 14 Is that all you are going to give me? Why, Maggie, child, I am starving. 15 That is all you'll get till twelve—no, till half past twelve," replied Maggie, decidedly. 16 At this rate I shall never leave my bed, said Horace. How can you be so hard on me? 17 I gave you a great spoonful more than the doctor said I might. Don't be unreasonable, Horace, dear. You do not realize how very, very ill you have been. 18 You have misunderstood the doctor. I have no doubt. I am not gaining in the least. How can I fed on slups like a baby, and fed by the teaspoonful at that? 19 Yes, this was the end of all her tears and sleepless nights. He was just as ungrateful and just as unreasonable as a sick boy. I would like some water at any rate. I suppose you don't begrudge me that? Don't like an injured innocent for pity's sake. And as soon as she had given him the water and taken her seat he wanted more light in the room, and when she rose wearily to let in more he complained that her shoes creaked, though, owing to this frequent complaint, she wore no shoes at all. And then he asked her if it was not nearly twelve when his next portion of beef tea was due, and when she reminded him that it was to come at half-past twelve he would feign have disputed with her on that point, only she would not keep up her side of the contest. The truth is he was really more to be pity now than during the days when he lay between life and death, belonging to neither, and fortunately for him, though Maggie had never had one sick day, she had seen enough of illness and others to know how to make allowances for him. What pained her was his apparent want of love for her. He never gave her a smile or apologized for the trouble he caused her, or spoke in the old tender way. Once this would have nearly killed her, but now she took it patiently, biding her time in full faith that he would become his real self as soon as his strength returned. Yes, and biding her time in a new life that had come to her she knew not how or when, but of which she was distinctly conscious. It will be remembered that immediately on hearing that he was restored to her she had mentally declared that she would consecrate herself to Christ as fully and as entirely as a human soul could do on earth, and this not from gratitude that his life was spared, but because of the terrible revelation his danger had made to her of the strength of her love to him and of the bondage in which she dwelt to it. She saw, as by a flash of lightning, that those who will love created beings as she loved must have love infinitely higher unless they would sin and suffer infinitely. That she must give herself not less to the husband of her youth but more to her savior, and when she knelt by the bedside on the morning when hope for Horus first dawned upon her a subtle mysterious change passed over her soul. She went up into regions she had never traversed, came back to all the little homely details of the sick room, to tender ministrations, to loving carers and loving tones, Maggie and yet not Maggie. If, as Horus slowly recovered, he found any change in her, it was one that gladdened and satisfied him. He had nothing to ask from her heart that it did not give, and yet she had passed out from a land of bondage. Nothing could ever ring from her eyes such tears of anguish as she had shed for him, and she knew it. Perhaps such a change as this is usually gradual, but there is no reason why it should not be as sudden and as decisive as regeneration itself. Unconsciously, not knowing what she said, Maggie let drop a word now and then that let Aunt Jane see what had been going on within her. As she had not learned it from books, the Holy Spirit being her only teacher, she used the language of no school when she spoke of a sweet, soul-satisfying love to Christ that had come to her, as something new in her experience, but which she did not claim as anything rare or exceptional. Indeed, it had not come with observation, nor did it dispose so much to talk as to action. Every little deed was done now with a glad alacrity that created a sunshine wherever she went, and whereas she had been gentle and affectionate and charming before, there was now an added grace that made those who saw her day by day take note of her, not that she had been, but was with Jesus. Aunt Jane said Horace when he was beginning to be himself again and was full of love and gratitude to every living thing. Do you ever see a more angelic creature than my Maggie? I know of a word that describes her better and goes beyond yours, was the reply. Why? What word? But whatever it is, it cannot do justice to the heavenly patience with which she put up with me when I was beginning to get well. I was like an old bear. Like a young bear, you mean. I really think an old one would have behaved better. Was I so very ill-natured? Maggie says she did not mind it. But she did. Be careful of her, Horace, for though she has always had good health, she has strung undelicate threads. I do not think it would take a great deal to break some of them. I will, he said honestly, if anything should happen to her, I should not live a week. We never know what we can live through. It is not so easy to die as we fancy, and I think it is a great thing to learn to be willing and glad to live after all that we rested and leaned on is gone. Horace had not learned that lesson, nor did he feel like learning it. He lay back luxuriously in a delightful chair Aunt Jane had lent him. She was always lending it to somebody, and ate slowly. To make it last as long as possible, a bit of chicken Maggie had just brought to him, and which she had prepared with her own hands. How different this is from Mary's cooking, he said. It is a good thing to have for one's wife an angel who isn't above indulging one's whims when one is sick. Come here, darling. Are you sure you haven't made your back ache or anything to stand over the fire getting up my dinner? No, she said, laughing. I am not at all sure. My back does ache, and so does my head. But I'm going to have a cup of tea for lunch with Aunt Jane, and then I shall be all right. All right, responded Horace, that's exactly what I said when I was first taken sick. Maggie, if you've gone and caught the fever, we'll both go off together, for I couldn't live a minute without you. Foolish boy, she said, standing behind him, and soothing him with her hands as well as her words, if I had been and gone and caught the fever, I should have been and gone and died long ago. She spoke playfully, but those two who loved her so felt great uneasiness. Horace looked at Aunt Jane, she glanced quickly at him, and their eyes met. Maggie was really feeling very ill, but she kept up and kept about, and was full of sally's gay and sweet that made them laugh in spite of her gradually increasing pallor. At last Horace, weakened and unmanned by his illness, broke into such a great flood of tears that poor Aunt Jane could with difficulty restrain hers. She's going to have the fever, and if she does she will certainly die, he moaned. Hush, Horace, said Maggie, dropping the tone she had assumed. He stopped, like a frightened child, instantly. Listen to me, dear, I think I am going to be very sick, and I promise you that if I can get well for your sake I will, but if I can't, if I'm going you'll let me go, won't you? You won't keep me back with crying and praying from going to be with my—but she had been brave too long, and Jane had only time to catch her in her arms before she was quite insensible, and Horace, too feeble to get out of his chair, could only look on, with groans that would have rent the heart of his little wife. Could she have heard them? She had the fever, there was no doubt about that, nor was it strange after all the fatigue and anxiety she had undergone. Such things are happening every day, and nobody finds any fault with them, till somebody puts them in a book. Then let that somebody beware, for books should not paint life as it really is, but as inexperienced young people think it ought to be. Yes, our Maggie was very ill, and the same sorrowful scenes were to be rehearsed that had already been witnessed in that little home. A despatch brought both Mr. and Mrs. Wyman to the sick-room. Prayers were offered in secret and in public. Every kindness possible was shown. These little girls got together at the mission and cried and clung to each other, and the sick child across the street lay with a breaking heart upon her bed, and refused to be comforted. But Horace, helpless, lonely, bewildered, cried and prayed and cried by turns. He had come to a full stop and gained strength no more. People said they had been lovely and pleasant in their lives, and that death would not divide them, and that if one must go it was well that the other should go, too. It was not that Maggie was so hopelessly ill, but that in her delirium she spoke so incessantly and lovingly of Christ, or rather spoke with him as if already in his immediate and conscious presence that everybody said she was on the wing, and all ready for heaven, too good, too saintly to be contented here, and that Horace ought not to keep her back by his prayers and tears as they had heard she had feared he would, and yet something did keep her back. She could not die, and did not. It is not true that as soon as human beings reach a certain point in the divine life they are snatched out of this. Saints move about us and among us every day. They live to be our examples, and to be our dearly beloved and cherished ones, to remind us of heaven, whose spirit they have won, to pray for us and with us, to inspire and to cheer us. They are saints, but they see not the mark in their own foreheads. They wrestle with the powers of the air, and with their own spiritual infirmities. They err sometimes and sin sometimes, though sorely against their will, but they are bearing right onward, and are more than conquerors through him who love them. So Maggie came slowly back to the world where she was needed, and she and Horace entered once more the limited arena on which they were yet to fight the battle of life. Both were changed. Both were more serious, yet more uniformly glad. They clung to each other more fondly, and yet with a joyful consciousness that whatever might now be tied, their happiness could never be wrecked, for it rested not on one perishable life, but on a rock that has borne the shock of ages. For Horace, if his experience had not been identical with that of Maggie, had learned that to love as an idolater is not to love as a Christian. And while he was full of thoughtful tender services, and watched over her as he had never done before, and had entered into closer union with her than even that of the marriage tie, for there is no love like that which unites those who live to Christ. He knew, and she knew, that he was no longer a slave to her, as she was no longer a slave to him. The baptism of fire had purified their souls, and they had come out from it, hand in hand, and with songs to sing to other ears. It is true they were misjudged by those who had suffered less and learned less. But who has passed through this difficult, complex journey of life unassailed, and nobly understood? That poor little Mrs. Wheeler has been at death's door, I hear, quote Harriet Foot, sitting at table with her friend Georgiana. He caught a fever in some of those dirty holes she had got him in the way of investigating, and came near dying, and then she took it from him and came near dying, too. Poor thing, said Georgiana. The last time I saw her she had on cotton gloves. They say, pursued Miss Harriet, that she wanted to die, but Horace wouldn't let her. Wanted to die? Well, cried Georgiana. However, I don't wonder. They are so poor, and live in such small mean ways. It was very selfish in him, I think, to get married when he was only making a living. It depends on what he took her from, said Harriet. I've dropped them, continued Georgiana. Of course, she could not come into our set. I invited her once, but she did not come. Was afraid to, I suppose. I merely asked her out of ceremony. I knew he would not let her come. But why couldn't she come into our set, demanded her husband, who never lost a chance to take up and set down his glorious creature? Georgiana vouchsafed no reply, but pretended not to hear. I suppose her sister, who married Tom White, will come into our set, he went on. And of the two, Mrs. Wheeler is the prettier and the more charming. Why, where can you have seen them? cried Harriet. I saw them at our wedding, for one place was the reply. At your wedding? Fie, you should have had eyes for no one save Georgie. Should he Georgie? It isn't no consequence to me for whom he has eyes, replied Georgie. I was going to say, resumed Harriet, who was not particularly fond, now that it was an old story, of hearing these two quarrel together, that those two creatures, Mr. Wheeler and his wife, are in love with each other to this day. While he was sick, she nearly killed herself with watching him day and night. I declare I am getting in love with a little thing myself, Mr. Reed put in, casting a glance at his wife, to see if this shot had reached her. And then, when she came down with a fever, he did nothing but weep and wail week after week. Quite romantic, said Georgiana. You do pick up the nicest little dishes of gossip, Harriet. Oh, I could tell a deal more if Mr. Reed were not present. The woman they had as nurse is nursing my sister now. And she heard the praying and saw the crying and the kissing and the dying embraces. Such goings on. They must have been happy together, poor as they were, or they would not have made such a time at the idea of parting. It is a genuine case of love and a cottage. I hate such people, Georgiana, declared. They set themselves up to be better than the rest of the world and are full of cant. It is such a pity, after all, that I gave poor Horace the mitten. He is such a very handsome fellow, and I could have made something of him. She looked triumphantly across the table at her husband, and met a look full of hatred, but he restrained the answer that trembled on his lips. Come, Harriet, we have idle long enough over our dessert, said Georgiana, rising, and when they had sailed off, leaving Mr. Reed to drink wine and moody loneliness, she added, I do really wonder how, out of all my admirers, I chose to settle down on Theodore. There were at least half a dozen that would have suited me better if I had only known it. I had no idea that it made so very much difference when one married. Had you? You ought not to let yourself be so annoyed by Mr. Reed's little ways, said Harriet. You might as well say, ought not to allow mosquitoes to sting me, was the reply. Theodore has got just enough sense to make me sick of