If Etta had only known it, the dwellings of the operatives at Squantown were palatial compared to those into which the working-classes are huddled in cities; for here the many windows opened upon pure fresh air and green fields, the little yards were scrupulously clean, and vines clambered up the sides of the doors and windows, even to the roofs. The fare, plain as it was, was not tainted by exposure in a city market, or by being hawked about the city streets, and the price of living was no higher than the wages received in the mill enabled the people to pay.

The young teacher had the number of the house at which her scholar boarded written down in her class-book, and at that number she at once knocked. No one came for some time, but at last repeated raps brought the woman who kept the house, and who might perhaps be excused for her want of greater promptitude on the ground of having so many dishes to wash after the boarders' tea.

In answer to Miss Etta's inquiries the woman answered civilly enough, for it would not do to offend one of "the family," that Gretchen's room was the back garret; that she believed the girl had been sick for a day or two, but she had not had time to look after her, though she had sent her little boy up with her meals. The child couldn't have eaten much, for the tray came down almost as it went up. She had been trying to find time to go upstairs all day, and was just meaning to do so now that her dishes were done. She would go up now, and let the young lady know how her scholar was.

"Let me go with you," said Etta; but the request was only a form, as the girl usually did just as she pleased without waiting for anybody's permission, and, indeed, the woman of the house knew no reason why, on this occasion, she should not follow her own inclination.

Three flights of stairs were climbed, a long narrow hall, studded with doors on each side, traversed, and Mrs. Doyle opened one in the southwest corner of the house, where, the sun having beaten on the sloping roof all the afternoon, the temperature was something fearful. The room was small, for Mr. Mountjoy had built the boarding-houses, and desired to try the experiment of each inmate having a separate room instead of a great many men or women being herded together in open dormitories. It contained simply a cot, a wooden chair, and a table upon which stood conveniences for washing and the untasted supper. On the cot lay the German girl, blazing with fever and tossing about in the greatest discomfort. At first she did not know her visitors, and seemed a little frightened at seeing the room so full. But presently, recognizing her Sunday-school teacher, she grasped her hand and drew her down to the side of the bed, pointing to her German Bible, in which she had been trying to study her Sunday-school lesson.

Etta was touched, and began to think there might be some interest in even the plain, undemonstrative Gretchen. She bent down to ask her some questions about her sickness, during which Mrs. Doyle hurried to throw the one window wide open, and to make the disordered room fit to be seen.

"The child is very ill, I am afraid," said Etta, coming across to the window and speaking to the woman in very low tones; "don't you think so?"

"Yes, I am afraid she is," said the person addressed, uneasily, for severe illness in a large, crowded boarding-house is no light matter. She and her children were dependent upon their boarders, and a sudden panic might empty the house.

"Can't you send for a doctor, Mrs. Doyle? Papa will gladly pay him, I know."

"Yes; Johnny could run, I suppose, but he'd be sure to tell somebody, and I wouldn't like it to get about till we know what it is, any way."

"Please go yourself, then. It's after tea, and there isn't much to do."

"But suppose the girl gets worse, and begins to scream and frightens the boarders."

"Oh, I '11 stay with her till you come back. I'd rather; I shall be so anxious to hear what the doctor says. Please go, Mrs. Doyle, and hurry."

Etta Mountjoy had a way with her that could not be resisted by most people, and even Mrs. Doyle, not overgifted with the milk of human kindness, could not refuse her. So she went downstairs, and only stopping to put on her bonnet and tell her eldest daughter to go on with the preparations for breakfast,—which always had to be made over night,—as she was going out for a little while, walked swiftly down the street.

Etta sat on the hard chair by the patient's bed, and for some time watched the tossing limbs, heavy breathing, and flushed, excited face. She was not used to sickness. Indeed, she had never seen it since her mother died, so long ago that she could not remember the pain and the suffering, but only the terrible results, which were pale, cold death, the coffin, the funeral, and the grave.

Did all severe sickness end in death, she wondered? Was this strong, healthy girl about to die? And if so, was she ready? She had never thought of the possibility of death in connection with any of her scholars. Had she taught them the things which alone could be of value to them when they came to stand face to face with a holy God? What advantage then would be familiarity with dates, with geography, and with catechisms? How would they then blame her for not having pointed them to the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world? The responsibility of undertaking to deal with human souls, upon which she had so thoughtlessly rushed, now seemed to her something terrible. True, she had not then known or understood anything about it; but, nevertheless, it now seemed to her a great sin, and an earnest prayer for forgiveness rose up from her heart, accompanied by another for the salvation of the sick girl before her.

Meanwhile the moments rolled slowly by: the sick girl tossed and moaned; the church-bells rang for evening service, first merrily, as glad to call the people to the house of God; then slowly, as loth to stop while any more stragglers might be induced to come; then with one or two long sobs for those who, in spite of all persuasion and all "long-suffering patience," wilfully stay outside, stopped, and the silence was only broken by the shouts of the noisy children below. Even these ceased at last, and as the sunset glow faded—flame red changing to pale yellow, and that again to cool, sombre gray—the time of waiting seemed to the unskilled watcher well-nigh interminable.



CHAPTER XIII.

SHIP-FEVER.

Presently Gretchen spoke. Her voice was thick, her accent even more foreign than usual, and at first the listener could not understand the words. But she put her ear close down to the bed and made out:—

"Miss Etta, am I going to die?"

"I don't know," said Etta, bewildered; "I hope not."

"I'm not afraid," said the German, "but—but it looks all so strange and dark. You didn't use to tell us about Jesus, and I couldn't rightly understand the minister; but don't it say here," putting her hand upon the Bible by her side, "that he will save everybody that comes to him?" Her teacher nodded. "Coming to him is asking him, isn't it?" Another nod. "Then, please, Miss Etta, ask him for me. I can't. I can't seem to think. Ask him now."

Poor Etta! never in her life had she been so confused. She had only just learned to pray for herself. She had not yet overcome the reticence which we all feel concerning our own interest in spiritual things sufficiently to tell her own sister of her experience and purpose—how could she bring herself to do this hard thing which her scholar asked of her? But the scholar had a human soul, and that soul might be very near to eternity. How could she refuse to do this thing which, by the very nature of her position toward her, the scholar had a right to ask?

Then an idea struck her, and opening her hymn-book,—for she had expected to attend the evening service after ascertaining the cause of her scholar's absence,—she knelt close to the window, and in the fast-fading light read in a tone of reverent supplication the hymn commencing,—

"Just as I am, without one plea, But that Thy blood was shed for me, And that Thou biddest me come to Thee, Oh, Lamb of God, I come!"

Every word of the hymn was prayer, and Etta felt grateful for this help in doing what would have otherwise seemed to her impossible. She threw her whole soul into the last line of each verse, and could not but hope that Gretchen, who lay quite still now, though saying nothing, was following and saying in her heart,—

"Oh, Lamb of God, I come!"

After this there was silence and darkness, and Etta continued to kneel with her face hidden on the window-sill, praying silently that God would indeed save this soul, teaching it that which heretofore she had been unable and unworthy to teach. The effort at obedience to what was so evidently her duty had greatly strengthened the girl; she felt that God was with her in the still room, and the glad joy of those who against their own inclinations work for him began to spring up in her soul.

The doctor and Mrs. Doyle found her thus, and springing to her feet, Etta came over to the bed to hear what the former thought about Gretchen.

Judging from Mrs. Doyle's account, the doctor seemed inclined to make light of the case, until he had made a careful investigation, and then he looked very grave, and asked where the patient had come from, and how long she had been in this country. Hearing that it was nearly a year since she crossed the ocean, and that she had worked for eight months in Squantown Paper Mill, he looked still more puzzled, and finally said:—

"I really can't account for it, but it certainly is a case of ship-fever; a very bad case, too."

Mrs. Doyle's consternation was extreme. She muttered something about having her children to care for, shut the door tight, and went hastily downstairs, leaving the doctor and the delicately bred young girl to decide what was to be done in the situation.

