"One reason."

"He would be a very good parti; only a little too old, perhaps."

"What are you thinking of? I shall not let that child get entangled for years." He said, almost angrily.

"What has Mr. Bovyer done?" I inquired, a good deal mystified.

"You are too young to have everything explained. I want you to keep your child's heart for a good many years yet."

"What a pity young people cannot keep the child's heart until they get some good out of life. Not begin at once with its storms and passions," Mrs. Flaxman remarked, in a moralizing tone.

"Do you mean falling in love, Mrs. Flaxman?"

"Possibly that was what I meant, but it is to be a tabooed topic with you for some years yet, Mr. Winthrop decides."

"You have been unusually fortunate in that respect, Mr. Winthrop. I used to think every one fell in love before they came to your age." Mrs. Flaxman glanced at him with a pained, startled look which I did not understand. I noticed that his face though grave was unruffled; but he made me no reply.

I could not explain the reason, but I felt grieved that I had made the remark, and slipped quietly out of the room without my usual good-night.

The next day we left for home. Mr. Winthrop was not fortunate in meeting friends; so he sat beside us. I would have preferred being alone with Mrs. Flaxman, without the restraint of his society. We had not been able on that train to secure a parlor car, for which I was very glad. There seemed more variety and wider types of humanity in the plainer car, and I liked to study the different groups and indulge in my dreams concerning them. My attention was suddenly attracted, at a station we were approaching, by a hearse and funeral procession apparently waiting for us. The cars moving along presently hid them from my view, and my attention was suddenly distracted from this melancholy spectacle by the unusual circumstance of a man coming alone into the car with an infant in his arms. The cars scarcely paused, and while I watched to see the mother following her baby the brakeman came in with an armfull of shawls, satchels, and baskets. The baby soon began to cry; when it was pitiful to watch the poor fellow's futile efforts to hush its wailings, while he tossed over the parcels apparently in search of something; but the baby's cries continued to increase in volume, and the missing article, whatever it was, refused to turn up.

Mr. Winthrop cast a look on it that might have annihilated a much stronger specimen of humanity; but the father, as I supposed him to be, intercepted the wrathful gaze, and his face, already sorrowful looking, became more distressed than ever.

I waited impatiently for some older woman to go to his relief; but men and women alike seemed to regard the little waif with displeasure; so at last slipping swiftly out of my seat lest Mr. Winthrop might intercept me, I went straight to the poor fellow's relief.

"What is the matter with the baby?" I asked, as sympathetically as I could.

"He is hungry, and they have taken his food by mistake, I am afraid, to the baggage car."

"May I take care of him while you go for it?"

"If you only would, I would be so grateful."

I sat down and he put the bit of vocality in my arms, and then hastened after its dinner. I glanced towards Mr. Winthrop. I fancied that his face expressed volumes of shocked proprieties; so I quickly withdrew my gaze, since it was not at all comforting, and devoted myself exclusively to the poor little baby. Its clothing had got all awry, its hands were blue with cold, and the tears from its pretty, blurred eyes were running in a copious stream. I dried its face, took off its cap and cloak, and got its garments nicely straightened out, and then to complete the cure, for want of something better, gave it my long suffering watch to nibble. The little creature may have recognized the soothing effect of a woman's hands, or it may have been the bright tick, tick which it was gazing at now with pleased expression, and with its untutored tongue was already trying to imitate. What the cause was I could not say; but when the father returned, silence reigned in the car so far as his offspring was concerned. His face brightened perceptibly. "It does seem as if a baby knew a woman's touch," he said, with such a sigh of relief.

"They know when their clothes are comfortable and their hands warm."

"His mother always attended to him. He and I were only playfellows."

"Where is his mother now?" I asked, no longer able to restrain my curiosity.

"In the freight room." His eyes filled with tears.

"Was it her coffin I saw in the hearse awhile ago?"

"Yes."

"Oh I am so sorry;" and I too burst into tears. He busied himself getting a spirit lamp lighted, and soon the baby's milk was simmering, and almost before good humor had been restored throughout the car the baby had comfortably dined, and gone off into a refreshing slumber. I made him a snug little bed out of rugs and shawls, and laid him down in blissful unconsciousness of the cold, still form, even more unconscious than he, in the adjoining freight room.

The passengers as well as Mr. Winthrop had been watching me curiously, and my sudden burst of tears had mystified them.

Once the baby was nicely settled to its nap I returned to my seat. Mrs. Flaxman eagerly asked why there was no woman to look after the baby. I saw Mr. Winthrop listening, as if interested also in the strange phenomenon of a man in attendance alone on an infant.

"The mother is in the freight room."

"What?" Mrs. Flaxman asked, looking a trifle alarmed.

"She is in her coffin." My lip trembled, and with difficulty I restrained my tears once more.

"How dreadful!" she murmured, and presently I saw her wiping away her own tears.

"And you were the only one brave enough to go to him in his trouble. Medoline, I am proud of you, but ashamed of myself."

"I couldn't help going; he looked so distressed, and I could see he wasn't fit to look after the baby. Men are so useless about such things," I said, giving Mr. Winthrop a humorous glance.

"Another case of widowers," Mr. Winthrop whispered, as he bent his head near to mine; but I saw that he too was not unmoved, and the look he bestowed upon me was equal to a caress.

"I am going to speak to that poor man myself." Mrs. Flaxman said very energetically, after she had got her eyes dried.

She went, but very soon I saw her handkerchief in active service again. They sat chatting a long time, while all the passengers seemed to have a growing interest in their fellow traveller and his little charge. The latter wakened while Mrs. Flaxman was still lingering beside the bereaved father. It cried at first; but she soon got him so comfortable and content, that he was laughing and cooing into the wintry looking faces of his father and new nurse. I wanted to have the dear little fellow in my own arms, he had such a bright, intelligent face, and his smile was so sunny; but I could not muster courage to go and ask for him.

Mrs. Flaxman probably noticed my wistful look, for she presently returned to her own seat bringing him with her. She had scarcely left the father's side when a white-haired, kindly-faced old gentleman at the farther end of the car got up and came stumbling along, and took a seat beside him. The poor fellow winced. He shrank, no doubt, from opening his wound afresh for another stranger to probe. But there was something so sympathetic in the old man's face, and the hearty shake of the hand that he gave without even speaking, that I concluded he would do more good than harm. After sitting a little while in silence, I overheard him telling how he had heard of his trouble through the conductor. I had not asked him anything about his wife's death, that seemed a grief too sacred to explain to a perfect stranger; but he had told Mrs. Flaxman all, and I sat listening with a strong desire to cry while she repeated the story to us.

"His wife died very suddenly," she said, "and they were all strangers where they lived; but every one, he said, was so kind. He is taking his baby home to his mother. They live a little way out of Cavendish. He said he knew us; and was never so surprised at anything in his life as when a beautiful young lady, like you, traveling, too, with Mr. Winthrop, came and took his baby. Everybody was looking so crossly at the baby, he had just begun to feel as if there was no sympathy for him in all this world full of strangers; but, when you came, there was a great load taken off his heart. I mean after this to be more on the watch to help others."

"Why, Mrs. Flaxman, I thought that was one of your strongest characteristics."

"Don't ever say such a thing to me again, when if it had not been for a tender-hearted child, with the very poorest possible opinion of herself, we might have, amongst us, finished breaking that poor fellow's heart."

"You will make her vain if you continue praising her so much," Mr. Winthrop remonstrated.

"She has not a natural tendency that way, and we have not helped to foster her vanity; if we have erred, it has been in the other direction."

"Please let us cease talking personalities. Why don't you admire and talk about this lovely boy? Wouldn't you like to have us adopt him at Oaklands, Mr. Winthrop?"

"I expect you will not be quite satisfied until you get the position of matron in some huge asylum for widows and orphans, with a few widowers thrown in for variety."

"I should enjoy such a position, I believe. It never occurred to me before. Only think! Gathering up little bits of motherless humanity like this, and training them into noble men and women. They would go on perpetuating my work long after my eyes were sleeping under the daisies. Why that would be next thing to the immortality most of us long for."

"Do you really think you would like such a career?"

"Yes, really. If you would only help me to begin now, in a small way at first, and build a pretty cottage in one of the Glens around Oaklands."

"Have you no higher ambition than to take care of children?"

"But what could be higher, at least within my reach? I am not clever enough to write books—at least not good ones, and there are too many fifth and sixth rate ones now in the market. My painting and music won't ever amount to anything more than my book-writing could do; so what remains for me but to try and make the world the better for having lived in it? And the only way any of us can do that is to work for human beings."

I was in such real earnest, I forgot for the time Mr. Winthrop's possible sarcasm.