him, and no more. But I suppose it's pretty much the way with married people after they get used to each other. I don't know, replied Harriet. People don't tell tales out of school. But the eloquent story of Maggie's nurse rang in her ears and made her thoughtful for once in her life. As she had intimated, she had heard things too sacred to repeat, had had a glimpse into a world whose threshold she had never crossed. She was a silly vain girl, but she had a heart capable of being aroused and touched. I wish those wheelers did not live in such an out-of-the-way place, she said, after an interval of silence. I always admired him. And he always detested you, cried Georgiana, venting her growing ill-humour on her dearest friend, as some people always do. And at any rate, he has nothing to you now if he is so desperately in love with his wife. That's just what I like in him. And it is just what I don't like in him, so let us talk about something else. While this rambling conversation was going on, Horace and Maggie were sitting before their parlor fire. They were not yet well or strong, but it was a luxury, after the long weeks of illness, to be at last alone together and to talk over what each had suffered in the alarming critical days of the other. Maggie's hand, white enough now, lay in her husband's, her head leaned on his shoulder. Both were peacefully happy. Annie will be home in a few days, she was saying. I wish I had gained a little faster for her sake. She will be shocked to see her plump little mag looking so thin. Couldn't you manage to puff me up and round me out or stuff me with cotton or something? Horace smiled and kissed the thin face as he had never done when it glowed with health and animation. I think, he said, that something after the first meeting will shock Annie more than the effect of your illness. What can it be, asked Maggie, lifting up her head? This house and the way in which we live. Annie's marriage to a rich man has changed her. Yes, I know, but nothing could quite spoil her. And when she sees how happy we are, she will not see it. Why not? Horace did not like to reply as he might have done. She is incapable of seeing it, and yet he wanted to prepare Maggie to find Annie greatly altered. He had detected in her letters a certain something that his own past worldliness made him quick to recognize, but which had apparently escaped Maggie. I hear a carriage at the door, he said, rising. They may have come. Maggie's color flew into her face. Whatever else her illness had done, it had not made her heart cold, and the next moment she found herself in Annie's arms. There was confusion and laughing and talking for a few moments, and then the sisters looked at each other curiously. How dreadfully ill you must have been, cried Annie, and Horace looks badly too. It is a shame, but it is just your luck, Maggie. I always had all the good times, and you always had all the bad ones. Don't you remember that it always happened that if any of the family were sick they took the opportunity when I was away, and you were at home? And she laughed. You look just like a French fashion plate, said Maggie. I can't quite find my old Annie in these fine clothes, but I am sure she is in them somewhere. Of course she is. I hope you are strong enough to come and dine with me tomorrow. I've sent a despatch to father and mother to come right on. We didn't want to go there at this time of year, but of course I wanted to see them. And the boys asked Maggie. Oh, the boys are not coming. In the hurry and flurry I forgot the boys, but they won't care. I am not strong enough to go out yet, said Maggie. You will have to come here. Where are you staying? At the Fifth Avenue. Tom didn't care to go to housekeeping, and as for me, after the easy life I've been leading, I'm sure I don't. Besides, we've only come home for a visit. We're going back again early in the spring. Oh, are you? cried Maggie in a tone of great regret. Yes, we have nothing to do here, and may as well travel about and enjoy ourselves. Well, it is getting late, and I have not yet unpacked. I've brought lots of lovely things for you, though I had the dresses made to fit me, and they'll hang on you like bags unless you make haste and fill up. Good night, dear. I'll come down in the morning as early as I can. That won't be very early for Thomas Lazy and won't get up and won't let me, either. I'll be along about lunchtime. It was nothing that Annie had said that made Maggie fly to hide herself in her husband's arms as soon as she had gone. It was something in her manner that betrayed a preoccupied mind, a heartless loving than of old. Marriage always changes people, you know, dear, said Horace soothingly. Yes, for the better or the worse was the answer, and perhaps Annie finds us changed. She may miss something in us that she used to find. But it isn't warm sisterly love, said Maggie, trying, however, not to be sad. And perhaps, after all, Annie will seem more like herself tomorrow. How shockingly Maggie looks, doesn't she, asked Annie, driving off with Tom? Did you ever see a creature so changed? All her pretty color gone, and her face so long and thin. She looked very sweet, though, and was wonderfully glad to see you, as, of course, you would be. Horace has had a hard time of it. I could see that at a glance. I wonder how they would like a trip to Europe with us next spring. Oh, they wouldn't go at your expense. You may depend. Besides, your mother says they have grown so peculiar, we should not get on with them at all. They always were peculiarly delightful, said Tom. I am sure I should have fallen in love with Maggie if I had not seen you first. It isn't nice in you to talk that way, said Annie. Maggie wouldn't have looked at you if you had gone down on your bended knees. Sometimes I wish I was as good as she is, and sometimes I'm glad I'm not. I shouldn't have suited you at any rate if I had been one of the very pious, strict sort. Why not? Well, after the way we'd been going on since we were married, I wonder you have the face to ask such a question, she cried, laughing. Dear me, what would Maggie say if she knew? We've done nothing wrong. Nothing that everybody doesn't do who goes abroad. Have we behaved like saints? Why, no, not exactly, Tom allowed. Well, Horace and Maggie have. You just get your mother to tell you about their poor folks and their sick folks and their prayer meetings and their tea parties. I declare I was afraid of them both and almost glad to get away. I have no doubt Maggie will preach me a regular sermon tomorrow. She had it on her tongue's end last night. Well, said Tom, I was brought up among people that belonged to the church, and all that sort of thing. And I always thought till I was married that such people were different from the rest of us. Of all the horrid things you ever said to me, this is the worst, said Annie, beginning to cry. Tom protested that he meant no harm. Kissed her, was ready to tear his hair to appease her. But she remained inconsolable. Coming home to Maggie and old associations had greatly stirred her. Hearing of Maggie's life had sharply reproved her, and now her husband had said, by implication at least, that she was quite destitute of religion. And if she had often accused herself of that, she did not want to hear him say it. I was feeling badly enough before she sobbed, seeing Maggie looking as if a breath would blow her away, and now you've made me perfectly miserable, and that was so happy and had brought home such loads of pretty things and thought we were going to have such a gay winter. So we will, dear, coaxed Tom. Annie wept, however, till they reached the hotel, where she was consoled with a dainty little supper served in her own room, and then she looked over and tried on some of her finery and found it very becoming, which soothed her yet more, and Tom made amends for his unlucky speech by admiring and caressing her, and telling her how devotedly he loved her, so that her April shower gave place to gratified smiles and condescending joyousness. He lay awake some time that night, wondering why his random speech had wounded Annie so. He had not made it with special reference to her, or with the most remote idea of giving her pain. It was one of his innocent blunders, such as he was continually making, he thought, in which she was continually overlooking. Then he reflected on the seedy character of Horace's coat, in the air of restriction about his house and home, and determined to do something handsome for him, if he could. CHAPTER XIV The two sisters, as they sat alone together at lunch on the following day, offered a strange contrast to each other. Annie's faultless dress gave her a certain lady-like air. She had taken pains to grow stylish-looking, and in a sense she was so. Yet there was a little restlessness in her movements, and her face had lost some of its youthful brightness and freshness. Maggie's refinement, on the contrary, was all in her face, and in the tone of her voice. She had no style, no manner. Her dress was very simple, and everything about her spoke of an economy that, in spite of itself, had to be ungraceful. But she looked serene and satisfied, and when she spoke it was with a loving gentleness, born of a very different world from that in which Annie had been living. I don't see but you are in the same old six pence, Annie at last burst out in her old natural manner. From what people say of you, I fancied you were quite changed and spoiled. I almost expected to hear you begin to preach a sermon at me on the pumps and vanities of life. But there you sit, eating like other mortals, and looking as contented and happy as a queen. A great deal happier than any queen I know of, said Maggie. Is Horace good to you? I mean, she added, coloring a little. Is he what you hoped he would be when you married him? Yes indeed, said Maggie. All I have to complain of is that he spoils me so. Tom and I get on very well together, too, proceeded Annie. For my part, I like to be spoiled. And Tom has nothing to do, so why shouldn't he? He fairly loads me with pretty things, and then he admires everything I say and do. I hope then that you admire all he says and does, cried Maggie. Sometimes mutual admiration societies are good things. Oh, you know what Tom is, a big good-natured thing. I get out of patience with him twenty times a day, and then we kiss and make up. I never pretended to be as romantic as you are, or even as he is, but we get on together, as I said before. And are you really going back to Europe again? Yes. You see, Mama White would feign have us come and live with her, but that doesn't suit me. For though I can whine Tom around my finger in anything else, when it comes to his mother he is stiff. So, to put off the evil day, I am going to make him take me back to Europe. After we've traveled all we choose, I mean to settle down somewhere and study. And study, repeated Maggie. You need not look so confounded. I only want to learn French enough to do shopping, and Italian enough to sing with. You need not be afraid of my turning into a bookworm. Tom has helped me do my shopping thus far, but I don't always want him watching every cent I spend. Besides, it is mortifying to go about with other ladies who rattle off their French as if they were born to it, and to depend on one's husband to do one's talking. And now, speaking of shopping, let me show you what I've brought for you. Oh, Annie, said Maggie, trying to look pleased at the display of finery. How came you to spend so much money for me? What is money good for, as Tom says, was the laughing answer. But these things are too costly for me, with my plain ways. At least most of them are. Let me keep the useful ones. They are just what I need. You can't think how thankful I am for them. They will fit me up for the winter. But this light silk dress. Oh, Annie, I never go to parties. You must wear that yourself. You foolish child, knowing what a little old maid you are, I had it made as simply as Mademoiselle Duria would consent to make it. And do you suppose I'm not going to have any visits from you this winter? This will be the very thing to wear when you come to dine with me. Maggie yielded. It did not seem very likely now that she would go out to dine with Annie or anyone else. She still felt so weak and disinclined to exertion. I am so glad for you, Annie dear, she said, when everything had been admired and discussed, that Tom is so much under your influence. For I did tremble when you married him, lest being a worldly man, he would be a snare to you. Now it's coming, thought Annie, coloring. I don't see but Tom is as good as many people who pretend to be better, she replied. He is as honorable and as generous as the day is long, and wouldn't take advantage of a fly. And he is as sweet-tempered and kind-hearted as you are, every bit of it, and you ought to see how good he is to his mother. By the by, to tell you a secret, Mama White always hoped he would take you instead of me. I was not in the market to be taken, cried Maggie, with some spirit. And then she wished she had not said that. Tom was a dear good fellow. Why resent being selected for his spouse? Oh, I know nobody had the least chance after you had met Horace, said Annie gleefully. She had steered clear of Maggie's impending sermon, and delivered herself scornfully of the words, Mama White. And now it was time to go. The weeks that followed were full of confusion. Mr. and Mrs. Wyman passing back and forth between the hotel and their rich daughter, and Horace's house and their poor daughter, Tom and Annie running in and out, display of dry goods, jewelry, pictures, infinite nothings, dinners, lunches, suppers. For a little time this pleasant excitement was good for Maggie, but it soon ceased to be pleasant. She loved her own quiet home, and the opportunities it gave her of doing good, and gradually resumed the habits broken in upon by her illness. She could not go to her mission school yet, but she had her class come to her Sunday afternoons, taught them, prayed with them, persuaded them to pray, and was as happy as a human heart could be. Horace was almost as well as ever, but that was not really well. He could not get exercise enough to keep up his health. The doctor said he ought to ride on horseback every day, but they might as well have said he ought to dissolve and eat pearls. He took care not to tell Maggie this, and she did not know how hard he found it always to take car or stage, when other men kept themselves young and vigorous by walking. Still she saw that he often was thoughtful, almost depressed, and asked herself of seeing Tom White and Annie so free from care, so able to put forth their hands and take whatever they would, was not unconsciously making his own poverty more