Doctor Bolen looked at his companion in somewhat quizzical perplexity. Here was a patient dangerously ill with a contagious disorder, at the top of a house swarming with human beings. She must have care and close watching, and the only person within reach to give it was a girl whose gay light-heartedness and instability were well known in the town. Had she known what to do, she was too young and delicate for such a task. And should she take the infection—what then? Would the wealthy mill-owner thus expose his youngest child, and, as every one knew, his idol?

"I must get hold of some responsible person," he said at last, aloud, but more to himself than to his companion. "But whom? I don't know of a nurse that would come even from the city. Besides, it would cause a panic to do so, and a panic is the most likely thing in the world to cause the infection to spread. Mrs. Doyle, it is clear, is frightened out of her senses, and she can't be expected to risk her children and her livelihood for a stranger. One of the Irishwomen across the way might take care of her for money; but then she'd talk, and the whole gang would be frightened. I don't really know which way to turn." But Etta answered instantly with the intuitive perception for which she was noted:—

"There's Eunice."

Why had he not thought of it? Eunice Mountjoy, with her calm, cool head, her perfect unselfishness, her entire devotion to the good of others; Eunice, who was known and blessed wherever throughout the village there was sickness, suffering, or want; Eunice, who had many a time helped him out of a perplexity,—Eunice was the very person. But how should he get hold of her?

"I will go," said Etta, to whom he expressed the wonder.

"No! You are too young, and at the same time too old, to go through this manufacturing village alone after dark."

"Then you go, and I will stay here, for I suppose Gretchen must not be left alone."

"Of course not. She may become delirious at any moment, and there is no saying what she may do. She does not know us now. Would not you be afraid to stay with her?"

"No," said Etta, steadily. "Tell me just what to do and I will do it."

"But you might take the infection. Have you thought of that?"

"God will take care of me," said she, with a rising color; and the doctor, remembering how he had found her, thought that perhaps he could not do better than to leave her under such protection.

He was gone a long time, a very long time, it seemed to Etta, whose patient became very restless and needed constantly to be soothed and coaxed back to bed when she sprang up and insisted—in German—on going to her mother. Her teacher, at such times, bathed her face with the warm water the doctor had brought, or gave her a sip of cold water which had been left when the tea-tray was carried away, spoke to her in soothing tones, and finally sang hymns, which seemed to quiet her better than anything else. She had sung all she knew and was commencing the repertoire over again, when a heavy step, followed by a lighter one, came along the passage, and presently Dr. Bolen appeared, followed, not by Eunice, as her sister had expected, but by Katie's mother, Mrs. Robertson! There was no time for questionings. The doctor gave Mrs. Robertson his directions, and then, leaving the patient to her, he took the young girl's arm and led her from the room, down the stairs, and out into the street, where the cool night air seemed wonderfully refreshing.

"I would not have exposed you thus," he said, "if there had been any other way. Do you feel very tired, very much exhausted?"

"Oh, no," she said bravely, for the air had greatly revived her. "I don't believe it will hurt me a bit. It's time I learned to do something besides amuse myself, you know. I've never been of much use in the world yet, but I mean to be."

"You have great capacities and opportunities for usefulness," said he, gravely, "but you know none of us is sufficient for these things."

"I am asking God to help me," she said in a low tone. "Don't you think he will?"

"No one ever sought his help in vain. I am glad you are setting out in the right way. All success be with you. Now you must attend to my directions and obey me exactly. As soon as you get home take off every garment you have on; throw away or burn up everything that can't be washed, take a warm bath, and go to sleep as soon as you can, and, remember, you are not to go near my patient again till I give you permission. Will you promise?"

Then he told her how sensibly Eunice had planned that Mrs. Robertson, who often went out to nurse the sick, should be engaged to take care of Gretchen; that to-morrow a certain empty house belonging to Mr. Mountjoy should be fitted up as a temporary hospital, and the sick girl moved there that the battle of life and death might be fought where there were not crowds of people to take the infection. He also cautioned Etta not to spread a report concerning the nature of Gretchen's disease, as a panic might result which would be not only deleterious to her father's business interests, but also disastrous to the lives of multitudes of the employees of the mill.

By this time they had reached the door of Etta's home, and Dr. Bolen bade the girl good-night, after reiterating his directions.

Eunice came to her sister's room that night after she was in bed to see if the doctor's orders had been complied with. She gave her such a caress as her undemonstrative nature rarely gave way to, and it somehow opened Etta's heart and mouth as well. A long talk followed, and Eunice heard a great deal that made her very happy to hear. Etta begged her pardon for the many times she had refused obedience to one standing toward her almost in the position of a mother, and promised to be more docile and helpful for the future. Both felt that the sisterly bond which had been so weak between them was linked afresh to-night, and that they were now sisters in reality because they were one in Christ.

The next day Eunice's plan was fully carried out. The vacant house, which had been for some months without a tenant, was swept out and furnished with a few necessary articles, and Gretchen, now entirely delirious, was taken there in a close carriage, and Mrs. Robertson established as resident nurse. The good woman fretted and grumbled a good deal at leaving her home and her children,—whom, of course, she could not see for a long time,—but she was a good woman in spite of her grumbling. She was a very experienced nurse, and here was service for the Master from which she dared not turn away. Katie, assisted by Tessa, was fully competent to manage the house and cook what they and the boys needed to eat, so she resolutely accepted the trust.

Eunice and Etta went down to the empty house early in the morning, and both worked hard, with a woman who had been hired to do so, to get the rooms in readiness, but when all was prepared, they went home, for Dr. Bolen said there was no use for either to be unnecessarily exposed to infection. He did not want more patients than were sent him in the natural course of events.

Great pains were taken to keep the whole matter quiet. Katie and Tessa and the boys were cautioned not to speak about it, and the removal of the patient was effected during the forenoon when all the factory "hands" were safe in the mill. But the precautions were useless. Before the next night there were four more patients in the temporary hospital, all from the rag-room, and the consternation was extreme. Many refused to work, and the mill was in danger of being forced to stop just in the middle of filling some very important contracts, when the doctor, taking his own life in his hands, as doctors must, made a thorough investigation of the rag-room, where all the cases had occurred, and found the contagion to be in a bale of rags imported from Ireland, which had not received the usual overhauling before being brought to the mill. These were all collected and burned, and the room thoroughly fumigated, the operatives receiving full wages for the days they were thus shut out from work, and one good result of the fever was that henceforth the bales were all opened and smoked in a separate building before they ever entered the mill at all.

The contagion did not spread any farther after this, and the hands returned without more delay to the mill. Mr. Mountjoy sent to the city for an experienced hospital nurse, and promised to pay all the expenses of the illness, in addition to the wages of those who were thus prevented from earning anything. The "hospital" was supplied from the kitchen of the "great house," and both Eunice and her young sister found full occupation in the preparation of dainties and food for the sick.

The interest in the five sick girls was intense, and when one—a poor, sickly little thing—died, every one felt as though death had come very close, and many were compelled to listen to the voice which said:—

"Prepare to meet thy God."



CHAPTER XIV.

GOOD FOR EVIL.

"Bertie Sanderson has not been in the mill for a week," said Tessa to Katie, as the two friends walked home together one hot afternoon. "One of the rag-room girls said so. I wonder if she has the fever!"

"That's not likely; the girls are all getting better," said her companion.

"Yes; but she's been absent for more than a week," persisted Tessa. "Let's go round that way and inquire."

But Katie, somehow, shrank from this. While she knew nothing with absolute certainty, she could not help feeling that Bertie was in some way connected with the general avoidance of herself by the girls of the Sunday-school class, and the evident suspicion with which both Miss Eunice and Miss Etta regarded her. What her former companion could have said or done, she had no idea; but the sense of an undefined something had made her of late keep as far as possible from Bertie. She was about to say with her usual impulsiveness:—

"No; I hate Bertie! Don't let's go near her," when she remembered all her purposes of doing Tessa good and setting her a Christian example. Is it Christian to cherish a dislike of another because one has reason to suppose that other has done one an injury? Katie's enlightened conscience knew it was not. It was not like him who said:—

"Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you;" and who, by acting in strict accordance with his own teachings, "left us an example that we should follow in his steps."