"You are not very moderate in your demands. Possibly I would be permitted to share in the posthumous honors you mention, which would be some recompense for the outlay. Of course, I would be called on to feed and clothe, as well as shelter, your motley crowd."

"I forgot about that. Would it cost very much?"

"The expense would depend largely on the numbers you received, and it might not be safe to trust to your discretion in limiting the number. Your sympathies would be so wrought on, Oaklands would soon swarm with blear-eyed specimens of humanity, and Mrs. Flaxman and I would be compelled to seek some other shelter."

"If I were only rich myself," I said, with a hopeless sigh.

"You would very soon be poor," Mrs. Flaxman interjected, turning to Mr. Winthrop. "I could scarcely restrain her from buying one of the most expensive pieces of broadcloth for her blind friend."

"He may never have had a genuine suit of West of England broadcloth in his life, and I wanted him to have the best. The difference in price would only amount to a few dollars; and if we were getting ourselves a satin or velvet gown we would not have hesitated a moment over the difference of five or six dollars."

"My ward will need some severe lessons in economy before she can be entrusted with a house full of children. Paris dolls and becoming dresses for her prettiest children would soon drain the pocket."

I said no more. My enthusiasm, viewed in the light of my guardian's cold criticism, seemed exceedingly Utopian, and I concluded that my best plan was to do the work that came in my way cheerfully and lovingly, without sighing hopelessly after the impossible. To make the motherless little fleck of immortality happy that now nestled confidingly in my arms for a brief hour, was the work that just then lay nearest to me; and I set myself about doing it with right good will.

As we neared Cavendish, the kindly faced old gentleman started for his own seat, but paused on the way at my side, and shook my hand cordially as he said: "I want to thank you, Miss, for giving us all such a wholesome lesson. I am an old man now, and can look back over the deeds of more than three score and ten years; and I tell you there's none gives me more real satisfaction than the acts of kindness I've done to others. If I were beginning the journey again, I'd set myself to do such work as that, rather than trying to pile up money that at the last I'd have to leave to some one that mightn't thank me. I've a fancy, too, that the kindnesses follow us into another life. If I don't mistake, when you get old like me, you'll have many pleasant memories of the kind to look back upon; and then you may remember the old man's words long after he has crumbled to dust."

I smiled brightly up into his strong, wholesome face and would really have liked to know more about him, but like many a person we meet on the journey of life, as ships on some wide sea, signal briefly to each other and then pass out of sight, so I never saw or heard of him afterward. He stood a moment stroking the baby's curly head, and then with a murmured "God bless the little lad," he passed on to his own seat. I felt instinctively that all this sentiment would be exceedingly distasteful to Mr. Winthrop, and was amused at the look of relief that passed over his face when our own station was reached. As I returned the baby to his father, he grasped my hand with a pressure that pained me and said, scarce above a whisper:

"I will pass your kindness along to some other desolate one some day. It is the only recompense within my power to make you."

"What I did has been a genuine pleasure. This little fellow has far overpaid me."

"It was a great deal you did for me just at that bitter moment."

"I wish I could do more to lighten your sorrow," I said, with tears of sympathy in my eyes as I said my final good-bye, and hastened after Mr. Winthrop, who was waiting, I knew impatiently, on the platform. I saw Samuel assisting Thomas to control the horses, who were always in awe of the snorting engine; and near them stood a lumbering express, into which the men were putting the long box that I knew contained the rigid body of the dead mother. Presently the poor husband with his baby crowing gleefully in his arms, climbed up to the seat beside the driver, and they started out on their lonely journey. Mr. Winthrop was singularly patient with me, although I kept them waiting some time while I stood watching the loaded express pass out of sight. As I leaned back in our own luxurious carriage, I tried to picture the poor fellow's home going, and hoped that a welcome would be given that would help to lighten his burdened heart.



CHAPTER XIV.

HUMBLE CHARITIES.

Mr. Winthrop had telegraphed Reynolds that morning that we were coming home, and when we came in sight of Oaklands, just in the dim twilight, we found the house brilliantly lighted. There was such a genial warmth and comfort when we entered the door that I exclaimed joyously:

"After all, there is no place like home."

"Is Oaklands better than New York, do you say?" Mr. Winthrop questioned.

"This is home. To every well regulated mind that is the sweetest spot on earth."

"Without any reservation?"

"We do not need to make any when it is such a home as Oaklands."

"Possibly you may think very differently when you get better acquainted with the fascinations of city life."

"One might enjoy both, don't you think, Mr. Winthrop? The contrast would make each more delightful."

"You must try the experiment before you will be able to give a correct decision."

"It seems to me to-night one must be hard to please to want a better home than this, especially with an occasional change to city life. I cannot understand why I have so much more to make life beautiful than others—so many others—have."

"Do you think, then, that your lot is a peculiarly fortunate one?"

"If I did not think so, I would be worse than those Jews who fell to murmuring on their way to Canaan. If they could have made the journey as comfortably as I am doing they would never have said a word, I believe."

"That is quite an original way of putting it. Theologians generally are very severe on the poor Jews."

"And you are usually pretty severe on the poor theologians," I said laughingly, as I started for my room. On the way I met Reynolds, who seemed so glad to have us back that I kissed her on the spot.

"Bless your dear heart," she exclaimed, "it's like a flash of sunlight to have you bursting in on us. You remind me so much of your papa. He had just such a strong, hearty way as you."

"Oh, Reynolds, is that so? Why did you never tell me before that I was like him?"

"It did not occur to me to tell you. Does it please you to know it?"

"Certainly it does. It takes away the feeling that I am a changeling, which often haunts me when you tell me I am odd and unconventional," I said, turning to Mrs. Flaxman.

"Darling, I would rather have you just as you are. If we went to make improvements, we would only spoil a bit of God's sweetest handiwork."

"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, what a tremendous compliment! Mr. Winthrop would read you another lecture, if he heard you say that."

"Some day we may need to lecture him," she said with a smile, and then went into her own room, leaving me a trifle perplexed over her meaning.

When we joined Mr. Winthrop in the dining room we found the table laid with its usual precision and elegance for dinner. As I stood on the hearth-rug, looking around the pleasant room, the firelight glancing on the polished silver, and china, and lighting up the beautiful pictures on the walls, no wonder the cheerful home scene made me, for the time, forget the solitary mourner with his dead, out in the cold and darkness. Mrs. Flaxman presently joined me. Drawing her an easy-chair close to the cheerful blaze I knelt on the rug beside her, the easier to stroke Fleta, the pretty Angora cat, who with her rough tongue licked my hand with affectionate welcome. Presently Mr. Winthrop joined us. His presence at first unnoticed in our busy chat, I happened to turn my head and saw him calmly regarding us. "You would make a pleasant picture, kneeling there with the firelight playing in your hair," he said, coming to my side.

"The picture would be more perfect now that you have joined us."

"No, my presence would spoil it. A child playing with her kitten needs no other figures to complete the picture."

"Ah, that spoils your compliment."

"Mr. Winthrop very judiciously mixes his sweets and bitters," Mrs. Flaxman said with a smile.

"Yes; I should be too vain if he gave me a compliment really. I wonder if he ever will do that?" I looked up into his face and saw that its expression was kindly.

"You would not wish me to spoil you. If my praising you made you vain, as you just said it would, that would be the worst unkindness."

"I want you always to be honest with me. A very slight word of praise then will have its genuine meaning."

"Now that we have once more settled our relations to each other, we will take our dinners. One must descend from the highest summits to the trivialities of eating and drinking."

"I have never seen you very high up yet, Mr. Winthrop. I do not think there is a spark of sentiment in your composition."

"Alas, that I should be so misjudged. But wait until your friend Bovyer shows you my tears."

Mrs. Flaxman generally looked a trifle worried when Mr. Winthrop and I got into conversation. This night, when I wanted every one to be happy, I held my troublesome tongue in check, and made no further reply to my guardian's badinage.

When I went to my room for the night, I drew back my curtain and looked out into the darkness of a cloudy, moonless night. It chilled me, I wondered if the baby and its father, with the cold, still form of the once happy mother, had got into the light and warmth of home. I compared our bright evening together in the drawing-room, where Mr. Winthrop had sat with us reading, or rather translating as he read, some splendid passages from his favorite classical authors, a treat not often granted, but he was, I fancied, too tired to read or study in his library alone. I too had tried to add my share to the evening's entertainment; singing mostly some German home songs to an accompaniment on the piano. He had not criticised my performance, a fact very encouraging to me.