conspicuous and painful. He was working hard and working late. Would he have to do this if he had no wife to encumber him? Pondering these questions, she too became more silent than was her want, and Horace soon perceived and misunderstood it. One more little thing he said. I do not wonder she feels the contrast between Annie's lot and her own. Here she is, sick and weak and needing delicacies and drives and leisure, and I cannot afford to give her enough of either. Ought I to have entered on this struggle, and to have let her enter it with me? Penny for your thoughts, said Maggie, coming behind him and putting her cool hands on his forehead. He was sitting over some papers, but not occupied with them, and she saw that he looked troubled. Well, my dear, he said, if I must confess I was thinking of you. Of me? And with such a face? Yes, of you. Think of Annie's position and think of yours, and you are ten times as worthy of the good things of life as she is. Ah, I know what all this means. You think Tom and Annie happier than we are. Why, Horace, I am ashamed of you. We are the happiest people in the world. Are we? With a comical look. Yes, we are. Only you get dyspeptic now and then for want of exercise, and then you get to thinking things. Come now, if you could put everything back where it was before you knew me, when you had nobody but yourself to take care of, would you do it? And go and board at a boarding-house? No, I wouldn't. Then hadn't we better put a good face in our little home and enjoy it? One can't always get into the mood to put on good faces. But one can bear the contrary mood patiently, and then it passes away as moods will. Tell me one thing, are you overworking because of me? I am not overworking because of anybody. Of course, if I had no family to care for, I should work less than I do now, for lack of inspiration. Or, if I were like Tom, rich, I dare say I would not work at all. I should fancy that I didn't feel very well, and that idleness was my vocation. But I'm glad you're not rich. I have been thinking lately that God meant something when he gave the work of dressing and keeping the Garden of Eden to both Adam and Eve. He could have made the Garden take care of itself, or have given all the work to Adam. Why, Maggie, don't you read your Bible more carefully than that? He did give the keeping of the Garden to Adam, and to Eve he gave work that Adam could not do, and which gave her plenty of occupation. Well, said Maggie, drawing a long breath, I don't know how I came to make such a mistake, but I have really felt troubled at your having to do all the work while I idled at home, for I certainly thought God made Eve share Adam's labors in the Garden. I think that while I go on with my writing you have better refresh your memory by reading the third chapter of Genesis. I believe I am a little out of sorts and have been looking at things through the medium of a touch of indigestion. Not a very glorious trophy to bring home from the battlefield, is it? It seems as if it was enough to lose one's limbs, said Maggie, and not have one's health thrown into the bargain. Horace, dear, would exercise on Horace back, take the place of walking? Yes, but then this beggar has no horse on which to ride, he said, laughing. Maggie stood in thoughtful silence for some minutes, and then said in a low voice, Now I feel that we are poor. But this is God's choice for us, the choice of our best friend. I am sure he could refuse us nothing that would give me the pain that the sense of your needing something you cannot have gives me. Her eyes were full of tears, yet she smiled as she went on. I don't know, but it is a good thing to feel our own weakness. It makes God's strength seem so strong. We can't manage this business of your exercise, but he can, and I believe he will. Well, I feel all the better for this talk, said Horace. You always build me up when I get down. And now, little woman, go about your business, and I will pitch into mine. It would be a relief, thought Maggie, as she sat down at his side with her work-basket, if I could talk this matter over with somebody. But if I tell Aunt Jane or Annie that Horace needs a horse, or the use of one, it would be just the same as asking them to see that he has one. Oh, the money Annie spent for me in Paris. However, the hand of Providence guided hers. Why should I fancy I could have guided it better? At this moment a note was handed to her from Annie, which ran on this wise. Dear Mag, Tom has had to go and look after his mother, who must needs fall sick. And I have got such a cold that I can't go to see you or anybody, so jump into the carriage and come here this minute. Nann. Maggie tossed this note to Horace, and ran to get ready. She knew he was too busy to miss her much, and it was pleasant to think of Annie all by herself. Not that she did not love Tom, who treated her like a brother, but that his presence was some little restraint to her. Annie came to meet her with unusual warmth. Just look at my nose, cried she, and this is the night of Mrs. Erskine's reception, and I wanted to go. Isn't it provoking? And a cold does make one feel so flat. But you could not have gone without Tom. Oh, yes I could. There are plenty of them who would be only too glad to escort me. But only think now, suppose Mama W. should go and die. I should have to throw away all my lovely things and put on black. Why will you be lie yourself so, Annie? To hear you talk one would think you had no heart. You wouldn't think so, for you know better. Do you know Tom and I came the nearest to a quarrel today that we have come yet? He wants me to go home to live, because his mother is out of health and out of spirits, and thinks it would cheer her to have us about the house. But let me show you how she looks, and Annie put on such a long melancholy face that Maggie could not help smiling. I think you ought to go if Tom wishes it, she said. I don't believe in mothers-in-law, much less in living with them. Nor do I under ordinary circumstances, but with her only son gone Mrs. White has no pleasure in keeping up her establishment. Think how lonely she is. Well, when I married Tom I thought I was going to have all sorts of good times. It seems to me you have almost all sorts. But was not your marriage to be for Tom's pleasure as well as yours? Annie colored and replied, I don't think it is very kind in you to take sides with Tom and against me. If there is any one thing I always detested the thought of it was marrying a man's mother and sisters. To be sure Tom has no sisters, I'm glad he hasn't, and his mother might be worse than she is. But if we go there she will expect us to sit with her all our evenings, and make me go with her to her societies and things, and I don't like to be led around by other people, and never did. Just what we don't like is often just what is best for us darling. I did not like to see my husband lying at the point of death, nor did he like to see me lying so. But I wish I could tell you what beautiful things grew up out of those unlikings, and as to being led about by other people. Why they are often God's hands. He is the real leader. Here comes Tom, said Annie in a tone of relief. She did not want to be led by God's hand. She fancied she knew what was good for her better than he did. How's your mammy? She asked as Tom drew near. Dreadfully low-spirited, she says she needs some life and stir about the house, and I think she does. Annie set her lips in a way that showed there would have to be a fight before she should furnish that life and stir, and then Maggie prepared to go. Tom insisted on escorting her, and as they drove off, asked, in a piteous way, what he should do to pacify these two women, who between them were bewildering him to the very last degree. I don't know what to make of Annie, said Maggie. She never used to be selfish. Selfish, repeated Tom, in a tone of surprised indignation. My Annie? Ah, well, what a mercy that love is blind. Yes, said Maggie decidedly, your Annie, my Annie, is not herself, but she is not spoiled. I am sure that if she sees that you really wish her to go home with you to your mother's, she will yield. But I don't like to urge her so, and yet my mother needs us. I declare I never was so worried in my life. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her, and nothing I wouldn't do for Annie. But I don't seem to suit either of them, he said plaintively. I am very sorry, but I am sure it will all come out right, said Maggie. These words were simple enough, but they meant a great deal. She was sure that she was going to pray about this thing day and night, and sure that God would hear and answer her in some good way of his own. And though she did not say this to Tom, he felt that there was significance in her tone and manner, and that she was on his side. He ran in for a moment to see Horace, and they had a little brotherly talk together, which did not amount to much in itself, but which led Tom to think as he drove off. I love that man, and made Horace say to Maggie, to her great satisfaction, the more I see of Tom the more I like him. He is as good-hearted a fellow as the sun shines on. Aunt Jane always said so, replied Maggie, and she has known him ever since he was a little boy. But isn't it strange that with such a good woman for his mother he has grown up to be in and of the world? How good is she? Why, very good, I always supposed. She is the greatest hand for going to prayer meetings and societies and associations, and things of that sort. And who looked after Tom while she was off on these expeditions? Expeditions? Do you call prayer meetings expeditions? If they took her out of her house, I do. Of course, I'm not finding fault with them, but I have observed that your burning and shining lights abroad often neglect to shine as they ought at home. And I know, for Thomas told me that coming home from school, invariably finding his mother out, he naturally sought for other society, and that not always of the best sort. But think how he loves her. Yes, but that's something comparatively new. It's sprang up out of the death of his father. How many good things spring up out of sad ones, said Maggie thoughtfully. Horace, I begin to believe that God distributes his favors far more equally among men than we fancy. How many poor people he makes rich? How many rich people poor? Think how happy we are and what a little thing is poisoning Tom's peace and Annie's. And then she told him of her conversation with them both. Well, I advise you to keep silent and not mix yourself up in the business. It is not our affair. I rather think I can leave it to the Lord, said Maggie. And I rather think you must. You look very tired. Annie grieves me. It hasn't been a good thing for her to marry a rich man. I dare say my head would have been turned just so, however. Yours, darling, what nonsense! But he acted as if he liked such nonsense, and soon peace settled down upon the little household, and gathered them all under its wings. But Tom and Annie sat far into the night, discussing the question his mother had brought to a point, the one coaxing, arguing, despairing, the other unreasonable, willful, and blind. Very well, cried Annie at last, it is plain that you care more for your mother than you do for me. To gratify her wishes you would sacrifice my happiness. If I had known you were such a man, and she filled up her sentence with tears, adding, It says in the Bible that a man should forsake father and mother and cleave to his wife. Yes, it does, but mother repeated ever so many texts to prove that he ought not. It does seem as if there ought to be a right or a wrong to this question. Would you be willing to let some other impartial person or persons decide it, Horace or Maggie or both? Oh, I can tell you beforehand what they would decide. They would preach sermons by the hour to prove that I ought to give up and let you have things your own way. I have no doubt they would find such a text as this in the Bible. Annie, you naughty girl, do what your husband wishes. In spite of her nose, which she had made even redder by crying, Annie looked charming in her husband's eyes, as she uttered these words in the bright archway that always won him. He caught her and kissed her, and said nobody should tease her, and that she was his own little pet. And, while they all talk alike, and Annie hid her triumphant face on his shoulder, and knew herself victorious. 16. Maggie was just going to sit down to take lunch by herself a few weeks later, when, after a furious ring at the door, Annie rushed in, threw herself into a chair, and burst into a passion of tears. What is it, darling? Tom? asked Maggie tenderly. Annie shook her head. Then its mother, or father, or one of the children? said Maggie, turning pale. No, no, no. It's some horrid, horrid men that Tom went and endorsed for, and they've cheated us out of everything. We've got nothing left, not a red scent. And Annie's tears flowed like rivers. Oh, is that all? I thought something had happened to Tom, or that mother was dead, said Maggie, with great relief. I should think you might say something to comfort me, sobbed Annie, to think that Tom could be such a great big goose, and is just like him. He'd give away his head if he could. Dear Annie, it isn't half so dreadful as it seems. Said Maggie, think now how good God is to take nothing but your money. You don't know what you're talking about, said Annie impatiently. Can't you think of something to say that will comfort me? I wish I could, dear. If God had taken Tom and left you the money, would it have been better, do you think? But why should he take either? Why couldn't he have left things go on as they were? Ah, these are questions I can't answer, dear. But he knows why he does this or that. Isn't it some comfort to think that he would not have allowed this to happen unless it was good for you and Tom? How can it be good for us? Just fancy now if you had put your foot down that you couldn't and wouldn't go to live with your mother-in-law, how would you feel to have things take such a turn that you'd got to go and live with her on charity? Such a letter as she has written to me. I suppose it was too good a chance to heap coals of fire on my head to be thrown away. Just read that. An Annie tossed a crumpled letter into Maggie's lap. It is a beautiful Christian letter, said Maggie, as she returned it. I wish Horace could see it. It would elevate Mrs. White in his opinion. He can see it and welcome. Maggie Wyman, why don't you say something to comfort me instead of magnifying Tom's mother? What have I done that I should be humbled and degraded into living on charity? Annie, said Maggie gently. Doesn't the loss of this money come as hard upon Tom as upon you? I don't