 22 In which the comfort of mourning is discussed. Our conversation that evening was as far as possible removed from what you would have supposed it would be after a return from a meeting fraught with deep and solemn interests. As usual Mrs. Tyndall was not present and was apparently not in the least interested in that matter. The parlor doors stood invitingly open as we entered the hall, and the lady of the house called to us with a sort of languid mirth to take pity on her and come and help her entertain her husband as she was tired to death over the effort of trying to keep him from straying away to the reading-room or some other tiresome place. So we all went in, Mrs. Tyndall giving most cordially the invitation to Mr. Sales which Abby and I had intended to withhold as we wanted to go directly to our room. As it was, Abby demurred, but I, unable to resist the temptation of the brilliant room in the company of Mr. Sales, said, Let us stop a few minutes, and almost the next sentence that was spoken started our topic of conversation or rather of debate. Julia, that shade of drab is exceedingly unbecoming to you, Mrs. Tyndall said, surveying me critically. Did you ever see your cousin in pink, Ms. Reed? She has a peculiar shade of pink that she wears sometimes which is exceedingly becoming to her. I really wish you could see her in it, but, of course, she doesn't feel like wearing such bright colors now, poor child. This last with a little sigh and a lowering of the voice. The tone and the sigh irritated me strangely. I replied sharply, I feel quite as much like wearing pink as ever I did. I'm sure I don't know why I should not. Mrs. Tyndall turned at once to my cousin. Do you consider it the unpardonable sin to wear mourning, Ms. Reed? Abby lifted very grave, very wondering eyes to Mrs. Tyndall's face, but answered quietly. No, ma'am. Then this child is not a disciple of yours. She has taken up the most unaccountable hobby of late, really gets quite excited about the matter and, anyone can see, does violence to her own feelings all the time. I really feel that her grief would not seem so heavy on her if she would not fight against nature in this way. Don't you think so? Abby smiled pleasantly and answered promptly. If there is a fight at all, Mrs. Tyndall, I should call it a fight against fashion, not against nature. Mrs. Tyndall emphatically shook her head. I should not. It is just as natural to wish to wrap ourselves in black when we are in affliction as it is to eat when we are hungry. But Mrs. Tyndall, suppose it was the fashion when our friends went away to attire ourselves in brilliant red. Do you imagine that we would follow what was natural to ourselves or what fashion dictated? It never will be the fashion, Ms. Reed. Black always was and always will be the natural morning costume. It would be of an offense against nature to have it otherwise, and fashion after all must follow nature to be accepted. For instance, when she orders wastes to become six-and-a-quarter inches in circumference and monstrosities resembling inverted coal scuttles to be attached to the back of the head, what becomes of nature then? This from Mr. Sales in good-humored sarcasm. Mrs. Tyndall promptly hushed him. Now, Jerome, don't you interfere. Being a man you must reel against the fashions, of course, all men do. But I think there is an immense amount of nonsense talked about these same fashions. I heartily prescribe to that sentiment Mr. Tyndall interposed, rousing up from his half-buried position in the easy chair. If you want to appreciate the force of its sales, marry a wife and go with her to all the millinery establishments in town and wait while she tries rainbow-colored patches on her head and calls them bonnets. That's what I've been about all this mortal day. Now, Mr. Tyndall, I wasn't in Madame Darrow's twenty minutes, I don't think. An hour and three-quarters by my watch, amid the general laugh that followed, Mrs. Tyndall continued. Because of no consequence, anyway, has nothing to do with the subject. What I want to know is, why is it such a fearfully wicked thing to wear mourning? It isn't, is it, queried Abbey in gentle tone. Some people seem to think so, and you yourself don't think it right. At least I don't believe you do. Honestly, now do you? Thus pressed, Abbey answered simply, it would not be right for me, because personally I do not approve of it. But I accord to everyone the privilege of deciding the question for himself. But do just tell me what possible harm there can be in it. I really am curious to know. There was a little flush on Abbey's cheek, but her tone was as quiet as ever. There is the objection that lies directly on the surface, Mrs. Tyndall, the unnecessary and heavy expense, and the heavy dream that it brings on the purses of the poor. Mrs. Tyndall shook her emphatic head. That wouldn't have the least weight in the world with me. I consider the starting point extremely false. There is no necessity for the poor aping us in that matter more than in a hundred others. On that principle I could not have a silk dress because my cook can't afford one. Bad illustration, Mrs. Tyndall, interposed Mr. Sales, I am witness that only last Sunday your cook flamed out in a red and green plaid, and you yourself told me that the material was silk. Mrs. Tyndall laughed. Oh, they will copy us just as far as they are able. There is no question about that, she said pleasantly. But, Mrs. Reed, you haven't given me any arguments yet. This one has no weight with me. It has with me, Abbey answered, with quiet earnestness. You and I would very possibly not agree on the silk dress question either, but I don't consider the illustration a fair one. If we accept black clothes as marks of respect for our dead and as tokens of grief, I object to them on the ground that my poorer sister carries just as heavy a heart in her affliction as I do in mine, and in following the prevailing custom I am but giving her one more temptation to do the same. My creed is that we should not even in so small a matter as that of dress lead others astray. Mrs. Reed, you amaze me, interrupted Mr. Tyndall. You are the very first lady I ever met who considered dress a small matter. The most of them have it in their catechisms that it is the end for which they were created. Abbey turned toward him with a bright little laugh. I am a very small body, you know, she said gaily, but Mrs. Tyndall brought them back sharply to the point at issue. Mrs. Reed, she said, I hope you will excuse me, but I think that it is nonsense all that about leading people astray. I don't profess to lead anybody. I dress as I please, and other people have a perfect right to do the same, but I would like to know just for curiosity's sake if that is all the objection you have to black clothes. Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God," quoted Abbey softly, and then looking at Mrs. Tyndall, no, ma'am, I have other objections. To me it doesn't seem a good way in which to cultivate a Christian spirit. It has its rise in heathenism in the first place. Has it not, Mr. Sales? A Christian spirit, echoed Mrs. Tyndall in great amazement, ignoring Abbey's question. What on earth has a Christian spirit to do with the color of one's dress? Now, Miss Reed, take yourself for an example. You have lost a friend, I think I have heard. Don't you truly feel at any time as though you would not wear your bright-colored dresses any more, as though you must wrap yourself in black? I turned quickly to see how Abbey bore this cool-blooded reference to her one great sorrow. The red had faded a little from her cheek, but she answered in the same sweet, steady tone. Yes, ma'am, I did. There were times I felt that all the world ought to robe itself in black because of my sorrow. There were times when it seemed to me the sun ought not to shine, nor the birds to sing, and that no one anywhere ought to be glad and happy any more. Do you think I would have unjustified in indulging those thoughts? That, of course, was an exaggeration of grief, but what possible harm could it have done to yield to your very natural desire to dress yourself in nothing but black? This is Tyndall. To me that desire seems a part of the same idea, only not carried to so great a degree. I realized that as a Christian it was my duty to remember constantly that my best and dearest friend, even my saviour, had sent my sorrow to me, and that it was in some way unknown to me the best that could come to me. I knew it was my duty to teach my naturally rebellious heart to say, Thy will be done, to check all murmurings, all bitterness, and trying to do this it seemed to me that it would not be a help but a contradiction, while the spirit was struggling for calmness and peace, to clothe the body in gloom, and move about the world a living witness not to the goodness but the severity of God. Yet people must miss their friends and must grieve over their loss, Mrs. Tyndall said, in a subdued, thoughtful tone, such as she rarely used. Abby answered very earnestly, Indeed it must be so while the body holds us, but the grief is heavy enough without seeking by all possible outward signs to press it more heavily upon the weary spirit. I think the whole system of wearing mourning for our dead is productive of two results. To the young and frivolous, when the grief has not been heavy, it affords occupation for the mind and leads their thoughts hopelessly away from what might otherwise have been a solemn and lasting impression, to the business of plunging the body into the outward mockery of deep grief, and to those whose hearts seem almost broken, the custom intrudes, obliging them to think of and plan about petty and exasperating details of dress, and affords them merely the poor solace of nursing the heavy gloom that sometimes sweeps over them when they seem given over to wild rebellious thoughts. It's a queer business, the whole of it, Mr. Tyndall exclaimed, breaking in upon the little silence that fell between us at the conclusion of Abbey's earnest words. I don't know another thing in the whole fashionable world so open to criticism and to ridicule as those propriities that obtain in our set on the subject of mourning. Was it ever your ill luck to meet a grandlady in full array, crepe, bombazine, bugles, and whatnot, and all for a rich old aunt or uncle that she hated with all the strength of her civilized, Christianized heart? I think that's enough to put the whole thing out of fashion. People can counterfeit anything, Mrs. Tyndall said apathetically. I don't think I had much temptation to follow the custom, Abbey continued. It has, as you say, Mr. Tyndall, its ludicrous side, too distinctly marked if one notices and thinks about it much to accord with deep real sorrow. I have seen it too often when it seemed to me but a solemn mockery. I think it is perfectly natural to desire to wear mourning when one loses a friend. Mrs. Tyndall said this just as positively and quietly as if she had not said the same thing in substance every five minutes since the conversation commenced. She had a very provoking way of earthing up the old argument that you supposed you had killed and buried and presenting it as something new and brilliant. I have seen people since who argued in precisely the same way. Abbey answered her as sweetly as if she had never heard that opinion expressed before. Do you think it is perfectly natural to continue to wear it, Mrs. Tyndall? I don't understand your question, my dear, Mrs. Tyndall answered with equal gentleness. Why, to continue wearing black on and on for years and years from girlhood until one is an old woman or until she dies, would that seem natural? Why, no, of course not. After a proper length of time, one ought to lay it aside, of course. That brings us to a point that is exceedingly trying to me. Who has given the world a right to say to us, There, you have mourned long enough, it is a year now since that grave was closed, yesterday it was perfectly right and proper for you to be wrapped in black, but today get out your blue and pink and scarlet and be gay again. What a queer way of putting it, said Mrs. Tyndall, and she laughed her sweet, silvery laugh. And yet time does heal over heavy wounds. It was Mr. Sales who said this, but I turned to look at him in order to be certain. The voice was so unlike his, so gentle and tender, almost pleading in its earnest questioning. Abby answered quickly, It does indeed, or how could any of us live? But it would be very hard for me to be dictated to, even in this, to be told that such and such things are not in keeping with my mourning if they were in keeping with my heart. I like God's way best, that of teaching the Christian heart in its sorrow to rest on him, and go bravely, earnestly, cheerfully about life's duties and cares, yes and joys, waiting patiently for the rest that such a life will bring, rather than the world's way, which says, Here, today you must wear crepe, and you must make no calls, no even on your best friends, because