For a few moments the little girl said nothing as she walked silently by the side of her companion; then, having during those silent moments sent up an earnest prayer that the hateful feelings might be taken away from her heart, that so she might become more like Christ, she answered by turning her steps in the other direction.

The two girls found, as Tessa had suggested, that Bertie had indeed taken the fever, and was very ill in her own comfortable home. Dr. Bolen had suggested her being removed to the temporary hospital, and being cared for by the competent nurses there; but her mother would not hear of it. She was always a very foolish woman, had been very much opposed to her daughter's going into the mill, and now told her husband that this fever was all the result of his obstinacy, and she hoped he enjoyed having murdered his own child. Now, however, she meant to have her own way. Her Bertie, who was every bit as good as the city young ladies, her cousins, was not to go to an empty house and be nursed with a lot of common mill-girls. If her mother couldn't take care of her, she should like to know who could—which would have been unanswerable if Mrs. Sanderson had known how to nurse anybody—a thing of which she was profoundly ignorant. So poor Bertie had a hard time of it, and daily grew worse instead of better; and as if this were not enough, Mrs. Sanderson never thought of isolating the patient, or of keeping the other children from her, and before long the third child, a boy of six years old, was taken down with the fever also, and the incompetent mother had her hands more than full with the care of her house, the two patients, and two fretful, badly trained little children, with only Nina, who had never been taught to do anything in the world, to help her.

Matters were in this state on the evening when the girls called, and poor Mrs. Sanderson, coming to the door, without an atom of prudence or caution, insisted on dragging in Katie at least, because in her wild delirium Bertie had been incessantly shouting her name. Katie was impulsive, not very old or experienced, and had, moreover, been always taught to obey grown people, so without a thought of possible danger to herself, she followed the woman into the house, while Tessa waited for her outside, and was soon standing by the bedside of her old acquaintance.

She would never have known Bertie Sanderson. The long, disorderly hair, as well as the disfiguring "bangs," had, by the doctor's orders, all been shaved off; the round, rosy cheeks were pallid and sunken; the solid frame was wasted almost to a skeleton, and there was a fierce, wild look in the eyes alternated with an expression of intense fear.

Katie stood aghast, and even as she looked the wasted lips suddenly shrieked out:—

"Katie, Katie Robertson! Send her here. I want to tell her something."

"I am here," said Katie, as soothingly as she could, for her fright.

But Bertie took no sort of notice of her; evidently did not recognize her at all, and went on:—

"It wasn't a lie! I did see her find it and put it in her pocket. That's being a thief, isn't it? It was money—a great deal of money. I saw a five and a nought. It wasn't a lie, I tell you! She did steal it! Katie's a thief, for all she's so saintly."

Katie started. This, then, was the mystery; this was the secret thing that had been setting so many against her. She had never in all her speculations concerning the general avoidance thought of this as a cause. Bertie must have seen her find that fifty-dollar bill and put it in her pocket. But even if, from mere idleness, she had repeated the story to her companions, had she told simply what she really saw, could it be called stealing? And if Miss Eunice or Miss Etta had heard it they would naturally have spoken of it to their brother; he would have told the facts as he knew them, and that would have made matters all straight.

Bertie must have altered her tale in some way, exaggerated it, or suppressed a part. What for? Could her companion be so malicious as simply to desire to make her unpopular and to prevent the young ladies from looking upon her with approbation? She could not understand it. Of course she could not, for malice and jealousy were entirely foreign to Katie's nature, even if she had not been striving "in all her ways to acknowledge" her Saviour. She did wish, however, that she had thought of mentioning her good fortune and Mr. James's kindness at the time, that all this trouble might have been avoided.

Meanwhile Bertie began to moan and cry and call for Katie; and the latter, after speaking in vain again and again, turned to go.

"Oh, don't go away!" said Mrs. Sanderson, imperatively. "She'll know you by-and-by; and I can't stand her calling for you; besides, if you can just stay with Bertie and give her the medicine and drink, I might get a chance to see to Alf., who is most as bad as she is, and see what Nina's doing with those children; they've been screaming this half-hour. I don't believe she's given 'em a mite of dinner, and I guess there ain't anything in the house for supper. You just stay where you are."

Not a thought had selfish Mrs. Sanderson for the fact that she was exposing a neighbor's child to the same evil which had overtaken her own. Nor in Katie's inexperience did she think of it either; but she did feel very indignant at the tone of command and very much inclined to rebel.

Moreover, she did not want to stay and take care of a girl who had behaved so shamefully toward herself. One by one the bitter things she had been forced to endure through this girl's treachery and deceitfulness came to her remembrance—the avoidance of her companions, the disapprobation and suspicion of the overseer, the changed manner of her Sunday-school teacher, the tears she had shed in secret, and the discouragement she had felt in her efforts to be good; and a sense of indignation possessed her which for a moment made her feel almost glad that the girl had thus got her deserts.

But this feeling was not of long continuance. The Good Spirit, who was leading Katie along the paths of righteousness, would not allow her to turn aside from them because for the moment the way seemed unpleasant and opposed to her natural inclinations. Unheard by outward ears, but heard quite plainly in her heart, he whispered words that made the little girl pause and think a second time before she refused to do as she was commanded. Here was a good opportunity of being like Christ. He forgave his enemies. He was kind to the unthankful and the evil. He gave up his life that those who hated and persecuted and finally killed Him might be saved. This thought decided her.

"Let me speak a word to Tessa first," she said; "then I'll stay."

She then told her waiting companion how ill Bertie was, and how Mrs. Sanderson was overwhelmed with so many to see to, and wanted her to stay and help. She asked Tessa to get tea for the boys and send one of them for her at bedtime, all of which her friend promised faithfully to attend to, and went her way.

When Katie returned to the sick-room, Mrs. Sanderson actually thanked her, and then went off, glad to attend to other responsibilities, and the young nurse was left with the excited, tossing patient. Strangely to herself, she did not feel the least anger or bitterness toward her now, in spite of all her unkindness to herself. The words which had been in a recent Sunday-school lesson, "I was sick and ye visited me," came again and again to her mind, and it hardly seemed to be Bertie to whom she was called to minister. She had no experience in sickness, but to some people nursing is an intuitive gift, and Katie inherited it from her mother. Her touch was cool and light. She seemed to know by instinct when the patient needed drink or change of position. She smoothed the disordered bed, shook up the pillows, turned the cool side uppermost, closed the open blind through which the western sun was blazing into the sick girl's eyes, and finding a large newspaper lying on the floor, made a fan of it, keeping off the flies and creating a current of air, till by degrees the tossings and cries ceased, the wildly staring eyes closed, and Bertie fell into a light, though restless, sleep.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sanderson had come home from the bindery, and seemed surprised to find Katie sitting so quietly by his sick child. He remonstrated with his wife—in another room—for exposing a stranger to such danger of infection; but when she asked him what she was to do with two sick children and three well ones on her hands, and who was to get the meals for them all, he had no answer to give, only he set about making the fire and getting supper himself, holding the baby on one arm and telling Nina what to do about setting the table. When all was ready he sent Katie down to her supper and himself watched the two sick children,—which, now that one of them slept, was quite possible,—resuming his watch after he had had his own. Mrs. Sanderson declared that she was completely "beat out," as well she might be, poor woman, and dropping on the lounge in the sitting-room was asleep in a moment, while Katie coaxed Nina to help her wash the dishes, clear up the room, and put the two younger children to bed.

By this time Dr. Bolen came in, looked at his patients, and said that, though Bertie was certainly not better, sleep was the best thing for her and should be encouraged as much as possible. Alf., he thought, would do well. Then seeing Katie and not recognizing her, he asked where that other girl came from and what she was doing there. Mrs. Sanderson explained, dwelling emphatically upon Bertie's cries for her friend and the soothing influence her presence had exerted.

"That's all very well," said the doctor; "but how am I going to excuse it to her mother if she gets the fever, and what am I going to do with another patient upon my hands and no one to nurse her?"

"Oh, well, there's no harm done. She's only been here a little while, and her brother's coming to take her home before long."