know. No, it doesn't. I have been poor all my life and know just what I've got to come to. But Tom doesn't. He keeps saying he has got me and that's enough. But he will sing another tune when he comes to sell off his horses and wear shabby clothes and all that. But you said you were to go and live with his mother. Yes, till we can get started on something, Tom says he's going to work. But what sort of work is he fit for? He doesn't know anything about business, and he is too old to study a profession. Even if he knew enough, which he doesn't— I am very sorry for you both, said Maggie. But by and by, when you get over this first shock and begin to think how many things you have left, this loss will not seem so intolerable. Oh, Annie, I have stood by what I believe to be my husband's dying bed and have looked down into such an abyss of misery, and you may depend upon it that you and Tom may yet be happy together, perhaps happier than you have ever been. She came and tried to make Annie lean her head upon her shoulder, but Annie drew herself away with a gesture of impatience. So the hours wore away till it was time for dinner, when Horace came home bringing Tom with him. They had been together all day examining papers and looked tired and troubled. But as his eye fell upon his wife, Horace's face brightened. He knew he had come to a loving heart and a warm welcome. But Tom's face lengthened when he caught sight of Annie, who sat listlessly in a corner, and did not rise to meet him as he entered the room. Annie, darling, he whispered, Horace has cheered and built me up so all day. Look up and give me a smile, do. But she only burst into fresh cheers. They had a dull full time at dinner. Horace and Maggie tried to keep up some general conversation, but Annie was so dismal and Tom so absorbed in her that the whole scene was very awkward. I am going to stay here tonight, she proclaimed a little later. I am too tired to go home. As for you, Tom, you can go to your mother's if you like. Tom's lips quivered. Wasn't it enough to become suddenly beggard? Must his wife fail him too? Horace looked on in silent indignation. Maggie with tears of shame. What can we do? she whispered. Nothing just yet, dear. Mary said Maggie slipping down into the kitchen. My sister and her husband are going to spend the night here. If you will run up and light the fire in their room I will get it ready for them. Now Mary, usually kind and considerate, saw fit to take this inauspicious moment to rise from her seat with a fling that declared her disapproval of the announcement. It was a little thing in itself, but it hurt Maggie as a blow would have hurt her. Her pride rose at its injustice, and she was just going to say, with great dignity, you are not to dictate whether I should have visitors or not? When a better spirit whispered, hush, Maggie hush, this is one of the occasions of which you have heard for being deaf, dumb, and blind. So she went quietly away, Mary following noisily with cold scuttle, and her simple little guest room soon began to glow in the cheerful light of the fire. I wonder what we can have for breakfast, she said, forcing herself to speak pleasantly, but Mary vouchsafed no reply. Mary, she then said, I did not tell you that my sister and her husband are in a great deal of trouble, and I know you'll always have a kind word or a kind deed for those who need it. It's very good you are to say so, said Mary, brightening. I'll do the best I can for breakfast. Mary was gained, and Maggie had conquered herself. So she went back to the parlor with a serene face, and she and Horace spent the evening in suggesting every source of consolation they could, except the one which for a time they knew neither Tom nor Annie would seek. It was time for evening prayers. Horace took the Bible, and without apology or embarrassment, read a psalm, and then he offered one of his simple childlike prayers, taking Tom's and Annie's troubles straight to God, telling him all about it, asking what they were to do now, and especially that they might have all the imperishable riches hidden in Jesus Christ. Tom's tears fell fast. He had never thought or cared for such riches, but he could not help feeling that Horace knew of what he spoke, and Annie ceased crying. The directness and simplicity of Horace's words went to her heart, and for the time hushed it. On the whole, Tom, you may as well stay here tonight, she said, and Tom accepted the grace, thus about saved, with much gratitude and humility. Well, said Horace, with a sigh of relief, as they left the room, come here, my little wife, and let me tell you how I love you and how I pity Tom. This tacit reproach of Annie roused all Maggie's sisterly love. Don't be hard on Annie, dear, she pleaded. When she gets over the shock and comes to her senses, you'll see that there is more in her than you fancy. She is naturally energetic, and will fit herself to her altered circumstances as soon as she realizes that she must. But I don't like the idea of there going and living on Tom's mother. Nor do I. It is better for Tom to go to work and carve his own way. But what can he do? That I do not know. I think his mother may probably advance him a sufficient sum to start him in some way. He will eventually have all her property, you know. And then Annie will be rich again, sighed Maggie. Is there anything so dreadful in that thought? Asked Horace, laughing. It is not good for Annie to have every wish gratified and to lead a gay life, and has turned her head and diverted her attention from everything but the mirror outside, the mirror's shell. She has not been as happy as she fancied to return to Horace. I remember full well how I fared when I tried to live in the world, and yet to keep on good terms with my own conscience. Why can't you tell her so? She likes you, and you have influence over her. She will let you say what she would not hear from me. I am thinking of it. What have we got for breakfast? Now, don't trouble your poor old brains about breakfast, cried Maggie. After knocking about the world and living at hotels, neither Tom nor Annie care for anything grand. In fact, when they all four sat together at Maggie's little round table, Tom enjoyed the novelty of its simplicity. His sorrows had not destroyed his appetite, and he was in really good spirits. And then came morning prayers, and he found himself elevated and touched as he had been on the previous evening. He was impelled by a spirit not his own to whisper bashfully to Annie as he took leave, preparatory to another day in Horace's office. When we get a snug little home of our own, we'll have prayers too, won't we? Annie started and colored. Was such a proposition to come from him who had made no pretension to piety, while she, a member of the church, had never hinted at such a thing? She went to her room, condemned and ashamed, realizing for the first time how she had been dishonoring him whose name she bore. She found Maggie making the bed. Dear me, don't do that, child, she exclaimed. It is a pity if brought up as I was, I couldn't do it. It was selfish in me to stay here last night. You've had to make a fire and get your pretty little room all in confusion. But you and Horace have done us good, ever so much good, and I'm not going to be so naughty again. So they parted lovingly, and after Annie had gone, Maggie thought of many things she might have said vastly better than she had said. When Horace came home at night, she begged him to go after dinner to see Annie. She thought Tom would be with his mother, who was still confined to the house, and that he could thus see her sister alone. But Horace hesitated. I should not know what to say to her, he objected. God will tell you when you get there, and I will be praying all the while. I am sure Annie is a Christian, but marrying a man who is not, and leading such a distracted life, and having so much prosperity has unsettled her. Think, dear, how happy you are since you came out decidedly on the right side. Do you know, darling, how much you have had to do with that? I cried Maggie astonished. What can you mean? I mean that I love you dearly, that's all he answered, with a bright gleam like that of the time before the fever sobered him. Now you look like yourself again, she said, thankfully. Horace found Annie alone, and very glad to see him, and they found naturally and easily into the discourse he desired. He had a very straightforward, manly way of doing things he found difficult to do, so he said, I have come to ask you to listen to a little egotistical talk. May I? Why, certainly, she replied, I always like to hear you talk. Thank you. When I was quite a boy, my mother persuaded me to join the church. I did it partly to please her, partly because I thought it was the right thing to do. I did not expect to gain or to lose much by this step, but I think now that I gained by it. For all through my college course it was a check to me, a disagreeable one, I will own, but still it kept me out of some gross vices. I read the Bible now and then and prayed when it was perfectly convenient, and when my mother died read more and prayed more, and amended my life in many ways. When I came to this city I struggled into a set that I fancied represented good society. I followed their practices just as far as I dared, and if it had not been for Aunt Jane and my poor old father's prayers should have given up even the outward semblance of piety. What little I had I concealed as carefully from the world about me as I should now conceal vices if I had them. I have heard that you are much admired at that time, said Annie. I suppose I was, I certainly wanted to be, but there is not an element of real happiness in the world in which I dwelt. I had thoughtless gaiety, but not one satisfied moment. Then came the war. That sobered me. I could not dance and sing songs and flirt with pretty girls when my country was in peril. I enlisted as a private, rose rapidly, and then you know what happened next. It gave me something I had never had. Time to think. And my thoughts were full of self-condemnation. Then, as I lay upon my bed in the hospital, too tired to talk or to be talked to, I heard conversation between my good old father and Aunt Jane that opened a new world to me. They spoke of the grateful joy in God, the blessed fruits of sorrow, the delight in prayer familiar to believers, in a way to inspire even a cold heart. At that time I had never known such joy. Prayer had always been a task to me, and I had never tried to make my disappointments bear fruit. But now I lay there helpless, crippled for life, weak in body and weak in soul, mourning for my lost limb as a mother mourns for her child, finding support and comfort in nothing that was left to me. It was then I turned heart-sick to God in a way quite new to me. And I can tell you, Annie, that he who seeks him halt and maimed does it with cries of anguish that reach his ear. I had no idea that you felt that anyone felt so, said Annie. I never realized that to lose a limb was so terrible. I have often laughed and joked about such things, but I never will again. I came back here a changed man, continued Horace, but old associations still had power over me. I did not take the open manly stand I might have done. I was ashamed of Jesus, when with those who despised and forgot him. I wanted to get his sympathy with me in my trials, but I wanted to do as Nicodemus did, visit him by night. Maggie broke in upon that cowardice, and led me step by step into open acknowledgment of his claims. But still I served him a good deal as a slave does his master. And when I prayed, instead of finding the delight I had heard described, I felt as one does who throws missiles into an enemy's camp. But see how good he was! He came and threw me once more upon a bed of pain, made me feel as if I never should lift hand or foot again, and then when I was beginning to get well, and to snatch at the world again, he threatened to take away my Maggie. This time he broke my heart all to pieces, and then showed me what he could be to such a heart. This world was greatly changed to me before our illness, now it is quite a new one. But you seem cheerful, you seem happy, said Annie. I hope so, for I am one of the happiest men on earth. I am not now afraid of evil tidings, or of misfortune in any shape. I have endured, in imagination it is true, but still I have endured the loss of my precious wife, and have learned that in love and faith I could bear even that crowning sorrow. And now, dear Annie, you will see that having given the world a fair trial, I am justified in speaking earnestly of its imbecility in the supreme hours of life, and having tried God, I am justified in giving my testimony to his power to console the saddest heart. All you say is true, I dare say, said Annie, but I don't feel it. I had a real good time in Europe and after we got back. If things could have gone on just so, I should not have asked for anything better. Ah, but it is not in the order of life for things always to go on just to our minds. That is the very point. If they did, we should never ask for anything better. That is just our folly and blindness. After all you have said I have no doubt that if I could find a world without any trouble, I should go and live in it. There is such a world. Yes, but we can't go to it at any moment we are tired of this. There would be a great rush if we could. And do you really believe that if you went to it just to escape the troubles of this life, you would be happy there? Why not? The Bible says so. The Bible says that the great employment of heaven is praising God. Now suppose a crowd of people dissatisfied with what he has done with them here. Rush there on that account. Would his will be any sweeter to them than it was before? And would they burst forth into songs of praise? Why Horace, what a good preacher you are, cry to Annie. I had no idea you were up to it. Horace, full of enthusiasm, sure that he should gain Annie in a single evening, felt as if he had wasted it as these words fell in his ear. He looked at his watch and found that it was time to go. I am a poor bungler, he said, and sometimes wonder how I ever dared to try to do any of my master's work. But we felt so sorry for you, Maggie and I. And then he went away. But Annie sat and pondered his words long after he had gone. She could hardly believe that Horace, usually bright even to gaiety, had uttered such serious ones. I suppose he is right, she said with a sigh. But I never did like your really good people. And she would not listen to him whose Holy Spirit spake within her. Meanwhile Tom, finding his mother tired and indisposed to talk, had stepped in for a minute, as he thought, to speak with Maggie. How cozy you look here, he said, welcomed