But now, as I stood looking out into the black night, I thought of their journey over the rough roads, already beginning to freeze, the baby cold and hungry, and so tired. I turned hurriedly from the window and knelt to say my prayers, a new element entering into my petitions. Forgetting the stereotyped phrases, I remembered with peculiar vividness the impetuous prayer uttered by Mr. Lathrop at Mrs. Blake's funeral, and I too tried to bring comfort to another by prayer. There was such help in the thought that God never forgets us. I so soon forgot amid the pleasures of home-coming the sorrows of another; but He watches ever. The splendors of His throne and crowns, and the adoration of the highest intelligences never so absorbing Him as to cause forgetfulness of the humblest parish pensioner, looking Heavenward for consolation. "Oh, to be more God-like, more unforgetting!" I murmured, still lingering in the attitude of prayer. I do not think in all my life, I had got so near to the Divine Heart.

The next morning an agreeable duty awaited me. First, I had the materials for Mr. Bowen's new suit, and along with these a good many lesser gifts for one and another. In the daily papers, I studied very industriously the notices of cheap sales of dry goods while in the city; and for such a novice in the art of shopping, I made some really good bargains. When I came to get my presents all unpacked I found that Thomas' services would be required if I took all at once.

I found him at last in the kitchen, superintending the preparation of some medicine for one of his horses. Making known my errand, he consented to drive me to the Mill Road; but first assured me that it would disarrange all his plans for the day. Thomas was an old bachelor, with ways very set and precise; and his hours were divided off as regularly as a college professor's.

On our way out he informed me that the widow Larkum was very ill, with the doctor in attendance.

I was surprised that his words should give me such a sinking at the heart.

"What will become of the blind father and orphaned children if she dies?"

"They will go to the poor farm. I pity them; for that Bill Day, that has charge, is a tough subject."

"She may not die. Doctors are very often mistaken. They do not know much more about the secrets of life and death than the rest of us."

"I allow that's true; for a couple of them give me up for death, a good many years ago; and a pretty fright they give me for nothing."

"Were you afraid to die?"

"You may be sure I was. Its very unsartin work, is dying."

"Mrs. Flaxman has lent me the lives of some very good people to read. They were not afraid to die, but looked forward to it, some of them, with delight."

"They was the pious sort, that don't make much reckonin' in this life, I allow."

"I have read the lives of both kinds of people—the good, and those who were not pious. The former seemed to be the happiest always."

"They say Mr. Winthrop is a great man—writes fine works and things—but he's not happy. I take more good out of Oaklands and the horses than he does. He seems to sense the flower-gardens a good deal. I often find him there early of a summer's morning when I go to work, with a bit of paper and a pencil writing away for dear life; and he don't seem to mind me any more'n if I was one of the vegetables."

I smiled at Thomas' comparison; for now that he mentioned it, he did seem something like an animated turnip.

"I dare say he has far higher pleasures than you or I ever experience. His thoughts are like a rich kingdom to him."

"He's had some pretty bitter thoughts, I guess. He got crossed in love once, and its sort of made him dislike wimmen folks. Maybe you've noticed it yourself?" Thomas gave me a searching look.

"I did not know he ever cared for a woman in his life. I thought he was above such things," I murmured, too astonished to think of a proper reply.

"There's very few men get up that high, I reckon; leastaways, I've never sot eyes on them."

I turned a quizzical look on Thomas, which he understood—his face reddened.

"I don't claim to be one of the high kind, but I allow Oaklands is better for me than a wife. I never sot great store by wimmen folks. They're sort of pernicketty cattle to manage; I'd sooner take to horses; and if one happens to die, you don't feel so cut up like as if it was a wife. Now there's Dan Blake. Marrying's been enough sight more worryment to him than comfort. I've figgured up the pros and cons close, and them that keeps single don't age near as fast as the married ones. There's the widow Larkum, if she'd kept single, she'd have been young and blooming now. Human folks is many of them very poor witted," Thomas concluded, with fine scorn, and then he was silent.

My thoughts went off in eager surprise over that strange episode in Mr. Winthrop's life, wondering what sort of a woman it was who had power so to mar his happiness, and why she had not responded to his love, and all the fascinating story that my sense of honor prevented me from finding out from Thomas, or Mrs. Blake, or even Mrs. Flaxman. Now that I had quiet to think it over, it seemed like desecration to have the stolid, phlegmatic Thomas talk about it.

He turned to me abruptly. "Have they never mentioned Mr. Winthrop's trouble to you?"

"No, Thomas, they have not."

"Well, that's curious; but quality has different ways from nateral folks. Well, you see, she was handsomer than any picture; looked as well as you'd think an angel could look, and better dressed than they generally seem to be; for any pictures I've seen of them they've only had a long cloth around them without cut or pattern, and their wings. I've often thought they weren't overhandy with the needle. And the day for the wedding was sot." I stopped him there.

"Would you tell me this if you knew I should repeat all you said to Mr. Winthrop?"

"I guess not; he'd turn me off without my dinner, if he knew."

"You may be sure I shall not tell him; but nevertheless it is not honest for us to be talking on such a subject."

"I see you are like the rest of them. You seemed to have such a fellow feeling for poor folks, we've concluded you were more like us than them."

"Perhaps I am, Thomas; but gentle or simple, we ought to be alike honorable. The Bible has only one code of morals for us all."

"Very few that I know pays much attention to Bible rules. But here we are at the Blakes'. I'll hitch the horse and carry in the bundles since you want them left here. Hang it, if there ain't that ugly critter of Dan's coming for us."

Thomas sprang back into the carriage, and looked a good deal alarmed as he saw me turn to meet Tiger and pat the animal's huge head.

He fawned delightedly around me, licking my gloved hand whenever he could get the chance.

"You need not be afraid, Thomas. I won't let him hurt you."

"I won't risk him. He's the crossest brute in Cavendish."

"Why, Tiger, what a character to get!"

To my surprise the dog looked up at Thomas, and uttered an angry growl.

"See, now; I believe the brute understands what I say."

"Come with me, Tiger." I started for the house. Tiger stood a moment uncertainly, and then trotted after me. Mrs. Blake's face was radiant when she opened the door in answer to my knock.

"You're a thousand times welcome back; and my! but you're needed."

"That is encouraging news. But, Mrs. Blake, won't you hide Tiger away somewhere? Thomas is afraid of him, and, I think, not without reason."

"I wish't Daniel 'd sell him; he frightens folks from the house," she said, with much discontent, driving Tiger unceremoniously into the back porch.

Thomas soon had the bundles laid on the kitchen table, and the carriage turned homewards, while I began unrolling the prints and flannels, frocks and pinafores, for the Mill Road pensioners. Mrs. Blake watched eagerly; but at last exclaimed:

"Dear me! it must a cost you a mint of money to get all these."

"About the price of one evening dress."

"I hope you got all the things, then, you needed for yourself."

"Yes, and more, I fear, than I really needed. But Mrs. Flaxman says we owe it to our position in society to dress becomingly; but the question to my mind is, how far it is necessary to go to pay that social debt? When I see a family like the Larkums, my conscience tells me I owe them a heavier debt than society."

"I can't understand why some people have no conscience, and other so much. It seems to me now you have just a little too much for one of your age."

"Please don't you discourage me, Mrs. Blake. I meet too much everywhere else. But for you I might never have given a thought to the poor and needy."

Mrs. Blake went to the window and stood looking out for some time in silence, while I sat with my hand on Tiger's head, whom I had liberated after Thomas went away. I looked down into the brown eyes that were gazing up at me with dumb affection.

"Do you really like me so very much, Tiger?" I said, stooping down to gratify him with a touch of my face.

"I do believe he thinks more of you than of anybody. I've not seen him look so good-natured since I come here as he does now." I fancied that I saw traces of tears on her face, and was surprised at it, for she was not the kind of woman constantly bubbling over, and rarely showed the tender side of her nature, save in kindly deeds. Again she began inspecting my goodly array of dry goods with keen interest, inquiring the prices, and passing shrewd comments on the bargains I had made.

"I'm afraid the Larkums won't need your gifts. If they go to the poor-house, it won't be worth while giving them anything; the town'll provide."

"I do not think they will go there. Mrs. Larkum will get better, after awhile."

"It might do her good to hear you say; so would you mind coming over this morning to see her? I go in every day to see to them."

I gathered up a large bundle of flannels and prints, for herself and children, along with the parcel containing Mr. Bowen's cloth, while Mrs. Blake was getting ready. She came to the table, where I stood arranging my parcels.

"Are these to go to the widow's now?" she asked.

"Yes, if we can carry all at once."

"I'll see to that. I've taken many a heavier load a good deal farther."

"But I will share the burden with you."