you are in mourning, but tomorrow you can dress yourself in spangles and go wither you will. It will not be necessary for you to show respect to your dead any more. If it is a mark of respect to my dead, who are tonight in heaven, to shut myself in from human sympathies and human pleasures, and robe myself in gloom, I for one won't do it forever, not for a year or two years or six months as fashion may dictate. But if, as I believe, it is not only showing more respect to the Christian dead, but more submissive love to the God who called them from us, to go bravely about our usual work, taking what joys we can find, bearing with what lightenings we may, our heavy crosses of pain, why I want to do that. She rose as she spoke, and having finished her sentence, smiled and bowed a gentle good night. Jerome, said Mrs. Tyndall solemnly, Miss Reed has undoubtedly been very eloquent. I appreciate her efforts on my behalf, but nevertheless when I die I want you to wear crepe on your hat for me. I'll do so with pleasure, Mrs. Tyndall, he answered gravely, with a profound bow. I assure you there shall not be so much as an inch of the original hat left to view. With this solemn and utterably undeniable proof will I attest my appreciation of your worth. Then he held open the door for Abbey and myself to pass, giving us only a grave respectful bow for good night, while Mr. Tyndall was exploding with laughter over his last remark. CHAPTER XXIII. In which I prove the truth of an old adage. The meetings closed not because the special interest had entirely abated, but because Dr. Mulford was utterly worn out with his long continued extra labours, and body and brain absolutely demanded rest. Meantime in a quiet, almost unnoticed way the work went on. The young people's meeting was largely attended and Dr. Douglas came home, often with glowing face, to tell of some new trophy. Abbey attended these meetings a great deal. I, only occasionally, for my health during all the wear and pressure of this winter, was anything but firm, and I was often obliged to rest quietly at home when I would gladly have gone. Dr. Douglas had also started a young men's prayer meeting in which he was deeply interested. Meantime Abbey was busy. Her energy was unflagging. She became a power in our shop, could coax the girls into anything that she wanted done, always accepting Frank Hooper, who held hotly aloof. The change was more marked in Caroline Brighton than in anyone else. I remember that the morning after Abbey had told me of the decided stand that she took in the young people's meeting, I looked upon her with absolute awe. It seemed so wonderful to me that the spirit of God could descend upon and transform such a one as she. For myself I was very far away from happiness or peace. I still industriously studied my Bible. I still struggled wearily through my stated seasons of prayer. I still clung to my virtuous indignation over Mrs. Tyndall, and still held stated and solemn and shocked talks with Frank Hooper, in which she answered me after the old fashion, half haughty, half comic, wholly indifferent. We came home one afternoon, Abbey and I, earlier by an hour than usual. Abbey had called for me, and I got excused to go with her to look after one of her Sunday school scholars. We came down ready for our walk, and as we reached the hall Abbey said, there I have forgotten the cards that I was going to take the child. Wait here, Julia, and I will run back for them. I dropped wearily into one of the hall seats and listened to the hum of conversation in the parlor, unconscious that I was listening until I heard my own name spoken in Mrs. Tyndall's voice. Julia read her name as, her mother is a poor widow, and she, well, the fact is that she is simply a shop girl. We call her a clerk out of regard to her feelings. She does help about the books, I believe, but then that is a distinction without a difference, you know. She works all day in the shop, and that is all there is about it. And boards with you, the tone expressed a whole volume of exclamation points. And boards with me, that is comical, isn't it? But how in the world did it ever happen? Well, there was a little bit of harmless deception practiced in the first place. Dr. Douglas coaxed me into taking her. He is an old acquaintance of the family, I believe, and looks after this girl a good deal. He is really very kind to her. Well, he led me to think that she was a schoolgirl. I don't remember his precise language now, and it's of no consequence. He was quite sharp about it anyway, never gave me an idea as to her position, and of course I thought it was all right. And Mr. Tyndall was obliged to be absent a good deal, so I decided to take her for company. How perfectly comical! Isn't it? I felt vexed at first and disposed to send her away at once, but Mr. Tyndall said nonsense, and what difference did it make? His way, you know. Nothing ever makes any difference with him. So she just stayed on, and has ever since, owing to my natural indolence and dread of scenes. But she goes out a great deal with the family, does she not? Yes, constantly. That's force of circumstances, too. She is Dr. Douglas's friend, you know, and his position is entirely beyond question. Besides, we like her. We do, really. I have had a sort of fancy for her all along, and Mr. Tyndall is very much attached to her. But who is this cousin of hers, a shopgirl, too? Not by any means. She is of a very different grade. Why don't you think she is Ralph Reed's daughter of New York, the firm of Reed Wilkinson and Company, you know? And the other one is her cousin? Her own cousin. She seems very fond of her, too. So you see, I was wise, after all, in not yielding to my first impulses. I think, very likely, it is only a sort of girlish freak, her being a shopgirl at all, though she is quite poor. We have given her a number of things. What about Mr. Sales? He seems to be quite attentive. Mrs. Tyndall laughed her low, silvery laugh and answered, oh, well, you know Jerome. He must flirt, and she will do as well as anyone. Up to this point, I had been listening to this interesting conversation in that idiotic way that people sometimes do, without fully taking in the fact that it was not intended for my ears, or even fully comprehending that I was the person who was being discussed. But at the mention of Mr. Sales' name, I roused into eager attention with a wild desire to hear more, and at the same time, there rushed upon me a realization of the fact that I, Julia Reed, my honored mother's daughter, had actually turned eavesdropper. I sprang up and fled away up the stairs. Abby spoke to me as I opened the door. Did you tire of waiting, Julia? I don't wonder. I am sorry to be so tardy. But, do you know, I can't think what can have become of those cards. I thought I knew just where they were, and they are perversively nowhere. I think we shall have to go without them. Then she turned toward me and uttered an exclamation of surprise. Why, Julia, my dear child, what has happened? Your face is perfectly colorless. What is it? It is very little. I tried to say it coolly, but I was really trembling with indignation. And then I burst forth my torrent of pent-up rage, giving her, with much excitement and many interpolations as, to my opinion, the entire story. She treated it and me in a very different manner from what I had expected. As soon as she discovered that no one was dead or dying, she turned back to her trunk and continued to search for the missing cards, giving me good attention, however. And when I made a sort of breathless pause, said coolly, my dear Julia, you seem surprised. Surprised, I repeated excitedly, I should think I might be. It was no agreeable thing to sit in that hall and hear such an exasperating account given of one's self and one's friends. Not agreeable, I grant you, but I don't see why it should surprise you. Abby, what do you mean? Why, dear Julia, think a minute. Did you ever, in your life, hear her speak well of an absent person? Don't you know, you told me the other day, that she had given you a queer opinion of every single person about whom you had heard her talk? Now, why should you have expected to escape this general maelstrom of talk? Don't you know when a person entertains you with the faults and failings and peculiarities of your friends, that your turn for being discussed is sure to come? But she said such mean untrue things, I answered, still speaking in excitement and anger. If she had only had the decency to tell the truth, I should not have minded what she said. Have you reasoned to think that she has always been strictly truthful in regard to what she has told you of others? I reflected. There was Mrs. Mulford and Dr. Mulford and Frank Hooper and Mrs. Carson and, oh, hosts of others. What queer things had she told me about them? Things that I more than half suspected at the time and knew now were at least colored. Besides, said Abby, finding that I did not speak, let us have a real plain little talk, you and I. You say she did not speak the truth. She said, among other things, that you were a shop girl. Now please tell me what those two words mean. Don't they mean that a girl is employed in a shop? What is there that is not perfectly right and proper in that? And isn't it just the truth? Haven't you been so employed during the winter? I winced a little. I had made a distinction. I had not called myself a shop girl. I had not treated the others as though they belonged to my class. It means a lower class of persons, I said somewhat sullenly. No, it doesn't, dear, not the mere name. Any more than music teacher means any particular style of person. If a good many ignorant girls have earned their living in shops, until we have come to associate the name with the ignorant and chorus, that is our blunder and a very foolish one, I think it. Isn't it a strange idea that we cannot tell whether a person is a lady or not until we can discover what she chances to do with her hands and brain? Oh, you don't carry out your own ideas, I said, taking up Mrs. Tyndall's style of reasoning and using one of her old arguments. You don't associate with Mrs. Tyndall's cook or go out calling with her. Neither is necessary in order to maintain my position. Mrs. Tyndall's cook is not fitted by education and habit to enjoy going out calling with me. She would be neither comfortable nor happy. But suppose she chooses to improve her opportunities and lift herself up to education and refinement, do you suppose I would decline her society because she used to cook my dinners? I should despise such reasoning, and so should anybody. I smiled a little in spite of my anger. This sweet, pure cousin of mine did not understand something so well as I, with my 16 years of wisdom, if she did not know that half the women in Christendom would do just that thing. Abby had talked herself into an enthusiasm, and she added, I don't like all this talk about class and grade in this country of ours. It is an intensely un-American idea in a land where the shop girl of today may be the wife of the president tomorrow. But we are running away from the question. She added, laughingly, Dear Julia, I don't think I am unsympathetic. Only I wouldn't mind so much. She did not say anything so very wicked after all when one takes into consideration her manner of talking. But, I said with hesitation, and in a voice that was very near tears, I thought she liked me. I did, really. And you admit that she said she did. No doubt she does. I think she is very fond of you. What is such fondness worth, I said scornfully? It is worth quite as much as it receives from you, I think. Don't you see, Julia, what a curious thing you are doing? You are overcome with indignation because of what you have overheard her say. Now, just imagine that she could have repeated to her accurately and in detail everything that you have told me about her. What sort of a state of mind do you think she would be in? I had no definite answer to make to this. In truth, it startled me a little. I was somewhat surprised to discover that while I had several times frankly stated that I detested her entire character, I meantime expected her to go on liking me just as well as ever. She said such mean things about Dr. Douglas, I exclaimed after a little silence, waxing indignant again. Dr. Douglas will not mind it in the least, Abby answered coolly. This was true. He certainly would not. And as I thought of the very composed, even amused air with which he would have listened to the entire story, it served to quiet me more than anything else had done. But I immediately fell into speculation over what had been mysterious to me for several days. I made my thoughts known suddenly. I don't in the least understand you, Abby. Do you admire Mrs. Tyndall's character? She answered my question frankly enough. No, Julia, I cannot say that I do. Well, do you know you act as though you did? You always treat her as if you liked her very much and I don't understand why it isn't hypocritical. She answered