by a bright fire and a glad face. After all, if people only thought so, they could get along with far less than they do. Where is Horace? He has gone to see Annie. I thought he could say something to comfort her. But there is little one can do for friends in trouble. I don't know about that. I do not believe you realize what a comfort your sympathy has been to us. You have been just like an own brother and sister. That's just what we want to be to everybody who needs us. It is a little peculiar, isn't it? Most young folks get out of the way of long faces, if they can. But yours hasn't been long. Hasn't it? Maggie, I'll tell you what I've been thinking. I want to turn over a new leaf, and live as you and Horace do. Really? cried Maggie joyfully. Have you told Annie? Not exactly. You see, it is not so easy to break up old habits. Not that I've been doing anything so very bad. But still, I know there's a vast difference between being moral and being religious. What shall I say to him? was Maggie's silent prayer before she replied. If the loss of your fortune gains Christ for you, it will be a beautiful loss. There was a pause, and then she said. Did you ever hear of a rich man's going around to this and that friend, begging him to spend his life in trying to become rich, hardly taking time to count over his own gains, and his eagerness for the welfare of others? Why, no, I never did. But those who know the most about the riches Christ gives can hardly keep their hands off those they meet. They are so much in earnest about seeing his heirs enter into possession. Do you feel so? Yes, I do. Towards me? Yes, Tom, towards you, she said, her eyes filling with tears. His eyes filled, too. I knew somebody was after me, he said, with increased embarrassment, but I thought it was only my mother. It was your mother and my mother and father, and Aunt Jane and Horace, and maybe your little sister Maggie. Well, I am not going to stand out against such prayers. I'm as ignorant as a heathen, and somebody will have a hard time polling me along. But if you and Horace will help me, I will begin. Begin what, dear Tom? To be good. But you can't be good, and we can't help you to be. All you've got to do you can now, sitting on that chair. And what is that? Give yourself to Christ, then ask Him to give you repentance and faith, and everything else you need. But I thought it took a long time, and that people had to read and pray and get wretched, and then at last they would feel their sins roll off their backs in a great bundle, and go on ever after relieved. But that is not true. The first thing is to believe in Christ, and give yourself to Him, sins and all. I dare say that you will want to shut yourself up, to thank God for accepting your gift, and to read the Bible and to pray. But as to wretchedness, I do not see where there is any room for that to come in. Oh, Tom, it is such a blessed thing to love Christ, and to belong to Him. I've been thinking so, ever since we came home, and got well acquainted with you and Horace. But we lived in a good deal of a world, and I never talked to anyone as I have to you. I don't know how it has happened. And as for Annie. Annie will come out all right, said Maggie. She has had her head turned for a time, but she is not the only person to whom that has happened. If you take her to your mother's, she will come at once under her influence. Or if you have a little home of your own, gay friends will soon drop you, and you can live as you please. Annie does not like my mother. I never could see why. She is a dear, good mother, and loves Annie like an own daughter. Annie is very independent, and she is afraid of not having full liberty if she lives with your mother. But you will see that she will become another creature sooner or later. I have known her longer than you, and I know what she was before you began to flatter and to spoil her, and to give her everything she wanted. You have never seen her best side. Maggie, he asked abruptly, doesn't it say in the Bible that you must repent and believe? But you say believe and repent. Now I do believe, I am sure I do, but when I try to realize that I am a great sinner, I can't, and am as hard and cold as a stone. I don't think the Bible lays down laws about the order in which God shall grant us his gifts. To one, he gives repentance first, and faith and love afterward. To another, faith and love, and they lead to repentance. The more we love him, the more we see how sinful sin is, and the more sorry we are to have been guilty of it. Do you think, then, that I am, perhaps, one who loves God and may get repentance for the asking? Yes, I do. One man enters the kingdom with an intelligent sense of past wrongdoing, and he who came to save from sin becomes the door to it. Another enters, unconscious to a degree of his unworthiness, and is drawn by chords of love, and he who loves those who love him becomes his door. I know more about these diversities by hearing my father speak of them than I could do of my own observation, and he always says to those who seek the way of life through Christ, come in ye blessed of the Lord, whether they come weeping or smiling. Once in the kingdom he will rectify their mistakes, give courage to the timid, strength to the weak, wisdom to the ignorant, and penitence and love and faith to all. You will fancy it is presuming in me to take this ground, but if I had taken it years ago, it would have saved me much needless pain. I thought I must force myself to dreadful agonies of repentance. At last it came to me that all I had to do was to believe, and that Christ would give me all else that I needed, and I have been a great beggar ever since. And would you have me do that? I would have you go home to-night and say to Annie, God has given me a little faith, enough to make me want to tell you of it, and I am going to pray to him day and night, till he gives me all he has to give. But suppose when I get up tomorrow morning, I feel that no change has taken place in me. I will not suppose any such thing. If you get far enough to say that to Annie, you'll get farther. I'll say it, he returned, and if it ends in my becoming a Christian man, that will be your doing, Maggie. I have tried to be one again and again, but always wound up at the want of feeling right. He went away and said the lesson Maggie had taught him, like a simple-hearted, obedient boy, and added, Are you glad, darling? Yes, she said, ready to choke, I am. It will be just like his love to his mother, she said to herself, long after he had fallen asleep. It will not make any difference how I think and feel. He will do whatever he fancies right, and if he starts under Horace and Maggie, I may as well say goodbye to this world at once. And I do not believe in that. It was made for us to live in and to enjoy. Good people do enjoy it, and expect to go to heaven just the same. Mr. and Mrs. J go to the theatre regularly, and they belong to the church. Mrs. Bridge goes to balls, and dances round dances. But she is good, and gives away loads of money to the poor. And there's Henry at a page. She is strict about going to the prayer meeting, and reads her Bible, and has a class in the mission school. But she indulges in all the public entertainments, and dresses like a princess. But she expects to go to heaven for all that. Will she enjoy heaven? whispered a voice, that seemed to be a re-echo of that of Horace. I suppose so. I suppose we all shall. I never did believe that some few saints had a right to lay down laws for everybody else. If they like to sing psalms, and go to meeting better than anything else, why let them? Who cares? But why should they force their likings on to us young folks? I want to go to heaven, but I want to enjoy myself while I'm here. And what is more, I will. Of course I'm a Christian. If not, Father would not have let me join the church. And of course I want to be good and mean to be. But to wear a long face and look solemn. What did you say? Does Maggie? Why, no, I can't say she does, but most of her set do. Or at least I should think they would, for they never do anything but visit the poor and the sick, and go to meeting, and all that. I wonder if I had given more to the poor, whether God would have taken away all our money so. Now just hear, Tom, he is breathing away as peacefully as a little baby, and yet he has lost such a fortune. He little knows what is before him. Thus musing, Annie drew feverish and sleepless. Everything looked gloomy and hopeless as she lay there alone in the darkness. Worst of all, an uneasy conscience kept her close company. She knew perfectly well that she had not lived up to the vows she had made to God, and that she had taken for her standard not those who loved and served him best, but those who gave him niggardly gifts from selfish worldly hearts. But there is really but one true standard, and that is not the life and doctrines of any man or woman on earth. The Bible is our only rule of faith and practice. If that tells us that our chief and unearth is to make ourselves comfortable, why we need have no misgivings in doing so. But if, on the contrary, it utters such words as these, she that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth, and calls for self-denial, and promises tribulation, it follows that we have something to do in this world beyond seeking mere pastime and amusement. Do these words sound like words of gloom? Ah, then, let us read on, and hear its songs of joy and hymns of praise, what it promises to give and what it has given. Those who accuse the saints of being too saintly forget that not even the saints originated God's word, but that holy men of God's spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost. What are you doing, Tom? Asked Annie when she awoke. I am reading, he said, coming forward with a book in his hand. That's something new, she said. Yes, everything is new. Just hear this. I think it is beautiful. In the world you shall have tribulation, but fear not, I have overcome the world. I suppose I have read that before, but it has come to me this morning as something strange. Tom, do you feel well? Asked Annie abruptly. Perfectly well, why not? I didn't know, but you were going to die. You're getting good so fast. Good? Oh, Annie, I wish I were, but I begin to think that I have done nothing all my life, but do everything I ought not. Do you ever feel so? He asked, with great simplicity. I am not a doctor of divinity, said Annie, wearily. Don't you see that I have the headache and do not feel like talking? Tom was instantly all concerned in tenderness, and Annie's undefined jealous fear that she was losing him gave way before the pleasant sense of possession. I am such a bad old girl, she said at last, that I was afraid you're getting good would make you care less for me. And indeed, Tom, that wouldn't be fair, for I've been the making of you. You always were good-natured and kind, but you wasn't a bit bright, and I took you and woke you up. Everybody says so. I know it, darling, and then Maggie woke me up again, or rather, Horace and Maggie did between them. Annie had always felt herself to be greatly Tom's superior, but when, after she had risen and breakfasted, he said to her, if you won't criticize your poor old husband, we'll read a chapter and pray together before I go downtown. She was perfectly overawed. She had not aroused that simple but sluggish nature to do this, not she. God's spirit alone could have emboldened him, whom she had led about as her great plaything, to take the dignified position to which she should long since have pointed him. And when she heard him pray, him, her Tom, her pride broke down, and she burst into bitter, passionate tears. Nothing could be gained by a description of the weeks that followed. Tom had come into God's kingdom, like a simple, single-hearted child. But her return to him, after careless, thoughtless, prayer-less living, was painful and wearysome. Many a time she would have faltered, but for the Christian friends who rallied around her with their prayers, their sweet counsels, and their faith. Oh, Tom, how good God was when he took away my great snare, she said at last, when the conflict was over, and peace had come in like a flood. I was not fit for prosperity, and he knew it. He humbled my pride, and made you my teacher. I could not have believed I should ever sit at your feet, but I do, you know more than I do, and I hope you always will. Poor Tom, he was six feet high, and well-built, but when she talked so, he felt that he could creep into a nutshell. They had left the hotel, and its very dangerous temptations, and Annie's own request had come to his mother's. For the President, at least, it was the best thing they could do. And to Tom, it wasn't every way agreeable. But Annie went because she was beginning to live less in herself, and more in others. And at first, it was very irksome to her, to be dependent on one whom she had recently sneered at, as one of your prayer-meeting women. But Tom soon found employment, and it proved to be pleasant, after the useless life he had led, and he and Annie often discussed the question of setting up a little home of their own. But Mrs. White always had some reason for deferring this, and so they kept staying on. Horace lost no time, meanwhile, in impressing into his services these two young people, whose cooperation with him in his mission work was so timely. He gave to Annie a class composed of its very worst boys. Her quaint, bright words soon secured their attention. They would listen to her when they would let no one else come near them, not even Maggie. And then, in imitation of Maggie, she had them to tea, and amused and interested them, in ingenious, original ways. Such as would have entered, no other had save hers. She is a strange, bright bird, Mrs. White confided to Aunt Jane. I never saw anybody like her. She flies into a rum on wings, lights down where she wills, but always in the right place. Sings as she flies, and never seems to have a care. Don't try to turn her into a little white chicken, said Aunt Jane. She is one by herself, and must fly where others walk. She seems to be now very much as she did when I knew her as a little girl, full of sunshine, running over with the joy of the moment, glad to be alive. She has vitality enough to make three or four enthusiastic girls. Oh, I love her, said Mrs. White. Only sometimes, her odd, imprudent words and songs come back and startle me. It will not hurt you to be startled, was the cool reply. Let my bright bird alone. And the bird did flit and flutter at first, but after a while found her right place, for a bird of plumage, just as bright as her own, flew from under her wings, and put the whole household into a perfect flood of surprise and delight. Annie