 15. In which is discussed the difference between white and black. The next rehearsal was one continued scene of confusion. Nothing seemed to go quite right. Everyone present seemed fully bent on having his or her own way, and no two persons agreed about the fold of a curtain or the position of a table. I ought to accept little Ruth Walker. She was meek and mouse-like as usual. Her fair, pleasant face had flushed with surprise when Lysia Simons, in the richest of black silks and resplendent in sable furs, pressed and pushed her way into our shop one afternoon, tipping over several piles of boxes in her transit, and finally reaching Ruth's stand, preferred her request for Ruth's assistance in the tableaus. Flushed with surprise and pleasure, evidently little Ruth liked fun, she gave ready assent, and on this evening of which I write, hovered softly among us like the meekest little Quaker one could imagine and the busiest. Her deft fingers made the needle fairly fly, and many were the patient's stitches which she took that night in the endless garments which needed a little fixing. In her way she was the most popular one among us. Before nine o'clock every girl present had learned who would sew on a string, or pin a bow, or hold things while they fixed them, or run to the dressing room for a shawl or a sack, or run into the store below for a paper of pins, or do any of the thousand little things that were constantly pressing forward to be done, doing them too with such a pleased and gentle face that Mr. Sales said to me in undertone, I think that Ruth, as you call her, must be a real flesh and blood Quakeress, or a niece of Job's. But there was a great deal of friction. Lycea Simons, for one, seemed bent on making all the trouble that she could in a gay, good humored sort of way, bent, first of all, upon coming in contact with Mrs. Tyndall and her schemes. The first general discussion came up toward the close of the evening. We had been rehearsing the most difficult tableau in the list, and had sat down to rest and finish articles for the grab bag. Then Florence Hervey commenced it. Mrs. Tyndall, do you know that Lycea isn't making a thing for this bag? Why, isn't that little pink and white dolly for the bag? I'm sure I supposed it was. She thinks grab bags are coarse and common. Ours is an exception, answered Mrs. Tyndall, with unfailing good humor. It is to be made of silk patchwork that is over a hundred years old, and the bag is to be grabbed for afterward at so much a ticket. Lycea, you'll grab for that, won't you? Not I, said Lycea emphatically. I'm not in sympathy with grab bags. I'm sorry we are obliged to descend to anything of the sort. And by the way, Mrs. Tyndall, do you know that Dr. Mulford entirely disapproves of ring cakes? Mrs. Tyndall soared on in good humored indifference, as she answered. I wasn't aware of that formidable fact, my dear. At least I do not remember to have heard it. Fanny, a blue sash for that dolly would match her eyes better than the one you have chosen. Meantime, Lycea gave a wicked nod and sparkle of her eyes to her next neighbor in murmured. I'm going to transform myself into an angel of light now. Then aloud, do you think it is quite proper for us to indulge in speculations of which he disapproves? Mrs. Tyndall laughed lightly. Why, my dear child, perhaps he disapproves of eating oysters in the evening. Many people do. Shall we therefore banish them from our bill of fare? It was timid little Ruth with blushing cheeks who took up the question. But, Mrs. Tyndall, there is no moral question involved in eating oysters. I don't know about that, laughed Mr. Sales. I ate the articles in question last evening, and my digestive organs have been in a very immoral state ever since. And for the matter of that, chimed in, Mrs. Tyndall, I don't see the immorality of a pound cake. I think there is as much of that quality involved in the one article as the other. Ruthie, said Lycea in undertone, when Mrs. Tyndall tries to make you think black is white, don't you believe it? Then she returned to the charge. Mrs. Tyndall, if I were a lawyer, I should charge you with begging the question. Isn't there, after all, a marked difference between ring cakes and oysters? If Dr. Mulford chooses to think that selling slices of cake at so much a slice, so that some ten-cent purchaser will chance to secure a gold ring for a fortieth part of its value, a species of gambling, hasn't he a right to do it? Undoubtedly he has, my dear, but don't put green ribbon on that cushion, white is better. Suppose you choose to think it a perfectly innocent and rather amusing way of making a little money for a good cause, haven't you the same right? The right to think, perhaps, but not to act. For supposing him to be right and myself wrong, which is certainly possible, a bad example would be set and much mischief might be done, while on the other hand no possible harm could ensue from giving up the project. That's remarkably well put, Lycea, Mr. Sales said, with a touch of evident admiration in his voice. I'm not sure, but you ought to be a lawyer. Mrs. Tyndall laughingly agreed and gave her undivided attention to the staring wax doll at her left while Lycea continued her aside comments. Do you suppose she will give me a direct answer if I talk from now until day after tomorrow? I mean to try it. Seriously, Mrs. Tyndall, is it courteous to persist in a matter that the pastor of our church cannot approve when we call our entertainment a church festival, and the proceeds are for the benefit of the church? Hasn't the pastor a right to dictate in such a matter? Mrs. Tyndall hesitated. It was a member of her Bible class who asked the question. It was asked about her pastor, and it became her to hesitate. When she spoke her voice was sweetness itself. My dear Lycea, it is a great pleasure to see you so desirous of doing just right and so solicitous of our pastor's honor. It is really very becoming. Now let me explain matters to you a little. We have to study to please other people as well as ourselves in this world. And Mrs. Chandler, a woman of no religious principle whatever, chooses to interest herself in a ring cake and is thereby drawn into work very industriously with us. Now Dr. Mulford may not quite approve her manner of work. May say so in a very quiet, confidential way to your mother, for instance. But he is certainly a man of two correct views of propriety, too much good sense to interfere openly and thereby cause an unnecessary commotion. But suppose, Mrs. Tyndall, that his sense of propriety isn't equal to the occasion, and that he does interfere quite openly. What is going to be done about it? In the first place, my dear, we will not insult his good sense by supposing such a foolish thing. Don't you think you are getting that hem a trifle wider than is necessary? There will not be room for the fold. Lycea laughed with the utmost good humor, rather as though she had triumphed instead of being worsted. And, on the whole, I think she did, for I heard her say to Florence Hervey soon after with the utmost glee. I told you it would be simply impossible to smuggle her into a corner that she couldn't slip out of. It was not the only question that came up for discussion during the evening. The next excitement was little Ruthie. Put that small Quaker into our Turkish scene, I heard Mr. Sales say to our Commander-in-Chief. What, Ruth Walker? Do you really mean it? I'm not sure, but it would be an excellent idea. Her face would be a capital foil to some of the others. Ruth, however, on being appealed to, with very downcast eyes and a very flushed face, but with the most decided voice, declined being one of the ladies of the harem. Mrs. Tindall persisted and argued, even descended to coaxing, while Mr. Sales grew more eager over it every moment. Ruth did not like the tableau, did not think it was pretty nor nice, and would not take part in it. Sensible girl, Fred Thompson said to Mr. Sales, if all the other ladies in the crowd would follow her example, it would become them better. I don't like that picture. But Mr. Sales shrugged his shoulders and said, it is only because you are not the Sultan. Now, all this, in consideration of the fact that I was Chief Lady of the harem, was not pleasant to me. I wondered in a bewildered sort of way what they could all mean. When I look back on those days and remember, despite all the careful culture and painstaking education that had been given me, what a poor, silly simpleton I was. I am amazed that I did not get further astray even than I did. Oh mother, mother, how I did dishonor the blessed memory of one who tried so hard to guide me in the right way. The excitement over the Turkish scene had scarcely subsided when another ensued. We were preparing for our homeward walk when Mrs. Tyndall reiterated her parting injunction. Now girls, do try to be early tomorrow evening. We have very little time and a great deal to do. It will be especially important for you to be prompt, Miss Walker, as you have joined us so recently and have a great deal to learn. Then Ruth's fair, childlike face flushed again as she answered gently, I cannot come here tomorrow evening, Mrs. Tyndall. You cannot. Why, that is very unfortunate. I wish you had mentioned it before. We supposed, of course, that you would be able to attend the rehearsals when we invited you to join us. I really think you will have to waive your other engagement, whatever it is, and be present tomorrow evening. I did not suppose you would have rehearsal tomorrow evening because of the prayer meeting. That is the reason why I cannot come. At this earnestly spoken answer I winced a little, for was not tomorrow evening's prayer meeting the one I was supposed to attend, and yet I had not thought of it and was making eager plans for the evening? Lycea Simon's telegraphed a glance full of triumphant amusement to Mr. Sales and awaited Mrs. Tyndall's reply with evident interest. It was very gentle and courteous. Your interest in the prayer meeting is certainly commendable. A habit of regular attendance is very desirable, and as you are so young you may readily be pardoned for carrying it to an extreme. But, my dear girl, duty sometimes interferes with our pleasures. Quite a number of us will be obliged to waive our regular custom tomorrow evening and sacrifice ourselves to the work that must be done here. We would willingly postpone it if we could, but the time is very short, so I don't see but you will have to be one of the victims. There was a peculiar curve to Lycea's lip and an eager interest in her eye as she bent forward for Ruth's answer. The shy little girl blushed painfully at finding herself the center of observation, but her voice had not lost a shade of its decisive ring as she answered. I cannot come, Mrs. Tyndall. I have been taught to consider an attendance at the prayer meeting among my first duties, to which all matters of minor importance must yield, and I feel quite sure that mother would not approve. Just then I envied that quiet, meek-faced little shop girl, whose mother did fine ironing for a living, envied her simple, straightforward firmness. I felt that I would give much if I stood just where she did, if I could have consistently stood by her in her decision. But there seemed to be a great mountain of inconsistent acts for me to climb over before I could reach that place, and I had not the moral courage to make a beginning. Ah, me! I, too, knew a mother who I was quite sure would not approve of this, nor of a great many other acts of mine. I have always thought that amid all her faults Mrs. Tyndall had one good quality. She was unfailingly and persistently good-humored. When she absolutely could not make things work to suit herself, she gracefully and good-naturedly yielded. She turned from Ruth with a slight laugh as she said, O well, please yourself, at your age one cannot be expected to be very wise or thoughtful, and to Lysia she added before Ruth was fairly out of hearing, this comes from your talent of mixing incongruous elements. I must say I admired the little thing, Mr. Sales said as we walked homeward. She stood up staunchly for what she conceived to be her duty, and it required considerable moral courage. Then in a kind of uttered undertone, I wish I had an equal amount. Mrs. Tyndall laughed. Julia, she said, I am glad that you are a strong-minded and sensible young lady, and will not be likely to rush off to prayer-meeting tomorrow evening, leaving us to do the work merely for the sake of winning this romantic gentleman's approval. I had no answer ready, and went to my room grave and somewhat heavy-hearted. Little Ruth had dealt a stab at my inconsistencies that I could not immediately rally from. We had not heard the last of the ring cake. Dr. Mulford called on the afternoon