"No, it looks better for me to have my arms full than you; and, anyway, I want to do something to help them, and you too."

I humored her fancy, only insisting on relieving her of my present for Mr. Bowen. It was the most precious package in the lot; and I feared she might drop it. When we reached the door of the Larkum cottage she halted.

"You won't like the look of things here to-day. There's only the neighbors to look after them; and the most of us has more'n enough to do home."

"If I am such a poor soldier as to be so easily frightened as that, you would be ashamed of me. When they endure it all the time, surely I may for a few minutes."

"But you're not used to it."

She entered without knocking, when a scene met my gaze that fully equaled Mrs. Blake's warning. The fire was quite out, and I could see no fuel at hand to kindle it, Mr. Bowen sat in the window trying to extract some warmth from the dull, November sunshine; the baby crying wearily in his arms, probably from cold and hunger combined; the other two children had curled themselves up in an old rug, their bright eyes watching us with eager longing, the house itself was the picture of desolation.

I shivered under my warm fur cloak, and with difficulty restrained myself from rushing from the place; but Mrs. Blake, laying down her bundle with a sigh of relief, bade Mr. Bowen good morning in her usual cheerful way; he responded with equal cheerfulness, still ignorant of my presence there. "You find us a little cold to-day," he said, as if it were the merest accident; "but wood has given out, and the morning seems rather cool."

I looked at him in amazement. How could he speak so calmly under the circumstances?

"How is Mrs. Larkum, to-day?"

"Pretty low, I am sorry to say. The doctor says she needs beef-tea and wine."

"It's easy for doctors to prescribe."

"He thinks she might come around if she had proper nourishment. But we are in the Lord's hands," he added patiently.

"Yes, and I guess the Lord has sent one of His ravens to look after you. Not that Miss Selwyn looks like a raven—she's more like a lily."

"Is Miss Selwyn here?" he asked, turning around eagerly.

"Yes, I reached home last evening. I am sorry to find you in such trouble."

"The Lord knows what is best for us. I want nothing but what He wills for me. If pain, and poverty come, they are His evangels, and should I dare to repine?"

"Perhaps He has seen that you are patient under severity, and He may send comfort now."

"My Father is rich and wise, therefore I am content; for I know His kindness is without limit."

I looked in his face. A grave, refined expression lent dignity to features already handsome, while there was a serenity one of the Old Masters might have coveted to reproduce on one of their immortal pictured faces.

"Your daughter shall have all the nourishment the doctor orders after this; and I believe she will soon be better. The Lord is more pitiful than we are," I said, gently.

"God will reward you, my dear friend. Pardon me for calling you such; but you have indeed been a friend in adversity."

"I am glad to be a friend of one who is the friend of God. I esteem it both an honor and privilege."

"I pray God you may very soon hold the dearer relation to Himself of child, if you are not that already." He turned his face to me with an eager, expectant expression.

"No, not in the way you speak of. I am no nearer to Him than I was in childhood. It is only of late I realized the need to be reconciled to Him."

"He answers prayer." There was such a ring of joyful faith in his voice I felt convinced there was one praying for me who had a firm hold on God.

I turned to Mrs. Blake, who was busying herself in trying to make a fire.

"Where can we get some coals, or do they burn wood?" I asked.

"They sell the waste at the mill pretty cheap for kindlings, but the coal is far cheapest."

"Can we get some directly?"

"Yes, with the money," she said, grimly.

I took out my purse—alas, now far from full—when would I learn economy?

I gave her two dollars. "Will that buy enough for the present?" I asked anxiously; for I was exceedingly ignorant of household furnishings.

"Deary me, yes; it'll last for a month or more." I was greatly relieved. By that time a little private venture of my own might be bringing me in some money. I told Mrs. Blake to present the dry goods as soon as I was out of the house. I fancied they would have an indirect medicinal effect on the sick woman.

"I shall go home immediately and get Mrs. Reynolds to make some beef tea. She will keep Mrs. Larkum supplied, I am sure, as long as there is need, and I will either bring or send a bottle of wine directly," I said encouragingly to Mr. Bowen, whose face under all circumstances seemed to wear the same expression of perfect peace.

"I have not language to express my gratitude, but you do not ask for thanks." The assertion was something in the form of a question.

"I have a feeling that you will make me the debtor before long," I murmured softly, and then took my leave. Reynolds entered very heartily into my scheme for relieving Mrs. Larkum, and Mrs. Flaxman, always eager to help others when once her attention was aroused, packed a generous hamper of wine and preserves, fresh eggs and prints of delicious Alderney butter, and fresh fruits, with more solid provisions, and sent them around by the uncomplaining Thomas, at an hour that suited his convenience. Cook also gave me a good basket full of cooked provisions; so I set out with Thomas very well provided for at least a week's siege. I found Mrs. Blake still at the Larkums. She had been in the mean time very busy getting them made comfortable; and while so doing had taken minute stock of their ways and means. "I had no idea they was so bad off," she assured me in whispered consultation. "There was the barrel of flour she got with the money you give her, and not another airthly thing in the house to eat but some salt and about a peck of potatoes."

"Did Mr. Bowen know this morning there was so little?"

"Sartinly; but I believe he'd starve afore he'd let on; he kinder looks to the Lord for his pervisions, and he thinks it's a poor sort of faith to ask human beings. I think he's most too good for such a forgetting world as this is."

"The Lord has provided abundantly to-day, Mrs. Blake."

"I won't allow but somebody has. Maybe the Lord put it in your heart, I can't say for sartin. It's a curious mixed up world, and we don't know where men leaves off and the Lord begins; but that blind man is a Christian, and if there is such a thing as religion he's got it and no mistake."

As I looked around at the changed appearance of everything about me I concluded Mrs. Blake did the work of the Christian, even if she made no profession. The house had been scrubbed, the stove nicely polished, and the children's faces shone with the combined effects of soap and water and the good cheer that was being provided.

Mr. Bowen was sitting back, as if afraid of absorbing too much of the heat, rocking the cradle and singing in a rich, low voice one of the most beautiful hymns I ever heard, the look of peace that came from some unseen source still lighting his face. With Mrs. Blake's assistance, and with occasional exclamations of delight, on her part I unpacked the hamper and then I took a little wine and a bunch of grapes in to Mrs. Larkum. I was shocked at the change a few weeks had made in her appearance. She saw the pained look in my face and her own countenance fell.

"Mrs. Blake told me you seemed sure I would get better. Do you think now there is no hope?" she asked pitifully.

"I shall not give you up until we try the effect of these," I said cheerfully, putting the cup that contained the wine to her lips and laying the grapes in her hand. She took a sip or two and then put the cup aside. "I have eaten so little for several days you would soon make me intoxicated with that rich wine. I never tasted any like it," she said, with a pitiful attempt at a smile. I got out a slice of cook's home-made bread, and toasting it before the fire, with Mrs. Blake's help, we soon had a dainty lunch prepared for her with jelly, and a cup of tea with real cream, an unknown delicacy in her cottage, floating on the top. I carried it and watched while she ate it all. "Perhaps it may kill me," she said, plaintively, "but I believe I am more hungry than sick. This cold cut me right down, and I had nothing to tempt my appetite."

"I believe Miss Selwyn is one of them wonderful people what has the gift of healing. I've heard tell of 'em, but I never seen one," Mrs. Blake said, regarding me at the same time very seriously.

"I shouldn't wonder," Mrs. Larkum responded calmly. "I made up my mind only this morning it was useless for me to expect to get round again; and I was nearly heartbroken thinking of poor father and the children going on the parish."

"A nice new frock, and good vittels ain't bad medsin for poor folks sometimes," Mrs. Blake said dryly.

"That is true; but I was feeling very low and weak," Mrs. Larkum said, apologetically.

"We all know that, and more'n yourself was afraid it might go hard with you."

"So we have decided that it was the food and clothes that have wrought the miracle, and not any unusual healing virtues in me," I said, quite relieved; for the change wrought was so sudden and great, I began to feel uneasy lest I might be possessed unconsciously of some mysterious power.

Mrs. Larkum smiled gently. "I am not sure of that. I find you always make me happier whenever I see you. I seem to get a fresh hold on hope, as if there might yet be something in store for us."

"I understand why you feel that way. I am glad it is no mere inexplicable experience." I went into the kitchen thinking to give Mr. Bowen and the children a few of the surplus dainties.

He had ceased singing, but was sitting with uplifted face, as if in deep communion with God; his lips moved, but no sound escaped.

The eldest boy seeing me hesitate came to my side and whispered softly. "Mother says we are not to speak when grandfather looks like that—cos he's praying." I stood holding the child's hand, an indescribable sensation stealing over me while I stood gazing into the rapt, sightless face.