me with a mischievous glance from her blue eyes, as she said. Do you think I should exhibit a more consistent Christian character if I said frankly, Mrs. Tyndall, I don't like you in the least. I think you are a very absurd woman and I cannot treat you with any sort of respect. Precisely the style of question that she once asked me when we were talking about sincerity. But it doesn't help me in the least. Of course we can't talk in that manner to people and yet that way would be sincere and the other way is hypocritical. I don't see but it follows that people have got to be hypocritical anyhow. Abby was very earnest and gentle now. Dear Julia, don't you think the mistake comes in further back? Odd such uncharitable conclusions to be my sincere state of mind toward Mrs. Tyndall? Odd I not rather to cultivate a tender spirit toward her, a spirit that will lead me not to dwell upon her faults but to be on the alert for her virtues. Thoughts about the shortcomings of others are very eager to gain admittance to my heart but odd I to cherish them or turn from them and cultivate a prayerful spirit toward the people who call them forth. If I am striving to do that is it not a help to me to meet them on common ground whenever I can to enjoy every bit that is enjoyable about them and love everything that is lovable? Isn't that the better way? This was high ground. I could not reach up to it so I made the defiant and rather irrelevant answer. I don't love her anyway. Abby had long since ceased fumbling in her trunk and was curled on a soft cushion at my feet while she talked. She laid her head on my lap in a pretty coaxing way she had and said softly, I wish you did not feel just as you do about Mrs. Tyndall. I don't think it is possible to live close to Jesus and cherish such feelings. Shall not you and I reform in this matter? I can't, I said stoutly. I cannot feel rightly toward her. You may perhaps, you have never had any provocation for feeling otherwise. There is one sure way in which to cultivate right feeling, Julia. Suppose we make her a special and constant and earn a subject of prayer, not spasmodically as we may chance to feel like it but with all our hearts bent on her attaining a higher life. I should never feel like it, I am afraid. I said coldly. I don't think she is a Christian at all. Abby slowly raised her head and fixed eyes full of wonder on my face. Does that thought preclude the possibility of praying for her, Julia? First, you know we have nothing to do with that. And in either case, what then? If she is, does she not need a rebaptism? Do you not desire it for her? If she is not, does she not need Jesus? Do you not desire her conversion? In either case, cannot you pray? I was entirely silent. There seemed nothing left to say. After a few minutes, Abby added, I do not think of Mrs. Tindall as you do. I think she is a lady very much given to using her tongue. I don't think she means more than half she says and I don't think she realizes a quarter of the mischief that she does with her tongue. I do, I answered briefly and bitterly. Just then the tea-bell peeled through the house and we laid aside hats and sacks and went down to tea. End of Chapter 23. Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 24 of Julia Reed. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Julia Reed by Pansy. Chapter 24, in which is a surprise and a blessing. One evening we were all in the parlor, Mr. and Mrs. Tindall, Abby and I. Mr. Sales had been spending the evening with us but had just left. The spell being broken, I was in haste to get to my room, but Abby lingered and talked with Mrs. Tindall about her worsted dog in an exasperatingly interested way. Mr. Tindall was in a most unusual mood for him, silent and grave. He had not been with us during the evening but had recently arrived and since his entrance had spoken very few words but had kept up a steady monotonous walk up and down the room. The walking seemed to disturb Mrs. Tindall, for presently she said half playfully, half in earnest, Mr. Tindall, what in the world has come over you or overcome you, as our old woman who talked in meeting used to say? I never knew you to pace up and down the room in that solemn fashion before. At this question he paused half irresolutely for a moment then went over to her with a determined air and spoke in tone somewhat husky. Fanny, I have something I want to say to you. Well, she answered still playfully but with a sort of wondering tone, is that a fact so unusual and remarkable that it needs a preface? Don't go girls, as Abby and I arose to depart. It isn't a private lecture, is it Mr. Tindall? Still speaking very merrily. His face was very pale but he answered steadily, no it is not private, no Julia, no misread, please remain. I trust I am not ashamed of what I am about to say. Fanny, I ought to have told you of it before but I did not seem able to. These past weeks have been very eventful ones to me. You remember perhaps, Ms. Reed, that you asked me to go to the young men's prayer meeting two weeks ago last Tuesday night. Did you pray for me that evening? Yes, said Abby, all the evening. He turned to her with a bright smile lighting up his pale face as he said earnestly, for which I shall have reason to thank you through all eternity. Well, Fanny, it is a long story, the history of these two weeks. It has been a long two weeks to live and to fight, he added, drawing a quick hard breath, to fight with pride and unbelief and temptation in every fiendish form that can be imagined. But there has been a victory. I stood up in the meeting this evening and told the people of my determination to begin now to follow Christ. And as they tell me the right way to begin is to do the first duty that offers, I have promised my savior that I would own him before you as a family tonight. Fanny, I want to have family worship. Had the marble statue in the niche behind him been suddenly gifted with life and voice, it doesn't seem to me that I could have been more astonished. I looked up at the pale, resolute face with such a new feeling of respect welling up in my heart for him. What a wonderful thing it was, this new life born into the soul, changing all its springs, quickening all its impulses. Abby's face was absolutely radiant, but she did not speak. We both waited in silence and no little anxiety for what Mrs. Tyndall might be moved to say. How would she receive this news? Such was my opinion of her that it seemed almost impossible that she should care. Indeed, I expected to hear her gaily pronounce him a victim to overwrought nerves and propose a quiet night's rest and the benefit of her society. I had been fascinated with the new look on Mr. Tyndall's face, but now I turned suddenly to watch his wife. There was a little pink flush on either cheek, a strange light in her eyes, and a new tone to her voice, such at least as I had never heard her used before. She laid her hand with a caressing movement on her husband's arm and said in a voice as low and sweet as a silver bell, Robert, I am very glad with a marked tremulous emphasis on the very. Then immediately she became mistress of this new situation. Rising she moved composedly across the room and wheeled forward the little table on which the elegant Bible always reposed in undisturbed peace, said in her usual tone, as she pushed an easy chair toward me, take this chair, Julia, you look tired. Then settled back among her cushions with an air of quiet waiting. Such was the peculiar effect of all this that had a stranger come among us just then, I am sure he would have supposed that it was an ordinary everyday custom in this household to gather together for family worship. Her manner seemed to have a quieting effect on Mr. Tindall. He took up the Bible with quiet, reverent hand and read a few verses in a steady voice, wonderful verses they were. I wondered if he had just chanced at that time to alight on them, or if they had met some of the great needs which he must have had during the two weeks of conflict. In any case, I thought they must be very wonderful verses to him. The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid? Only a few verses, but helpful they were of strength, of help, of promise. Over this one he paused and finally read it again with a ring of solemn triumph in his voice. When thou saddest seek ye my face, my heart said unto thee, thy face, Lord, will I seek. Then he closed the Bible and we all knelt to pray. I am sure we can none of us ever forget that prayer. It was very brief, very simple, but it had the sound of that ancient prayer in the record, as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. It was a plain, solemn, unreserved consecration of himself and all that he called his to the service of God. There was still an unusual pallor on his face when we arose from our knees, but the prayer seemed to have changed him. There was an added dignity about his manner as that of a man who had at last assumed his proper position in his family, priest of his own household. Mrs. Tindall bet us good night with her usual graceful air of composure and I was somewhat divided as to which ought to astonish me most Mr. Tindall or his wife. Just before he left the pallor, he had come over to Abbey and holding out his hand said earnestly, I owe thanks to you next to God for the peace that I have tonight. Isn't it blessed, Julia? Isn't it glorious? Abbey said with shining eyes and blowing cheeks as the door closed after us in our own room. But oh, Julia, to think that his wife could not have the joy of thinking that she led him to Jesus. I didn't know that you had ever said 20 words to him except at table, I answered, wondering to what he could have referred. I am not sure that I did say 20. I had just a three minutes talk with him one evening. When Dr. Douglas and I were coming home from prayer meeting, he overtook us just at the corner and Dr. Douglas left me in his care and went to make a professional call. I had been thinking about him all the evening, principally because I knew the doctor had him so constantly on his heart. I had been praying for him and I simply told him so. He thinks I was the means of helping him because his heart was just ready to be helped at that time. But I did nothing. It is Dr. Douglas who has just carried him on his heart for months. He is a grand man, Julia. But oh, do you know I think I am foolish? I am sure Mrs. Tindall's heart must be just as full of joy as it can bear. But I cannot help feeling that if I had a husband who was not a Christian, it would be such a regret to me that I was not the one chosen to introduce him to Jesus. Do you suppose she cares? I asked incredulously. Wasn't she equal to the occasion, though? If there should an earthquake swallow us up, house, and all, don't you believe she would shake out her robes after the first surprise was over and wheel forward an easy chair for somebody? I declare I don't know whether instead of being sorry that her life has been such that he never could have got into the right road if he had followed her, she is not at this very moment telling him in a private confidential way that he has made a goose of himself and that it is nothing but an injudicious excitement. However, I did not feel all the gaiety of manner that I exhibited. In reality, my heart felt very sore. It seemed strange to me that a man like Mr. Tindall, who a few days before was even almost a scoffer in a gentlemanly way, could tonight express such a sense of love and trust and nearness to his Saviour, while I, who for years had professed to love and trust him, felt so far away. It seemed almost unjust. I was glad for Mr. Tindall, but bitterly sorry for myself. Looking back now, on my life at that time, I think one of the marked and never-to-be-forgotten lessons of that period was that a child of God cannot live for weeks and months in a world of daily excitement and eager chase after pleasure, neglecting her seasons of communion, or at best giving but a passing moment now and then to her Bible and her prayers, without bringing darkness on her own soul, a darkness that is sometimes long and exceedingly bitter to be born. I know I shed bitter tears that night. When I knelt to pray, my prayer was only weeping. It seemed to me that I could not long endure this pain, yet I bore it quite alone. I said not a word to Abby. Beyond the few words wrung from me by Dr. Douglas, I had let no one suppose other than I was at rest and peace. On Thursday evening we all went to prayer meeting together. It had been Mrs. Tyndall's custom to attend the Thursday evening meeting when it did not rain, and she was not too tired, and did not consider it her duty to stay with her husband. But to have him accompany her was an entirely new experience. There was an unusually large attendance, and many glances of surprise were interchanged when Mr. Tyndall followed us down the aisle. The Tyndall pew joined the Simon's pew on the other side, and Lysia sat in the corner next to Mrs. Tyndall. She had attended quite