before the festival. We were very busy rearranging my costume for one of the tableaux. When the doctor asked for a few moments' conversation, I arose to leave them, but Mrs. Tyndall detained me with an appealing hand. Pray, Julia, do not desert me. We have not a moment to lose. Doctor, is it something very special in private so that I mustn't keep Julia? You see, we are so exceedingly busy. It was in regard to the festival that he wished to speak, Dr. Mulford explained. Oh, then Julia ought to stay. I assure you she has been quite as wicked as I have during the whole of it. I sat down again, feeling very much as if I ought to be away. Then the entire question of church gambling came up and was discussed somewhat at length. Mrs. Tyndall tried several different tactics. At first she was gay and playful. The ring she assured him would be pure gold of the finest quality, no shaming about it, and the cake should be as white and light as pound cake could be made. The doctor was not to be silenced in that way. He was grave and in earnest. Then she questioned him. What possible harm could there be in allowing young people to extract a little amusement from a ring and a cake? He answered her with another question. What harm would there be in permitting two gentlemen to play at cards during the evening for the amusement of the guests at the festival and at its close present the money thus won to the church? Oh, that is a very different thing, she told him. It was money made by chance, he answered, and by playing upon the passion for trying one's luck, a passion which was found to a greater or less extent in the mind of every young person, the very passion which, if encouraged and cultivated, forms a confirmed gambler. Certainly we did not want to teach any such lesson in a church festival. This is Tyndall looked laughingly incredulous. Now, doctor, she said, with an attempt at gravity, do you really for one moment suppose that there will be a single person at our church festival who will be so devoid of brains as to be injured by so trifling a thing? Dr. Mulford answered with grave emphasis. I don't know anything about that, madame. Only God does. There might very possibly be a good company gathered together who would none of them become professional pickpockets, even though they were to indulge in that amusement for one evening. Yet I do not think it would be well to set our young people at such a work tomorrow evening, even though the proceeds were presented to the church. The simple truth is, Mrs. Tyndall, that we must abstain from all appearance of evil. We must not cover with the guise of charity and religion what the whole world condemns. We must not teach our young people that it is right to gamble for rings and rung to gamble for farms. If it is right to make ten dollars by chance, it is right to make ten thousand dollars in the same way. Mrs. Tyndall grew grave and courteous. I am sorry, she said gently, that we did not understand your peculiar views before. It would have been easy enough in the first place to have avoided all this. But now, you know Mrs. Chandler, doctor, she has the matter in hand. You know she is not apt to be interested in religious festivals of any sort, rarely does anything. But she has chosen to do this, seems deeply interested in it. I really think it may be the means of enlisting her assistance in other church matters. You know we must be all things to all men, doctor. Oh, there will good arise even from this. But I am sorry it has occurred. I would not have you annoyed for the world. It shall not occur again, I assure you. But she had a man of adamant opinions to deal with, and he frankly and kindly, but very plainly, explained to her that it would be impossible to countenance with his presence any such proceeding, that if it were carried out he must absent himself. Mrs. Tyndall had no desire for any such publicity, had not the slightest desire to quarrel with her pastor, and promptly assured him that of course, since he felt so deeply on the subject, the whole affair should be suppressed. I think it was at that time, however, that she mentally decided that the First Church of Newton really needed a younger man for their pastor. I have always considered it the very refinement of courteous revenge that Mrs. Tyndall bought the enormous and elaborate pound-cake at an exorbitant price, and sent it, ring and all, daintily box and gracefully addressed, for Mrs. Mulford with Mrs. H. F. Tyndall's love. CHAPTER XVI The festival was a success without either ring-cake or grab-bag, for the opposition to the latter had proved to be so marked that it, too, was discarded, though the curious silk bag was sold by ticket in a kind of genteel private way. During the whirl of preparation many of my accustomed duties had been neglected, among others my regular Thursday letter to mother. For three weeks I had not written a line to her, and I comforted myself with the thought that when this festival was over I should have plenty of time for that, and a great variety of other neglected matters. But no sooner had we calmed down from the excitement of our own festival when we became eager over one that was to take place in a village a short distance from Newton. Mrs. Tyndall had a niece living there who was deeply interested in the affair, and Mrs. Tyndall's last brilliant idea was that a few of us should go out there and repeat for them our most successful tableaus. I entered into the scheme with great glee. Indeed I had reached such a pitch of excitement that I seemed to have lost what little common sense I ever possessed. But some of the girls demurred. Lysia Simons, when appealed to, answered promptly and with some hot tour that she was not a professional performer and did not hire out by the night. At which Mrs. Tyndall composedly laughed and remarked as we left the corner where our conference had been held, poor Lysia will never forgive Jerome for not inviting her into the Turkish tableau, nor me for not directing him to do so. She has been spiteful ever since. Is that the trouble? I asked, with wide open eyes, and she laughed as she answered. Why, yes, you innocent mouse, you seem to have no idea that you are the envy of most of the young ladies in our set. Now I had not during all this time remained ignorant of the fact that Mr. Sales was a general favorite. He was cultured and courteous, and had the air of a finished gentleman. He was reputed wealthy, both in reality and in prospect, being the expected heir of a wealthy uncle. Nor had I been at all unconscious of the fact that while he might apparently have had but to choose his society from any family in town, his preference for me had become so marked and decided that it was a subject of general interest among our mutual acquaintances. I felt immensely flattered and grateful, and those very feelings led me into making some sad blunders. Well, concerning the festival, there were others who were of the same mind as Lycia Simon's. Among them little Ruth Walker, though her mind was not expressed in the same manner, but simply and gently, that mother would rather she did not go. And Mrs. Tyndall's assurance that it should not cost her assent if that were the difficulty in the way, only had the effect of bringing a very becoming pink flush to her pretty face, and of giving perhaps a little more decided ring to her voice as she repeated her refusal. But there were others quite as eager for excitement as myself who hailed the proposition with glee, and we made up a company of seven and planned and rehearsed and frolicked away another week of time. In the meantime that unwritten letter to my mother lay heavy on my conscience, but my preparations had all to be made after working hours in the shop were over, and they left me very little chance even to think. One thing I carefully did, I avoided all tata-tates with Dr. Douglas, though I could hardly have told why. At least I did not answer the question even to myself. It was the afternoon before the festival. I had been excused from the shop in order to finish my preparations. We were to take the six o'clock train and expected to return on the two o'clock express. Dr. Douglas had hardly been present at table during the week. He was unusually pressed with professional cares. When he was present there seemed to be a tacit understanding that our proposed trip was not to be discussed, at least the subject was not mentioned. As we arose from dinner on this particular day, the doctor turned suddenly to me. Julia, can you give me ten minutes of your time? I have a message for you. And without waiting for my reply he had once led the way to the library and closed the door after us. Then immediately he said, Julia, are you going on that singular expedition tonight? Dr. Douglas was not wise in his commencement. To address a girl of sixteen, especially one as devoid of sense as I seem at that time to have been, in a kind of horrified tone about something that she had fully made up her mind to do, is nearly certain to exasperate her. Accordingly I was exasperated. I expect to go to Westbrook this evening, I said haughtily, if that is the expedition to which you refer. He has told me since that he saw his mistake. His tone changed to one of gentle persuasion. Julia, I wish you would not. There are many reasons to urge against it. In the first place the evening is fearfully cold and stormy, and you will get no rest to-night. And besides, have you thought how it will appear to absent yourself during a time of special interest, not only from all the meetings of the week, but from this regular Thursday meeting? You have, too, a young lady among your number, who last week attended every meeting, and now at the last moment I hear has been persuaded into joining you. Who is it? I interrupted. Carrie Seward, Julia, I would not have had her mind let away at this time for anything. It is a very solemn thing to do. I didn't ask her to go, I interrupted impatiently. I didn't even know she was going, and your objections come at a singular time, a few hours before we are ready to start. How could we change our plans now, if we wanted to, when we are expected and dependent upon? You have known for a week that we are going. Why haven't you interfered before if you intended to at all? I did not know it, Julia, he said gravely. I knew that some wild scheme of the kind was projected, but I did not know that Mrs. Tyndall was engaged in it, nor that she had drawn you in. I certainly thought that she had more sense. Thank you," I said loftily. I drew myself into it, and I am not at all disturbed about it. Do you want me any more? Because I have a great deal to do between this and Six o'clock." Yes, he said, beginning to walk the floor in the restless way that I remembered so well as a child. I want you to give up this scheme, Julia. I entreated of you. It is a momentous time with us. There are solemn interests at stake. Had you been present at the meetings during this week, you would understand what a strange thing it will appear to have some of our members absent for such a purpose on such a night as this. Besides, there are other reasons. I am sure you have not stopped to think how your mother would look upon your public appearance in such a scene as that in which I saw you the other evening. I don't know what you mean, I said, coloring violently and speaking angrily. I mean, he said gravely, that I am sorry to have a friend of mine take for five seconds and in play the degrading and disgraceful position of a miserable heathen woman, a position which Christianity abolishes and which women speak of when they are obliged to speak of it at all with blushes of pain and shame. You are young and innocent, Julia, and the blame of bringing you in such a manner before the public rests upon older heads than yours. But for your sister Esther's sake I would not have the like occur again. By this time my cheeks were blazing and I must say in extenuation of my own conduct that I had a very vague idea of what he meant. I was both thoughtless and innocent and had been led on by another precisely as I have since seen young misses allowing themselves to be led, and I know just how they will feel about it at twenty, provided they have not by that time decided not to feel or think at all. The doctor checked the indignant answer that rose to my lips. There is another point about which I must speak. This morning I received a letter from your mother. She is in a state of terrible anxiety about you. She writes me that she has not heard from you in four weeks and feels certain that you must be ill. She has spent nights of torture, she says, on your account. I immediately telegraphed her that you are well. I thought we ought not to wait to write, for I value a mother too highly to keep her long in such suspense as was evidently