"Then I should not use it at all." Here Agnes looked as if at that time rejecting its use.

Ruth laughed. "Wait, my dear, until you get it," she said. "Or before you give yourself away, it would be well to ask the gentleman, if, in case you owned such a thing, you could use it for such purposes."

"Not I indeed. No man ever finds me asking him such a question; what was his would be mine. But I shall know, when I see the man, what manner of spirit he is of."

This occasioned another laugh, in which Agnes joined, and the two, banishing the thoughts of sick babies and pale-faced women, had a gay time. In the meantime, the children had scrambled over rocks to gather lichen, and dug holes deep enough to bury a kitten in, in their efforts to get moss; they had sailed little nut-shell boats down the stream, and in the many ways that children have enjoyed themselves. Everybody was hungry of course, so by the time Agnes was ready for her ferns, there were empty baskets in which to place them. But they read and talked before that, and walked through the woods on the other side out to the river, finding several beautiful plants on their way. Then at the last the ferns were gathered, and Agnes did wish they could have had more baskets. But Ruth informed her she might have gone home by herself if she had.

"Now that is my idea of enjoying oneself," said Agnes, as tired but very happy, she laid her head on her pillow.

"Yes, that is rational, sensible enjoyment," replied Ruth. "I wish sensible people would have the moral courage to act sensibly in this matter of rest and recreation. But it would shock a great many quite as much as it did Guy. Now I think it is well and often necessary for persons to have a more decided change, when their health requires it, and their means will allow. But this thing of going to fashionable resorts, for the sake of appearance, spending hundreds of dollars in mere dissipation; coming home envious and dissatisfied at the greater show made by others, instead of seeking change for the good of it, at the same time having their hearts drawn out after those less fortunate, is to me one of the greatest evils of the day."



CHAPTER X.

MISS SMITHERS COMES, AND A SURPRISE.

"WE had better engage Ann Smithers," said Ruth, after several old dresses had been cut down and made over for Martha. "She knows so well how to manage, and has patterns of the styles. With our help she can accomplish a great deal in a few days."

"Do you think we can get new dresses this Fall? We have worn these faithfully, you know?" inquired Agnes, as she examined and re-examined her suites.

"Not for some time, I fear; it takes a great deal to keep up a house these times. But it does not seem fair that you should give your money to me, Agnes. In future you had better keep what remains after paying for your board. It is not right to have you work hard and get so few clothes."

"Do you get any more, and haven't I as good a right to do without things as you?"

"No, it is different. I keep the house, and perhaps things are not managed well. I don't know. I get bewildered at times to know which is the best way. But now that we have Martha and she understands her work so well, I intend to give music lessons this Fall. That will be a great help."

"And yet, when you think you ought to do this, you want me to keep money from the house, so that I may have new dresses when I choose. O, Ruth, could you think me so selfish!"

"It would not be selfish, it would be right," urged her sister. But she could not bear to tell Agnes that if it were not for Guy they might both dress differently. He had come to her repeatedly for money to help him out of difficulty, and now he said there was no manner of use in attempting to do business up three flights of stairs; he must have a ground floor, and of course that would involve greater expense.

"If you could only manage to start me in this, Ruth," he had said, "there is no reason why I should not succeed. These one-horse affairs are always failures. I will pay you back again when money comes in you may be sure, as there is no doubt it will."

Then Ruth, who could not resist such pleading, told him to make the change and she would help him out with his rent, resolving then and there to do extra work in order to meet the demands upon her. She reasoned in this way, that if she chose to make sacrifices for Guy, Agnes need not share them, and if she told her she surely would insist upon it. And that was the reason she thought it best for Agnes to keep part of her own money.

"How little she suspects," she thought as Agnes sat down to rip her dresses, looking quite satisfied at having to do with her old clothes. "What a sweet spirit our Agnes has."

Agnes worked and thought. She did not have the least idea how the money went, but she knew a little more would not be amiss, so she said: "If there was any other way in which I could help you, Ruth."

"Never mind that," was the reply, "you can direct Martha, and see to things when I am out, that will be a great help; for although Martha does remarkably well for a child of her age, there are many things to be attended to, requiring a more mature judgment."

"Quarter day" came, and when Agnes handed Ruth her money, it was returned except the sum kept out for her board. "You know it was decided that in future you should have your own money, Agnes."

"But, Ruth, I don't understand. Why should I when yours all goes for the house?"

"If it were not best, I should not urge it," was the reply, and Ruth seemed so positive that Agnes yielded. Weeks rolled on and to every inquiry made by Agnes as to the time when Ruth meant to buy herself a dress for winter, there was some trifling excuse made. Finally she told Agnes there was no necessity for her waiting, it would be better if she bought hers now before school commenced, and she could get her own whenever she was ready.

"What kind would you get if you were in my place?" asked Agnes, a new light breaking in upon her.

"A poplin by all means, they will be worn altogether."

"That is the very thing," thought Agnes. "I am sure now that she does not mean to get any dress this winter, and she is so fond of good clothes. Our Ruth is the most self-sacrificing woman, I ever knew. Now it would be different if it were I, for I do not care for dress in the same way as she; but I am so glad I thought of it, she shall have one after all."

Full of this thought she set out to make her purchases. After looking over several pieces, she came to one that was just what she wanted for Ruth, a rich brown of beautiful quality. But the price perplexed her, she could not get two and pay so much for them.

"Have you any others of this shade?" she asked.

"They are much coarser," was the reply, as the salesman handed down several pieces of inferior quality. After a great deal of thinking and calculating, Agnes ordered a dress of the fine material and one of the coarser. "Will you oblige me by laying the fine dress pattern aside for a few days until I send for it?" she asked. "I will pay for both now however." Then giving Miss Smithers' address for the other, she left the store and was soon at Miss Smithers' door.

Everything was explained. How that Ruth never would think of herself, and it was time some one should think for her, and then Agnes arranged the time for having them made.

"When mine is cut so that it cannot possibly do for Ruth, I shall have hers sent. I can hardly wait for the day," she said, with the delight of a child. "Please cut my skirt before then, Miss Smithers, for Ruth will think it coarse and insist upon my sending it back, unless it is cut. But it will make up quite prettily, and in winter no one notices the quality of your dress." Guy would have been amused at her business capacity then, had he heard her.

Such a time as she had when she went home. Ruth could not understand why the dress was sent to Miss Smithers', instead of there. "Just as like as not you have been cheated," she remarked, "and then when the skirt is cut there is no help for it. To be sure it will be an assistance to have some of the cutting done."

Then came Miss Smithers and the dress. With assumed calmness Agnes showed it to her sister, but not without many secret misgivings.