regularly for several weeks, but had evinced no other interest. While the first hymn was being sung, Mr. Sales sauntered in and took the seat back of us. His presence too was unusual, although he had been once or twice before. The early part of the meeting was one of great suffering to me. The weight of gloom that had rested on my heart for weeks had grown almost insupportable during the past two days. I had tried, I thought, in every way to lift the burden. I had studied Abbey to see where lay the secret of her peace. I thought one of the marked features of her life was her constant work for the master. She seemed always to have someone in mind to pray for, to speak a word to, as she had opportunity, but I had tried that and failed. I tried again. My desires seemed to cling to Frank Hooper. I spoke with her again and was repulsed more decidedly than before. I know now that I did not talk with her, I preached at her. I tried once or twice to pray for Mrs. Tyndall, but now I can see very plainly that I prayed for her as a creature immensely below myself in her Christian life, if she had any, and half despised her even while I prayed. On this particular evening my misery was at its height. I remember I bowed my head on the seat in front of me and struggled to keep my tears under control. There seemed a peculiar salinity about all the exercises. Those who prayed spoke as if they felt almost the invisible presence of the king. I noticed this, and it served to deepen my own sense of something as great as an ocean sweeping between us. Presently Dr. Mulford's voice and question arrested my attention. There was a happy ring to his voice as of one whose pulses were thrilling with a new joy, as he asked, Will our brother Tyndall pray? There was a sudden rustling of heads, that peculiar murmur of sound that flows over an astonished congregation, and then that equally peculiar silence settling over them as the new voice filled the house with prayer. What Mrs. Tyndall felt during that prayer only God and she knew, but it seemed to me that my own heart would break. There was such a sense of security in his words, such a realization of the presence of his Savior. I longed for it so. I cried out after it, but could not find it. What passed after that prayer I do not know. There was some talking in another prayer, but I don't know what was said. I was struggling with my own heart, but I heard Dr. Mulford when he spoke again. There may be those present tonight, Christians by profession, who know little in their own hearts of that peace of which our brother Tyndall spoke, and which God in his mercy has so recently given him. They may be conscious of having lived very far away, unworthy lives. They may be saying at this moment, O for a closer walk with God, perhaps such in one would like us to pray for him or her, would like to say that our prayers are asked, that there may be a renewal of covenant vows, a reconsecration of heart to the Lord. If there be such person or persons present, will they not manifest their desire by rising? Could Dr. Mulford have expressed my feelings better if he had known the entire workings of my heart? I did want them to pray for me. I needed their prayers. I felt my own utter sinfulness, felt it that evening as I never had before. And yet it seemed to me as if I could not say so, could not rise up before that assembly and proclaim my sins. I even reasoned over the evil effect it would have. There were Mr. Sales and Lycia Simons, and I didn't know how many others, who believed me to be a Christian. They knew nothing about my miserable backsliding. What a comment it would be on the professions of church members if I noised it abroad in this way. Thus I reasoned and the opportunity passed. Then again the bitterness of desolation rolled over me. While they were singing a hymn, I felt that I would give anything to have the chance now to rise. No matter about anything or what anybody thought, if only they would pray for me. I was a poor, sinful, unhappy soul, and people must think what they would, so I could but get some help. My sincerity was to be tested. When the hymn closed, Dr. Mulford renewed the opportunity, saying he felt impressed that there were those present who were grieving the spirit by going contrary to their convictions of duty. There was a little rustle beside me. I glanced up and Mrs. Tyndall was standing. Now nothing could amaze me more than this. It seemed so entirely unlike Mrs. Tyndall, her elegant, composed way of doing everything, her utter disgust at anything unfeminine. Yet there she stood, pale, grave, and with a sort of beseeching earnestness in her face. It took but a second of time in which to think all these thoughts. The next I stood beside her. I don't clearly know about the rest of this portion of the meeting. There were others who arose, and then there were prayers offered, earnest, fleeting ones. I recognized Dr. Douglas's voice, and the prayer he offered was such in one as I had never heard before. I read when I was a child the story of Bunyan's pilgrim. I remember at the time being greatly impressed with the scene wherein his pack dropped off and left him free. I thought of it that evening. I felt that I could realize something of Christian's feeling. The burden was gone. A sinner I felt myself. Oh, I knew that more fully, more plainly, than I had ever known it in my life before. But I was a sinner forgiven. My savior held my hand. CHAPTER XXV In which there is much joy and some work. Oh, how I enjoyed the remainder of that meeting! My heart felt ready to sing with gladness. Once more I felt the special presence of my savior. The long dark night of gloom was gone. Now let me not be misunderstood. I do not mean that the mere act of rising in prayer meeting dispelled the cloud that had so long brooded over me. I mean that my life during that time had for weeks been one of rebellion. I was secretly questioning the justice, the goodness of God. I wanted, moreover, to fight my battles alone. I did not want to admit to anyone that I had wandered. I think God called for this act of submission on my part. I mean that I think he chose this particular form of submission for me, and so pressed it upon my conscience, that for me to have resisted it would have been a sin. Dr. Mulford gave another invitation just before the close of the meeting. I remember how full of feeling his voice was, as he said. I think there must be at least one with us tonight who has decided the solemn question, the language of whose heart is, I have come over on the Lord's side. May not our hearts be encouraged by the knowledge of it? Is there not someone who will, by rising, indicate to us that the decision is made? We will wait a moment. There was a little, almost breathless stillness. Then Abby touched my arm, drying at the same moment a quick little breath of delight. I raised my head and caught one glance from Lysia Simon's earnest eyes as she resumed her seat. What a Christian she will be, I said to myself. I knew that she would be a determined, wholehearted anything that she undertook. I did not seem to be much surprised. My own heart was so full of peace that the strangeness seemed to me that anyone could hesitate. Then I heard Dr. Mulford say in tremulous undertone, thank God, in the occasion of it was that his only son, who was alternately his pride and his torture, who was the child of almost agonizing prayer, had determined the great question of his life. There were others. A new impetus seemed to have been given to the meeting. It seemed a little foretaste of the joy of heaven. In the hall we lingered. Dr. Mulford was talking with Mr. and Mrs. Tindall, and Dr. Douglas hurried over to speak a word to young Mulford. Lysia Simon stood near me. I could not help saying a word to her, but I couldn't think of much to say. I held out my hand and said simply, I am so glad. You were the means of my coming to a decision at last, she said, as she gave my hand a hearty clasp. I felt my face flush was surprised to light as I said eagerly. I was. How is that possible? What have I ever said or done that could have helped you? Nothing answered straightforward, Lysia. At least nothing until tonight. I never quite believed in you before, but when you arose I felt that there was a hidden power in it all that I didn't understand and I wanted it. I could not answer her. My thankful tears kept me silent. God had chosen to use the very means that I had honestly feared would be a stain. Dr. Douglas and I walked home together, which was a rare thing, as he generally hastened away on professional work the moment the meetings closed. It was a wonderful place tonight, was it not? He said joyously as we left the church. Wonderful, I repeated. And Dr. Douglas, I don't think you know how much that word means tonight. Do I not? He said smiling and added. I think I know more about it than you imagine what it means to you. I have not watched your life and prayed for you constantly during these months without knowing more or less of your inner conflict and watching with no little anxiety for the result. Then we had one of those old, pleasant talks together, such as we had not enjoyed in months. Just as we turned to the corner of Grove Street, the doctor suddenly changed the subject. By the way, Julia, what of our other friend, indicating by a backward motion of his head the persons behind us? Has he any special interest, do you think? Who, Mr. Sales, you mean? Oh no, not the slightest. I don't think he ever had a serious thought in connection with the subject. Have you had some serious talks with him? Scarcely ever, I answered humbly, feeling then all the strangeness of my answer when I remembered how constant my opportunities had been. I have not done anything that I ought to have done, Dr. Douglas. Come in, Jerome, Mrs. Tyndall said, when our party reached the door. I don't know about it, he said and undertone to me. I am afraid I shall be a foreign element. Nevertheless, he came in. We stopped in the hall to lay aside our things, Abby and I, and Mrs. Tyndall came out to us just as we were ready to enter the parlor, meeting us in the doorway with her husband and Mr. Sales and Dr. Douglas for listeners. She turned to me with that winning air of hers, and touching her lips tenderly to mine, she said gently, I have not helped you in any way, Julia. I fear in any respect my life has been such as to lead you astray. Shall we begin again and try to help each other? I did not answer her in words. I could not. I felt happy and humbled. How I had been despising her in my heart during all these weeks, and yet in every respect she had proved the nobler woman of the two. I remember just how my mountain of sin towered high around me that night. Look where I would, I saw only follies and failures. And yet you were happy? And yet I was happy. In one sense, what mattered it? The sins were covered over with the hand of Christ, very low, very unworthy, very shame faced for the life I had led, for the ill I had done, and the good that I had not done, but in spite of all that, forgiven. The element that was left out of my composition was moral courage. This is the sentence with which Mr. Sales broke the silence that had hovered over us for a little. Why, Jerome, Mrs. Tindall responded, great surprise in her voice. I have always thought you a remarkably courageous man. He smiled faintly, and then immediately growing grave again said earnestly, I presume every one of you think that I have no part nor lot in this matter, that I am perfectly indifferent. I am not certain that I have a part in it, but indifferent I certainly am not. I think I would have given a thousand dollars to have been able to have indicated tonight my desire for your prayers, but it seemed to me that leaden weights were attached to my feet. Julia, when you arose, I thought I certainly should, but you see I did not. I resolved, however, to speak to you here at home about my hopes, my fears, and resolves. I, his voice that had trembled visibly as he spoke these sentences, now stopped entirely, and the composed, self-controlled man of the world bent forward, his elbow resting on the little table at his side, and shielded his face with his hand to hide the emotion he could not control. No one seemed able to speak. We were all surprised and thrilled. Dr. Douglas broke the silence speaking in a voice that trembled. We had thought our cup of Thanksgiving was full tonight, but you have filled it to overflowing. He raised his head again and smiled in answer to the doctor's words. Thank you, he said. I knew you would be glad. I thank you more than I can express for your faithfulness to me. This is not a suddenly formed purpose. I have been thinking of it for weeks. I have been almost decided a great many times, and have been held back with the thought of what my friend Tyndall here would think or say, and then the Lord took away that refuge and left me no excuse. He laid his hand on Mr. Tyndall's arm as he spoke, and that gentleman gave him a glad bright