hers. But since reading her letter I have been led to fear that I was not doing my duty in regard to you. You must let me ask you some very plain questions, Julia. Are you engaged to Mr. Sales? At which question my cheeks, if possible, flamed hotter than before, and I answered with excitement. Such a question is that you have no right to ask. No one but my mother has any right to question me in that way. I don't feel certain of that, he answered gently. In this letter which I have received today your mother begs me to remember that she trusts her child to my care and that she expects me to watch over you as earnestly as I would if I were your brother in name as well as in heart. In view of all the apparent circumstances, if I were your brother I should ask you the question which I have just now asked you, and I feel that I must understand this matter before I can reply to your mother's letter. I wish my mother could remember that I am not a ten-year-old child, I said angrily. Well, since you demand an answer I am not engaged to Mr. Sales, and I haven't the slightest expectation of being, and you can telegraph that to my mother if you think best. Is that satisfactory? I don't know whether it is or not, he answered with grave sternness, because I hardly see how I can justify such constant attentions as you have received and accepted from him on any other grounds. You are not called upon to justify them, I said pertly, and as I think of it now I am almost surprised that he did not box my ears and reply. I cannot in the first place see how you can reconcile it with your conscience or even with your pride to receive his marked attentions when you think of Frank Hooper. Curiosity got the better of my pride just then, and I listened eagerly while he continued. I don't think you can know quite how base his utter desertion of Frank was. They were to have been married in less than two months' time when the great business crash came that involved Mr. Hooper and ruined his fortune, and then it took this Mr. Sales but a few days to discover that he and Frank were not suited to each other. This story was entirely new to me. It made my cheeks glow again, but I answered with an incredulous smile. I thought you were proof against gossip, doctor. If this remarkable history is true, how do you account for the fact that Frank Hooper has twice at least appeared with him in public during the last three months? I can only account for it by the remembrance that she is a loving, forgiving, infatuated girl, he answered gravely. I believe I had the history on too good authority to discredit it. Nevertheless I discredit it, I answered loftily, and now if you have nothing further I really must go. I have a great deal to do before evening. I moved toward the door as I spoke, but he detained me eagerly. Julia, let me beg you to think of this matter. I do earnestly hope that you will decide not to go. I shall decide no such thing, I said angrily. How absurdly you talk! How can I change it all now when I am pledged to go? Very easily you can have no idea of the severity of the evening. I have heard it suggested several times that the festival would undoubtedly be postponed. Most of their people are from the country, and the country roads will be impassable. You know quite well that if your mother were here she would not permit you to go. But besides all this, if there are really souls at stake, ought you not to be in your place this evening instead of working against the current? I stood silent and thoughtful for a moment, then said quickly. There is no use in talking about it any longer. People can't whirl their plans around as quickly as that. I can go to meeting every evening after this one for a month. There will be nothing in the world to hinder. Then I immediately left the room. Nevertheless, as I closed the door, I almost decided not to go. I was by no means in so reckless and unconcerned a mood as I had chosen to assume. I crossed the hall, revolving plans in my mind for satisfying Mrs. Tyndall with a change of program. It would not be such an impossible thing to do, I said. We are only in two tableaus, after all, and the entire festival does not depend upon them. And if the evening is going to be so stormy, it will certainly justify us in not taking a ride of three miles after we leave the station. I was halfway upstairs when Mrs. Tyndall's silvery voice summoned me to the back parlor. She was sunken into the depths of her favorite crimson chair, with an exceedingly listless and inattentive expression on her face, and Dr. Mulford stood near her speaking earnestly. My dear, she said, as I entered, you are in demand today. The doctors seem to have you in their keeping. Dr. Mulford wishes to see you. He came toward me at once, holding out his hand and speaking rapidly. My dear young lady, I have come to make a very earnest request that you would reconsider your plan for the evening, even at this late hour. I did not know of it until very recently. Mrs. Tyndall and yourself are the only professing Christians of the party, and you have some among your number, one in particular, who is treading on a very dangerous ground. She has simply entered into the scheme for the sake of trying to stifle her conscience. I beg that you will not help her in the effort. Besides, we need your help, your moral support. I am confident that there are many souls among us just trembling in the balance, and such a very little thing may turn the scale. And what about our pledged word, doctor, and the expectations that are based upon us? You seem to forget these things. He turned eagerly toward her. I do not, madame. Under ordinary circumstances I should counsel you to be exceedingly careful in regard to breaking in engagement. But this is a special matter. It is the Lord's work. It behooves us to lay aside every possible weight and be ready for His appearing. My brother Reynolds is pastor of that church, and if you will permit me I will myself explain matters to him. I know him well, and I assure you that he will understand and appreciate the reasons for the change." Mrs. Tyndall smiled quietly. "'You gentlemen are the most singular creatures,' she said quietly. You think a word of kindly explanation is all that is necessary to justify one in almost anything. Now I am not responsible to reverent Mr. Reynolds, but to a committee of ladies, and I know them better than to disappoint them. My dear, would it not be well for you to commence your preparations? It is growing late. I think the doctor will excuse you. But I lingered for the issue. I am sorry, doctor, that our going makes any difference. I do not quite understand these times of excitement, you know, and fail to be in sympathy with them. To me it seems so much better to live our religion all the time than to have these periodical and spasmodic fits of it, but then, of course, I have nothing to do with that. As for Cary Seward, the child came to me last night in the wildest spirits. Your meeting seemed to have afforded her a great fund of amusement. And, by the way, I fear a number of those giddy creatures are deceiving you in the same manner. I should not have asked her to join us had I been aware of your objections. But, as it is, you need have no fear. The giddy little thing will be safer with us than she will be frolicking in the prayer meeting. To all of which Dr. Mulford made no sort of reply. He even bowed his adduce without speaking and immediately went away. What an abrupt man he is, was Mrs. Tindall's comment. CHAPTER XVII The ride from the station was severe enough to justify all that Dr. Douglas had said upon the subject. I thought I should perish. The hall was somewhat dingy and only about half filled. A miserable foreboding of some coming gloom seemed to possess me. I tried in vain to shake it off. Mr. Sales rallied me upon my low spirits, and Mrs. Tindall laughingly assured him that two doctors had been too much for me. They had indeed succeeded in making me very uncomfortable. I watched Cary Seward, who was fluttering about in a very unnatural state of excited glee, with a nervous fear of some calamity coming to her because of us, because of me, for I was the important element in our party that evening, and I could have broken it up. Why did I not? How many times after that evening I asked myself the same weary question? And the answer always was that I yielded weakly, wickedly, as usual, to Mrs. Tindall's stronger will. I, who prided myself and always had done so on my firm, strong will, when it came to the test had no will at all, but allowed myself to listen and be led, whither she would. I have learned since a fact that it takes many young people long to learn that there is a marked difference between firmness and obstinacy. To add to my discomforture the evening had proved so forbidding that we had not been expected, and every individual to whom we were introduced expressed surprise at seeing us. I smiled drearily over Mr. Sales' wonderment as to what all those people would probably have said if the evening had been clear and quiet, so that they could not have said, I am surprised to see you here this stormy evening. Then I turned in response to his exclamation, but I do not think I was surprised to see Dr. Douglas standing in the doorway. It seemed to me to be an answer to everything for which I had been watching and waiting. I went toward him at once, and said in a tone of voice, which I remember sounded strange even to me. Have you come for me? Yes, he said quickly. Your mother is not well, they have telegraphed. If you are very quick indeed we may be able to reach the ten o'clock train. It was like Dr. Douglas that answer, brief, rapid, to the point, and giving me a strong motive for self-control and haste. I made no outcry of any sort, but went like one suddenly stricken dumb to the dressing-room. It was Mrs. Tindall's quick, deft fingers that robed me for the journey. She was tender and gentle, quiet and rapid in all her movements, but the face that impressed me even then was the white, frightened one of Carrie Seward, and the words that sank like lead into my heart seemed to drop almost unconsciously from her trembling lips. We ought not to have come, I knew it, I knew it. Mrs. Tindall's last, thoughtful act was to wrap me in her fur-lined traveling cloak, and then I was ready. Dr. Douglas stood waiting beside the sleigh, and it was but the work of a second of time to seat me therein and give the order, drive on. The horses dashed ahead, and the swift, silent drive commenced. The doctor tucked the robes about me, pushed a hot stone to my feet, keeping, meantime, a keen eye on the horses and saying occasionally, Go as fast as possible, we haven't a moment to lose. When we were within a quarter of a mile of the station, a long shrill whistle sounded out of the keen air. It's of no use, sir, the driver said, slackening his rein for the first time. That's the whistle. You can't reach the train. They will wait, I think. At least we will try. Dash ahead. You shall have ten dollars if we are in time. Then first I spoke impaled by a sudden horrible fear. Doctor, is she dead? No, oh no, but quite sick, and delays are such trying things at such a time. You shall be with her as soon as possible. And then we dashed around the curve and drew up beside the train. The conductor stood on the platform, watching hand. As he saw us, the engine bell began to ring. I thought we should have to leave you, he said, as we hurried up the steps, four minutes behind. We are very grateful, answered the doctor. There is no knowing how much those four minutes may be worth to us. Oh no, there was no knowing. I shivered to think of how much they might be worth. I grew every moment more frightened. The doctor must have reason to think her very, very sick I reasoned, or every nerve would not have been so strained to reach this particular train, for I knew there was another at midnight. When we changed cars at Weymouth, I seemed suddenly to arouse to the fact that he was still with me and had not stopped there to wait for a return train as I had supposed he would. Are you going all the way? I questioned, and he answered me simply and promptly, certainly. Another proof then that this illness was alarming, for I knew he was leaving patients who were very ill. Perhaps they had telegraphed him to come as counsel. Did they send for you? I asked eagerly. He shook his head. No, at least not professionally, but I didn't wish you to go alone. Doctor, let me see the telegram. I haven't it. I left it in my room when I went there for some articles. What did it say exactly? It said, Mother is very sick, bring Julia. Now you know all that I do, and we will hope for the best and try to be calm and trustful. Can't I arrange those shawls and cloaks into pillows, and will you try to get a