"There, isn't it pretty, Ruth?"

"Yes, very, but it is extremely coarse, Agnes. Why didn't you get a good dress? You have enough second-best ones for this winter."

"This will answer nicely now, I like it. Besides, I did not want to spend all my money on a dress."

"Well, if you like it, and as long as it is cut, there is no use in making you dislike it. It is all well enough if it were not such a poor quality."

Late in the afternoon, when there was little more to be done by the sisters, the rest being Miss Smithers' special work, Agnes asked Ruth if she could spare Martha to go on an errand for her. Handing her a note and telling her to take it to the address and wait for an answer, Agnes sat down to await the denouement.

"O dear, I wish it was over," she thought. "I am almost afraid to show it to her. I feel as badly as if I had done something wrong. Is it ever right to deceive? Of course this does not harm any one, and I did not see any other way in which I could manage it; but after all it was taking advantage of Ruth, and it may give her pain instead of the pleasure I intended." These and many other questions passed through her mind as she sat waiting for Martha. Presently she appeared with the parcel.

"Open it, Ruth, it is yours," said Agnes, determined now to face it at once. "I bought it and mine at the same time, but I kept it purposely until to-day."

Ruth was so touched by this thoughtfulness on her sister's part, that she was a long time in untying the cord. She did not want to look up just then, for her eyes were full of tears.

"Let me," said Agnes, and she drew it away from Ruth. "It is almost the same shade as mine," she said, holding it up to Miss Smithers.

"Well, now, so it is," replied that lady, laying down her work and taking the new dress pattern. "They are as nearly alike as two peas. If people did not know you so well, they would take you for twins."

"O, Agnes, it is ever so much finer," exclaimed Ruth. "What did you do that for?" She spoke as if it pained her, and Agnes laughingly replied: "Because, big sisters should always have the best things. Now don't look so doleful, Ruth, one would think you were going to be beheaded. I declare, Miss Smithers and I would be bowing and smiling like Frenchmen or Frenchwomen, rather if we were having a dress presented to us."

Ruth laughed and bowed, and then Miss Smithers made one of her characteristic speeches and so, "it was over," at last as far as Agnes was concerned.

Not so with Ruth. She could scarcely command herself for the rest of the day, she was so deeply moved by this thoughtful act of her sister. "And to think of her wearing a common dress just for the sake of getting me a handsome one," she said.

"Dear Agnes, if she only knew what thoughts I have had about having to do without things sometimes, she could never love me enough to make this sacrifice. I suppose it was providential; God had a hand in it. But that is the strange part, that He should reward me after all my complaining."

These were soul-expanding thoughts, and had Ruth but taken them to God, praying that they might be made the means of drawing her into a closer union with Him, what a wonderful change would have passed over her. As it was, they gave such a softness to her tone, and such gentleness to her manner, that Martha, quite encouraged, ventured to express her admiration of the dress, of the giver, and of the receiver, in such a mixed up way, that Ruth was forced to laugh outright.

"I got a beautiful idea the other day, Agnes," said Ruth, as she sat stitching her dress. "One who had been speaking of her Christian life, said, 'in looking back she saw some triumphs achieved, some enemies slain.' While a friend replied that, 'in place of every foe that had fallen some grace sprang up.' I had not looked at it so before; it is a beautiful thought."

"And comforting as well as beautiful," said Miss Smithers, with moistened eyes. "But Agnes, here, don't know so much about this thing of fighting as we, Ruth."

"If I don't, then I am not living a Christian life," replied Agnes, earnestly. "For the Bible says we must war a good warfare, and if I am not doing it then I must be in sympathy with Satan. Miss Smithers, Christians make great mistakes about each other, often. Because we do not see each other's struggles, we think there can be none. Now when I have the most to contend with, I do not talk most about it, for no one can help me but God."

"Yes, to be sure that is true. But it is a most wonderful relief to me to speak. When I have anything on my mind it has to come out. But you are so gentle and placid like. I really thought you were not like other people."

"Well, now you will know, in future, that I am like other people in my struggles, faults, and—"

"Bless me, not faults. I never saw a fault in you, all the time I have known you."

"There is a great deal in living with one to know them. Ruth can tell you that."

"Everything," said Ruth, emphatically as she left the room.

In matters of dress, the girls seldom approached their brother. Perhaps because they so seldom had anything new. Then he liked showy dress, and theirs was always moderate. But at night, after Miss Smithers had gone, Ruth could not help exhibiting her poplin, and telling what Agnes had done.

"Now that is what I call pretty," he said, when Ruth threw it over her shoulder. But when she told him it was a gift from Agnes, a deep crimson overspread his face. In a few minutes it was gone, and looking at Agnes steadily, he said in a peculiar tone, "How much you women are capable of doing."

Neither of them understood him, but there was something in his face and voice that deterred them from questioning him, and Agnes replied with a smile, "I am glad you like it, Guy. I treated myself to one at the same time, and it is made up ready to wear."



CHAPTER XI.

THE YOUNG PEOPLE'S EXCURSION.

RUTH and Agnes had joined the Young People's Association, and now there was to be a grand excursion. Such an excursion as had never been seen in Ripley. Guy had become acquainted with the Rev. John Jay, through his sisters, and as that gentleman had united his entreaties with theirs that Guy should accompany them, he was at last prevailed upon. It happened to be the very hottest day of the season, although the latter part of August, and although Guy had several times declared to himself that he would "back out" of the affair, the extreme heat decided him. "He would go with a pack of monkeys to the moon, or anywhere, for a breath of pure air." Of all the gay parties that ever set out from Ripley this was the gayest. Scarcely a breath of air stirred. People were astir because their business compelled them to make some exertion, but they moved about listlessly, as if the mere act of living were a labor rather than a pleasure.

The excursion was to start from the church, where already there was quite an array of omnibusses drawn up as much in the shade as possible. So when six young people came up breathless, their faces flushed and eyes sparkling, hoping they were not too late to get a seat, they did so want to get among the green fields, out of that stifling place, the horses pricked up their ears, and the sleepy drivers brightened up, having come in contact with the freshness and charm of those glad gay natures.

"We can't make very good time to-day, no how," said the driver of the coach they were about entering. "It's going to be as hot as blazes."

"All right, driver; we're in no particular hurry. Any time this week will do," said one of the young men as he clambered in.

"Isn't it delightful, none but ourselves," was the exclamation. But just then Guy, Agnes and Ruth appeared, and took their seats. By this time the other coaches had been filled, the word was given, and the party started off amidst cheers and waving of handkerchiefs. It was for the time as if a fresh breeze had suddenly sprung up, giving new life to the town through which they passed.