"Not quite so fast, my good lady. She has been exposed to the fever already, and if she goes home now, may communicate it to her two brothers or the other girl that boards with them. Then her mother would be sure to go home to take care of them, and there would be an end of my hospital and my quarantine. No; she must either go to her mother and take her chance there, or she must stay here till we see whether she has escaped the contagion."

"Please, let me stay here," said Katie, who had overheard this conversation. "I don't think I shall have the fever, but I am sure I can be of use to them all."

"Wouldn't you like to go and be with your mother?"

"Yes, sir, I'd like to, but I'd rather stay here; because, because they need me, and"—the rest of the sentence was spoken low as if without being intended for any one to hear, but both the doctor and Mr. Sanderson heard it and marveled at the words. They were:—

"Even Christ pleased not himself."



CHAPTER XV.

CONSCIENCE.

Mr Sanderson would not allow Katie to sit up late. Indeed, she could not have kept awake, and would have been of little use if she could. She shared Nina's bed in the room where the younger children slept, but lay awake thinking, long after that irresponsible little girl was asleep by her side. Everything seemed so strange. It was the first night she had ever spent away from her own home, and she could not help wondering how Tessa and the boys were getting along, and what they had for supper. She thought of her mother and of the anxiety which, when she heard where she was, she would feel about her; and she wondered if she should have the fever, and if she did if she should die, as one of the patients at the hospital had already done. Then she wondered if Bertie would die, and a strange sort of awe came over her at such a thought in connection with one who had been her playmate ever since she could remember. It made death seem very near, and she wondered if she were fit to die. But that thought did not trouble her much. Nothing, either in life or death, can really hurt those who love Jesus and trust in his protection. She asked him to make her ready to die when he chose, and then, being of a very hopeful, cheerful nature, began to think of other things.

How could Bertie have circulated those stories about her? And, what was more important, how could she set herself right in the eyes of the other girls, and especially in those of Miss Eunice and Miss Etta? She could not go and say to the latter: "I know Bertie called me a thief, but I am not one," and then tell the story just as it was. They might not believe her, and if they did it would be betraying Bertie, and that would not be kind, particularly now that the latter was so ill. Or if she could have told the young ladies and, with the help of Mr. James, made it all straight with them, she could not go around to all the girls and explain what to them were half-defined suspicions. Even if she told the story of the fifty-dollar bill and her version of it were believed, they might very naturally think that there was something else, and that Bertie would scarcely have based her charge of theft on so slight and easily to be explained a circumstance as that. What should she do? It was dreadful to live under such a cloud; to have people consider you wicked when you are desiring and trying with all your might to be good, and not be able to right yourself at all. Again a feeling toward Bertie arose in the girl's heart that would have been hatred but for her companion's present condition, and which she felt to be wrong even as it was. For the thought of Jesus and how he forgave his enemies made her feel ashamed of herself, till she got out of bed and, kneeling down in the moonlight, prayed to be made more like him and to be willing to suffer wrongfully, if need be, with patience, rather than to feel wrong or to do anything unkind. And then, as she got into bed again, the scripture words with which she had commenced her factory life came back to her with new force:—

"In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths." And then those others in the thirty-seventh Psalm: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass. He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light."

That was the safest way. She might leave it to God to take care of her reputation. He could manage it though she could not, and some time everybody would understand just how it was, and know she was not a thief. Meantime she could afford to wait his time.

The next morning Mr. Sanderson promised to send word to the mill about Katie's absence and its cause, and when he left for the bindery his wife came downstairs to see to things, and she took her place in the sick-room, while Nina went to sit with Alf. Mrs. Sanderson was surprised to see how much Katie had managed to do before breakfast and in the interim between, exciting in Nina quite an ambition to wash dishes and "clean up." The little children had been nicely washed and dressed and were, when their mother went down, sitting on the kitchen doorstep with a kitten between them, over which, for a wonder, they were neither fretting nor quarreling. The breakfast things were all put away, the floor swept, and there was a general look of comfort which had not existed in that house for more than a week. The poor tired woman sank into a rocking-chair, saying to herself, "I don't see how it is some people's children are so handy. Mine don't ever do anything they can help. It's some people's luck." It never came into Mrs. Sanderson's head that the "luck" of good, efficient children is largely dependent upon the sensible training given them by their mothers.

The doctor, when he came, found Bertie much easier, if not absolutely better. He could not tell quite yet if there were any likelihood of her recovery, but the quieter she could be kept, and the more sleep she could get, the more chance she would have. He told Katie she was a famous nurse, and he should trust her to keep the room still, dark, and cool, and to soothe her friend as much as she possibly could. He furthermore told her that he had seen her mother, who approved of her remaining where she was, though of course she was very anxious lest she should take the fever and very sorry that she had gone to the house in the first place.

"I promised to watch you closely," said he, "and the moment I saw any symptoms, take you to her to be nursed. But I don't believe you will have it if you take care of yourself. You are in the path of duty, and I have often observed that those who are there seldom come to any harm."

It seemed a very long day to restless, active Katie, and yet in one sense it was a relief from the steady, monotonous work in the mill. Bertie was so quiet at first that she was able to wait upon her and Alf. both, and let Nina go down to help her mother get dinner. But after a while she began to toss and mutter, and then came those wild cries for Katie Robertson; that she had something to tell her; that she hadn't told a lie, for Katie was a thief.

When or how the change came the watcher hardly knew, but all at once she became aware that Bertie lay looking directly at her, and that there was full recognition in her eyes. Neither girl spoke for a moment; then Bertie said with a kind of shudder:—

"Am I dead?"

"No, indeed," said the other, not without some effort to speak cheerfully. "You are going to get well now; only keep still and don't tire yourself."

"I am going to die," said Bertie, slowly; "and I can't die, I am so wicked. Katie, I said dreadful things about you. I made all the girls hate you, and Miss Etta, too; but it wasn't quite a lie, for I did see you take the money."

"Yes," said Katie, quietly, "I did find a fifty-dollar bill in an old vest, and I suppose you saw me; but why didn't you tell me you saw it, instead of telling the girls? Then I could have explained all about it?"

"I don't know," said Bertie, uneasily. "Yes, I do; that's another lie, and I don't mean to tell lies now, I didn't want to have it explained. I wanted the girls to dislike you as much as I did."

"Why?" said Katie, astonished.

"Oh, well, you preached to me, and pretended to be a saint, and Miss Etta and everybody thought you were so good, and"—

"Shall I tell you about that bill now?"

"Yes, do!"

So Katie told her companion just how it happened, and it was all so simple that she wondered how she could have made such a story of it.

"I wonder you didn't keep the bill, and not take it to Mr. James," she said. "I should."

"I did have a little fight about it," said Katie, blushing. "It was a great temptation. I'm not so very good, but"—

"But what?" said Bertie, eagerly, looking at her.

"I think the Lord Jesus helped me. I asked him, and he says he will help us to be good."

"Do you think he would help me?"

"I am sure he would. O Bertie, do ask him! I am so glad!"

"Are you?" said the sick girl, dreamily. But the effort to talk or think longer in her weakened state was too great. She seemed to float away again, and by degrees the same wild look came into her eyes, the tossings began again, and the low mutterings and sharp cries. It was very painful both to see and hear, but Katie was glad to notice that her own name no longer mingled in the confused talk, and the consciousness of wrong-doing toward herself seemed to have passed away.

In the evening the doctor said that the patient had had a relapse, and questioned her young nurse very particularly as to whether she had shown any consciousness; and being told that she had seemed for a little while to be quite herself, he asked if she had spoken. Katie said that she had talked quite rationally about something that had distressed her for some time, but she did not say what that something was.

"Bad," said he; "you should never let a fever patient talk, no matter how much she may try. But I mustn't scold you, I suppose; you are too young for such a responsibility, and your friend there is extremely ill."

Then he went downstairs and consulted Bertie's parents, and the result was that a letter was written to the city aunt begging her to come and help take care of the two sick children. The doctor wrote it himself, stating as delicately as he could the extreme urgency of the case, the inefficiency of the mother, the dangerous illness of the children, and the impossibility of securing any assistance in the care of them except that of an inexperienced little girl, who was herself in constant danger of being added to the list of patients.