smile. One could see that those two gentlemen were destined henceforth to be such friends as men rarely are. Let us have a little prayer meeting, Dr. Douglas said suddenly, speaking in tones that were throbbing with joy. I am sure that we must all be in the spirit of prayer, and we have very much to be thankful for. So we knelt to pray. It was a thankful meeting, to none more so than to me. I remember I wondered if the joy of heaven was not increased to mother that night, because her wandering child had been called back to the fold. The work has commenced anew, Dr. Douglas said, detaining us as we were about to separate for the night. The spirit of the Master was never more manifest among us than it was tonight. It is a good time to commence the Christian life, or to gird up our hearts afresh. There is much work to do. I have been thinking what a help it will be to us to select each a subject of special prayer and special effort, concentrating our thoughts and our hopes on one soul. I have found it a very great help to me to do so. I think God blesses such special personal efforts. What do you all think? How is it, brother? Are you ready for work? This seemed so strange a remark to address to Mr. Sales. He felt its strangeness and its pleasantness apparently, for he answered with a bright face. Indeed, doctor, I am hardly prepared to pledge myself, for I feel that I do not know how to pray for myself, but I know a friend about whom I have already begun to feel anxious. Pray for him, then, Dr. Douglas said earnestly, the Lord will show you how. We pledged ourselves, and the doctor added, One thing more, let us not forget that the method which God has been pleased to give us, by which to show our sincerity, is to work for that which we are praying about. I find in my own heart a tendency to forget that part. My thoughts went swiftly and steadily toward one person. I don't know how I came to have such an intense desire for the conversion of Frank Cooper, but it seemed to burden me. I remembered with a strange feeling of surprise and shame, that I had prayed for her here too far in a very strange and spasmodic manner. Just before or after the times when I had tried to approach her personally on religious topics, I had been in the habit of remembering her in my prayers, and then perhaps, for weeks I would not think of her again. It was as if I had determined that a prayer now and then was all I had time to bestow on her, and ought to be sufficient. I began to understand something of the folly of my attempts to do good, and to see how very far from real earnestness I must have appeared in the sight of God. I prayed for Frank that evening as I never had prayed for her, or indeed for anybody before. Isn't it wonderful about Mr. Sales? I asked Abby. I was so amazed. I thought he was perfectly indifferent to the whole subject. Abby's face had been radiant all the evening, and her voice matched her face as she answered. It is blessed, and yes, it is wonderful, but I do not think I am surprised. I was looking for it. God answers prayer, you know. Had you been praying for him specially, I asked her. For weeks and weeks he seemed to me in such great need and so nearly ready. I was very much astonished how different he must have seemed to her from what he did to me, and then I remembered that my life had not been such as to draw from him any secret interest on the subject that he might have felt, and hers had. Perhaps that made all the difference. I went early to the shop the next morning, very full of the subject that had engrossed my heart the night before, and very eager to find an opportunity to express my desire. I hoped by going early to meet Frank alone. She had, of late, been working over hours, both morning and evening, plunging into the work with a sort of desperation, it seemed to me, as if she would try to absorb her whole soul in the business before her and leave neither time nor strength for anything else. As I had hoped she was in her corner, driving her wheel around with nervous haste. No one else was in the room. I went over to her directly. I did not wait for the accustomed good morning nor respond to her greeting. How happens it that you are such an early bird, but plunged it once into my subject? Frank, I have something I want to say to you. I came early on purpose to see you alone. I think my way of talking to you about religion here too for has been insufferable. I wonder that you endured it at all. I know my life has been such that if you judged from me, you must have thought there was nothing in religion but a name. But there is, there is. Oh, Frank, don't think it is all delusion. Don't judge of Christians by me. I have been all wrong. So wrong that I wonder God let me live to do mischief. But I am going to try again. I want to live differently and, Frank, I want you to love Jesus. I want that more than anything else on earth. I remember the words I spoke as well as though they had been yesterday. I was all in a tremble of eagerness. When I first began there had been a mocking smile on Frank's face, but it changed and when I stopped she had checked her wheel and stood looking at me gravely and thoughtfully. Presently she drew from her pocket a dainty note and said with eyes fixed searchingly on my face. Did you know she wrote me this note? She? Who? No, I don't know anything about a note. What is it? She passed it to me quietly. Read it, she said, and tell me if you know anything about it. Thus it read, Dear Frank, I have ill treated you. I want you to forgive me. I have been proud and weak and wicked. I have been blind too, but God has opened my eyes. I cannot think how I could have lived as I did. Now I have begun to pray for you. I know your heart needs Jesus. Don't judge from my life that there is no such person. Only try him. I shall pray for you every day, every hour I think, so great is my desire to have you happy in Christ. I am sorry for the many ways in which I have hurt your feelings. I think you will forgive me, my Savior has. Yours truly and earnestly, Mrs. H. F. Tindall. My look of utter astonishment during the reading of this letter, and when I handed it back, must have convinced Frank of my ignorance of its contents. You knew nothing about it, then, she asked. Nothing at all. Isn't it utterly unlike Mrs. Tindall? It isn't from any Mrs. Tindall that I ever knew, she answered emphatically. The new and she have held no conversation about me, with another very searching look into my eyes. Not a syllable. I haven't mentioned your name to her, nor she, yours to me, in weeks. Frank turned again to her wheel, and began to make it spin again. After all, she said, with a mocking smile again gathering on her face, I don't know but there is something in it. Do you suppose if I take it to myself it will have such a transforming effect on me, as it seems suddenly to have had on Mrs. Tindall and you? I did not answer her. My eyes and my voice were full of tears. It seemed to me that I could not let this be the only result of our talk together, a moment after she spoke gravely. Julia, I think a good many things that I do not speak, but I may as well tell you that I respect your religion this morning, a thing I never did before. Perhaps I may do more than that, time will tell. And then the girls came laughing and chattering in, and I had to go to my desk. End of Chapter 25, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 26 of Julia Reed. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Julia Reed by Pansy. Chapter 26, in which I feel my destiny approaching. Have you ever heard of Mr. Alec Tindall, brother to our Mr. Tindall? This was the question that Mr. Sales asked me one evening as we were coming home from church. Abby had been detained at home by a slight illness and we were alone. No, or yes, I answered. I have heard of him. Mrs. Tindall mentions his name occasionally. You don't know, I presume, that he is coming home? I don't know where he is nor where his home is. And you are at this moment engaged in wondering why I think you should care to know anything about him, he answered, laughing. But what if I tell you that his homecoming ensures us a wedding in our circle? A wedding, I repeated, in astonishment? Yes, and a speedy one, I trust. The waiting has been long and weary enough. I can't imagine what you are talking about. Where is this gentleman coming from, and where is he coming, and who is going to be married, and how did it all happen? What a rush of questions! Your indifference vanishes the moment a wedding is proposed. Well, this gentleman is coming from California, where he took refuge several years ago after the financial crash. He will be here in perhaps two weeks, possibly sooner. And, now I am going to astonish you, the lady involved in this matter is Frank Hooper. Frank Hooper? I ejaculated in utter amazement. How can that be possible? Why, when did it come to pass? Is she really engaged to him? She is, and has been, for the last four years. There is quite a long story connected with it. Frank's father, you know, was a very wealthy man, but lost everything in the financial panic between two and three years ago. About three it is now. Alec was wealthy, too, and met with the same fate. He was involved with his brother, and he would have crashed, too, if it hadn't been for his wife. She is the wealthy one, you know. Alec lost everything, and there was no resort but to begin at the foot of the hill. He fled to California, where he has been ever since. He has been successful beyond his wildest hopes, and now I suppose he is speeding toward home in Frank. But I don't understand, I said, in a greatly perplexed tone. If they have been engaged all this time, how is it that people know nothing about it? Nobody does, do they? Not a soul save myself. That was a freak of theirs. Perhaps you don't need to be told that Mrs. Tyndall hasn't always been absolutely angelic in her dealings with people, and didn't love Frank very deeply. Alec knew her well, and had an immense respect for her, and for her ability to do mischief. So he conceived the brilliant idea of keeping the entire matter a secret. It was a comparatively easy thing to do. You see, he did not live here. He was in business in New York, but he was also connected with his brother's firm, and that of itself brought him here frequently. And so by taking me into complete confidence, and letting me engineer the correspondence, we had it all arranged. A tedious time they have had of it, though. I am glad for them that the struggle is over. But I thought that you, this much I said, and then I stopped in confusion. He laughed pleasantly. You thought what the rest of the world did, I presume, that I was being attentive to Frank on my own account, and then that I had deserted her on the eve of marriage, and still hovered around her much as a moth might be supposed to treat a candle, and no end of nonsense. Frank and I have had merry times over the whole story. Only Julia, I did think you would hardly believe it of me, about the base desertion part at least. You know enough evil of me certainly, but I declare I did not think you would consider me quite so far down as that. I only half believed it, I said eagerly. Some of the time I did not believe it at all, only I thought there must be some sort of foundation for it, I had the story so very straight. Yes, I know, or at least I suppose Dr. Douglas enlightened you. I know he has believed it religiously. It is a wonder that he has succeeded in treating me as well as he has. Does he know about it now? Not he. He gives me courteous little hints every day about one of the duties of a new Christian life, to undo the mistakes that have been made so far as it is in one's power, and I know he classes Frank among the mistakes. Why don't you tell him? For two reasons. First, having kept Frank's secret so long, I don't propose to go around enlightening people. I mean to let circumstances do that. It will be vastly more interesting, I think, though I make an exception in your favor, you see. Secondly, I think Dr. Douglas, good noble man though he is, needs a little bit of a lesson. He is almost as ready as commoner mortals are to deliberately swallow those prodigious lies that go floating around town about people. I'm using very strong language. I beg pardon. But the subject demands some indignation. I am not offended with the doctor. I used to be. I used to nearly detest him on this very account, and but for interposing circumstances I should almost have merited his contempt by doing the very thing, in a sense, that he believed of me merely to prove to him that I did not do it. That's talking in riddles to you, isn't it? Never mind. I'm glad you are so pure and open-hearted. It is that, in a sense, which has saved me. Well, I am not at all out of sorts with the doctor now. I know him to be thoroughly pure gold, and he certainly had strong provocation for believing the stories about me. You see, Frank and Alec were to have been married in about six weeks when the crash came, and people knew that she was, and knowing nothing about Alec, naturally supposed that I was. Only the question is, why should I have been pitched up as the perpetrator of a great meanness because she packed her marriage robes away in a trunk instead of wearing them when I was with her just the same, not a break of twenty-four hours in our friendship? Wouldn't that have been a queer way to have managed the other matter? But people are not willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. They were more than ready to pitch into me if there was anything ugly that needed believing. Why, all right. However, the doctor wasn't here during the time that all this occurred, and is more excusable. At the same time it won't hurt him to discover that he made a blunder. Don't imagine that I blame you, Julia, for crediting the story in a measure. It was the most natural thing imaginable under the circumstances. I did not credit it, I said earnestly. At least I mean I thought that it could be explained in a way that would not compromise you. And Mrs. Tindall, you know, never thought any such thing. No, he said, laughing. She thought something worse. That is, she professed to think that it was a grand flirtation on my part, and a grand effort on Frank's part to secure a husband. But I always gave her the credit of thinking that she didn't believe any such thing. She thought I wanted Frank and couldn't get her. I know she did. It was a very reasonable thing to think. It must have looked like that to those who disbelieved the other two stories, and must have something to rest their hopes on. Besides, Mrs. Tindall was exceedingly fearful, lest that should be the state of things. She didn't like Frank, and she wanted to keep her down, out of her circle. You may imagine I enjoyed her state of mind, knowing all the time that Frank was destined to be her sister-in-law. It is all very queer, I said, feeling very light-hearted that all things were just as they were. When will they be married? Why, very soon, I should think, though I know but little about it. I haven't heard from Tindall personally for months. I get hosts of envelopes addressed to me in his handwriting, but not a line does he vouchsafe to me beyond the bare announcement that he was to sail in such a steamer and would telegraph me on his arrival in New York. I haven't heard from him directly since December. However, I suffered in a good cause. Frank has had longer letters in consequence, I presume. Is this Mr. Tindall a Christian man? I asked, and Mr. Sales' voice saddened at once. Oh, dear, no! He is very far removed from that. When I used to be constantly with him, he was nearly, if not quite, an infidel. I don't think he led me as far into the mist as he was himself, but far enough to cause me some miserable days and nights since, and I have no reason to hope that he has changed his views since that time. Don't you dread his influence over Frank? Indeed I do. She is so new in the Christian life that she needs much help instead of such powerful hindrance, and I dread his influence over his brother very much, and I might add, over myself. He is a very fascinating man, has almost a magnetic influence over people, and a very sarcastic man, ready and willing to turn anything into a kind of quiet, gentlemanly ridicule. I don't know how his brother is going to endure it. Alec will be a member of his family, I presume, for a time. Very likely he will never be in or on hand at the hour of family prayers, but what he will say at the idea of a blessing being asked at his brother's table, or whether Tindall will have the courage to attempt it or not, I don't know. I feel in a very good deal of trouble about it all. Does Frank feel disturbed? I don't know. I haven't had the heart to ask her. She has had such a stormy life of late years, only so recently settled into calm, that I haven't felt equal to suggesting more breakers ahead, especially as the suggestion would do no sort of good. No, thank you. I cannot go in tonight. I have a little business that must be attended to. I am to keep this story quiet, I suppose? Yes, please. They will know in a day or two if they do not already that Alec is coming. Frank says he wrote his brother by the same steamer that her last letters came, but his letter seems to have been delayed. About the rest of it, he must tell his own stories, of course, and I wish him joy of the scene. Mrs. Tindall is very much changed in many respects, but I fancy she will not like Frank Hooper for a sister. By the way, you can gossip over this matter with your cousin Abby if you choose. I mentioned it to her last evening, but did not tell her particulars. I will not keep you from her longer, for she said she had something special to talk with you about, and I shall have something special to say to you tomorrow evening. Can I see you? Yes, I answered, and then I went in with glowing cheeks and shining eyes. Just here I have paused, pen in hand, and thought whether or not, since this history of part of my life was destined to be used as a Sabbath school book, it would be well for me to write herein some of the thoughts that filled my heart that night and some of the incidents that followed. It seems to be quite generally believed that a Sabbath school book should utterly ignore two great questions that have to do with human hearts, love, and marriage. I never was able to understand why. Certainly young misses of sixteen think of these matters, and even those who attend Sabbath school and draw Sabbath school books think of them, I believe, a great deal more than is well for them. I am sure I did. Why should I then, in giving to these young ladies the story of a piece of my life, in the sincere hope that it may help them to avoid my blunders and causes of failure and unhappiness, why should I be very plain and frank as regards other subjects, and quite silent in this, merely in the fear that some critic will criticize my story for having broached in it the awful and forbidden subject? I will tell you my story truthfully without the fear of a critic before my eyes. Plainly then I came into the hall in a great flutter. I felt sure that a crisis in my destiny was coming to me on swift wings. Tomorrow evening he would have something special to say to me. Didn't I feel in every throb of my heart what it would be? Didn't I know when he was taking such pains to explain to me that he had never been other than a friend to Frank Cooper, just what he meant me to understand? Life looked very rose-color to me. I remember the feeling well. I went up with swift feet to Abby. I was eager for sympathy. I pulled down my hair and began in a very nervous way to braid it, while, as Abby questioned me about the meeting, I tried to determine in my own mind which I should do. Should I tell her first about that last sentence spoken in such a peculiarly meaning tone as he clasped my hand? Or should I tell her all about Frank and the wedding in prospect and the commotion that would probably be awakened in our household, waiting until the glaring gas light was turned out and only the soft, quiet moon gave us light, while I told her of the other and the rush of sweet hopes and plans and possibilities that had been set to throbbing in my heart? I decided on the latter course. She was deeply interested in Frank and questioned eagerly and earnestly so that it was not until just after I had finished the last braid and said, shan't I turn out the gas now, and won't we have a bit of quiet talk in the moonlight? That she, assenting eagerly and standing there, leaning her head against the window sash and looking out into the glorious beauty of the night, said, did Mr. Sales say anything of me? Yes, I answered promptly. He said I might tell you all about this matter of Frank's and, oh yes, he said you had something special to tell me about. What is it, Abby? She turned a little then and let me see her face, sweet and pure and smiling, and she said softly, I have something very special. I wanted to tell you that last evening he asked me to be his wife. CHAPTER 27 In which I looked for one scene and saw another. Other girls, you who are sixteen, almost seventeen, if ever you have been or ever you should be, in just the position that I was that evening, standing there with my cousin Abby in the moonlight and listening to that softly whispered sentence, let me commend to you, at least in this particular, my conduct. I did not faint. I did not cry out. I did not push my cousin from me as I would a serpent in heroic novel style. I stood very quietly and received her sweet kiss at the end of the sentence and returned it. And the thing of which I was dimly conscious was a sense of relief that I had not told her about that last sentence at once, but had waited until circumstances made it unnecessary ever to tell it. I do not remember how I congratulated her, or indeed whether I had brains enough to do it at all. I was very much amazed and a good deal stunned. Of course I had never dreamed of such a thing. I remember being very glad that the gas was turned out and only the soft pale moon lighted the room. I know I carried a very heavy heart to bed that night, and I remember that after Abby was quietly sleeping I shed some bitter tears, but at last I, too, fell asleep, and thus ends the record of the wonderful day in which I felt my destiny coming to me on such swift wings. Have you learned anything about the special matter that I had to consult you about? Mr. Sales asked me, as he came forward on my entrance to the parlor the next evening, and held out both hands in greeting. I think I have, I answered promptly and gaily. But Mr. Sales doesn't the consultation come rather late? He laughed merrily. Oh no, indeed, there are a great many things to settle yet, and an obdurate young woman to persuade into anything like reasonable behavior. Julia, were you surprised? I suppose my cheeks glowed. I don't see how they could well help it. I know they felt very red. But the room was warm and my cheeks are naturally rosy. So, after all, I am not certain that anyone but myself knew about them. I know I answered steadily. Yes, I was very much. I don't know when I have been more astonished. Why, were you, he said, looking amazed? I didn't think you would be. I thought you would have seen through it long ago. I have given you credit for more clear-sightedness than you possess, haven't I? He had indeed. But he continued eagerly. This was not this special thing after all. I knew Abby would tell you about it, but I was eager to claim my cousinship and say to you how glad I am that—and then followed the usual words on such occasions, very kind and very complimentary, about considering him in the light of a cousin not only, but a brother, he should be so glad to—I interrupted him sossily. I had a brother of my very own, I told him, the nicest brother in the world, and I shouldn't accept any platonic brotherhood. Then followed a great deal of pleasant nonsense in which Abby joined merrily, and it was interspersed with some earnest words, but I distinctly remember that the whole talk only served to make me feel sick and miserable and more utterly desolate than I had felt in a long time. A few days thereafter, as we obeyed the summons to tea, I became conscious soon after I entered the dining-room of a strange presence there, a tall, dark, singularly handsome man, and there immediately rushed over me a remembrance of what I had heard about the singular fascination that Mr. Alec Tyndall's face possessed. So before Mrs. Tyndall had said, my brother Mr. Tyndall misread, I knew that it was he. He talked exceedingly well, being one of those talkers whose words flow on smoothly and quietly, without apparently the slightest effort on their part, and without seeming to be aware that they are in the least degree remarkable. When we gathered around the table, there was one thing that surprised me. It was the instant quiet bending of his head and the shading of his eyes with his hand. This before there had been given him any indication that in his brother's family they had learned to recognize a heavenly father's hand in supply of their daily needs. Mr. Sales had misjudged our Mr. Tyndall's strength, or rather his weakness. His voice was never quieter nor firmer than when he asked a simple blessing on the food. Meantime I speculated over Mr. Alec Tyndall's conduct. Had he learned the new order of things, and was this his graceful concession to the ways of the household, or was it his habit, since there was a strange gentleman added to the family, to take all things for granted until proved to the contrary. I inclined to the latter opinion, as that would seem in keeping with his inimitable courtesy, and he did not by word or look express surprise at his brother's new position. During the remainder of the evening part of our household at least were on the quivive. I wouldn't be in his shoes, said Mr. Sales, with an expressive shrug of his shoulders, for an interest in his bank account. Why, I asked curiously, what do you