Never before in great cathedral, or humble church, had I felt the awful presence of God as at that moment. A strange trembling seized me, and, involuntarily I turned my head away, as if I were gazing too boldly upon holy things. I was reminded of the ancient high priest of the Jewish religion who, once a year, took his life in his hand, and went into the Holy of Holies, to gaze on the Divine token.

The child, too, stood silently with bated breath, perhaps more deeply impressed than his wont at seeing my emotion. After awhile he pulled my hand gently and then motioned for me to stoop down to him. I did so.

"Grandad prays every day for you. I hear him myself." He looked up into my face with a curious expression of importance at having such a secret to tell, and surprise that I should need his grandfather's prayers.

A sharp knock at the door broke the spell that was holding us in such holy quiet.

Mrs. Blake hastened to open it, when a strangely familiar voice sounded on my ear.

There was a hearty ring of welcome in her voice as she bade him welcome.

"Come right in; you'll find things better'n you might expect."

I turned to see who was coming. A swift and kindly look of recognition in the deep, blue eyes took me back to my first experience of Cavendish; and an instant after I recollected, with a good deal of satisfaction, that it was the Rev. Mr. Lathrop, whom I first saw at Mrs. Daniel Blake's funeral. He extended his hand with such hearty cordiality that I gave him mine in return with a good bit of my heart along with it.

"I am glad to see you here." It was not so much in the words themselves as the way he spoke them, that such welcome meaning was conveyed.

"Indeed, you may be," Mrs. Blake responded.

I saw Mr. Bowen eagerly waiting to speak to his minister, and even the children were edging up to him with expectant faces. "He always brings us apples," my little lad explained to me in a whisper.

With entire change of voice he turned to Mr. Bowen and said:—"How fares it with you, brother, in the darkness?"

"Well, all is well."

In low, sympathetic tones he asked:—"He still provides songs in the night?"

"Yes, almost as sweet as if Heaven itself were stooping to hear."

"You have learned the secret God reveals to but few of us."

"Ah, brother, the fault is all in us, not in Him. Gracious as he is to me, all might share with me in this blessed inheritance."

Mr. Lathrop turned to me. "Our friend here certainly has meat to eat of which very few get the full taste."

"I did not know there could be such joy in religion. It is a revelation to me, sir."

"Yes, we go out of our way to help others, not expecting to be repaid, and sometimes one of God's angels meets us in human guise, and brings us a blessing compared with which our poor gift sinks into insignificance." He spoke to me in a low-tone. Mr. Bowen could not hear; indeed he seemed never to notice conversation not addressed to him personally. I fancied that his own thoughts were more agreeable than average conversation. I stood uncertainly, longing to remain to hear more of the conversation passing between these two men, but afraid I might thereby violate some unwritten social code. I knew very little of the relation between pastor and people at that time, especially in America.

Mrs. Blake possibly read my face. She came to me and said:—"Won't you stay to prayers? I guess most all the churches'll listen to each other reading the Scripters and praying. I know they'd take it as a favor." She tried to speak softly but Mrs. Blake's voice had not been trained to fine modulations, and I felt certain Mr. Lathrop overheard her remark.

"I would like to stay if I am not intruding."

"I guess the best of Christians never reckon folks in the way when they're praying together, though I shouldn't say much about them, not being one myself," she said, dryly.

I sat down quite near to Mr. Bowen. I wanted to study his face, and as I listened in silence, the conversation between the pastor and this member of his flock was a new and beautiful revelation to me. The one seemed to help the other, while no stain of worldliness marred the even flow of their words. After awhile Mrs. Blake handed the minister a well-worn Bible. He opened it and turned the leaves thoughtfully, pausing at last at the 103d Psalm. I looked at Mr. Bowen while Mr. Lathrop was reading. His lips were softly moving as if in responsive worship, the expression of his face like a thanksgiving Psalm.

A moment's pause in the reading while the leaves were turned, and then the lesson was chosen from the 17th of St. John's Gospel and selections from the ten last chapters of Revelation. I fancied that in the pause between his reading the minister was asking to be directed to the right passages. Every verse seemed to bring its own special consolation, and I was almost as much impressed with the look on Mr. Bowen's face at last, as by the words that fell on my ears. It reminded me of the faces the Old Masters have left us of the saints and martyrs of the early church. Perhaps they took their models from just such men as Mr. Bowen, whom God had left in the furnace until his own image was reflected in them. But my deepest emotions were stirred when, kneeling with the rest, I listened to Mr. Lathrop's prayer.

As I listened, I had no longer any doubt as to the future well-being of this family; but, when just at the close of his prayer, my name was mentioned, and the fulfillment asked for the promise given by Christ, that even a cup of cold water given in his name should be rewarded, a strange sense of awe came over me. Was it possible I had been giving direct to Christ—visiting His sick, and poor, and sorrowing, and making Him glad? My eyes filled with tears, and a deep longing took possession of my heart to know this mighty Friend who died for me, in the same real, blessed way that these men knew, and loved Him. There were few words spoken after the prayer was ended. The place seemed holy ground and, shortly after, Mr. Lathrop left, first going to the little lad who had given me his whispered confidence, and dropped a few silver coins in his chubby fist. He stood regarding the money complacently until the door had closed on the minister, and then, going to his grandfather, he showed, with great glee, his store of money.

"We will have everything now that we want, won't we, grandfather?" he questioned, placing the money in his grandfather's hands.

"We will always have what is best for us, Freddie; but you must never take the minister's money again. You should give to him, instead of taking from him."

"So I must," Freddie responded, rather sorrowfully; "but may I take his apples?"

"Well, yes; you may do that, and, some day, when you are a big boy, and earning money, you can buy him a whole barrel full."

"I might keep a few of them?" Freddie questioned, such extreme generosity overpowering his imagination.

"We will see when the time comes."

Mrs. Blake beckoned me to her side, at the further end of the room.

"I didn't give him these; I put 'em out of sight till you'd come."

"But I wanted him to get them while I was away."

"Yes, I know; but it'll be easier to thank you right off, when he's surprised. My! he'd soon have been able to fly; his clothes is that ragged."

"Yes, they are very poor; but, some way, one don't see much but his face. I forget that he is poor and ragged when I look at him."

"We're not all so blind as that. I'm going now to tell him."

"Mr. Bowen, you'll think it never rains but it pours. I've another surprise for you."

"What is it?" He turned his face in the direction of her voice.

"Miss Selwyn got you the finest piece of cloth I've sot eyes on this many a day, to make you a new suit of clothes. Just feel of that, now."

He stroked it softly for a moment, and then turned his flushed face to me. "You will bankrupt us with your generosity, Miss Selwyn. But God will pay you. He is rich and wise."

"You are paying me, too, Mr. Bowen. Prayers are better than gold."

He said nothing, but took up a fold of the cloth and stroked it, I thought, lovingly.

"I need no longer envy the swallows who build their nests in the eaves of the Lord's house. How my soul will rejoice to meet once more with His people! 'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits.'"

For a moment he seemed to forget our presence. Mrs. Blake, always practical, brought us all down to earth again by suggesting that we get the suit made as soon as possible.

"If the tailor will cut it for us, a few of us women folk will come in and make it right off, so's he can get to meeting. Dan'el'll be glad to come and take him there every Sunday."

"I could lead grandfather," little Fred stoutly asserted. "I've been past there lots of times."

"Are women as good tailors as men?" I asked, doubtfully.

"I reckon not; but they're enough sight cheaper, especially when they work for nothing. Tailors is awful dear."

"I want the clothes to look nicely. I will pay the tailor."

"We can make the vest and pants well enough if he cuts 'em and makes the coat. S'pose we call and see him on our way home?"

I complied with her request, and found the tailor's establishment a very humble affair on the Mill Road. Mrs. Blake negotiated with him entirely, but he always directed his remarks to me.

"If I hadn't a family of my own to support these hard times, I'd do it for nothing," he assured me, over and over; "but I'll do it for half price. My time, you know, is all the money I have, and one must look out first for their own."

I found he was a prosy, weak-minded creature, who, although time was so precious, would have stood talking to me of its great value by the hour, if I had patience to listen. I thanked him for his offer, but assured him I would pay his usual price for the work. Mrs. Blake, however, stipulated that she and her neighbors would relieve him of all but the coat, and I could see he was not pleased with her interference. This matter settled, I hastened home, very uncertain how Mr. Winthrop would regard so much of my time being spent on the Mill Road, if he should discover I had been there twice that day. When I got home Mrs. Flaxman told me he had asked for me each time that I was there, but he did not say anything to me.



CHAPTER XV.

