[Three Successful Girls by Julia Crouch—Fourth Part]

 

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CHAPTER XXI.

MARY’S LETTER.

 

WE must pass on a few weeks following the girls’ safe arrival home; for their sadness and the disappointment of their parents on account of Mary’s absence can be more vividly imagined by the reader than described by the writer.

It was May now, and the birds had begun to sing in chorus, and the grass was green, and the country growing more and more beautiful. The sky looked blue and warm, and flowers began to deck the lawns and fields, and send out faint perfumes into the air. At home everything seemed so still, and quiet, and subdued after their long stay in the noisy city. In the morning, when they opened their eyes, the sounds that greeted their ears were not the tramp of feet, or the clatter of heavy carts, but the delicious melody of the innumerable birds.

The neighbors had dropped in at odd times to hear of the city and gossip a little, and the days ended as quietly as they commenced.

Hannah went to see Dill, from whom. she had received no letter since Christmas, but she found her reserved, though kind, and a dear friend still. Religion, she said, she did not wish to talk about, for her heart was as cold as a stone; and if Hannah attempted to speak on the subject, she turned her head away uneasily, and at last the subject was dropped.

 

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Letters came often from Mary, little, loving letters, saying always Mr. De Witt was improving slowly, and how much she wanted to see them all at home; still she continued to stay in the city, and the girls waited in vain for her arrival home. At last there came a very heavy letter; and as nothing can give to the reader a clearer idea of Mary’s feelings and situation, it shall be inserted here.

 

“MY BELOVED SISTERS, —I have not written you at length before, because I expected to be with you so soon; but something has happened now, and I cannot tell when I shall go home again. Tell it to mother carefully, and do not blame me. I was married this morning to Mr. De Witt. I am over twenty now, you know, and ought to be capable of choosing for myself If I had had intentions of it long, I should have written; but though I decided some time ago that I would marry him eventually, I did not know until last night that I should be married this morning. We were not married by a priest in the Catholic form, but by a Protestant minister; and Mr. De Witt never goes to a priest to get his sins pardoned, and hasn’t for years.

“I know that it was a very important step to take, and I know I married entirely for love; but I believe my love was founded upon his virtues and Christian spirit; and I feel as safe and sure as if I had known him all my life. I do not feel at all as I have heard women feel after marriage, when they relinquish all aims of excellence apart from their families, and very soon forget all their accomplishments, and much of their hard-earned knowledge. I love my husband too well for that. I wish to rise with him, and grow stronger and better; and as God has given me a deep

 

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love for music, and I hope a talent, I wish to make use of it, and bring out all there is in me, which I believe is a duty. A husband should not hinder me from this, and mine will not. We shall study together, and become united in aims and objects, as we already are in heart. I think it would have been a sin for me to have married a man who opposed my plans, and retarded my progress, as many would have done; but I have not: and now since I have some one to help and encourage me, I ought to progress more rapidly than before. I have thought of all this over and over, and I think you will come to believe like me, if you do not already. I hope, in your meditation on this important step of mine, you will not forget the independent notions we have always entertained and cultivated in regard to the doings and sayings of girls; and indeed, if we believe women can rise, and gain success as men do, we must believe that either she never was destined to do so, or else that she can do so after marriage; for marriage is a divine institution, and comparatively very few remain forever outside of it. I have not married for ease or support, for I expect neither. In fact, Mr. De Witt is a poor man, dependent on his labor entirely for sustenance; and not only this, but he is delicate in health, and is liable to become dependent. Now he has a good salary from the church and his scholars, but not much from his compositions yet. But if his health should fail him, I could support and take care of him. What better work in the world could I do?

“And now I want to tell you a little history of my, doings here since you went away. I did not write it at first because I thought it would be so much pleasanter to tell it to you; but I have decided to write you all that occurs after this, and so I will begin at the

 

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beginning. Mr. De Witt was very, very sick for a few days after you went away; but Saturday night he was better, and began to realize something of what had occurred. He seemed to be greatly overcome when he learned that you had gone home and left me, and that I had given up the great pleasure of seeing my friends and the country to take care of him. He looked at me with those mournful eyes of his, so full of tenderness, and gratitude, and love, that I read his heart without his uttering a word; but after that, he spoke to me such words as burned deep into my heart, and made me happy enough to forget my disappointment. I can only give you hints, and you must guess the rest.

“Sunday passed away very pleasantly and peacefully, and we talked some on the subject of religion; and I think we both learned something, and were benefited. That night I decided that if Mr. De Witt was still better, I would return home to you; but he was not, and all that week he was very sick, and I cared for him as tenderly as I could. On Sunday he was again better, and again I decided to return on Monday.

“In the morning I told him of my intention, and he turned his face away from me a moment; and when he again looked at me, he was paler than usual. ‘I will not be selfish,’ he said. ‘Your happiness surely should be my first care now. Yes, go home to the country, and hear the bluebirds sing, and see the great blue sky. It will give me joy to think of it.’ He said much more which I will not write, for it will interest no one as it did me; and it was decided that I should go home the next day. I slept very little that night, for somehow I felt uneasy and troubled;

 

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and in the morning, when I went into Mr. De Witt’s room, —for I had left it a little before midnight, —I found him much worse, so that he seemed to realize very little. Of course I could not go home that day, nor the next, for he grew no better for several days, and then he began to revive again. He improved slowly, but I dared not mention going home, and so continued to stay.

“We were engaged soon, and he gave me his mother’s engagement ring, which was a diamond, and very beautiful. I thought of Kate when he slipped it on my finger; for you will remember how she always longed for a diamond ring. And so I stayed longer and longer, and did not want to go away and leave him; and last Sunday he played the organ himself, but I did not go to hear him. Somehow I did not feel like sitting through such a long and tedious service, which was so meaningless to me. And so I decided again to go home, and was to start yesterday, but it was so hard to part, because you know he is liable to be sick at any time, and he has no mother. If he had been rich and strong, I would have set our marriage day a year in the future; but he was neither, and I wished to care for him and help him; and I thought, ‘Why not now as well as any time? he perhaps may never need me more;’ and so we talked a long time, and tried to look at the matter in all its bearings, and do that which was wisest and best, and finally decided to be married in the morning. I longed to have you there then, and to see father and mother, and talk to them about it; but I thought it would only give them unnecessary trouble and uneasiness, and that I was th6 one to judge, after all, not they; and as I really thought it best and right, why not be married at once, and have the right to care for each other?

 

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“Miss Brechandon and ‘Nijah were the only witnesses to our marriage, and ‘Nijah, dear boy, seemed much affected. He has been very kind to me since you went, and came every night, after his work, to ask me how I felt, and walk out with me a few blocks; for he declared it was injurious to stay in the house so much, and insisted and almost commanded me to walk with him. He sometimes brings me little bouquets, and is so kind. He has greatly improved within a few weeks, and I am not sure but he will be a great man yet; that he will be a good one, I am certain.

“Miss Brechandon has not found ‘little Annie’ yet; and now Mr. De Witt is better, I shall assist her in looking for her. I have not once seen or heard from Mr. St. Maur. His business in our street seems to have vanished. And now, girlies, you are just as dear tome as ever you were, and it seems just now as if you never were so dear before. It is such a natural thing to marry, you know, and almost everybody does it; so don’t feel badly; and tell father and mother I am coming home soon and will bring them a dear, good son, whom I am sure they will love; and he’s not much more of a Catholic than I am either; and I am sure his belief could not accord with the Catholic creed. He is quite well now, and we are going to do something grand some time. I didn’t tell you that I have composed a little song, and Mr. De Witt says it shall be published; and he says too that I am just the one to compose popular music, but he never could; and I know the reason, because the popular ear doesn’t appreciate the richest, deepest, and sweetest music in the world.

“O girlies, we are one in aim and object yet. See if I can’t accomplish married what you will accomplish

 

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unmarried; and see if we can’t be just as happy as before. You will marry some time, see if you don’t, when those you love propose; and then you’ll not blame me.

“There is one thing to comfort our consciences and keep good our respect for ourselves and each other. I did not marry for riches or honor. You surely can find no fault with my motives, for you can see plainly that they were disinterested and pure.

“We live to do good, and I saw a way clearly before me wherein I could do much good, and be happy in doing it; and I am not sorry, but O how rejoiced, that I faltered not.

“And now, dearies, adieu. We will be home soon for a few days, and you must be happy in thinking of me as satisfied, when I could not have been otherwise.

“Love has done it all, and if you feel like censuring, censure love alone, and be sure you will soon bow to its sovereign will. Read this to father and mother, and explain all to them; and say that I love them as dearly as ever, and do not believe I have done anything that dishonors them. Tell them I knew what would be their answer, had I asked their consent to marry. They would have written me much kind and good advice, which, without hearing, I have followed; and then they would have said, ‘You must decide for yourself in this matter, for you know more about the case than we; but think well before you take the important step; and always you are the same dear child to us, whether married or single.’ Isn’t that what they would have said? I know it is, and I did think well, and believe I have done the best way; so rejoice with me on my wedding-day, and think that you have not lost a sister, but gained a brother.

 

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“Dear girlies, the good Father will keep us safe, and I am always, under all circumstances,

“Your affectionate    MARY.”

 

Hannah and Kate read this letter over and over, and cried and dreamed over it, and at last committed most of it to memory. There was no way for them, after this, but to be resigned, and they tried hard to learn resignation.

Sitting under an old apple-tree, where the birds were singing joyously, they talked of the letter and of Mary.

“I am so anxious to see the dear little thing,” said Hannah, “that it takes away some of my disappointment; and, Kate, really I believe it is better to be well married and settled than to be all the time thinking of a beau, and trying to please him, and having lovers’ quarrels; and Mr. De Witt is a lovable man, and now I think of him as being so dear and near to Mary, he grows dearer to me; and you know, as Mary says, nearly every one marries some time; and to marry the one we really love must be the greatest happiness on earth.”

“We might as well talk that way,” said Kate, leaning her elbow on Hannah’s knee, “and it’s you and I now, Hannah. But I shall now be always looking for your wings, with which you will fly away and leave me a lone ‘old maid.’”

“They will never grow, Kate, I feel sure of that; you will go first. I am plain and odd, and, if I love at all, shall love some one far above me; that is my way. I couldn’t love an ordinary man.”

“An ordinary man is beneath you, Hannah; so you must marry a man more than ordinary, to be your equal, and you will.”

 

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Hannah shook her head.

“No, I will not,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you I was to be a model old maid ‘ for a sample? The world needs one badly; not but that there are many noble women who never marry, but they generally don’t entertain quite the right ideas; and most of them shrink from telling their age. I never will, for I’ve as good right to grow old as any one; and I hope to be proud of my years because of what I have accomplished in them.”

“I shall follow close after,” said Kate; “but who would have thought last fall, when we were preparing for New York, that when Mary came back, she would bring a husband.”

“And we must learn to bear all disappointments like brave women,” said Hannah, “remembering always that the future may bring us something of which we have never dreamed; for —

‘The drift of the Maker is dark,

An Isis hid by the veil.

Who knoweth the ways of the world,

How God will bring them about.’”

 

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CHAPTER XXII.

THE REVIVAL.

 

THE breezes were cool and enlivening, the sunset a picture of sublimity and beauty, sending over the whole firmament gleams of sunlight dyed in every color of the rainbow. The katydids talked to each other across the road, the crickets sang loudly and wailingly in their hidden nooks, for a beautiful September day was dying. Forever coming and going are the days wherein men may labor, bringing us nearer and nearer to the night wherein work ceaseth; and that night we know not whether it is near or far.

Through the long green clover-field, on toward the little church, Hannah and Kate wended their way, with arms clinging together and eyes fixed on the radiant sunset, above which lay a faint purple cloud bordered with gold; and their ears were open to the brisk whispers of the breezes, and the mournful songs of the insects.

The bell was ringing in the quaint little steeple on the old church; and its every stroke seemed at the same time joyful and sad, hopeful and hopeless.

Not before, since that sad parting in New York, have we seen my brave young girls; and the summer has all passed away. If you look at them closely, you will see that their faces are sadder and graver than in the days past in which we knew them; and they walk on

 

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silently, —on and on, step by step, through the clover-field. Kate’s eyes seem larger and darker, and her form taller than of old, while her cheek is no longer flushed with that fresh, bright hue which added so much to the animation and beauty of her face.

Her long, tedious winter in New York, and at last her parting with Mary, had left her worn and weary, and somewhat disconsolate.

She had hardly been herself during the summer. Everything reminded her of the fair young sister with whom she had expected to walk for years to come, and from which fond dream she had been so rudely awakened.

Mary’s visits to the sweet cool home of her childhood—for twice had she been there since her marriage—brought to Kate in a certain way resignation; for Mr. De Witt was a most estimable and lovable young man, and won their hearts by his kindness, and especially by his devotedness and tender solicitude toward his young wife; while Mary’s happiness, contentment, and satisfaction relieved those who so tenderly loved her of all fears for her future. And her wonderful improvement in music, the little songs she had composed, and which had been received by the public with some appreciation, kept the hope bright in the hearts of her friends that her musical talent, which she loved above all things, was not destined to be hid in a napkin, and forever lie unimproved.

Yet Kate, even since she and Hannah had talked themselves into the belief that it was better thus, that Mary’s opportunities were increased since marriage, still continued to feel a void in her heart, a something wanting, though she could not tell what nor wherefore.

How bitter it is, this first breaking in upon a clinging

 

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group of loved ones, who feel that they belong exclusively together; whose secrets, hopes, and longings are in common; who know each other as well, aye, and sometimes better than they know themselves; who are one little happy group, all so genuine in their affection and sympathy, all so anxious for each other’s safety, and all so happy in each other’s society! Yet from just such families should others be formed; from just such homes should others spring. Those who make each other happy at their father’s hearth, will make a precious group happy at their own. Those who cling together fondly and affectionately, dreading a separation, and dreaming of ways to help each other, are they who cling to a husband with devoted tenderness, and become mothers loyal and saintly.

And so the old home nest will be forsaken, the bird-lings will fly away, for thus hath the Maker of all things decreed; and it is well.

Mary’s marriage was sudden and strange. Yet it was not rash nor desperate, nor yet entered into for the attainment of worldly gain or honor.

With Mary, to love was to care for, and to help. She knew no other love; and when she plainly saw that the object of her affection needed her to make his path smoother and his days brighter, as well as her material care and watchfulness in his hours of sickness, she did what she believed right, and her right to do, and joined her life with his. And now with the partner of her days she goeth; and though she is the same dear sister still, and the same affectionate daughter and friend, yet a wife’s duties are upon her; and she hath an altar of her own around which to gather home joys and comforts; but Mary was not the one to hide her talents, because she had taken upon herself the duties

 

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and responsibilities of wifehood. She conscientiously believed that whatever talents God gave to her it was her duty to cultivate and extend as far as possible, for the sake of her own advancement and elevation, as also for the good she would unavoidably do to humanity; besides, she loved music too well to abandon it; and now with a double purpose she worked on.

Hannah had not grieved so much as Kate over Mary’s marriage. She had known even a keener disappointment than this; besides, she could appreciate Mary’s affection for her husband; and in thinking of her as happy, she grew content herself, and came even to be glad that the gentle girl she had loved so well and so devotedly, had found a true heart on which to lean and in which to trust.

Neither she nor Kate, however, had accomplished what they had hoped during the summer. Their severe winter in the city, the first material hardships they had ever known, had left mind and body both somewhat exhausted; and now, as the invigorating autumn weather came, and they had begun to feel again ambitious, a religious excitement occurred which confused and unfitted them for the labor which they were preparing for.

Every afternoon and evening for a week the little church had been crowded even to the outer door by people who flocked there from the village, and from all parts of the town. Never had such an excitement been known in the parish before; and talented ministers from other churches assisted in the great work, which was going on. Kate especially, who was yet hardly physically strong, had been greatly moved. Her mind had been so wrought upon that she tried in vain to think clearly as before, and she failed to

 

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feel that faith and trust which had been hers in the days gone by. Hannah, too, who had reasoned so much on religion, who had so satisfactorily expressed herself to Miss Brechandon on creeds and churches, began to doubt, to feel herself thrust out into chaos, with nothing to cling to, and no voice to hear her call.

The old and young were weeping and wringing their hands, while prayer and exhortation were heard almost continually throughout the village. Hannah and Kate had heard little revival preaching before, and, possessing naturally a religious turn of mind, they sometimes listened with fear and trembling. This beautiful autumn night they were unusually sad and thoughtful, and walked on silently, hearing the voices of thoughtless lads on the church lawn, and seeing people hurrying along the road. Suddenly, as they left the clover-field, and drew nearer the meeting-house, the singing of a familiar hymn was borne to them, in a perfect tumult of voices, so loud, and full, and enthusiastic, it seemed as if the heavy timbers of the church must be moved by the great noise. The girls stopped just a moment and listened. Clearly the words of the last verse were borne to them on the evening air.

 

“Perhaps He will admit my plea,

    Perhaps will hear my prayer;

But if I perish, I will pray,

    And perish only there.

I can but perish if I go;

    I am resolved to try;

For if I stay away,

    I know I must forever die.”

 

Both shuddered a little, and then they hurried on. Around the outer door of the church was a knot of rude boys, munching peanuts, and making fun for

 

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themselves out of the very seriousness of others. They stepped a little one side, and remained hushed and silent, as Hannah and Kate walked into the church, their faces grave and white, and a certain something in their clear eyes which commanded respect. There was a little stir in the room when they entered; for they had been well known throughout the neighborhood as girls with very decided opinions of their own, and people were curious to see how this religious excitement would affect them. Every evening for a week they had been to the church, and sat silent and grave all through the services; and they had been gazed at with expectant eyes, and some began to wonder if they were not getting serious; but they expressed their feelings to none but themselves, and even together they talked less than usual. The man who was to preach this night was a powerful revivalist, known in many religious communities; a man with a powerful frame and firm step, with gray hair, and a keen, fascinating eye. His voice was deep and penetrating, and he had the power of impressing the hearer that every word of his was law and gospel. The girls had never heard him before, and everything was forgotten while he preached, but the pictures he so vividly presented to their imagination. He first pictured the condition of a lost soul after death. He painted hell in the most frightful colors imaginable, borrowing perhaps something from Milton’s great imagination. The room was as still as death, and many held their breath and closed their eyes to shut out the vision of the awful pit which seemed to yawn before them.

It was terrible, and Kate gave a little gasp and clutched at Hannah’s dress.

If the words of the preacher were true, then they

 

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should fall into this terrible pit; she and Hannah, who had always tried to do well, and whose faces shone with the innocence in their hearts, —if they did not go forward and be born again, regenerated, and baptized. “Now,” said the preacher, when he had presented this horrifying picture, “grace is free; Jesus loves you, and calls you, and has for you in heaven a mansion as glorious and beautiful as hell is terrifying, where He will receive those who are not ashamed of Him. There is no time to be lost; to-night may be your last opportunity. Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation. Give your heart to Jesus now, it is all He asks. Grieve not away the Holy Spirit which is striving with you, else you may be lost forever and ever and ever.” Much more he said in the same exciting strain; and tender young maidens, who had hardly known a sinful thought, began to grow pale with fright, wrought upon by the eloquent preacher until they had no thought or feeling calm and unprejudiced, and belonging to their own individual hearts and brains, but were borne away into thoughts confused and filled with terror.

Hannah and Kate were suddenly startled by a gasp and despairing groan coming from the pew in front of them, and noticing for the first time its occupants, they saw that they came from Dill, whose face was as pale as death, and who was writhing in anguish.

The house was now crowded to the very utmost, and the feeling was becoming intense. When the preacher called upon them to rise for prayers, or come forward to the anxious seat, many did so; but Dill sat still, and sobbed and groaned, and hid her face on the shoulder of someone beside her, who tried, but in vain, to soothe her. Hannah and Kate had never felt so

 

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wrought upon before. Still they sat quietly side by side, their faces grave and pale, while they tried to think clearly. The meeting was over at last, and they drew a long sigh of relief; and Hannah touched Dill gently on the shoulder.

“Go with us,” she said; and Dill, looking up, answered almost wildly, —

“I don’t care where I go, for I’m lost, lost forever. There’s no hope for me.”

Some of Hannah’s old reason returned to her.

“If you are lost, Dill, be sure there will not a soul in this congregation be saved; and if everybody is going to hell, we might as well go with them. I’m not afraid of any one’s being lost, however, who loves the good and hates the bad, and tries to do as well as she can.”

“But I don’t love the good. I hate God, and I’m lost forever,” exclaimed Dill in a half shriek, that called the attention of many to herself. One of the ministers, who was standing near, heard it, and approached them.

“My young friend,” he said, “you must pray for pardon, and it will be granted you. The evil spirit has got the power over you, and you must strive to overcome it.”

He tried to explain to her something about grace and forgiveness; but he did not know that what the child most needed was a gentle hand to wipe her tears away, and a soothing voice to sing even a sweet lullaby to her in a quiet room, wherein no sound of terrible warning could come; that her greatest needs just then were physical strength and endurance; for her form was thin, and her young face almost transparent, and her mind had been worked upon already too much.

 

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Dill had no mother, and her father was a deacon of the stiffest and sternest order. Dill was his only child, and his greatest desire had ever been to see her a member of the church; but, poor, deluded man! like many another, he did not know the secret of bringing about his desired object, and was always holding up to his young daughter, whose health was delicate, the necessity of belonging to the church, and the terrible consequences that would accrue to those who would not confess Christ before the world. Dill, who believed that some great change must come into her heart, could not feel that change, and therefore fell into that terrible state of thinking she was lost forever.

Her mother before her had suffered much in the same way, though the trouble was less apparent: for the religion of her strong, unyielding husband was too severe for a slender, trusting little woman like herself, and she seemed much like a caged bird; for many of the innocent amusements and enjoyments of life were denied her. But she had gone early into the mysterious world for which her husband had tried to prepare her; and at last, when the end came, she exclaimed with a face Radiant with new joy, “I am free, I am free.”

Dill was an infant then, and had grown up motherless, and under the guidance of her stern father. For more than a year she had been troubled on the question of religion, and that peace for which she longed did not come to her. At first she had striven hard, and prayed for peace and pardon, and that change of heart which she was taught was necessary to the saving of her soul; but they did not come, and she could not join the church without them.

So the days went by; Hannah and ‘Nijah went

 

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away, and she began to grow cold and indifferent until the revival broke out, when she became excited and wretched again. She was a retiring, bashful girl, and therefore had lived in a most secluded manner, with only a few friends, and much time to brood over the terrible condition of her soul; while most of her books were of that class which only frightened her.

“Come, Dill,” said Hannah at last, “ there is no religion in this sort of thing. It is enough to drive any one crazy; besides, it is suffocating in here. Come out into the open air, where we can breathe and think.”

The minister looked hard at Hannah as though she was in a most pitiable condition; then saying to Dill, “I will call and see you to-morrow,” walked away, while Hannah drew Dill’s hand under her arm, and they made their way out of the church.

“There!” exclaimed Hannah when they were beneath the clear, starry sky. “Now I can breathe, and I hope after a while to get my brain clear enough to think.”

“It is reviving out here,” said Dill with a loud breath, which terminated in a sob.

“I want you to go home with me to-night,” said Hannah; “will you?”

“If father is willing,” said the poor child; and so they went and asked for the deacon’s consent, but he would not give it.

Dill must go home with him, he said, for he wished to talk with her; besides, Mr. B——, one of the ministers, would call on her in the morning, and he wished her to be ready to receive him.

Dill groaned and clung to Hannah’s arm; but she did not ask her to go with her to her own home, for the stern face of her father forbade it.

 

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So Hannah and Kate, arm in arm, went through the clover-field alone.

“What do you think will become of us all?” asked Kate with a long sigh, as they walked along.

“I am really afraid Dill will lose her reason,” said Hannah. “I have heard of such things happening, and she has no time to rest from these superstitious thoughts and feelings, for her father keeps them constantly before her. I wish she could go away somewhere, and find a little rest.”

“I wish we could all rest awhile,” said Kate. “What do you think about this revival, Hannah?”

“I don’t get opportunity to think clearly.”

“Well, don’t you remember how happy we used to be in our own religion, as we used to call it, and how we used to enjoy talking on the subject, and trying to do just as nearly right as we knew how? Do you suppose that was all conceit and folly in us? It seems to me we must have been innocent and sincere; and if we were, what a pity that we must awaken into such a reality as this! If I could feel as some express themselves, so gloriously happy, because forgiven, then I should undoubtedly be content; but somehow I can’t bring myself to believe in this great outburst of emotion, which I fear, in great part, is physical excitement.”

“Yet it may do good,” said Hannah, who, since she had seen Dill so overcome, had roused herself in part out of the strange state into which she had fallen. “No doubt it will cause people who were before entirely heedless of eternity, to think of their souls, and of immortal life; and I hope it will make them better and nobler. Yet this cannot be in itself religion, it seems to me, nor the true way to worship and love our Creator.”

 

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They were now at their own door. Hannah lifted the latch, and they entered the warm, cozy kitchen, where they expected to find their father and mother sitting quietly, for they never attended these meetings, but day after day sowed good seed without noise or confusion, having a prayer for all good constantly in their hearts. But this night the rays of the lamp-light shone out from the sitting-room, and the girls stopped a moment and wondered who was their visitor; for that there was one, they were certain. They entered the sitting-room curiously, and immediately recognized, in the handsome, white-haired gentleman who smiled upon them so kindly, Mr. Worth, whom the winter before they had met in New York. They greeted him with great cordiality, for somehow his cheerful face affected them pleasantly, and revived their drooping spirits. They did not know then how much they would owe him in after years, nor guess how fervently they should bless him in the future. Why cannot the world provide more men like unto him? Why cannot the wealthy learn how wealth will make them happy? Why will they use it so to their own injury and also to the injury of others? Why will they not imitate the example of this noble man, whose days were days of pleasantness, and whose paths were paths of peace?

Who can measure the value of a man, possessed of all worldly honor and riches, who gathers around him friends of worth, whether rich or poor; who stands among all the, briers and underbrush of life tarnished by none of his surroundings, stately and independent, like the graceful lily that rises in rough pasture land, free from the evil influences about it; who will not stoop to the least dishonesty, neither by the allurements

 

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of gold nor of fashion ; who wavers not in doing right, however great may be the tendency to do wrong; whose standard of right is in his own bosom, making him independent of all creeds, sects, and communities, and dependent for his convictions only upon God? Only He who made him can measure his worth; and his heroism exceeds all other in the world.

Such a man was Mr. Worth. Radical in his principles, devoted to his Master Christ, whom he loved with all the faith and fervency of a child, he was as sure of finding a happier existence after death as he was sure of anything he had seen and known. Yet there was no effeminacy about him, either of mind or of body; but he was strong physically and mentally, and he devoted that strength with the most charming cheerfulness to doing good. He never indulged in personal extravagances, yet lived always in the most comfortable and becoming manner; and all around, both far and near, hearts blessed him, —hearts which had been comforted by his timely assistance; and not a little was the intellectual worth of the world increased by his encouragement and material help. No one but God is faultless; but the faults of Mr. Worth were so hedged in and overbalanced by his virtues, that if they were at any time apparent, they were forgiven and forgotten.

In after years it was often the delight of Hannah and Kate to talk of his goodness, and contrast him with the many rich men of whom they knew, and who used their wealth as chains to bind them into slavery, which not only was a hindrance to their natural enjoyment, but bound their souls in poisonous fetters; and they learned a lesson from this good man who used his wealth and his talents for eternal good.

 

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CHAPTER XXIII.

HOPE AND PEACE.

 

“THIS revival is affecting you?” said Mr. Worth inquiringly the next morning, as he sat with Hannah and Kate under the apple-tree at the foot of the lawn. He spoke especially to Kate; and she replied honestly, —

“Yes, sir, it is affecting almost every one; but somehow I cannot go forward, like many of the other young ladies, for I don’t feel exactly that way. I can’t tell really what is the state of my feelings; but I am sure I am not so happy as I was before the revival commenced.”

“And how is it with you, Hannah?” he asked.

“I am thinking,” she said, “and trying to find light, for it seems as if it’ is all at once dark.”

“I don’t know that I have anything to say against the revival,” said Mr. Worth. “I believe in reviving all that is good in us as often as possible; and these great religious excitements, which are intended for the salvation of souls from perdition, undoubtedly produce some good results; but they are gradually passing away, and people are learning, little by little, a better way to worship God than by this shouting and praying, and a more acceptable way to render service unto Him.”

“But,” said Hannah, “they tell us at the church

 

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that we must confess Christ before the world, and experience religion, if we would be saved, otherwise there is no hope for us.”

“And they tell you the truth,” answered Mr. Worth earnestly.

“Then why are not revivals real necessities,” asked Kate, “since people must be lost if not brought into the church somehow, and hadn’t it better be through fear than in no way?”

“I said that they tell the truth when they say we must confess Christ before the world, and experience religion if we would be saved; but what is it to confess Christ? How would you do it?”

“Well, I suppose what they mean by the words is that we shall stand up before all the people, and tell them .our determination to be a Christian, and say that we love Jesus, and wish to be a member of the church,” said Hannah.

“There is undoubtedly no harm in that, when the person is sincere, neither is there any necessary good in it. The way I should define the confessing of Christ would be in quite a different way; and my explanation of experiencing religion would probably differ somewhat from the people of your church.”

“Please tell us what you think about it,” said Hannah eagerly. “Kate and I have been to meeting so often of late that we have hardly had time for clear thinking; and you have lived many years, and lived them well, professing Christianity, and undoubtedly can help us.”

“My brain feels a little steadier already,” said Kate, a touch of the old expression coming back into her face.

Mr. Worth smiled pleasantly.

 

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“Yes,” he said, “I have professed to be a follower of Christ for many years, and have tried to be a true disciple. His doctrines are perfect, and his life was more beautiful than anything of which we have ever heard; and no imagination of beauty and perfection can exceed it. It is a joy to me to try to follow in his footsteps; and one who does not believe on Him and love Him, which is to do his work, can have no idea of the joy in a Christian’s life nor of the hope in the Christian’s heart. And now there is nothing so easy or so beautiful as to become a Christian, and there is no other way in all the world to be truly good, to live a truly noble life, but by Christianity. If a person denies Christ, and then boasts of morality and goodness, you may be sure he possesses not that pure and elevated feeling, that humble greatness, that love and respect for the human soul, that broad philanthropy, that marks the life of the true believer in and follower of Christ. There is nothing so easy, I said, as to become a Christian; but I must add, when the heart and soul long for elevation, for the beauties of goodness, as I am sure yours do. You need go to no revival, for there you will be confused and almost incapable of true worship; there you cannot see clearly, but a mist seems to obscure the clear vision of holiness; but you love all that is good and true, and desire to be better and grow better daily: and you think of this often, but not at the revival; there you can only tremble with fear. While you sit here, however, beneath this clear sky, you feel a calm, pleasant love for God, and a deep gratitude for his goodness; or if not this morning, you have many mornings before; and you desire to do the will of Christ and follow his example. Isn’t that true?”

 

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“Yes, yes,” exclaimed both of the girls at one time.

“Then it is not necessary that you bind yourself to any particular sect, since the times are so entirely changed from the days of Christ and the Apostles. Now there are numerous Christian churches and creeds, all faulty and all with their merits. Now surely the joining of one of these churches is not necessary to the saving of your souls; but if after due consideration and reason, not in excitement and fear, you believe you could further the real beauties and doctrines of Christ by becoming a member of some church, it would probably be well for you to unite with some religious body; if you do not, if you think you can draw nearer to your Heavenly Father and all humanity, and be in spirit a member of all that is good and true in every church and every community in the world, by being free, then it were better to remain free, and you will confess Christ just as truly. To confess Christ is to show to the world that you love Him, by obedience to his will, and following in his footsteps. It is all the confession that He asks for, and it is left with us to decide what way we can best do this. It is the weaker natures which are only brought to what is called the experiencing of religion through a selfish fear of being lost without it; and the higher natures that rise above all fear, and elevate their souls, and rise nearer and nearer to God, by doing good deeds, by keeping their hearts meek and humble, by loving humanity, and working to lift human nature nearer the divine, —these hearts are full of that beautiful religion which makes heaven so beautiful and earth like unto it. Reason would not have been given us, if it was not to be made use of: the brute creation

 

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have only instinct; and does not reason tell us, as well as the, Gospel, that it is the work and the heart which must be acceptable to God? and though we must exhort each other to good works, it must not be through a great religious excitement, when the good works held out to the convert are to confess Christ, and subscribe to a certain creed; for true religion is as gentle and calm as the sky above us.”

“O Mr. Worth,” exclaimed Hannah, “you bring back to me those delightful, peaceful thoughts I used to know; and it seems as if the light never shone so clearly on my heart as now, nor religion seemed so beautiful.”

“I feel,” said Kate, her eyes growing luminous with feeling, I feel rested, and ready to commence work for the good of my own soul and the souls of all the world. There is so much to do, and so much to be joyful for, and so little to fear, when we do what is right and work for those around us.”

Mr. Worth seemed greatly pleased.

“We will not condemn the revival,” he said, “but will hope it will do much good for those who cannot see above it; but we may be Christians without it; we see the fatherhood of God and the beauties of Christ, and will not get entangled in theology, but draw nearer and nearer to our great Teacher, through the elevation of our souls, and the overcoming of our animal propensities. We will not seek the shield of a religious body, which is more or less governed by popularity; and though we condemn not the churches, and hope they may become more and more liberal and purified, yet Christ is our church, the world our country, and all humanity our brethren. By precept and example, we will renounce everything that degrades humanity, and work unceasingly for that which is true and elevating.”

 

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“What enjoyment there must be in such a life,” said Hannah, “and how peaceful must be its close.”

“How much you must have thought, and how earnest you must have been,” said Kate, “‘to bring yourself into this delightful state!”

“My wife deserves much credit for all the good which is developed in me,” said Mr. Worth reverently. “If you could have known her, my good girls, you could better than now, perhaps, realize the beauty of a true Christian; but there are other examples, those which you have known since infancy, and there is no reason why you should not rise very near to the kingdom of heaven, even before you go hence.”

“I feel as if there was a great load taken from my heart,” said Kate, a shade of color coming into her face.

“This religion is just the kind Dill needs,” said Hannah, “and she will never be happy with any other. I wish she could feel as we do.”

“Go, and tell her how you feel, and talk with her; then perhaps she may see more clearly,” said Mr. Worth.

And Hannah went, almost running across the fields; and for more than an hour she talked with the excited and unhappy girl, until her eyes looked clearer, and her face brighter, than for many a day.

“If father would only talk as you do,” she said, “I should be happy; but he spoils all of my delightful thoughts, and makes religion seem so stiff and frightful that I cannot embrace it as he desires me to.”

“You must try and have individual thoughts,” said Hannah, “and use a little of your own reason. No deacon or minister should reason for us. They may

 

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often assist us, but we must think and act for ourselves.”

Hannah and Kate after this began to feel better and happier, and their ambition began to return. They did not attend any more of the meetings, but spent their evenings in quiet conversation with Mr. Worth, who continued a week at the farm-house.

Their father and mother were greatly pleased to see their daughters again the happy girls they were in the past, and there had not been so much life and enjoyment before in the quiet home since Mary’s marriage.

One night, when the girls had retired to their room, they both seemed in unusually exuberant spirits.

“Dear me!” said Kate, “I have got the greatest news,” and she sat down in a chair and rubbed her hands together gleefully, —“the very greatest news,” she continued, “and I’m almost at a loss whether to think it isn’t ,a fairy story that I have dreamed, and not a reality.”

“I can half guess what it is,” said Hannah in a most lively tone, “as I have some news to tell also, and I suppose it is the same kind. Kate, I haven’t felt so bright and joyous before since Mary was with us, as I do to-night; but tell your news quickly, so that I can tell mine.”

“Well, Mr. Worth—was there ever such a good man? —talked to me a long, long time, you know when, and found out in his own excellent way just what I desired to do; and O, Hannah, he is going to help me. I am going to study with an artist, just as I, have desired to do so long, and not be all the time worried about paying my way; and won’t I advance? and I’ll pay him, if in no other way, by my success. If Mr. Worth could know what hours of anxiety he

 

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has saved me, and how his assistance will hasten me on toward the goal for which I work; if he could understand what days of menial labor and nights of wakefulness his timely aid will rid me of, he could comprehend something of how much I thank and bless him. I am willing to work and endure hardships; but it is hard to spend the precious time for menial labor which I long to devote to art, and one must be so slow in rising when she has neither influential friends nor money; but tell me, Hannah, what is your good news? Something similar to mine, I am sure.”

“Yes, something similar to yours, Kate,” said Hannah;, “ but your good luck alone would have made me content. Mr. Worth is not the man to condemn and then render no assistance. He told me he thought it very wrong to use my powers to add to that literature which is not elevating, but rather debasing, and he thought me capable of benefiting humanity with my pen, and he is going to help me to do it, Through his influence and assistance I shall do better, and I hope the days of my sensational writing are over. Kate, do you suppose we deserve this good luck?”

“Doubtful,” answered Kate, “but I hope we may some time become worthy of this wonderful blessing. If Mary were here to enjoy it!”

“But she shall enjoy it some time; and come, Kate; we cannot sleep until we have told father and mother.”

So they crept softly down the old stairs, and into their parents’ room, where the story was told in half whispers, and Mr. Worth blessed with most earnest and sincere blessing.

The next morning, when the girls began to wake to consciousness, an exceedingly pleasant sensation stole over them, though why, they could not at first realize;

 

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but suddenly, when they had opened their eyes and beheld the flood of autumn light with a pink mist floating through it, they remembered their friend, and how bright and glowing he had made their future appear. He was to leave them that day, and they hastily made their toilets and went down to the bright sitting-room, where they found him engaged in reading quietly from a diamond edition of Whittier, which he carried in his pocket. It was yet quite early, and they had but just passed the usual compliments of the morning, when they heard a timid knock out on the porch; and looking out through the long kitchen, Hannah saw Dill peering in at the door with a crimson hood on her head that heightened the glow of her cheeks, which the morning air and her own excitement had made radiant and charming. She beckoned to Hannah, who immediately joined her.

“Why, Dill,” she said, “ what does it mean that you are over here so early?”

“Because I am so happy,” Dill replied, “and the world never looked so beautiful to me before; and I am going to try and do some good, and not be always whining for fear I shall be lost, but go to work and save myself.” They stood alone on the shady porch, and Dill talked under her breath. “I could hardly go to sleep last night,” she continued, “I was so very happy, and religion seems so delightful; and do you know, after meeting was over last night, father brought me a letter from ‘Nijah, and it is the most charming letter.” Saying this, Dill immediately produced a letter from under her shawl, which she gave eagerly into Hannah’s hands. “To think,” she said, “that he should think of me like that, when he is so noble and I so insignificant!” and Dill pointed to a portion of the letter which ran thus: —

 

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“I think of you often, Dill, and somehow, the longer I stay away, the more you come into my mind, and your kind words often come to me when I get lonesome. You’ll think I am changed when you see me, but I hope it’s for the better.”

“It couldn’t be for the better,” suggested Dill. “I wish I could be half as good and noble as ‘Nijah is; and I’m going to try; and I’m not going to be such a trouble to father any longer, nor to any of my friends; but I shall be a Christian, if possible.”

Hannah finished the reading of ‘Nijah’s letter, and she smiled a very wise smile, which, however, Dill did not notice, but took the precious missive, and hid it under her shawl again. “Now I must go home,” she said; “I only came in for a moment, for I knew you would be so glad to see me happy. I suppose it is almost a miracle that I am so changed. I don’t know what else it can be.”

“It isn’t at all necessary to know,” said Hannah, “only what we are sure of, and that is, that it came from Heaven, from whence all good comes. Dill, my dear, I have dreamed of the time when your face would glow like this; and I am very, very glad the reality has come. Did you go to meeting last night?”

“No, I couldn’t; but I shall go to-night, to see if I can’t be calm and happy all the way through. Did you hear about Maurice Pike?”

“No, what?”

“He has ‘come out’ in religion, and acts as different as ever you saw; and they say Sally is serious.”

“I am glad of it,” said Hannah; “I hope they will be better and happier for it.”

“So do I; but I must go home, for I am going to commence this morning, you know, to be sensible and

 

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good; and I’m going to be different with father, more of a companion if I can. Good-by;” and Dill ran down the steps, and off through the field, her heart as light as her step.

“Joys cluster,” Hannah said to herself, thinking of Mary.

“Now,” said Mr. Worth a few hours later, when he was about to leave them, “now, girls, if I leave as much joy with you as I carry away with me because of the assistance I am to render you, I leave you with happy hearts.”

“You may be assured of that,” said Hannah; “and besides that, you have taken such a load from our shoulders that we might easily fly, if light-heartedness was only necessary; but if there can be a more joyful time than this for us, it will be when we repay you for your great kindness.”

“Feel under no obligations,” said Mr. Worth; ‘ my assistance to you is less personal than general; by assisting you, I hope not only that you may be personally benefited, but that you may benefit others, and make the world better. Wherever I find one, especially a girl (whose path to success is much more thorny than a boy’s), striving to attain some worthy object, and I know her heart is philanthropic, I feel it a duty as much as lieth in me to assist her to rise, and be what a woman should be, strong in principle, and free from the slavery of fashion, cultivating her talents so that through her the world may receive more or less good.” Ah! many a woman could testify that his duty was well performed, since not a little good influence exerted in family, community, and even nation, was all owing to his encouragement and help.

When he had gone, the girls began to make prep-

 

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arations for work; for a heavy barrier had been lifted from their path, and having their hearts at rest on religious matters, they determined to push on and accomplish as much as their talents would allow; and they declared that Mr. Worth seemed like an angel sent to them just at the moment when they most needed him.

Angels seldom fail to appear to the good and persevering, though not always in the same form; and there is no such word as fail for those who falter not.

 

“Be quiet. Take things as they come:

    Each hour will draw out some surprise.

With blessing let the days go home:

    Thou shalt have thanks from evening skies.”

 

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CHAPTER XXIV.

TWO LETTERS.

 

A LETTER now and then helps a person along so much in telling a story, that I shall insert these two which I hold in my hand, written by Hannah and Kate confidentially to each other.

Winter had gone, every day of it, and March had just been ushered in, when Kate’s letter was brought to the old farm-house, and laid on Hannah’s lap.

Kate had been all the winter in New York, studying hard, and Hannah had been quietly at home, writing. They had made a practice of writing to each other very long and very confidential letters; and from a very large bundle I have selected these two, which, though they may not be written as smoothly and elegantly as some of the others, are more to the point, and more descriptive, and therefore better answer my purpose.

 

 “DEAR HANNAH, —There is so much to get into this letter that I hardly know where to commence. If I only had wings, I would drop my pen, and fly to you, and find father and mother sitting quietly before a bright fire, —for it’s a cold night, —and give them a little surprise.

“You see I think of them more and more, and appreciate them better and better.

 

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“But if I had the wings, I shouldn’t have the bodily form, and therefore might not be recognized, nor understood half so well as a letter will be. I don’t want to get into a ‘sober strain,’ as we used to tell about, but somehow most I have to write has a ‘sober strain’ to it. But then that’s delightful about Mary, isn’t it? The boys have begun to whistle her song in the street; and she has made a heap of money out of the simple little thing. You see Mary has tact; and you know there’s a great deal in that.

“Now David never will make much out of his compositions, they are not sprightly enough to ‘take’ with the people; but he is a ‘capital’ teacher and organist, and is being appreciated too. Ever since he left the Catholics, and took that offer of Dry’s in Blank Church, Brooklyn, he has received more notice; and he has an enormous price for his scholars; but then his health isn’t reliable, and Mary quite often takes his place at the organ; and she plays beautifully too. I always go to church there when she plays, I suppose because I am so proud of her; and I keep thinking, while I hear the music, of her little white fingers running over the keys; and then besides, as you well know, no music sounds so sweet to me as our Mary’s.

“She and David have grand callers sometimes, and Mary, you know, has got tact as I said, or else she never would get along so well as she does, brought up with our simple ways.

“The other day, for instance. Mr. B——, the great musician, called, and Mary was in such’ a flutter of excitement. I thought at first she would surely do no credit to herself; but her tact saved her, though I think her pretty face had something to do with it. Just now David isn’t at all well; and Mary gives him

 

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all her attention at such times, so I am left quite alone. I have written you so much about my progress that there isn’t much more just now to tell, only of Mr. C—— the artist’s kindness. I can hardly understand why he takes so much interest in me, unless it is because of his friendship for Mr. Worth. It’s always Mr. Worth, you know, with us, because what should we do without him?

“I went to the party to which I wrote you I had an invitation.

“No one was there that I knew, but the artist and Mr. St. Maur, who, by the way, is a friend of Mr. C——’s, and comes into the studio quite often. I don’t like parties very well; but this I suppose was a very select and superior one; and as my picture had just been accepted at the Academy of Design, I could have enjoyed anything then, even that detestable ‘ball.’ But I was treated very politely, and actually had a little chat with a distinguished artist who has just returned from Rome, and became quite infatuated with a young lady amateur. I mean that I became infatuated, not the artist; he, I believe, has a wife and several children; but none of them were present.

“The young lady amateur called to see me this morning. I like her, and believe it is the first lady acquaintance I have made in. New York with whom I could start a congenial friendship, though I have met several very fine women, —Mr. C——’s wife, for instance, and his sister also.

“Adonijah, or Mr. Dyke, as he is more frequently called here, keeps very busily at work; but I see him now and then; and we are the best of friends. I think if our starting for New York so oddly did no other good, it will prove to be the making of ‘Nijah. He is now studying architecture.

 

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“My real object in writing you to-night was to tell you something new and strange that has happened; but somehow I rather dread to commence, for it is all a kind of confusion to me; and I wish I could forget at least a part of it. Still there is joyful news connected with it.

“Mrs. Blossom you haven’t forgotten her of course didn’t forget us, and seemed to take a fancy to Mary and I, though she never would get to be the least confidential. We made a practice all winter of visiting her about once a week, to assure ourselves that she was kept comfortable; and the boy Neil we became greatly attached to. Mr. St. Maur had continued to send three dollars per week, though the poor woman had twice, through the carrier-boy, requested him to cease his charitable gifts; and finally she ceased to make any objections, and found the money really necessary to her existence, as her health was rapidly failing. Last Wednesday I went alone to see her, as Mary did not wish to leave David; and I found her frightfully sick, dying she told me, though it proved otherwise. Thinking she was going to die, she made me her confidant; and to come to the point at once, for I’m not much of a writer, as you know, and don’t like beating about the bush, she is Miss Brechandon’s lost ‘little Annie,’ and the former lady-love of Mr. St. Maur, who, on account of her faithlessness, became such a doubter and disbeliever in woman’s succeeding in any object. Mrs. Blossom told me very little herself. Mr. St. Maur told me afterward; and I couldn’t blame him so much as before for his distrust and doubts. Mr. St. Maur is a noble man, though a somewhat peculiar one. Mr. St. Maur is worthy of any woman’s affections; but I have refused him. This is what I

 

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have dreaded to write; but it is told now, and I wonder what you will think of it. Mary, when I told her of it, said she was sure I was wrong; that I would come to know my own heart some time, as Aurora Lee did; but, unlike Romney, Mr. St. Maur never would come back to me. He was a man too determined, too unyielding.

“Some time, she says, I shall come to talk as Aurora did to Romney; but it will be all to myself; there will be no Romney by to hear, while I exclaim—

 

 ‘But I who saw the human nature broad,

At both sides, comprehending, too, the soul’s

And all the high necessities of art,

Betrayed the thing I saw, and wronged my own life

For which I pleaded. Passioned to exalt

The artist’s instinct in me at the cost

Of putting down the woman’s, I forgot

No perfect artist is developed here

From any imperfect woman.

… Art is much, but love is more.

O art, my art, thou’rt much; but love is more!

Art symbolizes heaven; but love is God,

And makes heaven.’

 

I have repeated these words a great many times to myself; but they fail to affect me much. I have not come to it yet, if ever I shall; and until I see that I have erred, I cannot retract; and if some time I do see it when it is too late, why, I must bear it, that is all. Mr. St. Maur said he loved me, had loved me, and would love me always, and I am sure he thought I would yield, as he said all women would. You remember how satisfied he was a year ago that we would give up all hopes of greatness for a dream of love; judging all women by ‘little Annie.’ I thought of it, and I could not accept him. ‘Art is much, but love is more,’ says Aurora Leigh; but the

 

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great Apostle says, ‘He who marries does well, but he who lives single does better;’ and I work for much, and when that is attained, I shall undoubtedly wish for more, which is the way of the world. Mr. St. Maur loved ‘little Annie’ once, how deeply we can guess from the intensity of his nature. Mr. St. Maur has a master mind and much wealth. He desired ‘little Annie’ to be something more than an ordinary woman; and so, through his means and on his account, she entered one of the best schools in New York city, so called; but we should say it was one of the most miserable, for the course of instruction is based upon fashion and frivolity. Mr. St. Maur being a man, and a young one then, did not understand this, and therefore did not see that he had done something toward making ‘little Annie’ faithless. She had been there a year at Mr. St. Maur’s expense, and then she became bewitched with a foppish young man, with little brain and little heart, and ran away with him, leaving school-days and all her bright prospects behind her; and Mr. St. Maur to grow hard and suspicious.

“And then there is ‘little Annie’s’ story, which is a long one, but so very common you can guess it. A few happy months, then long tedious days of doubt and repentance, then desertion, and then her struggles with poverty, with a poor crippled child to support, and her determination to die rather than go back to her aunt, Miss Brechandon, and at last the overcoming of her pride for the sake of her child. The circumstances were singular and strange that brought about this recognition of persons and things, though it all sprang from Mary’s advertisement, and the advertisement sprang from Mr. St. Maur’s advice. But I can’t stop to make comments; you will think all these things

 

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without suggestion; especially you will think how Mr. St. Maur has been assisting her all winter without knowing it; and she has been taking his money.

“Miss Brechandon melted down entirely when she saw the poor woman and the child, and she has taken them home to her little room to care for them, and Mrs. Blossom is much better. What a strange world this is! Mr. St. Maur told me the story himself, and then asked me to marry him. I was more than surprised; and it seems almost wicked that such a generous, noble man should be twice so disappointed; but I have something to do besides getting married. I wouldn’t so disappoint Mr. Worth, who has done and is doing so much for me. Perhaps if he had not made me so independent, I might have been tempted—but no, I could not so forget myself; I could not leave you, Hannah, for it is c you, and I,’ you know. I remember how wretched I was when Mary left us; and I’ll stick by you, and if life is spared us, our plans shall be carried into execution.

“I dream of Italy, when you and I shall visit it, and I only know that ‘art is much.’

“Write me soon, for I shall be anxious to receive a reply to this letter. I think of home often, and in this case of mine, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder;’ and with much love (such love as will not interfere with art, unless it advances it) to all in the home-nest, I am your loving sister,            KATE.”

 

And here is Hannah’s reply: —

 

“KATE, DEAR KATE, —Some hunger for love and find it not, while some find it and cast it from them. Not much is even in this world. Some have over-

 

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much, and some have over-little. Some fling from them with indifference or perhaps scorn what others would give the world to possess. Some, after hard labor and earnest desires, fail, while others almost before they know it are successful; but then—

 

‘A thousand failures, what are these in the sight

Of the One All-Perfect, who, whether man fails in his work, or succeeds,

Builds surely, solemnly up from our broken days and deeds

The infinite purpose of time?’

 

“It is past midnight now, and so very, very still. I have sat here alone since sunset, all alone with your letter, to read over and over. Had I retired, I could not have slept; and so I sat here and thought of many things. I thought of the difference in you and me, especially how you were always receiving and flinging away, while I was always giving, but never receiving, or, that is, not often. I thought of the past too, not so much of the near past as of the past long gone; and I thought perhaps my heart was buried there, or tried to, think so. You refused Mr. St. Maur. He loved you, loved you, —Mr. St. Maur loved you, had loved you, and would love you always, and you refused him. How strange! everything seems strange to-night; perhaps it is because I have sat here since sunset, and it is now past midnight. Perhaps I am wearied; but everything seems strange, though it may be it is all because you have refused Mr. St. Maur, and he will always love you. I wonder if he is asleep now, or if those beautiful blue eyes of his are looking at the moon. I never saw the moon so white and coldly beautiful before, and there is such a shiver in the wind.

“The moonbeams fall directly across my heap of manuscript, finished the last word of it to-day, and

 

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lying here as still and voiceless as though my hopes now were not all centred in it and in that which will follow it. I cannot tell what will become of it, or how worthy it is; but I know it never seemed half so dear to me before as it does to-night. It is strange how little people understand their hearts until they are crushed or broken; everything is strange to-night. The clock is striking, —one, two. I thought it past midnight, but not two hours. Mr. St. Maur was very kind to me that week he stayed at the village; he didn’t scowl or seem distrustful. That week has ever seemed like a beautiful star in my life’s sky; but now the star is set. I wonder if it was fate that caused me to write a letter to him concerning the advertisement more than two years ago. It was a little thing to do, but I regret now that I did it; and I wonder, after all, if I shall be the model old maid. It is strange that persons should be born to love, and then find they are not loved in return. I wonder what becomes of the love in such cases. Longfellow says, —

 

‘Talk not of wasted affection: affection never was wasted;

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning

Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment.

That which the fountain sends forth, returns again to the fountain.’

 

“But then Longfellow isn’t divine, and might easily make a mistake, and to-night you know everything seems strange, and it’s doubtful whether I think with reason. We are so unlike, Kate; while you dream of art, I dream of love; but I shall dream of it no longer, only of that love of which I am sure, and which will never fail me. Twice. That is enough; now I will take life as it is; and though ‘love is more,’ yet ‘art is much.’ I might have given up art for love. You gave up love for art. That is the difference between us; only you have a choice, and I have not.

 

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“Mary is happy. I am glad of that. I am glad she married, though I wept over it once.

“Now the moonbeams have crept on the page where I am writing, but they never tell tales. Let them read; I am nut afraid of them. I might have known Mr. St. Maur loved you, only I was so blind; and then he was so very kind to me. I am more than twenty-five now, and I am glad, and shall be glad when thirty comes; then I shall have learned so well how to be calm, and placid, and happy. This manuscript, lying in the moonlight, contains inspiration drawn from what I have lost; that is some gain, and Mr. St. Maur and I are friends.

“Wedding-bells will ring to-morrow; for Maurice Pike and Sally—both of whom have lately joined the church—will be married.

“Most people marry some time, as Mary says; but I never shall. Perhaps I ought not to send you this letter written while I am in so strange a mood; but it isn’t like me never to express my feelings, while I have you to whom to express them. I’m not much like heroines in books, not like my own. I am not a fit subject for a heroine: I have known that ever since I thought of it. But you are: I have known that too ever since I thought of it. We are different, but yet we agree so well that it is happiness to be together.

“I will try and write a much better and a much livelier letter next time, but I think the writing of this has done me good. The moonbeams seem softer and pleasanter, and the moon not so cold and white. No one knows I am writing, but you know how much love there is here for you. I think I can sleep now, and in the morning I shall feel better. It would be a blessing if I could see Mr. Worth now. He is such a com-

 

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forter. My manuscript goes to him to-morrow, and Dill is to spend the day with me. She is very happy and very wise. Dill is almost getting strong-minded.

“I shall write Mary soon, and tell her how delighted I am with her success, and yours, —Kate, Kate, you know how I feel, and everything seems so strange to-night that I can write no more. Good-night.

“HANNAH.

 

“P. S. I have been reading a little poem that I wrote six or seven years ago, and I slip it in with this letter for you to read. It seems so suggestive. Please let Mary read it too.

 

    WEDDING-DAYS.

 

“To wed a man whom you would die to save,

       To whom you’d cling through fortune’s darkest frown,

Worthy, and giving you the love you crave,

       Raising where poverty has cast you down,

Is happiness above which none can find,

And equal to all earthly bliss combined.

 

“Few find this sacred joy; for few can know

       The depths of all-absorbing, perfect love;

And from this world unloved, unwed, they go

       To find their bliss in the great world above:

Their wedding-bells ring on the other shore,

Their wedding-songs the angels warble o’er.

 

“Hearts break, and still live on in bosoms sore;

       And wedding-days forever disappear:

They worshipped once, but they can love no more,

       And lover’s words they never more can hear.

This is a woe which singly will outlast

A thousand sorrows which the world o’ercast.”

 

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CHAPTER XXV.

AFTER SEVEN YEARS.

 

THREE women sat side by side on the ledge above the ferns in the old orchard. Their hands were clasped, and they were looking off over the landscape which was decked all over with spring sunshine.

“This is so like the time when we sat here long ago, —it seems an age, —the day before we started for New York for the first time. Would you like that time brought back to us, girlies?” said Mary, pressing warmly the hands she held.

“Not if we were to live over the intervening years as we have lived them,” replied Hannah, thoughtfully.

“I rejoice that those days are over,” said Kate, with a long sigh; “but I am not sorry for all the labor I have performed, and all the good I have done, which seems like very little as I look back.”

“The world grows more beautiful to me every day, probably because heaven seems nearer,” said Mary.

Ah! heaven indeed seemed near and more tangible to Mary, for there had dwelt within its walls of jasper and gates of pearl, three years that very autumn, David De Witt, or “Davie, my husband,” as she called him. Her married life had been short, but very satisfactory and sweet; for she had been a comfort and a blessing to the one she loved, and had made the last

 

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years of his life peaceful and even happy, and had at last come to be his strength and his support. Untiringly she had watched by his bedside; and at last, when he had fallen asleep in her arms, to awaken on the “other side,” she had even then remembered to thank God for all he had been to her, and for all she had done for him; and in the years that followed she never once ceased to be grateful that he had been her husband, and she his faithful wife. He had left her nothing but the memory of his love and kindness, his class of pupils, and his place at the church organ. These she had accepted as precious and valuable legacies, and undoubtedly no amount of money would have been worth to her what these were.

The flowers had bloomed over his grave three years in Greenwood, and Mary sat with her sisters, as of old, —yet not as of old, —above the cool, sweet ferns.

“Heaven is nearer to us all, I hope,” said Hannah, after a moment’s silence, in which they had all been thinking of Mary’s loss; and they all drew nearer together, while over Kate’s mind there flashed for one little instant the selfish thought that Mary once more was theirs, as in the dear old time.

The seven years had brought mostly gain to Hannah and Kate, though there had been not a few disappointments and troubles. In art they had succeeded far beyond their expectations; but the wise know that untiring labor, accompanied by talent and the noblest and purest desires, is as sure to be rewarded by success, as the morning is sure to dawn after the night has gone but then these women, Hannah and Kate, even with all their wisdom, would persist in believing that their success came through the timely assistance, encouragement, and advice of Mr. Worth, who had not forsakes

 

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them through all their risings and fallings, and whose friendship had ever been a light in their path. It is true that neither as yet had risen to great popularity; and they had not expected it; but they had attained to positions which were honorable and pecuniarily beneficial.

In a New England city noted for its refinement, elegance, and beauty, was a charming little studio, outside of which, over the street, the passers-by read the words in black and gold, “Kate Windsor, Artist;” and inside, the walls were decorated with sketches, portraits, and a number of beautiful designs. Here was the easel with a bunch of pond lilies half finished upon it, and near by an easy-chair where the young artist had often sat and dreamed, and designed beautiful pictures. It was a cozy little room, but deserted now, for the smiling young artist, its chief attraction, with her great black eyes full of artistic light, and the jaunty velvet cap and tassel, was gone, and we have already seen her at home in the old orchard. For three years she had worked in this little studio, and among those who loved and appreciated ‘at in the town she was well known and respected. She had come to be patronized, too, by those great in rank and wealth; and many a portrait and picture in their elegant parlors boasted her as their author. Money had come to her faster than she had dreamed; but she had carefully laid it by for an object in the future, and what that object was we soon shall see.

Not far from this studio, in the same town, Hannah had worked for more than a year as assistant editor, and for a few months as editor-in-chief, of a fine literary journal.

During that time she had thought much, written

 

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much, and had drawn around her a circle of wealthy friends, some of the noted authors of the day. Like a nightmare seemed her sensational writing, and one of her chief aims in life was to encourage those who wrote at all to write that which was elevating and not degrading; to imitate the high-toned literature, and shrink from all other as they would from imminent peril. She remembered how Mr. Worth had saved her; how he had not condemned and scorned her writings like many others, and then passed her by without offering her any assistance; but when he pointed out her mistake and error, he lifted her up into a higher path, and helped her to walk there safely and successfully. She tried to imitate his example, and many a young author thanked her for her assistance.

Her first book had been received by the public with some favor and appreciation, her second had given her some popularity, and her third, which was now but just commenced, she hoped would exceed all else she had ever written. She too, as well as Kate, had been able to lay by a sum of money for a darling object which she had cherished for years.

Mary, who had now come back into the group again, had gained even more popularity than her sisters. Possessing tact, as Kate had asserted in her letter, she knew how to please the public ear, and many of the songs which she had composed were of a lively and often comical nature; besides, she had continued to play the organ for a fair salary, though somewhat inferior to her husband’s, —she being a woman, —and she kept also a select class of pupils, from which she received a fair income ; and so she, like her sisters, had laid by a sum of money which was now soon to be made use of. And now they had all left their business for

 

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a, season, —Hannah her editorial sanctum, Kate her studio, and Mary her class and organ, —to spend a few days at the dear old homestead, and then take a trip across the ocean to the Old World. It was the day before their departure that they sat above the ferns in the old orchard, and not half so great and perilous seemed their journey in prospect as had that journey years ago only to the city of New York. They left their business behind them, yet they were to carry with them their pens and brushes, which they intended should pay, if not all, yet many of their expenses.

Wasn’t this an attainment of some greatness? We remember them long ago, three unsophisticated young girls, sitting in the long green orchard and dreaming out their future, and half trembling at the thought of their first plunge as it were into the cold world. Now we see three women sitting in the same beloved nook, with hands clasped, dreaming again of their future, and of their near visit to the Old World, —three women with thoughtful eyes and firm lips, with softened voices, and hands that have learned what it is to labor, and hearts what it is to wait; three women, mature and womanly, grown strong with the responsibilities of life which they did not shrink from taking upon themselves, and far happier, wiser, and better for their labor and self-dependence, especially as they had escaped that slavery in which so many women are held as with a rod of iron, —the slavery of fashion, of dress, and of popular opinion, a bondage out of which women must rise if ever they place their feet on firm footing, and rise into active and worthy womanhood.

A woman cannot serve two masters, for either she will love the one and hate the other, or she will hold to the one and despise the other. With her, as with a

 

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man, dress must become a secondary object, and the thousand frivolities of fashionable life, which are only a waste of time and talent, must be thrown aside and forgotten, before womanhood attains its beauty and perfection, for no one can serve two masters.

These three sisters had chosen the better part, and they felt it, this soft spring day, as they sat side by side in the shadow of the unpretentious home which had sheltered and blessed them.

“Let us talk,” said Mary; for they had sat for some time silent, and Mary spoke in something of her cheery girlish tone. “Don’t you suppose, girls, that Davie knows all about our going to Europe, and don’t you suppose he is glad and will be with us? I never think of him as dead. I can’t. Before he went, when I used to hear Mr. Worth talk of his wife as near him, with him just as if she were living, I used to lie awake sometimes and wonder about it; but I never wonder now, and I can appreciate just how he used to feel, and why he was so resigned and peaceful. It is all because he does not think of his wife as dead, but expects to meet her again, and enjoy her society even better than when on earth. And I feel that way too, though sometimes I long to see Davie so much that it makes me weep that it cannot be yet, but generally I am hopeful and happy.”

“Sweet Mary, you are a jewel,” said Hannah. “Souls must be lifted high up to feel thus, and how beautiful it is to climb nearer and nearer heaven!”

“Can it be possible,” said Kate, with a little start, for she had been deeply engaged in thought, “can it be possible, girlies, that we are going to Europe, we three, on our own responsibilities too? That is a sublime idea, isn’t it? Women can do something if they try. Haven’t we proved it?”

 

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“Perhaps we had better wait till we return from across the water, before we consider the matter settled,” said Hannah.

“We will prove that women can attain to a position where they may furnish funds—all earned by their own hands—for such a trip,” said Mary a little proudly.

“And isn’t that satisfactory?” said Kate, her eyes brightening.

“It is delightful,” said Hannah. “It does one good just to think of it; but then where might we have been now, if that one good man, Mr. Worth, had not done so much for us?”

“In positions inferior to those we now occupy, I am sure, returned Kate.

“And what should I have been, but for Davie?” asked Mary, with a tenderness in her voice.

“Well,” said Kate, “our assistance has been so pleasant, so enjoyable, and so blessed, I would not have missed it out of our lives, even if we could have accomplished what we have without it.”

“I wish there were more men so ready to encourage and assist young girls who are striving to be independent and accomplish some noble object,” said Hannah; there was silence a moment.

“Kate,” said Mary, who generally broke the silence, “what do you think now of art and love?”

Kate’s face grew rosy to her temples.

“Well,” she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, “I think I take a sensible view of the subject. I think they should go together in my case. Neither, I suppose, is complete without the other; but with my art, and the true and beautiful friendships I have formed I think I can live happily without a husband. Yet” —

 

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“Yet what?”

“I might not—I mean that I am probably not so averse to marriage as I was once; because I believe now, seeing as I do more clearly, that it should not interfere with progress.”

They heard just then the murmur of voices; and looking in the direction of the sound, they saw a man and woman walking arm in arm through the long orchard. They were busily talking, and had not noticed the women above the ferns. It was a pleasant sight, —a tall, strong man, with an earnest, honest face, and a gentle woman walking by his side, her face radiant with love and joy. It is doubtful if at the first glance the reader would recognize in the tall man the once awkward and bashful ‘Nijah; but Dill, who had been his wife almost a year, had the same sweet, spiritual face, only more beautiful for the love in her heart. The three women, however, who were quietly watching them, recognized them at once.

“What a mistake it would have been,” whispered Kate, “if I had married ‘Nijah instead of Dill! ‘Nijah is much happier and more content than he would have been with me; and Dill would have been miserable without him. ‘All things work together for good to those who love God.’”

Slowly the happy couple advanced, but did not look toward the sisters.

“Dill!”Hannah called; and then they espied them, smiled, waved their hands, and advanced towards them.

“We were just going over to see you,” said Dill. “How comfortable you look up there on the ledge! Let us climb up there, ‘Nijah. It is a fitting place, you know,” she added in a mysterious tone.

 

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“This is not the first time I have climbed towards them,” said ‘Nijah, assisting his wife up the ledge. “We must take heed lest we fall. Some people, you know, can climb higher than others, with no injury, but rather benefit to themselves; and others, attempting to reach the same height, fall, and either kill themselves outright, or make cripples of themselves for life.”

“We will assist you,” said Hannah, giving Dill her hand. “It is often the lack of assistance that causes people to fall or forbids them to rise.”

“I am aware of that,” answered ‘Nijah, sitting with Dill at the sisters’ feet; “and I am proud of having been assisted by women. I wouldn’t have been the man I am, but for you, girls. There was no encouragement at home, you know, of that kind I needed, and none in the whole neighborhood, but with you. r feel quite sure that I should now be only a plodding farmer on a rocky farm, if you had not ‘ran away to seek your fortune.’”

“Then we have done good to some one besides ourselves by our independent notions,” said Kate, laughing.

“In more ways than one,” returned Dill, pressing Hannah’s hand. “I wouldn’t give up the beautiful ideas of religion which I have learned from you for all the world; for if all else fail, they will comfort me.”

‘Nijah turned and looked admiringly and affectionately into the happy, earnest face of his wife.

“We both owe you much,” he said, “and it has pleased us to bring each a token of our love for and gratitude to you this night, before you go away so far. Where are they, Dill?”

Dill produced a little box, and, opening it, displayed, lying in crimson cotton, three plain gold rings.

 

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As the sisters, with moist eyes, slipped the circlets on their fingers, ‘Nijah said, “In all your wanderings, let these rings remind you of our friendship, endless and” —

“As precious as gold,” broke in Hannah.

“Isn’t friendship beautiful?” said Mary, with a tear on her cheek.

Kate was silent, and turned the ring slowly round and round on her finger. It was the first ring she had ever worn.

“This is a beautiful experience in our lives,” she said at last.

“With friendship like ours,” said Hannah, “one need never get tired of life, and never need have any fears for the future.”

“And ‘to be worthy of true friendship is to be worthy of much,’” quoted ‘Nijah from Kate’s words that night, years ago, when she refused him.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Ah! How forgetful I am!” exclaimed ‘Nijah at last. “Here is a letter for Mary. I took it from the office to-day.”

“Thank you,” said Mary, looking at the letter. “It is from Miss Brechandon; and as you know her, and are interested in Mrs. Blossom and her boy, you shall hear it.”

She opened it and read it aloud. An extract from it will be all my readers will care to hear.

“Annie is getting cheerful and happy, and little Neil is as near an angel as a mortal can be. If I follow him, I shall surely get to heaven without my hymn-book, and without the creed and restrictions of the church. He is teaching me the lesson that you and your sisters commenced, that the love of the heart

 

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and the work of the hands is Christ’s requirement; and I have set myself to work doing good. I’m now working among drunkards’ families, and I tell you they are plenty enough. Annie is teaching a primary school. Stephen St. Maur procured the situation for her, and he is kind to us three, and I think or hope something may come of it that will make us all happy. Why not?”

“Ah, why not?” repeated Kate, moving uneasily in her seat, and curling her lip as though that were the best thing she could do.

“Why not?” said Adonijah, quite pleased with the idea.

“If he wants to marry her, after all the trouble she has given him, and after, she has so deceived him, let him do it. It’s his own affair,” said Kate, rising abruptly.

“Mrs. Blossom has suffered enough to make her good, hasn’t she?” asked ‘Nijah.

“I don’t know nor care how good she is,” said Kate tartly. “Come, let us go to the house; the sun is down, and I’m chilly. The weather is cool, if it is spring.”

They all arose and walked leisurely through the orchard, Kate ahead, with her hat in her hand, walking with unusual firmness.

‘Nijah and Dill only called a moment at the farm-house; and when the good-bys were said, and a sweet song sung, to which the father and mother listened with tears of pride, joy, and sadness commingled, the three women retired to their room, the old square chamber, as they had done so many times in the past. Immediately when they entered, Hannah sat down on one of the beds, and remained for a moment very still and silent.

 

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“What is the matter, Hannah?” asked Mary, putting her arm around her sister’s neck.

“I was thinking, dear,” said Hannah, looking up with a calm, sweet smile, “I was thinking how peaceful and happy I am, and what a nice age mine is.”

“It isn’t the single life that makes women sour or cross, is it?” said Mary, kissing Hannah’s cheek. “You would always find enough to love, and enough to do to keep your heart warm.”

“I hope so,” answered Hannah cheerfully.

Kate stood before the glass brushing her black hair rather roughly. “Stephen St. Maur is fickle enough,” she said abruptly.

“I should think his constancy rather remarkable,” said Mary. “I don’t know wthy you call him fickle, because he is renewing his first love.”

“Well, of course it makes no difference to me what he is or what he isn’t,” said Kate.

“I don’t believe Stephen St. Maur will ever marry Mrs. Blossom,” said Hannah calmly.

“You don’t!” exclaimed Kate, whirling about, and then turning back again to the glass. “Pooh, it’s none of our business, and we know nothing about it. I wish Mr. Worth was going with us across the ocean.”

“Dear Mr. Worth! will there ever arise another man like him?” said Hannah. “If only he would go with us, but he will be in New York to see us.”

“It’s a long journey,” said Mary with a little shiver.

Kate softened, and, leaving the glass, she went and sat down by the side of her sisters.

“But we will all be together,” she said; “and the company we go with is a brilliant one. Don’t let us get homesick before we start.”

 

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“The journey seems very long to father and mother. Did ever parents before have such a set of girls as we are?” said Hannah.

They had not heard their mother’s gentle step, but she had heard Hannah’s last remark.

“Parents never had a lovelier group of girls than mine,” she said with that beautiful smile of hers.

“If we are in any way worthy,” said Hannah after a little start of surprise, “ we owe it to you and father, to your encouragement and your assistance in our undertakings always as far as you were able. Not many girls are blessed with parents like ours; and could any words make us happier to-night, girls, than to be called ‘lovely’ by mother?”

“Nothing,” answered Kate; “not all the plaudits of the world.”

“Nothing, nothing,” half whispered Mary, drawing her mother down by her side.

“I am not half so rejoiced over the positions You have attained, which are noble and honestly earned,” said their mother, “as I am over your purity, goodness, and gentleness, and your pleasant contentment, your understanding, and your capability to take care of yourselves.”

“All of which we have learned of you and father through your teaching and example,” said Hannah.

“And we are prouder of you to-night,” said Kate, “than though you lived in a palace and wore crowns.”

“Isn’t it wrong to go so far off and leave you?” asked Mary.

“No,” their mother replied quickly, though her lip trembled slightly. “We wish you to learn all you can, enjoy all you can, and do all the good you can. Wherever you wander, you will be under the protect-

 

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ing care of our Heavenly Father, and the world is not so wide that it can part us in spirit and affections.”

And so they talked, mother and daughters; and the angels listened, and were glad; and when the sisters lay down to rest, in a low tone Hannah repeated this stanza in reference to their parents: —

 

“Though other friends forsake us, you are true;

If other friends distrust us, you will trust;

If we neglect and wander far from you,

Ah! then you’ll be more merciful than just.

May we be worthy of your trust and love,

And meet you in Christ’s mansion up above.”

 

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CHAPTER XXVI.

THE GOLD MEDAL.

 

“MR. ST. MAUR!”

Kate had been for a few moments pacing up and down her studio, humming softly, —

 

“Home again, home again,

From a foreign shore!

And O, it fills my soul with joy

To meet my friends once more,” —

 

when, turning suddenly toward the door, she saw Stephen St. Maur standing on the threshold.

This was soon after the three sisters’ return to America from their trip to Europe. They were all settled again at their work, much improved physically and mentally, and greatly advanced in public favor. The European travels of so many heroes and heroines have been written, all so similar, that I shall not attempt to write the experience of my travellers in the Old World, but introduce them again on American soil.

They had made some distinguished acquaintances, and Hannah had written some very brilliant letters, and altogether they had made a most prosperous voyage and visit, and returned to their native shore pleased with their success, and, like all wanderers, delighted to see home again.

Kate had not seen Mr. St. Maur since her return, until he stood so unexpectedly in the door of her stu-

 

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dio, and she pronounced his name in a tone of great astonishment, and for an instant her face was pale to her lips.

Mr. St. Maur smiled; he never scowled now, but his hair had in it a few streaks of gray, and there were lines on his face.

“I have brought you the gold medal,” he said, advancing, “and the present, and my appreciation of your much more than ordinary accomplishment and success.”

“And your belief in woman’s power to dare and to do?” asked Kate, before taking his offered hand.

“Yes, my entire belief in woman’s ability, and my disbelief in the way she is generally educated,” he said; and Kate gave him her hand.

“You don’t desire proof,” he said, pressing her hand warmly. “If you did, I would refer you to the half-dozen young artists who are developing their talents through my assistance.”

“I am so glad, so glad!” exclaimed Kate, her face getting radiant. “Mr. St. Maur, I cannot tell you how glad; for I remember what such assistance has done for me, and can understand just how those young artists feel. You have done much for humanity since I saw you.”

“Something, I hope.”

“I am glad you acknowledge me successful.”

“I could not do otherwise, especially since I have seen that last picture of yours displayed in New York, over which people are so enthusiastic.”

“Are they enthusiastic?”

“Yes; it is the chief attraction of the gallery.”

“I am glad. I liked it myself, but did not know if others would.”

 

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“Didn’t you expect me to come with the gold medal?”

“I thought perhaps, —that is, I didn’t know, —of course I supposed you had forgotten it long ago.”

“I am not so forgetful as that, and I saw several years ago that the medal must be given, but I waited until I was sure.” They sat down opposite each other.

“I have long thought you the bravest little woman in the world,” he continued.

“But there are others as brave, only you have not seen them. There are many women struggling to rise, and it is a wonder that any succeed, crushed’ down as they are by public sentiment. I remember how we first started away from home without a word of encouragement outside of our own family, and how the neighborhood was shocked, that women should try to be what they longed for when it was beyond keeping house, and how everybody stared and told frightful stories, and made our way as rough as they could. And all the way through, we have been treated the same; even by you, Mr. St. Maur, until we actually attained a position that no one could gainsay. We fought against prejudice and discouragements; and even with all our bravery and determination, I am sure it would have taken years longer to lift us where we now are, but for Mr. Worth, the friend of struggling, self-dependent women, who took us by the hand as it were, and helped us scale the rugged rocks that otherwise we should have been many years in climbing. Thoughts of him are woven into every picture of mine.”

“And they say you will marry him,” said Mr. St, Maur, looking keenly into Kate’s face.

 

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“Who? Marry who?”

“Mr. Worth.”

“Marry Mr. Worth? Why, he has a wife already. How can people say that?”

“Has a wife? I was not aware of it. Where is she?”

“In heaven.”

Mr. St..Maur looked puzzled, but in an instant his face cleared. “I understand,” he said, “forgive me;” and he gave her his hand.

“I forgive you and every one,” said Kate. “People don’t understand hearts, and marriage, you know, they anticipate in every place possible.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, and looked thoughtful.

“Did you believe I would marry him?”

“No; I knew you wouldn’t,” said he in a decisive and suggestive tone.

Kate’s face flushed a trifle, and she changed the subject.

“You have not asked me about our travels in Europe?”

“No; I read Hannah’s letters, and I didn’t wish to trouble you; and I know, without asking you, that you greatly enjoyed the tour.”

“You guessed so?”

“No. I know so from your looks and appearance.”

“Thank you. You judge correctly, but you may be assured we were glad to get back to America.”

“Satisfied that women may visit the Old World independently?” interrogated Mr. St. Maur with a twinkle in his eye.

“Wholly satisfied, as we are on a good many other subjects.”

“Didn’t the glorious paintings you saw discourage you?

 

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“No, indeed. I was happy in gazing upon them, and thinking what genius could do, and glad that I could do something for the art I love so well. Because I cannot be Raphael, I do not intend to be nothing. I will do what I can, for I had rather do less of something I love than more of something I dislike.”

“You are very much your old self, Kate; but we cannot argue on these questions as we used to, for I have turned traitor to my old belief you know, and am getting strong-minded.”

Kate laughed.

“That is encouraging,” she said; “I wish the men in general, who talk so much about strong-minded women, would turn about and be strong-minded themselves. If they should, the whole matter of woman’s equality and rights would be very soon satisfactorily settled.”

“I am not the least doubtful about that; but if all women would display as much independence and bravery as you have, this same matter would be even sooner satisfactorily settled.”

“I wish they would.”

“I wish so too, and I shall do all I can to help them. Once I determined never to assist women in any way, unless to keep them from starving; but that idea was a very narrow one, and was based on a personal injury. My views have broadened since then. I might have given you assistance, how easily! but I promised myself to resist all such temptations, and I did, though it was hard sometimes; but I had tried it once and failed.”

“If you had offered us assistance, we should have probably refused it.”

“You did not refuse the assistance of Mr. Worth.”

 

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“No; no one could refuse Mr. Worth. It would seem a sin to do so, for he assists in such a general way. He is a philanthropist, and he says, when he wishes to render assistance, ‘This is no personal favor; if you have talents, they must be brought out and cultivated, that the world may be benefited by them; and as I have the means, I feel it a duty to use them for such purposes, and you must pay me by benefiting the world.’ Who could refuse such assistance as that?”

“No one should refuse it, and no one would who was not possessed of false modesty and pride; and I suppose all things have happened for the best.”

As he said this, he looked into Kate’s face, and their eyes met. A wave of crimson passed over Kate’s cheeks, and her eyelids trembled a little as she glanced downward; but Mr. St. Maur was as cool and self-possessed as before.

“I suppose you will be removing to New York soon,” he said, after a moment’s silence.

“I may move there some time,” said Kate, looking up with clear, calm eyes; “but I like this beautiful town, and I fancy the people rather like me; and I am so happy here that I almost fear to change my situation.”

“What are you painting now?”

“A piece for Mr. Worth;” and, going to her easel, Kate raised the cloth, and displayed a beautiful painting.

After admiring it and listening to the artist’s explanations, he said, —

“If only I had assisted you what might I now expect?”

“Probably a painting.”

“I have several of yours already, but I bought

 

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them all. It isn’t like receiving one as a gift. But it is time the medal was presented to you; shall I make a formal presentation speech?”

“It would be very entertaining,” said Kate, laughing and folding her hands together.

“Speech-making is hardly my forte, and I should be especially awkward in this case. I ought to have brought you a laurel bough. This is yours, and this is Hannah’s. I didn’t promise Mary any, though she has earned one. And now, in presenting you with this, I do not wish you to understand that I believe you can rise no higher, but rather that you will continue to rise for years.”

“I thank you, Mr. St. Maur,” said Kate, as she bowed gracefully and received the medal. “I thank you especially for your confidence in my position and my future advancement, for I remember when you felt otherwise.”

“And I remember when you proved to me that marriage was not your object,” said Mr. St. Maur, as coolly as though he were talking on a less delicate subject.

Kate was standing near a bracket which held a vase of flowers. The words of Mr. St. Maur embarrassed her; she raised her hand suddenly, and in an instant the vase was in pieces on the carpet, she hardly knew how. The flowers fell out, and the fragrance of the tuberoses perfumed the room.

 

“‘You may break, you may scatter the vase, if you will,

The scent of the roses will hang round it still,’”

 

quoted Mr. St. Maur, as he stooped and gathered up the fragments and the flowers.

“I have heard there is no great loss without some small gain; and I believe there is no great gain with-

 

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out some small loss,” said Kate with composure. “Just as I received this medal, I lost this beautiful vase.”

“But the flowers remain,” said Mr. St. Maur, and then he was thoughtfully silent a moment.

“Kate,” he said at last.

“Well, Mr. St. Maur!”

“Don’t you guess what is my chief object here to-day?”

“I believe you told me, it was to bring the medal.”

“But don’t you guess something more?”

“I believe you said a present besides,” answered Kate, frankly.

“But don’t you guess more than that?”

“No, sir, not yet.”

“Think a moment, and perhaps you may guess right.”

“I’m not good at guessing,” said Kate, a little impatiently, thinking of Mrs. Blossom.”

“But don’t you remember that I told you a few years ago that I loved you, had loved you, and would love you always? and can’t you guess that I have waited long enough, and have come to hear you promise to be my wife?”

Kate’s eyes flashed. What did the man mean? That she was ready to marry him, and would be glad of the opportunity to do so? What conceit! She had lived without marriage so long, and she could live longer. He was bold enough. After she had once refused him, to come expecting to be accepted! Perhaps he thought old-maidism had made her anxious to change her name; but she wasn’t afraid to live all her life without marrying. No amount of time or sneers would make her ashamed of the Miss before her

 

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name. She thought all this in an instant; and she said, drawing back a little toward the wall, —

“I don’t propose to guess any such thing, Mr. St. Maur. I am very well provided for; and why should I change my mind?”

“Because you have earned the gold medal,” he replied; “and you love me, Kate.”

“You seem to have power to divine my feelings,” she said ironically.

“And haven’t I divined them rightly?”

“I do not intend to marry. I am wedded to my art,” said Kate; but her voice trembled slightly.

“O Kate!” Mr. St. Maur’s eyes were filled with tenderness, love, and pleading; and his voice was full of disappointment and sorrow.

“O Kate!” he repeated again, and then he turned away, and, taking his hat, walked to the door. He did not once look behind him; and Kate stood like a statue, with her hand, clasped, her eyes gleaming, and her face very white and rigid. He opened the door, and stood on the threshold. Kate’s lips moved, but she made no noise. He had passed over the threshold, and was going. Kate wrung her hands; and when she saw he was really passing away from the sound of her voice forever, she sprang forward and called, —

“Mr. St. Maur, come back. I love you, have loved you, and will love you always.”

He turned His face was radiant with joy. He passed into the studio, and proud, self-reliant Kate fell against his bosom; and there was that lover’s blissful silence, when all the world seems like an Eden.

“I have waited for you all these years,” said Mr. St. Maur, “for I knew you would be mine at last, when you accomplished what you desired, and proved

 

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that women could succeed if only they were persevering. I read you like a book, Kate. I knew you would love no one but me; and I meant to be worthy of you before I asked your hand again. I have tried to rise higher, and now I hope we may grow better side by side; and for marriage you shall not give up art.”

“I would not.” Kate said this smilingly, and Mr. St. Maur smiled back.

“You need not,” he said, “if you will only remove to New York.”

“That I shall not object to.”

“I shall have a very independent wife,” said Mr. St. Maur proudly, “and that is what I like. We will cling to each other, and not imitate exactly the oak and the vine.”

Kate clung to him closely, and whispered,

 

“‘Beloved, let us love so well,

Our work shall still be better for our love,

And still our love be sweeter for our work,

And both commended for the sake of each

By all true lovers and true workers born.’”

 

They sat down side by side, hand clasping hand just in front of Kate’s easel, where she had worked and worshipped art. All around on the walls hung pictures painted by her hand, and her brushes lay near by, and her paints where she had lately been at work. Both looked around them, and thought of what Kate had accomplished, and Kate said, —

“How blessed I am I both love and art are mine.”

“And they are mine also, since you are mine; and how much sublimity and beauty there is in their combination! Yes, beloved, we will love and work together, and each shall be better for the other. But the present, —have you forgotten that I promised you a

 

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present with the medal?” and almost before Kate knew it, a diamond ring was on her finger. She looked at it; and just as she was about to raise it to her lips, a sunbeam struck the diamond, and it dazzled her eyes with its exceeding brilliancy.

“How beautiful!” she exclaimed, and pressed it to her lips.

“Our hearts are like the diamond,” said Mr. St. Maur; “the sunlight of love can make them brilliant with every beautiful feeling which they contain.”

“I am glad,” said Kate, looking frankly into Mr. St. Maur’s face, “I am glad we met to-day here in my studio.”

“Yes, I am glad, and I meant it should be so. I knew love would be sweeter to you here, and these beautiful pictures smile upon us a benediction.”

“How much better we can understand and enjoy love when we understand and enjoy other noble things! But I have not asked about Mrs. Blossom. I heard” —

“That I was to marry her,” broke in Mr. St. Maur. “That dream faded away long, long ago; and nothing could have more effectually cured me of all sentimental feelings concerning her than my acquaintance with her since her elopement with that heartless dandy. She is good, and will undoubtedly go to heaven; but mere goodness would not satisfy me in a wife, for I desire my wife to possess, besides, the individual strength and independence of my Kate; and then we can walk hand in hand, and be companions and friends, as we will, my darling.”

“It will be sweeter than working alone,” said Kate, thinking how much art would lose now separated from love.

 

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“Do you regret, Kate, that you refused me once?” asked Mr. St. Maur.

“O no, I am very glad. Do you regret it?”

“No, my artist, I am glad you were so determined and brave, and I am sure we are more fitted for each other now.”

“If I had accepted you then,” said Kate, “I should never have felt quite satisfied, but now” —she finished the sentence with her eyes, which are sometimes more expressive than words. “What will the little widow say?” she asked after a moment.

“You have risen so far above her,” returned Mr. St. Maur, “ that she cannot comprehend your greatness; but she is too fashionable not to admire you.”

Kate laughed.

“We used sometimes to be tempted by fine clothes and fashionable parades, my sisters and I; and though we had somewhat of a task to resist and rise above such temptations, we feel well paid for all our trials and labors, for we have  taught our hearts to feel free, and liberty is sweet.”

“And it is worth years of waiting to possess the heart and hand of a woman who has gained her freedom, and proved herself capable of standing alone. The love and trust of such a woman, my Kate, will strew a man’s path with jewels, and draw heaven so near him that there will be no death. O artist, O beloved, this moment is so sweet, the years we waited are as naught in comparison. Come nearer, closer. O Heaven, how Thou dost reward those who work for Thee!”

 

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CHAPTER XXVII.

AT HOME.

 

THE wind howled dismally around the old farm-house, and the sleet was driven furiously against the windows; but they only heightened the beauty of the picture within the warm, cozy sitting-room, where the fire blazed brightly, and everything had about it an air of comfort.

Sitting closely together on the old sofa were Hannah, Kate, and Mary, talking together in subdued and pleasant voices. They sat in the shadow, but now and then an added light in the fire scattered the dimness, and made their faces glow with health and contentment. All the old affection for and interest in each other were visible in the tender expression of their eyes, the clasping of each other’s hands, and the confiding tones of their voices.

Nearer the warm hearth-stone sat their father and mother, with hair a trifle whiter than of old, and wrinkles a little deeper in their pleasant faces, but cheery and bright, and talking busily with one whom we have never before met at the old farm-house, —Kate’s husband, Mr. St. Maur.

The three sitting in a group so cozily together, often looked toward the old sofa where the three women, who seemed as girls again, appeared so deeply engaged in their own conversation.

 

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“I think we went to Europe rather precipitately, Hannah was saying; “ if we had waited until now, we might have enjoyed the tour better, as our means are more extensive; but going as we did with limited means, and on our own responsibility, no doubt, greatly benefited us, and I do not regret that we did not wait.”

“I do not regret it, because I. should not have been satisfied without it. I had dreamed of it so long, and determined to devote my first earned money to it, that I could not have given it up to the uncertain future,” said Kate.

“I am even thankful that we went as we did, when we were all in all to each other,” said Mary; “besides, I needed the change, and it strengthened me wonderfully in mind and body.”

“It was best for us all, undoubtedly. Some of the conceit was taken out of us by the means, for I suppose we were more or less conceited, and are even now,” said Hannah.

“To think of one’s self more highly than one ought to think is a very common error, and one that most people fall into,” observed Kate. “It is a hard and lengthy task to overcome all the faults in one’s nature.”

“Still it is a most enjoyable one; and a gradual improvement gives one great satisfaction,” said Hannah. “One has to learn so much patience and endurance. Kate’s marriage quelled my ambition, and made me aimless for a time; but I knew it was wrong and foolish, and fought against the influence. Mary was by to help me, and I began at last to fear that something would take her away from me, and then I had this fear to struggle against, and faith and trust to cultivate;

 

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and now I hope I am more resigned to my fate, whatever it may be, and I know there is a very sweet peace in my heart.”

“I know there is too,” said Mary, dropping her head on Hannah’s shoulder.

“There is peace all around us,” said Kate; “see how calm and placid are the faces of father and mother. I think we have done nothing to dishonor them, girls.”

“And look at your husband’s face, Kate; how much it has changed since we saw it first! The eyes, how clear and soft they are! and how the lines about his mouth are changed from hardness and distrust to tenderness and trustfulness! I like to look at him, and think of it.”

“So do I,” said Kate, looking thoughtfully into her husband’s face, and thinking besides of all they were to each other, and how happy and blessed their married life had thus far proved to be.

Mary pressed silently to her heart the golden locket in her bosom, and felt a pang that the dear face of her husband, so early vanished from her vision, she could see only within the golden case. And a tear dropped from her eye for the separation which seemed long, but she smiled presently.

“There is always something to comfort us,” she said. “If we lose one joy, we find another. Out of the ashes of one hope springs another hope, and perhaps a brighter one.”

“And added years bring added knowledge and peace,” said Hannah, “and take us nearer to our loved ones on the other shore. Employment and a clear conscience ought to be a passport to contentment; and if we miss of some of the bright joys of life, they will all be made up to us in eternity.”

 

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“I shall never forget Davie’s words long ago, before we were much more than strangers to each other. ‘What time forbids, eternity will give,’ he said, and asked me if I believed it. I told him then I did not know; now I Haven’t a doubt of it,” said Mary. “Hannah’s new book is a great comfort, isn’t it, Kate?”

“Yes, in more ways than one,” returned Kate. “I have read it so much that I almost know it by heart, and I never fail to think what a pecuniary benefit it has been to Hannah. You should see the copy that Miss Brechandon has. I am afraid she reads it more than she does her Bible; and Dill seems to have the same infatuation.”

“And yet I wrote it without expecting much profit,” said Hannah, “ but it was a great source of enjoyment.”

“Because you threw your soul into it. I am glad you are well out of the editor’s chair, and are at liberty to write when, and how, and where you please. I tell you, Hannah, a little popularity isn’t to be despised,” said Kate.

“It surely takes a good many thorns out of one’s way, if one views it correctly, and takes advantage of it,” said Hannah. “Of course, fame alone will not bring happiness, and neither will riches; but if they are used to benefit others, and not abused and misused by selfishness, they may be sources of pleasure, satisfaction, and enjoyment. Popularity in itself is not worth striving for, but when it comes to us through excellence, perseverance, and earnest endeavor after the truth, and the good of humanity, it is a jewel, and we have a right to enjoy the benefits of it, but always humbly and unselfishly.”

 

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“That is the way I try to enjoy the little popularity I have gained,” said Kate. “I am thankful for it, because it saves me anxiety and trouble. It. is merely making friends of the public, I suppose, and that, you know, is a very influential friendship; and we learned years ago what an influential friend could do.”

“Well,” said Mary, “I have no fault to find; and though I get a little tired sometimes of teaching, still I never see the moment when I feel really ready to give up my class, though I do not wish to increase it. I used to think that when I became pecuniarily able, I would teach those who desired to study music, and were not able to pay for their lessons, without charge, but I have only one such Scholar, and she is very brilliant. I find it to be a wiser plan to send such scholars that I happen to find to young teachers and pay their bills. This helps both the teacher and pupil, and with one scholar from a wealthy family I can pay for three.”

“That is much wiser,” said Kate; “I have adopted much the same plan.”

“But Kate will persist in having one pupil,” broke in Mr. St. Maur, moving nearer the sofa.

 “Yes, but she is very talented and very agreeable, and I think helps rather than hinders,” said Kate.

“I perceive,” observed Hannah, “that you and Mary are like all the rest. You assist the talented and brilliant, and leave such ignorant girls as we were once, to get along as they can. Genius will assert itself anywhere, but talent often needs a great deal of encouragement and help.”

“Very true,” said Kate, “and I acknowledge the reproof to be just; yet there is one thing so entirely necessary with mere talent that it is not much use in assisting any one who does not possess it.”

 

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“What is it?” asked Mary.

“Indomitable perseverance. If a person isn’t willing to work hard, to give up personal comforts, not to stop at obstacles, to brave public and private censure, and determined to succeed, they will be almost sure to fall by the way, and then grumble at the cruelty of fate.”

“I have learned long ago,” said Mr. St. Maur, “that talent alone is little better than no talent at all, and there is no use in helping those who will not help themselves. I do not know but it injures more than it benefits them.”

“You are determined not to forget your experience,” said Hannah, “but we must remember that there is a wrong way and a right way to render assistance, and also that circumstances alter cases. We must not be too severe on the weak natures, but feel that a little help may strengthen them a trifle at least.”

“Hannah is right,” said their father. “No one is strong enough but that he may be overcome, and we must have charity for all. It is a great joy to me that my daughters do not forget others, now they are comfortable and happy themselves, and I hope they will always be as thoughtful as now, and as desirous of sharing their gain with others; but there is such a thing as aristocratic benevolence, and true generosity is often merged into it.”

“We should never rise so high,” said their mother, “that our hands cannot reach the low and the humble to draw them toward us; for as soon as we do that, we shall fall.”

“Daughters ought to be good with such teaching,” said Mr. St. Maur. “My instructions were very different.”

 

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“I told you,” said Kate, roguishly, “that I didn’t deserve all the credit you gave me, and that you deserved much more praise than I.”

“Which is simply my partial wife’s opinion,” said Mr. St. Maur.

“If father and mother would only go back with us to New York,” said Mary, “I am sure we should be kept from many of these polished temptations.”

 “You have done well thus far,” said their mother, “and we trusted you when there was more danger than now; but we shall not be likely to refuse your invitation to go to the city for a visit, and see how nobly our daughters can earn their own living, and how independently they can live according to their income.”

“And see my new piano,” said Mary, “and my music in the windows of the great music stores.”

“And my charming studio, and our delightful home,” said Kate.

“And my library, and elegant desk, where I work with so much pleasure,” said Hannah.

“There is no chance for escape,” said Mr. St. Maur.

The door opened, and a boy put a letter in Hannah’s hand; but she only glanced at the writing, blushed, and slipped the letter into her pocket.

“Hannah needs a great amount of watching,” said Kate with mock seriousness, “or she will be sure not to be the ‘model old maid,’ after all.”

“I have thought so for some time,” said Mr. St. Maur, “and that letter so hastily slipped into her pocket more than ever arouses my; suspicions.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” said Mary, “and so you may keep quiet, and Hannah shall have

 

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all the letters she likes, and slip them all into her pocket if she chooses.”

“So she shall,” said Kate laughing; and the fire grew brighter, and displayed the faces of that loving group shining with peace.

 

THE END.