could not be exactly like anybody but herself, nor could her baby, but they both created a new life in a home that had long been too silent, and Mrs. White's health came back as she forgot her ailments and rapturous contemplation of the little stranger. Of course it was not a common baby. Annie said it wasn't, and Tom said it wasn't, and Horace and Maggie and Mr. and Mrs. Wyman all said the same, and the baby accepted the situation with dignity, and when they all called her their cherub, their rose, their bird of paradise, she smiled with the calm content of one who had long since heard those musical words and learned them all by heart. But while Annie sang glad songs and talked gay talk to her baby, it was not out of the thoughtless heart of past days. It had been stirred to its depths by remorse, by penitence, by suffering and by joy. She had come out of darkness into a great light, a light that was to shine more and more unto the perfect day, and to serve as a beacon for many a tempest-toss soul that would never have otherwise reached the haven where it would be at rest. Ah, there must be all sorts of lights on the shores of time, there must be the moonlight radiance that never flickers or goes out, the great glow of the noonday sun, the twinkle of the stars, the erratic shoot of the signal fire. They shall differ from one another in glory, but each shall have its appointed work and do it well, nor can one do the work of the other, or shine as to itself. We come now to the autumn of 1866. Horace and Maggie have been buffeting the waves, and breathing the fragrant gales of three years of married life. How shall we celebrate our wedding-day? Maggie is asking Horace. Shall we have Tom and Annie and the baby to dinner, or go to Aunt Jane's? Has she invited us? Yes, here is her dear little note. I fancy her poor old hand is growing a little tremulous. We'll go there, then. That is, if you say so. But it is Annie's wedding-day, too, you know. However, Aunt Jane has invited her, of course. Perhaps we had better go there. It certainly is a good thing to break in on the routine of one's life occasionally. As ours a life of routine, asked Maggie, surprised at his tone. I will not answer for yours, but mine certainly is. I go to the office at just such an hour, drone through a certain amount of work, step out for my lunch, go to work again, come home. Ah, the routine stops there. I will own. You always contrive to have something pleasant for me. If it is nothing more than running to bid me welcome. Still, it is plain you feel the monotony of your life to be painful. Well, sometimes I feel mine to be. To get up every morning and go through a series of forms preparatory to making one's self-presentable, thinking how short a day we'll intervene before these forms will have to be gone through, with again in a reverse way, is sometimes a little oppressive. But is there not a story of a wedded pair who changed places with each other one day because of this sort of discontent? The man stayed in the house and cooked the dinner and rocked the cradle and mended the stockings. The woman went into the field and plowed and fed and watered the cattle and the like, and that day's experiment sufficed for a lifetime. I think I can get started for the day on that story, he said. I feel no drawings toward cooking of dinners or mending of stockings. As to rocking the cradle, ah, Maggie, perhaps we should crawl over that if we had one. Yes, I can fancy that you would take to that sort of work. You are so fond of your little niece. But if God does not give us children, knowing as he does how thankful we should be for them, it is surely because he has some good reason for it. Perhaps there are now in the world some fatherless and motherless little ones that he is saving for us till we can afford to take them in. After he had gone, Maggie stood for some moments, just where he had left her, lost in thought, and with a shadow on her face. He had touched on a very sore spot when he had hinted that this childless home was a disappointment to him. For if it was such to him, what was it to her? She had never known until her marriage what it was to live without the sweet self-denials that are born of the helplessness of childhood. She missed the sound of little feet, the caresses of little arms. Home life was preeminently the life she loved best. It was her instinct to hide in retired nooks, and if she reigned anywhere, to reign in a small, unobtrusive domain. But now she had health and leisure, and rather than be idle in God's vineyard, she would work in more conspicuous, less congenial ways. Only there was Annie, so bright, so free from the shyness that makes outside duty painful. So fitted to adorn almost any sphere, tied down to a baby who would have loved some other mother just as well, and whom she, Maggie, would have been so much gladder to possess. For Annie disliked babies in general, while, of course, loving her own in particular. And the details of the nursery were as distasteful to her, as they were an enthusiasm to the heroine of the doll-dressing witnessed years ago by Horace. Yes, there was a shadow on Maggie's face, and there were tears in her eyes. Horace would always have to find his happiness chiefly in his home. Walking was so irksome and painful to him, and what is a home without children? She had fell often before, and she felt now for his sake, like uttering the passionate cry, Give me children, or else I die. She crept away to her own realm in this strangely stirred mood, and told her story to him who she always told everything that perplexed, or pained, or gladdened her. And then she said he should give or withhold, just as he pleased, that she would not plan or choose for herself, that she loved him and believed in him, and was satisfied and happy in him. She might well say that, for the sweet throwing away her own will that she might take up and bear his, brought with it a peace and a joy that all the united treasures on earth could not have bought. Horace saw it in her face when he came home to take her to Aunt Jane's, and loved her for it, without knowing at exactly what spring she had been drinking. And Aunt Jane saw it too, and felt it in the unusually fond caress with which Maggie greeted her. Who would think of your breaking all one's bones in that way, she said, who loved so to have her bones broken? I had to break somebody's, was Maggie's answer, I am so happy. At the dinner table Aunt Jane proposed to go into the form of pairing Tom and Maggie, Horace and Annie together. But Horace said he should sit by his wife on his wedding day, and Annie, after upgrading him for his want of chivalry to her, enchanted Tom by declaring that he alone should be at her side. She was in great spirits tonight, and felt it within her that she could entertain them all the whole evening if she chose to give herself the reins. But she was trying to keep a little check on her reckless tongue, and this gave the others a chance to speak, and to feeling that a vivifying glow from Maggie was warming and cheering the whole circle. What has gotten to you, Maggie, she whispered, in the course of the evening, have you heard some good news? Why, I am just as usual, was the reply. The mark on her forehead, the divine mark, was growing deeper, but she wished it not. I am coming to have a frolic with baby tomorrow, she added. Have you decided what to call her, asked Aunt Jane. No, we haven't. Tom calls her Blanche, for a little sister he had once. Think what an odd combination, Blanche White, and I call her Mag. I suppose she'll get one or the other of these names, probably the first. Annie, do be sober for one minute, cried Maggie, laughing. You really never meant to have her called Mag. Why not? It's a nice name, and I have nice associations with it. You'll never let her do such a foolish thing, I know, Tom, said Maggie. Tom smiled, and looked wise. He knew what he was going to do when the last moment came, and he wished it had come. After dinner the two gentlemen withdrew from the society of the ladies, after the manner of men, and the three ladies got close together, after the manner of women thus slighted. Maggie had stumbled on a very interesting family connected with the mission, and had a long story to tell about them, which she knew would result in a raid on Aunt Jane's store-closet next day. I wish I had time to run after poor folks as you do, said Annie, for you really seem to enjoy it. And Horace has beaten it into my old Tom's head, that for the mere pleasure of it, letting the question of duty go, it is good to live for other people rather than for yourself. As if you had not learned that lesson via baby, said Aunt Jane. Via baby, and Mama White, said Annie. Yes, I really think I know a few little things I did not know when I was married. As for Tom, you never saw a man so changed. I wish you could see the letters he writes to his mission boys. I am sure they are enough to melt hearts of stone. I cried over them myself. And the other night, just as he had come home, all tired out, depending on a half hour with baby before she went to bed, a message came that one of those boys was badly scalded, and off he went without his dinner, without me, and without baby. Was the boy so seriously injured? asked Aunt Jane. Yes, his life was in danger. Tom talked and prayed with him. Think of it, my Tom getting down on his knees in a tenement house. And it was rather embarrassing for him, for there were neighbors all standing around, and one of the little children was dusting him all the time with a whisper-brum. I don't know which pleases me most, his visiting and praying with his sick boys, or your loving sympathy with him in it, said Aunt Jane. No more eyes, said Maggie. It seems to me that God hasn't left me a single thing to wish. He has given me everything I want. The young men now drew near, and conversation became general, and Annie made some gay allusions to past times, when they had all gathered around the same fireside, playing at cross-purposes with each other. Horace, who had suffered of late with intolerable sleepiness in the evening, and who had hardly been able to keep his eyes open since dinner, now roused up and answered her back, and they had an encounter of wits that greatly amused the rest of the company. When it was time for Annie to go, on account of that punctual and exacting little maiden at home, they all protested against her breaking in upon the evening so early. For well to a looker on, they might have seemed a very quiet little company. They had been spending very happy hours together. One love and one hope drew them to each other. They were fellow travelers, all going the same way. And before long, at the longest, they would all meet, where they need not separate to go to different homes. We always have such a nice time when we come here, said Annie, as she kissed Aunt Jane good night. Are you sure that you are not really our very own Auntie? I am sure I am very own Auntie to all four of you, she said, looking lovingly upon them. What? And are you my aunt too? cried Tom. How very delightful. It is good to go out, if only to find how good it is to be at home again, said Horace, as he and Maggie hovered over their own little fire half an hour later. Ah, Maggie, how many such homes as ours there might be if there was only a little more common sense in the world. Suppose we turn into apostles and go about preaching that doctrine, said Maggie, laughing at his earnestness. I wish we could. Perhaps when our heads get as gray as Aunt Jane's, people will begin to attach some weight to what we say, and we can preach them our sermons. I am not going to wait for that. In fact, we are preaching now. Everybody must see that we are as happy and contented as people can be in this world. I, for one, am growing stout on it. You were growing sleepy, growing stout on want of exercise, replied Maggie, but that horse will come. He will come, I am sure, and renew your youth. It did me good to hear you and Annie banter each other so this evening, for you have been growing heavy and silent of late, something so unnatural in you. Yes, the visit really did me good. I shall be all right when your magic horse comes to give me my shaking up. So they helped each other over the fact that their evenings were getting to be mortifying to Horace because he could not keep awake, disappointing to Maggie, because she thus lost to society. And while they were thus engaged, Aunt Jane was writing a kind little note to Tom to tell him how she rejoiced over and sympathized in the Christian work to which he was giving himself. She had long since formed the habit of finding it good to scatter little pleasures along the pathway of life when no opportunity for greater deeds presented itself. And so these words to Tom. She was astonished when his answer came to her. At the surprise and delight it had given him. Her eyes moistened as she read his grateful affectionate words, and she thanked God that her old, lonely life had still power to send a ray of golden light into other lives. But a few days later Tom came to her and said in his simple, honest way, Aunt Jane, your note has puffed me up so that I almost wish you had not written it. She smiled a little. Then she said, We have all read of the wand of a certain king that turned to pure gold every object it touched. Now every Christian has a wand which works just such. Nay, greater miracles. Fenelon prayed that the successes of Louis the 16th might make him as humble as a great humiliation could. Now you and I, when we feel ourselves unduly exalted by flattery, or even by innocent, loving words, have only to say, Lord, turn this temptation into benediction. Let the words that strive to make me abound become in thine hands, but a new abasement. And there will be no puffing up, you may depend upon it. It made me very happy, but then I caught myself thinking, Tom, there must be something uncommon about you if people can write to you in that way. And then I felt mean that I had thought anything about it. He looked in her face, like an ingenuous, very good boy. And she said, I don't see, but you'll have to pray that you may get back to thinking yourself common again. We have all of us a great deal to learn on these points. But we must learn to bear praise and blame, with equal equanimity. We shall in this world get most of the latter. But we need shrink from neither, as long as both drive us to Christ. Now I'm glad you sent me that note, and glad I've had this talk with you, Aunt Jane. My mother has often said she wished you could get hold of me, and now you have. I shall keep hold, you may depend, she answered. I am an old woman, and might be a very sorrowful one. But I am resolved not to be that, while there is a single human heart