A PLEASANT SURPRISE.

"It would do you good to come to our meeting some Sunday, just to see Mr. Bowen's face," Mrs. Blake remarked to me one day, some time after the tailor and women folk had completed very satisfactorily their work.

"I would like to go for other reasons than that. One is to hear your minister pray once more, and also to hear him preach."

"Can't you come next Sunday morning?"

"Our service is at the same hour. I do not think Mr. Winthrop would like me to leave our own church. He is very particular about such things."

"I don't see why he should; for he don't set much store by religion."

"He may give me permission to come some time."

"I wish he would come too. Our meetings are so good now. Daniel has perfessed religion."

She spoke in such subdued fashion I looked at her in surprise, thinking she might soon follow his example. I think she was waiting for me to say something; but I felt myself so ignorant on this great subject, I knew not what to say.

"I've wished often of late that I'd never been born. Where I'm to go to once the breath leaves my body, is an awful thought." She burst into a fit of bitter weeping that frightened me.

"Christ is very merciful," I faltered, not knowing what to say.

"I've read that and heard it many a time; but we've been such a heathenish lot, I'm afraid He's left us to ourselves."

"If He has remembered Daniel, that should encourage you."

"He's not lived without thinking of Him as many years as I have."

She sat with bowed head, quietly weeping, the picture of despair. I touched the hard, wrinkled hand that had so often generously ministered to the wants of others.

"Have you asked Christ to forgive you?"

"Asked Him?" she sobbed, "I've been crying day and night for weeks; but I'm only getting further away all the time."

"Does your son, or Mr. Lathrop know?"

"I reckon they don't. I was ashamed for any one to know; but I couldn't help telling you."

"I think it is because you are ashamed that Christ don't bless you."

"I've felt I ought to get up and tell them in meeting what a sinner I've been; but I've always prided myself on being as good as them that's made a perfession, and they all know what a hard, proud wretch I am. I expect they'd say I was a hypocrite."

"I think if you confessed to your church what you have just told me, and asked them to pray for you, God would make you His child. It seems to me any petition Mr. Lathrop and Mr. Bowen would dare to present would be received and granted."

"It's hard on flesh and blood," she moaned.

I saw she was in deep distress and could not understand why she was unwilling to make the confession that might bring peace.

"I wish I'd tended to this when I was young and my heart was easier made new. It's next to impossible to make a crooked old tree turn and grow straight."

"With God nothing is impossible," I whispered encouragingly.

"Yes, the minister said that last night, and looked straight at me. Maybe he saw trouble in my face, and wanted to help me in spite of myself." She grew calmer at last. "Now I won't worry you any longer, and I believe I feel better for telling you. I mean to tell them to-night what a proud, stubborn wretch I've been, and ask them to pray for me."

She got up and put on her shawl with a resolute air as if her mind was fully made up, no matter how hard the task might be.

"We'll step in and see the Larkums. You'll hardly know them now, they're so perked up and tidy. Deary me! how far a little help goes sometimes when folks have a mind to help theirselves."

On our way she said, with matter-of-fact calmness, at the same time setting my blood thrilling through my veins: "I want you to talk with the doctor. I just seen him going to see Mrs. Larkum, and that's what made me hurry you off so soon from my place."

"What do you want me to talk about?" I asked, with some surprise.

"Well, he was looking at Mr. Bowen's eyes the other day, and he says they can cure him up in New York, so he'll see just as well as ever."

I stood perfectly still in the road, my surprise and gladness making me forgetful of everything. "Can this be really true?" I gasped.

"It's a fact; he told me so himself the last time he was there, all about it. I can't just mind all the long words, 'twould take a dictionary to follow him; but the long and the short of it is that he can go into a big hospital, mostly for such things; and there's a great doctor there 'll do it for nothing, provided Mr. Bowen lets a lot of students come and watch. I guess that's the way the doctors gets their pay from poor folks; and then, if they die, they have their bodies to cut and hack into. But Mr. Bowen says they may bring all the people in the city if they want to. He don't mind how many looks at him while they're fixing his eyes."

"When will he go?"

"I'm afraid that depends on you. We told the doctor so, and he asked what made a young lady like you set such store by them?"

"What reply did you give?"

"Oh, Mr. Bowen answered for us. He said 'twas because you were one of the Lord's children or was soon going to be; and one of them rare ones we read of in books."

"Mr. Bowen is too partial to be a correct judge, I am afraid."

"Well, the doctor kind of thought you'd find it pretty hard to be much of a Christian at Oaklands; but Mr. Bowen said, not any harder than them folks what had their heads cut off and were burnt for their religion."

"Not any harder," I said, more to myself than to Mrs. Blake, but ah! how hard it might be, only God could know.

"But we must plan about Mr. Bowen. Will it cost very, very much?"

"My, no; he's got a good suit of clothes, and that's the most that's wanted. His fare from here to New York and back 'll be the heft of the expense."

"If that is all, he shall go to-morrow. I have more than enough money on hand for that, and a good deal of incidental expense beside."

"I reckon he'll pay you all back; for he was a prime book-keeper before he lost his eyesight. He's a good scholar, too, and got a first-rate salary."

"Then he will leave me deeper in debt than ever."

"What for?" she asked curiously.

"Many things—his prayers most of all. Lessons of patience and faith, too, that money never could buy."

She remained silent until we reached Mrs. Larkum's. We found the doctor there. He was an old acquaintance. I had met him at a good many evening parties, and at a garden-party or two, where he had several times been my partner in lawn tennis, and an excellent partner I had found him, making up for any lack of skill on my part.

His greeting was exceedingly cordial, and in a blunt way he plunged right into the business in hand. "We are very glad to see you; we have some grave advice to ask."

"I feel quite elated at making one in a medical consultation," I said with a smile.

"I am not sure if you have not done more to restore health in this house than I. The world is too slow recognizing other healers than those embraced by the medical faculties."

"It's my opinion doctors knows less than one thinks of folks' insides. They're as apt to make mistakes about people dying or getting well as any of us. I don't put near as much faith in 'em as the common run of folks," Mrs. Blake said with delicious candor.

"Really, I thought you had a better opinion of us as a profession than that. If you get sick, you will of course dispense with our services."

Mrs. Blake looked perplexed, but after a moment's hesitation she said:

"If I was sick I'd want to see a doctor just as much as anybody. Their medicine is all right; for God made that. It's their judgment that's so onreliable."

"And who is to blame for their judgment?" the doctor asked mischievously.

She hesitated, but her mother wit soon extricated her from the difficulty.

"There's lots of folks doing what the Lord didn't intend them to do—doctors as well as others."

"Well done, Mrs. Blake, I will retire from the field before I am annihilated altogether."

"You needn't be in a hurry to go. We'd like to get this business settled first," Mrs. Blake said, a trifle anxiously, misunderstanding the doctor's meaning. He threw me a meaning glance, and afterward whispered,—"That woman is a diamond in the rough. Given a fair start in life, she would have found a proper sphere in almost any calling."

"I believe she would. She has done more for me than any other single individual."

"She!" he asked with keen surprise.

"Yes, she wakened me from selfish ease to see the sufferings of others, and to realize my sisterhood to them."

"Yes, but you must first have had a heart to be touched, or all the Mrs. Blakes on this planet could not have wakened it."

"Even allowing your words to be true, does it not show power amounting very nearly to genius to be able to arouse another to a painful duty, and help them to take hold of it—I won't say, manfully?"

"No, a better word is needed in this case. Woman's fine sympathy and instinct are too perfect to be called after any masculine term wholly human."

"You can pay nice compliments," I said, laughing. He bowed his head gravely—a very fine and shapely head I noticed it was too, set well on a neck and shoulders that betokened the trained athlete.

"Now, doctor, Miss Selwyn can't generally stay loitering very long among us Mill Roaders, and p'raps we'd better get our business done up right away. Anyway if Mr. Bowen is anything like me, he's getting fidgetty by this time to know if he's likely to get to them big city doctors."

"I have grown too intimate with patience to be so easily disturbed," he said, gently.

"You would like to get your sight?" I questioned. He spoke so calmly, the thought occurred he might have grown to love the hush of darkness. His face flushed. I never knew before or since a person of his years who colored so easily.

"Only God can know how I have longed to see the light, and the face of my fellow man; but I had no hope until Death opened my eyes."

His voice trembled with emotion.

"What a privilege to give that man his sight," I murmured to the doctor.

"The privilege belongs to you, I believe."

"Oh, no indeed. I was thinking of the skill of your profession. It seems almost God-like."

"We do our work mainly for money. In this case I am told you supply that."

Mrs. Blake was waiting impatiently.