"Can't you turn into a by-road soon," said one; and "O, please do, it is excruciating going over these cobble-stones," said others. But the heat had not quite dried up the driver's fun, or else the street was in very bad condition, for just as this was said, they were bounced up like so many rubber balls, and the driver, with a twinkle in his eye, remarked that there could not be more than a mile or so of that kind of road.

"Are there any undertakers along this road?" asked Guy, seriously.

"Undertakers! what do you mean, Guy?" said Agnes, quite shocked at his levity. The whole party set up a laugh in which the driver heartily joined, knowing what had called forth the remark.

"I merely thought we would require the services of one, if not more, at the rate we are going, especially as there is a mile more of such road."

In the midst of another laugh which followed this speech, the coach turned off into a shady lane where the trees on either side almost met, forming a delightful shelter from the sun, which was now pouring down its rays most lavishly.

Through sun and shade the horses kept up their trot, the driver being called to repeatedly to be kind to them, until the joyful announcement, "The woods, the grand old woods!" was made. Just at the entrance to the woods stood a hotel. And the arrival of the coaches made quite a stir at the "Cross Keys," as it was called. The proprietor was aroused from his slumbers under the old chestnut tree at the end of the house, where he had been vainly endeavoring to fix in his mind some of the previous week's news; judging from the paper which lay on the grass, and the spectacles which, just resting on the tip of his nose, seemed ready to follow the news,—by the barking of the dogs and the scampering of servants.

"Bless me," he gasped, "if there ain't a load. Pretty plucky whoever they are to travel this sort of weather." And gathering up himself and his glasses, he made as great speed towards the front of the house as his roly-poly figure and the heat would admit.

By the time he reached it, black Pete, whose business was to attend to the stables and do a little of anything needed about the house, stood cap in hand, grinning and bowing to the party who were alighting.

"Nice kind of a day this, friend," said one of the young men, as Pete took his station near the horses heads. "No heat to speak of up this way, I suppose."

"Just a little, sah!" and Pete's grin was broader than ever, while he rolled his eyes in the direction of the girls. "It feels a good sight breezin' since you come sah, de young ladies, I mean." Here there was another bow, and the whole thing, the bow and the compliment was so overwhelming, that the girls ran laughing up the steps, almost upsetting the worthy landlord.

Presently they were followed by the young men who had staid behind to have another word with Pete, and then those who had not brought dinner, among whom of course were Guy and his sisters, made arrangements with the landlord for that meal, urging him to bring out everything his larder contained, in view of the fact that a party of ravenous wolves were to be fed.

"This weather don't appear to set very hard on you at that rate," he replied, his fat sides shaking with merriment as he went off to obey orders.

Then Guy and a few others began to search for a cool place, in which to eat dinner. First they tried the house, but it was so dark they could not see, and when the shutters were opened the flies swarmed in; next they tried the porch, but the glare was too great. Some were beginning to be cross and unamiable, when Pete's head again appeared.

"If de ladies and gen'lemen wants a nice cool place, there's one over yonder in de arbor."

"O, yes, come and take tea in the arbor," sang the girls, as they bounded down the steps and followed Pete, whose delight appeared to equal theirs, for although the sun could not penetrate the closely interwoven vines, which covered it, neither could the air, had there been a breath stirring. But it was "romantic" all thought, and Pete agreed with them; though I question whether if he had gone to the stake for it, he could have told what the word meant. There was one thing he did know, however, and that was, that if they remained out of doors, he could enjoy their society, and it was not every day such a rare treat was his. So while the party sought the woods until the time for dinner, Pete went to bring out "de table and cheers," thinking of the good time he was to have, "listenin' to de grand talk of dem town folks."

At the appointed hour the "wolves" sought their prey.

"I guess dat here will do to begin with," remarked Pete, drolly, as he deposited on the table two large dishes of chicken, and a plate of tongue.

"Yes, that will do for the first bite," was the reply, of one of the young men. Pete showed his ivories and darted off again. But on the return trip he had an assistant, and between the two the board was amply spread.

"I'll just be rusticatin' round here, Susan, so you needn't stay," he said, as Susan announced her readiness to "fetch them anything else that was needed."

The girl looked at Pete, then at the party. Her look of inquiry was met with: "O, no, there is no need of you waiting, if we require anything he can get it."

Pete made a bow, and Susan, glad to be relieved, thanked them and retired. Pete would have acted in full the part of waiter; already he had installed himself behind the prettiest young girl's chair, but he was requested to seat himself outside and keep his ears open in case of being needed.

Seating himself on the top step of the summer-house, and leaning his back against the lattice-work, he obeyed orders by listening intently to all the conversation. He evidently favored the ladies, from the nods of approval and looks of delight which he gave at their remarks.

It certainly could not have been from the conversation that he was reminded of angels; perhaps the bright, fair faces of the girls and their light attire suggested it, but he began, during a little lull in the talking, to hum:—

"O, gib me de wings of de angels, To fly away, to fly away,—"

before he had gone farther, there was an exclamation of delight; "Don't stop, sing it all, it is splendid!"

Pete chuckled and after wriggling round to where he could see without being seen, and clearing his throat several times, took up the strain again; this time in a louder key, and with the swaying of the whole body, where before it had only been the movement of the head.

"O, gib me de wings of de angels, To fly away, to fly away, O, gib me de wings of de angels, To fly to my heabenly home. Thar thar ain't any sorrow nor sighin', Thar thar ain't any sickness nor dyin', But de Lord will himself wipe de tears from our eyes, When we fly to our heabenly home.

O, gib me de wings of de angels, To fly away, to fly away; O, gib me de wings of de angels To fly to my heabenly home; Thar we'll all be dressed up in white raiment, And keep walkin' along de gold pavement, And we'll each hab a crown and a harp in our hand, When we fly to our heabenly home.

O, gib me de wings of de angels, To fly away, to fly away; O, gib me de wings of de angels, To fly to my heabenly home. Thar we'll sing hallelujah foreber, And keep wavin' our palms all together, And the Saviour will say, 'Come sit down by my side,' When we fly to our heabenly home."

By the time Pete had finished he was in a state of rapture, swaying from side to side as though in fancy he were mounting upwards on angel's wings. But he was brought out of his ecstasy by the shouts of

"Bravo! well done for you, Pete."

"Where did you learn it?" eagerly inquired Agnes.

"At de camp, Miss," was the reply.

"Why, were you in the army, or were you a slave?" another asked.

Pete rolled his eyes until nothing but the whites could be seen, as he said, "At de Camp-Meetin', you know. No, ladies, I never was a slave only to old Satan. Dat was enough of slavery for dis here darkey."