in the world, that mine can warm. You are warming a good many, he said. It is really wonderful how you make us young folks love you. It is not I whom you love, she answered. It is the presence within me of your and my friend. Let him leave me for one moment, and all you would see left would be a weak, sinful, ignorant old woman. He only have caught her thought, and yet it held him all the way downtown, and came back to him later with singular power. Well, Mag, said Annie the next time they met. Tom has made up his mind to give your name to Baby, and says he always meant to do it. Only he is for sentimentalizing over her, and calling her Pearl and Pearly. For my part I shall call her Mag, Shanta, my little Daisy, my Queen Margaret, my wee Maggie, my white Pearl, my own old Mag, she cried, snatching her baby from Maggie's arms to cover it with kisses. You've got to pray for this baby as long as you live, she added. Her bright face growing softer, more tender. She's got a poor old stick for her mother, and you must be her saint. I'm afraid I never shall. There, take her. I'm tired of her already. I never did like to hold one of these squirming little things. Maggie stretched out her motherly arms, and gathered her little namesake to her heart of hearts. And while she half sang, half whispered to it, of the great world of tenderness she had to give it, Annie, with nimble and skillful fingers, manufactured for herself a bonnet that she knew Tom would say became her wondrously, and so it did. I am not running up milleners' bills for Grandma White, she said. Now isn't that lovely? Well, guess what it cost? You won't? Well, it cost four cents. You absurd child, cried Maggie. Are you talking to me, or to the baby? You see now how lucky it was that I brought home so many odds and ends from Paris. I can go on making bonnets indefinitely, for nothing at all. Maggie, dear, you need not think my head runs on nothing better. I don't think so. I know it runs on Tom and the baby, and on yet better things. Yes, it does. But I know I am not all taken up with those better things as you are. What is the reason? I want to be good. I try to cure myself of my ways, but I can't. Do you know what a trial I am to Tom's mother? A trial? What, when you make Tom so happy, and have given her the sweet baby to love? Well, I am a trial for all that. She has set you up for her standard, and wants me to be just like you. Now I'll leave it to you if nature did not make us entirely different. I can testify that she did, said Maggie, absorbed in the baby, and then rousing herself, for she was trying to carry her unselfishness into very little things, she added. Somebody has said that we ought to learn to love our friends for what they are, rather than for what we wish them to be. I think so, too. But I must say that I never had to learn that in regard to you. You are so lovable in yourself, and you know it, you naughty little thing you, with your mock humility speeches. So has everybody, objected, Annie, if you can only get at the lovable part. The trouble is they keep their hearts locked up as they do their cash, and you only know they have any by seeing the boxes. Maggie laughed, but do not you and Tom's mother get on well together? Oh, we get on. That's just the phrase to describe it. You know in the first place, she's weak and nervous. And you are strong and well, so you can inspire it and cheer her. Well, I do. In the second place, she thinks she knows how to manage baby ten times as well as I do. She wants her bathed in hot water, and I bathed her in cold. She thinks she ought to have everything she cares for, and I think she shouldn't have one. She gives her great lumps of sugar, too. Just think of that. Still, you have the chief control of baby, and always these little differences occur when there are grandmas on hand. It is not peculiar to you. You would not like it. You are as independent and as positive as I am, every bit of it. No, I should not like it, but I don't expect to find anything in this world exactly to my mind. I expect to plague people and expect them to plague me, but I would not make myself unhappy about such trifles if I had such a baby as this. Would you really like to have the baby and let grandma be thrown in? Would I, cried Maggie? Oh, Annie! I had no idea you felt so, said Annie, greatly moved by Maggie's look and tone, and the clasp of her arms around the little one. I don't see, then, why God does not give you children if you want them so much. Hush, dear! It hurts me to hear you so much as hint that he is not giving me all it is best I should have, for he is. Dear old Mag, I wish I loved him as you do, and I wish I could learn to mind little frictions less. But it will take me a long, long time to get back to where I was when worldly prosperity turned my giddy head. Tom is really better than I am. It quite frightens me to see how fast he grows in goodness. You want to see the lovely no Aunt Jane wrote him. Let me think. Where is it? Oh, here it is. Read it, Maggie. Do you think I may? Certainly. It is only some of those kind, encouraging words she loves to put on paper. Maggie read the note with a keen appreciation of the Christian love that prompted it, that could only be felt by a kindred soul. It is beautiful, she said, and just like Aunt Jane, she lives for everybody except herself. Now we are always going to her with our little troubles, yet she never speaks of hers. But, of course, she must have them as well as her great sorrows. I cannot associate the idea of trouble and sorrow with Aunt Jane, said Annie. I never saw a cloud on her face. But she has them on her heart. Only shallow people are always at ease there. But she is cheerful because she will be cheerful. She has a constant lesson to me. To you, what is she then to me with all my little frets and cares? A nice book to study, replied Maggie. I believe I shall take this baby home with me. You wouldn't care much. Shouldn't I? Come here, little Mag, and tell your Aunt Mag some of your and my nice wee secrets. How pretty she looked, this bright, rosy young mother, as she caught her child, and whispered some loving nonsense in its ear. At least Maggie thought so, as she walked home with a warm sisterly glow in her heart. Annie is going to make a splendid woman, she said to herself. The worst of her is over. She will grow less and less selfish, more and more loving every day. The baby will bring her out. I know it will. Dear Maggie, it is you who will bring her out. But you will never know it. Walking down a fashionable avenue, towards her obscure little home, and a dress that befitted her poverty, but was out of keeping with that of the gay crowd about her, she had thoughts in her heart that made a thousand liveried angels lacky her, for they were thoughts such as angels' love. CHAPTER XIX Well, my little wife, how has the day gone with you? Horace asked, as she ran to meet him in the hall on his return that night. It has gone well, like all my days, she said, gaily. So has mine, unlike all my days, he returned. I have something to tell you that will please you, I know. I hope it is about a horse. No, it is about a boy, about young Rooney. He has come out such a fair and square Christian. You know how he has tried my faith and patience, and only last Sunday he was so outrageous that if it had not been for my certainty that you were praying for him, I would have dismissed him from the school. But I resolved to give him one more chance, and today he came down to the office to ask my pardon, and you never saw a fellow more humble or penitent. He says that his behavior on Sunday was the devil's parting grip, and that he has since then given him as good as he sent. What talk? Oh, there's no cant or humbug about him, and there never will be. If he goes on, he'll make an original, useful man. Yes, there's nobody like him. I wish you would be a little more enthusiastic, Maggie. I thought you would be perfectly delighted with this news. So I am, but you know I never can say anything when I feel greatly moved. Yes, I do know it, but I wish you would outgrow that. It makes people misunderstand you so. I suppose it does, but one must get used to being misunderstood. Tell me some more about Rooney. It does my heart good. I will, after dinner. Oh, no, after dinner I have to go and see Aunt Jane. I received a mysterious note from her this morning, that I can make nothing of. Just run it over, and see if you can guess what she means. Maggie turned pale, as she cast her eye over the note. Why, what can have happened to her since our visit? She seemed then as well as usual. Don't you think so? I saw no change in her, except that, if that were possible, she seemed more delightful than ever. But it is plain that something is stirring her soul. Something very serious, said Maggie, do go, the moment dinner is over. A shadow had fallen upon them both. Horace loved Aunt Jane with ever-increasing devotion, and her love to him was one of the bright spots of his life. And Maggie loved her, not simply from gratitude, but with that wondrous Christian affection, known to those only who are walking heavenward, hand in hand. Horace was gone all the evening. Maggie sat watching for him, hour after hour. The passing footsteps were heard less frequently. At last, all was silence in the street, and still he came not. Could anything have happened to him? she asked herself, with a pang. And suppose there had, what then? Why then, ah, who saw that upturned face, could have helped loving our Maggie. Are you all tired out waiting for your old husband? asked his welcome voice at last. Not tired now you have come, she said joyfully. Well, what is it, dear? Good news or bad? Everything has its two sides, he answered evasively. Aunt Jane will tell you the next time you see her. But she has forbidden my doing it. I shall see her tomorrow, then. Yes, you had better go. She watched his face as he spoke, but could learn nothing from it. But she felt that his arms unfolded her more closely than usual, as if afraid that she might slip away unawares. But when, the next morning, she was ushered into Aunt Jane's bright parlor, and met her bright smile, she reproved herself for foolish anxieties. I don't think I shall let you give me such a hug as you did the other night, said Aunt Jane, holding off a little as she welcomed her. Take off your things, darling, and we'll have a nice long talk. I knew you were on the way here, knew it just about what hour you would come. You know, mind knows the approach of mind, sometimes at least. Yes, your note to horror startled me a little. I meant it should. Maggie, dear, if I should tell you that I was about to go to Europe for some years, would it pay you very much? That depends on how glad you were to go. If you were glad, I am sure I should not be asking how I was to get along without you. I should be thinking of your pleasure. Yes, you would. Well, dear, don't be troubled when I tell you that I am going on a much longer voyage, and shall not come back. Maggie's color came and went, yet she did not say a word for some moments, but sat with the dear old hand clasped in both hers. Will the voyage be long? Will it be hard? she whispered at last. Yes, dear, long and hard. But what, then, why a beautiful getting into port, and the casting anchor there? Oh, Aunt Jane, do you know, my child, that I can look on curiously at your tears and take no part in them? It seems such a very little thing for a woman of my age to drop down by the wayside. Why, it is happening every hour. Why not to me? And to the suffering? Oh, the flesh shrinks from that, of course. But still, what, then? It is not the fashion of human souls to part company with the house of clay they have lived in without a hue and cry on the part of the latter. I suppose you have guessed my secret by this time. Yes, and to think how I must have hurt you that night. It did not signify, and now you will want to hear how long I have known this. I have known it six months. I may live six months more, but above that I have not inquired. All my worldly affairs, thanks to Horace, are now settled. But I want the pleasure, before I go, of seeing you and him more comfortably established. That house did very well for a beginning, and you have both behaved beautifully in it. But I am a sort of mother to you, you know, and I am going to be guile myself of some of my weary days by putting you into another. You see, it would be impossible to live in such close quarters if you had children. But we have not any. Not now, but they're coming. I'm not going to make you rich, but I am going to lift the burden you have borne so patiently. No, do not say a word. The thing is settled, and has long been settled in my mind. Hitherto, you have not had the necessaries of life. I have just done that out. Why, Aunt Jane, we have had them, and more, too. No, I got it out of Horace last night, how heavy and sleepy he is every evening, and how often depressed and out of sorts, and all for want of proper exercise. I really think you owed it to me, who loves you so, to tell me he had been ordered to ride. But those hard days are over. He is to begin to ride this very day. And as to you, my precious little Maggie, you shall have something to make your domestic wheels go easier, and something for your poor folks beside. So you see, my going off to be well and happy by and by is to add to your health and happiness, too. We would rather have you and go on living forever just as we have done. I have no doubt of it, but you see that God has other plans for you, and now we'll talk about the place I'm going to if you feel like it. Oh, Aunt Jane, you are glad you are going to leave us? Yes, that is, I'm glad I'm going where I am, though not glad to leave you. Think how easily I can go. No husband, no child to hold me back. You and Annie and Horace are all nicely settled, and happy. Why, it is wonderful. And I have so long felt more at home there than I have here. Not that I would have you fancy that I have not been happy, very happy, among you all. You have been ready to go this long time, I know. Yes, I have. If I were going to Europe now, I should have quite a time of it, making my preparations. But for this voyage I have not a thing to do. It was all made for me long, long ago. Such kind and thoughtful and loving preparation. All I shall have to do will be to step on board. And we shall be following after, said Maggie, drying her tears. I am ashamed of myself for crying so. I ought to be congratulating you, instead of putting on this doleful face. Dear Aunt Jane, I will not do it again. You are going to enjoy a great deal more than we are going to suffer. And what if we do suffer? Yes, I am ashamed of myself. Ah, I am too happy in the thought of going, to mind your crying a