"What is to be done? Can Mr. Bowen go immediately?" I asked.

"To-morrow, if he is ready. I have already written to the doctor who will take charge of his case. He is famous for diseases of the eye, especially cataract, which is the trouble here."

"He will need some one to accompany him?" I asked anxiously. "This seemed the chief difficulty now."

"Not necessarily. The conductor is a kind-hearted fellow, and would see to him. But a friend of mine is going to-morrow, and he will not leave him until he sees him safe in the hospital."

"Could he be ready so soon?" I turned with my question to Mrs. Blake.

"I've got everything ready only just to pack in a valise—fine shirts and all, we've sat up till after midnight making fine shirts and things, me and two other women."

"And you dare to say after that that it is I who must have the credit of this?" I turned a look of reproach on the doctor, as I spoke the words so low, only he could hear them.

"Am I really going to-morrow?"—Mr. Bowen asked, his face turning deathly pale,—"possibly to come back to see all your faces? Miss Selwyn, I hope you will look to me as I have always pictured you."

"I think she will not disappoint your expectations," the doctor said, gallantly.

"I dunno about that. I guess he most looks to see an angel," Mrs. Blake remarked dryly. In the ripple of laughter that followed, I turned to little Freddie who was crying softly with his face hidden in a chair.

"What is the matter, my little man?"

"Why you see, Miss Selwyn, Grandad's going away, and they're going to put a sharp knife in his eyes; and maybe he will die." He burst into a louder fit of weeping. His mother drew him hastily into her bedroom and shut the door—her own face pale, and almost as sorrowful as the little lad's.

"You must tell them there is no danger, doctor."

I followed Mrs. Larkum into her room and found that she shared Freddie's fears and grief.

"There is not the slightest danger to life or health in the operation," I assured her, when her countenance began to brighten.

"You see we've had so much misfortune I can't sense that father may get his sight, and we be comfortable as we used to be."

"You must have faith in God. The darkest time has been with you 'the hour before the dawn.' Now I will give you money for present necessities for your father. If more is required, it will be provided when necessary." I took out my purse which, now that I was earning money of my own, I carried about with me quite recklessly, and gave her ten crisp notes that would buy her father a good many necessaries, beside his car fare. She did not try to thank me but her look was enough to assure me she appreciated my efforts for their well-being.

That evening, as I sat chatting by the dining-room fire with Mrs. Flaxman, waiting for the dinner-bell to ring, I told her of the beautiful surprise I had met that day, and how I had given them the money for him to start the following morning in search of sight.

"Why, where did you get the money? I thought you spent every cent except your weekly allowance when we were in New York."

I hesitated, flushing rather guiltily; for this was the first real secret of my life.

"You have not been selling your jewelry, I hope," she said, quite sternly. "Mr. Winthrop would not easily forgive such an act, after you had been entrusted with it too."

"I have not sold anything that belonged to anyone but myself."

She looked at me closely, and my eyes fell before her gaze. "It is not idle curiosity, believe me, Medoline, that makes me so insistent. I wish you would explain how you got the money. You are unacquainted with the habits of this country, and may have been unwittingly led into some indiscretion."

"What I have done is a very common thing in Europe even among the best of people."

"Do you mean selling your cast-off garments?"

"Why, Mrs. Flaxman, you have as poor an opinion of me as Mr. Winthrop. I wonder what is the reason my friends have so little confidence in me?" I said, despairingly.

"But, dear, there is some mystery; and young ladies, outside of tragic stories, are expected to live lives of crystal clearness."

"I will tell you, for fear you imagine I have done some terrible thing. When we were in New York, I hunted up a picture-dealer and submitted a number of my sketches, that I had hidden away in my trunk, to him, and he consented to act as my agent. For one good sized painting of Oaklands he has given me fifty dollars. Perhaps that Mr. Bovyer bought it, I have felt afraid that he did; but any way the money will do good; be the indirect means of giving sight to one of Christ's own followers. All the afternoon, like the refrain of some beautiful melody, those words have been sounding in my ears: 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'" Over my burning cheeks a few bitter tears were falling, while a mad desire seized me to leave Oaklands, and the cold, selfish life it imposed, and try in some purer air to live as conscience urged. I walked to the farthest end of the long room without waiting for Mrs. Flaxman's reply, and stood looking out into the bright moonlit air. Far away I could see the moonbeams dimpling on the waters, making a long, shimmering pathway to the distant horizon, while in the frosty sky a few bold stars were shining, scarce dimmed by the moon's brightness. The thought came to me that, in a few weeks, Mr. Bowen might be thrilled by just such a vision of delight. I turned abruptly to tell Mrs. Flaxman I could never go back to the old life of selfish ease, when such opportunities for helpfulness were given me, when I met her face to face. She gave me a look I will never forget.

"Medoline, can you forgive me those unjust suspicions?"

"Yes, if you won't interfere with my picture selling," I said joyously.

"Hush! Mr. Winthrop may hear you. I think he is coming. But you may sell all the pictures you can, only don't speak of it now."

Mr. Winthrop was waiting for us. As he looked at me he said:—"You seem to have more mental sunshine than your share—your face is so bright. Possibly you have been having a specially happy season with your bereaved ones."

"With one of them I have been more than happy."

"May I ask the name of this favored individual?"

"It is Mr. Bowen, the blind man."

"Ah, then, you are finding the widowers most congenial. They do not dissolve into tears so readily as the widows; and there may be other fascinations. Really, I shall be compelled to forbid such intimacies."

"He is going to New York to-morrow morning, with the expectation of having his sight restored, after being blind nearly twelve years."

"I presume he is very poor, else you would not take such strong interest in him."

"He has no money. In other respects he is the richest person I ever knew."

"Ah, he is a most remarkable individual. However, I dare say a little money will not come amiss to him, notwithstanding his wealth. You will want another quarter's instalment."

"Is my quarter up?" I caught Mrs. Flaxman's warning look, and spoke rather guiltily.

"Not quite, but this is a peculiarly urgent case. Probably he is wholly dependent on your bounty."

"Doctor Mackenzie told me that the doctor in New York won't charge anything for removing the cataract from his eyes."

"I see you have gone about it, in a very businesslike manner. Does MacKenzie charge for his advice?"

"Why, no, indeed; surely all men are not heartless."

"In money matters they are, more or less; possibly widowers should be excepted."

"It is a pity some others should not lose a wife or two. A few might require to lose half a dozen, at least."

"That would be cruel. Think what an upsetting of one's plans and business arrangements generally that would entail."

"It might prove an excellent discipline. Nothing short of an earthquake, I believe, would teach some men kindliness and their brotherhood with pain."

He received my remark with such unruffled serenity that I was angry with myself for engaging in a wordy warfare with him, when he was sure to be victorious. He sat with us for a short time after dinner, chatting so graciously that I came to the conclusion he was not, after all, so out of sympathy with my little benevolent projects as his words often implied. When he rose to go he came to me, and, taking out his pocket-book counted out fifty dollars and laid them in my hand. He paused a moment with the pocket-book still open.

"This is a special case, little one," he said, kindly. "May I be permitted to contribute something for your friend?"

He laid another note in my hand, but I did not wait to see the amount. I started to my feet impulsively.

"Oh, Mr. Winthrop, I must confess to you. I have not been real honest. Won't you forgive me?"

I felt the tears rush to my eyes, and my lips quivered like some frightened child's, making me feel sadly ashamed of myself. He looked startled.

"What is it, Medoline?"

"I earned the money myself. I have been selling pictures."

"Is that the worst offense you have to confess?" he asked, with a keen look into my upturned face.

"It is the worst just now," I faltered.

"Very well, then, I will forgive you; but I must stipulate to see your pictures before they go to market after this, and also that you consult with me first before launching into other business enterprises. You might be tempted with something not quite so suitable for a young lady as picture-selling."

"You are so kind to me, Mr. Winthrop, I will tell you everything after this."

"No rash promises, please. Before the winter is over you will be plunged into tears and distress again over some fresh exploit."

"I won't mind a few tears if I get your forgiveness in the end."

He went directly to his study, leaving Mrs. Flaxman and myself to the cheerful quiet of our fireside. She turned to me saying,

"Tell me all about your blind friend, Medoline. How you first got to know him, and what he is like."

I very gladly gave her as full a picture as I was able of the Larkums and Mr. Bowen, their poverty and his goodness included.

"You have made all these discoveries in a few months, and been doing so much for them, and here have I been living beside them for years and did not even know of their existence. What makes the difference in us, Medoline?" she exclaimed sorrowfully.

"I think God must have planned my meeting in the train with Mrs. Blake. I would not have known but for her."