In answer to this appeal, after a couple of days, Mrs. Jamieson, who, if a silly, overindulgent mother, was a much more efficient woman than her sister, made her appearance in Squantown, and under her supervision matters were soon in a better condition, and Katie was no longer needed. She had made herself extremely useful, however, and all the family were unfeignedly obliged to her. The children could not bear to have her go, and Mr. Sanderson insisted upon giving her as much money as she would have earned during the days she had been absent from the mill. Dr. Bolen said she showed no signs of having taken the infection and it would be quite safe for her to go home if she would change all her clothes for those which Eric took to the bindery and Mr. Sanderson carried home, leaving everything she had worn in the sick-room behind her, and then would take a long walk, where the wind could blow her hair about and freshen her up thoroughly.

Tessa and Katie had a long, long talk that night. The former had many things to tell of what had happened both in the mill and at home during the absence of the latter; how the rag-room had been closed and fumigated, the foreign rags all burned, and the girls and Miss Peters enjoyed a three days' holiday without having it deducted from their wages; how the old cat had presented the household with a lovely family of downy kittens, for which Alfred had made a little house in a box out in the yard; and how both boys had been very patient toward her cookery, laughing at her mistakes and helping her with their superior knowledge; and how they had stayed at home and played games with her every evening, thus preventing her from taking to novels again to cheer her loneliness, as she should otherwise have felt tempted to do.

Then Katie told Tessa all about the fifty-dollar bill, of which she had never heard before and Bertie's unkindness in setting everybody against her; and Tessa said she had heard the rumors, and often tried to make the girls tell her what they meant, but the only thing she could find out was that Katie was dishonest.

"I wonder you were friends with me, then," said Katie. "I should think you would have avoided me, just as all the other girls did. Weren't you ashamed to associate with a thief?"

"Oh, Katie, you know I couldn't believe such a thing of you!—you who have been my best friend—the only real friend I have ever had."

"But why didn't you tell me what you had heard, and ask me to explain it? You see how easily I could have done so."

"Somehow I didn't like to. It seemed like doubting you even to repeat the lies. I knew they were lies all the time, and I loved you better than anybody else in the world. What consequence was it to me what other people said about you?"

How to clear the matter up, neither of the girls knew. For it would be still more cruel and dishonorable, as they thought, to tell what Bertie had done, now that she had confessed it herself and was lying so low. But Katie had learned to "commit her way unto the Lord," and she was not troubled any more about the matter.

"I should think you'd hate Bertie," said Tessa, with Italian intensity. "I don't see how you could bring yourself to stay there and take care of her when you knew how much she had injured you. I should have felt like putting poison into her drink or smothering her with the pillows."

"No, you wouldn't," said the other, laughing, but immediately becoming grave again. "You couldn't hate any one who was dying, and besides, it wouldn't be like Jesus."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you see? Jesus gave up his life for sinners, for those who were his enemies. It makes me love him whenever I think of it, and I want to be like him. This was a good chance, and I think he helped me to overcome all kind of hard feeling. I only longed to do everything I could to make her more comfortable."

"I wish I could love Jesus as you do. My father used to tell me religion was just the priests deceiving silly women, and reminded me how the robbers and beggars in Italy would kneel before the crucifixes, shed tears as they said their prayers, and then turn away and be just as wicked as before. But to you it all seems real, and it, or something, makes you just the best girl I ever saw. But I can't feel so."

"Yes, you can; our Lord Jesus says 'whosoever will, may take of the water of life freely,' and 'him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' You must be one of the 'whosoever.' O Tessa, I only wish you'd come!"

But Tessa did not answer, and Katie, thinking her asleep, soon followed her example.



CHAPTER XVI.

DECIDING.

It was about four weeks later in the season. Miss Eunice's "tea-party," which had not been held for a long time, was gathered at the great house; not now in the pleasant sitting-room, but on the still pleasanter shaded lawn, where the girls occupied pretty rustic seats, while the tea was spread on little green tables, around which they were grouped as inclination prompted them.

All the members of both classes were there, with the exception of Bertie Sanderson; and there were quite a number of new faces. Some were present who had lately stood very close to death, and others whom the solemn thought induced by the public catastrophe had led to seek for a better life than one of mere amusement. All were glad to come together again; but there was a subdued tone in the gladness, and some voices were not as gay and careless as they were a month ago.

The fever had passed away. There had been no more cases, and only that one death. The rag-room girls and the invalids had gone back to their work; the hospital was closed; Mrs. Robertson had returned to her family, with for once a thankful heart. For, besides that she had been very well paid for her services and loss of time, the pestilence had spared her own dear ones; and they were all there to welcome her as she came back to her home.

Moreover, she had become very much attached to Gretchen and the other girls whom she had attended during their illness, and hated to let them go back to the tender mercies of Mrs. Doyle and the other boarding-house keepers, where they would be sure to be not only uncomfortable and badly fed, but also very much neglected in case of any new illness which might easily result from their weak, enfeebled condition. Her motherly heart thought a great deal about the matter, and her thoughts finally ended in her fitting up a large garret-room, which had never been occupied, with four little white beds and other necessaries and conveniences, and taking the four convalescents home with her as permanent boarders. The girls, while paying no more than they had heretofore done, profited greatly by the change. They had plain and wholesome, because well-cooked, food, plenty of cleanliness and fresh air, besides the elevating and refining influence of a home where Christian living was inculcated, not so much by precept as by practice. God "setteth the solitary in families," not boarding-houses or institutions; but that is the only true family which takes care "in all its ways to acknowledge him." If such families all over our land would open the arms of their exclusiveness each to take in one or more of the waifs and strays of life, and throw around them the arms of Christian love, they would be taking a long step toward answering their own daily prayer of

"Thy kingdom come ... on earth as it is in heaven."

Katie and Tessa were pleased, girl-like, with the addition to their family party, and, though the boys grumbled a little at first, being, as boys are apt to be, a little shy of girls' society, they soon became used to the change and glad to enjoy the evening occupations that were rendered possible by so large a number.

It had always been a source of great anxiety to the widow, lest her boys, deprived of a father's watchful authority, would, as they grew up, wander off at night, fall under bad influences, learn evil habits, and grow up worthless, dissipated men. But thus far she had been successful in keeping Eric and Alfred at home with her and their little sister, and now, just when the restlessness common to their age might have drawn them away, a new interest was presented in the shape of a "home reading society," which held its sessions on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights; Wednesday evening being devoted to Miss Eunice's "tea-party," Friday to the church service, and Saturday to games.

Mrs. Robertson had plans of a more solid nature for the winter, but till the warm summer weather was over, this seemed enough. The books read were historical stories, biographies, and the like, taken from the mill library by special permission. The boys were generally the readers, while the girls were encouraged by their motherly landlady to repair and keep their clothes in order, a branch of womanliness apt to be much neglected by factory operatives, who often marry and enter upon family duties without even knowing how to hold a needle.

Of course, the widow's time was now so fully occupied that she could not go out to work in families, as she had been wont to do, but the money paid by her boarders more than compensated for that. Her heart, as well as her hands, was quite full, and having no time to brood over her fallen condition, she did not worry and grumble so much as formerly, and was happier than she had ever been since the doctor died and left her to battle with the world alone. And thus she learned to realize the truth of that scripture:—

"He that watereth shall be watered also himself."

Bertie Sanderson did not die with the fever, though all around her, even the doctor, had at one time quite given up all hope of her recovery. She slowly struggled back to life, and as soon as she was able to bear the journey her aunt took her to the city with her for more complete rest and change. Katie did not see her again; for, having once got away from the infected house, it was not thought best either for her brothers at home, or her companions in the mill, that she should risk exposure again. She often longed to know the state of her former companion's mind on recovering her senses. If she remembered that exciting conversation; if she were really penitent for what she had done; and if she had taken her companion's advice and sought the forgiveness and strength of her Saviour. But no one could tell her. Indeed, there was no one she could ask, for she felt intuitively that Mrs. Sanderson was not a person to understand this sort of thing, and she could not summon courage to ask Bertie's father. Of one thing she was sure, however—her companion had not as yet openly confessed her share in the reports which had so affected Katie's reputation, and she must still wait in patience till he to whom she had "committed her way" should make it clear.