little rest? I shook my head in horror at the thought, and I remembered just then one of his arguments against my attendance at the festival. You will get no rest tonight. It was a night of bloom and foreboding, a long, long night, and when occasionally I caught a snatch of sleep, I awoke with hysteric sobbing from dreams of my mother's dying face. It was a clear, still dazzling midday when we hurried through the streets of New Haven. The mocking sun was lighting the world in splendor as if it were not a sad, weary, frightful world. I had pictured to myself, many a time, the pleasure of rolling through the streets of New Haven and stopping at Sadie's door, but I had never pictured it in this way. Oh, never! The sleigh stopped at last, and Dr. Douglas lifted me out. A strange face opened to the door and addressed us hurriedly. The lady is to come up quick. Oh, where! I asked wildly and struggled to free my arm from Dr. Douglas's grasp, but he held me firmly and spoke with gentle decision. Be quiet, Julia. Remember how much may be depending on your self-control. Then we went up the stairs together into that pleasant self-chamber that had been so accurately described to me as mother's room. I took in but one object distinctly. That was my mother's form. It was very unnaturally quiet, and the eyes were turned heavenward, and had in them a wrapped unearthly gaze. Dr. Van Anden held up his finger with a hushing gesture, but in almost the same moment said, she has entered in, and turned pittingly toward me. But there came to me, then, one of those blessed moments of utter and entire unconsciousness. I remember only that when all knowledge of earth went from me, my head was lying where it had so often lain before on my mother's breast. What a terrible awakening it was! How the dumb, awful sense of my loss and my desolation surged over me! Oh, mother, mother! I had neglected her. I had disobeyed her teachings, disregarded her injunctions, but I had loved her. How much I never knew until I knelt there beside a mother from whom the soul had fled. I shall never forget it, that scene, nor the weary hours and days that followed, hours in which I was utterly and sometimes wildly rebellious. Only to have heard her voice once more, to have felt her kind eyes resting on me, to have been able to say to her, Oh, dear, dear, mother, forgive me. And then I thought I could have borne it. I remember how it seemed to me when I heard my brother say in low tones to Dr. Douglas, if only you could have reached here on the morning express. I thought you would. I ascertained that my telegram went through. How came you to miss that train? She was conscious for more than an hour and talked with each one of us. If Julia could have been here then. I think my voice must have sounded strangely to them. It had a hollow sound to me, and they both started when I spoke. Dr. Douglas, is that morning express of which you spoke, the one that leaves Newton at eight o'clock? The doctor understands my nature very well. He never evades the truth, so he simply bowed his head. Did you get the telegram before eight? Another silent bow. Then if I had stayed home that evening, I could have been here in time. This time he bent over me and spoke in pitying tones. Julia, my poor child, remember the compassionate Saviour knows all about it. But I answered him only by a low murmured, Oh, how can I ever bear it? And truly it seemed to me that I could not. Sadie was all tenderness and thoughtfulness. She talked to me a great deal of mother, dwelling particularly on the remembrance of how much mother had talked about me during the last weeks of her life, how great her anxiety was lest I was overworking, lest I was lonely and homesick and grieving for her. Sadie little knew what barbed arrows her words often were. To her these were only little tender memories of mother's constant brooding love for her child. To me they were proofs that I had racked her tired heart with unnecessary anxieties and stung her with cruel neglect. During some of these talks Dr. Douglas was present and he used to stand with averted face, if possible with his back to us looking at a book or paper. Once when Sadie was speaking of my mother's fears when no letter came, he turned suddenly and spoke almost sharply. She received my telegram, did she not? Oh yes, Sadie said, and we were so thankful. She slept well that night. But the night before she said that every time she slept she dreamed that Julia was in great peril and awoke in a fright. We thought seriously ascending for Julia to come and make us a visit and relieve mother's mind. If we had not received your telegram just when we did, we should have sent for her. Then, Dr. Douglas, I said with a burst of uncontrollable tears, I wish you had never sent it. He came and sat down by me, speaking gently and tenderly. All things work together for good to them that love God. I don't love him, I said, amid my passionate weeping. I don't think I ever could have loved him or I would never have gone on living as I have during this dreadful time. It is all a mistake. Everything is a dreadful, dreadful mistake. These times of violent grief were very rare with me. More generally, I felt stunned, apathetic, indifferent to everything. I remember what loving care my brother Alfred had over me during those days. I remember principally his earnest, simple, fervent prayers when occasionally he led in family worship. I remember a certain dull sense of comfort I felt in thinking that Alfred was not like me, and Sadie was not like me, and that my mother was with those of her children who must have been a joy to her and away from the one who would only have given her pain. It was the morning of the day on which we were to bury our dead that Sadie came to me in my room, and wrapping loving arms about me, said gently, Dear Julia, you have said nothing in regard to our dress. I do not care anything about dress, I said almost fiercely. I hate the word. She looked at me with a sort of pitying surprise. She did not know how persistently this question had robbed me of my peace during the past months, how at times it had seemed a very demon whose aim was to appear before me whenever there came into my heart a shadow of longing after a different life from the one which I was leading. Mother spoke of it, Sadie began again in low tone after a moment's puzzled pause. She never approved of the custom of wearing mourning, you know. The feeling grew upon her, and she spoke particularly of her desire that we should make no change. Will that be unpleasant to you, Dear? No, I said apathetically. Nothing is unpleasant or pleasant to me any more. I don't care about anything. Only Heaven and Mother, Father and Esther, all there waiting for us, Sadie said tenderly. But I think the strongest feeling in my mind at that time was a dull sense of satisfaction in the thought that I should go back to Newton and shock Mrs. Tyndall by not wearing mourning. During those days I had a kind of fierce feeling toward Mrs. Tyndall as if she were the author of all my sorrow. It was a strange time these two weeks that I spent with Sadie. Dr. Douglas went home the morning after the funeral and left me to rest. I don't think I rested much. I gave entire freedom to the torpor that had come upon me. I did not try to rally from it in the least. My heart felt dead within me and I let it remain thus without an attempt or wish to rouse it into action. I told myself there was nothing to live for. Sadie had a husband and a home. I was not necessary to her comfort or happiness. Alfred was intent upon his business, his Sunday school, his little mission class. He had no need of me. And here was Mother lying low under the sod upon which I was sitting, for I went much to my Mother's grave. And during this time I do not think I once thought of her as glorified. Heaven seemed nowhere to me. There was nothing anywhere but a grave. As I look back on those days I wondered that my brain endured the strain that I put upon it. I wonder most of all how those who have no personal acquaintance with a dying risen redeemer can ever live through the long weary days that follow the making of a new grave in which they're all seems to be buried. I know now something of what it might have been to have lived so near to Jesus that I could have almost seen him open the gates of the holy city to let my Mother in. That I could have almost heard the anthem of the angels as they sang her welcome home. There was no need that I should sit thus drearily upon a grave and look only on crumbling earth when I knew that Heaven and Christ and Mother were all realities and far above and away from graves. But yet it was not to me as if no savior of mine had ever lain therein. I was not conscious of feeling it. I was not conscious of a friend. I did not lean my head on his bosom as I might have done. I stood straight and tall and sullen. And yet I know now that all the while he'd led me by the hand, else I would surely have dropped away into despair. CHAPTER 18 In which the blind led the blind. The day on which I journeyed back to Newton was one of those rainy, sleety, unutterably dreary days of late winter. I shuddered as I looked gloomily out on the black and dreary objects past which we whirled. Life seemed to me utterly purposeless and hopeless. I had not rallied from my sorrow as girls of sixteen are want to do. I think there was too much regret and remorse mingled with my weeping to let my tears be easily stayed. I had steadily resisted Dr. Van Anden's earnest offers of a home in Sadie's pleading. I was going back to Newton. I had begun to earn my own living. I had meant some day to earn not only mine but mothers. All that was past, but I was not in a mood to give up my work. Indeed I needed it to keep me from sinking in utter gloom. Those days of idleness and nights of bitter, unavailing weeping spent alone in mother's room while nigh drove me distracted. I think they all saw this at last and yielded to my fierce wish to get to work. My employers had been very kind as kindness goes. The senior partner, Mr. Sales, had written me a letter full of well-meaning set phrases. He had reminded me that sorrow was the common lot of all, and that I must expect to be tried in the furnace of affliction, that in the midst of life we are in death, and that I had one more reminder that time was short, closing with a statement that two weeks were the utmost limit of their indulgence to me. They should like to do better, especially in this time of trial, but business cares were very pressing and they needed all hands at their posts. I tore the letter into bits and burned it. Not that I considered it a bad letter in its way, not that I was ungrateful to them for their kindness inspiring me for two weeks. I knew they were busy and needed me, but it cut me so to see the cold hard fact set down in so many words that mother was dead. Everybody knew it and realized it. I need expect no one to say to me, perhaps you are mistaken, perhaps she is not dead after all, or perhaps you will hear from her tomorrow. Never such words any more. My mother was dead and buried. Everybody accepted the hard unyielding fact, and yet everybody went on about their work, and I must go about mine just as usual. The books must be kept and everywhere things would be just as they had been except that my Saturday evening letter would never come again. Oh, that awful exception! I shivered and drew my waterproof closer about me as I stepped from the cars at Newton. The air seemed thick and heavy, and yet was keen and pierced me through. I expected no one to meet me. I had not written to announce my arrival. It suited my mood best to go in sullen loneliness to my boarding-place, but my feet had no sooner touched the ground than I felt my hand drawn through a firm strong arm, and in a moment more I was seated in a close carriage. I silently gave my check when it was demanded and leaned back in the carriage with a little touch of softened feeling over the fact that I had still a friend. How did you know I was coming tonight, I asked, as Dr. Douglas, having attended to my baggage, seated himself beside me? Alfred telegraphed me this morning, according to my directions, he said quietly, as if it were a matter of course. Mrs. Tyndall's reception of me was the very perfection of kindness, tender, gentle, sympathetic, and yet not officious. But she jarred upon me. I felt in my heart bitter toward her. I blamed her for all my shortcomings and heart wanderings. More than all, I blamed her for that last evening of giddy pleasure. But for her, I said to myself, in what gloom and desolation only my own heart knew, but for her I should have seen my mother again. I should have heard her speak one more word, for I would not have gone that evening if she would have given up. And