"Say, now, tell us how he treated you, that's a good fellow," said Guy, handing him some loose change out of his pocket. "This is for singing, now go on."

Poor Pete's face grew very grave. "It ain't very pleasin' to tell of, and ef it's jest de same, I won't scare de ladies with talkin' about it."

"But we wish it," they said, and as there was no help for him, Pete began.



CHAPTER XII.

PETE'S SLAVERY AND FREEDOM.

"WELL, it's rather flusticatin' to tell grand folks like you about a darkey what's of no account, but I thinks of it considerable when there ain't much else to do. You see I had a father and a mother, and my father wasn't of much account for he drinked like a fish. Then he walloped us all round, and come pretty near killin' the whole of us like he did mother."

"Killed your mother, the wretch! what did you let him do it for?" asked one of the girls excitedly.

"Couldn't help it Miss; but I'm comin' to that. Well, you see he got drunk and walloped us, and mother said she weren't going to slave herself for a animal like him, so when he came home drunk she wouldn't give him nothing to eat, and that made him furiouser.

"Mother said he might bang till he got tired, so she used to lock herself in her room and take us with her, and then when he got tired cussin' and swearin' he lay down and went to sleep. Mother worked hard enough, I tell you, to get bread for us all: you see there was six of us, and it took a powerful sight of wittles. She never said nothin' about workin', though, only when father broke up the cheers and things, and then she used to cry, and we all cried." Here Pete drew his hand across his eyes, and the girls looked pityingly at him. In spite of the pain caused by such recollections, they were so curious to know all, that Pete was again urged to go on.

"Well, I helped de best way I could, for I was a little shaver then, and Jim, he was next to me, he did little jobs for de white folks around. But father he got worse, and wouldn't work no how, and he was always gettin' took up, and then when they let him out of jail he was furiouser than ever. One night, O laws! I most wish I'd never gone and been born when I think of that, mother and all us children was asleep. Father had been took up, and so we wasn't afeard of nothin'. It was a snowin' and a blowin' sky high, and nobody could hear nothin' for the wind. All at once I felt somethin' a movin' over my face, soft like, and then it made for my throat. Then I ups and gives a spring, and run into mother's room, but somethin' tripped me, and I fell down right on top of it. Then it moaned out like, and—and I knowed it was mother a lying there, and that somebody had killed her.

"I began to call 'murder' as hard as I could, but father, it was him did it, got a hold of me again, and told me he'd soon shut up my fly trap. I know'd he was goin' to do it, so I give an awful leap and sprung clear over his head and right out in de snow. I know'd he wouldn't go far to katch me, for he'd have enough to do to clear hisself, so I waded along till I come to de man's house that Jim worked for.

"He had two awful fierce dogs, and one of them made a spring at my throat while de other caught hold of my leg and took a bite out. De man, hearin' de dogs, put his head out of de window and asked what was de matter. So, as I couldn't speak, I just groaned, and he told de dogs to lay down. Well, he came down and took me in de house, and all I could say was 'Father,' and 'Murder.' So he called up de rest of de men folks and took them over, but when they got there father was gone, and mother and de baby was dead. Poor mother, she was holding de baby tight to her bosom. De other childerns was screechin' and cryin', and de door was wide open, and they was nearly frozen. Well, de poor house buried mother and de baby, and took all de children but Jim and me, and de man Jim worked for said he could stay thar as long as he wanted help. I hadn't no place to go to, so I worked where I could, and that wasn't much because it weren't de time of year for work, and I slept in sheds and barns, wherever de folks would let me.

"Mother she was a good woman, and made us say our prayers every night, but I didn't say 'em any more after that night, because I didn't see de use of prayin' to God when he let my mother get killed. I hated God then and I said so to Jim, only nobody else talked to me about them things, and I didn't get a chance to tell 'em. It was a good many years that I went on that way, only I got steady work. One summer de fellows said thar was goin' to be a camp meetin' somewhar near, so I concluded to go and see what it looked like. So I sets out on Sunday mornin', and when I seen de white tents, and heard de people singin' and shoutin', I thought it was de curiousest thing I ever seen. I got along tolerable well, talkin' to de colored folks what waited on de tables, when all at once a big horn was blowed, and everybody went off to preachin'.

"I went too, jest to look on, and when de preacher give out his text he said, 'Thou God seest me.' I didn't think I need to be afeard, for I didn't steal nor nothin', so I looked him square in de face. But by and by I began to feel queer, and then I begin to look down on de ground. It appeared as ef old Satan was a tryin' to drag me down to de bottomless pit, and I know'd ef he'd git me thar once, he'd take care to hold on to me pretty tight. I was afeard to look down, expecting every minute to be swallowed up, and I couldn't look up for I know'd God was looking at me. All at once something appeared to pull me down, and thar I lay while de people was a singin' and a prayin' all around. After a good spell somethin' spoke and says: 'Look up, Pete;' and I says, 'What's wantin'?' Nobody didn't give no answer, so I begin to groan agin. Then somethin' spoke agin louder, and says: 'Don't be afeard, Pete, it's me.' I kind of looked up, but didn't see nobody lookin' at me, so I felt worse. Then the third time somethin' says: 'Rise, Pete, your sins is all forgiven.' I says, right out loud; 'Who says so?' and de same voice, only sweeter and more lovin' says, 'De blessed Jesus; you needn't to be afeard any more.'

"I tell you I jumped up quick, and began to laugh as hard as I could. Some of de people said I was crazy, but de pious folks said I had got a blessin'; and so I had, de blessedest blessin' ever I got. Dat's about all, ladies and gentlemen," and Pete, bowing, betook himself to clearing the table.

The Rev. John Jay, who with the rest, had been an attentive listener, now said: "To be able to tell that last part, my friend, is worth more than all the world to a man; 'for what will it profit a man if he gain all the world and lose his own soul, or what will a man give in exchange for his soul.'"

"That's so, sah," replied Pete with glistening eye, "he wouldn't be of much account no how."

Several more hours delightfully spent in the woods, and then the coaches were announced, and the homeward road taken, but not without a parting word to Pete.

"Good-by," called out the girls as they drove off, and "Don't let old Satan play any more pranks with you," said Guy, to all of which he replied by bowing low, and saying: "Thank you, ladies; thank you gentlemen; take keer of yourselves, and don't forgit to stop here de next time." He watched until, not only their forms were lost sight of, but until the dust which had been disturbed into thick clouds, had settled; then turning toward the house, he began his favorite air:

"O, gib me de wings ob de angels."