imagine Mrs. Tyndall will do or can do? She hasn't them in her power in any way. Oh, no, but she has it in her power to make them an immense deal of botheration, and she'll exercise her power, too, or I'm mistaken, and I should hate it so. I do hate scenes in trouble of all sorts. I remember I wondered whether Abby would not have been a little, just a little, better pleased with him if he had been a shade more self-sustained and manly. If she would, she didn't express it by look or act, but simply questioned in her quiet way. Don't you imagine he is equal to the occasion? And Mr. Sales laughed and gave her an admiring glance as if she had said a remarkable thing and answered, upon my word I think he is if any mortal ever was. So on that conviction we rested, waiting for further developments. Matters were very quiet the next day. Mr. Tyndall was absent the most of the day, and Frank was not in the shop. We, Abby and I, wondered if Mrs. Tyndall knew anything about it yet, and concluded that she did not, and we discovered nothing until the next morning. Mr. Sales had come in to get Mr. Alec Tyndall to accompany him on a drive, and found us at breakfast. He drew up his chair, took a cup of coffee with us, and stopped to prayers. The doctor was present and led the service that morning. As we were about to separate, Mrs. Tyndall said in her simplest most matter of course tone. By the way, Jerome, you must come in to tea. We are going to have a quiet little family party at tea time and a few friends in the evening. Alec is going to bring Frank down to tea. You don't mind these ladies knowing that Frank is one of the family, do you, Alec? Not in the least, Mr. Alec Tyndall said, with a gracious bow to the ladies. And Mr. Sales' air he answered glanced over at me with such a curious look of delighted astonishment that I disgraced myself by laughing. I did not expect to meet Frank at the shop, but she was there and had been apparently for some time and was working very rapidly. She looked precisely the Frank that she had always been as regarded dress and manner, but there was a radiant look in her eyes that I could account for, though I knew the others could not. In the course of the morning I stood near her. She and I had grown very near to each other in heart during the last few weeks, yet I did not like to speak first of her personal affairs, though I felt very curious and also somewhat anxious to have her understand that I knew of the arrangements. She broke the silence, however. You belong to that family party this afternoon, of course? She said in a low tone, with a vivid blush and a bright smile. Yes, I do, I answered eagerly. Oh, Frank, why didn't you tell me about it? I told nobody, she answered decidedly. He had been gone a long, long time, and California is very far away and the world is full of changes. But, with that brilliant smile of hers, it doesn't matter who knows it now. We were hurried in the shop. There was little time for talk. Mr. Jerome's sales had managed the matter of the afternoon holiday for Frank and myself. The other girls could not imagine with what argument, but of course I surmised. At noon Frank piled up her boxes snugly in a corner. There, she said, Ruthie, don't let anyone touch my work. I mean to be here bright and early tomorrow morning to finish it. Are you ready, Julia? And with a parting bow and smile to the girls and a gleeful reply that she was going to seek her fortune in answer to their curious questions as to what was going to become of her that afternoon, we left the shop together. They are good girls, every one of them, she said earnestly, as we went down the familiar street. I shall never forget how good and kind they have been to me. When I have a house of my own, the first thing I shall do will be to invite them all to spend the day with me. I should have liked Mrs. Tyndall better if she had asked every one of them to meet me tonight. But that would have been too much to expect of flesh and blood. And after all, I said somewhat hesitatingly, they are not quite your company. I mean you cannot enjoy their society exactly. No, she answered promptly, we are not congenial, perhaps. That is, I have received a good education and enjoy it, and they have not and don't care for it. But they are nice good girls for all that, and I enjoy their society quite as well as I do Mrs. Shaddy's, for instance, who lives in a palace on Regent Street and uses worse grammar than any of them do. You understand that I think it is not because I work in a shop that I am not fitted to shine in any circle, nor does my working there make me fit. That is merely an accident, force of circumstances, or choice of work, and has nothing whatever to do with position. That's my platform. And then we parted to meet again three hours later in Mrs. Tyndall's elegant parlors. Abby and I were in the room, so also was Mr. Sales, or Jerome, as we all called him now, when Mr. Alec Tyndall and Miss Hooper arrived. I think I have spoken before of Frank's severe plainness of dress. She had never varied it in the least. I had never seen her in other than the simplest of material and make, and with her hair stretched plainly back in a net. As she came forward now, I could not restrain a start of astonishment, and I saw Jerome's eyes dance. She evidently looked natural to him. She wore a soft, silky, sheeny dress of silvery hue, entirely new, exquisitely made as to trimmings and fit, and it became her as nothing ever had before. And her hair fell loose about her neck in round, puffy, natural curls. It seemed to me that Mrs. Tyndall must have thought the two singularly well-mated. She advanced to meet them, held out her hand to Frank as simply incorrigibly as though she had entertained her but yesterday, kissed her in a familiar sisterly way, and said, You're tired, aren't you, with your long walk? Alec, you wretch, why didn't you take the carriage? That is a pretty way to take care of her. You think because you are a Hercules in that matter that everyone is. He'll walk you to death, Frank. Take this chair, you get a pleasanter view than in the one you have chosen. And this was the famous meeting, the wonderful scene, that we had planned about, and gossiped over, and been nervous in view of, for days. Ahem! said Jerome, by way of attracting my attention. But I persistently talked to Frank and wouldn't look. I knew I should laugh if I did, and he finally contented himself with a walk to the back parlor, where he leaned over the piano and whistled Yankee Doodle in a very undertone. We had an early, quiet tea, but with one surprise. As we settled into that hush, which precedes the lifting up of thankful hearts, Mr. Tyndall said in a voice in which there was a great throb of joy, Alec, will you ask a blessing? And the infidel bowed his head, and the strange voice uttered a few reverent, grateful words. Frank's face expressed joy but not surprise. She had been told of the wonderful change. But Mr. Sale's face expressed unbounded astonishment. He walked with me back to the parlor. He had lost all desire to laugh. His tone was earnest and solemn. The Lord can take care of his own, it seems, without your and my fretting about it, he said emphatically. But I declare to you I never was more amazed in my life. I could as soon have expected that bit of marble to ask a blessing. But then, when one thinks of it, he might well have been equally surprised at hearing me. The way in which we have all been led is wonderful, perfectly wonderful. How could anyone know of the facts concerning just this small company without recognizing at once a power above and beyond all human strength? We had a wonderfully pleasant evening. We had a very choice selection of guests, prominent among whom were Lycea Simons and Florence Hervey. Dr. and Mrs. Mulford were the latest to arrive. I had to spend nearly half my time in watching Frank. She glided into this new position, or rather back into her old position, so smoothly and gracefully, and there was about her a certain quiet dignity, a half nameless deference to those around her, that was new and exceedingly becoming. What are they going to do? I asked Mr. Sales in the course of the evening. I don't know, I'm sure. Tyndall wants to be married at once. I knew he would, and Frank won't. I knew she wouldn't. Women are so confoundly silly and obstinate, begging your pardon, of course. But they must spend 10,000 years in sewing if anybody is waiting to marry them. They have both wills made of iron. I suppose they will fight it out until one of them yields. Later in the evening we grew merrier, and some wise brain proposed impromptu charades and tableaux, a suggestion which Mrs. Tyndall caught at eagerly, and Mr. Sales and I entered into very heartily. We really had some very good ones. I remember them distinctly. Presently Mr. Sales came over to me with a puzzled look. They are going to have a marriage scene, and Alec and Frank are to be the actors. It isn't in the least like either of them. I wonder that they will enter into it. Who's getting up, is it? I asked. Mrs. Tyndalls. She seems to be in high glee over that and everything else. What a woman she is. Who will they get to officiate? Don't know. It's a wonder they didn't ask me. I expected it. I always used to be selected for matters of that sort. I wouldn't do it, though. I don't like farces of that kind. The thing has grown too sacred. And he glanced toward Abby. Hark! As the folding doors began to slide. They are coming. Who will they have for a clergyman? I'll be hanged if it isn't Dr. Mulford himself. And then the hum of voices instantly hushed. For Dr. Mulford commenced the marriage service, the veritable words without change or omission, pronounced in solemn tone even to the words, what God hath joined together let not man put asunder, and then the prayer. And then we stood petrified until Mr. and Mrs. Tyndall pressed forward, smiling and composed, to greet the bride. It was a bride, then? Yes, indeed, no farce about it. One of the iron wills had broken. Strong as words of man and words of prayer could make it, had the service been, and Frank Hooper was Mrs. Alec Tyndall. I can't describe the commotion that followed. Everybody talked, and wondered, and owed, and wide, and laughed, and ate cake, and congratulated the bride, only Mr. Sales. It was rather cruel, Frank, he said, when opportunity offered, to desert and take me so overwhelmingly by surprise at the last moment when I have been your faithful ally for so long. I hadn't an idea of it, she explained eagerly. I mean I hadn't the least intention of doing anything so wild. It seemed perfectly absurd. How do you happen to be a married woman, then? I'm sure I don't know, she answered meekly, and her husband smiled and said, he did, and it was perfectly satisfactory, and led her away. It wasn't a very iron will, after all, I said to Jerome. Yes, it was, he answered emphatically. Only he has got all of hers and all his mixed up together somehow. It was nice, announced to the same gentleman, as every guest having departed, Mrs. Tyndall and I lingered a moment in the back parlor to talk over the strange circumstances with Abby and Jerome. It was nice, I liked it. No fuss or getting ready a century beforehand, no gossiping as to when it will be. I wish, he stopped abruptly and seemed confused. Mrs. Tyndall laughed mischievously. We'll go, Julia, she said gaily. We are unmistakably too large an audience for the discussion of that subject. Shall I confess what I did? I went to my room and to bed, and when safe there in the darkness I cried a little. I wasn't exactly unhappy, only miserably lonely, and also somewhat sentimental. But finally I dried my eyes and went to sleep. In which he led us in paths that we did not know. Oh, I think I was a Christian, a miserable sick weak one, not worth the name. Yet I know I did have a feeling of trust in my savior, something that I would not have yielded for anything that I had in the world. This was what Mrs. Tyndall said, an answer to a remark made by Dr. Douglas, as we all sat together one evening, about two weeks after Frank's marriage. We had been taking a drive together in the large carriage, Abby and Mr. Sales, Dr. Douglas, Mr. and Mrs. Tyndall, and myself. And now Mrs. Tyndall was going farther in the little carriage with her husband, and while she waited for him she talked with Dr. Mulford, who had come in to see Dr. Douglas. But, continued Mrs. Tyndall, it was, after all, very unlike the feeling that I have now. I mean to live such a different life. You can't think how many things there are for me to undo. I am so thankful that I have health and leisure, so few people have both. There is no reason why I should not employ all my time in going about at work. I think there is a great deal to do. There is indeed, Dr. Mulford answered earnestly, people with health and leisure and consecration are very rare and very greatly needed. Why, Mrs. Tyndall, if you will put yourself subject to my disposal, I can keep you very busy every moment