little. I always was a selfish old thing. But all that will soon be over. I shall not be selfish in heaven. I shall never crimson with shame, nor sigh with grief. I shall be with my Saviour and like him. All the rest of the time I am here, I want to spend in magnifying him. But I am afraid that towards the last I shall only be able to do that in a very imperfect way. Remember, dear Maggie, youth and health are the time and the season for glorifying him. I am afraid of sick-bed, with its distracting pains and weaknesses, as a poor place for it. I think you have glorified him all along. Not as I now wish I had. Life looks very strange and impressive, as one casts on a backward glance. Perhaps you fancy that it looks insignificant. But it does not. On the contrary, even its little details have an importance of their own. Just as moments make hours, so trifles make life. Not one can be spared out of the great whole. Each has its own account to give to God. And now, dear, we'll make it a point, you and I, to have very cheery meetings together while I stay, shall we not? I shall want to come very often, and I will be cheerful too. This has been a great shock to me. I want to get home and pray it over. Why can't we pray it over now? For my part, I have on my soul such a way of gratitude that I want to pray and sing too. To think that I, a poor sinner, am so soon to be called home, I can hardly believe it. Maggie went home after a time, with a full heart, fuller of joy than of pain, for the courage and faith of the one heart had strengthened and elevated the other. She found Annie waiting for her. I have been here in age, was her salutation. But you have been crying. Why, Maggie darling? Yes, but I am ashamed of myself. Yet you will cry too, when you hear about Aunt Jane. She told the story in a few words, and Annie was, for a time, completely overcome with grief. Aunt Jane is just the same as an own aunt, she said at last. How dreadful it is to love people so. Sometimes I wish I were as heartless as a stone. And you say she is bright and cheerful as ever? Then she must have been inwardly sad and sorrowful when we thought her so happy. For, of course, it is the expectation of meeting her husband and child again that makes her glad to die. Oh, I do not think so. She never mentioned them. I am sure that if Tom and Baby should die, I should want to go too, pursued Annie. Maggie knew that it would be of no use to argue this question. Annie was too far behind her in the Christian life to comprehend what she and Aunt Jane so well understood. That heaven is Christ, that Christ is heaven. That the city hath no need of sun, or moon, or human food, or earthly tie, because the Lord himself doth light in it. I suppose I shall have to go to see her, Annie asked, finding Maggie's silence not agreeable. But I shall not know what to say to her. Do you think I need say anything? What did it do to talk of other things, and not of this? You will not find it embarrassing at all. She will talk about dying, just as honestly and naturally as she does about living. I would go today, if I were you. Oh, I can't go today. I've made such a fright of myself crying. Perhaps I'll make Tom take me some evening. Dear me, how dreadful it all is. You won't feel so after you've seen her. Think now, she has known it for six months, and not one of us has seen the least difference in her. Yet Annie felt the dread and the repugnance to seeing Aunt Jane that is natural enough in young people, and she put off from day to day the visit she yet felt she ought to make. So she was not a little ashamed when, one morning, Aunt Jane came to see her. As the mountain wouldn't come to Muhammad, Muhammad has come to the mountain, was the salutation that graded her as she entered the parlor. You need not be afraid of your old aunt, because she is on the wing. Oh, Aunt Jane, I was so shocked, so grieved. Shocked that I have had an invitation from a king, grieved that I am going to accept it joyfully? Why, my child, the past six months have been delightful ones. You must have loved your husband and your son with wonderful love, said Annie. My husband, my son, I, and so I did, but it is not to find them, that I am going on this long, hard journey, though I doubt not I shall find them at its ending. Listen to me, and never forget my words. I loved my husband and my boy with a mad idolatry that made heaven, when they went there, only heaven because it had been their home. And now I love Christ so, that heaven is only heaven because it is his eternal abode. Don't you remember, dear, how you children, when you had been away at school, always asked on your return, is mother at home? Never adding, and father and all the rest of them? And if mother was at home, you were satisfied, even if the others were all absent and came in later. Annie listened, but with a troubled face. No one can make me believe, she said at last, with great decision, that I could be contented in heaven without Tom and Baby. Would it have done any good to argue the point with her? Suppose a child of four years says to his mother, I am as tall now as I ever shall be. Can she prove to his faithless, ignorant little mind that this is not true? No, she can only say, wait and see. But Annie wanted to dispute and argue, and kept trying to lead Aunt Jane into a discussion. It stands to reason, she said, that if I could not be happy without them here, I could not there, for I have God for my friend now, and yet I want my husband and baby besides. Why did he give them to me? Was it not that I might love them? But as Aunt Jane only smiled kindly at her vehement, excited words, Annie checked herself, and came back to the point when she had started, and said how dreadful it all was. There is nothing dreadful about it yet, dear, and when that part of it comes, you will be away in the country with your baby, and need see none of it. Ah, but you will suffer all the same. Yes, I know, but I shall forget all that when I've been in heaven five minutes. And you really want to die? It is not so much wanting to die as to live, for once out of this world my real life will begin. That thought makes me very happy. I don't want to go till Tom and Baby do, said Annie, returning uneasily to that thought. It wouldn't be heaven if they were not there. We are only too apt to yield to the self-conceit, beloved child of ignorance, that utter such cries. It would be well, if we could once get it into our heads, that those who express religious views, to which we are strangers, have gained them, as he who travels in advance of his comrade sees, before he does, what there is to be seen on the way. And instead of arguing with him who spies out the land, and brings back grapes from Eschel, suppose we penetrate that land, and look for the fruit it has likewise in store for us. Hasst thou but one blessing, O my Father? Bless me, even me also. Aunt Jane was like a mariner, who, foreseeing a coming storm, trims his sails, and, if need be, casts overboard his treasures. She knew that all her faith and patience, and natural courage, were now about to be tested, and that good people and bad people would look to see how she met the gale. But before it broke loose upon her, in relentless fury, she busied herself with the interest of all those who would be in any way affected by her death. She determined to see with her own eyes, that the burden was lifted from some of the homes she loved. Naturally enough, she thought first of Horace and Maggie. She did not propose to make them rich, but only to make their way easier, and the plan of putting them into a more comfortable house grew out of their grief at the thought of parting with her. She thought that moving and getting into their new abode would be a wholesome distraction for them, and that when her hard struggle came, there would be full time for them to weep and mourn. She had great sympathy too, for country ministers and their wives, and had not a few on her heart, to whom she now gave a loving, helping hand. Then when those affairs were all arranged, there was an endless number of little blessings to scatter here and there, parting visits to make, while possessing her secret, and so avoiding a formal farewell. Letters to write, kind words to speak, sick rums to beautify. She thought of everything and everybody, and kept on the wing, long after many a less courageous sufferer would have fainted and fallen. And now she was so full of love and sympathy that she turned not a few heads, not knowing out of what a storehouse she gave to them. Each fancied himself a peculiarly favored hero, and went about rich and happy, in gems of affectionate words, that she flung about with lavish hands as we throw pebbles. If her spirits flagged, if at times she said to herself, this cannot, must not be. No eye witnessed the conflict. She fought her battles in silence and in prayer, and won her victories there also. Neither Horace nor Maggie took much pleasure in their new home, though they knew the change was good in every respect. But to Horace Aunt Jane was little less than a mother. He loved her only less than he loved his wife, and the thought of seeing her suffer, and then of parting with her, at times overwhelmed him. And Maggie, in addition to the love she naturally felt for her, knew that there was a wonderfully golden link between them, the love stronger than death, that unites together those who have perfect Christian sympathy. Her counselor, her guiding star, was about to be taken from her, and how many a long year might pass before they should meet again. But such shadows are good for us, and perpetual sunshine is not. These twain clung together, and clung to Christ, as prosperity could not have made them do. They were sad and sorrowful, but not gloomy or unhappy. The thorny path bears some of the sweetest flowers that adorn life, and when with naked, bleeding feet we walk upon a flinty soil we often find diamonds. But nobody believes that, save those who have dared the thorn and the flint, plucked the flower, and seized the gem. It really does my heart good, said Aunt Jane, lying back in her chair and looking about her, to see how much more comfortable you and Horace are in this house than you were in the other. There I'll be frolicking on these wide stairs one of these days. You may depend. And how much better Horace seems. You have been too good to us, Aunt Jane, was Maggie's answer, but then you always were. You mean that God has been too good to me, and so he has. Well, I am very glad to see you in your new home before I go to mine. You have been like a mother to a great many young people, as well as to us. What makes you so fond of us? I thought that as people grew old they lost sympathy with those who had less experience of life, and only enjoyed the society of the very wise and the very good, said Horace. Ah, but I never grew old. I often tried to do so, but I couldn't. You young creatures, with your little romances, your honeymoons, your smiles, and your tears, kept me always on the key-vieve, and now I wish I could tell you how easy I feel about leaving you. I see you so happy in each other, so happy in God, and in working for him, that I have now a wish ungratified. You will have your trials and your sorrows, your rainy days and your tempestuous ones, and what is worse, you will have your prosperous ones, but you will not be overwhelmed by the one, or swept away by the other. You will give us ever so much good counsel before you go, won't you, dear Auntie? Asked Maggie tearfully. Good counsel, ah, it is easily given. It is this, take counsel of God. Everything I have to say is included in that. They were all silent for a long time after this. Yet it was not the silence that separates, but that which unites. Aunt Jane lay back again in her chair, looking pale and exhausted. But there was a smile on her lips, and her bright eyes seemed to penetrate into a far future, into ineffable peace and joy. To think, she said at last, that I am really on the wing, halfway there. They sat on each side, holding one of her hands in theirs, and could almost see what she saw. This is my first and last visit in this house of yours, my children, she said, when it was time to take leave. That is to say, it is the last I shall make in this old tumble-down of a body. But I shall often be here in spirit, watching you, and blessing you, if I may. Shall we know it? whispered Maggie. I fancy not, but I see no reason why departed friends should not hover over beloved ones, still upon earth, watching their progress and rejoicing in it. But all their friends will not be making progress, said Horace. Perhaps that painful sight will be hidden. However, it is all speculation, and now, dear children, I must go. Peace be within these walls. She drove home in silence, though Horace was with her, for she was extremely fatigued. A faithful, dearly loved servant came to meet her as she reached her own door. That's right, Sarah. I knew you would be waiting. Before long it will be my turn to be waiting and watching for you. Good night, Horace, my own dear boy. There was nothing new in these words, but they fell painfully on his ear. Yes, he was her boy, her dear boy, her own dear boy. She had done more towards making and saving him than any other human being. How many times in his thoughtless youth her prayers had so hedged him round that he could not get out. How many times they had called to the rescue that blessed spirit that is ever waiting to be gracious, yet waits to be called. He would have been glad to throw himself into her arms and cry like a child, but no one should ever do that any more. So he went sorrowfully away to his home, and he and Maggie wept and prayed there, and Aunt Jane entered hers to leave it no more. She had come to the very limit of her strength, and now exhausted in body, but with an undaunted soul. She retired from the gaze of the world to fight a battle whose terrible scenes have found no record, save in a few faithful hearts that witnessed and shared them. It was a battle, but ever in and on she stopped to bind up the wounds of a fellow sufferer. Now there was a quaint word that made her tearful watchers smile in spite of themselves. Now there was a hymn, and now a song, and now a shout of victory. Oh, Aunt Jane, will this never be over? Maggie asked, when months came and went, and came, and only brought new pain, more weariness. How can I see you suffer so another day? Don't tell God that, for once let him have his own way. Think of the end, darling. And may I ask him to let you go? You may ask him, with a smile, but he will listen to me, not to you. He won't dismiss me till school is done, nor would I go till then. But only a few days later, school was done. The bright-eyed, faithful scholar went home. End of chapter 19