CHAPTER XIII.

REV. JOHN JAY DELIVERS HIS MESSAGE.

THE Rev. John Jay was not satisfied that he had been true to the older members of his flock. As a watchman he had only faintly blown the trumpet on some points, fearing the consequences.

Now in deep humility of soul, he plead for grace to declare all the counsel of God. If the spirit gave him utterance, need he have fear as to the result? Was it not written, "For as the rain cometh down and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater; so shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth. It shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it."

Now he would cry aloud and spare not; he would lift up his voice like a trumpet, and show the people their transgressions, and thus deliver his own soul.

With firm steps he ascended the pulpit, that Sabbath morning, and with a heart full of holy resolve. But as his eye fell on the whitened locks and wrinkled faces of many whose years almost trebled his, involuntarily he cried: "Oh Lord God, I am but a child! how can I do this thing?"

We know how quickly human love runs to protect and comfort the little trembling one, so when the cry was heard, there was a tender gathering up into the arms of the Compassionate One, and there came a heavenly calm and holy boldness. There was no sleepers in church that morning, although some questioned whether they were not dreaming, as this youth, hitherto so modest, and unassuming, in authoritative tones pointed out to them their mistakes and the fearful consequences arising from them.

We want men and women to go from house to house, to gather in those who have wandered from God. But whose fault is it that they have wandered? Answer it, ye fathers and mothers. Your judgment is better than the Almighty's.

When the woman was taken in sin, he said: "Martha do I condemn thee! go in peace and sin no more." Didn't He open up heaven just then, even to that sinner? He who 'knew no sin.' But it does not do for us, standing in our strength and wisdom, to say to the weak and erring, to the young and foolish, "We feel for you; our hearts are not too old—we are not too far removed from you by grace, to know what snares surround you. But we will gather about you with loving hearts; we will give you kindly counsel, not sharp reproof; neither will we condemn you.

"How many little ones do you carry to Christ every day, my brother, my sister? Remember He expects you to lift them up by your prayers and efforts, and bear them to Him. He waits with open arms. Whom by kind words and loving deeds, and earnest prayer, have you drawn toward Him? Or whom have you driven from Him, by reproof, fault-finding, and holding yourself aloof? You are afraid the church will be desecrated by the gathering of our young people; they will have such a pleasant, happy time in their weekly meetings, that they will not reverence God's house. Think you, you are more pleasing in His sight, you who turn out of the way the lame and the blind. Ah, it were better never to have been born, than by narrowness of soul, by false reasoning, and warped judgment, to have led astray, or turned aside from God one of these youthful souls. As fathers and mothers, should you not rejoice that your children are among you; that they are improving the gifts bestowed upon them by God, and fitting themselves to fill higher places in the church and the world than you.

"And now, dear friends, fathers and mothers, men and women naming the name of Christ, by His love I beseech you, go out to-day stripped of your prejudices, and your robes of self-righteousness; go out with humility, with yearning, Christ-like love, and say: 'We are all sinners; we need each other's help, and the Saviour has need of all. We will go hand in hand through joy and sorrow, through toil and temptation, up to the gates of the Celestial city, up to the joys at God's right hand.'"

So the Rev. John Jay delivered his soul. So he scattered good seed, leaving the budding, the blooming, the fruit bearing to God.

But it did not all fall on good ground. Some fell by the way-side, and Satan, snatching it up, sowed seeds of discord in its place. So that in a short time it became evident there were two parties in the church. Those who claimed to espouse the Lord's cause, when in reality they were trying to hold the doors of the kingdom of heaven, so that none but those they thought fit should enter, and others, whose watch-word was: "All souls for Christ. Being all things to all men if by any means we may win them to Christ." The former said the Rev. John Jay was intolerant, and a stirrer up of strife; that he was too much of a radical for them, and consequently he must leave. The latter talked to the Lord about it, and determined to stand by His servant. Their numbers were greatly augmented by the young people, who declared if the minister were dismissed not one of them would ever enter the church. So the old and young were brought together sooner, and in a different manner than was anticipated by the young pastor. But the "right" prevailed, and the Rev. John Jay remained. He soon began to miss a number of familiar faces, while at the same time he observed, with great satisfaction, many for whom he had heretofore looked in vain; some of them the young men who had been induced to spend a social evening with him each week in his study, and among them was Guy Gorton.

Upon inquiry he found that brother Smith, as leader of the movement, had decided to worship God in a room of "their own hiring, where there was no young boy to teach them their duty."

As the croakers went out, the young people flocked in, and never did Fourth street church witness such a revival as during that winter. Side by side were found gray-haired parents and their children seeking to learn of Jesus' love, and many a heart that had long resisted all other influence, was led by youthful pleading to forsake sin and turn to Christ. Old and young were secretly drawn together in the bonds of Christian love and sympathy. Even the Association became a family gathering at which the young people did the work and entertained the older folks, they, good, simple souls thinking there never were such talented young men and women, and there never could be such a society as the Association of Fourth street church. "But," they added, "all this and much more, would never have been but for our dear, faithful pastor, the Rev. John Jay."



CHAPTER XIV.

"WEEPING MAY ENDURE FOR A NIGHT."

GUY had lost his cheerfulness, his sisters thought. Certainly he had not his old gayety of manner, and they anxiously inquired if he were sick.

"I am sure you must be," urged Ruth; "won't you see a doctor, Guy? Then there is another thing, you read too much; indeed you will injure yourself if you continue to study so."

But he only laughed at their fears, and continued to spend his evenings at home over his books. Seeing that he did not seek other society, the girls gave little entertainments; not costing much to be sure, not more perhaps than some little things they needed, but now did without, so that he might be surrounded by pleasant company, and acquire a taste for the society of good people.

Now it never once occurred to Guy that his sisters were doing this for him. He thought they must be becoming more fond of society, and it pleased him very much, for he did not see why they should not shine in the very highest circles. Before long he meant that they should. And now when their friends came, he did his best to entertain them for their sake, and they were overjoyed at his returns of brilliancy and wit.

Now that the winter had really set in, and promised to be severe, Ruth recollected that Guy's overcoat had not been taken out of the cedar chest, where it had been laid in Spring.

"It is no wonder he has not asked for it," she thought, as she looked at the thread-bare sleeves, and noticed the rusty appearance of the whole coat. Spreading it out, she looked at it, then sitting down thought of what could be done. "Now there is hartshorn, that dissolved in water, cleans cloth beautifully; but even if I did scour it, Guy could never wear a thread-bare coat."