The reading for this Wednesday afternoon had been exceedingly solemn. It was about the danger of being "almost persuaded" to do one's duty, and then leaving it undone; the uncertainty of another opportunity presenting itself, and the importance of deciding for Christ now. At its close Miss Eunice had said:—

"My dear girls, we have in the weeks that have gone by carefully considered the subject of religion and God's claims upon every one of us for the consecration to him of our hearts and our lives. We have seen that the steps we are called upon to take are repentance, that is, forsaking sin in intention as well as being sorry for it; a steadfast, living faith in Christ Jesus as our Saviour, and a resolute determination to spend the rest of our lives in his service by keeping his commandments and doing his will.

"We have learned, also, that of ourselves we are none of us sufficient for any of these things, but that God is ready—nay, anxious—to give us his Holy Spirit in answer to our asking, and that this Holy Spirit will work in us the repentance and faith, as well as give us the strength to carry it out amid all the temptations of our daily lives. To-day's lesson has been upon the importance of deciding, and the danger of delay, in such a serious matter. I think the lessons of the past few weeks have helped to impress this latter fact upon us; and I am glad that our pastor has just written me a note to ask that all of you who have made up your minds to confess your Saviour openly at our communion Sunday, the first week in September, which will be just two weeks from to-day, will send him your names at once. He desires to see and talk with each one of you separately, that he may satisfy himself of your being in a fit condition for so important a step. I have a paper here on which you may write your names; but before you do I want you to examine your own hearts faithfully and as in the sight of God, to see whether you honestly and sincerely 'repent you of your sins past, have a lively and steadfast faith in Christ our Saviour, and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God and walking from henceforth in his holy ways, that so you may not be guilty of making a deceitful and false profession.' And now let us pray."

The girls all knelt down, and their teacher prayed that these dear girls might have a right judgment in all things, and decide, "not lightly nor after the manner of dissemblers with God," to confess Christ for their Saviour, and give themselves to him in the way of his appointment. Then there was silence for many minutes, that all kneeling there might carefully examine their own hearts and make this most important decision of their lives in the very realized presence of God himself.

After this the tea-table conversation was not a very gay one, and the girls went home uncommonly early, many of them before leaving writing their names upon the sheet of paper which their teacher presented. To some it seemed too awful a thing to do; to others, as to Katie Robertson, the awe was softened by the glad sense that Christ was pleased with this act of acknowledging him; and still others were greatly strengthened by this first act of self-committal, from which they would now be ashamed to draw back.

"Fifteen names; God bless them all!" said Miss Eunice, as she looked over the paper with her sister, whose own name headed the list. "I am so glad! And yet there are two or three more that I would like to see there; perhaps they will decide yet. But, Etta, what shall we do with this one?"—pointing to Katie Robertson's.

"I don't know, unless we consult Mr. Morven." For the young lady had begun to realize the help and strength there is in talking over spiritual matters and difficulties with one well qualified to give advice and help; and many a deeply interesting one had followed that first Sunday afternoon's conversation between Etta and her pastor.

"We might do that," said the elder sister, musingly. "And yet, I hardly like to, either; for, you see, we don't know anything definitely against the child, and I should be sorry to create a prejudice against her should she prove to be innocent. At the same time, I do not like to take the responsibility of assenting to the public religious profession of a girl who has such an accusation as theft hanging over her."

"I have almost a mind to tell her the report, and ask her what it means. I have somehow shrunk from doing so because it seems an absolute insult, and whenever I see the child I can not believe there is any truth in the story. I wish I knew more particulars."

"Who was your informant? Oh, I remember!—Bertie Sanderson—and she is out of the way now, and can't be questioned."

"I never believed in, nor liked, Bertie; but I don't think she is bad enough to invent such a slander, making it out of whole cloth. She said Gretchen knew; but I never thought of asking her. She is as truthful as the day."

"I would ask her," said her sister. "And there she is by the gate—come back for something, maybe."



CHAPTER XVII.

CLEARED.

Gretchen came slowly up the lawn, and stood for a moment shyly by the side of Miss Eunice.

"Is there anything I can do for you, my child?" said the young lady, pleasantly, desiring to put her at her ease.

"Please, will you write my name there?" she said, pointing to the list. "I can't write English letters, and I was ashamed to have the other girls know."

"That is nothing to be ashamed of," said Etta. "I don't believe any of the other girls can write German letters. But, Gretchen, do you honestly want to give yourself to your Saviour, and to live so as to serve and please him?"

"Yes, Miss Etta. I shall never forget the night you prayed for me when I was so sick. You said the Lord Jesus would hear the prayer, and take me if I came to him. I think he did so, and I have been coming to him again and again, ever since. He has been good, so good to me, saving me from dying and making me get well from that terrible sickness. The more I read about him in my Bible, the more I love him and want to honor him. But, Miss Etta, it was you who told me about him, and I shall never forget that night."

Etta's eyes filled with glad tears, while her sister added the sixteenth name to the list, and she clasped the hard, red hand with a feeling of sisterhood, for which she could hardly account.

Gretchen's sickness had greatly improved her appearance, toning down her overbright color, and giving her a look of greater delicacy. Mrs. Robertson and Katie had managed to exchange the dark woolen petticoat and jacket for a simple summer dress such as the other girls wore; while contact with the others in the friendly home life had brightened up her intellect, and her new, deeper feelings and desire after a spiritual life had given her a certain earnestness of expression which made the homely German features very pleasant to look upon.

She was just going away after thanking both her teachers in a quaint, formal manner, when Etta said:—

"Gretchen, I don't want you to tell tales about your companions, and you need not answer unless you wish to do so, but I have been told that you know facts concerning a rumor about Katie Robertson, that I very much desire to find out. Can you, honorably, tell me anything about it?"

"Some of the girls don't like her; I don't know why. She's always a very nice girl to me, and so good to her mother!"

"But the rumor is that she is dishonest, and that you saw her steal something."

"I saw Katie steal?" said Gretchen, very slowly. "Never, never in my life. Oh, I know," a light breaking over her face at a sudden recollection. "Bertha and I both saw her find a bill in an old vest-pocket one day, and put it in her own. Bertha spoke about it to me, but it wasn't my business. Finding isn't stealing."

"It isn't quite honest to keep what we find," said Miss Eunice. "We should try to restore it to the owner."

"But how could she find the owner?" said Gretchen, eagerly. "He might be away over in Germany, or—or anywhere."

"That is true," said Etta, thoughtfully. "It's strange! I can't believe that Katie's dishonest."

"Oh, she isn't; I'm sure she isn't! I only wish I could prove it; but this is all I know about the matter."

"Well, dear, thank you for saying what you have said. Don't say a word about it among your companions. I know I can trust you that far, and I will find out the mystery somehow. Good-night, Gretchen. God bless you in your new service," and Miss Eunice kissed her, little German factory-girl though she was.

"Find out the mystery? Of course we can; just as easy as possible, now," said Etta. "All we've got to do is just to ask James if such an occurrence ever happened in the mill."

And Mr. James Mountjoy promptly coming in at that moment, both sisters appealed to him, and heard in return a very simple statement of the whole affair.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"I did mean to. I thought it so noble in the child. Five girls out of every six would have put the money into their pockets, and said nothing about it. It was very brave in her, too, to tell me how she had been tempted to keep it."

"I know why he did not tell," said the elder sister, looking fondly at her brother. "Five employers out of six would have accepted the money as their right, and the finder have been none the better for it. Our James is not apt to trumpet his own praises."

