love of our heavenly Father in surrounding her with so many blessings and in sending his only Son to be her Saviour and friend. She looked back upon the life of self-pleasing she had so long led with sorrow amounting to disgust. How could she have been so ungrateful? How could she have failed to love One so altogether lovely? She was learning now to find pleasure in prayer, and the Bible, which had been to her such a dull book, began to be more interesting than any story which she had formerly devoured. And she was trying, faintly and with many relapses, it is true, to take up her neglected duties, especially those which had been most distasteful to her, and perform them steadily "as unto the Lord." Out of all this was springing up in her a desire to do something for Christ—something which would be, if not a return for his favors, at least a token of her gratitude to him. To-night just such an opportunity as she had desired came to her hand.