Then came the question: "How can he get another? I know if he could, he would have had it by this time. I must have been thinking of myself and my own clothes, or I should not have lost sight of this so long. I will see how much money there is; at any rate if it should take every cent in the house, Guy must have the coat."

For a long time Ruth sat in the cold room making plans; finally she decided to have a talk with Agnes about it, because it would never do, not to let her have a share in the pleasure of making Guy comfortable. That night the bed-post and rocking-chair were appropriated, and there was a long, earnest talk. Agnes was not so much surprised as her sister anticipated, when she found that Guy was a great way off from making a fortune. For ever since the time Ruth refused to purchase her dress, Agnes had been finding out things she never dreamed of before. It was Ruth who was surprised to find that Agnes knew so much of the real state of affairs. In one way it was a relief, now that she did know, and Ruth felt that a great part of her burden had gone; but it was gone from her to be laid on Agnes, and that thought was more painful than the burden had been.

"It is to be divided equally, remember," said Agnes. "O, I am so glad that I am earning money, Ruth."

Ruth urged that as she was older, she should bear the greater part of the expense; but Agnes would not consent to this; and finally it was settled that each should give half. Then they were perplexed as to the manner of doing it. Agnes thought it best to tell him, and let him order it himself; but Ruth was sure he would not take the money. Three months before, she would not have hesitated to offer it; but he had changed since then, and something told her he had resolved to be less dependent in the future.

"I don't like concealments," urged Agnes; "I felt meanly in acting so about your dress, Ruth."

Ruth smiled, and said: "You always had a tender conscience, child, but there is no other way of doing this, I am convinced."

Agnes yielded to Ruth's judgment, and Martha was sent with the old coat to the tailor, and told to say that Miss Ruth would call in the afternoon.

"When is it to be done?" asked Agnes, eagerly, when Ruth returned.

"On Christmas eve; and only think, Agnes, it will be four dollars less than we supposed. He will make it of the finest cloth too."

"Christmas is coming," said the children many, many times, during the ten days that followed. Ruth's visit to the tailor, and "Christmas is coming," said she and Agnes, as many times as the children. Yes, Christmas was coming, it was drawing near, bringing gladness as it always does; but something else was coming, and drawing still nearer.

The shadow of a great sorrow had fallen. Had they looked in Guy's face they would have seen it; but they were busy with their little presents for each other, and for Martha and Philip. Besides, they rather avoided Guy, for fear he should read their secret. So it grew and grew, until they could escape it no longer. Guy was ill of a fever.

All at once, without a word of complaint, he was taken down, and to all their entreaties that he would speak to them just once, there was no reply.

"O Guy, my brother, my darling, speak," moaned Ruth, as with an agonized voice and look she bent over him. "To think of your lying here alone, suffering through the long night, and no one near to give you even a drink of water."

So she went on talking and bathing his burning brow, while Agnes, giving one earnest look, in which her whole soul seemed to go out, hurried to send Martha for the doctor; then she went back, and putting her arm round Ruth, drew her away.

"Don't take me from him, Agnes; I have the best right here," she cried, fiercely, starting up from the seat into which Agnes had placed her. "I did not help to benefit him; I set him no good example. I must save him now, even if I should die for him."

"Sister Ruth," and her words were slow and measured, "our lives cannot save Guy; only one power can. Look to God, dear sister; he is our only help. And He will help us," she added with strong emphasis.

"O, will He, Agnes; are you sure?" and Ruth looked into the face of her sister, waiting for her reply, as if into the face of God.

"He will help us," came again. Then they threw their arms round each other and cried.

"What is it?" asked Agnes, when the doctor shook his head.

"Brain fever, I fear," was the reply.

"Will he die?" almost shrieked Ruth. "You will save him, doctor. O, you won't let Guy die."

"Do you know, my child, you can kill your brother, and you will if you give way to this grief. I will leave no means untried. You are a Christian; you know how to pray; there is greater comfort in that than in any of my assurances; but I give them to you; your brother shall live if it is in the power of man to save him."

Agnes murmured, "O God, give him skill, and give us strength," while hope revived in Ruth's heart, and she listened eagerly to the doctor's directions.

"You will have many days of nursing, it is probable, and you must take it in turn," he said; "but at night it will be well to have a friend. There is a great deal of restlessness then, and one feels lonely. Be sure you give the medicine promptly, and keep up the ice applications, as I shall be back in a few hours."

"Whom can we get?" asked Agnes, when he had gone.

"Don't let us have any one, Agnes; no stranger could take care of Guy, as well as we," said Ruth, beseechingly.

"But, Ruth, if anything should happen, if Guy should grow worse, we would blame ourselves for not doing all the doctor told us."

"Very well, then. You know best, Agnes. I can't think to-day."

Without saying more, Agnes went down stairs, and told Martha to see if Miss Smithers was at home, and if so to tell her to come right away, but not to sew. "Then leave this note with one of the school children," she added.

She met Ruth's scholars as they came, and sent them away quietly, telling them when Miss Ruth was ready she would send them word, and then she tried to take her breakfast. "I must be strong," she said, and tried to eat, but she could not swallow. There was Guy's place, but he was not there. "Will he ever be again!" The question came, but she drove it away. He was in God's hands and so was she. She could take nothing back, but rest in the thought of His fatherly love and compassion.

Miss Smithers came, and Agnes was not mistaken in her. She was ready for every emergency, and never failed to give the right comfort, at the right time. Even Ruth grew to depend upon her, and to miss her kind face when she was compelled to leave them, and seek rest. Agnes had not thought of asking her to give up her work, only to have her stay with them at night. But Miss Smithers did not mean to leave either day or night, until Guy was out of danger, and Agnes gladly yielded the point.

When the sorrow through which the sisters was passing, became known, they had the fullest sympathy of friends. Miss Smithers received all who called, and thus saved them from many painful interviews. For at such times when there are many hearts to feel for us, and to offer the most delicate expressions of sympathy, there are always coarse natures who know no other manner of showing their sympathy than by opening up our wounds and making us bleed afresh.

"How many friends we have, Agnes. I did not know so many cared for us. If Guy recovers we shall be very happy," said Ruth, as Miss Smithers told them of the many who had called.

Guy lay still unconscious, while the fever leaped through his veins, and almost purpled his fair face. Now he was at his books, then again he was pleading; but all the time there was this thought: "I can't rob Ruth, I can't take her money."

"O, if he would not talk so; if he would say anything else but that, I could bear it," she moaned, and then she whispered that "Ruth, his own dear Ruth was there, that he must not talk any more," but still he went on in the same strain.