then there would come such a rush of hard rebellious longings into my soul, and I would feel almost as if I hated her. Oh, those heavy days! I began to pray again regularly, morning and evening, as I had been want to do, for I did not openly rebel. But there was no comfort in my praying, no sense of nearness to my saviour. A great gloomy wall seemed built up between Christ and my weary heart, and I could not get to him. At least I thought I couldn't. In the shop I worked steadily and silently. The girls were kind. Frank Hooper spoke to me in softened tones. Caroline Brighton left me entirely out of her practical jokes, and little Ruth Walker kissed me softly and silently, night and morning. And so I dragged my unwilling soul through the dreadful days, and sometimes it seemed to me that I should die. Sometimes I wished and longed for death. Often and often I fiercely longed for a sharp, protracted, prostrating illness, one that would bring delirium or unconsciousness to me. Many a time since then I have wondered at the goodness of my father in not answering in all their bitter meaning my wild, unspoken prayers. It was not a natural condition of mind for one so young as I. It was not a simple, submissive sorrow. But my life for months had not been a healthy life, either spiritually or morally, and the reaction was marked and lasting. Dr. Douglas pushed to the door that separated the dining-room from the library, and lingered beside me in the latter place one evening before the others came in. Julia, he said gently, will you not go out with me to the meeting this evening? No, I said, with a sudden rush of tears. I recalled vividly how I had said to him that I would go to church every evening after the festival, that there would be nothing in the world to hinder, and truly there was not, there need be no letters written to mother now. I don't want to go, I continued. I don't want to do anything nor see anybody. Will she like that, do you think? He asked me in low, sad tones. I checked my tears and wonderment and questioned, who? Your mother, do you imagine that she has lost all interest in you because she has gone to another home, especially when she is looking forward to the time when you will come to be with her there? Do you think she is pleased with your utter abandonment of yourself to your sorrow, as if you had lost her forever? There seemed a newness and strangeness in these ideas. Will she like that, do you think? He had said, not that dreadful, would she have liked it if? That was always like the sharp pointed needles pushed into me, but this will she, not as though I had lost my mother, not that she had dropped out of life and left a blank. It flashed across me like a new idea. My mother is living, she does not live in New Haven now, she has moved, and the city to which she has moved is wonderful and beautiful, and she expects me to come and live with her. The sensation was new, and it thrilled me. She cared for me still. If she was living, she had not ceased to love me. I smiled at the thought. I looked up gratefully at Dr. Douglas. I did not think of her as really living in heaven, I said. Indeed, heaven seemed to me to be nowhere. It seemed to me that she must be in the grave. I saw her laid there, her very face, and the cloud swept over me again at the remembrance of that open grave, and I finished my sentence with choking tears. Dr. Douglas's next sentence hushed and odmy, and flushed my face with eager wonder and wild anxiety. I have a message for you from her, he said quietly, and he drew from his pocket a small sealed package and gave it to me. I don't know anything of the contents, he added. The package was entrusted to me to give to you when I thought you could endure it. I think you need it now. I seized upon it in nervous haste and hurried away with it to my room. The address was in Sadie's handwriting, and within, on a slip of paper that was folded carefully around the sheet, she had written a few lines. My dear sister, only a few weeks ago I was talking with our mother about Esther's letter to me, read by me long after she was safe in heaven. I told mother about what an influence I thought it had exerted over my life since then, how much I prized it, and then I let her read it. I had never brought myself to do so before, but I thought mother would like to know about it. She seemed very much interested and deeply moved, and the next evening she entrusted the enclosed note to my keeping. You will see how it is addressed, she said. If I should be called first you may give it to her. Oh, Julia, I remember with what a great throb of pain I took it from her, hoping and praying in my selfish heart that some other hand than mine might give it to you, that when mother went away I might be there in heaven to welcome her, not that I wanted to leave my husband in my home, but I wanted to cling to mother. It was but a few days afterward that God called her, and now, my darling, I send this letter to you. I hope it will not make your pain deeper. I trust that it will come to be a help and a comfort to you. Then I took up with reverend hand the enclosed sheet, and read in that dear handwriting that was so familiar to me those loving words, to be given to my dear daughter Julia when her mother is at rest. That sentence brought a burst of tears, and it was some little time before I was quiet enough to open the letter and read. My precious child, so it commenced when at last my tear-dimmed eyes could decipher the words, Mother isn't going to make you sad over this letter. I do not want you to be that. I write it rather that it may come to you in your sorrow and help you to be strong and brave. When you read it, darling, think of where I am, in heaven. Your father and Esther and I waiting there for the rest of the children. It is not to be a long letter, it is only to say God bless you and keep you near to him. Remember, my child, that mother's great longing for absorbing desire for you is that you shall keep close to Jesus. The older I grow and the nearer I come to the end, the more I realize that for us who are his children there should be one absorbing prayer. Nearer my God to thee, nearer to thee, even though it be a cross that razeth me. Now, my darling child, goodbye. I give you a mother's blessing to follow you all your life. May it be a long, good life, such and one as we, waiting for you up there, will love to look at. I hope it will be a cheerful life, that great trial or pain may not be necessary for you. But remember, above all other things, I hope and pray that it may be a life of single-hearted consecration to Christ. My darling, goodbye. God bless you and keep you, mother. I sat still, very still, and held this sacred letter in my hands. My tears were dried. I did not feel like shedding any more. I felt odd and solemnized. It almost seemed to me that I had heard a voice speaking to me from heaven. I had never hoped for another letter from my mother. I had mourned, oh, so bitterly, that she could not have said to me, goodbye. Now here it was, the goodbye, the blessing, the earnest parting words. There was no hint as to what my life had been of late. I was thankful that my mother had been spared the grief of knowing, even though it be a cross that raises me. I had not prayed that prayer, but perhaps mother had for me. The cross had fallen upon me bitter and heavy to be borne. Would it raise me to him? It shall, I said, aloud and solemnly. I will live a different life. Oh, mother, your prayer shall be answered. I will hide my life in Christ. I prayed that night, prayed long and earnestly, but there was no rest in the prayer, no comfort, no light. The words as I spoke them seemed to sound dully back against my own heart. Still I was in a measure satisfied. I felt that my cold-heartedness was the reaction from incessant grief. I made many resolutions. I would begin to live now in earnest. I told myself I would be strong and brave as mother had wished. I would make myself what I knew would please her. There was work for me to do in every direction. I would not shrink from or shirk it any more. As I look back tonight on the resolves and the prayers of that evening, I both smile and sigh, smile at my ignorance, and sigh that it was possible to have been so ignorant. I who had been a Christian for more than six years. How wonderful it is that Christ submits to our being named after him while we are living such miserable, dwarfed, sickly lives. I seemed to imagine that I had but to signify my willingness to retrace my steps and take up my dropped and neglected duties lying about me on every side when at once the full blaze of light and love and peace would burst upon me. I went to work at once among the girls in the shop, and I worked very much as I prayed with many laborious, earnest, sounding words that seemed to sound hollow and bound back at me from every point. Frank, I said, in earnest and disapproving tones, when we were alone in the storeroom for a few minutes. Why don't you attend the meetings? I should think you might show so much interest at least. Frank bestowed a searching look on me and then answered solemnly. Because I am a reprobate, there is no mistaking that fact. I really don't believe there is any hope for me. Suppose you try Carrie Brighton. I shouldn't wonder if you'd find her in a softened state of mind. I am a sad instance of total depravity. There have to be some standing proofs to a doctrine, living witnesses, you know, and I am one of them. I wouldn't trifle about anything so solemn, I said severely. Solom is what, total depravity? It is a solemn truth. I'm convinced of that. I don't trifle with it. It trifles with me. Lies in wait to deceive me at every point. She whisked off at the conclusion of this sentence and left me wondering whether indeed her gaily-spoken words were not true and herself a hopeless reprobate, and not a shadow of doubt as to whether I had spoken the right words to her in the right manner for one moment entered my mind. I made one more effort during that day. I asked Caroline Brighton if she didn't think it would be a good idea for her to go to the meeting that evening. She answered me with grave thoughtfulness. I don't know. What time do they close? What time was it last night and the night before? I don't know, I answered confusedly. I wasn't there. Oh, well, if I thought it would be out by eight, I might go. But you see, I am going to the circus at eight, and if they shouldn't close in time, it might be awkward. There was a chorus of laughter from the girls who had heard her loud replies and guessed at my low-spoken questions. How religious that girl is getting, I overheard one of the girls say as I passed out of sight but not out of sound, and Caroline answered, It isn't religion, poor child, but she thinks it is. Her mother is dead and she feels dismal and has mistaken the symptoms. I feel as patient as Job toward her. And this is all my profession of religion was worth in that shop. Yet I was in earnest. I honestly grieved over my failures. Only there was this one difficulty. I never imagined them to be my failures. I was being led by my own blind self and mistaking it for the leadings of the Spirit of God. CHAPTER 19 In which are conflicting forces. One of the marked features of my changed feelings during those days was my aversion for Mrs. Tyndall. It grew upon me, which was no wonder, for I nursed it as a virtuous thing. I would not tolerate the slightest interference from her. Indeed, I named her most innocent and kindly words after that title. I really wonder at her patience with my lofty ears and often sharp words. I remember how vexed I was to discover that Dr. Douglas by no means approved of this marked change. I don't understand you in the least, I said to him one evening, speaking irritably. There seems to be no such thing as pleasing you. When I was allowing Mrs. Tyndall to lead me in any direction that she chose, you were always looking grave and disturbed over it. And now that I am trying to break away from her influence and be myself, you seem equally out of sorts about it. No, Julia, he answered gravely. I am not sorry that you do not yield to her influence as you formerly did. I am only sorry for the manner in which you exhibit the change. You seem almost bitter in your feeling toward Mrs. Tyndall and unjust in your estimate of her. I am bitter, I said fiercely. I wonder if I haven't reason. Think what a life she has made me lead. She has interfered with everything that was ever taught me. She has warped my judgment and biased my opinions. And, worse than all, made me neglect my own mother. I can never forgive her for it. But Julia, he interposed with a puzzled and troubled air, was it absolutely necessary to follow in her footsteps? Had you really no other guide, no other friend? It makes no