The young man colored, and said:—

"I think Katie Robertson is an uncommonly fine girl. I was struck by something she said the day she entered the mill. I asked her if she thought she could be a faithful little girl, and she said she was trying to please God everywhere, and she was sure he would help her here. I think she has acted up to that idea ever since. I have watched her from time to time, and I can not find that she has ever been guilty of disobedience to rules, or any kind of underhand behavior. Her work has always been faithfully done, and her example has been of great use in keeping order among the others. Sanderson is enthusiastic in his praises of her bravery and womanly unselfishness. He says she came to his house at the risk of her own life, and helped his poor, tired-out wife take care of the two sick children with as much earnestness, and almost as much skill, as a professional nurse. She stayed there till the aunt from the city came, thus losing five days' work. I offered her the wages for those days when I found it out, but she told me Mr. Sanderson had given her the amount, and she did not want to be paid twice over."

"And this is the girl we have been suspecting of dishonesty!" said Etta. "We really owe her something to make amends. What a little wretch that Bertie Sanderson must be! I really think her parents ought to be told all the circumstances."

All this while a pile of unopened letters, brought by the evening mail, was lying upon the centre-table. The young gentleman turned them over, took possession of several which were directed to himself, and then, handing Etta one which he said was for her, left the room.

"Who can it be from?" said the young lady, eyeing the strangely folded and badly directed epistle, without opening it, as is the manner of so many people.

"I'd see if I were you," said her sister; and seeing that this was good advice, Etta took it, glanced at the signature, and exclaimed:—

"Bertie Sanderson! what a coincidence!"

The letter was as follows:—

NEW YORK, August 15, 18—.

My Dear Miss Etta,—I don't know how to write letters very well, but I must tell you something that is upon my mind. It is about Katie Robertson. You remember I told you she was a thief, and I told all the girls she was dishonest. I didn't know that she was; I only saw her find a fifty-dollar bill among the rags one day, and put it in her pocket. I didn't know what she did with it, and I didn't try to find out, because I was jealous and hated her. She used to tell me it was dishonest to break rules, and talk, and idle, when one was paid for working, and I felt kind of glad to think I had found her out in being dishonest too. I told the girls about it—not all, but just enough to make them think her a thief, because at first they all seemed to think so much more of her than they did of me, and I told you just the same thing when you asked me. I tried to tell father when he used to praise up Katie Robertson's independence and industry, and wish I would follow her example. You see, it was all because of her that he put me in the mill. But somehow I couldn't tell him. I was afraid.

You see, Miss Etta, I have been a very wicked girl, and when I got so sick I was afraid to die. I tried to think I hadn't told a lie, because I did see her find the money, and I didn't know what she had done with it; but I knew I had "borne false witness," and I hadn't "loved my neighbor as myself." I knew, too, that nobody could go to heaven with a heart full of malice and hatred, and I wanted to tell Katie all about it, and ask her to forgive me, and when I got wild I kept calling for her. Then she came and stayed and took such good care of me, I've been ashamed since I knew about it; but I didn't know her or any one then, only one day my wits seemed to come back to me and I told her all about it, and she explained so simply how she had found the money and taken it to Mr. James, and Mr. James had told her to keep it, that I saw in a moment that it was only because I wanted to think her bad that I didn't find out just how it was long before.

I felt so bad then, Miss Etta, because I thought I was surely dying, and going before God with all that unforgiven sin upon me, and Katie talked so sweetly about Jesus and his forgiveness and help that I thought I'd like to try. But then I didn't know anything for a long time till I woke up and found my aunt there, and they said I couldn't see Katie again, because she might get the fever or carry it to her brothers.

I was dreadfully unhappy, even after I came here, not only about this, but because of all the other bad things I've done all my life. I've been selfish and vain, and unkind and untruthful and dishonest, and I almost wished I had died when I was sick, only then I could not have gone to heaven, and I never could have cleared Katie.

Since I have been here I have been to church a good deal with my cousins, who are Congregationalists, and are both going to join the church. There is a daily service, and there have been a large number of conversions. I have talked a good deal with my aunt, and I really do want to commence over again and be a good girl. Aunt Anna says that Jesus died so that the very worst sinners might be forgiven, and I think he will forgive me. She wants me to stay and be received with her daughters here, but I'd rather join the dear church in Squantown, with the other girls, if you think I might.

But I want Katie and all the girls to know just how bad I have been and just how sorry I am. Please tell them all that I have said, and write and tell me if you think I might join the church, when I've been so wicked.

Give my best love to Miss Eunice and ask her to forgive me, too.

Your affectionate Sunday scholar, BERTHA SANDERSON.

"I think we may join in the joy of the angels in the presence of God over the one sinner that repenteth," said Miss Eunice, as her sister finished this long and evidently earnest letter. "I think you may safely write to the dear child to come home and commence her new life among us. Your class is greatly blessed, my sister, and I think when we remember what it has done for Gretchen and Bertie, we may well thank God for the ship-fever as for an angel in disguise."

The next Sunday Etta Mountjoy detained her class a few moments after the school session, and read to them the whole of Bertie's letter.

It was received with various expressions of surprise, which were greatly augmented when the whole story of the fifty-dollar bill was told.

"I have brought this all before you, girls," she said, "not to make you think hardly of Bertie. She has suffered too much and is too evidently sincerely sorry for me to do that. I want you to rejoice with me in her repentance, and when she comes back, to receive her with full forgiveness and sympathy, and aid her in her efforts to lead a new life. I thought you ought to know how well one little girl among us has behaved under the most unjust suspicions and great unkindness. Not one of us has understood Katie Robertson. She has known for four weeks, from Bertie's statement to her, what was the real reason of our avoidance and suspicion, and she has never opened her mouth to explain the true state of the case and clear herself, as she might easily have done, because by so doing she would have been obliged to tell of the unkindness and malice of her companion.

"I think we all ought to ask her pardon for being so ready to condemn her unheard and to believe what was whispered against her; and, more than that, we ought to be very thankful to the Lord for giving her such a grand victory over herself."

Katie blushed and could find nothing to say, as one after another the girls and their teacher shook hands with her and kissed her; but it was a very happy heart the little girl carried home with her that bright Sunday.

"Tessa," she said, "it's all true, every word:

"'Commit thy way unto the Lord, And He shall bring it to pass.'"



CHAPTER XVIII.

SEALED.

The first Sunday in September was the most beautiful day of the season—calm, still, and sunshiny. The August heats were abated, but no touch of chill had yet come into the air. It was still summer, but summer's fierceness had passed by. When the bell of the little gray stone church rang out in joyous tones, multitudes of people, in bright Sunday attire, and with expectant faces, came out of the cottages and boarding-houses and, singly or in groups, wound their way up the hill.

Factory operatives are not, as a rule, a very church-going population, and the church was not wont to be overcrowded; but to-day the pews and seats are all full, and so are the extra benches and chairs taken from the Sunday-school room and placed in the aisles. Every one in Squantown who possesses a sufficiently decent wardrobe in which to appear in a place of worship has turned out to-day. For to-day many of the boys and girls are to stand forth with many of their older friends, and confess themselves upon the Lord's side, while their pastor prays that upon them may fall a fuller measure of that Good Spirit, who alone can enable them to stand firm amid the many temptations by which they are surrounded, and while their brethren, who are older in the faith, promise to give them all the sympathy and help which it is in their power to bestow.

The church has been decorated for the occasion with a wealth of late summer flowers. Geraniums, scarlet, coral, pink, and white, dahlias of every variegated hue, asters, zinnias, heliotrope, ferns, golden-rod, and a multitude more are entwined around the pulpit or wreathed above windows and doors. Pure white day-lilies load the air with perfume, and rare exotics from the gardens of the "great house" stand in exquisitely arranged baskets upon the communion-table.

The music, intended to do special honor to the occasion, is somewhat elaborate, considering that the choir is composed of the older boys and girls from the Sunday-school, and is therefore not so good as usual from an artistic point of view; but it is better than artistic in that it is intended to do honor to the occasion, and is in many instances the sincere thank-offering of hearts glad to give to their Saviour the "dew of their youth."

It was the endeavor, not only of the clergyman, but also of the whole Mountjoy family, to banish all class distinctions from the church, and to make rich and poor, as they sat together before God, "the maker of them all," feel that they were all one family; that all had a common ownership of, and interest in, the beautiful building and the well-conducted services.