Poor Agnes was sorely tried. Here was Ruth breaking out in the wildest frenzy, at times, refusing to eat or to leave the bedside; and here the brother, far dearer to her than life, not able to look at her, nor to say that he understood her when she did not yield to his wishes. If he died, he could not know how great her love for him was. And then the subtle tempter came: "If God loved His children He would not cause them thus to suffer. Your life has been harder than that of out-breaking sinners." But while Agnes could not reason, thank God she could trust, and reaching out her hand as a little child, she said: "Lead me in the way that is best for me, and do not let me be afraid or discouraged."

Christmas had come and gone, but they would not have known it, had not Guy's coat been sent home according to promise, the day before. They had meant to hide it from Ruth, but she happened to be down stairs at the time it came, and it was kissed and fondled as though it had been Guy himself. Then it was laid away, no one else knew where. She forgot that Agnes had a share in it, forgot everything but that it was Guy's, and he her own darling brother.

Agnes had never asked the doctor any more questions since the day Guy was taken ill. But she wrote down his directions for fear the least thing should be overlooked, and never administered medicine, or rendered him the slightest service, without breathing a prayer that it might lead to his recovery. So the days passed wearily on, and the crisis drew near.

"We must not tell them," said the doctor to Miss Smithers, on the morning of the day. "It will only more completely unsettle Miss Ruth, while the other poor child need have no more laid upon her. If the worst comes, there will be strength given, and anticipated trouble is always the hardest to bear. If you have any influence over Miss Ruth, keep her very quiet, everything depends on that."

Miss Smithers went up to her room, and was there for a long time. When she left it she carried with her something that made her heart strong and her face bright. If you have ever known it you will understand; if not, no words can give you the idea.

The day wore on and still Guy was restless. The doctor came, looked and went away, but there was no outward change. Night closed over them as they sat watching, the two to whom he was the dearest living thing, and another whose heart had been drawn toward him as if he had been her son.

If faith were dependent upon what is seen only, then Miss Smithers might have yielded to the entreaties of Ruth and the imploring looks of Agnes, to let them stay beside Guy, whose unrest was painful in the extreme, for there surely could be no hope here. But she kept them beside her, whispering: "Trust me this once, children;" and in some way they felt that she must be right.

It was near midnight on the last day of the year. What would the New Year bring?



CHAPTER XV.

"BUT JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING."

THEY sat, each one busy with her thoughts, so very different, perhaps, and yet in one respect so alike, when suddenly they became conscious of a change. The sisters started, looked quickly at Miss Smithers, and then would have ran to the bedside, but laying a hand on each, she said, with strong emphasis, "If you want your brother to live, you will not move from here."

They looked at her in surprise, then the truth dawned upon them, and turning, they clasped each other's hand and prayed.

Softly Miss Smithers crept toward the bed, and stooping down she scanned the upturned face. As she raised her head she met the searching gaze of Ruth and Agnes. She smiled, then pouring into a spoon a liquid left by the doctor, in case of such a change, she gave it, then turning down the light to the faintest glimmer went back to her seat.

"He sleeps," was all she said, but there was no more needed. They scarcely breathed after that, they sat so still—holding each other's hand until the gray dawn of the New Year's morning broke, and the doctor came.

His quick eye detected the change as soon as he entered. How his face beamed, and how they loved him then. Beckoning to them when he left the room, they followed into the one adjoining.

"Now, girls, there was a hard fight last night," he said, "but the day is ours, or Guy's. What he needs is to have not a finger moved in the room as long as he sleeps. When he wakens you are each to be as calm and fresh as a May morning, or it will set him to thinking and bring back the fever. Now both of you go at once to bed after you take a cup of coffee, and sleep until Miss Smithers calls you; then she will follow your example. Remember on no other condition can your brother recover," he continued, as they plead to stay and see him waken. As he went out he said: "A happy New Year, my children; you have much to thank God for to-day."

O didn't they thank Him! Their hearts were so full of joy and thankfulness that it was a long time before they could forget everything and sleep. It was noon when they awoke, and yet Miss Smithers had not called them. Stealing to the door they looked in; they wanted just one look at Guy, to be sure it was true and not all a dream, and then they went down stairs.

Martha, little woman that she was, was overjoyed at seeing them and knowing Mr. Guy would soon be well.

"You did not get your Christmas present, dear child," said Ruth; "whenever brother Guy wakens you may go up for it; it is in the top drawer of my bureau wrapped up in white paper."

"Miss Agnes gave me two white aprons, all scolloped round," said Martha, with a beaming face.

"You have been a good girl, Martha, we could not have done without you," continued Ruth. "When Mr. Guy is better, we will tell him you helped to make him well."

"Mother said I should be as good as I could, and if you wanted any more help, she would stay all the time, because Miss Agnes was so kind to father," replied the child.

Miss Smithers appeared looking very tired, but cheerful. "Now girls you may go up, he is awake and wants you. But there must not be many words." Ruth took two steps at once in her haste to get up, but she was so out of breath, she had to recover before going in the room, so that both entered together. Guy was awake and knew them; they could scarcely realize it. They kissed him; then each held a thin hand and told him not to speak. When he grew stronger they should have a good, long talk. He smiled faintly and then fell asleep again.

They would have gone away now, but he held their hands in a tight clasp, and so they sat for hours, until he awoke—tired and cramped, yet afraid to move. That night Miss Smithers insisted upon sitting up, and they went to bed in their own room, but not until they had had a long talk.

"This night, two years ago, Agnes, do you remember?" asked Ruth, drawing her chair over to the fire. "You recollect I went to the theatre, and you refused. If Guy had died, I know I should have lost my reason. If it had only been that once, but although I suffered agony then, you know how often I have gone with him since. This came to me all the time of his sickness: 'You mislead your brother, if he is lost you are to blame;' and O, Agnes, you don't know what I suffered! But I promised God if he would only spare Guy, I would lead a new life and never enter such places again. I see my mistake now, we can never 'do evil that good may follow.'"

"And I have been thinking, Ruth, that I have been at fault, in not making direct appeals to Guy, about his soul. I thought it was better to live right, so that he might see there was power in religion; but I find that one thing cannot take the place of another. There must be talking and living, both. And I think we had better talk more about ourselves before Guy; we have shut him out too much from these things, while in everything else we have thought of him."

"If he would only become a Christian, Agnes, how happy we should be. I should not have a single care then."

"He will, Ruth, I feel it; he will be given in answer to prayer and holy living. But we must live so near to God, that we can claim this at His hands."

Guy grew stronger. "Who could help it with such care?" he asked. Agnes, who was compelled to go to school now, very often found herself in the midst of a recitation wondering what she could take home, or what she could make for him, when she went home. Ruth gave herself up completely to him. Feeling that as she had hindered, so now she must be a great help to him in every way. She copied and read for him, and would not have hesitated to undertake a case in court, so that it was of benefit to Guy.