difference whether I had or not, I answered moodily. I followed her at any rate. But I think it makes great difference, and herein lies your mistake. You are blaming Mrs. Tyndall instead of your own heart. You are indulging in bitter, unchristian feelings toward her, instead of going to the fountain head of all the trouble and laying bare your own heart. She has been a professor of religion for a good many years. She ought to have set me a better example. Suppose she had done so. Is there any certainty you would have followed it? Was there no other example than hers to follow? Oh yes, I said angrily. I might have followed yours. I suppose that is what you mean. To this I received no answer other than a reproachful look from graved, sad eyes. Then he asked me in gentle, tender tones. Do you find rest and peace in your religion nowadays, Julia? Do you find comfort in prayer? No, I do not, I answered with quivering lip. I try to pray, and it seems to me that I can't. I am not at rest at all. I don't know anything about peace. My heart is all wrong, and I can't get it right. I finished the sentence with a sob. My heart was very sore. All my efforts at reform, either in myself or others, seemed to end in failure, and sometimes I was half angry and sometimes my heart felt as if it were broken. The doctor answered me gently. No, poor child, you can't. If I were you, I would not try any longer. It would do no good if you were to keep trying for a hundred years. I turned to him great astonishment in my voice. Doctor, what do you mean? Why, my dear child, don't you see you have reached the very center of all the trouble? Your heart is all wrong, and you can't make it right. Why should you try? Why not take it to Jesus and tell him, Here, Lord, is my heart. It is all wrong. I can't do anything with it, creating me a clean heart and renew a right spirit within me. My tone and manner of speech had changed very much during the last few sentences that I had spoken. One of those sudden moods to which I was subject during those days had swept over me, and my heart seemed melted. I think I was honestly trying to get into the light and stumbling over my own blind self. I had a letter that evening which had much to do with all the after-years of my life. Dr. Douglas sent it up to me when he stopped on his way to prayer meeting, sent that, and a renewed request that I would go out with him to the meeting. But I shrank from that. I distrusted my own nerves and dreaded above all things a show of feeling that would draw me into notice. His request irritated me, perhaps because my conscience desired to avoid the matter, and I gave a very decided refusal and sat down with ruffled feelings to my letter indifferent as to who had written it since the penmanship was neither Sadie's nor Alfred's. It ran thus, Dear cousin Julia, Mama and Papa are going west for Papa's health. Brother Ralph and his wife are in Europe, you know, and I am still to be disposed of. The question is, whither shall I go? I want to come to you, share your room and your bed and your heart. May I come? Cokes your hostess for me. We ought to love each other more, you and I, because of our dear Esther. That is, you ought to love me very much more than you do. I love you enough already. How our friends are gathering home. I want to see you and talk with you about them. How glad Esther must have been to welcome Aunty. I wonder if she is acquainted with Mr. Foster now. I have only one treasure, my very own, you know, waiting for me. While you, why you are rich, Uncle and Aunty and two sisters and the little mini. Isn't it nice to think you will have to leave none of them down here when you go home? I like that thought. I was sorry not to be with you when you laid Aunty's body to rest. That is, somewhat sorry. Not so very sorry, you know, because I remember her face as it was when I saw her last, and you know she will look ever so much more like that when I see her again than she will like the coffined face that, in spite of yourself, comes in between you and your mother in heaven. I know how that is. The veil of the flesh is sometimes heavy, but it lifts. And, my darling, there is glory behind it. I want to come to you. I think very likely we need each other. I want to come just as soon as I can. I want you to run down now, this minute, just as soon as you finish your letter, and coax your Mrs.—I've forgotten her name—to take me to board. Tell her you want me, you know. You do, don't you? Right to me this evening, when you have come back to your room, then I shall have your letter on Thursday, and if it is such a letter as I think you will write, such a letter as I want you to write, why, then you will have me on the following Tuesday, your loving cousin Abby. It was certainly a very strange letter of condolence. Indeed, you see, there was no pity or sympathy expressed or apparently felt. Yet it touched me as none of the good, kind, well-meaning, terrible letters that I had received since my mother's death had begun to do. Yes, I certainly wanted her. I had not realized it before. I had not thought of her at all, but that letter made me feel as though she were just the thing for which I had been longing and craving. I went down with the letter in my hand to Mrs. Tyndall. She was lounging on the sofa in the library, and her husband was lounging in an easy chair beside her. They were laughing when I came in, but they checked their mirth as if they must not laugh in my presence. I did not need these constant reminders that my mother was dead. I told my errand briefly and somewhat stiffly, not at all in the coaxing way that Abby had probably imagined. Mrs. Tyndall laughingly addressed her husband. I declare, Mr. Tyndall, I believe we shall have to open a boarding house in self-defense. This is the third application that I have had lately. Julia, I would do almost anything for you, and I feel peculiarly anxious to help you now in your sorrow. But it does not seem quite the thing for me to go to taking borders. You know, I hardly consider Dr. Douglas and yourself in that light. Who is this cousin of yours? I had a weapon to make use of that I considered more effective than any coaxings of mine. I briefly produced it now. She is the only daughter of Mr. Ralph Reed of New York City. Mrs. Tyndall's eyes brightened. She sat up with sudden energy. Not Ralph Reed of the firm of Reed-Wilkinson and Company. Yes, ma'am, that is Uncle Ralph's business address. Why, how very singular! Mr. Tyndall has had business dealings with him for years, and I saw him myself once. He is an immensely rich man, even as New York people count riches. And this young lady is his daughter. Why have you never told me before? I do not remember that you ever asked me, I said with exceeding stiffness. Whereat she laughed pleasantly and continued her catechism. What is this young lady like? What have I heard about her? Mr. Tyndall, don't you remember the Arlington's told us of her? She was disappointed matrimonially or something of that sort, wasn't she? Her intended husband was killed but a few hours before their marriage was to have taken place, I explained. Oh yes, I remember, how very sad. Does she wear a widow's dress? No, well, it wouldn't be wise, might interfere with future marriages. Well, Julia, under the peculiar circumstances I might let her come for a while. I suppose there is really no reason why I shouldn't, only it is rather funny. I had had not a shadow of doubt as to my success from the moment that she had exclaimed, Not Ralph Reed of the firm of Reed-Wilkinson and Company. So I went away without exhibiting much elation over my success and wrote my letter to Abby. Then I waited for her with some impatience and a great deal of curiosity. I had not seen her since my sister Esther's death six years before. I remembered her very vividly as she was then, but now I reflected she was 24 years old. It seemed an age fraught with dignity. I more than half expected to be afraid of her. I made great preparations for meeting her at the depot enlisting Dr. Douglas into the service, who most unqualifiedly approved of the expected arrival. But she came unexpectedly after all. My cousin Abby always did and always will do unexpected things. I came home from the shop a little earlier than usual on the day in which we were looking for her and hastened it once to my room, eager to have it properly garnished in her honor. The moment I opened the door, two small soft hands were placed over my eyes and I was kissed, mouth and nose and chin, little gleeful laughs issuing meanwhile from the sweet lips of the kisser. At last she released me and stood back for a more artistic view so she said, Yes you look like her. You certainly do, she said at last in a bright eager voice. I was afraid you wouldn't, but you do very much. Look like whom, I said at last wonderingly. Esther, you see, I wanted you to resemble her because it would seem so natural. She and I spent so many happy hours together and now you and I are going to. This seemed strange to me. I had rarely heard my sister Esther mentioned during those years and when she had been it was in a solemn tone as one who was dead, gone out of our life, away from our interests, to be spoken of no more. I remember I thought then that Abby spoke of her more as we would of one who had gone to Europe to live than as one who had died. When we went down to tea I smiled to think of Mrs. Tindall's conception of her in widow's weeds. She looked so bright and fresh. Her fair hair still clung in rings about her head and her dress of soft clinging material was as blue as the sky and fitted to her fairy-like form to perfection. She looked and seemed not a day older than I remembered her as a child. Her reception of Mrs. Tindall's graceful courtesies was sweet and sunny. I frowned upon them and inwardly resolved that she should not be deceived as I had been. I will tell her all about that woman to-night, I said to myself in an emphatic manner. Mr. Sales was present and Abby chatted with him in the free, frank way that it was her nature to assume. While we loitered at the table the church bells rang. Do you have meeting this evening? Abby asked of me with brightening eyes. Is it your church bell? Why wouldn't that be a pleasant omen to attend a prayer meeting on the first evening of my arrival? Dr. Douglas explained that they were holding a series of meetings in which subject she at once became deeply interested. Isn't it time to go? She questioned as we still lingered. Oh no, I am not in the least tired. I rested nicely last night. I always do on the cars. I shall like to go very much. The little enthusiast, Mr. Sales said, laughing. They were talking about her still when I went back to search for my handkerchief, and as I opened the door I heard him say that in an amused tone. The little enthusiast, it is really refreshing to hear her talk. Then to me. Miss Julia, I have promised to conduct your little cousin and yourself to church this evening if you will allow. Dr. Douglas was obliged to go out professionally and deputized me. Mrs. Tindall laughed. You must tell a straighter story than that, she said gaily, if you want Julia to believe you. Julia, he offered his services to take you to church, and the doctor looked amazed as well he might. I think the millennium must be coming. Or the days of witchcraft returning, Mr. Tindall said amusedly. The meeting was one of marked interest. I felt thrilled and solemnized. Felt also a great longing after that rest and peace and joy of which several spoke with great earnestness. I think this was one among the many mistakes of my life at that time. I went about searching for the rest and peace and joy, never realizing that to one who was faithfully and patiently lifting her cross they came without being looked after. Was it not a precious meeting, Abby said as we walked homeward? Didn't you enjoy it? She asked the question not of me but of Mr. Sales. He answered in a very amused tone. I really cannot say that I did particularly. Oh, didn't you? I am so sorry. What was the trouble? The trouble was with me, I suspect, miserable sinner that I am. I failed to get into the spirit of the affair. Abby raised her eyes to his face and gave him a surprised, sad look. In the glow of the moonlight her face seemed to me that of an angel. Do you mean that you are not a Christian? She asked after a moment's silence in low tones. He seemed excessively amused. It was with difficulty that he restrained an absolute laugh. I felt greatly provoked with him and a little bit so with Abby. It seemed to me a decided case of casting pearls before swine. It must be the first time that anyone ever imagined for a moment that you had a serious thought on that subject or any other, I said tartly. I don't wonder that you are amused. He laughed with