Thus the factory-girls went to the woods on Saturday afternoon for golden-rod and ferns; the humblest families robbed their cottage gardens of the few bright flowers they contained; and the boys gave willing assistance to Etta and her class in arranging and putting up the decorations. The whole congregation joined in singing the hymns and such of the chants as were familiar, and rarely had the singing been heartier.

The service was over and the sermon, and then, as the last hymn was sung, the call was given for the candidates to come forward in answer to the reading of their names. How many of them there were! Even those who had prayed most earnestly and labored most actively were surprised at the result. There were six of the elder girls composing Miss Eunice's Bible-class (the others were already communicants); four of her brother's boys; Etta and her whole class of seven,—making eighteen from the Sunday-school. But there were also quite a number of young men who worked in the factory, who had been largely won by James Mountjoy's honor and integrity, added to manly Christianity; and some young women, and even elder ones, with one or two heads of families, who had been led by the indefatigable efforts of the pastor thus to openly acknowledge Christ.

The girls were not as a rule dressed in any particular manner. Etta, indeed, and one or two others, were in white, because it happened to be more convenient and suitable, but neither Mr. Morven nor Miss Eunice wished to have the consciousness of dress interfere with the solemn thoughts of self-dedication and renunciation of the world appropriate to the occasion. Even with Bertie Sanderson, who had come home a few days before, "old things had so passed away," that she wore a simple blue gingham, much plainer, and at the same time much more becoming, than the costume in which she had originally appeared at the mill. The solemn questions were asked and answered; the personal vows taken; earnest, solemn prayers uttered and words of wise counsel said, to be long remembered and heeded and acted upon in life's coming battles; and then, with a burst of joyful song, the solemn service was over, and those engaged in it went out from the sacred precincts to fulfil the vows and exercise the grace among the common scenes and homely details of daily life. To many, nay, to most, life would not be one continuous communion service; the holy awe would of necessity fade away; the hymns and prayers be exchanged for the harsh wrangle and barter of a work-day world; temptation was awaiting many of those new church members in unexpected places, and the evil nature within, not yet wholly subdued by divine grace, would make the pathway of holiness a very narrow one, along which untrained feet would often stumble. But the memory of this hour would always be, to those who cherished it, a shield against temptation, a counter-charm against the wiles of the evil one; and since the Saviour whom they had that day openly avouched to be their Lord and God had promised "never to leave or to forsake them," only victory could follow those who confided entirely in him.

"Tessa," said Katie, when the two girls were alone together that afternoon, "I didn't know you were going to join the church till this morning. Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Well, you see I didn't make up my mind till yesterday afternoon. Then I went to Miss Etta, and she took me to Mr. Morven, and he took my name and encouraged me to come."

"What made you think of it?"

"You first. I didn't see how you could be so gentle and patient when everybody was condemning you and thinking evil of you. Then I watched you at your work, and saw how faithful you were, whether any one saw you or not, just as if you felt that God was looking at you, and you wanted to please him."

"So I did. I took for my text, in the mill, the verse: 'In all thy ways acknowledge him.'"

"Then," continued Tessa, "when you wanted me to give up reading those novels I was real mad at first. I thought you had no right to find fault with what I did, and that it was very mean in you, who had a comfortable home and a mother and two brothers, to want to take away the only pleasure from me who had nothing. But when you talked with me so sweetly, and when you asked me to come and live with you, and your mother took in the stranger that no one knew anything about and treated me just like one of her own children, I knew that you did it just out of kindness, and I tried to see what made you so kind."

"I don't think I'm kind," said Katie, "but I do want to be."

"The only reason I went to Sunday-school and church with you," continued her friend, "was to find out what it was that made you so different from the other girls, and there I heard all about Jesus, so different from what the priests used to say at home. There were no crucifixes, no pictures in the church, as there were in Italy, and yet he seemed to be more real than he ever did there, and I found myself beginning to love him almost before I knew it."

"I'm so glad!"

"So am I; but I don't think I ever quite saw what he was, how he laid down his life, for his enemies I mean, till you went to take care of Bertie, at the risk of your own life, and stayed there when you knew how badly she had treated you, and never said a word afterward for fear it would hurt her. It showed me just how he cares for all of us and wants to help us, even those who don't like him and don't want to take his help, and I made up my mind to give myself to him and take him for my Saviour that very night when you asked me to."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Somehow I couldn't. I couldn't talk about such things; they seemed too sacred. And one reason I didn't give in my name with the others that day at Miss Etta's was because I was afraid Miss Eunice or somebody, the minister, perhaps, would ask me questions."

"Didn't you want to talk to the minister?"

"No; it seemed like going to confession, and that I promised my father I'd never do. Besides, I didn't think I was good enough."

"Why, we're none of us good enough, Miss Eunice says."

"I know; I listened to all the readings and the talk and the lectures, and by-and-by I got to see things that I hadn't understood before, and how it is not because we are good and strong, but because we're sinful and weak, that we need a Saviour and all the influences of the church. And so, just at the very last moment, I prayed for bravery enough to tell Miss Etta, and she went with me to Mr. Morven, and he told me I was just the one to come, if I really loved the Lord Jesus ever so little and wanted to do his will. He was just as kind and gentle, and it wasn't a bit like confession, for he didn't ask me any string of questions and didn't say the absolution—just talked to us both, prayed, and sent us home. I'm so glad I decided. I never felt so happy in my life before."

"Nor I," said Katie. "It doesn't seem as if anything ever could be hard or hateful again."

So felt a good many young hearts that quiet Sunday night as they returned from the evening service, where the pastor preached a special sermon to those of his flock who had just openly enlisted in the army of the Cross, welcoming them once more into the "communion of saints," pointing out the responsibilities they had assumed and the difficulties in their way, but at the same time congratulating them on the assured strength and aid which were promised to make them "more than conquerors through him who hath loved us."

And as life glided by, bringing its inevitable portion of care and suffering to each, no one of that band was ever sorry, as he looked back to the services of that bright September Sunday, that young hands and young hearts had then been laid trustingly into the hands of their Saviour, and that they set out upon life's journey clad in the invincible armor of faith.



CHAPTER XIX.

AFTERWARD.

The soft, sweet summer-time had quite passed away. Bright autumn had followed, with its glory of gorgeous leaves and piles of golden fruit. November's fierce blast had begun to toss the leafless branches, and Thanksgiving day was at hand.

Nearly three months had passed since our young friends had stood forth to receive the seal of their discipleship. Three months of testing time they had proved to be—months in which the true attitude of the souls of those who had then presented their bodies as a living sacrifice might become plain both to themselves and their friends.

No greater mistake can be made than for young people to suppose that the recommendation of their Sunday-school teachers, their pastor, or even their parents, is an assurance that they are really fit subjects for a confession of Christ. All these, it is true, are watching them, both in their actions and in the tempers which they thus exhibit, as those that must give an account for their souls; but only God can see the heart—only themselves can know whether they are sincere in their purpose to love and serve him.

Young girls are very easily influenced. Often they come forward in the church because a good many of their companions are coming and they do not want to be left behind; sometimes because it makes them of temporary importance; and sometimes simply because of the transient excitement, without any thought of the solemn vows they are going to assume and the new life which in the future they are to be expected to lead. And this in spite of all the instructions given and the watchful care exercised by pastor and friends. No wonder, then, that the first few months after a public profession are anxious ones to all those who have had any part in smoothing the way thereto for their young friends.

And yet, let no girl or boy be discouraged from taking a stand which is both duty and privilege by these remarks. All that God demands of those who confess Christ—or, as it is popularly incorrectly called, "make a profession of religion"—is sincerity of heart and purpose; sincere sorrow, no matter how slight, for past sin; sincere faith in the sacrifice of Christ, to atone for and forgive sin; sincere purpose of obeying God's commandments for the future, with sincere consciousness of weakness added to sincere trust in the all-sufficient strength of the Holy Ghost. Every boy or girl old enough to think is capable of this sincerity; and thus every one is bound to obey the express command of his Saviour and confess him before men.