Sometimes as she sat with him, the doctor's and druggist's bills came up before her, and almost made her heart stand still, for during all his sickness she had not been earning anything, and they were depending upon Agnes's salary for everything until she could begin to teach again.

She almost despaired of ever being free from anxiety, but looking at Guy her doubts left her. God had spared him to them, and she would trust Him to help them out of their troubles.

Little Philip came every day, now that Guy was able to sit up, and by his odd speeches and persistent attempts at making a picture of Mr. Guy, proved a constant source of amusement, so that Guy looked for him daily, after breakfast.

Ruth several times attempted a conversation with her brother about the things on her mind, but had always failed in the attempt. It came however in this way. She was sewing, and Guy had been reading. Laying down the book and watching his sister for a few minutes, he said: "I have been thinking, Ruth, if all young men had such good sisters as I, how few would go far astray."

"O, Guy," she said, her eyes filling with tears, "I have been anything but a good sister. I thought of it day and night, when you were ill, and it nearly drove me mad."

"What do you mean, Ruth, I don't understand you. What had you to blame yourself for?"

"The great thing, my neglect of duty. I did not hold religion up in its true light. I lowered the standard, and you did not give it proper respect. I wronged you, Guy, and I wronged God and my own soul. I meant to tell you all this, but something kept me back. My inconsistent life came up before me, and I thought I would wait until you had seen a change in me."

"I see it now," he replied; "One can see changes more readily in you, than in Agnes."

"Because there is nothing to change in her. Guy, I would give all the world if I had it, to be the trusting Christian our Agnes is. If you had seen her when you were ill, you would have known how wonderful she is. She thought of everybody and everything, but never once despaired or murmured. I think the Lord spared you because of her."

"Why?" he asked in a husky voice.

"Because, she said the other night, we must live such lives that we can claim the answer to our prayers; and that is not the kind of a life I have been living. I did not dare to claim anything; I only begged to have you spared, and promised to lead a new life."

Guy's thin hands went up to his face and tears ran down his pale cheeks. "Now is the time," thought Ruth, and going over to him she threw her arms round him saying: "I went with you, Guy, dear brother say that you will go with me. Don't let us three be separated any longer."

And this was Ruth, positive, self-possessed, Ruth. She had never refused him anything, and how much she had done for him, he well knew, and at what great sacrifice. He could not refuse her now, so he drew her down, and kissing her, said: "We will go together, Ruth, God helping me."

In a few minutes Agnes came from school, her face beaming, as usual. She looked from Guy to Ruth, then she knew.

"O, Guy, it has come at last?" she exclaimed, laughing and crying at the same time, and in her joy kissing Guy and Ruth, again and again. Then Miss Smithers had to know, and Guy's friend, the Rev. John Jay.

That night they opened their hearts to each other. Guy told them how when Ruth showed her new dress to him, he had seen himself in a new light, and resolved to be their helper in the future instead of what he had so long been.

"And I will be it yet, girls, don't fear," he added. "If you have to pass through some trying days before then do not be discouraged. It shall be seen my sisters have a brother who is not willing to receive love and everything else without a return."

When he was able to go out the coat was brought from its hiding place. It had been laid away with tears, now it was taken out with smiles. Then both sisters helped him on with it, smoothing it here and settling it there, their faces radiant with pleasure. And Guy, in return, gave them what he knew they would rather have than anything else, a fond, brotherly kiss. They walked with him as far as the office, where Ruth had been that morning seeing that Martha had swept and dusted it thoroughly; but all the way there and home, they could not keep their eyes from Guy, he looked so handsome in his new coat. They had seen no one like him all the way along.

Days, weeks and months rolled on, some of them trying enough, as Guy had said. But the spirit of faith and trust nerved them for the struggle, and in the end the clouds rolled away and the sun shone out.

Guy was at last able to fulfill his promise, for he had now entered into partnership with an eminent lawyer. Very proud he was when he made them his first present of new dresses, but prouder still when he was able to dress them "as such sisters deserved to be dressed."

With their prosperity they did not forget their dear old friend Miss Smithers, and many were the tokens of love and gratitude she received.

Both Ruth and Guy claimed an equal right to Philip, and through them he became a pupil of a celebrated artist; while Martha, who was claimed by the entire household, could not pretend to say which she liked best, and all were served with the strength and love of her whole nature.

They sat by the fire one night talking. "I used to think it impossible for lawyers to be good, earnest Christians, Guy," Ruth said.

"And now?" he asked.

"Now I see my mistake, for I know one."

"Thank God for the grace which can keep the soul unspotted in the midst of corruption and temptation," was the reply. "Yes, Ruth, I, too, have found that for every man and every calling there is the same grace, which if brought to bear upon the life and calling, will exalt the meanest and make it honorable. What are you thinking of, Agnes?"

"Of what you have been saying. If God made such a master-piece as man out of clay, He intends that he shall occupy a high ground, morally, I mean, and place it within the reach of all. How glad I am, Guy, that true position is to be found in this attitude of the soul before God, no matter what the social standing is. Then I have been thinking that if we left ourselves in his hands, He would be continually adding gifts and graces, rounding our angles, and bringing out the full symmetry of every part, so that by the beauty of our character we would draw others to Him."

Guy and Ruth exchanged glances, then Ruth said: "Here is one who is all angles. It would take a great deal of rounding to make me symmetrical and attractive."

Guy slowly repeated: "'But we all with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the spirit of the Lord.'"



* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 3, "21" changed to "19" (Differently Constituted, 21)

Page 3, "48" changed to "47" (Little Philip, 47)

Page 4, "168" changed to "166" (Rev. John Jay delivers his Message, 166)

Page 5, " d" changed to "old" (the good old year)

Page 13, twice, "christian" changed to "Christian" (was not a Christian) (die a Christian)

Page 14, "christians" changed to "Christians" (Christians were to be)

Page 62, word "is" removed from text. Original read: (as is her teacher)

Page 62, "i'd" changed to "I'd" (I'd talk for a week)

Page 76, word "take" removed from text. Original read: (near, to take take)

Starting with page 92, the chapter numbers are off by one. This has been corrected, for example: "VII" changed to "VIII" (CHAPTER VIII)

Page 107, "dirction" changed to "direction" (direction the storm)

Page 137, "dad" changed to "had" (if I had done something)

Page 151, "stiring" changed to "stirring" (a breath stirring)

Page 206, "symetrical" changed to "symmetrical" (make me symmetrical)

THE END