his usual careless good nature, made some light remark about the meeting not having improved my manner of speech, then bent his head toward Abby and said gently, you seem surprised. I am, she answered, still sadly. I surely thought that you were a Christian. May I ask why? Oh, I hardly know. You seemed such friends, all of you, Mrs. Tindall and the doctor and all. I thought, of course, that bond united you. He was grave enough now. I wish it did, he said earnestly, and then we were at home and he left me wondering whether he really wished any such thing. It seemed very unlike him, and yet it was the first grave sentence that I had ever heard from his lips on the subject. Abby went directly to Mrs. Tindall's side, nestled indeed on the low ottoman in front of her and said, you should have gone to-night. It was a precious meeting. Are you not able to go out in the evenings? What a deprivation it must be to you. With a person sitting opposite to her, who knew that she had been out to a concert or lecture or shopping for evenings in succession, it would hardly do to leave this supposition unexplained. So she answered frankly, Oh yes, I am able. But the fact is, my dear child, I am older than you and, of course, haven't your delightful enthusiasm. Such a commencement as that had puzzled me once and it irritated me nowadays. I had been wanted to answer it with wondering silence until of late I was given to turning from her with a disgusted frown. Abby asked, simply and sweetly, What has enthusiasm to do with going to prayer meeting, Mrs. Tindall? A great deal, my dear. Indeed, I fear that in the minds of many people, there is nothing left of the meeting but enthusiasm. The fact is, my dear, I do not believe in religious spasms. I think them very unhelpful. How did you like our church? Don't you think the colors light up well? Very well. I thought the church exceedingly pretty. What are religious spasms, Mrs. Tindall? Mrs. Tindall laughed. Why, going to meeting every evening, she said at last, a season of excitement that leaves no one better but rather worse. But Mrs. Tindall, what is excitement? My cousin Abby had a most remarkable talent for asking direct, close questions and keeping persons to the point, looking at them, meantime, with great earnest, thoughtful eyes. Mrs. Tindall nestled uneasily among the cushions. Why, making an unnecessary commotion about a matter? Well, but you are talking about something that is not taking place. If commotion means noise, there was none of that this evening. It was very quiet and solemn. Mrs. Tindall later hand on my cousin's arm and spoke with winning sweetness, but in a tone calculated to check all further discussion. My dear, I don't quarrel with other people's fancies in the least. They may go to prayer meeting every night in the three hundred and sixty-five if they are so disposed. But personally, I don't like religious fanaticism. Julia was Mr. Sales out tonight? Yes, ma'am, I answered briefly, and Abby asked in her most gentle tone. Mrs. Tindall, won't you please tell me what religious fanaticism is? I think at last became evident to Mrs. Tindall's mind that she must give a direct and definite answer to Abby's questionings, or else definitely declined to do so. I think, she said, speaking slowly and with dignity, I think that the getting up of special meetings at a certain season of the year and insisting that at that particular time people must desert their other employments and duties and go to church all the time is fanaticism. I want my religion to be an everyday affair and not something to put on during a few weeks in the winter. But Mrs. Tindall, do your reason in that way about other matters? Don't we take advantage of the season of comparative leisure to get up lectures and concerts and benevolent associations? Why should we not use the same wisdom in trying to reach the religious nature of people? Excitement isn't religion, Mrs. Tindall said, with that delicious disregard for logic, the people of that temperament are apt to exhibit. Abby replied with great calmness. No, certainly it isn't, and excitement isn't music either, and yet I never heard people object to a reasonable amount of enthusiasm over some exquisite rendering of a beautiful song, for instance. Don't you think that we are a little bit too much afraid of a religious excitement when we consider excitements over common matters perfectly correct and reasonable? What do you think excitement is, anyway, Mrs. Tindall? Mrs. Tindall laughed pleasantly. How like a moving dictionary you treat me, she said gaily. Why, I think excitement is, is excitement, don't you? And Abby laid her hand on the lady's arm with a winning, caressing movement and said gently. No, but seriously, please. Well, of course I mean by excitement, extreme interest in any matter, interest carried to an improper degree. And what degree of interest do you think is proper in regard to religious matters? When does it become extreme? The answer was a very cautious one. Of course there cannot be too great a degree of interest, but there can be an injudicious expression of it. And do you think prayer meetings injudicious? Why, no, of course not, but—and then there really seemed to be nothing further to say. Abby waited a little, and then spoke in a very earnest tone. Don't you think we sometimes amaze our unconverted friends by no expression at all of, or interest in, religion, or in them spiritually? How strange it would seem if your husband lay dying in the room above and you sat here chatting with us and suppressing all unseemly interest in him. The cases are not analogous, Mrs. Tyndall said quickly. If he lay dying, the danger would be immediate and certain. How can we ever be sure how near and how certain it is in regard to the never-dying souls? Abby's voice was very low and tender, but so solemnly and earnest, and for the first time since I had known her, Mrs. Tyndall responded only by silence. The door was no sooner closed upon us in our room than I commenced at once. I am glad you have learned something already of Mrs. Tyndall's peculiar views. She has had a great many of them. I have been dreadfully deceived and misled by her. I am sure I didn't want you to be. How did she impress you? As a woman for whom we ought to pray, Abby answered, so gently and earnestly, that for a moment my volubility was checked. I rallied, however. You may well think so, if you knew as much about her as I do. And immediately I launched forth into the history of my acquaintance with her from the time of my coming to her house to board up to that date. She received the history in absolute silence, and at last, to break it, I had to assail her with a question. Did you ever hear of such a woman in your life? Her answer was very gentle. Dear Julia, I presume the Saviour has, he bears with all classes of Christians. I don't believe she's a Christian at all, I said stoutly. I think she is a hypocrite if there ever was one. I am always so very thankful that we not only have not to judge of people's conduct, but are absolutely forbidden to do so. Dear Julia, I think it is harder to pray for anyone toward whom we harbor such thoughts, don't you? She doesn't think she has any need for anybody's prayers. She thinks she is perfection. Do you pray for her, Julia? No. I frankly admitted that I had never prayed for her in my life. I can't, I added bitterly. I know I don't feel right toward her, and I cannot. Oh, Abby, if you only knew what I have to thank her for. Whereupon I told her, with many bitter tears, that sad story of the festival to which I would never have gone but for her, and how I thereby lost that last kiss from my mother, for which my heart would always ache. I told the story truthfully, I thought. I know now that it was strangely colored by my bitter feelings. Indeed, Abby's first sentence showed it to me in part. Poor child, poor darling child, and you could not decide which was right whether to go or stay. Did no one advise with you? Did you pray about it very earnestly, Julia? I was silent and dumbfounded. No one to advise with me. What if she had heard Dr. Douglas's pleading and Dr. Mulford's earnest words? I distinctly remember that I had not at any time felt the least doubt as to which was the strictly right thing to do. No, I said at last, speaking more humbly than I had before. No, I didn't pray about it at all. How could you have expected to do right, she asked me, softening the words with a loving caress and tender kisses. Do you pray about every little thing, I questioned abruptly, and she answered me with brightening eyes and smiling lips, as if there was a wellspring of joy in the words. For the very hairs of your head are all numbered. She changed the subject after that suddenly and brightly. This does so remind me of Esther's and my first evening together. Only we were wicked that night, very wicked. I was at least. I talked to her until after one o'clock. But, you see, I had so many things to ask her about, Aunt Laura and all of you. You will have no mother to ask me about, I answered mournfully with the ever-ready rush of tears. She turned toward me with wondering eyes and spoke wonderingly. Why not? Don't you like to talk about your mother? You have had no one though to talk with. But you will like to tell me all about her, will you not? Because, you know, I love her too. Oh, I have looked forward to nice talks with you about Aunt Laura. Again, as I listened to her, there stole over me that strange, sweet feeling that, after all, mother was my mother still, even though God had given her a better home. Abby said, I love her too, not, I loved her, as so many say. Then I need not cease to love my mother. I brought my chair and nestled beside her. You talk differently from other people, I said frankly. Everybody else acts as though mother was utterly gone out of existence, and when they speak of her they speak of one who has lived but doesn't anymore. I know, she said gently, we all talk like unbelievers in one of the most blessed truths of our religion, but that doesn't make it any less certain that our Christian friends who have gone from us are surely living and loving and waiting for us in heaven. Does it always seem real to you, I asked wistfully. I would give anything to realize it as you seem to. Sometimes it seems to me that mother is in the grave and that heaven is a misty dream. Do you never feel that way? She answered me with a bright smile and an emphatic shake of her head. No, my heaven seems very near and dear. It is to me as if my friends who are living there had told me good-bye and gone away to Europe to live and were expecting me to come out there to them in a little while. But the letters, I said hesitatingly, half feeling as though I ought not to speak of so material a thing in connection with the dead. If they were in Europe we should be watching for their letters and expecting them by every steamer. But now it is such a long, long silence if we could only hear from them. She answered me in that bright voice of hers which had such a wonderful ring of joy in it. And the anxieties and fears lest they may be ill or in danger or heavy trouble, what has become of all these? And God himself has written us such wonderful letters about their home. This was a stretch of faith and love and hope to which I could not reach. But I longed for it, my very soul cried out after it. As I laid my head on my pillow that night, I inwardly resolved that I would have it, that I would watch her life and discover if I could from what source she drew her wellspring of joy and hope. Abbey vexed me the very next morning at the breakfast table. I looked to see her assume an air of distant dignity toward Mrs. Tindall. I considered that I had sufficiently explained that lady's character to make it plain that she was not worthy the friendship of my cousin. I was therefore much surprised and chagrined to notice the bright, cordial greeting that Abbey bestowed upon her, and their conversation together was frank and cordial. Apparently Abbey was interested in everything that Mrs. Tindall said and entered with interest, even with eagerness, into the most trivial subjects. I felt very much disgusted with them both. I concluded that my cousin, who the night before had seemed to me almost an angel, was human like the rest of the world, and, of all faults, possessed the one that I detested the most, hypocrisy. She could not certainly admire Mrs. Tindall. Indeed, she knew that lady's whole life to be at variance with her clearly defined views of right and wrong, and yet she affected to be pleased with her. I contented myself with maintaining a haughty silence except when I was directly addressed, and even then I made my replies as brief and disagreeable as possible, and I verily thought that I was practicing one of the Christian virtues. I felt gratified soon after when Abbey graciously declined an invitation to ride with Mrs. Tindall and announced her intention of accompanying me to the shop. What in the world are you going to do there, our hostess questioned with wondering eyes? Going to get acquainted, Abbey answered, fleshing back a bright, roguish glance at the astonished lady from her blue eyes, and without further explanation she joined me. I experienced no little satisfaction in walking down Regent Street with my dainty little cousin. She was very simply dressed in a neat-fitting street suit of heavy gray cloth, but everything about her was in such perfect keeping, so faultlessly new and perfect, from the delicately tinted kids that matched her suit to the exquisitely fitted walking boots, and about her entire person was that mysterious unmistakable air of culture and style that it seemed to me if she had been labeled direct from New York City, it could not have been more evident than it was now. There was a rustling among the boxes and a general moving of things out of our way when we reached the shop that indicated the sort of impression that my visitor was making. I took her at once to my desk and she followed my example in laying aside her things and coolly announced her intention of spending the morning with me. I was puzzled to know what to do to entertain her. I need not have been. She had her own plans of entertainment and carried them out. Won't you make the tour of the rooms with me when you have leisure and introduce me to the girls? She asked me suddenly after a moment's study of the room and its inmates. I remember with what an air of amused superiority I answered her. Why, my dear child, we don't introduce them. They never expect it. Would be perfectly amazed if we did. If you want to ask them any questions about their work, you will not be obliged to wait for an introduction. Speak to whoever you please. Abby surveyed me thoughtfully with her great blue eyes, but made no answer and presently began to question me closely about the girls. Julia, who is the one with hair, combed plainly back and with a little narrow collar and no bow? Frank Hooper, she's a character, been spoiled, they say, by a flirtation with Mr. Sales. Did he flirt with her? I presume he did, thoughtlessly perhaps. Mrs. Tyndall says she flirted with him, but it is too great a stretch of charity to believe much that she says. Dr. Douglas says they were engaged and that he deserted her when her father lost his property, but I don't believe that, either. I said this with an air that be tokened a lofty contempt for gossip of all sorts, but Abby seemed not to have heard my last sentence. She was looking earnestly at Frank, and as I finished my sentence asked, is she a Christian? No, indeed, far enough from it. She is little better than a scoffer. Dr. Douglas has spasms of being deeply interested in her, but his interest doesn't seem to accomplish much. Have you done all that you can for her, Julia? I answered more faintly, but still steadily. Yes, I have. I could do just nothing for her. She repelled every attempt. I was very sincere. I did not blush then as I do now in recalling this conversation. I firmly believe that girls of sixteen haven't the slightest conception of what fools they are. Abby's attention was by this time turned toward Caroline Brighton. She asked me as to her name, her character, the influence that surrounded her. I laughed as I answered the questions. It seemed natural for people to laugh when they talked about Caroline. She is an embodied spirit of evil, I do believe, I said, still laughing. She was never known to be interested in anything but mischief of the wildest and most daring nature. What has her religious education been? I doubt whether she ever had any. At least there is no present indication of any. Again my cousin's earnest eyes sought mine, and she spoke slowly and thoughtfully. Do you think that is possible, Julia? She must have come in contact with Christian people, and they must have left their impress. For instance, she has come in daily contact with you, and of course you must have influenced her? There was a questioning sound to her voice, but I had no reply to make. I think she had given me my first realizing sense of solemn responsibility. It was a new thought that my life, this past winter, must have been contributing to the religious education of Caroline Brighton. It was not a pleasant thought. I shivered under it and spoke suddenly. What a fearful thing you would make of life! If we can never come in contact with people without influencing them, I think most of us would pray to be delivered from people. Or else, feeling the unmeaningness of that, pray to be so enveloped with the Spirit of Christ that our influence would tell for him. Mr. Jerome Sales lounged in at that moment and interrupted further conversation. He brought a bouquet of exquisite hot-house plants in glorious bloom. He made a faint of counting the blossoms and dividing equally between us. Abby was courteously grateful, but very full of her previous subject and appealed to him. We are talking of influence, Mr. Sales, Christian influence. Isn't it true that every person of whom we come in contact influences us, more or less, and if the person be a Christian, educates us in that direction? Mr. Sales was amusedly interested. I'm not posted on that subject, you know, he said good humorously. You must constantly remember that my education has been woefully neglected in that quarter. Won't you take me in hand and reform me? But Abby was persistently determined not to trifle with him, least of all on this subject. There was a sweet earnestness in her voice as she asked. Is it really true that your Christian friends have made no impression on your mind as to their religious character, or that the impression they made has not in the least affected your life? He became grave at once. His face even wore a troubled look as he answered. They certainly have made marked and lasting impressions, but I have not profited by any of my lessons as I should. Perhaps you will teach me a better way of life? If, as I strongly suspected, he was saying this for a fact, my cousin was by no means disposed to talk sentiment with him, but turned promptly to another topic. Mr. Sales, are you acquainted with all these girls? There was a glance of surprise at the sudden change of subject, a quick glance toward the girls whom the question indicated, a curious lifting of the eyebrows, a roguish look at me, all in a second of time, and he replied in his ordinary tone of indolent good humor. I have that honor. Then will you introduce me to each one of them? Mr. Sales bent an earnest questioning look on her face, then his manner and tone changed, and he said in a serious quiet voice, certainly I will, if you wish it. Abby immediately arose, shook out the folds of her dress, and prepared to accompany him. They went at once toward Frank Cooper's corner, leaving me, meantime, in a state of absolute disgust. I was enraged with my cousin, with Mr. Sales, and more than all, with myself. It seemed incredible to me that in so short a time I could have sunk in so low as to be ashamed of introducing a company of respectable girls to one who asked an introduction, my sole reason for declining being that the said girls worked in a shop. I thoroughly despised myself. I tried to discover how I came to indulge in such miserable pride. It was not difficult to trace the influence directly to Mrs. Tindall, and as usual I seemed to forget that I could have had any influence over my own life or could have found help that would have kept me from falling, so I went on cherishing a fierce and bitter feeling in my heart for her. Meantime I watched my cousin. Mr. Sales presented her to the girls with all the courteous grace that he would have used in his intercourse with any lady, and Abby's manner was equally far removed from patronage and hot tour. She was simply her sweet graceful self, as thoroughly composed and at ease as if this were not a novel position to her. Frank Cooper was decidedly the haughtiest and most unbending of the two. Abby lingered longest beside Caroline Brighton, seeming to find her the most communicative and agreeable. Mr. Sales left her with Caroline and sauntered back to me. She is a very singular little lady, he said, watching her as she leaned against the table, apparently indifferent to paste and brushes, and carried on an animated conversation. I wonder you didn't give us some idea of the unusual development of character. I don't observe anything so very remarkable, I said stiffly, in some doubt as to whether his tone expressed admiration or amusement, and being prepared to resent either with an almost equal degree of earnestness. Don't you, he said, and he gave me the benefit of a very searching look. That is strange. Now I consider her the most remarkable young lady I have ever known. She really seems to be an earnest. My indignant answer was checked by my desire to hear the conversation between Abby and Caroline. Will you go, Abby questioned earnestly? Really, Caroline answered, assuming most admirably the air of a modest, diffident young lady. I would go with pleasure, but you see I am not in the habit of it, and I don't know anyone to go with, and I should feel so queer and strange. Then Abby's sweet gentle voice. I think you told me you lived on Jackson Street. Then you have to pass through Clinton Square to reach the church, do you not? My cousin pointed out the church to me at the upper end of the square. Then couldn't you call for me? I board at Mrs. Tindall's, you know, and I should be so glad to have your company. We might all go together from there. Will you not come? I might do that, Caroline answered meekly, her eyes meantime gleaming with mischief. I do so wish you would. It would be very pleasant to us to have you come. May I expect you then? I think so. Shall I ask for you, Miss Reed? Yes, if you please, and if you can come a few minutes before the time, we could have a little chance to get acquainted and have a pleasant talk, perhaps. And then Abby moved away, thinking her meantime as one who had conferred a favor, oblivious apparently, to the conversation that immediately followed her departure, though I heard it distinctly. Aren't you ashamed, queried Caroline's next neighbor, a blunt-spoken, well-meaning sort of girl? I wouldn't make game of anyone who treated me as nice as that, I vow. Hush, said Caroline gravely. I'm to become a means of grace to Mrs. Tindall. Don't you see? Imagine me seated in her elegant parlor, complacently awaiting the departure of the family for church. Isn't that jolly, though, a shop girl in her parlor? She'll have to clean house for a month after that. Then in lower tone but still distinctly, with a glance over her shoulder at Abby. Which is she, Vic, a greenie or a brick? What was she, indeed? And where was all this to end? How would Mrs. Tindall tolerate such introductions to her parlor? I felt troubled and provoked. I don't know what to do with her, I said aloud and fretfully, and I couldn't decide whether Mr. Sales' reply was intended to be soothing or sarcastic. I wouldn't try to do anything with her, Julia. I fancy she is a person who will do for herself. There was certainly sensation enough as we lingered in the dining-room that evening, and shortly after a furious ring at the front door a servant announced, Miss Brighton to see Miss Reed. It was almost a pity that Caroline could not have been present to enjoy the scene. Miss Brighton, who on earth is she, speculated Mrs. Tindall, and which Miss Reed does she want? You, of course, Julia, but I don't recall the name. Have you an idea who it is? I was in a blaze of confusion, but Abby answered promptly and sweetly. The messages for me, I presume, Mrs. Tindall, it is one of the girls whom I met today at the shop. She has come to accompany us to church this evening. I asked her to come in early. I wanted to get a little bit acquainted with her, so I will be excused at once. As the door closed after her, Mr. Sales, whose present was so constant now as to be considered a matter of course, studied for a moment Mrs. Tindall's face, then burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Peel after Peel re-echoed through the room, and to the lady's annoyed question, What on earth are you laughing at? He only answered by a more hearty outburst than before. This is as good as a first-class theater, he said, when he could speak again. Come, Julia, take me to meeting with you this evening. I must see the fun out. Necessity sent us all shortly after to the parlor to receive other collars, and no greeting could have been more perfect in its way than the one that Mrs. Tindall gave to the shopgirl in answer to Abby's introduction.