of the time. I will, she said eagerly. That is just what I want, someone to direct my energy, for I really have a great deal. It has to be used in some way, but I don't trust my own way of doing things as much as I did. Will you tell us, questioned Dr. Douglas, what was the secret power that wrought upon you this change of which you speak, made you look at the Christian life and Christian work in such a different light? Mrs. Tyndall turned suddenly toward my cousin Abby and gave her a look of loving gratitude, as she said. It was watching another life so totally different from my own, and yet professing to be governed by the same springs of action. I have noticed it and watched her and wondered over her manner of living from my first acquaintance. A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump, Dr. Mulford quoted, musingly as if thinking aloud, then he laid his hand on Abby's shoulder and said tenderly, God has greatly honored you, my child. I, said bewildered and wondering Abby, why I haven't done anything. Only just lived, Dr. Douglas said significantly, and Dr. Mulford added, it is a great thing for a Christian to live. At this point Mrs. Tyndall left us, looking back to say brightly, remember Dr. Mulford, I am ready for work and bubbling over with life and energy. I do hope you can give me a right channel to work in at last. We looked after them as they rode away, remarking upon how bright and graceful and full of healthful life she was. Can the Ethiopian change his skin, Mr. Sales said gravely? It seems he can. Whoever saw a more remarkable change than there is in that woman. She always had energy, plenty of it, Dr. Douglas said. It is as she said, she was unceasingly at work. The trouble is that Satan pushed himself in as her chief aide sometimes. She was born to be a leader, though, I think. Dr. Mulford, I fancy you will find her very useful. I expect to, the doctor said heartily. I can give her legitimate channels in which to work off her energy. I am glad she is just the woman she is, well and strong and wealthy and willing. It wasn't ten minutes after that, no, it could hardly have been five, when a furious ring at the doorbell startled us all. That must be a summons for you, doctor, said Mr. Sales. No one else would be wanted in such desperate haste. And then, listening, we heard the quick panting voice. I want Dr. Douglas. Is he here? Yes, answered the doctor, going quickly forward. What has wanted, my boy? They want you right away, down to the corner, sir. There's been an accident. Mr. Tindall's horse got frightened at the band, and Mrs. Tindall she's thrown and hurt bad. Some thinks she is dead. Before this sentence was concluded, Dr. Douglas had brushed past him and was halfway to the corner, consternation prevailed in the house. Abby still had her wits and rang bells and gave orders for Mrs. Tindall's bed to be thrown open and hot water to be in readiness and attended to half a dozen other thoughtful and wise arrangements, while Mr. Sales and I still stood gazing solemnly at each other and saying, how very strange, how could it have happened? I thought that horse wasn't afraid of the band. Do you suppose she is much hurt? And several other of those witless and unanswerable remarks that useless people make to themselves and each other at such times. Dr. Mulford had at once followed Dr. Douglas. Directly there came a trampling of feet and subdued voices. Then Dr. Douglas's voice issuing orders right and left. Stand aside there. Sales come and help me here. No, in answer to my terrified look. She has only fainted. We decided to bring her home while she was unconscious. Abby followed them up the stairs. I stayed below, looking after the curious or sympathetic people who immediately began to come on voyages of discovery or with offers of assistance. Mr. Sales came down presently. She will do everything, he said, speaking of Abby, with a curious mixture of pride and annoyance. She is hurrying around there as if she had the strength of a Samson. Is she much hurt? I asked, my thought still on Mrs. Tindall. No, I guess not. She has revived now and spoken to Abby. Douglas has sent for Dr. Vincent to consult. But that is more for the sake of pacifying Tindall, I guess, than because he needs him. But two hours passed before we knew more. Dr. Vincent came and went up to the room, and Dr. Mulford came down and went out. Then presently Mr. Sales was called for to go to Dr. Vincent's office for a certain case. I, meantime, was kept very busy below. People seemed determined to ring from me information that I did not possess, and the servants hung around with scared faces. At last Dr. Vincent went away. Dr. Douglas came downstairs with him, and they stood in the hall talking in low tones. I waited until the door closed on Dr. Vincent, then I went out. Dr. Douglas turned to me with a sad smile. Poor child, he said. How white it is. Are you very much frightened? How we planned, Julia. Here we were talking about her energy and health and strength, and what a work she would do, arranging to give her enough employment for her eager, healthy life, and here all the time God had other plans that ran right a thwart ours. Is she going to die? I asked, in an odd and frightened whisper. No, not that, he said sadly. She may live as long, longer than you or I, but she will never lift herself from that bed again. Are you sure? I asked him, immeasurably more shocked than I would have been, had he told me that God was going to take her right away to himself. Most hopelessly sure, he answered, both hip and spine are injured. He had to go back upstairs. I sat down on the lowest step of the long flight of winding stairs, and tried in a stunned way to take in the meaning of his words. Never lift herself from that bed again. Then she would never walk again. Was it possible that her graceful form would never flip down those stairs again? I looked around the large elegant hall, arranged with exquisite taste, and as well furnished as many parlors. Every article in sight and in memory bore the marks of her graceful, skillful fingers. Only a little, little while ago she had set that face of lilies under the glass, and had arranged their delicate cups, stopping to do it ere she tied the ribbon of her hat, the hat that lay now all battered and mud stained under the table. I went forward and picked it up, and tried to bend the torn limp thing into something like its former grace and beauty. It was of no use, it would never be fit to wear again, and its wearer would never need it anymore. And I sat down with the bright-ribboned, pitiful-looking hat and shed bitter tears. Mr. Sales, talking with me about it all the next day, standing before me with folded arms and sad face, said, It's hard, Julia, very hard, and the reason of it past finding out. I thought it would be so different. I wanted it to be. I wanted her to be able, as she said, to undo much of her work. I wanted people to see and realize, as we do, how changed she is. I wanted her to grow into having the influence over people religiously, that she has had over them morally and fashionably all her life. And now here she lies, a living, suffering death. It is a hard death, too. No sympathy. People are shocked and sorry, but no one has any tears to shed. They can go right on without her. There is no one to cry out in bitterness of soul. I cannot get along without her help. Oh, my! I don't want to die like that. I feel it, you see. That is what my dying now would be. No one to care for me. No one to miss me, because my life had led them nearer to Christ. But I won't die so. If God will give me a little more time, I will work for him. Dr. Mulford had come quietly into the room, and as Mr. Sales finished his excited sentence, the doctor laid a quiet hand on his shoulder and said low and gently, his ways are not our ways. That was all said and done and lived more than three years ago. I am twenty now. It is four years ago today that I first came to Newton. I came back to the place today after a long absence. It was but a little while after Mrs. Tindall's accident that I went with Abby to her home to help her make preparations for the wedding. I remembered at the time that my sister Esther went there once for the same purpose. We talked about that time a little while we made preparations. They were married at church one morning and went away together, Mr. Sales and she. They seemed very happy. I did not go back to Newton. I was tired in body and brain. Also, I was less wise and self-reliant than when I first went there, and so I yielded to Sadie and Dr. Van Andens often repeated urgings and went to Newhaven to live. I have heard often from Newton during these intervening years and have constantly meant to visit my friends here, but other plans and cares and duties have intervened. It was finally a telegram that brought me. It read, thus, Mrs. Tindall died last night, funeral on Thursday, will meet the 1050 train, Douglas. So at once I started and today I reached here. Just four years ago today I came here a stranger and she gave me kindly greeting. Today they led me to look at her white coffin face. My heart was very sad, and yet when I had taken one long look at the familiar face, lying there so white and still, I turned to Dr. Douglas and smiled. He seemed to understand my meaning. Isn't the seal of the spirit there? he said. It is as if one had a glimpse of heaven where she has entered in. Mrs. Alec Tindall was there beside us. She had been the real mistress of that home during these three years, for the nominal one never left the room where they had carried her that night, until they brought her down today in her coffin. Frank bent over the coffin with fast-dropping tears. Yes, she said, she has entered in. But, oh, doctor, how can we live without her? Does she look natural, Julia? Mr. Sales asked me, and I answered quickly. No, not at all. She looks angelic. Oh, Julia! A murmur of voice has greeted me. She looks what she has lived, said Mr. Sales, tremulously. If ever an angelic spirit lived in a house of clay, we have had one here with us for more than two years. Perfect through suffering, Dr. Douglas said softly. Did she suffer very much? I asked him. He bowed his head. Fearfully and with more than human patience. Dr. Mulford came in, greeted me silently, then went and looked long and earnestly at the face in the coffin. It is gain to her, he said at last, but what a fearful loss to us. The whole church is shaken. It may well be, Mr. Sales said. What other ten members of our church can begin to do her work? I had heard much of this in letters, but I had not come to realize so as to forget the contrast. Those who had been with her constantly seem to have forgotten all about any other life that she had lived than that of these last years. I did not refer to the old life, only I said to Mr. Sales when we were alone together for a moment. Don't you remember how past finding out the reason of this living death was to you the day after the accident? And he, smiling sadly, answered. And don't you remember, Dr. Mulford quoted to us, God's ways are not as our ways. Truly they are not, Julia. It has been the most wonderful life. There is not a scholar in our Sunday school, not a child in our streets, but she has managed somehow to reach. Mr. Sales is very much changed, very much improved. He is more decided and earnest. But looking at him I realized more fully than I had before how we had probably all changed. I had certainly. I scanned him with a sort of puzzled wonder and tried to decide how it was possible that I could once have fancied that I cared for him. Could I be the same person who had so tremblingly awaited my destiny on the night which it was expected and did not come? Suppose it had. Suppose I had, but I actually turned away from him with a little shiver. He was nice. I realized that, and he was good. I liked him. I thoroughly respected him, but as for anything more than that. Oh, girls, dear girls, we do not see it twenty as we did at sixteen. An hour ago I stood at the coffin's head, looking down on that spiritual face. Dr. Douglas had come in with me and had been telling much about the beauty of her life and the blessedness of her death. At last he said, Once you thought she led you astray. Doubtless she did. It was one of her sorrows, but I comforted her. I told her I thought you had learned to listen first and always to the great leader's voice and be led first by him. Is it not so? I answered humbly but decidedly. I believe I have. We were silent for a little, and then he said, Julia, cannot we who have adopted the same leader and are journeying toward the same home, walk together and help each other? The sweet and solemn moonlight stole across the sweet dead face and seemed to make it smile upon us. And I, with one hand resting on that coffin and the other laid in his, felt that my joy had come to me at an hour when I sought it not. And together we will listen henceforth to the voice of our great captain and humbly follow where he leads.