"I expect He plans many an opportunity for us to serve our generation, but we are too selfishly indolent to do the work he puts in our way."

"When I came to Oaklands at first it seemed as if my life was completed, and I wondered how I was to occupy the days, and years stretching out so long before me. Now I believe I could find work to occupy me for a thousand years; that is, if Mr. Winthrop lived too, and continued to help me with my reading and studies," I added, thinking how much the latter employment added to my enjoyment.

"If Mr. Bowen gets his eyesight, that will be a greatly added source of satisfaction to you," she said, wistfully.

"Yes, I shall seem to be looking at the green fields, and flowers, and starry skies through his eyes."

"You are as glad to have him so richly benefited through your means, as if he were rich and famous."

"Why, much more so. Think what a change there will be in his circumstances now."

"Medoline, I think your mother's prayers will be answered."

I turned around eagerly, "Was she a real Christian, Mrs. Flaxman?"

"Yes, a real one, especially after her children were born. Her great desire for them was that they might all be pure and unspotted from the world. All of them, save you, are with her in Heaven. You may have a life of peculiar temptation, but I believe you will be brought out of it among the pure in heart at last."

"Why should my life have peculiar temptations, Mrs. Flaxman?" I asked anxiously.

"I cannot explain to you now my reasons for thinking so. Some day I may tell you."

"I suppose it is because I am not like other girls of my age," I said with a sigh.

"No dear, that is not the reason. I should not have spoken so unguardedly."

"I might try to overcome the temptations if I were warned of their nature."

"You are a persevering child, Medoline—but still only a child in heart."

"I am over eighteen, Mrs. Flaxman. I wonder why you and Mr. Winthrop persist in making me out a child. When will I be a woman?"

"Not till your heart gets wakened."

"I wonder when that will be. Does it mean love and marriage, Mrs. Flaxman?"

"It means the former; the latter may not follow with you."

"Why not? But there, I do not want to leave you and Mr. Winthrop and Oaklands. No man could tempt me from you. But what did you mean by saying that I might love and yet not marry?"

"Because you are too true to your woman's instincts to marry any one unless it was the man you loved."

I fell into a brown study over her words, and the conversation was not again resumed.



CHAPTER XVI.

HOPE REALIZED.

Mrs. Larkum's recovery was slow, and it required all the nourishing food we could provide to start the springs of life working healthfully. Her mind had dwelt so long upon her bereavement, and dark outlook into the future that a naturally robust, and well-fed person might have succumbed, but when to a delicate organization had been added the most meagre fare possible to support human existence, it was no wonder nature rebelled. It was a new experience to me, and a very agreeable one, to watch the pinched faces of the children grow round and rosy, and to hear their merry laughter.

The mother waited with feverish anxiety for tidings from her father, but for several weeks no word came; at last she began to fear he might have died under the strain of the operation. Mrs. Blake began to get anxious too, while there flitted before her fancy gruesome thoughts as to what might have been done to the poor body left to the care of those heartless doctors.

"I can't see why they take such delight in mangling dead people to see how they are put together. With all their trying they'll never be able to make a body themselves."

"It is in that way they have learned how to cure diseases and relieve pain," I assured her. "We ought to be grateful to them for taking so much trouble to relieve us of our miseries."

"I dare say we'd ought, I never thought of it that way before; in fact I've been rather sot ag'in doctors. Perhaps if they hadn't cut into dead folks' eyes, they couldn't have done for the likes of Mr. Bowen."

"Assuredly not; and sometimes the very greatest doctors bequeathe their own bodies to the dissecting room; especially if they die of some mysterious disease."

"That is good of them. I've always reckoned doctors a pretty tight lot, who worked for their money jest the same's the Mill hands."

"No doubt many of them do; but some of them are almost angelic in their sympathy for the suffering, and their longing to lessen it."

"I believe you can see more goodness in folks than any one I know. Now when I get cross with folks when they don't do as I think they ought, what you say comes to my mind; and before I know I get to making excuses, too. It's done me a sight of good being with you."

"And you have done me good,—taken me out of self, and taught me to think of others. I do not know how I should have been filling up my vacant hours but for you."

"I wish somebody would say that much to me," Mrs. Larkum said, sorrowfully. "I don't think I am any use to any one."

"With these lovely children to care for, what more can you ask than to work for them?"

"Yes, I forget charity begins at home."

"If you hadn't fell in with me that day in the cars, and got helping us here on the Mill Road you'd a found some other good work to do. Most young ladies like you would a turned up their noses at a plain old creature like me, skeered most out of their wits, talking so bold like as I did; but you answered me so kind like, I never thought you were anything but common folks like myself."

"I am very thankful to God you did meet her that day. Most like I would have been dead by this time, and father and the children on the parish," Mrs. Larkum said, with a shudder.

"Yes, I am right glad, myself," Mrs. Blake said, very complacently.

"She might have been amusing herself visiting with the aristocracy," Mrs. Larkum continued, "and dressing up every fine day, instead of coming among us, bringing better than sunshine with her. Dr. MacKenzie told me folks wondered at her coming among us so much; but he said he wished more of her class was like her."

"Now I must leave you;" I said, rising suddenly. "When you begin to praise me, I shall always go away."

"Don't you like us to tell you how much you have helped us?" Mrs. Larkum asked wistfully. "It does me so much good to talk about you."

"I believe helping you gives me more pleasure than anything I do; so why thank me for what I enjoy?"

"You won't mind your own kind talking about you coming to us, and doing so much for the poor, will you?"

"Certainly not. While I am not dependent on my neighbors for my peace of mind, I will come to see you two as often as I can do anything for you."

"I am glad to hear that; I don't get over one of your visits for days. They brace me up to take hold of life, and do the best I can for father and the children."

"I guess if folks does talk about you, they talked about one that was better'n any of us. I was reading the other day about the respectable ones in their days complaining how Christ eat with publicans and sinners," Mrs. Blake said, giving me one of her strong encouraging glances.

"Thank you, Mrs. Blake; after that I can brave any criticism."

A few days later I walked in the early afternoon to the Mill Road. Cook had prepared some special dainties for Mrs. Larkum; so with a small lunch basket on my arm I started on my errand of mercy.

I had been standing at my easel a good part of the forenoon, and the satisfaction that comes from faithful work done, together with the assurance from Mrs. Larkum that my visits carried with them something better than sunshine, I trod swiftly over the frozen streets, quite content with life and its developments. I met Dr. MacKenzie on the way. He stopped to shake hands, and with an almost boyish eagerness, said: "Have you heard the news?"

"Not anything special. I hope you have some good news for me."

"Well, our friend Mr. Bowen has been heard from. The doctor has performed his miracle."

"Can he see as well as ever?" I cried joyously.

"I believe so."

I could not keep back the troublesome tears. "I am so glad you told me," I murmured, and then nodded my adieus rather abruptly, for I was ashamed of my emotion. It seemed perfectly fitting to me, as I walked briskly along, that Dr. MacKenzie should be the first to tell me the news; for, but for him, we should never have thought of making the experiment. That very evening I met him at a party at Mrs. Silas Markham's, when he gave me the full particulars I was too tender hearted to hear in the morning. In answer to his inquiries, the occulist had written to him some special circumstances of the case. He described Mr. Bowen's extreme patience. "Such an instance of perfect trust in God is refreshing to meet with," he wrote; "and but for this his case would probably have proved hopeless, since it was one of the worst cases we have treated successfully."

"His religion has helped him wonderfully all through his terrible affliction. I wonder will he be just as devout as ever?" I said.

"I think so. He is not made of the stuff that forgets favors received from God or man."

"I think he will have stronger reasons than mere gratitude to keep him close to the Lord," I said, thinking of the joy he had in communion with the Divine, even amid his darkness and poverty.

That same day, after leaving the doctor, I proceeded first to Mrs. Blake's to tell her the news. She threw a shawl over her head and accompanied me directly to Mrs. Larkum's. We found her sitting in a comfortable, though rather ancient easy-chair, which I had exhumed, along with a good many other useful articles, from the garret at Oaklands. The two older children we interrupted taking a lesson at their mother's knee. The primer was gladly laid aside, while the children came coyly to my side, quite certain there was a delectable bite for them somewhere in my pockets. I dismissed that care from my mind by dividing the sweets, and then gave Mrs. Larkum her lunch. She sat enjoying the dainty food, sharing now and then a taste with the little ones, who had a keen appreciation for Oaklands' cookery. I sat watching the group, glancing now and then at Mrs. Blake's eloquent face with a good deal of satisfaction. I was anxious to break the news carefully and scarce knew how to begin, when Mrs. Larkum looked up at me eagerly and said: