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Dawn

by Mrs. H. A. Adams · English · Gutenberg #4794 · 555,287 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Dawn

Author: Mrs. H. A. Adams


        
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4794]
                Most recently updated: March 14, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAWN ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo






DAWN

By Mrs. Harriet A. Adams


BOSTON:

LONDON:

1868






DAWN.



CHAPTER I.


They sat together in the twilight conversing. Three years, with their
alternations of joy and grief had swept over their married life,
bringing their hearts into closer alliance, as each new emotion thrilled
and upheaved the buried life within.

That night their souls seemed attuned to a richer melody than ever
before; and as the twilight deepened, and one by one the stars appeared,
the blessed baptism of a heavenly calm descended and rested upon their
spirits.

“Then you think there are but very few harmonious marriages, Hugh?”

“My deep experience with human nature, and close observations of life,
have led me to that conclusion. Our own, and a few happy exceptions
beside, are but feeble offsets to the countless cases of unhappy
unions.”

“Unhappy; why?” he continued, talking more to himself than to the fair
woman at his side; “people are only married fractionally, as a great
thinker has written; and knowing so little of themselves, how can they
know each other? The greatest strangers to each other whom I have ever
met, have been parties bound together by the marriage laws!”

“But you would not sunder so holy a bond as that of marriage, Hugh?”

“I could not, and would not if I could. Whatever assimilates, whether
of mind or matter, can not be sundered. I would only destroy false
conditions, and build up in their places those of peace and harmony.
While I fully appreciate the marriage covenant, I sorrow over the
imperfect manhood which desecrates it. I question again and again, why
persons so dissimilar in tastes and habits, are brought together; and
then the question is partly, if not fully answered, by the great truth
of God's economy, which brings the lesser unto the greater to receive,
darkness unto light, that all may grow together. I almost know by seeing
one party, what the other is. Thus are the weak and strong--not strength
and might--coupled. Marriage should be a help, and not a hindrance.
In the present state of society, we are too restricted to know what
marriage is. Either one, or both of those united, are selfish and
narrow, allowing no conditions in which each may grow.”

“Do I limit you, Hugh?”

“No, dearest, no; I never meant it should be so, either. When I gave you
my love, I did not surrender my individual life and right of action. All
of my being which you can appropriate to yourself is yours; you can
take no more. What I take from you, is your love and sympathy. I cannot
exhaust or receive you wholly.”

“But I give you all of myself.”

“Yet I can only take what I can absorb or receive into my being. The
qualities of a human soul are too mighty to be absorbed by any one.”

“What matters it if I am content in your love that I wish for none
other?”

“I have often feared, dear Alice, that your individual life was lost in
your love for me.”

“What matters it, if you give me yourself in return?”

“It matters much. If we are not strong for ourselves, we are not
strength to each other. If we have no reserve force, we shall in time
consume each other's life. We can never be wholly another's.”

“Am I not wholly yours, dear Hugh?” she said, raising her eyes tenderly
to his, in that summer twilight.

“Not all mine, but all that I can receive.”

“It may be true, but it seems cold to me,” she replied, a little sadly.

“Too much philosophy and not enough love for your tender woman nature,
is it not, darling?”

“I think you have explained it. I feel as though you were drifting away
from me, Hugh, when you talk as you do to-night. Although I dearly love
progress and enlarged views of life, I do not like many of the questions
that are being agitated in reference to marriage.”

“Because you do not take comprehensive views of the matter. I can, I
think, set you clear on the whole subject, and divorce from your mind
the thought that liberty is license. Liberty, in its full, true meaning,
is the pure action of a true manhood, in obedience to the laws of the
individual. For a simple illustration, look at our neighbors, Mr. and
Mrs. Danforth. She, as you well know, is an ambitious woman; smart,
and rather above the majority of her neighbors, intellectually, but
not spiritually. Her husband is a kind-hearted man, content to fill an
ordinary station in life, but spiritually far her superior. His nature
is rich in affection; her nature is cold and intellectual. He knows
nothing of other woman's views, consequently has no standard by which
to form an estimate of those of his wife. If she was wise, as well as
sharp, she would see that she is standing in her own light; for the
man whom she wishes to look upon her, and her only, will soon be a pure
negation, a mere machine, an echo of her own jealousy and selfish pride.
Now, freedom, or his liberty, would give him the right to mingle and
converse with other women; then he would know what his wife was to him,
while he would retain himself and give to her his manhood, instead of
the mere return of her own self. At present he dare not utter a word to
which she does not fully subscribe. She talks of his 'love' for her;
it should be his 'servility.' They live in too close relation to be all
they might to each other. I have heard her proudly assert, that he never
spent an evening from home! I think they are both to be pitied; but,
am I making the subject of freedom in any degree clear to your mind, my
patient wife?”

“Yes, I begin to see that it is higher and nobler to be free, and far
purer than I supposed.”

“Yes, dear one,” he said, drawing her close to his heart, “we must at
times go from what we most tenderly love, in order to be drawn closer.
The closest links are those which do not bind at all. It is a great
mistake to keep the marriage tie so binding, and to force upon society
such a dearth of social life as we see around us daily. Give men and
women liberty to enjoy themselves on high social planes, and we
shall not have the debasing things which are occurring daily, and are
constantly on the increase. If I should take a lady of culture and
refinement to a concert, a lecture, or to a theatre, would not society
lift up its hands in holy horror, and scandal-mongers go from house to
house? If men and women come not together on high planes, they will meet
on debasing ones. Give us more liberty, and we shall have more purity. I
speak these words not impulsively; they are the result of long thinking,
and were they my last, I would as strongly and as fearlessly utter
them.”

“I feel myself growing in thought, to-night, Hugh, and O, how proud
I feel that the little being who is soon to claim our love, if all is
well, will come into at least some knowledge of these things.”

In a few weeks she expected to become a mother, and was looking
hopefully forward to the event, as all women do, or should, who have
pleasant homes and worthy husbands.

“I, too, am glad that we can give it the benefit of our experience, and
shall be proud to welcome into the world a legitimate child.”

“Why, Hugh! what do you mean? All children are legitimate, are they not,
that are born in wedlock?”

“Very far from it. In very many cases they are wholly illegitimate.”

His wife looked eagerly for an explanation.

“All persons who are not living in harmony and love, are bringing into
the world illegitimate offspring. Children should be born because they
are wanted. A welcome should greet every new-born child, and yet a mere
physical relation is all that exists between thousands of parents and
children, while thousands who have not given physical birth are more
fitted by qualities of heart and soul to be the parents of these
spiritual orphans than the blood relations, who claim them as their own.
I often think that many in the other life will find, even though they
may have had no offspring in this, that they have children by the
ties of soul and heart-affinity, which constitutes after all the only
relationship that is immortal.”

Ten days after the above conversation, the eventful period came. All
night she lingered in pain, and at daybreak a bright and beautiful
daughter was laid at her side. But, alas! life here was not for her.
Mother and babe were about to be separated, for the fast receding pulse
told plainly to the watchful physician that her days were numbered. Her
anguished husband read it in the hopeless features of the doctor, and
leaning over the dear one he loved so well, he caught from her these
last words,--

“Call her DAWN! for is she not a coming light to you? See, the day is
breaking, Hugh,”--then the lips closed forever.

“Come back, come back to me, my loved, my darling one,” broke from the
anguished heart of the stricken husband, and falling on his knees beside
the now lifeless form, he buried his face in his hands, and wept.

But even grief cannot always have its sway.

A low, wailing cry from the infant moved his heart with a strange
thrill, he knew not whether of joy or pain, and rising from the posture
in which grief had thrown him, he went and bowed himself over the silent
form.

One gone, another come.

But the little being had her life in its veins, and slowly he felt
himself drawn earthward by this new claim upon his love and sympathy.

A strange feeling came over him as the nurse took the little child, and
laid upon the bed the robes its mother had prepared for it.

It was too much, and the heart-stricken man left the room, and locking
himself in his library, where he had spent so many happy hours with his
lost one, gave full vent to the deep anguish of his soul. He heard the
kind physician's steps as he left, and no more. For hours he sat bowed
in grief, and silent, while sorrow's bitter waters surged over him.

No more would her sweet smile light his home; no more her voice call his
name in those tender tones, that had so often been music to his ears; no
more could they walk or sit in the moonlight and converse. Was it really
true? Had Alice gone, or was it not all a troubled dream?

Noon came, and his brow became more fevered. But there was no soft hand
to soothe the pain away. Night came, and still he sat and mourned; and
then the sound of voices reached his ears. He roused himself to meet
the friends and relations of his dear departed one, and then all seemed
vague, indefinite and dreamlike.

The funeral rites, the burial, the falling earth upon the coffin lid;
these all passed before him, then like one in a stupor he went back to
his home, and took up the broken threads of life again, and learned to
live and smile for his bright-eyed, beautiful Dawn. May she be Dawn to
the world, he said unto himself, as he looked into her heaven-blue eyes;
then thanked God that his life was spared to guide her over life's rough
seas, and each day brought fresh inspirations of hope, new aspirations
of strength, and more confiding trust in Him whose ways are not as our
ways.




CHAPTER II.


Dawn grew to be very beautiful. Every day revealed some new charm, until
Hugh feared she too might go and live with the angels. But there was a
mission for her to perform on the earth, and she lived.

Each day he talked to her of her mother, and kept her memory alive to
her beautiful traits, until the child grew so familiar with her being as
to know no loss of her bodily presence, save in temporal affairs.

A faithful and efficient woman kept their house, and cared for Dawn's
physical wants; her father attending to her needs, both mental and
spiritual, until she reached the age of seven, when a change in his
business required him to be so often away from home, that he advertised
for a governess to superintend her studies and her daily deportment.

“What was mamma like?” asked Dawn of her father one evening as they sat
in the moonlight together, “was she like the twilight?”

He turned upon the child with admiration, for to him nothing in nature
could better be likened unto his lost and lovely Alice.

“Yes, darling,” he said, kissing her again and again, “mamma was just
like the twilight--sweet, tender, and soothing.”

“Then I am not at all like mamma?” she remarked, a little sadly.

“And why?”

“Because I am strong and full of life. I always feel as though it was
just daylight. I never feel tired, papa, I only feel hushed.”

“Heaven grant my daughter may never be weary,” he said, and stooped to
kiss her, while he brushed away a tear which started as he did so.

“I shall never be weary while I have you, papa. You will never leave me,
will you?”

“I hope to be spared many years to guard and love my charge.”

A few days after, Dawn was surprised to find the governess, of whom her
father had spoken, in the library, and her father with his carpet-bag
packed, ready for a journey.

“Am I not going too, papa?” she said, turning on him her face, as though
her heart was ready to burst with grief. It was their first parting, and
equally hard for parent and child.

“Not this time, darling, but in the summer we shall go to the sea-shore
and the mountains, and take Miss Vernon with us. Come, this is your
teacher, Dawn; I want you to be very good and obedient while I am away,”
 and then, looking at his watch, he bade them both adieu.

He knew the child was weeping bitterly. All the way to the cars, and on
the journey through that long, sunny day, he felt her calling him back.
There could be no real separation between them, and it was painful to
part, and keep both so drawn and attenuated in spirit.

In vain Miss Vernon exerted herself to make the child happy. It was of
no use. Her delicate organism had received its first shock; but in due
time her spirit broke through the clouds in its native brilliancy, and
there was no lingering shadow left on her sky. Dawn was as bright and
smiling as she had been sad and dispirited.

“I will gather some wild flowers and make the room all bright and lovely
for papa,” she said, and in a moment was far away.

“It's no use training her, you see, Miss,” the good housekeeper
asserted, as a sort of an apology for the child, whom she loved almost
to idolatry, “might as well try to trap the sunlight or catch moonbeams.
She'll have her way, and, somehow to me, her way seems always right.
Will you please step out to tea, Miss, and then I will go and look after
her; or, if you like, you can follow that little path that leads from
the garden gate to the hill where she has gone for her flowers.”

Miss Vernon was glad to go; and after a light supper, was on her way,
almost fearful that the child might consider her an intruder, for she
instinctively felt that she must work her way into the affections of her
new charge.

She followed the path to the hill, and after walking for some time and
not finding Dawn, was about to retrace her steps, when she heard a low,
sweet voice, chanting an evening hymn. She sat upon a bed of grey moss
until the chanting ceased, and then went in the direction from which the
sound came.

There sat Dawn, with eyes uplifted, lips parted as though in
conversation, and features glowing with intensest emotion. Then the eyes
dropped, and her little hands were pressed to her heart, as though the
effort had been too great.

Slowly Miss Vernon stepped towards her. Dawn caught her eye, and
motioned her to come nearer.

“Are you not lonely here, child?” she asked.

“Lonely? O, no. I am not alone, Miss Vernon, God is here, and I am so
full I sing, or I should die. Did you hear me?”

“I did. Who taught you that beautiful chant?”

“No one; it grew in me; just as the flowers grow on the plants.”

“I have an instructor here, and one I shall find more interesting than
tractable,” mused the governess, as she looked upon the child. But Dawn
was not learned in one day, as she afterwards found.

The sun sank behind the hills just as they entered the garden together.
Dawn missed her father too much to be quite up to her usual point of
life, and she went and laid herself down upon a couch in the library,
and chatted away the hour before her bedtime. She missed him more than
she could tell; and then she thought to herself, “Who can I tell how
much I miss my father?”

“Did you ever have any body you loved go away, Miss Vernon?” she at last
ventured to ask, and her voice told what she suffered.

“I have no near friends living, dear child.”

“What! did they all die? Only my mamma is dead; but I don't miss her;
I think she must be in the air, I feel her so. Have n't you any father,
Miss Vernon?”

“No. He died when I was quite young, and then my mother, and before I
came here I buried my last near relative-an aunt.”

“But aunts don't know us, do they?”

“Why not? I don't quite understand you,” she said, wishing to bring the
child out.

“Why, they don't feel our souls. I have got aunts and cousins, but they
seem away off, O, so far. They live here, but I don't feel them; and
they make me, O, so tired. They never say anything that makes me thrill
all over as papa does. Don't you see now what I mean?”

“Yes, I see. Will you tell me after I have been here awhile, if I make
you tired?”

“I need not tell you in words. You will see me get tired.”

“Very good. I hope I shall not weary you.”

“I can tell by to-morrow, and if I do look tired you will go, won't
you?”

“Certainly; and for fear I may weary you now, I will retire, if you will
promise to go too.”

She yielded willingly to Miss Vernon's wish, and was led to her room,
where the sensitive, pure being was soon at rest.

It seemed almost too early for any one to be stirring, when Miss Vernon
heard a little tap on her door, and the next moment beheld a childish
face peeping in.

“May I come?”

“Certainly. I hope you have had pleasant dreams, Dawn. Can you tell me
why they gave you such a strange name?”

“Strange? Why I am Dawn, that is the reason; and mamma was Twilight,
only her mother did n't give her the right name.”

“Have you slept well?”

“I did n't know anything till I woke up. Was that sleeping well?”

“I think it was. Now will you tell me at what hour you have breakfast,
that I may prepare myself in season?”

“When papa is at home, at eight o'clock. This morning I am going to see
Bessie, the new calf, and Minnie Day's kittens, and Percy Willard's new
pony, so Aunt Sue says she can have breakfast any time.”

Miss Vernon upon this concluded that she need make no hasty toilet, and
sank back upon her pillow to think awhile of her new surroundings.

Breakfast waited, but no Dawn appeared. Aunt Sue, fearing that the toast
and coffee might be spoiled, rang for Miss Vernon.

At eleven Dawn came in with soiled clothes and wet feet.

“O, Aunty, the pony was so wild, and the kittens so cunning, I could n't
come before.”

“And see your clothes, Dawn. I must work very hard to-day to wash and
dry them. Now go to your room and change them all, and try to remember
others when you are in your enjoyments, won't you?”

“Yes, and I won't soil them again, auntie.”

“Until the next time, I fear,” said the kind housekeeper, who was,
perhaps, too forgiving with the strange, wild child.

The next day Dawn was filled with delight at her father's return. He
came early in the morning, and found his pet awake and watching for his
approach.

“O, papa, such a dream, a real dream, as I had last night. Sit right
here by the window, please, while I tell it to you.”

“Perhaps your dream will be so real that we shall not want anything more
substantial for breakfast.”

“O, it's better than food, papa.”

“Well, go on, my pet.”

“I was thinking how glad I should be to see my papa, when I went to
sleep and had this beautiful dream:--

“I was walking in a garden all full of flowers and vines, when I saw my
mother coming towards me, with something upon her arm. She came close,
and then I saw it was a robe, O, such a white robe, whiter than snow.
She put it on me, and it was too long. I asked if it was for me why it
was so long. 'You will grow,' she said, 'tall and beautiful, and need
the long garment.' Then she led the way, and motioned me to follow. She
led me down a dismal lane, and into a damp, dreadful place, where the
streets were all mud and dirt. 'O, my dress,' I said, 'my pure white
robe.' 'No dust and dirt can stain it,' she replied, 'walk through that
dark street and see.' I went, and looked back at each step, but my
pure white robe was not soiled, and when I returned to her, it was as
spotless as ever. Was it not a lovely dream, and what does it mean,
papa?”

“A lesson too deep for your childhood to comprehend, and yet I will
some day tell you. But here comes Miss Vernon, and the bell has rung for
breakfast.”




CHAPTER III.


The next day, while Dawn wandered over the hills, her father conversed
with Miss Vernon on what to his mind constituted an education.

“I know that all our growth is slow, but I wish to take the right steps
if possible in the right direction; I wish my daughter to be wholly, not
fractionally developed. There are certain parts of her nature which
I shall trust to no one. Her daily lessons, a knowledge respecting
domestic affairs, a thorough comprehension of the making and cost of
wearing apparel, and a due regard to proper attire, I shall trust to
you, if you are competent to fill such a position, and I think you are.”

“I have seen so much misery,” he continued, “resulting from the
inability of some women to make a home happy, that I have resolved if my
child lives to years of maturity, all accomplishments shall give way,
if need be, to this one thing, a thorough knowledge of domestic affairs.
Society is so at fault in these matters, and women generally have such
false ideas of them, that I despair of reforming any one. If I can
educate my daughter to live, or rather approximate in some degree, to
my ideal of a true woman's life, it is all I can expect. Are you fond of
domestic life, Miss Vernon?”

He turned so abruptly upon her that she feared her hesitation might be
taken for a lack of feeling on the subject, and yet she could not bear
the thought that one whose ideal was so near her own, did not fully
comprehend her upon such a theme; but there was no mistaking her meaning
when she replied,--

“I love home, and all that makes that spot holy. I only regret that my
one-sided labor and my circumstances have kept me from mingling, to any
great extent, in its joys and responsibilities. My ideal life would be
to work, study and teach, but as no opportunities for doing so have been
presented to me, and having had no home of my own, I have been obliged
to work on in my one-sided way, unsatisfying as it has been.”

“It shall be so no more, Miss Vernon. If you will call my house your
home, so long as we harmonize, you shall have an opportunity to realize
your wishes, and I will see that your services are well requited.”

She was too full of gratitude to speak, but a tear started from her eye,
and Mr. Wyman noticed that she turned aside to brush it away.

“You will stay with us, Miss Vernon, I am sure of that. Take Dawn into
the kitchen every day, no matter if she rebels, as I fear she may, and
slowly, but thoroughly educate her in all those seemingly minor details
of household economy. Cause her to feel the importance of these things,
and teach her to apply herself diligently to labor. I am not anxious
that she should make any exhibition of her mental accomplishments, for
I have learned to dislike parlor parades, and the showing off of
children's acquirements. I do not want Dawn to dazzle with false how,
but to be what she seems, and of use to the world. At the close of each
day I shall question her about her studies, and show to her that I
am interested not only in her books, but in her domestic attainments.
Supply to her, as well as you can, that material, the want of which is
so great a loss to a young girl, and your happiness shall be my study.
Treat her as you would an own dear child, and when she gives you
trouble, send her to me. I fear I may have wearied you, Miss Vernon, and
as the day is so fine, had you not better take a walk?”

She was already too anxious to go by herself, and think of the happiness
which was about opening for her. It seemed too much. All the years that
had passed since her dear mother's death had been so lonely. No one
had ever understood her nature, or seemed to think her anything but
a machine to teach the children their daily lessons. But now what a
prospective! How earnestly would she begin her new life; and burdened
with this thought she walked to the edge of a green wood, and sat down
to weep tears of pure joy.

When she returned she found her room filled with mosses and trailing
vines, which Dawn had gathered for her. She was rapidly learning to love
the child, and felt lonely when she was out of her sight.

In the evening they sat together,--father, child, and teacher, or
companion, as she really was to them, in the library, communing in
silence, no word breaking the spell, until Dawn did so by asking Miss
Vernon if she played.

She glanced longingly at the beautiful instrument, which had not been
opened since Mrs. Wyman's death, and said,--

“I do play and sing, but not as well as I hope to with opportunities for
practice.”

“Do open the piano, papa, it will spoil shut up so.”

“So it will, Dawn. I will open it this moment,” and he silently accused
himself for keeping it closed so long.

“Do you love music, Dawn?” asked Miss Vernon, “can you sing?”

“You shall hear her, and then judge. Come, darling, while I play your
favorite song;” and he commenced the prelude to a low, sweet air. She
began at first tremulously, but gained confidence at each word, until at
length her sweet, childish tones rose pure and clear above the voice of
her father, who hummed rather than sang the song in his deep, rich bass.

His eyes were full of tears when they closed, for that hymn was his
wife's favorite. He had taught it to Dawn, without telling her that her
mother ever sung it.

“It seemed just as though mamma was here and sang too, papa, did n't
it?”

“Mamma, no doubt, is with us. I am glad my little girl feels her
presence, and always remember that she is with you, too, when you feel
tempted to do wrong.”

She nestled her head on his bosom and wept. Tears of joy or sorrow? Only
they whose souls are finely and intensely strung, can know what made her
weep.

“You must sing for us now, Miss Vernon,” he said, and would have led her
to the instrument, but for the burden of love, which was resting on his
heart.

“I play only simple songs, Mr. Wyman, and, indeed, am quite out of
practice.”

“You have some gems stowed away, I know; please sing us one.”

She arose, and after a few trembling notes, sang a sweet song with such
pathos and richness that Mr. Wyman called again for more and more. Dawn
was wild with joy, and then her father, after Miss Vernon declined to
play more, proposed that they should sing an evening hymn.

In this they all joined, Miss Vernon's rich contralto blending sweetly
with Dawn's pure soprano.

Their dreams were sweet and peaceful that night. Their souls had all met
and harmonized, and harmony ever brings rest.

The following day Miss Vernon looked over Dawn's clothing, and laid
aside whatever needed repairing. She was just folding some aprons, when
the child rushed into the room, saying,--

“O, Miss Vernon, I must wear my blue dress to-day.”

“Why that one?”

“Because I feel good, and blue is heavenly, so let me wear it, please,
will you?”

“It's rather short, Dawn, but I suppose it will cover all your goodness
for one day, will it not?”

“O, don't laugh, I feel truly good to-day, and any other dress would not
do.”

“You shall have it, Dawn. I am glad you like to dress according to your
feelings. I do myself.”

“Then how do you feel to-day, and what shall you dress in?”

“I feel very, very happy, but have no garment to symbolize my feelings.”

“I don't want you to wear that grey dress, though, to-day?”

“Why?”

“Because it don't say anything.”

“Nor my black?”

“O, no, no!”

“How will the drab with blue trimmings suit?”

“It's just the dress. You are silent, and have been rather sad, you
know, Miss Vernon, and the blue is the glimmer of sky above your old,
dull life. Do wear the drab with blue ribbons.”

“I will, Dawn. My life is brighter, because I have some one to love;”
 and she pressed her lips warmly to the cheeks of her little charge.

When Mr. Wyman came in to dinner he thought he had never seen
Dawn looking so fresh and beautiful, while his eyes rested in full
satisfaction on Miss Vernon's lovely form, so becomingly arrayed. He
liked the absence of the black dress, for its removal seemed to betoken
a happier life, a life which he knew she needed, and which he mentally
resolved she should possess, so far as he could contribute to it.

At the table, Mr. Wyman was talkative and gay, touching lightly here
and there, upon subjects, without argument. It was conversation, not
discussion, or an array of opinions, which flowed from the minds of
those around the board, and of such a nature that all could join, from
young to old.

Miss Vernon delighted in watching him as his eyes rested tenderly on
his child. It was charming to witness such a tender relation existing
between father and daughter.

The days flew swiftly by, and the still, peaceful Sabbath dawned.

How tranquil, and yet how full of life it seemed to Miss Vernon as she
sat at her window and gazed on the scene of beauty before her. A lovely
spring morning-the distant hills soft and mellow; the emerald fields
glittering with dew-the tasseled pines nodding in the gentle breeze-and
the whole atmosphere vibrating with the tones of the Sabbath bells.

“Surely,” she said, “I need no form of worship. God is in all this.
I wonder if I must go from all these beauties to a temple made with
hands.”

“Is n't this pleasanter than sitting in a bare walled church?” said
Dawn, who had entered the room so softly that Miss Vernon was only made
aware of her presence by this inquiry.

“I think it is. Do you go to church?”

“No. Papa does sometimes, but he never makes me go.”

“I hope not.”

“Shall you go to-day, Miss Vernon?”

“Not if I can act my pleasure.”

“I am so glad, for papa said if you did not go, we would all take a
walk, but if you wished to go, he would harness Swift and take you.

“I had much rather take the walk to-day. Some day, I shall want to go to
your church.”

“There, papa is ready, I hear him in the hall. Get your hat, Miss
Vernon.”

“But you forget he has not yet invited me.”

“Dawn, ask Miss Vernon whether she will take a walk with us, or go to
church?” said Mr. Wyman, at that moment calling from the foot of the
stairs.

Miss Vernon was not long in making known her choice, for she sprang and
put on her hat, and in a few moments the three were walking through the
garden towards the woods and fields.

“Which direction, Miss Vernon, shall we take?”

“Any; it's all lovely.”

“Then lead the way, Dawn, and mind you act as a good pilot, and do not
get us into any brooks.”

She ran gaily on before, and they soon found themselves on the verge of
a rich, mossy dell.

“O, is it not beautiful, papa? I shall carry all this lovely moss home.”

“No, Dawn, let it remain. Gather a few specimens from here and there,
but do not mar the general beautiful effect. It is ours now; we can not
make it more so by carrying it home to fade and die. Can we, darling?”

“No. You are always right and good, papa.”

“To-morrow others may come here, and the lovely scene will be as
pleasing to them as to us. There is a possession, Miss Vernon, other
than that which the world recognizes; and it is always pleasant to me to
think that though a man may build himself a palace, and call himself
its proprietor, he alone really owns it whose eyes see the most of its
beauties, and whose soul appropriates them. And so, a lovely spot like
this, or the finest garden may belong to the passer-by whose purse does
not contain a penny.”

“How it smoothes in life the inequalities of station, and makes us
content to admire, rather than strive for ownership.”

“I see by your fervent enjoyment of the scene around us, Miss Vernon,
that you, too, have discarded some of the old forms of worship, or
rather found that a true worship of the divine is not limited by four
walls.”

“I have. For a long time I have seen so much bigotry, and so great a
lack of all the Christian virtues, even in the most liberal churches,
that I have felt I must seek my own mode of enjoying the Sabbath.”

“I long ago found my true relation to all places and forms of devotion,”
 remarked Mr. Wyman. “I do not for a moment ignore the church, nor what
Christianity has done for us, yet while I see the good the church
has accomplished, I also see its shortcomings and regret them. As an
individual, I can say that I have done with most church organizations. I
have heard good and earnest words spoken by clergymen in the pulpit once
a week, and as good from the lips of working people at their tasks every
day. I do not undervalue the influence that the forms of worship have on
the masses. While they need them, they must remain where they are, and
have them. I only want the church to be so liberal, that men and women
who feel that they are getting life in another direction, will be
recognized by it to be as good and true to their needs, as though they
sat within its walls. How much have we at the present day of this? Who
is large enough to feel that we cannot always draw from one fount? We
are not machines, to be continually run in one direction.”

“What do you think of our sabbath schools. Do they not need a new life,
too?”

“Unquestionably. I think they need an infusion of dramatic life;
something that interests while it instructs. Dry catechisms are not
suited to the children of our day. We want the living present, and not
the dead past. If I was called to superintend a sabbath school, I
would have a little play enacted by a portion of the children, and then
another portion, until all were actors in their turn.”

“If you express your opinions, I fear you will wait a long time for a
call?”

“I do not crave the position; I am only anxious to see the effect of my
theory in practice. Children need demonstration; need muscular action.
But I am, perhaps, wearying you.”

“Go on. I am interested in all that relates to new phases of life.”

“I should astonish some divines of the conservative order, were I to
publish my views of social and religious life. I would sooner give money
to build theatres, than churches. Everywhere I would cultivate a
love for the drama, which is the highest and most impressive form of
representing truth. My being is stirred to greater depths by good acting
than it can possibly be by mere preaching. I shall be happy to see
the day when religion is acknowledged to be the simple living out of
individual lives, always toned, of course, by pure morality. I hope to
see acts of kindness looked upon as religion, instead of a mere personal
attendance upon worship. But I have talked too long. Where is Dawn?”

They walked on, and soon found her sitting on a moss-covered stone,
twining a wreath of wild flowers. She looked like a queen, as she was
for a time, of that beautiful dell.

“Have flowers souls, papa?” she asked, as he approached her.

“I hope they are immortal, at least in type. But why do you ask?”

“Because these flowers I have gathered will fade and die, and if they
have souls they will not love me for gathering them, will they?”

“Perhaps all the sweetness of these flowers, when they die, passes into
the soul of the one who gathers them.”

“O, how pretty! That makes me think about the little girl who played
with me one day and got angry. You told me that she was better for the
bad feeling I had; that I had taken some of her evil, because I could
overcome it-it with good.”

“I am glad you remember so well what I tell you. Now as we cannot
tell whether flowers have souls or not, we will believe that all their
sweetness passes into ours.”

“But if I should kill a serpent?”

“You must cover the evil with good.”

“But, papa, people come to our house all full of evil things, like
serpents. Don't they have enough good to cover them, or why do I feel
them so plain?”

“I fear not; or, rather, their goodness has not been cultivated and made
large enough to absorb the evil. We must go home now, or Aunt Susan will
be waiting for us.”

The three walked home together, in harmony with nature and themselves.
They found their dinner waiting, and the simple meal neatly prepared,
was graced with a vase of beautiful flowers.




CHAPTER IV.


In a few weeks the little neighborhood was duly aroused, and discussing
the state of affairs at Mr. Wyman's. Each one considered herself called
upon to pass judgment upon the daily proceedings.

“It's too ridiculous, right in the face and eyes of honest people, to
see this woman and Mr. Wyman carrying on as they do,” said Miss Gay, a
lady of forty years, whose notions of the mingling of the sexes were of
the strictest character.

“Why, how? Do tell us,” chimed in her companion, a garrulous old lady.

“Why, they say that this young woman is going about with Mr. Wyman
all the time. He takes her to ride almost every day, and they have
interminable walks and daily confabs together.”

“Well, I should think the child's lessons would come off slim, Miss
Gay.”

“O, that's only a subterfuge. They'll be married 'fore one year has gone
by.”

“I do not believe Hugh Wyman will ever marry again,” said one who knew
his character better than the others.

“Then what can he want of that young woman? No good, depend on that,”
 and Mrs. Green shook her head as though she had more in it than she
wished at that time to display.

While they chat and waste the hours, let us go and listen to the parties
talked of, and judge for ourselves whether two earnest souls can not
approach, enjoy each other, and yet be pure and blameless.

“I can scarcely believe, Mr. Wyman, that so brief a period could work
such a change in my being. Before I came here, I thought all the world
cold and heartless. You have taught me that friendship, even between men
and women, may exist, and that the only true relations are of soul and
not of blood. I can never by words tell you how grateful I feel to you
for all these teachings,” and she looked thoughtfully out on the summer
scene before her.

“I am very glad that you are happy here, Miss Vernon, for when I first
saw you I instinctively felt that you were just the companion for myself
and daughter. I saw, too, the cloud which hung over you, and felt that
my hand could lift it. You belong to Dawn and myself, and we shall keep
you so long as you are happy.”

“But-”

“But what? I know your fears, and what this busy little neighborhood
will say. I care no more for all its ideas of life than for the wind,
while I feel right here,” said Mr. Wyman, placing his hand upon his
heart. “The time has come for all to live individual lives. I would not
for a moment have your name sullied, but should you go, would gossip
cease? No; stay here, Miss Vernon, and show to this little portion of
the world that man and woman can live together sociably and honorably. I
love you as a sister; no more. My dear Alice is now my wife, the same
as when on earth. I speak as I do, knowing that you will meet with
many sneers and frowns if you stay, but the consciousness of right will
sustain you.”

“How could you know what was in my mind? You have, indeed, expressed all
my fears as regards this relation between us.”

“Will you go or stay?”

“I shall stay.”

“May you never regret the decision.”

“Now may I ask you about this strange belief, that the departed are
about us? Excuse me, if I seem curious, but when you spoke of your dear
wife, my whole being quivered with a new and strange emotion. I only ask
from deepest interest.”

“I believe you. I wish I could transmit to your mind the proofs of
my belief. I have almost daily positive proof of my wife's presence,
sometimes by my own powers, and then again from those of my child.”

“Then she, too, sees like yourself?”

“She does. And every day my experiences are too real and tangible for me
to deny, or even doubt that the loved, and so-called 'lost,' are with
us still. To my mind, there is nothing unnatural about it. Every day my
faith deepens, and not for all the glory of this life would I change my
belief. Death has brought myself and Alice nearer together. But I can
only state to you my faith in this, my experience cannot be imparted.
Each must seek, and find, and be convinced alone by personal experience
and observation.”

“I believe you, and your earnest words have sunk deep within my mind,
yet in modern spiritualism I have little faith.”

“Mere phenomenal spiritism is of course only designed to arrest the
attention; its other form appeals to the soul, and becomes a part of the
daily lives of those who realize it.”

“But I have heard of so much that was contradictory, so much that cannot
be reconciled.”

“Neither can we reconcile the usual manifestations of life. Our daily
experiences teach us that seeming absurdities abound on every hand.”

“That is true. I sometimes think I shall never get the evidence which my
nature requires to convince.”

“In God's own time and way it will come, and when you are best fitted to
receive it.”

“But please go on, Mr. Wyman, and tell me more of your experience.”

“I would I could tell you how often when I am weary, my dear Alice comes
and watches over me at night; how truly I feel her thoughts, which she
cannot express in words; and how, when the poor and needy are suffering,
she leads me to where they dwell amid scenes of want. When my pure child
speaks thoughts beyond herself, and describes to me some vision which I
at the same time behold, with the exact look and gesture of her mother,
I say I believe in spirit communion. I can well afford to let the world
laugh; I know what I see and feel. And well do I know how much there is
mixed with this modern spiritism, which has no origin save in the minds
of the persons who substitute their hopes and thoughts for impressions.
On this I have much to say to you at some future period. It is well
that it is so, else we should not discriminate. Life is so full of
adulterations, that which the world calls 'evil' is so mingled with that
it calls 'good,' would it not be strange if this phase should come to us
pure and unmixed?”

“It would not take you long to make me a convert to your faith; yet I
hope sometime to have my own experiences. If there was not so much that
conflicts with our reason, I think every one would naturally accept the
belief you so fondly cherish.”

“Without such conflicting experiences, we should be mere machines. We
must grow in every direction, using every faculty for our guidance, yet
ever remembering there are mightier realms than reason, and that the
human soul must often go beyond that portal, to catch glimpses of the
silent land.”

“Life would indeed be blessed to me, could I feel an assurance that my
mother was near me to strengthen me in my hours of weakness, and that
she was interested in my labors.”

“I know all our earnest longings are answered, and that sufficient proof
will be given you. Say nothing of this conversation to Dawn. I have my
reasons, and should not be surprised if, in a few days, she should give
you a test of spirit presence.”

“Can Dawn see as clearly as yourself?”

“She can, and far better. I do not force the gift upon her, or seek to
overwork her powers. I want it to be natural and to unfold with all her
other capacities. Never question her, let all come freely.”

“I will remember; and here she comes laden as usual with flowers.”

“O, Miss Vernon, O, papa, I have had such a good time!” she exclaimed
out of breath and almost wild with excitement.

“What was it all about, child?”

“I was on the hill out here, getting flowers, when I seemed to hear
music, all at once in the air. I think I went to sleep, but if it was a
dream I know it means something, for I saw a tall, beautiful lady come
to me, and on her forehead were the letters, M. V. Then she took a
little box inlaid with gems, and drew from it a necklace of pearls,
and then she went away, and as she turned-I saw these words come like a
light-'Tell Florence.' Now, papa, what did it mean?”

Mr. Wyman turned to Miss Vernon who was weeping. He waited until her
emotion subsided and then said,--

“Your mother, was it not?”

“They were my mother's initials. Her name was Mabel Vernon, and mine
Florence.”

“How strange. And the necklace, do you recognize that?”

“My mother gave me-on her dying bed-a pearl necklace in such a box as
described by Dawn.”

“And we did not know your name was Florence. We only knew you as Miss
Vernon.”

“Can it-can this be true? Ah, something tells me I may believe. I am too
full now, Mr. Wyman, to talk. I must go.”

“Call me Hugh, Florence, I am your brother--” and he led her gently to
the house.

She remained in her room all that evening. Deep and strong was the tide
which was setting into her new life. “If 't is true, 't is the greatest
truth mortal has found,” she said again and again to herself, as the old
upheaved, and the new flowed into her soul. Life was becoming almost
too full; her brain grew fevered, but at last sweet sleep, that soul
refiner, came, and after a night's repose she awoke, calm and at rest.




CHAPTER V.


After breakfast, Mr. Wyman informed Miss Vernon and Dawn that he should
go away that day on business, and be absent perhaps two weeks.

“I have a book which I would like you to take to Miss Evans for me
to-day,” he said, addressing Miss Vernon.

“The lady who called here soon after I came?”

“The same.”

“I like her much, and should be pleased to see her again.”

“I am glad you do. She is my ideal of a true woman, and one whom every
young, earnest soul ought to know. You will go to-day?”

“Certainly; I am anxious to see her in her own home.”

“She is queen of her domain, and entertains her friends in a most
lady-like manner; but I must bid you both good-bye, and be off. Be
happy, Miss Vernon, Florence, and let me find you full of good things to
tell of yourself and Dawn, on my return. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, papa,” rang out on the sweet summer air till he was out of
sight, then the child's lid trembled, the lips quivered, and she laid
her head on the bosom of her friend and teacher, and gave vent to the
grief which ever wrung her at parting with her kind parent.

“I am glad you did not let your father see those tears. You are getting
quite brave, Dawn.”

“I feel so bad when he goes. Shall I ever be strong like you, and look
calm after these partings? Perhaps you don't love papa; but every body
does that knows him-you do, don't you?”

“Very much; but we will go to our lessons, now, dear.”

“Can I bring my book into the hall, to-day? I like to stay where I saw
him last.”

“Certainly; and we will have a review to-day and see how well you
remember your lessons. We shall have no interruptions this morning, and
after dinner we will go together to see Miss Evans.”

An hour passed, and the lessons were but half through, when a ring at
the door caused them both to start, and they left the hall.

Aunt Susan answered the call, and ushered the visitors into the family
sitting-room.

“Some ladies have called to see you, Miss Vernon,” she said, thrusting
her head into the doorway of the room where teacher and pupil sat close
together with clasped hands, as though some invading force was about to
wrest their lives apart.

“In a moment, Aunty, I will see them,” and a strange shudder shook her
frame.

“Where shall I go while they stay?” asked Dawn.

“Anywhere; only not far from home, as we intend to have an early
dinner.”

“Then I will stay here, and look over papa's folio of drawings.”

Miss Vernon went to her room to see that her hair and dress were all
right, and then slowly descended the stairs to the sitting-room. Her
hand trembled violently as she turned the knob, and she almost resolved
to go back to her room. “I am growing so sensitive of late,” she said
to herself, “but this will never do, I must go in,” and she opened the
door.

Three ladies hastily rose and bowed very formally, as she entered.

The tallest and most stylish of the three blandly inquired for her
health, and after a few commonplace remarks, announced the object of
their visit.

“We have come to you, Miss Vernon, to-day, as friends of our sex, to
inform you of, as you may not fully comprehend, the character of the man
whom you are serving.”

Miss Vernon coolly signified her attention.

“We deemed it our duty to do so, being married women,” broke in a little
squeaky voice, belonging to the most demure-looking one of the party.

“Yes, we all decided, after long deliberation,” added the third, “that
no young woman who cared for her reputation, would tarry a day longer
under this roof. This visit of ours is an act of the purest kindness,
and we trust you will receive it as such, and in a kind spirit.”

“Yes,” resumed the first speaker, “it is no pleasant duty, and one we
have long delayed performing, but we could not bear to see youth and
innocence betrayed.”

Miss Vernon at first seemed stunned. She knew not what to say, so many
emotions filled her. She tried to speak, but her tongue lost its power,
and all was silent. She made one more effort, and voice and courage
returned, enabling her to address her “friends.”

“Will you inform me, ladies, what grounds you have for your accusations
against Mr. Wyman?”

“I beg pardon, Miss, we who have known him longer than yourself, of
course know both sides of his character; indeed he has no reputation in
B--, as all know.”

She started involuntarily. What passed through her mind at that moment
none can tell, but all can form some idea of the wild tremor of doubt
which was gaining strength under their vile calumny and falsehood.

They saw their vantage ground, and followed close with such invectives
as women only know how to hurl against whomsoever they assail.

“Strangers,” she could not call them ladies, “I can only speak out of my
own experience of this person who a few months ago was unknown to me. He
has ever treated me with all delicacy and respect. I have ever found
him to be a gentleman. I cannot, will not, believe your assertions,” she
said with emphasis, a sudden strength coming over her.

“If you do not believe us, then seek one proof of his wrong dealing,
which you can find any day, at a small cottage near the uplands, on the
road to L--. 'Tis only a mile from here, Miss, and we would advise you
to acquaint yourself with the fact. Take our good advice and leave this
house. That is all we can say to you. Of course, if you remain here, you
will not be admitted into respectable society.”

“I will not leave his house while he remains the friend and brother he
is to me now.”

“No virtuous woman will permit you, then, to enter her house; remember
this, Miss Vernon,” and the tall lady assumed an attitude of offended
dignity.

“I see,” she continued, “our visit has done but little save to arouse
you. It may be at some future day, you will thank us for our advice to
you this morning. We must go now. Good day, Miss.”

“Good morning,” replied Miss Vernon, rising and accompanying them to the
door, scarce able to repel the strong tide of grief, or bear up under
the weight of sadness that was bearing down her soul.

“My brief, happy days so soon, O, how soon, gone by, and over,” she
said, after she had closed the door; and she sank on her knees and
prayed as only those have prayed before, in like trouble.

She knew not how long she knelt there, but she was roused by Dawn's
sweet voice, which was always music to her soul, saying, “Please, may I
come, Miss Vernon?”

She rose and held out her arms to receive the little one, who stood
hesitatingly on the threshold of the library, then pressing the dear
child to her heart, found a sweet sense of relief in doing so.

“I know what makes you feel so, Miss Vernon.”

“What, Dawn, tell me all you feel,” and she sank upon a seat and rested
her face on her hand.

“I was looking over the drawings, and feeling very happy, when the room
grew dark and cold, so cold I was frightened. Then I heard something
say, 'Fear not, Dawn,' and I laid my head down upon the couch, and
saw you standing in a damp, cold valley, on either side of which were
beautiful green mountains, whose tops overlooked all the towns around.
They were so steep that no one could climb them. While you stood there,
a great cloud came directly over your head. It was full of rain, and it
burst and flooded the whole valley. I feared you would be drowned; but
you rose with the water, instead of its going over you, and when the
tide was as high as the mountain, you stepped to its highest point, on
the beautiful green grass, and sat down. Slowly the waters went down and
left you on the mountain-top, where you could never have gone without
the flood. Then I looked up, and the room was all full of sunshine just
as it was before. I felt cold, and I heard the women go, and then-”

“Then what, Dawn?”

“Then I came to you. The cloud is over you now, but the high green
mountain is more lovely than the valley, and overlooks all the pleasant
vales and hills around. Do you care if the clouds burst now, Miss
Vernon?”

“No, child, I will stand firm and sure while the rain descends. O, Dawn,
so justly named, come and soothe my brow, for it aches so hard.”

The child passed her soft, white hands over the forehead of Miss Vernon,
and the throbbing pain passed away under her magic touch.

The bell rang for dinner long before they were ready for the summons,
but they soon took their places at the table, yet with little appetite
for food.

“A poor compliment you pay my dinner,” said Aunt Susan, as she came
to remove the dishes, and prepare for dessert. “I suppose you are both
lonely without Mr. Wyman. I, too, miss his pleasant face and smile
to-day.”

How Miss Vernon wished she had not spoken his name just then.

The form of dinner over, Miss Vernon and Dawn dressed themselves for
their walk, knowing that they must start in good season, as it was a
long way to the house, and they would need to rest a little before their
return.

“I almost question, Dawn, if I should go to Miss Evans while this cloud
is over me,” remarked Miss Vernon, feeling as though she was seeking
counsel from one her superior in wisdom, rather than addressing a mere
child.

“Why, Miss Evans is just what you need to-day. She is as calm as the
lovely lake on which we sailed last week.”

“Well, I need her to-day; but should I carry my state to her?”

“Why, she is like a great stream that carries all lesser streams to
the ocean of truth,” said Dawn, in a voice not her own, and so deep and
thrilling that it made her teacher start and gaze with new wonder upon
the child.

“Then we will go this very minute, Dawn; and through the pleasant
fields, that we may avoid the dusty road.”




CHAPTER VI.


Miss Evans sat quietly reading, when a gentle ring at the door, which
seemed to reach her heart rather than her ears, aroused her from an
intensely interesting chapter; but she laid the book aside, and promptly
answered the call.

Her face looked the welcome her heart gave them, as she asked Dawn and
her teacher into her cool, airy room. It was one of those snug, homelike
spots, made bright by touches of beauty. Here a vase of flowers, there a
basket of work; books, pictures, every chair and footstool betokened the
taste of the occupant, and the air of home sacredness that pervaded all,
soon made Miss Vernon at ease.

“We could n't help coming,” said Dawn, as Miss Evans removed her hat and
mantle, and her glowing features confirmed the assertion.

“Just the kind of visitors I like, fresh and spontaneous. We shall have
a nice time, I know, this lovely afternoon.”

“Can I walk in your garden, Miss Evans?”

“Certainly. But are you not too tired, now?”

“O, no,” and Dawn was out of sight the next instant.

“I have brought you a book, Miss Evans, which Mr. Wyman requested me to
bring, myself.”

“O, yes,” she said, glancing at the title, “the one he promised to loan
me so long ago. Is he away from home?”

“He left this morning.”

“You must miss him very much.”

“We do.”

Miss Evans saw, with a woman's intuition, that something was weighing on
the mind of her visitor, and kindly sought to divert her thoughts. The
conversation brightened a little, yet it was apparent that Miss Vernon's
interest flagged, and that her mind grew abstracted.

“I shall not relieve her, unless I probe the wound,” said Miss Evans to
herself, and she boldly ventured on grounds which her subtle penetration
discovered to be the cause of her gloom.

“You find my friend, Mr. Wyman, an agreeable companion, I hope, Miss
Vernon?”

“He has ever been so, and very kind and thoughtful.”

“He is a true gentleman, and a man of honor, as well of refinement and
noble character.”

Miss Vernon breathed freer.

“You have made him very happy,” resumed Miss Evans, “by consenting to
remain with him and his daughter. They are both much attached to you.”

A flush of pain she could not conceal passed over the face of the
caller. “O, if I might but speak to you as I would,” she said, almost
fainting with emotion.

“Do tell me in words what you have already so plainly told me in your
looks. Tell me freely the cause of the shadow that hangs over you.”

In response to this appeal, Florence related the experience of the
morning.

“I am not at all surprised at this,” said Miss Evans, after the
statement had been made, “for well I know the dark surmisings that the
dwellers in this little village have worked up into imaginary evils.
Sages would no doubt assert that all rumors have some degree of truth,
however slight, for a foundation. This may be true; at least I will not
deny that it is so, but the instigators of the cruel slanders in this
case have nothing but ignorance upon which to base them. Hugh Wyman is
what some might call eccentric. The fact is, he is so far beyond the
majority of his fellow men that he stands alone, and is the cause of
great clamor among those who do not know him. He expresses his views
upon social questions freely but wisely. His opinions respecting the
social relations that should exist between men and women, and their
right to selfhood, are not his alone, but are held by the best minds in
the world; and his home is often visited by men and women of the largest
culture and ability, both as thinkers and writers. I do not wonder for
a moment that your equilibrium was disturbed by these shallow-brained
women. And now before I advocate my friend's honesty and virtue farther,
I will tell you, what no one save myself and he knows, of one of the
women who called upon you this morning. It is your due, after what has
occurred, and belongs to this moment. I believe in such moments it is
right to raise the veil of the past. Listen:--

“A few years ago, one of that number who came to you, sought by
every subterfuge and art, to gain the affections of Hugh Wyman.
Intellectually, spiritually, in every way his inferior, of course he
could not for a moment desire her society. Yet she sought him at all
times, and when, at last, he told her in words what he had all along so
forcibly expressed by his acts, that he had not even respect for her,
and bade her cease her maneuverings, she turned upon him in slander; and
even on his wedding day asserted that his fair Alice was a woman of no
repute--abandoned by her friends. Nor is this all;-one year after the
marriage of Hugh, she gave birth to a child; it was laid at night at his
door, and he was charged with being its father.”

“But was she married, then?”

“No. She subsequently went to a small village in N--, and married.”

“Did the town people believe her story?”

“A few-but proofs of his innocence long since established the falsity
of the charge, except in the minds of those who seem to delight only in
that which dispoils the character of another.”

“But his wife? did she too suffer with doubt?”

“Never. Not for a moment was her faith in her husband clouded.”

“And this child must be the one they spoke of to deceive me.”

“It is. I will go with you some day to see him, and if your eyes can
detect the slightest resemblance to Hugh Wyman, I shall think you are
gifted with more than second sight. I do not wish to weary you, Miss
Vernon, but my friend's character is too sacred to me to be thus
assailed, and I not use all my powers to make known the truth, and prove
him innocent.”

“I believe his views upon marriage are rather radical, are they not,
Miss Evans?”

“They are. I join him fully in all his ideas, for long have I seen that
our system needs thorough reformation, and that while the marriage
bond is holy, too many have desecrated it. I believe some of the most
inharmonious offspring are brought into the world, under the sanction
of marriage-children diseased, mentally and physically; and worse than
orphans. I do not say this to countenance licentiousness. Indeed, I know
that licentiousness is not all outside of wedlock. It is to purify and
elevate the low, and not to give license to such, that earnest men and
women are talking and writing to-day. I do not blame you, Miss Vernon,
for wishing proof of Mr. Wyman's purity and honor. I like a mind that
demands evidence. And now, tell me, have I scattered or broken the cloud
that hung over you?”

“You have. I shall trust Mr. Wyman till I have some personal proof that
he is not all I feel him to be.”

“That is the true course to pursue, my friend. In that way alone you
have your own life developed. If by word, look or deed he ever betrays
your trust, I shall call my intuitions vain, and all my insight into
human character mere idle conjecture.”

“But I must go now, Miss Evans. I thank you much for the light which you
have given me, and your sympathy, all of which I so much needed.”

“Your position was indeed trying, but do you not feel that your
character will be deeper and stronger for this disturbance?”

“I feel as though I had lived through a long period.”

“I have one question to put to you, which you must answer from your
soul's deep intuition, and not from your reason alone. Do you believe
Hugh Wyman guilty of the crimes charged against him?”

“I do not.”

There was no hesitation in the answer; their souls met on sympathetic
ground, and those two women loved Hugh Wyman alike, with a pure sisterly
affection.




CHAPTER VII.


There are pauses in every life; seasons of thought after outward
experiences, when the soul questions, balances, and adjusts its
emotions; weighs each act, condemns and justifies self in one breath,
then throws itself hopefully into the future to await the incoming tide,
whether of joy or sorrow it knows not.

In such a state Florence Vernon found herself a few days after her visit
to Miss Evans. She thought when with her that no doubt could ever shadow
her heart again; but fears had crept over her, even though she desired
to be firm.

“Shall I stay and trust his nature, or go away and take up my old life,
and be again desolate and lonely? Which?” She kept asking this again and
again to herself. “I have been so happy here; but, if I go, it must be
before he returns. No! I will not. I will stay and brave the talk, and-”

“Miss Vernon, please come down, papa has come!

“O, why did he come so soon? How I dread to meet him,” were the words
that Florence found springing to her lips; but not hearing his voice,
she thought that Dawn must have been only in jest.

She listened again. Yes, Mr. Wyman was talking to Dawn in the hall. She
sat very still, and soon heard them both go into the garden; then all
was still. Again alone, she tried to analyze her emotions, and see
whether her deepest feeling was that of peace and rest, the same she
felt when she first entered the home of Mr. Wyman. It was there, as it
had been, but so agitated that the effort to ascertain its presence gave
back no deep trust to her questioning heart. The bell rang for tea.
She would gladly have stayed away, but could fame no excuse, and after
bathing her eyes, which were red and swollen, she went slowly down
stairs.

“I suppose you are surprised, Florence, among the rest, at my unexpected
presence. I did not myself expect to be at home so soon, but meeting one
of the firm with whom my business was connected, I was but too glad to
adjust it and return at once. I have felt very weary, too, since the
first day I left home, as though some cloud was hanging over my home. My
first thought was of Dawn, but her rosy, happy face soon put to flight
the apprehensions I had for her; yet you, Florence, are not looking
well; are you ill?”

“I am quite well, thank you.”

He looked deeper than her words, and saw within a tumult of emotions. He
did not notice her farther, but talked with Dawn during the remainder of
the meal, and when they were through went alone to walk.

“He shuns me,” she said, as she went into her room and sat down, sad and
dejected, “what but wrong can make him appear so? But I will not leave
it thus. I will know from him to-night whether these reports are true,
and then if true, leave here forever. Happiness, like that I have
experienced the past few months is too great to last.”

He sat alone in the library; she rapped softly at his door.

“Come in,” he said kindly, and rose to meet her as she entered.

She motioned him back to his seat. “Stay, do not rise,” was all she
could say, and fell at his feet.

He lifted her gently, as a mother might have raised a weary child, and
placed her beside him. Then, taking her hand, cold with excitement, in
his own, said,--

“I knew, Florence, by my depression, that your grief called me home.
Some slander has reached your ears. Is it not so?”

“It is. I have trusted and doubted, until I scarce know my own mind.”

“Do you feel most at rest when you trust me?”

“I think-yes, I know I do. Forgive me,” she continued, “if these shadows
had not fallen so suddenly on my path, I never should for a moment have
lost my trust in you. I have been shaken, convulsed, and scarce know my
best thoughts.”

“You have, indeed. I know not who have thus disturbed you, but may they
never suffer as we both have, and more especially yourself. I say I know
not, and yet my suspicions may not be entirely without foundation. And
now remember, Florence, the moment you feel that I am not what your
ideal of a friend and brother should be, that moment we had better
part.”

She started, and grew pale.

“I do not allude to the present, or to the scandal which has unnerved
and disturbed your state; nor can I expect you who are learning to trust
impressions rather than experiences, to feel otherwise than you have. It
was natural. I only wonder that you did not go at once. Your remaining
has shown me your worth, and a trait of character which I admire. Now
that the ordeal is passed, I shall feel that you are my friend, even
though slander, vile and dark, may be hurled against me, as it is
possible, for I have a battle to fight for you, my friend, and all
womankind. The rights of woman, which have been ignored, or thought but
lightly of, I shall strongly advocate, as opportunity occurs. I shall be
misunderstood, over and underrated in the contest, but for that I care
not. I only am too impatient to see the day when your sex shall not
marry for mere shelter, and when labor of all kinds shall be open
for their heads and hands, with remuneration commensurate with their
efforts. I am anxiously looking for the time when their right to vote
shall be admitted them, not grudgingly, but freely and willingly given;
for is not woman God's highest work, and his best gift to man? Now, if
the shadows come again, in shape of scandal, think you, you can trust
me?”

“I can. I do, and can never doubt again. Forgive the past. I was weak-”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Mr. Wyman, as he leaned over and
kissed her forehead.

The seal of brotherhood was set, and Hugh and Florence knew from that
hour the bond which bound them, and that it was pure and spotless.




CHAPTER VIII.


Mrs. Deane sat rocking, and casting impatient glances at the little
clock upon the mantle. The book which she had an hour previous been
deeply interested in, lay closed upon her lap, while the nervous
glancing of her eye towards the door, told that she was anxiously
awaiting the arrival of some one. The clock struck ten, and rising from
her seat, she went to the window, and drawing the curtain aside, looked
out on the soft summer night. It was one of those lovely evenings
towards the close of the season, when the slightly chilled air reminds
one of cosy firesides, and close companionship with those dearest to the
heart. But her thoughts were not of a peaceful cast. She was alone,
and jealous of him who had left her so. A moment later and the sound of
footsteps was heard upon the piazza; a sound which in earlier years she
had heard with thrills of pleasure. But to-night they only loosed the
tension of long-pent passion, and selfish thoughts of neglect. She sank
into a chair, and sat with the air of one deeply wronged, as her husband
entered the room.

“What, up and waiting for me?” he said, going towards her, his face
glowing with mental exhilaration.

She turned coldly from him, and took up her book. He drew it gently from
her, saying,--

“Listen, Mabel, to me. I want to talk with you awhile. You can read when
I am away.”

“Yes, sir, I find ample opportunities for that,” and she cast on him a
look of keen rebuke.

“Don't, Mabel; listen to me.”

“I am all attention; why do you not proceed?”

“Do you think I can talk while you are in such a frame of mind?”

“Why, what would you have me do? I am waiting for your words of wisdom,
or, maybe, a lecture on the foibles of the sex in general, and myself in
particular; proceed, it's quite a relief, I assure you, to hear a human
voice after these lonely evenings, which seem interminable.”

“Why, Mabel, what do you mean? I have not spent an evening away from you
for nearly a year before this. My absence this evening has been purely
accidental, although I have passed it very agreeably.”

“And may I ask where you find such delightful entertainment, that kept
you away till this late hour, for it is nearly midnight?”

“Yes. I have spent the evening with Miss Evans.”

“That detestable strong-minded-”

“Mabel! I will not hear her spoken of in this manner.”

“O, no indeed. All the men in L--are crazy after her society,--so
refined, so progressive, so intelligent. I am sick of it all. I suppose
you think we poor wives will submit to all this. No, no; I shall not,
for one. You will spend your evenings at home with me. Howard Deane,
you have no right to leave me for the society of any woman, as you have
to-night.”

Having thus expended her breath and wrath, she sank back into her hair
and gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears. To her limited sight,
she was an injured woman. How different would she have felt could she
have kindly listened to the words which he was longing to speak to her.

“O, Mabel, if you would only listen to me. To-night I have heard such
glorious thoughts that my whole being longed to share them with you.
Thoughts that would make any man or woman live a nobler and better life.
O, Mabel, be my helpmate. Do not turn from one who loves you.”

“A strange way to manifest your love for me, spending your hours with
other women,--”

“Stop, Mabel. I will, at least, have myself heard, and be free to hear
the thoughts of other women, as well as those of men. I begin to believe
that the words of Hugh Wyman are too true, 'marriage, in nine cases out
of ten, is a bondage-a yoke of tyranny, keeping two souls fretting and
wearing each other's lives away.'”

He stopped, fearful that he had gone too far, and looked earnestly on
the cold features of his wife. Forgive him, reader, he could not help
comparing her then with Miss Evans, the latter so calm, earnest, and
deep in her love for humanity and progressive life.

He stepped close to her side, and taking her hand as tenderly as a lover
might, said,--

“Mabel, forgive me; I was excited, and said too much. I love you, as
you well know, as I love no other woman, but I must have the innocent
freedom of enjoying a friend's society, even though that friend be a
woman.

“O, certainly, Mr. Deane. I would not for a moment debar you from social
pleasures. I see I am not congenial, and do not attract you. Perhaps
Miss Evans is your soul-affinity; if so, I beg you not to let me stand
in your way. I can go to my father's, any day.”

“Mabel!” It was all he could utter, and went out of the room.

Alone, and left to her own reflections, she became more calm. A tear of
real penitence for her hasty words, stole down her cheek. “I will go and
tell Howard I am sorry for my unkind remarks,” she said, as she brushed
it from her face, and she rose to do so. At that moment a short, quick
ring of the doorbell shook away the resolve, and she trembled with fear,
unable to answer the summons.

How thankful she felt to hear her husband's firm, manly step in the
hall, and then his voice, low and rich as ever, welcoming her own
parents. Why were they here? and what could have happened? were the
questions which came to her mind, as her mother rushed into the room,
followed by her father, with a carpet-bag and sundry packages.

“We have given you a surprise this time, I guess, Mabel,” he said,
kissing her as tenderly as he used to when she sat upon his knee, and
listened to almost endless stories of his own making.

“But why is it that you are so late?” she asked, anxiously.

“The cars were delayed three hours by an accident, so instead of
arriving in good time, we have come in rather out of order, but not
unwelcome, Mabel, I know.”

He did not see her face, or he might have feared that the welcome was
not as warm as usual. She answered quickly:

“Why, yes, father, you and mother are welcome at any time of day or
night,” and yet she wished she was alone with Howard that moment.

“I told father,” said her mother, looking at the clock, “that it was
so late we had better go to a hotel, but he would come, saying, Howard
would not mind getting up to give the old folks a welcome.”

“We should have been very sorry to have had you done so. O, here comes
Howard,” and the husband of Mabel entered, looking very pale.

“Late hours don't agree with you, my son. What has kept you up so long?”

“Some winged messenger, I suspect, knowing you were coming; but you
must be weary,” and he offered the new-comers refreshments from the side
board. Mabel, however, had flown to the dining-room and prepared them
something more substantial in the way of cold meats, and a cup of tea,
which she made in an incredibly short space of time.

It was a relief when she had shown them to their room. She went below
and sat alone, hoping Howard would come to her. He had gone into his
study, where he sometimes passed a greater part of the night in writing,
for he was a lawyer by profession, being a man of more than average
abilities, his services were sought for many miles around. Mabel waited,
but he came not, and being unable longer to bear delay, she sought him
in his retreat.

“Mabel, you ought to be in bed; its now half past one. You will scarce
be able to entertain your father and mother, I fear, if you do not go
now,” and he resumed his writing.

“So cold! Well, I can live without his love,” she said to herself, and
turned to leave the room. He glanced at her lithe form, and all the
lover-like feelings of early years came over him. He longed to fold her
once more to his heart, and rose to follow her.

“Good night, sir,” came from her lips in icy tones, and he returned to
his labors, chilled, heart-sick and weary, where we will leave him and
turn back one chapter to the cause of all this misconception, and see if
we find in it aught but words of truth, and principles which should be
understood by all.

Like too many women, Mrs. Deane had striven to keep her husband wholly
to herself. She could not realize that one who is determined in her own
way and time to get the whole, may not get even a part. She wanted him
entirely for herself, ignorant of the fact, or if knowing, rebellious
against it, that his being would flow to herself after a temporary
receding, far richer in love. Alas, how many women are dwarfing noble
men, and cheating themselves out of the highest enjoyments of life.

Of Miss Evans she knew nothing, save by report. Like the many, she
allowed her prejudices to control her, and avoided all opportunities
of making the acquaintance of a worthy woman, one who was fast becoming
life and light to minds of a high order. The thoughts which had thrilled
the heart and soul of her husband we will record for the benefit of
those who may be struggling for light.

Howard Deane walked to the village post office that evening with no
other thought than of receiving his papers and returning home. While
there, he met Hugh Wyman, who requested him, as it was on his way, to
take a magazine to Miss Evans. He did not hesitate to grant the
request of his friend. Reaching her home he found her alone, and common
courtesies led them into conversation. This at first touched only upon
daily events, but soon it led into deeper channels, and their individual
thoughts were brought out upon religious subjects, each receiving
suggestions from the standpoint of the other.

“I am impatient, I know,” said Miss Evans, as the subject warmed
and brightened under the glow of words, “to see the day when my long
cherished ideas will be wrought into actual life. Will it not be grand
when religion shall no longer be an abstract, soulless science, a
musty theology, but a living, vital truth, lived and acted, not merely
professed and preached; when the human family shall be united in one
bond, and man love to do his brother good; when he who is strong, shall
care for him who is weak; when daily deeds of kindness shall be accepted
as true worship; when the golden rule shall be the only creed of
mankind, and woman shall throw upon her erring sisters the blessed veil
of charity. The world is full of need to-day. It never so much needed
the labor of every earnest man and woman as now. All can work for its
advancement; some speak, some write, others act, and thus unitedly aid
in ushering in the millenium of humanity. Religion is to me only a
daily life of goodness. The church has little but form. We want vital
christianity flowing from heart to heart; and prayers, not at stated
times, but when souls mount heavenward, whether in words or deeds, to be
recognized as true worship. When our churches shall be adorned by art;
when the theatre, now so little understood, is employed as a lever of
moral power, equal if not greater than the church, for reaching the
heart, and enriching the intellect; when these two forces approach each
other, then shall we have a real church and true worship. Art in every
form must be acknowledged as the great mediator between God and man, and
when this is done we shall have a completeness in our worship, which
is little dreamed of now. To my mind, the drama appears as the great
instructor of the coming time--greater than the church, more potent,
hence more effectual, and will, I think, at some day occupy its place. I
have talked long, but the fullness of the theme must be my excuse.”

“I am but too glad to hear expressions of such thoughts from any one. I
have been for a long time reaching for something more satisfactory than
I have received. The forms of worship have long been dull and void of
life to me.”

“Too long have our minds been lumbered with doctrines, instead of
principles,” said Miss Evans, her face glowing with earnest thought,
“but the signs of the times are now glorious. Men will no longer feed
on husks and dry bones. The call is every day for light, more light, and
theories are fast giving place to human experiences. A strong current
of individual life, too, is setting in, which inspires every speaker and
writer with high and noble thoughts, and they are forced to give bread
and not stones to the multitude. We shall, I hope, Mr. Deane, live to
see the coming of the new day, for surely we have little but darkness
now, and yet all the light we could use, I suppose, else it would have
come before.”

“I trust we shall, and if men and women are true to the light they have,
the day will soon be here. But, really, Miss Evans,” he said, looking
at his watch, “'t is almost ten o'clock; how rapidly the moments have
flown.”

“I lose all idea of time when I feel the beating and pulsing of a human
soul,” responded Miss Evans. “I hope you will come again and bring your
wife; I only know her by features; I really wish to know her through her
thoughts.”

“I will, I thank you,” and he left, full to overflowing, impatient to
impart to his wife the thoughts of an earnest soul. We have met him in
his home, and know the result,--the sharp reverse side of most of life's
best experiences.




CHAPTER IX.


Mrs. Deane found the hours drag heavily while her parents remained. She
was not like her former self, and they could not but notice the change.

It was the first time in their married life that she wished them at
home. One hour alone with her husband would have set all right; but
there were none, for business seemed to press in from all quarters, and
every moment of his time, far into the night, was occupied in writing.

They saw nothing of each other save in the presence of their parents,
for Mr. Deane only snatched a few hours' sleep at early dawn, and
awoke just in time to prepare for breakfast. They were estranged, and
circumstances to embitter the sad state of affairs seemed to daily
multiply.

The fourth evening after the arrival, there was a slight pause in the
pressure of his business, but feeling no inclination to join the family,
knowing that Mabel and himself would be in feelings miles apart, he
called again upon Miss Evans.

To his relief he found her alone, for he longed for another communion
with a mind so comprehensive, and a soul so pure as her own. She noticed
the look of sadness on his face, and was glad her own heart was light
and her soul strong in trust, that she might administer to him.

Had he come last night, she said to herself, how little could I have
done for him, for my own soul was dark with grief, my lips dumb. His
face bore a more buoyant look as her words of hope and thoughtful
sayings appealed to his good judgment, and before long it glowed with
joy like her own. He forgot the cloud that had arisen over himself and
Mabel; forgot her words that so wounded his soul; and only her best and
true self was mirrored on his heart, as he listened to the vital truths
which flowed from the lips of the noble woman in whose presence he sat.

“Our conversation the other night,” he said, “awakened such new
emotions, or rather aroused feelings which were dormant, that I could
not resist the strong impulse I felt to call on you again and renew our
conversation.”

“I am very glad you have come, for it does my soul good to see others
interested in these newly-developed views, and recognizing the great
needs of humanity, and the imperative demands of our natures.”

“I have felt,” remarked Mr. Deane, “for a long time that the church, the
subject of our last conversation, needs more life; that it must open its
doors to all rays of light, and not longer admit only a few, and that
those doors must be broad enough and high enough, that whatever is
needed for the advancement of mankind may enter therein, come from
whence it may, and called by whatever name it may be. In a word, the
church must go on in advance of the people, or at least with them,
else it will be left behind and looked upon as a worn out and useless
institution.”

“I am glad to hear you express your thoughts thus, and hope you will
give them as freely at all times, for too many who entertain these views
do not speak them, standing in fear of what their friends or the church
may say or do. Of such there are tens of thousands. Give them utterance.
Every honest man and woman should, and thus aid in hastening on the day
of true life and perfect liberty. While I value associative effort, I
would not for a moment lose sight of individual thinking and acting. We
do not have enough of it. The church has much to adopt to bring it
into a healthy condition. To-day it ignores many valuable truths which
retired individuals hold, while it feeds its hearers on husks. Finding
better food for their souls outside, they go, and cannot return, because
the truths they hold would not be accepted.”

“We have made rapid advances in art and science, Miss Evans, but the
church has lagged behind, until at length we find that more christianity
is found outside than inside its walls.”

“True. The best men and women I have ever known, have never sat at the
table of the Lord, so called, have never broken the bread and drank the
wine, yet their souls have tasted life-everlasting when they have given
in His name food to the hungry and clothing to the naked. Each soul is a
temple and each heart a shrine. The only thing the church can do to-day
is, to reach forth and take its life from the world. All the accessions
of art must be unfolded, if she would keep alive. Fortify it with these
things, and we shall not see, as we do now, in every town and city even,
the whole burden of its support resting on one or two individuals. If
it has life enough it will stand; if it refuse light, such persons only
retard its progress, although strictly conscientious in their position.
I think one of its greatest errors is in keeping one pastor too long.
How can the people be fed, and draw life from one fount alone?”

“True,” he said, “and is not that view applicable to our social and
domestic as well as to our religious state? Can we draw life always from
one person?”

“No; nor was it ever intended that men and women should so exhaust
each other. The marriage law is too arbitrary; it allows no scope for
individual action, and yet the subject is so delicate, so intricate,
that none but the keenest and nicest balanced minds dare attempt to
criticise, much less improve it. The misconstructions of a person's
motives are so great that many who see its errors, tremble and fear
to speak of them. But if we are to bring any good to the covenant, so
sacred in its offices, we must point out its defects and seek to remedy
them, and I sometimes think it will be my mission to help it to
higher states. Although such a task would be far from enviable, I will
willingly give my thoughts to those who are struggling, at the risk of
being misunderstood nine times in ten, as I probably shall be.”

“Then please give me your best thoughts, Miss Evans, for I need all the
light I can get, not only for myself, but for others.”

“I am but a scholar, like yourself, Mr. Deane, and I sometimes think
that all I may hope to do will be but to lift the burden an instant from
the pilgrim's shoulder, that deeper breath may be taken for the long and
often dreary journey.”

A sharp ring of the door-bell interrupted further conversation, and Mr.
Deane, bowing to the intruder, as such she seemed at that moment to be,
bade Miss Evans good evening, and departed.

The caller was a gossiping woman, who kept many domestic fires alive
with her fuel of scandalous reports.

“Dear me, Miss Evans,” she said, as soon as comfortably seated, “was n't
that Mr. Deane? Yes, I thought so; but my eye-sight 'aint over good,
and then he looked so sad-like; maybe he 'aint well,” and she looked
inquiringly to Miss Evans, who replied,--

“I think he is in his usual health; a little worn, perhaps, with
business. How is your family, Mrs. Turner?”

“O, tol'rable, thank ye. But Mr. Deane did n't say anything, did he,
about his folks?

“His folks? What do you mean, Mrs. Turner?”

“Law me, I might as well tell as not, now I've said what I have. Why
you see Miss Moses who nusses Mrs. Baker, was up ter Mrs. Brown's last
night, and Mrs. Deane's hired gal was there, and she told Mrs. Brown's
man that Mr. Deane and his wife had some pretty hard words together, and
that her folks-her father and mother-was 'goin ter take her home.”

“Mrs. Turner, I have no interest in this gossip; we will change the
subject if you please.”

“Lor, don't be 'fended; I only-I mean I meant no harm.”

“You may not; but this idle habit of retailing the sayings of others,
is worse than folly. It's a great wrong to yourself and the individuals
spoken of.”

“Well, I did n't think to have such a lectur',” said the woman,
affecting a feeling of good nature, “I say as I said afore, I meant no
harm. I like Mr. and Mrs. Deane very much, and thought it was too bad
for such things to be said.”

“Is marm here?” inquired a coarse voice at the door, and a red, chubby
face was thrust in the narrow opening.

“Why, Josiah Turner, I told you ter go ter bed an hour ago. Well, I must
go, Miss Evans. I 'spose my boy won't go without me,” and taking her son
by the hand, she departed.

“A storm upon their domestic horizon, I fear, is coming, if not already
there,” said Miss Evans, setting down and resting her lead upon her
hands. “I wish he had not come. Something may be charged to me-but why
should I fear. I have said simply what I felt was right. I must expect
to encounter many storms in this voyage whose haven of peace is-where?
None knoweth.”

She fastened her door, and after lifting her heart in prayer for
guidance, retired.

Mr. Deane found his wife alone when he returned, and one could have seen
by his manner how glad he was to find her so.

“It seems a month, Mabel, since I have seen you alone.”

She only remarked that she feared her parents felt his absence from
home.

“I do think, Howard,” she continued, “that you could give us a little
of your time. It is due to my parents. It must seem to them that you
willingly absent yourself, and it is hard for me to convince them to the
contrary.”

“I am sorry that any such impression should have worked its way into
their minds. They ought to know that it is quite a sacrifice for me to
devote myself so closely to business. I hope, Mabel, you are wrongly
impressed as regards them, and it may be that your own state has more to
do with it than theirs. This is the first evening I have had to myself
since they have been here.”

“And why was this not spent at home?”

“Because I cannot assume to be what I am not, and you know I am not
at rest; that our harmony is disturbed. Could I have seen you alone, I
should have been at home before this.”

“You have sought society, I suppose, more congenial?”

“Mabel, be careful. You may so unnerve me that I may say much that I
shall be sorry for.”

“Howard?”

“Well, Mabel.”

“I think I shall return with father and mother. They will go home day
after to-morrow.”

He did not raise his eyes, nor appear in the least anxious to detain
her, but merely said:

“Where are they this evening?”

“At Mrs. Norton's. They went to tea. I felt too ill to accompany them.”

“Are you very ill, Mabel?”

“I feel far from well, and yet it does not seem to be from physical
indisposition. It is something deeper.”

“True, my poor wife, we have become estranged; and what has caused it?”

She looked thoughtfully at him a moment, but no answer came from her
lips.

“I think we had better part awhile. It will do us both good.”

She started, scarce expecting such a remark from him.

“Then my presence has, indeed, become irksome to you?” Her tone and
manner implied more than she cared to display.

“You know better than that, Mabel; but I-we both are sadly out of
harmony; perhaps have exhausted each other. Let us part, and each find
ourselves. We shall be brighter and happier when we come together,
Mabel; shall we not?” and he laid his hand tenderly on her head.

O, why cannot two at least see things in their true light? Why was
it that she remained so blind to the real state of affairs? Either
ignorance or wilfulness kept her from the light, and coldly bidding him
good night, she left the room.

The next day was indeed gloomy. Mabel's parents had become acquainted,
not with the facts, but with a distorted view of the case, and in their
eyes she was a greatly abused woman. It was no longer any use for her
husband to exert himself for their happiness, the poison of prejudice
had entered their minds, and tinctured every thought.

It was a painful parting. Misconception on one side, and deep suffering
with pride, upon the other. No lighting of the eyes, no pressure of the
hand, no warm good-bye, to keep his heart alive while she was away.

He stood, after the cars had left, deeply pondering the strange affair,
until the crowd jostled him, and brought him back to the external world,
with its toil, its sounds of mirth, and its varied forms of life.

What a break in his usual peaceful life; what a void he found in his
soul when he entered the silent home. There was no lingering atmosphere
of love about the rooms; everything was put away out of sight. The order
was painful, and he left to seek companionship if not sympathy.




CHAPTER X.


“What is it like, Dawn?”

“Like a great Soul that has absorbed a million lives into its own, and
cannot rest, it is so full of joy and sadness,” and she fixed her gaze
more intently on the foam-crested waves.

It was the first time she had seen the ocean, and her father's keen
enjoyment watching her enraptured, wondering gaze, afforded Miss Vernon
another source of pleasure, aside from the wide expanse of beauty, which
stretched from shore to horizon.

The three, according to Mr. Wyman's promise, had come to enjoy the
pleasures and beauties of the seaside for a few weeks, as well as to
see the different phases of human character which were daily thronging
there.

It was intensely interesting to Miss Vernon to watch the child's eager
interest in this glorious display of nature, and her strange insight
into the character of the people with whom they were in daily contact.

There was one faint, gentle girl, about twenty years of age, who walked
every evening alone, and whom Miss Vernon watched with great interest.

“I like her, too,” said Dawn, coming close to her teacher one evening,
as she walked up and down on the beach.

“Who? and how do you know I like her.”

“Why, the lady there, walking in front of us. I feel you like her.”

“I am glad you do, Dawn. And now tell me why you love her.”

“I love her because she is white.”

“You mean that she is pure. I think she is.”

“Yes. I mean that and something else.”

“What?”

“In one of my lessons, you told me, that some objects were white,
because they absorbed none of the rays, but reflected all.”

“You must explain your singular application-or in plain words, tell me
how she reflects all, and takes none.”

“Why, because she don't take the life from people, but gives to them.”

“You know just what I mean-she throws it back to themselves purified
by her light.” And the child's face was not her own, another's shone
through it.

“Very good, Dawn, I hope we shall sometime know this pure young lady,
and receive a brightness from her,” said Miss Vernon, talking more to
herself than the strange child who was dancing at that moment in time to
the waves.

“According to your scientific symbol, I suppose we shall see some black
people here before we go,” she said laughingly to the child.

“Yes, there are plenty of those everywhere. They take all the light, and
give none out. But see, Miss Vernon, the lady is sitting on a rock and
weeping, may I go to her?”

“Would it not be an intrusion?”

“Yes, sometimes, but not now. May I go? Papa would let me, I think.”

“You must ask him. I had rather not give you such a liberty.”

“Then I will,” and she flew at the top of her speed to the bank where he
was sitting.

“May I go and see that lady out on the rock, papa?”

“Why? Do you know her?”

“No, but I must go,” and as she spoke Dawn's eyes had that strange look
which betokened an inner vision.

“Yes, daughter, go,” was his answer, and she bounded from his side, and
was close to the weeping stranger, in an instant.

Her father watched her with the deepest interest, and almost wished
himself within hearing.

She did not approach the stranger quietly, but with one bound sprang and
threw her arms around her neck, saying in a voice deeper and stronger
than her own:

“Pearl, I am here. Weep no more!”

The young girl thrilled, but not with terror, for to her such things
were of frequent occurrence. Yet the proof to her now of the presence
of the unseen was of such a positive nature, more tangible than she had
felt for months, that all her accumulated doubts gave way, and the pure
waters of faith flowed over her soul.

Here, among strangers, where none knew her name, or her grief, had
the voice of her loved one spoken. Why should she doubt? Why should
thousands, who have every day a similar experience?

She rose from her position, and taking the hand of the child, which
thrilled strangely to her touch, walked towards the house.

“Do you love the sea?” she asked of the little stranger.

“O, ever so much. I mean to ask papa to live here forever,” and she
looked enthusiastically towards the receding waves.

“Do you live here?” asked Dawn.

“No; my home is far away. I come here to rest.”

“Was that what made you weep? Was you weary?”

“Yes, dear. My soul is very weary at times.”

“Is the sea weary when it moans?” and she looked wonderingly over the
wide expanse of changing waves.

“I think it is; but I must leave you now; I see your friends are looking
for you.”

But Dawn would not let her pass on. She held her hand tighter, and said:

“This is my papa, and this is my teacher.”

“I hope my child has not annoyed you, Miss,” said Mr. Wyman, as he gazed
on the face of the beautiful stranger before them.

“Far from it, sir. She has comforted me. Children, under ordinary
circumstances, are ever welcome, but when they bring proof-”

She stopped, fearful that she might not be understood.

“I comprehend it, Miss. I saw another life than her own in her eyes,
else I should not have permitted her to have gone to you.”

“I thank you both,” said the gentle girl, and bowing gracefully, she
went towards the house.

“Is she not white, Miss Vernon?” asked Dawn, exultingly, when the
stranger was out of hearing.

“Yes, she is beautiful and pure.”

“I hope she was comforted, for her face has a look of sorrow, deeper
than we often see on one so young,” remarked Mr. Wyman, who had
been enlightened by Miss Vernon on Dawn's strange application of
soul-science.

“Yes, she was, papa. Some one in the air made me speak and call her
name. It's 'Pearl'; is n't it pretty? O, see those clouds, papa,” she
cried, with thrilling ecstasy; “I hope they will look just like that
when I die.”

“You are weary now, darling; we must go in,” said her father, watching
with jealous eyes the snow-white and crimson clouds which lay on the
horizon, just above the foaming waves.

“There are some people here from L--,” said Miss Vernon, as she and Mr.
Wyman sat together on the piazza the next morning, watching the changing
sea.

“Ah, who are they; any of our friends?”

“I have never seen them at your house. Two ladies,--a Mrs. Foster and
sister. Do you know them?”

“I know that there are such people in L--. When did they arrive? I have
not seen them.”

“Last evening; but you do not look particularly pleased. Will they
disturb you?”

“I do not mean they shall, although they are busybodies, and know every
one's affairs better than their own.”

“So I judged by their conversation last evening, which I could not but
overhear, as they talked so loud, their room being next to mine, and
their door open.”

“Of whom were they speaking?”

“Of a Mr. and Mrs. Deane. I think I have heard you allude to them.”

“I have; nice good people too. As usual, I suppose they were charging
them with all sorts of foibles and misdemeanors.”

“I heard one of them assert that Mr. and Mrs. Deane had parted, and that
she had gone to live with her parents.”

“It cannot be! Howard Deane is too just and honorable for anything of
that nature; but if they have, there are good reasons for it. I think
I will write him this very morning, and urge him to come and bring his
wife to this beautiful spot for a few days. Will you lend me your folio,
Florence? Mine is up two flights of stairs, and I would really like to
be waited on this morning.”

She flew to her room, and returned and placed it before him, and then
went in search of Dawn.

Selecting a delicate sheet from its orderly arranged contents he
commenced,--

“My Dear Friend Howard.

“Come and spend a few days in this loveliest of--”

At this point a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and another placed
over his eyes.

“I am here;” said a well-known voice, “so throw aside pen and paper. We
will commence in a better way.”

“Why? when? where did you come from, and how came you to select this
place?”

“I came this morning; arrived ten minutes ago from L--. Did not 'select'
this place; the place drew me here. Now I have answered all your
interrogatories, may I ask you how long you have been here, and why you
did not let me know you were coming?”

“Two days only. I should have told you, but did not suppose you could
leave for a moment, knowing the pressure of your business. But how is
your wife? She is here of course?”

His averted face did not reveal the look of pain which passed over it,
as he replied:

“She is not well, and went home with her mother.”

“So you was lonely and betook yourself to this scene of life to pass the
hours away. You could not have chosen a better place. I hope the period
of your stay here is not limited to a few days.”

“Instead of that it is indefinite.”

The tone of his voice was too sad to be mistaken, and Mr. Wyman began
to think that there might be some truth in the rumor which Florence had
heard.

He glanced at Mr. Deane's face, and read all he had failed to see when
he first met him.

“I hope nothing has occurred to mar your pleasure while here; at least
nothing but what the waves will wash away?”

“The sea is a good place for the soul-weary, as well as for the light of
heart. I cannot, however, leave my burden here. I am, indeed, very sad,
Hugh. Are you much engaged? If not, we will take a walk together,” he
said, in tones which plainly implied a need of a companion like Mr.
Wyman.

“I have nothing to do, now you have arrived and saved me the laborious
effort of writing to you.”

“Then you wished me here?”

“I did. My thoughts went out to you this morning. I felt that you needed
a change.”

“I do indeed;” and they walked together for awhile, then sat beneath
the shade of a tree, whose long outstretched branches seemed to wave
benedictions on their heads.

“I need change, but human sympathy most. Mabel has gone from me. It is
not a corporal separation only, but one of soul and heart.”

“Mabel gone! Is it, indeed, true? But the separation cannot last; she
will surely return to your love and protection. Howard, I am glad you
are h; ere. Some unseen power must have brought you to this place, where
you can unburden your grief, and take better and clearer views of the
case.”

“Then you think she will come again to me?”

“Certainly; and you will both be stronger for the temporary separation.”

“I could bear it better were I not so sensitive to the opinion of the
world.”

“You must rise above that. There is no growth to him who, seeking the
new, fears to lose his grasp on the old. These backward glances retard
the pilgrim on his way. Do what you feel to be right, and care for no
man's words or opinions.”

“I wish I had your strength, Hugh.”

“I think you were sent here to me to be strengthened. God's hand is in
the cloud as well as the sunshine, and I know He will work good from the
seeming evil that encompasses you.”

“Your words cause me at least to hope.”

“This separation will work good for both of you.”

“I felt myself, when I found my love doubted and my truthfulness
questioned, that it would be best for us.”

“Then you favored it?”

“I did.”

“I am glad it was so. You will each have an opportunity to know
yourselves, and how much you are to each other. When together, words
take the place of thoughts, while absence ever kindles the flame of holy
love, and by its light we see our own short-comings, and our companion's
virtues. Were I you, I should look on this as one of the greatest
opportunities of my life to test my heart's true feelings towards one
whose affection had grown cold, or rather whose understanding had become
clouded; for I doubt not her heart is as warm as when you led her to
the altar. Like yonder receding wave, her love will return to you again,
while to her restless soul you must be as firm as this rocky coast.”

“Woman's love,” he continued, “is stronger, mightier than man's. It is
no argument against their devotion that they are changeable. So is this
ocean. Each hour a different hue comes upon its surface, but the depth
is there. Thus is woman's soul full of varied emotions; the surface play
is sometimes dark, at others reflecting the blue of the heavens above.
Yes, they are deeper, higher than ourselves, and every day's experience
attests to the fact of their superior delicacy and nicer perceptions.
Their keen insight into daily matters, their quick sense of everything
pertaining to religious and social life, are to me proofs of their fine
qualities.”

“But their inconsistency at times wars with your assertions.”

“No; it is sterner stuff that reasons most; they are nicer in their
perceptions, and feel instinctively their way into questions over which
we work and solve alone by long reasoning.”

“I believe it is so.”

“Then you have advanced one step. We cannot appreciate woman too highly.
That many do foolish things is no proof that many are not wise and good,
bearing crosses day after day which would make you and I ready to lie
down and die-they ever do great things, either good or bad, and men, I
hope, will some day place her image next to his maker's, and look upon
it as to him the holiest and highest on earth-the best gift of God.”

“Why, Hugh, you are wild upon this subject.”

“I am awake, and hope I shall never slumber.”

“Your words have given me rest, and stirred my best emotions. I will
write to Mabel to-night. But yesterday and I felt that all women were as
fickle as these waters. I am changed, and your remarks have caused me to
think differently.

“I have not changed your mind, I have only brought some of your better
feelings to the surface.”

“And what is that but change?”

“It may be, that it is. Do you not see that something mightier than
yourself brought you here, where your morbid feelings will pass
away,--though I do not wonder that you felt as you did, neither can
I blame you. The human soul has many sides, and turns slowly to the
light.”

“If I had your penetration, I could bear the discords of life.”

“We must learn not only to bear them, but to gather wisdom from their
teachings. If we cannot grow under to-day's trial, we surely cannot
under to-morrow's.”

“I begin to feel that we shall both be better for this estrangement.”

“You will, and come together, on a higher plane. Married people live in
such close relations that each becomes absorbed by the other, and
then having nothing fresh to give, what was once attraction becomes
repulsion. I see these things so plainly myself that the criticism, and
may be, censure of a multitude, jealous of personal freedom, affects me
no more than the passing breeze. I know that if I stand upon a mount and
behold a beautiful scene beyond, that it is there, although the people
below may declare with positiveness that it is not. A man knows nothing
of the value of his wife who sees not other women and learns their
thoughts.”

“True. I have felt for a long time that I needed a fresh mind with which
to hold converse, and my seeking one, although accidental, has brought
about this state of things.”

“And that person?”

“Was Miss Evans.”

“I remember; and the evening, I asked you to call and leave the
magazine. Little did I think of such a result, which I should regret,
perhaps, did I not fully believe that all things are ordered and
arranged for our best good. Long and prayerfully I have studied this
question, so vital and so closely allied to our best interests. I
could not gleam even a ray of truth did I not live above the crowd and
fearlessly pursue my own way. I see no escape from our thraldom, but
through soul expanse, and this is produced only through soul liberty. I
loved my Alice most when I was learning her through others; I am still
learning and loving her each day, through my child and our friend Miss
Vernon. With all our laws, we have and ever have had haunts of vice.
Will the emancipation of soul increase their number? I think not. If men
and women can be brought together on loftier planes we shall not have
these excresences. The sexes need to be purely blended; they will
approach each other, and it is for society to say how. Block up harmless
social avenues and we shall have broad roads to destruction. I know
husbands and wives who are consuming, instead of refreshing each other's
lives. Yes, Howard, this is your great opportunity to take your position
and draw your wife up to it. Life will be a new thing to you, and all of
us who can accept these truths. Our present forms and ceremonies hold
us apart, and there is scarcely a ripple of spontaneity upon life's
surface. The highest hours, and those most productive of good, are when
two souls converse and reflect each other's innermost states.”




CHAPTER XI.


It was not by words that they knew each other, but when their eyes met
each felt that the other had passed some ordeal which made their souls
akin.

The stranger to whom Miss Vernon had been so drawn, met her on the beach
the next morning, and asked her to walk with her.

“I would like to tell you,” she said, “of my strange experience last
night; perhaps these things are not new to you,” and she went on in a
confiding tone at Miss Vernon's visible look of deep interest;--

“I was weeping, as you may have noticed, when your strange and lovely
pupil came to me,--weeping for the loss of one to whom I was betrothed.
No mortal save myself knew the name which he gave me on the day of our
engagement. It was 'Pearl.' My own name is Edith Weston. Judge of my
emotion and surprise, when that child-a total stranger-came and spake my
name in his exact tones. I have had other tests of spirit presences as
clear and as positive, but none that ever thrilled me like this. Do you
wonder that I already love that child with a strange, deep yearning?”

“I do not. I have myself had proof through her that our dear departed
linger around, and are cognizant of our sorrows as well as our joys.”

“Perhaps you too have loved.”

“Yes; but not like yourself. My mother's love is the only love I have
known.”

“And you are an orphan like myself?”

“I am.”

“That is what drew us together. And may I know your name?”

“Florence Vernon. And I was attracted to you the first time I saw you.”

“I cannot tell you how glad I am to experience these proofs of human
ties. It is a pleasure to me to think that wherever we go we shall meet
some one who loves us. I am a dependent character, as you no doubt have
perceived. I need the assurance and support of stronger minds even when
I see my own way clear. Some there are who can see and go forth. I need
to be led.”

“I hope you are fortunate enough to have some stronger mind about you.
We are not all alike, and the vine nature must have something upon which
it may cling and find support, or otherwise it will trail in the dust.”

“I am not thus fortunate. I have no one on whom to lean, or to whom I
can look for guidance. Shall you remain long here?” she asked, fearing
she had spoken too freely of herself.

“We shall stay until we have received all that this atmosphere and these
scenes can supply us with. It will then be our duty to go.”

“I like that. I must go away very soon to join my aunt who is obliged to
remain among the mountains, as the sea air does not agree with her. But
look, Miss Vernon, here comes Mr. Wyman and another gentleman!” and she
seemed greatly disappointed at the interruption.

“Miss Weston, Mr. Deane,” said Florence, introducing them, and the next
instant she watched with earnest gaze the look of admiration which he
gave the timid girl. It was not a bold or intrusive look, but such
an one as a man might have bestowed were he suddenly ushered into the
presence of his highest conception of female worth and loveliness.

Every line of his features betokened the keenest admiration, while her
glance was far over the sea. Hugh saw the look, too, and was glad.

Miss Vernon trembled, she knew not why. She wished that he had not come
to the sea-shore, and that the beautiful stranger was all her own.

The four walked together on the beach, until the heat of the day, and
then Miss Weston withdrew.

“The finest face I ever saw,” said Mr. Deane, watching her figure till
she was out of sight, “and as lovely in soul as in form and features, I
perceive.” Then turning to Miss Vernon, he said:

“I see you harmonize. I am really glad it is so, for you can help each
other very much.”

Mr. Deane dropped the conversation, and assumed an air of abstraction,
his gaze fixed on the blue waves-his thoughts none knew where.

Hugh and Florence walked to the house and seated themselves in the
shade, within view of the sea. Then he told her in his clear, brief way,
of what had transpired between Mr. Deane and his wife, with the remark
that it was far better she should be informed of the true state of
affairs, and thus be guarded against the evil of false reports.

“I saw your look of concern when he met Miss Weston-”

She looked wonderingly in his face.

“You feared for him, and her then. That was natural. I see beyond, and
that no harm will come from any attachment that may arise. I hope to see
them often together.”

“Mr. Wyman, if I did not know you, I should sometimes fear your
doctrines.”

“I have no doctrines.”

“Well, theories then.”

“No theories either. I follow nature, and leave her to perfect all
things. Sometimes you think I am not sufficiently active; that I sit an
idle looker on.

“What! do you know my every thought-everything that passes through my
mind?” she asked, a a little agitated.

“Nearly all, or rather that which goes with your states of progression.”

She was vexed a little, but as the lesser ever turns to the greater, the
earth to the sun for light,--so she, despite difference of temperament
and mental expansion, was inclined to rest on his judgment.

“This pure girl will give him a deeper faith in woman, unconsciously to
herself, and he will become a better man; therefore fear not when you
see them together, that he will lose his love for his wife. Yes, she
will do him good, as you, Florence, are every day benefiting me.”

“Do I? Do I make you better?” she asked in a quick, nervous way; and her
soul flooded her soft, brown eyes.

“You do, Florence, and make me stronger every day; while your deepening
womanhood is my daily enjoyment. You give me an opportunity to know
myself, and that there are many holy relations between men and women
beside the conjugal.”

Mrs. Foster lost no time in informing the people of L--of the movements
of Mr. Deane. She well knew there were persons who would circulate the
report, and that it would finally reach his wife, even though she was
several miles away. The report was, that Mr. Deane had brought a young
lady to the sea-shore, and was seen walking with her every day and
evening, and that they both were greatly enamoured with each other.

Strange to say, Mrs. Deane, weary and sad, left her parents and returned
to her home just before her husband's letter reached its destination,
and just in time to hear the narration of his strange conduct.

Howard gone, no one knew where, save from the vague and scandalous
report of a few busy tongues; no letter telling where he was, and her
soul sank, and all its good resolves faded away. When she left her
parents that morning, she fully resolved to meet him with all the love
of her heart, for she had found that love beneath the rubbish of doubt
and jealousy that had for a time concealed it. It was not strange,
therefore, that all the fond trust died out when she realized that he
had gone, and the bitter waters returned stronger and deeper over her
hope.

Shall we ever reach a world where we shall not have to plod through so
much doubt and misgiving, and where our real feelings will be better
understood?

“He will surely come back soon,” she said again and again to herself,
while the veil of uncertainty hung black before her troubled vision.
Every day she listened for his footsteps, till heart-sick and weary she
returned to her parents, and told them all her grief and all her fears.

An hour later they handed her his letter, received an hour after her
departure, and which her father had carried every day in his pocket and
forgotten to re-mail to her.

While every one in L--was rehearsing the great wrong which, in their
estimation, Mr. Deane had done his wife, she was eagerly absorbing
every word of his warm-hearted letter, which he wrote on the day of
his conversation with Mr. Wyman. Could she have received it before she
returned again to her old home, how different would she and her parents
have felt towards him. It was only for them she cared now. In vain
she argued and tried to reinstate him in their good graces; but words
failed, and she felt that time and circumstance alone were able to
reconcile them.

She longed to go to him, but he had not asked her, and only said at the
close:

“I shall return when I feel that we are ready to love each other as in
the past. Not that I do not love you, Mabel, but I want all the richness
of your affection, unclouded by distrust. We have been much to each
other; we shall yet be more. When I clasp you to my heart again, all
your fears will vanish. Be content to bear this separation awhile, for
'tis working good for us both.”

She read it over a score of times, felt the truthfulness of his words,
but could not realize how it was possible for the separation to benefit
them. To her the days seemed almost without end. To him they were
fraught with pleasure, saddened they might be a little with a thought of
the events so lately experienced, but gladdened by the sunshine of new
scenes, inspirited with new and holy emotions. It was well for her weak
faith that Mrs. Deane did not see him that very evening walking with
Miss Weston upon the sea-shore, engaged in close conversation. She would
have questioned how it was possible that under such conditions his
love for herself was growing more intense; not thinking, in her shallow
philosophy, that the contrast of two lives exhibits more fully the
beauties of each, and that it was by this rule she was growing in his
affections.

“We must wait awhile for our friends, Miss Weston; I see they are in the
rear,” and he spread his shawl upon a rock, motioning her to be seated,
close by the foam-white waves.

Mr. Wyman and Florence soon came along. They had forgotten the presence
of every one. Nothing engaged their attention but the lovely scene
before them, while the moon's light silvered the rippling surface of the
waters. Their communion was not of words as they all sat together
that lovely summer eve. Soul met soul, and was hushed and awed in the
presence of so much that was entrancing, and when they separated each
was better for the deep enjoyment they had mutually experienced.

“I may seem strange,” remarked Miss Weston to her new friend, Miss
Vernon, the next morning, as they sat looking at the sea, so changed
in its aspect from that of the evening before, “that I should in the
company of comparative strangers, feel so little reserve. I know my aunt
would chide me severely, but I have not felt so happy for many years. It
may be that the influence of the ocean is so hallowed and peaceful that
our souls live their truer lives, but I have never before opened my
heart so fully to strangers. I wonder if I have overstepped any of the
lines of propriety?”

“I might have thought so once, but I see and feel differently now. I
think the soul knows its kin, and that it is not a matter of years but
of states which causes it to unfold.”

“I am glad you feel so. I seemed so strange to myself, ever
conservative, now so open and free. I do not feel towards any of the
others here as I do towards you and your friends. I regret that I have
not a few days more to enjoy you all,” she said quite sadly, “as my aunt
has written for me to come to her the last of this week.”

Miss Vernon could not help thinking how much more this fair being had to
impart to her aunt, for this season of rest and enjoyment. “I wonder if
the time will ever come,” she often asked herself, “when we can go when
and where we gravitate, and not be forced mechanically.”

“I wish people could follow their natural attractions once in a while,
at least,” said Miss Edith, and she fixed her fair blue eyes on the sea.

Florence started; for it seemed as though she had read her thoughts.

“I suppose these limitations and restrictions are for our good, else
they would not be,” replied Miss Vernon.

“And the desire to shake them off is natural, if not right; is it not?”

“Natural, no doubt, and pleasant, if we could have the desire granted;
but duty is greater than desire, and circumstances may at times impel
us to the performance of the one rather than favor us with the
gratification of the other. What I mean is, that it is our duty
sometimes to take a part in scenes in which our hearts cannot fully
sympathize.”

“And yet you say you are attracted heart and mind to Mr. Wyman and his
daughter. Is it not possible that, notwithstanding this, your duty calls
you elsewhere,--that some other soul may be in need of your presence?”

“You have questioned me very close, Miss Weston, but I will answer you
promptly: I know of no one who needs me, else I should certainly go.
Remember this,--in following our attractions we should never lose sight
of our duties. They should go hand in hand.”

“Very true. I feel that my aunt needs me, and I will go at once; this
very day. I have lost a part of my restless self, and gained the repose
I so much needed, since I have been here; and I am indebted to you and
your friends for the exchange. Now I will go where duty calls.”

“You have decided right, and I have no doubt you will be amply
remunerated for the seeming sacrifice you are making of the few days
of happiness you would have had in longer remaining here, had not the
summons come for you to leave.”

“I do not doubt it; and yet Miss Vernon, I need your atmosphere. How I
wish our lives could mingle for awhile.”

“If there ever comes a time when no earthly tie binds you, when duty
will permit you to follow this attraction, come and live with us, and
remain as long as you wish.”

“With you?” exclaimed the astonished girl. “Can I? Is Mr. Wyman
willing?”

“He has authorized me to invite you.”

“But would it be right? Will it certainly be agreeable to him?”

“Most assuredly. We all love you, and as for Mr. Wyman, he never invites
those to his home in whom he has no interest. So come. I know you will.”

“Thank him, for me,” warmly responded Miss Weston, “and I trust the time
will arrive when I can more practically demonstrate how much I thank you
all for your kindness.”

The morning was spent by Miss Weston in packing her trunk, and making
ready for her departure, much to the surprise of Mr. Wyman, and to the
disappointment of Mr. Deane, who had hoped for a longer enjoyment of
hours of communion with one so rich in goodness and innocence of heart.

In her atmosphere all his hardness seemed to pass away. She was balm to
his troubled soul; light to his darkened vision. She would go that day,
and life, busy life, close over the fresh, happy hours, and perchance
never again before his vision would come that fair young face.

He asked permission to ride with her to the station, and see to her
baggage and tickets. It was cheerfully granted, and in a moment all was
over. The train came, stopped but a second, then moved on, and was
soon hid from sight by a sharp curve. Then his past life came over this
little break, this brief respite, and he felt that he, too, was ready to
go and kindle anew the waning flame upon his domestic hearth.

Dawn, to the surprise of her father, was greatly delighted when she
found Miss Weston was going.

“She is wanted there; some one in the air told me,” she said, and
clapped her hands in glee.

Her departure made quite a break in the little party, and when Mr. Deane
made ready to go the next day, Florence and Mr. Wyman both felt that
their own stay was about over.

Judge of their surprise two days after, to receive a note from Miss
Weston, saying that her aunt had been seized with paralysis of the brain
the day she arrived, and would not recover.

Every test of this nature strengthened Mr. Wyman in the belief in his
daughter's vision, and he felt that there could be no safer light placed
in his path for him to follow; a light which no more interferes with
man's individuality or reasoning powers than the falling of the rays of
the sun upon the earth.

The cry of the multitude is, that mediumship and impressibility detract
from individual life, lessens the whole tone of manhood, and transforms
the subject to a mere machine. Such conclusions are far from correct.
Our whole being is enriched, and made stronger and fuller by true
impressibility. Are we in any degree depleted if we for a time become
messengers to bear from friend to friend, words of love, cheer and
encouragement? Are we mere machines, because we obey the promptings of
the unseen and go where sorrow sits with bowed head, or want and
misery wait for relief? If so, we are in good service, and have the
consciousness of knowing, that, being thus the instruments of God's
will, we cannot be otherwise than dear to him.

All matter is mediumistic. Life is tributary, one phase to another, and
soul to soul speaks suggestively.

The ocean has its fullness from tributary streams which flow to its bed.

Lives alone are great that are willing to be fed.




CHAPTER XII.


Summer's soft foliage changed to gold and red, and the distant hill-tops
rested their brown summits against blue and sapphire skies. A soft mist
lay over the scene, almost entrancing, to the soul, while the senses
seemed wrapped in that dream-cloud which borders the waking and sleeping
worlds.

Seven times had the cyprus turned to a golden flame, beside the grave of
fair Alice.

Seven times had the pines nodded over the snow-white bed, under which
lay her sacred dust.

Seven years had gone by with their lights and shadows, since he laid her
form beneath the green sod-and wept as only those have wept, whose light
has gone out from their dwelling.

Rich and full had these years been in their strange experiences,
while firm as a rock had grown his faith in the unseen whose love and
guardianship is round us as the atmosphere is about the earth. It was a
fact to him and not sentiment alone, that, though his Alice had passed
on to a higher existence, her life was more clearly than ever blended
with his own. Like warp and woof, their souls seemed woven, and he would
sooner have doubted his material existence, than question her daily
presence.

The days grew richer in glory, till one by one, the dry leaves withered
and fell to the ground, as even our brightest hopes must sometimes fade
and fall. The sky was darker and more lowery. The air lost its balmy
softness, and was harsh and chilly, till no sign of foliage was
seen,--nought but the leafless branches stretching their bare arms
towards the sky. The meadows were brown and cheerless. The silvery
brooks trilled out no merry song. Life grew hushed and still without,
while more joyous became the tones of happy hearts within pleasant
homes. Fires blazed on the hearth-stones, and charity went abroad, to
administer to those whom Christ has said, “Ye have always with you.”
 Cities were gay with life, and people went to and fro from homes of
plenty, with quick, earnest steps, as though life was a continuous chain
of golden links.

The thoughtful walked amid all these lively scenes, and wondered if the
gay plumage covered only happy breasts.

The gay passed on, and thought only of joy and their own pleasures,
dreaming not that saddened lives had an existence near at hand.

Afar from all this life and gaiety, stood a low, brown cottage in a
barren spot, upon the brow of a hill. No trees sheltered it, giving
that air of protection which ever sends delight to the beholder.
No indication of taste or culture met the sight; naught but a bare
existence, and every-day toil to sustain it, impressed the passer-by.

One day when the wind blew loud and bleak, and the snow fell fast, a
young girl looked from that cottage window, upon the scene before her,
with that abstraction which one feels when all hope has withered, and
every fresh impulse of a young heart has been chilled.

She scarcely realized that the afternoon was fast wearing away, until
the entrance of one, who, in a sharp, shrill voice, thus addressed her:
“Well, Margaret Thorne, I hope you have looked out of that ere winder
long 'nough for one day. I've been inter this room fifty times at least,
and you hav n't stirred an inch. Now go and get supper, milk the cows,
and feed the pigs; and mind, don't forget to fodder that young heifer
in the new stall-and look here, you lazy thing, this stocking won't grow
any unless it's in your hands, so when supper's over, mind you go to
work on 't.”

Margaret went quickly to her duties, glad to escape from the sound of
that voice, and be alone with her own thoughts.

This was but a portion of her daily life of drudgery. The old house
was no home to her, now that her dear mother was laid in the little
church-yard. She could just remember her. It was years before, when, a
little child, she used to hear a sweet voice singing her to sleep every
night. The remembrance of that, and of the bright smile which greeted
her each morning, was all that made her life endurable. She had no
present-no future. It was this bright recollection on which she was
pensively meditating that stormy afternoon.

Margaret's mother, Mary Lee, had married when very young, a man greatly
her inferior. She was one of those gentle, timid beings, who can not
endure, and brave their way through a cold world, much less a daily
contact with a nature so crude and repulsive as that of her husband's.
She longed to live for her child's sake, but the rough waves of life
beat rudely against her bark-it parted its hold, the cold sea swept over
it, and earth, so far as human sight went, knew her no more.

One balmy spring day, when the blue skies seemed wedded to the emerald
hills, they laid her form away, and little Margaret had lost a mother's
earthly protection.

In less than a year after that sweet face went out of the home, another
came to take her place; a woman in form and feature, but in nature a
tyrant, harsh and cruel.

For little Margaret she had no love, nought but bitter words; while her
father, growing more silent and morose each day, and finding his home a
scene of contest, absented himself, and passed most of his leisure hours
with more congenial companions in the village.

Margaret grew to womanhood with but a limited education; indeed, a very
meagre one, such only as she could obtain from an irregular attendance
at the village school, in summer when the farm work was lightest, and in
winter, a day now and then when the bleak weather and the rough, almost
impassable roads allowed her to reach the place which was to her far
more pleasant than any other on earth.

It was her hands which done the heaviest and hardest work of the family.
No word of cheer or praise ever passed her mother's lips. All this,
and it was no wonder her life was crushed out, that her step had no
lightness, and her eye none of the vivacity of youth. The out-door work,
such as caring for the cattle, was, at last added to her other burdens;
yet all this she would have done willingly, could her soul have received
something which she felt she so much needed-the light and blessing of
love. She was deeply impressed with this when she entered other homes on
errands, and she longed for the warmth of affection she saw manifested
in every look and word of their happy inmates. Yet her poor, crushed
nature dared not rise and assert its rights. She had been oppressed
so long, that the mind had lost all native elasticity, and one whose
sympathies were alive would have looked on her as a blighted bud-a poor
uncared for flower, by life's road-side.

It was quite dark when she finished her milking, and went to give the
young heifer her hay. She loved this animal more than any living thing
beside the old house dog, and as she patted her soft hide, the creature
turned on her eyes which seemed full of love, as if to show to her that
there is some light in the darkest hour, something compensatory in the
lowliest form of labor. Margaret lingered beside the animal, and thought
how much better she loved her than she did her present mother. “I love
you, Bessie,” she said, as the creature stretched forth her head to
scent the warm milk in the pail. “I 've a good mind to, Bessie; you want
some, don't you?” and without stopping to think of the consequences, she
turned some of the contents of the pail into Bessie's trough.

“Margaret Thorne! I wonder if you don't know when it's dark. It's high
time your work was done!” screamed her mother at the top of her voice.
She seized her pails and ran to the house, making all possible haste to
strain and set the milk away. But Mrs. Thorne took it from her hands,
saying, “Go and 'tend to the supper. I'll do this myself.”

“There ain't as much as there ought to be inter two quarts,” said her
mother, returning and looking the girl squarely in the eye. “What does
this mean? I'd like to know.”

Margaret was awe-struck. She dared not tell her that she had given some
to Bessie, and yet she could not tell an untruth. One struggle, and she
answered: “I gave some to Bessie,” letting fall a dish in her fright. It
broke into atoms.

“Careless jade you! Break my dishes and steal my milk; giving it without
my leave to a dumb beast. There, take that,” and she gave her a sharp
blow on the face.

It was not the blow that made the poor girl's blood tinge her cheeks,
but the sense of degradation; the low life she was living, in daily
contact with one so overbearing, coarse, and rude.

She did not weep, but one might have known by those suppressed sobs,
that the heart's love was being sapped, all its feelings outraged.

At that moment her father came in, and finding supper delayed, commenced
scolding in a loud voice.

“I tell ye what, woman, I won't work and provide, to be treated in this
ere way. D' ye hear?” and he came close to Margaret and looked into her
face.

“Yes, sir. I was late to-night.”

“Yer allus late, somehow. Why don't yer stir round and be lively like
other gals, and be more cheery like?”

His poor, rough nature was beginning to feel the need of a better life.

“Let her work as I have, and she'll be thankful to have a roof over her
head, let alone the things I make her,” broke in Mrs. Thorne. “When I
was a gal, I had to work for my bread and butter.” Having thus relieved
her mind, she flew busily about, and the supper was soon ready, to which
they sat down, but not as to a homelike repast. Such a thing was not
known in that house.

The evening, as usual, passed in a dull routine of drudgery, and
Margaret was, as she had been hundreds of times before, glad to reach
its close and retire to her room.

Thus wore the winter slowly away, and the days so full of labor,
unrelieved by pleasure of any kind, were fast undermining the health and
spirits of the sad girl.

When spring came, her step was slower and her cheek paler, but there was
no eye of love to mark those changes, and her labors were not lessened.
At length her strength gave way, and a slow fever coursed through her
veins as the result of over-taxation. The languor it produced was almost
insupportable, and she longed for the green woods, and the pure air, and
a sight of running waters.

Mrs. Thorne saw that something must be done, and finally consented that
Margaret might take a little recreation in the manner she had proposed,
accompanying her consent with the remark that she thought it a very idle
way of spending one's time.

Margaret's constant companion in her rambles was the faithful dog Trot,
who highly enjoyed this new phase of life, and with him at her side she
had nothing to fear.

The change brought new life to her wasted system, and as she conned
over the beauties around, watched the sparkle of the running brooks, and
listened to the songs of the free birds, she wished that her life was as
free and beautiful.

One day while trimming a wreath of oak leaves, she thought she heard
footsteps, and the low growl of Trot, before she had time to turn her
head, confirmed her impression that some one was approaching.

She turned, and encountered the gaze of a stranger, who said in a deep,
pleasant voice:

“I have lost my way, I believe. Is this Wilton Grove, Miss?”

“It is,” she answered, not daring to raise her eyes.

“Thank you. I was not quite sure, yet I thought I followed the
direction,” said the stranger, and gracefully bowing, departed.

In all her life so bright and manly a face had never crossed her path.
And that voice-it seemed to answer to something down deep in her soul.
It kindled a fire which was almost extinct, and that fire was hope.
Perhaps she would some day see people just like him, live with them, and
be young and happy.

Old Trot seemed to share her new-found pleasure, and looked knowingly
into her face, as much as to say, “There are some folks in the world
worth looking at.”

She went home that night to dream of other forms and faces than those
she had been so long accustomed to, and slept more sound than she had
for many months.

Weeks passed away, and the bloom came back to Margaret's cheek, a new
life was in her eye, for the voice of love had spoken to her heart, and
the blood leaped till the color of her face vied with that of the roses.

The young man whom she met that day in the grove, often found his way to
that spot, not by mistake but by inclination, attracted by the fair face
of Margaret. Again and again he came, till his glowing words kindled the
flame of hope to love, and it became a source of greatest pleasure to
him to watch her dreamy eyes glow with brightness under his repeated
vows of constancy.

Clarence Bowen was the only son of a city merchant of great wealth,
acquired by his own indefatigable industry. His son had inherited none
of his father's zeal for business, and after repeated efforts to make
him what nature had never intended he should be, he sent him to study
law at the college in D--, a thriving town a few miles from Margaret's
home. It was while there, and in an hour when weary with study, he
wandered away to the spot where he accidentally met her. His nature
being not of the highest order, he did not hesitate to poison her mind
with flattering words, until at length he won her heart, not as a pearl
of great price, a treasure for himself, but as a bauble, which he might
cast aside when its charm had departed.

Sad indeed was the day to her in which he told her she could never be
his wife. Pity her, ye who in happy homes have kind friends to guide
your hearts into peace, and refresh your souls with a true and perfect
love. Have charity, and raise not hand nor voice against one who,
had her life been cast in as pleasant places as yours, would not have
trusted so fondly in a broken reed, or listened so confidingly to
the siren voice of the tempter. She had pined for a warm heart and a
faithful love. She had trusted and been betrayed. You owe her your pity,
not your condemnation.

“Did you say you were not going to marry me, Clarence?” and asking this,
she cast her eyes to the ground, and sobbed like a child.

“No, girl; you ought to have known I could not. I have no money but that
which my father supplies me with to pay my board and expenses. I have
nothing to support--”

She looked so pale he dared not say more.

“Go on,” she at length said, pressing her hand closer to her heart, lest
its strong beating might too plainly betray her feelings.

“And even could I support you, my father would disown me were I to take
such a step.”

“Then you never loved me, Clarence. You only sought your own pleasure
and--and my--my ruin?”

She broke down. Life had nothing now for her but shame and sorrow. Alas,
the world has no pity for its children.

Hard indeed must have been his heart, had it not relented then. He went
and placed his hand upon her head, saying,

“I would marry you, Margaret, if I had money enough,” and just that
moment he meant it.

She looked up through her tears to him, and seeing the expression which
accompanied his words, mistook it for real sorrow at parting from her,
and answered in a hopeful, bright voice,--

“I can work ever so hard, and we might be married privately if you
chose, as no one knows us, and go away. You don't know how hard I can
work, Clarence.”

“And then, sometime we might become rich,” she continued, without
looking at his face, “and I would study, too, and improve myself. Then
we could return to your parents and be forgiven. They surely could
not blame us for loving each other. You will not forsake me, will you,
Clarence?”

He bowed his head. She thought he wept, and she continued her words of
cheer till he could bear it no longer.

She laid her bursting head upon his bosom saying, “I will go away from
here to-day, Clarence, and be no burden to you, till you can support us
both.”

He nerved himself for the desperate emergency, and shook her off as
though she was poison, saying, in cold, measured words, not to be this
time misunderstood,--

“No, it cannot be; don't deceive yourself; you can never be my wife,”
 and then he left her.

Angels pity her. Heaven have mercy on her who sank prostrate with grief
that bright day on the green lap of earth. One heart-piercing cry went
up for help and mercy from above, and hope and love went out of that
heart, perhaps forever.

Faster and faster flew the betrayer, as though he would elude a pursuer
from whom he could not escape. But he could not close his ears to that
pleading voice, nor his eyes to that agonized look. Aye, erring mortal,
that sound will pierce your soul till some reparation, some pure,
unselfish deed, washes the sin away.

“Why, Clarence, you look as pale as a ghost; what on earth has happened
to you!” exclaimed his college chums, as he walked breathless and weary
into the house.

“I am sick,” he answered, and went by himself to evade further
questions, which he knew would rend his soul with anguish. He early
repaired to his room, but found no rest, and finding himself unable to
attend to his studies the next day, obtained leave of absence.




CHAPTER XIII.


How long Margaret laid there, she never knew, but when she came to
consciousness she found herself in her own room, and her father bending
over her, with a look she had never seen on his face before,--one of
deep anxiety for her.

“All this ere comes from letting her go out in the air every day,” were
the first words which broke the silence, and conveyed to her senses that
any one beside her father was in the room.

All the recollection of her misery came over her then. She had forgotten
all, save that her father looked with eyes of love upon her. The shrill
voice broke the heavenly spell, and Magdalen knelt again in prayer at
the Saviour's feet.

She closed her eyes as though she would shut out the sorrow from her
soul, while a look of deep pain settled on her features which her father
mistook for physical suffering. There was something in her pale face
then, that reminded him of her dear, dead mother. It touched the long
buried love which had lain in his uncultured nature many years, and he
drew his sleeve roughly across his eyes to wipe away the tears which
would come, despite the searching glance of his wife, who looked upon
any demonstration of that kind as so much loss to herself.

He thought Margaret would surely die. It must be some terrible disease
that caused her to look so white, and made her breathing so low and
still, and he resolved to go for a physician.

His decision met with little favor from Mrs. Thorne, who fretted
continually about the extra work and expense of a sick person,
interspersing her growls with the remark which seemed stereotyped for
the occasion:

“A nice job I've got on my hands for the summer.”

“Come, I 'll have no more grumbling to-night. How long the poor girl
laid in the woods nobody knows. May-be she fainted and fell, and them
ere faintin' spells is dreadful dangerous, and I'm going for the doctor,
if it takes the farm to pay for 't.”

When Caleb Thorne spoke like that, his wife well knew that words of her
own were of little avail, and she wisely concluded to keep silent.

Margaret might have remained as she had fallen, faint and uncared for in
the woods, for a long time, had not the faithful dog, who instinctively
knew that something was wrong, ran furiously to the house, and by
strange motions and piteous pleading moans attracted the attention of
Mr. Thorne from his work. Trot would not act as he did without cause.
Caleb knew that, so he left his work and followed the dog, who ran
speedily towards the woods, momentarily looking back to be sure that his
master was close at hand, until he reached the spot where Margaret laid.

He thought her lifeless, and raising her from the ground, bore her home,
while a heavier burden at his heart kept his eyes blinded, his steps
slow, and his walk uneven.

When the physician arrived, he saw, at a glance, that some great trouble
rested, like a dense cloud, on the girl's mind. Her restless manner
and desire to remain silent, showed plainly that some great anguish was
working its sorrow within, and silently he prayed to heaven, that the
young heart might find that relief which no art or skill of his could
impart. He could only allay the fever into which her blood was thrown,
and as he went out, left his orders, saying, he would call again on the
morrow.

“She's as well able to work as I am, this blessed minit,” impetuously
exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, who could ill brook the state of affairs.

“If looks tell anything, her pale face aint no match for yourn in
health, Huldah,” remarked Caleb, as he glanced somewhat reproachingly at
the full, red features of his wife.

“A white face aint allus a sign of sickness; here I might be next to
death, and my face be getting redder and redder at every pain,--but then
who cares for me? No one, as I knows on.”

She turned and found she might have left her last words unspoken, for
Caleb had gone to milk the cows, and she was alone.

It was no sudden thought. Every hour since the day they found her in the
woods insensible, she had busily matured her plans. Those words,--“You
can never be my wife,” made life to her of no moment, save to find
a spot of obscurity in which to conceal her shame, and spare her old
father the grief she knew it must bring him.

She must leave her home, none but strangers must know of her sorrow; and
when health returned and she went about her daily toils, a short time
prior to the crisis of her grief, she deeply thought upon where she
might turn her weary steps. She had heard of a factory in N--, a town
twenty miles distant, where girls earned a great deal of money. She
would go there and work until-O, the pain, the anguish of her heart, as
the terrible truth came close and closer every day upon her. And then
she would go. Where? No mother's love to help her, no right granted her
to bring another life into being. How keenly upbraiding came to her
at that moment the great truth, a truth which cannot be too deeply
impressed upon every human mind, that no child should be ushered into
this world without due preparation on the part of its parents for its
mental, moral and physical well-being. Let pity drop a tear, for sad
indeed was her lot.

One day she gathered what little clothing she possessed, and made up
a small parcel preparatory to her departure, and as her only time of
escape would be in the night, she carefully concealed it, and went about
her work in her usual, silent manner.

One moonlight night when all was still, she took her little bundle and
went softly down stairs. Noiselessly she trod across the kitchen floor,
pulled the bolt, lifted the latch, and stood outside. For an instant she
paused. A rush of feelings came over her, a feeling of regret, for it
was hard even for her to break away from familiar scenes, and leave the
roof that had sheltered her; but it would not do to linger long, for
Trot might bark and arouse her father. Then she could not bear the
thought that she should never see the faithful old dog again; and almost
decided to go to him, but the thought had scarcely entered her mind ere
her old companion was at her side. His keen sense of hearing had caught
the sound of her movements, though to her they had seemed noiseless,
and he had come from his kennel and stood at her side, looking up in her
face as though he knew all her plans.

Her courage almost forsook her as he stood there, wagging his tail and
eyeing her so closely. She feared that he would follow her, and thought
she must go back to her room and make a new start; but now she was out
of the house, and, perhaps she could not escape another time without
disturbing her parents. This thought nerved her to carry out her
resolve, and she walked rapidly away. One look at the old house, as her
step was on the hill which would soon hide it from her view. One more
look at old Trot, then she waved her hand for him to go back, and
swiftly walked as though borne by some unseen power. The grey light of
morning touched the eastern hills just as she lost sight of her native
village.

New scenes were before her, and from them she gathered fresh
inspiration. The houses scattered along the roadside, from which persons
were just coming forth to labor, gave her new feelings and enlivened her
way, until at length something like fear that she might be recognized
and sent back came upon her; but her fears were groundless, and she
passed on and soon came to a deep, wooded road, closely hedged on
either side by tall trees, whose spreading branches seemed to her like
protecting arms. There she could walk slower, and breathe more free, and
for the first time for many days her mind relaxed its tension.

She was plodding along, musing upon the past and trying to discern some
outline of her future, when the sound of steps following her caused the
blood to leap to her face. Looking around she beheld Trot, and ordered
him back; but words were of no avail; he had scented her footsteps thus
far, and seemed determined to follow her to her journey's end.

“Poor fellow,” she said, patting his head, “I would not send you back if
I had a home for you,” and she tried again to induce him to return, but
he only gave a sigh, or sort of moan, as though imploring her to keep
him with her.

She could no more bid him depart. Was he not her only friend, and did he
not love her as none other did? So she patted him again and said,--

“Perhaps God will provide for us both. Come on, dear, old brave fellow,”
 and then the faithful animal's eyes lit up with almost human gratitude,
and he ran on joyfully before her.

The tall trees waved their branches in the morning breeze, and their
music touched her soul, and attuned it to sweeter harmony than it had
known for years. The flame of hope began to kindle anew. There might be
some one, after all, who would pity her, who would not wholly condemn
her; while the music of the tall pines seemed like angel voices, saying:
“Yes, love her, pity her, and all on whom the blight of sorrow falls.”

She loved the music of the singing trees, and was grieved when the
road turned off towards a hill, and she was obliged to part with the
protection and seclusion which they afforded her. But taking fresh
courage from the guide-board, which indicated her approach to N--, she
travelled bravely on. She had provided herself with provisions for
a single day only, and had scarcely dared to take even that from the
plenty of her father's home. Reaching a sheltered spot by the roadside,
and feeling faint and weary, she sat down and shared her food with her
dog.

Ten miles of her journey had been passed, and more rapidly than she
could hope to continue, and she found that on a renewal of it, she must
proceed more leisurely.

A sad, but interesting picture they made. She, with her young, fair
face, touched by lines of grief; the once dreamy eyes, so soft, now full
of nervous fire, and wild with restless fear. Her bonnet was thrown back
from her shoulders, and the golden sun of morning touched her wavy hair,
till it glowed and seemed like a halo of light about her pale brow.

When their little repast was over, she rested her head upon her hands,
and from her soul went forth a prayer for guidance and protection,--more
deep and earnest than words can portray.




CHAPTER XIV.


Morning broke in all its splendor over the little village she had left
behind.

Dewy flowers, touched by the rising day, glittered in their beds of
green, while mists, etherial as air, hung over the verdant meadows. Long
lines of hills whose tops rested against the blue sky, mirrored their
heads in the waters which flowed at their feet.

Beauty was on every hand. In whatever direction the eye turned, it
beheld the smile of God, and all nature seemed a psalm of thanksgiving.

Caleb Thorne arose, and shaking off dull sleep, called Margaret to her
morning duties, while his wife bustled about the house in her usual
manner.

Neither looked on the lovely scene before them. If their eyes chanced to
turn in its direction, their souls took no cognizance of all the wealth
of beauty which was before them.

“What on earth keeps that gal up stairs so long,” said Mrs. Thorne,
“I'll call her and bring her down I guess,--Mar-ga-ret-Mar-ga-ret
Thorne; it's most six o'clock-get up.”

No sound; no footstep. She waited a full half hour, then Caleb returned
from the barn, having milked the cows, a labor which he had performed
since Margaret's illness.

“That gal ain't up yet,” said his wife, as he came and placed the pails
on the table.

His breath came fast, for he feared she might be ill, or dead, perhaps.

“Go and see what the matter is,” he said to his wife. But as she was
somewhat afraid to enter a room where all was so silent, she hesitated.
At length she mounted the stairs very slowly, calling Margaret's name
at each step. When she had reached the landing, she found the door wide
open, but no Margaret was there, and the bed was undisturbed. Pale and
trembling, she went down stairs.

“She's-she's gone!” were the words with which she met her husband's
inquiring gaze. “Yes, gone; run away, I s'pose, in the night.”

Mr. Thorne sank into the nearest seat, almost paralyzed with emotion and
apprehension.

“Gone?” he repeated; it was a long time before he could take in her
meaning. It came at last; not as some truths do with a flash, but it
dropped like lead into his soul, down-down-to depths he knew not of.
And she had gone, just when he was waking to realize a fraction of her
worth; just as he was learning to look with a single spark of love on
her young, fair face, growing every day so much like her dear, dead
mother's.

He leaned his face upon his hands and wept. The fount of feeling long
dried was touched, and his heart felt a tenderness it had never known
before, for his child.

Through the dark atmosphere about his soul a ray of light broke in. Down
through long years it crept, and seemed to carry him back to the time
when his Mary was a bride.

There comes a moment to every soul, when its treasures are truly
appreciated; when hearts God has given to love and bless us are rightly
valued. Well is it for us if that moment comes while they are with us in
the earthly form.

It seemed but yesterday when she was a bride, white in soul, as well as
attire. How vividly the scene now stood before him, and he felt, as he
then did, the beating of her young, trusting heart, which she gave into
his keeping.

Down through all these years flowed the light of recollection, and
brought to mind the morning when a tiny babe was placed beside its
mother for him to love and cherish. Grief shook his soul to its
foundations. Through his rough nature crept a tenderness he had not
known for years, for those two treasures-one beneath the sod; the
other,--where?

“I s'pose you did n't look to see if the door was onbolted, did you?”
 remarked his wife, wondering what made him so long silent.

“Come to think 'ont, 't was,” he answered, like one awaking from a
dream.

“Then, the ungrateful thing's gone; and I am glad, if she could n't be
more thankful to us for her home.”

“Yes,--Margaret's gone.” His voice sounded far off, as though his soul
was off in search of her.

“Margaret Thorne has run away!” went from mouth to mouth, and harsh
comments, bitter words, flashed through the village a few days, and then
all was still again.

Wild and fearful emotions rushed through the mind of Margaret, when,
after a long, weary walk, she reached the town of N--, with old Trot at
her side.

It was a small white house, apart from others, and far from the road,
at which she applied for board, drawn thither by its quiet, home-like
appearance, and a strange feeling within her mind which she had not
fully learned to trust.

She felt that her weary feet could go no farther, as she walked up the
path, bordered by flowers, and knocked timidly at the door.

It was opened by a woman of about forty years, whose pleasant face
smiled upon her, as she invited her to enter.

Margaret took courage from the kind manner in which she was met, and at
once made known her desire to obtain a boarding place, designing to work
in the factory near at hand.

“I have no room at present for any one,” she answered, “but if you
are to work in the factory there are boarding houses built by the
corporation, at which you can obtain accommodations. The first step,
however, will be to call upon the overseer, and if you like I will go
with you after you have rested.”

Margaret was too grateful to reply in a satisfactory manner, but her
face looked what her tongue could not speak.

Mrs. Armstrong glanced at the young girl, and thought how unfitted she
seemed for such a place of labor. With her large experience, for many
had wandered there before, burdened with heavy struggles, she quickly
saw that grief, or want, perhaps both, had driven her from home, or
shelter, whichever it might be.

She shrank as she thought of the rough influences to which she would
be subjected, and though she knew she could not avert the fate of this
wanderer, or any of those who came to her for love and sympathy, yet she
inwardly resolved to befriend her, and do all that she could to aid one
so young and innocent, through a cold world.

“I'll get you a cup of tea, and something to eat,” she said, and hurried
out of the room before Margaret could reply.

This was not the first one to whom her bounty had been given; not the
first lonely stranger who had supped at her table.

Old Trot sat on the door-step during this time, his eyes riveted on the
house, and his ears poised to catch every sound within.

When all was ready, Mrs. Armstrong called Margaret to partake of a good
substantial meal, which her busy hands had so speedily prepared, and
knowing that the young girl might feel diffident, seated her alone at
the table, while she busied herself about the room.

How Margaret longed to share her meal with Trot. What was her surprise
to see Mrs. Armstrong gather some scraps of meat and bones, and carry
them to the hungry animal.

No wonder the girl thought her an angel; she rose from the table, her
eyes too dim to see her newly-found friend, and her heart too full to
thank her for all her kindness.

In a short time Mrs. Armstrong was in readiness to accompany her to the
factory, and the two left the house, the former making the walk pleasant
by her familiar conversation and the sympathy she manifested for the
wanderer. Trot followed them, and, as if conscious that his young
mistress had found a friend, occasionally ran on before, looking up in
their faces, and leaping as if wild with joy.

After a short walk through the most retired part of the village, they
reached the factory building and entered.

The noise was so great that Margaret thought she should be stunned, and
put her hands upon her ears, to keep out the sound. She had never
been in a factory before, and the thought of having to bear all that
confusion, every day, sent a feeling to her heart somewhat akin to
terror; but she must labor, and where else could she go?

The curious gaze of the girls, as they entered the weaving room, was
most trying to her sensitive nature, and Margaret's face crimsoned, as
she followed Mrs. Armstrong to the farthest part of the room, where Mr.
Field, the overseer, was conversing with one of the operators.

He was a black-eyed, sharp-featured person, and there was something in
his look which caused her to shudder, as Mrs. Armstrong made known her
errand.

“Have you ever worked in a factory?” he asked, in a quick, impatient
manner.

“No sir.”

“A new hand, then,” he said, with a little more suavity.

“We need another hand in the carding-room, so you may go there. I will
show you the room.”

He led the way, Margaret following, yet keeping close to her new friend.

The noise of the room was almost as great as that of the other, but it
was sunnier, and the windows were adorned with some beautiful plants.
The girls seemed more modest and less inclined to stare at visitors.
Mr. Field was about to leave, when he suddenly turned to Margaret and
inquired when she intended to commence.

“To-morrow, sir, if you are ready for me?”

“All right. Be on hand at the ringing of the bell.”

“I had almost forgotten an important part of my errand,” said Mrs.
Armstrong, “and that is, a boarding place for this young lady.”

“Ah, she wishes to board in the Corporation. Well, there is a place
at Mrs. Crawford's. I think she has a spare room. Her house is on Elm
Street, third block.”

It was a relief to feel the fresh air again, and to be away from the
noise and confusion of the factory. As soon as they had reached the
street, Margaret inquired of Mrs. Armstrong, the way to Mrs. Crawford's.

“O! I shall go with you,” said that kind lady, to the great relief
of the young and timid girl, already worn and weary with fatigue and
excitement.

“Thank you,” in low, but sweet tones, came from her lips, and the two
wended their way along, with Trot close behind.

They passed pleasant private dwellings, and then turned into a long
and narrow street, with blocks of houses on either side. Margaret had
supposed by the name, that the street must be very pretty, with rows of
trees on each side. She was just learning that there are many misnomers
in life, and that this was one.

The house in the third block was reached, and Mrs. Armstrong rapped with
her parasol on the door. A red faced, but good-natured appearing woman
answered the call.

“We have called to see if you have a spare room for a young lady who
wishes board,” said Mrs. Armstrong.

“We 've got a spare bed for a factory girl, if that's what you want,”
 she replied, grinning, and eyeing Margaret from head to foot.

“But have you no room she can have by herself?”

“Bless your stars, no my lady. We don't take them kind o' boarders.
There's plenty of places where genteel folks are taken, if they like
to be starved out and out,” and her face glowed with such genuine good
nature, that her questioner felt that whatever else one might have to
endure, they would at least have a sunny face to cheer them.

“This young woman can sleep with other folks, can't she?” inquired the
good-natured woman, and her smile, not of sarcasm, but true goodness,
though rough, saved Margaret's tears.

“If you have no other, she must,” said Mrs. Armstrong, disappointedly,
for she saw from the first, a native dignity and delicacy in Margaret
which would shrink from the contact with others, and intended to have
paid the extra price demanded for a room herself, if one could have been
obtained.

At that moment, old Trot came in through the open door, and looked
around, as though he did not like the appearance of things.

“That dog can't come,” said the woman, losing for the first time
her pleasant smile. “May-be he's your's though, madam?” she said
apologetically.

“No, he's mine, and I must have him with me,” broke in Margaret, “and I
cannot-”

She stopped short, frightened at her own earnest words and manner.

“I think he will be better off with me,” said Mrs. Armstrong; “I will
keep him for you.”

“I would n't care myself about the cur,” said Mrs. Crawford, following
them to the door, “but my boarders are so agin anything in the shape of
a dog.”

“Certainly; she could scarcely expect you to take him; and besides,
I want him to watch my chickens and garden. I took a fancy to him the
moment I first saw him.”

Having thus made all satisfactory in regard to the dog, as far as Mrs.
Crawford was concerned, they bade her good-day, and reached home just
before dark.

“You are too kind,” said Margaret to Mrs. Armstrong, who told her that
she must remain all night with her, and then she could say no more, but
broke down completely.

The kind woman took her at once to a neat little bed-room, and permitted
Trot to lie on a mat close to the door of his mistress.

Weary and worn, she gladly went to bed. Sleep came at last, and the
tired, intense state of her mind was lost in slumber. She dreamt that
she was at her home again, and that she was going to marry Clarence.
They were walking to the village church together, over the soft green
meadows. The air was balmy and full of sweetness; the sunshine lay in
golden bars at her feet, and her whole soul glowed with happiness, life,
and love. The bells--her marriage bells--pealed out joyously on the air,
while she turned to Clarence, saying, “I had a terrible dream; I thought
you had deserted me.” Another peal,--merry and full-then the meadows
that were so warm and sunny, grew cold and wet; and a cloud came between
her and the golden sun. The bell rolled forth another peal-it sounded
like a knell-and she awoke.

The factory bell was ringing, calling the operatives to labor.

A sweet voice broke on her utter desolation just at that moment, saying:

“That is the first bell; you will have just time enough to dress and
take your breakfast.”

Mechanically she arose, dressed, and forcing back her hot tears, went
below, to sit again at the table of one who ever remembered these words:
“As ye have opportunity.”




CHAPTER XV.


There comes to every one at times the inquiring thought, of what use is
life? What will be the result of all this seemingly useless toil, these
states of unrest, these earnest efforts of the soul unappreciated, these
best endeavors misunderstood? Such questions flood the reason at times,
and we are ready to lay down our life weapons, scarce caring how the
busy scene goes on.

Then, through the parted clouds, the rays of truth illumine the mind
again, and we take up the life-song once more, not as we laid it down,
but with a richer melody, a fuller and sweeter strain. The soul feels
new pinioned, and spreads its wings for loftier flights, rising, height
after height, up and on to the fields of the infinite.

This questioning state is sure to come to the most earnest, truthful,
and thoughtful worker. All along the pathway of life these weary, yet
hopeful pilgrims, sit waiting for “light, more light.”

In such a mood sat Miss Evans, at the close of one summer day, as the
sun was going slowly to his fold of gold and crimson clouds. A sort
of mental twilight had gathered over her, dimming the sharp lines of
thought which gave her words at all times such force. All her best and
most earnest endeavors seemed as nought. Words which she had spoken,
warm with life, vital with her own enthusiasm, had become metamorphosed,
till their real meaning was lost to her.

“Alas! we must remain a riddle to ourselves forever,” she said, and her
deep brown eyes, always warm with affection, now seemed cold, as she
turned her thoughts inward to sound herself more thoroughly, and if
possible detect any other than a desire for advancement.

How long she might have searched we cannot say, for just as her thoughts
were most abstracted, Hugh came and sat down by her side, before she
knew that any one had entered.

“Why, Hugh!” was her exclamation of surprise.

“You are not at home, I see.”

He brought her back with those words.

“Really, I was away; but how glad I am to see you,” and her glowing
features endorsed the truth of her assertion.

“How far had you wandered?” he asked, his face full of glowing sympathy;
“far enough to gather a new impetus for the soul?”

“I fear not. I was questioning my motives, and looking for my
shortcomings.”

“I fear I should have been absent much longer on such an errand,” he
said, and then dropping their badinage they resumed their true earnest
relation to each other.

“Tell me, Hugh, you who have so often illumined my dark states, if all
this contest is of any avail; if it is any use to put forth our words
and have their meaning misinterpreted?”

“I question,” she continued, “if we should project our thought until
mankind is impelled by the actual need of something new, to seek it.”

“Our thoughts and soul exchanges are not like the merchant's wares, to
be held up for a bid. The soul is too grand and spontaneous a creation
to be measured. Yes, we must often speak our deepest thoughts, even
though they are cast away as nought, and trampled upon. There would be
little richness or worth without this free offering, this giving of
self for truth's sake, even though we know that we and our words may be
spurned. You are cloudy to-day, my friend; you have been too long alone,
and are consumed by your own thoughts.”

“I am mentally exhausted, Hugh. I needed you to-day, for my soul has
lost all vision. I know by my own experience, that we must speak when we
are full, no matter who misapprehends or turns upon us. It is this fear
that keeps too many from great and noble utterances. We forget that
truth can clear itself, and that principles are not dependent upon
persons. You have given me myself, as you ever do, when the mist of
doubt hangs over me.”

“Yes, we must give when there is no approving smile, no look of
recognition; give when our giving makes us beggars, alone and friendless
in the chill air of neglect.”

“This is but your own life. I have but put it into words for you
to-night.”

“O, Hugh, you are ever on the mount, looking with calm, steady gaze over
the dark mists. Your head rests in eternal sunshine, like the towering
hill whose top is mantled with the golden light, even though its base
is covered with fog. Shall we ever see the day when these inner, pivotal
truths will be accepted?”

“We shall behold it in the lives of thousands. It matters not when, or
where. Our part is to labor, to plant the seed, though it may not be our
hands that garner the harvest.”

“True. I was selfish and looking for grain.”

“Not 'selfish.' The human soul seeks recognition, and finds it often a
difficult task to wait for the presence of that human face which says
in every line and feature, 'I know you; I feel your salient thoughts and
motives.' A long time it takes us to learn to do without the approving
smile of man, and go on our way with none but God and angels to sanction
our efforts. I, too, have hours of darkness. All souls are at times
tossed on heaving waters, that they may rise higher than their weary
feet can climb.”

“You have done me good to-day; but do not go,” she said, seeing him rise
to leave.

“I must; but first tell me if I can have your aid in a material matter,
which I had nearly forgotten?”

“I am at your service.”

“Well, then, I am going to have a party, which I suppose is the last
thing you would have imagined of me.”

“I should have thought of any thing else; but what has put such an idea
into your head?”

“Some fairy, perhaps. I expect to get some life out of it, and the
satisfaction of seeing my guests enjoying themselves. I shall bring
together a strange medley,--counterparts, affinities, opposites, and
every form of temperament which our little village affords, besides
drawing on places largely remote from here. I must go now. Will you come
and help us to-morrow?”

“I will. My love to Dawn and Miss Vernon.”

“Thank you,” and he passed out, leaving her bright and full of hope.
She felt the transfusion of his strong life into her own, and neither
herself nor her friend was the same as yesterday.

The day for the party was fair and balmy. Dawn and Miss Vernon rode to
the green-house and purchased flowers for the occasion, and the home
seemed like a fairy bower, so artistically and elegantly had they
arranged the fresh and fragrant blossoms.

Miss Evans glided from room to room, placing a vase here, and a
statuette there, as her feeling suggested, and what was her fancy was
Hugh's, for their tastes were one, and their lives ran parallel in
natural, innocent ways, never able to translate their feelings to
another, but giving and enjoying each other more and more at every
meeting.

Poor Mrs. Norton thought how pleasant it would be to her, to see a room
full of beautiful things, pleasant faces, and elegant clothes: it would
be such a contrast to her own dull life, which would be still more
lonely but for the frequent visits of Mr. Wyman's family, and the
substantial evidence often given by them that they did not forget the
poor and needy. She arrayed herself neatly in her black alpacca, the
gift of a friend; and when she looked in her little glass which hung
above the table, just were it did thirty years ago, when her good
husband was alive, a rush of better thoughts and feelings came over
her. She lived over again the happy days of her married life, and almost
thought she was making ready to walk by her husband's side to the little
church on the hill. Then the scene changed, years rolled away, and it
seemed but yesterday when she leaned over the coffin, and looked on the
still, pale face that would never light her home again. Thoughts grew
into words, and she said,--

“How little to keep me here. I have far more to recover by death than to
lose; and somehow it seems as though it would not be long ere I go.”

She was not sad; far from it. The thought was pleasant to her, and
folding her white handkerchief over her breast, she surveyed herself
once more, and then putting on her shawl and bonnet, was soon on her way
to Mr. Wyman's, thinking again and again how much good it would do her
to see so many people together.

Mrs. Clarke wondered if Mrs. Simonds would be dressed in great style,
for she had a wish not to be outdone in that direction, and yet
possessed a sufficient degree of good sense to feel that overdress would
be out of place at such a gathering; so she arrayed herself in a blue
silk, not over-trimmed, and put pearls in her dark hair to match her
jewels.

And thus, from different sections, arose a kind of magnetic life, as
each individual's thoughts went out and centered there.

Dawn was dressed in white, with scarlet sash, and coral ornaments. She
seemed like a ray of light flashing through darkness. Her soft,
brown hair hung in wavy curls over her shoulders, and the involuntary
exclamation was, “How beautiful,” as the pure light and brightness of
her inner being shone through and over the external.

At dusk, the carriages began to appear, winding up the long avenue,
which led to the house. Then came a few persons on foot, and in an hour
all the bustle and stir attendant upon a crowd was heard in the hall,
on the stairs, and in every room. The house was all aglow with life, and
lines of care and sorrow were swept away by radiant smiles.

Masks were drawn over aching hearts; jealousies, envyings, and all
strifes were put at bay, and the better natures of all were called
forth, and responded, each to each. Palm grasped palm, that had not in
the ordinary relations of life thrilled with contact for many years.
Hearts that had grown cold and callous under slights, and chilling
indifferences, were warmed anew in the social atmosphere which filled
the whole house; and then the sound of music swept through the rooms,
lifting all out of their narrowness into higher and better states.

Mr. Wyman had a word of cheer and love for all, and delicately brought
such temperaments together as could best enjoy companionship, and for
the time kept himself aloof from those he loved best, that others might
partake of their genial natures.

“Can you tell me who that tall, graceful lady is?” asked Miss Vernon,
before Mr. Wyman was aware that she was at his side.

“A Mrs. Hammond,” he replied, without looking at her.

“She is very elegant,” continued Miss Vernon.

“She is, externally.”

“What, not lovely in mind? Can it be that such an exterior covers
unloveliness?”

“I fear it does. I have known her many years, and although she is a
woman of decorous manners, and some polish, she has none of the elements
of a true lady, to me.”

“Why, Mr. Wyman, see how thoughtful she seems of those around her,” said
Florence, her eyes still fixed upon the engaging stranger.

“Yes, I see all that, and all the externalism of her life. It is all
acting. Within, that woman is cold and heartless. She is sharp enough,
and quick in her instincts, but give me hearts in conjunction with
heads.”

“Why, then, did you invite her?” she accompanied this inquiry with a
most searching glance.

“For the same reason I invited all. I want them to mingle, for the
time to lose their sense of individual importance, their feelings of
selfishness, or in a few words, to throw off the old and take on the
new.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Florence?”

“Yes, very much. I like to see so many people together, and absorb the
spirit of the occasion.”

“I am glad you do. Come this way.” He led her to a remote part of the
room, where stood a tall, dark-eyed stranger.

“Miss Vernon, Mr. Temple” and he watched their eyes as they met, and
knew he had linked two souls for at least one evening's enjoyment.

A bustling woman, who could not conceive of any christianity outside
of church-going, came and stood beside Miss Evans, and commenced a
conversation by saying,--

“There seems to be plenty of people in our village, though we don't see
many of them at church.”

This was put forth as a preface, designed to exhibit the character of a
forthcoming volume, but Miss Evans adroitly changed the subject to one
of general interest.

Just at this point, a stir was made, a rustling of silks was heard, and
the way opened for a young prodigy in music, considered by his parents
to be the wonder of the nineteenth century; one of those abstracted
individuals who seem to live apart from the multitude, speaking to
no one, save in monosyllables, and walking about, with an air of
superiority, constantly nurtured by his doating parents' admiration,--at
home a tyrant, abroad a monkey on exhibition.

After a flourish of sounds, and several manipulations, each accompanied
with a painful distortion of countenance, he commenced a long and
tedious sonata,--tedious, because ill-timed. On a suitable occasion it
would have been grand and acceptable. Of course the music was wasted on
the air, because it had only a mental rendering.

The anxious parents looked around for the expected applause. It did not
come. Only a few murmured, “How very difficult,” while a sense of
relief was so manifest, that none could have failed to realize that such
elaborate performances should be reserved for a far different occasion.
But we are slow in learning the fitness of things, and that everything
has its proper time and place.

The next performer was a sprightly girl of seventeen, who played several
airs, and sung some sweet and simple songs, charming all with their
light and graceful beauty.

Mr. Wyman then led his friend and guest, Mr. Temple, to the instrument.
He touched it with a master hand. One forgot everything save melodious
tones; forgot even that there was a medium, through which those tones
were conveyed to the senses. The performer lost self, lost all save the
author's idea, until, at length, the ecstatic sounds came soft and clear
as light from a star. There was no intervention of self; his whole being
was subordinate to the great creation--the soul of the theme. Eyes grew
moist as the music floated on the air in one full, continuous strain.
Hearts beat with new pulsations; hopes soared anew; sorrows grew less;
life seemed electric, full of love; sharp lines, and irregularities of
mind were touched, softened, and toned to harmony under the swelling
notes, now soft, sweet, and dulcet; now broad, high, and upsoaring. No
words broke the heavenly spell when the performer left the instrument,
but each thrilled heart became a temple, in which only love and beauty
dwelt.

There, in that holy atmosphere, a soul burst its fetters and went home.
Old Mrs. Norton, who came with such glorious anticipations, sank back
upon the pillow upon which she was resting, while listening to the
soul-ravishing sounds, and died.

No feeling of awe came over the people assembled; but all felt as though
they, too, had entered within the confines of the silent land.

Gently they raised her form as one would a child who had fallen asleep.

There, in the presence of the still, pale face, they parted, with
better, truer natures than when they met.




CHAPTER XVI.


The months wore away, and Margaret applied herself closely to her labor,
and became a favorite with her companions. Gladly would she have changed
places with most of them, but they knew not the secret sorrow which
was wearing her bloom away. Her sighs grew more frequent, as the time
rapidly approached when she must leave them.

Again and again she resolved to go to Mrs. Armstrong, and tell her
all her grief, but the remembrance of her kindness made her cheek turn
scarlet when the thought suggested itself. No, she could not reveal it
to one whom she loved so well. She must go far away, and hide her shame
from the eyes of all who had befriended her, and she had made many
friends, yet would have lingered a few weeks longer, had she not one
evening just at dark espied an old gentleman from her village, an
acquaintance of her father's. She could not bear the thought that she
must be carried back, to scenes so closely allied to her sufferings,
and bear the scorn of those who knew her. She could not endure that,
and fearing that the person whom she had seen might some time meet and
recognize her, she hastened the preparations for a change. Again she
collected her clothing, now more valuable, packed it and awaited some
indication of the direction in which she should move.

She must once more see the face of that good woman, who had been so
faithful and kind to her; and after many efforts to call upon her,
finally gained courage and did so.

A strange thrill came over Mrs. Armstrong, as she heard the gate close,
and a well-known step on the gravel walk. Margaret patted her old friend
Trot as she approached the house, and somewhat surprised Mrs. Armstrong
with her presence when she entered.

“I am glad to see you,” said Mrs. Armstrong, with her usual kind look
of welcome, but with a deep tremor in her voice. “Come and sit by me,
Margaret, and let me see if your hard labor is wearing you out. I have
thought for some weeks that you looked pale.”

Margaret trembled in every limb, as she took the seat her friend offered
her, for a searching glance accompanied her friend's words. Just then
a strange thought flashed through Mrs. Armstrong's mind-a thought she
could not put aside, and she tried in every way to win the poor girl's
confidence, and perhaps might have succeeded had there not been heard
the sound of footsteps outside. Trot's loud bark made them both start
and turn their faces to the window. Margaret gave one glance,--and she
needed not a second to assure her that the caller was none other than
the old gentleman she had seen on the street. In a moment there was a
knock at the door. While Mrs. Armstrong answered the call, Margaret made
one bound from the sitting room to the kitchen, and from thence into
the open air, and flew as fast as her feet could carry her, towards her
boarding house.

As she turned from the principal street, a woman accosted her, and
inquired the way to the Belmont House. Glad of anything that would even
for a moment take her thoughts from herself, she offered to show her the
way.

The darkness was so great, she had no fear of being recognized, as she
walked in silence with the stranger. One thought filled her whole being,
and the problem with her was, how she could escape from N--, and where
should she find shelter?

“Perhaps you can tell me,” said the lady, in a clear, silvery voice, “of
some young girl, or two, or three even, whom I can get to return with me
to B--.”

“I am here,” she continued, “in search of help; good American help. I am
so worn with foreign servants that I can endure them no longer.”

Margaret's heart gave one bound. Here was her opportunity, and she only
needed the courage to offer her services.

“Perhaps you would go?” said the stranger, who looked for the first time
on Margaret's face, as they stopped in the light that shone brilliantly
in front of the Belmont House. “Or, maybe you do not work for a living.
Excuse me, if I have made a blunder.”

“I do,” answered Margaret, “and would like to go with you if I can earn
good wages.”

“I will see that you are well remunerated, provided you suit me. I shall
go to-morrow, in the noon train. If I do not succeed in getting any
others beside yourself, will you meet me at the station?”

Margaret replied in the affirmative, and retraced her steps, pondering
upon how she should secrete herself during the intervening period.

She walked rapidly back to her home, and thought how fortunate it was
that her room-mates were absent that night, and good Mrs. Crawford would
never suspect that the quiet girl up stairs was planning how she could
escape with her clothing. The darkness of the evening favored her,
and the noise within prevented any that might be without, from being
noticed.

She enclosed the balance due for her board, in an envelope, sealed, and
directed it to Mrs. Crawford, and laid it on the little table at which
she had stood so many mornings, weary in body and sick in soul.

She hoped she would not encounter any one on the stairs, and to
her relief she did not. For an instant she paused, as she heard
the footsteps of the good housewife walking from the pantry to the
dining-room, intent on her useful life, uncouth, illiterate, but kind
and well-meaning. A tear stole over her cheek as she listened for the
last time to that firm step, which never seemed to flag in its daily
rounds, and one which often, when the day's work was over, went lightly
to the bedside of the sick. But no time must be lost; the door was
opened and closed, and she was once again out in the world, a wanderer.
She knew not what her next step was to be. Standing there in the silence
and darkness of the night, she clasped her hands, and with earnest
prayer, implored Divine guidance.

Down through the earthly shadows, through clouds of oppression, swept
a mother's pure, undying love. Love for her wronged child, and pity for
her state; for angel's missions are not in halls of light, amid scenes
of mirth, but far away in desolate homes, with the oppressed and the
forsaken, bringing hope to the despairing, comfort to the lonely, joy to
the sad, and rest to weary hearts.

A thought darted through her mind, and she rose firm and collected,
as though a human hand had been outstretched for her aid. Who shall
question that it was a mother that spoke to her at that moment?

She arose, and as noiselessly as possible wended her way to a small and
obscure dwelling, inhabited by a strange old woman, known to all the
villagers, as possessing a wondrous power of vision, by which she
professed to foretell the future, and decide questions of love and
business.

Margaret had often heard the girls in the factory speak of her, and knew
that they frequently consulted her; but she had always shrank from the
thought of going to her dwelling, though often importuned by them to do
so. Now, how gladly her feet turned that way, as to her only refuge, for
she well knew if she was searched for, no one would think of going there
to find her.

She reached the place at last, and with beating heart and dizzy brain,
raised her hand and rapped very softly at the door. Then the thought
flashed over her, that some one might be there who knew her, and hope
fled for an instant.

The rap, low as it was, soon brought the old woman, who opened the door
and said in a voice tremulous but sweet, “Come in, my dear. I saw last
night that a stranger was to visit me at this hour; yes, it's the same
face,” then motioned for her to pass in.

Margaret's first thought was that some evil was intended, and she
trembled and grew pale.

“No fears, my child,” said the woman, as though she had read her very
thought, “angels are around you, guarding your life. I do only my part
of the work, which is to keep you to-night.”

And this was the strange woman of whom she had heard so munch. Her fears
vanished, she took the proffered seat, and without a shadow of distrust,
drank the glass of cordial which was passed to her.

A feeling of rest came over her,--a rest deeper than sleep imparts. She
leaned back in the chair, pillowed her head against the cushion, and
felt more peaceful than she had for many months.

A strange curiosity pervaded her being, as she watched the woman
moving about the room, to know of her former life-the life of her
maidenhood,--and learn if others beside herself had loved and been
betrayed.

“I shall have no visitors to-night,” said the woman, seating herself
opposite to Margaret.

“Do you often afford a shelter to strangers, as you have to me
to-night?”

“Yes, child; many a sorrow-laden traveller, worn with life, seeks my
lowly cot.”

“Sorrow-laden and worn with life,” said Margaret, repeating the words
to herself; “she must have known my past experience;” and she wished she
would go on, for somehow her words comforted her.

“Yes, there are more sinned against than sinning,” she continued. “I
knew that you was coming, or rather some one, for last night in my
dreams I saw a form, and now I know it was your own, floating on a dark
stream. There was no boat in sight, no human being on shore, to save
you. The cold waters chilled you, till you grew helpless, and the waves
bore you swiftly to the ocean. I cried for help, and was awakened by
my effort. That stream represents your past, and here you are now in my
dwelling. Some one has wronged you, girl?”

She did not see the tinge on the pale cheek of Margaret, but continued,
“Yes, wronged; but I see clouds and darkness before you, and then
happiness, but not the joys of earth. Something higher, holier, my
child.”

A light seemed to have gathered over the face of the speaker, and her
words, although strange and new to Margaret, seemed full of truth and
meaning.

“Shall I find rest on earth?” she inquired.

“No, not here; above,” the old woman lifted her eyes toward heaven, then
said:

“You are stepping into sorrow now; going with one who will degrade you.
Do not follow her. Though her outer garments are of purple and fine
linen, her spiritual robe is black and unseemly.”

“Where? O, tell me, then, where to go,” exclaimed Margaret, her whole
face pale with terror.

“Go nowhere at present. I see nothing now; all is dark before me. Stay
beneath my roof, till light breaks. I see that you will need a mother's
care ere long.”

Here the poor girl's long pent up tears flowed in torrents; tears such
as angels pity. It was a long time ere she grew calm; and when peace
came, it was like that of a statue, she was cold and silent. No future
stretched before her, nothing but a present, sad and hopeless, in which
circumstances had placed her.

“Shall I tell you the story of my girl-life,” said the strange, weird
woman, putting a fresh supply of wood upon the fire, which had fallen
into embers.

Margaret's interest manifested itself in her face, as she answered, “I
would like to know if others have suffered like myself?”

“It will help you bear your own burden better, and perhaps show you that
none escape the fire. I will proceed with my narrative.”

“Many years ago, so many that it seems as though ages must have
intervened, I loved a young and elegant man, who returned my affection
with all the devotion which an earnest, exacting nature like mine could
desire. I was the only child of wealthy parents, who spared no pains or
expense on my education. With them I visited Europe, and while there,
met this person, who seemed to be all that mortal could aspire to;
refined, educated, and the possessor of a fortune. The alliance was the
consummation of my fond parents' wishes. I will pass over the weeks of
bliss which followed our engagement, and speak of scenes fraught with
the most intense excitement to myself and others. We were at Berlin
when my engagement was sanctioned by my parents. A few weeks subsequent,
there arrived at the hotel at which we were stopping, a family of most
engaging manners. We were at once attracted to them, and in a few days
words of kindly greeting were exchanged, and finding them very genial,
a warm friendship soon existed between us. The family consisted of
parents, three sons, and two daughters. Laura, the eldest, was the one
to whom I was particularly drawn. She was tall, graceful, and had
about her an air of elegance, which showed unmistakably, her early
associations. But to the point: I had been walking with my lover one
evening, in the summer moonlight, and had retired to my room, strangely
fatigued. I had never before parted from Milan, my betrothed, with such
a lassitude as then pervaded my entire being. I had always felt buoyant
and strong.-That night, as I laid on my bed, seeking in vain the rest
which sleep might give me, I seemed suddenly to float out in the air, to
rise above my body, and yet I distinctly felt its pulsations. The next
moment, the sound of voices attracted me, and though I was in my room,
and the persons in conversation in a distant apartment, yet I could hear
every word which was uttered. What was my horror to see, for my sight
was open as strangely clear as my hearing, the beautiful Laura sitting
beside Milan, his arm encircling her waist. I tried to speak, but no
sound came from my lips. I shook with fear and wonder. I had surely
died, I thought, just then, and this is the vision and hearing of the
soul released from flesh. 'O, Milan, hear me, hear me,' I cried in
anguish. But no sound of my own lips floated on the air. Nothing was
heard but their words, which I was obliged to hear. And O, how my heart
was turned to stone, and my brain to fire, as these words came to my
ears:

“'Love her! Why, dearest Laura, whom I have adored so long, and
whom chance has again brought into my path,--how can you question my
affection for you,' and then I saw that he knelt at her feet!

“'I think I heard but yesterday, that you were engaged,' continued the
fair and brilliant girl, at whose feet he still remained.

“'O, angel of my heart, will no words convince you that I love you
beyond, above all women? I have in times past exhausted the language of
love in speaking to your heart, Laura, are you heartless? I can plead no
more.'

“'I saw the tears glitter on her face as purely white as marble, then
her lips parted and these words fell on my ear,--

“'O, Milan, I would that I could divine my feeling towards you. My heart
is full of love for you, but my reason falters, and something within me
tells, I must not accept you. I feel thrills of horror at times,
even when my affection turns toward you. I cannot fathom the strange
mystery.' She bowed her face in her hands and wept. I saw him rise from
his kneeling posture, and walk away to hide his emotions. I felt the
fearful contest going on within himself, and then all grew dark. I heard
no sound again, though I listened intently. I seemed back again in
my form-sleep at last came to my weary senses. In dreams, then, I was
walking again with him, by a beautiful lake, over which a storm had just
passed, leaving a lovely rainbow arching its bosom. I felt the pressure
of his hand, as he held mine, and saw his eyes beam tenderly into mine
own.

“'The storm is over,' he said, 'see how the waves are tipped with golden
rays.'

“Cheered by these words, I looked on the scene-the calmed lake, the
bow of promise,--with a feeling of rapturous delight thrilling my whole
being. Gazing thus earnestly, my attention was drawn to a curious ripple
on the lake's surface. Then I beheld a female form rising from the
waters, upon whose broad, white brow were these words:-Loved and
Deserted. Startled by this, I turned to look upon Milan, but I saw him
not. He had fled, and I was alone. All was lonely and still as death.

“Tremblingly I pursued my way back. The sun was sinking behind the
hills, and darkness would overtake me before I could reach home. I
quickened my speed, when suddenly I stumbled over something in my path.
A light from the heavens, a flash of summer lightning revealed a grave,
from which the form of a fair, sweet girl arose, and said, 'Beware! He,
too, loved me, and for his love I pined and died.' The form vanished and
the air seemed full of sounds of admonition, while around me appeared
hosts of beings of another world. My senses reeled. I called for help,
and must have cried aloud, for just then I heard my mother's voice from
the adjoining room,--'What is it, Sibyl?' and when I awoke she was at my
side.

“'Bring a light,' I cried, as I placed my hand on my forehead, which was
cold and damp with perspiration. Mother went to her room, and returned
with a candle and came to my bed side.

“I can remember her look of horror, as though it was but yesterday-and
her voice when she sobbed, rather than spoke these words:-'My child, O,
my poor child, what has happened?' Then she fainted.

“I learned on the morrow, that my beautiful hair had turned white; not
one thread of my dee

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